Means of Christian Conversion in Late Antiquity: Objects, Bodies, and Rituals 8021099798, 9788021099791

Table of contents :
Front Matter
Klára Doležalová, Ivan Foletti, Katarína Kravčíková & Pavla Tichá. Means of Christian Conversion in Late Antiquity
Barbara Bruderer Eichberg. Activation of the Invisible. A Prolegomenon to the Evolution of the Consecration of Baptismal Water in the Latin West as a Performative and Sensorial Act. The Roman Rite (3rd–9th century)
Pavla Tichá & Markéta Kulhánková. Vatican Hill in the Time of Conversion. The Phrygianum Neighboring Old Saint Peter’s
Robin M. Jensen. Conversion to Jesus as a Healer God. Visual and Textual Evidence
Gajane Achverdjanová & Ivan Foletti. Purifying Body and Soul. Late Antique Combs, Their Use and Visual Culture
Zuzana Frantová. Luxury for All (?). Ivory Diptychs and Their Use in the Baptismal Liturgy
Juliette J. Day. Materiality and the Sensation of Sin in Late Antique Pre-Baptismal Rituals. The Short-Lived “Rite of the Cilicium”
Megan Bunce. Shrines, Special Burials, and the Christianization of Britain
Alžběta Filipová & Adrien Palladino. Converting Minds, Eyes, and Bodies? The Early Cult of Relics Between Rhetoric and Material Practices in Northern Italy and Gallia
Back Matter

Citation preview

Exchanges and Interactions in the Arts of Medieval Europe, Byzantium, and the Mediterranean Seminarium Kondakovianum, Series Nova Université de Lausanne • Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic • Masaryk

C

University •

CONVIVIUM SUPPLEMENTUM  2 021/3 Exchanges and Interactions in the Arts of Medieval Europe, Byzantium, and the Mediterranean Seminarium Kondakovianum, Series Nova Journal of the Department of Art History of the University of Lausanne, of the Department of Art History of the Masaryk University, and of the Institute of Art History of the Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic This supplementary issue was carried out under the support of the Rector’s Office and the Faculty of Arts of the Masaryk University in Brno.

Editor-in-chief / Ivan Foletti Executive editors / Jana Černocká, Klára Doležalová, Natália Gachallová, Veronika Hermanová, Katarína Kravčíková, Beatrice Sacco, Sara Salvadori, Pavla Tichá, Zuzana Urbanová, Johanna Zacharias Typesetting / Helena Konečná Layout design / Monika Kučerová Cover design / Petr M. Vronský, Anna Kelblová Publisher / Masarykova univerzita, Žerotínovo nám. 9, 601 77 Brno, IČO 00216224 Editorial Office / Seminář dějin umění, Filozofická fakulta Masarykovy univerzity, Arna Nováka 1, 602 00 Brno Print / Tiskárna Didot, spol s r.o., Trnkova 119, 628 00 Brno E-mail / [email protected] www.earlymedievalstudies.com/convivium.html © Ústav dějin umění AV ČR , v. v. i. 2021 © Filozofická fakulta Masarykovy univerzity 2021 © Faculté des Lettres, Université de Lausanne 2021 Published / December 2021 Reg. No. MK ČR E 21592 ISSN 2336-3452 (print) ISSN 2336-808X (online) ISBN 978-80-210-9979-1 (print) ISBN 978-80-210-9980-7 (online) Convivium is listed in the databases SCOPUS, ERIH, “Riviste   di classe A” indexed by ANVUR, and in the Emerging Sources Citation Index (ESCI) of the Web of Science.

committees Editors — Michele Bacci ( Université de Fribourg), Klára Benešovská (Institute of Art History, Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic , Prague), Ivan Foletti (Masaryk University, Brno), Herbert L. Kessler ( Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore), Serena Romano ( Université de Lausanne), Elisabetta Scirocco (Bibliotheca Hertziana, Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rome) Emeritus — Hans Belting (Staatliche Hochschule für Gestaltung in Karlsruhe) Editor - in - chief — Ivan Foletti Associate editors — Nathan Dennis (University of San Francisco), Stefanie Lenk (Georg-August-Universität Göttingen), Adrien Palladino (Masaryk University, Brno) Executive editors — Jana Černocká, Klára Doležalová, Natália Gachallová, Veronika Hermanová, Katarína Kravčíková, Beatrice Sacco, Sara Salvadori, Pavla Tichá, Zuzana Urbanová, Johanna Zacharias Advisory board — Xavier Barral i Altet ( Université de Rennes, Università di Venezia Ca’ Foscari), Nicolas Bock ( Université de Lausanne), Valentina Cantone ( Università di Padova), Jaś Elsner (University of Oxford), Clario Di Fabio ( Università di Genova), Finbarr Barry Flood (New York University), Ondřej Jakubec ( Masaryk University, Brno), Alexei Lidov (Moscow State University), Assaf Pinkus ( Tel Aviv University), Stefano Riccioni (Università di Venezia Ca’ Foscari), Jiří Roháček ( Institute of Art History, Academy of Sciences of the Czech Republic), Erik Thunø (Rutgers Unive­rsity, New Jersey), Alicia Walker ( Bryn Mawr College)

Means of Christian Conversion in Late Antiquity Objects, Bodies, and Rituals edited by Klára Doležalová, Ivan Foletti, Katarína Kravčíková & Pavla Tichá

contents

MEANS OF CHRISTIAN CONVERSION IN LATE ANTIQUITY. OBJECTS, BODIES, AND RITUALS introduction 10

Klára Doležalová, Ivan Foletti, Katarína Kravčíková & Pavla Tichá Means of Christian Conversion in Late Antiquity

articles BODY-CHANGING TOUCH

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Barbara Bruderer Eichberg Activation of the Invisible. A prolegomenon to the Evolution of the Consecration of Baptismal Water in the Latin West as a Performative and Sensorial Act. The Roman Rite (3rd–9th century)

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Pavla Tichá & Markéta Kulhánková Vatican Hill in the Time of Conversion. The Phrygianum Neighboring Old Saint Peter’s

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Robin M. Jensen Conversion to Jesus as a Healer God. Visual and Textual Evidence

BODY-AFFECTING OBJECTS

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Gajane Achverdjanová & Ivan Foletti Purifying Body and Soul. Late Antique Combs, Their Use and Visual Culture

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Zuzana Frantová Luxury for All (?). Ivory Diptychs and Their Use in the Baptismal Liturgy

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Juliette J. Day Materiality and the Sensation of Sin in Late Antique Pre-Baptismal Rituals. The Short-Lived “Rite of the Cilicium”

COMMEMORATING DECEASED BODIES

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Megan Bunce Shrines, Special Burials, and the Christianization of Britain

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Alžběta Filipová & Adrien Palladino Converting Minds, Eyes, and Bodies? The Early Cult of Relics Between Rhetoric and Material Practices in Northern Italy and Gallia

168

photographic credits

Means of Christian Conversion in Late Antiquity

introduction

Klára Doležalová, Ivan Foletti, Katarína Kravčíková & Pavla Tichá

Scholars’ understanding of the phenomenon of Christian conversion in Late Antiquity has oscillated between two antithetical viewpoints: on the one hand, in the understanding of Augustine of Hippo (ca 354–430), conversion signified a radical and inspired personal transformation1. From a more pragmatic point of view; on the other hand, conversion can simply be considered a sober and studied social act to facilitate one’s inclusion into a desired community that was becoming progressively dominant in Late Antique society2. In a similar dicho­tomy, from the perspective of history and religious studies, the process of conversion in Late Antiquity has been viewed both as a turbulent clash between different beliefs, and, on the contrary, a harmonious and gradual transition in a society tending to favor “syncretism”; alternatively, a “mixture”of both perspectives has also been envisaged3. 1 Augustine of Hippo, Confessions, Carolyn J.-B. Hammond ed., 2 vols, Cambridge, ma 2014–2016. Cf. Arthur D. Nock, Conversion: The Old and the New in Religion from Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo, Oxford 1933; Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography, London 1967; Conversion and Initiation in Antiquity: Shifting Iden­ tities – Creating Change, Brigitte S. Bøgh ed., Frankfurt am Main / New York 2014. 2 See e.g. Eugene V. Gallagher, “Conversion and Community in Late Antiquity”,   The Journal of Religion, lxxiii/1 (1993), pp. 1–15. 3 For broader overviews on conversion in Late Antiquity, see Conversion in Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages: Seeing and Believing, Kenneth Mills, Anthony Grafton eds, Rochester 2003. On the much-discussed notion of “Christianization”,   see Hartmut Leppin, “Christianierungen im Römischen Reich: Überlegungen zum Begriff und zur Phasenbildung”,   Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, xvi (2012), pp. 247–278, with further bibliography. For selected reflections on Late Antiquity and the process of Christianization as a harmonious versus disruptive phenomenon, see e.g. Guy G. Stroumsa, La fin du sacrifice. Les mutations religieuses de l’Antiquité tardive, Paris 2005; Éric Rebillard, Christians and Their Many Identities in Late Antiquity, North Africa, 200 –450 ce, Ithaca, ny 2012; Une antiquité tardive noire ou heureuse?, Actes du colloque international (Besançon, 12–13 novembre 2014), Stéphane Ratti ed., Besançon 2015. The notion of “syncretism” must also be questioned in the context of Late Antique studies; for a definition, see François Boespflug, “Le syncrétisme et les syncrétismes. Périls imaginaires, faits d’histoire, problèmes en cours”,   Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques, xc/2 (2006), pp. 273–295.

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However, these comprehensive theories on the processes of conversion, while explaining the nature of socio-religious changes in coeval society and in a believer’s identity, have only marginally taken the strong presence and impact of visual and material cultures into consideration. To shed new light on the complex and often contradictory picture of the Roman Empire’s dynamic turn to Christianity, it is precisely material culture that scholars in this volume address. Objects, bodies, and material properties of ritual interactions are treated here as bearers and creators of meaning, constituting the tangible dimension of “identity”4. The authors in the following pages argue that material – through its set of affordances, or with the use of visual, rhetorical, and liturgical “language” that objects are made to speak – shapes a person’s subjective experience of rituals, places, and events5. Initiation, visuality, and experience: means of conversion The goal of this volume is to specifically address the role of material, visual, and ritual cultures in the Christianization of the Roman world: it wishes to emphasize the impact of materiality, which is perceived through sensual experiences, activated, and operating in non-festive time and during rituals. This perception is thematized even in Late Antique literature, while the approach towards the creation of complex environments can be observed in the monuments themselves; however, it has become particularly popular in recent scholarship following the so-called “sensual turn”6. Enlightening in this context is the text of John Malalas, a sixth-century chronicler who describes the miraculous conversion of Gelasinos of Heliopolis, a pagan mime, during a satirical theatre performance at the beginning of the fourth century: “[…] In the presence of a crowd of spectators they threw him into a large bath-house tub full of warm water, to parody Christian belief and holy baptism. Gelasinos the mime was baptized, and when he came out of the tub and put on white robes he refused to continue performing and said before the people, ‘I am a Christian, for I saw a tremendous vision of God in my baptism in the tub and I will die a Christian’”7.

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The story of Gelasinos in Malalas’ Chronicle is one of the oldest traces of a broader phenomenon, the so-called Taufmime8. We may of course doubt that Malalas was recording a real event, although the practice of mockery baptisms seems to be documented by Saint Augustine9; however, for our purposes, Malalas’ text raises several rather interesting points. First, it draws attention to the initiatory rite of baptism as a key step in the complex process of conversion to Christianity. Second, the ritual setting and action, in this miraculous legend, depicted as endowed with enough power to convert the actor mocking Christianity, seemed important enough to Malalas to include in his chronicle. The mentions of the warmth of the water in the tub, the whiteness of the actor’s robe, and the reference to the moment of immersion all illustrate crucial elements perceived by the sixth-century author. They reveal both the importance of the material setup and the significance of ritual action in the actor’s conversion to Christianity. Lastly, the satirical ritual also clearly emphasizes the visual effect (“I saw a tremendous vision of God”) of the parodied initiatory experience. The term “actor” takes on another meaning in the “material turn” movement, where it can refer to any participant in an action, sometimes including inanimate matter itself. The “material turn”urged scholars to pay attention to the production of meaning through individuals’ encounters with objects and objects with cultures10. Subsequently, starting with the so-called “spatial turn”,  a more complex approach to situations composed of various physical components, the entire environment is considered a social construction

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1 / Saints Protasius and Gervasius with Ambrose of Milan between them, San Vittore in Ciel d'oro, Sant’Ambrogio Basilica, mosaic, Milan, 489–511

relevant to the understanding of historical events, which cannot be studied apart from their tangible material setting [Fig. 1]11. As we argue here, and as the authors of this volume show through a series of case studies, only a combined approach that integrates insights from the various “turns” in cultural studies can refocus our gaze on the impact of material, ritual, and visual cultures on the phenomenon of conversion that was, we believe, well-known to Ancient authors and creators as well. As mentioned above, in the case of Early Christianity, conversion and initiation should be treated as inseparable elements. Within the art historical discourse on baptism Reidar Aasgaard, “Ambrose and Augustine. Two Bishops on Baptism and Christian Identity”,   in Ablution, Initi­ ation, and Baptism. Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, David Hellholm et al. eds, Berlin / Boston, ma 2011, pp. 1253–1276, sp. p. 1257. 5 See e.g. Philippe Cordez, Ivan Foletti, “A Convivium with Herbert L. Kessler. Sharing Objects, Sensory Experiences, and Medieval Art History”,   Convivium, viii/1 (2021), pp. 16 –25 with further references. 6 For the sensory approach in art history, see, in recent years e.g. Sensory Reflections: Traces of Experience in Medieval Artifacts, Fiona Griffiths, Kathryn Starkey eds, Berlin 2018; Bissera V. Pentcheva, The Sensual Icon: Space, Ritual, and the Senses in Byzantium, University Park, pa 2010; Les cinq sens au Moyen Âge, Éric Palazzo ed., Paris 2016; Migrating Art Historians on the Sacred Ways, Ivan Foletti et al. eds, Brno/Rome 2018; Aural Archi­ tec­ture in Byzantium: Music, Acoustics, and Ritual, Bissera V. Pentcheva ed., New York / London 2018; Icons of Sound: Voice, Architecture, and Imagination in Medieval Art, eadem ed., New York / London 2021. Recently also The Routledge Handbook of the Senses in the Ancient Near East, Kiersten Neumann, Allison Thomason eds, London 2021. 7 The Chronicle of John Malalas, 12, 50, Elizabeth Jeffreys, Michael Jeffreys, Roger Scott eds and transl., Melbourne 1986, p. 171. 8 On the Taufmime, see e.g. recent contributions by Costas Panayotakis, “Baptism and Crucifixion on the Mimic Stage”,  Mnemosyne, l/3 (1997), pp. 302–319; Richard Lim, “Converting the Un-Christianizable: The Baptism of Stage Performers in Late Antiquity”,  in Conversion in Late Antiquity (n. 3), pp. 84–126; Marcia L. Colish, Faith, Force and Fiction in Medieval Baptismal Debates, Washington, d.c. 2014, sp. pp. 93– 97; and esp. Ruth Webb, De­ mons and Dancers: Performance in Late Antiquity, London / Cambridge, ma 2008, with further bibliography. 9 Augustine of Hippo, On Baptism, Against the Donatists, 7, 53 (pl, 43, 242). 10 Rick Dolphijn, Iris van der Tuin, New Materialism: Interviews & Cartographies, Ann Arbour, mi 2012; Karen Barad, “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter”,   Signs, xxviii (2003), pp. 801– 831. Cf. Iris Clever, Willemijn Ruberg, “Beyond Cultural History? The Material Turn, Praxiography, and Body History”,   Humanities, iii/4 (2014), pp. 546 –566. 11 Juliette Day et al, “Introduction: Spaces in Late Antiquity – Cultural, Theological and Archaeological Perspectives”,   in Spaces in Late Antiquity – Cultural, Theological and Archaeological Perspectives, iidem eds, pp. 1– 8, sp. p. 1; Barney Warf, Santa Arias, “Introduction: The Reinsertion of Space into the Social Sciences and Humanities”,   in The Spacial Turn: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, iidem eds, London 2009. 4

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and initiatory rituals in these early centuries marked by the rapid spread of Christianity, scholarly research on baptisteries and baptismal fonts has always held a prominent place and has mostly featured fragmentary studies. However, our understanding of initiation should be virtually extended in time and space beyond the moment and place of baptism itself. Christian initiation encompassed a series of complex rituals, actions, and events, which both preceded and followed the moment of baptism and were all bound to some material reality. The process of initiation involved three separate stages: pre-baptismal, baptismal, and post-baptismal. Each of these took place in different, specifically designed, spaces12. Baptismal candidates, even before officially joining the Christian community, took part in its activities but their visual experience and perception differed from those of the “full members”. Pre-baptismal promises, exorcisms, and teachings were carried out in narthexes, atria, or specific aulae that were often embellished with befitting decoration. For example, the narthex of the basilica of Santa Sabina can be considered a place connected to pre-baptismal rites, as it served to accommodate catechumens after they were instructed to leave the church before the liturgy of the Eucharist13. To separate the catechumens from the liturgy in progress, the basilica’s main entrance was shut, and wooden doors with scenes from the Old and New Testaments became the visual centerpiece of the narthex – a well-­premeditated material substitution for the senses of those gathered, which, in addition to its rich imagery, also amplified the sound emanating from the church interior [Fig. 2]14. Another case study features the wooden doors of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan dated to ca 38615. There, the Old Testament stories of David – with a focus on his election, unction, and victory over Goliath – exhort the future Christians to imitate the king, in accepting the initiatory unction and defeating the devil [Fig. 3]16. The closed doors not only allowed the catechumens to virtually experience the sacred, but they also materialized the future benefits stemming from joining the Christian community. After the pre-baptismal phase, the catechumen finally entered the baptistery that was typically decorated with splendid mosaics – a newly introduced artistic medium employed in Christian monuments – to be baptized [Fig. 4]17. Finally, after the sacrament, the neophytes again returned to the churches and were instructed in a series of mystagogical catecheses, during which they recalled their experience of the baptismal rite18. During baptism, the spiritual and social status of the candidates underwent a significant change. We may then contemplate, whether the places and images, which were created in various media and which the Christian congregation encountered before and after the rite of initiation, could acquire new levels of meaning and interpretation. While initiation played a key role in the process of the Christianization of the Roman world, other fundamental aspects should also be addressed. Shining images within liturgical spaces, objects of daily devotion, clothing decorated with images, and the impact of the new cult of martyrs must have had a decisive impact on Christianization. It should also be stressed here that visual and material cultures played a notable role for another reason: objects, spaces, and images perceived through all the senses, and probably even explained by reading and preaching, were more accessible to the illiterate masses. In the world, where only 10% of population was literate, the majority learned narratives and customs through social actions, hearing the scripture, preaching, catechesis, observing images, and using the spaces surrounding them19. The socio-ritual engagements of Early Christians – whether the celebration of the Eucharist, the commemoration of martyrs, baptism, or funerals and visits to cemeteries – took place in specifically designed setups that must have left an imprint on the newly-formed social identity of Christians 20.

introduction

2 / The doors of Santa Sabina, wood, Rome, 422–440 3 / The doors of Sant’Ambrogio, wood, Milan, ca 386

12 On baptism, see Paolo Siniscalco, “In spirito e in acqua. Il pensiero degli scrittori cristiani antichi sul battesimo”,   in Fons Vitae. Baptême, Baptistères et rites d’initiation (iie–vie siècle), Actes de la journée d’études (Université de Lausanne, 1er décembre 2006), Ivan Foletti, Serena Romano eds, Rome 2009, pp. 9 –25; Roger Beraudy, “L’iniziazione cristiana”,   in La Chiesa in preghiera: Introduzione alla liturgia, Aimé G. Martimort ed., Rome 1963; Georg Kretschmar, Die Geschichte des Taufgottesdienstes in der alten Kirche, Kassel 1970; Angelo Paredi, “Il battesimo in età di Ambrogio”,   in Il battistero ambrosiano di San Giovanni alle Fonti, Mirabella Roberti, Angelo Paredi eds, Milan 1974, pp. 83– 94; Victor Saxer, Les rites d’initiation chrétienne du iie au vie siècle. Esquisse historique et signification d’après leurs principaux témoins, Spoleto 1988; Maxwell E. Johnson, The Rites of Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation (Revised and Expanded Edition), Collegeville, mn 2007; Everet Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries, Grand Rapids, mi 2009; Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism (n. 4); Robin M. Jensen, Living Water: Images, Symbols, and Settings of Early Christian Baptism, Leiden 2011; Bryan D. Spinks, Early and Medieval Rituals and Theologies of Baptism: From the New Testament to the Counil of Trent, Aldeshot/Burlington 2006; Juliette Day, The Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem. Fourth- and Fifth-­ Century Evidence from Palestine, Syria and Egypt, London 2007. 13 An overview with previous bibliography can be found in Ivan Foletti, Manuela Gianandrea, Zona liminare. Il nartece di Santa Sabina, le sue porte e l’iniziazione cristiana a Roma, Rome 2015. 14 See Ivan Foletti, “Singing Doors: Images, Space, and Sound in the Santa Sabina Narthex”,   in Icons of sound (n. 6), pp. 19 –35. 15 See Mariantonia Reinhard-Felice, Ad sacrum lignum. La porta maggiore della basilica di Sant’Ambrogio a Milano, Bellinzona 1996 and the latest summarizing publication by Gemma Sena Chiesa, “Intagliatore lombardo (metà del iv secolo d.C.)”,   in Museo Diocesano, Paolo Biscottini ed., Milan 2011, pp. 110 –112. 16 On the initiatory meaning of these doors, see Ivan Foletti,“An Initiatory Experience? The Doors and the Narrative Cycle of the Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan, 386 ce”,   in Milan – Imperial Capital and Christian Metropolis (3rd – 6th c. ce), Markus Löx, Florian Florian Wöller eds, Munich 2022 (forthcoming). 17 Ivan Foletti, Zuzana Frantová, Mediální revoluce. Christianizace Evropy, Ravenna pátého století a jak obrazy mění dějiny, Brno 2021; Zuzana Frantová, Ravenna: Sedes Imperii: Artistic Trajectories in the Late Antique Mediterranean, Rome 2019; Nathan S. Dennis, Performing Paradise in the Early Christian Baptistery: Art, Liturgy, and the Transformation of Vision, PhD Thesis, (Johns Hopkins University, supervisor: Herbert L. Kessler), Baltimore, ma 2016. 18 See e.g. Juliette J. Day, “The Bishop as Mystagogical Teacher”,   in Teachers in Late Antiquity, Peter Gemeinhardt, Olga Lorgeoux, Maria Munkholt Christensen eds, Tübingen 2018, pp. 56 –  75. 19 William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy, Cambridge, ma 1989; See also the reflection by Gisella Cantino Wataghin, “Biblia pauperum? A proposito dell’arte dei primi cristiani”,   Antiquité tardive, ix (2001), pp. 259 –274. 20 Lizette Larson-Miller,“Eucharistic Practices”,   in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Ritual, Risto Uro et al. eds, Oxford 2019, pp. 538 –553, sp. p. 547.

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4 / Bastistery of San Giovanni in Fonte, mosaic of the dome, Naples, end of the 4th century – beginning of the 5th century

A transdisciplinary dialogue

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This volume, therefore, targets the material dimension of conversion to Christianity, with the baptismal rite and its tangible properties as one of the key components of this process. This interest corresponds to long-term research interests of the Centre for Early Medieval Studies at the Department of Art History at Masaryk University in Brno. As a matter of fact, the volume presents the proceedings of the transdisciplinary conference Materiality and Conversion: The Role of Material and Visual Cultures in the Christianization of the Latin West, organized by the cems in 2020. The conference contributors regarded material and visual cultures as vectors and witnesses of conversion to Christianity. The main inquiry sought to be reassessed was how these material elements, agents of conversion – above all architecture, various kinds of images, and movable objects together with the individuals who carried them – may have contributed to the process of conversion and may have reflected the reality of religious change and initiatory rituals. As a result, this volume covers – not only temporally but also spatially – a wide range of customs, ritual actions and their practicalities, spanning from pre-baptismal purification, through the moment of immersion in the baptismal font, to continuous changes in funeral forms in a society gradually accepting Christianity. The authors of the collected studies

consider a wide range of material and visual artifacts and objects that, on the one hand, acted as agents within and parts of the setup of the initiatory practice; on the other hand, those from the broader context of conversion, which could be considered as material witnes­ses of Christianization. As explained above, baptism, a key moment in Christian initiation, should be seen as a “sensorial explosion”. Naked, anointed, hungry, and instructed individuals metaphorically died and were resurrected in warm water. Christians and their bodily experience – in reality and in depiction – are one of the interests of this volume. The touch of the human body is reflected in the contribution by Barbara Bruderer. The author un­derstands the solemn consecration of baptismal water as an activation of water’s multisensory dimension. Its consecration represented a part of the creation of an active sacred space. Based on textual sources, the paper explores the consecration of water and the major shift from adult to infant baptism that occurred between the third and the eighth centuries. Markéta Kulhánková and Pavla Tichá focus on the body as a space in rituals and lived space transformed by those rituals, addressing bodily experience in the cults of Cybele and Christ. Their article illustrates how the perception of an individual topographical place, the Vatican, depended on previous or expected initiatory rituals, embodied in the individuals’ memory and affecting their affiliations to different religious groups. Robin Jensen’s paper deals with the touch of portrayed bodies. Her study shows that images of healing miracles performed by Christ were very popular. The direct touch of Christ’s hand, when healing, is indicated in contrast to other miracles performed indirectly by a virga. These healing scenes affirmed divine forgiveness granted through the converts’ new faith. The popularity of these images reflects the importance of the hope for resurrection. The key role of bodily perception and the touch of the human body features prominently in these studies. As shown in the second section, movable objects – combs, pyxides, diptychs, censers, and textiles – were involved in the process of initiation, whether they interacted with human bodies directly or only through sight. Their role may have been decisive not only because of their actual contact with the human body, but also thanks to the potential they had to provide another space for repeating representational patterns [Fig. 5]. These “minor” objects are discussed in an article by Gajane Achverdjanová and Ivan Foletti, who studied ivory combs as metaphorical instruments of pre-baptismal purification. According to Zuzana Frantová’s paper, another type of ivory object, the Christian counterpart of the famous “consular”diptychs, appeared in an initiatory context to present the tradition and continuity of the Church by using a medium that had been employed by high-ranking officials. As such, it was an element that eased the transition from pagan to Christian Roman society. Juliette Day, on the other hand, focused on a rather unpleasant material or object – the so-called cilicium. This was a goat hair cloth, briefly added to the list of neces­ sary materials for exorcistic rituals in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, meant to reinforce the act of renouncing Satan through the physical experience of kneeling on the disagreeable material. The cloth’s material character was meant to reflect the discomfort of the catechumen’s state of sin. Both luxury ivory objects covered with images and this scratchy cloth deepened the sensorial experience of the baptismal rite. So far, the contributions listed have focused on living human bodies, whether real or portrayed, and their ritual interactions. However, deceased individuals – their memory and even their bodies – were present and significantly partook in social structures. In the case of Christians, the materiality of a dead body was crucial, be it the body of a loved one or the sacred remains of a saint. In this volume, Megan Bunce’s article focuses on funerary

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5 / Pyx with the Women at Christ's Tomb, ivory, Eastern Mediterranean, 500s / The Metropolitan Museum of Arts

tradition and shrine building in Britain and Ireland, suggesting a relationship between funerary practices and the cult of relics in a time when this society was being gradually Christianized. Alžběta Filipová and Adrien Palladino then examine Ambrose of Milan’s approach to the remains of holy bodies – relics. The bishop’s efforts to emphasize the importance of the local martyrs Gervasius and Protasius and spread Milanese blood relics to other Christian communities through performative translations were not very successful, and the churches of Gervasius and Protasius were soon rededicated to saints with more prestigious relics. Ambrose’s attempts, however, resulted in a general appreciation of re­lics and the cult of martyrs on behalf of bishops. The last section thus concludes this volume by demonstrating the customs and attitudes of Late Antique, Early Christian, society towards the bodies of those who had encountered metaphorical death in the moment of baptism, and the bodies of martyrs who actually died.

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Eleven scholars in eight papers open questions on multiple “actors” of conversion, which the sixth-century chronicler Malalas was aware of, when he recorded them to convince the reader of the miraculousness of Christian ritual performance. These “actors” were materialenvironments, images, the space, touch of bodies, minor movable objects, and the meanings they held and created on their own or in interaction with each other. The contributions illustrate the roles that material culture and sensorial perception may have played in a time when the Roman Empire was being continuously converted to Christianity.

articles

Abstract – Activation of the Invisible. A Prolegomenon to the Evolution of the Consecration of Baptismal Water in the Latin West as a Performative and Sensorial Act. The Roman Rite (3rd–9th century) The sensorially activating nature inherent in the solemn consecration of baptismal water during the Easter and Pentecost vigils, as they developed in the Latin West, deserves the attention of scholars of Early Christian and medieval baptisteries. This article therefore tracks the evolution of the Roman formulary up to its eventual Carolingian primacy over the Celtic and Gallican formularies. Being part of the mysteria under the constraints of the disciplina arcani and the consequent lack of direct sources, the Roman formulary’s activating and sensorially operative use of the word cannot be assessed up to the seventh century. Only between 625 and 650, with the formulary of the Old Gelasian Sacramentary as the oldest existing template, can the scope and depth of the activating word incorporated in the different sequences become comprehensible. This is pursued further into the Carolingian period, as added gestures and rituals charge the act with further activating multisensorial meaning, which can be traced in the contemporary sacramentaries, including the famous Drogo Sacramentary as the foremost witness, the Roman ordines, and the De ecclesiastics officiis of Amalarius of Metz. Keywords – Carolingian liturgical reform, consecration of baptismal water, Drogo Sacramentary, gesture, Hadrianum, liturgical formulary, multisensory activation, Old Gelasian Sacramentary, paradigm change, ritual, Roman liturgy Barbara Bruderer Eichberg Bibliotheca Hertziana, Max-Planck Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rome [email protected]

Activation of the Invisible A Prolegomenon to the Evolution of the Consecration of Baptismal Water in the Latin West as a Performative and Sensorial Act. The Roman Rite (3rd–9th century) Barbara Bruderer Eichberg

Dedicated to my dear friend Leslie Kennedy Cheetham.

Introduction The famous Drogo Sacramentary, compiled around 850 for the personal use of Drogo, bishop of Metz (823– 855/856), is adorned on the front of its ivory book cover by the earliest detailed representation in Western art of the episcopal consecration of the baptismal water, framed according to the current eighteenth-century layout on the lower register by the two scenes of baptism to the right and confirma­ tion to the left [Fig. 1] 1. Following the entrance ceremonial described by the Roman ordines, starting with Ordo xi, drafted in Rome in the second half of the seventh century as a baptismal service book 1

The actual layout of the three tablets dates back to the 1760’s replacement of the silver frame, leaving the question whether already the original layout favored a centered position of the consecration scene open. On the Drogo Sacramentary and its

ivory book cover tablets, with extensive bibliographic information, see: “Sacramentarium, dit Sacramentaire de Drogon”,  bnf Archives et manuscrits, https://archivesetmanuscrits.bnf. fr/exportBranchePdf.html?eadCid=FRBNFEAD0 [last acces­ sed 29.08.2021]; for more details after the recent restoration of the tablets and silver frame, see the online program of the Journée d’étude, Paris, “Le Sacramentaire de Drogon (Paris, bnf, Latin 9428) et les ivoires de Metz”,   organized by Charlotte Denoël, Maxence Hermant, Florian Meunier: https://drogon. sciencesconf.org/ [last accessed 29.08.2021]. The remarkable choice of motif, i.e., the consecration of the baptismal water, alongside the baptism and confirmation, has yet to gain scholarly attention. Applying Éric Palazzo’s general theoretical definition of the illustrated liturgical book as a sacred “locus” and its ritual “activation”,   as explained in his discussion of the Drogo Sacramentary’s illustrations for the Canon of the Mass, as a multisensorial “activation” of the exegesis of the liturgy at the very moment of its ritual performance, would allow for a very rewarding analysis, although this has to fall outside of the scope of this article; see Éric Palazzo, “Art, Liturgy and the Five Senses in the Early Middle Ages”,   Viator, xli/1 (2010), pp. 25–56, sp. pp. 34–48.

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providing the necessary information on the rituals and prescriptions for the collective baptism celebrated during the Vigils of Easter and Pentecost, the bishop is shown standing in front of a quadrilobed font, elevated by two steps and enclosed in a ciborium, keeping his hands over the water and simultaneously reading the consecrations formulary from the pages of the sacra­mentary that a deacon to his left offers him, assisted by an acolyte with a large candle2. Barely visible to the rear, a subdeacon has the chrism vessel ready, and a second acolyte to the right side holds a situla. The consecration formulary read by the bishop on the ivory tablet is found on folios 50v–53v of the sacra­mentary, a reworked copy of the famous sacra­mentary that Adrian i sent to Charlemagne in 791 as a matrix for his proposed liturgical reforms in the Frankish realm. Known as the Hadrianum, it was actually an outdated Gregorian sacramentary, which combined the structure and content of the lost original of Pope Honorius (625– 638) with additions made by Gregory ii (715 – 731)3. The formulary, with its splendid display of calligraphy, its gestures or rituals highlighted by rubrics, symbols, or adjoined notes, and the realistic image of the ivory tablet, records the actual situation of the episcopal consecration and the necessary liturgical devices for posterity, providing a starting point for this article’s central topic: the highly complex and multisensory nature of the Roman consecration of the baptismal water, as it developed over the course of the seventh century and into the Carolingian period. The choice of topic and the title of this article owe much to Éric Palazzo’s more recent recognition of the activating sensory dimension of medieval liturgy, which only began to attract attention among liturgical scholars from the 1980s4. Expanded to the Early Christian period and with its origin and evolution in the Latin West traced in a variety of written sources, with a specific analysis of the evolution in the Roman liturgical texts, the consecration of the baptismal water was revealed as a highly interesting case study in the context of this workshop dedicated to the initiatory rituals of Christianization as multisensory operating and staged processes.

The consecration of baptismal water in the Latin West from the third to the sixth century The idea that baptismal water had to be liturgically prepared to receive the invisible Holy Spirit, thus activating its salvific action, can be traced back in the Latin West towards the end of the second century. Tertullian (ca 155 – ca 240?) already alludes to it in chapter 4 of his treatise De Baptismo, discussing the nature of baptismal water as having the power to make holy by virtue of being sanctified by the Holy Spirit5. A second source that deserves to be mentioned, albeit with necessary caution because of its seeming western origin, is the Apostolic Tradition, whose attribution to Hippolyte of Rome (ca 170 –235) since its rediscovery in the nineteenth century has more recently been disproved in the latest commented edition of Paul F. Bradshaw, Maxwell E. Johnson, and L. Edward Philipps, which favors a text with different layers from different geographical areas and periods, embracing a hypothetical timeframe of the mid-second century to the mid-­fourth century. The beginning of Chapter 21 belongs to the oldest core of directives about the initiation of new converts. It is dedicated to baptism and stipulates that, as the cock crows after the nightlong Vigil of Easter, the very beginning of the solemn collective baptism should be a prayer over the water, irrespec­tive of whether the baptismal water flowed through the font or basin or came from above6. Grappling with this ancient requirement of only a prayer over the water, Cyprian of Carthage (ca 200 –258) insisted in his Letter lxx concerning the baptism of heretics that the water first had to be purified and then sanctified by the priest, so that baptism could wash away the sins of man7. This is quite different from the Eastern Church’s custom of exorcising the baptismal water, attested already in the latter half of the second century in Clement of Alexandria’s (ca 150 – ca 215) Excerpts of the Valentinian Theodotus of Byzantium8. The need to do so seems to have reached the Latin West only by the time of Cyprian of Carthage. With the Constantinian shift, particularly with the second half of the fourth century, the rite of consecration entered, as it seems, a new stage of evolution, as can be best comprehended

Ordo xi, Incipit ordo vel denuntiati scrutinii ad electos, quo tertia ebdomada in quadragesima, secunda feria initatur, pp. 1–105; Les ordines Romani du haut moyen âge, (Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, Études et documents, 23), vol. ii, Michel Andrieu ed., Louvain 1971, pp. 417–447 (text). Concerning its origins and date, see ibidem, “Introduction”,   pp. 380 –413; Cyrille Vogel, Introduction aux sources de l’histoire du culte chrétienne au Moyen Âge, (Biblioteca degli Studi Medievali, 1), Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo ed., Spoleto 1981 pp. 138 –141; Éric Palazzo, Le Moyen Âge. Des origines au xiiie siècle, Paris 1993, pp. 185–196, sp. p. 191 (= orxi). 3 The Hadrianum itself is lost, but its oldest copy produced for Hildoard, the bishop of Cambrai (790 – post 812) in the year 812 (ms Cambrai, Bibl. Mun. 164), retains the same consecration formulary with more recent additions; see Das Sacramentarium Gregorianum nach dem Aachener Urexemplar, 85. Benedictio fontis, Hans Lietzman ed., Münster 1921, pp. 52–53. (= sacrhad). On the history of the Hadrianum, see Vogel, Introduction (n. 2), pp. 72– 78; Palazzo, Moyen Âge (n. 2), pp. 74– 77. On the prototype of the Gregorian Sacra­mentary and the evolution of its three families, see André Chavasse, “L’organisation générale des sacramentaires dits grégoriens”,  Revue des Sciences religieuses, lvi (1982), pp. 179 –200, 253–273; lvii (1983), pp. 50  – 56; Palazzo, Moyen Âge (n. 2), p. 74. 4 See Éric Palazzo, “Les cinq sens au Moyen Âge: État de la question et perspectives de recherché”,   in Les cinq sens au Moyen Âge, idem ed., Paris 2016, pp. 11–57, sp. pp. 31–40. 5 Tertullian, De baptismo Liber, chap. 4. For the Latin text with English translation, see Tertullian’s Homily on Baptism (Q. Sep­ timii Florentis Tertulliani De Baptismo Liber), Ernest Evans ed., London 1964, pp. 10 –11; for a succinct analysis, see Georg Kretschmar, Die Geschichte des Taufgottesdienstes in der alten Kirche, Kassel 1970; Karl F. Müller, Walter Blankenburg, Lei­ turgia. Handbuch des evangelischen Gottesdienstes, vol. v, Kassel 1970, pp. 92– 95. For the origins and evolution of the consecration of the baptismal water in the Eastern and Western Churches, as attested in a variety of written sources, see the fundamental works by Dom Pierre De Puniet, “Bénediction de l’eau”,   in Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de Liturgie, vol. ii, part 1 (1914), coll. 685– 713, with synoptic tables of Eastern and Western formularies; Burkhard Neunheuser, 2

“De benedictione aquae baptismalis. Inqiusitiones secundum doctrinam et liturgiam christianae usque ad primum ritus redactionem definitivam”,   Ephemerides liturgicae, xliv (1930), pp. 194–207, 258 –281, 369 –412; Hubert Scheidt, Die Taufwasserweihegebete, im Sinne vergleichender Liturgieforschung untersucht, (Liturgiegeschichtliche Quellen und Forschungen, 29), Münster 1935, also with expanded synoptic tables of Eastern and Western formularies. 6 Paul F. Bradshaw, Maxwell E. Johnson, L. Eduard Philipp, The Apostolic Tradition. A Commentary, Minneapolis, mn 2002, 21.1. For the English text of the initial prayer over the water from the Sahidic, Arabic, and Ethiopic text, and from the Canons of Hippolyte, see ibidem, pp. 112–113, commentary on pp. 124 and 129 with reference to Tertullian and Cyprian; concerning a careful historiographic revision of the attribution and origin of the Apostolic Tradition and the new proposal of a progressive aggregation of different sources and regions with a reconstruction of the oldest parts, see ibidem, pp. 1–17; reviewed and supplemented by Andrea Nicolotti, “Che cosè la Traditio apostolica di Ippolito? In margine ad una recente pubblicazione”,   Rivista di Storia del Cristianesimo, ii/1 (2005), pp. 219 –237. The author of this article supports later scholars, such as Everett Fergurson, who agree with Kretschmar’s highlighting of close parallels with Tertullian’s treatise, and has suggested a western origin of the text, see Kretschmar, Geschichte (n. 5), pp. 89 – 91; Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church. History, Theolo­ gy, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries, Grand Rapids, mi / Cambridge 2009, pp. 328 –330. For the Latin text with French translation, see Hippolyte of Rome, Traditio apostolica (La tradi­ tion apostolique), 21.1, (sc, 11bis), Bernard Botte ed., Paris 1984 [1968], pp. 80 – 81. 7 Cyprian of Carthage, Epistola lxx, 1, (csel, 3, 2), Wilhelm von Hartel ed., Salzburg 1871, p. 767. 8 Clement of Alexandria, The Excerpta ex Theodoto of Clement of Alexandria [Greek text with English translation], Robert P. Casey transl. and ed., London 1934, 82.2, p. 318. For the origins of the exorcism of baptismal water and the commonly shared perception of the negative side of water as possessed by evil and demonic forces in Antiquity, see Franz J. Dölger, Der Exorzismus im altchristlichen Taufritual, Paderborn 1909, pp. 160 –167; Scheidt, Taufwasserweihe (n. 5), pp. 82– 85.

1 / Confirmation – Consecration of Baptismal Water – Baptism, Drogo Sacramentary, Frankish Empire, ivory relief book cover, 9th century / Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris), ms lat. 9428

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with the help of Ambrose of Milan’s (ca 340–397) From Ambrose’s explicit reference in De Sacra­ two treatises De Sacramentis and De Mysteriis. His mentis that his Milanese church would follow, with De Sacramentis Book i, Chapter 5, 15–18, departs the exception of the pedilavum, the type and form from the story of Naaman and the primary bib- of the Roman rite, one could assume that this lical paradigm of Christ’s baptism in the Jordan Mysterium Christi again consisted of a preceding river to cover early baptismal theology and doc- exorcism, the prayer’s invocation of the Trinity, trine and the structure of the rite, with its three and the consecration rite of the sign of the cross13. elements of exorcism, invocation, and prayer that Broadening the scope of this survey to other had to be performed by the bishop. The prayer authors from different regions of the Latin West, especially figured as the most distinguished ele- such as Northern Italy with Zeno of Verona (ca 300 ment, as it sanctified the water by invoking the – 371/380) and Chromatius of Aquileia (d. 406/ presence of the Holy Trinity after Christ’s com- 407), Gaul with Hilary of Poitiers (ca 310 – ca 367), mand to the Apostles (Matt. 28, 16–20)9. Except and Spain with Gregory of Elvira (d. ca 392) and for the invocation of the Trinity, Ambrose does Pacian of Barcelona (ca 300–379), only very brief not provide any more detail about the content or references to the consecration can be found in structure of the three spoken or sung elements. Zeno of Verona’s Paschal Homilies. In his Tractatus For the prayer, he asserted in De Mysteriis iii, 14 i.23, De Psalmo xli addressed to cate­chumens14, that the priest had to cast “the proclamation of he refers to Matthew 3, 11 to allude to the Holy the Lord’s Cross” into the water, recalling Moses’ Spirit and fire with their life-giving effect on the transformation of the bitter waters of the Well preheated water. Gregory of Elvira’s Tractatus de of Marah at the sixth station of the Israelites arca Noe draws on the traditional line exposed by (Ex. 15, 23–24) into sweet water by casting wood Ambrose that the consecration was rooted in the into the well10. Whether this very evocative and baptism of Christ15. highly performative and sensorial gesture imAny objective assessment of the evolution of plied the simple sign of the cross on the water or the formularies’ wording, euphony, and gestures the actual submersion of a wooden cross, remains as possibly being developed during the fifth and an issue of conflicting interpretations11. sixth centuries in the Latin West has to remain Although recent scholars have rejected the very hypothetical due to the paucity of direct attribution of the Apostolic Tradition to Hippolyte liturgical sources and the notorious silence of and thus to Rome as its place of origin, one would Church writers. Augustine alone stands out, as not be mistaken in assuming that the text was he often mentions the consecration in his large circulating in the capital of the Roman Empire corpus of work16. Still, three aspects need to be and known alongside Tertullian’s treatise on addressed, as they touched on the development baptism, and that towards the middle of the of the consecration and its formularies as well third century the two-part articulation, i.e. in as their relationship to gestures in early mediean exorcism and a prayer, of the baptismal wa- val Western rites. As an outcome of his disputer’s consecration was most likely practiced, as te with the Donatists, the moral quality of the was the custom in the Latin regions of North celebrating bishop as just an instrument or an Africa and as attested by Cyprian of Carthage. intercessor, not a mediator of the word of God or Indirectly, this thesis is attested as a central ele- Christ is very important to Augustine, matching ment by the story of the conversion and baptism Ambrose’s understanding of Christ’s command of Constantine, dated by Wilhelm Pohlkamp to baptize as the institutionalizing foundatito the pontificate of Damasus i (366–384) as on of baptism17. The role given to the spoken the oldest part of the Actus Silvestri. In its de- word was pivotal, as evidenced by Augustine’s scription of the baptism in the baths of the im- Exposition on the Gospel of John, Chapter 8018. It is perial palace, we read that, while Constantine the power of the word and not just the water waited in the caldarium, Pope Silvester invoked itself that is the essential element of baptism the Mysterium Christi over the external piscina12. and joined together they become the sacrament

of the visible word, not just simply spoken, but believed19. The third aspect was the ritual sign of the cross, which Augustine understood as more than a mere gesture, but a physical and visible reinforcement of the spoken act of consecration at the very moment of the prayer. In his apology On Baptism against Donatists, he reemphasizes the common understanding of the sign of the cross as the Cross of the Lord to insist nothing would be lawfully accomplished without its application over the baptismal water, over the chrism, and over the sacrifice20. Returning to the churches of continental Western Europe, primarily the two main centers Rome and Ravenna, the silence, in particular of Pope Leo i (ca 400–461) and Peter Chrysologus (ca 380 – ca 450) is intriguing, given their large and important corpus of sermons touching on themes of baptismal discipline or baptismal theology. The same applies for the beginning of the sixth century and John the Deacon, whose early sixth-century letter from Rome to Senarius of Ravenna described the rite customary in Rome at that time21. Still, in the author’s view, the sources reveal an aspect of profound and far-reaching importance: the fact that the mandatory sanctifying act Ambrose, De sacramentis, i, 5. 18, Tom Thompson transl., James H. Strawley ed., London 1919, p. 51: “For as soon as the priest enters, he makes an exorcism over the element of water, afterwards he offers an invocation and a prayer, that the font may be consecrated, and the presence of the eternal Trinity may come down”. See Scheidt, Taufwasserweihegebete (n. 5), pp. 9 –10; Kretschmar, Geschichte (n. 5), pp. 232–233. 10 Ambrose, De Mysteriis, iii.14, Tom Thompson transl., James H. Strawley ed., London 1919, p. 51: “The font of Marah was most bitter; Moses cast wood into it, and it was made sweet. For water without the proclamation of the Lord’s cross serves no purpose of future salvation; but when it has been consecrated by the mystery of the saving cross, then it is fitted for the use of the spiritual laver and the cup of salvation. As, therefore, Moses, that is, the prophet, cast wood into that font, so also the priest casts the proclamation of the Lord’s cross into this font, and the water becomes sweet unto grace”. 11 For an actual immersion of a wooden cross into the water, see Scheidt, Taufwasserweihegebete (n. 5), pp. 9 –10, recently supported by Karsten R. Bürgener, “Über die Taufwasserweihe”,   in Schrift, Tradition und Arkandisziplin. Vierzehn Aufsätze. Eine hochkirchliche Dogmatik, St Ansgar 2016, pp. 67– 90, sp. pp. 72– 73, 78 – 80 (available online at: Weitere Aufsätze und Vorträge, Hochkirchlicher Apostolat St. Ansgar, http://www.hochkirche.de/content/weitere-­ aufs%C3%A4tze-und-vortr%C3%A4ge [last accessed 29.08.2021], pp. 1–18, sp. pp. 4–5, 7– 8); against de Puniet, “Bénédiction” (n. 5), col. 695, and others, such as Kretschmar, Geschichte (n. 5) pp. 232–233. 9

12 Wilhelm Pohlcamp, „Kaiser Konstantin, der heidnische und der christliche Kult in den Actus Silvestri”,   in Frühmittelalter­ liche Studien, xviii (1984), pp. 357–400, sp. p. 372: “Et his dictis ingredere thermas palatii tui, ut dum tu intus calore uteris, ego foris mysterium Christi in piscinam invocem, cuius te egressum de calore aqua sanctificata suscipat credentem in unum deum patrem et filium et spiritum sanctum”. 13 Ambrose, De Sacramentis, (n. 9) iii. 5, p. 98: ”We are not ignorant that the Roman Church has not this custom. Her type and form we follow in all things, however, she has not this custom of washing the feet”. 14 Zeno of Verona, Tractatus i. 23, De Psalmo xli, Bengt Löfsted ed., (ccsl, 22), Turnhout 1971, p. 70; paraphrased in Ferguson, Baptism (n. 6), pp. 649 – 651. 15 For the text, see Philippe Beitia,“L’initiation chrétienne dans une communité espagnole du iv siècle”,   Bulletin de littérature ecclésiastique, xcvi (1995), pp. 83 –  95, sp. p. 88; Ferguson, Baptism (n. 6) , pp. 665 –  666. 16 See Kretschmar, Geschichte (n. 5), pp. 241–242. 17 Augustine, De Trinitate, Lib. xv, 26. 46, William J. Mountain, François Glorie eds, (ccsl, 50), Turnhout 1968, pp. 525–527. 18 Augustine, In Iohannis Evangelium Tractatus lxxx, 3, Radbodus Willems ed., (ccsl, 36), Turnhout 1954, p. 529: “Iam vos mundi estis propter uerbum quod locutus sum vobis. Quare non ait, mu­ ndi estis propter baptismum quo loti estis, sed ait propter uerbum quod loctutus sum vobis, nisi quia et in acqua uerbum mundat? Detrahe uerbum, et quia est acqua nisi acqua? Accedit uerbum ad elementum, et fit sacramentum, etiam ipsum tamquam uisibile uerbum. […] Vnde ista tanta uirtus acquae, ut corpus tangat e cor abluat, nisi faciente uerbo, non quia dicitur, sed quia creditor? Nam et in ipso uerbo, aliud est sonus transiens, alius uirtus manens“. 19 Ibidem, p. 529. This Augustinian definition of the primacy of the word as sacramental signum over the element/­matter was to become fundamental for the theology of sacraments in general, see more recently Irène Rosier-Catach, La parole efficace. Signe, ritual, sacré, Paris 2004, pp. 481–491; Philip Cary, Outward Signs. The Powerlessness of the Exter­ nal Things in Augustin’s Thought, Oxford 2008; particularly for baptism up to the scholastic period, see Kretschmar, Geschichte (n. 5), pp. 241–242; and, recently, Ueli Zahnd, “Die sakramentale Kraft des Wassers. Scholastische Debatten über ein augustinisches Bild zur Wirkungsweise von Weihwasser und Taufe“, in Wasser in der mittelalterli­ chen Kultur. Gebrauch- Wahrnehmung-Symbolik, (Das Mittelalter Beihefte, 4), Gerlinde Huber-Rebenich ed., Berlin 2017 pp. 321–332, sp. pp. 324–326. For the consecration of the baptismal water stands out the article of Isabelle Renaud-­Chamska, “De la sensibilité aux choses et du sens des mots. La bénédiction de l’eau baptismale“, La Maison-­ Dieu, clxxxviii (1991), pp. 41–55. 20 Augustine, De baptismo contra donatistas, 1., v.20.28, Michael Petschenig ed., (csel, 51), Vienna 1908, p. 286. In other circumstances, he alludes to the divine invocation together with the sign of the cross; e.g. in Sermo 352, 1, 3, (pl, 39, col. 1551): “Sed quia baptismus, id est, salutis aqua non est salutis, nisi Christi nomine consecrata, quo pro nobis sangui­ nem fudit, cruce ipsius signatur”; for further examples, see also Wunibald Roetzer, Des Heiligen Augustinus Schriften als Liturgie-­Geschichtliche Quelle, Munich 1930, pp. 160 –162; Scheidt, Taufwasserweihe (n. 5), p. 9. 21 John the Deacon, Epistola ad Senarium virum illustrem. De variis ritibus ad baptismum pertinentibus, et aliis observatione dignis, pl, 59, coll. 399c–407a; another edition of the letter can be found in André Wilmart,“Un florilège carolingien sur le symbolisme des cérémonies du baptème, avec appendice sur la lettre de Jean Diacre”,   in Analecta Reginensia, idem ed., Vatican City 1933, pp. 153–179, sp. pp. 170 –179.

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preceded the rite of baptism and that this was celebrated by the bishop without the presence of the catechumens. At the time of the Apostolic Tradition, practical reasons were most probably responsible for this choice, but the prevailing Disciplina arcani of the fourth and fifth centuries suggests that the element of mystery has been intended22. This exclusionary stage setting clearly intensified the effect of mysterium that was inherent to the sanctified water and the multisensorial experience of the mostly adult catechumens, who were led after their last prebaptismal exorcisms to the sanctified font, followed by subsequent postbaptismal rites. In other words, it increasingly enhanced the sanctifying dimension of the already highly transformative operating act of collective baptism, celebrated during the night’s darkness of the Paschal Vigil (and Pentecostal Vigil or Epiphany) that was – as may be just briefly recalled here – multisensorially solicited, as captivatingly described by Béatrice Caseau in her tour of the spatial and decorative beauty of the Lateran Baptistery and Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna, by the orchestration of light and sound by chant or running water, and by the transcending, paradisiacal fragrance of lamps and incense burners23. Some notion of the structure and the textual contents of a Roman formulary circulating in Rome and its suburban bishoprics possibly as early as in the fifth century can be gleaned from the so-called Leonine Sacramentary, which was compiled around the mid-sixth century, during the timespan of the two pontificates of Vigilius (537–555) and John iii (561–574) and conserved in a single seventh-century copy at the Biblioteca Capitolare of Verona (Cod. Bibl. Capit. Veron.  lxxxv [80]). Not being a sacramentary in the strict sense but originally a collection of older papal libelli from the fifth and the first half of the sixth century, later adapted for presbyterial use, it includes formularies for the mass as well as prayers for the liturgical year, a precursor of the later pontificals consisting of the ordination formularies for the dedication of a church, the consecration of the bishop, the ordinations of the deacons and priests, and, at the very end, a formulary of the consecration of baptismal water entitled Incipit  benedictio fontes by the oldest attested rubric24.

The text begins with two very brief sequences of an initial invocation addressed to Almighty God followed by a binary anamnesis recalling his Holy Spirit hovering over the surface of the primordial waters and his celestial vigilant eyes overlooking the Jordan, while John baptized the people (John 1, 19c28). The following prayer implored God that his invisible Hand may be present in this water, that he may cleanse and purify those baptized in this water, and that they will be reborn by it from the primordial sin and revive as new men created in Jesus Christ. A short Trinitarian doxology addressed to Christ governing together and in union with the Holy Spirit ends the succinct formulary. The Roman consecration of the baptismal water in the seventh century: a paradigm shift A hallmark evolutionary template of the Roman consecration formulary can be found in its oldest surviving witness, the Old Gelasian Sacramentary, copied near Paris around 750 and conserved at the Vatican Library (Vat. Reginensis 316). Entitled In nomine domini Iesu Christi Salvatoris. Incipit Liber sacramentorum romanae ecclesiae ordinis anni circuli, its original was most probably compiled around the mid-seventh century and was designed for presbyterial use in Rome’s titular churches and the Roman province’s extramural and suffragan bishoprics25. One significant fact is that its consecration formulary is almost identical to one of the three families of the Gregorian sacramentary evolving from pope Honorius’ lost original version, which includes the Hadrianum introduced at the beginning of this article and an another, even older, member, the Sacramentary of Trento (Trento, Castello del Buonconsigio, ms 1590), which was copied for the Cathedral of Säben around 825 from a Gregorian sacramentary revised in Rome about 685 during the pontificate of Benedict ii (684–685) and sent to Trent only a few years later26. The formulary of the Old Gelasian Sacramentary is here based on Leo Cunibert Mohlberg’s edition, using the numeration of sequences of prayers, with short statements about the nature, content, and form of recitation and rubrics following Johannes Petrus de Jong27.

n. 444 [inde discendis cum laetania ad fonte. benedictio fontis] 1. Introductory prayer and petition: Omnipotens sempiternae deus, adsto magne pietatis tuae mysteriis, adsto sacramentis et ad creandos nouos populos, quos tibi fons baptismatis parturit, spiritum adoptionis emitte, et quod humilitatis nostrae gerendum est ministerio, tua uirtutis conpleatur effectus: per (dominum nostrum iesum christum).

n. 445–448 [item consecratio fontis] 2. Exhortation / Call of the celebrant for divine assistance: Deus, qui inuisibili potentia tua sacramentorum tuorum mirabiliter operaris affectum, et licet nos tantis misteri­ is exequentis simus indigni, tu tamen gratiae tuae dono non deseres etiam ad nostras praeces aures tuae pietatis inclina: […] 3. Anamnesis dedicated to the invisible God and the nature of his salvation, recalling two Old Testament paradigms: […] deus, cuius spiritus super aquas iter ipsa mundi primor­ dia ferebatur, ut iam tunc uirtutem sanctificationis aquarum natura conciperet: deus, qui nocentis mundi crimina per aquas abluens regenerationis speciem in ipsa diluuii effusione signasti, (ut) unius eiusdemque elimenti mysterio et finis esset uiciis et origo uirtutum: […] 4. Prayer for God’s sanctification of the water with imperative tonality: […] respice, domine, in faciem aecclesiae tuae et multiplica in ea generationes tuas, quae gratiae tuae effluentis impetum laetificas ciuitatem tuam, fontemque baptismatis aperis toto orbe terrarum gentibus innouandis, ut tuae maiestatis impe­ rio sumat unigenti tui gratiam de spiritu sancto. Qui hanc aquam regenerandis hominibus praeparatum archano sui luminis admixione fecundet, ut sanctificatione concepta ab immaculato diuini fontis utero in nouam renatam creaturam progenies caelestis emergat, et quos aut sexus in corpore aut aetas discerit in tempore, omnis in una pareat gratia mater infantia. 5. Exorcism: Procul ergo hinc iubente te, domine, omnis spiritus in­ mundus abscidat, procul tota nequitia diabolicae fraudis absistat, nihil hic loci habeat contrariae uirtutis ammixtio, 22 On the disciplina arcani in general, see Kretschmar, Geschich­ te (n. 5), pp. 152–164. The “mystification” of the consecration of the baptismal water in the context of the disciplina arcani in

the fourth and fifth centuries has received little attention from liturgical scholars, with few exceptions, such as Bürgener, ”Über die Taufwasserweihe” (n. 11), p. 20. More recently, Ferg­uson noted it as a preparatory rite without the presence of the catechumens in the case of the Apostolic Tradition, Zeno of Verona; see Ferguson, Baptism (n. 6) pp. 300, 437, 649. Thanks to Ferguson’s compilation of Eastern sources, one can easily note that this custom prevailed as well in Eastern Churches, as represented by Cyril of Jerusalem, p. 476; Gregory of Nazianzus, p. 564; Gregory of Nyssa, p. 606; Theodore of Mopsuestia, pp. 524–526; John Chrysostom, p. 541. 23 Béatrice Caseau, “The Senses in Religion: Liturgy, Devotion, and Deprivation”,  in A cultural History of Senses in the Middle Ages, 500  – 1450, Richard Newhauser ed., Bloomsbury 2014, pp. 89  – 110, sp. pp. 92 –  94. Pursuing this argument further would fall outside of the scope of this article, but the specific mystifying handling of the consecration based on the two institutionalized paradigms of Christ’s command of baptism, by evocation of the Trinity and sealed by the gesture of the Sign of the Cross, ought to be given more consideration, see­ ing the possible range of stratified implementations within the specific archeological and topographic situations of baptisteries and their fonts, at times closed in a ciborium, their iconographic, epigraphic, and lighting decor, and, last, but not least, liturgical devices, such as censers or a golden dove hanging over the font, all creating a potent multisensorial and transcendentally active space of sacrality. One may briefly mention the iconographic presence of the Cross in the Naples Baptistery, placed above the font in form of a staurogram (late fourth century) or in the hexagonal font of San Giovanni Battista Bedizzole (loc. Pontenove), here in the form of a gem­ med cross with expanded terminals (fifth century); or indeed the centrally collocated crosses that adorned the beautiful sixth-century Tunisian fonts at Kélibia and Sufetula. 24 Sacramentarium Veronense (Sacrametarium Leonianum), (Rerum Ecclesiasticarum Documenta, series major, fontes, 1), Leo C. Mohlberg, Leo Einzenhofer, Petrus Siffrin eds, Rome 1966, p. 170: “Praecem tibi fundimus, domine, rerum genitur aeternae, omnipotens deus, cuius spiritibus ferebatur super aquas, cuius oculi excelsi aspexerunt super Iordanem fluuium, dum tinguiret Iohannes in paenitentia confitentes peccata sua. Ideoque petimus sanctam gloriam tuam, ut sit absconta manus tua in hanc aquam; ut emundes et purifices interiorum homi­ nem, qui baptizantur ex ea, et mortiferis delectis renascatur ac reuiuscat per hominem nouum, creatum in Christo Iesu: cum quo uiues et regnas in unitate spiritus sancti in saecula”. For the dating, structure, and function of the sacramentary, see David M. Hope, The Leonine Sacramentary, Oxford 1971, pp. 54– 77, 132 – 133; Vogel, Introduction (n.2), pp. 31–42; Palazzo, Moyen Âge (n. 2), pp. 62– 66. 25 Sacramentarium Gelasianum, (Rerum Ecclesiasticarum Documen­ ta, series major, fontes, 4), Leo C. Mohlberg, Leo Einzenhofer, Petrus Siffrin eds, Rome 1968 (= sacrgelv). On the date and function of the Old Gelasian Sacramentary, see Vogel, Intro­ duction (n. 2), pp. 48  – 55; Palazzo, Moyen Âge (n. 2), pp. 66  –  69. 26 Sacramentary of Trento, benedictio fontis, 429  – 430, (Monumenta Liturgica Ecclesiae Tridentinae saecolo xiii antiquora, 2a), Ferdiando Dell‘Oro ed., Trento 1985, pp. 172 – 174; for its date, origins, and historiographic discussion, see ibidem, pp. 18  – 47. 27 sacrgelv, 443 – 448, pp. 72 –  7 3; Johannes P. De Jong, “Bene­dictio fontis. Eine genetische Erklärung der römischen Taufwasserweihe”,  Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft, viii/1 (1963), pp. 21– 46, sp. pp. 23 – 24. For the same numbering after the Missale Romanum 1570, see Scheidt, Taufwasserweihegebete (n. 5), pp. 57 –  60; Eduard Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese der rö­ mischen Taufwasserweihe, Bonn 1950 (Teophania. Beiträge zur Religions- und Kirchen- geschichte des Altertums, 5), pp. 8  – 16.

