Architecture and Visual Culture in the Late Antique and Medieval Mediterranean: Studies in Honor of Robert G. Ousterhout (Architectura Medii Aevi, 14) 9782503583969, 2503583962

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Architecture and Visual Culture in the Late Antique and Medieval Mediterranean

Architectura Medii Aevi Vol. XIV

Series Editor Prof. Thomas Coomans (University of Leuven, Department of Architecture)

Advisory Board Prof. em. Caroline Bruzelius (Duke University, Durham, North Carolina) Prof. Christian Freigang (Freie Universität Berlin, Kunsthistorisches Institut) Dr Zoë Opačić (University of London, Birkbeck College, Department of History of Art) Prof. Dany Sandron (Université de Paris Sorbonne – Paris IV)

Honorary Prof. em. Paul Crossley† (The Courtauld Institute of Art, London)

Architecture and Visual Culture in the Late Antique and Medieval Mediterranean Studies in Honor of Robert G. Ousterhout

Edited by

Vasileios Marinis, Amy Papalexandrou and Jordan Pickett

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Cover Illustration: Theotokos Pammakaristos (Fethiye Camii), Istanbul. Interior of the funerary chapel, view toward the dome (photo: Vasileios Marinis) © 2020, Brepols Publishers n. v., Turnhout, Belgium. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. ISBN 978-2-503-58396-9 ISSN 2031-4817 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper. D/2020/0095/254

CONTENTS

Prefacevii List of Abbreviations

ix

Publications of Robert G. Ousterhout

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LATE ANTIQUE MANIFESTATIONS

The Forum of Theodosius: Labour and the Gods Benjamin Anderson3



Architectures of Surveillance: Houses and Stylites in the Northern Syrian ‘Dead Villages’ Anna M. Sitz19

CONSTRUCTING SANCTITY

Sacred Sound and the Reflective Cornice Amy Papalexandrou37



Building an Orthodox Monastery in the Frankish Morea: The Andromonastiro at Messenia Michalis Kappas49



What Makes a Church Sacred? Symeon of Thessalonike’s Commentary on the Rite of Consecration Vasileios Marinis69



Furnishing the Celestial Sanctuary: Painted Architectural Settings for the Communion of the Apostles Warren T. Woodfin77



‘The Forgotten Symbols of God’: Screening Patterns from the Early Christian and Byzantine Worlds Eunice Dauterman Maguire & Henry Maguire89



Extended in the Imagination: The Representation of Architectural Space in Byzantium Roland Betancourt105

THE LEVANT

Arch Identities: Structural Innovation and Tradition in the Medieval Levant Rory O’Neill127



‘Architecture as Reliquary’: Latin Reconstruction and Rhetoric at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre Megan Boomer145



Hallowed Halls: Earliest Domed-Hall Churches in Cyprus Charles Anthony Stewart161



Conflict Architecture: Making History at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, Hebron Jordan Pickett177

ANATOLIA AND ARMENIA

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Into the Sacred Space: Facing Ayasoluk and Its Gate of Persecutions Suna Çağaptay193



Carving, Painting, and Inscribing Sacred Space in Late Byzantium: Bezirana Kilisesi Rediscovered (Peristrema-Cappadocia) Tolga B. Uyar207



Questioning Boundaries in Byzantine Cappadocia: Secular Spaces, Sacred Spaces, and Interfaces In Between Fatma Gül Öztürk Büke223



The City of Ani: Constructing a Medieval Capital in the Christian Orient Armen Kazaryan239



List of Contributors



251

Preface

This book comprises sixteen essays addressing issues of art and architecture together with archaeology within the context of sacred space, broadly defined. It encompasses a wide range of territories, methodologies, perspectives, and scholarly concerns. Our point of departure is the built environment, with all that this entails, including religious and political ceremony, painted interiors, patronage, contested spaces, structural and environmental concerns, sensory properties, the written word as it pertains to architectural projects, and imagined spaces. In all, the scholars involved in this project find fresh approaches and uncover new meanings and interpretations in the material examined within this volume, including buildings and objects from Europe to Asia, and spanning from Late Antiquity through the end of the Middle Ages. Readers will easily recognize the imprint of Robert Ousterhout’s scholarship in the choices of material, methodologies, and the chronological and geographical boundaries of these papers. This is not accidental for, although Ousterhout has made significant contributions to fields ranging from Holy Land pilgrimage to the origins of heraldry, architecture remains his true love. One is tempted to trace an intellectual trajectory from The Architecture of the Kariye Camii, published in 1987, to Eastern Medieval Architecture, which appeared in 2019. The former is an architectural study of a single Constantinopolitan monument in the great tradition of Richard Krautheimer and Slobodan Ćurčić, while the latter is a work of exceptional nuance and complexity, covering a vast number of buildings, locales, and

themes ranging from methods and materials to city landscapes. It is just a little vexing to the rest of us that one scholar can do both so particularly well. In the more than thirty years between these two publications, Ousterhout challenged and transformed a methodologically conservative field. In A Byzantine Settlement in Cappadocia (2005; 2nd rev.  edn 2011) Ousterhout put forward a new model for the study of Byzantine Cappadocia, one that privileges the careful study of settlements as a whole rather than isolated monuments. His Master Builders of Byzantium (1999; 2nd edn 2008) transgressed the boundaries of Byzantine architectural history with a detailed diachronic reckoning of building techniques and design practices. This is not the place to offer one-line reviews of all of Ousterhout’s publications, but what we have offered explains sufficiently the honoree’s influence on the field and why the honor is indeed well deserved. The essays in this volume engage to a greater or lesser degree with Ousterhout’s prodigious scholarly output. They are also implicit testaments to his role as a teacher, since he has been a formal or informal mentor to all of the contributors in this book. Many of us have had the incredible luck to discuss with him building types, masonry techniques, brick sizes, and the meaning of Byzantine architecture in various cities and countries. Many of us have had the particularly incredible luck to join him in some of his expeditions in Istanbul, Cappadocia, Thessalonike, and Armenia, where he taught us how to read and understand historic architecture; how to value first-hand knowledge of buildings and their environments; how to express

opinions based on evidence; how to care about forgotten walls and pieces of sculpture embedded in those walls when no one else took notice of them; and how, at the end of the day, to enjoy a glass of Campari on a rooftop. For all these, we remain grateful and we hope that he finds these essays a somewhat adequate antidoron. The organization of the conference in which many of these papers were originally presented and the publication of this book was considerably aided by grants and subventions from the History of Art

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P r eface

Department at the University of Pennsylvania. We are particularly grateful to profs. Karen Redrobe and Michael Leja, as well as to Darlene Jackson. The Institute of Sacred Music at Yale University provided additional funds, for which we are beholden to its director, prof. Martin Jean, as well as to Erin Ethiel and Trish Lendroth. Finally, we would like to thank Justin  L. Willson, Kathleen Kilcup, and Bailey Sullivan for research support. The Editors

List of Abbreviations

ActaIRNorv

Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, Institutum Romanum Norvegiae AB Analecta Bollandiana AJA American Journal of Archaeology ANRW Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt Art Bulletin ArtB Ἀρχ.Δελτ. Ἀρχαιολογικὸν δελτίον AH Art History Ἀρχ.Βυζ. Ἀρχεῖον τῶν βυζαντινῶν μνημείων τῆς Ἑλλάδος Μνημ.Ἑλλ. Ἀρχ.Ἐφ. Ἀρχαιολογικὴ ἐφημερίς BCH Bulletin de correspondance hellénique BMFD Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ ‘Typika’ and Testaments, ed. by John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2000) BMGS Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies BNJ Byzantinisch-Neugriechische Jahrbücher ByzF Byzantinische Forschungen Byzantinische Zeitschrift BZ Cahiers archéologiques CahArch Corpus iuris civilis, ed. by Paul CIC Krüger et al. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1928–29; repr. 1993)

CRAI CorsiRav Δελτ.Ἑτ.Ἑλλ. Δελτ.Χριστ. Ἀρχ.Ἑτ. DOP FS GOTR GRBS IGLSyr IEJ IstMitt JBAA JbAC JEChrSt JHS JMedHist JRA JRS JSAH JÖB JWarb Κυπρ.Σπ.

Comptes rendus des séances de l’année de l’Académie des inscriptions et Belles-lettres Corsi di cultura sull’arte ravennate e bizantina Δελτίον τῆς ἱστορικῆς καὶ ἐθνολογικῆς ἑταιρείας τῆς Ἑλλάδος Δελτίον τῆς Χριστιανικῆς ἀρχαιολογικῆς ἑταιρείας Dumbarton Oaks Papers Frühmittelalterliche Studien Greek Orthodox Theological Review Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie, ed. L. Jalabert, R. Mouterde, and C. Mondésert (Paris, 1929–70) Israel Exploration Journal Istanbuler Mitteilungen Journal of the British Archaeological Association Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Journal of Early Christian Studies Journal of Hellenic Studies Journal of Medieval History Journal of Roman Archaeology Journal of Roman Studies Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes Κυπριακαὶ σπουδαί

MDAIRA MedSt MonPiot OCP ODB ÖJh PG PEFQ

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Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung Mediaeval Studies Monuments et mémoires, Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, Fondation Eugène Piot Orientalia christiana periodica The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. by A. Kazhdan and others. (New York–Oxford, 1991) Jahreshefte des Österreichischen Archäologischen Instituts in Wien Patrologiae cursus completus, Series graeca, ed. by J.-P. Migne (Paris, 1857–66) Palestine Exploration Fund, Quarterly Statement

Li st of A bbr evi at ions

RA REB REG RIC RhM Synaxarium CP

TAPS TIB TM VChr ZKunstg

Revue archéologique Revue des études byzantines Revue des études grecques The Roman Imperial Coinage, ed. by Harold Matingly and others (London: Spink, 1923–81) Rheinisches Museum für Philologie Synaxarium ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae: Propylaeum ad Acta sanctorum Novembris, ed. by Hippolyte Delehaye (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1902) Transactions of the American Philosophical Society Tabula imperii byzantini Travaux et mémoires Vigiliae christianae Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte

Publications of Robert G. Ousterhout

Books Authored or Co-authored The Architecture of the Kariye Camii in Istanbul (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1987) Monuments of Unaging Intellect: Historic Postcards from Byzantine Istanbul (Istanbul: Tür Tanitim, 1995), with Nezih Başgelen. Turkish translation: Tarihi Kartlarda Yaşayan Istanbul (Istanbul: Tür Tanitim, 1995) Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999). Russian translation: Визатийские Стоители (Kiev-Moscow, 2005). 2nd  edn, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum Publications, 2008. Turkish translation: Bizans’ın Yapı Ustaları (Istanbul: Koç University Press, 2016) The Art of the Kariye Camii (London: Scala, 2002). Turkish translation: Sanatsal Açıdan Kariye Camii (London: Scala, 2002) Monuments of Unaging Intellect: Historic Postcards from Byzantine Istanbul, 2nd rev. edn (Istanbul: Arkeoloji ve Sanat Yayinlari, 2005), with Nezih Başgelen A Byzantine Settlement in Cappadocia, (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2005); 2nd rev. edn, 2011 The Byzantine Monuments of the Evros/Meriç River Valley (Thessaloniki: European Center for Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Monuments, 2007), with Charalambos Bakirtzis John Henry Haynes: Archaeologist and Photographer in the Ottoman Empire 1881–1900 (Hawick, Scotland: Cornucopia, 2011). 2nd rev. edn, 2016 Domes: A Journey through European Architectural History (Istanbul: Ertuğ & Kocabıyık, 2011), with Ahmet Ertuğ and Michael Forsyth

Palmyra 1885: The Wolfe Expedition and the Photographs of John Henry Haynes (Edinburgh: Caique Publishing, 2016), with Benjamin W. Anderson Visualizing Community: Art, Material Culture, and Settlement in Byzantine Cappadocia (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2017) Finding a Place in History: The Chora Monastery and Its Patrons (Nicosia: The Leventis Municipal Museum of Nicosia, 2017) Eastern Medieval Architecture: The Building Traditions of Byzantium and Neighboring Lands (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019)

Books Edited or Co-edited The Blessings of Pilgrimage (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1990) The Sacred Image East and West (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1995), with Leslie Brubaker Restoring Byzantium: The Kariye Camii in Istanbul and the Byzantine Institute Restoration (New York: Wallach Art Gallery, 2004), with Holger Klein Encounters with Islam: The Medieval Mediterranean Experience. Art, Material Culture, and Cultural Exchange, Gesta 43:2 (2004), with D. Fairchild Ruggles Kariye: From Theodore Metochites to Thomas Whittemore: One Monument, Two Monumental Personalities (Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2007), with Holger Klein and Brigitte Pitarakis Studies on Istanbul and Beyond: The Freely Papers, Vol.  1 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum Publications, 2007) The Thousand and One Churches, by William M. Ramsay and Gertrude  L. Bell, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum Publications, 2008), new

edition of 1909 book with improved photographs and an historiographic introduction, with Mark P.C. Jackson Archaeologists and Travelers in Ottoman Lands. Exhibition Catalogue (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum, 2010), with Renata Holod, available online at http://www.ottomanlands.com/ Kariye Camii, Yeniden/The Kariye Camii Reconsidered (Istanbul: Istanbul Research Institute, 2011), with Holger Klein and Brigitte Pitarakis Osman Hamdi Bey and the Americans: Archaeology, Diplomacy, Art.  Exhibition Catalogue (Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2011), with Renata Holod Approaches to Byzantine Architecture and Its Decoration: Studies in Honor of Slobodan Ćurčić (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012), with Mark J. Johnson and Amy Papalexandrou Architecture of the Sacred: Space, Ritual, and Experience from Classical Greece to Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), with Bonna Wescoat Masons at Work (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2013), with Lothar Haselberger and Renata Holod, available online at http://www.sas.upenn.edu/ ancient/publications.html Beth Shean Revisited, thematic issue of Expedition 55/1 (2013) Against Gravity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), with Lothar Haselberger, Renata Holod, available online at http://www.sas.upenn. edu/ancient/publications.html Konstantinopolis: Şehrin Dokusu (Istanbul: Alfa Tarih, 2016), with Henry Maguire Piroska and the Pantokrator (New York: Central European University Press, 2019), with Marianne Sághy The Holy Apostles: A Lost Monument, a Forgotten Project, and the Presentness of the Past (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2020), with Margaret Mullett

Chapters in Books ‘Santo Stefano e Gerusalemme’, in Stefaniana: Contributi per la storia del complesso di S.  Stefano in Bologna, ed. by Gina Fasoli (Bologna: Deputazione di Storia Patria per le Provincie di Romagna, 1985), pp. 131–58 ‘Osservazioni sulla galleria del Santo Sepolcro a Santo Stefano di Bologna’, in Stefaniana: Contributi per la storia del complesso di S. Stefano in Bologna, ed. by Gina Fasoli (Bologna: Deputazione di Storia Patria per le Provincie di Romagna, 1985), pp. 159–67 ‘Loca Sancta and the Architectural Response to Pilgrimage’, in The Blessings of Pilgrimage, ed. by Robert G.

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Ousterhout (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois, 1990), 108–24 ‘Constantinople, Bithynia, and Regional Developments in Later Byzantine Architecture’, in The Twilight of Byzantium, ed. by Slobodan Ćurčić and Doula Mouriki (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2019), 75–91 ‘The Virgin of the Chora: An Image and Its Contexts’, in The Sacred Image: East and West, ed. by Robert G. Ousterhout and Leslie Brubaker (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois, 1995), 91–108 ‘The Byzantine Church at Çeltikdere (Seben-Bolu)’, in Studien zur byzantinischen Kunstgeschichte: Festschrift für H.  Hallensleben zum 65 Geburtstag, ed.  by Birgitte Borkopp, Barbara Schellewald, and Lioba Theis (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1995), 85–92, with Yıldız Ötüken ‘Beyond Hagia Sophia: Originality in Byzantine Architecture’, in Originality in Byzantine Literature, Art and Music, ed.  by Antony  R. Littlewood (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 1995), 167–85 ‘Byzantine Secular Architecture, 843–1261’, in The Glory of Byzantium. Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, 843–1261, ed. by Helen C. Evans and William D. Wixom (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 192–200 ‘Sanatçılar ve Yapı Ustaları: Konstantinopolis’te Çalışma Ilişkileri’, in Sanatın Ortaçağı, ed. by Engin Akyürek (Istanbul: Kabalcı Yayınevi, 1997), 89–98 ‘Building the New Jerusalem’, in Jerozolima w kulturze europejskiej, ed.  by Piotr Paszkiewicza and Tadeusz Zadroznego (Warsaw: Inst. Sztuki Polskiej Akad. Nauk, 1997), 143–54 ‘Questioning the Archaeological Evidence: Cappadocian Monasteries’, in Work and Worship at the Theotokos Evergetis, ed.  by Margaret Mullett and Anthony Kirby (Belfast: Belfast Byzantine Enterprise, 1998), 420–31 ‘Reconstructing Ninth-Century Constantinople’, in Byzantium in the Ninth Century: Dead or Alive?, ed.  by Leslie Brubaker (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 115–30 ‘The Holy Space: Architecture Serves the Liturgy’, in Heaven on Earth: Art and the Church in Byzantium, ed. by Linda Safran (University Park, Penn.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998), 81–120 ‘A Late Byzantine Chapel at Didymoteicho and Its Frescoes’, in L’arte di Bisanzio e l’Italia al tempo dei Paleologi 1261–1453, ed. by Antonio Iacobini and Mauro della Valle (Rome: Nuova Argos, 1999), 195–207 ‘The Architecture of Iconoclasm: Buildings’, in Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era (ca. 680–859): The Sources, ed. by

Robert  G. Ousterhout, Leslie Brubaker and John Haldon (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 3–20 ‘Architecture, Art, and Komnenian Ideology at the Pantokrator Monastery’, in Byzantine Constantinople: Monuments, Topography, and Everyday Life, ed.  by Nevra Necipoğlu (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 133–150 ‘Burgazada’daki Metamorphosis Kilisesi’, in Yıldız Demiriz’e Armağan, ed.  by M.  Baha Tanman and Uşun Tükel (Istanbul: Simurg, 2001), 93–105, with Engin Akyürek ‘Byzantine Funerary Architecture of the Twelfth Century’, in Drevnerusskoe iskusstvo. Rus’ i strany vizantiĭskogo mira XII vek (St Petersburg: Dmitriĭ Bulanin, 2002), 5–17 ‘The French Connection? Construction of Vaults and Cultural Identity in Crusader Architecture’, in France and the Holy Land: Frankish Culture at the End of the Crusades, ed. by Daniel Weiss (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 77–94 ‘Masonry Architecture in Byzantine Cappadocia’, in Metin Ahunbay’a Armağan: Bizans Mimarisi Üzerine Yazılar (Istanbul: Ege Yayinlari, 2004), 207–20 ‘The Kariye Camii: An Introduction’, in Restoring Byzantium: The Kariye Camii in Istanbul and the Byzantine Institute Restoration, ed.  by Holger Klein and Robert G. Ousterhout (New York: Columbia University, 2004), 5–14 ‘(Re)Presenting the Kariye Camii: Architecture, Archaeology, and Restoration’, in Restoring Byzantium: The Kariye Camii in Istanbul and the Byzantine Institute Restoration, ed. by Holger Klein and Robert G. Ousterhout (New York: Columbia University, 2004), 32–42 ‘“Bestride the Very Peak of Heaven”: The Parthenon in the Byzantine and Ottoman Periods’, in The Parthenon from Antiquity to the Present, ed.  by Jenifer Neils (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 292–325 ‘The Ecumenical Character of Byzantine Architecture: The View from Cappadocia’, in Byzantium as Oecumene, ed.  by Evangelos Chrysos (Athens: National Research Foundation, 2005), 211–32 ‘Jerusalem in Bologna: Another Crusader Church of the Holy Sepulchre’, in Crusaders in the Holy Land: Archaeology of Faith, ed.  by Jack Meinhardt (Washington, D.C.: Biblical Archaeology Society, 2005), 33–54 ‘The Kariye: A  Brief Introduction to the Building’, in Kariye: From Theodore Metochites to Thomas Whittemore; One Monument, Two Monumental Personalities, ed.  by Robert  G. Ousterhout, Holger Klein, Brigitte Pitarakis, et  al. (Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2007), 16–31

‘Pilgrimage Architecture’, in Egeria: Monuments of Faith in the Medieval Mediterranean, ed.  by I.  Koltsida-Makri, et  al. (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 2008), 47–58 ‘Byzantine Architecture: Churches and Monasteries’, in Oxford Handbook of Byzantium, ed.  by Elizabeth Jeffreys (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 353–72 ‘Symbole der Macht: Mittelalterliche Heraldik zwischen Ost und West’, in Lateinisch-griechisch-arabische Begegnungen. Kulturelle Diversität im Mittelmeerraum des Spätmittelalters, ed. by Margit Mersch and Ulrike Ritzerfeld (Berlin: Akademie, 2009), 91–109 ‘Byzantium between East and West and the Origins of Heraldry’, in Byzantine Art: Recent Studies, ed.  by Colum Hourihane (Princeton, N.J.: 2009), 153–70 ‘The Byzantine Contribution to Early Russian Architecture’, in Archeologia Abrahamica, ed.  by Leonid Belaiev (Moscow: Indrik, 2009), 213–30 ‘Architecture and Cultural Identity in the Eastern Mediterranean’, in Hybride Kulturen im mittelalterliche Europa, ed. by Michael Borgolte and Bernd Schneidmüller (Berlin: Akademie, 2010), 261–75 ‘Constantinople and the Construction of a Medieval Urban Identity’, in The Byzantine World, ed. by Paul Stephenson (London: Routledge, 2010), 334–51 ‘New Temples and New Solomons: The Rhetoric of Byzantine Architecture’, in The Old Testament in Byzantium, ed.  by Paul Magdalino and Robert Nelson (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 2010), 223–53 ‘The Architectural Heritage of Byzantine Constantinople’, in From Byzantium to Istanbul: 8000 Years of a Capital, ed.  by Koray Durak (Istanbul: Sakıp Sabancı Museum, 2010), 124–33 ‘John Henry Haynes Travels and Photographs of Anatolia, 1884–87’, in Archaeologists and Travelers in Ottoman Lands, ed.  by Robert  G. Ousterhout and Renata Holod (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum, 2010), available online at http://www. ottomanlands.com/sites/default/files/pdf/Ousterhoutessay.pdf ‘Brickstamps from the Zeyrek Camii’, in Bizans ve Çevre Kültürler: Prof. Dr S. Yıldız Ötüken Armağan, ed. by Sema Doğan and Mine Kadiroğlu (Istanbul: Vehbi Koç Vakfı, 2010), 245–53 ‘Messages in the Landscape: Searching for Gregory Nazianzenos in Cappadocia (with two Excursions to the Çanlı Kilise)’, in Images of the Byzantine World: Visions, Messages and Meanings, Studies Presented to Leslie Brubaker, ed.  by Angeliki Lymberopoulou (Farnham, Mass.: Ashgate, 2011), 147–69 ‘Editors’ Introduction’, in Kariye Camii Yeniden/The Kariye Camii Reconsidered, ed.  by Robert  G.

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Ousterhout, Holger Klein, and Brigitte Pitarakis (Istanbul: Istanbul Research Institute, 2011), 9–33 ‘Reading Difficult Buildings: The Lessons of the Kariye Camii’, in Kariye Camii Yeniden/The Kariye Camii Reconsidered, ed. by Robert G. Ousterhout, Holger Klein, and Brigitte Pitarakis (Istanbul: Istanbul Research Institute, 2011), 95–128 ‘Byzantine Mosaics from Tesserae to Pixels’, in Mosaics of Anatolia, ed.  by Gürol Sözen (Istanbul: HSBC, 2011), 6–7 ‘Images at the Heart of the Empire: The Figural Mosaics of Hagia Sophia’, in Mosaics of Anatolia, ed. by Gürol Sözen (Istanbul: HSBC, 2011), 233–34 ‘Icons in Space: Ways of Seeing the Mosaics at the Kariye’, in Mosaics of Anatolia, ed. by Gürol Sözen (Istanbul: HSBC, 2011), 297–308 ‘Some Forgotten Mosaics of Istanbul’, in Mosaics of Anatolia, ed.  by Gürol Sözen (Istanbul: HSBC, 2011), 333–41 ‘Osman Hamdi Bey and the Americans’, in Osman Hamdi Bey and the Americans: Archaeology, Diplomacy, Art, ed. by Robert G. Ousterhout and Renata Holod (Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2011), 16–35, with Renata Holod ‘John Henry Haynes’s Travels and Photographs of Anatolia in 1884–1887’, in Osman Hamdi Bey and the Americans: Archaeology, Diplomacy, Art, ed.  by Robert G. Ousterhout and Renata Holod (Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2011), 48–61 ‘The Rediscovery of Constantinople and the Beginnings of Byzantine Archaeology: A Historiographic Survey’, in Scramble for the Past: A Story of Archaeology in the Ottoman Empire, 1753–1914, ed. by Zainab Bahrani, Zeynep Çelik, and Edhem Eldem (Karaköy: SALT, 2011), 181–211 ‘Two Byzantine Churches of Silivri/Selymbria’, in Approaches to Architecture and Its Decoration: Festschrift for Slobodan Ćurčić, ed. by Mark J. Johnson, Robert G. Ousterhout, and Amy Papalexandrou (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012), 239–57 ‘Is Nothing Sacred? A Modernist Encounter with the Holy Sepulchre’, in On Location: Heritage Cities and Sites, ed.  by D.  Fairchild Ruggles (New York: Springer, 2012), 131–50 ‘The Sanctity of Place and the Sanctity of Buildings: Jerusalem versus Constantinople’, in Architecture of the Sacred: Space, Ritual, and Experience from Classical Greece to Byzantium, ed.  by Robert G.  Ousterhout and Bonna Wescoat (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 281–306 ‘The Memory of Jerusalem: Text, Architecture, and the Craft of Thought’, in Jerusalem as Narrative Space, ed.  by Annette Hoffmann and Gerhard Wolf (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 136–54

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‘Каппадокия: Археология. Архитектура’, in Православная энциклопедия (Moscow, 2012), 580–87 ‘Women at Tombs: Narrative, Theatricality, and the Contemplative Mode’, in Wonderful Things: Byzantium through its Art, ed.  by Antony Eastmond and Liz James (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2013), 229–46 ‘Historic Photography and Byzantine Architecture’, in Artamanoff: Picturing Byzantine Istanbul, 1930–47, ed. by Günder Varinlioglu (Istanbul: Koç University Press, 2013), 63–77 ‘Houses, Markets, and Baths: Secular Architecture in Byzantium’, in Heaven and Earth: Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections (Washington, D.C.: National Gallery of Art, 2013), 211–13 ‘Visualizing the Tomb: Images, Settings, and Ways of Seeing’, in Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, ed.  by Bianca Kühnel (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), 439–50 ‘Water and Healing on Constantinople: Reading the Architectural Remains’, in Life is Short: Art is Long: The Art of Healing in Byzantium, ed. by Brigitte Pitarakis (Istanbul: Pera Museum, 2015), 64–77 ‘Byzantine Architecture: A  Moving Target?’ in Byzantium/Modernism: The Byzantine as Method in Modernity, ed.  by Roland Betancourt and Maria Tarountina (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 163–76 ‘Permanent Ephemera: The “Honourable Stigmatisation” of Jerusalem Pilgrims’, in Between Jerusalem and Europe: Essays in Honour of Bianca Kühnel, ed. by Renana Bartal and Hanna Vorholt (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 94–109 ‘“Grant Us to Share a Place and Lot with Them”: Relics and the Byzantine Church Building (9th–15th Centuries)’, in Saints and Sacred Matter: The Cult of Relics in Byzantium and Beyond, ed. by Cynthia Hahn and Holger Klein (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2015), 153–72, with Vasileios Marinis ‘Architecture and Patronage in the Age of John II’, in John II Komnenos, Emperor of Byzantium: In the Shadow of Father and Son, ed.  by Alessanda Bucossi and Alex Rodriguez-Suarez (Farnham: Ashgate, 2016), 135–54 ‘Η βυζαντινή αρχιτεκτονική της Θράκης: Άποψη από την Κωνσταντινούπολη’, in Ραιδεστός - Θεσσαλονίκη. Αρχαιότητες σ’ ένα ταξίδι προσφυγιάς (Thessalonike, Greece: Archaeological Museum of Thessalonike, 2016), 242–57 ‘The Acheiropoietos that Wasn’t There’, Mélanges Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, ed. by Sulamith Brodbeck, Andréas Nicolaïdès, and Paule Pagès (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2016), 385–96 ‘Βυζαντινή αρχιτεκτονική’, in Βυζάντιο Ιστορία και Πολιτισμός, ed. by Telemachos Longis and D. Lampada (Athens: Herodotus, 2015), 17–82

‘The Temple as Symbol, the Temple as Metaphor’, in Temple and Tomb: Reimagining the Sacred Buildings of Jerusalem, ed. by Robin Griffith-Jones and Eric Fernie (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2018), 146–58 ‘Ribbed Vaults in Byzantine Cappadocia’, in Ἥρως κτίστης: Μνήμη Χαράλαμπου Μπούρα, ed. by Manoles Korres, Stauros Mamaloukos, Kostas Zampas, and Phane Mallouchou-Tufano (Athens: Ekdotikos Oikos Melissa, 2018), 301–308 ‘Politics and Aesthetics in the Architecture of Justinian’, in Constantinople Réelle et Imaginaire: autour de l’oeuvre de Gilbert Dagron, ed. by Cécile Morrisson and Jean-Pierre Sodini (Paris: Association des amis du Centre d’histoire et de civilisation de Byzance, 2018), 103–20 ‘Constructing and Deconstructing Sacred Space in Byzantine Constantinople’, in Sacred Spaces and Urban Networks, ed. by Suzan Yalman and A. Hilâl Uğurlu (Istanbul, 2019), 89–104 ‘Piroska and the Pantokrator: Reassessing the Architectural Evidence’, in Piroska and the Pantokrator: Dynastic Memory, Healing and Salvation in Komnenian Constantinople, ed.  by Marianne Sághy and Robert G. Ousterhout (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2019), 225–60

Articles in Journals ‘Souvenir of a World in Transition: A Late Roman Grave Stele from Phrygia’, Krannert Art Museum Bulletin, 6 (1980), 14–28, with Ann B. Terry ‘The Church of Santo Stefano: A “Jerusalem” in Bologna’, Gesta, 20 (1981), 311–21 ‘Meaning and Architecture: A Medieval View’, Reflections, 2 (1984), 34–46 ‘A Sixteenth-Century Visitor to the Chora’, DOP, 39 (1985), 117–24 ‘The Byzantine Church at Enez: Problems in Twelfth-Century Architecture’, JÖB, 35 (1985), 261–280 ‘Has Functionalism Triumphed? The Destruction of Paul Rudolph’s Christian Science Building’, Reflections, 4 (1986), 40–45, with Lydia M. Soo ‘On the Destruction of Paul Rudolph’s Christian Science Building: The Vicissitudes of Functionalism’, Inland Architect, 31/2 (1987), 66–73 ‘Rebuilding the Temple: Constantine Monomachus and the Holy Sepulchre’, JSAH, 48 (1989), 66–78 ‘Notes on the Monuments of Turkish Thrace’, Anatolian Studies, 39 (1989), 121–49, with Y. Ötüken ‘The Byzantine Heart’, Zograf, 17 (1989), 36–44 ‘The Temple, the Sepulchre, and the Martyrion of the Savior’, Gesta, 29 (1990), 44–53

‘Observations on the “Recessed Brick” Technique during the Palaeologan Period’, Ἀρχ.Δελτ., 39 (1990), 163–70 ‘Originality in Byzantine Architecture: The Case of Nea Moni’, JSAH, 51 (1992), 48–60 ‘Some Notes on the Construction of Christos ho Pantepoptes (Eski Imaret Camii) in Istanbul’, Δελτ.Χριστ. Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 16 (1992), 47–56 ‘Hagia Aikaterini at Didymoteicho’, Ἀρχ.Δελτ., 42 (1991– 92), 471–74 ‘Additional notes to “The Posthumous Miracles of St Photeine” by A.M. Talbot’, AB, 112 (1994), 85–104 ‘Temporal Structuring in the Chora Parekklesion’, Gesta, 34 (1995), 63–76 ‘Ethnic Identity and Cultural Appropriation in Early Ottoman Architecture’, Muqarnas, 13 (1995), 48–62 ‘Eski Imaret Camii Çalışmaları/The Lessons of Eski Imaret Camii’, Arkeoloji ve Sanat 64–65 (1995), 13–23 ‘Kariye Camii’ne Başka Bir Bakış/Another Look at the Kariye Camii’, Arkeoloji ve Sanat, 68 (1995), 2–24 ‘An Apologia for Byzantine Architecture’, Gesta, 35 (1996), 20–29 ‘Collaboration and Innovation in the Arts of Byzantine Constantinople’, BMGS, 21 (1997), 93–112 ‘Survey of the Byzantine Settlement at Çanlı Kilise in Cappadocia: Results of the 1995 and 1996 Seasons’, DOP, 51 (1997), 301–06 ‘A Byzantine Church and Town in Cappadocia/Kapadokya’da Bir Bizans Kilisesi ve Yerleşimi’, Arkeoloji ve Sanat 86 (1998), 2–11 ‘Cave-Dwellers: Cappadocia’s Rock-Cut Architecture’, Archaeology Odyssey, 1 (1998), 22–27 ‘Flexible Geography and Transportable Topography’, The Real and Ideal Jerusalem in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Art (1998), 393–404 [published in Jewish Art, 23–24 (1997–1998)] ‘The Acıözü Churches near Çeltek in Western Cappadocia’, CahArch, 47 (2000), 67–76 ‘Contextualizing the Later Churches of Constantinople: Suggested Methodologies and a Few Examples’, DOP, 54 (2000), 241–50 ‘Study and Restoration of the Zeyrek Camii in Istanbul: First Report, 1997–98’, DOP, (2000), 265–70 ‘Constantinople: The Fabric of the City’, DOP, 54 (2000), 157–59, with Henry Maguire ‘The Church of the Holy Sepulchre (in Bologna, Italy)’, Biblical Archaeology Review 26/6 (2000), 20–35 ‘The Church of the Transfiguration on Burgazada’, CahArch, 49 (2002), 5–14, with Engin Akyürek ‘Drama in the Round’, Cornucopia, 27/5 (2002), 60–71 ‘Sancta Jerusalem Bononiensis: La Chiesa del Santo Sepolcro in Bologna, Italia’, Settechiese, 7/1 (2002), 12–21

