The artistic and literary maze of Latin-occupied Greece cannot be analysed by a conventional approach. Follow the author
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English Pages 741 [763] Year 2022
The Culture of Latin Greece
East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 450–1450 General Editors Florin Curta and Dušan Zupka
volume 86
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/ecee
The Culture of Latin Greece Seven Tales from the 13th and 14th Centuries By
Vladimir Agrigoroaei
LEIDEN | BOSTON
Cover illustration: Karynia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-George: heraldic eagle painted in the sanctuary. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Karynia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Agrigoroaei, Vladimir, author. Title: The culture of Latin Greece : seven tales from the 13th and 14th centuries / by Vladimir Agrigoroaei. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2023] | Series: East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 1872-8103 ; volume 86 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “The artistic and literary maze of Latin-occupied Greece cannot be analysed by a conventional approach. Follow the author and the historical protagonists of his tales in a journey through a fragmentary shape-shifting corpus, from the medieval translations of Aristotle to pornographic animal tales carved on church columns. The book explains how art and literature were intertwined, how they evolved from the times of Nicetas Choniates to those of Isabella of Lusignan, and under what influences. It is based on the assumption that history is a form of literature, as they both share an “arbitrary distribution of emphasis” (Isaiah Berlin)”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2022048709 (print) | LCCN 2022048710 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004524217 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004524224 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Greece—History—323-1453—Sources. | Latin Empire, 1204-1261—Sources. | Literature and history—Greece—History—To 1500. | History in literature. | Greece—Civilization—Roman influences. Classification: LCC DF599.8 .A37 2023 (print) | LCC DF599.8 (ebook) | DDC 949.5/04—dc23/eng/20221102 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022048709 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022048710 Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. isSn 1872-8103 isbn 978-90-04-52421-7 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-52422-4 (e-book) Copyright 2023 by Vladimir Agrigoroaei. Published by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic. Koninklijke Brill NV reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.
Contents Acknowledgements vii List of Figures viii Maps xvi The First Tale: How This Book Came to Be 1 User Guide/Reader’s Manual 40 The Second Tale: The Old Man on the Island 44 Case Study 1: The Pseudo-Gregory Quotation of Cardinal Benedict 66 Case Study 2: The Greek Denis and a Forgotten Athenian Monastery 82 The Third Tale: Besides Translating Aristotle 126 Case Study 3: Saint Denis, Athens, and a Parisian Manuscript 128 Case Study 4: The Spandrel Panels of the Byzantine Museum in Athens 158 Case Study 5: The Narthex of Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi 178 Case Study 6: The Churches of Merbaka and Gorgoepikoos 188 The Fourth Tale: A Lady’s Change of Heart 208 Case Study 7: The Songbook That Prince William Perhaps Never Had 226 Case Study 8: The Mural Cycles of Thebes, Akronafplio, and Patras 282 The Fifth Tale: Se una notte d’inverno un Spirituale … 307 Case Study 9: The Greek Chronicle of Morea and Its French ‘Egg’ 329 Case Study 10: Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος, an Offshoot of a Franco-Italian Tradition 353 Case Study 11: The Holy Mass of Attica, amid Columns and Arcades 391 The Sixth Tale: Melusine Goes to Mystras 417 Case Study 12: The Catalan Head of Saint George 434 Case Study 13: The So-Called Achilleid as a Game of Forms 462 Case Study 14: The Alexander Carving in the Perivleptos of Mystras 472 Case Study 15: The Doubtful Orality of the 13th–14th Century Digenis 482 Case Study 16: The Roman de Renart in the Churches of Mani 490
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The Seventh Tale: The Notary Learnt Too Much 509 Case Study 17: Uther Pendragon Fights Belisarius in the Ultimate Literary War 534 Epilogue 572 Figures 585 Bibliography 650 Index 713
Acknowledgements This is a votive offering to an anonymous project assessor who argued that such research cannot be done. My wholehearted thanks go to the Onassis Foundation, who were bold enough to imagine that this research can be done. The 24th Onassis Fellowship Programme for International Scholars (2018–2019) allowed me to study and explore continental Greece for a period of six months.
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Cressac-Saint-Genis (Charente, France), chapel of the Knights Templar commandery: a) exterior view from the South-east; b) detail of the interior featuring biblical scenes from the lower register of Romanesque paintings. Credits: Author 587 2 Poncé-sur-le-Loir (Sarthe, France), church of Saint-Julian: murals of the northern wall of the nave (battle scenes, parable of the rich man, hunting scene). Credits: Author 588 3 Paliomonastiro, near Vrontamas (Laconia), cave church complex: exterior view of the entire complex. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Paliomonastiro near Vrontamas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 589 4 Paliomonastiro, near Vrontamas (Laconia), cave church complex: the cavalcade of the military saints on the outer façade of the church. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Paliomonastiro near Vrontamas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 590 5 Chartreuse du Liget, near Loches (Indre-et-Loire, France), chapel of Saint-John: scene of the Dormition of the Mother of God. Credits: Author 591 6 In the vicinity of Kastania (Messenian Mani, Messenia), church of Ai-Strategi: exterior view of the building. Credits: Author. © Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia 592 7 In the vicinity of Kastania (Messenian Mani, Messenia), church of Ai-Strategi: the depiction of the Trinity on the portico vault. Credits: Author. © Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia 593 8 Daphni, Athens (Attica), church of the Daphni Monastery: a) exterior view from the southern courtyard; b) exterior view from North-north-west, with the added portico. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 594 9 New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art: The Acropolis from the West, with the Propylaea and the Temple of Athena Nike, Athens, watercolour over graphite by Thomas Hartley Cromek (1834), 33.3 × 56.3 cm. The Frankish tower is visible to the right. © Courtesy of the Met Open Access Initiative 595 10 Kalyvia-Kouvara (Attica), church of Saint-Peter: depiction of bishop Michael Choniates as a saint in the company of other officiating bishops. Credits: Panayotis St. Katsafados. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 596
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The Dormition of the Mother of God in two French manuscripts: a) Ms Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, f. 33v; b) Ms Paris, BnF, f. fr. 13502, f. 16v. Source: print-screens of the facsimiles available at the Gallica site of the BnF (https://gallica.bnf.fr/) 597 12 Athens, Byzantine Museum, Athenian carvings: a) no. 263 (Nativity spandrel panel); b) no. 265 (spandrel panel with prophets and John the Baptist); c) no. 264 (Anastasis spandrel panel); d) no. 266 (reconstructed spandrel panel with trefoil tracery); e) no. 268 (saint holding a book). Source: Μαρία Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά του Βυζαντινού Μουσείου Αθηνών: κατάλογος. Athens: Ταμείο Αρχαιολογικών Πόρων και Απαλλοτριώσεων, 1999, p. 189–193 598 13 Athens, Byzantine Museum, Athenian carvings: a) no. 271 (Nativity slab); b) no. 283 (mythological slab); c) no. 292 (alleged tomb fragment). Source: Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, pp. 195, 202, 207 599 14 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: a) exterior view of the building from the North-east; b) the Wedding at Cana painted on one of the narthex vaults. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 600 15 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: the scene with Balaam’s Ass and Abraham’s Sacrifice painted on one of the narthex vaults. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 601 16 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: the Anapeson from the parekklesion murals. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 602 17 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: Tonsured saint in the narthex murals. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 603 18 Athens (Attica), Panagia Gorgoepikoos (church of Saint-Eleutherius or ‘Little Metropolis’): external view of the western façade. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Eleutherius lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.) 604 19 Athens (Attica), Panagia Gorgoepikoos (church of Saint-Eleutherius or ‘Little Metropolis’), details of the eastern façade: a) edicula of Cybele; b-c) two stelae representing a meeting between two characters. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Eleutherius lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.) 605
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Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis): a) view of the outer courtyard and Ionian Sea from the top of the keep; b) entrance to the lord’s hall. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 606 21 Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis): vaulted gallery of the lord’s hall. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 607 22 Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis): chapel adjacent to the lord’s hall at the piano nobile. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 608 23 Gastouni (Elis), Panagia-Katholiki church: a) exterior view of the church from the North-east; b) detail of the inscription incised on the architrave of the original western portal of the church. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 609 24 Kaphiona (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Theodore: depiction of saint Theodore in the sanctuary apse, above the Melismos scene. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Theodores in Kaphiona is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 610 25 Kaphiona (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Theodore: a) epigram inscription painted above the entrance; b) part of the main inscription painted in the sanctuary apse. Source: Panayotis St. Katsafados, “The Eagle from the Apse of the Church of Saint-George in Karinia (1281): Puzzling Heraldry, Defaced Inscriptions, and Odd Iconographic Choices in Inner Mani after the Second Council of Lyon.” Museikon 4 (2020): 53 611 26 Karynia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-George: exterior view from the North-west. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Karynia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 612 27 Karynia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-George: heraldic eagle painted in the sanctuary. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Karynia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 613 28 Andravida (Elis), church of Saint-Sophia: a) exterior view of the ruined building from the West; b) external view of the sanctuary apse from the
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North-east. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 614 29 a) Andravida (Elis), church of Saint-Sophia: detail of the southern apse; b) Chlemoutsi Castle Museum (Elis): column capital bearing a mixed coat of arms, from the church of Saint-Sophia at Andravida. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 615 30 Glarentza (Elis): panoramic views of the ruined church of Saint-Francis: a) from the South-western corner; b) from the Southern entrance; c) from the middle of the church towards the West. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 616 31 Chlemoutsi Castle Museum (Elis): fragmentary grave slab of Anna/Agnes of Villehardouin found in Andravida. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 617 32 Chlemoutsi Castle Museum (Elis): upper left corner of the grave slab of Anna/Agnes of Villehardouin – detail of a salamander and a peacock. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 618 33 Kouvara (Attica), church of Saint-George: the (allegedly Western) undulating contours of the mandorla from the Last Judgement scene. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 619 34 In the vicinity of Alepochori (close to Megara, Attica), monastery church of the Saviour: mural paintings of the sanctuary: a) the Pantocrator; b) the hierarch saints. Credits: author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The Monastery of the Metamorphosis in Alepochori is under the responsibility of the Ephorate of Antiquities of West Attica. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 620 35 Akrefnio / Karditsa (Boeotia), church of Saint-George: a) exterior view from the South-east; b) votive inscription mentioning Anthony le Flamenc. Source: Alexandra Kostarelli, “The Dedicatory Inscription of Saint George Church at Akrefnio, Boeotia (1311). Notes after the Completion of the Conservation Works.” Museikon 3 (2019): 20, 14 621 36 Pyrgi (Euboea), church of the Transfiguration: Pentecost scene painted on the transversal barrel-vault of the nave. Credits: Author. The rights on
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Figures the depicted monuments belong to Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The monument church of the Transfiguration in Pyrgi falls under its jurisdiction Ephorate of Antiquities of Euboea. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports 622 Polemitas (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Nicholas: a) exterior view from the West; b) interior view towards the sanctuary (the niche with saints George and Kyriaki is visible to the left). Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Nicholas in Polemitas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 623 Polemitas (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Nicholas: saints George and Kyriaki in the first northern niche of the nave. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Nicholas in Polemitas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 624 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: exterior view from the West-south-west. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 625 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: depiction of saint Eustace in the nave of the church. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 626 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: a) mid-register paintings of the sanctuary apse (the first two saints to the North); b) mid-register paintings of the altar apse (southern hierarch saints). Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 627 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: remnants of the sanctuary inscription. Credits: Panayotis St. Katsafados. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 628 Dagla Hill, near Markopoulo (Attica), Taxiarchis church, sanctuary apse murals: a) officiating saints to the North; b) officiating saints to the South. Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica 629 North of Megara (Attica), church of the Saviour: sanctuary apse murals. Credits: author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The Church of the Metamorphosis, north of Megara, is under the responsibility of the Ephorate of Antiquities of West Attica. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 630
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North of Megara (Attica), church of the Saviour: mural paintings in the south-eastern corner of the nave. © Author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The Church of the Metamorphosis, north of Megara, is under the responsibility of the Ephorate of Antiquities of West Attica. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports/Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 631 Plaka, Athens (Attica), church of Saint-John-the-Theologian: military saint riding a horse on the southern side of the barrel vault in the prothesis. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-John-The Theologian in Plaka lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.) 632 Plaka, Athens (Attica), church of Saint-John-the-Theologian: military saint riding a horse in the middle register of paintings from the sanctuary, northern wall, with a segment of an Ascension scene in the upper register. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-John-The Theologian in Plaka lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.) 633 Geraki Castle (Laconia): a) view of the castle hill; b) exterior view of the entrance to the church of Saint-George. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 634 Geraki Castle (Laconia), church of Saint-George: general view of the proskynetarion adjacent to the northern wall of the nave – the cadency marks are visible on both sides of the trefoil opening. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 635 Geraki Castle (Laconia), church of Saint-George: a) coat of arms carved at the top of the proskynetarion; b) coat of arms carved above the entrance to the nave. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 636 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), church of the Perivleptos Monastery: exterior view from the South. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Perivleptos
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Figures in Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 637 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), Museum at the Metropolis church, the Alexander slab taken from the church of the Perivleptos Monastery: a) general view of the piece; b) detail of the Alexander scene. Credits: Author. The Museum of Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 638 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), church of the Perivleptos Monastery: interior view of the prothesis, altar, and diaconicon. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Perivleptos in Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 639 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), church of the Perivleptos Monastery, damages to the mural paintings on the side walls of the apses, probably connected with the dismantling of the templon screens, and measurements for the reconstruction of the latter with the inclusion of the Alexander slab: a) prothesis; b) altar; c) diaconicon; d-g) detailed views of the corresponding fitting marks still visible on the floor. The colour red marks the damages to the mural paintings on the side walls. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Perivleptos in Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 640 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), Museum at the Metropolis church: plaster and brick remnants on the left end of the Alexander slab. Credits: Author. The Museum of Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 641 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: exterior view of the building from the South. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 642 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: interior view of the immured entrance to the diaconicon. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 643
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In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: immured entrance to the diaconicon, dado zone, Maximou the Amazon (Η Μ[Α]ΞΙΜȢ). Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 644 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: immured entrance to the diaconicon, dado zone, Digenis Akritas (Ο ΔΥΓΕΙ(N)ΗC). Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 645 Nomitsi (Messenian Mani, Messenia), church of the Transfiguration: a) column capital with the agrarian/pornographic animal scene; b) column capital with a hunting scene. Credits: Author. © Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia 646 Charia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Nicholas: a) column capital with the agrarian/pornographic animal scene; b) second animal scene (the fox and the rooster) with the inscription in political verses. Credits: Panayotis St. Katsafados. The Monument Church of Saint-Nicholas in Charia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 647 Geraki Castle (Laconia), hill of the Outer Churches, Taxiarchis church: exterior view from the West. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Taxiarchis in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 648 Geraki Castle (Laconia), hill of the Outer Churches, Taxiarchis church: the siege of Jericho painted on the northern wall. Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Taxiarchis in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development 649
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Map 1
Greece
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1. Akova 2. Andravida 3. Androusa 4. Antirrio 5. Areia 6. Argos 7. Arta 8. Astron 9. Cephalonia island 10. Chiliomodi 11. Chortaiton monastery 12. Chlemoutsi 13. Chrysapha 14. Davlia 15. Gardiki 16. Gastouni 17. Geraki 18. Glarentza 19. Glatsa / Anilio 20. Gravia 21. Hosios Loukas monastery 22. Ioannina 23. Isova monastery 24. Iviron monastery 25. Kalavryta 26. Karytaina 27. Kastoria 28. Koroni 29. Koutloumousiou monastery 30. Kythira 31. Lampeia / Ano Drivi 32. Larissa 33. Lefkada islanda
34. Leontari 35. Livadia 36. Longanikos 37. Makryplagi 38. Manolada 39. Mendenitsa (Boudonitsa) 40. Merbaka / Agia Triada 41. Monemvasia 42. Nafplio 43. Naupaktos 44. Nemea 45. Neopatras (Ypati) 46. Nikli 47. Ouranopolis 48. Paleomonastiro Vrontamas 49. Patras 50. Pelagonia (battle) 51. Prinitsa (battle) 52. Salona (Amphissa) 53. Samarina 54. Servion 55. Skala 56. Stymphalia 57. Strophades islands 58. Thermopylae 59. Thessalonica 60. Trizonia island 61. Vatopedi monastery 62. Veligosti 63. Vlacherne monastery 64. Vrontamas 65. Zaraka monastery
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1. Akrefnio / Karditsa 2. Alepochori 3. Alcyonides (islands) 4. Athens 5. Avlona 6. Chalkida / Evripos / Negroponte 7. Corinth 8. Daphni 9. Egina (island, settlement) 10. Eleusis 11. Ermioni 12. Galatsi 13. Halmyros (battle) 14. Kalyvia 15. Kea (island) 16. Karystos 17. Keratea 18. Kesariani 19. Kouvara 20. Kranidi 21. Ligourio 22. Makrychori
23. Marathon 24. Markopoulo 25. Megali Avli 26. Megara 27. Methana (peninsula) 28. Mount Hymettus 29. Mount Karydi (battle) 30. Mount Pateras 31. Orchomenos 32. Oreos 33. Oropos 34. Oxylithos 35. Paleochora 36. Piraeus 37. Porto Rafti 38. Psachna 39. Pyrgi 40. Spilia Penteli 41. Sykamino 42. Thebes 43. Thermia (island) 44. Vagiati (Penteli)
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Mani
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1. Agii Anargyri / Zoupena 2. Ano Boularii 3. Ano Poula 4. Areopoli 5. Briki 6. Charia 7. Dryopi 8. Episkopi 9. Exochori 10. Frangoulias 11. Gardenitsa 12. Glezou 13. Kalamata 14. Kaphiona 15. Kardamyli 16. Karynia 17. Kastania
18. Keria 19. Lagia 20. Langada 21. Lefktron 22. Liberdo / Platanos 23. Marathos 24. Mina 25. Mystras 26. Nomitsi 27. Parori 28. Passava 29. Platsa 30. Polemitas 31. Pyrgos Dirou 32. Sparti 33. Sotirianika 34. Trissakia
the first tale
How This Book Came to Be It is hard to say what this book is. I can only say what it is not. My primary interest is not the exploration of iconographic series or the stemmatic criticism of textual variants. I do not group cultural acts in categories and I have no pretentions of objectivity whatsoever. The book is not an exhaustive approach to a well-trimmed corpus of examples either. It simply returns to the roots of what research in humanities used to be: nuances and new readings. At a first glance, this is a plain old book, an interpretation of an organic cluster of cultural acts dating from the time of the Latin occupation of Greece. Now, when it is trendy to speak of materiality and immateriality – whatever the second concept may really mean, I am more interested in meaning than form. Meaning is always subject to debate. Regardless of our fascination for items pin-pointed on digital maps, databases, or online facsimiles, neatly classifying items and putting them in boxes is not useful all the time. We spend too much time preoccupied with adjusting our methodology to the syntax of programming languages, reinventing the wheel every half-decade. We live in an age of electronic incunabula – a cradle of interactive babbling, impatiently waiting to see what the future unfolds. However, this future is still unknown to us. This is why I prefer to draw on our past, to debate our objectivity. I wish to confront my interpretations with those of my peers. Every researcher must acknowledge the limits of her/his own approach, turning that subjectiveness into a method of research. Therefore, my book is intentionally exposed to criticism and engages the reader in constant dialogue with the author. It is an opinion, a demonstration, a suggestion. It speaks of the East-West dilemma, of Westerners and Byzantines ‘meeting on the ledge’, of vernacular and high-prestige forms of cultural interplay, of syncretism, hybridization, or amalgamation, but it approaches all these topics from the perspective of the individual. It does not approach them in opposition, but as an amendment to the socio-political or socio-economic readings that are regularly enforced in the interpretation of those same examples. Every historical interpretation is prone to a subjective narrative of the literary kind. This suggests that one must embrace and make use of her/his own subjectivity, trying to domesticate it until it goes from foe to friend. In the book, I pushed subjectivity to the extreme: I converted my historical interpretations into literature, displaying their exaggerations through a dramatization of the narrative. I used those exaggerations in order to attain a certain
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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degree of falsifiability, in order to evaluate the limits of what one can and cannot understand about the times of old. My goal was never to write tales about Michael Choniates, William of Morbeka, Anna of Villehardouin, Angelo Clareno, Isabella of Lusignan, or Nicholas da Martoni, even though their stories gave structure to the chapters of the book and created a particular rhythm of the narrative. These tales are the by-product of a method of research. I used them in order to slither through an organic maze of artistic and literary examples that cannot be suitably classified, as they are steadily linked in the form of a maze: the cultural conundrum of Latin-occupied Greece. In order to understand why I had to resort to this method, the readers must know the story of this book. Here is how and why I took the decision to write academic tales using fragments of chronicles and literary texts, arranged as collages. For the sake of the genre, my introductory explanation is presented as one of the seven tales of the book.
…
The idea behind it was born six years ago, when I first came to Athens with a vague plan to study the cultural context of a rara avis, the only medieval translation made from Old Greek into French.1 It was the summer of 2014. Four years before, when I was writing my first PhD dissertation, I noticed that this translation had been produced in a rather strange milieu, at Mount Athos, in the early years of the Latin occupation, at the monastery of Iviron. I wanted to learn more about the period. This was one of the earliest translations into French and the only one made from Old Greek. What I found in the month spent in the library of the French School of Athens was far more stimulating than what I had originally set out to find. The French occupation of continental Greece (Frankokratia) was an incongruous world, full of perplexities. Latin influences were peripheral, often found in rural areas, where no Latins lived. These influences made no sense whatsoever, since they should have been located in an urban context, the social core of the 13th–14th century occupation. I reached that conclusion because I did not look exclusively at the literary corpus. I also looked into art issues. In that short month spent in Greece, I saw a lot of things in Athens and around it, but I also hiked in Methana for two days, and I went to Mani. That 1 The scholarship at the French School of Athens led to the publication of Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Traduction et sotériologie. Nouvelles recherches au sujet du Barlaam français du Mont Athos’, in Anna Maria Babbi, Chiara Concina (dir.), Francofonie medievali: Lingue e letterature gallo-romanze fuori di Francia (sec. XII–XV) (Verona: Fiorini, 2016), 229–249.
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one-day visit to Inner Mani, waking up early to take the bus from Kifissos at 5 a.m. and returning after midnight, with the last bus from Areopoli, left a strong impression in my mind. It was very hot in the month of August, I was on foot when I was dropped off in front of the gas station beneath Briki, and a divine hand made me meet a couple of art historians in the church of Saint-Nicholas. It was the first monument that I entered that day. I cannot remember their names, but they had a car and they were willing to help me. They showed me monuments that were on their list, such as Trissakia, where I was fascinated less by the majestic depictions of holy riders and more by the hole in the sanctuary conch. One could see the mountain range through that hole, flanked by the hands and head of a damaged Platytera. There was also a crack in the depiction of the Last Supper, separating Judas from the rest of the scene. It looked like magic. A land made up of rocks, red earth, thistles of various shapes and sizes, olive trees, donkeys, and more rocks. Next, I entered the churches of Polemitas (Fig. 37a). The old one never fascinated me, in spite of its famous inscription. Instead, I remember entering the church of Saint-Nicholas and contemplating the odd arrangement of saint Kyriaki next to saint George on horseback. It stroke me as incredibly weird, a sort of stimulus diffusion of the scene with saint George and the princess. And for three full years, all sorts of ideas yeasted in the back of my mind. In 2017, when those ideas had risen enough, I returned to Athens and tried to find a way to put them to good use. Evi Platanitou, the secretary of the French School, always helped me. She constantly found a room for me to stay and do my research, even when it was almost impossible. But in that month of November, she also put me in contact with Platon Petridis, who provided me with a list of contacts. The first one on that list was Maria Panayotidi and this is where my Greek adventure began. She probably never believed that my research would contribute something new to the world of art history, but she took a great chance and agreed to be my supervisor for a fellowship grant of the Onassis Foundation. She wrote letters and talked to the administration at the University. Later, I found out that I was lucky enough for my project to be selected by the Onassis Foundation in July 2018. I exchanged a lot of emails with Frédérique Hadgiantoniou, the coordinator of the fellowship. I had the money needed to cover six full months of research in Greece. And I could choose whatever months I wanted. The plan was bold. I knew, from personal experience, that one always forgets something at the end of research, therefore I had to have several ends, to be able to return and mend past mistakes. I divided my stay into three periods: three months at the end of 2018, two before the summer of 2019, and a last month after that summer, in September 2019. It was actually a smart plan.
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Instead of drowning myself in fresh discoveries for a full six-month period, I took the time to adjust, take a step back, evaluate, and look forward to what I needed to do next. I also benefited from the advice of other colleagues. Anastasia Yangaki met with me several times, even though it was clear that my research had nothing to do with the study of ceramics. Without ever knowing, her doubts about the representations of literary heroes on ceramics were the spark that ignited my questioning of the early stages of Digenis. Demetrios Athanasoulis welcomed me in his office across the Roman Agora, gave me a pile of books, and questioned me about the corpus. Since I was at the beginning of my research, he orally compiled a list of monuments that could interest me. And from that list I found other lists, published by others, building a solid basis in my quest. Michalis Kappas met with me in a kafeneio and was doubtful about what I had in mind, but this did not stop him from providing me with more lists of monuments and useful Greek examples that helped me finish the comparative section of my article about the Transylvanian church of Strei.2 Tassos Tanoulas welcomed me in his home and explained to me in detail the modern history of the carved fragments which came from the former deposit of Thissio. Last but not least, there was Sophia Kalopissi-Verti. She too met with me many times in the teashop of the German Institute, sometimes in the company of Maria Panayotidi. She gave me scientific and practical advice. She even gave me one of the last remaining copies of her PhD dissertation, a book that I greatly cherish.
…
By the end of the first month, I had already run through most lists of monuments and texts, compiling a good starting point. I also had vague ideas about how to present my findings. In my frequent conversations with Panayotis Katsafados, I explained that I was looking for strange cases. Not necessarily Western in nature, but odd situations from the standpoint of Byzantine iconography. The reason behind this choice was an observation that I had made when studying Demotic literary texts: Western influences were never obvious, they were hidden, as if they had been filtered through a cultural sieve. In fact, most of them belonged to the category of stimulus diffusion, since they were reactions to French or Italian trends. He provided me with an avalanche of examples, each of them more intriguing that the next. Some of those examples
2 Cf. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Les peintures de Strei et l’Union des deux Églises’, Museikon, 2 (2018), 37–78.
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were reminiscent of what I had found in literary texts. This gave me the idea to place literary and artistic acts in a sort of balance, in constant comparison. What stroke me instantly when I assembled my Greek corpus was the utter absence of sacred texts in the Demotic language, even though such texts would have been expected, had the Demotic texts been written under the influence of the Westerners. The similar absence of evident Latin themes in the art of the period suggested to me that the absence itself was the place to start. In medieval French literature, at least one third of the 12th–13th century literary corpus is made up of biblical or hagiographic texts. Their number equals and often exceeds that of chivalric romances or songs-of-deeds (chansons de geste). Since there are traces of Demotic chivalric romances, and since Digenis itself can be compared to a song-of-deeds, one is left to wonder why there are no biblical or hagiographic texts in the Demotic Greek corpus, or very few, if we take into consideration the late and rare productions of Crete (15th century) or the early Comnenian ones (12th century).3 The best interpretation is that cultural exchanges acted at a superficial level, since spiritual matters were carefully considered, thus the absence of sacred texts in the Demotic milieu influenced by the Latins. As for the odd similarities between some religious writings, like the consecutive adaptations of the Byzantine tale of Syndipas and its Western counterpart, Dolopathos or the Seven Wise Men, they could not be of any help, since they stemmed from a previously established tradition. What interested me more was the manner in which a doctrinal dialogue was construed through the acceptance of Byzantine culture by the newly arrived Latins. This odd doctrinal contact became clearer when Maria Panayotidi, Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, and Niki Vasilikou took me to see Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi. A cold wind blew through the church when we discussed disruptions in iconography. There was nothing wrong with the scenes themselves, but some depictions were not in their right places and there was also the issue of a tonsured saint in the narthex (Fig. 17). It looked like there was a Latin presence, but it was hidden behind actual Byzantine scenes. As if art and literature changed under the pressure of the Latins, but those changes were in accord with local tradition, not against it. 3 The Complaint about Adam and the Paradise (118 political verses) or the Penitential alphabet (120 political verses) deal with subjects very similar the Old French didactic poems of the 12th century. Cf. Borje Knös, L’histoire de la littérature néo-grecque (Stockholm: Acta Universitatis Upsalensis, 1962), 84. However, these poems do not create a trend in Byzantine literature after 1204. For 15th century Crete, see the rhymed paraphrase of the books of Genesis and Exodus by George Choumnos; Γεώργιος Α. Μέγας (ed.), Γεωργίου Χούμνου η Κοσμογέννησις: ανέκδοτον στιχούργημα του ΙΕ’ αιώνος: εμμετρος παράφρασις της Γενέσεως και Εξόδου της Παλαιάς Διαθήκης (Athens: Ακαδημία Αθηνών, 1975).
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I still believe that the answer to all these questions lies in a proper linguistic study of the inscriptions of the Peloponnesus in comparison with the earliest Demotic texts, looking for the earliest manifestation of the vernacular language, for possible sociolects, dialects, and for idiolects as well. But, alas, I am not the person to do it, for I am not a linguist. It may be argued that the rift between the old and the new language in the history of Greek originated in these two centuries of Latin occupation. A common-place or ‘received idea’ (still unverified, but not disproven either) states that the genesis of a Demotic Greek language could have been speeded up by foreign rule after 1205. It is common knowledge that Demotic was influenced by Western languages, but these influences are uncertain, ranking from superficial to obscure. However, this is exactly the case with art history and history of literature, so there may be something to this, especially since the disruption in the language’s evolution could lead to the transformation of the Doric dialects of the Peloponnesus into a Tsakonian language. Still, it is difficult to delve deep into such problematic notions, because they may be used in a political way, by adversaries and defenders of traditionalism alike. In fact, nobody can truly observe a connection between the arrival of the Latins in the area and the earliest manifestations of the vernacular language. Real proof of change comes only from a series of Greek romances, but these texts are equally uncanny and their origins predate the conquest of 1205. One cannot know if their language corresponds to the vernacular manifestations of words, phrases, and even sentences in the 13th or 14th century inscriptions of the same area. This is where the differences between dialects and sociolects become fundamental. The real question is: are we contemplating a geographical distribution of these literary texts? Or is it a distribution across social strata? What was the actual public of these texts? I am tempted to mention an idea shared in private correspondence by Anthony Kaldellis: some of these romances could be written for the descendants of the Greek-speaking French and not by and for the Greeks themselves. Consequently, those Demotic texts would not be written in an actual Greek language, but in a sociolect, not very different but occasionally dissimilar from the idiom spoken by the majority of the population. Nevertheless, I cannot argue that this sociolect would be comparable to what happened in the case of Anglo-Norman religious texts, written in the cloister. Those Old French texts are a proof of a monastic or scholar sociolect, because the vernacular language acted in conjugation with (or under the larger protective umbrella of) Latin in the British Isles. Nor can I compare the Demotic case to what happened in Northern Italy, where the French influence determined the creation of an artificial literary language, the Franco-Italian, restricted to a specific public – people who were in contact or who were imitating French cultural trends. The
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Greek case seems to be related to these situations, but it is different at the same time, perhaps because we think too much about the Gasmouli, the offspring of mixed marriages between Byzantines and Latins. We fail to see that mixed marriages were not the only manner in which syncretic forms could be attained. People do not need physical contact to borrow an idea. If Orthodoxy and Catholicism were tectonic plates, their clash would be often ‘convergent’, with one of them sliding under the other. This led to subduction, as it happened in medieval Transylvania (but also sporadically in the Peloponnesus). In Transylvania, there were mixed marriages between Vlach and Hungarian elite, but Latin influences appeared everywhere, independently from them. The main difference between Transylvania and the Greek lands is that the Transylvanian Orthodox were mostly located in rural areas, while Catholics lived in urban settlements. But there were many Catholic communities in rural areas as well. This suggests that we should be careful when comparing Transylvania to Cyprus or Morea, where things were quite the opposite, with the Latins restricted to urban settlements and the Greeks occupying both urban and rural areas. From what we see in art and literature, there are instances in which the Greek lands could also be a ‘divergent boundary’, with the plates moving away from each other, but it is impossible to state whether this is a consequence of social policies (or not). There is also the ‘transform boundary’, a case in which the two plates simply stick to each other, without creating or destroying anything. This is the case of the Rus’ lands or of several other Greek situations. Naturally, none of these ideas should be taken as a general rule. But the countless manners in which the Byzantine Commonwealth and Latin West interacted with one another on this wide divide, from the Baltic to the Mediterranean, suggested that I include many comparisons in my book: Northern Russia; Western Ukraine and Transylvania; or the Banat and Southern Slavic lands. In these areas, the Catholic-Orthodox dialogue started earlier and lasted longer. From this point of view, the Holy Land and Morea are a bit inconsistent. Only Cyprus, Crete, and the Aegean may be considered to be long-term areas where cultural phenomena occurred with a certain frequency. Since I mentioned these terms of comparison, it is worth noting that French cultural influences manifested early on in the history of Western Europe. Italy, the German lands, and the Iberian Peninsula were under the sway of French cultural trends ever since the beginning of the 12th century. Scandinavian literature soon followed this trend and the Round Table or other French tales reached as far eastward as Poland and Russia. From this standpoint, the Greek lands were a late bloomer and the influences were multifaceted. We should not speak of a French influence, but of a Franco-Italian one, since they formed a
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cultural conglomerate. In literature, Byzantine romances, well attested in the previous century, during the Comnenian dynasty, multiplied and transmuted in Palaeologan times. One may find Greek translations of French romances, like the War of Troy (Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος), adapted from the Roman de Troie, but there are also French tales which arrived through an Italian intermediary, such as Apollonius or Floire et Blancheflor. This happened in later periods, when Demotic literature acquired its own Arthurian tale, the 15th-century fragment of the Old Knight (Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης). Since this last example translates a French romance written by a Pisan, it is only natural to link it to the fact that Francophile Italians (from Venice, Pisa, Florence, Naples, etc.) formed the largest part of the residents settled in the towns of Frankish Morea. Yet, there are also source texts of a purely Italian nature, like the Theseid of Boccaccio. We can notice an oscillation between French and Italian models, with purely French ones at the beginning and purely Italian ones at the end. In art, on the other hand, circumstances vary differently. One cannot notice an oscillation between French and Italian trends, because art is rarely connected to language in a direct way. Moreover, most directly influenced works of art are now lost, due to an ambiguous damnatio memoriae that may have operated at the end of the Frankokratia. This could also be related to the fact that cultural exchanges acted on a superficial level. Religious themes were weightier and subject to more risks. Perhaps this is why there are only ruins of Latin churches in the Peloponnesus, while the church of Saint-Paraskevi from Euboea is still well preserved, because it was located in an area where Western presence lasted longer. I am not speaking of incidental destructions such as that of the monastery in Isova. I am speaking of the voluntary destruction of Glarentza in 1431. The local church of Saint-Francis was razed to the ground (Fig. 30). Fragments of decoration were found only by archaeological research. There is also a scarcity of Western epigraphic material. Surprisingly (or perhaps not), there are not many Latin inscriptions in the Peloponnesus, contrary to the situation from the islands, where Latin inscriptions are abundant. The only Moreote ones to survive are badly damaged. Not to mention that each example is incomplete and with an unknown original position in situ.4 For 4 Some examples: half of the funerary slab of Anna-Agnes of Villehardouin (in French); two fragments of 14th century inscriptions from Methoni and Koroni, now displayed in Kalamata (the latter mentioning a certain DE GARÇON); or the funerary slab of a Venetian who was buried in the monastery of Vlacherne, close to Glarentza, in September 1358. A handful of inscriptions over more than two hundred years of occupation is ridiculous. The funerary slab of Anna de Villehardouin will be discussed at the end of the fourth chapter. For the inscription of Vlacherne, see D. Feisel, A. Philippidis-Brat, ‘Inventaires en vue d’un recueil des inscriptions historiques de Byzance: III. Inscriptions du Péloponnèse (à l’exception de
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example, traditional research considers that the funerary slab of princess Anna of Villehardouin was situated in the church of Saint-James in Andravida, burial chapel of the Villehardouin, but nobody can actually state where that particular church was located. It was destroyed, maybe pillaged by the locals for its stone material, and the church of Saint-Stephen is also unaccounted for. Only the church of Saint-Sophia remains from the entire medieval settlement of Andravida (Fig. 28–29), but most of it is in a dilapidated state as well. Nothing really remains from the Latin occupation of Kalamata either, even though there must have been something there. The same may be said about Patras, Corinth, or Nafplio. These had to be the centres whence Latin influence irradiated towards the rural examples that I had found, but there was nothing in them. There were some Byzantine churches that had survived the Turkish conquest, meaning that the destruction probably operated on different grounds, since this lack of interest only concerns the state of Latin monuments. If these are exceptions, as some would have us believe, then this may account, by contrast, for a different phenomenon, perhaps similar to the issue of Greek romances: Latins would have built churches in a Byzantine style, like that of Merbaka. Latins from the later generations may have used the Greek language as well. This is partly true, though it cannot be properly argued. The issue is simple: all that is left of these Latins are their castles, and not even those are all accounted for. Nobody knows much about the second, third, and fourth generation Frenchmen, about the progressive Italianization of Morea, or about the ubiquitous but never defined Gasmouli. All that we have are suppositions and recent research has proven that our faulty perspective derives from giving to much credit to the propagandistic reading of history in the Chronicle of Morea. This text “would have us believe that the religious schism between Catholics and Orthodox became a non-issue in Morea under the Villehardouin.” It also implies “the existence of a common language shared by both Greeks and Latins in the Peloponnesus,” a sense of unity, which was possible up to a certain degree, but never to the embellished levels implied by the Chronicle.5 I started wondering whether (or not) the whole situation construed the creation of a vernacular identity, opposed to the Byzantine mainstream Old Greek Koiné. Not a “common language shared by Greeks and Latins,” but the shared use of vernacular languages (Demotic Greek, French, and maybe Mistra)’, in Travaux et mémoires 9 (Paris: De Boccard, 1985), 336: Anno D(omi)ni MCCCLVIII die VI [-] | me(n)sis Septe(m)bris. Hic iacet [--] | filius S. VIRIDI. MILETI. DELU [--] | qui habitat in Veneciis. The slab is now displayed in the museum of Chlemoutsi castle. 5 See Teresa Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, Historiography in Crusader Greece (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 209, 210 (for the quotations) and the entire book for the paragraph.
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Italian). The fifth chapter of the book will show that this is highly plausible, since certain Demotic Greek texts were closely linked to the French and Italian texts copied in the Angevin Kingdom of Naples. In any case, it would have nothing in common with the creation of a Greek nation. I am not convinced by the definition of nations and nationalisms as purely social phenomena. In literary history, textual communities, language, and culture play a much more significant part. Hence, I am quite tempted to consider that the Latin conquerors, who were readers of Western romances, shared a common propensity for the vernacular language with the readers of Demotic romances; or for the vernacular manners of expressing culture. For the time being, I will take into account only the working hypothesis that these people were progressively Hellenized and Italianized. To prove this, suffice it to say that direct cultural influences did exist. Certain documents mention works of art, now lost (such as the murals presenting the war of Troy in the palace of the archbishop in Patras), but they were following Venetian models, as I will argue in the fourth chapter. Moreover, these Venetian models were based in their own turn upon Italian translations and adaptations or Franco-Italian renderings of French texts. It is no surprise that the War of Troy, the Greek 14th century poem following the French story, was adapted from one of the late versions of the Roman de Troie, presumably from a version that was read or copied at the court of Naples. Things go in the direction of Italy, just as the rarely preserved works of art do, too. The best example would be the murals from the Akronafplio gate, analysed in the fourth chapter. But there are also cases of indirect influence, like the Digenis representation in Chrysapha (Fig. 57–59) or the Alexander carving from Mystras (Fig. 52), which will be analysed in the penultimate chapter (the sixth one). They belonged to a vernacular level of culture, explaining thus the transfer of patterns, not the transfer of texts proper. I was fascinated by these odd cases, therefore I decided to make my preliminary field trips in Laconia. By the end of October 2018, I was already in Sparti, speaking to the colleagues from the local Ephorate. I visited Mystras, Chrysapha, and the churches of Geraki in the rather short time of five days. Since I mentioned these examples, it is worth revealing that Western trends affected Greek culture in an indirect manner. One of the main lines of my research was the analysis of stimulus diffusion: the Greek reaction to the newly arrived cultural trends. Stimulus diffusion occurs when an idea spreads based on its attachment to another concept, when concepts switch cultures, or, simply put, when things are achieved in a different way. Many themes and motifs were ascribed to this French influence – such as the sudden blooming of equestrian saints in murals, but not all these examples should be regarded
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as actual influences. The military saints on horseback, for instance, appear all over the Mediterranean. The same may be said about motifs on ceramics. In fact, most of the actual cases are still unidentified. My favourite example is the scene with Digenis Akritas fighting Maximou the Amazon in a church from Chrysapha (Fig. 57–59), where the Demotic Greek hero occupies the same place as Roland (the Old French hero) in the churches of Northern Italy. The idea of linking profane tales to sacred representations probably switched sides and was adapted to the Greek culture in a typical stimulus diffusion. This was possible because similar things happened all over Europe when these trends were exported to other languages or literatures. What characterised medieval French trends and their transmission to other linguistic areas was a cultural cocktail best described by Dante at the turn of the 14th century: ‘the Bible with compilations of the history of Troy and Rome, and King Arthur’s most beautiful digressions, and many other stories’ (Biblia cum Troianorum Romanorumque gestibus compilata et Arturi regis ambages pulcerrime et quamplures alie ystorie).6 This French ‘spirit’, with a propensity for merging romance and religious subjects, manifested as early as the onset of the 12th century, in a yet unclear relationship between sacred and secular art. It was the result of the circulation of models and ideas between the literary and artistic milieus of the Middle Ages. And it is obvious – I noted this in many studies – in the art of Northern Italy, where Franco-Italian texts were later written in the 13th century. This is my primary reason to believe that the representation of Digenis in the Chrysapha church is influenced by various Western heroes carved or painted in the churches of Italy and France. This is equally why I believe that the siege of Jericho from the Taxiarchis church of Geraki (Fig. 63) may be influenced by similar models, recognisable in depictions from Cressac (Fig. 1) or Clermont. These cultural trends relied on a fusion of sacred and profane, of Bible and chivalric stories, in a very unique way that the book will explore in detail. It is difficult to say what triggered such aesthetic choices, but a safe bet is that one of the chief causes was the inferior status of vernacular sacred texts in comparison with the high-prestige stance of their Latin sources. Vernacular translations started on the margins or between the lines of Latin texts, often accompanying and having a similar value to the miniatures painted in the same manuscripts. This was the proper and un-heretical way of dealing with the transfer of sacred stories from Latin into the vernacular. But this peripheral status also led to the grafting of vernacular themes on sacred subjects. As 6 Pier Vincenzo Mengaldo (ed.), Dante Alighieri: Opere minori, 2, De vulgari eloquentia (Milan: Ricciardi, 1979), 84.
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for the sacred texts, actual translations carried the risk of heresy, except when they were proposed in the form of adaptations, accompanied by sage commentaries of those texts. It is no wonder that the translations and adaptations of the New Testament were rather late-comers in the French literature, since the risk of mistranslations was greater in their cases. It is also not surprising that the large majority of early translations were made from the books of the Old Testament, as most of them were event-driven books of history. Thus the passion for Old Testament stories, for Old Testament iconography, leading to a fascination with the Old Testament that ended up in the ideology and propaganda of the crusades, with the crusaders walking in the footsteps of their models in the Holy Land. Some of the earliest biblical translations into French were made for crusaders and 12th–13th century French literature is filled to the brim by such tales and adaptations.7 Byzantines could interpret this proclivity for Old Testament stories in light of what they considered to be a Judaizing tendency in Latin culture. They had a similar approach to the Old Testament as a book of history and they often compared themselves to the Jews as a Chosen People, but the position was more nuanced.8 In a diatribe against the Latins, Constantine Stilbès noticed that the members of the Western Church had several common points with heresies that had been recognized and condemned in the past. Latins came under Judaism in several grievances: the unleavened bread, the fact that the bishops shaved their whole body, the quasi-observation of the Sabbath, the ablutions and the purifications, and other things as well.9 His explanation was historical and deterministic: when the Vandals overthrew the power of Rome, they uprooted ancient Romans. Since they shared various heresies – from the fact that they were Arians, Nestorians, Macedonians and who knows what else, 7 For this paragraph, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Quelques réflexions au sujet des traductions françaises médiévales de la Bible: un problème de méthodologie’, in Claudio Galderisi, Jean-Jacques Vincensini (dir.), De l’ancien français au français moderne. Théories, pratiques et impasses de la traduction intralinguale (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 165–181. For the last phrases, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Une lecture templière de l’Ancien Testament: les peintures de Cressac à la lumière de la traduction anglo-normande du livre des Juges’, in Cătălina Gîrbea (dir.), Armes et jeux militaires dans l’imaginaire: XIIe–XVe siècles (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2016), 65–96; Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘La place des inscriptions de Merléac dans l’histoire des textes bibliques historiés’, in X.-L. Salvador, J. Patterson (dir.), Paroles et images sur le commencement: Le discours des peintures de la Chapelle de Merléac (Orléans: Paradigme, 2019), 21–43. 8 See e.g. Elizabeth Jeffreys, ‘Old Testament ‘History’ and the Byzantine Chronicle’, in Paul Magdalino, Robert Nelson (dir.), The Old Testament in Byzantium (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2010), 153–174. 9 For the original text, see Jean Darrouzès, ‘Le mémoire de Constantin Stilbès contre les Latins’, Revue des études byzantines, 21 (1963), 86.
13
How This Book Came to Be
they implanted these heresies in Rome. Franks and Germans received them as a sort of cultural inheritance.10 Stilbès voiced a ready-made opinion, an instant reaction, a compulsive rejection, but this did not last very long. The Byzantines undoubtedly assimilated something from the Latin rhetoric of the Old Testament. The 13th century is the time when Old Testament cycles appeared in the narthex of churches.11 I remember explaining this situation to Ioanna Christoforaki upon my return from my first Laconian trip. She did not disagree with my explanation, but she needed to know more about this unexplored topic. This gave me two ideas. On the one hand, I had to concentrate my book on a parallel presentation of what the Western cultural presence could have been and what its reflections in Greek art and literature actually were. On the other hand, I had to put everything into context, recuperating as much as possible from earlier studies about a similar cultural dialogue in the Holy Land, in Cyprus, or in Crete. There was even a linguistic reason behind this. I had never forgotten that the key to understanding the Greek corpus and the effects of French cultural trends would be of a linguistic nature (in the future). I could not work with this subject, because it was too infertile and impossible to link with art, but I knew that the Chronicle of Morea and many French texts written in the Crusader states bore the imprint of the Italian language. This ‘Outremer’ French was a language filled with Italianisms. Even some of its Greek and Arab loanwords were subject to an Italian influence.12 And the Iviron French translation of Barlaam and Josaphat – the starting point of my research – was also possibly written with the help of other Italians, the Amalfitan Benedictines of Mount Athos. Since Greek, Latin, Italian, and French were intertwined in linguistics and in literature, I thought that this maybe also be the situation in art history. This is when I decided to give priority to the artistic corpus, since it probably suffered the effects of a harsher damnatio memoriae. I had to take a deeper look at what had happened in art. In literature, things were easier to spot and trace.
…
10 11 12
Darrouzès, ‘Le mémoire’, 90–91. Cf. Suzy Dufrenne, ‘L’enrichissement du programme iconographique dans les églises byzantines du XIIIe siècle’, in L’Art byzantin du XIIIe siècle. Symposium de Sopocani 1965 (Belgrade: Faculté de philosophie, Département de l’histoire de l’art, 1967), 43. Cf. Laura Minervini, ‘Le français dans l’Orient latin (XIIIe–XIVe siècles). Éléments pour la caractérisation d’une scripta du Levant’, Revue de linguistique romane, 74 (2010), 119–198; Laura Minervini, ‘Les emprunts arabes et grecs dans le lexique français d’Orient (XIIIe–XIVe siècles)’, Revue de linguistique romane, 76 (2012), 99–197.
14
the first tale
By early December, I had bought and sent back to France a lot of books. I cannot find the words to thank my dear Anca for lifting up all those heavy parcels. I had most literary texts, I had read them over and over, and I noticed that there was a huge problem in my bibliography. In literary studies, nobody cared that Western influences were evident before the occupation. Nobody questioned the date of Comnenian novels, in spite of the Western trends that were obvious in their structure. Recent research suggests that the Latin occupation did not change the evolution of Byzantine literature and that change is evident only at the middle of the 14th century, leading to two fluid periods (1050–1350 and 1350–1500).13 Only art history arranged monuments and artwork according to a logic that emphasised different features before and after 1205 (the year of the conquest of Boeotia, Attica, and Peloponnesus). This is when I started to question many of those studies in art history. But first, let me explain the secondary reasons for having such doubts. Premature contacts imaginably occurred because Westerners were already under the sway of Byzantine cultural trends. In Carolingian and Ottonian periods, Byzantine influences in art and literature arrived through Rome. But later, the first three Crusades speeded things up and Westerners borrowed a lot of things directly from the Byzantine East. This probably led to a climate in which they were easily predisposed to adapt to Oriental fashions. Some examples are perhaps in order. The best one is the odd Dormition of the Mother of God depicted in the murals of the Chartreuse du Liget, a small round monastic chapel, close to the town of Loches (France; Fig. 5). It dates back to the turn of the 13th century and the scene is not common in Western iconography. Its particular rendition in this chapel is reminiscent of Oriental depictions. However, as it was pointed to me by Maria Panayotidi, the painter reversed the composition on the longitudinal axis and forgot to depict the bishops, who were essential in the Byzantine scene. To me, this is indicative of a cultural phenomenon that I termed ‘Greek whispers’. It is the unintentional distortion of themes or subjects and their consequent use for a different purpose, in an altered context.14 Several features support this interpretation. First, the fragmentary murals of Liget present no traces of two essential Marianic scenes from the Dodekaorton (Nativity of Mary and Presentation of Mary to the Temple). And there is also no Exaltation of the Cross. Yet one may see that other scenes from Byzantine
13 14
Cf. Panagiotis A. Agapitos, ‘The insignificance of 1204 and 1453 for the history of Byzantine literature’, Medioevo Greco, 20 (2020), 1–58. Cf. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Magic and Papyri in the Latin Voyage of Charlemagne to the East’, Transylvanian Review, 29, suppl. 1 (2020), 9–39.
How This Book Came to Be
15
iconography appear.15 This means that the Dormition loses its original significance, does not mark 15 August in the cycle of Great Feasts, and becomes an autonomous subject. The scene was extracted, without any connection to its initial role in the iconography of Eastern churches. This happened because the Liget murals imitated a model without understanding it, and that model was the church of the Holy-Sepulchre.16 It is of no surprise that the favourite terms of comparison for this Dormition scene originate in a Crusader context or in an earlier, Ottonian one, since these were the early contact points with Byzantium. However, those depictions are accurate, meaning that they likely stemmed from a source that followed the Byzantine template.17 Once again, this is valid for the continental Greek lands as well. Western influences manifested long before 1205. If we take the depiction of the Trinity as it appears on the vault of the portico of the Ai-Strategi church, close to Kastania (Messenian Mani; Fig. 6–7), that scene looks like a New Testament type of Trinity, also known as the Trinity-of-the-Psalter: Father next to the Son, both seated, with a dove representing the Holy Ghost.18 But there is no dove, 15
16 17
18
In Liget, one may identify the Nativity of Christ, Tree of Jesse, Presentation of Jesus to the Temple, Deposition from the Cross, and the Holy Women at the Sepulchre. Among the absent scenes from the Dodekaorton, one should count: Baptism of Christ (Theophany/ Epiphany); Annunciation; Entry into Jerusalem; Ascension; Pentecost; Transfiguration. Voichița Munteanu, ‘A Romanesque Copy of the Anastasis: The Chapel of St. Jean of Le Liget’, Gesta, 16/2 (1977), 27–40. Robert Favreau, ‘La chapelle du Liget’, in Robert Favreau, Études d’épigraphie médiévale (Limoges: PULIM, 1995), 138–154, quotes as influences the Ripoll Bible (Vatican Library, lat. 5729, fol. 370r) or the Melisende Psalter (London, British Library, Egerton 1139, fol. 12r), but does not pay attention to the fact that those are correct representations that follow Byzantine iconography. The Melisende Psalter is an illuminated manuscript commissioned around 1135 in the crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, probably by king Fulk for his wife Melisende. It draws on Byzantine iconography and the image that interests us was made by a certain Basil, a Byzantine-trained painter of Western or Crusader origin. See ‘259. Queen Melisende’s Psalter’, s.v. Jaroslav Folda, in Helen C. Evans, William D. Wixom (dir.), The Glory of Byzantium: Art and culture of the Middle Byzantine era, A.D. 843–1261 (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 392–394. There is also a scene in the Cluny Lectionary, for the feast of the depiction of the Ascension (Paris, National Library of France, n. a. lat. 2246, fol. 122v), which looks a bit odd, but is still correct as regards the disposition of the body. In the Book of Pericopes of Henri II (Munich, Bavarian State Library, clm. 4452, fol. 161v) there is a similar scene to the one from the Cluny Lectionary, which implies an evolution with Christ no more at the bed, only in Heaven. This other depiction was made in Reichenau in 1007. R. Favreau also quotes cases that are not at all similar to the one in Liget (Fig. 5), just to bring more terms of comparison into the topic. For the Trinity (or ‘Binity’) of the Psalter, see François Boespflug, Yolanta Zaluska, ‘Le dogme trinitaire et l’essor de son iconographie en Occident de l’époque carolingienne au IVe Concile du Latran (1215)’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 37/147 (1994), 181–240. Cf. Jenny Thouvenot, ‘La Sainte-Trinité en France’, Revue d’histoire de l’Église de France,
16
the first tale
no orb, and no angel in the Ai-Strategi depiction (Fig. 7), possibly because this is the result of a cultural transfer that took place in c.1185–1195.19 This type of representation was common in early Christianity, but then it persisted only in Western iconography. And since the Ai-Strategi church presents depictions of Last Judgement scenes, placed in odd locations, research initially believed that the murals should be dated to the 13th century. But it was wrong and the discovery of the inscription mended past mistakes. A similar situation concerns the murals of Paleomonastiro, in the gorges of the Evrotas, close to Vrontamas (Laconia; Fig. 3–4). These murals were dated to 1201 on the basis of an inscription, but a recent investigation argued that the spurs of six military saints depicted on horseback on the outer-wall of the cave-church are similar to the spurs discovered in a crusader grave close to Glarentza. After comparing them to crusader depictions from France (Cressac – Fig. 1 – and Poncé-sur-le-Loir – Fig. 2), the revised interpretation argued that there would be two stages in the decoration of the Vrontamas cave-church: the first one in 1201, while the second stage, comprising the six military saints, would have a terminus post quem in 1205.20 However, the depiction of a spur does not need to be based on the actual presence of the object in Laconia, only on the circulation of the patterns and templates used by painters. The reason behind this two-stage interpretation is that it tries to accommodate the Vrontamas case (an exception) to a previous hypothesis which states that
19
20
77/198 (1991 = Eglise et vie religieuse en France au début de la Renaissance (1450–1530)), 241–249; Marcel Durliat, ‘La représentation de la Trinité des origines du thème au début du XIIIe siècle’, Bulletin monumental, 153/2 (1995), 197–198; the introduction of François Boespflug, La Trinité dans l’art d’Occident (1400–1460) (Strasbourg: Presses universitaires de Strasbourg, 2006), 15–35; and above all María Elvira Mocholí Martínez, ‘El salmo 109 como origen de la iconografía de la Trinidad’, in Rafael Zafra, José Javier Azanza (dir.), Emblemática trascendente. Hermenéutica de la imagen, iconología del texto (Pamplona: Sociedad Española de Emblemática/Universidad de Navarra, 2011), 495–505. For the painted inscription from the same portico, which mentions emperor Isaac II Angelus and his wife, see Μιχάλης Κάππας, ‘Νεότερα για τον ναό του Αϊ Στράτηγου (Ταξιάρχη) παρά την Καστανιά της Μεσσηνιακής Μάνης’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 39 (2018), 207–224. Cf. Michalis Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia and Mystras from the outside: the view from Kastania’, in Sharon E.J. Gerstel (dir.), Viewing Greece: Cultural and Political Agency in the Medieval and Early Modern Mediterranean (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 151–153; and Μιχάλης Κάππας, ‘Οι Φράγκοι στη Μεσσηνία (1204–1460)’, in Ελευθερία Τράιου (dir.), Μεσσηνία, τόπος, χρόνος, άνθρωποι, vol. 1 (Athens: Μίλητος, 2007), 139–163. See Νικόλαος Β. Δρανδάκης, ‘Το Παλιομονάστηρο του Βρονταμά’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 43 (1988), 159–194, for the dating of the murals in 1201 based on the inner side of the first wall. Cf. Sharon E.J. Gerstel, Michalis Kappas, ‘Between East and West: Locating monumental painting from the Peloponnesus’, in Angeliki Lymberopoulou (dir.), Cross-Cultural Interaction: Between Byzantium and the West, 1204–1669. Whose Mediterranean Is It Anyway? … (London/New York: Routledge, 2018), 177–178, for the post-1205 hypothesis.
How This Book Came to Be
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military saints were perhaps depicted on horseback as a consequence of the Latin occupation.21 Yet such depictions on horseback appear to be more frequent on Sinai icons than in Western European murals of the 12th century, and they probably rely on Cappadocian models that could equally be the source of the depictions of Vrontamas.22 Last but not least, there is a great difference between the crusader depictions of Cressac (Fig. 1) and Poncé-sur-le-Loir (Fig. 2) and the two groups of three military saints riding towards each other in the murals of Vrontamas (Fig. 4). The French scenes show them charging against enemies, while the scene from Vrontamas is related to scenes from later Orthodox churches, like the Cavalcade of the Holy Cross in the murals of Pătrăuți (Moldavia, 1487).23 If there is something ‘Western’ in the depiction of the cave-church of Paleomonastiro, it cannot be different from the Western influence in the façades of the Saint-Demetrius cathedral in Vladimir (Russia, 1193–1197). The carvings of military saints on horseback date back to roughly about the same time as Vrontamas.24 Nevertheless, this influence was purely formal. The most obvious explanation is that it took after the Latin habit of representing riders on church façades, all while conferring a different meaning to those representations. It was nothing more than a circulation of forms. Thus, since the Rus’ lands were not conquered by crusaders, the military saints on horseback from Vrontamas have no direct reason to be interconnected to the presence of crusaders either. When I reached this conclusion, I was already in France, teaching the first version of my seminar for the MA students of the Centre for Medieval Studies in Poitiers. In Greece, in the month of December, I was still undecided. On the one hand, I was fascinated by the possibility that certain subjects be of a 21
22
23 24
For this other hypothesis, see Sharon E.J. Gerstel, ‘Art and identity in the medieval Morea’, in Angeliki E. Laiou, Roy Parviz Mottahedeh (dir.), The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2001), 264–280. For the depictions of (and vernacular texts about) military saints in 12th century, in the French-speaking lands, and for the links of these depictions and textual sources with Oriental models, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Choix nobiliaires ou modèle oriental: le cas de saint Georges et des autres saints guerriers’, in Martin Aurell, Cătălina Gîrbea (dir.), Chevalerie et christianisme aux XIIe et XIIIe siècle (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2011), 77–100. See e.g. Emil Dragnev, “Cavalcada’ de la Pătrăuți. Noi contribuții”, in Ștefan cel Mare, personalitate marcantă în istoria Europei (500 de ani de la trecerea în eternitate) (Kishinev: Civitas, 2005), 56–69. There are several other carvings on the façades of the Saint-Demetrius church of Vladimir that argue in favour of a Western influence, chief among which are the ascent of Alexander the Great and the scenes with hunters and animals.
18
the first tale
Latin origin: not only the depictions of saints on horseback, but also hunting themes in hagiographic cycles, like the scene with saint Eustace and the stag. My subconscious was seemingly trying to help me expand (and aggrandize) the number of depictions of the corpus. Particularly since I had studied similar scenes in Western iconography, some of which – the hunt of saint Giles – were related to the existence of vernacular texts.25 On the other hand, I knew that these ideas were unclear, perhaps even wrong. Such scenes appeared at the same time in the Greece, in the Western lands, in Northern Russia, and in Georgia. In fact, many of them seem to originate in the land of Georgia, where they were probably reinterpreted from earlier Cappadocian themes. When the Ephorate of Western Attica gave me the permission to visit some of those monuments, Panayotis Katsafados and Dimitra Petrou took me on a short trip to Keratea-Megali Avli, to the Dagla Hill, and to other places close to Markopoulo. I could see with my own eyes that I was wrong. Not in the dating of the murals of the church of Saint-Kyriaki in Megali Avli (Fig. 40–42; my dating proposition was right, but for other reasons). I was wrong in ascribing a Latin character to the depiction of saint Eustace on the northern wall of the church (Fig. 40). There was nothing Latin about this saint: it was only a weird assortment based on the iconography of saint George. The painter had simply put a stag in heaven. And then it stroke me: my research had to follow these disruptions and disturbances in Byzantine iconography, from Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi to Saint-Kyriaki in Megali Avli, and even further and farther away, as I would later discover, in the church of Sotirianika, in Mani. The same may be said about saint George and the princess which could be the source of the odd depiction of saint George on horseback accompanied by saint Kyriaki in the murals of the second church of Polemitas, in Mani (Fig. 37b–38). This could be a variation of the older theme of saint George and the dragon, with representations in Georgia and in Northern Russia. I became more and more convinced that such things happened because wider trends were already present in Western and Eastern Europe. Georgian literature also presented similitudes with (or influences of) Western models, much in the same way as the Byzantine one embraced Western trends during Comnenian times. But this general climate could not be necessarily French or Franco-Italian. It could start as a basic effect of the crusades and it probably became French only when the French adopted it as a definitive trait of their culture early in the 12th century. As for the assimilation of such trends in Italy, it may be a consequence 25
See for this Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘L’œuf ou la poule: la polygénèse de saint Gires’, in Stéphanie Diane Daussy et al. (dir.), Matérialité et immatérialité dans l’Église au Moyen Âge … (Bucharest: Editura Universității din București, 2012), 261–292.
How This Book Came to Be
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of this shared heritage with the French. Nonetheless, this poses a problem. It suggests the possibility that certain Western trends may not be Western, in spite of their presence in the Peloponnesus during the Frankokratia. They could be shared subjects and themes from the 12th century. It is therefore reasonable to imagine that the Greek reaction was prepared by previous encounters with the West. Latins and Byzantines were already imitating each other before the 12th century. What happened in the 13th and 14th centuries was just an acceleration of a cultural process. Thus the constant dilemma addressed by the book: what is Western and what is Eastern, in shape or in meaning, and what belongs to both of them at the same time, as a shared heritage or as a result of earlier contacts. The trouble is that a large body of the previous research never took the time to define these nuances. Because the hunt for Western influences was ineffective, some tried to attribute Latin origins to every odd thing. The funniest examples is the bizarre and rather primitive carving of a warrior, now inserted in the façade of a private villa from Parori, in the vicinity of the Mystras (Laconia). Nobody can convincingly argue that the piece dates back to the time of the Latin occupation (pre-1262 in the case of Mystras). It could just as well be dated to the 6th or 17th century. Yet its odd nature and elusive significance contributed to its inclusion in the corpus of Frankish oddities, where it is both nonsensical and incompatible with the rest of it.26 This interpretation tried to blur the difference between general and specific. It was not a fault of the positivism characterising the turn of the 20th century, when the Parori interpretation was made. It may just as easily occur at the turn of the 21st century. A similar misjudgement occurred in the interpretation of a ring with a depiction of Alexander carried by griffins. The object is inlaid with multi-coloured enamel and it could have been buried in Thessalonica during the Latin occupation, along with fourteen other rings.27 However, research wished to demonstrate that the piece was Byzantine, pre-1204. Arguments were drawn from Eastern art history and history of literature, purposely ignoring the matching use of the same legend in the West.28 This was not new. The same thing 26 27 28
Cf. Alan J.B. Wace, ‘Laconia: V. Frankish Sculptures at Parori and Geraki’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 11 (1904–1905), 139–145. Jeffrey Spier, Late Byzantine rings, 1204–1453 (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2013), 16. Antje Bosselmann-Ruickbie, ‘A 13th Century Jewellery Hoard from Thessalonica: A Genuine Hoard Find or an Art Dealer’s Compilation?’, in Chris Entwistle, Noel Adams (dir.), Intelligible Beauty. Recent Research on Byzantine Jewellery (London: British Museum, 2010), 219, discusses the entire hoard, dated with coins from the time of Isaac II Angelos (1185–1195) and Alexius III (1195–1203), but this constitutes a terminus post quem and does not imply that some of the rings could not be made after 1204. She divides the fourteen
20
the first tale
happened with the medieval Demotic romance of Alexander, which is said to derive from Old Greek sources, even though several details could find their origin in Western texts. The ambiguity of medieval Alexander stories comes from the fact that both Western and Eastern ones stem from Pseudo-Callisthenes. As for the second part of the demonstration that the ring was Byzantine, it was based on a list of Byzantine Alexanders in art: the one carved in Mystras (to which I will return in the penultimate chapter), a spolium in Venice, and the Southern Italy mosaics. But none of those examples is actually convincing, since they are found in culturally ambiguous contexts. The only sure thing is that research felt the need to wager a constant battle for the Hellenicity of Alexander, ignoring that his story was a pan-European bestseller. To me, the Thessalonica ring with the ascent of Alexander could just as well be made in the first years of the occupation. To prove or disprove this interpretation, we would need to understand its exact meaning, but that is impossible. In such a case, arguing that this particular Alexander on a ring was Eastern or Western is a manipulation of the corpus, since the subject is a theme shared in both Eastern and Western art. The same may be said about the representations of Joshua in the murals of Crete, very different in character from the one in the Taxiarchis church of Geraki (Fig. 63), even though based on similar models. I will return to this last example in the last chapter of the book. For the time being, I will state only this: the very fact that these cultural acts were placed together in two piles, in the form of a Latin list and a Greek list, does not help at all. Because of the strong need to identify something as Greek or Latin, nuances are often left aside. Consequently, research stagnates in the field of cultural studies. In fact, each case needs to be dealt with according to its particular nature. The conclusion to which I arrived at the end of my first three months of Greek rings of the hoard into four categories. The Alexander ring belongs to ‘group I’, together with another ring showing a creature with two bodies, both of them being unique in Byzantine jewellery (p. 221). Next, she compares them with other representations, considering that the ascent of Alexander is a Byzantine subject, but is not interested in connecting the presence of this ring with that of a ring bearing a Latin inscription in another ring group of the hoard (pp. 223–224). On the other hand, Spier, Late Byzantine rings, 16, notices that these presumably 11th–12th century rings are close in shape to the Palaeologan ones. This implies that there is a possibility to date them a little bit later. The discussion about the fashions set in the capital may not necessarily point towards a Byzantine milieu. This could also happen because Constantinople was more open towards Western influences, due to the presence of many Westerners inside its walls, than the rest of the empire. Cf. Spier, Late Byzantine rings, 19, who discusses a ring with the representation of David playing the harp and dates it back to c.1200, for the exact same reason and providing no arguments: that this subject would be also Byzantine.
How This Book Came to Be
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research, in late December 2018, was that the biggest setback had been the corpus itself. It was never properly assembled. Even though cases were extremely variable, the only manner in which they were approached was that of an unclassified list. By mixing up cultural acts without paying attention to their specific context, research got stuck in a loop: it identified its premise with its conclusion (that a Latin case was Latin or that a Greek example was Greek). However, most examples had an ambiguous nature. Since all of them belonged to a mixture of Greek and Latin cultural contents, they were either interpreted according to the Greek context or according to the Latin one. So, the first thing to do was to cease this tossing of monuments, texts, and artwork into unclassified lists. When I reached this conclusion, the assemblage of the main corpus was done. But I did not want to make a new list out of the several existing ones. I could not put together apples and oranges. Nor multiply them by raspberries. Therefore, I compiled separate lists for each type of ‘fruit’ and I announced in my monthly report to the Onassis Foundation that I had found the solution to the problem of corpus analysis. There were at least four different corpora of cultural acts. The first one could be identified with a perfectly Byzantine context, that is, they were made by the Greeks for the Greeks (with or without a premeditated Western influence). The second corpus assembled those made by the Greeks under a Latin cultural umbrella. The third one – by the Latins for the Greeks. And the fourth one – by the Latins for the Latins, meaning those cultural acts pertaining exclusively to a Latin context (with or without a Byzantine influence). When looking at these four different corpora, one sees that they belong to very different contexts and mixing them up does not help at all. They should be treated separately. When I returned to France, I was convinced that they provided the solid basis for the main chapters of a book. But I was wrong, because I soon discovered that the real efforts for creating hybrid cultural acts were on the side of the Latins, at least in the second half of the 13th century, whereas Greeks did not create mixed cultural acts as much as they borrowed patterns, which they used according to the particularities of their culture. Confessional compromises were probably the work of the Latin occupants who strived to integrate in the strange otherworld that they settled in. Were it permitted to make associations with horticulture, I would compare this situation to a ‘graft-chimaera’. It is not a true hybrid, but a mixture of cells, each of them presenting the traits of both parent plants. As often happening with graft-chimaeras, this short-lived hybrid was unstable and it easily reverted to the state of one of its parents. But while it lasted, it bloomed with the traits of both cultures, the scion retaining only parts of the original cultural pattern, while the rootstock remained entirely pure and unaltered.
22
the first tale
I was not sure that medieval Greeks were aware of what they were doing. And there was something else. Some of these acts could not be included into one of the four categories. They could belong to as many as three categories at the same time. In the springtime of 2019, my seminar at the Centre for Medieval Studies in Poitiers forced me to better organize my ideas. I ended up noticing that my problems did not have anything to do with wrong datings or wrong attributions of cultural acts to different categories, but with the delicate balance between form and meaning. This was the issue that bothered me the most.
…
I returned to Greece on 1 May 2019. Athens had its yearly transportation strike on that day. When I managed to get close enough to the centre of the city, I pushed the suitcase up the lower slope of Lycabettus. This time I was not staying in the capital. I did not need more bibliography. I had made lots of electronic copies during my previous stay. I needed basic contextualization, to see the monuments. So I made my headquarters in Sparti and the next day I took the bus to Laconia. I thought that I had found a solution to the problem of form and meaning and I devised a ‘cunning plan’. In order to understand the cultural context, I had to identify incongruous cases in the lists of my predecessors and pursue them until I had understood them well. Not only from the lists of monuments dating back to the time of the Frankokratia, but from among the earlier monuments as well. The idea was to find potential Western influences or reactions to Western trends. When identified, I would plunge deep into the subject, seeing as many monuments of the neighbouring area as it was physically possible. And it was not a bad plan. Half of those new study cases did not get me anywhere. Contextualization identified similar patterns in nearby monuments, in accordance with Byzantine aesthetics. But the other half soon yielded interesting results. This plan was born out of a rather simple observation. A careful look at the contents of N. Drandakis’ monograph about the Byzantine carvings of Mani had revealed a series of odd details.29 The 11th century, covered by 137 pages, had nineteen monuments (two signed and dated, four signed but undated, and thirteen undated). The 12th century covered the largest part of the book, 176 pages, and counted 44 examples (three of them dated and 41 undated, with 29
Νικόλαος Β. Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά της Μάνης (Athens: Η εν Αθήναις Αρχαιολογική Εταιρεία, 1995).
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approximate datings based on analogies only). But the sculptures of the 13th century, presented in no more than three pages, counted two examples, both of them undated and believed to be of the 13th century because they were crudely carved. Last (and least) the sculptures of the 14th century contained two more examples, on one page and a half, both of them perfectly dated by inscriptions.30 Nothing was known about the 15th century and the entire chronology looked very suspicious, as if the ‘crudely carved’ examples were thrown in the 13th century category to fill a blank space until the arrival of the 14th century ones, which contained strong chronological references and could not be dated otherwise. The trouble is that, irrespective of whether they date back to the 11th or the 14th century, many of these carvings are quite similar in style, proving that there was a strong continuity and that local workshops produced those reliefs for a very long period of time. The 12th century is therefore completely disproportionate and the situation looks like the one from the Ναοδομία of Ch. Bouras and L. Boura, where many 13th century churches were thrown in the category of the 12th century ones.31 Perhaps several Maniot carvings dated by N. Drandakis in the 11th and 12th centuries would date back to the 13th or 14th centuries, especially those that interested me the most. These carvings presented odd subjects, unparalleled and undocumented for an early period. And the first layer of murals from their churches often dated to the 13th or 14th centuries. It would be rather weird to invest a lot of financial means in carvings with ‘catachronistic’ subjects, but not a single penny in paintings, leaving those church walls barren for centuries to come. I therefore decided to take a closer look at the churches of Mani. The idea was not new. I used to think about it in October 2018, but everybody failed to see my point. Inner Mani had been occupied by the Latins for a very short period of time, in mid-13th century, and was a conservative place, with strong Byzantine allegiances. However, Mani was also the area with the highest concentration of painted churches in the entire Peloponnesus, so it was the perfect place to practice contextualization. Besides, I was aware of several oddities in the Late-Byzantine paintings of Mani. Panayotis Katsafados had already shown me a photo of a heraldic eagle from the sanctuary apse of Karynia (Fig. 27). We talked about it for weeks, months, and even years, until he prepared an article and published it in the fourth issue of my journal, in 30 31
For the 11th century, see Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 3–139. Cf. pp. 143–318 for the 12th century; pp. 321–324 for the 13th century; and pp. 327–328 for the 14th century. Cf. Χαράλαμπος Μπούρας, Λασκαρίνα Μπούρα, Η Eλλαδική ναοδομία κατά τον 12ο αιώνα (Athens: Εμπορική Τράπεζα της Ελλάδoς, 2002). See below in chapters 3 and 4 for those 13th century churches.
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2020.32 I also had to see the church of Kaphiona. Its epigrams were a perfect counterpart to a contemporary medieval poem by Rutebeuf. And the bibliography spoke of unclear Western features in the church of Saint-Peter close to Pyrgos Dirou or in many other churches of Mani, always peripheral in nature. In fact, formal Western features were mentioned here and there in many Maniot churches. I could not help thinking that phenomena such as acculturation, hybridization, transculturation, integration, and all other –ations were not linked to political boundaries. They occurred fluidly across borders, therefore I had to take a closer look at Mani in its entirety. Perhaps something happened there that was different from the rest of the Peloponnesus. My first idea was that the Western trends arriving in Mani were not subject to later destructions, as they were not linked to the presence of the Latins. In certain cases, I was not wrong. They were undoubtedly assimilated under Byzantine control, being easily accepted by the local communities. However, the trouble with the corpus of N. Drandakis was not its chronology, but the fact that it enslaved meaning to form. His datings were a consequence of a quest for better carvings that he dated to an earlier period. The meaning of the sculptures was not that interesting. For instance, in the case of an architrave from the church of Saint-Nicholas in Lagia, more time was spent describing the ornamental features than the eight (or nine) animals carved in mid-relief. But the lack of symmetry in the positioning of the animals is quite different from the usual arrangement of animal figures on templon slabs, and this suggests the presence of a story. Furthermore, the two groups of animals of the architrave are separated by a peculiar cross, which is exactly the cross recercelée of the Villehardouin arms represented on a capital from Andravida, in the Camden Roll of c.1280 (Prince de la Morree, l’escu d’or od un fer de molyn de sable), or on the shields parted quarterly per cross from the mural decoration of the church of Saint-Francis in Glarentza.33 This suggests that the slab should be dated to the mid-13th century, when William of Villehardouin 32 33
Panayotis St. Katsafados, ‘The Eagle from the Apse of the Church of Saint-George in Karinia (1281): Puzzling Heraldry, Defaced Inscriptions, and Odd Iconographic Choices in Inner Mani after the Second Council of Lyon’, Museikon, 4 (2020), 9–92. For the Andravida example, see Antoine Bon, ‘Pierres inscrites ou armoriées de la Morée franque’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 4 (1964–1965), 90. My interpretation of this coat of arms differs from that of A. Bon. It will be presented in the fourth chapter of the book. For the Camden Roll, see Gérard J. Brault (ed.), Eight Thirteenth Century Rolls of Arms in French and Anglo-Norman Blazon (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1973), 70. For the Glarentza mural fragments, now displayed in the museum of the castle of Chlemoutsi, see Demetrios Athanasoulis (text) et al., Glarentza: Clarence/Γλαρέντζα: Clarence (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture/6th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities, 2005), 40. They will be briefly mentioned in the same chapter.
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controlled Mani, not to the 12th century, as it was proposed. One cannot be sure of its initial location either, since it does not resemble any other carvings from the church of Lagia, but it was certainly not a lintel of the entrance from the narthex to the nave. Research noted that the style of the slab had a folksy aspect, so it was made by a different carver, possibly at a different time. Therefore the dating of the other carvings, based on an inscription from 1121, does not apply to it.34 It is a working hypothesis. I can build on it, speaking about the destruction of a church built during the short rule of Villehardouin and of the later reuse of the slab in a different church, but I cannot be sure of its relevance, since I regrettably noticed this carving much later, when I had finished my field trips in Greece. I should point out that other crosses of this recercelé type appear on two iconostases or templon fragments in Saint-Demetrius in Liberdo and Saint-Nicholas in Glezou. Both of these churches have murals dating back to the 13th century,35 but this does not automatically imply that the presence of recercelées crosses dates the carvings to mid-13th century as well. They could be dated even later in the same century, since those particular crosses are found among many other decorative patterns (including crosses). The Villehardouin cross from Saint-Nicholas in Lagia is nevertheless huge, displayed voluntarily at the centre of the piece, to be seen and recognised instantly. And it is also flanked by an animal story that does not fit well Byzantine logic of such a decoration. It is a sort of disturbance in the decoration of the church and it also resembles the animal carvings from the church of Saint-John stou Koraki in Mina, now on display at the museum of the Pikoulakis tower in Areopoli.36 This brings me to the heart of the problem: my interpretation is based on the possible meaning of these sculptures – as will become evident in the sixth chapter, where I will discuss the animal stories carved in Nomitsi (Fig. 60) and Charia (Fig. 61), not on formal aspects, which are hard to sustain when the entire chronology of Maniot carvings is based on seven cases dated by inscriptions against sixty-two undated monuments. I cannot be sure that the cross recercelée from Lagia is connected to William of Villehardouin – I would need to identify more similar cases, but this option is preferable, as it makes more sense. 34 35 36
Cf. Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 148–151. At p. 150, he actually argues that τὸ γλυπτὸ προφανῶς εἶναι τέχνης λαϊκῆς. For Saint-Demetrius in Liberdo, see Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 217–223. The cross recercelée appears in fig. 335 of p. 221. For Saint-Nicholas in Glezou, see Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 315–318. The cross recercelée appears in fig. 470 of p. 316. The description in the museum dates them back to the 12th century, speaking of a “decorative intent in a folkloric style,” but they do not appear in the catalogue of Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά.
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the first tale
When I decided to stop chasing after forms and follow mostly their meaning, I reverted to my old method of dealing with complex corpora. I could quote in the following pages the manner in which I dealt with Western artistic representations or with the vernacular texts translating the books of the Bible, but it would be too self-centred and vain. So I will quote very different examples instead. So different, that the first one comes from Africa. For instance, the stone, terracotta, and bronze sculptures of Ile-Ife date roughly to the same period as the themes analysed in my book (12th–14th centuries) and were compared to sculptures of the Renaissance (those of Donatello in particular). Even though the intentions behind such comparisons were noble in nature, they were based on a logic of comparing other cultures to the Western European one: the same logic that dictates that certain tribes of Amazonia still live in the ‘Stone Age’ – a heritage of the medieval ideas of translatio studii and translatio imperii. Post-colonialist discourse strove to rectify past mistakes, but mixed ethnography, customary when interpreting African tribes, with social anthropology. Since the latter interprets archaeological finds through the lens of socio-economic ideas, the Ile-Ife sculptures were regarded as basic technological advancements possible only in the context of a complex society. In other words, a postulate (valid in the limited context of socio-economics) was mistaken for an axiom (valid in all branches of science).37 And everything reverted to the study of forms, linking the formal evolution of those sculptures with the economics deduced from archaeological research. Yet, is socio-economics capable of providing an interpretation of those sculptures? I do not contradict the assumption that the Ile-Ife society was complex, nor that it was based on tribal models, for this is beside the point. My point is that the lack of written evidence perverts our understanding of those cultural artefacts, drawing them further away from their original background, into a vague grey area where research mistakes its premises for its conclusions. And this does not concern only the ‘archaeological’ levels of cultural history. A similar error was made by the Surrealists who used the 13th century Old French fatrasies and resveries in a retrospective (and anachronistic) conjecture. Because of the changes in the French language in the space of seven centuries, Georges Bataille ditched the metrical and rhyming constraints of those medieval poems when he translated them into contemporary French in 1926. The end result gave the false impression that the old poems were surrealistic avant la lettre, a sort of liberation of the unconscious mind, even though the 37
For the Ile-Ife sculptures, see e.g. Henry John Drewal, Enid Schildcrout (dir.), Kingdom of IFE – Sculptures from West Africa (London: The British Museum Press, 2010); cf. Frank Willett, Ife in the History of West African Sculpture (London: Thames and Hudson, 1967).
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medieval verses were a product of a very different aesthetic.38 This becomes ever more evident when we look at the Rothko-like celestial turquoise, blue, grey, and green horizontal stripes painted in a miniature depicting the contemplation of God in the 11th century Evangeliary of Saint-Andrew in Cologne (Darmstadt, Hessisches Landesmuseum, AE 679, fol. 126v). This image was often compared with the paintings of abstract expressionism and it uses abstract means in quite the similar way, but it is once again the product of a different aesthetic, not lower or higher than contemporary art on a scale of abstract versus concrete, but based on an entirely different notion, that of a ‘spiritual eye’.39 Examples such as these go to show that similarity of form cannot be taken as proof of a shared origin, of a similar content, or of chronology. At least not in the absence of other pieces of evidence. Form needs to be interpreted according to the cultural background of its time, not based on learned assumptions deduced from formal comparisons. It matters less if a character like Palamedes is mentioned in Byzantine Koiné texts. This does not guarantee that those texts were the source we are looking for. What matters most is the manner in which the character is presented in the Demotic narrative. If this manner were Western, Palamedes would be borrowed from the tradition of Old French romance.40 On that account, I am not at all inclined to follow the logic dictating that the 14th–15th century Demotic literature is a naturally-occurring incipient form of the future Modern Greek literature. Recent research has invalidated the claims that the slayers of monsters depicted on ceramics would be representations of Digenis.41 The idea behind this hypothesis is not very different 38 39 40
41
Cf. e.g. Michael Randall, ‘Des ‘fatrasies’ surréalistes?’, Littérature, 108 (1997), 35–50. Cf. e.g. the ideas of Herbert L. Kessler, Seeing Medieval Art (Peterborough/New York: Broadview Press, 2004), who discusses the aesthetics of this ‘spiritual eye’ (and also uses the Rothko-like image on the cover of his book). There was a controversy about the mention of Palamedes in the Achilleid. I believe that K. Mitsakis, ‘Palamedes’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 59 (1966), 5–7, was right when he argued that the name was taken from Arthurian romances. This will become evident in the brief analysis of the Achilleid in the sixth chapter of the current book. For other interpretations, see Elizabeth M. Jeffreys, ‘Further notes on Palamedes’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 61 (1968), 251–253; Paul Speck, ‘Der ‘Schriftsteller’ Palamedes’, Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik, 18 (1969), 89–93; D. Michailidis, ‘Palamedes rediens. La fortuna di Palamede nel medioevo ellenico’, Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici, 8–9 (1971–1972), 261–280. For this opinion, see Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium (dir. Alexander Kazhdan et al.), 3 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 47; or Joanita Vroom, ‘Human representations on medieval Cypriot ceramics and beyond: The enigma of mysterious figures wrapped in riddles’, in Demetria Papanikola-Bakirtzis, Nicholas Coureas (dir.), Cypriot Medieval Ceramics: Reconsiderations and New Perspectives (Nicosia: A.G. Leventis Foundation/Cyprus Research Centre, 2014), 170–171. For the previous hypotheses concerning Digenis on
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from the formal chronology of Maniot carvings, the Ile-Ife sculptures, or the abstract nature of the fatrasies. It is a retrospective conjecture. Besides, I do not regard the Digenis Akritas as a product of an oral tradition (dictated by folklore) and societal change (dictated by socio-politics). The penultimate chapter will argue that the dialogue between Byzantine and Western cultures shaped a 14th-century Digenis, very different from the ethnographic and socio-political assumptions of mainstream research. Consequently, I believe that the place given to Western influences in the history of Demotic literature was incorrectly restricted to the formally coherent group of translations made from Italian source texts dating to the Trecento and Quattrocento (Florios and Platziaflora, Imperios and Margarona, the Apollonius, etc.). The same may be said about art history. These ideas need to be challenged. Because Western influence did not act as a sheer ‘displacement’ in the fabric of Byzantine culture. Such is just the tunnel vision created by the reading of the corpus in a societal and anthropological key, very similar to the tunnel vision dictating the ethnographic and socio-economic interpretation of the Ile-Ife sculptures. Since my examples are drawn from literary and art history, I argue that cultural displacement, dialogue, imitation, and syncretism may be identified individually, in pairs, or in indistinctly tight knots – impossible to disentangle, in both Western and Eastern settings from the Latin-held lands of continental Greece. I was more and more convinced of this when I returned to the rocky lands of Laconia in May 2019. Yet, for research to work out well, each cultural act has to be considered unique. The solution to the problem was to focus on exceptions, not on general trends. The unique character of those exceptions binds them together and creates an organic structure in the corpus, in stark contrast with the notion of categories. I liked this idea, because I do not believe in categories. I have often fallen between categories, never properly fitting any one of them in real life. Therefore I tend to see the distinctiveness (or matchlessness) of every person, text, or artwork.
ceramics see M. Alison Frantz, ‘Akritas and the Dragons’, Hesperia, 10/1 (1941), 9–13; James A. Notopoulos, ‘Akritan Iconography on Byzantine Pottery’, Hesperia, 33 (1964), 108–133; or the latest avatar in Christopher Livanos, ‘A Case Study in Byzantine Dragon-Slaying: Digenes and the Serpent’, Oral Tradition, 26/1 (2011), 125–144. Similar depictions appear in Cypriot ceramics, but they are linked with models coming from the Orient. See for this Joanita Vroom, ‘Strike a Pose: Human representations and gestures on medieval ceramics from Cyprus (ca. 13th–15th/16th centuries)’, in Sabine Rogge, Michael Grünbart (dir.), Medieval Cyprus. A Place of Cultural Encounter (Münster: Waxmann, 2015), 245–275.
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However, contextualization was not enough. There were some situations in which I simply could not choose between the available options. Several interpretations were possible in ambiguous cases, even after appealing to both form and meaning. They needed to be sorted out and I subjected my research to common questions and answers, of a basic and ridiculous nature. This led to the elimination of many examples from my corpus,42 but I kept a handful of cases which were simply extraordinary. For instance, I spent almost a full day in the Perivleptos of Mystras in mid-May 2019 (Fig. 51). The owners of the place where I was staying in Sparti had lent me an extended ruler, with which I measured every inch of the walls of the sanctuary, prothesis, and diaconicon, taking detailed notes about the size of the damaged segments of murals. This led to the realization that the Alexander slab from the museum of Mystras (Fig. 52) was part of the upper beam of the sanctuary iconostasis. So I asked for the permission to sneak my plump body behind the slab in the museum, to check if there were traces of plaster. I almost cried with happiness when I discovered that the remnants of plaster and brick were restricted only to the right side of the slab (Fig. 55), since this was the place where it would be fitted into the wall. Even though the contents of the book may not show it, I spent entire days (perhaps as much as a week) on the slopes of Mystras. Never two days in a row. Always after a weary trip to a rocky place. Unfortunately, most of the examples that I was tracing in Mystras led me nowhere near any Western cultural influence, so I had to dump them and move on. To give but one example, one of them was the sarcophagus with Dionysiac scenes from the courtyard of Mystras. It could have been reused as a tomb, according to an old French custom, well attested from the times of Charlemagne, but I could not find a single conclusive piece of evidence.43 Yet it was a great place to sit amid the ruins, think about the time of Isabella of Lusignan, and try to figure out how sacred and profane, Greek and Latin, or high-prestige and vernacular languages were intermingled in the 14th century. One of the two guides of the Perivleptos 42
43
I eliminated for instance all the examples mentioned by Doula Mouriki, ‘Palaeologan Mistra and the West’, in Αθανάσιος Μαρκόπουλος (dir.), Βυζάντιο και Ευρώπη. Α’ Διεθνής Βυζαντινολογική Συνάντηση, Δελφοί, 20–24 Ιουλίου 1985 / Byzantium and Europe. First International Byzantine Conference, Delphi, 20–24 July 1985 (Athens: Ευρωπαϊκό Πολιτιστικό Κέντρο Δελφών, 198), 209–246 (repr. in eadem, Studies in Late Byzantine Painting, London, Pindar Press, 1995), since none of them could be connected with a Western meaning (or a Western form). Cf. Helen Saradi, ‘The use of ancient spolia in Byzantine monuments: The archaeological and literary evidence’, International Journal of the Classical Tradition, 3/4 (1997), 419, who mentions it, but does not deal with it.
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always closed an eye when he saw me smoking behind the tower, even though smoking is not permitted in Mystras. But I always kept my promise, I gathered the cigarette butts in a paper napkin, and I threw them later in a bin at the end of the day. From time to time, I saw Yianna Katsougkraki. She made short presentations for various groups in the Metropolis of Saint-Demetrius. I always eavesdropped on her presentations, trying to figure out the Greek phrases that I had not understood the previous time. She was the one who had welcomed me in 2018, when I first came to Sparti. She arranged for my transportation to Geraki, for my trips with the guides from the Pikoulakis tower in Areopoli, she sent word to Mystras, so that I should not pay the ticket every day, since I was doing research, and she even arranged for me to buy books at a reduced price. I have rarely met such friendly people in my entire life. When she was not in the office of the Ephorate, Angeliki Mexia helped me, always with a smile on her face. And they never minded that I was asking peculiar questions, like where to find the relief from Parori. They even gave me advice on how to deal with fleabites when I returned from a trip to Inner Mani. The guide and I had picked up those fleas in the church of Kaphiona. A fox had made its lair there during the winter and I had to undress behind a cactus, picking the fleas one by one. Yianna Katsougkraki and Angeliki Mexia told me how to deal with the ‘usual suspects’ of Maniot churches. From that time on, I wore long trousers, deeply tucked in my boots. And a long stick for snakes. Or for dogs, since a pack of loose dogs had chased me from Polemitas to Karynia. I also returned to Geraki for three full days. One of the guides was also named Yianna. She used to pick me up in front of the Sparti Museum early in the morning. She gave me water to drink. We shared food and long conversations, as there were only three guides on that lonely mountain and few tourists (two or three couples a day). For them, days were long and wearisome. I made several thousand photos in the churches of Geraki (Fig. 48a), not only the outer churches and those of the castle, but also in the churches of the settlement. I downloaded them on my computer, because I had not enough memory discs. I charged batteries in the tourist office and I tried to imagine what the place looked like at the time of Guy and John of Nivelet. Certainly not as impressive as it looked now, at the end of two centuries of Byzantine development, from c.1262 until the Ottoman conquest. It was a useful exercise, this looking at the monuments in an alternate manner, through the eyes of the Latin conqueror and through those of the Byzantines. Latin lords, merchants, or soldiers did not see the same thing as the Greeks with whom they dealt on a daily basis. Before adapting themselves to local cultural trends in the second half of the 13th century, the occupants
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had adapted the land to their own ideal image of Greece, which predated the conquest. Greek place-names were lexicalised in the first years of that conquest. Even though most of these cases are known from the French Chronicle of Morea (la Cremonie for Lacedaemon; la Colovrate for Kalavryta),44 the phenomenon was precocious and enduring. La Maigre (‘The Skinny One’) stood for Megara both in the chronicle of Henry of Valenciennes and in the will of Walter V of Brienne. And this did not concern only the French. Italians did the same in their territories (Negrepont for Evripos – a false etymology in relation with the bridge linking Euboea to the mainland). It was a natural process, and it probably had deeper effects, not only in toponymy. Perhaps the paramount example is Thebes, which quickly became Estives, based on the same pattern leading from εἰς τὴν Πόλιν to Istanbul.45 The pronunciation of the Greek name of Thebes was attested in Western sources since the early years of the 11th century,46 but there is a chance that a false etymology also played an important part in this transformation, since estives means ‘wind instruments’ in Old French and the pronunciation of Thebae was close to that of the Latin word tubae.47 This had echoes in the French homeland after the crusader conquest of Boeotia. All the prose versions of the Roman de Thèbes and some versions of Wauchier of Denain’s Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César present a story telling how the inhabitants of Thebes were ashamed of the destruction of their city, so they built a new one and baptised it Estives, ‘as it still is called today’.48 It could not be incidental that these stories dated back to the early 13th century. I had many reasons to imagine that a pure Frenchman or Italian, newly arrived from the Western lands, would see everything with a different eye. Peter of Bracheux, for instance, had said that he had come to avenge the defeat 44 45
46 47 48
Cf. Alice Colantuoni (ed.), La Cronaca della Morea. Edizione e studio della versione francese, PhD diss. (Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II, 2017), 151. Cf. Jean Longnon (ed.), Henri de Valenciennes, Histoire de l’empereur Henri de Constantinople (Paris: Geuthner, 1948), 73, for the first occurrence of Estives. For the second occurrence, see p. 77. When emperor Henri I is effectively there, the city is called Thebes, as if there was a difference between the imagined and the actual city. See the text of Saewulf, a Saxon pilgrim to the Holy Land in 1102: ad Thebas, quae civitas vulgariter Stivas vocatur; R.B.C. Huygens (ed.), Saewulf, John of Würzburg, Theodericus: Peregrinationes tres (Turnhout: Brepols, 1994), 59. Ana-Maria Gânsac et al., ‘The Musical Instruments in the Early Vernacular Translations of the Psalms: Collective Research’, Museikon, 3 (2019), 101 (s.v. Vladimir Agrigoroaei). Léopold Constans (ed.), Le Roman de Thèbes, publié d’après tous les manuscrits, 2 vols (Paris: Firmin Didot/Société des anciens textes français, 1890) 2, cxxxv: Aprés ce, les povres genz qui foi s’an estoient de Thebes et qui eschaperent de la bataille se rasamblerent et herbergerent au mielz qu’il porent. Ensi fu recommencie la citez de Thebes la destruite, mais puis li changerent son nom li citoien, car il lor estoit honte et vergoingne de la destruction ramenteue; si la nommerent Estives, et encor est ensins apelee.
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of his Trojan ancestors in the early years of the conquest, with his mind set on the Roman de Troie.49 For the Latins, the entire Western Europe was a giant legendary Trojan diaspora.50 Recent research defines this cultural phenomenon as a “reinvention of the homeland,” since the newly installed Latins believed that they had a right to conquer Greece. But the truth is that earlier Greek commentaries of the Iliad also manifested a nationalistic point of view regarding the Trojans.51 The past was instrumentalised by both sides of the barricade. And the lords of Thebes certainly imagined themselves as living in the land of the Roman de Thèbes. After all, the crusaders had done the same thing in the Holy Land, where they constantly compared themselves to the characters from the historical books of the Old Testament. From the preceding paragraphs, it is evident that measuring things up and checking for factual evidence was just one of my priorities. The other vital aspect of my field trips was to recreate medieval history and a medieval state of mind, in both a banal and multifaceted way. Imagine what the Western knights and monks would feel when entering the small churches of Laconia: old ones, like Saint-Pantaleon in Ano Boularii, or more recent ones, such as the cave-church of Zoupena. There are 13th and 14th century paintings in those churches, meaning that they had not been abandoned during the Frankokratia. Would those Latin lords compare tiny Zoupena to the impressive cave church of Saint-John from Aubeterre-sur-Dronne (France)? When an Italian would see Episkopi, in Mani, would he smile and think of the mosaics of Torcello? Perhaps sometimes I went too far. Certain comparisons could not be done. But this did not stop me from attending mass in Merbaka (in the main church of the settlement, now Agia Triada, in Argolid) with the eyes of a Latin archbishop. I was there to ask for the keys of the old church. The villagers looked at me with intrigued expressions as they tried to figure out how I knew when to make the sign of the cross, even though I was not speaking the Greek language. Maybe they would have similar thoughts about William of Morbeka in 1277–1286. 49 50
51
For the latest interpretation of this passage in the chronicle of Robert de Clari, see Florin Curta, ‘Constantinople and the Echo Chamber: The Vlachs in the French Crusade Chronicles’, Medieval Encounters, 22 (2016), 427–462. From the many studies concerning this topic, see Teresa Shawcross, ‘Re-Inventing the Homeland in the Historiography of Frankish Greece: The Fourth Crusade and the legend of the Trojan War’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 27 (2003), 120–152. For the French narratives, see Colette Beaune, Naissance de la nation France (Paris: Gallimard, 1985), 45–48. See for this the commentary bT to the Iliad in Marchinus Van der Valk, Researches on the Text and Scholia of the Iliad, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1963) 1, 474–475.
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I also had to imagine where the roads had been, where the armies had passed in 1262, if the lord of Geraki could see as far as Vrontamas. And I walked on foot. The most stimulating march was not necessarily the longest one. It started from that cave church located in a ravine where a highway bridge was built. The priest of Zoupena (Agii Anargyri) had showed me how to climb up the left side of the ravine in order to reach it. He was old and could not guide me there, since the road had been destroyed. On my way back to Zoupena, nobody stopped to take me. I had plenty of time to contemplate wide fields of rocks stretching as far as my eyes could see. So I opened the Chronicle of Morea on my mobile phone, reciting passages about the Palaeologan reconquista. I tried to see it from the Greek side and from the Latin one. It could be the route taken by Constantine, half-brother to the emperor, and by the Turkish mercenaries who burned the monastery of Isova. I imagined two scenarios. In the first one, they had already taken Geraki, chasing away the Latin lord who now ran before them to the West. In the second one, they would be advancing from Monemvasia to Mystras and the lord of Geraki looked upon them from the fortress where he and his knights had barricaded themselves. Either way, those Turkish mercenaries, Greeks, and Gasmouli would certainly be thirsty. As thirsty as I was when I reached the kafeneio in Agii Anargyri. But I could still not be sure where they joined forces with the Maniots. Recreating history is not such a bad thing after all, on one condition: that you make lots of alternative scenarios. It helped me make another triage of the corpus, dumping cases that could not be useful in my research. And it provided a better understanding of the wider picture. Particularly in Mani, where it is not enough to see a single church from a village. The other churches need to be visited, too, as well as those from neighbouring settlements. One always finds patterns, local artistic trends. When studied in the restricted frame of a single monument, some of them give the wrong impression that they are foreign, but when you find them declined differently in other monuments, you understand that there is nothing foreign about them. By the end of May, I had been to many places in Laconia, I moved my headquarters for a full week in the town of Areopoli, to see Inner Mani, and then I went to Argolid. By then, I was already writing my presentation for the congress of the Christian Archaeological Society in Athens, where Maria Panayotidi had kindly invited me. I returned to the capital. I met with many of the people whom I had already encountered in my trips. There were also great names from bibliography in that gathering at the Byzantine Museum. Or young colleagues whom I had never met. I remember eavesdropping on a conversation about how the education of MA and PhD students should be done. I understood a bit of Modern Greek, but I was not able to speak it back. It came
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out with Old Greek words in Erasmic pronunciation. Therefore I regretted not being able to make a joke. I am making it here, as a parenthesis. There is a leitmotiv that ‘academic education does not explicitly teach students valuable labour market skills’. If such an idea were valid, then we would need to teach introductory classes about how to find the key of the church when the village streets are empty and nobody answers to the desperate cries: κάποιος στο σπίτι?! Or how to chase away bats from the sanctuary apse, especially in the delicate situation when you hear the cries of their babies. How to crawl through dust and debris in order to enter the gate-tower of Akronafplio and take photos of its murals. How to protect from swarms of flies, like those which entered my eyes, nose, and mouth at Paleomonastiro. How to dress up like a Bedouin in the church of Saint-Pantaleon in Ano Boularii, to protect from the wasps of its three huge nests made out of clay. Or how to sing lullabies to a frazzled mouse, tired of running and hiding in the church of Sotirianika. This was the only living being whom I had met on a walk through hills and orchards, south of Kalamata. There is something gentle and elusively human in the study of the art and literature of the past. One can rapidly fall in love with a text, a depiction, or a place. I would like my readers to know that by the end of May, I had fallen in love with the Peloponnesus.
…
From Athens I made a short trip to Mount Athos, to see the Iviron manuscript with my own eyes. Marina Toumpouri, whom I cannot thank enough, had put me in contact with Father Theologos. He welcomed me at the monastery, gave me food and shelter, and above all, food for thought. After a brief stop in Ouranopolis and Thessalonica, to see what Benedict of Saint-Susanne or Boniface of Montferrat could see, I set my headquarters in Chalkida. This is where I met Alexandra Kostarelli, who helped me organize my visits to Euboeote churches. We talked a lot about the Boeotian church of Akrefnio (Fig. 35). So much that she agreed to publish an English version of her study about Anthony le Flamenc in my journal. I was happy to publish prime material about the only ktetorial text mentioning a Latin lord in a Byzantine church.52 The churches of Euboea intrigued me more than all the other ones I had seen. More than those which I would later see in Messenia and Elis, in September 2019. I had expected them to be different, on account of the 52
Alexandra Kostarelli, ‘The Dedicatory Inscription of Saint George Church at Akrefnio, Boeotia (1311). Notes after the Completion of the Conservation Works’, Museikon, 3 (2019), 9–24.
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Venetian occupation, but they did not look like anything coming from Crete. There were Latin influences in those murals, but I could not decide upon the nature of the influences. Perhaps because they were somehow linked to the mysterious lives of their ktetors and painters. Who was Kali Medoni? Who was Michael Tamissas? How did they gather their fortunes in the age of Veronese triarchs? Were they any different from the Kalligopouloi brothers of Elis, the first of whom was named ‘Guilliamos’, conceivably in celebration of their allegiance to William of Villehardouin? And the toughest question of all: up to what point in my analysis could I make use of the socio-political context? Cultural trends are linked with social, economic, and political tendencies, but they are certainly not subjugated by them. Research often enslaves them to the latter because of a lack of contextual data for the medieval times, making us prone to use social, political, and economic documentation. But when one looks towards recent cultural trends, such as the Jazz Age or the hippies, one sees that they overlap socio-political or socio-economical tendencies, but they also act independently from them. Not all hippies were members of student protest movements and certainly not all psychedelic rock bands of the late 1960s and early 1970s were made up of hippies. We have no right to regard the music created at that time as an effect of the Summer of Love. There are larger issues at stake and I believe that the cultural trends of the Frankokratia acted independently of what documents tell us. In other words, independently from the events of their time. The events that we know are not necessarily the events that influenced the creators of art and literature. Consequently, the understanding of murals, sculptures, or manuscripts should be done according to a cultural code. Let me give an example. When princess Anna, wife of William of Villehardouin, decided to donate a manuscript (now 81 in the Synodal Library of Moscow) to a monastery (identified with Samarina in Messenia), the fact that she was staying in Chlemoutsi did not mean anything. Her text actually states: “I, Anna, Princess of Achaea, dedicate the present book to the monastery of the Virgin Martyr of Christ Marina for the sake of my soul, in the year 1276/1277, being at Clermont Castle. You, martyr of my God, Marina, beseech God for me, your servant, so that I shall find the remission of my sins forever and ever. Amen.”53 If anything, the only sure conclusion based on this text is that she had remained a Byzantine woman despite living continuously among the Latins. It cannot be related to the ‘Western influences’ allegedly noticeable in the murals of the church of Samarina (Zoodochos Pigi, close to Andromonastero), dated to c.1260. And 53
For this translation, see Gerstel, Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, 191. I corrected their reading of the name of the castle. For the original text, see the same page.
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I cannot agree that her “unusual gravestone, which was found in Andravida in the north-western Peloponnesus and combines a Latin inscription with Byzantine carving, recalls the design and technique of the templon screen in Samarina, which has now been re-used, in part, for the church’s main altar table.”54 It is an association fallacy in which it is suggested that B and C are the same because A defines both B and C. Such categories are just overlapping in aspects that are inconsequential to research. The problem is that we projected a lot of socio-political expectations upon the persona of princess Anna (just like we did in the case of Isabella of Lusignan). We forgot that they were actual human beings, whose lives were driven by personal choices, unknown reasons, and even plain chance. They were not representatives of class structures. They were women who … ate, prayed, and loved. In Margaret Atwood’s ‘Historical Notes’ of the Handmaid’s Tale, professor Pieixoto is blinded by an illusion of objectivity based on ‘received ideas’, to the point that his interpretation distorts the value of what he considers to be a document, estranged from the handmaid’s personal suffering. Atwood argues that the historian’s reading is a fiction, therefore he or she needs to admit her/his biases.55 To me, this is not necessarily linked to the fact that her story is feminine in nature. She embraces the individual, denouncing the domineering stance of socio-economic and socio-political historiography. Pieixoto’s interest in the male elite of the Gilead Republic resembles the medievalists’ obsession with chivalry, confessional issues, and political schemes. Pieixoto’s search for mainstream facts simplifies everything. He becomes Gileadean in his reconstruction of the past. This is evident when the professor regrets the absence of factual data in the account of Offred, admitting that he would prefer to have twenty pages from the computer of the Commander instead. Pieixoto prefers the bigger picture, he values text material and disdains the oral nature of the tale.56 Offred is invisible to him. His history is ‘artefact’, while Offred’s history is ‘experience’.57 This is where the idea of telling tales first occurred to me as an ideal way to facilitate my readers’ walk through the organic artistic and literary legacy of the Frankokratia. Atwood herself described her books as a place where “individual memory and experience and collective memory and 54 55 56 57
Gerstel, Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, 190–191 (and p. 191 for the quotation). David S. Hogsette, ‘Margaret Atwood’s Rhetorical Epilogue in ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ The Reader’s Role in Empowering Offred’s Speech Act’, Critique Studies in Contemporary Fiction, 38/4 (2012), 262–278. Peter Marks, ‘Partial Transcripts: dialogues with history in Margaret Atwood’s’ The Handmaid’s Tale’, Sydney Studies in English, 24 (2008), 8–9. Dominick M. Grace, “The Handmaid’s Tale”: ‘Historical Notes’ and Documentary Subversion’, Science Fiction Studies, 25/3 (1998), 481–494, 488.
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experience come together.” She did not accept the academic tenet that “history is not about individuals, only about large trends and movements.”58 We share many things with the people of old. Cultural mindset is the main difference between them and us. They had different values, customs, habits, and they read different things. If we want to understand the transfer of trends and patterns across cultures, we need to know how they thought, what they read or saw, and most of all, why they embraced certain trends, rejecting other ones. Our understanding of the Frankokratia as a social, political or economic narrative needs to take a break in this book, as I cannot fashion every other detail according to these standpoints. I do not consider them wrong, only misleading, because they sometimes fail to explain what happened in cultural history. There is a stimulating study in which Carlo Ginzburg discusses the fixation of ancient historiography with vividness, leading to the triumph of ekphrasis as an aim of historical narrative. But in modern times, the preference for non-literary annals as a testimony of reality or truth led to the use of quotation as an effet de vérité, whence modern history derived its methods of research.59 I will not write clichés about what truth is or cannot be. As a matter of fact, I am not interested in truth. I am more interested in the old way of understanding history, since it was an integral part of the medieval mindset. In my opinion, neither of the two methods leads to an acceptable solution to the problem that they set out to solve, since both of them are focused on the identification of truth. The problem here is that truth (from a historiographical standpoint) is an erratic concept, as it represents the property of being in accord with fact or reality, something that historical reconstructions can never objectively achieve. Therefore the quest for truth should be replaced with the quest for ‘that which is not hidden’, the ἀλήθεια, or the opposite of falsehood. From an epistemic point of view, theories need to be falsified and the best way to attain a certain degree of falsifiability is to make conventional empirical observations, creating alternative scenarios that take into account the complexity of medieval culture. Social structures and political schemes are not 58
59
Jonathan D. Spence, ‘Margaret Atwood and the Edges of History’, The American Historical Review, 103/5 (1998), 1522–1525. For similar ideas, expressed in a different way and based on a different corpus, see my standpoint on the issue of the medieval Transylvanian churches of Vlach communities in Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Prolegomena to a Study of the Religious and Cultural Networks Linking the Romanian Communities of Medieval Transylvania’, Journal of Religion & Society, suppl. 19 (2019 = Religious History and Culture of the Balkans, Creighton University), 83–123. Cf. Carlo Ginzburg, ‘Ekphrasis and quotation’, Tijdschrift voor filosofie, 50/1 (1988), 3–19. Cf. Carlo Ginzburg, “Descrizione e citazione,” in idem, Il filo et le tracce. Vero, falso, finto (Milan: Feltrinelli, 2006), 15–38 (a translation and rewriting of the first article), in which the distinction between the two manners of writing history could arguably be reconciled.
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very helpful in these matters, as they reduce the complexity of the medieval mindset to bare bones that historians are given to gnaw when individual histories are carved off from them. Subjective standpoints such as those based on the history of individuals and ideas work much better, because they offer many alternative solutions to the dilemmas that disruptive ‘quotations’ (used as effets de vérité) are posing to the understanding of cultural history. In other words, ekphrasis and quotation can be reconciled if their goal is set differently. One can and should exploit the ancient historical vividness through the quotation of non-analytical material, even literary texts, as I did in the present book, in order to look not for truth, but for the limits of her/his own subjectivity. If the goal of our research is not the quest for truth, only what truth could have been, then the various degrees of falsehood can be objectively peeled off from the corpus. The method is unpretentious. It does not hold the monopoly on truth. It uses an empirical approach (trial and error) to construct what was possible and probable in the cultural mindset of the times of old. I have no intent to achieve something similar to Ginzburg’s Cheese and the Worms. My material is much too fragmented and heterogeneous. It cannot lead to a Microstoria reading, but it can be used to recreate a convincing picture of the 13th–14th century mindset(s) of the Frankokratia. The first time when this idea occurred to me was in the fancy car of an English couple who picked me up in Platsa, taking me as far as Kardamyli. They were so obsessed with Patrick Leigh Fermor that they had invented a story about how they had met him before his death. It is probably typical of most British couples who roam around Kardamyli, but there was something ostentatious in their tale. When they saw vague traces of disbelief in my eyes, they improvised, telling me about their long walk before meeting Paddy. That walk was a beautiful rendition of a scene from Linklater’s Before Midnight, which was filmed at the Fermor house of Kardamyli. They were striving to recreate their lives in connection with that place. Their story was a tall tale, but they achieved a rather convincing rendition of what truth could have been, very similar to the use of vividness as testimony of reality or truth in ancient historiography. I said to myself that I could do the same thing. I could tell similar lies, drawn from the writings of Frankokratia, in order to provide a pathway to the understanding of art and literature. After all, there was no point in looking for the truth, only in what truth could have been. Hence the idea of tales. I could tell tales, based on quotations of literary or historic sources. They could carry the reader through the organic corpus, linking cultural acts that were so alike or so profoundly dissimilar that they composed a narrative by themselves. At first, I was afraid to use this in the book. I preferred to imagine an exhibition based on the photos that I had made. I even talked to my colleagues at
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the Centre for Medieval Studies in Poitiers, asking for their advice on how to organize such an exhibition, but then I had to teach my seminar at the beginning of 2020. The idea of configuring each session on a tale based on a central character proved to be amazingly effective from a pedagogical point of view. It allowed me to move across time and space with unlimited freedom, to create a sequence of monuments and texts that did not share formal features, but pointed to the same mentality. I asked students to use memories of their grandparents in order to shape up a portrait of Michael Choniates. I told them about my ‘adventures’ in Greece: bats, wasps, live or dead mice, fleas, and the rest. I also told them about the farmer who had seen me crawling out of the ruins of Trissakia, asked where I was headed next, and invited me to hop in his muddy car up to Faneromeni, where he gave me fresh eggs to eat in the evening. I described the taste of the white figs of the Albanian driver headed for Dryopi, who changed his route and took me to Kastania. Or the driver who spoke to me for half an hour about Basil the Bulgar-Slayer while his Bulgarian friend was asleep next to him. We used those people to recreate secondary characters in the stories. Some students started participating in the creation of those stories. One of them, a castellologist, explained to me why Nicholas da Martoni divided various fortification walls into beautiful and ugly ones. Then I showed them the films I had made in the most important monuments. Originally, those films were meant to help me identify the location of painted scenes or architectural features. I was using them for a different purpose. We looked at the ruins of the church of Saint-Francis in Glarentza (Fig. 30) and I read aloud the trial of Margaret of Passava in the Chronicle of Morea. After three or four sessions, I knew that my book had to do the same thing. This was the only way to write it, but by then we were already living under the spectre of the COVID-19 pandemic. I taught the last sessions of the seminar online and suddenly I had more time than I could imagine. I chose the protagonists of my tales carefully, from among those people who had nothing to do with battles. My book was not about battles, political intrigues, or socio-economic necessities. The characters provided me with the much-needed chronology and moved freely through the corpus of images and texts. Naturally, the chronology was lax. Some tales overlapped as well, but this never bothered me. I spoke about different aspects of the same timeframe. I also loved the idea that the book was simple, lacking any great theoretical premises. I was free to write about my subjective understanding of the time, questioning myself and my own hypotheses through the eyes of the characters. I reused original texts in collages, making precise references to the original sources in footnotes, so that my readers can check the validity of the reconstructions with their own eyes. I used historical sources for event-driven
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segments of the narrative and literary sources for descriptive or contextual passages where a rhetorical effect was needed. I did not strive to achieve a synthesis based on the entire bibliography, as this could lead to a hacking of the fragile and organic corpus. I also used a lot of my own studies, because I needed to present the Latin mindset to an audience made up of Byzantinologists. But most of all, I liked that I could throw every single piece of evidence in a loose narrative, and that it fell perfectly, no matter where it landed. The only problem was the series of longer analyses that interrupted the tales. Knowing that I will never be able to publish seventeen articles before the completion of the book (so that I may quote them), I looked for the most suitable option. I decided to include them in the book itself. They became digressions. I boiled each of them down to its essential aspects, presenting it as a case study. It is true that these seventeen studies often interrupt the narrative, but they fit well in the structure of the tales. When the whole thing was done, I could hardly believe how coherent it had become. The intertwined narratives and themes explored in the book created a sort of fabric that made the final book look cohesive and self-consistent. The readers must keep track of this woven structure. This is why this introduction ends with a …
User Guide/Reader’s Manual
The book is made up of two different types of ‘threads’, woven and tied together through case studies. The first type of threads are the six narratives themselves, that is, the tales of Michael Choniates, William of Morbeka, Anna of Villehardouin, Angelo Clareno, Isabella of Lusignan, and Nicholas da Martoni. They provide a chronological progression of the corpus, even though each tale is interrupted from time to time by short analyses and by references to other chronological periods, for a better contextualization of each example. The narratives are a pretext, not the chief interest of the book. They strive to achieve a plausible reconstruction, favouring the use of primary sources, both historical and literary, depending on the nature of the scene. Literary texts are used for scenes of everyday life, while historical ones appear in event-driven sections of the narrative. These sources are either quoted or paraphrased. My translations are marked by straight single quotes (‘_’). Quotations from other translations are put between double typographic quotes (“_”). They are used only when I was able to identify a proper or suitable English translation of the passage. When no such translation was identified, I paraphrased the original source, keeping a thorough discipline of verbal tenses and modes which also applies to literary reconstructions of various scenes. For instance, if no
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particular markers are deployed, my interpretations, additions, and alterations to the original text (or the reconstruction itself) are always designated by the use of the auxiliaries ‘would’, ‘could’, modal verbs and adverbs such as ‘probably’, ‘possibly’, or ‘perhaps’. The indicative mode and the adverbs of strong certainty (‘certainly’, ‘surely’, ‘undoubtedly’) are used in the actual paraphrase, where the ideas of the source were not altered in any way, or in the passages where the reconstruction is based on key bibliographical arguments. References to the translations and editions of original texts are provided in footnotes, so that readers can flesh out their own reconstruction, different from mine, but based on the same sources, in order to engage in a dialogue with the author (agreeing or disagreeing with me). Bibliographical citations mark a difference between editors of texts – ed(s); collective volume editors – dir.; and translators – trans. When the texts in question are unpublished or when I make a new reading, the original text is presented in the footnotes in a semi-diplomatic form based on the variant text of a manuscript. The narrative structure was the last thing in my mind when writing the book. I was constantly aware that discoveries or re-evaluations of prosopographic data can shed new light on the life of these characters, leading thus to significant changes in the storyline, to the point that entire segments of my narrative could become invalid in future. Hence, I took care so that these future changes do not affect the book. Different storylines can be used for the exact same purpose, assembling the case studies and examples in a similar mosaic, based on a different slithering progression through the same corpus. The book’s primary interest is the study of this mosaic, not the writing of tales. Consequently, the actual book cuts across the narratives. The mosaic is organised into another type of threads, based on topics. These topic-based threads explore themes and subjects that are essential to the understanding of the cultural exchanges between West and East in the time of Frankokratia. Some threads are long and complex in nature: the status of biblical vernacular texts (from 12th century France until the end of the 14th century). Other subjects, such as the use of the Trojan story (from a literary point of view) or the pairing of saints Peter and Paul (iconographical in nature), are less complex, but just as frequent. In certain cases, for example the uses of the legend of saint Denis, these threads explore both literary and iconographical issues, spanning from the beginning of the book to the very end, as an effect of its momentum in the epilogue. Other threads are medium-to-very-short, occurring in one, two, or three chapters, where the topic is explored. They are intertwined with the narratives: the characters of the tales provide an individual perspective on that particular topic at a certain moment in time, for a certain group, or in a certain geographical area. This is what the book is actually made of.
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When narratives and topic-based threads need to be linked for greater cohesion, case studies interrupt the narrative in the form of tightly woven knots. They represent developments of topic-based threads, being built upon references presented in the preceding chapters, as a consequence of the dissemination of those topics throughout the book. Since the chief interest of the book is not epic penmanship, but the analysis of cultural paradigms through those topics, whenever important situations occur, case studies can cluster in the form of conglomerates. I beg for my readers’ indulgence in the matter of this lack of resourcefulness. The penultimate chapter (the tale of Isabella of Lusignan) presents a string of case studies, but there was no other way to present them, since that cluster builds a thorough demonstration of the links between art and literature. Last but not least, I made attempts at humour in order to entertain my readers. We should not take ourselves too seriously. All of us project our subjective readings upon the object of our research, in the form of hidden narratives. Many allegedly objective studies and books present exaggerations in which the authors give in to a certain key of interpretation, creating corpora based on tropisms that originate in their theoretical premises. I tried to be conscious of this risk, as I am no different from my peers, and I continually poked fun at my ego, deflating its pretentions of objectivity. This was often achieved through the artificial boosting of hypotheses. For instance, in certain situations in the narrative, I chose to present the most shocking reconstruction, like the scene in which I conceived a possible dialogue between the wise Manuel Cantacuzene and an Italian cleric working for Isabella of Lusignan. This was done, on the one hand, for the sake of a joke; on the other hand, out of a desire to reach a proper level of falsifiability, that is, to show that such situations cannot be excluded, that they could just as well explain the odd cases that we encounter in our analyses. This does not make farcical explanations any preferable in comparison to the more serious or common ones. It simply goes to show that the serious or ludicrous nature of an interpretation cannot act as a discriminating factor when one has to choose from a multitude of interpretations; that research must be based on observations of an empirical nature, in accord with the object of the study. These occasional jokes are mere exercises concerning the problem of induction and demarcation. They are funny because they need to be more palatable to the readers. A handful of ‘Easter eggs’ are also thrown in, carefully disseminated through the narrative. Their purpose is literary, to tighten the fabric of topic-based threads and narratives. In one of those ‘Easter eggs’, Isabella of Lusignan and Manuel Cantacuzene paraphrase the lyrics of a song by Bob Dylan and its translation-adaptation by Dionysis Savvopoulos. The scene anticipates the
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conclusion of the chapter, where the two songs are used in a comparison that explains the manner in which cultural swaps act from one period to another. Last but not least, the use of dialogue is another literary gimmick deployed in the book, but it is never based on my own imagination. Dialogues are based on, paraphrased, or quoted from the literary and historical sources of the same period. In retrospective, when the book was almost finished, I came to realize that my subconscious had probably mimicked the Palimpsest of Imre Tóth, a mesmerising collage-book of ‘dramatic dialectics’ that entranced my teenage mind, despite me not being able to understand it at the time.60 In this way, the vividness of ancient historiography was reconciled with the modern obsession for quotations, yet none of them were used in order to obtain an effet de vérité. The mixture of old and new aesthetics only aimed at attaining the fullest degree of falsifiability, in order to create (as stated previously) alternative scenarios that took into account the complexity of medieval culture. This is where the introduction ends. The last words of this book were written on the 25th day of October, the Sunday of the feast of saint Dorcas, in the year of the Lord 2020, in the year after Creation 7529, 14th indiction. And now let me tell you the tale of Michael Choniates. 60
Imre Tóth, Palimpsest: Teologia negativă a triunghiului, trans. Petru Creția (Bucharest: Humanitas, 1995).
the second tale
The Old Man on the Island How many times would this old man pass the Stone Lion of Kea? Compared to the beauties of Athens that he had praised in many of his works, the exile in this Godforsaken island certainly looked grim to him. Kea was very close to Athens, but nobody could see it from there. Even on a clear sunny day, on the southern part of the island, one could not see behind the mountains of Mesogeia. Michael Choniates felt banished from his cherished city.1 Living in the shadow of Attica caused him both comfort and discomfort. It was not a sheer rhetorical exercise. It was a visual image. He often wrote about the island of Kea as being one of the Cyclades and across or over the straights from Attica (ἐκ τῆς Κέω νήσου, μιᾶς τῶν Κυκλάδων καὶ τῆς ἀντιπόρθμου τῇ Ἀττικῇ).2 In another letter, the one mentioning his tribulations of 1216–1217, he wrote again about dwelling beside Attica, in the islands across the straights (ἀλλὰ περὶ τὰ ἀντίπορθμα τῆς Ἀττικῆς νησίδια παροικῆσαι).3 The hidden presence of Athens tortured him. The scene of the surrender of Athens probably played repeatedly in his mind. The Latins had been camping below the Acropolis, preparing their assault upon the walls already destroyed in the recent siege of Leon Sgouros. Choniates had no time to repair them. From the stronghold of the Acropolis, in the shadow of the Parthenon, the old metropolitan had to admit the futility of any plans of resistance. Nicetas Choniates, his brother, wrote that Michael, “the presiding bishop of the city, as he had done earlier with Sgouros, had hoped to persuade the marquis [Boniface of Montferrat] to withdraw, but he judged that this was not the time to offer resistance, inasmuch as the queen of cities had fallen and the shadow of the Latin lance was cast over both the western and 1 Unless otherwise stated, the data presented in this chapter are aligned with the standard studies concerning the life and works of Michael Choniates: Georg Stadtmüller, Michael Choniates, Metropolit von Athen (ca. 1138–ca. 1222) (Rome: Pont. Institutum Orientalium Studiorum, 1934); Johannes M. Hoeck, Raymond J. Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios von Otranto, Abt von Casole: Beiträge zur Geschichte des ost-westlichen Beziehungen unter Innocenz III. und Friedrich II. (Passau: Buch-Kunstverlag Ettal, 1965); or the introductory study of Foteini Kolovou (ed.), Michaelis Choniatae Epistulae (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2001). 2 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 164, p. 261, lines 7–11. In this letter sent to his nephew in Thebes (post-1207), Michael Choniates discusses the difficulties in exchanging letters with the addressee due to poor travelling conditions. This passage, taken from the beginning of the letter, refers to the then present state of exchanges from Kea to Athens and farther toward Boeotia. 3 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 165, pp. 262–263, lines 14–15.
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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eastern parts of the Roman empire, and he surrendered the fortress without bloodshed.”4 Choniates lamented those days, yet nothing else could be done. In a letter dated before 1208 and addressed to Ioannikios, cathegumen of the Meletiou monastery, wherein he thanked for the food sent to him, the exiled considered himself to be punished by God and therefore looked upon Attica as Adam looked upon Eden when he was cast away (ἀπέναντι τῆς Ἀττικῆς, ὡς ἐκεῖνος τῆς Ἐδέμ, παροικῶ δεῦρο φθειρόμενος). The Italians of his text were compared to the Harpies, for they snatched away the food of the people (τοὺς παροδεύοντας Ἰταλούς, ὐπὲρ τὰς μυθικὰς Ἁρπυίας τὴν τῶν ἀνθρώπων τροφὴν ἁρπάζοντας).5 It was a literary game, a sort of obsession, and a growing discontent in the mind of this Ovid from Kea. He repeated the comparison in a letter to Basil Kamateros, uncle to the wife of emperor Lascaris (c.1208). In this other letter, the grumpy old man once again wrote that he dwelt in the neighbourhood of Attica, as if it were another Eden (ἐνταῦθα δὲ κατῴκισμαι ἐκ γειτόνων τῆς Ἀττικῆς, ὡς Ἐδὲμ ἄλλης ἀπέναντι). Nevertheless, by that time the island of Kea did not seem so bad as before. This time he described it as a holy sanctuary (ἄσυλον ἱερὸν), a fortified refuge (φυγαδευτήριον ἐρυμνὸν), an enclosure that those most hostile Italians did not manage to invade easily in all this time (εἰς τόδε χρόνου τοῖς ἐχθίστoις Ἰταλοῖς ὡς οὐκ εὐέφοδον ἄβατον).6 The bitter fruit of old, once forbidden, seemed sweet. Choniates used to be unhappy about living in Athens in much the same way as he was now happy and unhappy about living in Kea. In c.1207–1208, he received a Greek copy of Galen’s De sanitate tuenda as a gift from a doctor and friend. In his reply, he thanked the doctor for the knowledgeable book, but complained that it provided no practical help due to the poor conditions on the island. Choniates whined that he was very old and the bad food on Kea was not suited for his age. The inhabitants did not actually eat fish. They ate lots of meat and cheese instead. And the wine was of very poor quality. The old metropolitan was used to fine wines. He could not appreciate the local ones. He even discussed references to Galen’s wines, mentioning several of them in particular, Greek and Italian, because the latter were triggering other feelings, too. After speaking of the wines from Falerno and Sorrento (καὶ τῷ ἐξ Ἰταλίας Φαλερίνῳ καὶ Σωρεντίνῳ), he added a comment about the Italians of his time and the bitter cup. In a powerful reference to the cup of wrath (Isaiah 51:17), Choniates compared his tribulations on the island of 4 Harry J. Magoulias (trans.), O, City of Byzantium, Annals of Niketas Choniates (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1984), 334. For the original text, see Ioannes Aloysius Van Dieten (ed.), Nicetae Choniatae Historia, pars prior: Praefationem et textum continens (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1975), 609–610. 5 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 93, p. 122, lines 10–11, 14–16. 6 Ibid., letter 129, p. 210, lines 57–58, 53–55.
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Kea to those of the Lord in the garden of Gethsemane (Luke 22:42). He saw the Latins as persecutors and mentioned bitterness in several words (κόνδυ πικρίας / πευκεδανὴς / πικροποιούμενος).7 It was not the food that triggered the anti-Latin tirade. The cabbage that he received from Athens a little bit later, c.1208, was spared of such feelings.8 It was the adjective ‘Italian’ that he had to write previously. Those Italian barbarians were beasts of prey and they preyed upon him. For the people among whom he was living, relations with Latins could be practical and human-like. The inhabitants of Kea often travelled to Athens, so that even the old metropolitan could exchange letters with other people from Athens or elsewhere. In a letter to a grammarian of Thebes (c.1206), filled to the brim with references to Aristophanes, Plutarch, Homer, Hesiod, and Euripides, Choniates talked about a funny monetary transaction between a certain Peter, monk from the monastery of Thermopylae, and a Latin, involving a trip to Athens and a rigged calculus.9 So the Latins could be also mocked, not only feared. People travelled here and there, not only merchants, but clergymen, too. And this happened in the early years of the occupation, not only in later ones. From another letter, dating from before 1208, we learn that a certain monk Luke had left the island of Kea and moved to Athens. Michael Choniates was wandering where he went, but he was glad that he reached Athens and wished him to do pastoral work there.10 So the Latins were bad, but life continued in Athens. Life was not necessarily good or bad. It just was. And the Latins just were, as well. The image of the Latins is sometimes unclear in Choniates’ letters. When he addresses Theodore Lascaris, urging him to save Asia from the Latins and liberate Constantinople from foreign rule, he compares them to the Canaanite tribe of the Jebusites (ὡς τοὺς Ἰεβουσαίους), and Theodore to king David.11 This is the only time when he has in mind a Holy War and he probably echoed the crusader rhetoric of the Latins, but he used the common ground provided by the Byzantine military readings of the Old Testament.12 When I make this 7 8 9 10 11 12
See ibid., letter 115, p. 192, lines 71–73. For the lack of fish in the Kea menu, being replaced with meat and cheese, see the lines 65–67. Ibid., letter 103, p. 129, lines 65–66 seqq. Ibid., letter 106, p. 164, lines 35–40. In this letter, he uses a hapax καταπεττευόμενος from an otherwise unattested *καταπεττευόμαι. This blurs our understanding of the whole affair. Ibid., letter 99, pp. 131–133. Ibid., letter 94, p. 124, line 42. For a general idea, see Yannis Stouraitis, ‘Using the Bible to justify imperial warfare in high-medieval Byzantium’, in Claudia Rapp, Andreas Külzer (dir.), The Bible in Byzantium: Appropriation, Adaptation, Interpretation (= part 6 of Volume 25 of the Series JAJ. Supplements ‘Reading Scripture in Judaism and Christianity’) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018).
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comparison, I think about the marquis of Boudonitsa (modern Mendenitsa), who was said to have waged war upon the local Greeks as if he were David against the Philistines.13 Otherwise, Choniates simply put them on a lower level of evolution. Especially at that time (undated, in a letter to a certain George), when the cities fell prey to the roaring barbarity of old (μάλιστα νῦν, ὅτε τῶν καθ’ ἡμᾶς ἄρχει πόλεων ἡ πάλαι θρυλλουμένη ἀποβαρβάρωσις).14 This concept of barbarity was recurrent in his letters. In another letter, he considered the vernacular language (French, Occitan, or Italian) spoken by ‘Italians’ (meaning Latins)15 to be barbaric, for they spoke in a barbaric way (βαρβαροφώνους Ἰταλοὺς), but the most important consideration in that particular phrase was that the Latins’ way of worshiping Christ had been twisted and turned into a worship of gold (τὴν τοῦ Χριστοῦ λατρείαν εἰς χρυσολατρείαν μεταθεμένους). Choniates also compared Latins to the Phrygian king Midas.16 The pejorative inference does not really concern the language, but the people. In that, he did not do something special, as the same treatment appeared in writings of other Byzantine authors, like George Pachymeres.17 Nevertheless, Choniates had nothing against Latin as a language, nor did he bear a grudge to Latin authors. In one of his very early letters, when he had barely arrived in Athens, twenty years before he was forced to leave it (c.1185), Choniates wrote to a certain George in Constantinople not to be dissatisfied because of the time spent with politics and the lack of time spent with philosophy. He was of the opinion that the connection between philosophy and politics had a good tradition. He mentioned Cato and Cicero together with Arrian, Themistius, and Psellos in
13
14 15 16
17
Cf. Giuseppe Scalia (ed.), Salimbene de Adam da Parma, Cronica, 2 vols (Bari: Laterza, 1966) 2, 545: cum habitaret in Romania, et impugnabat et capiebat et interficiebat sicut David Phylisteos. The quotation from Salimbene de Adam will be discussed in its entirety later on in this chapter. Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 110, p. 170, lines 42–43. Early 13th century Greek sources frequently mention Latin invaders as ‘Italians’. They are defined as ‘Frankish’ at a later date. Until then, Greeks probably saw them in connection with the pope of Rome, thus from Italy. For the entire passage, see Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 148, p. 241, lines 30–34: καὶ βάλλ’ οὕτως, φίλη μοι κεφαλή, βαρβαροφώνους δὲ Ἰταλοὺς ἔα φθινύθειν, τὴν τοῦ Χριστοῦ λατρείαν εἰς χρυσολατρείαν μεταθεμένους καὶ παρασυμβληθέντας τοῖς χρυσωρυχοῦσι μύρμηξιν· ὡς εἴθε καὶ Μίδου τοῦ Φρυγὸς τὰ κατ’ εὐχὴν ἀποτελέσματα τοὺς ἀσεβεῖς καταλάβοιεν. For the comparison between Choniates and Pachymeres, see Johannes Koder, ‘Romaioi and Teukroi, Hellenes and Barbaroi, Europe and Asia: Mehmed the Conqueror – Kayser-i Rum and Sulṭān al-barraynwa-l-bahrayn’, The Athens Dialogues: An International Conference on Culture and Civilization, 2010 (online version: http://www.panoreon.gr/. Accessed 2020 February 6), 15–16.
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order to prove his point.18 The old metropolitan therefore made a distinction between what was Roman, pertaining to the Antiquity or to the inhabitants of the Byzantine Empire (self-designated as ‘Romans’) and what was ‘Italian’, a recent type of ‘Latin’.19 Because he had a cult for the Antiquity. Choniates was truly passionate about classical authors. He was possibly one of the last readers of Callimachus.20 The weight of classical quotations and references in his letters is sometimes greater than that of the Holy Fathers or of the sacred text. And occasionally he discussed precise manuscripts. For instance, a certain kyr Basil Kynegos (‘Hunter’) had sent him a copy of Homer with intermittent missing passages, belonging to a man named Lapardas and costing two hyperpera. He returned it, but he was advising his addressee to look for it if he ever came to Athens.21 His hatred of the Latins was also related to his passion for books. When learning that Theodore, a metropolitan of Negroponte who had accepted the Latin rule and kept his see, was in possession of one of his lost books, Choniates asked him to send it as a gift or on loan. He then wrote the tragic story of his Athenian library, fallen into the hands of the Italians. Since some of those lost books had been sent back to him by people who had bought them from the Italians, Choniates described the latter as barbarians, because they spoke only one language (ὁμογλώττοις ἀνδράσιν […] βαρβάροις Ἰταλοῖς). This monolingual handicap definitely referred to the lack of Greek knowledge, so the old metropolitan imagined that the Italians would be able to read his books just as much as mules would handle lyres and dung beetles – myrrh (μᾶλλον γὰρ ὄνοι λύρας καὶ κάνθαροι μύρου αἰσθήσονται).22 Hearing about the deeds of those boors on the Acropolis probably made him sick. Those animals would be holding mass in a barbarian language in 18 19
20 21 22
Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 28, p. 38, lines 6–9: καὶ σὺ μὲν τὰς τῆς φιλοσοφίας ἐκμετρήσας κλίμακας, οὐδὲ τὰς πολιτευτικὰς θέμιδας περιιδεῖν ἐδικαίωσας, ἀποβλέπων, oἶμαι, πρὸς τοὺς Κάτωνας καὶ Κικέρωνας, Ἀρριανούς τε καὶ Θεμιστίους καὶ τοὺς πρὸ μικροῦ Ψελλούς, […]. When he describes the margins of the world, Choniates mentions three times the Britons, once in connection with Indians and Hyperboreans (Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 113, p. 184, line 29), and twice in connection with Indians only (letter 151, p. 245, line 19; letter 168, p. 267, line 12). He also mentions the Celts washing their children in the waters of the Rhine (letter 115, p. 192, line 57–58). These are common Byzantine references to ancient peoples designating contemporary ones. Choniates thus perceived Latins according to the ancients, but in another logic, this time Byzantine. These were not the people of Antiquity that he quoted, as did Anna Comnena before him and many others. Scott Kennedy, ‘Callimachus in a later context: Michael Choniates’, Eikasmos. Quaderni Bolognesi di Filologia Classica, 27 (2016), 291–312. For this passage, see Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 111, p. 179, lines 250–257. For the entire quotation, see ibid., letter 146, p. 238, lines 22–25.
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the Parthenon, the holy church of the Mother of God. A mule occupied his house on the Acropolis. We can easily imagine his disdain: him, a great lover of Homer, a student of Eustace of Thessalonica and former secretary of the patriarch. Choniates was certainly proud to be one of the students for whom Eustace had written his commentaries of Homer. He considered himself to be one of the bees that had tasted the sweet honey flowing from the mouth of that extraordinary master.23 Perhaps he would try to recreate from memory the wonderful passage where Eustace spoke about them: “So, what is left for me to do – since it has been demonstrated that he who labours with Homer’s poetry is not altogether ludicrous – is to get to where I aimed and not commend the poet any further, but do with him what I have been commanded not by some great overlords – the sort of thing that the pretentious create – but by my dear disciples, who harbour some amount of good opinion about me.”24 Oh, how he would regret that he did not have a copy of his master’s analysis of the Iliad! He had lost so many books. Those thuggish beasts had taken them. Like myself and many other lovers of Homer, master Eustace preferred the Odyssey to the Iliad. In his words, “according to the ancient truth the Odyssey is richer in character than the Iliad, meaning that it is sweeter and simpler, but also sharper because of the profundity of thoughts in the guise of superficial simplicity, as the rhetoricians say. For this is what rhetorical sharpness is: profundity of thought under superficial simplicity.”25 The Latin thugs knew nothing about the Odyssey. They had a vague knowledge of the Iliad from prosaic Latin renderings of the story of Troy, yet they were unable to understand the beauty of Homeric poems. Knowing nothing about ancient meters, they wrote their poetic ramblings in barbarous French octosyllabic and dodecasyllabic verses. When they managed to write Latin hexameters, they forgot about vowel quantities and had even invented the leonine hexameter, a stylistic abomination, in which the last word of each verse rhymed with the word just before the 23
24
25
For the original text of Choniates’ oration at the death of his master, see Σπυρίδων Π. Λάμπρος (ed.), Μιχαήλ Ακομινάτου του Χωνιάτου Τα σωζόμενα: τα πλείστα εκδιδόμενα νυν το πρώτον κατά τους εν Φλωρεντία, Οξώνιω, Παρίσιοις και Βιέννη κώδικας, 2 vols (Athens, 1879–1880; Groningen: Bouma’s Beckhuis N.V., 1968) 1:268. For the translation, see Eric Cullhed (ed., trans.), Eustathios of Thessalonike: Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey: Volume 1: On Rhapsodies α–β (Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, 2016), 9*. For the original text, see Marchinus van der Valk (ed.), Eustathii commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem pertinentes, ad fidem codicis Laurentiani editi, Volumen primum (libri A-Δ) (Leiden: Brill, 1971). For the didactical implications of Eustace’ commentaries, see Georgia Kolovou, ‘L’importance des épopées homériques pour l’éducation des jeunes gens selon Eustathe de Thessalonique’, Syntaktika, 51/1 (2017), 1–10. Cullhed ed., trans., Eustathios of Thessalonike, 7 (for the translation). Cf. p. 6 (for the original).
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caesura. Dung beetles and mules, indeed! Would they be able to understand sophisticated studies such as those written by Eustace? Certainly not. His master had written that “[…] the proems of the books are formed differently in ‘sing about the wrath’ and ‘tell me about the man’, and the difference lies not only in the words ‘sing’ and ‘tell’ or in the grammatical gender of mēnis [wrath (fem.)] and anēr [man (masc.)], but also in activity and passivity: for there the wrath is active in that it brought countless sufferings, but here the man suffered many ills.”26 After so many years, Choniates would still admire his master’s subtlety. He would profoundly regret that the good old times had passed. He probably felt like the last pillar of Greek culture in a land invaded by barbarians. Nobody read such beautiful phrases anymore. The locals now looked up to Western knights who knew only the poorly written tales of Dares and Dictys, Latin forgeries from the times of Late Antiquity. And even those stories had been distorted by vernacular poets such as Benoît de Sainte-Maure. They had come to the Greek lands, idiots imagining that they avenged the sack of Troy. Yet they knew absolutely nothing about the story of Troy, nothing about the sweet words of Hector and Andromache before the battle, nothing about Homer, and not a single Greek word. In the light of this comparison, Choniates had good reason to liken the Latins to mules and dung beetles, for the first conquerors were indeed boorish and rude. Maybe this is why Choniates was not too interested by the issue of the filioque. Exegetic matters were of little interest to those boors.27
…
There is only one mention of the filioque in his letters, in a long letter addressed to John, metropolitan of Naupaktos, written during Lent, after his arrival at the Prodromos monastery in Phthiotis (1217).28 Fellow Greek clergymen were considering it essential though. This does not mean that Choniates’ culturedness blurred his understanding of essential Orthodox doctrines. Quite the contrary – Michael Choniates was a profoundly religious man, but could not 26 27
28
For the translation, see Cullhed ed., trans., Eustathios of Thessalonike, 13, 15. For the original text, see pp. 12, 14. For a different opinion, accentuating the role of religion in Michael Choniates’ hatred of the Latins, see Nario Gallina, ‘La reazione antiromana nell’epistolario di Michele Coniata Metropolita d’Atene’, in Gherardo Ortalli et al. (dir.), Quarta crociata. Venezia-Bisanzio Impero Latino. Relazioni presentate alle giornate di studio organizzate per l’ottavo centenario della Quarta crociata, Venezia, 4–8 maggio 2004 (Venice: Istituto Veneto di Scienze Lettere ed Arti, 2006) 1:423–446. Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 173, p. 274, lines 66–70.
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make himself reject the culture of the ancient Hellenes, as Byzantine monks often did. It is no wonder that the issue of the filioque and other West-East differences became the focus of Byzantine monastic milieus. Monks were afraid of the Latins, but after a while they also became inquisitive. In those times of mutual discovery, an Orthodox monk did not content himself with the transcription of a straightforward list of Latin errors. He tried to include an effect of realism, he spoke to a Latin, and asked him to recite his prayers, so that he may transcribe them in an undated manuscript of unknown provenance.29 The Greek monk compared ‘Latin’ and Greek versions of ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed according to the Latin and Roman language’. We can even imagine the conversation. The Orthodox monk started with πιστεύω. The Latin answered credo.30 Next came εἰς ἔνα θεόν, and the answer was aun deo. When the Greek said πατέρα, the other said patrem. However, when the monk uttered the much more complicated concept of παντοκράτορα, the answer came out wrong: monnpotante. This messed up word shows us who the Westerner really was. Or who he was not. The initial mon- is certainly a misunderstanding and distortion from the part of the Greek monk, who would instantly think of the adjective μόνος. However, 29
30
Nigel Guy Wilson, ‘Notes on Greek manuscripts’, Scriptorium, 15 (1961), 318, dated the manuscript to 1204–1261 and argued that it could be copied in Constantinople, but the only argument in favour of this hypothesis was the scribe’s note on the Latin creed. Cf. Giancarlo Prato, ‘La produzione libraria in area greco-orientale nel periodo del regno latino di Costantinopoli (1204–1261)’, Scrittura e civiltà, 5 (1981), 137, note 10: non si può avere la certezza che il codice sia stato vergato nel periodo del regno latino di Costantinopoli: la nota che vi si lege potrebbe avere giustificazione anche in un’altra epoca, ad esempio al tempo del Concilio di Lione del 1274. The absence of Palaeologan emperors in a list of Byzantine emperors copied in the manuscript contradicts his hypothesis; cf. Rocco Distilo, ‘Fra latino e romaico. Per un Credo ‘francese’ del Duecento’, in idem, Κάτα Λατίνον. Prove di filologia greco-romanza (Rome: Bulzoni, 1990), 16. The only certainty that I have is that it could not happen during the very brutal years of the early conquest. As for the location, it could be anywhere in Latin-held Greece, even in Nicaea or in Epirus, but before 1261. The mention of a bishop of Anchialos in a note dated to 1387 suggests that the area could be reduced either to the Latin Kingdom of Thessalonica (before 1224) or to the empire of Comnenus Doucas (1224–1246), when Thessalonica fell into the hands of the Nicaeans. Hence my choice of discussing the text in this chapter. The two texts are copied on the fols. 223v–224r of Paris, BnF, f. gr. 2408 (the Greek text is in red ink). For the text of the Creed, see more faithful edition of Distilo, ‘Fra latino e romaico’, 24–26. For the first edition and analysis of this text, see Émile Egger, ‘Mémoire sur un document inédit pour servir à l’histoire des langues romanes’, extrait du tome XXI, 1re partie, des Mémoires de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles lettres (Paris: Imprimerie impériale, 1857). For a different perspective, cf. William J. Aerts, ‘The ‘Symbolon’ and the ‘Pater Noster’ in Greek, Latin and Old French’, in Krijnie Cigaar et al. (dir.), East and West in the Crusader States. Context-Contacts-Confrontations (Leuven: Peeters, 1996), 153–168.
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the Latin he had in front of him was already making many mistakes, for he was adapting the Latin language to his French vernacular in an odd Macaronic manner. Later on, the Latin said sauveté; pour nous; le tiers jour; seloun les escritures; au ceils; dou pere; espirit saint; and many other French words that had no place in a Latin Creed. He said de Maria virdziene, which was some sort of Latin, and his Lord’s Prayer was in Latin, too, but this was some sort of pig-Latin at best.31 The Greek monk was, of course, interested in the filioque, but what should interest us even more is that he did not have an actual dialogue with a speaker of Latin proper. The person he had found was ‘like a magpie’, for he thought that he knew the prayers well, but he did not know them at all. He knew nothing, because he did not understand them (Quels est elle la paternostre? | Pater noster, oïl por voir | car cascuns hom le doit savoir. | Savor, signor, le cudiés bien, | mais non savés; n’en savés rien | car l’orison n’entendés mie. | Ensiment estes com la pie | ki parole et ne set que dist).32 These are the words addressed by a certain Silvestre to a generic ‘lord’ in a French metrical paraphrase and commentary to the Lord’s Prayer (c.1170–1181). In the early 13th century, godparents were supposed to teach these prayers to the children, as William de Montibus tells us, but they were often unable to do it.33 And even later, in c.1238, the situation did not improve much. Robert Grosseteste tried to enforce that the parish priests teach children (sacerdotes parochiales pueri diligenter doceantur), so that they may know the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, the Salutation of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and how to make a proper sign of the cross (sciant Orationem Dominicam, et Symbolum, et Salutationem beate Virginis, et crucis signaculo se recte consignare).34 The Greek monk recorded the words of such a person. These were the people who came to Greece in the early years of the Latin occupation. Their Latin was so bad that they could not take an interest in manuscripts. Consequently, they could not be interested in Greek texts, Greek faith, or Greek culture either. It is no wonder that Choniates despised them. They had almost nothing in common with the cardinal whom he had met with years 31 32
33 34
Cf. Distilo, ‘Fra latino e romaico’, 26–27. Edith Brayer, ‘Catalogue de textes liturgiques et de petits genres religieux’, in Hans Robert Jauss, Erich Koehler (dir.), Grundriss der romanischen literaturen des Mittelalters, VI. La littérature didactique, allégorique et satyrique, 1. Partie historique, red. Jürgen Beyer (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1968), 9. For the original text, see Joseph Ward Goering, William de Montibus (c.1140–1213): The Schools and the Literature of Pastoral Care (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1992), 156. Henry Richards Luard (ed.), Roberti Grosseteste episcopi quondam Lincolniensis epistolae (London: Longman, Green, Longman, and Roberts, 1861), 156.
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earlier in Thessalonica. People like the cardinal were living in Rome, in Paris, in the great cultural centres of the West. The Latin boors of Athens were closer to him and their newly appointed bishop was not very different from them either. In a letter of 13 February 1209, pope Innocent III wrote to the Latin archbishop of Athens, describing his city as the mother of arts and the city of letters (dicta est mater artium et vocata civitas litterarum), all while speaking of the worshippig of ancient gods and the citadel of Pallas, now the church of the Mother of God.35 His letter sounded very much like a text written by Choniates. But Berard, the new French archbishop, was he really interested in all of this? He was much more preoccupied with money and dominion, quarrelling with Otto de la Roche or deposing Greek bishops contrary to the customs of Rome. Choniates knew what Berard tried to do to Theodore of Evripos, one of the few Greek bishops occupying pre-1205 sees. Choniates wrote letters to Theodore, letters in that he alluded to Homer, for Theodore probably shared his respect for Eustace of Thessalonica. All of them belonged to the elite of Byzantine letters. The old metropolitan’s brother, for instance, Nicetas Choniates, was one of the leading specialists in the heresies of the 12th century, the author of a chronicle of the fall of Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade, and author of a treatise about the Constantinopolitan statues destroyed by the Latins. All these cultured men were swimmingly learned in ancient texts. Choniates would miss them dearly. However, there was a great difference between the Athens of his mind and the actual Athens, which had never been able to meet his expectations, well before the French occupation. Like Hildebert of Lavardin a century earlier, who wept Rome in Rome – but unaware of this Western counterpart, Choniates aimed for the essence, let go of visual imagery, and painted a picture (a wordplay based on the ambiguous use of the verb γράφειν – write and paint) of the Athens of his mind. It was a love poem: I live in Athens and see Athens nowhere, Just plaintive dust and hollow blessedness. Patient city, where is your majesty? These things have turned to myth and left no trace: Trials, judges, courts, elections, laws; The stern persuasion of the orators; The councils, festivals, and campaigns Of those who fought on land or at sea; The all-abundant muse, the force of words. 35
PL 215:1559D–1560A.
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All of Athens’ glory is perished, And no faint token of her can be seen. Having no way to see the famous city Of the Athenians, then, I am forgiven The written phantom I have raised of her.36 This was a constant preoccupation of his mind. In one of the letters from his first years in Athens (c.1185), Michael Choniates spoke of the local inhabitants’ habit of altering words, but he also noticed the survival of old place-names: Piraeus, Hymettus, Areopagus, Callirrhoe (the fountain), Eleusis, or Marathon.37 He began that letter by complaining about his misfortune in Athens with a quotation from Homer followed by a wordplay from Euripides: he had become a barbarian because he had lived in Athens for a long time (βεβαρβάρωμαι χρόνιος ὢν ἐν Ἀθήναις)38 – Athens being the province of the uncultured. In a very short answer dated back to 1183–1195, Choniates repeated the joke and blew it up to epic proportions. He presented himself as an Atticist turned barbarian as a consequence of his living in ‘Hellas’ (βεβαρβάρωμαι χρόνιος ὢν ἐν Ἐλλάδι) – the land of the Hellenes, the ‘pagan ones’. Compared to the gracious use of words of the capital, in Athens he became not like a child, but like silent Philomela. Her talents had been mutilated by the Thracian (that is, barbarian) Tereus. His talents were mutilated by the want of harmony (ἀμουσία) among the Attic uncultured.39 This means that he derided the Athenians of the turn of the 13th century. They were barbarians in his eyes. The disappointment of the scholar confronted to the real world would have been comforted just a little bit, had he known that some of the invaders could understand his jokes. Even the less learned Frenchmen probably knew that “Pandion, the powerful, liberal, and courteous king of Athens had two daughters, whom he loved greatly, named Philomena and Procné. The latter, who was older was given in marriage to her suitor, a king of Thrace, and Pandion rejoiced.”40 36
37 38 39 40
For the translation (and for the key of interpretation to Choniates’ poem) see Christopher Livanos, ‘Michael Choniates, poet of love and knowledge’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 30/2 (2006), 105 (and passim). For the original text, see Constantine Athanasius Trypanis (ed.), Medieval and Modern Greek Poetry: An Anthology (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1951), 56, apud Livanos, ‘Michael Choniates’, 104. Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 28, pp. 38–39, lines 15–23. Ibid., letter 28, p. 38, lines 2–3. Ibid., letter 52, pp. 72–73, lines 3–11. Raymond Cormier (ed., trans.), Three Ovidian Tales of Love (‘Piramus et Tisbé’, ‘Narcisus et Dané’, and ‘Philomena et Procné’) (New York: Garland, 1986), 201, for the English translation. See Michel Rousse (ed., trans.), Chrétien de Troyes: Cligès, Philomena, Chansons (Paris: GF Flammarion, 2006), 356, for the original poem.
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Choniates possibly never knew that in France, homeland of those invaders, a late 12th century poet named Chrétien (maybe Chrétien of Troyes) had rendered Ovid’s version of the myth in vernacular verse. Neither did he know that in England scholars were discussing the works of Hermogenes of Tharsus, for they were in contact with learned brethren who used to read that author in Southern Italy.41 The same Hermogenes who exerted a strong influence upon his master, Eustace of Thessalonica, when he had written those commentaries on Homer.42 Choniates’ time was not a time of culture in Attica. The Latins whom he met did not recite poems to the Greeks. If they did, they recited them to each other. And they certainly were less impressed by the rediscovery of Antiquity back home. For instance, even though the early 13th century was the time when ancient mythology was reassessed – the story of the Sphinx is the best example,43 this cultural phenomenon characterised France, not Latin-held Greece. The chief interest of the Latin conquerors was the establishing of political and ecclesiastical control. In this time of conquest, Choniates’ contempt focused on the new boors, forgetting about the old ones. He indulged the latter, since they were his own Athenian boors, the boorish peasants that the exile made him cherish. Choniates’ opinions probably coincided with those of many Greek clergymen of his time. They were now inclined to tolerate more from the part of their own people, provided that they remained true to the Orthodox faith. The former metropolitan also wrote about the raping of young girls and ‘holy lambs’ (i.e. nuns), the adulteration of women, the reducing into slavery of free and noble children, and their selling in foreign lands and even in the lands of the Saracens (φθορὰς παρθένων καὶ ἀμνάδων ἱερῶν καὶ μοιχείας γυναικῶν καὶ παιδῶν καταδουλώσεις ἐλευθέρων καὶ εὐγενῶν καὶ ἀπεμπολήσεις αὐτῶν εἰς ἀλλοδαπὰς καὶ εἰς χώρας Σαρακηνῶν).44 From what he wrote, life in the first decade of the Latin occupation sounds like a Hellenistic novel. Yet matters were much more mundane behind his embroideries. In an undated letter to George Bardanes, 41 42 43
44
Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Hermogène le rhéteur et Bohémond le bâilleur. Échos de l’École de Hereford dans l’Ipomedon de Hue de Rotelande’, Gertrud Lindberg, Studies in Hermogenes and Eustathios. The Theory of Ideas and its Application in the Commentaries of Eustathios on the Epics of Homer (Lund: J. Lindell & Co KB (typewritten), 1977) (second part of the book). In the 12th century Roman de Thèbes, the Sphinx bears the name Pyn and lives like a demon on a mountain. The first accurate description of the Sphinx in a vernacular text appears in a version of the Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César, attributed to Wauchier of Denain and dated to 1213–1214. For the original text, see Marijke de Visser-van Terwisga (ed.), Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César. Estoires Rogier, 1, Textes (Assyrie, Thèbes, Le Minotaure, les Amazones, Hercule) (Orléans: Paradigme, 1995), 33. Darrouzès, ‘Le mémoire’, 85.
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concerning a failed marriage arrangement for someone with the daughter of a certain Nyktopas, Choniates imagined the possibility that Nyktopas’ daughter would be forced into marriage by the Latins (ὅπως ὑπὸ σχήματι γάμου τὰς κόρας οἱ Λατῖνοι βιάζονται),45 therefore posing the risk of changing her religion. When he wrote about adulterations, in plural, he probably had a precise example in mind, in the singular.
…
During his exile on Kea, Choniates thought a lot about those Latins. Looking at Attica from his nearby island, he could not help but think of those boorish people every day. He fuelled his annoyance and fear with old stories about them, as well as with new ones. Inspired by previous accusations made at the time of the Third Crusade against the Constantinopolitan patriarch Dositheus who had apparently preached against the crusaders, Innocent III wrote for instance that the Byzantines hated the crusaders more than dogs.46 Choniates did not call them dogs, but he compared them with many animals. He saw Greeks and Latins in a black-and-white picture and he was not the only one to do so. We learn from the end of a list of the Grievances against the Latin Church, written after 1204 by Constantine Stilbès, the metropolitan bishop of Cyzicus, that ‘barbaric’ meant to the Greeks what ‘schismatic’ meant to the Westerners. Stilbès quoted the ancient historians before him. Those authors had argued that the pope of Rome and all those Christians of the West living beyond the Gulf of Ionia, be they Italians, Lombards, Franks known as Germans, Amalfitans, Venetians, and many others, had been outside the Catholic Church (‘Universal’, in the etymological sense) for so many years that they were now unaccustomed to the evangelical and apostolic traditions. This is how he explained the different heresies of the Latins, in accord with their barbaric way of life.47 Stilbès felt the need to add as much data as possible to the more common theological debates. Several items from his list are particularly revealing here, as they concern the depiction of Westerners as barbarians. For instance, 45 46
47
Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 142, p. 232, lines 53–54. For the text of Innocent III, see PL 215:701. For the accusation against Dositheus carried by the bishop of Münster, see Charles M. Brand, Byzantium Confronts the West, 1180–1204 (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1968), 182. The comparison of the two sources was made by Michael Angold, ‘Greeks and Latins after 1204: The Perspective of Exile’, in Benjamin Arbel (dir.), Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204 (London/New York: Routledge, 1989), 63–86, especially p. 66. Darrouzès, ‘Le mémoire’, 90.
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certain Latins had taken an iconostasis covered with saintly images and drilled holes in it, placing it in what they called the Convent, so that through those openings their sick people could relieve themselves.48 Others made a prostitute sit on the synthronon in the sanctuary of Saint-Sophia, blessing people as if she were a bishop,49 and later dancing as well. Such stories are typical of all conquests, of all times. Conquering armies behave beastly in the first moments of their victory. Nevertheless, the Byzantines interpreted these acts in light of their dealings with previous crusaders. Westerners themselves were conscious of the barbaric nature of their fellow crusaders. The scenes described by Stilbès do not differ from the 12th century Voyage of Charlemagne to Jerusalem and Constantinople. In that Anglo-Norman parodical take on the rival French, Charlemagne sits upon the throne of Christ in Jerusalem, with the Twelve Peers seated on the seats of the Apostles (probably an image of the synthronon), he visits Constantinople and discovers relics that had been already discovered by saint Helen before him, which he takes to the West, some to Aachen, others in the Parisian monastery of Saint-Denis (the Crown of Thorns, Wood of the Cross, the Nails, and others). Byzantines would be certainly shocked to hear such stories, especially since the relics allegedly discovered by Charlemagne had never left Constantinople and the 1204 invaders had plundered them a few years before. Those would be crass lies, but then they would hear more crass stories, about the manner in which Olivier, a legendary hero and Roland’s best friend, had made love to the Byzantine emperor’s daughter more times than Hercules made love to the daughters of Thespius. They would hear how the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne flooded the imperial city and broken the walls of the imperial palace with a metal ball.50 Byzantines would not believe their ears, but they would recognize the vulgar manners of the Westerners in such tales. Stories of this type appear in many Byzantine texts of the same period, including the account of Nicetas Choniates, our metropolitan’s brother. It is therefore unusual that Michael Choniates does not insist more on them. Only one of his letters speaks more about the Latins, about their conquests, their deeds, but also of Leon Sgouros.51 The exiled archbishop had other priorities and lived in a different world. For him, Sgouros had been the archetypal enemy. The Latins were recent ones and he would look upon them from a distance, because they did not belong to the same cultural circle. He may have been 48 49 50 51
Ibid., 83. Ibid., 82. This literary text is copiously dealt in a forthcoming article. See e.g. Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 100, p. 139, lines 192–208 (including Ermioni).
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content in 1211, when the pope of Rome had ordered an inquiry into the actions of the bishop of Neopatras, a former ally of Sgouros.52
…
By the time he wrote those letters, Choniates had to accept the compromises made by his fellow clergymen. These compromises were made not to the barbaric hordes of invaders, but to the representatives of the Latin Church, sent by the pope. Some of them were Greek-speakers from Southern Italy, well versed in the matters of Byzantine culture, and could therefore haggle their way into a compromise. One of the results of these compromises was the fact that the pope was granted the status of an emperor in a letter sent to him by the Constantinopolitan Orthodox clergy in 1206, as there was no other way of recognizing his rights. He was granted the title of thirteenth apostle (ἀπόστολος τρισκαιδέκατος), one of the titles bore by the Byzantine emperor. During mass, he was to receive praises similar to those of the emperor (εὐφημία, ταῖς βασιλικαῖς εὐφημίαις ἰσόῤῥοπος), actually the imperial acclamation (‘Long live Lord Innocent, Pope of ancient Rome’ – Ἰνοκεντίου δεσπότου πάππα τῆς πρεσβυτέρας Ῥώμης, πολλὰ τὰ ἔτη),53 and this was not a singular choice made by the clergy of the Capital. Innocent III had the same status on Mount Athos, because the Athonite monasteries were imperial foundations. They had no other masters than the Byzantine emperor. When Constantinople fell, those monasteries had to have not one, but two protectors: the pope and the new Latin emperor. All of this coincided with the ultrapapalist ecclesiology depicting the pope as the head of a monarchical church.54 Since there needed to be a reaction, around the same time (c.1207 or perhaps earlier),55 the despot of Epirus hosted an Orthodox Church synod in his lands. The meeting took place in Ochrid and it was headed by Demetrius Chomatianos, chancellor of the archbishop of Ochrid. The Greek clergy discussed matters related to the Uniate problem and they had an unexpected 52 53 54 55
Vide infra the passages discussing the Greek bishops who accepted the supremacy of Rome and kept their sees. For the quotations, see PL 140:292, 297. Alfred J. Andrea, Pope Innocent III as Crusader and Canonist: His Relations with the Greeks of Constantinople. 1198–1216, PhD diss. (Cornell University, 1969 = summary in Church History, 39/1 (1970), 133–134). Cf. Paul Lemerle, André Guillou, Nicolas Svoronos, Denise Papachryssanthou, avec la collaboration de Sima Ćirković (eds.), Actes de Lavra, IV. Études historiques, actes serbes, compléments et index (Paris: CNRS, 1982), 6, who date the text of Demetrius Chomatianos to c.1217, a time when the latter was archbishop of Ochrid. Since it was not written at the time of the event, it could contain many approximations.
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guest. The monk Gregory Oikodomopoulos did not fear age nor the long road. Out of piety and for the sake of observing the Law of the Church, he travelled to meet with the synod and told them the following: on Mount Athos there was a monastery formed by monks divided into two languages (δυσὶ διαλέκτοις), Greeks and Georgians (Γραικοὶ οὗτοι καὶ Ἴβηρες). Until the Italian raid of the Byzantine lands (τῆς τῶν Ἰταλῶν κατὰ τῶν Ῥωμαίων ἐπιδρομῆς), these Greeks and Georgians of Iviron shared everything and followed the same rule, in an idyllic setting. They were separated only by their languages (μόναις δὲ ταῖς γλώσσαις μεμερισμένοι). But as soon as Latin power was established, the community was turned upside down. Those occupying the highest ranks in the Italian clergy (οἱ τῆς Ἰταλικῆς ἱερατείας προιστάμενοι) demanded by force that the monks recognize the supremacy of the pope in Rome (τῇ εξουσίᾳ τοῦ πάππα τῆς Ῥώμης), that the latter’s name be mentioned during the service, and that the monks follow the customs of the Church of Rome (τοῖς ἔθεσι τῆς Ῥωμαίων ἐκκλεσίας ἀκολουθεῖν). Very few monks complied with such orders, but the Westerners harassed them and threatened them with confiscations. This is why the Georgian monks did not resist force (τῇ βίᾳ μὴ ἀντιστάντες) and shamefully yielded to the orders of the Italians. They even went as far as to visit a cardinal of the pope in Thessalonica (τῷ τοῦ πάππα καρδιναλίω προσελθόντες ἐν Θεσσαλονίκη διάγοντι), bowed to his will, and adopted the Latin customs. They made the symbolic gesture of Union (τὸ τῆς κοινωνίας σημεῖον) – placing their hands in those of the Latins – and thus separated themselves from their fellow Greek brethren. Such was the speech of monk Gregory and he wanted to know if it was lawful that he, his companions and the monks under his orders be in communion with the Georgian monks who had joined the cardinal and therefore the Pope (τοῖς Ἴβηρσι μοναχοῖς τοῖς τὴν πρόσοδον πρὸς τὸν καρδινάλιον καὶ δι’ αὐτοῦ πρὸς τὸν πάππαν ποιησαμένοις).56 Needless to say, the story was only half true. The two linguistic communities of Iviron were not sharing an idyllic paradise. Many Georgian texts of an earlier or later date tell a different story. There were frequent quarrels between Greeks and Georgians, linked to their competition for the control of the monastery, and this led in turn to a liturgical division: the two monastic groups attended mass in different churches from before the arrival of the Latin invaders.57 A 56
57
Günter Prinzing (ed.), Demetrii Chomateni Ponemata Diaphora (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2002), 198–199. For a French translation, see Jacques Lefort, Nicolas Oikonomidès, Denise Papachryssanthou, Vassiliki Kravari, Hélène Métrévéli (eds.), Actes d’Iviron, III. De 1204 à 1328, 1 (Texte) (Paris: CNRS éditions, 1994), 4. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Rara avis: la traduction française médiévale du Barlaam et Ioasaph du Mont Athos’, Medioevo romanzo, 38/1 (2014), 106–151; Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Traduction et sotériologie’.
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by-product of this situation, extremely interesting in the context of cultural exchanges during the early years of the Latin occupation, is an Old French translation of the Life of Barlaam and Ioasaph preserved in a manuscript of Iviron monastery. This is the only known medieval French translation from an Old Greek source. Dated to c.1205–1210/1214,58 the vernacular French text was transcribed on the margins of an 11th century manuscript containing a lavishly illustrated Greek version of the Life of Barlaam and Ioasaph attributed to saint John Chrysostom. Most unfortunately, the margins were amputated in modern times in order to fit new covers, leading thus to the loss of 3–5 letters at the end or at the beginning of almost each line of the French text. A careful reconstructive analysis led me to the conclusion that this translation differs from the known French translations of the same period. Taking into account the presence of residual translation practices from Latin into French, I argued that the transcription of the French text on the margins of the Greek one had to have a relation with the Amalfitan monastery of Mount Athos – those Amalfitan monks being translators of Greek texts into Latin, but also with the politico-religious context: the French author was therefore helped by a translator already versed in the translation of Greek texts into Latin.59 This 58
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After the cardinal’s return to the West (1207), the protector of the Georgian monks was the bishop of Sebaste, before he was dismissed by the pope in 1210. The submission of the Athonite monks to the pope lasted little time, since pope Innocent III had gradually given up his programme of Latinization of the Orthodox and his position was less and less firm from 1208. The pope confirmed the Athonite privileges on 17 January 1214. In 1223, Athonite monks were named inobedientes sedi Apostolicae ac rebeles. This suggests that the pope had renounced all his claims. For these data, see Lefort et al. eds., Actes d’Iviron, 4. I therefore argued that the French translation dates either from c.1206–1210 (if related to the bishop of Sebaste) or c.1206–1213/1214, if related to a more general context. For these ideas, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Rara avis’; idem, ‘Traduction et sotériologie’. Cf. Paul Meyer, ‘Fragments d’une ancienne traduction française de Barlaam et Joasaph, faite sur le texte grec au commencement du treizième siècle’, Bibliothèque de l’École de Chartes, 27/1 (1866), 313–334. For the manuscript, see Spyridon P. Lambros, Κατάλογος των εν ταις βιβλιοθήκαις του Αγίου Ορους ελληνικών κωδίκων. Catalogue of the Greek manuscripts on Mount Athos, 2 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1895–1900) 2:149 (ms. 69/463 in previous catalogues; 4583 (ii, 149) in Lambros). The illustrations were analysed and published by Sirarpie Der Nersessian, L’Illustration du roman de Barlaam et Joasaph d’après les clichés de la Frick Art Reference Library et de la Mission Gabriel Millet au Mont Athos (Paris: De Boccard, 1937). A colour reproduction was published by Στυλιανός M. Πελεκανίδης et al. (dir.), Οι Θησαυροί του Αγίου Όρους, Σειρά Α΄ Εικονογραφημένα χειρόγραφα. Παραστάσεις, επίτιτλα, αρχικά γράμματα, Τόμος Β’ Μονή Ιβήρων, Μονή Αγίου Παντελεήμονος, Μονή Εσφιγμένου, Μονή Χιλανδαρίου (Athens: Εκδοτική Αθηνών, 1975), 60–91 (and figs. 53–132). For the iconography, see also Marina Toumpouri, ‘Le cas du Hagion Oros, Monè Ibèron, 463’, in Matthias Meyer, Constanza Cordoni (dir.), Barlaam und Josaphat. Neue Perspektiven auf ein europäisches Phänomen (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015), 389–416.
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happened in a precise context. The Georgian monks sought the help of a Latin prelate against their Greek brethren, taking advantage of the political context to strengthen their role inside the convent. Unfortunately, the history of Athos under the Latins is very poorly informed. Nothing is known about the monastery of Iviron in terms of official acts in 1152–1250 (and maybe for good reason). My initial choice of the dedicatee of the translation was the bishop of Sebaste, representative of the pope in Mount Athos, mentioned in the text of Henry of Valenciennes,60 or one of his clerics, but there could also have been Benedict of Saint-Susanne, Boniface of Montferrat, Henry of Flanders – the Latin emperor in Constantinople (1206–1216), known for his protection of Greek monks,61 or even the pope, because the story of Barlaam and Josaphat links the political and religious worlds, providing models for sovereigns to take the monk habit at the end of their life. Little does it matter what this translation could have stood for. The essential thing is that those Georgian monks were proposing a cultural model to the Latin occupants. They did not blindly submit to Latin requests: they were sharing their own Orthodox culture, encouraging them to know and assimilate it. And this was possible because some odd form of cultural dialogue already started taking place in the higher echelons of ecclesiastical structures. Choniates may have seen this incipient form of dialogue when he met the cardinal and his Italo-Greek interpreter in 1205–1206. Benedict of Saint Suzanne was attended by Nicholas of Otranto, a SouthItalian monk who played the role of an interpreter for the cardinal’s visit. Later known as abbot Nectarius of the Greek monastery of Casole, Nicholas was an experimented translator from Greek into Latin and from Latin into Greek. Thus, the cardinal came to the monastery of Casole in the summer of 1205, took the
60
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When in Thessalonica, li empereres s’atourne et garnist le castiel et la tour dou vesque de Sabba (Longnon ed., Henri de Valenciennes, 92). It was previously believed that this would be a castle built on Mount Athos, but it is probably the Tower of Samaria located at the south-western angle of the Thessalonica walls, flanking the maritime wall and communicating with the harbour. Henry of Flanders preserved the independence of the Boeotian monastery of Hosios Loukas from the church of the Saint-Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to which the monastery was subjected by the cardinal Benedict of Saint-Susanne. See Filip Van Tricht, The Latin ‘Renovatio’ of Byzantium: the Empire of Constantinople (1204–1228), trans. Peter Longbottom (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 233. Henry was also protector of Mount Athos after 1206. His portrait was actually painted in the refectory of Great Lavra. Cf. Mirjana Živojinović, ‘Sveta Gora u doba Latinskog carstva’, Zbornik radova Vizantološkog instituta, 17 (1976), 82–83.
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50-year-old monk Nicholas and left for Greece.62 The cardinal had apparently brought many books,63 and the two of them were heading for Thessalonica, where Benedict of Saint-Susanne planned to meet with the Greek scholars for debates, but they also stopped in Athens, which had been recently occupied by the crusaders. Perhaps Choniates would remember the cardinal’s face vividly, for he could see him in Athens and again in Thessalonica.64 He was certainly one of the hierarchs who were willing to find common ground with the Greeks.65 Those meetings had been essential for the decision that led Choniates into exile. He would also remember the cardinal’s Greek translator from Italy, since Nicholas mentioned that the cardinal debated with scholars and holy men in Athens as well.66 Nobody knows what they debated in Athens and in Thessalonica, 62 63
64 65
66
From a letter dated to 10 or 12 July 1205, we learn that the cardinal had left for Apulia, whence he probably took Nicholas of Otranto to the Greek lands. See PL 215:702B. I am following here Nicholas’s own Latin translation of his Greek original text, as it appears in Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fol. 149v: […] et in latinis uestris libris. quos a roma predictus cardinalis constantinopolim attulisset. In this particular passage, Nicholas of Otranto describes the Latin-Greek controversy about which holy books were considered to be apocryphal and which were not. I quote from the author’s Latin translation for several reasons: because it is unedited, because it may help us reconstruct the precise references to Latin exegetic texts used in the debates (vide infra for the risibile reference, certainly from a quotation of John Scotus Eriugena), and because the Greek text of this manuscript, used in the Latin translation, represents a version enriched with many more patristic references that the other copies. According to the online catalogue of the BnF – Archives et manuscrits, the palimpsest used by Nicholas of Otranto preserves a version of the threefold treatise which has references that do not appear in the edition of the metropolitan Arsenij of Novgorod. Among them, there is Photius, Basil, Gregory the Miracle-Worker, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostomus, Epiphanius, Cyril of Jerusalem, Sophronius of Jerusalem, and John Damascene. This presumed autograph of Nicholas stands aside from the rest of the manuscript tradition, being the final version achieved by Nicholas and the only one to contain a faithful Latin translation on a separate column. For the manuscript tradition of the Greek text, see Hoeck, Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios, 88–105, and p. 103 in particular for the stemma codicum. For Choniates’ trip to Thessalonica to meet with the cardinal, vide infra the discussion about one of his letters to the abbot of the Kesariani monastery near Athens. Cf. Savvas Neocleous, Heretics, Schismatics or Catholics? Latin Attitudes to the Greeks in the Long Twelfth Century (Toronto: Pontifical Institute for Mediaeval Studies, 2019), who studies the Latin attitudes towards Greek religious life through the mirror of political and military contacts, but shows that there is no coherent rejection of Greek practices (on the contrary, there are many exceptions) and that Latin authors did not necessarily have theological objections to the Greek faith. Cf. Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fols. 25v–26r, Latin text column: […] et ea etiam que audiuimus ab illis qui erant in thessalonicam et regali urbium necnon; set et in athenis sapientibus et sacris uiris qui cum domino benedicto cardinali et legato tunc existente roma[ni] pontifi[cis] [ J]nnocentii tercii; disputauerunt conscripsimus. in memoriae ea ponentes. que precepto illius in latinam de greca diuulgamus linguam. tunc et enim interpres inter grecos
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but we may have an idea about what they debated a little bit later, in the Constantinopolitan patriarchal palace. Those debates would be more or less the same. In his threefold treatise about the errors of the Latins, Nicholas of Otranto made excellent use of the disputes to which he had listened and contributed. From time to time, he even quoted the cardinal himself, but his point of view was Orthodox. Nicholas prayed to the same icons as the Greeks, and during his visit he probably prayed together with them.67 This could lead the Greek scholars into error, creating the false impression that Nicholas would help them, since he was on their side. He was an Orthodox monk, he knew the quotations from the Greek fathers by heart, and he definitely explained them thoroughly to the cardinal. Yet this Italian Greek had no power there. The cardinal was the one who decided everything. Here’s an example illustrating how those debates worked out. At a certain point, the two parties meeting in Constantinople debated about Socrates and Plato. The Greeks would be surprised to see how different the Latin way of thinking was. The cardinal probably presented the doctrine of John Scott Eriugena, whereby “adequately and by its primary designation an essential action belongs to God himself, and thus it is to him, i.e., ‘this God’, that it primarily pertains, just as ‘risible’ is primarily the property of ‘man’, and not Socrates, but only pertains to Socrates or Plato by reason of ‘man’. And therefore it is man that is primarily designated as ‘risible’, and [only] ultimately Socrates. Indeed, the form, or what is more common, primarily corresponds to the formal entity of the species, which [i.e. the species] is what primarily has the natural ability to be in other things. It is as a result of this that [the form] can further designate those [other things, i.e. supposits].”68 This helped him justify the filioque, because “Socrates, the father, is prior in origin to Plato, the son, for paternity is a relationship of origin – and nevertheless Socrates
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68
et latinos extiteram. et non solum ista. set et ea que […]. For the Greek text, see Hoeck, Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios, 34, note 27, who make a partial quote, taking their readings from Vat. Pal. gr. 232: παρὰ τῶν ἐν Θεσσαλονίκῃ καὶ τῇ βασιλίδι τῶν πόλεων οὐ μὴν ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐν Ἀθήναις σοφωτάτων καὶ ἱερῶν ἀνδρῶν τῶν μετὰ τοῦ κυροῦ Βενεδίκτου καρδηναρίου καὶ τοποτηρητοῦ τότε καθεστηκότος τοῦ Ῥώμης προέδρου Ἰννοκεντίου τοῦ τρίτου διαλεχθέντων. In the Latin texts transcribed in a semi-diplomatic manner, the symbol ‘;’ marks punctus elevatus. At an unknown date, Nicholas of Otranto (abbot Nectarius) wrote an epigram addressed to the metropolitan of Serres, whom he probably met during his travels of 1205–1207, maybe in Thessalonica, since the poem mentions an icon of the saints Theodore kept in Serres. See for this Ivan Drpić, ‘The Serres Icon of Saints Theodores’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 105/2 (2012), 660–662. For this translation and the original text of John Scottus Eriugena, see Allan B. Wolter, Oleg V. Bychkov (ed., trans.), John Duns Scotus: The Examined Report of the Paris Lecture: Reportatio 1-A, Volume II (St Bonaventure NY: Franciscan Institute Publications, 2008), 130–131.
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the father and Plato the son are simultaneous by nature and correlatives. […] Therefore, all the more so can there be in the Father simultaneity of nature with the Son as his correlative, and at the same time a priority of origin, [which means] that he is that from whom the Son is.”69 Did Nicholas follow the cardinal’s speech to the letter? He probably made a synthesis of those arguments, adapting them to his own Orthodox point of view, so the Greek scholars could not follow the cardinal’s logic.70 This could contribute to the escalation of the debate, or maybe the cardinal himself had led to such an escalation when he would again quote Eriugena on a matter that Nicholas perhaps did not record in his notes and memories: “In this way, therefore, two wise ones, one Greek and the other Latin, not lovers of proper speech but of divine zeal, would perhaps find the disagreement not to be real, but one of words, for otherwise either the Latins or the Greeks would be heretics. But who wishes to say that Basil, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nyssa, Damascene, Chrysostom and many other excellent doctors are heretics; and for the other part that Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine, Gregory, Hilary, etc., who were the most excellent Latin doctors, are heretics? Perhaps the modern Greeks have added to the aforesaid article from their obstinacy what the preceding doctors have not said or understood.”71 If the cardinal were to read this passage from Eriugena, that would be a grave error, for nobody liked a finger pointed at them. Benedict would try to soften even more, but the Greeks would become almost enraged when he would mention the Donation of Constantine. – Yes, yes, the Greeks would say, since they possibly knew it from the abridged version used in the 12th century canonical commentaries of Theodore Balsamon.72 69 70
71 72
Wolter, Bychkov ed., trans., John Duns Scotus, 119, 120, for the two excerpts of the translation and for the original text. For the synthesis of this probable dialogue in the text of Nicholas of Otranto, see his Latin translation of the chapter XXVI of his Greek treatise in Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fol. 51r: de aliquibus duobus etsi uerum. ut socratis et platonis. risibilem enim est unumquidque istorum. ergo unius nature socrates et plato. dicatur iterum et de aliis duobus. et de uno quidem sit uerum. de altero autem nequaquam. ut de socrate et de imagine que scripta est. socrates enim. uere risibile. Jmago autem eius nequaquam. alie utique nature duo ista. Socrates et imago eius. secundum iam eandem rationem. quia perducere spiritum a se […]. The precise use of the word risibile and the nature of the argument points to Eriugena as the source of the cardinal’s speech. Wolter, Bychkov ed., trans., John Duns Scotus, 408, for the translation and original text. The Donation of Constantine, one of the essential texts used in the Uniate polemics of the 13th century, was already known to the Byzantines in the abridged translation made by Theodore Balsamon made from the polemical pamphlet addressed by pope Leo IX
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But they would not believe it, since it contradicted their own ideas about emperor Constantine transferring the seat of imperial authority from the old Rome to the New Rome, the one bearing his name. The story of how Constantine bestowed on the seat of Peter the imperial honours as well as the supremacy over the principal sees (Alexandria, Antioch, Jerusalem, and Constantinople), as well as over all the Christians of the entire earth, seemed too far-fetched to be believable. The high prelates of the Orthodox church certainly rejected it. The cardinal was probably more a politician than a theologian. When the Greeks became more and more aggressive in their defence, when the discussion reached the leavened or unleavened bread, Benedict expressed a very odd comparison. Perhaps that even Choniates had heard about it. And even now, in his exile, he would laugh at the absurd idea that had escaped the Latin’s ‘teeth enclosure’. Before quoting copiously from saint Gregory and proceeding to serious arguments, Benedict of Saint-Susanne followed the same logic as he did in his Eriugena ‘risible’ argument. For him, both rites were equally valuable, and he mentioned the wine. It did not matter if it were white or red, it could be even rosé, as the true blood of Christ would be achieved only when it would be poured into the chalice. The issue of the leavened or unleavened bread was the same, for is transformed into the body of Christ only when it was consecrated.73 To the Byzantines, such ideas sounded incongruous. Yet the cardinal did not concoct this idea from thin air. Some of the Greeks would know that half a century before, the same idea had been voiced in Constantinople. Theorianos, an enigmatic character, was an Italian or an Italian Greek from the court of Manuel Comnenus. He was
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to the patriarch Michael I Keroularios in 1053. Cf. Dimiter Angelov, ‘The Donation of Constantine and the Church in Late Byzantium’, in Dimiter Angelov (dir.), Church and Society in Late Byzantium (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, Western Michigan University, 2009), 94, passim. Cf. Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fols. 127v–128v: prout et dominus Benedictus qui domini pape romani Jnnocentii tertii legatus olim existens et constantinupolim missus pro quibusdam negotiis que inter grecos atque latinos in ecclesiam insiluissent. quibus et accesum est de fermentato et azymo pane disputatio fieri. quorum ego interpres ut iam dixi extiteram. [?] predictus cardinalis. nec breuiter aliquid respondere de tali questione uoluit. et quamuis sapiens existens atque diuina imbutus scriptura. set nec de ea que extranea dicitur disciplina insortitus erat. set in dialectice uero demonstrationibus promptissimus. tamen in eo non sit mihi dicebat aduersus diuinum misterium linguam premouere. ut unumquidem dedecorare incruente immolationis. aliud uero laudare. unum enim istud ac illud esse puto. Sicut enim uinum scio. siue album seu nigrum aut et sit rubeum indifferenter sanguinem facere perfectum in idoneo calice christi cum infusum sit. ita qui immolatur panis siue fermentatus seu azymus in corpore permutatur cum sanctificatur fuerit christi.
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probably closely connected to the Westerners from the emperor’s inner circle,74 and he wrote a letter to some Orthodox clergymen having troubles with the Latins in the Holy Land. In that letter, Theorianos used the same comparison: “If it is the Holy Spirit, say, that changes the gifts of the altar, then it is beside the point altogether to argue whether fermented or unfermented bread, red or white wine is actually used.” “We seek peace with everyone, having Christ as our peace, who has made the two one [Ephesians 2:19]. Love the Latins as brothers, since they are orthodox and, like us are children of the catholic and apostolic Church […].”75 If they knew this, the Greeks would definitely think that Benedict of Saint-Susanne believed that they were already familiar with this idea and that it came from their side. If this were so, the cardinal would be mistaken and some Greek prelates would laugh. As careful as he was in presenting the difference between the person and the nature of Christ, comparing it to the person of Socrates and the nature of man, the cardinal would seem to have mistaken the odd and singular ideas of a certain Theorianos for those of Byzantine scholars as a group. There are several arguments in favour of this interpretation.
Case Study 1: The Pseudo-Gregory Quotation of Cardinal Benedict
Benedict probably read that quotation from a Latin manuscript that he brought with him from Rome, since previous research has identified that Nicholas’ Greek text is very similar to the Greek letter of Theorianos and to another quotation attributed to saint Gregory in a Roman compilation attributed to cardinal Albin, the future bishop of Albano.76 74 75
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Cf. Paul Magdalino, ‘Prosopography and Byzantine Identity’, in Averil Cameron (dir.), Fifty Years of Prosopography: The Later Roman Empire, Byzantium and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press/The British Academy, 2003), 54. Aristeides Papadakis, ‘The Problem of Religious Union and its Literature’, Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum, 38/2 (2006), 303 (for the translation, in which two different passages were joined and inverted without explanation as to their different locations in the original text). Cf. Raymond-Joseph Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien le Philosophe aux prêtres d’Oreine’, Archives de l’Orient Chrétien, 1 (1948 = Mémorial Louis Petit: Mélanges d’histoire et d’archéologie byzantines, Bucharest), 326 for the original text, with the two fragments presented in correct order, and the other passage at p. 331. For Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien’, 321, who was unaware of the use of the wine comparison in the 1206 debates in Constantinople, l’épître de Théorien aux prêtres d’Oreiné était traduite en latin, au moins partiellement, dès la première moitié du XIIIe siècle. En 1252, le dominicain Barthélemy de Constantinople inséra des fragments de la version dans
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Palaeographically, Vatican Ottobonianus Latinus 3057 may be dated at the turn of the 13th century, shortly before the Constantinopolitan debates, so the comparison may be supported not only by the common origin of the texts – the papal curia, where both Albin and Benedict spent their lives, but also by a close timeframe. Besides, the contents of Albin’s compilation (Digesta pauperis scolaris Albini) were essential in the establishing of the later Liber censuum Romanae Ecclesiae, the “most authoritative of a series of attempts, starting in the eleventh century, to keep an accurate record of the financial claims of the Roman church,”77 meaning that the presence of our quotation in this miscellany of texts points to its use in papal propaganda before the fall of Constantinople in 1204, maybe in connection to the Donation of Constantine. It is regretful that previous research did not notice that cardinal Benedict used one of the key texts of this propaganda, and that its use in the 1205–1206 debates was apparently part of a much wider approach to the question of Roman pre-eminence in Church matters. I would say that this argument was only a step in a completely different direction. The trouble with previous research is that it was concentrated on later 13th century texts making use of the same quotation. It duly noticed that Theorianos’ letter was unknown to them. The 1252 Dominican anti-Greek
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la troisième distinction de son traité gréco-latin Contra errores Graecorum. Since I was not able to consult a decent facsimile of Vatican Ottobonensis lat. 3057, dating back to c.1185; cf. Lotte Kéry, Canonical Collections of the Early Middle Ages (ca. 400–1140): A Bibliographical Guide to the Manuscripts and Literature (Washington DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1999), 229 (the online scan of a photocopy of a bad quality), I cannot be sure if the wine comparison was present in Albin’s compilation. For an analysis of the contents, see Uta-Renate Blumenthal, ‘Cardinal Albinus of Albano and the Digesta pauperis scolaris Albini. Ms. Ottob. lat. 3057’, Archivum historiae pontificiae, 20 (1982), 7–49. Cf. Thérèse Montecchi Palazzi, ‘Formation et carrière d’un grand personnage de la Curie au XIIe siècle: le cardinal Albinus’, Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen Âge, 98/2 (1986), 623–671, for a continuation of this research. Nevertheless, Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien’, 323–324, was well aware that Nicholas of Otranto took part in the 1206 meeting and en inséra une relation dans son traité gréco-latin sur la sainte communion. On peut y lire, en grec et en latin, tout le passage pseudo-grégorien [i.e. the Dicta beati Gregorii. Ex ratione officii, anonymous text copied by the future cardinal Albin of Albano in mid-12th century], dont la première partie seule figure en grec dans l’épître de Théorien, tandis que le tout figure dans le florilège d’Albin. Le texte latin de Nicholas d’Otranto est identique (sauf variantes) à celui d’Ottobon. 3057 [i.e. the only copy of the Albin compilation], tandis que son texte grec diffère de celui de Théorien. R.-J. Loenertz did not read the complete text of Nicholas’ threefold treatise, since he consulted the manuscripts of Florence (bilingual but incomplete) and Vatican (monolingual, Greek). Ian Stuart Robinson, The Papacy, 1073–1198: Continuity and Innovation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 262.
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treatise written in Constantinople, for instance, attributed the quotation to saint John Chrysostom.78 Another problem is that the comparison of texts did not take into account the Latin version of Nicholas’ text, which is far more important for the confrontation with the text copied in the Digesta pauperis scolaris Albini, since the latter has at least one essential omission that will help us elucidate the links between these variants. I hereby present the four of them in parallel, on separate columns, for a better analysis: Nicholas’ text (gr.)79
Nicholas’ text (lat.)80
Albin’s copy (lat.)81
Theorianos’ text (gr.)82
Εἴοτε φανερῶς κινεῖσθαι οὐκ ὀλίγους ὅτι ἐν τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ ἄλλοι προσφέρουσιν ἀζύμους ἄρτους, ἄλλοι ἐνζύμους.
Solet plane mouere nonnullos quod in ecclesia alii offerunt azymos panes alii fermentatos.
Solet plane movere nonullos, quod in ecclesia alii offerunt panes azimos, alii fermentatum.
εἶναι μέντοι τὴν ἁγίαν ἐκκλησίαν εἰς τέσσαρες τάξεις διηρημένην γινώσκομεν,
esse namque sanctam ecclesiam in quattuor ordinibus distributam nouimus. romanorum uidelicet alexandrinorum ierosolimorum Antiochenorum. Que generaliter ecclesie noncupantur. cum unam teneant fidem. diuersis tamen utuntur officiorum misteriis.
Esse namque ecclesiam quattuor ordinibus distributam novimus,
Εἴοτε ταράξαι οὐκ ὀλίγους τὸ ὅτι ἐν τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ οἱ μὲν προσφέρουσιν ἄρτους ἀζύμους, οἱ δὲ ζυμίτας ἤτοι ἐνζύμους εἶναι γὰρ διεσπαρμένην τέσσαρσι τάγμασι τὴν ἐκκλησίαν οἴδαμεν·
Ῥωμαίων δηλονότι, Ἀλεξανδρέων, Ἱεροσολυμιτῶν, Ἀντιοχέων, αἵτινες γενικῶς ἐκκλησίαι κατονομάζονται, εἰ καὶ μίαν κρατῶσι πίστιν, διαφόροις τέως χρῶνται οφφικίων μυστηρίοις. 78 79 80 81 82
Romanorum videlicet, Alexandrinorum, Ierosolimorum, Antiocenorumque, generaliter ecclesie nuncupantur, cum unam teneant fidem catholicam, diversis utuntur officiorum misteriis.
Cf. Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien’, 321. Cf. Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fols. 129r–130v (left column). Ibid., fols. 129r–130v (right column). Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien’, 334–335. Ibid., 334–335.
ἡ τῶν Ῥωμαίων ἠγουν τῶν τῆς Ῥώμης, τῶν Ἀλεξανδρέων, τῶν Ἱεροσολυμιτῶν, τῶν Ἀντιοχέων, αἵτινες γενικῶς ἐκκλησίαι προσαγορεύονται. μίαν γὰρ διακρατοῦσαι πίστιν καθολικὴν διαφόρων χρῶνται μυστηριωδῶν οφφικίων τε καὶ διακονιῶν.
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ὅθεν γίνεται ἵνα ἡ ῥωμαϊκὴ ἐκκλησία προσφέρῃ ἄζυμον ἄρτον διότι ὁ Κύριος χωρίς τινος μίξεως ἐδέξατο σάρκα, καθὼς γέγραπται· ὁ Λόγος σάρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν· οὕτως ὁ ἄζυμος ἄρτος γίνεται σῶμα Χριστοῦ. αἱ γὰρ ἄλλαι ἐκκλησίαι αἱ ἀνωτέρω ῥηθεῖσαι προσφέρουσιν ἔνζυμον διὰ τοῦτο, ὅτι ὁ Λόγος τοῦ Πατρὸς ἐνεδύσατο σάρκα καὶ ἔστιν ἀληθινὸς θεὸς καὶ ἀληθινὸς ἄνθρωπος· οὔτω ὥσπερ ἡ ζύμη συμμιγνυμένη ἀλεύρω καὶ γίνεται σῶμα τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἀληθές. ἀλλ’ ὅμως τοσοῦτον ἡ ῥωμαϊκὴ ἐκκλησία καθόσον αἱ ἄλλαι αἱ ἄνω ὀνομασθεῖσαι ἐκκλησίαι εἰσὶ γὰρ διὰ τὴν ἀμόλυντον πίστιν, τοσοῦτον τὸ ἄζυμον ὅσον ὁ ἔνζυμος, ἐν τῷ μεταλαμβάνειν ἡμᾶς, ἕν σῶμα τοῦ κυρίου καὶ σωτῆρος ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ γίνεται.
Vnde fit ut romana ecclesia offerat azymos panes. propter quod dominus sine ulla commixtione susceput carnem. sicut scriptum est Verbum caro factum est et habitauit in nobis. sic azymo pane efficitur corpus christi. nam cetere ecclesie supradicte offerunt fermentatum pro eo quod uerbum patris indutum est carne. et est uerus deus et uerus homo. ita ut fermentum commiscetur farina. et efficitur corpus domini nostri ihesu christi uerum. Sed tamen. tam romana ecclesia quam cetere supra nominate ecclesie pro inuiolabili fide tam azymum quam fermentatum dum summimus; unum corpus domini et saluatoris nostri efficitur.
Unde fit ut Romana ecclesia offerat azimos panes, propter quod Dominus sine ulla commixtione susceput carnem, sicut scriptum est: ‘Verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis’. Sic azimo pane efficitur corpus Christi. Nam cetere ecclesie supradicte offerunt fermentatum, pro eo quod Verbum Patris indutum est carne et est verus Deus et verus homo. Ita et fermentum commiscetur farina et efficitur corpus Domini nostri Ihesu Christi verum. Sed tamen tam Romana ecclesia quam et cetere supra nominate ecclesie pro inviolabili fide, tam azimum quam fermentatum dum sumimus, unum corpus Domini nostri Salvatoris efficitur.
ὅθεν γίνεται τὴν ῥωμαϊκὴν ἐκκλησίαν προσενεγκεῖν ἀζύμους ἄρτους διότι ὁ κύριος ἄνευ πάσης συμμίζεως προσελάβετο σάρκα καθὼς γέγραπται· ὁ Λόγος σάρξ ἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν· οὕτως τῷ ἀζύμῳ ἀποτελεῖται τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ. αἱ γὰρ λοιπαὶ ἐκκλησίαι αἱ προδηλωθεῖσαι προσενέγκουσι ζυμωτὸν ἐπειδὴ ὁ Λόγος τοῦ Πατρὸς ἐνεδέδυται σάρκα καὶ ἔστιν ἀληθινὸς θεὸς καὶ ἀληθινὸς ἄνθρωπος, ὥσπερ ἡ ζύμη συμμίγνυται τῷ ἀλεύρῳ καὶ ἀποτελεῖται τὸ σῶμα τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ τὸ ἀληθινόν. ἀλλὰ μὴν οὕτως ἡ ῥωμαϊκὴ ἐκκλησία ὡς καὶ αἱ λοιπαὶ εἰρημέναι ὑπὲρ τῆς ἀφθόρου καὶ ἀληθινῆς πίστεως, οὕτως τὸ ἄζυμον ὡς καὶ τὸ ζυμωτὸν ὅτε λαμβάνομεν ἕν σῶμα τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ ἀποτελεῖται.
70 Βεβαιότατον δὲ καθὼς ἔφημεν θεῖον ἔνεστιν ἱερούργημα, ὡς ὅπερ ἀναγινώσκομεν ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ· ἡ γυνὴ ἐκείνη, ἥτις λαβοῦσα ζύμην ἔκρυψεν εἰς ἀλεύρου σάτα τρία, ἕως οὗ ἐζυμώθη ὅλον. Ἡ γὰρ γυνὴ ἐκείνη θεωρεῖται ἐμοὶ πεφυκέναι τὸ ἀποστολικὸν κήρυγμα, ἢ ἡ ἐκκλησία ἥτις ἐκ διαφόρων μερῶν ἢ ἐθνῶν συνηθροίσθη. αὕτη ἔλαβε ζύμην, τοῦτ’ ἔστι γνῶσιν ἤτοι σύνεσιν τῶν ἁγίων Γραφῶν, καὶ ἔκρυψεν εἰς ἀλεύρου σάτα τρία,
the second tale
Certissimum autem sicut diximus diuinum interest sacramentum. secundum quod legimus in euangelio. Mulier illa que accepto fermento abscondit in farina sata tri[a] donec fermentatum est totum. Mulier illa uidetur mihi esse apostolica predicatio
Certissimum autem sicut diximus, divinum interest sacramentum secundum quod legimus in evangelio:
Προδηλότατον δὲ ὡς εἴπομεν θεῖον ἐστι μυστήριον καθὸ ἀναγινώσκομεν ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ·
‘Mulier illa que accepto fermento abscondit in farina sata tria, donec fermentatum est totum’. Mulier videtur mihi esse apostolica predicatio
ἡ γυνὴ ἐκείνη ἥ λαβοῦσα ζύμην ἔκρυψεν εἰς ἀλεύρου σάτα τρία ἕως οὗ ἐζυμώθη ὅλον. Ἡ γυνὴ δοκεῖ μοὶ εἶναι τὸ ἀποστολικὸν κήρυγμα
vel ecclesia, que diversis partibus vel intelligentiam sanctarum scripturarum et abscondit in farina sata tria,
εἴτε ἡ ἐκκλησία. ἡ ἐκ διαφόρων μερῶν συνηθροιμένη. αὕτη αἴρει τὴν ζύμην, ἤγουν τὴν γνῶσιν ἤτοι τὴν ἐπινόησιν τῶν θείων Γραφῶν, καὶ κρύπτει εἰς ἀλεύρου σάτα τρία,
ὡς τὸ πνεῦμα, ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ τὸ σῶμα εἰς ἕν μετατίθεται ἀφ’ ἑαυτῶν.
uel ecclesia. que de diuersis partibus uel gentibus congregata est hec tollit fermentum id est notitiam uel intelligentiam sanctarum scripturarum. et abscondit in farina sata tria. ut spiritus anima. et corpus in unum reddacta. inter se non discrepent.
ut spiritus anima et corpus in unum redacta inter se non discrepent,
ἴνα τὸ πνεῦμα, ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ τὸ σῶμα εἰς ἕν ἀγόμενα ἀφ’ ἑαυτῶν
μὴ διασπώμενα, ἀλλὰ παρὰ τοῦ Πατρὸς εἴ τινος ἂν αἰτήσαιντο. ἀμήν.
set impetrent a patre quecumque postulaverint amen.
sed impetrent a Patre, quodcumque postulaverunt. Amen.
μὴ διαφέρωσιν.