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non insidiando circumuoltet, non latendo subripiat, non infi­ ciendo corrumpat. Sit haec sancta et innocens creatura libera ab omni inpugnatoris incursu, et tocius nequitiae purgata discessu. Sit fons uiuus, aquae regenerans, unda purificans, ut omnis hoc lauacro salutifero diluendi operanti in eis spi­ ritu sancto perfecti purgationis indulgentiam consequantur. 6. [Preceded by the rubric; Blessing with the cross.] Benediction of the water in the name of God with anamnesis, recalling four Old Testament paradigms, and benediction of the water in the name of Jesus Christ with anamnesis, recalling four New Testament paradigms: Hic signas. Unde benedico te, creatura aquae, per deum ui­ uum, per deum sanctum, per deum qui te in principio uerbo seperauit ab arida et in quattuor fluminibus totam terram rigare praecepit, qui te in deserto amaram suauitatem inditam fecit esse potabilem et sitienti populo de petra produxit. Bene­ dico te et per Iesum Christum filium eius unicum dominum nostrum, qui te in Channa Gallileae signo ammirabili sua potencia conuertit in uinum, qui pedibus super te ambulauit et a Iohanne in Iordane in te baptizatus est, qui te una cum sanguine de latere suo produxit et discipulis suis iussit, ut credentes baptizarentur in te dicens: Ite, docente omnes gen­ tes baptizantes eos in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti. 7. [Rubric with changing voice.] Plea for the divine presence for the sacerdotal act of calling the presence of the Holy Spirit: Hic sensum mutabis. Haec nobis praecepta seruantibus tu, deus omnipotens, clemens adesto, tu benignus aspira, tu has simplices aquas tuo ore benedicito, ut praeter naturalem emundationem, quam lauandis possunt adhiberi corporibus, sint eciam purificandis mentibus efficacies. 8. Epiclesis of the Holy Spirit: Discendat in hanc plenitudinem fontis uirtus spiritus tui et totam huius aquae substantiam regenerandis fecundet effectu. Hic omnium peccatorum maculae deleantur. Hic natura ad imaginem tuam condita et ad honorem sui refor­ mata principiis cunctis uetustatis squaloribus emundetur, ut omnis homo hoc sacramentum regenerationis ingressus in uera innocentia noua infantia renascatur: […] 9. Final doxology: […] per dominum nostrum Iesum Christum filium tuum, qui venturus est in spiritu sancto iudicare vivos et mortuos et saeculum per ignem.

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It would fall outside of the scope of this paper to retrace the historiographical controversy among

liturgiologists concerning the genesis of this formulary, especially on the origins and dates of its various sequences, which were indeed reassembled or recomposed from older sources28, but two aspects deserve to be briefly highlighted. First, the achievement of imbedding the theological and dogmatic Trinitarian underpinnings of the baptism into the primary theme of the water with its purifying and salvific nature that is profusely elaborated by references to the Scripture, such as the initial anamnesis’ dedication to the invisible God of item two or, especially, the long benediction of the water of item six, with all liturgiologists agreeing on its origin in exorcism, transformed by changing the phrase adiuro te per29. This deliberate significance shift underlined by the sign of the cross on the water gives obvious thematic primacy to the salvific force of the consecrated water. The second interrelated aspect is the prominence given to the ecclesiological element in the form of the ecclesia parturiens (childbearing Mother Church), a motif common in Italy ever since the time of Ambrose of Milan, Zeno of Verona, and Paulinus of Nola. This was particularly dear to the popes of the fifth century, as shown in the fourth distichon of Sixtus iii’s (432–440) inscription in the Lateran Baptistery placed on the entablature of the eight-­sided monumental ciborium30 and in the works of Leo i who elaborated on the motif in several of his homilies31. For the purpose of this article, one can note the very intelligently and carefully articulated structure of the psalmodic formulary, already noted by Dom Pierre De Puniet, which seems most closely related to the one in the Roman Canon Missae32. The interlacing of an alternating and intensifying sequence of evocative phrases with the cadences of the single sequences, such as the threefold naming of God in the benediction of item six, the inherent rhetorical play of different forms of address – invocative, pleading, imperative –, and the requested alternating vocal ranges, for instance, before the very moment of the epiclesis in item seven, reflect a highly performative and sensorial use of the word that, in the Augustinian sense, the leading celebrant, the bishop, as a humble medium of God’s presence, activates at the very moment of the epiclesis in item eight.

The Old Gelasian / Gregorian formulary reveals that the consecration had become the central moment of the entire collective baptism celebrated during the Paschal Vigil (and Pentecostal Vigil), solemnizing not only the sanctification of the water but also of the Church as the dispenser of salvation. This development, occurring in the second quarter of the seventh century under the hands of a single author or a team of authors of the papal chancellery for the papal and the presbyterial liturgy of Rome and the episcopal liturgy of its suffragan bishoprics, rendered full justice to the recent switch from adult to infant baptism. This transition may have started as early as the end of the fifth century, but it required the entire sixth century and a long process, in which the mystifying factor of the Disciplina arcani was given up in favor of a different form of “stage setting”. The nature of this different “stage setting” can easily be perceived in the Ordo xi mentioned at the outset of this article: in contrast to the Early Christian exclusionary and mystified practice, the entire baptismal congregation, composed of clergy and laymen (the parents and godparents together with the infant baptismal candidates), actively or passively participated in and witnessed the solemn consecration under the spiritual guidance of their bishop. One can indeed speak of a fundamental liturgical paradigm shift, starting from the same Ordo xi, as argued by Arnold Angenendt in the context of the transformation and adaptation of the Roman catechumenate to the biological age of the infants and the replacement of the interroga­t ive form to an indicative Trinitarian form of baptism33. From a new Roman paradigm to a template for activating multisensorial meaning in the Carolingian liturgical reforms The centrality of the consecration as the cardinal moment of the new Roman paradigm, “decipherable” in the Old Gelasian / Gregorian formulary and the Ordo xi was first enhanced in Rome itself over the course of the seventh and the first half of the eight century, adding a growing number of ges­ tu­res and rituals. These were adaptively devel­­oped in the course of the Carolingian liturgical reforms,

28 A useful synthesis of the discussion of the two opposite theses – Eduard Stommel and Suitbert Benz who suggest a compilation of Old Roman with Old Gallican and Old Ambrosian elements, drawn from the Missale Gothicum of the late seventh / early eighth century, Missale Gallicanum Vetus from the eighth century, and the Manuale Ambrosiano della Valtravaglia from the end of the eleventh century, added by Benz for its Ravennatic element of Peter Chrysologus, as against a purely Roman origin of all nine elements as proposed by Alexander Olivar, recalling the same vocabulary, syntax, and motifs present in Pope Sixtus iii’s inscription in the Lateran Baptistery, Leo i’s homilies, and the consecration formulary of the Leonine Sacra­ mentary – is offered, with a carefully stated preference for the second thesis, by Emil J. Lengeling, „Die Taufwasserweihe der römischen Liturgie. Vorschlag einer Neuformung”,   in Liturgie. Gestalt und Vollzug, Walter Dürig ed., Munich 1963, pp. 176  – 251, sp. pp. 185 – 190; see also De Jong, „Benedictio fontis“ (n. 27), pp. 24–35. See Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), pp. 20 –34; Suitbert Benz, „Zur Vorgeschichte des Textes der römischen Taufwasserweihe“, Revue Bénédictine, lvi (1956), pp. 218  –255 vs. Alexander Olivar, „Vom Ursprung der römischen Taufwasserweihe“, Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft, vi (1959) pp. 62– 78. 29 On the hypothesis of Syrian, Gallican, or Ambrosian origins of the exorcism formulary adopted and transformed into a benediction, see Scheidt, Taufwasserweihe (n. 5), pp. 64 –  65; Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese, (n. 27), pp. 22–26; Benz, “Zur Vorgeschichte” (n. 28), pp. 232–240; Olivar, “Vom Ursprung” (n. 28), pp. 69  –  71; De Jong, “Benedictio Fontis” (n. 27), pp. 31–33. For the carefully elaborated theme of water with the help of the sequence of scriptural typologies in item six, see the fine analysis by Scheidt, Taufwasserweihe (n. 5), pp. 77– 82. 30 For an English translation, see Ferguson, Baptism (n. 6), p. 769. For the popularity of the motif in Italy and its elaboration in the texts of Ambrose of Milan, Zeno of Verona, or Chromatius of Aquileia with relevant sources, see Barbara Bruderer Eichberg, “Die Erneuerung des Lateransbaptisteriums durch Sixtus iii. (432–440) als Sinnbild päpstlicher Tauftheologie und Taufpolitik. Die Apsismosaiken des Vestibüls und das Taufgedicht Sixtus’ iii“, in Marburger Jahrbuch der Kunstwissenschaft, xxx (2003), pp. 7–34, sp. pp. 19, 31, n. 57, 58, 59. 31 For Leo i’s homilies treating the motif of the birth-giving Church, see Barbara Bruderer Eichberg, “Die Erneuerung des Laterans­ baptisteriums (n. 30), pp. 7–34, sp. pp. 19, 31, n. 60. 32 De Puniet,”Bénédiction“ (n.5), col. 688; Scheidt, Taufwasserweihe (n. 5), pp. 85– 91; Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), pp. 85– 91. 33 The Church historian associated this change of paradigm with a significant ritualization and clericalization, see Arnold Angenendt, „Der Taufritus im frühen Mittelalter “, in Se­ gni e riti nella chiesa altomedievale occidentale, Atti (dall’11 al 17 aprile 1985), Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo ed., vol. i, Spoleto 1987, pp. 275–321, sp. pp. 297–298. This argument has been taken up and further expanded to its different theological, phenomenological, social, sensorial, and performative aspects by Peter Cramer, chapter 4: “From Augustine to the Carolingians”,   Baptism and Change in the Early Middle Ages c. 200 – c. 1150, Cambridge 2002, pp. 130 –178, with very brief remarks on the consecration of the baptismal water in the Leonine Sacramentary, sp. p. 165; as well most recently elabo­ rated upon for the period of Boniface (ca 675– 754), with a look at the increased importance assumed by the font itself and its consecration by Andreas Odenthal in his conference contribution “′In nomine trinitatis baptizati′. Zum frühmittelalterlichen Paradigmenwechsel der Taufliturgie und seine Auswirkungen” given in February 2020 in the context of the three-day congress Bildmedien der Taufe organized at the University of Cologne by Kirsten Lee Bierbaum and Susanne Wittekind. I thank the author for a preview of his article.

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with their two phases of romanization of the Gallican rite promoted first by the father of Charlemagne, Pepin the Short, king of the Franks from 751 until his death in 766, and under the spiritual and ecclesiastical guide of Chrodegang, first bishop (742/748) and, after 754, both archbishop of Metz and metropolitan bishop of Austrasia and the successor of Saint Boniface until his death in 766, as well as later continu­ed by Charlemagne and Louis the Pious. Recently labelled by Hans Peer Neunhauser, speaking about the mentioned Ordo xi and the Roman Pontifical of the twelfth century as a deliberate “Bedeutungsaufladung” or “charging-­with-meaning” over the long period of about 650 to 115034, this momentum could also be termed “activating”, using the terminology introduced by Éric Palazzo35, i.e., charging with “activating, multisensorial meaning”. The Carolingian romanization also added a major performative sensorial experience of the chant, all of which can be traced through the younger Gregorian and Gelasian sacramentaries, Roman ordines, and Church orders. Starting with the Ordo xi, the episcopal procession from the church to the font, preceded by two lit man-sized candles and censers and accompanied by the clergy chanting the Kyrie eleison, already implied the festive and uplifting tenor of the event about to happen. In it, the congregation then assembled around the font, with the experience embraced by the recitation of the Litany of the Saints, reinforced by the odor of incense and its inherent invocative meaning following Psalm 141. Once silence was imposed, the bishop welcomed his assembled flock by singing the first greeting of the preface “Dominus vobiscum” to whom all responded “et cum spiritu tuo”36. The beginning of the collectively celebrated sanctification of the baptismal water was mir­rored after the epiclesis (item eight) in the bishop’s crosswise adding of chrism from its golden vessel into the font, as carefully described by the Ordo  xi37. With this, being the oldest Roman witness of this olfactory engaged ritual, it had already been practiced ever since the end of the fifth century in the Byzantine Church, as attested by Pseudo-­ Dionysius the Areopagite in his Ecclesiastical Hierarchy38, and shared by the Visigothic Church

of Spain towards the end of the sixth century, as referred to by Gregory of Tours’ (594) account of the miraculous filling of water that happened at the Paschal Vigil at the springs of Osset near Seville used for baptism39, and in Merovingian France ever since the seventh century, as documented by the Missale Gothicum and the Missale Gallicanum vetus40. It is most likely that the ritual was introduced to Rome already at some point in the sixth century, again as part of the transition from adult to infant baptism, in which the prebaptismal ritual of corporal anointing had been given up as a result of direct Byzantine influence. The ritual differed at this state of its evolution from Byzantine, Visigothic, and Gallican rituals by the lack of an adjoined formulary. Very notable were the second and third parts of the ritual, as the bishop sprayed the consecrated water with chrism over the font and the surrounding congregation. With very similar wording, as reported in the Spanish miracle of the springs of Osset, anyone who wanted was allowed to collect some of the water to sprinkle it on their homes, vineyards, fields, or orchards41. The solemn, eminently sensorial, signing of the font itself is one of the most evocative expressions of the utmost importance of the consecration and its unifying quality in Rome, expanding and physically embodying the salvific and regenerative power far beyond the sacral space into the human realm of daily life and activity. Rarely mentioned by liturgiologists42, younger ordines romani of the eight century, in fact, reveal that these additional interrelated practices were perceived, along with the infusion and mixture of chrism, as one of the principal characteristics of the Roman consecration rite, which was followed initially by the titular churches of Rome and the suffragan dioceses of the Holy See, as recorded for around 750 in the Ordo xxiv 43. More importantly, the migration of either Ordo xi or Ordo xxiv meant that the threefold ritual was adopted in the context of the first phase of the romanization of the Gallican rite promoted by Pepin the Short and Chrodegang of Metz. Two of the three manuscripts of the Frankish-­­Gelasian family compiled in that context witness its importance: the Gellone Sacramentary, copied around 780 in the region of Paris (possibly Meaux) and possessed around 800

by the mentioned bishop Hildoard (Paris,  bnf, lat. 12048)44, the Sacramentary of Angoulême of the late eighth / early ninth century (Paris, bnf, lat. 816)45, and the Sacra­mentary of Autun, copied around 800 for the Cathedral of Autun under the pontificate of Alderic (Berlin, Deutsche Staats­bibliothek ms 1667)46. These were seamlessly adopted in the second phase of the romanization of the Gallican rite promoted by Charlemagne and continued by Louis the Pious in their state-­unifying liturgical reforms. The Ordo Romanus xxviiia, compiled by a monk of the Weissenburg Abbey of Alsace at the beginning of the ninth century (Herzog August Library, Wolfenbüttel Weiss. ms 91 [4175]) and labeled by its editor Michel Andrieu a “petit directoire episcopale”47, may be brought up as representative of this spatium. Aniconographic witness may be seen in the initially mentioned consecration scene of the Drogo Sacramentary, where likely it seems that the second acolyte is actually holding an aspersorium and an aspergillum with both of his hands [Fig. 2]. Coming to the consecration formulary itself and its various sequences, one major characte­r­­­istic element can be found in the extended se­quence of the signing of the cross on the baptismal water, particularly during the benediction of item six in the name of God and Christ, 34 Hans Peer Neunhauser, “Das Wasser als Naturelement und Zeichen in der mittelalterlichen Liturgie“, in Wasser in der mit­ telalterlichen Kultur. Gebrauch- Wahrnehmung-Symbolik, (Das Mittelalter Beihefte, 4), Gerlinde Huber-Rebenich ed., Berlin 2017, pp. 321–332, sp. p. 336. 35 See (n. 4) above. 36 orxi, 90 – 91, pp. 444–445: “Hoc expleto, procedit pontifex de ecclesia cum omni ordine sacerdotum, laetania cantantes, hoc est Kyrieleison, usque veniunt ad fontes, praecedentibus ante eum notariis cum duobus cereis artenitbus, statura hominis habentes in alterum cum turabulis et timiamateribus, et incipient laetania quae subsequitur: Christe audi nos, et reliquia. Expleta autem laetania, adstante omni clero vel populo in circuitu fontis, facto silentio, dixit pontifex: Dominus vobiscum, respondentibus cunctis: Et cum spiritu tuo”. 37 orxi, 94, p. 445: “Haec omnia expleta, fundit crisma de vasculo aureo intro fontes super ipsam aquam in modum crucis”. 38 Dionysius the Areopagite, Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, English translation in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, Colm Luibheid ed., New York 1987, 2,2,7, pp. 200 –208: “…while he himself advances to the mother of filial adoption, and when he has purified the water within it by the holy invocation, and perfected it by three cruciform effusions of the altogether pure Myron, and by the same number of injections of the all holy Myron, and has in­ voked the sacred melody of the inspiration of the God-rapt Prophets, he orders the man to be brought forward”. 39 Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, 23. The Springs in Spain, English translation, (Translated Texts for Historians.

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42 43

44 45 46 47

Latin Series, 3), Raymond Van Dam ed., Liverpool 1988 pp. 42–43; for the mid-seventh century, see Ildefonsus of Toledo (ca 607– 667), Liber De cognitione baptismi, cap. cix, “De espositione mysteriorum fontis”,   pl, 96, col. 157 B – C. For the early medieval Visigothic consecration rite, as documentated by the Liber Ordinum of the eleventh century, see Johannes Krinke “Der spanische Taufritus im frühen Mittelalter. D. Die Taufwasserweihe”,   in Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kulturgeschichte Spaniens, vol. ix, Johannes Vincke ed., Münster 1954, Latin text n. 137–144, pp. 88 – 90, commentary pp. 91– 93; on the chrism pp. 90, 93, n. 143. On the rite in the Roman Church, see Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), pp. 30 –33. For the custom in the Gallican rite, as documented by the Missale Gothicum and the Missale Gallicanum vetus, see Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), pp. 30 –33. It must be highlighted that Stommel concluded, due to the fact that the ritual does not appear either in the Gregorian or in the Gelasian sacramentaries, that this ritual became a part of the papal liturgy celebrated at the Lateran only as late as in the second quarter of the twelfth century with the Ordo Lateranensis compiled by Bernhard of Porto; ibidem, pp. 30 –33. This very late dating was adopted by others without any questioning, such as Olivar, “Vom Ursprung” (n. 28), p. 77; Lengeling, “Taufwasserweihe”,   (n. 28), p. 226; only recently, it has been dated more correctly to the seventh century by Neunheuser, “Das Wasser als Naturelement” (n. 34), p. 336. orxi, 94– 95, p. 445: “Et cum manu sua miscitat ipsum cri­ sma cum aqua et aspergit super omnem fontem vel popolum circumstantem. Hoc facto, omnis populus qui voluerit accipiet benedictionem unuquisque in vase suo de ipsa aqua, antequam baptizentur parvuli, ad spargendum in domibus eorum vel in vineis vel campis vel fructibus eorum”. The intergration of this custom of obvious popular origin into the official Roman liturgy is remarkable and needs to be researched. Dom De Puniet thought of a possible Gallican origin of this special use of water, referring to Gregory of Tours’ account of the Font of Osset and to the Vita of Cesarius’ of Arles (written around 547/548) account of the miraculous benediction of the unbreakable vases filled with water or oil brought to him at Paschal Vigil during the confirmation of the little neophytes by children sent by their parents; see De Puniet,”Bénédiction“ (n. 5), col. 699; Cyprian of Toulon (ca 475 – 546), Vie de Césaire d’Arles, Livre ii, p. 17. Les vases bénis par lui, même entrechoqués ne se brisent pas, Latin text with French translation, (sc, 536), Marie-José Delage ed., Paris 2010, pp. 268 –269. Lengeling, “Taufwasserweihe” (n. 28), p. 216. Ordo romanus xxiv (De officiis a feria quarta hebdomadae maioris usque in pascha), 44– 50 ; Les ordines Romani (n. 2), pp. 295–297. Concerning its Roman origins, date, presbyterial and episcopal destination, and migration to the Frankish territory, see ibidem, pp. 380 –413; Vogel, Introduction (n. 2), pp. 146 –147 = Ordo xxiv. Liber sacramentorum Gellonensis, 111. Ordo baptismi, 705, Alexandre Dumas, Jean Deshusses eds, Turnout 1981 (ccsl, 159a), p. 100 (= sacrgell). Liber Sacramentorum augustonunensis, 539 Item 1: consecratio fontes, (ccsl, 148b), Otto Heiming ed., Turnhout 1984, p. 69 (= sacraut). Liber Sacramentorum engolismensis, Partick Saint-Roch ed., Turnhout 21987 (ccsl, 149c) (= sacreng). Ordo romanus xxviiia (Benedictio fontium et baptisma), Les ordines Romani du haut moyen âge, (Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, Études et documents, 24), vol. iii, Michel Andrieu ed., Louvain 1974, 1–25, pp. 421–425, sp. 5– 6, p. 422. Concerning its Frankish origins, date, and episcopal use, see ibidem Andrieu, “Introduction”,  pp. 380 –413 (= orxxiv).

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recalling their respective paradigms. While the Old Gelasianum implied only one such sign at the  beginning of the benediction sequence in the name of God with the rubric “Hic signas”,  the  younger phase had each of the three invocations of God accompanied by a sign of the cross on the water. The beginning of the sequence in the name of Christ, on the other hand, was marked by only one such sign. Due to the date of the Hadrianum, in which the symbol of the cross was inserted at the appropriate places, this charging with activating sensorial meaning may be attributed to the liturgical revisions of the Gregorian sacramentary promoted by Gregory ii (713–731). It was faithfully adopted by the Drogo Sacramentary, which signaled their importance by the liberal use of gold (fol. 59r)48. Yet, it remains unclear at which moment the first sign of the cross was expanded with the additional gesture of the bishop dividing the baptismal water crosswise into all four cardinal points, in reference to God’s division of the four biblical rivers. Certainly of Roman origin, as attested by the Ordo xxiv49, it seems that this gesture with its tactile and visual quality was adopted more widely in Francia from the end of the eighth century, as reflected in the two ordines, xxviii and xxviiia50, and the Drogo Sacramentary with its respective rubric, added at the bottom of fol. 52v.

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Unquestionably the most evocative and important sensorial charging with meaning happened at the very moment of the epiclesis of the Holy Spirit in item eight with the newly added immersion of the burning candles into the water and the insufflation on the water. Their Roman origins are very uncertain and seem to go back to two separate moments of introduction, which gave birth to three different traditions over the course of the two Carolingian phases of romanization. The older of the two elements seems to be the rite of insufflation, first attested in Rome with the Hadrianum, in which the rubric hic suffla tribus ucibus in aqua is placed before the formulary Discendat in hanc plenitudinem51. Its introduction must, however, have been older than the period of Gregory ii, whose revisions are recorded in the Hadrianum. It was potentially introduced during the brief pontificate of John v (685–686), reflecting

his  Syrian  origins. As Dom Pierre De  Puniet had already highlighted, ever since the period of Severus the Great of Antioch (512–530), the Syrian churches used this pneumatic ritual during the exorcism of the baptismal water, specifically in the form of three cruciform insufflations, a ritual also practiced by the Byzantine Church since the eighth century52. In the Western churches, it can be found applied by the Visigothic Church of the seventh century and by the Ambrosian Church as late as the tenth century53. In contrast to the expelling action performed by these traditions of exorcisms, the Roman formulary’s insufflation simulated the descent of the Holy Spirit with its regenera­tive and life-giving power after Psalm 104, 30. The oldest record of the immersion of the candles, on the other hand, is found in the Ordo romanus xxiii, a very succinct description of the papal liturgy, which Andrieu’s classification dates to the first half of eighth century, written by an Alemannic pilgrim and incorporated in the ninth century in a collective manuscript now preserved at the Library of the Monastery of Einsiedeln, Cod. 32654. Another such witness is Ordo xxxb, which is distinguished by its effort to give the work a Roman appearance by describing the papal ceremonies as taking place in the “ecclesia Constaniniana”, in the “sacrarium qui est iuxta fonts” and “fontes”. As a part of another collective manu­ script named for its provenance after the ancient Abbey Saint-Amand-les-­Eaux, it was compiled towards the end of the eighth century55. A combination of both rites appears, albeit with the immersion of the candles given primacy over the insufflation, in all three of the men­tion­ed Frankish-Gelasian family, with the Sacra­mentary of Autun and Sacramentary of Angoulême being the most precise by placing the rubrics before the initial phrases56. Belonging to the same period, the Ordo xxviiia retains these as well in the form of a detailed rubric57. The Drogo Sacramentary may be called upon once again as a witness of the importance assigned to this binary operating force of the Holy Spirit in the form of light/fire and air, as a second hand added to the respective pas­ sages of the Gregorian template on fol. 53v the an­notation “Hic mittant duo cerei in aqua et sufflavit tribus vicibus in aqua”.

From all the Roman ordines referred to here, it is known that the candles used for this purpose were the two man-sized burning candles that preceded the bishop on his way to the font, attested as early as the Ordo xi. Usually very general in their descriptions, Ordines xxviiia and xxxb indicate that, after being lit, they were held behind the high altar during the reading of the lectures of specific baptismal content, called the Prophecies, by two subdeacons who assisted the bishop during the entire celebration of the baptism58. Apart from their undoubtedly practical function as light sources and their function as honorific attributes of the bishop, their presentation as the materialized precipitation of the Holy Spirit imbued them with an eminen­t­ly sensorial meaning, which was intensified by them being lit from the paschal candle, the epitome of the light coming into the world by the risen Christ dis­pelling darkness and death, as much as Christ’s un­failing guidance for the believers in their earthly lives, and prefigured by Yahweh’s pillar of fire and pillar of cloud guiding the Israelites in Exodus (ii Moses 13, 21–22; 14, 19–22; 14, 24–25). Amalarius of Metz (ca 775 – ca 850) dedicated no fewer than two separate paragraphs of his Liber officialis (or De ecclesiasticis officiis) of 820 to the two candles 48 On the multiple signs of the cross, see Olivar, “Vom Ursprung” (n. 28), p. 70. 49 orxxiv, 47, p. 296: “Hic priman crucem facit: qui hanc aquam, cum manu sua dividens aquam modum crucis”. 50 orxviii, 70, p. 405; orxxviiia, 4, p. 421. 51 sacrhad, 85, p. 53. Even today, Eduard Stommel’s reconstruction of the origins and evolution of this ritual enjoys uncontested acceptance, see Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), chapter 4: “Die Hauchung und das Hauchzeichen“, pp. 65–108. 52 De Puniet, “Bénédiction de l’eau“ (n. 5), col. 696. 53 Joseph Braun, “Ein unverstandenes und mißgedeutetes Zeichen im Ritus der Taufwasserweihe“, in Stimmen der Zeit, lii (1940), pp. 217–224, sp. p. 218; Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), p. 91. For the Visigothic rite, see the Liber Ordinum 140 –141 quoted by Johannes Krinke “Der spanische Taufritus im frühen Mittelalter” (n. 39), pp. 33–116, sp. p. 88. For the Ambrosian rite of the tenth century onwards, with the Sacra­mentary of Biasca (Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana a 24bis) and the Triplex Sacramentary (Zurich, Zentralbibliothek ms c43), see Norberto Valli, La celebrazione del battesi­ mo tra ix e xiv secolo nel rito ambrosiano, (Estratto da Ricerche storiche sulla Chiesa Ambrosiana, 19), Enrico Lattaneo ed., Milan 2001, p. 53. 54 Ordo romanus xxiii (De sacro triduo ante pasche), Les ordines Romani (n. 47), 1–33, pp. 269, 273, 425, sp. 29, p. 273: “Postea benedict domnus papa fontem et dum venit in eo loco, ubi dicit: De­ scendat in hanc plenitudinem, deponent faculas regionarii qui illas

55

56

57 58

tenant in fontes”. Concerning its Frankish origins and date, see ibidem, pp. 265–266 (= orxxiii). As to the origins and evolution of the immersion of the candles as a separate ritual or as combined with the ritual of insufflation, see Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), chapter 3: “Die Einsenkung der Osterkerze”,   pp. 44– 64, and chapter 4: “Die Hauchung und das Hauchzeichen”,   pp. 65–108, sp. pp. 91– 95. Ordo romanus xxxb (De officiis divinis a feria quinta caenae domini usque ad sabbatum in albis), Les ordines Romani (n. 47), 1– 82, pp. 467–477, sp. 46, p. 472. Concerning the Frankish origins of the so-­called Saint-Amand Collection, see ibidem, pp. 461–464; Vogel, Introduction (n. 2) pp. 122–123; 150 (= orxxxb). sacraut, 539, p. 69: “Benedictio fontis: Hic deponuntur cerei: Discendat in hanc plentitudinem fontis uirtus spiritus tui. Et insuf­ flans in aqua ter vicibus. Tota(m) huius aqua substantia(m) regene­ randi(s) fecundet affectum…”,   sacreng, 757, p. 115; sacrgell, 704d, p. 99; also retained in the separate copy of the Ordo xi, entitled (Ordo baptisterii) denun(i)ciacio pro scrutinio quod iii ebd in xlma iiifer iniciantur, added to the sacramentary on folios 173v–186v = 2215–2328, pp. 312–337; sp. 2317f, p. 335. On this ordo, see ibidem, Deshusses, “Introduction”,  pp. xxxi–xxxii, ignoring the addition of the binary ritual. orxxviii, 4, p. 422. orxxiv, 46, p. 296; orxxviii, 67– 68, p. 405; orxxxb, 38, p. 471. On the original, purely practical, use of the two man-sized candles, see Benz, “Zur Vorgeschichte des Textes” (n. 28), pp. 254–255; Olivar, ”Vom Ursprung” (n. 28), pp. 72– 73.

2 / Consecration of Baptismal Water, Drogo Sacramentary, Frankish Empire, ivory relief book cover, 9th century / Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris) ms lat. 9428

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and the paschal candle, referencing their symbolically and materially active meanings. Following the prescription of a now lost Roman ordo, he created a hierarchy between the first candle lit to­gether with the paschal candle, symbolically representing Christ, the true light of the world, and the second one lit together with the first candle, symbolizing the apostles and, by extension, the Church, illuminating the path for catechumens in instruction and learning59. To this immensely sensorially charged ritual, one may add a second, no less effective ritual, i.e. the ritual of using the paschal candle itself. This must have enjoyed some popularity in certain Frankish regions already at the time of Amalarius of Metz, since his elusive template led him to give the paschal candle the highly symbolically laden and multisensorial role at the climax of the epiclesis, framed by a long allegorical interpretation60. In the same context, the leading liturgist of his time mentions the presence of the baptismal candles, which remained unlit until the congregation had returned to church for the service, initiated by the festive lighting of all candles. From the chronology and geographical origin of the corpus of liturgical sources presented here, one can deduce that the epiclesis was indeed charged, in the very context of the Carolin­gian liturgical reforms, with two different forms of highly activating sensorial meaning, either by a combination of the immersion of the burning two candles and the insufflation of the water or by the use of the paschal candle. Two other elements were the product of the Carolingian liturgical reforms: The Drogo Sacra­mentary may have served, for the last time, as a witness of exceptional artistic beauty for the first, i.e. the addition of the prefatory hymn “Vere dignum et iustum est” to the introductory salutation and response “Dominus vobiscum”, here written in gold­en uncial and inserted in an architectural structure with floral ornament on fol. 51r [Fig. 3]. Distinguished by its use of golden rustic capitals, the hymn following on fol. 51v is highlighted by a beautiful initial v, in which there is the second depiction of the consecration of the baptismal font on the left and of the baptism itself on the right [Fig. 4] Attributed to Alcuin (ca 735–804) and his intended

alignment with the Roman Canon Missae61, the text was adopt­ed concurrently by the Ordo roma­nus xxviiia, dating to the early ninth century62. The second element, euchologically related to the first, is the mentioned humble tenor of prayer in item seven, for which the Old Gelasianum noted the quite generic rubric “Hic sensum mutabis”. This was also specified in the Hadrianum and the three sacramentaries of the Frankish-Gelasian family, giving the more specific rubric “Hic mutas sensum quasi lectionem legens”63. Amalarius of Metz succinctly explained the purpose for this vocal change in the chapter 25, De consecratione baptisterii, of his Liturgy Book: it reflected most clearly the Augustinian primacy of the spoken word and its power, activated by the faith of the bishop as a humble instrument of the divine ordinance; by the same token, it mirrors the Carolingian liturgy’s impressive progress towards a highly performative ritual intimately bound to a multisensorial activation. There is a humble request in the present prayer, or at least the mental preparation for requesting, that the Holy Spirit enter the water, so that in what follows the Power of the Holy Spirit may be asked to enter the nature of the water, just as God was asked to enter the priest’s mind in the first prayer (here item two). For the priest speaks as follows: “These orders to us, your servants”, as if saying: “We dare to call such power into the nature of the water not through our own presumption, but through the precept of our Lord, who ordered that we perform baptism […]”. After this humble prayer the priest calls upon the Holy Spirit, and in a raised voice – that is with raised affect of mind – requests that he deign to enter the water, by speaking as follows: “May the power of your spirit descend into the fullness of the font”64. This quotation concludes the development of the early medieval Roman baptismal water’s consecration as a performative and sensorial activation of the invisible, outlined here on the basis of the liturgical sources. Admittedly, the performative instructions recorded by Amalarius of Metz belong to the sphere of the celebrant, just as his symbolic interpretations of the candles belong to the theological sphere of the Church elite. And yet, read together with the introduction of gestures and rites recorded in the sacramentaries

and Roman ordines, they are representative of a conspicuous, sensorially operative, understand­ing of early medieval and Carolingian liturgy, as can also be traced in the liturgy of the Mass or the consecration of the church65. Especially in the case of the baptismal water’s consecration, it should be emphasized that, in contrast to the development of the Mass and the liturgically and spatially articulated separation of the laymen, the parents and godparents participated with the infant baptismal candidates, albeit passively, gathered around the baptismal font in the immediate vicinity. In the enriched gestures and rites, if not the words spoken, these lay adults could understand the sacramental activation of the elaborate formulary with and through their senses.

2. God, who by thine invisible power dost wonderfully bring to pass the effect of thy sacraments. And although we are unworthy to perform such great mysteries, yet do thou, not forsaking the gifts of thy grace, incline the ears of thy goodness even to our prayers.

(English revision by Kevin Potter)

4. Look, we beseech thee, Lord, upon the face of thy Church, and multiply in her thy regeneration, thou who dost make glad thy city with the rush of the flood of thy grace, and openest the fount of baptism for the renewing of all nations in the whole world, so that by the command of thy majesty it may receive the grace of thine only-begotten by the Holy Spirit. May the same Holy Spirit make fruitful this water prepared for the regeneration of men by the secret admixture of his light, so that sanctification having been conceived in it from the immaculate womb of the divine font a heavenly offspring may come forth reborn unto a new creature, and that all whose who are different either in sex or in age may bring forth as a mother unto the same infancy.

Appendix English translation of the Old Gelasian consecration formulary is given here from the one drafted from the Sarum Manual published by John Douglas Close Fisher, Baptism in the Medieval West, Chicago 2004 [1965], pp. 189–191, including the Greeting formulary of the Ordo xi*, Alcuin’s addition of the Vere dignum text**, and the cross-symbols + of Benedictions after the Hadrianum. 1. Almighty and everlasting great God, be present at the mysteries of thy goodness: be present at these sacraments, and for the recreation of the new people whom the fount of baptism brings forth for thee, send forth the Spirit of adoption, so that what is performed by our humble mystery may be completed by the working of thy power. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, thy Son. The Lord be with you. And with thy spirit. Lift up our hearts. We lift them up unto the Lord. Let us give thanks unto our Lord god. It is meet and right.* It is very meet, right, just and salutary, that we should at all times and in all places give thanks unto thee, O holy Lord. Almighty Father, everlasting God.**

3. God, whose Spirit was borne upon the waters at the very beginning of the world so that even now the nature of the water might conceive the power of sanctification, God, who washing away the sins of a guilty world by thy water didst signify a type of regeneration by the outpouring of the flood, so that by the mystery of one and the same element there might be both an end of vices and the beginning of virtues.

59 Amalarius of Metz, On the Liturgy, Book 1, 20 “De duobus cereis / On the two candles”,   Latin text with English translation, Eric Knibbs ed., Cambridge, ma / London 2014, pp. 212–215 (= Amalarius of Metz). 60 Amalarius of Metz, Book 1, 26 “On the immersion of the candle”,   pp. 245–249. 61 Scheidt, Die Taufwassergebete (n. 5), p. 63; Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), p. 20. A general dating to the ninth century, appearing with the Gregorian Sacramentary, by De Puniet, “Bénédiction” (n. 5), col. 690. 62 orxxviiia, 4, p. 421. 63 sacrhad, 85, p. 53; sacrgell, 707c, p. 99; sacraug, 539, p. 69; sacreng, 757, p. 115. 64 Amalarius of Metz, Book 1, 25, pp. 243–245. On the increased pitch at the moment of the epiclesis, especially for the Middle Ages, see Stommel, Studien zur Epiklese (n. 27), pp. 42–43. 65 For the evolution of the Mass in the medieval West, see the detailed contribution of Paul F. Bradshaw and Maxwell E. Johnson, The Eucharistic Liturgies. Their Evolution and Interpretation, Collegeville, mn 2012, pp. 193–231, on the participation of the people, sp. pp. 210 –218.

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5. At thy command, therefore, O Lord, let every unclean spirit depart far from hence: let all the wickedness of the devil’s deceit be removed away. Let the adverse power have no part here, nor fly around to ensnare, nor secretly creep in, nor corrupt with its infection. Be this holy and innocent creature free from every onset of the enemy and purged by the departure of all wickedness. Be  this font living, this water regeneration, this wave purifying, so that all who are to be washed in this saving laver by the operation of the Holy Spirit in them, may obtain the favor of a perfect cleansing.

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6. Therefore I bless thee + , creature of water, through the living + God, through the true + God, through the holy God, through the God who in the beginning separated thee by his word from the dry land, whose Spirit wad borne upon thee, who made thee to flow from paradise, and commanded thee to water the whole earth in

four rivers, who in the desert giving sweetness to thy bitterness made thee good to drink, and for a thirsting people brought thee forth from the rock. I bless thee + though Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord, who in Cana of Galilee in a wonderful sign by his own power turned thee into wine, who with his feet walked upon thee and was baptized in thee by John in the Jordan, who shed thee together with blood from his side, and gave command to his disciples that those who believed should be baptized in thee saying, God, teach all nations baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the only Ghost. 7. With us, as we observe these commandments do thou, O God almighty, mercifully be present, do thou with thy mouth bless these simple waters, so that beside the natural cleansing, which impart from the washing of men’s body they may be also able to purify their minds.

3/ Formulary of Consecration of Baptismal Water, Drogo Sacramentary, Frankish Empire, 9th century / Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris) ms lat. 9428, fol. 50v–51r 4/ Formulary of Consecration of Baptismal Water, Drogo Sacramentary, Frankish Empire, 9th century / Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris) ms lat. 9428, fol. 51v–52r

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8. May there descend into the fullness of this font the virtue of the Holy Spirit, and may it make the whole substance of this water fruitful with the power to regenerate. Here be the stains of all sins blotted out. Here may the nature created in thine image and restored to the honor of its beginning be cleansed from every filth of age, so that every man who enters into this sacrament of regeneration may be reborn in an new infancy of true innocence. 9. Through our Lord Jesus Christ, thy Son, who will come with the Holy Spirit to judge the livings and the deaths and the century through fire. Amen.

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summary Aktivace neviditelného Úvod do vývoje svěcení křestní vody jako performativního a smyslového aktu na latinském Západě. Římský ritus (3.– 9. století)

Na latinském Západě se v první polovině přibližně z roku 650, který byl určen pro užívátřetího sto­letí s Tertuliánem, Apoštolskou tradicí ní ve farnostech v titulárních římských kostea Cypri­ánem z Kartága objevují první známky lech a pro externí a sufragánní biskupství římské směřování k nutnosti očistit a posvětit křestní provincie. Používal se také v Trentském sakravodu. Tento úkon, jak dosvědčují svatí Ambrož mentáři z doby před rokem 785, tj. nejstarším a Augustin, se prováděl nejpozději od druhé polo­- zástupcem jedné z větví, které se vyvinuly ze viny čtvrtého století a skládal se z exorcismu, ztraceného původního gregoriánského sakramodlitby a požehnání znamením kříže na vodě. mentáře sestaveného za Honoriova pontifikátu. Několik málo dochovaných pramenů z pátého Prolínání skvostných, střídavých a zesilujících se a šestého století naznačuje jeden ze základních frází s kadencemi jednotlivých sekvencí, neodrysů tohoto svěcení, z něhož byli tehdejší převáž- myslitelná rétorická hra různých forem oslovení ně dospělí katechumeni vyloučeni – akt byl totiž − vyzývavého, prosebného, imperativního − a měsoučástí mystérií podle tehdy platné disciplina nící se hlasový rozsah odráží vysoce performativarcani. Toto vyloučení z rituálů je významné nejen ní a smyslově aktivní užívání slova, které biskup obecně pro dějiny smyslů v pozdní antice a ra- jako pokorný zprostředkovatel Boží přítomnosti ném křesťanství, ale i vzhledem k performativ- aktivuje právě v okamžiku epikléze. V průběhu nímu a „smysly aktivizujícímu“ rozměru svěcení. sedmého a první poloviny osmého století byla Éric Palazzo jej definoval jako neodmyslitelnou tato mnohasmyslová vzájemnost nejdříve prosoučást liturgie a přisuzoval mu v rámci architek- hloubena o další gesta a rituály v samotném Římě. tury baptisterií stejný význam jako ikonografic- Poté byla upravena v rámci karolinských liturgickým programům, nápisům, osvětlení a čichovým kých reforem a jejich dvou fází romanizace galiliturgickým prostředkům, které spoluutvářely kánského rituálu, které nejprve prosadil franský silný mnohasmyslový a transcendentálně aktiv- král Pipin Krátký pod duchovním a církevním vení sakrální prostor. S pozvolným přechodem od dením arcibiskupa Chrodeganga z Met a v nichž křtu dospělých ke křtu dětí ztratilo svěcení svůj pak pokračovali Karel Veliký a Ludvík Pobožný. exkluzivní a tajný charakter a stalo se ústředním Do „aktivizujícího mnohasmyslového naplněmomentem společně slaveného posvěcení, na ní významem“, které se v tomto časovém rámci němž se pod vedením biskupa aktivně či pasiv- rozvinulo, nám umožňují nahlédnout nejen dva ně podílela duchovní i laická část shromáždění. slavné gregoriánské sakramentáře, Hadriánův Tato změna paradigmatu se formovala v Římě od (asi 731) a Drogův (před rokem 850), ale i skupina Honoriova pontifikátu (625−631) až do roku 685. tzv. fransko-gelasijských sakramentářů sestaveByla zakončena sestavením tematicky a formál- ných ve Francii ke konci osmého století, římské ně velmi propracovaného mešního formuláře ordines v čele s Ordo xi sepsaným ve druhé polovině o devíti samostatných sekvencích. Tento for­- sedmého století nebo Amalarius z Met ve svém mu­lář je doložen například ve Starém Gelasianu De ecclesiasticis officiis z období kolem roku 820.

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Abstract – Vatican Hill in the Time of Conversion. The Phrygianum Neighboring Old Saint Peter’s – Throughout the fourth century, two religious communities co-existed and conducted their mysteries on the Vatican Hill. Phrygianum hosted the cult of Cybele, the Great Mother of Gods, while St Peter’s Basilica, with its hypothetical baptistery, belonged to the Christian community. Combining the study of material remnants with analysis of literary sources, this article aims to improve understanding of the function and perception of these two ritual spaces and the environment of the Vatican, from modern theories of lived space (H. Lefebvre) and embodied memory (É. Durkheim and R. Rappaport). The materials provide evidence of the perceived space of the Metroac shrine and baptistery, and the conceived space of both taurobolium and baptism. What emerges is how one and the same perceived topographical space on the Vatican differed dramatically in the ways it was conceived and lived in the experience of the followers of Cybele and of Christians. Keywords – baptism, Cybele, Early Christian literature, fourth century, Late Ancient Rome, Phrygianum, ritual, Saint Peter’s Basilica, spatiality, taurobolium, Vatican Pavla Tichá & Markéta Kulhánková Masaryk University [email protected] [email protected]

Vatican Hill in the Time of Conversion The Phrygianum Neighboring Old Saint Peter’s* Pavla Tichá & Markéta Kulhánková

Introduction Throughout the fourth century, two religious com­munities coexisted and conducted their mysteries on Vatican Hill. The Phrygianum hosted the cult of Cybele, the Great Mother of the Gods, while Saint Peter’s Basilica with its hypothetical baptistery belonged to the Christian community. In both buildings, initiatory or purificatory rituals were performed: the taurobolium (or criobolium) for Cybele was a ritual sacrifice of a bull or ram, which started to appear in the cult mainly after 160  ce

and was supposed to bring purification. The initiation into Christian communities was baptism, celebrated at Easter Vigil, during which time the initiates ritually renounced Satan and were  * We would like to thank to Juliette Day, Jaś Elsner, two anonymous reviewers, and all the participants of the conference Materiality and Conversion for their precious recommendations and advices, and Kay Furusaka for language assistance. This research was carried out under the support of the Rector’s Office of the Masaryk University in Brno.

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baptized in water. The baptism allowed catechumens to participate in Eucharistic celebrations. It is well known that the main place for baptism in Rome was the Lateran baptistery, but the ritual was also organized at other places, as the remnants of the oldest baptisteries, probably from the late Constantinian period or the second half of the fourth century, testify. The baptisteries could, even if used only once a year for a particular group of catechumens, work as a point of reference in or­di­nary time for all the involved people. The relationship between the Phrygianum and Saint Peter’s has aroused the interest of scholars, mostly focused on Christian culture, only when it could serve the understanding of Saint Peter’s Basilica. The Phrygianum is usually mentioned in chapters dealing with the topographical background of the Christian Vatican1, the dating of the basilica2, and the origin of Saint Peter’s architecture3. However, the two cultic places co-existed for a few generations next to each other. This article aims to contribute to a better understanding of the function and perception of these two ritual spaces and the environment of the Vatican based on the modern theories of lived space and embodied memory. The rituals impressed themselves on the participants, stuck in the initiates’ minds, and, as a result, influenced their perceptions of space. We will combine the study of material remnants – from Vatican Hill and other relevant sites – with an analysis of literary sources. Our reassessment of visual and written materials leads us to recognize more than one perception of the Vatican depending on the religious background of the particular individuals perceiving the site. Production and interpretation of space

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In his influential book The Production of Space, Hen­ri Lefebvre argued that every society produces its own appropriated space that consists not only of materiality but also ongoing interactions, social relations, and specific spatial practices. H. Lefebvre proposed a triadic concept of space consisting of: 1. perceived space, which includes everyday, directly experienced spatial practices; 2. conceived space, which means representations of space and theoretical approaches to space; and 3. lived space,

which stands for lived experience and the prac­ tice of space including spatial imagery of time4. Archaeological remains reveal information about perceived space, while texts and images speak about conceived space, and thus the combined study of these two types of evidence and the collaboration between literary studies and art history can lead to better delineation of the extent that can be studied as the historical lived space. Embodied memory theory, based on concepts from Émile Durkheim and Roy Rappaport and established by Anders Klostergaard Petersen, provides the other basis for the present study. According to Petersen, rituals are in writings referred to in a way that creates a relationship between the recipients of the writing and the universe described in the text. Reference to an initiation shared by the members of a group recalls the recipient’s commitment to the universe, although the recipient’s actual interpretation of his or her initiation and the world need not necessarily follow that of the author5. This type of reference point, which persuades the recipient and generates and corrects his or her interpretation of the universe, can also be created by other means than words, for any artwork (visual, audio, olfactory, etc.) obviously has the potential to interpret space6. In what follows, we will attempt to interpret verbal and visual references in order to understand the perception of space on the Vatican by diverse religious groups. We will keep in mind that art and literature reflect reality at different levels that must be distinguished in any attempt to interpret space: 1. the level of factual reality, which provides generally indisputable and independently verifiable information (e.g. the rituals occurred at a specific time and place); 2. the level of cultural reality, which renders a collectively held interpretation of factual reality influenced by the system of ideologies of a particular culture (e.g. the Christian or pagan background of the specific authors); and 3. the level of personal reality, which mir­rors the subjective perception of the author (e.g. the personal religiosity and opinions of the authors)7. Moreover, when dealing with literature and images, we must also take into account the fourth level of textual and visual reality, which includes the use of certain motifs, strategies,

or allusions determined by the rules of the genre, technique, or artistic tradition, rather than by extra-­artistic experience8. The Phrygianum The Phrygianum9, a temple dedicated to Cybele on the Vatican Hill, was probably the second most important Metroac temple in Rome after the one on Palatine Hill (see below). It stood from the first or second century ce and the material evidence – none of it excavated in its primary context – reveals that the temple was undoubtedly in active use between 305–390 ce10. Neither the exact date of its building nor its location is clear, and we can only guess that it was situated close to the Old Saint Peter’s Basilica because of the large majority of excavated material found in its surroundings [Fig. 1]11. Before we proceed to the analysis of the arte­­ facts and ritual space, let us outline the hypo­ thetical general appearance of the Phrygianum. It is possible only on the basis of comparisons with three other temples of Cybele that are related to the Vatican and better preserved: the Vaticanum in Lyon, the Mons Vaticanus in Mainz-Kastel, and the Campus of the Magna Mater in Ostia. Scholars agree that the Phrygianum was an important cult center imitated by provincial cities. This can be exemplified by the toponyms in Lyon and Mainz, where the temples were called Vaticanum and Mons Vaticanus, respectively (although Lyon’s epi­ gram can also be interpreted as referring directly 1

2

For example, Paolo Liverani, La topografia antica del Vaticano, Vatican City 1999, pp. 28 –32; idem, Vatican. La nécropole et le tombe de Saint Pierre, Vatican City 2010; Hugo Brandenburg, Die konstanti­nische Petersbasilika am Vatikan in Rom Anmerkungen zu ihrer Chronologie, Architektur und Ausstattung, Regensburg 2017, pp. 12–13. Some contributions by Paolo Liverani are exceptional: Paolo Liverani, “Saint Peter’s and the City of Rome between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages”, in Old Saint Peter’s, Rosamond McKitterick et al. eds, Cambridge 2013, pp. 21–34; and idem, “Vaticano pagano, Vaticano Cristiano”,  in Roma Aurea: dalla città cristiana alla città pagana, Eugenio La Rocca, Serena Ensoli eds, Rome 2000, pp. 295–297, which interpreted acts of Cybele’s devotees on Vatican Hill and compared them with Christian customs. Margherita Guarducci, “L’interruzione dei culti nel Phrygianum del Vaticano durante il iv secolo d.C.”,  in La soteriologia dei culti orientali nell’impero romano, Atti del Colloquio Internazionale su la Soteriologia dei Culti Orientali nell’Impero Romano (24–28 settembre 1979, Rome), Ugo Bianchi, Maarten J. Vermaseren eds, Leiden 1982, pp. 109 –122.

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Ralf Biering, Henner von Hesberg, “Zur Bau- und Kultgeschichte von S. Andreas apud S. Petrum. Vom Phrygianum zum Kenotaph Theodosius d. Gr.?”, Römische Quartal­ schrift für Christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte, lxxxii (1987), pp. 145–182. 4 Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, Donald Nicholson-­ Smith transl., Malden 1991 [1974], pp. 38 –39. Cf. also Myrto Veikou, “Space in Texts and Space as Text: A New Approach to Byzantine Spatial Notions”,  Scandinavian Journal for Byz­ antine and Modern Greek Studies, ii (2016), pp. 143–175. 5 Anders Klostergaard Petersen, “Ritual and Texts”,  in Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Ritual, Risto Uro et al. eds, pp. 370 –387; the author based his study on Émile Durkheim, Les Formes élémentaires de la vie religieuse, Paris 1912; Roy Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, Cambridge 1999. 6 Cf. the interpretation of space by building in Forrest Clingerman, “Interpreting Heaven and Earth: The Theological Construction of Nature, Place, and the Built Environment”,  in Nature, Space and Sacred. Transdisciplinary Perspectives, Sigur Bergmann et al. eds, Abington-on-Thames / New York 2009, pp. 45–59. 7 This categorisation is based on Catia Galatariotou, “Travel and Perception in Byzantium”,  Dumbarton Oaks Papers, xlvii (1993), pp. 221–241, sp. pp. 222–223. 8 See Margaret Mullett, “In Peril on the Sea: Travel Genres and the Unexpected”,  in Travel in the Byzantine World, Ruth Macrides ed., Aldershot 2002, pp. 259 –284, sp. pp. 283–284. 9 The name Frigianum is documented in the fourth-century Regionaries, Notitia Regionum Urbis xiv, which list monuments in the city’s fourteen districts (Henri Jordan, Topographie der stadt Rom im alterthum, 2, Berlin 1970 [1871], ii.539 –574). The name of the shrine was derived from the Phrygian origin of the deity, which arrived in Rome in 204 bce (described by Ovid, Fasti, 4.180 –372; Livy, Ab urbe condita, xxix, 10 –11; see Jan N. Bremmer, “Slow Cybele’s Arrival”,  Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies, Issue Supplement xxxiv/52, [1987], pp. 105–111; or the fundamental publication for Metroac studies Maarten J. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis. The Myth and the Cult, London 1977, pp. 38 –41). A vast bib­liogra­phy on the temple can be found in Paolo Liverani “Il ‘Phrygianum’ vaticano”,  in Culti orientali tra scavo e collezio­ nismo, Beatrice Palma Venetucci ed., Rome 2008, pp. 41–48, sp. p. 41, n. 1. 10 Henri Graillot, Le culte de Cybèle, Mère des dieux, à Rome et dans l’Empire romain, Paris 1912, pp. 337–338 dates the temple to the time of Claudius; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis (n. 9), p. 46 also supposed it was built in the first century; Liverani, La topografia (n. 1), pp. 28 –32 and idem, “Il ‘Phrygianum’ vaticano” (n. 9), p. 42 argued for the period of Hadrian instead. The unequivocal clue for this question, the oldest inscription documenting the existence of the Vatican shrine (Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum, Theodor Mommsen et al. eds, Berlin 1893–1986, 13, no. 1751 = Inscriptiones Latinae selectae, Hermann Dessau ed., Berlin 1892–1916, no. 4131 = Corpus cultus Cybelae Attidisque, Maarten J. Vermaseren ed., Leiden 1977–1986, 3, no. 386), dates from 160 ce and proves that the Phrygianum existed a generation or two earlier (Liverani, “Il ‘Phrygianum’ vaticano” [n. 9], p. 42). The inscriptions proving the use of the Vatican temple in the fourth century are Corpus cultus [see above], 3, nos. 226 –245a. 11 The only attempt to define the exact position of the Phrygi­ anum known to us is Biering / von Hesberg, “Zur Bau- und Kultgeschichte” (n. 3), pp. 145–182, suggesting that the mau­­soleum of Honorius was originally the Phrygianum. Regarding the position, see, for example, Liverani, La topo­ grafia (n. 1), pp. 19 –32.

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1 / Plan of the Vatican with the position of Saint Peter's Basilica and findings of the objects belonging to Phrygianum, Rome

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to the Roman Phrygianum)12. The usage of to­ ponymic names for temples with the same dedication as the model temple would be analogical to temples of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva, called Capitolia throughout the Roman Empire, asPaolo Liverani pointed out13. In all four temples – the Vatican, Lyon, Mainz, and Ostia – dis­cov­ered taurobolium inscriptions indicate analogous func­t ions14. The excavated temples were also all built in the form of sacred grounds enclosed in a wall, typical for shrines at the edges of cities15. The remnants of the lost Phrygianum were spread over an extensive area which corresponds to the size of a campus, and so the Vatican shrine of Cybele probably followed the sacred grove pattern16. In short, given the lack of sources from the Vatican, the names, rituals, and elementary features resembling one another in Lyon, Mainz-Kastel, and Ostia make the three shrines the closest examples and the only way to approach at least approximately the form of the Phrygianum on the Vatican. The ground plan of the Lyon Vaticanum cor­­re­ sponds closely to the plan of the Ostian Campus: a wall demarcated their triangular open-air plots

with little temples inside [Figs 2–3], and the two campi also had some details (arches) in common17. Mainz-Kastel’s Mons Vaticanus follows the principles of open space with separated buildings and a temple, although the plot is rectangular and the proportion between the plot and temple differs from those of Ostia and Lyon [Fig. 4]18. The example from Ostia would add more details to our potential reconstruction of the Phrygianum. The Metroon faced the entrance. It was a prostyle with four columns elevated on more or less ten steps leading to a podium. Living flowers or herbs could have adorned the stairs, as can be assumed from the finding of two pits filled with soil, which probably served as planting beds19. In front of the temple was an altar. The shrine dedicated to Attis stood separated from that to Cybele, and the entire plot was surrounded by minor houses that accommodated other cultic needs, such as assemblies of clergy. The fossa sanguinis attached to the enclosing wall, which used to be interpreted as a special spot prepared for the performances of bull sacrifices, was recently determined to be a cistern by Katherine Rieger20. Concerning the space of Cybele’s fields, archaeologists

3 / Schematic plan of the Campus of Magna Mater, Lyon 2 / Schematic plan of the Campus of Magna Mater, Ostia

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4 / Schematic plan of the Mons Vaticanus, Kastel am Mainz

suggested that pine trees, omnipresent in iconography, were planted in the campus, giving the impression of a forest with temples and altars21. Katherine Rieger, in contrast, supposed that the images of pine trees symbolized ritual funerary processions for Attis. According to her hypothe­ sis, the trees did not necessarily have to grow within the open-air temple22. Nonetheless, we can conclude that all of the archaeologically documented Cybele sanctuaries relevant for our reconstruction of the Phrygianum were open fields with separated temples and shrines enclosed within a wall, their sacred grounds being embellished with rich epigraphy, altars, 12 The epigraphy from Lyon, dated to 160 ce, in Corpus inscriptionum (n. 10), 13, no. 1751 = Inscriptiones Latinae (n. 10), no. 4131; the inscription from Mainz-Kastel from 236  ce in Corpus inscriptionum (n. 10), 18, no. 7281 = Corpus cultus (n. 10), 3, no. 46; both transcribed in Liverani, “Il ‘Phrygianum’ vaticano” (n. 9), p. 41 n. 6 and 7; more about the interpretation ibidem, sp. pp. 41–43; more about Lyon in Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis (n. 9), pp. 134–137. 13 Liverani, “Il ‘Phrygianum’ vaticano” (n. 9), sp. p. 41; idem, La topografia (n. 1), pp. 28 –32. The name of the Campus in Ostia does not follow the Vaticanum / Mons Vaticanus pattern. This fact can be explained because it certainly needed to be dis­tinguished from its Roman neighbor and, moreover, could very well reach and maintain a prominent position

on its own without claiming affiliation with the Phrygianum thanks to its own past. Legends associate Ostia with the introduction of Cybele at Rome and the miracle performed by the goddess on the way (Ovid, Fasti, 4.180 –372; Livy, Ab urbe condita, xxix, 10 –11; Alison Cooley, “Multiple Meanings in the Sanc­tuary of the Magna Mater at Ostia”,  Religion in the Roman Empire, i [2015], pp. 242–262, sp. p. 244; Bremmer, “Slow Cybele’s Arrival” [n. 9], pp. 105–111). 14 Liverani La topografia (n. 1), pp. 28 –32. 15 See Francoise Van Haeperen, “Roman Places of Collective Worship as Meeting Places”,  in City of Encounters: Public Spaces and Social Interaction in Ancient Rome, Matia L. Caldelli, Cecilia Ricci eds, Rome 2020, pp. 229 –258, sp. pp. 230 –231. The article provides many other examples and references. 16 Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis (n. 9), p. 46. 17 Another triangular Metroon exists in Britain, Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis (n. 9), pp. 135–137. Cf. Amable Audin, Lyon miroir de Rome dans les Gaules, Paris 1965, sp. pp. 147 and 172. 18 Maarten J. Vermaseren, Der Kult der Kybele und des Attis im römischen Germanien, Stuttgart 1979. 19 Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis (n. 9), pp. 61– 62; Cooley, “Multiple Meanings” (n. 13), p. 254; Lara Dubosson-­Sbriglione, Le culte de la Mère des dieux dans l’Empire romain, Stuttgart 2018, p. 383. 20 Regarding fossa sanguinis, see Guido Calza ed., Scavi di Ostia i: Topografia generale, Rome 1953; and Robert Duthoy, The Taurobolium. Its Evolution and Terminology, Leiden 1969, pp. 110 –111. For the water cistern interpretation, see Anna-Katharine Rieger, Heiligtümer in Ostia, Munich 2004; for a summary and further references, see Dubosson-­ Sbriglione, Le culte de la Mère (n. 19), pp. 313, n. 47 and 385, n. 381. 21 Cooley, “Multiple Meanings” (n. 13), p. 254 with further references. 22 Rieger, Heiligtümer (n. 20), pp. 154–159.

Proportions of inidividual plans are not unified with each other.