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‘Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: The Stones of the Holy Sepulchre’, JSAH, 62 (2003), 4–23 ‘From History to Myth: The Diegesis Concerning the Building of Hagia Sophia’, Arkeoloji ve Sanat: Istanbul Selected Themes (2003), 51–56 ‘L’architecture construite en Cappadoce byzantine’, Dossiers d’archéologie, 283 (2003), 66–71 ‘Byzantium: Mystery and Imagination’, Cornucopia, 32 (2004), 30–33 ‘The East, the West, and the Appropriation of the Past in Early Ottoman Architecture’, Gesta 43/2 (2004), 167–78 ‘Encounters with Islam. The Medieval Mediterranean Experience: Art, Material Culture, and Cultural Interchange’, Gesta, 43 (2004), 83–85, with D. Fairchild Ruggles ‘The Use and Reuse of Brick in Byzantine Architecture: Lessons from the Zeyrek Camii’, AVISTA Forum Journal, 15/1 (2005), 32–35 ‘Divine Restoration’, Cornucopia, 36 (2006), 84–97 ‘The Kariye Camii: Restoring the Chora in Istanbul’, Canvas Magazine, 4  (2008), 112–21 ‘Gorgeous Georgian’, Cornucopia, 42 (2009), 96–97 ‘Archaeologists and Travelers in Ottoman Lands: Three Intersecting Lives’, Expedition, 52/2 (2010), 9–20 ‘On the Road to Ruins’, Cornucopia, 44 (2010), 38–57 ‘Sweetly Refreshed in Imagination’: Remembering Jerusalem in Words and Images’, Gesta, 48 (2009), 153–68 ‘Study and Restoration of the Zeyrek Camii in Istanbul: Second Report, 2001–05’, DOP, 63 (2010), 235–56, with Zeynep Ahunbay and Metin Ahunbay ‘Digging the Dirt on an Archaeological Scandal’, Cornucopia, 46 (2011), 32–43, with Renata Holod ‘Socialite, Scholar, Traveler, Spy: The Istanbul Diaries of Gertrude Bell’, Cornucopia, 48 (2012) ‘Binbirkilise Revisited: The 1887 Photographs of John Henry Haynes’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 34 (2013), 395–404 ‘From Hagia Sophia to Ayasofya: Architecture and the Persistence of Memory’, İstanbul Araştırmaları Yıllığı, 2 (2013), 91–98 ‘Byzantium’s Legacy’, Cornucopia, 50 (2013), 142–75 ‘The Life and Afterlife of Constantine’s Column’, JRA, 27 (2014), 304–26 ‘The Road Less Traveled’, Cornucopia, 53 (2015), 16–20 ‘Sightlines, Hagioscopes, and Church Planning in Byzantine Cappadocia’, AH, 39/5 (2016), 848–67 ‘The Desert Discovery that Delighted the World’, Cornucopia, 55 (2017), 4–7 ‘The City of a Thousand and One Churches’, Cornucopia, 56 (2017), 68–91 ‘Sicily’s Golden Age’, Cornucopia, 58 (2018), 64–72 ‘The Wild, Wild East’, Cornucopia, 59 (2009), 36–41

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Conference Proceedings ‘The Palaeologan Architecture of Didymoteicho’, Byzantinische Forschungen: Acts of the First International Symposium on Byzantine Thrace 14/1 (1989), 429–43 ‘Ένα βυζαντινό κτήριο δίπλα στον Άγιο Αθανάσιο Διδυμοτείχου’, Το αρχαιολογικό έργο στη Μακεδονία και Θράκη 5 (1994), 517–521, with Th. Gourides ‘Historic Design in the Environment: A Byzantine Settlement in Cappadocia’, in Proceedings of the West-Central Regional Meeting of the American Collegiate Schools of Architecture (Champaign, Ill.: 1995), pp. 13–18 ‘The 1994 Survey at Akhisar-Çanlı Kilise’, in XIII. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı (Ankara: Kültür Bakanlığı., 1996), pp. 165–180 ‘The Construction of Vaulting in Later Byzantine Architecture’, in Studies in Ancient Structures: Proceedings of the International Conference, ed.  by Görün Ozsen (Istanbul: Yildiz Technical Unviersity, 1997), pp. 305–14 ‘The 1995 Survey at Akhisar-Çanlı Kilise’, in XIV Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı (Ankara: Kültür Bakanliği, 1997), I, 435–54 ‘Survey of the Ancient and Byzantine Monuments on Imbros/Gökçeada, 1995’, in XIV. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı, (Ankara: Kültür BakanliğI, 1997), II, 55–70, with Winfried Held ‘Building Medieval Constantinople’, Proceedings of the Patristic, Medieval, and Renaissance Studies Conference 19–20 (1997), pp. 35–67 ‘The 1996 Survey at Akhisar-Çanlı Kilise’, in XV. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı (Ankara: Kültür Bakanliği, 1998), I, 45–57 ‘The 1997 Survey at Akhisar-Çanlı Kilise’, in XVI. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı (Ankara: Kültür Bakanliği, 1999), I, 49–59 ‘Forschungen auf Imbros/Gökçeada 1997’, in XVI. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı (Ankara: Kültür Bakanliği, 1999), I, 61–74, with Winfried Held ‘Imbros/Gökçeada 1998’, in XVII. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı (Ankara: Kültür Bakanliği, 2000), I, 123–36 ‘Reconstructing Early Christian Imbros’, in Frühes Christentum zwischen Rom und Konstantinopel: Acta Congressus Internationalis XIV Archeologiae Christianae, Vindobonae 19.-26. 9. 1999, ed. by Reinhardt Harreither (Vienna: Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006), pp. 555–59 ‘Interpreting the Construction History of the Zeyrek Camii in Istanbul (Monastery of Christ Pantokrator)’, in Studies in Ancient Structures: Proceedings of the Second International Conference (Istanbul: 2001), I, 19–27

‘The Pantokrator Monastery and Architectural Interchanges in the Thirteenth Century’, in Quarta Crociata: Venezia – Bizanzio – Impero Latino, vol. 2, ed. by Gherardo Ortalli, Giorgio Ravegnani, Peter Schreiner (Venice: Istituto veneto di scienze, lettere ed arti, 2006), pp. 749–70 ‘Sacred Geographies and Holy Cities: Constantinople as Jerusalem’, in Hierotopy: The Creation of Sacred Space in Byzantium and Medieval Russia, ed.  by Alexei Lidov (Moscow: Indrik, 2006), pp. 98–116 ‘A New “New Jerusalem” for Jerusalem’, in New Jerusalems. Hierotopy and Iconography of Sacred Spaces, ed.  by Alexei Lidov (Moscow: Indrik, 2006), pp. 882–98 ‘The Architectural Decoration of the Pantokrator Monastery: Evidence Old and New’, Papers of the First Sevgi Gönül Memorial Symposium 2007 (Istanbul: 2010), pp. 432–39 ‘Remembering the Dead in Byzantine Cappadocia: The Architectural Settings for Commemoration’, in Architecture of Byzantium and Kievan Rus’ from the 9th to 12th Centuries, ed.  by O.  Ioannisian and D.  Jolshin (St  Petersburg: The State Hermitage Publishers, 2010), pp. 89–100 ‘The Byzantine Architecture of Thrace: The View from Constantinople’, ByzF, 30 (2011), 725–30 ‘Emblems of Power in Palaiologan Constantinople’, The Byzantine Court: Source of Power and Culture: Papers from the Second International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium Istanbul 21–23 June 2010, ed.  by Ayla Ödekam, Nevra Necipoğlu, Engin Akyürek (Istanbul: Koç University Press, 2013), pp. 89–94 ‘The Red Church at Sivrihisar (Cappadocia): Aspects of Structure and Construction’, Against Gravity, ed. by Robert  G. Ousterhout, Lothar Haselberger, and Renata Holod (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), available online at http://www. sas.upenn.edu/ancient/publications.html

Book Reviews ‘Review of Nea Moni on Chios: History of Architecture, by Ch. Bouras’, JSAH, 42 (1983), 298–99 ‘Review of Il Santo Sepolcro di Gerusalemme, by V. Corbo’, JSAH, 43 (1984), 266–67 ‘Review of Medieval Architecture in Eastern Europe, by H. Nickel’, Design Book Review, 7 (1985), 61 ‘Review of Art and Miracles in Medieval Byzantium, by C.  Connor’, Catholic Historical Review, (1992), 275–77 ‘Review of Die Klosterkirche der Kosmosoteira in Bera (Vira) by S. Sinos’, Speculum, 63 (1988), 229–31 ‘Review of Hagia Sophia by R.J. Mainstone’, Design Book Review, 17 (1989), 70–72

‘Review of Byzantine Fortifications: An Introduction, by C. Foss and D. Winfield’, JSAH, 48 (1989), 182–83 ‘Review of Byzantine Religious Architecture (582–867): Its History and Structural Elements, by V. Ruggieri’, Speculum, 68 (1993), 559–61 ‘Review of Dedicatory Inscriptions and Donor Portraits in Thirteenth Century Greece, by S. Kalopissi-Verti’, Speculum, 69 (1994), 810–12 ‘Review of Hagia Sophia, eds. R. Mark and A. Çakmak’, JSAH, 53 (1994), 245–46 ‘Review of Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture: An Annotated Bibliography, by W.E. Kleinbauer’, JSAH, 53 (1994), 116–17 ‘Review of The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, vol. 1, by D. Pringle’, Speculum, 70 (1995), 671–73 ‘Review of Kalenderhane in Istanbul: The Buildings, Their History, Architecture, and Decoration, Cecil  L. Striker and Y. Doğan Kuban, eds’, Art Bulletin on Line (1999) ‘Review of The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, vol. II, by D. Pringle’, Church History, 68 (1999), 435–36 ‘Review of Die Odalar Camii in Istanbul: Architektur und Malerei einer Byzantinischen Kirche. Istanbuler Mitteilungen Beiheft 42, by S. Westphalen’, BZ, 92/2 (2000), 659–60 ‘In Pursuit of the Exotic Orient’: Review essay of Venice and the East, by D.  Howard’, Journal of Aesthetic Education, 35/4 (2002), 113–18 ‘Review of Secular Medieval Architecture in the Balkans, by S.  Ćurčić and E.  Hadjitryphonos’, Speculum, 77 (2002), 902–05 ‘Review of The Post-Byzantine Monuments of the Pontos: A Source Book, by Anthony Bryer, with David Winfield, Selina Balance, and Jane Isaac’, International Journal of Turkish Studies, 10 (2004), 270–72 ‘Review of The Brickstamps of Constantinople, by Jonathan Bardill’, BZ, 98/2 (2005), 113–15 ‘“Beware: falling idols”: Review essay of The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople, by Sarah Bassett’, Cornucopia, 24/6 (2005), 30–32 ‘“In Pursuit of Holy Wisdom”: Review of four books on Hagia Sophia’, JSAH, 65 (2006), 435–37 ‘Review of Sacred Images and Sacred Power in Byzantium, by Gary Vikan’, The Catholic Historical Review, 93/3 (2007), 615–16 ‘Review of Santa: A Life, by Jeremy Seal’, Cornucopia, 38/6 (2007), 39–40 ‘Review of The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, vol. 3, by Denys Pringle’, in Catholic Historical Review, 94/4 (2008), 790–91

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‘“Water Over the Bridge”: Review of The Water Supply of Byzantine Constantinople, by J. Crow et al.’, Cornucopia, 42 (2009) ‘Review of The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, vol. 4, by Denys Pringle’, Speculum, 85 (2010), 1012–14 ‘Review of The Island of St  Nicholas: excavation and survey of the Gemiler Island Area, Lycia, Turkey’, by K. Asano et al’., BZ, 103 (2010), 791–92 ‘Review of The Christian Parthenon: Classicism and Pilgrimage in Byzantine Athens, by A. Kaldellis’, JEChrSt, 18/1 (2010), 156–58 ‘Review of A Rural Economy in Transition, by A. Izdebski’, Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 45 (2014), 223–34 ‘Review of Die Basilika in Byzanz: Gestalt, Austattung und Funktion sowie das Verhältnis zur Kreuzkuppelkirche, by M.  Altripp’, Göttinger Forum für Altertumswissenschaft, 17 (2014), 1155–58 ‘“If These Walls Could Talk”: Review of Legends of Authority, by S. Redford’, Cornucopia, 52 (2015), 18–23 ‘“Double Lives”: Review of De Potter’s Grand Tour, by Joanna Scott’, Cornucopia, 53 (2015), 41–42 ‘Review of Holy Sites Encircled, by V.  Shalev-Hurvitz’, SOAS Bulletin, 79/2 (2016), 426–28 ‘Review of Sardis Churches EA and E, by H.  Buchwald’, JRA, 29 (2016), 982–84 ‘Review of Die Basilika am Kalekapı in Herakleia Perinthos. Bericht über die Ausgrabungen von 1992–2010 in Marmara Ereğlisi, by S. Westphalen’, JRA, 30 (2017), 937–38 ‘Review of Rural Lives and Landscapes in Late Byzantium, by S.E.J. Gerstel’, BMGS, 42 (2018), 176–78

Other Publications Entries for Dictionary of the Middle Ages (New York, 1982– 1989): ‘Hagia Sophia (Constantinople)’, VI, 55–56; ‘Kariye Djami (Constantinople)’, VII, 215–216; ‘Lavra’, VII, 387–88; ‘Naos’, IX, 56; ‘Nymphaeum’, IX, 203; ‘Oratory’, IX, 256; ‘Pastophory’, IX, 452; ‘Polycandelon’, X, 28–29; ‘Prothesis’, X, 155; ‘Solea’, XI, 11 (1988), 360; ‘Synthronon’, XI, 559; ‘Theodore Metochites’, XII, 15 ‘Report from the Field’, International Center of Medieval Art Newsletter 3 (1993), 6–7

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‘An Analysis of Fresco Pigments from Byzantine Cappadocia’, International Symposium on Archaeometry: Program and Abstracts (Urbana, Ill.: 1996), 81 ‘Gerusalemme medievale’, Enciclopedia dell’arte medievale (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia italiana, 1995), VI, 565–77 Entries for Grove Dictionary of Art (London, 1996): ‘Brick, History and Uses: Byzantine’, IV, 773–74; ‘Church Types: Centrally Planned, Early Christian’, VII, 254–55;‘Church Types: Centrally Planned, Eastern Church’, VII, 255–56; ‘Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture: Ecclesiastical Architecture 1200–1453’, IX, 549–53; ‘Istanbul, St Savior in Chora: Architecture, Mosaic & Painting, and Other Decoration’, XVI, 597–99; ‘Istanbul, Church of the Pammakaristos: Architecture and Decoration’, XVI, 601–02; ‘Martyrium’, XX, 518–20; ‘Parekklesion’, XXIV, 110–11; ‘Sepulchre Churches’, XXVIII, 427– 29; ‘Thessalonike, Holy Apostles: Architecture and Decoration’, XXX, 724–25; ‘Thessalonike, Profetes Elias: Architecture and Decoration’, XXX, 725–26 Catalogue entries, The Glory of Byzantium. Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, 843–1261, eds. H. Evans and W. Wixom (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997): ‘Cameo of the Virgin Blachernitissa’; ‘Ceramic Cornice Facings from Preslav’; ‘Floor Tiles from Preslav’; ‘Reliquary of Anastasius the Persian’; ‘Roundel with the Virgin Orans’; ‘Marble Icon of the Virgin Orans’; ‘Mosaic Floor from the Tithe Church in Kiev’; ‘Funerary Inscription Attributed to Isaak Komnenos’ ‘Letter from Sultanahmet’, Cornucopia (1999–2000; 4 issues) ‘Byzantine Pilgrimage Sites’, Medieval Trade, Travel, and Exploration: An Encyclopedia (New York: Garland, 2000), pp. 483–85 ‘Introduction’, Walking through Byzantium, A.T.  Öner and J. Kostenec (Istanbul: Grafbas, 2008), 2–3 ‘A Byzantine Blockbuster: Byzantium 330–1453, Royal Academy of Arts, London’, Cornucopia, 40 (2008), 20–25 ‘Exhibition Review: “Architecture as Icon” (Princeton University Museum of Art)’, JSAH, 70 (2011), 109–10

Late Antique Manifestations

The Forum of Theodosius Labour and the Gods

Benjamin Anderson The topic of this essay is not how buildings are built – on which Bob Ousterhout has written foundational studies – but how monuments may represent or occlude the labour necessary to build them. Bob has written on this as well, noting for example that master masons may appear in western medieval representations of construction (as in the mosaics of San Marco), not however in Byzantine analogues, which show only the workers.1 By contrast, my concern in the following is not with hierarchy or specialization, but with the ability of monuments to encourage viewers’ recognition of their own collective labour (‘this monument is ours’) or to alienate them instead (‘I made this but it is not mine’). Two stories from nineteenth-century America, set on either side of the Civil War, may help to illustrate the distinction. First, a massive investment of resources and labour, much of the latter supplied by Irish immigrants, seeks to join Albany and Lake Erie via a 350-mile canal. In 1823, the West Point Band celebrates the junction of the Erie and Champlain Canals with ‘The Meeting of the Waters’, a song composed fewer than twenty years previous by the Irish poet Thomas Moore. The fashion sticks through to the final ceremony, at which a specially commissioned adaptation of the song debuts. Thematic suitability aside, as the literary scholar John Barrell writes, the tune was ubiquitous ‘because it was […] well-known to the Irish part of the labour force. The fact that a popular Irish song had been adapted and adopted by the masonic commissioners may have given the navvies some sense that they had a stake in the project,

or some sense that their work was recognised and acknowledged. Its adoption may have been useful in producing, however factitiously, a peaceful mingling of hearts between capital and labour’.2 Flash forward to the latter half of the century and the other side of the Mason-Dixon, where the city fathers of Richmond, Virginia fund an equestrian statue of Robert E. Lee, late general of the vanquished Confederate States Army. The monument and its kin are understood by black Virginians then, as by historians today, to reassert white supremacy, briefly unsettled by Reconstruction but resurgent in the era of Jim Crow. John Mitchell, editor of the local black newspaper, reports one onlooker’s response to the dedication ceremony in May 1890: ‘the Southern white folks is on top!’ And indeed, as the art historian Kirk Savage has remarked, ‘though blacks were absent from the ritual labor of erecting the monument – the cornerstone laying and the ceremonial hauling of the statue and finally the unveiling – they were heavily engaged in the actual physical work that made the rituals possible’. This too was noted by a contemporary observer, the same John Mitchell, who wrote: ‘The Negro was in the Northern processions on Decoration Day [Memorial Day] and in the Southern ones, if only to carry buckets of ice-water. He put up the Lee Monument, and should the time come, will be there to take it down’.3 No monument goes up, no building stands, no canal gets dug without human labour – this is a constant that, if it does not transcend history, sits comfortably astride it. The manner in which that labour is

represented in its works, by contrast, is variable; both in regards to its relative visibility, and to the mediating term that either encourages identification or produces alienation. Identification or alienation: the viewers of a monument can perceive it as their own, or as ‘an alien, hostile powerful object’ that they may have created, but that no longer belongs to them.4 The mediating term defines the manner in which the monument is perceived to belong. In the two examples above, that term hovers between nation and race: between the Erie Canal recognized as Irish, in harmony with the labour that produced it; and the Lee Monument asserted as white, despite the black labour that produced it.5 The mediating term can also be aesthetic: the visible traces of the stonemason’s chisel valued as beautiful, as in Victorian architecture; or the traces of labour wilfully effaced, as in the twenty-first century regime of polished glass and aluminium. As will emerge from the following, it can also be religious: labour celebrated as a means to participate in the divine. This essay offers an unsystematic comparison of the representation of labour in two closely related, if temporally and geographically distant, building projects: the Forum of Trajan, a product of secondcentury Rome;6 and the Forum of Theodosius, built in fourth-century Constantinople.7 It is unsystematic of necessity: the constellations of evidence that speak for the two projects are so different as to render an exhaustive comparison impossible. If study of the Forum of Trajan rests on substantial archaeological remains, study of the Forum of Theodosius relies mostly on texts. The spiral reliefs of the Column of Trajan are preserved almost entire;8 while we know the Column of Theodosius only through scant fragments preserved in the foundation of the Beyazit Hamam, and the Istanbul Archaeological Museum, and through two rather suspect sets of drawings.9 The following remarks remain, therefore, hypothetical; by way of compensation, I at least propose a counterintuitive hypothesis. Comparison of the two projects directs us away from a neat narrative of Christianization, away from the understanding of late antiquity as an ‘age of spirituality’. Instead, the Forum of Theodosius provides evidence for the secularization of labour.10 Whereas in the Forum of Trajan, labour and divinity are explicitly intertwined,

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the Forum of Theodosius lends no higher meaning to the work of human hands. Terms of Comparison The two imperial fora are kin in terms of function: both commemorated the military victories of Roman emperors, both furnished open piazzas within densely populated cities, and both hosted elements of the Roman state administration.11 They are also related by architectural typology: both contained spiral relief columns, equestrian statues, and basilicas (Figs  1 and 2). The comparison is encouraged moreover by the evidence for fourth-century admiration of the Forum of Trajan in particular. Locus classicus is Ammianus Marcellinus’s description of the first and only visit (357) to the city of Rome by the emperor Constantius  II, born and raised in the provinces. The traditionalist historian scoffs at the reason for the trip – ‘a triumph over Roman blood’,12 the defeat of the usurper Magnentius – and belabours the emperor’s rustic amazement at the scale of the eternal city. Among all the monuments that overwhelm Constantius, Ammianus reserves a special place for ‘the Forum of Trajan, a construction unique under the heavens […] and admirable even in the unanimous opinion of the gods’. The emperor admits himself unable to produce anything comparable, proposing to copy the equestrian statue alone. But the Persian prince in his retinue replies ‘with native wit: “First, Sire, […] command a like stable to be built, if you can; let the steed which you propose to create range as widely as this which we see”’.13 Chastened, Constantius retreats from his initial plan and erects an obelisk in the Circus Maximus instead. Fewer than three decades later, a new emperor took up the Persian’s challenge and sought to match both steed and stable. The chronicle of Theophanes records under AM 5878 (AD 385/6) that ‘the emperor Theodosius set up the column of the Tauros’ – the latter a conventional term for the Constantinopolitan hilltop on which the new forum was built.14 Thus work on the project had already begun in the eighth year of Theodosius’s reign, two years before the defeat of his erstwhile co-ruler Maximus, which the forum’s monuments would come to commemorate.15 Only in

Fig. 1.  Plan (schematic reconstruction) of the Forum of Trajan, Rome (Source: author, on the basis of Meneghini, Fori imperiali, Fig. 134).

Fig. 2.  Plan (schematic reconstruction) of the Forum of Theodosius, Constantinople. (Source: author, on the basis of Bauer, Stadt, Abb. 63).

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394 ‘was set up a great statue of Theodosius Augustus in the Theodosian Forum’, mere months before the emperor’s death.16 The Constantinopolitan forum directly imitated the Roman.17 The inclusion of a spiral relief column – a genre that had lain dormant since the second century – alone suffices to establish the dialogue. The incorporation of more generic elements (equestrian statue and basilica) extends the dialogue from one between columns to one between fora in their entirety.18 But the Forum of Theodosius also introduced innovations; here we will highlight three. First, its urban placement. Rome’s imperial fora stood beside the city’s thoroughfares. Only the Forum of Nerva (‘forum transitorium’) monumentalized a preexisting street (the Argiletum). The Forum of Theodosius, by contrast, was a literal ‘forum transitorium’ that straddled the Mese, the primary east-west artery of Constantinople. Travelers, triumphal processions, shipments of goods, and condemned prisoners all passed through it on their way to the city’s monumental core.19 Second, the absence of a dedicated site of cult. The Temple of the Deified Trajan stood – as long believed, and newly shown – adjacent to and on axis with the Column of Trajan, just as the regionaries name the two structures in the same breath.20 The nearest comparable structure in Constantinople is the church of Saint Mark ‘near the Tauros’, whose construction a tenth-century source attributes to Theodosius.21 However, the distancing πλήσιον (‘near’) contrasts with the immediate ἐν with which the same text situates the column ‘in the Tauros’.22 The church was near the forum, not part of it. The third key difference, discussion of which occupies the following two sections of this essay, involves the articulation of the fora through relief sculpture and inscriptions. Text and image alike encouraged visitors to appreciate the labour invested in the construction of the Forum of Trajan, and provided a symbolic structure through which that labour was lent a higher meaning. Viewers were thereby encouraged to understand the Forum as their own, as a product of Roman piety. By contrast, such encouragement was absent from the Constantinopolitan forum, which cast its viewers not as colleagues but as potential rebels. Through this process of estrangement, the Forum of Theodosius became ‘an alien, hostile, powerful object’.23

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The Forum of Trajan: Labour Sanctified If the emperor Domitian once planned a new project to the north of the Forum of Caesar and west of the Forum of Augustus, ground was broken only in the eighth year of Trajan’s reign, 106–07, following Roman victories in two successive Dacian Wars. The Forum of Trajan was dedicated in 112, the Column in 113.24 The Forum consists of three primary elements, arranged on axis from north to south (Fig. 1): the Area Fori, a massive (108 × 85 m) porticoed piazza containing, towards the south, the equestrian statue of Trajan;25 the Basilica Ulpia, its primary axis transverse to that of the Forum; and the column, bracketed by two halls (‘libraries’), and facing the temple of the deified emperor whose ashes were housed in the column’s base.26 Tradition attributes the design of the forum to Trajan’s court architect, Apollodorus of Damascus.27 If its plan was traditional – ‘an intelligent blend of oriental, Greek, Italic, and Roman elements’ – the labour required for its execution was extraordinary.28 A level site was produced through excavation of the Quirinal Hill and the pouring of a concrete base (over a meter thick), atop which the masonry foundations were laid. Colonnades, entablatures, and revetments were assembled with all the customary refinements.29 As for the spiral relief column, and leaving aside the truly massive pedestal, the nineteen blocks of Luna marble that jointly compose the shaft weigh as much as fifty-six tons each, measuring c. 1.5 m in height and between 3.2 and 3.7 m in diameter; their placement, one atop the next, required construction of an elaborate lifting tower.30 A project of such scale and complexity remains in the living memory of an urban population for decades, longer still in anecdote and folklore. But Trajan’s Forum is distinguished by its explicit commemoration of the labour that made it. Consider the inscription at the base of the column, above the entrance on the southern side, which directly faced visitors as they exited the basilica. Above the pile of spoils, flanked by victories, stands the text: SENATVS POPVLVSQVE ROMANVS IMP CAESARI DIVI NERVAE F NERVAE TRAIANO AVG GERM DACICO PONTIF MAXIMO TRIB POT XVII IMP VI COS VI P P ADDECLARANDVM QVANTAE ALTITVDINIS MONS ET LOCVS TAN[tis oper]IBVS SIT EGESTVS

The Senate and Roman People [dedicate this column] to the emperor Caesar, son of the deified Nerva, Nerva Trajan, Augustus, Germanicus, Dacicus, Pontifex Maximus with tribunician power for the seventeenth time, commander-in-chief for the sixth time, consul for the sixth time, and father of his country, in order to declare how deep were the rock and earth excavated for these great works.31

After establishing the originary responsibility of senate and people, the inscription proceeds to three further emphases: first, the titles held by Trajan; second, the victories won in Germania and Dacia under his command. Celebration of office and triumph is customary and appears also on coins that depict both Trajan and his column.32 By contrast, the inscription’s third emphasis, the reference to the excavation of rock and earth, is unusual. The final two lines of the inscription have provoked a wide range of interpretations, but the most likely remains that first advanced by the third-century historian Cassius Dio in his paraphrase:33 [Trajan] set up in the Forum an enormous column to serve at once as a tomb for himself, and as a memorial of the work in the Forum (ἅμα μὲν ἐς ταφὴν ἑαυτῷ, ἅμα δὲ ἐς ἐπίδειξιν τοῦ κατὰ τὴν ἀγορὰν ἔργου). For that entire section had been hilly and he had cut it down for a distance equal to the height of the column, thus making the Forum level.34

Indeed, literal referents for ‘rock’ and ‘earth’ are surely intended, even if the column’s site was never occupied by a hill equal to its height. Rodolfo Lanciani took the inscription as an invitation ‘to estimate the amount of earth and rock removed to make room for the forum at twenty-four thousand cubic feet’, and even proposed the location where they might have been dumped, atop a cemetery on the Via Salaria.35 As archaeology this may be inaccurate – current opinion holds that the site of the column was previously occupied by houses, not ‘virgin soil’36 – but it is the very exercise that the inscription is meant to provoke. The inscription elicits a dialogue between the visible monuments and the massive investment of labour necessary to their construction. The reliefs of the column also impress through scale. A  single frieze some two hundred meters in length, and varying in height from three-quarters of a meter to a meter and a half, winds just over twenty-two times

around the column.37 Simply described, it depicts the two wars of conquest that the Romans fought in Dacia, separated by two trophies and a figure of victory. But such a summary elides the frieze’s close attention to the mundane mechanics of military campaign. The reliefs have even been understood to ‘overwhelm the viewer with a mass of veristic detail’, offering an ‘ungraspable excess of information’ that produces ‘asymmetrical relationships of power’ between monument and viewer.38 This is a bridge too far: such an account blurs the distinction between abundance and excess, and undervalues the assistance that the column itself offers to those who would grasp it. Among the latter, scholars have emphasized the employment of visual formulae to enhance legibility at a distance; and the possibility of understanding the column through its vertical axes, as opposed to the impossible view of the frieze unrolled.39 To this we may add that the inscription serves as a key to the images that stand above it. The column’s reliefs share the three emphases of its inscription. There are numerous scenes of Trajan enacting his official duties: presiding over councils of war,40 and over sacrifice;41 addressing the troops,42 and leading them into battle;43 receiving the proofs (living and dead) of their successes, and rewarding them accordingly.44 These scenes constitute an analogue to the epigraphic recitation of Trajan’s titles. There are, furthermore, many scenes of Roman success in battle, which present an analogue to the recitation of military triumphs.45 The inscription’s third emphasis, finally, on the labour necessary to construct the forum, corresponds to the numerous representations of the labour and construction carried out by the Roman army. The troops clear forests, both a realistic evocation of the difficulties of fighting in wooded Dacia, and an analogue to the epigraphic invocation of the work preparatory to construction of the forum.46 Like the forum’s builders, moreover, the column’s soldiers proceed from clearing to building: using the timber to construct bridges, siege ramps, and roads;47 and assembling entire camps out of timber and regularly formed blocks.48 These latter scenes demand particular attention (e.g. Fig. 3). The soldiers who lift whole blocks unassisted, or rest them on their shoulders, lead commentators to a practical conclusion: the blocks are not of stone, but of turf, such as Roman armies used to construct ramparts.49 Reasonable as this may be, the immediate impression that such figures convey, especially in the stone-built surrounds of the forum, is

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Fig. 3.  Column of Trajan, Rome, detail (construction of fortifications). (Source: K. Anger, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut – Rom, Neg. D-DAI-Rom-91.155).

one of Herculean strength. If the column is lavish in praise of the emperor’s military virtue, it is also lavish in praise of the soldiers’ labour. Barring reconstruction of the multi-storey elevations of basilica and ‘libraries’, we cannot recover the precise architectural frames that permitted inspection of the reliefs. Nevertheless, they were probably visible in segments of a few windings at a time, as from the ground or from the galleries of the adjacent structures. In this regard, it is useful to consider the existence of segments that encompass all three primary emphases. Take, as an example, the tenth and eleventh windings of the north face, which show Trajan performing his imperial duties (receiving Dacian allies and the heads of slain enemies), scenes of battle (arranged vertically one atop the other), and scenes of building (the construction of siege ramps out of felled timbers).50

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This is not to say that the scenes are distributed evenly. Of the eleven scenes of camp-building, for example, eight appear on the column’s lower half (the representation of the First Dacian War) and three on the upper (the representation of the second). The imbalance has both visual and narrative consequences. Visually, scenes of building are clustered in the most accessible registers; indeed, the most detailed (Fig. 3) is simultaneously the lowest. In terms of narrative, the imbalance emphasizes the resilience of the initial constructions, which remain functional in the second war; new camps need only be built in newly conquered territories.51 With defensible shelter already constructed, the reliefs of the second war develop a new emphasis on the provision of food.52 Scenes of divinity, by contrast, are wholly sporadic. Even adopting a definition of ‘god’ that includes

Fig. 4.  Column of Trajan, Rome, detail (first battle scene). (Source: K. Anger, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut – Rom, Neg. D-DAI-Rom-91.101).

‘personifications’, only four appear in the reliefs: the Danube, Jupiter, Night, and Dacia.53 The Olympian is most consequential to the narrative logic. Trajan is named as pontifex maximus in the inscription of the base, and presides over seven sacrifices in total, the first of which appears on the second winding of the frieze. As if in answer, Jupiter appears in the first scene of battle. Not only does he accompany the Roman troops, his posture – the right arm bent at the elbow and poised to thrust – is precisely echoed by that of the two Roman soldiers beneath him (Fig. 4). The sequence accordingly connects two of the key emphases – imperial duty and military victory – in the bodily exertion of divinely inspired Romans. Hercules serves as a more oblique point of reference. Trajan’s panegyrists compared emperor to hero, whom his coins likewise featured.54 But on the

column it is the soldiers, specifically the standardbearers and the buglers, who repeatedly appear in lions’ skins, Herculeo amictu, the beast’s head atop their own and its legs crossed over their chests.55 The Forum of Trajan was meant to express the glory of the emperor whose tomb it became, and whose temple it eventually housed. But this is only half the story. The inscription and reliefs of the Column of Trajan expend equal effort in encouraging Roman viewers (builders, soldiers) to identify with the monument as a whole. Column and forum do not so much overwhelm, as render manifest the scale of the viewer’s own achievements: ‘in order to declare how deep were the rock and earth excavated for these great works’. Cassius Dio expresses the ambivalence precisely: the column served simultaneously as a monument to Trajan and ‘as a memorial of the work in the Forum’.