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From this short comparison, the similarities between the two Greek versions do not seem to be the result of their use of a common source. They appear to be translation clusters, in other words, automatic translation choices born out of basic equivalents between two languages as well as by the existence of previous translations from Greek into Latin or from Latin into Greek. Most of them were dictated by liturgical language, both translators anticipating those translation choices because of their shared cultural background.83 The only identical phrases in the two Greek variant texts are the quotations from the Gospels, but they vary even there, as the two translators chose different pronouns when they linked the quotations to the preceding phrase (‘whoever’ for Nicholas and ‘who’ for Theorianos).84 Other differences85 indicate that the text transcribed 83
84 85
For translation clusters/linguistic automatisms (without taking into account the already expected equivalences for the proper names, pronouns, conjunctions, adverbs, as well as basic vocabulary such as ‘bread’, ‘ferment’, ‘to be’, ‘church’, ‘body’, etc.), see: 1) εἴοτε for solet; 2) προσφέρουσιν for offerunt (only once); 3) γενικῶς for generaliter; 4) καθὼς γέγραπται for sicut scriptum est; 5) ἐνεδύσατο or ἐνεδέδυται for indutum est; 6) συμμιγνυμένη or συμμίγνυται for commiscetur; 7) ἀναγινώσκομεν for legimus; 8) κήρυγμα for predication; 9) συνηθροίσθη or συνηθροιμένη for congregate. Cf. ἡ γυνὴ ἐκείνη, ἥτις λαβοῦσα ζύμην ἔκρυψεν … (N. gr.); ἡ γυνὴ ἐκείνη ἥ λαβοῦσα ζύμην ἔκρυψεν … (Th.); and the biblical reference to Matthew 13:33: Ὁμοία ἐστὶν ἡ βασιλεία τῶν οὐρανῶν ζύμῃ, ἣν λαβοῦσα γυνὴ ἔκρυψεν εἰς ἀλεύρου σάτα τρία, ἕως οὗ ἐζυμώθη ὅλον. Some different translation choices: 1) τάξεις (N. gr.) vs. τάγμασι (Th.) for the Latin ordinibus; 2) κατονομάζονται (N. gr.) vs. προσαγορεύονται (Th.) for the Latin nuncupantur; 3) κρατῶσι (N. gr.) vs. διακρατοῦσαι (Th.) for the Latin teneant; 4) προσφέρῃ (N. gr.) προσενεγκεῖν (Th.) for offerat (here, the Theorianos variant strays away from their common translation cluster προσφέρουσιν); 5) ὁ ἄζυμος ἄρτος γίνεται (N. gr.) vs. τῷ ἀζύμῳ ἀποτελεῖται (Th) for the Latin azimo pane efficitur (with a second identical translation γίνεται (N. gr.) vs. ἀποτελεῖται (Th), reflecting the same choices for the verb); 6) ἄλλαι (N. gr.) vs. λοιπαὶ (Th.) for the Latin cetere on two occasions; 7) another divergence in the translation of the Latin offerunt, where Nicholas methodically respects his previous choices (προσφέρουσιν), while Theorianos strays away again (προδηλωθεῖσαι), doubling it with his second choice (προσενέγκουσι); 8) οὔτω ὥσπερ (N. gr.) vs. ὥσπερ (Th.) for the Latin ita ut; 9) γίνεται (N. gr.) vs. ἀποτελεῖται (Th.) for the Latin efficitur; 10) ἀληθές (N. gr.) vs. τὸ ἀληθινόν (Th.) for the Latin verum; 11) ἀλλ’ ὅμως (N. gr.) vs. ἀλλὰ μὴν οὕτως (Th.) for the Latin sed tamen; 12) ἄνω ὀνομασθεῖσαι (N. gr.) vs. εἰρημέναι (Th.) for the Latin supra nominate; 13) ἀμόλυντον (N. gr.) vs. ἀληθινῆς (Th.) for the Latin inviolabili; 14) τοσοῦτον … ὅσον (N. gr.) vs. οὕτως … ὡς καὶ (Th.) for the Latin tam … quam; 15) ἐν τῷ μεταλαμβάνειν ἡμᾶς (N. gr.) vs. ὅτε λαμβάνομεν (Th.) for the Latin dum sumimus; 16) βεβαιότατον (N. gr.) vs. προδηλότατον (Th.) for the Latin certissimum; 17) καθὼς ἔφημεν (N. gr.) vs. ὡς εἴπομεν (Th.) for the Latin sicut diximus; 18) ἱερούργημα (N. gr.) vs. μυστήριον (Th.) for the Latin sacramentum; 19) ὡς ὅπερ (N. gr.) vs. καθὸ (Th.) for the Latin secundum quod; 20) θεωρεῖται ἐμοὶ πεφυκέναι (N. gr.) vs. δοκεῖ μοὶ εἶναι (Th.) for the Latin videtur mihi esse; 21) ἢ ἡ ἐκκλησία (N. gr.) vs. εἴτε ἡ ἐκκλησία (Th.) for the Latin vel ecclesia; 22) διαφόρων
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by Nicholas in his bilingual manuscript is slavishly following its Latin version,86 while that of Theorianos is a free translation diverging from the source.87 Theorianos also suppressed parts of it,88 since it was not presented as a translation. Only once Nicholas adds something new to his Latin text (Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ). This happens in a Greek sequence (ἕν σῶμα τοῦ κυρίου καὶ σωτῆρος ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ γίνεται) translating a Latin one (unum corpus Domini nostri salvatoris efficitur). However, this may be considered a mark of respect and not an alteration of the text. As for the differences between the two Latin versions, they also suggest that the Latin text copied by Nicholas of Otranto was not added at a later date. The Latin text copied in the right column of the Parisian manuscript was the actual source of Nicholas’ Greek text.89 In other words, the Italo-Greek monk recopied it from his notes when he decided to present a bilingual version of his treatise. This particular Latin quotation consequently precedes the Greek text, thus the need to provide an in-depth study of the origin of the Latin fragments quoted by Nicholas of Otranto. It was recently argued that this pseudo-Gregory text appeared for the first time in the 12th century, being inspired by a commentary to
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μερῶν ἢ ἐθνῶν συνηθροίσθη (N. gr.) vs. διαφόρων μερῶν συνηθροιμένη (Th.) for the Latin diversis partibus vel gentibus congregate, where the Theorianos version may have been affected by an abridged Latin version, similar but not less abridged as the Albin one; 23) ἔλαβε (N. gr.) vs. αἴρει (Th.) for the Latin tollit; 24) τοῦτ’ ἔστι (N. gr.) vs. ἤγουν (Th.) for the Latin id est; 25) σύνεσιν (N. gr.) vs. ἐπινόησιν (Th.) for the Latin notitiam; 26) τῶν ἁγίων Γραφῶν (N. gr.) vs. τῶν θείων Γραφῶν (Th.) for the Latin sanctarum scripturarum; 27) ὡς τὸ πνεῦμα (N. gr.) vs. ἴνα τὸ πνεῦμα (Th.) for the Latin ut spiritus; 28) μετατίθεται (N. gr.) vs. ἀγόμενα (Th.) for the Latin reddacta; 29) μὴ διασπώμενα (N. gr.) vs. μὴ διαφέρωσιν (Th.) for the Latin non discrepent. Nicholas’ Greek word-for-word translations are best illustrated by εἶναι μέντοι τὴν ἁγίαν ἐκκλησίαν εἰς τέσσαρες τάξεις διηρημένην γινώσκομεν. As well as by οφφικίων μυστηρίοις, translating officiorum misteriis where the Theorianos variant has μυστηριωδῶν οφφικίων. But also by curious situations like: καθόσον (N. gr.) for quam (N. lat.), on the one hand, and ὡς καὶ (Th.) for quam et (A.), on the other. Here are some loose translations in the Theorianos variant, adding or altering the text of the original Latin source: 1) οἱ δὲ ζυμίτας ἤτοι ἐνζύμους; 2) εἶναι γὰρ διεσπαρμένην τέσσαρσι τάγμασι τὴν ἐκκλησίαν οἴδαμεν; 3) ἡ τῶν Ῥωμαίων ἠγουν τῶν τῆς Ῥώμης; 4) μυστηριωδῶν οφφικίων τε καὶ διακονιῶν; 5) ἐστι (Th.) vs. ἔνεστιν (N. gr.) for the Latin interest, where Theorianos simplifies the text. Cf. the Latin phrase (sed impetrent a Patre, quodcumque postulaverunt. Amen), translated by Nicholas (ἀλλὰ παρὰ τοῦ Πατρὸς εἴ τινος ἂν αἰτήσαιντο. ἀμήν) and absent from the Theorianos version. See for this: 1) panes azimos (A.) vs. azymos panes (N. lat.) and ἀζύμους ἄρτους (N. gr.); 2) immediately followed by ἐνζύμους (N. gr.), rendering fermentatos (N. lat.), not fermentatum (A.); 3) κρατῶσι πίστιν (N. gr.), rendering teneant fidem (N. lat.), not teneant fidem catholicam (A.).
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the Gospel of Matthew by saint Jerome.90 The Hieronymian quotation appears indeed at the end of our pseudo-Gregory passage, suggesting that it could be a point of origin, but the spurious patristic piece is undoubtedly older. An identical text attributed to saint Gregory appears in a rewriting of Sigebert of Gembloux’s universal chronicle made at the Afflighem abbey (c.1164),91 meaning that it was circulating in Western Europe, not only in Rome. A version of it appears in a Dresden copy of the Venetian Chronicon Altinate, but the saint Jerome passage is absent and the text is also slightly different, even though it sticks to the main lines of the interpretation.92 The Dresden manuscript version of this chronicle extends to the accession to the Constantinopolitan throne of Henry I (1206), therefore being posterior to our 1205–1206 meetings, but its sources and their dating are still a matter of debate. The quotation may be drawn from much earlier sources, preceding the Afflighem rewriting of Sigebert of Gembloux’s chronicle. Further proof supporting this hypothesis comes from a manuscript dating back to the last quarter of the 12th century (Vienna, Austrian National Library, cod. 2177, fol. 84v–85r), where our text is not yet attributed to saint Gregory, its title referring simply to the differences between the Oriental and Western Churches in the matter of leavened and unleavened bread (Quare occidentalis ecclesia azymum et orientalis fermentatum panem offerat et quam utrumque ratum sit). Since this other variant includes the reference to saint Jerome, I believe that it represents an intermediate state in the text’s evolution. Nevertheless, this transitional version must have already been used in controversial contexts, for it had switched from eclectic milieus (the Afflighem continuation, Chronicon Altinate) to some clusters of texts assembled for a particular purpose. In the Viennese manuscript, for instance, our text was sandwiched between two anti-Greek texts.93 In my opinion, this means that the cardinal did 90 91 92 93
Cf. Francesco Quaranta, ‘L’Inquisizione e gli Italo-greci’, in Wolfram Hoyer (dir.), Praedicatores inquisitores, I. The Dominicans and the Medieval Inquisition (Rome: Istituto storico domenicano, 2004), note 24. For the saint Jerome commentary, see PL 26:91A–B. MGH SS 6:399 [followed by the already known text: Solet plane movere …]. Cf. PL 160:279C (and the pseudo-Gregory text on 279C–281B). Cf. L. Polidori (ed.), ‘Cronichon Venetum vulgo Altinate quod prius editum an. MDCCCXLV iuxta codicem patriarch. Veneti seminarii, denuo prodit ex ms. codice reg. Bibliothecae Dresdensis’, Archivio Storico Italiano, 5 (1847), 119. According to the online description of the manuscript at the Manuscripta.au (s.v. Nikolaus Czifra), the preceding text (79r–84v) is Contra Grecos qui negant spiritum sanctum procedere a filio; identified as Petrus Damianus’ Epistola 91. The following text (f. 85r–87r) is: Quid dignitatis Constantinus imperator apostolice sedis episcopo contulerit; identified as
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not make any innovation when he met with the Greek scholars. He simply presented a carefully chosen series of topics that were already correlated in Western manuscripts. Perhaps this would also explain the attribution of the quotation to saint John Chrysostom in the 1252 anti-Greek treatise transcribed by the Dominicans of Constantinople. The text definitely circulated in several versions, with or without the attribution to saint Gregory, in anthologies,94 and its use in the Greek letter of Theorianos complicated matters even more. Was this text copied in one of the manuscripts that cardinal Benedict had brought with him to the Greek lands? Probably so, and maybe the red-white-and-rosé wine comparison came from the same manuscript as well. Nicholas used a peculiar formula (incipit capitulum Beati Gregorii) at the beginning of the Pseudo-Gregory quotation and ended the quotation in the same way (et hec quidem sanctus gregorius).95 The presence of formulas of this type, very similar to the ones in the Albin compilation, points to the fact that Nicholas did not quote from memory when he wrote his treatise. He must have used his own notes, as he said it in his introduction. These copies were probably made from the manuscripts brought by the cardinal in 1205–1206, when the two of them had to prepare the meetings with the Greek clergy. Thus, the presence of the incipit. Given the high stakes of those Uniate debates, it would be hard to imagine that the cardinal would rely on ad hoc translations made by Nicholas during the meetings. It is highly probable that the monk worked with the cardinal, preparing in advance the Greek translations of the most important Latin texts to be used during the debates, so that those translations would suit the cardinal’s plan. Nicholas definitely kept those notes (both Latin and Greek, for he must have copied them on the same parchment quires) and he used them later in order to compile his anti-Latin treatise. His flawless copy of
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Leo IX’s Epistola ad Michaelem Constantinopolitanum patriarcham adversus eius et Leonis Acridani episcopi inauditas praesumptiones et nimias vanitates, in PL 143:753A–755D. For the pseudo-Gregory text, the online catalogue mentions the incipit (f. 84v): Solet plane movere nonnullos, quod in ecclesia alii offerunt panes azymos, alii fermentatos. Esse namque ecclesias IIII ordinibus distributas liquet …; and the explicit (f. 85r): … inter se non discrepent, sed impetrent a patre quodcumque postulaverunt. Amen. Cf. Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien’, 322 (for the anthology hypothesis). Cf. Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fol. 129r, for the use of this formula at the end of the introductory words of the cardinal (already quoted; vide infra). For an abbreviated use of the same sequence before mentioning the cardinal once again, see fols. 130v–131r: Et hec quidem sanctus gregorius. ego autem scilicet cardinalis dico et hoc. Quomodo que in una fide est radicatam non ledit diuersa ecclesiam. consuetudo. et non est diuisio. nec ulla in fide christi ecclesiarum christi.
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the pseudo-Gregory Latin text supports this interpretation. The presence of the sequence of words vel gentibus congregata est hec tollit fermentum id est notitiam vel, absent from the collection of Albin (who probably skipped one or two lines of his source-text) places Nicholas’ copy in the category of later reuses of the same quotation: the aforementioned 1252 Constantinopolitan Dominican treatise, Nicholas of Cotrona’s mid-13th century Liber de processione Spiritus sancti et fide Trinitatis contra errores Graecorum, whence it was taken by Thomas Aquinas and inserted in his Contra errores Graecorum, etc.96 I believe that Nicholas added many other quotations to the issues debated in 1205–1206, but when he quoted the cardinal, he must have used Benedict’s own material. We will never know if this material was dispersed in several manuscripts or if it was copied in a single one, specifically compiled for these meetings. Both interpretations are possible and they depend on the meaning ascribed to the ‘Latin books’ that Benedict brought from Rome to Constantinople (in latinis […] libris quos a roma predictus cardinalis constantinopolim attulisset). The word libri may suggest both an authoritative and a physical form (‘texts’ or ‘manuscripts’). Even though I am inclined to choose the first option,97 this is of little consequence to the present analysis, since Nicholas’ own notes constitute a precedent for the later and more famous Dominican collections of texts used in Uniate debates.98 At the end of this short case study, at least two of the books brought by the cardinal from Rome to be used in the debates with the Greeks can be identified. One seems to be a compilation of excerpts from the papal curia, while the other could be a copy of Eriugena’s treatise on the filioque.99 A thorough future study of Nicholas’ Latin translation will 96
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Cf. e.g. Antoine Dondaine, ‘Nicolas de Cotrone et les sources du Contra errores Graecorum de St. Thomas’, Freiburger Zeitschrift für Philosophie und Theologie, 28 (1950), 357. For the Nicholas of Cotrona’s text, see Roberto Busa (ed.), ‘Nicolaus de Cotrone, Liber de fide Trinitatis’, in S. Thomae Aquinatis Opera Omnia, 7. Aliorum medii aevi auctorum scripta (Stuttgart, 1980), 360. At the beginning of the passage, Nicholas identifies the source of his text with the ‘dialogues about the unbloody sacrifice’ by saint Gregory. If the cardinal brought several manuscripts, Nicholas would know that this could not be the source. He could be led into error by the composite nature of a manuscript compiled especially for the debates of 1205–1206. Cf. Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fol. 129r: Sed et beatus gregorius dialogiis de incruenta immolatione tractas. uidetur ambo concordare. ut in quibusdam de suis sermonibus dicit: Jncipit capitulum Beati Gregorii. See for instance the two famous manuscripts from Basel, University Library A VI 15 and A I 32 (15th century). It is highly unlikely that the Eriugena quotations be part of the said anthology of excerpts, as I could not find any other independent copy of the quoted passages. It would also be
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undoubtedly provide other references that could be used in the meetings of 1206. My final conclusion is that Nicholas’ treatise was certainly not written in Greek only. The genesis of his text, much more complicated, involved translations from Greek into Latin for the Greek quotations, and from Latin into Greek for the Latin ones. Getting back to our story, the Greeks would be amused by the red-roséand-white comparison, but they would also be afraid to show it. Maybe some of them would laugh, as I suggested earlier, if they knew whence the idea had come. Others would silence them, because the cardinal must have read it from a book in Latin and Nicholas of Otranto probably recited its Greek translation. Still, after such a taster, none of them would give credence to the quotations from saint Gregory, especially since that text was spurious and the pseudo-Gregory reference did not appear in the Theorianos’ version of the text. The wisest ones among the Greeks would stand up to tell the truth. It did not matter that the Latins had burnt their city, occupied them, terrorised them, and forced them to take part in such an insult of a meeting. The truth needed to be said. Those who knew the great mystery had to reveal it. Therefore, the cardinal should be informed that when the Frenchmen plundered the imperial city like a bunch of thieves, like Nebuchadnezzar and his archmage in Jerusalem, they too had taken not only the treasures of the emperor and those of the people, but also the treasures of the Church. When some of them entered the Scevofilakion hall of the Great Palace, they found the Wood of the Cross, the Crown of Thorns, the Sandals of the Lord, the Nails, and many other relics among which there was also a piece of Bread. Yet this was not just any bread, o, pious Lord, for it was the Bread that Christ Himself had broken with His unsullied hands and given to the disciples at the Last Supper. It was kept in a vessel of gold, decorated with pearls and precious stones, and the vessel had an inscription in Greek letters, reading thus: ‘Here is the Holy Bread that Christ broke in the hour of the Last Supper, saying ‘Take, eat; this is My body”.100 The plausible that cardinal Benedict bring one of the most important books in the matter of the filioque. 100 Cf. Paris, BnF, suppl. gr. 1232, fols. 131r–132v: reuelauit omnibus hoc magnum misterium. hoc uero dixerunt quomodo cum capta esset a francigenis regalis ciuitas et omnes thesauros non tantum qui erant in imperialibus domibus et communni populj fuerant. set et eos qui erant ecclesiarum domini sicut olim nabuchodonosor et nabuzardam suus archimagerus thesauros ierosolymorum excrutantes; et in sceuofylacium magni palatij tamquam latrones intrantes; in quo sanctam posita erant .i. pretiosa ligna. spinea corona. saluatoris sandanlia clauus et fascia. que et nos post oculis nostris uidimus. aliaque multa inuenerunt ibi. o tue pietatis domine. et illum panem; quem in impollutis manibus christus meus suis discipulis in cena diuisit. et hunc in uase aliquo aureo. quod margaretis et lapidibus pretiosis paratum
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cardinal should better know that the ones who discovered it had thought that they could hide it, since that bread was leavened and it did not suit their communion. Unrelenting and unyielding, the wise Greek prelates would continue their diatribe. Their voices would grow stronger and stronger and the other Greeks would murmur, the ranks would tremble, until the cardinal would try to find a new compromise. Benedict and the other Latins did not care to debate about this relic, as they had already said. They suggested that it would be better to study the words of the Gospels, to compare them, and to avoid diverging from them.101 So the debate ensued for a long time, until the cardinal stood up and brutally interrupted another speech of the Greeks, saying ‘Come off it!’ Enough with the incongruous word-fights and disputes. He had already said it, so he wished to repeat it: both the leavened and unleavened bread were good in the eyes of the Lord. He put an end to the meeting, for it lasted many days, and he took his translator Nicholas from the palace of the patriarch to the Bucoleon Palace, where they were both accommodated. There were no more meetings. The cardinal had had enough of them. Nicholas, on the other hand, would be radiant, happy that the truth had been made clear, that the cardinal had realised that the Greeks were advocates of a sincere and uninjured true faith. He would add the Doxology to the pious thoughts rambling in his mind: ‘in the Father, and in the Son, and in the Holy Spirit, for theirs is the glory, the honour, and the praise, now and ever and unto ages of ages, Amen’.102 erat. in quo. et suprascripsio. quod inter erat significabat per litteras grecas. ita dicentes. huic est sanctus panis quem christus discipulis in hora cene diuisit dicens. accipiter et commedite hoc est corpus meum. Qui uero hoc inuenerunt hij fuerunt alberstanie episcopus et bethlem qui tunc erat electus et alij quidam. qui et abscondi hoc putabant. set immendax deus; qui iuste ueritatem. que est filium eius de terra exortari uoluit et istud ualde manifestum esse fecit. ex quo et quod dubitandum erat dissolutum est. Set attende dixerunt ad cardinalem greci […]. 101 Cf. ibid., fol. 134r: Cardinalis enim cumque aliis latinis non curabat de tali questione disputationem facere ut predictum est. qui et dixerunt. Bonum quippe est mentem sanctorum euangelistarum studiose inquirere. et eorum uerba concordare. ut non dissidentiam eis introducamus. et ueritas. […]. 102 Cf. ibid., fol. 148r–v (end of the second treatise, about the bread): Istis igitur a grecis in medio dictis resurrexit Cardinalis et nichil super hec dicens nisi tantum hoc. sufficit ait de istis. non autem amplius uerborum pugnas et contentiones que incongrue sunt facere uelimus. sicut enim iam diximus. et nunc dicimus. quia bene acceptabilia domini utramque sunt. fermentatus uero ac azymus ex quo per spiritum sanctum a sacerdote immolatus fuerit sanctificatur. Cum autem diuisa est congregatio. que in multis diebus facta est. a grecis uero et latinis. descendimus simul a patriarchali palatio. et in quo ospitati eramus magnum palatium quod dicitur buccaleonis [?]umus. nequaquam ab illa iam ora in disputationem conuenire pro alio. aliquo eddicto contenci[o]ne cum grecis qui in constantinopolis erant
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Oh, what a day was that, the old Athenian metropolitan would think when he would try to imagine it in his own mind. He would wish he had been there at the very moment when the Greeks had crushed the Latin arguments. Choniates would not know what his fellow hierarchs had answered when the cardinal read to them the Donation. He would try to imagine only good things. The bad ones were already weighing heavily in his mind. One of them was that text so dear to the Latins, the so-called ‘Donation of Constantine’. When he probably discovered that a Greek translation of it existed, the cardinal asked Nicholas to make a copy of that Greek text, to be used in future debates, or maybe to prove to the not-so-learned Orthodox priests from peripheral areas of the empire that the said document was written in Greek and therefore genuine. They would have to obey the decisions of the pope. Benedict left the Greek lands after a while,103 but Nicholas stayed behind in the magnificent capital and copied texts for him. The colophon of his copy of the Greek Donation stated that it was written by Nicholas of Otranto in the great palace of Constantinople, from the above-mentioned book (abridged by Theodore Balsamon) at the order of Benedict the cardinal and observant of Innocent III, in the year 6715 (that is, from September 1206 to August 1207), the first indiction, in the month of December.104 When the winter of 1206–1207 had passed, Nicholas probably returned to Italy. Cardinal Benedict was also in Italy in March 1207, where he was mentioned in various documents, but he arrived earlier, because the pope wrote a letter to the Greek clergymen of Negroponte on 27 November 1206. That letter dealt with the Greeks as a group, not only with bishop Theodore, and the pope stated that he much appreciated the Euboeote obedience, promising to take them under his own protection and that of saint Peter. The letter had a precise purpose: the Euboeotes could latini substinuerunt. nouerunt enim illorum orthodoxam atque sinceram et inuiolatam fidem. quam in consubstantialem et indiuiduam unamque dignitatem. que in patre et filio et sancto spiritui trinitatem est. habent. Quoniam decet omnis gloria. honor. et adoratio. nunc et semper et in secula seculorum. amen. 103 Both of them were still in Constantinople in the summer of 1206. In a letter sent to Benedict and to another cardinal on 21 June 1206, the pope advised them to stop the new patriarch of Constantinople from appointing too many Venetians in high offices, and to make sure that learned men occupy those offices instead. See PL 215:915B. 104 Hoeck, Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios, 53, note 10: ἥτις ἐγράφη παρὰ Νικολάου τοῦ Ὑδρουντινοῦ ἐν τῷ μεγάλω παλατίῳ ἐν Κωνσταντινουπόλει ἀπὸ τῆς βίβλου ὡς προείρηται τῇ προτροπῇ τοῦ κυροῦ Βενεδίκτου τοῦ καρδιναλίου καὶ τοποτηρητοῦ Ἰννοκεντίου τοῦ γ’, ἔτει ‘ϛτιε’ ινδ. ι’ μηνι δεκεμβρίω, who provide the context for ὡς προείρηται in another segment of the text: τῆς συνοψισθείσης παρὰ Θεοδώρου τοῦ Βαλσαμὼν κ.τ.λ. Cf. Enzo Petrucci, ‘I rapporti tra le redazioni latine e greche del Costituto di Costantino’, Bullettino dell’Istituto Storico Italiano per il medio evo e Archivio Muratoriano, 74 (1962), 59 n. 2, for two versions of this colophon.
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show it to anybody who would plan to molest them in any way, so that the abuses should stop.105 This must have been the cardinal’s work, who could be made aware of the situation in the newly occupied lands of Euboea, Boeotia, Attica, and the Peloponnesus on his way back to Rome. Nicholas must have brought with him his translation, many books, and his notes from the cardinal’s meetings with the Greek clergy. Later, he used those notes to compile his three treatises about the errors of the Latins.106 Maybe he reminisced about the same events that Choniates ruminated about in the island of Kea. Maybe Nicholas also reminisced about strange things that Choniates would never know, like the homage paid by the Georgian monks of Iviron in Thessalonica or the manner in which he had convinced the Constantinopolitan clergy to grant Innocent III the title of ‘thirteenth apostle’, as if the pope were an emperor, and to praise him during mass with the imperial acclamation. Perhaps Nicholas (or the cardinal) was the one who found this political solution to a never-ending ecclesiastical problem: ‘Long live lord Innocent, pope of ancient Rome!’ Either way, the solution was a good compromise. Perhaps our old metropolitan would wonder what happened to Nicholas, that nice monk from Italy whom he had met in Athens and Thessalonica. Nicholas used to be on their side, even though the cardinal, his master, was against them. What had happened to his books? A year or so before, in 1214 or 1215, Choniates could hear that Nicholas had come back, for he had to escort another cardinal, Pelagius of Albano, for new talks with the Greek clergy. Nicholas could bring news about what happened in the Latin lands in the meantime.
…
There was a funny thing happening in the Western lands. Choniates could hear some echoes from the Greeks involved in the negotiations with the Latins, or maybe Nicholas of Otranto and others like him brought such news to Greece. It concerned those monks of Paris who pretended to have the relics of saint Denis the Areopagite. The Greeks would laugh when they would hear that the pope received different relics of the same saint, brought to Rome by Peter, cardinal priest of the church of Saint-Marcellus and legate of the apostolic see. 105 For the original text, see PL 215:1030C–D. 106 For the monk Nicholas of Otranto, see e.g. Joan M. Hussey, The Orthodox Church in the Byzantine Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1986), 189. For his translations, see Hoeck, Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios. For the cardinal’s possible second stay in Thessalonica (unlikely, since he would not be accompanied by his translator, who was in Constantinople), see Lefort et al. eds., Actes d’Iviron, 5.
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This happened in the first year after the Latin conquest. Peter was the cardinal who preceded Benedict. We do not know where this cardinal Peter had found them, but those relics soon became problematic. The pope was confronted with the existence of two bodies of saint Denis, one in Paris and the other recently arrived from Greece. The situation was not new. It had happened before, in the 11th century, and it happened again later, in the 14th and 15th centuries.107 So the pope chose the most diplomatic solution, sending the new relics to Paris and writing a letter to the abbot and convent of Saint-Denis on 4 January 1215. At least, this is what the alleged letter of Innocent III spoke of, but this letter is known to us only from a copy made in the abbey of Saint-Denis. The pope did not mention anything about the upper part of the skull. This local (Parisian) quarrel started at a later date. Innocent III only wrote that he was not sure whether the saint of Paris was the Areopagite converted to Christianity by saint Paul. He said that there were many opinions about this subject. Some said that the Areopagite was martyred in Greece, while others held that he came to Rome after the death of saint Paul, and pope Clement had sent him to Gaul. Since both opinions were rested upon solid arguments, the pope admitted that he could not judge on the matter. He did not wish to take sides, so he decided to honour the French abbey by sending them the ‘pledge’ of saint Denis’ martyrdom, newly arrived from Greece. The ones who carried the relics and the letter back to Paris were the monks and the prior of Saint-Denis, returning from the Fourth Lateran Council. It was definitely the best solution, to conciliate everybody, as this would put an end to the old bickering about whether the saint’s relics were or were not in Paris.108 The pope pretended to accept the French monks’ narrative. Yet this was not 107 In 1052, the abbey of Saint-Emmeran of Regensburg argued that the true body of saint Denis had been in the possession of their convent, so they invited the German emperor to a celebration of the saint. A political argument ensued and Henry I, king of France (1031–1060), ordered an investigation into the contents of the Parisian shrine. The Saint-Denis monks were able to confirm that the true body of the saint was in their possession. The quarrel died away, but not without leaving some traces. Doubts had risen over the legitimacy of the Parisian relics. It is no surprise that Abelard himself, a monk of the abbey of Saint-Denis after his castration, questioned the validity of the relics in light of a passage of Bede which stated that there were two saint Denises, one in Greece and another one in France. Cf. Gabrielle M. Spiegel, The Past as Text. The Theory and Practice of Medieval Historiography (Baltimore, John Hopkins University Press, 1997), 142–143. Even though Abelard retracted his critique, the doubts continued to persist and they multiplied over the years. Saint Denis even became the subject of a scandal in the early 15th century, but this is another matter that will be addressed in the last chapter of the present book. 108 For the original text, edited from a manuscript written in the abbey of Saint-Denis, see PL 217:241A–D. For the Parisian copy of this letter, see the Latin compilation of Saint-Denis (Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, pp. 412b–414a), to which I will return in the next chapter.
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what he really thought. Probably aware of Abelard’s text and of a 1052 scandal involving the monastery of Saint-Emmeram in Regensburg, the pope had a different opinion altogether. His official register stated that he had sent the ‘true relics’ of saint Denis to France (de veris reliquiis), in order to put an end to local discord.109 The monks of Saint-Denis, on the other hand, told a very different story on their return to Paris. According to them, the pope had called the prior and his fellow monks at the end of the council, for he wished to give them an ‘inestimable treasure’ (thesaurus impretiabilis) as a ‘pledge’ or ‘token’ (pignus) of perpetual charity. This would be the body of the most-holy Denis the confessor, bishop of the Corinthians, so that his relics may be transferred to France in the church of Saint-Denis. He had also given them the letter quoted above and they hurried up to France, to bring the ‘treasure’ to safety. They arrived at their abbey at the beginning of spring. The abbot and the entire convent came to greet them. They wore white robes, carrying litten candles, the bells were ringing, and all clergymen and common people were present. The relics of Denis the confessor and priest of the Corinthians were carried into the church of the other saint Denis, the Areopagite, and they sang hymns and praises to him. They celebrated mass for him, placing his body in an ivory reliquary.110 But how large could an ivory recipient be? Could it fit an entire body? Clearly not, so maybe the monks of Saint-Denis did not receive a complete corpus of the saint, thus the use of the preposition de when the pope’s register described those remains as de veris reliquiis. That the monks of Paris had identified the new saint with Denis of Corinth, this should not surprise us. They had clearly learnt a lot from the Abelard episode and wished to transform old detractions into apologetics. But where did 109 For the original text of the register, see PL 216:993A. 110 For my paraphrase, see Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, pp. 411a–412b (it precedes the copy of the pope’s letter): […] uocauit ad se prefatum hemericum ac socios eius et in pignus perpetue caritatis dedit eis thesaurum impretiabilem. corpus uidelicet sanctissimum dyonisij confessoris corinthiorum episcopi. ut ipsum secum cum honore debito in frantiam transferrent. et ex parte sua ecclesie beati dyonisii cum omni reuerentia presentarent. Tradidit illis preterea sue largitionis testimoniales litteras sigillo sancte sedis apostolice roboratas. Jlli uero cum condignis gratiarum actionibus tam nobile. tam sanctum. tam denique uenerandum suscipientes depositum; gratuita summi pontificis exhylarati munificentia. quam citius potuerint in franciam remearunt. Qui cum accessissent ad ecclesiam beati dyonisii de strata .viijº. kl martij. Prima scilicet sabbati que dies dominica nuncupatur; occurit eis uenerabilis abbas et conuentus cum processione sollempni. albis et cappis sericis induti. cereis accensis. pulsatis campanis. et uniuerso clero et populo comitante. et sic cum hymnis et laudibus gloriosus confessor et pontifex corinthiorum dyonisius intromissus est in ecclesiam sanctissimi ariopagite dyonisij. Et magna missa de ipso confessore in ornamentis sollempnibus sollempniter celebrata; intra absidam que super corpora sanctorum martyrum retro altare in sanctis sanctorum sita est; in uase eburneo decenter composito locatus est.
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the second body of saint Denis actually come from? Strange as it may seem, there is absolutely no information about the place where the new Denis was taken from by cardinal Peter of Saint-Marcellus. It would be highly unlikely that the relics would be taken from Constantinople, for reasons presented below. It probably came from a marginal area. The city of Athens could be a likely candidate.
Case Study 2: The Greek Denis and a Forgotten Athenian Monastery
The pope’s ambiguous designation of the relics as pignus (‘pledge’), a common metaphor in such cases, does imply a fragmentary nature of the relics, but there are more interesting details in these narratives. The particular use of the word ‘treasure’ in Innocent III’s speech to the Parisian monks echoes the terminology used in the Byzantine hagiographic texts dealing with the story of saint Denis. Most Greek texts drew upon the Latin versions of saint Denis’ life. In the Metaphrastic Life, for instance, Latin sources were closely followed and the martyrdom occurs in the city of Paris. The two companions were also named Roustikos and Eleutherios. They are beheaded immediately after Denis, and the saint takes his head in his hands. All this testifies to a Western origin of the Greek story. Yet the truly interesting phrase is that the saint’s body held the head ‘like a trophy’ (καθάπερ τι τρόπαιον). The decapitated body receives an impulse of divine grace and stops in front of a woman, in whose hands it lays the head like a ‘treasure’ (οἶά τινα θησαυρὸν).111 Maybe the pope could actually be aware of the cult of saint Denis in the East. In this Greek version, the bodies of the saint’s companions continued to lay on the ground at the site of their martyrdom, and the executioners wanted to throw them in the ‘sea’, so the woman who had received the head (Katoula) invited the executioners to dine, while worshippers hid the relics. When they retired, Katoula laid the relics of the martyrs in a house.112 This is almost the exact same plot as the one from the Latin lives. Some brief generalities about the hagiographic literary corpus are in order. Before the 9th century, most Westerners had only a vague idea about the identity of saint Denis. The first two Latin lives do not speak of his Athenian origin. On the other hand, Greeks believed that a Syriac 111 PG 4:605B–C. 112 PG 4:605C–D, 607A.
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author of the early 6th century (pseudo-Denis), author of many theological texts, was the one and the same Denis who had been converted to Christianity by saint Paul in Athens. Westerners learnt more about this at the council of Paris, in 825, when a Byzantine delegation brought those writings to the West, to be used in the debates concerning the issue of images. Two years later, in 827, the Byzantine emperor Michael II the Amorian offered a now-famous manuscript of the Corpus Dionysiacum to Louis the Pious (Paris, BnF, f. gr. 437). By the looks of it, this is how the French odyssey of the threefold saint Denis started in the first place, linking the Areopagite, the Parisian, and the Syriac saints. Abbot Hilduin received the manuscript in the monastery of Saint-Denis on the eve of the feast of the French saint (9 October). In the years that followed, Hilduin rebelled against king Louis, was exiled, then pardoned, returned to Saint-Denis, and started translating the Corpus Dionysiacum. When he finished the Latin translation of the texts of that manuscript, in 835, he assembled a Latin life of the saint, the so-called Passio III (Post beatam ac salutiferam …). He poured various sources into it, such as the previous Latin hagiographies, the hymns of Eugenius of Toledo and Venantius Fortunatus, Conscriptio Visbii, the letters of Denis to Apollophanus and Aristarchus to Onesiphorus, primercerius of Athens, both of them mentioned in New Testament apocrypha. The end product is often considered to be a ‘forgery’, even though recent voices have suggested otherwise.113 For us, the most important feature of this text is the cephalophoric walk. In the text of abbot Hilduin, who collated Western and Eastern traditions, “[…] the corpse of the blessed Dionysius raised itself up, and began – with angelic guidance directing its steps and heavenly light shining all around – to carry in his holy hand the head cut from the body by the lictor’s axe, cradling it in his arms. And a multitude of the celestial army, praising God without cease in sweet-sounding hymns, accompanied his lifeless body as it carried its own head from the hill where he had been decapitated, for almost two miles to the place where it now lies buried through the disposition of God and through His choice.”114 113 For the standard ‘forgery’ narrative concerning Hilduin’s approach to the story of saint Denis, see Anna Lisa Taylor, Epic Lives and Monasticism in the Middle Ages, 800–1050 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). For a nuanced opinion about it as a genuine pious project, see Klaus Krönert, ‘La passion de saint Denis écrite par Hilduin (BHL 2175). Le travail d’un historiographe ou l’oeuvre d’un faussaire?’, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 172 (2014), 61–99. 114 Michael Lapidge (ed.), Hilduin of Saint-Denis: The Passio S. Dionysii in Prose and Verse (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 295, for the translation. Cf. p. 294, for the original text.
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The same story was narrated in a metrical Latin version, also attributed to Hilduin.115 This is how it ended up in the Greek hagiographic accounts, with a minor difference. In the Latin texts, two women played an important part in the story. The first one was Larcia, who shouted that she believed in Christ, being killed and baptized in her own blood. The second one was Catulla, the pagan who devised a trick: she invited the executioners to a feast, while the faithful hid away the bodies of the saint Denis’ companions. Apart from a single Greek text, all Byzantine versions mention only Catulla and place her at the end of the cephalophoric walk, receiving the saint’s head. This difference somehow anticipated the scandals of later centuries, when the saint’s head would become the object of many disputes in Paris. Getting back to the Greek texts that interest us here, I should note that the same comparisons to a ‘trophy’ or ‘treasure’ appear in an earlier short note dedicated to saint Denis in the Constantinopolitan Synaxarion. After mentioning the rule of Domitian, the saint’s body walks two miles and gives the head to Katoula, laying the holy ‘treasure’ in her hands.116 The interesting thing is that the story of this martyrdom happens in ‘the West’, where the saint travelled (καταλαβὼν δὲ τὰ ἑσπέρια), even though the city of Paris is not named. Next, there were even faithful adaptations of the Latin life of Hilduin, like the Μετὰ τὴν μακαρίαν καὶ ἐνδοξοτάτην. In this other text, the martyrdom takes place in the city of Paris, the companions 115 Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 435, for the translation: “[…] the stretched-out corpse of the dead bishop, with its hand reaching out, picks up the very head which the terrible battle-axe of the executioner had cut from the body, and with angelic guidance leading the way along the ground, and with the accompanying brilliance of celestial light, he began visibly to carry it cradled in his arms; and a vast heavenly throng is in attendance. While perchance the corpse is bearing the noble head in its hands, proceeding from that hill where he had been martyred, until at last it arrives at the place which conceals the body, and worthily covers it up, buried there by divine assent.” Cf. p. 434, for the original text. For the first identification of Hilduin as author of this metrical version, based on a reference in Sigebert of Gembloux, see Lapidge ed., Hilduin. Cf. Wolfgang Kirsch, Laudes sanctorum. Geschichte der hagiographischen Versepik vom IV. bis X. Jahrhundert, II, Entfaltung (VIII.–X. Jahrhundert) (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 2011), I/1:617–621, who had doubts about this hypothesis, based on the frequence of the rhymes in its leonine hexameters. Cf. Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 151, who reiterates his interpretation, based on a complete inventory of the rhymes of the entire poem. 116 There is also a mention of the saints Roustikos and Eleutherios, whose heads were cut, since they were the companions of saint Denis. Hyppolite Delehaye (ed.), Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae e codice Sirmondiano nunc Berolinensi adiectis synaxariis selectis (Propylœum ad Acta sanctorum novembris) (Brussels: apud Socios Bollandianos, 1902), coll. 101–102.
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are named, the head is carried for two miles, but without any finality, and there is also the story of Katoula who does not receive the head, but prepares a feast to trick the executioners.117 There was also a panegyric by Michael Synkellos, inspired by the Μετὰ τὴν μακαρίαν, since it narrates the story in the same order, including the cephalophoric walk and the episode with Katoula.118 It was already argued that Byzantine literature was a passive receptor of these Frankish hagiographic developments, so it is no surprise that the Greek versions accepted the Western version of the saint’s life, with minor changes. Most of them concerned doctrinal matters, like the filioque, cultural terms that needed to be replaced because they did not exist in the target language, realia, like the elimination of the name for the river Seine.119 Since Greek manuscripts preserving these texts date from the 10th to the 15th century, these accounts should be considered to be the official Byzantine stance on the martyrdom of the saint. This consensus of Greek texts makes me think that the relics of saint Denis could not be kept in one of the main urban centres of Byzantium, such as Constantinople or Thessalonica. If they were kept there, the hagiographic texts would not speak of the saint’s martyrdom in the city of Paris or more generally in the West. However, they could be kept somewhere else. A local tradition could exist and there was a text that spoke of saint Denis martyred in Athens. In fact, the only pre-1205 Greek text presenting this different story is the so-called Menologion of Basil II (technically another synaxarion). Even though the account seems to draw on Western sources, the saint is brought before the archon of Athens, with two unnamed disciples. After many torments, saint Denis is beheaded, but carries his head in his hands for two miles, stopping only before an anonymous Christian woman to whom he gives it for safekeeping. Thereafter the two disciples were also beheaded.120 The only reference of a martyrdom in the city of Athens is therefore the Menologion of Basil II 117 Cf. Pietro Podolak, ‘L’agiografia di Dionigi fra Oriente e Occidente: edizione della Passione greca Μετὰ τὴν μακαρίαν καὶ ἐνδοξοτάτην (BHG 554)’, Byzantion, 87 (2017), 318, for the cephalophoric miracle and the first mention of Katoula. The text is too large to be quoted in a footnote. 118 Cf. Pietro Podolak, ‘L’agiografia di Dionigi fra Oriente e Occidente: breve studio del suo sviluppo ed edizione del Panegirico di Michele Sincello (BHG 556)’, Byzantion, 85 (2015), 254–256, for the two scenes. The text is again too large to be quoted. 119 Stéphanos Efthymiadis, ‘Les premières traductions grecques: La ‘Passion’ anonyme (‘BHG’ 554) et la ‘Passion’ de Méthode (554d)’, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 172/1–2 (2014), 101–114. 120 PG 117:85A.
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and its version dates back to c.1000, more or less two centuries before the arrival of the French crusaders. This rare Byzantine account (of an imperial origin) was the source of the rare Orthodox representations of the saint’s cephalophoric walk (a handful of examples, most of them painted in manuscripts).121 Since it is the only account mentioning his martyrdom in Athens, there is a high probability that this change was not based upon an invention. The martyrdom in Athens looks like a correction to the pre-existing hagiographic account of a Western origin, because all the other features of the story are preserved. However, there is no political gain or motive to determine it, so the most probable hypothesis is that the change was based upon a local tradition. Basil II the Bulgar-Slayer had come to visit Athens and pray in the Parthenon in 1018.122 He certainly did not take an active part in the writing of the Menologion, but those of his entourage could have actually played an important role, deciding to give credence to an Athenian tradition, otherwise unknown. There is also a possible explanation why this Denis became a rara avis in Byzantine hagiography and iconography. The vast majority of hagiographic texts drawing on Western sources could end up silencing such a peripheral tradition. Last but not least, if an Athenian legend of saint Denis passed unnoticed, it would probably be on account of the fact that the cult of this saint was not developed in Byzantium. There were not many churches dedicated to him. In fact, the only structure bearing his name by the time the Fourth Crusaders arrived in the Greek lands was a shadowy monastery from the city of Athens. It is mentioned in the list of religious foundations, churches, and all sorts of possessions that Innocent III had entrusted to the care of the Latin archbishop Berard in 1209. Research holds that this monastery could be located in the proximity of the Areopagus. The present ruins of a church dedicated to saint Denis are indeed preserved under the Areopagus hill, but they date back to the time of the Turkish occupation and there are no traces of earlier church architecture in that area. The only factual proof is a questionable reference provided by Cyriacus of Ancona.123 However, Cyriacus mentioned 121 Cf. Christopher Walter, ‘Three Notes on the Iconography of Dionysius the Areopagite’, Revue des études byzantines, 48 (1990), 268–273. 122 For Basil II in the Parthenon, see Anthony Kaldellis, The Christian Parthenon: Classicism and Pilgrimage in Byzantine Athens (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 81–91. 123 Cf. John Travlos, Alison Frantz, ‘The Church of St. Dionysios the Areopagite and the Palace of the Archbishop of Athens in the 16th Century’, Hesperia, 34 (1965), 164, who
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an aedes Dionysii, a ‘house’ that could be interpreted as a ‘church’ only in a metaphorical sense. An actual ‘house’ of saint Denis would make perfect sense as a pilgrimage attraction, since the Latin tradition presents him as a judge of the Areopagus. This interpretation would also explain the lack of “structural ecclesiastical remains” in the area before the 17th century. Furthermore, the pope’s letter uses the Genitive Sancti Dionysii Areopagitae in connection with a list of monasteria after a sequence of three abbatiae, including an abbey Sancti Siriani.124 This other designation refers to Kesariani, located at a distance of six kilometres from the Acropolis.125 The Athenian monastery of Saint-Denis could be thus located at a distance from the Acropolis, presumably at a site connected with the saint’s martyrdom (if following the tradition from the Menologion of Basil II and not the text of the Greek ‘Lives’ of the saint, drawn from the Latin versions). Maybe research looked in the wrong place for the wrong church. Most research chooses to disregard the lack of archaeological findings at the feet of the Areopagus and imagine a dismantled church.126 It was also implied that this previous Byzantine church was the one mentioned in the fragments of a medieval practicon (list of properties) of a monastery or church from Attica (maybe even Athens). I believe this to be true, and I equally believe that this document predates the Latin occupation, but mention the church of Saint-Denis the Areopagite in the list of churches mentioned in Innocent III’s letter of 1209, and link it to the location of an inscription mentioned by Cyriacus of Ancona in 1436: in Areopago ad aedem Dionysii in quadam marmorea columna (vide infra the next chapter for this inscription in the discussion about the dating of the church of Panagia Gorgoepikoos). For them, these two testimonies of the times before the Tourkokratia would be sufficient enough to infer the location of a previous church dedicated to saint Denis there, “although the recent [i.e. pre-1965] excavation failed to uncover any structural ecclesiastical remains earlier than the existing church, persistent evidence points to some sacred association reaching back for many centuries.” 124 PL 215:1560D–1561A. 125 Cf. PL 215:1560D–1561A. 126 Ch. Bouras acknowledged that archaeological research did not find anything at the foot of the Areopagus, but he chose to disregard these conclusions, quoting an early 19th century study that assumed that a previous church could have been demolished and its material used in the construction of the modern one (Γεώργιος Α. Σωτηρίου, ‘Τὰ ἐρείπια τοῦ παρὰ τὸν Ἄρειον Πάγον βυζαντινοῦ ναοῦ’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 2 (1916), 119–147; cf. Χαράλαμπος Μπούρας, Βυζαντινὴ Ἀθήνα, 10ος–12ος αἱ (Athens: Μουσείου Μπενάκη, 2010), 168. Cf. Elissavet Tzavella, Urban and Rural Landscape in Early and Middle Byzantine Attica (4th–12th c. AD), PhD diss. (University of Birmingham, 2012), 108, for a rejection of an old 19th century hypothesis placing the monastery of Saint-Denis in the area of Ikarion. At the same page, Tzavella simply accepts Bouras’ proposition for the location at the Areopagus, without discussing it.
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this implies that the monastery of Saint-Denis was not at the foothill of the Areopagus.127 Instead, several Athenian possessions of this otherwise unknown religious foundation were located in Elaphos, a place located inside the western segment of the Themistoclean Wall. One of them, an agricultural field, was located between a road, the Wall, the Saint-Marina church (of the Observatory Hill), and an otherwise unidentified monastery of Saint-Denis.128 The phrase concerning that particular field 127 According to the editors of the practicon, the hand that transcribed the fragments of the copy would be a 13th century one (cf. Eugénie Granstrem, Igor Medvedev, Denise Papachryssanthou, ‘Fragment d’un praktikon de la région d’Athènes (avant 1204)’, Revue des études byzantines, 34 (1976), 5), but they do not provide any arguments in favour of their pre-1205 dating of the original document. They just favoured a post-1205 dating automatically, as if Greek documents could not be written after the Latin occupation. Cf. p. 7, who mention nevertheless that deux chiffres latins, vestiges peut-être d’une numérotation, ont été apposés dans la marge supérieure de A2: CCLXI, et de Β2: CCLXII. The quality of the photos published at the end of the article does not permit me to identify these numbers on the folios. According to the editors, il semble que cette numérotation qui a été portée sur les versos date d’une époque où le manuscrit original était déjà désorganisé et ses feuillets rassemblés tant bien que mal. Selon T.P. Voronovoj, ces deux notes latines, aussi bien qu’une troisième (A2 1. 5 marge de gauche, actuellement illisible), peuvent dater du XIVe siècle (p. 7). I cannot take for granted this dating of the Latin numerals (no palaeographical study can be made from two sequences of 5–6 letters), so I would date it broadly to the time of the Frankokratia. This would leave open the issue of the practicon’s initial transcription; it could date from before or after 1205. Thus, the same dating would reflect upon the dating of the monastery of Saint-Denis. I am not as sure (as R. Janin) that the Greeks could not have a monastery dedicated to saint Denis. They could develop a similar tradition to the Coptic one, where the presence of the saint determined the invention of the Areopagus church. However, this does not exclude the possibility of a Latin occupation of the monastery, maybe by the Benedictines. The trouble with Benedictines in post-1205 Greece is that they are ‘inconspicuous’. Very little is known about them and their presence if often guessed based on the mention of a monasterium. Cf. Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders in Medieval Greece, 1204–1500 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 78, 102 (for the quotation). This would correspond to the monastery of Saint-Denis, mentioned in the 1209 letter of pope Innocent III to archbishop Berard. The reason why I incline to not consider it a Latin foundation is its presence among a list of many Greek churches in the letter of Innocent III. 128 Ch. Bouras took the practicon passage out of context when he used it in his monograph of Byzantine Athens. For him, the mention of the wall referred to any wall, such as a medieval wall mentioned by Travlos, Frantz, ‘The Church of St. Dionysios’, 163, in the proximity of the Areopagus; while the rock was the Areopagus itself. Cf. Μπούρας, Βυζαντινὴ Ἀθήνα, 168. This interpretation cannot hold water. The editors of the practicon fragments do not locate the field, the wall, and the rest in the proximity of the Areopagus. Instead, Granstrem, Medvedev, Papachryssanthou, ‘Fragment d’un praktikon’, 27, speak of l’église de Sainte-Marina et les biens du couvent de Saint-Denys as neighbours of the said field, even though the original text actually speaks of the monastery itself. This is because they
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actually says: ‘Another one, to the east the road, to the west the wall, 80 fathoms, to the north Agia Marina and steep rocks, to the south the rocks and the monastery of Saint-Denis, 35 fathoms, 14 modioi’.129 According also wish to locate the monastery of Saint-Denis at the foothill of the Areopagus, but the document did not permit them to do so. 129 For this segment and its context, see the original document edited by Granstrem, Medvedev, Papachryssanthou, ‘Fragment d’un praktikon’, 34 (I give the entire segment concerning the other fields located in the place named Elaphos): Ἐν τῆ τοποθεσία τῆς Ἐλάφου [χωράφιον τρίγωνον, ἀνατο]λὴν τὴν ὁδὸν, δύσιν ὁμοίως, ἀνὰ ὀργυίας λη’, ἄρκτον τὸν Κουρκουρίτζην καὶ τὰ ἴδια, ὀργυίας κη’, μοδίων β’ λιτρῶν κς’ ὀργ[υιῶν β’. Ἕτερον] τὸ πρὸς ἄρκτον τούτου, ἀνατολὴν τὸν Κουρκουρίτζην, δύσιν τὸν δρόμον, ἀνὰ ὀργυίας λ’, ἄρκτον ὁμοίως καὶ μεσημβρίαν τὰ ἴδια δίκαια, ἀνὰ [ὀργυίας κβ’], μοδίων γ’ λιτρῶν ιβ’, τρίτης. Ἕτερον, ἀνατολὴν τὴν ὁδὸν, δύσιν τὸ τεῖχος, ἀνὰ ὀργυίας π’, ἄρκτον τὴν Ἁγίαν Μαρίναν καὶ τὰς ριζ[ιμαίας πέτρας], μεσημβρίαν τὰς πέτρας καὶ τὴν μονὴν τοῦ ἁγίου Διονυσίου, ἀνὰ ὀργυίας λε’, μοδίων ιδ’. Ἕτερον, ἀνατολὴν τὸν δρόμον, ὀργυίας ρ’, δύσιν τὸν […] καὶ τὸ βασιλικὸν τεῖχος, ὀργυίας ρ’, ἄρκτον τὰ οἰκήματα τοῦ Κόψηλλα, τοῦ Χαροκόπου καὶ τοῦ Κωμιδᾶ, ὀργυίας ξδ’, [μεσημβρίαν] τοῦ Θεολόγου τοὺς κρημνοὺς καὶ τοὺς λοιποὺς κληρονόμους, ὀργυίας ρ’, μοδίων μα’, ἐξ ὧν Κοσμᾶ τῶ Πατηταρᾶ χωράφιον [πλησίον] Νικηφόρου τοῦ Βλάχου μοδίων δ’. The editors of the practicon fragments did not therefore respect the text when they made their interpretation. The text does not speak of the possessions of the monastery of Saint-Denis. It speaks about the monastery proper. To cover up their interpretation, the editors quoted as source of their interpretation Raymond Janin, La Géographie ecclésiastique de l’Empire Byzantin, 2. Les églises et les monastères des grands centres Byzantins: Bithynie, Hellespont, Latros, Galèsios, Trébizonde, Athènes, Thessalonique (Paris: L’Institut Français d’Études Byzantines, 1975), 307, 324 (in their note 88 of p. 27). Nevertheless, R. Janin did not state that the church was located at the Areopagus. He actually stated the contrary (that the Areopagus church is of a later date), and did not provide any location for the lost monastery of Saint-Denis: Parmi les biens de la métropole grecque qui passent sous contrôle latin, en 1209 [sic!], figure un monastère Saint-Denys Aréopagite, qui n’est pas attesté auparavant par des documents grecs. Ce monastère reçut probablement son vocable de la part des Latins. Une église ruinée au nord de l’Aréopage ne peut représenter cet ancien monastère; les archéologues avaient surestimé sa date, un peu par souci de retrouver un souvenir des temps primitifs du christianisme, mais l’église n’est pas antérieure au XVIIe siècle. Sur ce point, il faut tenir compte du fait que le nom de saint Denys entra dans le calendrier byzantin à une date plutôt tardive si un culte chrétien était attesté à l’emplacement de l’église dite de Saint-Denys, il ne s’ensuivrait pas que le lieu était dédié autrefois à ce saint (p. 307–308). From this quotation, it is also evident that R. Janin suggests that the SaintDenis monastery would be a post-1205 creation, something that the editors of the practicon fragments ignored when they proposed their dating of the original document. Cf. Kaldellis, The Christian Parthenon, 169, for a similar opinion. Recently, Marco di Branco, La città dei filosofi. Storia di Atene da Marco Aurelio a Giustiniano (Florence: L.S. Olschki, 2006), 208, note 50, contradicted R. Janin, identifying the church of Saint-Denis with a fictional one mentioned in a Coptic sermon: Sicché l’omelia copta tradotta da Amélineau conserverebbe una tradizione ateniese che attribuiva a Dionisio la fondazione di una chiesa di san Michele sull’Areopago; solo successivamente Dionisio si sarebbe imposto come esclusivo ‘nume tutelare’ dell’area. Nevertheless, the Coptic sermon, known better from an Arabic translation, invents a church simply because a sermon needs to be delivered in a church. For more about the Coptic text and its Arabic translation, see Enzo Lucchesi, ‘Regards
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to this exact description, the monastery of Saint-Denis is located in the close proximity of the western segment of the Themistoclean Wall, more precisely to the south of the church of Saint-Marina on the Observatory Hill, being separated from it by the field described in the document. It would be positioned on a different prominence to the south, with a series of rocks at its northern end, the one bordering the field. Furthermore, the road that bordered the same field to the east (the stenopos – main road – of Kollytos) would border the monastery’s eastern and southern sides, before crossing the Diateichisma Wall through the Melitides Gate.130 The field should be identified with the flat ground to the south-south-east of the Agia-Marina hill, in the saddle between Pnyx and the Hill of the Nymphs. The monastery of Saint-Denis would then be located a little further to the South, just above the Melitides Gate (or Gate XV) that was obliterated by local quarrying at an unknown date.131 And this small Athenian monastery may be an actual candidate for the point of origin of the 1215 translation of the Greek relics of saint Denis. For unknown reasons, the monastery did not last long after 1205. It is not mentioned in other documents and the Latin marginal notes on the practicon’s 13th century copy cannot be taken as a sign that all the religious foundations mentioned as neighbours of those fields were still active during the Latin occupation, as they would have been at the time when the original practicon was written. The disappearance of this monastery of Saint-Denis sometime in the 13th century may be linked to its gradual loos of importance. I cannot help but to conjecture that it would lose its importance if it lost its relics or because it upheld the tradition of an Athenian martyrdom of saint Denis (wrongful nouveaux sur la littérature copte’, in Paola Buzi, Alberto Camplani (dir.), Christianity in Egypt: Literary Production and Intellectual Trends. Studies in honor of Tito Orlandi (Rome: Istituto Patristico Augustinianum, 2011), 396–403. 130 Maria Kazanaki-Lappa, ‘Medieval Athens’, in Angeliki Laiou (dir.), The Economic History of Byzantium from the Seventh through the Fifteenth Century (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2002), 643–644, who briefly mentions the practicon, treats all mentions of walls in connection with the fields from the place known as Elaphos as τὸ βασιλικὸν τεῖχος, identified with the Valerian Wall. Cf. Anna Maria Theocharaki, The Ancient Circuit Walls of Athens, trans. Robert K. Pitt (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), 54, for the same interpretation. However, the practicon makes a distinction between a certain unspecified wall and the precisely identified ‘royal wall’ that actually corresponds to the state of the Diateichisma north (damaged section) and south (Diateichisma) of the Otryneon street in the vicinity of the Agia-Marina hill. 131 Cf. John Travlos, Pictorial Dictionary of Ancient Athens (New York: Praeger Publishers/ German Archaeological Institute, 1971), 161, 168–169.
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in the eyes of the Latins), but this is impossible to prove. Maybe it was not very important from the start. It could be a local foundation dedicated to the memory of a not-very-important saint in the Byzantine calendar. This may also explain why Michael Choniates does not mention it in any of his letters. He only dealt with the important monasteries of the former metropolitan see of Athens, and sometimes not even with all of those. For instance, he does not even mention the monastery of Daphni.
…
If Choniates knew or not what happened to the relics of saint Denis in the West, this is of little importance. Likewise, little does it matter if he knew what happened to the monastery of Saint-Denis in Athens. We should concentrate more on his opinions about how the Greek monks were getting along with Latins. Perhaps now more than ever Choniates would perfectly understand how Nicholas of Otranto felt: an Orthodox Greek living under Latin rule. He would not think harshly of the Italian monk, for he would not like to be judged harshly either. Choniates would try to make peace with himself, as he had desperately tried in the previous years, especially when more earthly matters were involved. In a letter addressed to the hegumen of Kesariani (sometime after 1210), Choniates said that certain Latins and Greeks thought that he had saved a lot of money when he held the office of metropolitan, and that he had taken that fortune with him in exile, to use it for himself and for his familiars. He also made the curious allegation that the cathegumen might be of the same opinion (ἴσως γὰρ καὶ σὺ).132 In the following passage, he wrote that if the cathegumen were of this opinion, he would be mistaken (ἀλλ’ εἴπερ τοιαῦτα καὶ σὺ διαλογίζῃ περὶ ἡμῶν, εὖ ἴσθι, ὡς πεπλάνησαι, ἄδελφε).133 After speaking about God who tested their hearts and minds, the old metropolitan provided an unusual explanation for his lack of means. He did not gain much in Athens and he had to spend his fortune in order to pay for three voyages: the one that he made to Thessalonica, in order to meet with the cardinal (ταῦτα ἐπαναπλεύσαντες εἰς Θεσσαλονίκην παρὰ τὸν καρδινάριον), another one for his return trip to Euboea, where he must have accompanied Theodore, bishop of Evripos, and finally the voyage that led him to the island of Kea. Berard the French had probably occupied the Athenian see by then and prepared his voyage to Syria in the company of the archbishop of
132 For the entire passage, see Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 156, p. 251, lines 23–28. 133 Ibid., letter 156, p. 251, lines 29–30.
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Thebes, where both of them were to be consecrated.134 This meant that by that time Choniates had truly lost everything upon his return from Thessalonica. Since then, poor Choniates only counted on the divine eternal treasures – other people’s help – and did not really need much of anything else.135 It was argued that in this letter Choniates “lets down his guard, and even goes so far as to offer counsel conspicuously out of place on the lips of a self-declared adversary of the new regime,”136 since the first phrase of the letter speaks about the cathegumen of Kesariani as one serving by all means the despots of the moment and fulfilling what they had in mind (ἔδει, τιμιώτατε καθηγούμενε τῆς σεβασμίας μονῆς τῆς Καισαριανῆς, καὶ τοὺς παρόντας μὲν δεσπότας θεραπεύειν παντοίως καὶ ἀποπληροῦν τὰ καταθύμια αὐτοῖς).137 Nevertheless, Choniates would be one of those Greek scholars who impressed Benedict of Saint-Susanne. It is quite possible that the cardinal and Nicholas of Otranto, his interpreter, had the same effect upon him, therefore explaining our archbishop’s nuanced stance. On the other hand, the quotation is taken out of context. The letter concerns some matters of monastic administration (also pertaining to ten beehives) in which a hypomnematographus and a monk helping Choniates were involved. Choniates complained about the lack of answers from the cathegumen of Kesariani and the whole story about the Latins was a supposition of the old metropolitan, not a certitude. Since there is no trace of irony in his phrasing, it may well be an exaggeration meant to force the cathegumen to respect the wish of Choniates, being pressured by a possible finger-pointing to his alleged collaboration with the Latins. If this were so, the end of the letter, where Choniates wrote about his trip to Thessalonica, Euboea, and finally to Kea, would be a prudent way of assuring himself that he did cross the line and the cathegumen would not be insulted by his assumptions. Choniates would thus admit his own mistakes for the sake of looking human. He knew what the cathegumen had to do in order to stay alive and tend to his flock. Or maybe Choniates was simply speculating the cathegumen’s contempt for the Latins, trying to find common ground and use it to his own advantage. From the early encounters with the Westerners, the Greek monks had all sorts of cultural shocks. In the Constantine Stilbès list of grievances, a certain item 134 See e.g. Jean Longnon, ‘L’organisation de l’église d’Athènes par Innocent III’, in Archives de l’Orient Chrétien, 1, Mémorial Louis Petit: mélanges d’histoire et d’archéologie byzantines (Bucharest: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1948), 337. 135 For the entire passage, see Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 156, p. 251, lines 33–38. 136 Teresa Shawcross, ‘The Lost Generation (c.1204–c.1222): Political Allegiance and Local Interests under the Impact of the Fourth Crusade’, in Judith Herrin, Guillaume Saint-Guillain (dir.), Identities and Allegiances in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204 (Farnham/Burlington: Ashgate, 2011), 21. 137 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 156, pp. 250–251, lines 1–3.
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concerns the Western monks who consume the fat and the pork rind that remains with the flesh. Stilbès then proceeds with further details, mentioning that under the pretext of some illness, all (monks and laity) ate meat during the holy and great Lent. And if a monk were ordained bishop, he would be allowed to eat meat at will.138 This explains the early clashes in the Orthodox monasteries occupied by the Latins. Even colour-codes could be at the origin of certain disputes.139 We should imagine that such clashes were less theological and more practical at first, simply because the Greek and Western monks had to live together. They had to share the same space. There is a slight possibility that Kesariani had its own share of Latin monks, or that it was in contact with them. It was long believed that the church of Saint-Mark, in the proximity of the old basilica of the monastery, in the so-called ‘Cemetery of the Fathers’ (Κοιμητήριον τῶν Πατέρων), was built as a consequence of the fact that the old catholicon of the monastery was given to the Latin monks in the first years of the occupation, while the Greek monastic community had to occupy the newer site. However, the dating of the Saint-Mark church is completely unclear (it could just as well date back to recent times),140 and there is no actual proof that the Latins lived in the monastery proper. The often-quoted 1209 letter of pope Innocent III mentions Kesariani (corrupted as the abbey of ‘Saint-Syrian’ – abbatia sancti Siriani) in a list of possessions of the Church of Athens. It is safe to assume that the list was compiled by the newly installed archbishop Berard and sent to the pope for endorsement, explaining thus the corruption of the abbey’s name. Berard probably did not speak Greek, he just needed an act confirming his control over bishoprics, houses, churches of all sorts, mills, gardens, orchards, etc. Kesariani was simply the first among 138 Darrouzès, ‘Le mémoire’, 80. 139 When criticizing the Latin secular and regular clergy, Constantine Stilbès mentioned what seemed strange to him: certain people said that some monks were dressed entirely in white as a sign of virtue and purity, and the people called them Whites. Cf. ibid., 78. 140 For the old assumptions about the Frankish nature of the church of Saint-Mark on the old site of Kesariani, see Αναστάσιος Κ. Ορλάνδος, Ευρετήριον Μεσαιωνικών Μνημείων της Ελλάδος, Γ΄. Μεσαιωνικά Μνημεία της πεδιάδος των Αθηνών και των κλιτύων Υμηττού- Πεντελικού- Πάρνηθος και Αιγάλεω (Athens, 1933), 163–164. According to Δημήτριος Καμπούρογλου, Ιστορία των Αθηναίων: Τουρκοκρατία περίοδος πρώτη 1458–1687 (Athens: Βιβλιοπωλείον της Εστίας, 1896) 2:200–201, the recent dedication of the church to Saint-Mark dates only to the Venetian occupation of 1687, even though the church could be older. For a recent research concerning the chronology of the monument, see Γουλιέλμος Ορεστίδης, Κωνσταντίνα Φράγκου, ‘Ο Άγιος Μάρκος – Φραγκομονάστηρο στο λόφο των Ταξιαρχών στον Υμηττό’, online at the site www.archaiologia.gr, 24 March 2015 (Accessed 2020 May 22), who emphasize the absence of concrete proof concerning the chronology of the church of Saint-Mark and suggest only that it could have been built as a chapel of the old catholicon at a time when the latter was still standing.
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the abbeys mentioned in that list.141 It is therefore plausible that the abbot of Kesariani was simply doing the Latins’ bidding. Choniates could not accuse him of anything. By the time Choniates wrote this letter, the Cistercians probably occupied the monastery of Daphni, close to Athens, which they called either Dalphinet or Laurum, the latter being a translation of the Greek name.142 Nothing is known about what happened there in the first decades of the occupation, but
141 Cf. PL 215:1560D–1561A. 142 Jean Richard, ‘Laurum: une abbaye cistercienne fantôme’, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 129/2 (1971), 409–410. Even though research dates their presence there since 1207/1211, depending on a late 19th century interpretation. I prefer to imagine the arrival of the Cistercians in the first decade of the occupation, until an accurate study of the Cistercian tabulae abbatiarum will shed new light on this matter. See e.g. Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, The Western Religious Orders in Medieval Greece, PhD diss. (University of Leeds, 2008), 68: “Otto de la Roche, lord of Athens, made the donation of the prestigious Greek monastery of Daphni (near Athens) to the Cistercian Order as early as 1207. It is agreed, though, that the Cistercian monks did not take possession of the house until 1211.” Cf. Gabriel Millet, Le Monastère de Daphni: histoire, architecture, mosaïques (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1899), 31: Daphni n’est pas porté sur les meilleures listes [of the catalogues of Cistercian foundations revised in 1217]. Quelques-unes, toutes dérivées d’un même original, le catalogue d’Ebrach, et fort sujettes à caution, donnent 1207; une seule rapporte la fondation à 1211: bien que rédigée sans beaucoup de soin, elle mérite plus de confiance, car ses sources remontent au XVe et même au XIIIe siècle, et l’on peut constater que, pour la Grèce, elle est plus sûre que les listes ébraciennes. Le monastère, simplement occupé en 1207, ne reçut une communauté u’en 1211. According to Millet, note 4 of the same page, 1211 appears in Paris, BnF, f. lat. 13 823, fol. 17r, no. 640: de Delphino 1211, preferable to 1207, the date proposed by Leopold Janauschek, Originum Cisterciensium (Vienna: Hoelder, 1877) 1:214: Dalphinum a. 1207 ab eo [i.e. Otto de la Roche] fundatum esse a verisimilitudine non abhorret (SC. E. A. EM. L. La [manuscript sigla]; 1211: Pa [manuscript siglum]; cf. Millet, Le monastère, 31, note 5). Indeed, the online greyscale facsimile of this manuscript contains the reference 640. De Delphino Eod. after the mention of 1211 in a previous foundation date of the same fol. 17r (= p. 25). However, this manuscript dates back to the 17th century, a detail that G. Millet omitted, speaking of its presumed 15th and (maybe) 13th century sources. Furthermore, it is also full of corrections for various dates (see above, fol. 17r). The actual problem concerning the dating of the Cistercian arrival in Daphni may not be the rewriting of the lists in 1217, as implied by G. Millet, but the manipulations of the foundation dates during the 13th century. They were subject to changes determined by various reasons, including monetary transactions, and the mention of a year in a certain list does not automatically suggest that the said dating is correct. For an introduction into the complicated matter of the manipulation of Cistercian foundation dates in the 13th century, see the first part of Alexis Grélois, ‘Au-delà des catalogues: pour une étude à frais nouveau de l’expansion cistercienne dans la France de l’Ouest’, Annales de Bretagne et des Pays de l’Ouest, 120/3 (2013), 154–169. A thorough study of the tabulae abbatiarum and catalogi needs to be made before any conclusion about the dating of the Cistercian arrival in Daphni is reached.
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the Greek monks who were deprived of their foundation unquestionably suffered. The letter sent by Choniates to the cathegumen of Kesariani thus alluded to actual misfortunes. Maybe the latter tried to avoid a situation like the one that had happened in Chortaiton, in the proximity of Thessalonica.143 Nothing is known about Chortaiton’s Latin history either, except from some ambiguous papal letters, but there is a tale to tell. It is presumed that Chortaiton was founded by Greek monks fleeing the Latins, but it could be founded before, as it was already prosperous, full of riches, and home to two hundred Greek monks before the Latin occupation.144 Chortaiton was given by Boniface of Montferrat to the Cistercians in 1205, on account of the pleas of Peter, abbot of the Cistercian monastery of Lucedio, one of the key participants to the Fourth Crusade. Before returning to the West, Peter of Lucedio had left monk G(eoffrey?) in charge as abbot. The latter behaved ‘like a wolf’. He sold the abbot’s treasury and precious objects, thereafter running away in secret. Next came a certain monk R(oger) from the Cistercian mother house of Lucedio. He pretended to be pure as an angel, so Boniface entrusted him with the governance of the monastery, but in truth he acted as if he were the previous abbot’s ‘teacher’, not ‘brother’ or ‘disciple’. He destroyed the cells and houses, uprooted a wonderful olive grove, as beautiful as paradise on earth, selling its wood as if he were a timber merchant. The new abbot’s greed was so great that he sold all the livestock. Boniface was greatly bothered by such news. When the (Greek?) monks informed him of what had happened, he could not stand the ruin of such a magnificent monastery, so he chased away the trouble-maker, called them back, and entrusted them with the monastery in perpetuity. After Boniface’s death, the Latin emperor Henry I was informed of what happened there, so he confirmed Boniface’s decision through a chrysobull, but other monks of Lucedio came to the monastery with letters from the pope and chased away the Greeks. Boniface’s eldest son, William, may have been the instigator, as he tried to lay his hands on his father’s conquests, depriving his young half-brother Demetrius of his crown.145 143 For the identification of this monastery from later testimonies, see Άπ. Βακαλόπουλος, ‘Ή παρὰ τὴν Θεσσαλονίκην βυζαντινὴ μονὴ τοῦ Χορταΐτου’, Ἐπετηρὶς Ἐταιρείας Βυζαντινῶν Σπουδῶν, 15 (1939), 280–287. For the Greek monasteries during the Latin rule in general, see Ludivine Voisin, ‘Comme un loup poursuivant un mouton …’: Les monastères grecs sous domination latine (XIIIe–XVIe siècle), 2 vols, PhD diss. (University of Rouen, 2011). 144 Cf. Tsougarakis, The Western Religious Orders, 64. However, one of the letters of the pope mentions that Chortaiton was established as an imperial monastery ( fuerit ab antiquo et soli Constantinopolitano imperatori subiectum). 145 Cf. Κωνσταντίνος Φ. Μπατσιόλας, Οι επιστολές του Πάπα Ιννοκεντίου Γ΄ προς τη λατινική κοινότητα της Θεσσαλονίκης, MA paper (University of Thessalonica, 2018), 191–198, even though I am not sure that the Chortaiton monastery could play such an essential role in the complex political situation of the time.
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Finally, the Greek monks wrote to the pope, explaining the situation. The pope pretended that he never intended to oppose the chrysobull (quibus ob reverentiam apostolici mandati non fuit ausus contradicere imperator), implying that he may have been led into error, even though he did not yet accept this possibility. He found an easy way out: he asked cardinal Pelagius of Albano, to make an inquiry.146 Nevertheless, since another papal letter confirms the presence of the Cistercian monks in Chortaiton in 1219, it seems that nothing had changed. The Greeks had lost control of the monastery once again. Furthermore, the Latins had established a daughter-house in Euboea that had to change its mother-house in 1224. This suggests that the Cistercians controlled Chortaiton until the final siege and subsequent fall of Thessalonica to Theodore Comnenus Doucas (December 1224).147 To the Greek clergymen and monks, these Cistercians were beasts of prey masquerading as monks, false prophets, coming in sheep’s clothing, yet inwardly as ravening as actual wolves. Choniates knew those Latin clergymen as such, he probably knew well what had happened in Daphni, the imperial monastery of Athens, and he called them by their ‘true’ name many times. But he also knew that times were hard. He would remember the story of the Latin bishop dressed as a warrior who raised the cross with both hands like a standard, and rode at the head of the Latin army in the fight against Constantinople (ἐπίσκοπος ἔνοπλος καὶ σταυρὸν ταῖν χεροῖν ὥς τίνα σημαίαν ἀνέχων προίππευσεν αὐτῶν ἐν τῂ κατὰ τῆς Πόλεως μάχῃ).148 The old metropolitan turned a blind eye to the compromises that fellow Greek clergymen had to put up with.
…
A couple of years earlier, at the end of 1208, one of his old colleagues had a clash with the Latin archbishop and the pope apparently protected him. Theodore, 146 For the source of this paragraph, see the letter of Innocent III, in PL 216:950D–952C. For the previous letter of the pope, used by the Cistercians to chase away the Greek monks in the summer of 1212, see the pope’s letter to the abbot and brothers of Lucedio, in PL 216:594B–595B. Monk Roger is therein described as an ‘esteemed son’, while emperor Henry is ‘beloved’, but he wrongly and violently chased the Cistercians out. I am not interested in finding a justification of the Cistercian actions (cf. Tsougarakis, The Western Religious Orders, 66–67, for a synthesis of previous hypotheses, including the “deliberate attempt to create a wasteland,” as proposed by Brenda Bolton, ‘A Mission to the Orthodox? The Cistercians in Romania’, Studies in Church History, 13 (1976), 176. We know absolutely nothing about the monks G(eoffrey?) and R(oger), so it is ill-advised to conjecture about their actions. 147 Cf. Tsougarakis, The Western Religious Orders, 66–67. 148 Darrouzès, ‘Le mémoire’, 84.
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bishop of Evripos (Negroponte for the Latins), had accepted the authority of the pope following the meetings with the cardinal in Thessalonica. We do not know if Choniates blamed Theodore in private, but he knew that such compromises had to be made, for the sake of the flock. He would not necessarily mind, at least not in public. Especially in those early days, when the Latins were unyielding, and the Greek hierarchs could not negotiate. In those early days of the conquest, when Choniates, Theodore, and other Greek hierarchs met with Benedict of Saint-Susanne, the cardinal was interested in discussing with them, but his tone must have been rather aggressive. Benedict would start with quotation from Ezekiel 37:19: “Thus says the Lord God, ‘Behold, I will take the stick of Joseph, which is in the hand of Ephraim, and the tribes of Israel, his companions; and I will put them with it, with the stick of Judah, and make them one stick, and they will be one in My hand’.” Those words were harsh and threatening. The cardinal would not be using them out of his free will. He would follow the strict instructions given by the pope, for they were clearly stated in a letter addressed to new Latin emperor of Constantinople on 15 May 1205.149 In those early days, Choniates, Theodore, and the other Greek hierarchs whom Benedict met with in the newly occupied lands were not happy that the pope compared them to Jeroboam, the one who alienated the northern part of the kingdom of Solomon, building temples for golden calves. It would be an insult, as the rest of pope’s speech, for it followed odd assumptions: that God had established Peter as head and master of a sole Church (beatum Petrum caput constituit et magistrum); that He had left the Church in Peter’s care, just as the ark had been in the care of Noah; that the Greeks ignored this, wandering far from their companions’ flock; that they were like Ephraim. And the pope insisted, quoting from Hosea 7:11, “so Ephraim has become like a silly dove, without sense; they call to Egypt, they go to Assyria.” The Greeks would be of course of a different opinion. They would believe that the Westerners had strayed away, but they would have to silence their voices and deal with the situation at hand. The pope also wrote about sins and leavened bread, returning again to the same story of Ephraim and concluding that the ones who held the empire of the Greeks in previous times had been disobedient and superstitious. That it was a good thing that their empire was transferred to the ‘sons of devoted obedience’. If he followed the words of the pope, the cardinal would next speak about the manner in which a translatio ritus sacerdotii had to follow 149 The contents of the next paragraph are adapted from the letter of the pope. Cf. PL 215:622C–624B.
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the already established translatio imperii. These words would certainly sound strange to the ears of the Greeks. Such notions must have astonished them, as they would not understand how Westerners could twist the four kingdoms of the book of Daniel and the early interpretation of saint Jerome into a weird theory based on the movement of the sun and earthly power.150 Yet the pope wrote about this and compared their acceptance of Rome’s dominion and unleavened bread to the return of Ephraim in the arms of Judah. Benedict was prudent and discriminating, a learned and honest man, so he was entrusted with the eradication and destruction, as well as with the building and planting (efficacius et validius evellat et destruat, aedificet et plantet), as in the prophecy of Jeremiah 1:10.151 The pope had forgotten the words of Jeremiah 24:6, which spoke of construction instead of destruction and of planting instead of eradication.152 In those early days, he considered the Greeks to be rebels, thus his obsession with obedience. The sole purpose of Benedict’s visit to the Byzantine lands was the establishing of this obedience. When Greek prelates were scared into obedience, the pope in Rome had every intention to protect them, and he kept them in office. For a while. So, the pope wrote to the archbishop of Neopatras (another Greek who had kept his see), to the bishop of Davlia, and to the abbot of the monastery of Saint-Luke from the bishopric of Negroponte, confirming to them that Theodore had indeed sworn obedience to Benedict of Saint-Susanne, cardinal and apostolic legate of the sacrosanct Roman Church, and that the cardinal had confirmed him in his see of Negroponte. Theodore had all the reasons to make a complaint when the archbishop of Athens seized the opportunity to replace him, on the pretext that he had apparently resisted to an additional anointing.153 Berard had done this in spite of the apostolic decision, trying to replace him with someone chosen from his list of protégées. The three hierarchs 150 Daniel 2:39–40: “After you there will arise another kingdom inferior to you, then another third kingdom of bronze, which will rule over all the earth. Then there will be a fourth kingdom as strong as iron; inasmuch as iron crushes and shatters all things, so, like iron that breaks in pieces, it will crush and break all these in pieces.” For the idea of translatio imperii and its links with the Old Testament text, see Jacques Le Goff, La Civilisation de l’Occident médiéval (Paris: Arthaud, 1964), 196–197. The idea was rapidly assimilated by vernacular authors. In the 12th century, Chrétien of Troyes used it in his romance of Cligès. 151 Jeremiah 1:10: “See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” 152 Jeremiah 24:6: “I will set my eyes upon them for good, and I will bring them back to this land. I will build them up, and not tear them down; I will plant them, and not pluck them up.” 153 For a different opinion (that archbishop Berard was truly bothered by Theodore’s resistance to the anointing and nothing else), see Joseph Gill, ‘Innocent III and the Greeks:
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had to act in the pope’s stead, removing all obstacles, so that Theodore might be reinstated in his bishopric. And to ensure that he will not be molested in the future.154 The follow-up of the affair is unknown. We do not know if Theodore managed to stay long in his bishopric. Berard, the quarrelsome French archbishop, had the advantageous Latin canon law on his side (iuxta consuetudinem Latinorum) and the pope granted him in 1209 the request that the church of Athens be accorded the customs of the church of Paris. In other words, Berard had the right to organize his archdiocese the way he wanted, according to the French way, but a series of odd facts suggest that Theodore occupied his see until at least 1216.155 Anyway, he probably ceased to be bishop of Negroponte sometime before 11 March 1222, when the new pope Honorius III confirmed the merging of the sees of Avlona, Karystos, and Oreos with the bishopric of Negroponte. The restructuring of these sees is a sign that the statu quo was no longer acceptable by then.156 Perhaps Theodore was the bishop who greeted Henry I, Latin emperor of Constantinople (1206–1216), when he came to Negroponte after the siege of Thebes. Choniates could also learn about that story. The chronicle of Henry of Valenciennes mentions the passage of the emperor through Negroponte. It was there, in the present city of Chalkida, that Ravano dalle Carceri, lord of Euboea, thwarted a plot to kill the emperor. Yet before that event, the local Greeks living in the town and in the neighbouring villages had welcomed emperor Henry, Aggressor or Apostle?’, in Derek Baker (dir.), Relations Between East and West in the Middle Ages (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1973), 99. 154 For the text of the pope’s letter, see PL 215:1492C–1493A. Cf. Longnon, ‘L’organisation’, 342. 155 The absence of a Negroponte bishop at the second parliament of Ravennika, in 1210, where the archbishop of Athens had brought the faithful bishops of his archdiocese to discuss matters concerning the organization of the Latin Church, may be a sign that Berard did not manage to replace Theodore with a protegee of his. Another proof comes from a letter by Michael Choniates to the ruler of Epirus and Thessaly, Theodore Comnenus Doucas (1215–1230), where the former Athenian metropolitan mentioned his passage through Euboea (where he probably expected to be protected) on his way to the monastery of Thermopylae. For both references, vide infra in this chapter. 156 For an edition of the original document, see Petrus Pressutti (ed.), Regesta Honorii Papae III, iussu et munificentia Leonis XIII Pontificis Maximi, ex Vaticanis archetypis aliisque fontibus (Rome: ex typographia Vaticana, 1895) 2:50, no. 3844. Cf. Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, Der Episkopat im späten Byzanz. Ein Verzeichnis der Metropoliten und Bischöfe des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel in der Zeit von 1204 bis 1453 (Saarbrücken: Dr. Müller, 2008), 52–54. Avlona had been a suffragan bishopric of Athens and had a separate Latin bishop once again by 1240. Oreos had also been a suffragan of Athens. As for Karystos, it was the see of Bardanes, one of the addressees of Choniates (who expected flour sent by Bardanes), until c.1206/1208.
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whose care for his Orthodox subjects was known. Beating the drums and sounding the trumpets, the ‘Griffins’ – as the French called them – escorted Henry to an otherwise unidentified church dedicated to the Mother of God, where the emperor prayed, probably in the company of bishop Theodore.157 This description seems copied after Henry’s previous entrance to Thebes, where the emperor dismounted, so that the local archbishop and clergy may lead him to the church. It is probable that the first thing the emperor did when he arrived in a town was to pray in the local church. Perhaps the earth indeed trembled at the sound of trumpets and drums, perhaps the Euboeote priests, archons and their women also came to greet him, as did the archons of Thebes. And perhaps they also shouted ‘long live’ and ‘many years’ to the emperor.158 Or maybe they welcomed him with icons, as they did in Larissa (Halmyros).159 Similar scenes happened during Henry’s two-day stay in Athens. The chronicle does not mention any musical instruments and cheering crowds, but the emperor climbed the Acropolis to pray in the Parthenon, imitating Basil II, and Otto de la Roche feasted with him for two days, before Henry left for Negroponte.160 Would Berard, bishop of Athens, be jealous of the bishop of Negroponte, since the latter had the emperor in his town for three days instead of two? Or would Berard, already an enemy of Otto de la Roche by that time, be simply out of favour, placed somewhere at the end of the table during the Acropolis banquet of 1209? We do not know, but Choniates surely knew. Even in those times, news travelled fast, gossip was as interesting as ever, and he had his sources both in Athens and in Negroponte. Choniates would certainly know about the emperor, the plot, and Ravano’s actions. If Theodore was reinstated in his see, he would meet Ravano’s mistress and subsequent wife, one the women troubadours of the early 13th century, the famous Isabella.161 What would bishop Theodore, a learned man and reader of commentaries to the Epistles of saint Paul, think when he would see a courteous adulterous lady, still bonded or not to her husband by marriage? What would he think when he would hear her perform at the court of her lover, lord Ravano? She probably sang a dialogued tenso co-written with a former lover, Elias Cairel (c.1204–1222). Maybe bishop Theodore gradually learnt how to deal with these people, but other Greek clergymen would be shocked and stunned. 157 158 159 160 161
For the original text, see Longnon ed., Henri de Valenciennes, 166. For the original text, see ibid., 111. Ibid., 105. Ibid., 115. Giosuè Lachin, Il trovatore Elias Cairel (Modena: Mucchi, 2004), 88–90, 128–132, 249, passim. Ravano dale Carceri was married to Isabella following a papal dispensation given on 25 May 1212, but they had already been living together for a long time. Cf. PL 216:613B.
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People like priest Basil, for instance, would also tell Choniates stories about the trobairitz when he brought him letters from Theodore. We can easily imagine the jaw of the old metropolitan dropping when he learnt that a lady co-wrote love songs with her former lover, who was a jewel-maker and armourer turned minstrel and crusader. And that she sang them everywhere, shamelessly. The lady’s part in that two-voiced song did not hide behind any innuendos. It was plainly intimate and direct: Elias Cairel, I want to know the truth about the love we two once had; so tell me, please, why you’ve given it to someone else. For your song doesn’t sound the way it did, and I never held myself back from you, nor did you once demand such love from me but that I wasn’t instantly at your command.162 Such a song would be performed at a banquet (chamotsoukin in the Chronicle of Morea), where both Latins and Greeks would ‘eat and make merry, and joust; and hold dances and games past counting’.163 Choniates would not believe his ears. If he were a modern man, he would call it ‘surreal’. Nevertheless, Choniates would understand why Theodore probably had to hide his feelings as if he would not care about a woman casually linked to three men. Theodore would need to appease his Veronese lord. Ravano would be an enemy of the Athenian archbishop. Three years later, in 1212, that awful Berard excommunicated Ravano. On that occasion, the pope admonished the Latin archbishop of Athens for a second time about his dealings in the matters of Euboea. Innocent III wrote that the nerve of ecclesiastical discipline was certainly useful in triumphing upon the insolence of the corrupted ones, but not in oppressing 162 Meg Bogin, The Women Troubadours (Scarborough: Paddington Press, 1976), 111 (translation). Cf. p. 110, for the original text. 163 I paraphrased here a passage from the Greek Chronicle of Morea. Cf. Harold E. Lurier (trans.), Crusaders as Conquerors: The Chronicle of Morea (New York/London: Columbia University Press, 1964), 141: “Thereupon Sir Geoffroy sent out a general invitation and invited everyone, small and great, and gave a chamotsoukin, as the Romans call it; and they ate and made merry, and they jousted; they held dances and games past counting.” For the original text, see Πέτρος Καλονάρος (ed.), Χρονικόν του Μορέως (Athens: Εκάτη, 1940), 101. The word χαμοτσοῦκιν (or χαμαιτζίκιον) seems to refer to a banquet. In pre-1205 times, it used to describe a feast with strong religious connotations, as testified by its use in the works of Nicetas Choniates. Cf. Φαίδων Κουκουλές, ‘Γεύματα, δείπνα και συμπόσια των Βυζαντινών’, Εταιρεία Βυζαντινών Σπουδών, 1 (1933), 146.
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innocents, since Ravano was an irreproachable lord.164 Irreproachable or not, the pope did not meet the Veronese and his trobairitz in person, so maybe Berard would not be in the wrong. Poor bishop Theodore would also wonder if he was doing right in the eyes of the Lord. From the Greek bishop’s point of view, lord Ravano had no scruples, as he changed allegiances and loyalties from the king of Thessalonica to the Venetians and later on to the emperor of Constantinople. But Ravano was the lord that the Greeks needed and even those Venetians were not bad. When Ravano asked his brother, the bishop of Mantua, to draw an alliance between him and the Venice, Theodore would probably be happy, as the Venetians did not interfere in matters of Greek Orthodox faith. Speaking of the faith, Choniates would also remember that Ravano had met with his fellow Latin ‘beasts’ a year or so after the emperor’s visit to Negroponte. During the second parliament of Ravennika (1210), lord Ravano had joined Otto de la Roche of Athens, Guido Pallavicini of Mendenitsa, Rainer of Travaglia, Albertino of Canossa, Thomas of Autremencourt lord of Salona, Berthold of Katzenelnbogen, Nicholas I of Saint-Omer, and others for a debate with the representatives of the patriarch of Constantinople and the Latins hierarchs of their lands. There were many ecclesiastical figures at that meeting. One of them was Berard of Athens, attended by his fellow archbishops of Heraclea, Larissa, and Neopatras. There were also many bishops, including the bishop of Davlia. There were cantors, deans, priests, as well as the two chaplains of the Latin emperor. There were even the archdeacon of Thebes and the dean of Davlia.165 It was a large assembly, with one Greek prelate present, the archbishop of Neopatras, but that one was a traitor and a former priest who had fought in the army of Sgouros. Sgouros was the tyrant whom Choniates hated more than the Latins. Even now, when Sgouros was dead. That bishop of Neopatras had been one of the three prelates responsible for Theodore’s 1208 reinstatement, but this did not mean that he was an actual friend of Theodore. The traitor must have done what he did because he was compelled to do it. 164 See the pope’s letter the bishop of Athens, sent about the same time as the letter concerning Ravano’s marriage. Cf. PL 216:613B. The pope’s letter states that the lady’s husband had died before she started living with Ravano dale Carceri, yet this does not mean that the pope was told the truth of the matter. The archbishop of Athens could have been tempted to excommunicate Ravano because of his adulterous liaison, because of his dealings with the Greeks, or because of both reasons at the same time. Cf. Kenneth M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), 1: The Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries (Philadelphia: The American Philosophical Society, 1976), 411. 165 For this list, see a later text of pope Honorius III which lists the decisions and attendees of this parliament. Cf. PL 216:970C–D, 972A–B.
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Poor Theodore would have no place to join him at a meeting where Latin secular and ecclesiastical powers decided upon the administrative matters of the Church. Everybody must have known that the archbishop of Neopatras was living a perverse life, that he was interested more in earthly affairs and money. He probably profited from the arrival of the Latins, cutting his long hair (he used to be a Greek priest) in order to take the see of Neopatras, where he had been nominated as archbishop. Choniates and the other old hierarchs would be scandalised. Theodore may have been scandalised as well. But the traitor lived well under the reign of the Latins. For a while. At least this is what the local chapter wrote to the pope, and the pope ordered an inquiry into the prelate’s behaviour on 18 September 1211. The trouble was not only that he had been discovered. Many people would know that the archbishop of Neopatras used to be a priest, but this did not stop him from taking up arms and fighting like a layman in the army of Sgouros, lord of Corinth, for more than a year, killing Latins. The real problem was that now, when he occupied the see, he acted like a heretic. He despised the celebration and attendance of the Holy Mass. He did the Liturgy of the Hours by himself, without the chanting of the servants of the Church, and he embezzled the Church’s money. It did not matter that he had sworn in front of all the lords and fellow clergymen at the council of Ravennika, promising to give the patriarch what was duly his. When Thomas Morosini, the Latin patriarch of Constantinople, died in July 1211, this traitor Greek and former goon of Sgouros deprived the canons of their rights. Moreover, he gave the order to some servants of his to hang by the neck a certain monk, in his habit, and a priest whom he had promoted to the office of presbyter himself, as well as three laymen of the Church. At the cost of his own salvation, he was the one who gave those servants the rope, compelling them to do so.166 This was the man who had helped Theodore, the man who was supposed to protect him from further attacks from the Latins. In 1210, after Ravennika, Theodore would be happy to learn that church properties were exempt from feudal duties, but, like the traitor goon of Neopatras, he would not be happy to learn that his direct master was the Latin patriarch of Constantinople. It is safe to assume that Michael Choniates and his friends also had mixed feelings about the inquiry ordered by the pope into the activities of the criminal archbishop of Neopatras. Choniates would be happy for the demise of the former thug of Sgouros, even though some of the charges – the one about the private liturgy of the archbishop – were incriminating Byzantine cultural habits and practices, not 166 For the original text used in this story, see PL 216:460B–461B.
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the archbishop himself.167 Choniates would also think about the political disadvantages of this situation. He probably worried that the number of Greek bishops keeping their sees was diminishing year after year. At least, the good part in the Ravennika parliament of 1210 had been that the Latins did not change much the old customs. They had even preserved the organization of the ecclesiastical sees.168 The Greeks stuck to paying the acrostichon tax, as they did in old times. But was this really praiseworthy? That they simply stuck to old taxes? That they let go of new ones, introduced after the conquest? It was ridiculous, Choniates would think, for he had lightened taxes and even suppressed them in order to honour the Mother of God. At least this is was he wrote in the old poem that he had dedicated to her.169 Everybody would still remember his petition of 1198 and how he used his network of friends in Constantinople to help the poor people of Attica who were suffering from so
167 For the development of a private liturgy for (and by) the bishops and monks in 10th–11th century Byzantium, leading to a change in the size and shape of churches, see Thomas Mathews, ‘Private Liturgy in Byzantine Architecture: Toward a Reappraisal’, Cahiers archéologiques, 39 (1982), 125–138. 168 In the Notitia 13, the Athens metropolitan see ranked 28th (29) with the suffragans of Evripos, Davlia, Koroneia, Andros, Oreos, Skyros, Karystos, Porthmos, Aulon, Syra, Mendenitsa, and Megara. Cf. Jean Darrouzès, Notitiae episcopatuum ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae (Paris: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1981), 361 (= Notitia 13, 446–459: ΚΗ’ τῇ Ἀθηνῶν τῆς Ἑλλάδος / ΚΘ’ ἡ Ἀθήνα τῆς Ἑλλάδος / α’ ὁ Εὐρίπου / β’ ὁ Διαυλείας / γ’ ὁ Κορωνείας / δ’ ὁ Ἄνδρου / ε’ ὁ Ὠρεοῦ / ς’ ὁ Σκύρου / ζ’ ὁ Καρύστου / η’ ὁ Πορθμοῦ / θ’ ὁ Αὐλῶνος / ι’ ὁ Σύρας / ια’ ὁ Μουντινίτζης / ιβ’ ὁ Μεγάρων). Cf. p. 396, Notitia 17, line 35, which records the fall of Athens from the 28th to the 35th rank, preceded of course by Corinth (33), but also by Monemvasia (34); Thebes is on the 69th position. Cf. p. 412, Notitia 19, line 38, where Athens is again on the 28th place, preceded by Corinth. The position is maintained in the Notitia 20, line 28 (p. 417), again preceded by Corinth. Cf. p. 419, Notitia 21, line 26 places Athens in 21st place, preceded by Corinth and Monemvasia, and with the suffragan bishoprics of Davlia, Talantion, Andros, Skyros, Solon, and Mendenitsa (see pp. 421, 126–132). The Latin archdiocese had suffragan bishoprics in Evripos, Thermopylae (based in Mendenitsa), Davlia, Aulon, Oreos, Karystos, Koroneia, Andros, Megara, Sykros, and Kea, spread over different Latin-occupied territories. Cf. Preiser-Kapeller, Der Episkopat, 50. Since the addition of the bishoprics of Mendenitsa and Megara occurred only in the A recension of this Constantinopolitan Notitia, research argued that the two bishoprics could exist before the Latin occupation, from the time of Choniates, since the Latin occupants had installed bishops in those places. The same may be said about Thermopylae, located on the Pallavicini domain, for the canons of the chapter were located in the former Byzantine see of Mendenitsa. Cf. Darrouzès, Notitiae episcopatuum, 147, who argues in favour of the pre-Latin existence. 169 Cf. Kaldellis, The Christian Parthenon, 151, for a translation of that poem.
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many taxes.170 Alas, that network of friends was now gone! He had no more influence in the decisional milieus. The truth was that the Greek clergy did not enjoy the same privileges as the Latin clergy. It goes without saying that the Latins did not discover their love of Greeks all of a sudden. They had practical reasons. If Latin clergymen were disputing wealth and riches with the Latin lords, the Greek clergymen were to become allies in this fight. Two years later, on 25 May 1212, the pope wrote to the prelates of Thebes, Davlia, and Zaratova (close to the ancient village of Askre, in Boeotia),171 suggesting they do their best to recuperate the treasury of the Church of Corinth, transferred by Theodore Doucas, brother of Michael Doucas of Epirus, to the fortress of Argos when Corinth had fallen to the Latins, whence Geoffrey of Villehardouin and Otto de la Roche had abusively seized a little later.172 The pope wished those riches to be returned to the newly appointed bishop of Corinth. He threatened the Latin lords with the peril of their souls (non sine tuae periculo animae), for it was not only a matter of riches, but also of land, people, abbeys, churches, and many properties.173 This is probably what Choniates had in mind when he saw the Latins as beasts of prey, fighting over the spoils of the Greek Church, heretics worshipping gold instead of God. Yet he would know in his heart that not all Latins were the same, that the pope himself had started having careful feelings toward the Greeks. Actual persecutions of the Orthodox by Catholic superiors were not common and we know of only one martyrdom in Cyprus, 1231, in a complex and unfortunate situation.174 Everywhere else, the situation was gradually softening up. In the spring of 1210, Innocent III wrote to the Latin hierarchs of occupied Achaea and told them that the more the young ‘plantation of Latins’ (novella plantatio Latinorum) relocated by the hand of God to the lands of Achaea seemed to have fewer firm roots due to its recent transmutation, the more he felt troubled 170 Jack Roskilly, ‘La correspondance de Michel Choniates: du réseau aux échelles de pouvoir. à propos de la pétition des Athéniens, à Alexis Ange (1198)’, in Lorenzo Maria Ciolfi, Jeanne Devoge (dir.), Porphyra. VIIes Rencontres annuelles internationales des doctorants en études byzantines (2014) (Venice, 2016), 54–61. 171 For the identification of Zaratoba, see John L. Bintliff, ‘Recent developments and new approaches to the archaeology of Medieval Greece’, in Magdalena Valor, Ma Antonia Carmona (dir.), IV European Symposium for Teachers of Medieval Archaeology, SevillaCórdoba, 29th September–2nd October 1999 (Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 2001), 37. 172 Cf. PL 216:597D–598B. 173 Cf. PL 216:589D–590C, 590C–D for the letters sent to Villehardouin de la Roche a week earlier. The documents were discussed in the previous chapter. 174 Cf. Christopher Schabel, ‘Martyrs and Heretics, Intolerance of Intolerance: The execution of thirteen monks in Cyprus in 1231’, in idem, Greeks, Latins, and the Church in Early Frankish Cyprus (Aldershot: Ashgate/Variorum, 2010), III:1–33.
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and compelled to beseech them not to give in to uneasy dissention between them. It would hinder the early stages of growth of such a plantation. Instead, the Latins of Achaea were to be content with the boundaries set by their Greek predecessors.175 And maybe with local traditions as well. Choniates must have thought a lot about Theodore in those hard times, not only because he pitied him, as he wrote in his letters, but also because the bishop of Negroponte was still able to bestow favours upon old friends. Either before or after Berard the Latin archbishop of Athens tried to depose him, Choniates wrote a letter to Theodore, in which he poured all the wildlife comparisons that he could conjure up. He rambled on about beasts of many shapes and sizes, lion-like beasts, atrocities, cruelties, fresh prey, snakes, charms, and venom, in order to reach the conclusion that it did not matter how one behaved. The Latins had no mercy. And the only favour one could get from them was to be eaten last, like Ulysses, kept last by Polyphemus.176 Theodore would be familiar with Choniates’ baroqueness, a Byzantine style filled to the brim with classical references, so he would patiently read the introductory part of the letter, waiting for the actual demand to unfold. Towards the end, hidden between allusions and witticisms, Choniates was in fact asking for help in the matter of one of his men. Would this be the relative whom Theodore later helped escape the Latin wrath? In another letter, where he spoke of the destruction of his library and asked Theodore to lend him one of his old books, the commentary to the Epistles of saint Paul by Theophylact of Ochrid, the former metropolitan of Athens praised Theodore for the patience and readiness to help those fleeing Latin rule.177 Or would this be the bitter lament that he wailed in fear of the danger awaiting a certain ‘admirable Stavrax’ (τὸ δὲ ἀποδυρόμενον τὸν κίνδυνον τοῦ θαυμάσιου Σταυράκος)? In this other letter to the bishop of Negroponte, Choniates spoke of this fear coupled with the joy brought to him by the news that Theodore had patiently endured his tribulations. The old man exiled on the island of Kea comforted his former fellow hierarch with the topos of sweetness and pain intertwined in the lives of men, yet his interest was in more worldly matters. Stavrax would be a wealthy man, somebody well trained in the matters of law, but he had been treated unfairly by barbarous Latin tyrants. Choniates wished the bishop of Negroponte health and maybe an improvement in the matter of Stavrax.178 175 PL 216:222C–223B. 176 Cf. e.g. the beginning of the letter in Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 154, pp. 248–249, lines 1–15. 177 Ibid., letter 146, p. 238, lines 5–8. 178 Ibid., letter 105, p. 162, lines 1–17.
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How could Choniates blame Theodore for his will to satisfy those Latins, when Choniates himself drew many benefits from that particular situation? Because of Theodore and others like him, times had changed a little bit. In the old times, immediately after the conquest, the pope had supported the appeal of the Latin emperor Baldwin I (1204–1205) to the prelates of the kingdom of France. The emperor wanted viros religiosos et providos from the Orders of Cluny and Cîteaux, as well as regular canons, in order to strengthen the Catholic faith of his newly acquired lands. Choniates did not make any differences between the Latins mentioned in his letters, yet he had surely learnt about the many denominations of Latin monastic orders. The Cistercians were at that time the quintessential missionary order and their task was that of reforming Orthodox monasteries. The old metropolitan surely knew that they had taken over the imperial monastery of Daphni, but he may have learnt other stories, too, like that of Chortaiton, already mentioned here.179 Thomas of Torcello also had received three monasteries. From the standpoint of Choniates, the Latins’ plan would have been to replace the rule of saint Basil with that of saint Benedict.180 This papal policy with regard to the Orthodox monasteries was manifest in the early correspondence of Innocent III.181 Yet the pope gradually changed his plan. After a while, he would not subject the Greek monasteries to members of regular Latin clergy, except when they were directly dependent on him. Innocent III did not want the Greeks to be controlled by secular clergy, subjected to the pressures of the laity, except in case there was no other way. He softened his policies from one year to the next and his main objective became that the Greeks be simply obedient to the Roman see. Nevertheless, things did not work out well. As early as 1212, the Latin archbishop of Corinth reported that he encountered serious problems in dealing with the Orthodox, especially in monasteries, as the Greek hegumens had never recognized his authority. Henry I, the second Latin emperor, recognised the right of the Greeks to follow their rite in 1213. He also recognised the Greek 179 Walter Haberstumpf, Dinastie europee nel Mediterraneo orientale. I Monferrato e i Savoia nei secoli XII–XV (Turin: Scriptorium, 1995), 177–188. 180 Jean Richard, ‘The Establishment of the Latin Church in the Empire of Constantinople (1204–1207)’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 4 (1989 = Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204), 54–55. Cf. Beata Kitsiki Panagopoulos, Cistercian and Mendicant Monasteries in Medieval Greece (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979). 181 See the letter addressed to Thomas, the Venetian patriarch of Constantinople, on 2 August 1206: A. Sommerlechner et al. (eds.), Die Register Innocenz’ III, 9. Band, 9. Pontifikatsjahr, 1206/1207, Textes und Indices (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2004), 255, l. 15–30 (= Brief ix/140).
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noblemen and confirmed the wealth of the monasteries, thereby renouncing previous policies.182 A key factor in this policy of relaxation were the Greek prelates who had accepted the authority of the pope. Some of the rebellious ones also started to accept it, too. For example, John of Rodosto (today Tekirdağ) had his see in the vicinity of Constantinople, on the shores of the Sea of Marmara, and had managed to avoid Uniate policies for a while. However, in 1212, he wrote to the pope and asked – as the pope understood it – to return to the obedience of the sacrosanct Roman Church, therefore the pope confirmed him in his see in the summer of that year.183 This bishop John was one of Choniates’ addressees. Three years or so after these events, in late 1215 or early 1216, he even wrote a letter to him. Since this was the first letter John had sent him after his demise, Choniates thought that his beloved brother in Christ had forgotten him as if he were dead. He reminisced about the fall of Greece, then wrote about the good deeds of chartophylax Bardanes who had brought the bishop’s letter.184 The former metropolitan then made an allusion to John’s pact with the Latins, for he wrote about present times leaning into universal temptation and men forgetting themselves (ὅτε παγκοσμίου ἐπιπεσόντος πειρασμοῦ καὶ ἑαυτῶν ἐπιλανθάνονται ἄνθρωποι), but in the rest of the letter, Choniates simply chased his tail around general ideas about living and forgetting, so that the initial allusion would not be taken harshly. In the end, he wished that grace be with the bishop, he asked not to forget about him, to take care and to have good health of body and soul.185 He was not accusing his former fellow hierarch of anything. Choniates had probably understood that this was the way of doing things. Maybe around this time he started looking with impatience across the sea, towards Mesogeia, planning a trip to see his beloved Athens once more. He may have been ready for a compromise, somehow.
…
For eleven years, Choniates pretended to live on the island of Kea like in one of those Homeric steep watchtowers (ἀπό τινων σκοπιῶν ἡλιβάτων). He looked upon 182 John Van Antwerp Fine, Late Medieval Balkans. A Critical Survey from the Late Twelfth Century to the Ottoman Conquest (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1994), 80. 183 For the original text, see PL 216:647A–B. 184 For the dating of this letter in connection with a visit of Bardanes the chartophylax from Athens to Nicaea in the autumn of 1215, with a return trip at the end of 1215 or at the beginning of 1216, see Stadtmüller, Michael Choniates, 265. Cf. the letter 160, addressed to this Bardanes. 185 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 169, p. 268, lines 1–21.
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a destruction (τὸν ὄλεθρον), not ‘headlong’ as in Homer (αἰπὺν), but of the entire city Athens (παναθηναϊκὸν). He felt like an outright mercenary (ὡς μισθωτὸς ἅντικρυς). Not for long, maybe for a moment, when he wrote the letter, in order to suit his martial metaphors. In the same phrases, though, his military imagery was confounded by a rhetorical ever-beastly Latin menagerie. He wrote that he tried to help when he could, but those beasts threw themselves (ἐπίπεπτωκόχας θῆρας) upon his flock. Choniates still saw himself as their shepherd from across the straits, from the closest islands to Attica, but he felt useless at the same time. Tormented by compassion, he could only listen to the terrifying shrieks and cries of the devoured children (τῶν δαπανωμένων τέκνων). Indeed, the water carries sound faster, but the imagination carries it even better. So he suddenly became courageous, wanted to free himself from his cage, took unbelievable risks,186 and accepted that he could suffer dire perils, too. This was Choniates’ baroque way of writing that he had decided to go to Athens. After eleven years. Twelve by the time the letter was written, in the year that followed his short trip through Attica. When we clear the thick layer of metaphors and comparisons, when Byzantine rhetoric is stripped down from the text, we are left with little or nothing in terms of tangible information. No other details concerning this visit to Athens are known, but it is safe to assume that he travelled through Attica (Mesogeia in particular) if he wanted to get from Kea to Athens. By that time, maybe the petty Latin lords of rural areas had started building fortified residences. For the sake of this tale, I will imagine that such a tower could have pierced the Mesogeia skyline at Markopoulo. A tower was indeed built sometime on the Dagla Hill, above the Taxiarchis church, and it dates back to the time of the Frankish occupation. There is no way of dating the Frankish towers of central Greece, but they are non-strategic, completely deprived of curtain walls, and built in existing settlements, many of which date back to ancient times. These towers probably acted as centres of small feudal estates. Research argues that their modest masonry and use of simple slits instead of windows, lacking cut stone edges, argues in favour of the Latin lords employing local masons.187 In my opinion, these features fall just as well within the limit of the early occupation. Latin lords employed skilled Western craftsmen in later periods, most of them working on Catholic churches, castles and residences. If Michael Choniates saw such a tower, even if its walls stood only a metre or two above the ground, he would realize with his own eyes how the world had changed in the ten years that he had spent exiled on the island 186 Ibid., letter 165, pp. 262–263, lines 13–21. 187 Peter Lock, ‘The Frankish Towers of Central Greece’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 81 (1986), 101–123.
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of Kea. He would also learn that the Markopoulo tower was but a copy of a much more impressive tower built on the Acropolis (Fig. 9).188 He would fear the Latins, but he would like to see the Acropolis, and maybe he even tried to enter the Parthenon. He would not miss the opportunity to see once more the good old church, the marvellous columns raising to the sky, and the everlasting flame of its famous lamp. Highly educated as he was, he always compared that lamp to the torches of ancient festivals. Research proved that Choniates regarded the flame of the Parthenon as “a symbol for the preservation of a tradition of learning across time,” like an “ecclesiastical torch” “handed on from generation to generation to be safeguarded for posterity.”189 For him, the ancient building was a pillar of fire. In front of the church of the Mother of God, he would recite passages from his own Inaugural Oration addressed to the Athenians when he became their bishop in 1182, since he had written it for all occasions, like a panegyric of the good old Comnenian times:190 “What dread this place inspires! For this is nothing but the house of God and that is the gate of heaven from where this supercelestial light pours down here to us without cease. It is not dimmed by the day nor interrupted by the night; it does not require fuel; it is immaterial, perfectly pure, always-shining, and always visible to the inviolate eyes of faith.” He would crave to see the inside of the church once more, and the marvellous rays of light illuminating it. He felt like Moses, because “this is a pillar of divine fire, this is the rain that falls from our mystical and light-receiving cloud, by which we may be guided if we should journey through the desert of our vices to ‘the land that we desire’ and the home of the first-born. Indeed, before this happens I all but seem to ascend Mount Horeb with my flock of sheep and gaze upon a burning bush, but one whose significance resides not in vague 188 Cf. Lock, ‘The Frankish Towers’, 112, who argues in favour of the possibility that the de la Roche could build the Acropolis tower before the Acciaiuoli. The tower of Markopoulo was missed by his inventory of Frankish towers in central Greece. See also Peter Lock, ‘The Frankish Tower on the Acropolis, Athens: The Photographs of William J. Stillman’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 82 (1987), 131–133, for a comparison of the Frankish tower of the Acropolis with the crenelated one at Markopoulo, which seems to be a rather faithful imitation of the first one. 189 Byron David MacDougall, “Michael Choniates at the Christian Parthenon and the ‘Bendideia’ Festival of ‘Republic’”, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 55 (2015), 276, 277 (quotations) and passim (ideas). 190 Stephanos Efthymiadis, ‘Michael Choniates’ Inaugural Address at Athens: Enkomion of a City and a two-fold Spiritual Ascent’, in Paolo Odorico, Charis Messis (dir.), Villes de toute beauté: L’ekphrasis des cites dans les litteratures byzantine et byzantino-slaves … (Paris: Centre d’études byzantines, néo-helleniques et sud-est européennes/École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 2012), 66 and passim (for other ideas of this paragraph).
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and shadowy hints but in the brightest demonstrations of the truth. And there a resonant and divine voice urges me to pass from that place and inherit the Promised Land. Now look at me! I am about to imagine that I am Moses! The diffusion of this divine light shines around me so brightly that I think that I see not the Acropolis of Athens but that Horeb, upon which God trod, or rather even the edge of heaven itself. From this Acropolis, as from the middle of a circle, rays of light shoot out equally in all directions and set ablaze the entire city. From there they reach to the beyond and extend to infinity, with the result that the city is to the rest of the earth what this sacred place is to the city. Into this temple flows a divine outflow of light originating in the Father of Lights and settling in a different heavenly firmament newer than the orb of the sun. And then it pours itself inexhaustibly from there and scatters itself in equal measure everywhere.”191 The light of the Parthenon, that is what Choniates craved to see. Yet he probably could not see it. The Parthenon was in the hands of Berard’s men and Choniates was chased away from Athens. Should we imagine this scene in front of the church or at the entrance of the Acropolis, where the de la Roche could have already started building their keep? It could happen on the slopes of his beloved Acropolis as well, just above the Areopagus. It could happen anywhere, as long as it had happened in Athens. Or it could happen because the local Greeks came to see their own metropolitan, drawing the attention of the Latins. On the Acropolis or in the lower city, things must have got bad at a certain point. Choniates was probably discovered. He tells it himself. If he did not escape swiftly, he would have been food for Italian teeth (τοῖς Ἰταλικοῖς ἂν ὀδοῦσιν ἐγεγόνειν κατάβρωμα καὶ αὐτός).192 For the sake of the story, let us imagine a divine punishment befalling the Latins who chased Choniates away. His followers and friends would unquestionably interpret any calamity in such a manner. Maybe the roof of the exonarthex from Daphni monastery had crumbled down by then, or maybe the accident happened at a later date.193 191 See Kaldellis, The Christian Parthenon, 159, for the translation of this passage (split in two) from the Inaugural Oration of Michael Choniates. For the original text, see Λάμπρος ed., Μιχαήλ Ακομινάτου, 104–105. 192 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 165, p. 263, lines 24–29. 193 See Ευστάθιος Στίκας, ‘Στερέωσις και αποκατάστασις του εξωνάρθηκος του καθολικού της μονής Δαφνίου’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 3 (1962–1963), 1–47, for the dating of the open-portico exonarthex of Daphni in the early 12th century (Fig. 8). Its roof probably crumbled down during the first century of the Latin rule it was repaired by the Cistercian monks. Cf. Kitsiki Panagopoulos, Cistercian and Mendicant Monasteries, 57–59, who mentions an earthquake as the possible cause of the destruction leading to the Cistercian repairs, yet she does not really use the information available in the study of Stikas.
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There is no way of dating the intervention of the Latin monks and the reshaping of the Byzantine monastery’s portico apart from the general dating in the 13th century. Yet, when this happened, the local Greeks would certainly see it as a divine omen that the Latins were not welcome in the house of God. The crooked ogives of the new arrangement would also be mocked for their clumsiness (Fig. 8). For prelates like Choniates, or for monks nostalgic for the good Byzantine times, the overall feeling related to the Latin occupation of Daphni monastery would be deep sorrow, grief, or even mourning for the glorious days when the famous mosaics had been made. Maybe the most learned ones would remember Gregory Kamateros, if he were indeed the ktetor of the monastery in the golden age of the Comneni.194 Choniates would remember the founder when he would think of Daphni. And he would surely regret that its exquisite works of art fell into the hands of barbarians, boorish Latins who had probably started changing the entire monastery.195 But he had to return to the island of Kea, utterly devastated. After having confronted the reality of those times, he knew that he was daydreaming about helping his clergymen. He occupied his time doing vain chores, so he took the decision to run away for a second time, but this time with a plan. The old hierarch must have weighed well his move. He weighed it for about a year. And then he made up his mind. He could find peace a little further to the North. He decided to go to a monastery dedicated to saint John the Forerunner near Thermopylae, a foundation of Alexius I Comnenus. He knew that monastery well when he used to be metropolitan of Athens, for he mentioned it in many of his letters. Things would be better there. Thermopylae was not a bad place after all. It was a dangerous place, for sure, ruled with an iron hand by its Latin lord, but it was also a place where Greeks were putting up some sort of resistance. They were close to Epirus and felt more confident. Therefore, the Latin bishopric of Thermopylae was moved from the plains to the mountain 194 Cf. Μαρία Παναγιωτίδη-Κεσίσογλου, ‘Αναζητώντας τον ιδρυτή της μονής Δαφνίου’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 40 (2019), 193–222. 195 It is highly possible that the cloister to the south of the monastery’s catholicon may be created after the Turkish occupation on the basis of a previous Latin intervention. The opinion was first voiced by Αναστάσιος Κ. Ορλάνδος, ‘Νεώτερα ευρήματα εις την Μονήν Δαφνίου’, Αρχείον Βυζαντινών Μνημείων της Ελλάδος, 8 (1955–1956), 67–99. Recent research still holds it possible. According to Charalambos Bouras, ‘The Impact of Frankish Architecture on Thirteenth-Century Byzantine Architecture’, in Angeliki E. Laiou, Roy Parviz Mottahedeh (dir.), The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2001), 247–262, esp. p. 251, note 31, “the present square court [i.e. cloister] and surrounding porticoes can be considered a Frankish concept, but as architectural forms and constructions they belong to the Turkish period.”
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stronghold of Mendenitsa as early as 1209,196 conceivably in order to be sheltered by the centre of power. As a result, perhaps the long hand of the Catholic Church had trouble getting to Choniates’ monastery. There were some disadvantages, naturally. The terrible Guido Pallavicini (Marchesopolus) was lord of Mendenitsa and he was a violent man. He compared himself to king David, killing Greeks as if they were Philistines (impugnabat et capiebat et interficiebat sicut David Phylisteos), something that sounded a lot like what Choniates had asked the Nicaean ruler to do to the Latins.197 But there were advantages as well. Latin archdeacons like Hugh of Davlia had been beaten up by local Orthodox.198 Choniates would consequently rely on some sort of local support. The pope in Rome was also well aware that the Greeks of Mendenitsa did not fear excommunication, so he devised a payback plan, asking the lord of Gravia, living under the shadow of Mount Parnassus, to exact secular revenge for the archdeacon’s beating. It was a time of violence, but this may have been the best place where Choniates could live in the proximity of his beloved Athenians. Mendenitsa was a place where Greeks and Latins were still fighting. The marquess, for instance, was later killed by the very Greeks he was persecuting. Yet it was also a place where the pope wrote to the secular lords, because the Latin clergymen did not have much power. The old metropolitan was careful. He had planned his move rather well. Since he wrote that he arrived to the monastery of Saint-John-the-Forerunner through Euboea,199 he definitely had good reasons to choose this passage. One of them would be his friend, bishop Theodore. But there were other people who could have helped him there. In an early letter written to a certain Euthymius Tornica, Choniates talked about how Latins had occupied the city of Chalcis and how Euthymius was living under their rule. In another letter, the former metropolitan discussed the manner in which the Latins had imposed a tribute on the inhabitants of Chalkida.200 So he probably had enough friends in Euboea to ensure safe passage to the monastery of Thermopylae. But did he go there by land or by sea? We do not know, but it would be nice to imagine 196 Cf. Preiser-Kapeller, Der Episkopat, 54. 197 The story is in the chronicle of Salimbene de Adam. Cf. Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 2:545. 198 The story of Hugh the archdeacon of Davlia beaten up by the Greeks is known from a letter of the pope to the lord of Gravia, dated to 8 April 1212. Cf. PL 216:564B–C. Cf. Peter Lock, The Franks in the Aegean, 1204–1500 (London: Longman, 1995), 293, for whom the archdeacon was beaten up “for interfering in a Greek wedding” (probably a misunderstanding of the sources). 199 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 165, p. 263, lines 44–45: ὅτε ἐξ Εὐβοίας ἀφικνούμην δεῦρο, […]. 200 Ibid., letter 134, p. 221, line 11; and letter 152, p. 248, line 38.
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that he passed the mountains and stopped for a while in the Spilia Penteli, a cave monastery that he often mentioned in his letters. Choniates must have surely prepared his escape from Kea according to a list of best and most trusted friends. But even when he arrived in this monastery in Phthiotis, his troubles were far from over. He learnt that his younger brother was dead, the brother whom he had once introduced to the elite of Constantinople, a brother who had become an exquisite writer and who encouraged him to gather his literary works in a volume.201 And this was not the worst news of all. He was still between the devil of Mendenitsa (Pallavicini) and the deep blue sea. When the despot of Epirus, Theodore Comnenus Doucas (1215–1230), invited him to take refuge in Arta, the old metropolitan wrote a long answer in which he explained the difficult situation in which he found himself. First of all, he would not want to leave his flock, the Christians of his Athenian see. Next, he was old, his health was in bad shape, and could not really travel. He had endured enough in his recent travels to Athens and to Mendenitsa. It was already too much for him. And last, the real problem were those beastly Latins. From the very first lines of the letter, Choniates acknowledged that enemies surrounded despot Theodore from all sides (περιστοιχιζόμενον παρὰ τῶν κύκλῳ ἐφεδρεύοντων πολεμίων), so it did not make much sense to join him in Arta, for he could not help him in his military campaigns.202 But there were also personal reasons. The Latins had shown signs of great hostility and distrust against his monastery. When he arrived there from Euboea, a lot of rumours circulated and the new masters of Greece also learnt about his travels, so they decided to gather and discuss about him. They did not hide their intention to inflict great evils upon his entourage, in other words his relatives and the monks of the sacred monastery who provided him with shelter.203 His family and the cathegumen of the monastery were scared. The Latins were ready to do them harm, so they had to give assurances that Choniates would not travel beyond the Comnenian monastery.204 Was he telling the truth or was he simply exaggerating? The baroqueness of his style is well known. Old men also have a tendency to exaggeration. Yet at the very same time Choniates was a symbol of the good old times when the archbishop of Athens spoke Greek and when the faithful did not experience the Catholic yoke, so he must have been popular among the 201 Cf. Alicia Simpson, Nicetas Choniates: A Historiographical Study (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 15, 70. 202 Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 165, p. 261, lines 1–3. 203 Ibid., letter 165, pp. 263–264, lines 44–50. 204 Ibid., letter 165, p. 264, lines 50–56.
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locals. After all, maybe the Latins had truly gathered to discuss what to do with him, and maybe Choniates would really be responsible for the death of his loved ones, had he accepted the despot’s proposal to go to Arta. Those calumnious ‘Italians’ were just waiting for an excuse to cause them harm.205
…
Choniates passed away in that monastery in Phthiotis at an unknown date, probably after 1220 (perhaps in 1222). The monks must have mourned him deeply, as did the entire Boeotia, Attica, and possibly even the Argolid. Local Greeks turned him into a symbol of Orthodoxy, as will be evident in the next paragraphs, perhaps because a lot of them felt that they lived in a time of martyrdom. It is no wonder that about the same time, Germanus, the nominal patriarch of Constantinople residing in Nicaea (elected in 1222), wrote a passionate letter to the monks of the monastery of Saint-John-the-Forerunner of Petra (Constantinople). He encouraged them to draw inspiration from martyrs and archetypal figures of the Old Testament.206 After comparing the monks of Petra with Lot among the Sodomites; with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob among the Canaanites; with Moses among the Egyptians; Daniel and the three youths in Babylon; or the Maccabees fighting against Antiochus – an odd crusader comparison, the exiled patriarch told them that they were his invincible warriors living among the Latins, because only they could overcome the mighty oppressors: “You also, then, who dwell in the same habitation as they [the said examples], who rejoice in the same protector as they against the same nations and for the same doctrines – yours now is the contest. So, in a manner fully worthy of God, of the venerable Precursor and of those saints, you have contended, you do contend, and you will still contend more thoroughly and proudly that you may merit the same glory as they and their unsullied crowns, and with the saints of yore be heirs of the eternal benefits ‘which God has prepared for them that love Him’ [1 Cor 2:9] and for you also who are ready to die for Him and on His account. May their divine and holy prayers be for you, men held in no account and in least esteem, a support, a help, and an end of all evil.”207 205 Ibid., letter 165, p. 264, lines 56–63. 206 Germanus was actively opposing Latins until 1232, when the emperor of Nicaea could lead him on a more conciliatory path. This letter probably dates from the early years of his office, when his discourse aligned with the Old Testament references used in Latin crusader sermons. 207 Joseph Gill, ‘An unpublished letter of Germanus, Patriarch of Constantinople (1222–1240)’, Byzantion, 44 (1974), 151, for the translation. For the original text, see p. 150.
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His letter also compared them to “the prophets among the Jews” and “Elias in Israel,” in reference to an earlier mention of “Jewish-minded Latins,” probably inspired from the well-known catalogues of Latin errors.208 Such Old Testament references would be intended to counterbalance the crusader discourse of the Latin conquerors. But the comparisons did not suggest putting up a fight. Apart from the reference to the belligerent Maccabees, all the other associations suggested martyrdom, and this idea went hand in hand with Choniates’ ceaseless determination of providing comfort for the faithful living under Latin rule, accepting great risks and never going to Nicaea or Arta. In the shadow of this discourse, Michael Choniates himself becomes a martyr and it is no wonder that he was soon painted as a saint in two Attica churches. By that time, the cultural life of the land had timidly started to rekindle. Those paintings are dated shortly after Choniates’ death and they appear in two key places: in the Spilia Penteli (1233/1234), a monastery mentioned in his letters, and in the monastic church of Saint-Peter in Kalyvia-Kouvara (1231/1232). In other words, in Mesogeia, the land that the metropolitan kept looking upon when he longed for Athens during his exile on the island of Kea. In the paintings of Kalyvia-Kouvara, Choniates was represented as a hierarch saint with a halo, taking part to the performance of the liturgy, in the sanctuary (Fig. 10).209 When passing through the templon, he is instantly recognisable to the right. In the Spilia Penteli, he was represented in a less significant place, in the nave.210 Research often suggested that these two depictions of Choniates should be compared with that of John Kaloktenis, a late 12th-century metropolitan of Thebes, represented in a similar position in the apse of the crypt from the monastic church of Saint-Nicolas in Kampia, near Orchomenos (Boeotia).211 However, those Boeotian murals were dated to the end of the 13th century (perhaps c.1300)212 and the portrait in Kampia was 208 Gill, ‘An unpublished letter’, 149, 145 (in that order), for the quotations taken from the English translation. 209 Certain voices spoke of Choniates’ ‘canonization’. I am following M. Angold, more prudent and speaking only of the metropolitan’s depiction, not canonization. Cf. Michael Angold, Church and Society in Byzantium Under the Comneni, 1081–1261 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 212: “If he was never venerated as a saint, his portrait has been preserved in a local church with the legend panierotatos – ‘All Holiest’.” 210 Ντούλα Μουρίκη, ‘Οι βυζαντινές τοιχογραφίες των παρεκκλησίων της σπηλιάς Πεντέλης’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 7 (1973–1974), 96–98. 211 See e.g. Monika Hirschbichler, Monuments of a syncretic society. Wall painting in the Latin Lordship of Athens, Greece (1204–1311), PhD diss. (University of Maryland, 2005), 62–70. 212 Μαρία Παναγιωτίδη, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες της κρύπτης του Αγίου Νικολάου στα Καμπιά της Βοιωτίας’, in Actes du XVe Congrès international d’études byzantines. Athènes, Septembre 1976, 2. Art et archéologie (Athens: Association internationale des études byzantines, 1981), 597–622.
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probably influenced by the depiction of Choniates in the churches of Attica. It is particularly interesting that such changes to the iconographic programme happened in monastic establishments and not in parochial churches. In my opinion, this would mean that in Kampia, the monks living in the metochion of Hosios Loukas wished to testify to their loyalty to the old Greek metropolitan see of Thebes, from before the time of the Latin conquest. They could base their iconographic choice on those made by other monks in Kalyvia-Kouvara and Spilia Penteli. The depiction of Choniates as a hierarch saint in the sanctuary would consequently represent an alluded allegiance to the former metropolitan see of Athens. This allegiance was only implied, since superficial changes were made to please the Latin occupants. One of those superficial changes was the dedication of the church in Kalyvia-Kouvara to the apostles Peter and Paul. This choice was often attributed to the ktetor, proedros Ignatius, since he may have exercised his authority under the wardship of the Latin archbishop of Athens, having to please the Latins and therefore picking these two saints as symbols of the Union with Rome, as we shall see in the next chapter. Similarly, previous representations of the busts of two saints, Barnabas and Callinicus, depicted in the sanctuary of the southern chapel from Spilia Penteli, were covered by depictions of saints Peter and Paul. Research attributed the new depictions to the same workshop who worked in Kalyvia-Kouvara,213 so the changes should be linked with the representation of Choniates in the same context. This would consequently mean that on the surface, monastic communities pretended to accept the rule of the Latins, while underneath they toyed with allusions and references to the old times of glory. Ignatius’ himself also played this game of double standards. In the ktetorial inscription, this monk was mentioned as proedros of the islands of Kythnos (Thermia in the text of the inscription) and Kea.214 This used to be an old title in Byzantium. Bishops bore it when they held several sees. They were considered true bishops in their primary see and proedroi in the additional ones. A proedros was therefore some sort of deputy-bishop.215 Research agrees that during those times, it probably meant that monk Ignatius 213 Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Monumental Art in the Lordship of Athens and Thebes under Frankish and Catalan Rule (1212–1388): Latin and Greek Patronage’, in Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, Peter Lock (dir.), A Companion to Latin Greece (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 379. Cf. Μουρίκη, ‘Οι βυζαντινές τοιχογραφίες’, 96. 214 For the inscriptions see Ναυσικά Πανσελήνου, ‘Άγιος Πέτρος Καλυβίων Κουβαρά Αττικής’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 14 (1987–1988), 173–178; Sophia KalopissiVerti, Dedicatory Inscriptions and Donor Portraits in Thirteenth-Century Churches of Greece (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1992), 60–62. 215 This interpretation is based on Sévérien Salaville, ‘Le titre ecclésiastique de ‘proedros’ dans les documents byzantins’, Échos d’Orient, 29/160 (1930), 416–436, who was unaware of the inscription from the church of Kalyvia-Kouvara. Cf. Πανσελήνου, ‘Άγιος Πέτρος’, 175.
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acted as a representative of the Latin archbishop from Athens and oversaw the matters pertaining to the Greeks of those two islands. Yet on a column of the same church, where the monogram of his name encircled by an abbreviation of his title was sculpted, that particular abbreviation refers to him as bishop proper: ἘΠ(ι)CΚ(ό)Π(ου) ἸΓΝ(α)ΤΊ(ου).216 This would be a subtle trick of appearances, a game of hide-and-seek that the Greek clergy must have played with their Latin lords.217 However, since a Byzantine bishop of Athens and another one, superhonoratus and exarch of the Cyclades are mentioned one after another in the letter of the Greek clergy presented at Lyon in 1274,218 one could equally argue that Ignatius was in fact a representative of the Greeks of Nicaea. Let us accept the first option, since it has more chances to be aligned to the early 13th century socio-political context. From a certain point of view, it must have been very similar to the game played by Choniates himself, who had hidden in the shadow of Athens, still tending to his flock. Thus, it should not surprise us that the master painter of a local workshop paid his tribute to Michael Choniates as protector of those lands in both Kalyvia-Kouvara and
216 See for this Πανσελήνου, ‘Άγιος Πέτρος’, 174–175. Cf. Ανδρέας Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Εις άγνωστος επίσκοπος Αθηνών’, Ιερός Σύνδεσμος (1921), 5–6, who was unaware of the painted inscriptions of the church, and believed that Ignatius was a 9th century bishop of Athens, before the city was promoted to the metropolitan see. Cf. Αναστάσιος Ορλάνδος, Ναοί των Καλυβιών Κουβαρά (Athens: Τύποις Π. Δ. Σακελλαρίου, 1923), 186–187 (and his fig. 16). 217 See also Hirschbichler, Monuments of a syncretic society, 70–76. This nuances are lost when research concentrates only on socio-political aspects. To give but one example, see e.g. Van Tricht, The Latin ‘Renovatio’, 333–334, who speaks of “Bishop Ignatios of Thermia and Kea.” 218 Cf. Burkhard Roberg, Die Union zwischen der Griechischen und der Lateinischen Kirche auf dem II. Konzil von Lyon, 1274 (Bonn: Ludwig Röhrscheid, 1964), 256. Before this anonymous bishop of Athens (or maybe the one and the same), there used to be an anonymous hypopsephios of Athens (τοῦ ὑποψηφίου Ἀθηνῶν – a candidate for election to a bishopric) in the time of patriarch Joseph I (1266–1275). He took part in a synod in Constantinople. Cf. Vitalien Laurent, ‘Le trisépiscopat du patriarche Matthieu Ier. Un grand procès canonique à Byzance au début du XVe siècle’, Revue des études byzantines, 30 (1972), 145 (for the analysis of the document) and 146 (for the text). Last but not least, there was also the most honourable bishop of Athens Meletius, an opponent of the patriarch John XI Vekkos and of the Union, mentioned as metropolitan bishop of Athens in two synods of August 1276 and May 1280. Cf. PG 141:281B: τοῦ Ἀθηνῶν καὶ ὑπερτίμου Μελετίου. For the synod of 1280, see Vitalien Laurent, Les Regestes des actes du patriarcat de Constantinople I/4: Les regestes des 1208 à 1309 (Paris: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1971), 237–238, no. 1446. There are no other mentions before and afterwards for a very long time, so perhaps proedros Ignatius indeed collaborated with the Latins. In this case, the bishops of Athens and the exarchus of 1274 would be created in the time of Michael VIII Palaeologus, maybe after the Moreote campaigns.
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Spilia Penteli. The thing that should surprise us is that he painted him in a line of co-officiating bishops in the sanctuary of Kalyvia-Kouvara (Fig. 10). In theory, from a doctrinal point of view, this type of representation would be possible in the Greek lands. In practice, on the other hand, the case of Kalyvia-Kouvara and Spilia Penteli are unique (with the exception of a depiction of patriarch Arsenius in Chrysapha, at the end of the 13th century). It was possible because in Byzantium, the acknowledgement of a saint was the result of his veneration by the faithful. A formalization process was not necessary and the earliest Orthodox canonizations based on evidence of miracles and on a synodal decision date back to the late 13th century. This is often regarded as the result of a familiarity with Western canonization procedures.219 And this is also why, again in theory, such representations of recent uncanonised saints would be blatantly contradictory to the rules of the Latin Church. However, there is a strong difference between theory and practice. In Orthodox milieus, such a saint would not be represented until his depiction would be certified by her/his presence in a synaxarion, which was not the case with Choniates. On the other hand, the West was also open to less orthodox practices. When speaking of the city of Cremona, Salimbene of Adam describes the popular cult of a certain layman named Albert. Priests had taken after their parishioners in venerating this layman and images of Albert were painted in churches, so that the priests may gain from the offerings made by common people, but also in various places, everywhere: cities, villages, and castles. Salimbene was annoyed by this, as it was contrary to the teachings of the Church. The relics could not be venerated and images of a new saint could not be painted if the Church did not approve and write his name down in a register of canonised saints.220 Therefore, strange as it may seem, the depiction of a recent saint occupying key positions in the decoration of a church could actually point to a Latin tradition and not a Byzantine one, even though the cult of that saint’s relics may be acceptable from a Byzantine perspective. Maybe the monks who lived and prayed in the Spilia Penteli embraced Latin practises both for the sake of living in peace with the new lords (saints Peter and Paul replacing other 219 For Byzantium, see Alice-Mary M. Talbot, Faith healing in Late Byzantium. The posthumous miracles of the Patriarch Alhanasios I of Constantinople by Theoktistos the Stoudite (Brookline MA: Hellenic College Press, 1983), 21–27; or Ruth Macrides, ‘Saints and Sainthood in the Early Palaiologan Period’, in Sergei Hackel (dir.), The Byzantine Saint. University of Birmingham Fourteenth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies (London: Fellowship of St. Alban and St. Sergius, 1981), 83–86. For the procedures of the Western canonizations in 13th century, see e.g. Michael Goodich, ‘The politics of canonization in the thirteenth century: Lay and mendiant saints’, Church History, 44 (1975), 294–307. 220 Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 2:733.
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saints in the decoration) and for the sake of fighting the Latins with their own weapons (the depiction of Choniates). By the looks of the murals, the painters who worked in these two Attica churches were rather gifted. This was a time when painters in general were spreaders of culture, so we should not ascribe the choice of representing Choniates to an ecclesiastical authority only (Ignatius). Nor should we think that the proedros took care of the ageing metropolitan, choosing to represent him because of the strong affection that they bore to each other.221 We could ascribe that choice just as well to the painters themselves, at least in the case of the Spilia Penteli. For all one knows, they would be skilled not only in the art of painting, but also in that of writing and reading. The story of a painter coming to Southern Italy from Cephalonia perfectly proves this point. That painter went to Casole to pay a visit to the gifted monk whom the old metropolitan of Athens possibly met in Thessalonica in 1205–1206. Nicholas of Otranto, now abbot Nectarius of the monastery Saint-Nicholas in Casole, had finished his threefold treatise on the errors of the Latins by then, and the painter was sent by George Bardanes, metropolitan of Kerkyra, to acquire a copy of that treatise. George had been a good friend of Nicholas, whom he had visited previously. This happened in 1225, shortly after the death of Choniates. Bardanes had given the painter nine quires of the purest parchment, matching the perfect number of Pythagoras.222 The painter was exceedingly skilled in the art of colouring, and he became a confidant of the two religious men. His mission was twofold: he was also to explain the tribulations and burdens of metropolitan George that prevented him from doing more spiritual work.223 The reading of his friend’s treatise was of course intended to remedy this. Therefore, the painter was charged with the mission of copying it. We should ask ourselves: why could not such a painter be one of the readers of Michael Choniates’ texts? Why could not he, the painter, participate in taking the decision to paint the old metropolitan as a sort of poetic justice against the Latins? Ignatius may have spoken with such a painter and the choice of representing the old metropolitan Michael Choniates could belong to both of them. 221 I follow an observation of Πανσελήνου, ‘Άγιος Πέτρος’, 176, who emphasised that Ignatius did not appear in Choniates’ correspondence. I believe that this absence should not be interpreted otherwise (as him tending to the needs of old Choniates living in his diocese). He could be nominated as proedros (if this was a nomination indeed) anytime during the fifteen years since Choniates had left the island of Kea (1217). 222 Pythagoras is named as ‘the one from Samos’ in the text of the letter. For the original text, see Hoeck, Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios, 180. 223 For some parts of this paraphrase of the original text, see e.g. ibid., 180.
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Little would it matter if the painter or proedros Ignatius were responsible for choosing to depict Michael Choniates in the sanctuary of Kalyvia-Kouvara (Fig. 10). It is also of less importance if this depiction testifies to the stimulus diffusion of a Latin mode. What actually matters is that the depiction was possible because the wrath of the post-1205 clashes had sweetened into a wide-ranging spectrum of tolerance. By that time, things started to change for the better. The Latins did not wish to alienate the Greeks anymore. On 23 February 1233, the Latin archdeacon of Athens was reprimanded for having pursued the bad policy of not allowing local Greeks to marry without paying a fee. He had treated them awfully for quite some time, and his actions were contrary to a local custom involving the gift of a single chicken and bread (sola gallina et uno pane) to the representative of the Athenian church at the end of the marriage ceremony. The dean of the Athenian chapter had informed the pope that the local Greeks were abhorring the Latin rule (legem Latinorum abhorrebant) and had withdrawn their obedience to the Church (ab obedientia Romanae Ecclesiae subtrahere).224 The pope had to take measures, so he asked the archbishop of Corinth, a cantor, and a certain canon William from the same see to go to Athens and force the nasty archdeacon into paying back what he had wrongfully acquired. And then to force him to come and see the pope in person, to be judged. The times of archbishop Berard had passed. I would not be surprised if the iconographic experiments of Kalyvia-Kouvara and Spilia Penteli were a by-product of this newly-found lenience. Reciprocal influences soon manifested in architecture as well. It is difficult to notice them in Attica, where the dating of rural monuments is uncertain and subject to change, but one cannot miss it in the Peloponnesus. For instance, the plan of the Cistercian monastery of Zaraka (c.1225–1236/7), built near Stymfalia (Corinthia), is “typical of Champenois and Burgundian twelfth- and thirteenth-century churches,” but “its masonry shows a mixture of techniques no medieval builder from eastern France would have used.” These techniques are taken to be the proof of a syncretic nature and hybridization of architecture in the Latin Morea. However, this is highly exaggerated. The use of mixed techniques only means that “Greek masons continued working for new, Latin patrons in Morea.” As for the fact that “crocket capitals” occurred in smaller churches of the region, like the 13th century catholicon of the Faneromeni monastery near Chiliomodi (Corinthia) or the church of Rachiotissa near
224 See Lucien Auvray, Les Registres de Grégoire IX: recueil des bulles de ce pape publiées ou analysées d’après les manuscrits originaux du Vatican, tome 1 – texte, années I à VIII (1227–1235) (Paris: Thorin et fils, 1896), coll. 636–637 (no. 1109).
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Nemea (Corinthia), this could not bear any particular significance either.225 Since the plans of these two churches are perfectly Byzantine and no figurative sculpture shows any sign of Western influences, it is reasonable to argue that, once the local mason had learnt a technique, he replicated it in other buildings where he worked. The technique and the sculptures that they produced (the ‘crocket capitals’) were not vectors of any particular cultural connotation. New building techniques were indeed introduced after the Latin conquest, but this does not mean anything. Research classified them into four different groups of monuments (Latin, Franco-Byzantine, Byzantine with Latin elements, and purely Byzantine), but this is only based on the use of a fine type of white mortar, and to the fact that profiled architectural elements were made to be an integral part of the walls. In truth, this means that the local workshops worked together with Latin masons and learnt the techniques, nothing more. The unusual use of Byzantine techniques in the first category of monuments (of a perfectly Latin type) strongly supports this idea.226 Maybe the painters of Attica could have passed through similar experiences, working for Western patrons on various occasions, or even working next to Western artists in monuments currently lost. Nevertheless, the use of different techniques and fashions cannot be taken as a sign of acculturation. It can represent the incipient stages of the latter, but it may also lead to absolutely nothing. Form and meaning should not be confused. In my opinion, the depiction of Choniates may be Western in spirit, since recently venerated figures could be painted in Western churches despite official commendations and decisions, but it cannot be Western in meaning. If I were to consider it otherwise, such an error would lead to weightier blunders when I would mistake a signifier for the signified. This is not syncretism, as it was often suggested. Actual syncretism would mean the creation of a hybrid plan in the architecture of a church or consenting to the use of unusual iconography according to a Western interpretation. The forms that I presented here do not actually convey any Western meaning. Probably because the first half of the 13th century was still dominated by Cistercians.227 The time was not 225 This paragraph is a critique of Heather E. Grossman, ‘Syncretism Made Concrete. The Case for a Hybrid Moreote Architecture in Post-Fourth Crusade Greece’, in J. Emerick, D. Deliyannis (dir.), Archaeology in Architecture. Papers in Honor of Cecil L. Striker (Mainz: P. von Zabern, 2005), 65–73, from whom the above quotations are taken. 226 Cf. Aspasie Louvi-Kizi, ‘Modes de construction occidentaux dans le Péloponnèse après la conquête franque’, Travaux et mémoires, 20/2 (2016), 343–358. 227 The presence of Western influences in Greek churches was often considered to be the result of the presence of a Latin lord in the area. This interpretation is the easiest one to imagine, but not necessarily the best one, since it does not take into account the early
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ripe for what later became a curious form of biculturalism, as we shall see in the next chapter, when I will analyse the murals from the narthex of Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi. Until mid-13th century, I can identify only one experiment testifying to an actual form of cultural dialogue and that is the Old French translation on the margins of the Barlaam codex from Mount Athos. However, the existence of that text was likely due to the choices made by a community of Georgian monks from the Athonite monastery of Iviron, meaning that this rara avis, as I have previously called it in my studies, does not concern the direct cultural exchanges between Latins and Greeks. It is simply an exception that confirms the rule. As such, the Athos Barlaam constitutes also proof that there were not many scholars among the Latin conquerors, so the manuscript remained in the monastery library. It probably missed its chance when its dedicatee either died or simply returned back home to the West. Had it been taken to Western Europe, as many manuscripts of its time were, no one would have guessed that this odd French Barlaam translation had to be linked to Mount Athos. Research would have certainly spoken about Constantinople or Thessalonica, prestigious urban centres where Latin lords might have commissioned it, because of a well-known temptation of research to invent, conjecture, and expand upon its most cherished socio-political records.228 This is also the issue with the murals of Kalyvia-Kouvara. Because of the mention of a proedros in one of the inscriptions, the entire iconographic programme has often been turned into a giant historical document quoted for various purposes by research mainly interested in purely historical facts. However, the truth is that we have absolutely no idea what a proedros actually was in those times. It could have been an invention of Ignatius and not an actual title bestowed upon him by the Latin archbishop. I do not intend to exaggerate in any way, so I prefer to take a step back and draw my conclusions from previous research that was unaware of the text of the inscriptions in the church frictions between Latin laymen and clergymen (before the council of Ravennika, 1210) that continued well into the first half of the 13th century. The apparent peace that followed 1223 (the year when the prince of Morea and the duke of Athens accepted the terms of Ravennika) was probably quite thin and shallow. Cf. Michael S. Kordoses, Southern Greece under the Franks (1204–1262). A Study of the Greek Population and the Orthodox Church under the Frankish Dominion (Ioannina: University of Ioannina, 1987 = Scientific Journal of the Faculty of Arts Dodone: Supplement, nº 33), 71–77. One should better look into the clergymen present in the area, not to the feudal lords. 228 For the rejection of a recent hypothesis arguing that the French Athos Barlaam was produced in Constantinople before the Fourth Crusade, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘La datation du ‘Barlaam’ français du Mont Athos (à propos d’un article récent)’, Annales Universitatis Apulensis. Series Historica, 20/1 (2016), 153–164.
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of Kalyvia-Kouvara. The painters who worked there and in the Spilia Penteli were probably local, since they followed the Comnenian models, but they were also well aware of significant changes made in the early 13th century Byzantine iconography.229 The only speculation that I allow myself to make concerns the pairing of Michael Choniates with saint Ignatius of Antioch in a sub-group of officiating bishops from the murals of the sanctuary. To me, this suggests that proedros Ignatius probably wished to follow in the footsteps of the metropolitan bishop, symbolically choosing his patron saint as counterpart for Choniates. The story of this saint Ignatius could have also played a certain part, for he was known for having travelled to Rome and suffered martyrdom there, being ripped off by lions, as the Menologion of Basil II presents him. In this case, if Ignatius truly played a central part in choosing the iconography of the church, maybe he also toyed with Choniates’ literary past as well, especially since the inscriptions of Kalyvia-Kouvara are in verse. Epigon or not of the famous metropolitan, this matters less. The essential is that art and literature did not die away with Choniates. They continued underground, and there were other continuations, too. Ten years later, close to the middle of the 13th century, another workshop appeared in the region. This time it was headed by a certain John of Athens, and they probably painted three churches: one in the Argolid – the Holy-Trinity of Kranidi (1244), another one in Euboea – the church of Saint-John-the-HutDweller of Psachna (1245), and the otherwise undated church of Saint-George of Oropos, in Mesogeia, close to Spilia Penteli.230 The study of the Kranidi murals revealed that John’s team followed in the footsteps of the workshop who painted Choniates’ depictions, for he also was also tributary to the Comnenian models, but had adapted much better to the mid-13th century style of Serbian paintings coming from the North.231 We should not be surprised that this workshop painted in Euboea, Argolid, and Attica. These areas were not very different after all. In the first half of the 13th century, they still formed a tightly congruous cultural area, despite Latin interventionist attempts at slicing up the old ecclesiastical provinces. A long letter of Choniates from before 1208 gives us a measure of his world after the 1205 fall of Greece: the inhabitants of Argos, Ermioni (a stone’s throw away from the Holy-Trinity church of Kranidi), and 229 Nafsika Coumbaraki-Panselinou, Saint-Pierre de Kalyvia-Kouvara et la chapelle de la Vierge de Merenta. Deux monuments du XIIIe siècle en Attique (Thessalonica: Κέντρον Βυζαντινών Ερευνών, 1976), 118–120. 230 Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, Die Kirche der Hagia Triada bei Kranidi in der Argolis (1244). Ikonographishe und stilistische Analyse der Malereien (Munich: Institut für Byzantinistik und Neugriechische Philologie der Universität, 1975), 310–317. 231 Kalopissi-Verti, Die Kirche der Hagia Triada, 306–310.
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Egina, the citizens of Corinth, the Athenians, the Thebans, and the Chalcidians were the ones for whom he still cared during his exile in the island of Kea.232 John the Athenian probably painted in places where he would have painted anyway, even if the Latins would not have conquered those lands in 1205. Because well before the arrival of those Latins, two of Choniates’ letters mention expressly that the estate of Oropos belonged to the Church of Athens, not of Thebes (c.1194–1195233 and c.1202–1205).234 It is no wonder that painter John worked in Oropos. Oropos was a place of interest, where a painter would have painted even in the old Byzantine times. For the Greeks, this union of regions was the land of Choniates, upon whom they looked with holy veneration. For the Latins, who still evaluated everything in terms of might and power, this land used to be the land of Sgouros (toute la tierre l’Argut).235 That is because the Latins did not yet understand the Greeks. This happened a little later, in the time of another generation, a generation of scholars who came to Athens and Thebes in search of rare Greek books. 232 233 234 235
Kolovou ed., Epistulae, letter 100, p. 139, lines 204–208. Ibid., letter 53, p. 74, lines 40–45. Ibid., letter 82, p. 108, lines 5–8. The formula is used in the chronicle of Henry of Valenciennes. Villehardouin names Sgouros (l’)Asgur/Argur. Cf. Longnon ed., Henri de Valenciennes, 68–69, who believed that these lands of Sgouros were the Argolid, but the Old French text is much too vague. It is difficult to say that Athens and Boeotia were not part of those lands as well.
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Besides Translating Aristotle Little is known about brother William of Morbeka of the Order of Preachers, penitentiary to the lord pope in the second part of the 13th century,1 and later archbishop of Corinth. Most pieces of information come from the titles or explicits of his translations. This translator of the works of Aristotle, of mathematical writings, and of countless other learned texts may be the offspring of an earlier group of scholars from the early days of Western universities. At first, these men did not travel to Greece. The dawn of the Latin conquest was the time of Cistercians, less interested in cultural dialogue and more concerned with establishing their dominion. In the second part of the 13th century, these Cistercians nevertheless failed at their task and Latin Greece welcomed more and more Mendicant brothers. It is therefore preferable to take a look at the wider cultural context, before speaking about William, his translations, and his potential other works. Brother William did not appear out of nothing. A generation had passed since Choniates wrote his letters of exile and Western scholars finally walked through the streets of Athens. Among them was a certain John Basingstoke, who had studied at Oxford and had spent time in Paris. He came to Athens in hope of perfecting his knowledge of Greek. While in Athens, this future archdeacon of Leicester met an extraordinary girl, the 19-year-old daughter of the archbishop of Athens. Constantina was gifted with virtues beyond imagination. She had mastered Trivium and Quadrivium. Such was her prodigiousness of knowledge that John Basingstoke compared her with saint Catherine and chose her as teacher (magistra fuit magistri I[ohannis]). In an account of John’s death (1252), Matthew Paris wrote that Constantina lied about having studied in Paris, but this did not matter much, 1 For the choice of ‘Morbeka’, see his ex libris in Venice, Marciana Library, gr. 258 (a copy of Alexander of Aphrodisias’ De fato ad imperatores): liber fratris Guilelmi de Morbeka Ordinis Praedicatorum penitentiarii Domini Papae. The discussion concerning this place-name will arise later on in this chapter. For various unquoted data used in the writing of the tale, see Edmund Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance (1261–c.1360) (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 103–143. Cf. Agostino Paravicini-Bagliani, ‘Guillaume de Moerbeke et la cour pontificale’, in J. Brams, W. Vanhamel (dir.), Guillaume de Moerbeke. Recueil d’études à l’occasion du 700e anniversaire de sa mort, 1286 (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1989), 23–52; E. Panella, ‘Nuove testimonianze su Guglielmo da Moerbeke’, Archivum fratrum praedicatorum, 56 (1986), 49–5; Agostino Paravicini-Bagliani, ‘Nuovi documenti su Guglielmo da Moerbeke OP’, Archivum fratrum praedicatorum, 52 (1982), 135–143.
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since she was able to foretell pestilences, thunders, an eclipse, and even an earthquake.2 A wondrous story about a wondrous Athenian girl. Constantina was often considered to be the daughter of Michael Choniates, without any reason whatsoever, apart from Choniates being the last Greek metropolitan bishop of Athens. Her story is a variant of the topos of the Saracen princess. From the tale of Bohemond and Melaz in Orderic Vitalis to Mircea Eliade’s Bengali Night, fantasies about Oriental girls dot the history of literature. There is no need to attempt an identification of another odalisque. If the girl were real, she would be the daughter of a Latin archbishop.3 The whole story of the girl served a different purpose though. Matthew Paris inserted it in his account of how the Greek education of John Basingstoke was very useful to the bishop of Lincoln, Robert Grosseteste. While studying in Athens (quando studuit Athenis), master John learnt about the existence of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs. The most learned Greek scholars had talked to him about this text (ab peritis Graecorum doctoribus). It was said to be a lost part of the Bible (de substantia Bibliothecae), hidden away by ‘envious’ Jews, since it contained manifest prophecies about the coming of Christ.4 The Grosseteste Latin translation of this apocryph is well known. There is even a late 13th century French translation in Anglo-Norman dialect, accompanied by a translation of the Ἰησοῦς entry from the Suda Lexicon (or the De sacerdotio Christi, as it came to be known in the West).5 Robert Grosseteste himself translated fifty-two entries of the Suda Lexicon, several works of saint John Damascene, retranslated Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, as well as works of saint Ignatius and Denis the Pseudo-Areopagite.6 He wrote several Latin exegetic writings, too, as well as vernacular texts, like the Chasteau d’amur.7 John Basingstoke, on the other hand, had brought a Greek system of numeration to the West, according to which any number could be represented by a single figure. Moreover, John translated an unidentified Donatus, in which all the ‘strength’ of ‘grammar’ was skilfully and advantageously contained (in quo artificiose et compendiose tota vis grammaticae continetur), and maybe a Greek 2 The Latin text about the puella story was apparently told by master John himself to Matthew Paris. Cf. Henry Richards Luard (ed.), Matthaei Parisiensis, monachi Sancti Albani, Chronica majora, V. A.D. 1248 to A.D. 1259 (London: Longman et al., 1880), 286–287. 3 Nothing is known about Berard, the first archbishop, apart from his official documents. As for the next archbishop of Athens, he is completely unknown. 4 Luard ed., Matthaei Parisiensis, 285. 5 Ruth J. Dean, ‘An Anglo-Norman Version of Grosseteste: Part of His Suidas and Testamenta XII Patriarcharum’, PMLA, 51/3 (1936), 607–620. 6 James McEvoy, Robert Grosseteste (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 113–120. 7 J. Murray (ed.), Le Château d’amour de Robert Grosseteste, évêque de Lincoln (Paris: Champion, 1918).
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Diatessaron.8 It was a time when scholars visited Athens, acquired manuscripts, and brought them to the West. I need a brief example, in order to better explain the way in which the travels of these Western scholars to the Greek lands altered the development of their home culture in general. My interest does not focus only on the high-prestige one, Latin-based. I prefer vernacular texts, because of their sacred and profane odd mixture. Besides, I also need to speak of culture in general (art and literature), so I will present a short case study in which a second-hand degree of familiarity with the city of Athens may tell us a lot about the author’s intentions. Needless to say, this study is highly symbolic. There are much more important associations between Greek sources and Latin translations (or the random vernacular paraphrases of the latter), like the textual tradition of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs. But, alas, there is not enough time to delve into complex matters. My example is humbler and straightforward, but it will provide enough material to illustrate the manner in which art and vernacular literature gradually changed under pressure of a first-hand contact with Byzantine culture. Symbolically, this may be the story of John Basingstoke and the anonymous clerks he had met in Athens. The Old French manuscript studied below presents us with curious details about Athenian geography, with a Greek source for the Dormition of Mary, and with the iconography of that particular scene.
Case Study 3: Saint Denis, Athens, and a Parisian Manuscript
Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, dates back to sometime after the year 1250.9 The codex originated in the Parisian abbey of Saint-Denis. Most of it is dedicated to the life and miracles of saint Denis. Its first part is a French compilation about the saint’s life, his miracles, and the subsequent story of the relics. The second part of the manuscript is a picture-book with Latin legends, narrating the exact same events. After this picture-book, one may read several lists of relics, organised according to the altars where they were kept in the abbey, and some complementary texts. The exact same French compilation from the first part of our codex appears 8 Luard ed., Matthaei Parisiensis, 286. 9 The terminus post quem of this Old French compilation appears in a note about the ages of the world written in Latin at the end of the manuscript. For the note, see Léopold Delisle, ‘Notice sur un livre à peintures exécuté en 1250 dans l’abbaye de Saint-Denis. Lettre à M. le duc de la Trémoille’, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 38 (1877), 444–476, esp. p. 451, who edited it. Cf. Charles J. Liebman, Jr., Étude sur la vie en prose de saint Denis (Geneva/New-York: Humphrey Press Inc., 1942), lxi.
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in at least nineteen other manuscripts, dating from the second half of the 13th century to the end of the 15th century. Yet our manuscript is preferable to all the other ones from the standpoint of an edition, as it is either an autograph or an apograph of the latter. Research also noticed that the closest source of the French compilation is a Latin compilation pre-dating it by more or less seventeen years. The Latin compilation appears in Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509 and bears the title Vita et actus beati Dionysii. It glues together several works of a hagiographic and exegetic nature, with extended historical sequences (the first letter of abbot Hilduin, the life of saint Denis by Hilduin, with additions, a Revelatio ostensa papae Stephano, a Latin version of Anastasius Bibliothecarius, Gesta Dagoberti, and Passio sanctorum Sanctini et Antonini).10 I will therefore deal with four different items in my comparison: the picture-book, connected with the vernacular text; the Old French compilation, probably derived from the Latin one; the Latin compilation; and the life written by Hilduin, copiously used as a primary structure in the assembly of the Latin compilation. Our innovations appear only in the first two examples: the picture-book and the Old French text. I should start by mentioning that the French text is not an indisputable copy of the Latin compilation. It follows it in almost every other aspect, except for several features that are extremely important to me. For instance, this Old French has a curious description of Athens, partly taken from the Latin’s compilation (based on the life written by Hilduin) and partly taken from mysterious sources. I present the two texts in an edited form. Here is the description of Athens from the beginning of life of saint Denis: Hilduin’s Life of saint Denis11 (unmodified in the Latin compilation) Quinque sane regionibus disterminata signatur.
10
11 12
French compilation, post-1250 (Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, fol. 5v–6v)12 Ceste citez estoit devisee en cinc parties, et chascune estoit sacree et dediee a aucun des fax dex:
For an edition of the Latin text, see Liebman, Étude, 143–210. For a state of the art of this Latin post-1233 compilation, see Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 112–113, who dates it nevertheless to 1223. The text contains a reference to the rediscovery of the Holy Nail (lost and found in 1233), thus its post-1233 dating. For the edited text quoted here, see Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 236. Cf. Liebman, Étude, 3.
130 Prima regio est quae Aegeum mare respicit, in qua situs mons exstat supereminens urbi, ubi Saturni et Priapi aureae statuae variarum illusionum colebantur dementiis. Haec enim regio Cronospagus appellatur ex Saturni nomine, qui Graece Cronos vocatur. Secunda regio Athenae est, quae respicit Thraciam, ubi terebinthus mirae magnitudinis inerat, sub qua Silvani et Fauni agrestis hominis simulacra statutis diebus a pastoribus venerabantur. Quae regio Panospagus appellatur ex nomine Silvani et Fauni (Graeci enim Silvanum Pan et Faunos ficarios Panitas vocitant). Tertia regio Possedonospagus appellatur; quae intendit portum Neptuni. Possedon namque Graece Neptunus dicitur, cuius simulacrum et Dianae effigiem Aegei ibidem colebant, et quo recursus totius populi luna renascente in multis functionibus confluebat. No.[anticipated in the French text, see below: Quinta regio civitatis eiusdem versa est ad Portam Scaeam, Hermispagus ex nomine Mercurii (qui Hermes Graece dicitur) appellata, in qua staticulum ipsius Mercurii veneratione summa ceperat urbem.] Quarta regio in eadem urbe est, ubi idolum Martis et simulacrum Herculis in colle Tritonii montis, in medio urbis positi, steterat, ad colendum multis immolationibus et delusionibus Martem et Herculem,
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en la premeraine aoroient li Sarrazin le pere a toz les dex, qui avoit nun Saturnus;
en la secunde les dex as pastors, qui avoient nun Faunus et Satyrus;
en la tierce le dieu de la mer, qui avoit nun Neuptunus;
en la quarte le dieu au marchaanz, qui avoit nun Mercurius;
en la quinte le dieu des batailles, qui avoit nun Mars. Iceste estoit el mileu de la cité;
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quos illi deos maximos et fortissimos adorabant;
ubi etiam exercebantur iudicia et docebantur fora ingeniique omnis sollertia. Qui locus Areopagus appellatur a Marte (Mars enim Ares Graece vocatur). Quinta regio civitatis eiusdem versa est ad Portam Scaeam, Hermispagus ex nomine Mercurii (qui Hermes Graece dicitur) appellata, in qua staticulum ipsius Mercurii veneratione summa ceperat urbem. Haec civitas munitissimis moeniis, mari florido, mellitis (ut sic dictum sit) rivulis et fluminibus, satis pinguissimis nemoribus consitis et aromatibus odoratis, vinetis nectareis et ubertatis copia effluentibus, olivetis abundantissimis, virectis florentibus, pascuis pecoribus sufficientissimis, auri, argenti ceterorumque metallorum omnium copiis, navium quoque ac vectigalium commeatibus et voluptatum cunctarum affluentiis, ultra urbes alias exornata, quondam nobilissime floruit. Sed quae suo priori saeculo cunctis mundi felicitatibus supererat, modo gentium frequenti et condenso impetu oppressa et intercepta dirimitur.
illeques estoit la tor et la forterece de la vile; illeques habitoit toz li noblais du païs; la tenoit en les plez et fesoit en les jugemenz; la estoient les escoles des hautes clergies. Cil lius avoit non en lor langage Ariopagus, c’est a dire la vile au dieu des batailles. [vide supra: en la quarte le dieu au marchaanz, qui avoit nun Mercurius;]
Et ja soit ce que ceste citez fust ancienement si noble, et plus que nos ne disom, neporquant en aprés, par guerres et par batailles et par autres mesestances, a ele mout perdu de son noblais et de son poeir et de sa digneté.
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The mention of ‘the tower and the fortress of the city, where all the noblemen lived’ does not appear in the Latin source of the anonymous French text. Furthermore, the inversion between the fourth and the fifth pagi is equally absent, since Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, follows closely the original Latin text of Hilduin.13 This suggests that the anonymous French author was responsible for this deliberate modification. The most reasonable explanation is that his source probably told him that there was a tower on the Acropolis (Fig. 9). Immediately after, the Latin compilation tells that the Athenians were “prompted by their desire for novelty” and “brought Paul one day to the Areopagus, so that his doctrine might there undergo some examination.”14 It was there that saint Paul met saint Denis for the first time. The French prose life, on the other hand, tells us that the Athenians took saint Paul to the fortress situated at the heart of the city.15 The rest of the French text follows closely the Latin source, speaking about Denis as theosophus, a man who knew God (en lor langage theosophus, ce est a dire hoem qui Dieu set), of aristocratic blood (estoit de la plus haute ligniee de tote la contree), and descending from that particular Dionysus who had invented the vine (descendi du tres haut lignage au primerain et au grant Dyonise qui primes trova vigne et enseigna le cotivement des vignes en Athenes). According to the French text, he was called the Areopagite because he dwelt in the pagus of Areopagus. It adds a single and minor detail: he ruled over the entire Areopagus as prince and master of it (et por la partie de la cité ou il demoroit et dont il avoit tote la seignorie, si avoit non Ariopagita).16 This is a consequence of the aristocratic status that the Latin life written by Hilduin had already conferred to the saint.17 13 14 15 16 17
For the fourth and fifth pagi, see Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, p. 50. See Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 239 for this translation, and p. 238 for the original text. Liebman, Étude, 4. For the Latin text in the c.1233 compilation, see Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, pp. 51b–52a. For the quotations, see Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, fol. 2r. For an edition, cf. Liebman, Étude, 4. There was a brief mention of a fortress in the text of Hilduin (arx). The French anonymous author provided a rather faithful interpretation of that passage, but he lacked the necessary knowledge to understand certain references, therefore he modified the character of saint Denis to fit the scene. In one of the following paragraphs, the French text briefly describes saint Denis’ trip to Egypt and his return to Athens, where he becomes lord of the fortress and of the entire city, keeps a court where he presides over private and common matters, as he was most noble, most powerful, and wisest among Athenians. He also presides over schools, masters, and doctrines, because he surpasses them in intelligence and dignity. See Paris, BnF, n. acq. fr. 1098, fol. 2v. Cf. Liebman, Étude, 5–6. The whole passage takes after the Latin source, where, “when he had accomplished the business for which he
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For a medieval man, justice was administered by the feudal lord, so Denis had to become a prince, very similar to the Saint-Omer who ruled over half of Thebes. Nevertheless, this also suggests that the geographical changes were intentional. The French anonymous author had no reason whatsoever to stray too far away from the Latin source. He exaggerated here and there, but on the whole, he kept to the original story. The fact that he changed the place where saint Paul met saint Denis, moving it from the Areopagus to the fortress situated at the heart of the city, where a tower had been built and where the nobles lived, is an adaptation to new realities. I am naturally tempted to imagine that these pieces of information reached Paris during the visit of Guy de la Roche, since this would be a major event, prestigious on account of his meeting with the French king, but there must have been a lot of people travelling between Athens and Paris in the first half of the 13th century. Frankly, any one of them could bring such pieces of information back to France. The truth is that the French author did not know much about Greek lands. When the Latin text of Hilduin tells that saint Denis had been to Thessalonica for three years, to get instructed, the French adaptation writes that he went ‘somewhere’ (unspecified) for a period of three years (et fu aprés en sa compaignie quelque part qu’il alast l’e[s]pace de trois anz).18 Later on, at the end of the catalogue of the writings of saint Denis, the French author suppresses the mention of the Lacedaemonians, mentioning only the city of Pelium.19 Had he visited the Latin-occupied Greek lands, our anonymous author would have written something about La Cremonie. Next, the saint leaves the Athenian converts in the charge of an unidentified bishop (a qui il baillast la cure du pueple et de la cité),20 ignoring that the first Athenian bishop was Hierotheus, whom he mentions immediately after. This suggests that the French author knew little about Athens, probably from a direct source. I believe that he wished to confer
18 19 20
had set out, Dionysius happily returned and assumed charge of the citadel of Athens; and, presiding over the court of the Areopagus, he conducted the government of all civil affairs both publicly and privately, as an aristocrat among aristocrats; and as primus inter pares adorned with the toga of philosophy, he dispensed to all the citizens and to those pouring in from everywhere with that object in mind, the sophistic and syllogistic subtleties and devices of all branches of learning.” See Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 241, for this translation. Cf. p. 240, for the original text. Cf. Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, p. 57. Paris, BnF, n. acq. fr. 1098, fol. 3v; cf. Liebman, Étude, 10. Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 270: cum Pelio Lacedaemoniorum positus. Compare this to the French text in Paris, BnF, n. acq. fr. 1098, fol. 6v: qu’il vint a une cité qui a non pelium. Cf. Liebman, Étude, 20. Paris, BnF, n. acq. fr. 1098, fol. 6v. Cf. Liebman, Étude, 20.
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an effet de vérité, including actual Athenian features learnt from a prime source. But only in the introduction. In the rest of the text, the French author did not make significant changes to the Latin source. Except one. There is something else of note. In the French compilation, the catalogue of saint Denis’ writings is scrambled and abridged. The anonymous author avoided translating the texts of the saint themselves. At a certain point, he simply mentioned the last one of the list, a letter of saint Denis written for saint John the Evangelist, exiled in Patmos, and then proceeded to tell about the departure of saint Paul for Rome. This situation is very different from the story narrated by the Latin compilation that follows Hilduin, who only states that: […] with Paul bearing witness to Christ at Rome, and following his first prosecution in Western regions (as he had himself predicted), the dear and eloquent Dionysius – who was called ‘Ionicus’ from his homeland, but because of his great sanctity was called by the Christian by-name ‘Macarius’ which means ‘blessed’ – strove with abundant care to nourish what his teacher had planted, so that after the departure of the master ravening wolves, not sparing the flock, should not attack the Lord’s sheep. Whence passing through cities near and far with his preaching, and converting peoples to the faith and confirming the faithful in the Word and healing those afflicted by various illnesses, he withdrew to the Troad for the sake of (preaching) the gospel, and passed some time in those same parts.21 The French author says nothing about ‘Ionicus’ and ‘Macarius’. Instead, he writes about the Dormition of the Mother of God, a passage that does not exist in the original Latin text of Hilduin. Something similar exists in the Latin compilation, presumed source of the French text, but the text is not the same. The texts copied in the two compilations diverge greatly in their description of the Dormition. I present the two passages (Latin and French) in a semi-diplomatic edition, since the manuscript readings are important in this particular case:22
21 22
See Lapidge ed., Hilduin, 271 (translation), 270 (original text). I am trying to avoid in this way the collations of manuscript variants in the edition of the two texts published by Ch. J. Liebman. Cf. Liebman, Étude, 156–160, for the Latin text; and pp. 16–20, for an edition of the French text.
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Latin compilation, post-1233 (Paris, BnF, n. a. lat. 1509, p. 90b–98a) [title:] De piissima sollicitudine patris huius erga iam conuersos ad fidem. et erga ad huc conuertendos;
French compilation, post-1250 (Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, fol. 5v–6v)
Paulo autem rome et post primam suam defensionem in occiduis partibus ut sibi ipse predixerat christum testificante; preciosus et facundissimus dyonisius qui a patria jonicus. christiano autem agnomine propter maximam sanctitatem uocabatur macharius quod interpretatur beatus; ne post discessum magistri lupi rapaces et gregi non parcentes dominicas oues inuaderent; quod institutor suus plantauit abundanti sollicitudine rigare contendit. Non enim athenarum tantum pastor erat et doctor. sed generaliter doctor doctorum et pastor pastorum et legislator. et dietarum dispositor. Neque spaciis solius [e]ladis et attice prouincie eius cursus est terminatus. sed instar pauli doctoris gentium ducis ac preceptoris sui. usque ad illiricum decucurrit uel multo longius. Apostolica enim gratia et uirtute signorum accepta. apostolice uelut auis quidam ubique discurrebat. uere uite euangelium disseminans; et apostolicis sagenis cunctaque capientibus linis capiens. et quasi captiuos educens de ignorantie profundo ad lumen ueritatis eos qui in tenebris detinebantur erroris.
Quant misires sainz Denis fu sacrez a arcevesque dathenes. et il fu bien confermez en tote uerite; sainz pous si mestres li mist en sa main la cure de ceus quil auoit conuertiz en cele contree. et sen uint a rome por prieschier le non damledieu. Li saint hoem si emprist mout grant cure de ceus que sis mestres li auoit commande. car il cremoit que apres sa departie. ne uenissent li faus priescheor. et semassent mauesse doctrine en pueple que li apostres sis mestres auoit conuertiz.
136 Vnde uicinas et longe positas pertransiens ciuitates. predicando et ad fidem populos conuertendo. fidelesque in uerbo confirmando. atque oppressos uariis languoribus sanando. usque troadem secessit euangelizandi gratia; atque in eisdem partibus aliquanto tempore degit. Communis siquidem ecclesie corporis ex multis et uariis gentibus et moribus et modis et sermonibus compositi. rector idem et alumpnus erat; simplex. multiformis et uarius. Simplex equitate. iusticia et ueritate. omnis simulationis expers et dupplicitatis; uarius autem. increpationis. obsecrationis. et patrocinij pia machinatione; uicissim unicuique congruam offerens et curam et dietam. Et spiritaliter quidem infirmantium aliis hoc. alijs uero illud sapienter et oportune genus adhibens medicine; bene currentes exhortans posteriora obliuisci. et in anteriora indesinenter extendi. pigrosque et desides ad unitationem bene currentium incitabat. Multa quidem karismatum sunt illi dona concessa. multeque glorie; ueluti qui uarios agones martyrij constanter et sustinuit et superauit. quos competenti loco sermo secuturus expediet.
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Et por ce aloit il par les citez. et par les bones uiles. et pres et loing prieschant et affermant la droite uerite. et conuertissoit les mescreanz a droite foi. Les biencreanz confermoit en bones oures. et sanoit ceus qui estoient apriens de diuerses langueurs. Et demora grant piece en une cite qui a non troade. por le pueple enseigner.
Endementieres quil fu illecques; si li uint uolente e desirrier daller en ierusalem en pelerinage por uoair les crestiens qui illecques estoient.
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et por fere ses oraisons en la terre ou nostre sires ihesu criz auoit este mors et uis. Lores meismes si asemblerent grant partie des sainz homes de grece. et des deciples aus apostres qui uindrent de diuerses parties. Mes ia soit ce que la compaignie fut mout grant; misire sainz Denis nen nome fors que cinc persones. Soi et saint gerotheus qui fu sis mestres apres saint pol. Et saint thimotheu. qui fu deciples saint pol. Et saint pere lapostre. et saint iaque qui estoit euesque de ierusalem. [title:] Quomodo per miraculum dyonisius alijque sancti quamplurimi ad sepulturam beate uirginis iherosolimis conuenerunt; Interim autem inter cetera precipuum obtinet locum et auget miraculum nubes illa celestis. que diuino delata nutu de finibus hunc hesperiis rapiens sustulit. atque per aerem uelificans et discurrens una cum illo summos dei contemplatores et theologos apostolos alium aliunde de diuersis mundi plagis singulos de suis locis inopinabiliter transferendo. ad uenerandam ciuitatem ierusalem. adduxit. que est omnium fidelium communis mater; atque in sublimi diuinorum mysteriorum arce syon ecclesiarum matre congregauit et coniunxit. Quod eo tempore creditur accidisse. quo uidelicet sanctissime dei matris anima ad celestia migrante. per utriusque curie principes celestis
138 et terrene corpus oportebat terre commendari; uolente ihesu benignissimo eam de qua ineffabiliter incarnatus est carnem honorare. angelicis ordinibus ut credi dignum est de celo missis. eique ministrorum uice laudes concinentibus. atque de syon in gethsemani apostolicis et apostolicorum uirorum manibus et humeris lipsanum uenerabiliter est translatum; linguisque ignitis et theologicis atque a spiritu sancto motis collaudatum et glorificatum. vnde mater et uirgo postea quam in monumento est deposita insuper celestem integra assumpta est regionem; omnibus celestibus superior constituta uirtutibus. et uniuersis dominans creaturis. De hoc stupendo ualde miraculo dignum utique est. ut audiatur ipsius magni dei preconis dyonisij testimonium. eo quod alius fide dignior non existat testis huius nubifere et angelis digne congregationis sanctorum; licet non estimen necessarium testes perduci ad persuadendum id quod tota tellus attica tenet celeberrimum.
verumptamen in diuinorum nominum capitulo terrio scribens timotheo.
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Qvant il furent illecques tuit assemble; il auint quil plot a nostre seignor ihesu crist que sa glorieuse mere trespassat de ceste mortel uie. et furent tuit cist saint home a son trespassement. et uirent sun precieus cors. Cinsint la ferme misires saint denis en un liure quil fist des deuins nons.
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inter cetera quibus ierotheum sanctum mirabiliter commendat. quem et preceptorem suum post apostolum paulum appellat; ita inuenitur scripsisse.
[title:] Verba dionysij ad timotheum pauli discipulum. Hoc a nobis obseruatum est ualde studiose. quod his quedi iudicata sunt ab ipse diuino duce secundum planam manifestationem. manum aliquando non apposuimus; ad eiusdem propositi eloquij declarationem. Quoniam et apud ipsos deo acceptos ierarchas nostros. quando et nos ut nosti et ipse et multi sanctorum fratrum nostrorum conuenimus ad uisionem uitam inchoantis et deum suscipientis corporis; aderat autem et frater dei iacobus et petrus summa et prouectissima theologorum summitas. Deinde placuit post uisionem. ut uniuersi ierarche laudarent prout quisque erat infinitam bonitatem thearchice infirmitatis. Omnes alios doctores sanctos post theologos iste ut nosti superabat. totus excedens. totus extasim paciens a seipso. et ad laudata communiones paciens;
Et ce meisme testmoignent li saint home et li sage de grece; en leur escriz. Et dient encore que aincois quil se partissent de ierusalem; nostre sires saparut a tote la compaignie. et se demostra uisablement. Et leur esleeca leur cuers de sa uenue et de sa presence.
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et cunctis a quibus audiebatur. et uidebatur. et cognoscebatur et non cognoscebatur; deo acceptus esse. et diuinus laudator iudicatus. Et quid tibi de theologizatis ibi dicam? Etenim nisi et meipsum oblitus sum; multotiens noui a te et partes quasdam audiens illorum hymnorum a deo motorum. [title:] Exposicio supra scripte sententie; Itaque ubi dicit ad uisionem uitam inchoantis et deum suscipiens corporis. dei genitricis corpus uoluit intelligi; uel ipsius domini ut quidam arbitrati sunt. Forsitan enim et iste sanctissimus pater unus fuit eorum qui uiderant dominum postquam credidit ueniens cum aliis in iudeam causa uidendi credentes; et maxime cum illis conuersatus qui uiderant dominum. De quibus diuinis apostolus in epistola priori ad corinthios meminit. quod sepe multis ex fratribus dominus apparuerit. et rursus plusquam quingentis fratribus simul.
Verum forte primum illud uerius est. ut de corpore dei genitricis intelligatur. Jntuendum enim attente illud est quod ait. quando multi conuenimus in uisione uitam inchoantis et deum recipientis corporis. quando uidelicet dormiuit dei genitrix. Neque enim rationis
De ceste seue demostrance parole misires sainz pous en la primeraine epistre quil enuoia au crestiens de la cite de chorinte. La ou il dist que nostre sires saparut mainte foiz a pluseurs de ses amis apres sa resurrection. et se demostra a plus de cinc cenz freres ensemble.
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est dicere. quod iherosolimis ad uisionem domini conuenerint. cum ipse dixerit. precedam uos in galileam. presertim cum ad uisionem solius corporis eos conuenisse pater dicat; dominusque non corpus quod uidebatur tantum esset. Quod enim iherosolimis dixerit eos conuenisse. ex eo declaratur quod asseruit affuisse cum eius et iacobum fratrem domini; qui uidelicet iherosolimis semper deguisse creditur; et non inconuenienter hoc. ad efficiendam honorificentiam sancte dormitionis dei genitricis. At uero si dixerit quis de corpore domini eum potius prohibuisse. quid prohiberet eum dicere uisum illum fuisse uel sibi soli uel cum alijs dominum. sicut dixit apostolus et sancti euangeliste? Dei quippe appariciones preter spem subito fiebant his qui digni erant. ita ut formidarent repentinam apparitionem seu manifestationem. Porro dicere uitam inchoantis corpus uel deum suscipientis corpus dei genitricis; non est inconueniens. Suscepit enim deum dei uerbum. ac uere uitam inchoauit. Vnde et dei receptricem quemadmodum et dei genitricem proprie et in ueritate eam dicimus. quoniam peperit eum ueraciter incarnatum ex se inconuertibiliter et inconfuse. Denique et sanctissimus andreas cretensis antistes. hoc dictum super corpore dei genitricis interpretatur. Si quem autem mouet uel huius beatissimi uel apostolorum
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142 repentina et per nubem hec facta translatio; in mentem illi ueniant. uel abacuc de iudea in babylonem danieli prandium deferens uel ezechiel de babylone in iudeam diuinitus ambo translati. [title:] Quod beatus dyonisius genera linguarum habuit; Hoc quemquam fidelium decet [?] dilectissimi dubitare. quin doctor iste gloriosus genera linguarum obtinuerit. si bene recogitauerit quid in actibus apostolorum circa cornelium uel eos qui comitabantur cum illo contigerit; de quibus scriptum est. quod orante petro antequam baptizarentur ceciderit super eos spiritus sanctus. et loquebantur linguis. Quantomagis hij qui circa petrum. iohannem. iacobum et paulum uersabantur ut familiares eorum. et fideles iam erant. et ad propagandam fidem christi seu roborandam uidebantur idonei. repleti sunt igniformi gratia spiritus sancti. et linguis loqui meruerunt? Qui quemadmodum ubique ad predicandum sunt disperse. et alius alibi peregrinationem sortiti. et ad apostolatus officium sunt ordinate; ita simul uno tempore conuenerent deo disponente. et diuine nubis illius curru uehi digni facti sunt. Et quidem circa salutaris predicationis principium omnibus qui uere fidei complantati sunt. et diuini baptismatis illumination mundati; et linguarum genera. et sanitatum carismata. et uariarum uirtutum
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efficacia. a supernaturalium munerum largitore diuino spiritu copiose distribute sunt; quantomagis huic magno apostolico dyonisio. et his qui cum illo erant?
Completo itaque propter quod uiri sancti iherosolimis conuenerant; solutum est sanctum illud et uenerabile concilium. et unusquisque duce christo ad sua cum pace et spirituali gaudio remeauit. Beatissimus ergo dyonisius in greciam repedauit; circumquaque disseminatis uerbum dei. [title:] Subrogato sibi athenis episcopo macharius dyonisius uersus romam iter aggreditur. Se post aliquot annos cum pelio lacedemoniorum positus. petrum et paulum apostolorum capita rome tentos et petrum ergastulo paulum secundo uinculis …
Enpres ce quil orent ueu le precieus cors nostre dame. et il orent fet uers lui ce qua eus en apartenoit; si plot aus apostres qui illecques estoient. que li saint home sermonassent au pueple selonc ce que nostre sires dorroit grace a chascun. et parlassent de la haute diuinite. et de lumanite nostre seignor ihesu crist. Entre les autres misires sainz gerotheus li mestres saint Denis fist sun sermon. si haut si glorieus. et si esperitex; que tuit cil qui lauoient oi; li porterent tesmoing quil auoit sormonte toz les autres enpres les apostres par sens. et par saintee. et par cognoissance de droite uerite. Apres ce se departi cele sainte compaignie. et sen ala chascuns en pais et en la contree ou il deuoit prieschier; et essaucier le non nostre seigneur; Et misires sainz denis sen repera en grece. prieschant et enseignant le pueple entor et enuiron de si la
quil auint a une cite qui a non pelium.
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The odd thing is that the two texts have almost nothing in common, except for the fact that they develop the same subject, that is, the presence of saint Denis at the Dormition of Mary in Jerusalem. The only brief common sequence (unde vicinas […] tempore deg[u]it in the Latin compilation) originates in the life of the saint written by Hilduin, meaning that the anonymous author of the French compilation could follow the structure of the previous hagiographic compilation in Latin, but not its letter. Two other coincidences (the mentions of the book on the divine names and the Epistle to the Corinthians), testify to the fact that the French author looked at this Latin compilation, but did not follow it. The entire Dormition scene presents so many divergent points between the two texts that it is safe to assume that the French author had his reasons to present it in his own way. Here is a deduction about what those reasons could be. Let us deal first with the peculiar developments of the Latin text. The segment entitled Verba Dionysii ad Timotheum Pauli discipulum is a quotation extracted from the third chapter of Pseudo-Denis’ De divinis nominibus in the translation of John Sarrasin, c.1167, with few minor scribal variants and errors (see the his quedi for instance).23 I could not identify the other three segments (Quomodo per miraculum Dyonisius aliique sancti quamplurimi ad sepulturam beate Virginis Iherosolimis convenerunt; Exposicio supra scripte sententie; and Quod beatus Dyonisius genera linguarum habuit), but they probably originate in a commentary written after the later part of the 12th century and based on the text of the translation by John Sarrasin.24 The end of the Exposicio supra scripte sententie sequence contains a reference to saint Andrew of Crete, followed 23
24
I could not find an edition of John Sarrasin’s translation, but his text was used by Peter of Spain in a commentary to the text of Pseudo-Denis and the two sequences match perfectly. See for this the edition of P. Manuel Alonso (ed.), Pedro Hispano: Exposição sobreos livros do Beato Dionísio Areopagita (Lisbon: Instituto de Alta Cultura, 1957 = online edition encoded by Ana Ferreira, 2 July 2019, Project Petrus Hispanus Works; http://scta-staging.lombardpress.org/. Accessed 2020 June 1). For the translation of John Sarrasin (a remake of that of John Scott Eriugena, in turn inspired by the first translation of Hilduin), see also Gabriel Théry, ‘Jean Sarrazin ‘traducteur’ de Scot Érigène’, in Studia mediaevalia in honorem admodum reverendi patris Raymundi Josephi Martin, Ordinis Praedicatorum s. theologiae magistri LXXum natalem diem agentis (Bruges: De Tempel, 1948), 359–381; Gabriel Théry, ‘Documents concernant Jean Sarrazin réviseur de la traduction érigénienne du Corpus dionysiacum’, Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du Moyen Âge, 18 (1950–1951), 45–87. Given the great number of commentaries of Pseudo-Denis works in the 12th–13th centuries, some of which are still unedited, the current format of my research does not allow me to delve too deep into marginal issues. This subject will be explored in a future article.
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by a paraphrase of the last phrase of his twelfth paragraph in his second homily on the Dormition of Mary.25 The Latin compiler could use an exegetic text based on an early Byzantine tradition. This may be inferred from the different source of the French text. At a first look, the source of the second development in the French compilation looks like its source could be the second paragraph of the third chapter in the treatise on the divine names by Pseudo-Denis the Areopagite. However, a closer inspection shows that the sequence was completely reformulated, presenting even more information that derives in one way or another from a passage interpolated into the second homily on the Dormition of Mary by John Damascene. It is in fact an extract of the Historia euthymiaca, inserted as the 18th chapter of the homily of the Damascene. It states that: the excellent Apostle Timothy, the first bishop of Ephesus, was present there with the [other] Apostles, and also Dionysius the Areopagite, as the great Dionysius himself tells us in his elaborate remarks about the blessed Hierotheos – who also was present then – which are addressed to Timothy. Dionysius writes: ‘Once we, as you know, and he and many of our holy brethren had come together, along with our inspired hierarchs, to see the body that had been our source of life; James, brother of God, was there, and Peter, the chief and senior leader of those who spoke of God. After we had seen it, all the hierarchs resolved to sing the praise, as each was able, of the infinitely powerful goodness of the divine strength. After the witnesses of God, as you know, he [Hierotheos] surpassed all the other initiates in the holy Mystery – completely enraptured, completely transcending himself, experiencing a real communion with the things of which they sang. And he was judged by all who heard and saw and recognized him – though he did not recognize them – to be inspired, a singer of divine song. But why do I tell you about the holy oracles that were spoken then? For if I am not completely forgetful, I know that I often heard parts of those inspired canticles from you’.26 25
26
See e.g. Brian E. Daley, S.J. (trans.), On the Dormition of Mary. Early Patristic Homilies (Crestwood NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1998), 131: “It is nothing to wonder at, if the Spirit that once raised Elijah and carried him off in heaven’s fiery chariot now brought them together all at once, in the Spirit, through the clouds. All things are easy for God, as we know from the story of Habakkuk and Daniel.” See Daley trans., On the Dormition, 225–226 for the translation. For the original text of the excerpt from chapter 18 of the second oration, see P. Bonifatius Kotter (ed.), Die Schriften
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There is one difference between the two accounts: in the French text, saint Hierotheus the Thesmothete, the first bishop of Athens, does not sing any hymns. Oddly, he holds a sermon instead, meaning that the source used by the French anonymous compiler was not a Greek text (or its faithful translation into Latin). I believe that the source was of an oral nature. An actual allusion to this could be the phrase et ce meisme testmoignent li saint home et li sage de Grece en leur escriz. If the writings of the holy men and scholars of Greece are quoted here instead of a famous author, the vague reference may be indicative of an oral transmission of the information. Moreover, despite extensive work done by Robert Grosseteste translating the works of the Damascene, this homily had not been translated into Latin at that time, meaning that the French author used information coming directly from the Greek lands. Last but not least, another proof of orality is the spelling of the first Athenian bishop’s name: Gerotheus cannot come from a Latin translation; a scholar would be faithful to the Greek language, proposing Hierotheus. Nor could it originate in a French vernacular, where this name would be pronounced Jerothée. Our text’s Gerotheus has an Italian flavour – see Geroteo – and I suspect that the oral source of our French author could be an Italian speaker living in the Latin-occupied Greek lands. The allusion to the 13th century topography of Athens also argues in favour of this interpretation. And the oral nature of the source may explain why the French author completely missed the point in the story of Hierotheus, speaking of sermon instead of hymns. And there is more. I did not mention anything about the picture-book that accompanies the French text of the compilation in Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098. Its illustrations are priceless for the understanding of the cultural transfer. This particular passage from the Historia euthymiaca was inserted into Damascene’s second homily to the Dormition sometime in the second half of the 9th century, but it instantly became the chief source for the iconography of the Dormition of Mary. The presence of two, three, or four bishops in the Dormition scene is based upon the mention of the names of Hierotheus, Timothy, and James the brother of the Lord in the text of Pseudo-Denis. Research argues that when two bishops are present in Byzantine scenes, they should be identified with saints Denis and Timothy or Denis and James. In case of three bishops, they would be identified with Denis (variable physiognomy), Timothy (dark hair and des Johannes von Damaskos, 5. Opera homiletica et hagiographica (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1988), 538.
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short beard) and Hierotheus (white hair and a medium pointed beard, similar traits to those of James).27 These features would not be known in the Western lands. The absence of bishops in the Dormition scene from the Chartreuse du Liget murals (Fig. 5) argues in favour of this assumption. Nevertheless, an odd scene from the second part of the manuscript where the Old French compilation was copied testifies to a Byzantine influence of a certain degree. Misunderstood, like in the chapel of Liget, but still evident and this time probably originating from Greece, not from the Holy Land. The second part of Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, presents a large picture-book mirroring the structure of the French compilation. It starts with the Athenian beginnings of saint Denis and ends with the story of Dagobert. Images are represented in pairs, with legends in Latin couplets, either in Leonine hexameters or in standard end-verse rhymes. The Dormition scene appears on fol. 33v, after saint Denis nominated as bishop and saint Denis writing to the faithful (Fig. 11a). The Latin verses present it as: Jherusalem presens hec urbis ymago figurat. | Hic pia uirgo, parens christi, de corpore migrat.28 The text does not need to be analysed. The image is much more interesting, for it respects the essential structure of the Byzantine composition, yet there are many absurd features in it. Christ, for instance, makes a benediction sign with the right hand, instead of holding Mary’s soul with both hands. Next, the French artist did not know what to do with the head of Mary. He probably did not understand that its elevated position was determined by the shape of the funeral bier, so he transformed saint Paul’s hugging of the feet and saint Peter’s sitting at the bedside into a scene where Peter and Paul handle the body of Mary in a shroud, as if they were placing it on the bier. I will not deal with all the other features diverging from standard Byzantine iconography. These two suffice and they effectively indicate that the artist was working from a faded memory of an Orthodox composition, much in the same manner as the French anonymous author of the same manuscript was working with faded memories of Byzantine texts when he wrote about the same Dormition scene. This image is evidently a unicum. It was fashioned half-way between someone’s first-hand acquaintance with Byzantine iconography (maybe the same person who was familiar with the topography of 13th century Athens) and the utter ignorance of a Western artist who
27 28
Walter, ‘Three Notes’, 260–268. For all the Latin verse legends edited as a separate text, see Delisle, ‘Notice’, 456–463.
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had spent most of his life in the abbey of Saint-Denis. This Dormition transgresses a cultural barrier. This was a typical French situation. About the same time or even earlier, at the beginning of the 13th century, a painter working in a peripheral area of the Italian Alps was able to paint a proper Dormition, Byzantine style, in the church of Santa-Maria-del-Conforto of Maia Bassa, near Merano. In this Italian depiction, the features of Eastern iconography were rigorously kept. Saint Paul, for instance, embraces Mary’s feet.29 For reasons unknown, this was not the case with France. When the cultural boundary was crossed and local artists had to rely on Western knowledge exclusively, ludicrous images appeared, such as the one painted in Paris, BnF, f. fr. 13502. This other manuscript dates back to c.133530 and contains a copy of the Old French compilation. The vernacular text is not followed by a picture-book. Instead, the images from the picture-book were inserted in the corresponding passages of the Old French text, but their Latin legends are absent. The Dormition was painted on fol. 16v (Fig. 11b). It retained the structural elements of the original, but the most important feature of the Byzantine composition disappeared and the scene presents Christ in the sky, between clouds, making a benediction sign and holding an orb instead of Mary’s soul. The times when French were in direct contact with Greek culture had passed. Morea was gradually Italianized by that time, Athens was lost to the Catalans, and the French were once again playing their old game of ‘Greek whispers’, as they did in the 12th century. There are no traces of a direct Greek influence in the picture-book. This is substantiated by the scene of the martyrdom of saint Denis and his followers, where Byzantine iconography could appear, but it did not. In the previous chapter, I mentioned that the Greek iconography of this scene was based on texts that simplified the incongruous presence of two women after the death of the saint in the Latin sources: one martyred on the spot (Larcia) and another one (Catulla) who tricked the executioners in order to retrieve the relics. Saint Denis’s body also carried his head without a clear purpose in the Latin source, so the Greek texts placed Catulla at the end of the cephalophoric walk, receiving the saint’s head as a holy ‘treasure’. The iconography from the Menologion of 29 30
Enrica Cozzi, ‘L’arte a Venezia attorno alla IV Crociata. Relazioni e influssi sulla pittura murale dell’area italiana nord-orientale fra XII e XIII secolo’, Saggi e memorie di storia dell’arte, 28 (2004), 108. Alison Stones, Gothic Manuscripts. 1260–1320 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), part 2, 2:249.
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Basil II is not present on the fol. 44r and 46r of the codex of Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, where the cephalophory and the Catulla scenes are depicted. This means that Greek culture was summoned up only when the creators of the French compilation decided that they needed it. However, this also means that the French text and the picture-book following it were created at the same time and for a similar purpose. This was a French fashion. Vernacular texts were linked with images since their first appearances in sacred manuscripts. Furthermore, the conceiver of Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098 probably followed a well-established tradition, starting with late 12th-century illustrated manuscripts such as Paris, BnF, f. lat. 15675, the one with the picture-book introduction depicting the story of the Old Testament patriarch Job. All this was possible because scholars travelled between the Latin-occupied Byzantine lands and France. People who had been in Athens were also going to Paris. The monks of Saint-Denis had contacts with them. It was a time when Greek texts were translated by Western scholars. Such scholars must have been very good students of Greek. Some of them were possibly the teachers from whom William of Morbeka had acquired his knowledge of the Greek language prior to his visit to the Latin-held lands. After this long introduction, the tale finally begins.
…
Nothing is known about William’s date of birth. It is estimated between 1220 and 1235, that is, about the time when John Basingstoke was in Greece, meeting the Athenian girl and finding Greek manuscripts. Research was not able to specify whether William was Flemish, from the Belgian Moerbeke, or French, from Morbecque, in Northern France. Nevertheless, a linguistic study of the vernacular features present in one of his early translations, the De historia animalium (1262–1263),31 revealed the incidence of many French words used for the rendering Greek animals,32 as well as phonetic traits pointing toward 31 32
Pieter Beullens, Fernand Bossier (eds.), Aristoteles latinus, XVII 2.1.1: De historia animalium. Translatio Guillelmi de Morbeka. Pars prima: Lib. I–V (Leiden: Brill, 2000), xvi–xvii, for the dating of this translation. Most of these animals are birds and fish. Cf. Beullens, Bossier eds., Aristoteles latinus, xiv, xv. The bird κίχλη (‘thrush’), for instance, is rendered in French (maviz, mauviz, or mauvis). The fish βάτος (‘skate’) appears alternately in Latin (raia) and French (raie). Another fish ψῆττα (‘turbot’) is translated as pecten (‘scallop’), glossed as plaiz (the French word for ‘plaice’), and on another occasion the French word is used without gloss. The word
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the north-eastern dialectal area of France (Picardisms).33 William’s vernacular upbringing would be evident at the beginning of his career as translator. I would argue that he used more French words because he was a French speaker.34 And there are other pieces of evidence pointing to the same conclusion. Traditional accounts claim that he was in Nicaea in the spring of 1260 and in Thebes at the end of the same year, on account of data recorded in two of his translations. It is no wonder that he chose to go to Thebes. In the Dominican province of Greece, the convents of Thebes, Glarentza, and Constantinople were French, while those of Negroponte or Candia were Italian.35 Since he probably spoke French, Glarentza was not a great haven for books, and Constantinople was about to fall in the hands of the Nicaeans, William went to the place where a Dominican of French origin would go: Thebes.36
33
34
35 36
ὄφις (‘serpent’), probably misread as ὀφία (cf. Modern Greek ‘pygmy cormorant’) is translated as cormaranda (cf. the late 13th century Picard use of cormorant in the Viandier of Taillevent cookbook; Terence Scully (ed.), The Viandier of Taillevent. An edition of all extant manuscripts (Ottawa: Ottawa University Press, 1988), 109. The Greek ὀρφός (‘sea perch’) is translated as tynca or tencha marina, probably in connection with the French word tenche de mer. Last but not least, τρίγλη (‘red mullet’) is translated as trilia, treille, treilia, and treilie, in connection with the French treille / trillie. The word κυπρῖνος (‘carp’) is only once rendered as carpa (although this form could also be a scribal emendation). Another rendition is carpreus, but its most frequent translation is carpra, in connection with the Picard French word carpre. Cf. Beullens, Bossier eds., Aristoteles latinus, xiv–xv. The editors of the De historia animalium do not exclude the possibility of a Flemish origin, since some of these words are also common in Flemish, but the overwhelming presence of French and the use of the Picard dialect point to his connection with Morbecque. For William’s gradual mastery of the Greek language and vocabulary, as well as for his way of dealing with the lack of Latin equivalents for many Greek terms (hence the use of Greek cultismi) see Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance, 107–109. For his inexperience when translating Aristotle’s zoological works, see p. 112. Thomas Aquinas, Sentencia libri de sensu et sensato: cuius secundus tractatus est De memoria et reminiscencia (Rome/Paris: Commissio Leonina/Librairie philosophique J. Vrin, 1985), 93. If we take into the account the hypothesis that the Negroponte Dominican convent was created only after the retreat from Constantinople, being the temporary residence of Simon, exiled prior of Constantinople, in 1262 (cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 175–176; cf. p. 208), some of the Constantinopolitan Dominicans would already be exiled in Greece, having brought manuscripts that William would be interested to read. Such manuscripts would be found in the convent of Thebes. The convent of Negroponte is also known for translations from Greek into Latin, but at later times. The Negroponte (and maybe Theban) Dominicans could simply continue the activities they had in Constantinople.
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Another reason for his choice of Thebes may be the presence of the noblemen from the Saint-Omer family.37 Previous research focused too much on Roger Bacon’ use of the word Flemingus in connection with William, as it could have been used on account on Morbecque’s location in the county of Flanders, without any connection to the vernacular language spoken there. But ‘William’ is not a frequent name in the Flemish family studied by F. Bossier when he tried to identify our translator. Yet there are several ‘William’ in each generation of the Saint-Omer family, whose cadet branch were ‘de Morbecque’, holding a fief from the Saint-Omer. If our translator belonged to the same family as Walter of Renenghes, the great-grandson of William of Saint-Omer who took the name ‘de Morbecque’ in 1278 (Walterus de Relenghes, miles, dominus de Morbeke),38 he would be a relative of Bela of Saint-Omer of Thebes and of his son Nicholas,39 maybe a cousin or a nephew twice removed. This noble status would also explain his rapid climbing of the ecclesiastical ladder. And there is more. His stop in Nicaea does not make sense either. In a discussion about William’s stay in Greece, trying to explain how and when saint Thomas Aquinas could use William’s translation of a commentary by Alexander of Aphrodisias, some interesting ideas were put forth. Three manuscripts of this Latin translation are entitled Alexandri Aphrodisiae expositio libri Metheorologicorum Aristotelis, translata de Greco in Latinum apud Niceam, urbem Grecie, anno Christi 1260, while seven other manuscripts have an explicit instead: anno domini 1260 in vigilia Marchi Evangelistae. Nevertheless, William could not stay in Nicaea, as the political context was too hostile for such a visit, and the part he could play in an otherwise never attested Latin embassy to the Nicaeans, in order to free the French knights captured in the battle of Pelagonia, would be insignificant. He was too young, there was not enough time to translate his text there, and 37
38 39
The interpretation of the place-name Morbeka as the French Morbecque appears in early studies (P. Gratien, Histoire de la Fondation & de l’Évolution de l’Ordre des Frères Mineurs au XIIIe siècle (Paris/Gembloux: Société et Librairie St. François d’Assise/J. Duculot, 1928), 671), but it never gained traction, probably because the argumentation was not convincing. Cf. Fernand Bossier, “Documents d’archives concernant une famille ‘de Moerbeke’”, in J. Brams, W. Vanhamel (dir.), Guillaume de Moerbeke: recueil d’études à l’occasion du 700e anniversaire de sa mort (1286) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1989), 387. For his analysis of this other possibility, see his note 4 on pp. 386–387. F. Bossier arrived at this conclusion because the purpose of his study was a list of every person connected with the Flemish place-name Moerbeke. Arthur Giry, ‘Les châtelains de Saint-Omer (1042–1386)’, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes, 36 (1875), 108. Guy D.R. Sanders, ‘William of Moerbeke’s Church at Merbaka: The Use of Ancient Spolia to Make Personal and Political Statements’, Hesperia, 84/3 (2015), 595.
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such embassies are documented earlier – in 1259, or later – in 1261/1262. Those who contest his stay in Nicaea argue that William finished his translation in Nikli, in the heart of the Peloponnesus, hence the necessary use of the apposition urbem Grecie, because the place would be unknown to the clerks back home.40 The Parisian copyist of his text must have made an error in 1275: if William wrote Nicleam, he would correct it into Niceam. When this argumentation was proposed, it was shallow (just the geographical location of Nikli in the proximity of Thebes)41 and did not gain any traction.42 There is however some truth to it. It was noticed that the date of William’s other translation made during his stay in Greece, the De partibus animalium, may be either 23 December 1260 or the same date of the previous year (Explicit completa anno Domini 1260 xº kalendas Ianuarii Thebis). Preference was of course given to 1260, but several studies argued that things were not clear.43 I am of the same opinion and I believe there is another matter that needs to be addressed. By that time, in the winter of 1260–1261, the Nicaeans had already invaded Thessaly and the northern parts of the duchy of Athens. George Akropolites tells us that they had even “passed by Levadia and plundered Thebes” (καὶ τὴν Λεβαδίαν παραμείψας τὰς Θήβας ἐσκύλευσε).44 In such a case, it would be particularly odd to imagine William translating Aristotle there at the end of 1260, as he would be in danger of losing his life. The date of 40 41 42
43
44
The editors identified this place name with Amykles, south of Sparta (Aquinas, Sentencia, 94, note 2), but Nicles from the Chronicle of Morea was in fact located a lot more to the North, on the site of ancient Tegea, close to Tripoli. Aquinas, Sentencia, 94, for the essential part of the argumentation. For the rest of the hypothesis, see pp. 93–94. Cf. Gudrun Vuillemin-Diem, ‘La traduction de la Métaphysique d’Aristote par Guillaume de Moerbeke et son exemplaire grec: Vind. phil. gr. 100 (J)’, in J. Wiesner (dir.), Aristoteles. Werk und Wirkung. Paul Moraux gewidmet. II. Kommentierung. Überlieferung, Nachleben (Berlin/New York, 1987), 483–484 (note 48), who does not agree with this identification of the place-name on account of philological arguments, but those are not convincing either. Pietro Rossi, ‘La Translatio Anonyma e la Translatio Guillelmi del De Partibus Animalium (Analisi del libro I)’, in J. Brams, W. Vanhamel (dir.), Guillaume de Moerbeke: recueil d’études à l’occasion du 700e anniversaire de sa mort (1286) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1989), 222–223 (and note 8 of p. 223). Taking into account the preface of this text, it was argued that William already knew Alexander’s commentary, so he must have translated it earlier, but this does not mean that William of Morbeka could not acquire the two books at about the same time and start translating one while reading from the other. Ruth Macrides (trans.), George Akropolites, The History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 365 for the English translation. Augustus Heisenberg (ed.), Georgii Akropolitae Opera, 1. continens Historiam, Breviarium Historiae, Theodori Scutariotae Additamenta (Leipzig: Teubner, 1903), 271 for the original Greek text. The information is corroborated by a typicon (see Macrides trans., George Akropolites, 366, note 6).