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and statuary, and possibly also with pines and flowers. This indicates a similar appearance for the lost Phrygianum, in which case the stone arte­facts constitute the main source for understanding the space23. As we have seen, very little is certain about the Phrygianum’s architecture, which has not been preserved at all. The direct reference in the Notitia regionum urbis, which lists the temple among the buildings in Transtiberim, reveals something about its conceived space only. The Phrygianum is inventoried just after (or even in a pair with) the slightly enigmatic Gaianum, usually interpreted as the circus of Gaius (Caligula) and Nero, fallen, however, into disuse by the time of the Regionaries. The Gaianum could also have been a shrine of Gaia, located to the west of Castel Sant’Angelo, with this zone still having retained the toponym “Caiano” or “Gaiano” in the early modern period24. Unmediated evidence for the Phrygianum’s perceived space consists mainly of twenty altars dedicated to Cybele and Attis25. As we shall see below, the representations on the altars can also indicate how the ritual was conceived and even lived. The images and inscription on most of the altars monumentalized taurobolia and criobolia, sacrifices of bulls and rams. We can classify the reliefs on the altars into several main elements: sacrificial animals; pine trees decorated with hanging musical instruments (syrinx, tympanum, double flutes, cymbals, castanets); liturgical tools (pedum, urceus, patera, a torch); divinities (Cybele in her biga drawn by lions, Attis); and inscriptions (with dating, dedications, and epigrams in Latin and Greek) [Figs 5–8]. The iconographic motifs are combined in various ways. They may appear isolated in the plain surface of the altar, e.g. the heads of a bull and a ram and cymbals on the left side of the altar from Louvre, inv. no. Ma 1369 [Fig. 5]26; on other reliefs, instruments hang on and bulls and rams walk around the pine tree, e.g. the front of the altar to the right of the exit from the Vatican Grottoes, inv. no. 87 [Fig. 6]27. Gods are depicted in the same environment as sacrificial cattle, e.g. the figure of Attis reclines under the decorated tree on the right side of the altar in Louvre, inv. no. Ma 1369 [Fig. 7]28, while he stands under the pine and Cybele rides her biga

to it at the lost altar found cut into two pieces in Saint Nicola in Calcaria [Fig. 8]29. A pine tree was the preferred motif, as it played an important role in the mythology and ritual. The goddess chopped down a pine to kill Attis’ lover nymph, but a pine also represented or prefigured Attis’s subsequent self-castration30. Metroac devotees recut the tree periodically every year during Attis’ funerary processions on March 25, and they obviously wished to have it represented at the taurobolic altars31. As described above, the pine trees are always enhanced with musical instruments, and sometimes also with other attributes and birds. It is assumed that the instruments were dedicated to the goddess and were used during the rituals32. As external writers distinguished its specific sounds, the Metroac ritual music was evidently recognizable among other sounds33, and the Metroac pine with the instruments which produced the characteristic sound could not be mistaken for any other tree. The distinctive pine is sometimes surround­ed by Cybele, Attis, and a bull or ram. The bulls and rams are depicted as calm, alive, and unsaddled. Interestingly, even if the altars refer to taurobolia, the images of cattle in this shrine do not even retain any sign of a taurobolium, at least not in those discovered and in their current colorless state: no victimarius is leading the bulls to the sacrifice and no animal is embellished with garlands or crowns. In contrast, other images of taurobolia 23 Cf. Corpus cultus (n. 10), 3, pp. 49 – 61, 105–143. 24 Jordan, Topographie (n. 9), 2.ii.539 –574; Corpus cultus (n. 10), 3, no. 225. See Liverani, “Il ‘Phrygianum’ vaticano” (n. 9), sp. pp. 44–45; Liverani, La topografia (n. 1), pp. 32–34. 25 The altars excavated from the Vatican are documented in Corpus cultus (n. 10), 3, pp. 49 – 61, nos. 226 –245a. 26 Ibidem, no. 226. 27 Ibidem, no. 241a. 28 Ibidem, no. 226. 29 Ibidem, no. 236. 30 Ovid, Fasti, 4.221–246. 31 Cooley, “Multiple Meanings” (n. 13), p. 249. 32 Evidence is found at funeral monuments of devotees, Jacob A. Latham, “Roman Rhetoric, Metroac Representation: Texts, Artifacts, and the Cult of Magna Mater in Rome and Ostia”,  Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, lix/lx (2014/ 2015), pp. 51– 74, sp. p. 60. 33 For example, Ovid, Ars amatoria 1.505– 9; idem, Fasti 4.181–184 and 4.341–342; Catullus 63.24; Seneca, Epistulae morales ad Lucilium, 108.7; in the fourth century Claudian, De rap­ tu Proserpinae 1.209 –212 and 2.268; see Latham, “Roman Rhetoric” (n. 32), pp. 60 – 62.

5 / Two cymbals and the heads of a bull and a ram, left side of the altar, Rome, marble, 14 April 305 ce / Musée du Louvre (Paris), inv. no. Ma 1369 (Coll. Borghese) 6 / A bull standing under a pine tree with hanging musical instruments on the right side and crossed burning troches with liturgical tools in the front side, altar possibly from Phrygianum, Rome / Vatican grottoes (Vatican City), inv. no. 87 7 / A pine tree with musical instruments and a probably a lying figure of Attis, Rome, marble altar, 14 April 305 ce / Musée du Louvre (Paris), inv. no. Ma 1369 (Coll. Borghese)

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feature these signs, for example the altar from San Sebastiano at Via Appia from 295 ce [Fig. 9]34 and the relief from Ara Pietatis Augustae preserved on the façade of Villa Medici [Fig. 10]35. The only exception is the lost altar from Saint Nicola in Calcaria, the reading of which is difficult due to the ambiguity of the drawn copies [Fig. 8]. The ram is represented twice here: the one next to Attis is undecorated, and only the one separated in its own frame might have had the garlands. The peaceful images at the altars show the perceived space – in addition to the fact that they were simply present in the shrine themselves – to the extent that the objects received by divinities in the reliefs were probably used in campus. The bulls and rams on the Phrygianum altars are depicted as serene and without garlands, which they had during rituals, and at times they accompany divinities. The only exception on Saint Nicola in Calcaria’s altar shows the ram (perhaps) with ribbons separated from the un­ decorated one, which stands with Attis and the pine in a distinct frame. These images must reflect the practice of local sacrifices of bulls and rams; the sacrificial cattle, the  mystic sounds, and possibly the imitation of the mythological

pine created the ritual environment enabling the devotees to communicate with gods through animal and musical offerings. The images emphasize the transmission of animals and objects to the divinities, in other words, a conventional offering to gods, rather than the purificatory effects of the ritual. A completely different image of a taurobolium is provided by literary sources, which, however, originate only from the Christian environment. The longest one, which has also attracted the most scholarly attention, is a passage from Prudentius’ Crowns of Martyrs (Peristephanon x, 1006–1050). Towards the end of this long poem the martyr-­ hero compares his own martyrdom to the sacrificing rituals of pagans, presenting an extremely bloody ritual: “Then through the many ways afforded by the thousand chinks / it passes in a shower, dripping a foul rain, / and the priest in the pit below catches it, / holding his filthy head to meet every drop / and getting his robe and his whole body covered with corruption. / Laying his head back he even puts his cheeks in the way, / placing his ears under it, exposing lips / bathing his very eyes in the stream / not even keeping his mouth from it but wetting his tongue, / until the whole of him drinks in the dark gore”36.

Although Prudentius’ account is considered to refer to a taurobolium and as such is the most prominent and most often quoted literary source, it has been shown that its mirroring of the factual reality is rather limited. Neil McLynn has persuasively argued that Prudentius’ knowledge about the taurobolium must have been at best second-­ hand and that the striking suggestiveness of the depiction had served primarily the poet’s literary aims, namely culminating the entire poem in an extremely emphatic passage presenting on the one hand a Christian miracle (the hero delivers a speech without a tongue) and on the other hand the cruelty and decay of pagan rites37. There is only one mention of ritual blood on one of the inscriptions and none on the altar images, as far as we can judge from their current state without polychromy. Generally, the epigraphic evidence of the altars, which includes one hundred and thirty-three Greek and Latin inscriptions38, corresponds with the imagery and does not provide any evidence that the taurobolium had changed dramatically in the fourth century compared to previous periods. All this seems to confirm that the conventional bull sacri­fice was practiced during the fourth century39.

Moreover, it is known that there was a long pagan tradition of mistrust and even contempt of the cult40, or more precisely against the galli, Cybele’s officials who were eunuchs and wore long hair and extravagant clothes41. However, in the writ­ten sources that reveal the approach 34 Corpus cultus (n. 10), 3, no. 357. 35 Ibidem, no. 2. 36 Prudentius, Peristephanon 1031–1040: tum per frequentes mille rimarum uias / inlapsus imber tabidum rorem pluit, / defossus intus quem sacerdos excipit / guttas ad omnes turpe subiectans caput / et ueste et omni putrefactus corpore. / Quin os supinat, obuias offert genas, / supponit aures, labra nares obicit, / oculos et ipsos perluit liquoribus, / nec iam palato parcit et linguam rigat, / donec cruorem totus atrum conbibat. Prudentius vol. ii, Henry J. Thomson ed. and transl., Cambridge 1953, pp. 294–299. 37 Neil McLynn, “The Fourth-Century ‘Taurobolium’”, Phoenix, l/3–4 (1996), pp. 312–330, sp. pp. 315–320. 38 Duthoy, The Taurobolium (n. 20), pp. 6 –53, nos. 11–35 come from the Vatican Hill in Rome. 39 Cf. McLynn “The Fourth-Century” (n. 37), pp. 320 –329. 40 Cf. Andy T. Fear, “Cybele and Christ”,  in Cybele, Attis and Related Cults. Essays in Memory of M. J. Vermaseren, Eugene N. Lane ed., Leiden / New York / Cologne 1996, pp. 37–50. 41 Concerning Roman views of the cult, we can find even a posi­tive note. Ammianus Marcellinus around 335–340 ce wrote about the activities of Lampadius, a Roman aristocrat and devotee of Cybele, when he mentioned games Lampadius had held, generous donations he had made, and valuable gifts he had presented to beggars from the Vatican. (Ammianus Marcellinus concerning Lampadius, 27.3.6, John C. Rolfe transl., London / Cambridge, ma 1939). See Liverani, “Saint Peter’s and the city” (n. 1), p. 21; and Latham, “Roman Rhetoric” (n. 32).

8 a, b/ On the left Cybele driving a biga drawn by lions and a pine tree with a bull below, on the right a pine tree and a ram and standing Attis with a ram below, at the back crossed torches with liturgical tools, drawings of a lost altar from Saint Nicola in Calacaria, probably from Phrygianum, Rome, 16 June 370 ce

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of Roman society towards the Metroac priests, there are no references to such extremely cruel bloody rituals as presented by Prudentius and other Christian sources42. To conclude, the extraordinary pine trees with Phrygian musical instruments together with the untamed bulls and rams, at times accompanied by divinities, as presented at the altars created an image of the divine space where the offerings were received. This space might have been approached and revealed during “sacred mysteries […], Deo’s orgies and the terrifying Hekate nights”43, when the bulls, rams, and music were offered to divinities. Conceived space in the images and inscriptions created by Metroac devotees shows communication with gods and thus indicates a certain change in the lived space at least during the ritual. On the other hand, Christian literary sources reflect much more closely the cultural, personal, and textual reality of their authors than the factual reality of the rituals, or, as N. McLynn claimed, they tell “more about Christian authors and their audiences than about the taurobolium itself”44. Constantinian Saint Peter’s and its baptistery

9/ A ram and a bull decorated with crowns and garlands around a pine tree with birds, musical instruments, and other tools, probably from the gardens of Orfitus at the Via Appia, Rome, marble altar, 26 February 295 ce / Villa Albani (Rome), inv. no. 215.208

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10/ Victimarii leading a bull in front of the temple dedicated to Cybele, fragment of a marble relief, originally from the Ara Pietatis Augustae, Rome, 43 ce / Villa Medici (Rome)

During the reign of the Constantinian dynasty, probably under Constantine i and certainly not later than under Constantius ii, Saint Peter’s Basi­lica was built in the vicinity of the Phrygianum45. The church was constructed amid the aforementioned cemetery, over the tropaion of Saint Peter, primarily to enclose his memorial within monumental architecture [Fig. 1]46. The façade of the four-aisled basilica faced the east and had a transept and an apse oriented towards the west. An ancient mausoleum stood by its south transept, marked with an obelisk at the front. In this section, we will focus on the north transept, which was probably associated with baptisms47. As we can see in Alfrano’s plan drawn before the demolition of Old Saint Peter’s in the sixteenth century, a baptistery was installed in the north transept at some point in the basilica’s history [Fig. 11]. Nevertheless, in the fourth century, regarding Early Christian initiatory practice, the situation must have differed, given that catechumens were not baptized in transepts nor

elsewhere inside basilicas, but only at particular places with flowing water, typically outside48. The construction of baptisteries followed monumental basilicas with a few-decade delay: in the late Constantinian period or later in the course of the fourth and fifth centuries49. Early baptisteries in Italy were usually independent octagonal buildings like the one in the Lateran [Fig. 12]50. This distinction of baptisteries from basilicas was fundamental to providing an appropriate space for the celebrations of baptism and highlighting the sacred zone where baptisms were received51. The central place for baptisms in Rome was the Lateran where the bishop of Rome performed the initiation at Easter Vigils and the first Roman baptistery was built. Nevertheless, deacons could also initiate Christians at other places to administer baptisms for all who desired, including specific social groups like children and pilgrims52. 42 Cf. Latham, “Roman Rhetoric” (n. 32), pp. 51– 74. The other, shorter literary sources against Metroac rituals and devo­ tees are: Iulius Firmicus Maternus, The Error of the Pagan Religions, xxvii, 8; Anonymous, Carmen contra paganos; Aelius Lampridius, Vita Heliogabali vii, 1; see Duthoy, The Tauro­bolium (n. 20), pp. 54–55; or more recently Dubosson-­ Sbriglione, Le culte de la Mère (n. 19), pp. 307–316. 43 αγέων τελετῶν [...] ὂργια Δηοῦς / καὶ φοβερὰς Ἑκά // της νύκτας – poem from the Vatican by Sabina, daughter of C. Caeionius Rufius Volusianus Lampadius (Corpus cultus [n. 10], 3, no. 238 = Corpus inscriptionum [n. 10], 6, 30966 = Inscriptiones Graecae, Adolf Kirchhoff et al. eds, Berlin 1890 –1924, 14, no. 1019 = Inscriptiones Graecae Urbis Romae, Luigi Moretti ed., Rome 1968 –1990, 1, 111f no. 128, transl. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis [n. 9], p. 50). 44 McLynn “The Fourth-Century” (n. 37), p. 320. 45 There are several hypotheses about the dating, all of them supported by rich argumentation. They range from the period of Constantine i (e.g., Brandenburg, Die konstan­ tinische Petersbasilika [n. 1], sp. pp. 11–16, 48 –52), through the span between Constantine i and Constans (Richard Gem, “From Constantine to Constans. The Chronology of the Construction of Saint Peter’s Basilica”,  in Old Saint Peter’s, [n. 1], pp. 35– 65), to Constantius ii (most recently Richard Westall, “Constantius ii and the Basilica of St. Peter in the Vatican”,  Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte, lxiv/2 [2015], pp. 205–242). See status questionis with references in the latter. The most interesting for our re­search is indeed Guarducci “L’interruzione” (n. 2), pp. 109 –122, dating the construction of Saint Peter’s according to the 28-year gap in dedications of taurobolic altars. 46 Regarding the tropaion and its installation into the basilica, see Brandenburg, Die konstantinische Petersbasilika (n. 1), pp. 32–43. About the threefold function of the basilica – liturgical celebration, veneration of the apostolic tomb, and funerary space with veneration of the apostolic tomb dominating – see, Sible de Blaauw, Cultus et decor: Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medievale: Basilica Salvatoris, Sanctae Mariae, Sancti Petri (Studi e testi), Vatican City 1994, pp. 493–514.

47 For a detailed description, chronology, and history of the deve­lopment of the basilica, see the recent monographs Brandenburg, Die konstantinische Petersbasilika (n. 1); Old Saint Peter’s (n. 1); and the fundamental Richard Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum christianarum Romae. The Early Christian Basil­icas of Rome (iv-xi Cent.), 5 vols, Vatican City / Rome / New York 1937–1977, vol. v, pp. 165–279. 48 Early Christian writers recommended rivers, but any streams of water outside or in baths could be used for initiations before monumental Christian architecture evolved and baptisteries were established. Olof Brandt, “Understanding the Structures of Early Christian Baptisteries”,  in Ablution, Initiation, and Bap­ tism. Late Antiquity, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity, David Hellholm et al. eds, Berlin / ­Boston, ma 2011, pp. 1587–1609. sp. pp. 1588 –1590. 49 Ibidem, sp. pp. 1588 –1590; idem, Frederico Guidobaldi, “Il Battistero Lateranense: Nuove interpretazioni delle fasi struttutali”,  Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana, lxxxiv (2008), pp. 189 –282, sp. pp. 273–274. 50 Brandt,“Understanding the Structures” (n. 48), sp. pp. 1592–1593. 51 Ibidem, p. 1588; cf. also idem, “Constantinian baptisteries”,  in Acta xvi congressvs internationalis archaeologiae christianae Romae, Costantino e i Costantinidi, l’innovazione costantiniana, le sue radice e i suoi sviluppi, (22–28 settembre 2013, Rome), i, Olof Brandt, Gabriele Castiglia, Vincenzo Fiocchi Nicolai eds, Vatican City 2016, pp. 583– 610. 52 Cf. Roman sources referred in Maxwell E. Johnson, The Rites of Christian Initiation. Their Evolution and Interpretation. Revi­ sed and Expanded Edition, Collegeville, mn 2007, pp. 160 –164. See also de Blaauw, Cultus (n. 46), pp. 507–508.

11 / Natale Bonifacio according to Tiberio Alfrano, Plan of Old Saint Peter's with its relationship to the new Basilica, detail, De Basilicae Vaticanae Structura, Rome, 1590

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For example, Liber pontificalis records a Constantinian baptistery at Saint Agnes Outside the Walls which archaeologists have dated to the mid-fourth century53. Saint Sabina also had a baptistery, as claimed by Ivan Foletti and Manuela Gianandrea54. Liber pontificalis notes that Pope Simplicius (468–483) organized baptisms at Saint Peter’s, which implies the existence of the baptistery by that point at least55. Nevertheless, scholars, with some exceptions, have assumed the baptistery was constructed as early as the time of Pope Damasus (366–384)56, based on other Late Antique sources: two inscriptions attributed to Pope Damasus, an inscription mentioning Damasus by name, and a hymn by Prudentius57. The latter gives a precious description of the channeled waters of a spring that mirror the colors of the surrounding mosaics58. None of the elements mentioned as decoration – mosaics in blue, purple, and gold; the Good Shepherd – would be a surprise in a baptistery. Nevertheless, the hymn reflects, similarly as we have seen in the extract from another Prudentius’ hymn above, more the cultural than the factual reality. It uses the attrib­utes of the locus amoenus topos59 (e.g. it elaborates on the image of cold water, whereas it is known that the water used for baptisms was warmed60), and it works with the symbolism of colors such as purple, blue, and gold61. Olof Brandt suggested that the hypothetical Damasian baptistery was isolated from the basilica and the north transept of Saint Peter’s formerly served as its entrance hall, porticus, based on comparing the view to the porticus of the Lateran baptistery and the view to the northern transept [Figs 12, 13]62. The structure and decoration of a baptistery with no archaeological traces always remain hypo­thetical. We can only imagine that the large Basilica of Saint Peter with a mausoleum jointed to its south transept would give a consistent, symmetrical impression with central-plan buildings on both sides, possi­ b­ly highlighting the resemblance between tombs and baptisteries63. The existence of special buildings or at least sites for baptisms apart from the Lateran seems probable because Rome was a populous city with more than one Christian community64. Baptisteries, even if they were used only occasionally

and most of the believers visiting the site were baptized elsewhere, would through their visu­al 53 David Stanley, “New Discoveries at Santa Costanza”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, xlviii (1994), pp. 257–261, sp. pp. 257–258, with further references. 54 Ivan Foletti, Manuela Gianandrea, Zona liminare. Il nartece di Santa Sabina a Roma, la sua porta e l’iniziazione Cristiana, Brno/Rome 2015, pp. 68 –  73. For other baptisteries and their dating cf. Sebastian Ristow, Frühchristliche Baptisterien, Münster 1998, sp. pp. 189 –192, 293–294, 318 –319. 55 lp, i, 249. 56 The exceptions are Christine Smith, “Pope Damasus’ Baptis­tery in St. Peter’s reconsidered”,  Rivista di archeologia cristiana, lxiv  (1988), pp. 257–286, who supposed the sources used do not concern the Vatican baptistery; and Margherita M. Cecchelli Trinci, “Intorno ai complessi battesimali di S. Pietro in Vati­cano e di S. Agnese sulla Via Nomentana”,  Quaderni del­l’Isti­ tuto di Archeologia e Storia Antica dell’Università di Chieti iii, (1982–1983), pp. 181–199, sp. pp. 184–187, who suggested that a previously existing baptistery was only renovated by Damasus. Regarding the Damasian dating, see, for example, Olof Brandt, “The Early Christian baptistery of Saint Peter’s”,  in Old Saint Peter’s (n. 1), pp. 81– 94; Hugo Brandenburg, “Das Baptisterium und der Brunnen des Atriums von Alt-­Sankt Peter in Rom”, Bulletin analytique d’histoire romaine, xxvi (2003), pp. 55– 71, sp. p. 56; Blaauw, Cultus (n. 46), pp. 487–491, sp. pp. 487–488. 57 Dam. Epigr. in Damasi Epigrammata, Maximilianus Ihm ed., Leipzig 1895, nos. 3–5; Prud. Perist. 12.31–44; Antonio Ferrua, “Dei primi battisteri parrocchiali e di quello di S. Pietro in particolare”,  La Civiltà Cattolica, xc/2 (1939), pp. 146 –157, nos. 3, 4. Brandt, “The Early Christian” (n. 56), pp. 81– 94. 58 It has also been interpreted as a reference to the fountain in the atrium (Brandenburg, “Das Baptisterium” [n. 56]), but it certainly concerns an interior and, moreover, the atrium described by Paulinus of Nola slightly later is depicted as a completely different environment (Christian Gnilka, “Prudentius über den colymbus bei St. Peter”,  Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, clii [2005], pp. 61– 88, sp. pp. 77– 80). See also de Blaauw, Cultus (n. 46), pp. 487– 491, sp. p. 488; Hermann Tränkle, “Der Brunnen im Atrium der Petersbasilika und der Zeitpunkt von Prudentius’ Romaufenhalt”,  Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, iii (1999), pp. 97–119. 59 See Veronica Della Dora, Landscape, Nature, and the Sacred in Byzantium, Cambridge 2016, pp. 113–114. 60 See Robin M. Jensen, Living Water: Images, Symbols, and Settings of Early Christian Baptism, Leiden / Boston, ma 2011, sp. pp. 147, 230 –237. We can also imagine the stream warmed up only for the occasions of baptism and cold for the rest of the year. 61 Cf. Mark Bradley, Colour and Meaning in Ancient Rome, Cambridge 2009. 62 Brandt, “The Early Christian” (n. 56), pp. 81– 82. 63 Cf. Brandt, “Understanding the Structures” (n. 48), p. 1593; Juliette Day, “Entering Baptistery. Spatial, Identity and Salvific Transitions in Fourth- and Fifth- Century Baptismal Liturgies”,  in Sacred Thresholds. The Door to the Sanctuary in Late Antiquity, Emillie M. van Opstall ed., Leiden / Boston, ma 2018, pp. 66 – 90, sp. pp. 71– 72. Also, noteworthy is the comparison of martyr’s blood and water in Prudentius, Peristephanon 8.1–12 (csel, 61: 365–366). Cf. also Robin M. Jensen, “Baptismal Practices at North African Martyrs’ Shrines”,  in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism (n. 48), pp. 1673–1695, sp. pp. 1686 –1689. 64 Richard Krautheimer, Profile of the City 312–1308, Princeton, nj 1992, p. 18; Andrew S. Jacobs, “Jews and Christians”,  in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, Susan Ashbrook Harvey, David G. Hunter eds, Oxford 2008, pp. 169 –185.

12/ Vestibul, Lateran baptistery, Rome, 5th century 13 / Maerten van Heemskerck, interior of the transept of Old Saint Peter’s half torn down, pen and brown ink, brown wash, Rome, 16th century

lan­ g uage stimulate the memory and evoke the bodily ritual experience, commitment, and shared values of the community65. The presence of a baptistery thus changes and emphasizes the interpretation of a place according to the initiatory experience, even if the ritual was not constantly performed there, the initiates had been baptized elsewhere, and they were arriving with the intention to venerate the martyr or possibly celebrate Christmas, a major feast at Saint Peter’s66. There are numerous literary texts about Early Christian baptisms. Unfortunately, no liturgical texts concern specifically Roman rituals, and our knowledge depends merely on a few very brief references in other texts from late fourth century, external sources, and the Apostolic Tradition, the dating and location of which are problematic67. The most relevant texts for our study are the works by Ambrose produced in Milan at the end of the fourth century, and Eastern catecheses coposed by Cyril of Jerusalem are also valuable68. We focus on the approach to the space of the baptistery and of the human body emerging from both Eastern and Western literary sources, assuming the ideas on the importance of human body in Christian teaching and rituals might have also been known in the fourth-century Rome, although Christian communities were numerous, and their practices differed69. Within the second half of the fourth century, Cyril’s Mystagogic Catecheses is among the most important works on baptism70. It contextualizes the ritual within space and provides valuable information about the perception of the space of the baptistery. What Cyril describes is supposed to have taken place in the Church of Resurrection in Jerusalem. But according to a short remark in the Travels of Egeria from the 380s – a travelogue which probably describes rituals performed by the bishop himself – the description of the Eastern ritual should be relevant for the Western context as well, especially in respect to a Christian approaching and seeing a basilica with a baptistery. Egeria wrote:

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“The Easter vigil is observed here exactly as we observe it at home. Only one thing is done more elaborately here. After the neophytes have been baptized and dressed as soon as they came forth from the baptismal

font, they are led first of all to the Anastasis with the bishop. The bishop goes within the railings of the Anastasis, a hymn is sung, and he prays for them. Then he returns with them to the major church, where all the people are holding the vigil as is customary” 71.

Moreover, as we will try to show below, the concept of space by Cyril largely concurs with what we can read in the Western sources. Especially in the first two parts of Cyril’s Catecheses, attention is paid  first to the space of the outer room (ὁ  προαύλιος τοῦ βαπτίσματος οἶκος [1, 2]) and subsequently to the space of the inner room (ὁ ἐσώτερος οἴκος [2, 1]), where the holy pool of sacred baptism (ἡ ἁγία τοῦ θείου βαπτίσματος κολυμβήθρα [2, 4]) is situated. The catechumens are instructed to face the west and the east (it is supposed that the outer room of the baptistery of the Church of Resurrection in Jerusalem was situ­ated towards the south of the Holy Sepulchre72), and the addressee is each time provided a thorough explanation of the entire ritual, always connecting the symbols and reality (e.g. 1, 3). After entering the inner room, the cate­ chumens take off their tunics and are anointed  with exorcized olive oil. Next follows the baptism with the catechumen immersing three times in the font, dressing in a white baptismal robe, and being anointed once more, this time with perfumed oil (τὸ μύρον [3, 2]). Then, they attend for the first time the Eucharist and hear the Lord’s prayer. The reader can follow the gradual shift in focus from the space of the baptistery to the space of the human body, which over the course of the initiation becomes itself a space where Christ dwells: the Christ-bearer (χριστοφόρος [4, 3]). The conception of space gradually develops from the material space of the church to a spatial metaphor which is completed in the fifth chapter by calling the entire process of the initiation a spiritual building which is crowned by understanding the Lord’s prayer and the mystery of the liturgy (“today I shall set the coping-stone that is needed on the spiritual building”, “σήμερον τὴν στεφάνην ἐπιθήσοντας τῇ πνευματικῇ ὑμῶν τῆς ὠφελείας οἰκοδομῇ” [5, 1]). The spatial perception of the neophyte’s body deserves a special remark. Cyril’s text develops the gradual entering of Christ into this space, and a careful audience witnesses the gradual involvement of all the senses in sequence,

which suggests the pervasion of the divine deep­er and deeper into the body: The first chapter repeatedly highlights the role of first hearing (“you heard a voice instruct­ing you to stretch out your hand”, “ἠκούετε καὶ προσετάττεσθε ἐκτείνειν τὴν χεῖρα” [1, 2]) and then seeing (“I saw clearly that seeing is much more convincing than hearing”, “σαφῶς ἠπιστάμην ὄψιν ἀκοῆς πολλῷ πιστοτέραν εἶναι” [1, 1]). The second chapter involves touch (“you were anointed with exorcized oil from the topmost hairs of your head to the lowest parts of your body, and became sharers in Jesus Christ, the true olive”, “ἐλαίῳ ἠλείφεσθε ἐπορκιστῷ ἀπ’ ἄκρων κορυφῆς τριχῶν ἕως τῶν κατωτάτων, καὶ κοινωνοὶ ἐγίνεσθε τῆς καλλιελαίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ” [2, 3]). Then, in the third chapter, after the baptism, smell follows: not only do the neophytes smell the scent of the perfumed oil, they also start to emit smells themselves, which emphasizes the almost complete connection with Christ (“Next [you are anointed on] the nostrils, so that you may say, if you retain the sacred muron: ‘We are Christ’s sweet fragrance before God among those who are saved’”, “Εἶτα ἐπὶ τὴν ὄσφρησιν, ὅπως τοῦ θείου ἀντιλαμβανόμενοι μύρου λέγητε ‘Χριστοῦ εὐωδία ἐσμὲν τῷ Θεῷ ἐν τοῖς σωζομένοις’” [3, 4]). Finally, taste is added in the fourth chapter (“Take, eat, this is my body. And taking the cup and giving thanks he said: ‘Take, drink, this is my blood.’”, “Λάβετε, φάγετε, τοῦτό μού ἐστι τὸ σῶμα. Καὶ λαβὼν ποτήριον καὶ εὐχαριστήσας εἶπε·Λάβετε, πίετε, τοῦτό μού ἐστι τὸ αἷμα” [4, 1]). A look at the works of Ambrose of Milan on baptism reveals a similar way of perceiving and com­municating the space of the baptistery. His two works dealing with the description and spiritual interpretation of baptism, The Mysteries and The Sacraments73, use similar imagery of a gradual opening of the senses, both describing the process of baptism and addressing the recipient. Ambrose even goes further than Cyril in literary imagery. He frequently blends the perceptions of different senses into a series of synesthesiae (“Open your ears and grasp the good odor of eternal life which has been breathed upon you by the grace of the sacraments”, “Aperite igitur aures et bonum odorem vitae aeternae inhalatum vobis munere

sacramentorum carpite!” [De Myst. 1, 3]). This play with the  perception of different senses serves 65 Petersen, “Ritual and Texts” (n. 5), pp. 379 –382. 66 Regarding the baptistery, cf. Brandt “Constantinian baptisteries” (n. 51), sp. p. 595. Regarding Christmas on the Vatican, see Susan K. Roll, Toward the Origins of Christmas, Kampen 1995, pp. 107–164; de Blaauw, Cultus (n. 46), p. 504; Michele R. Salzman, On Christian Time: the Codex-Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity, Berkeley, ca 1990, pp. 149 –153; John Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: the Origins, Development and Meaning of Stational Liturgy, Rome 1987, pp. 110, 157–158. 67 Although three of the four fourth-century sources – Jerome’s Altercation of Luciferian with an Orthodox, Mai Fragment, and Letter of Pope Siricius to Himerius of Terragona – mention Roman rituals in the fourth century, they concern post- and pre-­ baptismal customs rather than ritual space. In contrast, the fourth one, Canones ad Gallos, mentions the effect of exorcized oil on the catechumen’s entire body (Johnson, The Ri­ tes [n. 52], pp. 159 –169, sp. pp. 159 –161). For an overview and literature on Traditio apostolica, see Paul F. Bradshaw, Maxwell E. Johnson, L. Edward Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Com­ mentary, Minneapolis, mn 2002, pp. 1–18. 68 Regarding initiation in the Eastern and Western Churches and differences and similarities, see Johnson, The Rites (n. 52), pp. 115–200, cf. sp. the conclusions and charts on pp. 158 –157 and 198 –200; Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church. History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries, Cambridge 2009, pp. 455– 683, regarding Jerusalem and Italy sp. pp. 473–487, 634– 662, and 677– 682. 69 Foletti/Gianandrea, Zona liminare (n. 54), pp. 95– 96. 70 Cyril of Jerusalem, Catéchèses mystagogiques, Pierre Paris, Auguste Piedagnel eds, Paris 1966, transl. in Bradley K. Storin, “Cyril of Jerusalem, Prologue and Mystical Catecheses”,   in The Cambridge Edition of Early Christian Writings, Ellen Muehlberger ed., Cambridge 2017, pp. 217–243. Juliette Day suggested a slightly later dating, the beginning of the fifth century, and supported the authorship of Cyril’s successor John; see Juliette Day, The Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem: Fourth- and Fifth-­Century Evidence from Palestine, Syria and Egypt, Abingdon-­on-Thames 2007. For a thorough analysis of this text, see eadem, “The Catechetical Lectures of Cyril of Jerusalem”,   in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism (n. 48), pp. 1179 –1204. 71 Itinerarium Egeriae, 38.2; Egeria: Diary of a Pilgrimage, George E. Gingras transl., New York 1970, p. 114. Aguntur ibi, quae consuetudinis est etiam et aput nos, et facta oblatione fit missa. Et post facta missa uigiliarum in ecclesia maiore statim cum ymnis uenitur ad Anastase et ibi denuo legitur ille locus euangelii resurrectionis, fit oratio et denuo ibi offeret episcopus; sed totum ad momentum fit prop­ ter populum, ne diutius tardetur, et sic iam dimittetur populus. Ea autem hora fit missa uigiliarum ipsa die, qua hora et aput nos (Éthérie, Hélene Pétré ed., Paris 1948). Cf. also Juliette Day, “Seeing Christ at the Holy Places”,   in Spaces in Late Antiquity – Cul­tu­ral, Theological and Archaeological Perspectives, Juliette Day et al. eds, London / New York 2019 [2016], pp. 69 – 88, sp. pp. 74– 77. 72 Edward Yarnold, Cyril of Jerusalem, London / New York 2000, p. 39; Annabel J. Wharton, “The Baptistery of the Holy Sep­ulcher in Jerusalem and the Politics of Sacred Landscape”,   Homo Byzantinus: Papers in Honor of Alexander Kazhdan (= Dumbarton Oaks Papers), xlvi (1992), pp. 313–325. 73 Both edited by Bernard Botte, Ambroise de Milan. Des Sacra­ ments. Des mystères, Paris 1961. For a more detailed account of these works, see Reidar Aasgaard, “Ambrose and Augustine. Two Bishops on Baptism and Christian Identity”,   in Ablution, Initiation, and Baptism (n. 48), pp. 1253–1282, sp. pp. 1258 –1268.

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Ambrose to prepare the recipient for the next step, proceeding from opening the senses to opening the soul for the initiation: “Do you also consider the eyes of your heart. You saw the things that are corporeal eyes, but the things that are of the sacraments you were not yet able to see with the  eyes of the heart”74. The Apostolic Tradition serves as another source proving the high importance of senses in Christian initiation. The fragments of the text, traditionally attributed to Hippolytus of Rome, date from mid-second to late fourth century and appear in various translations. Therefore, the Tradition represents the form of a ritual that was spreading throughout the Empire75. According to the source, shortly before the baptism itself, “when he (the bishop) has finished exorcising them (the catechumens), he breathes on their face and signs their breast, their forehead, their ears, and their nose”76. In the context of exorcism, the bishop could sign parts of bodies to close and protect them from daemons77. Later in the Apostolic Tradition, its author(s) also worked with the metaphor of heart before Communion, while saying to the newly baptized that Christ’s body “will cause the bitterness of the heart to melt through the sweetness of the word”78. Despite the different and non-Roman provenances of the texts by Cyril and Ambrose, and the problematic dating and location of the Apostolic Tradition, the presentation of senses in the baptismal ritual concurs to such an extent that they can, in our view, also be used as evidence for the Christian conceived space of Saint Peter’s Basilica and its baptistery, although the details of rites and theology differed between distant regions  as well as between Christian communities that were far from unified79. At the same time, the intention of opening the catechumen’s senses and “heart” during the baptism invites thinking in terms of embodied memory when reflecting on the meaning of a baptistery in lived space. We should also take into consideration that the baptism opened the door to another important sen­sual ceremony – regular Eucharist. The initiates could newly receive Christ’s flesh and blood during weekly Mass or feasts, which was more likely the purpose of attending Saint Pe-­ ter’s Basilica, when compared to baptism itself80.

Still, it was the baptismal experience which caused a significant change within an individual, allowing him or her to partake of the Eucharist. Converse­ly, the Eucharist reminded and emphasized the corporeal change, which happened in a baptistery. Therefore, the baptistery could function as a powerful referential point even without the baptism taking place at that very moment. Towards the lived religious space of the Late Ancient Vatican This study aimed to reassess visual and written sources to better understand the lived space on Vatican Hill and how the space was affected by local buildings serving for the performance of initiatory rituals, in a period when (at least) two different cults co-existed on the hill and their shrines stood side by side, before the Vatican utterly converted to Christianity at the end of the fourth century. The major limitations on studying this topic are in the character and proportion of the sources, the greater part of which originated outside Rome and were written from a Christian perspective. Christian authors who lived in Judea, Northern Italy, and Hispania had persuasive intentions, sometimes combined with an aversion to “pagans”. Therefore, even though some texts seem to describe the ritual procedures in quite some detail, their utility for understanding the concrete lived space is very limited due to the bias. The evidence for perceived space in the case of the Phrygianum consists of altars with images and epigraphs which belonged to the sacred grounds of the shrine, and which could be seen and used by visitors and participants in the rituals. The architectonic organization of the space can be reconstructed solely on the basis of comparisons with related shrines elsewhere. This, together with scarce and ambiguous written evidence, is the only approach also for reconstructing the potential baptistery on the Vatican. The nature of images and texts can demonstrate the conceived space of the cult adherents. Poems and reliefs at the Metroac altars are among rare devotee self-representations preserved. The poems emphasize the mystic character of the ritual, at times its purpose (offerings to gods

for  well-­being81), and at times deep devotion to di­vinities and always identify the person who ordered the execution of the sacrifice and altar. They never describe taurobolic rituals or the space of the mysteries. The images concentrate on the objects and tools used during the taurobolia; they thus manifest the significance of pines, musical instruments – and, consequently, music –, and sacrificial animals. Musical and animal offerings are probably depicted as received by gods, in the space where divinities dwell. On the other hand, texts by Prudentius and other Christian authors, describing the savage bloody ritual, illustrate the authors’ mental representation of the mysteries and can be understood as an illustrative example of external conceptions of the ritual environment of a group held by the author in disgrace. For the baptistery, there is no primary visual material, only a few epigrams and a poem. However, Christian theoretical approaches to the baptismal space are documented from various sites in the Roman Empire in relative abundance. The sources consist of mystagogic literature which endowed a meaning to baptismal spaces retrospectively. Let us outline the image of the lived space that emerges from the analyzed sources. The most detailed sources for the taurobolium, associated with the Phrygianum, that we have, Prudentius’ Peristephanon and others, cannot be followed literally given that their historical veracity has been questioned. In terms of Lefebvre’s theory, Prudentius’ account can be a parallel to the conceived space of a Christian with an aversion toward paganism who visited the Vatican and passed by the Phrygianum, observing it from outside and never entering it. Witness given by non-Christian Roman literature – none of it Metroac – does not deal with space or bull sacrifice but focuses rather on the extraordinary appearance of the officials and orgiastic music. Images given by Metroac self-­representation show musical instruments, distinctive flora, and animals offered to and received by gods. The depicted space was conceived as the destination the offerings should reach during the rituals, probably with the well-being of the initiates given in return. It indicates Metroac devotees and other Romans considered these means of communication with

the goddess and god the most important fea­t ures of the rituals related to the altars. It is worth mentioning that the focus of Metroac iconography differs from Christian baptismal imagery, concentrated primarily on water and related topics as the means of purification and salvation82. This could also be one of the reasons for the misunderstanding the Christian authors had regarding the offerings and the fact that they overemphasized the aspects of (diabolic) blood in contrast to baptismal purificatory waters. Regarding the Christian zone of the Vatican, Cyril’s Mystagogic Catechesis and Ambrose’s works about baptism demonstrate the crucial importance of the space, both the ritual place and the human body, and its symbolic function in baptism. Sacredness spreads from the environment and architecture towards the space of the body and the catechumen opens his or her senses to be permeated with Christ in the mystagogic conceived space. Moreover, in mystagogies, the Early Christian theology meets the modern theory of embodied memory in emphasizing the power of words 74 Considera et tu oculos cordis tui. Videbas quae corporalia sunt, corporalibus oculis, sed quae sacramentorum sunt, cordis oculis adhuc videre non poteras. De sacr. 3,12, in Ambrose of Milan, Des Sacraments (n. 73); transl. in Roy J. Deferrari, Saint Ambrose. Theological and Dogmatic Works, Washington, d. c. 1963, p. 294. 75 Bradshaw/Johnson/Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition (n. 67), pp. 1–18. 76 The Apostolic Tradition, 20, 7 (ibidem, pp. 106 –107). 77 Ibidem, p. 111. 78 The Apostolic Tradition, 20, 28 (ibidem, pp. 119 –120). 79 Similarly, the sources have been used in reconstructing and interpreting the functions of space in the Orthodox baptistery in Ravenna by Ivan Foletti,“Saint Ambroise et le Baptistère des Orthodoxes de Ravenne autour du lavement des pieds dans la liturgie baptismale”,   in Fons Vitae, Baptême, Baptistères et rites d’initiation (iie-vie siècle), Ivan Foletti, Serena Romano eds, Rome 2009, pp. 121–155, who offered a different but complementary reading of Ambrose’s homilies. 80 For the Eucharist in the fourth century in general, see Andrew B. McGowan, Ancient Christian Worship. Early Church Prac­ tices in Social, Historical, and Theological Perspective, Grand Rapids, mi 2014, pp. 60 – 62; for local liturgy, see de Blaauw, Cultus, (n. 46), pp. 493–511. 81 Regarding the question of well-being or salvation (σωτήρια) in mysteries, see Birgitte Bøgh, “Beyond Nock: From Adhesion to Conversion in the Mystery Cults”,  History of Religions, liv/3 (2015), pp. 260 –287, sp. pp. 263–266. Cf. Theodora Suk Fong Jim, “‘Salvation’ (Soteria) and Ancient Mystery Cults”,  Archiv für Religionsgeschichte, xviii–xix/1 (2017), pp. 255–282. 82 See, for example, Jensen, Living Water (n. 60). Cf. also the focus on the baptismal iconography at non-baptismal spaces in Jean-Michel Spieser, “Les représentations du Baptême du Christ à l’époque paléochrétienne”,  in Fons Vitae (n. 79), pp. 65– 88.

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and forms in recalling experience from the past. Christian buildings, especially baptisteries, were certainly understood by Christian communities based on baptism and its meaning, given in the post interpretation, that is, by Christians. In other words, Christians, whose ritual experience and its post interpretation tended to incorporate the sacred into individual bodies, were visually reminded of their own initiation when they were heading to Saint Peter’s memorial. The architecture could give a more compelling impression thanks to the baptistery. The monument could also simultaneously alert Prudentius and others to the dangers of the Metroac (and any other polytheistic) shrine standing nearby. However, unfortunately, no “pagan” literary texts about either the space or performances of baptism remain to compare external points of view. As far as can be concluded from the materials, which provide evidence of the perceived space of the Metroac shrine and the baptistery – but more for the former than the latter – and the conceived space of both the taurobolium and baptism – but mostly from the Christian perspective –, one and the same topographical perceived space on the Vatican differed dramatically in the way in which it was conceived and lived in the experience of Christians and followers of Cybele.

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summary Vatikán v době konverze Frygianum a stará bazilika sv. Petra

Článek se zabývá pojetím prostoru pozdně antického Vatikánu během christianizace římské společnosti ve čtvrtém století, kdy byly na místě aktivně využívány dvě významné svatyně, ve kterých se odehrávala mystéria dvou různých kultů. První bylo Frygianum, kde probíhala tauro­bolia, očistné býčí oběti Velké Matce Kybelé a Attidovi. Ve čtvrtém století byla v jeho blízkosti vybudována křesťanská bazilika sv. Petra s přilehlým baptisteriem. Obě stavby byly souběžně využívány do Theodosiova zákazu pohanských obětí. Teoretickými pilíři studie jsou koncepce žitého prostoru (lived space) formulovaná Henrim Lefebvrem a vtělené paměti (embodied memory) dle Émila Durkheima a  Roye Rappaporta. Studie v  takto určeném teoretickém rámci analyzuje dostupné vizuální a literární prameny spojené s prostory taurobolia a křtu a pokouší se vymezit

vnímaný, myšlený a žitý prostor Vatikánu, který navštěvovali rozdílně zasvěcení příslušníci metroacké a křesťanské komunity za účelem uctít frygickou bohyni nebo křesťanského mučedníka. Autorky zkoumají prameny, v nichž se účastníci frygických mystérií a křtu sami k rituálním prostorům vyjadřují (obětní oltáře s nápisy a reliéfy pro kult Kybelé, texty Cyrila z Jeruzaléma, Ambrože z Milána, Apoštolské tradice a Prudentia pro křest a vatikánské baptisterium). Rovněž jsou studovány některé texty psané z vnějšího pohledu (zejm. Prudentiovo Peristephanon x, 1006–1050 k tauroboliu). Článek na základě analýzy vizuálních a literárních pramenů dospívá k závěru, že prostor Vatikánu a jeho svatyní byl vnímán, myšlen a žit několika zásadně rozdílnými způsoby, přičemž významnou roli hrála smyslová zkušenost purifikačních a iniciačních rituálů, jimiž byli jednotliví návštěvníci místa zasvěceni.

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Abstract – Conversion to Jesus as a Healer God. Visual and Textual Evidence – Depictions of Christ as miracle worker and healer were the most common portrayals of Jesus in Early Christian art – significantly more popular than depictions from other New Testament narratives, including scenes from Christ’s passion. Considered together with the texts from scripture and writings of Early Christian teachers, the composition, context, and prevalence of these subjects suggest that these stories were a primary impetus to conversion to the faith of Jesus as the superior healing god and savior. They also signified the expectations of new adherents to Christianity that, through their baptism, they would be spiritually (if not also physically) healed, absolved of their sins, and saved for a future bodily resurrection. Thus, their inclusion on funerary monuments were not simply cues to the identity of Christ as Son of God and the deceased as adherents and members of His flock, but also to the new converts’ hopes for a blessed afterlife. Keywords – Asclepius, baptism, catacomb (painting), catechesis, deliverance, healing, miracles, physician, resurrection, sarcophagus (relief) Robin M. Jensen University of Notre Dame [email protected]

Conversion to Jesus as a Healer God Visual and Textual Evidence Robin M. Jensen

Introduction In the early decades of the third century, Christians began to decorate their tombs with visual depictions of biblical stories. Along with pre-­existing motifs that were adapted from the broader pagan religious context, such as birds, shepherds, praying figures, or convivial meals, certain identifiably Christian subjects began to adorn their burial chambers and the fronts, sides, and lids of stone sarcophagi. Similar subjects also appeared on small personal and domestic objects (e.g., rings, bowls, lamps, glassware, and textiles) and, to the extent we can discern from rare early examples, the interiors of worship spaces1. Initially, the catalog of images these objects displayed was fairly limited. A large proportion of these motifs represented characters from the Old Testament. Among these, Jonah was the most frequent and one of the only stories to be depicted

in sequential episodes, but Adam and Eve, Noah, Moses, Daniel, Abraham and Isaac, Susannah, and the three Hebrew youths in the fiery furnace were also favored. Except for Adam and Eve, these figures were recipients of divine deliverance from danger or death. As such, they could be viewed as signifiers of God’s providen­tial care and would have fortified an owner’s trust that adherence to the Christian faith assured future salvation from death. They were thus well-suited to a sepulchral context. Although initially fewer in number, scenes from the New Testament were gradually added to the repertoire of Early Christian art. With the exception of Jesus’s baptism, most of these motifs show Jesus’s miraculous deeds 1

The Dura Europos House Church is one example, but there were probably others that no longer survived or have not been discovered yet.

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1 / Moses, Noah, Healing of the Paralytic, and Healing of the Hemorrhaging Woman, wall paintings, Catacombs of Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, early to mid-fourth century

such as multiplying loaves, changing water to wine, healing the infirm, and rais­ing the dead2. This essay explores the connections between those images, their composition and context, and the stories of healing found in the New Testament Gospels, the early reception of those stories in Early Christian catechetical literature, sermons, and other textual sources. The overall hypothesis this essay proposes is that pictorial depictions of Jesus as a healer can be connected to the ways early converts to Christianity were first attracted to the faith and the meanings of the rituals that constituted their initiation, subsequently formed their self-identity as members of the community, and ultimately represented their expectations of a final reward in the afterlife. The pictorial evidence

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As just noted, images of Jesus healing and raising the dead were exceptionally popular in Early Christian funerary art (e.g., catacomb paintings and sarcophagus reliefs)3. Even though depic­tions of the Three Magi adoring the Christ child, the Nativity, and Christ’s entry into Jerusalem also began to be added to the repertoire in the early to mid-fourth century, the surviving evidence reveals a significant emphasis on Jesus’s wonderworking acts more than any other aspect of his earthly life or sacrificial death. Representations of – or even allusions to – the Last Supper, or Jesus’s trial, crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension only began to appear in the late fourth and early fifth centuries. Stylistically, these painted or carved images are single figures, included within compositions that typically combine Old Testament and New Testament subjects in seemingly random arrangements. Although the catacomb paintings typically use simple lines to surround individual scenes, sarcophagus friezes can often appear like a somewhat congested assembly of adjoining figures that reference, rather than illustrate, the story from which they are taken. For example, the painting surrounding a door of the Catacomb of Peter and Marcellinus combines distinctly framed images of Moses striking the rock in the wilderness and Noah in his ark, with the healed paralytic

from the Gospel of John and the hemorrhaging woman touching the hem of Jesus’s garment [Fig. 1]. By contrast, a mid-fourth-century sarco­phagus, now in the Vatican Museo Pio Cristiano [Fig. 2], shows a row of closely connected characters. Ap­pearing from left to right there are Abraham offering Isaac, Jesus healing the man born blind by touching his eyes, Jesus healing the paralytic (who carries his bed above his head), Jesus multiplying loaves and fish, Adam and Eve, and Jesus wielding a staff or rod to raise the dead. A small figure of a woman grasping the robe of one of the apostles (probably Peter) could be intended to depict the woman with the hemorrhage. Another sarcophagus [Fig. 3] made for a certain Lucius Valerius Claudius Maximus Claudianus, now in Rome’s Museo Nazionale (Palazzo Massimo), dates to the second quarter of the fourth century. The right end of its front frieze depicts the Apostle Peter in the guise of Moses striking the rock to produce water for the baptism of his Roman jailers and Peter’s arrest by those same soldiers. The rest of the figures are all taken from Gospel narratives: Jesus changing water to wine, Jesus multiplying loaves, Jesus touching the eyes of the man born blind, and Jesus raising Lazarus. In the center a veiled, praying figure perhaps represents the deceased. Jesus places his left hand on the head of another diminutive figure, in this instance a naked male, who reaches toward 2

Two very helpful monographs discussing these images are: David Knipp, ‘Christus Medicus’ in der frühchristlichen Sarko­ phagskulptur, Leiden 1998; and Lee M. Jefferson, Christ the Miracle Worker in Early Christian Art, Minneapolis, ma 2014. 3 On the funerary context in particular, see Himmel – Para­ dies – Schalom. Tod und Jenseits in christlichen und jüdischen Grabinschriften der Antike, Jutta Dresken-Weiland, Andreas Angerstorfer, Andreas Merkt eds, Regensburg 2011. General (major) works on Early Christian catacomb paintings and sarcophagi include those by Fabrizio Bisconti, Le pit­ ture delle catacombe romane. Restauri e interpretazione, Todi 2011; Johannes Deckers, Hans Reinhard Seeliger, Gabriele Mietke, Die Katakombe “Santi Marcellino e Pietro”. Reperto­ rium der Malereien, Vatican City 1987; iidem, Die Katakombe “Commodilla”. Repertorium der Malereien, Vatican City 1994; Norbert Zimmermann, Werkstattgruppen römischer Katakom­ benmalerei, Münster 2002; Guntram Koch, Hellmut Sichtermann, Römische Sarkophage. Handbuch der Archäologie, Munich 1982; Jutta Dresken-­Weiland, Bild, Grab, und Wort. Unter­ suchungen zu Jenseitvorstellungen von Christen des 3. und 4. Jahrhunderts, Regensburg 2010; as well as the volumes of the Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage, sp. vol. i: Rom und Ostia, Friedrich W. Deichmann, Giuseppe Bovini, Hugo Brandenburg eds, Wiesbaden 1967.

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Jesus’s staff as if to grasp it. The left side of the cas- these early monuments from later Christian artket’s lid shows the Nativity, Jesus healing the wom- works, but also points to the significance of these an with the hemorrhage, Abraham’s offering of stories for early Christians from beginning of their Isaac, and Moses receiving the law. In the center conversion and adherence, perhaps even more is the dedication inscription (“To Lucius Valerius than ancient credal propositions that summarize Maximus Claudianus, most perfect man, who the dogmatic articles of faith and were proclaimed lived around 43 years and was buried on the 9th ka- in their baptisms. From the Old Roman Creed, lends of December, in peace”) and on the right are probably dated to the second century, to the Nicene harvest scenes and a bust portrait of the deceased Creed of the fourth century, these professions of in front of a parapetasma (veil) held by two genii4. faith move directly from avowals that Jesus was This compiling of rows of emblematic Old and “born of the Virgin Mary” to “he suffered, died, and New Testament figures is particularly character- was buried”. istic of Christian sarcophagus reliefs, especially Consequently, the dominance of these repeatin comparison with the sculpture on contempo- ed scenes in Early Christian iconography demonrary non-Christian Roman sarcophagi that tend strates that one of the main attractions of Christ’s to show episodes from a single narrative and are ministry was his miraculous power, especially for more skillfully composed and carved5. By contrast healing and raising the dead back to life. Scenes of with their pagan counterparts, the Christian mon- Jesus raising the dead are natural themes for fuuments can appear to modern eyes as often clum- nerary iconography, but the other miracle stories sy and crowded. The aim, it seems, is to include are not so plainly associated with the Christian as many distinct figures as possible (or affordable), promise of salvation or future resurrection. Alrather than to produce a single, continuous, and though they depict Jesus’s deliverance from varelegant narrative scene. ious bodily infirmities or his power to provide With some exceptions, like Jesus’s baptism, abundant food and drink, an equally compelling Nativity, Entrance to Jerusalem, and the Apostle reason for their particular prominence may be Peter’s arrest and striking the rock, scenes of that, in the New Testament narratives, these parJesus’s healing and miracle narratives constitute ticular stories include characters who testify to the early repertoire of Christian art. Although Jesus’s divine identity. Additionally, the biblical some differences exist between catacomb paint- narratives from which they are drawn emphaings and reliefs on sarcophagi, a general survey of size the necessity of personal faith for the healing the surviving artifacts demonstrates that the most and a forgiveness of sins that accompanies the popular of these images were (in rough order): gift of bodily renewal. Some of these episodes Jesus multiplying loaves and fish, Jesus raising even prompt conversion to the new faith. As such, Lazarus from his tomb, Jesus healing the man they were useful scriptural texts for teachers and born blind, Jesus healing the paralytic, and Jesus preachers who prepared candidates for events changing water to wine. Slightly less frequent are such as enrollment and baptism that reinforced depictions of Jesus healing the hemorrhaging identity and membership in the community. Conwoman, Jesus meeting the Samaritan woman at sequently, these figural compositions that refer to the well, and Jesus raising other dead persons these stories would have been particularly meansuch as Jairus’s daughter and the widow’s son. ingful to those new members and evinced their As in the case with the Old Testament scenes, adherence to the faith and its promised rewards. the iconographic catalog is somewhat limited and, Whatever the reasons, the fact that these subjects although no two figures look exactly alike, their dominate the figural repertoire of Early Christian presentations are conventional and easily identified. art indicates that the stories were especially meanMoreover, the evident preference scenes of these ingful to those who had the resources to commisparticular events of Jesus’s ministry over other sion pictorial art for their burial places. episodes from his earthly ministry or his passion, In addition to their numeric frequency, cer­tain res­urrection, and ascension, not only distinguishes aspects of these depictions’ actual iconography

merit attention. In nearly every healing scene, Jesus performs the miracle by touch – the “laying on of hands”. This corresponds to the ways that the Gospels often relate the events (cf. Mark 5, 23; 6, 5; 7, 32; 8, 25; 10, 13; 16, 18; Luke 4, 40; 13, 13; Matt. 9, 18; 19, 13–15). However, in the scenes in which Jesus raises the dead Lazarus or others (e.g., Jairus’s daughter or the widow’s son), he usually wields a staff, which is not mentioned in any of the biblical narratives. The iconography also depicts Jesus using a staff or rod to change water to wine but not when he multiplies loaves and fish. This staff (or virga) is not a magic wand, as some modern observers have contended, but an instrument of power and symbol of authority, akin to Aaron’s staff or Moses’s rod in the Book of Exodus [Fig. 3]6. Yet, in the healing scenes the fact that Jesus imposes his right hand on the recipient, indicates that Jesus’s cures are not delivered by ordinary remedies. When the scripture states that he uses mud or spittle (e.g., to restore the blind man’s sight), it serves to demonstrate that Christ is a physician of a particular type: one whose treatments are super­natural and immediate rather than medicinal and therapeutic. Although some observers must have discerned clear parallels, in this sense Jesus differs from the healing god, Asclepius, whose therapies included incubation in his temple, and assistants to interpret the therapies prompted by the suppliants’ dreams, including certain dietary regimens7. For Early Christian apologists like Justin Martyr, Asclepius was inferior to Christ and his imitator more than his rival8. Nevertheless, Jesus’s si­ mi­larities to other miraculous healers, such as Apollonius of Tyana, could have been part of what attracted converts to the new faith9. While many depictions of Asclepius have survived among Greco-Roman statuary and relief carving, very few actually show him in the actual healing act. Most often he is presented alone or accompanied by a female figure representing Hygieia, the personification of health  [Fig. 4]. When he is shown as in free-­­standing sculpture, Asclepius’s primary iconographic signifier is his serpent-entwined rod. This rod differs, however, from Jesus’s staff insofar as it does not appear to be an instrument for healing, in contrast to the rod

that Jesus uses when he raises the dead or changes water to wine. Moreover, in contrast to depictions of Asclepius, port­rayals of Jesus’s healings and revivals show him as directly engaged with those he treats and usually combined with a number of other miracle stories, which reinforce this supernatural dimension of his earthly ministry. A second distinctive element in the iconography is frequent depiction of recipients of both healing and raising from death as small, often childlike, figures who are, in some cases, also nudes [Figs 2–3]. Like Jesus’s wielding a staff, this detail in the visual imagery is not drawn from the scripture and thus suggests an independent tradition and exegetical purpose. Some scholars have suggested the representation of these figures as diminutive had the practical purpose of squeezing in yet one more character in a crowded composition10. Another possibility is that showing the beneficiaries of healing as inferior in size was intended to distinguish between mortal person and the immortal divine being, as in other Greco-Roman art. Neither of these explanations is tenable if only because these healed figures are the only ones depicted as exceptionally small. Jesus’s followers or other witnesses to these events, for example, are represented as equal to him in stature. More generally, scholars have often argued that healing stories are particularly apt for funerary settings insofar as they depict divine rescue 4 5 6

7

8 9 10

cil vi 41428: l(vcio)*v(alerio)*m(aximo)*claudiano/ v(iro)*p(er­fectissimo)*q(ui)*v(ixit)* p(lus)*m(inus)*annis/ xliii*d(epositus)*viiii*k(alendas)*dec(embres)*in p(ace).

On this distinction, see Robin M. Jensen,“Compiling Narratives: The Rhetorical Strategies of Early Christian Art”, Journal of Early Christian Studies, xxiii (2015), pp. 1–26. For a good discussion of the staff (virga), see Jefferson, Christ the Miracle Worker (n. 2), pp. 151–157. For different points of view, see Thomas Mathews, Clash of Gods, Princeton 1993, pp. 54–59; and Paul C. Finney,“Do You Think God Is a Magi­ cian?”, in Akten des Symposiums “Frühchristliche Sarkophage” (Marburg, 30.6. – 4.7.1999), Karin Kirchhainer, Guntram Koch eds, Mainz 2002, pp. 99 –108. See the parallel as mentioned by Justin Martyr, First Apolo­­ gy, 21–22, 54, 64. See again, Jefferson, Christ the Miracle Worker (n. 2), pp. 58 –59, where he references Clement of Alexandria, Protrepticus, 2.23, 24; Origen, Against Celsus, 3.23–25; Arnobius, Adversus nationes, 1.41; and Athanasius of Alexandria, On the Incarnation 49. Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho, 69.3; idem, Second Apo­ logy, 13. Jefferson, Christ the Miracle Worker (n. 2), on Apollonius of Tyana, pp. 28 –37. Among them Jefferson, Christ the Miracle Worker (n. 2), p. 93.

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from danger, death, or illness11. These attestations of Christ’s salvific power seem reasonable as assurances to mourners that their loved ones will be safe and restored to health and life in the afterlife. In this respect they correspond to depictions of Daniel’s deliverance from the lions’ den, Noah’s from the flood, or Jonah’s from the sea monster. Yet, this function may not be their entire purpose. These demonstrations of Jesus’s power served as argumentative assertions of his divinity to non-believers and confirming proofs to the converted. As such they could have been intended to present Jesus as superior to other wonder-working deities, like Asclepius. While these are plausible explanations, the iconography combined with some details found in the textual sources adduces two additional functions of these pictorial images: 1) that they indicate the agency of the recipient insofar as healing either precedes and requires active faith or confirms it after the fact and, 2) that the healings are not only from physical or mental illness or infirmity but also from spiritual or moral failings; they bring, like baptism, forgiveness of sins, both inherited and personal. In short, in Early Christian visual art, Christ is presented as a savior god who overcomes sickness, mortality, and human sin (rather than the one who died on a cross), while professed personal faith in this god is requisite for this salvific healing and forgiveness. Jesus as a healer in the New Testament The popularity of the healing scenes in Early Christian art is paralleled by the emphasis on Jesus as a miracle-worker in the New Testament itself. The four canonical Gospels undoubtedly present Jesus’s role as healer and wonderworker as a crucial aspect of his earthly ministry. Interestingly, few parallels to this occur in the Old Testament. With a few exceptions, patriarchs, judges, kings, and prophets do not perform these kinds of miracles12. By contrast, episodes recounting Jesus’ ministry of healing physical diseases, curing mental ailments, and reviving the dead account for nearly a fifth of the textual pericopes in the synoptic Gospels. In the Gospel of John, eight passages refer to specific healing miracles,

some of them exceptionally long and which include dramatic dialogue, additional characters, and vividly drawn settings. For example, Mark’s Gospel recounts an almost astounding number of healing scenes in Jesus’s early ministry. As a friend once described Gospel of Mark, it makes it seem that Jesus must have worked at least ten miracles before breakfast each morning. In the first chapter, Jesus cures the sick and casts out demons (1, 32 – 24); heals Peter’s mother-­ in-law (1, 29 – 34), and cleanses a leper (1, 40 – 45). In the second chapter he heals a paralytic (2, 1–12). In the third chapter he heals a man with a withered hand (3, 1 – 6) and an uncounted number of other sick and demon-possessed figures (3, 7 –11), in the fifth chapter he exorcises the demons from their Gerasene victim (5, 2–13), heals the hemorrhaging woman (5, 25–34), and raises Jairus’s daughter (5, 21–24, 35–43); in the sixth chapter he heals another uncounted number of sick (6, 54–56); in the seventh chapter he cures the possessed daughter of a Syrophoenician woman (7, 25 –30), and the deaf mute (7, 31–34); the blind man at Bethsaida (8, 22–25); and blind Bartimaeus (10, 46 – 52). Of these, only the healing of the deaf mute and the blind man are not included in Matthew and Luke. Apart from these two exceptions, Mark’s healing stories are thus repeated in the two other synoptic Gospels. Matthew reports the healing of two blind men (9, 27–31) and Luke tells of Jesus’s healing a man with dropsy (14, 1–6) and ten lepers (17, 11–19), but except for some minor differences, the rest of the stories are more or less like those in Mark. In addition to Jesus’s transforming water to wine at Cana (John 2, 1–12), John’s Gospel has four unique healing miracles: the healing of the official’s son (4, 46–53), the paralytic at the pool of Bethesda (5, 2–9), the blind man (9, 1–7), and the raising of Lazarus (11, 1–45). The prevalence of stories from the Gospel of John is especially evident in catacomb and sarcophagus reliefs, which tend 11 For example, see Norbert Zimmerman, “The Healing Christ in Early Christian Funeral Art. The Example of the Frescoes at Domitilla catacomb/Rome”, in Miracles Revisited. New Testament Miracle Stories and Their Concept of Reality, Stefan Alkier, Annette Weissenrieder eds, Berlin 2013, pp. 251–274. 12 Exceptions: Abimelech, Naaman, Elijah healing the widow’s son and reviving the son of the Shulamite woman.