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This ambivalent position, between glorification of emperor and of people, persists in the religious frame that unites the three primary emphases. Imperial duty, military victory, and the labour of construction are all represented as acts of Roman piety – but piety towards whom? The temple that completed the forum architecturally provides one answer: toward the deified Trajan. The column’s representation of Jupiter provides a different answer, less imposing in scale but no less compelling in logic (Fig.  4). Here it is not the emperor who appears as divine, but soldiers who embody the sovereign god on the field of battle. The Forum of Theodosius: Labour Secularized Today only a few scraps of the Forum of Theodosius, the remains of a monumental gateway, stand beside Divan Yolu, the modern Istanbul street that approximates the course of the ancient Mese. Reconstruction of the complex depends on sporadic archaeological investigation, and on compilation of the literary attestations.56 As the excavated remains cluster in a single area, beneath and around the remains of the arch, the very extent of the forum remains uncertain. The firmest basis is provided by the eleventh-century chronicler Georgios Kedrenos, who reports the dimensions of the basilica: 240 feet long by eighty-four wide (= c. eighty meters by twenty-eight). The length renders Theodosius’s Forum comparable to the Area Fori of Trajan’s – so too the two equestrian statues (representing Theodosius and his son, Arcadius, respectively) said to have stood within. Indeed, the most plausible schematic plan of the Forum of Theodosius, proposed by Franz Alto Bauer, collapses Trajanic elements from the south of the forum (equestrian statues) and its north (spiral relief column) into a single area roughly the size of the Area Fori (Fig. 2).57 The Forum was situated on the upper reaches of the southern slope of the hill whose summit is today occupied by Süleymaniye Camii.58 Provision of a flat surface thus required excavation; a tenth-century source records that the resulting earth was dumped in the ‘Harbour of Eleutherios’, filling it up.59 The story may serve as an appraisal by a later visitor of the massive amount of clearance necessary to prepare the site. The surviving fragments of arch and column

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were carved out of Proconnesian marble. Two unfinished pieces found last century in the Proconnesian quarries were likely produced for the Forum but abandoned due to faults: a column carved, like those of the arch, with tear-drop shaped tree knots; and a massive drum suitable for the relief column.60 Alongside the labour necessary for quarrying, carving, and transport from the island in the Sea of Marmara to Constantinople, this latter piece gives a sense of the column’s dimensions. The drum is 4.45 meters in diameter, 3.3 meters in height, and weighs an astonishing 178 tons:61 considerably thicker and over twice as tall as the drums of the Column of Trajan. The block’s heft would have been reduced (by as much as thirty percent?) had the spiral stair been carved out of the interior.62 Still, a block of c. 124 tons would count among the heaviest lifted in antiquity – heavier even than the corner cornice blocks of the Temple of Jupiter at Baalbek, if still no match for the 470-ton roof slab of the Mausoleum of Theodoric in Ravenna.63 The dimensions lend substance to the superlatives with which a chronicler of the Fourth Crusade describes the Column of Theodosius: ‘Constructed of gigantic stones solidly joined together with iron interlacing, it rises from a very thick base, gradually tapering to a point at an immense height’.64 Similarly, a Byzantine writer of the tenth century, discussing the columns of Theodosius and of his son, Arcadius, reserves to the former the qualifier μεγαλιαῖος (‘huge’).65 Even within the building boom of fourth-century Constantinople, the construction of the Forum of Theodosius must have constituted a noteworthy spectacle. The question remains, whether and how such an investment of labour was commemorated within the finished product. Any answer must confront the signal obstacle of the loss of the monument itself. The column appears in later impressions of a view first executed c. 1480, standing within the walls of the Eski Saray, its helical relief indicated but illegible in the details.66 It seems to have vanished in two steps: severe damage in an earthquake of 1509, after which fragments were built into the foundations of the Beyazit Hamam; followed by final destruction in a hurricane of 1517.67 Whereas the inscription of the base of Trajan’s Column aids in the understanding of its reliefs, no comparable guide is available to the Column of Theodosius, whose inscription was either destroyed or

(as with the Columns of Constantine and Arcadius) never existed.68 In general, the attested monumental inscriptions of Constantinople exhibit two key differences from those of Rome. First, they abandon the customary attribution of construction to ‘Senate and People’. Constantinople had both, but in its inscriptions there is no SPQC, nor do the customary βουλὴ καὶ δῆμος of the Greek poleis appear.69 Erection of imperial monuments is attributed instead to high-ranking officials, usually the urban or praetorian prefects.70 Second, they are marked by a new diversity of voice. If in the official Roman inscriptions (as on the Column of Trajan) both speaker and addressee are impersonal and external to the scenes depicted, the Constantinopolitan inscriptions experiment with more personal modes of address.71 Thus the one inscription from the Forum of Theodosius that has been transmitted, via the Greek Anthology, both adorned and addressed the emperor’s equestrian statue: Ἔκθορες ἀντολίηθε, φαεσφόρος ἥλιος ἄλλος, Θευδόσιε, θνητοῖσι, πόλου μέσον, ἠπιόθυμε, Ὠκεανὸν παρὰ ποσσὶν ἔχων μετ’ άπείρονα γαῖαν, πάντοθεν αἰγλήεις, κεκορυθμένος, ἀγλαὸν ἵππον ῥηϊδίως, μεγάθυμε, καὶ ἐσσύμενον κατερύκων. Thou didst spring from the East to mid heaven, gentle-hearted Theodosius, a second sun, giver of light to mortals, with Ocean at thy feet as well as the boundless land, resplendent on all sides, helmeted, reining in easily, O  great-hearted King, thy magnificent horse, though he strives to break away.72

The inscription could not be more different from that of the Column of Trajan. The earlier text informs the reader that he, as a member of the populus Romanus, built the works that he sees; the reader of the later text finds himself addressing hyperbolic praise to a statue. The earlier defines Trajan in terms of offices and achievements, as a part of the state; the latter defines Theodosius in elemental terms, as a part of the cosmos. The earlier emphasizes effort, the later its lack – ‘reining in easily thy magnificent horse’. The difference can be distilled through the opposition between identification and alienation. The inscription of the Column of Trajan encourages viewers to see the monument as their own, the product of their collective labour. The inscription of the Theodosian

equestrian statue impels viewers to approach the monument as something external to and incommensurable with them. This distinction between the two fora applies also to their articulation through images. Anyone who traversed the Mese from west to east entered the Forum of Theodosius through the monumental arch whose ruins form the most imposing remainder of the complex. To judge by the texts, a pendant gate stood at the Forum’s eastern entrance, each carrying on its attic a statue of one of Theodosius’s sons.73 The most remarkable characteristics of the preserved remains are the form and size of the columns. When complete, each formed a ten-meter-tall club, whose arboreal origins are signified by the knots carved along their shafts, and whose martial function is signified by the massive fists that grip their summits (Fig.  5).74 Most scholars have seen here attributes of Hercules and constructed their interpretations accordingly, noting especially a contemporary orator’s comparison between emperor and hero.75 But let us linger at the pre-iconographical level: what we see first are massive weapons, and hands prepared to wield them. This understanding is reinforced by the remains of the spiral relief column. Of the eighteen surviving fragments, one depicts a man raising a club to strike (Fig. 6).76 To strike whom? The victim is not preserved, but other fragments supply a possible answer. One of the largest depicts a clutch of soldiers in attitudes of submission, their archaizing armour identical to that of the victors elsewhere, their shield emblazoned with the Chi-Rho (Fig. 7). The defeated are, in other words, Romans – the guard, presumably, of the ‘usurper’ Maximus submitting to the victor Theodosius.77 Another fragment depicts four armoured corpses beneath similarly attired fighters: another battle between Romans, in which the victim is visually identical to the victor.78 The contrast to the Column of Trajan – which maintains a consistent visual distinction between Romans and Dacians, and on which Romans always win79 – could not be more striking. The viewer of the Roman column, should he identify with the Roman soldiers, sees himself as victor. The viewer of the Constantinopolitan column, by contrast, even should he identify as Roman, could as easily be the victim. Thus the modern scholar’s uncertainty about whether the recipient of the club’s blow on the relief partially aligns with the ancient viewer’s perception of the clubs at the gate. I do not know who the victim is; he suspects it may be himself.

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Fig. 5.  Column shaft from the Forum of Theodosius, Istanbul, detail. (Source: author).

The extremely sparse remains of the column leave many more uncertainties besides. Perhaps other scenes, now lost, compensated for the ambiguity between friend and foe, and encouraged viewers to see the forum as the product of their own work. But two pieces of evidence speak against this. First, two sets of drawings, one in the Louvre and the other at Princeton. The Louvre drawings explicitly claim to represent the reliefs of the Column of Theodosius, and the Princeton drawings closely match them in content, format, and style.80 The claim has been accepted by some, and doubted by others; this is not the place for a thorough assessment.81 Suffice it to say that both sets show only an army on the march and engaged in battle: no scenes of construction, and no gods, save for the statues depicted at the beginning of the Louvre set. Second, the more reliably documented reliefs of the Column of Arcadius, which are

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equally monotonous in their depiction of campaign and battle, and from which construction and divinity are equally absent – excepting the statues depicted on the lowermost winding.82 In 389, the Gallic orator Pacatus delivered an encomium of Theodosius’s victory over Maximus before emperor and senate in Rome. The speaker describes how Theodosius’s generals stripped the usurper first of his regalia, then of his clothes, brought him thus abject before the emperor, and snatched him away to his death before Theodosius could show mercy. Pacatus then advises the empire’s artists on the appropriate response: You, too, artists, to whom a propitious fate concedes the power to give fame to events, scorn those hackneyed triumphs of ancient fables, the labours of Hercules and the Indian triumphs of Bacchus, and the wars with snake-footed monsters. Turn your skillful hands rather

Fig. 6.  Relief fragment from the Column of Theodosius, Beyazit Hamam, Istanbul. (Source: Siri Sande).

Fig. 7.  Relief fragment from the Column of Theodosius, Beyazit Hamam, Istanbul. (Source: Urs Peschlow, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Neg. D-DAI-IST-R6408).

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to those exploits; with these let the public squares be decorated, with these the temples. If anyone at any time dreams of draping his shoulders with royal purple may he encounter the depiction of Maximus being stripped. If anyone wishes to decorate his simple citizen’s feet with gold and gemstones may barefooted Maximus appear before him. If anyone contemplates placing a diadem upon his head may he gaze at the head of Maximus plucked from its shoulders, and at his nameless corpse.83

One might be tempted to see here a simple opposition between ‘myth’ and ‘history’, but the matter is more complex. First, because two of the themes here abjured did appear in fourth-century monuments of Constantinople. The doors of the Senate in the Forum of Constantine depicted the gigantomachy (‘wars with snake-footed monsters’), and were invoked in a panegyric held thirteen years earlier as a positive gloss on imperial virtue.84 The columns of the Forum of Theodosius, under construction while Pacatus spoke, could of course evoke the labours of Hercules. But this leads us to the second point of complexity in Pacatus’s speech. He insists on a new role for public monuments, which are now meant to terrify ‘simple citizens’, not to celebrate their accomplishments (as in Cassius Dio’s ‘monument of work’). Similarly, the columns of the Forum of Theodosius do not reject myth, they invert it. Where once the labours of Hercules stood for the labour of Romans, now they serve as metaphors, blunt and unapologetic, for the overwhelming force that stands at the emperor’s disposal. In short, there has been a double secularization. Its first motion is familiar: the claim to have hollowed out the statues on display, whose representations on the Column of Arcadius, and perhaps on the Column of Theodosius as well, serve as visual analogues to the famous words of Eusebius: ‘statues of bronze […] led captive, gods of stale legend dressed in hair cloth’.85 Its second motion, through which manual labour is decoupled from Roman piety, is less familiar, but no less worthy of our attention.

Into the Future The Forum of Theodosius cannot stand for all the monuments of fourth-century Constantinople, no

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more than the Forum of Trajan can stand for all the monuments of second-century Rome. Labour is represented directly, for example, on the Theodosian reliefs of the base in the Hippodrome that depict the raising of the obelisk above. Here too the Latin inscription employs an unusual form of address, in which the obelisk itself speaks as a rebellious subject vanquished (‘Formerly reluctant, I  was ordered to obey. […] Everything yields to Theodosius’).86 In fact, the monuments of Rome and Constantinople did structure the relationship to their local builders and latter-day viewers in fundamentally different ways. In Rome, monuments were erected in the name of the senate and the people, whereas in Constantinople they were erected in the names of high-ranking officials. In Rome the monumental core of the city coincided with the areas of highest population density, whereas in Constantinople the Mese and its monuments formed a boundary dividing highdensity neighbourhoods from low-density neighbourhoods, and was itself lined with the residences of the elites.87 In Rome, the viewers of monuments were encouraged to see their own achievements in the triumphs of the imperial army, whereas in Constantinople they were cast in the role of potential rebels, constantly reminded of the futility of revolt.88 We can be certain that they got the message – the Forum of Theodosius is as subtle as a club to the head – and we may even be able to trace their response. Two tenth-century sources devote substantial attention to the forum. The poem of Constantine of Rhodes counts it as the sixth of the city’s seven wonders. Constantine focuses on the historical and commemorative functions of both the column (whose erection he attributes to Arcadius, ‘glorifying all his father’s prowess’) and the equestrian statue of Theodosius (‘returning victorious from battle  | when he destroyed the rebellion of Maximos and drove all the Scythians out of Thrace’).89 The anonymous Patria, collected notices on the city’s monuments, also see in the forum effigies of Theodosius, Honorius, and Arcadius. They too devote particular attention to the equestrian statue, whose ‘plinth […] has relief narratives of the final days of the city, of the Rhos who will conquer this city’, just as the columns of Theodosius and Arcadius ‘have the story of the final days of the city and its conquest’.90 Let us resist the temptation to see in this peculiar futurity a loss of knowledge about the forum’s

historical reliefs. The data necessary to reach the correct interpretation were available, and accusations of stupidity should not be made lightly. Let us also recall that the same source, the Patria, explicitly discusses the labour of clearance in its treatment of the Forum: ‘When the statue of Theodosius was set up on the column of Taurus, the earth was dumped into the harbour, and it was filled up’.91 The Patria’s account of the reliefs represents less a misunderstanding than a precise inversion: the emperors’ past victories become their future defeat. After all, the people of Constantinople put up the Forum of Theodosius, and when the time came, they were there to turn it inside out. notes Robert Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), p. 45. 2  John Barrell, ‘The Meeting of the Waters’, The London Review of Books, 27 July 2017, pp. 23–28. 3  Kirk Savage, Standing Soldiers, Kneeling Slaves: Race, War, and Monument in Nineteenth-Century America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), pp. 151–53. 4  Karl Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, ed. by Dirk J. Struik, trans. by Martin Milligan (New York: International Publishers, 1964), p. 116. 5  Notably, ‘Irish’ eventually became a subcategory of ‘white’, but in the nineteenth century the relationship between the two terms was still contested. See Noel Ignatiev, How the Irish Became White (New York: Routledge, 1995). 6  See first: James E. Packer, The Forum of Trajan in Rome: A Study of the Monuments (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); with R. Meneghini, I Fori Imperiali e i Mercati di Traiano: storia e descrizione dei monumenti alla luce degli studi e degli scavi recenti (Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 2009), pp. 117–63. 7  See first: Franz Alto Bauer, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1996), pp. 187–203; with Albrecht Berger, ‘Tauros e sigma: due piazze di Costantinopoli’, in Bisanzio e l’Occidente: arte, archeologia, storia, ed. by Claudia Barsanti and others (Rome: Viella, 1996), pp. 17–31. 8  See first: Alexandre Simon Stefan, La Colonne Trajane (Paris: Picard, 2015). 9  See first: Emanuel Mayer, Rom ist dort, wo der Kaiser ist: Untersuchungen zu den Staatsdenkmälern des dezentralisierten Reiches von Diocletian bis zu Theodosius II. (Mainz am Rhein: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseum, 2002), pp. 130–43. 10  By invoking ‘secularization’, I  do not mean to suggest that builders, patrons, or viewers were irreligious. As Walter Benjamin writes of the seventeenth century, ‘religious aspirations did not lose their importance: it was just that this century denied them a religious fulfilment, demanding of them, or imposing on them, a secular solution instead’. The Origin of German Tragic Drama, trans. by John Osborne (London: NLB, 1977), p. 79. 1 

Sources for the administrative use of the Forum of Trajan are collected by Packer, Forum, pp. 5–10; of the Forum of Theodosius by Bauer, Stadt, pp. 202–03. 12  Ammianus Marcellinus XVI.10; Ammianus Marcellinus: History, ed. and trans. by J. C. Rolfe, 3 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1950), I, 242–43. 13  Ammianus Marcellinus XVI.15–16; Rolfe, History, I, 250–51. 14  The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor, trans. by Cyril Mango and Roger Scott (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 107. 15  If Theophanes’s date for the erection of the column is correct, then its reliefs, which celebrate Maximus’s defeat (see Section III below), must have been carved years later. 16  Chronicon Paschale: 284–628 A. D., trans. by Michael Whitby and Mary Whitby (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1989), p. 55. 17  The comparison was drawn already by Petrus Gyllius, De topographia Constantinopoleos et de illius antiquitatibus libri quatuor (Lyon: G. Rovillium, 1561), p. 161, with reference to the shared Iberian origins of Trajan and Theodosius. 18  Giovanni Becatti, La colonna coclide istoriata: problemi storici iconografici stilistici (Rome: Bretschneider, 1960), pp.  265–88; Martina Jordan-Ruwe, Das Säulenmonument: Zur Geschichte der erhöhten Aufstellung antiker Porträtstatuen (Bonn: Habelt, 1995), pp. 140–58. 19  Processions: Franz Alto Bauer, ‘Urban Space and Ritual: Constantinople in Late Antiquity’, ActaIRNorv, 15, (2001), 27–61 (pp. 37–46). Shipments of goods: Marlia Mundell Mango, ‘The Commercial Map of Constantinople’, DOP, 54 (2000), 189–207. Condemned prisoners: Alan Cameron, Circus Factions: Blues and Greens at Byzantium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), p. 320. 20  Paolo Baldassarri, ‘Alla ricerca del tempio perduto: indagini archeologiche a Palazzo Valentini e il Templum Divi Traiani et Divae Plotinae’, Archeologia classica, 64 (2013), 371–481 (with references to the extensive earlier literature) places the temple back in its traditional place to the north of, and on axis with, the spiral relief column. Regio VIII: ‘Templum diui Traiani et columnam coclydem’. Libellus de regionibus urbis Romae, ed. by Arvast Nordh (Lund: Gleerup, 1949), p. 84. 21  Patria III.199; Accounts of Medieval Constantinople: The ‘Patria’, ed. and trans. by Albrecht Berger (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013), pp. 218–19. 22  Patria II.47; Berger, Accounts, pp. 82–83. 23  Marx, Manuscripts, p. 116. 24  Packer, Forum, pp. 3–5. 25  For the dimensions of the Area Fori and the location of the equestrian statue according to the newest excavations, see Meneghini, Fori, pp. 118–20. 26  On the problems of locating the ‘bibliotheca Traiani’ and ‘bibliotheca Ulpia’ mentioned in literary sources, and conventionally identified with these two halls, see Amanda Claridge, ‘Hadrian’s Lost Temple of Trajan’, JRA, 20 (2007), 54–94 (pp. 81–83). 27  Cassius Dio, Roman History, 69.4.1. 28  Packer, Forum, p. 260. 29  Packer, Forum, pp. 247–57. 30  Mark Wilson Jones, ‘One Hundred Feet and a Spiral Stair: The Problem of Designing Trajan’s Column’, JRA, 6  (1993), 23–38; Lynne Lancaster, ‘Building Trajan’s Column’, AJA, 103 (1999), 11 

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419–39; Martin Galinier, La Colonne Traianne et les forums impériaux (Rome: École française de Rome, 2007), pp. 4–5. 31  Packer, Forum, p. 117. 32  RIC 2, Trajan, nos 579 and 580. 33  For critical review of interpretations, presentation of Dio’s passage as a paraphrase of the inscription, and defence of the traditional understanding (‘per mostrare di quanta altezza fosse la roccia [o il monte] e il terreno asportato con sì grandi lavori’), see M. Raoss, ‘L’iscrizione della colonna Traiana e una epigrafe latina cristiana di Roma del V secolo’, in Seconda miscellanea greca e romana, ed. by U. Cozzoli and others (Rome: Istituto italiano per la storia antica, 1968), pp. 399–435. 34  Cassius Dio 68.16.3; Dio Cassius: Roman History, ed. and trans. by Earnest Cary, 9  vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914–27), VIII, 392–93 (translation modified). 35  Rodolfo Lanciani, Pagan and Christian Rome (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Col, 1896), pp. 284–85. 36  Lancaster, ‘Building’, p. 421. 37  For the dimensions: Stefan, Colonne, pp. 48 and 53. 38  Jennifer Trimble, ‘Visibility and Viewing on the Severan Marble Plan’, in Severan Culture, ed.  by Simon Swain and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 368–84 (pp.  374, 377, and 378); adopting and building upon the views of Paul Veyne, ‘Propagande expression roi, image idole oracle’, L’Homme, 30 (1990), 7–26. See further Paul Veyne, ‘Lisibilité des images, propagande et apparat monarchique dans l’Empire romain’, Revue historique, 621 (2002), 3–30. 39  Note especially Richard Brilliant, Visual Narratives: Storytelling in Etruscan and Roman Art (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984), pp. 90–108; Salvatore Settis, La Colonna Traiana (Turin: G. Einaudi, 1988), pp. 86–241; Salvatore Settis, ‘La Colonne Trajane: l’empereur et son public’, RA, NS 1 (1991), 186–98; Galinier, Colonne. For a compelling account of the ‘competing demands’ that criteria of μέγεθος and ἀκρίβεια place on viewers of the column, see Francesco de Angelis, ‘Sublime Histories, Exceptional Viewers: Trajan’s Column and its Visibility’, in Art and Rhetoric in Roman Culture, ed.  by Jaś Elsner and Michel Meyer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 89–114. 40  4/VI, 41/CV. (My citations of the relief frieze provide the number of the corresponding plate from Stefan, Colonne, in Arabic numerals; followed by the ‘scene’ number in the standard system of Cichorius, in Roman numerals.) 41  4/VIII, 21/LIII, 33/LXXXIV, 34/LXXXVI, 36/XCI, 39/ XCIX, 41/CIII. 42  5/X, 11/XXVII, 13/XXXIII, 18/XLII, 20/LI, 21/LIV, 28/ LXXIII, 30/LXXVII, 41/CIV, 53/CXXXVII. 43  3/VI, 14/XXXVI, 31/LXXIX, 35/XC, 38/XCVII, 40/CII. 44  7/XVIII, 9/XXIV, 18/XLIV, 23/LXI, 28/LXXII, 29/LXXIV, 49/CXXIII, 50/CXXX, 54/CXLI. 45  9/XXIV, 11/XXIX, 15/XXXVII & XXXVIII, 17/XL, 24/ LXIV, 26/LXVI. 27/LXX, 37/XCIV, 44/CXII, 46/CXV, 52/ CXXXIV, 58/CLI. 46  6/XV, 8/XXIII, 21/LII, 22/LVI, 27/LXIX, 28/LXXIII, 36/ XCII, 46/XCVII. 47  7/XIX, 25/LXVI, 51/CXXXI. 48  5/XI, 6/XII, 7/XVI & XVII, 7/XX, 16/XXXIX, 23/LX, 25/ LXV, 26/LXVIII, 47/CXVII, 50/CXXVII, 50/CXXIX.

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Stefan, Colonne, commentary on Pl. 5. Galinier, Colonne, Pl. XXIV. 51  And see Stefan, Colonne, commentary on Pl. 47. 52  Troops harvesting grain: 41/CX. Capture of Dacian grain reserves: 49/CXXIV. 53  Danube: 3/III. Jupiter: 9/XXIV. Night: 15/XXXVII. Dacia: 58/CL. 54  Olivier Hekster, ‘Propagating Power: Hercules as an Example for Second-Century Emperors’, in Herakles and Hercules: Exploring a Graeco-Roman Divinity, ed. by Louis Rawlings and Hugh Bowden (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2005), pp. 205–21. 55  Herculeo amictu: Virgil, Aeneid, VII.669. The following scenes depict signiferi and/or aeneatores wearing animals’ skins (whereby it can be difficult to distinguish bears from lions): 3/IV, 3/V, 9/ XXIV, 11/XXVI, 16/XL, 18/XLII, 19/XLVII, 20/LI, 21/LIII, 21/ LIV, 23/LXI, 24/LXIII, 29/LXXIV, 35/LXXXVII, 39/XCVIII, 40/CII, 40/CIV, 42/CVI, 43/CIX, 44/CXIII, 49/CXXIII, 53/CXXXVII. 56  For compilation and analysis of the most significant archaeological finds, see Rudolf Naumann, ‘Neue Beobachtungen am Theodosiusbogen und Forum Tauri in Istanbul’, IstMitt, 26 (1976), 118–41. 57  By contrast, the reconstruction proposed by Berger, ‘Tauros’, would produce a much smaller Forum of Theodosius. I accept the argument of Bauer, Stadt, pp. 195–96, that the excavated remains of an exedra should be associated with the nymphaeum maius of the Notitia, not with the northern limit of the Forum. 58  For the relationship between the arch remains and the physical topography, see the contour maps in Wolfgang Müller-Wiener, Bildlexikon zur Topographie Istanbuls (Tübingen: Wasmuth, 1977); and James Crow, Jonathan Bardill, and Richard Bayliss, The Water Supply of Byzantine Constantinople (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 2008), p. 112 (Map 14). 59  Patria II.63 and III.91; Berger, Accounts, pp. 94–95 and 184–85. Topographers have long identified the Eleutherios Harbour with the Harbour of Theodosius. If the identification were correct, then the story of the excavation would be false. Far from being filled up, the harbour was in fact excavated in Theodosius’s reign. For an argument distinguishing the two harbours, and placing the Eleutherios to the east of the Theodosian, see Andreas Külzer, ‘Der Theodosios-Hafen in Yenikapı, İstanbul: Ein Hafengelände im Wandel der Zeiten’, in Die byzantinischen Häfen Konstantinopels, ed.  by Falko Daim (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2016), pp. 35–50 (pp. 38–39). 60  Nuşin Asgari, ‘Zwei Werkstücke für Konstantinopel aus den prokonnesischen Steinbrüchen’, IstMitt, 39 (1989), pp.  49–63. The column matches those of the forum both in decoration and in dimensions. The connection between drum and forum is established through process of elimination. 61  Asgari, ‘Werkstücke’, p. 54. 62  Following the estimate of Lancaster, ‘Building’, p. 424. 63  For the comparanda, see J. J. Coulton, ‘Lifting in Early Greek Architecture’, JHS, 94 (1974), pp. 1–19 (p. 19). 64  Gunther of Pairis, Hystoria Constantinopolitana, Ch. 21; ed. by Peter Orth (Hildesheim: Weidmann, 1994), p.  166 (‘Exstructa est itaque de maximis lapidibus ferro invecem artissime consertis incipiens ex magna spissitudine et paulatim se acuens in 49  50 

inmensam celsitudinis quantitatem’); The Capture of Constantinople, trans. by Alfred  J. Andrea (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997), pp. 116–17. 65  Patria II.47; Berger, Accounts, pp. 82–83. 66  Albrecht Berger, ‘Zur sogennanten Stadtansicht des Vavassore’, IstMitt, 44 (1994), 329–55 (p. 344). 67  Bauer, Stadt, p. 192. 68  There is no inscription on the base of Constantine’s Column: Bauer, Stadt, pp. 176–77, with fn. 223. The anepigraphic base of the Column of Arcadius is documented in the drawings of the Freshfield Album. Inscriptions are preserved from the bases of a column monument of Theodosius II, for which see R. Demangel, Contribution à la topographie de l’Hebdomon (Paris: Boccard, 1945), p. 35; and of the Columns of Eudoxia and Marcian (CIL III/1, 736 and 738). 69  Absent a proper corpus, one may consult: CIL III/1, 732–45; CIG 2034–2045; C.  A. Mango, ‘The Byzantine Inscriptions of Constantinople: A  Bibliographical Survey’, AJA, 55 (1951), pp.  52–66; Denis Feissel, ‘Le Philadelphion de Constantinople: inscriptions et écrits patriographiques’, CRAI, 147 (2003), 495–523. 70  Benjamin Anderson, ‘The Disappearing Imperial Statue: Toward a Social Approach’, in The Afterlife of Greek and Roman Sculpture: Late Antique Responses and Practices, ed.  by Troels Myrup Kristensen and Lea Stirling (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016), pp. 289–309, (pp. 297–98). 71  Paolo Liverani, ‘Chi parla a chi? Epigrafia monumentale e immagine pubblica in epoca tardoantica’, in Using Images in Late Antiquity, ed. by Stine Birk and others (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014), pp. 3–32. 72  APl 65; The Greek Anthology, ed. and trans. by W.  R. Paton, 5 vols (London: Heinemann, 1916–18), V, 194–95. 73  Bauer, Stadt, p. 191. 74  Height: Asgari, ‘Werkstücke’, p.  52; Leonore Kosswig, ‘Zum botanischen Vorbild der Säulen von Theodosiusbogen’, IstMitt, 18 (1968), 259–63 (p. 260 fn. 5). 75  Recently: Alexandra Eppinger, Hercules in der Spätantike: Die Rolle des Heros im Spannungsfeld von Heidentum und Christentum (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2015), pp. 236–41; Lucia Faedo, ‘Teodosio, Temistio e l’ideologia Erculea nella Nea Rome: a proposito dell’arco del Forum Tauri’, MDAIRA, 105 (1998), 315–28.

No. 11, following the numeration of Bente Kiilerich, Late Fourth Century Classicism in the Plastic Arts: Studies in the SoCalled Theodosian Renaissance (Odense: Odense University Press, 1993), pp. 52–53. For detailed analysis of this fragment, see Siri Sande, ‘Some New Fragments from the Column of Theodosius’, ActaIRNorv, 1 (1981), 1–78 (pp. 30–34). 77  No. 7. See Michael P. Speidel, ‘Die Garde des Maximus auf der Theodosiussäule’, IstMitt, 45 (1995), pp. 131–36. 78  No. 6. See Mayer, Rom, p. 138. 79  Stefan, Colonne, pp. 76–77. 80  Louvre, Arts graphiques, Inv. 4951: see especially the catalogue entry by Catherine Monbeig Goguel, in Byzance retrouvée: érudits et voyageurs français (XVIe-XVIIIe siècles), ed.  by MarieFrance Auzépy and Jean-Pierre Grélois (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2001), pp. 66–70. Princeton University Art Museum, x1944–229 a-g. 81  To name only two: Sande, ‘New Fragments’, pp. 73–77, makes a cautious case in favour of the drawings’ authenticity; while Bauer, Stadt, p.  198, briskly dismisses them as uncomprehending representations of the Column of Arcadius. Both authors address the Louvre drawings alone. The question merits systematic assessment. 82  See first Mayer, Rom, pp. 143–59. 83  Pan. Lat. II.43–45; In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, trans. by C. E. V. Nixon and Barbara Saylor Mynors (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), pp. 510–12. 84  Themistius, Or. XIII; Themistii Orationes quae supersunt, ed. by Glanville Downey, 3 vols. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1965–74), I, p. 253. 85  Eusebius, De vita Constantini, III.54; Eusebius: Life of Constantine, trans. by Averil Cameron and Stuart G. Hall, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), p. 144. 86  CIL III/1, 737; trans. by Bente Kiilerich, The Obelisk Base in Constantinople: Court Art and Imperial Ideology (Rome: Bretschneider, 1998), p. 26. 87  Benjamin Anderson, ‘Social Clustering in 5th-c. Constantinople: The Evidence of the Notitia’, JRA, 29 (2016), pp. 494–508. 88  Mayer, Rom, especially pp. 159–61. 89  Lines 202–40; Constantine of Rhodes on Constantinople and the Church of the Holy Apostles, ed. by Liz James, (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 32–37. 90  Patria II.47; Berger, Accounts, pp. 82–83. 91  Patria II.63; Berger, Accounts, pp. 94–95. 76 

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Architectures of Surveillance

Houses and Stylites in the Northern Syrian ‘Dead Villages’ Anna M. Sitz Introduction: Cultural Heritage in Conflict The region of northern Syria has frequently been in the news in recent years due to the on-going tragic civil war, destroying both lives and Syria’s rich cultural heritage.1 News reports about the violent smashing of ancient monuments have centred on major archaeological sites, such as Palmyra, where acts of destruction have been carried out as spectacles, fodder for viral online videos.2 The destruction of smaller sites, happening away from the camera and often as collateral damage, is less documented, although some projects are attempting to use aerial imagery and local reports to track damage. This is the case in the northern Syrian limestone massif, also called Belus, an intensively settled region located in the hinterland of Antioch on the Orontes (modern Antakya, Turkey; Fig. 1). Situated near Aleppo and Idlib, both recently centres of intensive fighting between the Syrian government and rebel forces, the ‘dead villages’, as they are known both popularly and in the scholarship, have suffered widespread damage.3 Built from ashlar masonry so solid that many walls still stand meters high, some of the ancient domestic structures in these villages are said to be used today as shelter for displaced people fleeing conflict. Despite the large number of standing remains, many with carved decoration, the settlements in northern Syria are chronically understudied as evidence for late antique domestic architecture. With the current military uncertainty, it is unlikely that

any scientific investigations will be carried out in the area for many years. I personally have not been able to travel to this region; it may appear that there is no possibility to better understand these late antique agricultural villages for the foreseeable future. As Bob Ousterhout has often told his students, it is risky to write about a monument one has not visited. In the case of northern Syria, however, we have little choice except to make do with the previously published reports, photographs, and drawings, which offer a tantalizing glimpse of a prosperous late antique world. This was the region that saw the ‘rise of the holy man’ and elevated asceticism to literal new heights in the person of stylite saints.4 These bilingual Greek-Syriac villages are on the fringes of both the classical urban world and modern scholarly focus areas; they represent one of the most extensive untapped resources for better understanding early Christian society outside of the elite urban circles which have so far dominated discussions.5 In this essay, I argue that the domestic structures in northern Syria are not exclusively proxies for the economic activity of the region, as they have often been treated in the past. Rather, these houses reflected and shaped the cultural preoccupations of the individuals who lived in them. By examining the archaeological remains at one village, called Déhès, I argue that domestic architecture there facilitated communal self-regulation through the potential for surveillance; this local architectural practice offers context for the rise of stylite saints.

Fig. 1.  Map of the limestone massif, with Déhès marked. (Source: author, after Ignacio Peña, The Christian Art of Byzantine Syria (Reading: Garnet, 1996), p. 196).

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The Limestone Massif: Architecture and Chronology Belus contains the remains of hundreds of villages. The American and Princeton Expeditions made extensive architectural surveys in the region in 1899– 1900 and 1904–05 respectively, producing volumes on the ecclesiastical architecture and inscriptions. The plans and early photographs from these expeditions are invaluable resources today.6 Though a few Roman temples and tombs are visible, most of the preserved houses and churches date from between the fourth and sixth centuries, when the region thrived and pagans and Christians seem to have lived side by side, at least through the fifth century.7 Regional disruptions, such as the sacking of Beroea and Antioch by the Sassanian King Khosrow I in 540, around the same time that plague ravaged the eastern Roman empire, are likely associated with a slowdown in construction activity, as indicated by the decline in Greek and Syriac inscriptions beginning around 550  CE; the last securely dated building activity is from 610. Though earlier scholars assumed that the Arab incursion resulted in the abandonment of the villages, there is now evidence for continuity of occupation during the eighth century and later, when agricultural activity continued and military forces occupied some of the villages, suggesting that the eventual demise of the village agricultural system was a more complicated and drawn out process than previously thought.8 The region’s most famous location, both in antiquity and today, is the pilgrimage site of Qalat Seman, where St Symeon Stylites the Elder (c. 389–459) is said to have lived atop a column. Visitors came from near and far to see the holy man and perhaps receive an eulogia (blessing) in the form of small clay ampullae stamped with images of the saint. A massive ecclesiastical complex was built around the remains of his column after his death. His example was followed by numerous other stylites in the region (and farther afield), notably by St Symeon Stylites the Younger, who spent his life on a column on the Wondrous Mount to the west of the ‘dead villages’.9 The limestone massif ’s ‘dead villages’ range in size from a congregation of a few houses, to larger groupings bordering on what might be called small towns. One such settlement, Serğilla, boasts of one of the region’s only baths; the town shows construction activity from the second to the seventh century CE (Fig.  2).10 A recent extensive investigation

of the village by French archaeologists has produced detailed plans and analyses of the architectural development of eighty-nine houses.11 What the villages lack in recognizable public buildings they make up for with their elaborate masonry churches, sometimes multiple per village, carved in a distinctive regional decorative style.12 Gold and silver finds attest the limestone massif ’s relative prosperity, including the Kaper Koraon treasure from the sixth and seventh century, most likely found near modern Kurin in the southern part of Belus.13 These liturgical objects, decorated with Christian imagery and donor inscriptions, are not all the elite objects they may first appear to be: some of the precious metals were diluted in order to lower production costs. The houses themselves also speak to something akin to middle-class prosperity: all were built in ashlar masonry, many are multi-roomed, centred on a courtyard, and feature both carved decoration and occasional inscriptions. This body of evidence is significant, because most previous work on late antique housing has focused on elite villas.14 In the limestone massif, we find evidence for the lifestyle not of the ‘rich and famous’, but of those rural inhabitants who were prosperous enough to construct well-built permanent houses and fund elaborate churches. The Economy of Northern Syria Nearly all previous research on the region has focused on understanding its economic basis.15 Early travellers, such as the Comte de Vogüé in the 1860s, assumed that the villages were proto-feudal estates belonging to wealthy landowners living in nearby Antioch; the masonry domestic structures were seen as their country houses with imagined manicured gardens.16 Georges Tchalenko in the mid-twentieth century spent decades studying the limestone massif.17 He believed the architectural remains ran the gamut from villages to miniaturized classical poleis replete with public spaces: agorai, andrones (meeting places for men), and stoas with shops. Subsequent excavations carried out at Déhès and Sergilla have demonstrated that much of this supposed public architecture was instead domestic. The source of the region’s apparent prosperity has been sought in agricultural production. Tchalenko’s extensive study argued that the region was supported by olive monoculture, with oil exported to the Mediterranean, based on the large number of presses found,

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Fig. 2.  Serğilla. (Source: Bernard Gagnon, Wikimedia Commons. Reprint under Creative Common license).

usually multiple per village. Tchalenko’s conclusions were questioned by Georges Tate’s synthesis of multiple village sites in 1992. He argued for a mixed economic base of olives and animal husbandry for local trade, rather than commercial export; the lack of trading amphorae spoke against long distance trade, in his view.18 Chris Wickham has proposed that trade did take place on a regional scale, with goods sold to nearby cities and to the eastern Roman forces stationed along the limes with Sassanian Persia.19 Most recently, many of the presses dating from the prosperous fifth/sixth century and later have been associated not with olives but with another valuable resource: Olivier Callot has re-identified several of the presses excavated at Déhès as serving grapes.20 Daniel Hull has argued that the monasteries of the limestone massif, rather than being isolated and self-sufficient places of spiritual reflection,

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actually played an essential role in the surplus agricultural production of the region.21 Clarifying the economic basis of the massif is critical to understanding the communities living in the ‘dead villages’ and their connections with the rest of the Roman world. It leaves much to be desired, however, in terms of social history. Déhès Déhès is located on the Djebel Barisha, south of the main road leading from Antioch to Chalcis and farther east (Fig. 1).22 A monastery stood about a kilometer from the settlement.23 Because it is a typical, medium-sized village, Déhès was selected for excavation from 1976–78 by a team from the Institut français d’Archéologie de Beyrouth (Fig.  3).24 The

Fig. 3.  Déhès village plan. Area of Houses 1–3 marked. Presses are marked with ‘P’. (Source: plan reprinted with permission from the Presses de l’Ifpo from Callot, Déhès II. Les pressoirs. Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 210 (Beirut: Presses de l’ifpo, 2017), Pl. 1).

settlement holds approximately twenty houses and three churches, one with a baptistery. The excavation was carried out on one group of buildings, previously identified by Tchalenko as an agora. The archaeological project revealed that these structures instead comprised three multi-phased late antique houses centred on courtyards (Fig. 4).25 Each was built from limestone blocks, quarried locally, and had an upper floor and a pitched roof. Several cisterns for the collection of rainwater were discovered. The

presence of feeding troughs near the ground floor of the buildings led the excavators to propose that humans lived on the upper floor with animals below, though that may have not been the case in each building.26 Following the excavators’ labels, House 1 is composed of Buildings 101, 102, and 103. Building 101 includes a double courtyard with openings onto a narrow alley to the east, while Building 102 forms a small courtyard with Building 103. House 2 includes Buildings 108 and 104. The central courtyard space is created by walls

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Fig. 4.  Plan of Houses 1–3 at Déhès, sixth-seventh century phase, with locations of medallions indicated. (Source: author, with modifications after Jean-Pierre Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, Syria, 57 (1981), Fig. 6).

separating House 2 from its eastern and western neighbours. House 3 is composed of Buildings 105, 106, and 107. A subterranean press, later converted to a cistern, is located underneath its courtyard; to the north of the house, a second press has been found, which was in use until the end of the eighth or early ninth-century.27 Several buildings have bi-level porticos on their façades. All three houses were clearly constructed in multiple phases; they are built up against each other with varying degrees of irregularity, making use of preexisting walls when possible. The excavators dated

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constructed to two main phases, the fourth and the sixth century. The fourth century construction was dated on the basis of a Greek inscription carved in irregular letters on the central medallion of a parapet of Building 105, which states, ‘Year 409 [360/ 1 CE], ΙΧΘΥΣ ΛΟΓ(ΟΣ)’.28 Ἰχθύς (fish) is a common late antique abbreviation for Ἰησοῦς Χριστός Θεοῦ Υἱός Σωτήρ ( Jesus Christ, son of God, Saviour), and λόγος (Word) has clear Christological overtones as well. A  Syriac inscription also on this parapet has never been transcribed or deciphered, to my knowledge.