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1259 is preferable for his Theban translation of De partibus animalium, which would in turn explain his 1260 dating of the translation from Alexander of Aphrodisias. He would flee to the Peloponnesus, at Nikli, where many others would take refuge, as this was a gathering place in Morea.45 Meanwhile, in Boeotia, the Byzantines already burnt Thebes and were menacing the Dominican convent from close nearby. This hypothesis is further supported by the choice of his translations. Had he made the translation of books 1–3 of the Meteorologica in Nicaea in April 1260, why would William translate the zoological books and Alexander of Aphrodisias’ commentary in the city of Thebes in December 1260, only to finish the revised translation of the fourth book of the Meteorologica in Southern Italy sometime between 1260 and 1262? It would make more sense if he started with the zoological books, took refuge in the Peloponnesus, translated the first three books of the Meteorologica, crossed the sea to Italy, and finished the revision of the fourth. Besides this, a stay in the Peloponnesus also explains his familiarity with certain Doric particularities of language.46 William’s arrival in Thebes should therefore be calculated 45
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Nikli was the favourite place for the gathering of armies, such as in the War for the Euboeote succession in the French Chronicle of Morea (Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 118; cf. Jean Longnon (ed.), Livre de la Conqueste de la Princée de L’Amorée. Chronique de Morée (1204–1305) (Paris: Laurens, 1911), 82); see also Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 120; cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 86. It was also there that Guy de la Roche paid homage to William of Villehardouin, and the ladies of Morea held their parliament in Nikli when the men were taken prisoners after the battle of Pelagonia. Cf. Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance, 106, who notes William’s awareness of the Doric dialect as early as his 1269 translations of Archimedes, well before the known Byzantine interest in Sicilian Doric poetry (c.1280). Marshall Clagett (ed.), Archimedes in the Middle Ages, 2. The Translations from the Greek by William of Moerbeke, 3 vols (Part I: Introduction, Part II: Texts, Part III. Variant Readings, Commentary, Diagrams, and Indexes) (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1976) II/1:42, noticed that William had recognized two unaccented Genitive plurals in Doric dialect (ευθειαν and αγομεναν) and corrected his initial translations from recta and dicitur (inspired by Attic Accusative singulars) to a rectis and ducuntur. Later on (cf. II/1:49), William mistook other unaccented words, this time Accusatives, for Doric Genitive plurals. I believe that this odd knowledge of Doric may be linked with William’s possible stay in Peloponnesus, where he could meet speakers of the Tsakonian language (a direct descendant of ancient Doric). Nothing is known about the loss of the Genitive plural in Tsakonian, a feature that can be of a modern date, under pressure from Modern Greek; and discussions concerning the loss of the Genitive do not go beyond the feminine Genitive singular (cf. Nick Nicholas, ‘A critical lexicostatistical examination of Ancient and Modern Greek and Tsakonian’, Journal of applied linguistics and lexicography, 1/1 (2019), 18–68, esp. p. 21). Tsakonian was spoken in large areas of central Peloponnesus, perhaps as far south as Geraki (p. 20), so William’s stay in Nikli may provide an explanation for his knowledge of Doric linguistic features. This would not be valid in a Southern Italian context, as the local dialects were not direct descendants of Doric.
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sometime earlier than the winter of 1259–1260, maybe in the summer or autumn of 1259, when the seas were fit for travelling. The duke of Athens would not be present. He had already left for France in spring. The lord of the other half of Thebes would nevertheless be there. Nicholas of Saint-Omer held his fief from his uncle, the duke of Athens, who had given it to his father, Bela, upon his marriage with Bonne de la Roche. These Boeotian and Athenian Frenchmen were familiar with Greek culture to a certain degree. They could know a rudimentary form of Greek, sufficient enough to talk to their subjects, and some of them would be familiar with works of Greek literature, too. A decade or so later, John de la Roche, duke of Athens, paraphrased Herodotus before the battle of Neopatras (1272/3 or 1274/5). He said ‘among so many people there were few real men’ (‘Poli laos oligo atropi’, cioè grande essercito e pochi Vuomini)47 when the Athenian Latins came to the help of John Doucas of Thessaly.48 This does not mean that lord Nicholas had the same cultural level in 1259–1260 as his nephew John in 1272, but the acculturation was done in stages. He would be able to speak about Greek culture with a relative coming from the West. Nicholas was not Greek in spirit. This is evident from his choice of decorating his palace with murals about the First Crusade. The Copenhagen manuscript of the Greek version of the Chronicle of Morea speaks about how he built the castle of Thebes and decorated it with scenes from the Frankish conquest of Syria, maybe the battle of Antioch, since he was then married to a descendant of the famous crusader Bohemond (ἔποικεν γὰρ κ’ ἐχτίσεν το κ’ ἐκαταϊστόρησέν το | τὸ πῶς ἐκουγκεστήσασιν οἱ Φράγκοι τὴν Συρίαν).49 William of Morbeka could see these crusader murals. It would be expected that he met either lord Nicholas of Saint-Omer or somebody from his retinue, to tell them stories and news from back home. There would also be chaplains or members of the Cistercian Order, since these were used by the first generations of Frankish nobles when trying to put order into the religious affairs of Greece.50 47
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Charles Hopf (ed.), Chroniques gréco-romaines, inédites ou peu connues, publiées avec notes et tables généalogiques (Berlin: Librairie de Weidmann, 1873), 121. Cf. Herodotus’ Histories, VII, 210: δῆλον δ᾽ ἐποίευν παντί τεῳ καὶ οὐκ ἥκιστα αὐτῷ βασιλέι, ὅτι πολλοὶ μὲν ἄνθρωποι εἶεν, ὀλίγοι δὲ ἄνδρες. For the date of the battle before or after the Second Council of Lyon, compare Deno John Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus and the West, 1258–1282: A Study in Byzantine-Latin Relations (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1959), 279; with Albert Failler, ‘Chronologie et composition dans l’Histoire de Georges Pachymérès’, Revue des études byzantines, 39 (1981), 189–192. Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 328, v. 8083–8085. Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 35–102, for the Cistercian dominant involvement in the religious life of Morea, Attica, and Boeotia in the first half of the 13th century; and their gradual decline afterwards.
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When hearing that William was there to identify and translate manuscripts of Aristotle, lord Nicholas would smile complacently and ask him if he knew the story of that philosopher’s folly. Surprised, William would answer ‘No’. In truth or in falsehood. Nicholas would then ask his chaplain to tell the tale and the Cistercian would be delighted to mock the Dominican Order. The story starts in faraway India, where Alexander the Great meets a courtesan with whom he falls in love. Aristotle warns him against the dangers of carnal pleasures. Alexander finally decides to put an end to his lust, but the woman learns about the philosopher’s plan and decides to seduce Aristotle in order to exact her revenge. She makes sure that Alexander is watching and the next day, when Aristotle takes a walk through a garden, the courtesan sings to him from a tower, half-dressed and with her hair let loose. She wishes to make love to him, but has one condition: Aristotle must let her ride him, as she would ride a horse. Hidden in the bushes, Alexander sees his master crawling on all fours with the courtesan on his back. He confronts him and Aristotle answers that everybody should be afraid of love. It was the end of the tale and the Cistercian chaplain would add a Latin quotation, just like the 13th century author did in the Old French text: ‘what a shame for a wise man when his faults haunt him back’ (turpe est doctori, cum culpa redarguit ipsum).51 William could think of the damsel in the story of John Basingstoke’s stay in Athens, but he would not dare mention it. If William had spent time in the libraries of Southern Italy, as he did later on, he would quote Diogenes Laertius (maybe in the Latin translation of Aristippus), in order to level his opponent with the power of truth. Indeed, Aristotle had a concubine by the name of Herpyllis after his wife’s death, but the story of this garden-riding was invented.52 The Cistercian would not back out. He would show a drawing in the margins of a manuscript: an old man saddled by a young girl.53 William would know that he was fighting the same fight that other sages of his time 51
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This quotation from Cato’s Distichs (I, 30) was transcribed in its Latin original in the morality segment of Henry of Andeli’s Old French poem Lai of Aristotle, summarized in this paragraph. Cf. Alain Corbellari (ed.), Les Dits d’Henri d’Andeli (Paris: Champion, 2003), 88. The same Latin verse was previously quoted in Cistercian sources. Most interesting among them is an imaginary dialogue between a Cistercian and a Benedictine; Watkin Wynn Williams, Monastic studies (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1938), 64, and 72, note 22. Cf. Tiziano Dorandi, ‘Diogenes Laertius in Latin’, in James Miller (ed.), Pamela Mensch (trans.), Lives of the Eminent Philosophers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), for the Aristippus translation. The scene appears first in the manuscript marginalia of the second half of 12th century, but it is unclear whether the depiction concerns Aristotle or any other scholar or old man. Aristotle depictions are confirmed for the second half of 13th century and they gain traction in the 14th and 15th centuries. Herbert González Zymla, ‘Aristóteles y la cortesana.
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were fighting back home. He would leave lord Nicholas to prepare for his heavy and meaty dinner. There would be too many differences between them, including those connected to their diet.54 My story is of course imaginary. I concocted it from three different sources in order to speak about the Aristotle quarrel of the 13th century. That was the time of the universities, and the new academic ideas were Aristotle’s. By then, Aristotelism had become an essential part of the Church’s doctrine. Even though he was included in the university curriculum, this did not stop many members of the clergy from rejecting him, on the grounds that his ideas were pagan. Scholasticism was thus born. Aquinas and many others embraced the mission of making Aristotle compatible with Christian values.55 The vernacular story quoted above, the so-called Lai of Aristotle, was probably related to this, as a mockery, but it could be known to the local Cistercians, in Greece, who were more active in the transfer of relics than in that of Greek books. Otto of Cicon, for instance, a Euboeote lord descending on his mother’s side from the ‘de la Roche’, sent a Constantinopolitan relic to Cîteaux through the Cistercians active close to his region.56 These were not the people to whom William would have a lot to talk. Back in the cloister, when finishing work in the scriptorium, before enjoying a tasty fish at supper, William would discuss with fellow Dominicans. Instead of speaking of the battle of Antioch or about the culinary habits of the inhabitants of Thebes, they would discuss about the Schism. They would not be interested in passing in review the common places ( filioque, leavened or unleavened bread, or other usual topics). Instead, the local Dominicans
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Iconografía del filósofo metafísico dominado por el deseo entre los siglos XIII y XVI’, Revista digital de iconografía medieval, 9/17 (2017), 7–44. For the presence of multiple dietary habits in 13th–14th century Thebes, see Elissavet Dotsika, Dimitra Ermioni Michael, Efstathios Iliadis, Petros Karalis, Georgios Diamantopoulos, ‘Isotopic reconstruction of diet in Medieval Thebes (Greece)’, Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports (2018). Cf. e.g. David Charles Lindberg, ‘Science and the medieval church: a preliminary appraisal’, in Olivier Fatio (dir.), Les églises face aux sciences du Moyen Âge au XXe siècle. Actes du colloque de la Commission internationale d’histoire ecclésiastique comparée tenu à Genève en août 1989 (Geneva: Droz, 1991), 11–27. In the late autumn of 1261, an act signed in Athens confirms that Baldwin II, emperor of Constantinople, who had taken refuge in Euboea and later in Attica, borrowed money from Otto de Cicon, leaving several relics as collateral. Otto sent a hand of saint John the Baptist to the abbey of Cîteaux, and charged the abbots of Bellevaux and Daphni to carry it to France. Cf. Jean Longnon, ‘Les premiers ducs d’Athènes et leur famille’, Journal des savants, 1 (1973), 77.
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would cut to the chase and state what they believed to be the four actual reasons of the Schism. The first one would be the division of the Roman Empire. They would argue that the pope asked Leo the emperor of Constantinople for help when the barbarians roamed about Italy, but Leo did not make good, and so Charlemagne of Gaul was named emperor and protector of the Church. The second reason would be that the Greeks were not invited to the council that decided upon the filioque. The third, that the pope’s emissaries treated the Byzantines with contempt. And the fourth and last one, the deposition of Photius and the excommunication of prelates and abbots.57 The Dominicans of Constantinople were writing these four reasons as early as 1252, in a treatise known as Contra errores Graecorum. I discussed it in the previous chapter, in reference to the pseudo-Gregory quotation used by cardinal Benedict of Saint-Susanne during the 1205–1206 talks. Taken at face value, the ‘actual reasons’ would make us believe that the Dominicans regretted diplomatic errors, but when read in full, the same text shows a certain bias. They had made a distorted use of Greek documents, including a reverse translation into Latin of a quotation from Theodore Balsamon’s summarised version of the Donation of Constantine,58 as well as quotations from Theorianos’ letter, including the red-and-white wine comparison,59 and the treatise itself was a compilation of anti-Greek texts used since the early years of the 13th century. Still, it testifies to a diplomatic way of dealing with the Schism. It would be expected that such diplomatic minds were the ones leading to later cultural exchanges between the elite of Greek and Latin societies. By that time, the ecclesiastical elite of the Latin-held Greek lands adapted to the Byzantine culture and embraced it effusively. To give but one example, Paris, BnF, gr. 54 follows a pattern already noticed in the Iviron French translation of Barlaam and Ioasaph. It is an unfinished bilingual copy of the four Gospels, in Greek and Latin, presumably produced in Constantinople around the middle of the 13th century or after 1250. The Greek text was written first, then the Latin one, at the same time as the painting of the miniatures, the Latin text being incomplete.60 By the looks of it, this copy would be made for 57 58 59 60
PG 140:539C–540C. Raymond-Joseph Loenertz, ‘Autour du traité de fr. Barthélémy de Constantinople contre les Grecs’, Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum, 6 (1939), 366–368; cf. Angelov, ‘The Donation of Constantine’, 98. For pseudo-Gregory text and the Theorianos’ letter, see Loenertz, ‘L’épître de Théorien’, 326. Kathleen Maxwell, ‘Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Codex Grec 54: Modus Operandi of Scribes and Artists in a Palaiologan Gospel Book’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 54 (2000), 117–138.
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high ecclesiastical figure, in all likelihood a patriarch or an archbishop, and it displayed a carefully arranged game of equivalences. Greek was paired with Latin, in a common frame, as a sort of statement in favour of Uniatism. And this is not the only situation of this type in the 13th century. Exchanges like these were equally visible in art.
Case Study 4: The Spandrel Panels of the Byzantine Museum in Athens
Several odd sculptures in Athens, dating back to the 13th century, of an unknown provenance, look like a cultural experiment. Such try-outs would not be unheard of, for this was a time when Western scholars started coming to Greece, and they were in the process of experimenting in several categories of culture. The first one, no. 271 (Fig. 13a) in the collections of the Byzantine Museum, is a rectangular slab with a representation of the Nativity (inscription: Η ΧΥ ΓΕΝΝΗCΙC). We may see the Mother of God (ΜΡ ΘΥ), the infant Jesus wrapped in diapers (ΙC ΧC), the ox, and the donkey. On no. 263 (Fig. 12a), a spandrel panel with a sculpted archivolt, the Three Wise Men (ΟΙ ΜΑΓΙ) bring gifts (ΤΑ ΔΩΡΑ), the angel(s) (ΟΙ ΑΓΓΕΛΟΙ) sing the hymn (ΤΟΝ ΥΜΝΟΝ), and the shepherds (ΟΙ ΠΟΙΜΕΝΕC) contemplate the miracle (ΤΟ ΘΑΥΜΑ), while saint Joseph (ΙΩCΗΦ) is represented as usual in his pensive mode. The subject changes in spandrel panel 264 (Fig. 12c), where Christ takes Adam by the hand and pulls him out of the grave. And the panel 265 (Fig. 12b) presents the prophets Solomon (Ο ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗC CΟΛΟΜΟΝ), David (Ο ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗC ΔΑΒΗΔ), and saint John the Baptist (Α ΑΓΙΟC ΙΩ ΠΡΟΔΡΟΜΟC). Several fragments with vegetal motifs (no. 269 and no. 270) could be part of another spandrel panel, this time decorated with a representation of a saint holding a book (no. 268; Fig. 12e). The strange thing about this other representation is that it is accompanied by three Latin letters (AUL), probably composing the name of saint Paul. Latin letters appear again on the cusps of a trefoil tracery in another reconstructed spandrel panel (no. 266; Fig. 12d). The inscription is rather challenging (HIC⁝IACE[… …]NOꝜ⁝DNI⁝HUE[… …]S⁝ET⁝OꝒ⁝F[…), but its fragments present a figure kneeling on the left, in prayer, and a frontal figure accompanied by a Greek inscription, on the right-hand fragment. The Greek text speaks of a ciborium (…] KIBOYPIO[…). Other fragments were also reconstructed, not necessarily in a convincing manner (no. 267); and many more could
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be part of the same structure but have not been identified as such (cf. no. 275).61 That they represent a mixture of Latin and Byzantine elements is evident from the presence of mixed inscriptions (Latin and Greek) and from the fact that Orthodox iconography was adapted to a Western form: figures spread along the archivolts, just as they are usually spread along the voussoirs of 12th and 13th century West-European portals. Some of the oldest representations of this type, those of 12th century France, have even a similar disposition of the inscriptions on the outer edge of the voussoirs, identical to that of the Greek text of the Athenian spandrel panels.62 The only problem is that these sculptures were considered to belong to two or even more monuments, identified with tombs. Similarities with 14th century tombs imitating ciboria, such as the Scaligeri tombs of Verona may be identified, but the Athenian panels cannot compose a regular tomb. For instance, the panel with trefoil cusps and Latin inscriptions was identified with an arcosolium tomb, but the Greek word ΚΙΒΟYΡΙΟ[?] inscribed on the right-side fragment of that panel suggests that the structure had mixed inscriptions and that it belonged to a ciborium, just like the one composed of spandrel panels no. 264, 265, and 263 (Fig. 12c, 12b, and 12a). In fact, the reconstructed spandrel panel no. 266 (Fig. 12d) belongs to the same structure, similar to several ciboria from Western Europe63 dating back to a period starting in Carolingian times and ending
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The reference study remains Ανδρέας Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά έν Αθήναις’, Αρχαιολογική Εφημερίς (1931), 69–102, who read nostri instead of [an]norum and sei instead of […]s et. Cf. Μαρία Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά του Βυζαντινού Μουσείου Αθηνών: κατάλογος (Athens: Ταμείο Αρχαιολογικών Πόρων και Απαλλοτριώσεων, 1999), 189–195, for descriptions of sculptures in the museum catalogue, with the same mistakes in the reading of the Latin text. For previous studies, see e.g. Louis Bréhier, ‘Voussures à personnages sculptés du Musée d’Athènes’, in Mélanges offerts à M. Gustave Schlumberger à l’occasion du quatre-vingtième anniversaire de sa naissance, 2 vols (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1924) 2:424–427. See the virtues and vices of the western portal of Saint-Peter at Aulnay. They are the early stages of a fashion of representing figures spread along portal voussoirs (Saint-Giles at Argenton-les-Vallées; Our-Lady-of-the-Assumption at Fenioux; Saint-Martin church at Chadenac; Saint-Nicholas church at Blasimon; Saint-Peter at Pont-l’Abbé-d’Arnoult; Saint-Nicholas at Civray; Saint-Nazaire at Corme-Royal; etc.). For a synthesis about the early essential terms of comparison for our ciborium, see Justin E.A. Kroesen, ‘Ciborios y baldaquinos en iglesias medievales. Un panorama europeo’, Codex Aquilarensis, 29 (2013), 191–193.
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at the turn of the 14th century.64 Its trefoil tracery does not necessarily make it a part of another monument. It could just as well suggest that it was the most important panel in this ciborium, probably displayed at its front. In the following pages, the analysis of these sculptures would be better presented as a train of thought. Even though the fragments of Latin text from the trefoil cusps of the reconstructed spandrel panel no. 266 (Fig. 12d) do not allow such an interpretation, previous studies used odd vernacular or Latin orthography in order to prove that the various pieces were from the tomb of a certain person named Hugh (Huegues) or Hubert (Huebertus).65 This is highly questionable. Research also holds that the Anastasis and Nativity came “from a canopy or kiborion supported by four columns which stood over a tomb.” This would be a different monument, made by a mason who “was a Byzantine working within the iconography of the Byzantine tradition,” yet “was influenced by the Gothic style.” The Theotokos slab no. 271 (Fig. 13a) is usually left aside, for it cannot play a coherent part in a funerary arrangement, even though it clearly relates to the Nativity panel no.
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See for instance the ciborium in Saint-Prosper of Perugia (8th century; cf. Dom. F. Cabrol, Dom. H. Leclercq (dir.), Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, 15 vols (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1913–1953) 5:1617; the ciborium of Sant’Apollinare in Classe, Ravenna (806–810; cf. Marina Lavers, ‘I cibori d’altare delle ·chiese di Classe e di Ravenna’, Felix Ravenna, 2 (1971), 131–142); the fragments of two ciboria from the Santa Maria delle grazie church in Grado, one of them being the work of Greek artists (814–818; cf. Marina Lavers, ‘I cibori di Aquileia e di Grado’, Antichità altoadriatiche, 6 (1974), 153–160); the early medieval Roman ciborium currently in the collections of the National Archaeological Museum of Madrid (cf. Xavier Barral i Altet, ‘Un baldaquino de altar, de la Alta Edad Media, procedente de Roma, en el Museo Arqueológico Nacional’, Boletín del Museo Arqueológico Nacional, 4/1 (1986), 83–90); the ciborium of Saint-Mark in Venice (early 13th century; cf. R. Warland, ‘The relief-decorated columns of the high-altar ciborium of San-Marco in Venice’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 93/1 (2000), 248–251); the famous mosaic ciborium from Poreč (1277; Milan Prelog, The Basilica of Euphrasius in Poreč (Zagreb: Associated Publishers, 1986), 25–26); and several late 13th century Roman cases that will be discussed later on. For an assembly diagram of these type of ciboria, see Vojislav Korać, Martinići. Ostaci srednjovekovnog grada (Belgrade: SANU, 2001), fig. 77, apud Jelena Bogdanović, Canopies: The Framing of Sacred Space in the Byzantine Ecclesiastical Tradition, 4 vols, PhD diss. (Princeton University, 2008), 582. Eric A. Ivison, ‘Latin Tomb Monuments in the Levant 1204–1450’, in Peter Lock, G.D.R. Sanders (dir.), The Archaeology of Medieval Greece (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 1996), 93: HIC IACE[NT]… … S EI Q(UI;) OP(US) F[ECIT …] … NO(STRI) D(OMI)NI HUE[GUES?]. I quote E.A. Ivison because he makes a synthesis of previous research. Cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 89, who proposed Hueberti, because he thought this was the tomb of a knight.
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263 (Fig. 12a).66 However, the Theotokos slab belongs to the ciborium as much as all other sculptures,67 since it is not the only piece developing a theme started on another one. The precision of details in the scene from spandrel panel no. 264 (keys, hinges, and latches from the door of Hell; Fig. 12c) serves as a unifying element in relation with the spandrel panel no. 265 (Fig. 12b). This is the Byzantine iconography of the Anastasis, and not the Western scene that I prefer to designate as the ‘Harrowing of Hell’. Christ is pulling Adam out of the tomb, with Eve probably represented in the destroyed left lower segment, while David, Solomon, and John the Baptist complete the scene. These spandrel panels should have been linked, in order for the scene to be coherently understood. The same could happen in the case of the Theotokos slab no. 271 (Fig. 13a), which had to be installed in the proximity of spandrel panel no. 263 (Fig. 12a). There is a way of putting these pieces together. It is evident that some of them have mid-relief frames and others do not. Those without frames have Greek inscriptions instead. I would argue that these spandrel panels were assembled according to these particular features, the ones without embossed frames being either used for the inside decoration or for less visible positions. Since I was denied access to certain fragments, and since the back sides of the slabs were never published (the spandrel panels being displayed high up on the wall of the museum room), I lack the much needed data in order to complete the present study.68 There are at least five ways of assembling the panels in the form of a ciborium, so the draft solution proposed in this paragraph may not be
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The museum catalogue also suggests that it should be separated from the rest, mentioning that it comes from the Thissio collection, and not from a ‘Frankish church’, as all the other pieces, even though all of them come in fact from Thissio. Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 195. Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 195, notes only that it comes from the Thissio collection, but this does not mean that it was not a part of the same Frankish monument. Stylistically and palaeographically, the sculptures and the inscriptions are the same in the spandrel 263 (Fig. 12a) and the slab 271 (Fig. 13a) of the catalogue. Furthermore, the Nativity scene on the spandrel panel is incomplete without the figures represented on the Theotokos slab. Cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 82, who also argued that technically the Theotokos slab belongs to the same ensemble, since there are even stylistic analogies with spandrel panels 265 (Fig. 12b) or 263 (Fig. 12a). He then concluded that the slab was produced by the same workshop and that it probably embellished the same monument as the three spandrel panels. Maybe the person who repeatedly denied me access to the fragments should charge himself with the task of verifying all available options and choosing the best solution.
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the best one.69 Future research will perhaps take into account the traces of metallic implements well documented in the case of Western sculptures (iron clamps, tie-rods, and pins, usually fused into the marble structure with lead),70 for their traces are still visible in the Athenian panels. Unfortunately, it is impossible to determine which holes are medieval and which are modern (made during previous displays in the museum). I will mention the ones that can be identified for sure as medieval. The trace of such protrusion, probably used to join spandrel panel no. 264 (Harrowing; Fig. 12c) to another stone may be seen on its right spine. A long trace of a metallic implement may be seen on the exact same spine of spandrel panel no. 263 (Nativity; Fig. 12a), perhaps joining it to a corner statue or to another slab. Yet by far, the most interesting ones are visible in the Theotokos slab no. 271 (Fig. 13a). In all probability, some of the traces visible on its upper side are from the hinges of a cover plate or lid. In the case of a lid, the Theotokos slab would be the back of a rectangular structure installed under the canopy. The comparable sizes of the slabs support these conclusions. Taking into account the erosion and destruction of their edges, spandrel panels no. 263 and 264 (Fig. 12a, 12c) have about the same height (100cm and 95cm).71 No. 265 is clearly amputated, but its width is identical to that of no. 264 (122cm and 123cm; Fig. 12b, 12c), and its subject as well, since both of them compose an Anastasis. I believe that they were joined together in a back-to-back fashion, with no. 265 (Fig. 12b) towards the interior of the ciborium. As seen from the adjacent drawing, many other details should be taken into account and many other fragments may have been a part of this ciborium.72 The Gothic pointed 69 70 71 72
Cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 95, for another option, which is even less convincing. Cf. e.g. Maxime L’Héritier, Arnaud Timbert, ‘De la reproduction à la réinterprétation des modèles dans l’architecture: quel usage du métal à l’époque gothique?’, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 73/1 (2010), 19–40. Cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 79, believed that no. 264 (Fig. 12c) was higher than no. 265 (Fig. 12b). The average thickness of the slabs is 20–25 cm, with only a couple of them having either 10 or 17 cm, but those pieces are severely destroyed. One of them, fragment no. 269, may be from the upper part of a spandrel slab containing also fragments no. 270 and 268 (the Paulus one; Fig. 12e). A difference in thickness at the upper part of the spandrel panels may be due to the carving of an edge upon which the roofing would be fixed. As for the so-called saint Theodore slab (no. 267), it is probably from a different structure of the same ensemble, maybe a colonnade or a chancel screen, since it is 11 cm thick. Slab no. 275 in the catalogue of the Byzantine Museum in Athens was considered to be part of a tomb canopy by Bogdanović, Canopies, 573. However, its thickness (17 cm) places it in the same category as the Theotokos slab. I do not dare imagine what it subject
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arch shape of spandrel panel no. 266 (Fig. 12d) is clearly not the best solution for the restoration of this piece. Trefoil tracery could be arranged within the span of a Romanesque arch.73 Such a shape would agree with the other spandrel panels of the ciborium and its reconstructed length would equal that of the Nativity spandrel panel no. 263 (Fig. 12a). In the current state of things, without being able to see the backs of the spandrel panels and the fragments in the Byzantine Museum collection deposits, it is impossible to propose a precise reconstitution of the Athenian ciborium, but it is evident that it had interior and exterior figurative sculpted decoration. It would not be the only one with such features. The inner vault of the 11th century ciborium from Saint-Peter al Monte in Civate, built in a style almost identical to the one of Saint-Ambrose in Milan, was decorated with figurative mural paintings,74 so the Athens ciborium would not be the only one with interior decoration of this type. As for the ciboria with interior sculpted decoration, they are known since the Early Middle Ages. The 6th–8th century Byzantine canopy currently displayed in the Royal Ontario Museum (Canada), with inner and outer sculpted decoration, is one of the earliest documented cases and it comes from the Holy Land.75 If this is so, I have barely scratched the surface of the problem. If we wish to understand what the original monument was, we need to find a way to reconcile all the pieces of evidence, in spite of the fact they disagree with one another at a first look. I believe it is ill advised
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would be. The identification of saint Theodore Tiron in this fragment (cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 92) is unsustainable from the standpoint of current evidence. As for the slab no. 292 (Fig. 13c) in the museum catalogue, considered to be another arcosolium tomb fragment (see Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 207), it could just as well be a portal lunette. The 13th–14th dating is not justified. The trefoil frame looks like a product of the same workshop. A similar shape sculpted more or less around the same time is the monolithic structure of a trefoil lunette and Romanesque archivolt currently displayed in the entrance hall of Chlemoutsi castle. Cinquefoils and quatrefoils are also arranged in round shapes, even in Gothic tracery. A. Xyngopoulos probably chose to draw inspiration from slab no. 292 (Fig. 13c) of the Byzantine Museum, which he believed to be from another arcosolium tomb (cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 97). Paolo Piva, ‘San Pietro al Monte di Civate: Una lettura iconografica in chiave contestuale’, in idem (dir.), Pittura murale del Medioevo lombardo: Ricerche iconografiche: l’alta Lombardia (secoli XI–XIII) (Milan: Jaca Book, 2006), 92–95. See Jelena Bogdanović, The Framing of Sacred Space: The Canopy and the Byzantine Church (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), passim.
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to deal with the annorum domini hue fragment, since its meaning is too specific and difficult to identify. I prefer to stick to the epigraphic formulae. How do we relate, for instance, the hic iacent (funerary character) with the opus fecit (artistic commission) and with the κιβώριον (religious building) at the same time?76 Some tried to divide fragments and slabs into two monuments, identifying a κιβώριον, but without explaining why the Greek inscription appears on a tomb instead of that ciborium. Using internal evidence, I would argue that ΚΙΒΟYΡΙΟ[?] refers to a representation of the ciborium’s kivotion or its alluded presence in the badly damaged scene. Either way, it appears in connection with the right-hand figure of the reconstructed panel 266 (Fig. 12d), in the exact same manner as ‘the magi’, connected to ‘the gifts’ (that we can actually see), ‘the angels’ linked with ‘the hymn’, and ‘the shepherds’ with ‘the miracle’ (that is, with something that we cannot see). In this case, the entire structure would play on the inconsistent terminology of κιβώριον and κιβώτιον.77 It would be a reliquary, and this actually corresponds to the data provided by the fragments of Latin inscriptions. Countless medieval inscriptions speak of hic iacent sancti … ossa or reliquiae and many of them are accompanied by opus fecit.78 The two figures cannot consequently be a knight and his lady, as proposed by previous research.79 They must be connected with saints and holy scenes. The place of such a ciborium would be in an important Frankish church. In Athens the best candidate would be the Parthenon, the church dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Nicholas da Martoni described the ‘first altar’ of the Parthenon when he visited it in 1395. He said that ‘the said church has two naves, one after the other, and in the first nave there is the first altar, made in mundo for saint Denis after the holy Catholic faith was
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In the reconstruction of Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 91, the opus fecit is correctly inserted in the second part of the inscription, where it would be expected. Nevertheless, the catalogue of the museum shows that the fragments were badly assembled in the museum collections, with the opus fecit inserted in the first half of the text (Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 192). Cf. Bogdanović, The Framing of Sacred Space, 41–42. Cf. Bogdanović, Canopies, 329–335. The opus fecit would be too intrusive in the context of a private burial. Who would dare inscribe her/his name on the tomb of another person, and in the same inscription mentioning the years and the name of the deceased? It ceases to be disturbing in the context of a reliquary or an altar containing relics. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 89, for the identification of the two figures with a knight and his wife, because he needed to explain the plural implied by the traces of an N in IACE[NT].
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adhecta’.80 Adhecta stands for adiecta, meaning ‘added’, while in mundo refers to the altar as being open, accessible to the viewer. This means that the said altar was added when Athens was occupied by the Latins and the Parthenon changed from the church of Theotokos into the Catholic church dedicated to the Virgin Mary. But there is something else. Nicholas also describes the relics that the clergy showed him. Among them were bones from the arm of saint Denis ‘of France’ (de osse brachii sancti Dyonisii de Francia). Since the first altar was dedicated to saint Denis, it would be safe to assume that the relics were hosted there.81 This means that the ‘first altar’ of the Parthenon was made after the Latin occupation and it would be expected that the conquerors intervene in one way of another in the Byzantine church, changing it in order to mark the passage to the Latin rite. But if the local clergy told Nicholas that they had a relic of saint Denis in 1395 – not a relic devised on the spot, attributed to a miraculous discovery, for this relic was small and it was presented in connection with France, this means that the relic had to come from France, hence the curious mention de Francia in the journal of the pilgrim. The essential thing is that the notary did not mention similar attributes in connection with the other saints and relics seen in Athens. Furthermore, the Catholic clergy did not consider saint Denis to be French, but Greek, so the mention clearly refers to the place whence the relic came. It had to come from France, more precisely from the Parisian abbey of Saint-Denis, because tradition held that the saint had died in Paris. Furthermore, even the Greek relics had been transferred to Saint-Denis by pope Innocent III in 1215, therefore the relics seen by Nicholas had to come from France. And there is more. If such a transfer of relics took place, it would be endorsed by the French king, for Saint-Denis was a royal foundation and the French kings were deeply involved in the life of that abbey. Strange as it may seem, we are fortunate enough to have a source that may allude to the possibility of such a transfer. The precise moment would be Guy de la Roche’s voyage to France in 1259–1260. Even though no relics are mentioned in the different versions of the Chronicle of Morea – the only account of that voyage – their absence is possibly due to this chronicle’s lack of interest for ecclesiastical or religious matters. Or to the fact that the text was written in the Peloponnesus, not in Attica. Yet, there is a 80 81
Cf. Michele Piccirillo (ed.), Io Notaio Nicola de Martoni. Il Pellegrinaggio ai luoghi santi da Carinola a Gerusalemme, 1394–1395 [Paris – Bibliothèque Nationale n. 625 du fonds latin] (Gorle: Custodia della Terra Santa, 2003), 141. Cf. Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 141.
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curious dialogue at the end of the scene in which Louis, king of France, delivers his judgement in the conflict between Guy of Athens and the prince of Achaea. In the French text of the chronicle, the king states that he will grant Guy any wish, since he came from far away. Guy asks to be named ‘duke of Athens’.82 If such a conversation took place, and it did (Guy unquestionably presented himself before the king of France in Paris), they talked about saint Denis. This topic was inescapable: saint Denis was the most cherished saint of French royalty; he had come to Paris from Athens. When Guy made the trip from Athens to Paris in order to meet with king Louis of France, parallels and comparisons would be instantly drawn, and saint Denis would be one of the first topics of the conversation. My interpretation of the Athenian sculptures is a ciborium for saint Denis, to host a relic brought from Paris (and other relics of the Parthenon). Nobody will ever be able to say precisely ‘who’ this saint Denis transferred from Paris really was. There were already too many Denis in France by then, and two of them in the abbey of Saint-Denis, so the pieces of an arm could not do much harm, especially if it were taken from the Denis offered to the Parisian convent by pope Innocent III in 1215. Another thing is that we cannot date with precision the Athenian sculptures. Given that the artist who sculpted the panels was probably local and did not master the technique of 13th century Italian or French sculptors,83 a dating of the pieces is difficult to approximate. It could be 82 83
Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 124. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 91–92. A. Xyngopoulos did not necessarily contradict previous hypotheses who argued that these sculptures were the work of a Northern French workshop, settled in Latin Athens and adopting local techniques, while working for local aristocracy; or a workshop from Puglia; Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 88–91, 93–97 (especially pp. 83 and 96, where he rediscusses the Northern French hypothesis). He compares the Athenian sculptures with what he saw in the cathedral of Chartres and does not pay attention to the fact that a Gothic carver from the West would have no reason whatsoever to do a lesser work, adopting local techniques. Cf. Νίκος Μελβάνι, ‘H γλυπτική στις ‘ιταλοκρατούμενες’ και ‘φραγκοκρατούμενες’ περιοχές της ανατολικής Μεσογείου κατά τον 13ο και 14ο αιώνα. H διείσδυση της γοτθικής τέχνης και η συνύπαρξή της με τη βυζαντινή’, in Όλγα Γκράτζιου (dir.), Γλυπτική και λιθοξοϊκή στη Λατινική Ανατολή: 13ος–17ος αιώνας (Heraklion: Πανεπιστημιακές Εκδόσεις Κρήτης, 2007), 37–38, who follows Xyngopoulos, but notices that the spandrels from the Byzantine Museum do not seem to draw their inspiration from the sculptures of Athens during the pre-1205 period. Μελβάνι, ‘H γλυπτική’, 37, also mentions the work of Antelami in the Baptistery of Parma when discussing the Athenian spandrel panels, and refers to other sculptures in the Southern Italian churches of Molfetta or Santa Maria Cerrata (examples taken from Linda Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links between Epiros and Apulia in the Thirteenth Century: The Problem of Sculpture and Wall Painting’, in Ευάγγελος
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made in the early 1260s, the time when Guy returned from Paris, but it could just as well date back to the end of the 13th century, and maybe even from before the Catalan conquest of Athens (1311). Anyway, it would date more or less about the same time as the scenes with the Last Judgement that were painted in the Parthenon sometime in the 13th century.84 Preference should naturally be given to the early 1260s, on account of Guy’s trip to Paris, but any other time would be perfectly justifiable as well. Perhaps this would be the time of archbishop Ulrich of Athens, mentioned on 20 May 1273. By the 1260s, Conrad of Sumo could be dead, since he was attested on 15 February 1253, and Ulrich could be archbishop in his place, explaining thus the sequence …]NOꝜ⁝DNI⁝HUE[… from the fragmentary panel 266 (Fig. 12d), if his name were transcribed as a variant of the Latin Huldricus. Or an otherwise unknown bishop named Hugh, sometime in 1253–1273. Who knows? Nobody knows. Only one thing is certain: the conception of the structure cannot be ascribed to the duke of Athens. My first option would be the Latin archbishop of Athens or his entourage. In support of this hypothesis, I would notice that the trefoil cusps of the spandrel panel no. 266 (Fig. 12d) are very similar in aspect to the trefoil cusps of the spandrel panels from three late 13th century ciboria in Roman monuments: Saint-Paul fuori le mura (Arnolfo di Cambio, 1285); Saint-Cecilia in Trastevere (the same Arnolfo di Cambio, 1293); and Saint-Mary in Cosmedin (Deodato di Cosma, 1296).85 By far, the one resembling the Athenian ciborium is
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Χρυσός (dir.), Το Δεσποτάτο της Ηπείρου: Πρακτικά Διεθνούς Συμποσίου για το Δεσποτάτο της Ηπείρου, Αρτα, 27–31 Μαϊου 1990 (Arta: Μουσικοφιλολογικός σύλλογος Αρτης ‘ο Σκουφάς’, 1992), 455–474, where the last two were compared to a series of sculptures in Arta). I will discuss the Arta sculptures and their links to the Athenian sculptures in the next chapter. Cf. Nicholas Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), 118. For the much more convincing hypothesis of a local workshop adopting Western techniques, see Ivison, ‘Latin Tomb Monuments’. For the new dating of those paintings in connection with a redating of the south-western staircase of the Parthenon, see Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Relations between East and West in the Lordship of Athens and Thebes after 1204: Archaeological and Artistic Evidence’, in Peter Edbury, eadem (dir.), Archaeology and the crusades. Proceedings of the Roundtable, Nicosia, 1 February 2005 (Athens: Pierides Foundation, 2007), 9. For previous studies about those murals, see Anthony Cutler, ‘The Christian Wall Paintings in the Parthenon. Interpreting a Lost Monument’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 17 (1993–1994), 171–180. Cf. e.g. Ragnhild Marthine Bø, ‘The Iconography of the Gothic Ciborium in Rome, c.1285–1370’, Medievalista, 4 (2008), 1–14. For Arnolfo’s ciboria, see Sible De Blaauw, ‘Arnolfo’s High Altar Ciboria and the Roman Liturgical Traditions’, in David Friedman et al. (dir.), Arnolfo’s moment: Acts of an international conference, Florence, Villa I Tatti,
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the one made by Deodato. However, these were not average and regular churches: Saint-Paul fuori le mura was the seat of the Benedictine Order in Rome and the alleged burial place of saint Paul, while Saint-Cecilia in Trastevere and Saint-Mary in Cosmedin were titular churches for cardinals. The presence of the ciborium in the Parthenon would therefore account for its status as the most important church of Athens. Also, Roman ciboria were designed to hold relics.86 The only unresolved issue would be the roofing of the structure, but the Athenian ciborium could precede the three Roman examples, being based on older models of ciboria.87 Another difference concerns the shape of the altar installed under the canopy. The Theotokos slab belongs to a stone cassaforte type of reliquary. Rectangular altar-reliquaries of this type are known in the West. One of the most famous ones is the late 10th century golden cassaforte altar installed under the ciborium of Saint-Ambrose at Milan,88 and the votive character of the scenes depicted on this other ciborium’s spandrels could equally be compared to the Athenian spandrels’ structure, since the fragments composing spandrel no. 266 (Fig. 12d) may also have a votive character. In the case of a usual hypothesis, lacking supplementary proof, I would stop here, but there are many more things to be taken into account. On this spandrel, the photos published by A. Xyngopoulos slightly contradict his drawings. One letter was scrambled. The text should be …]S:ET:Q(ui):OP(us):F[ECIT FIERI], as in many ciboria inscriptions, and the –S probably stands for an attribute of the patron.89 Opus fecit fieri is related to the patron, and from the looks of the figure kneeling
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May 26–27, 2005 (Florence: L.S. Olschki, 2009), 123–140. The Saint-Paul fuori le mura ciborium was dismantled and reassembled following an 1823 fire (cf. p. 128). Cf. Peter Cornelius Claussen, ‘Il tipo romano del ciborio con reliquie: questioni aperte sulle genesi e la funzione’, Mededelingen van het Nederlands Instituut te Rome, 59 (2000), 229–249, who deals with many other Roman cases. Cf. De Blaauw, ‘Arnolfo’s High Altar Ciboria’, 126, for whom “the most conspicuous new feature of the Arnolfian ciboria is the figurative sculpture, quite alien to the Roman ciborium tradition.” The Athenian ciborium may predate those of Arnolfo, being either its model or drawing its inspiration from previous ciboria, now lost. For similar altars under ciboria, see one of the most famous examples in the church of Saint-Nicholas in Bari (1105–1123). The presence of the conjunction ET hints at the nature of the preceding word: it should be in the nominative. A common noun (dominus, archiepiscopus, abbas, etc.) or a nominal group are the best candidates, since they may be linked with a relative pronoun in the Nominative. This matter will be analysed in a future study, when (or if) I will be given access to the fragments of the Byzantine Museum.
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in prayer in the left fragment, that person is not a knight. He wears long clothes but is clearly not a woman, so he must be a clergyman. One arm of the badly damaged figure of the right fragment is represented along his body, but there is space to represent the other arm in the same position. The even more damaged lump on the figure’s torso suggests that he could hold something in his other arm. Since this is the only frontal portrayal in the ciborium sculptures, I believe that it may actually represent saint Denis holding his head in his hand, or another object, for Denis is not always depicted as a cephalophorous saint. Maybe this is why the inscription ΚΙΒΟYΡΙΟ[?] accompanies this figure, because the ciborium would be dedicated to saint Denis and he would appear on this spandrel as part of a votive scene. If the damaged lump on his torso is a kivotion of the ciborium, then the Greek inscription would follow the same pattern as the ‘gifts’ of the ‘Magi’ in the Nativity spandrel panel. If it were not, if the saint were holding his head, it would be an allusion to ciborium’s existence, similar to the ‘miracle’ mentioned next to the ‘shepherds’ and the ‘hymn’ next to the ‘angels’. Since the two spandrels would be the opposite sides of the ciborium, there would be an effect of symmetry, expected in such cases. And one should also take into account that the fragment no. 268 (Fig. 12e) presents a figure holding a book, described by a Latin legend as …]AUL[…, probably saint Paul. The presence of Paul in the company of Denis would make perfect sense. They were always linked in hagiographic accounts. The scholars of the second half of 13th century were clearly experimenting, but since we are analysing fragments, we have no idea as to what the sources of these experimentations were. For instance, I am not convinced that the currently reconstructed panel no. 266 (Fig. 12d) presented a truly Byzantine ktetorial representation.90 The kneeling donor position may reflect a mixture of Latin and Byzantine elements. Such mixed representations were already used in the West since the time of the first Crusades, before 1204. A mysterious inscription appears on a tympanum of the abandoned church of Saint-Fiacre at Mervilliers (Eure-et-Loir, France). The scene presents a knight kneeling before saint George, while a squire holds his horse. The knight offers ‘treasures’, with the saint interceding before Christ, and the scene looks like an odd mixture of Catholic 90
Cf. Ξυγγόπουλος, ‘Φραγκοβυζαντινά γλυπτά’, 91, who imagined that there might be angels and other holy characters represented above the knight and his wife in the upper part of the archivolt. Cf. Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 192, who follows Xyngopoulos’ interpretation.
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donor representations and Byzantine ktetorial ones. The depiction of a priest in front of an altar and that of a scribe writing down the inscription is equally intriguing and places the ensemble in a liturgical context, as the text states that a certain Herbert William ‘equally conceded’, and the knight Rembaut, his heir, ‘brought Me the current treasures in order to have those that have no end’.91 Such odd scenes are perfectly understandable for the 12th century, a time when the Latins were less familiar with Byzantine culture. In the 13th century, on the other hand, experiments of this type reached their zenith and the Athenian spandrel panels illustrate it best. Their mixed inscriptions and mixed techniques – monolithic slabs similar to pre-1205 ones, carved in a Latin manner, but with Byzantine iconography, allude to the very purpose of installing a ciborium in the Parthenon. This type of structure was common to both East and West, so it would imply a return to a certain common ground. Furthermore, it would not be the only ciborium in Athens. Another canopy (octagonal in shape) had been installed at an unknown time in the Tower of the Winds, next to Hadrian’s Library, and it was probably used as an altar, too. As a sidenote, I believe that this other ancient monument (converted into a church during Byzantine times) suffered a third transfer of meaning when the Latins occupied Athens,92 but this is not the point here. The essential thing is that the Latin clergy embraced an earlier tradition. The conceptor of the Athenian ciborium was well versed in Greek exegesis. This is exactly what William of Morbeka and the other scholars of his age did. They tried to find common ground with the Greeks and with Byzantine culture. The Parthenon ciborium would be a Latin answer to the already renowned Byzantine phiale.
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Cf. Cécile Voyer, ‘Le geste efficace: le don du chevalier au saint sur le tympan de Mervilliers (XIIe siècle)’, in Martin Aurell, Cătălina Gîrbea (dir.), Chevalerie et christianisme aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2011), 110, for the text and translation of the inscription. She analyses the liturgical undertones of the ensemble and does not deal with possible influences coming from Byzantine ktetorial representations. Bogdanović, Canopies, 572. Cf. David B. Small, ‘A proposal for the reuse of the Tower of the Winds’, American Journal of Archaeology, 84/1 (1980), 96–99, who considers that the building could be used as a baptistery. Whatever its pre-1205 use, the octagonal shape of the canopy copies the octagonal shape of the building, and if it were used as a church during the Frankokratia. In such a case, the octagon-within-an-octagon shape would transform it into a symbolic copy of the church of the Ascension on the Mount of Olives in the Holy Land.
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Let us not forget that John Basingstoke would not be able to find Greek manuscripts if he were not in contact with the learned scholars of the Athenian Greek elite. Men like him and brother William of Morbeka came to Greece in order to explore and learn from a different culture. It was already argued that William must have worked with Greek scholars when he made his first translations in Latin-occupied Greece.93 Maybe he would even go to Athens, not necessarily to see the relic, since lord Guy de la Roche would be still in France, but out of a desire to follow in the footsteps of Aristotle. The Mirabilia Urbis Athenarum, a Byzantine text dating back to the late 12th century, lists a lot of Athenian ancient monuments. Among them, there is a brief passage concerning a school (διδασκαλεῖον), said to be the school of Aristotle (λεγόμενον τοῦ Αριστοτέλους).94 The building was not placed at the Lyceum, as expected. Instead, it appeared below a place with columns, close to the head of the Gorgon, ‘which is said to have once stood nearby’. There is also talk of a marble sun-dial.95 All these details (and other ones) identify it with one of the late ancient philosophical schools of the southern slopes of the Acropolis, where the commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca were written and taught. It was also argued that the author of Mirabilia was well aware of this, since he used the word λεγόμενον (“said to be”), and that the διδασκαλεῖον would be the House of Proclus, or House Chi, a building erected at the end of the 4th or at the beginning of the 5th century AD.96 If William were in contact with local Greek scholars, he would certainly learn about the existence of these school and would clearly like to see it. Nevertheless, alas, we know nothing more about his first stay in Greece. We will return to this subject in the last chapter, when Nicholas da Martoni will tell us what the Athenian guides told him about this school-of-Aristotle attraction. William would have a place to stay. There were Dominicans in Athens. Maybe not so many, but during his brief return to Athens after having spent a long time in Euboea, Nicholas da Martoni attended mass on Palm Sunday in a small and poor Dominican church, where there were just two brothers.97 Who 93 94 95 96
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Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance, 116, who also imagines William’s possible interaction with Greek scholars during his stays in the Greek lands. Antonio Corso, “The Topography of Ancient Athens in the ‘Mirabilia Urbis Athenarum’”, Hyperboreus, 16–17 (2010–2011), 71. Corso, ‘The Topography’, 71. Cf. ibid., 76. For the House of Proclus, see also Arja Karivieri, ‘The ‘House of Proclus’ on the Southern Slope of the Acropolis: A Contribution’, in Paavo Castrén (dir.), PostHerulian Athens, Aspects of Life and Culture in Athens A.D. 267–529 (Helsinki: Suomen Ateenan-instituutin säätiö, 1994), 115–139; cf. Anna Afonasina, Eugene Afonasin, ‘The Houses of Philosophical Schools in Athens’, Σχολή, 8/1 (2014), 9–23. Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 148.
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knows how many Dominicans would be in Athens a century and a half before, when the ranks of their Order were growing in Latin-occupied Greece? Some of them would surely be located in Athens, close to the ‘de la Roche’ centre of power. Would these local Dominicans be equally involved in the creation of the sculptures of the Byzantine Museum? Not necessarily. Any person linked with the theological and exegetic milieus could be a better candidate, provided that he lived in Athens from the mid-13th century until the times of Stephen Mangiatero, the Dominican bishop of Athens (c.1300).98 The only thing that truly matters is that those Dominicans and other Latin scholars allowed for this cultural dialogue to take place. William would not stay much. He would return to Italy right away. In one of his 1262–1263 translations, there are rare linguistic features originating in Southern Italian contexts, like the use of the word spinula from the Neapolitan spinola. This curious term translates the fish λάβραξ (‘bass’), a word occurring in Aristotle’s De historia animalium,99 for which William had to consult local Greek-speakers in Naples. This suggests that he returned from Greece to Italy, where he stayed some time. While in Southern Italy, William revised previous translations and made new ones. He probably translated the third and fourth books Aristotle’s De caelo sometime between 1260 and 1262, all while revising the translations of the first and second book made by Robert Grosseteste. He started translating Aristotle’s Politics, but he only reached chapter 11 of the second book (c.1260–1264). By March 1266, he had already translated Aristotle’s Categoriae and Simplicius’ commentary to the same text. He revised a translation of De anima by Aristotle (before 1268), made by James of Venice, while translating Themistius’ commentary of that text. He was at the papal court of Viterbo on 22 November 1267, for this is the date that he noted in his translation of Themistius commentary. It was argued that he spent his time in Southern Italy looking for Greek manuscripts, or that he was responsible for the transfer of a large manuscript library of philosophical and mathematical texts from Southern Italy to the papal court after 1266. Charles I of Anjou had defeated Manfred by then. Since Charles owed a lot to the pope, this conjecture may be possible. Nevertheless, we do not know if William was the one who persuaded the new French king of Naples to grant him that library. The only thing that we know is that the texts he translated in Viterbo coincide with the contents of this manuscript collection that entered the library of the pope about 1267.100 Next, his translations 98 Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 316. 99 Beullens, Bossier eds., Aristoteles latinus, XV. 100 Alexander Jones, ‘William of Moerbeke, the Papal Greek Manuscripts and the Collection of Pappus of Alexandria in Vat. gr. 218’, Scriptorium, 40/1 (1986), 16–31.
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flowed like a river: Aristotle’s De interpretatione and Ammonius’ commentary of the same work (1268), the Elements of Proclus (May 1268), a fragment of a commentary by Pseudo-Philoponos of the same text, and a fragment of the genuine commentary of Philoponos (December 1268). He made revisions to a James of Venice translation of Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics. He made a partial revision of an earlier version of Aristotle’s Sophistici elenchi (c.1269). Next, he translated six treaties by Archimedes, two commentaries on them by Eutokios (1269), the De speculis of Heron of Alexandria (1269), and Ptolemy’s De analemmate. Given the contents of the latter, I am tempted to say philosophy and mathematics were not his only interests. He liked sundials as well. Would William think of the marble sundial located in the proximity of the Athenian school of Aristotle when he did this translation? I am naturally only imagining, but why not dream such a scholarly dream? In June 1271, he was still at the papal court in Viterbo, where he described himself as an apostolic penitentiary in the signature included at the end of his translation of the first book of Simplicius’ commentary on Aristotle’s De caelo. He was climbing the clerical hierarchy. He was now a priest with special powers for absolution in complex cases. As a penitentiary and chaplain of the pope, William probably followed the papal court to Orvieto in 1272. About that time, he finished the translation of Aristotle’s Politics (c.1272). There are other translations made by him, but they are undated. There was Theophrastus’ De coloribus (1260–1270), a revision of a previous translation of Aristotle’s De generatione et corruptione, and a first-hand translation of the commentary of Alexander of Aphrodisias on the De sensu et sensibili, dated sometime before the death of Thomas Aquinas in 1274. William was busy. Under the protection of the pope, he translated methodically an entire collection of books from the papal library.
…
On 31 March 1274, pope Gregory X summoned everybody to a great council in Lyon.101 Five hundred bishops answered his call, sixty abbots, and a thousand other prelates. Franciscans were also there, as the council was a consequence of their diplomatic success in the East. Dominicans were there. And William, as penitentiary, had to be there, too. At the beginning of the council, 101 The acts of the Lyon council of 1274 are unfortunately lost. The only document is an agenda (Ordinatio concilii generalis Lugdunensis) written by a clerk immediately after the end of the council. For an edition of this text, see Antonio Franchi OFM (ed.), Il Concilio di Lione (1274) secondo la Ordinatio concilii generalis Lugdunensis (Rome: Edizioni francescane, 1965).
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Dominicans were mourning the death of saint Thomas Aquinas. He had been a most avid reader of William’s translations. Maybe they also met sometime in Italy.102 Aquinas was one of the most expected participants to the Lyon council, unfortunately dead on his way there. So after three days of fasting, the council started without the great scholar. Every able body entered the cathedral church of Saint-John in Lyon, on 7 May. The pope informed the members about the matters at stake, but the second meeting was held on 18 May. Next, they met on 7 June, when they decided upon internal matters of the Catholic Church, and decided to wait a little bit more. The Greek delegation could not yet arrive. The interesting thing about this council is that it testifies to the fact that the Universities had won a symbolic battle: they were at the heart of the Church. For the first time in the history of those councils, clergymen and scholars were also representing nations, in the exact same way as they were represented in the governing bodies of universities. It was a time when scholars had a lot to say. No wonder that William was a part of that assembly. A translator from Greek had to be there. He knew well the Greek culture and could converse with the members of the Byzantine delegation. On 24 June, the Greeks arrived. Some of them had been shipwrecked. Many had died, but there they were. If we are to believe the brief comments of Pachymeres, who did not know much about the events, as he believed that the meeting took place in Rome, the pope gave them tiaras, mitres, and rings, customary for bishops (τιμῆσαι σφᾶς τιάραις τε καὶ μίτραις καὶ δακτυλίοις, ὡς ἡ ἐκείνων ἔχει ἐπ’ ἀρχιερεῦσι συνήθεια).103 If true, this would not be appreciated by the Greeks. Their lists of Latin errors condemned such practises. In any case, every important person present in Lyon was welcoming the Greeks, so William had to be in that crowd. He saw the former patriarch of Constantinople Germanus III and Theophanus the metropolitan bishop of Nicaea. He certainly saw the 102 Thomas Aquinas did use some of William’s translations, but not all of them, and their great meeting (cf. Carlo Steel, ‘Guillaume de Moerbeke et saint Thomas’, in J. Brams, W. Vanhamel (dir.), Guillaume de Moerbeke: recueil d’études à l’occasion du 700e anniversaire de sa mort (1286) (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1989), 57–82) could have never happened, despite the story that saint Thomas was the one who pushed William to translate from Greek. Some biographers of Aquinas accept the “possibility of occasional contacts during the brief trips that Thomas made to Viterbo in July 1267 while going to the general chapter in Bologna and in May 1268, during the chapter of the Roman province, which William attended as an apostolic penitentiary” (Jean-Pierre Torrell OP, Saint Thomas Aquina, 1: The person and his work, revised edition, trans. Robert Royal (Washington DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 1996), 177), but no more than that. For more on these matters, see pp. 174–177. 103 Albert Failler (ed.), Vitalien Laurent (trans.), Georges Pachymérès, Relations historiques, 4 vols (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1984) 2:509.
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grand logothete George Akropolites, a prime minister of sorts for the Byzantine emperor, accompanied by many Greek dignitaries. Did William know that the man he had in front of him, this George Akropolites, had been in the army that burnt Thebes after the battle of Pelagonia? Maybe he did, maybe he did not, but he would look at him with a bit of fear. The memories would be still fresh, as war memories usually are. This man whom he saw in the Greek delegation had been lecturing on mathematics and philosophy at the so-called ‘University of Constantinople’, perhaps since 1262, until 1274, the moment when he left for Lyon. William could know this. For all one knows, they would even talk, since they had a lot of common interests. This man, whose teachings are sometimes considered to be one of the points of origin of the ‘Palaeologan Renaissance’,104 had taught Aristotle, Euclid, and the arithmetic of Nicomachus in Constantinople, but also syllogistics and analytics. He may not have shared the scholastic interest in Aristotle, but William did not take a keen interest in the difference between Aristotle and the Neoplatonists either.105 The Greeks brought the letters of the emperor, with the appended golden bulls, and the emperor recognised everything (the filioque, the papal primacy, etc.). Little does it matter that the clergy back home did not agree with his choice and that the emperor’s son would repudiate the Union years later. There are no official records about what the Greek delegation did in the next five days, so William of Morbeka had time to meet with George Akropolites. In public, they would talk about the filioque or the unleavened bread. Maybe they joined the debates headed by other Dominicans, like Albert the Great or Peter of Tarentaise. Or Franciscans scholars like saint Bonaventura, John Parastron, and Jerome of Ascoli.106 Or the learned men of the Greek delegation.107 In private, they would talk of Aristotle and other philosophers from Antiquity. Or about commentaries. William was very fond of those commentaries. 104 Macrides trans., George Akropolites, 12–14. 105 For a long time after 1261, the Byzantines were not interested in Aristotle’s rational order. Cf. Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance, 105. For William’s lack of understanding concerning the evolution of ancient philosophy, see pp. 110–111. 106 For a discussion about the lesser role played by saint Bonaventura in the Lyon debates of 1274, and for a reappraisal of the essential role played by Franciscan and Dominican scholars, see Deno John Geanakoplos, ‘Bonaventura, the two mendicant orders, and the Greeks at the council of Lyons (1274)’, Studies in Church History, 13 (1976), 183–211. 107 For the role played by the Greek scholars in the Lyon delegation, see Constantine N. Constantinides, ‘Byzantine scholars and the Union of Lyons (1274)’, in Roderick Beaton, Charlotte Roueché (dir.), The Making of Byzantine History, Studies Dedicated to Donald M. Nicol (Aldershot/Brookfield VT: Variorum, 1993), 86–93.
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Akropolites would not be necessarily interested in theology,108 so William would ask about manuscripts in Constantinople. He would him the story of how he made his translations in Thebes. Akropolites, on the other hand, would tell him the story of his captivity in Epirus, that is, precisely when William was translating. They would reminisce about former days when they were caught on opposing sides of military conflicts, and they would be glad that those time were now gone. On 29 June, pope Gregory X celebrated mass in the cathedral of Lyon. After the reading of the Epistle and Gospel in Greek and Latin, saint Bonaventura held a sermon. Next, the creed was sung in Latin.109 When time came for the Greek creed, the Byzantines were joined by William ( frater W[illelmo] de Morbecca de ordine fratrum Predicatorum) and by a Franciscan penitentiary, as well as by the bishop of Calabria, since all of them knew Greek (qui linguam Grecam noverunt). When they reached the passage concerning the procession of the Holy Spirit, William and the Greeks solemnly and devotedly proclaimed it three times (sollempniter et devote ter cantaverunt).110 And as a gift of trust, the former patriarch, the metropolitan, and George Akropolites and the rest of the Greek delegation sang praises to the pope. This would be the imperial acclamation, those praises similar to the imperial ones (εὐφημία, ταῖς βασιλικαῖς εὐφημίαις ἰσόῤῥοπος) that the Orthodox clergy of Constantinople conceded to pope Innocent III in the early days of the Latin conquest. At the end, the pope ended mass and the Greeks stood close to him, next to the altar.111 William would be nearby. It would not be the last time when George and William would see each other. They possibly met again on 6 July 1274, when the Union was officially announced. They knew that they were living momentous times. The triple filioque in Greek (‘τὸ Πνεῦμα ἐκ Πατρὸς καὶ Υἱοῦ … καὶ Υἱοῦ … καὶ Υἱοῦ πνέει’) broke like a wave upon the shores of Greece. The choice of 29 June had a strong symbolism. It was the feast day of saints Peter and Paul (in festo apostolorum Petri et Pauli),112 emblematically linked with the papacy. The frequent use of the Peter-and-Paul imagery in connection with 108 Cf. Hans-Georg Beck, ‘The Byzantine Church from 1203 to 1282’, in idem, Karl August Fink, Josef Glazik, Erwin Iserloh, Hans Wolter, Handbook of Church History: From the High Middle Ages to the eve of the Reformation, trans. Anselm Briggs (London: Burns & Oates, 1980), 126: “In the higher civil hierarchy Michael VIII found a champion of his ideas in the esteemed historian George Acropolites, who, while he lacked theological depth, made his own the idea of union as such.” 109 Franchi ed., Il Concilio di Lione, 82–83. 110 Ibid., 83. 111 Ibid., 83. 112 Ibid., 82.
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various forms of accepting the Latin hegemony is hard to miss in the churches of 13th–14th century Greece. I could propose a list of occurrences, but I have no intention of making a complete inventory, since this would be the subject of a monograph or a PhD dissertation.113 I am more interested in the fact that these cases were only mere reflexes of a doctrine. In fact, the use of Peter-and-Paul depictions never went beyond a banal recognition of Western authority (and sometimes even that authority is questionable, as I will argue later). The more interesting cases, like Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi, at the periphery of Athens, are difficult to assess. Peter and Paul are also present there, on opposite walls of the nave, but the rest of the murals presents us with a puzzling distribution of scenes. There is also the central place occupied by saint Peter in the Transfiguration scene, something that does not agree with known Byzantine iconography, similar depictions appearing on 13th century crusader icons from Sinai.114 I would argue that the Dominicans, well versed as they were in the dialogue with the Greek Church (and authors of exegetic studies on the errors of the Greeks), may be responsible for the creation of an iconographic programme in the narthex of Galatsi, particularly since this church was dated to the second half of the 13th century. This hypothesis is further supported by two odd depictions in the narthex of Galatsi. A tonsured monk saint (Fig. 17) was depicted on the spandrel of the western wall next to a niche with two representations of saints holding scrolls. The mural is badly damaged, but the tonsure is obvious.115 One of the two saints depicted in a niche of the opposite wall wears a black scapular, a black hood over a white tunic, and holds a closed book. This one is possibly a Dominican, for the clothes identify him as such. However, 113 I already mentioned the depiction of saints Peter and Paul replacing Callinicus and Barnabas in the churches of Spilia Penteli and Kalyvia-Kouvara, in the second chapter (cf. the ideas of Monika Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings in the Frankish Gate at Nauplia, Greece: A Historical Construct in the Latin Principality of Morea’, Gesta, 44/1 (2005), 13–30, 62–70). Dozens of other examples could be added, but I believe that the significance of the juxtaposition of Peter and Paul may change its meaning depending on the context (see a longer discussion about this in the fifth chapter). Most of these examples reflect an arrangement that is already known from the churches of southern Italy (saints Peter and Paul are similarly represented in the prothesis and diaconicon of the cathedral of Monreale), but the existence of 11th-century Byzantine epigrams alluding to the existence of icons with a similar subject (the embrace of the two saints, identified in later depictions) cloud our understanding of its manifold significances. 114 Αγάπη Βασιλάκη-Καρακατσάνη, Οι τοιχογραφίες της Όμορφης Έκκλησιάς στην Αθήνα (Athens: Χριστιανική αρχαιολογική εταιρεία, 1971), 38–40, 128–129. Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Monumental Art’, 398, 400, who considers that Peter and Paul are equally emphasised in the scene with the mission of the Apostles in the southern chapel. 115 Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Monumental Art’, 402, who published the photo of the tonsured monk with the legend: “Latin monk.”
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I will not make assumptions as to what particular saint he could be.116 Neither will I deal with the other saints represented in the narthex,117 nor do I intend to analyse Western influences in Galatsi as a whole.118
Case Study 5: The Narthex of Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi
The presence of a Dominican monk would actually fit the profile of the Galatsi church (Fig. 14a). Previous research noticed that the frequent depictions of Orthodox monk saints in the nave suggest that this was the catholicon of a monastery.119 Since Western saints do not appear in the nave, one might argue that the main iconography of the church was left (almost) untouched,120 and that Western intrusions only manifested in the narthex (a portico added to the initial church), or in the side-chapel, at least in the choice of using Gothic ribbed vaults. From the standpoint of Byzantine iconography, the hotchpotch of the Galatsi narthex is unexplainable, even absurd. There is a depiction of Balaam’s ass coupled with the sacrifice of Abraham (Fig. 15); the marriage at Cana (Fig. 14b); the martyrdom of saint George; several unclear (fragmentary) scenes – the Three Children in the furnace, a vision (probably Isaiah); as well as unidentified ones, for which the current conjectural interpretations are unconvincing. I consider that some of them – the so-called Kolakeia (Caressing of the Virgin Mary) and the alleged scene with Joachim – are impossible to identify at present.121 Therefore I will concentrate on the scenes that have been already identified. The interpretation of the narthex murals needs to start with the alliance of Balaam’s ass and the sacrifice of Abraham (Fig. 15). 116 Ibid., 400, who speaks of Western monks holding Gospel books in the narthex. 117 Since the subject is too complex, it will be properly dealt with in a future article. 118 See the ribbed vaults of the southern chapel, duly noticed in previous research as proof of a Western influence. Kitsiki Panagopoulos, Cistercian and Mendicant Monasteries, 151. See also an angel on a vault painted in a technique similar to that of the crusader icons from Palestine, dating back to the second half of the 13th century; Βασιλάκη-Καρακατσάνη, Οι τοιχογραφίες, 145. I do not wish to discuss such matters, for I am interested in meaning, not in form. 119 Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Monumental Art’, 398. 120 There is also the issue of the Anastasis representation, oddly depicted in the sanctuary, that points to other (yet unproven) Western influences. 121 Cf. Βασιλάκη-Καρακατσάνη, Οι τοιχογραφίες, 26–27, 127, who also thought of saint Peter and the rooster, but rejected this interpretation on account of the presence of an angel. The interpretation of the scene depends on the proper identification of a similar scene with manus velatae.
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Previous research compared the Galatsi sacrifice of Abraham with a mural from Arilje (Serbia, 1296), but there are notable differences. Balaam’s ass should appear in the context of the Tree of Jesse, something that does not happen in Galatsi. Thus, a final comparison was drawn with a miniature from the manuscript 602 in the Vatopedi monastery dating from the 11th–12th centuries, where the theme stands on its own. Nevertheless, the Galatsi scene does not really stand on its own and no explanation was provided as to why it is joined in a single frame with the sacrifice of Abraham. The Balaam scene was said to represent the Incarnation (maybe because of this story’s exegetic uses in connection with the star of Nativity), while Abraham would refer to Christ’s sacrifice.122 If this is accepted, the hotchpotch becomes even more bizarre: there would be no evident role played by Balaam’s ass in the iconographic programme of the narthex. There are several other appearances of Balaam in the paintings of Serbian churches, also in the context of the Tree of Jesse, but they cannot elucidate our problem either. Another option would be to argue that the two scenes are linked not only by the common frame but also by the presence of the Archangel. If one accepts the cycle of the Archangel as a possible interpretation for the murals of Galatsi (the Three Children in the furnace appear below the Balaam-Abraham composition), a possible comparison may be made with the 11th century murals from the south apse of the Saint-Sophia cathedral of Kiev, dedicated to Michael the Archangel, especially since this monument has another chapel for saint George, corresponding to the Galatsi saint George cycle in the northern side of the narthex. However, the Kiev Archangel Michael cycle is much too extensive (Jacob and the Archangel, Satan casted away, the Archangel appears to Zachariah, to Balaam, and to Joshua, as well as a later 18th century supplement with the Miracle at Chonae) and it does not feature the sacrifice of Abraham, probably because the connotation of the ensemble is different.123 I believe that the scenes in Galatsi are different, since they testify to a voluntary wish of enclosing them together in the same frame. A more
122 Ibid., 19–20, 126–127. 123 The Kiev Archangel cycle may be connected with the legitimation of the power of Jaroslav the Wise; Sarah C. Simmons, ‘Rus’ Dynastic Ideology in Frescoes of the South Chapels in St. Sophia, Kiev’, in Nicholas S.M. Matheou et al. (dir.), From Constantinople to the Frontier: The City and the Cities (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 207–225. Moreover, the Archangel was a patron saint of Kiev and of the prince’s druzhina, thus the importance given to him.
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plausible explanation comes from Western iconography.124 I am thinking about the alliance between Balaam’s ass and the sacrifice of Abraham as it appears on a capital of the Panteón Real de San Isidoro in León (also Spain, early 12th century), in a monastic or canonical context. Balaam’s ass is sculpted again on a capital of the southern portal of Jaca cathedral (Spain, c.1100) and on a capital of the Western door in San Zoilo de Carrión de los Condes (Palencia, Spain, same dating).125 In France, Balaam and his ass appear on an early 12th century capital from Saint-Lazarus in Autun (Burgundy, France). The interesting thing is that Balaam wears there a monk’s hood. In the Saint-Andoche abbey church of Saulieu (again in Burgundy), the 12th century capitals imitate themes from Autun, therefore Balaam’s ass reappears, once again wearing a monk’s hood.126 The same happens in Saint-George of La Rochepot (Burgundy, 12th century).127 All these examples form a coherent series and the subject was discussed time and again. 124 I do not deal with the Balaam depiction from the Psalter of Saint Louis or other ones, since they are isolated representations and do not form a coherent pattern (cf. Paris, BnF, f. lat. 10 525, fol. 39v; third quarter of the 13th century). 125 For the Iberian representations (compared to Burgundian ones), see Marta Poza Yagüe, ‘La burra de Balaam’, Revista Digital de Iconografía Medieval, 3/5 (2011), 1–9; and Marta Poza Yagüe, ‘Las portadas de los prioratos cluniacenses de Tierra de Campos en tiempos de Alfonso VI: una iconografía de corte monástico para una manifestación pública’, Anales de Historia del Arte, 2 (2011), 251–279. Cf. María Elena Conde Guerri, ‘Interpretación de la escena de Balaam y su burra (Via Latina B, F y C?) en las fuentes patrísticas y nuevas vinculaciones iconográficas’, in Historiam Pictura Refert. Miscellanea in onore di padre Alejandro Recio Verganzones ofm (Vatican: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1994), 141–174; José Luis Senra Gabriel y Galán, ‘La portada occidental recientemente descubierta del Monasterio de San Zoilo de Carrión de los Condes’, Archivo Español de Arte, 265 (1994), 57–72; etc. See also Javier Martínez de Aguirre, ‘The role of kings and bishops in the introduction of Romanesque art in Navarre and Aragon’, in Jordi Camps i Sòria et al. (dir.), Romanesque Patrons and Processes: Design and Instrumentality in the Art and Architecture of Romanesque Europe (Abingdon, Oxon/New York: Routledge/British Archaeological Association, 2018), 60–61, who argues that the exaltation of humility and obedience were a reformist programme influenced by the views of pope Gregory VII. 126 Francis Salet, ‘Chapiteaux de Saulieu et d’Autun’, Bulletin monumental, 119/3 (1961), 261–262; Ilene H. Forsyth, ‘L’Âne parlante: The Ass of Balaam in Burgundian Romanesque Sculpture’, Gesta, 20/1 (1981), 59–65. 127 Neil Stratford, Jacques Henriet, ‘L’église Saint-Georges de La Rochepot’, Congrès archéologique de France 152 (1994). Cf. F. Baylé-Masson, ‘La Sculpture romane dans quelques églises rurales de Côte-d’Or’, Mémoires de la Commission des Antiquités du Département de la Côte-d’Or, série 2 (1947–1953), 198–201. I consider that the Burgundian origin of the scenes and the Burgundian origin of the 13th century lords of Athens are purely coincidental. These subjects are too complex; they transcend regional artistic boundaries.
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In Western medieval exegesis, in general, the character of Balaam is covetous and negative altogether. The origin of this interpretation is the rabbinic tradition, followed by saint Peter in his brief mention of the character’s name (2 Peter 2:15), but also by Philo of Alexandria and Origen, from whom the medieval tradition of Greek and Latin interpretations of Balaam seems to stem.128 Nevertheless, there is a specific use of this biblical story in a monastic context, particularly in connection with the Burgundian and Iberian sculptures. Julian of Vézelay (1138–1161) uses the story of Balaam as a guiding thread for his discussion of the chapter 58 from the Rule of Saint Benedict, the topic of which is receiving new brothers into the Order.129 He follows an earlier tradition. Hildebert of Le Mans, for instance, does not mention Balaam in his Sermon CXIX (Ad monachos Benedictinos), the pericope of which is 1 Kings 16:20 (Tulit Isai asinum plenum panibus … et haedum de capris, et per manum filii sui David misit Sauli), but clearly uses the image of the ass representing Christ’s soul and does it in perfect accord with the commentary of Julian. Benedictine monks become ‘asses of saint Benedict’ in his text.130 The use of this comparison dates back to the early times of saint Gregory the Great, who had written about Balaam’s ass in connection with obedience and carnal temptation, when dealing with the responsibilities of the clergy (Regulae pastoralis liber, c.590).131 As this was one of the most influential works on the topic ever written in the West, it is no wonder that its Balaam passage was quoted and used in countless other exegetic or homiletic texts. The alliance of Balaam’s ass and the sacrifice of Abraham (Fig. 15) is therefore a common theme in monastic or canonical Western contexts. Since this group may be linked with depictions of visions,132 the narthex murals from Galatsi could be influenced by Western iconography. They would therefore deal with what the ‘new’ Greek brothers were supposed to know about being a Western monk, especially after the Second Council 128 For Balaam’s cupidity in medieval exegesis, see the synthesis by David Arthur Wells, The Vorau Moses and Balaam: a study of their relationship to exegetical tradition (Cambridge: Modern Humanities Research Association, 1970), 159–161. 129 For the original text, see Damien Vorreux ofm (ed.), Julien de Vézelay: Sermons. Texte latin, traduction, notes et index, 2 vols (Paris: éditions du Cerf, 1972) 2:476, 478. 130 For the passage, see PL 171:886A–887B. 131 For the passage, see PL 77:68C–69A. 132 Begoña Cayuela, ‘Ver para creer: la visión como (meta-) tema iconográfico del sacrificio de Isaac’, Románico, 15 (2012), 43, discusses the use of the sacrifice of Abraham and the ass of Balaam in parallel compositions as possible illustrations of visions.
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of Lyon. This does not imply that Western monks resided in Galatsi. It simply takes into account the fact that Greek monks and clergy were under the control of Latin ecclesiastical or secular authorities, and that the year 1274 confirmed certain obligations, especially in the Latin-held Greece. Enforcing this idea from the commentaries to the Rule of saint Benedict would not appear awkward, and for two good reasons. The first one is the presence of the tonsured monk and Dominican saints. The second one would be the pre-existence of similar ideas in Orthodox exegesis. Comparable notions about humility are found in John Climacus’ Ladder of Divine Ascent.133 Westerners knew them. When the Wolfenbüttler Rapularius of the 15th century quoted that particular passage from John Climacus, the mention of Balaam’s ass was already added to the Latin translation of the original Greek text.134 This means that the hotchpotch of Galatsi may not be a hotchpotch after all. If we proceed on this road, other scenes from the narthex may find better explanations. The marriage at Cana, for instance, may indeed be linked with the sacrament of the Eucharist, a common ground between Eastern and Western exegesis. It had eschatological connotations, since the water turned into wine represented the joy promised by God to his people. I could also refer to the transformation of Old Law of Judaism into the New Law of Christianity, that is, the wine. All these connotations are in fact present in the already quoted Latin texts. The scene had varying interpretations in Western exegesis135 and its Western iconography developed during the 12th and 13th centuries. By the time Omorphi Ekklisia was painted, this scene was not stable in Western iconography, 133 For this particular passage from the Greek text, see PG 88:998A–B. 134 For this original text, see Hildegrund Hölzel-Ruggiu (ed.), Der Wolfenbüttler Rapularius (1. Teil), Auswahledition, teilweise in lateinischer Sprache (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 2002), 438. 135 The historic or literal interpretations of this scene were underdeveloped in the West. There is a plethora of allegorical interpretations and most of them deal with the notion of time. Since the event takes places three days after an unknown one, a tradition developed by Bede considers that the three days should be related to the three periods of history (nature, law, and grace). A consecutive reading further stresses that the three days should be compared to the three days before the appearance of God to Moses in Sinai, to the three days of Jonah in the belly of the fish, and most of all to the three days preceding the Resurrection. Considerable attention was given to Jesus’ words (Quid mihi et tibi est, mulier? nondum venit hora mea; John 2:4), which raised a lot of interest in medieval commentaries. For a synthesis, see Luc Devillers, ‘Exégèse des noces de Cana’, Cahiers Évangile, 117 (supplément = Les noces de Cana) (2001), 5–16; Jean-Noël Guinot, “Les lectures patristiques du miracle de Cana”, in ibid., 17–44; David d’Avray, Gilbert Dahan, ‘Exégèse et prédication médiévales’, in ibid., 49–67.
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where we identify influences coming from Byzantine art.136 The Galatsi scene is of Byzantine origin, but one may interpret it from a Latin exegesis point of view. According to the already noticed monastic or canonical undertones, it may also be a reference to the marriage references when entering orders. I have in mind the mystical marriage of Albert the Great, the alliance between God and the human soul.137 Thomas Aquinas, an avid reader of William’s translations from Greek, also spoke about this marriage of Christ and the Church in his commentary to the Gospel of John. A key argument supports this interpretation: the background of the Galatsi scene does not depict just any building. On the left side of the scene, above the miracle itself, the architecture presents a typical Western cloister colonnade (Fig. 14b).138 This colonnade serves the same purpose as Balaam’s hood represented in Burgundian column capitals: it reinforces the monastic meaning of the scene. As for the fragmentary vision adjacent to the marriage at Cana, I believe that it should be interpreted as being linked with the rest of the scenes. It was already noticed that the two figures painted to the left and right sides of this vision bear strong resemblances to 12th and 14th century Bulgarian depictions of the ‘miracle of the Latomou’, probably showing Ezekiel and Habakkuk, and derived from a manuscript iconography originating in a 12th century narrative of monk Ignatius of Thessalonica.139 However, the absence of a stream or a pond in Galatsi and the absence of the angelic 136 Drawing on late ancient models, the small corpus of depictions of the marriage at Cana in France and Italy starts with rare occurrences in Carolingian and Ottonian art. It reappears in the second half of the 12th century and then it really takes off only in the 13th century. This is the time when it gains some stability as it concentrates on the depiction of the banquet at a long table. Almost half of the scenes from the French-Italian corpus concentrate on the intercession of the Virgin, marked by her proximity with Jesus and occasional gestures implying verbal exchanges. Cf. Séverine Ferraro, Les Images de la vie terrestre de la Vierge dans l’art mural (peintures et mosaïques) en France et en Italie: des origines de l’iconographie chrétienne jusqu’au Concile de Trente, PhD diss. (University of Burgundy, 2012). Cf. Dominique Pierre, ‘L’iconographie des noces de Cana’, Cahiers Évangile, 117 (2001), 77–84. 137 Devillers, ‘Exégèse’, 7. 138 Cf. Βασιλάκη-Καρακατσάνη, Οι τοιχογραφίες, 25–26, 127, for whom the disposition of characters is the same as in other examples (Saint-Nicholas Orphanos of Thessalonica, early 14th century, e.g.), but the architectural details are absent from these other examples. 139 Ibid., 20–22, 126–127. For the mural from the ossuary of Bachkovo and for the icon of Poganovo, see the recent work of Ljubica Vinulović, ‘The Miracle of Latomos: From the Apse of the Hosios David to the Icon from Poganovo. The Migration of the Idea of Salvation’, in Jelena Erdeljan et al. (dir.), Migrations in Visual Art (Belgrade: Faculty of Philosophy, University of Belgrade, 2018), 175–186.
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group in the Bulgarian examples are essential counter-arguments to this hypothesis. Its only strong element was the Thessalonican origin of the vision, also noticed in the case of the Bulgarian examples. It would correspond to the stylistic features of the murals from Galatsi, as the painters of Omorphi Ekklisia belonged to a Macedonian school of painting. Since the presence of the Anapeson (Fig. 16) in the side chapel of Galatsi points to a careful choice of subjects in our church’s murals, a misinterpretation of the Latomou Miracle cannot be sustained. The remaining choice is a variation or another vision. I believe the Galatsi vision it may be interpreted according to the iconography of the vision of Isaiah, since the angelic group appears there. The mid-12th century illustration in a manuscript of the homilies of Jacob Kokkinobaphos (Vatican, Apostolica, gr. 1162, fol. 119v), a manuscript well-known for having played a role in Byzantine and Western iconography,140 has such a group. This specific interpretation of Isaiah’s vision in this codex has soteriological, eucharistic, and Marian undertones, fitting well the profile of the already quoted Latin monastic texts. I would also notice that those Latin texts make ample use of Isaiah. In the Kokkinobaphos manuscript, Isaiah is represented twice, just as the damaged Galatsi mural depicts two prophets in different costumes. This could be a composition similar to the grouping of Ezekiel and Habakkuk in the Bulgarian examples, so Isaiah may not necessarily be alone, represented twice. Hildebert of Le Mans’ monastic sermon would suggest that this figure may be David, and his dress matches up this identification. Similar compositions appear in the West, derived or linked to the Byzantine scenes. In the apse of Santa Maria d’Àneu (Catalonia, turn of the 12th century), the Virgin Mary is represented in the conch, adored by prophets, while the vision of Ezekiel and that of Isaiah are condensed in the lower register, with a double representation of the a non-specific prophet on each side,141 probably because of an overlapping in the 140 The composition with a double representation of the prophet Isaiah is not common to all the manuscripts of Kokkinobaphos’ homilies. Cf. Paris, BnF, f. gr. 1208, fol. 163v. For Kokkinobaphos’ manuscripts and their influence in art, see Jeffrey Clifford Anderson, ‘The Illustrated Sermons of James the Monk: Their Dates, Order, and Place in the History of Byzantine Art’, Viator. Medieval and Renaissance Studies 22 (1991), 69–120. 141 Cf. e.g. Marcel Durliat, ‘Théophanies-visions avec participation de prophètes dans la peinture romane catalane et toulousaine’, Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, 118/4 (1974), 544–546. The triple utterance of the inscriptions (sanctus, sanctus, sanctus) refers to Isaiah and the depiction presents us with two identical prophets.
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reception of the visions of Isaiah and Ezekiel.142 I therefore believe the Galatsi representation to be a variant of the Kokkinobaphos miniature modified according to the ‘miracle of the Latomou’. Nobody knows what other composition was depicted oppositely, at the other end of the marriage at Cana, on the western wall, but since the narthex was organised symmetrically,143 it would be safe to assume that it could be another vision, maybe the ‘miracle of the Latomou’ itself, since Habakkuk’s vision concerns the absolute trust in God, despite doubt, and fits well the undertones of the Balaam-Abraham grouping. Speaking of symmetry, the Dodekaorton was scrambled in the nave, so the absence of the Nativity scene in the Galatsi murals may be equally revealing. A Latin monastic programme would require its presence opposite to the marriage at Cana (Fig. 14b), on the same vault, in order to be linked with the Balaam scene (Fig. 15), according to the Latin texts already quoted. What initially appeared to be a hotchpotch supports several coherent readings of the programme, usual in Western representations. Further research will complete this preliminary foray. For the time being, I simply argue that the iconographic programme of the Galatsi narthex was created at the crossroads of Byzantine and Western art. Its carefully arranged compositions lie between the known guidelines of art history. It is a strange meeting of sorts, very similar to the sculptures of the Byzantine Museum of Athens. These strange mixtures did not create a third iconography type, mixed Byzantine-Western. They remained experimental, hence the unique character of the Omorphi Ekklisia programme, for they were at the very same time Eastern and Western, just like the liturgy performed on 29 June, 1274 in the cathedral of Lyon. On that occasion, the Latins recited the Gospels, and then a certain Greek deacon (per quendam dyaconum Grecum) sang it in Greek (in Greco) in the manner in which the Greeks sang the Gospels (in habitu quo Greci cantare solent).144 Symbolically, this story resembles the embrace of the saints Peter and Paul from Kastania. This is also obvious in the Galatsi paintings, where common subjects have double meanings, according to Greek and Latin traditions. The Three Children in the furnace, for instance, provide a Byzantine context for the Latin Balaam-Abraham 142 Cf. Bogdan Gabriel Bucur, Scripture Re-envisioned: Christophanic Exegesis and the Making of a Christian Bible (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 188. 143 The so-called Kolakeia or episode with Joachim, which I prefer to leave unidentified, is part of a double composition, identical to the Balaam-Abraham one. 144 Franchi ed., Il Concilio di Lione, 82–83.
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grouping, composing a symbolic chapel of saint Michael the Archangel. This could not be possible without the efforts of the Dominicans. It is no wonder that a Dominican saint, wearing a black scapular and hood over a white tunic, holds a book in the lower register of the Omorphi Ekklisia narthex. It would be expected that such experiments would happen after 1274, if the local monks obeyed the local Latin clergy, or after 1276, if they took after Constantinople.145 Later, many other things started to happen. For instance, a deacon monk Athanasius had seen a Greek translation of an ordination write made from the Ordo Romanus antiquus during a 1357 Latin visit to Constantinople.146 This means that the Latins had several translations of essential liturgical texts into Greek. The only analogous case that I know is from late medieval Ruthenia, a place where Uniatism was also strongly enforced. Several 15th century Ruthenian translations are known to be made after Czech texts, in turn stemming from Latin sources. Apart from the Book of Tobit, the Song of Songs, a Vision of Tnugdal, and a Story of Prophetess Sivilla, there was also a Marian Mass, probably translated by Benedictine Glagolite monks, invited by Władysław II Jagellon of Poland to move from Prague to Kleparz, close to Cracow, in order to reinforce the Union of the two Churches in the Ruthenian lands that he ruled.147 One of the key aspects of that programme was the use of a Slavic liturgy translated from Latin, facilitating the passage of the local Orthodox to the Catholic faith. I would therefore assume that the translation of the ordination rite mentioned by Athanasius must have served a similar purpose. The translation was also attributed to the Dominicans, which is extremely possible, but the fact that the deacon monk saw this text in Constantinople cannot account for its Constantinopolitan origin. It could be made anywhere in the Latin-held lands. Why not Attica, Euboea, or the Peloponnesus?
…
After the council, William probably returned to Italy. He was again in Viterbo in the month of October 1277, when he finished his translation of De virtute 145 The Byzantine emperor consecrated the union in his Constantinopolitan palace chapel on 16 January 1276. On 26 May of the same year, he replaced Joseph, the anti-unionist patriarch of Constantinople, with John Vekkos, pro-unionist. 146 Jean Darrouzès, ‘Conférence sur la primauté du Pape à Constantinople’, Revue des études byzantines, 19 (1961), 81. 147 Julia Verkholantsev, Ruthenica Bohemica. Ruthenian Translations from Czech in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and Poland (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2008), 148–149.
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alimentorium by Galen. He was getting older. Old age made him read the same books as Michael Choniates before him. But in March 1278, maybe still Viterbo, William returned to Aristotle. This time he translated the book of Poetics. The same year, he was appointed archbishop of Corinth, an office that he held until his death. There he was, on his way to Greece for a second time. We have absolutely no clue as to what he did there. He must have busied himself with the administrative duties of his office, but he also enjoyed his life’s passion: translating from Greek. Three texts by Proclus were translated by him in February 1280, while he was in Corinth: De decem dubitationibus, De providentia et fato, and De malorum subsistentia. His Latin versions are the only complete text of these works preserved to this date. Since William’s translation techniques involved a word for word rendering of the Greek original into Latin, well documented in his works, a recent retroversion collated his translation with fragments of the original, reconstructing Proclus’ Greek text. One may imagine William struggling with a corrupted passage in the 12th century rewriting of Isaac Sebastocrator.148 Proclus spoke of the soul accomplishing a life in which it would not be obsessed with ‘constructing’ or ‘shaping bodies’ (corpora plasmare; σώματα πλάττειν) or with corporeal goods (corporalibus bonis; τῶν σωματικῶν ἀγαθῶν), high offices (honores; τιμάς), dominions (potentatus; δυναστείας), and riches (divitias; χρηματισμούς).149 William would worry, for he enjoyed some of those privileges. Proclus next spoke in metaphors: the philosopher could not cling to a boat, he could not tie himself to it, for any sailor could kick him. The philosopher had to let go of worldly attachments. Then came a passage that possibly caught William’s eye: […] for also the accidents that, as you mentioned, recently came over us from outside, have only deprived us of walls and stones, my friend, and have reduced wooden beams to ashes, all of which are mortal and inflammable things, and have ruined our wealth: these are external things and for this reason may fall sometimes under the power of others.150 148 Cf. Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance, 112, according to whom William had problems with his sources, because he did not know Greek well or because of “defective or puzzling codices.” 149 Helmut Boese (ed.), Procli Diadochi Tria Opuscula (de providentia, libertate, malo), Latine Guilelmo de Moerbeka vertente et Graece ex Isaacii Sebastocratoris aliorumque scriptis collecta (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1960), 130 (for the Latin quotations); Benedikt Strobel (ed.), Proklos, ‘Tria Opuscula’: Textkritisch Kommentierte Retroversion der Übersetzung Wilhelms von Moerbeke (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 671 (for the Greek ones). 150 Carlos Steel (trans.), Proclus: On Providence (London: Bloomsbury, 2007), 51–52 (for the translation). For the reconstructed Greek text, see Strobel ed., Proklos, 671.
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There were ruined walls and stones all over the Peloponnesus. He had seen such stones and walls in Thebes, twenty years before. He wrote about muri and lapides, about ligna and pecuniae,151 and he undoubtedly imagined the glory of ancient times. Then the idea of another path could strike him. If the scholastics were constantly striving to reconcile Christian exegesis with Aristotle (and even with Neoplatonism), why not make a similar cultural statement in the archdiocese of Corinth? Why not ‘shape’ (plasmare) a different ‘body’? It would be the body of a church built from ancient ‘walls’ and ‘stones’. If William of Morbeka knew the works of saint Thomas Aquinas,152 and he unquestionably knew them, he would plan Merbaka, a church in which the use of ancient spolia reached metaphorical and exegetic heights.
Case Study 6: The Churches of Merbaka and Gorgoepikoos
I do not argue that this particular passage from Proclus triggered William’s decision to build the church in Merbaka. It is just a fancy way of introducing the next topic of the present chapter. Neither am I certain beyond any doubt that William imagined the odd disposition of spolia on that church. It is true that certain facts support this hypothesis. Latin names or surnames, for instance, were often used as place-names in Latin-occupied Greece,153 so Merbaka could indeed come from Morbeka. There is also the issue of the analemmatic sundial installed at the west end of the southern façade. I am tempted to conjecture that it relates to William’s translation of Ptolemy’s De analemmate, or maybe to the sundial that he could see in Athens, close to the school of Aristotle.154 However, none of these arguments are valid. They could be coincidences. The only thing that I am certain of is that if William were not the one, then the conceptor of that church would be another Latin scholar, well 151 Boese ed., Procli Tria Opuscula, 130, 132. 152 Jan Aertsen, ‘Aquinas’ philosophy in its historical setting’, in Norman Kretzmann, Eleonore Stump (dir.), The Cambridge Companion to Aquinas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 12–37. 153 See for instance the castle of Santameri (Σανταμέρι, in Skollis, South-western Achaea), named after its founder, Nicholas III of Saint-Omer (1311); or Gastouni (Γαστούνη, Elis), one of the old place of residence of the princes of Achaea, mentioned in the text of the Chronicle of Morea as the Petite Gastoingne (1275) and possibly derived from the name of an otherwise unknown Gaston. For Latin names in the family of the Greek ktetors of the Gastouni church, see the next chapter. 154 Previous research conjectured that this sundial “may even have demonstrated that services took place at the same traditional time”; Sanders, ‘William of Moerbeke’s Church’, 613.
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versed in exegesis and equally intrigued by ancient culture. Let us then use ‘William of Morbeka’ as if he were the ‘generic’ name of all Western scholars who came to Latin Greece and participated in the cultural life of that land. Merbaka (Argolid) is close to Nafplio and Argos.155 The Holy-Trinity church (today the Dormition of Theotokos) is located at the periphery of the modern village of Agia Triada and dates back to the late 13th century, a time when William was archbishop of Corinth.156 Previous research focused on several Western features. Inside, the so-called ‘Gothic’ capitals (just as well definable as ‘Romanesque’) and the first stratum of ornamental painting discovered in the nave highlight the presence of Western models. Outside, the north and west entrances reflect a Western style, while the south portal’s frame was made in a Byzantine style. But there is also a curious way of relating to Antiquity. The three steps at the base of the church are reminiscent of ancient crepidomata, the three level pedestals serving as bases for the temple colonnades in ancient buildings. This could be interpreted as Christianity resting upon ancient foundations or its triumph over the old religion. The huge building blocks that compose the lower parts of the church’s walls have been plundered from the temple of the goddess Hera in Argos, a few kilometres away, so this interpretation would make sense. Since the blocks used for the rest of the walls were brought from Corinth, fresh from local stone quarries, this would again link Merbaka to our ‘de Morbeka’. Last but not least, an actually
155 The synthesis in this paragraph follows Sanders, ‘William of Moerbeke’s Church’. Cf. Mary Lee Coulson, The church of Merbaka: Cultural diversity and integration in the 13th century Peloponnesus, PhD diss. (Courtauld Institute of Art/University of London, 2002). To this day, the Ephorate of Antiquities of the Argolid did not answer my repeated authorization requests to publish images from Merbaka. 156 The immured ceramics of the Merbaka church façades are either of an Italian type (Grid Iron Protomaiolica bowls), produced by Italian workshops, or of the Zeuxippus type, typical for Constantinople. Both of them can be dated to the second half or to the last quarter of the 13th century. The same Italian type of ceramics appear in the church of Gastouni (Elis), at roughly about the same period. In Merbaka, the mortar used to immure them is the same one that was used for the rest of the church, thus a safe base for the dating. For comparisons of ceramics in similar churches of the region, see Guy Sanders, ‘Three Peloponnesian Churches and their Importance for the Chronology of Late 13th and Early 14th Century Pottery in the Eastern Mediterranean’, in V. Déroche, J.-M. Spieser (dir.), Recherches sur la céramique byzantine (Athens/Paris: École française d’Athènes/de Boccard, 1989), 189–199. For a study of the façades of the church of Merbaka, see also Gidèle Hadji-Minaglou, L’église de la Dormition de la Vierge à Merbaka (Hagia Triada) (Paris: Librairie philosophique J. Vrin, 1992).
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intriguing use of spolia is reflected in the presence of three ancient sculptures (two of them still immured in the façades). The first spolium, a stela displaying three personas, was inserted on the southern façade, close to the sanctuary. This would be the Orthodox vision of the Trinity. The second spolium, a stela with two characters, is symmetrically inserted on the northern façade and it may the Catholic Trinity-of-the-Psalter. As for the third spolium (now in a Copenhagen museum) it was inserted in the exterior wall of the sanctuary and it would represent a scene of the Nativity and Adoration of the Magi. There is also a Latin inscription immured to the left of the west entrance, and its text is of particular significance, as it was dedicated by the Italic traders of Argos to Quintus Caecilius Metellus.157 Other important arguments are the fine white mortar used for inner arches, characteristic of Franco-Byzantine architecture, the carefully arranged masonry of façades,158 the presence of a crypt under the sanctuary floor, which is evidently linked with a Western possible use of the edifice,159 and the Gothic colonnettes that used to compose the initial templon of the church.160 Some of these arguments are far-fetched. I cannot bring myself to believe that the church of Merbaka invented the use of the crepidoma, since it appears in many other churches from Argolid, at earlier times. Merbaka is often compared to Agia Moni at Areia, a church dated by an inscription to April 1149, but the Argolid if full of similar churches. I prefer to compare Merbaka to the church in Ligourio, where the huge chunks of spoliated ancient slabs and the same crepidoma cannot really account for a coherent agenda. There are also ancient inscriptions used in Ligourio, but they do not resemble the reasoning from Merbaka. The Byzantine texts inscribed on the ancient slabs prove that the spolia of Ligourio were first of all practical, and that they testify to a different conception of aesthetics. They do not differ from, let’s say, the spolia used at the entrance of Saint-John-Chrysostom in Geraki (Laconia, c.1300). These 157 CIL III, 531: Q(VINTO) CAECILIO C(AI) F(ILIO) METELLO | IMPERATORI ITALICI | QVEI ARGEIS NEGOTIA(NTUR). 158 Cf. Louvi-Kizi, ‘Modes de construction’, 347–348. 159 Mary Lee Coulson, ‘Birds in Paradise: Funerary Iconography at Merbaka Church’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 52 (2013), 157–166. The crypt of the church, a vaulted chamber under the bema, is contemporary with the rest of the monument. Allegedly intended as a burial place, this crypt preserves no traces of bones or reliquary equipment. The idea that William of Morbeka may have been buried there, because he died at an unknown location (p. 160), is somehow absurd. 160 Cf. Louvi-Kizi, ‘Modes de construction’, 347.
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huge chunks of stone were good for frameworks. That was all. From this point of view, I would argue that Merbaka conveyed a new meaning to an old building technique that was already present in the region of Argolid well before the arrival of the Latins. A scholar like William would do such a thing. He would believe that local people had to preserve their cultural identity, in the same way the Greek deacon preserved it when he sang in the cathedral of Lyon in 1274. These locals were fellow Christians, these were their holy churches, and Latin scholars understood it. They only spiced up the local culture. I therefore concede that the Latin inscription mentioning ancient negotiations with the Greeks of Argos could have a symbolic meaning to these Latin scholars. They would compare it with their own story at the Second Council of Lyon.161 Similarly, I cannot be sure about the significance of the Copenhagen spolium, but the presence of the Latin inscription makes the stelae symmetrically arranged in the southern and northern façades relate to the hospitality of Abraham and to the Trinity-of-the-Psalter, already discussed in the first chapter of the present book, in connection with a depiction close to Kastania. The most convincing argument in favour of the Latin scholar hypothesis is nevertheless the odd decorative painting of the interior. The stratum of painting of the sanctuary apse, prothesis, and diaconicon is a later addition, of the 14th–15th century, but the nave walls preserve traces of a “simple yellow rinceau pattern […] painted on white stucco so thin that the individual blocks of the wall are still fully discernible.”162 I would not call it stucco. I lack the competence to study its composition, but it looks like several cases of decorative painting preserved in the West. When the 19th century woodwork of the Saint-Martin collegiate church of Montpezat-de-Quercy (Tarn-et-Garonne, France) was removed, the lower part of the church’s walls preserved a decoration painted on a 161 I cannot imagine that William (or any other Latin scholar) had read Polybius and was aware who Quintus Caecilius Metellus was; or that he had a photographic memory of Italian ancient inscriptions and could identify various Metelli from Antiquity. Cf. Sanders, ‘William of Moerbeke’s Church’, 602: “From his regular commute between Greece and Rome via Brindisi, on the Via Appia, Moerbeke was also familiar with the monumental tomb of the younger Metellus’s daughter beside the road next to the Circus of Maxentius. He could identify it as hers by the inscription ‘Caeciliae/Q. Cretici F./Metellae Crassae’ set high in the wall.” I prefer the opinion of Amy Papalexandrou, ‘Memory Tattered and Torn: Spolia in the Heartland of Byzantine Hellenism’, in Ruth M. van Dyke, Susan E. Alcock (dir.), Archaeologies of Memory (Melbourne: Blackwell Publishing, 2003), 71: “Perhaps the inscription reverberated with the scholar-patron who was, himself, a western foreigner in the Greece of his own day.” 162 Sanders, ‘William of Moerbeke’s Church’, 608.
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lime-based coating, very thin and white in colour, applied directly to the masonry.163 This ‘primitive mural’ dates back to the 14th century, and it consists of non-figurative patterns (geometric, vegetal, textile, etc.). The same very thin badigeon de chaux (lime-based coating) with decorative patterns appears in several 13th and 14th century churches from Normandy and Brittany. Previous research argued that this rudimentary decoration was an answer to the problems created by a coastal climate (decoration très économique, appropriée au climat humide du littoral),164 but they could just as well have a temporary character, awaiting a proper decoration, such as in the case of Merbaka. The comparison with these French churches suggests that the rinceau motif in Merbaka was made at the time of the church’s construction. One of its painters was not very gifted, or was simply careless, for many ochre leaves branching out of the stem are irregular. Meticulous representations only appear on certain archivolts. This suggests that the painter who worked on those archivolts employed locals as labour force. Given the proximity of Nafplio, the probable provenance of the painter and his workers is the castle of Akronafplio. He would be initially employed to decorate any of its halls, and he was probably not very skilled either. We know, as a matter of fact, that the painters who worked in Akronafplio were ordinary ones, without much training.165 The paintings in the gate-tower chapel of that castle are not very innovative, but the presence of helmets with a crests belonging to Hugh of Brienne, count of Lecce (c.1260–1291) and Isabella, daughter of William of Villehardouin166 point to roughly the same period as the church of Merbaka: the end of the
163 Emmanuel Moureau, ‘L’omniprésence de la couleur à l’époque médiévale, l’exemple de la collégiale de Montpezat-de-Quercy’, Patrimoines du Sud, 7 (2018 = online: http://jour nals.openedition.org. Accessed 2020 February 27), paragraph 17. 164 Clémence-Paul Duprat, ‘Enquête sur la peinture murale en France à l’époque romane’, Bulletin monumental, 101/2 (1942), 175. Most of these examples did not survive the present day. 165 Cf. Coulson, The church of Merbaka, 325–326, who believed that the rinceau motif could be ascribed to Italian painters, even though ornamental motifs cannot be linked to a certain geographical area. 166 Wulf Schaefer, ‘Neue Untersuchungen über die Baugeschichte Nauplias im Mittelalter’, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, 76 (1961), 156–214. I am not convinced by the arguments of Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings’, 20–21, who rejects Schaefer’s identification of the crest of Isabella’s husband, Florent of Hainaut, prince of Achaea (1289–1297), and proposes Anthony le Flamenc instead, all while admitting that “it is not known what tinctures Antoine de Flamenc used” (p. 21).
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13th century, a little bit after William of Morbeka had left for Italy and died there (1286). If William of Morbeka were the conceptor of the church of Merbaka, the whole spolia composition would be in perfect accord with Aristotle’s definition of art as an external form of a true idea. In his Poetics, Aristotle did not consider that art was limited to meagre copying. It idealised nature and completed its imperfections, just like the ancient inscription of Merbaka idealised the Latin-Greek negotiations of 1274. Could it be a coincidence that the last text that William translated before leaving for Corinth was Aristotle’s book of Poetics, in March 1278? Some memories could be still fresh when the church of Merbaka was erected. William of Morbeka was not the only Latin archbishop of Greece though, and certainly not the only scholar living in Latin-occupied lands. He probably had admirers, friends, or rivals. There were others, before and after him. Therefore, Merbaka should not be considered unique. The Gorgoepikoos or ‘Little Metropolis’ of Athens provides a fairly good answer (Fig. 18). As it looked rather odd, its creation out of countless spolia was at first believed to be the initiative of Michael Choniates, the last Greek archbishop of Athens. In recent times, this dating was challenged, because an ancient inscription (IG III2, 6419) immured in the southern façade was transcribed by Cyriacus of Ancona during his visit in 7–22 April 1436.167 The antiquarian allegedly noted that the inscription was located ad marmoream magnam basim, and some research holds that it used to be located in the vicinity of other ancient inscriptions recorded before and after it, in the Agora. The church of Saint-Eleutherius, known as Panagia Gorgoepikoos or the ‘Little Metropolis’, would therefore be built after Cyriacus’ visit. Nevertheless, this hypothesis does not hold water. There are no 13th–15th century spolia in the Gorgoepikoos,168 and the hypothesis that the monument is recent, from the times of the Tourkokratia, does not rely on positive arguments. Furthermore, believing that we can precisely retrace the exact whereabouts of an antiquarian like Cyriacus on a spring day of 1436 (sunny or cloudy) requires a huge leap of faith.169 The hypothesis was already questioned on the basis 167 Bente Kiilerich, ‘Making sense of the spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens’, Arte medieval, 2 (2005), 108, 110–111. 168 Only the “third use” of certain slabs during the construction of the church was estimated to date back to the 13th or 14th century, but no arguments were provided. See Kiilerich, ‘Making sense’, 107. 169 See ibid., 108, for the chief argument: “Following the order in which Cyriacus’ inscriptions and sketches occurs in his Commentaria, the inscription in question is number 36. His
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that Cyriacus is known for his errors,170 and it was recently argued that Cyriacus did not transcribe the first word of the inscription,171 which is difficult to read in its current position. I agree with this criticism. Here are my reasons. First, Cyriacus’ notes should be considered reliable only when they provide precise pieces of information, not when they are vague, as in this case.172 Secondly, his 1436 visit spanned over several days and he surely did not return each day to the exact same spot whence he left the previous day. Thirdly, Cyriacus was not the only person to transcribe one of the three inscriptions immured in the Gorgoepikoos façades.173 Fourthly, the notes of Cyriacus (Commentaria) are not a stable text. They evolved during his travels and we do not know when the ad basim reference was added to the inscription. Moreover, the autograph
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inscriptions nrr. 31 and 32 were recorded by the Church of Dionysos the Areopagite on the Areopagos, then Cyriacus walked to the adjacent area of the ancient agora, where he found nrr. 33, 34, 35 and 37. It would indeed have been strange had he deviated from this route in order to make a detour for nr. 36 to the place where the Metropolis now stands – and then go back again to the agora.” The argument about the order of the inscriptions as being the order in which they were recorded by Cyriacus does not stand. In the lost and reconstructed manuscript H, by the hand of Cyriacus, the little inscriptions that would be transcribed in a completely different order (Edward W. Bodnar, Cyriacus of Ancona and Athens (Brussels: Latomus, 1960), 213–214). For Bodnar, Cyriacus, 40, the Gorgoepikoos inscription was transcribed by Cyriacus in a promenade outside the Valerian Wall, but he does not imply at any moment in his analysis that the exact route of Cyriacus may be verified. Cf. Μπούρας, Βυζαντινὴ Ἀθήνα, 165 and note 48 of p. 164, who quotes A. Orlandos for an inscription of ancient Messenia misplaced by Cyriacus in his notes. Cf. Ioanna Stoufi-Poulimenou, ‘Regarding the dating of the church of the Panagia Gorgoepikoos in Athens’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 39 (2018), 199–200, who follows Ch. Bouras but does not provide further arguments in support of this rejection. Cf. Stoufi-Poulimenou, ‘Regarding the dating’, 199, who quotes Bodnar, Cyriacus, 179–180. In his first Athenian visit, Cyriacus recorded only 52 inscriptions. Out of these 52, only 22 have survived to this day. A lot of them are frequently referenced ad (marmoream) magnam basim (in the Library of Hadrian, and the Olympieion, or in the Philopappos). If he did not write down immediately where he had seen an inscription, and if he wished to complete the reference at a later date, even at home in Italy, when he prepared extracts of his notes for various people, he would write a vague location such as this. François Pouqueville recorded only the eastern inscription (IG II/III² 3863), even though he was clearly interested in as many inscriptions as he could; F.-C.-H.-L. Pouqueville, Voyage de la Grèce, deuxième édition, tome cinquième (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1827), 126. Since the inscription immured in the northern façade (IG II/III² 7701) was not recorded in modern times, I would argue that this was a consequence of the fact that the northern façade did not see much sunlight and the text of these inscriptions is difficult to read in the absence of strong shadows. If Cyriacus missed the first word of the southern inscription, this could be due to the shadow of the Roman anta capital immured in the south-western corner.
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manuscripts are lost and we have only copies, some of them amended in the 17th century (our inscription and its location reference come from such a late copy). Research struggled to make sense of these variants,174 a further reason not to trust the antiquarian. Finally, Cyriacus (or his copyists) made similar errors in similar contexts or about similar churches. There is the issue of his confused amalgamation of two different inscriptions, one of them positioned at the Areopagus ‘house of saint Denis’, on a marble column (in Areopago ad aedem Dionysii in quadam marmorea columna), the other being taken from someplace else.175 And there is the Latin inscription from Merbaka. It was also transcribed by Cyriacus in March 1488, but he misplaced it ‘at Argos in the fields’ (apud Agros in campis). It should be pointed out that this reference never changed the dating of the Merbaka church. It was just an error, due to manuscript tradition or to Cyriacus himself.176 Once the late dating is rejected, I need not deal with the Florentine hypothesis of the Gorgoepikoos spolia. The ‘Little Metropolis’ was linked with the last years of the Acciaiuoli dominion in Athens in order 174 According to Bodnar, Cyriacus, 206, the Gorgoepikoos inscription does not appear in all the known copies of Cyriacus. It is absent from L, T, Mb, Mm, B, H (autograph of Cyriacus?), H2, A, O, Sg, E, and P2. It appears only in an undated print by Carlo Moroni from a lost manuscript of the Barberini Library in Rome, the so-called X2 (c.1656 for the dating of Moroni’s print); in a codex from Modena (Biblioteca Estense, α. H. 5. 14), transcribed in 1503 by a certain Martin de Sieder, who used more or less the same material as Moroni, in the same incorrect order, but completely ignored the illustrations; and in the first half of a codex from Parma (1191, fol. 1–55, 57; but not from fol. 56, 58 to the end, which is another text, known as P2), written in the third quarter of the 15th century, and related to the previous two texts, but stemming from a different tradition (cf. p. 125). Cyriacus’ notes from the journeys of 1435–1436 were analysed from the 17th century printed edition by Carlo Moroni (p. 24) and it is known that Moroni made emendations to his sources (cf. pp. 90–91). The stemma (plate VI on p. 120) shows that two of the copies preserving our inscription stem from a contaminated version or from a collation of two different versions by Cyriacus himself, while the third and last copy derives from a variant of Cyriacus’ notes made during the Athenian visit. Since Cyriacus made various copies and extracts from his collection, on various occasions, and he reworked it during his life, the ad basim reference could be added by him at a later date, by a copyist, or by Moroni. The indication ad marmoream magnam basim appears in Moroni’s print at p. XIV. 175 Cf. Edward W. Bodnar, ‘A Note on I.G., II2, 7155’, in idem, John Travlos and Alison Frantz, ‘The Church of St. Dionysios the Areopagite and the Palace of the Archbishop of Athens in the 16th Century’, Hesperia, 34 (1965), 166, who considers that one of the copyists working from Cyriacus’s notes mixed up and combined the two inscriptions from his 1436 visit because the second one did not have “any intervening rubric.” 176 Xavier Espluga, ‘First steps in the history of epigraphic tradition for Split and Salona’, Izvorni znanstveni članak, 41–43 (2009–2011), 411.
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to reconcile the Latin pattern of the spolia (present everywhere in the West, not only in Florence) with the short time available between Cyriacus’ visit and the Turkish conquest: 1436–1456.177 We should return to the earlier dating and notice that the Frankokratia has been rejected on account of the absence of Romanesque or Gothic features in the monument.178 However, at this point, they cease to be essential arguments, and recent research already tried to ascribe the Gorgoepikoos to the time of the Frankish occupation, but the argumentation was unfortunately shallow.179 My point is that the north and west entrances or the window colonnettes from Merbaka do not look Western to a Westerner’s eye. Neither do the sculptures from the Byzantine Museum, nor the murals from Galatsi. The second half of the 13th century was a period of experiments, especially after the Second Council of Lyon. Only the Latin inscriptions, the Dominican saint, and the decoration painted on a thin lime-based coating reveal the Western design of the spandrel panels in the Byzantine Museum, of the Galatsi narthex murals, and of the Merbaka church. When connecting Gorgoepikoos to the Latin rule, previous interpretations held that the Gorgoepikoos could be built from the ashes of the destruction of Athens by Leon Sgouros.180 Yet, Sgouros did not actually destroy the city’s monuments, he just “put the houses to the torch and carried off those animals suitable for the yoke and as food;” then he left for Thebes.181 Still, there is something to salvage from this old idea: some of the spolia used in the Gorgoepikoos are the result of a destruction, but a destruction of what? The strangest thing about the ‘Little Metropolis’ 177 Olga Palagia, ‘The date and iconography of the calendar frieze on the Little Metropolis, Athens’, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, 123 (2008), 215. The dating of the Gorgoepikoos is not discussed elsewhere in the study. 178 Cf. e.g. Μπούρας, Βυζαντινὴ Ἀθήνα, 165. 179 For Stoufi-Poulimenou, ‘Regarding the dating’, the main arguments were “the existence in the fabric of the church of spolia of the late twelfth century” that “places its foundation probably after the twelfth century” (p. 205), and the fact “that the use of spolia in the external walls of churches increased during the period of Latin rule” (p. 201). 180 Alison Frantz, The Church of the Holy Apostles (Princeton: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1971), note 1 of p. 32, wrote that “it seems likely that most of the architectural sculpture built into the walls of the Little Metropolis represents the debris from churches destroyed by Sgouros, since the latest pieces can hardly be earlier than the 12th century, or much later.” Μπούρας, Βυζαντινὴ Ἀθήνα, 165, rejects this hypothesis. Only the destruction of houses is certain. 181 Magoulias trans., O, City, 333, for the quoted translation. Cf. Van Dieten ed., Nicetae Choniatae Historia, 608, for the original text.
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is that much of the ornamentation is made up of iconostasis (templon) plates. Some of them clearly come from the same iconostases, therefore making their grouping together even more intriguing.182 When the first post-1205 hypothesis was proposed, it was made on account of the presence of “a number of pieces of the original iconostasis” “built into the masonry of Periods III and IV” of the church of the Holy Apostles in Athens.183 But in what context could all the Gorgoepikoos iconostases be destroyed and spoliated? Since all of the material was originally used before the 13th century, the options are limited. It could relate to the desecration of churches in the first phase of the Latin occupation, well described by Constantine Stilbès or Nicetas Choniates in the case of Constantinople. Stilbès wrote about Latins using iconostases as toilets. Nicetas Choniates wrote that “not long afterwards, they pulled down the [iconostasis] of the Great Church that weighed many tens of thousands of pounds of the purest silver and was thickly overlaid with gold.”184 These were armies let loose in the City, this happened on a precise occasion, but the same Latins did not desecrate relics. They desecrated only the things that had no value to them on account of a different cultural and religious context. Iconostases were one of those things, since the templon wall did not evolve in the same manner in Western churches. When the Latins occupied Athens, many of the Athenian churches were definitely given to the occupants. The iconostases of these churches would be dismantled, in order to make those churches fit for the Latin ritual, at least in the early years of the occupation, when the Cistercians and various chaplains of the new lords had no interest in opening a wise dialogue with local Greeks. Later on, things changed. In Constantinople, the statue of Hercules, thrown over by the Latins during the sack of the city, was reinstalled. It was seen in the City in the first half of the 16th century.185 This probably happened towards the end of the occupation 182 Puzzled by their use in the construction of the church, Karl Michel, Adolf Hermann Struck, ‘Die Mittelbyzantinischen Kirchen Athens’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung, 31 (1906), 279–324, constantly identified these slabs with Byzantine fountain side-slabs. Cf. Kiilerich, ‘Making sense’, 95, 97–98, who makes a synthesis of the Michel and Struck analysis of the spolia, but speaks only of “Byzantine reliefs.” For earlier studies, see Paul Steiner, ‘Antike Skulpturen an der Panagia Gorgoepikoos zu Athen’, Athenische Mitteilungen, 31 (1906), 325–341. 183 Frantz, The Church, 33 for the quotations; pp. 32–33 for the entire context. 184 Magoulias trans., O, City, 357, for the translation. Cf. Van Dieten ed., Nicetae Choniatae Historia, 648, for the original text. 185 Anthony Cutler, ‘The ‘De Signis’ of Nicetas Choniates. A Reappraisal’, American Journal of Archaeology, 72/2 (1968), 117, note 51.
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of Constantinople, about the same time when Dominicans wrote their Contra errores Graecorum (1252), in which they acknowledged former Latin misbehaviours. If the Gorgoepikoos were made during this period of exegetic trials and experiments (Dominican or not), then its meaning would be a little different. The ‘Little Metropolis’ would symbolize not only a recuperatio, as all Roman spolia-churches did, but also a reparatio of sorts, a just restoration of errors previously committed. The use of templon plates would not be incidental. In order to make this clear, let us take a short detour and speak about the spolia-churches of the West. If monuments like Merbaka or the Gorgoepikoos were built in the West, their meaning would be interpreted according to the intricate use of spolia in connection with the Carolingian cultural identity transfer.186 That is, the transfer of power (in all its shapes and forms) from past to present. It continued well into Ottonian times. In the 10th–12th century, the bishop’s palace in Comacchio (Emilia-Romagna) was built with material from a ruined church nearby, including Ravenna marbles spoliated in much earlier times and used in previous edifices.187 However, the use of meaningful spolia dates from the next century. The spolia of the 11th–12th century Roman monuments seem to point to the conflicts between the pope and the local senate, materialised in a discourse concerning the renovatio, assumed in both religious and secular buildings.188 Some researchers tend to see the Western use of spolia in practical terms, but this applies more to Byzantine monuments, where large blocks of ancient structures were reused for economical purposes.189 In the West, the meaning was different, as is evident in the c.1140 transfer and reuse 186 Beat Brenk, ‘Spolia from Constantine to Charlemagne: Aesthetics versus Ideology’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 41 (1987), 103–109. 187 Sauro Gelichi, Riccardo Belcari, Diego Calaon, Elena Grandi, ‘Spolia in contesto. Il riuso nell’episcopio medievale di Comacchio’, Hortus artium medievalium, 17 (2011), 49–59. 188 Dale Kinney, ‘Spolia as Signifiers in Twelfth-Century Rome’, Hortus artium medievalium, 17 (2011), 151–166. Cf. Peter Cornelius Claussen, ‘Marmo e splendore. Architettura, arredi liturgici, spoliae’, in Maria Andaloro, Serena Romano (dir.), Arte e iconografia a Roma da Costantino a Cola di Rienzo (Milan: Jaca Book, 2000), 193–225. See also Maria Fabricius Hansen, The Eloquence of Appropriation. Prolegomena to an Understanding of Spolia in Early Christian Rome (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2003), for the roots of this ideas, and her later book (Maria Fabricius Hansen, The Spolia Churches of Rome: Recycling Antiquity in the Middle Ages, trans. Barbara J. Haveland (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2015)) for a synthesis of various periods. 189 Helen Saradi, ‘The use of ancient spolia’, 405–406, for the practical and economic use of spolia in monuments of the middle Byzantine period. With the exception of the Parigoritissa church in Arta, to be discussed in the next chapter, the only other pre-1300 Byzantine examples date from the times of Late Antiquity or 6th century. Saradi’s study
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of column capitals from the Baths of Caracalla to the Roman church of Santa Maria in Trastevere,190 or in the Saint-Denis Parisian project of Suger, also from the 12th century.191 The cultural phenomenon is linked with Rome and with the higher echelons of Catholic clergy, so it is safe to consider that Merbaka and the ‘Little Metropolis’ of Athens are representatives of Roman aesthetics as well. At about the same time, in Rome, the twenty-two pairs of columns of the Santa Maria in Aracoeli church, built by the Franciscans after their installation in mid-13th century, are a reference to the link between the Old and New Testaments.192 At San Lorenzo Maggiore in Naples, towards the end of the 13th century, the Angevins reused not only ancient material, but also spolia from previous churches, following a similar discourse of renovatio and reparatio.193 In fact, a particular type of church architecture developed in connection with the Dominican austere aesthetics under the first two Angevin kings of Southern Italy: humble spaces, completely deprived of (or with little) ornamentation, and the use of spolia, according to the Roman tradition, but with Carolingian ideological undertones due to frequent comparisons between Charles I of Anjou and Charlemagne. In the Kingdom of Naples, the new sculptures used in most monuments erected in c.1289–1309 (during the reign of Charles the Lame) were simple, being the work of local sculptors and masons.194 Spolia served as a symbolic political renovatio conjugated with Dominican austere piety. This strange mixture seems to be linked with scholasticism, that is, the reconciliation of ancient culture with Christian piety. Taking into account the fact that William of Morbeka was in contact with
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also discusses a lot of spolia from ancient Italy in order to explain the Gorgoepikoos, without providing similar Byzantine examples from pre-1300 times. Dale Kinney, ‘Spolia from the Baths of Caracalla in Sta. Maria in Trastevere’, The Art Bulletin, 68/3 (1986), 379–397. Beat Brenk, ‘Sugers Spolien’, Arte medieval, 1 (1983), 101–107. Claudia Bolgia, The church of S. Maria in Aracoeli, Rome: from the earliest times to circa 1400, PhD diss. (University of Warwick, 2003). Caroline Bruzelius, ‘Columpnas marmoreas et lapides antiquarum ecclesiarum: The use of spolia in the churches of Charles II of Anjou’, in Antonio Cadei (dir.), Arte d’Occidente: temi e metodi. Studi in onore di Angiola Maria Romanini (Rome: Sintesi Informazione, 1999), 187–195. Caroline Bruzelius, ‘Charles I, Charles II and the development of an Angevin style in the Kingdom of Sicily’, in L’État angevin. Pouvoir, culture et société entre xiiie et xive siècle. Actes du colloque international de Rome-Naples (7–11 novembre 1995) organisé par l’American Academy in Rome, l’École française de Rome, l’Istituto storìco italiano per il Medio Evo, l’UMR Telemme et l’Université de Provence, l’Università degli studi di Napoli ‘Federico II’ (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1998), 109–110, 113–114.
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speakers of Neapolitan, and that he was close to the pope, having spent a long time in his entourage, the features of the church of Merbaka may be linked to his presence in the Peloponnesus. The place-name is reminiscent of his own name, the church shares several austere features with the churches of the Angevin Dominicans, and the use of spolia points to a Roman archetype. I may be wrong, as the cultural influence of Southern Italy was already manifest in the military architecture of the time, but the one place where I cannot falter is that these comparisons provide even more reasons to believe that the Gorgoepikoos could be made by the Latins as well. Its meaning may be linked to the Western use of spolia as part of a renovatio. However, I do not intend to link the Gorgoepikoos with the Dominicans. The opulence of its spolia suggests that it could be an answer to the Dominican austerity of Merbaka. The two monuments were already compared, as well as their use of spolia using the same interpretation or code.195 Yet I believe that the code of the Gorgoepikoos was not cracked, simply because it was not analysed according to the Roman aesthetics of spolia. It is evident that the Athenian spolia were carefully arranged and trimmed, so that they function as the main decoration of the church.196 Nevertheless, there is no need to speak of apotropaic functions,197 as the 195 Helen Saradi, ‘The use of ancient spolia’, 416, 418, noticed that the naked satyr flanked by two crosses inserted at the east end of the northern wall in Gorgoepikoos corresponds to the position of a libation scene in a pagan relief reused in a church dedicated to Mary in Nafplio, also built on a pagan site, and to the careful distribution of the spolia from Merbaka. 196 Helen Saradi, ‘The use of ancient spolia’, 414, follows the analysis of the symmetrical arrangement of the spolia in Gorgoepikoos by Michel, Struck, ‘Die Mittelbyzantinischen Kirchen’, 308, and rejects the ‘demonic stones’ hypothesis. She compares the western façade of Gorgoepikoos with the spolia recut and adapted by the workshop of Gelduinus in the French church of Saint-Sernin in Toulouse. Cf. Thomas W. Lyman, ‘Format and style: The adaptation of cartoons to reused marble at Saint-Sernin’, in Xavier Barral I Altet (dir.), Artistes, artisans et production artistique. Actes du colloque international. Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, Université de Rennes II, Haute-Bretagne. 2–6 mai 1983 (Paris: Picard, 1990) 3:223–233. However, the situation of the Gorgoepikoos is different, as the spolia were only carefully trimmed when necessary. Nevertheless, because there were traces of plaster and paintings in the 19th century on the southern wall of the church, H. Saradi thinks that the entire monument had been originally covered in plaster and that the message of the spolia was hidden; Helen Saradi, ‘The use of ancient spolia’, 415. She does not exclude, however, the possibility of a post-Byzantine use of the said plaster, which is in fact the more obvious choice. 197 Grabar and Maguire considered that the ancient spolia and the Byzantine zoomorphic plates had apotropaic functions, hence the function of the added crosses. For Henry P. Maguire, ‘The Cage of Crosses: Ancient and Medieval Sculptures on the ‘Little Metropolis’
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use of spolia is quite precise and cannot be linked with popular religion or magic. On the outside, the eastern front of the ‘Little Metropolis’ is the most important façade. It imitates either the iconographic programme of a sanctuary (if read in a Catholic key) or the dome (if interpreted according to an Orthodox logic). Or, even more probable: both of them at the same time. The small edicula of Cybele framed by floral scrolls that was installed at the highest point of this façade looks like a Maiestas Domini, Christ during Ascension, or the Pantocrator (Fig. 19a). Further down, the two stelae representing a meeting between two characters (Nike and a female figure with a tripod) may be linked either to the four Evangelists or to the four Doctors of the Church (a commonplace of scholasticism; Fig. 19b–c). The spolia composition of the Gorgoepikoos is even more interesting than the one in Merbaka. It may represent the programme of a church’s dome (Orthodox version) or of a sanctuary (Catholic), inside-out, that is, reassembled on the exterior. Besides, the choice of animals represented on templon slabs and ancient spolia, or the symmetry of certain pieces are also revealing.198 The re-composition of a sanctuary inside-out would not be singular. There is a similar logic in the use of a spolium in a church in Nafplio.199 And there may be traces of Western influences in the interior decoration of the ‘Little Metropolis’.200 in Athens’, in Λούση Μπρατζιώτη (dir.), Θυμίαμα στη μνήμη της Λασκαρίνας Μπούρα, 2 vols (Athens: Μουσείο Μπενάκη, 1994) 1:172, the ancient spolia of the Gorgoepikoos were not “admired,” but “feared,” just “like the dangerous animals” of the templon plates. Cf. André Grabar, Sculptures byzantines du Moyen Âge, 2, XIe–XIVe siècles (Paris: Picard, 1976), 59. 198 It was clearly dictated by the limited slabs available, hence an abundance of certain subjects. The predominant animal on the zoomorphic plates is the eagle, but there are other birds as well. There are lions and winged sphinxes, there is a little bit of everything. There is even a bovine skull. This means that there is also the possibility that some of them relate to the tetramorph, in connection with the entrances and the apse, but this research needs to be pursued separately. For the symmetry, see the ancient cornices reemployed as cornices of the church. They were symmetrically immured in the western segments of the southern and northern façades. The fact that they bear inscriptions underlines this symmetry. The inscription of the southern façade is IG II/III² 6419 (ΗΡΑΚΛΕωΝ ΗΡΑΚΛΕωΝΑΣ ΚΗΦΕΙΣΙΕΥΣ. ΔωΡΟΘΕΑ ΙΣΙΓΕΝΟΥΣ | ΜΥΡΡΙΝΟΥΣΙΟΥ ΘΥΓΑΤΗΡ). The one immured in the northern façade is IG II/III² 7701 (ΦΛ. ΠΑΡΑΜΟΝΟΣ ΑΙΛΙΑ ΑΒΙΔΙΑΝΗ ΗΡΑΚΛΕΙΔΟΥ ΦΛΥΕΥΣ ΕΙΣΙΑΣ ΕΞΟΥΝΙΕωΝ). And there is the issue of the calendar frieze, naturally. 199 Helen Saradi, ‘The use of ancient spolia’, 418: “The scene with the bloodless sacrifice in the church of the Virgin at Nauplion may allude to a dignifying aspect of the pagan religion.” In fact, I believe this other example to refer to the Eucharist, in reference to the murals of Byzantine sanctuaries. A similar case may be identified on the outer wall of the Metropolis in Mystras, at a later date. 200 Stoufi-Poulimenou, ‘Regarding the dating’, 203–204, noticed that spolia were used for the entrances, both into the church and from the narthex to the nave. Nevertheless, the two
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What makes me believe that the Gorgoepikoos spolia are carefully arranged in order to compose a coherent programme, is that they have little in common with the popular, rural use of spolia. There is an obvious difference between what happens in Merbaka or in Athens and the rural composition of spolia from, let’s say, the church of Saint-John in Keria (Mani). The comparison is perfect, since the latter could date to the second half of the 13th century, too. To mention but its exterior decoration, the Keria church looks like a popular composition, where apotropaic undertones of zoomorphic sculptures cannot be excluded. Byzantine templon plates, an iconostasis beam, Ionic capitals (wrong way up), more iconostasis beam fragments, a milling stone, and just about any curious lithic fragments that the locals could gather were immured in that church’s walls.201 There was no logic in it, apart from an ostentatious parade of curiosities. These sculpted stones were the ones that they liked, probably for colour, texture or shape. Their meaning did not matter much: in the Agii Asomati church, also from Keria, a 2th century BC marble funerary relief, currently in the Sparti museum (inv. 1661), was used in a rotated position, as testified by the alignment of a graffito prayer for a priest named Kalarkhos.202 The locals were not interested in the subjects represented on figurative sculptures, but they were passionate about their spolia, just as their descendants, who stole back a spolium taken from the same church of Saint-John in Keria in 1997 and refused to hand it back to the local Ephorate until confronted by police.203 This rural type of aesthetics is similar to the one that I previously studied in Hatseg.204 These milieus were not connected to the high prestige
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jambs of the central entrance from the narthex to the nave were possibly carved during the construction of the church, as they resemble Western portal jambs with similar zoomorphic representations in a vegetal decorative pattern. For the building technique hypothesis that Saint-John in Keria was built by local people, see P.L. Vocotopoulos, ‘The Concealed Course Technique: Further Examples and a Few Remarks’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 28 (1979), 260. Cf. Α.Σ. Δεληβορριάς, ‘Ειδήσεις εκ Λακωνίας’, Αρχαιολογικά Ανάλεκτα εξ Αθηνών, 1/2 (1968), 119. The ancient stela bears the inscription Πολυκρατὶς Νικανδρία χαίρετε and represents two women with two much smaller attendants (SEG 42 304); Chelsea A.M. Gardner, The Mani Peninsula in Antiquity: An Archaeological, Historical, and Epigraphic Investigation into Regional Identity, PhD diss. (University of British Columbia, 2018), 312–315. In a high-prestige Western context, the stela would be reused as a votive representation, in which a saint introduces the supplicant (one of the two smaller figures) to the seated Virgin. Yet this was not the case in Keria. Gardner, The Mani Peninsula, 312. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘L’esthétique paysanne des spolia dans les églises médiévales du Hațeg (Roumanie, XIIIe–XVe siècle)’, in Karolina Kaderka (dir.), Les Ruines. Entre destruction et construction de l’Antiquité à nos jours (Rome: Campisano, 2013), 73–83.
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environments whence the Merbaka and Gorgoepikoos spolia compositions were born, even though high-prestige cases also show traces of a practical use of spolia.205 Nevertheless, when compared to Saint-John of Keria, the Holy-Trinity of Merbaka had less spolia, but they were carefully arranged. Its size was also a testimony of its importance, for Merbaka was quite a large church in the region of Argolid. There is also a difference between Merbaka and the Gorgoepikoos. Merbaka follows the pattern of the austere architecture and moderate use of spolia known in the Angevin Dominican milieu. Gorgoepikoos’ less austere look may be interpreted as a rival project done according to a similar logic, but for slightly different purposes. Even so, both churches should be interpreted in connection with Latin ecclesiastical authorities. However, they should not be ascribed to any Latin authority, because they cannot date back to the early times of the Latin occupation. The beginning of the 13th century was not a time of culture. It is almost impossible to find a single church constructed in that period and even the dating of the ones who were allegedly attributed to those times was corrected. For instance, it was argued that the dove of the Holy Spirit and the Agnus Dei represented on the keystones of the ribbed vaults in the narthex of Vlacherne monastery church (Elis), or the Gothic archway and the colonnette window of its upper store bear witness that this church was finalised during the early years of the Latin occupation. Nevertheless, these assumptions were recently contradicted in favour of a much later dating. The templon plates immured in the southern façade, on the other hand, are plainly ornamental, and the same may be said about the rest of the upper store spolia or about the two tombstones immured in the northern entrance’s flanks.206 This means that William or his peers could be responsible for these experiments. In the end, there is no need to attribute Merbaka to William. There are overwhelming reasons supporting this attribution, but if they did not exist, the erection of that church could be just as well attributed to Peter of Confluentia or Matthew of Osenio, the Dominican bishops of Corinth in 205 For instance, the third text-spolium from Gorgoepikoos was immured in the southern side of the east façade. It is an honorary inscription (IG II/III² 3863; text: ΖωΙΛΟΝ ΤΙΜΟΚΡΑΤΟΥ ΥΒΑΔΗΝ | Η ΜΗΤΗΡ ΠΟΛΥΚΡΑΤΕΙΑ | ΔΙΟΝΥΣΟΔωΡΟΥ ΑΘΜΟΝΕωΣ | ΘΥΓΑΤΗΡ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΑΝΤΑ ΑΝΕΘΗΚΕΝ), but it had no evident purpose, as it was immured in a rotated position. 206 I do not discuss the 18th century additions (more spolia, rearranged). For general data about this church, see Bouras, ‘The Impact’, 249. The completion was initially attributed to the Franciscans. For a rejection of this hypothesis, see Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 131–132.
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1268–1278 and c.1294. The church could be begun by Peter of Confluentia, for instance, and finished at the time of William of Morbeka.207 As for the Gorgoepikoos, it could be attributed to someone like Stephen Mangiatero, the Dominican bishop of Athens in c.1300.208 Or to an abbot, prior, or even a clergyman, provided that the latter be involved in the cultural exchanges of the time, at the high-prestige level of the elite, and be willing to imitate the local fashion, for Gorgoepikoos is built on a crepidoma as well.209 The creation of Merbaka and Gorgoepikoos cannot be attributed to parish priests or local lords, as their knowledge of Greek culture, philosophy, and theology would be infantile at best.
…
These lower levels of culture did not change much in the 13th century. Nobody knew what William and his peers did in Greece, at the highest echelons of philosophy and exegesis. People in contact with the lower levels of culture probably enjoyed the Aristotle-saddled-by-women motif for quite some time. Despite William’s presence in Corinth and the fact that many ecclesiastical figures knew where and what the city of Corinth really was, average people still imagined absurd things about it. By that time, in France or in Southern Italy, the author of a remaniement of the Roman de Troie (known as the French Prose 1 version) spoke of a fictional Corinthian origin of his source. The explicit of this late 13th century (?) text invented the story of a Greek book found in a cupboard in the church of Saint-Paul in Corinth, in order to give credence to its alleged translation from Greek into Latin, and from Latin into French.210 The anonymous rewriter made use of the topos of writing in prose as a 207 For a similar idea, see Theodora Stillwell MacKay, ‘Pottery of the Frankish Period: 13th and early 14th Century’, Corinth 20 (2003 = Corinth, The Centenary: 1896–1996), 417, note 97, who argued in favour of this hypothesis in her analysis of the ceramics immured in the church of Merbaka. Cf. Coulson, ‘Birds in Paradise’, 163, who is also inclined to link the later mural paintings of the Merbaka church with the Dominicans, even though this conjecture is hard to prove. 208 Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 316, for both quoted names. 209 Cf. Μπούρας, Βυζαντινὴ Ἀθήνα, 162. 210 The information appears in the explicit of Paris, BnF, f. fr. 1612; transcription by Anne Rochebouet in the online description of the Prose 1 version at the Archives de Littérature du Moyen Âge (ArLiMA) site (https://www.arlima.net/qt/troie_en_prose_1.html). Cf. Florence Tanniou, ‘De l’Orient rêvé à l’Orient révélé: les mutations de l’exotisme du ‘Roman de Troie’ de Benoît de Sainte-Maure au ‘Roman de Troie en prose’ (Prose 1)’, Bien dire et bien aprandre 26 (2008 = Un exotisme littéraire médiéval? Actes du colloque du Centre d’Études Médiévales et Dialectales de Lille 3, 6–7 octobre 2006), 218.
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guarantee of his invented source’s reliability. This is enough proof of fabrication, but current research often argues that this text could originate in Morea, on account the mentioning of all sorts of countries and place-names. Personally, it is highly unlikely and the dating of the text could be also projected in the early 14th century.211 I do not exclude the possible existence of such a church, but Greek churches did not collect profane writings in their cupboards and saint Paul was clearly mentioned because his Epistles were the only familiar reference that the French-speaking public of the West had about the Greek city of Corinth.212 The topos of the found book was copied from many other romances, like Chrétien of Troyes’s Cligès, where the alleged source is found in a cupboard in Beauvais. The point of origin of the alleged Greek origin of Prose 1 could be a manuscript error in the tradition of Roman de Troie: Corincus instead of Cornelius.213 The original topos of the found book argued that Cornelius Nepos, the famous ancient writer, discovered the Greek text of Dares the Phrygian in a cupboard and dedicated his Latin rendition to Sallust. In their naive prologues, these people were conjuring a made-up city of Corinth, for they would not know who William was or what William had done. They would never read his Aristotle. 211 Cf. Luca Barbieri, ‘Les versions en prose du Roman de Troie: état des recherches et perspectives’, in Maria Colombo Timelli et al. (dir.), Pour un nouveau répertoire des mises en prose. Roman, chanson de geste, autres genres (Paris: Garnier, 2014), 48, who believes that the mention of Negroponte, Achaea, and Corinth in Prose 1 may point to this text’s Moreote origin and to a connection to the Angevins of Naples, thus the dating of this Prose 1 version to 1272–1285, preferably 1278–1282. Cf Luca Barbieri, ‘La versione angioina dell’Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César. Napoli crocevia tra cultura francese e Oriente latino’, Francigena, 5 (2019), 3, for that quotation. These references are in fact testimonies of a vague degree of familiarity with the Latin-held Greek lands. If many heroes of the story have Southern Italian origins, this may indicate an Angevin origin of the text. Moreover, if Corinth takes the place of Athens, as it was duly noted, this would argue in favour of a post-1311 dating, when Athens was occupied by the Catalan Company, being lost to the Angevin and Franco-Italian world for three generations. 212 Despite a 1395 mention of a church in Corinth in the diary of Nicholas da Martoni, this was only a church where saint Paul made a sign of the cross and there was no church in the medieval city of Corinth under that patronage (the medieval city being located at the top of a mountain). 213 This error appears in manuscript H of the Roman de Troie; Barbieri, ‘Les versions en prose’, 47, note 2. In certain manuscripts of the Romance of Landomata, greatly influenced by the Roman de Troie, since it presents the vengeance of the son of Hector, there are more references to another cupboard in the church of Saint-Paul in Corinth (mss E, F, H, I), but they become a cupboard in the church of Saint-Peter, located somewhere in the Orient (mss J, K, L), or just a cupboard, without further indications (ms Z). All of them are said to contain the source of the story. See for this John William Cross (ed.), Le Roman de Landomata. A critical edition and study, PhD diss. (University of Connecticut, 1974), 39.
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William made his translations for the theologians of his time. His peers also made their experiments for fellow Greek peers, for scholars, or even for God. Most of them did not spend much time in Greece. People like them could not be left for good at the periphery of the Catholic world, so William of Morbeka had to return to Italy at a certain point in his life. He remained archbishop of Corinth, but in late 1283 he was already in Italy, where he received a mission from the pope on 30 December. In the month of January 1284, he was in Perugia, and sometime later, maybe in a year or so, he died. We have no information concerning this last event of his life, but it must have happened before 26 October 1286, when a certain Robert was named archbishop of Corinth in his stead. William disappears from historical sources, but our story does not necessarily end here. The next generation of Dominicans continued the same Latin-Greek dialogue at the end of the 13th century and in the first half of the 14th century as well. William Bernard of Gailhac probably translated Thomas Aquinas, while John of Fontaines and Philip Incontri struggled to find common ground with the Greeks of Constantinople a bit later. Even though no success was attained, the whole thing culminated with the famous conversion to Catholicism of Demetrius Kydones, following in the footsteps of the latter’s fascination with Aquinas and Dominican theological debates in general.214 Only then we arrive at a different story. By mid-14th century, the universities had influenced even vernacular culture. The Lai of Aristotle and the old Romans d’Antiquité were not gone, they were still copied and rewritten, but the laymen of those times knew much more and their tastes had evolved, too. Translations from Greek had attained a whole different level, art also changed. The Trecento was already out there. And the French ceased to be the dominant factor in the vernacular culture of Western Europe. The Italians had taken their place, just like they gradually became predominant and then dominant in the Latin-occupied lands of Greece. Compared to these other times, the times of William of Morbeka were poles apart. William lived in a time of experimentation, when the French had an illusion of dominance and Italians were silently competing for the first place. Both of them were learning about the Greeks and the Greeks themselves started to learn about the Westerners. Acculturation was done in stages, gradually, and on multiple levels. The cases discussed in this chapter belonged to scholar elite and they were consequently located in the proximity of the centres of power. Things 214 Judith R. Ryder, The Career and Writings of Demetrius Kydones: A Study of Fourteenth-Century Byzantine Politics, Religion and Society (Leiden: Brill, 2010), passim. For Guillaume Bernard of Gailhac, see p. 17.
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happened differently in the lower strata of culture. There was less experimentation, even though traces of some incipient forms of acculturations were already noticeable. Low prestige culture did not have the strength to invent something by itself. The sculptures from the Byzantine Museum, the paintings of Galatsi, and the churches of Merbaka or Gorgoepikoos are unique in as much as each one of them represents a singular experiment. They form a category not because of their common features, but because they make use of a common code: that of scholasticism, of the Aristotle translations, and of the Union of Lyon. That William of Morbeka were the conceptor of one of these monuments, I would not vouch for this with my life. Nevertheless, in the words of Giordano Bruno, se non è vero, è molto ben trovato. Because William was a Dominican and the Dominicans were some of the scholars responsible for the cultural dialogue with the Greeks.
the fourth tale
A Lady’s Change of Heart Despite recent interest in feminine history, we still do not know much about Anna Comnena Doucaina or Agnes of Villehardouin, simply because there is not enough material to reconstruct her life. In truth, we might complain that medieval feminine history as a whole suffers from the same bad luck, but this would not get us anywhere.1 Instead, it would be better to take things at face value and reconstruct these feminine lives from the little data available to us. I would start with Anna being born in Epirus. Her mother was Theodora Petraliphaina, daughter of sebastocrator John Petraliphas, who used to be a Byzantine governor. Anna’s father was the new ruler of that despotate, Michael II Comnenus Doucas (1230–1266/68). And I would immediately say that Anna was married to the prince of Achaea, William II of Villehardouin (1246–1278), at Patras. This happened in 1258. By that time, her sister Helen had been sent across the Adriatic, to be married to Manfred of Hohenstaufen, king of Sicily (1258–1266). Her father had made a political move. He needed allies in the face of the growing menace posed by the Nicaeans. George Akropolites, whom we already met as one of the delegates at the Second Council of Lyon, wrote that the Nicaeans were also worried at the news of the alliances weaved by the ‘apostate’ ruler of Epirus.2 Greeks were not on the same page in those time. Anna’s heart must have been torn as well. In previous years, her mother had supported an alliance with Nicaea. On her way to Patras, Anna probably wondered how everything came to be. Her father used to be in good relations with the Nicaeans. They had recognised him as despot before this whole folly started. In recent times, however, he allied himself with the Latins. As for her, she was given to this Western conqueror, William, of whom she was perhaps afraid. When her father sent her away to be married, great-uncle Theodore was already dead in a Nicaean prison, her uncle from her mother’s side, Theodore Petraliphas, had defected to the Nicaeans, and the memory of the glorious year 1251, when father and great-uncle Theodore had reconquered Thessalonica, was long gone. From a fairly recent perspective like hers, that must have been 1 For various unquoted data used in this chapter, see William Miller, Essays on the Latin Orient (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1921); Jean Longnon, L’Empire latin de Constantinople et la Principauté de Morée (Paris: Payot, 1947); Antoine Bon, La Morée franque: Recherches historiques, topographiques et archéologiques sur la principauté d’Achaie 1205–1430 (Paris: de Boccard, 1969). 2 For the original text, see Heisenberg ed., Georgii Akropolitae Opera, 157–158.
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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the moment when the whole thing had started. Did she support her mother, very eager to take her brother Nicephorus to be betrothed to the granddaughter of the Nicaean? Did she support her father, too cautious and an enemy of the emperor from the East? Was she undecided? We simply do not know. When she married William of Villehardouin in 1258, Anna became his third wife. This conqueror of the entire Peloponnesus had been previously married to the daughter of Narjot of Toucy, regent of the Latin Empire, but that lady died in 1241. Next, William married Carintana dalle Carceri, a Veronese baroness of a third of the island of Euboea, but she also died in 1255. He had no children, only spoils of war. By the time they were married in Patras, her husband had barely returned victorious from his last war in Attica, Boeotia, and Euboea. Months earlier, William marched his army on Thebes to crush the lord of Athens and the Veronese triarchs of Euboea in the battle of mount Karydi. Guy de la Roche barricaded himself in Thebes, where William besieged him like in the good old ancient stories, and forced Guy to surrender. None of them probably knew that a young scholar was planning to travel there, in order to translate his favourite Aristotle. This was a separate story. Anna did not know it either and her contacts with the world of scholars would have been reduced if not non-existent to say the least. Leaving Epirus and crossing the Gulf of Corinth, she probably felt like she dropped out of the sky into a world of damsels, knights, castles, prize-fights, allegiances, homages, and liege lords. She had to adapt very fast to a lifestyle that would shock her. She knew that traitors existed. She knew such traitors in her own family, of course. But she would not expect them to sit at the table of their betrayed lord at such a short time after the event. And yet, one of the first persons she could meet would be her husband’s nephew, Geoffrey, ‘one of the best knights in the world’ (.i. des meillors chevaliers dou monde).3 This Geoffrey was married to Isabella, daughter of Guy de la Roche, lord of Athens and half of Thebes. This explains why Geoffrey had switched sides from his uncle to his father-in-law during the War of the Euboeote Succession. Still, there he was, this valiant Geoffrey, builder of the mighty castle of Karytaina. He would be there, at the wedding banquet, for he had paid his homage in Nikli, but did not join his traitor father-in-law, Guy of Athens, on his voyage to France. Geoffrey’s wife, Isabella, would also be there, a little silent and shy perhaps, if she were an introvert, or maybe cocky, if she felt like hiding her unsureness. Anna would look upon all these people with a mixture of curiosity and fear. She probably felt like a prize, given to the strongest Latin lord, and she must 3 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 156; cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 154.
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have been very shy and unsure of herself. Would lord William love her? Or would she suffer the tribulations of her mother? Her father had been smitten with love when he first saw her mother Theodora at the castle of Servion, upon his return from exile, when he reclaimed grandfather’s lands. Her mother was only a teenager then, but she was so beautiful (τὴν καλὴν … νεάνιδα Θεοδώραν) that Michael immediately asked for her hand in marriage.4 Still, this did not stop father from taking a mistress soon after. Her mother was banished and spent a whole year in hunger and exile. Anna had two brothers named John because of her father’s affair. One of them was her full brother. The other, a half-brother whom she occasionally met with and probably did not like too much. Would that become the story of her life and children? Would William take one mistress after another and father illegitimate children, making her life miserable for years without end? All these questions could be in the mind of a lonely girl from Epirus who crossed the Gulf of Corinth to Patras to become the wife of the most powerful Latin lord of Morea. When all of a sudden, Leonardo da Veroli, her husband’s chancellor, would raise his cup to the newlyweds. His wife, Margaret, was the sister of William’s first wife, so Anna would look at her with anxiety. But let us imagine that Leonardo and Margaret would be smiling. Leonardo was a great man, lettered and expert in legal documents. He was William’s right-hand man. At least that is what her interpreters would tell her. She probably knew little French or no French at all. She would listen to oral translations made by local Greeks. For the love of letters, Leonardo would ask his lord to sing a song, one of those songs that William proudly pretended to have composed by himself. Anna would be surprised to see her husband stand up and perform such a song like a minstrel. This would be one of her first cultural shocks. And the interpreters would explain the song to her: William suffered greatly, therefore he sang to the lady that he most desired; if she did not grant him mercy, he would surely die from loyal love.5 Was he speaking about her? Anna would be flattered beyond measure, but why should her husband die out of the love that he bore her? These Latin men were clearly exaggerating. During the rest of the wedding feast, maybe the same chamotsoukin from the time of William’s father, Anna would continue to be surprised. It is difficult to say if there was jousting in Patras, but everybody ate and made merry, danced and played games. Anna would look at those lords, whose manners 4 PG 127:905B–C. 5 For the original text of William of Villehardouin’s first song, paraphrased in this paragraph, see the edition of Danielle Quéruel, ‘Quand les princes de Morée étaient Champenois’, in Yvonne Bellenger, eadem (dir.), Les Champenois et la croisade: actes des quatrièmes journées rémoises, 27–28 novembre 1987 (Paris: Aux amateurs de livres, 1986), 81.
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would be poles apart from the conduct of the Byzantines. As evening progressed, the barbarians would get tired of songs of love or heroic deeds. Already drunk, they would force a minstrel to recite stories like the ‘Damsel who could not hear the word Fuck’ and they would laugh looking at their liege lord equivocally.6 Anna’s Greek interpreters would translate badly, but she would understand that the damsel of the story, the daughter of a baron, is cocky and prudish. A young man feigns the same prudery and tricks her into marrying him. In bed, he touches her and she decorously describes her body as ‘breasts’, a ‘not-yet-in-blossom meadow’, a ‘fountain in the meadow’, and a ‘horn blower’ guarding it. In turn, he speaks of a ‘hungry foal’ and ‘grooms’ taking care of the foal when it is out of the stable. The short story would be drawing to an end, the barbarians would be laughing their eyes out. The foal is thirsty, needs to drink, and the damsel invites it to her fountain, where the two grooms beat the hell out of the horn blower. By that time, Anna’s Greek translators would also burst into laughter. She would despise them, for they would not be different from the French. The minstrel would continue with the ‘Knight who made the twats and arses speak’, with the 22nd branch of the Roman de Renart, where the fox created a crotch contraption, and the French ladies would ask for the story of ‘Beranger of the Long Arse’, for they also wanted to laugh at their husbands. Anna would be shocked and hurt. She would not know what to make of this new world, who made a mockery of a sacred text like the Song of Songs.7 Yet Anna would soon learn that the mockery was not directed to the sacred text, but to allegorical descriptions from the vernacular literature that she was not familiar with. Many topoi originated in the Song of Songs. Like most noblemen of his time, her husband probably knew the first version of the Roman de la Rose, where a verse from the Song of Songs (4:12 – “You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride; you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain”) was stretched out into a narrative beyond recognition. At some point in the future, William or somebody from his court could recite or explain passages from this famous poem to her. In the West, allegories such as these had started in the Medieval Latin poetry of the long 12th century, where gardens were ascribed a paradisiacal circular form, with a spring at their middle and a tree close nearby.
6 The three different versions of this poem (La damoisele qui ne pooit oïr de foutre) date back to the first half of the 13th century; Willem Noomen, Nico van den Boogaard (dir.), Nouveau recueil complet des fabliaux (nrcf), vol. 4, avec le concours de H.B. Sol. (Assen/Maastricht: Van Gorcum, 1988), 61. By 1258, they would be recited anywhere in the French-speaking world. 7 Cf. Song of Songs 4:5 (“Your breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies”); 7:3 (“Your breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle”).
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Anna would recognize passages from the romance of Drosilla and Charikles by Nicetas Eugenianos, written during the times of the Comnenian dynasty, that is, about the same time as the first occurrences of the Western motif. In that Greek text, the hero Charikles described how he had seen a vision of his beloved Drosilla in a paradisiacal garden and how the imaginary lady accepted to open the gate of the garden fence, welcoming him with her breasts instead of ripe apples: Will you eat something, scoundrel? There is no fruit; even if there is no ripe apple in the garden, accept my breast in place of an apple; if it pleases you, miserable one, bend down and eat. If there are no ripe grapes on the vine, squeeze the clusters from my firm breast.8 Nevertheless, this was make-believe, for the actual Drosilla had remained chaste. It was only the god of Love, Eros, who played a trick on Charikles’ mind. This was similar to what happened in Western literature. Occasionally, the queen of Love had her throne there as well. Certain Western texts spoke of love trials, others mentioned the god of Love, Eros, who became an essential character. At a certain point, the authors developed the curtain wall, the moat, and the drawbridge of this paradise. These texts came in great numbers in the West. They were not rare and isolated, like the Byzantine ones. The first section of the Roman de la Rose, written by William of Lorris (first half of the 13th century) presented the key to the entire Western tradition: the wall, a well-guarded gate, trees, fruit, flowers, birds, animals, the spring-well, and the tree next to the well. The poet clearly described it in paradisiacal terms. In his continuation of the Roman de la Rose, probably unknown to the Moreote noblemen of 1258, as it was written by John of Meun in c.1275–1280, these features had a 8 Elizabeth Jeffreys (trans.), Four Byzantine Novels: Theodore Prodromos, Rhodanthe and Dosikles – Eumathios Makrembolites, Hysmine and Hysminias – Constantine Manasses, Aristandros and Kallithea – Niketas Eugenianos, Drosilla and Charikles (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2012), 394–395 (for the quoted translation). For the original text, see Fabrizio Conca (ed.), Nicetas Eugenianus: De Drosillae et Chariclis amoribus (Amsterdam: J.C. Gieben, 1990), 113. Cf. Joan B. Burton (trans.), Drosilla and Charikles: A Byzantine novel by Niketas Eugenianos, translated with an introduction and explanatory notes (Wauconda, IL: Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 2004), 77 (for a slightly different translation; and p. 76 for the text of the Conca edition). For an analysis of the passage and of the allegorical garden topos in 12th century Byzantine literature, see Panagiotis Roilos, Amphoteroglossia: A Poetics of the Twelfth Century Medieval Greek Novel (Washington DC: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2006), 211–214, and passim.
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slightly different meaning, but they were faithfully kept, as many other texts had already used these images and the aspect of the allegorical garden was already stable.9 This was very different from the Byzantine tradition, where there was no elaborate curtain wall enclosing the garden and the references to various flowers were borrowed from a commentary to the Song of Songs by Gregory of Nyssa.10 Anna could know that the Greek theme had been already explored in the Theoretikon Paradeission, a much earlier allegorical text about a heavenly garden, where there was talk of a fence and gate, taken from the biblical source, but the discussion was concentrated on virtues, represented by various plants.11 In fact, the Comnenian novel of Nicetas Eugenianos made use of religious imagery and terminology, too, keeping the mundane interpretation in check, so that the subject may become a “more complex rhetorical play open to different interpretations.”12 On the other hand, Western descriptions of symbolical gardens concentrated on the idea of enclosure and produced rather similar, yet different interpretations with religious undertones. I will leave aside John of Meun’s mention of the park of the son of the Virgin in the Roman de la Rose, announcing the hortus conclusus of the Annunciation and Incarnation, later developed to a great extant in both religious literature and iconography. Perhaps a Byzantine lady like Anna would be unaware of this symbolism, but she would hear that a great scholar and translator from the Greek language such as Robert Grosseteste had already written his allegorical Castle of Love in c.1230–1240, wherein he compared the body of the Virgin Mary to a castle, in which Christ was incarnated. I am not exaggerating when I suggest that Anna would be familiar with such comparisons. In fact, the religious and profane subtexts of this castle siege multiplied in the 13th and 14th centuries, when many manuscript miniatures and ivory caskets represented it in both sacred and courtly contexts, either as a metaphor of the Virgin or of secular love, since Arthurian stories often accompanied the castle-siege representation.13 Ladies could receive ivory caskets as gifts, and there were even odd precedents. Before it degenerated into an actual war, a wooden castle covered in fine cloth had been improvised during 9 10 11 12 13
For the references to the evolution of the Western theme of an allegorical garden of love, see e.g. Armand Strubel, ‘L’allégorisation du verger courtois’, Senefiance, 28 (1990 = Vergers et jardins dans l’univers médiéval), 343–357. Cf. Roilos, Amphoteroglossia, 212–213. Margaret H. Thompson (ed., trans.), The Symbolic Garden: Reflections Drawn from a Garden of Virtues. A XIIth Century Greek Manuscript (North York ON: Captus Press, 1989). Roilos, Amphoteroglossia, 222. Cf. e.g. David J.A. Ross, ‘Allegory and Romance on a Mediaeval French Marriage Casket’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 11 (1948), 112–142.
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the Court of Solace and Mirth held for the Easter of 1214 in Treviso, close to Venice. The castle was defended by young ladies wielding fruit and flowers, and attacked by men using similar delicate ‘weapons’.14 People like Anna would wonder if Robert Grosseteste, the learned English bishop, drew his inspiration from Byzantine texts. Or was this an expected extension of ideas that were already present in the commentaries to the Song of Songs in both East and West? They would not know it, but the second option was more probable, since it could be a natural development of already shared Christian teachings. But this also implies that a Byzantine lady like princess Anna would adapt much quicker to the sacred-profane complexity of Western culture, since she would be already familiar with such themes. Let us not forget that many Western themes had probably been assimilated (more or less consciously) by then. For instance, it was suggested that a couplet repeated six times in an epithalamium poem written by chartophylax Nicholas Irinikos on the occasion of the marriage of John III Doucas Vatatzes, emperor of Nicaea, with Anna (Constance) of Hohenstaufen in 1244 had its origins in the Chevrefoil lay of Marie de France (or in any other Western poem using the comparison of the symbiosis between a tree and a rampant plant).15 A complex game of references between Western and Eastern cultures was already active by the time Anna arrived in Achaea to marry William of Villehardouin. Next morning, when the marriage was consummated, she would ask to go to the church and pray. William would be amused by her innocence. When the servants would bring her back after a long time, with tears in her eyes, this man in his late forties would not know how to speak to a girl, so he would try to cheer her up. He would make incongruous comparisons, no matter what he tried to do. He could recite some verses about the life of saint Agnes. That righteous and clever damsel, so young that she barely reached the age of thirteen years old, went to school with children of her same age when a young nobleman noticed her beauty beyond compare and started pursuing her, to undertake his wicked crime, consequently leading to her martyrdom.16 Anna would look at her new husband and at his Greek interpreter with disdain and disgust. Had 14 15 16
Stefano Gasparri, I milites cittadini. Studi sulla cavalleria in Italia (Rome: Istituto storico italiano per il Medio Evo, 1992), 32. Cf. Bertrand Hemmerdinger, ‘Marie de France, Chevrefoil 68–70, et Nicolas Irinikos’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinischen Gesellschaft, 16 (1967), 139–141. There are two French verse adaptations of the life of saint Agnes dating back to the 13th and both of them are unedited; cf. Paul Meyer, ‘Légendes hagiographiques en français’, in Histoire littéraire de la France (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1906) 33:337. I quote from the version of Paris, BnF, f. fr. 1553, fols. 400vb–406rb. The passage paraphrased in the text appears on the fol. 401ra.
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these barbarians put everything into vernacular verse? Had they no respect, no decency, no consideration for the saints, and no fear for their sins? Maybe he would insist on calling her Agnes.17 For a man of his age, she would be a child, untrained in the school of life. Anna would cry for days, weeks, perhaps even months, until the tears would dry out and she would accept her fate. After a couple of days or a week, she would follow her husband down the coast to his main residence. If they changed horses, it would take two days to get to Andravida. In the first day, the scenery would be about the same as the one of Epirus, but on the second day, the mountains would pull away from the sea and the plain would unfold, greater and greater, larger and larger, until the mountains would be far away, there would be only a plain, and in the middle of that plain: Andravida. Anna would have some expectations about this place. Her father had memories of the Peloponnesus from his childhood, when he had been exiled there. This had happened after 1215, when grandfather was murdered, great-uncle Theodore seized power, and planned to kill her father, Michael. Grandmother learnt about the plot and travelled with him to this country. We do not know what father and grandmother did there, in a land conquered by Latins.18 But he possibly told the stories of his adventures later in his life. Anna might have expected something, but nothing would prepare her for a confrontation with what a Latin church looked like. In Andravida, the churches of Saint-Sophia (Fig. 28–29) and Saint-Stephen would not be built yet, but there would be the church of Saint-James, burial place of the Villehardouin,19 and other buildings. Nothing is known about the way in which Andravida looked in 1259, so we should put our imagination to rest.20 By that time, Anna would already learn some French words. Her Greek retainers or her husband could teach them to her. Based on two passages of the French version of the Chronicle of Morea,21 research often argued that William 17 18 19
20
21
For the name Agnes instead of Anna on the tomb plaque of our princess, vide infra (the conclusion of the current chapter). The reason for this alternate name is unknown, as is the moment when she was first referred to by this particular name. This is all the late 13th century hagiographic account about her mother, written by a monk, tells us. For the original text, see PG 127:905A. Cf. Nancy K. Cooper, ‘The Frankish church of Hagia Sophia at Andravida, Greece’, in Peter Lock, G.D.R. Sanders (dir.), The Archaeology of Medieval Greece (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 1996), 29, for a brief presentation of the old archaeological campaigns looking for the Villehardouin tombs at Andravida (never finding them). Demetrios Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power: Building Projects in the Metropolitan Area of the Crusader Principality of the Morea’, in Sharon E.J. Gerstel (dir.), Viewing the Morea. Land and People in the Late Medieval Peloponnesus (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2013), 113–115. Cf. Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 136; Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 112.
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of Villehardouin spoke Greek as a native language, as did others who learnt it in their common prison in Constantinople at a later date, but it is hard to say what their level of proficiency was.22 They would familiarize Anna to the ways of the French and she would steadily learn a great many things in a very short time. Some of those things would be quite easy. She would just need to unlearn what she had learnt back home. When there would be leisure time, she would learn that some of their stories were very similar to those of the Greeks. At a certain point during her early years in the Latin-occupied lands, Anna would eventually hear the romance of Thebes (Roman de Thèbes). She would instantly recognize the story of the Seven Against Thebes. But there would be strange peoples and lands in that story. There were Petchenegs and Bulgarians instead of the peoples from ancient times.23 The thing in itself would not surprise her. Greek literature had its anachronisms, too, but they were a little different. For instance, John Tsetses had given Achilles an army of Huns, Bulgarians, and Myrmidons in his 12th century Allegories of the Iliad, a work that he dedicated to empress Irene, the German princess married to Manuel I Comnenus.24 Yet, Tsetses used such anachronistic references just for flavour, maybe also as a tongue-in-cheek reference to Western romances. Anachronisms did not play an important part in his narrative. On the other hand, the French octosyllabic poem had Petchenegs and Bulgarians taking an active part in the story, altering the entire narrative, and conferring them an important role in the wider plot.25 Old stories could also have incongruous continuations, like the Venjance Alixandre by Jehan le Venelais, in which an unexpected son of Alexander the Great avenged the death of his father. Or the Vengement Alixandre by Gui of Cambrai, where the revenge was exacted by an invented half-brother of Alexander.26 These were naive and 22 23 24 25
26
Colantuoni ed., 222. Cf. Longnon ed., 279. For the Greek version, see Καλονάρος ed., 176. For a wider perspective on the anachronisms used in Old French literature, see Aimé Petit, L’anachronisme dans les romans antiques du XIIe siècle: le ‘Roman de Thèbes’, le ‘Roman d’Enéas’, le ‘Roman de Troie’, le ‘Roman d’Alexandre’ (Paris: Champion, 2002). Cf. the original text of Tsetses, see Jo. Fr. Boissonade (ed.), Tzetzae Allegoriae Iliadis, accedunt Pselli Allegoriae, quarum una inedita (Paris: apud Dumont, 1851), 173. Cf. p. 32, where there is no mention of Huns or Bulgarians, only Myrmidons in connection with Achilles. For the Bulgarians and Petchenegs in the Roman de Thèbes, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Vinul, grâul si ardelenii lui Faramund. O primă utopie transilvăneană în literatura occidentală: ‘Roman de Thèbes’, sec. XII’, Studii și materiale de istorie medie, 34 (2016), 363–385. For Jehan le Venelais, see Edward Billings Ham (ed.), Jehan le Nevelon: La Venjance Alixandre (Princeton NJ/Paris: Princeton University Press/Presses Universitaires de France, 1931); for Gui of Cambrai, see Bateman Edwards (ed.), Gui de Cambrai: Le vengement Alixandre (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press, 1928).
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childish tales, but that was what the public wanted: Hollywoodian sequels with a vengeance. From time to time, innovations prevailed and the name of the legendary protagonist became a pretext for a wholly invented narrative. For instance, an English writer wrote two parodical stories in Old French octosyllables at the end of the 12th century. The protagonist of the first one, Ipomedon, took the name of one of the attackers from Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes, but this new Ipomedon was a knight who lived and fought in Southern Italy, had no connection with Thebes, and there were many tongue-in-cheek references to Norman Italy, too.27 Likewise, the protagonist of the second romance, Prothesilaus, had no connection with the legendary hero of the Iliad. All the other characters had Greek names as well, but the storyline was set in Southern Italy, Crete, and Burgundy, while Theseus, for instance, was introduced as king of Denmark. Westerners did not mind listening to such stories. For them, Thrace would be somewhere in the kingdom of England, in a place called Winchester. Euridice (Heurodis) would not be dead, only kidnapped by a king of the magical Otherworld. Orpheus would reclaim her after entertaining the fairy king with his harp and they would live happily ever after in the anachronistic town of Winchester.28 Anna would point some of these inaccuracies to the French-speaking lords, but they would not bother that their stories were not right. And still, from time to time, they would surprise her, knowing more than she would expect them to know. The slab no. 283 (Fig. 13b) in the Athenian Byzantine Museum’s catalogue dates back to the 13th century, is originally from Athens, and is attributed to a local workshop influenced by Western art. It is supposed to represent a ‘siren wearing a crown and holding a lotus flower, in the centre, a palm-shaped tree with a large snake wrapped around its trunk and, on the right, a warrior standing with a short-sleeved tunic and chain-mail bodice, holding a sword and a triangular shield’.29 Interpretations abounded, from Pygmies (who were nevertheless supposed to fight cranes, not Sirens) to Hercules fighting Ladon (the serpent-like dragon in the Garden of the Hesperides). The latter would actually be correct if the Siren were interpreted as a Harpy. In Western art, many sculptures of harpies such as this one are found in contexts connected to the story of 27 28
29
Cf. Agrigoroaei, ‘Hermogène le rhéteur’. The Lai d’Orphée, a lost French poem, probably survived in a Middle English adaptation. It has a happy ending, copied in a 14th century manuscript. Several 12th–13th century Old French literary texts contain references to the original French lay of Orpheus; in the Lai de l’Espine, v. 181: Le lai lor sone d’Orphei; in the Floire et Blancheflor, v. 855: le lai d’Orphey; but also in the Prose Lancelot: lay d’Orfay. Cf. Alan J. Bliss (ed.), Sir Orfeo, 2nd edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), xxxi–xxxii. Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 202.
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Hercules, just as lion-fighters do not always represent Samson, especially when they are accompanied by centaurs.30 In the 12th century Liber de natura deorum of an anonymous medieval Latin mythographer, the Stymphalian birds had already been identified with the three Harpies, and Hercules confronted them with the help of Zeteis and Calais.31 If we maintain a Latin key to the interpretation, the Athenian sculpture would represent Hercules confronting first the Lernean Hydra or Ladon, and next the Stymphalian birds. The chronology of his Labours was always fickle in the Western tradition. By the look of this slab, its carefully mid-relief frames would suggest that it was part of a larger ensemble, with one or more matching slabs, representing the rest of the Twelve Labours of Hercules or other heroes from other stories. Given the provenance of the slab (Thissio deposit), the ensemble would be originally located in a high-prestige area, maybe on or next to the Acropolis, in a residence or a church connected with the higher echelons of the Latin residents. The idea that this could be part of a tomb is consistent with both the shape of the piece and the symbolism of the scenes, as was already noticed.32 Furthermore, the profane subject would not be out of place in a sacred setting, for such scenes were frequently represented sub pede, that is, in lower or peripheral segments of various ensembles, in inferior but complementary positions to the sacred scenes.33 In her first years in the French-occupied lands, Anna would see such images, hear such stories, and often identify their Greek equivalents. In one of those early days or months, Anna would travel with her husband to Chlemoutsi or Clermont, as the French called it (Fig. 20). She called
30
31 32
33
For both topics, and for other Romanesque sculptures representing the story of Hercules, see Kirk Ambrose, ‘Samson, David, or Hercules? Ambiguous Identities in some Romanesque Sculptures of Lion Fighters’, Konsthistorisk Tidskrift. Journal of Art History, 74/3 (2005), 1–17. Jane Chance, Medieval Mythography, 2: From the School of Chartres to the Court of Avignon, 1177–1350 (Eugene OR: Wipf and Stock, 2000), 130. Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, 202. Cf. André Grabar, Les Voies de la création en iconographie chrétienne. Antiquité et Moyen Âge (Paris: Flammarion, 1979), 18, quoted by the catalogue for the soteriological message of the scene. The reference to the first page of the study by M. Vieillard-Troiekouroff is misplaced, as this article actually concerns the mermaid-sirens (May Vieillard-Troiekouroff, ‘Sirènes-poissons carolingiens’, Cahiers archéologiques, 19 (1969), 61–82). For an analysis of many scenes of this type (Arthurian, Rolandian, mythological, historical, etc.), see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Sacré et profane dans deux cathédrales du XIIe siècle. Le contexte culturel de l’Artus de Modène et du Roland de Vérone’, Francigena, 4 (2018), 63–99. For the sub pede theory, see Deborah Kahn, ‘La Chanson de Roland dans le décor des églises du XIIe siècle’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 40 (1997), 337–372.
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it Κλερεμούντ(ος).34 They would be escorted by the large retinue of knights in William’s pay. Maybe not eighty, as the legendary number of knights accompanying Geoffrey, William’s brother, but enough to make up a small army with the purpose of impressing the locals. Most of them would come from the French-speaking lands, for various reasons (adventure, money, or even because they had committed heinous crimes).35 The princess would be intimidated by their presence, but she would also feel protected as long as her husband was with her. Yet there would be a strange feeling, because those knights from France would liken her to the Saracen princesses from the songs-of-deeds that they enjoyed so much. For some of them, inclined to look favourably upon their lord’s choices, Anna would be like Orable, the Saracen wife of William of Orange, the one who eloped with the hero and saved him. But maybe Anna would have swarthy skin, not the perfectly white skin of that imaginary Saracen lady, so there would be a problem.36 In such a case, the more defiant knights would compare her slightly darker complexion to that of the bad black Saracen ladies of the same songs-of-deeds.37 Not all imaginary Saracen women were as fortunate as Orable. The darker they were, the more monstruous they became. There was Escorfroie, daughter of a Persian giant Escorfaut in the early 13th century Maugis d’Aigremont. Maugis killed her father, but before he did it, the giant had come with a marriage proposition: ‘I will give you my daughter [Escorfroie] to wed, who is blacker than the blackest mulberry. She is taller than I, well I can swear to that; I will give you a quarter of the whole of Slavonia“.38 ‘Slavonia?’ would wonder princess Anna. Yes, Slavic lands belonged to the pagans in those fantasy 34 35
36
37
38
See the 13th century dedication from a manuscript given by princess Anna to a monastery, in Gerstel, Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, 191. It was made ἐν τῷ κάστρῳ Κλερεμούντῳ. In the 14th century, the Venetian chronicler Sanudo imagined an aetas aurea during which William’s brother, Geoffrey II, would keep close to him a retinue of eighty French knights, some from Burgundy (probably on account of the de la Roche Burgundian origins), some from his native region of Champagne. Cf. Hopf ed., Chroniques gréco-romaines, 100–101. For the portrait of Orange in the Prise d’Orange, see Claude Régnier (ed.), La Prise d’Orange, chanson de geste de la fin du XIIe siècle éditée d’après la rédaction AB, avec introduction, notes et glossaire (Paris: Klincksieck, 6e édition, 1983), 51 (blanche la char comme la flor en l’ente); 71 (la sist Orable, la dame o le cler vis); 93 (traï nos a Orable au cler vis). Cf. Jacqueline de Weever, Sheba’s Daughters: Whitening and Demonizing the Saracen Woman in Medieval French Epic (New York: Garland, 1998), 100, for the dichotomy between white Saracen ladies (meant to be admired) and black ones (meant to be condemned) in the Old French literary texts of the 12th–13th centuries. See Weever, Sheba’s Daughters, 74 for the translation (also a contextual analysis of this Saracen lady and comparisons with similar characters from other works). Cf. Philippe Vernay (ed.), Maugis d’Aigremont, chanson de geste. Édition critique avec introduction, notes et glossaire (Bern: Francke, 1980), 181, vv. 2816–2819, for the original text.
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tales, even though Slavic peoples were neither black nor pagan. Many characters bearing the name Escorfant or Escorfaut were Saracen kings or emirs confronted or killed by the Christian heroes, starting with the 12th century tale of the Chanson d’Antioche, but those names could also designate Saxon kings, since the Saxons of those songs were considered to be pagans.39 The French world was a black and white one, with rare and exceptional shades of grey. In this world, the enemy would be black, pagan, and heretic. Black was actually the colour of her/his soul. Escorfroie’s name and that of her giant father were derived from the Old French word escofroie, a bird’s cloaca. This ‘Birdcrappy’ name assigned to the Saracen lady and to her father placed them in the category of heretics, for heresy consisted of dark works coming out of one’s mouth. Anna would be amazed to discover that Western knights were so intolerant and that they despised all things that seemed strange to them. But she would soon forget and look at the landscape unfolding before her eyes.40 On the road to Chlemoutsi, first she would smell the faint odour of the Ionian Sea, then she would see the castle from afar, atop the highest hill, guarding the entire Elis. The sun would shine upon it from the Andravida road, and the castle would grow larger and larger against the autumn sky, until they would reach the small settlement of its first gate. There would be people working outside and inside the second enclosure. She would see them busying themselves in front of the huge hexagonal keep (e.g. Fig. 21). And then she would enter the keep. She would have never guessed that such an imposing fortress existed in the rustic lands of the Peloponnesus. She would feel like she was no longer in the Greek lands. Her father had probably started the construction of their castle in Arta, but it felt like nothing compared to this one. Suddenly, she would be in France. She would join her husband in the castle hall, smaller than those of European royalty, but greater that any hall that she could see before. The castle had been built by her husband’s father, the several-times-excommunicated Geoffrey (1209/1210–c.1229), and enlarged by his brother Geoffrey, the second of the Villehardouin name (c.1229–1246). Maybe the Teutonic Knights would also be there, guarding it.41 She would not know what to make of monks with 39 40
41
Ernest Langlois, Table des noms propres de toute nature compris dans les chansons de geste (imprimées) (Geneva: Slatkine Reprints 1974), 198–199. Leo Spitzer, ‘Notes aux ‘Mots rares des Faictz et dictz de Jean Molinet’ (Romania, LXV, 9)’, Romania, 68/271 (1944), 374–376, and note 2 of p. 374 in particular (for the heresy interpretation). Vide infra the use of similar words by Rutebeuf when describing the Nicaean attacks after Pelagonia in 1259 and after the fall of Constantinople in 1261. The Teutonic Knights were charged with the defence of Chlemoutsi in 1237, but nothing is known about their activities in the Peloponnesus until 1316, when they fought against the Byzantines. Cf. Nicholas Coureas, ‘The Latin and Greek Churches in the Former Byzantine
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swords. And William would take her to the piano nobile, where a fire would be lit in the fireplace rooms. There would be a chapel next to their apartments, with murals (Fig. 22), and possibly even a bath at the ground floor.42 And then dinner. Those dinners would equally be strange in Chlemoutsi. She would already know that Westerners ate more stew, from individual small and deep glazed bowls, decorated or not, almost all of them brought from Italy. Some of those ceramics had already reached Arta, so they would not surprise her, but the sudden change of alimentation would. Her father’s men still imported things from the East and kept to the old eating habits. Here, in Chlemoutsi and in the principality of Achaea in general, even local Greeks would be taking after the Latin lords. There were not many Byzantine glazed wares and almost everybody was eating stew.43 Weeks later, Anna would be bored not only with daily stew, but also with castle life. There would not be much to do other than walk between their chambers, the courtyard, and the chapel, so she would try to get some thrills by doing high risk activities, like exploring forbidden places. Since she had opened William’s chests and caskets, Anna would wish to look into other people’s possessions. Leonardo the chancellor would become the object of her curiosity. His wife Margaret, too. So, she would wait for a moment when most of the servants and retainers had left with William and the others in the lower settlement. She would feign a headache, as if needing to lie down and rest. Finally, when the courtyard would be almost empty, she would sneak into Leonardo’s room to dig through his belongings, getting to know more about this man, praised for skills and intelligence beyond compare. She would not pay attention to his Venetian draperies, to the gilded bronze chandeliers, to the mazer bowls with silver mounts left on a table, or to other objects spread around the room.44 Instead, she would hurriedly open as many chests as she could.
42 43
44
Lands under Latin Rule’, in Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, Peter Lock (dir.), A Companion to Latin Greece (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 175. For this short description of Chlemoutsi castle, see Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 127–141. For the “hydraulic structure may have been connected with a bath facility,” see p. 134, note 119. See Stefania S. Skartsis, Chlemoutsi Castle (‘Clermont’, ‘Castel Tornese’), NW Peloponnesus. Its pottery and its relations with the West (13th-early 19th centuries) (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2012), 89, 91, 92. For a wider perspective on the influence of Southern-Italian ceramics, see Joanita Vroom, ‘The Morea and its links with Southern Italy after AD 1204: ceramics and identity’, Archeologia medieval, 38 (2011), 409–430. The description of the possessions of Leonardo da Veroli is taken from the inventory of his belongings at the time of his death in the Angevin Kingdom of Naples (1281). For the Latin text upon which this paragraph is based, see Jole Mazzoleni, Renata Orefice (eds.),
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First, she would open a chest decorated with flowery motifs. She would find therein a red cloth for an altar table, a red silk shirt and dalmatic, a greenish-yellow chasuble made of heavy samite silk with rose ornaments, two shirts, two cuffs woven with gold and embroidered with letters, more silk clothes embroidered with gold, and lots of altar-cloths of various shapes, sizes, or fabrics, one of them embroidered, too. At the bottom of the chest, there was a portative altar. What were these liturgical vestments doing in a layman’s chest? She would not know, but clearly, he was hoarding them. She would also find four liturgical books, but they would not surprise her, for such books were privately owned in the Byzantine lands as well. Nevertheless, there was a smaller chest inside the bigger one, and it contained relics.45 This would be strange. A private amulet containing relics would not astonish her, but owning an actual reliquary was against the teachings of the Church Fathers.46 Intrigued, she would pursue her inspection with another chest, where she would find plain linen cloths, sheets, some in samite silk, others in transparent Bukhara fabric brought from the Holy Land, a girdle of white silk, and many different fabrics, with azulene between them, to keep them fresh.47 Nothing special. She would be disappointed. Yet in a third chest, she would find interesting things. Two game sets of chess and checkers made of ebony and ivory, for example, and even two bundles of books.48 Now, this was something to delve into deeply.
45 46 47 48
I registri della Cancelleria angioina, ricostruiti da Riccardo Filangieri con la collaborazione degli archivisti napoletani, XXIV. 1280–1281 (Naples: Presso l’Accademia, 1976), 177. Cf. Mazzoleni, Orefice eds., I registri, 176–177 for the following list of items (pp. 176–179 for the entire document). Filippo Carlà, ‘Exchange and the Saints: Gift-Giving and the Commerce of Relics’, in Filippo Carlà, Maja Gori (dir.), Gift Giving and the ‘Embedded’ Economy in the Ancient World (Heidelberg: Winter, 2014), 403–437. Cf. Mazzoleni, Orefice eds., I registri, 177. Cf. ibid., 177: Item in alio pari uno de scrineis veteribus libris de romanzis IX, liber unus qui in principio intitulatur Genes, constitutiones Regni. Volumen unum in quo est libellus Rofredi super iure civili et libellus eius super iure canonico, et liber Goffredi de Trano, Tacuinum unum, liber medicinalis unus qui est quaterni (sic) IV, liber grecus unus, libellus unus de modo mendendi, sclaccorum par unum de ebore et ebano, tabularum par unum de ebore et ebano, summa aczonis una, decretum unum, liber decretalium unus. Romanzi V, breviarium unum, cronica una, Biblia una, par de bilangiis unum. Tabularium unum de ebore cum talibus, de scrineis longis par unum veteribus cum diversis elactuariis cum frenis ad aurum II et virga de ebano una et clava ferrea una. Cf. John Haines, ‘The Songbook for William of Villehardouin, Prince of the Morea (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, fonds français 844): A Crucial Case in the History of Vernacular Song Collections’, in Sharon E.J. Gerstel (dir.), Viewing the Morea. Land and People in the Late Medieval Peloponnesus (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2013), 70, who correctly divides the books in groups of nine and five, but makes the unsustainable conjecture that a book of songs (chansonnier) could be among them. Cf. Isabelle Ortega, ‘L’inventaire de la bibliothèque de Léonard
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Anna would look at them surprised, for she would not know what to make of those texts written in Latin alphabet. Or maybe she already knew the alphabet de Véroli. Témoignage des influences occidentales et orientales dans la principauté de Morée à la fin du XIIIe siècle’, in Christophe Picard, Emmanuel Huertas, Hicham El Aallaoui, Isabelle Ortega, and Thomas Tanase, ‘Recours à l’écrit et validation du document entre Orient et Occident’, in L’autorité de l’écrit au Moyen Âge (Orient-Occident). XXXIXe Congrès de la SHMESP (Le Caire, 30 avril–5 mai 2008) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2009), 197, who considers that the inventory speaks of nine romances, different from the other books in the list; and of other five romance at the end, also different from the last five books. According to her, the entire library would sum up to a lavish total of thirty books that would probably be fit for a 13th century private library of a king. I disagree with her interpretation of the inventory, as the numbers need to be carefully respected (four ecclesiastical books, nine romanzi, and five other romanzi). They compose coherent categories (liturgical, scientific – law and medicine, and private use). Since the Old French word romanz described any book written in the vernacular, we are not dealing only with ‘romances’. By the 13th century, the meaning of the word remained quite vague, so its use in the Angevin inventory may refer to the presence of vernacular books in the last two lists. Secondly, the items of these lists are carefully punctuated by unus, -a, -um. This helps isolate the contents of each book (some of them containing several texts). When excluding from the second list the game of chess in ivory and ebony and the game of checkers in ivory and ebony (sclaccorum par unum de ebore et ebano, tabularum par unum de ebore et ebano), clearly included there because they were found in the same chest with the books, the nine romanzi are: 1) A book known as Genes containing the constitutiones Regni, maybe a copy of the Assizes of Romania, whose initial redaction would be in vernacular French. The Venetian version of the Assizes of Romania is dated to c.1333–1346; 37 supplementary chapters were added to it by the Venetian senate in 1452; cf. David Jacoby, La Féodalité en Grèce médiévale. Les Assises de Romanie: Sources, application et diffusion (Paris/The Hague: Mouton, 1971), 13–14 and passim. For Ortega, ‘L’inventaire’, 198, the constitutiones are the Constitutions of Melfi by Frederic II, but no reason is provided as to why a chancellor of Morea would deal with Hohenstaufen laws. If the constitutiones were not an early version of the Assizes of Romania, such as the one presented during the trial for the inheritance of Margaret of Passava, then it would more likely be a copy of the Assizes of Jerusalem that were the source of inspiration for the Moreote collection of customs. Finally, I. Ortega also believes Genes to be a manuscript of the biblical book of Genesis, yet from the look of the list, Genes seems to be only an incipit of the constitutiones. 2) Volumen unum in quo est … refers to a collection of texts in the same manuscript, including: libellus Rofredi super iure civili et libellus eius super iure canonico, that is, Roffredo Beneventano’s two small books; and liber Goffredi de Trano, Geoffrey of Trani (all three of them probably in Latin, copied in the same exemplar). 3) Tacuinum unum would be a Tacuinum sanitatis, perhaps the first Latin version of this text, the one without illustrations, made in Sicily in the 1250s. 4) Liber medicinalis unus qui est quaterni (sic) IV is impossible to identify, contrary to the quire-hypothesis of a medical book identified by I. Ortega (many other books circulated in quires). 5) Liber grecus unus is, again, impossible to identify, but it would be safe to assume that it may be a Greek book of law or medicine, due to its presence in this list. 6) Libellus unus de modo mendendi is one of the known alternative titles of the Trotula or De secretis (ou passionibus) mulierum; it could be one of its vernacular versions, probably not the Anglo-Norman verse adaptation, but one of the three redactions of the
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and could at least identify the contents: there would be books of law, in Latin and French (perhaps the Assizes of Romania, that is, the laws of the land, and several books of canon and civil law). Next, there would be books of medicine, as well as a Tacuinum with precious advice about what and when to eat, based on humoralist medicine. Moreover – and that would be really strange – she would find a French translation of the Trotula book, dedicated to the medicine of women. Would this be for the lady, for Margaret, the sister of William’s first wife? Or for lord Leonardo, as an oddity? The chancellor also had a book in Greek. We cannot identify its title, but Anna would instantly understand what it was about. She would tie the first bundle back, place it in the chest, and untie the second bundle. This other one would be truly surprising: Leonardo had some sort of a Bible in French, but this odd collection of Old Testament books did not look like the sacred text, for the words were wrong. This was not a translation. Somebody had messed up the text. The translator had rewritten second French translation (first half of the 13th century); cf. Claudio Galderisi (dir.), Translations médiévales. Cinq siècles de traductions en français au Moyen Âge (xie–xve siècles). Étude et répertoire, 2, Le Corpus Transmédie: Répertoire, coll. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2 tomes (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011) 1:403–406 (s.v. Laurence Moulinier-Broggi). 7) Summa aczonis una should be identified with the 13th century French translation of Summa Azonis super Codicem (Old French Somme Acé), which is preserved in three manuscripts; cf. 1:327–328 (s.v. Hélène Biu). The copy of Leonardo da Veroli could be produced in a similar context as Paris, BnF, f. fr. 22 969 (c.1251–1275). 8) Decretum unum may be the Decretum Gratiani, translated into Old French in the first half of the 13th century, an essential compendium of Church law; cf. 1:414–415 (s.v. Pierre Nobel). 9) The liber decretalium unus could be the Decretales Gregorii IX, compiled by the pope’s penitentiary, the Dominican Raymond of Penyafort (1234), and straightaway translated into French in an abridged version (before 1245), later expeditiously translated in its entirety as well (c.1238–1245); cf. 1:506–507 (s.v. Simon Gabay). The presence of at least five books in vernacular in a total of nine justifies the use of the word romanzi. As for the last list of books, the one composed of five other romanzi, it looks like a private library of any Latin lord of that time. 1) Breviarium unum would be any translation of the psalms, a book of hours, or a breviary (several French translations of the Psalter are attested since the 1150s); 2) Cronica una could be any vernacular text belonging to the plentiful category of historiographical texts of those times; 3) Biblia una could be any vernacular French translation (probably partial; or incomplete, such as the Bible d’Acre, before 1250, or the Bible du XIIIe siècle, c.1226–1260). It would equally be a partial translation-adaptation of Old Testament books, since these were the only ones circulating in vernacular non-heretical milieus. 4–5) As for the last two items of the second list, the par de bilangiis unum refers to two bilingual books, perhaps Latin-French. Even though the two languages are not mentioned, these were the most common arrangements for bilingual books of the time in profane contexts. This means that Leonardo da Veroli had three different small libraries: one recuperated from a man of the Church; another one used by himself as a lawyer (and science man); and a last one very similar to the devotional collections of books belonging to any other lord of the 13th century.
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the word of God, paraphrasing and adapting it, filling it up with moral explanations and interpretations, expanding on the stories, describing fights and battles from the books of Judges and Kings, as if the Word itself would not be satisfactory in this curious vernacular language. There would be a French book of prayers and a chronicle, as well as two other bilingual books, but she would not have the time to explore them. Suddenly, the courtyard would be filled with servants and retainers. Afraid of being caught, she would quickly tie the books back and place the bundle in the chest. What a pity that she could not look into the other caskets, she would think, but she would console herself, as there would be plenty of other occasions to try her luck and inspect them.49 Such would have been the amusements of a young princess in Achaea, along with listening to songs and stories, praying, learning French and maybe rudiments of Latin, and talking with other ladies or lords, or to her retainers. The castle of Chlemoutsi could be her residence for an entire year (Fig. 20–22), at least until William gathered his knights to join her father’s side in the battle of Pelagonia.
…
One day, William sang to them a new song. He pretended that he devised it himself, but he had assembled it from the lyrics of other poets. His song spoke of a new time, a changing time. Winter was passing, snows were melting, birds woke up chirping, filling the woods and glens with their songs, the earth was brightened, and flowers were springing from the ground. It was a time of hope,50 so Anna would instantly think that he was in the mood for affections. William was famous for his cortesia and amorevolezza,51 but his hopes lied elsewhere at that time. His spring was a different season, made for war. Indeed, as the chronicle tells us, winter had passed and the beautiful time of summer had come. Nightingales sang sweetly at daybreak, the princely couple heard them 49 50 51
For the rest of Leonardo da Veroli’s inventory, containing many more clothes, fabrics, and objects of various types, arranged in several chests, see Mazzoleni, Orefice eds., I registri, 177–178. For the original text of William of Villehardouin’s song paraphrased in this paragraph, see the edition of Quéruel, ‘Quand les princes’, 82. Sanudo, the 14th century Venetian chronicler, told an incongruous story about William calling three nieces from the county of Champagne and marrying them to the lords of Athens, Salona, and one of the Veronese triarchs of Euboea. At the end of this story, Sanudo builds upon his previous exaggerations about the court of Geoffrey II, William’s brother, prolonging the aetas aurea into William’s reign: (cf. Hopf ed., Chroniques gréco-romaines, 101–102). This is immediately followed by the meeting of the king of France and William of Villehardouin during the Seventh Crusade.
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from the castle windows, and all the creatures of the land, big and small, were filled with joy. This was a time when prince William gathered all his mighty armies, on horses and on foot, from all the corners of Morea, including those from the recently conquered rock fortress of Monemvasia, and led them to Epirus, heading straight for the town of Arta, where they were supposed to link up with her father’s men.52 There are many verses in the Greek version of the Chronicle of Morea that speak of a new or different καιρός. The word usually marks the beginning of a new incident, but it could also be interpreted in a symbolic way. For the Greeks of the Peloponnesus, new times had arrived under the rule of William. New men and new ideas were not wanting. And the best expression of this 13th century cultural clash is the καιρός νέος word-cluster itself. The Greek expression corresponds to what the French version of the Chronicle of Morea called noviau temps. In French, it is an echo of Old French pastourelles and of Medieval Latin lyrical poetry, where this topic originated from. But the word καιρός alludes simultaneously to the Hellenic and Byzantine concept of ‘right time for action’ as opposed to χρόνος, ‘sequential time’. Kαιρός νέος therefore confronts a Western motif to a Byzantine idea. So, William’s poem would refer not only to the nightingale’s singing and to flowers blossoming in the fields. It would also be the time of action, and in the particular case of the Moreote Chronicle – a time of war. In my opinion, καιρός νέος was a French and Byzantine concept simultaneously, but not a mixed one. Such must have been the cultural life in the Peloponnesus during the 13th century. Wavering between acculturation, hybridization, transculturation, and most of all integration, the lands of prince William of Villehardouin belonged to both their Eastern heritage and to the new cultural trends coming from the West. Maybe the prince also belonged to these two cultures as well.
Case Study 7: The Songbook That Prince William Perhaps Never Had
Two 13th century songs copied in Paris, BnF, f. fr. 844, fol. 2r–v, are attributed to the prince of Morea (li prince de le mouree). A recently proposed hypothesis speculates the fact that its commissioner was the second poet of the collection, an anonymous count of Anjou (li cuens dangou). In this hypothesis, the songbook would be a gift from Charles, future king 52
Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 155–156. For the French text, see Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 128. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 98.
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of Naples, to William of Villehardouin on the occasion of his marriage to Anna, daughter of the despot of Epirus.53 Its attractive socio-political undertones made this hypothesis extremely popular. Some expanded upon it, making a mountain out of a molehill. A study of an odd poem from the same manuscript collection led to the inflated conclusion that its mixture of Occitan and French was a parody enjoyed by Moreote French-speaking nobility, who feared Crusader and Byzantine alterity.54 One book-chapter even moulded a 13th century Franco-Byzantine literature out of an unreasonable sum of four literary texts: the two songs attributed to the prince of Morea in the Paris chansonnier, the Demotic Greek Chronicle of Morea, and the Demotic poem about the war of Troy.55 Needless to say, such a literature never existed and the 13th century Moreote milieu should better be regarded as a literary consumer culture, an import area, for it did not participate in the development of French art or literature. The artistic experiments of Latin-occupied Greece, rare as they were, never actually produced any echoes back in France. Furthermore, the two early 14th century Demotic texts do not belong to the same cultural milieu as the two early 13th century songs of the prince. Morea was a cultural hybrid. Let us assume pope Innocent III’s comparison (the novella plantatio Latinorum). French culture was indeed grafted on a Greek stock. From this standpoint, Northern Italy, with its Franco-Italian or Franco-Venetian literature, was a fruitful grafting experiment, due to the genetic consistency of the two cultures involved. Morea, on the other hand, embodied a ‘graft-chimera’: the ‘tissues’ of the Greek stock were so different from the French scion that they continued to grow within it, giving birth to cultural acts (mainly artistic, as literature was out of the picture until the 14th century) typical of each individual culture. Intermediate assortments were very rare and odd. They did not represent the fruit of a natural evolution, but that of a voluntary intervention of the high-prestige milieu, such as the one analysed in the previous chapter. It is wrong to believe that Moreote culture was the product of an assimilation-type of acculturation. Latin-occupied Greece was 53
54 55
John Haines, ‘The Songbook’, builds upon a hypothesis previously presented by Jean Beck, Louise Beck, Les Chansonniers des troubadours et des trouvères: Le Manuscrit du Roi, fonds français no. 844 de la Bibliothèque Nationale, 2 vols (Philadelphia/London: University of Pennsylvania Press/Oxford University Press, 1938) 2:207–209. Cf. Terrence Cullen, “A Pastourelle in Outremer: The Cultural Politics of Hybridity in ‘L’Altrier Cuidai Aber Druda’”, Neophilologus, 103/2 (2019), 171–187. Cf. Gill Page, ‘Literature in Frankish Greece’, in N.I. Tsougarakis, P. Lock (dir.), A Companion to Latin Greece (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 288–325 (pp. 292–303 are a synthesis of Haines).
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home to a process of integration. Given the prestige of Byzantine culture, none of the two competing cultures prevailed, so the cultural norms of the socio-politically dominant French did not produce any noteworthy displacement in the original stock. Local Greeks upheld their cultural identity and this type of integration led, as expected, to a form of biculturalism, where bilingualism was also a natural consequence. This means that literary hybrids, appearing only from the 14th century onwards, belonged to a different context, for they were created at a time when the socio-political world was in-balance, when half of the Peloponnesus was Latin and the other half was Byzantine, when a real cultural dialogue could take place. The rare artistic hybrids of 13th century (the Athenian spandrel panels, the Galatsi murals, Merbaka, Gorgoepikoos, or even the church of Glatsa, discussed later on in this chapter) represent a series of dead ends, simply because the time was not ripe for the compromise they suggested. As for the interpretations of the Parisian chansonnier manuscript as a possible gift for or from William of Villehardouin, I reject them entirely. They are based on at least two research biases: the ‘confirmation bias’ (favouring data that confirm prior beliefs) and the ‘clustering illusion’ (interpreting randomly distributed clusters in small samples to be non-random at all). First of all, the list of potential addresses and addressers is huge.56 Secondly, the two chansons do not appear in any 56
I am not convinced that the manuscript reflects its creation circumstances in the precise order of the authors of its contents. Cf. John Haines, ‘The Songbook’, 62, who is forced to accept (in a different context, under different rules) that “unlike their modern counterparts, medieval songbooks included many songs erroneously attributed.” Next, the identification of the anonymous count of Anjou depicted on fol. 4r of the manuscript with Charles of Anjou himself it is a little bit too much. The only reason is to favour a certain dating of the manuscript (p. 59, fig. 1; cf. p. 60). Next, imagining the possibility that Charles of Anjou (as a count, before his conquest of Southern Italy) would travel to Patras to present an unaccomplished manuscript to William of Villehardouin during his third and last marriage ceremony, when the Moreote prince became the brother-in-law of king Manfred (p. 102), is preposterously absurd. Last but not least, if we accept that the first two authors of the vernacular collection of songs (the prince of Morea and the count of Anjou) represent allusions to the addressee and addresser, nothing points to the ‘prince of Morea’ being William of Villehardouin. Why not his brother or father? There is no reason to date these two songs before or after 1246. Why not Philip of Sicily (before 1277) or even Florence of Hainaut (after 1289), the two husbands of Isabella, William’s daughter? And why not William of Champlitte, the founder of the principality of Achaea? Any of these ‘princes’ would do, depending on the dating of the manuscript. Besides, identifying the author of the ‘princely’ poems of the collection does not equate with identifying the addressee: other people could be added to the addressee list (Leonardo da Veroli,
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other collections, and their subject and contents are not very original either. Thirdly, many crusaders circulated in the Eastern Mediterranean. This cannot be the only reason for making a composite compilation of songs by crusader author-composers. The fact that most of these crusader authors were connected to the prince of Morea in one way or another is a predictable replication of the fact that crusader families were connected with one another through marriages. It would be expected that by the time of their second to fourth generations, most important crusader families would be connected to most families from Outremer.57 And the fact that William’s great-uncle, the chronicler, mentioned some of them in his narrative does not link them to William either.58 I also fail to see the precise role played by the dominance of the Old French
57
58
for instance, and other noblemen close to the princely or royal courts). The addressees could also switch places with the addressers (Charles of Anjou, his son Charles II of Anjou, or others, for that matter). When one applies a basic rule of permutations, the sky is the limit, and there are many people who need to be taken into account (Guy de la Roche, who travelled to France, as the manuscript was produced in Arras; Geoffrey of Karytaina, William’s nephew and potential successor; etc.). Last but not least, the fact that William became Charles of Anjou’s vassal in 1267 at Viterbo could equally suggest that the Parisian chansonnier would be made for Charles of Anjou without the involvement of the Moreote prince, before or after the latter’s death. The otherwise irrelevant order of the poems in the songbook (defined as “loose hierarchical” by John Haines, ‘The Songbook’, 82, as no evident hierarchy is discernible) rests upon a long list of historical and genealogical divagations determined by the political implications of prince William’s first two marriages (cf. pp. 75–97). This method of research is illustrated in the matter of the composition of the first gathering of the songbook: “A decade or so after William’s marriage, Thibaut II Count of Bar, one of the knights sitting next to William in the first gathering of our chansonnier, also married into the Tourcy family.” Cf. p. 83, for risky socio-political conjectures: “William fostered political alliances with the French crown and with Burgundy, thanks to his connections with the Toucy family.” Cf. pp. 86–87, where the hypothesis is blown out of proportions: “Did William have ambitions to become emperor of Constantinople at this time [i.e. of his second marriage]? There is good reason to believe so.” In the next page (p. 87) the pope also enters the scene of this fantastic socio-political plot, even though it is unclear why marrying the daughter of a dead Veronese would assure a claim to the throne of Constantinople. Finally, “the main catalyst for William’s songbook was the Seventh Crusade,” because this was “one of the major international events of the thirteenth century” (cf. p. 88), probably because a large number of knights belonging to the famous families of the time could be identified during this event. Finally, p. 91, proposes a red-herring alternative sponsor (count Thibaut II of Bar), so that the readers prefer William of Villehardouin. Cf. ibid., 75: “Prominent French knights from the Fourth Crusade mentioned by William of Villehardouin’s great-uncle Geoffrey of Villehardouin (see fig. 6 below) occur in William’s songbook (gatherings 6, 8, 11, and 12 in table 3: […]).”