2 / Christian sarcophagus with Old Testament scenes and Jesus’s miracles, early to mid-fourth century / Museo Pio Cristiano, Vatican Museums (Vatican City) 3 / Christian sarcophagus of Marcus Claudianus with scenes from the Old and New Testament, 330–335 / Palazzo Massimo alle Terme, Museo Nazionale Romano (Rome) 4 / Marble relief of Asclepius and Hygieia nurturing giant snakes, second quarter of the 2nd century / Musée du Louvre (Paris)

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to feature the healing of the blind man, Jesus’s conversing with the Samaritan woman, the paralytic carrying his bed, and, most of all the healing of Lazarus. Along with the multiplication of loaves and fish and the transformation of water to wine at Cana, these Johannine narratives are featured more than almost any other miracle stories13. The Gospel healing stories are not precisely about miraculous physical cures so much as about recognition of who Jesus is and the moral transformation of the recipients. For example, the petitioners and even – or perhaps especially – demons proclaim Jesus’s identity and acknowledge his divine power. For example, in Mark’s account of Jesus casting out evil spirits, Jesus orders them not to identify him and not even to speak, because they know who he is (Mark 1, 32–34; 3, 12). In Luke’s telling of the story, Jesus rebukes them when they actually shout, “You are the Son of God” (Luke 4, 41). In the account of Jesus’s exorcism of the possessed Gerasene man, the demon even asks Jesus for a favor. He accosts Jesus, loudly asking what Jesus wants with him and pleading Jesus not to torment him. When Jesus orders him to come out of his victim, he begs Jesus to send them (now plural) into a herd of swine rather than out of the country (Mark 5, 1–20). The hemorrhaging woman seeks Jesus out, certain that if she simply touches the hem of Jesus’s garment, she will be healed and the leper declares that Jesus has the power to cleanse him, if he should choose to. Those who are healed went about spreading the word, causing crowds to rush to Jesus not only for healing of their infirmities and diseases but also to hear his message (Mark 3, 9–10; 6, 54–56; Luke 5, 15). Even though Jesus orders them to tell no one, the more they broadcast the news (cf. Mark 7, 36). John’s Gospel reports that a throng starts to follow Jesus wherever he goes, because they see how he helps the sick (John 6, 2). Jesus’s wonderworking and miraculous cures often confirm the recipients’ faith and sometimes bring it about. For example, Jesus informs the hemorrhaging woman that her faith is the source of her cure and tells her to go in peace (Mark 5, 25–34; Matt. 9, 20–22; Luke 8, 43–48). He makes a similar statement to the two blind men in Matthew’s Gospel (Matt. 9, 27–30) and to the paralytic’s friends

in all three of the synoptic Gospels (Mark 2, 3–12; Matt. 9, 2–8; and Luke 5, 7–32). Jesus’s reviving the official’s son in the Gospel of John (John 5, 46–54) includes Jesus’s statement, “[u]nless you see signs and wonders you will not believe”, which implies that the man’s belief was prompted by the miracle. When the father returns home to find his son fever-free he realizes that it was at that very point of that exchange, that his son was cured. So, he not only came to belief after the fact, but brought along the rest of his household. The paralytic in John’s Gospel is cured not by the angelic stirring of the water but rather by his trusting response to Jesus’s command to pick up his mat and walk (John 5, 8–9). In John’s version of the healing of the blind man, Jesus explains that this healing is specifically so that God’s work might be revealed (John 9, 3). As the man returns with his sight, those who knew him before are dubious and the Pharisees grill him, insisting that his healing could not be from God, but as the story ends, Jesus comes to the man asking if he believes he is the Son of Man and the former blind man declares “Lord, I believe” (John 9, 24–38). Although the story of Jesus’s encounter with the Samaritan woman (another uniquely Johannine pericope) is not precisely a healing story, it likewise prompts the correspondent’s declared faith and her evangelistic broadcast. Even more dramatically, in the story of the raising of Lazarus, Jesus tells his disciples that Lazarus’s sickness will not end in death because it happened so that the Son of God could be glorified. Then, once he arrives at Lazarus’s tomb, Jesus’s identity is confirmed by Lazarus’s sister, Martha, who not only declares that she knows that Jesus could have kept her brother from dying, but that she believes Jesus to be the Messiah, the Son of God (John 11, 21–24). Jesus not only calls the dead Lazarus to life but also revives or rescues other characters in the Gospel from death or near death. These include Jairus’s daughter, the centurion’s servant, Peter’s mother-in-law, the widow’s son, and the official’s son. In the story of Jesus raising Jairus’s daughter, astonished family members and ordinary bystanders go out to testify to what they have seen (cf. Mark 5, 21–2; 35–43 and parallels).

In the story of the widow’s son, spectators are filled with awe, praise God, and spread the news that a great prophet has arrived, and that God has shown favor to the people (Luke 11, 11–17). In the case of the official’s son, the entire household is converted (John 4, 46–53). The petitioner’s expressed faith in Jesus not only allows the healing to work and to act as a means of converting others, but it also brings penitence, absolution, and moral reformation. Jesus often pronounces that the cured person’s sins are forgiven or admonishes them to cease sinning. For example, Jesus tells the paralytic in the synoptic Gospels that his sins are forgiven. When questioned by the scribes about whether this was blasphemous, Jesus asks which is easier to say, “your sins are for­­given” or “rise, take up your pallet and walk” (Mark 2, 9). In the story of Jesus’s healing the disabled man in the Gospel of John, he simply orders him not to sin any longer (John 5, 14). Sin, however, is not the cause of someone’s illness or disability. Jesus makes this clear in his discourse on the blind man’s condition in the Gospel of John (John 9, 3). Thus, in the New Testament, Jesus’s acts of miraculous healing reveal who he is, emphasize the efficacy of the beneficiaries’ faith, serve as vehicles for the evangelization, and grant absolution for sins. Faith, not forgiveness of sin, is necessary for healing. In other words, both healing and absolution are outcomes of professed faith. Believers’ confession, conversion, and forgiveness are the prevailing conditions for healing, whether that healing is physical, mental, or spiritual.

echoes this theme to rebut those who claimed that Christ’s miracles were produced by magic. Rather without benefits of instruments, rituals, or medical procedures, Christ cures solely by his own power and authority. This, he contends, was done so that unbelievers would realize that he was a true and not a false god15. In his treatise On the Incarnation, Arnobius’s younger contemporary, Athanasius of Alexandria, mentions Jesus’s exorcism of demons, healing diseases, cleansing lepers, curing the lame, restoring hearing to the deaf, and making the blind to see as evidence of the fact that he possesses the power of God. Athanasius adds that Jesus came to do these things so that humans who failed to perceive the Godhead in the created world would recognize him in those acts and through those acts come to knowledge of the Father. For Athanasius, the Divine Word became incarnate not primarily in order that he might redeem the sin of Adam, but that he might show humanity who he was and for them to come to faith: “Invisible in himself, he is known from the works of creation; so also, when his Godhead is veiled in human nature, his bodily acts still declare him to be not man only, but the Power and Word of God. To speak authoritatively to evil spirits, for instance and to drive them out, is not human but divine; and who could see him curing all the diseases to which humankind is prone, and still deem him as mere man and not alco God? He also cleansed lepers, he made the lame to walk, he opened the ears of the deaf and the eyes of the blind. There is no sickness or weakness that he did not drive away Even the most casual observer could see that these are the acts of God”16.

Jesus as healer in Early Christian literature The popularity and function of these Gospel stories of Jesus’s wonders and healing miracles in Early Christian art has a parallel in many Early Christian apologetic, catechetical, and dogmatic texts, insofar as these stories are given as testimonies to Jesus’s divine identity and power. One of the earliest stories comes from Origen of Alexandria, who refers to Jesus as the “heavenly physician” who cures and cleanses by the sacraments – medicines for the soul – rather than by herbal remedies or potions14. Arnobius of Sicca, writing at the beginning of the fourth century,

In his commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, John Chrysostom explains that the healing of the centurion’s servant not only testified to Jesus’s power 13 See Robin M. Jensen, “The Gospel of John in Early Christian Art”, in The Edinburgh Companion to the Bible and the Arts, Stephen Prickett ed., Edinburgh 2014, pp. 131–48. 14 Origen, Homilies on Leviticus, 8.1; also Commentary on Matthew, 13.3–5, where Origen also compares the infirmities to sicknesses of the soul and gives figurative interpretations of the stories of healing as overcoming spiritual suffering. 15 Arnobius, Adversus nationes, 1.46 –50. 16 Athanasius of Alexandria, On the Incarnation, 18. Translation from St. Athanasius on the Incarnation. The Treatise De Incarnatione Verbi Dei, Religious of c.s.m.v. ed. and transl., Crestwood 2008, p. 47 (sc, 199: 330 –33).

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but also to the centurion’s faith. Addressing his readers, Chrysostom inspires them to recognize how instantly Jesus also cleansed the leper and, in doing so, displayed his potency as well as his intention to draw people to recognize who he is and draw them to him and into his kingdom. He adds that even the demons who fear Jesus were profited in that they were attracted to him, even as he cast them out17. Ambrose of Milan’s treatise Concerning Wid­ows refers to Christ as a physician who heals not by medi­cines or the usual therapeutic methods but by words and touch. Ambrose urges sinners to implore Christ the physician then, by stretching out their hands and letting him heal the secrets of their hearts. Quoting scripture, he assures them that they will be healed swiftly because as soon as Jesus gives his command, the paralytic will walk, the dumb will speak, deaf will hear, and the blind will see (cf. Matt. 11, 5; Luke 7, 22). Christ commands the fever to leave and the demons to depart. And so, he tells his audience to entreat the Lord, show him your faith, and fear no delay18. Ambrose goes on, reiterating Athanasius’s theme, that Jesus’s great deeds brought those who saw them to faith but adds that their retelling also convinces those who were not there to be alive or present at the time. Ambrose’s point is applicable to those who not only read or hear about Jesus’s miracles but also those who see them illustrated in Early Christian artworks. Therefore, healing miracles as depicted in art are parallel to those told, read, or heard in words. The viewers see these stories and believe. Their belief is curative, not only of sickness or infirmity, since it also grants forgiveness of sin. For Ambrose faith itself is curative, a powerful remedy that could even wipe away the wound of original sin19. In his catechetical lectures, Ambrose takes a slightly different approach: that sacrament of baptism is a type of healing. The inclusion of these stories in sermons delivered to catechumens preparing for the initiatory rites of the Church or to the newly baptized underscore the links between conversion (coming to belief), physical healing, and forgiveness of sin. Ambrose particularly identifies the healing of the paralytic in the Gospel

of John for this purpose, obviously because the pool of Bethesda could serve as a figure of the baptismal font. At the beginning of the third century, in his treatise on baptism, Tertullian had already compared the bodily healing of the paralytic with the spiritual healing of baptism20. Ambrose expands on this typology in ser­mons to both catechumens and neophytes. In a homily to those about to be baptized, he explains that the angel who stirred up the Bethesda pool’s waters foreshadowed Jesus, but once Jesus had come the angel was no longer needed. Jesus himself chose to heal this single individual in order to reveal this to the multitude21. In one of his post-­ baptismal lessons, Ambrose again refers to the paralytic’s miraculous cure and he points out that Jesus, not angelically troubled water, was the source of the healing. According to him, the angel’s sign was meant for those who did not believe, but those who receive baptism have faith sufficient for their healing. Moreover, he continues, in the Gospel story only one was healed, while in baptism all are made whole22. In another of his catechetical lectures, Ambrose connects the story of Jesus’s healing the man born blind with baptismal gift of spiritual enlightenment. Commenting on Jesus’s application of mud and spittle on the man’s eyes and commanding him to wash in the pool of Siloam (John 9, 6–7), Ambrose comments that, in baptism, Jesus spreads the symbolic mud of reverence, prudence, and self-awareness, and that the command to go and wash means to go to the font, where sins are absolved and eyes are figuratively opened to perceive the light of the sacraments23. Ambrose was not alone among fourth-century theologians to make connections between Jesus’s healings and the rite of baptism. For example, Gregory of Nazianzus’s Oration on Holy Baptism clearly associates these stories with conversion and baptism. He also emphasizes the fact that baptismal healing overcomes sin, by specifically identifying the woman with the hemorrhage, the paralytic by the pool of Bethesda, and revived Lazarus as figures of the catechumens, before and after their own healing miracle, by which he means the remission of sin and not of bodily infirmities:

“Yesterday you were a Canaanite soul and bent by sin. Today you have been made straight again by the Word. Do not bend again and incline toward the earth, as if under a yoke, weighed down by the evil one and have a lowness hard to recall to things above. Yesterday you were dried up by the vigor of a hemorrhage, for you were pouring out scarlet sin; today your vigor is renewed as you are stanched, for you touched Christ’s hem and the flow stopped. Guard for me the purification, lest you hemorrhage again and are not strong enough to grasp Christ, that you might steal salvation […] Yesterday you were thrown unto a bed, slackened and weakened, and you had no human being to throw you into the pool when the water was agitated. Today you have found a human being, the same one who is also God, or rather the God-human. You got up from your pallet, or rather picked up your pallet and recorded his good deed on a monument. Do not again be thrown onto a pallet by sinning in the evil rest of a body slackened by pleasures, but walk as you are, remembering the commandment: ‘Behold, you have become well; sin no more, lest something worse happen to you’ when you show yourself as evil after this beneficence”24.

Possibly the most concentrated discussion of Christ as a physician of the soul comes from the early fifth-century works of Augustine of Hippo25. In one of his sermons on the Gospel of John, Augustine, like Ambrose, interprets the story of Jesus’s healing the blind man as alluding to the forgiveness of sins that is inaugurated when a catechumen is enrolled for baptism and is completed through the steps of the ritual until the moment when the Holy Spirit is given to the neophyte in the imposition of hands by the bishop26. In another sermon, preached around 410 on the texts of the rich man and Lazarus, Augustine makes a vivid reference to a specific therapy practiced to staunch infection and compares it with God’s remedy for sin: “My brothers and sisters, he is the doctor, and he knows about cutting off a decaying part to stop the decay spreading from it to other places. ‘One finger’, he says, is amputated because it is better for one finger to be shorn off smooth than for the whole body to rot. If a human doctor does this by his medical skill, if the art of medicine can remove one part of the body to same them all from decay, why should God not cut out whatever he knows to be rotten in people, so that they may attain to salvation”27.

Augustine was not, however, particularly fond of miracles as tools for evangelizing the unconverted. He regarded the New Testament stories of Jesus’s healing as aimed at simpler minds living in former times. In his treatise On True Religion, he argued that miracles should not be necessary for the inculcation of true faith, but acknowledges that this was perhaps the only way that the first followers of Jesus could have been moved from temporal and earthly matters to eternal and spiritual ones28. Similarly, in his treatise on the Advantage of Believing, he says that miracles are presented to the eyes of the foolish who are more likely to pay attention to them than to using their capacity for reason29. Yet, in this latter treatise he also allowed that Jesus’s healings were useful for attracting non-believers to the faith and for fostering love of God in those who witnessed the events: “This is what happened in those days when, as requir­ed, God showed himself to the human race as a real human being. The sick were cured; lepers were cleansed; the lame were made to walk; sight was restored to the blind, and hearing to the deaf. The people of those times saw water changed into wine, five thousand people fed to fullness with five loaves, the seas crossed on foot, the dead restored to life. Some of these things were more obviously for the good of the body, some were in more hidden fashion signs for the mind, but all were evidence to us of greatness. In this way, 17 John Chrysostom, Homilies on Matthew, 8.5. 18 Ambrose of Milan, Concerning Widows, 10.60 – 64 (pl, 16, 266). 19 Idem, Commentary on the Gospel According to Luke, 2.11.92. 20 Tertullian, On Baptism, 5. Cyprian also talks about this story as an instance of sickbed baptism (clinical): Epistle 69.13.1. 21 Ambrose of Milan, On the Sacraments, 2.3–5. 22 Idem, On the Mysteries, 4.21–24. See also, On Elijah and Fasting, 20.75. 23 Idem, On the Sacraments, 3.14–15. 24 Gregory Nazianzus, Oration 40.33. Translation from Festal Orations. Saint Gregory of Nazianzus, Verna Harrison ed. and transl., Crestwood 2008, p. 128 (sc, 358: 234). The text here goes on to include the raising of Lazarus as an instance of Christ loosing the bonds of sin and admonishes readers that one cannot know whether one can or cannot rise from the tomb at the final resurrection or the final judgement. 25 See here Rudolph Arbesmann, “The Concept of ‘Christus Medicus’ in Saint Augustine”, Traditio, x (1954), pp. 1–28. 26 Augustine of Hippo, Tractates on the Gospel of John, 44.1–2. 27 Idem, Sermon 113a.13. Translation from Saint Augustine, Sermons 94a–150, (The Works of Saint Augustine for the 21st Century; vol. iii/4), Edmund Hill ed. and transl., Hyde Park 1992, p. 181 (Sermon Denis 24, ma 1:141–155, at 154/3). 28 Augustine of Hippo, Ver. rel. 25.47. 29 Idem, De utilitate credenda, 15.33, 16.34.

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5 / Christian sarcophagus with Raising Lazarus and Apostle Peter, 4th century / Museo Pio Cristiano, Vatican Museums (Vatican City) 6 / Baptism scene (detail) from the Lungotevere sarcophagus, late 3rd century / Terme di Diocleziano, Museo Nazionale Romano (Rome)

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the divine authority turned the straying souls of mortal men and women of those times toward itself”30.

Augustine continues, then, to address the question of why miracles no longer happen and explains that they would not have a salutary effect, unless they caused wonder, and if they became regular events, that would not happen. Such things, he points out, occur at the times when they can most effectively convert many doubters into believers. Visual depictions of healing Turning from the literary evidence back to the pictorial repertoire of healing not only underscores the signal importance of these narrative episodes for early Christians but reveals the contexts in which these stories would have been particularly meaningful. As the Johannine story of Jesus’s healing the blind man indicates, the relationship between sin and sickness was assumed in a culture that regarded physical ailments as caused by personal or inherited sinfulness. The writings just discussed also indicate that, by the same token, bodily cures were often an outcome of spiritual cleansing. Thus, reception of Christian initiation in baptism was regarded as a ritual not only of purification that washed away sin (original as well as individual), but might also bring physical healing. Hence, the prevalence of these healing miracles, particularly of the blind man and the paralytic, in Early Christian art may be explained by their links to the status of deceased as a baptized Christian free from the taint of original sin, but also their confidence in Jesus as savior who could overcome corporeal infirmities. Notably, however, the figures of those healed are usually also relatively small and even childlike. As noted above, these visual representations usually show the one healed or revived from death as physically diminutive; sometimes they even depict them as nude, as in images of Lazarus’s raising in which a small naked child appears also in the scene [Fig. 5]. In this respect, the recipients of Jesus’s miraculous cures look similar to the portrayals of Jesus at his baptism by John [Fig. 6]. This presentation of Jesus as a small, nude figure is striking, because it visually contradicts scripture’s

representation of Jesus as a thirty-year old adult when he is baptized (cf. Luke 3, 23). This nearly consistent portrayal of Jesus most likely explained by a perception that baptism constitutes a type of rebirth, in which the baptizand, immersed in the font nude, is restored to the innocence of childhood or perhaps evokes the pre-­fallen status of Adam and Eve, who are unaware of their naked­ ness31. Origen of Alexandria had already made this link by the early third century, when he describes converts to Christianity as little children32. While Jesus himself corrects the literal-­minded Nicodemus’s objection that the idea of rebirth might mean re-entering the human mother’s womb (cf. John 3, 4–5), he uses the terminology of being “born from above”, a phrase that is plausibly symbo­lized by representing the newly baptized (even Jesus himself) as a childlike figure. In fact, addressing these newly baptized Christians as “neophytes” makes the same point. In one of his post-baptismal sermons, Augustine even refers to the place (the chancel) where these neophytes were to stand during the week following their baptism, as their “cradle” (cunabulum)33. Showing Jesus as a small child at baptism then is a figurative way of showing his baptism is a model for theirs, in the sense that they emerge from the font like newborn babies out of the womb. The reasons for showing the blind man or paralytic as small, although rarely nude, are less straightforward. Jesus addresses the paralytic in the Gospels of Matthew and Mark as “child” or “son” (Matt. 9, 2; Mark 2, 5), but this is not paralleled in other healing stories. Apart from the daughter of Jairus, none of the others who are healed are addressed or described as children. Yet, imaging the links between healing, rebirth, and baptism would be particularly apt for funerary art. Visually signifying the restoration or revivification of the body along with the soul then requires some visual cues and the depiction of the one healed as a small, childlike figure would serve that purpose. Their size indicates their status as renewed and, in this sense, they are like newborn Christians, just out the font rather than freshly out of their mother’s womb. Further, Jesus’s gesture of placing his right hand upon the head of the one being healed very likely would recall the gesture of the imposition

of the hand of the bishop on the neophyte, newly emerged from the baptismal font. The combination of these scenes with Old Testament images of God’s deliverance from danger or death, like Noah’s escape from the flood, Jonah’s from the belly of the sea monster, or Daniel’s rescue from devouring lions, only confirms the sense that the iconography primarily delivered a message that this god can provide salvation from bodily suffering and absolution from accumulated and original sin, and even from death itself, as long as one believed in him and was admitted to the community through the ritual of baptism. Scholars have long noted that certain Old Testament figures served as typologies for baptism, including the images of Noah in his ark, Jonah cast into and out of the sea creature’s mouth, the Israelites’ passage through the Red Sea, and Moses striking the rock in the wilderness34. The healing scenes are not so obviously intelligible as baptismal, but their appropriation in catechetical sermons clearly indicates their function as such. Therefore, visual depictions of Christ as a miracle-­worker and healer were the most frequently produced representations of Jesus in Early Christian art in large part because they identified this savior god as exceptionally powerful and superior to all other deities. In scripture, demons recognize him instantly and call him out as Son of God. Crowds come to believe in him because they witness his power to cure their bodily infirmities and raise the dead. The New Testament is filled with stories of those who identified Jesus by seeing his miracles. However, those who lived centuries after Jesus’s earthly life and so could not be eyewitnesses to these things were still able to see them represented in pictures. 30 Augustine of Hippo, De utilitate credenda, 16.34. Translation from On Christian Belief, (The Works of Saint Augustine, a  Translation for the 21st Century; vol.  i/8), Michael Fiedrowicz, Boniface Ramsey eds and transl., Hyde Park 2005, p. 145 (csel, 25: 43.26 – 44.7). 31 On nudity at baptism and its many possible meanings, see Robin M. Jensen, Living Water. Images, Symbols, and Settings of Early Christian Baptism, Leiden 2011, pp. 158 –167. Also see eadem, Baptismal Imagery in Early Christianity, Grand Rapids 2012, pp. 158 – 160. 32 Origen, Commentary on Matthew 13.16. 33 Augustine of Hippo, Serm. Dolb. 27.7 (360 c); ibidem, 353.1. 34 See Martine Dulaey, L’initiation chrétienne et la Bible, Paris 2007; and Jensen, Baptismal Imagery (n. 31) with more bibliography.

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Given the emphasis on the healing miracles in art, it seems conclusive that stories of Jesus’s ministry were at the heart of what brought initially prompted conversion to this new religion, as much or perhaps even more than accounts of Christ’s incarnation and sacrificial death. Adherents to the new religion would then continue to find these stories especially meaningful and choose to include them on their funeral monuments as projection of their identity and testimony to their expectations of a blessed afterlife that was promised by their ritual initiation and their continued member­ship in the community of the saved. Because early statements of faith, especially those delivered to those about to be baptized, also professed belief in Jesus’s divine nature, his virginal birth, crucifixion, resurrection, ascension, and enthronement as the judge of the living and the dead, these were undeniably crucial components of Christian dogma. Nevertheless, the evidence from Early Christian iconography reifies the significance of the miracle stories for the third- and fourth-century converts to the faith and visually symbolizes their continued self-­understanding as recipients of spiritual healing and their expectation for bodily renewal in the final resurrection.

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summary Obrácení k Ježíši jako bohu-léčiteli Vizuální a textové doklady

V repertoáru raně křesťanského umění převažují zobrazení Ježíše jako vykonavatele zázraků a léčitele. Reprezentace Ježíše při konání zázraků, kříšení mrtvých a léčení tělesných neduhů četností výrazně převyšují vyobrazení jeho narození, učení, odsouzení, ukřižování, zmrtvýchvstání či nanebevstoupení. Obliba těchto narativních vyobrazení oproti těm spjatým s dogmaty lze mimo jiné vysvětlit tím, že novozákonní vyprávění, na nichž je ikonografie založena, byla zásadní pro konverzi nových členů křesťanských komunit, kteří byli zpočátku přitahováni osobností Ježíše jako význačného boha-léčitele a zachránce. Tyto příběhy nejenže identifikovaly Ježíše jako Božího Syna s božskou mocí, ale byly rovněž začleněny do katechetických kázání. Ta připravovala konvertity na křesťanské iniciační obřady, které kladly důraz na paralelu mezi léčením fyzických nemocí a postižení a duchovním uzdravením, jenž nabízel křest. Kázání zahrnující tyto příběhy rovněž potvrzovala odpuštění hříchů konvertity prostřednictvím vyznání nové víry a nabízela ujištění o věčné nebeské odměně pro ty, kteří uvěřili. Článek v první části rozebírá náměty, kompozice a kontext uvedených obrazů v raně křesťanském umění. Detaily pak zkoumá na několika konkrétních příkladech. Kromě četnosti výjevů

tematizujících Ježíšovy zázraky se text věnuje i některým zvláštním prvkům těchto zobrazení, jako jsou nepoměrně zmenšené postavy příjemců Ježíšových zázračných uzdravení nebo Ježíšova hůl, nástroj k provádění některých zázraků jako množení chleba, proměna vody ve víno a vzkříšení mrtvých. Autorka článku se dále zabývá biblickými zdroji zmíněných zobrazení a způsoby, jakými tyto novozákonní příběhy vyzdvihují identitu Ježíše jako Božího Syna. Zamýšlí se rovněž nad otázkou, jak zdůrazňované narativy mohly rezonovat u prvních křesťanských konvertitů jako příklady vysvobození z tělesných a duchovních neduhů, odpuštění minulých hříchů a přísliby požehnaného posmrtného života. V další části textu autorka shrnuje, jak právě raně křesťanští exegeté, kazatelé a katechetičtí učitelé tato vyprávění interpretovali jako důkaz Ježíšovy božské autority a moci i jako povzbuzení a ujištění o darech, tělesných i duchovních, které víra v Krista nabízí. Esej autorka uzavírá krátkým návratem k ikonografii a nabízí vysvětlení nebiblických prvků v reprezentacích Ježíšových zázraků. Dochází k závěru, že ikonografie zázraků uzdravení opětovně dokazuje, jaký význam měly novozákonní příběhy o zázracích pro konvertity třetího a čtvrtého století.

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Abstract – Purifying Body and Soul. Late Antique Combs, Their Use and Visual Culture – Late Antique combs covered with Christian imagery represent extremely challenging but uninvestigated objects. Decorated with representations of Christ’s miracles (e.g., The Multiplication of the Loaves and Fishes, The Wedding at Cana, The Healing of the Bleeding Woman, etc.), they present some of the essential visual patterns for the Christian identity of their time. Although focusing on tools of daily use may seem odd, this article attempts to understand whether these seemingly mundane objects had a spiritual, possibly ritual, purpose. Following a reflection on the potential role of combs in Late Roman society, the article introduces Christian combs with Christian imagery. A review of the combs’ likely ritual uses based on the few primary sources surviving sheds light on the function of a several examples. Finally, analysis of the images adorning the selected combs as well as of monumental decoration leads to the plausible conclusion that these combs had an initiatory function. Keywords – baptism, Early Christian combs, funerary context, grave goods, ivories, Late Antiquity, minor arts, purification, ritual, women in the Early Church Gajane Achverdjanová & Ivan Foletti Masaryk University [email protected] [email protected]

Purifying Body and Soul Late Antique Combs, Their Use and Visual Culture* Gajane Achverdjanová & Ivan Foletti

Introduction In April 2017, within the area of the “three-apsidal church” on the northern side of the Late Antique Basilica of Mirine (Omišalj, Krk island, Croatia), a group of archaeologists discovered a decorated ivory comb [Figs 1a–b]1. Using radiocarbon analysis, the object was dated to between 321 and 412 ce. Its exact provenance is, for now, unknown2. How­ ever, based on formal analysis, and especially considering the proportions of the represented figures, it is comparable to a group of ivories produced in the early fifth century in Rome. The dating of this group was established through the two ivory diptychs of Probianus (400) [Fig. 2] and Flavius Felix (consul in 428), as well as a series of

objects such as the Maskell Casket in the British Museum, the  Dip­t ych of the Lampadii in Brescia,  *

The impulse for our shared investigation on Late Antique ivory combs was given by Dr. Philippe Cordez (Deutsches Forum für Kunstgeschichte, Paris) who is presently directing the project “The Ivory Combs (5th–13th Centuries)” of Deutsches Forum für Kunstgeschichte in Paris. Dr. Cordez invited us to participate in the project. This article should thus be seen as a preparatory step of this project. We would also like to remind another preliminary research published in this journal as well, see n. 3. 1 Morana Čaušević-Bully, Sebastien Bully, “Le peigne paléo­ chrétien de Mirine (Omišalj, Île de Krk)”,   in aspice hunc opus mirum. Zbornik povodom sedamdesetog rodendana Nikole Jakšića, Ivan Josipović, Miljenko Jurković eds, Zadar/Zagreb/ Motovun 2020, pp. 89 –103. 2 Ibidem, pp. 100 –102, sp. p. 100.

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1 a/ Multiplication of the Loaves and Wedding at Cana, a decorated comb from Mirine (side a), ivory, 13.3 (initially 15) × 4.9 cm, ca 321–420 ce / Arheološki muzej u Zagrebu (Zagreb)

1 b/ Women at the Tomb and Jesus Healing the Bleeding Woman, a decorated comb from Mirine (side b), ivory, 13.3 (initially 15) × 4.9 cm, ca 321–420 ce / Arheološki muzej u Zagrebu (Zagreb)

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and the Munich Ascension. All of these are dated to the first half of the fifth century3. Despite significant differences in quality, they use a similar visual style, especially when considering the figures’ stubby bodies and big round heads, as well as the voluminous draperies tightly adhering to the bodies. The entire group of objects above must be linked to a Roman context. What is even more interesting is the unusual iconographic composition on this comb: it shows four narrative scenes representing different miracles of Christ. On the one side, we see Multiplication of the Loaves and Wedding at Cana, and on the other, Jesus Healing the Bleeding Woman and Women at the Tomb4. It may seem unusual to see such a selection of images on a comb, an object plausibly conceived for a daily use. The central question of this paper, therefore, is whether or not we can – along with other purposes – determine a possible ritual function for such an object. We would also like to understand, whether this is a unique instance of such a use, or it reflects a more widespread practice. Lastly, we would like

to expand our inquiry to the role of precious combs within Late Antique society in general. Our paper is divided into three parts: following an initial reflection on the plausible use of combs within Late Roman society, we provide a corpus of combs with a similar conceptual framework. Second, we offer an overview of possible ritual uses of combs by referencing the very few relevant textual sources belonging to Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, which shed light on these practices. Finally, based on an analysis of images on selected combs and the monumental decoration of the time, we suggest a possible functional framework for these objects.

3

4

For this entire group and its dating, the reference remains Wolfgang F. Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten der Spätantike und des frühen Mittelalters, Mainz am Rhein 1976, nos. 2, 54, 62, 110, 116 –117; pp. 30, 50 –51, 54-55, 78 –  79, 82– 83. See also Philippe Cordez, “Golgotha im Kopf. Karl der Kahle und die karolingischen Elfenbeinkämme”, in Objects Beyond the Senses. Studies in Honor of Herbert L. Kessler, Philippe Cordez, Ivan Foletti eds, Brno/Turnhout 2021 (= Convivium, viii/1 [2021]), pp. 102–131. Čaušević-Bully/Bully, “Le peigne” (n. 1), pp. 95– 99, sp. p. 96.

2/ Diptych of Rufius Probianus, ivory, ca 400 ce / Staatsbibliothek  (Berlin)

Combs and the Late Roman world

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As far as we know, there are no clear written sources about combs or combing involved in ritual in the Late Roman period. In 79 bce, Pliny the Elder named a flower the pecten Veneris – Venus’ Comb – a name still used today for this species5. In doing so, he was of course referring to the shape of the plant, but also indicating the widespread association between combs and the beauty and role of a woman, a topos echoed in several ancient authors6. This association could be positive or negative: for instance, in Tertullian’s De cultu feminarum, the author links hair care with malice and self-­ affection7. Looking at the evidence in visual culture, we find that combs are often depicted to represent female hygiene on objects8. A very clear case is a third-century tomb from the Roman Rhineland, where a patrician woman is depicted, as she has her hair combed by a servant [Fig. 3]9. A funerary stela in Çömlekçi, in Asia Minor, depicts bust of Auxese, the wife of a certain Botrys [Fig. 4]10. Under her portrait, there is a closed doorway to the underworld decorated with symbols of female beauty: mirrors, oil flasks, a spindle, and a comb. This stela is just one instance of the widespread imagery of female identity during the Late Antique period. Lastly, we have a sculpture found in the region of Mysia, in Anatolia, dated to the early third century and representing Venus [Fig. 5]. The goddess is shown half-naked, holding a mirror and a comb in her hands. Here, we have a classic, stereotypical image of gender: all women should take care of their beauty and hair, like Venus11. This interpretation is upheld by the opposite side of the above-mentioned third-century tomb from the Roman Rhineland. The woman’s husband is depicted reading – the gender contrast is evident. This brief overview can be completed by the wellknown Projecta Casket dated to the second half of the fourth century12. Here, Venus is depicted much like she is on the sculpture of Mysia – with a mirror and, this time instead of a comb, a hairpin [Fig. 6a]. Notably, the casket’s imagery prominently features scenes from Projecta’s wedding, as well as a series of scenes around its main body which might reveal function of such objects as combs, and notably their use in a bathing context [Fig. 6b]13.

In sum, combs in the Late Roman period are often associated with representations of femininity, linked to the goddess of beauty Venus, and, more concretely, to daily hygiene and bathing habits. Bathhouse culture was meant for both genders, who could enter and physically clean their bodies14. What is striking in depictions of women’s daily hygiene here is how the action of combing is represented. In visual culture, women are always depicted with their hair being combed by another woman, most frequently a servant15.

3/ “Toilet scene”, the left side of the “Elternpaarpfeiler”, Neumagen, sandstone, ca 220 ce / Landesmuseum (Trier) 4/ A funerary monument of a woman, marble, Çömlekçi, probably 2nd–3rd century ce 5 / Half-naked Aphrodite holding a comb and a mirror, clay, 50 × 18.5 × 7 cm, ca 200–225 ce / Musée du Louvre (Paris)

Unsurprisingly, this stereotypical view of gender is more complex than it first appears and rooted in modern historiographical misconceptions. If we take further Late Antique evidence into account, a different perspective emerges16. “Veneris pectinem appellant a similitudine pectinum, cuius radix cum malva tusa omnia corpori infixa extrahit”,   Pliny the Elder, Naturalis historia, 24, 175, lla 399, vol. iv, p. 112, l. 5. 6 Considering other ancient authors speaking about hair care and its diverse meanings, see Seneca, On the Shortness of Life, Richard Mott Gummere transl., Scotts Valley, ca 2017; Tertullian, On the Apparel of Women, Daniel J. Clausen ed., Scotts Valley, ca 2012. 7 Tertullian, De cultu feminarum (cpl, 0011), 1, 4, l. 8; 1, 7, l. 3. 8 On other objects of female hygiene, see Bridget Sandhoff, “Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Reflections on Etruscan Bronze Mirrors”,   in More than Mere Playthings: The Minor Arts of Italy, Julia C. Fischer ed., Cambridge 2018, pp. 9 –39; Stefanie Martin-Kilcher, “Begleitetes Bad und assistierte Toilette der Herrin: Argentum balneare in der Spätantike”,    Antiquité Tardive, xxxvi (2018), pp. 255–276; Alexandra A. Carpino,“Reflections from the Tomb: Mirrors as Grave Goods in Late Classical and Hellenistic Tarquinia”,   Etruscan Studies. Journal of the Etruscan Foundation, xi (2008), pp. 1–33. 9 Martin-Kilcher, “Begleitetes Bad und assistierte Toilette” (n. 8), pp. 259 –261, sp. p. 261. 10 Ton Derks, Wouter Vos, “Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort at Vechten: The Bodily Appearance of Soldiers”,   Journal of Archaeology in the Low Countries, ii/2 (2010), pp. 61– 62. 11 See Jaś Elsner, “A Roman Vessel for Cosmetics: Form, Decoration, and Subjectivity in the Muse Casket”,   in Vessels. The Object as Container, Claudia Brittenham ed., Oxford 2019, pp. 50 – 81, sp. pp. 71– 73, 77. 12 See Jaś Elsner, “Visualising Women in Late Antique Rome: The Projecta Casket”,   in Through a Glass Brightly: Studies in Byzantine and Medieval Art and Archaeology Presented to David Buckton, Chris Entwistle ed., London 2004, pp. 22–34. 13 Elsner, “A Roman Vessel for Cosmetics” (n. 11), sp. pp. 51–56. 14 Michal Zytka, A Cultural History of Bathing in Late Antiquity and Early Byzantium, London 2019, sp. pp. 44–57. 15 See Martin-Kilcher, “Begleitetes Bad und assistierte Toilette” (n. 8), sp. p. 256; Julia Saviello, “Purgat et ornat. Die zwei Seiten des Kamms”,   in Dinge im Kontext: Artefakt, Handhabungsästhetik zwischen Mittelalter und Gegenwart, Thomas Pöpper ed., Berlin / Boston, ma 2015, pp. 133–145. 16 Derks/Vos, “Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort at Vechten” (n. 10), pp. 60 – 65. 5

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In the underground space of the Roman catacombs, of combs increased, as  boxwood growth was three aniconic combs have been discovered in rather slow22. From the preserved material eviconnection with tombs of both genders. Further- dence it seems that these combs were decorated more, they all bear names, with one of them men- exclusively with aniconic patterns. In contrast to tioning a man named Annius Eusebus [Fig. 7]17. wooden and bone combs with no figures, the sixThis suggests that, if we consider monumental teen ivory combs investigated by us – made of and patrician patronage alone, combs seem to be the most precious material of those mentioned feminine objects. However, in the socially mixed – feature figural representations23. Most of them situation reflected in the Christian catacombs, the use Roman visual language: from a depiction of evidence suggests this is not true. Combs belong, at Venus to personifications of cities – possibly borleast in certain situations, to both spheres – male as rowing their iconography directly from consulwell as female, and to different socio-economic lev- ar diptychs – and a depiction of the winner of a els, as is also largely accepted by scholars today18. poetry competition24. Considering the depiction of Venus, decoration and function seem to enter in Biblical depictions on combs direct dialogue, since her figure is linked with female hygiene, bathing, and beautification. For the There are hundreds of combs dated between the other two mentioned examples of iconographies, fourth and sixth centuries found throughout various functions are plausible: the Louvre comb the historical territories of the Roman Empire. with the woman winning a poetry competition Their materials are as varied as their contexts 17 Fernand Cabrol, Henri Leclercq, “Peigne”, in idem, Dictionof discovery: wood, bone, horn, antler, metal, naire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie xiii, vol. ii, Paris and, last but not least, ivory19. Wooden combs 1938, pp. 2933–2950, sp. p. 2933. Later, for another article considering combs, also in the context of catacombs, see were certainly once the most common, but due Jeanne Villeneuve, “Pecten eburneum: du démêloir profane to the perishable nature of the material, they are aux peignes liturgiques médiévaux”,   in L’œuvre en multiple, Jean Cuisenier ed., Paris 1992, pp. 171–188, sp. pp. 173, 184. also the worst preserved. Many of them were For more about combs considered in the funerary context, decorated almost exclusively with aniconic orsee Howard Williams, “Material Culture as Memory. Combs naments20. Technical analysis of wooden combs and Cremation in Early Medieval Britain”,   Early Medieval Europe, xii (2003), pp. 89 –128. has also revealed pigment residues, suggesting 18 See e.g. Derks/Vos,“Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort at polychromy in some cases21. Then we have artiVechten”(n. 10); Kristina Ambrosiani, Viking Age Combs, Comb Making and Comb Makers in the Light of Finds from Birka and facts made of bone, horn, and antler, which can Ribe, Stockholm 1981; Zsófia Masek,“The Transformation of be taken as variations of ivory. These materials Late Antique Comb Types on the Frontier of the Roman and Germanic World”,   Antaeus, xxxiv (2016), pp. 105–173. came to be favored when the production and use

19 A coherent corpus of all discovered combs from Late Antiquity has never been published. For information about combs made of different materials, see the following recommended bibliography: Paola Pugsley, “Of Timotei and Boxwood Combs”,   Lucerna. Roman Finds Group Newsletter, xxi (2001), pp. 3, 6, 9 –10; Derks/Vos, “Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort at Vechten” (n. 10); Zsófia Masek, “The Transformation of Late Antique Comb Types” (n. 18); Raouf Habib, The Development of the Ivory & Bone Industry During the Coptic Era, Mahabba 2019. 20 See Derks/Vos, “Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort at Vechten” (n. 10); Ricardo L. Palma, “Ancient Head Lice on a Wooden Comb from Antinöe, Egypt”,   The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, lxxvii (1991), p. 194; Georges Michaïlidѐs, “Collection de peignes et autres objets de toilette coptes”,   in Coptic Studies in Honor of W. E. Crum, Walter E. Crum ed., Boston, ma 1950 (= The Bulletin of the Byzantine Institute, ii [1950]), pp. 485–495. 21 Cabrol/Leclercq, “Peigne” (n. 17), pp. 2933–2950. 22 Pugsley, “Of Timotei and Boxwood Combs” (n. 19), p. 3; Gladys R. Davidson, Corinth xii: The Minor Objects, Athens 1952, pp. 179 –180, sp. p. 179. 23 Ten ivory combs from the fourth to the seventh or eighth centuries were published in a repertory by Volbach, Elfen­­bein­­arbei­ten (n. 3), nos. 88 – 88c, 202–206; pp. 67– 68, 121–124. The most recent bibliography on the five combs which contain Christian imagery is – Vatican comb with lambs: Jörg Meiner, “Die Hochzeit zu Kana und der Hauptmann von Kafarnaum”, Antike Welt, v/27 (1996), pp. 387–396, sp. pp. 393–394; Claudia Nauerth, “Bemerkungen zu koptischen Kämmen”, in Studien zur Spät­­antiken und Frühchristlichen Kunst und Kultur des Orients, Guntram Koch ed., Wiesbaden 1982, pp. 1–13; Louvre comb with Daniel: Meiner, “Die Hochzeit zu Kana” (see above), sp. pp. 391–392; Brescia comb with angels: ibidem, sp. p. 396; Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten (n. 3), no. 88; p. 67; Griesheim comb with the Healing of the Centurion’s Servant: Monica Bosinski, “Ein merowingerzeitlicher Elfenbeinkamm aus Griesheim, Kreis Darmstadt-­Dieburg”, Denkmalpflege in Hessen, ii (1990), pp. 13–15; Meiner, “Die Hochzeit zu Kana” (see above), sp. pp. 387–388; Cairo comb with Lazarus: Ángel Galán y Galindo, “Estudio sobre un fragmento de peine islámico”, Tudmir. Revista del Museo de Santa Clara de Murcia, ii (2011), pp. 29 –59, sp. p. 34; Mirine comb with Jesus Healing the Bleeding Woman: Čaušević-Bully/Bully, “Le peigne” (n. 1).

6a/ Venus in toilet, Projecta Casket (upper lid), gilded silver, 28.6 × 33.2 (56) × 23.4 (48.8) cm, ca 380 ce / The British Museum (London) 6b / Women’s procession, Projecta Casket (body), gilded silver, 28.6 × 33.2 (56) × 23.4 (48.8) cm, ca 380 ce / The British Museum (London) 7 / One of the combs found in catacombs (inscrip. “Annius Eusebus”), ivory, ca 11.5 × 5.8 cm, ca 4th century ce

24 On the question of combs in direct connection with consular diptychs, see Anthony Cutler, “‘Roma’ and ‘Constantinopolis’ in Vienna”,   in Byzanz und der Westen: Studien zur Kunst des europäischen Mittelalters, Irmgard Hutter ed., Vienna 1984, pp. 43– 64 (= Anthony Cutler, Late Antique and Byzantine Ivory Carving [Variorum Collected Studies Series], Aldershot / Brookfield, vt / Singapore / Sydney 1998, pp. 43– 64). For more details on the comb with Helladia (poetry contest) from Louvre, see MarieHélène Rutschowscaya, “Le peigne d’Helladia”,   Études coptes, vii (1999), pp. 235–244.

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8 / The comb with two angles, ivory, 9.6 × 4 cm, first half of the 5th century ce / Musei Civici (Brescia) 9/ Murano Diptych, ivory, ca 500 ce / Museo Nazionale (Ravenna) 10 / The apse of the Basilica San Vitale, mosaic, Ravenna, ca 547 ce

may have served as an award or a reminder of the victory, while the Benaki Museum one depicting Rome and Constantinople may have had a more “representative” function, especially given its size. More interesting for our purposes are the five remaining combs depicting Christian narratives. Two possible typologies for “Christian combs” emerge: first, we have compositions such as the one on the comb from the Musei Civici of Brescia, where two angels are represented on both sides of the object, symmetrically holding a laurel crown [Fig. 8]. We can associate this scene with the Christian sphere because the composition follows a pattern featured on many other objects and monuments. Consider, for instance, several fourth­-century sarcophagi, the lid of a fifth-­century silver reliquary possibly from Constantinople, a Murano’s fivepart diptych dated around the year 500 [Fig. 9], and the mosaics of San Vitale in Ravenna  [Fig. 10]25. A  similar symmetrical composition can also be found on a comb in the Vatican City, where  two lambs flank a crown  [Fig. 11a]26. Interestingly, two lambs are depicted on the reverse side as well, this time around an empty throne, possibly with a crown [Fig. 11b]. This image of the empty throne flanked by lambs, which will be discussed later, overtly belongs to Christian rhetoric. The second typology can be found on the three remaining combs, which bear images of the miracles of Christ, like the Mirine [Figs 1a–b] and Griesheim combs [Figs 12a–b], or episodes taken from the Old Testament, such as a fragmentary depiction of Daniel in the Lions’ Den on the comb in the Musée du Louvre [Fig. 13]27. Of Christ’s miracles, the Wedding at Cana is represented on two combs in the group. All examples show miracles linked with healing or scenes considered by the Church fathers to be a prefiguration of the Eucharist. This naturally leads us back to the question of what function these combs had, since such religiously significant scenes are difficult to imagine on objects of daily use. Ivory, furthermore, is certainly a material of luxury28. We can also briefly recall Tertullian’s De cultu feminarum and mention his remark about the importance of combs and their purpose: “[…] God who produced such grand implements of gold for confining or parting

the hair […]”29. In this text, Tertullian is persuaded that God must have been certainly thinking about a higher purpose intended for combs, if he had allowed the creation of such “tools”. The question then is, what kind of exceptional functions these objects could have served within the context of the Early Christian Church? Combing as an act of purification Unfortunately, there is very little textual evidence on the function of combs in the Late Antique Christian world, and even less on their function linked with the liturgical practices. The only exam­ ple known to us which could offer a potential link between combing and baptism is a late-fourth-­ century source written by Optatus of Milevi (died 397 ce) who referred to the three sacraments or mysteries of initiation30. Optatus described the moment of baptismal anointing as follows: “The heaven is open. When God anoints him the spiritual oil at once comes down under the form of dove and sits [or to part the hair] upon his head and pours over him; the oil is spread asunder; whence he began to be called Christ, for he was anointed by God the Father […]”31. 25 “Cat. no. 88, Truhen-Sk.”,   in Johannes G. Deckers, Guntram Koch, Repertorium der christlich-antiken Sarkophage, vol.  v: Konstantinopel, Kleinasien – Thracia, Syria – Palaestina – Arabia, Wiesbaden 2018, pp. 61– 62; Marco Aimone, “Cat. no. 76, Lid of a reliquary”,   in idem, Byzantine and Sasanian Silver, Enamels and Works of Art, London 2020, pp. 270 –271; Tereza Mácková, Slonovinový diptych z Murana, ba thesis, (Masaryk University, supervisor: Ivan Foletti), Brno 2018. 26 Considering the comb with lambs from Museo Sacro in Vatican, see Marco A. Boldetti, Osservazioni sopra i cimiteri de’ santi martiri, ed antichi cristiani di Roma, vol. ii, Rome 1720, p. 502; Michaïlidѐs, “Collection de peignes et autres objets de toilette coptes” (n. 20), sp. p. 490; Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten (n. 3), no. 202, p. 122; Peter Lasko, Studies on Metalwork, Ivories and Stone, London 1994, pp. 11, 15; Nauerth, “Bemerkungen zu koptischen Kämmen” (n. 23), p. 7; Franz Swoboda, Die liturgischen Kämme, Munich 1963, no. 1, pp. 42–43; Peter Lasco, “The Comb of St. Cuthbert”,   in The Relics of Saint Cuthbert: Studies by Various Authors, Christopher F. Battiscombe ed., Oxford 1956, pp. 336 –355, sp. p. 350. 27 For more on the comb from Griesheim, see Bosinski, “Ein merowingerzeitlicher Elfenbeinkamm aus Griesheim” (n. 23), pp. 13–15; Meiner, “Die Hochzeit zu Kana” (n. 23); Bernd Päffgen, Sebastian Ristow, “Zur frühmittelalterlichen Elfen­ beinkunst”,   in Die Franken – Wegbereiter Europas: Vor 1500 Jahren: König Chlodwig und seine Erben, catalogue of the exhibition (Mannheim, Reiss-Museum, 8 September 1996 – 6 January 1997), Mainz 1996, pp. 650 – 652, sp. pp. 650 – 651, figs 519 –520; Holger Göldner, Volker Hilberg, Griesheim, Kreis Darmstadt-Dieburg, Gräberfeld des 6. bis 8. Jahrhunderts:

Ausgrabungen in dem merowinger- bis karolingerzeitlichen Rei­hen­ gräberfriedhof „An der Rückgasse“, Wiesbaden 2000. For more on the comb from Paris, see Hans Graeven, Antike Schnitzereien: Aus Elfenbein und Knochen in photographischer Nachbildung, ser.  i, Hannover 1903; Josef Strzygowski, “Der algerische Danielkamm”,   Oriens Christianus, i (1911), pp. 83– 87, sp. p. 86, tab. 1, fig. 3; Cabrol/Leclercq, “Peigne” (n. 17), pp. 2934–2935; Volbach, Elfenbein­arbeiten (n. 3), no. 203, p. 122; Richard Delbrueck, Probleme der Lipsanothek von Brescia, Bonn 1952, p. 5; Franz Swoboda, Die liturgischen Kämme (n. 26), pp. 45–47, no. 3; Nauerth, “Bemerkungen zu koptischen Kämmen” (n. 23), pp. 1–13; Meiner, “Die Hochzeit zu Kana” (n. 23). 28 Arthur MacGregor, Bone, Antler, Ivory and Horn. The Technology of Skeletal Materials since the Roman Period, London 1985; Cutler, Late Antique and Byzantine Ivory (n. 24). 29 “[...] deus et auri + tanta opera produxit, complectendis et distin­ guendis lapillis scrupulosa [...]”,   Tertullian, De cultu feminarum (cpl, 0011), 2, 10, l. 1. 30 Contra Parmenianum Donatistam (cpl, 0244): searchable on Brepols’ e-source websites (Library of Latin Texts). Optatus’ text was also cited by Leonel L. Mitchell, Baptismal Anointing, Notre Dame 1966, p. 82. 31 “Apertum est caelum Deo patre ungente. Spiritale oleum statim in imagine columbae descendit et insedit capiti eius et perfudit eum. Et oleum digestum est, unde coepit dici Christus, quando unctus est a Deo patre”, Optatus of Milevis, Contra Parmenianum Donatistam (cpl, 0244), 4, 7, 3, 20. Digestum (translated as “asunder”) comes from Latin digestio, a past-participle stem of digerere (“to separate, divide, arrange”; ethymologically dis-, “appart” and gerere, “to carry” - “to carry apart”).

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1 1a/ Wreath between two lambs, the comb with lambs (side b), ivory, 11 × 7.4 cm, first half of the 5th century ce / Biblioteca Apostolica, Museo sacro (Vatican City) 1 1b/ Throne between two lambs, the comb with lambs (side a), ivory, 11 × 7.4 cm, first half of the 5th century ce / Biblioteca Apostolica, Museo sacro (Vatican City) 12a/ The Centurion’s Son (?), the comb with Christ’s miracles (side b), ivory, 10.8 × 7.4 cm, the turn of the 5th and 6th century ce / Landesamt für Denkmalpflege Hessen Griesheim (Kreis Darmstadt-Dieburg) 1 2b/ The Wedding at Cana, the comb with Christ’s miracles (side a), ivory, 10.8 × 7.4 cm, the turn of the 5th and 6th century ce / Landesamt für Denkmalpflege Hessen Griesheim (Kreis Darmstadt-Dieburg)

While clarifying the course of action of baptism, he precisely mentions a division: et insedit capiti eius et perfudit eum. Et oleum digestum est. The essential part of this passage – at least for this text – is Et oleum digestum est, which could be also translated as “to divide in two”. In other words, recalling also Tertullian’s explanation of the pivotal task of combs, to part the hair. It is thus tempting to make a connection here between the baptismal anointing, pos­sibly followed by a combing in order to divide the hair and to evenly distribute the oil. Despite its ambiguous meaning, such an idea could provide a possible direction for the liturgical use of combs. It could also be traced in a passage of Apponius’ Commentary on the Song of Songs (In Canticum canticorum expositio), written between the fifth and the sixth century32. In the sixth book of this text, Apponius discusses the verse “Your hair is as a flock of goats, that descend from Mount Gilead” (Song 6, 1). As he provides a metaphorical over­view of the Church body, describing its corporal features one by one, he states:

32 Apponius, In Canticum canticorum expositio (cpl, 0194). 33 “In oculis, ut dictum est, duces rectores que populi christiani, id est sacerdotes, intelleguntur; in capillis uero religiosorum diuitum persona monstratur qui, delicatis tegminibus contecti, auro gemmis que resplendent, fragrantissimis pulueribus aromatum asperguntur; delibuti unguento, seruulorum ministerio pectinati, rectae fidei suae et misericordiae operibus decorati, totum Ecclesiae corpus exornant”,   ibidem, 6, l. 32. 34 Ibidem, entire book 6. In this part, Apponius speaks about all kinds of followers of Christ and divides them into groups associated – in a poetic sense – to the parts of human body, including eyes, teeth, and hair. According to their characteristics, the groups relate to different parts of the body, representing particular parts of the Church. Their purpose is different, but their importance is the same.

1 3/ Daniel in the Lion’s Den (side a), the comb with Daniel, ivory, 7 × 4 cm, 420–425 ce / Musée du Louvre (Paris)

“The eyes, as stated above, shall be understood as the guides and tutors of the Christians, i.e., the priests. But the hair represents the wealthy devotees of religion, who – covered with delicate cloths, glittering with gold and precious stones, sprinkled with fragrant powders made from aromatic spices, imbued with ointment, combed by slave-servants, and decorated with tokens of true faith and mercy – adorn the whole body of the Church”33.

While adorning their bodies and being combed by slave-servants, rich Christians still form a part of the body of the Church. Of course, Apponius makes a moral judgment of such behavior, but these sentences still reveal something important to us. Apponius’ text describes the various steps an individual performs to “take care” of the body. How­ ever, as it is a part of an ecclesiological reflection, this text should be understood metaphorically: care corresponds to an act of purification of the entire body of the Church34. We believe that in Christian language this should be considered more than a mere description of luxurious care for the body. Sources which are more specifically considering the use of combs as a part of pre-liturgical rituals are unfortunately much later. However, they foreshadow what would become, as the sources

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seem to indicate, a common practice at least from the twelfth century on: the combing of the hair and beard of priests and bishops35. The evidence concer­ ning the later ritual use of combs are far from the period under investigation and they are discussed in other texts36. If we come back to Apponius, the text is indeed highly metaphorical and fea­tures no explicit link with a tangible ritual. However, it is important to remind that the same order of acts was mentioned by both Optatus, whose text considered the baptismal rite, and Apponius, who did not speak about the baptism but spoke, even if only metaphorically, about a bodily care (combing and anointing) as an image of spiritual care. Therefore, despite little evidence, the combs’ practical use and metaphorical significance as the tools of purification from sin may point toward their belonging to the sphere of the rituals. The ques­tion is, if such an understanding is valid for the period under investigation. We would like to reason that this is likely: from the ninth century on, we do not see any other reason for mentioning such a practical issue without a liturgical and metaphorical purpose behind it.

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This does not, however, entirely help us solve the problem for the Late Antique period. On this, another famous passage should be considered. In his eighth-century Historia ecclesiastica, Bede  the  Venerable (672/3–735) mentions the send­ing of gifts from Pope Boniface v (619–625) to Æthelburh (?–647), the queen-consort of Northumbria. In the pope’s letter to the queen quoted by Bede, two main gifts are mentioned: a silver mirror (speculum argenteum) and a gilded ivory comb (pectine eboreum inauratum)37. On the surface, such a gift confirms the gender stereotypes mentioned above. The story is, however, more complex: both objects are presented as gifts from St Peter to the queen and are thus linked to the spiritual dimension38. More interestingly, the pope’s letter is mentioned as a part of the larger story of the country’s conversion, since Æthelburh is supposed to have played a key role in the conversion of her husband Edwin39. In this context, two apparently random, female-focused objects seem to be a material blessing and, more importantly, a part of the cultural evidence of the conversion – or spiritual

purification from “paganism” – of Northumbria40. Thus, in Bede’s text, we might see a reflection of a moment when combs were not understood only as objects of bodily care, but as tools deeply permeated with a spiritual meaning. Purifying body and soul: Late Antique Christian initiation It is almost impossible to find a clear-cut discus­­­­­sion of the function of Late Antique Christian combs in literary sources. However, combining evidence from the realms of material and visual culture, we can identify several hints of possible uses. We can start by considering places, besides the home, where combs could have been used in the Late Antique world. Based on archaeological data, we can find combs in Roman public baths and in funerary contexts41. In the first case, the evidence suggests a logical, practical use42. The se­c­ond case, female graves, seems to confirm the above-­ mentioned gender stereotypes. More important to this article are the links between bathing practices and spaces where Christian initiatory rituals were performed. One of the most important practical, and potentially conceptual, intersections between these spheres can be found in Roman baths, which possibly provided both infra­structure and models for baptisteries43. On the one hand, this can be explained by hydraulic systems: baptisteries needed running and warm water. It is therefore not surprising that many Late Antique baptisteries were constructed over previous bath installations44. On a metaphorical level, the process of cleaning oneself in the baths may be seen as a sort of prefiguration of baptismal practice. Paul wrote: “But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God” (i Cor. 6, 11). This connection between metaphorical and practical aspects has an additional significance. As well attested by sources, catechumens did not visit the baths throughout their pre-baptismal fast – more than forty days45. The metaphorical cleansing of sin in the waters of baptism was thus preceded, probably only a few hours before, by a real cleansing of foul-smelling bodies; as such, spiritual meaning and physical reality were closely connected.