The excavators dated other buildings with similar construction techniques to the fourth century; a second major building phase, including the addition of Buildings 106 and 101 was placed in the sixth century. Jodi Magness, however, has recently argued based on the sixth century ceramics found in the fills accumulated on interior floors that all of the buildings date to the sixth century or later; she posits that the fourth-century parapet was reused.29 In my view conclusive dating is not possible at this time, but regardless of the date of original construction, I investigate the three houses at Déhès in their sixth- to seventh-century occupation phase, when their component buildings had been constructed, resulting in the plans as reproduced here. Houses 1–3: Circulation and Visibility Houses do much more than merely provide shelter: they simultaneously reflect and shape the lives and concerns of the individuals who inhabit them.30 Previous work on domestic architecture in northern Syria has taken a typological approach, which often presents houses as isolated entities rather than in dialogue with other nearby structures.31 Instead of focusing on typological classifications of the houses at Déhès, I attempt to recreate the lived experience of their inhabitants by examining patterns of circulation as revealed by a simplified Gamma analysis. This spatial syntax technique entails making a diagram to show how many different rooms one must walk through in order to reach each room in the house.32 The fundamental idea is that the more barriers one must pass to reach a space, the more private was its use. For example, Diocletian’s personal apartments in his palace at Split (Croatia) were highly protected and private: a visitor would have to pass through numerous rooms in order to reach these spaces cocooned within the palace. A  public audience hall, on the other hand, would likely be removed from the street by perhaps only one or two rooms. The basic Gamma analysis technique does have its shortcomings: it cannot account for multiple entrances, locked doors, the prominence of some entries over others, sight-lines, or social-cues from inhabitants.33 Nonetheless it draws attention to important aspects of circulation in the houses of Déhès. The Gamma analysis, as carried out on House 3, reveals first, that the central courtyard must be counted as a room for the analysis to work (Fig. 5).

There is no way to move between Building 105 and 107 without traversing the courtyard. Second, the analysis highlights the lack of movement from room to room even within discrete buildings.34 Each room of Building 107 has a door opening onto the portico, but only one doorway connects two of the rooms internally. The rooms of 106 are divided by a solid partitioning wall. This arrangement is apparent is Houses 1 and 2 as well; their Gamma analyses produce similar results as in House 1. With a few exceptions, inhabitants had to exit into the portico or courtyard in order to move to a neighbouring room due to the solid interior walls. Furthermore, all traces of staircases are on the exterior of buildings. The Gamma analysis therefore highlights one particular feature of these houses: visibility of movement. Moving between rooms or between buildings within a single house required the individual to enter the exterior portico or cross the courtyard in most cases. A viewer stationed within any of the porches or in the courtyard would have a clear view of all of these movements between rooms or buildings. Furthermore, due to the close proximity of neighbouring houses at Déhès, and lower walls separating houses (as they have been reconstructed by the excavators), it is likely that neighbours on an upper-story porch would have a clear view into the courtyard next door and into the porticos serving to connect rooms. At House 1, a balcony located on the upper story of the west façade (Building 101) is positioned with a direct view over the enclosure wall of House 2; the balcony is located less than 1.5m from the wall, according to the published plan. For each house, the central courtyard was not simply a functional space for domestic activity but was a locus of movement and visibility, permitting surveillance from both within the house and from neighbours. Architectural Carvings and Inscriptions: Apotropaic Devices? The carved decoration of the three houses at Déhès likewise points to the importance of sightlines and both intra- and interdomus viewing. Early modern visitors to the limestone massif were impressed with architectural details, medallions, and inscriptions carved on both churches and houses; these were largely published as discrete objets d’art divorced from their immediate architectural context. Many entries

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Fig. 5.  House 3, Déhès, with Gamma Analysis. (Source: author, with modifications after Jean-Pierre Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, Syria, 57 (1981), Fig. 6).

in William Kelly Prentice’s publication on the Greek and Latin inscriptions records only the general location of an inscription (for example, ‘a door-frame standing alone in the extreme western part of the town’), although he attempted to provide a site plan when possible.35 The excavators at Déhès laudably plotted each carved decoration in its original location (either known or reconstructed) but did not analyse their placement in depth. In the three houses under consideration at Déhès, column capitals and parapets decorate the porticoes of most buildings; these include a wide variety of capitals drawing on both Ionic and Corinthian prototypes with idiosyncratic modifications, as well as elements of classical architecture carved in places that do not conform to architectural canons, such as dentils (normally to be located underneath the cornice of a Greek or Roman building) placed on a door lintel underneath a cross medallion (Fig.  6).36 All of this architectural decoration was executed in an irregular, regional style and with an exuberant diversity of forms typical of late antiquity in the limestone massif. 26

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Medallions mark the doors, windows, and gates of the houses; as throughout the region, most medallions combine a cross-shaped core with floral or geometric decoration, fusing Christian symbolism with aesthetic sensibilities. Throughout the limestone massif, carved architectural elements have been treated largely as criteria for dating structures.37 The medallions with crosses have been interpreted as straightforward apotropaic devices against demons added to buildings by superstitious inhabitants. Re-contextualizing the carvings, inscriptions, and medallions within their regional village spaces, however, suggests these elements do more than simply ward off evil spirits. They were meant to be viewed by mortal eyes as well. The carved architectural details – typically located on the exterior of houses and visible to neighbours – attest to both the wealth and regional identity of the limestone massif ’s inhabitants. At Déhès, the excavators found a ‘windblown acanthus’ type column capital from the east façade portico of House 1 (Fig. 7). Although this capital form was used widely during late antiquity, with

Fig. 6.  House 2, Building 108, Déhès, door lintel on ground floor. (Source: drawing reprinted with permission from the Presses de l’Ifpo from Jean-Pierre Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, Syria, 57 (1981), Fig. 167.

Fig. 7.  House 1, Building 101, east façade, Déhès ( J.-L. Biscop, 1:100). (Source: drawing reprinted with permission from the Presses de l’Ifpo from Jean-Pierre Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, Syria, 57 (1981), Fig. 10).

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examples known at Thessaloniki and Constantinople, the form is often identified with northern Syria, where the earliest examples have been found at the church of Saint Symeon at Qalat Seman. The builders of House 1 at Déhès may have travelled to the stylite’s pilgrimage site and wished to display similar capitals at home; architectural decoration, including capitals, can contribute to the development of a distinct local identity, as Itamar Taxel has argued for late antique Ionic capitals in rural central Palestine.38 The medallions and other crosses or Christian symbols carved on the houses throughout Belus likewise did much more than just keep the demons away. In the pre-Christian era, door inscriptions in the region were concerned with warding off the ‘evil eye’ of one’s neighbour. The concept of the evil eye has its origins in the distant Mesopotamian past, perhaps dating back to the third millennium BCE; the idea is that, when another person sees one’s happiness and becomes jealous, they direct a negative energy through their gaze towards the happy person that can result in misfortune.39 Images of the evil eye (the feared entity itself ) or phalli were therefore used as apotropaic devices to scare away or reflect back other people’s negative energies.40 As soon as the area is ‘Christianized’, the assumption has been that all the inscribed apotropaic devices, now in the form of crosses or Christian declarations such as ΕΙΣ ΘΕΟΣ (one God) are now directed against demonic spirits, instead of the malevolent gaze of other humans.41 In reality, however, it is unlikely that ancient mind sets were changed instantaneously, if at all. The evil eye of course continues to hold sway in the eastern Mediterranean even today. Several inscriptions from Belus clearly testify to the carry-over of older ideas in the early Christian period.42 One reads Ὅ μοι θέλεις, γένοιτό σοι, ‘that which you wish for me, may it also be for you’.43 The presence of a cross and alpha/omega in the centre of the inscription indicates that the house belonged to a Christian family. Another inscription, dating from 365 CE, reads, ‘Ὅσα λέγεις καὶ σοὶ τὰ δι[πλᾶ]’, ‘Whatever you say, [may] it also be to you double’.44 A combination of the two sentiments is found at Der Sambil: ὅ μοὶ θέλεις, φίλε, καὶ σοὶ τὰ δ[ιπλᾶ], ‘What you wish for me, o friend, may it be to you double’.45 The sentiment could be either positive or negative, but regardless, the concern with what other people wish or say is clear. Christian symbols,

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such as crosses and alpha omegas, and divine invoca­ tions were doubtlessly directed against demonic spirits, but in the wider ‘thoughtscape’ of northern Syria, where inhabitants continued to be concerned about the ill-wishes of neighbours, they were also meant to be seen by other humans: here lived a pious family, under the protection of the Christian god whom they invoked. Neighbours and strangers would therefore do well in treating the household justly in both thoughts and deeds: the use of Christian symbols was not merely a case of ‘magical’ thinking, but may have modulated actual actions as well. The sentiment is perhaps best summed up by a door lintel in the village of Dalloza: ‘If God is with us, who is against us?’46 At Déhès, the medallions are located on windows and doors facing both into courtyards and towards the exterior of the houses, that is, towards the rest of the village or towards the agricultural areas to the south, where villagers would have tended to olive trees or grapevines. Entrances on both ground and upper floors bore these medallions. Similar decorative motifs forming crosses are also found on some of the preserved parapets. The outward (north) facing window of Building 108 is particularly adorned: two crosses above the window and three small medallions on the window divider itself. Likewise, the eastern façade of House 1 (Building 101), which faces a narrow alley separating it from other houses, bears elaborate medallions on both its doors and the gates opening onto the street. The date and Christian ἰχθύς λόγος formula inscribed on the upperstory parapet of Building 105 (House 3) was likely visible (if not actually legible) from the portico of Building 108 (House 2) across the courtyard. While some of the door medallions at Déhès were partially obscured by porticoes, being revealed only when one approached the buildings, the locations of these Christian symbols and architectural ornament on only the exteriors of doors, windows, and façades indicates the importance of outward-facing visibility in these carvings, just as the Gamma analysis indicated for the movement of the houses’ inhabitants. The visibility of these carvings on the house’s most permeable spaces were critical to their proper functioning: the Christian symbols were activated only when viewed and thereby reminded mortal viewers that they were, themselves, under the inescapable gaze of God.

Village Life: Heretics and Neighbours The inhabitants of the late antique limestone massif managed to extract a degree of prosperity from their natural resources, but life in Belus was undoubtedly still harsh. The limited rainwater had to be collected in cisterns at each house for consumption. Humans and livestock lived side-by-side, and the rocky soil, while supporting olives and grapes, likely limited the production of other crops. The need to produce higher yields probably contributed to the implementation of new pressing technology in the region in the sixth century, indicating new economic pressures perhaps around the same time that the city of Antioch was sacked by the Sassanians.47 Travel between villages over the rocky terrain was difficult, as early modern travellers recorded. The limestone massif may have been prosperous, but idyllic it was not.48 Though we have few written sources focused on daily life in northern Syria beyond hagiographical texts, comparative studies from other village cultures highlight the role played by local social dynamics in these groups. We can better understand the lived experience of the inhabitants of Déhès by examining a case study of the fourteenth-century village of Montaillou in southern France. Although this village is far removed temporally and geographically from the limestone massif, it provides a rare in-depth view of village social life in a pre-modern agrarian society. Our detailed knowledge of Montaillou is due to the Inquisition: the local bishop, Jacques Fournier (later Pope Benedict  XII) interviewed villagers during an investigation into the Cathar heresy. Catharism was an anti-ecclesiastical movement in medieval France that incorporated ancient dualistic beliefs viewing God and Satan as competing light and dark forces. The church reacted strongly against this sect and attempted to completely wipe them out. Fournier’s notes suggest that the heresy took hold in Montaillou due more to relationships among villagers than doctrinal considerations.49 Most of the villagers had no way of knowing orthodox positions; they therefore often based their own beliefs and practices on family traditions. Interpersonal conflict could result in (founded or unfounded) accusations of heresy. The study of Montaillou emphasizes the interdependence of the villagers; they all know each other, assist each other when necessary, and share agricultural equipment, as would have been the case

at Déhès, where the numerous presses may have also been used by neighbouring villages.50 Despite this interdependence and kinship, the villagers at Montaillou were constantly in fear of being accused of heresy by their neighbours. Similar religious tensions and questions of ‘orthodoxy’ may have also been at play in northern Syria.51 Alongside Egypt, the region was known as a monophysite stronghold. Monophysitism held that after the incarnation, Christ had only a single divine nature, rather than being both fully divine and fully man, as orthodox dogma established at the council of Chalcedon in 451 maintains.52 The Christological debates continued to rage for centuries, and it was not entirely clear that Chalcedonianism would remain the empire’s preferred Christian varietal; many eastern churches remain monophysite or miaphysite to this day. In the sixth century Justinian attempted to bring monophysites back into the Chalcedonian church both through compromise and persecution, at the same time that his wife Theodora was said to have sympathies for them. In northern Syria, perceived ‘Chalcedonian heresy’ (or other transgressive beliefs) may have been seen as a threat to entire communities, even if the villagers did not fully understand, or care about, the underlying Christological debates. With the comparative material from Montaillou in view, we can expect that villagers were concerned about being accused of heresy before clerics, holy men, and perhaps also higher ecclesiastical or imperial authorities in nearby Antioch. In this context, the common phrase ΕΙΣ ΘΕΟΣ (one God) written on numerous doors throughout the limestone massif from c.  330 CE onwards may have been perceived after 451, not just as a general Christian sentiment, but as a marker of monophysite religious identity – those who believed that Christ had a single divine nature like his father.53 Similar phrases, such as the ichthys and logos phrases on the Déhès House 3 parapet, may have also served both to assure neighbours of the family’s proper religious devotion, working like ancient ‘hashtags’ to signal a particular identity and participation in wider cultural trends. The presence of religious anxieties within the community may also be apparent in an archaeological deposit, most likely dating to the eighth or early ninth century (and therefore somewhat later than the material discussed so far), although a definite

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interpretation is impossible. Under the small courtyard to the west of House 1, the excavators found a small terracotta plaque representing the torso of a nude goddess grasping her breasts.54 The plaque is broken at the top and bottom, and it was included in the fill laid underneath the paving stones of this courtyard, thereby hidden from view. The plaque raises many questions: was it in use as a pagan object of devotion or as a talisman up until the eighth century? Was its deposition in this fill an intentional attempt to dispose of an illicit object and protect the household from accusations of heterodox beliefs?55 Or simply the discarding of an obsolete broken plaque? Did the builders of the paved courtyard even notice this object mixed into the fill? The archaeological record cannot, in this case, provide answers. Stylites: Object and Agent of Viewing The northern Syrian preoccupation with visibility and surveillance in village settings, as argued from the domestic architecture in this essay, can add a new facet to our understanding of the social role of stylite saints in this region. Previous scholarship has noted that living on top of a column was both a testament to a holy man’s ascetisism and a visual symbol of his role as mediator between God and man, as he lived suspended between heaven and earth. Lukas Schachner has furthermore argued that stylites served to visually Christianize the landscape based on the remains of eighteen archaeologically attested stylite columns, the majority in Syria. Schachner charted the height of the columns (up to 17.64m) and their visibility to viewers on the ground from kilometers away.56 He has mapped the distribution of stylite columns in northern Syria, including one located to the south of Déhès; the stylite lies within the extended viewshed (2,400m zone) of the village.57 Two carved reliefs of stylite saints from the fifth and sixth centuries are present on the churches in Déhès, and eight stylite flasks have recently been uncovered there.58 These finds indicate the importance of stylites in the local religious and cultural landscape. Schachner fails to note, however, that the stylite could be not only the object of viewing but also himself the viewer. The holy man’s lofty position provided him with a high vantage point from which to gaze down upon his local village or the roads connecting

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settlements. Hagiographies of stylite saints, such as that of the mid-eighth century Timothy of Kakhusta (another village on the Djebel Barisha), emphasize this theme of vision: the column-dweller had seemingly supernatural knowledge of the sins of the villagers near his dwelling. In one instance, he strikes down a man riding a horse at night through the countryside, on his way to an illicit affair with a woman.59 Timothy is also attributed with the ability to communicate with other northern Syrian village saints at a great distance. While these tropes are common to all saints’ lives, not just those of stylites, the unique position of column-dwelling saints far above village inhabitants on the ground may have actually allowed them to observe illicit activity or perhaps to maintain a visual connection to other stylites in the distance, fostering a sense of community (or even competition) among stylites. The column therefore functioned as a sort of panopticon on two different planes, granting the holy man access to both natural and supernatural sightlines. Conclusion: Surveilling and Surviving Viewing the domestic architectural remains of the northern Syrian limestone massif in terms of spatial syntax and sightlines reveals the cultural priorities at play in their construction and habitation. I  have argued that the architectural layout of Houses 1–3 at Déhès was not accidental, but contributed to the village’s self-regulation through surveillance both within the household and between households. In a rural area where sharing threshing floors, presses, and even house walls was common, and the closest legal authority was days away in Antioch, it was essential for the villagers to be self-regulating. Moreover, the architectural decoration, medallions, and inscriptions on these domestic structures served simultaneously to broadcast the prosperity of their owners and to protect their inhabitants from the ill-will, and corresponding ill-action, of their neighbours. These features contributed to the delicate balancing act achieved in Belus in late antiquity, when communities had to negotiate both agricultural, cultural, and religious stressors in order to survive at a remove from the institutions of classical urban life. The concern with surveillance and viewing, as seen in the domestic structures, may also help to explain

the popularity of stylitism in this region. As Peter Brown has demonstrated, the holy men of northern Syria were frequently called-upon to settle disputes between villagers that arose in the course of daily life in an agrarian society.60 The ability – real or imagined – of stylites to look down and see the secret goingson of the village must have prevented some disputes from arising in the first place. The houses of the northern Syrian limestone massif therefore provide us not only with indications of economic activity, as has been previously investigated, but also a brief glimpse into the lived experience of their late antique inhabitants. My analysis of the architecture above applies only to the inhabitants of the structures around the sixth or seventh century. Later medieval occupants may have used the homes in a different way, and we cannot know how the present-day displaced people seeking shelter in these ancient houses experience these spaces. Even when built in stone, houses change over time.

notes I offer my sincere gratitude to Bob Ousterhout for being a wonderful advisor, colleague, and traveling-companion, as his numerous friends and students on at least three continents will attest. I also thank Kim Bowes, whose ancient houses seminar at the University of Pennsylvania was the impetus for this research. Her guidance significantly improved the original project. I thank the editors of this volume for organizing such a stimulating symposium, as well as the Presses de l’Ifpo for their kind permission to reprint published drawings. An early version of this paper was presented at the Annual Meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America in 2016. I would also like to thank the University of Pennsylvania and the Harvard Center for Hellenic Studies for their institutional support and funding of this research. 2  Ömür Harmanşah, ‘Isis, Heritage, and the Spectacles of Destruction in the Global Media’, Near Eastern Archaeology, 78.3 (2015), 170–77. 3  The villages are a UNESCO World Heritage site. Although detailed information on damage is difficult to obtain, see Shannon Steiner, ‘AYS Report: UNESCO World Heritage Site of Qal’at Se’man Damaged in a Russian Airstrike’, Medium, 13 May 2016. https://medium.com/@AreYouSyrious/ays-report-unescoworld-heritage-site-of-qalat-se-man-destroyed-in-a-russian-airstrike-c2ea4d36b8f3; Michael Greenhalgh, Syria’s Monuments; Their Survival and Destruction (Leiden: Brill, 2017), pp. 409–21; Michael D. Danti and others, ‘ASOR CHI Incident Report SHI 17–0177’, in ‘ASOR Cultural Heritage Initiatives (CHI): Planning for Safeguarding Heritage Sites in Syria and Iraq’, October 2017 Monthly Report, http://www.asor-syrianheritage.org/ incident-report-feature-deir-sunbul-der-sambil-village/. 1 

Peter Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity’, JRS, 61 (1971), 80–101; Peter Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity, 1971–1997’, JEChrSt, 6.3 (1998), 353–76. For general overviews of northern Syria, see Kevin Butcher, Roman Syria and the Near East (Los Angeles: Getty Publications, 2003), pp. 145–51. 5  One could note the parallels with Cappadocia, a region that likewise has been overlooked in lieu of urban centers. Fortunately, Bob Ousterhout’s work has brought Cappadocia into the scholarly spotlight. 6  Howard Crosby Butler, Architecture and Other Arts. Part  II of the Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria in 1899–1900 (New York: Century Co., 1903); Robert Garrett, Topography and Itinerary. Part I of the Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria in 1899–1900 (New York: Century Co., 1914); William Kelly Prentice, Greek and Latin Inscriptions. Part III of the Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria in 1899–1900 (New York: Century Co., 1908); Enno Littmann, Semitic Inscriptions. Publications of an American Archaeological Expedition to Syria in 1899–1900 (New York: Century Co., 1904); Howard Crosby Butler, Ancient Architecture in Syria: Section B, Northern Syria. Division  II of the Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expedition to Syria, in 1904–1905 (Leiden: Brill, 1907–20); William Kelly Prentice, Greek and Latin Inscriptions: Section B, Northern Syria. Division II of the Publications of the Princeton University Archaeological Expedition to Syria, in 1904–1905 (Leiden: Brill, 1922). For other early travellers to northern Syria, see Greenhalgh, Syria’s Monuments, 245–49. 7  Frank R. Trombley, ‘Christian Demography in the Territorium of Antioch (4th–5th c.): Observations on the Epigraphy’ in Culture and Society in Later Roman Antioch, ed. by Isabella Sandwell and Janet Huskinson (Oxford: Oxbow, 2004), pp.  59–85 (pp.  64–66). For Syria in general, see also David T.M.  Frankfurter, ‘Stylites and Phallobates: Pillar Religion in Late Antique Syria’, VChr, 44.2 (1990), 168–98. 8  Jodi Magness, The Archaeology of the Early Islamic Settlement in Palestine (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003); Syrien und seine Nachbarn von der Spätantike bis in die islamische Zeit, ed. by Ina Eichner and Vasiliki Tsamakda (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2009); The ‘Dead Cities’ of Northern Syria and Their Demise, ed. by Thomas Riis (Kiel: Ludwig, 2015). For the later phase of settlement at Déhès, see Dominique Orssaud, ‘Le passage de la céramique byzantine a la céramique islamique. Quelques hypothèses à partir du mobilier trouvé à Déhès’, in La Syrie de Byzance à l’Islam. Actes du colloque international Lyon - Maison de l’Orient Méditerranéen. Paris - Institut du Monde Arabe 11–15 Septembre 1990, ed.  by Pierre Canivet and Jean-Paul Rey-Coquais (Damascus: Institut français de Damas, 1992), pp. 219–28; Bernard Bavant and Dominique Orssaud, ‘Stratigraphie et typologie. Problèmes posés par l’utilisation de la céramique comme critère de datation: l’exemple de Déhès’, in La céramique byzantine et proto-islamique en SyrieJordanie (IVe–VIIIe siécles apr. J.-C.), ed. by Estelle Villeneuve & Pamela  M. Watson (Beirut: Institut français d’archéologie du Proche-Orient, 2001), pp. 33–48. 9  For stylites in this region in general, see Ignace Peña, Pascal Castellana, and Romuald Fernandez, Les stylites syriens (Milan: Franciscan Printing Press, 1975); Susan Ashbrook Harvey, ‘The 4 

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Stylite’s Liturgy: Ritual and Religious Identity in Late Antiquity’, JEChrSt, 6.3 (1998), 523–39; Olivier Callot and Pierre Louis Gatier, ‘Les stylites de d’Antiochène’, in Antioche de Syrie: histoire, images et traces de la ville antique. Colloque organisé par B. Cabouret, P.-L. Gatier et C. Saliou, Lyon, Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranee, 4, 5, 6 octobre 2001, ed.  by Bernadette Cabouret, Pierre-Louis Gatier, and Catherine Saliou. Topoi, Supplément 5. (Paris: De Boccard, 2004), pp. 573–96; Dina Boero, ‘Promoting a Cult Site without Bodily Relics: Material Substances and Imagined Topography in the Syriac Life of Symeon the Stylite’, in Religious Competition in the Greco-Roman World, ed. by Nathaniel P. DesRosiers and Lily C. Vuong (Atlanta: SBL, 2016), pp. 233–45; Ayşe Belgin-Henry, ‘A Mobile Dialogue of an Immobile Saint: St. Symeon the Younger, Divine Liturgy, and the Architectural Setting’, in Perceptions of the Body and Sacred Space in Late Antiquity and Byzantium, ed. by Jelena Bogdanović (London: Routledge, 2018), pp. 149–65. 10  Gérard Charpentier, ‘Les bains de Sergila’, Syria, 71.1–2 (1994), 113–42. 11  Georges Tate and others, Serğilla: Village d’Apamène. Tome I: Une architecture de pierre. Volume  I: Texte. Volume  II: Planches (Damascus: Institut français d’archéologie du Proche-Orient, 2013). 12  See especially Christiane Strube, Die ‘Toten Städte’. Stadt und Land in Nordsyrien während der Spätantike (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1996); Christiane Strube, Baudekoration im nordsyrischen Kalksteinmassiv. Vol. I: Kapitell-Tür und Gesimsformen der Kirchen des 4. und 5. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1993); Christine Strube, Baudekoration im nordsyrischen Kalksteinmassiv. Vol. II. Das 6. und frühe 7. Jahrhundert (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 2002). 13  Marlia Mundell Mango, Silver from Early Byzantium: The Kaper Koraon and Related Treasures (Baltimore: Walters Art Museum, 1986); Helen  C. Evans, The Arts of Byzantium (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2001), pp. 21–22. 14  Housing in Late Antiquity: From Palaces to Shops, ed. by Luke Lavan, Lale Özgenel, and Alexander Saratis, with the assistance of Simon Ellis and Yuri Marano (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 15  See a brief summary of the historiography of the region in Clive Foss, ‘Dead Cities of the Syrian Hill Country’, Archaeology, 49.5 (1996), 48–53. 16  Melchior Comte de Vogüé, Syrie centrale: architecture civile et religieuse du Ier au VIIe siècle, 2 vols (Paris: Baudry, 1865–77). 17  Georges Tchalenko. Villages antiques de la Syrie du Nord: Le Massif du Belus à l’époque romaine, 3 vols (Paris: Geuthner, 1953). 18  Georges Tate, Les campagnes de la Syrie du Nord du IIe au VIIe siècle: un exemple d’expansion démographique et économique à la fin de l’antiquité (Paris: Geuthner, 1992). 19  Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 132–40. 20  Olivier Callot, Huileries antiques de Syrie du Nord (Paris: Geuthner, 1984); Michael Decker, ‘Food for an Empire: Wine and Oil Production in North Syria’, in Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean During Late Antiquity, ed. by Sean Kingsley and Michael Decker (Oxford: Oxbow, 2001), pp. 69–86; Andrea Zerbini, ‘Landscapes of Production in Late Antiquity: Wineries in the Jebel al-‘Arab and Limestone Massif ’, in Territoires,

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architecture et materiel au Levant. Doctoriales d’archéologie syrienne. Paris-Nanterre, 8–9 décembre 2011, ed. by Amélie Le Bihan and others (Beirut: Presses de l’Ifpo, 2012), pp.  33–58; Olivier Callot, Déhès  II. Les pressoirs. Bibliothèque Archéologique et Historique 210 (Beirut: Presses de l’Ifpo, 2017). 21  Daniel Hull, ‘A Spatial and Morphological Analysis of Monastic Sites in the Northern Limestone Massif, Syria’, Levant: The Journal of the Council for British Research in the Levant, 40.1 (2008), 89–113. 22  For this part of the limestone massif, see Ignacio Peña, Pasquale Castellana, and Romualdo Fernández, Inventaire du Jebel Baricha: Recherches archéologiques dans la region des villes mortes de la Syrie du nord (Milan: Franciscan Printing Press, 1987). 23  Jean-Luc Biscop, Deir Déhès Monastère d’Antiochène: étude architecturale. With the collaboration of Dominique Orssaud and Marlia Mundell Mango (Beirut: Institut français d’archéologie du Proche-Orient, 1997). 24  Jean-Pierre Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie de nord): Campagnes I–III (1976–1978): Recherches sur l’habitat rural’, Syria, 57 (1981), 1–304. 25  Although whether each of these units represents a ‘house’ in the modern sense, or rather a group of households, is not clear. I follow the excavators’ designation of House 1, 2, and 3 based on partitioning walls separating the courtyards of each ‘house’. 26  Georges Tate, ‘La maison rurale en Syrie du nord’, in Les maisons dans la Syrie antique du IIIe millénaire aux débuts de l’Islam. Pratiques et representations de l’espace domestique. Actes du Colloque International, Damas 27–30 juin 1992, ed. by Corinne Castel, Michel al-Maqdissi and François Villeneuve (Beirut: Institut français d’archéologie du Proche-Orient, 1997), pp.  95–101 (p. 96). 27  Callot, Déhès II, pp. 146–63, presses #21 and #22 respectively. 28  SEG 30 1668: Ἔτυος  | θυ᾽  | ἰχθὺ|ς λόγ(ος). Note that ἔτυος  = ἔτους. The date is in the Antiochian era, commonly used in the limestone massif. Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum, ed. by Angelos Chaniotis and others, 63 vols (Leiden: Brill, 1923–2017). 29  Magness, The Archaeology of the Early Islamic Settlement, 196–204. 30  Domestic Space in the Roman World: Pompeii and Beyond, ed. by Ray Laurence and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, JRA Supplementary Series 22 (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1997); Julienne Hanson, Decoding Homes and Houses (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp.  1–55; Monika Trümper, ‘Space and Social Relationships in the Greek Oikos of the Classical and Hellenistic Periods’, in A Companion to Families in the Greek and Roman Worlds I, ed. by Beryl Rawson (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011), pp.  32–52; Sharon  R. Steadman, Archaeology of Domestic Architecture and the Human Use of Space (Walnut Creek: Left Coast, 2015). 31  Jean-Pierre Sodini and Georges Tate, ‘Maisons d’époque romaine et byzantine (IIe–VIe siécle) du massif calcaire de Syrie du Nord: étude typologique’, in Apamée de Syrie, ed.  by Janine Balty (Brussels: Centre belge de recherches archéologiques à Apamée de Syrie, 1984), pp. 377–429; Tate, Les campagnes de la Syrie du Nord. 32  Bill Hillier and Julienne Hanson, The Social Logic of Space (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).