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language and its cultural outreach in this arrangement.59 Or the connection of the Parisian songbook to the fact that the prince asked on his deathbed that “ornate music and rituals [be] performed at Andravida by ‘cantors and celebrants’.”60 Likewise, insisting that William was a believer in Christianity does not elucidate the presence of the Marian pieces at the beginning of the chansonnier, nor does it make him preferable to any of the other equally religious possible addressers and addressees.61 In the end, the most reasonable assessment is that the addressee of the songbook would be somebody involved in the socio-political life of Eastern Mediterranean. As such, the choice of authors was naturally determined by his socio-political status. This is why I am speaking of a ‘clustering illusion’: the sweeping of the entire crusader history of the first half of the 13th century will of course create the illusion that clusters of data linked to the prince of Morea may be significant for the interpretation of this manuscript, but those clusters are not justified in any way and their identification and isolation is a form of pareidolia.62 Repeatedly enunciating the working hypothesis and trying to prove that it may be possible does not make it all the more preferable to other working
59
60 61
62
The fact that “Old French became the new Christian koine by the early 1200s, as Jacques Le Goff states” (ibid., 68) does not explain this choice of authors either. Similarly, I fail to see the importance of “Southern French and Italian scribes working mostly in and around the Veneto – Venice, Padua, Treviso, and Genoa” (p. 71), since the manuscript is connected to the French town of Arras. Cf. p. 73, who tries to explain Arras by considering it to be the Venice of Northern France, and therefore connected with Venice. Cf. p. 96, for three other unacceptable conjectures: “In all of France – or Europe for that matter – one of the greatest rival merchant centers to Venice was Arras;” “Arras, with its prestigious [sic!] Picard dialect, had a literary tradition far superior to that of its rival Venice”; and “[…] given the position of Arras as the main competitor to Venice for the trade in the Levant, communication between the Morea and Arras would have been practically unavoidable.” Ibid., 84. Cf. ibid., 84, who also proposes to identify an initial full-folio depiction of the Virgin, now lost, which would precede the Marian pieces, and raves about this invented scene as being of a Crusader type, explaining this conjecture of a conjecture through William’s “French ‘colt’ mingling with native Greeks” and his exposure to “Byzantine religious art” or “crusader liturgical books.” There are many other incongruous pieces of information that do not really prove anything: the mention of Sicilian poets (ibid., 72), for instance, does not prove that “into this international trade of written-out Romance-language song falls Prince William’s songbook.” And even if the “Paris, BnF, fr. 844 most resembles the Italian and Sicilian editions of Romance songs” (p. 73, where the word ‘edition’ is disturbingly unclear and no arguments are provided), this would link the manuscript to Charles of Anjou and not to our prince.
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hypotheses; quite the contrary.63 Such conjectures are the expected consequence of the imaginary exaggerated role played by French culture in the Peloponnesus, since the Parisian manuscript would be “intended for Prince William as an emblem of his power and his connection to important rulers of his day, especially the French royal family.”64 The recent theory began with several quotes from Marino Sanudo the Elder, testifying to the splendour of the Villehardouin, but forgot to mention that Sanudo wrote those words more than half of a century later (1328–1333) and that Sanudo reminisced about an aurea aetas of a Morea that no longer existed, using sources assembled in the early 14th century period of myth-making (to be dealt with in the next chapter). Thus, Sanudo’s tendency to exaggerate the radiance of Moreote cultural life.65 I do not question the possibility that the Latin lands (Peloponnesus, Attica, Boeotia, or Euboea) were well connected to cultural trends coming from the West. I agree with this assumption, but I cannot find any proof that new and specific forms of Western cultural life – such as this manuscript – were produced therein. With or without musical manuscripts, Anna would naturally be content that her husband kept his promises and helped her father in his fight against the Nicaeans, but she would also be worried by his departure. She would not know, but this would the last time she saw him for a period of three full years. William took his Latin knights and Greek archons and went away. Anna was left in the Peloponnesus to administer his estates. She was not alone, of course, for she was probably assisted by Leonardo da Veroli.66 Leonardo could deal with most problems, since he was a keen administrator and legal expert, while Anna slowly learnt the laws and customs of the land. Moreover, she could learn even 63
64 65 66
Cf. ibid., where he builds a conjecture upon the already shaky conjecture that Leonardo da Veroli had a songbook (just because he had compared the latter’s inventory of books to the one left at the time of his death by Otto of Nevers in the Holy Land). Cf. p. 75, where he states that “since its [the manuscript’s] story is closely linked to that of William’s three wives, I shall order my discussion following these women: The anonymous lady of Toucy, Carintana dalle Carcere, and Anna Doukaina of Epiros;” but does not explain why he reached that particular conclusion in the first place. Ibid., 60. Cf. ibid., 57. Leonardo da Veroli was supposed to be present at the parliament of the ladies in Nikli (vide infra), meaning that he was not taken prisoner at the battle of Pelagonia. It would be safe to assume that William of Villehardouin did not leave the administration of his principality to a young unexperimented wife. His chancellor would be there to help her while he had gone to war.
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more from Leonardo’s wife, lady Margaret of Toucy, a pure-bred French lady. For all one knows, our princess would innocently ask about the true purpose of sir Leonardo’s Bible in French. Greek priests would have told her, when she lived in the land of her father, that one of the many errors of the Latins was banning of the translation of the sacred texts in other languages than Latin, that Westerners had to read the Bible only in the language of the pope. Anna would then learn that translations were not at all forbidden in the West, but that the translator would not be able to translate the complexity of God’s word, therefore nobody was allowed to preach from a translation. A paraphrase filled with commentaries was the best way in which holy books were used without entailing the risk of committing heresy.67 She could learn that one of the two bilingual books was a psalter, and that lord Leonardo used it for private devotion purposes, reading from it when he found a little time. He would usually read from the column of the Latin text, while lady Margaret would read both columns, using the vernacular translation in order to understand the Latin words.68 And they would have another bilingual book, this time a commentary of the Psalms. This commentary would be made for a countess of the old country, whom the anonymous author of the text addressed as ‘worthy sister’ (bele soer). Therefore, the commentary was meant to be read by women. One day, our two ladies would read about Psalm 89 and they would arrive at the passage where the Psalmist said that ‘our years pass away like those of a spider’. Lady Margaret would slowly pronounce the Latin quotation syllable after syllable, then she would read out the French explanation, pausing after every three or four words. The commentary spoke of Alexander the Great who wanted to reign forever over the entire world and to possess everything. When he achieved that which he had set himself to achieve, Alexander died and his conquests vanished like a spider’s web. The same had happened to count Theobald, count Ralph, and William of Normandy. Famous lords of the old country, lady Margaret would explain.69 67 68
69
Cf. Leonard E. Boyle, ‘Innocent III and the Vernacular Versions of Scripture’, in Katherine Walsch, Diana Wood (dir.), The Bible in the Medieval World: Essays in memory of Beryl Smalley (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1985), 97–107. For this type of manuscripts, see Christine Ruby, ‘Les psautiers bilingues latin/français dans l’Angleterre du XIIe siècle. Affirmation d’une langue et d’une écriture’, in Stéphanie Le Briz, Géraldine Veysseyre (dir.), Approches du bilinguisme latin-français au Moyen Âge. Linguistique, codicologie, esthétique (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010), 167–190. There are many mentions of a beles soer or bele dame in this composite commentary copied in many manuscripts in the second half of the 12th century or at the beginning of the 13th century. Research holds that Laurette of Alsace is the addressee of the text, even though she could be only the addressee of one of the manuscripts. For an edition of the first part of the commentary, concerning the first fifty psalms, see Stewart Gregory (ed.), The Twelfth-century Psalter Commentary in French for Laurette d’Alsace: An
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Anna would be surprised to read such comparisons in a commentary of the Psalms. Greeks also had commentaries, the catenae, but they drew their subject only from the Holy Fathers, based on a methodical choice of passages.70 This would be another strange habit of the French, just as weird as the translation of the Psalter into the language of the people. The Byzantines had nothing against translations in Slavonic, Georgian, or other languages, but would not be inclined to adapt it to Demotic Greek. Neither would they think of mentioning profane stories such as these in the sacred commentaries. In the words of Dante, the mixing up of ‘compilations from the Bible and the histories of Troy and Rome, and the beautiful tales of King Arthur, and many other works of history and doctrine’,71 this would be a typical French thing. It happened not only in manuscripts, but in the decoration of churches as well. Among the early 12th century carvings of the cathedral of Modena, to give but one example, there is an Arthurian story and some animal tales carved on the northern portal, the story of saint Geminianus on the southern Porta dei Principi, and a frieze inspired by the first four books of Genesis (Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, Lamech) on the Western façade.72 Westerners were fascinated by Old Testament scenes on church façades, often combined with profane subjects.73 French, Italians, and Germans were very much alike from this point of view. The story of Dietrich on the 12th century façade of the San Zeno abbey church in Verona illustrates this best: the positive aspects of Dietrich’s story are represented sub pede on the left side (dextera Domini),
70 71
72
73
Edition of Psalms I–L, 2 vols (London: Modern Humanities Research Association, 1990). My paraphrase is based on a reading from the unedited sections of this commentary in a passage of the early 13th century London, British Library, Royal 19 C V, fol. 191r; cf. Charles J. Liebman, ‘Remarks on the manuscript tradition of the French Psalter commentary’, Scriptorium, 13/1 (1959), 65, note 31. Cf. e.g. Georgi R. Parpulov, ‘Psalters and Personal Piety in Byzantium’, in Paul Magdalino, Robert Nelson (dir.), The Old Testament in Byzantium (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2010), 82. Dante’s short description of the French literature in his De vulgari eloquentia dates back to c.1302–1305. For the English translation, see Steven Botterill (ed., trans.), Dante, De vulgari eloquentia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 23. For the original text, see Mengaldo (ed.), Dante Alighieri, 82, 84. For the Arthurian portal, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Sacré et profane’; cf. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘L’Artus de Modène, la Winlogee volée et le commanditaire mystérieux’, in Temps et Mémoire dans la littérature arthurienne. Actes du colloque international de la Branche roumaine de la Société Internationale Arthurienne, Bucarest, 14–15 mai 2010 (Bucharest: Editura Universității din București, 2011), 187–203. For the other carvings, see Chiara Frugoni, Wiligelmo. Le sculture del Duomo di Modena (Modena: Franco Cosimo Panini, 1996). For the use of Old Testament narratives in Western art before the Fourth Crusade, see also the collection of studies published recently by Marcello Angheben (dir.), Les Stratégies de la narration dans la peinture médiévale. La représentation de l’Ancien Testament aux IVe–XIIe siècles (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020).
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under a series of scenes from the New Testament, while the scene with Dietrich chasing a stag into Hell appears under the scenes from the book of Genesis.74 From time to time, the mixture of sacred and profane literature and art led to eccentric iconographic arrangements, like the one on the Western façade of the Notre-Dame-la-Grande from Poitiers, where the textual source of the carvings was a theatrical play, in Latin or maybe in French, in turn based on a Latin sermon.75 Perhaps Anna would be familiar with these cultural trends. Other Greeks, from the far ends of the Byzantine Commonwealth, were familiar with them. The façade of Saint-Sophia church in Trebizond (c.1238–1263) provides an ideal example.76 Its unique sculptures present a long Genesis frieze: the creation of Eve, Temptation, the closed gate of Eden and the Expulsion, the Lamenting, and Cain killing Abel. The scenes are divided in two parts. The first half is accompanied by an inscription taken from the Lenten Triodion (“† Adam sat before Paradise and, lamenting his nakedness, he wept.”), while the source of the second one was the book of Genesis itself (“† And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed”).77 Since Byzantine liturgical monumental inscriptions were very rare, the “foreignness of the frieze” led to a search for Georgian and Armenian models, while the Western-inspired Rus’ ones, including the church of Vladimir, were mentioned in the initial phases of the research only.78 The ultimate assumption 74 75
76
77 78
Cf. Agrigoroaei, ‘Sacré et profane’, 78–80. See Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Un sermon en langue vulgaire, tiré du ‘Barlaam et Josaphat’, sur les parois du baptistère Saint-Jean à Poitiers’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 60/237 (2017), 10, for a personal point of view on these disputed carvings: either the Old French Jeu d’Adam or another Latin play (probably lost, as the known ones are of a later date compared to the vernacular one), both of them being inspired by a Latin sermon of Quodvultdeus. Cf. Évelyne Proust, coll. Robert Favreau, ‘La frise de l’Incarnation’, in Marie-Thérèse Camus, Claude Andrault-Schmitt (dir.), Notre-Dame-la-Grande de Poitiers: l’œuvre romane (Paris: Picard, 2002), 240–278; Michel F. Vaughan, ‘The prophets of the Anglo-Norman Adam’, Traditio, 39 (1983), 81–114. Antony Eastmond, Art and Identity in Thirteenth-Century Byzantium: Hagia Sophia and the Empire of Trebizond (Aldershot: Ashgate/Variorum, 2004), 82, mentions the highly questionable historical conjectures that led T. Talbot Rice to date the church in the 1250s. Since no clear chronological details were found, the dating should stick to the dates of the reign of Manuel I; cf. p. 1. Cf. Eastmond, Art and Identity, 64–65 for the sculptures. For the translations and original text of the inscriptions, see p. 66. Cf. ibid., 74–75, who looks towards Anatolia, Caucasus, and even the Islamic world for formal comparisons that are undeniably relevant. From the standpoint of meaning, on the other hand, similar Russian cases, including the church of Vladimir, have equally been noted, but they did not play an important part in the analysis (p. 53). See also Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 77, who follows the analysis of A. Eastmond.
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was that, “when examined as a single composition, [the frieze] is uneven and inconsistent,”79 in spite of the fact that it was noted that “Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel all featured prominently during Lenten homilies,”80 that corresponds to the sermonary undertones of all aforementioned Western examples. The funny thing about many Byzantinologists analysing Western-influenced art or literature is that they insult the object of their research. In the Trebizond church, there is also a centaur chasing a griffin with arrows, as well as other scenes that do not make sense on the façade of a Byzantine church. This led to the conclusion that “the decoration of Saint-Sophia seems to combine a series of images with a variety of meanings (or lack of them).”81 Yet the trouble with the Creation frieze is precisely the arbitrary correlation between its form and meaning, extremely unusual in the Byzantine Commonwealth,82 and the exceptionality of the Creation theme itself, unparalleled in the Greek world.83 If semiotic arbitrariness is determined by a convention that imbues meaning to a cultural sign, then the meaning of the Trebizond frieze should be interpreted according to a Western arbitrary, not a Byzantine one. This façade was a performance,84 just like the ones from Poitiers, Verona, or Modena. The only difference was that Byzantines did not play theatre inside their churches, or in the market place, in front of the façades. The learned men who helped Manuel I Grand Comnenus, ruler of Trebizond, devise the iconography of the Saint-Sophia façade took a Western idea and turned it into a Byzantine one. This cultural act belongs to the category of stimulus diffusion. By the middle of the 13th century, these Greeks had already understood how the Latin world expressed itself.
…
Sometime at the end of 1259, news reached them about the disaster of Pelagonia. Every man in the principality now knew how Michael VIII Palaeologus, the 79 80 81 82 83
84
Eastmond, Art and Identity, 64. Ibid., 66. Ibid., 62 (for the centaur) and 63 (for the quotation). At the end of his analysis of Caucasian and Russian comparisons, ibid., 76, accepts that “all these elements show that the making of the images can be located within a regional context. However, there remains a clear disparity between making and meaning.” In his inventory of late Byzantine sculptures, Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 63, argues that “the only themes from the Old Testament are found in Trebizond: the frieze depicting episodes from the Creation at the south porch of the Saint Sophia church in Trebizond, and two slabs, one with the Expulsion of Adam and Eve and another one exhibiting prophet Elijah, now in the walls of the citadel.” Cf. Eastmond, Art and Identity, 66: “it had a performative function.”
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regent of Nicaea recently turned emperor, had laid a trap for her husband and her father. There had been fear in the ranks of the Epirote army, her half-brother had betrayed them, nephew Geoffrey did brave deeds, but his bravery was in vain. William and his knights were prisoners of the Nicaeans and the emperor was preparing to attack their lands. This news affected both Latins and local Greeks, since Pelagonia had been a different kind of battle. William had led both his Western knights and Greek subjects to Epirus, and the Nicaean army itself numbered not only Greeks from Anatolia, but also Vlachs in its ranks, accompanied by Cuman riders, German mercenaries, Hungarians, Serbs, and Bulgarians. Times had changed. Greeks and Latins shared many things, and Anna must have felt that her own life transformed more and more with those new times. She was anxious, as were all the ladies of the land. All the knights were gone from the principality, now prisoners of the Nicaeans. What would happen to them in those hard times, when their husbands, fathers, brothers, and cousins were gone? In the Chronicle, the curtain falls upon this act, so historians felt like filling in the blanks. Some of them took after the Italian version, imagining that the princess wrote to Guy of Athens, asking for his help. According to others, Guy left France on his own, hurrying back to Greece upon hearing the news. In truth, nothing is known about what Anna did alone in Achaea. The only certain thing is that the Nicaeans sent nephew Geoffrey with a proposition: they had to surrender Monemvasia, Mani, and Mystras, in exchange for the return of the Latin lords. Since these three castles had to be occupied, the newly proclaimed emperor Michael VIII Palaeologus probably sent an archon accompanied by Nicaean troops. These Byzantine guards accompanying Geoffrey stopped for a week in Thebes, where the famous nephew, the best knight of Morea, feasted with his father-in-law Guy, recently returned from France. When they had talked and celebrated enough, they proceeded to the Peloponnesus, to meet with the ladies who had assembled for an unusual parliament in the town of Nikli. The ladies had already learnt about the emperor’s proposal and were debating it in the Nikli castle, attended by the bishops and by “Sir Leonardo, who was the [chancellor], and the wise Sir Peter of Vaux, who was the wisest man in all the principate.”85 This is when Geoffrey and his father-in-law re-enter the scene of Anna’s life.86 85 86
Lurier trans., Crusaders, 200. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 185. Cf. the French text in Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 140. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 120. For a different interpretation of the parliament of ladies in Nikli, concentrating on women in general and less on the different women present at the assembly, see Marie Guérin, ‘Trouver la paix dans la principauté de Morée au XIIIe siècle: quel rôle des femmes?’, Questes, 26 (2013), 43–56. For a synthesis of previous interpretations of this assembly and
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“On seeing them, the princess greeted them sweetly; she began to question the lord of Karytaina about the health of the prince and his followers in the prison of the basileus and about the deed they had committed in order to get out of the prison and to return to their homes.” By that time, Anna clearly mastered the French way of exchanging polite introductory remarks, as this conduct would not be different from the Byzantine way of doing things. We do not know if the archon of the Nicaean emperor was in the room. Since this was a delicate matter, he could wait outside, maybe even outside of town, as the Greek contingent would be an intimidating presence. With the Greeks outside, guarded by few loyal defenders, the ladies would be surely afraid. This is when Geoffrey, “lord of Karytaina, began to recount how the prince and all his bannerets had made great efforts to get out of the prison by giving money; and the basileus had sworn to them on his soul that they would never get out of there for gifts of money. And they, anxious to get out of his prison, came to an agreement and gave him the three castles and these alone, the castle of Monemvasia, that of Grand Maine, and also that of Mistra, to hold as his own; they made a strong peace and also a relationship by baptism and, with oaths, affirmed they would never go to war.”87 Anna would give him an unsure look. She would exchange some private words with sir Leonardo. Geoffrey had come not only with Greek troops, but also with his father-in-law, for whom he had previously betrayed William. The princess would look at Isabella, Geoffrey’s wife, who would also be among the ladies of the parliament. Isabella would feel strong, as she had both her husband and her father with her. Compared to Isabella, Anna would feel vulnerable. Leonardo da Veroli would be the only one to assist her. Isabella’s father and husband probably must have felt the heavy silence settled over the room, so Guy spoke, trying to reassure the princess: – It is the truth, as small and great know, that I got into difficulties with my lord the prince because I said that he was requiring me illegally to become his liege man and hold from him the land and lordship which I hold as my patrimony. I took up arms to make war on him. But afterwards
87
an analysis of its juridical legitimacy, see Benjamin Hendrickx, ‘Le ‘Parlement de Dames’ à Nikli en 1261 – une réévaluation’, Εκκλησιαστικός Φάρος, 93 (2011), 205–212. I chose to ignore the different narrative of the Aragonese chronicle, wherein first the princess sends letters to all those who had escaped the battle, next a first council takes places (but its logic is missing), the prince then signs an accord with the emperor in Constantinople, and the parliament in Nikli takes place only later, where the present ladies are crying, and the men cannot stop them, so a ratification of the Constantinople accord is imposed. Lurier trans., Crusaders, 200. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 186.
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I recognized that I had committed a felony against him, and I made reparation as he himself stipulated. For this reason, perchance, some of you may think that I am hostile to my lord the prince in this that I tell you, but I speak in truth, take it as such from me; if the basileus takes those three castles, he will not hold to the oaths which he has sworn; he will send here against us many armies and troops that will throw us out of here and disinherit us. Therefore, that you may recognize my good faith, I say and affirm I will do this: I will enter prison and the prince, let him come out; or if it is a question of ransoming him for sums of hyperpyra, I will pledge my land for denarii, and thus let the ransom of my liege lord be paid.88 What a crass lie, Anna would think. For a second, she would fear that maybe she did not understand well, so she would consult Sir Leonardo. The chancellor would confirm. Indeed, the duke spoke of ‘making his body ready to deliver the prince his lord’, as stipulated in the books of law.89 In this odd rephrasal of 1 Corinthians 9:27, duke Guy was purposely being deceitful. Michael VIII Palaeologus had clearly stated that he would not accept other terms. Anna would therefore think that Guy was willing to sacrifice his lord. Leonardo and the others would also react to Guy’s speech, for they would also feel threatened by the presence of the Greek soldiers outside. Nephew Geoffrey would intervene, to ease the tension, and say that “it would be a sin and a great rebuke for [lord William] and his followers to die in prison for the sake of castles which he himself won and built.”90 Truthfully, the castles of Mani and Mystras had been built under William’s rule, but Monemvasia was the last stronghold to surrender to her husband. That fortress was William’s greatest prize, the last conquered fortress of the Peloponnesus, so Anna would anticipate her husband’s grief. But nephew Geoffrey had a point. He also said: “Just let him escape the torment of the prison he is in, and afterwards God will help him to capture his castles and to have them as his own.”91 Most of those present would agree that this was the best solution. The ladies would be tempted to accept the proposition, but then again, the duke of Athens spoke, trying to break Anna’s alliance with the rest of the ladies. This time, he did not pledge his own body. He spoke about leaving his lord to die:
88 89 90 91
Lurier trans., 200–201. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 186–187. Cf. Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 140. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 121. Lurier trans., 201. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 187. Lurier trans., 201. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 187.
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– […] if the basileus were to learn and be informed that the we are not going to give him the castles he seeks, he is not going to sprinkle the prince with salt and eat him, but will take hyperpyra to set him free. And furthermore, I say to you, take it as you will, that if the prince considered what could follow, it were better that he should die by himself, as one man, than that the rest of the Franks of Morea should lose the estates that their parents won with such labor, as did Christ, who tasted death to redeem the souls of the race of men from the eternal damnation whither all were going. Better that one should die, than a thousand for his sake.92 Indeed, the basileus would not cannibalize her husband, but what was Guy’s problem? Since the castles were not his own, Anna would quickly figure out that Geoffrey and his father-in-law had devised a plan in the week that they spent together feasting in Thebes. One of them had to play the friend, the other the foe. Guy would gain a great deal if William of Villehardouin lost some of his military might (the castles), but he would gain more if William were to die in prison. In that case, Geoffrey, the last male heir of the Villehardouin family, would claim the principality for himself. This might have been Guy’s plan all along. Perhaps Leonardo da Veroli noticed it, too. Anna and Leonardo were therefore caught between the rock and a hard place. The ladies of the parliament would also whisper to each other: why should our men suffer in prison for the sake of three castles? Isabella, Guy’s daughter, would be watching the princess thoroughly, weighing the potential alternate decisions in her rival’s eyes. The princess would feel threatened. In the desperation of the moment, she would finally agree to the lesser of two evils: that the castles be surrendered, so that the Latin lords and knights may come home. Now came the hardest part. It did not concern the castles, for they would be handed over by Geoffrey to the Nicaean archon. Geoffrey was the one carrying William’s warrants and the castellans would trust him. The hardest part was whom to choose as hostages to deliver in the place of William and the other lords. By all means, the duke of Athens would not actually go to Constantinople and ‘pledge his body’ to deliver them from prison. Other people had to do it, not him. Maybe the discussions lasted some time, but they agreed in the end. The ones that had to go were “the daughter of the lord of Passava, who was marshal of all the principality, Sir Jean he was called, de Neuilly, his surname; and with her the sister of that Chauderon who was grand constable of all the
92
Lurier trans., 201–202. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 188.
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principality. These two went to the City as hostages.”93 The two ladies were probably not content with the situation. Leonardo would then quote from one of the books in his caskets. The ladies should rest assured. On the one hand, they were obliged, as vassals, to take their lord’s place if he were taken prisoner; on the other hand, the liege-lord was obliged to recompense them for any damage.94 And their lands? Needless to say, the lands would be judiciously taken care of during their absence, for this was included in the damage clause of the third Assize from Leonardo’s book.
…
William returned and things were not so bad for a while. Anna’s life returned to normal, but they lived in fear of the Nicaean forces infiltrating their lands. By that time, another story reached the princely court in Elis and Anna would not know what to make of it. The Aragonese version of the Chronicle tells that nephew Geoffrey returned to his valiant deeds and fought the Nicaeans in Morea, so the archon of the Nicaeans planned a ruse. He wanted to frame Geoffrey’s loyal Greek subjects, to disrupt the concord in his camp. He then asked the emperor to send fake letters, marked with the imperial chrysobull, saying that the emperor had agreed to an imaginary plan concocted by the local Greeks in agreement with the Nicaean captain. The captain further arranged that these letters be dropped by accident in Geoffrey’s chambers. The lord’s Latin retainers got mad, but Geoffrey refused to take a quick decision. He slept on it and confronted his archons the next day.95 The Greeks, wiping away tears from the eyes with their long sleeves, said that they were happy that God provided them with a far-sighted lord who did not react to the first impulse, and they professed their allegiance to him, therefore spoiling the Byzantines’ ruse.96 They even devised a plan to lay an ambush for the Nicaeans and the plan worked well. At the end, Geoffrey gave gifts and lands to his faithful Greeks, and even knighted the bravest ones among them.
93 94 95
96
Lurier trans., 201–202. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 188. For the French version, see Colantuoni ed., 141–142. Cf. Longnon ed., 123. For the Venetian version of the Assize 3 from the Assizes of Romania, see Georges Recoura (ed.), Les Assises de Romanie (Paris: Champion, 1930), 159. Alfred Morel-Fatio (ed.), Libro de los fechos et conquistas del principado de la Morea compilado por comandamiento de Don Juan Fernández de Heredia/Chronique de Morée aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles, publiée et traduite pour la première fois pour la Société de l’Orient Latin (Geneva: Jules-Guillaume Fick, 1885), 70–71. Morel-Fatio ed., Libro de los fechos, 72.
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The story was nice and the prince’s retainers would enjoy it. They needed as much hope as they could get after losing so many castles and lands, but Anna would be wondering whether Geoffrey was planning to defect again, switching sides. Not to the other Latins, but to their worst enemies, the Nicaeans themselves. Her husband adored Geoffrey, as did the majority of Moreote noblemen, since Geoffrey was one of their best knights. Yet she must have been troubled. After a little more than four years in these lands, she was barely grasping to understand how the Frenchmen’s mind worked. On the other hand, the loyalty of local Greeks would not surprise her. It would not surprise the French either, for they had already been their companions in the battle of Pelagonia. Already by the turn of the 13th century, French literature had many stories about respectable Saracens, revered by their Christian foes, even though these imaginary Oriental knights were virtuous only because they were about to convert to Christianity. Those stories needed them to be so. It was a literary trick. But there was some truth to this matter. Later on, when the Nicaean offensive would be repelled, the few Turkish mercenaries who decided to stay in Morea in the service of William of Villehardouin were baptised. Two of them were also knighted by the prince.97 This means that William’s nephew could actually knight some of his Greeks retainers. In the old country, French authors feigned a spirit of comradeship across religions and confessions.98 In the new country, the Greeks were actually assimilated as faithful knights, and the Saracens were converted to Christianity as well. In this context, even Anna’s husband had his loyal Greeks. There are not many Western influences in the Panagia-Katholiki church from Gastouni, situated close to Andravida (Fig. 23a). There is only a capital, a cornice, and a Gothic doorframe, along with some Italian pottery immured in its façades, but the ktetorial inscription repainted in 1702 mentions a family of ktetors, the brothers Kalligopouloi, first among whom is a certain William (ΓεΙȢΛΙΑΜ).99 This Greek was baptised with the name of William of 97 98 99
Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 236. See e.g. Cătălina Gîrbea, Le Bon Sarrasin dans le roman médiéval (1100–1225) (Paris: Classiques Garnier, 2014). Cf. Marianne Ailes, ‘Chivalry and Conversion: The Chivalrous Saracen in Old French Epics Fierabras and Otinel’, Al-Masaq, 9 (1996–1997), 1–21. I disagree with the emendation of this particular name to Γουλιάμου based on readings of this name extrapolated from the Chronicle of Morea. The drawing of the 1702 inscription published by Δημήτριος Αθανασούλης, ‘H αναχρονολόγηση της Παναγίας Καθολικής στην Γαστούνη’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 24 (2003), 69, clearly shows that the name was indeclinable. If the 1702 painter made an error copying it, this may concern the first part of the name (ΓεΙȢΛΙΑΜ instead of ΓȢεΙΛΙΑΜ or ΓȢεΛΙΑΜ). For the text of the inscription recopied in 1702, see p. 68: Ἀνηγέρθη ἐκ βώθρου, ὁ πάνσεπτος, κ(α)ὶ θεῖος οὗτος ναός, τῆς Πανυπρευλογιμένης, Δεσποίνης ἡμῶν Θεοτόκου τῆς Παντανάσης, διὰ κόπου πολοῦ
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Villehardouin, who died when the church was being built (1278/1279, according to the inscription). The interesting thing is that the name was transcribed in an indeclinable form and that its phonetical rendering resembles the French isogloss Guilliam. That the Kalligopouloi brothers were “integrated into the feudal system,” this is obviously a conjecture. Neither do I believe that the adoption of “a minimum of Western style features” in the architecture of Panagia-Katholiki may be “perhaps indicative of the patrons’ symbolic intentions,” that is, preserving the Orthodox faith. One should not talk about the Kalligopouloi’s denial or passage to “the Catholic faith.”100 We know nothing about these people or about the “religious freedom enjoyed by the Orthodox.” What is evident, on the other hand, is that their parents chose powerful names for them. The other five brothers were baptised with the names of the most important saints (John, Nicholas, Demetrius, Constantine, and George). As for William, he bore the name of their Frankish lord. The situation may be unique in Latin-occupied Greece, but it was not unique in the Latin-ruled Orthodox world. Far to the north, almost a century and a half later, the Vlach ktetors of the church in Crișcior (1411) baptised their boys as Iuga, Ladislas, and Stephen. Two of these names were indicative of Hungarian royalty. And the presence of a perfectly Catholic theme, the three Holy Kings of Hungary (Stephen, Emeric, and Ladislas), painted in that Transylvanian church gives us a glimpse into what loyalty looked like in an Orthodox milieu of the Catholic kingdom of Hungary.101 Both in Transylvania and in the Peloponnesus, the names constituted a proof of allegiance. Moreover, the name of the place where the Panagia-Katholiki was built (Gastouni) brings further proof of this loyalty to the Latins, for it was probably fashioned after a French given name (Gaston). The only available conclusion is that political allegiance did not necessarily imply a change of faith. Apart from the given names of the ktetors’ sons and the representation of the Holy Kings of Hungary, there is nothing κ(α)ὶ ἐξώδου, τῶν Καλλ[η]γοπούλων, τοῦ τε Γουλιάμ | κ(α)ὶ Ἰωάννου, Νικολάου, Δημητρίου, Κωνσταντίνου, κ(α)ὶ Γεωργίου, τῶν αὐταδέλφων, ἐ συμβίαι τῶν κτυτόρων Μαρία, Ἄνα, Μαρία, Σεβαστή, Μαρία κ(α)ὶ Κωνστάντζα, εἰς ἔτους ἀπὸ Ἀδάμ, ϚΨΠΖ (6787 = 1278/1279). Another text, probably from 1278/1279, was incised on the architrave of the original western portal of the church (Fig. 23b), and it confirms the last part of the ktetorial inscription. For an edition of this text, see p. 69: † αἱ συμβίαι τῶν κτητόρων Μαρία καὶ Μαρία Σεβαστή | Ἄννη, Μαρία καὶ Κωνστάντ’ ἡ αὐταδέλφη αὐτῆς, κα[…]. 100 Cf. Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 145, for the quotations. 101 Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘An Interpretatio Wallachica of Serbian Influences: The Cases of Ribița, Streisângeorgiu, and Crișcior (but also Râmeț)’, Annales Universitatis Apulensis. Series Historica, 16/2 (2012 = Cosmin Popa-Gorjanu (dir.), Transylvania in the Thirteenth to Sixteenth Centuries. Aspects of the Formation and Consolidation of Regional Identity, 2013), 105–135.
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Catholic in the Transylvanian church of Crișcior. The depiction of the Holy Kings conveyed a political statement. Similarly, the Panagia Katholiki is a perfectly Byzantine church. This is a puzzling thing, for many other churches currently dated to the 12th century based on analogies could be related to the second, third, or even later generations of the Frankokratia (after 1235, and as late as the creation of Byzantine despotate of Morea in 1349). Politics and culture do not always mingle. The local Greeks were therefore loyal to the Latins, some of them fought side by side with the Latins, others would act as real knights and vassals, little does it matter if the Skorta episode of the Aragonese version is spurious or not. Yet, this does not mean that they were not able to retain their own culture, or that they had to submit to the Western influences in every aspect of their lives. The local Greeks were first of all Greeks. These were the people whom Anna could have met all over the Peloponnesus in late 1262, when her husband decided to visit his domain, to make sure that he still controlled large parts of the lands promised to the Nicaeans, or maybe Anna would prefer to stay home, in Andravida, Glarentza, or Chlemoutsi. This second option is highly unlikely. William’s trip had powerful political implications and the presence of a Greek wife would reinforce them all the more in the eyes of the locals. He took all his knights with him (ἐπῆρε τοὺς καβαλλαρίους)102 and proceeded to the East, to Sparti (La Cremonie), and later to the baronies of Passava and Geraki. Things did not look good. In Sparti, the Nicaeans had forced the local inhabitants to go to Mystras, the nearby fortress that William had recently built on a spur of Mount Taygetos. His initial plan was to guard the fertile plain from future attacks of the Melingi living on those mountainous slopes, but now the Melingi were allied to the Nicaeans103 and Sparti was an empty city. William tried to repopulate it in vain. In public, Anna’s husband would be sad, downcast (dolens).104 In private, this fifty-year old would not be able to sleep. He would walk at night on the late-ancient walls of Sparti or climb the hill of the Roman amphitheatre, trying to concoct a plan to take back his lands, to re-establish his former glory. From those walls, or from that hill, he would see sparkles in the dark, fires on the slope of Mystras Hill. Anna would accompany him on his walks, she would share his feelings, but she would not share his rage. Instead, she would feel anxiety as their world was slowly crumbling down. And she would be right, for Mystras would become the capital of the Nicaean reconquista of the Peloponnesus.
102 Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 189. 103 Ibid., 189–190. 104 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 154. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 150–151.
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Geoffrey’s story about faithful Greek subjects would bring false hope to the French. His valiant deeds during the first wave of the invasion did not make any difference when the Nicaeans came back in force next spring.105 Michael VIII Palaeologus of Nicaea sent more than three thousand Turkish mercenaries and Greeks from his Anatolian lands. They were led by John Makrenos, who had also brought privileges in blank (χαρτία ἄγραφα τοῦ ἐβούλλωσε μὲ τὸ χρυσόβουλλον τοῦ),106 to fill in with the names of the Moreote archons who would decide to switch to his side. Yet those who flocked to join the ranks of the Nicaean army were not the archons, but those who were unable to speak proper Greek, not even the Demotic language. The fierce Tsakonians and Melingi who inhabited the Taygetos and Parnon Mountains were the first to answer Makrenos’ call. William gathered his army in Nikli, but the barons advised him against taking action, so he went to Corinth instead. He had to persuade his Athenian, Boeotian, and Euboeote allies to join in a military action against the Nicaean offensive. We do not know if he took Anna on that trip. It would be safe to assume that he did not, because her presence would not bring anything new to the table. She would return to the Elis to manage their lands, just as she did when he was a prisoner after Pelagonia. Meanwhile, Michael VIII sent his half-brother Constantine with another thousand men boarded on Genoese ships. They reached Monemvasia, already a Nicaean bastion by that time, and advanced towards the north-west. Sparti was again besieged, the invaders swept across Passava and Geraki, and the lower parts of the Mani Peninsula were also lost. The fortress of Lefktron (Beaufort) was occupied by the emperor’s men and the savage Maniots joined the ranks of the Nicaean infantry alongside Tsakonians and many others, including the inhabitants of Skorta, nephew Geoffrey’s own men.107 The Nicaean army advanced to Veligosti, where they burned the public square, taking the castle. In those times, the Peloponnesus was filled with good and bad Greeks, but good and bad were interchangeable notions, depending on whom those Greeks were fighting for. There would be many undecided Greeks as well, like the inhabitants of Skorta, who felt deserted by Geoffrey, William’s nephew, the most valiant knight of the Peloponnesus. For a while, these undecided locals joined the ranks of the Nicaean army, perhaps because they were forced 105 For the battle of Prinitsa and the second Nicaean campaign in the spring of 1263, see also Juho Wilskman, ‘The Battle of Prinitsa in 1263’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 105/1 (2012), 167–198. Cf. Mark C. Bartusis, The Late Byzantine Army: Arms and Society, 1204–1453 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997); Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus. 106 Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 191. 107 Ibid., 195.
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to do so.108 They followed Constantine Palaeologus in his march to the North, along the river Evrotas, until they reached Leontari in Arcadia, whence they descended along the Alfeios riverbed. Constantine tried to get to Andravida and lay waste to it, but his Turkish mercenaries stopped in Isova first and burned the Cistercian monastery. Finally, the troops reached Prinitsa, where they set up camp and installed their tents.109 This Constantine had no need to lay siege to Chlemoutsi castle. Andravida, his enemy’s capital, was in the plain and ripe for the taking. So, he went for it. Andravida was unprotected and its defence had been given to John of Katavas, a brave but rather seasoned knight, who suffered from various sicknesses and could hardly hold a sword or a lance in his hand. Nevertheless, the Greek version of the Chronicle tells us that old knight John took the few men he had and marched against the Nicaeans. At first, the Chronicle tells us that he had three hundred Frenchmen with him (τριακόσιοι Φράγκοι), but after no more than twenty verses, the number grows to three hundred and twelve. Those would be the men whom John had found (τριακόσιοι γὰρ καὶ δώδεκα εὑρέθησαν καὶ μόνον).110 Both figures are symbolic, as are the huge numbers of various thousands in the Nicaean army. Another emblematic feature of the story is the narrow gorge named Agridi Kounoupitsa (εἰς ὁκάτι μικρὴν κλεισοῦραν | ἐκεῖ πλησίον, τὸ λέγουσιν Αγρίδι Κουνουπίτσας)111 where John waited for the enemy. All these details are probable references to the battle of Thermopylae in the account of Herodotus. The author of the Chronicle could have been familiar with this reference, just as John de la Roche, the duke of Athens, was familiar Herodotus when he paraphrased his words on the eve of the battle of Neopatras. The speech given by John of Katavas considered the Nicaeans to be strangers from many lands (ἀπόξενοι ἀπὸ διαφόρους τόπους), as opposed to his army, trained to fight French-style. John promised to hold their lord’s banner, the Nicaeans sent against them three cavalry charges, but the French repelled them, counter-attacked, and there was also a hagiophany. Their story sounded like the one from the Chanson d’Antioche, and they were undecided if the one who helped them was saint George or the actual Mother of God, protector of the Isova monastery, exacting her revenge for the burning down of that religious house. Anyhow, the Nicaeans ran, abandoning their camp, and the French returned victorious to Andravida. When John of Katavas told the story of saint George and the Mother of God leading them 108 109 110 111
Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 143–144. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 127–128. Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 196–197. For the two quotations, see ibid., 197, 198. Ibid., 198.
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into battle,112 Anna would instantly thank the Mother of God, for she would pray for a miracle to happen. She would also be impressed by the Latins’ understanding of the military role played by the Mother of God. Maybe Anna would remember the story of Mavropoulos who came to emperor Manuel Comnenus and told him that there was no way to win his next battle, for “he dreamed he entered a church […], and as he was making a propitiatory offering, he heard a voice coming from the icon of the Mother of God saying, ‘The emperor is now in the utmost danger’, and ‘Who will go forth in my name to assist him?’ The voice of one unseen answered, ‘Let George go’. ‘He is sluggish’, came the reply. ‘Let Theodore set forth’, then suggested the voice, but he was also rejected, and finally came the painful response that no one could avert the impending evil.”113 Praying to the Mother of God as leader of the military saints was a very Byzantine way of assuring one’s protection. There is a lacuna in the French version in this part of the story, so no comparison can be made between the two texts, but if this were the official narrative of the battle in the principality of Achaea, then the local French would be already on the way to being culturally integrated. They were probably reminiscing about stories of the first crusades, when military saints riding white horses allegedly led the Latins in battle just as the angel of God had led the Maccabees in the times of old. Yet the presence of the Mother of God conferred a profound Byzantine flavour to the miracle, for she was the one who directed the military saints to perform their miraculous deeds.114 112 Ibid., 201. 113 See Magoulias trans., O, City, 107–108, for the translation of this passage from Nicetas Choniates. For the original text, see Van Dieten ed., Nicetae Choniatae Historia, 190–191. 114 One of the most frequent combinations on Byzantine seals is the Theotokos on the one side and a military saint on the other. This may be linked to the Mother of God blessing military saints in various icons and with various accounts of battles in which the Theotokos performed miracles with the help of military saints. The first mention of such a military Marianic miracle is in the life of saint Basil by Helladius (as saint Basil’s dream), as early as the 5th century. The Mother of God is said to have asked saint Mercurius to kill the emperor Julian the Apostate. See Christopher Walter, The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition (Abingdon: Routledge, 2003), 105. This tradition continued until late. For instance, the Mother of God appears in late Orthodox contexts, such as in the case of the battle of Kulikovo (1380), where a great host of military saints (Michael, George, Demetrius, Boris, Gleb, and others) helped the Russian army defeat the Tartars. However, Prince Dmitry, the Russian leader, had addressed his prayers to the Mother of God. See Kati M.J. Parppei, The Battle of Kulikovo Refought: ‘The First National Feat’ (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 52, 97, passim. For other references to the military cult of the Mother of God, see Monica White, Military Saints in Byzantium and Rus, 900–1200 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 11 (general data), 172–173 (for “a courtier of Manuel Comnenus [who had] decorated a wall of his home with a fresco depicting the emperor being
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There is a strong possibility that the Prinitsa miracle is an answer to Nicaean rhetoric. About the same time, far to the North, in the town Kastoria, a Theotokos of the Kyriotissa type was depicted atop the Tree of Jesse in the murals of the catholicon of the Mavriotissa monastery (c.1259–1264). The interesting thing about this depiction is that it was accompanied to the left by two military saints (George and Demetrius) wearing coronets, as if they were part of the imperial family, and by two imperial figures – one of which was probably a depiction of the emperor Michael VIII Palaeologus himself. Research suggested that this rhetoric was used in conjunction with the battle of Pelagonia115 (or with the recapture of the Byzantine capital, I dare say). Kyriotissa, with her military connotations, was particularly significant in the Nicaean discourse of the time, and other depictions of the Mother of God as icons for protection against military menaces were also used. Such is the story of the icon sent by the same emperor Michael to Monemvasia. Some also argue that the generalization of the representation of the Mother of God in the apses of Maniot churches may be an effect of the same ideology, even though this is hard to prove (or disprove).116 Finally, I would not exclude the possibility that the miracle of Prinitsa was a later development, when Byzantine rhetoric was well assimilated by the Latins and their Greek subjects, at the beginning of the 14th century. But let us except for the sake of our reconstruction, that such a tale would be told when John of Katavas returned to Andravida. In that case, the hagiophany would accentuate the euphoria of the moment. Anna would join in the celebration of this odd mixture of crusader rhetoric and Byzantine Marianic miracle and they would all be proud that old knight John had gained a thousand horses. Then unexpectedly her husband William would be back. crowned by the Mother of God and handed a spear by Theodore Tiron, with an angel on one side and Nicholas on the other”), and most of all pp. 195–199, which deal with the significance of the depiction of an orant Mother of God surrounded by military saints in the cathedral of Saint-George in Yuryev-Polsky (c.1230–1234), also considered to be a direct Byzantine influence in Kievan Rus. For the military cult of the Mother of God in relation to the Akathist Hymn, see Anthony Kaldellis, ‘‘A Union of Opposites’: The Moral Logic and Corporeal Presence of the Theotokos on the Field of Battle’, in Christian Gastgeber et al. (dir.), Pour l’amour de Byzance: Hommage à Paolo Odorico (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2013), 131–144. 115 Τίτος Παπαμαστοράκης, ‘Ένα εικαστικό εγκώμιο του Μιχαήλ Η΄ Παλαιολόγου: Οι εξωτερικές τοιχογραφίες στο καθολικό της μονής της Μαυριώτισσας στην Καστοριά’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 15 (1989–1990), 221–240. 116 Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’, 159; mainly based on Ηλίας Αναγνωστάκης, ‘Από την εικόνα της μοναχής Ευφροσύνης στον ‘Βίο’ των οσίων του Μεγάλου Σπηλαίου η ιστορία μιας κατασκευής’, in Βούλα Κόντη (dir.), Ο μοναχισμός στην Πελοπόννησο, 4ος–15ος αιώνας (Athens: Εθνικό Ίδρυμα Ερευνών/Ινστιτούτο Βυζαντινών Ερευνών, 2004), 147–198.
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The Nicaeans prepared a new offensive, but William’s brave knights on newly acquired steeds swept back against them. Turkish mercenaries defected when the Nicaeans ceased to pay them. And so, William and his commander Ancelin of Toucy, who spoke the Turkish language and led the defectors in battle, crushed the invaders at Makryplagi. William went to Veligosti, where the prisoners were brought to him. Suddenly, there they were, the people of Skorta, those living in the lands of nephew Geoffrey. Falling to his feet, the Skortans cried ‘mercy’, and the prince pardoned them, for he had to be merciful.117 But trouble did not stop there. Geoffrey was nowhere to be found. William had an idea – the nephew was in Apulia, for his debaucheries (en Puille pour ses ribauderies), so when news came about a second rebellion in Skorta, the prince asked his commander Ancelin of Toucy to take the Turkish mercenaries there and let them do their worst.118 Thus Skorta was finally pacified. In blood. After those battles, news of their struggles reached France and Rutebeuf, a French poet, wrote a Complaint for Constantinople that spoke about them. Rutebeuf spoke about the fall of Constantinople and how Morea was bracing herself for a ‘birdcrappy depravity’ (escorfroie) that would leave the Holy Church distraught.119 Anna would be shocked to discover that those faraway French, whom her husband admired for their courteous behaviour, had reduced their entangled world of alliances to a black-and-white caricature. The only thing that mattered to those French was that the Nicaean army was Orthodox, not Catholic.120 Those of Orthodox faith were compared to 117 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 151–152. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 146–147. The episode with the Skortans in Veligosti appears only in the French version of the Chronicle. 118 Colantuoni ed., 154–155. Cf. Longnon ed., 151–152. 119 For the original text, see Michel Zink (ed.), Rutebeuf: Œuvres complètes. Texte établi, traduit, annoté et présenté. Edition revue et mise à jour (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 2001), 404, 406: Nos en sons bien entrei en voie. | N’i at si fol qui ne le voie, | Quant Coustantinoble est perdue | Et la Moree se ravoie | A recevoir teile escorfroie | Dont sainte Eglize est esperdue, | Qu’en cors at petit d’atendue | Quant il at la teste fendue. | [Je ne sai que plus vous diroie:] | Se Jhesucriz n’i fait aïue | A la Sainte Terre absolue, | Bien li est esloigniee joie. Cf. note 1 of pp. 404–405 for a discussion about escorfroie. 120 Cf. Leo Spitzer, ‘Notes’, 374, note 2 (concerning the heresy interpretation), assumed by M. Zink in a note to his edition of the poem. For a different opinion in a military key only, see Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 10, who quotes the 1989 version of M. Zink’s edition and argues that “a contemporary [i.e. Rutebeuf] who commented upon the situation [i.e. Pelagonia and the fall of Constantinople] conveyed the sense of an imminent threat: ‘Constantinople has been lost, and the Morea is bracing itself to receive a rude shock …’” Cf. note 34 of the same page, where T. Shawcross states that “the original wording is cruder and somewhat more explicit than the translation provided here might suggest,” yet she fails to mention the heretical connotations of the original word that would require a religious key of interpretation and not a military one. Cf. John Haines, ‘The Songbook’,
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Escorfroie, a birdcrappy daughter of a giant birdcrappy Saracen. If the Greek faith were considered heretical, her own Orthodox upbringing would push her to revolt, scandalised, had she known that Rutebeuf had written such a poem. Westerners knew nothing about William of the Kalligopouloi brothers or about the faithful subjects of nephew Geoffrey, the ones who helped him lay a trap to the Nicaeans. The French of France daydreamt about converting Saracens in a fantasy Holy Land, but when it came to the real world, they depicted it in black and white. The French interest in Greek culture was restricted to a shallow pool of scholars. Average men did not care much about it, and by that time, even the clergymen had forgotten much of the little information they had learnt from Greek sources: for instance, the later 13th century French lives of saint Denis do not mention the Dormition of Mary anymore.121 Nicaeans, on the other hand, were subtle and had fully embraced Western narratives by then. It is true that they told stories about how the miraculous 101, who follows T. Shawcross, but quotes for unknown reasons the old 1959 edition of E. Faral and J. Bastin, “Rutebeuf lamented that the Morea had ‘received such a violent attack (escorfroie) that the Holy Church was completely lost.” In his note 271 of the same page, Haines quotes Shawcross for the ‘cruder’ meaning of the word, all while ignoring what the particular meaning actually was. 121 In the second French version of life of saint Denis, copied in eleven manuscripts, some of which date back to the second half of the 13th century, the plot remains more or less the same, with saint Denis converted in Athens, going to Rome, then to Paris, and being beheaded. The story follows with the cephalophory and ends with Catulla playing her trick on the executioners (nothing about the Dagobert sequence). There are no mentions or allusions to the Dormition and there is no description of Athens. See for instance Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 23 686, fols. 162v–166r. For the published text, see Liebman, Étude, 114–130. In the third version, preserved in a single manuscript dating back to the second half of the 13th century (BnF, f. fr. 23 112, fols. 202r–211r), there is nothing about Dagobert, only a brief Athenian intermezzo, the trip to the West, the cephalophoric walk, and the story of Catulla. However, the Athenian intermezzo shares some features of the first prose life of saint Denis, taken from the Latin text of Hilduin. There is, for instance, the letter to saint John the Evangelist in the island of Patmos, but there is nothing about the Dormition. This third version contains the description of Athens in regions, in the proper order from Hilduin’s story. Areopagus becomes oryopa[?] (the bad quality of the microfilm does not allow me to guess the last letters of the word). It was probably adapted from the Latin text of Hilduin, because it contains a curious error: at the fol. 206ra, the city of Pelion, inhabited by Lacedemonians, becomes: Puis apres fu il auecques pelio le roi de lacedemoine per ne sai quans ans. The fourth French prose version of the life of saint Denis, very abbreviated, because it was part of an early 14 century hagiographic collection (Paris, BnF, f. fr. 988), contains few details, no mention of the Dormition, and no description of Athens. The same happens in the case of the life inserted in the Legenda aurea (fifth prose version). Clearly, the curious mention of the Dormition and of the description of Athens in the first prose version are the result of an exceptional happenstance, probably the meeting of a person who had travelled to Athens, as suggested in the previous chapter.
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fountains of Constantinople had lost their healing powers after the Latin occupation – a situation that continued in the time of Michael VIII Palaeologus because of his Union with the Latins in 1274.122 However, even strong adversaries of the Union, like George of Cyprus (the future patriarch Gregory II of Constantinople, 1283–1290), had accepted the Parisian martyrdom of saint Denis as well as the odd cephalophoric miracle. The funny thing is that George of Cyprus wrote about this in a text conceivably commissioned by the Orthodox candidate to the see of the Athenian bishopric.123 Times were strange. Byzantines were playing multiple games at the very same time. And they had their own Rutebeufs, naturally. Two interesting epigrams from the church of Saints-Theodore in Kaphiona, in Mesa Mani, present us with a very similar rhetoric. They were dated to c.1264, or possibly even later, to c.1270 (e.g. Fig. 24–25).124 The first one, painted above the entrance, dealt with the multifaceted notion of gate (of the Kaphiona church itself, of a city, of the Lord, and of Paradise) which needed to be protected from the attacks of enemies. Maybe it also mentioned the heavily-armoured mounted Scholarii as defenders of this theological, architectural, and military gate (Fig. 25a).125 Contrary to previous 122 Cf. Alice-Mary Talbot, ‘Epigrams of Manuel Philes on the Theotokos tes Peges and Its Art’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 48 (1994), 135. 123 Cf. the old edition of Ευαγγελική Σάλπιγξ εκφωνηθείσα παρά του ποτέ ιεροδιδασκάλου Μακαρίου χρηματίσαντος καθηγεμόνος του κατά την Πάτμον … (Amsterdam, 1754), 645, where saint Denis goes to Rome and Paris, preaches to the ‘German’ inhabitants of Paris. The text is not narrative, but the rest of it (BHG 557 / Ἡ μὲν πρόθεσις τῷ λόγῳ δικαία) includes references to Domitian becoming emperor after his brother Titus and to the cephalophoric miracle of saint Denis. For the latter, see p. 651. The text is dated before 1282, year of the death of George Akropolites, to whom George of Cyprus had given it for corrections. There are also speculations that this text could be written for Meletius, bishop of Athens in 1276–1280, an opponent of the patriarch John Vekkos, thus another member of the anti-Unionist camp. George of Cyprus had already written for Meletius an encomium of saint Euthymius, bishop of Madyta. For these last pieces of information, see Giuseppe Conticello, ‘Georges-Grégoire de Chypre. Répertoire des œuvres et bibliographie’ (2012), 5 http://lem.vjf.cnrs.fr/IMG/pdf/Georges-Gregoire_de_chypre.pdf. Accessed 2020 May 27. 124 The discussion concerning these epigrams would not be possible without the methodical study and reconstruction of the texts by Panayotis St. Katsafados, ‘New epigraphic evidence from the Mani. The Kaphiona Epigrams’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 38 (2017), 287–310. For the state of the art concerning the first Kaphiona epigram before this study, see Andreas Rhoby, Byzantinische Epigramme auf Fresken und Mosaiken (Vienna: Austrian Academy of Sciences Press, 2009), 234. 125 In my summary of the inscription contents, I avoided using its heavily reconstructed parts, out of sheer caution, accepting only the obviously reconstruction of the Scholarii segment. Cf. Katsafados, ‘New epigraphic evidence’, 297, for a reconstruction of the original text and its translation: “† Before the portal I write to you, oh! gate of the Lord | † The
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hypotheses, I am not tempted to identify actual events and places,126 apart from the emperor’s half-brother, Constantine Palaeologus, and an otherwise unknown George bishop of Veligosti, since these names appear in the votive inscription.127 Likewise, I am not at all convinced that the city mentioned in gates of Edem [i.e. Eden] to be supportively defended by Scholarii | † Faithful I beg out of my burning heart | † Save (your) humble (supplicant) by annulling the moral debt | † Protect also this town by means of holy icons | † (Βeing you) fortified (I wish you to) assist (the town) to withstand the enemies.” And the reconstructed original text: † Πρὸ τῆς πύλης γράφω σοι ὦ Θ(εο)ῦ πύλη | † Πύλας τῆς ’Ε/δὲμ ἀντερεί [δειν] δεῖ Σχολάρι[οι] | † Πίστει δυσωπῶ ἐκ ζεούσης καρδίας | † Ταπει/ν(ὸν ἐκλύτρωσον ἄρας τὸ χρέ)ος | † Πόλιν δὲ σκέπε [ταύτ]ην δι’ εἰκό/(νων θείων) | † (Ῥωννὺς βοηθοῖς ἀντιστῇ) πολεμίων. Cf. pp. 290–291, for the initial transcription of the inscription: † Πρω της πύλης γράφω σοι ῶ Θ(εο)ῦ πύλη † Πύλας τῆς E/δὲμ αντ […] ~ωλάρι † Πίστει δυσωπῶ εκ ζεοῦσης καρδίας † Ταπει/ν(ο) […] […] ος † Πόλην δε σκέπε η~ν δι εικό/(νων) [† …] […] πολεμίον. 126 The inscription cannot mention the Scholarii as effectively participating in the building of walls or gates (cf. ibid., 294, note 27). The highly poetical or allegorical undertones of the two epigrams beg for another key of interpretation. I am equally unconvinced by the alternate reconstruction of the second verse of the inscription. Cf. pp. 293–295, the option B1: translation (“† The gates of this one town Scholarii erected in short time”); edition († Πύλας τῆσ[δ]ε / δείμαντες τάχει Σχολάρι[οι]); based upon the initial transcription († Πύλας τη(˜/^)σε / δεὶμαντ […] ~ωλάρι). And the option B2: translation (“† The gates of this town erected by the endeavour of Volari”); edition († Πύλας [ταύ]της ἐ/δείμαντο μόχθῳ Βολάρι). The mundane mention of a Volari or Emvolari family living in Mesa Mani, connected with the Boularii villages, in an otherwise highly poetical text clearly attributable to a Greek scholar coming to Mani from abroad (Nicaea or Constantinople?), is ill-suited. The poetical style suggest that the correct interpretation is option A, that is, the gates of Eden (τὰς τῆς Ἐδέμ πύλας), frequently mentioned as such in Greek texts. As for the Scholarii, I do not believe that the heavy Byzantine cavalry was present in the Peloponnesus campaigns of 1263–1264. Scholarii could be a synecdoche for the Byzantine army. Since these troops were originally palace guards of the emperor, they would also stand in for the emperor himself. 127 The votive inscription painted to the north of the representation of saint Theodore in the conch of the sanctuary is now faded, so I rely on previous readings, even though they present a fragmentary text. Fortunately, a modern copy of the 13th century inscription was seen by N. Drandakis on a thin layer of plaster covering the layer of the fragmentary one, in 1958, but it collapsed seconds after he photographed it (quelques instants plus tard). I quote the text of the two versions of this votive inscription from Kalopissi-Verti, Dedicatory Inscriptions, 66. The fragmentary text of the old inscription is: [† Ἀνιστορ]ίν[θη τὸ] πα[ρόν… ἱστ]όρ[ισμ]α | ……ς των εὐ[σ]εβ[εστάτ]ων.. | …………………………… ἡγεμονεύ]οντος | τῆς [Πολιπο]νίσου Κωνσταντ[ί]νου [σε]βα[στοκ]ρα[τ](ορος) | του … [Γεωργ]ίου αρχηερέος …………………. | ……………… As for the modern copy of the inscription, photographed by N. Drandakis in 1958, immediately before it collapsed before his eyes, its text was: † Ἀνιστορίνθη τ[ὸ] παρόν ἱστόρισμα των αγίων | μεγάλων μ(αρ)τ(ύρων) Θεωδόρων ἐπὶ τῆς βασιλείας τῶν εὐ|σεβε[στ]ατων βασιλέω(ν) Μιχ(αὴλ) κ(αὶ) Θεωδόρας τῶν Παλε[ο]|λόγω(ν) και ἡγεμονέβοντος τοῦ περιποθίτου αὑταδέ(λφου) αὐ[τῶν] | ἑν τῖ χώρα τῆς Πολλυπονίσου Κωνσταντίνου τοῦ σεβαστ[ο]|κράτ(ορος) τοῦ Παλεωλόγου δι’ ἐ[ξ]ό[δ]ου δὲ καὶ κόπου τοῦ θεωφιλεστά[του] | Γεωργίου
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the poem should be interpreted as Veligosti because of its bishop’s mention in the same votive inscription.128 Mystras, Monemvasia, or any other major settlement of the recently recovered lands would be equally valid candidates for an identification of the equivocal πόλις.129 The same may be argued about Constantinople, the City par excellence. In my opinion, the tone of the Kaphiona epigram is not different from that of the French poem by Rutebeuf. If the Western standpoint feared that ‘birdcrappy’ heresy threatened the existence of the Latin Church in Morea after the Nicaean reconquista of Constantinople, the Palaeologan rhetoric of 1263–1264 (or even that of a later date, such as 1270) emphasised a corresponding fear for a Latin counter-offensive. These ideas are echoed in the three verses of a second epigram, painted upon the red upper frame of the Synaxis of the Archangels scene in the same church of Kaphiona. This other text spoke of venerating the light brought by the Archangels, about
ἀρχιερέος τοῦ Βεληγοστῖ(ς) σὺν τω ευ(γενεστάτω?) συγκέλλω … |…. [Β?] ΛΑΣΤΟΤΟΔΙΑΝΩ…. Τ. ΚΑΛ … For a slightly different reading of the two texts, see N.B. Drandakis, ‘Les peintures murales des Saints-Théodores à Kaphiona (Magne du Péloponnèse)’, Cahiers archéologiques, 32 (1984), 163–164; Νικόλαος Β. Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινές τοιχογραφίες της Μέσα Μάνης (Athens: Η εν Αθήναις Αρχαιολογική Εταιρεία, 1995), 74–75. I am not interested in the other votive inscription, painted to the south of the same representation of saint Theodore, for it reproduces the text of a 12th century inscription connected to the first layer of paintings in this church. I did not mention the synkellos, as I am not sure that this title refers to a different person (if the modern copy of the text was incorrect, as it probably is in several segments, and the σὺν preposition did not appear in the original, synkellos could refer to the bishop of Veligosti. Last but not least, for a discussion concerning historical events of the same period and the manner in which the Kaphiona votive inscription belongs to a wider group of epigraphic texts dealing with similar matters, see Vassiliki Foskolou, ‘‛In the Reign of the Emperor of Rome …’: Donor Inscriptions and Political Ideology in the Time of Michael VIII Palaiologos’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 27 (2006), 456–457). 128 Cf. Katsafados, ‘New epigraphic evidence’, 297: “We shall consider as πόλις a settlement that measures between 3.0 and 7.0 ha, although slightly smaller areas could conditionally be accepted. In the principal inscription in the church’s apse the main donor appears to be Georgios, the bishop of Veligosti. The same highly ranked clergy official, the prelate of Veligosti, was likely involved in the commissioning of some of the fine illustrations in the church. If we assume he was involved also as the donor of the epigram in question, Veligosti would have been the town to which the epigram refers.” Cf. ibid., 298 (after the battle of Makryplagi): “In the same year Veligosti was in the hands of the Franks and the Orthodox bishop Georgios, the donor of the Kaphiona church, having likely been expelled from his town, was temporarily residing in the Byzantine-controlled Mani.” 129 The identification of the city in question with Ano Poula (ibid., 298–299), possible site of the Grand Magne castle according to Παναγιώτης Σταμ. Κατσαφάδος, Τα Κάστρα της Μαΐνης (Athens, 1992), 159, is out of the question, as the importance of this settlement is questionable. Moreover, the Latin expeditions never reached that far South.
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their protection against enemies, and about nemesis.130 Oddly, the ideas of the Kaphiona epigrams mirror the ones from Rutebeuf’s Complaint, as if both sides were engaged in a rhetorical war concerning True Faith. The second tone in the kontakion of the angels sung on 8 November for the Synaxis of the holy Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and all the bodiless powers addresses them as ‘supreme leaders of God’s armies’, so the presence of the two inscriptions on opposite walls, facing each other in the Kaphiona church, consequently begs for a comparison of the Archangels from the second epigram to the Scholarii from the first one, who, in turn, mirror the heavily-armoured Latin knights, whom they must face as representatives of the Archangels. The Melismos painted in the sanctuary apse can also be linked to the notion of a holy war (indirectly). The orant saint depicted in the place of Theotokos in the sanctuary apse can be a local Maniot choice, as other saints appear in similar positions in Saint-Pantaleon of Ano Boularii, much earlier, or in Saint-John-the-Theologian of Gardenitsa.131 However, the presence of the Melismos cannot be interpreted along the same lines.132 “While the introduction of the Melismos into the sanctuary programme may be seen as a response to changes in the text and performance of the liturgy as well as a reflection of internal debates within the Orthodox Church, its prominent placement at the centre of the apse may demonstrate a reaction to certain questions that 130 Katsafados, ‘New epigraphic evidence’, 297, for a reconstruction of the original text and its translation: “† Having put my lips upon divine-illuminating light, I wished (to be guided by you) to oppose | † (and) stand for nemesis; do not acquiesce the enemy to be | † fortuitous, the people (or adoration) of whom (= enemy), winged-one, you repel.” And the reconstructed original text: † Φωτὸς θεαυγοῦς ἠσπασ[άμην] ἅπτου ηὐχόμην | † ἱστ’ ἐν νεμέσει νὴ ὑπὲρ ἐχθροῦ εἶεν | † τύχαι οὗ τε Πτερωτὲ ἀντέχει κόσμον. 131 Cf. Drandakis, ‘Kaphiona’, 173, notes 6 and 19. 132 Ibid., 168, considered that the representation of the Melismos in Kaphiona was odd, because the bearded Christ (as in other churches of Mani) had blood spitting out of his side, which was gathered in the chalice placed at His left (Fig. 24). N. Drandakis noticed similar cases in the churches of Saint-John-Chrysostom in Geraki (c.1300), quoting from Ν.Κ. Μουτσόπουλος, Γ. Δημητροκάλλης, Γεράκι: οι εκκλησίες του οικισμού (Thessalonica: Κέντρο Βυζαντινών Ερευνών – ΑΠΘ, 1981), 224 and the colour plate 4; and Saint-George in Malea ( fresques inédites), believing this to be a Maniot peculiarity. Cf. Sharon E.J. Gerstel, Beholding the Sacred Mysteries. Programs of the Byzantine Sanctuary (Seattle/London: College Art Association/University of Washington Press, 1999), 41, for whom the first depiction of this theme (in Kurbinovo, late 12th century) presents an adult, as in other (rare) cases, too, even though most scenes depict Him as an infant. In view of her research, and given these precedents, I believe that the Kaphiona representation is not necessarily odd. For the blood spilling out in a chalice, see p. 41: “A double stream of blood and water, separated artistically through the use of white and red paint, flows into a chalice from the open wound on Christ’s right side.”
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divided the Latin and Orthodox churches.”133 This was the Byzantine way of conjuring up an anti-Latin crusade. I do not wish to discuss the ‘quality’ of the Kaphiona paintings (Fig. 24–25), for its assessment would lead to conjectures. Still, the Kaphiona church belongs to a category of rather small single-nave churches of Mani, having more or less about the same size as several rural foundations. In this case, the very idea of ascribing the commissioning of the Kaphiona painting to the brother of the emperor and to a bishop seems quite peculiar. A similar oxymoronic situation can be noted in the phrasing of the epigrams, coupled with obvious misspellings. The easiest explanation, to the best of my knowledge, would be that the persons responsible for the choice of texts and imagery were not present when the decoration was finally accomplished. In other words, certainly after the summer of 1264.
…
During those hard times when prince William was desperately fighting the Nicaeans in the Peloponnesus, his nephew Geoffrey was nowhere to be found. The ‘best knight in the world’ had left his wife Isabella at home, eloping to Italy with the ‘most beautiful woman in the whole of Romania’, the wife of his vassal, John of Katavas. The one and only John, hero of the battle of Prinitsa.134 John might have been some sort of Leonidas, but his wife was clearly no Gorgo. Even though they were living in perilous times, with the Nicaeans knocking at their gates, William’s retainers probably made fun of this story in court. They would joke that Lancelot and Tristan eloped with the wives of their liege-lords, not with the wives of their vassals. They would discuss even local examples, like the Euboeote story of a poor knight named Licario, of a Vicentine and Veronese descendance, who had recently aspired to the hand of his lord’s niece, Felisa, widow of one of the triarchs of Euboea. After a passionate courtship, the lady had agreed to marry him, but this brought upon Licario the wrath of his lord, the triarch in whose house they were living. So, he ran away, trying to persuade the other lords of Euboea to help him obtain the pardon and accord of his wife’s uncle, but none of them helped him. He was a petty knight, with a single castle in the vicinity of Karystos, high up on a mountain in a place called Anemopyla (Thermopylae in Sanudo’s account). Alone and fearing the triarch’s wrath, poor Licario turned to the Nicaeans, offering his 133 Gerstel, Beholding the Sacred Mysteries, 47, for the quotation. 134 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 156–157. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 154. For the Greek text, see Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 237.
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services to Alexius Philanthropenos, the admiral of Michael VIII Palaeologus, joining a number of Latin renegades.135 Geoffrey was not a poor knight like Licario. Moreover, his valiant deeds were very much appreciated, so some of the nobles would indulge him. These Latins would compare the wife of old knight John to Guinevere, or to Iseult, for they enjoyed such stories as much as the pure-bred French of France. John of Ibelin, for instance, had organised an Arthurian tournament in Cyprus in 1233. Henry II of Lusignan celebrated his coronation in Acre (1286) by playing a game of the Knights of the Round Table. The crusaders brought many Arthurian romances with them on the way to the Holy Land.136 Last but not least, the 1266 inventory made at Acre at the death of Otto of Nevers mentions a songbook and two epic manuscripts, maybe two songs-of-deeds or a song-of-deeds and a chronicle.137 Even Guy de la Roche could have brought the newest manuscript instalments of those long Merlin, Holy Grail, or Palamedes series from France, just as any other fellow Latin nobleman could bring them from elsewhere, provided that he travelled abroad in Latin-held lands. The late 13th century bifolium fragment of an Old French Prose Tristan used as reinforcement for the covers of a mid-15th century Greek manuscript bound together in the island of Chios testifies to the circulation of Arthurian texts in the Aegean during the Latin occupation. That fragment is not very different from the many other fragments recently discovered in the mosque of Damascus and containing texts from the times of the crusades (songs-of-deeds, hagiographic poems, etc.). It only demonstrates that the Western texts that circulated in the Crusader States of the Holy Land also circulated in the Latin-held Greek lands.138 The local Moreote 135 Hopf ed., Chroniques gréco-romaines, 119–120. 136 Francesca Rizzo Nervo (ed.), Il vecchio cavaliere (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 2000), 24–28. 137 Cf. A.-M. Chazaud, ‘Inventaire et comptes de la succession d’Eudes, comte de Nevers (Acre 1266)’, Mémoires de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France, 32 (1871), 188: Li dui grant romanz et li Chançoners pro XXXIbes. Ce fu li romanz des Loheranz et li romanz de la terre d’outre mer, et li Chançoners. For Jaroslav Folda, Crusader Art in the Holy Land, From the Third Crusade to the Fall of Acre, 1187–1291 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 357, the romance of Loheranz would be Garin le Lorrain (or any of the other four songs-of-deeds composing the Geste des Lorrains, in my opinion), and the romance of the land of Outremer would be the chronicle of William of Tyre (or the Eracles, its French translation, I would say), but the latter could just as well be a song-of-deeds from the First of Second Cycle of the Crusade (vide infra the discussion about the literary source of the lost murals from the palace of Thebes). 138 For the Chios manuscript and the use of the Tristan fragment in its covers, see Mario Pelaez, ‘Un frammento del romanzo francese in prosa di Tristano’, Studi medievali, 2 (1929), 198–204. The Greek manuscript is preserved at the Vatican Library, gr. 870. The Tristan fragment was extracted and bound in another manuscript of the Vatican
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lords could liken Geoffrey’s flight to Italy to the rapt of Helen by Paris, a tale that everybody knew. In a resverie written a little bit earlier – one of those Old French wordplay poems later misinterpreted as products of unconscious mind by the Surrealists, Philip of Rémi (1210–1265) wrote in jest that he knew the romance of Helen from the first to the last chapter (de chief en chief), but that this gave him a terrible headache (dolor au chief) that almost knocked him dead.139 He was probably right. Famous tales often give me headaches as well. More inclined to see the bad side of the story and maybe jealous of ‘the most beautiful woman in the whole of Romania’, the ladies would compare Isabella, the wife of Geoffrey, to saint Radegund, persecuted by her royal husband. The affair could have religious undertones and Anna herself would think of stories from her own family. Towards the end of the 13th century, the Constantinopolitan monk Job Melias Iasites wrote the life of her mother, Theodora of Arta, canonized as a saint.140 He described the despotissa’s tribulations when the devil could not endure her Christian piety and punished her by making her husband weak and lustful. Consumed by lust and beguiled by sorcery, Michael had fallen in love with a woman from a noble family, Gangrini (γυναικὶ γάρ τινι ἐξ εὐγενῶν Γαγγρηνῇ τὸ ἐπώνυμον). He started hating his wife and chased her away. In his lunacy, Michael brought the Maenad to court in her place (τὴν μαινάδα φρενωβλαβῶς συνηγάγετο)141 and ordered his subjects not to shelter his wife, not to praise her, not even to mention her name. For five years Theodora lived out in the open, without a home, and carrying a baby in her arms (Anna’s brother, Nicephorus), for she had been pregnant when Michael sent her away. However, she never insulted God, she always prayed to Him, until a miracle happened. A priest from a local village took her home and protected her, while the leading men from her husband’s court grasped the evil woman and hanged her, bringing the sorcery to an end. Oh, what good they Library, lat. 13501, fols. 68ra–69vb. The fragmentary French text talks about the invasion of Cornwall by the Saxons, the imprisonment of Tristan, and the lovers’ departing for Logres. The online catalogue dates it to the last quarter of the 13th century (1275 to 1299). For the Damascus fragments, see Laura Minervini, ‘Sui frammenti epici della moschea di Damasco (Fierabras, lasse 106–108, 117–118)’, in Paolo Di Luca, Doriana Piacentino (dir.), Codici, testi, interpretazioni: studi sull’epica romanza medievale (Naples: University Press, 2015), 93–103. 139 For the original text, see Barbara N. Sargent-Baur (ed., trans.), Philippe de Remi: Jehan et Blonde, Poems and Songs. Edited from Paris, BNF fr. 1588, Paris BNF fr. 24006, and Paris BNF fr. 837, with an English Translation of Jehan et Blonde (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 557 (no 24–25). 140 Cf. Λέανδρος Ι. Βρανούσης, Χρονικά της Μεσαιωνικής και Τουρκοκρατούμενης Ηπείρου: εκδόσεις και χειρόγραφα (Ioannina: Εταιρεία Ηπειρωτικών Μελετών, 1962), 49–54. 141 PG 127:905B–C.
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did her (and God), for Michael finally came to his senses, welcomed her back, and they lived happily ever after. Or, in the words of the monk, “thereafter they both spent their life in peace and love for God, taking care for their own salvation. And they were honoured with the rank of despots, and bore children, and were elevated to a height of great glory, and both fought the good fight for virtue.”142 Little does it matter if some of these details could be conjured up for political reasons by a monk who wished to accentuate Michael’s evil doing, since he used to be an enemy of the Nicaean restoration of the Empire, while his holy wife Theodora had always taken the Nicaean side. From the standpoint of a religious woman like Theodora, her tribulations would have been way too much. Her sons and daughters could share in the memory of those tribulations. A sarcophagus in the narthex of the church of Saint-George in Arta has a representation of a crowned lady and a child dressed in imperial garb, flanked by Archangels and with a divine hand above. It was often interpreted as Theodora and her son Nicephorus.143 If this is so, then Nicephorus probably honoured the memory of his mother, and so did Anna, even when living in Morea. Maybe she pitied Isabella now, knowing that Geoffrey left her and her Greek subjects were in open revolt. She would not be the same Isabella whom she had seen in the ladies’ parliament of Nikli a couple of years before. Her father was away, her husband had left for Italy with his lover, and her lands were threatened by both Nicaeans and local Greeks. This new world that she was gradually discovering would seem rather duplicitous. At church, French lords and ladies would act piously and nod when the sermons said how they were supposed to lead their lives. In private, on the other hand, the same people would enjoy adulterous stories about valiant knights, beautiful ladies, and cuckolded kings. In those tales, magic was not bad and love potions were much appreciated. There were few Comnenian novels that dealt with similar stories, but drinking from the same cup was a metonymy for sharing erotic feelings.144 There were no potions, magic or witchcraft. There 142 Alice-Mary Talbot (trans.), ‘Life of St. Theodora of Arta’, in eadem (dir.), Holy Women of Byzantium. Ten Saints’ Lives in English Translation (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1996), 331, for the translation. For the original text, see PG 127:905B. 143 See for this Θεοχάρης Παζάρας, Ανάγλυφες σαρκοφάγοι και επιτάφιες πλάκες της μέσης και ύστερης Βυζαντινής περιόδου στην Ελλάδα (Athens: Έκδοση του Ταμείου Αρχαιολογικών Πόρων και Απαλλοτριώσεων, 1988), 42, who considers it a pseudo-sarcophagus of Theodora dating back to the late years of the 13th century. For a different interpretation (Anna, daughter-in-law of Theodora, and her son Thomas), see Branislav Cvetković, ‘The Investiture Relief in Arta, Epiros’, Zbornik radova vizantološkog instituta, 33 (1994), 103–114. 144 Cf. Roilos, Amphoteroglossia, 180.
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would be only allusions to ancient gods, heavily Christianised, so that everything remained a literary game. Anna would be confused. Latin priests and monks said in their sermons that magic was sorcery, and yet this sorcery was tolerated in non-religious texts. This happened because most people were not that interested to hear about God, did not really enjoy attending mass or acting in a Christian way. They were far happier when they were listening to the battles of Roland, Olivier, and other fictional heroes.145 For such people, Tristan and Iseult drank a love potion that caused them to fall madly in love with one another, but their love was not devilish. It was sacred and pure. Similar things happened in the tale of Cligès, the Greek knight from king Arthur’s court, whose lover planned to drink a potion to fake illness, so that she could reunite with him. This explains why Geoffrey’s demonic sin or temptation (ἀπὸ ἁμαρτίας δαιμονικῆς)146 is mentioned only in the Greek version of the Chronicle and not in the French one. Perhaps this is also why Geoffrey did not care for the opinion of others. Behaving like a teenager, he pretended to go on a pilgrimage, so that he may enjoy the affection of his vassal’s wife in a stress-free and carelessly undisturbed way. “He took her from Morea and went to Apulia, saying they would make a pilgrimage there to the monasteries, to the church of St. Nicholas at Bari, and that he would go to Rome and also to the church of the Archangel and the great monastery which is on a mountain peak near Manfredonia.”147 Today, the whole idea of pilgrimage seems comical, but it did not seem strange to a medieval man. Geoffrey probably pretended to do what many people from Morea did in those times. Pilgrimages to Bari would be recurrent. The 13th–14th century (?) church of Palaiopanagia in Manolada, often compared to the church 145 This text appears in a sermon for Passion Sunday from a group of nine sermons written for the days of Lent in the Walloon dialect of Liège, allegedly in the first third of the 13th century (according to the 19th century editor). This dating was challenged, since the text copied in the only manuscript (Ghent, University Library, 2178, Serrure 1) could not date before 1250. See for this the review of the edition by W.M. in Romania, 18/69 (1889), 191–192. For the original text, see Étienne Pasquet, ‘Sermons de Carême en dialecte wallon. Texte inédit du XIIIe siècle’, Mémoires couronnés et autres mémoires, publiées par l’Académie royale des sciences, des lettres et des beaux-arts de Belgique, 41 (1888), 42. The passage is widely quoted in medieval French literary studies, but always in a truncated form, with minor changes (adapted to the rules of contemporary editing of medieval French texts), as it was published by Michel Zink, La Prédication en langue romane avant 1300 (Paris: Champion, 1982), 9. 146 Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 237. 147 Lurier trans., Crusaders, 237. Cf. Καλονάρος ed., 237, for the original text of the Greek version. For the French version, see Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 157. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 154.
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of Merbaka and other churches of the same period,148 has an extended cycle of saint Nicholas in the northern chapel of the narthex. The enormous bust of the saint painted in the lower register of those murals was intended for devotional purposes, and the proximity of the Ionian Sea, three kilometres away, argues in favour of the pilgrimage to Bari.149 Geoffrey probably felt at home in Italy. Moreote noblemen and merchants must have made frequent voyages there. Most of them would speak the local language. There were also many Greeks in those lands. The two countries resembled one another and Manfred, the local king, was worried about the military confrontations in Morea, for he was brother-in-law to our Anna. He also made inquiries about Geoffrey’s visit and learnt from one of his men that 148 The dating of this monument is unconvincing. Χαράλαμπος Μπούρας, ‘Ἡ Παλαιοπαναγιὰ στὴ Μανωλάδα’, Επετηρίς Πολυτεχνικής Σχολής Αριστοτελείου Πανεπιστημίου Θεσσαλονίκης, 4 (1969), 233–266, dated it to the second half of the 12th century; cf. Μπούρας, Μπούρα, Η Eλλαδική ναοδομία, 224–226. According to Δημήτριος Χ. Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία στην Επισκοπή Ωλένης κατά την μέση και την ύστερη βυζαντινή περίοδο, PhD diss. (Αριστοτέλειο Πανεπιστήμιο Θεσσαλονίκης, Φιλοσοφική Σχολή, Τμήμα Ιστορίας και Αρχαιολογίας, 2006) 1:333–370, even though many features characterize churches of the 11th or 12th century, certain features are also characteristic of monuments from the time of the Frankokratia, and the preferred dating would be after 1300 (e.g. pp. 345, 346, 357–358, 362, and especially 366–368). However, most examples quoted for comparison date from the second half of the 13th century. Tourist guides adopted this other dating and present the church as being allegedly built in the 14th century on the site of the battle of Manolada, where Louis of Burgundy defeated Ferdinand of Majorca on 5 July 1316. This is a nice story, but purely conjectural (cf. Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία 1:368–369 for the same hypothesis). I am not convinced by the post-1300 arguments and I believe that a more prudent dating would be in the second half of the 13th century, based on analogies with Merbaka and other churches of that period, all while maintaining the 14th century dating as equally possible, just to be on the safe side of the discussion. 149 There is no need to date the paintings from the so-called Saint-Nicholas parecclesion of the church of Manolada after the 1316 battle, nor to connect them with Nicholas Le Maure, bailiff of the principality on behalf of the Angevins in 1314–1315/1316 (nothing is known about him after 1315). Cf. Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία 1:369. Next, he mentions Anthony le Flamenc surviving the 1311 battle against the Catalans and founding the church of Akrefnio, but the Akrefnio situation is quite different, as I will show in the next chapter. In my opinion, there were many lords bearing the name ‘Nicholas’ before and after Nicholas Le Maure, and the fact that a monument is located in the proximity of a battle does not mean that it is supposed to be connected with it. Vide infra the discussion about the Western features in the churches of the Elis. See e.g. Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 146, 148–149, who places Manolada in the same category as the church of Gastouni, based on formal affinities; an accurate dating would be the second half of the 13th century. There are no reasons to infer that the murals of the so-called parecclesion belong to a different phase of decoration. I suggest that the extended cycle of saint Nicholas and his huge bust depiction be linked to the popularity of this saint’s cult and to frequent Moreote pilgrimages to the relics in Bari.
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the lord of Karytaina was only pretending to be on a pilgrimage. In reality, he was there for the love of a woman, stolen from her husband.150 Hearing this, Manfred summoned Geoffrey to his court. Geoffrey sat next to him and continued to lie: he had taken a vow of pilgrimage, prepared to go as far as Rome, God willing, and so on and so forth.151 Perhaps Geoffrey would even look into the eyes of Manfred’s wife, Helen, without knowing that she, like her sister Anna, would instantly think of her mother’s tribulations in the wild. And then Manfred replied: – I am amazed, given your good sense, and your reputation as a renowned knight, that you have deserted your lord Prince Guillaume during such a fierce war with the Emperor of Constantinople, when he is in dire need of troops. A nobleman should not be a liar, nor should a soldier of your renown, and all noblemen should be greatly aggrieved and saddened to hear that they are in error. My lord of Karytaina, I want you to be advised and learn that I know the truth, the why and the wherefore of your presence here, and, by God, it grieves me because of your good reputation. The affair is an ugly one and I am loath to speak of it, but because I love you, I want to denounce your conduct, that you may understand clearly the wrong you have done. You deserted the Prince, your liege lord, who is fighting a fierce war with the Emperor, and you broke your oath, which you had given to him, and you are thus forsworn to your liege lord and unfaithful to him; and, on top of that, you have committed another unseemly act and great betrayal, for you have taken the lawfully wedded wife of the knight who is your liegeman, and keep company with the lady, although you are bound by an oath to her husband and he by one to you. Now, because of your renown and reputation, I allow you a long term, of fifteen days, to depart from my land and go to the Morea, and aid the Prince your lord in his wars. Should you be found on my land after the two weeks are up, then – I swear by my crown and by my very soul – I will immediately order that your head be struck off.152 In a short time, Geoffrey was back in Morea, landing in Glarentza. He asked where the prince was. He was in Andravida, where he held a parliament to 150 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 157. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 154–155. 151 Colantuoni ed., 157. Cf. Longnon ed., 156. 152 Lurier trans., Crusaders, 238–239, for the translation. Cf. Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 239–240, for the original text of the Greek version. The speech is less developed in the French version (Colantuoni ed., 157–158; cf. Longnon ed., 156).
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prepare against the arrival of new Nicaean contingents in Monemvasia. So – pop! – goes the weasel to his uncle. If the barons were already there, they would take his side, and the prince would have to pardon him for sure. That is why he did not stay long in Glarentza. He hastily found horses and rode with his men to Andravida. The barons were already informed of his arrival. They rode out to greet him. There were cheers of joy, his bravery reinvigorated theirs, and they all went in a straight line to the Dominican church of Saint-Sophia, where William held court (Fig. 28–29).153 Geoffrey greeted his uncle, but the uncle was angry with him. Customarily, Geoffrey tied a belt to his neck and knelt in front of William. This meant that he became his serf, staking himself, his family, and his possessions. The barons also knelt, begging forgiveness – Geoffrey was of William’s blood, but most of all because he was one the most noble knights of the world, and brave.154 The prince was annoyed. This would be Geoffrey’s second treason, but he had to acquiesce to the barons’ request. He pardoned his nephew, but Geoffrey would not hold his lands in the same way as he held them before, from the time of the conquest.155 There was more to this scene than meets the eye. Begging forgiveness collectively for the sake of a guilty knight is a topos of Western medieval romances, just as is the mercy of the liege lord. Such standard behaviour was predictable in a Western context, where a ruler had to be merciful simply because he was responsible for peace, a projection onto the secular world of the divine order reigning from above.156 When Geoffrey prostrated himself at William’s feet in Andravida, he was counting on William to respect the code. By then, Anna would have assimilated these notions. Maybe not the precise meaning of the belt tied to a knight’s neck, but five, or six years spent living among these Latins would be sufficient enough to master the intricacies of the French code. It is also interesting to note that the entire scene is supposed to take place in the only monument of Andravida preserved to this day, the Dominican church of Saint-Sophia, even though it is highly unlikely that the scene actually happened there. The French version of the Chronicle, written in the early 14th century, is mistaken. The church in question would still be under construction in the 1260s, and even later on, after the death of prince William.157 The essential 153 154 155 156
Colantuoni ed., 158–159. Cf. Longnon ed., 157–158. Colantuoni ed., 159. Cf. Longnon ed., 158–159. Colantuoni ed., 160. Cf. Longnon ed., 159–160. See e.g. Dominique Boutet, Charlemagne et Arthur ou le Roi imaginaire (Paris: Champion, 1992), 182, 186. Cf. Georges Duby, Les Trois ordres ou l’imaginaire du féodalisme (Paris: Gallimard, 1978), 64. 157 For a different opinion, see Mary Lee Coulson, ‘The Dominican church of Saint Sophia at Andravida’, in Peter Lock, G.D.R. Sanders (dir.), The Archaeology of Medieval Greece
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argument is the presence of several coat of arms on a capital retrieved from the church of Saint-Sophia (Fig. 29b). It shows two sets of coats of arms sculpted upon its four sides. One of them looks like the Villehardouin one, a reference to the initial founder, while the other presents an impalement testifying to the times of Isabella of Villehardouin, Anna’s daughter, and her second husband, Florent of Hainaut.158 That the church of Saint-Sophia in Andravida was begun by Isabella’s father, prince William, this goes without saying, not least because it was built by Greek artisans in a time when mixed workshops worked in the area.159 But it was not finished during the lifetime of prince William. Byzantine features appearing in manifestly Western churches should not surprise us. The reverse was equally possible. Leaving aside the church of Gastouni, I would argue that the small three-aisled basilica of Glatsa (presentday Anilio), whose side-aisle colonnades were reduced to two arcades formed by a single column, looks like a curious mixture of the Byzantine Greek-cross (Oxford, Oxbow Books, 1996), 50, who believes that the conventual buildings were beyond the initial stages when nephew Geoffrey met with prince William. Cf. p. 53, who argued that the Dominicans were probably in Andravida before the death of Geoffrey II of Villehardouin, since the Chlemoutsi castle had fireplaces presenting the same chamfering as some columns of the church of Saint-Sophia in Andravida, dating thus to approximately the same time. However, I am unaware of a proper study on this subject and a simple conjecture is not enough to accept such an early dating. 158 For a slightly different opinion, see Bon, ‘Pierres inscrites’, 90, who attributed the two coats of arms to Isabella of Villehardouin (the purely Villehardouin one) and Florent of Hainaut (the mixed one). Cf. Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 114: “a capital decorated with the coat of arms of the Villehardouin princes[s] and of Florent of Hainaut, dated 1289–97.” Cf. Myrto Georgopoulou-Verra, Demetrios Athanasoulis, s.v., ‘On the Principality of Achaea (1205–1430)’, in Yiannis Toumazis et al. (dir.), Σταυροφορίες: Μύθος και πραγματικότητα/Crusades: myth and realities (Nicosia: NiMAC, 2004), 164, where it becomes a “capital with the coat of arms of the Prince of Achaea Florent de Hainaut and his wife Isabelle de Villehardouin, Andravida, Eleia, Greece (1289–1297).” The mixed coat of arms actually belongs to the couple Isabella-Florent. The rules of impalement suggest that the husband’s arms are shown in the dexter half (the baron side), with the wife’s paternal arms in the sinister half (the femme side). Indeed, the curious mixture of a rampant lion in the baron side with a bend may be found in the arms of Florent of Hainaut – a ‘sable’ lion rampant and a ‘gules’ and ‘argent’ bend compony on an ‘or’ field, while the Villehardouin cross appears on the femme side. The purely Villehardouin coat of arms – a ‘sable’ cross recercelée upon an ‘or’ field, well documented in a Camden Roll of c.1280 (Prince de la Morree, l’escu d’or od un fer de molyn de sable; Brault ed., Eight Thirteenth Century Rolls, 70), would nevertheless belong to her father, since Isabella would be expected to use a lozenge instead of a shield for her coat of arms, as she was a woman. 159 As an undeniable proof of this early beginnings of the monument, the use of bricks to complete various layers when an exact square stone block was not available testifies to a local Greek presence and to the fact that those Greek masons practiced the Byzantine brick-and-stone cloisonné style. Louvi-Kizi, ‘Modes de construction’, 345.
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plan with Western models.160 Perhaps it dates to the time when Anna had already become the wife of William of Villehardouin.161 There was nothing special about this basilica plan. Precedents with two pairs of columns can be noticed in the churches of Vlacherne and Zourtsa, in the same region, or in the Kato Panagia of Arta, built at the request of Anna’s own father, in Epirus. All of them had tripartite vaulted sanctuaries and vaulted narthexes, so the plan was well used in Byzantine churches. However, the single columns of the Glatsa narthex look odd because they are isolated, alone on each side of the nave. Even though the upper part of the church, with its timber roof, would look strikingly similar to Italian basilicas (or to any basilica for that matter), its lower part begs for comparisons with the plan of a cross-in-square church. Besides, ‘some of [the church’s] architectural features (interior proskynetaria, string courses, cornices and doorframes) have an undisputable Gothic character, but some others (type of masonry, dentil courses, interior cornices, windows of the apses) fit well with the established architectural vocabulary of 12th century 160 D. Athanasoulis noted similar combinations in other churches: “On the other hand, the similarities between the elongated ground plans of basilicas and the cross-in-square churches of Elis (Savior, Katholike) should not be attributed to Gothic influence but rather associated to the corresponding tendency in Palaiologan architecture, as seen in the monuments of Mystras”; Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 146. Cf. Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία, 1:263–264. See also Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 146, for his point of view on the Panagia of Glatsa: “The Gothic typological influences are restricted and debatable. In three-aisled basilicas, the combination of wooden-roofed aisles and a vaulted sanctuary, as in the Blachernai and in the Panagia church in Glatsa, two monuments with strong Western influence, is relatively rare in Byzantine church building, whereas it can be found in corresponding structures in all of the region’s large Gothic churches.” 161 Cf. Χαράλαμπος Μπούρας, ‘Η φραγκοβυζαντινή εκκλησία της Θεοτόκου στο Ανήλιο (τ. Γκλάτσα) Ηλείας’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 12 (1984), 239–264, who considered that the church should be dated to the early 13th century. He believed that Glatsa (Anilio) should be compared to the catholicon of Vlacherne monastery, close to Glarentza, in the Elis, or to the Saint-George church outside the castle of Androussa, and that the three monuments could be built by the same masons. See also Bouras, ‘The Impact’, 249–250. Cf. the initial opinion of Δημήτριος Αθανασούλης, ‘Μεσαιωνικά εκκλησιαστικά μνημεία Ηλείας. Προκαταρκτική παρουσίαση νέων στοιχείων από την τοπογραφική και αρχαιολογική έρευνα’, in Bούλα Kόντη (dir.), Ο Μοναχισμός στην Πελοπόννησο (4ος–15ος αιώνας). Πρακτικά του Διεθνούς Συμποσίου του ΙBE/EIE (Athens: Εθνικό Ίδρυμα Ερευνών, 2004), 264–265 (a single phase for the monument, also dated to the early 13th century). Cf. Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία, 1:198–199, who changed his opinion after a thorough analysis of the monument and re-dated both Vlacherne and Glatsa. Based on certain morphological differences in Western-style elements and an absence of common construction features, he argued that the workshop working at Glatsa should be dated to the second half of the 13th century and that it would be different from the one working earlier at the reconstruction of Vlacherne (mid- or shortly after the middle of the 13th century).
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Greece’.162 Adding to this the exterior cloisonné brick-and-stone façades, strongly contrasting with the interior built in a smooth Western isodomic masonry,163 one is left with the impression that the architect had the intention of mixing Greek and Western features. This impression is further substantiated by the Gothic capitals of the two proskynetaria colonnettes, clearly intended for an Orthodox use.164 Would this be a Catholic or an Orthodox foundation? Frankly, there are not enough data to reach a conclusion. The mention of prince William’s Catholic and Orthodox monastic foundations in his testament, as it is presented by the Greek version of the Chronicle, suggests that Glatsa could be either Catholic or Orthodox.165 The prince probably employed Western craftsmen for his Orthodox foundations, just as he employed local Greek masons for his Catholic ones. And Glatsa is not the only puzzling case among the Moreote church corpus. Even though an old hypothesis about the passage of the Vlacherne monastery church from an Orthodox community (first phase of the monument, late 12th century) to a second one, Catholic and Franciscan (early 13th century)166 was rejected, the current hypothesis dating both phases of the church in the time of prince William still speaks of Vlacherne as being a Catholic foundation.167 The chief arguments for this interpretation are an Agnus Dei keystone in the rib-vaulted narthex belonging to the second phase, a 15th century funerary slab with a Latin inscription, and the presence of a templon (indicative of the Orthodox rite) that was pulled down at a later date. Nevertheless, an Agnus Dei arch keystone appears also in the Parigoritissa of Arta (Epirus), as we shall see at the end of this chapter, in a perfectly Orthodox milieu, so it cannot 162 Μπούρας, ‘Ανήλιο (τ. Γκλάτσα)’, 263. 163 Cf. Louvi-Kizi, ‘Modes de construction’, 346. 164 Cf. Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία, 1:197–198, who discusses the Western capitals and compares the use of proskynetaria in Glatsa with those of Merbaka, among others, also insisting on the fact that they characterize the Orthodox tradition, not the Catholic one. 165 The church was identified with one of the possible locations of an otherwise unidentified Camina monastery (another option being the church of the Vlacherne monastery), but no reasons whatsoever were provided for this interpretation. Cf. Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, Christopher Schabel, ‘Of burning monks, unidentified churches and the last Cistercian foundation in the East: Our Lady of Camina in the Principality of Achaia’, Journal of Medieval History, 41/1 (2015), 60–87 (vide infra a discussion in the next chapter). In truth, its overall Orthodox features, surpassing the Western ones, place the church of Glatsa in the same category as the church of Merbaka: a perfectly Byzantine one, possibly serving either confessions, or even a mixed community. 166 Αναστάσιος Κ. Ορλάνδος, ‘Αι Βλαχέρναι της Ηλείας’, Αρχαιολογική Εφημερίς, 15 (1923), 5–35; Παναγιώτης Παπαδημητρίου, Αλεξάνδρα Καραχάλιου, Αι Βλαχέρναι της Ηλείας (Ιστορική μελέτη) (Pyrgos, 1971). 167 Αθανασούλης, Η ναοδομία, 1:181–184, for a synthesis of the current hypothesis.
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constitute a definitive argument, while the slab and the destruction of the templon may be indicative of changes at a later date (14th–15th century). The most recent hypothesis compares Vlacherne with the Merbaka church and with other churches from Epirus, also imagining the possibility that Vlacherne was built by the same workshop who worked at Merbaka and at the church of Saint-George in Androusa (Messenia).168 Therefore the doubts concerning Merbaka (was it made for the Latin or for the Byzantine rite?) must be transferred to Vlacherne, too. It is of little consequence that the second phase of the Vlacherne church heavily featured Western elements. This does not mean that the church was made for the Latins, since Western elements appear in the first phase, too, and, despite the formal division of that region’s monuments into two categories presenting Western features (rare Western features – Gastouni or Manolada, and fully integrated ones – Vlacherne or Glatsa),169 I believe that form does not actually account for a specific meaning. The proskynetaria-icons from Vlacherne, similar to the proskynetaria-icons from the church of Glatsa, further support this idea. There were other proskynetaria-icons in the church of Merbaka, but they cannot help us determine whether Merbaka was Catholic or Orthodox. The only churches that can be clearly defined as Catholic and Latin are the ones dating from the early years of the occupation, like the monastery of Isova, by that time already devastated, or the new foundations of prince William, like the Dominican church of Saint-Sophia in Andravida (Fig. 28–29). That these foundations were Catholic, this is beyond doubt. They were filled with sculptures, more or less preciously carved (some of them rudimentary too), and there were coats of arms, so that the viewer may recognize the mark of the lords contributing to their decoration. This suggests that the cultural code used in the creation of those monuments was entirely Western. Since a Western code linked with profane imagery, heraldry, and politics accounts for a Western message, those churches were probably Catholic, just like the church of the Holy-Apostles in Oropos, close to the castle of Sykamino (Attica), where 168 Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, 150. 169 When dealing with the monuments of the Elis, ibid., 146, 148–149, argues that Gothic influences in Greek church architecture were reduced to structure and morphology, dividing these monuments “into two groups, depending on their degree of assimilation of Western ways and forms”: 1) “isolated Gothic architectural elements […] implanted in purely Byzantine-style buildings without affecting the monument’s character” (the Gastouni and Manolada churches, already mentioned in this chapter); 2) “Gothic and ‘Gothicizing’ features in an organic fashion […], inseparable parts of a unified whole in terms of design and execution,” testifying to a “fusion of Western features and Byzantine tradition” (the Vlacherne monastery church and the two churches of Glatsa).
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the Foscarini coat of arms was displayed on a column capital.170 Nevertheless, these blunt assumptions should not be generalised to the scale of all cultural acts of the Peloponnesus. Greeks soon assimilated Western cultural and political codes, too. And the strange thing is that these Greeks were not the ones living under a Latin rule. Things started to get blurry. Less than a generation after the 1263–1264 confrontations, the Latin code of earthly power crossed the border into enemy lands. For instance, an inscription tells us that the paintings from the church of Karynia (Fig. 26), in Mesa Mani, a land reconquered by the Nicaeans, date back to 1281.171 Their delicate strokes and exquisite colours suggest that the small rural foundation, a mere pile of stones when seen from the outside, was once more or less connected to artistic fashions coming from abroad. Military saints charged the side walls of the church, headed for its templon, and conveyed a belligerent feeling. Meanwhile, in the sanctuary axis, the first thing that one sees through the opening is an eagle with spread wings (Fig. 27). It hides its heraldic Western features in plain sight, between the Comnenian-style bishop saints depicted full frontal, à l’ancienne. However, from a heraldic standpoint, this eagle is pure nonsense. An ‘or’ eagle with ‘gules’ crown and claws upon an ‘argent’ field contradicts one of the basic tenets of heraldry: a metal never overlaps another metal. So the explanation needs to be searched elsewhere, even though the clearly Westernised shape puts it in the category of eagles used in heraldry.172 When taking a look at Byzantine symbols of power, nebulous as their rules may be, one may notice that single-headed golden eagles with red claws appear only on the suppedion of Michael VIII Palaeologus, while double-headed eagles are used by the emperor before him, and by Andronicus, his son.173 The Karynia eagle would actually make sense if inter170 Kitsiki Panagopoulos, Cistercian and Mendicant Monasteries, 152. 171 For the dating of the inscription, as well as for the destruction of the name of the emperor and patriarch, see Katsafados, ‘The Eagle from the Apse’, 39–41, 48–54. 172 Cf. ibid., who does not exclude this interpretation, but prefers one in which the heraldic features of the eagle suggest a better knowledge of Western cultural codes. 173 A good synthesis is provided by Hubert de Vries, ‘Byzantium: Arms and Emblems’, online at the author’s site (National Arms and Emblems: Past and Present) on July 14 (http://www.hubert-herald.nl/ByzantiumArms.htm. Accessed 2020 April 18), summarizing data originating in August Heisenberg, Aus der Geschichte und Literatur der Palaiologenzeit (Munich: Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1920): the suppedion of Theodore II Lascaris, painted on fol. VI from Venice, Biblioteca Marciana, gr. 404 (an ‘or’ two-headed eagle upon ‘gules’); suppedion of Michael VIII, painted on fol. 174r of Munich, cod. gr. 442, and fol. 100r of Venice, Biblioteca Marciana, gr. 404 (an ‘or’ single-headed eagle upon ‘gules’, haloed); suppedion of Andronicus II, painted on the chrysobull now in the collections of the Byzantine Museum of Athens, 1
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preted in connection with the Byzantine emperor who reconquered and ruled Constantinople from 1261 to 1282, that is, the time when the Karynia church was painted, particularly since the names of the emperor and patriarch were mutilated in the ktetorial inscription, probably as a consequence of the damnatio memoriae enforced by his son after Michael’s death in 1282. This also explains why heraldic rules (gold on silver never used) were not followed – because they were not known or (if known) because they were beside the point. In Karynia, the painter used the white colour from the background of the ktetorial inscription and he perhaps wished to declare the ktetors’ allegiance to Michael VIII. It could be an answer to the possible presence of the Villehardouin cross, also extracted from its shield, on the architrave from Lagia, discussed in the introduction. In such a case, the painter and the ktetors borrowed and reused a Latin cultural code. Even though the following idea may sound outrageous, I believe that the Karynia eagle serves a similar yet different purpose to the Melismos painted in the church of Kaphiona after the Nicaean campaign of 1263–1264 (Fig. 24). I am not sure whether the Karynia eagle is connected with the Union of Lyon174 and I do not find it useful to speak about the Arsenite schism, for it would lead to chancy conjectures. That is because I wish to avoid confusing two completely different codes (political versus theological). I also notice the emphatic use of (an ‘or’ two-headed eagle upon ‘gules’). Cf. Robert Ousterhout, ‘Byzantium between East and West and the Origins of Heraldry’, in Colum Hourihane (dir.), Byzantine Art: Recent Studies (Tempe: ACMRS, 2009), 160, for a brief mention of the differences between the suppedion of Michael VIII (with single-headed eagles) and that of Andronicus II (with double-headed eagles). Given the analysis of George Stričević, ‘The Double-Headed Eagle: An Imperial Emblem?’, in 5th Annual Byzantine Conference. Abstracts and Papers (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1979), 39–40, who links the suppedion with the shield used in the ritual elevation of Byzantine emperors, an analogy between eagles on Western shields and the eagles used on Lascarid and Palaeologan suppedia may be sustained, so the conceptor of the Karynia murals could have tried to convey a political statement via a depiction in the axis of the sanctuary. The initiative would be entirely Byzantine, since heraldic rules were not respected and Westerners did not know much about Byzantine symbols of power either. Cf. Ousterhout, ‘Byzantium between East and West’, 159, for the confusion of various Nicaean symbols in the Wijnbergen Armorial (c.1265–1270). The heraldic treatise ascribed an otherwise unattested coat of arms to Michael VIII, defined as le roi de pariologre. This imaginary coat of arms was based on the presence of B symbols on Palaeologan banners. 174 This chapter was written at the same time as the article of P. Katsafados. We often discussed the meaning of the Karynia eagle in our conversations. This accounts for our shared reading of some features, but also for the differences in our interpretations. It is perhaps useful to state here that I agree with his hypothesis about the possible presence of a Jewish community in connection with the church of Karynia, but I cannot use it my research.
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the eagle in the sanctuary axis, but I believe that its message is political and not theological, probably because Western coats of arms depicted in the Latin churches of the Peloponnesus did not convey any theological message either. They were purely decorative and political: an affirmation of the secular lord’s power, not of the Catholic Church itself. This explains why the Palaeologan eagle from Karynia was painted between full-frontal bishops, typical for pre-1204 times. If the conceptor of the mural programme wished to use the common 13th century iconography of the sanctuary, with bishops in profile, officiating the liturgy, his option would be dangerous. In that arrangement, the eagle would take the place of the Melismos. The full-frontal Comnenian bishops, on the other hand, allowed for the eagle to play the part of a mere ornament, isolated from the other figures of the sanctuary, with a purely political message that did not disturb the carefully crafted iconographic programme of the church. A theological code was therefore replaced with a political code, and this happened in a sanctuary, not on some capital columns, like in Kastania, at a much later date.175 This was extremely odd. The message was clearly Byzantine, but the code was Latin. And still, this does not account for the odd heraldic features of the eagle. I believe that they may originate in the prototype used for the painting. The model could be any eagle from a Western coat of arms, painted in a church, or elsewhere, provided that its tinctures were changed to fit those of the Palaeologan eagle. But I do not exclude a textile or ceramic decoration.176 The only thing that probably interested the Maniots of Karynia and their painter was the eagle itself, as a shape (Fig. 27), and nothing more, so the fact that its features looked Western did not matter much back then. What mattered most was that the eagle was golden, exactly as the eagle of emperor Michael was supposed to be, and the ktetors were probably not aware that they had been tricked into playing a game of stimulus diffusion. For them, this was a Byzantine symbol of power. Little did it matter that they used it in the same way the Latins filled their churches with worldly coats of arms.
…
Many things happened in the years to come. Anna gave birth to two daughters. Isabella was born in the terrible years before or after the period when William was a prisoner of Michael VIII Palaeologus. Margaret was born in quieter times, perhaps around 1266. As any lord of his time, William probably wished 175 See the sixth chapter, dedicated to Isabella of Lusignan, for a discussion about Kastania. 176 I thank Sophia Kalopissi-Verti and Anastasia Yangaki for the textile and ceramic ideas.
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for a son, but the Salic law was not enforced in Morea, so his daughters could still play an important part in the dynastic succession. Nevertheless, the same year news arrived from Italy that Anna’s sister Helen had lost her husband. Manfred had been vanquished by Charles of Anjou, brother to the French king. Charles had been appointed king of Southern Italy by the pope. He captured Helen when she was escaping to Greece, and he imprisoned her at Naples. Anna never saw her. Helen died in that Italian prison. William, on the other hand, went to Italy and paid homage to the new conqueror, because he needed allies against the Nicaeans. In 1267, he became Charles’ vassal and Leonardo da Veroli signed the treaty of Viterbo as his representative. William had taken this decision after long consultations with the Moreote lords, and Anna would not like that particular idea. First, on account of her sister’s imprisonment. Secondly, because that meant that her daughters would eventually be facing great risks upon their father’s death. William must have placated her into submission, for he took their eldest daughter and betrothed her to the son of Charles. Upon his return to Morea, the people rejoiced, but the good times were long gone. They had an overlord across the sea and Leonardo da Veroli moved to Italy, where he became Charles’ master of accounts in 1275. Maybe Anna missed not only her eldest daughter, but Leonardo’s precious advice, too. Those were some really hard times to live in. The Nicaeans attacked them again, naturally, but this was not necessarily the worst news for her. Michael her father died in 1268 and the Epirote domains were split: her good brother Nicephorus I Comnenus Doucas had taken Epirus, staying in Arta, while John I Doucas, the bastard from her father’s misalliances and traitor of Pelagonia, had taken Thessaly, staying in Neopatras. Her mother Theodora founded the convent of Saint-George in the Epirote capital, Arta, where she retired after Michael’s death, becoming a nun. Mother died shortly after 1270 and the Epirote Greeks venerated her. After some time, news would arrive to Anna that her mother had become a saint. Our princess would be puzzled. She would not understand how this had come to be. Estranged in her Moreote life, she had become a Westerner in many ways. She would feel out of touch with the purely Orthodox world of yore. When news about the Second Council of Lyon arrived in Morea, they would be happy, for the Nicaeans could not attack them anymore. They had signed a truce with Charles of Anjou. Maybe even that lover-boy Licario, who had once fled the island of Euboea and was now back with a vengeance, conquering it for the Nicaeans, would take a break and leave the poor Venetian noblemen in peace. Regrettably, Licario did not leave them alone and things continued to change at a quick pace. Nephew Geoffrey died in 1275. Two years later, his widow Isabella married Hugh of
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Brienne, in 1277. By then, Anna was staying in the castle of Chlemoutsi.177 And then Leonardo returned for a brief time from across the sea, but Leonardo was now a different man. He had changed. Her husband William seemed changed as well. Anna probably saw Leonardo again in Glarentza, where he came to join all the Moreote nobles in the parliament deciding in the matter of the inheritance of Margaret of Passava. By that time, the old port of Saint-Zachariah had grown into an actual town, filled with Italians from many cities.178 Franciscans had also built a large church there, dedicated to saint Francis, and the parliament took place in it (Fig. 30).179 Two days had passed since Margaret of Passava had arrived with her new family, the Saint-Omer. In those days, everybody was participating in the festivities. But when those two days passed, Margaret’s new husband, John of Saint-Omer, took his wife and his brothers before the prince to reclaim her inheritance. The festivities were over and the legal game started. Margaret would be anxious, feeling betrayed. Anna perhaps saw her before in Andravida, when poor Margaret came for the first time to confront William, asking him why the prince had seized the castle and lands which were duly hers on account of her uncle’s inheritance.180 The situation was absurd. While she was away in Constantinople as a hostage so that William may return and rule his lands, her uncle had died and the prince had seized the lands that belonged to her. Anna would feel directly responsible for this woman’s fate, since she would be one of those who had persuaded her to become a hostage. Maybe she tried to convince William to change his heart, maybe she did not. Whatever her opinion was, it would be of little consequence. William was keen on keeping the lands for himself, because of a legal trick: Margaret did not present herself in due time and the customary period of a year and a day had expired. William thus pretended to forget that he was the one who kept Margaret of Passava in Constantinople by not paying her ransom. Margaret had actually come to see him at once, as soon as she was liberated from the Byzantine prison.181 It was a nasty affair. From this story, Anna learnt that a woman needed strong friends and good legal representation. This is why Margaret had married John, one of the Saint-Omer brothers, so that Nicholas of Saint-Omer may 177 See once again the dedication of a manuscript given by princess Anna to a monastery, in Gerstel, Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, 191. It was dated to 1276/1277, in Chlemoutsi. 178 Cf. Angéliki Tzavara, Clarentza: une ville de la Morée latine. XIIIe–XVe siècles (Venice: Institut hellénique d’études byzantines et post-byzantines de Venise, 2008), 139–200. 179 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 182. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 203–204. 180 Colantuoni ed., 180–181. Cf. Longnon ed., 201–202. 181 Colantuoni ed., 181, for Nicholas of Saint-Omer’s speech in Andravida. Cf. Longnon ed., 202.
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represent her in court. But William continued to play his tricks. When Nicholas presented before the court as the lawyer of Margaret, the prince appointed himself as his own lawyer. Since he had to renounce his princely quality for a while, “thereupon, the prince called the [chancellor], his name was Sir Leonard and he was from Apulia; he was a wise man and well educated; he had him as a confidant and leader in his council. The sceptre and the rod which he held in his hand, as is customary among generals and lords throughout the world, he gave to him and said to him:” – I surrender to you the authority which I hold, that you may stand for the court, to judge and maintain the right with the law and with the council and company which is here in this court; and I put you on your oath by Christ and on your soul, that you and all those who sit with you here in the court will maintain well the right of the archontess the Lady Marguerite, as well as that of the court. Stir not for envy or friendship; take care that you commit no crime upon your souls, for I in company and love my brother Sir Nicholas of Saint-Omer am going to advocate on the other side, to maintain the right of the court.182 Afraid that he might not settle the affair in his favour, William arranged that his most trusted legal adviser, a man versed in matters of canon and civil law, would deliver the verdict. Needless to say, Leonardo da Veroli would judge in favour of the prince. Everybody would know it, Anna included. The ensuing debate was put up just for show, but lord Nicholas tried his best and argued bravely. Since lady Margaret had been given assurances that her liege lord would take care of her while she was a hostage, Nicholas would look at lord Leonardo and remind him that he was the one to give those assurances as chancellor of the prince. Nicholas would quote from memory passages from the Assize 175 of the Assizes of Jerusalem, known to all the crusader lords of the Levant: the vassal was held to become hostage if his liege lord asked it of him; the lord was held to take good care of him; and the lord had also the obligation of restoring the damage caused to his vassal during the period when the latter had been hostage in his stead.183 The barons of the assembly would nod their heads in agreement. Prince William would not agree to all the points, but the jury would not 182 For the two quotations, see Lurier trans., Crusaders, 284. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 305–306. 183 For these select passages from the Assizes of Jerusalem in the version by Jean of Ibelin (1264–1266), see Peter W. Edbury (ed.), John of Ibelin, Le livre des assises (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 441 (x 2), 442.
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be on his side. After the initial pleas of both parties, the members of the jury were inclined to favour the lady’s defence.184 Princess Anna would not believe her eyes: her husband would be almost on the verge of losing the trial, even though he probably anticipated and worked out every detail with Leonardo in advance. Anna would look at Nicholas of Saint-Omer with admiration, but then William conjured the trick that he held up his sleeve. Since he was ‘well advised and well informed’ (bien avisés et informés)185 – perhaps by his friend Leonardo – the “prince ordered that there be brought forward the book in which [were] written and declared the customs of the land” (ὥρισεν ὁ πρίγκιπας κ᾿ ἠφέραν τὸ βιβλίον, | ὅπου ἔγραφαν κ᾿ ἐλέγασιν τοῦ τόπου τὰ συνήθεια).186 Alas, this would be the book to which only William and his former chancellor would have access to,187 the book that Anna could see many years before, when digging through the caskets. It would be inspired by the Assizes of Jerusalem, but it would different, as this would be the prototype of the Assizes of Romania. When the book of laws was brought, the Saint-Omer brothers would be worried, for they would not know its exact contents. So, William would trick them into accepting to play his game, by confusing one book of law with another. He would open it at the Assize 15.188 Indeed, “they found written therein the chapter which writes in detail, declares, and interprets that a liege man is obliged to do the following: if it should happen that his lord is captured by his enemy and he holds him in prison, in durance of irons, his lord may demand of him and make claim on him to enter the prison as a hostage for him and release his lord from captivity. It is required according to the customs and according to what the law commands that he himself go into the prison in person. Thereafter, his lord is obliged, in turn, to gain the release of the liege man from there where he entered for him.”189 Nicholas of Saint-Omer would agree with the prince. This was the law that he was familiar with. He would be happy that William “pointed out with the book and the customs of the land that by binding right [lady Margaret] had been obliged to do it.”190 But then William would turn several pages to the Assize 36, and from thence 184 185 186 187
Colantuoni ed., 183. Cf. Longnon ed., 205. Colantuoni ed., 183. Cf. Longnon ed., 205. Lurier trans., 284 (translation); Καλονάρος ed., 306 (Greek original). For this hypothesis (concerning the use of an early version of the Assizes of Romania, maybe in French, to which the Moreote barons had no access), see Jacoby, La féodalité, 65. 188 For the precise text of the Assize 15 in the Venetian version of the Assizes of Romania, see Recoura ed., Les Assises, 167–168. Cf. Antonella Parmeggiani (ed.), Libro dele uxanze e statuti delo Imperio de Romania (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1998), 124. 189 Lurier trans., 284–285. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 306–307. 190 Lurier trans., 285. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 307.
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he would read aloud that if an inheritance claim were not made within a year and a day (or two years and two days in the case of those who were abroad), the rights would be forfeited.191 William’s trick would be inspired from the legendary life of his father. By that time, rumour could have it that lord Geoffrey I had tricked a French prince into running through the entire Peloponnesus, losing his inheritance at the end of the story. At least this is what the Chronicle of Morea tells us. His son William would have no hard feelings about what he had done. In his own eyes, “he had in no way wronged [lady Margaret], for, indeed, she had not appeared to claim her right to the patrimony within the terms stipulated by the customs.”192 That was such a dirty trick! The jury retired to deliberate, but everybody knew that Margaret and the Saint-Omer brothers had lost. Nevertheless, the jury suggested that the prince should decide by himself how to pay back the lady for the fact that she lost her inheritance while acting as a hostage in the service of her liege lord.193 John of Saint-Omer, Margaret’s husband, was very upset, perhaps even furious. William spoke to lord Nicholas and told him that his sister-in-law had been in the wrong. She had to ask for his good graces, not for her rights. This was clearly not a good idea. William was pouring salt on a fresh wound. The members of the jury and all the present barons would all know the story of how the prince had rejected Margaret previously, when she first came to him, how he had postponed her trial when she returned to see him in Andravida accompanied by her new husband and brother-in-law. Little does it matter how William tried justify his actions at the last moment. He was clearly adding fuel to a fire and his vassals would not be very happy with the consequences of his actions. As most of the assembly would gradually leave the church, either amused, saddened, or enraged, Anna would stay behind to pray, accompanied or not by her young daughter Margaret, who bore the same name as the poor defendant 191 For the text of the Assize 36 in the 14th century Venetian version, see Recoura ed., Les Assises, 184. Cf. Parmeggiani ed., Libro dele uxanze, 136–137. Since the date of the return of Margaret of Passava from Nicaean captivity is unknown, and the chronology of her first two meetings with William of Villehardouin is equally difficult to ascertain, several hypotheses have been put forth (including possible previous marriages of the lady), but they do not present any interest here. In some interpretations, the clause concerning the delay of two years and two days for those staying abroad was taken to be a sign of an evolution in the text of the Moreote law, after the trial for Margaret’s inheritance. The first editor of the Assizes of Romania also tried to explain these differences by an anachronism of the anonymous French author of the Chronicle. For a lengthy discussion about these matters, see Jacoby, La féodalité, 64–65, passim. 192 Lurier trans., 285. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 307. 193 Colantuoni ed., 183. Cf. Longnon ed., 206.
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who had lost that day. She would pray to the Mother of God, or the Virgin, as the Latins called her, and she would ask forgiveness for her sins. In days like this, when other women went through harsh trials, Anna would feel sinful, afraid of the trials that awaited her. She would know what people spoke behind her back. For them, William was a ‘good prince’, without fault, since fault rarely lies with the man. A great evil befell him, “for which the small and great of Morea [had to] grieve, for he [would] not leave a male, son of his body, to inherit the land which his father had won with such travail. But, on the contrary, he produced daughters, and his labour went wasted; for it is never found established that a female child may inherit a lord’s inheritance, for at the very beginning a curse was laid upon woman; and never in his life should a lord who has produced daughters as heirs rejoice, for, all his power and glory, should God give him a son-in-law, these will he take.”194 It was expected of Anna to pray for such sins, especially now, when king Charles’ son, Philip, fell gravely ill while tightening a crossbow, and news about his death would be imminent.195 Her daughter Isabella would soon be without husband, so her father-in-law would inherit Morea upon William’s death. Anna would be frightened. She would wish to anticipate and organize a future for her and her girls in the land that had finally become her home. At the end of her prayer, Anna’s eyes would linger on the walls of the Franciscan church. A large hall, similar to those of Northern Italy, with a timber roof. There were no side chapels, but there would be paintings and tombs. Contrary to the Byzantine custom of painting the entire church, these Italians stuck various framed scenes with saints or holy stories on different parts of the walls, in groups or isolated, composing a puzzle of holy images. Maybe she saw this before, for they had similar holy puzzles in their own chapel at Chlemoutsi, still visible today (Fig. 22). This was not the first nor the last Franciscan church in Morea. This habit would appear elsewhere, too. For instance, the continental part of the Franciscan custody of Glarentza also comprised a Saint-Stephen Franciscan house in Andravida, founded by her husband to celebrate his victory over the invading Nicaeans in c.1264, and Saint-Nicholas of Patras, founded late in the 13th century.196 But let us return to Glarentza. There would be many exquisite colours in the geometrical or vegetal decoration of the arcades. And many painted carvings. Still, Anna would realize 194 Lurier trans., 290. The passage is taken from the eulogy at the prince’s death and it appears only in the Greek version of the chronicle. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 316. 195 The year of the Margaret of Passava inheritance trial is conventionally believed to be 1276, but it may have happened in 1277 as well. Philip of Sicily, the husband of William’s daughter Isabella, died quite young, 21 years old, at the beginning of 1277. 196 Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 130–131, 133.
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that some of those paintings had Byzantine undertones. Her eyes would fixate on a purely Byzantine scene of saint George on horseback, painted in a niche specially created for a tomb. It would be painted by an Italian or by a Greek who mastered the Western style very well. She would notice the artists’ strokes, the name of the saint written in Latin, and the Western dress of the saint.197 The other odd thing was that the tunic of saint George was decorated with several small shields parted quarterly per cross, with the Villehardouin ‘sable’ cross recercelée upon an ‘or’ field in two of the four quarters and a ‘vert’ trefoil upon an ‘argent’ field in the remaining two. A green clover painted on white. Anna would be already familiar with the rules of heraldry by then, so she would recognize the tomb of brave nephew Geoffrey. Or perhaps she would identify another member of her husband’s extended family.198 Anyhow, for a 197 For the few pieces of information concerning the fragments composing this scene, currently on display in the Chlemoutsi castle museum, see a brief mention in Athanasoulis et al., Glarentza, 40. According to this publication, some (unspecified) fragments were discovered in grave no. 1. This supports the idea that they could be part of a funerary iconographic programme, such as saint George on horseback painted in the proskynetarion of Geraki. Their delicate features suggest that they were commissioned for a nobleman, and that the painter was not involved in the decoration of the entire church (an impossible task, given the monument’s size). This argues in favour of the Italian habit of decorating segments of various walls with independently framed scenes (in this case, only segments adjacent to the tomb). Given their state of preservation, stylistic dating is impossible. The only sure thing is that the composition follows the Byzantine canon, and that the moulding of the face does not present traces of Trecento influences. My provisional interpretation is based solely on the museum labels accompanying the fragments, awaiting further clarification following their publication by Demetrios Athanasoulis. 198 The unknown component of the quartered shield does not resemble the ‘de Sabran’ coat of arms (‘argent’ lion upon a ‘gules’ field), so it cannot be related to Margaret of Villehardouin, Anna’s younger daughter, married into the Sabran family. The ‘vert’ trefoil upon an ‘argent’ field does not look like the coats of arms used by Isabella of Villehardouin either, from none of her two marriages, as seen for instance on the Andravida capital (vide supra). Since the trefoil cannot be connected with the arms of Matilda of Hainaut either (daughter of Isabella – ‘or’ cross recercelée upon a ‘gules’ field), the Glarentza fragments probably depict the coat of arms of a person who wished to mark a strong alliance with the Villehardouin family. Given that Geoffrey, William’s nephew by his sister Alice, had been the male heir of the Villehardouin during much of Anna’s stay in Morea, and that the 13th century coat of arms of the de Briel/de Bruyères family is not documented, it is highly probable that the quartered shield belonged to him. Nevertheless, since I could not identify any positive arguments apart from the fact that a quartered shield is used when insisting on the maternal side (an argument consistent with Geoffrey’s case), I consider this to be a conjecture, presented here for the sake of the narrative, and I advise against its uncritical use. I also cannot be sure that the all the fragments displayed in the Chlemoutsi castle museum come from the same original scene. The legs suggest that they come from the representation of a pedestrian figure, not a military saint on horseback.
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short while, a smile would light up her face. The Latins had started taking after the Greeks. Yet it took a long time to create mixed murals, with French inscriptions, such as the early 15th century ones from Pyrga (Cyprus).199 Anna probably met with her husband later and told him that the large majority of barons were not content with the result of the trial. William was getting old. He had lost many fortresses and lands. Antagonizing his vassals was not the best way to provide for the future of his daughters. Therefore, the Chronicle speaks of William visiting his friend and former chancellor later during that day. The prince confessed to Leonardo that he felt a certain remorse (la conscience me remort).200 In their imaginary talk, the prince spoke of the sin and blame that fell on him (πάλε ἡ ἁμαρτία, τὸ μέμψιμον, ἔρχετον εἰς ἐμέναν)201 because he had to claim the barony of Akova when Margaret of Passava was a hostage abroad. He had no intention of acting in this way. In fact, his initial plan had been different. “For this reason [he] had come to the decision and had taken as [his] intention to leave half of the barony to her and to give, in turn, the other half to Marguerite, [his] younger daughter, to have as her patrimony.”202 William desperately tried to strike a touching chord: two Margarets sharing tenderly a much-disputed inheritance. Oh, such a beautiful idea! However, those vicious Saint-Omer “came [there] with swagger and haughtiness and great arrogance.”203 This is why he had brought forward the book, so “that their arrogance might disappear.”204 He had nothing against lady Margaret, so he asked Leonardo to recall the jury and make a division of the barony, giving the lady a third of it.205 Old men get stingy. During the course of their speech, a half easily becomes a third. But at least he kept to the spirit of compromise, fearing a reaction from his vassals, as the public opinion was in favour of Margaret. So, lord Nicholas had won in the end. That haughty, egotistical man. Anna would be relieved that lady Margaret, whom she probably persuaded to go to the Nicaeans as a hostage, finally obtained a share of what was essentially hers, while young Margaret, her own daughter, had received the other share.
…
199 See e.g. Jens T. Wollesen, Patrons and Painters on Cyprus. The Frescoes in the Royal Chapel at Pyrga (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2010). 200 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 184. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 207. 201 Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 309. 202 Lurier trans., Crusaders, 286. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 309. 203 Lurier trans., 286. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 309. 204 Lurier trans., 286–287. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 310. 205 In the French version of the Chronicle, William hides the privilege under a bedspread and calls the lady to surprise her, but gives her basically the same speech (Colantuoni ed., 185).
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1277 had passed, bringing news that Isabella, her daughter, was now a widow alone in a foreign land. Anna’s nightmarish fears would soon come true. In Mystras, the Nicaeans had probably built the metropolitan church of Saint-Demetrius. And a little further to the East, in Euboea, the unfortunate Licario had turned from a silly lover-boy into a real menace. A sworn vassal of Michael VIII Palaeologus, to whom he had avowed fealty in his name and that of two hundred knights, the knight infatuated with his former liege-lord’s niece had now defeated the lords of Euboea, chasing them away and cramming them up tightly in the central corner of the island. He did not conquer the city of Negroponte, but he had taken prisoner one of the triarchs, Gilbert of Verona, a relative of his once-beloved Felisa, as well as the duke of Athens, John de la Roche.206 Instead of uttering wise quotations from Herodotus and barricading safely behind the walls, John and Gilbert had foolishly charged the enemy lines and massacred their army. Rumour had it that when they were taken before Michael VIII, in Constantinople, Gilbert dalle Carceri saw Licario splendidly entering the hall of the usurper and his court, clothed in rich garments, with gold shining everywhere. His heart gave in and Gilbert died on the spot, for his pride could not tolerate that his former servant had surpassed him.207 John, on the other hand, was speedily released, in spite of the Nicaean’s failure to marry him to one of his daughters. And things went back to normal, even though John died soon after and Euboea was under the control of Licario and his mercenary armies, answering to the Nicaeans. Fighting continued here and there, trouble was always ignited somewhere, yet Anna’s husband was tired of too many battles. William would continue to sing his song about nightingales and snows melting in spring, but he would be gradually obsessed with his misfortune. When his eyes were tired, he would ask her to read the story of another great man without sons, or to whom a son was born only in marginal narratives. Anna would read him from an old book of verse that William could have inherited from his father and older brother: “In May, in the middle of the season when the good weather returns and winter ends, in Babylon a Saracen woman gave birth by divine will to a marvellous monster. Alexander heard about it and had the girl brought before him. In the upper part, it was a dead thing down to its chest, and below, at the base of its spine, it was alive. Around its anus, where the abdomen ends, there were the fiercest of predatory beasts. They had 206 For Licario, see Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus, 209–211, 235–237, 295–300; cf. Setton, The Papacy, 426–428. 207 For the inspiration of this phrase, see the original text of Nicephorus Gregoras, in Ludovicus Schopen (ed., trans.), Nicephori Gregorae Byzantina Historia (Bonn: Impensis ed. Weberi, 1829) 1:96–97.
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several heads, and snarled like wolves. They are very vicious and nasty, they are hostile towards each other, one claws at the other. It is received as a wondrous sign of God’s will, showing the death of Alexander through a sign.”208 Anna would feel a shiver down her spine. The passage referred to the destruction of the king and of his conquered empire. She already knew the story. Later on, it would speak of the distribution of Alexander’s lands. She would be afraid of the scattering of William’s lands. Her husband, on the other hand, would be hit by nostalgia. He “journeyed to Kalamata, for which he felt a great yearning, for there he had been born and it was his patrimony, his very own and his by right, which the Champenois had given as a hereditary patrimony to his father, the aged Sir Geoffrey, Villehardouin, by surname.” Like Alexander the Great from the French story, he called for his barons, the twelve barons of Morea, alike to the twelve companions of Alexander, to the twelve peers of Charlemagne, and to the twelve Knights of the Round Table (before they became many more). The twelve companions of the protagonist were in so many French stories that they ended up invading real life. So, William “sent word everywhere for the bannerets, the bishops, and the wise men of the whole principality to come before him; then he fell into the throes of approaching death; he besought all of them to advise him as to what seemly thing he could do at the very end of his life.”209 The twelve barons of the twelve baronies of Morea came to his death bed like the twelve peers of Alexander came to their ailing liege lord in the end of the Old French verse narrative. One of them was most dear to the prince, a Ptolemy of sorts.210 William “drew up his will with great care; he appointed the grand constable Chauderon and left him bailli in the principality. He wrote to King Charles and implored him that first his daughters, and everyone of the principality, small and great, be transferred to his keeping, and that he protect them and govern them all with justice. As to the monasteries of the Franks, as well as those of the Romans, which he had founded and erected that they 208 Catherine Léglu, ‘The Child of Babylon and the Problem of Paternity in Medieval French ‘Alexander’ Romances’, Reading Medieval Studies, 39 (2013), 84 (for the translation and interpretation of the passage). For the Old French text, see E.C. Armstrong, D.L. Buffum, Bateman Edwards, L.F.H. Lowe (eds.), The Medieval French Roman d’Alexandre, II: Version of Alexandre de Paris (Princeton/Paris: Princeton University Press/Presses Universitaires de France, 1937), 321. 209 Lurier trans., Crusaders, 289. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 314. For the French text, see Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 186. Cf. Longnon ed., Livre de la Conqueste, 211. 210 For the Old French story, see Armstrong et al. eds., Roman d’Alexandre, 351.
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might intercede with the Basileus of the Heavens for all Christendom, the gifts for their prayers which they held by his privilege and which he had granted to each one, no one was to interfere with these, nor disturb any part of what he had given them. Likewise was no living man ever to disturb the gifts that he had given to men who had served with eagerness and travail.”211 A true Alexander was he. The conqueror thus divided his lands and riches before his death to his worldly barons and to his servants in the afterlife. There would be no need to carry his body to Greece, as the twelve peers wished to carry the lifeless body of Alexander. He was already in the land of Romania, the land whence Alexander himself had left.212 As a last wish, “he commanded and ordered that after he had died, and not before a full year had passed, his bones alone were to be placed in a coffin in the church of St. James of Morea in Andravida, in this church which he had built and which he had given to the Temple, in the tomb he had built and in which lay his father; his brother to lie to the right of him, he to be on the left, and his father in between. He instructed and endowed four chaplains […] to continue without cease unto eons of eons to chant and celebrate masses everlastingly for their souls; he ordered as a commandment and excommunicable offense, and it was put in writing, that never should they have interference from any man in the world. And when he arranged all these things, I am telling you about, and many others as well (which I am not able to list to you, for I weary of writing them because of the excessive writing it would take), he surrendered his soul, and the angels took it and bore it to where all the righteous are found.”213 William died in his castle of Kalamata on the first day of the month of May, in the year of our Lord 1278. If she remained an Orthodox, true to her mother’s memory, Anna would retire to a monastery and become a nun. However, she did not, either because her daughter Margaret was still young and remained in her care, with both of them fearing Galeran of Ivry, the first regent of Charles of Anjou in Morea (1278–1280), or simply because she had changed so much during her marriage with William that she embraced a different way of life, that of a woman from the West. Or maybe she feared that there would be no point in taking up vows, as her tomb would never attract the same veneration as her mother’s. 211 Lurier trans., 289–290. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 314–315. For the French version, see Colantuoni ed., 186. Cf. Longnon ed., 211–212. 212 See Armstrong et al. eds., Roman d’Alexandre, 352. When Alexander had breathed his last breath, the Old French story tells us that: Li baron s’en tornerent, ne s’aseürent mie, | Por ce que li uns d’aus a l’autre contralie, | Car porter en voloient le roi en Romenie. 213 Lurier trans., 289–290. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 315–316. For the French version, see Colantuoni ed., 186–187. Cf. Longnon ed., 212.
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Theodora of Arta performed posthumous miracles, exorcisms, and cured cancer. Princess Anna would never dare imagine that she would come to the aid of those praying to her in her afterlife. Who would prostrate himself or herself in front of her tomb in Morea? Would there be anyone praying to her on the islands, as they prayed to her mother, and she helped them accordingly?214 “Now after Prince Guillaume died, the princess, his wife (she who was the sister of the despot Kyr Nikephoros, the lord of Arta), remained a widow and was in Morea and held a great many towns which she held and administered in the Plain of the Morea; likewise in the castellany of Kalamata she held the towns of Maniatochori, Platanos, and Glyky, and other towns with these, over which she had sovereignty.”215 Anna had managed to keep some of her husband’s lands. God had provided for her and her young daughter Margaret, but her situation would not be certain, had the Italian king changed his mind. By that time, Leonardo da Veroli was not her friend anymore and his wife, Margaret of Toucy, had died. Leonardo was in the direct service of king Charles and this situation would worry Anna even more. But she learnt her lessons, she knew that she needed a strong man in her life. So, she turned to the only man who could help her and followed the path already opened by Margaret of Passava. She married Margaret’s brother-in-law, Nicholas of Saint-Omer, the bold defender whom she would have admired in the Glarentza trial four years before. “Thereafter, old Sir Nicholas de St.-Omer, because he was a great and noble man and had a lot of money, and his first wife had died (she who was, indeed, the princess of the city of Antioch, and from whom he had received celebrated wealth and money), as a noble and shrewd man, he came to an understanding with [Anna] and took the princess of Morea as his wedded wife, thus he did marry her, and for that reason he went to Morea and was with her.”216 This probably happened around the year 1280. It was a feat of strength. Nicholas had lost king Charles’ favour a lot time ago, but he had exchanged many of his lands in Morea against lands in Italy, so he had a great deal to say in the current political context. Anna’s second marriage worried king Charles to the point that he decided that those two castles, Chlemoutsi, the strongest one in the land, and Kalamata, a symbol of the Villehardouin, could not fall in the hands of a powerful family like the Saint-Omer. Something had to be done. In September 1281, half a year before 214 For this rephrasing inspired by the life of saint Theodora of Arta, see the text in PG 127:908D, etc. 215 Lurier trans., 297. For the Greek text, see Καλονάρος ed., 327. For the French text, see Colantuoni ed., 190. Cf. Longnon ed., 220. 216 Lurier trans., 297–298. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 327–328. For the French version, see Colantuoni ed., 190. Cf. Longnon ed., 220.
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Charles of Anjou was about to lose Sicily, Anna was forced to exchange some of her possessions against half of the lands of Leonardo da Veroli. She had become a baroness of the Italian kingdom, with lands in the Elis, Messenia, and Southern Italy, too. Once again, she must have felt empowered, as she did during her marriage with William, and maybe she travelled back and forth between her lands in the Peloponnesus and her new husband’s lands across the Isthmus. If she came to Thebes, Anna would spend her days in the magnificent halls built by her second husband. Before regretting the destruction of that castle by the Catalan Company in the early 14th century, the Greek version of the Chronicle describes how lord Nicholas, “with his great wealth and dominions which he held, constructed the castle of St.-Omer which was in Thebes and he built this castle to be an extremely strong one; he made dwellings within it fit for a basileus. Indeed, he built it and constructed it and inside he covered its walls with murals depicting how the Franks conquered Syria.”217 At dinner, in the great hall decorated with murals, the Saint-Omer and their men would sit at long tables and a minstrel would come before them. Nicholas would summon him there to impress princess Anna by reciting the story of the first crusade. The hall would be already silent with anticipation when the minstrel would customarily start with the introduction of the Chanson d’Antioche: – My lords, some quiet please and less noise if you want to hear a song about glory. No jongleur will ever sing you a better one; as well as enjoying it you should value it highly because honest men can find so many good examples in it […].218 Anna would be used to these evening performances at dinner. Her first husband William had been more of a trouvère-and-troubadour man, but they would listen to many songs of heroic deeds in Kalamata, Andravida, and Chlemoutsi. For the sake of the tale, let us imagine that this particular story would be new to her. This was not the story of Roland, of William of Orange, of Girart of Roussillon, or of Raoul of Cambrai. This story started with hermit Peter. Nicholas would show her this Peter, painted up high in the upper register of the murals of the hall. There, he would be in Rome, in front of the pope. In the next scene, the crusaders would assemble. In the third, in Constantinople, 217 Lurier trans., 298. For the Greek original, see Καλονάρος ed., 328. 218 Susan B. Edginton, Carol Sweetenham (trans.), The Chanson d’Antioche: An Old French Account of the First Crusade (Farnham/Burlington: Ashgate, 2011), 101. For the original text, see Jan A. Nelson (ed.), La Chanson d’Antioche (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2003), 49.
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the double-crossing emperor would be forced to accept their help after having attacked them. And in a fourth scene, the crusaders would be laying siege and conquering the town of Nicaea, the city whence troubles had repeatedly come for Anna. In this story, Nicaea belonged to a Saracen named Soliman. “Our Franks marched in, full of pride at taking the city; meanwhile, the Turks retreated hastily in a disorganised rabble,” the minstrel would tell. “In the valley of Gurhenie they bumped into Soliman….”219 Night would fall upon the city of Thebes, the minstrel would soon stop, they would go to bed, and the story would resume in the next evenings. There were many other scenes painted in the great hall that still waited for their story to unfold.
Case Study 8: The Mural Cycles of Thebes, Akronafplio, and Patras
The lost paintings from the Saint-Omer hall in Thebes are conventionally dated after 1287 and considered to be lost after 1332. Their mention in the Greek Chronicle after Nicholas’ marriage to princess Anna was mistaken for proof of their chronology, yet the anonymous author used them only to extend his description of the fabulous wealth of the lord of Thebes. Logic dictates that Nicholas of Saint-Omer commissioned these murals at a time when his first wife would be alive. The actual text of the Chronicle first speaks of the death of this ‘princess of the city of Antioch’, his wife, then about his wealth, about his marriage to Anna, of his wealth again, and about the paintings in Thebes. Commissioning a set of murals about the First Crusade had nothing to do with his own ancestors, who had no connection with the East before Nicholas I of Saint-Omer took part in the Fourth Crusade. The conquest of Syria was evidently meant to illustrate the glory of Mary of Antioch, a descendant of Bohemond I, the great crusader, prince of Taranto (1089–1111) and Antioch (1098–1111), son of Robert Guiscard. The murals were compared to the painted cycles of Cressac (Fig. 1) or Poncé-sur-le-Loir (Fig. 2), but such comparisons are misplaced.220 Their contexts and codes could not be more different. The Thebes murals could not be hagiophanic in nature, since they were painted in a palace. The presence of religious subjects cannot be ignored, but the bulk 219 Edginton, Sweetenham trans., The Chanson d’Antioche, 148. For the original text, see Nelson ed., La Chanson d’Antioche, 110–111. 220 See e.g. Gerstel, Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, 178.
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of the scenes were probably battle scenes, imitating a pattern already known from the Ferrande Tower at Pernes-les-Fontaines (Vaucluse, France).221 This would suggest that they depicted scenes from the 12th century Old French text known as the Chanson d’Antioche or from related songs-of-deeds about the first crusaders. A better term of comparison would be the murals from the ‘round hall’ of the count’s castle in the city of Carcassonne, even though the entire composition is not documented. These yet unidentified scenes from the turn of the 13th century present multiple confrontations between knights and Saracens wearing turbans and holding round shields. They may be identified either with the depiction of the Chanson of Roland, with another song-of-deeds, or with a song telling the events of the First Crusade.222 By the time Anna would see those Theban paintings, she would already know what the murals meant. There would be an intricate game of meanings. At Pernes-les-Fontaines, the paintings commissioned by Barral II des Baux in the first half of the 14th century presented the deeds of Charles of Anjou, for whom one of Barral’s ancestors fought in Southern Italy. The Ferrande Tower murals presented Charles’ investiture by the pope, his fight against Conradin, Conradin’s death, and the fight between an unknown enemy and one of Barral’s own ancestors, Jordan IV of L’Isle-Jourdain, a lieutenant in king Charles’ army. The probable investiture of Barral II complements these scenes and presents them as a legitimation of his power. There are odd scenes, too, such as the execution of Jordan VI of L’Isle-Jourdain (1323), clearly intended as a counter-example. There are religious depictions, even though this was a palace: one of the scenes depicts a well-known exemplum from the collection of the Dominican Stephen of Bourbon, while the other is a representation of the Virgin seated on a throne with the Infant Christ in her lap and two women saints to her flanks, as well as saint Christopher carrying Jesus. Taken together with the representation of another combat between riders, this time inspired by chansons-de-geste – William of Orange, protagonist of the Moniage Guillaume chanson, fighting the Saracen giant Ysoré before the walls of Paris, the murals of the Ferrande Tower were intended to provide the sponsor’s descendants with good 221 Cf. Térence Le Deschault de Monredon, ‘La tour Ferrande à Pernes-les-Fontaines (Vaucluse): nouvelle lecture du programme iconographique’, Bulletin monumental, 173/4 (2015), 333–347. 222 Térence Le Deschault de Monredon, Le Décor peint de la maison médiévale. Orner pour signifier en France avant 1350 (Paris: Picard, 2015), 109–113, and passim for other useful examples.
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and bad examples, to remind them who they were and how they were supposed to do their duty. I trust that a similar arrangement would be depicted in the hall of Thebes. This means that in the case of the lost Theban murals, there would be a religious dimension, too, with scenes unknown, completing the general picture and conferring a symbolic meaning to the ensemble. But not a chief religious significance, like in Cressac (Fig. 1) and Poncé-sur-le-Loir (Fig. 2). There was a long tradition of combining the sacred and profane in such associations. In the abbot’s palace adjacent to the abbey church of San Zeno, in Verona, a curious procession of nations ends up with a character prostrated at the feet of a king sitting upon a throne. Previous hypotheses interpreted this 13th century scene as the homage of the peoples of the earth to Frederick II of Hohenstaufen seated on a throne in Jerusalem in 1229,223 known for his frequent stays at San Zeno, or to the biblical king Solomon receiving the visit of the queen of Sheba, as a Veronese medieval Latin document spoke about mural paintings with this subject.224 In my own assessment, the Solomon scene was depicted at the lower floor and is now lost, while the theme of the murals preserved at the first floor of the tower is Alexander seated upon his throne and receiving the homage of the conquered nations in Babylon. There is a connection with emperor Frederick. The golden shield bearing the imperial black eagle, painted in the north-west corner of the same room, is a testimony to him being the addressee of the scene. Nevertheless, the scene itself is biblical in origin. It depicts Alexander’s stay in Babylon, from the beginning of the books of the Maccabees (1 Maccabees 1:1–6).225 In the lower register of the murals, hunting scenes and fighting scenes also punctuate, in a somehow gratuitous manner, the secular usage of the room. The paintings were meant to remind the German emperor that the glory of the world was transitory. The Wheel of Fortune, painted on the west wall of
223 Cf. Fulvio Zuliani, ‘Gli affreschi duecenteschi del palazzo abbaziale di San Zeno: un allestimento cerimoniale per Federico II’, in La torre e il palazzo abbaziale di San Zeno. Il recupero degli spazi e degli affreschi (Verona: Banca Popolare di Verona, 1992), 11–42. 224 Cf. Gian Paolo Marchi, ‘Storie di Davide e di Salomone in affreschi del canonicato e della torre di San Zeno di Verona’, Arte cristiana, 82 (1994), 169–176. 225 The groups of three forming the procession of nations further supports this hypothesis. They are Persians, Ethiopians, Hebrews, Scythians, Chaldeans, horned men, Pygmies, and two unidentified groups, all the identified ones being nations conquered by Alexander.
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the same room, reinforced this message. Frederick had to watch over the salvation of his soul.226 A similar case would be that of the Akronafplio gate tower murals.227 A cynocephalus with a club and a warrior drawing a sword and carrying a round shield are depicted on opposite walls in the company of saints, religious themes, and helmets with crests. The warrior looks a lot like the typical depiction of Saracen enemies, similar those from a crusader scene painted below the martyrdom of saint George in the black cathedral of Clermont.228 The ‘dog-headed’ figure attracted more interest in previous research. Still, since our knowledge of this gate tower iconography is partial, I would not venture into imagining that it was part of a scene from the story of Alexander, as was the case with other cynocephali in the Byzantine Commonwealth.229 That would be of course possible, but cynocephali could appear in other medieval stories, too, in the company or after a scene involving Saracens. I assume only that either one or both characters could play a role similar to that of Ysoré in the Ferrande Tower paintings. Moreover, maybe the cynocephalus is not a cynocephalus after all, for his face was badly hammered at the time of the discovery of these paintings in 1956, as the published photographs show us. The only certain thing is that the character had a dark face that could equally point to a depiction of an Ethiopian or Moor. The detail which will allow the identification of the scene in future research is the fact that the figure carries a club. Nothing more can be said about him, since the wall-coating plaster has fallen. In fact, one cannot say much about anything, given the 226 For more details, see the entire demonstration in Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Alexandre le Grand ou le faux Frédéric II de Hohenstaufen dans les peintures murales du palais abbatial de San Zeno, à Vérone’, Medioevi. Rivista di letterature e culture medievali, 2 (2016), 31–70. 227 Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings’. Cf. Schaefer, Wulf, ‘Neue Untersuchungen’. To this day, the Ephorate of Antiquities of the Argolid did not answer my repeated authorization requests to publish images from the Akronafplio gate murals. 228 Cf. Anne Courtillé, La Cathédrale de Clermont (Nonette: Créer, 1994), 173–174. 229 For the cynocephalus being possibly drawn from the Historia de preliis of Leo of Naples, see Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings’, 23–24. As for cynocephali in connection with Alexander, a series of Western influences appear in the decorations of the staircase from the Saint-Sophia cathedral in Kiev (11th–12th, probably 12th century). There, one may see fights between cynocephali and men armed with axes. They were interpreted as scenes depicting gladiators (cf. Catherine Vanderheyde, ‘Rituels et jeux du cirque? à propos d’un bas-relief du Musée archéologique de Sofia’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 37 (2016), 199–214), but they could be linked to the story of Alexander.
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current state of preservation of the “barrel-vaulted outer gate chamber, completely frescoed on a blue background in the Maniera bizantina of the Dugento,” as its discoverer described it in 1959.230 More than half a century has passed since the time of its discovery and more than half of the murals have vanished, peeled off, or faded away. The significance of the Akronafplio gate murals was not that different from those of Ferrande Tower.231 There is a similar concentration of the sacred scenes in the doorframe, with the profane depictions occupying the outer segments of the available space, now destroyed or jammed by the 1463 Venetian intervention during an Ottoman siege, when the defenders had to block the gate, walling it with rubble.232 Even though it would was not a sacred building, the gate tower iconography is fashioned after that of a private chapel. Halls and entrances played a symbolic role, drawing upon the symbolism of the sacred buildings. Thus, there is no need to suggest that the Akronafplio murals were done in three successive stages.233 There is no solid proof that the so-called second layer overlapped the first, just some guesses, and the third layer certainly did not touch the first two ones. Furthermore, this third layer had already crumbled down at the moment of the discovery. The need to identify different stages in the gate tower’s murals is determined exclusively by the need to separate the so-called second layer of paintings, with profane depictions, from the rest of the scenes that are religious in nature. Thus far, 230 Wulf Schaefer, ‘Das Stadttor von Akronauplia’, Neue Ausgrabungen im Nahen Osten, Mittelmeerraum und Deutschland, special issue (1959 = Bericht über die Tagung in Xanten vom 19. bis 23. Mai 1959), 20. 231 The Akronafplio presence of saint George or saint Christopher is not very different from the latter’s appearance in the already mentioned murals of the Ferrande Tower. Similar cases appear even later. See the scene with saint George depicted next to many coats of arms and a fight between the count of Savoy and the dauphin of the Viennois in the Loives de Montfalcon house, close to Roybon (France, c.1342–1369). Cf. Le Deschault de Monredon, Le décor peint, 314–316. 232 Cf. Schaefer, ‘Das Stadttor’, 20. 233 Previous research argued that the “original decoration” would be “predominantly religious in subject matter” on a “dark blue background” (Christ in a mandorla, the bishop saint, and saint Christopher, saint George, saint Anthony, and saint James depicted as a pilgrim, and the helmets with crests). A second layer of plaster would be identified with a “change to a white background on both sides of the chamber’s east end” (the warrior with the sword and the so-called cynocephalus); and finally “a third stage of the decoration at the east end of the gate chamber, spanning the area between the north and the south wall, above the now covered door,” where a “semicircular tympanum” would have “contained a bust of Mary and the Child flanked by two coat of arms.” Cf. Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings’, 15–16.
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as the Ferrande Tower situation suggests, saintly images and preachers’ exempla accompanied profane depictions, so the same could happen in Akronafplio. As for the differences in style and colour of background, the collaboration of two painters would explain them much better, since one of them, the one responsible for the portrait of saint Anthony and other scenes, could be Byzantine.234 For these reasons, the painted chamber of Akronafplio cannot be a mere antechamber.235 The presence of helmets and crests is not unusual in church iconography.236 The best Western case is Saint-Peter-the-Martyr in Verona, a Dominican church later given as a private chapel to the ‘Brandenburg’ knights of Cangrande II della Scala (1332–1359), who painted their helmets and crests everywhere in the upper registers. Unfortunately, a third of the Akronafplio murals was destroyed and research must take into account the photos from the time of the discovery. The most important scene is a Maiestas Domini blended with a Byzantine Ascension (without the Apostles), and it is followed by the Agnus Dei. Both of them point to the symbolism of that particular space as a chapel. The Western features of the Maiestas link it to the Latin liturgy and to the iconography of the sanctuary in Western churches.237 The presence of the four angels instead of the tetramorph, on the other hand, is clearly Byzantine, taken from Ascension iconography, also close to the iconography of the sanctuary. As for saint George, his depiction on horseback is perfectly Byzantine, with the usual crusader arms familiar to the Orthodox-Catholic syncretism of the Holy Land, and the absence of the princess (usual in the Western iconography of this scene at that time). Nevertheless, the depiction of saint Christopher carrying the Christ Child or saint James depicted as pilgrim are Western in nature. My guess is that these Latins were adapting. The mixed iconographic programmes should be interpreted as an extension of the experimental programmes of Galatsi or the Athenian ciborium from the scholar milieu of the 234 Cf. ibid., 21–22. 235 Ibid., 24: “the incorporation of chapels into fortification walls was not uncommon in the Middle Ages,” but the ensemble is still considered to be an “antechamber.” Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Monumental Art’, 376, who validates the choice. 236 I chose not to deal with the identification of the coat of arms, as this issue will lead to highly conjectural distortions endangering the conclusions of the present investigation. 237 Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings’, 17, notes that the “clumsily written Latin inscriptions identify two of the angels, Raphael and Uriel (the other inscriptions are today illegible),” but still considers it to be a Byzantine theme. She identifies only the Agnus Dei as a clear Latin theme.
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church representatives to the somewhat more mundane cultural level of the Latin lords. As we have previously seen, similar Byzantine iconography for the representation of saint George appeared in the murals of the Saint-Francis church of Glarentza, so it would be safe to assume that sometime at the turn of the 14th century, Latin lords also started to take part in this cultural experiment. The presence of profane elements in the Akronafplio paintings should be taken as a clear sign that the acculturation process was gradually permeating the lower strata of culture, for the time being – the stratum of the bellatores. I believe that this phenomenon should be linked with a similar odd mixture of religious and secular scenes appearing in the story of Digenis. In the fictional palace of the Greek hero, mosaics depict Samson, David, Saul, Joshua, Moses, Alexander, Agamemnon, Bellerophon, Penelope and the suitors, Ulysses and the Cyclops etc. I believe this to be a post-1204 addition to the legend, consistent with its 13th–14th century state, conceivably influenced by Western cultural tropes. In Comnenian times, scenes of this type would be linked with paganism. For instance, the 11th century Vatican manuscript of Theophanus Continuatus, as well as the texts of Symeon the Metaphrast, George Cedrenus, John Zonaras, and others tell the legend of the conversion of the Bulgarians. A Greek painter Methodius had been invited by the Bulgarian tsar Boris to paint hunting scenes in his palace. Instead, Methodius painted a convincing Last Judgement, leading to the Christian conversion of the tsar.238 This does not tell us much about the fictional mosaics of Digenis or about the murals of Akronafplio or Thebes, but it implies that hunting scenes such as the ones accompanying the Alexander epic in the murals of the San Zeno tower in Verona or fighting scenes depicted elsewhere would be considered as having a pagan connotation in traditionalist Byzantine milieus. The slight religious undertones of these scenes would also be perceived as unorthodox, if not downright heretical. Odd Western innovations of this type would be rejected. Their acceptance would be a sign of the turn of the 14th century. In the West, fighting scenes such as these had slowly freed themselves from the shackles of religious iconography.239 Such cases were still rare 238 Ivan Dujčev, ‘Légendes byzantines sur la conversion des Bulgares’, Sborník prací Filozofické fakulty brněnské univerzity. C, Řada historická, 10 (1961), 7–17. Cf. Cyril Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312–1453: Sources and Documents (Englewood Cliffs NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1972), 184, 190–192, for a brief mention of the same legend. 239 For my previous study of the literary, historical, and pittura infamante scenes of this type, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Sacré et profane’.
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in the 13th century, the time when murals of the Theban palace were depicted. Autonomous profane subjects, unaccompanied by sacred imagery, are rather uncommon. We see them for the first time in the Italian Alps, in the mural cycle depicting the Arthurian adventures of Ywain on the walls of a chamber from the Rodeneck (Rodengo) Castle. These paintings were inspired by Hartmann von Aue’s German adaptation of a French story by Chrétien of Troyes (1204).240 In the 13th century, the Palazzo Broletto of Brescia was decorated with a long procession of knights in chains, in connection with local historical events.241 In fact, this fashion gained traction a little bit later. In 1291–1299, Azzo di Masetto painted tournaments and hunting scenes in the Palazzo pubblico de San Gimignano.242 The mural cycle of the Verdun-Dessous Castle in Cruet (Savoie, c.1307), currently displayed in the Musée Savoisien of Chambéry, follows the story of Berte aus grans piés by Adenet le Roi (c.1272–1273), a song-of-deeds from the Cycle of the King,243 or maybe the song-of-deeds of Girart de Vienne by Bertrand of Bar-sur-Aube (turn of the 13th century).244 At the second floor of the ‘House of the Distaff’ in Constance (Germany, 1320s), scenes inspired by the Perceval by Wolfram von Eschenbach are accompanied by lady-weavers, lion-fighters, and the allegory of a ruler upon a throne surrounded by five animals, taken from the De natura rerum of Thomas of Cantimpré (c.1244).245 On the second 240 Nicolò Rasmo (dir.), L’età cavalleresca in Val d’Adige (Milan: Electa, 1980), 40–53, apud Simonetta Castronuovo, Ada Quazza, ‘Miti cavallereschi e temi contemporanei nella pittura monumentale dell’arco alpino’, in Enrico Castelnuovo (dir.), Le Stanze di Artu. Gli affreschi di Frugarolo e l’immaginario cavalleresco nell’autunno del Medioevo (Milan: Electa, 1999), 107 (and 114, note 1). For an in-depth analysis of the Arthurian murals often represented in the castles of the Alps, see Lucía Megías, José Manuel, ‘Frescos caballerescos y artúricos en el norte de Italia. 1. Tres castillos en los alrededores de Trento’, Letras, 59–60 (2009), 209–230. 241 Matteo Ferrari, ‘I Cavalieri incatenati del Broletto di Brescia: un esempio duecentesco di araldica familiare’, Archivium heraldicum, 2 (2008), 181–212. 242 Mina Gregori (dir.), Pittura murale in Italia dal tardo Duecento ai primi del Quattrocento (Turin/Bergamo: Istituto bancario San Paolo-Bolis, 1995), 63. 243 Marco Piccat, ‘Epica carolingia in affreschi savoiardi del XIII secolo’, Messana. Rassegna di studi filologici linguistici e storici, 8 (1991), 51–108; cf. Castronuovo, Quazza, ‘Miti cavallereschi’, 108–111. 244 Térence Le Deschault de Monredon, ‘Le cycle peint du château de Cruet (Savoie, vers 1307): une représentation du roman de Girart de Vienne?’, Bulletin monumental, 171/2 (2013), 107–116. 245 See e.g. Bernd Schirok, “Parzival in Konstanz. Wandmalereien zum Roman Wolframs von Eschenbach im ‘Haus zur Kunkel’”, in Schriften des Vereins für Geschichte des Bodensees und seiner Umgebung, 106 (1988), 113–130.
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floor, another room had twelve depictions of women betraying men (the so-called Minnesklaven), including Aristotle saddled by the courtesan, probably in connection with a poem by Heinrich Frauenlob. In the Sala delle Guardie of the Sabbionara di Avio castle, close to Verona, the exquisite 14th century murals present an enormous battle, but there is also a scene with saint George fighting the dragon. In the Camera dell’Amore of the same castle, one will notice a knight, a lady, an Amor figure, and a hybrid monster (c.1330–1333).246 A courtly scene also appears in the Soave castle, close to Verona (c.1322).247 Knights and ladies play chess in the murals of the Arco Castle, close to Trento.248 By the time of the last example (second half of the 14th century), pure profane depictions of this type had exploded all over the place. One of these autonomous literary tropes is the Trojan War. In Treviso, for instance, the Loggia dei Cavalieri (1276–1314) has outer murals scenes, probably depicting local knights, and inner paintings, with scenes drawn from a vernacular version of the war of Troy, possibly one of the texts derived from the Benoît of Sainte-Maure tradition (the Greeks leaving Sparta, boarding their ships, sailing towards Troy, and the first assault of that city).249 A similar cycle was painted in a loggia of Udine sometime before 1364 (lozia de Troianorum et Grecorum bello pincta). And these Udine scenes drew upon an Italian adaptation of Benoît of Sainte-Maure’s Roman de Troie.250 We should therefore not be surprised that a century after Anna’s death, at the end of the 14th century, Nicholas da Martoni saw a similar mural cycle in the palace of the archbishop of Patras. Those murals are lost, but the pilgrim describes them as being displayed in a 246 Enrico Castelnuovo (dir.), Castellum Ava. Il castello di Avio e la sua decorazione pittorica (Trento: Temi, 1987); cf. Lionello G. Boccia, I guerrieri di Avio (Milan: Electa, 1991). 247 Tiziana Fraccaroli, Maestro Cicogna e i pittori ritardatari veronesi del Trecento, BA paper (University of Padua, 1967), 97. 248 Flavio Pontalti, ‘Il Castello di Arco: note preliminari sull’esito dei lavori di restauro e sulla scoperta di un ciclo di affreschi cavallereschi nel castello’, Il Sommolago, 4/2 (1987), 5–36. 249 Enrica Cozzi, ‘Temi cavallereschi e profani nella cultura figurativa trevigiana dei secoli XIII e XIV’, in Luigi Menegazzi (dir.), Tomaso da Modena. Catalogo (Treviso, S. Caterina, Capitolo dei Domenicani, 5 luglio–5 novembre 1979) (Treviso: Canova, 1979), 56; cf. Gianni Anselmi, La loggia dei Cavalieri in Treviso (Treviso: Grafiche Italprint, 2000). 250 Enrica Cozzi, ‘Per la diffusione dei temi cavallereschi e profani nella pittura tardogotica. Breve viaggio nelle Venezie tra scoperte e restauri recenti’, in Enrico Castelnuovo (dir.), Le Stanze di Artù. Gli affreschi di Frugarolo e l’immaginario cavalleresco nell’autunno del Medioevo. Catalogo della mostra (Alessandria) (Milan: Electa, 1999), 121–122; cf. Enrica Cozzi, La ‘Storia di Troia’ dell’antica Loggia di Udine: presentazione del restauro degli affreschi recuperati (Udine: Comune di Udine, Civici Musei e Gallerie di Storia ed Arte, 1997).
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twenty-five paces long hall, all around its walls, in an arrangement similar to the murals of the Treviso loggia.251 The use of the Trojan legend in a Moreote lord’s hall (the archbishop of Patras was one of the most important feudatories of the principality) was clearly inspired by the Fourth-Crusade use of the same legend. Nevertheless, the Patras paintings would have an Italian source of inspiration, related to the murals of Treviso and Udine. The same Italian mediation would be expected for Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος (The War of Troy), a poem in fifteen-syllable Demotic Greek verse written sometime in the 14th century in the Latinoccupied Peloponnesus, whose language is often compared to the Greek version of the Chronicle of Morea.252 The source of the Πόλεμος is unidentified, but it could be related to the Roman de Troie by Benoît of SainteMaure, and such adaptations are known to have been produced in Italy. As for the writing of the Greek poem itself, it could be ascribed to the initiative of a local French lord or lady. The subject will be analysed in a next chapter. For the time being, I prefer to return to the theoretical aspects of the presentation, and notice that the mixture of sacred and profane led to the development of various themes. Drawing on the multi-layered symbolism of their models, some secular murals became purely allegorical, like the allegory of good and bad government by Ambrogio Lorenzetti in the Palazzo pubblico of Sienna (1338–1339) or the scientifically allegorical cycle of frescoes painted by Niccolò Miretto and Stefano da Ferrara in the Palazzo della Raggione of Padua (1425–1440). Among the early examples of this type, one should count the mural cycle of the Sala della Giustizia in the Rocca Borromeo of Angera (early 14th century), depicting the chariot processions of the Sun and the Moon, the Wheel of Fortune, and military scenes from the life of the Milanese archbishop Ottone Visconti.253 Others exploited an almost gratuitous enjoyment of literary subjects. Such is the case of Pisanello’s Mantuan Tournament-Battle of Louvezerp (1442–1446). In the great hall of the Corte vecchia from the ducal complex of Mantua, the murals tell the story of an Arthurian princess falling in love with Bohort, winner of a large tournament where Lancelot 251 Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 156. Cf. Léon Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage à Jérusalem de Nicolas de Martoni, notaire italien (1394–1395)’, Revue de l’Orient latin, 3 (1895), 661. 252 Cf. Μ. Παπαθωμοπούλου, Ε.Μ. Jeffreys (eds.), Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος/The War of Troy, κριτική έκδοση με εισαγωγή και πίνακες (Athens: Μορφωτικό Ίδρυμα Εθνικής Τραπέζης, 1996). 253 Jean-François Sonnay, ‘Il programma politico e astrologico degli affreschi di Angera’, in Carlo Bertelli (dir.), Il Millennio ambrosiano. La nuova città dal Comune alla Signoria (Milan: Electa, 1989) 3:164–187.
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and Tristan compete with other knights in front of Guinevere and Iseult before leaving for the quest of the Holy Grail. Knights are described by a series of French inscriptions on the remaining sinopie (Arfassart li gros, Sarduc li blans, Patrides au cercle d’or, Calibor as dures mains, etc.) that point to the literary source of the paintings: a large compilation known as Prose Lancelot. Last but not least, in the Palazzo Davanzati of Florence the murals slavishly depicting the story of the Chastelaine of Vergy (1395) also follow closely a literary source, not the French poem, but an Italian cantare.254 This means that from the 12th century onwards, profane stories depicted in halls always followed a literary source. It would then be expected that the Thebes murals in the palace of Nicholas of Saint-Omer follow a precise song of heroic deeds from the first or from the second Crusade Cycles.255 Similarly, one would expect that the Patras murals be fashioned after an Italian text telling the story of the Trojan War, and that the cynocephalus and the warrior from the Akronafplio gate tower be drawn from another literary source, maybe one of the plentiful versions of the Alexander romances, or just any other story, since the rest of the paintings are lost today, making the logic of the ensemble open to conjectures and speculations. Yet the thing that interests me most is that these three Peloponnesus murals follow an evolutive pattern more or less influenced by their Western models: the ones in Thebes would still be under the sway of sacred imagery and the ones in Akronafplio would follow the same path.256 Only the murals of Patras would be autonomous, inspired entirely by secular literature, without religious connotations, hence my interpretation of their late dating in the 14th century. After living a quarter of a century among the French, Anna would be familiar with all these intricate associations between sacred and profane images, similar or identical to those between sacred and profane texts written in the 254 Luciano Berti (dir.), Il Museo di Palazzo Davanzati a Firenze (Milan: Electa/Cassa di Risparmio di Firenze, 1971), 14–18. 255 Logic dictates that the literary source for the Theban murals would be the narrative opening the first Crusade Cycle, that is, the Chanson d’Antioche, dating back to the late 12th century (and rewritten in the 14th century). Nevertheless, one cannot exclude the use of the narrative opening the second Crusade Cycle: Le Chevalier au Cygne et Godefroy de Bouillon, dating back to the late 12th century, with several later rewritings. 256 For the greater importance of religious images in earlier secular murals, see Le Deschault de Monredon, Le décor peint, 250–254. Cf. pp. 186–191 (for religious scenes in French private houses and palaces in general) and pp. 191–194 (for allegories and exempla).
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vernacular language. She would also know the stories of the crusades. The former princess would remember her first husband’s stories, his joining king Louis of France in Cyprus with four hundred knights in twenty-four galleys, and the great impression William had made upon the king. We can still see some of those crusader knights as they were depicted in the second stratum of murals in the church of Saint-Jacques-des-Guérets (Loir-et-Cher, France).257 Following a logic similar to the one used in the murals of Cressac (Fig. 1) or in the murals of the black cathedral of Clermont, their coats of arms were attributed to the saints. For a Frenchman, this was not a strange comparison, therefore the arms of one of them were depicted on the shield of S(anctus) GEORGIVS.258 Maybe Anna told stories about these French knights, stories learnt from her first husband. Nicholas would enjoy them, her daughter Margaret would appreciate them as well, as would do the ladies and lords of the court. The recitation of songs-of-deeds would last several evenings. The public would not always be the same. On one of those occasions, Anna and Nicholas would be visited by William I de la Roche, duke of Athens (1280–1287), or by his brother Guy, the future duke (1287–1308). Anna would meet Guy’s wife, Helen, the daughter of her bastard brother John I Doucas of Thessaly. This other Greek woman would already be familiar with the world of the French and Italian lords, since she had married Guy in 1274. Furthermore, things had started to change even in the old land of the Epirus. The Epirotes were already familiar with Western
257 For the knights of the region who took part in the Seventh Crusade of saint Louis, as implied by the depiction from Saint-Jacques-des-Guérets, see Marie-Laure de Contenson, ‘Panorama des peintures murales de la vallée du Loir’, Bulletin de la Société archéologique, scientifique et littéraire du Vendômois (1993), 54. 258 Laurent Hablot, ‘L’héraldisation du sacré aux XIIe–XIIIe siècles: Une mise en scène de la religion chevaleresque?’, in Martin Aurell, Cătălina Gîrbea (dir.), Chevalerie et christianisme aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2011), 211–212, interprets this representation in light of the chevalerie célestielle from the Arthurian novels and asks himself how this use of personal arms in a depiction of saint George could occur in a mural from a church. I interpret it as a comparison between the revered knight to whom those arms belonged (probably deceased by the time the depiction was made) and the saint to whose martyrdom his death or deeds were compared. The 13th century depiction of Saint-Jacques-des-Guérets follows the same cultural code already noticed in Cressac (Fig. 1), where the crusaders were compared to the Maccabees, or Clermont, where the battles of the crusaders were compared to the martyrdom of saint George. See Agrigoroaei, ‘Une lecture templière’. Both interpretations are valid, as they are based on ideas originating in vernacular texts. The only difference is that I have a personal preference for the sacred readings. For a 12th–13th century Frenchman, this separation into sacred and profane would be artificial. He would perceive it as a single unitary manifestation.
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culture. Such was the case of the Parigoritissa church in Arta, founded by Anna’s brother, Nicephorus. In order to interpret some carvings of this “unicum in Byzantine architecture as far as its interior […] is concerned,”259 previous research looked towards Southern Italy, because of techniques and so-called analogies.260 Two segments from the inner marble decoration of the Parigoritissa, dated to 1294–1296,261 interest us here: the northern and western arches of the dome.262 On the west259 Παναγιώτης Λ. Βοκοτόπουλος, ‘Η τέχνη στην Ήπειρο τον 13ο αιώνα’, in idem (dir.), Η βυζαντινή τέχνη μετά την Τέταρτη Σταυροφορία. Η Τέταρτη Σταυροφορία και οι επιπτώσεις της (Athens: Ακαδημία Αθηνών. Κέντρο Ερευνας της Βυζαντινής και Μεταβυζαντινής Τέχνης, 2007), 47–56, 58. 260 Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 457: “the technique of these arches, with figures carved in very high relief on separate blocks stacked head to foot, is also not found in Byzantine works but has analogies in western France and southern Italy.” The first to propose a Southern-Italian connection was Αναστάσιος Κ. Ορλάνδος, Η Παρηγορήτισσα της Άρτης (Athens: Αρχαιολογική εταιρεία, 1963), 84–85, because of the political links with the Angevin kingdom. Cf. Leonela Fundić, ‘Epeiros between Byzantium and the West in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Visual evidence’, in Cross-cultural interaction between Byzantium and the West, 1204–1669: whose Mediterranean is it anyway? Papers from the Forty-Eighth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Milton Keynes, 28th–30th March 2015 (Milton: Routledge, 2018), 296, who suggests that the ornamental arches may be linked with what happened in Western France or in Southern Italy. 261 For this dating, see Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 457, who follows Donald M. Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros, 1267–1479 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984 = 2010 digitally printed version), 240–241. Βοκοτόπουλος, ‘Η τέχνη στην Ήπειρο’, 49, 58, quotes Lioba Theis, Der Architektur der kirche der Panagia Parēgorētissa in Arta/Epirus (Amsterdam: Adolf M. Hakkert, 1991), but not to the page. For a discussion, see Theis, Der Architektur, 31, 155. The now incomplete claveaux of an archivolt present an ornamental pattern in low-relief with inscriptions suggesting that it was built towards the end of the reign of Nicephorus. They mention the despot himself (ΚΟΜΝΗΝΟΔΟΥΚΑΣ ΔΕΣΠΟΤΗΣ ΝΙ[ΚΗ]ΦΟΡΟΣ), his wife Anna (ΑΝΝΑ ΒΑΣΙΛ[ΙΣΣ]Α ΚΟΜΝΗΝ[ΟΔΟΥΚΑΙΝΑ]), and their son Thomas as despot (ΚΟΜΝΗΝΟΒΛΑΣΤΟΣ Δ[ΕΣΠΟΤΗΣ ΤΩ]ΜΑΣ ΜΕΓΑΣ). The latter had received the dignity of despot from Andronicus II Palaeologus in 1290. Cf. Theis, Der Architektur, 154; Ορλάνδος, Η Παρηγορήτισσα, 95–99. 262 Cf. Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 53, who follows L. Safran, arguing that “the arches decorated with the Nativity and adoration of the Lamb of God respectively are too high in their present locations to be visible from floor level and […] they are not fully integrated in the present architectural setting, a fact that indicates that they were originally designed and executed for a different location.” Nevertheless, the inscriptions are not necessarily meant to be read; their meaning is entirely different. Nobody ever imagined that the sculptures of Western Gothic churches could originally be located at a lower, visitor-friendly level. Furthermore, it is safe to assume that the carvings from the other two arches (southern and eastern) are now lost, not that the original sculptures, initially made for the portals (?) of the Parigoritissa façade (cf. ibid., 76, 83) would be later moved to the interior. In such a case, blind luck (or a divine miracle) would be the only explanation for the manner in which they fit perfectly the arches at the basis of the dome.
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ern one, the keystone represents an Agnus Dei, flanked by the eagle of saint John and the angel of saint Matthew, and followed by seven Old Testament figures holding prophecies related to the Crucifixion:263 to the left Solomon, Job, and Zachariah; while David, Moses, Isaiah, and Jeremiah are presented to the right. This arrangement was compared to the early 13th century portal of the Ruvo cathedral in Apulia, where “a nimbed Lamb holding a cross […] is further flanked by evangelist symbols, like those on both the west arch and on some column bases at the Parigoritissa.”264 However, there are no evident links between the two terms of the comparison, because the Tetramorph does not appear in the Parigoritissa arch. Thus, the need to complete it using other animals from other places in the same church, but this hypothesis fails to explain the manner in which the Crucifixion-related inscriptions of the Epirote sculpture relate to “a Deisis flanked by twelve angels, twelve Apostles […], and finally a nimbed Lamb” with the Tetramorph – an iconography that is not related to the Crucifixion, but to the Maiestas Domini.265 The problem is that the sources of the Ruvo portal have not been discussed. Romanesque art research argued that this particular type of representation is tributary to French models, and to the 12th century cases in particular,266 those presented in the previous chapter, when I discussed the sources of inspiration for the Byzantine Museum spandrel panels. I do not reject the possibility that the technique of the Parigoritissa sculptures may originate in Italy. Italian masons or Greek masons trained there.267 The subject, on the other hand, should be identified elsewhere, much closer, in Athens.268 263 Cf. Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 458, notes that the “eight” (sic!) Old Testament figures hold prophecies related to the Crucifixion. The lowest claveau to the left, which could represent an eighth Old Testament prophet, is lost. 264 Ibid., 457. Cf. Βοκοτόπουλος, ‘Η τέχνη στην Ήπειρο’, 55, 61, who follows L. Safran to the letter and repeats the same comparisons with Santa Maria delle Cerrate or the cathedral of Ruvo. The same may be said about Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 76–77 (cf. p. 104: “mainly in the way the faces are executed”). 265 Cf. Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 457, for the quotations and for the rejected hypothesis. Cf. Βοκοτόπουλος, ‘Η τέχνη στην Ήπειρο’, 55, 61, who also speaks of Deisis between angels, Apostles, and Agnus Dei in Ruvo. 266 For the sources of inspiration of the Ruvo portal, see Maria Stella Calò Mariani, ‘Sulle relazioni artistiche tra la Puglia e l’Oriente latino’, in Roberto il Guiscardo e il suo tempo: Atti delle prime giornate normanno-sveve, Bari, 28–29 maggio 1973 (Bari: Dedalo, 1991), 71 and note 125. 267 Cf. Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 458–460. 268 The connection between the Athenian spandrel panels of the Byzantine Museum and the Arta sculptures was evident to Μελβάνι, ‘H γλυπτική’, 37. He quoted the study of Safran in his analysis of the Athenian panels. Cf. Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 76, who speaks of the Arta sculptures as “organised in a similar way as the figures of the
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The Athenian panels discussed in the previous chapter and the Parigoritissa arches both follow Western models. While the ones in Athens adapt Western techniques to a Byzantine way of carving, the sculptures from Arta go further, faithfully copying the voussoirs of late 12th and 13th century Gothic portals, where each carved figure occupies the space of a claveau and the claveaux-figures compose an arch. Denominative inscriptions appear once again on the outer rim, as in Athens and in Western models. And there is more: the second iconographic ensemble, the one represented on the northern arch, has an almost identical composition to the Nativity from the Byzantine Museum spandrel panels. High up on the keystone, the Mother (ΜΡ ΘΥ) and Child (ΙC ΧC) accompanied by the ox and the ass († H ΦΑΤΝΗ) form a scene entitled the ‘Nativity of Christ’ (Η ΧΡΙCΤΟΥ ΓΕΝΝΗCΙC †), with angels flanking them (each designated as † Ο ΑΓΓΕΛΟC ΚΥΡΙΟΥ). To the left, the next claveau presents good Joseph († Ο ΑΓΑΘΟC ΙΩCΗΦ †), followed by the Three Wise Men († ΟΙ ΜΑΓΟΙ †), Luke the Evangelist († Ο ΕΥΑΝΓΕΛΙCΤΗC ΛΟΥΚΑΣ †), and prophet Jeremiah († Ο ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗC ΙΕΡΕΜΙΑC †). To the right, the composition unfolds with the prophet David, oddly represented in the dress of a Western bishop († Ο ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗC ΔΑΒΗΔ †), the shepherds (only the one playing the flute, with a sheep: † ΟΙ ΠΟΙΜΕΝΕC †), as well as prophets Micaiah († Ο ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗC ΜΙΧΑΙΑC ††) and Isaiah († Ο ΠΡΟΦΗΤΗC HCΑΙΑC †). The prophets and saint Luke carry texts prefiguring or stating the Incarnation.269 There are no mentions of gifts, hymns, or miracles next to the figures of the Magi, angels, and shepherds, but the arrangement bears a strong resemblance to the Athenian one. It is even more elaborate, and the overwhelming presence of the prophets, on the arches under the dome, should be linked with the
Nativity archivolt” from Athens. Cf. p. 104, for a conjecture that needs to be treated with caution: “the volute-shaped drapery folds of the Arta figures are not like the ones in the Italian monuments, but rather resemble the figures on the three arches from 13th-century Frankish Athens, which are in turn reflexions of the decorative drapery on sculptures of the 12th century in Nazareth.” 269 For the description and most of the inscriptions, see Ορλάνδος, Η Παρηγορήτισσα, 78–84. Cf. Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 457: “all holding inscriptions that relate to the Incarnation.” According to pp. 457–458, the same iconography would appear in Cerrate, a Greek monastery near Lecce, on a portal dating to the turn of the 13th century. Nevertheless, she had to accept that the Cerrate composition presents in fact scenes from the life of Mary and the Old Testament prophets are absent. She insisted that “the Virgin looks away from the manger,” which would be proof of a “shared idiosyncrasy,” yet she accepted that there were no evident stylistic links between the sculptures, looking for stylistic comparisons in a 13th century relief from Molfetta cathedral (cf. p. 458).
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church’s dedication to the Mother of God, in a Byzantine interpretation of an already experimental idea.270 This means that half a century after the carved façade of Saint-Sophia in Trebizond, the periphery of the Latin world had moved farther inside the Byzantine Commonwealth. Different Greeks – the Epirotes this time – embraced Western fashions. The remaining question is if they were conscious or not of what they were doing. The odd depiction of David as a Latin bishop and the presence of an Agnus Dei on the western arch seems to contradict the little we know about princess Anna’s brother and his Cantacuzene wife.271 Yet we should remind ourselves that form and meaning are not always the same. Even though the style and the antecedents of these sculptures were of a Latin origin, the actual source of the representations was a Byzantine hymn, so there would be nothing wrong with those sculptures from an exegetic point of view. Further proof that these Western influences were regarded as marginal, unessential, and risk-free comes from the church of Saint-Theodora in Arta, where a combat between a mounted knight and a centaur was depicted on the dado zone of the northern wall.272 Such perfectly sub pede depictions had antecedents in the West, yet the subject of the combat came from Greek legends. Since this was another stimulus diffusion, not a direct influence, the commissioner of the work, Anna Cantacuzene, widow of our Anna’s brother Nicephorus, would not mind that a centaur had been painted in the lower register of a church dedicated to her mother-in-law – by that time a symbolic figure of the resistance against the Union of Lyon.273 A generation later, Western fashions became more and more present in Epirus and the stimulus diffusion expanded into other categories of culture, like literary texts.
270 Cf. Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’, 457, who noticed that “except for the addition of the evangelist and the prophets, this is the usual iconography of the Byzantine Nativity.” 271 Cf. Fundić, ‘Epeiros’, 296: who cannot explain the Agnus Dei, since the rulers of Epirus had been actively opposing the 1274 Uniatism. Cf. Safran, ‘Exploring Artistic Links’. 272 Cf. Fundić, ‘Epeiros’, 293, who compares the Arta combat to similar themes in sculpture, wall paintings and ceramic ware, quoting examples mentioned by Gerstel, ‘Art and identity’, 274. Cf. Laura Nicole Horan, The Unique Late Byzantine Image from the Epic of Digenis Akritas: A Study of the Dado Zone in the Church of the Panagia Chrysaphitissa, MA paper (UCLA, 2018), who analyses them in comparison with a scene in Chrysapha. 273 Cf. Fundić, ‘Epeiros’, 297, for the possibility that Anna Cantacuzene, wife of Nicephorus and opponent of Uniatism, would be the one who converted the church of Saint-George in Arta into a church of Saint-Theodora (her mother-in-law). The murals of this church date from her time and she commissioned them.
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Constantine Hermoniakos described himself as a servant of John and Anna, despot and despina of Epirus.274 He adapted his version of the story of Troy from the 12th century Allegories of the Iliad by John Tsetses, much like the Old French versifiers used to work from Medieval Latin commentaries or rewritings of ancient texts.275 Just like Benoît of Sainte-Maure, Hermoniakos used the prologue of his source in order to create a frame story for his narrative. For him, it was not the discovery of a book hidden in a closet. Greeks had nothing to do with Latin literature, so there could not be any mentions of Cornelius Nepos and his letter to Sallust. There was nevertheless a short life of Homer (his father and mother; an invented oracle; a scholar-pedigree from Pronapides, Orpheus, Linus, and Cadmus; and the titles of his works). Next, Hermoniakos mentioned Euripides and Lycophron as alternative sources for the Trojan War.276 Such symperipheral references, that Hermoniakos probably never read, were essential to the prologues of Old French texts with a plot set in ancient times.277 And just like in the Old French romances, mythical heroes were compared with biblical ones such as Moses or David.278 In those Old French romances, armies of Petchenegs and Bulgarians appear in the company of ancient heroes in Roman de Thèbes, so the Epirote versifier also brought odd combatants into the field. And he liked Palamedes as much as the French writers did. In most cases, Hermoniakos built upon the story of Tsetses. In the third rhapsody, when the Greeks prepare to go to Troy, Achilles, son of Peleus, gathers in 274 Cf. Émile Legrand (ed.), ΙΛΙΑΔΟΣ ΡΑΨΩΔΙΑΙ ΚΔ’ / Constantin Hermoniacos: La guerre de Troie, poème du XIVe siècle en vers octosyllabes, publié d’après les manuscrits de Leyde et de Paris (Paris: J. Maisonneuve, 1890), 5. 275 For short analyses of this text, see Elizabeth M. Jeffreys, ‘Constantine Hermoniakos and Byzantine Education’, Δωδώνη, 4 (1975), 81–109; Ingela Nilsson, ‘From Homer to Hermoniakos: Some considerations of Troy matter in Byzantine Literature’, Troianalexandrina, 4 (2004), 9–34; Caterina Carpinato, ‘Leggendo l’Iliade con Konstantinos Ermoniakos: la vita di Omero (I, 29–141)’, in eadem, Varia posthomerica neogreca. Materiali per il Corso di Lingua e Letteratura Neogreca a.a. 2006–2007 (Milan: EDUCatt, 2006), 9–18. Or the study of Renata Lavagnini, ‘Storie troiane in greco volgare’, in Franco Montanari, Steffano Pittaluga (dir.), Posthomerica I. Tradizioni omeriche dall’Antichità al Rinascimento (Genoa: University of Genoa, Dipartimento di archeologia filologia classica e loro tradizioni, 1997), 60–62. Among the many mentions of Tzetses, see e.g. the one in Legrand ed., Hermoniacos, 61 or 395–396. An alternative source, quoted as such in many studies, would be the 12th century chronicle of Constantine Manasses, but I could not verify any precise correspondences between the two texts. 276 Cf. Carpinato, ‘Leggendo l’Iliade’, 11–15. 277 Cf. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Quelle matière pour quelle translatio? L’héritage sympériphérique de l’Antiquité dans certains textes français du XIIe siècle’, in Christine FerlampinAcher, Cătălina Gîrbea (dir.), Matières à débat. La notion de ‘matière’ littéraire dans la littérature médiévale (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2015), 587–602. 278 Cf. Carpinato, ‘Leggendo l’Iliade’, 16.
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Fthia a host of Bulgarians, Hungarians (the Huns of Tsetses), Myrmidons, and (obviously) many ships.279 There are several places where Hermoniakos took after Tsetses, mentioning for example Nicaea,280 but in other case he added new references (Italy, Lombards, Vlachia),281 and even altered the anachronisms of Tsetses.282 Since he followed his source to the letter, often splitting Tsetses’ political verses (decapentasyllabic iambs) in half, Hermoniakos appealed to an almost ludicrous overabundance of γὰρ. He needed to fill his text with absent syllables, in order to keep the pace of the short and unaccustomed octosyllabic trochaic meter. The choice of this meter is equally intriguing, but it is obvious when we know that this was the favourite meter of the French romances set in the time of Antiquity.283 Yet there was no rhyme, not even the rimes plates of the Old French text, because Hermoniakos had to follow closely his models, and those models had no rhyme. Besides, the fact that the language of his Iliad may be defined at an artificial crossroads between Koiné and Demotic, in a sociolectal limbo, further supports the idea that his text was an answer to a Frankish cultural trend. This is the 279 Legrand ed., Hermoniacos, 53. For the Tsetses text, see once again the edition of Boissonade ed., Tzetzae Allegoriae Iliadis, 173. Carpinato, ‘Leggendo l’Iliade’, 16, believed that this anachronism characterised only Hermoniakos’ text. 280 Legrand ed., Hermoniacos, 284, for the various heroes ἐλθόντες ἐκ Νικαίας. The idea is taken directly from Tsetses. Cf. Boissonade ed., Tzetzae Allegoriae Iliadis, 173, and note 190 of the same page, where Nicaea is an interpretation of the Homeric Ascania. 281 Cf. Legrand ed., 56–57, 66, 139. The index of the edition being very badly assembled. I probably missed many other interesting references, as I could not read the entire text in detail. 282 For instance, in his text, Hungarians are always mentioned in connection with Paeonians. Cf. ibid., 76: τῶν Οὐγγρων τὸ γένος, repeated in an identical context in pp. 308, 351. This comparison seems to be taken from a particular passage in Tsetses (cf. Boissonade ed., Tzetzae Allegoriae Iliadis, 48). Nevertheless, in that passage, Bulgarians and not Huns or Hungarians were connected with Paeonians. 283 See the Roman de Thèbes, Roman de Troie, Roman d’Eneas, the Philomena of Chrétien of Troyes, and many others, with the exception of Alexander romances, written in dodecasyllabic alexandrines. I disagree with the opinion of Ulrich Moennig, “Intertextuality in the late Byzantine romance ‘Tale of Troy’”, in Teresa Shawcross, Ida Toth (dir.), Reading in the Byzantine Empire and Beyond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018), 356, that “Constantine Hermoniakos’ Iliad was obviously not written as a romance, because it does not feature any of the characteristics of the genre that were established when the text was produced ‘in Epiros around 1320’.” The notion of genre does more harm than good to the history of Medieval Greek profane literature, as the few early texts composing this literature are often situated in between already consecrated genres. I would argue that the Hermoniakos text does not belong to a genre, since it should be considered a stimulus diffusion experiment: the achieving of the same goal (an octosyllabic poem close to the language of the people) with different means (Byzantine sources).
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main reason for which his poem was regarded as “possibly the worst poem ever written in Greek language”284 or “a monstrous and arbitrary amalgamation.”285 Nevertheless, perhaps this is also the reason why it enjoyed a certain success in his time (three manuscripts), serving as a base for a 1526 Venetian print of a Greek rewriting of the Iliad.286 Since his Epirote Iliad had nothing to do with the aesthetics of Medieval Greek literature (Byzantine or Demotic), Hermoniakos’ metaphrase of Tsetses was never properly analysed.287 There is no need to discuss the actual implications of Hermoniakos’ project. The little that he tells us – that he planned to render the Homeric text in simpler words, more comprehensible – is a commonplace of Western and Eastern vernacular translations,288 as is the clearly overstated inclination of his patrons towards ‘learnedness’.289 This odd and rare bird, the first Greek literary text to testify manifestly to the influence of Western vernacular literatures, belongs to the history of French or Italian literatures, to the experimental rewritings of the Duecento and early Trecento, not to the literary fashions of the Byzantine capital, which would not accept or understand its mixture of Koiné with provincial Greek. Hermoniakos did not write it for a Palaeologan emperor. He wrote it for John II Orsini, despot of Epirus (1323–1335), who was half-Italian on his father’s side, John I Orsini, count of Cephalonia (1303/1304–1317), and half-Greek on his mother’s side, Mary, niece of our princess Anna by her brother, Nicephorus I (c.1267/1268–1297). The prologue mentions the order given to Hermoniakos by despot John, as member of the Comnenus-Angelodoucas family.290 That is, as a Greek, even though the despot was accustomed to Western cultural fashions. 284 Cf. Robert Browning, ‘The Byzantines and Homer’, in Robert Lamberton, John J. Keaney (dir.), Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 145, who excuses himself for the use of this phrase in his publications from before the study of Jeffreys, ‘Constantine Hermoniakos’. Nevertheless, this was actually the opinion of its first editor, in 1890, and it continues to be downplayed for the same reasons. 285 Legrand ed., Hermoniacos, vi. 286 Cf. e.g. Caterina Carpinato, ‘Il ‘viaggio’ di Achille da Venezia alla Grecia: l’ Ἅλωσις ἤγουν ἔπαρσις τῆς Τροίας (1526) di Nikolaos Lukanis’, in Antonio Pioletti, Francesca Rizzo Nervo (dir.), Il Viaggio dei testi. Atti del III colloquio internazionale Medioevo romanzo e orientale. Venezia, 10–13 ottobre 1996 (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 1999), 487–505. 287 I believe that this text alone needs to be studied in a monograph or in a PhD dissertation, in comparison with Greek, Old French, or Latin poems pertaining to a similar category. 288 Cf. Legrand ed., Hermoniacos, 4. 289 Cf. ibid., 4, about the patrons. 290 Ibid., 3. Later on, the prologue also speaks of the most beautiful basilissa Anna, John’s wife (the one who poisoned him later, my note) and how both of them were very fond of learning (vide supra).
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This mirrored the situation of the Epirote Iliad, divided in twenty-four rhapsodies, as the Homeric poem, but following the trend of French octosyllabic romances. It may have just been a coincidence that one of its three 15th century manuscripts, Paris, BnF, Suppl. gr. 444, was copied in Southern Italy. Or maybe not. The Epirus of those times had changed. Its links with Southern Italy and Morea triggered a series of cultural experimentations that research will never fully understand, for they became soon obsolete and peripheral compared to what happened later on in the lands ruled by the Palaeologans. Yet the existence of these experiments argues in favour of an assimilation of Western cultural trends not in the Morea, under foreign occupation, in spite of the high-prestige try-outs of learned Latin bishops and scholars, but in the lands still ruled by Greeks, where a cultural balance could be achieved. In those other lands, the local tradition had not been interrupted. It is also hard not to argue that this unique literary experiment written about the same time as the more famous Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος, and predating the Achilleid from the later part of the 14th century, was made possible by the Epirote despots’ connections with the Latin lords. Under the rule of Anna’s brother Nicephorus, the despot’s people had become as one with those from Morea ( furent aussi come une chose la gent dou despot avec ceaux de la Moree).291 This was not necessarily true for the first (mid-13th century) interactions, but for the time when the French version of the Chronicle was written, in the early 14th century. In other words, for the moment when Hermoniakos wrote for despot Orsini. In the West, the same Orsini despot was seen as any Western knight. In a manuscript of the famous Histoire ancienne transcribed and illustrated in the Kingdom of Naples (London, British Library, Royal 20 D I, c.1335–1340), Oedipus charges against the Sphinx and wears the coat of arms of this despot (f. 2v), probably on account of the tumultuous history of the Orsini family. We should not be surprised of the comparison. John had killed his brother Nicholas in order to take his place, and Nicholas had killed their uncle Thomas. On fol. 106v of the manuscript, a crowned Diomedes has a shield parted quarterly per cross, with the Orsini arms and a pseudo-Palaeologan ‘or’ eagle upon a ‘gules’ field. He stands in for Nicephorus II, son of John Orsini and Anna Palaeologina. For the love of the daughter of Colchas, this Orsini Diomedes unsaddles Troilus (dyomedes ala iouster a troilus pour lamour de
291 For the context of this quotation (Anna’s marriage with William, erroneously described as an initiative of her brother, because the chronicler makes several confusions), see Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 124.
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samie et le trebucha ius de la sele),292 whose shield carries an ‘argent’ eagle upon a ‘gules’ field, a sort of variation of the Byzantine emblem. The text proper also speaks of Diomedes taking refuge in Southern Italy, just like Nicephorus II Orsini had taken refuge in the Kingdom of Naples in 1337–1338.293 It was a game of appearances, with random inconsistencies, but this demonstrates that the Angevin king who enjoyed the comparisons saw these despots as equal Western noblemen. Despite their repeated marriages with Byzantine princesses, the despots of Epirus were Latins in spirit. By then, a part of the Epirote elite would equally be westernised. Only the masses remained rural and therefore faithfully Byzantine.294 However, by that time, our princess Anna had been dead for more than a generation and a half.
…
292 I used the provisional transcription published online by the team of the project The Values of French Language and Literature in the European Middle Ages. ERC Advanced Grant at King’s College London (https://tvof.ac.uk/. Accessed 2020 May 15; section 280, fol. 106va – the passage relating to the miniature). 293 Cf. Barbieri, ‟La versione ‘angioina’”; Costanza Cipollaro, ‘Una galleria di battaglie per Roberto d’Angiò: nuove riflessioni su l’Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César di Londra (British Library, MS. Royal 20 D I)’, Rivista d’arte, 3 (2013), 1–34, who argue that there is a precise heraldic logic to the making of the entire manuscript. I also fail to see how this codex could be considered a strumento di propaganda in preparazione della campagna di Morea of Catherine II of Valois-Courtenay (1338), this being the reason why Barbieri, ‟La versione ‘angioina’”, 12–13 dates the manuscript back to a precise interval: 1337–1338. I do not dare imagine how this manuscript could be used in battle (clearly a conjecture inflated by the socio-political undertones of the hypothesis). Instead, I will agree that there are indeed recurrent heraldic depictions that are related to king Robert the Wise, his brothers, Catherine II of Valois-Courtenay, and members of Angevin or Moreote nobility (even the coat of arms of the Villehardouin appears in certain scenes), but this seems to be an entertaining game, not always consistent with its premises, therefore not all references in the text determined the heraldic choices in the miniatures. The nonsensical variations on the heraldic patterns connected with the Palaeologans are clearly deployed for the sake of variation. And even though both Ulysses and his son Telemachus are said to be lords of Cephalonia, the Orsini coat of arms is not used in their case. In fact, many identifications of coat of arms made by Cipollaro, ‘Una galleria di battaglie’, are questionable (the Hungarian Angevins, on p. 16, as well as the long list of Southern Italian noble families on pp. 20–23). And the discussion about why the commissioner of the work, probably king Robert the Wise, did not identify with the Trojans (in the Troy story) or the Gauls (in the Roman story) must not be credited with strong propagandistic undertones. This is not a presa di distanza della dinastia angioina dalle proprie radici francesi, nor il disinteresse del ramo napoletano a costruirsi un’ascendenza troiana seguendo l’esempio di numerose altre dinastie europee (Barbieri, “La versione ‘angioina’”, p. 11). Things seem to be much simpler. The king and his vassals probably identified themselves with the winners in each story. 294 However, I would not say that, “if more local court architecture had survived, we might have the impression that court culture was earlier and more heavily Latinised here than
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The son-in-law whom Anna never met, Florent of Hainaut, took Anna’s daughter Isabella to Epirus in 1291. He had proven himself as a valiant knight in the tournament of Chauvency. His jousting skills were praised in 1285 by the trouvère Jacques Bretel. But now, in 1291, this Florent acted on behalf of the new king of Naples, Charles II of Anjou (1285–1309). He had to arrange the marriage of another Philip, son of the king, with Thamar, daughter of Anna’s brother, the same Nicephorus. On the way to Epirus, perhaps this second husband would sing a rondeau to Isabella, like the one he had sung during the above-mentioned famous French tournament. He would not act very differently from Anna’s husband William. The contents of the song would not be very different either (heartbreak).295 Isabella, on the other hand, would be very different from her mother, as she had lived most of her life in Italy as a Western lady. She would not be astonished by the things that surprised her mother in her youth. In Epirus, Isabella would therefore discover a strange world and an uncle worried of breaking his alliance with the Palaeologans, an alliance carefully crafted by her aunt, his wife, a Cantacuzene. While in the town of Arta, Isabella would see the tomb of her grand-mother, already venerated as a saint, but a saint whose cult had strange anti-Latin undertones. It would impress her, it would worry her, but this Orthodox milieu would seem too outlandish to be real. In spite of the inconsistently Westernised tastes of the elite, in spite of the castle of Arta, that seemed to be inspired by the castles of the West, she would perceive this land as a different world.
in Constantinople.” The quotation is from Paul Magdalino, ‘Between Romaniae: Thessaly and Epirus in the Later Middle Ages’, in Benjamin Arbel et al. (dir.), Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204 (London: Frank Cass, 1989), 89, where the historian’s train of thought rambles into conjectures after mentioning the Western features of the Parigoritissa church in Arta. In the next phrase, he misses the only definite proof of Western influences, for he writes that “the literary sources, however, do not give such impression,” and follows with a brief mention of Hermoniakos’ Iliad as “a work of pure Byzantine pedantry.” 295 For the illustrations of the Chauvency tournament poem, who do not unfortunately include any depictions of Florent, see Nancy Freeman Regalado, ‘Picturing the Story of Chivalry in Jacques Bretel’s Tournoi de Chauvency (Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Douce 308)’, in Susan L’Engle, Gerald B. Guest (dir.), Tributes to Jonathan J.G. Alexander: The Making and Meaning of Illuminated Medieval and Renaissance Manuscripts, Art, and Architecture (London: Harvey Miller, 2006), 341–355. For the original first two lyrics of the song sung by Florent of Hainaut during that tournament, see Maurice Delbouille (ed.), Jacques Bretel: Le Tournoi de Chauvency (Liège/Paris: H. Vaillant-Carmanne/E. Droz, 1932): Navrez sui prés du cuer sanz plaie | Las! Si ne sai qui le fer m’en traie. For more data on the song, see Mark Everist, French Motets in the Thirteenth Century: Music, Poetry and Genre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 76–80.