The funerary question is more complex: it seems that combs, objects of personal use, were traditi­onally included in tombs to accompany the deceased into the afterlife46. Yet, again starting with a reference to Pauline theology, Late Antique literary and homiletic culture saw the baptismal experience as the re-enactment of Christ’s death and resurrection (Rom. 6, 4–5). The relationship between combs and the funerary context – while still being traditional funerary equipment – could also find, to a certain extent, significance in initiatory spaces. This hypothesis is enticing, if we take the above-mentioned practice of placing combs in catacombs into consideration: there, in an ontologi­cally Christian space, combs are associated with the space of dead, where names of deceased Christians on them form a link between personal identity, death, and combs47. In Christian belief, however, death is unimaginable without the idea of resurrection. This duality, furthermore, follows in the footsteps of the above-mentioned text by Paul, connecting the presence of combs in sepulchral zones to the transformation at the core of the baptismal experience. It is not surprising that monumental Christian funerary spaces – such as mausolea and martyria – often share a similar decorative scheme with baptisteries. Take, for instance, the decoration of the mausoleum of Sant’Aquilino in Milan (around 400), or the socalled Mausoleum of Galla Placidia in Ravenna (421–450), possibly a mar­t yrium of St Lawrence48. 35 For more examples of contemporary testimonies and notes on the use of combs within sacral spaces or the ownership of combs and their belonging to church treasuries, see Charles Rohault de Fleury, La messe. Études archéologiques sur ses monuments, vol. viii, Paris 1889, pp. 167–174. There may be a letter from Pope Hadrian to Charlemagne about the combs of Saints Hubert and Lambert, or the well-known comb of St Lupus. Durand of Mende, Rationale Divinorum Officiorum, 4.3, Anselme Davril, Timothy M. Thibodeau eds, cccm/140 (1995), pp. 259 –262. 36 For a broader context, see Henry J. Feasey, “The Use of the Comb in Church Ceremonies”,   The Antiquary, xxxii (1896), pp. 312–316. The prayer which accompanied the removal of “superfluous thought” reads as follows: “Intus exteriusque caput nostrum totum que corpus et mentem meam, tuus, Domine, purget et mundet Spiritus almus”. Cited by Alexandre M.-A. Bretagne, “Quelques recherches sur les peignes liturgiques”,   Mémories de la Société archéologique de Lorraine ii/2, (1861), pp. 158 –180. Considering the question of spiritual purification in a broader sense, see Villeneuve, “Pecten eburneum” (n. 17); or Saviello, “Purgat et ornat. Die zwei Seiten des Kamms” (n. 15); Charles T. Little, “The Road to Glory: New Early Images of Thomas Becket’s Life”,   in Reading Medieval Images: The Art

Historian and the Object, Elizabeth Sears, Thelma K. Thomas eds, Ann Arbor, mi 2002, pp. 201–210, sp. pp. 206 –207. Cordez, “Golgotha im Kopf” (n. 3), sp. pp. 120 –121. 37 “His ergo praemissis, paternae uobis dilectionis exhibentes officia hortamur, ut nos reperta portitoris occasione de his, quae per uos superna potentia mirabiliter in conuersatione coniugis uestri summissae que uobis gentis dignatus fuerit operari, prosperis quantocius nuntiis releuetis, quatinus sollicitudo nostra, quae de uestri uestrorum que omnium animae salute optabilia desideranter exspectat, uobis nuntiantibus releuetur, illustrationem que diuinae propitiationis in uobis diffusam opulentius agnoscentes, hilari confessione largitori omnium bonorum Deo et beato Petro apostolorum principi uberes merito gratias exsoluamus. Praeterea benedictionem protectoris uestri beati Petri apostolorum principis uobis direximus, id est speculum argenteum et pectine eboreum inauratum, quod petimus ut eo benignitatis animo gloria uestra suscipiat, quo a nobis noscitur destinatum”,   Bede the Venerable, Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (cpl, 1375), 489, 2, 11, vol. vi, p. 350, l. 1. 38 On combs as objects given to rulers, see Jo Stoner, The Cultural Lives of Domestic Objects in Late Antiquity, Leiden 2018, sp. pp. 57, 68 – 70, 81, 116, 122; Cabrol/Leclercq, “Peigne” (n. 17). 39 Bede the Venerable, Historia ecclesiastica (n. 37). 40 For more on the conversion of Northumbria, see, for instance, Stephen D. Church, “Paganism in Conversion-Age Anglo-­ Saxon England: The Evidence of Bede’s ‘Ecclesiastical History’ Reconsidered”,   History, xciii/2 (April 2008), pp. 162–180. 41 See Zytka, A Cultural History of Bathing (n. 14); Williams, “Material Culture as Memory” (n. 17); Christina T. Tineke Rooijakkers, “The Luscious Locks of Lust: Hair and the Construction of Gender in Egypt from Clement to the Fāţimids”,   Al-Masāq, xxx/1 (2018), pp. 26 –55; Horst W. Böhme, Germanische Grabfunde des 4. bis 5. Jahrhunderts zwischen unterer Elbe und Loire. Studien zur Chronologie und Bevölkerungsgeschichte, Munich 1974; Giles Clarke, Pre-Roman and Roman Winchester, vol. ii, Oxford 1979, pp. 183–188, 198 –199, 246 –248. 42 Martin-Kilcher,“Begleitetes Bad und assistierte Toilette”(n. 8); Zytka, A Cultural History of Bathing (n. 14). 43 Robin M. Jensen, Living Water. Images, Symbols, and Settings of Early Christian Baptism, Leiden / Boston, ma 2011, pp. 234–237. 44 Jesper B. Kullberg, “When Bath Became Church: Spatial Fusion in Late Antique Constantinople and Beyond”,   in Fountains and Water Culture in Byzantium, Brooke Shilling, Paul Stephenson eds, Cambridge 2016, pp. 145–162; Marina Falla Castelfranchi, “L’edificio battesimale: architettura, ritualità, sistemi idraulici”,   in L’acqua nei secoli altomedievali (Spoleto, 12–17 aprile 2007), Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo ed., vol. ii, Spoleto 2008, pp. 1173–1236. 45 See e.g. William Harmless, Augustine and the Catechumenate, Collegeville, mn 1995, pp. 251–252, who records the relevant sources including Augustine, Epistle 54, 10. 46 See e.g. Williams,“Material Culture as Memory”(n. 17); Mária T. Bíró, Alice M. Choyke, Vass Lóránt et al., Bone Objects in Aquincum, Budapest 2012, pp. 19 –22. 47 Boldetti, Osservazioni sopra i cimiteri (n. 26), pp. 502–503. The same connection has been mentioned in many other encyclopedias, the most recent one: The Grove Encyclopedia of Medieval Art & Architecture, vol. ii, Colum P. Hourihane ed., Oxford 2021, pp. 183–184. 48 For Sant’Aquilino, see the most recent contribution of Ivan Foletti, “Il trionfo della figura: Sant’Aquilino, San Vittore in Ciel d’oro a Milano e la retorica cristiana del v secolo”,   in Medioevo, natura e figura, Carlo A. Quintavalle ed., Milan 2015, pp. 129 –137, with previous literature. For Galla Placidia, see e.g. Patrick Kremser, “Galla Placidia und der heilige Laurentius: zur Funktion des sog. Mausoleums der Gallia Placidia in Ravenna”,   in Contextus: Festschrift für Sabine Schrenk, Sible de Blaauw, Elisabeth Enss, Petra Linscheid eds, Münster 2020, pp. 390 –404.

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In sum, combs are regularly present in two spaces and functional environments: baths and the funerary milieu. Following the apostle Paul and Late Antique literary and preaching practice, these two spaces could be metaphorically linked to Christian initiation49. Combining this link with the practical continuity between baths and baptisteries, we would like to explore the hypothesis that the Christian combs in question lie at the intersection of initiatory, funerary, and purification rituals.

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From this perspective, the images on the combs – taken from the Miracles of Christ and sometimes the Old Testament – may take on a different meaning. Many of them were considered metaphors of death and resurrection by Late Antique intellectuals. This is the case of the Women at the Sepulcher, the Resurrection of Lazarus, and Daniel in the Lion’s Den50. The general setting – with lambs, crowns, and angels – is one of heavenly space. This also perfectly fits the context of death and resurrection. Lastly, we have the Wedding of Cana and the Multiplication of the Loaves and Fish, which are considered to be prefigurations of the Eucharist51. This is fundamental: all the images would fit perfectly into a funerary context, except for these allusions to the Eucharist. The promise of the experience of the Christian mysteries is at the heart of a neophyte’s pre-baptismal training and of baptism itself 52. This association becomes even stronger when we consider decorations of what we might call “spaces of initiation”: apart from baptisteries, this also refers to pre-baptismal spaces, such as the narthex of the Church of Santa Sabina in Rome, or the narratives in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna, perhaps visible by catechumens from the side naves. These two spaces have been associated with initiatory rituals by combining visual data, textual evidence, and liturgical practices53. The scene of the Holy Women at the Sepulcher is present on the doors of Santa Sabina, plausibly in the baptisteries of Dura Europos in Syria and San Giovanni in Fonte in Naples, as well as in the lateral naves in Sant’Apollinare in Ravenna54. The Resurrection of Lazarus is present only in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare, while there were images

of Daniel on the doors of Santa Sabina55. The Multi­ plication of the Loaves can be found on the doors of Santa Sabina, in the baptistery of Dura Europos, and in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare56. Lastly, the Wedding at Cana is represented on the doors of Santa Sabina, in the baptistery in Naples, as well as in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare  [Figs 14–15]57. In this last example, the design of the scenes themselves is quite similar. In this regard, one last argument should be emphasized: the presence of an empty chair, possibly with a crown, on the Vatican comb mentioned above. A very similar visual pattern can also be found on the dome of the Orthodox Baptistery in Ravenna [Fig. 16]58. This image could be explained as a representation of invisible God in a non-anthropomorphic way59. Based on the ancient tradition of thronosis, a ritual during which neophytes were initiated into different cults by sitting on an empty throne supposed to belong to their god, Ivan Foletti has proposed that the throne images in the Orthodox Baptistery should be linked to a moment in the initiatory rituals, during which neophytes sat on a throne under this image60. There, they would experience mystical unity with the Christian God. Around the year 400 ce, the influential bishop from Gallia, Victricius of Rouen (330–407), wrote a text possibly hinting at such a concept: “Now given that the Scripture´s teaching assures us that we can be joined to the Divine Spirit through the mystery of baptism, let us learn, using the same reasoning, that even our bodies are tightly tied to the Son´s members through the glue of our persevering profession [of the faith], and that, thanks to grace, nothing of this unity perishes. How could one then doubt that our apostles and martyrs deserved to be in a perfect and undivided concord? Indeed, God´s Spirit is also God the Son, Christ, Whose equitable power shatters the idea of an injurious subordination, Whose venerable triumph left his members no room for death, Who refuses the concept of singularity, nor feels in any of His parts an end or a beginning. Consequently, the apostles and saints, through the spiritual mystery´s power, through the immolation of the body, through a price in blood and the sacrifice of the passion, ascended the Redeemer´s throne, as He Himself says in the Gospel: ‘When the Son of Man sits on the throne of His glory, you as well shall sit, on twelve judge-seats, to judge the twelve tribes of the children of Israel’ [Matt. 19, 28]”61.

The apostles, according to the bishop of Rouen, are called to join the throne of God sitting on their own divine chairs. Since each neophyte, as the apostles, is called to sanctity, the promise to sit on a heavenly throne is extended to all new Christians. In this context, the small comb in the Vatican and the mosaics in both baptisteries in Ravenna may be perceived as subtle reminders of this promise. In sum, the body of evidence seems to prove the above-mentioned hypothesis: the Christian combs under examination appear to have be­ longed to initiatory visual culture. The question that remains, however, regards their actual use. On this question, it is difficult to come up with a single answer at this point in our research. Some clues may, however, help us to suggest at least a direction for further investigation: the location where the comb of Mirine mentioned at the beginning of this article was found. It was discovered within the narthex of a basilica – one of the spaces where pre-initiatory rituals occurred62. Furthermore, a fragment of an ivory comb – un­ fortu­na­te­ly with a very fragmented iconography, 49 See e.g. Clement of Alexandria, Excerpta e Theodotoexcerptum, 77, 1–3; Tertullian, De baptismo, 2, 1–3; Ambrose of Milan, De Sacramentis, 6, 7. 50 See Mara Minasi, “Daniele”,   in Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, Fabrizio Bisconti ed., Vatican City 2000, pp. 162–164. 51 See Maria P. Del Moro, “Nozze di Cana”,   in Temi di iconografia (n. 50), pp. 232–234; Anna M. Giuntella, “Nozze di Cana”,   in Nuovo dizionario patristico, Angelo Di Berardino ed., vol. ii, Genova 2006, coll. 3563–3564; Barbara Mazzei, “Moltiplicazione dei pani”,   in Temi di iconografia (n. 50), pp. 220 –221. 52 Of the significant bibliography, see e.g. Jensen, Living Wa­ter (n. 43), pp. 129 –132; Maxwell E. Johnson, The Rites of Christian Initiation: Their Evolution and Interpretation (Revised and Expanded Edition), Collegeville, mn 2007; Juliette Day, The Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem: 4th and 5th Century Evidence in Jerusalem, Egypt and Syria, Aldershot 2007; Victor Saxer, Les rites d’initiation chrétienne du iie au vie siècle. Esquisse historique et signification d’après leurs principaux témoins, Spoleto 1988. 53 Concerning the doors of Santa Sabina and its function in pre-­ initiatory rituals, see Ivan Foletti, Manuela Gianandrea, Zona Liminare. Il nartece di Santa Sabina a Roma, la sua porta e l’iniziazione Cristiana, Rome 2015; Ivan Foletti, “A Singing Door: Images, Space and Sound in the Santa Sabina Narthex”,   in Icons of Sound: Voice, Architecture, and Imagination in Medieval Art, Bissera Pentcheva ed., New York 2020, pp. 19 –33. For the post-initiatory function of Sant’Apollinare, see Klára Doležalová, “Walking in the Footsteps of Christ: Christological Cycles of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo and the Rite of Christian Initiation”,   in Bildmedien der Taufe im Spannungsfeld von Ort, Ritual und Gemeinschaft, Kirsten L. Bierbaum, Susanne Wittekind eds, Cologne 2021 (forthcoming).

54 Foletti/Gianandrea, Zona Liminare (n. 53), pp. 157–158; Chiara Croci, Una “questione campana”: la prima arte monumentale cristiana tra Napoli, Nola e Capua (secc. iv–vi), Rome 2017, pp. 83– 87; Katia Gandolfi, “Les mosaïques du baptistère de Naples. Programme iconographique et liturgie”,   in Il Duomo di Napoli dal paleocristiano all’età angioina, Atti della i. giornata di studi su Napoli (Losanna, 23 novembre 2000), Serena Romano, Nicolas Bock eds, Naples 2002, pp. 21–34, sp. p. 26; Raffaella Farioli Campanati, Ravenna Romana e Bizantina, Ravenna 1977, p. 105. 55 Farioli Campanati, Ravenna Romana (n. 54), p. 106; Giuliana Santagata, “Lazzaro risorto (iconografia)”, in Nuovo dizionario patristico (n. 51), vol. ii, col. 2760 –2762; Foletti/Gianandrea, Zona Liminare (n. 53), pp. 123–124. 56 Mazzei, “Moltiplicazione dei pani”(n. 51), pp. 220 –221; Foletti/Gianandrea, Zona Liminare (n. 53), pp. 177–178. 57 Giuntella, “Nozze di Cana” (n. 51); Foletti/Gianandrea, Zona Liminare (n. 53), pp. 177–178. 58 See e.g. Spiro K. Kostof, The Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna, New Haven / London, 1967, pp. 76 – 82; Ivan Foletti, “Saint Ambroise et le Baptistère des Orthodoxes de Ravenne: autour du ‘Lavement des pieds’ dans la liturgie baptismale”,   in Fons Vitae, Ivan Foletti, Serena Romano eds, Rome 2008, pp. 121–155, sp. pp. 142–143; Veronika Tvrzníková, Ritual, Body and Perception: A New Perspective on the Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna, ma thesis (Masaryk University, supervisor: Ivan Foletti), Brno 2016, pp. 21–23. 59 See e.g. the overview by Elisa Di Natale, “L’immagine della cosidetta ‘Etimasia’ dal v al ix secolo”,   Studi medievali, iii/54/2 (2013), pp. 691– 750. 60 On the Thronosis, see e.g. Jean Bousquet, “Callimaque, Hérodote et le trône d’Hermès de Samothrace”, Revue archéologique, vi/29 –30 (1949), pp. 105–131, 125–127; André-Jean Festugière, L’idéal religieux des grecs et l’Évangile, Paris 1932, pp. 305–306, n. 3; Theodor Klauser, Die Cathedra im Totenkult der heidnischen und christlichen Antike, Münster 1927, pp. 45–46. 61 For the English translation see Philippe Buc, “Victricius of Rouen, In Praise of the Saints”,   in Medieval Hagiography: An Anthology, Thomas Head ed., New York / London 2001, pp. 40 –41. For the original, see “Cum igitur, scriptura docente, firmemur baptismatis sacramento diuino nos Spiritui posse coniungi, eadem que ratione discamus etiam corpora nostra cum membris Filii glutino perseuerantis confessionis adstringi nihil que unitati perire per gratiam, quae dubitatio est etiam apostolos martyres que nostros perfectam absolutam que meruisse concordiam? Cum enim Spiritus Dei sit et Deus Filius Christus, qui aequabili potestate opinionem iniuriosae subiectionis explodit, qui uenerabili triumpho membrorum morti spatium non reliquit, qui singularitatis abnuit nomen, qui nec finem aut initium ullissui partibus sentit, apostoli autem sancti que et per spiritalis mysterii sanctionem et per corporis uictimam et per sanguinis censum ac sacrificium passionis ascendere solium Redemptoris, ipso in euangelio dicente: Cum sederit Filius hominis in throno gloriae suae, sedebitis et uos super duodecim tribunalia iudicantes xii tribus filiorum Israhel”, Victricius of Rouen, De laude sanctorum, 7. 62 On the function of narthexes and atria in general, see Jean-Charles Picard, “L’atrium dans les églises paléochrétiennes d’Occident”,   in Actes du xie congrès international d’archéologie chrétienne. Lyon, Vienne, Grenoble, Genève, Aoste (21–28 septembre 1986), vol. i, Noël Duval ed., Rome 1989, pp. 505–542, 532–534; and Sible de Blaauw, “The Church Atrium as a Ritual Space: The Cathedral of Tyre and St Peter’s in Rome”,   Ritual and Space in the Middle Ages. Proceedings of the 2009 Harlaxton Symposium, Frances Andrews ed., Donington 2011, pp. 30 –43. For their initiatory function, see Foletti/Gianandrea, Zona Liminare (n. 53), pp. 33– 93.

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but  possibly showing an image of Christ performing a miracle – was found inside the structure of the Salona Baptistery, which stood on an earlier Roman bath structure63. This leads us to suppose that combs may have been used both in pre-baptismal rituals occurring outside the baptisteries as well as during baptism itself. We know that a series of a metaphorical purifications occurred in the period preceding baptism. This con­­sisted in a repeated exorcism – from three to seven times, depending on local tradition64. Furthermore, from Apostolic tradition, as well as from hydraulic installations present in Djémila, for example, we know that a real cleansing of catechumens’ bodies occurred before baptism65. It would thus be plausible that the combs were used on this occasion as well. Inside the baptistery, the ideal moment to use a comb may have been the last renunciation of the Devil, when, turned west, the neophyte renounced demons for the last time, just before entering the piscina66. We would dare to go even further: a possible hint may be given by the scene of Jesus Healing the Bleeding Woman, also present on the Mirine comb. This scene may seem difficult to be linked with initiatory rituals on a basic level67. However, it is worth mentioning that bleeding women were not allowed to enter the baptistery in the early fifth century68. We are also acquainted with the fact that, at the end of the fourth century, deaconesses could not enter the sacred perimeter of the altar while having their periods69. Both these examples show that menstruating women were considered impure. It is not surprising that in Rome women could be baptized a few weeks later for the very same reasons70. In the sources, there is no mention of specific purification rituals for these women. Yet, to suppose that combing may have accompanied this specific female ritual seems plausible. On the one hand, it connects the reality of initiation with the cleansing process of bathing – in Jewish culture, women were obliged to attend a ritual bath after their cycle71. On the other, as stated, these combs were – at least in public representation – linked with the female realm. We might then suppose that it was precisely for the purification of women that combs entered initiatory spaces. They may have been used

for pre-initiatory purification, but also during the ritual of baptism itself, after the unction of the bodies (and possibly hair) of the women by deaconesses72. This hypothesis is, however, not exclusive: going beyond gender stereotypes, it is also plausible to suppose that – as would happen in the following centuries – combs were used for the purification of men as well. This hypothesis seems to be supported by the combs, on which traces of ungentum have been discovered, often accompanied by unguentaria73. There, we could possibly claim that these combs may also have been used for this function. We could also interpret Pope Boniface’s letter to the queen Æthelburh of Northumbria in the light of this information. She was a woman and received a comb, blessed by St Peter, from the Pope. The letter is part of the description of Northumbria’s Christianization. As Philippe Cordez interpreted the relevant passage, it is tempting to see the comb as an active object of memory: Æthelburh was already Christian at the time, but each time she combed herself, the object may have reminded her that her own baptism will be only partial as long as her husband, and with him the kingdom, has not undergone this spiritual purification too74. This opens up several questions, since, in the following centuries, the ritual of combing became reserved exclusively for males who, in the meantime, excluded women from the liturgical service75. 63 On the comb found in Salona (Croatia), see Sanja Ivčević, Dal primo Cristianesimo al romanico, Arte per mare. Dalmazia, Titano e Montefeltro dal primo Cristianesimo al Rinascimento, Milan 2007, p. 86, cat. no. 7; Nenad Cambi,“Le raffigurazioni del Cristo nell’arte paleocristiana in Dalmazia”,  ikon, i (2008), pp. 3–21; Nauerth, “Bemerkungen zu koptischen Kämmen” (n. 23), p. 7; Pascale Chevalier, Salona ii. Ecclesiae Dalmatiae. L’architecture paléochrétienne de la province romaine de Dalmatie (ive-viie s.) en dehors de la capitale, vol. i, Rome 1996, pp. 32–35; Nenad Cambi, “Frammento di sarcofago paleocristiano nel convento dei francescani ‘in ripa maris’ a Split”,   in Memoriam Sanctorum Venerantes. Miscellanea in onore di Monsignor Victor Saxer, Rome 1992, pp. 97–109; Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten (n. 3), p. 123, no. 205; Géza de Francovich, Studi della scultura Ravennate, vol. i: I sarcofagi, Ravenna 1958, p. 86, fig. 73. 64 Saxer, Les rites d’initiation chrétienne (n. 52), pp. 567–592. 65 On the baptistery of Djémila, see e.g. Sebastian Ristow, Frühchristliche Baptisterien, Münster 1998, no. 75, p. 117; Nathan S. Dennis, Performing Paradise in the Early Christian Baptistery: Art, Liturgy, and the Transformation of Vision, PhD thesis (Johns Hopkins University, supervisor: Herbert L. Kessler), Baltimore 2016, pp. 13–25.

66 See e.g. Ambrose of Milan, De Sacramentis, 1, 3– 6. 67 See The Woman with the Blood Flow (Mark 5: 24–34). Narrative, Iconic, and Anthropological Spaces, Barbara Baert ed., Leuven / Walpole, ma 2014. 68 Saxer, Les rites d’initiation chrétienne (n. 52), pp. 575–576. 69 A mention of this practice is present in the Testamentum domini nostri Jesu Christi, 2; for the edition of this passage, see Ordained Women in the Early Church. A Documentary History, Kevin Madigan, Carolyn Osiek transl. and eds, Baltimore, md 2005, pp. 156 –157. 70 Saxer, Les rites d’initiation chrétienne (n. 52), pp. 575–576. 71 See Laurie Guy, “‘Naked’ Baptism in the Early Church: The Rhetoric and the Reality”,   Journal of Religious History, xxvii/2 (2003), pp. 134–136; Nina Caputo,“The Voice of a Jew? Petrus Alfonsi’s Dialogi contra Iudaeos and the Question of True Conversion”,   in On the Word of a Jew: Religion, Reliability, and the Dynamics of Trust, Nina Caputo, Mitchell B. Hart eds, Bloomington, in 2019, pp. 184–196. 72 See the recent overview by Ally Kateusz, Mary and Early Christian Women: Hidden Leadership, Cham 2019, pp. 49 – 65. 73 Morris Bierbrier, Susana Walker, Ancient Faces: Mummy Portraits from Roman Egypt, London 1997, pp. 210 –211, pl. 324–325; Susan I. Rotroff, “Fusiform Unguentaria”,   in “Hellenistic Pottery: The Plain Wares”,The Athenian Agora, xxxiii (2006), p. 139. 74 Cordez, “Golgotha im Kopf” (n. 3), p. 121. 75 See the overview by Ivan Foletti, “Des femmes à l’autel? Jamais! Les diaconesses (veuves et prêtresses) et l’iconographie de la Théotokos”,   in Féminité et masculinité altérées: Transgression et inversion des genres au Moyen Âge, Fanny Abbot, Eva Pibiri eds, Florence 2016, pp. 51– 92.

14 / The Wedding at Cana, wooden doors of Santa Sabina, Rome, 421–431 ce 15 / The Wedding at Cana, Baptistery of San Giovanni, Naples, mosaic, ca 400 ce 16 / The empty throne, Orthodox Baptistery, Ravenna, mosaic, ca 458 ce

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The fact that males started to use combs for their ritual purification may, however, be the practical consequence of changing haircut trends in the Late Antique world76. A trace of this changing practice can be possibly found in Optatus’ description of dividing hair after anointing, and also in Apponius’ text, where the adoring of the body is followed by anointing and then combing. It would be tempting to see in these fragments an echo of ritual practice originating in baptism. Conclusion In this article, we hope to have shown that certain Late Antique ivory combs should be consid­ ered a plausible part of initiation spaces. The archaeological contexts of their discovery, icono­ graphy, and iconological potential point towards initiatory functions. It is truly challenging to establish the exact micro-ritual, especially given the silence of sources on its more practical aspects. However, considering the traditional function of combs as the instruments of both physical and moral purification, it may be argued that they were used either during pre-baptismal exorcisms and the baptismal renunciation of the Devil, or during more specific purification rituals. From the examples we have seen, it seems plausible that the initial recipients of these combs may have been women. Considered impure – notably because of menstruation – they had to be purified, and combs were ideal instruments for this dual material and metaphorical act. At the same time, however, as we have seen, the use of combs cannot be limited to the female realm. Thus, perhaps already in the Late Antique baptisteries, the combs overpassed the gender stereotypes, becoming the objects of liturgical purification that received a meaning similar to the role they would have in preparation for the mass, as attested in the Latin Church from the ninth or tenth century on.

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76 For more about shift of haircuts and hairstyles, see Walter Pohl, “Telling the Difference: Signs of Ethnic Identity”,   in Strategies of Distinction. The Constructions of Ethnic Communities, 300 – 800, Walter Pohl, Helmut Reimitz eds, Leiden 1998, pp. 51–55; A Cultural History of Hair, vol. i: A Cultural History of Hair in Antiquity, Geraldine Biddle-Perry, Mary Harlow eds, London 2018; Ian Wood, “Hair and Beards in the Early Medieval West”,  Al-Masāq, xxx/2 (2018), pp. 107–116.

summary Očista těla a duše Pozdně antické hřebeny, jejich užívání a vizuální kultura

Slonovinovým pozdně antickým hřebenům zdobeným výjevy s křesťanskou tématikou byla v minulosti věnována jen okrajová pozornost. Tyto předměty přitom v kontextu stovek dalších nálezů, vyrobených například také z kostí či ze dřeva, vytvářejí mimořádně koherentní a významnou skupinu. Jsou totiž zdobeny vyobrazeními klíčovými pro soudobou křesťanskou identitu. Jde především o znázornění Kristových zázraků ve scénách množení chleba, svatby v Káni Galilejské, uzdravení ženy s krvotokem či setkání Krista se  ženami u hrobu. Přítomnost podobných zobrazení na hřebenech, tedy na předmětech považovaných zpravidla za nástroje každodenní hygieny, by se mohla zdát pře­kvapivá. Vysvětlení této situace je proto nutné

hledat v jejich rituálním užívání. Analýza vizuálních témat a dochovaných textů o soudobém postoji k hřebenům vede totiž k formulaci zásadní hypotézy, která uvádí, že tato skupina slonovinových artefaktů musela být využívána v rámci křestních rituálů. To potvrzuje na straně jedné zvolená ikono­grafie, která se nachází jak v monumentálních baptisteriích, tak na drobnějších předmětech spojených s křestními rituály. Na straně druhé pak písemné prameny umožňují spojit užívání hřebenů s purifikačními rituály, které byly důležitou součástí křestní liturgie. Není zatím možné určit, zda šlo o rituály předkřestní nebo ty, které po křtu následovaly. Klíčovým výstupem tohoto výzkumu je však zjištění, že vybrané hřebeny je možné vnímat jako součást křesťanských iniciačních rituálů.

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Abstract – Luxury for All (?). Ivory Diptychs and Their Use in the Baptismal Liturgy A large number of ivory diptychs, most of them dating from the fourth to sixth centuries, have been preserved to the present and today make up an important category of artistic objects. Apart from the famous “consular” diptychs, there emerged another category of ivory diptychs during the early years of the Christianization of the Roman Empire – diptychs with Christian iconography used for Christian purposes. Recent studies have laid the groundwork for assessing whether these Christian ivory diptychs were used as part of the baptismal ritual, especially when we consider how much the grand and elaborate nature of this ritual certainly contributed to the relatively rapid transformation of Roman society from a pagan to a Christian one. Therefore, this article examines the question of what purpose ivory diptychs had in the Early Christian era, a question that has been discussed in the literature for decades. The author will, however, focus specifically on the possible presence and use of these diptychs in the baptismal liturgy during the first three centuries of the Christian Roman Empire, since this has not yet been the subject of any scholarly discussion. Given the absence of any direct evidence to confirm or refute the hypothesis that ivory diptychs were used in the baptismal rite, it is necessary to understand the important role that panels (not just ivory ones), and the material itself, played in Late Antique society in general. Keywords – baptism, baptismal liturgy, codicil of office, consular diptych, ivory, writing tablet Zuzana Frantová Masaryk University, Brno [email protected]

Luxury for All (?) Ivory Diptychs and Their Use in the Baptismal Liturgy Zuzana Frantová

Introduction Ivory diptychs are formed by a pair of decoratively designed panels joined by a hinge or clasps so that they can be closed as a codex. They make up a large group of Late Antique monuments that are exceptional in terms of their production, iconography, and function. Consular diptychs are the best-­ known and most numerous category of ivory diptychs, and also the most widely studied1. The first known example of a consular diptych dates from 406 and the last from 5412. Every year on the first day of the year the inhabitants of Rome and Constantinople came out to see the ceremony dur­ing which the new consul was appointed, and to co­in­cide with this occasion games were organized,

1

The bibliography on this subject is vast; for a complete list of bibliography, see Marilena Abbatepaolo, Parole d’avorio, fonti letterarie e testi per lo studio dei dittici eburnei, Bari 2012, pp. 229 –248. For a summary of historiography, see Kim Bowes, “Ivory Lists: Consular Diptychs, Christian Appropriation, and Polemics of Time in Late Antiquity”,   Art History, xxiv (2001), pp. 338 –357, sp. p. 341; Alan Cameron, “The Ori­gin, Context, and Function of Consular Diptychs”,   Journal of Roman Studies, ciii (2013), pp. 174–207; idem, “Presentation Diptychs or Fancy Stationery?”,   Journal of Late Antiquity, x (2017), pp. 300 –324; Marco Cristini, “Eburnei nuntii: i dittici consolari e la diplo­ mazia imperiale del vi secolo”,   Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte, lxviii (2019), pp. 489 –520. 2 Out of the consular diptychs preserved from ca 400 –541, seventeen are attributed to Western consuls and twentysix to Eastern consuls. Cecilia Olovsdotter, “Representing Consulship. On the Concept and Meanings of the Consular Diptychs”,   Journal of Roman Archaeology, iv (2011), pp. 99 –123, sp. p. 101, n. 11.

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1 / Milan Passion Diptych (Diptych of the Paschal Mysteries), around 800 / Museo del Duomo (Milan) 2 / Maskell casket, 440–461 / British Museum (London)

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and diptychs were distributed, which were commissioned and sent by officials as gifts to important people3. However, it was not just consuls who distributed diptychs, as there are several examples of diptychs being commissioned by other important officials or private persons – for example, to commemorate a wedding or a funeral4. Many of these diptychs have been preserved in the treasuries of cathedrals, and according to Marco Navoni, this is probably evidence of the fact that bishops of large dioceses may have been among the recipients of such gifts5. Some of these profane diptychs, which then became part of a Christian environment, began to serve a new function by no later than the end of the sixth century. From around the middle of the sixth century, which overlapped with the end of the consulate, these diptychs started to lose their original function and became “only” luxurious tablets including the names of the dead or the living that were ritually read out during the liturgy6. Several examples also testify to the later transformation of the iconography of these diptychs so that they could better serve their new liturgical purpose7. From the fourth to the sixth century, several examples of diptychs with explicit Christian icono­graphy are preserved8. This was also a period when Christianity spread through the Roman Empire. The ritual of baptism, thought out in every detail so that Easter night could become the most important experience in the life of every­ one who decided to live in the new faith, undoubtedly contributed to this process' relatively rapid progress9. Recent studies have laid the ground for reflections about whether ivory diptychs could have been incorporated into this magnificent event, which together with the architecture and the decoration of the baptistery, incense, pyxides, or combs, but also the singing, smells, and tastes shaped this holistic experience10. The basic question of  this article is, therefore, the one that has been discussed in the literature for decades: What was the function of the Late Antique diptychs with Christian iconography11? In this case, however, we will focus specifically on their possible presence and function in the baptismal liturgy in the first three centuries of the Christian Roman

Empire, which have not yet been the subject of any scholarly discussion. Given the absence of direct evidence to confirm or refute the proposed hypothesis, it will be necessary to understand the role that (not only ivory) tablets, and the very material from which they were made, played in Late Antique society in general. My hope is to offer new insights into the most powerful ritual in the Late Antique Roman world. Initiation diptychs Two recent studies tried to assign some particular ivory diptychs to the ritual of baptism. In the first of these, Kristýna Navrátilová and Sabina Rosenbergová described the iconographic program of the so-called Milan Passion Diptych from the treasury of the Milan Cathedral as a visual echo of the baptismal liturgy according to the Roman Rite that was practiced at the Carolingian court [Fig. 1]12. Although it is a later piece, it was most likely modelled on an older Late Antique work, and it is visually similar to fifth-century Roman ivories, such as, for example, the famous Maskell casket from the British Museum [Fig. 2]13. One plate of the diptych depicts Christ’s suffering, death, and burial, i.e. in Late Antique perception baptism itself14. The second panel of the diptych describes the events that followed Christ’s resurrection, which are associated with what is known as the mystagogical period which, 3

On the development of “Kalends of January”,   a holiday which was celebrated throughout the Empire, see Coleman Connelly, “Continued Celebration of the Kalends of January in the Medieval Islamic East”,   Dumbarton Oaks Papers, lxxiv (2020), pp. 41– 65. See also Bowes, “Ivory Lists” (n. 1), p. 338. 4 Ibidem; Dale Kinney, “First-Generation Diptychs in the Dis­ course of Visual Culture”,   in Spätantike und byzantinische Elfenbeinbildwerke im Diskurs, Gudrun Bühl, Anthony Cutler, Arne Effenberger eds, Wiesbaden 2008, pp. 149 –166; cf. Anthony Cutler,“Five Lessons in Late Roman Ivory”,   Journal of Roman Archaeology, vi (1993), pp. 167–192; idem,“Il linguaggio visivo dei dittici eburnei: forma, funzione, produzione, ricezione”,   in Eburnea diptycha: i dittici d’avorio tra antichità e Medioevo, Massimiliano David ed., Bari 2007, pp. 131–161, sp. p. 145; Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1), p. 310. 5 Marco Navoni, “I dittici eburnei nella liturgia“, in Eburnea diptycha (n. 4), pp. 299 –315, sp. pp. 300 –301. On ecclesiastical reuse of consular diptychs, see Lellia Cracco Ruggini, “I dittici tardoantichi nel Medioevo”,   in Il calamo della memoria. Riuso di testi e mestiere letterario nella tarda antichità, vol. iv, Lucio Cristante, Simona Ravalico eds, Trieste 2011, pp. 77– 99, sp. pp. 81– 83. 6 Navoni, “I dittici eburnei” (n. 5).

7

Jean-Pierre Caillet, “Le remploi des ivoires dans l’occident haut-médiéval (viie–xie siècles)”,   Hortus Artium Mediaevalium, xvii (2011), pp. 115–127; Abbatepaolo, Parole d’avorio (n. 1), pp. 67– 95; Navoni, “I dittici eburnei” (n. 5); Cracco Ruggini, “I dittici tardoantichi” (n. 5), pp. 84– 91. 8 Navoni, “I dittici eburnei” (n. 5), pp. 305–307; Zuzana Frantová, Hereze a loajalita. Slonovinový Diptych z pěti částí z pokladu kate­ drály v Miláně / Heresy and Loyalty. The Ivory Diptych of Five Parts from the Cathedral Treasury in Milan, Brno 2014, pp. 44–46, sp. pp. 132–134. 9 Ivan Foletti, Zuzana Frantová, Mediální revoluce. Christianizace Evropy, Ravenna pátého století a jak obrazy mění dějiny, Brno 2021. 10 For objects in baptismal spaces, see Klára Doležalová, Ivan Foletti, “Liminality and Medieval Art: From Space to Rituals and to the Imagination”,   in The Notion of Liminality and the Medieval Sacred Space, Klára Doležalová, Ivan Foletti eds, Brno/Turnhout 2019 (= Convivium, supplementum [2019]), pp. 11–21; Alžběta Filipová, Adrien Palladino, “Death and Rebirth in Late Antique Baptismal Culture: From Texts to Archi­tectural Patterns, and to Recurrent Images”,   submitted; Adrien Palladino, “Purifying Body and Soul: Combing as Ritual and Apotropaic Act”,   in Experiencing Death and Resurrection: Late Antique Initiation as a Spiritual and Embodied Frontier, panel proposed at the International Medieval Congress 2020 in Leeds, uk; and the article of Gajane Achverdjanová and Ivan Foletti in the present volume. For the uses of ivory diptychs during the baptismal liturgy, see Blanka Španová, Plačící ženy u hrobu a raně křesťanský svět, ba thesis, (Masaryk University, supervisor: Ivan Foletti), Brno 2015; Kristýna Navrátilová, Milánský pašijový diptych, ma thesis, (Masaryk University, supervisor: Ivan Foletti), Brno 2016; Kristýna Navrátilová, Sabina Rosenbergová, “To Die and Be Resurrected with Christ: The Milan Passion Diptych and Its Function in the Baptismal Rite”,   Iconographica, xx (2021), pp. 46 –57 (forthcoming); Ivan Foletti, “Spaces and Objects of Initiation. Expanding Our Perceptions of the Visual and Material Cultures of Late Antique Baptism”,   in Baptism and Its Artefacts, Kirsten L. Bierbaum, Susanne Wittekind eds, (forthcoming); Ivan Foletti, Adrien Palladino, “Baptized in the Sepulcher? Reconsidering the Late Antique Ivory Pyx with the Women at Christ’s Tomb”,   Metropolitan Museum Journal (forthcoming). 11 On the function of diptychs in the Christian liturgy, see esp. Navoni, “I dittici eburnei” (n. 5) with bibliography. On the func­ tion of consular diptychs, see e.g. Antony Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs, Rhetoric and the Languages of Art in Sixth-­Century Constantinople”,   Art History, xxxiii/5 (2010), pp. 742– 765; Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1); Bowes, “Ivory Lists” (n. 1); Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1). 12 Navrátilová/Rosenbergová, “To Die and Be Resurrected” (n. 10). Marco Navoni proposed a new title for the diptych, replacing the original Dittico della Passione with Dittico dei misteri pasquali, since only one half of the diptych shows episodes of the Passion. See Marco Navoni,“Saggio di iconografia liturgica”,   in Dizionario di Liturgia Ambrosiana, idem ed., Milan 1996, pp. 548 –551; idem, “Memoria del Santo Sepolcro e custodia eucaristica”,   in Giornate di Archeologia. Arte e storia del Vicino e Medio Oriente, Atti della vi edizione (Milano, 22–24 ottobre 2020), Milan 2021, pp. 165–179. 13 Klaus Wessel proposed a hypothesis – nowadays generally accepted – that the Milan Diptych is an example of the ninth-­ century “antique revival” belonging to the environment of ivory and manuscript production associated with the Ada Gospel (Klaus Wessel, “Das Mailänder Passionsdiptychon: Ein Werk der karolingischen Renaissance”,   Zeitschrift für Kunstwissenschaft, v/3–4 [1951], pp. 125–138). On revival of

ivory carving, see e.g. Danielle Gaborit-Chopin,“Les trésors de Neustrie du viie au ixe siècle”,   in La Neustrie: Les pays au nord de la Loire de 650 à 850, Hartmut Atsma ed., Sigmaringen 1989, pp. 277–279. On the Maskell casket, see Ivan Foletti, “The British Museum Casket with Scenes of the Passion: The Easter Liturgy and the Apse of St. John Lateran in Rome”,   in The Fifth Century in Rome: Art, Liturgy, Patronage, Ivan Foletti, Manuela Gianandrea eds, Rome 2017, pp. 139 –159. 14 Filipová/Palladino, “Death and Rebirth” (n. 10).

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3 / Diptych Trivulzio, around 400 / Castello Sforzesco (Milan) 4 / Women at the Tomb, wooden panel, doors of the Basilica of Santa Sabina, Rome, 421–440 5 / Women at the Tomb, San Giovanni in Fonte, Naples, around 400

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in the Carolingian environment, was a week marked by the intensive participation of newly baptized children, their parents, and their godparents in the sacramental liturgy15. With regard to the function of this diptych, an important discovery was made in 2012–2013. At that time, it was possible to examine the inner side of the diptych, where traces of wax were found. According to Sabina Rosenbergová and Kristýna Navrátilová, this “baptismal” diptych also gives a possible testimony to the specific way of using this diptych, i.e. to write down the names of neophytes16. The second attempt to link an ivory diptych to the rite of baptism was made by Alžběta Filipová and Adrien Palladino. The central theme of the famous Trivulzio ivory plate (originally probably a diptych), which originated around the year 400 and is now stored in the Castello Sforzesco in Milan, is the Women at the Tomb [Fig. 3]17. In Late Antiquity this theme represented Christ’s death and resurrection, and is thus the quintessential image of initiation into Christianity (which is also seen on the Milan Diptych)18. The scene of Women at the Tomb appears in a pre-baptismal context on the doors of the Basilica of Santa Sabina in Rome  [Fig. 4]19, in a baptismal context in the Baptistery of San Giovanni in Fonte in Naples [Fig. 5]20, and possibly in a post-baptismal context in the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna [Fig. 6]21. Other scenes depicted in this diptych are also the ones that occur in the baptismal ritual, which in Late Antiquity was the moment of symbolic death and rebirth into a new faith. The mosaic decoration of the Baptistery of San Giovanni in Fonte in Naples is a strong argument in support of linking ivory works with the explicit iconography of baptismal rituals22. The fragmentary scene of the Women at the Tomb was identified there (in fragments) thanks to the Trivulzio plaque23. The possible patron of this plate is considered to be St Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan, who was well acquainted with the tradition of Roman officials ordering ivory diptychs, and according to Filipová and Palladino, he could be the person who intro­duced this type of object into the Christian environment24. Finally, based on the recurrence of the iconographic motif of Women at the Tomb in baptismal

spaces and on baptismal objects, Ivan Foletti recently proposed the existence of a coherent network of objects that accompanied the catechumens on their way to initiation. According to this hypothesis, diptychs, as well as pyxides, combs, and monumental images, are meant to almost obsessively repeat the main baptismal messages of death and resurrection during the ritual25. Such a “sacramental reproduction” of the paschal mystery found its justification in the Scripture and was elaborated in detail especially by St Ambrose, who explains the sacrament of baptism in his De sacramentis including six of the sermons delivered to the newly baptized during Easter week26. In addition to a theological interpretation of the ritual of baptism, St Ambrose further compares the baptistery with the tomb, ritual immersion in water with burial, and contemplates on the archite­ctural form of the baptistery27. If we accept the conclusions of the above-­ mentioned recent studies, in which the icono­ graphy of the diptychs was linked to the rite of baptism, two fundamental questions arise. First, is it really possible that the traces of wax 15 16 17 18 19

Navrátilová/Rosenbergová, “To Die and Be Resurrected” (n. 10). Ibidem. Navoni, “Memoria del Santo Sepolcro” (n. 12). Filipová/Palladino, “Death and Rebirth” (n. 10). Ivan Foletti, Manuela Gianandrea, Zona liminare: il nartece di Santa Sabina a Roma, la sua porta e l’iniziazione cristiana, Rome 2015; Ivan Foletti, Katarína Kravčíková, “Closed Doors as Bearers and Constructors of Images: Santa Sabina in Rome and Notre Dame du Puy”,  in The Notion of Liminality (n. 10), pp. 24–45; Ivan Foletti, “Singing Doors: Images, Space, and Sound in the Santa Sabina Narthex”,   in Icons of Sound: Voice, Architecture, and Imagination in Medieval Art, Bissera Pentcheva ed., New York / London 2021, pp. 19 –35. 20 Katia Gandolfi, “Les mosaïques du baptistère de Naples. Programme iconographique et liturgie”,   in Il Duomo di Napoli dal paleocristiano all’età angioina, Serena Romano, Nicolas Bock eds, Naples 2002, pp. 21–34; Chiara Croci, Una “questione campana”: la prima arte monumentale cristiana tra Napoli, Nola e Capua (secc. iv–vi), Rome 2017, p. 85. 21 Klára Doležalová, “Příběhy, které mění svět: Křesťanská ini­ci­ace a kostel Sant’Apollinare Nuovo v Ravenně”,  Forum Brunense, (2018), pp. 67– 80; Foletti/Doležalová, “Liminality and Medieval Art” (n. 10), p. 18. 22 Croci, Una “questione campana” (n. 20), pp. 84– 88. 23 Ibidem, pp. 84– 85. 24 Filipová/Palladino, “Death and Rebirth” (n. 10). See more in Beat Brenk, “Das Trivulzio-Elfenbein und seine antiarianische Mission”,   in Habitus: Norm und Transgression in Bild und Text. Festgabe für Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, Tobias Frese, Annette Hoffmann eds, Berlin 2011, pp. 245–257; idem, “L’avo­ rio Trivulzio e il suo significato”,   Felix Ravenna, clvii/clx (2001/2004), pp. 57– 73.

25 Foletti, “Spaces and Objects” (n. 10); Foletti/Palladino, “Baptized in the Sepulcher?” (n. 10). 26 “Or don’t you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death? We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we will certainly also be united with him in a resurrection like his” (Rom. 6, 3 – 5); “And having been buried with Him in baptism, you were raised with Him through your faith in the power of God, who raised Him from the dead” (Col. 2, 12); Ambrose of Milan, De sacramentis. 27 Ibidem, ii, 6, 19 (sc, 25bis, 84) and iii, 1, 2 (sc, 25bis, 90). More on baptisteries and baptismal ritual as an “actualization” of paschal mysteries, see Thomas M. Finn, From Death to Re­­birth: Ritual and Conversion in Antiquity, Mahwah, nj 1997; Cristina Godoy Fernàndez, “De la mort à la vie par le baptême. Notes d’archéologie et de liturgie dans l’antiquité tardive”,   in Mort et résurrection dans l’antiquité chré­tienne. De la mort à la vie l’espérance dans la résurrection dans l’Antiquité tardive. Histoire, archéologie, liturgie et doctrines, colloque organisé par la Faculté Antonio Gaudi (AUSP), (Barcelone, 20 – 21 novembre 2014), Roberto Barò, Albarto Viciano, Daniel Vigne eds, Toulouse 2017, pp. 141–158; Navoni, “Memoria del Santo Sepolcro” (n. 12); Filipová/ Palladino, “Death and Rebirth” (n. 10); Foletti/Palladino, “Baptized in the Sepulcher?” (n. 10).

6 / Women at the Tomb, Basilica of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo, Ravenna, first quarter of the 6th century 7 / St Ambrose by the altar, mosaic, Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio, Milan, 9th century

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on the “baptismal” Milan Diptych are evidence of the continuation of the Late Antique practice  of writing down (and reading) the names of neophytes during the baptismal liturgy28? Second, are there legitimate grounds for studying Christian diptychs as the successors to or counterparts of consular diptychs, even in terms of their function? Diptychs in the Christian liturgy Lists of the names of saints, martyrs, bishops, and living or dead members of the Christian community were written on diptychs, and, certainly by around the year 400, the public reading of these names had become an integral part of the liturgy29. This part of the Mass was known as the “reading of the diptychs”. Public readings of the list ofnames could be performed directly from the altar, the ambo, or the pulpit, and they remained on the altar during the Eucharist. Diptychs bearing the names of saints and set on the altar alongside the church’s relics thus become sacred objects. Iconographic evidence of this use can be found on the mosaics in the apse of the Basilica of St Ambrose in Milan from the ninth century [Fig. 7]30. The Bishop of Milan serves Mass in this basilica at the circular altar, on which there is a paten, a chalice, and an open diptych that has a rectangular longitudinal shape31. The diptych itself represented the unity of the Church, and there was an important symbolic value to there being a name inscribed on it. It was a sign of the connection of the indivi­dual with the earthly and heavenly Church. Deleting the name, on the other hand, was a real form of ex­co­m­munication32. However, we have no evidence from this early period that these mentions in the written sources could have any connection to diptychs made of ivory. The earliest preserved lists (in some cases, short prayers) go no further back than the end of the sixth century; they are always from a later date than the ivory diptych itself, and they are always engraved or written in ink33. This is also the case with the Trivulzio plate, the list of names on which dates back to the sixth or seventh cen­ tury [Fig. 8]34. Traces of wax on the inner side of the Milan Diptych, on the other hand, are a unique example of how the surface could be written on

by covering it with wax and using a stylus to write in the wax. However, to the best of my knowledge, no other surviving ivory diptych has been identified with wax so far. The liturgical use of preserved diptychs and the public reading of the names written on them was a practice that was taking place in the sixth century at the latest and it is a hypothesis with which most scholars now agree. But do we have any evidence that such a ritual was present in the baptismal liturgy and in the first centuries of Christianity? Enrollment Many written sources indicate that the name of the candidate seeking baptism had to be inscribed somewhere. The most interesting testimony comes from the Itinerarium of Egeria, which describes the ceremony of enrollment as practiced in the Church of Jerusalem at the end of the fourth century in the time of Bishop Cyril. At the beginning of Lent, the priest wrote the name of the candidate, i.e. the person interested in baptism, on a list of candidates. Each candidate was accompanied by a godfather or a godmother. They all had to appear before the bishop, who would be sitting on his cathedra surrounded by two priests. The bishop had to decide whether the candidate would be baptized or not on the basis of his past behavior. The names of those who led a virtuous life were written on a list by the bishop himself, and these individuals were then invited to prepare for baptism, others were rejected. Egeria therefore describes the enrollment process as a test, emphasizing the moment of “interrogation” before the clergy and the role played by witnesses35. Cyril of Jerusalem understands enrollment in baptism as enlistment into the army of Christ36. The same process of examining behavior, the role of witnesses, and enrollment is documented by Theodore of Mopsuestia37. The text by Gregory of Nyssa speaks of “delicate books”, where the names of the catechumens were written in ink, which were then to be rewritten by God himself and engraved on “indestructible tablets”38. It has been proposed that the “delicate books” may have been diptychs39.

We have several sources of evidence indicating that the names of neophytes had to be written down. At this point, however, it is necessary to distinguish between the registration of a person’s name for practical and understandable reasons and its ritual reading. There are many surviving written mentions attesting to the first practice, but for the second, as far as the baptismal liturgy is concerned, there are none. To the best of my knowledge, no written source exists that can provide us with information on what the names were written on. Therefore, could the drawing on what we know about their profane counterparts help us confirm or refute the hypothesis that the inner side of the Christian ivory diptychs in the period from the fourth to the sixth century could be used as the surface on which names were written and from which they were then publicly read? Before we compare the profane objects, which are preserved and date from the same period as the oldest Christian ivory dip-tychs, it is necessary, in my view, to at least briefly introduce the ancient 28 Henri Leclerq, “Diptyques”,   in Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, vol. iv/1: D–Domestici, Fernand Cabrol ed., Paris 1920, pp. 1045–1170; Abbatepaolo, Parole d’avorio (n. 1), pp. 72– 80; Navoni, “I dittici eburnei” (n. 5). 29 Abbatepaolo, Parole d’avorio (n. 1), pp. 72– 80. 30 On the dating of the mosaic, see the synthesis by Ivan Foletti, Objects, Relics, and Migrants: The Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan and the Cult of Its Saints (386 – 972), Rome 2020, pp. 161–181. 31 Navoni, “I dittici eburnei” (n. 5), pp. 308 –312. 32 Abbatepaolo, Parole d’avorio (n. 1), pp. 89 – 92. 33 For the corpus, ibidem. 34 Ibidem, pp. 126 –130. 35 Egeria, Itinerarium, 45, 1; Matthieu Pignot, The Catechumenate in Late Antique Africa (4th– 6th Centuries): Augustine of Hippo, His Contemporaries and Early Reception, Leiden / Boston, ma 2020, p. 181, cited in Foletti, “Spaces and Objects” (n. 10); Navrátilová/Rosenbergová, “To Die and Be Resurrected”(n. 10). About the preparatory processes before the baptism and the role of sponsors as “guarantees” of the enrollment, see also Paul W. Harkins, “Pre-Baptismal Rites in Chrysostom’s Baptismal Catecheses”,   Studia patristica, viii (1966), pp. 219 –238; Victor Saxer, Les rites de l’initiation chrétienne du iie au vie siècle, Spoleto 1988; Everett Ferguson, Baptism in the Early Church: History, Theology, and Liturgy in the First Five Centuries, Grand Rapids, mi 2009, p. 536. 36 Cyril of Jerusalem, Procatechesis, 1, 1. 37 Theodore of Mopsuestia, Catechetical Homilies, 12, 14–16. 38 Gregory of Nyssa, Adversus eos qui differunt baptismum oratio, 46. Cited and interpreted in Filipová/Palladino, “Death and Rebirth” (n. 10). 39 Ibidem; Foletti, “Spaces and Objects” (n. 10). For more mentions in written sources, see Navrátilová/Rosenbergová,“To Die and Be Resurrected” (n. 10).

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8 / Diptych Trivulzio, reverse, around 400 / Castello Sforzesco (Milan)

custom of writing on tablets in general, because, as Elizabeth Meyer is convin­ced: “Tracing its significance and history re­veals something about what it meant to be Roman”40. “Being a Roman”

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Romans used “stylus tablets” (i.e. waxed wooden tablets inscribed with a stylus) as the medium on which they recorded legal documents, correspondence, notes, and all kinds of memoranda41. Prayers, public ritual orations, public contracts, judgments, account registers, business transactions, inventories, treatises, laws, senatorial decrees, or notes needed for archiving were all read out from these tablets42. Men of status, such as bankers and magistrates, did their bookkeeping on tablets in their houses, in a room called the tablinum. People from all walks of life used tablets as a votum which they attached to a statue of a god or a temple wall43. Until the time of Emperor Augustus, the Roman census was a particularly powerful text and it existed only on tablets. It identified individuals’ place within the Roman social hierarchy, based not only on property but also on moral or physical characteristics, age, or family. The name on the censor’s tablet established the person’s legal existence. In other words, the existence of a Roman (of the Republic) depended on his existence in the census44. There were three ways of writing on wooden tablets: in ink on whitened or naturally white wooden surfaces, by means of engraving, or by hollowing out a rectangular depression in the tablet, filling it with a wax, and writing with a stylus, which could be made of metal or bone. The wax allowed the board to be reused whenever needed. Archaeological finds indicate these three methods were being used from least from the third century bce to the seventh century ce45. However, Meyer believes that wooden tablets were not used as a part of Roman everyday life as much as is generally believed in the sense of their being the simplest writing medium46. This way of recording a text was definitely not easy or practical: even the simplest wooden tablets were quite difficult to produce and writing on them was much more laborious than on papyrus.

In addition, the tablets were difficult to carry and impractical to store. So why did the Romans insist on the use of such impractical tablets, when there was probably enough papyrus around in the Roman Empire47? Meyer notes above all one significant aspect of tablets, which is that all possible kinds of tabulae (that were sometimes bound together to form diptychs, triptychs, or polyptychs48) were made with deliberate care and “finality”, they were objects used in important ceremonies and rituals, and their task was to visibly represent a centuries-old tradition, continuity, and authority49. Any change to the text on a tablet was a very serious intervention with serious consequences. Visible changes to records were a sign of shame or financial fraud. Thus, the wax in which the text was written, according to Meyer, was not used in order to enable changes to be easily made, but, on the contrary, was there and was used to make sure that any changes were visible, that they could be seen, and thus be a sign that something, some kind of shame or fraud had happened 50. In terms of material, eternal existence and validity were certainly ensured by bronze tabulae. However, wooden tablets were just as significant. Public inscriptions were done on wood and certainly not with the intention of being only temporary. The texts on the wooden tablets written in wax, seemingly the most temporary material, were also not envisaged as temporary. The masks of their ancestors that Romans kept and worshiped in the atriums of their houses were made of wax, and the portraits that emperors sent to the imperial cities were painted on wax tablets. Wooden tablets were intended to last a long time, even if only the bronze ones were meant to endure forever51. Tabulae have also been widely used as templates for reading (recitatio) in ceremonies such as sacrifices, curses, the enforcement of laws, oaths, dedications, or the liberation of a slave. The language used for these purposes was archaic, formal, and performative. The reciting of words written on a plaque was an authoritative way of reading an authoritative text52. The tabulae provided a guideline on the right, i.e. flawless, way in which things were to be done or prayers were to be read. The ceremonies,

the writing, and the presence of the tablet as a physical object helped to establish the order of this ceremony; there was a performative and magical power in them53. They were not only a necessary and practical part of rituals (as templates), they were the very materialization of rituals. Codicils of office Special and perhaps useful for our purposes are the references that began appearing in written sources in the first century that mention the letters by which individuals were appointed to a high office by the emperor. These letters are referred to as codicilli (little books) or codicils of office54. Although none have survived, it is possible to conclude from written sources that codicilli (in the sense of appointment documents) took the form of two or more writing tablets and, importantly, in the case of high officials, according to fourth-century statesman and philosopher Themistius, they could be made of ivory and gold (“a writing tablet […] such as ivory-workers and goldsmiths make”) 55. Alan Cameron drew attention to the text of Johann J. Reiske who already in the nineteenth century suggested that a letter of appointment may have been written on papyrus, which was then just inserted between two diptych plates, but was not written directly on the plates (in wax or ink)56. The Notitia Dignitatum from the beginning of the fifth century (a document known from later copies) shows two rectangular objects on a table covered with a blue cloth57. They are thought to be ivory tablets containing the codicils of office that the official had on display while he was 40 Elizabeth A. Meyer, Legitimacy and Law in the Roman World: Tabulae in Roman Belief and Practice, Cambridge 2004, p. 2. 41 Roman London’s First Voices: Writing Tablets from the Bloomberg Excavations, 2010 –14, Roger Tomlin ed., London 2016; Serena Ammirati, “The Use of Wooden Tablets in the Ancient Graeco-­Roman World and Birth of the Book in Codex Form: Some Remarks”,   Scripta, vi (2013), pp. 9 –15, sp. p. 12. 42 Ammirati, “The Use of Wooden Tablets” (n. 41), p. 11. 43 Meyer, Legitimacy and Law (n. 40), p. 28; Ammirati, “The Use of Wooden Tablets” (n. 41), p. 10. 44 Meyer, Legitimacy and Law (n. 40), pp. 92– 93. 45 Ammirati, “The Use of Wooden Tablets” (n. 41), p. 10. 46 Meyer, Legitimacy and Law (n. 40), pp. 24, 30. 47 Ibidem, p. 1. 48 Ammirati, “The Use of Wooden Tablets” (n. 41), pp. 10 –11. 49 Meyer, Legitimacy and Law (n. 41), p. 30. 50 Ibidem, p. 34.

Ibidem, p. 35. Ibidem, p. 73. Ibidem, p. 24. For written sources, see Robert Grigg, “Portrait-Bearing Co­ dicils in the Illustrations of the Notitia Dignitatum?”,   The Journal of Roman Studies, lxix (1979), pp. 107–124, sp. p. 114. 55 Cited ibidem, p. 114; and in Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs”(n. 1), p. 318, n. 65; and idem,“The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), p. 175, n. 6. 56 “Sunt propriae eburneae tabulae, seu duarum alarum, plicatiles, quae medio suo contenebant diploma honoris in membrana exaratum”,   Johann J. Reiske, Constantini Porphyrogeniti de Caeri­ moniis Aulae Byzantinae, vol. ii, Bonn 1830, p. 277. Cited in Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1), p. 318, n. 64. 57 Pamela C. Berger, The Insignia of the Notitia Dignitatum, New York 1981; Grigg, “Portrait-Bearing Codicils” (n. 54). See ibidem, pl. i.

51 52 53 54

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9 / Lawrence Alma-Tadema, Comparisons, oil on canvas, 1892 / Cincinnati Art Museum

carrying out his work. These diptychs were probably issued in only one copy (not in many copies, as was the case with later consular diptychs) and contained a portrait of the emperor. They were probably handed over in person at the appointment ceremony58. Anthony Cutler drew attention to Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s painting Comparisons from 1892 (Cincinnati Art Museum) [Fig. 9]59. Albeit Cutler is well aware of the fact that there is no historical relevance, and it represents not more than a romantic idea of how ancient objects could have been used later, it may illustrate how the diptychs could be used. In the painting, two women are reading from a piece of paper inserted into ivory tablets, which are certainly the diptych symmachorvm/­nicomachorvm. Given what we have just learned about the codicils of office, it is possible to consider whether ivory plates containing an appointment letter could not have actually been used in a similar way. Such codicilli did not contain only official statements but could also contain a personal letter from the emperor to the new official. If sheets of papyrus were inserted into the plates, that would have provided unlimited space for a text. Cameron suggested that the preserved diptychs that had a profane function are innovations from the fourth century and could be an “imitation or memento” of the imperial codicil-­carrying diptychs. Since the codicils of office for the highest officials could be made of ivory, it would not be surprising, if ivory was chosen also for these imitations60. Consular cousins (?)

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The term “consular diptychs” describes only one part of a much bigger group of objects because, as mentioned in the introduction to this article, diptychs were commissioned and distributed not only by consuls but also by other important persons for various purposes. For this reason, Cameron prefers to call these objects “presentation diptychs” [Fig. 10]61. If presentation diptychs were really a fourth-century innovation, as Cameron also believes62, and as evidenced by archaeological ma­terial, a comparison with Christian diptychs is tempting for several reasons.

First, most of the preserved diptychs come from the period we are focusing on here, i.e. between the fourth and sixth centuries, or from the Carolingian period, which consciously used Late Antique models. They are made of the same material, identically shaped and richly carved, and they were probably made by the same craftsmen. In their time they would have formed an integral part of the public space. The large number of surviving ivory diptychs suggests that they were certainly not items that circulated in narrow or closed circles. According to Cutler, their visual language did not contain deeper meanings, it was intelligible to all63. Cutler speaks of a pattern replicated on many ivories, of a “shared iconographic dictionary”, which suggests that there was only to a common way of displaying these items but also a common way of looking at them on display64. To this day, however, there are discussions about their function. What were the consular or presentation diptychs used for and is it possible to consider Christian diptychs as successors to this tradition precisely on the basis of their function? Most (but not all) ivory diptychs have a field on the inner side that is there (according to some authors) so that it can be covered with wax, which was writ­ten on with a stylus in the manner of ancient pugillares. According to this theory, the inner sides of the diptychs were intended to serve as a space for correspondence between the person who issued the diptych and the recipient. The text of such a “letter” could have been an invitation to the consul’s inauguration or some other ceremony, or lists of consuls could be inscribed there65. The latter hypothesis was proposed in 2001 by Kim Bowes in her paper66. The consular lists, or socalled fasti consulares, contained the name of the consul and the year of his office. According to Bowes, these lists could have had an abridged form covering a shorter period closer in time to the year of appointment of the consul issuing the diptych67. Bowes talks about a kind of “chronology mania” and the popularity of consular lists, which were replicated and known to every Roman and which, as she says, must even have been known among children at school68. The consul was the designation of a particular year, and consuls’ names

and the sequence of them defined time in the Roman Empire69. Although Bowes herself admits that it is not explicitly clear whether these were richly decorated diptychs and where the lists were recorded and possibly publicly read, she still tries to connect the lists to them with the help of written sources. However, this study has been criticized by Alan Cameron, who draws attention primarily to the inaccuracy of Bowes’ work with the sources on which she based her entire hypothesis70. There is no evidence provided by archaeo­logi­cal material or written sources that ivory tablets were used as a writing medium instead of parchment or papyrus. On the contrary, there are several practical arguments against this theory: the depth of the area hypothesized to exist for writing (if there is one) is always less than 3 mm and sometimes even less than 1 mm, which is too shallow for a layer of wax. The ancient pugillares had a depth of field for wax of 5–10 mm71. In addition, the writing areas on the presentation diptychs would have had to be set deeply enough within each of the two plates to prevent the written areas from touching when the diptych was closed, because the written text would have been easy to damage72. In addition, the ivory diptychs were too heavy and too large to write on. Conventional wooden writing tablets measured from 9 × 6 cm to 14 × 11 cm and weighed only 20 to 50 grams. The surviving ivory plates usually measure 30 to 35 cm in height and weigh more than 300 grams, so a larger complete diptych could weigh up to 700 grams. The usual way to write on a tablet was while holding it in one hand and the writer wrote in a standing position (the word pugillaria – “tablets” meant to be held in one hand73). When the writer sat, he had a tablet, or the hand that held it, on his knee. The first of these two positions would have been impossible because of the weight of the plate that had to be held while writing, and the second would have been impractical because of the high relief of the ivory carving on the reverse side of the plate74. Cameron does not reject the hypothesis that Roman aristocrats used ivory plates for writing. However, according to him, they would certainly not have used the large and luxuriously carved ivory diptychs. He believes that presentation

58 Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), pp. 175–178. 59 Anthony Cutler, “Suspicio Symmachorum: A Postscript”,   American Journal of Archaeology, xcviii (1994), pp. 473–480, sp. p. 473; Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1), p. 317; Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs” (n. 11), p. 759. 60 Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), pp. 178 –179. 61 Bowes, “Ivory Lists” (n. 1), p. 338; Kinney, “First-Generation Diptychs” (n. 4); cfr. Cutler, “Five Lessons” (n. 4); idem, “Il linguaggio visivo” (n. 4), p. 145; Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1), p. 310. 62 Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), pp. 178 –179. 63 Cutler, “Il linguaggio visivo” (n. 4), p. 132. 64 Ibidem, p. 134, 147. See also Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs” (n. 11), p. 746. 65 E.g. Richard Delbrück, Die Consularditpychen und verwandte Denkmäler, Berlin/Leipzig 1929, p. 7; Kathleen J. Shelton, “Roman Aristocrats, Pagan Commissions: The Carrand Dip­tych”,   Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, xxix (1986), pp. 166 –180, sp. p. 180. Cf. Roger S. Bagnall et al., Consuls of the Later Roman Empire, Atlanta 1987, p. 87, n. 10. 66 Bowes, “Ivory Lists” (n. 1). 67 Ibidem, p. 344. 68 Ibidem, p. 342, n. 22. 69 Ibidem, p. 343; Cameron,“Presentation Diptychs”(n. 1), p. 347. 70 Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), pp. 188 –192. 71 Cutler, “Five Lessons” (n. 4), p. 175; idem, “Il linguaggio visivo” (n. 4), pp. 143–145. 72 Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1), pp. 320 –321. 73 Ammirati, “The Use of Wooden Tablets” (n. 41), p. 10. 74 Cameron, “Presentation Diptychs” (n. 1), pp. 319 –320.