For an analysis and criticism of the wider field of syntax analysis, see Michael J. Ostwald, ‘The Mathematics of Spatial Configuration: Revisiting, Revising and Critiquing Justified Plan Graph Theory’, Nexus Network Journal, 13 (2011), 445–70. Furthermore, at Déhès, our knowledge of the floor plans of the upper story of the buildings is limited, though we can expect that they mirrored the ground floor wall divisions, since these interior walls were built with load-bearing masonry. 34  Tate also noted this aspect of circulation, especially for houses on the Djebel Sim’an, Barisha, and Al’Ala: Tate, ‘La maison rurale’, p. 96. 35  Prentice, Greek and Latin Inscriptions, Part III, #1102. 36  Building 108, south façade, ground floor main door; Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, figs 157 and 167. 37  Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, pp. 226–34; Strube, Die Toten Städte, 72–75; Alice Naccache, ‘Le décor des maisons de Syrie du nord comme produit d’une économie locale’, in Les maisons dans la Syrie antique du IIIe millénaire aux débuts de l’Islam. Pratiques et representations de l’espace domestique. Actes du Colloque International, Damas 27–30 juin 1992, ed. by Corinne Castel, Michel al-Maqdissi and François Villeneuve (Beirut: Institut français d’archéologie du Proche-Orient, 1997), pp. 305–11. 38  Itamar Taxel, ‘Late Antique Ionic Column Capitals in the Countryside of Central Palestine between Provincial Trends and Classical Traditions’, Studies in Late Antiquity, 2.1 (2018), 84–125. 39  John H. Elliott, Beware the Evil Eye: The Evil Eye in the Bible and the Ancient World, 4 vols (Eugene: Cascade Books, 2015–17). 40  See most recently Robert Parker, ‘Crops and Envy in Cilicia’, Gephyra, 16 (2018), 167–72. 41  For example, Prentice, Greek and Latin Inscriptions, Part  III, pp.  17–25; Ignacio Peña, The Christian Art of Byzantine Syria (Reading: Garnet, 1996), p. 172: ‘The cross above the door…consecrated the house to God and warded off the wiles of the devil;’ Jennifer Strawbridge, ‘Early Christian Epigraphy, Evil, and the Apotropaic Function of Romans 8.31’, VChr, 71 (2017), 315–29. 42  Rates of passive literacy (i.e., ability to read but not write) in the limestone massif are impossible to estimate; the widespread practice of inscribing door lintels suggests that a fair portion of the population could read them. Many of the inscriptions in Belus use phrases short enough that they could perhaps be understood as symbols – even the functionally illiterate may have been able to recognize words such as ichthys or the phrase eis theos, in addition to the crosses and alpha omegas. 43  IGLSyr  IV #1504, with spelling regularized here and in the other IGLSyr citations. IGLSyr  = Louis Jalabert, Inscriptions Grecques et Latines de la Syrie, 21 vols (Paris: Geuthner, 1929– ), IV. 44  IGLSyr  IV #1614. From Taroutin. The full text reads, ἔτους ζοχʹ, μηνὸς Δίου εκʹ. ΧΜΓ. Ὅσα λέγεις καὶ σοὶ τὰ δι[πλᾶ]. Χρ(ι) στέ, Βοήθει τοὺς οἰκοῦντος καὶ τοὺς ἀναγινώσ[κοντας]. The same phrase (what you say, may it also be to you double) also appears at Qatoura (336/7 CE, IGLSyr II #443) and at Simkhar (349/50 CE, IGLSyr II #397; SEG 1 #522). 45  IGLSyr IV #1444. 46  IGLSyr IV #1449. εἰ θεὸς ὑπὲρ ὑμῶν, τίς ὁ καθ’ ὐμῶν; The sentiment echoes Romans 8.31. 47  Zerbini, ‘Landscapes of Production’, p. 50. 33 

Contra the idealized picture of life in Belus presented by Peña, The Christian Art, p. 168: ‘The peacefulness of the courtyard, the harmony of the elements of design, the fine ornament on the lintels, the comfort of the dwelling all allowed the family to enjoy the privacy and independence of their home, shut away from the world, protected from street noises and the curious stares of neighbours and passers-by’. 49  Emmanuel La Roy Ladurie, Montaillou: Cathars and Catholics in a French Village, 1294–1324, trans. by Barbara Bray (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978). I thank Kim Bowes for pointing me towards Montaillou as a fruitful comparison to the northern Syrian material. 50  Zerbini, ‘Landscapes of Production’, pp. 46–47. 51  Klaus Fitschen, ‘Der Säulenheilige Symeon im christologischen Streit’, in Syriaca II: Beiträge zum 3. Deutschen Syrologen-Symposium in Vierzehnheiligen 2002, ed. by Martin Tamcke (Münster: Lit, 2004), pp. 77–90. 52  Many monophysite treatises are preserved in Syriac manuscripts. See Monophysite Texts of the Sixth Century, ed. by Albert van Roey and Pauline Allen, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta 56 (Leuven: Peeters, 1994). For the liturgy of the region, see Richard Maitland Bradfield, A Syrian Archive: Being a Study of the Early Churches and Convents of the Limestone Massif, North Syria, AD. 324–451, and of their Consequences in the Far West (to c. 540) (Derby: Richard Maitland Bradfield, 2010). 53  For the habit of writing ‘one God’ on the lintels of the massif, see Trombley, ‘Christian Demography’, pp. 66–75, although he does not think the phrase should be associated with a particular Christological controversy because of its long use. 54  Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, p. 49; Fig. 58. 55  Interestingly, the door lintel over the ground floor entrance into the eastern room of Building 104 features not the typical cross medallions, but a simple circular medallion flanked by two features identified by the excavators as ancient pagan altars: Sodini and others, ‘Déhès (Syrie du nord)’, p. 102; fig. 124. It is unclear whether this lintel was reused or whether Christians and pagans lived side by side in this village, as they did elsewhere. I would question, however, whether in the sixth-century, viewers would identify these two rectangular shapes with acroteria and legs as pagan altars. They may have been viewed as generic Judeo-Christian altars; one could also note that a similar shape was often used for Roman-period gravestones. 56  Lukas Schachner, ‘The Archaeology of the Stylite’, in Religious Diversity in Late Antiquity, ed. by David M. Gwynn and Susanne Bangert (Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp. 329–98 (pp. 337–39). 57  Schachner, ‘The Archaeology of the Stylite’, pp. 373–80; Fig. 15. 58  Olivier Callot, ‘Encore des eulogies de saint Syméon l’Alépin…, Déhès 2004’, in TM, 15. Mélanges Jean-Pierre Sodini, ed. by François Baratte and others (Paris: Association des amis du centre d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance, 2005), pp. 705–12. 59  The Life of Timothy of Kakhushta: Two Arabic Texts, ed. and trans. by John  C. Lamoreaux and Cyril Cairala (Turnhout: Brepols, 2001), section 18.1–3. 60  Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man’; Peter Brown, ‘Town, Village and Holy Man: The Case of Syria’, in Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), pp. 153–65. 48 

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Constructing Sanctity

Sacred Sound and the Reflective Cornice* Amy Papalexandrou It is a productive time for thinking about the senses in Late Antiquity and Byzantium. In recent years scholars have been taking up the difficult challenge of reconstructing the sensorium of the Byzantines – of vision, hearing, touch, taste, and smell.1 The sonic dimension has, of course, always been at the heart of Byzantine musicological studies, but for many art and architectural historians, the Byzantines’ production and reception of sound has not garnered the same kind of attention as the spectacle of paintings and mosaics that covered the interior walls of many Late Antique and Byzantine churches. Images, of course, often survived and remained constant, and visible. Sound, in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, died away in just seconds, never to return in precisely the same way again.2 What’s more, sonic phenomena have never been a defined category within Byzantine studies. Sound’s ethereal nature, therefore, requires us to leave positivism behind and enter the realm of bold supposition and experimentation. The task, then, of studying sound is not an easy one. There is no well-defined path to follow, and no guarantee that the path chosen will lead to a clear and trustworthy destination. Despite this, the soundways of Byzantium remain a rich and rewarding topic for those who study this most delicate and ethereal sense.3 The Byzantines are often remembered for their deep attachment to icons as a means of communication with the divine. As such they covered the interior of their churches with imagery that invested every formal component with meaning, and much of the interior wall space with Christian imagery – of the life and passion of Christ, of Old Testament

precursors, of the multitude of saints – so that each church was a veritable universe of images, an elaborate Christian cosmos. And every time you entered into a church, you traveled, visually, to the Holy Land and participated in the narrative of Christ’s life and works using the familiar images to cue memory and spark emotions. Furthermore, on Sundays you witnessed Christ’s death and resurrection as re-enacted by the priest in the sanctuary. In a world in which imagery must have been scarce, this was the local Megaplex, where the great Christian drama came alive before your very eyes.4 What has traditionally been overlooked are those other sensory components, and indeed all the senses were activated in Byzantine worship: smell – through the diffusion of incense at critical moments in the liturgy; taste – through consumption of the communion; touch – in the act of crossing oneself, kneeling on the hard floor, or venerating the images with a kiss of the lips; and finally sound, the essential form of communication with the divine, since the liturgy must be annunciated out loud in order to be effective. This was accomplished through both word and song, and it formed the basis for worship in every Byzantine church, no matter how large, or small, or rustic. Worship had a major synesthetic component that appealed to the pre-Cartesian mind, and it left a dramatic and sensational impact on those who experienced it. In my current research I consider Late Antique and Byzantine churches not only in terms of their formal and spatial qualities but also their sonic properties. I am interested in how this mostly overlooked

Fig. 1.  Sonic Reflections in a Byzantine Context (Source: author and Elise Chassé).

design component – we could call it the ‘Byzantine Acoustic’ – may have been perceived and understood by builders, patrons, singers and worshippers. We might ask, for example, whether the Byzantines cared how their voices sounded within a given space. Were they as affected as we are by sonic phenomena? Surely, they were. Sound must have preoccupied them every bit as much as it does us today, if not more so. After all, a medieval church is not only a container for imagining Christianity’s narrative in visual terms. Indeed, the church was the monumentalized soundbox (Echeion) par excellence in any given community within which those narratives were brought to life through the chanted liturgy, and other sounds.5 If we are to judge from surviving sources, people clearly were interested in how things sounded. The monastic typika (foundation documents) offer some degree of proof, with considerable emphasis on how things should sound within the church. The thirteenth-century typikon of Nikephoros Blemmydes’ monastery at Ematha (near Ephesos), for example, required that vocal recitation of hymns and prayers should be ‘neither too low, as if one were on the point of expiring, nor too loud, as if one wanted to crack the vocal chords’.6 Likewise, the typikon of the Pantokrator monastery in Constantinople also placed emphasis on how things sounded. The monks, for

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example, ‘having said “Amen” will immediately begin the six psalms, not chanting them raucously but quietly to themselves, taking care to harmonize with the ecclesiarch who is standing in the middle of the church and reciting clearly enough to be heard’.7 A later, fifteenth-century typikon, this from a convent dedicated to the Theotokos (Mother of God) in Southeast Crete, contains a number of canons, one of which counsels ‘those who pray in church and recite the psalms not to utter undisciplined and highpitched sounds’. It continues: ‘Nor should you make use of undignified tunes varied in modulation, and excessive variety of hymns and trilling of odes which are more fitting for actors on a stage than for a church of God’.8 It is likely that this refers to kalophonic, rather than monophonic chant, which had become popular from the thirteenth century onward and featured a freedom of expression that included taking liberties with the music, for example, demonstrating one’s technical virtuosity – the ‘trilling’ that is mentioned above.9 These are fascinating references that suggest congregants, as well as singers, cared deeply about how the music should sound, especially within the arena of the church. There are many important components in the typical Late Antique or Byzantine church that contribute to its acoustical profile and quality of sound.

All are dependent on the movement of sounds as they ricochet (or reflect) off the walls, floors, and other hard surfaces within an interior space. Turning first to the bema, or sanctuary, the two main features to note are the templon screen and the concave conch of the apse. Of note is the generator of sound – the priest, who faced away from the congregation so that his voice was directed eastward, rather than toward those standing outside the sanctuary. The sound of his voice was reflected, that is, it bounced off the various surfaces before finally reaching the congregation from beyond the templon or icon screen.10 In terms of the sonic system of the building the hard, vaulted ceilings, walls and floors were essential components: They helped amplify and echo the sounds that, given the right circumstances, could deliver an especially pleasing effect for listeners. The naos and bema depicted here offer a graphic image of the multi-directional movement of sound waves that we are not aware of, but which profoundly affect the total listening environment.11 (Fig. 1) This brings up the matter of intentionality: Were spaces being purposefully constructed to reverberate for theological relevance and an uplifting sound? Or were great acoustics purely accidental? We may never know the answer, but it is intriguing to consider the question. Similarly, in the naos different spatial forms and surfaces produced a variety of effects. Domes, for example, concentrate sound and can often produce confusing sonic effects.12 This may have been the desired result, where other-worldly sounds could be given heavenly connotations. Domes ultimately reflect sound downward, enhancing the communicative potential between the heavenly being depicted in the cupola and the worshipper below. Again, the hard surfaces in the building – floor, ceiling, walls, parapets, vaults – all worked together to achieve a sonic sensation characterized by reverberation, or resonance.13 Reverberation may have been a desired quality, especially in churches of the Middle Ages where chant had become an essential element of the liturgy. Whether these effects were intentional or not, however, is questionable, and some scholars have pointed to a lack of evidence that long reverberation time was actually sought after in the Middle Ages.14 In any case, reverberation was sometimes successful and sometimes not, but always an important dimension within the space of the church.

Fig. 2.  Hagia Sophia, Constantinople: cornice underside (Source: Lawrence E. Butler).

In what follows I would like to concentrate on just one building component that has, in recent years, not received the attention it deserves: the humble cornice – known by the ancients as geison (γεῖσον) and, by the Byzantines, kosmetes (κοσμήτης). This structural member is rarely mentioned in Byzantine sources, despite its importance within the overall canon of Late Antique and Byzantine sacred space. Cornices were, in fact, often crucial to the stability of a building, especially in the very large monuments created under the aegis of Justinian in the sixth century.15 It was in buildings such as the churches of Hagia Sophia and Hagia Eirene in Constantinople (and many other buildings of the sixth century), that the role of cornices as tensile chains and leveling courses within the interior fabric of the building was absolutely essential to the success of the project. Roland Mainstone has proposed that, architecturally, ‘the cornices are merely the visible projecting bands of marble, with richly carved undersurfaces […] but structurally, they

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Fig. 3.  Hagia Sophia, Constantinople: cornice drawing (Source: Lawrence E. Butler).

should be thought of as having the full widths of the marble blocks of which they are composed’.16 That is to say, that the structural use of stone cornices was of the utmost importance in tying the building together with ‘the horizontal swath of two vast cornices that united, visually and structurally, the entire project’.17 In addition, the cornices functioned as springer courses for the vaults overhead, and they doubled as catwalks – a crucial component for those individuals responsible for cleaning, maintaining and illuminating this giant structure.18 The cornice is the unsung hero of Hagia Sophia.19 Finally, cornices signaled wealth and, with it, the means to beautify the church. This was especially true, again, for the church of Hagia Sophia, where sumptuous, sculpted embellishment impressed and reminded worshippers of the emperor’s resources, his tremendous power, and the glory of the most famous church in Christendom. The two giant cornices within the great naos were born of two worlds: the old, with its ancient motifs of the past, including eggand-dart as well as bead-and-reel motifs, combined with modillians thickly covered in spikey acanthus leaves and steeped in the au courant lacy flatness of the sixth century (Figs  2 and 3). The all-important cornice, with its varied roles within the realm of the constructed church, should not be underestimated. Another famed, architectural masterpiece in Constantinople was the church of the Holy Apostles.

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The burial church of the Byzantine emperors, it was situated at the highest point of the city and was considered important enough to receive a pairing of interior cornices perhaps as impressive as those in the church of Hagia Sophia (Fig. 4).20 Two ekphraseis of this church survive; both make brief but significant mention of the cornices (or perhaps stringcourses) within. After the Fall of Constantinople, the building went into decline and was, for a time, the patriarchal church. In 1462, however, it was completely demolished by Mehmed II (the Conqueror) to make room for the new Fatih mosque to be built in its place. Hardly a brick remains of that original Byzantine building, rendering the poetic media – the two ekphraseis mentioned above – especially important. The earliest ekphrasis is that of the poet Constantine the Rhodian (ca. 870 or 880 to sometime after 931). He was active during the reign of Constantine VII, to whom the poem is dedicated.21 The section relevant to the building’s cornices begins with the supposed architects of the original building – the poet understands them to be perhaps Anthemios of Tralles and/ or the young Isidorus – and focuses on the skillfulness of the two famous ‘mechanikoi’ in ‘fitting the cornices together beautifully’.22 Following this, he turns specifically to the matter of the cornices themselves: With these, as if with tunics, he dressed the upright walls, he bound tightly the whole house

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Fig. 4.  Perspective drawing of the interior of the church of St John at Ephesos. Previously unknown phase of the church (dated to the early 6th century) which was very similar to the Church of the Holy Apostles. Image first published 2017. (Source: Nikolaos Karydis). with double girdles in strong and seemly fashion, having put in cornices safely from four-square, well-joined marbles, like a garland enclosing the church 680 in bonds stronger than adamant, so that it might indeed stand fast for a long time and not give way when shaken by tremors, nor be tossed by mighty earthquakes but indeed stand fast there, ever unshaken. 685

The message is clear and is conveyed through a powerful bodily metaphor: as chitons dress a human body, so revetment slabs (plakas in l. 672) cover the upright walls of the church. Moreover, the building is bound up tight with belts (zonais) by means of the cornices (kosmetes) that are doing the hard work of fastening the metaphorical garment of the building both on and in the

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walls.23 This tight-fitting tunic metaphor implies that the walls are like chitons and the kosmetes are belts whose linear arrangement articulated the surfaces of the structure.24 The double girdles refer directly to the ‘strong-built cornices’. The marble has been carefully cut (four-square and well-joined), and it, too, is as beautiful as a garland. There is even more bonding (safety is paramount!), so that it will stand the test of time. Then comes the grand finale, where we are in the realm of earthquake tremors and shaking. And here the poet has saved the most important qualification for last: The cornices are the insurance that it will not be shaken or tossed, nor will it surrender nor give way, which is to say, that when shaken by earthquakes, the building (domos) doesn’t give in; it resists. Thus, the cornices protect the walls against both vertical and horizontal vibrations, or, in modern parlance, seismic waves. A second ekphrasis on the Church of the Holy Apostles was penned by Nikolaos Mesarites some 200 years later, between 1198 and 1203, just prior to the sack of the city in 1204.25 At the time of his writing he was skeuophylax (responsible for liturgical vessels) at the Pharos church in Constantinople. His ekphrasis is vivid and sensual – he includes interesting details, not only of the church building itself but also the school, or college, within the precinct of the Holy Apostles. His poem has been categorized as merely a catalog of elements, but there is much worth in examining it, especially the sensory components that are described in the first sections of the ekphrasis. We learn, for example, of the smell of the gardens and the exquisite views, but this poet was much more in tune with musical sounds:  of the semantron, the ‘sweet echoes’ of the peristyle, the singing of the young boys, the songs of small children, the lads and young men sounding forth sweet melody and harmonious song from their throats, their mouths, their tongues, their lips and teeth.26 His ekphrasis is lively and interesting and, like Constantine the Rhodian before him, he too was interested in the cornices and included them in his ekphrasis: The whole Church, for the sake of strength and beauty, is bound round about, from the pavement to the summit, by three girdles, one might say, woven out of stone, placed at symmetrical intervals from each other, which it is the custom for those who are learned in these matters connected with buildings to call string-courses.27

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Mesarites tells us that there were three cornices (not two) in the church, and that they were placed in the walls at equal, or balanced intervals. He proceeds to call these projecting elements stringcourses, which throws us into some confusion. The difference between a cornice and a stringcourse is this: The cornice projects forward from the main walls, is generally beveled and, in Antiquity, it functioned to direct rainwater away from the building. A stringcourse, by contrast, is usually a flat, slightly projecting course of stone or brick that similarly runs, horizontally, around a building and emphasizes the junction between floors.28 Mesarites appears to have drawn from Constantine the Rhodian’s ekphrasis in terms of the ‘dressed body’ metaphor (‘girdles […]woven out of stone’), but perhaps the most interesting aspect of this section is that Mesarites claims to have consulted experts, (δεινοί) – that is, those who are ‘intellectually strong in matters concerning structure’.29 In general, however, Mesarites was mostly interested in describing the mosaics and the sensorium of the church and its surroundings. He was decidedly less interested in the potential for damage to the building due to earthquakes than was Constantine the Rhodian. Although the sources discussed above communicate understandings about the form and structure of monumental architecture from the mid-first millennium onwards, they also reflect knowledge, the roots of which can be securely traced back to a much earlier period. It is to Vitruvius and his treatise, De Architectura, that we owe much of this knowledge, likely passed down from the manual itself and, eventually, to practitioners and theoreticians of architecture. His manual prescribes ideal proportions for buildings like the curia (senate-house) whose interior walls he suggests: are to be surrounded half-way up with cornices of fine joiners’ work of plaster at half their height. If this is not done, the voice of the disputants rising upwards cannot be understood by the audience. When however, the walls are girt with cornices, the voice, being delayed by the lowest parts before it rises into the air and is scattered, will be perceived by the ear.30

In this passage Vitruvius reflects an understanding that cornices enhance the acoustics of a congregational

Fig. 5.  Cornice, Church of the Virgin of Skripou, 9th century (Source: author).

building. He considers them indispensable components of interior spaces in which disputants (vox… disputantium) and audiences (audientibus) have to be engaged in mutual aural intelligibility. Although his mention of cornices as regulators of sound pertains to the specific case of the senate-house in a Roman city, his prescriptive observations would have applied to other types of buildings whose interiors were destined for congregational functions of an auditory nature. Although evidence about Vitruvius’ impact on architects of the Eastern Roman Empire is lacking, it is likely that the knowledge he reflects informed and influenced understandings about structure, articulation, and especially auditory behavior of interior spaces.31 It is impossible, for example, to explain the sophisticated detail implied by the surviving cornices in Hagia Sophia without the insights of Vitruvius and the traditions, theoretical or technical, he reflects.

We should, then, not be surprised that the cornice continues to be a standard component of later, and especially post-Iconoclastic churches. Although considerably less elaborate than in Justinian’s time, cornices are to be found throughout the Mediterranean and beyond – delineating space, marking the springing points of vaults, providing added embellishment, occasionally bearing inscriptions and, presumably, facilitating the acoustics as Vitruvius thought they would, that is, by ‘delaying the lowest parts (of the voice) before they rise into the air and are dispersed’.32 (Fig. 5) And while this is not the place to fully address the physics underlying the acoustic function of cornices in detail, it will suffice to say that Vitruvius understood, from his own experience, that sound waves rise upward and reflect (at least partially) back down and out thanks to the cornices in the walls. They are deflectors of sound; in effect, they redirect and focus the traffic of soundwaves in interior spaces.33

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It is also important to remember that the time of the truly monumental decorative cornices such as we find in Constantinople was now largely finished, to be superseded by less elaborate cornices that were often simplified and pared down to bare essentials.34 Marble remained the stone of choice, but dimensions and ornamentation became considerably reduced. Local quarries likely produced a lower grade of stone than the better Proconnesian marble of the capital. This would have insured that spolia was, from now on, an important source of building material for the construction of cornices, presumably since it was cheap and in good supply. We can assume that marble cornices were still critical components at the springing of vaults and, when connected by metal pins or secured by a system of wood beams, that they remained instrumental in helping to contain outward thrusts, as they did in the past.35 Finally, I  conclude this ode to the cornice by taking a very brief look at a single monument, that is, the church of Hagia Sophia in Thessaloniki. I focus on this particular building because it has an interesting program of cornices that, as with so many buildings, have received little attention. The church itself was likely inspired by that of Hagia Eirene in Constantinople, as it was rebuilt after 740.36 Like that building, it featured massive piers supporting barrel vaults that oversailed the high galleries and supported a large, soaring dome overhead – the so-called ‘cross-domed unit’.37 Certainly one of the most significant elements of the church’s design is this featured dome, with its exquisite mosaic program that covers the central area of the naos. This region is not only the visual but also the acoustic aparatus of the building, the place from which chant emanated and was reflected in multiple directions. The voices of the psaltes rose not only from below but also, on occasion, from the narrow balcony in the dome, where chanters periodically gathered to sing.38 As for the cornices of the building they can be divided into two groups. The first consists of chamfered cornices with one or two steps at the base, in three different sizes. The second group consists of a simple convex cornice (Fig. 6) (also called an ovolo moulding). As Kalliope Theocharidou, the architect/excavator of the building, points out, the major characteristics of the two types are their ‘simple and purely geometrical forms’.39 (Fig. 7) In other words, they are not elaborate; rather they are simple, plain and undecorated. The large chamfered cornices on the ground floor mark the springings of the pilaster arches and piers in the N and

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S arcades of the naos. They also mark the level of the gallery floor and crown the wind-blown capitals. The smaller, chamfered cornices accompany the apse window, the ground floor piers, the south gallery arcades and springing of the arches of the elevated colonnade in the west gallery. The convex cornices, on the other hand, mark the vaulting system of the superstructure, that is, the barrel vaults in the gallery, the semidome of the apse, and the base of the dome. It is interesting that there are two distinctly different types of cornice at work within the building. The chamfered cornices are plain, but their placement adds a sense of elegance to the building. The convex cornices, on the other hand, may have been positioned for very specific reasons. Certainly, the locations of these cornices near to, or within the most sacred places of the church (base of the dome; springing of vaults; semidome of apse) is not accidental; It may be that they were seen to perform an acoustic benefit, one that serviced chanters and congregation alike. I am thinking of what scientists call ‘specular reflections’. That is, while reflection from a flat surface (for example a rigid, plane wall surface) is quite simple, reflections from a curved surface is much more complex. When a sound strikes something convex (rounded), like the Hagia Sophia bema or dome cornice, the impinging sounds on various surfaces are usually thought of as ‘plane wavefronts’.40 Reflection of these waves of sound from a solid convex surface (like the Thessaloniki dome cornice) scatters the sound energy in many different directions. These reflections return, and diffuse the impinging sound.41 By contrast, reflections from concave surfaces tend to focus to a point, as for example in a dome, where we experience the strangeness of sounds that sometimes emanate from these places. Perhaps the builders of Hagia Sophia in Thessaloniki (and other kindred buildings) were aware of these various sound effects as produced by different types of cornices. It seems likely that the builders of the Hagia Sophia church in Thessaloniki had seen and were influenced by the church of Hagia Eirene in Istanbul – a building still renowned for its perfect acoustics.42 It is worth pointing out that the ovolo cornices in that building are much the same as the those in the Thessaloniki church of Hagia Sophia. Perhaps the church of Hagia Eirene was the prototype the Thessalonian builders followed in order to achieve a similar type of ‘scattered sound’ reverberation in specific areas where

Fig. 6.  Hagia Sophia, Thessaloniki: ovolo cornice (lower left); chamfered cornices (above), (Source: author).

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Fig. 7.  Hagia Sophia, Thessaloniki: ovolo cornice (top); chamfered cornice (bottom) Line drawing (Source: Nader Sayadi).

they wished to convey a more otherworldly dimension. Of this we may never be fully certain, but it may be worth our while to consider the question. In closing, I  turn to an anecdote of a favorite Byzantine saint. The saint in question was St Nikon ‘Metanoeite’, famous for his public, vocal calls to repent (!).43 He was most popular in the Peloponnese, but his first mission was on the island of Crete. While there, in the tenth century, ‘hunting souls of men’, he made a stop one evening on his way out of the large city of Gortyn, for he was tired. The text of his Vita says the following: He built many churches over all the island. At some point he left the city of Gortyn and journeyed for three days. As evening came on, he rested in a certain place in which the remains of a very ancient church was visible, as one could infer from the cornices. And so having sung the evening ode and placed his

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cross-bearing staff in the ground, he gave himself to sleep; for the time was late night.44

For St Nikon, the ruined building was recognizable as a church not because he saw an apse, an altar or a fallen dome, but because of the notable presence of cornices in the walls. They were the singular significant features that stood out to him. We can only imagine that the sonic and auditory worlds of Byzantine culture were full of such wonderful anecdotes of music, song, architecture and material culture, including, not least, the humble, versatile, noteworthy and fundamental cornice. notes *  For Bob – teacher, friend and mentor extraordinaire. I  offer this short essay to celebrate a long and successful career. Whether advising, teaching, writing, or fearlessly climbing Byzantine

fortifications, Bob’s academic prowess, fine sense of humor, and devotion to friends, family and students has set an exceptional example to follow. Here’s to many more years of Byzantine encounters! 1  See now Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls. Sense Perception in Byzantium, ed.  by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullett (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2017). In the field of Byzantine Studies, Susan Ashbrook Harvey was on board early in discovering the senses with her Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2006). 2  The experience of vision within the church continues to be the overriding concern in scholarship, which hardly seems unusual considering our own, hyper-visual world. 3  On the notion of ‘soundways’, see R.  Murray Schafer, The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World (Rochester, VT: Destiny Books, 1977.) A soundscape, according to Schafer, p. 7, can be defined as ‘any acoustic field of study. We may speak of a mystical composition as a soundscape, or a radio program as a soundscape or an acoustic environment as a soundscape. We can isolate an acoustic environment as a field of study just as we can study the characteristics of a given landscape’. 4  An accessible introduction to the interior of the Byzantine church can be found in Sharon Gerstel, ‘The Layperson in Church’, in Byzantine Christianity, ed. by Derek Krueger (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2006), pp. 103–23. 5  On the monumentalized sound-box/echeion see Amy Papalexandrou, ‘Perceptions of Sound and Sonic Environments Across the Byzantine Acoustic Horizon’, in Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Byzantium, ed.  by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullett (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Byzantine Symposia and Colloquia, 2017), pp. 67–85. 6  Joseph Munitiz, ‘Blemmydes: Typikon of Nikephoros Blemmydes for the Monastery of the Lord Christ-Who-Is at Ematha near Ephesos’, BMFD, III, 1205. 7  Robert Jordan, ‘Pantokrator: Typikon of Emperor John II Komnenos for the Monastery of Christ Pantokrator in Constantinople’, BMFD, II, 740, italics my own. 8  Alice-Mary Talbot, ‘Neilos Damilas: Testament and Typikon of Neilos Damilas for the Convent of the Mother of God Pantanassa at Baionaia on Crete’, BMFD, IV, 1474–75. See also Rosemary Dubowchik, ‘Singing with the Angels: Foundation Documents as Evidence for Musical Life in Monasteries of the Byzantine Empire’, DOP, 56 (2002), 277–96. 9  On kalophonia see now Spyridon Antonopoulos, ‘Kalophonia and the Phenomenon of Embellishment in Byzantine Psalmody’, in Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Byzantium, pp. 87–109. 10  Regarding the templon, it also may have muffled sounds from within the bema. In the later years of the Byzantine Empire the templon evolved into the iconostasis – a large wooden [or stone] screen that displayed icons in the interstices of the openings. The wood of the screen would have absorbed, rather than deflected, these sounds. 11  Churches with vaulting were, of course, different from those covered with wood-roof ceilings. In the case of the latter, the timber beams overhead will have produced an entirely different

effect for the listener. It meant that the congregation would have the advantage of hearing the spoken word with clarity, but the chanted music was likely to have been far less reverberant – what we would today consider to be a ‘dry’, less pleasing acoustic space for singers. 12  For a brief but thorough summary of architecture and sound, see Leland M. Roth, and Amanda C. Roth Clark, Understanding Architecture. Its Elements, History, and Meaning (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2014), pp. 103–09, especially the helpful diagram that demonstrates the reflection of sound waves and how curved surfaces can disperse or focus reflected sound, at pp. 104–05. 13  Ibid., pp. 103–04. 14  Barry Blesser and Linda-Ruth Salter, Spaces Speak, are you Listening? Experiencing Aural Architecture (Cambridge, Mass. and London, England: The MIT Press, 2007), p.  93. The authors are convinced that long reverberation time was merely an unintentional consequence of ‘the spatial grandeur of God’s earthly home’. 15  On which see Richard Krautheimer (with Slobodan Ćurčić), Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture (New York, NY: Penguin Books, 1986), pp. 201–82. 16  Rowland  J. Mainstone, Hagia Sophia. Architecture, Structure and Liturgy of Justinian’s Great Church (New York, NY: Thames and Hudson, 1988), p. 77. 17  Ibid., p. 37. 18  Lawrence Elliott Butler, ‘The Nave Cornices of Hagia Sophia in Istanbul’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, The University of Pennsylvania, 1989), pp. 40–41 and 168. See also his informative article on the cornices in Lawrence E. Butler, ‘Hagia Sophia’s Nave Cornices as Elements of its Design and Structure’, in Hagia Sophia, From the Age of Justinian to the Present, ed.  by Robert Mark and Ahmet S. Çakmak, (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 1992) pp.  57–77. I  am most grateful to Professor Butler for sharing his important photographs and drawings with me for this project. 19  Butler, ‘The Nave Cornices’, p.  169: Mainstone proposed a timeline in which he believes the gallery cornice was finished just two years into the project, with the upper cornice capping the piers and galleries, and finishing about a year later. The cornices, then, would have been completed half-way through the building campaign – another sign of their significance for the building. Much rested on their emplacement within the overall project. 20  I am grateful to Professor Karydis for sharing with me his reconstruction of the interior of the church of the Holy Apostles (first published in 2017) showing the cornices. This reconstruction is based on fragments found during excavations of the church of St  John at Ephesos and a previously unknown phase of that church (dated to the early sixth century) which was very similar to the Church of the Holy Apostles. 21  Constantine of Rhodes, On Constantinople and the Church of the Holy Apostles, ed. by Liz James, transl. by Ioannis Vassis (Farnham, Surrey and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012). Constantine of Rhodes was an asekretis, that is, a member of the senior class of secretaries of the imperial court, see ODB, s.v. ‘Constantine of Rhodes’. 22  Constantine of Rhodes, Church of the Holy Apostles, p.  63, line 643.

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The cornices are on the walls in terms of appearance, but as important structural components, they are organically embedded within the masonry. Indeed, according to both Mainstone and Butler, the stringcourses of the Hagia Sophia project as much as five meters back into the walls of these large buildings. Mainstone, Hagia Sophia, p. 67 and Butler, ‘The Nave Cornices’, pp. 53–57. 24  It goes without saying that in line 675 the translation should not be with tunics, but like tunics. 25  Glanville Downey, ‘Nikolaos Mesarites: Description of the Church of the Holy Apostles at Constantinople’, TAPS, 47 (1957), 855–924. 26  Downey, ‘Nikolaos Mesarites’, pp. 862–63; pp. 866–67. 27  Downey, ‘Nikolaos Mesarites’, ‘The Walls and Columns of the Church’, p. 890. 28  https://wikidiff.com/stringcourse/cornice (accessed March 3, 2020). 29  Downey, ‘Nikolaos Mesarites’, ‘The Walls and Columns of the Church’, p. 914. 30  Vitruvius, On Architecture, Books I–V, edited and translated by Frank Granger, (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Book V, Chapter II, p. 263, ‘On the Treasury, Prison, and Curia’, section 2. 31  Ted Sheridan and Karen Van Lengen, ‘Hearing Architecture. Exploring and Designing the Aural Environment’, in Journal of Architectural Education 2003, pp. 37–44. The authors remind us on p. 38 that ‘It is important to remember that Vitruvius devoted as much text in the Ten Books on Architecture to sound, music, and acoustics as he did to site design, materials, and color – a level of attention unheard of in current architectural writing’. 32  Vitruvius, De Architectura, Book 5, Chapter II, p. 263. 33  F.  Alton Everest and Ken  C. Pohlmann, Master Handbook of Acoustics, 6th Edition (New York: McGraw Hill Education, 2015), pp. 97 and 100. The scientific term for this is ‘specular reflections’. The amount of relief on walls and surfaces also plays a role. This is why the acoustics of St Peter’s Basilica in Rome contains so many pilasters, projections, coffering, domes, and two giant cornices: 23 

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Its acoustics were better because these elements interrupted sonic reflections. See Deborah Howard and Laura Moretti, Sound and Space in Renaissance Venice. Architecture, Music, Acoustics (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2009), p. 7. See also R. S. Shankland and H. K. Shankland, ‘Acoustics of St Peter’s and Patriarchal Basilicas in Rome’, The Journal of the Acoustical Society of America, pp. 389–95. 34  See, for example, a detail of the prothesis cornice of the Chora Monastery in Istanbul where, according to Robert Ousterhout, ‘nearly every fourteenth-century cornice in the building is recarved from an earlier marble relief ’. In Ousterhout, Master Builders, pp. 142–43, fig. 105. 35  As per Robert Ousterhout, Master Builders, pp. 212–13. 36  Urs Peschlow, Die Irenenkirche in Istanbul. Untersuchungen zur Architektur (Tübingen: Verlag Ernst Wasmuth, 1977), pp. 92–93. 37  The date of reconstruction is controversial. See now Robert G. Ousterhout, Eastern Medieval Architecture. The Building Traditions of Byzantium and Neighboring Lands (New York, NY: Cambridge University Press, 2019), p. 252. 38  Sharon  E.  J. Gerstel, Chris Kyriakakis, Konstantinos Raptis, Spyridon Antonopoulos, James Donohue, ‘Soundscapes of Byzantium: The Acheiropoietos Basilica and the Cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Thessaloniki’, Hesperia 87.1 (2018), pp. 189–91. 39  Kalliopi Theoharidou, The Architecture of Hagia Sophia, Thessaloniki. From its Erection up to the Turkish Conquest, (Centremean, Osney Mead and Oxford, England: BAR International Series 399, 1988), p. 113. 40  Everest and Pohlmann, Master Handbook of Acoustics, p. 100. 41  Ibid. Wavefronts are planes perpendicular to the direction of propagation. See the diagram of a wavefront source at p. 100. 42  Today the church of Hagia Eirene serves mainly as a concert hall for classical music performances and is well-known for its extraordinary acoustics. 43  See Denis Sullivan, The Life of St Nikon, text, translation and commentary (Brookline, Mass: Hellenic College Press, 1987). 44  Ibid., pp. 86–87, paragraph 21. The cornices are referred to in the Greek text as geison (γείσων).