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Back in Morea, where she and Florent would return to reign as prince and princess for a while, Isabella would meet with her younger sister Margaret, who would tell her stories about the mother who was absent from most of her life, except for a short period during her troubled childhood. The two sisters would then go to the church of Saint-James in Andravida to visit the family tombs. Maybe they would be the ones to order their mother’s grave slab, for its text was in French, even though it spoke of Anna’s Byzantine origins: ‘Here lieth milady Agnes, once daughter of kir despot Mikaïl and … … ty-six on the fourth day of January’ (Fig. 31): † ICI ⁝ GIST ⁝ MADAME ⁝ AGNES ⁝ IADIS ⁝ FILLE ⁝ DOV ⁝ DESPOT ⁝ KIVR ⁝ MIKAILLE ⁝ ET [FAME] [… [………………………………] [TRESPASSA] […] …] [M ⁝ CC ⁝ L ⁝ X]XX ⁝ VI ⁝ AS ⁝ IIII ⁝ IOVRS ⁝ De ⁝ IANVIER ⁝296 Anna died on 4 January 1286. Her tombstone, currently on display at the museum of the Chlemoutsi castle, was once in Andravida, possibly in the church of Saint-James (Fig. 31). Oddly, it mentions her father before her husband, for reasons that still need to be explained.297 The inner decoration of the broken slab features salamanders with traces of metallic inlays (golden?), and peacocks with similar traces of metallic eyes (Fig. 32). The Last Judgement symbolism of the birds whose flesh never rots was common to both East and West, but the salamanders are drawn from the Latin tradition.298 In the words 296 The title of William cannot be guessed and the preposition may be absent, a reason for which I did not reconstitute the rest of the second line. Similarly, I am still undecided whether to use qui or laquelle (before trespassa) and l’an or l’an de grace (after the same verb). The choice between l’an and l’an de grace can be done after a measurement and reconstitution of the slab. For the reconstitution of the inscription, several French inscriptions may serve as a model. I present them in chronological order, from Estelle Ingrand-Varenne, Langues de bois, de pierre et de verre. Histoire du langage épigraphique et de son passage du latin au français (Ouest de la France, XIIe–XIVe siècle), 2 vols, PhD diss. (University of Poitiers, 2013) 2:46 (Les Sorinières, Villeneuve abbey, 1203); 2:42 (Les Sorinières, Villeneuve abbey, 1318/1321); 2:36 (Nantes, Franciscan convent, 1329); 2:102 (Saint-Cyr-en-Talmondais, church, 1330); 2:78 (Saint-Ouen-en-Belin, church, 1344, lost inscription); 2:45 (Les Sorinières, Villeneuve abbey, 1353); 2:61 (Laval, Franciscan convent, 1382); 2:70 (Saint-Gildas-de-Rhuys, abbey church, 1388). 297 The cases in which a lady is first described as ‘daughter’ are motivated by the superior status of her father or by her unmarried status (vide supra). In Anna’s case, it would be highly unlikely that her father would have precedence over her husband in the principality of Achaea. 298 In Byzantine contexts, the salamander appears only in connection to the commentaries of Pseudo-Nonnus. These references do not reach the intricacies of their Western
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of William the Clerk of Normandy, paraphraser of the Physiologus in a famous Divine Bestiary (turn of the 13th century), this beast whose head, tail, and body resembled that of a lizard had no fear. Fire could not burn it. It signified the righteous man, whose faith had reached perfection. The righteous man extinguished not only the fire of luxury and vices burning around him, but also that of eternal damnation. The devil could not grasp in his embrace those whose faith was so perfect that they did not fear him. The salamander also alluded to the story of Three Worthies in the fiery furnace (Daniel 3:23–25), that story about the Archangel Michael, the weigher of souls at the Last Judgement, explaining thus the insistence with which the tombstone inscription accentuates Anna’s link to her father Michael. The rest of the text would follow with a reference to her husband, and maybe even to her saintly mother. A mention of Theodora of Arta would not be unexpected, as the salamander was actually an allusion to the saints in general, in an antithetical reference to the burnt sinners mentioned in Isaiah.299 The peacocks and salamanders on Anna’s tomb (Fig. 32) should be interpreted as a profession of such a perfect and sinless righteousness, whereby her body would not be eaten by worms, and the fire of Hell would not touch her. Princess Anna would have the right to an eternal life. It is therefore true that the mid-relief design of the stone looks Byzantine,300 as it was probably crafted by local masons, but the significance of the slab was unquestionably Latin. For the two daughters, living a Latin life in a mixed-breed land, their mother would be looked upon as a Western lady: a Greek despot’s daughter, naturally, but rebaptised with a name that alluded to her acculturation to the values of the French. It is perhaps no coincidence that counterparts; see for this Kurt Weitzmann, Greek Mythology in Byzantine Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1951), 27–28. Cf. the Pseudo-Nonnus passage in the translation of Jennifer Nimmo Smith, The Christian’s Guide to Greek Culture: The Pseudo-Nonnus ‘Commentaries’ on ‘Sermons’ 4, 5, 39 and 43 by Gregory of Nazianus (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2002), 116: “The animal is so extremely cold that if it enters a fire, it quenches the flames, but is not burnt itself.” Cf. Demetrios Athanasoulis, s.v., ‘Tombstone of Princess Anna (Agnès) de Villehardouin’, in Toumazis, Pace, Belgiorno, Antoniadou dir., Σταυροφορίες, 187: “apart from the reptile, the subject matter is common in Byzantine art.” 299 See Isaiah 66:24 (“the worms that eat them will not die; the fire that burns them will not be quenched”). For all these ideas, see the original text in Robert Reinsch (ed.), Le Bestiaire. Das Thierbuch des Normannischen Dichters Guillaume le Clerc zum ersten Male vollständig nach den Handschriften von London, Paris und Berlin, mit Einleitung und Glossar (Leipzig: Reisland, 1890), 346, 347–348. 300 Cf. Cooper, ‘The Frankish church’, 34, arguing that the slab was a reemployed spolium, but this hypothesis does not hold; its only argument is that the decoration is similar to that of templon screens.
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the tombstone names her Agnes. When that saint was brought to the arena and tied to the stake, the French poems tell us that the great flame surrounding her turned into an enclosed chamber, soft as a red curtain and utterly forgetful of its harmful purpose. The fire laying waste to all things had forgotten its nature.301 301 I quote from the same unedited 13th century metrical life of saint Agnes in Paris, BnF, f. fr. 1553, fols. 400vb–406rb. The passage paraphrased in the text is found at fol. 403va: Cele grans flame qui la auironnee | Aussi li ert comme cambre celee | Mais de mal faire estoit toute obliee | Car ele estoit plus douche que rosee | Li fus ki sot toute chose gaster | Chi li conuint se nature oblier […].
the fifth tale
Se una notte d’inverno un Spirituale … … listening to someone who is translating from another language involves a fluctuation, a hesitation over the words, a margin of indecision, something vague, tentative. The text, when you are the reader, is something that is there, against which you are forced to clash; when someone translates it aloud to you, it is something that is and is not there, that you cannot manage to touch. Furthermore, Professor Uzzi-Tuzzi had begun his oral translation as if he were not quite sure he could make the words hang together, going back over every sentence to iron out the syntactical creases, manipulating the phrases until they were not completely rumpled, smoothing them, clipping them, stopping at every word to illustrate its idiomatic uses and its connotations, accompanying himself with inclusive gestures as if inviting you to be content with approximate equivalents, breaking off to state grammatical rules, etymological derivations, quoting the classics. But just when you are convinced that for the professor philology and erudition mean more than what the story is telling, you realize the opposite is true: the academic envelope serves only to protect everything the story says and does not say, an inner afflatus always on the verge of being dispersed at contact with the air, the echo of a vanished knowledge revealed in the penumbra and in tacit allusions. Torn between the necssessity to interject glosses on multiple meanings of the text and the awareness that all interpretation is a use of violence and caprice against a text, the professor, when faced by the most complicated passages, could find no better way of aiding comprehension than to read them in the original. Italo Calvino1
⸪ 1 Italo Calvino, If on a winter’s night a traveller, translated from the Italian by William Weaver (Orlando et al.: Harvest et al., 1981), 68–69.
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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None of this happened on our winter night. For us, the story starts on Christmas Eve, at the time of mass (Pasqua di Natale), in the year 1300. Brothers Angelo Clareno and Liberato of the Spiritual Franciscans, with eighty companions – an epic number in a legendary story – would be living in a hermitage in Greece (nelle parti di Romania in uno romitorio). They would go to mass in a monastery church, where they would listen to Orthodox monks singing the office and reciting Scripture readings. Then the miracle would happen. Brother Angelo would suddenly understand the Greek language and he would speak it back. Lacking the pedantic erudition of Professor Uzzi Tuzzi, Angelo would not worry about markers absent from second aorist of the middle voice. He would just know the language. He would not make oral translations. Instead, he would make a speech, the Benedicite, as if he were born and raised a Greek (come se fosso nato e sempre nutricato in quella lingua greca).2 This is what the Augustinian Gentile da Foligno wished us to believe when he used this tale as prologue of the Italian translation of John Climacus’ Ladder of Divine Ascent. Gentile was using Clareno’s Latin translation of the Greek original source. He wished to make it more interesting. Little does it matter that this miracle was probably shaped after the Fioretti, where saint Anthony of Padua preached in front of a crowd of Greeks, Latins, French, Germans, Slavs, English, and many other nations, each of them understanding his words as if they were pronounced in their own language.3 What mattered is that the miracle was useful. It made a lot of sense. The divine Christmas learning of Greek in an Orthodox monastery was too sacrosanct, too precious, and too unbelievable to be left idle. It had to bear fruit, so brother Angelo would take advantage of the miraculous gift and translate several texts: the Rule of saint Basil, the said book of saint John Climacus, and the apophthegms of saint Macarius of Egypt. Gentile dated these translations to the time of Boniface VIII, at the very beginning of the Trecento,4 but this dating is contested. A reference to the 28th chapter of John Climacus had already appeared in the works of Peter John Olivi, therefore suggesting that the translation could be earlier, made before March 1298.5 In turn, this would lead 2 Antonio Ceruti (ed.), Giovanni Climaco, La scala del Paradiso. Testo di lingua coretto su antichi codici (Bologna: Gaetano Romagnoli, 1874), 1–2. 3 Cf. Pier Massimo Forni (ed.), I Fioretti di san Francesco. Le considerazioni sulle Stimmate (Milan: Garzanti, 1993), 118–119. 4 Ceruti ed., Giovanni Climaco, 2–3. 5 For this hypothesis, see Sylvain Piron, ‘La bibliothèque portative des fraticelles, 1. Le manuscrit de Pesaro’, Oliviana, 5 (2016, online version http://journals.openedition.org/oliviana/804. Accessed 2020 February 12), paragraphs 25–27. For the manuscripts and prints of Angelo Clareno’s translation, see Ronald G. Musto, ‘Angelo Clareno, O.F.M., Fourteenth
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to the conclusion that Angelo Clareno could have translated the work of John Climacus in Armenia, where he had taken refuge previously, not in Greece. Nevertheless, it would be equally plausible that the reference circulated well before the translation itself. Such stories cannot be reconstructed or comprehended, as Calvino teaches in his novel. It would be best if they remained that way. The number ‘eighty’ of the Spirituals is also an exaggeration. Such a huge number of Franciscans could not be living inside or in the vicinity of a Greek hermitage (romitorio). However, there is some truth to the legendary account, as the choice of Angelo Clareno’s three translations was obviously determined by a deep knowledge of the Greek monastic world. It should not come as a surprise that the first four chapters of the Regula bullata of saint Francis were translated about the same time into Greek (late 13th century or early 14th century). Traditionally, this translation is ascribed to a Greek who knew Latin and was perhaps in contact with the Franciscans of Pera, in Constantinople, but no arguments are produced as proof of this attribution.6 A recent hypothesis identifies the translator with Thomas the Greek, mentioned by Salimbene of Adam in Lyon in 1249 (lector Constantinopolitanus Thomas Grecus ex ordine Minorum qui sanctus homo erat et Grece et Latine loquebatur), or with one of his fellow Friars.7 But there could have been many other translators capable of doing the same job. There was the anonymous envoy of John III Doucas Vatatzes, emperor of Nicaea, a Franciscan friar born in a mixed family (erat Grecus ex uno parente et Latinus ex altero), who came to Vienna and later to Lyon.8 There was also the bilingual John Parastron, a Greek Franciscan from the Constantinopolitan convent of Pera, who carried the letter of Michael VIII Palaeologus to the pope in 1272. This John later played an important role in the Second Council of Lyon.9 But a Spiritual from Angelo’s group (or from later Fraticelli groups settled in the Greek lands) could equally make a good translation. In truth, the only sure thing about the Greek translator of the Franciscan Rule is that he knew well his Greek versions of the Gospels and he was capable of faithfully following
6 7 8 9
Century Translator of the Greek Fathers. An Introduction and a Checklist of Manuscripts and Printings of his Scala Paradisi’, Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, 76 (1983), 215–238, 589–645. For the Pera convent hypothesis, see Sévérien Salaville, ‘Fragment inédit de traduction grecque de la Règle de saint François’, Échos d’Orient, 28 (1929), 167. Elizabeth A. Fisher, ‘Homo Byzantinus and Homo Italicus in Late Thirteenth-Century Byzantium’, in Jan M. Ziolkowski (dir.), Dante and the Greeks. Dumbarton Oaks Medieval Humanities (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2014), 69. Ferdinando Bernini (ed.), Salimbene de Adam: Cronica (Bari: Laterza, 1942) 1:465–466. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 143–144.
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their original readings even when he was translating quotations from a Latin source.10 There were many translators to and from the Greek language in those times. If a Spiritual or a Fraticello were one of those translators, if the Greek text of the Regula bullata were written by him, then the purpose of the translation would be similar to Angelo Clareno’s translation of saint Basil: getting to know the Greeks, comparing ascetical values, or finding common ground for co-existence. In his Epistula excusatoria, when accused of preferring the Greeks to the pope in Rome (quod ecclesia Orientalis esset melior quam Occidentalis),11 brother Angelo was compelled to declare that the Greeks were schismatics and vain (scismaticum esse et vacuum nomen ecclesie Orientalis).12 However, when he wrote how a monk should live in Christ, in his Preparantia, Angelo used many ideas that he held in common with Greek monks, and he even quoted saint Basil on two key points: a monk should avoid familiarities, 10
11 12
There are two quotations of the Gospel of Luke in the first four chapters of the Franciscan Rule. The first one (Luke 9:62) is perfectly quoted (Nemo mittens manum ad aratrum et aspiciens retro aptus est regno Dei). Cf. the Greek translation of the Rule (οὐδεὶς βαλὼν τὴν χεῖρα αὐτοῦ ἐπ’ ἄροτρον καὶ στραφεὶς εἰς τὰ ὀπίσω εὔθετός ἐστιν εἰς τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ Θεοῦ; Salaville, ‘Fragment inédit’, 169–170); and the Greek original (οὐδεὶς ἐπιβαλὼν τὴν χεῖρα ἐπ’ ἄροτρον καὶ βλέπων εἰς τὰ ὀπίσω εὔθετός ἐστιν τῇ βασιλείᾳ τοῦ Θεοῦ). The use of στραφεὶς (‘he turned’) seems to be dictated by the Latin text (aspiciens retro), and not by the original Greek βλέπων (‘looking’). The addition of αὐτοῦ also seems determined by a certain distance from the Greek text, yet the final sequence is perfectly aligned with the Greek Gospels. The second reference (Luke 9:62) is partly quoted and partly paraphrased. Cf. the Franciscan Rule – In quamcumque domum intraverint, primum dicant: Pax huic domi; the Greek translation of the Rule – ἐν ᾗ δ’ ἂν οἰκίᾳ εἰσέλθοιεν πρῶτον λεγέτωσαν· Εἰρήνη τῷ οἴκῳ τούτῳ; Salaville, ‘Fragment inédit’, 171; the Latin text of Luke 10:5 – In quamcumque domum intraveritis, primum dicite: Pax huic domui; and the Greek original – εἰς ἣν δ’ ἂν εἰσέλθητε οἰκίαν πρῶτον λέγετε· Εἰρήνη τῷ οἴκῳ τούτῳ. Again, at the very beginning, a difference in the use of prepositions (ἐν instead of εἰς) was probably dictated by the Latin text (in). The use of the aorist active optative 3rd person plural (εἰσέλθοιεν) instead of the aorist active subjunctive 2nd person plural (εἰσέλθητε) is another consequence of the change in the Latin text (the future perfect active indicative 2nd person plural intraveritis changed to the 3rd person plural intraverint), as well as the passage from the original λέγετε to λεγέτωσαν under pressure from a dicite changed to dicant. Nevertheless, all other Greek words are in their right place. Finally, when taking a look at another passage of the Franciscan Rule – Lat. benedicti sint a Domino, Gr. trans. εἴησαν εὐλογημένοι παρὰ Κυρίου – and comparing it to a similar reading from Ruth 2:20 – Lat. Benedictus sit a Domino, Gr. Septuagint εὐλογητός ἐστιν τῷ κυρίῳ – it is obvious that the words do not fall exactly in the right place. This time, the translator did not have a direct knowledge of the sequence. This other possible reference was unknown to him and he translated it freely. P. Heinrich Denifle O.P., Franz Ehrle S.J. (ed.), Archiv für Litteratur- und Kirchengeschichte des Mittelalters (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1885) 1:522. Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1885, 523.
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discussing with heretics, and reading pagan books ( fuga ac evitatio familiaritatis et colloquiorum hereticorum et lectionis librorum paganorum). Instead, a monk should read the Scriptures and the books, lives, and rules of the Holy Fathers (lectio sacrarum scripturarum et spetialiter in libris, vitis et regulis sanctorum patrum).13 In upholding this, Angelo was closer to the Orthodox monks of Latin-held Greece than to the learned Catholic clergy. At the other end of the cultural spectrum, the Dominican William of Morbeka and the other scholars busy in their search for manuscripts of Aristotle had more in common with the archbishop of old, Michael Choniates, than with Greek monks. This is why a century and a half later, a letter of the Venetian Senate mentions the troubles of the Latin bishop of Argos, who had to confront several Fraticelli. They were spreading errors of the Greek rite among the Latins of his diocese.14 These Fraticelli – later heretical offshoots of the Franciscan Order – were basically doing what Angelo Clareno and his men did at the turn of the 14th century. They had two main fixations: following the original Franciscan Rule as if it were the Gospel and looking for a heremitical way of life.15 This could be one of the many ‘winter nights’ imagined by Calvino. There is no way of telling whether the Greek text of the Franciscan Rule should be linked to the Conventuals or to the Spirituals. My subjective choice is dictated by the very nature of Angelo’s story. My voice then becomes that of brother Angelo Clareno, as narrated in his Historia septem tribulationum Ordinis Minorum, a text that was translated into Italian at least three times.16 Or that of Angelo quoted by Ubertino of Casale when he mentioned the story of some Friars living in the Greek lands, reading from Greek books, and finding out that the pope was Antichrist. When Angelo had barely returned from Greece, Ubertino wrote his Tree of the Crucified Life of Jesus (1305). My readers probably remember him
13 14
15 16
Ronald G. Musto, ‘Angelo Clareno’s “Preparantia Christi Iesu habitationem”’, Archivum Franciscanum Historicum, 73/1–3 (1980), 86. Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, ‘Heretical networks between East and West: the case of the Fraticelli’, Journal of Medieval History, 44/5 (2018), 536 (and note 38 for the text: Sunt etiam sibi vicini quidam heretici, qui dicuntur fratricelli, qui libenter subverterent patriam illam ad maiores errores quos habeant ex Greco ritu). Cf e.g. Giampaolo Tognetti, ‘I fraticelli, il principio di povertà e i secolari’, Bullettino dell’Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medioevo e Archivio Muratoriano, 90 (1982–1983), 77–145. The first translation dates back to 1330–1375 and was made in Florence. For the differences between Latin and Italian versions (not significant in the passages concerning the Spirituals’ stay in Greece), see Sara Bischetti, Cristiano Lorenzi, Antonio Montefusco, ‘Questione francescana e fonti volgari: il manoscritto Roma, BNC, Vitt. Em. 1167 e la tradizione delle “Chronicae” di Angelo Clareno’, Picenum Seraphicum. Rivista di studi storici e francescani, 33 (2019), 7–65.
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from the Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. At one point of his book, Ubertino writes that he had heard … […] from two really evangelical men, of which one knows Greek perfectly, [and] the other a little bit, that while one who has greater familiarity with it [Angelo Clareno?] was reading the commentary on the Apocalypse by Justin the martyr and Greek doctor, and he had come to the point in which Justin himself was computing the Greek letters, from the letters of this number [666] he composed a name in Greek, ‘Benedictòs’, whose nominative singular in Latin is ‘Benedictus’; and said that this is the future name of the aforesaid Beast. [Concerning] this we can be more specific. He who was reading told me that there were two men there, listening, while he was reading in the refectory for those evangelical poor who – fearing the aforementioned Beasts – had fled to Greece to freely live there in poverty. They told me that the whole group of poor people, when they heard that, rejoiced and laughed. The one who was reading smiled as well, and said to the brethren: – If Benedict from Anagni [Boniface VIII] who now reigns, knew this, he would command to all his men to find and burn this book, which so openly discloses his falsehood.17 17
Davide Bolognesi, Dante and the Friars Minor: Aesthetics of the Apocalypse, PhD diss. (Columbia University, 2012), 97–98 and 98, for the translation (with very few corrections by me). Cf. p. 98, for the original text presented in two quotations: Ego audivi a duobus vere evangelicis viris, quorum unus optime scit grecum, et alius aliquantulum, quod dum legeret ad mensam ille qui melius scit librum Iustini martyris doctoris greci super Apocalypsim, et venisset ad hunc locum quod idem Iustinus computando litteras grecas componit, ex litteris, huius numeri apud grecos nomen istud ‘benedictos’ qui nominativus singularis huius nominis latini [est] ‘benedictus’, et dicit quod hoc est nomen futurum predicte bestie. Quid clarius ad propositum dici potest: ille qui legit mihi dixit sic esse duo qui audierunt dum legeret ad mensam illis pauperibus evangelicis qui timore utriusque bestie predicte confugerant ad grecos, ut ibi paupercule victitarent. Dixerunt mihi quod tota illa congregatio pauperum spiritum hoc auditu exultavit et risit, et qui legebat subrisit similiter dixit ad fratres ‘Si Benedictus de Anagria, qui nunc regnat, sciret hoc, ipse mitteret totis viribus suis ut haberet et conbureret librum istud qui sic aperte eius aperit falsitatem’. Since there is no critical edition of this text, I checked the quotation of D. Bolognesi against his source, an incunable printed in Venice, 1485, by Andreas de Bonetis da Pavia. I used an online facsimile of the copy preserved at the Boston Public Library (The Paul Sabatier Franciscan Collection), fol. 232ra. As a sidenote, D. Bolognesi reads composit instead of componit and believes that the one composing the name of the pope was Justin the Martyr, author of the book, probably because of the present tense use in several verbs of the passage. However, the passage is clearly vague and it would be best to leave it as it is, for there is no such mention of the name Benedictos in the works of saint Justin the Martyr and the arithmetic leading to it could have been performed by the Franciscans themselves.
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There is something peculiar about the passage. There are two people involved in the telling of the story, perhaps brothers Angelo and Liberato speaking to Ubertino of Casale. One of them was quite proficient in Greek (probably Angelo), but Ubertino also mentions the public, their brethren, and two more men (a vague duo separated from the brethren), who were present in the refectory at the time of the reading. Given the nature of the story, there are two ways to interpret it. Either the whole assembly of friars was joined by two more persons, maybe Greek monks, or perhaps those two were also friars and told the story to the rest of the brethren at a later date. Both options are valid. Either way, Greek monks of those times would have likened the pope – any pope, for that matter – to the Antichrist. This is one of the things that the Spirituals and Greeks had in common. They could also find common ground in a certain familiarity of ideas, for the Spirituals were influenced by the writings of Joachim of Fiore, in turn influenced by the Orthodox doctrine of the Trinity of persons.18 It is difficult to say if this drew the Spirituals closer to Greek monasticism. We must take into account a complex of factors moving in between the upper and lower strata of culture in both Italy and Latin-occupied Greece, not only precise theological or exegetical similitudes between doctrines or writings. Speaking of this complex of factors, we see it even in the art of the time. For instance, mutual influences were evident in the iconography of the Last Judgement, probably because of a shared interest in the Apocalypse. It was noted that the Last Judgement painted on the counter-façade of the church of Saint-Andrew in Sommacampagna, close to Verona, is a Byzantinized composition. The entire scene covers three large registers, with the Hetimasia occupying the middle segment, and it presents other Byzantine features as well.19 It is no wonder that the mural paintings date back to the end of the 13th century or to the beginning of the 13th century. Those were times when Italians had assimilated influences coming from the East. Perhaps this assimilation was more often than not due to the fascination of the Franciscans with Byzantine iconography. The case of the Byzantine influences in the Upper-Church of Assisi is well-known (c.1236 – the monumental crucifix of Giunta Pisano, and the late-13th century murals of Jacopo Torriti). I could quote many other examples, but the best one 18 19
See e.g. Nachman Falbel, The Spiritual Franciscans, trans. Fiona O. Osborn (São Paulo: Perspectiva, 2011), 82–84. For these ideas, see Cozzi, ‘L’arte a Venezia’, 108, who follows previous bibliography. For a different opinion, see Francesco Butturini, La pittura frescale dell’anno mille nella diocesi di Verona (Verona: Centro per la formazione professionale grafica, 1987), 48–53, who did not wish to identify the Byzantine undertones of the Hetimasia and spoke only of Western influences.
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is probably the Kalenderhane Camii apse cycle murals depicting saint Francis, dated to c.1250, the first representation of that saint’s life according to the vita icon type, emblematic in Byzantine art.20 The same thing may be said about Greek art. I have in mind the murals from the church of Saint-George of Kouvara, less than a day’s walk from Athens. It is close to the church where Choniates was painted officiating the liturgy (Kalyvia-Kouvara; Fig. 10). A large Last Judgement scene was painted in the church of Saint-George towards the middle of the 13th century, with several features of a Western nature. The undulating contours of a mandorla (Fig. 33) were likened to Western depictions. Other comparisons (less convincing, but probable) concern the two keys held by saint Peter and the depiction of the sinners’ instruments of lust in the scene with the Torments of Hell. This last feature, one of the earliest examples of its type, could be a local adaptation to the approach of Western theology.21 But there are more interesting things to compare in Sommacampagna and Kouvara. Both cases are related to lower cultural strata. The murals from Kouvara were credited to a “non-monastic, agricultural background,” giving evidence of a “conflation and, to a certain degree, confusion of iconographic and stylistic elements, apparent in the small details which were taken over from Western art.”22 Those of Sommacampagna could be the effect of the ruralization of the so-called ‘latecomer’ painters (ritardatari), masters of a disappearing art, chased away to the periphery of North-Italian urban centres by Giotto and the other great masters of the Trecento. Many similar things pass under the radar of research. It is necessary to gather them up in a bunch and investigate them in accordance with their low-profile milieu. It is what this chapter strives to achieve, for it will look for spontaneous cultural manifestations having little in common with the failed experiments of high culture (Merbaka, Galatsi, or the Byzantine Museum 20 21
22
Cf. e.g. Anne Derbes, Amy Neff, ‘Italy, the Mendicant Orders, and the Byzantine Sphere’, in Helen C. Evans (dir.), Byzantium. Faith and Power (1261–1557) (New York/New Haven: The Metropolitan Museum of Art/Yale University Press, 2004), 449–461, with other examples. For these references, see Doula Mouriki, ‘An Unusual Representation of the Last Judgement in a Thirteenth Century Fresco at St. George near Kouvaras in Attica’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 8 (1975–1976), 145–172. Cf. Demetra N. Petrou, ‘The Composition of the Last Judgement in two Thirteenth-Century Fresco Ensembles at Mesogaia, Attica’, in Helen Salardi (dir.), Byzantine Athens. Proceedings of a Conference, October 21–23, 2016, Athens, Byzantine and Christian Museum, coll. Aikaterini Dellaporta (Athens: Byzantine and Christian Museum, 2021), 309–313, who compares the Last Judgement scene from the church of Saint-George at Kouvara with the one from the church of Saint-Peter at Kalyvia-Kouvara, also noticing a common emphasis on saints Peter and Paul in the iconography of these churches from Mesogeia. Mouriki, ‘An Unusual Representation’, 164.
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spandrel panels). In my opinion, the murals of Saint-George in Kouvara cannot and should not be compared to the high-prestige cases. They were not part of an experiment, but a predictable contamination of Eastern iconography with features originating in Western art. The Last Judgement from the church in Kouvara lacks the highly pretentious scope of the Athenian ciborium. Perhaps its painter was unaware of what he was doing, much in the same way as the Spirituals were unaware that they were set to fail, for they were bridging ideas that could not be bridged. Maybe Angelo Clareno spoke to the Greeks about the Antichrist being enthroned as the new pope (or maybe not). Either way, he probably spoke with them about the Apocalypse. It is no wonder that brother Ubertino – one of the Spirituals who exercised a great influence in the iconography of the lower church from Assisi –23 used Angelo’s tale in a long discussion about their common enemy, the pope. In the next passages, Ubertino rambled on about letters and numbers, including those that did not fit well into the arithmetic, and forgot to mention the identity of the friars reading from a Greek book in Greece. Or he would have to hide their identity, just as Angelo hid many of his doings. The Antichrist was ever-watchful and Ubertino suffered a similar fate. But this is another story. It was already told by Umberto Eco, so let us return to the Spirituals’ and their arrival in Latin-occupied Greece.
…
Long before that Christmas Eve, brother Angelo bore a different name. He was known as Peter of Fossombrone, from the small town in the proximity of Ancona where he was born. He became a Franciscan in c.1270. In 1279, when the Exiit qui seminat papal bull canonising the Franciscan life envisioned by saint Bonaventura was issued, Peter was probably imprisoned with other Franciscans in a convent of their Order, since they shared a different idea about how Franciscanism should be. Liberated in 1290, they were sent to Armenia, where they stayed for a short while. Even though king Hethum II welcomed them in his country, the friars were monitored by papal representatives and local Myaphysites did not like them either. They had to return to Italy in 1294. The new pope, Celestine V, had accepted their heremitical vows and constituted them as a separate group of Franciscans vowed to extreme poverty. It is believed that Peter took the new name of Angelo Clareno about this time. Soon after, pope Celestine V abdicated and was replaced by Boniface VIII. The 23
Elvio Lunghi, Immagini degli Spirituali. Il significato delle immagini nelle chiese francescane di Assisi (Foligno: Il Formichiere, 2019), 59–81.
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new pope was hostile to the Spirituals’ way of life. This forced them to look for refuge in Greece, where they arrived in c.1299. Angelo tells us that from the quiet shores of Greece they heard that their brothers were living a time of entangled tribulations (tribulationes varias et perplexas). Italy had changed and the Spirituals were condemned as heretics.24 Led by brother Liberato, the Spirituals hid for a while on an island, but trouble soon followed them there. Brother Angelo wrote that the Greek island was small, but well suited for their religious services (satis divino cultui apta). They stayed there for two years and people soon appreciated them.25 We do not know who the local people were, but it is safe to assume that the Spirituals came in close contact with peasants and poor people. And there was another important aspect: their island was visited by merchants, sailors, and persons who came there for devotional purposes (qui ad insulam solatii seu devotionis causa aliquando veniebant), meaning that the island had a shrine and that it attracted local pilgrims. Could this be the Greek monastery where brother Angelo was blessed with the glossophany described by Gentile da Foligno? Probably so. Some believed this island to be Trizonia, in the Gulf of Corinth,26 since subsequent passages from Angelo’s Historia name a certain Thomas of Sola as the island’s owner (probably Thomas III d’Autremencourt, lord of Salona, who died on 15 March 1311). Nevertheless, there is no documentation about Trizonia and it is much too close to Antirrio and Patras to be the island inhabited by the Spirituals. I have good reasons to reject it. Here is why. Angelo’s group tried to avoid contact with other Franciscans, but not necessarily with the Latin population. Had they wished to be far away from other Catholics, they would have gone to the southernmost parts of the Peloponnesus, to the lands of the Melingi, Tsakonians, or Maniots. Or maybe to the North, to Epirus or Thessaly, to the lands of the Vlachs, or even farther away. But they did not do it. They only chose to settle far from Glarentza, Thebes, or Negroponte, in other words the seats of the three custodies of the Franciscan province of Romania. The Spirituals also avoided the larger houses of Athens, Negroponte, and Thebes, which were founded before 1247, as well as the 24 25 26
Orietta Rossini (ed.), Angeli Clareni opera, II. Historia septem tribulationum Ordinis Minorum (Rome: Istituto storico italiano per il Medio Evo, 1999), 234. Rossini ed., Historia septem tribulationum, 234. P. Heinrich Denifle O.P., Franz Ehrle S.J. (eds.), Archiv für Litteratur- und Kirchengeschichte des Mittelalters (Berlin: Weidmannsche Buchhandlung, 1886) 2:314. For undocumented interpretations, see e.g. Falbel, The Spiritual Franciscans, 145, for whom “Clareno fled to Greece, seeking refuge on a small island in the Gulf of Corinth; the island of Trixonia, where they stayed for around two years (1295–1297) until the friars of the province of Syria were informed of their presence and began to bother them.”
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Franciscan convents of Andravida, Glarentza, and Patras.27 The localization of their island in the Gulf of Corinth speaks precisely of these imposed choices and Trizonia could not be the proper choice, on account of its proximity to Patras. It was also noted that “no material evidence of Franciscan habitation has survived on Trizonia,”28 but this cannot be considered an argument, as no one knows how the churches of the Spirituals or Fraticelli looked like. Angelo’s friars were following the original (pre-1250) Franciscan tradition of reusing small or ruined churches, just as saint Francis had restored the Porziuncola.29 They must have done the same thing on the Greek island, so they probably used a local church. It could be the church of a Greek convent, where the Friars worshiped together with the Greeks, provided that the Christmas story told of Gentile da Foligno were true. If an identification were necessary, I believe that the Zoodochos-Pigi monastery from the Alcyonides Islands is a far better candidate for their settlement. Such a church would be similar to the monastery catholicon of the Saviour located in the proximity of Alepochori, across the bay and high up on the foothills of Mount Pateras, on the road going south to Megara. This was a small church, painted sometime in the second half of the 13th century, a generation or more before the arrival of the Spirituals in the bay (c.1260–1280). If Angelo and his men travelled there on one occasion or another, they would admire a simple iconographic programme, typical for all Greek churches of the time, with a Marianic and Christological cycle on the vaults and with the lower sides of the walls decorated with saints Paraskevi and Marina, military saints, healing saints, and monastic saints as well. The only different thing was the Pantocrator depicted in the conch of the sanctuary apse (Fig. 34a), which was quite odd and unexpected,30 but this was a time when the Latin presence in the area led to curious experiments in iconography, as we shall see at the end of the chapter. Unfortunately, nothing is known about priest Leo Kokalakis, 27
28 29 30
For an introductory presentation of the three custodies, see Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 105. For other data, see pp. 130–131, 140. I believe that the Franciscan house of Corinth probably disappeared toward the end of the 13th century. The text quoted by Tsougarakis to prove its existence is spurious. The only mention of it is in the Chronicle of friar Salimbene of Adam in events following the year 1247 (vide infra). Tsougarakis, ‘Heretical networks’, 532, note 13. Maria Teresa Mazzilli Savini, ‘Modernità della prima architettura francescana’, in Maria Antonietta Crippa (dir.), Luoghi e modernità: pratiche e saperi dell’architettura (Milan: Jaca Book, 2007), 37. For the murals of the church, to which I will return at the end of the chapter, see Ντούλα Μουρίκη, Οι τοιχογραφίες του Σωτήρα κοντά στο Αλεποχώρι Μεγαρίδος (Athens: Ταμείο αρχαιολογικών πόρων και απαλλοτριώσεων, 1978).
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his wife, and children – ktetors of the Alepochori church.31 Such data would help us understand the allegiances of the local Orthodox. For the sake of the story, let us imagine a situation similar to that of Omorphi Ekklisia from the island of Egina, a church dedicated to Saints-Theodore. In the ktetorial inscription painted in 1289, a time when the island of Egina was under Latin rule, the ktetors dared defy that rule, presuming to live under the rule of the Byzantine emperor Andronicus II Palaeologus and in the time of patriarch Athanasius of Constantinople.32 It did not mean much, for there were many shades of grey even in the Orthodox Church, but it would mean that the Spirituals probably encountered such Greek monks, priests, ktetors, or churchgoers. By that time, the Greeks could choose between many possible allegiances. Disputes were no longer restricted to a confrontation between adversaries and advocates of Uniatism. There was at least a third party, the Arsenites, who held their banners up high until at least 1310. These dissidents were more political and less religious, for they were opposing the Palaeologan dynasty, militating for the return of the Lascarids. They also demanded that the patriarch be elected from among their own men, so that they may gain control over the church. A portrait of patriarch Arsenius as a saint appears in the murals of the Chrysaphitissa church in Chrysapha, close to Mystras (1289/1290). It could be linked to the presence of Arsenites in that region.33 It implies that there were many types of Orthodox at the turn of the 14th century and they were not all on the same page. Maybe because this turn of the 14th century was a time of mayhem and reforms, carried out with a strong monastic hand by one of the last adversaries of those Arsenites, patriarch Athanasius I (1289–1293, 1303–1309), the one mentioned in the inscription of Egina. The Orthodox world was in turmoil and this turmoil definitely sent echoes across the Aegean into the lands controlled by the Latin lords.34 Who knows what the allegiances of the Greek monks met by the Spirituals really were? Nobody knows. The presence of outsiders – possibly Greeks visiting a Greek monastery – as well as the occasional passage of ships made their presence known to the other (Conventual) Franciscans living in Greece. Their Italian tribulations repeated soon after. These other Franciscans – maybe those of Negroponte, that is, the
31 32 33 34
Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, Dedicatory Inscriptions, 63. Cf. ibid., 85. Cf. Jenny Albani, Byzantinischen Wandmalereien der Panagia Chrysaphitissa-Kirche in Chrysapha – Lakonien (Athens: Christliche Archäologische Gesellschaft, 2000), 104. For a brief presentation of these matters, see John Lawrence Boojamra, Church Reform in the Late Byzantine Empire. A Study for the Patriarchate of Athanasios of Constantinople (Thessalonica: Πατριαρχικόν Ίδρυμα Πατερικών Μελετών, 1982), 16–17, 139–148.
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town of Chalkida in Euboea –35 hated the Spirituals’ way of life. They told loathsome stories about them, comparing Angelo’s men to Manichaeans, even though the Spirituals had nothing in common with Cathars or Bogomils, except for the fact that they were also hiding. But there were many ways of hiding – the Spirituals would know them well, as many as the many types of Franciscans in the Latin-held lands of Greece. Not all Franciscans were as vindicative as the Conventuals of Negroponte. Some friars were not different from the Spirituals. Their churches were small and unimpressive. One such case could be that of the Frangokklisia single nave chapel with a later narthex addition located in Chalandri, at the eastern periphery of contemporary Athens, dating back to the 13th century.36 Likewise, later Franciscans from Crete lived not only in convents, but also in small hermitages and chapels on the islands.37 Despite their order’s preference for urban implantation, Franciscans settled in remote and inaccessible Greek areas.38 This would suggest that they were influenced by Greek monasticism to a certain extent. And it would not be surprising. As early as 1232, Franciscans had impressed the Nicaeans with their ascetic way of life and with their very good knowledge of the Orthodox faith, having brought with them Greek manuscripts to the debates.39 However, there were certain barriers that could not be crossed. 13th and 14th century Franciscans – including those of Clareno’s group – had a lot in common with Eastern hermits and ‘holy fools’. Some of them (Giovanni Colombini, for instance) were even accused of being heretics from the Franciscan offshoot of the Fraticelli. Yet the resemblance did not spring from 35 36
37 38 39
Cf. Tsougarakis, ‘Heretical networks’, 532; Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 156. It was interpreted as a possible funerary chapel of a Franciscan monastery mentioned in the will of Walter V of Brienne, duke of Athens (1308–1311) and dated back to approximately the same time by a deposit of denari of the 1280s. Cf. Αικατερίνη Παντελιού, ‘Συμβολή Λεωφόρου Πεντέλης και Αττικής Οδού. Φραγκοκκλησιά’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 56–59 (2001–2004 = B’1), 512–515. Cf. Ορλάνδος, Ευρετήριον Μεσαιωνικών Μνημείων, 177. Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 140–141, who believes that the house of Athens was probably situated near Illisos, in the area of present-day Stadium, and that this was the one mentioned in the will of the duke, who gave them 200 hyperpera. Cf. his note 148, where he argues that this position was confirmed by medieval travellers, quoted by Raymond Janin, but notes also that Millet identified the Franciscan friary near Chalandri, towards mount Penteli. Tsougarakis thinks that the latter would be a smaller foundation. For him, Athens is puzzling, because there are no references to the city’s Franciscan foundation. See the 1460 bull of Pius II, recognizing and quoting a previous bull of Nicholas V, in which the Franciscans were given a hermitage and chapel near Chanea, donated to the Order by a Venetian; Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 123. Ibid., 124. Ibid., 142.
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the exact same tradition. These Franciscan ‘fools’ were different from the Orthodox ones. Even though both traditions drew upon similar models such as the life of saint Alexius, the main difference between them was that “the Western stultus per Christum mocked a paucity of piety; [while] the holy fool [of Byzantium] mocked piety as such.”40 In all likelihood, they were drawn to Orthodoxy by a close association of ideas, some of them originating in the writings of Joachim of Fiore. Who knows? Maybe nobody will ever know. What we do know, on the other hand, is that these resemblances between Franciscans and Orthodox monks led to the creation of a group of Greeks who looked favourably upon the order of saint Francis. There is no actual evidence that friars preached among local Greeks, but the Conventuals of Candia (Crete) decorated the cloister with paintings in Greek style, and had books by Greek authors in their library. They had no Greek texts though, as they read them only in translation.41 This could be one of the main differences between Conventuals and Spirituals. The Franciscans of 1300, with whom the Spirituals had a clash, followed a different way of life and – more important – a different way of interacting with the locals. This changed gradually when Conventuals had to cede their monasteries to the Observants. I would not be surprised if all sorts of Franciscans went through Greek towns and perhaps villages in those transitional years, spreading different ideas, tailored after each group’s own convictions. Each one of those groups brought back to Western Europe a different image of the Greeks. Here’s what an English exemplum written at the turn of the 14th century tells us about these interactions from the Conventuals’ point of view – adversaries of Angelo Clareno. The exemplum dates back to about the same time when Angelo and the Spirituals were hiding on their island in Greece. It tells a story of demons and of manners in which to defeat them. As the story goes, there were two Franciscans in a spurious convent, maybe in Corinth, maybe elsewhere, but probably in continental Greece.42 After mid40
41 42
For these ideas, see Sergey A. Ivanov, Holy Fools in Byzantium and Beyond, trans. Simon Franklin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 374–398 (and p. 398, for the quotation). Cf. Isabella Gagliardi, Pazzi per Cristo: Santa follia e mistica della Croce in Italia centrale (secoli XIII–XIV) (Siena: Protagon Editori Toscani, 1998), 216–217, who speaks of hints or clues (indizi) that point to an indirect relation with the ‘holy fools’ (saloi) of Orthodoxy in a rather large religious circle (circolo religioso piuttosto vasto). Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 153; cf. pp. 115, 116. Cf. Georg Hofmann, ‘La biblioteca scientifica del monastero di San Francesco a Candia nel medio evo’, Orientalia christiana periodica, 8 (1942), 317–360. For Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 140 (cf. p. 171), this story proves the existence of a Franciscan convent in Corinth. However, he does not pay attention to the odd formula whereby the city of Corinth is located in Southern Greece, which is also called Gallogrecia. This does not mean that there was not a Franciscan house in Corinth. Such
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day sleep, they decided to go for a walk. They had things to do. It must have been a hot summer day, for it was the feast of saint Mary Magdalene (22 July), in the year of the Lord 1266. After a two-mile stroll, the friars arrived at a meadow along a river, where they noticed a gathering of people. They approached, intrigued that those people passed from total silence to sudden cheering and bursts of laughter.43 The story is a moral exemplum to be used in a sermon,44 therefore its anonymous author adapted it to the Western public, and made the two Franciscans believe the locals had gathered to look at a miracle-play. These were the Greek whispers of the English, in which Greek peasants did what the English peasants did – enjoying theatre. Because friars seized any possible chance to evangelize everybody, the two Franciscans of Corinth drew
43
44
a convent is mentioned by Salimbene of Adam in his chronicle, therefore it existed in the second half of the 13th century. I am doubting only the credibility of the English exemplum. In many other texts, the term Gallogrecia is used to describe Galatia, in connection with the Galatians of saint Paul, and even the Galata of Constantinople, where there was an actual Franciscan convent. See for instance a quotation from Huguccio of Pisa’s Liber derivationum, in Enzo Cecchini, Guido Arbizzoni, Settimio Lanciotti et al. (eds.), Uguccione da Pisa, Derivationes, 2 vols (Florence: SISMEL – Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2004) 2:506. The mention of the city of Corinth could thus be due to a confusion of the 14th century English scribe who knew little or nothing about Greece and geography, probably relying on second-hand data from commentaries and exegeses. The joint mention of Corinth and Gallogrecia may also be due to the changes made during this story’s transmission from one manuscript to the next. I would not exclude the possibility of a place-name starting with Kalo-, a common derivative in Greek. This could lead to all sorts of confusions. For the original text, see Thomas Wright (ed.), A Selection of Latin Stories: From Manuscripts of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries. A Contribution to the History of Fiction (London: Percy Society, 1842), 99–100. Cf. Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente francescano (Rome: Collegium S. Bonaventurae, 1913) 2:403, who edited the same story from another manuscript. Contrary to what is implied by Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, this particular story is not a miracle, but an exemplum. It appears in some English collections of exempla linked with the Franciscans. Cf. Wright ed., A Selection, 239, who indicates as source of his text London, British Library, Harley 2316, fol. 3r. This is a Dominican or Franciscan manuscript written in the second half of the 14th century for preaching purposes and including a mixed group of prose and verse texts (hagiographic, theological, exempla, medical recipes, and verses about the Plague). Cf. Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica, 402, who used in his edition London, British Library, Sloane 2478, fols. 35v–37r. The first part of this other manuscript (fols. 2r–47v) contains a collection of miracles of the Virgin, supplemented by extracts from lives of saints, exempla, and a Middle English poem, Cayphas. It was written in the first quarter of the 14th century. For a study of insular Franciscan manuscripts, including the Harley 2316, but circumscribed only to the exempla of local English origin, see Annette Kehnel, ‘The narrative tradition of the medieval Franciscan Friars on the British Isles. Introduction to the sources’, Franciscan Studies, 63 (2005), 461–530.
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nearer to the crowd, to talk to them. They saw a delirious man in the middle. He prophesized while sitting on a heap of clothes. A demon spoke through him, revealing secrets and impressing the crowd.45 The Franciscans had to act and fight the devil. If we clear the fog of Western unfamiliarity with Byzantine culture and reconstruct the story from a Greek point of view, I would say that this man was a holy fool or someone who impersonated a holy fool, for the audience laughed with him, as he was probably making not only prophecies, but also jokes.46 To my mind, this explains why the friars approached and prayed at that gathering, indulging themselves in the possibility of checking if the fool was genuine or if he was possessed. Byzantines had their doubts about fools as well.47 One of the patriarchs of Constantinople, Theodore Balsamon (late 12th century) wrote that the canon reprimanded those who pretended to be possessed in order to profit from this state, and most of all those guided by a satanic unscrupulous conscience when making demonic prophecies in the manner of the Hellenic prophetesses of old.48 Franciscan friars living in Greece would be aware of these Greek ideas. Maybe this is why the friars of the exemplum were inquisitive about the demon. But let’s get back to the story. The older friar spoke to the man and the demon answered perversely, swearing on the blood of Christ, the Last Judgement, and the eternal fire. By all of these holy things, he would truthfully answer the questions addressed to him. The brother then tricked the devil with a simple question: he inquired about beloved saint Francis.49 The demon answered that his fellow devils were organised in the manner of a monastic order and congregated in a general chapter every three years. More than once had the devils tried to investigate the matter of Francis, but they were compelled to postpone it from one chapter to the next. When twelve years had passed since the conversion of said Francis, twelve of the 45 46 47
48
49
Wright ed., A Selection, 100. Cf. Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica, 403. See e.g. the story of saint Simeon the Holy Fool, accused of dealing with Satan and the demons on account of his babbling, his many jokes, and his prophecies. Cf. Ivanov, Holy Fools, 119. Cf. Ivanov, Holy Fools, 133, who analyses the Byzantines’ doubts about madmen and holy fools – “there had always been similarities between the two: the mission for both of them was to mock the world.” Cf. p. 71, note 13: “Agathias talks about scores of ‘feigned madmen and possessed who crowded Constantinople after an earthquake …’”; etc. See ibid., 213, for a slightly different translation of the Balsamon passage. For the original text, see Γ.Α. Ράλλης, Μ. Ποτλῆς (eds.), Σύνταγμα τῶν Θείων καὶ Ἱερῶν Κανόνων τῶν τε Ἁγίων καὶ πανευφήφων Ἀποστόλων, καὶ τῶν Ἱερῶν Οἰκουμενικῶν καὶ Τοπικῶν Συνόδων, καὶ τῶν κατὰ μέρος Ἁγίων Πατέρων, Ἐκδοθέν, Σὺν πλείσταις ἄλλαις τὴν ἐκκλησιαστικὴν κατάστασιν διεπούσαις διατάξεσι (Athens: Ἐκ τῆς Τυπογραφίας Γ. Χαρτοφύλακος. 1852) 2:441. Wright ed., A Selection, 100–101. Cf. Golubovich, Biblioteca, 403.
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most cunning devils of the congregation were elected by their joint council and deputised to tempt the future saint in every possible manner. Yet they tried in vain, for when the hour of Francis’ death drew near, the demons and their acolytes could not obtain his soul. A powerful celestial light had been unleashed and the souls tormented by the devils in Purgatory were plucked by virtuous Francis. They were pardoned and taken with him to the skies in the highest jubilation, as the patriarchs of old were taken by Christ to heaven in the ever-popular scenes depicting the Harrowing of Hell. When the devils turned their eyes to the corpse, they saw the stigmata of the Crucified. They were much afraid, believing that Francis was Christ crucified again, soon to come for the Last Judgement, so they hid away in Hell, barricading the doors behind them. Only when new souls poured back into Hell where they reassured that Francis had been a man and not God. That, quoth the devil, was what he knew about Francis.50 The whole speech is absurd, but there may be some truth to it, hidden behind thick layers of pious rewriting. That Greeks could accept the cult of saint Francis, this should not surprise us. There is the story of Cretan Greeks and their priests flocking to the church of Saint-Francis of Candia on the saint’s feast day in 1414, eager to celebrate mass. There are also depictions of saint Francis in the murals of Cretan Orthodox churches. Saint Francis was painted frontally in the central aisle of the church of Panagia Kera, in Kritsa (turn of the 14th century) and in a scene with the seraphim in the Panagia church at Sambas, Pediada (14th century), in both cases with his stigmata.51 But in the church of Saint-John-the-Forerunner, also in Kritsa, dating back to 1353–1354, Franciscan friars are represented burning in Hell, in the company of a Dominican, Catholic bishops, and other categories of clergy or secular authorities. And in earlier paintings from a church in Deliana, Kisamos-Chania (also in Crete, turn of the 14th century), friars are again represented in Hell, accompanied by Greek heretic clergymen.52 These may point to the many
50 51
52
Wright ed., A Selection, 101–102. Cf. Golubovich, Biblioteca, 403–404. Κώστας Λασσιθιωτάκης, ‘Ο Άγιος Φραγκίσκος και η Κρήτη’, in Πεπραγμένα του Δ’ Διεθνούς Κρητολογικού Συνεδρίου (Ηράκλειο, 29 Αυγούστου–3 Σεπτεμβρίου 1976) 2, Βυζαντινοί και μέσοι χρόνοι (Heraklion: Πανεπιστήμιο Κρήτης, 1981), 147–149. For a wider context, see Maria Vassilakis-Mavrakakis, ‘Western Influences on the Fourteenth Century Art of Crete’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 32/5 (1982), 301–312. Angeliki Lymberopoulou, ‘Regional Byzantine Monumental Art from Venetian Crete’, in eadem, Rembrandt Duits (dir.), Byzantine Art and Renaissance Europe (Abingdon: Taylor & Francis, 2016), 87–88.
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degrees of familiarity between Greeks and Franciscans, from utter rejection to some sort of acceptance or even assimilation.53 The local inhabitants of Attica, Boeotia, and Euboea were therefore confronted with an ambivalent image of the Franciscans. Some of those Franciscans considered them to be heretics, while others liked their way of living in Christ. This was due to a variety of Franciscans passing through or staying in the Greek lands. Some of them were Conventuals, less numerous in the later years of the occupation. Others were Observants, growing in numbers from one year to the next. There were also heretical offshoots, like the Fraticelli. Some of these heretics lived among actual Franciscans, as we shall see a little bit later. From the standpoint of Orthodox communities, there were good and bad Franciscans, but they were hard to distinguish, especially since the Fraticelli wore the Franciscan dress in plain view. This probably accounted for a similarly wide variety of cultural interactions, most of which happened in intermediary strata, below the high-culture of the elite. Besides this, the ascetical offshoots of the Franciscan Order (heterodox or not) were only one of the Western groups that Greek peasants or monks met and interacted with. From the look of it, it is true that our story was concocted somewhere in the West, given that many of its features would be incongruous, even absurd in the eyes of Greeks (the Purgatory, the general chapter, a possible theatre play, etc.), but two things stand out as possibly genuine, as being inspired by actual events: the delirious man – a holy fool or an impersonator, and a Franciscan apostate. This apostate appears at the end of the exemplum. He was walking alone on the king’s highway (a Western notion, of course) and stood aside from the crowd. Only the possessed man came to greet him and gave him a kiss. The Franciscans inquired about him and the demon was bound to his oath, therefore he admitted that the man was a friar whom he had tempted and who had relinquished his monastic habit the night before. In a bout of bravery, one of the Franciscans ordered the possessed not to move, while the other started running after the apostate. When he caught him and told him what the demoniac had done to him, the apostate fell to his knees, admitted before the entire audience that the demon made him lose his mind, went back home, and reunited with his superiors.54 The final brush stroke of this exemplum is essential. It falls upon the apostate not obeying his superiors, which was his actual fault. Perhaps this was the main purpose of the whole story and its meaning is clearly linked with a Conventual milieu. In schismatic lands, Franciscans were tempted to go native (or heretic). There are similar stories in other border lands, 53 54
Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 117. Wright (ed.), A Selection, 102–103. Cf. Golubovich, Biblioteca, 404.
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like Moldavia. There, in the 15th century, another Franciscan apostate had embraced Hussitism in the lenient neutral ground provided by an Orthodox country where the confrontation between Franciscans and heretics carried less weight and even amused the local prince.55 The situation in Greece was similar, even though not exactly the same. A local Franciscan apostate could be a Spiritual who challenged the lenient conduct of the Conventuals, but he could also be a convert to Orthodoxy, or maybe – as the story tells us – a basic dissident about to convert to the faith of the Greeks, led astray by demons. The Spirituals of Angelo Clareno were not the first dissident monks to reach the shores of Greece. A decade before, certain Benedictines (?) were burned at the stake. This suggests that they were probably heretics. They had been living in a monastery of Camina, whose mother-house was a Benedictine convent located in the Strophades islands. In spite of recent attempts at identifying Camina with a precise location or monument, I would argue that this monastery is impossible to identify, but I agree with previous research that it should be situated somewhere in the Elis, on the lands of the principality of Achaea. However, I do not dare say that the monks burnt at the stake were connected to the Apostolic Brethren of Gerard Segarelli (another heretical offshoot of the Franciscan Order, followers of Fra Dolcino) or that their heresy had political connotations. The only certain thing is that they ‘followed none of the approved orders’ (nullum vivendo servant de ordinis approbatis).56 This demonstrates that there were many other dissidents who sought protection from the Apostolic See in the lands of schismatic Greeks. From the standpoint of a Catholic monk, all these schismatics, dissidents, and heretics must have been more or less the same. Perhaps this is why the Negroponte Conventuals instantly mistreated the friars of Angelo Clareno, upon hearing the news of their arrival, and started telling stories of their heresy, comparing them to Bogomils. They definitely wished for the local Greeks to avoid them. If Spirituals were indeed living among Greeks or Greek monks, the Conventuals would see that as a grave danger of losing their mind and faith.
…
Negroponte Conventuals were viciously unyielding in those times. The story of the 1308 persecution of the Orthodox patriarch of Alexandria, Athanasius, 55 56
Cf. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Le faux problème hussite dans la littérature vieil-roumaine’, in Eugen Munteanu et al. (dir.), Receptarea Sfintei Scripturi: între filologie, hermeneutică și traductologie (Jassy: Editura Universității ‘Alexandru Ioan Cuza’, 2018), 78–79. For all these ideas, cf. Tsougarakis, Schabel, ‘Of burning monks’.
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apprehended by them while he was visiting the island of Euboea, and the way in which they menaced to burn him at the stake for refusing to become Catholic speaks about these friars’ aggressive tactics, but not about the tactics of the Franciscan Order in Greece.57 Their impetuousness may be the reason why one of those Franciscans became bishop of Negroponte at the beginning of the 14th century,58 but also why bishops and noblemen did not believe their stories. Angelo tells us that the bishops and princes of the land had sent ‘smart people’ to make inquiries about the Spirituals. Those messengers did not pay attention to gossip. Despite Conventual rumours, they were persuaded that the Spirituals were good Christians.59 But this did not stop the persecutions. Instead of joy and gladness (gaudium et letitiam), their life was once again full of sadness, bitterness, and even irreconcilable madness (tristitiam, amaritudinem et furorem implacabilem).60 A cardinal found out about them, and through that cardinal the pope himself knew where they were. He was, of course, deceived by their enemies, and wrote letters according to their enemies’ complaints. The pope asked Peter, the exiled Latin patriarch of Constantinople, and the archbishops of Athens and Patras to punish the Spirituals. Since the Athenian one, closest to their island, was a Dominican,61 since the one from Patras had a Franciscan convent in his city, and since the patriarch himself was in residence at Negroponte, close to the Friars who were persecuting them,62 the Spirituals turned to the only neutral hierarch. They approached the archbishop of Thebes. We know nothing about him, unfortunately. Perhaps he was not a Dominican. He could be an Italian. There were less and less Frenchmen holding ecclesiastical offices in those times in Greece. Such a conjecture is not so risky after all. Anyway, the Spirituals tried in vain to meet him. The Theban archbishop decided to speak to lord Thomas of Salona, asking him to chase away the Spirituals without telling anything about the extent of the papal letter’s content (quod tenorem litterarum pape fratri Liberato et sociis notificare nullo modo differret).63 The Spirituals went to Thebes, but the archbishop’s remorse made 57 58 59 60 61
62 63
Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 110, 157. Ibid., 140. Rossini ed., Historia septem tribulationum, 234–235. Ibid., 235 for the quotation. Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 316: Stephen Mangiatero, bishop of Athens in c.1300. For a different interpretation of these events, though unjustified, see Falbel, The Spiritual Franciscans, 145: “Boniface VIII ordered the archbishops of Patras and Athens and the patriarch of Constantinople, Peter Cornaro, to persecute the friars, which led Liberatus and Angelo to take refuge in Southern Tessalia.” Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 155. Rossini ed., Historia septem tribulationum, 237–238.
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him hide and forbid his servants to let them in. For a second time he asked Thomas to chase them away and threatened him with excommunication.64 The Spirituals were therefore chased away from their dear island. In order to understand why Latin ecclesiastical authorities had to be persuade the Latin lord to enforce their decisions, and most of all why they did not address the Greek monks or priests of the land, we have to pay attention to particular a situation from the turn of the 14th century. Latin lords had much more to say in monastic or ecclesiastical matters than Latin clergy. By that time, Latin lords had become involved in the religious life of the land. The best example is the mention of lord Anthony le Flamenc in the ktetorial inscription of Akrefnio (formerly Karditsa, in Boeotia, 1311; Fig. 35b). The text painted above the arch of a burial arcosolium niche in the nave states that: This godly and sacred church of the holy great martyr George was (re)painted with the assistance and great desire of the most God respecting knight sir Antoni te Flama. Such was the end of many toils. So, it came to an end this painting work by Germanus priest-monk and monastery head and Nicodemus priest-monk, these two being brothers, who renovated this church in the year 6819, indiction 9th.65 I am not convinced that lord Anthony was buried there. We do not know what happened to him after the battle of Halmyros, which took place in the same year, except that he managed to stay alive.66 What interests me the most is that some French noblemen were deeply involved in the life of Orthodox convents. Maybe this explains why lord Thomas of Salona was the one to persuade the Orthodox to comply with the decisions of Latin ecclesiastical authorities and 64 65
66
Ibid., 238. Kostarelli, ‘The Dedicatory Inscription’, 21 (for the translation). See the p. 20 for an edition of the original text. I am hereby quoting the latest reading and translation of this inscription, very different from the ones in previous bibliography. Recent conservation works proved that the architectural evolution of the building is very different from what it was initially believed to be: the French knight only participated in the renovation and repainting of a pre-existing church. This led to the re-evaluation and a re-editing of the ktetorial inscription, in which the fragmentary traces of its first word, wrongly interpreted by the first readings, were correctly reconstructed (‘painted’ instead of ‘built’). A Ser Antonius Flamengo miles was apparently very much alive in 1313, for he was included in a list of Dynastae Graeciae compiled in Venice and corrected after the battle of Halmyros, together with a Ser Bonifatius de Verona dominator Caristi et Gardichie, Selizirij et Egue. Cf. Hopf ed., Chroniques gréco-romaines, 178 for the quotation. See pp. 177–178 for the entire list that mentions Ser Albertus Pallavicinus … decessit; Ser Georgius Gisi … decessit; and Ser Thomas de la Sola … mortuus, among the widows of other lords.
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chase away the Spirituals. If the friars were living elsewhere, in a place where there were no Greek monasteries, the same logic would apply to the secular control of Orthodox priests and of their communities. These Latin lords were gradually becoming Greek. We already saw it happening in the second half of the 13th century, when duke John of Athens quoted from Herodotus in the battle of Neopatras, but this did not mean that they had forgotten their Western roots. The same thing was happening to the members of the Byzantine elite. I will give one example, the oddest of them all: the military teachings of Theodore Palaeologus, initially written in Greek in 1326, then translated into Latin by the author himself in 1330, and preserved only in French translation (Les enseingnements ou ordenances pour un seigneur qui a guerres et grans gouvernemens a faire) made by John of Vignay in c.1335. This Theodore was the son of the Byzantine emperor Andronicus II and his second wife, Irene of Montferrat. He was still a teenager (si comme je estoie de l’aage de .xiiij. ans) when his uncle died and he was sent to Italy to become marquis of Montferrat (1306), where he lived and ruled until his death (1338). His education was Latin, yet he must have remained a Greek at heart. Greek was his first choice when he started writing his book during a Constantinopolitan visit in 1326–1327. He paid no attention to the usual Latin sources of the already well-established genre of mirrors of princes, such as Vegetius’ military treatise. He drew on Greek models and he said it plainly. He was writing for the lords of his land and for those of the nation of Greece (pour ce que d’icelles parolles soit estrait aucun bien au proffit de mes seigneurs et de la nacion de Grece).67 There must have been many others who probably lived between two worlds. Some of them would be Latins, others must have been Greeks. Maybe lord Thomas of Salona was one of them. Maybe Anthony le Flamenc was one of those people as well. The only certain thing is that they were trying to look Greek. The turn of the 14th century was complex from a cultural history point of view. The descendants of the old conquerors were already shaping up origin stories for themselves and for their families. The Chronicle of Morea was written a little bit later. Its French and Greek versions put great emphasis on the unity of local Greeks and Latin lords.68 Three generations had passed since the time of the conquest and a fourth generation was in the making. It is no wonder that many conquerors already spoke Greek and spoke that language well. But those lords still remained Latin in spirit (lord Anthony is referred to as 67 68
See Christine Knowles (ed.), Les Enseignements de Théodore Paléologue (London: The Modern Humanities Research Association, 1983), 26, 36 (for the quotations of the original text). Cf. Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 206–211, and passim.
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messire and chevalier in the text of the inscription), thus a curious mixture of cultures started to take place. It was abruptly interrupted by the 1311 Halmyros disaster and never had a chance to evolve into an actual form of syncretism, but this does not mean that we should neglect it because of its probable lack of consequences. This is the perfect time to look deeper into what those Latin lords had gradually become. I will stray away from the story of Angelo Clareno for quite some time, but the detour is more than useful and it will help us better understand those times. When the Catalans arrived in central Greece in the early years of the 14th century, the Latin-held lands were passing through a process of myth-making. Local lords were encouraging or making up tales about their houses’ beginnings. Some tales involved whimsical French princes strolling through the Peloponnesus, like the one who was cheated by a trickster who founded the house of Villehardouin. That story ended up in the Chronicle of Morea, along with many other ones that mistook fathers for their sons. The marriage of princess Anna and William of Villehardouin was attributed to an alliance between her William and her brother Nicephorus, not her father. William’s brother, lord Geoffrey II, was also the protagonist of a cockamamie tale about how he stole an imperial bride. Nicephorus appeared again during the battle of Pelagonia in his father’s stead and the purpose of the confrontation was missed. It was presented as a confrontation between half-brothers, mistaking two different Theodores: Theodore Angelus of Thessaly (c.1289–c.1299) and Theodore Comnenus Doucas, the uncle of his grandfather (1215–1230). The confusion was probably fuelled by the fact that both were brothers of the ruler (either previous ruler or co-ruler). Oral tradition would mix them up, as it did in the case of other stories. I prefer to stop here. There is no need to speak about the inaccuracies or inconsistencies in the Chronicle(s) of Morea. They are so obvious and so many that nobody can miss them. I prefer to concentrate on the manner in which this multilingual textual tradition was created, because it will serve as basis for other interesting analyses, about other texts. So, I will open a case study. A rather long one.
Case Study 9: The Greek Chronicle of Morea and Its French ‘Egg’
No matter what version of the Chronicle of Morea we choose to analyse, it will instantly become evident that its compiler did not have extensive knowledge about politics or about the events happening in Western Europe or in the East. It is not an actual chronicle and it does
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not use any documents. The narrative presents a truncated view of history from the perspective of a local Moreote nobleman. This is evident from the earliest manuscript witness, the Demotic Greek text copied in a late 14th century codex in Copenhagen (Kongelige Bibliothek, Fabricius 57). Other Greek copies date to the 16th century and are preserved in Torino (Biblioteca Nazionale Universitaria, B. II. I (LXVI)) and Paris (BnF, f. gr. 2898). The Paris manuscript was copied twice in the 16th and 17th century. These other texts are preserved in Paris (BnF, f. gr. 2753) and Bern (Burgerbibliothek, 509). This suggests that the Greek manuscript tradition is the most important one by far. The versions of the Chronicle in other languages are preserved in single-manuscript contexts. The Aragonese one, for instance, is kept in Madrid (Biblioteca Nacional de España, 10131) and dates back to the end of the 14th century; while the French one is kept in Brussels (KR, 15702) and dates back to the turn of the 15th century. As for the Italian one, this is the most recent copy, being kept in Venice (Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, Ital. VII 712 (8754)) and dating to the 18th century. The relation between all these versions is rather complex. The Aragonese text is “a distinct and even new work, in which the processes of rewriting and revision have been carried further than in any of the other versions,” while the Italian text is an abridged translation from the Greek, and the French one is linked to the Greek Chronicle in a yet unclear manner. The only thing that we know for sure is that it entered the library of the dukes of Burgundy in c.1420–1469.69 This led to the hypothesis of a prototype from which most of these versions could be derived.70 Nevertheless, chasing our own tails around the idea of a prototype without being able to prove its actual existence is not a way to solve the puzzle. Blaming the differences in our sources on the prototype is an easy way out of a problem that is left unsolved. We choose it because we tend to see medieval literary works as finite texts, similar to modern or 69
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An inventory of the books of the duke of Burgundy Philip the Good (1419–1467), written in 1467–1469, describes this manuscript as being part of his library: Ung livre couvert de cuir noir, en papier, intitulé ‘Ce livre parle de la conqueste de la Moree’; començant ou second feuillet ‘Ly princes Philipe de Savoie’, et ou dernier ‘entrer’. Cf. [Joseph Barrois], Bibliothèque protypographique ou Librairies des fils du Roi Jean, Charles V, Jean de Berri, Philippe de Bourgogne et les siens (Paris: Treuttel et Würtz, 1830), 221, no. 1552. This book is not mentioned in the inventory of John the Fearless, duke of Burgundy (1404–1419), drawn one year after his death in 1420. For a presentation of all these manuscripts and of the relations between them, see Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 34–42. For the prototype or ‘common ancestor’, see pp. 42–43.
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contemporary works of literature, but we forget that a medieval author could write two or more copies of the same work by himself, and that these copies circulated in the same cultural milieu, producing all sorts of variant readings, leading to contaminated copies containing contradictory features present in several manuscript families at the same time. There is no need to delve deep into philological matters and bother my readers with ideas and theories that may seem tedious to the untrained eye. I will cut to the chase, stating that similar situations occur mostly when a philologist works with three or more manuscripts of the same medieval text.71 In such cases, two standard options are often confronted and taken into account, depending on the philological school to which the editor belongs. The best-text solution favours the editing of a single manuscript, believed to be closest in line to the autograph (or most interesting). This is characteristic of the French school of thought and was theorised by Joseph Bédier. But there is also Karl Lachmann’s stemmatics point of view, favouring the assemblage of family trees of manuscripts and aiming toward an almost mathematical reconstruction of the original text, based on guidelines and rules. However, this also entails the risk of producing a hybrid text that never existed, since no philologist can be free of human error. Obviously, there are many mixed options, but these two still dominate the world of philology. When it comes to the text, in the case of the Chronicle of Morea, the editors have to embrace the standpoint of Bédier, because the French, Italian, and Aragonese versions are each preserved in a single manuscript copy, but historians cannot work with the philological notion of a pluriform manuscript tradition. They need to speak of the Chronicle of Morea, and not of Chronicles (plural), so they construct Lachmannian stemmatic models, even though they cannot do it from a philological point of view. This is how an artificial paradoxical situation was created. Research long battled over whether the Greek or the French version was first (sometimes the Italian version was favoured as well),72 but this is none other than what we commonly refer to as ‘the chicken or the egg’ causality dilemma. From a historian’s point of view, none of the versions can be preferred, 71
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In order to avoid quoting the many essential studies dealing with these issues, I will refer to a single bibliographic reference, originating in the French academic milieu, but which is largely accepted by the Anglo-Saxon one: Bernard Cerquiglini, In Praise of the Variant: A Critical History of Philology (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999). In order to simplify my presentation, I refer only to the recent syntheses of Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, and Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca. Earlier studies will be mentioned only when relevant to the analysis.
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because each of them presents several advantages. Thus, the need of a prototype, upon which researchers project their own expectations, but this prototype does not solve the initial problem, and the debate carries on. Some say the prototype was written in Greek, while others imagine it as a French text. And so on and so forth. In order to get out of this dilemma, we need to acknowledge the nature of the problem. The preference for one version or another was always based on extrinsic motivations related to the historical narrative and not to the texts themselves, from a linguistic or philological point of view. Furthermore, one may read between the lines that the Greek or the French version of the Chronicle are interchangeably favoured according to the researchers’ disciplinary orientation, depending on their interest in Western or Eastern history, and even because of their language training or capabilities. I am not interested in the accurate or inaccurate way in which one event or another is narrated. I believe that research may reach a conclusion by paying attention to the dynamics of vernacular medieval texts. These vernacular texts are a little bit different than the Medieval Latin or Byzantine Koiné ones, mainly because of their inferior cultural status, which led to a chaotic manuscript tradition wherein the scribe often believed himself to be as important as the writer. In the vernacular tradition, authors and scribes often hide together under the guise of anonymity. The Chronicle(s) of Morea belong to this category of texts. Comparisons with Western vernacular texts are not common in the analysis of Demotic Greek texts, because Demotic texts are rarely preserved in more than one manuscript (hence the need to study that manuscript alone), but also because Byzantine studies are more familiar with authoritative situations, such as those of Koiné texts, where Lachmannian models may be easily applied. Nevertheless, if one looks at the manuscript tradition of the Chronicle of Morea with the eyes of a philologist working with medieval French texts, one will not be bothered by the differences in the readings of Greek manuscript variants. And if we accept that the French version of the text belongs to the same literary tradition, neither will we be bothered by the fact that it presents a different text altogether. After all, the author or the scribe of the French text tells us in his own words that he abridged it.73 This may explain why the French version follows primarily the variant readings from the Copenhagen manuscript of the Greek version, but agrees with the Paris 73
Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 39, for the abridgement status of the French copy.
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one on rare occasions.74 From the standpoint of French philology, this is not unusual.75 It is even common and banal, for this usually occurs when two or more versions of the same text were produced by its author. It is therefore more likely that the Greek text(s) would be at the origin of these variations. In order to prove this, let us take a look at the evolution of composite texts such as the Bible historiale or the Histoire ancienne, in order to notice that there are additions to the initial text, in several stages, but there are also abridged versions, where new additions were separately included as well. The Bible historiale,76 for instance, was compiled by Guyart des Moulins in 1291–1295. In its initial stage, the work contained a translation of the Pentateuch and of the historical books of the Old Testament, accompanied by a gloss written in smaller letters, in turn translated from the Historia scholastica of Peter Comestor. Scribes did not care to pursue the initial division of the two sections, so the work ended up by having a motley structure. Some scholars believe that Guyart made a second version in 1297, featuring a preface, while others disagree with them. However, both camps agree that the manuscripts of the primitive version may be divided into two groups, presenting two different texts, both of them ascribable to Guyart. Next came the Petite Bible historiale complétée, assembled in c.1310–1315, wherein Guyart’s translation was supplemented with more Old Testament texts. There is also talk of a Bible historiale complétée moyenne. This medium-sized text was created by the addition of 74
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Cf. ibid., 40–41. The phrasing in the manuscript of the French version follows most of the time that of the Copenhagen manuscript of the Greek version (43 examples noted by T. Shawcross) rather than the Paris Greek manuscript. Instances where the French text agrees with the Paris manuscript against the codex of Copenhagen are rarer (5 situations noted by T. Shawcross). Besides this, it is way more reasonable to create an abridgement of a pre-existing text – the French literature of the 14th century is filled with such abridged versions – than to painstakingly expand a narrative using the addition of bits and pieces (in Greek verse) every now and then, in very short segments of the story, one after the other. To the best of my knowledge, there is no such case in the history of medieval literature. If I were to choose between the Greek and the French version, stylistically, my option would favour the Greek one. For a synthesis of research concerning the French text of Bible historiale, briefly presented here, see the recent studies of Eléonore Fournié, ‘Les manuscrits de la Bible historiale. Présentation et catalogue raisonné d’une œuvre médiévale’, L’Atelier du Centre de recherches historiques, 3/2 (2009 = online version: journals.openedition.org); Eléonore Fournié, ‘Les éditions de la Bible historiale. Présentation et catalogue raisonné d’éditions de la première moitié du XVIe siècle’, L’Atelier du Centre de recherches historiques, 3/2 (2009 = online version: journals.openedition.org).
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even more vetero-testamentary texts and books, taken from another medieval French biblical translation, the Bible du XIIIe siècle. The last avatar of Guyart’s text, the Grande Bible historiale complétée, appeared toward the middle of the 14th century. Its compiler added more biblical books from the translation of Bible du XIIIe siècle. It was so big that it circulated in two volumes, the second of which consisted entirely of texts extracted from the Bible du XIIIe siècle. And the number of copies only grew toward the end of the Middle Ages. From them, the incunable of John Rély was printed in 1494–1496, and twenty-six more prints followed in the 16th century. The popularity of this text led to the creation of many derived versions, some of them abridged, which will remain unknown until the main manuscript tradition will be properly understood.77 In comparison with the tradition of the Bible historiale, the manuscript tradition of the Chronicle of Morea is not very different. Its two Greek manuscripts present a story ending with events following 1292, while its French version, abridged, continues with events from the first decade of the 14th century. As for the Aragonese version, it almost reaches the late 14th century. To a philologist trained in the study of French manuscript traditions of the 14th century, these discrepancies represent various stages in the evolution of a pluriform text. The pluriform nature is further demonstrated by the presence of the First and Fourth Crusade introduction to the Moreote matter,78 adapted from pre-existing sources. This means that the Greek version has more chances to represent the initial stage of the text, because of its elaborate writing, which would be dumped in later rewritings, as it often happens with rewritings, but also because its story presents a shorter chronology, ending in c.1292 – not because it was written around that date, but because it is highly unlikely that an acaudate manuscript could be at the origin of the entire manuscript tradition of the Greek text.79 Last but not least, another important 77 78
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See e.g. Paris, BnF, f. fr. 1753 (c.1350), which is a picture-book presenting an abridged text, available online at https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b52507230r. Accessed 2020 May 20. It should be pointed out that the Aragonese version of the Chronicle is also an abridged version, compared to the Greek texts, but in its own different ways, for it contains unique events, added probably later, even though it does not contain the story of the First Crusade. According to Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 36, “P [the Paris Greek manuscript] contains no equivalent to the final one hundred lines of H [Copenhagen Greek manuscript], giving instead a disjointed but lengthy episode concerned with the adventures of Geoffroy II de Briel ([fols.] 228v–232v), which, in H, had already been narrated considerably earlier ([fols.] 209v–218v).”
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clue is that it was undoubtedly the source of the Italian version.80 As for the Aragonese version, it appears to be the last offshoot of the group, similar to the case of the Grande Bible historiale complétée, for it includes more events, continuing the story until 1377, and the date of its transcription in the Madrid manuscript is also rather late (24 October 1393).81 If we compare the Chronicle of Morea with the other French text, the so-called Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César, one will note that the comparison is even stronger.82 Histoire ancienne was composed in France in the first half of the 13th century for the keeper of an unknown castle. It was supposed to be a compilation of ancient history starting with biblical Genesis and ending with Cesar’s campaign in Gaul. It may be divided into eleven sections, mixing biblical stories with Greek myths and legends, the war of Troy, the Eneid, the beginnings of Rome, Alexander the Great, and Julius Caesar. It circulated in four distinct ‘redactions’, the first of which dates back to the 13th century, and it is preserved by eighty-nine manuscripts, but only eleven of them present the entire text, ending with the story of Caesar. It is therefore evident that discrepancies such as those obvious in the evolution of the Chronicle of Morea are quite common in medieval French literature. Besides, the manuscripts of the first redaction may be divided into two distinct groups: the long version and the abridged one, which also accounts for the differences in style between the Greek and the French versions of the Chronicle of Morea (extended and abridged). And it does not end here. A second redaction of the Histoire ancienne, derived from the abridged one, was made in the Kingdom of Naples under the Angevins in the second quarter of the 14th century. I already mentioned its chief manuscript at the end of the 80 81 82
Ibid., 36–37, proved this with solid textual and translatological arguments (the ‘Clomouzzi’ reading, the ‘Luca de Serpi’ error, and scenes appearing only in the Greek text). Ibid., 38–39. For the references to the complex manuscript tradition of the French Histoire ancienne, see e.g. Richard Trachsler, ‘L’histoire au fil des siècles. Les différentes rédactions de l’Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César’, in Raymund Wilhelm, Claudio Lagomarsini (dir.), Transcrire et/ou traduire. Variation et changement linguistique dans la tradition manuscrite des textes médiévaux (Heidelberg: Winter, 2013), 77–95; Barbieri, ‘Les versions en prose’; Anne Rochebouet, ‘De la Terre sainte au Val de Loire: diffusion et remaniement de l’Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César au XVe siècle’, Romania, 134 (2016), 169–203; Francesco Montorsi, ‘Sur l’intentio auctoris et la datation de l’Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César’, Romania, 134 (2016), 151–168; Anne Rochebouet, ‘Structure narrative, mise en page et modèle biblique dans l’Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César’, in Véronique Ferrer, Jean-René Valette (dir.), Écrire la Bible en français au Moyen Âge et à la Renaissance (Geneva: Droz, 2017), 593–608.
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previous chapter, in connection with the Angevin links of Epirote rulers. This second redaction diverges from the previous one on many levels, but most of all it represents the intersection of two different vernacular texts. The Troy segment of the narrative (its fifth section) is an abridged prose un-rhyming of the Roman de Troie by Benoît of Sainte-Maure, the standard French narrative of the story of Troy in the 12th–13th centuries. This composite nature of the text proved to be quite popular, since the second redaction of the Histoire ancienne counts at least ten manuscripts. Yet there is also a third redaction which gives more room to biblical stories, adds certain developments from the so-called Chronicle of Baldwin of Avesnes, and keeps the prose un-rhyming of the Roman de Troie in place. Last but not least, there is a fourth redaction, which presents itself as a translation of Orosius. It was printed in an incunable in 1491. This goes to show that situations such as those from the textual tradition of the Chronicle of Morea are quite ordinary in Western vernacular literatures. The only difference is that the Chronicle’s textual transmission is multilingual. But was this unusual in a multilingual land such as the 14th century Morea, where people spoke Demotic Greek, French, Italian or Venetian, and even Iberian languages such as Catalan or Aragonese? From the comparative line of attack detailed above, it is obvious that the Greek manuscripts must be favoured and that the other ones represent re-writings of the original text. If this is so, then the so-called prototype shall be rightly discarded from future discussions, since it is artificial in nature and does not explain anything. The reasons for which the existence of this prototype was conceived are rather evident. Scholars working in disciplines connected to the study of history proper (archaeology, history of architecture, art history, history of literature, etc.) have a rather banal predisposition to favour earlier datings. ‘Earlier’ is linked with ‘prestigious’, therefore becoming ‘preferable’. Nobody took the time to explain why the prototype had to predate the known versions of the Chronicle by a generation. All scholars agreed to imagine it so, because it was preferable. I for one do not favour the early dating of the Chronicle(s), since there are no pieces of evidence pointing to its early existence, and the only reason for which an early dating was proposed was in order to acclimatize the possibility of a prototype, in a circular argument. In this case, the lack of actual evidence suggests that both the prototype and the early dating shall be discarded from the discussion. And that we should look more attentively to what the Demotic Greek poem offers in comparison with the French, Aragonese, and Italian texts.
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If the Greek poem ends abruptly with a series events dating back to 1292, this does not mean that it must have been written in c.1292. The abrupt nature of its ending could be due to a great number of factors that we cannot estimate, as we have no contextual data. It could be anything: an accident in the author’s life (death, departure, etc.); an accident of a material nature (limited writing material); and even a change of heart of the commissioner. To name but one comparison, the Roman de Rou (a chronicle in verse of the Norman dukes commissioned by Henry II Plantagenet), was initially written by Wace, author of the best-seller Roman de Brut, but the English king changed his mind and asked another author to write the rest of the poem.83 This was a certain master Benedict, probably Benoît of Sainte-Maure, author of the French Roman de Troie from which the Demotic Greek Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος was likely translated. In light of all these examples, who are we to decide what could have been the reason for the abrupt ending of the Greek Chronicle? Nobody knows. The only proof that we have about this late dating is that the Greek author was familiar with the destruction of the palace of Thebes, where murals representing the conquest of Syria had been painted. But the dating of this destruction – which everybody places in 1331/1332 – is very tricky, because it relies on an uncritical interpretation of a mention in the Italian version of the Chronicle.84 The Italian text states that the castle was ruined by the Company for fear that Walter (VI?) of Brienne may enter it and therefore gain the duchy of Athens.85 This Italian story is a loose translation of the Greek text, which tells that … 83 84
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See e.g. Jean-Guy Gouttebroze, ‘Pourquoi congédier un historiographe. Henri II Plantagenêt et Wace (1155–1174)’, Romania, 112/447–448 (1991), 289–311. Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, mentions the year of the destruction without quoting her source. Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, quotes D. Jacoby, but David Jacoby, ‘Quelques considérations sur les versions de la “Chronique de Morée”’, Journal des savants, 3 (1968), 147, did not quote any source either. Setton, The Papacy, 156–157, note 60, was not sure about the dating, mentioned it as “presumably late in 1331,” when the castle of Thebes would be destroyed “lest it be taken by or turned over to Gautier VI of Brienne,” and quoted himself in the matter, as well as R.J. Loenertz for the castle. Going further upstream, Kenneth M. Setton, The Catalan Domination of Athens, 2nd edition (London: Variorum, 1975), 39–41 (quoted by Setton, The Papacy) refers to no actual data about the castle of Thebes (only Setton’s reconstruction of the 1331–1332 conflicts), while p. 49 (note 50), also quoted by Setton, The Papacy, refers to the Italian translation of the Chronicle which states that the Catalans destroyed the castle in those circumstances. There are no other archaeological or historical data corroborate in order to sustain this idea (see next note). Cf. Hopf ed., Chroniques gréco-romaines, 461–462: Questo Miser Nicolò de S. Omer era molto potente e molto ricco, però ch’ ebbe per prima moglie la Principessa d’Antiochia, avvanti che
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[…] this castle the Company afterwards destroyed because of their fear of the great lord, the duke of Athens, who was called Gauthier [II], lest he were to capture it and entrench himself there and with it conquer the Megalokyrate. Behold the evil the deceitful Catalans committed, to destroy such a castle and such a stronghold!86 However, the English translation is far from perfect and the Greek text can be interpreted in many ways. The author of the translation inserted ‘[II]’ after the name of Walter (Walter VI was the second Walter of the Athenian duchy), orienting his translation choices in order to reflect the scholar point of view. If we leave this emendation out and focus on the Greek text alone, it could also apply to Walter V of Brienne, the one who led his knights in the battle of Halmyros (1311). In fact, the issue at stake here is the interpretation of two Demotic verbs. One of them, εἴχασιν, does not mean ‘to capture’. It means ‘to have’, with all its polysemic connotations. While the other one, ἐκέρδισε, does not mean ‘to win’ either. The chief meanings of κερδίζω are ‘to have a benefit’, ‘to secure’, ‘to acquire’, ‘to dominate’, ‘to enjoy’, or ‘to win’. Its second meaning is ‘to make a profit’, ‘to win’, or ‘to prevail’.87 The verb κερδαίνω has similar meanings and the notions implied by both of them are vague, so the interpretation of the passage may easily apply to both Walter V of Brienne, who lost the duchy to the Catalans in 1311, and to his son, Walter VI of Brienne, who led the anti-Catalan crusade of 1331. In fact, even the author of the English translation translated the same verb with many other meanings (‘to hold’, ‘to receive’, etc.).88 It is therefore worthy of note that the scholars who proposed the 1331 dating of the destruction did not quote the Greek text, where the meaning is uncertain, but its Italian translation. The author of the Italian Chronicle would have remembered the last Walter who
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avesse la Principessa detta della Morea, e fabricò appresso Tebbe il castel di S. Omer, nel qual fece palazi superbissimi e stanze imperial, nel qual dipinse l’ istoria dell’ aquisto fatto per Franchi nella Soria. Questo castello fù rovinato dalla Compagnia, per dubio, che Megachin Miser Gualtier entrasse dentro e mediante quello non aquistasse il Ducato d’Atenne, e fù gran rovina, perch’era fabricha nobilissima. Lurier trans., Crusaders, 298, for the translation. Cf. the original text in Καλονάρος ed., Χρονικόν, 328: Τὸ ὅποιον ἐχαλάσασιν μετὰ ταῦτα ἡ Κουμπάνια | διὰ φόβον ὅπου εἴχασιν ἀπὸ τὸν Μέγαν Κύρην, | τὸν δοῦκαν γὰρ τῶν Ἀθηνῶν, τὸν λέγουσιν Γατιέρην· | πολλάκις μὴ τὸ ἔπιασεν κ᾿ ἐσέβηκεν εἰς | αὖτο | καὶ μετὰ ἐκεῖνο ἐκέρδισε τὸ Μεγαλοκυρᾶτο. | Ἔδε ἁμαρτίαν ὅπου ἔποικαν οἱ δόλοι Κατελάνοι | κ᾿ ἐτέτοιον κάστρο ἐχάλασαν κ᾿ ἐτέτοιον δυναμάριν! See the epitome of the Kriaras dictionary (http://www.greek-language.gr/. Accessed 2020 July 6). Cf. Lurier trans., 68, ἐκερδίσαν, ‘to hold’; p. 69, ἐκερδίσετε, ‘to receive’; etc.
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had anything to do with the Catalans, and he would orient his translation choice accordingly, just like the modern translator did. This does not mean that the post-1311 is preferable to the post-1331 one. Both options are valid in the Greek text, so both datings are plausible. The information given by the Chronicle(s) should be corroborated with data independent from it, coming from archaeological research. The second detail quoted in the matter of the late dating is shared by the Greek, French, and Aragonese versions. It allegedly concerns a mention of the death of Nicholas Sanudo, duke of Naxos, mentioned in a passage dealing with the offspring of Hugh of Brienne. The Greek text says that … […] after the two [Hugh and the widow of the duke of Athens] were joined, as chance would have it, the archontess became pregnant and bore a daughter; Jeannette, they named her, and as soon as she matured and became a woman, they gave her for husband Sir Nicolas; his surname was de Sanudo, and he was duke of Naxos; these two never did have good agreement. Unfortunately, it happened that they did not have a child to leave as his heir to inherit all the castles and his lands which Sir Nicolas held.89 The only hint at a possible death of Nicholas is the use of the verb εἶχε in a past tense in connection with his castles and islands, but this does not actually mean that lord Nicholas had died by the time when the author of the Greek version compiled the story. In the French Chronicle, the information is far vaguer, even though certain formulas in the text guarantee that it was translated from the Greek. It speaks of a male heir, and not of an undefined child (see Gr. τέκνον), meaning that it interpreted the passage and was unaware of the actual situation between the two husbands. This suggests that the French text must have been written at a rather late date, when such details were forgotten. In turn, this would explain why the unfortunate couple is presented as having lived together for a long time (vesquirent grant temps), a fairytale formula, something that 89
Lurier trans., 296–297, for the translation. Cf. the original text in Καλονάρος ed., 325–326: Ἀφότου ἐσμίξασιν οἱ δύο, ὡς τὸ ἤφερεν τὸ φέρος, | ἡ ἀρχόντισσα ἐγγαστρώθηκεν κ᾿ ἔποικεν θυγατέραν· | Ντζανέτα τὴν ὠνόμασαν, κι ὅσον ἐκαταστάθη | κ᾿ ἦλθεν τοῦ νόμου ἡλικίας κ᾿ ἐγίνετον γυναῖκα, | ἄντραν τῆς ἐδώκασιν μισὶρ Νικόλαον ἐκεῖνον· | τὸ ἐπίκλην του ἦτον ντὲ Σανοῦ, δοῦκας ἦτον Νηξίας· | ποτὲ καλὴν συμβίβασιν οὐκ εἴχασιν τὰ δύο. | Ἀπὸ ἁμαρτίας ἐγίνετον, τέκνον οὐκ ἐποιῆσαν | νὰ ἀφήκουν κληρονόμον του, διὰ νὰ κληρονομήσῃ | εἰς τόσα κάστρη καὶ νησία, τὰ εἶχε ὁ μισὶρ Νικόλαος.
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does not appear in the Greek text.90 The Italian version, compiled at a much later date, mixes up everything (another proof that its interpretations must be used prudently),91 while the Aragonese version is somehow correct, but suppresses the lack of heirs.92 The only actual information appears in the Greek Chronicle, but it is so vague that nobody can be sure that it mentions the death of Nicholas Sanudo, which must have occurred sometime between 1335 and 1341.93 I therefore believe that the post-1335 dating is equally ill-advised. There is a 33,3 per cent chance that the Greek version of the Chronicle was read after 1311, a 66,6 per cent chance that it was read after 1331, and a 100 per cent chance that it circulated after 1341. This leads me next to the issue of the French Chronicle, in other words, to the dating of its autograph, its only known antigraph (in the library of Bartholomew II Ghisi), and that of its only copy. Speaking of this copy, there are some odd features to address. First of all, a series of leaves were left blank in various parts of the codex and the scribe tells us precisely why: ‘two leaves are missing here. For this reason I left some room’ and ‘six leaves are missing here, in which [the text] tells of the violence of Escorta, which was against prince William, and they submitted to the brother of the emperor, the grand domestic; so I left some room’.94 I will 90
91 92 93
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Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 189–190: Si ne demoura gaires de temps que la dame conchut une fille du conte, que on appella madame Jehanne, qui puis fu femme du noble et vaillant chevalier messire Nicole Sanu, le duc de Nixie; et vesquirent grant temps, mais, par pechié, ou a Dieu ne plot, si ne firent nul hoir mascle, ne ne furent onques ensemble au paÿs. The use of par pechié for the translation of ἀπὸ ἁμαρτίας, for instance, testifies to a litteral translation from Greek (the Greek formula is an expression referring to the lack of chance and was translated accordingly by Lurier trans., Crusaders: “unfortunately”). Cf. Hopf ed., Chroniques gréco-romaines, 461: […] e di lei ebbe una fiola detta Madonna Zannetta, la qual adulta fù maritata in Miser Marco Sanudo Duca di Nicosia, del qual matrimonio non ne naque alcuno. Morel-Fatio ed., Libro de los fechos, 99: Et el dicho conte de Brena de aquesta su muller huuo huna filla que se clamó madama Johana & sue de micer Nicola muller, qui era duch del Archipelago. According to Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 44: “Since Sanudo is known to have been alive in the winter of 1325/6, when he led the campaign against the Byzantines, but to have died by July 1341, when his successor, Giovanni Sanudo, is recorded enfeoffing Marcolino Sanudo and Bertucio Grimani with the islands of Milos and Siphnos, this sets the terminus post quem as 1326/41.” She also doubts the accuracy of the data provided by the 1341 document, since it was written in 1486. However, Nicholas Sanudo is known to have incorporated the island of Thira among his possessions in 1335 (cf. the PLP), so the option should have been: 1335/1341. For the correct transcription of the first note, see Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 115, note 148: Lacuna nell’antigrafo. Il copista annota: ‘cy endroit faillent ii. feulles, pour ce j’ay leissiee l’espace’. Seguono due fogli bianchi ( ff. 35r–36v). See also the correct transcription of the
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not pay attention to other lacunae in the text, because they are of a mechanical nature, due to the loss of four folios of the manuscript, as well as its end.95 I am more interested in the lacunae that the scribe identified in the antigraph. If the copyist left blank spaces, he expected those missing passages to be inserted later, either by him or by another scribe. In turn, this suggests that he was sure of being in the proximity of other copies of his source, which could be consulted in order to fill in the gaps. Furthermore, the scribe was aware of what the missing parts of the story were (the rebellion of Skorta), but he was familiar with the narrative. All these details point towards Morea, where such copies probably circulated. In this aspect, I agree with the last editor of the French text, who drew the same conclusion based on the fact that the initial numeration is in Greek letters.96 However, nobody paid any attention to the fact that not all these leaves were left blank. Some extremely important features were neglected in this way. On fol. 62r, for instance, there is an Italian acrostic poem written by three different 14th–15th century hands, summing up twenty-four lines, one for each letter of the alphabet.97 The presence of this poem suggests that the manuscript was transcribed in a place where people spoke Italian, and this is highly unlikely to happen in Northern France. It must have happened in Greece, where Venetian and Ligurian linguistic
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second note in Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 144, note 186: cy endroit fault bien .vi. feulles, la ou parole du revel de l’Escorta qui contre le prince Guillerme fu et se rendirent au frere de l’empereor, au grant domestico; si ay leissié le espace. Cf. Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, who states that these notes appear on fols. 36v and 63r instead of fols. 34v and 61r, where they are transcribed. She also translated the two notes (corrected in my quotation). For her translation, see ibid., 38, note 33. For these other lacunae located between fols. 84–85, 86–87, 177–178, and at the end, after fol. 181, see Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 65. Ibid., 24. For a similar but not identical situation, see the Neapolitan copy of Prose 5 of the Roman de Troie that presents features of a Northern French dialect, maybe Picard, in a text full of Italianisms. Cf. Barbieri, ‘La versione “angioina”’, 14. The poem is mentioned in the Catalogue des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, 11, Histoire de Hollande, Mélanges d’histoire, Géographie, Voyages, itinéraires, expéditions (Renaix: J. Leherte-Courtin et fils, 1927), 188 (acrostiche italien d’après les vingt-quatre lettres de l’alphabet), and Martin Wittek, Inventaire des plus anciens manuscrits de papier conservés à la Bibliothèque royale Albert Ier et de leurs filigranes (XIIIe– XIVe siècles) (Brussels: Bibliothèque royale Albert Ier, 2001), 34 (vingt-quatre proverbes rangés dans l’ordre alphabétique des initiales), not by Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea. Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 67, mentions it in the description of the manuscript (as a collection of Italian proverbs), but does not pay attention to its value in the dating or localization of the copy.
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features, such as the ones present in the text of the poem, could be mixed with Neapolitan ones (see vacabunto) in a supra-dialectal idiom such as the Venetian of Outremer.98 This elucidates the presence of many strata of Italianisms in the text of the French Chronicle, some of them occurring in what seems to be the initial text, written by a speaker of a north-eastern dialect of the French language, perhaps a Picard,99 while others are ascribable to the seemingly Venetian copyist of the Brussels manuscript.100 I assume that this manuscript copy was made in the Latin-held Greek lands sometime at the end of the 14th century or in the early years of the 15th century, by a Venetian or another Italian who spoke French. However, Italian influences may be noticed in earlier strata, too. The original scripta (a written language variety) of the French version of the Chronicle was influenced by Outremer French, a vehicular offshoot of this language with no fixed dialectal base, characterised by the assorted presence of Italianisms, Occitanisms, and words of Greek or Arab origin.101 As a result, the linguistic stratification of the French version of the Chronicle does not differ from that of Outremer texts, meaning that its dialectal north-eastern base testifies only to the French dialect spoken by its writer, who lived in the heterogenous milieu of Eastern Mediterranean. And there are other interesting things as well. The editor noticed Middle French features, frequent from mid-14th century onwards. This suggests two possible interpretations: that a speaker of Middle French transcribed an Old French text at a later date, naturally adapting its language in the process; or that the text was written during a transitional period. In the absence of a thorough linguistic analysis, I cannot choose between the two, but there are traces of an evolution of the French text. The editor noticed, for instance, that the word designating a river is flumare in most of the French text, including chapter 91, where it last occurs in the story of the heritage of Cephalonia (events happening in the time of Philip of 98
I thank Fabrizio Cigni for his help in identifying these dialectal features, which I am quoting from his analysis. The poem deserves a proper study by a specialist in Italian dialectology. 99 Cf. Colantuoni ed., 40, 52–53. 100 See for this a curious linguistic oscillation noticed by Colantuoni ed., 40, note 94: La presenza di isolate forme italianizzanti negli antroponimi, come del caso di ‘Quir Andronigo Paleologo’, possibilmente veneziana (VI, ma ‘Andronico’ poco oltre nella tavola cronologica, XVIII); o di ‘Anthonyo le Flamenc’, con esito italiano (86.14, ma ‘Anthoine le Flamenc’, 86.12). 101 See the carefully crafted glossary of the recent edition by ibid., 312–329. For more information about neologisms of various origins in Outremer French, see the extensive studies of Minervini, ‘Le français dans l’Orient latin’; eadem, ‘Les emprunts arabes et grecs’.
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Savoy, in c.1304). In the rest of the text, starting from chapter 94, the word for river is flun. This suggests that the later part was written by another author. And there is also the issue of the place-name Saint-Omer, transcribed as such throughout most of the text, except for its final part. In the same chapter 94, this place-name becomes Saint-Thomer. This is not its only occurrence in the text of the French Chronicle, since the same reading (Saint-Thomer or Saint-Tomer) appears three times in the chronological synopsis preceding the text proper (f. 1r–3r).102 The most reasonable explanation is an Italian false etymology of the Greek Σαντομέρι, read as *San Tomer(i). Therefore, the final part of the French text is an addition, compiled at a later date, perhaps when the Middle French language was already in use (or maybe a transitional period, for nobody really knows). I cannot be sure if the text was written and re-written at different stages in the evolution of French language, but I can be sure that the chronological synopsis that precedes the main body of the text was an addition, and that the last chapters were added by the author of that synopsis, explaining thus why this chronological synopsis mentions the death of Philip of Taranto in 1332 and why the latter’s wife appears in a side note. This other mention of Catherine II of Valois-Courtenay as a ‘most excellent lady which is now called empress’ (tres excerlente dame que ores s’appelle empereÿs) suggests that the text was written before 1346, the date of Catherine’s death.103 Two conclusions may be drawn from these details. The first is that the re-writing of French text occurred before 1346, explaining thus the presence of its Middle French linguistic features. The second may be drawn from the linguistic stratification and it suggests that the original French text continued the narrative of the Greek one, stopping somewhere in between the chapters 91 and 94 of the current French text. The remaining question is: which of these features were present in the manuscript copy of Thebes? Did it contain the first French text or its subsequent re-writing? Recent voices manifested a certain distrust of this Theban origin for the Brussels manuscript’s antigraph. The Chronicle states in a perfect Middle French phrase that ‘this is the book of the conquest of Constantinople, of the empire of Romania, and of the land of the 102 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 40, note 94. Cf. p. 322 of the glossary for flumare / flun. 103 The side note was included in the introductory cycle preceding the Chronicle proper, in a place where the original text (of the Greek version) spoke only of the last Latin emperor’s trip to the West after the fall of Constantinople to the Nicaeans in 1261. For the original text, see ibid., 92–93.
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princedom of Morea, which was found in a book once belonging to the noble baron lord Bartholomew Ghisi, grand constable, and that book he had in his castle of Thebes’.104 It was argued that “the association of the work with Thebes need not reflect its actual material presence there, but merely the fact of Ghisi ownership.” The passage was compared to spurious references to imaginary sources in Old French romances, including the book from the church of Saint-Paul in Corinth from the Prose 1 version of the Roman de Troie. The Ghisi reference in the French Chronicle was considered to be bogus, born out of an “eagerness to invent authorities,” while the “castle of Saint-Omer-les-Thèbes [seemed] almost too appropriate a place with which to associate the Chronicle of Morea, for it was […] decorated with murals celebrating the glories of the conquest of the Holy Land by the Franks. Because of its reputation, Saint-Omer-les-Thèbes would have been an obvious choice for a redactor or copyist seeking to authenticate a text dealing with the crusader territories in Greece. All the more so since the razing of the castle would have rendered it impossible for readers to confirm the accuracy of the statement.”105 Unfortunately, this whole interpretation is wrong, for many reasons. First of all, the Chronicle does not belong to the same category as the songs-of-deeds, Antiquity romances, and romances proper that were used as its terms of comparison. In the case of historical texts, references are distorted, not invented, so there is no need to be once bitten and twice shy about the topos of the found book. Secondly, the topos of the found book aims to confer authority to vernacular writing, and this is achieved through the invention of a source written in a prestigious language, such as Latin or Greek.106 This is not the case for the French Chronicle of Morea. The anonymous compiler of that passage did not even tell us what the language of his source was, meaning that he could not care less about it, as the events narrated in his text were already prestigious by themselves. And third of all, the castle of Thebes could not be ‘razed’. A large keep is still in place in the courtyard of the local museum, so it must have been used until modern times. The Catalans destroyed something, but the nature of the destruction is a matter of debate. They could not do to Thebes what the Palaeologans and later the Nazis did to Glarentza, simply because the 104 Ibid., 78. 105 Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 33–34. 106 See e.g. Giovanni Borriero, ‘Le “topos du livre source” entre supercherie et catastrophe’, in Claudio Galderisi (dir.), Translations médiévales. Cinq siècles de traductions en français au Moyen Âge (XIe–XVe siècles). Étude et Répertoire, 1. De la translatio studii à l’étude de la translatio (Turnhout: Brepols, 2011), 397–431.
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Catalans did not have the time. Enemy troops were approaching, so their destruction was limited to rendering the fortification defenceless (perhaps a destruction of gates, segments from the enclosure walls, and living quarters). If the destruction mentioned by the Greek Chronicle occurred in 1331/1332, then we should pay attention to the fact that Walter’s crusade did not succeed, he came and went. The Catalans certainly returned to Thebes. It was one of the most (if not the most) important settlement of the duchy. If it occurred in 1311, they would also have every intention to refortify the place shortly afterwards, since they had conquered the entire Boeotia after Halmyros. Either way, this was not the only castle or palace in Thebes. Archaeological remains from the medieval period are scarce in the city, but there were two more towers still in place during modern times close to the gates of the city through which passed the roads to Negroponte (East) and Athens (South). Furthermore, the palace of Nicholas of Saint-Omer is probably located at the centre of Kadmeia, deep inside the city, far from the actual fortifications, in a place where two large structures were identified.107 Nobody knows for sure what the Catalans destroyed. Neither can we know when they did it, nor for how long a period of time. Bartholomew II Ghisi could have occupied another palace in Thebes. With this in mind, I believe that the mention of Bartholomew II Ghisi does not date this copy between 1326/1327 – date of the marriage of Simona, daughter of Alfonso Fadrique into the Ghisi family, with George, son of Bartholomew, and the alleged destruction of the Theban fortification in 1331/1332.108 The chronology may be a little bit wider. I prefer 1326–1341, the latter representing Bartholomew’s death. This does not apply to the initial version of the French text, which could be produced at any given time after the Greek one. Frankly, this does not exclude the possibility that the French text was created in Naples, as advocated by the same recent research. Indeed, “given the continuous exchange of people and texts [sic!] between the Principality and the Regno, it could
107 For these other two towers, located at sites 19 and 52, see the map published by Sarantis Symeonoglou, The Topography of Thebes from the Bronze Age to Modern Times (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), 119. For the palace of Nicholas of Saint-Omer, see p. 121. Cf. Χαρίκλεια Κοιλάκου, ‘Η οχύρωση της μεσαιωνικής Θήβας’, in Βασίλειος Αραβαντινός (dir.), Επετηρίς της Εταιρείας Βοιωτικών Μελετών. Δ’ Διεθνές Συνέδριο Βοιωτικών Μελετών. Λιβαδειά 9–12 Σεπτεμβρίου 2000, 1/A. Αρχαιολογία – Ιστορική Τοπογραφία (Athens, 2008), 841–842. 108 Cf. Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 32.
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have been produced on either side of the Ionian Sea.”109 At that time, noblemen, merchants, and even common people were frequently travelling between Morea and Southern Italy, the two areas being culturally, economically, and politically linked. Nonetheless, basing this hypothesis on the alleged pro-Angevin undertones of the French Chronicle is a grave error, since those propagandistic undertones will always be a matter of debate and their identification is conjectural. If I wished to criticize this hypothesis, I would obviously stress the absence of great Angevin events from the text of the Chronicle, yet this would not make the criticism any more valid, for it would be just as conjectural. Frankly, the only contextual information is the mention of Bartholomew II Ghisi and Catherine II of Valois-Courtenay. Together, these two names suggest that the antigraph circulated in the Latin-held Greek lands in 1333–1341 – 1333 being the year when Catherine’s son received the principality of Morea, or perhaps in 1338–1341 – 1338 being when Catherine moved to the Peloponnesus for a while.110 It explains the alternate presence of Old and Middle French linguistic traits as a sign of a transitional period. This phenomenon may thus be ascribed to the antigraph or to its own antigraph (if such a manuscript existed). As for the French text’s autograph – better said protograph, there are no contextual references in the text proper that could provide termini ante or post quem for its dating, yet its linguistic stratification argues in favour of a Moreote creation.111 When corroborated with the fact that the only known manuscript was created in more or less the same area (Chalkida or the Venetian colonies such as Koroni or Methoni),112 this linguistic stratification and the evolutive stages of the
109 Ibid., 102, who dates the text to the time of Robert the Wise, king of Naples (1309–1343), being “intended for Catherine de Valois.” 110 The perfectly French form of Bartholomew’s name in the text of the Chronicle (Bartholomee Guys) suggests that it cannot be credited to the Italian copyist who transcribed the Brussels manuscript (and who was probably responsible for Venetian forms like Andronigo), therefore it must have been present in its antigraph. 111 This is also the conclusion reached by Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca. 112 I do not give credit to any of the historical conjectures concerning the manner in which the Brussels manuscript reached the West (therefore I do not speak only of Methoni). None of them relies on any piece of evidence. Their mentioning would lead the current assessment into error. For the same reasons, I deliberately chose to ignore the conjecture about Erard III Le Maure and his family’s patronage of the Chronicle (Shawcross, The Chronicle of Morea, 45–49). Mentioning somebody or somebody’s ancestors (a lot of other families’ ancestors are mentioned as well) does not make him/her the commissioner of a work.
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text are a sign that it circulated mainly (or only) in the Latin-held lands of the East. At least this is what may be deduced from the nature of the first and last linguistic layers of the text. If the manuscript were not to find its way into the library of the dukes of Burgundy in 1420–1467/1469, research would have made other assumptions, debating between the Greek Chronicle and the Aragonese version. Nobody would think to mention pro-Angevin propaganda. Instead, we would concentrate on the Knights Hospitaller, placing the creation of the Chronicle not in the first half but in the late 14th century. On one condition, of course. That the Greek Chronicle were accepted as the original text. Some would argue, for the pleasure of it or for serious reasons, that the 14th century Copenhagen manuscript of the Demotic text could be a local answer to new-comer propaganda, rewriting it from a glorious Moreote point of view. In truth, when writing about propaganda(s), the sky is the limit. This is why I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. The Chronicles of Morea are therefore a swan song of an ending era, written and re-written in a period when direct French cultural influences lost their significance in the Morea, being replaced by Franco-Italian ones. The turn of the 14th century, when the Spirituals came to Greece, was not the time when the Chronicle was written, but a time when local French aristocracy must have been aware of this decline. This probably led to the creation of legends. Oral memory distorted factual history into a linear narrative with a simpler plot, easier to remember, and more fun to tell. Speaking of funny stories, the last editor of the French text convincingly argued that the tale of the three sisters preceding the Angevin conquest of Southern Italy suggests that the Chronicle of Morea, the Florentine chronicle of Giovanni Villani, and the Catalan chronicle of Ramon Muntaner could have drawn their inspiration from similar sources. I believe that these sources were of an oral nature, given the presence of divergent details in the three texts.113 It was a habit of the times. Such tales flourished in Morea and in the Venetian lands. Some of them spoke of a mythical descendance from the goddess Venus. This was the story of Venieri, the Venetian marquesses who traced their ancestry to the ancient goddess in order to make Kythira – the island of Venus – their 113 Colantuoni ed., La Cronaca, 33–36. For her, l’ipotesi più probabile è che vi sia una fonte comune, oggi perduta, all’origine dei tre testi, even though in the preceding line she acknowledges that l’episodio vi compare comunque con qualche variazione, which is a sign of oral transmission (p. 36 for the quotations).
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birth right.114 Noble families were reinventing themselves all over the land. In Attica and Euboea, French and Italian noblemen were also making up legends about their families. Ramon Muntaner tells one of these legends or maybe he mixed up several legends into one when he wrote his chronicle years later, based on what other Catalans told him, for he was not with them at the time of their conquest of the duchy. His is the story of Boniface of Verona, often taken at face value by historians, even though it should be regarded as spurious on account of many folktale themes and motifs intertwined in its narrative. As many folktales, it starts with three sons, the offspring of a Veronese nobleman who had to share their inheritance. The eldest son received the biggest part, naturally. The next son took with him the magic number of thirty knights and thirty sons of knights. He went to Morea, where he fought for the duke of Athens. And the third one was left with a poor castle. This was Boniface. So, Boniface sold the castle and also left for Morea. He took with him ten knights and ten more sons of knights. He led them from Verona, a town in Lombardy (according to the imaginary geography of Muntaner), to the city of Venice, which seemed to be a rather long way and in another province. When in Athens, he went to the duke, learnt that his brother had died, leaving behind another magic number – two sons and two daughters, so he got depressed. But the duke of Athens was a courteous lord, he employed him for seven years. During those years, “there had never been a man in the duke’s court to dress more elegantly than he and his troops, nor to go better equipped, for which reason he added lustre to the entire court.” About that time, … […] (when the plenary court which the duke had summoned was drawing near), everyone endeavoured to make garments for himself and for his retinue, in order to give honour to the court and to hand out to minstrels. – What can I tell you? – The day of the court arrived, and in the entire court none was dressed more finely or more immaculately than sir Boniface and his train, and there were at least a hundred torches bearing his device. And the cost of all this had been borrowed against the allowance he was due to receive. What can I tell you? The celebration began in very grand style, and when they were in the main church where the duke was to be invested as a knight, the archbishop of Thebes said mass, with the duke’s weapons lying upon the altar. Everyone was expecting the duke to be invested as a knight, and they were astonished to see that the king of France and the emperor considered it a pleasure and an honour 114 Freddy Thiriet, ‘À propos de la seigneurie des Venier sur Cerigo’, Studi veneziani, 12 (1970), 201.
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that the duke should wish to be knighted by them. So, as all stood waiting, the duke had sir Boniface of Verona summoned, and he came straight away. So the Duke said to him: – Sir Boniface, sit down here next to the archbishop, for I wish to be knighted by you. So sir Boniface said to him: – Ha, my lord! What is this? What are you saying? Are you making fun of me? – Certainly not, said the duke, but sooner would I have it this way. So sir Boniface, who saw that he was speaking in earnest, approached the altar where the Archbishop stood and there he knighted the duke.115 The duke was pleased. This is how Boniface became triarch in the island of Euboea, for the duke rewarded him with the hand of the daughter of one of the previous triarchs, as well as with castles and many riches in Attica and in the islands surrounding it. We recognize the story of the one who comes to find an inheritance and loses it because somebody else had proper right for it, the old story of the duke of Athens as a favourite of the Parisian court, as well as many other tales that can be traced back to universal folktales (the poor man wearing rich clothes becomes rich). Who knows what Boniface had actually told the Catalans after the death of the last duke of Athens, when the Catalans proposed that Boniface became their ruler? It would be a cockamamie tale about his spectacular ascendance, increasing thus the worth of his daughter Marulla whom he married to the leader of the Catalans, Alfonso Fadrique, a bastard of royal blood. The time was ripe for tales and the only real thing in that story was that Boniface had indeed fought many battles, some of which happened in the island of Euboea, where he conquered Karystos, the last stronghold of the Byzantines. His self-legend was one of the many ones that were forming in those days. There must have been tales about the dukes of Athens, for Muntaner tells a ludicrous one about the duchy’s beginnings. Our Catalan adventurer did not understand much of the history of Attica and Achaea. For him, the two lordships had been founded by two legendary brothers: 115 See Robert D. Hughes (trans.), The Catalan Expedition to the East: from the ‘Chronicle’ of Ramon Muntaner, introd. J.N. Hillgarth (Barcelona/Woodbridge: Barcino/Tamesis, 2007), 158–159, for these quotations from the translation of Muntaner’s text. For the original text, see Karl Lanz (ed.), Cronik des edlen en Ramon Muntaner (Stuttgart: gedruckt auf Kosten des litterarischen Vereins, 1844), 437.
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[…] in bygone times, there were two brothers, sons of the duke of Raymont, who were travelling to Outremer in ships on behalf of the Holy Church of Rome, accompanied by a large number of knights and many other men, and they had embarked at Brindisi and at Venice. But winter caught up with them while they were in the port of Glarentza and, at that time, the people of that country were defying the Church. So, these two lords sent envoys to the pope, stating that, if he were to grant them the principality of the Morea and the duchy of Athens, then they would conquer these regions that winter, since, in any case, they were unable to go any further. And the pope granted their wish with great joy, and therefore these two lords conquered the entire principality of the Morea and the duchy of Athens. The elder brother became prince of the Morea, and the other the duke of Athens, and each obtained his territories free and exempt from tributes, and they gave castles to some of their knights, farms to others, and villages to still others, whereby, altogether, these places were inhabited by a thousand French knights, all of whom had their wives and children brought there. And they brought their wives over from France themselves; and so, those who have lived there since then, always chose their wives from among the daughters of the noblest barons in France. So, they are noblemen of exalted lineage by direct descent.116 Was this a real story told to Muntaner by one of his sources? Or a story that evolved to a streamlined plot in Muntaner’s mind, the space of almost twenty years, when he wrote his chronicle (1325–1328)? Nobody will ever know. There are traces of real history in it: something about the arrival of Geoffrey of Villehardouin in the Peloponnesus, independently from the crusaders, a little bit about the initial start of the crusade from Venice, but the rest is an utter fairytale. And this was not the only fairytale about Athens. There is a mid-15th-century French origin story of the lords of Gavre that could have its origins in the cockamamie tales of the 1300s. In the Histoire des seigneurs de Gavre, the ancestor of that family, a certain Louis of Gavre, goes to Athens. There he fights for the duke of Athens and wins the hand of his daughter before returning to France. In the French tale, the duke of Athens is called Anthenor, borrowed from the Trojan tales in order to fit a nomen est omen pattern (Athens-Anthenor). The anonymous writer pretended this would be the ‘true history of the lords of Gavre, descendants of duke Louis of Athens, and the other ruling lords of Gavre to the day’. This history would be 116 See Hughes trans., The Catalan Expedition, 155, for the quotation. For the original text, see Lanz ed. Cronik, 435–436.
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‘translated from Greek into Latin, from Latin into Flemish, and later adapted into the French language’.117 But it was evidently a tall tale based on similar origin stories coming from Athens. As a consequence, Muntaner’s tall tale has the intense flavour of an origin story, yet we will never identify the fictional plot he was fed with. Literature often begets history, so I am tempted to place this tale in the category of the Troy narrative that legitimised the actions of the crusaders back in 1204–1205. From one generation to the next, folktale layers gradually covered historical events. This probably happened under the influence of all the other stories told in the Latin-held lands, but also because the turn of the 14th century was a period of literary experimentation in Western Europe. The Franco-Italian story of Hector and Hercules, written somewhere in Northern Italy (perhaps Veneto) at the beginning of the 14th century, talks about an eccentric duel in which a young Hector of Troy slayed the giant Hercules, avenging the death of his grandfather Laomedon and the taking of his aunt Hesione. This odd prequel to the war of Troy seems to be the product of the same literary milieu that transformed brave Roland into a knight errant in the Franco-Venetian song-of-deed called Entrée d’Espagne. It was written about the same time, in roughly about the same area.118 This was a time of experimentation, when crossovers became fashionable, and when many stories were invented or distorted, as we shall see in the next two chapters. To give but one example, Boniface of Verona – a writer, master in astrology and versification (magister in estrologia et in versificando), bearing the same name as the Euboeote lord – received the commission to write a stylish and solemn history of Perugia from the council of that commune in June 1293.119 On 16 November of the same year, Boniface presented his work to the council. Two law professors were entrusted with the mission of evaluating the amount of money to be paid to the author and nobody minded that the stylish history of Perugia, the Eulistea, started with the return voyage from Troy of a hero who bore the name Eulistes. On the contrary, they would be greatly flattered and impressed that Eulistes was founder of the 117 For the original text of this 1456 text, sometimes attributed to John of Wavrin, see René Stuip (ed.), Histoire des seigneurs de Gavre (Paris: Champion, 1993), 220. 118 For the text of the Hector and Hercules poem, see Joseph Palermo (ed.), Le Roman d’Hector et Hercule, chant épique en octosyllabes italo-français édité d’après le manuscrit français 821 de la Bibliothèque nationale de Paris avec les variantes des autres manuscrits connus (Geneva: Droz, 1972). For a discussion about its links with the Rolandian Entrée d’Espagne, see Marco Infurna, ‘Ideali cavallereschi in Valpadana: il Roman d’Hector et Hercule e l’Entrée d’Espagne’, in Paolo Canettieri, Arianna Punzi (dir.), Dai pochi ai molti: studi in onore di Roberto Antonelli (Rome: Viella, 2014), 2:931–944. 119 Cf. Giuseppe Mazzatinti, ‘Di Bonifacio da Verona autore dell’Eulistea’, Bollettino della Deputazione di storia patria per l’Umbria, 2 (1896), 559.
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city of Perugia, that he fought many battles against the Trojans, and that their city could thus be a rival of the Eternal City, Rome.120 So they decided that Boniface be paid twenty-five gold florins.121 But they did not like that the end result was a poem, in a language full of metaphors, recurrent literary allusions, and a complicated word order, not easy to follow. So, the council proposed that the author doubled his pay if he wrote his composition differently, reorganised it, and recomposed it as prose (ipsum opus prosaice distinguere et ordinare et componere).122 This is how the writing process of the Greek and French Chronicle of Morea must have taken place. Somebody would be paid a fair amount of money to make up interesting legends and mix them up with local oral tales, in an account which had little value from a factual point of view, as it was greatly biased. A generation later, or perhaps even less, when the verses were difficult to follow on account of their syncopated style, somebody else was paid to transform those Greek verses into French prose. Thus, the decision to abridge them, according to the fashion of the time, and to expand the narrative with the addition of more recent events. It was a natural process. Morea must have had its fair share of local or itinerant writers, for there are other texts written in the same style and dating to the same period. Since I mentioned Troy, I shall point out that this myth-making period was also the time when the Troy narrative resurfaced and gave birth to one of the weirdest pieces of literature that the Frankokratia has left behind. For once, I have no fear of using the word ‘syncretism’ when speaking about Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος (The War of Troy). This poem in fifteen-syllable Demotic Greek political verse was written in the early 14th century. It is rightly syncretic in nature, for it does not belong to the history of medieval Greek literature, where it stands almost alone, without any comparison apart from the Demotic version of the Chronicle of Morea. In other words, both of them were myth-making texts. This second case study will allow me to put an end to the digression about the syncretic tastes and behaviours of the local lords, returning to the Franciscan story.
120 Cf. F. Bonaini, A. Fabretti, F. Polidori, ‘Bonifacii Veronensis de rebus a Perusinis gestis ann. MCL–MCCXCII Historia metrica quae vocatur “Eulistea” ex ms. codice Perill. Viri ecq. J.C. Conestabile/Le geste dei perugini dal 1150 al 1293 tratte dal poema intitolato “Eulistea” di Bonifazio di Verona e per la prima volta pubblicate’, Archivio Storico Italiano, 16/1 (1850), 52. 121 Cf. Mazzatinti, ‘Di Bonifacio da Verona’, 560. 122 Cf. ibid., 561.
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Case Study 10: Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος, an Offshoot of a Franco-Italian Tradition
The source of this Demotic poem is believed to be the 12th century French Roman de Troie by Benoît of Sainte-Maure. The language of the Greek poem was often compared to that of the Demotic version of the Chronicle of Morea. This led to an approximate dating and localization in the same area, in other words, in the principality of Achaea in the first half of the 14th century. Research considered that the Greek text is a loose adaptation of Benoît’s poem, not a faithful translation. It fits the style of other versions that were fashionable in the late-13th century and the turn of the 14th century. This was a time when French and Franco-Italian rewritings of Benoît abounded, especially in prose. Some of them (the most famous one) were also made in the Kingdom of Naples. That being said, in order to understand the odd relation between the Greek text and the French tradition from which it stemmed, I will ignore the broad analyses dealing with the narrative structure of the French, Italian, and Latin adaptations of the Roman de Troie. I will make an in-depth comparison of a short passage. It will provide a better insight into the texts proper. My choice fell upon a section of the second battle, where a long list of names may help identify a probable source. I will put aside the well-known divergences between the so-called Prose 1 version (of counterfeit Moreote origin) and the original poem of Benoît of Sainte-Maure, which point out that Prose 1 cannot be the source of the Greek poem (the treatment of Medea’s character, the passage of Aeneas through Carthage, or the legend of Venice and Padua). A basic comparison of the second battle scene also shows that there are no connections between them. Prose 1 is much too abbreviated and contains many confused names.123 Another French version which could be a source is Prose 2, written in Northern Italy. Its earliest manuscript dates back to 1298. However, direct comparisons with the Greek text show that even though Prose 2 is faithful to Benoît’s poem (sometimes more than the Greek poem), it could not be the source of the latter.124 The same may be said about its Italian adaptation, the Libro de 123 Cf. L. Constans, E. Faral (eds.), Le Roman de Troie en prose (Paris: Champion, 1922) 1:80–81. The revised version of Prose 1, rewritten in the early 15th century, does not follow the structure of the Greek poem either. 124 The text is still unedited. For a brief comparison, see e.g. Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 9603, fols. 60vb–61rb (fols. 60vb–61ra for the following quotation): [Heading: Coment hector retorna a la bataille]. Hector se parti de son pere· si emena adonques tos le bastars qi estoient auec le roi lor pere· Jl sen uint uers la bataille a mult et a grant compaignie· Car ille si uoient
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la storia di Troia by Binduccio dello Scelto (before 1322).125 This leads us next to the third French version, Prose 3, but this other text is well known for destructuring or suppressing battle scenes, as well as for a free style of adaptation, thus it cannot be the source of the Greek poem either.126 Consequently, we also need to exclude the Italian Istorietta troiana, probably adapted from Prose 3 in late 13th century Naples.127 It is equally useful to note that the Greek text has little in common with the Latin version of Guido delle Colonne. The latter was used in many vernacular rewritings of the Troy story. Last but not least, there is of course the Prose 4, made in France toward the end of the 13th century and preserved in one manuscript, but it cannot be the source of the Greek poem either. This version has many suppressions and abbreviations. Moreover, when making a direct comparison of its text with the Greek passage chosen from the second battle, it does not even present an abbreviated version of it.128 This leaves us with two practical comparisons for the Demotic Greek text: the original Old French poem of Benoît of Sainte-Maure and its later
125 126
127 128
plus de ·x· mil cheualiers· mult bien armes et bien garnis de riches armes· et de non cheuals de grant pris· Jl alerent ferir lor henemis de mult grant hair· une si grant crosiee qe toute la contree firent resoner· lor henemis le recoillirent mult uigoreusement et mult lor font grant damaie· lor jousta hector au roi aiax si se uindrent ferir de tel hair quil sentreporterent a la terre· mult fellonesement Mes autre mau ne se firent a cele fois· ne plus ne se porent toucher por la grant preisse qil auoient entor els. Menelax feri adonc lamiraut daresse· deu coup quil labati mort ius de cele. Jaon son frere sala ioust era un riche conte de grant paraie. Si lencontra de si grant randon· qil labati mort en mi la bataille. […]. I quote only this section of the second battle in my own transcription and stop here. The entire quotation would take too much space. The presence of modified names in the rest of the passage is a faithful testimony to the fact that the Greek poem could not be drawn from the Prose 2 version. See for this: Magoras instead of Hermagoras (Ἑρμαγγονᾶς in the Greek poem), Talemon instead of Telamon (Τελαμώνιος in the Greek poem), or Melius instead of Emelins. An intriguing coincidence (Doreschalius) will be explained later on. Maria Gozzi (ed.), Binduccio dello Scelto, La storia di Troia (Milan: Luni, 2000). Françoise Vielliard, ‘Le Roman de Troie en prose dans la version du ms. Rouen, Bibl. mun. O.33. “Membra disjecta” d’un manuscrit plus ancien?’, Romania, 109 (1998), 502–539. Cf. Fabrizio Costantini, ‘Prosa 3 di Roman de Troie: analisi sinottica fra tradizione e traduzione’, Critica del testo, 7 (2004), 1054–1089. Cf. Alfonso D’Agostino, ‘Dal Roman de Troie all’Istorietta troiana’, Filologia e critica, 31 (2006), 7–56. The scene is absent. Several names of heroes appear in an earlier catalogue. See Françoise Vielliard (ed.), Le Roman de Troie en prose (Version du Cod. Bodmer 147) (Cologny: Fondation Martin Bodmer, 1979), 64: […] Celidomas, Ermagoras, Mardandanil, Sardiniaux, Margariz, Foynax et Bruns li Jumiaux, Matan, Egyam, Giroz d’Aigliz, Gordelés, Durglas, Cadoz de Liz, qui molt estoit preuz et hardiz, et li dui derrenier furent Jugors et Daré; icels feussent volentiers issuz a la bataille se li royz Priam lor eust soufert, mes il ne voldrent desobeÿr a la volenté de leur pere.
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rewriting known as the Prose 5 version, the one made in the Kingdom of Naples, which influenced various Italian adaptations of the story of Troy.129 I already talked about this Prose 5 twice, the first time being in connection to the cultural tastes of early 14th-century Epirote nobility, but the discussion was brief. I could not insist on the many sources used in its creation (the main one being an un-rhyming of the French poem of Benoît de Sainte-Maure, followed by many French and Latin texts, including Ovid’s Heroides).130 As already stated, I will compare the Old French poem with the Greek one and with the French Prose 5 in a segment chosen from the second battle of Troy: Benoît de Sainte-Maure, Roman de Troie131 Hector retorne a la bataille. Teus mil en meine o sei, senz faille,
Demotic Greek
Old French
Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος132
Prose 5 version133 Hector retourne a la bataille et enmaine tel ·m· cheualiers fres auec lui
Χιλίους ἐπῆρε μετ’ αὐτὸν καλοὺς καβαλλαρίους
129 For the Italian texts, see Arianna Punzi, ‘La circolazione della materia troiana nell’Europa del ’200: da Darete Frigio al Roman de Troie en prose’, Messana, 6 (1991), 69–108. 130 Luca Barbieri, ‘Entre mythe et histoire: quelques sources de la version en prose “napolitaine” du Roman de Troie (Prose 5)’, in Olivier Collet et al. (dir.), Ce est li fruis selonc la letre. Mélanges offerts à Charles Méla (Paris: Champion, 2002), 111–132. Initially, I believed that several omissions of the Greek text could be due to an odd narrative structure of Prose 5. To give but one example, one of the first and most important omisions in the Greek text, duly noted by its editors, appears in the section of the Judgement of Paris, while in the version of Prose 5, the same scene is anticipated, separated, and repeated. But this was a superficial comparison and I was wrong. 131 Léopold Constans (ed.), Le Roman de Troie par Benoit de Sainte-Maure publié d’après tous les manuscrits connus, 6 vols (Paris: Firmin Didot/Société des anciens textes français, 1904–1912) 2:89–96. I use this old edition and not the most recent one (based on a single manuscript). It presents the variant readings of many manuscripts, which will be useful in the subsequent analysis. 132 Παπαθωμοπούλου, Jeffreys eds., Ὁ Πόλεμος, 211–214. 133 I am using the provisional transcription of London, British Library, Royal 20 D I, published online by the team of the project The Values of French Language and Literature in the European Middle Ages. ERC Advanced Grant at King’s College London (https://tvof.ac.uk/. Accessed 2020 May 15; section 225, fols. 68ra–68va).
356 N’i a nul n’ait lance e espee | E qui bien n’ait la teste armée. Ses freres meine Hector o sei, | Par le comandement le rei. A l’avenir le poindre ont pris, | Puis vont ferir lor enemis | Si durement, par tel aïr | Que trestoz les rens font fremir. | A eus hurtent; cil les recueillent, | Qui en lor sanc sovent se mueillent. Hector josta o Aïaus, | Que jus chaïrent des chevaus: | Ne l’uns ne l’autre n’i ot plaie, | Ne l’uns l’autre plus n’i essaie, | Quar ne lor lut por la grant presse.
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καὶ ὅλους τοὺς Νοθάδελφους ἐπῆρε μετ’ ἐκεῖνον | ἐστράφησαν στὸν πόλεμον, ἐδῶκαν μετ’ ἐκείνους.
Ὁ Ἑκτωρ καὶ ὁ Τελαμώνιος ἐδῶκαν κονταρέας· | καὶ οἱ δύο χάμου ἔπεσαν, τινὰς οὐκ ἐλαβώθη.
Ἠθέλασι νὰ πολεμοῦν μὲ τὰ σπαθία εἰς τὴν πλάτσαν, | ἀλλ’ ἡ πρέσσα τῆς συμπλοκῆς ἦλθεν, ἐχώρισέ τους.
qui bien furent armes de toutes armes· et par le commandement son pere enmena auec lui ses freres bastars· puis alerent ferir sus leur ennemis si durement que il font tous les rens fremir· li grieu les recuillent moult fierement·
et iousta hector tous premiers a Aiax par tel uertu que li uns et li autre trebucha en terre· mes li vns ne li autres ne fu naurez car li un et li autres fu secourus et les departi la ·
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Uns amirauz, Morins d’Aresse, | Est chaeiz morz, ne vesqui plus: | Tel coup li dona Menelus. Isdor, sis frere, i ra ataint | Un riche conte e si empeint | Que mort le seivre de la sele. Chirrus sa lance i enastele: | Par mi le cors fiert un Grezeis | Estrait de contes e de reis. Meles d’Orep niés fu Thoas: | Cist joinst o Celidonias, | Que del cheval l’a enversé | E par mi la chiere navré. Hermagoras son frere venge: | Celui fiert si desoz la renge | Que li poumons e la boële | Li chiet sor l’arçon de la sele. Scedius ert uns riches reis | E mout preisiez entre Grezeis: | O cestui joinst Maudanz Clarueil;
Μῶρον γὰρ ὁ Μενέλιος, τὸν ἀμιρὰν δ’ Ἀρέσσης, | τέτοιαν σπαθέαν τὸν ἔδωκεν, ἔπεσ’ ἀποθαμένος. Ἕναν κοντάρη εὐγενικὸν πάλιν Ἰδωρ ἐδῶκε, | νεκρὸν ἀπὸ τὴν σέλλαν του τὸν ἔρριψεν ἐκεῖνον.
en celle bataille occist menelaus vns amiraus darece·
Ὁ Δονιᾶς καὶ Ἑρμαγγονᾶς ἕναν Ἕλληνα ἐδῶκαν· | ἀνεψιὸς εὑρίσκετον Θόα τοῦ βασιλέως· | εὐθὺς νεκρὸν τὸν ἔρριψαν, κάτω εἰς τὴν γῆν ἁπλώθη.
Melles dorep qui fu nies thoas ala iouster a celidonias que il lenuersa en terre· et la naure par mi la chiere· Hermagoras son frere passa outre et feri si celui que li bouel et le poumon li pan sus larcon de la sele· Cedius qui fu ·i· riche roi qui estoit proisies et ames entre gregiois ala iouster a madan·
ydos ses frere i occist ·i· conte·
Chircus i feri si ·i· des griex que il li embati sa lance parmi lecors
358 Si l’a féru tres par mi l’ueil | Que fors del chief li est volez. | De l’angoisse chaïst pasmez, | S’il ne se fust tenuz as mains; | Dés or n’est mie del tot sains. Bien le fist Sardes de Vertfueil, | Qu’un amiraut de grant orgueil | A si feru al premier poindre | Que mort l’a abatu al joindre. Es rens s’est mis Margariton, | Puis vait ferir rei Telamon | Par mi l’escu de tel aïr | Qu’il li a fait le fer sentir: | Se dreit alast, morz fust senz faille. Cil traist l’espee, que bien taille. Tel li dona, de set semaines Ne furent puis ses plaies saines.
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Mes madan le feri si par mi loil que il li fist uoler de la teste et chai pasmes de langoise que il senti· Sardes de vertfoil abbati mort ·i· amirail·
Αἶαν τὸν Τελαμώνιον κρούει ὁ Μαργαρίτης | μὲ τέτοιαν ἴραν τὸ κοντάριν τοῦ ὑπήγαινε εἰς ἐκεῖνον, | γοργὸν ἐθανατώνετον ὁ πύργος τῶν Ἑλλήνων· | ἀλλὰ κακὰ τὸ ἔκαμεν ὁ Μαργαρίτης τότε, ὅτι σπαθέαν τὸν ἔδωκε καλὴν ὁ Τελαμώνας· διὰ ἑβδομάδας, λέγω σας, ἑπτὰ οὐχ ὑγιαίνει.
Atant se feri margariton par les rens des gregiois et feri si talamon par lescu qua pou que il ne loccist·
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Prothenor joinst o Fanoël, | Que jus l’abati del poutrel, | E s’il n’eüst si tost aïe, | Il n’en portast mie la vie.
Ὁ Προτενὼρ καὶ Φανουὲλ ἐδώκασιν οἱ δύο· | ἔπεσε κάτω Φανουὲλ· κακὰ ἦτον, ἂν οὐκ ἦλθην
Bruns li Gemeaus l’a socoru: | Prothenor fiert par mi l’escu, | Que les estriers li fait guerpir | E les resnes del poing saillir:
Μβροὺς τῆς Γκιμέας· ἔχανε, λέγω σας, τὴν ζωήν του· | ἀλλ’ οὗτος δὲ τον Προτενὼρ ἐδῶκε κονταρέαν· | εὐκαίρεσε τὴν σέλλαν του, κάτω εἰς τὴν γῆν ἁπλώθη. Τὸ ἕλμον ἐκ τὸ κεφάλιν του ὡς ἔπεσε, ἀπετάχθη, | ἀλλὰ γοργὸν τὸν ἤγειραν πάλιν οἱ ἐδικοί του. Τὸν Ὀδυσσεῦ τὸν φρόνιμον ὁ Μαθὰν τὸν ἐδῶκεν· | εἰς τὸ μηρὶν τὸν ἔδωκε,
De l’eaume feri el sablon, | Mais tost le ront monté li son.
O Ulixès josta Mathan, | Qui puis en traist assez ahan, | Quar en la cuisse le navra, Que por un poi nel mahaigna. Almadian le dut vengier, | Quar la teste li fist saignier, | Ou il feri teus treis colees, | Que puis furent chier comparees.
λαβώνει τὸν ὀλίγον.
Phanoel iousta a prothenor par tel air que il lenuersa en terre· mes se il neust este si hastiuement secourus il eust este mort en la place· bruns li iumiax la secouru et fiert prothenor si roidement que il li fist guerpir les estries et chai en terre enuerse·
Mathan iousta a vlixes· Mes il en fu naures en la cuise
360 Emelins e Gilor d’Agluz | S’entredonerent es escuz, | Si que les lances peceierent E qu’a la terre s’abatierent. O Archelaus joinst Godelés,
Que des escuz fendent li ais | E des haubers fause la maille, | Si que les enseignes de paille | Sont de lor sanc ensanglantees, | Mais mout sont poi en char entrées. O Teücer a joint Doglas, Mais trop porta sa lance bas: | Le cheval fiert en mi le front, | Qu’il l’a trebuchié en un mont. Doglas sor lui s’est arestez: | Morz fust o pris o encombrez, | Quant Menesteüs le socort;
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Ὁ Ἐμελὶνς ὁ βασιλεὺς κροὺ μὲ τὸν Δωροσκάλην· | τὰ ἄρματα ἐπεράσασι, λαβώνονται εἰς τὸ κρέας· | εἰς τὴν γῆν ἐκατέβησαν, ἔπεσαν ἐκ τοὺς ἵππους. Ὁ Γεδὲλ μετὰ Ἀρχελάον ἐδώκασιν οἱ δύο.
Τουγκλὰς μὲ τὸ κοντάρι του τὸν Θεοκὴρ ἐδῶκεν· χαμηλὰ χαμηλούτσικα τοῦτο εἰς αὐτὸν ὑπῆγε· | τὸν ἵππον του γὰρ ἔδωκεν, ἔρριψέ τον εὐθέως. Ἀπάνω του ἐστάθηκε, μὲ τὸ σπαθὶν τὸν κρούει· | πιασμένος γὰρ ἤθελεν ἢ σκοτωμένος εἶσθαι, | ἂν ἔλειπεν ὁ Μενεστεὺς ὁποὺ τὸν ἐγλυτώνει.
Hemelins Gillor daglus si iousterent ensemble par tel air que il sentreieterent des cheuaus en terre· Godeles iousta a archelaus si se sont ambedeuls naure durement·
Duclas iousta a theucher· mes il porta sa lance si bas que feri le cheual en mi le front et abati tout en ·i· mont· duglas saresta sus lui· et ia leust ou mort ou pris se ne fust menesteus qui le secouri·
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Mais, jo cuit bien, ainz qu’il s’en tort, | Avra il mainz cous receüz | O les bons branz d’acier moluz. Un grant espié d’acier tot cler | Li fait par mi l’escu passer, | Que d’or en autre le li fent. | La maille de l’auberc s’estent: | Cent en rompirent d’un tenant; | Une plaie li fist mout grant. Menesteüs del brant d’acier | Li ra la chiere fait saignier; | Tot le nasal li a trenchié | E del nés tote la meitié. Quant Nez d’Amors vit e conut | Qu’a son frere si mal estut, | Eslaisse sei, fiert le vassal, | Que jus le porte del cheval. Menesteüs en piez sailli, | Del fuerre trait le brant forbi; | Vers les dous freres se defent, | Mais il le hastent durement:
Ἐμπρὸς δὲ παρὰ νὰ στραφῇ, πιστεύω, νὰ επάρῃ | ἑκατὸν κόλπους ἢ καὶ πλέον, λέγω σας, ἐκ τοὺς Νόθους.
Ὁ Μενεστεὺς τὸν ἔδωκε σπαθέαν εἰς τὸ κέφαλιν· | τὴν προμίσκαν τοῦ ἕλμου τοῦ ἔκοψεν, ἐκ τὴν μύτην | καλὰ τὸ ἐκαταμάτωσε, κακὰ τὸν ὑπαγαίνει. Ὁ Νὲς ντ’ Ἀμοὺρς τὸν ἀδελφὸν ὡς εἶδεν ὅτι πάσχει, | ἐπηλαλεῖ καὶ κονταρέαν ἔδωκε τὸν στρατιώτην· | ἐκ τὸν ἵππον τὸν ἔρριψε, σύντομα ἐσηκώθη· καλὰ ἐδιαφεντεύετον κρατῶντα τὸ σπαθίν του. | Οἱ δύο αὐτὸν Νοθάδελφοι πολλὰ τὸν ἐνοχλοῦσαν·
Mes il i rechut maint pesant coup auant que il puisse retorner· car il fu feru dun fort espie par mi lescu· que il li perca lescu· et la naure par mi le cors· mes menesteus le feri par mi le uis si que il le trencha le nasel et la moitie du nes· Quant damor uit son frere si laidi si ala ferir de plain eslais le vassal que il labati ius
Mes menesteus sailli sus uiguereusement lespee el poing cuert sus les deuls freres mes riens ne li ualut
362 L’escu li trenchent o les branz | E de l’auberc pièces mout granz, L’eaume li fendent sor le chief. | Trop par i ert a grant meschief,
the fifth tale
τὸ σκουτάριν του ἐκοψασι, φαλτσίζουν τὸ λουρίκιν.
car il li trenchierent le hauberc et le heaume et la leussent tue
Quar mout le requereit Tharez, C’ert des freres toz li meins nez,
Quant Teücer i est venuz: Grant piece s’i rest defenduz.
Πολλὰ τὸν ἐστενέψασιν ἐὰν δὲν τὸν βοηθήσουν … Μέγαν καιρὸν ὑπόμεινεν ἕως ὁ Θεοκὴρ νὰ φθάση.
se ne fust teucher qui le secouri·
From a case like Νὲς ντ’ Ἀμοὺρς for Nez d’Amors, where the Prose 5 version has Damor, it is rather clear that the Greek text shares some features with the Prose 5 version only because that French rewriting is faithful to the original poem of Benoît de Sainte-Maure. In spite of its deletions and abbreviations, the Greek text is often much more faithful to the French poem than to any of the Prose 1–5 rewritings. Some examples, among many. When Menesteus is attacked by the two brothers, the French poem mentions his shield and coat of chainmail (escu and auberc), faithfully preserved in the Greek text (τὸ σκουτάριν and τὸ λουρίκιν), but reduced only to the chainmail in Prose 5. In the scene where Bruns helps Prothenor against Fanuel, the Greek text develops a segment of the French text (the two verses about the helmet) that do not appear in any of the French prose rewritings. Next, when narrating the fight of Emelins, the Greek poem mentions the shields from the French poem (escuz > τὰ ἄρματα), while all the other French prose versions do not speak about them. These are very strong arguments in favour of a derivation of the Greek text from one of the many manuscripts of the original poem by Benoît. Last but not
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least, the Greek poem preserves nuances of the French poem that do not appear in the prose rewritings. In the scene of Ulysses fighting Mathan for instance, the French text uses the expression por un poi, which is echoed by the Greek τὸν ὀλίγον. Similarly, in a previous passage about Isdor, the Greek text retains the saddle (de la sele > ἀπὸ τὴν σέλλαν). But there is also a peculiar coincidence between the Greek poem and one of the French prose rewritings. In the Prose 2 version, one may find that a hero is named Doreschalius instead of Gilor d’Agluz. This name sounds a lot like the Δωροσκάλης from the Demotic Greek text. However, the scene is briefly dealt with in Prose 2 and cannot be related to the Demotic poem. There are no mentions of shields or lances, that the Πόλεμος borrows directly from Benoît’s poem. Therefore, it is highly plausible that the odd anthroponym reading originated in a lost family of manuscripts of the Roman de Troie.134 Another coincidence appears in a manuscript from Bordeaux of the original French poem. This other text has a reading a celui donias, clearly similar to the point of origin of the Greek ὁ Δονιᾶς, but no other common readings may be substantiated.135 This means that the Greek text was adapted directly from a peripheral family of manuscripts of the French poem. And there is more. When accepting this result and making a brief analysis of the technique of adaptation used in the Greek poem, the strange thing is that it is not very different from the other Western adaptations known as Prose 1–5 and their Italian spinoffs. At bottom, the Greek poem uses more or less the same omissions or abridgements, sometimes very similar to the ones used in Prose 5, yet it seems to be totally unrelated to the latter. As a consequence, these similitudes are due to the fact that all those texts 134 In Prose 2, the only phrase speaking of this individual combat is: Li roi Melius et doreschalus se iousterent ensenble et se porterent a la terre (Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 9603, fol. 61rb). When I write ‘unknown or lost family of manuscripts’, I have in mind the fact that the Constans edition was not based on all the manuscripts accounted for in the present. In its apparatus of variant readings, Constans ed., Le roman de Troie, 93, does not present any reading similar to the one used in the Prose 2 and in the Demotic Greek text. The fragments preserved in Bordeaux, Municipal Library, 647 (siglum: B2) contain other readings similar to the Greek text actually mention only Amelin et gerodaglus. There is an error, but a different one. Hence, I do not exclude the possibility that such a reading (Doreschalius) appeared in another manuscript of the Roman de Troie, but the scope of the present research is limited. 135 Ibid., 90, for the B2 reading: I ot a celui donias. As proof that the Bordeaux fragments are not directly related to the Demotic Greek text, one may quote dissimilar readings from the same text section: the B2 reading codeles vs. Γεδὲλ (p. 93); or the B2 reading deuglas vs. Τουγκλὰς (p. 94).
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were composed at the end of the 13th century and during the first half of the 14th century. They belong to the one and the same literary fashion that must have swept through France, Italy, and Latin-held Greece. The translator thus belonged to a mixed cultural elite whose standpoint was Frankish, even though the text was written in Greek. This explains why Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος lacks the Cornelius Nepos introduction characterizing the various versions of the French Trojan poems. This was a concession made to the Greek audience, for whom such a concocted story would be outrageously preposterous. The writer also made timid attempts at a local contextualization: Ajax the Lesser, son of Oileus, became Ajax the Maniot, probably on account of his savagery. And his audience did not mind that Athens, an important place where Greek lords assemble before and after the Trojan War, was described as a port town. For all one knows, the author of the Demotic poem was less familiar with Athenian geography.136 Maybe he did not know Homer either, as testified by his use of proper names in Westernised forms. All these details point to him being of a local Achaean origin, working for a Westernised Greek audience (or for local lords). When taking into account his adaptation technique, very similar to the Franco-Italian rewritings of the time, I would say that he worked for a Latin patron, but I could be wrong. This is pure conjecture. The most important conclusion is that the Demotic Greek poem does not fit well in the history of Greek literature. In terms of scope and influences, the Πόλεμος belongs to a primarily French but multilingual tradition (French and Franco-Italian, various Italian dialects, as well as Latin).137 There is no connection between the Πόλεμος and the Epirote Iliad, even though the two of them could be almost contemporary. The Epirote text was written from previous Byzantine models, while the Πόλεμος was a Western thing. To better understand this curious relation, I would point 136 For Athens as a port town, see Παπαθωμοπούλου, Jeffreys eds., Ὁ Πόλεμος, 116, v. 2265. 137 For a similar opinion, see Marilynn Desmond, ‘Magna Graecia and the Matter of Troy in the Francophone Mediterranean’, in Nicola Morato, Dirk Schoenaers (dir.), Medieval Francophone Literary Culture Outside France: Studies in the Moving Word (Turnhout: Brepols, 2019), 411–431, who prefers a socio-political key of interpretation, basing her interpretation of Πόλεμος on Elizabeth Jeffreys, ‘Byzantine Romances: Eastern or Western?’, in Marina S. Brownlee, Dimitri H. Gondicas (dir.), Renaissance Encounters: Greek East and Latin West (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 232, for whom the Demotic poem could be the result of Leonardo da Veroli’s actions in Southern Italy and in Morea. However, both the Πόλεμος and the Angevine manipulations concerning the legend of Troy date to beginning of the 14th century, a time when several other dozens of preferable candidates could compete for the patronage of the Demotic poem.
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out that the experimentation behind the Πόλεμος poem was not unique. A similar text that does not fit well the paradigm of Byzantine literature is the so-called Cyprus Passion Cycle, transcribed sometime before 1320 in a miscellaneous codex full of official documents, letters on ecclesiastical and secular matters, sermons, and various texts of a literary nature. The Cycle was written with the intention of being staged, even though nothing is known about such a theatrical performance in Cyprus. And despite the fact that “the theological structure of the sequence of scenes is clearly imitating the Orthodox liturgy of the Easter cycle,” there are traces of Western influences in the scene of the Anastasis. However, there were no genuine Byzantine literary precedents for it, with the exception of rare dialogic poems clearly not intended to be staged, therefore the Cyprus play was conceived as a side effect of an ever-growing interest for religious drama and Passion Cycle theatre in the West.138 It is hard to say if it truly reflected the changes relevant to the development of the Passion plays of the West, for this matter is insufficiently analysed at present, but it may represent a continuation of earlier cultural trends, with which Greeks were already familiar ever since the iconography of the Saint-Sophia façade in Trebizond had been conceived three quarters of a century before. I took a very long detour to speak of romances and origin stories, therefore I fear that my readers might forget where the parenthesis had started. With all this in mind, we should return to the lords Thomas of Salona and Anthony le Flamenc. Together with the Greek archons living in their proximity or representing them before the natives, these lords epitomised a hybrid society for which the Πόλεμος and the Chronicle(s) were written. The Trojan narrative and the carefully crafted stories about a glorious past were enjoyed by everyone, even by the Franciscans. Maybe not the Spirituals, but certainly the Conventuals. The Friars Minor were not avoiding such stories. On the contrary, they used secular 138 Walter Puchner, ‘Three dialogic cento compositions from the Middle and Late Byzantine Period: “Christus patiens,” the “Cyprus Passion Cycle,” and “Oxford Bodleian Gr. Barocci” 216. Traces of Byzantine “drama”?’, Parabasis. Journal of the Department of Theatre Studies, University of Athens, 13/1 (2015), 81–89. Cf. Walter Puchner, The Crusader Kingdom of Cyprus, a Theatre Province of Medieval Europe. Including a critical edition of the Cyprus Passion Cycle and the ‘Repraesentatio figurata’ of the presentation of the Virgin in the Temple (Athens: Academy of Athens, 2006); Przemysław Marciniak, ‘The Byzantine Performative Turn’, in Kamilla Twardowska et al. (dir.), Within the Circle of Ancient Ideas and Virtues. Studies in Honour of Professor Maria Dzielska (Cracow: Towarzystwo Wydawnicze ‘Historia Iagellonica’, 2014), 423–430.
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material in their sermons. Perhaps the Conventuals of Greece, those who persecuted Angelo’s group, could mention Troy and other famous stories in their sermons to the Latin townsfolk. I write this for the sake of the argument, as I must use a bridging idea in order to advance my story, but I am not exaggerating. On fol. 40r–v of the manuscript known as the Kildare Lyrics (London, British Library, Harley 913), dated to c.1330–1342, a Franciscan from Ireland copied the last chapter of the Latin story attributed to Dares the Phrygian, followed by a list of famous Trojans, another list of famous Greeks, a list of Trojan heroes who killed Greeks (and their opponents’ names), a similar list of the Greek heroes and their kills, and a calculus made from an ‘official’ list of casualties (886 000 Greeks, 734 000 Trojans, 32 000 more Greeks than Trojans – clearly the bad copy of a previous text). The whole thing was sandwiched between a lot of Franciscan texts (lists of houses, hagiographic texts, etc.), many of them intended to be used in sermons. The Troy lists were not the only secular material of that compilation. The manuscript was probably a friar’s pocket book. It contained even more material to be used in teaching and preaching: some penitential poems, exempla tailored from animal fables originating in the Roman de Renart, all sorts of proverbs, notes from the History against the Pagans by Orosius, riddles, satirical poems about greedy clergymen, a calculation of the number of years between Adam and Christ, and even political pieces criticising local aristocracy. These were things that the Franciscan “thought might be useful or things he wanted to remember.”139 The Trojan lists were thus useful when preaching, and the entire miscellany was written in the three languages spoken in the towns of the Irish frontier, where the anonymous Franciscan exercised his activity: English, Latin, and a bit of French. Irish was spoken in the countryside, just as Demotic was spoken in the countryside of the Latin-held Greek lands. I would not be surprised if similar situations occurred on both frontiers. This would be possible because the newly occupied Ireland was a border country – much like the newly occupied Peloponnesus, where all sorts of experiments were accepted, but also because the founder of the Franciscan Order had toyed with secular literature. Saint Francis described his fellow brothers as ‘Knights of the Round Table’ hiding in distant and deserted places, diligently living a life of prayer and meditation, 139 A recent analysis of the contents of this manuscript appears in John Scattergood, “London, British Library, MS Harley 913 and Colonial Ireland in the Early Fourteenth Century,” in Karen Pratt et al. (dir.), The Dynamics of the Medieval Manuscript. Text Collections from a European Perspective (Gottingen: V&R Unipress, 2017), 307–325 (and p. 323 for the quotation). A facsimile is available online (www.bl.uk/manuscripts/).
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and decrying the sins of humanity.140 Franciscans were putting to good use all sorts of material in their sermons. This is why the famous 14th-century English dissident Wycliff criticized the Franciscans as often as he could. He said that sermons should contain no “tragedies or comedies, not fables or trifles, but the pure law of the Lord, as Christ and his Apostles did, because in that law lies life through which the church is vivified.”141 For Wycliff, Franciscans led their flock to graze on pastures of lies, amusements, and fables concocted by the Devil. They preached songs-of-deeds, poems, and other things that had nothing in common with Holy Scripture. Great multitudes of laymen enjoyed listening to those secular stories, tragedies, and fables, many more than those interested in reading about the life of Christ.142 When writing this, Wycliff was influenced by what was already written and said by other dissidents, including the Fraticelli born out of the movement of Clareno. It is no wonder that Wycliff’s followers, the Lollards, had much in common with Spirituals. I would imagine similar situations in Greece, where Angelo Clareno was fighting a spiritual war against the Conventuals.143
…
In this war, it is only natural that the Spirituals allied themselves with local Orthodox monks. Even though the Latin lords were mentioned in ktetorial inscriptions, other inscriptions such as that of Omorphi Ekklisia of Egina mentioned the Byzantine emperor and the Greek patriarch of Constantinople, against the Latin rule. Greeks from the Latin-held lands were playing a double 140 For the original text, see Paul Sabatier (ed.), Le Speculum perfectionis ou mémoires de frère Léon (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1966), 213–214 (LXXII, 15). 141 Sean Andrew Otto, ‘Pastoralia’ in John Wyclif’s ‘Sermones’: Controversial Preaching in Later Medieval England, PhD diss. (University of St. Michael’s College, 2013), 212, for the translation. For the original text, see Iohann Loserth (ed.), Iohannis Wycliff, Sermones, now first edited from the manuscripts, 4 vols (London: Trübner/Wycliff Society, 1887–1890) 1:248. 142 For the original texts, see Loserth ed., Iohannis Wycliff 4:77 (Sermo IX). Cf. 4:265 (Sermo XXXI), preaching to show off. Cf. 4:310 (Sermo XXXVII). 143 The dynamics of the volgarizzamenti circulating in Florence show that all cultural agents involved (“the chancery, the merchants, and the religious orders and fraternities”) were intertwined and played a role in the transmission of vernacular texts. The pre-eminence of the Dominicans, followed by the Franciscans, should not distract our attention away from the fact that the Spiritual Franciscans and Fraticelli were also involved in this circulation of vernacular texts. They were active in the circulation of the Fioretti di San Francesco, with other stories and prophetic poems as well. Antonio Montefusco, ‘Religious Dissent in Vernacular: The Literature of the Fraticelli in Florence and the Fioretti’, in Constant Mews, Anna Welch (dir.), Mendicant Cultures and Devotion in Italy, 1250–1450 (London: Ashgate, 2016), 62 for the quotation; passim for the rest of the ideas.
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game. This means that Akrefnio and Egina were opposite ends of a large spectrum of behaviours that encompassed all sorts of cultural and political allegiances. Sometimes Latins were good, other times they were bad. Or they could be good and bad at the same time, for there are cases in which one does not know what to make of the status conferred to the Latins, and they occur in places where the locals were not living under Latin rule. I have in mind the odd features of a depiction of the Crucifixion scene painted in the tympanum from the counter-façade in the church of SaintNicholas-in-Maroulaina in Kastania (Messenian Mani), one of the important medieval settlements located to the south of Kalamata, in the lands that the Latins had lost by then. It is a small family church and its mural decoration probably dates back to the second half of the 13th century (or the end of that century).144 Apart from the saints John and Longinus depicted in a group followed by soldiers to the right and the Theotokos with Mary Magdalene on the left, the tympanum of the Crucifixion has two bust personifications of the Old and New Testament. One holds a sheaf of wheat and the other one holds a jug, to collect the blood of the wound. They are identified by two inscriptions in white letters: Η Παλευκὶ Διαθ[ήκη] (right) and Η Νεα Δϊθ[ήκη] (left), in an iconographic unicum that may have both Eastern and Western exegetic roots. Another inscription in red letters upon a white background was painted on the centurion’s shield.145 An even more noteworthy text in verse was painted on the left and right side of the horizontal bar of the cross, but its exact meaning is unclear, even though it is probably inspired by hymnological texts.146 But the 144 For a dating in the second half of the 13th century, see Νικόλαος Δρανδάκης, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του δεύτερου στρώματος στον Άγιο Νικήτα της Κηπούλας’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 10 (1981), 249, note 46. Cf. Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’, 155 (late 13th century). For a description of the paintings of this church, the work of two painters, see also Ν.Β. Δρανδάκη, Σ. Καλοπίση, Μ. Παναγιωτίδη, ‘Έρευνα στη Μεσσηνιακή Μάνη’, Πρακτικά της Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας (1980), 189–197 (the Crucifixion scene is described at pp. 192–193; and Longinus’ halo is mentioned at p. 194 as a possible means of dating, as it is characteristic of 13th century iconography). 145 Δρανδάκη, Καλοπίση, Παναγιωτίδη, ‘Έρευνα’, 192–193, for the readings of the inscriptions. The second one reads: λωΝΓΓΐνοc ο εκατωΝταρχοc ϊΔοΝ τον σεισμον καὶ τα Γενομενα σϊμϊα εφϊ αλλϊθωσ Θεοῦ Ūιοc ην ουΤοc. I have adapted the second reading according to the text of the inscription after its cleaning. 146 The edition proposed by Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’, 156, note 33, with the help of father Maximos Simonopetritis, reads: Ζωήν ὁ ν[ε]ίμας πάσι / σαρκὶ ὡς ἄπνους | νῦν κρεμᾶται επὶ στ(αυ)/ρ{κ}οῦ ξύλου μέσον. Unfortunately, some letters are not visible in the mural. The second text actually begins with κρεματε, and there are other reasons as well that make me doubt the correctness of this reading (the … κου word, for instance, is probably an adjective). M. Kappas also states that the epigram is “inspired by a hymn from Good Friday,” which is partly true, but this inspiration is manifest only in three out of the
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truly remarkable thing about this Crucifixion is the depiction of the Stephaton character in an odd dress instead of the more frequent ruffian aspect. Given the complicated nature of the scene’s arrangement, I have no intention of proposing an interpretation taking into account this peculiar character. I can be wrong. There are several possible interpretations (intra-cultural development or Western influence, anti-Semitic or anti-Western,147 in connection with the Western donor iconography or not,148 etc.). However, since none of them is particularly preferable to the others, I abstain from drawing any further conclusion until better terms of comparisons will be found, but I cannot ignore that the Stephaton character wears what appears to be a Western burgess dress with a large collar from before the arrival of the short tight tunics of the 1350s. Little does is matter if this dress is the result of later interventions.149 By the early 14th century, it would be expected that the inhabitants of Kastania were in close contacts with the Latins in spite of them living in an area of the Peloponnesus controlled by the Palaeologans. This probably determined the odd mixed choice of the composition, in which the Western dress was perhaps associated with the evil doings of an evil character. Hidden in a valley at the very foothills of the small mountains of Mani, the village of Kastania is isolated only today, when main roads avoid it. In medieval times, Kastania was not isolated at all. In a long list of cases analysed by Venetian judges in 1278, we find the story of Alberto Marangon and Giovanni Conte, who left the port of Koroni with oil and salt, planning to transport their cargo to Kastania. As soon as they docked their ship in Lefktron, the two Venetians were robbed by some brigands from Exochori, a village close to alleged thirteen words of the inscription. In fact, apart from the sequence κρεμᾶται ἐπὶ ξύλου, no other word sequences can relate to the troparion ‘Today is he hung upon the Tree …’ (Σήμερον κρεμᾶται ἐπὶ ξύλου …). 147 For the significance of the Stephaton character in Crucifixion compositions, see William Chester Jordan, ‘The Last Tormentor of Christ: An Image of the Jew in Ancient and Medieval Exegesis, Art, and Drama’, The Jewish Quarterly Review, 78/1–2 (1987), 21–47; cf. Leopold Kretzenbacher, ‘Zum kaum noch bekannten Namen des Kreuzigungszeugen Stephaton’, Österreichische Zeitschrift für Volkskunde, 55/104 (2001), 1–22. 148 For the changes in the iconography of the donors in Western depictions of the Crucifixion, leading to alterations of the compositions following the introduction of saint Mary Magdalene at the feet of the Cross, see e.g. Daniela Bohde, ‘Mary Madgalene at the foot of the Cross’, Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz, 61/1 (2019), 3–44. 149 In Stephaton’s arms and hands, the paint has all but disappeared (probably because they were painted a secco); only the incised outline of the left hand is visible. There are traces of repainting, obvious in the cleaned-up section left by the restorers on the character’s left elbow. I am therefore choosing to date and to interpret these paintings cautiously. However, by the 14th century, the Stephaton character would look as he is visible today, so my interpretation sticks to this later state.
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Kastania. Lefktron was one of the castles surrendered to the Nicaeans in return for William’s release. Its French name was Beaufort.150 In my opinion, this story suggests that Latin cultural influences should not be analysed only in the light of direct contacts. They could be the product of long repeated commercial links, vicinity, and many other factors. All sorts of Latins came in contact with local Greeks. They could be conquerors as well as merchants, missionaries as well as heretics or religious dissidents. Because the Greeks themselves belonged to several social, economic, political, and cultural categories. And in the case of the church of Saint-Nicholas-in-Maroulaina of Kastania, the only clue to be used in the future investigation of possible Western influences is the size of the church, arguing in favour of a lower cultural stratum, not necessarily very low, but well below the level of high-prestige culture, where the motley combination of the cycle of saint Nicholas and the Dodekaorton, fused in the murals of its vaults, could make sense. It is no wonder that the story of Angelo Clareno led the Fraticelli to Greece.151 It is often argued that these heretics had several convents there in the middle of the 15th century, as Greece had become their favourite place of refuge. The Fraticelli chased away from Ancona by saint John of Capestrano fled to Greece and the popes also sent inquisitors there to deal with them in 1418, 1429, and 1451.152 Liberato, Angelo, and their companions probably anticipated a whole movement (in an etymological sense – that of moving back and forth). The Greek ramifications of this movement took huge proportions at the end of the Frankokratia and in the early years of the Ottoman conquest. At a trial in Rome in 1466–1467, a certain Bernard of Bergamo described how Greece hosted the centres of the movement and how new clergy was trained there, to 150 G.L. Fr. Tafel, G.M. Thomas (eds.), Urkunden zur älteren Handels- und Staatsgeschichte der Republik Venedig mit besonderer Beziehung auf Byzanz und die Levante, Theil III (1256–1299) (Vienna: Kaiserlich-Königliche Hof- und Staatsdruckerei, 1857), 234: Item Alberto Marangono et Iohanni Conte, derobatis, dum irent de Corono ad Castagnam cum una barcha caricata de oleo et sale, et essent … Belforte, ubi erat capitaneus Macriducha, per homines de Arduuista, descendentes et venientes ad ipsos, et captis et detentis in carceribus cum sociis, de tanto, quod valuerit yperpera LX; affirmato hoc per sacramentum, verum esse, coram castellanis: dixerunt dicti iudices, restitui debere pro ipsorum dampno yperpera LX. Androuvista (currently Exochori) is located at the foot of the same mountain range, but a little bit to the North. For various uses of the same story, see Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’, 147; Juho Wilskman, ‘The conflict between the Angevins and the Byzantines in Morea in 1267–1289: A Late Byzantine endemic war’, Byzantina Symmeikta, 22 (2012), 54. 151 Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 158, for other Fraticelli of the 14th century in Crete and Thessalonica. 152 Tsougarakis, ‘Heretical networks’, 536; Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 159 for the Athenian heresy of 1418.
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be sent back to Italy as missionaries. There seemed to be a large community of Fraticelli living in Attica and Boeotia. Bernard had joined them after his master’s death in Euboea.153 There were four main monasteries where they conducted their activities and where their priests were ordained (cum de Gressia veniant sibi ordinationes):154 the Franciscan Observant monastery dedicated to the Virgin in Athens (monasterium Sancte Marie Athenarum ordinis Sancti Francisci de observantia), Saint-Francis in Thebes (Sanctus Franciscus de civitate Thebarum), another house dedicated to Saint-George inside or close to Sykamino castle (aliud in Castro Succaminis Sancti Georgii), and a last one in the diocese of Athens in a place named Walta (aliud in diocesi Atheniensi in quodam loco vocato Walta).155 Could this be the 13th–15th century ruined church known as Frangokklissia in Vagiati, located on the road from Old Penteli to New Makri? I could make such a conjecture, but it would not get me anywhere where I need to go. There are many ecclesiastical monuments throughout continental Greece named in this way, so it is difficult to tell. Furthermore, some believed it to be unrelated to the Franks, as it bore no Western traits, but its rough masonry cross-in-square form and especially the name given to it by local inhabitants may point to its use by Latins on condition that the latter be Fraticelli, known to lack architectural preferences – just like the Spirituals who preceded them.156 When in Greece, these Fraticelli dared to do something they could not do in Italy: they wore the Franciscan habit without fear,157 probably because they enjoyed the protection of various noblemen, and also because the 15th century saw the rise of the Observant Franciscans who replaced the Conventuals, with the exception of the custody of Glarentza.158 If one of them (Iohannes de Manolacta) were from the settlement of Manolada in Elis, this would mean that the Fraticelli recruited as far as the westernmost part of the Peloponnesus. This does not seem awkward, since names such as John of Corinth or Benedict of Negroponte equally show that the Franciscans themselves recruited locally.159 Another heretical brother was said to be Luisius de Nerociis de Pictis
153 P. Heinrich Denifle O.P., Franz Ehrle S.J. (eds.), Archiv für Litteratur- und Kirchengeschichte des Mittelalters (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herdersche Verlagshandlung, 1888) 4:113. 154 Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1888, 116 for the quotation. Cf. p. 113. 155 Ibid., 113. 156 Ορλάνδος, Ευρετήριον Μεσαιωνικών Μνημείων, 194. 157 Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1888, 113. 158 Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 109. For the decaying convents in the custody of Glarentza, probably because they remained in the hands of the Conventuals, see p. 139. 159 For Franciscan recruitment, see Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 146.
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Florentinus, born in Greece (natus est in Gressia),160 considered to be Luigi Pitti, son of Laudamia Acciaiuoli, lady of Sykamino castle, therefore elucidating the presence of the Fraticelli in the church of Saint-George in the proximity of that castle.161 The 1466–1467 trial describes Luigi as living in Florence, probably in the shadow of his more famous relative, banker Luca Pitti, as the Pittis lost their Greek possessions in 1460. This makes me wonder about the doctrinal and cultural evolution of local noblemen. If at the beginning of the 14th century, by the time when Angelo Clareno and the first Spirituals arrived in Attica and Boeotia, local lords such as Anthony le Flamenc were deeply involved in the cultural and religious life of Greek monks, by the end of the Latin occupation, some of them went even further, joining the ranks of the Fraticelli. Moreover, they were continuing the tradition of introducing Greek texts and ideas to the Western public. I do not necessarily assume that these 15th century Fraticelli were translators of Greek texts, but they were possibly following in the footsteps of Angelo Clareno, as they had brought Greek books to Italy. The Dominican preacher Manfred of Vercelli describes another Florentine group of Fraticelli – probably connected with the same Pitti family – in his treaty against their sect (1425). He specifically mentions their use of books in Greek and in the vernacular (habui de libris eorum in Greca et in vulgari et eos perlegi).162 This means that even back in Florence there were readers of Greek in the early 15th century. These were not men of the Renaissance, as they did not take any interest in Homer and ancient writers. More likely, the Fraticelli were reading Orthodox ascetical texts. Perhaps Luigi Pitti, one of those readers of Greek, prayed with the local Orthodox in the church of the Forty-Holy-Martyrs of Sykamino. The fragments of 13th century murals of this church already displayed a linear style common 160 Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1888, 116. 161 Tsougarakis, ‘Heretical networks’, 537–538. Would this be the ruined church of SaintGeorge in Oropos, whose fragments of painting are currently on display in the Byzantine Museum of Athens? Since the castle cannot be yet identified, even though quoted extensively in various studies, the presumption that the church was located inside the castle (p. 537) should be treated carefully. I could not find this castle on the Kastrologos site (https://www.kastra.eu); it is often described as being located close to Oropos and present-day Sykamino. Its medieval name would have been Rupe or Rupis. For more references to documents, but no clear geographical identification, see Helen Nicholson, ‘The Motivations of the Hospitallers and Templars in their involvement in the Fourth Crusade and its aftermath’, conference at the Hill Monastic Manuscript Library, Malta Study Center, May 2003 (https://www.academia.edu/6165358/. Accessed 2020 February 14). Two other Byzantine churches are known in Sykamino (Panagia Eleousa – 13th century; and Agioi Tessarakonta – also 13th century). 162 Raymond Creytens, ‘Manfred de Vercelli O.P. et son traité contre les fraticelles’, Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum, 11 (1941), 191.
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for Northern Italy in the same period, testifying in one way or another to earlier contacts, from the first period of the occupation.163 Or in the church of the Holy-Apostles of Oropos, close to Sykamino, where there were Western arches and even coats of arms.164 Angelo Clareno’s Spirituals could start an underground phenomenon, parallel to that of the Latin scholars chasing after the works of ancient Greek philosophers in the Byzantine world. They were looking for a place to practice their ideal way of life and it is no wonder that they found it in an Orthodox world occupied by Latins, that is, in a most permissive country. Little does it matter that brother Angelo did not explicitly write about his contacts with Greek monasteries. Since he was often accused of being fascinated by Greek monasticism, he had to avoid this topic in his later writings. Those texts (the Historia or the Epistula excusatoria) were transcribed in Italy, in places where Angelo had to avoid explicitly mentioning what happened in Greece. However, he had to concede that something happened there. He mentions it only once in his Historia, when he spoke of their tribulations after being chased away from the island by the Latin lord. He wrote that they were compelled to withdraw from the land of the Latins in a time of hunger. Because they had nothing, they wandered around, and arrived at the gentes, deemed to be heretics.165 The passage is obscure. The first editor of the Historia made an emendation, correcting gentes into Graecos. He tried to make some sense out of it.166 But in truth, this may be Angelo’s way of hiding an uncomfortable truth. If this were the only piece of information, I would have thought that gentes would be used in a biblical sense (Gentiles), referring to barbarians (Vlachs, Melingi, Tsakonians, perhaps even Maniots). But brother Angelo says in the Epistula excusatoria that the Spirituals entered the lands of the Sebastocrator, meaning Thessaly, a land situated in the proximity of their island and ruled by Constantine Doucas, son of John I Doucas the traitor of Pelagonia.167 Could this episode be the winter when Angelo had the glossophany and started translating from Greek?168 It is difficult to say, since Angelo Clareno constantly 163 For the murals of this church, see Ελένη Κουνουπιώτου-Μανωλέσσου, ‘Ναός Αγίων Τεσσαράκοντα στο Συκάμινο. Τα νεότερα ευρήματα’, in Θωράκιο. Αφιέρωμα στη μνήμη του Παύλου Λαζαρίδη (Athens: Υπουργείο Πολιτισμού, 2004), 313–324, and figs. 105–108. The comments about the linear style and its possible links to similar murals in Northern Italy are my own. 164 Kitsiki Panagopoulos, Cistercian and Mendicant Monasteries, 152. 165 Rossini ed., Historia septem tribulationum, 238. 166 Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1886, 317, and note 7 of the same page. 167 Ibid., 528. 168 Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 155, who believes that the ‘glossophany’ tale could happen during the Spirituals’ sojourn in Thessaly. I believe that this brief episode was used by Angelo to divert the attention of the Roman authorities from other contacts with the Greeks.
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refers to periods of two years and we do not really know where they stayed and for how long.169 Moreover, Angelo was obviously hiding the eccentric details of their Greek stay, for he hid or modified many events in the retrospective story that he was narrating with the evident purpose of legitimising the Spirituals’ otherwise radical and odd actions.170 Immediately after this reference, the Epistula excusatoria tells the story of Jerome the Catalan. He came to them dressed as a priest and accompanied by many women (his mother, his mother’s daughter, and possibly others as well).171 In order to trick them, he brought them letters sent by Peter John Olivi. He had probably stolen those letters, to deceive the Spirituals.172 Yet a parish priest named Henry, who had listened to those women’s confessions, came to them and said: – Brothers, be careful in dealing with this man, for that is not his mother and the other one is not his mother’s daughter. This man is a liar. This man is a deceiver.173 This means that the Spirituals were not in Epirus at that time. They had returned to the Latin-held lands, where priests bearing the name Henry could listen to Catholic women’s confessions. Jerome’s treachery was exposed and he joined the ranks of the Conventuals who were persecuting them. Later he went to the land of the Tartars, where he became bishop of Caffa. The patriarch of Constantinople, upon his return to the Latin-held lands, also died.174 This must have happened in 1302, date of the death of patriarch Peter Correr. But before 169 Muriel Heppell, ‘The Latin translation of the ladder of divine ascent of St John Climacus’, Mediterranean Historical Review, 4/2 (1989), 342, who added up these periods and reconstructed a bizarre story, contradicting the known facts: “… Angelo and a few of his followers, now known as ‘Clarenes’, migrated to the island of Trixonia off the coast of Achaea in Greece; the principality of Achaea was still ruled by a French dynasty, and therefore ecclesiastically ‘Latin’ territory. However, they stayed there for two years (1295–97), until they were finally expelled by the ruler of Achaea, acting under pressure from their enemies in Italy. They then moved to Thessaly, to Byzantine territory, where they stayed until circa 1304; after this they returned to Italy, where Angelo spent the rest of his life.” 170 For the manner in which Angelo Clareno’s narrative conceals and distorts many otherwise documented facts, see David Burr, ‘John XXII and the Spirituals: Is Angelo Clareno Telling the Truth?’, Franciscan Studies, 63 (2005), 271–287. 171 His sister apparently became a nun in the convent of Poor Clares of Negroponte; Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 156, 163. 172 Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1885, 528–529. 173 Ibid., 529. 174 Ibid., 529.
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the patriarch’s death, brother Angelo tells us that the exiled Latin patriarch returned to Negroponte (today the town of Chalkida), and the Spirituals were excommunicated there publicly.175 We have to imagine the patriarch receiving some of the Spirituals in Chalkida. For the sake of the story, I would say that he did it in the church of Saint-Paraskevi, the most imposing one of the town and very close to the centre of the Venetian administration.176 This would be a church of the Dominicans, their long-time rivals. Even before entering the church, the Spirituals would be scared at the sight of those Raven Brothers clasping the wings of their dark robes.177 But not all Spirituals would be afraid of Dominicans. One of them would joke, for there were also pranksters among the friars, similar to the Greek ‘holy fools’. The Spirituals would know that they were going to meet their doom. They would encourage themselves before entering the church. And the joke would come: maybe the Dominicans of Negroponte had a piece of the tunic of ‘brother John’. The Spirituals would laugh their eyes out, gathering their courage, for this was one of the best anti-Dominican jokes. Rumour had it (and Salimbene of Adam wrote it) that a certain Dominican called brother John behaved and pretended to be a saint well before his death. A Franciscan called Detesalve – born in Florence, the homeland of all pranksters – was invited to lunch by some Dominicans, but he accepted only on the condition that they give him a piece of John’s tunic, so that he may cherish it as a relic. After lunch, Detesalve went to the latrine, relieved himself, wiped his behind with the tunic, threw it in, and started yelling: – My, oh my! Help, brothers! Help me find the relics, for I lost them in the latrine!
175 Rossini ed., Historia septem tribulationum, 238. 176 In modern times, the walled town of Negroponte had three neighbourhoods: the Vescovado to the North, the San Domenego to the centre, and the Patriarcado to the South. However, no church is known in this last part of the town, and the closest one is the Dominican church, two hundred metres away, justifying thus my choice. Cf. Pierre A. MacKay, ‘SS. Mary and Dominic (Ayia Paraskevi). The unique, unaltered 13th century Dominican priory church in Negropont’, Sewanee Paper (2014, revised online version available at digital.lib.washington.edu. Accessed 2020 June 25), 6, and map at p. 25. 177 For the Dominicans as ‘Raven Brothers’, see the text of the Passion of Brother Michael, a late 14th century text in vernacular Italian written in the milieu of the Fraticelli. It mentions the Dominicans as frati corbi or simply corbi; Andrea Piazza, ‘La passione di frate Michele. Un testo in volgare di fine Trecento’, Revue Mabillon, 71 (1999), 243, 248 (× 4), 250.
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It took some time until the Dominicans understood the joke, not before they stuck their faces in the filthy holes, carefully kneading the faeces, and smelling the stench in the process.178 Or maybe the Spirituals would make another joke. Or no joke at all. Anyway, this is what they must have felt when they approached the imposing church of Chalkida: a mixture of fear and contempt. Then there they were, inside the Dominican church, as great as any Italian church from their homeland, with a timber roof above the nave, with built-in colonnades, as if they were in Emilia-Romagna, and with delicate sculptures and paintings as one could see in the Veneto. Or in Verona, for the Veneto in general and Verona in particular were the places whence the Latin rulers of Euboea came from.179 The Spirituals would see the opulently crafted arch above the sanctuary. Those who had good eyesight would recognize the two characters sculpted on its springers: to the left saint Dominic holding a lily branch and a closed book; to the right, saint Peter Martyr of Verona, the great Inquisitor of Lombardy, murdered by treacherous Cathars only half a century before, with a palm branch and another closed book.180 Or maybe they would not even need to see those tiny features. They would simply know that the General Chapter of the Order of the Preachers had decided in 1254 that saints Dominic and Peter Martyr were to be represented in all Dominican churches. There were definitely many works of art in that basilica. Some of them were recently uncovered by archaeological research. Among them there is a statue of the Virgin Mary, probably painted, for it still presents traces of red paint. It could be part of a shrine, inside or outside of the church.181 The Spirituals would compare the splendour and opulence of this Italian-style basilica to the small churches of the countryside, to their island monastery, or to the churches seen in Thessaly. Symbolically, that
178 For this joke by friar Detesalve of Florence, see the chronicle of Salimbene of Adam. I paraphrased a passage from the edition of Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 1:111. 179 Cf. Μελβάνι, ‘H γλυπτική’, 43, who compares various sculptures from Saint-Paraskevi in Chalkida to similar ones in the Veneto and/or Verona. 180 Νικόλαος Δεληνικόλας, Βασιλική Βέμη, ‘Αγία Παρασκευή Χαλκίδας. Ένα Βενετικό Πρόγραμμα Ανοικοδόμησης το 13ο αιώνα’, in Χρύσα Α. Μαλτέζου, Χριστίνα Ε. Παπακώστα (dir.), Βενετία-Εύβοια: Από το Έγριπο στο Νεγροπόντε … / Venezia-Eubea, da Egripos a Negroponte … (Athens: Ελληνικό Ινστιτούτο Βυζαντινών και Μεταβυζαντινών Σπουδών/Εταιρεία Ευβοϊκών Σπουδών, 2006), 229–266; Pierre MacKay, ‘St. Mary of the Dominicans: The Monastery of the Fratres Praedicatores in Negropont’, in ibid., 125–156; MacKay, ‘SS. Mary and Dominic’. 181 For this statue, see Αλεξάνδρα Κωσταρέλλη, ‘Η σημασία των διερευνητικών εργασιών στο πλαίσιο εκπόνησης μελετών αποκατάστασης μνημείων: Το παράδειγμα του ναού της Αγίας Παρασκευής Χαλκίδας’, in Εὔβοια: γῆ Ἀβάντων. Αποτίμηση του έργου της Εφορείας Αρχαιοτήτων Ευβοίας κατά τα τελευταία έτη, Χαλκίδα 30–31 Οκτωβρίου 2019 (forthcoming).
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building stood for what they dreaded most: unashamed richness. And then the sentence of excommunication would come, among that opulence. When the words were pronounced, the Conventuals traitors who shared a cloister close nearby, outside the walls, in a beautiful large convent in the fields, a little bit to the East,182 ran about announcing it all over the place. The Franciscans enjoyed great power in those days. They overshadowed the secular church and all the other orders in Greece, their ascetical offshoots were very much appreciated by the Latin inhabitants, and many among them became bishops and archbishops in the Latin-held lands in the 14th and 15th centuries.183 I cannot exaggerate when I imagine that their influence was growing at the turn of the 14th century. The Conventuals of Negroponte finally had an official reason to persecute their more radical brothers. The Spirituals were not to find any peace in the Latin-held lands.
…
Nobody knows where they went afterwards. Banished from their island monastic paradise, the Spirituals could go anywhere. However, the story of Angelo tells us that they were visited by an important (and benevolent) Franciscan who also went to Thebes and Negroponte. It would be safe to assume that they stayed somewhere in the region, maybe hiding on the island of Euboea or somewhere among the Greeks of Boeotia. For the sake of the analysis, I prefer to imagine them in Euboea. I would like them to see the towers of that island, a travesty of the huge towers of central Italy, and to cherish the small Orthodox churches, so different from the large basilicas at home. From those small towers, Latin lords ruled a society of agrarian peasants,184 not very different from the ones to which they Spirituals used to speak and preach back home. This was a completely different society from the Latins and Greeks who lived in the town of Negroponte. In Negroponte, the Franciscan cloister must have hosted gardens and libraries. We know, for instance, that such libraries 182 No material remains of the Franciscan house of Negroponte have been found. The site of the convent still remains unknown, but there is a short description of the house in the pilgrimage account of Niccolò da Martoni. Cf. Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 105, 110–111. For the pilgrimage account, see Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 44–45. For a map and a possible location (San Francesco arente alla fontana), see MacKay, ‘SS. Mary and Dominic’, 25. 183 Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 145, 148. 184 Cf. Peter Lock, ‘The towers of Euboea: Lombard or Venetian, agrarian or strategic’, in idem, G.D.R. Sanders (dir.), The Archaeology of Medieval Greece (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 1996), 110, 118.
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existed in Corinth, where a Franciscan house was active in the mid-13th century. Salimbene of Adam says that he wished to visit it, for Henry of Pisa, Greek minister of the Franciscan Order, used to live there, and he was one of his friends. Henry had promised to give him some of his books, among which there was also a Bible, and Salimbene regretted that he did not seize the chance to visit him before his death. The old friar used to joke about dividing the books of dead brethren, saying that his own books would suffer the same fate, and so it was in the end. His books were divided among the Franciscans of the house of Corinth.185 The situation in Negroponte must have been more or less the same. And the Spirituals of Angelo Clareno would detest these practices, even though they were also fond of books. They would loath opulence, richness, and comfort that the convents of Corinth and Negroponte would stand for. In the countryside, life could not be much different. Churches were so small, their mural decoration so repetitive, and Latin cultural influences so hard to trace that most studies linked the painting of these Euboeote churches with the brief Byzantine reconquest of the island for two decades in the second half of the 13th century. They explained it as a consequence of a protochronistic manifestation of the Greek national spirit, but this is obviously conjectural, if not false, and does not explain the Western features of certain murals. On the one hand, stylistic dating is utterly inaccurate. It simply rounds up a group of monuments in a chronological herd, all while excluding the possibility that artistic trends last longer, depending on the duration of a painter’s activity. Perhaps certain painters adapted to new styles and trends, while others got stuck in a cultural loop, especially those who were active in rural areas like the central or southern part of the island of Euboea. Therefore, what is often considered to be a tight chronological group of Euboeote churches painted at the turn of the 14th century could in fact punctuate a much longer lapse of time. On the other hand, the mastermind of this brief Nicaean interlude in the island’s history (the triarchs reconquered back the entire island by 1296) was Licario, seducer of lady Felisa, the one who had returned to Euboea with a Nicaean army in c.1275–1276. We do not know for how long he held Euboea. His link to emperor Michael VIII was of a vassalic nature, but he faded away from historical sources in the 1280s. Besides, his army included Nicaeans as well as Catalan and Spanish mercenaries, former soldiers of king Manfred of Sicily who had taken refuge with the Nicaeans after the defeat of their king, and 185 Salimbene mentions this story as a side note to some events of 1247, so Henry’s nomination as minister in Greece and his death in Corinth occurred after 1247, probably much later. This is the actual proof that a Franciscan convent existed in Corinth after 1247. For the original text, see Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 1:266–267.
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local Euboeotes of unknown provenance (Latins? Greeks?).186 I find it hard to believe that the presence of this motley crew under the control of a Latin lord, bound to the emperor by a Latin oath of allegiance, would balance the weight of Orthodoxy in the Latin-held island of Euboea. The time of Licario was a time of violence, when artists did not stroll freely through the countryside and the only dated mural decorations are from 1296 (or 1310) and 1302/1303. This was a time when Byzantines did not control anything on the island. It would be best to note that it was often argued that the Venetians were not so aggressive in religious matters. These churches could be painted in a time of peace, roughly about the same period when the Spirituals travelled through central Greece. In times of peace, ideological clashes are less intense. Cultural dialogue becomes more subtle, inclined to odd contaminations, most of which would be unintentional. Some of these contaminations are quite difficult to define, as the Latin presence led not only to direct cultural borrowings, but also to disruptions or displacements in the local tradition, on many levels. One of the most thought-provoking cases is the scene of the Pentecost painted on the transversal barrel-vault of the nave in the church of the Transfiguration in Pyrgi (dating back to 1296 or 1310; Fig. 36).187 Two groups of six Apostles (bust representations) are painted on either side of the vault’s sides. Tongues of fire descend from a mandorla with a huge dove painted at the centre of the vault, but the artist forgot to place the bird on a throne and there is no book. The disposition of the scene was explained as a consequence of the vicinity of the barrel-vault of the altar,188 but it is actually based on well-known Cappadocian models, and there are several 13th-century similar representations in the Latin-held lands or in Epirus.189 They differ from the Pyrgi scene in specific aspects and these are much more interesting. An actual precedent would be the scene in the barrel-vault of the nave of the church of Holy-Trinity in Kranidi, but the part where the Hetimasia with the book and dove would be represented is unfortunately destroyed, so we have no idea if there was a mandorla. The 186 Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus, 296. 187 Anita Koumoussi, Les Peintures murales de la Transfiguration de Pyrgi et de Sainte-Thècle en Eubée (Rapports avec l’art occidental) (Athens: Université Nationale d’Athènes, 1987), 13, 15, for the dating. The initial reading of the year was 1310, but it was corrected to 1296 in order to fit the day of the week, the date of the month, and the indiction, on account of the degradation state of the inscription. Since I could not verify these details, I retain both datings as possible. 188 Koumoussi, Les peintures murales, 105: La Pentecôte nous permet une fois de plus de constater comment la place dispose à la decoration détermine l’illustration de la scène. 189 For these examples, see Koumoussi, Les peintures murales, 103–105.
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same happened in the famous Omorphi Ekklisia of Galatsi, close to Athens, where only some fragments of the seated Apostles are preserved. Finally, the same disposition appears in the paintings of Saint-Nicholas church in Monemvasia. The throne and the book are present, as well as the peoples of the Earth, but there is no mandorla, for the shape is round, based on Byzantine precedents.190 The only other example presenting a mandorla appears in the church of Saint-Demetrius Katsouris on Plisii, in Arta (Epirus), but the dove is seated upon the throne.191 In my opinion, Pyrgi differs from Arta in a sociocultural way, for it belongs to a low-prestige level of culture that accounts for the absence of the Hetimasia and that of the book. However, both situations testify to a Western contamination of sorts. My working hypothesis, which needs to be corroborated with further research, is that these two rare mandorlas could be an unintentional cultural borrowing. Western iconographic programmes of barrel-vaulted sanctuaries often play a game of overlapping scenes. When the Pentecost, the Last Judgement, the Ascension, and the Council of Jerusalem are overlapped, the painter reaches strange results, similar to the one in Pyrgi, perhaps related in one way or another to earlier Cappadocian depictions, like the one in the 11th century barrel-vault of Kokar Kilise, already mentioned in connection with our Euboeote church. I am thinking of the murals of a church in Kempley (England) or those from the sanctuary of Notre-Dame-la-Grande in Poitiers (France).192 In both these cases, the Apostles are represented in rows of six, on the vault’s sides, with a Maiestas Domini or other complicated arrangements involving mandorlas at the centre of the vault. This should not come as a surprise. Previous research made the assumption that other features of the Euboeote scene – such as the presence of 190 Νικόλαος Δρανδάκης, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Νικολάου στον Άγιο Νικόλαο Μονεμβασίας’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 9 (1977–1979), 50 and fig. 14b (for some examples quoted by Koumoussi, Les peintures murales). The scene from Panagia Mavriotissa in Kastoria, included by Koumoussi (p. 104) in her list of comparisons, does not resemble the one in Pyrgi; it presents a pentagonal shape. 191 See e.g. Beatrice Alferi, Hagios Demetrios Katsouris bei Arta – eine kritische Bestandsaufnahme (Vienna: M2 paper of the University of Vienna, 2012), 103, fig. 60. Cf. H. Grigoriadou-Cabagnols, ‘Le décor peint de l’église de Samari en Messénie’, Cahiers archéologiques. Fin de l’Antiquité et Moyen Âge, 20 (1970), 188 (and 187, fig. 8). 192 For Kempley, see Ernest William Tristram, English Medieval Wall Painting: The Twelfth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1944), 135; Otto Demus, Romanesque Mural Painting (London: Thames & Hudson, 1970), 509. For the Poitiers paintings, see Lise Hulnet-Dupuy, ‘Les peintures murales de la partie orientale: Un chef-d’œuvre méconnu’, in Claude Andrault-Schmit, Marie-Térèse Camus (dir.), Notre-Dame- la-Grande de Poitiers: L’oeuvre romane (Paris/Poitiers: Picard/Centre d’Études Supérieures de Civilisation Médiévale, 2002), 213.
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buildings – may be result of a Western influence.193 The only different thing in my approach is that I believe these influences to be unconscious. The painters must have been unaware of what they were doing, as the shape of a mandorla did not carry a specific meaning and there was nothing incongruous or wrong in the scene that they were painting. The same may be said about the Treason of Judas scene, that the previous research believed to be inspired by a Latin manuscript (or by the direct observation of a Latin soldier).194 In fact, all its terms of comparison are Byzantine, so the Western dress does not bear any specific meaning. Furthermore, the same scene was painted in two other churches of the area, in Makrychori and in Oxylithos, where Western influences are equally debatable.195 The presence of the Treason of Judas is indeed weird, because it disrupts the Dodekaorton, but it is not different from the other known Byzantine representations of it. Western influences are in the eye of the beholder, provided that her/his research is keenly looking for them. This usually comes in pair with socio-political interpretations. Given the presence of Orthodox founders in ktetorial inscriptions, it was suggested that Euboeote churches were built and decorated for Greek archons or for small Greek communities with enough financial resources. However, we know of only one such great archon. The church of Saint-Demetrius in Makrychori was painted in 1302/1303 ‘with the assistance and at the expense’ of an otherwise unknown Michael Tamissas, who was ‘in-all-respects most pious’, a formula that led previous research to believe that he occupied an administrative position in the region. Nobody speaks about his wife Irene, also mentioned in the inscription, as she could not enjoy a special social status. Research made him important, even though it is difficult to say how important he was. In my opinion, since the alleged position is not mentioned anywhere in the inscription, this would argue to the contrary, for Michael Tamissas would
193 Cf. Koumoussi, Les peintures murales, 281–282. For the entire chapter concerning the Western influences in Pyrgi (nothing is really said about the church of Saint-Thecla from a Western point of view), see pp. 267–287. I do not agree with all the so-called Western influences, as I find it hard to ascribe any particular meaning to moustaches, interlacings, pink colour, etc. 194 Cf. ibid., 77–81. 195 In Makrychori, for instance, I find it hard to believe that the ciborium represented in the Presentation of Christ to the Temple is more Western than Eastern, since there are enough Byzantine depictions of this type. Neither am I convinced that the lamb carried by saint Mamas is a Western influence in the church of Makrychori. Instead, I notice several plainly Orthodox scenes, such as saint Demetrius killing Kaloyan of Bulgaria, saint Marina beating the devil.
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quote it if he had it, demanding that the painters mention it.196 History is not mathematics. There are no clear algorithms for the use of adjectives, especially in a land where local Greek aristocracy had an indefinite status. If he were vain, Michael Tamissas would like to be addressed by a pompous formula, and there was nothing wrong in the use of that word, since it did not indicate any actual title. Besides, I can hardly imagine him and lady Irene occupying one of the Euboeote towers. Those towers were the appanage of Latin lords. The only thing that I am certain of is that Michael had enough wealth to pay for the decoration of a church. He must have been in close contact with Western rulers, but the nature of those contacts is unclear. A certain Kali Medoni probably reached a similar level of wealth, since he was mentioned in the ktetorial inscription from the church of Makrychori, but he shared the financial burden with his sons George the priest and Demetrius, both of whom are mentioned with their wives and children.197 This leaves us with little to say from a socio-political standpoint. Was there a difference between the formulas ‘in-all-respects most pious’ and ‘servant of God’? I do not think so. The only sure conclusion is that Michael Tamissas was rich, yet nobody ever argued that Greeks could not get rich under the rule of Venetian or Veronese lords. As for the church of Makrychori itself, in spite of an impeccably Orthodox iconographic programme, there is a depiction of the embrace of Peter and Paul which may be quoted as proof of a Western influence. But I have my doubts. The scene is often taken for granted as indicative of Uniatism or Uniate dogma. However, few researchers paid attention to the fact that the image actually predates written texts and that the scene was not Western in origin. In Western art, it was imported from Byzantium, while in Byzantium it used to have another meaning, referring to “the final meeting of the Apostles before their martyrdoms, as recorded in the letter of Pseudo-Dionysius.”198 This suggests that the significance of this embrace is variable in Orthodox contexts. Thus, I am not tempted to transfer the Uniate message of 15th-century Cretan 196 See Μελίτα Εμμανουήλ, Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Δημητρίου στο Μακρυχώρι και της Κοιμήσεως της Θεοτόκου στον Οξύλιθο της Ευβοίας (Athens: Εταιρεία Ευβοικών Σπουδών, 1991), 31, for the text of the inscription (I am quoting only the formula): ΠΑΡΑ CΥΝΔΡΟΜΗC (ΚΑΙ) ΕΞΟΔΟΥ ΤΟΥ ΠΑΝCΕΒΕCΤΑΤΟΥ ΜΗΧΑΗΛ ΤΟΥ ΤΑΜΗCΑ (ΚΑΙ) ΤH(C) CΗΝΒΙΟΥ ΑΥ(ΤΟΥ) ΗΡΙΝΗΣ. See pp. 32–33, for a discussion about the title. 197 See Koumoussi, Les peintures murales, 13, for the inscription (once again, I am quoting only the formula): ΔΙΑ CΥΝΔΡΟΜΗC ΚΑΙ ΕΞΟΔΟΥ ΤΩΝ ΔΟΥΛΩΝ ΤΟΥ ΘΕΟΥ ΚΑΛΗCΤΗC ΜΕΛΗΔΟΝΗ ΚΑΙ ΤΩΝ ΤΕΚΝΩΝ ΑΥΤΗC ΓΕΩΡΓΙΟΥ ΙΕΡΕΟC ΑΜΑ CΥΜΒΙΩ ΚΑΙ ΔΗΜΗΤΡΙΟΥ ΑΜΑ CΥΜΒΙΩ ΚΑΙ ΤΕΚΝΗC ΑΥΤΩΝ. 198 Cf. Herbert L. Kessler, ‘The Meeting of Peter and Paul in Rome: An Emblematic Narrative of Spiritual Brotherhood’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 41 (1987), 265–275 (and p. 274 for the quotation).
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icons presenting this subject199 to its earlier mentions or depictions, like the Euboeote church of Makrychori. There is also a famous epigram by Manuel Philes.200 The latter wrote his verses at the court of Andronicus II, a radically anti-Latin emperor. Even though these verses speak of a ‘mystical kiss’ of the two Apostles in connection with a ‘union’ of ‘nation’, ‘descendance’, or perhaps even ‘race’ (I have my doubts about the translation of γένος as community of Christians), Manuel Philes would not risk favouring pro-Latin imagery at the court. His stance would be very nuanced, for these were very delicate matters to write about. In Euboea, a land ruled by Venetians, the scene with the two apostles could have Uniate undertones, but not necessarily in every other region. For instance, in the church of Saint-Peter in Kastania (Mani), the same embrace was depicted in the second half of the 14th century, but Uniatism is not an appropriate interpretation, in spite of the presence of Western influences in that church’s decoration. Those Western features are mostly decorative and the embrace scene is the only one portentous of a Uniate idea.201 And how shall I interpret the depiction of the same embrace in the 15th-century murals of yet another church of Kastania, perhaps the tiniest one of the Peloponnesus, the Panayitsa? No Uniate logic could stand behind this other depiction. The meaning of the scene is therefore open to debates and even in the church of Makrychori, at the turn of the 14th century, Greeks and the Latins could look at it from different perspectives. When writing this, I have in mind the murals of the church of Holy-Trinity in Lampeia (or Ano Drivi, in the Elis). They date back to the second half of the 14th century and the embrace of the two apostles is therein paired with the Treason of Judas, as an opposite of sorts. However, the embrace is accompanied by an epigram based on literary models going back to the 11th century and 199 From the many articles dealing with Cretan icons presenting this subject, the importance of which has been often overstated, leading to hasty conclusions about previous uses of this scene, see e.g. Maria Vassilaki, ‘A Cretan Icon in the Ashmolean: The Embrace of Peter and Paul’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 40 (1990), 405–422. 200 It was suggested that this text could be written in reference to an icon. For the original text, see Emmanuel Miller (ed.), Manuelis Philae Carmina ex codicibus Escurialensibus, Florentinis, Parisinis et Vaticanis, 2 vols (Paris: Typographeum imperiale, 1855–1857) 1:354: Εἰς τοὺς ἁγίους ἀποστόλους Πέτρον καὶ Παῦλον ἀσπαζομένους ἀλλήλους | Τὸ μυστικὸν φίλημα τῶν πρωτοθρόνων | τὴν τοῦ γένους ἕνωσιν ἡμῖν δεικνύει· | τῷ σφίγματι γὰρ τῶν παρ’ ἀμφοῖν δογμάτων | ὁ κόσμος ἁπλῶς συνδεθεὶς οὐκ ἐφθάρη. 201 Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’, 174, 176, speaks of “a more conciliatory position toward the burning issue of the Union of Churches and towards relations with the West,” mentioning that the church was painted in a time when John V Palaeologus travelled to the West and Isabella of Lusignan was in Mystras.
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it was argued that both the epigram and the image itself could be based on icons from pre-1204 Constantinople. This changes everything. We cannot know if the meaning of the scene is pro- or anti-Latin. The Lampeia church was built in a mountainous region at the border of the principality of Achaea and no one knows if the village was under Latin rule when the paintings were made, since the Byzantines had occupied a large part of that region after 1320.202 In this case, ascribing a 15th-century pro-Latin sense, derived from Cretan icons, to a 14th- or late-13th century depiction is quite hazardous. The significance of the embrace of the apostles, in conjunction with the Treason of Judas, could lead to quite the opposite conclusion: that the Latin Church had spoilt the once-existing peace and communion. Since the same Treason of Judas was painted in the nave of Makrychori. Its presence is unusual in such a small church, since it is grafted upon the Dodekaorton, whose logic it spoils, but I would argue that even the Euboeote murals whose makers lived under Latin rule could have had an anti-Latin meaning, depending on the logic used by the painters. The only features supporting a pro-Latin interpretation are a series of decorative patterns or ribbed vaults, but the trouble with so-called Western features such as these is that they do not convey any particular meaning. They are just forms. In the absence of strong exegetic subjects, whose meanings are determined by their links to sacred literature, features such as these are null and void. Research often accentuates their presence, interpreting the murals in accord with socio-political theories, and accentuating the part played by the ktetors. This would favour Michael Tamissas’ possible connections to the Venetian, but we have no idea as to what the painters themselves had seen in the decoration of Latin churches or how they reacted to them. Since the church of the Dormition of Theotokos in Oxylithos, twenty kilometres away and painted about the same time,203 presents similar features, mainly architectural in nature, but nothing unusual from an iconography point of view, very little may be said about its Western influences. There is no embrace of the apostles, but there is the Treason of Judas. This strongly suggests that the choice of this scene could be made by the painters, and the presence of the Hospitality of Abraham in both the Makrychori 202 For these ideas, see Victoria Kepetzi, ‘Autour d’une inscription métrique et de la représentation des apôtres Pierre et Paul dans une église en Élide’, in Pamela Armstrong (dir.), Ritual and Art. Byzantine Essays for Christopher Walter (London: Pindar Press, 2006), 160–181. She favours the pro-Latin significance of the scene, stating that its sens pro-unioniste est chose établie. 203 The end-of-the-13th-century dating of these murals is based on the conjecture that Oxylithos was painted by the same workshop of painters, before Makrychori. Cf. Εμμανουήλ, Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Δημητρίου.