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10 / Diptych of Flavius Anastasius Probus, Constantinople, 517 / Bibliothèque nationale de France (Paris)

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dip­tychs were a means of visual, not verbal Despite the criticism that her article has received, commu­ni­cation75. The names of the consuls and it is absolutely crucial, in my view, in high­-lighting all their titles are often engraved (or originally a few points that raise the question of the possible painted) on the outside of the diptychs. This was interrelationships between Christian and consulsufficient to identify the client and the donor of ar diptychs, regardless of whether they contained the diptych or the events associated with it. In lists of consuls. some cases, the icon­ography itself was so vivid What is certain is that consular diptychs were that even without the registered name, there was a way for a consul to define himself and a way of no doubt about the identity of the depicted fig- demonstrating continuity and unity with past ure76. As soon as the recipient received a consular con­suls. Bowes does not see diptychs as mere diptych as a gift, it became an admired “collector’s luxury objects that became a kind of promotional piece”, a work that is thus appreciated. According gift. In her view, the image of the consul was not to Cutler, this admiration lasted for many centuries, just the image of an important man, it was also which is why consular diptychs have survived in an image that signified the continuing tradition of such numbers. The recipient then exhibited them, the glorious Roman past on the one hand and the with due pride at being included on the list of new year and the coming of new hope and prosrecipients77. perity on the other. And it is in this light that it Cameron draws attention to the difference is possible to understand the later appropriation between consular diptychs, whose main func- of the equally luxuriously carved diptychs of tion was the image, and diptychs used in liturgy, the churches and the production of Christian whose main function was their content, i.e. a list diptychs, which, as Bowes says, show a certain of names written on the inside of the diptych. This “empathy with the functional/imagerial mechanis why, in Cameron’s opinion, we cannot view the ics of their consular cousins”80. The author also origin and development of sacral and secular dip- notes that even though the names of the living tychs in the same light and look for any continuity or dead of the community appear later in the there. Cameron believes that consular diptychs Christian context, all reused consular diptychs were reused later in the Christian liturgy simply also feature the names of saints or local bishops. because they were visually interesting precious According to her, this is a proof of the continobjects with a clean and white inner side – and uation of the tradition of writing lists on ivory perhaps for the very reason that it was clean and diptychs – just as individual consuls contributed white they began to be used in the late sixth cen- to the greatness of the Roman Empire and were tury as a medium on which to write lists of the representatives of all the Roman people, so saints living and dead78. and bishops represented the Christian commuCameron’s and Cutler’s arguments against nity in the same way. Bowes thus highlights the the possibility that presentation diptychs were ability of consular diptychs to serve as an image used for writing are based on their lifelong in- of a continuing tradition, an image of the values, terest in these objects and the opportunities they beliefs, and ideologies of Rome’s glorious past in have had to personally examine many examples; order to secure the present and the future81. in my view, their arguments must be considered convincing. Indeed, for all the above-menConclusion tioned reasons, it seems likely that consular ivory diptychs did not serve the function of writing The iconographic analyses that were conducted tablets nor did they contain correspondence or on the famous Milan Diptych and the Trivulzio publicly read lists of consuls. However, I would plate were certainly the first to shed greater light dare to argue with the assertion that it is not on and provide us with a better understanding possible to see any continuity in the use of of the baptismal ritual in the Carolingian period ivory diptychs for Christian and secular pur­ as well as in the Late Antiquity. Although these poses, and I will briefly dwell on Bowes’ study79. two examples cannot be used to make general

conclusions, I believe that it is no coincidence that the “visual language” they speak corresponds to the decoration of baptisteries and other objects used in the ritual of baptism where death and resurrection play a major role – as is obvious also from other articles in this volume. It would be tempting to think that in the powerful moment of baptism, when a person’s life changes completely and s/he be­comes a member of a new community, the person’s name would be read from a diptych, the images on which would correspond to what the (already learned) neophyte is experiencing in that very moment – death and resurrection for a new life. However, the traces of wax on the Milan Diptych are probably not a sign of the continuation of a Late Antique tradition. It has been suggested that the use of wax would have allowed new names of baptized children to be written down on the tablet each year, and if this were the case in Carolingian times, it would be interesting to see this practice as a misunderstanding of the Late Antique tradition. However, this is not the aim of this study. In addition, we do not know what time the wax comes from and what its origin is. It is well possible that the traces of the wax on Milan Diptych might have come from the candles held by a deacon or a priest next to the diptych in order to enable the bishop to read from it. From a brief analysis of the development of the use of writing tablets and their perception by Roman society, it is not possible, in my point of view, to accept the proposed claim that the wax on the inside of the tablets allowed repeated use of a diptych, when new lists of neophytes were written every year. There was equally symbolic value to deleting someone’s name during the period under study, which signified nothing less than excommunication. The text written on tablets that were used in this public way should always have been final and unchangeable. The above-­ mentioned practical reasons, which argue against such a use, are exacerbated by the fact that the most famous and oldest Christian examples of diptychs are five-part diptychs, where the individual diptych panel is assembled of five parts each. Such large and elaborately processed objects certainly did not serve for writing. Even less meaningful

75 Cameron,“Presentation Diptychs”(n. 1), p. 320; see also Cutler, “Five Lessons” (n. 4), p. 176. 76 Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), pp. 190 –191. 77 Cutler, “Five Lessons” (n. 4), p. 175; idem, “Il linguaggio visivo” (n. 4), pp. 142–147. 78 Cameron, “The Origin, Context, and Function” (n. 1), p. 192. 79 Bowes, “Ivory Lists” (n. 1). 80 Ibidem, p. 347. 81 Ibidem, p. 348. See also Olovsdotter, “Representing Consulship” (n. 2), p. 120.

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is the idea that the names of neophytes were written in ink or engraved, as evidenced by examples of diptychs with the names of living and deceased members of the Christian community that were written on them in later centuries. Once the names were written there, the diptych became forever unusable for any other purpose; it was not possible to update the list, and such diptychs would become “mere” treasures in cathedrals82. In my view, a more likely hypothesis is that the ivory tablets could have served as a kind of envelope that was modeled on the ancient codicils of office, in which a papyrus with the names of neophytes or a prayer to be read during baptism could be inserted. This was the only way that the diptychs could be used repeatedly, not only in the ritual of baptism, but also in any other liturgy taking place where the precious tablets were kept. The main function of diptychs decorated with these kinds of decorations was to show them to the public, which was a way of presenting the tradition and continuity of the Church but using the medium that had been employed by high-ranking officials or, in the case of codicils of office, by the emperors themselves. It is in this light that it is necessary to see the continuity between Christian diptychs and their profane counterparts. The inhabitants of the two cities in the fourth to sixth centuries annually witnessed the ceremony of the inauguration of a new consul, and to coincide

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with this event, diptychs were commissioned and distributed. It would be rather strange if the Church did not continue the tradition of using tablets in a ritual, the grandeur of which, in the space of the new baptisteries, amidst shining mosaics and other luxurious liturgical objects, was to lead every Roman on the right path. Often neglected, or, more precisely, little em­ pha­sized, is the feature that was very obviously shared by the consular diptychs and the diptychs commissioned by the Church, which is the material from which the diptychs were made and the way in which this material played a role in the collective memory of the Roman Empire. In the fifth and sixth centuries, ivory was considered a material synonymous with luxury and was recognizable and classifiable even from a great distance. In Late Antique Roman society, ivory was associated with public events and the promise of new prosperity for the empire83. The tabulae, the words that were read from them, and the human actions associated with them were basic components used in complex rituals in the Ro­man Empire, and undoubtedly also basic components in one of the most important rituals in the first centuries of Christianity, the ritual of baptism. 82 Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs” (n. 11), p. 751. 83 Abbatepaolo, Parole d’avorio (n. 1), p. 94.

summary Luxus pro každého (?) Slonovinové diptychy a jejich role v křestní liturgii

Slonovinové diptychy tvoří početnou skupinu pozdně antických památek výjimečnou z hlediska zpracování, ikonografie i funkce. Kromě diptychů profánních, tzv. konzulárních, se z období od čtvrtého do šestého století dochovalo i několik příkladů diptychů s křesťanskou ikonografií. Ob­dobí jejich vzniku je zároveň dobou christianizace Římské říše, k jejímuž relativně rychlému průběhu zcela jistě přispěl i do všech detailů promyšlený rituál křtu. Nedávné studie položily základ k úvahám o tom, zda slonovinové diptychy společně s architekturou a její výzdobou, pyxidami, hřebeny, kadidelnicemi, ale také zpěvem, vůněmi a chutěmi mohly být rovněž součástí této velkolepé události. Tento článek se zaměřuje na roli, kterou v ní mohly zastávat. Funkce pozdně antických slonovinových diptychů je v odborné literatuře již diskutovaná po mnoho desetiletí. Zde se však autorka zaměřuje konkrétně na jejich možnou přítomnost a funkci v křestní liturgii v prvních staletích křesťanství,

což doposud nebylo předmětem žádné vědecké debaty. Na základě vývoje psacích destiček a jejich vnímání římskou společností zavrhuje lákavou představu, že by bohatě zdobené slonovinové destičky sloužily pro opakované zapisování jmen inkoustem či rytím do vosku na jejich zadní strany. Za pravděpodobnější hypotézu považuje možnost, že sloužily spíše jako luxusní desky po vzoru starověkých codicilli, tj. dokumentů, kterými císař jmenoval jednotlivce do vysokých úřadů v Římské říši. Mezi desky byl vložen list pergamenu či papyru, jenž mohl poskytnout neomezený prostor k zapisování a (možná) veřejnému předčítání jmen. Hlavní funkcí těchto zdobených diptychů však byla demonstrace kontinuity mezi konzulárními diptychy a jejich křesťanskými protějšky, pro které se církev rozhodla použít slonovinu, tj. médium, které bylo v kolektivní paměti Římanů vždy spojeno s veřejnými slavnostmi, příslibem prosperity císařství, nejvyššími úředníky či císařem samotným.

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Abstract – Materiality and the Sensation of Sin in Late Antique Pre-Baptismal Rituals. The Short-Lived “Rite of the Cilicium” – Critical in Christian initiation rituals in Late Antiquity were rituals that effected the candidate’s rejection of sin and influence of the devil so that the supplicant might be freed to commit his/her allegiance to Christ. These rites took place in the final, intense period of preparation during Lent, as well as immediately preceding immersion in the baptismal font. At the end of the fourth and early fifth centuries in (Antioch or) Mopsuestia, in Constantinople, and in North Africa, a new element was briefly added to the ritual: the candidate stood or knelt on the cilicium, a coarse cloth of goat hair. In re-examining the rituals involving the cilicium and its theological rationales, this paper suggests how the significance of acts of renunciation was reinforced by physical, sensory experience. Keywords – Augustine of Hippo, baptism, cilicium, exorcism, renunciation, repentance, sackcloth, spiritual senses, Theodore of Mopsuestia, touch Juliette J. Day University of Helsinki [email protected]

Materiality and the Sensation of Sin in Late Antique Pre-Baptismal Rituals The Short-Lived “Rite of the Cilicium” Juliette J. Day

Introduction The rite of baptism imitated, in a condensed form, the entire process of conversion through rituals which rejected the old life and embraced a new identity in Christ, a washing symboliz­ing new birth and resurrection; a white robe and participation in the Eucharist demonstrated the new status of

the baptized as one of the “Faithful”. The textual evidence for this process is, on the one hand, rather rich, but, on the other, less than ideal in that it often projects idealized versions of the process and invariably focuses on spiritual and theological matters, that is on the affective and cognitive

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aspects of conversion. The material environment in which the process takes place is incidental. Thus, for instance, Augustine of Hippo’s advice about how to catechize focusses on pedagogy and the “curriculum” – his only nod to the material is to recommend providing a chair for the listener1. Cyril of Jerusalem’s dense interpretation of the creed over eighteen lectures to those preparing for baptism presents a bewildering array of biblical quotations and allusions with only a single reference to the environment in which he was teaching – the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in which the tomb of Christ was situated2. These bishops were not unusual in emphasizing that conversion is an interior process – of the will, of the affections, and of the intellect. It is effected through persuasion by the catechist, interiorized “work” of the candidate, and the rituals. Within the homiletic and catechetical texts, the material contribution to the process is only within specific ritual contexts, above all in the rite of baptism itself. Further, the material is never the focus of discussion, but is incidental to the ritual performance and its intended effects. At baptism the water is a necessary element, but its materiality is diminished in favor of the spiritual and ontological effects of the ritual action of washing. The material elements such as water and oil are not to be understood according to the operation of the physical senses, but, because of their transformation through the invocation of the Holy Spirit or of the Trinity, their true effects are spiritual. Herein lies the problem with an investigation of the material elements and how they may have been perceived by the candidates. Whatever they experienced during the rituals, for us the authorized interpretations in sermons and catechesis obscure the physical impact of the material with spiritual meanings: the true experience of them is inner, spiritual, intellectual, not external, sensory, or embodied. However, despite the spiritualizing of the material by theologians, for participants as well as ministers the embodiedness of the initiation rituals was an essential part of the process and the experience. This paper explores an insignificant material object employed in the process: the cilicium, a cloth made of goat hair upon which the candidate stood

for exorcisms and the ritual renunciation of Satan in a few regions. There has been little fresh systematic discussion of the cilicium since Johannes Quasten’s 1942 article3. Many of his insights remain valid, although he was concerned to survey its ritual use and origins, rather than consider its materiality and the sensory perception which is our present interest. It was he who called the ritual “The Rite of the Cilicium”, which we suggest is rather misleading in that it raises the significance of what will be shown to have been a highly marginal and short-lived ritual practice. Our aim will be to see how this artefact contributed to the ritual process, what its function was, as well as its theological and spiritual significance. The cilicium stimulated a unique physical sensory perception within the initiatory rites which was intended to prepare for the inner spiritual perception of God. Evidence for the cilicium The ritual use of the cilicium is attested in very few textual sources and, to my knowledge, there is no iconographic representation of it. Fragments of ancient goat hair cloth have been found, especially in Egypt, but none of these are thought to be from an ecclesial context4. Although catechetical and baptismal exorcisms have a very similar range of rituals across a wide geographical area, the cilicium only appears in isolated examples: Syria (Antioch or Mopsuestia), Edessa/Nisibis, Constantinople, Hippo, and Carthage, and in a suspicious example from Hispania. It does not appear in any source for Egypt, Palestine, Italy, and Gaul, nor in any source before the end of the fourth century. This leads us to propose that the cilicium was newly introduced in the late fourth century and that it never established a permanent place in the rites. We shall suggest that the increased application of biblical typology was behind its introduction, but that because of its limited effect it was a redundant symbol which could be easily omitted. Theodore of Mopsuestia The first attested use is considered to be by Theo­ dore of Mopsuestia in his baptismal homilies. The date and location of their delivery is significant

if Theodore is to be considered the very first reference to it and thus to posit Syrian origin for the ritual use of the cilicium. Theodore was a presbyter in Antioch until 392, where his ministry overlapped with that of John Chrysostom, and then after a year in Tarsus serving its bishop Diodore, he moved to become bishop of Mopsuestia where he remained until his death in 428. The status quaestionis is presented by Witkamp who concluded that the homilies were preached while Theodore was a presbyter, while my own earlier assessment suggested that they come from Mopsuestia5. The problem arises in that John Chrysostom’s cate­c hetical homilies, delivered as a presbyter in Antioch between 386 and 398, describe a baptismal rite with significant differences from that described by Theodore, not least that he does not mention the cilicium. The matter cannot be resolved satisfactorily and, for our purposes, suggesting a date in the 390s is probably adequate. Of Theodore’s sixteen catechetical homilies, numbers 12 to 16 provide a mystagogical interpretation of baptism and the Eucharist; these were delivered in Greek, although they only exist in a Syriac version6. Theodore describes two exorcistic rituals involving the cilicium: the first occurs at the ritual enrollment for baptism; the second at the formal renunciation of Satan in the days before Easter 7. In Homily 12, he describes the process as a lawsuit in which the exorcist pleads for the candidate before God: “The services of the persons called exorcists have also been found indispensable, as it is necessary that when a case is being heard in the judgment hall the litigant should remain silent. You stand with outstretched arms in the posture of one who prays, and you look downwards. This is the reason why you take off your outer garment and stand barefooted, and you stand

may call for mercy on the part of the judge and rightly say: ‘Thou has put off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness’”9.

The second use of the cilicium is during the ritual renunciation of Satan overseen by the bishop which is described as a solemn pact and not a lawsuit: “You stand barefooted on sackcloth while your outer garment is taken off from you and your hands are stretched towards God in the posture of one who prays. First you genuflect while the rest of your body is erect, and then you say: ‘I abjure Satan and all his angels, and all his works, and all his service, and all his deception, and all his worldly glamour; and I engage myself and believe, and am baptised in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit’”10.

Theodore explicitly connects this ritual to the earlier exorcisms: “In all this you are in the likeness of the posture that fits the words of exorcism, as in it you have shown your old captivity and the servitude which through a dire punishment you have rendered to the Tyrant […]”11.

But this time, because of the exorcisms, the candi­ dates are able to renounce Satan with their own voices and, consequently, to be liberated from 1 2 3 4

5

also on sackcloth”8.

He explains the use of the cilicium as follows: “You stand also on garments of sackcloth so that from the fact that your feet are pricked and stung by the roughness of the cloth you may remember your old sins and show penitence and repentance of the sins of your fathers, because of which we have been driven to all this wretchedness of iniquities, and so that you

6 7 8 9 10 11

Augustine of Hippo, De catechizandis rudibus 19. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 13, 22. Johannes Quasten, “Theodore of Mopsuestia on the Exorcism of the Cilicium”, Harvard Theological Review, xxxv/3 (1942), pp. 209 –219, sp. p. 210. See Jane C. Batcheller, Late Roman Textiles from Karanis, Egypt. An Investigation into Characterization of Archeological Textiles, PhD thesis, (Manchester University), 2002. There are collections of fragments of goat hair cloth at Bolton Museum, uk (https://www.boltonlams.co.uk/bolton-museum; last accessed 28.07.2021) and the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology, usa (https://quod.lib.umich.edu/k/kelsey; last accessed 28.07.2021). I am grateful to Klára Doležalová for these references. Nathan Witkamp, Tradition and Innovation: Baptismal Rite and Mystagogy in Theodore of Mopsuestia and Narsai of Nisibis, Leiden 2018, p. 10; Juliette J. Day, The Baptismal Liturgy of Jerusalem: Fourth- and Fifth-Century Evidence from Palestine, Syria and Egypt, Aldershot 2007, p. 39. See Alphonse Mingana, Commentary of Theodore of Mopsuestia on the Lord’s Prayer and the Sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist (Woodbrooke Studies, vol. vi), Piscataway, nj 2009 [1933]. Theodore of Mopsuestia, Homily 12 synopsis and 13 synopsis. Idem, Homily 12 synopsis, in Mingana, Commentary (n. 6), pp. 16 –17. Idem, Homily 12, in Mingana, Commentary (n. 6), p. 32. Idem, Homily 13 synopsis, in Mingana, Commentary (n. 6), pp. 34–35. Ibidem, p. 36.

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their sins by God. The formula of renunciation is “[the] engagements, promises and words of asseveration through which you receive the happiness of this great gift”12. The role of the cilicium in both these rituals is the same, but attention to the ritual dynamics (i.e. how a ritual functions within the initiatory process) and their signification indicates clear differences between them. The first is an exorcism, during which many exorcists individually utter prayers and invocations over a standing candidate; it is a lawsuit and the outcome is as yet unclear. In the second, the bishop hears the candidates renounce Satan for themselves as a group, resulting in a definitive liberation from sin. The material object – a cloth made of goat hair – is the same, but in the first the sense of being pricked by the coarse cloth is perceived by the feet, and in the second by the knees. We might also wish to speculate on the size of the cilicium and perhaps we should be thinking more of a carpet than a mat. The cilicium has a theological and ritual function which is consistent between the two rituals. It is a symbol of sin, both inherited and personal, and a sign of repentance. Witkamp suggested that the cilicium is “a type of the garments of skin which the first pair of mankind received to cover their nakedness”13; however, I consider that it reflects the frequent biblical references to “sackcloth and ashes” given that Theodore only alludes to ancestral sin but does not explicitly mention the clothing made of skins provided for Adam and Eve. He is right, though, to see in the use of Psalm 30, 11, “you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy”, the dynamic of the whole ritual of initiation14. Narsai

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The accepted scholarly consensus is that Narsai was heavily influenced by Theodore of Mopsuestia, particularly in his scriptural exegesis. Witkamp’s new more detailed study of the baptismal liturgy known to Narsai has demonstrated that his liturgical homilies reflect local traditions and not just literary dependence on Theodore’s homilies15. The chronology of Narsai’s life is confused: he was

active as head of a school of Edessa and founded a school in Nisibis during the second half of the fifth century16. Baptismal Homily 22, explaining the pre-baptismal rituals, was delivered to the newly baptized sometime between 448 and 451, according to Witkamp. Narsai describes a ritual of renunciation of Satan in terms of a lawsuit. With the candidate naked before the bishop “[h]e bends his knees and bows his head in his confusion, and is ashamed to look aloft towards the Judge. He spreads sackcloth (upon him); and then he draws near to ask for mercy, making mention of his subjection to the Evil One. […] He is in dread of him, therefore his face is looking upon the ground till he hears the voice of forgiveness, and then he takes heart”17.

It is not clear how the sackcloth functions in this ritual. Richard H. Connolly amended his English translation of the Syriac to imply that the candidate spread the cilicium upon himself while kneeling18; Quasten disagreed saying that the candidate spread it on the ground before standing on it19. Another account of baptism in the late fourth-century Syriac apocryphal Acts of John has the candidates barefoot and wearing sackcloth (and ashes) for the ritual of repentance, in which light Connolly’s conjecture makes sense, but it ignores the obvious dependence on biblical penitential models20. However, Witkamp argues following a close comparison of the language of Narsai’s homily and the Peshitta, for Quasten’s view that Narsai’s candidates spread out the sackcloth on the ground and then knelt upon it21. Narsai does not comment on the ritual or theological significance of the cilicium. Proclus of Constantinople The only other reference to the cilicium in the East is in the mystagogical homily of Proclus of Constantinople (bishop 434–447) delivered after the preliminary rites of the renunciation and adherence had taken place on Good Friday but before the anointing and immersion on Easter night22. He begins by explaining the renunciation and the formula of faith, and a little later gives a very compressed summary of whole rite where the inference is that these preliminary rituals occurred on the cilicium 23:

“You let your self appear naked, as if fleeing from an enemy; as if your clothes had been snatched away by your enemies. Your foot gives evidence of your need by its nakedness when, grief-struck, you tread upon a cloth of hair. As one in need, you raise your hands towards heaven, so that you might know in what sorry state the King of all receives you: how in your nakedness, he enriches you by his grace; by chrism, he imparts to you the fragrance of goodness; by oil he makes you shine radiantly. You set aside mortality in the pool and a new man is raised up for life by the Spirit. Your body is transformed by bright garments”24.

Proclus indicates that the candidate was standing with bare feet, and that the sensation of the cilicium was to remind them of their sinful condition, to provide a stark contrast with their physical and spiritual state after the anointing and immersion. He offers no theological or biblical models to explain its use. Augustine of Hippo Many have been convinced by Johannes Quasten’s suggestion that the use of the cilicium began in Syria and from there travelled to North Africa (and then to Spain); whether this is the case cannot be proven but it certainly cannot be argued from the chronology of the sources25. Augustine described the scrutiny of the newly enrolled candidates (competentes) conducted on the cilicium in Sermon 216 preached to those about to be baptized in Hippo [Fig. 1]. The sermon has usually been dated to 391, when Augustine was a new presbyter, but it may date from 397, during his first year as bishop26. It is, then, more or less contemporary with Theodore’s homilies which may suggest that the cilicium was adopted independently in North Africa around that time as it certainly was not part of the rite with which Augustine himself had been baptized in Milan and there is no reference to it in earlier sources for African baptismal liturgies27. Augustine reminds his listeners of the invocations of the exorcists (Sermon 216, 6) and the candidates’ need to struggle to be free, and then of the significance of the ritual: “So amid all these gangs of people vexing and troubling you, put on sackcloth, and humble your soul

12 Theodore of Mopsuestia, Homily 13, in Mingana, Commentary (n. 6), p. 37. 13 Witkamp, Tradition and Innovation (n. 5), pp. 143–144. 14 Ibidem, p. 144. 15 Ibidem, pp. 1– 7. 16 For a discussion of the different reconstructions of Narsai’s life and career, see ibidem, pp. 19 –21. 17 Narsai, Homily 22, 13–14, in Witkamp, Tradition and Innovation (n. 5), p. 156. 18 Richard H. Connolly, The Liturgical Homilies of Narsai Trans­ lated into English with an Introduction, Cambridge 1909, p. 39. 19 Quasten, “Theodore of Mopsuestia” (n. 3), pp. 212–213. 20 On the baptismal liturgy in the Acts of John, see Albertus F. J. Klijn,“An Ancient Syriac Baptismal Liturgy in the Syriac Acts of John”, Novum Testamentum, vi/3 (1963), pp. 216 –228. 21 Witkamp, Tradition and Innovation (n. 5), pp. 160 –163. 22 Juliette J. Day, Proclus on Baptism in Constantinople, Norwich 2005, p. 16. See also the translation and discussion in Jan H. Barkhuizen, “Proclus of Constantinople, Homily 27: μυσταγωγία ες τò βάπτισμα”, Acta Patristica et Byzantina, xiv/1 (2003), pp. 1–20. 23 See discussion in Day, Proclus (n. 22), pp. 36 –37. Proclus uses “τριχίνος” (“hair cloth”). 24 Proclus, Homily 27, 49 –50, in Day, Proclus (n. 22), pp. 27–28. 25 Quasten, “Theodore of Mopsuestia” (n. 3), p. 213. This is repeat­­ed by Sister Athanasius Braegelmann, The Life and Writ­­ings of Saint Ildefonsus of Toledo, Washington, d.c. 1942, pp. 69 – 70. 26 For 391, see William Harmless, Augustine and the Catechumenate, Collegeville, mn 2014, p. 221. 27 Augustine was baptized by Ambrose of Milan in 387 with the rite described in De Mysteriis and De Sacramentis. For baptism in Africa prior to Augustine, see Maxwell Johnson’s summary in The Rites of Christian Initiation. Their Evolution and Interpretation, Collegeville, mn 2007, pp. 60 –  71; and Chapter 5 of J. Patout Burns, Robin M. Jensen, Christianity in Roman Africa. The Development of Its Practices and Beliefs, Grand Rapids, mi 2014, pp. 185 –238.

1 / The baptistery at the south west corner of Augustine's basilica, Hippo

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with fasting. […] And you indeed, while you were being scrutinized, and that persuader of flight and desertion was being properly rebuked by the terrifying omnipotence of the Trinity, were not actually clothed in sackcloth, but yet your feet were symbolically standing on it”28.

Jonathan Z. Smith read this far too literally to suggest that the candidates were wearing sackcloth, which he translated as “goatskins”, and then took it off to ritually trample upon it as a rejection of the sin of Adam and Eve29. But that is not what Augustine says. The opening reference to wearing sackcloth and fasting alludes to the many Old Testament passages in which these are commonplace ritual elements of penitence. Augustine next contrasts a metaphorical wearing of sackcloth with the ritual: “non estis induti cilicio: sed tamen uestri pedes in eodem mystice constiterunt”30. That the cilicium has a purely symbolic function is indicated by the absence of any reflection upon its physical and sensory effects, but instead it reflects a range of biblical allusions. These are drawn in a highly allusive way from the New Testament: the parable of the sheep and goats where he is clearly talking of fleeces (vellus) and not woven cloth (cilicium), and the parable of the prodigal son. “The vices and the fleeces (vellera) of the she-goats must be trampled on; the ragged garments (panni) of the he-goats on the left-hand side must be torn. Your compassionate Father is coming of his own accord to meet you with the first robe, not having hesitated for a moment to kill the fatted calf as well, in order to appease your mortal hunger”31.

Neither of these explain the ritual function of the cilicium.

of the scrutiny: “exorcism, prayers, spiritual songs, insufflations, the goatskin, bowed necks”34. More information is supplied in Homily 1: “The scrutiny was performed on you in the following way: From concealment you were each presented before the entire church, where, with your head – once erect in pride and malice – bowed, you were standing barefoot on goatskin. In this way the proud devil was rooted out of you, while the humble Christ, Most High, was invoked over you. And […] humbly you were pleading by prayer, chanting psalms and saying: ‘Probe me, Lord, and know my heart’ (Ps. 138, 3)”35.

Vopřada considered that this ritual occurred frequently during Lent and it involved a physical examination as well as questioning on lifestyle36; the ritual was followed by the renunciation of Satan. Finn warns against conflating the rite of Hippo with that of Carthage, especially given the decades between these two African witnesses to the cilicium, and it is interesting to note that Quodvultdeus does not explain how the cilicium contributes to the ritual effectiveness, nor its biblical models. The Hispanic evidence The last reference in the Western Church is the isolated example in Ildephonsus of Toledo’s Liber de cognitione baptismi which, like Augustine’s De catechizandis rudibus, was instructions for those preparing others for baptism; indeed Ildephonsus shows a dependence on Augustine as well as Isidore of Seville37. It is dated to his time as bishop of Toledo (657–667), but it cannot be assumed that the Toledo liturgy was normative for the entire region. The cilicium appears only at the enrollment of children, but not adults:

Quodvultdeus of Carthage

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Quodvultdeus (bishop 437 – ca 450) was previously a prominent deacon in the city and was personally known to Augustine32. Three homilies on the creed were given in different years in the 430s, before he became bishop, to competentes at a vigil prior to their baptism during which there was the final scrutiny and a sermon on the creed33. In Homily 3, the material object of the cilicium is placed amid the list of the effective ritual elements

“Hence it is that children are brought to the bishops for the anointing per stramenta ciliciorum so that they who are not as yet of age to do the works of penance may by this act have the sign of penance. Adults, however, when they begin to be called to the faith do penance themselves for their former sins in which they lived and by which they served idols”38.

The cilicium is not mentioned at all for the exorcism immediately prior to baptism, even though the other rituals are familiar – the exsufflations,

prayers, anointing, and the imposition of hands39. Braegelann mentions that earlier scholars had interpreted stramentum (q.v. covering) to mean that the children were clothed in goatskin garments, although as she says, following Quasten, it is more likely that they, or rather their godparents, stood on it40. This sole and very late reference to the cilicium from Spain is very curious. The ritual is explained as an act of penance imitating John the Baptist’s baptism of penance, as a precursor to the ritual baptism, in Christ, which will happen later. It is not described as an exorcism per se. And why is it appropriate for children and godparents, but not for adults who “do penance for themselves”? The problem becomes more evident when we note that Isidore of Seville has a developed understanding of the cilicium in relation to penance, but not baptism, in his De Ecclesiasticis Officiis, dated to between 598–61841. He discusses the role of exorcists (Book ii, 13), post-baptismal penance (ii, 17), the exorcism of catechumens (ii, 20) and the renunciation of Satan (ii, 25), but the cilicium only appears in the second of these. Acts of post-­ baptismal penance are conducted by the priest and not exorcists and Isidore gives an extended account of the use and meaning of the cilicium: “Truly they are prostrate in haircloth, through the haircloth there is remembrance of the sins because the goats will be on the lefthand in future times. Therefore confessing we are in haircloth, saying ‘and my sin is ever before me’ (Ps. 50 [51], 5). They are sprinkled with ashes […] Therefore it is good that the penitent deplores his sin in haircloth and ashes, because in the haircloth is the roughness and the pricking of sins, and in the ashes is shown the dust of those who have died. Because of that we do penance in either way so that both by the pricking of the haircloth we might know the vices that we committed through our fault, and through the ‘spark of ash’ we may ponder the sentence of death to which we arrive by sinning”42.

Isidore diverges from Ildephonsus in quite significant ways: the penitential practice does not imitate baptismal exorcisms; the cilicium is worn and not stood upon; there is no connection with baptism. Ildephonsus’ idiosyncratic insertion of the cilicium into the rite of infant baptism suggests

he is more likely to have been influenced by biblical models, or indeed his reading of Augustine, than any pre-existing Hispanic liturgical practice. The very late date for the first indication of this in Spain also counts against it being in customary use. The cilicium So far, we have used cilicium to describe the item under investigation in order to avoid some of the confusions which have occurred in the English translations where it is rendered sometimes as sackcloth, sometimes as haircloth, and sometimes as goatskin. When the Latin writers use cilicium they mean by it a cloth woven from goat hair originating from the province of Cilicia in Asia Minor (now in southern Turkey), although the term was probably also applied to any cloth made of goat hair. Greek writers use τριχίνος (trichinos) which is, again, a cloth woven from hair, but without reference to the place of origin. Michael Ryder has provided a very useful intro­duction to the ancient uses of goat hair which allows us to investigate the material artefact in 28 Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 216, 10, in Sermons 184–229z (The Works of St Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, vol. iii/6), Edmund Hill ed. and transl., Charlottesville 2014, pp. 168 –177, sp. p. 174. 29 Jonathan Z. Smith, “The Garments of Shame”, History of Religions, v/2 (1966), pp. 217–238, sp. p. 229. 30 Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 216, 10 (pl, 38, 1082). 31 Idem, Sermon 216, 11, in Sermons 184–229z (n. 28), p. 174. 32 The most recent and comprehensive treatment of Quodvult­ deus is David Vopřada, Quodvultdeus: A Bishop Forming Christians in Vandal Africa. A Contextual Analysis of the Pre-­Baptismal Sermons Attributed to Quodvultdeus of Carthage, Leiden / Boston, ma 2019. See Chapter 2 for biography and writings. 33 Quodvultdeus of Carthage, The Creedal Homilies. Conversion in Fifth-Century North Africa (Ancient Christian Writers, vol. lx), Thomas M. Finn ed. and transl., New York 2004, pp. 3–4. 34 Quodvultdeus of Carthage, Homily on the Creed 3, 3, in The Creedal Homilies (n. 33), p. 67. 35 Idem, Homily on the Creed 1, 5, in The Creedal Homilies (n. 33), p. 23. 36 Vopřada, Quodvultdeus (n. 32), p. 159. 37 Braegelmann, The Life and Writings (n. 25), p. 69. Latin text in Ildefonsi Toletani episcopi: De cognitione baptismi, Carmen Codoñer Merino, Valeriano Yarza Urkiola eds, Turnhout 2007, pp. 345–471. 38 Ildephonsus of Toledo, De cognitione baptismi 14, in Braegelmann, The Life and Writings (n. 25), p. 69. 39 Idem, De cognitione baptismi 16. 40 Braegelmann, The Life and Writings (n. 25), p. 70. 41 Isidore of Seville, De Ecclesiasticis Officiis, Thomas L. Knoebel ed. and transl., New York 2008, p. 5. 42 Idem, De Ecclesiasticis Officiis ii, 17, 4–5, ibidem, p. 90.

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a way which is invariably overlooked in discussion of the liturgical ritual43. Goats have a double layer of hair: a longer coarser hair which provides protection from the weather, and a shorter, softer, inner hair which is insulating. Although in modern times the inner hair is cultivated to produce angora or cashmere cloth, in Greek and Roman times both the inner and outer were used together to make a poor quality, but utilitarian, cloth. Cilicia was known for a particular long-haired black goat and the production of cloth, hence the Latin name. The cloth was strong, coarse, and waterproof, making it useful as outer clothing for sailors and fishermen, as well as for military tents or for curtains covering external entrances. The port city of Tarsus is located in Cilicia; St Paul is described as a tent-maker by profession from Tarsus (Acts 18, 3) so there has been speculation that he worked with this cloth (although tents could also be constructed from leather)44. The Edict of Prices issued unsuccessfully by Diocletian in 301 indicates the relative value of different materials: cloth from goat or camel hair (Section xi.1: De saetis caprinis sive camelinis) was used for sacks and cost about 10% of the price of, say, leather sacks45. In many English translations the cilicium is confusingly translated as “goatskin” causing scholars to infer an allusion to either the animal skins worn by John the Baptist (Matt. 3, 4), depicted in some iconographic representation of the baptism of Christ, or to the skins clothing the first humans (Gen. 3, 21). Jonathan Z. Smith found support for the Genesis allusion in Jerome’s letter to Fabiola: “And when ready for the garment of Christ, we have taken off the tunics of skin, then we shall be clothed with the garment of linen which has nothing of death in it […]”46. However, there is no suggestion of a ritual context here: Jerome speaks metaphorically. Additionally, he has tunicae pellicae here and not cilicium, which he frequently used in his Latin translation of the Bible. Alternatively, in English, “sackcloth” renders the Greek σακκός (sakkos) used in the Septaugint, cilicium in the Vulgate. Here the allusion is to “sackcloth and ashes”, a frequently occurring expression of mourning or penitence in the Hebrew scriptures. In only a very few cases is sackcloth placed under the penitent or supplicant: Isaiah 58, 5–6

negatively compares the external trappings of penitence with moral requirements; in the Book of Judith in the context of national penitence (with sackcloth and ashes), it refers to sackcloth being worn by the priests and spread around the altar in the Temple (Jdt. 4, 12). In the New Testament, references to sackcloth are not in any historical or ritual context but allude to Old Testament penance of “sackcloth and ashes”47. The biblical models of sackcloth and ashes as a sign of penitence would have been familiar from the liturgical reading of scripture and from preaching, but the ritual use in these initiatory exorcistic rituals does not directly replicate them. The absence of clothing with sackcloth in the Christian rituals is interesting in light of the frequent use of the image of “putting off the old man and his deeds and putting on the new” (Col. 3, 9–10). In many mystagogical interpretations the putting off is symbolized by stripping before the immersion and putting on by the post-­baptismal white robe; it is strange that the blackness of the cilicium was not contrasted with the whiteness of the new robe. The ritual experience The experience of the ritual exorcisms is both physical and spiritual and in performance the physical sensations serve to reinforce the spiritual attitudes and the allegiance of the candidates. The writers who explain the function of the cilicium at the baptismal exorcisms never discuss what it looked like, nor even if it did still smell of goat, but they do emphasize the significance of what it felt like. Additionally, these theologians believed that the physical senses had spiritual counterparts which functioned according to the spiritual maturity of the individual and, potentially, enabled direct and unmediated experience of God. Thus we can develop this investigation of the cilicium to look at the physical and spiritual sensations that it was designed to produce. Many explanations of baptismal exorcisms and renunciations emphasize the candidates’ posture and their sense perceptions: they stand or kneel or turn around, and these postures are explained as signs of the appropriate spiritual attitude. It can be inferred that the candidates were barefoot on the

cilicium, although only Proclus tells us why: they are as if ones fleeing an enemy in haste, and their bare feet indicate their need for salvation or rescue. In Theodore’s first use of the cilicium, the candidate stands (barefoot) at the initial exorcism to imitate the defendant in a law court; for the second they first stand, again barefoot, in an attitude of prayer, but then kneel to utter the formula of renunciation in the posture of prisoners and slaves of Satan, from whose punishments they will soon be liberated. Augustine does not say the candidates were barefoot, but by standing on it they trampled on sin. Quodvultdeus describes the whole effect of their posture – heads bowed, barefoot on the cilicium – as a sign of their humility in face of the liberation to be effected by Christ, but not what the cilicium contributes to the sign. The physical and sensory experience of the cloth contribute to the ritual, but the cloth does not, by itself, effect the ritual transformation, unlike salt and oil which are also used in initiatory exorcisms48. Its effectiveness lies in the physical sensation of the coarseness of the cloth which in the moment and in their memories serves as an emotional and metaphorical reminder of sin and their need for divine deliverance49. The cloth pricks the candidates’ feet as a reminder of sin, says Theodore, and Isidore gives this same reason for the haircloth of penitents, which explains why it became a part of monastic dress50. Although our other authors do not explicitly refer to the irritating sensation of the cloth, we can safely infer this same effect on the candidates. The sensory focus is touch and, interestingly, not smell or sight; one might expect goat hair cloth to have a distinctive aroma and the black cloth to be highly visible upon the church floor, but these aspects are not mentioned. As Constance Classen and others have noted, touch was considered the inferior and cruder of the senses according to Aristotle, even if ancient theories of the senses suggested that even sight, the highest sense, involved touch51. But touch is without its own sensory organ and does not have its own object. It relies on sense perceptions from all over the body and is felt within, rather than having an externally functioning sense organ; it is by touch that the inner person can be brought into direct connection to

the external object. As Mark Paterson notes, “[t]he feeling of cutaneous touch when an object brushes our skin is simultaneously an awareness of the materiality of the object and an awareness of the spatial limits and sensations of our livedbody”52. The cilicium has an intentional inner effect despite the external sensory stimulus; a complete exploration of its impact thus needs to take account of what inner experience was anticipated. Early Christian writers wrestled with the paradox that the incarnation caused the invisible, immaterial God to become perceptible in the world to the human senses, even though a sinful humanity’s ability to perceive of God was limited. The Christological formulations of the fourth and fifth centuries emphasized that Christ was fully human and fully divine, and thus in his humanity had a fully functioning human sensorium. 43 Michael Ryder, “The Use of Goat Hair. An Introductory Historical Review”, Anthropozoologica, xvii (1998), pp. 37–46. 44 See the discussion in Ronald F. Hock, The Social Context of Paul’s Ministry. Tentmaking and Apostleship, Philadelphia 1980. 45 Antony Kropff, “New English Translation of the Price Edict of Diocletianus”, available online: https://www.academia. edu/23644199; last accessed 28.07.2021). 46 Smith, “The Garments of Shame” (n. 29), pp. 231–232. 47 Matt. 11, 21; Rev. 6, 12 and 11, 3. 48 For example, in Jerusalem the exorcized oil applied after the renunciation and adherence “is the token which drives away every trace of the enemy’s power. Just as the breath of the saints and the invocation of God’s name burn like a fierce flame and drive out devils, likewise the exorcized oil, through invocation of God and through prayer, is invest­ed with such power as not merely to cleanse all traces of sin with its fire, but also to pursue all the invisible powers of the wicked one out of our persons”. Cyril/John of Jerusalem, Mystagogical Catechesis 2, 3, in Edward Yarnold, The Awe-­Inspiring Rites of Initiation. The Origins of the rcia, Collegeville,  mn 1994, p. 77. On salt given to the newly enrolled catechumens, see James E. Latham, The Religious Symbolism of Salt, Paris 1982, pp. 87–103. 49 Mark Paterson explores the senses of touch as more than external perception to inner somatic experiences, and the  affective, emotional, and metaphorical meanings of touch. This multiple signification is evident in the explanations of baptismal rituals, but the significance also extends to the spiritual and non-somatic. See Mark Paterson, The Senses of Touch. Haptics, Affects, and Technologies, Oxford 2007. 50 Theodore of Mopsuestia, Homily 12, 25; Isidore of Sevilla, De Ecclesiasticis Officiis ii, 17, 4–5. On monastic clothing, see Ingvild Sælid Gilhus,“Sheepskins, Hair Shirts and Tunics of Palm Leaves: Charismatic Authority and Monastic Clothing in Egypt in Late Antiquity”,Temenos, liv/1 (2018), pp. 79 –102. 51 Aristotle, De Sensu et sensibilius 442a–b. See Constance Classen, The Book of Touch, Oxford 2005; eadem, The Deepest Sense. A Cultural History of Touch, Baltimore 2012; Paterson, The Senses of Touch (n. 49), chapter 1. 52 Paterson, The Senses of Touch (n. 49), p. 3.

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Additionally, the incarnation validated perception of God via the human senses; God became tangible, although may not be so-perceived physically. Simultaneously in this period we see a significant development of the material as conveyers of holiness: relics, pilgrimages to the holy places, the sanctification of ecclesial spaces. As Cyril of Jerusalem said to his baptismal candidates about their unique location, “[f]or others merely hear, but we see and touch [emphasis added]”53. We see this tendency in the liturgical sources as well: in, for example, the increased emphasis given to anointings, the imposition of hands, and the use of textiles such as the cilicium, the veil, and the white robe. In the exorcistic rituals, touch is secondary to audition; the prayers and imprecations against the devil are ritually the most effective elements (these are always present), whereas the haptic is present in the cilicium, the breathings, the anointing (which are not always present). The cilicium differs, though, in being autonomously perceived and interpreted by the candidate and not mediated by the exorcist or priest. Christian writers of these centuries did not as­sert that God could be directly perceived through human senses, but that the five physical senses were complemented by non-physical “spiritual senses”. The collection of essays edited by Sarah Coakley and Paul Gavrilyuk shows the development of the notion from Origen to the twentieth century and serves as a useful starting point to consider whether (and if so, how) the cilicium might have stimulated the spiritual senses and not merely the physical54. The spiritual senses are not consistently understood by Late Antique theologians nor is there a systematic treatment of their operation and effect. In some instances they are used metaphorically (e.g. “the eyes of the soul”), in others analogically in that each physical sense had a spiritual counterpart, but most theologians used them flexibly as the context required55. Origen is by far the most significant theologian for the origins of Eastern and Western understandings of the spiritual senses. He proposed that the soul has corresponding sense organs to the body which enable perception of God in the mind, and the ability to discern His presence. Origen appears to understand

the spiritual senses operating whenever God is directly perceived as this is beyond the capacity of the physical; for those closer to God, then their perception of Him will be greater56. Sarah Coakley shows that Gregory of Nyssa attempted to provide a more systematic presentation of the spiritual senses in his De anima et resurrectione where he proposes that the physical senses can be transformed through a “purgative process of death and resurrection”, without which “there is an erroneous judgment as to what is morally good […]”57. The sins of the body do affect the soul and thereby the spiritual perception of God. Augustine is the third patristic author considered in this collection of essays. Matthew R. Lootens notes that Augustine considered the physical and spiritual senses as part of human embodied existence, but they operate differently. In sensation the soul is active, the physical senses function as mediators between the world and the soul, and the mind can store and recall the sensation even when the physically sensed phenomenon is no longer present58. In Sermon 159 he contrasts the physical and spiritual senses to show that the former can be directed towards the good and righteousness, or according to delight and pleasure: physical senses are to be directed towards what is right in order that the spiritual senses are activated towards God. The Christian’s duty is to prepare the senses for the direct perception of God at the eschaton, this being only potentially possible in the soul in this life59. Augustine described his own conversion in terms of a conjunction of the physical and spiritual senses in an experience of divine grace. What is also important in Augustine’s conception is the role of sensory memory: “Preserved there, classified and distinct, are all those impressions which have been admitted through the entrances proper to each: […] through the pervasive sense of touch whatever is felt as hard or soft, hot or cold, smooth or rough, heavy or light, external to the body or inside it. The huge repository of the memory, with its secret and unimaginable caverns, welcomes and keeps all these things, to be recalled and brought out for use when needed […] The sense-impressions themselves do not find their way in, however; it is the images of things perceived by the senses that are available there to the person who recalls them”60.

The memory of the rituals of baptism is some­thing frequently urged on the candidates and is the point of catechesis and mystagogy on the rites61. Coakley and Gavrilyuk identified the impact of the Song of Songs in enabling a fuller use of sensory language for God and to describe perception of God: “[…] mystical theologians at times freely reversed the ‘Aristotelian’ order of the senses by positing that in the mystical ascent spiritual hearing and sight were toppled by spiritual touch as the mode of perception implying a closer contact with its subject”62. Augustine showed how the spiritual senses needed to be activated so that one was aware of their actual and potential operation: “You see, if you’ve got interior senses, all those interior senses are delighted by the delights of justice. If you’ve got interior eyes, observe the light of justice: […] Again, if you’ve got interior ears, try to hear justice. […] If you have an interior sense of smell, listen to the apostle: For we are the good odor of Christ for God in every place (ii Cor. 2, 15). If you’ve got an interior sense of taste, listen to this: Taste and see that the Lord is sweet (Ps. 34, 8). If you’ve got an interior sense of touch, listen to what the bride sings about the bridegroom: His left hand is under my head, and his right hand embraces me (Song 2, 6)”63.

The cilicium obviously stimulates the external physical sense of touch and, by association, stimulates discomfort with sin in the mind. This is a negative association far removed from the positive spiritual experience of divine perception in the spiritual senses. However, we might suggest that this negative experience was designed to establish a memory which would enable an individual to recognize interior divine touch and to strive towards it. Conclusion The adoption of goat hair cloth as a floor covering in certain Syrian and African initiatory processes of the late fourth century is certainly curious. Our exploration here indicates that the cilicium was a marginal and very short-lived ritual innovation which – as its significance was not immediately obvious within the ritual contexts – was abandoned, even if the repertoire of other exorcistic rituals remained fairly constant. It is impossible

to say with any certainty whether the ritual originated in Syria and from thence travelled to the west, as was the route taken by so many liturgical elements. We can note that it appears at the time when the Church experienced an increase in numbers seeking to enroll as catechumens at least, and often not for the highest motives, following the legal requirement to be Christian enacted by Emperor Theodosius i. Additionally, from the late fourth century we see an increasing use of biblical material in liturgical texts, and a desire to conform the rites to the biblical witness as a way of promoting and demonstrating orthodox belief. Thus, just because a ritual is presented as having biblical origins, it does not mean that we should infer an unbroken tradition of use within Christianity since the first century. It is our suggestion that in Theodore and in Augustine we find the simultaneous adoption of a ritual solution, or contribution, to reinforcing the transformation which adherence to Christ ought to make. The impression made by black, coarse goat hair cloth upon the cold, marble or mosaic floor of a fine Late Antique basilica (as we can assume for the cathedrals of Mopsuestia, or Antioch, Hippo, and Carthage) must have been striking because it was so incongruous. The cilicium marked out the place where the candidates were 53 Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis 13, 22, in The Works of Saint Cyril of Jerusalem, Anthony A. Stephenson ed. and transl., Washington, d.c. 1969, p. 19. 54 Sarah Coakley, Paul L. Gavrilyuk, The Spiritual Senses. Perceiving God in Western Christianity, Cambridge 2012. 55 Ibidem, p. 7. 56 Mark J. McInroy, “Origen of Alexandria”, ibidem, pp. 20 –35. 57 Sarah Coakley,“Gregory of Nyssa”, ibidem, pp. 36 –55. Gregory of Nyssa, Catechetical Oration 8, in Select Writings and Letters of Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa (Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, vol. v), William Moore, Henry A. Wilson eds and transl., Peabody, ma 1995 [1893], p. 481. 58 Matthew R. Lootens, “Augustine of Hippo”, in Coakley/­ Gavrilyuk, The Spiritual Senses (n. 54), pp. 56 –  70, sp. p. 59. 59 Ibidem, p. 66. 60 Augustine of Hippo, Confessions 10, 8, 13, in The Confessions (The Works of St Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, vol. i/1), Maria Boulding ed. and transl., Charlottesville, va 2014, p. 246. 61 See Juliette J. Day, “The Bishop as Mystagogical Teacher”, in Teachers in Late Antiquity, Peter Gemeinhardt, Olga Lorgeoux, Maria Munkholt Christensen eds, Tübingen 2018, pp. 56 –  75. 62 Coakley/Gavrilyuk, The Spiritual Senses (n. 54), p. 9. 63 Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 159, 4, in Sermons 151–183 (The Works of St Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century, vol. iii/5), Edmund Hill ed. and transl., New York 1992, p. 124.

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to stand and indicated their status: they were not to stand on the floor of the church and were not (yet) part of the community of the Faithful. But we emphasize that the absence of such a symbol was not missed in most of Late Antique Chris­t ianity. However, in these specific places the sensory effect is key to understanding the ritual use of the cilicium. It establishes a  memory of physical discomfort to consolidate discomfort with sin and make real their prior allegiance to Satan. Thereby, it enhanced the spiritual sense of touch to discern divine touch in the (consecrated) baptismal water and the chrism.

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summary Materialita hříchu a jeho smyslové prožívání v pozdně antických předkřestních rituálech Krátký život „obřadu cilicia“ 

V pozdní antice předcházel křtu vodou celý repertoár rituálů vymítání, které obdobným způsobem probíhaly napříč rozsáhlým územím. V  Sýrii (Antiochii nebo Mopsuestii), Edesse/­ Nisibidě, Konstantinopoli, Hippu a Kartágu byly však tyto exorcismy vedeny neobyčejným způsobem. Katechumen během nich stál či klečel na hrubé látce z kozích chlupů, tzv. ciliciu. Významní autoři, kteří zmiňují tuto praxi, jsou Theodor z Mopsuestie, Narsai, Augustin a Quodvultdeus. Termín cilicum je známý rovněž Isidorovi ze Sevilly a Ildefonsovi z Toleda, pravděpodobně však prostřednictvím Augustinových spisů, nikoli z  rituální praxe. Termín se neobjevuje v žádných egyptských, palestinských, italských a galských pramenech, ani v žádné primární literatuře vzniklé před koncem čtvrtého století. Z pozdějších východních a západních liturgií opět zcela mizí. Z toho vyplývá, že cilicium bylo pravděpodobně jako součást předkřestních rituálů nově zavedeno koncem čtvrtého století, a to spíše v okrajových lokalitách. Mezi předkřestními rituály se pak nikdy trvale neustálilo. Z dostupných dokladů je patrné, že rituály exor­cismu v období křestních příprav a poté znovu bezprostředně před vstupem do baptisteria byly prováděny na ciliciu. Zmínky o něm se objevují v mystagogických textech, vysvětlujících teologii a rituály celého křestního obřadu; cilicium je zmíněno jen stručně s odkazem na biblické předobrazy nebo na svou rituální funkci. Prameny podle

autorky nasvědčují tomu, že jeho zavedení bylo zapříčiněno narůstající tendencí využívat biblické typologie k interpretaci a vymezení liturgické praxe. V tomto případě se jedná o časté zmínky o pokání s „pytlem a popelem“, ačkoli „popel“ se v kontextu raného křtu mezi praktikami nikdy neobjevil. Zkoumání fyzických vlastností a kulturního významu této hrubé tkaniny vyvolává diskuzi o soudobém chápání její rituální funkce. Hrubá látka dráždila kůži a vyvolávala nepříjemné pocity. Právě hmatové vjemy komentují ve vztahu k ciliciu starověcí autoři častěji než jeho vůni (připomínající zřejmě pach kozy) nebo vizuální vlastnosti (barvu a strukturu).  Jeho účinnost spočívala právě ve fyzickém prožitku hrubosti látky, která v daném okamžiku sloužila jako emocionální a metaforická připomínka hříchu a potřeby božského vysvobození. Tyto fyzické vjemy však byly považovány za méněcenné oproti duchovním, kterými bylo možné přímo pocítit boží přítomnost. Cilicium tedy evidentně stimulovalo vnější smysl hmatu a v mysli asociovalo nepříjemné pocity spojené s hříchem. Mohli bychom se tedy domnívat, že tento negativní fyzický vjem cilicia měl za cíl vytvořit vzpomínku, která by jedinci umožnila rozpoznat vnitřní božský dotek pocházející z duchovních vjemů, které byly aktivovány (posvěcenou) křestní vodou a křižmem. Nikoliv tedy teologická nebo rituální interpretace, nýbrž působení na smysly je klíčem k pochopení rituálního použití cilicia.

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Abstract – Shrines, Special Burials, and the Christianization of Britain – Material culture is central to a nuanced understanding of the complex, non-linear processes of conversion and Christianization in Britain and Ireland. This paper explores the relationship between saints’ shrines and wider funerary practice in early medieval Britain. It identifies shrines as an important category of surviving material culture that furthers understanding of the renegotiation of elite identities and authority in the conversion period. It situates shrines in the context of existing funerary monuments and practices and identifies several material continuities between special graves in traditional cemeteries and shrines at church sites. Finally, it argues that particularly local elite mortuary practices influenced the development of relic cults in Britain in the seventh century. Keywords – Britain, burials, conversion, early medieval, Ireland, saints, shrines Megan Bunce Brasenose College; University of Oxford [email protected]

Shrines, Special Burials, and the Christianization of Britain Megan Bunce

Introduction A more nuanced understanding of conversion and Christianization in Britain and Ireland requires close attention to the role of material culture in the practices that effected and reflected social change. This approach restores agency to the converts and allows us to perceive the resilience and hy­ bridization of early medieval cultures regardless of religious affiliation. Shrines, which contained the remains of individuals venerated as saints, are a particularly revealing category of material culture. These objects occupy the intersection of mortuary ritual, Christian liturgy, popular re­ ligiosity, and political propaganda, and there­ fore link several important conversion practices.

Britain and Ireland were not passive recipients of the tradition of enshrinement but innovative producers of unique new types of shrines. A reappraisal of the Insular cult of saints, draw­ing on the ongoing cataloguing of early medieval stone sculpture, could contribute much to under­ standings of the relationship between materiality and conversion. A better integration of the sculptur­ al and archaeological evidence requires a careful consideration of what constituted a shrine in early medieval Britain and Ireland. An exploration of the ambiguity around veneration and commemo­ ration demonstrates that shrines need to be sit­ uated in the context of wider funerary practice.

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This link was recognized in Charles Thomas’ study of early church sites in Northern Britain and Ireland, in which he considered “special” and “specially-­marked” graves as part of the develop­ ment of the architecture and monumentality of saintly cults1. The remainder of the paper will discuss the relationship between stone shrines and grave types and monuments which could have influenced their development: cairns, cists, chests, and log-coffins. This discussion will ne­ cessarily be illustrative rather than exhaustive and will aim to draw attention to some of the striking material continuities between special graves and shrines. The similarities of form and function bet­ween conversion period special graves and Christian shrines in different areas of Britain and Ireland reveal the creation of Christian prac­ tices and material culture which were both im­ ported and Insular, universal and local. Conversion and Christianization were piece­ meal and non-linear processes in Britain and Ireland, reflecting the political tumult and cultural diversity of the archipelago in the fifth, sixth, and seventh centuries. Christianity and the institu­ tions of the Church had endured in some areas of Britain from the Late Roman period through the fifth century. Indeed, it was in this period that the conversion of Ireland, involving members of both British and continental Churches, began2. By the second half of the sixth century, Christi­ anity had spread to the farthest reaches of Britain, including Pictland, and was dominant in much of western Britain and Ireland3. However, by the seventh century a new program of evangelization from the continent began, targeting the AngloSaxon Kingdoms in the east of Britain. The formal conversion of these polities was only achieved in several stages over nearly a century4. Material culture is a key component of histori­ ans’ understanding of these complex processes of conversion and Christianization, not only because of the nature of the surviving source material re­ lating to Insular early medieval history but also because of the nature of conversion itself. Con­ version is as much a physical and social process as an individual and intellectual one. In a recent comparative article about religious transforma­ tions in the Middle Ages, the authors noted that

the material indicators of religious transformation have traditionally been understood as cumula­ tive and, as a result, the material record is an un­ derused resource for scrutinizing these changes5. The authors rejected the passive view of religious interaction promoted by the ideas of accultura­ tion and syncretism, because this view fails to capture the dynamism of religious interaction6. The themes identified in this comparative study of religious change included hybridization and resilience7. These themes have also lately become prominent in scholarship on the conversion and Christianization of Britain, especially those areas of Northern Britain and Pictland where the histo­ ry of conversion depends primarily on material sources8. A recent summary of the church archae­ ology of early medieval Scotland states that the traditional perception of expansion from a center which creates a homogenized culture has erased the contribution made by periphery cultures9. Like­wise, the most fruitful studies of conversion in Ireland have been those which have challenged the narrative of linear conversion from one belief system to another10. Saints and their cults have been central to con­structing conversion narratives in Britain and Ireland. Hagiographic texts have provided the historical framework for the conversion of kings, courts, and wider communities. These hagiog­ raphic accounts may overemphasize the personal roles of saintly missionaries in changing the re­ ligious beliefs and practices of Britain, yet saints’ cults certainly were central to longer processes of Christianization and quickly became an important feature of the religious experience of lay people and ecclesiastics, both rich and poor, in the early medieval period11. Shrines and relics played a role in many regular and occasional practices includ­ ing oath-taking, penitential processions, rogations, medical interventions, and acts of remembrance12. Recent scholarship has addressed the various ways in which saints’ cults structured the life of the early medieval church through liturgy and archi­ tecture13. The containers in which the relics were housed, second to the relics themselves, were the most important aspect of the material culture of relic cults and therefore are central to understand­ ing religious life in the early medieval period.