Building an Orthodox Monastery in the Frankish Morea

The Andromonastiro at Messenia* Michalis Kappas

Over the past few years, new evidence concerning ecclesiastical monuments in the Peloponnese has led to a broader discussion of the exact date of a number of churches that had previously been considered to embody the hallmarks of a classical Late Komnenian style in the church architecture of the region.1 Among the most prominent examples is the church of the Dormition at Merbakas, now convincingly associated with the Catholic bishop of Corinth William de Moerbeke in the early 1280s.2 From a corpus of more than 140 monuments listed by Charalambos and Laskarina Bouras in their fundamental monograph on the twelfth-century architecture in Southern Greece, published fifteen years ago, more than thirty are under reconsideration.3 Many of them are located in the Peloponnese.4 Among the most important are the katholikon of the Blacherna Monastery, close to Clarentza,5 and the church of Panagia Katholiki at Gastouni, founded at 1278/79 by the noble family of Kaligopouloi according to a recently re-examined inscription.6 It is now evident that with Andravida as its centre, a notable local architectural idiom flourished in the late thirteenth century combining elements from both the regional Byzantine building tradition and the newly introduced western forms of architecture, mainly Gothic.7 Despite the progress architectural historians have made in the study of the dissemination of Gothic features in the late thirteenth-century local vernacular,8 there is still a gap of more than sixty years in the building activity of the indigenous population between the conquest of the Morea by the Crusaders in the early thirteenth

century and the reestablishment of the Byzantine administration in part of the Peloponnese in 1262. Byzantinists in the past have underestimated this period, squeezing ecclesiastical edifices either before 1205 or after 1262. Thus, there is still a question that remains unanswered: what happened during these seven decades? Are there in this region sacred spaces constructed by the indigenous Orthodox population that can be dated to the period following the Fourth Crusade? And if yes, what do they look like? In this essay, I  offer one answer to this question by re-visiting the architecture of Andromonastiro (Fig.  1), an impressive monastic complex close to Kalamata in the region of Messenia. Its katholikon was included by Charalampos and Laskarina Boura in the corpus of the twelfth-century architecture in southern Greece.9 The recent restoration of the Monastery has provided critical new information on its history, helping us to identify its various construction phases and clarifying the chronology of the structure and its decoration.10 I present here these new finds that are based on an analysis of both the architectural history of the original core of the complex and its first layer of painted decoration. The Monastic Complex Andromonastiro stands in a protected fertile valley a few kilometers southwest of ancient Messene.11 Built on a sloping terrace, the fortress-like complex comprises buildings of various periods and functions

Fig. 1.  Aerial view of Andromonastiro before the restoration (Source: Archive of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia).

(Fig. 2). Its katholikon, dedicated to the Tranfiguration of Christ, is located southeast of a courtyard. To the north, a row of buildings comprises the refectory and an adjacent tower to the east,12 the bakery in the center and a two-storey compartment to the north in which the main entrance to the monastery is opened by means of a vaulted passage. To the west stands another two-storey wing with storerooms, stables, and a wine press on the ground floor, as well as monks’ cells and the synodikon (reception hall) on the first floor. A three-storey tower at the south end of the west wing hosted the Monastery’s hegoumeneion (the abbot’s quarters).13 The courtyard of the monastery is protected by a tall stone-built wall. To the northwest of the monastery a two-storey funerary chapel, dedicated to Saint Lazarus, is still preserved.14 Traces of a medieval aqueduct that supplied the neighbouring city of Androusa can be seen to the east of the complex.15 Together with the adjacent refectory, the church is the only building that remains from the original

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monastic complex.16 Both were repeatedly and extensively repaired throughout their long history. Between the years 2011 and 2016 I directed an extensive conservation and restoration project at the monastery, held by the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia. The restoration provided a unique opportunity for a close study of the complex’s structural history. The project of a total cost of almost 2.000.000€ was funded by the European Community.17 In August 2016, on the feast day of the monastery and after almost two centuries of abandonment, the completion of the conservation was celebrated with a Divine Liturgy, in which hundreds of visitors from the whole region participated. Today the Monastery is an archaeological site (Fig. 3) managed by the Greek Ministry of Culture.18 The Early History of the Katholikon The main church of Andromonastiro stands over the most important natural spring of fresh water in

Fig. 2.  Andromonastiro, plan of the monastic complex (Source: Archive of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia).

the region that still flows all year round in a barrelvaulted basement below the nave.19 The katholikon is a large cross-in-square domed church of the semicomplex variant,20 with a narthex in its west side, the latter extensively rebuilt in the post-Byzantine period (Fig.  4a, b), as I argue below. The sanctuary’s three semi-hexagonal apses project on the east side. The spaces currently framing the outer north, west, and south sides of the nave are later additions. A dome with an octagonal drum covers the central bay of the cross-in-square core. The drum features four windows on the main axes. Four large columns in secondary use support the dome (Fig. 5). Ancient Doric capitals, probably spolia from nearby ancient Messene, serve as bases for the east columns.21 The cross-arms are covered with barrel vaults, a common solution in churches of this type in southern Greece.22 The east corner bays are also barrel-vaulted, whereas the west corner bays are covered by calottes. The north façade of the church was originally flanked by an open portico (Fig. 6a), as suggested by

traces of the vault’s springing still preserved on the north wall. A  different type of transept vault on a higher level must have been applied in front of the north cross-arm of the Katholikon, over the impressive doorway.23 The portico was also extended along the narthex’s west façade, similar to the porch of the neighbouring church of the Zoodochos Pigi (Samarina), the most prominent late twelfth-century church in Messenia.24 The nave also featured a timber-roofed portico along part of its south façade, as indicated by the well-built putlog holes for its pitched timber roof (Fig. 6b).25 During the excavation of the north compartment – today the chapel of St  Catherine – a meticulously constructed but looted tomb was revealed. It was initially covered with a huge marble slab that had been slightly removed to the north of the burial pit. On the east side of the same compartment, under a pavement of concrete that had been constructed in the late 1970s, a vaulted fountain was discovered with a system of channels for the improved circulation of

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Fig. 3.  Andromonastiro, Aerial view after the completion of the restoration (Source: Archive of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia).

water (Fig. 6a). The exact date of these modifications and their connection to the portico along the north facade of the katholikon remain uncertain. During the excavations of this chamber many traces of the original vaulting system of the portico with two layers of painted decoration were found. The conservators managed to reconstruct one of the scenes decorating the stoa: It contained the Dormition of St Ephraim the Syrian, one of the earliest documented examples of the scene in Byzantine monumental paintings.26 Shortly after the katholikon was built, a two-storied space was added against its south cross arm that was covered with a barrel vault (Fig.  4a and b, 6b). On its basement a small fountain is fed by the water of the spring below the katholikon. The upper-level space allowed access to the nave through an impressive doorway that was blocked in a later period and was again re-opened during the conservation.27 It

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probably functioned as a chapel dedicated to Prophet Elijah, the protector against drought,28 as indicated by the remains of wall paintings depicting scenes from the prophet’s life.29 The best preserved scene shows Elijah receiving bread from the widow’s hands before the Gate of the city of Zarephath.30 This is a subject rarely depicted in Byzantine monumental painting. The only other known example is found in the wall paintings of the church of the Dormition of the Virgin at Morača in Montenegro, dated to the year 1251/52.31 Based on stylistic criteria, the Andromonastiro chapel’s wall paintings can be dated to the first half of the fourteenth century.32 Later Repairs and Reconstructions The katholikon of Andromonastiro acquired its present form shortly before 1612, during an extensive

Fig. 4.  Andromonastiro, Plan (a) and transverse section (b) of the katholikon, showing present state, with three major phases of construction indicated (Source: Archive of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia).

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Fig. 5.  Interior of the katholikon, looking east after the restoration and conservation works (Source: author).

Fig. 6.  Katholikon, (a) longitudinal section in the chapel of St Catherine, looking south, (b) longitudinal section in the SW bays, looking north, (c) elevation of east façade (Source: Archive of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia).

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Fig. 6. (continued)

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Fig. 7.  Three dimensional model of the Katholikon with the original porticos (a) and after its early 17th-century reconstruction (b) (Source: Archive of the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia).

building program sponsored by the archimandrites Anthimos from the island of Kythera, a monk in the nearby Voulkano Monastery.33 The program involved the construction of the spaces currently flanking the building’s north, west, and south sides. The drastic intervention practically destroyed most of the original porticoes (Fig.  7a, b). The new spaces featured higher ceilings and transverse vaults supported by rows of pilasters. This higher vaulting system required almost the complete reconstruction of the narthex, whose original vaulting must have been at a much lower level, as in most churches of this type. With the completion of Anthimos’ ambitious program, the space lining the katholikon’s west side acquired the form of a large exonarthex necessary for monastic services, whereas the north aisle was converted into a chapel, possibly dedicated to the Annunciation, as indicated by a reference in the inventory of monastic estates in the Androusa diocese and compiled by Bishop Parthenios in 1699.34 The chapel’s current dedication to Saint Catherine probably dates to the late eighteenth century, when Andromonastiro became a dependency of the famous Monastery of Saint Catherine on Mount Sinai.35 New Evidence for the Dating of the Katholikon The exact date of Andromonastiro’s foundation remains uncertain due to a lack of written sources. The local oral tradition assigned its construction to the Emperor Andronikos  II Palaiologos (1282– 1328), recasting its old name from Andromonastiro (‘Monastery for Men’) to Andronikomonastiro, ‘the Monastery of Andronikos’.36 This anachronistic

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interpretation dates to the nineteenth century and reflects the Romanticism that followed the creation of the Hellenic Republic after the Greek War of Independence.37 As already noted, Charalambos and Laskarina Boura included the katholikon in their monograph on the twelfth-century ecclesiastical architecture in southern Greece.38 However, they did not have a complete understanding of the building’s structural history, because the external surfaces of the church were almost entirely covered by mortar until the recent restoration. The removal of the plaster revealed the masonry of the eastern façade, which is built in the so-called pseudocloisonné technique (Figs  6c, 8). Morphological and construction details of the original building that were uncovered during the conservation allow us to re-evaluate the date of its original construction. The similarities of the building with the nearby church of Samarina are many. Their domes share the same articulation, with windows in the main axes and pseudo-windows at the diagonals, as well as colonnades at the corners of the drum and curved eaves made of a yellow, porous stone from nearby quarries close to the village of Kalogerorachi.39 Closer examination, however, reveals small but significant differences between the two neighboring monuments: Samarina, which scholars unanimously date to the end of the twelfth century, appears to have been the archetype for the masons that constructed Andromonastiro. I shall present the evidence in more detail. At Samarina, key-shaped cut bricks were used to adorn the south gable, forming a band on either side of the two-lobed window – a design typical of late twelfth-century monuments.40 In Andromonastiro, however, similar cut bricks are used quite differently.

Fig. 8.  The east side of the katholikon after its conservation (Source: author).

In this case, a step-ornament, made by cut bricks, forms a band under the dentil eaves of the gables, thereby enlarging the cornices (Fig.  9). Though cut brick patterns are frequently encountered in late twelfth-century architecture in the Peloponnese, the method by which they have been applied in Andromonastiro is indicative of new trends prevailing in Byzantine architecture after the first decades of the thirteenth century. This period is marked by a desire for the construction of enlarged eaves, especially at the gables, usually through the use of cut brick bands bellow the dentil courses.41 From a technical perspective, this different practice is related to an effort to cover the extrados of barrel-vaulted spaces with ceramic decoration. One of the earliest documented examples is the church of Kato Panagia, close to Arta, dated to the fourth decade of the thirteenth century.42 An inscription connects this monument to the ruler of Epiros, Michael  II Komnenos Doukas,

while most scholars ascribe its construction to a team of masons from southern Greece, probably from the Peloponnese.43 This practice will become one of the hallmarks of late thirteenth-century ecclesiastical architecture in the Despotate of Epiros.44 Closer to Andromonastiro, in the church Panagia Vlacherna outside the castle of Clarenza,45 dated to the early seventies of the thirteenth century,46 a similar practice is attested in the eaves of the east lateral aisles. In this case, the cut porous cornice is enlarged by the use of a band of cut bricks of the so-called disepsilon ornament. More evocative of thirteenth-century designs is the rest of the ceramoplastic decoration of the south gable of Adnromonastiro where, apart from two major motifs from the Kufic repertory,47 the lateral spaces on either side of the windows are filled with a zig-zag ornament made up of plain bricks (Fig.  9), typical in monuments of the

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Fig. 9.  Katholikon, the ceramic decoration of the south gable after the restoration (Source: author).

thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.48 The same ceramic decoration is found in a part of the north gable that was uncovered during the recent restoration of the building.49 A date for the katholikon after the end of the twelfth century is also supported on another decisive element: two late twelfth-century marble capitals, probably from the proskynetaria of a templon screen attributed to the workshop that commissioned the superb sculptural decoration of the Samarina church,50 were cut and incorporated in second use in Andromonastiro, as a base for the mullion separating the lobs of the window in the main apse.51 Many elements from a similar group of sculptures were re-used in the Post-Byzantine, built templon screen at the thresholds between the nave and the holy bema of the katholikon.52

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A thirteenth-century date for the main church of Andromonastiro is also confirmed by the few finds during the excavations conducted in the katholikon. Fragments of glazed pottery from early thirteenth-century vessels related to the so- called Zeuxippus Ware,53 as well as the fragments of Late Byzantine paintings from the vaults of the stoa, provide solid evidence for the redating of the building to the thirteenth century. The Original Opus Sectile Pavement The floor of the Andromonastiro’s katholikon was originally covered with an elaborate opus sectile mosaic, part of which was revealed and conserved in the narthex (Fig.  10).54 It was originally a tripartite

Fig. 10.  Katholikon, the opus sectile pavement as revealed and conserved in the narthex (Source: author).

composition, with an impressive central quintuple omphalion flanked by two side panels of framed lozenges. The composition corresponds to the architectural and spatial arrangement of the original narthex before its rebuilding in the seventeenth century.55 It is symmetrically placed along the north-south axis to the openings of the side spaces. The central and south panels are symmetrically placed along the eastwest axis, yet the north panel was displaced by 40 cm towards the center, indicating the original symmetry of the composition. The central panel boasts a quintuple omphalion measuring 1,91× 1,92m. It is comprised of five pairs of interlacing concentric circles of white marble, with a central red marble disc (Ø15cm). The ground is laid in black, white and red tesserae, similar to opus sectile floors of the thirteenth century.56 They are either lozenge-shaped or triangular, according to the geometry of the available ground. Originally, two smaller panels, each measuring 1,55  ×  1,55m, flanked the central composition; only one remains in situ. Based on the imprint of the north panel’s frame on the setting bed, it seems that the

basic layout of the missing north panel was similar to that of the south panel. The remaining south panel, only half of which is preserved, features a red marble rhombus inscribed in a white marble frame with a central circular disc (Ø 11cm). Four smaller discs of concentric white marble and tesserae bands with a central red disc (Ø 9–13cm) are inscribed in the four corners. The ground was also laid with black, white and red tesserae set in similar patterns as those in the central panel. Opus sectile bands laid with square and triangular tesserae framed the white marble slabs. The areas surrounding the three-panel pavement were laid with slabs of local, cream-colored limestone. Several types of marble were identified macroscopically. They most likely originate from the Mani peninsula, which is a well-known source of polychrome and white marble used and exported since antiquity for pavements and other architectural elements: red marble (rosso antico) from Profitis Elias near Laghia; black marble (nero antico Tenario) from Kisternes Tainaron, white marble from Marmari or Mezapos and light green schist (cipollino Tenario) from Kourello or Mianes.57 These polychrome marbles

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were either sourced directly from the aforementioned quarries in Mani or from the nearby ancient city of Messene as recycled materials from Roman pavements or revetments. The white marble bands are fashioned from fine-grained, white Pentelic marble. The conservation plan of the pavement was developed based on the survey and analysis of the artifact, the assessment of its context, the prioritization of its value, and the principles and guidelines established by both the Greek Ministry of Culture and international organizations that respect the authenticity and integrity of original remnants, their reversibility, differentiation of interventions, and the use of compatible materials and documentation. The primary aim of the project was to conserve the authentic fabric in situ and to restore the legibility of the overall decorative program by a schematic restitution of the missing elements in a way that would not disrupt the overall harmony and continuity, and that would not produce false readings. The conservation of the authentic fabric encompassed stabilization in situ with minimal intervention by retaining the overall deformation and fragmented slabs in situ. The most challenging decision was how to best portray and reinstate the ground, given that no more than 30% of the surface area was preserved. In keeping with the decision to broadly delineate the decorative program and ensure reversibility, it was decided to infill the ground with a neutral colored mortar in order to reduce visual contrast and retain the harmony of the composition. The Initial Wall-Paintings Almost all the surfaces of the nave’s interior were overpainted blue in the late nineteenth century. The few parts visible before the conservation works had been dated to the late twelfth or early thirteenth century.58 The completion of the conservation revealed three different layers of paintings dating to the thirteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries respectively.59 The original painted decoration of the katholikon may shed light on the monument’s early history. The earliest painted layer is preserved in the dome, the vaults covering the cross arms and the eastern corner-bays, as well as the calottes of the western corner bays. The hemispherical dome features a medallion with a bust of Christ Pantokrator. The Evangelists decorate the pendentives, with the image of Mark

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in the northwest being exceptionally well-preserved (Fig. 11). The Twelve Great Feasts decorate the vaults of the cross arms as well; the Ascension and Pentecost are depicted in the sanctuary’s vault, thus completing the Christological cycle (Fig. 12a). The original decoration of Andromonastiro resembles the last phase of Komnenian painting in the region, as does its architecture.60 However, the rendering of facial features and specific details suggest an awareness of other artistic trends in the region. One such telling detail is the form of the wooden benches in the scene of the Pentecost. The fine carpentry of the spindles and curved back of the lower seats can be seen in other Crusader-period paintings in southern Greece, for example the Last Judgments in the churches of St George in Kouvaras in Attica61 and Hagios Nikolaos at Malagari, Megaride,62 both dated to the fourth decade of the thirteenth century. Despite strong affinities with Komnenian art, the wall paintings of Andromonastiro can be dated on the basis of iconographic and stylistic evidence to the mid-thirteenth century and constitute a most valuable illustration of the trends that developed in monumental painting in the Peloponnese after the establishment of Frankish rule.63 The absence of epigraphic evidence and the lack of relevant written sources complicate any effort to recompose the historical data in which both the foundation and the decoration of Andromonastiro can be ascribed. The Prince of Achaia at that time was probably William, the second son of Goeffrey I Villeardouin (1246–1278).64 Born around 1211 in the family castle at Kalamata, William was the first of the Villehardouins to be born in Frankish Greece rather than France. William showed remarkable tolerance for the Greek clergy on issues pertaining to ecclesiastical administration.65 Despite the lack of any epigraphic evidence, the clear reference in the Chronicle of the Morea that “apart from Roman Catholic he also erected and decorated Orthodox monasteries”66 raises an important question: where were these monastic institutions located? A few crucial details in the frescoes of Andromonastiro may help us provide an answer to the enigma. The building framing the west end of the scene of the Pentecost in the paintings of the monastery is crowned by an impressive golden fleur-de-lis (Fig. 12 b).67 At that point in time, this motif marks the coat of arms of the French royal family,68 with which William retained close connections. Indeed,

Fig. 11.  Katholikon, fresco of St Mark in the NW pendendive (Source: author).

Fig. 12.  Katholikon, (a) the Pentecost in the east barrel-vault and (b) detail from the same scene (Source: author).

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The display of a fleur-des-lis in a scene of high symbolic content such as the Pentecost remains without parallel in Byzantine monumental paintings. Could this iconographic detail suggest the involvement of William in the decoration of Andromonastiro, perhaps through financial assistance on behalf of the Prince to the monks, which would have facilitated their endeavor? Andromonastiro, the most prominent Orthodox monastery in Frankish Messenia, located inside William’s estates, might have been one of those monasteries mentioned in the Greek Chronicle as having benefited by the wise prince. In addition, according to the Aragonese version of the Chronicle, at the initiative of William the whole region around Andromonastiro was re-organized, and a new citadel was erected with the name of Androusa, just a few kilometers from the monastery.71 The close ties between Androusa and Andromonastiro are also evidenced by the medieval aqueduct that was constructed between the monastery and the newly founded city, supplying the citadel with water from the spring in the basement of the katholikon.

Fig. 12. (continued)

the Prince of the Morea was considered as a vassal of the French king, while the Morea, too, was a kind of royal apanage.69 Thus, the basic royal insignia were assimilated by the Villeardouins over the thirteenth century in order to declare their dependence on the kings of France.70

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Based on the discussion presented above, I  believe that Andromonastiro provides an example of an important sacred space constructed by an Orthodox monastic community after Messenia became part of the Principality of Achaia. Whether or not related to the patronage of Prince William himself very close to the year 1246, when he founded the new city of Androusa, Andromonastiro proves that the building activity of the indigenous population was not drastically interrupted after the establishment of the Frankish rule in the Morea. As for architectural trends and design, the katholikon of Andromonastiro confirms the continuation of features derived from the prevailing tradition of the twelfth-century architecture in the region. Together with the churches in the Argolid and a group of monuments in the region of Corinth that I recently assigned to a team of masons active around the second quarter of the thirteenth century,72 they provide the fundamental missing link in a chain of continuity that can no longer be overlooked. Clarifying this intermediate phase is decisive for a more thorough understanding of the boom in architectural activity that marks the final decades of thirteenth-century Morea, both in its Byzantine and Frankish aspects.

notes *  I dedicate this article to Professor Robert Ousterhout, with whom I had the privileged to discuss thoroughly the history of Andromonastiro in situ, before, during, and after the completion of the restoration project. The conservation of the Monastery was a difficult task and it was completed successfully thanks to many people that is not possible to name here. I am especially grateful to the three archaeologists of the project: Dr  Elena Barbaritsa, Lambrini Bouza, and Sophia Verouti for their help in the several stages of the restoration process. Thanks are also due to the volume’s co-editors Amy Papalexandrou and Vasileios Marinis for their comments. Not least, I  am most grateful to the Director of the Ephorate of Antiquties of Messenia, Dr Evangelia Militsi, who was responsible for project’s management. 1  Michalis Kappas and Giorgos Fousteris, ‘Επανεξέταση δύο ναών του Σοφικού Κορινθίας’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 27 (2006), 61–72; Michalis Kappas, ‘Εκκλησίες της Μητροπόλεως Μεσσηνίας από το 1204 έως και το 1500’, in Χριστιανική Μεσσηνία, Μνημεία και Ιστορία της Ιεράς Μητροπόλεως Μεσσηνίας (Athens: Militos Editions, 2010), pp.  189–272; Michalis Kappas, ‘Ένα βυζαντινό οικοδομικό συνεργείο στην περιοχή του Σοφικού Κορινθίας’, Δελτ. Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 38 (2017), 125–46, with extensive bibliography on the subject. See also, Sharon E. J. Gerstel and Michalis Kappas, ‘Between East and West: Locating Monumental Painting from the Peloponnese’, in Cross-Cultural Interaction Between Byzantium and the West, 1204–1669. Whose Mediterranean is it Anyway?, ed. by Angeliki Lymberopoulou (London and New York: Routledge, 2018), pp. 175–202. 2  Amy Papalexandrou, ‘The Architectural Layering of the History in the Medieval Morea, Monuments, Memory, and Fragments of the Past’, in Viewing the Morea, Land and People in the Late Medieval Peloponnese, ed. by Sharon E. J. Gerstel (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2013), pp.  23–54 (pp.  29–35); Gay Sanders, ‘William of Moerbeke’s Church at Merbakas: The Use of Ancient Spolia to Make Personal and Political Statements’, Hesperia, 84:3 (2015), 583–626. Recently, in one of her articles, Aspasia Louvi redates the katholikon of Agia Moni, near Nauplion, to the thirteenth century, an idea which does not seem to be based on solid evidence, see Aspasia Louvi-Kizi, ‘Modes de construction occidentaux dans le Péloponnèse après la conquête franque’, TM, 20:2, Mélanges Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, ed.  by Sulamith Brodbeck and others (Paris: Collège de France - CNRC 2016), pp. 343–58. 3  Charalambos Bouras and Laskarina Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία κατὰ τὸν 12ο αἰώνα (Athens: Melissa Editions, 2002), pp. 23–328: the cross-in-square churches near Megara (Ioanna StoufiPoulimenou, Βυζαντινές εκκλησίες στον Κάμπο των Μεγάρων (Athens: 2007)), Omorfi Ekklesia at Galatsi, Taxiarches at Karystia, St  Nicholas at Exarchos, (Stavros Mamaloukos, ‘Ο ναός του Αγίου Πολυκάρπου στην Τανάγρα (Μπράτσι) Βοιωτίας’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 25 (2004), 127–39, especially n.  25 and 33), the cross-in-square churches on the island of Salamis (Kappas and Fousteris, ‘Επανεξέταση δύο ναών’, n.  27, Christina Pinatsi, ‘Βυζαντινά μαρμάρινα δάπεδα της Μάνης’, in Ήρως Κτίστης, Μνήμη Χαράλαμπου Μπούρα, ed. by M. Korres and others, 2 vols (Athens: Melissa Editions, 2018), II, 483, n. 77), the Omorfi Ekklesia

on the island of Aigina (Kappas and Fousteris, ‘Επανεξέταση δύο ναών’, n. 28). A date to the thirteenth century seems more possible also for the churches of Hagios Nikolaos at Rodia, near Arta (Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 86–88), Hagios Georgios at Kriekouki (ibid, p. 197), Hagios Loukas at Lambrika (ibid., p.  203), the katholikon of Hagios Lavrentios Monastery at Pylio (ibid., pp. 206–07), Hagios Nikolaos at Malagari (ibid., pp. 223–24) and Hagios Ioannis at Schimatari (ibid., pp. 310–11). 4  Pantanassa at Geroumana (Aspasia Louvi-Kize, ‘Η Παντάνασσα της Γερουμάνας, Ένα μνημείο των Ιωαννιτών Ιπποτών’, Σύμμεικτα, 16 (2005), 357–67), Trasfiguration church at Tarsina (Kappas and Fousteris, ‘Επανεξέταση δύο ναών’, p. 66, n. 24), Hagios Demetrios at Elis (Demetrios Athanasoulis, ‘Η ναοδομία στην Επισκοπή Ωλένης κατά την μέση και την ύστερη βυζαντινή περίοδο’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, 2006), pp.  201–12), Palaiopanagia at Manolada (Athanasoulis, ‘Η ναοδομία’, pp.  333–70), the cross-in-square churches in the region of Sofiko (Kappas and Fousteris, ‘Επανεξέταση δύο ναών’, pp.  61–72; Kappas, ‘Ένα βυζαντινό οικοδομικό συνεργείο’, pp.  125–46). See also the book review on the monograph of Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία by Panagiotis L. Vocotopoulos in Μνημείο και Περιβάλλον, 8 (2004), 168–72. A date to the thirteenth century seems also more possible for a number of Peloponnesian monuments included in the Bouras and Boura monograph, such as: Hagia Kyriaki (Agetria) in the Mani (Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp.  23–24), Hagios Nikolaos in the homonymous village of the region of Monemvasia (pp. 30–32), Blacherna near Mezapos in the Mani (pp. 94–95), Ellinika Monastery at Messenia (pp.  125–26), Hagios Charalambos in Kalamata (pp. 165–67), Hagios Georgios at Roino in Arkadia (pp. 280–81), and the katholikon of Grivitsiani Monastery at Messenia (pp.  325–26), while recently the old katholika of Hagioi Theodoroi Monastery at Prasteio (pp.  274–75), and Filosofou Monastery at Arkadia (pp. 316–17) were re-dated in the early fourteenth century, see Michalis Kappas, ‘H εφαρμογή του σταυροειδούς εγγεγραμμένου στη Μέση και την Ύστερη Βυζαντινή περίοδο. Το παράδειγμα του απλού τετρακιόνιου/τετράστυλου’, 2  vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, 2009), II, no.  96, pp.  331–33 (ikee.lib.auth.gr/ record/112442); Michalis Kappas, ‘Cultural Exchange between East and West in the Late-Fourteenth-Century Mani: The Soteras Church in Langada and a group of related monuments’, in Against Gravity: Building Practices in the Pre-Industrial World, ed. by Robert Ousterhout and others, Philadelphia, 20–22 March 2015, (Publication by the Center for Ancient Studies), University of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia, PA, 2016), pp. 1–33. (http://www. sas.upenn.edu/ancient/publications.html). 5  Athanasoulis, ‘Η ναοδομία’, pp.  144–86; Papalexandrou, ‘The Architectural Layering of the History’, pp. 35–39. For the identification of Blacherna with the famous Monastery of Santa Maria de Camina, see Nikephoros Tsougarakis and Christopher Schabel, ‘Of Burning Monks, Unidentified Churches and the Last Cistercian Foundation in the East: Our Lady of Camina in the Principality of Achaia’, JMedHist, 41, (2015), 60–87; Michalis Kappas, ‘Δυτικές επιδράσεις στην αρχιτεκτονική της Μεσσηνίας (13ος-15ος αι.)’”, in Ήρως Κτίστης, I, 460–61, n. 50.

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Demetrios Athanasoulis, ‘Η αναχρονολόγηση του ναού της Παναγίας της Καθολικής στη Γαστούνη’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 24, (2003), 63–77. 7  Demetrios Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power: Building Projects in the Metropolitan Area of the Crusader Principality of the Morea’, in Viewing the Morea, pp. 111–51. 8  For the impact of the conquest of the Peloponnese by the Crusaders to the architecture of the region, see Charalambos Bouras, ‘The Impact of Frankish Architecture on Thirteenth Century Byzantine Architecture’, in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World, ed. by Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy Parviz Mottahedeh (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2001), pp.  250–51; Kappas, ‘Εκκλησίες της Μητροπόλεως Μεσσηνίας’, pp.  189–272; Robert Ousterhout, ‘Architecture and Cultural Identity in the Eastern Mediterranean’, in Hybrid Cultures in Medieval Europe, ed.  by Michael Borgolte and Bernt Schneidmüller (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010), pp. 261–75; Heather E. Grossman, ‘On Memory, Transmission and the Practice of Building in the Crusader Mediterranean’, in Mechanism of Exchange: Transmission in Medieval Art and Architecture of the Mediterranean, ca. 1000–1500, ed. by Heather  E. Grossman and Alicia Walker (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2013), pp. 183–219; Kappas, ‘Δυτικές επιδράσεις’, pp. 451–73. For western influences on monumental art of the Peloponnese after the Fourth Crusade, see Sharon E. J. Gerstel, ‘The Morea’, in Heaven and Earth, Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections, ed. by Anastasia Drandaki and others (Athens: Adam Editions – Pergamos, 2013), pp. 300–03; Sharon E. J. Gerstel, ‘Art and Identity in the Medieval Morea’, in The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium, pp.  263–80; Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘The Impact of the Fourth Crusade on Monumental Painting in the Peloponnese and Eastern Central Greece up to the End of the Thirteenth Century’, in Byzantine Art in the Aftermath of the Fourth Crusade, ed. by Panagiotis L. Vocotopoulos (Athens: Academy of Athens, 2007), pp. 63–88; Gerstel and Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, pp. 175–202. 9  Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 64–66. 10  Evangelia Militsi-Kechagia and others, Ανδρομονάστηρο Μεσσηνίας, Αναστήλωση και ανάδειξη του μοναστηριακού συγκροτήματος/Andromonastiro of Messenia, Restoration and Display of the Monastic Complex, Ministry of Culture and Sports/26th Ephorate of Byzantine Antiquities, (Kalamata: Greek Ministry of Culture, 2015). 11  Freiderikos Versakis, ‘Μεσσηνίας βυζαντιακοὶ ναοί’, Ἀρχ.Ἐφ., (1919), 92–95. Antoine Bon, La morée franque: Recherches historiques, topographiques et archéologiques sur la Principauté d’Achaïe (1205–1430), (Paris: Editions de Boccard, 1969), pp. 218, 427, 428, 439. Konstantinos Kalokyris, Βυζαντιναὶ ἑκκλησίαι τῆς Ἱερᾶς Μητροπόλεως Μεσσηνίας (Thessaloniki, 1973), pp.  85–109; Tassos  A. Gritsopoulos, ‘Ἡ Ἐκκλησία τῆς Πελοποννήσου μετὰ τὴν Ἀλωσιν VIII. Μητρόπολις Μονεμβασίας – Καλαμάτας’, Πελοποννησιακά, 19 (1991–1992), 91–95. Sotiris Vogiatzis, ‘Ο γλυπτός διάκοσμος του Ανδρομονάστηρου Μεσσηνίας’, Δελτ.Χριστ. Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 30 (2009), 129–40. Kappas, ‘Εκκλησίες της Μητροπόλεως Μεσσηνίας’, pp.  202–11; Michalis Kappas, ‘Ανδρομονάστηρο Μεσσηνίας: νεότερα στοιχεία για την αρχιτεκτονική του καθολικού της Μονής’, in 36ο Συμπόσιο Βυζαντινής και Μεταβυζαντινής 6 

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Αρχαιολογίας και Τέχνης, Πρόγραμμα και περιλήψεις εισηγήσεων και ανακοινώσεων (Athens, 2016), pp. 56–57. For more bibliography on the Monastery, also see, Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, p. 65. 12  Sotiris Vogiatzis and Michalis Kappas, ‘Ανδρομονάστηρο Μεσσηνίας: Νεότερα στοιχεία για τις βυζαντινές και μεσαιωνικές φάσεις της τράπεζας του μοναστηριακού συγκροτήματος’, in 33ο Συμπόσιο Βυζαντινής και Μεταβυζαντινής Αρχαιολογίας και Τέχνης, Πρόγραμμα και περιλήψεις ανακοινώσεων (Athens, 2013), pp. 37–38. 13  Information on the construction of the tower and the west wing of cells is provided by the dedicatory inscription on display above the entrance to the great southwest tower. The inscription reads: ‘Γρώσι(α) χ(ι)λ(ιάδες) 2 κ(αὶ) ἀκόμα 500. 1753 ἐν μηνὶ Μαΐῳ 10 ἀνακαινίσθησαν ὁ πύργος κ(αὶ) τὰ κελία μὲ τὸ χαγιάτη παρὰ Θεοδοσίου Ἀνδρούσης ἡγούμενος Ἠσαΐας Μαϊστόρων Παναγιώτου καὶ Γεωργίου Τόκα’ and in English translation ‘2000 and 500 piasters. 10 May 1753. The tower and cells with the porch were refurbished under Theodosios (bishop) of Androusa and abbot Isaiah by the master builders Panagiotis and Georgios Tokas’, see Nikolaos Veis, ‘Χριστιανικαὶ ἐπιγραφαὶ Μεσσηνίας μετὰ σχετικῶν  ἀρχαιολογημάτων’, Δελτίο τῆς Ἱστορικῆς καὶ Ἐθνολογικῆς Ἑταιρίας, 6 (1901), 394–95. The inscription was removed in the 1960s by the Metropolitan of Messenia Chrysostomos Themelis and kept in the metropolitan hall of the diocese in Kalamata. After the restoration, the inscription was placed in its original position. 14  The funerary chapel remains unpublished. For a short reference, see Georgios Demetrokallis, Άγνωστοι βυζαντινοί ναοί Ιεράς Μητροπόλεως Μεσσηνίας (Athens: Grigoris Editions, 1998), pp. 13, 74–75. The chapel is mentioned to the list of ecclesiastical edifices and Monasteries contacted by the bishop of Androusa Parthenios in 1699: ‘…καὶ ἔξω ἀπὸ τὴν μάνδρα τοῦ μοναστηρίου εἶναι ἄλλαις τρεῖς ἑκκλησίαις. Ἡ μία εἶναι ναὸς τοῦ Δικαίου Λαζάρου καὶ εἶναι κοιμητήριον τῶν πατέρων’, see, Konstantinos Ntokos, ‘Ἡ ἐν Πελοποννήσῳ ἑκκλησιαστικὴ περιουσία κατὰ τὴν περίοδον τῆς Β΄ Ἐνετοκρατίας, Ἀνέκδοτα ἒγγραφα ἐκ τῶν Ἀρχείων Ἐνετίας’, BNJ, 22, (1977–1984), 349. Nikolaos Veis mistakenly reports that the funerary chapel was dedicated to Hagioi Pantes, see Veis, ‘Χριστιανικαὶ ἐπιγραφαὶ Μεσσηνίας’, pp. 394–95. 15  Apart from the beginning of the aqueduct outside the Monastery’s courtyard, only another small bridge is still visible, at a small distance to the southewest of Andromonastiro, while a bigger part of the aqueduct remains by the street connecting the villages of Kalogerorachi with Androusa. The precise date of the aqueduct, on which at least two structural phases can be identified, remains uncertain. 16  On the history of the katholikon, see Militsi-Kechagia and others, Ανδρομονάστηρο Μεσσηνίας, pp. 14–26. 17  Militsi-Kechagia and others, Ανδρομονάστηρο Μεσσηνίας, pp. 56–65. 18  Ibid. 19  The existence of a spring to provide the monastic community with drinking water was probably the main reason for the establishment of Andromonastiro at this location. Protected by a vaulted two-part space, the spring water was channeled into two vaulted fountains north and south of the church. For other cases of churches founded above springs, see Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, p. 363.