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and Oxylithos churches, a profession of faith about the Orthodox Trinity, equally suggests that those painters were less inclined to make concessions. I therefore assume that they took after Western influences in an unconscious manner, and that this happened only when they were unaware of theological implications. Latin presence therefore acted as a disruption in the cultural fabric of local tradition. I have no intention to advance the hypothesis that these peculiar things were happening in Latin-held Greece because of the Spirituals or Fraticelli. None of these Euboeote cases has anything in common with the story of Clareno (apart from dating to roughly about the same time). However, the Spirituals’ stay in the Greece was possible precisely because such cultural disruptions and displacements were happening at the time. The Italian friars were welcomed by local Greeks and perhaps even by some of the local Latins, at least by those who were already involved in a dialogue that took place at low-prestige levels of culture. Similar manifestations occurred all over the Latin-held lands and in the Byzantine lands adjacent to them. The church of Saint-Kyriaki, for instance, is situated in the olive groves of the village of Sotirianika (Messenian Mani). It was probably built in mid-13th century and painted towards the end of the same century or in the early 14th century.204 The large threshing floor in front of the church attracted the attention of previous research, as it testifies to the rural milieu in which the monument and its paintings were created,205 but the most interesting feature is the life cycle of saint Kyriaki. It replaces part of the Dodekaorton. This defies the manner in which other large hagiographic cycles were depicted since they were introduced in the 13th century. They had to be in secondary positions and not to disrupt the equilibrium of the iconographic programme. Disobediently, the Sotirianika hagiographic composition occupies more than half of the church’s barrel-vault and reduces the Dodekaorton to three meagre scenes.206 Moreover, the eight scenes of the saint’s life are repetitive: two buildings to the sides, with the saint flanked by two characters corresponding to the 204 Αριστέα Καββαδία-Σπονδύλη, ‘Μία νέα βυζαντινή θέση στη Μάνη’, Πελοποννησιάκα, 17 (1987–1988), 85–116. There are no exact references for the dating of the paintings, but the military saints were compared with those of the church in Agoriani (Laconia, c.1300); cf. Μελίτα Εμμανουήλ, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Νικολάου στην Αγόριανη Λακωνίας’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 14 (1987–1988), 144. Given the recent restoration of the murals, no images from Sotirianika can be published. 205 Sharon E.J. Gerstel, Rural Lives and Landscapes in Late Byzantium: Art, Archaeology, and Ethnography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 120. 206 The ‘disobedience’ of the painter may be deduced from a comparison with the murals of the church of Saint-Paraskevi in Platsa (1412), where the cycle of the patron saint was depicted under the scenes of the Dodekaorton, as a hagiographic counterpart.
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two said buildings. This happens in all scenes, with two exceptions.207 Also, in half of the scenes, a wall is thrown in between the side buildings and the characters. In the other half, the same wall is a part of the background. The painter therefore painted only one image, over and over again, making only small variations.208 Since there are no known image cycles of saint Kyriaki for that period, it is highly probable that the painter invented the eight scenes on the spot. The repetitio is probably due to the absence of a model, and this is further supported by the fact that key scenes and characters are absent from the Sotirianika cycle. We do not see the saint’s parents, the magistrate of Nicomedia and his son, the emperor Diocletian, Maximinian, or Hilarion ruler of Bithynia. We see only the same composition reiterated eight times, with small variations. This was possible not because of a Latin influence, for there is nothing Latin in these paintings, but because the Western presence in the region cut the ties with the influential cultural centres, leading in turn to a disarticulation of local tradition. Sotirianika is located in the hills below the mountains, to the south-east of Kalamata, where Latin presence was well established and arguably acted as a disrupting factor. The painters would be more inclined to concede to the local fervour for an agricultural saint and sacrifice a great deal of the usual iconographic programme in order to acquiesce the Sotirianika farmers’ wishes. When thinking about what happened in Sotirianika, I imagine that it could not have been very different from what happened in the rest of the Peloponne sus. In Kastania (Messenian Mani), in the church of Saint-John-the-Forerunner (second half of the 13th century), a prokritos and local people joined hands in a common financial effort.209 For all one knows, the best example is the often-quoted inscription from the church of Michael-the-Archangel in Polemitas (dated to 1278, Inner Mani). It speaks of the manner in which the local community contributed to the painting of the church (more of a heap of boulders than an actual building) and to its future endowment. The long list of donations was measured in fields, threshing floors, olive trees, and sometimes even half an olive tree. It was more of an administrative document than an actual ktetorial inscription. Twenty-six names (and three groups of descendants) are mentioned in the first parts of the inscription, while their exact 207 In the decapitation scene, there are only two characters, probably because the painter could not identify an axis for the composition. The two side characters also disappear in another scene, where the saint is depicted alone. In both cases, however, the side buildings are there. 208 See for example the central tower in one of the scenes. It probably depicts the cell where the saint’s wounds were healed, according to her legend. 209 Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, Dedicatory Inscriptions, 65–66.
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donations are transcribed in the second part.210 The letters cram up in the last lines of the inscription, for fear that there is not enough space to transcribe them all. Such was the cultural life in the rural areas of the Peloponnesus. The life of the peasants of Euboea could not be much different, and these were the people with whom brother Angelo’s Spirituals came into contact during their travels in Greece. But since I mentioned Polemitas, a few metres away from the church of the Archangel is another one, built in the honour of saint Nicholas at a later date and decorated with murals in the 14th century, based on stylistic comparisons.211 From the outside, it looks like any another heap of boulders (Fig. 37a), its apse is dug into the hillslope, but the inside of it is a little bit roomier. Maybe this is why there are not many paintings – in all probability, the ktetors did not have the financial means. By the looks of it, not all of the church was painted, only the part closer to the sanctuary, and especially the lateral niches created by blind arches. In one of these niches, saint George is killing the dragon (Fig. 37b–38). The depiction is perfectly canonical from an iconographical point of view, but the saint is accompanied by a strange depiction of saint Kyriaki, which does not make sense. Contrary to what was stated by others, I am not inclined to believe that “the unique pairing of St. Kyriake and the equestrian St. George in the fourteenth-century church of St. Nicholas Polemitas may also have satisfied the devotional requirements of the church’s patron and his family.”212 This is purely conjectural and throws the burden of a cultural choice on the shoulders of socio-political history, which is non-existent for that village. Even though I may have a vague idea why this interpretation was put forth (the Polemitas scene was probably interpreted in agreement with two ktetorial scenes from Ano Poula, to which I will return in the next paragraph), I fail to see why we should use extra-cultural factors as a deus ex machina solution when purely cultural explanations are valid on their own. I am intrigued by the fact that the depiction of saint Kyriaki did not fit well into the niche. The painter had to depict her slightly reclining to the right, toward saint George. She is crammed in the left corner and her halo overlaps the carefully painted frame of the scene. This means that saint Kyriaki was not meant 210 See Παναγιώτης Σταμ. Κατσαφάδος, Βυζαντινές επιγραφικές μαρτυρίες στη Μέσα Μάνη (13ος–14ος αι.) (Athens, 2015), 25–35. Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, Dedicatory Inscriptions, 71–74. For earlier readings and interpretations of this inscription, see Νικ. Δρανδάκης, ‘Δύο επιγραφές ναών της Λακωνίας: του Μιχαήλ Αρχάγγελου (1278) στον Πολεμίτα της Μάνης και της Χρυσαφίτισσας (1290)’, Λακωνικαί Σπουδαί, 6 (1982), 44–55. 211 See e.g. Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινές τοιχογραφίες, 138–150 (for the church) and 148 (for the niche with saints George and Kyriaki). 212 Gerstel, ‘Art and identity’, 272–273.
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to be represented there, at least not initially. The painter planned a scene with saint George, who is covering most of the available space. From the little space available to the left of the blind arch, a ktetor would have better fitted the composition, or another small figure, like the princess who appears in most Western scenes of this type. In fact, when paying attention to the arrangement of the scene, one can hardly miss that saint Kyriaki stands in for the princess from the legend of saint George. And metaphorically, Kyriaki’s name also refers to a princess, due to the polysemy of the adjective κυριάκος. Since the very first time when I saw the mural in the summer of 2014, this depiction stroke me as incredibly odd and somewhat intentional. In truth, there is nothing really Western about the scene of saint George and the princess, except for the fact that it enjoyed great popularity in the West. Its iconography and first written versions appear in 11th-century Georgia.213 Other early examples may be found in the art of the Rus’ lands, and the first Western representations appear by the turn of the 13th century, soon becoming canonical and almost indispensable. In other lands where the Orthodox lived under Catholic rule, this depiction of saint George was greatly favoured. In the murals of 14th and 15th-century Transylvania for instance it is hard to differentiate between Western and Eastern representations of the saint, since the princess appears in both milieus. However, in the Peloponnesus, such representations of the princess do not seem to be canonical, not even in Latin contexts.214 Given the growing popularity of the scene in Italy during the Duecento and Trecento, such a representation could find its way to Greece at a time when the Latin-held lands were seeing an equally growing presence of Italian newcomers. The image could be seen by a ktetor (or by the painter …), consequently leading to the odd disposition of the two saints in the 14th-century painted niche of Polemitas (Fig. 37b–38). There is a similar arrangement in the 14th century church of the Panagia in Kakodiki, Crete, where a female donor 213 For the latest study and synthesis concerning the 11th century version of the story of saint George in Georgian texts and its 11th–13th century use in Georgian religious art, see Kevin Tuite, ‘The Old Georgian version of the miracle of St George, the princess and the dragon’, presentation at the conference Sharing Myths, Texts and Sanctuaries in the South Caucasus (Regensburg: Centre for Advanced Studies ‘Beyond Canon’ at the University of Regensburg, February 2020 = online version at https://uni-jena.academia.edu/KevinTuite. Accessed 2020 July 1). Cf. Agrigoroaei, ‘Choix nobiliaires’, where I presented the same arguments, with extensive bibliography. 214 Saint George is alone on his horse on the walls of the Akronafplio gate tower, without a princess, but we have no idea what the scene would have looked like in most Catholic churches of the area, for the only other known ‘Latin’ depiction of the saint is in the archaeologically discovered mural fragments of the church of Saint-Francis in Glarentza. That saint George, on the other hand, is incomplete.
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was depicted within the space dedicated to the depiction of saint George defeating the dragon (also in a frame).215 I would argue that the donor’s prayer to the saint placed her in the position of the princess needing to be saved from dangers, vulnerabilities, or the misgivings of life. In Polemitas, the use of saint Kyriaki instead of the princess testifies to a certain reserve in the assimilation of new cultural trends. It may be the final touch of the painter, guardian of what could or could not be done, who adapted a foreign idea to local Orthodox tradition. In fact, the painter did nothing wrong, since the pairing of saints in a niche was not unusual in that part of Mani. Similar pairings appear in the second mural stratum from the monastery of Panagia Faneromeni close to the village of Frangoulias (1322/1323), where military saints on foot or on horseback decorate niches of the nave.216 However, they were military saints (George and Theodore, Procopius and Michael the Archangel) and their pairing actually made sense. Similar situations appear in the church of Saints-Theodore in Ano Poula (also Mani, further South), in a depiction of the local ktetor’s metrical prayer to the two patron saints. In another niche, the ktetor’s wife, turned nun, prays for her former husband before an equestrian saint Theodore.217 The interesting thing about this last scene is that saint Eulalia was represented in the left part of the blind arch, but her depiction is separated from the lady’s prayer by a red frame identical in width to the outer red frame of the niche. This implies that there was no actual pairing of saint Eulalia with saint Theodore in Ano Poula. The left side of the niche was simply isolated as a different composition, yet this probably acted as a precedent for the scene in Polemitas. What happened in Polemitas is quite unalike. Given the Maniot passion for depicting military saints on horseback in the blind arches of naves – the best case being the niches of the church of Trissakia, close to Polemitas, where this passion was taken to extreme, the scene with saint George could not be intended for a representation of a donor. The patron saint of the church was Nicholas, so the available space to the left, into which saint Kyriaki was inserted in a crammed up leaning manner, to fit in, must have been intended for something else. The absence of a frame separating Kyriaki from George – as the frame separating Eulalia from saint Theodore in Ano Poula – meant that 215 For the paintings of this church, see Vasiliki Tsamakda, Die Panagia-Kirche und die Erzengelkirche in Kakodiki. Werkstattgruppen, kunst- und kulturhistorische Analyse byzantinischer Wandmalerei des 14. Jhs. auf Kreta (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2012). 216 Χαρά Κωνσταντινίδη, Ο ναός της Φανερωμένης στα Φραγκουλιάνικα της Μέσα Μάνης (Athens: Εκδόσεις Εταιρεία Λακωνικών Σπουδών, 1998), 44–45. 217 See Κατσαφάδος, Βυζαντινές επιγραφικές, 140–167. Cf. Gerstel, Rural Lives, 139–142.
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the pairing of these two saints had a definite purpose. This could be inspired by Western depictions of saint George with the princess, and the fact that saint Kyriaki was an agrarian saint adds to the symbolism of the scene in Polemitas, in a cultural interplay of significances. Western influences were already present in that part of Mani. The best proof for this claim is a mural from a church further South, built on the mountain slopes fifteen kilometres away from Ano Poula, in a place overlooking the bay of Gerolimenas. Even though it was argued that the now badly damaged paintings from the sanctuary of the church of Saint-Kyriaki close to Marathos (dating back to c.1300)218 may be inspired by a Crusader style depiction, probably an icon, the position of the ktetors (a man and a woman) in the apse of the church, on both sides of the Blachernitissa, is oddly reminiscent of similar depictions in Crete or Naxos based on Western models that looked a lot like the donor depictions in the apses of Catalan Romanesque churches. Who knows what these people had seen, where they had seen it, and who showed it to them? In the current state of the research, the sky is the limit. The Spirituals of Angelo Clareno must have encountered people like these, people who were more or less open to Latin influences, adopting or assimilating cultural trends without necessarily understanding them. Such people existed not only in the Latin-held lands, but also in the Byzantine lands of the Peloponnesus, or in Epirus. Cultural influences do not refrain themselves from crossing a political or military border. What makes all these cases susceptible of being the by-product of an interaction with the Latins is the fact that all of them represent exceptions to the rules upon which most interpretations in art history are based. Yet they are clearly not exceptions, because the reality of medieval life was made up of many nuances and overlapping shadows. Some cultural acts cannot be categorised. Our examples usually fall between categories. With this in mind, let us return to the issue of displacements in local Greek tradition, in order to notice that the Latin presence brought about many changes in the fabric of low-prestige art. Despite being similar to the situations of Sotirianika, Polemitas, or Pyrgi, this last example is more complex. On the surface, it has apparently nothing to do with the Latins, but underneath it does. This is probably the best example of a reworking of Latin cultural trends, 218 For the murals of the Saint-Kyriaki church close to Marathos, see Ν.Β. Δρανδάκη, Σ. Καλοπίση, M. Παναγιωτίδη, ‘Έρευνα στη Μάνη’, Πρακτικά της Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας (1979), 205–206. Cf. Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Donors in the Palaiologan Сhurches of the Mani in the Southern Peloponnese: Individualities, Collectivity and Social Identities’, in A. Zakharova et al. (dir.), Art of the Byzantine World. Individuality in Artistic Creativity: A Collection of Essays in Honour of Olga Popova (Moscow: State Institute for Art Studies, 2021), 165 (and ill. 3 of the following page).
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extracting only their formal aspects, disconnected from their meaning, and adapting them to the pattern of the local tradition. It happened in Attica.
Case Study 11: The Holy Mass of Attica, amid Columns and Arcades
Even though the final idea will be much different, for it concerns an ornamental pattern used in the decoration of the sanctuary, my attention will be at first concentrated upon several aspects in the decoration of a church from Mesogeia. This is the church of Saint-Kyriaki in Megali Avli close to Keratea (Fig. 39), in the proximity of the church where one of the depictions of Michael Choniates was painted in the first half of the 13th century. I find that one of the depictions in the church, that of saint Eustace (Fig. 40), is particularly similar in spirit to the life cycle of saint Kyriaki as it was painted in the Messenian church of Sotirianika. In stark contrast with the iconography of saint Eustace, well-known from Cappadocian or Georgian representations as well as from the churches of Euboea, the scene painted in Megali Avli confronts the viewer with a low-prestige solution. Because of a local commission, a local cult, or for who-knows-what reason, the painter wanted to depict saint Eustace, but had no idea how to do it. He knew that he needed to paint a stag, but did not know where to put it. It was a puzzling situation, so he severed what appeared to be a Gordian knot. He used what knowledge was available to him. He took the pattern of a military saint (saint George, by the looks of it), depicted it faithfully on the northern wall of the church, riding a white horse, with the mantle blowing in the wind and a shield behind his back. Next, he drew a quarter-circle of heaven in the lower right corner of the scene, customary in the representations of a blessing hand of God. But put the stag in it, instead of the hand. The end result is ludicrously weird, for the saint is looking at us, instead of looking at the stag, and the scene does not really depict saint Eustace, but saint George with a heavenly stag (Fig. 40). The church is situated in a rural area (Fig. 39). It is quite tiny, barrelvaulted, and single-naved. Its paintings were dated to 1197/1198, but this is an error, as we shall see immediately, for they were painted much later, when the rule of the French was approaching its end in Attica. There is also a representation of the Melismos in the sanctuary and its presence contradicts the early dating. Well aware of the odd dating, the research done at the time of the restoration suggested that the representation
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of the Melismos would not be out of place, since it could be noticed from the end of the 12th century onwards.219 Nevertheless, this hypothesis challenges the provincial nature of the murals. A provincial painter would be conventional, adopting such innovations only when they had already been validated by their use in the work of well-trained painters, that is, after at least a generation. The first analyses of the murals suggested the same dating. They insisted on the fact that the Keratea murals should be dated sometime in the 13th century, in spite of late 12th terms of comparison.220 And the absence of a stable artistic tradition or the heterogeneous nature of the corpus of murals from Attica221 cannot be summoned as proof of an early dating either. Comparisons with similar murals from the area suggested that the dating of the Keratea paintings should be placed in the third quarter of the 13th century.222 The only problem is the alleged 1197/1198 date of the inscription. What stroke me as odd was that the dating of the inscription was identical to the dating of the two terms of comparison suggested previously: a mural from Vatopedi (1197/1198) and one from San Biagio in Apulia (1197).223 In order to understand the delicate nature of the Megali Avli-Keratea inscription, a brief story of the research concerning this church is in order. Very few scenes were known before its restoration in the 1980s. On the southern wall, one would be able to see only Palm Sunday, the 219 Cf. Ελένη Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, ‘Νεώτερα από τη συντήρηση μνημείων στα Μεσόγεια’, in Πρακτικά Γ΄ Επιστημονικής Συνάντησης Νοτιοανατολικής Αττικής, Καλύβια Αττικής, 5–8 Νοέμβρη 1987 (Kalyvia, 1988), 440. 220 Cf. Χ. Μπούρας, A. Καλογερόπουλος, P. Ανδρεάδης, Εκκλησίες της Αττικής (Athens, 1969), 95. Cf. Dean McKenzie, ‘Provincial Byzantine Painting in Attica, H. Kyriaki, Keratea’, Cahiers archéologiques, 30 (1982), 145, who misquoted Μπούρας et al., Εκκλησίες της Αττικής, for the dating (p. 94 instead of p. 95), and contradicted them as well, since he stated that: “The work of this artist has been dated to the end of the 12th century or early 13th century, just prior to the Latin occupation, a date that seems feasible.” Similar traits could be identified in provincial centres until much later, even in works dating back to the 14th and 15th centuries. See for this Μπούρας et al., Εκκλησίες της Αττικής, 94. 221 Cf. Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, ‘Νεώτερα’, 441. 222 Cf. ibid., 440–441, who has to accept that η γραπτή διακόσμηση του ναού έργο τουλάχιστον δύο ζωγράφων, όπως διαπιστώνεται από την ποικιλία στην τεχνική και τεχνοτροπία, έχει συσχετισθεί με μνημεία της Αττικής και Πελοποννήσου και έχει τοποθετηθεί χρονολογικά στο γ’ τέταρτο του 13ου αι., yet immediately infers ότι ορισμένα χαρακτηριστικά της, μεταξύ των οποίων και η έντονη γραμμικότητα, η σχηματική σκίαση, τα αδρά ρεαλιστικά χαρακτηριστικά με πολύ γήινη έκφραση, τη συνδέουν με έργα του τέλους του 12ου αι. Cf. Μουρίκη, Οι τοιχογραφίες, 46, who compared the paintings of Alepochori with those of the church of the Saviour next to Megara, those of the Taxiarchis-Dagla church next to Markopoulo, and those of Saint-Kyriaki of Keratea, suggesting that all of them date back to the same period. 223 For these dated examples, see Μπούρας et al., Εκκλησίες της Αττικής, 94–95.
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Presentation to the Temple, Nativity, and – lower on the wall – two unidentified saints. On the northern wall: Marys at the Tomb, Lazarus, Anastasis, and two more unidentified saints below. As for the sanctuary, only the Ascension scene was visible.224 The 1984 restoration brought to light the Dormition, saints Theodore, George, the Panagia, and saint John (southern wall of the nave); the Transfiguration, saint Eustace on horseback (Fig. 40), with the stag represented in the upper right corner, the whole scene being overlapped at a later date by a new stratum with a smaller representation of saint George on horseback (northern wall); and several unidentified saints (entrance to the nave). In the sanctuary, there were several discoveries: Annunciation (on the arch), the Mother of God on a throne with the Child and four officiating bishops holding scrolls (Fig. 41) and flanking the Melismos (apse). The murals were attributed to a workshop of two painters.225 Yet, the oddest discovery was made in the sanctuary apse. When the limestone stratum from its southern side was removed, a half-faded inscription in black letters on a red background (γραπτή ημιεξίτηλη επιγραφή με μαύρα γράμματα σε κόκκινο βάθος) was visible to the right of the depiction of saint John the Theologian. It allegedly mentioned the name ΓΕΩΡΓΙΟΥ and the date ϚΨΕ (6705 since the Creation, meaning 1197/1198 AD). No other words or letters (and no photo) were ever published to sustain this particular reading.226 The next restoration works concentrated on other aspects and the reading remained unchallenged.227 Nevertheless, this reading needs to be challenged. In 224 For the scenes visible well before the restoration works, see their description in ibid., 94. McKenzie wrote his analysis based on these scenes. 225 Cf. Χαρίκλεια Κοιλάκου, Ελένη Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, s.v., ‘Κερατέα: Ναός Αγίας Κυριακής’, Αρχαιολογικό Δελτίο, 39 (1984 = Χρονικά), 66, for the first restoration works and the discovery of new scenes, unknown to previous research. Cf. Χαρίκλεια Κοιλάκου, Ελένη Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, s.v., ‘Κερατέα: Ναός Αγίας Κυριακής’, Αρχαιολογικό Δελτίο, 40 (1985 = Χρονικά), 77. 226 Κοιλάκου, Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου s.v., ‘Κερατέα: Ναός’, for the first quotation and the rest of the data. It is also odd that photos of the scenes of the Dormition, Transfiguration, saint Eustace, and the officiating hierarchs from the northern side of the sanctuary were published in the report (see ibid., figs. 23–25), but no image of the 1197/1998 inscription, essential to the dating of the murals. The report ends with the satisfaction that the inscription proved the previous hypotheses concerning the chronology of the decoration of the painting and also mentioned the name of the painter, a rare piece of information for the period to which it belonged. The information was presented identically in the later article of Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, ‘Νεώτερα’, 441. 227 The next year, Ελένη Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, s.v., ‘Κερατέα: Αγία Κυριακή’, Αρχαιολογικό Δελτίο, 42 (1987 = Χρονικά B1), 111, mentions only restoration work for the Ascension, Dormition, and Palm Sunday scenes, as well as a confirmation that several other parts of the church did
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its current state, the last letter of the inscription is severely destroyed, but it can hardly be an E. A closer look suggests that it had to be an O, leading to a significant difference in dating: ϚΨO, meaning 6770, which is the year 1262/1263 (Fig. 42). This other dating fits perfectly the dating of similar murals from the region in the third quarter of the 13th century.228 I believe it should be retained. With this dating in mind, other odd features start to make sense. I will not deal with the Melismos. I am more tempted to speak about a series of peculiar iconographic choices in the provincial murals of Saint-Kyriaki of Keratea, particularly in the scene of the Nativity: the absence of shepherds, the conical hats worn by the Wise Men (considered to be a sign of their Jewishness in previous research), as well as the fact that the Wise Men appear in the place of the shepherds, and there is also a single angel in the upper left corner, worshipping the Christ Child.229 The shepherds’ hats, for instance, look a lot like what we occasionally see in the West, various distortions of the Phrygian hats of late-ancient iconography. But these details are simple details. They lack any meaning and we are faced with a situation encountered in other churches of the area.230 But then this does not get me anywhere, for I would be trapped in a loop, making not have murals. Cf. Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου s.v., ‘Κερατέα’, for the restoration works after two more years. This other report mentions only interventions in the nave (Transfiguration scene, saint Eustace – with the extraction of an overlapping saint George stratum) and sanctuary (upper and lower register, including the hierarchs and the Melismos). Even though the works also involved the murals of the sanctuary, no further information is provided about the mysterious inscription painted in black letters close to the depiction of saint John the Theologian. Cf. Ελένη Γκίνη-Τσοφοπούλου, s.v., ‘Κερατέα: Ναός Αγίας Κυριακής’, Αρχαιολογικό Δελτίο, 45 (1990 = Χρονικά B1), 85, for the framing of the extracted mural of saint George (the one overlapping the depiction of saint Eustace) and the possible dating of this stratum before the 14th century (without arguments). 228 I thank Panayotis Katsafados for pointing to me that the probability that the last letter would be an E is extremely low, since its curve does not fit the much wider curve of the E from the name of the painter mentioned above (ΓΕ[Ω/Ο]ΡΓΙ[?]), therefore suggesting that it could be an O, similar in shape and size to the lost letter from the same name of the painter (the lost letter is in all probability not an Ω, but an O, an expected error, given the provincial character of this painter’s work). This would lead to the alternative reading ϚΨO (6770). 229 Dean McKenzie, ‘Provincial Byzantine Painting in Attica’, 141. 230 For instance, I cannot speculate on the Western dress of Nicodemus from the Lamentation scene painted in the church of Panagia Merenta, close to Markopoulo, also in Mesogeia. Neither can I dedicate much time to the shield with a chevron motif in the scene of the Crucifixion of that other church, nor to the shields with a chequered motif of the military saints. All I can say is that these Western features appeared in different layers of painting (end of the 13th century, 14th century, etc.). Cf. Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Monumental Art’, 391.
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lists and pretending that the lists contain Western features, therefore a Western influence must have existed, somehow. Instead of doing this, I will pay attention to an otherwise insignificant feature of the murals from the church of Megali Avli. To my eyes, the most interesting Western feature is the depiction of columns and arcades in the sanctuary, in the representation of the officiating bishops, and in its proximity (Fig. 41). This is a local innovation. However, separating the hierarchs in individual scenes makes no sense from a Byzantine point of view. And there were other saints painted in between columns and arcades. Six of them (two rows of three saints) appear in the nave, as a continuation of the decoration of the sanctuary. The painter must have had something in mind when he made the odd choice of using these architectural features. I believe that he drew this idea from what he saw in Western art. I hereby beg my readers to trust this working hypothesis. The arguments supporting it will gradually unfold in a comparison of four churches from Attica with a Transylvanian one and several churches of Northern Italy. Using columns and arcades to separate the depictions of saints in the sanctuary could be a Latin thing. In the West, such features appear in many places, but mostly in Italy, sometimes in connection with the fight against heresies, because of the particular nature of the iconographic programme that uses columns and arcades. In order to avoid passing through a large body of bibliography, I will simply resume the results of a previous study of mine, wherein I compared the similar use of columns and arcades in the church of Strei (Hatseg region, Romania, murals dating back to the second half of the 14th century) with prototypes originating in the West.231 To sum things up, such columns and arcades are associated with the depiction of the Apostles, engaged or not in a vigorous conversation. They are the ones who are depicted between columns under a Maiestas Domini that is represented in the vault of the apse. At the time of the writing of my previous study, I was much more interested in the Apostles’ gestures, quite dramatic and very different from the static representation of the bishops depicted in the lower register of the same sanctuary in the church of Strei. When comparing the Apostles with an almost identical representation in the 13th century murals from Termeno-sulla-Strada-del-Vino, close to Bolzano (Italy), I made an inventory of similar scenes in other churches of the period. It led me to the conclusion that such depictions of Apostles carrying 231 For this paragraph and the next one, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Les peintures de Strei’.
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on vivid conversations in the sanctuary were always between depicted columns, therefore the columns played an important role in the iconographic programmes. The meaning of these Colloquia is related to the eschatological connotations of the iconographic programmes, directly linked to the essential message of the Maiestas Domini, therefore referring to the celestial Jerusalem. They can also depict the First Council of Jerusalem (Acts 15:2–35), suggesting a strong kinship with the theme of Ecclesia militans. The neo-testamentary descriptions of this council often present the Apostles as pillars or columns (cf. Galatians 2:9), explaining thus the particular message conveyed by the depiction of said columns in the decoration of Latin sanctuaries. The presence of strong Catholic imagery such as this was typical in the areas where the papacy or the Catholic bishops had to enforce an ecclesiastical control against heretics and disobedient heterodox. This argued in favour of a similar explanation for the use of the Colloquium between columns and arcades in the Transylvanian church of Strei. A Catholic standpoint would have placed the church of Strei in the land of schismatic Vlachs, therefore in a land where the ideology of the Ecclesia militans had to be imposed. This demonstrates why I was not surprised to identify the same columns and arcades in several 13th century churches from Attica, including that of Megali Avli (Fig. 41). Latin-held Greece would be another region where the same anti-heretical and anti-schismatic discourse had to be enforced. There is, on the other hand, a difference between what I analysed in Transylvania and what happened in Attica. The Apostles’ Colloquia depicted in the sanctuaries of Istria and in the Dalmatian area, probably linked with the murals of Strei, testify to a possible influence of the Observant Vicariate of Bosnia. The Vlachs of Banat and Hatseg were in close contact with Franciscans, who converted some of them to Catholicism. There is an official document speaking of churches built or decorated by the Franciscans for the benefit of local communities. In this context, the presence of Western iconography in the sanctuary of Strei, in sharp contrast with the otherwise perfectly Orthodox depictions of the same church’s nave, led me to believe that the programme had to be interpreted according to Uniate ideology, particularly in accordance with the activity of the Franciscans in the area.232 This also explained the depiction of saint Callinicus, patriarch of Constantinople, in front of 232 For the Union of Lyon (1274) as a success of the Franciscan Order, because of their involvement in the negotiations between Greeks and the pope, see Tsougarakis, The Latin Religious Orders, 144.
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saint Peter, on opposite walls, in the lower register of the sanctuary of Strei. Callinicus was martyred in Rome on the orders of an emperor from Constantinople. This strengthened the Uniate message. However, the results of my previous research cannot be used to argue that the columns of Megali Avli (Fig. 41) should be linked with the presence of Franciscans in or around Athens. The depiction of such features could simply be the by-product of a contact happening somewhere in the lower levels of culture, under the sway of a Latin artistical model, but not directly influenced by it. Therefore, I do not intend to apply the idea of a Uniate message to the murals of Megali Avli. The local painter completely missed the meaning of those columns and arcades. This is evident from the fact that he used them in the depiction of other saints in the proximity of the sanctuary, close to the four officiating hierarchs. Furthermore, there are no traces of Uniate ideas in the rest of the iconographic programme of Megali Avli, meaning that the idea of painting columns and arcades in the sanctuary would be taken from a Latin church of Attica, where a Uniate iconographic programme could have been enforced, but that the Greek painter did not care about the meaning of the model. Most probably, he only liked the way the sanctuary looked and decided to use a similar ornamentation. That such a Latin church existed in the area, this is evident from the fact that the same columns and arcades were used in the decoration of the sanctuary of another church: Taxiarchis, located at the foothill of the Dagla Hill tower, already mentioned in the second chapter of the book. The murals of this other church date to the same period (second half or late 13th century), they are fragmentary, and cover small parts of the sanctuary and the dome, with other less well-preserved fragments in the nave. The sanctuary apse of Taxiarchis-Dagla has more or less the same decoration as the church of Megali Avli: the Theotokos in the vault, with the Child and two angels, and four hierarch saints depicted between columns and arcades in the lower register (Fig. 43). There are also differences, for the church has a dome. In it, there is a depiction of a Pantocrator, accompanied by prophets and saints represented in pairs. But all in all, these other murals share the provincial character of the murals in Megali Avli.233 Still, there is another very significant feature: the backgrounds of the hierarch saints of the sanctuary are alternately red and blue. And 233 Μαίρη Ασπρά-Βαρδαβάκη, ‘Οι βυζαντινές τοιχογραφίες του Ταξιάρχη στο Μαρκόπουλο Αττικής’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 8 (1975–1976), 199–229. Cf. ΓκίνηΤσοφοπούλου, ‘Νεώτερα’.
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this alternance of red and blue (without columns) appears also in the background upon which four hierarch saints were painted in the apse of the church of the Saviour in Alepochori (Fig. 34b), already mentioned when I noted that its iconography of the sanctuary had been disrupted by the painting of a Pantocrator in the conch of the apse.234 If I apply my working hypothesis, I would say that the Pantocrator takes the place of a Maiestas Domini, similar to the one we see as in the churches of Strei and Streisângeorgiu. This would be justifiable if the conceiver of the iconographic programme made an interpretatio Graeca. Research was right to compare the murals of Alepochori (Fig. 34) with those of Taxiarchis-Dagla, Megali Avli, and the church of the Saviour in Megara, but there are more common features that need to be analysed. I do not argue that the alternance of red and blue is Western. Such a conjecture would be absurd. Yet there are many instances in Western art where this alternant background is used in the depiction of saints between columns and arcades.235 Red and blue alternate in many places – even in nature, for that matter – except that in our case it is strange that a similar alternance of red and blue appears in the depiction of other hierarch saints between columns and arcades in the sanctuary of the church of the Saviour in the fields to the north of Megara. And it is not restricted to the sanctuary. The arrangement continues, just as in Megali Avli, with more saints in the proximity of the church’s apse. Since this column and arcade pattern often transgresses the space of the sanctuary,236 perhaps that Megali Avli, Taxiarchis-Dagla, the church of the Saviour in Alepochori, and the other one from Megara manifest a shared influence. In the absence of a thorough research in pigment analysis (or an archaeographic research that could find out more about the painters’ technique), I am not inclined to ascribe their matching features to the same workshop. The painters of Megara do not have much in common with those who worked in the two Mesogeia churches, at least 234 Cf. Μουρίκη, Οι τοιχογραφίες. 235 See e.g. Paola Antonella Andreuccetti, ‘L’uso del colore nelle Madonne lignee e lapidee in Toscana’, in Marie-Pasquine Subes, Jean-Bernard Mathon (dir.), Vierges à l’Enfant médiévales de Catalogne. Mises en perspectives. Suivi du Corpus des Vierges à l’Enfant (XIIe–XVe s.) des Pyrénées-Orientales (Perpignan: Presses universitaires de Perpignan, 2013), fig. 1, for the depiction of a sculpture presenting five saints engaged in vivid conversation in the scene of the Presentation of Jesus to the Temple, depicted in the Basilica Inferiore of Saint-Francis, Assisi – chosen symbolically, because this chapter is dedicated to the Franciscans. 236 This happens in the Transylvanian church of Strei as well, where it is not limited to the scene with the Apostles.
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stylistically. Maybe they simply drew upon the same models. Speaking of such models, there is something else of note in the church of the Saviour in Megara and it may actually support the working hypothesis of a Latin church with a representation of an Apostles’ Colloquium in Attica. The murals of the Megara church date back to the second half of 13th century (just like the other three churches; Fig. 44–45), but are much more complex, occupy a much larger space, and have several distinctive features, including an over-abundance of Old Testament scenes that may be indicative of Western influences.237 237 For instance, there is nothing wrong in the space of the sanctuary proper (a Theotokos in the conch with hierarch saints below – one of them being Athanasius), but there is a curious distribution of subjects in the rest of the church. In the vault and on the upper walls of the north-western corner of the nave, there is an entire cycle of the life, miracles, and martyrdom of saint George, painted above his very large equestrian depiction killing the dragon. In the south-eastern corner, improperly referred to as diaconicon, there is a large cycle of saint Nicholas, while the vaults and upper walls of the so-called prothesis (the north-eastern corner of the nave), present a complex arrangement probably linked with the Eucharist: under a bust of Christ Emmanuel, one may see the sacrifice of Abraham, the Burning Bush, and the Hospitality of Abraham. I do not dare to propose an interpretation. The iconographic programme is judiciously crafted with perfectly Orthodox scenes, as the painters would be faithful disciples of Comnenian artists, but the curious assortment of so many Old Testament scenes is common in Western art. Cf. Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Tendenze stilistiche della pittura monumentale in Grecia durante il XIII secolo’, in XXXI Corso di cultura sull’arte ravennate e bizantina. Seminario Internazionale di Studi su La Grecia paleocristiana e bizantina. Ravenna, 7–14 aprile 1984 (Ravenna: Edizioni del girasole, 1984), 247, who also mentions the correct dating, but not the possible Western influences. The murals deserve a proper monographic study. I end my analysis here, before it begins, but I cannot refrain from noticing that the arrangement presents the worshipper with several pseudo-chapels in the space of the same church, playing on a complex set of ideas. For a description of the paintings of this church (sometimes dated to c.1200), see Karin M. Skawran, The Development of Middle Byzantine Fresco Painting in Greece (Pretoria: University of South Africa, 1982), 175–176. A naive monograph of the church was published by Μιχαήλ Χαριλ. Γκητάκος, Ό εν έλαιώνι των Μεγάρων βυζαντινός ναός τον Σωτήρος Χρίστου (Athens, 1953), but it contains so many errors that one would better avoid it. For other mentions, see also Ιωάννα Στουφή-Πουλημένου, Βυζαντινές εκκλησίες στον κάμπο των Μεγάρων (Athens: Αρμός, 2007); Νικόλαος Καλογερόπουλος, ‘Βυζαντινά μνημεία Μεγαρικής’, Νέα Εστία, 18 (1935), 758–767. The paintings of the church were very damaged by moisture and salt crystals (cf. Μ. Χατζηδάκης, s.v., ‘Ναός Μεταμορφώσεως Σωτήρος Ελαιώνος’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 21 (1966 = B1 Χρονικά), 20), and the same problems start to reappear. They were cleaned and fixed between 1963 (date of the preparation – see Π. Λαζαρίδης, s.v., ‘Βυζαντινός ναός Αγία Σωτήρα (Μεταμόρφωσις τον Σωτήρος)’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 17 (1962–1963 = B Χρονικά), 52, and fig. 53β) and 1966 (date of the report – see Παύλος Λαζαρίδης, s.v., ‘Μέγαρα: Ναός Σωτήρος’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 21 (1966 = B1 Χρονικά), 118, and fig. 114). More paintings are visible on the western exterior wall. Until 1983, they were protected by an extension of the church. It was demolished because it could have
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Some features are nevertheless easier to relate to. The columns, for instance, are knotted Byzantine columns, so the painter strived to adapt the model to his own cultural milieu. Perhaps he wanted to ‘Byzantinize’ the motif. Yet he had some problems. Elsewhere in the church, he used an ochre yellow colour for the spandrel panels of the arches between the saints (or blue, when the background was red, such as on the northern wall of the north-eastern corner; or dark brown, in combination with the same ochre yellow). In the sanctuary, on the other hand, which would be painted first, he made some experiments that did not go very well (Fig. 44). Above the two saints to the left, he painted the spandrel panels blue and their border red. Yet for the saints to the right, he tried to paint the border in the opposite colour to that of the background. The first saint had a red border because the background was blue, while the second one had a blue border, joined to the already blue spandrel panel, opposite the red background of the saint. I cannot know which ones were painted first (the ones to the left or the ones to the right), but the artist was evidently dissatisfied with the unpleasant visual effect, therefore he changed his mind and tried new solutions. Undecided, he probably continued his experiment on the northern wall of the prothesis corner (Fig. 45), until he finally found a solution and generalised the use of an ochre yellow pigment above the columns of the south-eastern corner, below the cycle of saint Nicholas. In the end, when he must have painted the military saints of the south-western corner of the church, he simply stuck to the alternate red and blue background, ditching the whole column pattern because the weapons of those saints would cross the spandrel panel motif. In my opinion, these recurrent second thoughts argue in favour of an earlier dating of the church of Saviour-Megara, and a later dating for those of Taxiarchis-Dagla, Megali Avli-Keratea, and Alepochori. I also believe that the painter of Megara had no intention of following slavishly a Latin model. He tried to adapt it. There are clues that point toward a careful choice of the ornamentation. Even though it had nothing to do with the painter, I would note that the altar table was crafted from a large spolium with a Latin inscription (the CIL III 546), perhaps from the funerary monument of a Roman army veteran.238 However, the text was displayed caused structural damages (cf. Αικ. Παντελίδου-Αλεξιάδου, s.v., ‘Μέγαρα: Ναός Σωτήρος στον Ελαιώνα’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 38 (1983 = B1 Χρονικά), 66, and fig. 31α). 238 CIL III 546: Q · CVRTIO · SALASSI I · POTHINO | EX TESTAMENTO ARBITRATV THEOPHRASTI ET [EV]ANGELI. The inscription was first transcribed by George Wheeler in the early 17th century, when he visited the church.
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in an upturned position, facing the eastern wall of the sanctuary, as if the stone mason deliberately avoided its possible pro-Uniate symbolism. It was probably the best piece of marble he had (he used marble from the same monument in the slab separating the south-eastern corner in order to create a diaconicon) and he placed it upon half a Roman votive altar, in order to create the altar table. The church was made of spolia, used mainly as angle-stones (one is also a tympanum for the southern entrance), so there was no intention to choose that Roman marble slab because of its symbolic meaning. But there would be an intention to display its text upside down, in order to avoid a possible Uniate connotation. At the end of this case study, I believe that these four churches create a coherent group linked with the influence of a Latin church of the region. Some of them borrowed only one of their model’s features – the red and blue alternance (Alepochori; Fig. 34) or the columns and arcades (Megali Avli-Keratea; Fig. 41), while others preserved both features (Megara and Taxiarchis-Dagla; Fig. 44–45, 43). In all likelihood, Alepochori took after Megara, while Megali Avli-Keratea took after Taxiarchis-Dagla. Or a mixture of these options. Either way, the church of the Saviour from the fields of Megara seems to be the most important knot in the whole group of paintings. They probably drew upon a now disappeared model and the most reasonable assumption is that such a model could exist in an urban area, where a greater Latin presence would be expected. The case of Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi points also to the possibility that other churches close to urban areas could equally be a probable source. And this is not all. In the following pages, I will argue that these four churches where not the only ones in Attica that had a connection with Latin influences operating at a lower cultural level, very similar to what happened in the 14th and 15th century churches of Transylvania. However, contrary to the Transylvanian cases, where Latin trends were adopted in an unashamed manner, the churches of Attica testify to a conscious choice of inconsequential Western features that never altered the coherence of the programme. Maybe because the land of Attica, evangelised by saint Paul, the land of Choniates, had many more readers of exegetical texts and much better trained painters than the remote valleys of the Carpathian Mountains, where the local Orthodox could adopt Latin cultural trends much easier. From a Catholic point of view, on the other hand, the difference between Attica and Transylvania would be negligible and Catholic missionaries would use the same ideas (or images) in their dealings with schismatics. The Franciscans who could be responsible for the Uniate ideas from the 14th century murals of Strei (especially for the use of
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Ecclesia militans imagery) simply imitated what their fellow men did in Greece in the 13th century. This does not mean that the model of the murals of Megara, Alepochori, Megali Avli-Keratea, and Taxiarchis-Dagla was a Franciscan church. It could be the church of any group of missionaries, on one condition: that it made use of the Apostles’ Colloquium and of the symbolism of its columns and arcades. Naturally, this could also happen in a monastic milieu. From what the story of Angelo tells us, what brought together Spiritual Franciscans and Orthodox monks was a likeness in the formal aspects of their daily routine, even though the actual meaning of their lives was very different. Angelo’s friars were similar in this aspect to the painters who had put a dove in a mandorla in Pyrgi (Fig. 36) or hierarch saints between columns and arcades in the churches of Attica. The Spirituals borrowed what they needed from Orthodox monasticism and adapted it to the specific nature of the Franciscan movement. They were part of a much larger group of people. There could be also priests as well as monks from other orders who did the same thing. The repeated contact at these somewhat lower levels of culture, not rurally low, but still underneath the high-prestige levels where scholars such as William of Morbeka crafted exquisite experiments, led to the emergence of weird artistic manifestations. In Athens, at the foothill of the Acropolis, hidden between restaurants, there is a church dedicated to Saint-John-the-Theologian in Plaka. Research argued that its “programme diverges so much from the established iconography of Orthodox churches that it seems to suggest total disorientation.”239 A horse jumps on the vault of the prothesis, with a military saint on its back opposite two unidentified martyrs with saints Constantine and Helen below (Fig. 46). Another horse performs great galloping deeds with another saint on his back in mid-register, on the northern wall of the sanctuary proper, below a group of Apostles in the usual Ascension scene (Fig. 47).240 At a first glance, 239 Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Επιπτώσεις της Δ ́ Σταυροφορίας στη μνημειακή ζωγραφική της Πελοποννήσου και της ανατολικής Στερεάς Ελλάδας έως τα τέλη του 13ου αιώνα / The Impact of the Fourth Crusade on Monumental Painting in the Peloponnesus and Eastern Central Greece up to the End of the Thirteenth Century’, in Panayotis L. Vocotopoulos (dir.), Byzantine Art in the Aftermath of the Fourth Crusade. The Fourth Crusade and its Consequences … / Η βυζαντινή τέχνη μετά την Τέταρτη Σταυροφορία. Η Τέταρτη Σταυροφορία και οι επιπτώσεις της … (Athens: Academy of Athens, Research Centre for Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Art, 2007), 86. 240 For a description of the church and its paintings during its restoration, see Ελένη Κουνουπιώτου-Μανωλέσσου, ‘Αθήναι: Άγιος Ιωάννης Θεολόγος, Εργασίαι στερεώσεως’, Αρχαιολογικά Ανάλεκτα εξ Αθηνών, 8 (1975), 143–148. Not all of the scenes were known at that date.
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there is enough material to suggest an utter disorientation indeed. If I were to cheat and simplify the issue, I would say that the horses of Athens were painted in the prothesis and in the sanctuary as a consequence of crusader rhetoric, but this explanation would be absurd, for not even crusader rhetoric can place in the same exegetic basket the Eucharist and a horse. There are occasional exceptions, like the late-medieval battle scenes featuring knights on horseback, depicted on the margins of a Maiestas Domini in the sanctuary of the church of Rochecorbon (Touraine, France), but I cannot argue that they may be compared to the Athenian case.241 One can hardly argue that these riders represent military saints. They are ornamental in nature, being closely linked to the marginalia of medieval manuscripts or the profane imagery of the velari dipinti.242 The other explanation – when times are hard, people pray for the protection of strong military saints – is not reasonable either, for there were proper places in the naves of churches where military saints were painted. With emphasis, if necessary. This means that the explanation must be searched elsewhere. Fortunately, there are some terms of comparisons to discuss. In the now ruined Panagia Arion of Filoti (Naxos), probably painted at the end of the 13th century, there used to be a white head of a horse on the southern wall of the sanctuary, perhaps from a representation of a military saint, but the state of the mural was so fragmentary that it is simply impossible to understand the
241 According to the database of the French Ministry of Culture, Médiathèque de l’architecture et du patrimoine (http://www.culture.fr/Ressources/Moteur-Collections. Accessed 2020 August 10), the murals from the sanctuary of the Rochecorbon church of Saint-George date back to the 15th century, but there are no studies about them and they could just as well be dated to the 14th century based on stylistic considerations (cf. Gaetano Curzi, ‘L’immagine del nemico. Arabi, Turchi e Mongoli nella propaganda crociata’, in Michele Bernardini et al. (dir.), Europa e Islam tra i secoli XIV e XVI/Europe and Islam between 14th and 16th Centuries (Naples: Istituto Universitario Orientale, 2002), 278, note 20, who includes this battle scene at the end of a list of 12th–13th representations). The only paintings of that were properly studied are the ones on the westernmost part of the northern wall, on account of their antecedence (12th (?) and 13th century) and possible links with the 11th century wooden roof of the Rochecorbon church. Cf. e.g. Frédéric Epaud, ‘Rochecorbon (Indre-et-Loire), église Saint-Georges. Une charpente du début du XIe siècle’, Bulletin monumental, 172/3 (2014), 195–202. 242 See e.g. Maria Antonietta Formenti, ‘I velari medievali dipinti in Valtellina. Lettura e confronto’, Porticum. Revista d’Estudis Medievals, 4 (2012), 9–28. For the influence of these Western velaria in Byzantine mural decorations, see Andrea di Giussepe, ‘Velaria picta albanica: un velario con aquila bicefala, cavaliere, aironi a Shën Andoni, Kepi i Rodonit (Sant’Antonio a Capo Rodone, Albania)’, Iliria, 41 (2017), 367–416.
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logic of this representation.243 Research compared this head to the depiction of two military saints on horseback in the monastery church of Drosiani (also Naxos). However, those depictions are not located in the sanctuary proper, but at its entrance. They belong to the third layer of that church’s mural decoration, being depicted in the lower register of the spandrel panels of the sanctuary arch. A comparison with the two equestrian saints from the church of Plaka was drawn,244 but no explanation was provided as to why there would be horses in the sanctuary. Furthermore, the attribution of the Plaka murals (as well as those from the first layer of the nearby church of Saint-Marina on Observatory Hill) to the same workshop who painted in Kalyvia-Kouvara and Spilia Penteli complicates everything. Research took an interest in “the rendering of the eyes, the contours of the face, [and] the linearity of the hair,”245 despite noting that “the rendering in the Plaka church is more linear, flatter, and more stylised.”246 To me, this apparently minor differences suggest a different dating, maybe later, in the second half or closer to the end of the 13th century, in accordance with the Naxos terms of comparison. The trouble with the Plaka murals is that there are only bits and pieces of fragmentary paintings here and there in that church. The precise logic of its decoration escapes me, yet I believe it could be related to the military connotations of Theotokos, to whom military saints were subordinated, as we already saw in the short analysis of the miracle of Prinitsa. This would suggest that the saints on horseback could be drawn into the sanctuary by a depiction of Theotokos,247 on one condition – that there were Latin influences in the paintings of the Plaka church. By that time, the Latin elite (William of Morbeka and others like him) had already experimented with Byzantine culture in the second half of the 13th century, creating Latin-Greek hybrids. Saint-John in Plaka and the Naxos churches nevertheless belong to a lower stratum of cultural interactions – as will be evident immediately, explaining thus why I did not use their example earlier. When choosing this option, I had doubts about the precise significance of the military saints in sanctuaries. That is because the 243 Cf. Ν.Β. Δρανδάκης, ‘Βυζαντινά και μεσαιωνικά μνημεία Κυκλάδων. Νάξος (α. Παναγία Αργιάς, β. Ναός Δροσιανής, γ. Παναγία Καλορείτσα). Σέριφος (Παναγιά)]’, Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον, 21 (1966 = Χρονικά), 401 (he does not provide any image from this church). 244 Αγγελική Δ. Μητσάνη, ‘Η μνημειακή ζωγραφική στις Κυκλάδες κατά το 13ο αιώνα’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 21 (2000), 97–98, especially note 42 of p. 98. 245 Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Relations’, 15. 246 Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Επιπτώσεις της Δ ́ Σταυροφορίας’, 86. 247 The current state of conservation of the only small fragment of painting from the sanctuary’s vault is so bad that I was able to see only faded colours and no actual shapes to interpret.
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situation is not restricted to Greece. Far to the north, in the Transylvanian land of Hatseg, not more than two kilometres away from the already-mentioned church of Strei, the first mural layer from the sanctuary of Streisângeorgiu (1313/1314) presents a similar arrangement. The Church Slavonic ktetorial inscription, painted in the sanctuary’s axis, is flanked by two hierarch saints, one of whom is identified by an inscription as saint Basil. On the lateral walls, on the other hand, the same register of paintings presents two large depictions of military saints on horseback,248 in a similar position to that from the Filoti church of Naxos. Since the time period is right, I am tempted to believe that the Greek arrangements might be related to the Transylvanian one. The only problem is that there is no Theotokos on the vault of Streisângeorgiu. There’s a Maiestas Domini surrounded by the tetramorph instead, meaning that this church could have a mixture of Western and Orthodox features in its iconographic programme, just like the one in Strei, nearby. Was this a cultural experiment originally tested in Greece and later spread to other lands where the Orthodox lived under Catholic rule? Can we be certain that this could originate in a Latin interpretation of the military values of Theotokos, perhaps in accord with the practice of decorating the lower registers of murals with depictions of horses and riders? I am not sure, but this is the only working hypothesis that I found. Maybe we will understand more when the 18th century murals from the upper register of paintings will be extracted from the sanctuary of Streisângeorgiu. The early 14th-century murals would be then visible in their entirety. Until then, this is all that I can say. But I am certain that holy military representations should not be placed in the same category. Little does it matter that there was a preference for the depiction of military saints in the Peloponnesus. Their meaning could not be much different. It is true that there are hundreds of horses painted in the churches of Mani, but they do not trot and hurdle their way into the sanctuary. The horses of Streisângeorgiu are so big that there is no place for anything else in the lower register of the lateral walls of the sanctuary. Those of Saint-John-in-Plaka are just as big, hurdling over the viewer’s head (Fig. 46–47). They were purposefully depicted so, to impress us, for a specific reason, according to a specific logic that still escapes us. I believe that an explanation may be found if we dig deep into exegetic texts and sermons, and most of all if we identify similar situations in the murals of other churches. 248 For the first layer of murals in Streisângeorgiu, see Anca Bratu, ‘Biserica ortodoxă Sf. Gheorghe din satul Streisângeorgiu’, in Vasile Drăguț (dir.), Pagini de veche artă românească, 5, Repertoriul picturilor murale medievale din România (sec. XIV-1450) (Bucharest: EARSR, 1985), 284–291, 293–296.
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This goes to say that there are moments when Western influences and the displacement caused by a Western presence in the Orthodox lands cannot be disentangled. Sometimes, one cannot even choose between them. Frankly, it is best not to try and disentangle them, for they may actually present both traits at once. Things become less foggy only when we move towards the upper strata of culture, which are not necessarily linked with urban milieus. And since I mentioned several times the Transylvanian church of Strei, I shall argue that such upper strata existed even in rural areas. In the Saint-Peter church close to Pyrgos Dirou in Inner Mani, for instance, research identified odd Western influences in an Anastasis scene dating back to the second half of the 13th century. There was no Mouth of Hell, a key element in most Western scenes, yet the absence of Christ’s mandorla and the depiction of red bands could be linked with the flames appearing in the Exultet iconography of this particular scene.249 The murals were dated to 1262–1270 based on stylistic grounds, even though a post-1274 would be preferable, given that an odd representation of a seated saint Peter appears on the southern wall adjacent to the iconostasis. The corresponding scene on the northern wall is yet uncovered, but it could be saint Paul, or maybe an important hierarch of the Byzantine church, according to a logic that I already noticed in the murals of the Strei sanctuary. The case of the late-14th century murals of Langada (Messenian Mani), where a curious emphasis is made through the depiction of saints Peter and Sylvester in the vault of the diaconicon and in that of the prothesis, testifies to the use of the same logic.250 Just for the sake of being clear, I will reaffirm that in the Transylvanian church of Strei, the disposition of the bishops in the dado-zone of the sanctuary, depicted against an ornamental curtain motif, pairs saint Peter with saint Callinicus, patriarch of Constantinople, martyred in Rome at the demand of an Eastern emperor. Four of the saints in that dado zone are accompanied by the depiction of church buildings, symbolically alluding to the presence of more than one Church and reinforcing the Uniate message. Even though the paintings from the rest of the church have perfectly Orthodox subjects, the iconography of the sanctuary is Catholic (Maiestas Domini with a tetramorph and the Colloquium of the Apostles between columns).251 249 Cf. Νικ. Γκιολές, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Πέτρου Πύργου Διρού στη Μάνη και η ιδιόμορφος εις Άδου κάθοδος’, Λακωνικαί Σπουδαί, 6 (1982), 145–148, 150–151. 250 Cf. Michalis Kappas, ‘Cultural exchange between East and West in the late FourteenthCentury Mani: The Soteras Church in Langada and a Group of Related Monuments’, online publication in the acts of the conference: Robert Ousterhout (dir.), Against Gravity: Building Practices in the Pre-Industrial World (Philadelphia: Center for Ancient Studies/ University of Pennsylvania, 2016, http://www.sas.upenn.edu. Accessed 2018 June 25). 251 Agrigoroaei, ‘Les peintures de Strei’.
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From this standpoint, both Strei and the church of Pyrgos Dirou may be compared to the second stratum of murals in the church of Merbaka, for they strive to reach higher cultural levels. The badly hammered paintings from the sanctuary of the Holy-Trinity church date back to the 14th or 15th centuries.252 Four scenes from the life of Mary were painted on the vault of the apse, but there are also many saints depicted there, most of them unidentified. Among those accompanied by inscriptions, the choices reflect a similar composition to the one in Strei. When entering the diaconicon from the sanctuary, below the Communion of the Apostles, one may see depictions of saints Cyril and Athanasius, patriarchs of Alexandria.253 On the opposite wall, below the now destroyed second part of the same Communion of the Apostles, the entrance of the prothesis is guarded by an unknown hierarch, ‘of Jerusalem’, and Gregory the Theologian (Nazianzen), patriarch of Constantinople.254 High above them, on the barrel vault of the sanctuary, there is the Ascension, as expected, and in the conch there would be the Theotokos, now covered by a portion of 20th century painting presenting the same theme.255 Unfortunately, the identity of the saints depicted in the sanctuary apse cannot be fathomed, as the murals are badly damaged (perhaps saints John Chrysostom and Basil).256 Maybe future restorations will reconstruct the inscription accompanying the saint hierarch to the right, who is in better shape. For the time being, I am interested in the 252 Cf. Coulson, ‘Birds in Paradise’, 162, who prefers a dating to the 14th century based on comparisons with the paintings of the Perivleptos in Mystras, or with the Afendiko paintings, also in Mystras. Another argument for this dating would be the presence of Dominican archbishops in the region in the 14th century, but the paintings themselves cannot be linked to a Dominican milieu. They belong to a later cultural context, much later than the initial edification campaign where the Dominican features are evident. Personally, I would not exclude the early 15th century. 253 Cf. Αιμ. Μπακούρου, s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα (πρ. Μέρμπακας)/Ναός Κοίμησης Θεοτόκου’, Αρχαιολογικό Δελτίο, 36 (1981 = B1. Χροsνικά), 143a–b: οι ιεράρχες άγιοι Κύριλλος και Αθανάσιος. 254 Identified by Αιμ. Μπακούρου, s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα (πρ. Μέρμπακας)/Ναός Κοίμησης Παναγίας’, Αρχαιολογικό Δελτίο, 35 (1980 = B. Χρονικά), 165b, as: ο άγιος Γρηγόριος, επίσης στον τύπο του συλλειτουργούντος ιεράρχη. Cf. Μπακούρου s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα’, 143b: ο Γρηγόριος και ο…. ο Ιεροσολύμων, συλλειτουργούντες. 255 Cf. Μπακούρου s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα’, 143a, who identifies the throne of Theotokos and the angels. 256 For this identification, see Μπακούρου s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα (πρ. Μέρμπακας)’, who locates him to the left, meaning North, saying nothing about the more visible saint silhouette to the right. Cf. p. 165b: (Στο βόρειο τμήμα της κάτω ζώνης της κόγχης του Ιερού ο άγιος Ιωάννης ο Χρυσόστομος, ολόσωμος, στον τύπο του συλλειτουργούντος ιεράρχη). Corrected by Μπακούρου s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα’, 143a: αριστερά ο Ιωάννης ο Χρυσόστομος και δεξιά ο Βασίλειος με πολυσταύρια φαιλόνια στον τύπο των ιεραρχών που συλλειτουργούν. Since I could not identify any traces of an inscription, I do not consider the identification of the two saints to be entirely valid.
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saints depicted in the prothesis.257 There, in the conch, saint Leo the bishop of Catania is represented in an orant position. Of the two saints represented below him, the one to the left is too badly damaged (perhaps saint Peter the Apostle), but the one to the right is saint Peter, bishop of Nafplio and Argos (Peter the Wonderworker, identified by an inscription). The rest of the saints on the northern wall are difficult to identify (perhaps saints Christopher, bishop of Nafplio and Argos, Gregory the Illuminator of Armenia, another Gregory, and an unknown saint), but many saints from the southern wall are identifiable: saint Stephen the Protomartyr, holding a censer; a certain saint Constantine, also bishop of Nafplio and Argos; and saint Clement of Rome, the fourth bishop and pope. Above on the same wall, six holy bishops are represented in medallions, and six more appear on the opposite (northern) wall. On the vault, several scenes from the life of Mary258 complete the iconographic programme. The iconography seems to be organised according to symmetrical arrangements, so it is most unfortunate that no murals are preserved in the diaconicon, where the walls are bare, completely deprived of ornamentation. The richness of paintings of the prothesis therefore invites to a certain prudence in the interpretation of the ensemble, because we lack the much-needed comparisons from the diaconicon. Previous research concentrated on the presence of so-called ‘classical motifs’, such as the small grisaille statues adorning the buildings visible in the backgrounds of the Life of Mary scenes or the two birds on either side of small plants, depicted against a ‘Pompeian red’ background. The idea was that this iconography would be suitable for a funerary arrangement, provided that the crypt below the sanctuary hosted a bishop. However, I do not believe that this should be linked with the translation of the relics of saint Peter of Argos from Argos to Nafplio in 1421. I cannot imagine this translation of relics ending up in Merbaka. There were enough significant churches to host the relics in Nafplio. Neither can I be sure that the birds painted in the sanctuary represent 257 See Coulson, ‘Birds in Paradise’, 161, who mentions only the paintings from the prothesis. 258 Cf. Μπακούρου s.v., ‘Αγία Τριάδα’, 143b: Στο τεταρτοσφαίριο της Πρόθεσης, στηθαίος ο ΑΓΙΟΣ ΛΕΩΝ ΕΠΙΣΚΟΠΟΣ ΚΑΤΑΝΗΣ σε δέηση. The inscription is not visible anymore. Cf. p. 143b: Στον ημικύλινδρο αριστερά ο απόστολος Πέτρος και δεξιά ο άγιος Πέτρος, επίσκοπος Ναυπλίου και Άργους. Cf. p. 143b: Στην ίδια ζώνη του βόρειου τοίχου, ο άγιος Χριστόφορος, επίσκοπος Ναυπλίου και Άργους, ο άγιος Γρηγόριος Αρμενίας, ο άγιος Γρηγόριος ο … και αδιάγνωστος άγιος. None of these inscriptions can be read today. Cf. p. 143b: Στην κάτω ζώνη του νότιου τοίχου της Πρόθεσης ο άγιος Στέφανος ο Πρωτομάρτυς, και ακόμη ολόσωμοι, ο άγιος Κωνσταντίνος, ο επίσκοπος Ναυπλίου και ο άγιος Κλήμης Ρώμης. Cf. p. 143b: Γέννηση της Θεοτόκου…, Κολακεία της Θεοτόκου, … ο Ιωακείμ φέρνει τη Θεοτόκο στην Τράπεζα των τριών ιερέων…, η Άννα καθισμένη στ’ αριστερά της σκηνής, υποδέχεται τη μικρή Μαρία που μπαίνει ορμητικά ακολουθούμενη από τη θεραπαινίδα.
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Paradise.259 The only thing that I retain from previous research is that there are some comparisons to be made with the Afendiko church in Mystras, especially in relation to the use of the representation of saint Sylvester in this other church’s prothesis, but this is will be dealt with in another study, some other time. For the time being, my hypothesis is that the symmetrical arrangement in the murals of Merbaka probably opposed a series of saints representing East and West, according to Uniate dogma. After this long and winding journey through so many (and diverse) representations from the churches of the second half of the 13th century and the next century, too, it is time to return to our Spirituals and draw the conclusion that, when Angelo Clareno’s brothers came to Latin-held Greece, the people of those lands were wavering culturally between conscious and unconscious experimentations with forms and meanings. All of these were the people that Angelo’s Spirituals must have met during their Greek days: people who were not necessarily very different from those of Italy. The poor peasants, average burgesses, their priests, and the painters who decorated their churches would be impressed by all sorts of Latin cultural trends coming from various social and cultural strata. The Spirituals could bring some of those ideas, the Observant Franciscans could bring other ones, the Fraticelli possibly contributed even more to this dialogue of cultures, because of their dissident stance, but there were also Latin priests, clergymen, and average Latin parishioners who could participate in the dialogue. There is no way to attribute the experiments of Megali Avli, Megara, Sotirianika, Plaka, or Polemitas to a particular group. Documentation is absent. Therefore, we shall not advance any conjecture. It is preferable to be conscious of all these alternative solutions and to imagine that each one of them could be responsible for this imitation game. Even the less obvious groups. It does not really matter that Spirituals spent little time in Greece. They were passionate about what they were doing and involved in a deep understanding of what Orthodox culture meant, especially its ascetical aspects. We should not underestimate their actions there.
…
Getting back to the story, there would be some light and warmth in that winter of Franciscan discontent. About the same time, immediately after the sentence of their excommunication was pronounced in Negroponte, an ‘angel of God’ 259 For the idea that the crypt was made in 13th century for a future translation of relics in the early 15th century, see Coulson, ‘Birds in Paradise’, 164. For the birds representing Paradise, see p. 165.
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came to the Spirituals (tanquam si angelus de celo venisset). He tried to make peace between them, Conventual Franciscans, and the secular and ecclesiastical powers (modum aliquem invenire unitatis et concordie, per quem consopirentur scandala clero et secularibus ex eorum persecucione exhibita).260 This holy old man (sanctus ille iam senex) was Giacomo da Monterubbiano (Iacobum de Monte),261 vicar of the Orient (Armenia, Georgia, and Persia). He stayed with the Spirituals for a while, noted that they were innocent of the charges brought against them, and absolved them provisorily. Following his advice, the Spirituals sent envoys to Rome, some of whom were caught and imprisoned by other Franciscans (so that their message does not reach the pope), but eventually Liberato returned to Italy and soon the whole group followed him there. In the end, what we learn from their story is that the Latin-occupied Greek lands functioned as a periphery of the Western world, where all sorts of things could happen. The Palaeologan recovery of some areas did not stop this cultural process. Many others Westerners continued to seek shelter in the close contact with Orthodoxy. This may be one of the reasons why Lollards and Hussites came to Constantinople at the beginning of the 15th century.262 They must have known that other, such as the Spirituals and Fraticelli, had taken refuge in the arms of the Orthodox. Back in Western Europe, the Spirituals’ tribulations never really ended. A compromise was found after 1317. Angelo Clareno was transferred to the Celestines and Ubertino da Casale to the Benedictines. This gave them a sense of protection, for they were far from the control of the Franciscan leaders who did not look well upon their ideas of reform. Angelo also wrote the story of their tribulations, upon which I largely based my story. Did he know what had happened in the Greek lands in the years that followed their departure? Maybe Angelo knew, because the pope himself saw it as a disaster. By that time, Attica, Boeotia, and sometimes even parts of Euboea were in the hands of Catalan Company. Little had the Spirituals turned back to Italy that a 260 Denifle, Ehrle eds., Archiv 1886, 317–318. 261 Cf. David Burr, Spiritual Franciscans: From Protest to Persecution in the Century After Saint Francis (University Park PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2001), 187. 262 See the case of the Englishman Peter Payne, known as Constantinos Platris or TzesesAnglikos (‘the English Czech’) in Greek sources. Probably a Lollard, he was the representative of the Utraquist Hussites who were trying to achieve a possible union with the Orthodox Church against the Catholic pope. Cf. Milada Paulová, ‘L’empire byzantin et les Tchèques avant la chute de Constantinople’, Byzantinoslavica, 14 (1953), 158–225. There were also Lollards who came to Constantinople before him, in 1390–1391, presumably for similar reasons (see the funerary slab of John Clanvow and William Nevil). Cf. Jonathan Harris, ‘Manuel II Palaiologos (1391–1425) and the Lollards’, The Greek Orthodox Theological Review, 57/1–4 (2012), 213–234.
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hailstorm descended upon the duchy of Athens in force. I shall use this other story as a sort of epilogue. A horde of Catalan mercenaries and their Turkish allies had not been paid by the duke of Athens and decided to turn against him. They had arrived there from the lands of the Byzantines, for whom they fought previously, and against whom they also ended up fighting a couple of years before. Walter of Brienne had recently become duke of Athens (1308–1311), but he was stingy and also suffered from pride. He cheated his Catalan mercenaries and decided that it was better to confront them on the battlefield. In his folly, duke Walter led the finest flower of Latin chivalry in a charge against the Catalan lines in the swamp of Halmyros. He lost. The Catalans chased after the golden spurs of Walter’s knights, picked them up one by one and killed them in the bog. Their Turkish allies joined in and killed as many knights as they could. Thomas of Salona, the lord of the island where the Spirituals had lived at the turn of the century, breathed his last that day. Alongside Walter and Thomas died many other lords of the land. Twenty years later, the Catalan chronicler Muntaner bragged that only two of the seven hundred Latin knights survived that battle, yet he was clearly speculating on the margins of the tales that had reached him. Anthony le Flamenc, the ktetor of Akrefnio (Fig. 35b), survived, even though he participated in that battle. Many others also survived and took refuge either in Euboea or across the Isthmus, in the Peloponnesus. Ramon Muntaner also bragged that the Catalans “gave the [widowed] noble ladies in marriage to the members of the Company, to each according to his degree, and to some they gave ladies of such high nobility that these men were not worthy enough to pour water over their hands.”263 This was greatly exaggerated, but it gives us a measure of the disaster’s magnitude. Perhaps this is symbolically evident in the story of the Catalans who destroyed the beautiful hall of Thebes where lord Nicholas used to enjoy looking at the murals about the First Crusade. Attica and Boeotia were no longer under the direct sway of the French. The only lands still controlled by the family of the Athenian dukes were Corinth and Argolid. 1311 is just as significant as 1205 for the cultural history of the Latin-held lands. By the time the Halmyros disaster happened, the numbers of French nobility had already started to decrease. Most of the old noble families were gradually dying out and their fiefdoms passed into different hands. The towns also flourished. This meant that they were populated with more and more Italians.264 People from Venice, from the Kingdom of Naples, and other parts 263 See Hughes trans., The Catalan Expedition, 149 (translation). For the original text, see Lanz ed. Cronik, 431. 264 Tzavara, Clarentza, passim.
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of Italy had settled in Attica and in Morea by the turn of that century. Their numbers were steadily growing. Euboea had also been Venetian since the time of its conquest, for the Veronese were part of the Venetian circle of influence. Even the pure French of Morea ceased to be actual Frenchmen. By 1300, they came from Naples. Writing in French was still fashionable, as it was fashionable in Italy as well. Marco Polo had dictated his memoirs to Rustichello of Pisa in a Genoese prison after 1298, at the time when the Spirituals were running to hide in Greece. And Rustichello also wrote a book in French, for this was the language that he used in his other works. It was an Arthurian compilation based on the story of Palamedes, to which I will return again and again in the next chapters, when I will speak about its Demotic Greek translation. Back in Venice, Martino da Canal wrote the story of his city in an awful form of French (c.1275). He said that French language travelled through the world and was the most enjoyable to read and hear of all the other languages.265 And in the Kingdom of Naples, those who transcribed and painted manuscripts like London, British Library, Royal 20 D I, were also Italians, even though the language of the codex was French. All sorts of French texts were written in Italy during the 13th and 14th centuries, from Venetian lands (including Verona) to Tuscany and further south to Naples as well.266 1311 marks an official terminus ad quem for the presence of direct French cultural influences in the Latin-held Greek lands. In the next two chapters, the last ones of the book, everything will have to do more with Italian cities or with the Angevins of Naples than with France. French culture, when its traces will be identified, comes mostly from Italy. 265 For the original text from Martin da Canal’s Estoires de Venise, see the edition of Alberto Limentani (ed.), Martin da Canal: Les estoires de Venise, cronaca veneziana in lingua francese dalle origini al 1275 (Florence: L.S. Olschki, 1972 = edizione digitalizzata a cura di Francesca Gambino, marcatura digitale a cura di Luigi Tessarolo), i: porce que lengue franceise cort parmi le monde et est la plus delitable a lire et a oïr que nule autre. Martin had a similar motivation to that of Brunetto Latini and other Italians who wrote in French, with the exception that Martin was never in France or at an Outremer court. Cf. Sandro Baffi, ‘Martino da Canale: motivations politiques et choix linguistiques’, in François Livi (dir.), De Marco Polo à Savinio. Écrivains italiens en langue française (Paris: Presse de l’Université Paris-Sorbonne, 2003), 37. Franco-Italian was a mistilingua, a contamination between the Venetian Koiné vernacular and the French literary models, but Martin wrote in a better language, much closer to French. Baffi, ‘Martino da Canale’, 38. 266 See e.g. D’Arco Silvio Avalle, ‘Richerche di letteratura medievale francese in Italia’, in Convegno Letterature straniere neolatine e ricerca scientifica (18–20 maggio 1978, Accademia della Crusca) (Rome: Bulzoni, 1980), 221–229; Cesare Segre, ‘La letteratura franco-veneta’, in Enrico Malata (dir.), Storia della letteratura italiana (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 1995), 631–647.
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Yet this also means that there were prestigious and less prestigious types of French. We see it very early, since the 12th century, when Anglo-Norman writers of England were excusing themselves for their bad use of the French language.267 This gradation continued to exist in the 13th and 14th centuries, when Italians became more and more involved in the writing of French texts. The echoes of such cultural prejudices tumbled down through the Kingdom of Naples, recently conquered by the Angevin French, and through Morea as well. Duke Walter’s pride was probably the pride of a pure French lineage. It is therefore highly possible that something else would link the Spirituals (and other Franciscans, for that matter) to the Greeks of Attica and Boeotia: a common loathing of the French. We do not know many French Franciscans in Greece in those times. One of the last ones to be mentioned is a quidam frater Gallicus who lived in Greece and went to Paris in c.1284, in the time of a great sickness.268 The majority of the Franciscans of Greece were of an Italian origin. Since the situation in the Kingdom of Naples was not different from the one in Morea, this would explain a comment inserted by Salimbene of Adam after some events of 1287. In that comment, he started a long diatribe against the French. According to him, “the French are very arrogant, fatuous, horrid, and damnable; they despise all nations in the world, especially the English and the Lombards, and among Lombards they include all Italians, everyone on this side of the Alps. But in truth they deserve to be despised themselves, and they are despised by everybody.” We should not extrapolate, of course. This was Salimbene’s own wounded pride that spoke through the words of his chronicle. Yet there were many among his fellow Franciscans who shared this opinion, and certainly many among the Italians. Next, Salimbene compared the French to vagabond mendicants and quoted a poem in Macaronic Latin to exemplify their hubristic pride.269 This pride was a well-known trait of the French stereotype since the 12th century. It had already appeared in the Anglo-Norman parody of the Voyage of Charlemagne, so maybe the pride of duke Walter of Brienne was nothing else than a stereotype. In all probability, the Catalan conquest of Attica and Boeotia is a little different than what the chronicles let us know. However, cultural history is a history of many subjective points of view. We should pay attention to Salimbene’s words. They cannot be so idiosyncratic after all. 267 See e.g. Christopher Lucken, ‘Le beau français d’Angleterre. Altérité de l’anglo-normand et invention du bon usage’, Médiévales, 68 (2015), 35–56. 268 For the original text, see Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 2:754. 269 For the translation, I quoted from Henry Dwight Sedgwick, Italy in the Thirteenth Century (Boston/New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1912) 2:135, which I prefer, even though the passage is incompletely translated. For the original text, see Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 2:950.
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Salimbene says that after the French have drunk well, they think they can conquer and cover the whole world with one blow. Yet they are wrong, as the sinners of the Old Testament. Next, Salimbene tells us that they are very arrogant and oppress the natives of the southern kingdom [i.e. Naples], as well as the Tuscans and Lombards who live there. This was not very different from what had happened in the Greek lands. For they took food without paying for it – wheat, wine, milk, fish, flesh, capons, geese, chickens, everything eatable. And they were not only not satisfied with not paying the people for what they take, but sometimes they lay on load and hurt them badly. In saying so, Salimbene mistook the specific for the general, but this is a human error, for so do many of our peers. ‘One instance will make this plain. A certain man, a native of Parma, had a very handsome wife who asked a Frenchman to pay for the geese which she had sold him; he not only refused to pay but even wounded her severely. He hit her one blow so hard that there was no need of a second, and then asked if she wished him to hit her again. When her husband heard this, he was half wild, and no wonder, because up to that time she had been erect and beautiful, but after the blow she was bent crooked all her life’. Thus, the rule of the French had always been the most arrogant and cruel of all rules. As the Lord said it in Isaiah 52:5, ‘They that rule over them [My people] make them to howl, […] and My name continually every day is blasphemed’.270 Salimbene could not stand these people, these sinners. In a previous passage, he tells us that “the eyes of the French are suffused with red, because from their excessive drinking their eyes become bleary and crossed, and rheumy. Thus, very early in the morning they have the habit of rising up from their wine bleary-eyed, making their way to the priest who celebrated Mass, and asking him to rinse their eyes in the holy water in which he has washed his hands. To such men, when he was a priest in Provins, brother Bartholomew Guiscolo of Parma used to say, as I have heard him say many times: Alé! Ke mal onta ve don Dé! Metti de l’aighe in le vins, non in lis ocli, which is to say ‘Get out of here! May God punish you! Put the water in your wine when you have to drink, not in your eyes!’”271 In order to understand Salimbene’s loathing of the French, we must see it for what it really was. It was not very different from the European loathing of the US citizens in the current day. This loathing is born out of the sharp 270 For this translation, adapted by me, since it lacked some of the original ideas, see Sedgwick, Italy, 135–136. For the original text, see Salimbene, in Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 2:950–951. 271 For the translation, see Joseph L. Baird, Giuseppe Baglivi, John Robert Kane (trans.), The Chronicle of Salimbene de Adam (Binghamton NY: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1986). For the original text, see Scalia ed., Salimbene de Adam 1:316.
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contrast between the political or military might and the alleged inferior cultural status in comparison with the old European elite. This means that, on the whole, the loathing is more of an aesthetic feeling. Loathers often write their pamphlets in English and enjoy many American categories of culture. In my opinion, Salimbene’s hatred followed more or less the same path. It happened to Benvenuto da Imola as well, at the end of the 14th century. He wrote a commentary of Dante’s Comedy. When he arrived at the 29th Canto, Benvenuto rambled about three verses of Dante (“I to my Poet: ‘When was there so light | A people as the Sienese? By far | The French are less so […]’”).272 Benvenuto said that the French were the vainest among all nations and they had been vain since the times of Antiquity. He had found proof of this in the old writings, but the current situation proved it all the more. The French invented new habits and new fashion trends every day, for each and every one of the body parts: chains to the neck, bracelets on the arms, stiletto heels on their shoes, short attires (to display their arses, the obscenest part of the body, without any shame), all while using a hood to cover the face (the most honest part of the body, which needs to be seen). And so on and so forth. Benvenuto was greatly amazed and outraged when he saw Italian noblemen taking after these ways, speaking the French language, and arguing that no other language could match the beauty of French. For Benvenuto, all this was absurd. French was a bastard language born out of Latin.273 Salimbene and Benvenuto probably did not mind French literature itself. They possibly spoke a little bit of French as well. Their contemporaries also wrote in French, because French was second to Latin, but Salimbene and Benvenuto do not speak about literary trends. What they did not like was French self-importance. They regarded the French as culturally inferior and consequently looked for any example that could confirm their biased view of the world. This explains why French culture continued to exert a strong influence upon the Greek lands long after the actual French were gone, for the Italians had become partly French. However, this also means that the year 1311 was not so bad from an Italian Franciscan’s point of view. Now, when the battle of Halmyros was over, the rule of the French ended in central Greece. It gradually ended even in the principality of Achaea, their greatest fiefdom, where 272 See Clive James (trans.), Dante: The Divine Comedy (London: Picador/Macmillan, 2013), for the translation. For the original text, see Anna Maria Chiavacci Leonardi (ed.), Dante Alighieri: La Divina Commedia. Inferno, Milan, Mondadori, 1991, 877: E io dissi al poeta: ‘Or fu già mai | gente sì vana come la sanese? | Certo non la francesca sì d’assai! ’ 273 For the original text used in this paragraph, see G.W. Vernon, J.P. Lacaita (eds.), Benevenuti de Rambaldis de Imola Commentum super Dantis Aldigherii Comoediam, 5 vols (Florence: Barbera, 1887) 2:409–410.
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the French were decreasing in numbers day by day. A large majority of the townsfolk of Achaea spoke the idioms of the Italian Peninsula. In spite of desperate trials to save appearances by building bombastic narratives such as the Chronicle of Morea, French myth-making did not leave a profound trace in the cultural life of the land. The early 14th-century origin stories of the local noble houses slowly but surely vanished into thin air. Italian clergymen were everywhere. Italian merchants trekked the roads of Greece. Italian writers wrote stories about Greeks. The time of the Italians had come, but those Italians were already French in spirit.
the sixth tale
Melusine Goes to Mystras Peter Bersuire discussed all sorts of fairies in his prologue to the fourteenth chapter of the Reductorium morale (1342). That book was a sort of biblical encyclopaedia, but ended up being an encyclopaedia of everything. When he discussed fairies, he built on a list borrowed from the Otia imperialia of Gervase of Tilbury. In one of those stories, count Raymond of Rousset, living close to Aix-en-Provence, was said to have married a beautiful fairy with whom he made a pact: he would never see her naked, or misfortune would follow. After a while, he looked at her while she was bathing, the lady turned into a serpent, and vanished without a trace in the water. The riches she had brought him vanished with her as well. For the Benedictine monk Peter, this tale resembled one from his native region of Poitou. It was the story of the castle of Lusignan, built by a knight married to another fairy. That fairy had given birth to great men, chief among whom were the kings of Jerusalem and Cyprus, as well as the counts of the March and Parthenay. And the fairy from Poitou tale was also seen naked by her husband. She turned into a serpent, but the unnamed Melusine did not take her riches with her. Instead, rumour had it that she hid in the castle and showed herself in the guise of a snake each time when the castle had a new lord.1 1 See the original text in Pierre Bersuire, Reductorium morale (Paris: Claude Chevallon, 1521), prologue to book XIV (without page numbers): Addit etiam de Fadis/ quod pulcherrime mulieres videbantur/ amplexus maritales cum hominibus querentes/ quod femine esse credebantur: quas quamdiu viri celabant/ secretaque sua non revelabant: prosperitate maxima perfruebantur. Si vero ipsa perdebant/ vel pacta quae erant inter eos violabant: ipse in serpentes convertebantur: et ab eorum oculis evanescentes/ numquam ab ipsis amplius videbantur: ipsos vero maritos mox infortunia sequebantur/ sicut exemplificat de Raimundo domino castri de Ruseto in provincia Aquensi qui inventam Fadam pulcherrimam cum tali pacto in uxorem duxit: quod eam nudam nullo pacto videre presumeret. quia sic in coniugio perseverante/ et marito in omnibus prosperante post multa tandem temporum curricula ipsam in balneo nudam videre voluit: quod ut factum est/ statim ipsa in serpentem mutata/ immisso sub aquam capite/ recessit et evanuit: simulque tota militis prosperitas abiit et defecit. In mea vero patria Pictavia fama est castrum illud fortissimum de Lisiniaco eadem fortuna per quendam militem cum fada coniuge fundatum fuisse: et de fada ipsa copiosam nobilium et magnatum originem suscepisse: et exinde reges Iherusalem/ et Cypri/ necnon comites Marchie: et illos de Pertiniacho originaliter processisse. Fada tum visa nuda a marito/ in serpentem mutata esse fertur. Et adhuc fama est quod quando castrum istud mutat dominum/ serpens ille in castro videtur. There are no modern editions of this text and I could not find a manuscript suitable for consultation, so I had to use one of the early prints.
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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Isabella was nine or ten years old when Peter Bersuire wrote this particular version of the Melusine story.2 One year earlier, she had been betrothed to Manuel Cantacuzene, son of the grand domestic of the Byzantine emperor, John Cantacuzene, who would later be emperor himself. By that time, Isabella would be living in the Byzantine Empire (Constantinople, Thessalonica, or Serres) and her father became king of Armenia that same year (1342). Ten-yearolds have a vague idea of self-concept. By the time they become early adolescents, they already toy with several ‘possible selves’. It would be safe to assume that the legend of Melusine the serpent-fairy could play a role in the shaping of Isabella’s character as a teenager. But it is difficult to say if Isabella felt more French (on account of her father Guy) or Greek (on account of her mother, Theodora Syrgianni). She probably did not ask herself such existential questions and simply felt like she belonged to both worlds at once. As for the story of Melusine, it was not necessarily new. It was a reworking into the Lusignan family genealogy of a folk tale well-known from earlier texts.3 There is no way to tell when exactly the legend had started, nor when it was first mentioned in connection with the Lusignan, but it undoubtedly started before 1342, developed orally, and took a literary form much later, in 1392–1393, when John of Arras wrote his celebrated tale of Melusine or the ‘Noble history of the Lusignan’. 2 Unless specifically quoted or indicated in the footnotes, this tale is fashioned after Ασπασία Λούβη-Κίζη, Η φράγκικη πρόκληση στον βυζαντινό Μυστρά: Περίβλεπτος και Παντάνασσα (Athens: Ακαδημία Αθηνών, 2019), 53–72. Cf. Nicholas Coureas, ‘Lusignan Cyprus and Lesser Armenia, 1195–1375’, Επετηρίς του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών, 21 (1995), 33–71; Claude Mutafian, ‘Léon V Lusignan, un preux chevalier et/ou un piètre monarque’, in Les Lusignans et l’Outre-Mer. Actes du colloque Poitiers-Lusignan, 20–24 octobre 1993, auditorium du Musée Sainte-Croix Poitiers (Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, 1993), 201–210; Peter W. Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 1191–1374 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 142–143; Wipertus Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les Lusignans de Chypre: généalogie compilée principalement selon les registres de l’Archivio Segreto Vaticano et les manuscits de la Biblioteca Vaticana’, Επετηρίς του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών, 10 (1979–1980), 229–231; Donald M. Nicol, The Byzantine Family of Kantakouzenos (Cantacuzenus), ca. 1100–1460. A Genealogical and Prosopographical Study (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1968), 122, 124, 127; Stéphane Binon, ‘Guy d’Arménie et Guy de Chypre; Isabelle de Lusignan à la cour de Mistra’, Annuaire de l’Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales et Slaves, 5 (1937 = Mélanges E. Boisacq, I), 125–142; D.A. Zakythinos, ‘Une princesse française à la cour de Mistra au XIVe siècle. Isabelle de Lusignan Cantacuzène’, Revue des Études Grecques, 49/229 (1936), 62–76 (in light of the corrections of Binon, ‘Guy d’Arménie’). 3 Jacques Le Goff, Emanuel Le Roy Ladurie, ‘Mélusine maternelle et défricheuse’, Annales Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations, 26/3–4 (1971), 587–622, who deal with the texts of Walter Map, Gervais of Tilbury, and Vincent of Beauvais.
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Young Isabella could know a version of this family tale. She would learn it either from her father Guy/Gosdantin II king of Lesser Armenia (1342–1344), or from another family member after the death of her father in 1344. Five years later, in 1349, her mother could take her to Cyprus, to claim part of her inheritance. Isabella would be a teenager by then. If she went to Cyprus (a sheer assumption), she would be living in a French world, so she could expand on the old legend, crossing it with Arthurian stories and historical data much in the same way as John of Arras did fifty years later. Yet no one would ever know if Melusine would be the self that she feared or the one that she adored. Adolescence is a time of psychological confusion. The teenager desperately tries to embrace an ideal self, away from the feared image of what she or he does not want to become. During her puberty and adolescence, Isabella would play. For instance, she would play a game knights and damsels. Maybe not knights in shining armour. Perhaps princes in long tunics embroidered in gold, silver, with pearls, and dressed in rich mantles. Such a prince would be brave, good-looking, and well-mannered. She would imagine that her father Guy was still alive, but gravely wounded, since the story needed a happy-end. Father would need help against fierce Saracen enemies. Thus, the prince would come to their land, his presence would be announced at the palace, and she would ask ‘the bearer of these tidings’ in a scenario that could be identical to the one imagined by John of Arras, from whom I quote the following lines, commenting and adapting them to Isabella’s tale: “– [Is he] handsome?” Of course. The prince would be dashingly handsome. “– Friend, [she would say], are you returning to [him] straightaway? – Indeed, mademoiselle, just as soon as I get a chance to leave the city and can see my way clear to avoid capture by the Saracens. – Then greet the young [gentleman] on my behalf. Present this brooch and bid him wear it for love of me. – Very well, mademoiselle.” The messenger would reach the prince and say: “– The fairest, most noble maiden in this realm sends you her greetings and offerings. Handing [him] the golden brooch, inlaid with jewels, he [would continue]: – Here, sir, receive this clasp from the daughter of our king, who asks that you wear it for love of her. [The prince] accepted it gladly: – My warmest thanks to this maiden who does me such honour. I shall cherish it for love of her. My thanks also to the bearer.
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Then the trumpet sounded, and off they went.” Escorted by the brave knights of Rhodes (also from the tale of John of Arras), the prince would fight fierce Saracens, save the kingdom, and then come to see her and her family, while her father was still alive. The prince and his retainers would “dismount at the castle, and go up into the main hall.” She, “who was eagerly awaiting his arrival, [would meet him and] curtsy gracefully to her father, who [would tell] her: – My daughter, give these nobles a warm welcome.” “Overjoyed, the maiden [would take the prince] by the hand, saying: – Young lord, I bid you welcome to my father’s realm. – Thank you very much, young lady, he would reply. The festivities [would begin] with a lavish banquet featuring many fine foods, and all while [the two of them would] engage in gracious conversation.” But her father’s wound would not heal. Knowing that he would die, the king would turn to the prince and say: “– Noble knight, let me now remind you that you granted me a boon, yet I shall request nothing of yours nor anything of your patrimony. – You may ask with confidence, my lord, he [would reply], and if it is something that I can do, then I shall do it for you. – I thank you, sire, said the king, and know that in what I am about to request of you, I am in fact giving you a noble gift. For I am asking that you be pleased to take my daughter as your wife, and all my kingdom, which I hereby relinquish. He [would have] the crown brought in secretly and now he [would raise] it, saying: – Take it, [noble prince], do not refuse my request. The barons of the realm [would be] moved to tears of both joy and sorrow.” Later on, “kneeling beside the king’s bed, [the prince would take] the crown and place it in [Isabella’s] lap with these words: – Demoiselle, this is yours, and since this has come to pass, I shall help you defend it, God willing, against all who would usurp it!”4 4 The quotations are taken from the English translation of the Mélusine by John of Arras. Three scenes were used for the creation of this teenage fantasy: Hermine, daughter of the king of Cyprus, learns about Urian of Lusignan’s arrival (Donald Maddox, Sara Sturm-Maddox (trans.), John of Arras, Melusine; or the Noble History of Lusignan (University Park PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012), 82, 84); the meeting between Florie, daughter of the king of Armenia, and Guyon of Lusignan (p. 101); and the scene in which Urian and his brother Guyon arrive at the court of Cyprus after having defeated the Saracens, with Urian
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After the wedding ceremony, the prince would take her into his arms and give her sweet kisses. But he would not be allowed to see her naked when she took a bath. Her snake tail would be hidden. It would be her magical secret. Nobody would have to know. This would be a repetitive game in the life of a young girl whose mother was desperate to marry her into a good family, to offer her protection. Isabella’s constant preoccupation with wealth and fiefdoms became a sort of obsession later in her life. I believe that this may be due to an uneasy childhood and to her mother’s desperate efforts to ensure her status and protection. It probably happened because her initial engagement to Manuel Cantacuzene did not last very long. Civil war started in Byzantium, the engagement was broken, and Manuel was betrothed to a Serbian princess. Isabella therefore grew up anxiously looking for a prince. Her mother, Theodora Syrgianni, had always been worried about their status, for fear that they could easily lose everything. When Guy, Isabella’s father, went to Armenia, Theodora feared that his absence endangered them. She could persuade her husband to write a letter to the pope on 12 April 1344, in which the soon-to-be-killed king of Lesser Armenia asked Clement VI (1342–1352) to recognize his marriage to Theodora. The problem was that his dear wife Theodora was a distant relative of his first wife, from the family of the Cantacuzenes, and there could also have been confessional issues at stake. Fortunately, the pope was kind enough to accept Guy’s request. He sent letters to the archbishop of Nicosia and bishop of Paphos in which he named Theodora as queen of Lesser Armenia. Isabella became a protegee of the pope. The issue at stake were Guy’s rights in Cyprus, and this became evident three years after his death. On 30 June, 1347, the pope himself wrote to the king of Cyprus that Isabella’s mother Theodora was seeking a suitable husband for her daughter. King Hugh IV had to take good care of them and restore to them some estates in Cyprus. After two more years, Isabella was still not married, so the pope reiterated the demand on 26 February 1349. Research argues that by that time Isabella could have lived in Cyprus already.
meeting Hermine (p. 97). For the original text, see Jean-Jacques Vincensini (ed.), John of Arras: Mélusine ou la noble histoire de Lusignan, roman du XIVe siècle. Nouvelle édition critique d’après le manuscrit de la bibliothèque de l’Arsenal avec les variantes de tous les manuscrits, traduction, présentation et notes (Paris: Le livre de poche/Lettres gothiques, 2003), 332, 334; 338; 394, 396; 380, 382; 382.
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Meanwhile, the Serbs chased Manuel from Veria by 1347, his father became Byzantine emperor the same year, and Manuel was entrusted with the defence of Constantinople during the Genoese War of 1348–1349. Soon after, on 25 October 1349, Isabella’s former fiancé became despot of Morea, a ruler in his own right. Maybe Isabella heard news about Manuel’s trip to Mystras. Perhaps she would remember the childish games of princesses and princes that girls used to play. Years passed. She remained unmarried. The pope also died in 1352. From a medieval standpoint, Isabella was a mature woman by then. She had twenty-two or twenty-three years old. When, all of a sudden, unbeknownst to us but well known to Isabella, who probably spared no effort in her search of a suitable husband, the situation changed. She was married to none other than her former betrothed, Manuel Cantacuzene. This would happen in 1355.5 The young lady knew they would make a handsome couple. Manuel was only six or seven years older than her. There was a small problem, on account of her being Catholic (and on account of her French upbringing), especially after the Council of Blachernae (1351), which had put an end to the quarrel between Hesychasts and Barlaamists, declaring Palamism as the official doctrine of the Church and refusing any influence of Western scholastic theology. We do not know how well trained in such matters was Isabella, but she was unquestionably better trained than the author of this book. And she knew that she was joining a difficult family, with an odd recent history. Manuel’s brother Matthew had been made co-emperor in 1353 and he was still co-emperor by the time Isabella went to Mystras, but her father-in-law, John VI Cantacuzene had abdicated at the end of the previous year (1354), becoming a Palamite monk under the name of Josaphat Christodoulos. Yet he was (and the members of his family were) on very good terms with people like Demetrius Kydones, a chief adversary of Palamism, so we should not simplify the general picture. It was a curious family, oscillating between East and West, with most of its members strongly orientated on the Hesychast side. Isabella surely knew that she had to make concessions. She knew that she had to speak Greek in the new capital of the Peloponnesus. Maybe she feared that her Greek would be too provincial, with traces of the Cypriot dialect, since she did not practice the good Greek of the capital for quite some time. Therefore, she certainly wished to compensate somehow, trying to remember what her mother Theodora had taught her about life in the Byzantine lands.
5 Research often dates this marriage a little bit earlier (some date it even back to 1349), but I prefer to play safe and follow the interpretation of Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les Lusignans’, 230.
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Times were changing. The lands were changing with them. Ottomans set foot on European soil in 1354, when they occupied parts of the Gallipoli Peninsula. To the North, but closer, the once-powerful Epirote centre of Arta was gradually fading. Ioannina, a new centre, was taking its place.6 In Morea, the Latins had lost many lands. The Byzantine despotate was slowly but surely advancing. Such were the times when Isabella set foot for the first time in Morea. She probably arrived in Monemvasia, the local hub, and admired the impressive rock rising from the sea with a fortress on top. She would slowly climb the serpentine road to its top, to pray in the church of Saint-Sophia. A little bit later, during her trip inland, she would taste the summer oranges of Skala. The next day, her travelling party would reach the valley of Evrotas. One afternoon, she would see the ruins of ancient Sparti. Then Mystras in the evening, hidden in the shadow of the mountain, with a red sun setting behind the Taygetos range. Her betrothed would welcome her with pomp and pageantry at the foot of the mountain. It would be already late in the evening, so they would eat and go to sleep. Early in the morning, Isabella would walk the streets of the town for the very first time. Those streets would be so steep that she had to stop from time to time and catch her breath. The town itself looked unfinished, full of interim sheds and construction sites. This was a city in the making. Close to the palace of the despot, she saw the worksite for the church of Saint-Sophia, a catholicon of the monastery of Zoodotes Christou. It was located up on the hill, above the palace and below the fortress built by Villehardouin. And it probably took some time to finish it. Isabella would not know it, but she would also be involved in its decoration at a later date, in c.1366. On that summer morning, young Melusine would climb down the hillside, entering the church of the Hodigitria (Afendiko). This was part of the Brontochion monastery, founded by a monk and grand protosyncellus Pachomius, a generation or so before. From the Hodigitria she would proceed to the church of Saints-Theodore, the first catholicon of the same monastery, founded by a certain Daniel and the same Pachomius, when he was abbot in 1296. This was an octagonal church, similar to the one she probably saw in Monemvasia. And there was obviously the church of Saint-Demetrius, a little bit lower on the hillside. This was the earliest one of the lot. It had been built as a wooden-roofed basilica to serve as metropolitan see in the second half of the 13th century, 6 See e.g. Brendan Osswald, ‘L’État byzantin d’Épire et ses capitales’, Géocarrefour, 90/2 (2015), 103–116.
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when the first Palaeologan emperor reclaimed the southern part of the Peloponnesus from prince William of Villehardouin. Saint-Demetrius was built by the first metropolitan bishop from the time of the Nicaean reconquista: Eugenius (1262–1272). It was painted in the time of metropolitan Theodosius (1272–c.1283), but Theodosius’ depiction from the sanctuary apse was later destroyed as an act of damnatio memoriae, since he was connected with the Uniate policy of Michael VIII Palaeologus. Isabella could see his defaced portrait, a testimony to past mistakes. She would also see the inscriptions carved in the time of Nicephorus Moschopoulos (c.1288–1315). This metropolitan was against the Union. He presented himself as the founder of the church, erasing the memory of Uniatism. History was complicated in Mystras. Little did Isabella know that she would also become part of that complicated history. When she left Mystras, decades later, her own name and depictions would be subject to other damnationes. For the time being, Isabella’s thoughts about the Metropolis church were simple: this was the place where she and Manuel were to be married. Maybe this was also the place where she had to be rebaptised. We cannot be sure of this event, but Isabella was not an Orthodox name and we know that she was also referred to as Maria. Or maybe this used to be her Greek baptismal name since childhood. Who knows? The only sure thing is that less that twenty years later, a ktetorial inscription from the church of Saint-George at Longanikos (1374/1375), in the mountains to the north of Mystras, a day’s walk from the capital of the despotate, mentioned the names of the Byzantine emperors John and Helen Palaeologus as well as those of the despots Manuel and Maria Cantacuzene.7 Many speculations were made about this single occurrence of a different name, but I do not plan to indulge any of them. The thing is that in the capital, the despotissa was probably known as Zampea, the Greek version of the Latin name Isabella, attested in the Greek version of the Chronicle of Morea. 7 The inscription of Longanikos ends with: […] Ἐπὶ βασιλείας τῶν εὐσεβεστάτων βασιλέων καὶ φιλοχρίστων Ἰωάννου καὶ Ἐλένης τῶν Παλαιολόγων καὶ τῶν εὐσεβῶν δεσποτῶν ἡμῶν Μανουὴλ καὶ Μαρίας τῶν Καντακουζηνῶν ‘ϚΩΠΓ’; Zakythinos, ‘Une princesse française’, 62–63. Cf. Feisel, Philippidis-Brat, ‘Inventaires’, 339–340. Some argued that Manuel would have been married twice, which is had to believe on account of the date of the inscription. Last but not least, ‘Maria’ was also interpreted as the sister of Manuel and widow of Nicephorus II of Epirus. This is highly unlikely, since the two form a married couple in the text of the inscription. Cf. Zakythinos, ‘Une princesse française’, 63–64, for a discussion about the use of this name, settling on the following hypothesis: On pourrait envisager maintenant deux autres hypothèses: ou que la despine portait ces deux noms, ou bien que, mariée à un prince grec, elle avait, d’après la coutume byzantine, abandonné son prénom déjeune fille pour prendre celui de Marguerite ou Marie. Cf. note 1 on p. 65: Une autre despine de Morée, Madeleine Tocco, ayant épousé Constantin Paléologue, échangea son nom contre celui de Theodora.
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At the turn of the 20th century, two fragments of a destroyed marble architrave were discovered next to the Metropolis church of Mystras, one of them thrown away and left somewhere in the south-western angle of the church, the other one reused as part of the masonry close nearby. Both of them were decorated with entrelacs and with two monograms sculpted on two medallions that read Ζαμπέα and ντὲ Λεζηνάω.8 We should not exaggerate the importance of these Greek inscriptions. The two names simply show that Isabella was probably a lady with many faces, for she was both Greek and French, Orthodox and Catholic at the same time. We do not know what happened between her and Manuel in those early years in Mystras. We do not know if they were a happy or unhappy couple. I could describe a festive wedding in Byzantium, drawn from various interesting sources, but it would not make much sense, since my reconstructed stories have a different purpose, that of providing a history of cultural trends and mutual exchanges. Let us simply imagine them in between these two options, with good and bad things, like any other couple. And let us imagine both of them as most people of their time: Isabella as an average learned woman and Manuel as a lettered man. The sources praise him for being so. This was often the case with members of Byzantine noble families, whose education differed greatly from that of the noblemen in the West. The Byzantine world was more fluid and laymen could be very learned persons, not only clerics. In a way, it was a model for the future Renaissance. I have no intention whatsoever to oppose Isabella to Manuel in a black-and-white depiction of what vernacular and scholar cultures were. My intention is that of suggesting how these two separate trends coexisted and influenced each other. Isabella from my story is not inferior to Manuel from a cultural standpoint. It is only the status of vernacular culture that reflects upon her personality in my own subjective approach to this matter. But let us return to the tale. Two years later, Matthew Cantacuzene, Manuel’s brother, was co-emperor no more. He had been forced to renounce his imperial powers. A bit later, John V Palaeologus even let him go to Mystras. In 1361, in the time of the plague, the former emperor John VI Cantacuzene also came to the provincial capital of the Peloponnesus. He used to live as a monk on Mount Athos, but he had left his serene monastic life to avoid the spread of the epidemic. There were also rumours that John V Palaeologus wanted to replace Manuel with Matthew as despot of Morea. Isabella would be scared. She and Manuel would be worried about their future. But then Matthew would arrive 8 For the two pieces, see Gabriel Millet, ‘Inscriptions inédites de Mistra’, Bulletin de correspondance hellénique, 30 (1906), 453–454.
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without any pretentions whatsoever. Their father, now monk Josaphat, would also comfort his sons. After all, this was not a bad family. Perhaps Isabella did not have a hard time living among their ranks. One afternoon, Isabella would see the former emperor going into his room, shutting the door and praying to the Holy Father in secret, since the Father who saw in secret would reward him, as it is written in the gospel of Matthew 6:6. She knew that this was one of the frequent habits of Hesychast monks. He was there, in his room in the palace, repeating the Jesus prayer over and over, as an inner prayer, aiming at a union with God, or reading a kathisma from the psalter. Or two kathismas, depending on the time of the year.9 The despotissa knew that this took a lot of time, and since Manuel and his brother Matthew would be out on state affairs, she would take one of her books and start reading the psalms, as any Western lady would have done when having a little bit of spare time. Too absorbed by her reading, she would not notice that the old emperor had come out of his room after a couple of hours. He would be standing in the doorway, looking at her while she slowly turned the pages, murmuring the words of the psalms. He would ask what that book was. Isabella would close the book, look at him, and say: ‘The psalter in French, for private study’. Such a book could be the Psalter of Peter of Paris, a writer from Cyprus, who compiled a paraphrase of the psalms, to be read in private by a certain Simon le Rat, commander of the Order of Knights of the Hospital in Cyprus (1299–1310).10 Old John, now monk Josaphat, would be surprised to learn that ladies read translations specifically made for a non-liturgical use. The notion of translation would not bother him at all, since the Byzantines encouraged the translation of sacred texts into other languages as a method of civilising barbarians. But the notion of a different text of the psalms, made for the specific purpose of private use, would intrigue him. In Byzantium, there were also two type of books (psalm commentaries and the psalter itself), because a distinction was made “between reading aimed at comprehending the theological meaning of the Psalms and their devotional recitation as an act of prayer.”11 There were even metrical versions of the psalms, different from the Western ones, since they were more alike to diorthoses.12 Therefore the former emperor would 9 10 11 12
Cf. Parpulov, ‘Psalters and Personal Piety’, 79. For a brief presentation, see Samuel Berger, La Bible française au Moyen Âge. Étude sur les plus anciennes versions de la Bible écrites en prose de langue d’oïl (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1884), 72–74. Anna Maria Babbi is currently preparing an edition of this text. Parpulov, ‘Psalters and Personal Piety’, 82. See e.g. Rachele Ricceri, ‘Two Metrical Rewritings of the Greek Psalms: Pseudo-Apollinaris of Laodicea and Manuel Philes’, in Michele Cutino (dir.), Poetry, Bible and Teology from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2020), 223–236.
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smile and ask her is this was a Latin psalter, missing the last psalm. She would say yes, but it had the Canticles. The former emperor would ask her to read the first psalm together, out of nosiness. He would recite it in Greek, from memory, and Isabella could read it out loud from the book: – Μακάριος ἀνήρ, ὃς οὐκ ἐπορεύθη ἐν βουλῇ ἀσεβῶν καὶ ἐν ὁδῷ ἁμαρτωλῶν οὐκ ἔστη καὶ ἐπὶ καθέδραν λοιμῶν οὐκ ἐκάθισεν. – Beneuré est cel home qui nen ala pas en le conseill des felons et ne se aresta pas en la uoie des pecheors, coume fist Adam qui ala en le conseill dou deable et se aresta en sa uoie quant il manga la poume. ‘Blessed is the man who did not walk in the counsel of the unfaithful and did not stop in the way of sinners, as Adam did, who walked in the counsel of the devil and stopped in his way when he ate the apple’.13 Father-in-law would be surprised. There was absolutely no mention of any sitting in the seat of the scornful. And what was this weird thing about Adam eating the apple? Isabella could explain that Peter of Paris had taken it from an interpretation of the scholars. She would not know where from exactly, but we can find it in the Glossa ordinaria, where it is written: ut Adam qui uxori consensit a dyabolo decepte.14 Next, the former emperor would say: – ἀλλ᾿ ἤ ἐν τῷ νόμῳ Κυρίου τὸ θέλημα αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐν τῷ νόμῳ αὐτοῦ μελετήσει ἡμέρας καὶ νυκτός. – E ensement celui est beneuré qui ne s’asist pas en la cheere de pestilence; syaus seent en la cheere de pestilence qui enseignent .I. et font un autre. Meaning: ‘And equally blessed is the one who did not sit on the seat of pestilence. Those who sit on the seat of pestilence are those who teach one thing and do another’. Oh, there it was, the absent passage! – Yes, and it is equally followed by an explanation. But this is not the text of the Psalter. – Wait. Here is the second verse: E la volenté dou juste home sera tous jours en la loy de nostre Seignor et pour ce que il pençera nuit et jour. That is: ‘And the will of the just man is always in the law of our Lord, and for this he will think night and day’. Finally, this could actually be text of the Psalter. John-Josaphat would agree. It followed close the Latin original, even though it was a little different from 13 14
For this text, see the provisory reading already published in my second PhD dissertation (University of Verona, 2016). A short selection of passages also appears in Ana-Maria Gânsac et al., ‘The Musical Instruments’, s.v. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 97. For the references to the Glossa ordinaria, see the incunabulum of Adolph Rusch: Biblia Latina cum Glossa ordinaria (editio princeps, Strasbourg, 1480/1481) 2:229v.
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the Greek. Maybe they would continue to compare that Psalter to the Greek verses recited from memory. If they did so, they would find more instances in which the translator included curious explanations of the sacred text. Secretly, father-in-law would be bothered by this. How dared they alter the word of God? He would not show it, but Isabella would feel it in the air. She would explain that this particular Psalter was made by a learned master of Cyprus, who had also made a translation of the Consolation of Boethius, and that it contained a learned gloss included with the sacred text of the psalms. This was a typical French thing. They could not purely translate the text of the Scriptures and they feared such close translations, since they entailed the risk of heresy. A translator of the Psalter who wrote his text in the land of Lorraine, in North-eastern France, about the same time when Isabella was in Mystras (1365) explained those risks with very clear reasons: This is why it is so dangerous to translate the Holy Scripture from Latin to Romance, because the Holy Scripture is full of multiple meanings and understandings which cannot be really translated without error by those who wish to render from Latin into Romance, but did not study for a long time and do not know their uses and meanings. It often happens that the sense and meaning of Scripture is twisted and corrupted when a word or a person is used instead of another one, when an adjective is used instead of a noun. This perverts the intention of the Holy Ghost, who made the holy Prophets, Apostles, and Evangelists speak in the Holy Scriptures. Such a translation contains error and heresy.15 Conservative French translators chose the path of paraphrase or commentaries, often linked with that of images and illustrations, which were also used to convey the meaning of the sacred text.16 Perhaps this is why all these aspects of Western culture were not imitated in the Greek lands. It is as if the Byzantines imposed a limit to cultural transfers and this vernacular approach to the sacred texts was not part of it. Only much later, in the late 15th century, a certain George Choumnos wrote a rhymed paraphrase of Genesis and Exodus in about
15
16
The translation is my own. It was recently published in Ana Maria Gânsac et al., ‘The Musical Instruments in the Early Vernacular Translations of the Psalms: Collective Research’, Museikon, 4 (2020), 277–279, s.v. Vladimir Agrigoroaei. For an edition of the original text, see François Bonnardot (ed.), Le Psautier de Metz. Texte du XIVe siècle, édition critique publiée d’après quatre manuscrits (Paris: Vieweg, 1884), 5–6. For a theoretical approach to the problem of medieval French translations of the Bible, see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Quelques réflexions’.
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2800 political verse.17 It followed Western cultural trends and it was called The Creation, but this happened only in Crete, the ‘Tuscany of Greece’. I thank my readers for indulging me in creating these stories. Needless to say, we do not know if such a conversation actually took place, but it is highly plausible that Isabella brought with her similar manuscripts, or maybe ordered them to be sent to her residence in Mystras. We do not have to consider this possibility as real, just to acknowledge that texts circulated and that at one point in time the learned men of Greek culture could come across these religious literary trends from the West. And there is another thing of which we can be certain: Byzantines did not mind Western cultural influences as long as they were restricted to a secular aspect. They did not borrow much from a religious point of view, probably because of sacred issues. In the second half of the 14th century, such matters were under the careful scrutiny of the newly established Hesychast doctrine, so there would be an instant rejection of Western religious trends, much more violent than the one characterising the previous century and the first half of the 14th century. Experiments such as those of Merbaka, the Athenian ciborium, or Omorphi Ekklisia in Galatsi would not be tolerated anymore, not even by the Greeks living in the occupied lands of the Peloponnesus. This also means that there was a wider circulation of motifs and trends. Certainly, we can still refer to Isabella as indicative of Western influences, but we should nevertheless cease to imagine her as the only Latin lady from the Byzantine despotate of Morea, responsible for all the Latin influences visible in that land in the second half of the 14th century. There must have been other noble Latin ladies, wives or daughters of those who stayed in Mystras or in other towns and castles. There would be various relatives of Latin merchants, and even Latin ladies married to some important Byzantine potentates. Not to mention that some of the local Greek women would also embrace Latin fashion on account of their familiarity to the despotissa or to other persons from the inner circle of power. The number of women who played a major part in the adoption of Western cultural trends would be much greater. And there were, of course, their Latin men, whom I chose not to mention very often, because this chapter is mostly dedicated to the ladies. However, I already said that the trouble with medieval feminine history is that we have very little information to reconstruct it properly, so – no matter what we do – we have to revert to the history of their men at one point or another in the narrative. Therefore, in order to illustrate the connections between Isabella and those Latin ladies, I will have to speak about Manuel and 17
See for this Μέγας ed., Γεωργίου Χούμνου η Κοσμογέννησις.
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his connections with those ladies’ husbands. Ever since his arrival in Morea, the despot had always had good relations with the leaders of the Latin lands. When all of them were faced with the Turkish threat, they even concluded a military alliance. So, Manuel combined his forces with Walter of Lor, with Venetians, and Hospitallers. He led an attack against the Turks in 1362–1363 that ended with a great victory close to Megara. At least this is what the Aragonese version of the Chronicle of Morea lets us know. And we should not be surprised that Manuel paid for the services of certain Latins, letting them settle in his despotate. There were Latins living in the despotate of Morea and some of them probably occupied significant position in its administration and defence. This was not new. Even Stephen Dušan of the Serbs (1331‐1355) had his own German knights, if we are to believe the words of John VI Cantacuzene. In the Peloponnesus, a curious case is that of a Latin family which seems to be connected to the fortress of Geraki. In the church of Saint-George, at the summit of the hill where that castle was built (Fig. 48), there is a funerary structure taking the form of a proskynetarion (Fig. 49). It is adjacent to the northern wall of the nave. On it, a checkered coat of arms with a bande for a brisure was represented, but there are also elements of decoration surrounding it, chief among which is a crescent and a fleur-de-lys. At the entrance of the nave, another coat of arms was sculpted (Fig. 50b). It is also checkered, but there is no brisure bande and no other decorative elements either. A recent hypothesis tried to make sense of this heraldic emblems,18 but most mentions of this hypothesis hastily state that “the tomb once held the remains of Íñigo of Alfaro, an Aragonese knight who died in the region in 1378–1379 while visiting the court of Isabella of Lusignan.”19 The original hypothesis is a little bit different though, since it paid attention to heraldic details (as well as to the fact that Íñigo was alive in the first half of the 15th century – therefore he could not be buried in Geraki). It appropriately notices that the two coats of arms are different, because one of them presents a brisure. This original hypothesis therefore identifies the Geraki tomb with of one of Íñigo’s younger brothers, but also proposes to identify allusions to more coats of arms in the crescent moon (surrounded by seven stars) and in the fleur-de-lys (surrounded by two rosaces) who flank the depiction of the checkered coat of arms with brisure (Fig. 49). These would be the insignia 18 19
Ασπασία Λούβη-Κίζη, ‘Το γλυπτό “προσκυνητάρι” στο ναό του Αγίου Γεωργίου του Κάστρου στο Γεράκι’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 25 (2004), 111–126. The error is found in many studies. See e.g. Gerstel, Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, 184 (quoted in the text).
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of other donors, but no explanation is provided as to why one coat of arms had the right to be represented on the proskynetarion while two others did not. The hypothesis focused on the identification of the coat of arms of a “family (sic!) of Hospitaller knights.”20 The trouble is that Fray Íñigo of Alfaro was active in 1396–1435, not in the late 1370s. If we presumed that he lived at least seventy years – and I am very generous in making such an assumption, he would have to be extremely young, in his early twenties, if his coat of arms were represented in Geraki. Otherwise, if he arrived in the Peloponnesus in the prime of his life, he would have to enjoy an almost mathusalemic longevity.21 Forty-year-olds can indeed see the death of their younger brothers, but they can hardly lead men in battle when they would be eighty of ninety years old. Neither of these hypotheses makes sense, and placing Íñigo of Alfaro in the Peloponnesus twenty years before his floruit is a far-fetched assumption. The only reason for making this assumption is the brisure on the second checkered coat of arms, the one of the proskynetarion – because Íñigo had a brother, Diego, who was also a Hospitaller knight. But Diego is mentioned in documents dating back to 1412–1415, so he could not be dead in the Peloponnesus in 1378. Moreover, I even doubt that Diego was born at that time. So, we need to look for other brothers. Yet such a case, with three or four brothers joining the same military order and consequently endangering the future of their heritage, is unheard of. Furthermore, the identification of the coat of arms of Íñigo in the sculpture of Rhodes is not certain either. This proposition ignores the actual coat of arms of the Alfaro family. Diego of Alfaro, Íñigo’s brother, could not have more different arms: parted per pale, without any sign of a checkered field.22 There are plenty of checkered arms in the 14th century and nobody can have a clear idea to whom (and whose brothers) belonged the arms represented in Geraki. Consequently, the 20 21 22
Λούβη-Κίζη, ‘Το γλυπτό “προσκυνητάρι”’, 123, with the exact text: η αναγνώριση του οικοσήμου μιας οικογένειας Ιωαννιτών ιπποτών. Presuming that Íñigo of Alfaro were in the Peloponnesus in 1378, and that he died right after the last mention of his name in 1435, he would be born at least in 1358 (being 20 years old) and he would be 77 years old in 1435. Francisco José Morales Roca, Prelados, abades mitrados, dignidades capitulares y cabalerros de las órdenes militares habilitados por el brazo eclesiástico en las Cortes del Principado de Cataluña: dinastías de Trastamara y de Austria, siglos XV y XVI (1410–1599) (Madrid: Hidalguia, 1999), 80 (describing the arms of Diego of Alfaro, also Knight Hospitaller): Armas: Escudo partido: 1.º: De oro, dos palos de sinople. 2.º: De azur, un creciente de plata, ranversado. (Labra heráldica en los castillos de Amposta y Alcañiz. Siglo XV. Igualmente están recogidos en los libros de pruebas de los Grandes Prioratos de Aragon y de Navarra de la Orden de San Juan).
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previous hypothesis does not provide any chronological clue as to the dating of the proskynetarion and to that of the Saint-George church of the Geraki castle. And there is another problem: the fleur-de-lys and the crescent depicted to the sides of the Geraki proskynetarion coat of arms do not create additional coat of arms (Fig. 49). They are simply linked with the brisure depicted on that shield. The crescent moon with star appears frequently on the decoration of the shield of saint George in many representations, from many churches. It was even suggested that this be a sort of Greek specificity. In the absence of textual references, I cannot accept this hypothesis, but I notice that the ‘Greek crescent moon’ with star is orientated to the upper right corner in all its representations, never on a horizontal position, as it appears on the proskynetarion.23 This fixed horizontal position is used in Western heraldry. Given the presence of the checkered arms above the crescent and fleur-de-lys, the only certain thing about the proskynetarion is that the two marginal symbols were among the ones used to mark cadency, that is, to distinguish similar armorials within a family. In the English system of cadency, the use of the crescent as a minor brisure for the second son and the fleur-de-lys for the sixth one has medieval origins, but 14th century cases show that the crescent could also be used by the eldest son, and that the fleur-de-lys was also used in the 13th century as the mark of the first son. No clear rules can be traced for the early use of the system, meaning that the ascription of such marks was the prerogative of the head of the family, who could attribute them as he liked,24 but we
23
24
For these ‘Greek crescent moons’ appearing all over the place, see the depictions of saint George in the same church of the castle of Geraki (pedestrian representation), the one on a horse in the church of Saint-John-Chrysostom in the town of Geraki; the pedestrian one in the church of Saint-Athanasius, also in the town; or the shield of Joshua in the siege of Jericho in the church of Taxiarchis, on the hill close to the fortress. These murals date to different periods. For other depictions in Greece, see the equestrian depiction of saint George in the church dedicated to the same saint in Epidravos-Limera. For the ‘Greek crescent’, see Γεώργιος Δημητροκάλλης, Νικόλαος Κ. Μουτσόπουλος, Η ελληνική ημισέληνoς (Athens, 1988). Cf. Paul A. Fox, ‘The medieval origins of the British system of cadency’, The Coat of Arms, 215 (2008), 21–28. In the modern English system, each charge represents a son, in order: the label (first son), the crescent (second son), the mullet (third son), the martlet (fourth son), the annulet (fifth son), and the fleur-de-lys (sixth son). For more details about the evolution of the system of cadency, see Cecil R. Humphery-Smith, ‘Cadency and differencing’, in Identification, recherche, classement, symbolique et signification des armoiries. Héraldique funéraire, brisures, armoiries imaginaires (Mutenz: Académie internationale d’héraldique, 1978 = typewritten), 76–86; Cecil R. Humphery-Smith, ‘The origins of the English system of cadency’, in Brisures, augmentations et changements d’armoiries
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know that such marks of cadency were known and used by Western knights in the Peloponnesus.25 Taken together with the presence of the ‘bend’ (bande or brisure), the diagonal stripe worn by the cadets of a family on their coat of arms,26 the crescent and the fleur-de-lys from Geraki indicate that the coat of arms sculpted in the upper segment of the proskynetarion (Fig. 50a) belonged to two cadet brothers of a noble family, while the coat of arms with a simple chequered field (without brisure; Fig. 50b) would be that of their father (if still living) or that of their eldest brother. In all likelihood, the person with the simple checkered field was the founder of the church, in which he buried two of the cadet members of his family. Since it would be absurd to represent two almost identical coats of arms, separated by minor details, he simply chose to use the one with a bande, adding the marks of cadency of the family members buried there. As for the star accompanying the crescent, it would be expected that a local carver uses his own repertory, bringing additions to the requests of the patron and building upon them. I would not venture further than this interpretation. There is not enough material to delve deeper into the matter. Trying to identify a chequered coat of arms in the 14th century is like looking for the needle in a haystack, since all the Latin noblemen who could have been in the service of Manuel Cantacuzene belong to a category still unaccounted for. Or, better said, they are completely unknown. As for the random identification of crescents and fleur-de-lys, the results brought by such a research borders a loose form of pareidolia. There were no Muslims in Geraki, at least no Muslims who could be linked to Western coat of arms.27 If I were to make a joke, I would say that there were no Catalans or Aragonese either, even though a similar crescent appears on the helmet of a soldier depicted in one of the scenes narrating the conquest of Majorca, in Barcelona.28 Since I mentioned the Catalans and Aragonese, it
25 26 27 28
(Spoleto, 12–16 ottobre 1987) (Brusels: Académie internationale d’héraldique, 1988 = typewritten), 97–123. The label, aother cadency mark, also appears on a Moreote coat of arms. Cf. Bon, ‘Pierres inscrites’, 89, 90. Cf. e.g. Laurent Hablot, ‘L’héraldique au service de l’histoire. Les armoiries des bâtards à la fin du Moyen Âge, études de cas’, in Carole Avignon (dir.), Bâtards et bâtardises dans l’Europe médiévale et moderne (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2016), 263. See for this intepretation Γεώργιος Δημητροκάλλης, Γεράκι. Οι τοιχογραφίες των ναών του κάστρου (Athens, 2001), 75–83. The paintings were found in the former Palau Reial Major in Barcelona and they date to the 2nd half of the 13th century. They are now in the Museu d’Historia de la Ciutat in Barcelona.
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is time to advance in our story and notice that those were also the times when there would be good Latins and bad Latins. From a Byzantine point of view, naturally. The good ones would be those with whom Manuel established relations and alliances. The bad ones were the Catalans. In previous times, in 1341, Manuel’s father received strong assurances from the Latin barons of Morea that they would be ready to accept his rule if he guaranteed their properties and rights. John VI Cantacuzene had imagined that this would lead to a similar arrangement with the Catalan lords of Athens, but nothing really happened. Attica and Boeotia continued to be lost.29 The Catalans were the latest intruders in continental Greece. Contrary to the Italian and the French, who had arrived a century and a half earlier, they were in constant conflict with every other lord (Latin or Byzantine). They were also allied to the Turks, which was displeasing to everybody. In fact, everybody wished they went away. The silence that covers most of the history of the Catalan duchy is a testimony to this hatred. They had their own contacts with the Iberian Peninsula, while the rest of the Latin lords were close to the king of Naples, an adversary of the Aragonese. They had their dealings with pagan Turks. And they had even invented relics, shamelessly, that nobody else recognised. Such is the story of the head of saint George from Livadia. It is perhaps time to deal with this marginal issue as well.
Case Study 12: The Catalan Head of Saint George
The standard account is that the head was brought to Livadia after the fall of Constantinople in 1204 and that it stayed there until the end of the 14th century, when it was moved to Egina and later on to Venice. However, the relic is never mentioned in connection with Livadia or central Greece before the middle of the 14th century, so there are no arguments in favour of an early translation of the relic from Constantinople. All references to the presence of the head in the castle of Livadia start in 1353, but this did not stop research from suggesting that the relic arrived there before, allegedly because Walter V of Brienne left a hundred hyperpera to the church of Saint-George in Livadia in his testament.30 However, the relic was not 29 30
Cf. Donald M. Nicol, The Reluctant Emperor: A Biography of John Cantacuzene, Byzantine Emperor and Monk, c.1295–1383 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996) 50–51. Even Kenneth M. Setton, ‘Saint George’s head’, Speculum, 48/1 (1973), 4, had his doubts, yet he chose to ignore them: “But as for the head of St George in the church at Livadia, to which Walter of Brienne left 100 hyperperi, I do not know whether it first came from the
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found in the church of Saint-George, but in the castle, where there was a church of Saint-Sophia. This detail is omitted by previous research. Given that there was no proof to support it, the hypothesis was rhetorically ‘helped’ by the use of two adverbs of certainty in key places of the demonstration, where no certainty could be substantiated otherwise.31 Since conjectures have a natural tendency to pile up, a ktetorial inscription mentioning Catalan overlords in a painting (1330) and a sculpted inscription (undated, allegedly mentioning count Peter I Frederick of Salona, 1338–1355) have been recently added to the dossier of saint George’s head. They would be proof of its early presence in the Athenian duchy. The painting is indeed preserved in a church in the currently deserted town of Paleochora in the island of Egina, close to Athens and part of the Catalan dominion since 1317. It mentions a Catalan lord, but it has no connection whatsoever to the cult of the head of saint George.32 As for the carved inscription, it has nothing to do with the topic either, since it dates back to the 9th century and the komes mentioned in its text is not a Catalan count, but a Byzantine magistrate.33 The Catalan
31
32 33
Holy Land or from Constantinople, where the warrior saint was much revered, or whether it was suddenly brought to light by some medieval miracle in Livadia itself.” Apart from the use of the adverbs “certainly” and “undoubtedly” in key segments of his narrative (the article of Setton is written in an Indiana-Jones manner; see the quotation below), nothing can entertain the possibility that this relic appeared in the area of Livadia before the middle of the 14th century. See Setton, ‘Saint George’s head’, 4 (after mentioning the testament of Walter of Brienne): “At this time the head, which I have been seeking, was certainly the chief relic in Livadia, where I assume it had been kept since at least the Fourth Crusade.” Cf. pp. 4–5: “Although these texts are by and large rather late, and there are many edifying tales to be found in them, they shed no light upon the miracles which the sacred relic of St George was undoubtedly producing at Livadia, in the heart of the Catalan duchy of Athens, before the middle of the fourteenth century, for by this time the fame of the relic had spread from Greece to faraway Catalonia and Aragon.” Cf. Manuel Castiñeiras, ‘Paliachora (Egina), el Sinaí y Catalunya a finales del siglo XIV: hibridación artística, política y peregrinación en el Mediterráneo Oriental’, in C. Varela Fernandes (dir.), Imagens e Liturgia na Idade Média (Lisbon: Secretariado Nacional dos Bens Culturais da Igreja, 2016), 17, who took after Setton and further conjectured that saint George’s head would be taken from Constantinople by Otho de la Roche (presented as duke of Athens since 1204 – sic!). Cf. Yunus Doğan, The transformation of an itinerant army: from the Catalan Company to the Catalan Duchy of Athens and Neopatras (1303–1388), MA paper (İhsan Doğramacı Bilkent University, 2019), 100, who believed that the head had been taken from the Byzantine capital in 1204. Cf. Castiñeiras, ‘Paliachora (Egina)’, 22. Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘Reconsidering a Byzantine inscription from Aegina’, in Christos Stavrakos (dir.), Inscriptions in the Byzantine and Post-Byzantine History and History of Art … (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016), 253–278.
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hypothesis emphasises the presence of depictions of saint George in the churches of Paleochora, but this is nothing new.34 A genuine obsession for saint George led many scholars to delude themselves by counting representations of this military saint in churches connected in one way or another with areas or historical events relevant for their analyses (Peloponnesus, Argolid, Attica, or Boeotia – including Akrefnio), drawing the hasty conclusion that those representations occurred under the influence of a Frankish or Catalan cult of saint George. However, anyone who visited the Greek lands and took an interest in medieval religious art will testify to the overabundance of churches and monasteries dedicated to saint George, as well as to an overwhelming presence of equestrian depictions of this saint in churches painted in the Late-Byzantine period. If the analysed scenes present a standard Orthodox iconography (as is the case of the Egina churches), making a list of these depictions is pointless and absurd.35 To the best of my knowledge, no research concerning the relic paid attention to the fact that Livadia used to be a Byzantine bishopric before 1205, with several churches already in place (including the church of Saint-George – now destroyed and rebuilt). It was also wrongly believed that the fortress of Livadia was erected by Catalans, which is incorrect, because several Byzantine stages have been identified in its evolution.36 This means that the development of Livadia cannot be linked to the Catalans, as suggested previously, and that the relic could have been located in Livadia for other reasons. When compiling a short history of the relic in Greece, one cannot miss that it is documented in the castle of Livadia from 1354 (first mention) until 1393 (last mention) and then reappears in the island of Egina (1399) until it was taken to Venice (1462). Furthermore, the relic was of no interest to the French, Italians,
34 35
36
Castiñeiras, ‘Paliachora (Egina)’, 22–29. For obvious reasons, I do not deal with all the conjectures of Castiñeiras, ‘Paliachora (Egina)’ (to give but one example, he mentions Muntaner seeing the relics of saint John the Theologian in Ephesus in 1307, therefore he draws a connection between the church of Saint-John-the-Theologian in Paleochora, Egina – the one with the spurious carved inscription – and the Catalans; etc.). Elie de Rosen, ‘Livadia: a possible town in the Middle Byzantine period’, Teiresias, 47/1 (2017), 2–14; cf. Elie de Rosen, The Economic Fate of Urban Settlements in Rhomanian Boeotia, Thessaly, and Western Macedonia (783–1204), PhD diss. (University of Birmingham, 2018), 49–50.
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or Byzantines. The Catalans and the kings of Aragon are the only ones taking a keen interest in it until the Venetian senate decided to take it in 1462. And the Venetian authorities decided to return it to Livadia in 14 April 1999, after a short pseudo-scientific intermezzo in the already quoted study of 1973. The history of the relic is purely Catalan from a cultural point of view. It is therefore safe to assume that its invention may also be linked to the Catalans.37 In fact, the first time when the Catalan Company is mentioned in connection with saint George is in 1304, after the battle of Aulax. The account of Muntaner tells us that “those Turks who had escaped from the battle, along with others from the tribe of Mentese, who had joined forces with them, conducted a raid upon the area of Tira, as far as the church in which the body of the monsényer Saint George lies, which is one of the finest churches I have ever seen, and which is only about two miles away from Tira.”38 In the following passages, after the death of Corbaran of Alet, the Catalans bury him in that church: “So they buried the said Corberan with great solemnity in the church of Saint-George, together with about 37
38
Sticking to data provided by Setton, ‘Saint George’s head’, this is what the documents actually say: 1–5 December 1354 – the head was in the castle of Livadia; 17 March 1355 – the head was somewhere in Greece (probably in Livadia, but unspecified); 18 August 1374 – king Frederick III of Sicily, son of Peter III of Aragon, wished to appoint a cleric of Catania to the church of Saint-George in Livadia (cf. p. 6: “The king’s letter contains no mention of St George’s head, which was probably kept for greater security in the castle rather than in the church at Livadia”); May 1381 – king Pedro IV of Aragon offers mantles decorated with red crosses to three Catalan nobles from Greece who had joined his Order of Saint-George (nothing about the head); May 1382 – the same king was asked to establish a detachment of the Order to the Castle of Livadia where the head was kept; 13 April 1393 – John I of Aragon wished to obtain the head from a certain Gascon mercenary who had taken the castle of Livadia; 21 December 1399 – king Martin I of Aragon wanted the head of saint George; a certain Alioto de Caupena, lord of Egina, one of the last Catalans in Greece, had in his possession; June 1400 – the Byzantine emperor Manuel II Palaeologus had brought the head of saint George to Paris, his men were willing to sell it, but king Martin I of Aragon was not sure if this was the true relic, questioning himself whether Alioto had sold it to Manuel II or to the Venetians; 27 February 1402 – king Martin I of Aragon wrote again to Alioto asking for the head, because he knew that he still kept it in Egina; 26 June 1409 – king Martin I was enthusiastic about Alioto’s possible visit to his court, maybe bringing the relic; 20 August 1462 – after a long silence, the Venetian senate wanted to take the relic from Egina, since Antonello de Caupena, last Catalan ruler of the island, had left it to the Venetians in his testament (he died in 1451); 13 December, 1462 – the head was placed in the Venetian abbey of San Giorgio Maggiore. Hughes trans., The Catalan Expedition, 57, for the translation. For the original text see Lanz ed., Cronik, 405–406.
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ten other Christians who had perished alongside him. So, they had fine sepulchres built for them, for the Grand Duke stayed behind for a week so that Corbaran’s tomb should be made gracious and magnificent.”39 There are no references to the head of saint George in the account of Muntaner, but the Catalan Company established its coat of arms and seal soon after, in 1305, when the Catalans fought the Byzantines. On the seal there was the image of saint George fighting the dragon.40 Maybe the two events were related, or maybe not. I tend to believe that they were, for the burial of their heroes in a church where the church of saint George was kept (1304) would likely lead to the choice of the seal’s depiction of saint George (1305). However, I do not need to identify the beginnings of the cult of saint George’ head by the Catalan Company this early. It shall be noted that the first mentions of a head of the saint appear in 1354, two generations after the Catalans had conquered Attica, a time when it would be expected that their origin-story would be revised and there would be tales about legendary commanders and their legendary deeds, including the tale of the church where some of them were buried and were the body of the saint was kept. Pious inventions of relics are common for those times and they are often backed by a spontaneous accretion of stories.41 I believe that the continuous rewriting of the Greek Catalans’ origin-story could have led to the invention of a head of saint George. The most important proof of this Catalan origin is the fact that they were the only ones taking an interest in this affair, with the ruling family of Aragon constantly demanding that the head be sent to the Company’s homeland. When the Byzantine emperor had brought another head of saint George to Paris in 1400, king Martin I of Aragon tried to find out where it came from, but soon lost interest when he found out this was a different head, and asked for the Catalan head to be sent to him from Greece. Even the Venetians recognised this Catalan continuous involvement in the story of the saint’s head. In a Translatio capitis et brachii Venetias telling the story of the 1462 transfer of relics to Venice, a curious miracle performed by the saint’s head was included. As the story goes, king Alphonso of Aragon had learnt that the head of the saint was in Egina, so he ordered a pirate to bring it to his kingdom. When the profane hands took the sacred martyr’s head, put it in their ship, and started sailing, 39 40 41
Hughes trans., 58, for the translation. For the original text, see Lanz ed., 406. Doğan, The transformation of an itinerant army, 53. See the last chapter for the similar issue of another head, that of saint Denis, in Paris.
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a storm started and they could not see anything. Afraid for their lives, they turned to the relics. Yet, to their amazement, the relics could not be found. So, they went again to Egina, told their story to the locals, and found the head where they had taken it from in the first place. It was no wonder that the miracle had happened, for the locals had no other help apart from the saint’s head against the Turks who menaced them continuously.42 Nobody can take this story for a historical source, yet the names of the pirate and king of Aragon, almost contemporaries to the 1462 translation of relics, imply that the Venetians had to acknowledge that the relic had a lot to do with the Catalans. As for the 1973 study about of the miraculous discovery of the head of saint George in Venice, at the end of a long research in which its author proved that the relic was authentic and came to Livadia from Constantinople after 1204, this too deserves to be included in a modern revision of Acta Sanctorum, for it is as miraculous as the ‘Eureka’ exclamation from page 11 of that article.43 Untempted by modern bibliographical miracles, I believe that the relic is probably a Catalan invention of the mid-14th century. The lack of interest from the part of the Byzantines and all other Latins of continental Greece testifies to this cultural isolation of the Catalan-held lands. 42 43
For the original text, see the AASS, Aprilis … tomus III, 1866, 134E. Setton, ‘Saint George’s head’, 11, for his ‘quest’: “We went through halls and up stairs, and finally reached an upper chapel called the ‘hall of the conclave’ since it was the scene of the papal election of 1800. To the left of the altar was a large locked closet. The shelves were full of relics. Over the altar, incidentally, hung a painting by Carpaccio of St George slaying the dragon, a replica of the one in the Scuola degli Schiavoni. Don Tarcisio brought out a relic of St George, a porous-looking piece of bone the size of a handball. I was not enough of an anatomist to identify it, but I knew it was no part of a head. Don Tarcisio expressed courteous regret at my disappointment. He showed us other relics, but I was only interested in St George. There seemed to be no reliquaries of gold or silver; the precious metals must have disappeared in the early nineteenth century. Don Tarcisio pulled down a large gilt wooden reliquary from the right side of the top shelf; I have forgotten what it was, but it was no part of St George. Then he noticed another large reliquary, also of gilt wood, in the left corner of the top shelf. It was hard to reach, and he retrieved it with difficulty; I was most grateful for his effort, but it all seemed futile. As he lowered the reliquary, however, and its contents came into sight, my pulse quickened. It was the top of a skull, with a gold band encircling it. At least some gold, I thought, had escaped the marauders of the past. There was an inscription on the band, in Greek capitals which in my haste I took to be of the later fifteenth century. The quest had ended. The inscription identified the relic as the cranium (ἡ κάρα) of St George. Εὕρηκα! It was an exciting moment; I forgot to copy the inscription.”
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In that time, the Byzantines kept a watchful eye on the Catalan duchy and preferred to get involved in the politics of the Latin principality. For instance, when Robert of Taranto, prince of Achaea, died without any heir in 1364, Manuel Cantacuzene took the side of Robert’s widow, Mary of Bourbon, and vouched for Hugh of Lusignan, Mary’s son from a previous marriage, as prince of Achaea. This should not be a surprise. Isabella’s role in that decision is evident. She would support a person from her own family. In the war that ensued, Manuel fought Robert’s brother, Philip II of Taranto, and even though the war ended after two years, Manuel continued to support Hugh of Lusignan until at least 1370. The whole thing ended with the uncle paying for his nephew’s rights, but Manuel maintained a strong influence in the politics of the principality.
…
Many years passed since Isabella arrived in Mystras. The city would get more beautiful by the day, but a feeling of loneliness would often creep into her heart and mind. Moreover, she and Manuel had no children. Isabella knew what happened to the old ladies who had nobody to take care of them after the death of their husbands. She probably often remembered the struggles of her own mother. And in the same time, she undoubtedly had no desire to enter a convent, as did many Byzantine ladies, so she concentrated her efforts on making some provisions for the future. At one point or another, certainly before 1368, she decided that she must find a protector, to help her if God decided to give her no children. About that time, she could remember that her closest relative was a certain cousin Leo, the son of her father’s brother. Why not settle Leo in Morea? He would take care of her when old age crept into both of their lives. News had probably arrived in Mystras that Peter I of Lusignan, the king of Cyprus, was in the West. He had to stop somewhere on his way back to Cyprus, perhaps in the Venetian colonies of Methoni or Koroni, so Isabella prepared her plan of attack. She asked around and rapidly found who would be the perfect Moreote bride for her cousin. When the ship carrying Peter I of Cyprus back to his kingdom docked in the harbour of Methoni in October 1368, Isabella came to greet him. She was accompanied by lord Erard III of Aunoy, nicknamed ‘the Moor’, a Latin from Arcadia, and Erard’s daughter, Catherine. She brought beautiful presents to the king. There were also gifts for his barons. And she asked two things of him. The first demand was that he may send her cousin Leo from Cyprus, for she was alone and had no relatives in the land of Greece. If he came, she would leave him a rich inheritance. And she would marry him properly with a rich lady of the land. The second demand concerned the issue of an estate, the size
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of which did not matter, provided that it was located in the island of Cyprus. If the king granted her such an estate, as a token of his love and as a recognition of her lineage, Isabella would be able to retreat there in case her husband died. King Peter agreed to give her Aradippou, an estate that once belonged to her forefathers. She would have a rent of twelve thousand white bezants of Cyprus. As for her first request, they discussed with lord Erard III and his daughter. Erard gave forty golden ducats and king Peter agreed to send Leo to Morea in the space of half a year to wed lady Catherine of Aunoy. If Leo did not come, the arrangement would be annulled, but both parties knew that Leo would come, for he had no better prospects in Cyprus and this arrangement would be very tempting. Maybe Isabella would add some symbolism to the marriage contract. She could invite the king and lord Erard to pray afterwards in Saint-Leo of Methoni, a church dedicated to the patron saint of her cousin, one of the rare purely Latin churches of Morea.44 At the end, the king returned to Cyprus and gave Leo the written agreement. Leo thanked him humbly. And the king suggested that he instantly prepare his trip to the land of his cousin.45 Back in Mystras, Isabella would also be preparing for the arrival of her cousin Leo. She would arrange a lovely place for him, to stay before his wedding, but also after, when he would leave his Arcadian estates to come and meet with her every now and then. The despotissa would equally prepare her ladies for the arrival of such an important guest. She would tell tales about the Lusignan, tales from her childhood. The ladies of Mystras would also need to know what the latest fashions were in the West. Not only clothes and dining habits, but also what the Latins used to talk. So, she would bring a tutor to her court. Since the Peloponnesus was full of Italians, such a tutor would be Italian, perhaps coming from Naples, Venice, Florence, even a Florentine who had spent time in Naples. The Italian whom Isabella could invite to Mystras would be very proud that he mastered rudiments of Greek. His pride would be equally displayed back home, on every trip to Italy, where he would brag about his knowledge. There is ample proof of this in the texts of the time. I will mention only the case of an encyclopaedic-geographical poem written after 1345 (Il Dittamundo). Fazio degli Uberti, its author, imagined that he travelled in the company of the ancient writer Solinus. This was the latest fashion, started by Dante. At the 44 45
For this church, see e.g. Χαράλαμπος Μπούρας, ‘Επανεξέταση του λεγόμενου Αγιολέου κοντά στη Μεθώνη’, in Φίλια Έπη εις Γεώργιον Ε. Μυλωνάν δια τα 60 έτη του ανασκαφικού του έργου (Athens: Η εν Αθήναις Αρχαιολογική Εταιρεία, 1989) 3:302–322. For the source of the entire passage, except for the scene with the church of Methoni, see the original text of John Dardel in RHC-DA 2:37–38.
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end of the third book of the poem, the two of them would approach another imaginary figure wearing Greek clothes (later given the name Antedamas, after Antidamas of Heraclea, author of a history of Alexander the Great according to the text of Fulgentius). Fazio and Solinus would address Antedamas in the Greek language, with a series of rudimentary phrases: – Γειά σου! the author starts the fictional conversation, wishing good health. – Καλώς ήρθες, the Greek welcomes him, with a smile upon his face. – Ειπέ το (instead of Είπε μου), the author then prays tell. Ξεύρεις φραγκικά? A Florentine exiled like Fazio would be confident that a conversation with a Greek could be carried in a language of international circulation. So, the Greek of his imagination would say, redundantly, that he was a Greek, but also that he spoke several languages. It did not matter that some of the words he used were plainly Italian, probably because Fazio dgli Uberti did not ask his source about conjunctions or particles, much needed to link the bits and pieces of Greek language that he used: – Είμαι Ρωμαίος e ξεύρω plus γλώσσες. – Παρακαλώ σε, φίλε μου. Μίλησε φράγκικα. – Μετά χαράς. Joyful, the Greek would then switch to the language of the conquerors.46 The rest of the conversation is rendered in Florentine Italian, giving us a glimpse of what ‘Frankish’ meant by that time for the Greeks and Latins living in the Peloponnesus – probably the Italian language and the Italians themselves. The imaginary pilgrims discuss the possibility of travelling together with the Greek as far as the river border between Thessaly and Macedonia. This was the place where the fictional alter ego of Fazio degli Uberti wished to go, in order to tell his readers about a palace with a beautiful loggia, with carvings from the stories of Hercules and Alexander. This happened at the beginning of the fourth book of his Dittamundo. There were many Italians walking the roads of continental Greece in those times: from Epirus, where the Orsini had brought them, to the principality of Achaea, to the Venetian cities of Koroni and Methoni, or to the lordship of Argos and Nafplio. The most learned ones among them would be expected to bring news of literary and artistic developments back home. At a certain point in the 1350s or 1360s, Moreote aristocracy would be aware of the existence of the Decameron (1348–1353), especially since it contained the story of Alatiel, an Oriental woman tossed from one lord to another, chief among whom were the prince of Morea and the duke of Athens. Recent research suggests that 46
For the original text upon which this passage is based, see Giuseppe Corsi (ed.), Fazio degli Uberti: Il Dittamondo e le rime, 2 vols (Bari: Laterza, 1952) 1:249.
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Boccaccio devised his imaginary descriptions and portraits on real figures, like Walter VI of Brienne, husband to the daughter of the king of Naples.47 Others argued that the description of the Moreote castle was an accurate portrayal of Glarentza.48 Or the castle of Chlemoutsi.49 This is wishful thinking, since the references are too vague and could equally be applied to other castles and historical characters. Boccaccio was not an archaeologist. He was a writer. Nobody would dare imagine, for instance, that the garden of love from the interior of the castle of Thebes, described in his Theseid, is a reference to the palace of the Saint-Omer. It is clearly a reference to the Roman de la Rose. What interests me here is that travellers brought information to Boccaccio, and that he used it in his writings. Those people could equally bring him news about Byzantine tales and Hellenistic literary models, or maybe Boccaccio based his Alatiel on the storyline of Apollonius. We cannot be sure about Boccaccio’s knowledge of Greek culture, but he was avidly interested by and willing to learn more about it. This explains the controversial topic of whether the plotline of his Theseid was partly structured according to Greek source material, namely the tale of Digenis. The Theseid was composed in Naples, towards the middle of the 14th century, more or less about the same time when Boccaccio met with his friend Acciaiuoli, a person who was involved in the political matters of the Peloponnesus. I already argued that an old hypothesis considering that Digenis Akritas could be the source of Boccaccio’s poem should not be discarded.50 I do not 47 48
49
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Sharon Kinoshita, Jason Jacobs, ‘Ports of Call: Boccaccio’s Alatiel in the Medieval Mediterranean’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 37/1 (2007), 177–178. David Jacoby, ‘Italian Migration and Settlement in Latin Greece: The Impact on the Economy’, in Hans Eberhard Meyer (dir.), Die Kreuzfahrerstaaten als multikulturelle Gesellschaft. Einwanderer und Minderheiten im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert (Oldenbourg: De Gruyter, 1997) 106. Nicolò Budini Gattai, ‘La percezione del mondo greco del XIV secolo tra incomprensioni culturali e topoi letterari’, in Roberta Morosini (dir.), Boccaccio geografo. Un viagio nel Mediterraneo, tra le città, i giardini e … il ‘mondo’ di Giovanni Boccaccio, coll. Andrea Cantile (Florence: Polistampa, 2010), 103–131. See for this Henry Kahane, Renée Kahane, ‘Akritas and Arcita: A Byzantine Source of Boccaccio’s Teseida’, Speculum, 20 (1945), 415–425. The hypothesis was accepted by Agostino Pertusi, ‘La poesia epica bizantina e la sua formazione: problemi sul fondo storico e la struttura letteraria del “Digenis Akritas”’, in Atti del convegno internazionale sul tema: La poesia epica e la sua formazione. (Roma, 28 marzo–3 aprile 1969) (Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei, 1970), but no thorough research was done on this matter. For an assessment of this hypothesis, see Caterina Carpinato, ‘Altre osservazioni sulla traduzione greca del “Teseida”’, in Antonio Pioletti, Francesca Rizzo Nervo (dir.), Medioevo romanzo e orientale. Oralità, scrittura, modelli narrativi, Il Colloquio Internazionale Napoli 17–19 febbraio 1994 (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 1995), 178–179. For my point of view,
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believe that Boccaccio had read one of the Demotic versions of Digenis. Neither does this mean that Boccaccio heard it performed. But he could hear a summary of the tale from Nicholas Acciaiuoli, Andrew Acciaiuoli, or another Neapolitan who travelled to or lived in the Latin-held Greek lands. Boccaccio would then borrow certain motifs, subject to debate among the specialists of our days, as well as a name for a very important character (Akritas > Arcita). The Grottaferrata text of Digenis dates back to the 13th–14th century, proving that a circulation of the legend (and of certain manuscripts) already happened between mainland Greece and Southern Italy at the time when Boccaccio wrote his Theseid.51 The contacts between the two lands were frequent and it is only natural that stories travelled independently from manuscripts. It could be an oral transmission. And there is also the matter of Hadrian’s gate, in Athens, connected to the odd title of a lost Demotic novel where Theseus is the protagonist of the story. I already explored this theme in a recent article.52 To put it short, the inscriptions of that Athenian gate mention Hadrian and Theseus as founders of two different cities: Theseus is mentioned in connection with the old Greek city, while Hadrian is the founder of the new one, located to the east of the gate. I will amply discuss these inscriptions in the next chapter. What interests me more now is a list of texts that appears in a catalogue of books belonging to John Soutsos of Constantinople in 1570.53 All these books are now lost, but there is a curious group of texts at the end of that catalogue. The last one among them is the “story of the most valiant Theseus, king [basileus] of Athens, and how he went to the Amazons and fought against them and took them over and how he returned again to Athens and ruled jointly with his brother Hadrian.”54 The
51
52 53
54
see Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism, Make-Believe Antiquity, and the Trivial Origins of the Renaissance in Niccolo da Martoni’s Travels through Latin-Occupied Greece’, Itineraria, 19 (2020), 378–384. Longnon, L’Empire latin de Constantinople, 324–325, believed that Andrea Acciaiuoli could have brought the Theseid and the cantare of Floire and Blancheflor to the Peloponnesus in 1338–1341. This is naturally a matter of speculation. We do not really need to attribute the circulation of books to famous people mentioned in documents. A plethora of readers of literary texts definitely participated in these reciprocal exchanges, leading to the circulation of texts. See the discussion in Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 377–378. The first editor of the said catalogue (Förster) implied that another list of John Soutsos’ library was received by Antoine de Verdier, who published it at the end of his Supplementum epitomes Bibliothecae Gesuerianae, Lugduni, 1585, at pp. 57–59. The information is incorrect and I could not identify such a list anywhere in de Verdier book. Roderick Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 2nd edition, revised and expanded (London/New York: Routledge, 1996), 108 (for the Greek quotation, see p. 107).
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precise phrase is συνεβασίλευσε μετὰ τοῦ ἀδελφοῦ αὐτοῦ Ἁδριανοῦ, making it clear that this tale was linked to the inscriptions of the gate of Hadrian in Athens. Besides this, the other three texts from that list let us now that this tale was one of the texts circulating at least in the 15th century, if not before.55 The first text was a tale of Francis and Bela. It dealt with the manner in which said Francis had taken Bela from a place called Iron-Castle and ran away with her. Given the vague description and the fact that a lot of medieval stories concern ladies taken away from castles, it is rather pointless to identify it with a precise source. But the second tale was that of Imperios and Margarona. This is a well-documented story, known from other copies, and it could be either a late 15th translation of the French Pierre de Provence et la Belle Maguelonne or the Demotic Greek source of the later, written much earlier, perhaps in the 14th century.56 The third one was the tale of Belisarius, to which I will return in the next chapter, when I will discuss the Arthurian group of Demotic Greek literary texts.57 And the last one of the lot is the one that interests us here – king Theseus fighting and taking Amazons to Athens, where he co-ruled with his brother Hadrian, much in the manner in which Manuel co-ruled with his brother Matthew in Mystras. If this were a mid-14th century tale that was told to Boccaccio because of his passion for ancient stories, the Florentine writer living by that time in Naples would discard the reference to Hadrian, since it would be completely absurd. He would not know anything about the Athenian gate, since not many people went to Athens, on account of that city being under Catalan rule. But Boccaccio would be interested in no matter what story came out of Greece, especially if it concerned a mythological character like Theseus. Therefore, it is actually plausible that he used the tales of Digenis and this vernacular Greek Theseus when he started constructing the storyline of his Theseid. Two more ideas should be added here, in support of this working hypothesis. The first one is that the tale of Theseus and Hadrian resembles pretty much those cockamamie origin stories that were created at the turn of the 14th century, at the time of the Catalan conquest of the Athenian duchy. I would not be surprised if the French 55 56 57
For the Greek list, see Richard Förster, De antiquitatibus et libris manuscriptis Constantinopolitanis commentatio (Rostochii: Formis Academicis Adlerianis, 1877), 19. The catalogue itself bears the title ταῦτά εἰσι τὰ βιβλία τοῦ ἐνδοξοτάτου ἄρχοντος κυροῦ Ἰωάννου τοῦ Σοίτζου. For the rhymed version of this tale, see Κώστας Γιαβής (ed.), Ιμπέριος και Μαργαρώνα (Imperios and Margarona). The Rhymed Version (Athens: Μορφωτικό Ίδρυμα Εθνικής Τραπέζης, 2019). Cf. Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 138–140. W.F. Bakker, A.F. van Gemert (eds.), Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου. Κριτική έκδοση των τεσσάρων διασκευών µε εισαγωγή, σχόλια και γλωσσάριο (Athens: Μορφωτικό Ίδρυμα Εθνικής Τραπέζης, 1988).
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and Italians living already in Athens for one century started inventing tales about the history of their land. If they did so, they would do it in the manner of the Antiquity adaptations from the West, where such bizarre assortments of characters were already in fashion. Secondly, research argued that the lost story of Theseus and Hadrian cannot be derived from the Theseid itself, even though the introductory section of the latter is very similar in contents.58 This suggests that the Demotic Greek tale predates Boccaccio’s work. It would then be dated to more or less the same timeframe as Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος. And this would consequently imply a wider mutual exchange of literary texts between the Kingdom of Naples and the Latin-occupied lands of continental Greece. I believe that this exchange probably started at the end of the 13th century, when Morea became an official extension of the Angevin kingdom. It possibly continued until very late, at least until the end of the 14th century, perhaps even in the first decades of the 15th. In such a case, Boccaccio would be only the tip of the cultural iceberg. The stories of Boccaccio certainly found a steady public in continental Greece and in the islands, since there exists a Demotic translation of his Theseid in decapentasyllabic verses. It dates back to the second half of the 15th century and was later printed in Venice in 1539.59 The existence of these Greek translations makes it hard to argue that a Greek writer would have worked the tale of Theseus and Hadrian on the basis of Boccaccio’s text. Some believe that the first translator of the Theseid must be placed in a continental Greek cultural context, like the adapter of Floris and Blancheflour (the Demotic Greek Florios and Platzia-Flora ).60 But this could be determined by the fact that such 58 59
60
Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 108. He follows the opinion of Σπυρίδων Π. Λάμπρος, ‘Εικονογραφημένοι λογοτεχνικοί κώδικες’, Νέος Ελληνομνήμων, 11 (1914), 434–436. For more pieces of information, see Caterina Carpinato, ‘La traduzione neogreca del Teseida. Da Boccaccio a Zinos’, in Mario Vitti (dir.), Testi letterari italiani tradotti in greco (dal ‘500 ad oggi) (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 1994), 25–37; Carpinato, ‘Altre osservazioni’. Even though the translator was not particularly skilled in literary matters, he knew the Italian language well and the translation appears to be rather accurate. It was argued that the translation was presumably made in Venetian Crete or in the mainland of the Acciaiuoli, at a later time, when this Florentine family counted several dukes of Athens among its ranks. The Demotic text even imitates the ottava rima of the original, changing the eleven-syllable verse of the Italian original into decapentasyllabic Demotic political verses. See Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 142–143. Cf. Enrica Follieri, ‘Gli elementi originali nella versione neogreca del Teseida del Boccaccio’, Ελληνικά, 9 (1958), 292–298; Birgit Olsen, ‘The Model and Translation Method of the Greek Theseid’, in Nikolaos M. Panayotakis (dir.), Origini della letteratura neogreca: atti del secondo Congresso Internazionale ‘Neograeca Medii Aevi’, Venezia, 7–10 novembre 1991, 2 vols (Venice: Istituto ellenico di studi bizantini e postbizantini di Venezia, 1993), 313–318; Birgit Olsen, ‘The Theseid in Modern Greek – original or traditional?’, Renæssanceforum, 12 (2017), 61–70.
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texts circulated within the same cultural circles. For instance, Boccaccio made use of this other text in his Filocolo, much as the Greek translator of the Theseid did as well.61 The matter is extremely complex. Maybe the identification of a pattern will lead to the cluster to which these texts belong to. Nevertheless, the introductory nature of the book does not allow me to delve deep into complex subjects. I will simply agree with prior research that Boccaccio’s tale stirred up a lot of sentimenti di meraviglia nei destinatari della traduzione in greco demotico. Ed ancora i cavalieri, le armi, le gelosie, i giardini, le contese sarano ‘ingredienti’ particolarmente graditi per quei greci del XV sec. che erano entrati in contatto con la cultura occidetale.62 We should not be surprised that those sentiments were already present at the court of Mystras. Isabella’s presence and the continuous contacts with the Franco-Italian or purely Italian nobility of Achaea would justify an up-to-date mutual exchange between Morea (Latin or Byzantine) and Western lands. There are others arguments as well. If Boccaccio partly based the Theseid on the Demotic Greek stories of Digenis and Theseus, he would not be very different from the authors of his time. He could follow a cultural trend, linking new stories to old and famous introductory beginnings. Here’s one example. Building on Boniface of Verona’s 1293 Eulistea poem – the one about the story of Perugia, mentioned in the previous chapter, an anonymous Italian author wrote a Tale of Corciano and Perugia (Conto di Corciano e di Perugia). It was dated in c.1370 and Eulistes becomes Ulisste in the vernacular text, a clear reference to the Odyssey, while the other occurrences of his name declined it in different ways, perhaps on purpose.63 As for the storyline, even though parts of the tale relate to the story of Roland genre, their beginnings are tongue-in-cheek references to the Odyssey.64 It is therefore safe to imagine that in a decade or so the contents of the Odyssey were known in Italy, probably from the translation of Leontius Pilatus. Crossovers were trendy literary pieces in that time. Speaking of the translation of Leontius Pilatus, this was also connected with the activity of Boccaccio. A student of Barlaam of Calabria, Leontius left his 61 62 63 64
Carpinato, ‘Altre osservazioni’, 182. Cf. Giuseppe Spadaro, Contributi sulle fonti del romanzo greco-medievale ‘Florio e Platziaflora’ (Athens: Κείμενα και Μελέται Νεολληνικής Φιλολογίας, 1966), 13–14, whom she cites for this idea. Carpinato, ‘Altre osservazioni’, 183. Some of them seem to link the protagonist to the 1293 Latin poem (Euliste, Eulissta), while others link his name to the Odyssey proper (Olisste, Ulissti). There are also spellings that point to Virgil’s Aeneid (Aulisste). For the text, see Franco Mancini (ed.), Il Conto di Corciano e di Perugia: leggenda cavalleresca del secolo XIV (Spoleto: Fondazione CISAM, 1980). Cf. Alice Ducati, La prosa latino-francese di argomento troiano del codice Barb. lat. 3953 e la fortuna medievale della materia troiana in Italia, PhD diss. (University of Trento, 2018), 197.
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Greek homeland of Calabria and went to Avignon. He translated Euripides and Aristotle, but he is mostly famous for his Latin translation of the Odyssey, the first of its kind, and for the fact that he supplied Boccaccio with material for the Genealogy of the Gods of the Gentiles (Genealogia deorum gentilium), which was written at the request of Hugh IV, king of Cyprus. It would be very likely that our Isabella, well connected to the families of Southern Italy and Crusader Mediterranean, was also aware of the developments of the early Renaissance, especially since she lived in Mystras, a city where many Byzantines scholars came at the court of Manuel Cantacuzene. Such things would be known at the court of Mystras. The first humanists’ ambiguous cultural status between the fascination with Antiquity and a not-yet-shed medieval literary skin may explain some of the cultural borrowings that we see in Demotic Greek literature. As for the Greeks of Mystras, they would also know that Boccaccio himself acknowledged his limits, saying that Homer was dumb with him, or perhaps he was deaf to Homer. Or that he had also told his readers that their knowledge of Greek letters was distorted and wrong.65 Let’s imagine that an Italian in the service of Isabella would have told such things in the presence of despot Manuel. An Italian teacher from the second part of the 14th century would be obsessed with the Tre corone (Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio). Upon hearing the Greek translation of the words favole and bugie, the lord of Mystras would become a bit angry. It would not matter that the famous writer from Italy had finally managed to read the Odyssey in translation. Manuel would not mind about that story. For a man like him, preoccupied with what was to be left behind, history would have a deeper meaning. Greek culture would have a deeper meaning as well, so he would instantly address the problems that bothered him. The despot would place all Latins in the same basket. He would say that he had heard several times readings from the Chronicle of Morea, the poem that the Latins of the principality and their Greek archons enjoyed so much. Yet he would not consider that a work of history. To his ears and eyes, that would be just a collection of amusing tales, far from the truth, without any logic whatsoever, just like that story of the Theseid which had nothing in common with the real character of Theseus. Furthermore, the Chronicle of Morea was written by an author who never attempted to reach a higher level of understanding through a scrutiny of his own subjectivity. The speeches he wrote in his poem were simplistic and simple-minded. And the literature of the Latins seemed a little bit the same. 65
See the ambiguous passage from his Elegy of Lady Fiammetta (1343–1344): Voi leggendo non troverete favole greche ornate di molte bugie, nè troiane battaglie sozze per molto sangue, ma amorose, stimolate da molti disii.
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To prove his point and to put the Italian guest to his place, the despot would summon Manuel Tzykandyles the scribe, or maybe hieromonk Markianos. They were to bring his copy of Thucydides.66 And he would read from its beginning: With reference to the speeches in this history, some were delivered before the war began, others while it was going on; some I heard myself, others I got from various quarters; it was in all cases difficult to carry them word for word in one’s memory, so my habit has been to make the speakers say what was in my opinion demanded of them by the various occasions, of course adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what they really said.67 ‘You see …’, the despot would say, this was the proper way to make historical characters talk. The Italian would be nervous. He would not understand how they arrived at this issue, and Manuel would continue to explain about the necessity to weigh one’s own subjective point of view, balancing it properly with the opinions of others: And with reference to the narrative of events, far from permitting myself to derive it from the first source that came to hand, I did not even trust my own impressions, but it rests partly on what I saw myself, partly on what others saw for me, the accuracy of the report being always tried by the most severe and detailed tests possible. My conclusions have cost me some labour from the want of coincidence between accounts of the same occurrences by different eye-witnesses, arising sometimes from imperfect memory, sometimes from undue partiality for one side or the other.68 In the end, he would perorate about the need to clear down the romancing episodes from historical narratives. Eliminating those naive exaggerations – and the Chronicle of Morea was full of them – made the writing of history useful and exemplary for generations to come. This is why he would take an interest in the writings of Thucydides, because he would learn from it day by day, being able to put his good advice to practice: 66 67 68
See Nicol, The Reluctant Emperor, 128, for Vatican, cod. gr. 127, copied in Mystras for Manuel Cantacuzene by Manuel Tzykandyles, a friend of the despot’s father, and a certain hieromonk Markianos. It was completed on 4 September 1372. Richard Crawley (trans.), Thucydides: History of the Peloponnesian War (London: J.M. Dent, 1910), 14–15 (for the translation). Crawley trans., Thucydides, 15 (for the translation).
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The absence of romance in my history will, I fear, detract somewhat from its interest; but if it be judged useful by those inquirers who desire an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things must resemble if it does not reflect it, I shall be content. In fine, I have written my work, not as an essay which is to win the applause of the moment, but as a possession for all time.69 The Italian would be speechless. Isabella would look at Manuel amused. He possibly liked Western things on various occasions. He probably found them even funny or simply interesting. But when it came to his pure Greek upbringing, certain cultural issues – even profane ones – would be sacred, sacrosanct. So, she would explain to him that her guest did not speak about history. He simply chatted about what was new in the West. There were authors who really wanted to read Greek, who were tired of favole and bugie. They wanted to read Homer’s Odyssey. They asked for a Latin translation of it. Manuel would excuse himself. He would not want to be harsh. He was absent minded, preoccupied with affairs of state. And then a messenger would come, bringing bad news for Isabella. All her plans had come to nothing. Her cousin could not come. Poor Leo prepared for the trip to Morea. He truly wanted to wed lady Catherine and keep the written promises, but an unexpected thing happened. King Peter of Cyprus was killed by his vassals soon after his return to the island. He was supposed to become king of Armenia as well, but that never happened. Now the government of the kingdom was in the hand of lord John of Lusignan. When cousin Leo asked prince John to grant him leave, so that he may set out to accomplish the promises made by the former king, John the prince and constable rejected his request. This John was much afraid that Leo would run away to the Western lands and complain to the pope or the king of France on the matter of a property which had been wrongfully denied to him. So, Leo was forced to stay on the island, against his will.70 Time passed quickly. In the month of May 1369, when it was evident that he would never be able to reach the coast of Morea in time, Leo finally married a widow from Cyprus, a certain Margaret of Soissons, daughter of a local baron. After the marriage, he concentrated on recovering the estate that had been denied to him. And John the prince, who received the rent of that estate, had told him that he had to wait until the new king came of age.71 69 70 71
Ibid., 15 (for the translation). For the source of this passage (John Dardel) see the original text in RHC-DA 2:38. For the source of this passage, see RHC-DA 2:39.
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In the meantime, in the Peloponnesus, lady Catherine of Aunoy married Andronicus Asen Zaccaria, half-Genoese and half-Bulgarian, who later became grand constable of Achaea. Their eldest son, Centurione II Zaccaria, would even become prince of Achaea (1404–1430). If Catherine married cousin Leo, their son would have the same fate. Isabella must have had this in mind each time when she heard news about Catherine’s new husband. She must have regretted that her initial plan did not work. So, she probably decided to make other plans. The next year, in 1370, the despotissa took advantage of the short passage of her brother-in-law, the future emperor Manuel II Palaeologus, through the Peloponnesus. At that time, this other Manuel was despot of Thessalonica and he was on his way to Venice. She came to ask of him for the return of a property in Thessalonica, a property which had once been given to her late father, Guy of Lusignan.72 And the brother-in-law agreed, of course. But she still did not feel secure, perhaps because that property was in the Byzantine lands and she knew how fickle and evanescent Byzantine promises were, especially when a lord like her husband Manuel would fall into disfavour or die. Not that these promises were any different from the ones made by the Latins, but at least those Latins lived in lands where allegiances and inheritances were not subject to change according to what happened in Constantinople. Isabella probably wanted to have a back-up plan, far from those Constantinopolitan eyes. Perhaps this is why Isabella travelled to Cyprus two years later, at the end of 1372. She did not collect much rent from Aradippou. Prince John of Lusignan, regent of that kingdom, denied the promises made by king Peter I and seized the revenues for himself. Isabella could not agree with this, so she took eighty courtiers to accompany her and quickly left for the island of Cyprus, bringing many gifts, to be used if there were any problems. She was already in Famagusta on 17 October 1372, the date of the crowning of Peter II of Lusignan as king of Jerusalem.73 Too busy with her own problems, Isabella would not pay attention 72
73
Cf. Paul Lemerle, André Guillou, Nicolas Svoronos, Denise Papachryssanthou (eds.), Actes de Lavra, 3. De 1329 à 1500. Édition diplomatique. Texte (= Archives de l’Athos, X) (Paris: P. Lethielleux, 1979), 164 (for the identification with Isabella of Lusignan), and 165 (for the following quotation): Χρόνου δὲ διαγενομένου, καὶ τῆς βασιλείας μου ἐπιδημησάσης εἰς τὰ μέρη τῆς Πελοποννήσου ὅτε πρὸς τὴν Βενετίαν ἀπήρχετο, ἐζήτησε καὶ παρεκάλεσε τὴν βασιλείαν μου ἡ μακαρῖτις θεία αὐτης εὐτυχεστάτη βασίλισσα κυρὰ [blank space] ἡ Κατακουζηνὴ ἵνα εὐεργετήση πρὸς αὐτὴν τὴν τοιαύτην αὐλήν· ἣν δὴ καὶ εὐηργέτησε πρὸς αὐτὴν ἡ βασιλεία μου. Despite previous debates, the identification with Isabella of Lusignan has been convincingly argued by Angeliki Tzavara, Thierry Ganchou, ‘La principessa Caterina Palaiologina. À propos des βασίλισσαι de Morée (fin XIVe–début XVe siècles)’, Εώα και Εσπέρια, 4 (1999–2000), 78, note 50. Cf. RHC-DA 2:39–40.
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to a silly thing that happened during that crowning ceremony. Silly indeed, but with devastating effects in the future. The custom was that the Genoese and Venetian from the city held the reins of the king’s horse. It was symbolic of their role in state affairs, but Genoese and Venetians seldomly got along. So, they quarrelled about who should stay to the right and who should stay to the left. Isabella would be amused by this quarrel or she would simply ignore it. Her cousin Leo was also there, since he had come to ask for his rights again. They probably met and had many matters to discuss. But the conflict between the two merchant colonies continued during the dinner celebration and it got weirder and weirder. Leo waited the moment when the king was crowned. When the king made Leo seneschal of Jerusalem, Isabella’s cousin asked for his fiefdom and the king was inclined to grant him his rights. But evil prince John sweet-talked the king into leaving this issue for later. He said that it was not the time. The king had been barely crowned. Needless to say, Leo did not like this at all. In public, he was composed and sorrowful. In private, he must have been mad with anger.74 And Isabella surely agreed with him, for she had reasons of her own to be angry. In fact, at the end of the same ceremony, she took part in the feast. And at the end of the banquet, she came before the king and the former prince regent, asking for her rights to the estate of Aradippou. They were family and she certainly expected a courteous treatment, like the one given to Hermine and Florie in the tale of Melusine by John of Arras. She would look prince John in the eyes, expecting him to be ashamed when she mentioned that the rent had been taken from her, but John was shameless. He opened his mouth, speaking for the king, and told her: – Lady, the gift made to you by milord my brother the king is null, for it did not belong to him. Please do not speak of this matter anymore, for you cannot. Isabella would feel insulted. She could not believe her eyes and ears. The land of Cyprus had nothing in common with the fairytales of her childhood. She had been brushed away from the royal table as if she did not deserve to be there. She had been cheated, in plain view, by a ruthless thug whose manners were absolutely appalling. She probably questioned herself if this was her subjective point of view – according to her husband’s Thucydides, but she cast aside all doubts when another lady came with a similar request and was denied her rights in the same manner. Eschiva of Scandelion, a noble lady, had been given an estate in Agia Thalassa by the late king Peter I. She came before the king to have it back, but prince John treated her ruthlessly. She complained and said that she will take this matter to court, but this did not impress the 74
Cf. RHC-DA 2:39.
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former regent.75 In the meantime, the quarrel of the Venetians and Genoese had taken to the streets of Famagusta. They were fighting each other with weapons. Houses and shops were wrecked. There were many victims. Perhaps Isabella and Leo retired, to protect themselves. Days later, the Genoese were the only ones held responsible. When they were arrested, this did not sit well with the government of their city, leading to later retaliations. And the lady of Scandelion actually went to court. She presented proof about how the former king had placed her in possession of her estate. But prince John provided the same arguments, that the estate did not belong to the king himself, so he could not give something that did not belong to him. The gift was null and void. When Isabella heard that lady Eschiva had lost at the trial, she sent back to Morea all the gifts that she had brought. There was no purpose to give them to these people, who had no manners and no shame at all. She wanted to go to Jerusalem, perhaps on a pilgrimage, but it was already winter. The high seas and winds kept her on the island of Cyprus and she chose to stay in the house of her cousin Leo.76 She probably felt amused when she heard that the new king of Cyprus planned to wed the daughter of John V Palaeologus, the Byzantine emperor. In her conversations with Leo, they would wish Peter II to suffer the same fate as Leo in 1369, when she planned his Moreote marriage. Little would they know that their wish would be granted and that the young king would never marry a Constantinopolitan bride. During that winter, Isabella would wish to learn more about the laws of Cyprus. Cousin Leo would show her a copy of the Assizes of Cyprus, written in 13th century. Rumour had it that a Greek translation of that book of law was already in the making, so that the local Greeks may be able to properly train themselves in delicate legal matters.77 Isabella would be surprised and impressed. In the Peloponnesus, they did not have many Greek translations or many Greek texts of this kind. Sure, there were the Chronicle of Morea and the War of Troy, but those were silly texts, already obsolete. The Cypriots were a sort of avant-garde of Demotic letters. They had their own chronicles. They had even translated Petrarch’s sonnets into Greek. Maybe these Cypriot cultural trends stroke a chord with Isabella. It could have given her ideas. Cypriot nobility lived in between languages and cultures. They had, for instance, their 75 76 77
For this passage in the text of John Dardel, see RHC-DA 2:39–40. For the source of this passage, see RHC-DA 2:40. There are two Greek translations of the Assizes of the Lusignan kingdom of Cyprus. One of them dates back to 1469, but the other one, preserved in a copy dated to 1512, was written much earlier than the first, even though it cannot be properly dated. For this other translation, see Nicholas Coureas (trans.), The Assizes of the Lusignan kingdom of Cyprus (Nicosia: Cyprus Research Centre, 2002).
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Lignages d’outremer, a genealogical treatise initially written in 1291, but soon rewritten after 1324.78 In the 15th century, a copy of that text was transcribed in a manuscript owned by other members of the Lusignan family, married to Cantacuzenes. And it was filled with documents in Greek, French genealogical poems, but also Greek family stories written in Latin transliteration.79 Isabella could see such texts and such genealogical treatises during her stay in Cyprus. She could learn a lot from the local syncretism. Her courtiers would also learn, bringing back home new trends and ideas to put into practice.
…
With those winter winds and rains, Isabella would not travel much inland. She probably spent most of her time conversing with Leo and Margaret, the wife. They would talk trifles, for nobody discusses only serious subjects. Perhaps our despotissa loved to know what happened since she had left for Morea. Intrigues, of course. But also, what the new fashions were. Not only clothes, dishes, music, and dances, but also tales. From her talks with cousin Leo, Isabella would learn that many things had changed in the West. For instance, good old-fashioned stories about Troy, King Arthur, Charlemagne, and the others had become a bit boring. People wanted more. Some diversity. Obviously, they wanted new thrills. This is how a taste for the crossover narratives manifested in the French literature. In a way, these new texts were the Alien vs. Predator movies of their time. For instance, let us briefly look at the 14th century romance of Landomata. Isabella could hear it in the evenings, when lords and ladies used to listen to such tales. It was widely popular everywhere, so I am not straying away. It was structured upon the model of the late 12th century Vengement Alixandre by Gui of Cambrai or Venjance Alixandre by Jehan le Venelais, where a fabulous son of Alexander the Great exacts revenge in the name of his father. Landomata is 78
79
For this text in general, see W.H. Rudt de Collenberg, ‘A fragmentary copy of an unknown recension of the Lignages d’Outre-Mer in the Vatican Library’, The English Historical Review, 98 (1983), 311–327; Isabelle Ortega, ‘Réflexions sur une anthroponymie nobiliaire comparée entre la principauté de Morée et le royaume de Chypre, à travers la Chronique de Morée et les Lignages d’Outremer’, in Acts of the Conference ‘The Archaelogy of Late Antique and Byzantine Cyprus (4th–12th centuries AD)’ (Nicosia, October 2013) and Dossier ‘France-Chypre, 1192–1474’ (Paris: De Boccard, 2014), 349–362. For its edition, see Marie-Adélaïde Nielen (ed.), Lignages d’Outremer. Introduction, notes et édition critique (Paris: Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 2003). For this manuscript, see Édith Brayer, Paul Lemerle, Vitalien Laurent, ‘Le Vaticanus latinus 4789, alliances et filiations des Cantacuzènes aux XIVe et XVe siècles’, Revue des études byzantines, 9 (1951), 47–105.
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the son of Hector who does the same. In an imaginary post-Trojan world, the protagonist chases Menelaus, who leaves Sparta, takes refuge in Rhodes, and dies there penniless. Landomata then conquers the kingdoms of Georgia and Armenia, the entire Orient for that matter. His story would be greatly enjoyed by both Isabella and her cousin Leo, since they were members of a family who ruled all over in the lands of the Orient. This tale of Landomata started with him taking leave of his half-brother Achillides and going to Troy, where he chases off Drual, a descendant of Antenor, a Trojan traitor. He mounts an expedition to bring back Calchas to Troy, where the latter dies in prison. Next follows the chase after Menelaus, the construction of a new Troy in the vicinity of the old one, Landomata’s marriage with Thamerida, daughter of the king of Coine (or Ancona in different versions), and his Oriental conquest campaign.80 From a stylistic or narrative point of view, this Tale of Landomata resembles the fan-fiction novels of our days. It is more preoccupied to throw its incidents in a random chain of events, ignoring the composition itself. Yet this did not stop it from being copied in countless versions, generally in connection with the prose versions of the Roman de Troie or with the Histoire ancienne. Fan-fiction can be a bestseller, no matter how badly written it is. But there was also the ‘corporate’ version of the crossover genre. Perceforest is probably the best example from among the entire Western literature, a sort of mid-14th century Marvel Cinematic Universe. Knights in shining armour and damsels encountered mythical ancient gods in stories occasionally seasoned with traces of Christian apocrypha. It had everything: Alexander the Great conquered Britain and left a certain general Betis in charge. Betis became Perceforest, founded a chivalric order and married a fairy-queen. Heroes came from all over the world for his tournaments, including a not-quite-dead Troilus extracted from the Roman de Troie. Then the Romans invaded Britain, there was death and slaughter. Perceforest was taken by his fairy-wife to the island of Avalon, where he awaited the coming of Christ in order to baptised. New tournaments happen, the kingdom is renewed, and finally everyone is baptised.81 80
81
For the Romance of Landomata, see e.g. Cross ed., Landomata, from which most recent research stems. For its possible ancient origins in a quotation from Eusebius of Caesarea, known to Boccaccio when he mentioned this story of Landomata (corrected as Astyanax) in his Genealogia Deorum Gentilium, see Cross ed., Landomata, 48. The confusion of Laodamas with Laomedon in Byzantine texts (see George Cedrenus, who names him as the son of Hector) could also be a point of origin of the French story. Out of the enormous literature on the mixture of Arthurian tales and ancient stories or myths in the Perceforest, see e.g. Anne Berthelot, ‘La représentation de l’Antiquité dans le Roman de Perceforest’, in Rosanna Brusegan et al. (dir.), L’Antichità nella cultura europea del Medioevo/L’Antiquité dans la culture européenne du Moyen Âge: Ergebnisse der internationalen Tagung in Padua 27.09.–01.10.1997 (Greifswald: Reineke Verlag, 1998), 251–260;
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It was a hotchpotch literary brew, often difficult to follow. To have a better idea, here is one of its most famous highlights, the tale of Troilus and Zellandine – the first appearance of the Sleeping Beauty in written literature. It is highly probable that all ladies of those times heard such tales at some point in their lives. So, let us imagine that the tale would be read to Isabella in Cyprus. In any case, it may tell us more about the literary state of mind of the mid-14th century than any short presentation adorned with title quotations and bibliographical footnotes. I hope my readers will not mind that I will copiously quote from the text. After all, my book is purposely conceived and written in a literary collage. First of all, one must understand that Troilus was not a Homeric registered trademark. In an age when authors had absolutely no copyright of their work, one could take any name and use it to whatever purposes he or she saw fit. So, Troilus – a Scottish knight – falls in love with Zellandine, a beautiful princess from the faraway country of Zeeland. One day the princess falls asleep and does not wake up. A crew of sailors tell Troilus that “a great wonder has just occurred in [their] land. Zellandine, the daughter of their lord Zelland, returned recently from the banquet of the noble king Perceforest in Britain, and two days later the strangest thing happened – it’s hardly credible: she was sitting with the other maidens when she fell so deeply asleep that she hasn’t woken since.”82 Troilus therefore goes with the sailors to save her, an old lady tells him where she is, but puts him under a spell, he escapes, staggers into the castle of his beloved’s father, where a fool states that Troilus will be the only one to wake Zellandine up, but king Zelland does not believe it, so he shuts the princess in a tower while Troilus still struggles with the old lady’s spell. This would have been a reading for one evening. The second half of the 14th century was a time when lords employed clerks to read to them. In the winter of 1372–1373, a clerk would have “gone to great pains for so many days and so many weeks, to get up in the middle of the night – [let’s say] six weeks before Christmas and four after, [leaving his] lodgings [and going] straight to
82
Anne Berthelot, ‘La sagesse antique au service des prestiges féeriques dans le Roman de Perceforest’, in Olivier Collet et al. (dir.), Ce est li fruis selonc la letre. Mélanges offerts à Charles Méla (Paris: Champion, 2002), 183–193; Christine Ferlampin-Acher, ‘Perceforest et la mythologie: l’histoire et les ailes du désir’, in Jean-Pierre Aygon et al. (dir.), La mythologie de l’Antiquité à la modernité. Appropriation, adaptation, détournement (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2009), 199–209; Christine Ferlampin-Acher (dir.), Perceforest. Un roman arthurien et sa réception (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2012). Nigel Bryant (trans.), A Perceforest Reader. Selected episodes from Perceforest: The Prehistory of King Arthur’s Britain (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2011), 67 (for the translation, that I confronted to the text and corrected, since it was partly an adaptation). For the original text, see Gilles Roussineau (ed.), Perceforest. Troisième partie, tome III (Geneva: Droz, 1993), 58.
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the castle. No matter what the weather, rain or wind, [the clerk was paid, so he] had to go.” Often, he would be “soaked, but graciously welcomed.” And then the poor man would feel better, impressed by the splendour of a life to which he was unaccustomed. “On first entering, there [would be] such light in the hall, or in [the] room, at supper, that one could see as much light as any daylight could be.” In the hall of a lord like Leo, the poor clerk would often feel like in “an earthly paradise. [He would be] there for as long as it took,” until the lord and his cousin Isabella would retire and go to bed. This would happen when the clerk “had read about seven pages, to [their] liking,” like the seven pages from the adventure of Troilus. Their agreement would also let the clerk drink “the remainder of [the] wine, which came from a vessel of pure gold,” and then they would say good night.83 Next evening, the tale would continue. Troilus escapes the spell and follows the king to a temple of three goddesses – evidently taken from the Roman de Troie, where he sleeps and sees Venus, the goddess of Love. He wakes up in the closed temple, the guardian opens it and tells him the story of those three goddesses (a sort of fairy godmothers). Then the aunt of Zellandine arrives and prays to the goddesses to have pity on her niece. Troilus runs away, fights Nervin, a knight who had stolen his armour when he was under the spell, gets his armour back, arrives at the same temple and prays to Venus, kneeling before her statue. When the sun sets down below the horizon, the goddess speaks to him in verse: Be not troubled, noble knight. If you’ve the valour To enter the tower Where that noble-hearted beauty Lies still as stone, When you pluck from the slit The fruit that holds the cure, The girl will be healed.84
83
84
I imitate Froissart’s description of his late evening and night readings to Gaston Fébus, count of Foix-Béarn, in 1388–1389, as he presented it in his Dit du florin. My main reason was the chronological proximity. See Kristen M. Figg, R. Barton Palmer (trans.), Jean Froissart: An Anthology of Narrative and Lyric Poetry (New York/London: Routledge, 2001), 505 (for the translation adapted in this paragraph). For the original text, see Anthime Fourrier (ed.), Jean Froissart: Dits et débats, avec en appendice quelques poèmes de Guillaume de Machaut (Geneva: Droz, 1979), 185–186. Bryant trans., A Perceforest Reader, 72. See Roussineau ed., Perceforest, 80 (original).
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Confused by the poetic answer, Troilus asks for more clues, but the goddess refuses to speak plainly and tells him that he will know what to do, because “nature will see to that.” He finally arrives at the castle, but there is no way to reach Zellandine’s tower, since all entrances and windows are blocked. All except one at the very top, facing east. A messenger rides towards the castle and he tells Troilus that the girl is to be found “on that topmost storey and only her father Zelland goes there: they say he enters the tower by an underground passage. And because he wants the gods to come and cure her, he’s placed her in a bed way up there – with a window facing east because he has great faith in the god of the sun.”85 Meaning Apollo, obviously. Troilus is desperate. He tries everything, but is unable to reach that window. So, he curses the God of Love, when – all of a sudden – “there was a brief and violent blast of wind, and a moment later he saw a messenger walking straight towards him over the water of the moat.” It was Zephyr, borrowed from the Golden Ass of Apuleius. They engage in conversation, but Zephyr refuses to tell him who he is. “Thereupon Troilus felt himself swept into the air, and the next thing he knew he was perched, to his astonishment, on the window ledge a hundred cubits above the ground. He clambered inside the tower and, hardly daring to look for fear it might all be an illusion, peered about the room. And there to one side of the chamber stood a gorgeous bed, worthy of a queen, its curtains and canopy whiter than snow. He was bowled over with excitement: the blood rushed to his cheeks; his whole body was aflame; he was sure it was the bed where the girl lay, ever-sleeping. He couldn’t find the courage to approach: like all true lovers, he was bold in thought and a coward in deed! But at last, he stepped forward and drew back the curtain and saw, lying there, the one he loved most in all the world. She was stark naked, and his heart and legs gave way and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed.”86 Zellandine has to be naked, naturally. She is naked because the plot needs her to fulfil the desire of male imagination. But she does not answer her lover’s calls. “While he lamented and gazed at her beauty, Love summoned him to kiss her, and he said: – Would you like me to kiss you, girl? He was about to do that very thing when Reason and Discretion marched forward and said:
85 86
Bryant trans., 73. See Roussineau ed., 82 (original). Bryant trans., 74–75. See Roussineau ed., 86 (original).
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– Sir knight, no man should breach a girl’s privacy without her leave, and he certainly shouldn’t touch her while she sleeps! Hearing this he drew back from her face, so close to his; but Desire was beginning to prick him in earnest, and told him her privacy was no reason to desist – Reason had no place in such matters! – and Honour was not in danger because a kiss could cure all manner of ills: it was especially good at reviving from a swoon or calming a troubled heart. Troilus was delighted with this argument and felt Reason couldn’t possibly reply; so he kissed the girl more than twenty times.”87 But nothing happened. Frustrated, Troilus addresses the Goddess of Love. “The goddess Venus arrived at his side, invisible, and whispered to his heart: – What a coward you are, knight! You’re all alone with this beautiful girl, the one you love above all others, and you don’t lie with her! He considered these words and decided to act on them. With Venus’s flame firing his heart, he felt inspired to throw off his clothes. But Propriety, directed by the god of Love, told him it would be a betrayal to do this: no true lover would harm his beloved. Troilus had second thoughts; and when Venus saw him demur she was more than disappointed with him, and lit her torch and set him so aflame that he was nearly driven wild by the heat. What’s more, she made him consider that no faint heart ever won fair lady – and that the girl wouldn’t mind what he did, whatever she might pretend! The knight jumped up and was out of his armour and clothes in a second. He dived under the blanket and alongside the girl, who lay there naked, white and soft. Finding himself in this privileged position, Troilus thought no man had ever been as fortunate as he – if only the girl would speak; but she didn’t yet: the time had not yet come. And although this took the edge off his joy, he couldn’t help answering Venus’s urging and had all he wanted of the beautiful Zellandine – including her right to the name of maiden. And it all happened while she was asleep: she didn’t stir at all. But then, at the end, she gave a deep sigh, and Troilus was sure she was about to speak; dumbstruck with alarm he backed away, ready to act all innocent. As he did so, the one who’d brought him there appeared at the window and said:
87
Bryant trans., 75–76. See Roussineau ed., 88 (original).
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– Come on, sir knight! Keep your promise and do as you’re told: you’ve done enough for now, and the fruit that’ll cure the lovely girl is plucked!”88 There is a drop of humour is this scene. On certain occasions, it sounds like a fabliau parody of the Roman de la Rose. “Troilus jumped up when he heard the call and threw his clothes and armour back on, and came to the window where the one who’d borne him there was waiting. But he was distraught at the thought of leaving and said: – Oh, why have you come back so soon? You’re taking me from the deepest bliss in the world! – Never mind that! Stay much longer and you’ll be in trouble! Climb on my back and let’s go! And just as Troilus was clambering on, he heard someone unlocking the chamber door. It was Zelland: while Troilus had been enjoying himself, the candle he’d lit had shone so bright that Zelland had seen it from his bed. He’d hurried along the secret passage and, finding the door to the tower locked, was sure the gods had come to tend his daughter. […] and as they entered, Zelland and his sister saw a knight, his arms shining and gleaming in the moonlight, standing on the window ledge, and right outside was a colossal bird; and they saw the knight climb on to the bird’s back and throw his legs astride its neck; and the bird beat its wings and took to the air and an instant later had flown from sight. Zelland and his sister gaped in amazement; then Zelland said it must surely have been … – … Mars, the god of battles – we’re descended from his line, and he came to visit my daughter! You saw how majestically he was borne away!”89 This is when Troilus off he went. The story continues, but my account stops here. To cut it short, Zellasndine was still sleeping nine months later, when she gave birth to a boy. Her aunt saw the infant suckling her finger, the aunt lifted the baby, and Zellandine woke up, shocked and astounded to find that she had given birth to a child. The curse was finally lifted and explained (it had been Themis, one of the goddesses). Troilus returned exactly when Zellandine’s was forced by her father to marry Nervin. Our brave hero unhorses Nervin during a tournament and finally elopes with his beloved Zellandine to Britain. When the clerk had recited the entire story, he would take his leave. Cousin Leo would deliver a large sum of money “from his counting house” to the clerk. Let’s say “eighty florins,” not necessarily “of Aragon,” but “all heavy and pure.”90 88 89 90
Bryant trans., 76–77. Cf. Roussineau ed., 89–90. Bryant trans., 77. Cf. Roussineau ed., 90–92 (original). See Figg, Barton Palmer trans., Jean Froissart, 505 (for the translation of Froissart’s Dit du florin, quoted and adapted in this phrase). For the original text, see Fourrier ed., Jean Froissart, 186.
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The two cousins would agree that this was an odd mixture of Arthurian and mythological fiction. References to ancient literature were filtered through the Roman de la Rose.91 And this is evident in other parts of Perceforest. The story had to please everyone, so it had a little bit of everything. Perhaps Isabella would like it. After all, people like new things, on one condition: that they are not too shockingly inventive. In other words, that they make use of nice old things with which the readers are already familiar. In a way, Perceforest made use of all the features that pleased the public of the Old French literary texts in the previous centuries. People would like it everywhere in the lands where the French language was spoken. But only in the evening. In the morning, noble lords and ladies had other matters to attend to. By that time, the two cousins had also managed to obtain something from the new king. They could not spend entire months gossiping and listening new-fangled tales. During the winter of 1372–1373, Isabella had made some gifts to key persons, occupying key positions at the Cypriot court. She certainly did not send everything back to Mystras. She was a careful lady, planned her moves, and when she displayed her anger, she did it just for show. Evil prince John accepted to grant her a part of the estate given to her by king Peter I: the hamlet of Agios Georgios, with a revenue of three thousand bezants. Isabella gave it to cousin Leo and returned to Morea, where many other matters would require her undivided attention.92
…
When a text like Perceforest would be known or read in the Byzantine lands, it would stir up a certain degree of curiosity and lead to similar literary experiments. Crossovers occur between many genres. I am not surprised that the Byzantine Achilleid appeared around that time. I cannot ascribe the creation of this 14th century literary text to the court of Mystras or to the milieu of Isabella. The despotissa could not be the only person who brought Western
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92
For a discussion to the references to the Romance of the Rose, see Christopher Lucken, ‘Narcisse, Pygmalion et la “Belle Endormie”: l’histoire de Troylus et Zellandine, une réécriture du “Roman de la Rose”’, in Christine Ferlampin-Acher (dir.), Perceforest: Un roman arthurien et sa réception (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2012), 115–131. For the tale of Troylus and Zellandine in general, see Gilles Roussineau, ‘Tradition littéraire et culture populaire dans l’Histoire de Troïlus et de Zellandine’ (‘Perceforest’, troisième partie), version ancienne du conte de la Belle au Bois Dormant’, Arthuriana, 4/1 (1994), 30–45. For the original text of John Dardel, see RHC-DA 2:40–41.
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cultural trends to the Byzantine lands.93 I use her as a spearheading example, for there were many others who did the same in those times. As we shall soon see, some of them belonged to the lower strata of the society, even though such cannot be the case of the Achilleid.94 For the time being, what interests me is the structure of this Byzantine poem: Achilles, the protagonist, jumps even higher that Troilus and all other Western knights who conquered ladies as if they were castles. He enters a garden, as in the Roman de la Rose, and he has almost nothing in common with the hero of Homer, just like Prothesilaus and other French heroes who have nothing in common with their namesakes from ancient literary texts. To a historian of French literature, it looks and sounds like a Western influence.
Case Study 13: The So-Called Achilleid as a Game of Forms
It shall be noted that in the romance of Perlesvaus, brave Gawain encounters a descendant of Achilles. That knight slayed those whom he welcomed in his tent. Gawain thrusts his sword through the sole of the knight’s foot. This is the only reference to Antiquity in the whole story and it takes the form of a tongue-in-cheek inconsequential reference. Most late medieval French romances are full of tongue-in-cheek references. They often give the impression that they were written using a surrealist ‘exquisite corpse’ technique. Constantinopolitan rulers search for their daughters, schemes and wars are waged by characters who swarm freely across Europe and the entire Mediterranean. There are lots of Turks, Flemish and Scottish pagans, pirates, popes, and even spurious romance origins for famous
93
94
Cf. Magdalino, ‘Between Romaniae’, 89: “It is tempting, for instance, to relate the Achilleis to the homeland of Achilles in southern Thessaly, and specifically to the court of Neopatras, where from 1267–1318 the local Comnenoducas princes ruled over a formidable warrior aristocracy, whom a contemporary Byzantine historian equated with ‘the ancient Hellenes, whom Achilles led’. But this can only be speculation.” And indeed, it is highly conjectural. Chronology does not support this hypothesis. Later in this chapter I will deal Western influences manifesting in an Alexander representation from Perivleptos in Mystras, probably linked with Isabella and Manuel, but this will be followed by a Western-type depiction of Digenis in Chrysapha and by a series of column capitals from Mani, in a rural milieu.
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saints. In the tale of Belle Hélène de Constantinople for instance, the protagonist is a daughter of king Anthony of Constantinople. Her mother is the niece of pope Clement, whom Anthony had married after having fought the Saracens. If our Isabella would hear that story, she would instantly think of her parents and their connections to the pope. Furthermore, like Antiochus from Apollonius, Anthony falls in love with his daughter and asks the pope for a dispensation. The girl flees, has many adventures, and the narrative becomes so heterogeneous, falling between literary genres, with so many sources of inspiration and tongue-in-cheek references that it looks like a maze.95 The 14th century Byzantine text is strikingly similar. In this tale, Achilles was the son of a king of the Greeks from the land of the Myrmidons, born miraculously when his father decided to separate from his mother as she gave him no children. In his youth, Achilles proved his worth in a tournament, organised by his father in the royal hippodrome, where he rode without being recognised, as many knights did in tournaments from Western medieval romances. He had a black horse, a golden saddle with precious stones, a spear and a shield in his hands, and nobody could describe the aspect of that shield, for it was decorated with marvellous works, in great golden images. After this tongue-in-cheek reference to Homer, the author speaks of precious stones and pearls, Achilles’ red clothes, with pure gold, and the cap hiding his head, so that nobody could recognize him.96 He wins the tournament, naturally. When the other knights accept him as their leader, his father wishes to give him the crown. Achilles is nevertheless content with the title of despot, and he asks only for men and horses in order to defend his father’s lands. But then a foreign king attacks his father’s lands, the young man brags about his bravery and chooses twelve companions who would be able to fight against thousands of enemies. It could be a reference to the twelve peers of Charlemagne, the twelve Knights of the Round Table, or the twelve companions of Alexander. Who knows? They swear an oath to him and at a banquet, before leaving, he plays a song wherein he criticizes those who fall prey to the power of love. His cousin Pandruklos, one
95 96
Cf. e.g. Claude Roussel, Conter de geste au XIVe siècle: inspiration folklorique et écriture épique dans ‘La belle Hélène de Constantinople’ (Geneva: Droz, 1998). For the original text, see Ole L. Smith (ed.), The Byzantine Achilleid: The Naples Version. Introduction, critical edition and commentary, curated by Panagiotis A. Agapitos, Karin Hult (Vienna: Wiener Byzantinistische Studien, 1999), 19.
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of the twelve companions, warns him that nobody can escape the power of love. And this is where the introductory part ends. Action starts. Achilles fights and wins, killing three of the five sons of the foreign king, but also losing two of his companions, whom he mourns in another Homeric allusion. The foreign king is chased back to his lands with his two remaining sons. Achilles besieges his castle, but he sees the daughter of that foreign king looking at him from the height of the castle walls and falls in love with her. This girl lived in a garden with high walls and an iron door, very similar to the garden from the Roman de la Rose. There was a fountain-spring in that garden, and a golden plane-tree, so the key elements of Western allegories are present in the Achilleid. The Graces dwelt there, like the virtues of William of Lorris, but there was also a bed and a bath, in order to enforce sexual innuendos. The king’s daughter wore a French dress (φράγκικην φορεσίαν) with a one-piece surcoat (διφιγκίτσιν σπαστρικὸν μονόφυλλον), a long-sleeved tunic made of linen, identified with a cotte (τὰ λινὰ ἀνεμίτσια), both of them embroidered with precious stones and pearls (κατάστικτα διὰ λίθων καὶ μαργάρων), cinched with a French belt (φράγκικα ἐζωσμένη). To sum up, she was dressed as a French lady. She knew nothing of love, yet she was like a paradise with water and trees. The beautiful damsel embodied the garden. Therefore, she wore a towered (or crenelated) crown, or maybe a garland (στεφάνιν καστρωτὸν), much like the crenelated wall from the garden of William of Lorris’ dreamy Roman de la Rose. She also had an inlaid wreath (βέργας μουσειωμένας), similar to the crowns made of flowers in the French text. At her neck, she had a necklace of gold (τραχηλέα ὁλόχρυσην), her wrists had enamelled bracelets (χυμευτὰ βραχηιόλια), while bracelets of precious stones and pearls adorned her elbows (ἀγκωνάρια ἐξαίρετα διὰ λίθων καὶ μαργάρων).97 This French-looking beauty had twelve companions, like Achilles, and spent her time in the garden, inside the walls of the castle. The girl’s father disappears from the story, as well as the valiant deeds of Achilles. Instead, our hero ordered that a representation of Eros and Aphrodite be painted, and he speaks to the god of love as if he were a saint in an icon. He asks him why he had punished him so. Like in the old Comnenian novels (Drosilla and Charikles) for instance, Achilles writes 97
For the original text, see Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 41–42. For the identification of the garments (not of the jewellery), see p. 114. For the crown, see the haute coiffure according to D.C. Hesseling (ed.), L’Achilleïde byzantine, publiée avec une introduction, des observations et un index (Amsterdam: Johannes Müller, 1919), 136; or the garland according to Adam J. Goldwyn, Byzantine Ecocriticism. Women, Nature, and Power in the Medieval Greek Romance (Gewerbestrasse: Palgrave Macmillan/Springer Nature, 2018), 213.
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a letter to the damsel, which was brought to her by her maids. In it, he tells her that her eyes had enslaved him, as ladies enslaved court poets in Western poems. She answered, rejecting him, because she did not fear the power of love, but Achilles writes a second letter, warning her not to insult the god of love. Once again, she rejects him. She is afraid of him, tries to scare him off with the mention of strong castle wall and lions. So, Achilles writes a third letter wherein he tells her that he will take her as a bird out of the cage, then prays to Eros, in a nearly heretical scene, and the god of love visits the girl in her garden. Like in the Roman de la Rose, where Amours, the god of love, had chosen the ladies dancing to dame Liesse’s carol (Beauty, Richness, Courtesy, Generosity, etc.) before wounding the narrator with his arrows, so the girl of the Achilleid dances with her companions, all daughters of archons, one more beautiful and noble than the other.98 The French model spoke of a carol, that is, a dance to the sound of a sung text. The damsel also sings to her companions while dancing, but the two actions do not make much sense together in the Greek text.99 We need the French source to understand that. At last, she falls on her bed and sees the god of love disguised as a hawk. She falls in his trap, is enslaved, and finally writes to Achilles, fearing she would die if he were not coming. Achilles confesses to his companions: Pandruklos was right about the power of the god of love. And he goes out to meet with her while a soft wind blows in the evening. A nightingale is of course singing, but this sweet description is interrupted by Achilles’ military prowess. Not because there was any need for it in the narrative. Simply because Western models dictated that the castle wall guarding the garden of love had to be attacked: He thrice-circling the walls Leapt down from his steed and drew his lance He leapt up as a lion and shook as a dragon 98
99
For the original text, see Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 47. Cf. p. 129, for the image of the girl’s heart as a castle, a motif also found in the story of Livistros and Rhodamni. They believe this is not “a logical extension of the imagery of love as dominance and subjugation.” Cf. Carolina Cupane, ‘Il motivo del castello nella narrativa tardo-bizantina. Evoluzione di un’ allegoria’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 27 (1978), 229–267, where the castle incorporated in the 14th century text is a Western element revealing knowledge of Western romances. For the motif of the castle in Byzantine romance as a setting for the girl and as the domain of the god Eros, see Cupane, ‘Il motivo del castello’, 234–236. Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 154–163 supports and develops these ideas. For the original text, see Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 47.