Defining shrines Shrines have often been seen as a product of the end point of conversion, a reflection of a thor­ oughly Christianized society with a developed theology of sanctity and far-reaching ecclesiasti­ cal institutions. This approach to early medieval shrines is anachronous and removes shrines from their wider physical and religious context. In the later medieval period, it became both possible and necessary to strictly delineate between ven­ eration of a saint and the commemoration of an honored person who was not a saint. However, this distinction was not as clear or as important in the early medieval period. The cult of the saints developed in Late Antiquity amid a tan­ gle of personal relationships which bridged the gap between human and divine14. Before the de­ velopment of a formal canonization process in the tenth and eleventh centuries, a grave could become the focus of a cult without the relics be­ ing translated or formally enshrined. Numerous examples of untranslated saints from the fifth and sixth centuries can be found in the hagiogra­ phies and histories of Gregory of Tours, including the description of the first shrine of St Julian, the oratories over the original graves of St Aravatius, St Genesius and St Melanius of Rennes, and the grave of St Theomastus in Poitiers, which was in a courtyard, not in the church itself15. Irish and Welsh written sources also imply that translation was not required to make a grave into the focus of a saintly cult. The eighth-century legal text, the Bretha Nemed Toisech, states that a martarlaic enno­ bles a church, and the use of the term martarlaic instead of scrin suggests a fixed location, per­ haps a grave or above ground structure16. Like­ wise, in Wales the body of a saintly bishop or abbot might become the focus of a capel or eglwys y bed without them being translated from their primary grave17. There are also suggestions in the written record that there were untranslated saints in the churches of the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms as well as those of western Britain and Ireland. There is no evidence that Paulinus was ever elevated from his below floor-level grave in the secratarium of Rochester Cathedral. Although Bede does not call Paulinus sanctus, his feast day is recorded in

most pre-conquest calendars, and by the time that Offa granted land to the church, his cult was sufficient for the charter to refer to him as a saint18. This ambiguity between commemoration and veneration produced a spectrum of special burials. The ambiguity in contemporary terminolo­ gy also makes it difficult for historians to decide what should be called a shrine in this period. The word scrin, from the Latin scrinium, is the ancestor of the modern English word “shrine” and appears in Old English texts from the tenth century. It is used to describe the Ark of the Cov­ enant, portable reliquaries, and other containers, including the communal purse of the disciples Charles Thomas, The Early Christian Archaeology of North Britain, London 1971, p. 58. 2 Thomas Charles-Edwards, Early Christian Ireland, Cam­bridge 2000, p. 184. 3 Sally Foster, Picts, Gaels and Scots: Early Historic Scotland, Edin­burgh 2000, p. 115; Charles-Edwards, Ireland (n. 2), p. 240. 4 John Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, Oxford 2005, p. 9. 5 Gabor Thomas et al., “Religious Transformations in the Mid­ dle Ages: Towards a New Archaeological Agenda”,  Medieval Archaeology, xvi/2 (2017), pp. 300 –329, sp. pp. 301–303. 6 Ibidem, p. 303. 7 Ibidem, p. 306. 8 Roy Flechner, “Conversion in Ireland: Reflections on the State of the Art”,  in The Introduction of Christianity into the Early Medieval Insular World: Converting the Isles, Roy Flechner, Máire Ní Mhaonaigh eds, Turnhout 2016, pp. 41– 61, sp. p. 42. 9 Sally Foster, “‘A Bright Crowd of Chancels’: Whither Early Church Archaeology in Scotland?”,  in Scotland in Early Medieval Europe, Alice Blackwell ed., Leiden 2019, pp. 35–49, sp. p. 41. 10 Flechner, “Conversion in Ireland” (n. 8), p. 46. 11 Alan Thacker, “Monks, Preaching, and Pastoral Care in Early Anglo-Saxon England”,  in Pastoral Care Before the Parish, John Blair, Richard Sharpe eds, Leicester 1992, pp. 137–170, sp. p. 168. 12 Niamh Wycherley, The Cult of Relics in Early Medieval Ireland, Turnhout 2016, pp. 41, 56, 61; Robert Evans, Robert Silvester, “Identifying the Mother Churches of North-East Wales”,  in The Archaeology of the Early Medieval Celtic Churches, Nancy Edwards ed., Leeds 2009, pp. 21–40, sp. p. 23; Blair, The Church (n. 4), p. 148. 13 John Crook, English Medieval Shrines, Woodbridge 2011, p. 51; Helen Gittos, Liturgy, Architecture and Sacred Places in Anglo­Saxon England, Oxford 2013, p. 98; Alan Thacker, “The Saint in his Setting: The Physical Environment of Shrines Before 850”,  in Saints of North-East England 600 –1500, Margaret Coombe, Anne Mouron, Christiania Whitehead eds, Turnh­ out 2017, pp. 41– 68, sp. p. 64. 14 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, Chicago, il 1981, pp. 50 –51. 15 Gregory of Tours, “The Suffering and Miracles of the Martyr St. Julian”,  in Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul, Raymond Van Dam ed., Liverpool 2004, p. 167; idem, “Glory of the Confessors”,  in ibidem, pp. 40, 52–53; idem, “Glory of the Martyrs”,  in ibidem, pp. 63. 16 Wycherley, The Cult of Relics (n. 12), p. 57. 17 Evans/Silvester, “Identifying the Mother Churches” (n. 12), p. 23. 18 Crook, English Medieval Shrines (n. 13), pp. 53–54. 1

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kept by Judas Iscariot19. The term appears earlier in Irish texts. The Old Irish scrin was a similarly multipurpose word used for various kinds of con­ tainers for holy objects and materials, similar to Old Irish meinistir, from Latin ministerium20. Neither of these terms were applied to the graves of saints, only to small portable containers. Old English scrin and Latin scrinium were not used to describe the grave of a saint or the container of their relics in any surviving texts from before the tenth century. A variety of Latin words were used for the graves of saints and containers holding relics and none of them was used exclusively to refer to shrines. Sepulchrum was used to refer to graves in general. The word busta was used by Adomnán to describe Columba’s burial place21. Tumba described grave monuments of various kinds, of both wood and stone22. Cogitosus called the shrines of Brigid and Conláeth monumenta; these were decorated with gold, silver, and precious gems but whether they were made of wood or stone is not specified23. The word sarcophagus was used specifically by Bede to describe a stone coffin, whereas a theca was a coffin, chest, or case made of wood or other ma­ terials24. However, a theca might also be a smaller container for relics. Of course, not every sepulchrum, sarcophagus, or tumba belonged to a saint. This terminological ambiguity illustrates that shrines were not a separate category of monument but a subsection of graves. A more useful definition of shrines for the early medieval period is based not on linguistic or ty­ pological arguments but on function. A shrine is an object or structure which either contained the corporeal relics of a person venerated by a group of Christians as a saint, or which marked the location of those remains. This paper will focus on shrines designed to contain a complete, or almost complete, human body, rather than the small, portable reli­ quaries which could be easily carried by one per­ son. A survey of the written evidence reveals that around five hundred saints’ graves could be visited in Britain and Ireland by the middle of the ninth century. Yet only very few shrines are described in detail. Bede’s Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum provides details about the physical setting of seven shrines. Cogitosus’ description of the church at Kildare in his Vita Sanctae Brigitae and Æthelwulf’s

description of both his own minster and the church in his vision in De abbatibus are also helpful. Ad­ ding to that the incidental details about shrines in­ cluded in Adomnan’s Vita Sancti Columbae, Stephen of Ripon’s Vita Sancti Wilfrithi, and the Vita Sancti Gregorii by an anonymous mem­ber of the Whitby community completes the surviving written record. The sculptural and archaeological evidence enor­ mously enhances these few circumstantial clues and makes it possible to discover more about the physical aspects of saints’ cults. Except for the seventh-century theca, into which Cuthbert’s remains were translated eleven years after his death and which is currently displayed at Durham Cathedral, surviving shrines are all stone. Nearly all the wood, textiles, and other perishable materials that made up most of the built environ­ ment and interior furnishings of early medieval Britain and Ireland have disappeared. However, carved stones which have been identified as parts of shrines have been recorded at thirty-nine sites in Britain and a further eleven shrine structures are preserved at sites in Ireland. Mostly these were first recorded having already been built into later medieval churches or were discovered during nineteenth- and twentieth-century building-­ work, restoration, or grave digging. Early medi­ eval carved stones are usually dated on stylistic grounds, using comparison with other sculpture and material culture including manuscript art and metalwork. The relatively secure dating of the sculp­t ure from Portmahomack, recovered from a primary context during modern excavation, is exceptional25. Although the written evidence suggests that shrines became common features of churches across the British Isles in the seventh century, evidence of their physical components survives mostly from the eighth and ninth centu­ ries. The earliest surviving shrine sculpture dates from the turn of the eighth century and seems to have first been produced at the leading monastic sites of Northumbria and then to have spread down through Ryedale and the Vale of York. The shrines and fragments from Mercian areas are dated to the later eighth and ninth centuries. The creation of stone shrines in Scotland seems to have begun in the first half of the eighth century. Within a century both the solid and composite

types were produced at sites all along the east coast of Scotland and on the Shetland Islands. Shrines and special burials These stone shrines need to be situated in the con­ text of contemporary mortuary practice. Shrines were not just an imported material culture but a re­ flection of local practices of monumentalization, commemoration, and devotion. Insular stone shrines were influenced by a variety of forms of grave monument. The development of relic cults in Britain coincided with a period of dramatic change in mortuary practice. The so-called “prin­ cely burials” of the early and mid-seventh century (including Snape, Prittlewell, Sutton Hoo, Broom­ field, Taplow, Caenby, and Cuddesdon) are evi­ dence of elaborate funerary rites that expressed and created identity and authority in a time of ideological change. The focus of this practice shifted onto women in the later seventh century. There was a spate of richly furnished and monu­ mentalized burials of women in the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms, beginning in the 630s and ended in the 660s–670s. There is something to be gained from viewing these graves as part of a spectrum of special burials along with later enshrinements rather than using them as bookends of the process of conversion. It is clear, from the kinds of people involved, that both “final phase” graves and shrines were part of the renegotiation of elite identities and re­ ligious authority. Thirty-two of the one hundred seventy-three saints from Britain whose identities are recorded before 850 ce were kings or princes and a further eleven were the wives or daughters of kings. Nearly a quarter of all venerated bod­ ies belonged to titled members of ruling families. The political context in which the cult of relics developed in Britain was the expanding scale and consolidation of royal authority as well as the increasing institutional presence and power of the Church. These two intertwined processes can be tracked in the material culture of burial. Helena Hamerow has noted that the distribution of the earliest documented monastic foundations for monks and nuns corresponds well with the distribution of richly furnished female graves

before 650 ce26. Likewise, the foundations of the later seventh and eighth centuries mirror the dis­ tribution of the last phase of richly furnished fe­ male graves27. Hamerow argues that these graves are evidence of high-ranking families using the lavish burial of consecrated female ancestors to confer legitimacy on land claims28. Conversion introduced new ways of stabilizing social status which affected mortuary ritual and perceptions of monuments and graves29. This period of experimentation and change was not limited to the newly converted Anglo-­ Saxon Kingdoms. The tradition of investing in complex and symbolic monumental graves for women was already established in Scotland and Ireland. The most elaborate graves from the mon­ umental cemeteries of Scotland were the burials of women, including the square barrow at Redcastle, Angus, a cairn marked by a Pictish symbol stone at Dairy Park, Dunrobin, and cairns at Sandwick, Unst; Cille Pheadair, South Uist; and Lundin Links, Fife30. Contemporary with the monumen­ tal cemeteries of Scotland are the ferta of Ireland, 19 Dictionary of Old English Web Corpus, Antonette di Paolo Healey, John Price Wilkin, Xin Xiang eds, Toronto 2009. 20 Samuel Thomas Gerace, “Holding Heaven in Their Hands: An Examination of the Functions, Materials, and Ornament of Insular House-Shaped Shrines”,  PhD thesis (University of Edinburgh, supervisor: Claudia Bolgia, Heather Pulliam), Edinburgh 2017, p. 88. 21 Adomnán’s Life of Columba, Alan Orr Anderson, Marjorie Ogil­ vie Anderson eds, Oxford 1991, book iii, chapter 23, p. 230. 22 Bede, Ecclesiastical History, vol. i: Books 1–3, J. E. King ed., Cambridge, ma 1930, book ii, chapter 1, p. 198; ibidem, book ii, chapter 3, p. 216; ibidem, book iii, chapter 11, p. 378; Bede, Ecclesiastical History, vol. ii: Books 4–5, Lives of the Abbots, Letter to Egbert, J. E. King ed., Cambridge, ma 1930, book iv, chapter 3, p. 28; ibidem, book v, chapter 8, p. 230. 23 Cogitosus, “Vita Sanctae Brigitae”,  in Acta Sanctorum Februarius I, Brussels 1653, p. 141. 24 Bede, Ecclesiastical History (n. 22), book iii, chapter  11, p. 378; Bertram Colgrave, Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert: A Life by an Anonymous Monk of Lindisfarne and Bede’s Prose Life, Cambridge 1985, chapter xlii, p. 292. 25 Martin O. H. Carver, Portmahomack: Monastery of the Picts, Edinburgh 2008, pp. 135, 115. 26 Helena Hamerow, “Furnished Female Burial in Seventh‐­ Century England: Gender and Sacral Authority in the Conversion Period”,  Early Medieval Europe, xxiv/4 (2016), pp. 423–447, sp. p. 436. 27 Ibidem, p. 437. 28 Ibidem, p. 447. 29 Thomas Pickles, “The Historiography of the Anglo-Saxon Conversion: The State of the Art”, in The Introduction (n. 8), pp. 61– 92, sp. p. 75. 30 Adrián Maldonado, “Burial in Early Medieval Scotland: New Questions”,  Medieval Archaeology, lvii/1 (2013), pp. 1–34, sp. p. 9.

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which either reused prehistoric grave monuments or built imitation earthworks over a grave31. Tírechán’s Collectanea provides a seventh-­cen­tury account of the elaborate ferta of the newly bapti­­zed daughters of the King of Tara, Ethne, and Fedelm32. Like the furnished burial of the Anglo-­Saxon Kingdoms, the monumental graves of Scotland and Ireland disappeared in the eighth century as increasingly elaborate saintly shrines were being created. Shrines are the result of funerary monuments evolving to meet the needs of Christian practi­ ces in the context of the liturgy and architecture of the Late Antique and early medieval period. Sarcophagi were widely used in Europe during the Later Roman period and in post-Roman Gaul. Later Roman sarcophagi incorporated Christian iconography and provided an obvious inspiration for the sarcophagi of the early medieval period. However, the sarcophagi produced in early me­ dieval Britain are not simply imitations of Roman sarcophagi but incorporated and referenced ele­ ments of local grave-types, including cists, chests, and log coffins. The connection between earlier grave monuments and the funerary sculpture of the eighth to tenth centuries in Scotland has been highlighted by Mark Hall in his overview of the Meigle Stones33. Surviving stone sarcophagi from the Britain include both monolithic and composite monu­ ments, although fragments of composite sarcoph­ agi are much more numerous. This composite construction distinguishes British sarcophagi from their continental and Roman counterparts. The St Andrews Sarcophagus is the most com­ plete example of this type of monument [Fig. 1]. Panels and fragments that have been identified as parts of composite shrines have been found at ten sites in Scotland (Papil and Flotta, Shetland; Portmahomack and Rosemarkie, Ross and Cromarty; Burghead and Kinneddar Moray; Murthly and Dull, Perth and Kinross; Cardross, Dunbarton; Jedburgh and Ancrum, Roxburgh) and nine sites in England (Penrith, Cumbria; Monkwearmouth, Tyne and Wear; Hovingham and York in North Yorkshire; Breedon on the Hill, Leicestershire; Lichfield, Staffordshire; South Kyme and Redbourne, Lincolnshire and Castor,

Cambridgeshire). Ninth century dates have gen­ erally been preferred for the Scottish panels, as well as for the St Andrew’s Sarcophagus, whereas some of the Northumbrian panels may date from the eighth century34. Ecclesiastics and secular elites who travelled through the Merovingian Kingdoms could have encountered sarcophagi that inspired the creation of tombs and shrines back at home. Britain main­ tained sporadic links with Gaul throughout the fifth and sixth centuries, especially western Britain and Ireland. Connections with the churches of the continent intensified and expanded from the seventh century in the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms. However, the large-scale production of sarcophagi and stelae, which crowded late Roman cemeteries in southern Gaul, tailed off in the fifth century. Plaster of Paris sarcophagi were popular in the seventh and eighth centuries in the Île-de-France but were intended to be buried, limiting their vi­ sual impact on travelers35. It is contested whether many stone sarcophagi were being produced in Gaul by the seventh century36. The carved tombs of Jouarre and the sarcophagus under the monas­ tic church of Amay in Belgium, both dated to the eighth century, are the only surviving examples from this period37. It is noteworthy that none of the British sarcophagi reproduce the distinctive tapered shape of Merovingian sarcophagi. The reuse of Roman sarcophagi was probably common in the Merovingian Kingdoms. Gregory of Tours’ story of Bishop Cautinus attempting to have an en­ emy buried alive in a large, marble sarcophagus in the abandoned crypt of a church implies that such impressive monuments were relatively plentiful38. Roman sarcophagi were reused in Britain too, notably for the grave of Sæbbi, abdicated King of the East Saxons, and for the enshrinement of Æthelthryth at the end of the seventh century but reuse is difficult to identify in the archaeologi­ cal record39. These stories feature prominently in Bede’s narrative and make it clear that Roman sarcophagi were rare and prized burial containers. The only seventh-century cemetery which makes use of Roman sarcophagi is St Martin-in-the-Fields, in London, around 2.5 km from Old St Paul’s, where Sæbbi was buried40. The grave goods of the burials there suggest that the individuals

had strong links with Francia41. Reused Roman sarco­phagi had a role in high-status burials in the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms, especially in the areas with closer connections with Francia. However, across much of Britain, reuse of Roman sarcophagi was not an option. The origins of British stone shrines have been sought in continental architecture as well as Late Antique funerary practice. Some British stone shrines were constructed using corner posts into which the panels slotted. Grooved corner posts have been found at sites throughout Northern Britain, in Shetland and at two sites in Ireland (St Ninians Isle and the Isle of Noss, Shetland, Portmahomack, Ross and Cromarty; Monifeith, Angus; Drainie, Moray; Iona, Argyll; Escomb, County Durham; Caherlehillan and Cool East in County Kerry). These have been dated to the eighth or ninth centuries but the minimal deco­ ration of some of the corner-posts makes stylistic dating difficult42. Charles Thomas suggested that the methods used for the construction of these sarcophagi could have been adapted from archi­ tectural techniques used in church building, spe­ cifically the construction of stone chancel screens such as are found in the Mediterranean or from carpentry techniques used in the construction of church furniture43. Continental masons were coming to Britain from the last quarter of the se­ venth century and in the first decade of the eighth century the Pictish King Nechtan made a request to Abbot Ceolfrid of Jarrow for masons who might have had continental expertise44. Excavations at St Ninians Isle, Shetland, and Portmahomack, on the Tarbat Peninsula, have produced evidence that the Picts built technically accomplished stone churches45. The theory that relates stone shrines to chancel screens is plausible but, considering how small a minority these stone churches were, seems unlikely. The theory that wooden church furnishings inspired the construction of the shrines is more convincing, however, this theo­ ry overlooks the continuing influence of existing forms of monumentalization and memorialization used in Pictish areas across the conversion period. It seems strange to ignore the influence of local traditions on grave monuments in the Christian period and to instead attribute the innovation

31 Elizabeth O’Brien, Mapping Death: Burial in Late Iron Age & Early Medieval Ireland, Dublin 2020, p. 68. 32 The Patrician Texts in the Book of Armagh, Ludwig Bieler, Fergus Kelly eds, Dublin 1979, p. 144. 33 Mark Hall, “The Meigle Stones: A Biographical Overview”,  Northern Studies, xlvi (2014), pp. 15–46, sp. p. 18 –19. 34 Charles Thomas,“Form and Function”,  in The St Andrews Sarcophagus: A Pictish Masterpiece and Its International Connections, Sally M. Foster ed., Dublin 1998, pp. 84– 95, sp. p. 95; James T. Lang, The Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, vol. iii: York and Eastern Yorkshire, Oxford 1991, pp. 18, 141–142; Rosemary Cramp, The Corpus of Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture, vol.  i: County Durham and Northumberland, Oxford 1977, p. 124. 35 Bonnie Effros, Merovingian Mortuary Archaeology and the Making of the Early Middle Ages, Berkeley 2003, p. 186. 36 Edward James,“The Continental Context”,  in The St Andrews Sarcophagus (n. 34), pp. 240 –250, sp. p. 245. 37 Ibidem, p. 247. 38 Gregory of Tours, The History of the Franks, Lewis Thorpe ed. and transl., London 1974, book iv, chapter 12, p. 205. 39 Bede, Ecclesiastical History (n. 22), book iv, chapter 19, p. 106 and book iv, chapter 11, p. 64. 40 Alison Tefler, St Martin-in-the-Fields Church, St Martin’s Place, London, wc2, City of Westminster: A Post Excavation Assessment and Updated Project Design, London 2009, p. 25. 41 Ibidem, p. 26. 42 Cramp, Anglo-Saxon Stone Sculpture (n. 34), p. 78; Alan Small, Charles Thomas, David M. Wilson, St Ninian’s Isle and Its Treasure, London 1973, p. 13; Ian Fisher, Early Medieval Sculpture in the West Highlands and Islands, Edinburgh 2001, p. 11. 43 Thomas, The Early Christian Archaeology (n. 1), pp. 160 –162; idem, “Form and Function” (n. 34), p. 90. 44 Jane Geddes, John Boreland, Hunting Picts: Medieval Sculpture at St Vigeans, Angus, Edinburgh 2017, p. 141. 45 Foster, “A Bright Crowd of Chancels” (n. 9), p. 37.

1 / The St Andrews Sarcophagus, St Andrews Cathedral, St Andrews, late 8th or early 9th century

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entirely to an architectural technique for the use of which there is no evidence in Pictland. Local monumental traditions provided a reper­ toire of funerary ritual upon which the developing cult of saints could draw. Cairns were a wide­ spread form of grave marker and their long period of use and longevity as structures means that they coexisted with the stone shrines at church sites. P. J. Ashmore concluded that if a relationship exists between cairns and shrines, it must be that the form of cairns influenced shrines rather than the other way around46. Monumental cemeteries across Pictland had been used since the fifth century. In northern Pictland more than half of the recorded cemeteries contain fewer than six monumental graves, despite being used across a long period. These burials were very occasional and exclusive47. The more modest low cairns of the early medieval period have their origins in the Iron Age, as do the small square barrows which are also found in early medieval Pictland48. These cairns and barrows are generally under 10 m wide and half a meter tall, where they survive upstanding49. Cairns seem to have been flat-topped and were constructed us­ ing a curb of larger stones. Cairns were introduced to Orkney in the fifth century and continued to be built there into the seventh century, when cairn construction waned across Britain. Cairns were above-ground grave markers rather than contain­ ers for human remains but considering that trans­ lation was not a necessary feature of enshrinement in early medieval Britain, these monuments could have influenced the way that the graves of saints were marked and monumentalized. A comparison of three cemeteries reveals that the construction of these cairns is remarkably sim­ ilar despite the distance of the three sites from each other. These cairns are evidence that certain features of graves were gaining widespread sig­ nificance across Northern Britain in the conversion period. These features can also be found in the material culture of saints’ cults in Britain and Ire­ land in the seventh, eighth, and ninth centuries. It is widely accepted that the form and iconography of Pictish symbol stones was a significant influence on the sculpture of Scottish church sites into the eleventh century, but the influence of cairns upon stone shrines is underexplored.

The two cairns at Sandwick on Unst, Shetland, excavated in 1978 and 1980, consisted of square enclosures with sides 4.25 m in length, constructed of stone slabs set on their edges. The interior was carefully packed with angular rubble and covered with beach pebbles, including quartzite pebbles. The mid-point of each side of the curb and the corners were marked with a taller stone50. The grave beneath one of these cairns was radiocarbon dated to the fifth century51. No grave was found beneath the second cairn, despite the presence of cover slabs marking a grave-sized area within the curbed enclosure. Cist graves had previously been exposed by erosion in the area of the cairns, indi­ cating that they were part of a larger cemetery52. In 1925–1926, five square or rectangular cairns and a circular cairn were excavated on a natural mound near Ackergill, Caithness. In the nine­ teenth century a quantity of human remains had been uncovered during the laying of a road which bisects the mound53. The four square cairns mea­ sured between 3 m and 3.65 m and the rectangular cairn measured 6 m by 3.65 m. They were each en­ closed by a curb standing about 30 cm high which was packed with rubble and covered with large pebbles, including quartzite pebbles. The corners of the curbs and the mid-points were marked by taller stones. The graves beneath the cairns, as at Sandwick, were covered by large slabs. Howev­ er, at Ackergill the burials were within cists and one of the cairns covered three cist burials which disturbed each other, presumably from different periods54. The rectangular cairn contained two skeletons, interred at the same time in a single grave, which was divided into two chambers by a slab standing on its edge55. A square cairn excavated in the monumen­ tal cemetery of at least seventeen ditched cairns near Garbeg, Inverness, is a slight variation on the kind of structure found at Sandwick and Acker­ gill but has the same emphasis on corners. The curbed cairn, which was constructed partially from quartzite boulders and measured 2.42 m by 1.68 m, lay within four linear ditches each 3.30 m long. The enclosed area was built up to a height of 15–20 cm with stones and peaty soil56. The cause­ wayed corners of this square-ditched enclosure were marked with boulders57.

The construction of a cairn was a special rather than routine part of funerary ritual. All of these cairns were part of larger cemeteries and the va­ riety of types of cairns found at Ackergill and Garbeg could indicate that these cemeteries were in use for long periods. In these cemeteries certain graves were chosen for elaboration. The square or rectangular cairns incorporating quartzite stone and taller curbs and corners are an important feature of conversion period funerary practice in Northern Scotland [Fig. 2]. The cairns provide an important antecedent for the corner-post shrines from St Ninians Isle, The Isle of Noss, Portma­ homack, and St Andrews. The monumental in­ heritance of the places which produced them was a landscape of barrows, cairns, and symbol stones. A corner-post shrine at Caherlehillan con­ firms that the form was used in Ireland in the early medieval period and is presumed to be of an eighth century date58. The corners of early me­ dieval Irish churches were monumentalized with distinctive decorated antae, or large corner posts59. An Irish tract on church consecration, which prob­ ably dates to the eleventh century, reveals an em­ phasis on corners in the consecration rite60. Tomás Ó Carragáin has analysed the significance of this in the context of early medieval Irish ideas about the Temple in Jerusalem61. The significance of cor­ ners for Christian communities in Ireland and Northern Britain seems to have extended beyond churches and included the monuments which housed the special dead. In their emphasis on corners, their proportions, and elements of their construction, these shrines resemble cairns more closely than continental sarcophagi. An example of the way that traditional fune­ rary monuments were adapted for ecclesiastical contexts is provided by a low cairn, incorporating cross-incised stones as upright curbs, which cov­ ered several early medieval graves of infants on St Ninians Isle62. The carved stone fragment from St Mahew’s Chapel, Cardross, Dunbarton [Fig. 3], is evidence of a hybrid type of grave monument. This end piece resembles two corner posts with a shorter panel between them. The inside faces of the posts are recessed to fit together with side panels. When assembled, these components would form something more like a curbed grave

than the larger corner-post shrines. The end panel is only 45 cm tall and the recessed areas to accommodate the side panels are substan­ tially shorter, making it doubtful that the stone structure was intended to contain an articulated skeleton. This piece of sculpture could be part of a marker above the grave, like a cairn. The dec­ oration of the Cardross panel suggests a tenth century date and Ian Fisher has suggested that this type of monument may have influenced the group of Scottish grave slabs which have vestigial corner posts63. The influence of corner-posts on the development of above-ground grave markers may indicate that corner-post shrines did not always contain human remains but could act as above-ground markers themselves. The white quartz stones which, used in the cairns described above, provide another link between saintly cults and wider funerary 46 P. J. Ashmore, “Low Cairns, Long Cists and Symbol Stones”,  Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, cx (1978), pp. 346 –355, sp. p. 353. 47 Juliette Mitchell, Gordon Noble, “The Monumental Cemete­ ries of Northern Pictland”,  Medieval Archaeology, lvi/1 (2017), pp. 1–40, sp. p. 25. 48 Stephen Driscoll, “Pictish Archaeology: Persistent Problems and Structural Solutions”,  in Pictish Progress: New Studies on Northern Britain in the Middle Ages, Stephen Driscoll, Jane Geddes, Mark Hall eds, Leiden 2010, pp. 245–280, sp. p. 267. 49 Maldonado,“Burial in Early Medieval Scotland”(n. 30), p. 17. 50 Gerald F. Bigelow,“Two Kerbed Cairns from Sandwick, Unst, Shetland”,  in Pictish Studies: Settlement, Burial, and Art in Dark Age Northern Britain, John G. P. Friell, W. G. Watson eds, Oxford 1984, pp. 115–130, sp. p. 115. 51 Ibidem, p. 121. 52 Ibidem. 53 Arthur Evans, Thomas Bryce, “Excavation of a Number of Graves in a Mound at Ackergill, Caithness: With a Report on the Skeletal Remains from the Graves”, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, lx (1926), pp. 160 –182, sp. p. 161. 54 Ibidem, p. 167. 55 Ibidem, p. 168. 56 Laurie MacLagan Wedderburn, Dorothy Grime, “The Cairn Cemetery at Garbeg, Drumnadrochit”, in Pictish Studies (n. 50), pp. 151–168, sp. p. 156. 57 Ibidem, p. 165. 58 John Sheehan,“A Peacock’s Tale: Excavations at Caherlehillan, Iveragh, Ireland”, in The Archaeology of the Early Medieval Celtic Churches (n. 12), pp. 192–206, sp. p. 199. 59 Tomás Ó Carragáin, Churches in Early Medieval Ireland: Architecture, Ritual and Memory, London 2010, p. 39. 60 Ibidem. 61 Ibidem, p. 47. 62 Rachel Barrowman, The Chapel and Burial Ground on St Ninian’s Isle, Shetland: Excavations Past and Present, London 2011, p. 182. 63 Fisher, Early Medieval Sculpture (n. 42), p. 18.

137

N

1m 1m

138

and commemorative practices. An early me­dieval grave surrounded by pitched stone liners and cov­ ered with quartz pebbles at Capel Maelog, Powys, was later incorporated into a church64. On the Isle of Man, the Ronaldsway stone was part of an “open chest” filled with quartz pebbles65. The symbolic use of quartz, which has been widespread since prehistory, was incorporated into Christian prac­ tice very quickly, and is referenced in the Book of Revelation66. Miracles worked by Columba us­ ing a white stone show the connection between quartz and saints had been made both in Ireland and Scotland by the seventh century. Quartz stones are relatively rare in graves in Ireland in the early medieval period and seem to have de­ creased in use up to the tenth century67. Howev­ er, they are found at seven early medieval Irish church sites and at five of those in substantial numbers68. These collections, deposited not in churches but in cemeteries, are interpreted as ev­ idence of pilgrimage69. The use of quartz at these sites is an example of a material ritual with a long history being redeployed in a new religious con­ text with new meaning. Stone structures within graves, as well as over them, could also have influenced the development of composite stone shrines. Long cists in Northern Britain have their origins in the Iron Age and may have been used to distinguish special graves rath­ er than as a routine part of burial. Stone-lined graves usually made up less than 15% of graves

in a Late Roman British cemetery70. In the post-­ Roman period, cist graves became widespread in Scotland, making up the majority of graves in early medieval monumental cemeteries. However, as these cemeteries themselves were exclusive, cists may be more exceptional than they first ap­ pear. The absence of grave goods in Northern and Western Britain has meant that discussions of status and investment in the grave has been more limited than in the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms. Adrián Maldonado has argued that cists could play a similar role to grave goods because the sourcing and placing of the stone was a significant and symbolic investment in the grave71. He argues that the choice of stone itself could convey mean­ ing to the audience of the burial. Roman stone was reused for cists in the Scottish borders and Pictish sculpted stones were reused for linings at Easterton of Roseisle, Moray; Drambuie, Iverness; and Dunrobin, Sutherland72. The use of cists in Scotland waned over the seventh century, along with burial in these exclusive monumental cem­ eteries. These carefully constructed containers for human remains provide an antecedent for the composite sarcophagi, in an area where Roman stone sarcophagi were absent. The stone-lined grave tradition, although never as dominant as in Scotland, persisted else­ where in Britain: a cemetery of seventeen slate­­ lined and capped graves dated to the eighth and ninth centuries was discovered in Padstow,

N

1m

2 / Cairns at Sandwick, Unst (left), Ackergill, Caithness (centre), and Garbeg, Inverness (right), 5th–7th centuries 3 / Shrine end panel, St Mahew’s Chapel, Cardross, Dunbarton, 8th or 9th century

Cornwall73. Although complete cists are rare in Wales head-cists, stones forming a box around the head, have been found at Llanfair Garth, Bangor, and at Capel Maelog, Powys, and pillow stones were used at Llandough, Penarth, and the Atlantic Trading Estates, Barry74. Within the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms cists were less common but were used in Bernicia in the sixth century75. A cemetery dated to the seventh and eighth centuries at Bowl Hole, within sight of the royal settlement at Bamburgh, used stone liners as part of grave structure with wooden components76. Three cemeteries in Nor­ folk – Spong Hill, Morning Thorpe, and Bergh Apton – contain graves with similar use of flints to support wooden grave structures77. Stone and wood might be used interchangeably or in com­ bination where necessary because burial practices were shaped in part by the local availability of skills and resources. The composite construction of stone shrines using panels more closely relates to the composite grave structures and cists found throughout Britain in cemeteries in Northumbria and East Anglia as well as British and Pictish areas. Wooden grave structures, which were much more common than stone grave structures in the east of Britain, provide the material context for understanding the earliest Northumbrian stone shrines. Wooden containers suitable for transport and display, like Cuthbert’s coffin, are found in some early medieval burials. Elizabeth Craig-Atkins’ analysis of chest burials

concludes that these burials represent an act of conspicuous consumption78. Chests are distin­ guished by their functioning lids and have been identified at twenty-three early medieval ce­ meteries in the United Kingdom79. Eighteen of those twenty-three sites are in Northern England. 64 Heather James, “Early Medieval Cemeteries in Wales”, in The Early Church in Wales and the West: Recent Work in Early Christian Archaeology, History and Place-Names, Nancy Edwards, Alan Lane eds, Oxford 1992, pp. 90 –104, sp. p. 98. 65 David Wilson, Manx Crosses: A Handbook of Stone Sculpture 500 –1040 in the Isle of Man, Oxford 2018, p. 38. 66 Rev. 2, 17. 67 O’Brien, Mapping Death (n. 31), p. 121. 68 Ibidem, pp. 121, 223. 69 Ryan Lash, “Pebbles and Peregrinatio: The Taskscape of Me­ dieval Devotion on Inishark Island, Ireland”, Medieval Archae­ ology, lxii/1 (2018), pp. 83–104, sp. p. 99. 70 Dave E. Farwell, Theya Ivitsky Molleson, Excavations at Pound­ bury 1966 – 80, vol. ii: The Cemeteries, Dorchester 1993, p. 228. 71 Maldonado,“Burial in Early Medieval Scotland”(n. 30), p. 14. 72 Ibidem, p. 15. 73 Pru Manning, Peter Stead, “Excavation of an Early Christian Cemetery at Althea Library, Padstow”, Cornish Archaeology. Hendhyscans Kernow, xli (2002), pp. 80 –106, sp. p. 80. 74 David Longley, “Early Medieval Burial in Wales”, The Archaeology of the Early Medieval Celtic Churches (n. 12), pp. 105–132, p. 110. 75 Sarah Groves et al.,“The Bowl Hole Early Medieval Cemetery at Bamburgh, Excavations 1998 to 1999”, Archaeologia Aeliana, xxxviii (2009), pp. 105–122, sp. p. 119. 76 Ibidem, p. 119. 77 Kenneth Penn et al., Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Inhumation Burial: Morning Thorpe, Spong Hill, Bergh Apton and Westgarth Gardens, Dereham 2007, p. 83. 78 Elizabeth Craig-Atkins,“Chest Burial: A Middle Anglo-Saxon Funerary Rite from Northern England”, Oxford Journal of Archaeology, xxxiii/3 (2012), pp. 317–337, sp. p. 333. 79 Ibidem, p. 319.

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4 / Shrine side panel, All Saints’ Church, Hovingham, North Yorkshire, late 8th or early 9th century 5 / Grave cover or shrine lid, St Gregory’s Minster, Kirkdale, North Yorkshire, early 9th century 6 / Grave cover or shrine lid, St Gregory’s Minster, Kirkdale, North Yorkshire, late 8th or early 9th century

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The only site from Scotland to contain a chest burial is Whithorn. Of those eighteen cemeter­ ies, none seem to have been in use later than the ninth century80. The distribution is focused east of the Pennines between the Tees and the Humber81. Chest burial seems to be associated with high-­ status ecclesiastical sites but has also been found at non-ecclesiastical sites such as Thwing and Spofforth. Where human remains were reco­vered during excavation, it seems that chest burial was usually but not exclusively provided for adult males82. Chest burials are a small minority where they occur – there are fewer than ten in most of the cemeteries where they are found, and they con­ stitute less than 5% of the total burials from those cemeteries83. Chest burial was an exclusive funer­ ary rite used for men, women, adults, and children. Chest burial provides an interesting com­ parison for the Northumbrian stone shrines of the eighth and ninth century such as those from Jedburgh, Monkwearmouth, Hackness, Hovingham [Fig. 4]; Kirkdale [Figs 5–6]; and York. If chests were an important feature of burial for both ecclesiastical and lay elites at the end of the seventh century, then they could have influenced the creation of stone containers for human re­ mains in the eighth and ninth centuries when investment in stone sculpture was booming.

The fact that chest burials have been found at Whithorn, Wearmouth, Ripon, and York Minster, shows they were part of the same material culture and mortuary practice that produced the great saintly cults of Northumbria. The richly furnished graves of the seventh cen­ tury reveal that wooden boxes were prized per­ sonal possessions of the richest men and women and were perhaps symbols of a particular status or office84. Wooden caskets with metal fittings have been found in the Prittlewell chamber grave, in bed burials at Swallowcliffe Down and Edix Hill, in a boat burial at Snape, and in the double burial at Sewerby85. These boxes contained tools, heirlooms, potentially amuletic objects such as fossils and animal bones, and ritual objects such as silver spoons, a silver-coated bronze “sprinkler” and a skillet decorated with silver and garnets86. The significance of these boxes in the burial of important individuals in the seventh century is relevant to the emergence of reliquaries. The box into which Ælfflæd placed Cuthbert’s girdle was probably the same kind of box as those buried in the graves mentioned above. The box commis­ sioned by Wilfrid was a more highly decorated version, intended for public display. However, the box from the Prittlewell chamber grave is painted with designs similar to those found on

metalwork and demonstrates that wooden boxes might not have been so easily distinguishable from decorated reliquaries87. This illustrates how the emergence of relic cults in early medieval Britain was interwoven with the material culture of elite status. Just as stone composite shrines in Northumbria may have been influenced by the fashion for chest burial in the eighth century, another wooden 80 81 82 83 84 85

Craig-Atkins, “Chest Burial” (n. 78), p. 320. Ibidem. Ibidem, p. 327. Ibidem, p. 323. Hamerow, “Furnished Female Burial” (n. 26), p. 434. Lyn Blackmore et al., The Prittlewell Princely Burial: Excava­tions at Priory Crescent, Southend-on-Sea, Essex, 2003, London 2019, p. 104; George Speake, A Saxon Bed Burial on Swallowcliffe Down: Excavations by F. de M. Vatcher, London 1989, p. 29; Tim Malim, John Hines, Corinne Duhig, The Anglo-Saxon Cemetery at Edix Hill (Barrington a), Cambridgeshire: Excavations 1989 –1991 and a Summary Catalogue of Material from 19th Century Interventions, York 1998, p. 52; William Filmer-­Sankey et al., Snape Anglo-Saxon Cemetery: Excavations and Surveys 1824–1992, Ipswich 2001, p. 107; Sue Hirst, An Anglo-Saxon Inhumation Cemetery at Sewerby, East Yorkshire, York 1985, p. 37. 86 Speake, A Saxon Bed Burial (n. 85), p. 41; Helena Hamerow, “A Conversion-Period Burial in an Ancient Landscape: A High-Status Female Grave near the Rollright Stones, Oxfordshire/Warwickshire”, in The Land of the English Kin: Studies in Wessex and Anglo-Saxon England in Honour of Professor Barbara Yorke, Alexander Langlands, Ryan Lavelle eds, Leiden 2020, pp. 231–244, sp. p. 232. 87 Blackmore et al., The Prittlewell Princely Burial (n. 85), p. 153.

141

The St Alkmund’s Sarcophagus, 9th or 10th century / Derby Museum and Art Gallery (Derby)

142

grave-type may have influenced the development of monolithic stone sarcophagi. The two surviv­ ing monolithic sarcophagi from Britain, one dis­ covered during the demolition of St Alkmund’s Church, Derby [Fig. 7] and one discovered in the graveyard of the old parish Church of Govan  [Fig. 8], do not resemble Romano-British or Merovingian sarcophagi. The rounded edges and irregular shapes of these monuments do not correspond with chests or plank grave structures either. These impressive monuments may reveal the influence of another elite burial tradition: the use of log coffins and dug-out boats. Log coffins are found in a broad distribution across Britain. This grave type appears to have been used selec­ tively in some cemeteries and extensively at a few sites. The production and transporting of log coffins required a considerable amount of labor. Felling, hollowing, and burying a whole mature tree was an act of conspicuous consumption in a society which built almost everything from wood. Log coffins could be embellished with clasps and could have been carved with decora­ tion. Far from being a simple or rustic container, log coffins represent a significant investment of resources in the burial.

These large, heavy containers were used for the burials of kings at both traditional cemeter­ ies and church sites in the seventh century. The burial under mound 17 at Sutton Hoo used a log coffin with iron clasps, and troughs or dug-out boats were used at two other burials at the site88. At another exceptionally high-status cemetery in Suffolk, Snape, canoe-like log-built boats between two and three meters in length were used for two burials. In one of these burials, only part of a boat was buried in the grave89. A horse head associated with one of the boat burials pro­ duced a radiocarbon date range of 430–670 ce90. Boat burials have been found at four early me­ dieval cemeteries in the Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms, all in Suffolk91. A canoe-­shaped log coffin from Quernmore, Lancaster, was originally published as Bronze Age but returned a radiocarbon date 430–970 ce. The body was extended and wrapped in a wool textile92. Twenty-one of the grave linings from the large cemetery at Mucking, Essex, have been identified as tree-trunks, although these var­ ied in shape from deep troughs to shallow biers93. An early medieval cemetery at Great Ryburgh, Norfolk, contained seventy-two burials in log coffins made from mature oak trees94. The bone

preservation was inconsistent but, where identifi­ able, the bodies were adults95. Another large ceme­ tery of log coffins was discovered near Haltwhistle in Northumberland in the nineteenth century96. In some areas of Britain, the resemblance between log coffins and boats could have highlighted the role of the coffin as a vessel for transportation and reaffirmed the riverine or maritime connections of the deceased and those who mourned them. Log coffin burials are important analogues for the St Alkmund’s and Govan sarcophagi. The di­ mensions and shape of these monuments could refer to the log coffins of kings and Church leaders of the seventh and eighth centuries rather than to Roman sarcophagi. More than one hundred burials in log coffins have been identified in Scotland, across six sites, including fifty-four at Whithorn and forty-five at Thornybank97. Radio­ carbon dating of log coffins from Thornybank and Forteviot returned date ranges between the fifth and seventh centuries98. All three of the “special graves” at Thornybank were log coffin burials, one was marked with a square enclosure with evidence of a wooden sill beam structure, another was associated with a four-post structure, and the third was a child-sized coffin beneath the

remains of a cairn or curbed monument99. The presence of log coffins at the major ecclesiastical sites of Whithorn and Iona shows that this gravetype was used for high-status burials in both tra­ ditional monumental cemeteries and cemeteries associated with churches. A tenth-century ele­ gy for Bridei, son of Bili, who was buried at Iona 88 Martin Carver, Angela Care Evans, Andrew John Copp, Sutton Hoo: A Seventh-Century Princely Burial Ground and Its Context, London 2005, p. 298. 89 Filmer-Sankey et al., Snape Anglo-Saxon cemetery (n. 85), p. 196. 90 Ibidem, p. 111. 91 Carver/Evans/Copp, Sutton Hoo (n. 88), p. 304. 92 Nigel Melton et al., “On the Curious Date of the Rylstone Log-Coffin Burial”, Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, lxxxi (2016), pp. 383–392, sp. p. 385. 93 Sue Hirst, Dido Clark, Excavations at Mucking, Essex, vol. 3: The Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, London 2009, pp. 468, 646 – 652. 94 Jim Fairclough, Mark Holmes, Interim Statement and Programme of Assessment for Archaeological Excavations at Mill Lodge Farm, Great Ryburgh, Norfolk January to June 2016, London 2016, p. 8. 95 Ibidem, p. 10. 96 Thomas Snagge, “Some Account of Ancient Oaken Coffins Discovered on the Lands Adjoining Featherstone Castle, near Haltwhistle, Northumberland”, Archaeologia, xliv/1 (1873), pp. 8 –16, sp. p. 10 –11. 97 Adrián Maldonado, “Early Medieval Burial in European Context: Log Coffins in Scotland”, in Scotland in Early Medieval Europe, Alice Blackwell ed., Edinburgh 2019, pp. 117–134, sp. p. 117. 98 Ibidem, p. 125. 99 Maldonado, "Early Medieval Burial" (n. 97), p. 123.

7 / The Govan Sarcophagus, Govan Old Parish Church, Glasgow, 9th or 10th century

143

in 692 ce, records that he was buried in an oak log coffin100. The elegist of Bridei considered an oak coffin a lowly resting place for a king. The ar­ chaeological evidence, however, indicates that the contrary was true. By the tenth century there were impressive above-ground monuments with which to compare this fleeting form of funerary display, but the memory of log coffins was not entirely lost. Conclusion This brief consideration of early medieval Insu­lar shrines and their context has highlighted sever­ al material continuities between the mortuary practice of the seventh century and the emerging cults of relics. Firstly, although Roman sarcophagi were a feature of both elite burial and enshrine­ ment in the seventh century, this was rare and confined to areas with accessible Roman spolia. The corner-post shrines of Scotland and Ireland may have instead drawn on the monumental rep­ ertoire of cairns and cists. The native tradition of using stone for grave-linings and markers were as much a part of the development of stone shrines as the increasingly frequent use of carved stone for ecclesiastical sculpture and architecture. Sec­ ondly, the earliest composite stone shrines from Northumbria coincide, both chronologically and geographically, with the phenomenon of chest burial. Chest burial may relate to the deposition of wooden boxes in high-status graves in the sev­ enth century. These boxes, along with hints in the written record, suggest that reliquaries developed from the personal containers used by elite men and women for storing valuables and ritual equip­ ment. Furthermore, the two surviving monolithic

144

sarcophagi from Britain could recall the log cof­ fins which were widely used in high-status buri­ als at church sites and in traditional cemeteries in the seventh century. This suggests that surviving stone shrines may be skeuomorphs of the wooden containers which became a feature of the burial of local political elite in the seventh century. These relationships of form and function can help reveal aspects of the development of saints’ cults which have been previously unexplored. Namely, that the material culture of shrines re­ called the funerals and graves of local elites. The shrine, as well as connecting the community to the coming kingdom through the saint’s presence in heaven, connected with ancestral authority and ancestral landscapes. As summarized by Christopher Scull in a book chapter about burial and conversion in seventh-century England, “the response to Christianity was not to abandon the traditional but to deploy traditional forms and media in new ways to express the novel”101. What have been previously referred to as “final phase” burials may actually be the first stage in the de­ velopment of a new language of mortuary ritual, adapted for use by an increasingly powerful po­ litical elite, whose relationship to the institutions of the Christian Church was rapidly changing. In early medieval Britain and Ireland shrines were not just outcomes of conversion but part of the process of Christianization. 100 Maldonado, “Early Medieval Burial” (n. 97), p. 117. 101 Christopher Scull,“Chronology, Burial and Conversion: The Case of England in the 7th Century”, in Dying Gods: Religious Beliefs in Northern and Eastern Europe in the Time of Christianisation, Christiane Ruhmann, Vera Brieske eds, Hannover 2015, pp. 73– 84, sp. p. 80.

summary Svatyně, zvláštní pohřební praktiky a christianizace Británie

Tento text byl původně zamýšlen jako pří­ spěvek na konferenci Materiality and Conversion. Materiální kultura může historikům pomoci lépe pochopit složité a nelineární procesy konverze a christianizace Británie a Irska, které probíhaly nejintenzivněji – ale ne výhradně – mezi pátým a sedmým stoletím. Když se v sedmém století rozvinul kult relikvií, relikvie se mezi obyvateli Británie a Irska rychle staly důležitou součástí náboženské praxe. S úctou k ostatkům se pojí některé dochované kamenné sochy z raně stře­ dověkých svatyní, které tvoří důležitý pramen ke studiu konverze a christianizace. Svatyně je totiž nutno zasadit do širšího kontextu ostrovní pohřební praxe. Připomínání a uctívání nebylo v raném středověku v Británii a Irsku rozlišeno ab­ solutně, což vedlo ke vzniku celého spektra zvlášt­ ních pohřebních praktik. Autorka tohoto textu se zabývá vlivem různých typů hrobek a dalších po­ hřebních památek na vývoj křesťanských svatyní. Poukazuje tak na formální a funkční podobnosti mezi hroby elit na tradičních pohřebištích a sva­ tyněmi při křesťanských kostelech. Článek ukazuje, že ačkoli se v sedmém sto­ letí římské sarkofágy objevovaly jako prvek při pohřbívání elit a uchovávání ostatků, bylo jejich užití spíše vzácné a omezovalo se na oblasti, kde byla dostupná římská spolia. Pro nárožní svatyně ve Skotsku a Irsku byly namísto toho podnětem nejspíše kamenné mohyly – navršené, vyhlou­ bené skříňkové a nízké. Lokální tradice, ve které

se na obložení a vyznačení náhrobků používaly kameny, pokračovala v rámci tvorby kamenných svatyní, zároveň byl však v církevní sochařské a architektonické tvorbě stále častěji využíván kámen tesaný. Příspěvek také naznačuje souvislost mezi fe­ noménem pohřbívání do truhel a vznikem sdru­ žených kamenných svatyní v sedmém a osmém století v Northumbrii. Pohřbívání do truhel by se rovněž mohlo pojit se zvykem umisťovat dřevěné schránky do významných hrobů, který existoval v anglosaských královstvích v sedmém století. Tyto schránky v souladu s indiciemi v písemných záznamech naznačují, že se forma relikviářů mohla vyvinout z osobních schránek používa­ ných privilegovanými vrstvami k ukládání cen­ ností a rituálního vybavení. Monolitické sarkofágy z Británie navíc mohou připomínat dřevěné rakve, které se v sedmém století hojně užívaly při po­ hřbech vysoce postavených osob při kostelích a na tradičních pohřebištích. Popsané vztahy mezi formou a  funkcí mo­ hou pomoci odhalit dosud neprobádané aspekty vývoje kultů světců: formy užívané pro svatyně připomínaly pohřby a hroby místních elit. Lze proto soudit, že svatyně hrály svou nezastupitel­ nou roli při snaze uchovat a redefinovat identitu a autoritu místního panstva a vysoce postavených osob. V raně středověké Británii a Irsku nebyly svatyně pouze výsledkem konverze, ale součástí procesu christianizace.

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Abstract – Converting Minds, Eyes, and Bodies? The Early Cult of Relics Between Rhetoric and Material Practices in Northern Italy and Gallia – The idea of displacing bodies or bodyparts for the Christian cult of saints and relics represented a fundamental departure from the ancient relationship with bodies and bodily remains. Promoters of the cult in the fourth century, such as Ambrose of Milan, thus had to justify these new practices within a network of rhetorical and material realities, creating an ideological “frame” that mirrored the physical one – the reliquaries housing the relics themselves. Two centuries later, in the age of Gregory of Tours, these accepted practices were reframed in yet another geographical and cultural realm, paving the way for the medieval cult of relics. Against the backdrop of this classical narrative, this article aims to understand the tension between the intellectual and ideal setting of the cult of relics promoted by Ambrose and his circle and its actual material reality and transformations over the two centuries leading up to Gregory’s time. Specifically, the paper focuses on the new practices around martyrs’ relics put into place by the bishop of Milan, and how they spread via the contemporary networks of the ecclesiastic and intellectual elite. Secondly, based on the analysis of selected objects from the fourth-century Italian Peninsula such as the San Nazaro casket and the small capsella at Garlate, as well as on sources describing the performance of relics, the article examines the actual effectiveness of the cult’s material implementation as opposed to its rhetorical framing. Ultimately, it questions the efficacy and longevity of the initial networking promoted by Ambrose, especially when implemented in a place and time where Romanization and Christianization underwent a different set of parameters than in Milan. Keywords – Ambrose of Milan, cult of relics, Christian reliquaries, Gallia, Gregory of Tours, material culture, Northern Italy, transformations of the Late Roman world Alžběta Filipová & Adrien Palladino Masaryk University [email protected] [email protected]

Converting Minds, Eyes, and Bodies?

The Early Cult of Relics Between Rhetoric and Material Practices in Northern Italy and Gallia* Alžběta Filipová & Adrien Palladino

Introduction The cult of saints and their bodily remains is amongst the most radical transformations of the religious and funerary spheres of Roman culture during Late Antiquity. In its developments, the cult implies an ensemble of practices linked with dis­ turbing, profaning, manipulating, and ultimately fragment­ing cadavers. As such, the emerging cult had to be justified, promoted, and fostered by fig­ ures able to turn such condemnable practices into legitimate acts of devotion. Amongst these figures, Ambrose of Milan (340–397 ce), in the late fourth century, emerges as a key personality. Unsurpris­ ingly, the Milanese bishop has been singled out by historiography to be one of the main designers of the intellectual setting of the cult of relics in the Latin West. Mainly through exchanges with his vast network, Ambrose succeeded in spreading his ideas and practices to various parts of the Ro­ manized world. In doing so, he managed to make

something what was in essence a localized phe­ nomenon into a “global”practice. This networking was apparently so efficient that, by the end of the sixth century, the numerous stories of Gregory of Tours (538–594 ce) account for a massive spread of the veneration of saints and their relics through­ out Merovingian Francia. It thus appears that, within two centuries, the earthly remains of the saints gained a strong and enduring position in the devotional practices of the Christianized peoples. Yet how is it that the cult of enshrined and essentially invisible fragments and bodies became a vector of communal piety? This paper aims to understand the tension between the intellectual and ideal setting of the cult of relics promoted by Ambrose and his circle * This article was written in the frame of the project “Mate­ rial Histories of Late Antique Culture – from reliquaries to diptychs – muni/ff-dean/0120/2021”.

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and its actual material reality and transformations over these two centuries. The choice of the longue durée timespan encompasses a second key figure who shaped the idea of relics in the Latin West two centuries later, Gregory of Tours. Ambrose and Gregory, at two different moments and for diffe­rent reasons, justified and promoted the cult of relics, offering, through their words and stories, the reflection of a certain material reality. Within this thematic volume on the “materiality of con­ version”, we thus wish to consider the notion of “conversion” in its enlarged sense, as a change in mentalities accompanied by a set of practices which modified, or “converted”, the meaning of materials, ideas, and rituals. In other words, the goal of the article is to investigate the efficacy of the material dimensions of the cult of relics, con­ si­d­ered in contrast to the rhetorical apparatus set up by some of its most ardent promoters. To do so, we will follow three main lines which structure this article. Firstly, we wish to frame the transformation brought about by the cult of relics and their containers around the most prominent promoter of this cult in the Latin West during the fourth century: Ambrose of Milan. He is one of the first figures in the pars Occidentalis to intro­ duce the fragmentation and movement of relics, promo­ting their integration within new devotion­ al practices. Secondly, we will take a closer look at the scarce material evidence around this key moment. The two cases selected – the San Nazaro casket and the San Garlate deposit – bring to light how the material and conceptual implementation of early reliquaries unfurled, a process drawing on both innovation and conversion of preexist­ ing practices. Finally, in the case of fifth-century Gallia, we will question the efficacy and longevity of the initial networking promoted by Ambrose when implemented in a place and time where Christianization was still underway. Ambrose’s ingenuity and the original ideal

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Three ingenious actions of Ambrose, bishop of Milan from 374 to 397 ce, stand at the beginning of the process of “conversion” to the cult of relics1. The first was the association of relics with an altar and thus the permanent sacralization of

the church space. This was done the first time by introducing imported relics of apostles John, Thomas, and Andrew, to the Basilica Apostolorum in Milan in 3862. How Ambrose had obtained these relics is debated; nevertheless, they either must have come from Rome or, more plausibly, from Constantinople3. As for their nature, it is probable that these were tiny fragments of bones and con­ tact relics made of textiles, known as brandea4. This action can be interpreted as an adaptation of the erection of altars and churches above mar­ tyrs’ tombs. This is especially true if we consid­ er that the Apostles’ Basilica was a monumental church located outside of the city walls. However, Ambrose also emphasized another aspect in his writings: the association linking the sacrifice of Christ, reenacted by the priest at the altar table, to the sacrifice of the martyrs5. This became a re­ current theme also in the texts of the members of Ambrose’s circle of amicitia, which we can find, for instance, in Augustine, or Maximus of Turin6. By placing the relics within the church space, Ambrose stressed their thaumaturgic, protective, and sanctifying powers, which he intended to make available to his entire congregation. Over the following years, enclosing relics in altars be­ came standard practice for the dedication of new churches, whilst the consecration of an altar with relics of one or several saints was made compul­ sory only at the Second Council of Nicaea in 787 7. Shortly after the relic deposition in the Basilica Apostolorum, an even bigger translatio was or­ chestrated by Ambrose in Milan. During this second key action, the bodies of the martyrized converted soldiers Gervasius and Protasius were deposited in the new basilica, called Ambrosiana, built with the purpose of housing the sepulture of the bishop himself8. These previously unknown martyrs had required an act termed as inventio9. The martyrs revealed themselves miraculously to the bishop of Milan, although he had portrayed his city as being hitherto “sterile of martyrs”10. Of course, this inventio must be seen against the complex backdrop of the tense religious and po­ litical situation between the Homoean imperial court and the Nicene bishop. Therefore, this deed had, first of all, a decisive impact on the consol­ idation of the community of Nicene Christians

around their bishop. But, more importantly, it set an example to follow. Ambrose himself reit­ erated a miraculous discovery few years later in Bologna, where he attended the unearthing of the bodies of two saints, Agricola and Vitalis, and again in Milan in 395, for the bodies of Nazarius and Celsus11. Other graves of local martyrs were identified or confirmed in the following years and decades in different parts of the Roman Empire, for instance Saint Maurice in Agaune, Saint Saturninus in Toulouse, and Saint Felix in Nola12. Moreover, the Ambrosian inventio was also the precedent to the most famous discovery of the body of the protomartyr Stephen, in 415 in the area around Jerusalem13. One may argue that the precedent of find­ ing relics, especially in Jerusalem, had been set by the inventio of the True Cross by Saint Helen, Constantine’s mother. But we must consider the crucial difference between unearthing a dead body and unearthing an object, however sacred it may be, as well as between the principal agents of such actions14. The Roman tradition forbade dealing with dead bodies once they were buried, since they be­came impure; not only were dead bodies not to be buried within the pomoerium, but tomb viola­ tion was considered an extremely severe offense15. 1

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Regarding the tension between practices in the pars Occidentalis and pars Orientalis, see Alessandro Bonfiglio, “Il culto dei martiri secondo Ambrogio: la formazione di un paradigma tra Roma e Costantinopoli”,  Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana, xcv (2019), pp. 163–206; for a broad history of the early cult of relics, see Robert Wiśniewski, The Beginnings of the Cult of Relics, Oxford / New York 2019. aass Nov. ii, 2, 241 (9 May). Cf. Markus Löx,“L’‘architectus sapiens’ Ambrogio e le chiese di Milano”,  in Milano allo specchio: da Costantino al Barbarossa, l’autopercezione di una capitale, Ivan Foletti, Irene Quadri, Marco Rossi eds, Rome 2016, pp. 55– 80, sp. p. 64, with previous bibliography. Ibidem, p. 64; Enrico Villa, “Il culto agli apostoli nell’Italia settentrionale alla fine del sec. iv”,  Ambrosius, xxxxiii (1957), pp. 245–264, sp. p. 262; Yves-Marie Duval, “Aquilée et la Palestine entre 370 et 420”,  in Aquileia e l’Oriente mediterraneo, Conference proceedings (Aquileia, 24 April – 1 May 1976), vol. i, Udine 1977, pp. 263–322, 307–308. Marco Navoni, “Per una storia della capsella argentea: da Ambrogio a Carlo Borromeo fino ai nostri giorni”,  in Il tesoro di San Nazaro. Antichi argenti liturgici della basilica di San  Nazaro al Museo Diocesano di Milano, Gemma Sena Chiesa ed., Milan 2009, pp. 17–26. Ambrose of Milan, Epistle 77, 13, in Opera omnia di Sant’ Ambrogio, Lettere, vols xix–xxi, Gabriele Banterle ed., Milan/ Rome 1988, pp. 162–163. Augustine of Hippo, Sermon 221, in pl, 34, col. 2154; Maximus of Turin, Sermon lxxvii, in pl, 57, col. 689.

Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, vol.  12, pp. 951–1154 and vol. 13, pp. 759 – 820. Cf. Ann Marie Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult, and Community, Cambridge 2009, pp. 154–155. 8 Ambrose of Milan, Epistle 77, 13, pp. 162–163; Ernst Dassmann, “Ambrosius und die Märtyrer”, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, xviii (1975), pp. 49 – 68; Mark Hum­ phries, Communities of the Blessed: Social Environment and Religious Change in Northern Italy, ad 200 –400, pp. 53–54, 223–224; Ivan Foletti, Objects, Relics, and Migrants. The Basilica of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan and the Cult of its Saints (386 – 972), Rome 2020, pp. 38 –45. 9 On the discovery of relics, albeit limited to the “Eastern” world, see Estelle Cronnier, Les inventions de reliques dans l’Empire romain d’Orient (ive–vie s.), Turnhout 2015. On Ambrose’s inventiones, see Alan Thacker, “Loca sanctorum: The Significance of Place in the Study of the Saints”,  in Local Saints and Local Churches in the Early Medieval West, Alan Thacker, Richard Sharpe eds, Oxford 2002, pp. 1–43, sp. pp. 5–12 and Alžběta Filipová, Milan sans frontières. Le culte et la circulation des reliques ambrosiennes, l’art et l’architecture (ive–vie siècle), Rome 2019, pp. 28 –30. 10 “sterilem martyribus ecclesiam Mediolanensem”,  Ambrose, Epistle 77, 7 in csel, 82, 3, p. 131. For a discussion on the use of this term, see Bonfiglio, “Il culto dei martiri” (n. 1), sp. pp. 165–166. 11 Paulinus of Milan, Life of Ambrose, 29, 1, in Le fonti latine su Sant’Ambrogio, Daniele Banterle ed., Milan/Rome 1991, pp. 62– 63. Cf. Cesare Pasini, “S. Nazaro e Celso, martiri  (†303)”,  in Dizionario dei santi della Chiesa di Milano, Cesare Pasini ed., Milan 1995, pp. 91– 95. 12 The discoveries in Agaune: Eucherius of Lyon, Passio Acauneusium martyrum, vii, 12–20, in csel, 31, p. 171; in Toulouse: Gregory of Tours, De gloria martyrum, 48, in Le livre des miracles et autres opuscules de Georges Florent Grégoire, évêque de Tours, vol. i, Henri L. Bordier ed., Paris 1857, pp. 138 –141. There is an ongoing debate about the primacy of the action; it is not possible to know if the inventio in Agaune had preceded the Milanese one. An earlier inventio is mentioned anecdotally by Gregory of Nazianzus around 379 for the body of Saint Cyprian, which had been hidden in a woman’s house before being returned to the community, whilst Egeria, in her pil­ grimage account written around 381–384, recalls the legend of the inventio of Job at a sanctuary at Karnaia/Carnas, in Palestine, Egeria, Itinerary 13.1 and 16.5– 7. But the latter do not involve moving the body, as in the case of Gervasius and Protasius. Cf. Otto Wermelinger, “Die inventio martyrum bei Theodorus und Ambrosius: Die Frage der Priorität”,  in Mauritius und die Thebäische Legion, Conference Proceedings (Freiburg, Saint-Maurice, Martigny, 17–20 September 2003), Otto Wermelinger, Philippe Bruggisser, Beat Näf, Jean-Michel Roessli eds, Fribourg 2005, pp. 163–172. 13 Victor Saxer, “Aux origines du culte de saint Étienne pro­ tomartyr. La préhistoire de la révélation de ses reliques”,  in Les miracles de saint Étienne; Recherches sur le recueil pseudo-augustinien (bhl, 7860 –  7861), Jean Meyers ed., Turnhout 2006, pp. 37–46. 14 See Anthony J. Lappin, “Disturbing Bones: from Grave-­ Violation to Exaltation of the Relic”,  Mirator, xix/1 (2018), pp. 4–31. 15 Jill Harries, “Death and the Dead in the Late Roman West”,  in Death in Towns: Urban Responses to the Dying and the Dead, Steven Bassett ed., Leicester 1992, pp. 56 – 67; Arnaud Paturet, “La mort, la souillure, la terre et le droit dans l’ancienne Rome”,  otium. Archeologia e cultura del mondo antico, iii (2017), available online at: http://www.otium.unipg.it/otium/article/view/32 [last accessed 15.11.2021]; Lappin, “Disturbing Bones” (n. 14), passim. 7

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To disturb, touch, or move them could be done only with the approval of the emperor, as were some of the earliest, fourth-century relic trans­ lations16. Ambrose thus had to act with great care when unearthing and moving the bodies of Gervasius and Protasius. One of his possible justifications was that he provided a decent grave to the two saints, and we know that the same year, in 386, an exception for martyrs’ graves was intro­ duced in the Codex Theodosianum17. Nevertheless, Ambrose acted on his own authority, and such acts, as we will see, required a careful rhetorical fram­ ing to make the taboo acceptable and be justified. The third of Ambrose’s cutting-edge actions, and the one with the most immediate impact, was the distribution of relics of Gervasius and Protasius that started soon after the discovery of their bodies. The testimonies of the praesentia of these “Milanese” martyrs are multiple, going from literary sources through toponymy to material ev­ idence18. The places where the relics are attested in Late Antiquity cover a large territory from North­ ern Gallia through Southern Italy to Africa. Many of these places are linked with prominent figures, especially bishops, with whom Ambrose nurtured epistolary and spiritual friendships. These include figures such as Augustine of Hippo, Severus of Naples, and Paulinus of Nola. We also have indi­ cation of private beneficiaries of Milanese relics, for instance a noble woman called Vestina, who deposited them in a newly built church in Rome (today known as San Vitale) as one of the very first imported relic depositions inside the city walls of Rome19. In the above-­mentioned places, the cult of Gervasius and Protasius was apparently not exclusive but rather enriched the panorama of the locally venerated martyrs. In all the recorded in­ stances, their cult was introduced either by a bish­ op or an influential patrician but was never part of an imperial donation. While we come back to the question of the spread of Ambrosian relics in the last part of this article, what clearly emerges is that these three acts – consecration of the altar, inventio of local martyrs, and distribution of relics – must be seen as keystones of Ambrose’s promotion of a new cult. All these actions, both material and rhetor­ ical, are mainly dedicated to a specific audience:

the circle of educated bishops, ecclesiastical, and patrician figures of the Christian elite around the bishop himself. This becomes apparent when reading the texts of Ambrose and related figures who try to explain, justify, and promote this new cult. This attitude is present not only in texts made around Ambrose within the Italian Peninsula, but also in the more northern territories of the Roman world such as Gallia. To take just one example, the bishop of Rouen, Victricius, left behind a much-discussed text which remains crucial to understand the coeval theolo­ gy of relics. In his De laude sanctorum (Praising the Saints), a sermon written around 396, Victricius indeed proposes a complex explanation of the nature and value of relics20. One of his main ex­ plicit arguments, justifying the distribution and redistribution of relics, is that these fragments of sanctity preserve their unity and power despite their dispersion. By an intricate line of reasoning, he concludes that relics of saints participate in the indivisibility and divinity of the Trinity and are thus consubstantial with God21. He affirms that: “In relics, then, there is a reminder of perfection, not the injustice of division. Whatever is formed from an un­ equal conception, and is not bathed in the water of the first source, must be transitory. […] But the suffering of the saints is imitation of Christ, and Christ is God. So division is not to be intruded into completeness, but the truth of completeness to be worshiped in that very division which is before our eyes”22.

Providing such explanations, Victricius both posi­ tioned himself within the most important theolog­ ical debate of the fourth century about the natures of the divine, while validating the divisibility of relics during their translation and redistribution. At the same time, in his sermon, Victricius insisted on the creation of a community around the relics. In doing so, he highlighted two crucial points: on the one hand, he states that the nature of the relics distributed by Ambrose was the solidified blood of the martyrs23. This means that Ambrose overcame the problem of parceling the bodies of his mar­ tyrs with an innovative solution: blood, like earth or oil from holy sites, was a replicable relic. On the other hand, as Gillian Clark has pointed out, possessing the blood of the martyrs would equal in contemporary terms the possession of a strain

of their dna: human bodies and their reproductive capacity were thought to be transformations of blood24. Unlike body parts or even textile brandea, sometimes considered as less prestigious, blood is a corporal yet nonhierarchical substance that unites not only the living body but in the context of Ambrose’s relic distribution also the body of the universal Church, creating a special relation­ ship between those possessing the relics of the same saints. Just like many other churches at the end of the fourth century, Victricius’ ecclesia in Rouen was consecrated with relics of a multiplicity of different saints. If we compare the lots of relics deposited at the same time in the churches of Aquileia, Brescia, Fundi, Nola and Rouen, including the apostles John the Baptist, Andrew, Thomas, and the mar­ tyrs Gervasius, Protasius, Agricola, Euphemia and others, it is highly probable that all these relics were widely shared and principally redistribut­ ed from Milan25. What this shows is, to a certain extent, the absence of individualized cults. In fact, the very name and theme of Victricius’ treaty De laude sanctorum fits in a late fourth-­century trend in writing homilies and treaties devoted to all the saints26. This is echoed also in the church dedication Concilium sanctorum that existed for instance in Aosta and Brescia, where relics of mul­ tiple saints were enshrined27. Overall, the ideas expressed by Ambrose and his circle, whilst very eloquent, testify to a highly intellectualized vision of the cult of relics. Within this conception, the bodily remains are, of course, framed at the center of a rhetorical apparatus, but this leaves two open questions: what is the actual place of materiality? How is the longing for the personal contact with the saint actually embodied in physical objects? The material evidence: an elite and invisible cult? The material practices surrounding the cult of rel­ ics are manifold, and very personal devotional atti­ tudes towards relics existed. We know, for example, 16 Estelle Cronnier, Les inventions des reliques (n. 9). 17 Codex Theodosianum ix, 17, 7: “Let no one move a buried body to another place. Let no one dismember or buy a martyr.

Yet, if one of the saints is buried somewhere, let people have the possibility to add any structure they like for his veneration, which is to be called a martyrium”. (Humatum corpus nemo ad alterum locum transferat, nemo martyrem distrahat, nemo mercetur. Habeant vero in potestate, si quolibet in loco sanctorum est aliquis conditus, pro eius veneratione quod martyrium vocandum sit addant quod voluerint fabricarum.) In Roland Delmaire et al., Les Lois Religieuses Des Empereurs Romains De Constantin a Théodose ii (312–438): Code Théodosien i–ix, Code Justinien, Constitutions Sirmondiennes, Paris 2009. 18 For the complex phenomenon of the spread of Milanese relics see Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9). 19 On this episode, see Alan T. Thacker, “Martyr Cult within the Walls: Saints and Relics in the Roman Tituli of the Fourth to Seventh Centuries”,  in Text, Image, Interpretation: Studies in Anglo-Saxon Literature and Its Insular Context in Honour of Éamonn Ó Carragáin, Alastair Minnis, Jane Roberts eds, Turnhout 2007, pp. 31– 70, sp. pp. 46 –47. 20 The sermon was preached on the occasion of the consecration of the cathedral of Rouen and successively reworked and sent to Ambrose as a sign of gratitude for two lots of relics he received from him, including numerous saints from Milan and beyond, see Gillian Clark, “Victricius of Rouen: Praising the Saints”,  Journal of Early Christian Studies, vii/3 (1999), pp. 365–399; eadem, “Translating Relics: Victricius of Rouen and Fourth-Century Debate”,  Early Medieval Europe, x/2 (2001), pp. 161–176; David G. Hunter, “Vigilantius of Calagurris and Victricius of Rouen: Ascetics, Relics and Clerics in Late Roman Gaul”,  Journal of Early Christian Studies, vii/3 (1999), pp. 401–430; and most re­ cently David Natal, “Putting the Roman Periphery on the Map: The Geography of Romanness, Orthodoxy, and Legitimacy in Victricius of Rouen’s De Laude sanctorum”,  Early Medieval Europe, xxvi/3 (2018), pp. 304–326. 21 Patricia Cox Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity, Philadelphia 2009, pp. 35–40, 51–52, sp. pp. 95–102. 22 Victricius of Rouen, De laude sanctorum 9, 40 –48. English translation from Clark, “Victricius of Rouen” (n. 20), p. 391. 23 Victricius of Rouen, De laude sanctorum 10, 1–4. The Mila­ nese bishop himself mentions that the bodies were found in an abundant amount of blood. See Ambrose of Milan, Epistle 77, 2, pp. 154–155. Finally, also the explanation of Gregory of Tours of the spread of relics of Gervasius and Protasius in Gallia are based on a legend including high amounts of blood spouting out of their revealed bodies and collected in surrounding textiles. Cf. Gregory of Tours, De Gloria martyrum 47, in Le livre des miracles et autres opuscules de Georges Florent Grégoire, évêque de Tours, vol. i, Henri L. Bordier transl. in French and ed., Paris 1857, pp. 135–137. 24 Clark, “Victricius of Rouen” (n. 20), p. 370. 25 Cf. Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9), pp. 180 –181; Brigitte Beaujard, Le culte des saints en Gaule. Les premiers temps. D’Hilaire de Poitiers à la fin du vie siècle, Paris 2000, p. 61. 26 This includes, for instance, the lost treaty De laude generali omnium martyrum by Paulinus of Nola. Cf. Dennis Trout, Paulinus of Nola: Life, Letters, and Poems. The Transformation of the Classical Heritage, Berkeley 1999, pp. 10 –11. Brigitte Beaujard observes that more than thirty Greek homilies were written on the subject at the end of the fourth century. Cf. Beaujard, Le culte des saints (n. 25), p. 65. 27 This includes also the high number of basilicae apostolorum in North Italy, dedicated to all the Apostles, regardless of the actual relics enclosed underneath the altar. Cf. Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9), pp. 56 –57 and p. 182; Camille Gerzaguet, “Pouvoir épiscopal et luttes d’influence: Ambroise de Milan, le ‘parrain’ des évêques d’Italie du Nord?”,  Revue des études tardoantiques, Supplément, i (2014), pp. 219 –240.

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that believers were sometimes encouraged to embrace reliquaries or to anoint their bodies (in­ cluding their tongue) with holy oil from the mar­ tyr’s tomb28. However, if we decide to leave aside these very personal acts of devotion and concen­ trate only on the preserved material evidence, we find ourselves dealing with an elusive cult. What emerges are material practices and rhetorical framing which convert, in a subversive manner, the meaning of earlier practices and associations with material or ritual realities. Due to their fragmentary or “unaesthetic” appearance, relics generally had to be sheltered, dig­ni­fied, and mediated by the use of a container. Since Late Antiquity, the latter was preferably made of precious materials and could sometimes be decorated. We could, ideally, imagine a prin­ ciple of correspondence between content and decoration – i.e., that the saint depicted on the object is the one whose relics are preserved inside. Such a principle, in reality, is rarely borne out. One exception might be the fifth-century silver Capsella Africana, now preserved in the Vatican Museums, which represents a young martyr whose relics might have been contained within [Fig. 1]29. How­ ever, it is now empty of its contents, with no in­ scriptions or specific features that would allow us to name this saint, represented in the generic fashion of a young martyr, both crowned and holding a wreathed crown in his hand. Whether, like Galit Noga-Banai, we wish to recognize in him the figure of Saint Januarius or not, this sort of generic image closely mirrored those to be found in martyria, or other funerary contexts scattered across the Mediterranean world30. For Ambrosian Milan, Carolyn Joslin Watson has suggested that two of the many portraits within the clipei of the Brescia casket represent the saints Gervasius and Protasius31. This identification, while tempt­ ing, is unfortunately devoid of any foundation, especially since the Brescia box is often consid­ ered a reliquary, but its exact use ultimately re­ mains enigmatic. Besides the exception of the Capsella Africana, containers for relics form an extremely heteroge­ nous group, in which scholarship has ceaselessly tried to make order, using methods of classification by material or formal typology32. The reality is that

these classifications are not reflecting the vast repertoire of shapes and materials used, nor take into consideration the cases of objects which have been repurposed to serve as reliquaries33. Further­ more, the rare texts on reliquaries, their transla­ tion and deposition, are never clear-cut. They do not allow us to establish if the same container was used for transport and/or translation, and for the final deposition in the altar. This opens important questions regarding the exact modal­ ities of the rite of deposition in Late Antiquity and the nature and number of objects involved. Most texts describing the matter of the arrival of relics simply finish with the generic information that it was “deposited”, but do not specify the ritual and social acts leading to this gesture. For archeologists and art historians, this means that the relics could theoretically travel in an object made in its place of origin (e.g. a precious silver object from Milan) and/or that another container could be made to house the relics at its place of arrival. It seems, as we will see, that both types of objects could further coexist within reliquary deposits, where old pieces of a former reliquary could even be preserved within the new context. This last question, rarely thematized in art historical writings, is however significant: even if a reliquary had to be replaced for some reason (because it was damaged, obsolete, or a new shrine was desired), since the container had been in con­ tact with the holy entity, it was technically imbued with virtus and thus needed to be preserved in some way as a sacred object itself34. The principle of “sacred contagion” also opens to the question of who was actually “habilitated” to manipulate the relic35. Since the sacred, when not properly manipulated or used, is considered as potential­ ly dangerous – as our modern “rational” mind could picture for example nuclear matter – the persons manipulating it had to do so with au­ thority and caution36. In the case of bishops such as Ambrose, a conscious use and understanding of material culture seems to clearly point to a di­ rect involvement with such matters. Other texts are also pointing to the predominant role of the bishop in the act of deposition of the relic37. How­ ever, we are essentially lacking more concrete information on the practices around the making

of the reliquary and the insertion of the relic. Conversely, personal devotional practices seem to indicate a much more direct involvement with the matter. Manlia Dedalia, who, it seems, gift­ ed a small capsella containing a fragment of bones to the Milanese church in the fourth century, must have entertained a less strict relationship with the holy fragment than other more rhetorically and materially “controlled” practices. In the light of these remarks, a closer look at the material dimensions of the cult of relics in the times of Ambrose seems to confirm what we have already suggested above: the material culture shows an elitist rhetoric. Two revealing examples of the practices surrounding the mak­ ing of early reliquaries in Northern Italy are, on the one hand, the famous San Nazaro silver box, 28 See e.g. the poignant passage from John Chrysostom, Homilia in martyres, pg, 50, p. 564. 29 Giovanni B. De Rossi, “Capsella argentea africana”,   Bullet­ tino di Archeologia Cristiana, v, 4. ser. (1887), pp. 118 –129, pl.  viii–ix; Helmut Buschhausen, Die spätrömischen Metallscrinia und frühchristlichen Reliquiare, i. Katalog, Vienna 1971, c26, pp. 315–316; François Baratte, “La vaisselle d’ar­ gent dans l’Afrique romaine et byzantine”, Antiquité tardive, v  (1997), pp. 111–132, 127–128; Galit Noga-Banai, The Trophies of the Martyrs. An Art Historical Study of Early Christian Silver Reliquaries, Oxford 2008, pp. 106, 162–163; Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9), pp. 164–166. 30 Noga-Banai, Trophies of Martyrs (n. 29), pp. 65– 80. 31 Carolyn Joslin Watson, “The Program of the Brescia Casket”,   Gesta, xx/2 (1981), pp. 283–298, sp. p. 290. 32 Such as the one proposed by Joseph Braun, Die Reliquiare des christlichen Kultes und ihre Entwicklung, Freiburg i. B. 1940. More recently, for Late Antique reliquaries, see Anja Kalinowski, Frühchristliche Reliquiare im Kontext von Kultstrategien, Heilserwartung und sozialer Selbstdarstellung, Regensburg 2011. 33 On this broad topic, see now Adrien Palladino, Inventing Late Antique Reliquaries: Reception, Material History, and Dynamics of Interaction (4th– 6th centuries), Rome 2022 (forthcoming). 34 To our knowledge, one of the only articles thematizing this question, albeit for a later period, is by Hélène Cambier, “Fragments from Older Reliquaries Reset in New Ones: Me­ morial or Practical Act?”,  in Objects of Memory, Memory of Objects: The Artwork as a Vehicle of the Past in the Middle Ages, Alžběta Filipová, Zuzana Frantová, Francesco Lovino eds, Brno 2014, pp. 26 –43. 35 On the notion of “sacred contagion”,  see especially Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, London 1966. On questions related, see also Jack Goody, Representations and Contradictions: Ambiva­ lence Towards Images, Theatre, Fiction, Relics, and Sexuality, Oxford 1997. 36 On the capsella and Manlia Dedalia, see Elisabetta Gagetti, “La teca di Manlia Dedalia. La devozione di una nobildonna mediolanense”,  in Il tesoro di San Nazaro (n. 4), pp. 73– 95. 37 Cronnier, Les inventions de reliques (n. 9), sp. pp. 241–251.

1 /  Capsella Africana, from the excavations of the Early Christian Basilica

of Henchir Zirara (or Aïn Zirara), Numidia (Algeria), silver embossed and chased, 16.6 × 8.5 (10 with the base) × 7.7 cm, last quarter of the 5th – beginning of the 6th century ce / Vatican Museums, Museo Christiano (Vatican City), inv. no. 60859

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2 / San Nazaro casket, general view, Milan (?), silver with gilding, 20.5 × 20.5 × 20.6 cm, before 386 / Museo Diocesano (Milan) 3 / San Nazaro casket, gilded cross inside of the lid / Museo Diocesano (Milan)

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and on the other, a small deposit of relics found when it started to be used a reliquary. It does not in the church of Garlate – just one among many in imply that the object was used for another pur­ the wider global networking endeavors of the pose before that, but clearly shows the will to mark Bishop Ambrose. the sanctity of the content by using a Christian The San Nazaro silver casket [Fig. 2], well-­­known symbol. No matter its original function or purpose, for decades, is fundamental to understand the the object is thus physically converted. issues surrounding the inventio of pre­ci­ous reli­ The small and invisible golden cross also quaries. This silver box can be dated to before 386, marks another conversion: this silver object, used when it is known that it was placed under the for the cult of the relics was, at the time of the altar of the Basilica Apostolorum in Milan by deposition, withdrawn from its system of values Ambrose38. It contained relics of the apostles, as in order to be gifted to the sphere of the invisible. already mentioned, as well as a second, smaller, Here, both the terrestrial value of the material – spherical silver container holding bone relics – ca two kilograms of silver, including gilded parts the above-mentioned capsella of Manlia Dedalia39. – as well as the iconography lend themselves to The complex reception history of the silver box, what we can call a “rhetoric of subversion”. This including the process of recognition of the relics subversion touches both the images and the mat­ in the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, were ter. The images because, as has been long noted, recently expounded by Markus Löx40. There are the iconography of the San Nazaro casket borrows several elements which are highly interesting for its visual vocabulary from the imperial world41. our purposes here: firstly, the fact that the object We need only a look at the spatial disposition of had to be “marked” as a reliquary. This is made the scenes of the Judgement of Salomon or the apparent by the insertion, on the inner part of the Enthroned Christ on the lid, as well as their faces, casket’s lid, of a small golden Christogram [Fig. 3]. to understand the immediateness of the imperial This suggests the necessity of having physical­ reference. Most plausibly, the same ateliers were ly converted the object at some point, probably responsible for this object and for the imperial

courtly commissions necessary in Milan at the end of the fourth century, when the city was one of the imperial sedes. However, more interesting is that the makers and conceivers of the object consciously reused the imperial vocabulary in fashioning an object with Christian scenes: in an ideal illustration of Grabar’s Empereur thesis, Christ receives the face of an Emperor, Solomon is surrounded by a court of soldiers [Fig. 4], and the Virgin is figured as an enthroned Empress to whom precious gifts are being made42. Whether or not it was made to hold relics from the outset, visual innovation here goes hand in hand with religious affirmation. The second subversion is that of the material itself. Silver had been predominantly reserved for the imperial court, and was largely used, for exam­ ple in the making of largitio plates such as the one of Valentinian, perhaps made in a Milanese atelier and today kept in Geneva [Fig. 5]43. In the case of the missoria, the sacred value of the silver was also linked to the image of the emperor, increasing its meaning and value. It seems, furthermore, that it was ill-advised to melt down such gifts bear­ ing the image of the emperor for profit or reuse44.

By using a silver box bearing such imagery, Ambrose was thus inscribing it within terrestrial and imperial systems of value well-known by the aristocratic elite of fourth-century Milan. Yet at the same time, the San Nazaro casket, through its burial and concealment, was consciously sub­ tracted from these systems of value to be inscribed within the realm of the invisible and the sacred. 38 For all issues surrounding the history and making of the San Nazaro casket, see especially the essays in Il tesoro di San Nazaro (n. 4). 39 Gagetti, “La teca di Manlia Dedalia” (n. 36). 40 Markus Löx,“Zwischen (Ver-)bergen und Verehren – Das Sil­ berkästchen von S. Nazaro (Mailand)”,  in Sprechende Objekte. Materielle Kultur und Stadt zwischen Antike und Früher Neuzeit, Babett Edelmann-Singer, Susanne Ehrich eds, Regensburg 2021, pp. 141–174. 41 For a synthesis, see Fabrizio Slavazzi, “La capsella di San Nazaro: indagini sull’apparato figurative”,  in Il tesoro di San Nazaro (n. 4), pp. 55– 61. 42 André Grabar, L’empereur dans l’art byzantin: recherches sur l’art officiel de l’Empire d’Orient, Paris 1936. 43 Ruth E. Leader-Newby, Silver and Society in Late Antiquity. Functions and Meanings of Silver Plate in the Fourth to Seventh Centuries, Aldershot 2004, pp. 11–59; on the missorium of Valentinian, see “n°63” in Byzance en Suisse, catalogue of the exhibition (Geneva, Musée Rath, 4 December 2015 – 13 March 2016), Marielle Martiniani-Reber ed., Geneva 2015, pp. 41–43, with further bibliography. 44 Leader-Newby, Silver and Society (n. 43), sp. p. 47.

4 / Judgement of Salomon, San Nazaro casket, Milan (?), silver with gilding, before 386 / Museo Diocesano (Milan) 5 / Missorium of Valentinian ii (?), silver dish, Milan (?), second half of the 4th century / Musée d’art et d’histoire (Geneva)

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6 / Capsella from Garlate, embossed silver, found inside the Church of Saint Stephen of Garlate, 5th century / Archivio parrocchiale (Garlate) 7 / Font miracle, Capsella from Garlate, embossed silver, found inside the Church of Saint Stephen of Garlate, 5th century / Archivio parrocchiale (Garlate)

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Its concealment (both, of the images and the silver) corresponds to what can be compared to mech­ anism of sacrifice, mirroring that of the saints45. Such act of subversively translating the imperial rhetoric to a Christian idiom must again be con­ sidered against the backdrop of the tense religious situation of the last quarter of the fourth century in Milan, where the Homoean imperial court was opposed to Ambrose’s Nicene position. In the case of the San Nazaro reliquary, using both the image and the material reserved for the emperor’s gifts must thus be seen, we believe, as a way to indicate an opposition, a subversion of the value system within a new Christian rhetoric. Such ideas were profoundly embedded in very specific circles of fourth-century Milanese society, which had to be able to recognize both the imperial idiom of the imagery and the actual meaning behind the use of silver. Outside of this “elite”, such rhetoric was certainly difficult to grasp, especially once the silver casket had been permanently concealed un­ der the altar. Despite a conscious use of material, the interaction with the reliquary thus remained, clearly, in the realm of ideas and of the complex rhetoric promoted by Ambrose and his circle. The second object is only one example among the manifold smaller reliquary deposits which emerged around the Milanese center: the deposit of relics found in the rural church of Santo Stefano di Garlate, in the province of Lecco46. There, in 1896, a reliquary pit closed by a marble slab was found under the main altar47. Inside, three con­ tainers were nested in one another. One of them in marble, the second in chalky stone with a sliding lid, the third in silver. The silver casket, in turn, contained three small silver plaques decorated with figures, a small glass vessel, as well as frag­ ments of textile. This enshrining is unsurprising to any scholar acquainted with the early cult of relics, where nested reliquaries, presenting a sim­ ilar gradation from an outer envelope made of stones to more precious materials concealed in­ side, are frequent. The main silver casket and the presence of three small silver plaques inside is most compelling. The silver box is cubic and measures ca 6 x 9 cm; it is highly fragmentary on two sides and deprived of its lid. Figural scenes are embossed inside of the silver sheets forming

the object, and an ornamental frieze completes the decoration [Fig. 6]. The two preserved sides show lambs engaged in actions usually per­ formed by human figures, thus uniting allegori­ cal image and narration48. One side shows a lamb striking a rock with a staff, alluding to one of the two miracula fontis: either the Water Miracle of Moses (Exodus 17, 1–6) or the apocryphal story of Saint Peter’s Font Miracle [Fig. 7]49. The other side, more complicated to interpret, represents two lambs facing each other. Around them are vegetal elements lightly carved into the silver, possibly indicating a garden or rural context. The larger lamb, which is raising one leg, may suggest a scene of acclamation; some scholars have discussed the possibility of identifying the scene as the Woman with the Blood Issue50. The two last sides are too damaged to allow a hypothesis. Apart from these two lost scenes, as well as the lid, the iconogra­ phy of the preserved parts thus does not seem to be in any way linked with the relics preserved 45 On sacrifice as a structuring mechanism of the Classical world and its transformations in Late Antiquity, see especial­ ly Guy G. Stroumsa,“Sacrifice and Martyrdom in the Roman Empire”,  Archivio di Filosofia, lxxvi/1–2 (2008), pp. 145–154; idem, “The End of Sacrifice Revisited”,  in Philosophy and the End of Sacrifice. Disengaging Ritual in Ancient India, Greece and Beyond, Peter Jackson, Anna-Pya Sjödin eds, Sheffield/Bristol 2016, pp. 99 –121 as well as Gerard Rouwhorst, “Sacrifice in Early Christianity: The Social Dimension of a Metaphor”,  in Sacrifice in Modernity: Community, Ritual, Identity. From Nationalism and Nonviolence to Health Care and Harry Potter, Joachim Duyndam, Anne-Marie Korte, Marcel Poorthuis eds, Leiden / Boston, ma 2007, pp. 132–146. 46 On the area of Garlate in Late Antiquity and the church of S. Stefano, see Gian Pietro Brogiolo,“Santo Stefano di Garlate e la cristianizzazione delle campagne”,  in Testimonianze archeologiche a S. Stefano di Garlate, Gian Pietro Brogiolo, G. Bellosi, L. Doratiotto eds, Lecco 2002, pp. 283–315, with further bib­ liography. 47 See Giovanni Baserga, “Antiche capselle liturgiche in Brianza”, Rivista archeologica della Provincia e antica Diocesi di Como, xlviii–xlix (1904), pp. 100 –120, sp. pp. 103–105; Marco Sannazaro, “4f.7 Capselle per reliquie”,  in Milano capitale dell’impero romano 286 – 402 d.C., Maria Paola Lavizzari Pedrazzini, Maria Pia Rossignani eds, Milan 1990, pp. 301–302; Marco Sannazaro, “La capsella paleocristiana di Garlate”,  in 1983–1993: dieci anni di archeologia cristiana in Italia, Eugenio Russo ed., Rome 2003, pp. 93–100, with further bibliography. 48 See Friedrich Gerke,“Der Ursprung der Lämmerallegorie in der altchristlichen Plastik”,  Zeitschrift für Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, xxxiii/2 (1934), pp. 160 –196. 49 On these scenes, see Jutta Dresken-Weiland, Bild, Grab und Wort. Untersuchungen zu Jenseitsvorstellungen von Christen des 3. und 4. Jahrhunderts, Regensburg 2010, pp. 119 –135. 50 See the discussion in Sannazaro, “La capsella paleocristia­ na” (n. 47), p. 99.

8 / Serial votive plaques found inside the Capsella of Garlate, 4th–5th century (?)

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inside the container. Rather, the seemingly curious the figures is framed inside a small cymatium­like choice of allegorically rendering anthropomor­ ornament. All the figures are also dressed the same, phic representations as lambs can be identified on are bearded, and seem to be the result of a seri­ some other monuments as well, the most famous alized production, perhaps even stemming from example being the six spandrels of the Junius the same matrix51. The plaques could be either Bassus sarcophagus in Rome, made around 359. parts of votive images offered at some point to From a strictly material point of view, the object the church, or possibly, parts of an older casket corresponds to the production of other small-scale – perhaps like the many casket mounts found silver objects made or reused for the cult of relics, across the Roman world52. They could display possibly chiefly produced in a geographical area similarities to the preserved plaques from Ságvár ranging from Milan to the Po Valley and the cities findings, held at the Hungarian National Muse­ of the Northern Adriatic. The small Garlate box um, which represent figures of the apostles Paul, might have been the receptacle of relics sent out by Timothy, and Peter [Fig. 9]. Might we recognize in Ambrose to Christianize and strengthen commu­ the three figures at Garlate some plaques serving nitarian links with provincial and rural churches to identify the figures of saints preserved in (or around Milan and beyond. But it could also cor­re­ around) the silver box? If this is the case, they spond to a reuse of a silver object, possibly seen as would serve as some kind of label for the rel­ fit to hold the relics in a secondary moment. ics, a mechanism that we encounter in a similar, The small silver plaques found inside the sil­ albeit more clear and sumptuous way, in the ele­ ver casket are highly interesting. They represent ments preserved within the round silver reliquary three standing figures, all presenting their profile of Grado, on the Adriatic coast. There, a series of to the right, bearing a small open book and hold­ small golden plaques inscribed with the names of ing a cross on their right shoulder [Fig. 8]. Each of the saints serve to identify them, possibly being

the earliest form of so-called “authentics” of rel­ ics53. Another possibility is that the plaques from Garlate may have been part of an earlier reliquary, possibly coming from the East. The only element which seems to allow a possible identification are traces of inscriptions, from which we can make out the letters pa on the right side of the head of the figures, as well as the letter h next to the left leg of the figures. Only two plaques allow reconstruction of the letters on the left of the head of the figures, interpreted by Sannazaro as a sec­ ond set of the letters pa, but possibly presenting the inscription pe. It is difficult to draw conclu­ sions regarding these inscriptions. What seems important, thus, is not the exact identification, but the presentification of a collectivity of saints, possibly of a composite nature. This composite deposit, then, was made completely invisible to the potential viewers: only the hypothetical pres­ ence of inscriptions or marking such as a cross on the locus or around the space intended for the relics would have indicated the presence of the precious container54.

What both the San Nazaro and the San Gar­ late examples highlight is that the containers of the relics are too complex or too small to produce a real visual and material impact on a community. 51 On the use of matrices in the making of hammered images, see especially Jakov Vučić, “Oplata ranokršćanske škrinje iz novalje”,  in Zbornik I. Skupa. Hrvatske Ranokršćanske Arheologije (Hrrana), Mirjana Sanader, Domagoj Tončinić, Iva Kaić, Vinka Matijević eds, Zagreb 2020, pp. 233–245. 52 Marco Sannazaro, “4f.7a.2 Laminette argentee”,  in Milano capitale dell’impero romano (n. 47), p. 302; Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9), pp. 168 –170. 53 Ezio Marocco, Il tesoro del Duomo di Grado, Trieste  2001, pp. 12–15; Cynthia Hahn, “The Meaning of Early Medieval Treasuries”,  in Reliquiare im Mittelalter, Bruno Reudenbach, Gia Toussaint eds, Berlin 2005, pp. 1–20, sp. pp. 4– 9; on early authentics of relics, with further bibliography, see also Julia M. H. Smith, “Care for Relics in Early Medieval Rome”,  in Rome and Religion in the Early Middle Ages: Studies in Honor of Thomas F. X. Noble, Valerie L. Garver, Owen M. Phelan eds, Farnham 2014, pp. 179 –205. 54 On the mechanisms of marking the loci of relics, see esp. the studies of Ann Marie Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean. Architecture, Cult, and Community, Cambridge 2009 and eadem, “Sight Lines of Sanctity at Late Antique Martyria”,  in Architecture of the Sacred. Space, Ritual, and Experience from Classical Greece to Byzantium, Bonna D. Wescoat, Robert G. Ousterhout eds, Cambridge 2012, pp. 248 –280.

9 / Casket mounts with the representations of Peter, Paul, and Timothy, found inside the inner fort of Ságvár, Hungary, last third of the 4th century / Hungarian National Museum (Budapest)

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10 / Plate representing procession of a reliquary, Constantinople (?), ivory, 26 × 12.9 × 2.6 cm, 650 grams, 5th or 8th century (?) / Domschatz (Trier)

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This is why we must consider the wider picture: performative actions materializing their transla­ tion and deposition. What would the crowd in these metropolitan centers have witnessed? Possibly, what they could actually see is mir­ rored on the famous Trier Ivory [Fig. 10]. The ob­ ject – which was itself part of a container, whose dating is still discussed in the wake of a recent attempt by Niewöhner and Cutler – shows us the display made around the translation of relics55. Olfactory and acoustic dimensions are suggested against the backdrop of the scenery of a cityscape – perhaps Constantinople. All the city’s population is welcoming a chariot, on which important fig­ ures, most likely bishops, are seated, holding in their hands a small sarcophagus-shaped container. The procession is led by imperial figures, and the arrival point of the translation, a church (pos­ sibly with a small martyrium adjacent) mirrors the chariot. Some persons witnessing the scene could perhaps, in the ironic words of Vigilantius, recognize the “dust and ashes wrapped in silk in golden vessel”56. From the distance, the mat­ ter of the container might have been visible, per­ haps its preciousness recognized. But what really mattered was its performative activation – that is, the enlarged image created by the ritual of the

procession itself57. Interestingly, the Trier Ivory tells us precisely how this image was perceived, or rather re-shaped, by Christians. It references an act stemming from the sphere of imperial dignity and authority, the emperor’s adventus58. It is no surprise that the arrival of the relics on the Trier Ivory is represented in a very similar fashion as the scenes of adventus we might find, for example, on the reliefs of the Arch of Constantine in Rome or Galerius in Thessaloniki [Fig. 11]59. The image of the adventus of the emperor mir­ roring that of the reliquary, and of the saint, has far-reaching implications also for the conversion of the Roman eyes witnessing these events. The emperor’s adventus was an important event, which shaped the social life of communities and cities. It was not only a performative and ritual act, but also one with deep implications about the pres­ ence of the emperor within the boundaries of the city60. The above-mentioned Victricius of Rouen is perhaps most famous for deploying a panegyric similar to the imperial one to speak of the arrival of relics in his De Laude Sanctorum61. There, the relics are welcomed by what is called an aristocracy of clergy and ascetics and by the entire population, the ecclesia civitatis, which is structured in popu­ lation groups.

“See, all ages pour out to serve you, each one strives to surpass the other in zeal for religion. Thus the priests and deacons and every minister known to you by daily service come to meet you […] Here clusters a throng of monks refined by fasting. Here the resonant joy of innocent children sounds forth. Here the chorus of de­ vout and untouched virgins carries the sign of the cross. Here the multitude of celibates and widows gathers, entirely worthy of such a duty. […] Hence, in short, is the one feeling of the entire people towards your majesty”62.

As the emperor’s presence in the city, especially in the provinces (such as Rouen), represented an “unparalleled opportunity for his subjects to reach him with petitions and ask for favors”, so does that of the newly arrived authority – the saints. They enter the city not only as a miracle-makers and a beneficent presence, but also as a legal entity, able to judge and resolve feuds. It is during this event, and under these terms, that the saints be­ come materialized to all. In front of their Roman eyes, the attendees saw the entry of the reliquary and immediately recognized the entrance of the saints themselves. In this sense, and within the ideal rhetoric promoted by Victricius, the impe­ rial ritual was converted, however retaining all its meaning. Such “conversion”, or “subversion”

55 See Philipp Niewöhner, “Historisch-topographische Überle­ gungen zum Trierer Prozessionselfenbein, dem Christusbild an der Chalke, Kaiserin Irenes Triumph im Bilderstreit und der Euphemiakirche am Hippodrom”,  Millennium, xi/1 (2014), pp. 261–288; Anthony Cutler, Philipp Niewöhner, “Towards a History of Byzantine Ivory Carving from Late 6th to the Late 9th Century”, in Mélanges Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, Sulamith Brodbeck et al. eds, Paris 2016 (= Travaux et mémoires, xx/2), pp. 89 –107. For a new interpretation, see Paroma Chatterjee, “Iconoclasm’s Legacy: Interpreting the Trier Ivory”,  The Art Bulletin, c/3 (2018), pp. 28 –47. 56 Jerome, Against Vigilantius, English transl. in Stefan Rebenich, Jerome, London 2002, pp. 105–118. 57 On relic processions during the Middle Ages, see Vinni Lucherini, “Introduzione. Le processioni di reliquie e lo spazio del sacro”,  in Reliquie in processione nell’Europa medievale, eadem ed., Rome 2018, pp. 7–20. 58 Pierre Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi. Recherche sur l’exploitation idéologique et littéraire d’un cérémonial dans l’Antiquité tardive, Paris 1994. 59 This matter has long been acknowledged, see e.g. Kenneth G. Holum, Gary Vikan,“The Trier Ivory, ‘Adventus’ Ceremo­ nial, and the Relics of St. Stephen”,  Dumbarton Oaks Papers, xxxiii (1979), pp. 115–133. 60 On the adventus ceremony from Classical Antiquity to Late Antiquity, see Sabine MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity, Ann Arbor, mi / Berkeley, ca 1981, pp. 15– 89; more recently, with further bibliography, see Maria Kneafsey, “Adven­ tus: Conceptualising Boundary Space in the Art and Text of Early Imperial to Late Antique Rome”,  in trac 2015: Proceedings of the Twenty-Fifth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, Matthew J. Mandich et al. eds, Oxford 2016, pp. 153–163. 61 See Nikolaus Gussone, “Adventus-Zeremoniell und Trans­ lation von Reliquien: Victricius von Rouen, De laude sanc­ torum”,  Frühmittelalterliche Studien, x/1 (1976), pp. 125–133. 62 Victricius of Rouen, De Laude Sanctorum, 2, 16 –20 and 3, 11–15, and 3, 41, in Clark,“Victricius of Rouen” (n. 20), pp. 377–380.

11 / Arch of Galerius, Thessaloniki

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of the imperial sphere reminds us Ambrose’s use of the imperial visual vocabulary also on the San Nazaro casket. At the end of this brief overview, several ele­ ments clearly emerge: the material and cultural dimensions promoted by Ambrose and his circle are proper to the Romanized population. Only the knowledge of the imperial cult, of its images and materials, allows to understand the San Nazaro casket. And only the actual rituals, mirrored in their rhetorical construction, allow the presenti­ fication of these saints to an audience. While this is, to a certain extent, effective in the territories of Italia Annonaria, where this cult is still localized, it remains to be understood how efficient such rhetoric could be outside of these boundaries. From Ambrose’s ideal network to Gregory of Tour’s Gallia

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As highlighted above, we find shrines dedicated to the Milanese saints Gervasius and Protasius as far away as North Africa or Southern Italy. But the places where their cult spread the most were the North of Italy and Cisalpine Gaul. The first one is understandable since it was the territory where Ambrose de facto acted as metropolitan bishop and was thus directly involved in many ecclesiastical matters; his role in the densification of episcopal sees around Milan and in appointing bishops of his choice to the surrounding cathedrae is well known63. The spreading of relics thus fol­ lowed the privileged relationships the Milanese prelate had established with the bishops of the territory of Italia Annonaria, including for instance Gaudentius of Brescia, Sabinus of Placentia or Chromatius of Aquileia. In collaboration with these bishops, one of Ambrose’s goals was to cre­ ate a network of churches sacralized with relics, and thus to estab­lish a real sacred topography in the vastly pagan territories of Northern Italy and to orient the popular devotion to officialized Christian cults64. The case of Gallia is more complex, espe­ cially its northern part, where the martyrs’ cult was practically an unknown phenomenon until the end of the fourth century65. According to the sources, the Milanese relics were the first support

for the development of the idea of the cult of saints there. The Vita Martini written by Sulpicius Severus, as well as a letter of Paulinus of Nola, report an event which is today acknowledged to be the moment where it all started: a meeting in Vienne of Martin of Tours, Paulinus of Nola, and Victricius of Rouen with the purpose of re­ceiving relics perhaps from the hands of Ambrose him­ self66. The bishop of Tours and Rouen, in turn, deposited the relics to their respective cathedrals, in the heart of the city. It is presumable that these bishops further redistributed the relics from Milan. The territory of Northern France is to present day scattered with dozens of churches, chapels and villages bearing names of Ambrose’s saints. That the tradition of the vast majority of them comes down to the end of the fourth century is testified by several data. Thanks to the sixteen volumes of Topographie chrétienne des anciennes cités de la Gaule, a repertory of Early Christian monuments in Gallia which combines archaeological evidence with the oldest textual and epigraphic documents, we could identify many churches with an original, early medieval dedication to the saints of Milan67. Much of the evidence also concerns sanctuaries which no longer exist, further enlarging the pan­ orama of the spread of Milanese relics in Gallia in Late Antiquity [Fig. 12]. However, unlike in Northern Italy, where the changeable but long-lasting cult of Milanese saints became an important part in forging the local ecclesiastic identity, their cult was fad­ ing in Gallia already quite soon after the death 63 Gerzaguet, Pouvoir episcopal (n. 27); Rita Lizzi, “Ambrose’s Contemporaries and the Christianization of Northern Italy”,  Journal of Roman Studies, lxxx (1990), pp. 156 –173. 64 Domenico Ponzini,“Origine ed espansione del Cristianesimo sul territorio piacentino”,  in Storia della Diocesi di Piacenza, vol. ii: Il Medioevo, dalle origini all’anno Mille, Pierre Racine ed., Brescia 2008, pp. 47– 80, sp. p. 55; Heinrich Härke, “Cemeter­ ies as Places of Power”,  in Topographies of Power in the Early Middle Ages, Mayke de Jong, Frans Theuws, Carine van Rhijn eds, Leiden / Boston, ma / Cologne 2001, pp. 9 –30. 65 Beaujard, Le culte des saints (n. 25), pp. 54–115. 66 Paulinus of Nola, Epistula xviii, in csel, 29, p. 136; Sulpicius Severus, Vita Sancti Martini, 19,3, in sc, 133, p. 295. Cf. Camille Jullian, Histoire de la Gaule, vol. vii, Paris 1907–1926, p. 271, n. 3; Jacques Fontaine, “Vienne, carrefour du paganisme et du christianisme au ive s.”,  Bulletin de la Société des Amis de Vienne, lxvii (1971), pp. 17–36, p. 33. 67 Topographie chrétienne des cités de la Gaule des origines au milieu du viiie siècle, 16 vols, Paris 1972–2014. Cf. Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9), pp. 173–210.

12 / Map of church sites dedicated to Gervasius and Protasius, based on ancient documents, archaeology, and tradition

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of Ambrose, when not especially nourished by a local ecclesiastic authority. The decline of pop­ ularity of Milanese saints is suggested by the change in dedication of many churches all over the Gallic territory, mainly in the bigger cities, occurring throughout the early Middle Ages. It was due, first of all, to the progressively larger offer on the relic market of more “international” martyrs. The first “rival” relics were assuredly those of Saint Stephen, which came into circula­ tion after 415, the year his body was miraculously unearthed in the vicinity of Jerusalem68. Follow­ ing the thesis of Victor Saxer, the relics of the protomartyr were the detonator of an explosion of his cult that encompassed the whole Christian world, including Gallia, which is testified in many ancient churches bearing his name69. The second and later reason for the decline of popularity of Northern Italian saints in Gallia is the progressive abandon in the West of the respect of the Roman law prohibiting dismemberment of dead bodies, culminating in the Carolingian pe­ riod70. This led to the establishment of a veritable market of relics consisting of bigger or smaller pieces of saints’ bodies with a hierarchy of value71. As an example of this shift, we can mention the cathedral of Nevers whose name was changed from ecclesia sanctorum Gervasii et Prothasii to ecclesia sancti Cirici at the beginning of the ninth century. The change would have been linked with the arrival of relics of the forearm of Saint Cyr72. Because of its clear visibility and more tangible value, the latter was surely perceived as more pres­ tigious than the tiny fractions of solidified blood of the Milanese martyrs. The primary relics would thus replace the secondary relics, which, in return, found refuge in a side altar, bearing the names of Saints Gervasius and Protasius up until today, despite further reconstructions of the building73. With our third reason, we approach the answer to the question of the efficiency of the somehow ethereal relic cult introduced by the Gallic bishops inspired by Ambrose. And it is the Milanese bish­ op himself who gives us a clue towards the end of his life. In 395, Ambrose discovered in Milan the body of Saint Nazarius and set up a solemn translatio of the relics to the Apostles’ Basilica. There, the martyr is buried in “the head of the temple”, 

in the curve of the apse74. The dedicatory epi­ grams composed by the bishop acknowledge the first dedication of the church to the Apostles, but a majority of the verses are concerned with the association of the cross shape of the building with the palm of the martyrdom of Saint Nazarius75. The martyr’s body thus becomes the principal pole of relic devotion in the church, with the name of the church eventually changing to Basilica of Saint Nazarius, kept until today. Markus Löx interpreted the importance given to Nazarius as a sort of a victory of local saints over foreign ones76. However, considering the later success of the relics of Saint Stephen and other “interna­ tional superstars”, we agree with Ivan Foletti that the change in Milan is rather due to the nature of deposited relics. For Ambrose, the whole body finally prevailed over the tiny fragments and con­ tact relics77. And that is also what happened later in most of the places in Gallia. We mentioned that the inventio martyrum be­ came recurrent from the end of the fourth century, and many new local martyrs became thus object of local veneration. However, if in the fourth and fifth century the paradigmatic object of cult was the martyr, in the course of the sixth century, we can notice a gradual extension of the category of saints, which was enriched with new figures such as holy bishops, ascetics, or virgins78. As affirmed by Brigitte Beaujard, no Gallic bishop is attracted by  the relics of martyrs from North­ ern Italy in the sixth century because more than hundred and twenty local saints appear in liter­ ary documents79. As a concrete example, let us mention the late fourth-century basilica in Sens originally dedicated to Ambrosian saints that was later renamed after the local saintly bishop Leon80. The progressive localization of the cult is, in­ deed, what we can understand from the complex and, of course biased, accounts by Gregory of Tours at the end of the sixth century. Starting from Peter Brown’s affirmations that “relics had no tongues” and that “a relic that is not acclaimed is, candidly, not a relic”, Gregory appears as the actual spokesman arguing for the efficiency of relics for healing and for their purpose in pro­ cesses of conversion81. However, Gregory of Tours adopts a politically driven promotion of other,

local relics and saints, which will confirm his po­ sition within a “dynasty” of bishops and figures of authority, starting from the saints, chiefly Martin of Tours and Saint Julien of Brioude. Already the classical study by Brown, as well as more recent studies by Ian Wood, have clearly highlighted how Gregory, not unlike Ambrose, adopts a rhetoric of promotion: behind the words of the spokesman affirming the spread of the cult, there are political ambitions of unity, and power82. For the archaeologist and the art historian, what becomes apparent are thus two elements. On the one hand, the changes of dedication once a more prestigious or more tangible relic could be obtained, as described above. On the other hand, the actual necessity of a localized cult: in Tours, a small city became a pilgrimage center thanks to the shrine of Saint Martin, and a commu­ nity emerged around its religious foci83. Herbert L. Kessler has shown how around these cultic foci, new artistic endeavors started to develop, pro­ moting the cult and histories of the local saints in innovative ways. Thus, while the cathedral of Tours was dedicated to the Saints Gervasius and Protasius, the artistic innovation – that of integrat­ ing a narrative cycle promoting the local cult and that of monumentalizing the tomb – was concen­ trated on the promotion of the cult of Saint Martin, who was both a local saint and a true “apostle” of Gallia84. As such, in Merovingian Gallia, where the conversion narrative took on a special impor­ tance in the fifth and sixth centuries in physical proximity to the body, material culture was used to promote the history of Martin, both a local and an international saint, and the ideal predecessor of Gregory of Tours. Conclusion What comes to light from a look at the long term, from Ambrose to Gregory of Tours, is an am­ biguous relationship to material culture.This is due to obvious reasons: we are faced with a cult conceived as a cult of the invisible and the intangible, according to the Roman sensibility 68 Saxer, “Aux origines du culte” (n. 13), pp. 37–46; on the move­ ment of the relics of St. Stephen, see also now Davide Bianchi, “St Stephen’s Relics on the Move: a Topographical Devotion

between East and West”, in Holy Land Archeology on Either Side: Archeological Essays in Honour of Eugenio Alliata, ofm, Alessandro Coniglio, Amedeo Ricco eds, Milan 2020, pp. 73– 84. 69 Ibidem, p. 37. For the spread of the cult of Saint Stephen in Gallia and the West see Yvette Duval, “Le culte des reliques en Occident à la lumière du De miraculis”,  in Les miracles de saint Étienne: Recherches sur le recueil pseudo-augustinien (bhl 7860 –  7861), Jean Meyers ed., Turnhout 2006, pp. 47– 68. 70 Klaus Herbers, “Reliques romaines au ixe siècle: renforce­ ments des liaisons avec la papauté?”,  in Hagiographie, idéologie et politique au Moyen Âge en Occident. Actes du colloque international du Centre d’Etudes supérieures de Civilisation médiévale de Poitiers 11–14 septembre 2008, Edina Bozóky ed., Turnhout 2012, pp. 111–126; Edina Bozóky, La politique des reliques de Constantin à Saint Louis: protection collective et légitimation du pouvoir, Paris 2006, sp. pp. 50 –59. 71 Cf. Patrick Geary, Furta Sacra: Thefts of Relics in the Central Middle Ages, Princeton 1978; more recently, see also Von goldenen Gebeinen. Wirtschaft und Reliquie im Mittelalter, Markus Mayr ed., Innsbruck [i. a.] 2001. 72 ms 132, Bibliothèque d’Auxerre, p. 91; cit. in Louis Duchesne, Fastes épiscopaux de l’ancienne Gaule, vol. ii, Paris 1894, p. 481. 73 Cf. Charles Bonnet, Benoît Oudet, Jean-Charles Picard et al., La cathédrale de Nevers: du baptistère paléochrétien au chevet roman, Paris 1995, p. 27; René Louis, “Le baptistère de la cathédrale de Nevers du ive au xiie siècle; fouilles de 1947 et de 1949 –1959”,  Bulletin monumental, cviii (1950), pp. 153–180, sp. p. 159. 74 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica, Vat. ms Pal. Lat. 833, fols 54v–55r. For the translation of the body of saint Nazarius, see Löx, “L’‘architectus sapiens’ Ambrogio” (n. 2), pp. 63– 65. Cf. the church of Holy Apostles: Giulio Giacometti, Piero Sessa et al., Ambrogio e la cruciforme “Romana” basilica degli apostoli nei milleseicento anni della sua storia, Milan 1986. 75 For the text and the analysis of the epigrams, see Antonio Sartori, “I frammenti epigrafici ambrosiani nella Basilica Apos­ tolorum”,  in Nec Timeo Mori, Conference proceedings (Milan, 4–11 April 1997), Luigi F. Pizzolato, Marco Rizzi eds, Milan 1998, pp. 739 – 749. 76 Löx, “L’‘architectus sapiens’ Ambrogio” (n. 2), pp. 63– 65. 77 Foletti, Objects, Relics, and Migrants (n. 8), pp. 40 –45. 78 Beaujard, Le culte des saints (n. 25), pp. 247–248. Cf. Jean-Charles Picard, Le souvenir des évêques. Sépultures, listes épiscopales et culte des évêques en Italie du nord des origines au xe siècle, Rome 1988. 79 Beaujard, Le culte des saints (n. 25), pp. 249. 80 Topographie chrétienne (n. 67), vol. viii, p. 62. 81 “As a German critic of archaeology once said, ‘Töpfe haben keine Seelen’ – ‘Pots have no souls’; and relics had no tongues. A relic that is not acclaimed is, candidly, not a relic. Even a tomb can be faceless; and, once outside the tomb, the relic and the blessed object associated with the holy is caught in a spiral of ambiguity”, Peter Brown, “Relics and Social Status in the Age of Gregory of Tours”,  in idem, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity, Berkeley, ca 1983, pp. 222–250, sp. p. 238. 82 Brown, “Relics and Social Status” (n. 81); Ian Wood, “Topo­ graphies of Holy Power in Sixth-Century Gaul”,  in Topographies of Power (n. 64), pp. 137–154. 83 Still highly relevant is Luce Pietri, La ville de Tours au ive et vie siècle, Rome 1983; eadem, “Le pèlerinage martinien de Tours à l’époque de l’évêque Grégoire”,  in Gregorio di Tours, Todi 1977, pp. 92–139. 84 Herbert L. Kessler, “Pictorial Narrative and Church Mission in Sixth-Century Gaul”,  Studies in the History of Art, xvi (1985), pp. 75– 91, sp. pp. 84ff; see also Brian Brennan, “Text and Im­ age: ‘Reading’ the Walls of the Sixth-Century Cathedral of Tours”,  The Journal of Medieval Latin, vi (1996), pp. 65– 83; on the dedication to Gervasius and Protasius, see Filipová, Milan sans frontières (n. 9), pp. 179, 184–188.

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of its earliest promoters. This also explains the efforts to make this cult “acceptable”, in particular by inscribing it within its cultural horizon, in what we call a subversive way. But this cultural horizon is that of a certain part of the Roman population, on the one hand accustomed to the meaning of the images and materials, and on the other hand to the rhetorical presentation of the cult. Paradox­ ically, outside these territories, it is precisely the tangibility of the cult of relics that appears as its strongest element. While the early stages of the cult of relics are marked by a highly intellectual rhetoric, visual, and material setting, developed in order to justify the ethereal nature of the “frag­ ments of eternity”, the need for tangible holiness becomes progressively more and more needed. Unlike in Northern Italy, Ambrose of Milan did not succeed in establishing an enduring cult of the saints from Milan throughout the virgin ter­ ritories of Gaul. However, through his ingenious actions, what he succeeded in was the conversion of his fellow bishops to the idea of martyrs’ cults and the importance of their relics for the cohesion of Orthodox Christian communities, living along­ side people of divergent beliefs. What ensues, in this later phase, is the promotion of local sanctity, and a gradual movement from the collectivity of saints towards more individualized forms of de­ votion. Interestingly, it is also around places of tangible presence that local places of pilgrimage and important artistic “innovations” will emerge. These testify to the way in which the ancient rhet­ oric of materials, images, and the imperial sphere, was no longer sufficient, but had to be supported by a visible and monumental rhetoric. All in all, Ambrose’s complex rhetoric of an in­ visible and distant cult connecting communities was doomed to disappear within the transforma­ tions and fragmentations that affected the ancient world. Nevertheless, he paved the way for a cult whose developments around tombs such as those of Martin, Maurice, or Ambrose himself, became fun­damental in the conversion of local realities and in the formation of medieval networks of sanctity.

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summary Konverze myslí, očí a těl? Raný kult relikvií mezi rétorikou a materialitou v severní Itálii a Galii

Teologii ostatků mučedníků bylo věnováno mnoho textů raně křesťanských autorů. Jeho za­ stánci využívali jazyk i nástroje klasické rétori­ky, která promlouvala zejména ke vzdělaným oby­ vatelům center Římské říše. Autoři tohoto článku zkoumají, do jaké míry se tato rétorika zrcadlí v materiálních rozměrech raného kultu relikvií a  jaká byla jeho účinnost a  životnost v  méně romanizovaných oblastech, jako je například sever­ní Galie. Klíčovou osobností raného kultu relikvií je bezpochyby Ambrož Milánský (340–397). Je jed­ nou z prvních církevních autorit, která umožnila fragmentaci a přemisťování ostatků a zároveň podporovala rozvoj nových (leč kontrolovaných) způsobů jejich úcty. Tři z jeho iniciativ vzbudily doslova revoluci v dostupnosti a využití „frag­ mentů věčnosti“ a  staly se vzorem k  následo­ vání. Ambrož pravděpodobně jako první uložil v roce 386 ostatky apoštolů pod oltář a učinil tak prostor kostela trvale posvátným. Téhož roku také pod jeho taktovkou proběhlo tzv. inventio martyrum, během nějž nalezl, vykopal a přemístil těla mučed­ níků Gervasia a Protasia z dříve neznámých hrobů. Jeho třetí aktivita, distribuce relikvií jejich zaschlé krve, zajistila rozsáhlé rozšíření kultu milánských světců, aniž by byla narušena celistvost jejich ze­ mřelých těl. Je nutné zdůraznit, že tyto iniciativy byly věnovány především konkrétnímu publiku: okruhu vzdělaných biskupů, církevních a patri­ cijských postav křesťanské elity kolem samotné­ ho biskupa. I hmatatelné památky jsou důkazem elitní rétoriky. V článku analyzované příklady relikviářů San Nazaro a San Garlate naznačují, že tyto rané nádoby na ostatky jsou ikonograficky

příliš složité nebo příliš malé, aby měly skutečný vizuální dopad na širší komunitu věřících. Proto se musíme pokusit je pochopit v širším obraze a  ptát se po performativním rozměru zhmot­ ňujícím jejich přenesení a uložení. Text De laude sanctorum od Victricia z Rouenu a zobrazení na slonovinové destičce dnes uložené v Trevíru svěd­ čí o tom, že relikvie byly komunitou uvítány při honosné přehlídce na způsob císařského adventu. I ta však mohla být zpočátku srozumitelná pouze romanizovanému publiku. Otázkou tak zůstává, jakou odezvu mohly mít tyto rétorické, vizuál­ ní, materiální a performativní nástroje použité k prezentaci nových světců a jejich takřka nevidi­ telných ostatků u obyvatel vzdálených provincií v severní Galii, kam se kult za Ambrože také šířil. Prameny i archeologie dokládají, že mnoho kostelů původně zasvěcených milánským světcům bylo přesvěceno, jakmile lokální církev získala „pres­ tižnější“ relikvii, to znamená tělo místního svět­ ce, ostatky skutečně věhlasného světce nebo větší tělesnou relikvii jakéhokoli světce. Oproti oblasti severní Itálie, kde se stal kult Gervasia a Protasia epicentrem identity lokální církve, se nepodařilo Ambrožovi vytvořit jejich trvalý „mezinárodní“ věhlas. Co se mu však podařilo, bylo konvertovat ostatní biskupy k samotné ideji kultu mučedníků a důležitosti jejich ostatků pro soudržnost orto­ doxních křesťanských komunit, které žily po boku obyvatel různých vyznání. Nakonec je patrné, že prvotní, vysoce inte­lek­ tuální a éterický kult ostatků, který byl typický pro konec čtvrtého století, byl postupně nahra­ zován hmatatelnějšími, viditelnějšími, lokalizo­ vanějšími a individuálnějšími projevy úcty.

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photographic credits

Copyright rules K autorským právům In the matter of copyright, every author is responsible for the illustrations published. In general, Convivium follows § 31 of the law no. 121/2000 Coll. (Copyright Act), where paragraph 1 c explicitly states: “Copyright is not infringed by anybody who uses the work while teaching for illustration purposes or during scientific research, without seeking to achieve direct or indirect economic or commercial advantage and without exceeding the extent adequate to the given purpose; however, if possible, the name of the author, unless the work is an anonymous work, or the name of the person under whose name the work is being introduced in public and the title of the work and source, shall always be indicated.” Ve věci autorských práv ilustrací je každý autor odpovědný za publikované ilustrace. Obecně se ale Convivium řídí ust. § 31 zákona č. 121/2000 Sb. (autorský zákon), kde je v odst. 1, písm. c) výslovně řečeno: „Do práva autorského nezasahuje ten, kdo užije dílo při vyučování pro ilustrační účel nebo při vědeckém výzkumu, jejichž účelem není dosažení přímého nebo nepřímého hospodářského nebo obchodního prospěchu, a nepřesáhne rozsah odpovídající sledovanému účelu; vždy je však nutno uvést, je-li to možné, jméno autora, nejde-li o dílo anonymní, nebo jméno osoby, pod jejímž jménem se dílo uvádí na veřejnost, a dále název díla a pramen.“

K. DOLEŽALOVÁ, I. FOLETTI, K. KRAVČÍKOVÁ & P. TICHÁ

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Figs 2–3, 8, drawing Megan Bunce; Figs 4–6, photo Megan

Dekrs, Wouter Vos, “Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort

Bunce. A. FILIPOVÁ & A. PALLADINO – Fig. 1, Creative

at Vechten: The Bodily Appearance of Soldiers”, Journal of

Commons – ams Historica, University of Bologna; Figs 2–4,

Archaeology in the Low Countries, ii/2 (2010), p. 61, fig. 6; Fig. 5,

Milan, Museo Diocesano; Fig. 5, Musée d’art et d’histoire de

photo Anne Chauvet, 2019 / Musée du Louvre (Paris); Figs 6a–b,

Genève; Figs 6–8, Parrocchia di Garlate; Fig. 9, Hungarian

The Trustees of the British Museum (London); Fig. 7, from Fernand

National Museum, Budapest; Fig. 10, Domschatzmuseum, Trier;

Cabrol, Henri Leclercq, Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et

Fig. 11, Hermann Wagner 1935, dai Athens photograph archive;

de liturgie, vol. xiii/2, Paris 1938, p. 2933, fig. 10036; Fig. 8, photo

Fig. 12, drawing Helena Konečná.

169

selected publications of the centre for early medieval studies, department of art history, masaryk university all publications are available at www.viella.it

Byzantium or Democracy? Kondakov's Legacy in Emigration: The Institutum Kondakovianum and André Grabar, 1925–1952 Ivan Foletti & Adrien Palladino, 2020 25€

Plotinus and the Origins of Medieval Aesthetics André Grabar / translation & introduction by Adrien Palladino, 2018 24€

Inventing Medieval Czechoslovakia 1918–1968 Between Slavs, Germans, and Totalitarian Regimes Ivan Foletti & Adrien Palladino eds, 2019 25€

Migrating Art Historians on the Sacred Ways Reconsidering Medieval French Art through the Pilgrim's Body Ivan Foletti, Katarína Kravčíková, Adrien Palladino, Sabina Rosenbergová eds, 2018 70€

From Kondakov to Hans Belting Library Emigration and Byzantium – Bridges between Worlds Ivan Foletti, Francesco Lovino, Veronika Tvrzníková eds, 2018 20€

The Mystic Cave A History of the Nativity Church in Bethlehem Michele Bacci, 2017 70€