On the variants of the cross-in-square type in the ecclesiastical architecture of southern Greece, see Αnastasios Κ. Orlandos, ‘Ἡ Ἁγία Τριὰς τοῦ Κριεζώτη’, Ἀρχ.Βυζ.Μνημ.Ἑλλ., 5 (1939–40), 3–16; Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 346–48. 21  They were taken probably from the Stadium – Gymnasium of ancient Messini. 22  Kappas, ‘H εφαρμογή του σταυροειδούς εγγεγραμμένου’, I, 260. 23  It seems that porticos, or semi-open spaces flanking buildings (stoae) were much more common in Byzantine architecture as it was previously assumed, but since their construction was much lighter that the churches themselves, in many cases, they have been totally destroyed, and only a few traces betray their existence, such as in the katholikon of Andomonastiro. For porticos in Byzantine Architecture, see Robert Ousterhout, ‘The Byzantine Church at Enez: Problems in Twelfth-century Architecture’, JÖB, 35 (1985), 272–76; Gail Nicholl, ‘A Contribution to the Archaeological Interpretation of Typika: The Case of the Narthex’, in Work and Worship at the Theotokos Evergetis 1050–1200, ed. by Margaret Mullett and Antony Kirby (Belfast: Belfast Byzantine Enterprises, 1997), pp.  301–02; Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp.  363–64; Robert Ousterhout and Charalambos Bakirtzis, The Byzantine Monuments of Evros/ Meriç River Valley (Thessaloniki: European Center for Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Monuments, 2007), pp. 23–31. Michalis Kappas, ‘Ο ναός του Αγίου Νικολάου στο ρέμα του Σωφρόνη Λακωνίας’, Βυζαντινά Σύμμεικτα, 21, (2011), 269, n. 28. 24  For the church of Zoodochos Pigi (Samarina), see Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 291–96, with previous bibliography. See also, Slobodan Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans. From Diocletian to Süleyman the Magnificent (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2010), p. 433, fig. 474b. 25  The holes are still visible from the southwest chambers of the katholikon. 26  Based on stylistic grounds the second layer of the painting decoration of the stoa can be placed in the early fourteenth century. The scene is depicted for the first time in the Menologion of Basil II, c. 1000, see John R. Martin, ‘The Death of Ephraim in Byzantine and Early Italian Painting’, ArtB, 33, no. 4, (1951), 217–25; Evangelia Ioannidaki-Ntostoglou, ‘Εφραίμ ο Σύρος και Μάρκος Ευγενικός’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 15 (1989–1990), 279–82. Among the earliest known examples in monumental art is considered the depiction in the church of St  John near the village Koudoumas, Crete, dated around the mid 14th c., see M.  Bougrat, ‘L’église Saint Jean près de Koudoumas, Crete’, CahArch, 30 (1982), p. 163–77, figs 22–25. 27  Part of a painted Post-Byzantine equestrian saint (Demetrios) that decorated the interior of the walled door is is still visible after the reopening of the door after being stabilized by conservators. 28  For prophet Elijah as a protector against droughts and his connections with agriculture since the Middle-Byzantine period, see Nikolaos Politis, ‘Ὁ Ἤλιος κατὰ τοὺς δημώδεις μύθους’, Λαογραφικά Σύμμεικτα, 2  (1882), (repr. Athens, 1975), pp.  177, 183; Ilias A. Kontoulis, ‘Η εξέλιξη της εικονογραφίας του προφήτη Ηλία’ (Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Ioannina, 2003), pp. 35–45. 29  Kalokyris, Βυζαντιναὶ ἐκκλησίαι, p. 107, based on what was visible before the conservation works had proposed a Post-Byzantine 20 

date for these frescoes. At least six scenes from the Prophet’s life have been cleaned in the small barrel vault of the chapel. For another church in the region dedicated to prophet Elijah with scenes from his life included in the painting decoration, see Nikos Kontogiannis and Sophia Germanidou, ‘The Iconographic Program of the Prophet Elijah Church in Thalames, Greece’, BZ, 101 (2008), 55–87. 30  Kalokyris, Βυζαντιναὶ ἐκκλησίαι, p. 107. 31  The scene is depicted inside the diakonikon of the Dormition church at Morača, see Mirjana C. Ljubinković, Srpsko zidno slikarstvo XIII veka (Belgrade, 1965), p. 45, fig. 35. Sreten Petković, Morača (Belgrade: Medieval Art in Yugoslavia, 1979). 32  I am in the process of writing an article on the wall-paintings of the chapel, along with those decorating the katholikon. 33  Konstantinos N. Sathas, Μεσαιωνικὴ Βιβλιοθήκη, 7 vols (Venice, 1872), III, 558; Kalokyris, Βυζαντιναὶ ἑκκλησίαι, pp. 86–87. In the sigillion of Ecumenical Patriarch Neophytos II, of the year 1612, is mentioned that: ‘Ὁ ἀπὸ Κυθήρων ὁσιώτατος ἐν ἱερομονάχοις κυρ Ἄνθιμος, ὁ ἐν τῷ σεβασμίῳ μοναστηρίῳ καὶ ἡμετέρῳ πατριαρχικῷ σταυροπηρίῳ τῆς ὑπεραγίας μου Θεοτόκου τῆς Ἐπανωκαστριτίσσης Βουρκάνου τῆς Κορυφῆς, τῆς ἐν τῇ ἐπαρχία Ἀνδρούσης,…,οὗτος θείῳ ζήλῳ καὶ ἔρωτι κινηθείς, ἀδείᾳ ἡμετέρᾳ πατριαρχικῇ, σταυροπήγιον ἱερὸν ἐπήξατο ἐν τῇ τοποθεσίᾳ τοῦ Ἠλιοῦ…, ἐκ βάθρων καὶ ἐξ αὐτῶν θεμελίων ἀνέκτησε καὶ ἀνῳκοδόμησεν ἰδίοις ἀναλώμασι σεβάσμιον καὶ θεῖον ναὸν ἐπ’ ὀνόματι τιμώμενον τοῦ Σωτῆρος Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ…’, see Tassos  A. Gritsopoulos, ‘Συμβολὴ εἰς τὴν ἱστορίαν τῶν Μεσσηνιακῶν μονῶν Βουλκάνου καὶ Σιδηρόπορτας’, Μεσσηνιακά Γράμματα, 1, (1956), 134–37; Tassos A. Gritsopoulos, Ἡ Ἐκκλησία τῆς Πελοποννήσου μετὰ τὴν Ἄλωσιν (Athens, 1992), pp. 421–36. 34  The bishop of Androusa Parthenios mentioned the chapel in his list for the ecclesiastical estates of his bishopric written in the year 1699, see, Ntokos, ‘Ἡ ἐν Πελοποννήσῳ ἑκκλησιαστικὴ περιουσία’, p. 349. 35  Kalokyris, Βυζαντιναὶ ἑκκλησίαι, p.  88; Gritsopoulos, ‘Ἡ Ἐκκλησία τῆς Πελοποννήσου’, p. 95. 36  Veis, ‘Χριστιανικαὶ ἐπιγραφαὶ Μεσσηνίας’, pp. 394–95. 37  Gritsopoulos, ‘Συμβολὴ εἰς τὴν Ἱστορίαν τῶν Μεσσηνιακῶν Μονῶν’, pp. 134–35. 38  Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 64–66. 39  Two different quarries of yellow porous stone have been discovered recently near by the village of Kalogerorachi, very close to the Samarina church. 40  Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 472–74. 41  Apart from George Velenis who has first commented on similar solutions in his fundamental monograph on the ceramic decoration of Byzantine monuments, this detail had not yet been thoroughly studied, see Georgios Velenis, Ερμηνεία του εξωτερικού διακόσμου στη βυζαντινή αρχιτεκτονική, 2  vols (Thessaloniki, 1984), Ι, 251, n. 1. Also see, Panagiotis L. Vocotopoulos, ‘Σχόλια στὸν πλίνθινο διάκοσμο τῶν ἀετωμάτων μερικῶν βυζαντινῶν ναῶν’, in Μεσαιωνικὴ Ἢπειρος, Πρακτικὰ Ἐπιστημονικοῦ Συμποσίου (Ioannina, 2001), pp. 49–61. 42  Anastasios K. Orlandos, ‘Ἡ μονὴ τῆς Κάτω Παναγιᾶ’, Ἀρχ.Βυζ. Μνημ.Ἑλλ., 2, (1936), 78, fig. 9; Velenis, Ερμηνεία του εξωτερικού διακόσμου, pl.  81c; Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans, p.  566; Georgios Velenis, ‘Προσθήκες σε επιγραφές τριών σταυρεπίστεγων ναών του 13ου αιώνα’, in Ήρως Κτίστης, Ι, 69–76 (pp. 71–73).

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Vocotopoulos, ‘Σχόλια στὸν πλίνθινο διάκοσμο’, p. 52. See also, Panagiotis  L. Vocotopoulos, ‘Church Architecture in the Despotate of Epirus: The Problem of Influences’, Zograf, 27 (1998– 1999), 79–92; Panagiotis  L. Vocotopoulos, ‘Παρατηρήσεις στον ναό της Παναγίας στην Κοσίνα’, in Ήρως Κτίστης, ΙΙ, 89–104. 44  For other similar examples in Epiros, see Vocotopoulos, ‘Σχόλια στὸν πλίνθινο διάκοσμο’, pp. 49–61; Vocotopoulos, ‘Παρατηρήσεις στον ναό της Παναγίας’, p. 97. 45  Αnastasios Κ. Orlandos, ‘Αἱ Βλαχέρναι τῆς Ἠλείας’, Ἀρχ.Ἐφ. (1923), p. 22, figs 33, 36; Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, pp. 96–99. 46  For the new observations on the date of this important monument, see above n. 5. 47  Though Kufic ornaments characterize the ecclesiastical architecture of the so called ‘Helladic School’ of the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, simplified imitations of this kind continued to be applied even during the thirteenth century, for example the ceramic decoration of the main apse of the church of Hagios Demetrios at Chania, near Avlonari, Euboia, and the church of Hagios Demetrios at Dragano, Achaia, see Charalambos Bouras, ‘Τὰ τοπικὰ καὶ τὰ χρονικὰ ὅρια τοῦ ψευδοκουφικοῦ διακόσμου’, Δελτ. Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 34 (2013), 25–32, especially p. 28. On the church of Achaia, see Anastasios  K. Orlandos, ‘Ἄγνωστος βυζαντινὸς ναὸς παρὰ τὸ Δραγάνο Ἀχαΐας’, Ἀρχ. Βυζ. Μνημ. Ἑλλ., 11 (1969), 57–86. The church of Euboia remains unpublished. For a short reference, see Charalambos Farandos, ‘Βυζαντινές και μεταβυζαντινές εκκλησίες στις περιοχές των χωριών: Αλιβέρι, Κατακαλός, Βελούσια, Άγ. Λουκάς, Παραμερίτες, Θαρούνια, Κρεμαστός, Όριο, Μουρτάρι, Οχτωνιά, Αυλωνάρι, Άγ. Γεώργιος και Αχλαδερή της Ν. Εύβοιας’, Ἀρχεῖον Εὐβοϊκῶν Μελετῶν, 23 (1980), 368–70, pl.  21–23; Michalis Doris, Η τυπολογία των σταυρεπίστεγων ναών (Athens, 2004), pp. 5, 41–43. 48  For gables with similar decoration in Late Byzantine monuments of the Peloponnese, see Velenis, Ερμηνεία του εξωτερικού διακόσμου, II, pl. 93a, b, 94a, b, 95a. 49  Part of it was cleaned from later plasters during the recent restoration of the church and is still visible from the nave of the chapel of St Catherine. 50  Georgios Pallis, ‘Νεότερα για το εργαστήριο γλυπτικής της Σαμαρίνας, τέλη 12ου – αρχές 13ου αι’., Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 27 (2006), 91–100. 51  For similar capitals still in situ as architectural members of proskynetaria, see the case of the church of St  Sophia on the upper city of Monemvasia, Bouras and Boura, Ἡ ἑλλαδικὴ ναοδομία, figs 487, 488. 52  Vogiatzis, ‘Ο γλυπτός διάκοσμος’, pp. 129–40. 53  For this group of ceramics, see Anastassia G. Yagaki, Εφυαλωμένη κεραμική από τη θέση «Άγιοι Θεόδωροι» στην Ακροναυπλία (11ος-17ος αι.) (Athens: National Hellenic Research Foundation, 2012), pp. 50–57 with extensive bibliography. 54  For byzantine opus sectile pavements, see among other Demetrios Liakos, ‘Παρατηρήσεις στα βυζαντινά δάπεδα σε τεχνική opus sectile των ναών του Αγίου Όρους’, Βυζαντινά, 31 (2011), 107–46; Christina Pinatsi, ‘Το δάπεδο του Καθολικού της Μονής Κοιμήσεως της Θεοτόκου Λέχοβας’, in Πρακτικά 1ου Συνεδρίου Κορινθιακών Σπουδών (Κόρινθος, 2009), pp.  231–40; Pinatsi, ‘Βυζαντινά μαρμάρινα δάπεδα’, pp. 471–87. 43 

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On the pavement of Andromonastiro and its conservation, see Gianna Doganis, Amerimni Galanos and Michalis Kappas, ‘Restoring the Legibility of a Byzantine Opus Sectile Pavement, Monastery of The Transfiguration, Messenia, Greece’, in 13th Conference for Conservation of Mosaics, Barcelona, 15–20, October 2017 (Barcelona, 2017), p. 80. 56  For example the case of Pantanassa near Philippias, see Panagiotis L. Vocotopoulos, ‘Some Opus Sectile Floor Panels from Pantanassa near Philippias (Epirus)’, in Mélanges Jean-Pierre Sodini, TM, 15, ed.  by François Baratte and others (Paris: Collège de France - CNRC, 2005), pp. 221–27, fig. 1. 57  For the marble quarries in the Mani, see Lorenzo Lazzarini, Poikiloi Lithoi, Versiculores Maculae: I marmi colorati della Grecia, Antica Marmora 2 (Pisa and Roma, 2006), pp. 75, 77, 101– 02; Angeliki Mexia, ‘Βυζαντινή ναοδομία στην Πελοπόννησο. Η περίπτωση των μεσοβυζαντινών ναών της Μέσα Μάνης’, 2  vols (Unpublished doctoral thesis, National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, 2011), I, 123–27; Pinatsi, ‘Βυζαντινά μαρμάρινα δάπεδα’, p. 472, n. 18. 58  Kalokyris, Βυζαντιναὶ ἐκκλησίαι, 109; Maria Panayotidi, ‘The WallPaintings in the Church of the Virgin Cosmosoteira at Ferai (Vira) and Stylistic Trends in the 12th Century Paintings’, in First International Symposium for Thracian Studies, ByzF, 14, (1989), I, 457–84. 59  Kappas, ‘Three Orthodox Monasteries’, pp.  29–33; see also, Gerstel and Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, pp. 187–89. 60  Gerstel and Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, pp. 187–89. 61  Doula Mouriki, ‘An Unusual Representation of the Last Judgment in a Thirteenth Century Fresco at St George near Kouvaras in Attica’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 8 (1975–1976), 145–71. 62  The wall-paintings of this church remain unpublished; for a short reference, see Demetrios Athanasoulis, ‘Corinth’, in Heaven & Earth, Cities and Countryside in Byzantine Greece, ed. by Jenny Albani and Eugenia Chalkia (Athens: Adam Editions – Pergamos, 2013), p. 207, fig. 184. 63  For the new trends in the monumental art of the Peloponnese during the thirteenth century, see Gerstel and Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, pp. 75–102. 64  John Haines, ‘The Songbook for William of Villehardouin, Prince of the Morea (Paris, Bibiothèque national de France, fonds français 844), A crucial Case in the History of Vernacular Song Collections’, in Viewing the Morea, pp. 57–109 with previous bibliography. 65  On the new political agency in the Peloponnese after the Forth Crusade, see Bon, La Morée Franque; P. Lock, The Franks in the Aegean, 1204–1500 (London and New York, 1995); Athanasoulis, ‘The Triangle of Power’, pp. 111–51; Gerstel and Kappas, ‘Between East and West’, pp. 175–202. See also above n. 8. 66  J.  Schmitt, Introduction to the Chronicle of the Morea (London, 1904, repr. Groningen, 1967), 7778–80; P.  Kalonaros, Τὸ Χρονικὸν τοῦ Μορέως (Athens, 1940), 7778–80; English translation in H.  E. Lurier, Crusaders as Conquerors: The Chronicle of Morea (New York and London, 1964). 67  Michalis Kappas, ‘Approaching Monemvasia and Mystras from the Outside: The View from Kastania’, in Viewing Greece: Cultural and Political Agency in the Medieval and Early Modern Mediterranean, ed. by S. E. J. Gerstel (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016), pp. 164–65 and n. 74, with further bibliography. 55 

Arthur C. Fox-Davies, A Complete Guide to Heraldry (London, 1909), pp.  272–76; Terence Wise and Richard Hook, Medieval Heraldry (London: Osprey Publishing, 1997). 69  Haines, ‘The Songbook for William’, pp. 79–81. 70  There are little known on the armorial of the Frankish Greece, see Antoine Bon, ‘Pierres inscrites on armories de la Morée Franque’, Δελτ.Χρ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 5 (1966), 89–96; Monika Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings in the Frankish Gate at Nauplia, Greece: A Historical Construct in the Latin Principality of Morea’, Gesta, 44 (2005), 13–30, esp. pp. 20–21; Robert Ousterhout, ‘Byzantium Between East and West and the Origins of Heraldry’, in Byzantine Art: Recent Studies, ed. by Colum Hourihane (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), pp. 153–70. William’s personal coat of arm probably was the blue-green shield, charged with a silver cross 68 

recercelé, see Hirschbichler, ‘The Crusader Paintings’, p. 21. Though we may assume that the fleur-de-lis played an important role in the family insignia, as is indicated by its depiction in one of the few preserved seals of his daughter Isabella, see Gustave Schlumberger, Ferdinand Chalandon and Adrien Blanchet, Sigillographie de l’orient latin (Paris, 1943), pp. 184–85, pl. ΧΧΙ.4 71  Bon, La Morée Franque, pp.  637–39; Niovi Bouza, ‘Κάστρο Ανδρούσας’, in Ενετοί και Ιωαννίτες ιππότες, Δίκτυα οχυρωματικής αρχιτεκτονικής, πειραματική ενέργεια Archi-med (Athens, 2001), pp.  66–67; Nikos Kontogiannis, ‘Settlements and Countryside of Messenia during the Late Middle Ages: the Testimony of the Fortifications’, BMGS, 34/1 (2010), 3–29 (pp.  16–17); Kappas, ‘Δυτικές επιδράσεις’, pp. 456, 459. 72  Kappas, ‘Ένα βυζαντινό οικοδομικό συνεργείο’, pp. 125–46.

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What Makes a Church Sacred?

Symeon of Thessalonike’s Commentary on the Rite of Consecration Vasileios Marinis Introduction In Byzantium, as is the case today, sanctity was conferred on a church building through a series of lengthy, complicated, and symbolically laden rituals, conventionally known as the rite of consecration.1 The rite was standardized during the Middle Byzantine period and consisted of two parts: the consecration of the altar and the church building (καθιέρωσις), a service performed and attended exclusively by clergy; and the dedication or inauguration (ἐγκαίνια, ἐγκαινισμός), a public service that included the installation of relics in the altar or in the vicinity thereof. The end-result of protracted processes of cultural and liturgical fusions, the rite exhibits influences from a variety of sources, including the Hebrew Bible, the Roman practices of Dedicatio and Consecratio, and Hagiopolite traditions.2 Consequently, the meanings and symbolism of the rite remain somewhat elusive and in need of exegesis. The most detailed – albeit not particularly systematic – attempt at an interpretation of the rite is that of Symeon, the prolific and prolix archbishop of Thessalonike (r. 1416/17–1429).3 His short treatise, which lies at the heart of this essay, is titled On the Holy Temple and its Consecration (Περὶ τοῦ ἁγίου ναοῦ καὶ τῆς τοῦτου καθιερώσεως).4 It is part of a larger work, the so-called Ecclesiastical Dialogue. In the Dialogue, Symeon, prompted by the questions of a cleric, discusses a variety of topics, including heresies, baptism, ordination, and the Divine Liturgy.5 Ioannis Phountoulis has rightly suggested that the Dialogue was meant as a manual for clergy, offering information on

dogmatic and liturgical issues in relatively simple language.6 The work’s catechetical aspect is of particular importance. Symeon claims to offer not an exclusively personal view of the matters in question, but rather a synthesis of accepted opinions based on Scripture and the Fathers.7 Although his personal opinions do often get in the way, Symeon was able to create a practical summation of orthodox faith, beliefs, and practices that express a common denominator. In a fashion typical of Symeon, the treatise On the Holy Temple covers an assortment of subjects, not all related to the topic at hand. For example, Symeon also discusses when and how the emperor ought to take communion inside the sanctuary, the particulars of an emperor’s coronation, and where the catechumens and criminals should stand during worship. The majority of the work, however, is dedicated to the rite of consecration and the symbolic understanding of the church building. The Rite of Consecration in Middle Byzantine Euchologies Symeon assumes that the reader is familiar with the rite and, therefore, a description of its particulars is in order.8 On the eve of the event, a church official makes sure that the stone-masons have the altar ready for its installation. He also prepares the necessary supplies, including sheets, mastic, niter, and myron (perfumed oil). The bishop selects three pieces of relics of martyrs and puts them inside a small reliquary. He then places the reliquary on a paten and covers it

with the asterisk and a veil. The reliquary is deposited in a church near the one that will be consecrated. Vespers, pannychis, and, on the morning of the consecration, matins are celebrated in the nearby church. Τhe bishop arrives at the new church, which is emptied of laypeople and whose doors are sealed. He puts on his vestments and, on top of them, a linen cloth. The other participating clergy also vest. They all enter the sanctuary and prepare the columns or the base of the altar table for the installation of the tabletop. The bishop reads a short prayer, after which the tabletop is set on the columns or base and secured with mastic. Following this, a pillow is set in front of the doors of the sanctuary. The bishop kneels on it and reads an anamnetic prayer that recalls the stories of Moses, the Tabernacle, Bezalel (one of the architects of the Tabernacle), Solomon, and the apostles who founded churches throughout the world. The deacon reads a set of petitions. The bishop enters the sanctuary and makes three crosses on the tabletop using niter. Then he reads a prayer of consecration over a pail of warm water. At the conclusion of the prayer, while reciting Psalm 83 (84),9 he pours the water over the altar three times; then, assisted by the other priests, he washes the altar with the niter and the water, and dries it using clean linen cloths or the antimensia.10 After this, while reciting Psalm 50 (51):9–10,11 the bishop pours wine on the altar crosswise three times. He does the same with the perfumed oil while the alleluia is chanted, ‘like in the [sacrament of ] baptism’,12 and anoints the whole altar, including its columns or base. The priests place the antimensia again on the altar and the bishop pours over them the remaining wine and perfumed oil while he recites Psalm 132 (133).13 The altar is then wiped using the antimensia, which are subsequently taken away. Reciting Psalm 131 (132),14 the bishop lays on the altar a linen cloth called κατασάρκα that has strings on each of its corners; he ties the strings under the tabletop and the antimensia are returned to the altar. Following this, the bishop washes and dries his hands, and spreads the outer covering (called ἄπλωμα or ἐπένδυση) on the altar while reciting Psalm 92 (93).15 He incenses the altar, the sanctuary, and the rest of the church as Psalm 25 (26)16 is recited. Then, escorted by another bishop or priest carrying the vessel with perfumed oil, the bishop makes crosses on each column and pier of the church.17 There follows a diaconal petition, a prayer by the bishop in which

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he beseeches God to ‘fill this temple with your divine glory and proclaim the altar that was erected in it holy of holies’,18 and another prayer of thanksgiving. Finally, he places a new lamp on the altar and takes off his vestments. The attendants to bring in more lamps, candles, and the ‘decoration’ (κόσμος) of the church, including, presumably, its mobile furniture, while the bishop rests. The translation of the relics can take place either the same day or the day after. The bishop vests and, along with the clergy and the people, goes to the nearby church that holds the relics of martyrs and hosts the service of matins. After a series of petitions and prayers, the bishop places the paten with the relics on his head and processes to the new church, escorted by the clergy and people. When they reach the closed, central doors of the church, the bishop places the relics on a table there, and the cantors chant Psalm 23 (24):9–10.19 After reading two prayers (the second being the usual introit prayer), the bishop puts the paten again on his head, the doors are opened, and everyone enters the church, while the cantors sing a hymn. After the bishop reaches the sanctuary, he places the reliquary in a cavity located either under the altar or in the altar table itself. He covers the cavity with a lid and seals it with wax, plaster, or lead. He reads a prayer, the cantors sing the trisagion, and the Divine Liturgy commences. Symeon’s Interpretation of the Rite Rather than summarize Symeon’s treatise, in this paper I analyze the overarching themes of his exegesis. In general, Symeon employs two interpretive modes, conventionally known as historia and theoria.20 In the former, the ritual acts symbolize the events of Christ’s economy of salvation; in the latter, they are ‘representations of spiritual realities’.21 Symeon sometimes employs both historia and theoria in his exegesis of the same act. For example, the altar is anointed with perfumed oil because it symbolizes Christ’s body; at the same time, the anointing manifests that the altar receives the grace of the Holy Spirit.22 Similarly, the altar is washed because it is an image of Christ and should therefore receive Christ’s baptism. At the same time, the blessed water becomes the instrument of the Holy Spirit (that is why the water is warm), and it perfects the altar.23

Throughout the text, Symeon underscores the primacy and importance of the bishop, who is involved in the building process from the very beginning. He is the one who grants permission to the intended patron after he examines the petitioner’s ability to complete the project.24 When the materials are gathered and the foundations laid, the fully vested bishop performs a blessing, and the building begins.25 According to the rubrics, during the consecration ritual itself, the bishop is the main performer – the rest of the clergy play strictly practical roles, such as wiping the altar or bringing the containers of water and perfumed oil. Symeon’s emphasis on the role of the bishop is evident in his attention to even the most inconsequential details. For example, he interprets each of the three sets of strings holding together the linen cloth that the bishop puts on top of his vestments at the beginning of the consecration of the altar as symbols of the Trinity; together the nine strings symbolize the nine angelic orders that praise the Trinity. He acknowledges as an afterthought the most obvious explanation – that the linen cloth protects the vestments during the washing and anointing of the altar.26 A related recurring motif in Symeon’s exegesis is the bishop’s identification with Christ and Christ’s body: ‘On Christ’s throne and through his mercy sits the bishop’, claims Symeon.27 This association allows Symeon to interpret the rite as a reenactment of Christ’s salvific work. The kneeling of the bishop outside the doors of the new church manifests Christ’s incarnation, his descent into the lower parts of Hades, and the deliverance of the souls there; while the newly consecrated church symbolizes his entrance into heaven.28 The identification of the bishop with Christ, especially in the context of the Liturgy, has a long history in early Christian and Byzantine thought,29 but the link between the two was particularly strong during the late Byzantine period – likely as a result of the continuously increasing power of the Patriarchate of Constantinople at the expense of the emperor.30 Thus, here Symeon follows a wellestablished tradition. In the rite, most activity during both parts of the consecration centers around the altar. Accordingly, Symeon considers the sanctuary and, in particular, the altar to be the most important and essential parts of the building. ‘The church is holy’, Symeon writes, ‘because of the [consecrated] sanctuary. Without the sanctuary, it is not a church, but only a house of

prayer, partaking of sanctity only through the prayers [that are said there]. It is not the tabernacle of God’s glory, nor his abode. It is not rich in [divine] power, so as to carry up our prayers that we offer in it to God’.31 Symeon insists that before the consecration of the altar, the building remains profane. He argues that the bishop kneels on a rug and pillow in front of the doors of the sanctuary and reads a prayer before the washing of the altar,32 because the ground is still unconsecrated. After it is consecrated, it is worthy of honor, and some would even kiss it as the ground of heaven.33 The sanctuary receives special treatment during the blessing of the foundations: the bishop descends to the area set aside for it in the east and makes a cross out of stones, sealing them with lime or clay. In the middle of the cross, he places a lit oil lamp. Symeon argues that the lamp signifies that the church will be perfected through oil, particularly perfumed oil.34 Moreover, most ritual activity during both parts of the consecration revolves around the altar. Related to the importance of the sanctuary is the complex, multilayered symbolism that Symeon attributes to the altar. The altar, broadly speaking, is a symbol of Christ, with particular emphasis on the body of Christ.35 As such, it plays a central role in Symeon’s interpretation of the rite as a reenactment of Jesus’ salvific work. For example, the altar covering (κατασάρκα) symbolizes the shroud that wrapped the divine body.36 The pouring of wine37 on the altar is ‘a prelude of the  divine perfumed oil in honor of Jesus’s burial, because he too said about the prostitute, “Why do you trouble the woman? (Mt 26:10). She has kept it for the day of my burial” ( Jn 12:7)’.38 Similarly, according to Symeon, ‘The altar, which manifests he who was buried in him, is anointed with perfumed oil’.39 At the same time, the altar is the tomb of Christ40 – a well-known interpretation put forward most forcefully in the eighth-century liturgical commentary Historia Ekklesiastike kai Mystike Theoria.41 Symeon repeats more familiar tropes, calling the altar the throne of glory (θρόνος δόξης),42 the abode of God (κατοικητήριον Θεοῦ),43 and the divine dwelling place (σκήνωμα θεῖον).44 Finally, he claims that the altar manifests the whole Church.45 Another important facet of Symeon’s interpretation lies in the relationship between the church that is being consecrated and its antecedents, particularly those in the Hebrew Bible. In the rite, these antecedents are mentioned in the anamnetic prayer recited

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in front of the doors of the sanctuary.46 The bishop beseeches God, who assisted Moses, Bezalel, and Solomon in their work to found the Tabernacle and the Temple, to empower him so that he might accomplish the consecration, even though he is a sinner. Symeon simply summarizes the prayer, although he incorrectly notes that the prayer asks for God to sanctify the church.47 He also seems to be unaware – or, more likely, he simply ignores – that the consecration of God’s temple with oil is directly inspired by ritual practices in the Hebrew Bible. For example, in Exodus 40:9–10 God commands Moses to sanctify the Tabernacle and all its furniture with the anointing oil (τὸ ἔλαιον τοῦ χρίσματος).48 Yet, Symeon frequently cites parallels between the Byzantine ritual actions and the Hebrew Bible. For example, the incense that fills the church when the bishop enters with the paten and martyrs’ relics symbolizes the cloud that filled the Tabernacle and Solomon’s Temple when the Ark of the Covenant entered these spaces.49 Symeon, however, follows a long-established Christian and Byzantine tradition, in which Christian practices and buildings have both an admiring and, at the same time, antagonistic relationship to the Tabernacle and the Temple.50 Thus, the antimensia, the portable textile altars used in unconsecrated spaces, can be moved from place to place in imitation of the Tabernacle, although their power is much greater.51 Both the rite itself and Symeon’s interpretation note the multitude of churches that the apostles planted throughout the earth.52 In contrast, however, to the Tabernacle and the Temple, there is virtually no scriptural information about such buildings. Aware of this predicament, Symeon offers an imaginative way to connect the purported churches founded by the apostles with the newly consecrated one. He likens the transfer of the martyrs’ relics to the notion of the apostolic succession: The same way divine grace has been transmitted uninterruptedly through ordination from the apostles to clergy at Symeon’s time, so too is grace transmitted from the churches of the apostles to contemporary churches through the transfer of relics.53 Thus, every newly consecrated church is part of a spiritual chain that goes back to apostolic times and, ultimately, to the Temple and the Tabernacle. Symeon dedicates a considerable amount of his commentary to the second part of the consecration rite, the dedication or inauguration during which

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martyrs’ relics are transferred to the new church and enshrined in the altar. In his interpretation, Symeon addresses a peculiar theological conundrum. The rubrics and prayers of the rite clearly state that the altar is consecrated through the ritual acts of washing and anointing, as does Symeon’s exegesis. The prayer that the bishop recites before washing asks God the Father to send down the Holy Spirit and to ‘bless this water for the sanctification and perfection of this altar’,54 an indication that the ‘sanctification and perfection’ are accomplished through the water.55 The prayer that follows the anointing again asks the Father to send the Holy Spirit. It continues: ‘We request from you, merciful Lord, that you fill with divine glory this church, constructed for your praise, and that you proclaim holy of holies the altar built in it’.56 These prayers constitute consecratory epikleseis, analogous to the epiklesis read at the anaphora at the moment of the consecration of the Eucharistic elements.57 Symeon himself is also explicit: ‘Then the holy myron conveys the perfection of the sanctuary and the “Alleluia”,58 which is a prophetic song, announces God’s appearance and the praise [offered to him].… So that this altar is truly Christ’s sanctuary, the throne of Glory, God’s abode, the memorial and tomb of Christ, and his rest’.59 As a result, the whole church is sacred. The opening of the doors of the new church and the entrance of the bishop with the relics signifies, Symeon argues, the entrance into the heavens and the opening of the heavenly Tabernacle by Christ.60 Given these statements, the question remains: if the altar and the rest of the church are consecrated with the ritual anointing, what is the reason for the enshrinement of relics? A discussion of the origins and development of the two parts of the consecration rite lies beyond the scope of this paper.61 I believe, however, that MarieFrance Auzépy is correct in attributing the prominent role of relics to the reaction against the iconoclastic practice of consecrating altars without them.62 Thus, the Second Council of Nicaea (787), which stipulated that all churches must be consecrated also with the remains of martyrs, formalized what was likely a custom but not a requirement.63 It is worth noting that the wording of the canon indicates that churches can be consecrated without relics.64 In other words, the canon does not claim that the churches consecrated without relics are not properly consecrated. It follows that the deposition of relics was a part of

the consecration but not a crucial component of it, at least not before Nicaea II. Considering that the canon envisions a fairly simple ceremony – the deposition of relics along with a prayer – I agree with Auzépy that the second part of the rite, which is fairly extensive, was compiled after Nicaea II.65 The dedication rite is ambiguous regarding what it is exactly that the relics do. In a prayer read in the church where the relics are kept, the bishop asks God to ‘grant us, your unworthy servants, to share a place and lot with them [i.e., the martyrs], so that we become their imitators and worthy of the blessings reserved for them’,66 a petition that does not foresee any consecratory function for the relics. In the first prayer outside the closed doors of the new church, the bishop asks God to look favorably upon those who celebrate the dedication of the venerable temple, but the relics are not mentioned.67 Even the prayer that follows the sealing of the relics and the altar is not particularly enlightening: The bishop asks God, who gave as a gift to the martyrs that their relics be scattered like seed throughout the churches of the whole earth, to make the participants worthy to offer the bloodless sacrifice, and to allow the martyrs, on behalf of his holy name, to work miracles for the benefit of the participants’ salvation.68 In other words, the relics do not play a role in the consecration of the building, at least not according to the rubrics and prayers of the rite. In this way, the compilers of the dedication rite (if indeed it is a product of the period after Nicaea II and a response to the council’s guidelines) cleverly avoided a theologically confusing double consecration. Later theologians, however, likely influenced by the polemical tone of the Nicaea II canon, made the deposition of the relics a central – if not the only – requirement for the consecration of a church. In his commentary on the canon, the twelfth-century clergyman Theodore Balsamon, writes, ‘It is the custom of the Church to consecrate the divine temples by holy relics of martyrs’.69 Balsamon emphasizes the deposition of the relics as the central act of consecration, although this is not what the canon instructs. Symeon’s interpretation is along the same lines: ‘It is not right to carry out the consecration without relics of martyrs or holy saints,70 because the martyrs are the foundations of the Church, built upon the foundation stone of the Savior.…Without relics it is not possible to consecrate [the altar]’.71 In order to avoid

the apparent quandary of the double consecration, Symeon offers a rather ingenious interpretation. He argues that the relics typify the body of Christ and are deposited in Christ’s tomb, the altar, which had been perfected as such during the first part of the rite.72 The connection between Christ and martyrs is suggested by the treatment of the relics during the rite. As mentioned above, the rubrics instruct the bishop to place the reliquary with the remains of the martyrs on a paten and cover it with an asterisk and a veil. These ritual acts are identical to the treatment of the portions of the Eucharistic bread during the prothesis rite, a parallel that is of central importance in Symeon’s exegesis.73 He writes that the relics ‘are laid on the most holy paten, because they participate in the same honor as the Lord, having contended with him. And they are placed on a consecrated altar because they died with Christ and they happen to stand beside his divine throne of glory. Because of this, the bishop raises them with the disk on the top of his head, honoring them as the divine mysteries, i.e., the body and blood of the Lord’.74 The identification of the relics with Christ is also apparent in Symeon’s interpretation of the rites that take place outside the closed doors of the new church and what follows. For example, the opening of the doors and the bishop’s entrance to the church with the relics symbolize Christ’s Ascension.75 Finally, the bishop pours perfumed oil over the relics after their installation in the altar, because they symbolize the time when a woman anointed Christ before his passion. The same act also symbolizes Christ’s burial.76 Some Conclusions How is sacred space constructed in Byzantium? For the Byzantine Church the answer is fairly straightforward. It is the Spirit that makes the altar and the rest of the building holy through the rite of the consecration. To adapt a formulation that originates with Augustine, the ritual acts of this service, such as the washing and anointing of the altar, are outward signs of an invisible grace. In that sense, the rite of consecration is not different from other sacraments: the operation of the Holy Spirit is made manifest through acts, words, and the employment of material substances.77 The theological underpinning of the rite itself is elegant in its simplicity.