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And planted his lance and leapt over the wall He wore heavy armour and made a great noise The girl did not know that he had gotten over And from the trunk of the plane tree sees the boy And immediately her heart skips a beat and she fell into the flowers. Running to her, he picked her up right away.100 This out-of-place attack with its heavy sound of metal armour was not odd. Many other themes and motifs (most of them taken from Greek models) appear also in ill-suited segments of the narrative, as the author paid respect to many models. The lovers share an embrace, she tells him to go and talk to his parents about marriage, he pretends to follow her advice, but soon returns with his companions so that they may admire her. The girl and her twelve damsels are scared when looking at them from the castle walls, but she recognises Achilles, so he enters the garden for a second time, at night, before he finally returns home to speak to his parents, but he forgets to speak about marriage. This allows the plot to unravel a third trip to the girl’s castle, this time with Achilles singing a love song. Once again, the hero jumps the castle wall, but this time he makes love to the girl. Eros forces them to do so.101 Next, he elopes with her at night, leaving her in the care of Pandruklos, while he leads half of his men against the girls’ brothers in a Digenis-like fashion. Achilles kills many pursuers, but he does not kill any of his beloved’s brothers, even though he unhorses one of them. His plan is to marry the girl. When the defeated brothers propose a proper wedding, Achilles immediately accepts. Back in his castle, where the faithful Pandruklos had brought the lady, Achilles makes love to her once more. At the wedding, he is admired for his beauty. The rival king, the girl’s father, marries them with a prayer. This should have been the story’s ending. It appears to be so in one of the versions, but the anonymous author continued the plot with a 100 For the translation, see Goldwyn, Byzantine Ecocriticism, 214–215. For the original text, see Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 50. 101 Cf. Carolina Cupane, ‘῎Ερως βασιλεύς. La figura di Eros nel romanzo bizantino d’amore’, Atti dell’Accademia di Scienze Lettere e Arti di Palermo, 23 (1973–1974), 243–297, who sees the transformation of the boyish Eros into a youthful kinglike god of love (in both Comnenian and Palaeologan narratives) as a possible influence of the Western medieval romances. See Carolina Cupane, ‘Metamorphosen des Eros. Liebesdarstellung und Liebesdiskurs in der Byzantinischen Literatur der Komnenezeit’, in Panagiotis A. Agapitos, Diether Roderich Reinsch (dir.), Der Roman der Komnenenzeit. Ein internationals Symposium. Referate des Internationalen Symposiums an der Freien Universität Berlin, 3.–6. April 1998 (Frankfurt am Main: Beerenverlag, 2000), 25–54, for an updated and revised discussion.
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tournament. One knight in particular, beautiful, good-looking, valiant, and lovable Frenchman, of a fearful prowess, rode his black steed in that tournament. The command of the Frenchman was so great that he unhorsed every participant, at one point two of them at the same time. When he defeated Pandruklos, Achilles became properly enraged and went out to fight him. He was on the point of mounting his black horse when the girl stopped and asked him to stay. She was very afraid of the Frenchman, of his might and bravery. Achilles is jealous, considers the French knight as competitor, and tells her to shut up. If he did not love her so much, he would plunge her into darkness (that is, by killing or blinding her). How could his lady, his soul, his relief, who commanded a terrifying dragon and a lion, be so afraid of a little fox?102 Needless to say, Achilles single-spearedly unhorses the French from his saddle and throws him at the feet of his father-in-law. The episode is of a particular significance. A Greek writer could not completely ignore Homer, inventing a hotchpotch plot for no particular reason. The French knight echoes here the story of Hector defeating Patroclus, introducing the Homeric wrath of Achilles, especially since the protagonist of the Achilleid is temperamental.103 I believe that the anonymous author wrote a tongue-in-cheek story in reference to the chivalry of Chrétien of Troyes, and that the various amusing features spicing up the text here and there further support this interpretation.104 Greeks had to defeat the French in a Greek text. Even when Greeks were married to French ladies. I make this suggestion because other Byzantine texts of the same period contain similar tongue-in-cheek references to Western themes. One of them is the allegorical poem Εἰς τὴν σωφροσύνην (‘Concerning Temperance’) of a certain Meliteniotes. This poem in 3062 political verses written in a mixed language could be influenced by Boccaccio’s Amorosa visione, whose structure is rather similar, or maybe by Dante.105 There are 102 For the original text of these three passages, see Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 63. 103 For a different opinion, see ibid., 144, note 116: “The wrath of Achilles had not much to do with his specific role in the Homeric tradition, but it is, nonetheless, interesting that Achilles throughout the text is represented as very temperamental. His outburst here, right at the wedding, is rather strong and calls for an intrinsic explanation.” 104 To give but one, example, see ibid., 140, for the ironic erotic exertion of Achilles when he makes love with the girl for a second time. 105 The idea was first conveyed by Franz Dölger, ‘Die byzantinische Literatur und Dante’, in D. Anastasijević, Ph. Granić (dir.), Compte-rendu du deuxième Congrès internationale des études byzantines, Belgrade, 1927 (Belgrade: Impr. de l’état, 1929), 47–48, who had initially believed that the source of inspiration would be Dante’s Divina Commedia, but changed
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many other references to Western literary works in this text (Brunetto Latini, Dino Compagni, The Purgatory of Saint Patrick, The Vision of Tnugdal, etc.).106 Certain voices even dared to compare Meliteniotes’ description of a rotating palace to that in the late 12th century Anglo-Norman Voyage of Charlemagne.107 Most comparisons are probably wrong,108 but one thing is certain: that poem was conceived as a tongue-in-cheek reference to Western and Byzantine secular literature, the references to the Roman de la Rose or to the texts derived from it being among the most recurrent ones. It was un lavoro di assimilazione e di riadattamento, più che un’imitazione nel senso proprio del termine.109 Since it is dated to roughly around the same time as the Byzantine Achilleid, it is no wonder that the latter contained a great number of references to texts influenced by the Roman de la Rose. One might even say that it was somehow expected of it to include them. This must have been the fashion of the time. In a reversed translatio, the Greek author of the Achilleid must have been conscious of the Western literary topos that chivalry and learnedness had been in the Greek lands well before moving to the West, hence his hero’s perfectly chivalric behaviour, dress-code, as well as the dress-code and attitude of his love interest. The pagan prayer to the god of love would seem heretical and risky if it were not adjusted to a pre-Christian setting. So would be the pagan marriage, performed by Achilles’ father-in-law.
106 107 108
109
his opinion at the advice of S.G. Mercati in favour of Boccaccio’s Amorosa visione. For a recent reaffirmation of this influence of Boccaccio, see Caterina Carpinato, ‘Il ritorno di Teseo ad Atene tra il XV e il XVI secolo: una ricognizione critica’, Medioevo greco, 19 (2019), 293. For the original text of the poem, see the old edition of M.E. Miller (ed.), Poème allégorique de Meliténiote, publié d’après un manuscrit de la Bibliothèque Impériale (Paris: Imprimerie impériale, 1857). I do not identify the author with Theodore or Constantine Meliteniotes. I am not sure that any of them were so proficient in Western literary references. See e.g. Cupane, ‘Il motivo del castello’, 249–251. Cf. Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 192–195. Margaret Schlauch, ‘The Palace of Hugon de Constantinople’, Speculum, 7/4 (1932), 505, 507–509. To give but an example, the literary motif of the rotating palace, inspired by the ‘Palace of the Sun’, is shared by Western, Byzantine, and Islamic literatures and has its origins in Roman Antiquity (F. Barry Flood, ‘From the Golden House to ʿAʾisha’s House: Cosmic Kingship and the Rotating Dome as Fact, Fiction, and Metaphor’, in Barbara Finster et al. (dir.), Bamberger Symposium: Rezeption in der islamischen Kunst, vom 26.6.–28.6.1992 (Beirut: Orient-Instituts der deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 1999), 104–107), so it is rather difficult to identify the probable source of inspiration for this particular feature of the poem. The Greek text recuperated many themes from many texts, perhaps also themes belonging to several texts altogether. Cupane, ‘Il motivo del castello’, 251 (for the quotation).
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This was clearly a story about Hellenic times, before the arrival of the Apostles. The Greeks were chivalrous, as Old French texts had devised them to be. In a way, one may read between the lines that this was some sort of Byzantine literary vengeance, similar to the braggadocio of the Latins coming to Greece in the aftermath of the Fourth Crusade, when they pretended to avenge the old sack of Troy. But the most interesting proof of a Western literary influence is the epilogue itself. The anonymous author tells us that he had documented well in order to write this story. He wished to use the story of Achilles in order to teach a lesson to those who were not versed in literature. Research noticed that similar motivations appear in the tale of Belisarius, to which I will return in the next chapter, since it also testifies to a Western influence.110 This means that the phenomenon was not isolated. Furthermore, he also mentioned authors who had nothing to do with his story. Research argued that the odd mentions of names of great authors should be interpreted as a desire “to show the greatness of the task in hand: it needs the wisdom and learning of Plato, Aristotle, Solomon, and Homer to describe what happened in Troy. The same ‘authors-philosophers’ (apart from Homer) are mentioned as exempla at another break [of the Byzantine Iliad], where the narrator begins the story of Paris and Troy.”111 However, the mention of Solomon does not make any sense. It makes sense only when one looks at the Old French prefaces and epilogues, where Solomon appears in the same company. In fact, the exact same empty references appear all over the place in French literary texts. In a brief analysis of this phenomenon, I defined it as ‘symperipheral’, since it is closely connected to the tongue-in-cheek references to ancient stories or to the borrowing of ancient names, devoid of their original meaning.112 I therefore agree to the hypothesis that the Achilleid was a model (more likely a precedent) for the Byzantine Iliad and for the tale of Belisarius, but I do not consider that the mention of ancient authorities should be taken “as evidence for the intrusion of learned rhetoric into vernacular literature.”113 The habit of faking one’s knowledge had been practised for three centuries by the French (and by the Italians writing in French). I am convinced that the Achilleid is a Byzantine answer to a cultural trend coming from the West. The mention of Palamedes among the 110 111 112 113
Cf. Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 150. Ibid., 150–151. See the entire contents of Agrigoroaei, ‘Quelle matière’. Smith ed., Byzantine Achilleid, 151–152.
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sources used by the author is another strong argument in favour of this interpretation.114 As for the fact that this happened in the 14th century, this is not inconsequential at all. It happened because Byzantines had slowly accepted several cultural trends coming from the West. Places like the court of Mystras, where Latin lords and merchants came to see Manuel and Isabella, were also places where this cultural exchange happened. Let us imagine a domestic scene in those years. Summer would be over. In the evening, a cold wind would howl through the palace windows and barefoot servants would run to close them. Retired to their princely chambers, Isabella would persuade Manuel to forget about his state affairs and relax, listening to a tale arrived from the Western lands. It would be the old tale of Apollonius of Tyre, but entirely refashioned according to the crossover trends who took over the literature of the French. Nobody really knows when the Vienna version of the romance of Apollonius was written – its only manuscript dates back to the 15th century, but let’s pretend that this original source circulated in the second half of the 14th century. In this story, Apollonius comes to the court of king Alexander the Great. Alexander rules the land of Greece. He has one hundred thousand knights, but none of them can defeat a burning knight who pesters his lands.115 Apollonius comes, dines with the king, and promises to help him. He jumps on his galley and goes to the island where the Burning Knight is. There are hacked and burnt bodies everywhere. The enemy carries a burning sword and he has a dragon with him. Manuel would smile, for the story was childish, but he would indulge it nevertheless. The dragon casts its flames upon Apollonius, but the hero plunges his sword deep in the dragon’s skull, and the dragon turns towards his master, burning him alive. Manuel would then look at his wife and regret that they had no children to read such stories to them. He would hide his sorrow and listen to the return of Apollonius, to the manner in which king Alexander kissed him and gave him a white steed, as well as the city of Retople in Greece (where was that?), all while keeping him at his court for an entire month. Probably just as much as Isabella would keep her Latin guests.116 An educated Greek like Manuel would be astonished by the flat and banal nature of the tale. It would confirm his judgement about the childish tastes of 114 As already argued in the first chapter, I believe that the hypothesis of Mitsakis, ‘Palamedes’, should not be discarded. 115 For the original text, see Michel Zink (ed.), Le Roman d’Apollonius de Tyr, version française du XVe siècle de l’Histoire d’Apollonius de Tyr … (Paris: Le livre de poche/Lettres gothiques, 2006), 70. 116 Zink ed., Le roman d’Apollonius, 74.
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the Latins. Little would he know that his own Greek subjects would also enjoy the Demotic renderings of this Apollonius in a short while. Manuel would not miss the comparison between him, the ruler of Morea, and Alexander, king of Greece. Perhaps Isabella would also like it. Alexander was an inspiration to any ruler. But the trouble was that many features of this Apollonius story were clearly inspired by the times of the Villehardouin. The council of barons, for instance, seemed copied after the Chronicle of Morea. And the anonymous author had also put an incongruous reference to the biblical book of Tobit,117 which would be a little bit too much for a Byzantine audience, careful not to commit sacrilege. At the end of the reading, before going to bed, the despot and despotissa would stare towards the wide plains of Sparti. Isabella could swear she heard a wild cat growling in the distance, from the heights of the Taygetos Mountains, but Manuel would smile and comfort her: those were the dogs of the two riders approaching the watchtower. Despotissa’s eyes would fail her in the later years, but the prince would keep his view.118
…
By the end of 1374, news probably arrived that king Peter II the Fat had agreed to the Genoese occupation of Famagusta. The scandal with the horse’s reign had led to an actual war and things happened fast. In her cosy Moreote capital, Isabella would be surprised by such a turn of events. She would worry for her estates, especially for dear cousin Leo, but then she would have other things on her mind, for there were many things happening in Mystras. The city was more beautiful with each day. By that time for instance, the church of the Perivleptos would be already finished (Fig. 51). This is one of the key monuments that research connects with Isabella. It is often argued that Western features in Mystras appear chiefly in the Palace of the Despots and in the external or internal sculptures from various churches, like Pantanassa and Perivleptos. There is also talk of the manner in which Christ was depicted in two Crucifixion scenes from the churches of Saint-Sophia and Saint-John.119 117 Cf. Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘À la recherché de l’Apoloines perdu. Les échos littéraires d’une traduction française de l’Historia Apollonii regis Tyri conservée dans les fragments de Gdansk’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale, 55 (2012), 24–26, 29. 118 For the purpose of this tongue-in-cheek reference to Bob Dylan and Dionysis Savvopoulos, see the end of the present chapter. 119 Mouriki, ‘Palaeologan Mistra’, 474–478 (and p. 478 for the two Crucifixions). For a thorough research on the Western features of the Perivleptos and Pantanassa churches, see Λούβη-Κίζη, Η φράγκικη πρόκληση.
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But the truth is that all these Western influences are more the product of an observer-expectancy effect. It is expected that things be somehow connected with Isabella of Lusignan, so research identifies more than it is probably necessary. Sometimes research misses ambiguous cases that are far more interesting. The latter situation may be illustrated by a mezzo-relief carving with Alexander carried by griffins, now in the museum from the cloister of the Metropolis of Mystras (Fig. 52b). The piece was originally displayed in the church of Perivleptos. It is linked with another fragment having the exact same width and height, but presenting an ornamental umbo (Fig. 52a).
Case Study 14: The Alexander Carving in the Perivleptos of Mystras
When analysing the two pieces, we are faced with less than a handful of certainties. Perivleptos was built and decorated in the time of Manuel and his wife Isabella, in c.1365–1374,120 but research also argues that modifications were made in c.1380–1382, their commissioner being Leo Mavropappas, a local magnate, whose monogram appears in the decoration. This is odd. Modifications make no sense if they are dated to the rule of Matthew Cantacuzene, Manuel’s brother, who governed Mystras in 1380–1383. They should be dated after his death, when the Palaeologans could enforce a damnatio memoriae, including the defacing or replacement of the ktetorial couple from the western niche of the sanctuary. 120 For the 1365–1374 dating, see Ασπασία Λούβη-Κίζη, ‘Oι κτήτορες της Περιβλέπτου του Mυστρά’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας, 24 (2003), 101–118. However, I do not follow the rest of her conclusions. The presence of a workshop of Western carvers is unsustainable, since the carvings do not look like anything from the 14th century Catholic West. I also do not agree with Isabella being the sole ktetor of the Perivleptos, while Manuel would be the ktetor of the Saint-Sophia church. In such situations, ktetors acted as couples and it is highly likely that both of them were the ktetors of the Perivleptos monastery. As for the more recent hypotheses about the ktetors of the Perivleptos, I am not convinced that an anti-Uniate iconographic programme alludes to the possible ktetorship of the former emperor John VI Cantacuzene (cf. Μελίτα Εμμανουήλ, ‘Το εικονογραφικό πρόγραμμα του καθολικού της Μονής Περιβλέπτου στον Μυστρά και το ζήτημα του κτήτορα’, in Βασίλης Κατσαρός, Αναστασία Τούρτα (dir.), Αφιέρωμα στον Ακαδημαϊκό Παναγιώτη Λ. Βοκοτόπουλο (Athens: Καπόν, 2015), 407–416). Anti-Uniatism would be the expected central message in the decoration of any monastic foundation, and there are no reasons to believe that the monastic community from the Perivleptos of Mystras (still unclear whether it was a masculine or a feminine one) or their local political rulers behaved otherwise, especially in official matters such as these.
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Another certainty concerns the most recent whereabouts of the carving. When Gabriel Millet photographed it for his album, the piece was part of the pavement, at the western end of the nave.121 But this does not tell us anything about its original location or its meaning. This was only the place where it was found at the beginning of the 20th century. And it was obviously recycled. As a result, the carving attracted some attention, even though not significant enough. Most researchers argued that the representation was Byzantine, since the theme appears in the decoration of other Byzantine monuments. Others speculated that it could be a sort of omphalos of the church. Or that it could have been initially located on the outer wall of the Perivleptos.122 But almost every research highlighted an artificial dichotomy between a negative (Western) use and a positive (Eastern) use of Alexander, even though no one actually explained what was negative or positive about those depictions, as they are equally ambiguous. The apotropaic function of the carving is therefore a conjectural overstatement.123 121 Gabriel Millet, Monuments byzantins de Mistra. Matériaux pour l’étude de l’architecture et de la peinture en Grèce aux XIVe et XVe siècles (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1910), 6. 122 For the first statement of an external placement, see André Grabar, ‘L’art profane en Russie pré-mongole et le “Dit d’Igor”’, in idem, L’art de la fin de l’Antiquité et du Moyen Âge, 2 vols (Paris: Collège de France, 1968) 1:319. For the omphalos hypothesis, see Patrizia Angiolini Martinelli, ‘L’ascensione di Alessandro in un pluteo del museo di Mistrà’, in Antonio Iacobini, Enrico Zanini (dir.), Arte profana e arte sacra a Bisanzio (Rome: Àrgos, 1995), 271–278; who followed Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Art (Athens: Ministry of Culture, Byzantine and Christian Museum, 1986), no. 15, p. 29 (s.v. A. Bakourou). 123 For Slobodan Ćurčić, ‘Some Uses (and Reuses) of Griffins in Late Byzantine Art’, in Christopher Moss, Katherine Kiefer (dir.), Byzantine East, Latin West. Art-Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann (Princeton: Princeton University, Department of Art and Archaeology, 1995), 597–601, the 14th century and 15th century use of griffins in Serbian church sculpture had antecedents in 12th century Russian sculptures, in turn influenced by Byzantine models that he tried to reconstruct unconvincingly. His analysis did not to mention any Western example and he did not notice any Western influence in the Russian cases, nor did he look towards Italy when analysing Serbian sculptures. See also Giorgio Dimitrokallis, ‘L’ascensione di Alessandro Magno nell’Italia del Medioevo’, Θησαυρίσματα του Ελληνικού Ινστιτούτου Βυζαντινών και Μεταβυζαντινών Σπουδών, 4 (1967), 214–222, who starts from the hypothesis of A. Grabar and deals only with the Italian corpus of the ascent of Alexander. No mention is made about the Mystras sculpture, but he considers that all Italian representations are più o meno relativi ai prototipi bizantini. Cf. p. 220. However, there is nothing specifically Byzantine about Alexander carried by griffins. (We find him all over the place, including France, Switzerland, Germany, etc.). The subject is universal. When the Southern Italian example of Otranto is quoted as being of a Byzantine origin, research closes an eye to the fact that King Arthur rides a weird animal next to Alexander in the same mosaic. Yet nobody argues that this Arthur would be Byzantine. For Western representations of the ascent of Alexander, see Victor M. Schmidt,
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In more recent times, research argued that the Alexander piece was probably linked with a marble icon of Christ enthroned, now on display in the same room of the Mystras museum.124 This piece would be reused in the narthex of the Perivleptos church.125 The general idea is that similar marble icons were located on city walls or in public places, such as water fountains. This led to the further conclusion that Alexander, Christ enthroned, and the fleurs-de-lys from the external decoration of the church would be political themes, since they would “form and consolidate their [i.e. the rulers’] new ideology.”126 The central argument was that the façades of the Perivleptos carried “numerous elements of political content deliberately placed by the founders [i.e. Manuel and Isabella] in prominent positions in order to emphasize their dominant role and their policy in the despotate.”127 These decorations are said to be destroyed under the Palaeologans and family crests are cited as proof. This is partly true, since the Lusignan lion of the façade was defaced and other arms were utterly destroyed.128 But the ambiguous fleurs-de-lys remained perfectly intact and did not bear a significant (or ideological) meaning.129 This raises some doubts on the political interpretation. Since the political use of Alexander and Christ enthroned was imagined on account of the presence of heraldic elements on the façade, it was argued that “those entering through the narthex would find themselves confronted with two marble slabs […]. In fact, it is possible that Manuel, upon entering the church venerated the icon of Christ, in accordance with the example
124 125
126 127
128 129
A Legend and Its Image: The Aerial Flight of Alexander the Great in Medieval Art, trans. Xandra Bardet (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 1995). Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 204. Cf. Aimilia Bakourou, s.v. ‘Proskynetarion with Christ Pantokrator Enthroned’, in Anastasia Drandaki et al. (dir.), Heaven and Earth. Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections (Athens: Hellenic Republic Ministry of Culture and Sports/National Gallery of Art/Benaki Museum/The J. Paul Getty Museum, 2013), 313–314 (= no. 163). Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 153. Ibid., 146–147 (and p. 147 for the quotation). Cf. pp. 51–52: “various types of slabs, plaques, and relief icons must have been attached to walls, although no such examples are preserved in situ and this practice was probably only occasionally observed in isolated cases.” His only example here is the ascent of Alexander and the marble icon of Christ enthroned, followed by other icons in Constantinople and several reliefs in Arta. Ibid., 147. See the discussion in Spier, Late Byzantine rings, 47, about the use of fleurs-de-lys on Palaeologan coinage, jewellery, or church sculptures. This decoration is completely void of meaning, or may have been used as a Constantinopolitan symbol in relationship with saint Tryphon, the patron saint of Nicaea, whose symbol was the fleur-de-lys.
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of the equivalent ritual in Saint-Sophia in Constantinople.”130 In this scenario, the two marble pieces would be ‘imperial symbols’ and their destruction would be connected with the Palaeologan installation in Mystras after 1383. Nevertheless, this does not explain why the monogram of Manuel Cantacuzene appears on a column from the church of Saint-Sophia, also in Mystras, connected to the palace, which became a monastic catholicon in 1365.131 Nor why the two monograms of Isabella discovered next to the Metropolis church of Mystras, the ones reading Ζαμπέα and ντὲ Λεζηνάω, were part of a destroyed marble architrave. Speaking of damnatio memoriae in connection with the Perivleptos or the Metropolis and ignoring that a similar damnatio never occurred in the church of Saint-Sophia looks a little bit too inconsistent, if not implausible. I would consequently argue that the destructions from the church of the Perivleptos had a slightly different reason, unquestionably connected with Manuel and Isabella, but not as a collective damnatio memoriae, maybe only as a damnatio of Isabella’s memory. My chief argument is that the Alexander scene cannot be viewed as a purely ‘mythological scene’.132 Neither was it Byzantine in nature. We shall see that there is something dreadfully un-Byzantine about it – its location – and this location alludes to its meaning. The only sure thing is that the carvings were made sometime before 1383, that is, before the modifications attributed to Leo Mavropappas.133 When searching for their initial location, one needs to take a look at the essential features of the piece. The most important one is the umbo from the second fragment. It clearly shows that the two of them could not be used as a part of the pavement decoration. Such umbos appear on the architrave of church iconostases. Griffins (and other animals) are equally represented at the ends of those architraves, so the analogy is solid. When one measures the Alexander piece and the access to the Perivleptos sanctuary, taking into account the remaining fragments of the old iconostasis, one rapidly arrives at the conclusion that the umbo 130 Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 147. 131 Ibid., 147. For Saint-Sophia and Perivleptos in connection with their possible ktetors, see Melita Emmanuel, ‘Religious imagery in Mystra. Donors and Iconographic Programmes’, in Michael Grünbart et al. (dir.), Material Culture and Well-Being in Byzantium (400–1453). Proceedings of the International Conference (Cambridge, 8–10 September 2001) (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2008), 120–123. 132 For the ‘mythological’ interpretation, see Melvani, Late Byzantine Sculpture, 64. 133 N. Melvani dates the Alexander scene based on stylistic grounds: “the champlevé style of the first half of the 14th century [that] continued to develop”; ibid., 111.
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fits perfectly in the axis of the sanctuary, as a focal point of an architrave. In such a case, the Alexander scene would be located to its left, while another scene, on a lost slab, would be located to the right. To be clear, the slabs with Alexander and the umbo have the same width of 10 cm, the same height of 32 cm, and compose a total length of 170 cm (103 cm for the Alexander slab + 66–67 cm for the one with the umbo). Since the sanctuary is 235 cm wide in this section, this leaves a remaining space of 65 cm for the lost slab, which is the exact space needed for a matching representation located on the right-hand side of the architrave (Fig. 53–54). It would be preceded by a decorative circle, similar to the one on the slab with the ascent of Alexander. And this grouping of three slabs would rest upon a second structure, composed of the cornice fragments now displayed at floor level in the church of the Perivleptos. Parts of these fragments are missing, since the remaining three are severely damaged and have a total length of 191 cm, but those missing fragments cannot be identified with the two pieces with Isabella’s monograms, now in the Mystras museum, since the ornamentation is different. Those ones are probably from the Metropolis. In turn, the architrave and the lower cornice would be fixed to the walls, resting on the colonnettes of the iconostasis. It is no surprise that the murals of the lateral walls of the sanctuary are damaged exactly where the two rows of the iconostasis would be installed, and there are similar signs of damage due to the destruction of templon screens in the prothesis and diaconicon (Fig. 54). But the strongest arguments in favour of the two slabs composing a templon architrave are the presence of plaster and brick remnants on the left end of the Alexander slab, proof that this is where it was joined to wall (Fig. 55), while the other ends of the slabs are neatly clean. And the height of the two slabs (32 cm) fits the 36 cm between the round frames of the templon proskynetaria icons and the decorative thin cornice above them. The remaining 4 cm would be filled by the plaster that tied together the upper and lower registers of the templon architrave. Or maybe the architrave had an upper brim, identical to the thin cornice above the proskynetaria icons. Such a third level would be needed to reinforce the composite structure. The drawings, measurements, and simulations speak for themselves. The structure can be compared to the flat templon architrave from the church of Samarina (Messenia), a favourite term of comparison for many Mystras sculptures. In such a case, the meaning of Alexander would be connected with the dismantling of the old iconostasis. This is where things get interesting.
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I will not argue that Alexander was an imperial symbol. He was a symbol for any ruler, great or small, anywhere in the Mediterranean (and an aspiration model for all of them). I would also avoid conferring a political meaning to the ascent scene. In such cases, politics represent a sort of ultimate jack-in-the-box, used whenever research chases its own tail and has exhausted other options. Instead of this, I would argue that Alexander appears here in a marginal position, where zoomorphic representations would be expected, and this is proof of a Western cultural influence. Representations of Alexander, King Arthur, Roland, and many other heroes were used in peripheral decorative positions in connection with religious iconography in Western churches. I would even go as far as to suggest that Alexander’s ascent could be linked with the Ascension scene from the murals of the vault above it. Such contrastive unions between sacred and profane themes were frequent in Western art.134 But they would also be heretical from a Byzantine point of view. Maybe this is why the iconostasis was dismantled and only parts of its initial structure were probably reused, as it was often the case.135 If we follow this logic, 134 To give but one example, I would remind my readers that the optimistic aspects of Dietrich’s story are represented under New Testament scenes on the façade of the San-Zeno abbey church in Verona, while the scene with the same hero chasing a stag into Hell appears under scenes from Genesis, in connection with the Original Sin. 135 Such reuses are frequent. To give but one (rural) example, the 13th–14th century templon wall from the church of Saints-Anargyri in Nomitsi (Messenian Mani) incorporated pieces from a former dismantled templon, the most interesting of which is a piece carved with a zoomorphic representation and an umbo. It was not reused in its initial position (architrave), but it became part of the northern entrance to the sanctuary, since it was recognised as part of an iconostasis. The same happened in the churches of Mystras. However, I am not sure that the frame of the proskynetarion icon of the Mother of God from Perivleptos was reused, being originally taken from an abandoned church in Sparti, nor that the proskynetaria of the metropolitan church of Saint-Demetrius were also spolia of the same origin (cf. Γεωργία Μαρίνου, Άγιος Δημήτριος η Mητρόπολη του Mυστρά (Athens: Υπουργείο Πολιτισμού, 2002), 85–87). I agree that the iconostasis of the Metropolis was reassembled at a later date, in the time of the metropolitan Matthew ( floruit 1427–1429), whose monogram appears on the upper cornice-brim, but the whole arrangement probably contained parts of the iconostasis from the time of Manuel and Isabella. There are two pieces of evidence supporting this interpretation: the fragments of an iconostasis with the monograms of Isabella which were dismantled, destroyed, and cast (or reused) outside of that church; secondly, the favourite term of comparison for the iconostases or proskynetaria discussed by previous researches is the structure present in the Messenian monastery church of Samarina, already quoted by me in connection with the iconostasis of the Perivleptos, since it has a similar flat architrave. The similitudes with the church of Samarina do not necessarily argue in favour of a re-dating of the structures of
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the reason why the Alexander carving was not redeployed as part of a newer structure is because of a voluntary desire to pull it away from the space of the sanctuary and settle it in the farthest position, at the other end of the nave. The problem with the Alexander scene on the iconostasis from Perivleptos was neither Alexander himself, incongruous as his representation was on a templon. The Byzantines used the scene in their earlier decorations (see for instance a slab with the same motif from Chalkida, in the lapidary of the Karababa fortress). Nor the fact that Alexander was connected with Manuel, the former ruler of Mystras. The actual trouble was that this scene had found its way in such a sacred place as a consequence of the Latin cultural trends embraced during the time of Isabella. This is why I do not believe that Manuel was the subject of a damnatio memoriae. Maybe the damnatio concerned only Isabella. Perhaps her ‘Latinness’. In such a situation, the damage to the heraldic symbols of the Perivleptos façade were determined by the fact that they were seen as proof of a Western code. But the monograms from the church of Saint-Sophia were left in place, since they were in perfect accordance with the Byzantine one. This means that the destruction occurred only in places where the Latin cultural tastes were evident and unavoidable. It also explains why nobody bothered to pull down the centaur from the column of the iconostasis of Saint-Demetrius, also in Mystras. I already argued that such centaurs were viewed as a marginal, unessential, and totally risk-free interpretatio Byzantina of Western profane church decorations. There was the mid-13th century centaur chasing a griffin on the façade of Saint-Sophia from Trebizond. There was the combat between a mounted knight and a centaur depicted on the dado zone from SaintTheodora in Arta. Centaurs did not allude to profane stories. They were a mere decorative presence. Griffins were equally accepted if they were alone, just like any other real of fantastic animals, but the presence of Alexander carried by griffins on the iconostasis of the Perivleptos was
Mystras in the 13th century. Many other monuments, now lost, could fill the chronological gap between Samarina and Mystras. This does not exclude the possibility, noted by Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘The Proskynetaria of the Templon and Narthex: Form, Imagery, Spatial Connections, and Reception’, in Sharon E.J. Gerstel (dir.), Thresholds of the Sacred: Architectural, Art Historical, Liturgical, and Theological Perspectives on Religious Screens, East and West (Cambridge MA: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2006), 117, note 31, that “the framed images [from the Saint-Demetrius church] are too damaged to be dated precisely but appear to have been painted in the late 13th c.”
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wrong because this was a story. Profane narratives had no place in such a sacred spot. Since the figure of Alexander did not pose a cultural problem, the Palaeologan rulers of Mystras or their representatives did not wish for the carving to be thrown away. What they did with the other (right-hand) slab of the architrave is a matter of speculation, since it could be either damaged during the destruction of the iconostasis or placed somewhere else, in a location where it did not survive the passage of time. Perhaps even destroyed (if it presented a scene that bothered them on account of its Western and profane character). Alexander was lucky. Because he was a beloved Byzantine character, the slab with his ascent was redeployed somewhere else in the church, as part of the pavement. One may duly ask me: can we be sure that this happened in such a famous place? Yes, we can, because it did not happen once. It happened several times, provided that the subject was suitable from a Byzantine point of view. The use of the Alexander imagery in Mystras has counterparts in other monuments of the Peloponnesus, dating to more or less the same period. In Chrysapha, for instance, in the church of the Panagia Chrysaphitissa (Fig. 56), there are odd 14th–15th century changes made to the 13th century decoration. By the look of them and given the proximity of Chrysapha to Mystras, I am convinced that they happened in the time of Isabella and Manuel. In connection with the Latin cultural influences radiating from Mystras. The entrance to the diaconicon was immured with rudimentary material, plaster was laid upon the new structure, and new paintings were added (Fig. 57). In the upper register, a seated Mother of God was depicted, but in the lower register, the dado zone, one sees two characters in the middle of a fight. The one to the left is dressed in long feminine clothes and holds a Western-type of kite shield with the left hand. The right arm is raised in the air, lifting a spiked mace, and the character is described as Η Μ[Α]ΞΙΜȢ (Fig. 58). The one to the right is a man. He holds a small round shield and lifts up a flanged mace. His name is Ο ΔΥΓΕΙ(N)ΗC (Fig. 59). We are contemplating the fight between Digenis Akritas and Maximou the Amazon:136 136 The depiction is analysed by Horan, The Unique Late Byzantine Image, who believes that it was connected to folklore. She also compares the Digenis scene with the dado zone representation in the church of Saint-Theodora in Arta, which is a valid comparison. For the murals of the Chrysaphitissa church in general, see Jenny Albani, ‘Byzantinische Freskomalerei in der Kirche Panagia Chrysaphitissa. Retrospektive Tendenzen eines lakonischen Monuments’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 28 (1988), 363–388; and Albani, Byzantinischen Wandmalereien (cf. Ν.Β. Δρανδάκης, ‘Ό σταυροειδής ναός τοΰ
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She was a descendent of the Amazon women whom the emperor Alexander had brought from among the Brahmans. She had inherited the greatest vigour from her ancestors and always considered battle to be her life and delight.137 In the Grottaferrata version, the protagonist speaks in the first person and mentions other weapons in his fight with the Amazon – swords and spears. Digenis crushes his opponent, and at the end Maximou undresses herself: […] she threw off her surcoat, for the heat was intense. Maximou’s shift was gossamer-thin, and it revealed her limbs as in a mirror and her breasts rising just a little above her chest, […] Maximou kindled my passion yet further, aiming most sweet words at my hearing, for she was young and lovely, beautiful and a virgin. So my reason was defeated by vile desire. When the shame and the union were all completed, then I left her, sending her away from there, […].138 Προδρόμου στά Χρύσαφα’, Λακωνικαί Σπουδαί, 9 (1988), 301–324), who mentions the mural fragment only in passing, believing it to be of a modern date. Horan, The Unique Late Byzantine Image, 8–9, follows Ηλίας Αναγνωστάκης, ‘Από την προφορική ή κειμενική αφήγηση στη μνημειακή απεικόνιση: Τρία βυζαντινά παραδείγματα του όψιμου Μεσαίωνα’, in Στέφανος Κακλαμάνης, Αλέξης Καλοκαιρινός (dir.), Χαρτογραφώντας τη Δημώδη Λογοτεχνία (12ος–17ος αι.) (Heraklion: Εταιρία Κρητικών Ιστορικών Μελετών, 2017), 71–84, and argues that the scene was painted shortly after the 13th century murals (comparing Maximou to the depiction of Salome in the vault of the prothesis – even though Maximou and Digenis are badly damaged). She also argues that the shapes of letters would fit this chronology – without any palaeographical analysis; and mistakes a later mural layer for an earlier one. Digenis was painted at a much later time than the original stratum of murals. It was painted when the diaconicon was immured. The chronology of the paintings in that section of the church is rather complex to be presented in this note. It must be disentangled by specialists. The Digenis and Maximou scene fits the profile of the cultural changes of the 14th and 15th century (which is also the opinion of Αναγνωστάκης, ‘Από την προφορική ή κειμενική αφήγηση’, 80: αλλά μια χρονολόγηση από τα τελευταία χρόνια του Δεσποτάτου μοιάζει πιθανότερη), and arguably a Latin influence from Mystras. The scene with Digenis and Maximou is discussed at pp. 80–81, but his corpus of Digenis representations is much too large (including the spurious ceramics) and therefore uncritical. 137 For this translation, see Elizabeth Jeffreys (ed., trans.), Digenis Akritis: The Grottaferrata and Escorial versions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 175 (Grottaferrata version, VI, vv. 386–389). For the original text, see Jeffreys ed., trans., Digenis Akritis, 174. 138 For this translation, see ibid., 197 (Grottaferrata version, VI, vv. 781–784), 199 (Grottaferrata version, VI, vv. Z3710–Z3715). For the original text, see pp. 196, 198. The second part of the
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At the end of the scene, Digenis returns to his young wife, who suspects that something happened between him and the Amazon, but he sweet-talks the wife into believing that he was innocent. Things are a bit different in the Escorial version of the story, where Digenis and the Amazon fight with spears, while Maximou behaves as a slut in the end: She kissed my shoe and pleaded with me thus: ‘Sweetheart, fear God and once again pardon me for this stupidity; I have been instructed by mad and unruly men; take me, you alone – no one else may’. And then I replied thus to Maximou: ‘By God, Maximou, what you want is impossible. The girl whom I love comes from a high-born family; she has boundless wealth and glorious kinsmen and highly desirable sisters and rich brothers, but she has renounced all these and come with me, and it is God who has the power over all things who will separate us. But if you are starting to prostitute yourself, let me do the job for you’. So I dismounted from my black steed and undid my armour and quickly did to Maximou what she desired. And after I had done this to Maximou, the slut, I immediately mounted and went to the girl.139 Digenis then returns to his girl, kisses her with passion, tells her about his love-making, and she laughs loudly, amused by his brave deeds. Let us not question this childish knowledge of the female psyche. Neither should we be bothered by the depiction of maces instead of spears and swords in the Chrysapha mural (Fig. 58–59). Who knows what version the painter had in mind? Who knows what other reasons could be behind it? The only clear thing, ingenuous as it appears, is that the fight with the Amazon prefigures and symbolizes the sexual intercourse. But copulation, either seen as a conquest of someone’s virginity (in the courteous Grottaferrata version) or as a manifestation of power (in the misogynistic Escorial text) is still copulation. The meaning of the Chrysapha scene is therefore inescapable: a sexual intercourse under a depiction of the all-holy Mother of God. Now, this is something to see. quotation does not appear in the Grottaferrata codex. It is the by-product of Lachmannian philology (a text reconstructed from later versions). I quoted it here for the sake of continuity, but I advise my readers to ignore it during the analysis. 139 For this translation, see ibid., 355 (Escorial version, vv. 1562–1578). For the original, see p. 354.
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It clearly has nothing to do with Byzantine culture or with the careful planning of iconographic programmes. As previously argued, this is not strange from a Western perspective. Weird scenes of this type appear in many French or Italian churches, under holy scenes, often in connection with them, but as a sort of paratextual ornamentation. From the contents of my previous chapters (and from the discussion about the Alexander representation of Mystras), it is evident that the Greek were already familiar with these patterns, that they experimented with them here and there, and in the precise case of the Chrysapha depiction, that they placed the profane story in a place where decoration was usually placed. We see it clearly, for instance, in the 13th century church of Kranidi (Argolid, already mentioned at the end of the second chapter). Two fantastic animals (one of them a griffin) were depicted on the lower-register slabs of the templon. But we see it even later: in the Saint-Paraskevi church of Geraki, painted at the beginning of the 15th century, the dado zone of the templon wall has a depiction of a lion. So, from a Byzantine point of view, this was a place where random decorations were included, especially zoomorphic ones, already used for the older carvings of the templon slabs. Western influences do not manifest in a direct manner. The only Western thing was that stories could become part of the decoration, even profane stories that had no place in a Byzantine church. I believe that there is no great difference between the Rolands, Arthurs, and Alexanders of Italy and France, on the one hand, and the Alexanders and Digenis of Laconia. By the second half of the 14th century, the Byzantines started to assimilate Latin cultural trends. Consequently, this raises another problem: if these trends moved from the centre towards the periphery, as it would be expected, they would belong to a high-prestige socio-cultural level. In such a case, was Digenis a popular, folkloric tale, or was it a tale that started in the milieu of the elite? Maybe the Digenis of Chrysapha actually came from Mystras.
Case Study 15: The Doubtful Orality of the 13th–14th Century Digenis
It is also bizarre that the Grottaferrata manuscript, the Chrysapha mural, and the possible reference to the tale of Digenis in Boccaccio’s Theseid appear at more or less the same time, in the 14th century.140 I am tempted to consider – against the great majority of researchers – that this was the 140 The Grottaferrata manuscript is of the late 13th–early 14th century. Cf. ibid., xviii.
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time when the legend of Digenis was actually created, and it could be a reaction to a fashion coming from the West, in other words, a stimulus diffusion. In my opinion, the ever quoted and overstated use of a formulaic style in the vernacular poem does not imply that the text should be the result of a centuries-long oral tradition. This is just a projection of someone’s expectations in the form of circular reasoning. But first of all, let us look at the arguments in favour of an early dating. I will not write about bishop Arethas of Caesarea criticising the αγύρται sometime in the 10th century. This has nothing to the akritic corpus. I will start with a mention in the Poor Prodromos (Πτωχοπρόδρομος) about the coming of a new ἀκρίτης who would smash the dishes of shameless fathers in order to avenge the starvation of ordinary brothers. This does not mean anything in particular either and cannot be taken as proof that the Demotic Greek poem was created in the time of the Comnenian dynasty. Even though the Πτωχοπρόδρομος was addressed to Manuel Comnenus, and even though the ἀκρίται were a military group, well documented in Comnenian times, it does not mean that they had taken their name from Digenis. Instead, it is far more realistic to argue that things happened the other way round. In other words, that Digenis became Akritas as a result of a nostalgia for the good old times, for an imaginary Golden Age when Byzantium could have been an unchallenged military power, at least in a fictional world. Therefore, it is reasonable to argue that this happened after the fall of Constantinople (1204), not before. There is also the matter of the mention of Digenis in a list of literary protagonists at the beginning of a religious Flemish poem, often quoted as proof that the Demotic story was known in the West (and also that it had been translated there) by c.1270, presumably the moment when the Flemish poem had been composed according to 19th century research.141 Precisely because this reference is usually mentioned in passing, as collateral and inconsequential proof (since the Comnenian one would be the real proof of the poem’s early oral redaction), I prefer to focus on it meticulously and point out that this other reference is in fact just as spurious as the first, but in a different way. The prologue of the anonymous Flemish poem tells us that it often happens that a precious piece of jewellery is hidden in an unattractive box. The poem’s contents (the life of Christ) are said to be such an unattractive box, but the wisdom that it 141 The discovery was made by D.C. Hesseling, ‘Eine Digenisübersetzung aus dem 13. Jahrhundert?’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 22/1 (1913), 370–371, who is still the only bibliography quoted in the Digenis studies on this matter. D.C. Hesseling provided the 1270 dating.
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contained was a precious piece of jewellery. Next, the prologue speaks of many other poems that were written about matters having little to do with the salvation of the soul: poems about battles, about love, and about all kinds of worthless protagonists, such as Roland and his companion Olivier, about Alexander the Great and Ogier (‘the Dane’, from the tales about Charlemagne), Gawain (the knight of the Round Table), about the latter’s strength and the way in which he fought his enemies, but also Digenen (a corruption of the name of Diogenes according to the editors) and how he tormented his body because of a beautiful woman. The last one of the group is Pyramus, who lost his life because of love (from the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, included in Ovid’s Metamorphoses). And the anonymous author argues that, even though all these stories have been chronicled, they were gullible. Whoever read them discredited himself. To him, such an activity was sinful and shameful, it was utter nonsense. Thus, whoever paid attention to it – be it woman or man – was not right in the head. There was no wisdom hidden in such stories. Our author’s story, on the other hand, had lasting value. And since his story (of Christ) was much more valuable and would continue to be so, it had to be followed as a guide.142 The verse containing the description of what the tale of Digenen was about (his torments of the body for the love of a woman) does not make sense when compared to the deeds of actual Digenis, so the recent editors of the poem may be right in their assumption that this is a scribal error and that the initial reference was to another hero. Yet their interpretation (Diomedes) does not make much sense either, since none of the medieval narratives telling the story of Troy (and consequently the story of Diomedes fighting Troilus over Briseis) does not ever mention any torments of the body. We may contemplate a corruption of the reading at a later date, leading to the word Digenen, or an original but ignorant mention of Digenis himself, nevertheless at a much later date. But the truth is that none of these options really matter. The prologue mentioning these heroes appears only in the last codex of the manuscript tradition, dating to the year 1438, and that this could mean either that the prologue was added much later, at a time when the two medieval manuscripts of the Demotic text (Grottaferrata and Escorial) had already been written, or that the scribal error itself occurred 142 For the original Flemish text, see the recent edition of Ludo Jongen, Norbert Voorwinden (eds.), Vanden levene Ons Heren: kritische editie met inleiding, vertaling en commentar (Hilversum: Verloren, 2001), 32.
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at a late date. Consequently, this also means that even though the recent editors of the text have argued that the text may date back to c.1250 – a hypothesis that is quite spurious by itself, this dating does not reflect itself upon the prologue. Digenis is therefore not attested in c.1270, nor in c.1250, but sometime before 1438.143 143 The editors argue that the earliest fragments may be dated on palaeographic grounds to 1290, but that the text itself could have existed well before 1250. Cf. Jongen, Voorwinden eds., Vanden levene Ons Heren, 21. No arguments for this early dating are provided and the editors continue with a short presentation of the Flemish literature of biblical inspiration (1250–1500), as if the poem would be the first one of the lot. In truth, the text is preserved in its complete form in a single manuscript (Utrecht, University Library, 1329, dated to 1438). This is the only codex preserving the prologue where Digenis is mentioned. Excerpts of the Flemish poem are preserved in eight other fragmentary manuscripts, but none of them presents the prologue (cf. ibid., 260–264). It is thus impossible to know whether the Digenis reference was present from the start, if it was added later, or if it is the result of a scribal error, as suggested by the editors, who argue that Digenen would be a corruption of the name of Diomedes and his torments for a beautiful woman would be a reference to the love triangle Diomedes-Briseis-Troilus (cf. pp. 283–284). Since the text is said to originate in the Franciscan milieu, on account of its strong anti-Semitic undertones (cf. p. 28; but this cannot be an argument, since 13th–14th century anti-Semitism is found in many other cultural milieus), I would not exclude the possibility of a fourth interpretation based on the dynamics of the Franciscan movement, who brought together various experiences from various cultures: a friar having spent time in Greece could bring news about it in the Flemish lands. In my opinion, the hypothesis that a translation of the Greek poem circulated in the form of a Western vernacular translation is to be discarded from the start. One does not need to translate an entire text in order to acknowledge its existence. But this gets us to another problem. The composition of the text is now dated (by the editors) to c.1250. Others date it to the second half of the 13th century, and there are even voices who speak of the first half of the 13th century. This is nevertheless the eternal fascination with the ageing of otherwise recent texts. Even though the editors present the oldest fragments as being part of a codex written around 1290 in the monastery Ename near Oudenaarde (the so-called Enaamse codex; p. 26), they had to acknowledge in the codicological section that those fragments are dated “before 1300 (possibly ± 1290)” (vóór 1300 (wellicht ±1290); p. 260), and that this dating is based on the fact that the main body of the text is written in littera textualis formata, while the corrections and emendations made by two other hands are in littera textualis proper. I would also point out that the Flemish text seem to draw on previous sources, such as the Walloon 13th century sermon mentioning the battles of Roland and Olivier (batailhes Rolant et d’Olivier), already discussed in the second chapter of the present book. See for this the Walloon Old French sermon for Passion Sunday which dates to c.1250 (as argued previously) in Pasquet, ‘Sermons de Carême’, 42. The Flemish poem should be much more recent than the Walloon text. Furthermore, those palaeographic traits may apply to the early 14th century as well and what the editors do not tell us is that their preference for an early dating of the manuscript relies on the internal dating of other religious texts of the same codex (but not of their copies in the manuscript itself): 1286 for the life of saint Agatha; 1290 for that of saint Mary the Egyptian; or 1287, date of the murder of saint Werner, whose life
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In the light of these chronological references, it is rather dubious to sustain a very early dating for the Digenis poem. Nobody will doubt the possibility that the story could be borrowed from previous folk tales and legends, maybe even after a collation of several tales, having quite different protagonists, but the poem itself is probably a very late creation. This would explain the novelty of the Chrysapha depiction. In the West, representations such as these often precede or accompany vernacular texts in their earliest stages.144 Given that the rest of the Digenis iconographic corpus is of a later date, and since the slayers of monsters on ceramics have no obvious connection with Digenis, I would not be surprised that the image from Chrysapha were a trendy one, one of the novelties of its time. The proximity to Mystras explains this choice, since the local archons of Chrysapha were emulating an idea originating at the centre of their world and radiating slowly towards the periphery. It would not predate the first transcription of the Digenis poem, but it would accompany its early stages. I know that my idea will not sit well with the traditional approach to the tale of Digenis. This text is the most emblematic of all the early poems of Demotic Greek literature. A lot of things have been written about it. As many as were written about the Song of Roland. Historical events, places, and references were identified in the two early versions of Digenis by historians and literary historians, yet it would be safer to stay on the side of the facts and state that these are shadows of past events. One may recognize anything in such shadows, because shadows have vague forms and vagueness encourages conjecture and speculation. If I were to maintain my comparison, I would say that there are historical references to be identified in the Song of Roland as well, but these are shadows of real events. Because of this, even though the Old French poem is probably is copied in the Enaamse codex. In fact, the presence of the last text in the hagiographic collection of the Enaamse codex would argue in favour of a later dating, at the beginning of the 14th century, for it is highly unlikely that a metrical life of saint Werner could be composed and transcribed immediately after this saint’s death. Therefore, even if Digenis were mentioned in the text of the Vanden levene Ons Heren poem from the start (which I doubt, since we lack proof that the prologue was part of the original composition), this Digenis reference could not be more recent that the beginning of the 14th century. This basically places it in the same timeframe as the Grottaferrata manuscript. 144 The Arthurian archivolt from Modena, for instance, appears before the very first chivalric poems about King Arthur, at the end of the first half of the 12th century. The sculptures having Roland as protagonist also appear rather early, around the same date. The Veronese sculptures with the tale of Dietrich appear at around the same time as the Middle High German texts. Etc.
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based on a series of previous legends, no one actually argues that the story as we know it dates back to the reign of Charlemagne. Quite the contrary – the Song of Roland is a late 11th century creation. And it had many variants, at least six versions: the Oxford one, the earliest of the lot, but also later versions such as the one from Venice, the Châteauroux one, another one from Paris, the Cambridge version, and the version from Lyon, not to mention fragments of other possible versions that present a completely different set of problems.145 In fact, this comparison with the Song of Roland may explain another parameter in the creation of Digenis: the simultaneous existence of (at least) two initial versions: the one from Grottaferrata and the one from the Escorial. The comparison may be pursued if we discuss the other four versions that are allegedly dependent on a lost Z version, which would constitute a synthesis of the versions from Escorial and Grottaferrata.146 Yet there is a problem of a theoretical nature, as the debate concerning the orality of early Old French poems has moved from its steady positions of the early 20th century to a more subtle approach. Furthermore, French textual criticism does not admit precise Lachmannian archetype reconstructions such as the ones that were proposed for an ‘oral’ poem like Digenis. The problem is of a theoretical nature. How can one apply (to the same text) the notion of orality (when its suits her/his interpretation) and the stemmatics of Lachmann as well? The latter were devised for the study of biblical manuscripts, where text is not malleable as the one written in the vernacular. It has a more rigid form. How can one create a stemma codicum that also includes oral transmission? How can one put together a lectio difficilior or the saut du même au même with the Chinese whispers of oral transmission? The two theories are contradictory and their combined results are dubious from the start. Old French songs-of-deeds are formulaic in much the same manner. Similar formulae occur in Old French romances as well, but they are not automatically connected with orality. It could be an “extreme formalism […] nearer to the strict beauty of ceremony than to the transports of lyrical refrain.”147 Meaning that this were not automatisms of a factual nature, but conscious choices made by the authors themselves. More recent studies concentrated on the links between orality, formalism, and 145 For the text of all these versions, see Joseph J. Duggan (ed.), La Chanson de Roland/The Song of Roland: The French Corpus, 3 vols (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005). 146 See the introduction of Jeffreys ed., trans., Digenis Akritis. 147 Joseph J. Duggan, ‘Formulas in the Couronnement de Louis’, Romania, 87/347 (1966), 344.
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performativity in the romance genre, with very interesting conclusions, even though the subject is barely in its first stages of the exploration. One such conclusion is that the literary topoi and repetitive structural and narrative devices used in the writing of romances could be connected to the formulaic nature occurring in the same texts.148 This implies an aesthetical conception of those poems. With this in mind, I believe that the solution to the literary debate between orality and scribal interference in Demotic Greek poems should follow closely the similar debate concerning the conception of Western literary texts.149 To a rather stubborn philologist like me, only one thing is clear in the early transmission of the Digenis poem:150 that it is connected with Morea. I do not know, on the one hand, if the Grottaferrata version was indeed produced in Salento, but it found its way into the Angevin kingdom of Southern Italy as a result of that land’s political and cultural affinities with the lands from across the Ionian Sea. And the presence of Spaneas, a 12th century didactic poem taking the form of advice given by an anonymous Byzantine emperor to his nephew, argues in favour of this hypothesis, since it seems to be an essential piece of literature for those connected with the Latin nobility of Southern Italy and its Greek influence. It appears in the only manuscript of the Chronicle of the Tocco, a text that was probably written as an emulation of the previous Chronicle of Morea.151 On the other hand, the Digenis manuscript from Escorial is of a later date and binds together different books of different origins. Still, the Digenis section was also brought from Italy by the bishop of Tarragona, 148 Richard Trachsler, ‘Orality, Literacy and Performativity of Arthurian Texts’, in Tether Leah, Johnny McFayden (dir.), Handbook of Arthurian Romance: King Arthur’s Court in Medieval European Literature (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 273–291; cf. Richard Trachsler, ‘Formulas, Orality and Arthurian Romance: A Short Note on a Long Story’, Romanic Review, 100/4 (2009), 415–429. 149 For other doubts concerning the orality of the Digenis, stemming from other arguments, see Roderick Beaton, ‘Was Digenes Akrites an Oral Poem?’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 7/1 (1981), 7–27. 150 I choose not to quote any of the theories concerning the genesis of the Digenis poem, for they come in countless varieties. Mentioning some of them would do injustice to the others. 151 For Spaneas in general, see Georg Danezis, ‘Das Vorbild des Spaneas: ein neuer Vorschlag und die Folgen für die Edition des Textes’, in Hans Eideneier (dir.), Neograeca Medii Aevi. Text und Ausgabe. Akten zu Symposion Köln 1986 (Cologne: Romiosini, 1987), 89–100. Z.α XLIV (444) of the Badia greca of Grottaferrata has 79 leaves. The first 72 and a half contain the tale of Digenis (fols. 1r–73r), while the rest is occupied by the Spaneas poem (fols. 73v–79v). For a description of the codex, see Jeffreys ed., trans., Digenis Akritis, xviii–xix.
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Antonio Agostino, who had previously been the bishop of Alife, close to Naples. Another interesting thing is that the Escorial codex contains poems likes Livistros and Rhodamni or Poulologos. The fact that the Digenis poem presents a different version cannot be therefore connected with the oral nature of the text it preserves. Especially since research has already agreed that “the scribe of Digenis was copying from an earlier exemplar, and not writing from dictation or composing as he wrote.” This “is demonstrated by the lacuna that occurs in mid-line at E792.”152 These texts are a matter of debate as regards their formulaic nature. Since debates about formulae concern only a group of Demotic Greek texts, I would venture into arguing that this was a deliberate aesthetic choice, unrelated to public recitation, lack of talent, or scribal carelessness and redundancy.153 It should be linked to the common origin of these texts. Ockham’s razor dictates that this must have happened at the court of the Cantacuzenes, in Mystras, because this was the most Westernised of the Greek lands. In all probability, the original Digenis would be a 13th–14th century creation of this Moreote heterogenous milieu on the basis of several tales circulating in various forms until then. If so, Digenis would be an answer to the Western songs-of-deeds, just as the Achilleid was an answer to the genre of crossover romances of the Western lands. Or I may be wrong. By that time, Western influences penetrated all the strata of society. People came to Mystras with various reasons. This wide category could count not only local aristocrats, but also merchants, and maybe even peasants among its ranks. Rich peasants, in any case, those who had business in the regional 152 See Jeffreys ed., trans., Digenis Akritis, xix–xxi (manuscript description), xxi (quotation). 153 My idea differs from the theory of Giuseppe Spadaro in one essential aspect: the formulae are the effect of an external cultural influence. For a synthesis of the debate about orality in early Demotic Greek texts, see Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 164–180. The latter’s neutral approach to the matter does not really solve the problem (see pp. 181–187) and I certainly cannot believe that the writers made “a conscious effort […] to forge a new literary idiom out of the disparate elements available to Greek-speakers at the end of the Middle Ages.” To me, “the inconsistencies for which their texts have so frequently been […] condemned” cannot be interpreted as “proof of the magnitude of the task that faced these writers and of the heterogeneous nature of the resources available to them” (Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 186). This deterministic approach to the history of literary languages compares the early Demotic Greek writers with Dante or Cicero, but the truth of the matter is that the truly talented writers of their time wrote in proper Old Greek. This explains the very low number of manuscripts preserving early Demotic writings, as well as the fact that most manuscripts originated in the libraries of Southern Italy.
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capital of the despotate. These people met with the Latin knights or merchants who passed through or lived in Mystras. On various occasions, they spoke to them and learnt new things from the West, adopting or simply being tempted to adopt Latin cultural trends. The despotissa probably noticed (and sometimes oversaw) such interactions on a daily basis. Cultural trends moved slowly from the centre toward the periphery. Perhaps this is how Latin influences reached a lot further than the settlements of Chrysapha or Geraki. We see them even in the artistic achievements of the conservative and culturally headstrong Mani Peninsula. Two scenes interest me here. In the first one, two animals, previously identified as foxes, pull a plough, while a bird, identified as a rooster, holds the hitch. It appears on two columns capitals in the churches of the Transfigurationthe-Saviour in Nomitsi (Messenian Mani), now the cemetery church of the settlement, and Saint-Nicholas of Charia (Inner Mani). There is a second scene that presents only a rooster and a fox, accompanied by an inscription. This one appears only in Charia.
Case Study 16: The Roman de Renart in the Churches of Mani
The Nomitsi scene was dated to the 11th century, because of the quality of the carving,154 while Charia was dated to the 12th century, on account of its sculptures being naiver.155 Other datings were equally suggested, but they oscillate between the 11th and the 12th century. Yet these datings make no sense when we look at the text of the poem that accompanies the scene with the rooster and the fox from the capital of Charia (Fig. 61b): οαλουποςτοπετη νοτε(;)τηατ ονε λαληκακε βακηρησ ντ εκνεν α παρη στηνεχημο υφοβουμε κηρηγοὺ μενεъ βαι(;) 154 Cf. Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 120–123. Cf. Νικόλαος Β. Δρανδάκης, ‘Ο ναός της Μεταμορφώσεως στο Νομιτσή και τα ανάγλυφα επιθήματα των κιόνων του’, Βυζαντινά, 13 (1985), 599–632. 155 Cf. Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 242–245.
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Ὁ ἀλουπὸς τῷ πετεινῷ τέ(;)τοια τ|ὸν ἐλάλει: κατέβα κύρι σ|ύ⟨ν⟩τεκνε ν|ὰ πάρῃ|ς τὴν ε⟨ὐ⟩χή μο|υ. Φοβοῦ⟨μ⟩αι | κὺρ ἡγού|μενε … | βα.156 This is what the fox told to the rooster: ‘Come down, sir comrade, to receive my benediction’. ‘I am afraid, sir hegumen…?’ my translation
There are several reasons why these carvings should be dated to the 13th– 14th centuries, perhaps even to the second part of the 14th century. First of all, the word ἀλουπός, a masculine for the fox, would not be used in the 11th–12th century. Previous studies already accepted that the earliest use of this term dates back to 1262.157 Another ‘protochronistic’ aspect is the choice of the political verse that places the decapentasyllabic verses of Charia in the category of 14th–15th century poems. The use of such a meter in Mani would be extremely odd for the Comnenian period. It would predate by at least a century its actual manifestations, described by Eustace of Thessalonica and others.158 The extended use of political verses characterises the 13th or 14th centuries, and its generalization took place after 1300. If the representations of Nomitsi and Charia were made in the 11th century, Mani would become a homeland for the cultural avant-garde, which would be ridiculous, since Maniots were obviously conservative. Maniots had to follow some models, already accepted elsewhere. Newer trends do not arrive to the periphery out of the blue. They irradiate from larger and more important cultural centres. But there are also more mundane and practical arguments. The first one is a comparison. For instance, the capitals from the church of the Dormition in Kastania were initially dated to the 12th century, but they were recently re-evaluated and dated to the second half of the 14th century, since they display emblems of Manuel and Isabella.159 This means 156 For the text, see the drawing of Νικόλαος B. Δρανδάκης, ‘Ἀνάγλυπτος παράστασις βυζαντινού μύθου’, Επετηρίς Εταιρείας Βυζαντινών Σπουδών, 39–40 (1972–1973), 659–674, and fig. 13; also the edited text on p. 666. 157 See for this the study of Δρανδάκης, ‘Ἀνάγλυπτος παράστασις’, 666–667. 158 For the evolution and history of the political verse, see Michael Jeffreys, ‘From Hexameters to Fifteen-Syllable Verse’, in Wolfram Hörandner et al. (dir.), A Companion to Byzantine Poetry (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 66–91. Cf. Michael J. Jeffreys, ‘The nature and origins of the political verse’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 28 (1974), 143–195. 159 For the 12th century dating of those capitals, see Δρανδάκης, Βυζαντινά γλυπτά, 306–313. For the new dating to the 14th century, see Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’, 162–165.
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that a better skill of the carver does not automatically imply that he practiced his craft in the early centuries, a timeframe closer to the Macedonian Renaissance. A skilled carver was simply skilled and could learn his craft in the later centuries as well. Moreover, the first layer of murals from the church of Nomitsi – damaged and much reduced – could date back to the 13th century, that is, two centuries after the alleged date of the carvings,160 which is rather odd. And the four-column plan of the church was considered to be the earliest of its type in the region – equally strange for a rural foundation such as this.161 All these arguments cast a shadow of great doubt upon the early dating of the carvings and inscriptions from Charia and Nomitsi. And then there is the greatest problem of them all: why was the fox described as ‘hegumen’? How could the fox be described as an abbot, in a Byzantine countryside church, when this social game of foxes had barely started in the West, whence it was borrowed? To a literary historian, the whole thing sounds as if it came from the late medieval tradition of the Roman de Renart (13th–14th centuries). It would date back to the 14th century, but I cannot exclude the 13th one, on account of other animal stories being present in the carvings of Saint-Nicholas in Lagia and Saint-John stou Koraki in Mina, already presented in the first chapter of this book. When the same scene was depicted in the 15th century in the church of the Evangelistria, from Livera-Kapikioi near Trebizond, the two protagonists remained the same – the fox and the rooster, and the verses changed a bit, but not much: ΦΌΒΟΥΜΈCΈΚÏΡÏΌΑΛΕΠΕ ΚΑΤΑΒΕΔΕCΠΟΤΑΑΠΟ ΠΟΛᾹCΚΑΝΟΝΆCΈΧÏC. ΕΚΗCΕΎΧÏ | Σ | ΟΥ.162 This implies the existence of a common ancestor, a poem from the same time period, as the differences between the two texts can be ascribed to changes made during the transmission of a text. The absence of the section concerning the fox as a ‘hegumen’ does not pose a problem, since 160 This piece of information appears in the description printed and displayed by the Ephorate of Messenia next to the monument. 161 Cf. A.H.S. Megaw, ‘Byzantine Architecture in Mani’, The Annual of the British School at Athens, 33 (1932–1933), 139, 148, 156, 158. 162 See Δ.Ι. Πάλλας, ‘Περί την εικονογραφίαν των Αισώπειων μύθων’, Επετηρίς Εταιρείας Βυζαντινών Σπουδών, 34 (1965), 332–335, for the drawing and for the first mention. He corrected the text as: Κατάβε, δέσποτα, ἀπὸ ἐκ⟨εῖ⟩ ⟨κ⟩ (αὶ) εὐχ⟨ή⟩σου | Φοβοῦμ⟨αί⟩ σε, κ⟨ύ⟩ριο ἀλεπέ, πολ⟨λ⟩ὰς κανόνας ἔχ⟨ε⟩ις; (pp. 333–334).
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that part mentions the κανόνες of the fox, alluding to a similar clerical context. Still, scribal vernacular transmissions such as these cannot span five centuries. In five centuries, vernacular texts change beyond recognition. There would be many more versions of the same text, such as in the case of the Demotic Greek Apollonius or that of the Digenis versions, leading to a choice of completely different words. So, why the κανόνες and why κὺρ ἡγούμενος? I already argued that this may be linked to the Roman de Renart. Most vernacular adaptations of tales having Renart the fox as a protagonist use animal symbolism to replicate a socio-political context, making a parody of feudal structures that often becomes, in later instalments of the story, a parody of feudal wars and even a parody of history itself.163 On the other hand, there is another frequent symbolism, determined by the original Medieval Latin sources, and it has strong monastic undertones. In those Latin tales, animals formed a monastic community164 and the conflict opposing Renart the fox to Chanticleer the rooster (Sprotinus in earlier Latin texts) was of prime importance, but it was multiform. The Greek decapentasyllabic poem seems to be a variant of these Western stories about the fox and the rooster. In the Catholic lands, ‘Chanticleer and the Fox’ was a literary theme with countless renditions in Latin, French, Italian, English, German, Flemish, even Scandinavian languages. It was 163 I do not quote here the ‘branches’ of the initial Old French text (12th–13th century). From among the remakings, see for instance the Compaignie Renart, of the second half of the 13th century, a short fable-exemplum. Feudal and military tones are reinforced in the anonymous Couronnement de Renart (c.1263–1270) or in Jacquemart Gielee’s Renart le nouvel (1289), the latter being also adapted in prose as Le Livre de Regnart (1466). But there is even a historical or encyclopaedic approach, in the anonymous Renart le Contrefait (two redactions, c.1319–1342). And there are short retellings, such as the Dit d’entendement by Jean of Condé (14th century), a sort of synthesis of the various branches of the Roman de Renart; or the Venetian short poem Rainardo e Lesengrino, also of the 14th century. 164 In Rutebeuf’s Renart le Bestourné (1261), the fox is a monk at the court of king lion. There is also a 14th century text entitled La vie du saint hermite Regnart. Even though it is fragmentary, containing only its beginning, the latter speaks about the fox as a hermit who converses with the monkey. For this other text, see P. Chabaille (ed.), Le Roman du Renard, supplément, variantes et corrections. Publié d’après les manuscrits de la Bibliothèque du Roi et de la Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal (Paris: Silvestre, 1835), 375–389. There is also the pilgrimage of Renart (branch IX of the Old French story). For the Medieval Latin stories with Renart the fox as a member of a monastic community, often under the governance of Isengrin the wolf, see the Ecbasis cuiusdam captivi per tropologiam (1039–1046) or the mid-12th century Ysengrinus. The continuity of monastic motifs from Medieval Latin to vernacular literatures was already studied by Danielle Buschinger, ‘La critique du clergé dans le roman animalier au Moyen Âge’, in Le Clerc au Moyen-Âge (Senefiance 37) (Aix-en-Provence: Presses universitaires de Provence, 1995), 79–89.
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not a uniform tale. It varied from one area to another and from one century to the next, but it had one immutable feature: in all versions, the fox persuaded the rooster to close his eyes, for various reasons, and therefore managed to grab him by the neck.165 Some of those Western stories come pretty close to the story alluded to in the inscription from Charia. I have in mind a passage from the 14th century Renart le Contrefait, where the fox has joined the ‘Order of the Repented Ones’, a parody of the Franciscans, and argues that he is a great preacher, since he is able to make Beguine nuns, old women with large arses, and worthy squires fall fast asleep during his sermons. The sleep was excellent, since those who slept better were also closer to God. Renart wishes to become Chanticleer’s confessor, but the rooster does not believe him. So Renart quotes Solomon, Cicero, and a list of countless other authorities. He speaks against various monastic orders and explains that he repented, like saint Paul and saint Mary the Egyptian. He is now Brother Bernard. And since he heard the sweet music of Paradise and the cries of Hell, he finally persuades Chanticleer the rooster to see the torments of Hell for himself. In order to see them, the rooster needs to put his eye to the ground. But Chanticleer sees only the clouds in the sky, so the fox persuades him to close the other eye.166 This is when Renart grabs him. Perhaps this was the story represented in Charia. Not the exact text from the story of Renart le Contrefait, but its sources, very difficult to identify in the sprawling literary tradition of the Roman de Renart. With this in mind, let us take a closer look at the other scene, represented twice, once in Charia and a second time in Nomitsi. Could it be another adaptation of a story from the Roman de Renart? The two animals harnessed to the plough have rather long and wavy tails, feet ending with paws, and short pointy ears. These features place them in the category of canidae and the connection with the first capital from Charia (Fig. 61a) suggests that they are also foxes, but the carver chose to distinguish the two heads from Nomitsi (Fig. 60a), so maybe there is a slight difference between them. The rooster remains a rooster. Its crest is evident in both depictions, with an emphasis on the one from Nomitsi, where 165 For the Medieval Latin stories of Chanticleer and Renart, as well as for their ties to vernacular texts presenting the same subject, see e.g. Donald N. Yates, ‘Chanticleer’s Latin Ancestors’, The Chaucer Review, 18/2 (1983), 116–126. 166 For the text summarised here, see Gaston Raynaud, Henri Lemaître (eds.), Le Roman de Renart le Contrefait, 2 vols (Paris: Champion, 1914) 2:94–112 (vv. 31480–33219). The pandemic restrictions of 2020 made it impossible to identify and use the most recent edition of Corinne Pierreville (Paris, Champion, 2020).
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all animals are better represented. Also, in Nomitsi, the rough nature of the background, purposely scratched, a feature that appears in no other carving from that church, suggests that this conveyed the aspect of a ploughed field (Fig. 60a). This aspect is absent from the capital in Charia, but there is another odd feature on that capital: an irregular elongated shape with a plump end, filled with small round objects (Fig. 61a). Given the agricultural context of the scene, one would identify it with a sack of fruit or seeds. But what would this mean? And why are there no words to accompany this second image? Perhaps because of the indecent nature of the subject. The only story to which these features correspond is found in the 22nd branch of the Roman de Renart. It is one of the last additions to the composite structure of that story and dates back to c.1205–1250.167 In the episode, Chanticleer the rooster, Renart the fox, Isengrin the wolf, and Brichemer the stag clear together a field. Next, they debate about what to sow, Renart convinces them to cultivate wheat, since everybody lives on wheat, and then all of them proceed to sow the seeds: If somebody saw them at work – one sowing, the other harrowing, the third one gathering the stumps and carrying the branches outside, and then raking well, one would have thought they were good workers. Undertaken by such people, the work was quickly completed. When the field was sown and well fenced on all sides, Renart, who was always cunning, sat upon a tree trunk and addressed his companions in these terms: – Sirs, the product of this land must not be divided between us. All of us will harvest and eat it together in wintertime, when it will be freezing and we will no longer find food in the fields or woods, neither birds nor beasts. my translation
For a yet unknown reason, the stag is absent from the representations of Nomitsi and Charia. Maybe because there was no space to include it, or maybe because he did not appear in the Greek version of the poem. In the rest of the story, the wolf returns to the field in the month of June and rolls in the field, damaging the harvest, the stag eats it, the rooster does 167 See for this François Zufferey, ‘Genèse et tradition du roman de Renart’, Revue de linguistique romane, 75 (2011), 160–161, 176. This branch is rearranged as the 13th one in the 2015 edition.
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the same, and the fox catches them resting. Renart summons them to appear before the king (a lion) to be judged. This is where the first part of the tale ends. In the second one, the fox arrives before the king, sees the other three outside, enters, and devises a cunning plan. The king used a spade as an artificial twat, but it was already too large. The lion had slit its notch during repeated intercourses. So Renart promises to perfect a proper twat. They summon the stag and take his neck, to be used as a vagina. They summon the rooster and take his crest, to be used as a clitoris. And finally, they summon the wolf and take his skin, in order to make the pubic hair. By killing them and using those parts, Renart creates a proper female sexual organ. Hence the title of the story: ‘This is the branch about how Renart perfected the twat’ (C’est la branche come Renart parfist le con). In other versions of the same branch, the fox does not perform his tricks on the spade, but directly on the body of the queen lioness, previously put to sleep. The story varied and I believe that this explains the absence of the stag from the representations of Charia and Nomitsi. The Greek tradition would stem from a different version of the story.168 Since it was a best-seller with the low-prestige cultural crowd of the Western lands and since it represented a dash of gross peasant humour, it is time to ask ourselves: were the peasants of the Peloponnesus any different from the ones in the West? Not in their everyday dealings and certainly not as regards their cultural tastes. This is why there are similar texts in the Demotic Greek literature and they were clearly inspired by the tradition of the Roman de Renart.169 One of them is the Synaxarion of the venerable Donkey (Συναξάριον του τιμημένου γαδάρου). It was written a little later, at least in the 15th century, and it tells the story of a donkey who is tempted by a fox and a wolf to leave his peasant lord and go with them to the East, by sea. On the ship, the fox announces that there will be a storm and that they will die, so everybody needs to confess. The wolf remembers all the animals he had eaten. The fox absolves him, then confesses to the wolf. But the donkey does not have many sins, so they condemn him for the Original sin. When 168 There is also the possibility that the representation strayed away from the poem. For similar situations, see the case of the Modena Arthurian archivolt, analysed in Agrigoroaei, ‘L’Artus’. 169 There is no direct equivalent of this story in the Roman de Renart, but it contains elements from the branch telling the story of Isengrin the wolf and Rainsent the mare, which is rather short; and from the branch of Renart the fox who eats Hubert the kite, his confessor.
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they try to eat him, the donkey defends himself, throws the wolf in the sea, and the fox falls in the water soon afterwards. The two evil-doers swim and the fox tells how the donkey had a big club under his belly, powerful and wide, with a hood on it. If it hit only once with it, anyone would die. The donkey swirled it around, searching for the fox, to prevent her from fleeing. Luckily the prayers of her mother and good father saved her. The fox fell into the sea, free from the disaster, and hoped to never see the thing again.170 This is how the donkey got his troparion – meaning the vernacular poem, the Synaxarion – and this was also the reason why the donkey should be compared with saints Nikon and Nicetas. The pairing of sexuality with holiness provides the incongruous juxtaposition necessary for a greater comedic effect. At bottom, there is no difference in vulgarity. The story belongs more or less to the same type of humour as the tale of Renart perfecting the twat. On that account, the inscriptions and carvings from Charia and Nomitsi should not be included in the wider category of animal texts, but in a very small one, that of animal texts influenced by Western tradition. The 14th century Tale of Four-legged Creatures (Διήγησις τω̑ ν τετραπόδων ζώων) and the 15th century Bird Book (Πουλολόγος) are fashioned after the cultural trends of the Orient and may be compared to the earlier tale of Στεφανίτης και Ιχνηλάτης or to the Persian Conference of the Birds of the Sufi poet Farid ud-Din Attar (1177). Inversely, the Synaxarion of the venerable Donkey and the poem from Charia are influenced by the Western tradition of fabliaux and Roman de Renart. The linguistic coincidences of the Synaxarion and the inscription from Charia are related. To name but one, the appellatives point to a similar literary formula (the frequent συντέκνισσα or κὺρ σύντεκνε in the Synaxarion, and the κὺρι σύντεκνε from Charia), in which animals address each other and behave in the same way. But this does not mean they stem from a common source, a sort of Greek equivalent of the Roman de Renart, adapted from a Western poem. They are related because the Synaxarion was probably written in the manner of the poem from Charia. The poem inscribed on the Maniot column capital would be rather short, an extract of one or two branches of the Roman de Renart, quite 170 I paraphrased this passage as close as possible to its Greek original form. For the original text in the edition of G. Wagner, see Roberto Romano (ed., trans.), La satira bizantina dei secoli XI–XV: Il patriota, Caridemo, Timarione, Cristoforo di Mitilene, Michele Psello, Teodoro Prodromo, Carmi ptocoprodromici, Michele Haplucheir, Giovanni Catrara, Mazaris, Le messa del glabro, Sinassario del venerabile asino (Turin: Unione Tipografico-editrice Torinese, 1999), 642, 644.
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similar in approach to the Demotic Arthurian tale of the Πρέσβυς ιππότης, an extract of a Western literary text of which I will speak in the next chapter. Unfortunately, I do not have the time to dwell on these literary matters. I plan to analyse them properly in a future study.171 For the time being, the essential feature is that such profane scenes were only alluded to, never directly represented. In Chrysapha, Digenis fights with the Amazon, but the public knew well that he would later have sexual intercourse with her (Fig. 57–59). While in Nomitsi the fox ploughed the field together with the other animals, leaving the gross details of his crotch contraption for the imagination (Fig. 60–61). This implies a similar esthetical approach, a sort of guilty pleasure, maybe also a form of repentance, and answer to the Western passion for monster and deformities criticised by saint Bernard of Clairvaux. When the first draft of this passage was written, a friend asked me why such a thing would be represented in a church. Well, for the exact same reasons for which sexual intercourse or perversities are depicted on cornices. For the same reason why Sheela na gigs hold their crotches open with both hands on the walls of Latin churches. A myriad of interpretations was proposed: from pagan traditions to apotropaic functions or warnings against lust. But the truth of the matter is that common people always enjoyed this sort of blue comedy. By the look of the TV shows of our era, they still enjoy it all the more. There was even a 12th century column capital from Agen, today in the Bordeaux museum: a bearded man masturbates, a naked man grabs him by the leg, and a naked woman with low-hanging breasts grabs the latter by the loin, all while crawling on all fours. All three of them are grinning and nobody knows what they truly represent (apart from various sexual sins). In the Latin West, column capitals were the place where weird themes and subjects could be represented in the company of sacred subjects. Contortionist figures showed their naked arses. All sorts of monsters pulled out their tongues. Renart also appeared in church decorations, especially in the late 13th, 14th, and 15th centuries. The most common subject was his sermon to the geese
171 During the last check-ups for this book, I also found out that there is a third capital with a depiction of the rooster, fox, and wolf ploughing the field on a capital fragment from the Holy-Asomati church in Kourifari, also in Mani. See for this Δ.Ι. Πάλλας, ‘Βυζαντινόν ὑπέρθυρον του Μουσείου Κορίνθου απλως Αισώπειος μύθος η το Συναξάριον του Τιμημένου Γαδάρου’, Επετηρίς Εταιρείας Βυζαντινών Σπουδών, 30 (1960–1961), 431 (who discusses several other representations, which are nevertheless unrelated). These other representations and texts will be dealt with in a paper co-written with Panayotis St. Katsafados.
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(or poultry),172 but there were also scenes from other branches of the tale – such as his funeral, carried by roosters, or his resurrection, scenes in clustered cycles, and even yet unidentified scenes having Renart as protagonist.173 Maniot capitals of the 13th–14th centuries are a welcome addition to this growing corpus. Let me state that Nomitsi was not as isolated as one might believe. It lay in the shadow of the greater settlement of Kastania, where Western influences were well established. Apart from the column capitals of the church of the Dormition, the embraces of saints Peter and Paul, or the Crucifixion scene from Saint-Nicholas-in-Maroulaina – already mentioned in previous chapters – the most evident Latin influences appear in the murals of the church of Saint-Peter, dated to the second half of the 14th century. Since this is not the time to make a proper inventory, I will mention only the punzonature on the embossed halos of certain saints depicted in that church, as they are clearly influenced by the Italian Trecento.174 These Maniots were gradually adopting Western fashions. Some of them probably did not even know it. If it happened willingly, reluctantly, or unsuspectingly, this does not actually matter. The important thing is that it happened. And it had interesting consequences in the long run. All this occurred a century after the Second Council of Lyon. Greeks did not embrace the Latin stance in church matters, but they could embrace Western fashions when it came to profane issues. Exactly in 1374, Manuel and his entire 172 See e.g. the depiction from Kungst-Husby Kyrka, in Sweden (c.1400), in Tobias Hagtingius, ‘A Pornographic Fox’, in Gabriel Bianciotto, Michel Salvat (dir.), Épopée Animale, Fable, Fabliau: Actes du IVe Colloque de la Société Internationale renardienne, Evreux, 7–11 septembre 1981 (Paris: PUF, 1984), 245; the window from the cathedral church in Leicester, in Kenneth Varty, Reynard the Fox. A Study of the Fox in Medieval English Art (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1967), 51. Renart could be depicted either as a preacher/ abbot (cf. the miniature from British Library, Stowe 17, fol. 84r, early 14th century) or as a bishop (cf. the miniature of British Library, Royal 10 E IV, fol. 49v, dating back to the late 13th–early 14th century). 173 I will give only one example from each category. For the funeral of Renart the fox, see e.g. the architrave of the northern portal from the cathedral of Modena (Italy), just below the representation with King Arthur and his knights (12th century). For cycles, see the 15th century capitals from the nave of Saint-Siffrein cathedral in Carpentras (France). For yet unidentified scenes, see for instance the 12th century murals from the chapel of Plaincourault, close to Mérigny (Indre, France). For the resurrection of Renart, the upper part of the tympanum of the Saint-Ursin church of Bourges. There are also scenes with Renart holding cheese (central apse of Saint-Pierre church in Chaniers or the façade of Saint-Nicholas church in Civray). For other characters, see the representation of Ysengrin the wolf dressed as a monk on the façade of the church of Saint-Peter in Spoleto. 174 For the churches of Kastania in general, see Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia’.
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family were involved in the parleys with pope Gregory XI (1370–1378), concerning the same old topic of uniting the Eastern and Western churches. From the Byzantine side, this matter had important political reverberations, since the Turks were an ever more menacing presence and Constantinople needed strong allies in the face of future dangers. The Byzantines did not like this development. They behaved rather begrudgingly. And nothing good came out of those negotiations. It is impossible to know what part Isabella played in the whole arrangement. We have no idea if she had remained a Catholic or if her life in Mystras made her an Orthodox. Perhaps she was lingering in between these two options, or perhaps she pretended to be one of them while secretly being the other. The only sure thing is that her hopes would be raised when she heard that cousin Leo had left Cyprus. He was now on his way to Cilician Armenia, where he would soon become king. Isabella would think of her father, who used to be king of the same country thirty years before. Armenians and Cypriots had a common history already. No wonder that cousin Leo went there to become king. But she probably prayed that Leo does not suffer the same fate as her late father. He would be luckier. And then news would come that Leo had been crowned king of Armenia in 1374.
…
By that time, the Latins of the Peloponnesus were not the allies of Manuel anymore. There were dynastic problems in Achaea. A Latin, Francesco Sanseverino, attacked the Byzantine fortress of Gardiki. Manuel gathered an army of a thousand riders and two thousand infantry men, but the battle was a disaster. Gardiki was freed, but Manuel could never live up to his former glory. His influence in the Peloponnesus gradually declined. By that time, two pieces of news arrived in Mystras and they interested Isabella greatly. The first one was bad. In the month of April 1375, the Mamluks had conquered Sis, the capital of her cousin Leo, and Leo had been taken prisoner. Those Mamluks had been menacing Lesser Armenia for a very long time, even before the reign of her father. But now the Armenian kingdom had fallen for good. It was no more. It ceased to be. As for the other piece of news, it was anodyne. King Peter II of Cyprus had finally married somebody. Since a Byzantine bride could not be obtained, he had married by proxy a certain Valentina, daughter of the duke of Milan, Bernabò Visconti. The despotissa had to congratulate him. She would need to keep Peter II happy, to protect her Cypriot estates. But she would constantly think about cousin Leo. At first, she would be tempted to ask for the help of the Byzantine emperor, John V Palaeologus, but this did not work well.
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Poor Leo was in a bad place. According to John Dardel, he had been taken to Cairo. He wrote letters to the pope, to the emperors of ‘Rome’ and Constantinople, to the king of France, who was a relative of his, and to all the other Christian kings, pleading with them to send envoys with gifts for the sultan of Cairo, and asking for his release. From 9 July 1375 to the month of April 1377 he was imprisoned in Cairo and no one wrote to the sultan apart from the king of Cyprus, Peter II the Fat. But Peter had sent only a letter brought in by a Jacobin monk. No gift, no nothing, and matters probably got worse, as that Jacobin, who went by the name of Arnold, was poor and badly dressed. Then there was lady Johanna, queen of Naples, who sent the master of the Hospital of Jerusalem, a certain Anthony de la Cour. The emperor of Constantinople also wrote at the suggestion of Isabella, Leo’s cousin. All those envoys arrived in Cairo the same day, in the month of August, but they were not impressive enough and they brought no presents with them. The only one who had brought something was George Pophos, the Greek envoy, but there were gifts of very little value. The sultan did not appreciate them much. When the letters were presented to him, the envoys were told to wait for an answer another day. The Saracens mocked them, saying: – Look what are the gifts that the great leaders of Christendom have sent us. When the day came, the sultan’s council gave the following answer: – Sirs, the king whom you search has decided to spend all his life in Cairo. If you do not believe us, we have a letter written by his own hand. The envoys said that if such a letter were produced, it would not be of any value, since the king was in prison and had to write it against his will. But the Saracens answered that they could do nothing more, and they gave fine robes to the envoys, and letters in return, and send them on their way. If the envoys brought gifts of great value, the king would be delivered to them. At least, this was the opinion of John Dardel, who had heard it from Leo himself. Those Saracens were a rapacious and highly covetous people, spectacularly arrogant and proud. They did not appreciate envoys who do not bring them something of value.175 So poor Leo remained in Cairo for some time. Isabella probably did not know that her cousin had made other plans. About that time, the Franciscan John Dardel was on his way back from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem when he met Leo in Cairo. King Leo sent him to Western Europe in hope that one of the monarchs of the West could help him with real presents to be given to the Saracens. 175 For the original text of John Dardel, see RHC-DA 2:92–93.
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Meanwhile in Morea, Isabella made other investments in uncertain times. When Juan Fernández de Heredia, the recently appointed grand master of the Knights Hospitaller (1377–1396) was captured by the Albanians and sold to the Turks, Isabella could agree to pay the ransom of 9500 ducats, on the condition that the money be paid to her at a later date.176 She undoubtedly kept her eyes fixed on her Mediterranean estate, for this was the only place where she could go at the death of her husband. Giving money to the Hospitallers meant that those sums could be recuperated elsewhere in the Mediterranean, if she would need to go to Cyprus. Therefore, Isabella was perhaps aware that at that very same moment, in the summer of 1378, Valentina Visconti had arrived in Nicosia, where she was properly married (in person) to young king Peter the Fat. Did she send letters, new greetings? Did she prepare a future trip to Cyprus? We do not know. The only sure thing was that two years later, the expected terrible thing finally occurred. Isabella became a widow. Manuel died. This happened in Mystras on 10 April 1380. Since Manuel had no children, his brother Matthew became despot in his own right, but research argues that the government was actually in the hands of his sons, Demetrius and John. We do not know for how long Isabella continued to stay in Mystras and walk the streets dressed as a Byzantine widow. By that time, the city had become a true capital of the Peloponnesus. Its impressive walls, impressive churches, and impressive residences paled when compared with the great beauties of Constantinople, but in those provincial lands Mystras was a splendour to behold. Byzantine scholars continued to come there and spend time away from the lands menaced by the Turks. Maybe new churches were also erected, like the Evangelistria, dated to the end of the 14th or the beginning of the 15th century, probably with a funerary purpose. Isabella would see that life continued its course, even though she would no longer be an important person. When her former courtiers and the Cantacuzenes who spoke to her on a daily basis would suggest that she become a nun, in a convent, Isabella would remember her former days of glory, wishing to go to Cyprus, to be closer to that hamlet of Agios Georgios which had been given to her. Nobody knows for how long she postponed leaving Mystras, but at a certain moment in time she did it. This could happen when news would come to her that her cousin had been finally freed by the Mamluks. John Dardel had returned to Cairo. He had brought with him precious stones, silks, and hunting birds. Gifts from the king of Castile to the sultan. Enough gifts to pay the ransom. Cousin Leo was now a widower and he left for the island of Rhodes, where Isabella waited for him. The brave knights of Rhodes would surely help them. After all, they were always beside 176 See for this the act of 6 April 1382, in Zakythinos, ‘Une princesse française’, 73–75.
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the Lusignan in the tale of Melusine by John of Arras. Especially when the fictional brothers Urian and Guyon conquered Cyprus and Armenia. Perhaps they would help the cousins as well. Isabella was a very practical person. On 6 April 1382, in Rhodes, she probably collected 3000 ducats from Juan Fernández de Heredia, all while receiving a letter with the assurance that the other 6500 ducats will be paid to her or to her procurators at a later date.177 She had a lot of money with her when she met with cousin Leo. What explanation did she provide when they met on 21 October?178 Did she explain her reasons for not paying the ransom to save him from the prison of Cairo? Maybe cousin Leo understood that his own ransom could never be repaid and that Isabella needed money to make provisions for the moment when she would be left alone. John Dardel would also understand, for he was a Franciscan. He had become chancellor of Armenia, even though that kingdom did not exist anymore. It was an honorific title, but he participated in state affairs. In that late autumn of the year 1382, Leo thought about going to Cyprus and conquering the island from the Genoese. Peter II the Fat had died on 10 October. He had every right to return to Cyprus and claim the crown. But he had no money and Isabella’s riches were not enough to pay for galleys and properly trained soldiers. Isabella was a widow. She needed to save those riches for a rainy day. So, Leo asked Juan Fernández de Heredia for a boat, to send a message to Cyprus and to see of the Cypriots could help him (and help themselves as well). The grand master of the Knights Hospitaller could not turn him down. After all, a Lusignan had helped the Hospitallers conquer Rhodes.179 He gladly gave that boat to him, but did not wish to be involved in a conflict with the Genoese. When it was evident that the plan led to nothing, poor Leo took the decision to go West: first to see the pope, then to see the kings and lords of Christendom, to ask for their aid, to recover the kingdom that was rightfully his.180 Leo left the island of Rhodes on 21 November. Isabella would wave her kerchief from the shore as the galley set sail. Her cousin was in good company. Dominic of Germany, a Hospitaller knight, future commander of Naples and later even of Cyprus, was with him on that journey. In wintertime, on 12 December, when winds blew across the Adriatic Sea, they finally arrived in Venice. Leo asked the Venetians for help, but they had 177 The entire text of the letter appears in Zakythinos, ‘Une princesse française’, 73–75. 178 Cf. RHC-DA 2:103. 179 Cf. Anthony Luttrell, The Town of Rhodes: 1306–1356 (Rhodes: City of Rhodes/Office for the Medieval Town, 2003), 171. 180 For the source of this passage, see RHC-DA 2:103.
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barely made peace with the Genoese. Then he went to Ravenna, where the cardinal and patriarch were supporters of the antipope in Rome, but could not get help. He went through Padua and Verona to see the French pope, but this did not help either.181 This was probably the last time when Isabella heard from him. Leo went to Spain, where he received the city of Madrid and other cities from the king of Castile. He became lord of those cities in 1383–1390. He went to Paris in 1384. He dined at the Louvre with the French king, who gave him the castle of Saint-Ouen and a pension for the rest of his life. He actually died in Paris on 29 November, 1393, being buried in the convent of the Celestines, under a gisant tomb that read: ‘Here lies the very noble and excellent prince Leo of Lusignan, the fifth, Latin king of the kingdom of Armenia, who rendered his soul to God in Paris, on the 29th day of November in the year of grace 1393. Pray for him’.182
…
When cousin Leo sailed into the West, Isabella could have gone anywhere, either back to Morea or to Cyprus. Perhaps she stayed in Rhodes. The only sure thing is that she did not go to Western Europe, since the account of John Dardel does not mention her afterwards. Let us imagine her returning to Cyprus in the last years of her life, enjoying the rent from Agios Georgios, recuperating the remaining fortune given to the Hospitallers and also keeping a close watch on her other estates and riches, some of them entrusted to the Venetians, as it appears from later documents. If she returned to Cyprus in the early 1400s, she would learn that her own story was put through some sort of Chinese whispers. Cypriots wrote chronicles about the events of recent times and she was mentioned in some of them. She would be intrigued, so she would ask for that chronicle to be read to her. The story apparently told that “on the eighth of the month of November,” presumably of the year 1372, “a galley reached Famagusta from the emperor of Constantinople, Kaloyanni [Palaeologus].” Isabella would not understand what the emperor had to do with her passage through Cyprus, so she would listen patiently. According to the story, the said galley “brought two envoys to make an alliance of marriage between the emperor’s daughter and the said king. And there were the envoys: the first was a knight of Constantinople 181 For this passage, see RHC-DA 2:104. 182 Cy gist tres noble et excellent prince Leon de Lizingnen quint, roy latin du royaume d’Armenie qui rendit l’ame a Dieu a Paris le XXIXe jour de novembre l’an de grace M.CCC.IIIIXX.XIII. Priez pour luy. The gisant is now located in the basilica of Saint-Denis.
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called George Vardali, and the other was a German knight in the service of the emperor. They were prudent, wise, and honourable knights. They were received with great honour and brought to [Nicosia] to do their embassy.”183 Isabella would gradually open her eyes wide with amazement. “At [that] time it befell that the empress was in Cyprus, because she had been invited to the king’s coronation: this was lady Margaret of Lusignan, granddaughter of the Lord of Tyre and sister of king Leo the ruler of Armenia. She was the wife of Manuel [Cantacuzene], emperor of the Morea.” No way, this could not be possible. She had become an empress of the Peloponnesus, with a different name and a different father. And her cousin had become her brother. This was terrible. Or brilliant. She could laugh or cry, undecided. And this was not all, for “she did not arrive in time for the coronation of the king, but reached Famagusta in a galley of her own after the king was crowned; and they received her with great honour as a kinswoman of the king. Because Aradippou and its district and all the revenue of the Lord of Tyre had descended to her, he being her grandfather, she was granted a yearly revenue of four thousand white bezants of Cyprus, which were worth a thousand ducats.”184 Isabella could not believe her ears. In this story, she held the entire estate of Aradippou. In other words, there was no opposition of the king’s uncle. The past had become a magically blissful land. Here, the story apparently stopped talking about her and concentrated on the imperial envoys: The said envoys of the emperor came in before the king and his council, and presented their message as follows: – Sir, King with God’s blessing of Jerusalem and of Cyprus, may God increase your years and give you strength against the Hagarenes. Our most holy lord emperor (of Constantinople) sends many greetings to your majesty (and to your councillors). And the emperor has sent us to ask your majesty and your councillors, (if it would be your majesty’s will, that you should take his daughter to wife,) because many alliances of marriage have been made between the Greeks and the Latins, and by the king of France with the emperor of Constantinople. Now the fame of your majesty has gone abroad, and the greatness of the love which your people have for you: our emperor therefore wishes to make an alliance 183 R.M. Dawkins (ed.), Leontios Makhairas: Recital concerning the sweet land of Cyprus entitled ‘Chronicle’, 2 vols (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1932), 327 (for the translation). For the original text, see p. 326. There are many other (more recent) editions of Leontios Machairas’ text. I chose to use this one on account of its English translation, so that the translated text and the Greek original may perfectly correspond. 184 Dawkins ed., Leontios Makhairas, 327 (translation). For the original text, see p. 326.
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of marriage with your majesty, giving you the maiden who is his only daughter. And firstly, what is sought for in marriage above all is beauty: we promise you that she is among the first of the fait women who are in all the lands in the world. The second thing is wisdom: and she is under the protection of the mercy of God, so great is the wisdom and learning which she has, even as your majesty may learn from many; and she is well skilled in letters. And for the rest we promise you a great dowry, many castles in Greece, and besides them in gold and other treasure fifty thousand ducats, and you will have also the emperor as your father and he shall have you as his son. And we have told you all the matter briefly, and when you wish we will tell it to you at length. And we promise you before God that it will be of great benefit for you and for us.185 Was this story true? Nobody knows, since only the chronicles speak of it and there are no other documents to corroborate it. Isabella would smile. She would consider it mistaken or plainly invented. Next, the imperial envoys “gave the king the letters which the emperor had sent, and went to the house where they were lodged.” And Isabella, that is Margaret “the empress went by herself to each person and begged him that this marriage might be concluded for its conclusion was the chief reason of her coming.”186 This could not be! These people knew nothing. In this story, the purpose of her trip to Cyprus had been completely forgotten. From one instant to the next, Isabella would feel amused, appalled, or insulted. She would not pay much attention to the rest of the story, which said that Cypriot noblemen had given a cunning answer to the emperor (that it was a time of war, thus not proper for marriages). She would be suddenly shocked to know that “the daughter of Messire Bernabò the Duke of Milan arrived secretly, as the envoys of the emperor were going away: and the maiden, Queen Valentina, appeared at Famagusta, and was married to the king. And she was the richest of all the queens.”187 – What? How? When? How come? What about the marriage by proxy in Italy, two years after the crowning of Peter the Fat as king of Jerusalem? What about Valentina’s much later trip to Cyprus? History had been compressed into one giant ball of thread. All threads and all stories had become entangled. It was terribly absurd. “And the empress went to worship at the Holy Sepulchre.” 185 Ibid., 327, 329 (translation). For the original text, see pp. 326, 328. 186 Ibid., 329 (translation). For the original text, see p. 328. 187 Ibid., 331 (translation). For the original text, see p. 330.
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– No way! Did I do that? “and came back again to Cyprus” … – When did I do such a thing? “and was present at the king’s wedding” … – No, I was not! “and then went to Constantinople.”188 That would be too much. At the end of such a story, Isabella would laugh copiously. It was plainly absurd. Then she would be silent, feeling terribly sad. These people knew nothing about Mystras or Morea. They had imagined her return trip to Constantinople because Mystras did not exist in their mind. She would agree that Manuel was right in choosing Thucydides. They had to question themselves about the subjectivity of writing history. These passages are taken from the chronicle of Leontios Machairas, a Cypriot who wrote them two generations later, sometime before 1458. A shorter version of the story appears in the Italian chronicle of Francesco Amadi, written about the same time, which probably made use of the same local tradition. Isabella could not read these two texts, but she could be aware of similar distortions in oral history. The Wheel of Fortune was spinning. By then, she had become sine regno, unable to influence the writing of history. When old age caught up with her in the early years of the 15th century, the former despotissa would be aware that she had also been forgotten in Mystras. Her portrait had already vanished from the niche of the Perivleptos church and the Lusignan lion was defaced. The architrave bearing the two monographs of her name had been smashed down from the sanctuary of Saint-Demetrius and replaced by a new iconostasis. The young despot of Morea, Theodore Palaeologus, was trying to erase Latinness from memory. Or maybe the fact that Isabella was a Latin played no great part in that decision. Nobody knows, for Theodore was himself married to a Latin lady, the daughter of the Florentine conqueror of Athens, Nerio Acciaiuoli. This was the lord who chased the Catalans away from Attica. We are left to wonder whether the issue at stake was Latinness or the quarrel between the Cantacuzene and Palaeologan families. Isabella probably died sometime before 7 December 1407, the date when the Venetian Senate granted the Byzantine emperor the right to reclaim the fortune left by her in the charge of the Venetian bankers of Crete.189 From the moment she left Mystras, times dramatically changed. From 1387 to 1400, no 188 Ibid., 333 (translation). For the original text, see p. 332. 189 For the identification of the emperor’s aunt with Isabella of Lusignan in an analysis of this document, see Tzavara, Ganchou, ‘La principessa Caterina Palaiologina’, passim, and p. 71 (for the original text).
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more than eight Turkish invasions ravaged the Peloponnesus, destroying much of what was there. From the standpoint of the Latins and Greeks who ruled continental Greece, this was the end of an era. Throughout the 14th century, sporadic Western influences oscillated between the newly arrived Italian fashions and the old habits of the 13th century, connected with the French. Yet everything came from Italy or from the Mediterranean crusader states. Direct French influences gradually stopped after the end of the 13th century. The 14th century was a time when Italian culture took precedence and acted not only as intermediary for the French, but exerted its own influence as well. Such cultural swaps from one period to the next are not out of the ordinary. To give one contemporary example, Dionysis Savvopoulos started under the sway of Bob Dylan’s popularity, as many folk singers did, in many countries and languages. However, when times changed and rock became more popular than folk music, Savvopoulos borrowed a Dylan song from Jimi Hendrix. In his Greek revision of ‘All along the Watchtower’, a Greek band with horns and flutes interferes time and again in a story where wildcats do not growl in the distance anymore. Menacing riders provoke their dogs to attack innocent women and children instead: All along the watchtower Princes kept the view, While all the women came and went, Barefoot servants, too. Outside, in the distance A wildcat did growl, Two riders were approaching, The wind began to howl.
Πάνω απ’ του κάστρου τη σκοπιά, οι πρίγκιπες κοιτούν. Καθώς γυναίκες και παιδιά, τρέχουν για να σωθούν. Κάπου έξω μακριά, ο άνεμος βογκά. Ζυγώνουν καβαλάρηδες με όπλα και σκυλιά.190
190 For the English text, see ‘All Along the Watchtower’, on the LP Bob Dylan, John Wesley Harding, Columbia – CS 9604, 1967. For the Greek text, see ‘Ο παλιάτσος κι ο ληστής’, on the LP Διονύσης Σαββόπουλος, Μπάλλος, Lyra – SYLP 3573, 1971.
the seventh tale
The Notary Learnt Too Much – Messir Nicholas, no good, messir Nicholas. Whip oxen too much. Oxen damage. ‘Oh, shut up!’ he must have said to himself, in his mind. He was fed up with that nagging Greek. Nicholas had the intention to visit Nicosia, where the king of Cyprus held his court. He wanted to see the venerable Cross of Cyprus, the cross of saint Dismas, that is, the Penitent Thief. To do so, he did not feel like spending too much money, so he rented the chariot and oxen of that Greek. Bad idea, to say the least. Bad idea to have the Greek next to him, in the cart, harassing him with a handful of Italian words, while he tried to drive the bloody chariot. He never learnt the art of driving oxen, and he probably beat those animals too much, undeniably. He felt tired of the Greek’s nagging, he did not want to hear him complain anymore, so at night, when he could not sleep, Nicholas devised a ‘cunning plan’. It was a terrible night. He had to sleep on the cold ground, on a mantle laid underneath him, as there was no decent bed to rent in that horrible country, and he felt an entire population of fleas running up his legs, hands, and neck, pinching him all over the body. The air was foul and a grunting pig shared their room. Nicholas came to the conclusion that the fleas came from the pigs that these men kept in their houses. For a notary, brother of an archdeacon from the good family ‘da Martoni’, in the Kingdom of Naples, this was too much to bear. To hell with those bloody oxen. To hell with the Greek and his chariot. He would not stand that situation anymore. So, he woke up before dawn and started on foot towards Nicosia.1 His plump silhouette walked from dawn till dusk on that Thursday, 10 December of the year of the Lord 1394, until he arrived in Nicosia late in the evening. He saw many interesting and impressive things there, but he continuously regretted the hasty decision he had taken in Beirut, where he had separated from his fellow pilgrims, choosing to come to the land of Cyprus. Most of all, he probably regretted not being close to lord Antonazzo, who had many connections and could help him get safely back home. So, he returned to Famagusta on foot, keen to find his fellow pilgrims and reach Italy. 1 All passages in this chapter are directly paraphrased from the original text of Nicholas’ account. For this passage, see Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 112. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 634.
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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The return trip from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land had become a sort of odyssey. Nicholas definitely did not know what the Odyssey was. Because there was nothing else that he desired more than a safe return to his homeland in Carinola, God helped him and there it was, a Genoese ship carrying Galician and Hungarian pilgrims from the Holy Land. He boarded it until Rhodes, where he hoped to find some of his fellow pilgrims, for this used to be their plan. Yet he could not reach Rhodes. Catalan pirates swarmed those seas and the ship had to dock in the island of Symi. There he found another boat and persuaded the sailors to take him to his next destination: Rhodes. On the evening of Thursday, 24 January 1395, Nicholas arrived with great joy in the city of Rhodes. He immediately found lord Antonazzo, his man-withconnections. Antonazzo was living the good life in the house of the reverend and father in Christ lord brother Dominic of Germany. This Dominic was the one and the same who accompanied Leo of Lusignan on his journey west when Isabella waved to him from the shore. Dominic was now a commander (praeceptor) of the Neapolitan house of the Order of the Knights of Saint John, and Nicholas could not believe his own luck. The commander – tough as the warrior life must have made him – was also full of motherly love, a true spring of courtliness. Lord Antonazzo described to lord Dominic what was Nicholas’ condition. Since Nicholas was somebody, even though he was not very important either, lord Dominic had the good grace to welcome him into his house, to invite him to eat at his table (every day and every evening for the entire stay in Rhodes), and to share his room, where he slept in the company of lord Antonazzo. From what Nicholas tells us, this lord brother Dominic did many acts of kindness to foreigners who came to Rhodes, no matter if they were pilgrims or other people. He always gave money to the needy, and the poor received his alms.2 However, despite this portrait, one probably needed good recommendation to get into his house, eat at his table, and share his room. Maybe this is why he built a hostel for the Italians sometime before 1401.3 The reunion with his fellow pilgrims must have been very happy indeed. Now that they found each other, there was no need to linger long. After a few days, our travellers embarked with French pilgrims coming from the monastery of Saint-Catherine on a ship bound to reach Messina, for the price of five ducats per head. After passing by many islands, on Friday, at vespers, the ship’s pilot took them to the harbour of the island of Thermia, or Fermia, as Nicholas
2 Piccirillo ed., 122. Cf. Le Grand, 639–640. 3 Cf. Luttrell, The Town of Rhodes, 117.
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noted it down in his journal, since he could not pronounce the voiceless fricative θ. On account of a strong wind, they had to stay in that port for several days. There they ran into big trouble. Some privateer-pirates led by a Catalan named Franciscus de le Casi docked very close to their ship, within the distance of an arrow’s flight from a crossbow, but could not come to attack them on account of the same unfavourable wind. The only thing standing between them and the pirates was a sandy beach. Three knights from among the pilgrims went to ask what their intentions were. The pirates comforted them with sweet words saying there was nothing to fear, and promised that they had no intention of harming anyone. They kept telling lies for three days, all while waiting for the wind to turn, so that they may attack them. Until one evening, when the pirates landed thirty crossbowmen on the beach, to guard the coast so that no one could escape from the ship and find safe passage to the village of Thermia, which was situated high up in the mountains, at a distance of eight miles from the port. The pirates also seized two of the sailors. They went to hide some of their belongings in the mountains and were now getting back to the ship. The pilgrims now knew they were about to be attacked.4 Lord Antonazzo negotiated with the master of the ship, trying to intimidate him or to win his favours, and he finally lent them a small rowboat. When night was falling and the moon was up, Antonazzo and Nicholas gathered some small belongings and joined the master, the pilot, the helmsman, the scribe, several sailors, and a fellow pilgrim Simon of Milan. Leaving the other pilgrims behind, they sailed away in great fear. The boat was so loaded that it often looked like it would be sinking. They docked far from the pirates, took what they had with them, left the boat, and fled up those mountains on hard and winding stony paths, stumbling in the dark and falling here and there, desperate to reach the main settlement of the island. Poor Nicholas always felt indebted to lord Antonazzo, so he did him many favours. On that night, Nicholas carried their stuff, including some cloth, in a bundle hanging from ‘his neck’ (probably his chest and shoulders). It weighed as much as 55 kg, a thuminus, the Neapolitan measure for grain. He had to run with it the entire night through those stony mountains. Oh God, how fretful he was, all sweating and trembling, with the bundle tied to his neck! He could not believe it. Such a small body like his, unaccustomed to great and heavy efforts, had developed incredible strength all of a sudden. 4 Piccirillo ed., 132. Cf. Le Grand, 646.
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It must have been the grace of God, not his merits.5 This is how they reached Thermia early in the morning, and they were given a room with two beds, that they shared with Simon of Milan for the whole duration of their stay. Soon, news arrived that the Catalans finished robbing the ship and returned it to its master. The pilgrims negotiated with the master to take them up to Methoni for the price of forty ducats, but Nicholas and lord Antonazzo were smarter. They preferred to stay a little bit longer on the island of Thermia, where the uncle of John of Bologna, the lord of those islands, gave them gifts and probably advised them to make different plans: go to Athens, then to Corinth, get help from the duke of Cephalonia who was there and whom lord Antonazzo knew, and finally reach their homeland in one way or the other. So, they had lunch in Thermia on 22 February, the day of the Carnival, paid a boat to take them to Athens for the price of ten ducats, and feasted the Carnival by eating delicate partridges on the beach. This was the same beach where the Catalan pirates had robbed their fellow pilgrims. At midnight they arrived in the island of Kea, which did not impress them in any way. It was dark, they slept for a short time in the harbour, and they were impatient to reach Athens. Was this the same harbour from which poor old Choniates would look upon the mountains of Attica, trying to figure what his beloved Athens looked like? Probably so, but Nicholas and Antonazzo knew almost nothing about Athens. The old metropolitan was long gone, proedros Ignatius was forgotten, and the only person still uniting the islands of Kea and Thermia was lord John of Bologna, a vassal of the duke of Naxos. The world had changed in the almost two centuries from the time of Choniates. The Cyclades belonged to the Venetians, but there were changes even in those times, for Turkish ships were menacing the coast, so Nicholas and Antonazzo had every reason to be once again afraid. After all, the winds were once more against them. Their ship had to dock in a different port, perhaps Porto Rafti, where they arrived on Tuesday evening, 23 February. They had twenty-four miles to walk before reaching Athens, but they were full of hope and took a short break, enjoying the sites of that harbour. This is where Nicholas had a first taste of what Greek Antiquity looked like. Near that harbour, on a mountain not far away, there were two marble sculptures of a man and a woman. The tale he heard was that the man had chased the woman when both of them were alive. He chased her out of a burning desire to know her in a carnal way, but she was apparently a virgin, so she took to the mountains, not wanting to consent to his wicked ways. However, the man got closer and closer. When the woman realised that there was no way of escaping him, she prayed God for the ultimate solution: to transform both 5 Piccirillo ed., 132. Cf. Le Grand, 646–647.
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of them into marble statues. Her prayers were answered and so the two had remained until Nicholas’ day.6 Of course, we do not know what Nicholas saw and heard. Was this a story coming from an ancient myth reinterpreted in medieval times? There was the legend of Lethaea and her husband Olenus both turned into stones (for her pride and beauty, and for his love of her), but it was briefly narrated in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and it was not included in the medieval Ovide moralisé. Perhaps those ancient statues were linked to one of the many stories of petrification in the legends of Europe, so it could be a local story. Some argued that Nicholas was shown the feminine Colossus of the island of Rafti, dating back to Roman times, and located at the entrance of the harbour. Maybe it was so. According to this interpretation, poor Nicholas’ “geography [was] inaccurate only in the sense that from the shore at certain angles the islands of Porto Rafti merge into the mountain landscape and become mountains themselves.”7 All things considered, Nicholas did not have the time to climb and see the statues. Perhaps he was only shown their silhouette far away in the distance, and he left after a very short while. This happened in the evening of 23 February. They dined with bread, cheese, and other food from Thermia. Nicholas also cried for a while in the harbour. His own words, written later in Italy, express the despair that plagued his soul that evening: I passed that Carnival with so many sighs and desolation of heart and mind, thinking of the exile in which I had no hope to find a ship to take me back home, but also of the misery of all my blood relatives and friends back home, to whom I could not give any news of my condition. I thought that during Carnival days my house was filled with many assorted dishes, more than enough for my loved ones, for there were enough for my needy and poor neighbours as well. In those days [in Greece], I drank less drops of wine than the tears which poured from my eyes. Yet I always gave worthy praises to God, who made me reach the end of that journey and freed me from the hands of pirates. my translation8
6 Piccirillo ed., 134. Le Grand, 648. Cf. Roberto Weiss, The Renaissance Discovery of Classical Antiquity, 2nd edition (Oxford/New York: Basil Blackwell, 1988), 135, for the identification with Porto Rafti. 7 Cornelius C. Vermeule, ‘The Colossus of Porto Raphti in Attica’, Hesperia, 31 (1962), 66 (for the quotation); and 65–67 for Nicholas da Martoni possibly being shown the Colossus of Porto Rafti. 8 For the original text, see Piccirillo ed., 136. Cf. Le Grand, 649.
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The travellers were now afraid of Turks, known to frequently raid those places, so they persuaded the local fishermen to sell them two donkeys and a horse for the price of a ducat. Nicholas and lord Antonazzo charged the animals and left for Athens under cover of dusk, to avoid any danger. We do not know what their route was, but Nicholas wrote that they walked all night, that it was raining, and that they passed mountains and deserted places. These must have been the mountains of Mesogeia. They probably got very close to Dagla Hill with its tower of and Taxiarchis church. To their left, there was Kalyvia-Kouvara and Megali Avli of Keratea, with their churches, but they would not see them. They kept on going and definitely missed the monastery of Kesariani somewhere on their right. After so many miles, tired of marching and pulling the reins of donkeys, Nicholas would look at the ground below his feet in the dim light of dawn and see that the rocks and stones were little by little making room for small patches of red earth. It had rained the entire night. His shoes would make deep prints in the sticky earth. Athens was close. They probably heard some voices speaking or shouting faintly in the distance, behind hills and trees. When all of a sudden, lifting up his eyes, Nicholas would see the rock of Athens, the Acropolis, on which the early morning sun shone upon from the mountains that he and Antonazzo had left behind. It was Wednesday morning, 24 February, 1395, and they had finally arrived in the city of Aristotle.9
…
Nicholas was impressed with the city. From what he wrote, it was located between two mountains no more than six miles apart, and had a fine-looking plain extending for twelve more miles, in which they saw beautiful olive groves. Their soon found some guides, who told them that the city counted more or less one thousand hearths. Most houses were located on the Acropolis and at its foothills.10 Even though the two Italians from the Kingdom of Naples were exhausted after many walks and tribulations, they took the time to visit the city, and they were probably accompanied by those local Italian guides. This is not a conjecture. It is actually supported by the stories that the pilgrims were told, since some of those stories fit in an Italian cultural context. The first one concerns the destruction of Athens by Trojans. At the beginning of his description of the city, our notary succinctly writes that the ancient monuments show and the great scholars and authors declare that Athens used to be a great city. Great architectural works stood there. Given that he 9 10
Cf. Piccirillo ed., 136. Cf. Le Grand, 649. Piccirillo ed., 136. Cf. Le Grand, 649–650.
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had seen many columns and blocks of marble that then laid where they were built, Nicholas was made to believe that the old city touched the sea and had a perimeter of twenty-four miles. This was at the time of Hadrian, who used to be the city lord. Then, when the city was destroyed by Trojans, it was reduced only to its castle, meaning the Acropolis.11 The editor of the text marks this passage with a sic!, believing it to be an inaccuracy.12 In my initial interpretation, I argued that this passage should be linked to another one from the journal of the German pilgrim Ludolf von Südheim, already noted by previous research,13 but also that “we should not try to make ends meet between the inconsistent materials provided by the two travel journals.” At a first look, Nicholas and Ludolf’s tales are incompatible, given that “the German priest learned that Athens was destroyed by the Genoese and that Troy was destroyed by the Venetians, while [Nicholas] thought that Athens was destroyed by Trojans.” At that time, to me, “these stories seem[ed] contradictory and yet they [were] much alike if not the same. It [was] obvious that the German and the Italian traveller [had been] told weird narratives by their guides, that they did not understand those stories well, or maybe that the guides themselves misunderstood those stories, too. And it really [did] not matter what the exact stories [had been]. What matter[ed] 11
12 13
Piccirillo ed., 136: De civitate Acthenarum. Civitas Acthenarum, ut hostendit per antiqua hedificia, et prout doctores et auctores loquitur quod alias fuit magna civitas et magna hedificia in ea fuerunt, prout vidimus multas columpnas et multos lapides marmoreos qui nunc iacent ubi ipsa civitas fuit hedificata. Ipsa civitas alias erat constructa usque ad mare et girabat in circuytu milearia XXIVor, tempore imperatoris Adriani, qui ipsi civitati fuit dominatus. Deinde postquam ipsa civitas fuit destructa a Troyanis reducta est prope castrum civitatis. Cf. Le Grand, 649–650. Cf. J.P.A. van der Vin, Travellers to Greece and Constantinople: Ancient Monuments and Old Traditions in Medieval Travellers’ Tales (Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1980), 42, who tried to find logic where it could not be found, and therefore believed that the destruction of Athens by the Trojans referred to the invasion of the Heruli in 267 AD. Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 182, note 207. For James Morton Paton, Chapters on Mediaeval and Renaissance Visitors to Greek Lands, ed. L.A.P. (Princeton: The American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1951), 32, note 10, quoting F. Gregorovius’s Geschichte der Stadt Athen im Mittelalter (Stuttgart: 1889) 2:342, which I could not find, compared the destruction of Athens from Nicholas’ journal to a story mentioned in Ludolphi de itinere Terrae Sanctae liber. The German priest wrote it half a century earlier, in c.1350, and described two destructions (of Athens and of Troy): Haec civitas [Athens] quondam fuit nobilissima, sed nunc quasi deserta. Nam in civitate Ianuensi non est aliqua columna marmorea vel aliquod opus bonum lapideum sectum, nisi sit de Athenis ibid. deportatum, et totaliter ex Athenis civitas est constructa, sicut Venetia ex lapidibus Troiae est aedificata; Ferdinand Deycks (ed.), Ludolphi rectoris ecclesiae parochialis in Suchem: De itinere Terrae Sanctae liber (Stuttgart: Litterarischer Verein, 1851), 23.
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[was] that they were made up by less educated people in order to impress their customers, the majority of whom had roughly the same level of education.”14 I still agree with this interpretation. I believe that I was right to make such assumptions. The only problem is that they were imperfect. I was unaware of the existence of certain Italian literary texts. From what I recently found out, Ludolf von Südheim could hear a story derived from one of the many variations of the Tale of Landomata. My readers must remember this story of Hector’s son, who avenged his forefathers, in which the Trojan Antenor founded the city of Venice (or Padua in different traditions).15 Nicholas da Martoni was told another story that originated in Italy or in the Italian milieu of the Latin-held Greek lands, for it first appears in the Chronicle or history of the town of Lucca by Giovanni Sercambi (1348–1424), an apothecary from the Tuscan town of Lucca, some sixty kilometres away from Florence. Sercambi tried to offer moral guidance to his readers, so he used a pre-existing story about a made-up post-Trojan conflict in order to explain why conquerors should not act beastly and persecute the conquered. If they acted so, vengeance would be harder and greater. Leaving this aside, here’s what the Italian guides probably told Nicholas and lord Antonazzo. Six hundred years after the fall of Troy to the Greeks, a certain Troas, king of Thessaly, descending from Hector of Troy, had three sons: a certain Hector, another one named Trojan, and a third one named Laomedon. He also had a nephew, Hector Junior (Ector lo pitecto). Troas desired to exact his revenge for the fall of Troy. He sent envoys to the Romans, to Britain, and to Troy. He made alliances and planed an attack on the Greeks. Yet a Greek from Thessaly wrote to the emperor of the Greeks, Nauser. The Greeks attacked, Troas defeated them, 14 15
For my initial interpretation, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 377. In a manuscript of the Romance of Landomata from the variant copied in the Histoire universelle (ms B – Paris, BnF, f. fr. 15 455, fol. 211b), there is talk of many sorts of Trojan survivors after the fall of Troy, and the last of them are ‘the common people’ (la gent menue), who went to Sardinia and later to Venice. The sequence is narrated after the story of Landomata (that is, his conquest of Georgia and Armenia, followed by his return to Ancona to live with his wife the daughter of the king of that city). See for this Cross ed., Landomata, 41–42: Seigneurs, en tant que ceulz de Venice se penoient de leur cite faire dont l’oeuvre ne fu mie tost consommee avint comme vous avez ouÿ que Landomatha le filz Hector envay Anthenor et aucuns de sa lignee qui demourez estoient en la terre de Frige, c’est la terre de Troie, mais Anthenor qui bien sceut sa venue ne l’attendi mie, ainçois se mist en mer au plutost qu’il pot et avecques lui sa gent et sa mesgnee jusques au nombre de IImIIc et LX sans les femmes et les enfans. Next, Antenor arrives in Venice, where he allies himself with the Trojans who had founded it. Cross ed., Landomata does not provide excerpts of these passages, but he briefly notes that the city was named Anthenorida, later changing its name on account of Antenor’s son Henecus, becoming thus Henevia (Venice).
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the Greeks were sent to prison. Troas went against Nauser the emperor, leaving Hector Junior back home, since he was too young to bear arms, but Junior took all the Greeks from their prisons and from their land – men, women, and children, and nailed one hundred and fifty thousand Greeks to the castle walls. At that news, Nauser went crazy and swore to avenge them.16 In the second instalment, Trojans fought the Greeks in many battles until they reached Athens, where they took two hundred sixty-five thousand Greek prisoners, not counting women and children. The Trojans tortured them: some had their hands or legs cut, others had their eyes gauged out, their noses cut, and the upper lip as well. Greek ladies were sullied before the eyes of their fathers and husbands, and then they were thrown into spears or into the fire. Alive. Not to mention that their relatives were forced to eat them. What a sight! Maybe Nicholas did not enjoy listening to this story, but there were many people who enjoyed blood-and-gore tales in those times (as they do today). And there was no way to arrest them on obscenity charges, as Ruggero Deodato was arrested for his Cannibal Holocaust in 1980. Medieval authors would be safe if they masked their blood-and-gore tales as moral exempla. They would not discuss about ‘exploitation’. This discussion is rather recent and often related to cinematography only. Sercambi next told that the rare Greek women left alive had also parts of their bodies amputated. They were sent to all the corners of Greece, and they cursed Troy and the Trojans.17 Meanwhile the Trojans dismantled the walls of Athens. This is why those walls were in ruin during Nicholas’ visit. Greek nobles were put to the yoke and ploughed their palaces. And then they were given to wicked Hector Junior, to do with them whatever he desired. So, Junior did what he knew best. He tortured them again and again, until those Greeks fell dead.18 By this point in the story, most listeners would lose their interest, so the author overblew it. For unknown reasons, Troas and the Trojans wanted to become knights, so they washed their faces with the blood of the kings of Greece, and they shaved their faces in that blood, ordering the killing of as many royals were needed to supply the required amount of blood. Pssshhh, in slow motion – if my readers do not mind me quoting from Monty Python. Troas kept one foot on the face of emperor Nauser, while the other one was stuck to the face of a son of king Agate (previously unnamed, a sure proof that 16
17 18
For the original text paraphrased here, see Salvatore Bongi (ed.), Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi, lucchese, pubblicate sui manoscritti originali, 3 vols (Roma/Lucca: Istituto Storico Italiano/Giusti, 1892) 2:218–219. In this quotation and the other ones, I extracted only the story, eliminating the moral considerations of Giovanni Sercambi. Bongi ed., Le Croniche 2:218–219. Ibid. 2:219–220.
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the original story was longer). This was the manner in which the Trojans were knighted.19 But the horrors did not end just yet. Troas did not kill the emperor. Without any explanation, he spared his life, but the other Greek kings and Greek royals were given to – I know, I know, this becomes a bit boring – the same vicious Hector Junior. Junior took them to a great hall, where he and other Trojans buried their teeth in Greek flesh, ripping it off and quenching their hunger. This is how the said kings and their royal relatives died. And since the Trojans could do nothing else to the Greeks, but they were still full of rage after the sack of Athens, they rode to other Greek lands.20 In the sixth and last instalment of the story, when the Trojans took even more lands from the Greeks, Hector Junior made a huge pit in the ground. It was deep, long, and wide. And in that pit, he poured – pssshhh, in slow motion – the blood of all the conquered Greeks. Nobody knew who those fresh Greeks were, but these were inconsequential matters. The point was that the blood was so deep that more Greeks of royal or noble blood would drown in it. Thus, the Trojans exacted their revenge.21 At the end of this Mel Gibson movie, in which blood and gore provide odd enlightening moral exempla (be kind to your enemies, not to stir their revenge), one may safely vouch that Nicholas was fully awake, despite him being sleepy and exhausted from the long night’s march through the hills and mountains of Mesogeia. We do not know if British knights were part of the story he heard – though British knights were an important part of this narrative, as we shall see later in this chapter. Nicholas was told a story about Trojans avenging their forefathers or this was the essential part noted down in his travelling notes. Yet he was told something else at the beginning of his single-day tour of Athens. His guides told him that before the arrival of bloody king Troas and his nephew Hector Junior, Athens was so great that it reached the sea, having a perimeter of twenty-four miles, and it was ruled by Hadrian. What was that? Well, by the looks of it, this would be the story of Theseus and his brother Hadrian that I already compared to Boccaccio’s Theseid. It was probably told to Nicholas when he arrived before the great gate of Hadrian. This was one of the most important local attractions. It was shown to many others who visited Athens before and after our Italian pilgrims.22 It was an old tradition and the guides drew on stories from Byzantine times. The gate of Hadrian was included in the Byzantine list of Athenian Mirabilia, from before the times of the Latin 19 20 21 22
Ibid. 2:220. Ibid. 2:220. Ibid. 2:220–221. See the discussion in Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 380.
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conquest, along with many other places and monuments that our pilgrims visited that day.23 On the eastern side of the gate, an inscription stated that ‘this is Athens the former city of Theseus’ (αἵδ’ εἴσ’ Ἀθῆναι Θησέως ἡ πρὶν πόλις), while the Western side had a text saying that ‘this is Hadrian’s city and not that of Theseus’ (αἵδ’ εἴσ’ Ἁδριανοῦ καὶ οὐχὶ Θησέως πόλις).24 A letter of the Choniates, also mentioned Theseus as founder of Athens, meaning that the Byzantine tradition was well established by the time the Latins had come.25 The only remaining question is: was this piece of information presented in a narrative form, like the now lost Demotic Greek novel of Theseus and Hadrian? Or was it just a simple reference, delivered while the guides pointed to the gate’s arch, showing the Greek inscriptions to Nicholas and lord Antonazzo? Nobody will ever know. Our Nicholas did not give extensive pieces of information about the stories he was told. However, it is safe to assume that he was told something that impressed him, as the traces of this fictional Hadrian were shown to him all over the place. In fact, well before arriving at that gate, the guides had shown him the palace of Hadrian, which was completely ruined. Nicholas counted twenty huge columns in that place. They were so thick that four men had to extend their hands in order to match the circumference. And there were marble beams above the columns, long and thick. It would be a marvellous place to live in.26 By the looks of what Nicholas wrote in his account, this was clearly not a place to live in. It was the temple of Olympian Zeus.27 When they saw it, they were already getting close to the Acropolis. But this is not where they started. Nicholas and Antonazzo had started their Athenian tour with ‘philosophical’ attractions, not with ‘socio-political’ ones. Their guides showed them interesting things in the eastern part of the old city. First of all, there were the fountains of the philosophers, two springs or streams of water from which every scholar used to drink in order to acquire his savoir. Philosophy was a magical thing, 23 24 25 26 27
For the original Greek text, see Corso, ‘The Topography’, 72: Ἵσταται δὲ κατὰ ανατολὰς τούτου καμάρα μεγίστη καὶ ὡραία· εἰσὶ δὲ τὰ ὀνόματα Ἀδριανοῦ καὶ Θησέως· εὑρίσκεται ἔνδον τῆς αὐλῆς [–] μεγίστη ἐτύγχανεν. IG II² 5185. Cf. e.g. Michael Zahrnt, ‘Die Hadriansstadt von Athen. Zu FGrHist 257 F 19’, Chiron, 9 (1979), 393–398. Cf. Kolovou ed., Epistulae, 60 (letter 44). For the original text, see Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 138. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 650. For the identification of the hospitium Hadriani with this temple, see Walther Judeich, ‘Athen im Jahre 1395 nach der Beschreibung des Niccolo da Martoni’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Athenische Abteilung, 22 (1897), 436. Cf. Curt Wachsmuth, Die Stadt Athen im Alterthum, 2 vols (Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, 1874–1890) 1:727, who analysed Cyriacus’ notes, also believing that this was the temple of Olympian Zeus.
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naturally, and Nicholas possibly drank from that water. He would be convinced of its powers when the guides explained to him that ancient authors told that story, on account of the fountain being located in the vicinity of the school of the great philosophers of old. Chief among those philosophers was Aristotle. Of course. But there were other philosophers in the city of Athens as well. The fountains were beautifully crafted, made up of marble slabs.28 This attraction was a result of the contamination between an old Byzantine tradition and Latin text. Originally, it would be the fountain of Callirrhoe or Enneakrounos, but it would be mixed up with the fountain of Panops, located in the proximity of the Lyceum, the Peripatetic school founded by Aristotle. I believe that the whole confusion could originate in a reading of a passage from Cicero’s De oratore, where the Latin author made an allusion to the fountain described in Plato’s Lysis. In this case, the tradition would date back to the time of the Western scholars who arrived in Greece after 1205. I already referred to it in the third chapter of the current book, in the tale of William of Morbeka.29 All this is supported by the next tourist attraction on Nicholas’ list. From the fountains, the guides took him to the school of Aristotle. Now, that was something to behold. It was made up of marble slabs, much smaller than those of the great palace of Hadrian. This one had twenty feet in length and sixteen in width. It was tiny, but it was covered by marble beams and marble plates above them. The room was crafted with fine gold and beautiful colours. Nicholas could see the remnants of those works at both ends. Then the guides led them outside, in the atria of the ‘school’. There were even more columns and marble beams covered with marble plates. So he was told that Aristotle used to walk in those nicely-crafted courts of gold, to clear his mind when he was tired of his philosophy.30 This means that the guides actually knew something about Peripateticism. They were not properly schooled, but they had learnt those Chinese whispers from the Western scholars who visited Athens.31 Or maybe 28 29
30 31
For the original text, see Piccirillo ed., 136. Cf. Le Grand, 650. For a detailed demonstration of this interpretation, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 373–375. For the reference to Plato’s text, see W.R.M. Lamb (trans.), Plato: Lysis, Symposium, Gorgias (Cambridge MA/London: Harvard University Press/Heinemann, 1925), 6. For Cicero, see E.W. Sutton, H. Rackham (eds.), Cicero: De oratore, 2 vols (Cambridge MA/London: Harvard University Press/Heinemann, 1959–1960) 1:20. The fountain of Panops was located somewhere near the river Eridanos, north of the Lyceum. Cf. Travlos, Pictorial Dictionary, 345. Byzantines were more interested about the fountain of Callirrhoe, which is mentioned in two letters of Michael Choniates. Cf. Kolovou ed., Epistulae, 24 (letter 20); 39 (letter 28). See Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 136, 138. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 650. See for this Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, VIII, vi, 13, in W.M. Lindsay (ed.), Isidori Hispalensis episcopi Etymologiarum sive originum libri XX, 2 vols (Oxford: E typographeo
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from the Byzantine tradition. This option should not be disregarded, since there is something strange about the progression of Nicholas’ visit. From time to time, it fits the descriptions of the Mirabilia of Athens, as if the anonymous guides took our pilgrims on an already established Byzantine route. First, they went to the fountains, then to the school, to the so-called palace of Hadrian, and only afterwards to the Acropolis, through the Propylaea, to visit the Parthenon and end up with two columns where Nicholas was told a story about the statue of a Gorgon. At bottom, the late-12th century Byzantine text of the Mirabilia Urbis Athenarum presents us with the same attractions. After the gate of Hadrian comes a royal building, identified in the proximity of the temple of Olympian Zeus. The Byzantine text said that it hosted the ‘duke’ (δοὺξ, a military commander in the tetrarchic administration) during festivities, explaining thus the confusion of this ‘duke’ with Hadrian from the gate, for the sake of presenting a more coherent story during the Frankokratia. This was done through the mixing up of monuments. Next, the Mirabilia tell us that there are fountains, sanctuaries, and aqueducts to the south of the royal building.32 It would be located in the vicinity of the fountain Callirrhoe or Enneakrounos,33 to the south of the temple. These details would identify the fountains described by Nicholas with the remnants of two aqueducts mentioned in the text of the Mirabilia. There was no mention of the so-called school of Aristotle (διδασκαλεῖον λεγόμενον τοῦ Αριστοτέλους) in this segment of the Byzantine text, but it appeared a bit later. It was not in the place where it was supposed to be, at the Lyceum. Instead, it was located below some columns, in the proximity of the statue of the Gorgon. This suggest that the tradition about the school of Aristotle was moved from one place to another during the Latin occupation. From the vicinity of the Acropolis, where the Byzantine tradition placed it (this is where late-ancient philosophers taught the commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca), to a more interesting location, in the proximity of the fountains of the East, according to a Ciceronian reading favoured by Western scholars. It would move on, as Cyriacus was shown a different school of Aristotle at the foothill of the
32 33
Clarendoniano, 1911) 1:304: Peripatetici a deambulatione dicti, eo quod Aristoteles auctor eorum deambulans disputare solitus esset. For the original text, see Corso, ‘The Topography’, 72. Dora P. Crouch, Water Management in Ancient Greek Cities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 294. For a different opinion, see Edwin J. Owens, ‘The Enneakrounos FountainHouse’, The Journal of Hellenic Studies, 102 (1982), 222–225; Renate Tölle-Kastenbein, ‘Kallirrhoe und Enneakrunos’, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, 101 (1986), 55–73.
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Lycabettus.34 This interpretation is supported by the curious mention of the two columns and a Gorgon head in the account of Nicholas. This piece of evidence appears only in the Byzantine Mirabilia, being taken from Pausanias, but it was also shown to Cyriacus, being thus a part of an established tour of Athens based on a local tradition from before the conquest of 1205.35 It was a statue displayed in a niche of the Thrasyllus monument. Naturally, the guides told the pilgrims that it had magical powers. It could sink any hostile ship approaching the city of Athens, on the spot. Everything was magical in the times of Antiquity. This was not the first time when our pilgrims were shown magical attractions such as these. On the island of Kos, Nicholas was shown a fountain and some houses of Hippocrates, probably because the local Latins recuperated a Byzantine tradition about Hippocrates being originary from Kos. It was a fashion of the times. Antiquity tales were trendy. Ten years before, the Florentine Leonardo Frescobaldi stopped in the Venetian colony of Methoni when he returned from his pilgrimage in the Holy Land (1385). It did not matter that Methoni had nothing to do with ancient philosophy. By then, local Venetians had invented a story about a hill where philosophers gathered in ancient times.36 Everybody needed a little bit of ancient magic. And by far the best magic was the magical tale of Troy. 34
35
36
For an extended demonstration of this hypothesis, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 371–372. The editor of the Greek text identified this διδασκαλεῖον with the House of Proclus. For the latter, see Karivieri, ‘The “House of Proclus”’; cf. Afonasina, Afonasin, ‘The Houses’. For the original Greek text, see Corso, ‘The Topography’, 71. I identified the studium of Aristotle with a segment from the complex of the Roman Baths destroyed when the Zappeion was built, probably somewhere along Amalias Avenue. See Θανάσης Καλπαξής, ‘Kαταστρέφοντας αρχαιότητες “χάριν συμφερόντων των ζώντων”’, Αρχαιολογία και Τέχνες, 87 (2003), 50–54. They were built in the 3rd–4th century and enlarged at a later date. Cf. Robert Pitt, ‘Archaeological exhibits from recent excavations in Athens’, Archaeology Reports, 58 (2012), 29. Certain rooms were decorated with polychrome marble tiles in opus sectile, comparable to the description of Nicholas. The room could also be part of the Roman villa located on the southern side of the National Garden. For this other building, see Marie Spiro, Critical Corpus of Mosaic Pavements on the Greek Mainland. Fourth-Sixth Centuries, with Architectural Surveys (New York: Garland, 1978), 14–26. For the text of Nicholas, see Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 142. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 652. For the notes of Cyriacus, see Inscriptiones seu epigrammata graeca et latina reperta per Illyricum a Cyriaco Anconitano apud Liburniam, designatis locis ubi quaeque inventa sunt cum descriptione itineris (Rome: apud Gregorium Roiseccum Librorum Mercatorem, 1747), p. IX: ad statuam Gorgonis sub arce ad marmoream, & ornatissimam scenam prope incisam rupem, & mira ope fabrefactum specus. Cf. Wachsmuth, Die Stadt Athen 1:727, who believed that the place should be located above the theatre. Dirimpetto al porto di Modona si è un grandissimo poggio, il quale si chiama il Poggio della Sapienza; nel qual poggio anticamente solevano andare i filosofi e i poeti a fare loro arti;
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When they managed to climb up the Acropolis, when Nicholas finished measuring and counting columns and marble beams in the Propylaea (a palace by then),37 the pilgrims were given a new account of the story of Troy. They were then before the entrance of the Parthenon. It was the greatest church of Athens, dedicated to the Virgin. Nicholas did not act like Manuel Chrysoloras in Rome, for he did not have the same education. He took the measurements of the building and that was all. It was as big as the church in Capua. But its sixty columns were bigger and thicker. Five men had to stretch their arms. Therefore, Nicholas stood in amazement and asked himself how men could build such a thing.38 Then, here they were, those gates of Troy. The entrance to that church was eight metres large and ten metres high. Nicholas had to measure them. A notary counted both beauty and history.39 When he finished the assessment, he saw that the gates were made out of the ‘gaties’ that once stood at the entrance of the city of Troy (when Troy was destroyed). Those ‘gaties’ used to be small when compared to the size of the mythical city. They were now gigantic, disproportionate to the church of Athens.40 The notary would think of the Trojan War. He had ‘seen’ it all over the place. There it was, in Paros, the island where young and dashing Paris spent his childhood.41 Nomen est omen, obviously. And there it was, in the island of Kythira, where the Venetians had stopped on their way to Cairo, when their ship carried him to the Holy Land. In Kythira, he was probably shown a temple. And in that temple, he heard a lovely story about the manner in which Paris wished to avenge the rapt of his aunt Hesione by Hercules. It did not matter that Hesione became his sister in the account of Nicholas. Our notary mistook the father for the son. As for Paris, he acted against the will of Hector and the rest of the brothers. They had foreseen the destruction of the city of Troy. But Paris went to Greece taking many men on his ships, landed in Kythira, and took lovely Helena, the wife of Menelaus, that precious jewel of womankind. He
37 38 39
40 41
Antonio Lanza, Marcellina Troncarelli (dir.), Pellegrini scrittori: Viaggiatori toscani del Trecento in Terrasanta (Florence: Ponte alle Grazie, 1990), 174. Cf. Τάσος Τανούλας, Τα Προπύλαια της Αθηναϊκής Ακρόπολης κατά τον Μεσαίωνα, 2 vols (2nd volume: Πίνακες εικόνων και σχεδίων with an English Summary of the text) (Athens: Η Εν Αθήναις Αρχαιολογική εταιρεία, 1997). See Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 138. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 651. For the portrait of Nicholas, his cultural tastes, and the manner in which he related to art or to history, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 344–363. Nicholas was a man of his age. For the other Italian notaries and their official evaluation of art, see Giulia Puma, ‘L’ekphrasis du notaire: La description de la peinture dans les contrats du Trecento’, Arzanà, 20/1 (2019), 7–21. For the original text, see Piccirillo ed., 140. Cf. Le Grand, 651. Piccirillo ed., 130. Cf. Le Grand, 645–446.
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stole her from the temple. That must have been something. Nicholas loved the story. Those lands were nice, the lands once ruled by Menelaus There was an abundance of meat on the island and the pilgrims ate as much as they could.42 In praise of Menelaus, or Helen, of Paris, or of the guides who told them such a nice story. The Venetians told the same tale to all those who stopped in the island of Kythira in the 15th, 16th, and even in the 17th century. Their shipmasters offered a sort of ‘inclusive packages’ for medieval pilgrims, similar to those proposed by the tourist offices of today, and they stopped in well-established places.43 Perhaps this is why the story grew and became more interesting. A castle of Menelaus was added as well.44 Kythira became a very important ‘Trojan’ site 42 43 44
For the original text, see Piccirillo ed., 18, 20. Cf. Le Grand, 580. Diana Webb, Medieval European Pilgrimage, c.700–c.1500 (New York: Palgrave, 2002), 28. For this tourist attraction, see Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 332–333. Cyriacus of Ancona drew the ruins of such a temple (in fact two ruined towers) in 1437. For the towers, see George L. Huxley, ‘The History and Topography of Ancient Kythera’, in John Nicholas Coldstream, George L. Huxley (dir.), Kythera. Excavations and Studies conducted by the University of Pennsylvania Museum and the British School at Athens (Park Ridge NJ: Noyes Press, 1972), 35–36. Cf. Michail Chatzidakis, ‘Moenia nobilissima: Antiquarische Gelehrsamkeit und tagespolitische Zielsetzungen in Ciriacos d’Ancona Rezeption antiken griechischen Mauerwerks’, Marburger Jahrbuch für Kunstwissenschaft, 41 (2014), 34–35, and note 65 (p. 49). The ruins of a castle and a temple were shown to Ruy González de Clavijo in 1403. The lord of Caumont saw the temple of Paris and Helena in 1419. Cristoforo Buondelmonti told same the story and mentioned a statue of Aphrodite. Cf. Émile Legrand (ed., trans.), Description des îles de l’archipel par Christophe Buondelmonti. Version grecque par un anonyme (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1897), 172–174. Pero Tafur wrote about Paris and Helen in Kythira (1435–1439). Cf. Marcos Jiménez de la Espada (ed.), Andanças é viajes de Pero Tafur por diversas partes del mundo avidos (1435–1439) (Madrid: Impr. de M. Ginesta, 1874), 46. The bishop Louis de Rochechouart was told the story of the temple in 1461, without stopping there. Cf. Camille Couderc, ‘Journal de voyage à Jérusalem de Louis de Rochechouart, évêque de Saintes (1461)’, Revue de l’Orient latin, 2 (1894), 233. Richard Guylforde also transcribed the same story (1506). Cf. Sir Henry Ellis (ed.), The pylgrymage of Sir Richard Guylforde to the Holy Land, A.D. 1506, from a copy believed to be unique, from the press of Richard Pynson (London: J.B. Nichols and son/Camden Society, 1851), 12–13. Jean Thénaud mentioned a residence of Menelaus in 1512. Cf. Ch. Schefer (ed.), Le Voyage d’Outremer (Égypte, Mont Sinay, Palestine) de Jean Thénaud, gardien du couvent des Cordeliers d’Angoulême, suivi de La Relation de l’Ambassade de Domenico Trevisan auprès du Soudan d’Egypte – 1512 (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1884), 163. Jérôme Maurand noted the ruins of a temple of Diana and Apollo in 1544. Cf. Léon Dorez (trans.), Itinéraire de Jérôme Maurand, d’Antibes à Constantinople (1544) (Paris: Leroux, 1901), 155. Nicholas de Nicolay Daulphinios, saw the temple of Aphrodite and the castle of Menelaus in 1551. Cf. Marie-Christine Gomez-Géraud, Stéphane Yerasimos (eds.), Nicolas de Nicolay: Dans l’empire de Soliman le Magnifique ([Paris]: Presses du CNRS, 1989). And George Wheler was shown the Baths of Helen in the place where the temple used to be shown, in 1675. Cf. George Wheler Esq., A Journey into Greece (London: William Cademan, Robert Kettlewell,
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and its development had a lot to do with a tale originating in Italy. This was the late 13th or early 14th century Istorietta troiana already mentioned in the fifth chapter. The iconography of the Trojan legend was also inspired by it.45 The Istorietta refers to a series of specific features, chief among which is the castle, do not appear in the Demotic Greek or Old French versions of the tale.46 But the legend was probably older and it was used all over the place, since Ramon Muntaner tells us that Helen had been stolen by Paris from the island of Tenedos, where he went on a pilgrimage to a temple. The members of the Catalan Company heard the story when they were stationed in Gallipoli (1305) and Gallipoli itself was presented as the old capital of Macedonia in the times of Alexander the Great.47 There were many stories roaming around the Greek lands when Nicholas visited Athens. I cannot speak here about Venetian interest in the cave-labyrinth of Crete, but this other site was also borrowed from a previous Byzantine tradition.48
45 46
47 48
and Awnsham Churchill, 1682 = Early English Books Online, https://quod.lib.umich.edu). For some of these references, see also Élisabeth Malamut, ‘En passant par Cythère, de l’antiquité à la fin du XVIe siècle’, in Marina Koumanoudi, Chryssa Maltezou (dir.), Venezia e Cerigo: atti del Simposio internazionale, Venezia, 6–7 dicembre 2002 (Venice: Istituto ellenico di studi bizantini e postbizantini di Venezia, 2003), 34. For the iconography, already discussed in Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 338–339. Benoît de Sainte-Maure mentions the temple (Emmanuèle Baumgartner, Françoise Vielliard (eds., trans.), Benoît de Sainte-Maure, Le roman de Troie. Extraits du manuscrit Milan, Bibliothèque ambrosienne, D 55, édités, présentés et traduits (Paris: Le livre de poche/Lettres gothiques, 1998), 152 (vv. 4261–4264)), and a castle in the harbour (p. 164, vv. 4523–4524). However, this was not the castle of Menelaus. It appears under this designation only in the Istorietta troiana. Cf. Egidio Gorra (ed.), Testi inediti di storia trojana preceduti da uno studio sulla leggenda trojana in Italia (Turin: Ermanno Loescher, 1887), 385–386. Ὁ Πόλεμος τῆς Τρωάδος follows Benoît de Sainte-Maure in a different manner, since it speaks of a fortress named Ἀγλαΐα (cf. Helee in the Old French text). Cf. Παπαθωμοπούλου, Jeffreys eds., Ὁ Πόλεμος, 95, vv. 1847–1850. Contrary to the invented geography from the rest of the texts, the Istorietta seems to be correctly adjusted to the topography of the place. Cf. Hughes trans., The Catalan Expedition, 71–72. For more details, see in Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 385–391. Nicholas da Martoni was also informed about the existence of the labyrinth when his ship approached the island of Crete. See Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 22. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 581. For the old tradition of this labyrinth, see Margherita Guarducci, ‘Οι αρχαιότεροι επισκέπται του Λαβυρίνθου της Γόρτυνος’, Κρητικά Χρονικά, 4 (1950), 527–528; Καλούστ Παραγκαμιάν, Αντώνη Βασιλάκη, Η Λαβύρινθος της Μεσαράς (Herakleion: Λαβύρινθος – Άτυπη Ομάδα Νέων Δήμου Μοιρών Κρήτης, 2002); Anna Lucia D’Agata, ‘The many lives of a ruin: history and metahistory of the Palace of Minos at Knossos’, in Olga Krzyszkowska (dir.), Cretan Offerings: Studies in honour of Peter Warren (London: British School at Athens, 2010), 57–68; Antonis Kotsonas, ‘A Cultural History of the Cretan Labyrinth: Monument and
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And then they entered the big church of the Virgin. The Parthenon was walled and had several sections. Nicholas could see a lot of interesting, marvellous, and sacred things in that house of God: a column signed with a sign of the cross by saint Denis, an icon of the Virgin painted by the holy evangelist Luke, and a copy of the Gospels written in gold letters by the mother of saint Constantine, saint Helen herself. Not to mention the light that never died. Nicholas saw a lot of things from the time of Choniates.49 They impressed him because they were holy. But he was impressed by measurable things as well. He took out his notes when he saw that four columns made of jasper held the canopy of the main altar. Two men would need to extend their arms in order to encompass one of them. He wrote everything down.50 By that time, lord Antonazzo, who was an important person, would already discuss with two Italian monks who served in the church. They would stand next to the canopy of a smaller altar, closer to the entrance. Nicholas would approach them, he would look up at the simplistic carving with the Wise Men from the East, an angel, the sheep, and the shepherds. Then he would look below, to the altar, where Mary was carved, with the infant Jesus, a bull, and an ox. But the inscriptions accompanying them were in Greek, so he could not read them. Instead, he would listen to the conversation between lord Antonazzo and the local priests. They would be talking about the most precious treasures of that church. Lord Antonazzo would persuade those acting for the bishop to show their treasures. Nicholas would draw nearer, to see them for himself. The Athenian church had the head of saint Macarius, the arms of saints Cyprian and Justin, the bones of the Maccabees, and some bones from the arm of saint Denis. – Saint Denis? lord Antonazzo would inquire. – Yes, he was from Athens, but these relics came from France.51 Silence would settle as they venerated the relics. Then the reliquary would be closed and the priests would ask them. – By the way …
49 50 51
Memory from Prehistory to the Present’, American Journal of Archaeology, 122/3 (2018), 367–396. For the signature of saint Denis, see Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 138; for the icon, see p. 110; for the Gospels, see p. 140; for the light, see p. 140. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 651–652. Piccirillo ed., 140. Cf. Le Grand, 651–652. Piccirillo ed., 140: In dicta ecclesia predicto die vidimus subscriptas sanctas reliquias, ostensas nobis per procuratores ipsius ecclesie, que sunt hec, videlicet: De capite sancti Maccharii. | De osse brachii sancti Dyonisii de Francia. | De brachio sancti Ciprianoni. | De brachio sancti Iustini. | De osse anche sancti Macchabei. Cf. Le Grand, 652.
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Were they aware of what happened in Paris? Did they know what the French were doing at that time? How they changed the story of beloved Denis? The priests could hear stories about new religious trends from friars who recently travelled to France. By the end of the 14th century, in c.1380–1400, a series of theatrical plays were performed about the lives of saints Paul and Denis, their martyrdoms, and related subjects. They were written for the general public, to increase the common people’s interest in the relics of the French capital. Foreign friars would be appalled to see such a performance. When the executioner had cut the saint’s head, the actor interpreting him would declare: – Hold this, saint Denis, I am giving it to you. And the saint would carry the head across the stage in his hands, led by other actors, who impersonated the angels. Yet the thing that would shock them the most would be the scene in which a burgess by the name of Catulle – well known to the Greeks as well, for she received the saint’s head in Orthodox hagiographies – invited the sergeant executioners to postpone the throwing of the bodies into the river Seine and dine at her place instead, so that her servants may retrieve the bodies of the martyrs in secret when the sergeants would be drunk. It was disrespectful and hideous. What followed was a frivolous scene, in which Catulle served the evil sergeants a freshly baked pie, good bread, wines from Beaune and Saint-Pourçain, and other tasty foods, while they invoked the name of Mahommet to praise her exquisite cuisine. The sergeants bore strange names, to draw the public’s laughter: the first one was Soup-licker (Humebrouet), another one went by the name Morning-eater (Menjumatin). There were Schnitzel-chewer (Masquebignet) and Meat-seizer (Hapelopin).52 In accord with their names, they engaged in an incongruous conversation about food and drinks. Soup-licker wanted a piece of mutton. Morning-eater corrected him: it was a tart. Soup-licker asked for mustard. Morning-eater accused him of being drunk. Who would put mustard on a pie?53 At the other end of the table, Schnitzel-chewer thought about his dog while stuffing his belly. Next, they talked about Brie cheese, meatballs, and 52
53
My interpretation of these names is based on the Dictionnaire du Moyen Français (1330– 1500), online version of 2015 (http://www.atilf.fr/dmf/). For a different interpretation of these names, see Hannele Klemettilä, Epitomes of Evil: Representation of Executioners in Northern France and the Low Countries in the Late Middle Ages (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), 86. See for instance Bernard James Seubert (ed.), Le Geu saint Denis du manuscrit 1131 de la Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève de Paris (Geneva: Droz, 1974), 129–130: Humebrouet. Ça, donne-moy de ce mouton. | Menjumatin. Mouton? C’est tarte; tien, glouton, | Boute en ta pance; mal feu l’arde! | Humebrouet (en mengent). | Il me fausist de la moustarde. | Menjumatin. Moustarde a tarte; tu es yvre? | Tu pensses trop bien de ton vivre, | Je vueil pensser aussy du mien.
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similar subjects. The silly conversation carried on until the ruffians fell asleep on the dining table. They would be snoring, gasping, and snorting. At that precise moment, Catulle’s servants would hide away the bodies of saint Denis’ companions, to the amusement of the audience. Such absurd intermezzos were characteristic of most French and English mystery plays of that period. It would be a Northern fashion. The religious plays of the 12th century had turned into an incongruous display of farces mixed with solemn scenes. This was the end result of that display of profane arses on the cornices of churches, of carving profane tales under holy scenes drawn from Scriptures, and of painting Alexander, Dietrich, and all of their wretched kind on the outer or inner walls of churches. Commonfolk had to be entertained, like children, so that the sacred stories have their undivided attention. The archbishop of Athens would not like it, but he would smile when he heard what was happening in Paris. This is what the clergymen would tell them when they finally laid the reliquary in its rightful place. – Imagine what the Greek archbishop would do – one of the priests of the Parthenon would say. – He would love it – the other one would say, winking – and his Turkish pagans would like it as well. Nicholas would open the eyes wide, in amazement. – There are two hierarchs in Athens? – Yes, they were. The city was now Venetian, but it used to be ruled by Nerio Acciaiuoli, who had died a year and a month before. Lord Nerio was too kind, the Latin priests would say, so kind that he wanted to make peace with the Byzantines and finally allowed a Greek bishop to settle in the lower town. Not on the Acropolis, naturally. The Latin archbishop did not have to see him on an everyday basis. The Orthodox metropolitan was supposed to manage the affairs of the Greek rite, but he was a bad person (in the eyes of the Latins). His name was Dorotheus. He used to be an abbot or administrator of Constantinopolitan monasteries. He came to Athens in 1388. From the moment he came, rumour had it that he was secretly doing deals with the Turks. Nobody knew who had started that rumour, but the Latin archbishop complained about it and Dorotheus was cited before the Holy Synod in 1392. Since he was found innocent, he returned to Athens, but new grievances were already piling up and the Italian clergymen would suggest that he would be judged again.54 54
For Dorotheus (1388–1395, c.1405–1409) and his substitute metropolitan Macarius (1395– 1405), see Preiser-Kapeller, Der Episkopat, 51–52.
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In the evening, when they returned to their hostel, they probably learnt that the voyage could not go as planned. They wished to go to Corinth, but this was ill-advised. In that time, the duke of Cephalonia fought the Moreote despot, brother of the Constantinopolitan emperor, on account of the heritage of the Florentine duke of Athens, Nerio Acciaiuoli, to whose daughters both of them were married. The trouble was that the duke of Cephalonia had brought with him a whole army of Turks and everybody was afraid of the bands of pagans roaming the countryside.55 This is what Nicholas, unaware or simply too ignorant of the complex political schemes and plots of those time, probably understood or was told by others. In fact, the Turks had been keen on occupying key fortresses in the Peloponnesus as early as 1394. They regarded that land as a vassal state and despot Theodore of the Palaeologan dynasty had to accompany Bayezid the Ottoman sultan in his march across Thessaly. Yet as soon as he could return to Morea, Theodore prepared his defences against the Turks, making also peace with the Venetians in the process. About that time, the Turks had conquered Thessaly and Nerio Acciaiuoli, the lord of Athens, bowed to them as well, as their vassal, but Nerio soon died, in September 1394, leaving little to his eldest daughter Bartolomea, the wife of despot Theodore Palaeologus of Morea. Even though he had promised much more, recent events, when Theodore Palaeologus did not wish to free lord Nerio from the hands of the Navarrese Company probably made Nerio change his mind. He left to Bartolomea only the money that her husband Theodore owed him. Nerio’s lands and wealth were split between his youngest daughter Francesca, who was married to Charles I Tocco, duke of Cephalonia; his bastard son Antonio Acciaiuoli; and the holy church of the Virgin on the Acropolis (the Parthenon).56 Nicholas could not understand all these schemes and plots. He knew nothing of this world. He knew nothing about the times when Theodore and his father-in-law Nerio had fought together against the Venetians. He knew nothing about the advance of the Turks (only the recent events), and did not even know where the city of Corinth was or what it looked like. He probably knew that this is where saint Paul had preached and some of the stories involving Corinth in the narratives of the West. Looking back to the events of those days, Nicholas was truly glad that God made an Athenian cheat them about some donkeys, so they were long delayed. 55 56
Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 142. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 652–653. See e.g. Van Antwerp Fine, Late Medieval Balkans, 430–431.
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It was very difficult to find horses in Athens. When they found some donkeys to ride, the sun was well up in the sky. They left Athens on Thursday, 25 February, heading for Negroponte, a land under Venetian rule. The new plan was to find a Venetian ship to take them somewhere to Italy and it was not a bad plan after all. And thank God for that delay. Proverbs were right. Not all troubles were obstacles. Some obstacles were God-given help. That same day Turkish riders had raided the mountains of Oropos, close to the Spilia Penteli monastery where the portrait of Choniates was painted two centuries before. Those lands belonged to the castle of Sykamino. The Turks enslaved the local men, taking their beasts, too. Shortly thereafter, towards vesper time, Nicholas’ party rode the same road along which Turks had passed a few hours before. Thank God for that Athenian who cheated them about the donkeys. The delay saved their lives. This is how they arrived very late in the evening, after nightfall, in complete darkness, at the castle called Sykamino that belonged to the Order of the Knights of Saint John.57 They were riding their donkeys in the dry moat of the castle when a troop of Hospitallers came upon them, fearing they were the Turks pestering the countryside. The knights had seen them from afar, from the castle walls, in the coming darkness, and rushed to punish the Turks’ misdeeds. Fortunately, they realised the error in time. Nicholas’ party probably shouted for help against the Turks as well, mistaking the good Catholic knights for some pagans, so all was well (because it ended well). That evening lord Antonazzo led Nicholas and Simon up to the castle. The castle lord welcomed them honourably and gave them lodgings inside the fortress, out of respect for the lord brother Dominic of Germany, whom lord Antonazzo knew well. Nicholas also knew him well from the island of Rhodes, where he shared his room.58 Had they known that in half a century the castle of Sykamino would be infested with the heretical sect of the Fraticelli, Nicholas and his companions would not sleep, for fear of their souls. The following day, a Friday, the commander of the castle gave them horses to ride and reach a beach three miles away from Sykamino, and gave them servants to accompany them as well. Antonazzo, Nicholas, and Simon boarded a fishing boat, crossed the sea, and arrived in the city of Negroponte on 26 February. They were honourably received by local noblemen, who had recently built a hospital, where they received a beautiful room with two nice beds for lord Antonazzo, lord Simon and Nicholas, and other beds for the 57 58
Piccirillo ed., 142. Cf. Le Grand, 653. Piccirillo ed., 142. Cf. Le Grand, 653.
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servants. Oh, God! How worthy and compassionate the charity of hospitality was with God.59 Nicholas, Antonazzo, and Simon stayed more than a month in that island of Euboea, waiting for a ship to come from Venice and to take them to Italy. Nicholas had enough time to approximate the island’s size (a perimeter of three hundred miles), but he never ventured too far inland, staying in the town of Negroponte, which was divided from the mainland by a stretch of sea perhaps twelve paces wide. On the other side, the mainland was part of the duchy of Athens. The town of Negroponte had been built in the furthest corner of the island, near that stretch of the sea. According to Nicholas, it was smaller than Sessa Aurunca, a town from the Kingdom of Naples, but it was well inhabited by many people of Frankish and Greek origin. Since the town was inhabited mainly by Venetians, Nicholas must have used ‘Frankish’ in a different sense, in connection with Italians, opposed to the Greeks, meaning that the locals had adopted the Greek meaning of the term Φράγκος. There were not many Frenchmen in Morea by that time. In the second part of Mazaris’ Journey to Hades, perhaps written at the Palaeologan court of Mystras in 1415, there is a short list of Moreote peoples: As you know for yourself, the Peloponnesus is inhabited by a great number of ethnic groups forming a mixed society. To classify them exactly is at the moment neither feasible nor urgent; the names, however, that tend to crop up in every conversation as the best known and the most important, are these: Laconians [probably Tsakonians], Italians, Peloponnesians [meaning local Greeks], Slavs, Illyrians [meaning Albanians], Egyptians [probably Gypsies?], and Jews (not to mention a generous admixture of hybrids [probably Gasmouli?]), adding up to a total of seven nationalities.60
59 60
Piccirillo ed., 143. Cf. Le Grand, 653. For the translation (adapted by me according to the original text), see [J.N. Barry, M.J. Share, A. Smithies, L.G. Westerink (ed., trans.)], Mazaris’ Journey to Hades (Seminar Classics 609: State University of New York at Buffalo, Arethusa Monographs V, 1975), 77. For the original text, see p. 76. For a discussion about ethnicities in Mazaris’ text, see also Peter Charanis, ‘On the Demography of Medieval Greece: A Problem Solved’, Balkan Studies, 20 (1979), 193–218. For the cultural context of this text, see Lynda Garland, ‘Mazaris’s Journey to Hades: Further Reflections and Reappraisal’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 61 (2007), 183–214.
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The French are completely absent from this picture. This must have been the new reality from the turn of the 15th century. Nicholas also mentioned that the island of Euboea had several castles and residences, with a population estimated to fourteen thousand hearths. He learnt this from the locals, for he did not describe anything else apart from the town itself.61 Forty days in a foreign town must have been quite a lot. Our travellers bided their time, as if eating the lotus flowers of the land, forgetting their place. Outside the city there were ancient houses and buildings, among which there was the Franciscan monastery of the Conventuals who had persecuted Angelo Clareno less than a century before. Now, the Franciscan monastery was a beautiful and large place, where the friars lived of their own means. The guardian of the place told Nicholas that the convent was generating an annual income of a thousand ducats, so they were living the good life. And not far away there was also a monastery for nuns, dedicated to saint Claire.62 Nicholas must have gone there on many occasions, just as he visited the churches of the town, yet he mentioned only one of those, the largest church of Negroponte, which was called the ‘church of Saint-Mary’, a beautiful sacred building. As elsewhere, he was somehow interested in the stories of that land, on one condition: that they were adapted to suit his fixed ideas. People told him that the city was once three times larger. All Greek cities and towns used to be larger than their late medieval state. This was not surprising news to our notary. He was probably content with a repetitive story. He did not mind at all. And, of course, the ancient Negroponte had been destroyed by war. Nicholas also learnt that it was then reduced to a space near that arm of the sea.63 But this was not the most interesting part. His guides told him fancy stories about the wicked witches of the times of old. Not Circe, for the Italian burghers of Negroponte did not know the Odyssey, not yet anyway, not at the turn of the 15th century. Their tales were of a medieval and Arthurian nature, so they fancied the possibility that in that stretch of sea that divided the island from the mainland there used to be an ancient and large building. Everything was ancient. Antiquity was a time encompassing all other times of old. And that building was surrounded like an island by the moving waters (this was not the castle of Harababa – the Turkish fort built on the side of the continent, but the now disappeared fortification of the Negroponte bridge). This building was said to have been the castle of the Fata Morgana, the Lady of the Lake, 61 62 63
Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 144. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 654. Piccirillo ed., 144. Cf. Le Grand, 654. Perhaps the Negroponte Franciscan house had become Observant. Piccirillo ed., 144. Cf. Le Grand, 654.
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mother of the Pulzella Gaia. The local Venetian or Veronese legend said that the famous knight lord Gawain was said to have been held a prisoner in that castle.64 Now, that was a story to tell. Nicholas must have known a version of it from back home. Or maybe not. Anyway, he would like to remember it each day when he crossed the bridges to the mainland in order to look to the two ports of Chalkida, in hope of the arrival of the ship coming from Venice. The two names Fata Morgana and Pozella Gaga suggest that the source of the tale was the Italian cantare of Ponzella Gaia. However, the first known version of this poem dates back to the 15th century. Nicholas’ mention is a little bit too early. Yet research agreed that the tale could have circulated in another form as early as the late 14th century, maybe in connection with a Tuscan prose version, preserved in a manuscript fragment, where the girl is Gaia Donzella. In turn, this character could be a continuation of another Gaia Pulcella, also daughter of Morgan le Fay, named as such in a much earlier Italian romance, the Tavola Ritonda.65 Since Gawain was not a prisoner in the 15th century cantare, the actual prisoner being the Ponzella Gaia, locked in a tower in the fictitious town of PelaHorso by her mother, Morgan le Fay, then either Nicholas did not know the tale and messed it up, mistaking the character of Gawain, who tried to free the damsel, for the damsel locked in a tower, or the tale belonged to an oral tradition deriving from a different version of the narrative.66 I presented this idea in a previous study. My point was that Gawain (the Arthurian hero in general) borrowed a lot from Lancelot in terms of character composition, including the love or jealousy of queen Guinevere. There is a similar story having Lancelot as a protagonist, being imprisoned by the same Morgan in a castle similar to the one Nicholas speaks of.67 In all likelihood, the tale Nicholas heard in Euboea had Gawain play the part of Lancelot. 64 65
66 67
Piccirillo ed., 144. Cf. Le Grand, 654. The only manuscript preserving the cantare is Venice, Marciana, It. IX 621 (= 10697), (written sometime after 1467). The fragment of the prose Tuscan version of the same story is preserved in Florence, National Library, Magl. II IV 136. Nicholas’ mention is discussed by Silvia Poli di Spilimbergo, ‘Un ricordo della Pulzella Gaia in Eubea’, Lettere italiane, 25/3 (1973), 356–360; and Giorgio Varanini, ‘A proposito della Pulzella Gaia in Eubea’, Lettere italiane, 26/2 (1974), 231–233. Cf. Giorgio Varanini, ‘Il manoscritto quattrocentesco della “Ponzela Gaia”’, Scriptorium, 13/1 (1959), 70–79. Agrigoroaei, ‘Recreational Tourism’, 341–342. Marie-José Heijkant, ‘The Transformation of the Figure of Gauvain in Italy’, in Keith Busby, Raymond H. Thompson (dir.), Gawain: A Casebook (New York: Routledge, 2006), 239–253. For this episode in the Cycle of Lancelot-Grail, see Alexandre Micha (ed.), Lancelot. Roman en prose du XIIIe siècle, 8 vols (Geneva: Droz, 1978–1982) 5:47–63.
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The connection between the Euboean fortress and the story of Gawain must have come naturally. Several Arthurian texts, songs-of-deeds, metrical lives of saints, fantasy novels, and romances of Antiquity were set in the East, in the Greek lands, or in Asia. It was therefore natural that the Italians and French who settled in those lands felt a need to place their imaginary characters in a real setting. As a result, the chivalric tradition grew local roots, both Latin and Greek. There is even an Arthurian text written in Demotic Greek, a little bit later, and some Demotic texts also show odd traces of imprinted references to Arthurian texts.
Case Study 17: Uther Pendragon Fights Belisarius in the Ultimate Literary War
There is no need to linger long on the matter of Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης (‘The Old Knight’). This 15th century Arthurian tale in Demotic Greek follows the French compilation of Rustichello of Pisa, but offers a partial translation of a very short episode. Rustichello’s text dealt with the adventures of Meliadus, the fictional father of Tristan, and Guiron the Courteous. Both tales were extracted from different sources. The part that interests us is an interpolation of the prose chivalric romance of Palamedes that had a plot set in pre-Arthurian times. The anonymous old knight was a character drawn from this romance and his story occupies the first thirty-nine chapters of Rustichello’s Palamedes section. Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης is its fragmentary Demotic translation, for it presents us with only two chapters from Rustichello. The editor of the Greek text convincingly argues that the entire Greek text could not be much larger, and that this could be a literary experiment made to fit the contents of a single quire.68 Maybe it was written in the island of Cyprus, on account of the palaeographical traits of the manuscript copy that also point towards Cyprus, but these matters are not certain, since they may concern the copy and not the original translation itself.69 68
69
For all these references, see e.g. Rizzo Nervo ed., Il vecchio cavaliere, who discusses the Demotic poem in the same category as Nicholas da Martoni’s mention of Ponzella Gaia; and mentions other Arthurian references from Crusader history that I discussed in the fourth chapter. Ibid., 5–33, for the discussion about the manuscript and the text.
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I am not convinced that the anonymous translator was a portavoce della aristocrazia greca, conservatrice anche se aperta agli influssi franchi.70 The minor changes in the storyline could be due to many reasons, while the fact that the anonymous translator chose to accentuate the power of the king to the detriment of other characters cannot be considered a valid argument either. As we shall see from a discussion of the Tale of Belisarius, this was a fashion of the times, when the decline and forthcoming fall of the Byzantine Empire required strong leaders, either sovereigns or generals. In my previous study, I argued that this translation could be linked either to purely bred Greeks who took an interest in the cultural trends of the Latins, or to the Latin aristocracy of the Latin-held Greek lands. In my opinion, the presence of a Palamedes in the Genoese family of the Gattilusi, lords of the island of Mytilene, some of whom married Palaeologan princesses, is a strong argument in favour of this second option.71 Palamede Gattilusio was lord of the island of Ainos at the time when Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης could be translated (1409–1455) and his unusual name may be interpreted as a credible testimony of his family’s literary tastes around the year 1389, when he was presumably born. It looks like one of the first members of their family had been a poet in his own right.72 However, in the same time I may be wrong, since I am inclined to favour the Gattilusi because they were famous. Their mixed-bred nature, half Latin and half Greek, attracts me as much as the syncretism of their funerary monuments.73 It would therefore be preferable to imagine that 70 71
72 73
Ibid., 23 for the quotation. I cannot be certain that a folkloric tradition about Palamedes the mythical hero being buried in Lesbos would be active at such an early date. For this hypothesis, see Christopher Wright, The Gattilusio Lordships and the Aegean World 1355–1462 (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 312. It could also be the other way round. For an edition of the late 13th century poems of Luchetto Gattilusio, see Marco Boni (ed.), Luchetto Gattilusio: Liriche (Bologna: Libreria Antiquaria Palmaverde, 1957). For the Gattilusi as Byzantine border lords and promoters of a mixed cultural identity, see Fontini Kondyli, ‘Lords at the end of the Empire: Negotiating Power in the Late Byzantine frontiers (fourteenth–fifteenth centuries)’, Annual of the British School at Athens, 112 (2017), 327–331. Cf. Christopher Wright, ‘Byzantine Authority and Latin Rule in the Gattilusio Lordships’, in Jonathan Harris et al. (dir.), Byzantines, Latins, and Turks in the Eastern Mediterranean World after 1150 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 247–263. The Palaeologan monogram on the Gattilusi tombs is the most obvious piece of evidence. Eric A. Ivison, ‘Funerary monuments of the Gattelusi at Mytilene’, Annual of the British School at Athens, 87 (1992), 423–437.
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the story of Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης could be written for any other lords of the Aegean, of Morea, or of Epirus, some of whom were also of mixed Latin and Greek descent. All those lords and their ladies would undoubtedly be interested in Arthurian tales, because Arthurian literature was fashionable everywhere in the Western world, from Spain to Scandinavia and from Brittany to the Bohemia. What once used to be a French cultural trend, based on Celtic models, had become a pan-European fashion by the turn of the 15th century. One should not be surprised that Arthurian texts penetrated even the Demotic literature. In spite of its fossilised odd fragment character, Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης was not alone. Traces of these Arthurian references can be identified in literary fossils as well. The Demotic Greek literature has negative allusions to those texts. In fact, one of them deserves much more attention that the Arthurian fragment proper. This is a Demotic poem, written sometime after the last years of the 14th century74 that does not refer to specific Arthurian references but provides interesting clues concerning the circulation of Arthurian texts in the Greek lands. There are many versions of it, some dating to mid-15th century and later,75 but the earliest one presents a short and interesting narrative, 74
75
The dating is often mentioned as c.1395 or 1390–1400. The editors of the poem try to link it to the visit of Manuel Palaeologus to England on account of the mention of this country in the text of the poem (cf. Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 26–27), but this is not a valid argument. There is also talk of an ‘archetype’, a lost original text – very similar to the archetype of the Demotic Chronicle of Morea, but this hypothesis is based on the assumption that several verses appearing in other texts were added to the Belisarius poem by later copyists. Since formulaic verses are present in all medieval and early modern vernacular literatures, I cannot give credit to such hypothetical reconstructions. Therefore, the only dating that I am willing to accept is that of the circulation of the poem in mid-15th century and consequently its creation at an earlier date (impossible to determine otherwise). However, the cultural context that led to its creation could be well defined by the end of the 14th century, explaining thus my decision to discuss it in the present chapter. There are four versions of this story. The earliest one of the lot has less than 600 verses and was copied in two manuscripts (Naples, Gr. III B 27, and Wien, Theol. gr. 244), dating roughly to the mid-15th century. A shorter version was copied in another manuscript of Naples (III C 28, dating back to the early 16th century). A rhymed adaptation of approximately a thousand verses, known as Rimada, was a popular print made in Venice first in 1525/1526 (with six subsequent reprints until 1577). The fourth version is that of Emmanuel Limenitis, in 840 verses, and it dates back to the first years of the 16th century. The debate opposing orality to a formulaic style in the study of the early Demotic Greek texts led the editors (proponents of the scribal contamination theory) to reconstruct an archetype in the form of a didactic poem of about 330 verses, whose text would be later supplemented by scribes with interpolations from other poems. The existence of such an
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in which the anonymous author projected the fantasy of an imaginary past in which Constantinople used to be the most important naval power of the world. This would happen in the time of emperor Justinian, who had a general named Βελισάριος, evidently inspired by the story of Flavius Belisarius, ‘Last of the Romans’, rescuer of Italy and Northern Africa from the Gothic and Vandal invaders.76 In the Demotic poem, Belisarius is an incredible general, the ‘glory of the Romans’ (ἡ δόξα τῶν Ρομαίων), who carries out the expansion of the city of Constantine. The emperor promises him that he will be revered, Belisarius does an incredible job for a year, but when he fulfils his mandate and returns, he is envied by the members of noble families, since he is not of noble birth, but he is greatly admired. An anachronistic Palaeologan spoke against him, warning the emperor that ‘the crown and the diadem are in the hands of Belisarius’ (τὸ στέμμα, τὸ διάδημαν παίρνει το ὁ Βελισάρις), as well as the ‘glory, power, authority, and riches’ (τὴν δόξαν καὶ τὴν δύναμιν, τὴν παρρησίαν, τὰ πλούτη).77 The Palaeologan also said that Belisarius would kill the emperor, in order to lay his hands on the empire, and the emperor believed those resentful lies, for the other noblemen swore them out of the same spite. All the great families of the late Byzantine period agreed to betray Belisarius: Cantacuzenes, Rallis, Palaeologans, Asans, Lascarids, Canani, and Doucas. All of them. But the emperor
76
77
archetype-poem is a spurious conjecture based on the theory of the ‘scribal contamination’, a unique case in the history of late medieval and early modern literature, restricted to the study of early Demotic Greek texts. I therefore believe that this theory should be discarded from the start. The story was recently considered to be loosely derived from a passage in the chronicle of Manasses. See for this Moennig, ‘Intertextuality’, 370; who follows the arguments of Martin Hinterberger, Phthonos. Mißgunst, Neid und Eifersucht in der byzantinischen Literatur (Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2013), 442–455. Cf. Enrica Follieri, ‘Il poema bizantino di Belisario’, in Atti del Convegno Internazionale sul tema: La poesia epica e la sua formazione. Roma 28 marzo–3 aprile 1969 (Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei, 1970), 583–651, who compares the story to another plot from Nicetas Choniates. However, if I were to agree that there is a link between vv. 3145–3212 in Manasses and the Demotic narrative plot, this link would be very vague. In fact, the only thing actually linking the two narratives would be the departure of Belisarius to war (with the Vandals, in Manasses; and with the English, in the Demotic poem); Belisarius killing someone (a common soldier in Manasses, because he stole a bird; a nobleman in the Demotic poem, because he said he did not behave as a general); and the triumph scene (Gelimer of the Vandals in Manasses; the unknown fearless English king in the Demotic poem). There is no way to directly link the two accounts. The Demotic poem is an evolution using only the broad structure of Belisarius’ Western expedition, but this could be borrowed from other narratives; and its evolution is possibly oral. See Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 122, 130 (for the quotations).
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still had a heart. He did not kill Belisarius. He only imprisoned him in a tower and blindfolded the general with a golden blindfold. Three years passed when, lo and behold, at midnight, bad, terrible, and disastrous news came. A catastrophe had happened over night in the land of the Romans. A huge and powerful army of unidentified enemies had arrived by sea and by land, and those mysterious enemies had conquered the castles and cities ruled by the city of Constantine. The unknown enemies had cut them down, captured them, and destroyed them entirely.78 This could not be accepted. The emperor built many ships in the space of half a year, seventy in Constantinople and thirty in Thessalonica, recruited brave and fearless sailors and soldiers, but could not find a suited general. When he gathered the army and asked who should lead them, the crowd answered in a single voice that first the trust in God, next in the emperor, and third in Belisarius, so Belisarius had to be at the forefront of the army. Suddenly, the emperor has doubts and believes that Belisarius may be innocent. He takes the blindfold from his eyes and puts him in charge of the imperial fleet. The ships set sail and went directly to … a stronghold in the island of England, since this is where the enemies were living. Here’s what happened when they set foot on that island. In the words of the anonymous author, the great general ordered that a proclamation be made: when the soldiers would see what Belisarius does, they had to do exactly the same thing. And if one of them did not behave according to his liking, or if he opposed his command, that soldier and those who shared his opinion were to be executed.79 That must have been something: despotic power, the very thing that our author regretted as absent from his world. That was the answer to Byzantine problems. So, the great general Belisarius made his soldiers drag their ships, take their weapons and oars out of the boats, leaving nothing in the boats. Everybody marvelled at his courage and audacity. As soon as they emptied their ships, Belisarius ordered the fleet to be burned there, on the spot. All ships were burnt, every one of them, to the very last. Now, that was something. Belisarius was a sort of Alexander, like Caesar, who also ordered imaginary burnings of his ships in Britain in later versions of his story. Or like Cortés. The legend of burning the ships stuck well to the despotic character of the general as the anonymous author tried to depict it. But there were bad people, people who doubted the great general. When he had 78 79
For the original text paraphrased here, ibid., 136. Ibid., 152, 154.
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gathered his armies and explained them why he did such a dramatic act (so that they fight bravely and subdue the entire England, being free of all fears), behold, one of those bad people, a nobleman, dared address Belisarius. He was an important archon, so he argued that Belisarius did not behave like a proper soldier when he burned the ships. Upon hearing his words, the great Belisarius ordered that the archon be instantly seized and empaled. The entire army trembled before Belisarius. Our author was certain that they loved him even more.80 He conquered everything in that island, and more, and more. But he had trouble conquering the main castle. That castle of England was enormous, fearsome, powerful, and impregnable. They tried to take it, but it caused them great evil. Many noble Romans fell trying to conquer it. It was good that Belisarius had burned the ships, for they would have been tempted to return home without conquering it. At that moment, since there was no other way, they prepared for death, insisted, tried again, resumed the war, and fought like wild beasts. Then the results finally came. The Romans built wooden ladders to storm the castle, they cut their enemies with their swords, bathing in blood. The first to set foot in England’s castle were two brothers bearing the names Alexios and Petralifas, common people, of modest origins, of humble condition. They were not Asans or Palaeologans, but they were fierce warriors. They were wounded, but they managed to conquer the citadel. Everybody was happy, great or small. They were joyous beyond compare when Alexios and Petralifas stormed the castle and hung their flag on the tower. Thus, Belisarius ordered that the two brothers be brought before him, so that he may show them all the honour and glory they deserved.81 He ordered that they be given two great steeds with gold-studded saddles and precious robes. People cheered to them as they walked through the castle. When they arrived before Belisarius, the general clothed them in garments of gold, in costly robes with collars and cuffs of pearls and sapphires, and gave them riches a-plenty, honours, dignities, and made them lords.82 This must have been our author’s daydreaming. Immediately afterwards, the general ordered the construction of ships, built in the space of two months, loaded them with prisoners, all the leaders of the English, 80 81 82
Ibid., 160, 162. Ibid., 170, 172. Ibid., 172, 174.
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including their illustrious king, with his powerful archons and noble lords, tied by their necks. Before leaving, he appointed archons in charge of the conquered England and returned to the lands that were dear to the Romans, bringing with him immense riches and a multitude of captives. The fleet stopped at the island of Mytilene and feasted their victory. Did they go to this island because the Gattilusi ruled it when the author wrote the text? The Gattilusi who probably read the tales of the Knights of the Round Table? One will never know. It is perhaps best not to fall prey to common pareidolia. I will not consider this evidence of an Arthurian influence. There are other things to take into consideration all the same. Let us ask ourselves: why would Belisarius conquer England? This does not make much sense. England was a faraway place and Byzantines had no trouble with it. Why not France or Italy?83 Those were the enemies in the time of the Frankokratia. In all likelihood, because England was the land of King Arthur’s father and this fantasy king (or Arthur himself) was also said to have conquered Greece.84 In English or Anglo-Latin contexts, 83 84
France is added as a second antagonist of Belisarius’ army in the Demotic Tale of SaintSophia, where the internal logic of the Belisarius will be lost. See for this the following note. This is my own interpretation, as will become evident from the arguments presented in the rest of the paragraph. Conventional interpretations present a different point of view. Research often failed to admit the probability that this fictional English campaign of general Belisarius was made-up and nothing more. Because of this failure to acknowledge that a literary feature was simply literary, easy questions received convoluted answers and an array of conjectures was construed to support the theory of an intentional socio-political replacement of the Vandal kingdom of Northern Africa (identified as Belisarius’ target during his Western campaign in accurate historical narratives) with the island of England (on account of the latter being a rising force on the scene of European politics). Cf. Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 25–28, who wrote several pages about the so-called ‘transformation’ of the name of Carthage (Καρχηδόνα) into the great castle in England, but spent no time arguing why their readers should believe that such a transformation would occur in the first place. They got stuck in a dead-end interpretation because they wanted to attribute the same socio-political reasoning to two other mentions of England conquered by Belisarius in the Demotic Tale of Saint-Sophia (Διήγησις κατὰ πολλὰ ὡραία περὶ τῆς Ἁγίας Σοφίας) and in a 17th century chronicle. Yet they did not pay attention to the fact that both of these much later texts were influenced by the Demotic poem narrating the deeds of Belisarius. The Tale of Saint-Sophia actually says that Justinian: Ἔστειλεν δὲ καὶ τὸν Βελισάριον τὸν στρατηγὸν αὐτοῦ μετὰ πλῆθος λαοῦ νὰ πολεμήσῃ τὴν Ἐγκλητέρα καὶ τὴν Φράτζαν καὶ ὑπῆγεν καὶ τὰ ἐκατάφθειρεν ὅλα καὶ ἐγύρισεν εἰς τὴν Κωνσταντινούπολιν μετὰ νίκης μεγάλης; N. Bănescu, ‘Un récit en grec vulgaire de la construction de Sainte-Sophie’, Ἐπετηρὶς Ἑταιρείας Βυζαντινῶν Σπουδῶν, 3 (1926), 160. In this later text, Belisarius is sent by Justinian to fight both England and France (with England being the first one mentioned, therefore France is possibly an addition). Bănescu, ‘Un récit en grec vulgaire’, 146, also noted that this England-and-France episode from the Tale of Saint-Sophia belonged to a sequence of events that were added by the Demotic translator at the end of the narrative. The original text of the mid-9th century story of the construction of the church of
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King Arthur’s imaginary conquests are often related to the lands bordering the Northern Sea.85 The only time when a king of Greece is mentioned
85
Saint-Sophia, written in Koiné, does not present this addition. It is highly probable that this addition was inspired by the Tale of Belisarius, since the dating of the Demotic poem of Saint-Sophia is a matter of debate. However, its manuscripts definitely date from the late 15th–early 17th century, after the Demotic Tale of Belisarius. As for the second argument of Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 26–27 – the 17th century chronicle mention of Belisarius as conquerer of Rome, defeater of the Italians, of Carthage, of England, and of everything else – this is arguably a modern synthesis of oral and written sources. In the end, it appears that the anonymous author of the Tale of Belisarius made England the intentional target of his protagonist’s first campaign. Even the editors of the text agreed that this English campaign was part of the alleged archetype’s plot, but they tried to find a purpose for it, digging up inappropriate arguments to support a pseudo-socio-political logic. They argued, for instance, that the departure of Belisarius’ fleet for England on 15 March corresponded to the feast of saint Aristobulus, the first bishop of England, a piece of information that a Demotic author from the turn of the 15th century would ignore for sure. They also implied that the confusion could originate from the reading of a map, because somewhere far to the West, near Carthage, were the Straits of Gibraltar. Greek portolan charts of the 16th century refer to it as the Στρέτος τῆς Ἐγγλιτέρας. Yet why should one confuse England for Gibraltar, and Gibraltar for Carthage, without any mention of either Carthage of Gibraltar? And why would our anonymous author be aware of an early modern loanword, M. Gr. Στρέτος; cf. Fr. détroit; En. strait; Sp. estrecho de Gibraltar? Last but not least, the icing on this invalid socio-political cake could be the ‘poet’s pointless efforts in the last years of the 14th century to give a poetic reason to secure help from the king of England’, something that does not make any sense at all, but it is used in order to favour the early dating of the archetype of the Tale of Belisarius at the end of the 14th century. For all of this, see Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 27–28. In my opinion, the main error is that a literary development was explained via a non-literary reasoning. To me, the interpretation proposed by Follieri, ‘Il poema bizantino di Belisario’, 609, is by far the most reasonable one of the lot: È da notare però che l’episodio che leggiamo nel poema ha un tono notevolmente romanzato rispetto alla narrazione dello storico: già il nome d’Inghilterra evoca un paese favoloso e lontano, poi l’eroico tentativo dei due fratelli (non quattro come dice lo storico) è coronato nel poema da pieno successo, mentre invece il Coniata parla della sua tragica conclusione a causa del crollo della scala; infine altri episodi (le navi date alle fiamme, la punizione del nobile insubordinato, la sosta a Mitilene) non hanno, che si sappia, riscontro nelle pagine del Coniata, e sono o desunti da altre fonti, o inventati. I do not agree with the rest of her interpretation and I could not read the PhD dissertation of Maria Fotina, quoted by Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 26, but the latter’s reading (that the anonymous poet chose England and Persia as the westernmost and easternmost countries of the inhabited world, therefore symbolising the whole universe), is equally reasonable and admittedly possible. On the other hand, the island of England and its king played a significant part in the Tale of Belisarius, so it would be only natural that a paese favoloso e lontano would be represented by an equally fabulous and distant king such as Arthur or his father, Uther Pendragon. When paying attention to the existence of Arthurian texts in Demotic Greek and the presence of Arthurian stories in the Aegean, this hypothesis is arguably the best one. For a short overview of these British texts, see Lynette Muir, ‘King Arthur’s Northern Conquests in the “Leges Anglorum Londiniis Collectae”’, Medium Ævum, 37/3 (1968), 253–262.
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in the 12th century fantasy chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth is in a list of allies summoned by Lucius of Rome against Arthur. The Greek king of that sequence is named Epistrophus and he plays the same minor role in Wace’s Old French verse translation: “These men all came without delay, | the ones who heard the call to arms. | Epistrod came, the king of Greece, | and Echion, duke of Boeotia; […].”86 Nevertheless, the Arthurian world was a maze. In the same story of Geoffrey of Monmouth, lord Lucius was a certain emperor Leo of the Romans, a hint toward Constantinople. Later, the plot thickened. These initial hints turned into actual campaigns of Arthur against the Byzantines. By the end of the 13th century, in the romance of Floriant et Florete, the protagonist is educated by the same Morgan le Fay and later learns that he is son of the rightful king of Sicily. King Arthur gathers his army to help Floriant gain his kingdom. However, the Sicilian usurper was allied with emperor Philimenis of Constantinople, who gathered all his armies to fight Arthur, for fear that Arthur would conquer the entire world (tot le mont vorra conquester). Nobody had ever seen such an army, not since the hour when Christ was born. Philimenis summoned everybody from Morea and Galilee (which rhymed in the text) to Constantinople, whence they proceeded to Sicily.87 There were many battles, naturally, but Floriant fell in love with the daughter of Philimenis, challenged the Sicilian usurper to a duel, won and married beautiful Florete. And they lived happily ever after, with Arthur and the Byzantines conceding to a truce. This scent of peace and tranquillity is absent from other stories. In the 13th–14th century Welsh Dream of Rhonabwy, Arthur is visited by men from Norway, Denmark, and Greece. Those of Greece bring him tribute. And in the Welsh tale of Culhwch and Olwen, dated perhaps to the late
86
87
See Arthur Wayne Glowka (trans.), Le Roman de Brut: The French Book of Brutus by Wace (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval Renaissance Studies, 2005), 300 (for the translation). They are followed by rulers of the Turks, of Egypt, Crete, Syria, Phrygia, Babylon, Spain, Media, Lydia, Bithynia, and of the Moors of Africa. For the original text, see Ivor Arnold (ed.), Le Roman de Brut de Wace, 2 vols (Paris: Société des anciens textes français, 1938–1940) 2:579: Cil vindrent tut delivrement | Ki oïrent le mandement. | Epistrod vint, le rei de Grece, | E Echion, dus de Boëce; […]. See Annie Combes, Richard Trachsler (eds.), Floriant et Florete, édition bilingue établie, traduite, présentée et annotée (Paris: Champion, 2003), 170 (for the first quotation), 172 (for the paraphrase).
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13th century,88 Arthur had conquered Greece along with most of Western Europe. In this story, when Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr reminds his lord and king of his loyalty, he mentions many place-names where he had been with Arthur. Among them he also says that “I was once there where you conquered Greece in the East.”89 Even though some scholars date the initial version of this Welsh text to the second half of the 12th century, I prefer to be more cautious and point out that the two manuscripts preserving it date in fact back to c.1350 (White Book of Rhydderch) and c.1382–1410 (Red Book of Hergest).90 Since I cannot vouch for the presence of every 14th century word in the 13th century allegedly lost original, my interpretation, I would simply argue that by the end of the 14th century, Arthur was also known for having conquered Greece. Many texts contributed to the shaping of this imaginary campaign, from the lineage of Cligès, the imaginary grandson of Alexander the Great living in the court of king Arthur in the 12th century romances of Chrétien of Troyes, to sir Sagremor the Rash, alleged son of the king of Vlachia and Hungary, knight of the Round Table, and heir to the Byzantine throne. Or to Erec, who became a descendant of the Greeks in the Post-Vulgate Queste del Saint Graal, his grandfather Canan being king of Saloliqui (a concoction based on Thessalonica and a soliloquy). But the most important tale of all was the Vengeance of the descendants of Hector (Vendetta dei discendenti di Ettore). I already mentioned it in connection with the Trojan destruction of Athens. Its plot was based on an assortment of characters originating in Guiron the Courteous, Prose Tristan, and Roman de Troie.91 88 89 90 91
Cf. Andrew Breeze, ‘The dates of the Four Branches of the Mabinogi’, Studia Celtica Posnaniensia, 3/1 (2018), 54–55. See the rest of the article for a discussion about all the proposed datings of this and other Welsh tales. Patrick K. Ford (trans.), The Mabinogi and Other Welsh Tales (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1977), 125 (for the quoted translation). Daniel Huws, Medieval Welsh Manuscripts (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2000), 47, 60, 89, passim. For the mixture of characters, see Fabrizio Cigni, ‘Per la storia del Guiron le Courtois in Italia’, Critica del testo, 7/1 (2004), 300; cf. Richard Trachsler, Sergio Parussa, ‘Un riflesso della tradizione arturiana in Italia: La Vendetta dei descendenti di Ettore’, Romanische Forschungen, 114/1 (2002), 10. For the presentation of the plot of this unedited text, used in the next paragraphs, see Alfonso D’Agostino, ‘Fra Troia e la Tavola Rotonda: La vendetta dei discendenti di Ettore, pastiche tre-quattrocentesco’, Bisanzio e l’Occidente, 1 (2018), 56–57. Cf. Gorra ed., Testi inediti, 248–264, for a longer description, without any quotations. An incomplete synopsis is presented by Trachsler, Parussa, ‘Un riflesso’, 13–17.
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In this story, happening in pre-Arthurian times, there was a certain knight name Trojan. He was the son of the same king Troas of Thessaly whom we already met as the great destroyer of Athens at the beginning of Nicholas’ Athenian tour. Trojan – clearly borrowed from the Palamedes compilation of Rustichello of Pisa or from its avatars – had two brothers, Laomedon and Hector. He left for Ilbionisse (a sort of Britain, much in the manner of Ruritanian romances) where he meant to take part in a tournament. The anonymous author of the tale was not versed in geography. He did not care about it (or he cared about something else), thus he made Trojan stop in the city of Troy proper. There, Trojan learnt about the treason of Aeneas, founder of Rome, and about the treason of Antenor, founder Padua. In this story, they were the ones who helped the wicked Greeks conquer Troy one thousand six hundred years before. Trojan was enraged. Determined to take revenge on the Greeks, he went to Lyonesse, the country of Meliadus, one of the chief characters of the Palamedes novel, from which Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης was adapted into Demotic Greek. Lyonesse also becomes the place where Trojan masters in chivalry. He fought a lion, some knights, was knighted in his own stead, and then an unknown knight in shiny golden armour took him to the court of Uther Pendragon, King Arthur’s father, where a great tournament was held. Roman envoys arrive at Camelot, asking Uther to help them against the Greeks. Trojan convinces everyone to form an anti-Greek coalition. From Camelot back to Thessaly and Troy, Trojan gathers more men, while his brothers Hector and Laomedon have their own adventures, and cousin Hector Junior defeats a Greek king of Persian (this is where he made the giant pit full of blood, but he eats the Greeks instead of drowning them).92 The Greek Persian king is called Prandacieo, a sort of Patroclus, and Hector Junior takes his crown, becoming wild, savage, and cruel. And I forgot to mention: Laomedon returns with an army of Amazons. All of them prepare to attack the Greeks. Nauser, the Greek emperor – you remember Nauser! – attacked Thessaly. Some allies arrive to help Troas and his sons. They came from Rome, Persia, and other places, including ‘La Risa’ – without any mention of the Catalan head of saint George. The Greeks are forced to fall back, there is a two-month truce. In the meantime, Trojan, Hector Junior, and others go to Rome, where they meet with Uther Pendragon, who had already gathered an army of eighteen thousand and five hundred wandering knights. Uther becomes the head of the coalition. They go to Athens, 92
See D’Agostino, ‘Fra Troia e la Tavola Rotonda’, 59, for some short passages of this scene.
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where a series of battles are fought, with each knight fighting a worthy Greek opponent in the repetitive manner of the battles from the Roman de Troie. The plot is equally based on the crossover experiments from the Perceforest, in which Britain was first colonised by the Trojans and next by Alexander the Great.93 But there are also evident references to the story of Landomata, the sequel to the Roman de Troie,94 and to the Roman de Troie itself. One of the brothers, Laomedon, dies. Hector Junior avenges him. Then everything goes bloody, for this is a bloody story, and Hector Junior eats the heart and drinks the blood of his enemies. No need to insist. I have already talked about his atrocities earlier. In my opinion, this is what the Tale of Belisarius was all about. Maybe the reference to Alexander burning his ships was not that innocent after all. When tales of imaginary heroes (connected in one way or the other to the Byzantine lands) were told to the Greeks in the Latin-occupied lands, or to the Greeks living in the Byzantine lands proper, one should imagine a sort of rejection or reluctance in accepting them. The Greeks would need to counter those tall tales with tales of their own. This was already the case with the Achilleid, where Achilles fights the French knight who annoys him, because French had been a nuisance to the Greeks. I shall point out that the Achilleid uses the same formulae as the Demotic Belisarius.95 I believe this is why Belisarius conquers England in the Demotic verse tale. Because Uther Pendragon, father to Arthur – unnamed in the Greek text, which speaks of anonymous English enemies – had supposedly destroyed Athens. This is further supported by the fact that when Belisarius finished conquering England, he led his army directly to Mytilene and was no more concerned by what happened in Western lands. With or without connection to the Gattilusi, lords of Mytilene by the time the Demotic tale was written and potential fans of Arthurian tales set in the Mediterranean, the England episode was a sort of narrative payback. It was natural. When it comes to pride, grown-ups do not differ from children. When kids play at war, the first one says he has a sword. The second one will say he has a pistol. ‘A rifle’, says the third. And the fourth one, lifting a stick and placing it upon his shoulder: ‘I have a bazooka and 93 94 95
For the influence of Perceforest, see ibid., 62. Trachsler, Parussa, ‘Un riflesso’, 7–9. See Elizabeth Jeffreys, Michael Jeffreys, ‘The Oral Background of Byzantine Popular Poetry’, Oral Tradition, 1/3 (1986), 535. Cf. Arnold F. van Gemert, Wim F. Bakker, ‘Η Αχιλληίδα και η Ιστορία του. Βελισαρίου’, Ελληνικά, 33 (1981), 82–97.
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my bazooka blows you all to pieces’. Belisarius was to King Arthur and all the fictional kings from the stories of the Latins what the bazooka is to the rifle, the pistol, and the sword. In a fictional world, it did not matter that Western kings conquered the Byzantine Empire in their illusory tales. According to our anonymous author, this happened in a single day, at the hour of midnight (ἐν μίᾳ οὖν ἡμερῶν, ὥρᾳ μεσονυκτίου). Our author had to exact his revenge: Belisarius came to the invaders’ lands half a year later, with an amazing fleet, burnt his ships, as Alexander the Great had done before him – a gesture fit for a conqueror of the world – and proceeded to take over all the fortresses from the island of England. Next, he conquered everything around it (France, Italy, and the rest).96 And he brought the king of England tied by his neck, along with his powerful archons and noble lords to the lands of the Byzantines. In the Italian Vengeance of the descendants of Hector, the knights of Britain are not that vicious. They regret the atrocities committed by Hector Junior and his men. They do not agree to the treatment of women. Uther Pendragon and his knights feel bad when they hear what the Trojans are doing that. They felt like dying from shame and pain. They summon their allies and tell them that no woman, child, or old person should be hurt. Only soldiers.97 And the massacre continues, obviously. But there is something very interesting of note in the continuation of the story. Moving away from Athens, the anonymous author tells us that there was a Greek reaction and it actually involved a fleet, so the Tale of Belisarius may be a mindful reaction to the Italian text. The Greeks from the Italian story stole the fleet of the Romans, conquered Rome, while the son of king Laldach of Constantinople went with his men to Britain, arrived at the harbour of Gaunes and began a new war, with worthy opponents fighting on each side. There was more. Meanwhile in Italy, the anachronistic world war continued with the march of Costanzo, another son of the king of Constantinople, who now had Romagna and Tuscany under his control, but the burghers of Populonia rebelled and sent envoys to Thessaly. Oh, what a turn of events! The anti-Greek coalition of Uther Pendragon, Remus of Rome, and Troas of Thessaly finally sailed to Italy and massacred the Greeks. In the last act of this childish imaginary world war, the burghers of Populonia go as far as Britain to recover the ships stolen by the Greeks, 96 97
See Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 162: Ἔδραξαν κάστρη καὶ λαὸν ἐκ τὸ νησὶν ἐκεῖνον, | ὅλον τριγύρου τὸ νησὶν ἐποῖκεν ἐδικόν του. See Trachsler, Parussa, ‘Un riflesso’, 22 (for a short passage from the original).
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bring those ships to Greece, and then back to the British harbour of Gaunes, where – pssshhh, in slow motion – a lot of blood is spilt, the Greeks army is vanquished, and the Trojans kill all the prisoners. You know. Hector Junior does his atrocious acts and the rest … Why bother? You remember that story: drowned in blood, teeth in the flesh, washing faces with blood, etc. In a way, this would be the Italian tank who would blow the Demotic Greek bazooka to pieces. I do not know to which of these texts the Demotic Greek poem refers to – the Vengeance story dates back to roughly around the same time as the Tale of Belisarius, while the text of Giovanni Sercambi is a little bit earlier, probably drawn from an earlier version of the narrative. Yet, one thing is clear: the Greek poem was an answer to the one of the versions of the Italian tale. Fantasies are made to be enjoyed and each party has the right to enjoy its own fiction. Little does it matter if the Greek Tale was written as an answer to the early or late version of the Vengeance. It had a plot of its own. Thus, when Belisarius enters the city of Constantine, all musical instruments are played in a parade that shook and rumbled mountains, hills and rocks (ὄρη, βουνὰ καὶ πετρωτὰ χαλοῦν καὶ ἀντιδονοῦσιν).98 From this made-up topography, one may draw the conclusion that the Demotic author had never been to Constantinople, having only heard about Kontoskalion, the Harbour of Julian, which is mentioned in his text.99 Belisarius marches gloriously before the emperor, he kisses the earth three times and the emperor’s boots as well. It was a sign of veneration. Then the state scene takes place. The Byzantines make a gate (i.e. a triumphal arch) through which the king of England has to pass in the company of the archons of England, of course, those who had been captured by great Belisarius. And behold, the fearful king of the English was brought before the emperor – in company of the archons of England, and he and his archons brought before the emperor precious stones, silver and gold, 98 99
Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 180. This unique reference to the topography of Constantinople was often considered to be proof of the poem’s Constantinopolitan origin. Cf. Jeffreys, Jeffreys, ‘The Oral Background’, 531: “In contrast to most of the popular romances, Belisarios is pre-eminently a poem of the populace of Constantinople. It knows a good deal of the topography of the city and is less and less convincing the further away it goes from the capital” (the last conjecture probably dealing with the English campaign). This led to the assumption that “the whole gives the impression of being an urban folk song, expressing in one composite story the feelings of a thousand years of the capital’s inhabitants for their heroes.” Yet there is nothing specifically urban in the text proper, apart from a mention of the Golden Gate and that of Kontoskalion, two famous places that would be well known to the Byzantines, little did it matter if they visited the capital or not.
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incalculable riches and quite a lot of money. Seeing all this, the emperor was amazed. The survey of that enormous fortune greatly pleased him.100 He was avenged, he had money, and this king (an Arthur of sorts) was kneeling at his feet. Money was probably most important. At the end of the 14th century, the emperors needed lots of money to fights the Hagarenes (the name given to the Turks in the text of our author). The rest of the text is of little interest to the present analysis, since it speaks of the manner in which Belisarius was blinded because of the noblemen’s envy (the same list of Byzantine families with the addition of several new ones). The people revolt and go in search of the general, whom they find at the Golden Gate, but they do not do anything.101 Instead, the anonymous author concentrates on Persian armies who devastate the empire. The emperor summons many riders. The people want Belisarius to lead them, but he cannot do it, so he cedes the honour to his son Alexius instead. Next, Alexius becomes Caesar, vanquishes the enemies, takes great spoils, and the story takes a new break. In the last sequence, some ambassadors come to Constantinople, they want to see the famous general, and Belisarius advances begging as a blind man for money. The emperor is admonished for what he has done, his court is also found guilty of evil deeds, and the author ends his poem with the moral that everyone knows the jealousy of the Romans (meaning the Byzantines), how they ended up losing so many of their castles and lands because of this extreme envy.102 Envy brings only grief to the world. When the Byzantines started to fall, they found no way to stop it. The anonymous author admitted that he was unschooled, but this did not mean that he was not right. He was certain that the race of the Hagarenes will end up devouring the world. All peoples of the world would be conquered: Romans (i.e. Byzantines), Serbs, Vlachs, Hungarians, Latins as well. The Byzantines suffered from wantonness, from enormous and great envy, while the Hagarene race served a single master, worshiped one God, and trembled before a single leader. They were loyal to that leader. Such loyalty never occurred among Byzantines, never for one lord, because – look at what they did to Belisarius – they did not appreciate good men.103 100 Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 184, 186. 101 This side plot is not developed, but it will prove fruitful in 18th century Western art. See e.g. Anthony D. Smith, ‘The Suffering Hero: Belisarius and Oedipus in Late 18th Century French and British Art’, RSA Journal, 137/5398 (1989), 634–640. 102 Bakker, van Gemert eds., Ιστορία του Βελισαρίου, 242. 103 Ibid., 244.
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From the fact that the first envious nobleman advising the emperor to beware of the protagonist is said to be a Palaeologan, one could argue that the Tale of Belisarius was an anti-Palaeologan poem, yet nobody could choose between a pro-Cantacuzene and an Arsenite point of view. I mention it, but I know that the hypothesis is too far-fetched. By the time the Demotic Greek poem was written, an entire century had passed since the Arsenite schism and at least a generation since the death of Manuel Cantacuzene. The isolated mention of the Palaeologans is not a valid argument, especially since both the Cantacuzenes and the Lascarids – the latter being favoured by the Arsenites – are mentioned in two lists of envious noblemen who speak against Belisarius and convince the emperor to do him harm. In truth, the only sure thing is that the author was low-born, as he professed himself when speaking of philosophers and famous writers with whom he had nothing to do. He also did not appreciate the rulers of his time. In fact, he looked upon his time as if it were a time of decadence, in sharp contrast with the Golden Age from the imaginary times of old, but he certainly belonged to the Byzantine camp and not to the Greeks from the Latin-occupied Morea. However, this humble origin of the author should not encourage us to speak of orality in connection with his work or to look for its origins in a lost popular tradition. As I already argued, the presence of formulas does not mean that the poem circulated among commonfolk before it was copied in a manuscript. It could be a sheer reflection of the cultural tastes of its author. The entire discussion about the formulaic structure of the Demotic group of texts would be extraordinary beneficial to the studies on formulaic poetry in Old French, on one condition: that both fields orient themselves toward a common goal, as the Greek group of texts was clearly influenced by French fashions. But the real conclusion must be that Demotic Greek texts came under the sway of Italian literature. A true translation movement began. Most texts were translated in the 15th century, a time when the Latin influence in Morea was fading, while the Venetian presence in the islands had established itself to stay. Certainly, this is not what Nicholas must have thought each time when he was crossing the bridge to the mainland. He saw the Venetians, talked to them, maybe even talked to some Greeks, but his interest was limited. He crossed the bridge to see if the ship had arrived in one of those two harbours of Chalkida. Nicholas had no interest in trying to understand the dialogue of cultures, no deep understanding of another culture apart from that of his own. His mind was set on earthly matters. He simply needed to forget about his troubles and just be
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entertained. Perhaps this is why he spent time in those parts of Chalkida. Because, apart from the castle of Morgan le Fay, there were other entertaining things to see as well. Two wooden bridges crossed that stretch of sea on both sides of the castle. The people who came and went from Negroponte to the mainland had to pass through those bridges. Their gates were diligently guarded by armed men. Nicholas was impressed. He would feel safe. The Turks who raided Attica and Boeotia would not dare cross into the town, passing through such fortifications. Yet during his stay in Negroponte, he learnt of the existence of other enemies, some Albanians in a different castle, close nearby, and he would be glad that the ship would come to take them away to Italy. These Albanians roamed the duchies of Neopatras and Athens as early as the 1350s, when they started coming over from Epirus, a land where they had already moved in the early 14th century.104 A document of 14 March 1350, mentioned their presence as allies of the Catalans, who had given them permission to settle before 1381.105 In those times, the Venetian rulers of Euboea did not tolerate the vicinity of these Albanians – whom they would invite to settle in their island later, on 12 April 1402.106 They would do the same in 1401, when they would allow Albanian mercenaries to settle in Koroni and Methoni, the Venetian lands of the Peloponnesus.107 Soon the Byzantines would take after the Venetians, accepting Albanians in the despotate of Morea sometime in the early 15th century,108 and every lord would want to have his own Albanians. Every lord except Charles I Tocco, duke of Cephalonia, who was chasing them 104 For the Albanian immigration into the Byzantine and Latin-held Greek lands in the 14th and 15th centuries, see Titos P. Jochalas, ‘Über die Einwanderung der Albaner in Griechenland: Eine zusammenfassene Betrachtung’, in Giuseppe Valentini (dir.), Dissertationes Albanicae: In honorem Joephi Valentini et Ernesti Koliqi septuagenariorum (Munich: Trofenik, 1971), 89–106. 105 Antoni Rubió i Lluch (ed.), Diplomatari de l’Orient català (1301–1409). Col·lecció de documents per a la història de l’expedició catalana a Orient i dels ducats d’Atenes i Neopàtria (Barcelona: Institut d’Estudis Catalans, 1947), 253 (for the Venetian document from 14 March 1350); 548 (undated); 528 (for the document of 31 April 1381). 106 C.N. Sathas (ed.), Μνημεία της Eλληνικής ιστορίας. Documents inédits relatifs à l’histoire de la Grèce au Moyen Âge…, 2. Documents tirés des archives de Venise (1400–1500) (Paris: Brockhaus, 1881), 79–80 (Venetian document of 12 April 1402). 107 Sathas ed., Μνημεία της Eλληνικής ιστορίας, 65 (Venetian document of 16 February 1401). 108 Contrary to the old hypothesis that Manuel Cantacuzene would invite Albanians to settle on the lands of the despotate in 1348–1350, it is more prudent to consider that they were only seasonal mercenaries and that their earliest settlements in the Peloponnesus date back to the last years of the despotate of Theodore I Palaeologus (1380–1407). See for this e.g. Jochalas, ‘Über die Einwanderung der Albaner’, 100.
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away from the Epirus he was conquering into the lands of the other lords, to the east and to the south. When Nicholas stayed in Negroponte in 1395, the Venetians must have been at odds with those Albanians, therefore explaining why the Italian pilgrims were afraid of them. There were countless dangers awaiting them in these Greek lands. No more mainland travels through this Wild East. This was a place where thugs, pirates, and outlaws of all creeds and languages could do whatever they wanted, robbing and attacking innocent pilgrims. Nicholas would wish for a swift ship to take them back home. A Venetian ship that was said to arrive in one of the two Negroponte harbours any day by then. Our pilgrims would go and look for it in the harbour on a daily basis, but each day the ship would not arrive. Then Nicholas would take a look at the strange current from that stretch of the sea. Our notary was stunned by that miracle, for it flowed like a river, half a day from one port to the other, while the rest of the day it flowed in the opposite direction.109 It was marvellous indeed. Maybe this would be one of the marvels left behind by the witch from the times of old. Anyway, the beauty of local ladies – properly dressed, as in Italy – was related to those fairies who had trapped Gawain. Just as the richness and nobility of their men. Nicholas really liked that town. From the bridges, he would contemplate the harbours, since three of the town’s sides were surrounded by the sea. Next, he would look at the beautiful walls and many towers along its perimeter.110 This was clearly a good place to live in. And then he would again contemplate that stream of water. Day after day he marvelled at the three mills ingeniously crafted so that they may grind grain using both directions of the current. He noted in his journal that each mill generated an income of fifty ducats annually. That must have been great, but there were also repairs to be done from time to time. Sometimes the water current was so fast that the wheels of the mills would break.111 This is how he and lord Antonazzo spent their days in Euboea. Forty days they waited for the ship to come from Venice, with the utmost distress of mind and heart, without any news of its arrival. After forty days, they lost heart. They had a long talk with the bailiff of Negroponte. He gave them letters of recommendation and suggested that they better return to Athens, to seek a passage from there to their homeland.112 Easily said than done. On a Friday, 2 April after lunch, the pilgrims left Negroponte in a small boat and reached the harbour 109 For Nicholas’ description of the Evripos Strait tide phenomenon, see Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 144. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 654–655. 110 Piccirillo ed., 145. Cf. Le Grand, 655. 111 Piccirillo ed., 145. Cf. Le Grand, 655. 112 Piccirillo ed., 145. Cf. Le Grand, 655.
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of Sykamino castle at sunset. They had travelled eighteen miles away from Negroponte. They went ashore and walked to Sykamino castle, which was three more miles away from the beach. Now they had a new fear. Not for the Turks (that was an old fear), but for the presence of another castle, named Ripo, in which there were some Albanians who robbed the travellers and did them harm.113 They did not stay long at Sykamino. On the same evening, after having been admitted to the castle and having taken some food, they set off again at twilight. A great fear pushed them to walk all night long through rough and stony mountains and valleys, on rough and winding paths, terrified by the possibility of meeting those Albanians or some Turks who roamed around those parts for the sake of plundering. They walked all night with fatigue and in the fear of great danger, but with the help of God they encountered no obstacles on that journey,114 and there they were, on Palm Saturday, once again in Athens. It was about the ninth hour when they entered the city. They were desperately trying to find lord Louis da Prato, the Latin archbishop, but they could not find him because he was in the city of Corinth with the duke of Cephalonia. In his place, they found a bishop who was his vicar and some servants of his whom he had sent to take possession and administer the assets of his church, according to the testament of lord Nerio Acciaiuoli, the duke’s father-in-law. The pilgrims stayed with them that day and night, not necessarily because they liked it, but because they were constrained to do so by the utter impossibility of finding any lodging. There were no more hostels available in Athens. Nobody would welcome them anymore.115 The next day, on Palm Sunday, 4 April, lord Antonazzo, Nicholas, and their companions attended mass in a small and poor church dedicated to SaintDominic, where there were only two friars. Would this be the Gorgoepikoos church, already connected by me with a Dominican presence in Athens? Or the now destroyed church of Saint-Elijah in Stavropazaro? The latter probably existed at the time, but it was not yet painted. The beautiful depiction of the Mother of God from its lunette was once known as ‘Panagia of the Catalans’, but it dates back to the time of the last Latin rulers of Athens. The initials and the arms of Francesco Acciaiuoli, duke of Athens (1441–1460) and Lorenzo Spinola (†1453) appear on the mural fragment.116 113 114 115 116
Piccirillo ed., 146. Cf. Le Grand, 655. Piccirillo ed., 146. Cf. Le Grand, 655–656. Piccirillo ed., 146. Cf. Le Grand, 656. St. Sinos, ‘Die sogenannte Kirche des Hagios Elis zu Athen’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 64 (1971), 360–361.
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Having received the holy palms there, they left Athens on some donkeys that they had rented and tried their luck on the road to the castle of Megara (Metre), for they knew that the duke of Cephalonia had recently acquired it by virtue of the rights of his wife. The pilgrims hoped to persuade him, maybe with the help of the archbishop of Athens, to help them get back home. Megara was a long way from Athens, twenty-four miles away. Our pilgrims passed the whole day walking and riding, ever fearful of the possible presence of marauders, most of all on account of those Turks who robbed the people of the land. Yet this did not stop them from enjoying themselves and admiring Eleusis (Lippisinox), which they saw towards evening time, at a distance of fifteen miles from Athens. From the looks of it, this used to be a very large and noble city in the times of old. There were many buildings, numerous columns, and marble lying all over the place. There was also the miracle of water. They learnt that water reached this city along aqueducts supported by pillars and arches, along which it descended from the mountains into the inhabited area. Nicholas was truly impressed by the sheer size of that forgotten city. When it was intact, he thought, it probably covered a perimeter of ten miles.117 In the evening, two hours after the onset of darkness, his party finally arrived at the castle of Megara, but they could not enter it. The gates were closed during the night. It was guarded in fear of the despot of Morea, who wished to take it from the duke of Cephalonia, his brother-in-law, on account of similar rights of his wife, for she too was a daughter of lord Nerio. The two brothers-in-law fought each other for the inheritance. Nicholas and Antonazzo had no idea who were their friends or foes. They were living from one day to the next, so they slept in a small church located somewhere in the vicinity of castle, near its moats. Nicholas and his party were very afraid, because they were living dangerous times, therefore they could not put aside their fear, and slept with one eye open.118 In the morning, on that Monday, 5 April, they went to the harbour of Megara, found a small boat for the price of five hyperpera, so small that it could barely hold the five of them. They had to take risks, for they needed to cross into the harbour of Corinth. So they left Megara and its beautiful plain after lunch. They pulled on the oars all day and in the evening, towards dusk, they reached the harbour of Corinth, but they soon discovered that it was fifteen miles away from the city with the same name. What should they do? Fortunately, they found two boats coming from Megara, whose sailors told them that they could not enter Corinth without overcoming a great personal danger. The men of 117 Piccirillo ed., 148. Cf. Le Grand, 656. 118 Piccirillo ed., 148. Cf. Le Grand, 656–657.
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the despot of Morea had besieged Corinth a little bit earlier with a large army of about twenty thousand men, claiming that city in the name of the rights of the despot’s wife, who was the firstborn of lord Nerio, the Florentine ruler of Athens. But the duke of Cephalonia, seeing that he could not resist the power of his brother-in-law the despot, had allied himself with the Turks against him. Fourteen thousand horsemen under the command of the Turk crossed the Isthmus one night. They went to Corinth and broke into the army camp of the despot, devastating everything, including the soldiers and the despot himself. Three thousand knights had been taken prisoners. The despot barely escaped. But it did not matter that the Turks left, for the despot’s wife, lord Nerio’s firstborn daughter, had many soldiers of her own, and those soldiers viciously guarded the territory of Corinth day and night, so that no one could pass without being taken prisoner.119 A man like our notary, too naive to understand the politics and military games of his times, would not understand who his enemy was (and who was a friend). There were great dangers all around him. He knew nothing about the history of the land. He probably took all pieces of information at face value. He had no time to weigh them down and let time decide which one had to be trusted. For Nicholas, desperate to get back to Carinola, time was running out. By that time, there would not be much difference between a Byzantine lord like Theodore Palaeologus and a Western one such as Charles Tocco. Both of them were married to daughters of lord Nerio and both had allies with whom the Byzantine and Latin lords of old would never conclude an alliance. The borders between East and West were now blurred. We often notice it in literature, but the art of the period was more or less blurred as well. Since I try to avoid Mystras – on account of its overstated examples that would need a thorough triage, I will give an example from Geraki. My mind is set on the depiction of the siege of Jericho in the Taxiarchis church (Fig. 62–63). It dates back to the first half of the 15th century and it was painted by a local workshop who depicted three other churches in the area of the castle of Geraki.120 119 Piccirillo ed., 148, 150. Cf. Le Grand, 657. When Francesca Acciaiuoli and her husband Charles I Tocco occupied Corinth and other territories close to the Isthmus, the Turks were already close nearby. Theodore’s foolish attack of the city of Corinth was rejected by the Ottoman troops of Evrenos beg. Nicholas was living under the impression that the Turks had arrived there at the call of the duke of Cephalonia, when in fact they were already intent on crossing the Isthmus into the Peloponnesus. See e.g. Van Antwerp Fine, Late Medieval Balkans, 431. 120 An excellent synthesis of previous bibliography was made by Τζούλια Παπαγεωργίου, Τοιχογραφίες του 15 αιώνα στο κάστρο Γερακίου Λακωνίας. Ένα ζωγραφικό εργαστήριο της όψιμης παλαιολόγειας περιόδου στους ναούς της Ζωοδόχου Πηγής, των Ταξιαρχών, του Προφήτη Ηλία και της Αγίας Παρασκευής, 2 vols, PhD diss. (National and Kapodistrian University of Athens,
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Research argued that the subject was Byzantine. And, indeed, there are some terms of comparison. But the Cretan scenes with which it was compared are not structured in the same manner. There are two separate actions in the depiction from Geraki: Joshua’s prayer to the Archangel and a group of horsemen charging after a second group who enters the gates of Jericho. Both of them contain elements present in Cretan depictions, but those other depictions present a single scene. The Old Testament hero prays to the Archangel, the priests blow the trumpets and the inhabitants of Jericho look at them, but there are no riders chasing each other and no corpses of men and horses piling up at the bottom of the scene.121 This suggests that the siege of Jericho in Geraki followed closely Byzantine iconography, but modified it in order to suit a different message. The painters had a good knowledge of the models of their 2007), 119–122, with notes at pp. 224–227. For another point of view, see Δημητροκάλλης, Γεράκι. Οι τοιχογραφίες, 172–181, to be used with many precautions. This other study favours the study of forms, not meaning, and includes an uncritical list of references without any connection to the church of Geraki (perhaps all the depictions or allusions to Joshua that the author found in the entire Byzantine Commonwealth, including some post-Byzantine cases). As a general note of criticism to former researches, I would say that it makes no sense to analyse what the inhabitants of Jericho are throwing at the attackers, what the crescent from the shield of Joshua means, how many priests are represented in comparison with the Cretan depictions, or if Joshua genuflects or not. To give but one example, the crescent was probably taken from the depictions of saint George on horseback, as a comparison between Joshua, saint George, and the patrons with whom both of them were compared. 121 In Chamiliana, in the church of Archangel-Michael, the Archangel is depicted on horseback, with Joshua kneeling before the horse; cf. Κωνσταντίνος E. Λασσιθιωτάκης, ‘Εκκλησίες Δυτικής Κρήτης’, Κρητικά Χρονικά, 21/1 (1969), 191–192. In Sarakina, the Archangel is depicted to the left, Joshua in the middle, and seven priests with trumpets to the right. We see walls and people behind the ramparts, but no charging group of horsemen. Cf. Κωνσταντίνος E. Λασσιθιωτάκης, ‘Εκκλησίες Δυτικής Κρήτης’, Κρητικά Χρονικά, 22/1 (1970), 144. In Prines, with murals dating back to 1410, the destruction of Jericho is separated from the Archangel, represented to the right. Cf. Κωνσταντίνος E. Λασσιθιωτάκης, ‘Εκκλησίες Δυτικής Κρήτης’, Κρητικά Χρονικά, 22/2 (1970), 362. All these representations appear in churches dedicated to Archangel-Michael, on the western walls, in tympana. In Kalavariana, dated to the 14th century, the scene appears on the northern wall, and there is also the miracle of Chonae in a similar arrangement as the one in Geraki. But the Jericho scene is structured in the same way as in Sarakina: Joshua kneeling before the Archangel, with another soldier behind him, and the priests blowing the trumpets to the right, while the inhabitants of Jericho look at the priests. The miracle at Chonae appears on the southern wall of the church. Cf. Angeliki Lymberopoulou, The church of the Archangel Michael at Kavalariana. Art and society in fourteenth-century Venetian-dominated Crete (London: The Pindar Press, 2006), 94–96. The scene from Kouneni is almost identical to the one of Kalavariana. Cf. Κώστας Λασσιθιωτάκης, ‘Δύο εκκλησίες στο Νομό Χανίων’, Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρίας, 2 (1961), 23–26. All these scenes are mentioned by previous research.
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time, but I am not sure that they made a personal contribution to the composition, using their own imagination and drawing elements from other types of art.122 I agree only to the fact that this is an enrichment of the composition with completely original themes,123 but I believe it is essential to underline that this enrichment is nowhere to be found in Byzantine iconography. This is where the Western influences come into play. They confer a different meaning to the scene from the Taxiarchis church (Fig. 63). I take an interest in the composition itself, noting that Joshua had no reason to charge the gates of Jericho. Also, the riders entering the city were identified by previous research with the two spies welcomed by Rahab, but this does not make any sense, since they are retreating. Besides, the Jericho inhabitants do not throw anything at the attackers in the Old Testament, so the scene has a different significance, probably because the character leading the second group of horsemen, the ones who charge the gates, was not Joshua himself. This is a figure compared to Joshua, as it is evident from the two different actions (prayer and assault). It is therefore clear that the Byzantine scene was split in two. The duplication of Joshua, appearing twice, is the strongest proof of this comparison. It resembles the situation from the chapel of Cressac (Fig. 1), where the crusaders depicted in the upper register of murals were compared to the Maccabees depicted in the lower one.124 And the comparison could be extended to more complex subjects. In the black cathedral of Clermont, in the chapel of Saint-George, the passion and martyrdom of the saint were accompanied by crusaders chasing after Saracens in the lower register.125 Not to mention the situation from the mid-13th century line of knights depicted in the church of Saint-Jacques-des-Guérets, where they stood in for the representations of military saints. I already discussed all these examples in the chapter dedicated to Anna of Villehardouin. I will stop here. There is no point in multiplying the examples into a long and fastidious list. In light of this comparison, it does not matter much that the sources of the Geraki depiction were Byzantine. What matters most is that the modification of the Byzantine scene was done according to a Western cultural code. Maybe we should not be surprised that the prototypes for this siege of Jericho were painted in 14th–15th century Venetian Crete. Literary fashions also came from Crete or from places where Italians (particularly Venetians) ruled over Greeks. It is highly plausible that the sponsor of the painting was identified with Joshua (and his own deeds with Joshua’s siege of Jericho). This suggests that crusader rhetoric had been 122 123 124 125
Cf. Παπαγεωργίου, Τοιχογραφίες, 160. Ibid., 122, who believes that the painters εμπλούτισαν τη σύνθεση με τελείως πρωτότυπα θέματα. Agrigoroaei, ‘Une lecture templière’. Cf. Courtillé, La Cathédrale, 173–174.
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perfectly assimilated by that time. The Greek archons of Theodore Palaeologus would be behaving like Latin lords. Perhaps they would employ the same crusader rhetoric during the siege of Corinth. It would be expected of them, since the besieged ‘Western Italians’ also employed the foreign cultural code of their enemies, as we shall see immediately. The word Ἰταλοί ἑσπέριοι (‘Western Italians’) comes from a lost inscription painted in the gate of the fortress of Corinth. Theodore Palaeologus was quite pompous. When he finally occupied the fortress after months of negotiations, he asked for his own depiction to be painted in that gate, with an inscription addressed to any stranger passing through. When stripped of its over-ornate snoring Byzantine formulas such as ‘agile foot of destiny’, ‘mighty hand’, ‘deep wisdom’, ‘bloomed in purple’, ‘height of discernment’, or ‘unforgettable memory’, the epigram tells us only that Theodore was of imperial blood and that he chased away the Italians. Yet this was enough to conquer, ‘in his own lifetime’, a ‘brilliant and extraordinary glory’.126 Naturally, our pilgrims did not see that depiction, since it would be painted a year later. And even if they saw similar depictions, they would pay no attention to them, since they were petrified. It was dangerous to stay in the harbour. They tried to find a solution. When they found somebody from Corinth who knew the roads and hidden places, they asked him to lead them safely to the fortress, paying the price. And they also hired two sailors to lead them on safe and hidden roads. They began to walk on those side roads, through scorched barren valleys and mountains, away from suspicious paths and places, full of fear, and in the greatest silence. They trembled, for they were prepared to meet hostile people from one hour to the next. Every sound amplified ten-fold in their ears. After an entire day of pulling on oars, they were exhausted, but they had to pull themselves up, with more efforts, more fears and anxiety, walking like this for the entire night. God only knew their efforts and pains. Nicholas was convinced that his spirit levitated above his body several times, as if preparing to meet his doom, but by the grace of God they finally reached the very high mountain where the citadel of Corinth was located. They climbed that mountain painfully and reached the city gates at midnight. Obviously, the gates were closed and they had to sleep in front of them until morning came.127 But that was the least of their worries.
…
126 The inscription is now lost, but it was copied in a manuscript. It was allegedly composed by a monk. For the original text, see Feisel, Philippidis-Brat, ‘Inventaires’, 342–343. 127 Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 150. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 657–658.
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The following morning, 6 April, a Tuesday, the pilgrims entered the citadel of Corinth and paid homage to the duke. They would be surprised. The great Tocco was the oddest fish they could encounter among the nobility of the Latin-held Greek lands. Charles I Tocco must have looked truly eccentric. Nicholas probably expected an Italian lord, but this man was living between worlds. He was half-Greek and half-Latin. The fact that he was fighting against the Byzantine despot of Morea did not make him very different from that opponent. In many aspects, they were quite similar to each other. This did not happen because they took after their wives. It does not matter that those wives were daughters of lord Nerio, a lover of Greeks and Athens. What matters is that all these people were living in the twilight of cultures. Like any twilight, the pale green glow of the Italian culture turned to deep and deeper blue under the shadow of the growing Turkish menace, but it still retained its sparkling lights of Byzantine amethyst. I hope my readers will not mind that I usurped these metaphors from a poem by James Joyce. At the time of writing this book, I found no better way of describing the kaleidoscopic assortment of cultural trends coexisting in Morea at the turn of the 15th century. I know that my tales are coming to an end. Dark times were coming upon those lands. Soon, Latins would flee the Peloponnesus. The Byzantines would also be crushed by the Turks. Yet in the dusk of this ending era, their cultures sparkled together, indistinguishable, kaleidoscopic, and ever more beautiful. To give but an example, Tocco’s wife, Francesca Acciaiuoli, had absolutely no right to use Byzantine titles, yet she emulated her sister Bartolomea and signed her letters as ‘empress of the Romans by the grace of God’ (Dei gratia vasilissa Romeorum). This happened for the first time in the summer of 1394, a year before Nicholas da Martoni met her and her husband in Corinth. In that previous year, Francesca had been very sick and she wrote a letter to a relative of hers, a certain Nerio, signing ‘the Empress’ in red cinnabar ink, according to the Byzantine imperial fashion. In those times, the duchess was on good terms with her half-brother Antonio. News about their father’s death did not reach them and the quarrel for their inheritance had not started.128 Maybe she took after her father, who was very fond of Greeks. It is true that when he conquered the duchy of Athens from the Catalans with the help of the Navarrese company in 1388, replacing the old-fashioned feudal administration with a more 128 For the letter of 1394, see the edition of Buchon, Nouvelles recherches historiques sur la Principauté française de Morée et ses hautes baronnies. Diplômes relatifs aux hautes baronnies franques extraits des archives et bibliothèques de Toscane, Naples, Sicile, Malte, Corfou. Seconde époque: Affaiblissement et décadence, de l’an 1333 à l’an 1430 (Paris: Jules Renouard, 1845) 2:253–254. Cf. Thekla Sansaridou-Hendrickx, ‘Francesca degli Acciaiuoli-Tocco: Μία “απελευθερωμένη” αρχόντισσα’, Εκκλησιαστικός Φάρος, 93 (2011), 235–236.
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efficient one, Nerio recruited mainly Italians for the job, but he encouraged the participation of local Greeks as well, whose help he would need in case the Catalans or the Navarrese would try to chase him away (as it happened shortly after).129 For the first time since 1205, Greek had become the language of the administration in Athens, while the Greek archbishop could finally reside in the city, even though not on the Acropolis, which was reserved to the Latin one.130 Perhaps this previous involvement with the Greeks of Attica made Francesca adopt the Byzantine ways. However, in the space of a single year, the good old days would be gone, and she would be fighting both her sister, despina of Morea, and her brother, Antonio, allied to her sister’s Byzantine husband. Nicholas da Martoni did not comprehend this convoluted story. He tried to simplify it, to make some sense out of it, but he must have been puzzled by those whom he saw before him when he entered the citadel of Corinth, when paying his respects to the duke. The duke, Charles I, great Tocco, that duke was a real treat. He did not sign his letters in a Byzantine fashion, at least not for a while (or he did, but we are unaware of this). Maybe he started doing so after 1415, when Manuel II Palaeologus granted him the title of despot of Epirus, following Tocco’s conquest of that land in 1405–1416. He certainly signed his letters in the Byzantine fashion in 1424,131 but his fascination with Byzantine pomp and splendour must have happened earlier, perhaps after his marriage to lady Francesca, or since early youth. In his dealings with the Italians, at least with the relatives of his wife, this great Tocco manifested a degree of negative appraisal of the Greeks (dubitare della barbara fede delli Greci),132 but when dealing with Greeks, he followed in the footsteps of the Villehardouin princes. When the Byzantine emperor made him despot in 1415, it seemed that this title weighed heavier than that of duke.133 And much later, toward the end of his reign, the 129 Nerio Acciaiuoli was a prisoner of the Navarrese in 1389–1391. His release depended on a huge ransom and on the ceding Megara to the Venetians (until they would acquire Argos). 130 See e.g. Van Antwerp Fine, Late Medieval Balkans, 404. 131 See for this the addresses in three letters to Neri di Donato (1424), in Buchon, Nouvelles recherches historiques, 282–283, 284, 285. 132 See for this his third letter to Neri di Donato, who had travelled in the Aegean sometime before 1424 and had some trouble with the Greeks. Cf. Buchon, Nouvelles recherches historiques, 284–285. 133 See one of the titles of the Chronicle of the Tocco, referring to the duke becoming despot and his brother the count becoming grand constable, in Giuseppe Schirò (ed.), Cronaca dei Tocco di Cefalonia di Anonimo. Prolegomeni, testo critico e traduzione (Rome: Accademia nazionale dei Lincei, 1975), 378.
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great Tocco would ask for his own chronicle to be made. In doing this, he was clearly copying the Villehardouin. This Chronicle of the Tocco presented Charles in praiseworthy terms: a righteous lord, caring for the people, not a word about his Italian and Catholic origin, a friend of the Romans, meaning Greeks, and a true enemy of the newly arrived Albanians, even though Albanians were part of his army on several occasions. The 3923 political verses of the acephalous and acaudate poem narrate everything that the duke of Cephalonia had done during his lifetime. The public had to hear about the great power of God, protector of Tocco, and marvel at the events that happened to men.134 From time to time, the Chronicle exaggerated shamelessly and gave the impression that all the lords and archons of those lands had united, bent on bringing the duke’s ruin, from the great envy they had for him. But with the grace of God, the duke always bested them.135 It was therefore necessary that the public listen to the true succession of events, to the manner in which fate led to the duke moving up in the world. What a prodigious miracle! Who would have thought of it? This was how the anonymous author kept his public interested, with frequent exclamations and promising every now and then to tell the luck that guided his lord’s campaigns. With this in mind, the anonymous chronicler was persuaded that his public would be surely amazed.136 From a stylistic point of view, this poem did not differ much from the Greek Chronicle of Morea, meaning that the latter was the model upon which the Chronicle of the Tocco was built, but there are also parallels and similarities with other Demotic texts, like Imperios and Margarona, the Achilleid, and even Digenis Akritas, even though these occurrences may be due to the circulation of those texts in the same cultural milieu.137 Far more interesting is the fact that
134 135 136 137
Schirò ed., Cronaca dei Tocco, 298. Ibid., 360. Ibid., 304. Cf. ibid., 169–172: con la Cronaca di Morea si registrano molte corrispondenze fraseologiche, lessicali o di passaggi (followed by a short list of examples, much too short, unfortunately, for this would be an interesting subject to research); ora se dal complesso dei paralleli si ha l’impressione che il cronista dei Tocco avesse della Cronaca di Morea posseduto e studiato i primi 4–5000 versi all’incirca (an observation to be checked in a thorough study before any conclusion are drawn); nel raffronto con la Cronaca di Morea abbiamo sottolineato l’affinità della struttura del periodo e della costruzione del verso indipendentemente dalle corrispondenze lessicali o delle imagini. Nei raffronti con altre opere demotiche si constata, invece, il caso diverso, e cioè della corrispondenza di certe imagini, ma della differenziazione assoluta nella struttura del periodo e della lingua in generale (among these corespondences, the editor mentions Imperios and Margarona, the Achilleid, and Digenis Akritas).
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the autograph manuscript138 of the Chronicle of the Tocco contains the Spaneas poem. This suggests that maybe the presence of the same imperial poem in the contents of the Grottaferrata manuscript of Digenis was not fortuitous, just as the presence of the history of the emperors of Byzantium in the manuscript of the Aragonese version of the Chronicle of Morea would not be fortuitous either. These arrangements were due to a sort of conscious selection of texts. It should not surprise us. These Latins living in Greece had a fascination with Byzantine pomp and tried to imitate it. Nicholas did not know anything about these complex pretences. He probably felt that the persons before him stood and lived at the passage between worlds. However, the culture of those lords and ladies was impermeable to him. From the little that he understood (the things that affected him directly), this Tocco was not on friendly terms with the Venetians and this must have been one of the reasons for which they had avoided him in the first place, at the very beginning of their adventures in continental Greece. Nicholas and lord Antonazzo would glance at Tocco and his wife with hope and fear. Perhaps they admired the duchess for her bravery in the defence of Corinth, for she had been the one who had held her brother-in-law’s armies at bay until Tocco came to her rescue.139 In the words of the Chronicle of the Tocco, speaking about a later siege of their chief fortress in the island of Cephalonia, in 1413, Francesca had such an extraordinary and admirable prudence, such skill and courage in consolidating the position, that the chronicler believed for sure that there was not another equal to her in all the other kingdoms, none other who would be able to hold people and lordship. The duchess knew how to organize well and to fortify towers and castles with crossbowmen, troops, bombards, and all other manners of defence necessary for the resisting in a citadel.140 The Italian pilgrims would kneel in awe, admiration, and supplication before this strange and powerful couple. Many other important men probably stood close to the duke and his wife, when all of a sudden lord Antonazzo’s eyes would be filled with tears of joy. He had found the Athenian archbishop! Lord Louis da Prato was there, he who was their last and greatest hope. The archbishop received them in his house in Corinth, since there was no hostel in that fortress, and no bread to buy in Corinth either.141 138 According to the editor, one of the only two manuscripts preserving the poem is probably its autograph, written by a Greek from Epirus, maybe even from Ioannina, in c.1422–1429, something which corresponds to the dating of Vatican, gr. 1831 in the third decade of the 15th century. Cf. ibid., 128–131, 143–149. 139 For the relations of Tocco with the Venetians before 1396, when he made peace, and for Francesca’s defence of the citadel of Corinth, see Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros, 167–168. 140 Schirò ed., Cronaca dei Tocco, 356. 141 Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 150. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 658.
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Visiting Corinth had a mitigating impact on Nicholas’s mind. It did not resemble to the city of his expectations. He said it himself: in Western Europe, many wondrous things were said about Corinth, but they were not true. In his journal, he wished to tell the truth and clear up everyone’s mind. He did not know history well. His guides did not know much history either, so he stuck Corinth to the legend of Alexander the Great. For Nicholas, this was the time when this city used to be great and noble. But this was not the Corinth of his day. It was another city, lying on a plain between the mountain where the citadel of Corinth was then and the harbour on the sea. This was evident to him from the presence of ancient buildings that testified to the once grandiose and admirable architectural creations. The ancient city was fabulous, with a perimeter of ten miles. All its houses were covered with lead and other kinds of metal. We do not know what Nicholas saw, but it was accompanied by a beautiful story. When the Romans, who then dominated the whole world, laid siege to Corinth – and it was a very long siege, they set fire to the city, and the whole city burned. Thus, the lead and other metals of the burnt houses melted and flowed down the streets to the sea. This is how that noble and great city had been destroyed, the city that king Alexander adored and did not want to share with anybody after his death.142 The medieval city of Corinth was positioned on the high mountain that they had climbed the previous night. The mountain had a poor curtain wall. Nicholas and lord Antonazzo walked around it and measured it. It had approximately two miles. Inside the walls there were some ugly houses and in many places the city was deserted as well. Our notary assumed that those empty places could cover no more than three measures of wheat. That is, if one would think of sowing wheat on a mountain, in all the empty spaces of a city. It was a way of understanding things. Convoluted or absurd, but effective, especially when one tried to explain things back home. And there were perhaps five hundred hearths in the city, not more. On the highest peak of the mountain there was also an ugly castle. Nicholas da Martoni probably did not much appreciate Byzantine military architecture, although he agreed that the castle was well placed, for it was difficult to conquer.143 The city’s mountain stood between two harbours on two different stretches of water. One was fifteen miles away from the walls of the city, while the other one was closer, at only four miles. And the two harbours stood at a distance of six miles from each other, being divided by a territory that bore the ominous name Sexmilia (a translation of the Greek Εξαμίλιον τείχος, the ‘six-mile wall’). 142 Piccirillo ed., 150. Cf. Le Grand, 658. 143 Piccirillo ed., 152. Cf. Le Grand, 658–659.
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Nicholas’ guides did not know its history well. They knew nothing about the decision of emperor Theodosius II the Calligrapher (402–450 AD) to build a defensive wall across the Isthmus of Corinth, nothing about the towers built by Justinian, and certainly nothing about the plans of emperor Manuel II Palaeologus to rebuild it in order to protect the Peloponnesus from the Ottomans. They could not know this last story, for Manuel took that decision twenty years after Nicholas’ visit, when the Ottomans were about to attack the despotate of Morea in 1415. Instead, Nicholas’ guides told him that the six-mile-long wall had been built by the great king Alexander. Everyone knew Alexander. It was only natural that the most impressive wall of that land was attributed to the most impressive ruler of the Greeks. According to the guides, the Macedonian had made the daring plan to excavate the Isthmus from one harbour to the next, so that Corinth and all of Morea may become an island, but Alexander’s plan failed, because the soil was very rocky and difficult to excavate.144 So Alexander built a wall instead, high and wide, from one harbour to the other, so that no one could pass and do harm to the city of Corinth. Nicholas saw it. That wall was intact in some places and in others it was destroyed. In truth, these were the true stories that one should hear about Corinth, not the half-baked tales that our notary had heard back home in the West. For a while, Nicholas was happy in Corinth. He saw marvellous walls, built by Alexander, and he tasted excellent raisins, very small, and figs, of which he and his fellow pilgrims ate until full. They had been given to them by the archbishop of Athens.145 Speaking of the archbishop, it was with his assistance that Antonazzo, Nicholas, and the others won the favours of the duke. The great Tocco promised to take them on his two-masted brigantine ships that had arrived in the other harbour of Corinth. He had prepared them to take back the lady duchess his wife to their island of Cephalonia, which was the heart of their domains. The pilgrims must have been enthusiastic. Finally, their troubles had ended. They were now under the protection of a powerful duke. But there was also grave news. Nicholas learnt that the sailors who accompanied them and returned to the harbour had been captured not far from the city. It happened that very morning, when they were strolling through the city. And they could not believe their eyes and ears. Never, in their wildest dreams, would they have imagined what dangers they had luckily avoided that night.146 But then they would want to forget about their former troubles. So, they would kneel in reverence and 144 Piccirillo ed., 152. Cf. Le Grand, 659. 145 Piccirillo ed., 152. Cf. Le Grand, 659. 146 Piccirillo ed., 150. Cf. Le Grand, 658.
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respect, thanking Charles I Tocco for his gracious disposition, and thanking the lady duchess for accepting to take them on one of her ships. Nicholas would be genuinely impressed by that lady. She was the daughter of a duke, the wife of a duke, a would-be empress in the signature of her letters, a lady who lived among the highest-brow elite. Nicholas would not know, but two years later, in 1397, the duchess would meet young John the Fearless, heir to the duchy of Burgundy, on his way back from the Turkish prison where he was held captive after the defeat of the crusader knights in the battle of Nicopolis (1396). According to the fourth book of the Chronicles of Froissart, the Venetian galley masters who took lord John and his fellow knights back home wished to show them the islands laying between Rhodes and Venice. The actual reason was to provide plenty of occasions to refresh themselves. Those knights were not sailors and could not endure the life of a seaman. ‘So, they steered first for Methoni, five hundred miles away from Rhodes, and tarried there some days, to refresh themselves, for the country, the harbour, and the lordship belonged to the Venetians’. From Methoni, they climbed back aboard the Venetian galleys and had a fine passage to Corfu – Froissart ignored the geography of the Ionian Sea, so he confused the order of the islands. ‘From Corfu they made for the island of Gavre, where they refreshed themselves again. Thence they sailed for the island of Chifolignie [meaning Cephalonia]. Having anchored there, they landed and were met by a large party of ladies and damsels, who inhabit and have the government of the said island’. Chief among them was lady Francesca, the duchess. She gave a proper welcome to the French knights. Her ladies ‘received the lords of France with great joy and led them on several walks on that island, and the island [was] very beautiful and pleasant’. Now that was a sight to see! Lady Francesca and all the other ladies showing the sights of their island to the prisoners of Nicopolis. Here’s something far more interesting. According to the chronicler, ‘some say, who pretend to be acquainted with the state of this island, and insist upon it, that fairies and nymphs inhabit it, and that frequently merchants from Venice or Genoa, who have been forced by stress of weather to make some stay there, have seen the appearances of them, and have had the truth of these reports confirmed’. The ladies must have told the knights a story in which Western fantasy lore was mixed with ancient Greek myths, very similar to what those knights had already heard when Perceforest would be read to them. Such tales would not be different from that of Morgan le Fay heard by Nicholas in Negroponte. After all, the mixture of fantasy and Antiquity was a feature of the early Renaissance. It was no wonder that ‘the count of Nevers and his friends were very happy with the dames of Cephalonia, for they entertained them gaily, telling them their arrival had been matter of joy to them, from their being
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knights of honour and renown, for in general they had no other visitors but merchants’. This is where Froissart let himself to be carried away and embellish the story with anecdotes about silk weaving and improbably absent lords. ‘I may be asked’, Froissart said, ‘if the island of Cephalonia be solely inhabited by women’. It was a rhetorical question, for he had prepared the answer anyway. The chronicler immediately wrote that ‘women have the sovereignty of it. They, however, employ themselves in needle work and make such delicate and fine silk cloths that no other silk could compare to their work. The men of the island, on the other hand, are not useful in such matters, so they carry abroad these fine works to sell wherever they think to have the greatest profit, while the women remain on that island home. The men honour them for their works, and because they have always a sufficiency of wealth’. What a tall tale! If we were to believe it, the great Tocco and his armies would be away, selling silk to the Albanians of Epirus. Needless to say, this was a cock-and-bull story meant to link two different anecdotes. I would not be surprised if the duchess and her ladies displayed the fine silk of their lands to the French knights coming back from the Turkish prison, and that the knights told several anecdotes when they returned to their French homeland. Froissart probably mixed them up. He continued saying that ‘the state of the island is such, that no one dare approach it, to commit any injury, for whoever should attempt it would perish, as has been frequently seen and proven. For this cause, these ladies live in peace, without fear of any one’. A paradise island, indeed, for it was so far away from the French court, at a time when the French had lost all interest in the actual state of Morea, that Frenchmen could believe in its existence. In reality, the poor duchess had to defend this blissful island by herself sixteen years later, in that famous siege of 1413. Her husband was away on the continent and their lands had been invaded by Maurice Spata, the Albanian ruler of Arta (1399/1400–1414/1415) and Centurione II Zaccaria, the Genoese prince of Achaea (1404–1430), none other than her husband’s nephew-in-law. Froissart knew nothing about these complicated schemes. For him, a Frenchman writing in France in 1397, one thing was certain: the ladies of Cephalonia ‘are amiable, good-tempered and without pride, and certainly, when they please, converse with fairies, and keep them company’. A pretty picture of faraway ladies, not very different from the ladies from the times of old. With their husbands away, they would weave silk and entertain guests on an island that used to be ruled by Ulysses, a reference well known to the Angevins of Southern Italy. Yet with their husbands away, these ladies did not behave like Penelope. Feeling confident and protected by courtly codes, they took after Nausicaa. In the end (to which all good things must come), the knights of John the Fearless left this land of bliss and plenty. ‘After the count
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de Nevers and his companions, that is, the barons and the knights of France, had been welcomed and entertained at this island of Cephalonia for a while (five days), they took leave of the ladies. The count of Nevers made them such handsome presents, for their courteous treatment of them, that they were contented, and thanked him gratefully on his departure’.147 In Froissart’s imagination, Francesca returned to her usual conversations with fairies and nymphs. Unfortunately, even though the Chronicles of Froissart are richly illustrated, none of the images depict these scenes of fun and games.148 From the little that we know, the marriage of Francesca and Charles I Tocco must have been an open-minded one, with him fooling around and fathering many bastards, while she took care of her inheritance and of their possessions. I do not dare argue that she fooled around with the French knights in 1397, even though both the duchess and many of those knights were young and perhaps also restless. What I mean to say is that she must have been detached and maybe not jealous. She cared for her husband’s family, too, including her brother-in-law and her nephews. And since she and Tocco had no offspring of their own, Francesca cared for his bastards, too. The duchess lived in a different time, when a woman ruled alongside her husband, took care of her lands, entertained guests, and defended strongholds in a manner worthy of the famous Byzantine ladies of old.149 It was a time when, from the standpoint of the elite, East and West did not clash that much. The mention of fairies and nymphs in Froissart’s Chronicle illustrates a silent synthesis of sorts. It happened in many places where local aristocracy (Latin 147 I adapted and corrected the old text of Thomas Johnes, esq. (trans.), Sir John Froissart’s Chronicles of England, France, Spain, and the adjoining countries, from the latter part of the reign of Edward II to the coronation of Henry IV (London: William Smith, 1839) 2:650–651, to match the original text, since it was made from a different source and also contained a series of errors. For the original text, quoted here from an old edition, see M. le baron Kervyn de Lettenhove (ed.), Oeuvres de Froissart, publiées avec les variantes des divers manuscrits. Chroniques, 1397–1400 (Depuis l’arrestation du duc de Glo[u]cester jusqu’à la mort de Richard II) (1867–1877; repr. Osnabrück: Biblio Verlag, 1967) 16:52–54. Unfortunately, the Online Froissart: A Digital Edition of the Chronicles of Froissart, ed. Peter Ainsworth, Godfried Croenen – https://www.dhi.ac.uk/onlinefroissart/. (Accessed 2020 July 20 – did not reach as far as the edition of this chapter). 148 For the manuscript tradition of the fourth book of Froissart’s Chronicles, see Alberto Varvaro, ‘Problèmes philologiques du livre IV des Chroniques de Jean Froissart’, in Godfried Croenen, Peter F Ainsworth (dir.), Patrons, Authors and Workshops. Book and Book Production in Paris Around 1400 (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), 255–277. For the illustrations, cf. Laetitia Le Guay, Les Manuscrits enluminés du livre IV des Chroniques de Froissart: Les rapports entre le texte et l’illustration, PhD diss. (Paris IV University, 1992). 149 For an assessment of Francesca’s strong character and her relationship with her husband, see again Sansaridou-Hendrickx, ‘Francesca degli Acciaiuoli-Tocco’.
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and Greek as well) embraced the culture of those who used to be their enemies. Tales of nymphs and fairies must have been also common in the island of Kythira, ruled by the Venetian marquesses Venieri, who traced their ancestry to the ancient goddess Venus. Nicholas would be familiar with those tales, for he must have heard them elsewhere, maybe even in Kythira, where he was told the legend of the Paris eloping with Helen. He would dare talk about it to the duchess on their way to the ships, the next day. The duchess would laugh, amused at this silly plump notary from the Southern Italian town of Carinola. Maybe she would also tell him that if she was a goddess or a nymph, he and lord Antonazzo would be the sailors of Ulysses. It would be expected that by that time, the Moreote nobility would be well aware of the contents of the Odyssey, either from their dealings with the Byzantines or from the cultural trends coming from Italy. Let us not forget that Francesca, her father, and all their kin came from Florence, the very place where the crossovers of genres such as the Vengeance of the descendants of Hector came in the first place. The fraternization of Arthurian fairies and ancient Greek nymphs would come naturally to her mind. Lady Francesca, her husband the Great Tocco, and the archbishop would converse after the visit of the Italian pilgrims, comparing their story and their troubles in the islands of Greece with the adventures of Ulysses, coming back to Ithaca from the siege of Troy. Yet if the duchess spoke to the pilgrims, that conversation could not be long. On Wednesday, 7 April, the duke had all his people armed to the teeth, both soldiers and commoners, so the duchess and the pilgrims travelled with escort to the sea harbour.150 Maybe the duchess would not be the one speaking to them. Francesca had servants and slaves who could converse with the pilgrims, telling them that their adventures were comparable to those of the heroes coming from Troy. Nicholas and his fellow pilgrims would notice that the duchess was accompanied by slaves. In the Byzantine lands, such slaves were restricted to the urban milieu and to the property of great noble houses, but now there were also fashions coming from the Turks. Who knows what kind of slaves the duchess had with her? Some thirty years later, in 1424, Francesca ‘the Empress of the Romans’, with her name signed again in red cinnabar ink, ‘according to the fashion’ (ut moris est), made a gift of one of those slaves, a peasant girl from the despotate of Epirus going by the name of Evdokia, to the same Florentine relative, Nerio of the Acciaiuoli family (perhaps Neri di Donato). Evdokia was supposed to serve said Nerio and his descendants exactly in the same manner as she had served Francesca the Empress. The Acciaiuoli could sell or give her to somebody else, hand her over, estrange her, free her, or give her as dowry. In 150 Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 154. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 659.
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other words, they could do to her whatever they saw fit. Francesca would not care to know about such matters, for she had ceded her rights unto them. The document served as a guarantee and proof of that.151 The party had time to stop and maybe pray in a church where saint Paul was said to have been held captive when he sent his letters to the Corinthians, tied to a column on which one could still see a cross that he had made with his finger. Could this be the church of Saint-Paul in Corinth whence the translator of the Prose 1 version of the Roman de Troie pretended to get his source? Certainly not, for Nicholas told us in his own words that many wondrous tales were told about Corinth in the West, but none of them were true. However, a church connected to the presence of saint Paul in that city had to be invented and a legend of a miraculous trace left by the saint had to be invented as well. Yet from what Nicholas tells us, this would be a church on the way from the city to the harbour, and not a church within the walls of the city of Corinth. This is where the walk ended. Their escort had taken them to the harbour. They need not feel fear anymore. Neither did the duchess. Francesca and her servants climbed aboard one of the brigantines, while Nicholas, Antonazzo and their party climbed aboard the other one. And off they went.152
…
The two brigantines sailed to the city of Patras, which was a hundred miles away from Corinth. They travelled along a stretch of sea between the despotates of Morea (Romania) and Epirus (Albania), which varied in width between two and six miles.153 Nicholas saw beautiful castles, some occupied by the leaders of the Navarrese Company on behalf of the despot of Morea (on the Moreote side), others by the Turks who had tricked the Latin lords to let them marry their daughters, only to kill those daughters later, in order to inherit their land (on the Epirote side). Political geography had changed dramatically by the end of the 14th century. Now lands and lords were so varied that one could not divide them into Latin and Greek halves. It was a time of decline and the only purely Latin town on their route was the Patras, were they arrived at dusk. As usual, they found no place to stay and sleep in. Nicholas tells us that they could not find a single place. Not even in the 151 For the original document, see Buchon, Nouvelles recherches historiques, 285–286. Lower in the same document, in cinnabar red, the signature in Greek letters: Φραγγησχα η Βασσισσα. And below it, in Italian: La ditta carta o facto do …… ad illa l’ a facta …… perdicta, fu in altra di madama, … fussi sua carta per mano di Thomaso Calandrini. 152 Piccirillo ed., Io Notaio, 154. Cf. Le Grand, ‘Relation du pèlerinage’, 660. 153 Piccirillo ed., 154. Cf. Le Grand, 660.
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church of Saint-Nicholas, which was a house of the Friars Minor. However, the archbishop of Patras, who was a known to lord Antonazzo (and his friend – at least from the perspective of Nicholas), welcomed them in his palace, presumably the duchess, too. This was a marvellous building. The thing that impressed Nicholas the most was a room, twenty-five-step long, upon the walls of which the history of the destruction of Troy was painted all around. This was the last halt in his pilgrimage where he saw something connected with that famous mythical war. I already discussed these murals in connection to the lost paintings of Thebes and the fragmentary ones from Akronafplio. There is no point to discuss them once again. The archbishop was a Franciscan, but this did not stop him from being the lord of the town, as the archbishops of Patras used to be since the time of the Latin conquest. He had several other lands subordinated to him in secular and spiritual matters. Nicholas learnt that the archbishop used to make thousands of ducats every year, maybe as much as twenty-five thousand. Now, on the other hand, when times had changed and the Byzantines had conquered most of the Peloponnesus, his annual income was much reduced, but still impressive: fifteen thousand ducats, apparently.154 Easter was close. On Holy Friday, Antonazzo and Nicholas parted company with the duchess. They had found a boat from Corfu that had come to the harbour of Patras. Its sailors had to take them to Corfu for the price of five ducats. Our pilgrims did not skip mass. They were true Christians. They also took the time to visit local churches: that of Saint-Andrew, outside the city, and another one, where the same saint Andrew had been captured and imprisoned when he had come to preach the faith of Christ. By the end of the day, at dusk, on Holy Friday, they climbed down to the beach of Patras and, having taken a short nap to rest themselves, got into the boat and left for Corfu under cover of night.155 They celebrated Easter on that boat, reached the island of Lefkada on Easter Sunday, passed a terrible storm during which Nicholas was certain that he would die, went ashore in the despotate of Arta, where they slept for three nights in a fortress of the Albanians, until their boat was repaired. They finally reached Corfu, crossed the sea to Lecce, and there they were back in the Kingdom of Naples again. Even though they still had more days to travel, at least they were home. Things must have been much easier. This is how on 27 May, Nicholas left alone the city of Capua and finally reached his dear hometown of Carinola. When he approached Carinola, the townsfolk came to greet him in large numbers close 154 Piccirillo ed., 156. Cf. Le Grand, 661. 155 Piccirillo ed., 156. Cf. Le Grand, 661–662.
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to the Blessed Cross. He was deeply moved by their kindness and affection. So many people were coming to see him that he felt like the protagonist of a real show. Let us listen to his own words: I am not saying this out of vainglory. Pride is always rotting in one’s mouth. I say this to praise their great love. And so, with great joy I entered the city with them, believing that I would find the solace of my dearest wife who had died without my knowing at dawn on 10 April, during Holy Saturday, in the hour of the Resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. Oh, how bitter that day was for me! For I could not find my wife Constance, whom I loved above all for her virtues. She loved God more than anything else, she loved her neighbour and she loved the poor. She often went to churches and was present at the divine offices, she always fasted twice a week and on all the vigils of the saints. She always offered alms to the poor. She received pilgrims in our home with the utmost charity, offering them nourishment and a bed to sleep in. She did this not only for those who came directly to my house, but for others as well, for she used to send one of the handmaidens to go look for them in the town, so that she may welcome them into my home. She was godmother to many poor children. In truth, at her request, I had compiled a manuscript quire with the names of all the children whom she had brought to baptism. They are at least two hundred in number. In saying the prayers and the Lord’s Prayer, her lips rarely closed. Considering all of these and her great charity, I truly hope that her soul will reign with Christ. my translation156
When he arrived at his house and could not find the one who had once been his wife, his soul and senses were stupefied. He had so much pain inside that he could not feel the need or find the inner strength to continue living in that world. It was evident to him that she had died from the immense suffering that he had caused her through his travels and late coming home. After a while, he started thinking that we are all born to suffer this. Nicholas remembered a partial quote from Boethius. It said that ‘one law only standeth fast: things created may not last’. What comforted him was that in her illness, his wife had been treated carefully by several doctors until her death, that a great number of people were there when her body was buried with the highest honour in his own chapel in the church, on Holy Saturday, and that the bishop was there, in his papal vestments, and the clergy. Thinking of this, Nicholas praised 156 Piccirillo ed., 166, 168. Cf. Le Grand, 667–668.
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Almighty God for calling her into His kingdom with such an extraordinary attendance.157 In the end, the only other thing that he felt like writing was one of those fancy scribal colophons. No matter what others wrote after him,158 his story ended with the verses: But when ‘twas finished writing this, all praise and glory be to Christ. And may the writer have a place in heaven, by His holy grace. my translation159
157 Piccirillo ed., 168. Cf. Le Grand, 668. 158 A second colophon was added by Ciccio Grosso of Balsorano, the scribe who transcribed the Paris manuscript copy at the Bagni della Rocca in Mondragone, at the behest of Roger of Celano, in the month of March 1397. See Piccirillo ed., 168. Cf. Le Grand, 668–669. 159 Piccirillo ed., 168: Finito scripto isto, | Sit laus et gloria Christo. | Qui scripsit hoc opus | In paradiso reservetur locus. Cf. Le Grand, 668.
Epilogue There are many more stories to tell. There is the tale of George from Mani, a painter at the end of the 13th century, the stories of Johanna of Châtillon, Simon Atumano, Thomais Orsini, Demetrius Kydones, or Cyriacus of Ancona. And there are tales from the islands as well. I can write more books, revisiting and correcting my ideas in the future, but I am not sure if I will make the same experiment. For the time being, this book fulfils its purpose very well. Its subjective narrative tales were meant to slither through the organic corpus and explore the elusive links between high-prestige and low-prestige strata of culture, achieving a proper degree of falsifiability upon which future researches can be based. If I write a second book, to mend past mistakes or to propose more nuances readings, Cyriacus will be an excellent candidate for its closing chapter. He has many things in common with Nicholas da Martoni, chief among which is that he understood very little of what he was seeing and drawing. An advanced version of the medieval pilgrim, he was half-way between humanists and our notary from Carinola. Cyriacus was to the humanists what Schliemann was to Evans. It is no wonder that humanists appreciated and mocked him at the same time. For Poggio Bracciolini, he was a ‘biped ass’ (asinus bipedalis)1 and his language was horrible: a lot of Greek mixed with Latin, inept words, poor Latin expressions, clumsy constructions, no meaning whatsoever, similar to the sayings of the Sphinx. Only a Sybil could interpret what he wrote.2 But for those sages and scholars who mocked him, ancient Greece was a province of the mind. For Cyriacus, ancient Greece was out there. He had to go and see it. It was real. So, he went to Athens. He went to Mani, of all places. He copied and drew all that he could find, he entered many of the churches that I discussed in this book, and he went to Mystras, naturally. It would be nice to imagine a meeting between Cyriacus, Laonicus Chalkokondyles, and Gemistus Pletho. It would happen at the court of Palaeologans of Mystras, in 1447. Through his eyes, I could speak about the church of Pantanassa and its alleged Western architectural features, or of John Frangopoulos, its founder. Constantine Palaeologus had been chasing away Latins from Morea for quite some time. In 1431, he had destroyed the town of Glarentza, driving 1 Cf. Helene Hart (ed.), Poggio Bracciolini: Lettere, 2. Epistolarium familiarum libri (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1984), 299. 2 For the original, see de Equ. Thomas de Tonellis JC. (ed.), Poggii Epistolae (Florence: Delle Murate, 1859) 2:161.
© Vladimir Agrigoroaei, 2023 | doi:10.1163/97890
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the inhabitants away, but he had no problem with this odd Italian who came to Sparti to draw the ancient theatre. The Palaeologans would know that Cyriacus had worked for the Turks in 1422, but they would not mind. Constantine Palaeologus would recognize him from the walls of Constantinople in 1452. In that year, he was the last Byzantine emperor, desperately defending the capital, while Cyriacus would be a reader of Greek and Latin texts for Mehmet II, the Ottoman sultan. Constantinople fell in 1453. Mystras fell seven years later, in 1460. The provincial capital of the Peloponnesus was the last bastion of the Palaeologan dynasty. But the Latin-Greek ‘imitation game’ did not fall with it. It continued in the islands, under Venetian control, where the Palaeologan damnatio memoriae had no effect. Maybe it also continued underground, reaching lower strata of culture, until it reached folklore. There is an odd tale about the Peloponnesus and how the ancient Hellenes conquered it (Διήγησις περὶ τῆς Πελοποννήσου καὶ περὶ τῶν ἀρχαίων Ἐλλήνων ὁποῦ τὴν ἀφέντευαν). It appears in a manuscript of the Chronicle of Monemvasia, now kept in the Athonite monastery of Koutloumousiou. The copy dates back to the early 17th century and it was written by a certain John Likinios of Monemvasia. The tale starts with Pelops and his link to the name of peninsula. Pelops had a son called Zeus (Dias). This son stole the daughter of Menelaus, leader of Athens, whose name was Arka. There is also mention of a philosopher, greatly praised by the Hellenes. He is Homer. The story then speaks of Arcadia, married to a certain Keklopidis of Corinth. And the onomastics blow up: Persephone, Theodosius, Aurelius, Virgil, a certain Poseidonius king of Crete, and names of a possibly Western origin, like a strange Μπερνόριος. The tale moves chaotically around the Peloponnesus and Aegean in the manner of the late medieval romances of the West, but it is frankly impossible to identify its precise origin. The editor noticed that many phrases of this prose text are segments of decapentasyllabic verses. Likewise, three lines in decapentasyllabic verse were also quoted in the text proper.3 This suggests that the Διήγησις is either a common mise-en-prose or a summary of a previous tale, using fragments of verses from a longer poem. Nevertheless, the date of the original poem is debatable. Some voices argued that it could date back to the last years of the Frankokratia,4 but it could just as well date back to the late 15th or 16th century. The remarkable thing about the Διήγησις περὶ τῆς Πελοποννήσου is that it was copied with a poem about empress Pulcheria (Περί Πουλχερίας της βασίλισσας), 3 Cf. Σπυρίδων Π. Λάμπρος, ‘Τρεις παραδοξογραφικαί διηγήσεις περί Πελοποννήσου, Πουλχερίας και Θεοδοσίου του Μικρού’, Νέος Ελληνομνήμων, 4 (1907), 147–149. For the three decapentasyllabic lines, see p. 142. 4 D.A. Zakythinos, Le Despotat grec de Morée, 2. Vie et institutions (Athens: L’Hellénisme contemporain, 1953), 312.
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sister to Theodosius II. This is a hagiographic tale, possibly inspired by Western models. It is full of mistakes of a Western nature, like the customary historical confusions (to name but one of them, Pulcheria’s father is not Arcadius, but Theodosius I). I am inclined to argue that these two texts should be dated to the turn of the 16th century. The poem about Pulcheria could belong to a wider category of texts, like the rhymed paraphrase of the Genesis and Exodus made by George Choumnos in Crete. If it were a late comer to the tradition of Western-influenced texts, this would explain why it was of a religious nature. As we have already seen, religious influences were not a subject of the cultural exchange during the period of actual occupation. Such late influences in matters of hagiography are also visible in art. Perhaps the most interesting of them is saint Sisoe contemplating the carcass or bones of Alexander the Great. In a recent study, I argued that the iconography of this saint was influenced by Western models, since the 1522 depiction in the murals of the Saint-John-the-Theologian chapel from the monastery of Panagia Mavriotissa, near Kastoria, presents the saint contemplating not one but three corpses. Previous research argued that it would be a symbolic choice, depicting mortal equality before Death, but it is more reasonable to interpret it as an influence of the Western iconography of the Three Living and Three Dead. The Kastoria scene is one of the earliest depictions of its post-Byzantine iconographic series and the only one presenting three skeletons. This provides enough proof for an initial Western origin of the subject.5 Let us not forget that the turn of the 16th century was already the time of the Cretan icons, with their vivid red and syncretic iconography. Greek books were printed in Venice, and they continued to be printed throughout the entire modern era. It is no wonder that Italian influences manifested all over the place, originating mainly from the Aegean. This was not something new. The trend had started as early as the 1300s, but it became evident in the later part of the 14th century and especially during the 15th century. Literary texts show it best. At first, there was only an Italian intermediary, like in the case of the tale of the Old Knight (Ὁ Πρέσβυς Ιππότης),
5 For the first presentation of this hypothesis, see Caroline Lambert, Vladimir Agrigoroaei, ‘Innovation et reprise dans Les Trois morts et les trois vifs: un motif en quête d’une structure’, in Claudio Galderisi, Jean-Jacques Vincensini (dir.), Le Dit des trois morts et des trois vifs. Éditions, traductions et études des versions médiévales (essai de ‘translatio’ collective) (Turnhout: Brepols, 2018). For the scene from Kastoria, see Γεώργιος Γούναρης, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγ. Ιωάννη Θεολόγου της Μαυριώτισσας στην Καστοριά’, Μακεδονικά, 21 (1981), 59–60, and fig. 26.
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which was adapted from a Franco-Italian source text.6 Or the tale of Imperios and Margarona (Ιμπέριος και Μαργαρώνα), with an unclear origin, since it could well be either the source or the adaptation of the French tale of Pierre de Provence et la Belle Maguelonne, one of those late medieval French tales popular in Italy, as testified by the use of similar subjects in the ornamentation of private quarters.7 But then the pattern becomes clearer and clearer. Florios and Platzia-Flora (Φλώριος και Πλάτζια Φλώρα) was adapted from a Tuscan cantare, in turn adapted from the French romance of Floris and Blancheflour. The tale of Apollonius of Tyre – the first among the many adaptations of this story in Demotic Greek – was also taken from a late 14th century Italian prose version.8 There was equally a translation of Boccaccio’s Theseid, and then there were all those texts that I already discussed in this book, including the lost ones, like the story of Francesco and Bella, whose names evidently allude to the use of an Italian source. Then something else happened and it is perhaps even more interesting that the Italian cultural influence continued after the end of the Frankokratia. I will start by saying that this lost Bella was not the only ‘beautiful’ character influenced by Western tales. As it is often the case with popular stories or motifs, the topos of the woman-castle moved from the Achilleid and other Demotic texts of the early period to lower socio-cultural strata, ending up in the shared folklore of all Greek-speaking lands. At an unknown time, a new tale was born through the absorption of folkloric themes (Το Κάστρο της Ωριάς).9 It spoke about a princess of Latin descent whose castle was besieged by Turks, and of her tragic suicide in order to avoid shame when the enemies conquered it. The changes in the story are surprising. Similar folkloric additions probably 6 See e.g. Beaton, The Medieval Greek Romance, 135–145. 7 See for instance the depictions of the Châtelaine de Vergy in the nuptial chambers of Tommaso Davizzi and Catelana degli Alberti in Florence. 8 I am not tempted to date the Demotic adaptation of Florios and Platzia-Flora to the 14th century, much too soon after the creation of its possible source, the Tuscan cantare of Fiorio e Biancifiore; nor to link the Demotic translation of the Apollonius to the fact that a copy of this story was included in the testament of Nicola Acciaiuoli (cf. Carolina Cupane (trans.), Romanzi cavallereschi bizantini. Callimaco e Crisorroe, Beltandro e Crisanza, Storia di Achille, Florio e Platziaflore, Storia di Apollonio di Tiro, Favola consolatoria sulla Cattiva e la Buona Sorte (Turin: UTET, 1995), 570). The oldest manuscript of Florios and Platzia-Flora dates back to the second half of the 15th century and it is around this time, perhaps a little bit before or after the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans, that the text should be dated. For a different opinion, see Romina Luzi, ‘Le Florios dans la tradition romanesque byzantine des XIVe et XVe siecles’, Cahiers de recherches médiévales et humanistes/Journal of Medieval and Humanistic Studies, 38/2 (2019), 265–284. 9 Cf. Κ.Γ. Γκότσης, ‘Το Κάστρο της Ωριάς’, Revue des Études néo-helléniques, 2/1–2 (1993), 145–162.
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transformed the tale of Troilus of Zellandine from Perceforest into the tale of Sleeping Beauty, now shared by all European literatures.10 The interactions between high or mainstream culture and folklore are multifaceted. They work both ways, not only from lower to upper strata. A famous mainstream tale has may become a favourite in low-prestige milieus as well. Therefore, the castles of Gardiki (Gradisco), Kalavryta (La Colovrate), Astron (Estella), and many others built by the Latins became the alleged setting of this story in the Peloponnesus. Castles from Boeotia, from the islands, northern continental Greece, and even Anatolia were added to the corpus, when the tale moved around. All of them became ‘Castles of the Beautiful one’. Perhaps the tale of Digenis suffered a similar treatment, with a transfer from the centre to the periphery. This would happen in the later stages of a deliberate attempt to create a Rolandian counterpart in Byzantine culture, whose prestige would then be assumed by folk culture.11 Folk culture usually absorbs and adapts trends coming from the mainstream culture. The three impressive volumes dedicated to the edition of all the Demotic Greek versions of the tale of Apollonius are a testament to this fact.12 This could also be the case of the Cretan Απόκοπος, although at a different level, not necessarily popular, just below that of the high-prestige culture of its time. This Demotic Greek poem absout the descent into the Underworld was printed in Venice in 1509, but it seems to date back to the 15th century. The anonymous author deployed an intriguing mixture of Dantesque and Greek cultural references (both Koiné and Demotic),13 therefore such a rara avis must be the product of earlier trends, perhaps even earlier that the Greek translations and adaptations of Italian texts. It would be expected that such trends have a hatching period of many centuries. Some of them must have started before the Latin occupation, while others waited the moment when Morea gradually 10
11 12 13
I do not follow all the assumptions of Friedrich Wolfzettel, ‘La “découverte” du folklore et du merveilleux folklorique au Moyen Age tardif’, Le Moyen Français, 51–52–53 (2003), 627–640. I am not sure about the ‘discovery’ or use of folklore in the late Middle Ages (14th–15th century). I believe that the assumptions of Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, Jacques Le Goff, ‘Mélusine maternelle et défricheuse’, Annales. Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations, 26/3–4 (1971), 587–622, should be questioned, since they assume that folklore precedes the written versions of a story. This idea needs to be explored in a proper (and separate) study, perhaps in a monograph. Cf. Γιώργος Κεχαγιόγλου (ed.), Απολλώνιος της Τύρου: υστερομεσαιωνικές και νεότερες ελληνικές μόρφες, 3 vols (Thessalonica: Ίδρυμα Μανόλη Τριανταφυλλίδη/Αριστοτέλειο Πανεπιστήμιο Θεσσαλονίκης, 2004). sSee e.g. Peter Vejleskov (ed.), Margaret Alexiou (trans.), Apokopos: A fifteenth century Greek (Veneto-Cretan) catabasis in the vernacular. Synoptic edition with an introduction, commentary and index verborum (Köln: Romiosini, 2005).
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became a province of Southern Italy. But even when William of Villehardouin sent his dear chancellor Leonardo da Veroli to negotiate and sign the treaty of Viterbo (1267), many Italians were already settled in the Latin-held lands of the Peloponnesus. Angevin rule only multiplied their numbers and speeded up a social, political, and cultural process that had already begun. At first, this Italian influence would not be evident, on account of the Neapolitan kingdom being ruled by a French dynasty, but Italian culture soon became an acquired norm. The Venetian presence in the islands, in Koroni, in Methoni, and later even in Athens contributed to the prevalence of these Italian trends. As for France, this was a remote place in the late 14th and 15th centuries. The new Italian dukes of Athens did not look for their confirmation in Paris. The princes of the Achaea – also Italians from the first years of the 15th century – did not answer any French calls for a crusade. The knights of the Peloponnesus did not mount their horses on ships to come to the aid of the king of France and the French themselves soon started to forget what the conquest of Morea had been all about.
…
Back in France, a different damnatio memoriae took place. There were no buildings to destroy, like in Glarentza, but the memory of the Moreote intermezzo was soon forgotten. For instance, a 15th or 16th century hand transcribed an incorrect title on the only manuscript of the French version of the Chronicle of Morea that we know today. The note was transcribed when the manuscript was part of the library of the dukes of Burgundy and it read: Listoire de lempereur de Constantinoble Baulduin comte de Flandres.14 This demonstrates that by that time nobody really cared about what the French had done in Morea. The person who wrote the title did not pass the introductory pages of the Chronicle. And if we look at the tales about emperor Baldwin himself, we would be surprised to learn that he had been married to the Devil, that is, an Oriental woman, therefore alluding to the Byzantines. The so-called tale or ‘chronicle’ of Baudouin de Flandres is a mid-15th century French romance disguised as a historical narrative. The title character does not fill many pages of the story, which is mostly dedicated to his daughters instead. But the whole thing starts with count Baldwin’s rejection of a marriage proposal to the daughter of king Philip Augustus (1180–1223), since 14
For this note, see Catalogue des manuscrits de la Bibliothèque royale de Belgique, 11:188, with a 16th century dating. Cf. Jacoby, ‘Quelques considérations’, 150, who tried to date the note a little bit earlier (15th century).
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his wife had to be richer than he; and with the arrival in Paris of a Byzantine emperor, Henry, who marries the said daughter instead. Next, Baldwin hunts a boar in a forest when he meets a damsel riding a black steed. She tells him that her name is Helius, daughter of an Oriental king, but she ran away from home, as she could not marry someone poorer than her. This is why she is looking for the count of Flanders. Baldwin decides to wed her, blows his horn, so that the lords of Saint-Omer and Valenciennes may come and find them, but they do not like this idea of marriage. There is something evil about the foreign lady. Everybody knows it when she leaves church before the end of mass. A little bit later, the emperor of Constantinople fights sultan Aquilan and dies in battle. And in Flanders, Baldwin finally receives the visit of a hermit who makes Helius tell the truth about who she was: – I am one of the angels that God cast out of his holy paradise. Our common pain is so great that no one can conceive it. So, we would like to draw all other creatures to our rope, so that God will forgive us all collectively. No one can blame us for seeking help. The count, here present, has badly protected himself by abandoning himself to the sin of pride. He succumbed to it, disdaining to marry the daughter of the king of France. God let me reveal these things and suffered that I enter the corpse of the daughter of a king from the Orient, the most beautiful to be found. I entered her body one night and brought it to life. Once alive, she knew how to well behave according to the orders that I gave to her body. For I was indeed her only soul, since her soul had gone where it had to go. She was a Saracen and I brought her to the count to cover him with shame. He could not help marrying her. For fourteen years, I made him use his life badly, causing many harms to the land of Flanders, which he will still have to pay dearly. As for the future, I do not want to define it, as I always intended to catch the count in my trap, but he never failed to remember his Creator, to sign himself with the sign of the cross before going to sleep and when waking up. He could not find better weapons against me. And I lost his two daughters, as he had them baptized. I do not wish to tell you anything more and I go back to the East with this corpse, to lay it down in its grave. my translation15
15
For the original text, see Élisabeth Pinto-Mathieu (ed.), Baudouin de Flandre. Texte présenté, établi, traduit et annoté (Paris: Le livre de poche/Lettres gothiques, 2011), 64, 66.
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Baldwin wishes to mend his past mistakes. He accepts the proposal of the king of France to go to the Orient and relieve his daughter from the siege of the Saracen sultan Aquilan. If he were victorious, Philip Augustus would agree to his marriage to his daughter, empress Beatrix. There’s no need to appeal to psychoanalytic theory in order to understand what the whole tale is all about. It is evident that the narrative is populated with names reminiscent of the Fourth Crusade and Moreote families of old. It is also evident that the 1204 momentum event became a regrettable mistake, a deal with the Devil, and a … resurrection of a corpse. From the standpoint of a 15th century Frenchman, this should have not been done. If we continue to read the tale in this psychoanalytic key, one would easily understand why Baldwin takes his brave knights to the pope of Rome, asking for benediction before going to Constantinople, as the knights of the Fourth Crusade should have appropriately done. When the French army meets Aquilan, the lord of Gavre – remember the Histoire des seigneurs de Gavre, dated also to the mid-15th century? – is entrusted with the command of the army in case Baldwin dies single combat against Aquilan. Baldwin wins, his army peacefully enters the Byzantine capital, as the army of Charlemagne did in the 11th and 12th century tales of his pilgrimage to the Orient. Baldwin also marries the empress, as Boniface of Montferrat had married the widow of Isaac II Angelus. But she conveniently dies, while he fulfils the promise of liberating the Holy Sepulchre. There the count of Blois becomes a traitor – an echo of Stephen of Blois fleeing the battlefield of Antioch in the First Crusade – which leads to Baldwin being taken prisoner by the enemy. There is an intentional confusion between Baldwin I the Latin emperor of Constantinople (1204–1205) and Baldwin I king of Jerusalem (1100–1118). The Fourth Crusade is mended, so that it becomes the First Crusade, and the error of the 1204 intermezzo is forgotten. This chronicle becomes a sort of history-as-it-should-have-been. Apart from Constantinople, there are no other references of a geographical or onomastic nature to Greece or to the Byzantine Empire in general. Even the name of the Byzantine emperor is Henry, clearly inspired by Henry I the Latin emperor (1205–1216), the younger brother of Baldwin I, the protagonist. Symbolically, Greece is cast aside, purposely forgotten, and the tale follows the well-established pattern of late-medieval French narratives. This is a lack of interest for the history of the 13th century French adventure in Morea. Our tale is more interested in Baldwin’s links with Philip Augustus and in the French and Western European intrigues. There were voices who assumed that the tale could be a rewriting in prose of an earlier story, in verse, but the old tale did not contain any reference to the devilish marriage or to the Oriental military
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campaigns.16 This rewriting of the Fourth Crusade is clearly an invention of the 15th century, being probably linked to the cult of relics. The French were preoccupied with more or less the same subjects from before the turn of the 13th century. A quick mention of this other story will be beneficial to my final conclusion. It is better to start from its 19th century echoes. Another theory about the ‘true head’ of saint Denis surfaced in 1870, drawing on late medieval traditions about Baldwin of Flanders and Philip Augustus. Already ubiquitous by then, the holy head was said to be in the possession of the Cistercian abbey of Longpont (Aisne, France). Nivelon of Cerisy, bishop of Soissons, allegedly brought it from the Byzantine capital in 1206. The ultimate proof of this theory was a letter dated 30 January 1698. It was signed by two clergymen of Longpont, Nicolas Quinquet and Pierre Lallouette. It described a crusade planned in 1202 by king Philip Augustus, who could not lead it on account of his war with England, so he left as commander in charge none other than Baldwin, count of Flanders. The tale is evidently related to the introductory sequence of the Baudouin de Flandres romance, but the two clerics had no idea what they were actually quoting. Their interest was to make bishop Nivelon a participant in this crusade. When he returned to France, he would distribute the relics to religious foundations of his diocese. The abbey of Longpont would receive the head of saint Denis the Areopagite and a piece of the True Cross (the best relics in terms of local French and international value).17 16
17
See for this Élisabeth Pinto-Mathieu, ‘Baudouin de Flandre: variations autour d’une imposture’, in Arlette Bouloumié (dir.), L’imposture dans la littérature (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2011), 29–42, paragraph 8. Cf. Arthur Dinaux, Trouvères, jongleurs et ménestrels du nord de la France et du midi de la Belgique, 4. Les trouvères brabançons, hainuyers, liégeois et namurois (Paris: Téchener, 1863), 120 seqq. As proof of the story, the two clergymen quoted oral traditions and a Latin inscription in Gothic letters on the reliquary (Areopagitae Longue-Pons nobilitatur | Feliciti capite, quod in isto vase locatur | Doctrinam vitae cuius grex iste sequatur). They did not seem to be bothered by the fact that the first verse of the inscription contained French words, hinting at a late-medieval date of its composition. As a final point, an unaccented Greek text written in ink directly on the skull and starting above the left ear (Κεφαλη του αγιου Διονυσιου Αρειοπαγιτ.) was supposed to guarantee the authenticity of the relic. Cf. M. l’abbé Eugène Bernard, Les Origines de l’Église de Paris. Établissement du Christianisme dans les Gaules. Saint Denys de Paris (Paris: Jouby et Roger, 1870), 223–228. For the 1870 research, further proof of this assumption was the mention of the same story in a modern breviary (c.1700) and in an act signed by a certain Simon, patriarch of Constantinople and legate of the Holy See, made in the castle of Orléans on 23 October, 1635. Cf. pp. 228–231. Nevertheless, the ultimate argument was the conclusion to which the Bollandists had only just arrived: that some texts of the Orthodox tradition held that the martyrdom of saint Denis took place in Athens, little did it matter that the only text illustrating this tradition was the Menologion of Basil II (presented therein as a work of saint Basil).
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All stories about saint Denis end up contradicting other stories. It is therefore no wonder that others tried to reaffirm the soundness of the Parisian relic by imagining that a mistake had been made during the tagging of the Longpont relic in Constantinople, before its journey to the diocese of Soissons. The critics were polite, but they argued that the relic had to be the head of saint Denis of Alexandria, misinterpreted because of a Greek abbreviation.18 Then the battle waged on. Occasionally this story creeps back even into recent uncritical scientific research.19 The tale is obviously false. By the end of the 15th century, saint Denis would be pentacephalic, with all his five heads in Western Europe, four of which would be located in France: the original one discovered in Paris; the one located in Saint-Emmeram of Regensburg, issue in the 1052 scandal; the one brought to Paris by the monks after the Fourth Council of Lateran in 1215; the purported 1206 head brought by Nivelon of Cerisy from Constantinople; and the head allegedly given by Philip Augustus to the canons of Notre Dame in 1217 (probably a legend from the end of the 13th century).20 I did not forget 18
19 20
M. l’abbé Poquet, ‘Notice sur l’abbaye de Longpont’, Bulletin de la Société académique de Laon, 18 (1866–1867/1867–1868), 348. However, the use of the word Ἀρειοπαγίτης in its Aristotelian form instead of the well-known Ἀρεοπαγίτης of the Middle Ages cannot be earlier than the time of the Renaissance. As for the ‘Gothic letters’ of the reliquary, they date back to the 15th century, a time when the history of the Fourth Crusade was rewritten and when others pretended to be in possession of an alleged head of saint Denis, too. See for instance Caroline Bruzelius, ‘L’abbaye de Longpont’, in Congrès archéologique de France, 148 (1990 = Aisne méridionale), 431: Nivelon de Cherizy rapporta à Longpont en 1204 [sic!] des reliques de Constantinople, parmi lesquelles une tête de saint Denis. Cf. Spiegel, The Past as Text, 259, note 14, who argues that the top of the skull was already venerated as a relic in 1216, since a depiction of the saint on the seal of an “Abbey of Saint-Denis de Montmartre” had “his head cut above the eyebrows, carrying the remnant between his hands.” Her hypothesis is based upon the research of Louis Demaison, ‘Les statues du portail de gauche de la cathédrale de Reims’, Bulletin de la société nationale des Antiquaires de France (1916), 185. However, at pp. 185–186, note 4, he states only that un sceau du chapitre de l’abbaye de Montmartre […] offre avec celui-ci [a seal from Reims appended to an act dating back to 1340] une très grande analogie. The one in Reims had a tête nimbée, tranchée au-dessus des sourcils, but not the one from Paris. When discussing the Montmartre seal, Demaison mentions only that he had seen a moulage of this seal displayed by a certain M. Prinet at the Society of Antiquaries of France and quotes Louis Douët d’Arcq, Collection de Sceaux (Paris: Henri Plon, 1868), 3:48–49, no. 8466–8468, for the first witness of a seal of that particular Montmartre chapter in 1216. At p. 48, no. 8466, on the other hand, he simply describes a seal with the inscription S. CAPITVLI. S. DYONISII DE MONTEMARTI, appended to a chart of 1216, which had a Saint Denis debout, vu de face, portant son test dans ses deux mains. The other two seals following it are said to have the same representation, without further details. But there are no visual references for this seal. The two references quoted by Demaison are unrelated. Since I could not find any other pieces of information concerning this seal, I cannot give credence to its use in the early 13th century. Instead, I assume that this other relic started being venerated
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to mention the fifth one. I left it last, so Philip Augustus may return to us once again. The romance of Baudouin de Flandres belonged to a much wider rewriting of history in the early years of the 15th century from multiple points of view connected with French royalty. The new stories of the Fourth Crusade made victims of many traditions. In 1406, John, duke of Berry, uncle of the king of France, exchanged the head of apostle Philip against a piece from the cranium of saint Denis given to him by the canons of Notre-Dame of Paris. The monks of Saint-Denis denounced the transaction. The true head was in their possession. They said that the king’s father had forbidden the canons of Notre-Dame to display their alleged relic. The latter had argued for a long time that the top of the saint’s head was in their possession, but they must have been in possession of a forgery. Such was the opinion of the convent of Saint-Denis, and the monks arranged that the brother of the king, Louis, duke of Orléans, pay a visit to their abbey in order to venerate the true relics, thereby certifying their genuineness. The head of the saint was taken out of its reliquary, so that the duke could kiss it and see that the top of the skull was not missing. In response, the canons pointed out that the monks had many skulls of saint Denis in their abbey, implying that not all of them were genuine, and that they often displayed a skull of saint Denis of Corinth, which led to some confusion. This quarrel had its origins in the unfortunate arrival of several saint Denis after the Fourth Crusade. It was possibly born out of a larger and far more problematic treatment of several relics hosted by the abbey of Saint-Denis. The arrival of the relics of the Passion after their acquisition by saint Louis in 1239 must have sent shockwaves through the long-established tales of the abbey. If Charlemagne never brought the Crown of Thorns, if it were truly preserved in Constantinople until such a late date, people would question themselves what else would be fake in Saint-Denis. The head of its most important saint would be the first to be questioned, for it used to be a matter of controversy ever since 1052. It would not be a surprise that the canons of Notre-Dame disputed the validity of the relics of Saint-Denis. Perhaps this is also why the bishop of Paris had taken the canons’ side in those early years of the 15th century. He took part in a procession of the Notre-Dame relics, asked chancellor Gerson to make an inquiry, and decreed that the true relics were those in the possession of the canons. Nobody was permitted to contradict Gerson’s findings, but the monks disobeyed and the bishop threatened them with the excommunication. sometime in the late 13th, when there are representations of saint Denis holding the top of his head in his hands.
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Winter came and the king’s uncle testified that the head shown to him by the monks in 1398 was not the same as the one that they recently pretended to have. They had made an experiment in the old days: they had passed a festu ou plume ou vaissel ou repositoire through the relic from one side to the other. The scandal recommenced. The king ordered that the two parties be silent and cease speaking against each other, but the quarrel continued. Things got even more complicated when the two sides started analysing historical documents. Gerson wrote a letter to the abbot of Saint-Denis, saying that there was no problem in having multiple relics. In their world, that of the 15th century, there were already countless heads of saint John the Baptist, several saints Benedict, Magdalene, and Lazarus. As long as the faithful did not mind, neither should the monks of Saint-Denis. But it was a fight for power, so the abbot did not stop. The canons reacted, they even wrote a small treatise, to be used by their lawyer, wherein they argued that several obituaries held that Philip Augustus had given some relics (discovered in the church of Saint-Étienne-des-Grès) to the church of Notre-Dame. Namely some hair of the Virgin Mary, three teeth belonging to John the Baptist, several stones used in the lapidation of saint Stephen, and the head of precious saint Denis. The canons said that the monks knew this story, for they had it transcribed in a chronicle dealing with the story of Clovis II, son of Dagobert, but they chose to hide it. And they quoted also pieces of evidence of an iconographic nature. Several depictions of the saint testified to the fact that the executioner cut only the upper part of the head. The monks answered, they brought solid proof from their texts and documents, and the whole thing went to a public trial before the Parliament of Paris on 2 April, 1410. It continued until 9 July, date of the last mention, but no decision was ever reached.21 It probably stopped the next year, when the abbey of Saint-Denis was pillaged by Bernard count of Armagnac. None of the French involved in this dispute had looked into Greek texts or Greek stories. None of them could. The first time when we can be certain that the Greek language was taught in Paris is in January 1458, five years after the fall of Constantinople. The University of Paris had then recruited a certain Gregory Tifernas to do this job, but he was not a real Greek. Greeks took refuge in Italy, not in France. Gregory was an Italian who had lived in Greece as a young man, later teaching for a while in Naples before going to Rome.22 21 22
For the source of these two paragraphs, see H.-François Delaborde, ‘Le procès du chef de saint Denis en 1410’, Mémoires de la Société de l’histoire de Paris et de l’Île-de-France, 9 (1884), 297–371. Pascal Boulhol, Grec Langaige n’est pas Doulz au François: Étude et enseignement du grec dans la France ancienne (IVe siècle–1530) (Aix-en-Provence: Presses universitaires de Provence, 2014), 153–154.
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When the French discussed the top of the skull and the Saint-Denis relics, they did it on the basis of Latin and French texts. The Areopagus had become the name of a street by then. Ariopagus est la rue, this is what a French hagiographic poem from the early 15th century tells us.23 It was created from the older French and Latin stories of saint Denis. At a certain point in this poem, the anonymous author stated that the head was buried ‘elsewhere’. He probably mentioned the place, but the scribes altered these lines of the poem, since the rhymes from the only copy that we have do not match.24 It is impossible to know where the head of the saint was located in this poem. Therefore, it is hard to know if the anonymous author was a partisan of the Notre-Dame faction or a supporter of the Saint-Denis monks. This is what the French were doing at a time when the Propylaea from the Acropolis of Athens, a palace in the time of the Acciaiuoli dukes, provided the source of inspiration for the Medici villa at Poggio a Caiano.25 Cardinal Bessarion, a famous student of Gemistus Pletho, had already reached Italy by then. The Greek community of Venice grew larger by the day. John Argyropoulos was teaching in Florence. Demetrius Chalkokondyles printed Homer. But these are other stories, for other colleagues to tell. 23 24 25
James H. Baltzell (ed.), The Octosyllabic Vie de Saint Denis (Geneva: Droz, 1953), 38. Cf. Baltzell ed., The Octosyllabic Vie, 15–16. Cf. Tasos Tanoulas, ‘Through the broken looking glass: the Acciaiuoli palace in the Propylaea reflected in the villa of Lorenzo il Magnifico at Poggio a Caiano’, Bollettino d’arte, 100 (1997), 1–32.
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Figure 1
Cressac-Saint-Genis (Charente, France), chapel of the Knights Templar commandery: a) exterior view from the South-east; b) detail of the interior featuring biblical scenes from the lower register of Romanesque paintings Credits: Author
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Poncé-sur-le-Loir (Sarthe, France), church of Saint-Julian: murals of the northern wall of the nave (battle scenes, parable of the rich man, hunting scene) Credits: Author
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Paliomonastiro, near Vrontamas (Laconia), cave church complex: exterior view of the entire complex Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Paliomonastiro near Vrontamas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Paliomonastiro, near Vrontamas (Laconia), cave church complex: the cavalcade of the military saints on the outer façade of the church Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Paliomonastiro near Vrontamas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Chartreuse du Liget, near Loches (Indre-et-Loire, France), chapel of Saint-John: scene of the Dormition of the Mother of God Credits: Author
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In the vicinity of Kastania (Messenian Mani, Messenia), church of Ai-Strategi: exterior view of the building Credits: Author. © Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia
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Figure 7
In the vicinity of Kastania (Messenian Mani, Messenia), church of Ai-Strategi: the depiction of the Trinity on the portico vault Credits: Author. © Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia
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Daphni, Athens (Attica), church of the Daphni Monastery: a) exterior view from the southern courtyard; b) exterior view from North-north-west, with the added portico Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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New York, the Metropolitan Museum of Art: the Acropolis from the West, with the Propylaea and the Temple of Athena Nike, Athens, watercolour over graphite by Thomas Hartley Cromek (1834), 33.3 × 56.3 cm. The Frankish tower is visible to the right © Courtesy of the Met Open Access Initiative
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Figure 10 Kalyvia-Kouvara (Attica), church of Saint-Peter: depiction of bishop Michael Choniates as a saint in the company of other officiating bishops Credits: Panayotis St. Katsafados. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 11 The Dormition of the Mother of God in two French manuscripts: a) Ms Paris, BnF, n. a. fr. 1098, f. 33v; b) Ms Paris, BnF, f. fr. 13502, f. 16v Source: print-screens of the facsimiles available at the Gallica site of the BnF (https://gallica.bnf.fr/)
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Figure 12 Athens, Byzantine Museum, Athenian carvings: a) no. 263 (Nativity spandrel panel); b) no. 265 (spandrel panel with prophets and John the Baptist); c) no. 264 (Anastasis spandrel panel); d) no. 266 (reconstructed spandrel panel with trefoil tracery); e) no. 268 (saint holding a book) Source: Μαρία Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά του Βυζαντινού Μουσείου Αθηνών: κατάλογος. Athens: Ταμείο Αρχαιολογικών Πόρων και Απαλλοτριώσεων, 1999, pp. 189–193
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Figure 13 Athens, Byzantine Museum, Athenian carvings: a) no. 271 (Nativity slab); b) no. 283 (mythological slab); c) no. 292 (alleged tomb fragment) Source: Σκλάβου Μαυροειδή, Γλυπτά, p. 195, 202, 207
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Figure 14 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: a) exterior view of the building from the North-east; b) the Wedding at Cana painted on one of the narthex vaults Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 15 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: the scene with Balaam’s Ass and Abraham’s Sacrifice painted on one of the narthex vaults Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 16 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: the Anapeson from the parekklesion murals Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 17 Galatsi, Athens (Attica), Omorphi Ekklisia: Tonsured saint in the narthex murals Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 18 Athens (Attica), Panagia Gorgoepikoos (church of Saint-Eleutherius or ‘Little Metropolis’): external view of the western façade Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Eleutherius lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.)
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Figure 19 Athens (Attica), Panagia Gorgoepikoos (church of Saint-Eleutherius or ‘Little Metropolis’), details of the eastern façade: a) edicula of Cybele; b–c) two stelae representing a meeting between two characters Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Eleutherius lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.)
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Due to rights restrictions, this illustration is not available in the digital edition of the book.
Figure 20 Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis): a) view of the outer courtyard and Ionian Sea from the top of the keep; b) entrance to the lord’s hall Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 21 Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis): vaulted gallery of the lord’s hall Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 22 Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis): chapel adjacent to the lord’s hall at the piano nobile Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 23 Gastouni (Elis), Panagia-Katholiki church: a) exterior view of the church from the North-east; b) detail of the inscription incised on the architrave of the original western portal of the church Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 24 Kaphiona (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Theodore: depiction of saint Theodore in the sanctuary apse, above the Melismos scene Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Theodores in Kaphiona is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 25 Kaphiona (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Theodore: a) epigram inscription painted above the entrance; b) part of the main inscription painted in the sanctuary apse Source: Panayotis St. Katsafados, “The Eagle from the Apse of the Church of Saint-George in Karinia (1281): Puzzling Heraldry, Defaced Inscriptions, and Odd Iconographic Choices in Inner Mani after the Second Council of Lyon.” Museikon 4 (2020): 53
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Figure 26 Karynia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-George: exterior view from the North-west Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Karynia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 27 Karynia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-George: heraldic eagle painted in the sanctuary Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Karynia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 28 Andravida (Elis), church of Saint-Sophia: a) exterior view of the ruined building from the West; b) external view of the sanctuary apse from the North-east Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Due to rights restrictions, this illustration is not available in the digital edition of the book.
Figure 29 a) Andravida (Elis), church of Saint-Sophia: detail of the southern apse; b) Chlemoutsi Castle Museum (Elis): column capital bearing a mixed coat of arms, from the church of Saint-Sophia at Andravida Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Due to rights restrictions, this illustration is not available in the digital edition of the book.
Figure 30 Glarentza (Elis): panoramic views of the ruined church of Saint-Francis: a) from the South-western corner; b) from the Southern entrance; c) from the middle of the church towards the West Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Due to rights restrictions, this illustration is not available in the digital edition of the book.
Figure 31 Chlemoutsi Castle Museum (Elis): fragmentary grave slab of Anna/Agnes of Villehardouin found in Andravida Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Due to rights restrictions, this illustration is not available in the digital edition of the book.
Figure 32 Chlemoutsi Castle Museum (Elis): upper left corner of the grave slab of Anna/Agnes of Villehardouin – detail of a salamander and a peacock Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of Ilia / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 33 Kouvara (Attica), church of Saint-George: the (allegedly Western) undulating contours of the mandorla from the Last Judgement scene Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 34 In the vicinity of Alepochori (close to Megara, Attica), monastery church of the Saviour: mural paintings of the sanctuary: a) the Pantocrator; b) the hierarch saints Credits: Author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The Monastery of the Metamorphosis in Alepochori is under the responsibility of the Ephorate of Antiquities of West Attica. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 35 Akrefnio / Karditsa (Boeotia), church of Saint-George: a) exterior view from the South-east; b) votive inscription mentioning Anthony le Flamenc Source: Alexandra Kostarelli, “The Dedicatory Inscription of Saint George Church at Akrefnio, Boeotia (1311). Notes after the Completion of the Conservation Works.” Museikon 3 (2019): 20, 14
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Figure 36 Pyrgi (Euboea), church of the Transfiguration: Pentecost scene painted on the transversal barrel-vault of the nave Credits: Author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The monument church of the Transfiguration in Pyrgi falls under its jurisdiction Ephorate of Antiquities of Euboea. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports
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Figure 37 Polemitas (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Nicholas: a) exterior view from the West; b) interior view towards the sanctuary (the niche with saints George and Kyriaki is visible to the left) Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Nicholas in Polemitas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 38 Polemitas (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Nicholas: saints George and Kyriaki in the first northern niche of the nave Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-Nicholas in Polemitas is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 39 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: exterior view from the West-south-west Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 40 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: depiction of saint Eustace in the nave of the church Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 41 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: a) mid-register paintings of the sanctuary apse (the first two saints to the North); b) mid-register paintings of the altar apse (southern hierarch saints) Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 42 Megali Avli, near Keratea (Attica), church of Saint-Kyriaki: remnants of the sanctuary inscription Credits: Panayotis St. Katsafados. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 43 Dagla Hill, near Markopoulo (Attica), Taxiarchis church, sanctuary apse murals: a) officiating saints to the North; b) officiating saints to the South Credits: Author. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Ephorate of Antiquities of East Attica
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Figure 44 North of Megara (Attica), church of the Saviour: sanctuary apse murals Credits: Author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The Church of the Metamorphosis, north of Megara, is under the responsibility of the Ephorate of Antiquities of West Attica. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 45 North of Megara (Attica), church of the Saviour: mural paintings in the south-eastern corner of the nave © Author. The rights on the depicted monuments belong to the Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports (Law 4858/2021). The Church of the Metamorphosis, north of Megara, is under the responsibility of the Ephorate of Antiquities of West Attica. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 46 Plaka, Athens (Attica), church of Saint-John-the-Theologian: military saint riding a horse on the southern side of the barrel vault in the prothesis Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-John-The Theologian in Plaka lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.)
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Figure 47 Plaka, Athens (Attica), church of Saint-John-theTheologian: military saint riding a horse in the middle register of paintings from the sanctuary, northern wall, with a segment of an Ascension scene in the upper register Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-John-The Theologian in Plaka lies within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of the City of Athens. © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development (H.O.C.RE.D.)
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Figure 48 Geraki Castle (Laconia): a) view of the castle hill; b) exterior view of the entrance to the church of Saint-George Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 49 Geraki Castle (Laconia), church of Saint-George: general view of the proskynetarion adjacent to the northern wall of the nave – the cadency marks are visible on both sides of the trefoil opening Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 50 Geraki Castle (Laconia), church of Saint-George: a) coat of arms carved at the top of the proskynetarion; b) coat of arms carved above the entrance to the nave Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Saint-George in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 51 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), church of the Perivleptos Monastery: exterior view from the South Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Perivleptos in Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 52 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), Museum at the Metropolis church, the Alexander slab taken from the church of the Perivleptos Monastery: a) general view of the piece; b) detail of the Alexander scene Credits: Author. The Museum of Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 53 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), church of the Perivleptos Monastery: interior view of the prothesis, altar, and diaconicon Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Perivleptos in Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 54 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), church of the Perivleptos Monastery, damages to the mural paintings on the side walls of the apses, probably connected with the dismantling of the templon screens, and measurements for the reconstruction of the latter with the inclusion of the Alexander slab: a) prothesis; b) altar; c) diaconicon; d–g) detailed views of the corresponding fitting marks still visible on the floor. The colour red marks the damages to the mural paintings on the side walls Credits: Author
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Figure 55 Mystras, near Sparti (Laconia), Museum at the Metropolis church: plaster and brick remnants on the left end of the Alexander slab Credits: Author. The Museum of Mystras is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 56 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: exterior view of the building from the South Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 57 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: interior view of the immured entrance to the diaconicon Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 58 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: immured entrance to the diaconicon, dado zone, Maximou the Amazon (Η Μ[Α]ΞΙΜȢ) Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 59 In the vicinity of Chrysapha (Laconia), church of the Chrysaphitissa: immured entrance to the diaconicon, dado zone, Digenis Akritas (Ο ΔΥΓΕΙ(N)ΗC) Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Chrysaphitissa in Chrysapha is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 60 Nomitsi (Messenian Mani, Messenia), church of the Transfiguration: a) column capital with the agrarian/pornographic animal scene; b) column capital with a hunting scene Credits: Author. © Greek Ministry of Culture and Sports, Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia
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Figure 61 Charia (Inner Mani, Laconia), church of Saint-Nicholas: a) column capital with the agrarian/pornographic animal scene; b) second animal scene (the fox and the rooster) with the inscription in political verses Credits: Panayotis St. Katsafados. The Monument Church of Saint-Nicholas in Charia is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 62 Geraki Castle (Laconia), hill of the Outer Churches, Taxiarchis church: exterior view from the West Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Taxiarchis in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Figure 63 Geraki Castle (Laconia), hill of the Outer Churches, Taxiarchis church: the siege of Jericho painted on the northern wall Credits: Author. The Monument Church of Taxiarchis in Geraki is within the domain of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Laconia, © Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sports / Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development
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Secondary Literature
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Index References of a generic nature (“Byzantium,” “Greeks,” “West,” “Latins,” etc.) were not included in the general index, owing to their overwhelming use throughout the entire book. Place names from outside Greece are accompanied by their corresponding country in brackets. A similar mention of “Mani”, in brackets, accompanies Maniot place names, in order to identify them in the third map of the book. Aachen (Germany) 57 Abel (biblical character) 234–235 Abelard 81 Abraham (biblical character) 115, 178–179, 185 Acciaiuoli (family) 195, 567, 584. See also Andrew; Antonio; Bartolomea; Francesca; Francesco; Laudamia; Nerio (Neri); Nerio I; Nicholas Achaea 35, 105–106, 166, 208, 214, 221, 225, 236, 246, 325, 349, 353, 384, 415–416, 440, 442, 447, 451, 500, 565, 577 Achilleid (Greek text) 301, 461–462, 464–465, 467–469, 489, 545, 560, 575 Achilles (literary character) 216, 298, 462–469, 545 Achillides, brother of Landomata (literary character) 455 Acre 255 Adam (biblical character) 45, 158, 161, 235, 366, 427 Adenet le Roi 289 Adoration of the Magi (iconography) 190 Adriatic Sea 208, 503 Aegean Sea 7, 255, 318, 536, 573–574 Aeneas (literary character) 353, 544 Aeschylus 217 Afflighem abbey (Belgium) 73 Africa 26 Africa, Northern 537 Agamemnon (literary character) 288 Agate (literary character) 517 Agen (France) 498 Agia Thalassa (Cyprus) 452 Agia Triada (Argolid) 32, 189. See also Merbaka Agios Georgios (Cyprus) 502, 504 Agnes (saint) 214, 306
Agnus Dei (iconography) 264, 287, 295, 297 Agridi Kounoupitsa (gorge) 245 Ainos (island) 535 Aix-en-Provence 417 Ajax the Lesser (literary character), as Ajax the Maniot 364 Akova 276 Akrefnio 34, 327, 368, 411, 436 Alatiel (literary character) 442–443 Albanian(s) 502, 531, 550, 552, 560, 565, 569 Albano (Italy) 66 Albert (layman proclaimed saint) 119 Albert the Great 175, 183 Albertino of Canossa 102 Alberto Marangon 369 Albin, cardinal and future bishop of Albano 66–68, 74–75 Alcyonides (islands), monastery of the Zoodochos-Pigi 317 Alepochori, church of the Saviour 317–318, 398, 400–402 Alexander (Greek text) 20 Alexander of Aphrodisias 151, 153, 173 Alexander the Great 10, 19–20, 29, 155, 216, 232, 277–279, 284–285, 288, 292, 335, 442, 454–455, 463, 470–480, 482, 484, 525, 528, 538, 543, 545–546, 562–563, 574 Alexandria 65 Alexios (literary character) 539 Alexius (saint) 320 Alexius I Comnenus 112 Alexius Philanthropenos 255 Alexius, son of Belisarius (literary character) 548 Alfaro (family) 431 Alfeios (river) 245
714 Alfonso Fadrique 345, 349 Alien vs. Predator (contemporary motion picture) 454 Alife (Italy) 489 All along the Watchtower (song) 508 Allegories of the Iliad (Greek text) 216, 298 Alphonso V of Aragon 438 Alps 413; Italian 148, 289 Amalfitan(s) 13, 56, 60 Amazons (literary characters) 444–445, 544 Ambrogio Lorenzetti 291 Ambrose (saint) 64 Ammonius 173 Amorosa visione (Italian text) 467 Anapeson (iconography) 184 Anastasis (iconography) 160–162, 393, 406; (theme) 365 Anastasius Bibliothecarius 129 Anatolia 236, 576 Ancelin of Toucy 248 Ancona (Italy) 370, 455 Andravida 9, 24, 36, 215, 220, 230, 241, 243, 245, 247, 260–261, 265, 270, 273–274, 281, 304, 317; church of Saint-James 9, 215, 279, 304; church of Saint-Sophia 9, 215, 261–262, 265; church of SaintStephen 9, 215; Franciscan house of Saint-Stephen 274 Andrew (saint) 569 Andrew Acciaiuoli 444 Andrew of Crete (saint) 144 Andromache (literary character) 50 Andronicus Asen Zaccaria 451 Andronicus II Palaeologus 266, 318 Androusa 265; church of Saint-George 265 Àneu (Spain), church of Santa-Maria 184 Angelo Clareno 2, 40, 308–313, 315–317, 319–320, 325–326, 329, 366–367, 370, 372–375, 377–378, 385, 387, 390, 402, 409–410, 532; as Peter of Fossombrone 315 Angevin(s) 10, 199, 203, 302, 335–336, 346–347, 412–413, 446, 488, 565, 577 Anglo-Norman (dialect of Old French) 6, 57, 127; (linguistic features) 413, 468 Anna (Constance) of Hohenstaufen 214
Index Anna / Agnes of Villehardouin 2, 9, 35–36, 40, 208–221, 223–225, 227, 231–234, 236–241, 243–244, 246–248, 256–263, 268–283, 290, 292–294, 297, 300–305, 329, 556; as Anna Comnena Doucaina 208; funerary slab 9 Anna Cantacuzene 297 Anna Palaeologina 298, 301 Annunciation (iconography) 393; (theme) 213 Ano Boularii (Mani), church of SaintPantaleon 34, 253; church of Saint-Pantaleon 32 Ano Poula (Mani) 390; church of Saints-Theodore 389 Antedamas (literary character) 442 Antenor (literary character) 455, 516, 544; as Anthenor 350 Anthony (saint) 287 Anthony de la Cour 501 Anthony le Flamenc 34, 327–328, 365, 372, 411 Anthony, king of Constantinople (literary character) 463 Antidamas of Heraclea 442 Antioch 65; (battle) 154, 156, 579 Antiochus (biblical character) 115 Antiochus (literary character) 463 Antirrio 316 Antonazzo (pilgrim) 509–512, 514, 516, 519, 526, 530–531, 551–553, 561–563, 567–569 Antonio Acciaiuoli 529, 558–559 Antonio Agostino (bishop) 489 Antonio di Puccio Pisano. See Pisanello 291 Apokopos (Greek text) 576 Apollo, god (literary character) 458 Apollonius (literary character) 470 Apollonius of Tyre (French text) 8, 470–471; (Greek text) 28, 471, 493, 575–576; (Latin text) 443, 463, 470 Apollophanus 83 Apostolic Brethren 325 Apuleius 458 Apulia 248, 258, 271, 295 Aquilan (literary character) 579 Arab (language) 13 Aradippou (Cyprus) 441, 451–452, 505
Index Aragon 438, 460; Aragonese 430, 433–434; (linguistic features) 336 Arcadia 245 Arcadia (literary character) 573 Arcadius 574 Archimedes 173 Arco Castle (Italy) 290 Areia, monastery of Agia Moni 190 Areopoli 3, 33; Pikoulakis tower 25, 30 Arethas of Caesarea (bishop) 483 Argolid 32–33, 115, 124, 190–191, 203 Argos 105, 124, 189–191, 195, 311, 408, 442; temple of Hera 189 Arians (heretics) 12 Arilje (Serbia), church of Saint-Achillius 179 Aristarchus 83 Aristippus 155 Aristophanes 46 Aristotle 126–127, 152, 155–156, 171–173, 175, 187–188, 193, 205, 207, 209, 290, 311, 448, 469, 514, 520; Aristotelism 156; Aristotle saddled (iconography) 204, 290 Arka (literary character) 573 Armenia 234, 410, 455, 503; as Cilician Armenia 309, 315, 418–419, 421, 450, 500, 503–505; 500 Arnold (friar) 501 Arnolfo di Cambio 167 Arrian 47 Arsenites 318, 549 Arsenius Autorianus 119, 318; Arsenite schism 267, 549 Arta 114–116, 221, 226, 269, 280, 294, 296, 303, 423, 565, 569; castle 220, 303; church of Kato Panagia 263; church of Parigoritissa 264, 294–296; church of Saint-Demetrius Katsouris on Plisii 380; church of SaintGeorge 257, 269; church of SaintTheodora 297, 478 Arthur (literary character) 11, 233, 454, 477, 482, 540–546, 548; Arthurian 8, 213, 233, 255, 289, 291, 412, 419, 445, 461, 498, 532–534, 536, 540, 542, 544–545, 567 Asan (literary character) 537, 539 Ascension (iconography) 287, 393, 402, 407, 477; (theme) 201, 287, 380
715 Asia 46 Assisi (Italy), church of Saint-Francis, Lower Church 315; church of Saint-Francis, Upper Church 313; church of SaintMary-of-the-Angels, Porziuncola 317 Assizes of Cyprus (Greek text) 453 Assizes of Jerusalem (French text) 271 Assizes of Romania (Italian text) 224, 272 Assyria 97 Astron 576 Athanasius (monk) 186 Athanasius (saint) 407 Athanasius I, patriarch of Constantinople 318 Athanasius, patriarch of Alexandria 325 Athanasoulis, Demetrios 4 Athens 2–3, 22, 34, 44–47, 53–54, 62, 79, 82–83, 85–87, 91, 93–94, 96, 98–102, 106, 108–109, 111–112, 114, 116–118, 120– 121, 125–129, 133, 146–149, 152, 154–155, 158, 163–164, 166–167, 170–172, 177, 185, 188, 193, 195–197, 199, 202, 204, 209, 217, 238–239, 277, 293, 295–296, 314, 316, 319, 326, 328, 337–339, 345, 348–350, 364, 371, 380, 397, 402–403, 411, 434– 435, 442, 444–445, 507, 512, 514–515, 517–518, 520, 522–523, 525–526, 528– 531, 543–546, 550–554, 558–559, 563, 572–573, 577, 584; Athenian(s) 48, 54–55, 78, 82, 86–87, 91, 101, 110, 113, 125, 127–128, 132–133, 149, 154, 171, 244, 326, 411; Acropolis 44, 48, 87, 100, 110–111, 132, 171, 218, 402, 514–515, 519, 521, 523, 528–529, 559, 584; Agora 193; Areopagus 54, 86–88, 111, 132–133, 195, 584; Byzantine Museum 33, 158, 163, 172, 185, 196, 207, 217, 295–296, 314; Callirrhoe fountain 54, 520–521; Catalan duchy 434–435, 440; Chalandri, Frangokklisia 319; Christian Archaeological Society in Athens 33; church of Saint-Dominic (?) 552; church of Saint-Eleutherius, known as Panagia Gorgoepikoos or ‘Little Metropolis’ 193, 195–198, 200–204, 207, 228; church of Saint-Eleutherius, known as Panagia Gorgoepikoos or
716 Athens (cont.) ‘Little Metropolis’ 552; church of Saint-Elijah in Stavropazaro 552; church of Saint-Marina 88, 90, 404; church of the Holy Apostles 197; Diateichisma Wall 90; Elaphos 88; Enneakrounos fountain 520–521; Franciscan Observant monastery of the Virgin (?) 371; French School of Athens 2–3; Galatsi, church of SaintGeorge (Omorphi Ekklisia) 5, 18, 123, 177–179, 181–186, 196, 207, 228, 287, 314, 380, 401, 429; German Institute 4; Hadrian’s Gate 445; Hadrian’s Gate 444–445, 518; Hadrian’s Library 170; Hadrian’s Palace 519– 520; Hill of the Nymphs 90; House of Proclus 171; Houses of Hippocrates 522; Kifissos 3; Lycabettus 22, 522; Lyceum 171, 520–521; Melitides Gate 90; monastery of Saint-Denis 87–88, 90–91; Observatory Hill 88, 90, 404; Panops fountain 520; Parthenon 44, 521; Parthenon, as a church 49, 86, 100, 110–111, 164–168, 170, 523, 526, 528–529; Parthenon, gates of Troy 523; Piraeus. See Piraeus 54; Plaka, church of SaintJohn-the-Theologian 402, 404–405, 409; Pnyx 90; Propylaea 521, 523, 584; Roman Agora 4; School of Aristotle 171, 173, 188, 520–521; Temple of Olympian Zeus 519, 521; Themistoclean Wall 88, 90; Thrasyllus monument 522; Tower of the Winds 170 Athos, Mount. See Mount Athos 2 Attica 14, 44–45, 55–56, 79, 87, 104, 109, 115–117, 120–122, 124, 165, 186, 209, 231, 265, 324, 348–349, 371–372, 391, 395–397, 399, 401–402, 410–413, 434, 436, 438, 507, 512, 550, 559 Atwood, Margaret 36 Aubeterre-sur-Dronne (France), church of Saint-John 32 Augustine (saint) 64 Aulax (battle) 437
Index Aurelius (literary character) 573 Autun (France), church of Saint-Lazarus 180 Avalon (fictional place) 455 Avlona 99 Azzo di Masetto 289 Babylon 115, 277, 284 Balaam (biblical character) 178–183, 185 Baldwin I of Flanders 107, 579–580; (literary character) 577–579 Baldwin I, king of Jerusalem 579 Banat 7, 396 Barcelona (Spain) 433 Bari (Italy) 258; church of Saint-Nicholas 258 Barlaam and Josaphat (bilingual manuscript) 13, 60, 123, 157; (Greek text) 61; Barlaamist(s) 422 Barlaam of Calabria 447 Barnabas (saint) 117 Barral II des Baux 283 Bartholomew Guiscolo 414 Bartholomew II Ghisi 340, 344–346 Bartolomea Acciaiuoli 529, 558 Basil (priest) 101 Basil (saint) 64, 107, 310, 405, 407 Basil II the Bulgar-Slayer 39, 86, 100 Basil Kamateros 45 Basil Kynegos 48 Bataille, Georges 26 Baudouin de Flandres (French text) 577, 580, 582 Bayezid I 529 Beaune (wine) 527 Beauvais 205 Bédier, Joseph 331 Before Midnight (contemporary motion picture) 38 Beguine(s) 494 Beirut (Lebanon) 509 Bela (literary character) 445 Bela of Saint-Omer 151, 154 Belisarius 537; (literary character) 469, 537–540, 545–549 Belisarius (Greek text) 535, 545–546, 549 Belle Hélène de Constantinople (French text) 463
Index Bellerophon (literary character) 288 Benedict (saint) 107, 181, 583 Benedict of Negroponte 371 Benedict, cardinal of Saint-Susanne 34, 61–62, 64–67, 74–75, 77–78, 80, 92, 97–98, 157 Benedictine(s) 13, 107, 168, 181, 325, 410, 417; Celestine 410, 504; Glagolite 186 Bengali Night (contemporary novel) 127 Benoît of Sainte-Maure 50, 290–291, 298, 336–337, 353–355, 362–363 Benvenuto da Imola 415 Berard (archbishop) 53, 86, 91, 93, 98–102, 106, 111, 121 Bernabò Visconti 500, 506 Bernard of Armagnac 583 Bernard of Bergamo 370 Bernard of Clairvaux (saint) 498 Berte aus grans piés (French text) 289 Bertha (Irene) of Sulzbach 216 Berthold of Katzenelnbogen 102 Bertrand of Bar-sur-Aube 289 Bessarion (cardinal) 584 Betis (literary character) 455 Bible 11, 26, 127, 224, 232–233, 378; 1 Scriptures 528 Old Testament 12–13, 32, 46, 115–116, 149, 224, 233, 295, 333, 368, 399, 414, 555–556 Pentateuch 333 Genesis 234, 335, 428, 574 Exodus 428, 574 1 Kings 181 Tobit 186, 471 1 Maccabees 284 Psalms 232–233, 426–428 Song of Songs 186, 211, 213–214 Isaiah 45, 414 Jeremiah 98 Ezekiel 97 Daniel 98, 305 Hosea 97 New Testament 12, 83, 234, 368 Gospels 71, 157, 309, 526 Gospel of Matthew 73, 426 Gospel of Luke 46 Gospel of John 183 Acts 396
717 Pauline Epistles 100, 205 Corinthians (both) 144, 568 1 Corinthians 238 Galatians 396 Ephesians 66 Bible du XIIIe siècle (French text) 334 Bible historiale (French text) 333–335 Binduccio dello Scelto 354 Bithynia 386 Blachernae, Council 422 Blachernitissa (iconography) 390 Blois 579 Boccaccio 8, 443, 445–448, 467, 482, 518, 575 Boeotia 14, 31, 79, 105, 115–116, 153, 209, 231, 324, 327, 345, 371–372, 377, 410–411, 413, 434, 436, 542, 550, 576 Boethius 570 Bogomil(s) 319, 325 Bohemia 536 Bohemond I of Antioch 127, 154, 282 Bohort (literary character) 291 Bolzano (Italy) 395 Bonaventura (saint) 175–176, 315 Boniface of Montferrat 34, 44, 61, 95, 579 Boniface of Verona (lord) 348–349; (writer) 351–352, 447 Boniface VIII (pope), as Benedictus 312 Bonne de la Roche 154 Bordeaux 498 Boris I of Bulgaria (fictional character) 288 Bosnia 396 Boudonitsa. See Mendenitsa 47 Boura, Laskarina 23 Bouras, Charalambos 23 Brescia (Italy), Palazzo Broletto 289 Brichemer the stag (literary character) 495 Brie (cheese) 527 Briki (Mani) 3; church of Saint-Nicholas 3 Brindisi (Italy) 350 Briseis (literary character) 484 Britain 455–456, 460, 516, 544, 546; British Isles 6; British 38, 518 Brittany 536 Brunetto Latini 468 Bruns (literary character) 362 Bukhara (Uzbekistan) 222 Bulgarian(s) 183–184, 216, 236, 288, 298–299, 451
718 Burgundy 180, 217, 330, 347, 564, 577 Byzantine Commonwealth (concept) 7, 234–235, 285, 297 Byzantine Iliad (Greek text) 469 Cadmus (literary character) 298 Caffa 374 Cain (biblical character) 234–235 Cairo 501–503, 523 Calabria 176 Calais (literary character) 218 Calchas (literary character) 455 Callimachus 48 Callinicus (saint) 117, 396, 406 Callisthenes, Pseudo- (author) 20 Calvino, Italo 309 Camden Roll (French text) 24 Camelot (fictional place) 544 Camina monastery (?) 325 Canaan 46; Canaanites (biblical people) 115 Canan (literary character) 543 Canani (literary character) 537 Candia (Crete) 150, 320; church of Saint-Francis 323 Cangrande II della Scala 287 Cannibal Holocaust (contemporary motion picture) 517 Cantacuzene (family) 454, 507, 549; (literary character) 537 Cappadocia 17–18, 379–380, 391 Capua (Italy) 523, 569 Carcassonne 283 Carinola (Italy) 510, 554, 567, 569, 572 Carintana dalle Carceri 209 Carolingian (dynasty) 14, 159, 198–199 Carpathian Mountains 401 Carthage 353 Casole (Italy), monastery of SaintNicholas 61, 120 Castile 502, 504 Castle of Love (French text) 213 Catalan (language) 336; Company 281, 337, 410, 437–438, 525; Catalan(s) 148, 329, 338, 344–345, 348–349, 378, 390, 411, 433–434, 436–439, 507, 510–512, 550, 558–559; Catalonia 184 Categoriae (Greek text) 172
Index Cathar(s) 319, 376 Catherine (saint) 126 Catherine II of Valois-Courtenay 343, 346 Catherine, daughter of Erard III of Aunoy 440–441, 450–451 Cato 47 Catulla (literary character) 84, 148–149; as Catulle 527–528; as Katoula 82, 84 Cavalcade of the Holy Cross (iconography) 17 Celtic (texts) 536 Centurione II Zaccaria 451, 565 Cephalonia (island) 120, 342, 512, 529, 550, 552–554, 560–561, 563–566 Chalcidians 125 Chalkida 34, 99, 113, 319, 346, 375–376, 478, 533, 549–550; See also Negroponte 34; as Evripos 53, 91, 97; church of Saint-Mary (?) 532; church of Saint-Paraskevi 8, 375; Harababa Castle 532; Negroponte bridge Chanson d’Antioche (French text) 220, 245, 281, 283 Chanticleer the rooster (literary character) 493–495 Charia (Mani) 490; church of SaintNicholas 25, 490–492, 494–497 Charikles (literary character) 212 Charlemagne 29, 199, 463; (literary character) 57, 278, 579 Charles I of Anjou 172, 199, 226, 269, 274, 278–281, 283 Charles II of Anjou 199, 303 Charles I Tocco 529, 550, 554, 558–561, 563, 565–567 Chasteau d’amur (French text) 127 Chastelaine of Vergy (Italian text) 292 Chauvency (tournament) 303 Cheese and the Worms (contemporary monograph) 38 Chevrefoil (French text) 214 Chiliomodi, Faneromeni monastery 121 Chios (island) 255 Chlemoutsi Castle (Elis) or Clermont 35, 218, 220–221, 225, 243, 245, 270, 274, 280–281, 304, 443 Chortaiton monastery 95–96, 107
Index Chrétien of Troyes 55, 205, 289, 467, 543 Christoforaki, Ioanna 13 Christopher of Nafplio (saint) 408 Christopher (saint) 283, 287 Chronicle of Baldwin of Avesnes (French text) 336 Chronicle of Monemvasia (Greek text) 573 Chronicle of Morea (all versions) 9, 13, 33, 165, 273, 328–329, 331–332, 334–336, 344, 347, 352, 365, 416, 448–449, 471, 488; (Aragonese version) 240, 243, 330–331, 334–336, 339–340, 347, 430, 561; (French version) 31, 39, 215, 226, 258, 261, 301, 328, 332, 336, 339–340, 342–344, 346, 577; (Greek version) 101, 154, 226–227, 245, 258, 264, 281–282, 291, 328, 330, 332, 334, 337, 339–340, 345, 347, 352–353, 424, 453, 560; (Greek version), ms Copenhagen 154, 330, 332, 347; (Italian version) 236, 331, 336, 338, 340 Chronicle of the Tocco (Greek text) 488, 560–561 Chronicle or history of the town of Lucca (Latin text) 516 Chronicon Altinate (Latin text) 73 Chrysapha 10, 479, 486, 490; church of Panagia Chrysaphitissa 10–11, 119, 318, 479, 481–482, 486, 498 Church Slavonic (language) 233, 405 Cicero 47, 494, 520 Circe (literary character) 532 Cistercian(s) 94–96, 107, 121–122, 126, 154–156, 197, 245, 580 Cîteaux (France) 107, 156 Civate (Italy), church of Saint-Peter al Monte 163 Claire (saint) 532 Claudius Ptolemy. See Ptolemy 173 Clement I (saint, pope) 80, 408 Clement, pope (literary character) 463 Clermont-Ferrand (France), church of OurLady-of-the-Assumption 11, 285, 293, 556 Cligès (French text) 205, 258 Clovis II, son of Dagobert I 583 Cluny (France) 107 Coine (fictional place) 455
719 Colchas (literary character) 301 Comacchio (Italy), bishop’s palace 198 Commentary to the Epistles of saint Paul (Greek text) 106 Communion of the Apostles (iconography) 407 Comnenian (dynasty) 8, 18, 110, 112, 114, 212, 288, 483, 491; (novels) 5, 14, 213, 257, 464; (style) 124, 266, 268 Comnenus-Angelodoucas (family) 300 Complaint for Constantinople (French text) 248 Concerning Temperance (Greek text) 467 Conference of the Birds (Persian text) 497 Conrad of Sumo 167 Conradin of Hohenstauffen 283 Conscriptio Visbii (Latin text) 83 Constance (Germany), House of the Distaff 289 Constance, wife of Nicholas da Martoni 570 Constantina (literary character) 126–127 Constantine (emperor, saint) 65, 242, 402, 526 Constantine (saint, unspecified) 408 Constantine Doucas, son of John I Doucas 373 Constantine Hermoniakos 298–301 Constantine II of Armenia (Guy of Lusignan) 418–419, 421, 451 Constantine of Nafplio (saint) 408 Constantine XI Palaeologus 572–573 Constantine Palaeologus, half-brother to Michael VIII 33, 244–245, 251 Constantine Stilbès 12–13, 56–57, 92–93, 197 Constantinople 46–47, 53, 57–58, 61, 63, 65, 67–68, 74–75, 78, 82, 85, 96–97, 99, 102–104, 108, 114–115, 123, 150, 157, 174–176, 186, 197, 206, 216, 239, 248, 250, 252, 267, 270, 277, 281, 309, 322, 326, 343, 367, 374, 384, 396, 410, 418, 422, 434, 439, 444, 451, 483, 500–502, 504–505, 507, 537–538, 542, 547–548, 573, 579, 581–583; as New Rome 65; Bucoleon Palace 77; church of Saint-Sophia 57, 475; church of Theotokos Kyriotissa (Kalenderhane Camii) 314; Franciscan convent
720 Constantinople (cont.) of Pera 309; Golden Gate 548; Great Palace, Scevofilakion hall 76; Harbour of Julian 547; monastery of Saint-John-the-Forerunner of Petra 115; Pera 309 Constantinopolitan Synaxarion (Greek text) 84 Contra errores Graecorum (Latin text) 75; (text) 157, 198 Corbaran of Alet 437–438 Corciano and Perugia (Italian text) 447 Corfu (island) 564, 569 Corinth 9, 103, 105, 107, 121, 125–126, 187–189, 193, 203–206, 210, 244, 320, 371, 378, 411, 512, 529, 552–554, 557–559, 561–563, 568, 573; castle 558; church of Saint-Paul (fictional) 204, 344, 568; Corinthian Gulf 209, 316–317; Corinthians 81 Cornelius Nepos 205, 298, 364 Corpus Dionysiacum (Greek texts) 83 Cortés (conquistador) 538 Costanzo (literary character) 546 Council of Jerusalem (theme) 380, 396, 402 Cracow (Poland) 186 Creation (Greek text) 429 Cremona (Italy) 119 Cressac-Saint-Genis (France), chapel of the Templar Commandery 11, 16–17, 282, 284, 293, 556 Crete (island) 5, 7, 13, 20, 35, 217, 319–320, 323, 388, 390, 507, 525, 556, 573–574; as Tuscany of Greece 429; Cretan (icons) 383–384, 574 Crișcior (Romania) 242–243 Crucifixion (iconography) 368–369, 471, 499; (theme) 295 Cruet (France), Verdun-Dessous Castle 289 Crusader (states) 13, 255, 508. See also Holy Land Culhwch and Olwen (Welsh text) 542 Cuman(s) 236 Cybele (goddess) 201 Cyclades (islands) 44, 118, 512 Cyclops (mythical beings) 288 Cyprian (saint) 526
Index Cyprus 7, 13, 105, 255, 293, 365, 417, 419, 421, 426, 428, 440, 448, 450–454, 456, 500–507, 509, 534; Cypriot(s) 453, 500, 503–504, 506; Cypriot (dialect) 422 Cyprus Passion Cycle (Greek text) 365 Cyriacus of Ancona 86, 193–196, 521–522, 572–573 Cyril (saint) 407 Cyzicus 56 Czech (texts) 186 Dagla Hill (next to Markopoulo) 18, 397, 514; Taxiarchis church 109, 397–398, 400–402, 514; tower 109, 514 Dagobert I 583; (literary character) 147 Dalmatia 396 Damascus (Syria) 255 Damnatio memoriae (concept) 8, 13, 267, 424, 472, 475, 478, 573, 577 Daniel (biblical character) 115 Daniel (founder) 423 Dante Alighieri 11, 233, 415, 441, 448, 467; Dantesque 576 Daphni monastery 91, 94, 96, 107, 111–112 Dares the Phrygian, Pseudo- 50, 205, 366 David (biblical character) 46–47, 113, 158, 161, 184, 288, 295–298 Davlia 98, 102, 105, 113 De analemmate (Greek text) 173, 188 De anima (Greek text) 172 De caelo (Greek text) 172–173 De coloribus (Greek text) 173 De decem dubitationibus (Greek text) 187 De divinis nominibus (Greek text) 144 De generatione et corruptione (Greek text) 173 De historia animalium (Greek text) 172; (Latin translation) 149 De interpretatione (Greek text) 173 De malorum subsistentia (Greek text) 187 De natura rerum (Latin text) 289 De oratore (Latin text) 520 De partibus animalium (Latin text) 152–153 De providentia et fato (Greek text) 187 De sanitate tuenda (Greek text) 45 De sensu et sensibili (Greek text) 173 De speculis (Greek text) 173
Index De virtute alimentorium (Greek text) 187 Decameron (Italian text) 442 Deliana, Kisamos-Chania (Crete), unspecified church 323 Demetrius (saint) 242, 247 Demetrius Cantacuzene 502 Demetrius Chalkokondyles 584 Demetrius Chomatianos 58 Demetrius Kydones 206, 422, 572 Demetrius of Montferrat 95 Demetrius, son of Kali Medoni 382 Demotic Greek (language) 4–6, 9–11, 27–28, 149, 227, 233, 244, 291, 299–300, 330, 332, 336–338, 347, 352–354, 363–364, 366, 412, 442, 444–446, 448, 453, 471, 483, 486, 488–489, 493, 496, 498, 519, 525, 534, 536–537, 544–545, 547, 549, 560, 575–576 Denis (saint, unspecified) 41, 80–86, 90–91, 128–129, 132–134, 144, 146–148, 164–166, 169, 249–250, 526–528, 580–584; Life. See Life of saint Denis; Metaphrastic Life; Passio III of saint Denis; Vita et actus beati Dionysii 82; Denis the Areopagite (saint) 79–81, 83, 132, 145, 195, 580; Pseudo- 83, 127, 144–146, 382 Denis of Alexandria (saint) 581 Denis of Corinth (saint) 81, 582 Denmark 217, 542 Deodato di Cosma 167 Detesalve (literary character) 375 Deodato, Ruggero 517 Diatessaron (Greek text) 128 Dictys of Crete, Pseudo- 50 Diego of Alfaro 431 Dietrich (literary character) 233, 528 Digenis Akritas (Greek text) 4–5, 10–11, 27–28, 288, 443–445, 447, 466, 482– 483, 485–489, 493, 498, 560–561, 576; (literary character) 479–482, 484 Digesta pauperis scolaris Albini (Latin text) 67–68 Dino Compagni 468 Diocletian 386 Diogenes Laertius 155 Diogenes (literary character) 484 Diomedes (literary character) 301–302, 484 Dionysus, god (literary character) 132
721 Dismas (saint) 509 Dittamundo (Italian text) 441–442 Divine Bestiary (French text) 305 Divine Comedy (Italian text) 415 Dodekaorton (iconography) 14, 185, 370, 381, 384–385 Dolopathos (unspecified text) 5 Dolcino, Fra. See Fra Dolcino Dominic (saint) 376 Dominic of Germany 503, 510, 530 Dominican(s) 67, 74–75, 126, 150, 153, 155–157, 171–173, 175, 177–178, 182, 186, 196, 198–200, 203–204, 206–207, 261, 265, 283, 287, 311, 323, 326, 372, 375–376, 501, 552 Domitian 84 Donatello 26 Donation of Constantine (Greek translation) 78, 157; (Latin text) 64, 67, 78 Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi. See Donatello 26 Donatus (Greek text) 127 Dorcas (saint) 43 Doreschalius (literary character), also Δωροσκάλης 363 Doric (linguistic features) 6, 153 Dormition of the Mother of God (iconography) 128, 146–148, 393; (theme) 14–15, 134, 144–148, 249 Dorotheus I, metropolitan of Athens 528 Dositheus, patriarch of Constantinople 56 Doucas (literary character) 537 Drandakis, Nikolaos 22, 24 Dream of Rhonabwy (Welsh text) 542 Drosilla (literary character) 212; Drosilla and Charikles (Greek text) 212, 464 Drual (literary character) 455 Drymalia (Naxos), church of the Panagia Drosiani 404 Dryopi (Mani) 39 Dylan, Bob 42, 508 Ecclesia militans (theme) 396, 402 Eco, Umberto 312 Eden 45, 234 Egina (island) 125, 318, 434–436, 438–439; church of Saints-Theodore, also known as Omorphi Ekklisia 318, 367
722 Egypt 97; (biblical people) 115; Egyptians, as Gypsies (?) 531 Elements (Greek text) 173 Eleusis 54, 553 Eleutherios (martyr) 82 Eliade, Mircea 127 Elias (biblical character) 116 Elias Cairel (troubadour) 100–101 Elis 34–35, 220, 240, 281, 325, 371, 383 Emelins (literary character) 362 Emeric of Hungary (saint) 242 Emilia-Romagna 376 Eneid (Latin text) 335 England 55, 217, 380, 413, 538–540, 545–547, 580; English (language) 366, 493; English(men) 308, 321, 539, 545 Enseingnements ou ordenances pour un seigneur qui a guerres et grans gouvernemens a faire (French text) 328 Entrée d’Espagne (French text) 351 Ephraim (biblical tribe) 97–98 Epirote Iliad (Greek text) 299–301, 364 Epirus 58, 105, 112, 114, 176, 208–210, 215, 226–227, 236, 263–265, 269, 293, 297– 298, 300–303, 316, 374, 379–380, 390, 442, 536, 550–551, 559, 565, 567–568; Epirotes 293, 297 Episkopi (Mani), eponymous church 32 Epistrophus (literary character) 542 Epistula excusatoria (Latin text) 310, 373–374 Erard III of Aunoy 440 Erec (literary character) 543 Ermioni 124 Eros, god (literary character) 212, 466; as Amours (literary character) 465 Eschiva of Scandelion 452–453 Escorfant (literary character) 220 Escorfaut (literary character) 219–220 Escorfroie (literary character) 219–220, 249 Ethiopian(s) 285 Euboea 8, 31, 34, 79, 91–92, 96, 99, 101, 113– 114, 124, 171, 186, 209, 231, 254, 269, 277, 319, 324, 326, 348–349, 371, 376–379, 383, 387, 391, 410–412, 531–533, 550–551 Euclid 175 Eugenius of Toledo 83 Eugenius, metropolitan of Mystras 424
Index Eulalia (saint) 389 Eulistea (Latin text) 351, 447; Eulistes (literary character) 351, 447 Euridice (literary character) 217 Euripides 46, 54, 298, 448 Eustace (saint) 18, 391, 393 Eustace of Thessalonica (saint) 49, 53, 55, 491 Euthymius Tornica 113 Eutokios 173 Evangeliary of Saint-Andrew in Cologne (Latin manuscript) 27 Evans, Arthur 572 Evdokia (slave) 567 Eve (biblical character) 161, 234–235 Evripos. See Chalkida or Negroponte 31 Evrotas (river) 16, 245, 423 Exaltation of the Cross (iconography) 14 Exiit qui seminat (papal bull) 315 Exochori (Mani) 369 Exultet (iconography) 406 Ezekiel (biblical character) 183–184 Falerno (wine) 45 Famagusta (Cyprus) 451, 453, 471, 504–506, 509 Fanuel (literary character) 362 Farid ud-Din Attar 497 Fata Morgana (literary character) 532 Fazio degli Uberti 441–442 Felisa, sister of Gilbert II dalle Carceri 254, 277, 378 Filioque 50–52, 63, 75, 85, 156, 175–176 Filocolo (Italian text) 447 Filoti (Naxos), church of the Panagia Arion 403, 405 Fioretti (Italian text) 308 Flanders 151, 578; Flemish 149, 151, 462; (language) 351, 483, 493 Floire et Blancheflor (French text) 8 Florence (Italy) 8, 196, 292, 372, 375, 441, 516, 567, 584; Palazzo Davanzati 292; 195, 347, 372, 441–442, 445, 507, 522, 529, 554, 567 Florent of Hainaut 262, 303 Floriant (literary character) 542 Floriant et Florete (French text) 542 Florie (literary character) 452
723
Index Florios and Platzia-Flora (Greek text) 28, 446, 575 Floris and Blancheflour (French text) 446, 575 Foscarini (family) 266 Fra Dolcino 325 France 11, 14, 16–17, 21, 32, 41, 55, 81, 107, 121, 133, 148–149, 154, 159, 165, 169, 171, 180, 191, 204, 209, 214, 219–220, 227, 236, 248, 255, 283, 293, 335, 341, 348, 350, 354, 364, 380, 403, 412, 428, 450, 482, 501, 505, 526–527, 540, 546, 564–566, 577, 579–583; Northern 149, 341; French (language) 5–6, 8–9, 12–13, 26, 31, 47, 52, 60, 150, 220, 225, 229, 335, 366, 412, 415, 454, 461; French(men) 9, 18, 31, 54, 76, 149, 151, 154, 227, 233, 241, 245, 249, 293, 308, 326, 412–415, 434, 467, 469, 510, 531, 534, 564–565; Franco-Italian (linguistic features) 6–7, 10–11, 18, 227, 347, 351, 353, 364, 447, 575; Franco-Venetian (linguistic features) 227, 351 Francesca Acciaiuoli 529, 552, 558–559, 561, 564, 566–568 Francesco Amadi 507 Francesco and Bella (Greek text, lost) 575 Francesco Petrarca. See Petrarch Francesco Sanseverino 500 Francis (literary character) 445 Francis (saint) 309, 314, 317, 320, 322–323, 366 Franciscan Rule (text) 309, 311 Franciscan(s) 173, 175–176, 199, 264, 270, 274, 309, 311, 313, 315–322, 324–326, 352, 365–367, 371, 375, 377–378, 396–397, 401–402, 410, 413, 415, 494, 501, 503, 569; Conventual 311, 318–320, 324–325, 365–367, 371, 374, 377, 410, 532; Observant 320, 324, 371, 409; Observant Vicariate of Bosnia 396; Spiritual 308–309, 311, 313, 315–320, 325–328, 347, 365, 367, 371–379, 385, 387, 390, 402, 409–413 Franciscus de le Casi 511 Frangoulias (Mani) 389; church of Panagia Faneromeni 39, 389
Fraticelli 309–311, 317, 319, 324, 367, 370–372, 385, 409–410, 530 Frederick II of Hohenstaufen 284 Froissart 564–566 Fulgentius 442 G(eoffrey?) (monk, abbot) 95 Gabriel the Archangel (saint) 253 Gaia Donzella (literary character) 533 Gaia Pulcella (literary character) 533 Galen 45, 187 Galeran of Ivry 279 Galician(s) 510 Galilee 542 Gallipoli (peninsula) 423, 525 Gangrini (adulteress) 256 Gardenitsa (Mani), church of Saint-John-the-Theologian 253 Gardiki 500, 576 Gasmouli 7, 9, 33, 531 Gastouni 241; church of Panagia-Katholiki 241–242, 262, 265 Gattilusi (family) 535, 540, 545 Gaul 335 Gaunes (fictional place) 546–547 Gavre (island) 564 Gawain (literary character) 462, 484, 533–534, 551 Geminianus (saint) 233 Gemistus Pletho 572, 584 Genealogy of the Gods of the Gentiles (Italian text) 448 Genoa (Italy) 564; Genoese 244, 412, 422, 451–453, 503–504, 510, 515, 565 Gentile da Foligno 308, 316–317 Gentiles 373 Geoffrey Chauderon 239, 278 Geoffrey I of Villehardouin 105, 220, 273, 278, 350 Geoffrey II of Villehardouin 219–220 Geoffrey of Briel 209, 236–241, 244, 248–249, 254–261, 269, 275 Geoffrey of Monmouth 542 George (painter) 572 George (unspecified) 47 George Akropolites 152, 175–176, 208 George Bardanes 55, 108, 120
724 George Cedrenus 288 George Choumnos 428, 574 George II Ghisi 345 George Pachymeres 47, 174 George Pophos 501 George (priest), son of Kali Medoni 382 George (saint) 3, 18, 169, 178–179, 242, 245–247, 275, 285, 287–288, 290, 327, 387–391, 393, 432, 434–439, 544, 556 George Vardali (literary character) 505 George, bishop of Veligosti 251 Georgia 18, 234, 388, 391, 410, 455; Georgian (language) 18, 233; Georgian(s) 59, 61, 123 Geraki 10–11, 20, 30, 33, 190, 243–244, 430–431, 433, 490, 554, 556; castle 554; church of SaintGeorge 430, 432; church of SaintJohn-Chrysostom 190; church of Saint-Paraskevi 482; Taxiarchis church 11, 20, 554, 556 Gerard Segarelli 325 German(s) 7, 13, 56, 216, 233, 236, 308, 430, 505, 515; German (emperor) 284; German (language) 289, 493 Germanus (hieromonk) 327 Germanus III, patriarch of Constantinople 174 Germanus, nominal patriarch of Constantinople 115 Gervase of Tilbury 417 Gesta Dagoberti (Latin text) 129 Ghisi (family) 345. See also Bartholomew II; George II Giacomo da Monterubbiano 410 Gian Francesco Poggio Bracciolini. See Poggio Bracciolini Gibson, Mel 518 Gilbert II dalle Carceri 277 Gilead Republic (fictional place) 36 Giles (saint) 18 Gilor d’Agluz (literary character) 363 Ginzburg, Carlo 37–38 Giordano Bruno 207 Giotto 314 Giovanni Boccaccio. See Boccaccio Giovanni Colombini 319
Index Giovanni Conte 369 Giovanni Sercambi 516–517 Giovanni Villani 347 Girart de Vienne (French text) 289 Girart of Roussillon (literary character) 281 Giunta Pisano 313 Glarentza 8, 16, 150, 243, 260–261, 270, 274, 280, 316–317, 344, 371, 443, 572, 577; church of Saint-Francis 8, 24, 39, 270, 274, 288; port of Saint-Zachariah 270 Glatsa / Anilio, church of the Panagia 228, 262–265 Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr (literary character) 543 Glezou (Mani), church of Saint-Nicholas 25 Glossa ordinaria (Latin text) 427 Glyky 280 Golden Ass (Latin text) 458 Gorgo (literary character) 254 Gorgon (mythical being) 521–522 Gothic (style) 160, 162, 178, 189–190, 196, 203, 241, 263–264, 296 Goths 537 Grail, Holy. See Holy Grail 255 Grand Maine Castle 237–238 Gravia 113 Greek, Demotic. See Demotic Greek 4 Gregory (saint, pope) 64–66, 73–74, 76, 181 Gregory (saint, unspecified) 408 Greek, Koiné. See Koiné Greek 9 Gregory II, patriarch of Constantinople, as George of Cyprus 250 Gregory Kamateros 112 Gregory of Nazianzus (saint) 64, 407 Gregory of Nyssa (saint) 64, 213 Gregory Oikodomopoulos (monk) 59 Gregory the Illuminator of Armenia (saint) 408 Gregory Tifernas 583 Gregory X (pope) 173, 176 Grievances against the Latin Church (Greek text) 56 Gui of Cambrai 216, 454 Guido delle Colonne 354 Guido Pallavicini, marquis of Mendenitsa 47, 102, 113–114
Index Guinevere (literary character) 255, 292, 533 Guiron the Courteous (French text) 543; Guiron the Courteous (literary character) 534 Gurhenie (fictional place) 282 Guy I de la Roche 133, 165–167, 171, 209, 236–239, 255 Guy II de la Roche 293 Guy of Lusignan. See Constantine II of Armenia Guy of Nivelet 30 Guyart des Moulins 333–334 Guyon of Lusignan (literary character) 503 Habakkuk (biblical character) 183–185 Hadgiantoniou, Frédérique 3 Hadrian (literary character) 444–446, 515, 518–519 Hagarenes 505, 548 Halmyros (battle) 327, 329, 338, 345, 411, 415 Handmaid’s Tale (contemporary novel) 36 Hapelopin (literary character) 527 Harpies (mythical beings) 45, 217–218 Harrowing of Hell (iconography) 161, 323 Hartmann von Aue 289 Hatseg 202, 395–396, 405 Hector (literary character) 50, 351, 355–356, 455, 467, 516, 523 Hector (literary character, different) 516, 544 Hector and Hercules (French text) 351 Hector Junior (literary character) 516–518, 544–547 Heinrich Frauenlob 290 Helen (literary character) 256, 523–525, 567 Helen (saint) 57, 402, 526 Helen Angelina Doucaina 208, 260, 269 Helen Cantacuzene 424 Helen, daughter of John I Doucas 293 Helius (literary character) 578 Hellenes (ancient people) 51, 54, 573; Hellenicity 20; Hellenization 10 Hellenistic (novels) 55 Hendrix, Jimi 508 Henry (parish priest) 374 Henry I of Flanders, Latin emperor 61, 73, 95, 99–100 Henry II of Lusignan 255
725 Henry II Plantagenet 337 Henry of Pisa 378 Henry of Valenciennes 31, 61, 99 Henry, Byzantine emperor (literary character) 578–579 Heraclea 102 Herbert William (donor) 170 Hercules (literary character) 57, 197, 217–218, 351, 442, 523 Hermine (literary character) 452 Hermogenes of Tharsus 55 Hernn Corts. See Corts Herodotus 154, 245, 277, 328 Heron of Alexandria 173 Herpyllis (literary character) 155 Hesiod 46 Hesione (literary character) 351, 523 Hesperides (literary characters) 217 Hesychast(s) 422, 426, 429 Hethum II 315 Hetimasia (iconography) 313, 379–380 hierarch saints (iconography) 266, 397–398, 402, 405 Hierotheus (saint) 146–147 Hilarion, ruler of Bithynia 386 Hilary (saint) 64 Hildebert of Lavardin 53 Hildebert of Le Mans 181, 184 Hilduin (abbot) 83–84, 129, 132–134, 144 Hippocrates 522 Histoire ancienne jusqu’à César (French text) 31, 301, 333, 335–336, 455 Histoire des seigneurs de Gavre (French text) 350, 579 Historia euthymiaca (Greek text) 145–146 Historia scholastica (Latin text) 333 Historia septem tribulationum Ordinis Minorum (Latin text) 311, 373 History against the Pagans (Latin text) 366 Holy Grail 255, 292 Holy Land 7, 12–13, 32, 66, 147, 163, 222, 249, 255, 287, 344, 510, 522–523. See also Crusader (states) Holy Sepulchre 579 Homer 46, 48–50, 53–55, 109, 298, 300, 364, 372, 448, 450, 456, 462–463, 467, 469, 573, 584 Honorius III (pope) 99
726 Horeb, Mount. See Mount Horeb 110 Hosios Loukas monastery 98, 117 Hospitality of Abraham (iconography) 191, 384 Hospitaller(s) 426, 430–431, 501–504, 510, 530 Hugh IV of Lusignan 448 Hugh of Brienne 192, 270, 339 Hugh of Davlia (archdeacon) 113 Hugh of Lusignan, son of Mary of Bourbon 440 Humebrouet (literary character) 527 Hungary 543; Hungarian(s) 7, 236, 242, 299, 510, 548 Huns 216, 299 Hunt of saint Giles (iconography) 18 Hussite(s) 410; Hussitism 325 Hydra of Lerna (mythical being) 218 Hymettus, Mount. See Mount Hymettus 54 Iberian (languages) 336; (peninsula) 7, 434 Ignatius (proedros) 117–118, 120–121, 123–124 Ignatius of Antioch (saint) 124, 127 Ignatius of Thessalonica 183 Ihlara Valley (Turkey), Kokar Kilise 380 Ilbionisse (fictional place) 544 Ile-Ife (African civilization) 26, 28 Iliad (Greek text) 32, 49, 217, 300. See also Allegories of the Iliad; Byzantine Iliad; Epirote Iliad; War of Troy Imperios and Margarona (Greek text) 28, 560, 575; Imperios (literary character) 445 Incarnation (theme) 179, 213 Íñigo of Alfaro 430–431 Innocent III (pope) 53, 56, 58, 78–80, 82, 86, 93, 101, 105, 107, 165–166, 176, 227 Ioannikios (cathegumen) 45 Ioannina 423 Iohannes de Manolacta 371 Ionian Gulf 56; Ionian Sea 220, 259, 564 Ionic (style) 202 Ipomedon (French text) 217; Ipomedon (literary character) 217 Ireland 366; Irish (language) 366 Irene of Montferrat 328 Irene, wife of Michael Tamissas 381–382
Index Isaac (biblical character) 115 Isaac II Angelus 579 Isaac Sebastocrator 187 Isabella de la Roche 209, 237, 239, 254, 256–257, 269 Isabella of Lusignan 2, 29, 36, 40, 42, 418–430, 440–441, 447–448, 450–457, 461, 463, 470–472, 474–476, 478–479, 491, 500–507, 510; as Margaret (literary character) 505; as Maria 424; as Zampea 424 Isabella of Villehardouin 192, 262, 268, 274, 277, 303–304 Isabella, wife of Ravano dalle Carceri 100 Isaiah (biblical character) 178, 184, 295–296 Isdor (literary character) 363 Isengrin the wolf (literary character) 495 Iseult (literary character) 255, 258, 292 Isova monastery 8, 33, 245, 265 Israel (biblical people) 97, 116 Isthmus 281, 563 Istorietta troiana (Italian text) 354, 525 Istria 396 Italy 7, 10–11, 18, 153, 174, 193, 206, 256, 269, 280, 299, 315, 373, 388, 395, 409–410, 412, 416, 447, 488, 537, 546, 567, 583–584; Central 377; Norman 217; Northern 6, 11, 227, 274, 351, 353, 373, 395; Southern 20, 55, 58, 120, 153, 155, 172, 199–200, 204, 217, 269, 281, 283, 294, 301–302, 346–347, 444, 448, 488, 565, 567, 577; Italian(s) 8, 13, 31, 45–48, 56, 59, 115, 150, 206, 233, 270, 274, 295, 313, 388, 411, 413, 415–416, 434, 436, 441–442, 446, 469, 510, 514–515, 531–532, 534, 556–557, 559, 577; Italian (language) 10, 13, 47, 442, 493; (linguistic features) 342; Italianisms 13, 342; Italianization 9–10, 148 Iuga (ktetor) 242 Iviron monastery 2, 13, 34, 59–61, 79, 123, 157 Jaca (Spain), church of Saint-Peter 180 Jacob (biblical character) 115, 179 Jacob Kokkinobaphos 184 Jacopo Torriti 313 Jacques Bretel 303
Index James (saint) 145–146, 287 James of Venice 173 Jazz Age 35 Jebusites (biblical tribe) 46 Jehan le Venelais 216, 454 Jeremiah (biblical character) 295–296 Jericho 555–556 Jeroboam (biblical character) 97 Jerome (saint) 64, 73, 98 Jerome of Ascoli 175 Jerome the Catalan 374 Jerusalem 57, 65, 76, 284, 417, 452–453, 501, 505; church of the HolySepulchre 15; Gethsemane 46 Jews 12, 116, 127, 531 Joachim (biblical character) 178 Joachim of Fiore 313, 320 Job (biblical character) 149, 295 Job Melias Iasites 256 Johanna I, queen of Naples 501 Johanna of Châtillon 572 John (saint, unspecified) 242, 393 John Argyropoulos 584 John Basingstoke 126–128, 149, 155, 171 John Cantacuzene, son of Matthew Cantacuzene 502 John Chrysostom (saint) 60, 64, 68, 74, 407 John Climacus (saint) 182, 308–309 John Damascene (saint) 64, 127, 145–146 John Dardel 501–504 John de la Roche 154, 245, 277, 328 John Doucas of Thessaly 154 John Frangopoulos 572 John Froissart. See Froissart John Gerson 582–583 John I Doucas 269, 293, 373 John I Orsini 300 John II Orsini 298, 300–301 John I the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy 564–565 John III Doucas Vatatzes 214, 309 John Kaloktenis, metropolitan of Thebes 116 John Likinios of Monemvasia 573 John Makrenos 244 John of Arras 418–420, 452, 503 John of Athens (painter) 124–125 John of Bologna 512
727 John of Capestrano (saint) 370 John of Corinth 371 John of Fontaines 206 John of Ibelin 255 John of Katavas 245, 247, 254–255 John of Lusignan, regent of Cyprus 450–453, 461 John of Meun 212–213 John of Neuilly 239 John of Nivelet 30 John of Saint-Omer 270, 273 John of Vignay 328 John Parastron (friar) 175, 309 John Petraliphas (sebastocrator) 208 John Rély 334 John Sarrasin 144 John Scott Eriugena 63–65, 75 John Soutsos 444 John the Baptist (saint) 158, 161, 583 John the Evangelist (saint) 134, 295, 368, 393 John the Magnificent, duke of Berry 582 John Tsetses 216, 298–300 John V Palaeologus 424–425, 453, 500 John VI Cantacuzene 418, 422, 425, 430, 434; as Josaphat Christodoulos 422, 426–427 John Wycliff. See Wycliff John, metropolitan of Naupaktos 50 John Zonaras 288 John, bishop of Rodosto 108 John, brother (Dominican) 375 John, metropolitan of Naupaktos 50 Jordan IV of L’Isle-Jourdain 283 Jordan VI of L’Isle-Jourdain 283 Joseph (biblical character) 97 Joseph (saint) 158, 296 Joshua (biblical character) 20, 179, 288, 555–556 Joyce, James 558 Juan Fernández de Heredia 503 Judah (biblical tribe or kingdom) 98 Judaism 12, 182; Judaization 12 Judas (biblical character) 3 Julian of Vézelay 181 Julius Caesar 335 Justin (saint) 526 Justinian I 537, 563
728 Kadmeia. See Thebes, Kadmeia Kakodiki (Crete), church of the Panagia 388 Kalamata 9, 34, 278–281, 368, 386; Castle 280 Kalarkhos (priest) 202 Kalavryta 31, 576 Kali Medoni 35, 382 Kalligopouloi (family) 35, 241–242, 249. See also William Kalopissi-Verti, Sophia 4–5 Kalyvia-Kouvara 514; church of SaintPeter 116–117, 119, 121, 123–124, 314, 404 Kampia (near Orchomenos), church of Saint-Nicolas 116 Kaphiona (Mani), church of SaintsTheodore 24, 30, 250, 252–254, 267 Kappas, Michalis 4 Kardamyli (Mani) 38; Fermor house 38 Karydi, Mount. See Mount Karydi 209 Karynia (Mani) 30, 268; church of SaintGeorge 23, 266–268 Karystos 99 Karytaina Castle 209 Kastania (Mani) 15, 39, 185, 191, 268, 368–369, 383, 386, 491, 499; church of Panayitsa 383; church of SaintJohn-the-Forerunner 386; church of Saint-Nicholas-in-Maroulaina 368, 370, 499; church of Saint-Peter 383, 499; church of the Dormition of the Mother of God 491, 499; in the vicinity, Ai-Strategi church 15–16 Kastoria 247; monastery of Panagia Mavriotissa 247; monastery of Panagia Mavriotissa, chapel of Saint-John-the-Theologian 574 Katsafados, Panayotis 4, 18, 23 Katsougkraki, Yianna 30 Kea (island) 44–46, 56, 79, 91–92, 106, 108–110, 112, 114, 116–117, 125, 512 Keklopidis (literary character) 573 Kempley (England), church of Saint-Mary 380 Keratea 18, 514 Keria (Mani) 202; church of Agii Asomati 202; church of Saint-John 202–203
Index Kesariani monastery 87, 91–95, 514; cemetery of the Fathers 93; church of Saint-Mark 93 Kiev (Ukraine), church of Saint-Sophia 179 Kildare Lyrics (English manuscript) 366 King Arthur. See Arthur (literary character) Kleparz (Poland) 186 Knights, Hospitaller. See Hospitallers Koiné Greek (linguistic features) 9, 27, 299–300, 332, 576 Koroni 346, 369, 440, 442, 550, 577 Kos (island) 522 Kostarelli, Alexandra 34 Koutloumousiou monastery 573 Kouvara 314; church of Saint-George 314–315 Kranidi, church of the Holy-Trinity 124, 379, 482 Kritsa (Crete), church of Panagia Kera 323; church of Saint-John-theForerunner 323 Kyriaki (saint) 3, 18, 385–391 Kyriotissa (iconography) 247 Kythira (island) 347, 523–524, 567 La Rochepot (France), church of Saint-George 180 Lacedaemon 31; Lacedaemonians (ancient people) 133 Lachmann, Karl 331, 487; Lachmannian (philology) 331–332, 487 Laconia 10, 16, 22, 28, 32–33, 190, 482 Ladder of Divine Ascent (Greek text) 182; (Italian translation) 308 Ladislas (ktetor) 242 Ladislas of Hungary (saint) 242 Ladon (mythical being) 217 Lagia (Mani) 24–25, 267; church of SaintNicholas 24–25, 492 Lai of Aristotle (French text) 156, 206 Laldach (literary character) 546 Lallouette, Pierre 580 Lampeia / Ano Drivi, church of Holy-Trinity 383–384 Lancelot (literary character) 254, 291, 533 Landomata (French text) 454–455, 516, 545; son of Hector (literary character) 454–455
Index Langada (Mani) 406 Laomedon (literary character) 351 Laomedon (literary character, different) 516, 544 Laonicus Chalkokondyles 572 Lapardas (book-seller) 48 Larcia (literary character) 84, 148 Larissa 100, 102 Lascarid (family) 318, 549 Lascarid (literary character) 537 Last Judgement (iconography) 16, 167, 288, 313–315; (theme) 304–305, 322–323, 380 Last Supper (iconography) 3 Lateran, Fourth Council 80, 581 Latin (language) 47, 52, 60, 225 Laudamia Acciaiuoli 372 Lazarus (saint) 393, 583 Lecce (Italy) 569 Lefkada (island) 569 Lefktron Castle 244, 369–370; as Beaufort 370 Leicester (United Kingdom) 126 Leigh Fermor, Patrick 38 Lenten Triodion (Greek text) 234 Leo Kokalakis 317 Leo Mavropappas 472, 475 Leo of Catania (saint) 408 Leo V of Lusignan 440–441, 450–455, 457, 460–461, 471, 500–505, 510 Leo, emperor (literary character, Roman) 542 Leo, emperor (unspecified, Byzantine) 157 León (Spain), church of Saint-Isidore, Pantéon Real 180 Leon Sgouros 44, 57–58, 102–103, 125, 196 Leonardo da Veroli 210, 221, 224, 231–232, 236–240, 269–272, 276, 280–281, 577 Leonardo Frescobaldi 522 Leonidas (literary character) 254 Leontari 245 Leontios Machairas 507 Leontius Pilatus 447 Lethaea (literary character) 513 Liber censuum Romanae Ecclesiae (Latin text) 67 Liber de natura deorum (Latin text) 218
729 Liberato (friar) 308, 313, 316, 326, 370, 410 Liberdo (Mani), church of Saint-Demetrius 25 Libro de la storia di Troia (Italian text) 354 Licario 254–255, 269, 277, 378–379 Life of saint Denis (text) 129 Lignages d’outremer (French text) 454 Ligourio, church of Saint-John 190 Ligurian (linguistic features) 341 Lincoln 127 Linklater, Richard 38 Linus (literary character) 298 Livadia 152, 434, 436, 439; castle 436; church of Saint-George 434, 436; church of Saint-Sophia 435 Livera-Kapikioi (Turkey), church of the Evangelistria 492 Livistros and Rhodamni (Greek text) 489 Loches (France) 14; Chartreuse du Liget monastery, chapel 14–15, 147 Lollard(s) 367, 410 Lombardy 348, 376; Lombard(s) 56, 299, 413–414 Longanikos, church of Saint-George 424 Longinus (saint) 368 Longpont abbey (France) 580 Lorenzo Spinola 552 Lot (biblical character) 115 Louis da Prato 552, 561 Louis I the Pious 83 Louis IX of France, saint Louis 166, 293, 582 Louis of Gavre (literary character) 350 Louis, duke of Orléans 582 Louvezerp (fictional tournament) 291 Luca Pitti 372 Lucca (Italy) 516 Lucedio monastery (Italy) 95 Lucius of Rome (literary character) 542 Ludolf von Südheim 515–516 Luigi Pitti 372 Luke (monk) 46 Luke (saint) 296, 526 Lusignan (family) 418, 454, 474, 503. See also Constantine II of Armenia (Guy); Henry II; Hugh IV; Hugh (son); Isabella; John; Leo V; Peter I; Peter II; as well as the fictional characters Guyon and Urian
730 Lusignan Castle 417 Lyon (France) 309; church of Saint-John 174, 176, 185, 191; Second Council 118, 173–175, 182, 191, 196, 207–208, 267, 269, 297, 309, 499 Lyon, Lyonesse (fictional place) 544 Lysis (Greek text) 520 Macarius (saint) 308, 526 Maccabees (biblical characters) 115–116, 246, 556; as saints 526 Macedonia 442, 525; Macedonians 12 Macedonian (style) 184 Macedonian Renaissance (style) 492 Madrid (Spain) 504 Magdalene (saint). See Mary-Magdalene Mahommet, god (literary character) 527 Maia Bassa (Italy), church of Santa-Maria-del-Conforto 148 Maiestas Domini (iconography) 201, 287, 295, 380, 395–396, 398, 403, 405–406 Majorca (island, Spain) 433 Makrychori, church of Saint-Demetrius 381–384 Makryplagi (battle) 248 Mamluks 500, 502 Manfred of Hohenstaufen 172, 208, 259–260, 269, 378 Manfred of Vercelli 372 Manfredonia (Italy) 258 Mani 2–3, 15, 18, 22–25, 30, 32–33, 202, 236, 244, 250, 254, 266, 368–369, 383, 385–386, 389–390, 405–406, 490–491, 572; Maniot(s) 23–25, 28, 33, 244, 247, 253, 268, 316, 373, 389, 491, 499 Mani Castle. See Grand Maine Castle 237 Maniatochori 280 Manichaeans 319 Maniera bizantina (style) 286 Manolada 371; church of Palaiopanagia 258, 265 Mantua (Italy) 102; ducal complex, Corte vecchia 291 Manuel Cantacuzene 42, 418, 421–422, 424–426, 429–430, 433–434, 440, 445, 448–451, 470–472, 474–475, 478–479, 491, 499–500, 502, 505, 507, 549 Manuel Chrysoloras 523
Index Manuel I Comnenus 65, 216, 246, 483 Manuel I Grand Comnenus 235 Manuel II Palaeologus 559, 563 Manuel Philes 383 Manuel Tzykandyles (scribe) 449 Marathon 54 Marathos (Mani) 390; church of Saint-Kyriaki 390 Marco Polo 412 Margaret of Passava 39, 270–273, 276, 280 Margaret of Soissons 450, 454 Margaret of Toucy 210, 221, 224, 232, 280 Margaret of Villehardouin 268, 273, 276, 279–280, 293, 304 Margarona (literary character) 445 Marian Mass (Ruthenian text) 186 Marina (saint) 35, 317 Marino Sanudo the Elder 231, 254 Markianos (hieromonk) 449 Markopoulo 18, 109–110 Marriage at Cana (iconography) 178, 182–183, 185 Mars, god (literary character) 460 Martin I of Aragon 437n37, 438 Martino da Canal 412 Marulla, daughter of lord Boniface of Verona 349 Marvel Cinematic Universe (contemporary franchise) 455 Mary Magdalene (saint) 321, 368; 583 Mary of Antioch 282 Mary of Bourbon 440 Mary the Egyptian (saint) 494 Mary, daughter of Nicephorus I Comnenus Doucas 300 Marys at the Tomb (iconography) 393 Masquebignet (literary character) 527 Mathan (literary character) 363 Matthew (saint) 295 Matthew Cantacuzene 422, 425–426, 445, 472, 502 Matthew of Osenio 203 Matthew Paris 127 Matthew Paris (France) 126 Maugis d’Aigremont (French text) 219 Maurice Spata 565 Mavropoulos (character) 246 Maximinian 386
Index Maximou the Amazon (literary character) 11, 479–481 Mazaris’ Journey to Hades (Greek text) 531 Medea (literary character) 353 Megali Avli (near Keratea) 18, 514; church of Saint-Kyriaki 18, 391–392, 394–398, 400–402, 409 Megara 31, 317, 398, 430, 553; castle 553; church of the Saviour 398–402, 409 Melaz (literary character) 127 Meliadus (literary character) 534, 544 Melingi 243–244, 316, 373 Melismos (iconography) 253, 267–268, 391, 393–394 Meliteniotes (writer) 467–468 Melusine (French text) 452, 503; Melusine (literary character) 417–419, 423 Mendenitsa (also Boudonitsa) 47, 113–114 Mendicant Orders 126 Menelaus (literary character) 455, 523–524 Menelaus (literary character), different 573 Menesteus (literary character) 362 Menjumatin (literary character) 527 Menologion of Basil II (Greek text) 85, 87, 124, 149 Mentese 437 Merbaka 32, 188–189, 202; church of the Holy-Trinity (former Dormition of the Mother of God) 9, 188–193, 195–196, 198–201, 203–204, 207, 228, 259, 265, 314, 407–409, 429 Merlin (literary character) 255 Mervilliers (France), church of Saint-Fiacre 169 Mesogeia 44, 108–109, 116, 124, 391, 398, 514, 518 Messenia 34, 281 Messenia (Italy) 510 Metamorphoses (Latin text) 513 Metaphrastic Life of Saint Denis (Greek text) 82 Metellus 190 Meteorologica (Greek text) 153 Methana (peninsula) 2 Methodius (fictional painter) 288 Methoni 346, 440, 442, 512, 522, 550, 564, 577; church of Saint-Leo 441
731 Mexia, Angeliki 30 Micaiah (biblical character) 296 Michael Choniates 2, 39–40, 43–50, 52–58, 61–62, 65, 78–79, 91–92, 94–97, 99–122, 124–127, 187, 193, 311, 314, 391, 401, 512, 519, 526, 530 Michael I Comnenus Doucas 105 Michael II Comnenus Doucas 208, 210, 215, 256–257, 269, 305 Michael II the Amorian 83 Michael Psellos 47 Michael Synkellos 85 Michael Tamissas 35, 381–382, 384 Michael the Archangel (saint) 179, 186, 253, 305, 389 Michael VIII Palaeologus 235–236, 238, 244, 247, 250, 255, 266–268, 277, 309, 424 Microstoria (method) 38 Midas (literary character) 47 Milan, church of Saint-Ambrose 163 Milan (Italy), church of Saint-Ambrose 168 military saints (cult) 246; (iconography) 11, 16–17, 247, 266, 317, 389, 400, 402–405, 436 Millet, Gabriel 473 Mina (Mani) 25; church of Saint-John stou Koraki 25, 492 Mirabilia Urbis Athenarum (Greek text) 171, 518, 521–522 Miracle at Chonae (iconography) 179 Miracle of the Latomou (iconography) 183, 185 Modena (Italy) 235; cathedral 233 Moerbeke (Belgium) 149 Moldavia 17, 325 Monemvasia 33, 236, 244, 247, 252, 261, 423; castle 237–238; church of Saint-Nicholas 380; church of Saint-Sophia 423 Moniage Guillaume (French text) 283 Montpezat-de-Quercy (France), church of Saint-Martin 191 Monty Python 517 Moor(s) 285 Morbecque (family) 151 Morbecque (France) 149
732 Morea 7–9, 121, 148, 153, 205, 210, 226–227, 229–230, 236, 239–241, 248, 252, 257– 260, 269, 274, 278–280, 301, 304, 341, 344, 346, 348, 350, 412–413, 422–423, 425, 430, 434, 440–442, 446–447, 450, 453–454, 461, 471, 488, 502, 504–505, 507, 529, 531, 536, 542, 549, 553–554, 558–559, 565, 572, 576–577, 579; Byzantine despotate 243, 429, 550, 563, 568; Moreote(s) 8, 212, 227, 241, 244, 255, 259, 269–270, 291, 330, 440, 442, 489, 531, 567, 579 Morgan le Fay (literary character) 533, 542, 550, 564 Moses (biblical character) 110–111, 115, 288, 295, 298 Mother of God 100, 104, 110, 147, 160–162, 168, 245–247, 253, 274, 296–297, 368, 393, 397, 404–405, 407 Mount Athos 2, 13, 34, 58–61, 123, 425. See also Iviron; Koutloumousiou; Vatopedi Mount Horeb 110–111 Mount Hymettus 54 Mount Karydi (battle) 209 Mount Parnassus 113 Mount Parnon 244 Mount Pateras 317 Mount Taygetos 243–244, 423, 471 Mouth of Hell (iconography) 406 Muslim(s) 433 Myaphysite(s) 315 Myrmidon(s) 216, 299, 463 Mystras 10, 19–20, 29–30, 33, 236, 243, 252, 277, 318, 409, 417, 422–425, 428–429, 440–441, 445, 447–448, 461, 470–472, 474–476, 478–479, 482, 486, 489, 500, 502, 507, 531, 554, 572–573; castle 237–238; church of Panagia Hodigitria (Afendiko) 409; church of Pantanassa 572; church of Saint-Demetrius (Metropolis) 30, 277, 423–425, 472, 478, 507; church of Saint-John 471; church of SaintSophia 423, 471, 475, 478; church of Saints-Theodore 423; church of the Evangelistria 502; church
Index of the Hodigitria (Afendiko) 423; monastery of Brontochion 423; monastery of Pantanassa 471; monastery of Perivleptos 29, 471–476, 478, 507; monastery of Zoodotes Christou 423; palace of the Despots 471 Mytilene (island) 535, 540, 545 Nafplio 9, 189, 192, 201, 408, 442; Akronafplio, gate murals 10, 34, 192, 285–288, 292, 569 Name of the Rose (contemporary novel) 312 Naples (Italy) 8, 10, 172, 199, 227, 269, 301–303, 335, 345, 353–355, 411–414, 434, 441, 443, 445–446, 489, 501, 503, 509, 514, 531, 569, 583; church of SanLorenzo Maggiore 199; Neapolitan (linguistic features) 172, 200, 342 Narjot of Toucy 209 Nativity of Christ (iconography) 158, 160, 162–163, 169, 185, 190, 296, 393–394; (theme) 179 Nativity of Mary (iconography) 14 Naupaktos 50 Nauser (literary character) 516–517, 544 Nausicaa (literary character) 565 Navarrese 559; Navarrese Company 529, 568 Naxos (island) 390, 404–405, 512 Nazis 344 Nebuchadnezzar (biblical character) 76 Nectarius, abbot of Casole. See Nicholas of Otranto 61 Negroponte 48, 78, 97–100, 102, 106, 150, 277, 316, 318, 325–326, 345, 371, 375, 377–378, 409, 530–532, 550–551, 564. See also Chalkida Nemea, church of Rachiotissa 122 Neopatras 58, 98, 102–103, 269, 328, 550; (battle) 154, 245 Neoplatonism 188; Neoplatonists 175 Neri di Donato, as Nerio Acciaiuoli 567 Nerio I Acciaiuoli 507, 528–529, 552–554, 558–559 Nervin (literary character) 457, 460
733
Index Nestorians 12 Nevers (France) 564, 566 Nicaea 115–116, 118, 150–153, 208, 214, 236, 244, 282, 299, 309 Niccolò Miretto 291 Nicephorus I Comnenus Doucas 209, 256–257, 269, 280, 294, 297, 300–301, 303, 329 Nicephorus II Orsini 301–302 Nicephorus Moschopoulos 424 Nicetas (saint) 497 Nicetas Choniates 44, 53, 57, 197 Nicetas Eugenianos 212–213 Nicholas (saint) 242, 259, 387, 389 Nicholas Acciaiuoli 443 Nicholas da Martoni 2, 39–40, 164–165, 171, 290, 509–526, 528–533, 544, 549–554, 557–559, 561–564, 567–570, 572 Nicholas I of Saint-Omer 102, 282 Nicholas II of Saint-Omer 151, 154–156, 270–273, 276, 280–282, 292–293, 345, 411 Nicholas Irinikos 214 Nicholas of Cotrona 75 Nicholas of Otranto 61–64, 66, 68, 71–72, 74–79, 91–92, 120; as Nectarius 61, 120 Nicholas Orsini 301 Nicholas Sanudo 339–340 Nicholas, cycle of saint (iconography) 259, 370, 400 Nicodemus (hieromonk) 327 Nicomachean Ethics (Greek text) 127 Nicomachus 175 Nicomedia 386 Nicopolis (battle) 564 Nicosia (Cyprus) 421, 505, 509 Nike (goddess) 201 Nikli 152–153, 209, 236, 244, 257; castle 236 Nikon (saint) 497 Nivelon of Cerisy 580–581 Noah (biblical character) 97 Nomitsi (Mani) 490; church of the Transfiguration-of-the-Saviour 25, 490–492, 494–499 Northern Sea 541 Norway 542 Nyktopas (commoner) 56
Occitan (language) 47; Occitanisms 342 Ochrid (Northern Macedonia) 58 Odyssey (Greek text) 49, 447–448, 450, 510, 532, 567 Oedipus (literary character) 301 Offred (literary character) 36 Ogier (literary character) 484 Old Knight (Greek text) 8, 498, 534–536, 544, 574 Olenus (literary character) 513 Olivier (literary character) 57, 258, 484 Onassis Foundation 3, 21 Onesiphorus 83 Orable (literary character) 219 Orchomenos 116 Orderic Vitalis 127 Ordo Romanus antiquus (Greek text) 186 Oreos 99 Origen 181 Oropos 125, 530; church of SaintGeorge 124; church of the HolyApostles 265, 373 Orosius 336, 366 Orpheus (literary character) 217, 298 Orsini (family) 301, 442. See also John I; John II; Nicephorus II; Nicholas; Thomais Orvieto (Italy) 173 Otia imperialia (Latin text) 417 Otto de la Roche 53, 100, 102, 105 Otto of Cicon 156 Otto of Nevers 255 Ottoman(s) 30, 286, 423, 529, 563, 573 Ottone Visconti 291 Ottonian (dynasty) 14–15, 198 Ouranopolis 34 Outremer (families) 229; (linguistic features) 13, 342; (place) 350 Ovid 45, 55, 355, 484, 513 Ovide moralisé (French text) 513 Oxford (United Kingdom) 126 Oxylithos, church of the Dormition of Theotokos 381, 384–385 Pachomius (monk) 423 Padua (Italy) 353, 504, 516, 544; Palazzo della Raggione 291
734 Palaeologan (dynasty) 8, 318, 369, 573; (family) 300–301, 303, 344, 472, 474, 479, 507, 549, 572. See also Andronicus II; Anna; Constantine (half-brother); Constantine XI; John V; Manuel II; Michael VIII; Theodore I (despot); Theodore I (marquis) Palaeologan (literary character) 537, 539 Palaeologan Renaissance (style) 175 Palamede Gattilusio 535 Palamedes (French compilation) 412, 534, 544; (literary character) 27, 255, 298, 469 Palamism 422; Palamite(s) 422 Palencia (Spain), monastery of San Zoilo de Carrión de los Condes 180 Paleochora (Egina) 435 Paleomonastiro Vrontamas, cave church 16–17, 34 Palimpsest (contemporary book) 43 Pallas, goddess (literary character) 53 Palm Sunday (iconography) 392 Panayotidi, Maria 3–5, 14, 33 Pandion (literary character) 54 Pandruklos (literary character) 463, 465–467 Pantocrator (iconography) 201, 317, 397–398 Paphos (Cyprus) 421 Paraskevi (saint) 317 Paris (France) 80, 82–85, 99, 126, 128, 133, 149, 166–167, 283, 413, 504, 527–528, 577–578, 581, 583; abbey of SaintDenis 57, 80–81, 83, 128, 148–149, 165–166, 199, 582–584; church of Notre-Dame 581–584; church of Saint-Étienne-des-Grès 583; convent of the Celestines 504; Louvre 504; Parliament 583 Paris (literary character) 256, 469, 523–525, 567 Parma (Italy) 414 Parnassus, Mount. See Mount Parnassus 113 Parnon, Mount. See Mount Parnon 244 Parori 19, 30 Paros (island) 523 Parthenay 417
Index Passava 239, 243–244, 280 Passio III of saint Denis (Post beatam ac salutiferam …, Latin text) 83 Passio sanctorum Sanctini et Antonini (Latin text) 129 Pateras, Mount. See Mount Pateras Patmos (island) 134 Patras 9–10, 208–210, 274, 290, 292, 316–317, 326, 568–569; church of Saint-Andrew 569; church of SaintNicholas 274, 569; Franciscan house of Saint-Nicholas 274 Pătrăuți (Romania) 17 Patroclus (literary character) 467, 544 Paul (saint) 41, 80, 83, 100, 106, 117, 119, 132–134, 147–148, 158, 168–169, 205, 401, 406, 494, 527, 529, 568 Pausanias 522 Pelagius Galvani 79, 96 Pelagonia (battle) 151, 175, 225, 235–236, 241, 244, 247, 269, 329, 373 Peleus (literary character) 298 Pelium (ancient place) 133 Peloponnesus 6–9, 14, 19, 23–24, 34, 36, 79, 121, 152–153, 165, 186, 188, 200, 209, 215, 220, 226, 228, 231, 236, 238, 242–244, 254, 266, 268, 273, 281, 291–292, 316, 329, 346, 350, 366, 369, 371, 383, 386–388, 390, 405, 411, 422, 424–425, 429–431, 433, 436, 441–443, 451, 453, 479, 496, 500, 502, 505, 508, 529, 531, 550, 558, 563, 569, 573, 576–577 Pelops (literary character) 573 Penelope (literary character) 288, 565 Pentecost (iconography) 379; (theme) 380 Perceforest (French text) 455, 461, 545, 564, 576; Perceforest (literary character) 455–456 Perceval (German text) 289 Peripatetic school 520; Peripateticism 520 Perlesvaus (French text) 462 Pernes-les-Fontaines (France), Ferrande Tower 283, 285–287 Persephone (literary character) 573 Persia 219, 410, 544; Persian(s) 548 Perugia (Italy) 206, 351–352, 447
Index Petcheneg(s) 216, 298 Peter (saint) 41, 65, 78, 97, 117, 119, 145, 147, 177, 181, 314, 397, 406, 408; Peter and Paul, saints (iconography) 41, 117, 119, 176; embrace (iconography) 185, 382–383, 499 Peter Bersuire 417–418 Peter Comestor 333 Peter Correr 326, 374 Peter I Frederick of Salona 435 Peter I of Lusignan 440–441, 450 Peter II of Lusignan 451, 471, 500, 502 Peter John Olivi 308, 374 Peter Martyr (saint) 376 Peter of Argos (saint) 408 Peter of Bracheux 31 Peter of Confluentia 203 Peter of Nafplio (saint) 408 Peter of Paris (writer) 426–427 Peter of Tarentaise 175 Peter of Thermopylae (monk) 46 Peter of Vaux 236 Peter the Hermit 281 Peter, abbot of Lucedio 95 Peter, cardinal of Saint-Marcellus 79–80, 82 Petralifas (literary character) 539 Petrarch 448, 453 Petridis, Platon 3 Petrou, Dimitra 18 Philimenis (literary character) 542 Philip (saint) 582 Philip Augustus 579–583; (literary character) 577, 579 Philip I of Taranto 303, 343 Philip II of Taranto 440 Philip Incontri 206 Philip of Rémi 256 Philip of Savoy 343 Philistines (biblical people) 47, 113 Philo of Alexandria 181 Philomela (literary character) 54; as Philomena 54 Philoponos 173; Pseudo- 173 Photius (saint) 157 Phrygia 47; Phrygian (hats) 394 Phthiotis 50, 114–115; Phthiotis, as Fthia 299
735 Physiologus (text) 305 Picard (linguistic features) 342; Picardisms 150 Pieixoto, Professor (literary character) 36 Pierre de Provence et la Belle Maguelonne (French text) 445, 575 Piraeus 54 Pisa (Italy) 8; Pisan(s) 8 Pisanello 291 Pitti (family) 372. See also Luca; Luigi Platanitou, Evi 3 Platanos 280 Plato 63, 469, 520 Platsa (Mani) 38 Platytera (iconography) 3 Plutarch 46 Poetics (Greek text) 187, 193 Poggio a Caiano (Italy), Medici villa 584 Poggio Bracciolini 572 Poitiers (France) 235; Centre for Medieval Studies 17, 22, 39; church of NotreDame-la-Grande 234, 380 Poitou 417 Poland 7, 186 Polemitas (Mani) 3, 18, 30, 386–387, 389; church of Michael-theArchangel 386–387; church of SaintNicholas 3, 387–390, 409 Politics (Greek text) 172–173 Polyphemus (literary character) 106 Poncé-sur-le-Loir (France), church of SaintJulian 16–17, 282, 284 Ponzella Gaia (Italian text) 533 Poor Prodromos (Greek text) 483 Populonia (Italy) 546 Porto Rafti 512–513 Poseidonius (literary character) 573 Posterior Analytics (Greek text) 173 Poulologos (Greek text) 489, 497 Prague (Czech Republic) 186 Prandacieo (literary character) 544 Preparantia (Latin text) 310 Presentation of Jesus to the Temple (iconography) 393 Presentation of Mary to the Temple (iconography) 14 Prinitsa (battle) 245, 247, 254, 404
736 Proclus 173, 187–188 Procné (literary character) 54 Procopius (saint) 389 Pronapides (literary character) 298 Prose Lancelot (French text) 292 Prose Tristan (French text) 255, 543 Prothenor (literary character) 362 Prothesilaus (French text) 217; (literary character) 462 Provins (France) 414 Psachna, church of Saint-John-the-Hut-Dweller 124 Psalter (French text) 426 Ptolemy 173, 188 Ptolemy I Soter 278 Publius / Flavius Vegetius Renatus. See Vegetius Pulcheria (empress) 573–574 Pulzella Gaia (literary character) 533 Purgatory of Saint Patrick (Latin text) 468 Pygmies (fictional people) 217 Pyramus (literary character) 484 Pyrga (Cyprus), chapel of Saint-Catherine 276 Pyrgi (Euboea), church of the Transfiguration 379–380, 390, 402 Pyrgos Dirou (Mani), church of SaintPeter 24, 406–407 Pythagoras 120 Queen of Sheba (biblical character) 284 Queste del Saint Graal (French text) 543 Quinquet, Nicolas 580 Quintus Caecilius Metellus. See Metellus 190 Radegund (saint) 256 Rahab (biblical character) 556 Rainer of Travaglia 102 Rallis (literary character) 537 Ralph (literary character) 232 Ramon Muntaner 347–351, 411, 437–438, 525 Raoul of Cambrai (literary character) 281 Ravano dalle Carceri 99–102 Ravenna (Italy) 198, 504 Ravennika, Second parliament 102–104 Raymond of Rousset 417
Index Raymont (literary character) 350 Red Book of Hergest (Welsh manuscript) 543 Reductorium morale (Latin text) 417 Regensburg (Germany), monastery of Saint-Emmeram 581 Regula bullata (Latin text) 309, See also Franciscan Rule Regula bullata (text) 310 Regulae pastoralis liber (Latin text) 181 Rembaut (donor) 170 Remus of Rome (literary character) 546 Renaissance (movement) 26, 372, 425, 448, 564 Renart le Contrefait (French text) 494 Renart the fox (literary character) 493–499; as Brother Bernard 494 Retople (fictional place) 470 Revelatio ostensa papae Stephano (Latin text) 129 Rhodes (island) 431, 455, 502–504, 510, 530, 564 Robert Grosseteste 52, 127, 146, 172, 213–214 Robert Guiscard 282 Robert II of Taranto 440 Robert, archbishop of Corinth 206 Rocca Borromeo of Angera (Italy), Sala della Giustizia 291 Roche, de la (family) 111, 156, 172. See also Bonne; Guy I; Guy II; Isabella; John; Otto; William I Rochecorbon (France), church of Saint-George 403 Rodeneck / Rodengo Castle (Italy) 289 Roger Bacon 151 R(oger) of Lucedio 95 Roland (literary character) 11, 57, 258, 281, 283, 351, 447, 477, 482, 484, 576. See also Song of Roland Romagna 546 Roman de Brut (French text) 337 Roman de la Rose (French text) 211–213, 443, 460–462, 464–465, 468 Roman de Renart (French text) 211, 366, 490, 492–497 Roman de Rou (French text) 337 Roman de Thèbes (French text) 31–32, 216, 298
Index Roman de Troie (French text) 8, 10, 32, 204–205, 290–291, 336–337, 344, 353, 355, 363, 455, 457, 543, 545, 568 Romanesque (style) 163, 189, 196, 295, 390 Romania, Franciscan province 316 Rome (Italy) 11–14, 53, 56, 58–59, 65–66, 73, 75, 79–80, 98, 113, 117, 124, 134, 168, 174, 199, 233, 258, 260, 281, 310, 335, 350, 352, 370, 397, 406, 410, 501, 504, 523, 544, 546, 579, 583; Baths of Caracalla 199; church of SaintCecilia in Trastevere 167; church of Saint-Mary in Cosmedin 167; church of Saint-Paul fuori le mura 167; church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli 199; church of Santa Maria in Trastevere 199; Roman(s) 12, 48, 400, 455, 516, 544, 562; as Byzantines 45, 48, 278, 537–540, 546, 548, 558, 560, 567 Rothko, Mark 27 Round Table 7, 255, 278, 366, 463, 484, 540, 543 Roustikos (martyr) 82 Rule of saint Basil (Greek text) 107, 308 Rule of saint Benedict (Latin text) 181–182 Ruritania (fictional place) 544 Rus’ 7, 17, 234, 388 Russia 7; Northern 7, 18 Rustichello of Pisa 412, 534, 544 Rutebeuf 24, 248–250, 252–253 Ruthenia 186; Ruthenian (language) 186 Ruvo di Puglia (Italy), church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary 295 Sabbionara di Avio Castle (Italy), Camera dell’Amore 290; Sala delle Guardie 290 Sacrifice of Abraham (iconography) 178–181 Sagremor (literary character) 543 Saint-Jacques-des-Guérets (France), church of Saint-James 293, 556 Saint-Omer (family) 133, 151, 270, 272–273, 276, 280–281; as literary characters 578. See also Bela; John; Nicholas I; Nicholas II; William (also de Morbecque) Saint-Ouen (France) 504 Saint-Pourçain (wine) 527
737 Salic (law) 269 Salimbene of Adam 119, 309, 375, 378, 413–415 Sallust 205, 298 Saloliqui (fictional place) 543 Salona 102, 316, 435 Samarina, close to Andromonastero, church of Zoodochos-Pigi 35–36, 476 Sambas, Pediada (Crete), church of the Panagia 323 Samson (biblical character) 218, 288 San Biagio (Italy) 392 San Gimignano (Italy), Palazzo pubblico 289 Sanudo. See Marino Sanudo the Elder or Nicholas Sanudo 231 Saracen(s) 55, 127, 219–220, 241, 249, 277, 282–283, 285, 419–420, 463, 501, 556, 578–579; as Hagarenes 505 Saul (biblical character) 288 Saulieu (France), church of Saint-Andoche 180 Savvopoulos, Dionysis 42, 508 Saxons 220 Scaligeri (family) 159. See also Cangrande II Scandinavia 7, 536; 493 Schliemann, Heinrich 572 Scholarii (soldiers) 250, 253 Scholasticism 156, 207 Scottish 456, 462 Sebaste 61 Seine (river) 527 Sepulchre, Holy. See Holy Sepulchre Serbian 124, 179; Serbs 236, 422, 430, 548 Serres 418 Servion Castle 210 Sessa Aurunca (Italy) 531 Seven Against Thebes (Greek text) 216–217 Seven Wise Men (unspecified text) 5 Sheba, queen of. See Queen of Sheba 284 Sheela na gig (iconography) 498 Sicily 208, 281, 542 Siege of Jericho (iconography) 11, 554, 556 Sienna (Italy), Palazzo pubblico 291 Sigebert of Gembloux 73 Silvestre (writer) 52
738 Simon Atumano 572 Simon le Rat 426 Simon of Milan 511–512, 530–531 Simona, daughter of Alfonso Fadrique 345 Simplicius 172–173 Sinai (Egypt), monastery of Saint-Catherine 510; (icons) 17, 177 Sirens (mythical beings) 217 Sis (Turkey) 500 Sisoe (saint) 574 Skala 423 Skorta 243–244, 248, 341; as Escorta 340 Slavs 308, 531; Slavic (lands) 219; Southern 7; (liturgy) 186 Slavonia (fictional place) 219 Sleeping Beauty (contemporary tale) 456, 576 Soave Castle (Italy) 290 Socrates 63, 66 Sodomites (biblical people) 115 Soissons (France) 580–581 Soliman (literary character) 282 Solinus 441 Solomon (biblical character) 97, 158, 161, 284, 295, 469, 494 Sommacampagna (Italy), church of Saint-Andrew 313–314 Song of Roland (French text) 486–487 Song of Songs (Ruthenian text) 186 songs-of-deeds (chansons de geste, genre) 5, 219, 255, 283, 289, 293, 344, 367, 487, 489, 534 Sophistici elenchi (Greek text) 173 Sorrento (wine) 45 Sotirianika (Mani) 18, 34, 385–386; church of Saint-Kyriaki 385–386, 390–391, 409 Spain 504, 536; Spanish 378 Spaneas (Greek text) 488, 561 Sparti 10, 22, 29–30, 202, 243–244, 423, 471, 573; Sparta (fictional place) 290, 455 Sphinx (mythical being) 55, 301, 572 Spilia Penteli cave monastery 114, 116–117, 119–121, 124, 404, 530 Sprotinus the rooster (literary character) 493 Stavrax 106 Stefano da Ferrara 291
Index Stephanitis and Ichnilatis (Greek text) 497 Stephaton (apocryphal character) 369 Stephen (ktetor) 242 Stephen (saint) 408, 583 Stephen Mangiatero 172, 204 Stephen of Blois 579 Stephen of Bourbon 283 Stephen of Hungary (saint) 242 Stephen Uroš IV Dušan 430 Stimulus diffusion (concept) 3–4, 10–11, 121, 235, 268, 297, 483 Story of Prophetess Sivilla (Ruthenian text) 186 Strei (Romania) 4, 395; church of the Dormition of the Mother of God 395–398, 401, 405–407 Streisângeorgiu (Romania), church of Saint-George 398, 405 Strophades (islands), Benedictine convent 325 Stymfalia 121; Stymphalian birds (mythical beings) 218 Suda Lexicon (text) 127 Suger (abbot) 199 Surrealists 26 Sybil (literary character) 572 Sykamino 373; castle 265, 371–372, 530, 552; castle, church of SaintGeorge 372; castle, Franciscan house of Saint-George 371; church of the Forty-Holy-Martyrs 372 Sylvester (saint, pope) 406, 409 Symeon the Metaphrast 288 Symi (island) 510 Synaxarion of the venerable Donkey (Greek text) 496–497 Synaxis of the Archangels (iconography) 252 Syndipas (Greek text) 5 Syria 91, 154, 281–282, 337 Tacuinum (Latin text) 224 Tale of Four-legged Creatures (Greek text) 497 Tanoulas, Tassos 4 Tarragona (Spain) 488 Tartars 374 Tavola Ritonda (Italian text) 533
Index Taygetos, Mount. See Mount Taygetos 243 Tenedos (island) 525 Tereus (literary character) 54 Termeno-sulla-Strada-del-Vino (Italy), church of Saint-James 395 Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs (Greek text) 127–128 Tetramorph (iconography) 287, 295, 405–406 Teutonic Knights 220 Thamar Angelina Comnena 303 Thamerida (literary character) 455 Thebans 125 Thebes 31–32, 46, 92, 99–100, 102, 105, 116, 125, 133, 150–154, 156, 175–176, 188, 196, 209, 217, 236, 239, 281–282, 284, 288, 292, 316, 326, 337, 343–345, 348, 371, 377, 411, 443, 569; castle 344; Kadmeia 345; monastery of SaintFrancis 371; palace of the SaintOmer 282, 344–345, 443 Themis, goddess (literary character) 460 Themistius 47, 172 Theobald (literary character) 232 Theodora Petraliphaina, of Arta (saint) 208, 210, 256–257, 269, 280, 305 Theodora Syrgianni 418, 421–422 Theodore (saint) 389 Theodore (saint, unspecified) 246, 389, 393 Theodore Angelus of Thessaly 329 Theodore Balsamon 64, 78, 157, 322 Theodore I Comnenus Doucas 96, 105, 114, 208, 215, 329 Theodore I Lascaris 45–46 Theodore I Palaeologus (despot) 507, 529, 554, 557; (marquis) 328 Theodore Petraliphas 208 Theodore, bishop of Negroponte 48, 53, 78, 91, 96–103, 106–107, 113 Theodosius (literary character) 573 Theodosius II 563 Theodosius, metropolitan of Mystras 424 Theologos, Father (Iviron monastery) 34 Theophanus Continuatus (Greek compilation) 288 Theophanus, metropolitan of Nicaea 174 Theophrastus 173 Theophylact of Ochrid 106
739 Theoretikon Paradeission (Greek text) 213 Theorianos 65–68, 71–72, 74, 76, 157 Theotokos. See Mother of God Thermia (island) 117, 512–513; as Fermia 510; (village) 511–512 Thermopylae 112; (battle) 245; (near), monastery of Saint-John the Forerunner 46, 50, 112–113; as Anemopyla 254 Theseid (text) 8, 443–448, 482, 518; Theseid (Greek text) 575; (Italian text) 443 Theseus (literary character) 217, 444–448, 518–519 Thespius (literary character) 57 Thessalonica 19–20, 34, 53, 59, 62, 79, 85, 91–92, 95–97, 102, 120, 123, 133, 208, 418, 451, 538, 543 Thessaly 152, 154, 269, 293, 316, 329, 373, 376, 442, 516, 529, 544, 546 Thomais Orsini 572 Thomas Aquinas (saint) 75, 151, 156, 173–174, 183, 188, 206 Thomas I Comnenus Doucas 301 Thomas I of Autremencourt 102 Thomas III of Autremencourt 316, 326–328, 365, 411 Thomas Morosini 103 Thomas of Cantimpré 289 Thomas of Torcello 107 Thomas the Greek (friar) 309 Thrace 54, 217 Three Children in the furnace (iconography) 178–179, 185; (theme) 305 Three Living and Three Dead (iconography) 574 Thucydides 449, 452, 507 Timothy (saint) 145–146 Tira (Turkey) 437 Tobit (Ruthenian text) 186 Torcello (Italy), church of Santa Maria Assunta 32 Torments of Hell (iconography) 314 Tóth, Imre 43 Toumpouri, Marina 34 Transfiguration (iconography) 177, 393 Translatio imperii (concept) 26, 98 Translatio ritus sacerdotii (concept) 97 Translatio studii (concept) 26
740 Transylvania 4, 7, 242–243, 388, 396, 401; Transylvanian(s) 242, 395–396, 401, 405–406 Treason of Judas (iconography) 381, 383–384 Trebizond (Turkey), church of SaintSophia 234–235, 297, 365, 478 Tree of Jesse (iconography) 179, 247 Tree of the Crucified Life of Jesus (Latin text) 311 Trento (Italy) 290 Treviso (Italy) 214, 291; Loggia dei Cavalieri 290 Trinity-of-the-Psalter (iconography) 15, 190–191 Trissakia (Mani) 3, 39, 389 Tristan (literary character) 254, 258, 292, 534 Trizonia (island) 316–317 Troad 134 Troas (literary character) 516–518, 544, 546 Troilus (literary character) 301, 455–460, 462, 484, 576 Trojan (literary character) 516, 544 Trojan(s) 32, 352, 366, 455, 514–515, 517–518, 545–547 Trotula (unspecified text) 224 Troy 10–11, 49–50, 227, 233, 290, 298, 335, 351–352, 354–355, 366, 454–455, 469, 484, 515–517, 522–523, 544, 567, 569 Tsakonian (language) 6; Tsakonian(s) 244, 316, 373, 531 Turks 282, 430, 434, 437, 439, 462, 500, 502, 514, 528–530, 548, 550, 552–554, 558, 567–568, 573, 575; Turkish 9, 33, 86, 241, 244–245, 248, 411, 430, 508, 512, 528, 530, 532, 558, 564–565 Tuscany 412, 516, 546; Tuscans 414 Ubertino of Casale 311–313, 315, 410 Udine (Italy) 290–291 Ukraine, Western 7 Ulrich (archbishop) 167 Ulysses (literary character) 106, 288, 363, 565, 567 Uniatism 158, 186, 318, 382–383, 424 Urian of Lusignan (literary character) 503
Index Uther Pendragon (literary character) 544–546 Uzzi-Tuzzi, Professor (literary character) 307 Vagiati (near Athens), Frangokklisia 371 Valenciennes (family) 578 Valentina Visconti 500, 502, 506 Vandal(s) 12, 537 Vasilikou, Niki 5 Vatopedi monastery 179, 392 Vegetius 328 Veligosti 244, 248, 252 Venantius Fortunatus 83 Veneto 351, 376 Vengeance of the descendants of Hector (Italian text) 543, 546–547, 567 Vengement Alixandre (French text) 216, 454 Venice (Italy) 8, 20, 102, 172, 214, 330, 348, 350, 353, 411–412, 434, 436, 438–439, 441, 446, 451, 503, 516, 531, 533, 551, 564, 574, 576, 584; Venetian(s) 10, 35, 56, 73, 102, 221, 269, 286, 300, 336, 346–347, 369, 375, 382–384, 412, 430, 437–438, 440, 442, 452–453, 503–504, 512, 515, 522–525, 528–530, 533, 549–550, 556, 561, 564, 567, 573, 577; Senate 311, 507; Venetian (linguistic features) 341 Venieri (family) 567 Venjance Alixandre (French text) 216, 454 Venus, goddess (literary character) 347, 457, 459, 567 Veria 422 Verona (Italy) 159, 235, 290, 313, 376, 412, 504; abbey church of San Zeno 233, 284; abbey church of San Zeno, tower 288; Saint-Peter-theMartyr 287; Veronese 35, 101–102, 209, 254, 284, 348, 382, 412, 533 Vicentine(s) 254 Villehardouin (family) 9, 24–25, 215, 275, 280, 471, 560. See also Anna / Agnes; Geoffrey I; Geoffrey II; Isabella; Margaret; William II Virgil (literary character) 573
741
Index Vision of Ezekiel (iconography) 184 Vision of Isaiah (iconography) 184 Vision of Tnugdal (Latin text) 468; (Ruthenian text) 186 Vita et actus beati Dionysii (Latin compilation) 129 Vita icon (iconography) 314 Viterbo (Italy) 172–173, 186–187, 269, 577 Vlacherne (Elis) monastery 203, 263–265 Vlachia 299, 543; Vlach(s) 7, 236, 242, 316, 373, 396, 548 Vladimir (Russia), church of SaintDemetrius 17, 234 Voyage of Charlemagne (French text) 57, 413, 468 Vrontamas 16, 33 Wace (writer) 337, 542 Walta (in the diocese of Athens) 371 Walter of Lor 430 Walter of Renenghes 151 Walter V of Brienne 31, 338, 411, 413, 434 Walter VI of Brienne 337–338, 345, 443 War of Troy (Greek text) 8, 10, 291, 301, 337, 352–353, 355, 363–365, 446, 453 Wauchier of Denain 31 White Book of Rhydderch (Welsh manuscript) 543 William (canon) 121 William Bernard of Gailhac 206 William de Montibus 52 William I de la Roche 293 William II of Villehardouin 24–25, 35, 192, 208–211, 214–215, 219, 221, 224–231, 236– 241, 243–244, 247–248, 254, 261–265, 268–274, 276–279, 281, 293, 303, 329, 340, 370, 423–424, 577 William Kalligopoulos 241–242, 249
William of Lorris 212, 464 William of Morbeka 2, 32, 40, 126, 149–156, 170–176, 183, 186–189, 191, 193, 199, 203–207, 311, 402, 404, 520 William of Normandy (literary character) 232 William of Orange (literary character) 219, 281, 283 William of Saint-Omer, also de Morbecque 151 William the Clerk of Normandy 305 William VI of Montferrat 95 Winchester (United Kingdom) 217 Władysław II Jagellon 186 Wolfenbüttler Rapularius (Latin text) 182 Wolfram von Eschenbach 289 Wycliff 367 Xyngopoulos, Andreas 168 Yangaki, Anastasia 4 Ysoré (literary character) 283 Ywain (literary character) 289 Zachariah (biblical character) 179, 295 Zaraka monastery 121 Zaratova 105 Zeeland (fictional place) 456 Zelland (literary character) 456, 458, 460 Zellandine (literary character) 456–460, 576 Zephyr (literary character) 458 Zeteis (literary character) 218 Zeus (literary character) 573 Zoupena / Agii Anargyri 33; cave church 32 Zourtsa 263