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In contrast, Symeon’s exegesis seems baroque and obfuscatory. True, it is at times based on connections made by the rite itself or on traditional interpretations,78 yet here, as in his other liturgical commentaries, Symeon exhibits an obsession with attaching meaning to virtually every detail of the rite, even those that have patently practical purposes.79 Symeon seems to think that a prayer or ritual act must stand for something, otherwise, it loses its purpose or its efficacy. This results in a dizzying array of symbolism, a set of signifiers so dense as to become overwhelming for the reader, let alone the clerics who were to use this text for religious instruction. Despite its obscurity and the somewhat tenuous connections, Symeon’s interpretation remains well within the traditional confines of the Byzantine understanding of mysteries, or what we would call sacraments. The number three is a clear reference to the Trinity, and chrismation constitutes a visible sign of the Holy Spirit’s action – all instances of theoria. Yet Symeon imposes on the consecration rite the historia commonly found in commentaries of the Divine Liturgy. The washing of the altar symbolizes Christ’s baptism, the kneeling of the bishop represents Christ’s descent into Hades, the bishop’s entrance into the new church signifies Christ’s Ascension. While in the context of the Divine Liturgy connections between the rituals and Christ’s life make sense, I remain doubtful that this is the case when it comes to the consecration rite. What exactly is the point of viewing the consecration of a church as a reenactment of Jesus’s life, when the rite itself makes very few allusions to it and, in contrast, largely underscores the role of the Holy Spirit in perfecting the new church building? Finally, here, as in virtually all liturgical commentaries, the building itself exists as an ideal and not as a reality. Symeon is utterly without concern for building types, construction techniques, the size of a dome, or even its existence. It is true that after his interpretation of the consecration rite, he discusses the symbolism of the church’s various parts, including the prothesis and the sanctuary screen. Yet, as is his wont, Symeon quickly becomes distracted by not entirely related issues, such as where people ought to stand in church and the order in which they should receive communion.80 For him, a church is a church, and, if it is consecrated, it is the heavens filled with rejoicing angels – a place where the bloodless sacrifice takes place regularly and from where the people’s

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prayers are lifted up to God’s sanctuary. Whether the church is a basilica, a domed-octagon, or a crossin-square building; whether it is large or small, is no matter. For many years, architectural historians have been distracted by Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, a transgression which Robert Ousterhout has warned us about more than twenty years ago: ‘Our picture of  Byzantine architecture is dominated by the immense presence of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople.…However, by its size Hagia Sophia is something of an anomaly in Byzantine architecture’.81 For Symeon, as for many Byzantines, every church, however majestic or humble, was heaven on earth.

notes For the development of the rite, see Vitalijs Permjakovs, ‘“Make This the Place Where Your Glory Dwells”: Origins and Evolution of the Byzantine Rite for the Consecration of a Church’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Notre Dame, 2012). For discussions of the rite, see Vicenzo Ruggieri, ‘Consacrazione e dedicazione di chiesa, secondo il Barberinianus Graecus 336’, OCP, 54 (1988), 79–188; Marie-France Auzépy, ‘Les Isauriens et l’espace sacré: l’église et les reliques’, in Le sacré et son inscription dans l’espace à Byzance et en Occident, ed. by Michel Kaplan (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2001), pp. 13–24; Bissera Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia: Sound, Space, and Spirit in Byzantium (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2017), pp. 45–75. 2  Permjakovs, ‘“Make This the Place”’, pp. 33–176. 3  Little is known about Symeon’s life. He was born in Constantinople in the second half of the fourteenth century. He was a monk in one of the city’s numerous monasteries, perhaps ton Xanthopoulon. In 1416/17, he began a tumultuous tenure as archbishop of Thessalonike. He died in 1429, a few months before the Ottomans conquered the city. See Martin Jugie, ‘Syméon de Thessalonique’, Dictionnaire de Théologie Catholique 14 (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1941), pp. 2976–84; Ioannis M. Phountoulis, Τὸ λειτουργικὸν ἔργον Συμεὼν Θεσσαλονίκης (Thessalonike: Hetaireia Makedonikon Spoudon, 1966), pp.  21–28; David Balfour, ‘St Symeon of Thessalonica: A Polemical Hesychast’, Sobornost, 4  (1982), 6–21; David Balfour, ‘Saint Symeon of Thessalonike as a Historical Personality’, GOTR, 28 (1983), pp. 55–72; David Balfour, ‘New Data on the Late Byzantine Saint, Symeon of Thessalonika’, Macedonian Studies, 6  (1989), 40–58; Marie-Hélène Congourdeau, ‘Syméon de Thessalonique’, Dictionnaire de Spiritualité 14 (1990), 1401–08; Steven Hawkes-Teeples, St Symeon of Thessalonika. The Liturgical Commentaries (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2011), pp. 18–23. 4  PG 155, cols 305–62. 5  Ἐκκλησιαστικὸς Διάλογος, PG 155, cols 33–696. 6  Phountoulis, Τὸ λειτουργικὸν ἔργον, pp. 32–34. 7  This is evident throughout the text, as well as in the title: Τοῦ μακαριωτάτου ἀρχιεπισκόπου Θεσσαλονίκης Συμεὼν διάλογος… 1 

οὐδὲν αὐτοῦ ἴδιον κεκτημένος, ἀλλ᾽ ἐκ τῶν ἁγίων γραφῶν καὶ τῶν πατέρων ἐρανισθεὶς αὐτῷ καὶ συντεθεὶς κατὰ δύναμιν, PG 155, col. 33. See also Phountoulis, Τὸ λειτουργικὸν ἔργον, pp. 120–21. 8  This description is based on Miguel Arranz, L’eucologio constantinopolitano agli inizi del secolo XI. Hagismatarion & Archieratikon (Rituale & Pontificale) con l’aggiunta del Leitourgikon (Messale) (Rome: Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 1996), pp. 227–45. For the consecration rite Arranz collated two manuscripts: Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Coislin 213 (1027) and Grottaferrata, Γ.β.Ι, which, in fact, dates to the thirteenth century. 9  ‘How beloved are your coverts, O Lord of hosts!’ Translations of excerpts from the Septuagint are from A New English Translation of the Septuagint, ed. by Albert Pietersma and Benjamin G. Wright (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007). 10  Textiles used as portable altars. Their consecration takes place later during the rite. 11  ‘You will sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be cleansed; you will wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. You will make me hear joy and gladness; humbled bones will rejoice’. 12  Arranz, L’eucologio, p.  235. According to Permjakovs, ‘“Make This the Place”’, pp. 222–32, this is a reference to the practice of using perfumed oil for the consecration of the baptismal water. Yet, the rubric might also mean that the allelouia is chanted in the same way as in the sacrament of baptism. 13  ‘Look now, what is good and what is pleasant more than that kindred live together?’ 14  ‘O Lord, remember Dauid and all his meekness’. 15  ‘The Lord became king; he was robed in majesty’. 16  ‘Vindicate me, O Lord, because I walked in my guilelessness, and since I hope in the Lord, I shall not grow weak’. 17  According to Symeon, however, the bishop anoints the whole building with myron. PG 155, col. 317C. 18  Arranz, L’eucologio, p. 238. 19  ‘Raise the gates, O rulers of yours! And be raised up, O perpetual gates! And the King of glory shall enter. Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory’. 20  Both modes are well known from liturgical commentaries. For a discussion, see René Bornert, Les commentaires byzantins de la Divine Liturgie du VIIe au XVe siècle (Paris: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1966), pp. 218–21; Robert F. Taft, ‘The Liturgy of the Great Church: An Initial Synthesis of Structure and Interpretation on the Eve of Iconoclasm’, DOP, 34–35 (1980–81), 45–75. 21  Pseudo-Dionysius, Corpus Dionysiacum, ed.  by Günter Heil and Adolf Martin Ritter, vol. 2 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), p. 74. 22  PG 155, col. 316C. See also the section on the altar’s symbolism. 23  PG 155, col. 313D. 24  Symeon reiterates legislation already known from the time of Justinian I, see Novella 67 (CIC, III, 344–47). 25  PG 155, cols 305C–309A. 26  PG 155, col. 309B–D. 27  Ἐπὶ δὲ τὸν θρόνον Χριστοῦ κάθηται ἐλέει αὐτοῦ ὁ ἀρχιερεύς. PG 155, col. 305C. 28  Καὶ ἐνώπιον τοῦ ἡγιασμένου νέου ἐστὶ ναοῦ, εἰς οὐρανὸν προσκυνῶν, πιστεύων, ὡς πλήρης δόξης Θεοῦ ἐστι, καὶ ἄγγελοί εἰσιν ἐν αὐτῷ, καὶ ἄμα ἐμφαίνων, ὅτι καὶ Θεὸς κατῆλθε δι᾽ ἡμᾶς πρὸς ἡμᾶς, καὶ εἰς τὰ κατώτερα κατέβη μέρη τοῦ ἅδου, καὶ τὰς ψυχὰς ἐξείλετο, καὶ ἀναστάς, εἰς τοὺς οὐρανοὺς ἡμᾶς εἰσελθὼν ἀνύψωσεν. PG 155,

col. 324B. Symeon claims that in this instance both the bishop and the relics signify Christ. 29  See, for example, Pseudo-Dionysius, p. 107; Paul Meyendorff, St  Germanus of Constantinople: On the Divine Liturgy (Crestwood, N.Y.: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1984), pp. 76–77; PG 87c, cols 3996B–3997A (Pseudo-Sophronios). 30  Titos Papamastorakis, ‘Η μορφή του Χριστού-Μεγάλου Αρχιερέα’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 17 (1993–94), 67–78. 31  Καὶ διὰ τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου ἅγιος ὁ ναός ἐστι· χωρὶς δὲ θυσιαστηρίου οὐ ναός, ἀλλὰ προσευχῆς μόνον οἶκος, μετέχων τῆς ἀπὸ τῶν εὐχῶν μόνης ἁγιωσύνης, οὐ Θεοῦ δόξης σκήνωμα, οὐδὲ κατοικητήριον τούτου, οὐδὲ ἰσχὺν πλουτῶν θείαν, τὰς ἐν αὐτῷ ἡμῶν προσευχὰς πρὸς Θεὸν ἀναφέρειν διὰ τῆς ἐν αὐτῷ χάριτος. PG 155, col. 305A-B. 32  Arranz, L’eucologio, pp. 231–33. 33  Διὰ τὸ μὴ εἶναι ἔτι τὸ ἔδαφος ἅγιον. Τοῦτο γὰρ καθιερωθέν, τίμιόν ἐστι, καὶ πλεῖστοι τοῦτο ὡς οὐρανοῦ ἔδαφος ἠσπάζοντο τῶν θεοφίλων. PG 155, col. 313Α. 34  PG 155, col. 308B–D. 35  Ἐπεὶ γὰρ τὸν Ἰησοῦν ἡ τράπεζα εἰκονίζει. PG 155, col. 313C. 36  Δηλοῖ τὴν σινδόνα ἐπὶ τῷ νεκρωθέντι δι᾽ ἡμᾶς θείῳ σώματι. PG 155, col.  317Α. The outer garment, which Symeon calls τραπεζοφόρον and is more splendid than the other textiles, signifies Christ’s dazzling clothes (presumably at the Transfiguration, see Luke 9:29). PG 155, col. 317A. 37  Or rose extract (ῥοδόσταγμα), according to Symeon. 38  Ταῦτα δὲ προοίμια τοῦ θείου μύρου εἰσὶν εἰς τιμὴν τῆς ταφῆς τοῦ Χριστοῦ, ἐπεὶ καὶ οὖτος περὶ τῆς πόρνης ἔφη, «Τί κόπους παρέχετε τῇ γυναικί; εἰς τὴν ἡμέραν τοῦ ἐνταφιασμοῦ μου τετήρηκεν αὐτό.» PG 155, col. 316A. 39  Καὶ ἡ δηλοῦσα τοῦτον τὸν ἐν ταύτῃ ταφέντα τράπεζα μύρῳ χρίεται. PG 155, col. 316C. 40  Ἐπεὶ γὰρ τὸ μνῆμα τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἐγεῖραι μέλλει καὶ ἁγιάσαι [ὁ ἀρχιερεύς], τὴν ἱεράν φημι τράπεζαν. PG 155, col.  309C. See also PG 155, col. 312C (ὅτι καὶ τὸν τάφον καὶ τὸ μνῆμα ἡ ἱερὰ εἰκονίζει τράπεζα), col.  316D (μνῆμα καὶ τάφος Χριστοῦ), and col.  320B (μνῆμα Χριστοῦ). 41  Meyendorff, St Germanus, pp. 58, 86. 42  PG 155, cols 316D, 317D. 43  PG 155, col. 316D. 44  PG 155, col. 317C. 45  ὅτι τὴν ἐκκλησίαν ἅπασαν ἡ τράπεζα ἐκτυποῖ. PG 155, col. 316D. See also col. 320B. The idea that an individual church is a representation of the universal Church is found as early as Eusebios. 46  Arranz, L’eucologio, pp. 231–33. 47  PG 155, col. 313B. 48  See Permjakovs, ‘“Make This the Place”’, pp. 33–38 for further examples. 49  Τοῦτο δὲ τὸ θυμίαμα καὶ ἀντὶ νεφέλης ἐστὶν ἣν ἐπλήρωσεν ἁγιαζομένην τὴν τοῦ μαρτυρίου σκηνήν, καὶ τὸν τοῦ Σολομῶντος ναὸν, τῆς κιβωτοῦ εἰσελθοῦσης. PG 155, col. 329C. Cf. Exodus 40:34. 50  On this topic, see John Wilkinson, ‘Paulinus’ Temple at Tyre’, JÖB, 32.4 (1982), 553–61; Robert Ousterhout, ‘New Temples and New Solomons: The Rhetoric of Byzantine Architecture’, in The Old Testament in Byzantium, ed. by Paul Magdalino and Robert Nelson (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 2010), pp. 223–53; Vasileios Marinis, ‘The Historia Ekklesiastike kai Mystike Theoria: A Symbolic Understanding of the Byzantine Church Building’, BZ, 108 (2015), 753–70 (pp. 759–60 and especially fn. 23). See

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also Johannes Koder, ‘Justinians Sieg über Salomon’, in Θυμίαμα στη μνήμη της Λασκαρίνας Μπούρα (Athens: Mouseio Benaki, 1994), pp. 135–42. 51  Καὶ ἀπὸ τόπου εἰς τόπον ἀγόμενα κατὰ μίμησιν τῆς πάλαι σκηνῆς, μείζονα ταύτης κατὰ πολὺ κεκτημένα δύναμιν. PG 155, col. 332D. 52  Arranz, L’eucologio, pp. 231–32; PG 155, col. 313B. 53  Καὶ ὥσπερ κατὰ διαδοχὴν ἡ χάρις πρὸς ἡμᾶς, ὡς ἀπὸ τοῦ Σωτῆρος διὰ τῶν ἀποστόλων καὶ τῶν διαδόχων αὐτοῦ ἄχρις ἡμῶν ἔρχεται διὰ τῆς χειροτονίας, οὕτω καὶ διὰ τῶν πρώτων ναῶν εἰς νεωτέρους ναούς. PG 155, col. 321A–C. 54  Καὶ εὐλόγησον τὸ ὕδωρ τοῦτο πρὸς ἁγιασμὸν καὶ τελείωσιν τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου τούτου. Arranz, L’eucologio, p. 234. 55  Thus, Pentcheva’s assertion that the consecration – or what she calls empsychosis or inspiriting, although this term is not found in any sources relating to the rite – takes place at the anointing is incorrect. See Pentcheva, Hagia Sophia, pp. 61–62. 56  Καὶ δεόμεθά σου εὔσπλαγχνε τὸν πρὸς σὴν ὑμνῳδίαν οἰκοδομηθέντα τοῦτο ναὸν τῆς θείας πλήρωσον δόξης καὶ τὸ ἐν αὐτῷ παγὲν θυσιαστήριον ἅγιον ἁγίων ἀνάδειξον. Arranz, L’eucologio, p.  238. See also the second prayer read after the anointing: Διὸ δεόμεθά σου Δέσποτα πολυέλεε πλήρωσον δόξης καὶ ἁγιασμοῦ καὶ χάριτος το θυσιαστήριόν σου τοῦτο. Arranz, L’eucologio, p. 239. 57  See Frank Edward Brightman, Liturgies, Eastern and Western: Vol.  I: Eastern Liturgies (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1896), pp. 386–87. 58  The Allelouia is sung during the washing of the altar, see Arranz, L’eucologio, p. 235. 59  Εἶτα καὶ τὴν τελείωσιν φέρει τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου τὸ μύρον τὸ ἅγιον, καὶ τὸ Ἀλληλούϊα ἐκφωνεῖ, ὃ προφητικόν ἐστι ᾄσμα, ἐπιδημίαν Θεοῦ καὶ αἴνεσιν Θεοῦ δηλοῦν… Ὥστε ἀληθῶς καὶ θυσιαστήριον Χριστοῦ αὔτη ἡ τράπεζα, και θρόνος δόξης, καὶ κατοικητήριον Θεοῦ, καὶ μνῆμα καὶ τάφος Χριστοῦ καὶ ἀνάπαυσις. PG 155, col. 316B–D. 60  Καὶ οὕτω σφραγίζων τὰς τοῦ ναοῦ πύλας καὶ ἀνοίγων, ὡς εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν εἴσεισιν, ὡς διὰ τοῦ μεγάλου τοῦ Πατρὸς μάρτυρος Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ τῆς οὐρανίου σκηνῆς διανοιχθείσης ἡμῖν. PG 155, col. 321D. 61  See the detailed discussion in Permjakovs, ‘“Make This the Place”’. 62  Auzépy, ‘Les Isauriens et l’espace sacré’, pp. 17–23. See also John Haldon and Leslie Brubaker, Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era, c. 680–850: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 2011), pp. 39–40. 63  Ὅσοι οὖν σεπτοὶ ναοὶ καθιερώθησαν ἐκτὸς ἁγίων λειψάνων μαρτύρων, ὁρίζομεν ἐν αὐτοῖς κατάθεσιν γίνεσθαι λειψάνων μετὰ τῆς συνήθους εὐχῆς. ‘Ὅ δὲ ἄνευ ἁγίων λειψάνων καθιερῶν ναόν, καθαιρείσθω, ὡς παραβεβηκὼς τὰς ἐκκλησιαστικὰς παραδόσεις. Georgios A. Ralles and Michael Potles, Σύνταγμα τῶν θείων καὶ ἱερῶν κανόνων, 6 vols (Athens: Typographeion G. Chartophylakos, 1852–59), II, 580. 64  ‘We ordain that, in those sacred temples that were consecrated without holy relics of martyrs, the deposition occurs along with the usual prayer’ (my italics). 65  Ralles and Potles, Σύνταγμα, II, 580; Auzépy, ‘Les Isauriens et l’espace sacré’, p. 18. 66  Καὶ χάρισαι ἡμῖν τοῖς ἀναξίοις σου δούλοις μέρος καὶ κλῆρον ἔχειν μετ᾽ αὐτῶν ἵνα μιμηταὶ αὐτῶν γενόμενοι καταξιωθῶμεν καὶ τῶν ἀποκειμένων αὐτοῖς ἀγαθῶν. Arranz, L’eucologio, p. 240.

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Ἐπίβλεψον ἐφ᾽ ἡμᾶς τοὺς ἀμαρτωλοὺς καὶ ἀναξίους δούλους σου τὸν ἐγκαινισμὸν ἑορτάζοντας τοῦ σεβασμίου ναοῦ. Arranz, L’eucologio, p. 242. 68  Arranz, L’eucologio, pp. 244–45. 69  Ἔθος ἧν ἐκκλησιαστικὸν τοὺς θείους ναοὺς καθιεροῦσθαι διὰ ἁγίων λειψάνων μαρτυρικῶν. Ralles and Potles, Σύνταγμα, II, 581. 70  Symeon here concedes to the possibility that martyrs’ relics might not always be available, although his argumentation rests on the assumption that the relics used will be of martyrs. 71  Οὐδὲ γὰρ θέμις δίχα λειψάνων μαρτυρικῶν ἤ ὁσίων ἁγίων καθιέρωσιν ἐνεργεῖν, ὅτι θεμέλιοι τῆς Ἐκκλησίας εἰσὶν οἱ μάρτυρες, ἐπὶ τῷ θεμελίῳ τοῦ Σωτῆρος ἐποικοδομηθέντες…καὶ χωρὶς λειψάνων οὑ καθιερῶσαι δυνατόν. PG 155, col. 320C–D. 72  Τὸν Χριστὸν τυποῦσι οἱ μάρτυρες. PG 155, col. 321D. 73  See, for example, Panagiotis N. Trempelas, Αἱ τρεῖς λειτουργίαι κατὰ τοὺς ἐν Ἀθήναις κώδικας (Athens: Verlag der Byzantinischneugriechischen Jahrbücher, 1935), pp. 2–5. 74  Καὶ εἰς ἱερώτατον ἐμβάλλονται δίσκον, ὅτι τῆς ἵσης μετέχουσι τῷ Δεσπότι τιμῆς, ὑπὲρ αὐτοῦ διηγωνισαμένοι. Καὶ ἐπὶ καθιερωμένης τραπέζης τίθενται, ἐπεὶ συναπέθανον τῷ Χριστῷ καὶ τῷ θείῳ τῆς αὐτοῦ δόξης θρόνῳ τυγχάνουσι παριστάμενοι. Διὰ τοῦτο καὶ ἐπὶ κεφαλῆς μετὰ τοῦ δίσκου ὁ ἀρχιερεὺς αἴρει ταῦτα, ὡς αὐτὰ δὴ τὰ θεῖα μυστήρια τὸ τοῦ Δεσπότου σῶμα καὶ αἶμα τιμῶν. PG 155, col. 320D. This parallel, attractive as it may seem at first, is somewhat problematic. When the Eucharistic bread is covered with the asterisk and the veil, it is still unconsecrated, as is also the case when it is transferred from the prothesis to the altar during the Great Entrance – the procession mirrored by that of the bishop. Yet, it seems impossible to me that the compilers of the dedication rite did not have the parallel between Christ and the martyrs in mind when they wrote the pertinent rubrics. 75  Καὶ ἡ κλεῖσίς τε καὶ ἄνοιξις τῶν θείων θυρῶν τὴν εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν εἴσοδον, καὶ τὰ πραχθέντα τοῖς ἀγγέλοις ἐπὶ τῇ τοῦ Χριστοῦ ἀναλήψει. PG 155, col. 324. 76  Εἶτα τὰ λείψανα ἐν γλωσσοκόμῳ ἀργυρῷ ἢ χαλκῷ ἢ λιθίνῳ προευτρεπισμένου ἐνθέμενος, καὶ μῦρον αὐτοῖς θεῖον ἐκχέας, ἡνωμένοι γάρ εἰσι Χριστῷ τῷ ἀληθινῷ μύρῳ, καὶ τῆς εὐωδίας τῆς χάριτος οἱ μάρτυρες ἔμπλεοι ἅμα δὲ καὶ τὸν ἐνταφιασμὸν Χριστοῦ καὶ τούτων δηλῶν, ἐπεὶ καὶ ὑπὸ τὸν τάφον Χριστοῦ, τὴν ἱερὰν τράπεζαν, ὡς θαπτόμενοι κατατίθενται, καὶ ὅτι μέλλων πάσχειν καὶ θάπτεσθαι τῷ γυναικὸς μύρῳ ἐχρίσατο ὁ Σωτήρ. PG 155, col. 332A. 77  For the list of sacraments in Byzantium see ODB, s.v. ‘Sacraments’. 78  For example, Psalm 23 (24):9–10, sung in front of the closed doors (Arranz, L’eucologio, p.  241), has been associated with Christ’s Ascension already in the writings of the second-century apologist Justin Martyr. Denis Minns and Paul Parvis, Justin, Philosopher and Martyr, Apologies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 208–10. 79  For example, the linen cloth that the bishop wears at the beginning of the rite, or the rug and pillow set in front of the doors of the sanctuary for the bishop to kneel on. 80  PG 155, col. 352A-B. 81  Robert Ousterhout, ‘The Holy Space: Architecture and the Liturgy’, in Heaven on Earth: Art and the Church in Byzantium, ed.  by Linda Safran (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998), pp. 81–120 (p. 82). 67 

Furnishing the Celestial Sanctuary

Painted Architectural Settings for the Communion of the Apostles Warren T. Woodfin Conventional histories of the Renaissance celebrate the invention of one-point perspective in contradistinction to the lack of systematic perspective in Byzantine painting and in its Italian legacy, the maniera greca.1 Modern apologists for Byzantine art have, on the other hand, offered arguments for the artistic legitimacy or even superiority of the so-called ‘reverse perspective’ seen in icon painting.2 Pavel Florensky’s seminal essay on the subject posited that, rather than being naïve, Byzantine icon painters were employing reverse perspective as a specific system for the representation of reality, one ‘entirely premeditated and consicous’.3 The Russian artist and theorist Lev Zhegin went even further, attempting to describe the spatial distortions used in Byzantine art as manifestations of a comprehensive system for the two-dimensional rendering of three-dimensional forms; how convincingly his system can be applied is open to debate.4 Clemena Antonova, who has recently revisited the subject, builds on ideas advanced by Florensky and Umberto Eco to argue that the Byzantine treatment of space, characterized by reverse perspective, is an expression of ‘the way God sees the world’, that is to say, without any fixed point in time or space, but rather capable of perceiving an object’s multiple aspects simultaneously.5 This aesthetic characteristic of icon painting – and by extension, of Byzantine sacred art in general – is interpreted as ‘one of the major factors that signal presence’ in the image.6 If one casts one’s art-historical net more broadly, however, one sees that linear perspective is the exception, not the rule, and that the majority of artistic cultures outside of post-Renaissance Europe share a fundamentally similar approach

to rendering three dimensions on a two-dimensional surface.7 The attribution of symbolic value to the Byzantine rendering of space, either as a ‘God’s-eye view’ or ‘signal of presence’ is problematized by the fact that it is also characteristic of many artistic styles, e.g., the miniature painting of Safavid Persia, in which there is no question of a sacred ‘presence’ behind the image.8 Byzantine perspective is not amenable to systematic analysis in the same way one might decode isometric perspective or Albertian linear perspective; it tends to blend outside and inside, presenting an image of the whole of a structure rather than capturing it from a single vantage point.9 Important features such as church apses are ‘turned out’ to be visible simultaneously with the facade and flank of the building. Nonetheless, certain norms are observed, and the use of multiple viewpoints still allows for the identification of the represented forms. Architectural models in presentation images – such as the Chora Monastery presented by Theodore Metochites to Christ at the Kariye Camii – are recognizable as images of specific buildings.10 Similarly, one can, in most cases, sort out images of liturgical settings through a sort of pragmatic analysis of the image. Relatively straightforward representations of liturgical space can be found, for example, in the illustrations of the so-called Menologion of Basil II (Vat. gr. 1613) (Fig. 1). In the Menologion’s image for the feast of the Hypapantē, on page 365, the representation of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple features a white marble enclosure, resembling somewhat the coro of a medieval Italian basilica, with rose-colored marble of a breccia type forming the plinth and cornice of the barrier. Its

Fig. 1.  Presentation of Christ. Menologion of Basil II, Vat. gr. 1613, page 365, c. 1000 (© 2020 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, reproduced by permission of Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, with all rights reserved).

gates, gilded, are attached to posts of a type familiar from surviving Middle Byzantine chancel barriers.11 A cubical altar, largely obscured by the body of the priest Symeon, sits beneath a canopy supported on four columns. While the canopy is over-large for the enclosure, its columns all appear to sit within its bounds. The extension of the surrounding barrier on the right side of the image bends upwards to indicate its recession into depth, even as the ‘back’ of its lefthand side is parallel with the segment containing the gates. The relation between ‘front’ and ‘back’ is here obscured by the placement of the Mother of God and the Christ Child she hands over to Symeon. Obviously, in contrast to a composition by Masaccio or Piero della Francesca, we cannot even attempt to generate a measured drawing of the plan and elevation of the space depicted in the Menologion illustration. The basic principle of Renaissance perspective – that objects further away are depicted smaller than those near at hand – does not apply here. Nevertheless the Byzantine image adheres to certain norms:

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elements towards the foreground overlap those further back in space, at least the foremost part of the architecture sits firmly on a ground line, and there is a relatively clear differentiation of vertical and horizontal elements, even when the lines used to depict them run diagonally across the picture surface. As can be ascertained from a perusal of other images in the same manuscript, figures overlap architecture that they stand in front of, and they are in turn obscured by architecture they stand behind or within.12 When we turn to Middle Byzantine representations of the Communion of the Apostles, however, we encounter depicted architectural spaces that seem to contravene even these basic norms. The Communion of the Apostles first appears as a major theme of monumental painting in churches of the eleventh century.13 Just as was the case with early Byzantine representations of the subject on the Riha and Stuma patens and in manuscript illuminations (Rossano Gospels, fols  3v, 4r; Rabula Gospels, fol. 11v),14 the scenes represent the origin of

the Eucharist – with Christ and his apostles – in the guise of the liturgy as practiced within the Byzantine church.15 Iconographic conventions such as the presence of St Paul – whose apostleship of course postdates Jesus’s ascension into heaven – make clear that the image is an expression of a dogma rather than a rendering of an actual historical moment. One may suspect that precisely this ambiguity about what prototype is actually being represented may be responsible for the curious restriction of the iconography to manuscript painting between the sixth century and the tenth century.16 Whatever mixed feelings this iconographic type might have elicited in the minds of Byzantine theologians, by the eleventh century it was a feature of commissions of the first importance.17 Surely the most important of these was Constantinople’s Church of the Holy Apostles, known from Nicholas Mesarites’ ekphrasis of the church, composed ca. 1200.18 Since the scene is not mentioned in the earlier ekphrasis of the monument by Constantine the Rhodian (who died in 931), it is likely that the scene was added in the course of the twelfth-century refurbishment of the church carried out under Manuel  I Komnenos.19 Even in Mesarites’ text, however, the exact nature of the scene is slippery: while scholars are generally agreed that the subject described is the Communion of the Apostles, some of the details – the furnishings of the ‘upper chamber’, the references to his impending crucifixion – seem to belong to the Last Supper: The apse to the east displays before us the distribution [made] with His own hands of His very body and blood by our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. This the Saviour dispensed to his most blessed companions and followers, as he prepared for His voluntary, beatific, and lifegiving death. It depicts an upper chamber in blue and purple through the medium of different coloured mosaics, which flash with glints of gold. There are hangings in keeping with the opulence of the upper chamber; the floor is strewn with carpets from Egypt; covering the table is a cloth with red interwoven in equal parts with gold. Christ, who both sacrifices and is sacrificed, sits [ἐφεστηκώς] at the head of the table, which, you might say, serves as an altar [θυσιαστήριον], for this mystical and holy table is truly an altar, on which according to Chrysostom they laid out the slain Christ. Ministering in person and without waiting for the hands of His crucifiers He offers Himself as an unseen sacrifice, while pouring his very blood into the beaker that he holds

aloft in his hands and giving them to eat of His flesh, having first tasted of it Himself. He tells [them], ‘With desire I have desired to eat the Passover with you before I suffer’ (Luke 22, 15), lest because of the unaccustomed nature of the food…20

There are several ambiguities inherent in the textual description of the scene, not least because of the lacuna that deprives us of the conclusion of the passage. Mesarites’ ekphrasis seems to clothe the repeated and timeless liturgical action of the sanctuary in the guise of the singular historic event narrated in the Gospels as occurring in the ‘upper chamber’ (ὑπερῷον) in Jerusalem on the evening of Holy Thursday. Among surviving painted examples, the two scenes are distinct, and one can assume that the blending that is taking place in Mesarites’ ekphrasis is more likely a rhetorical device to emphasize the institution of the Eucharist within the passion narrative than it is an actual reflection of an iconographically blended image. I would like to suggest that the anomalies in the depictions of the sanctuary and its furnishings serve an analogous purpose in paintings of the Communion of the Apostles, alerting the viewer to the peculiar nature of the scene, which is neither the simple presentation of a scriptural narrative nor the direct mirroring of contemporary liturgical praxis. In the surviving monumental depictions of the Communion of the Apostles in fresco and mosaic from the 11th century, the architectural setting of the event is somewhat puzzling.21 The theme appears in the mosaic of the apse of St Sophia in Kyiv, dated ca. 1037–1044 (Fig. 2).22 The canopy at the centre of the composition, crowned by a pyramidal top, sits entirely behind, rather than around and above, the oblong altar. Of its four columns and arches, only three of each are shown in the mosaic. The altar itself, covered with a striped red, white, and black textile frontal, appears to float in midair, hovering over the feet of the two deacon angels that wave rhipidia (liturgical fans) on either side of it. The angels’ forearms, meanwhile, overlap the altar top, giving the impression that their bodies are wrapped around its corners. In a convention familiar from Late Antique iterations of the iconography of the Communion of the Apostles, Christ appears twice, once on either side of the altar, administering the bread and the cup. Given the scale and prestige of the program at St Sophia in Kyiv, the oddities of this central mosaic image are surprising,23

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Fig. 2.  Communion of the Apostles. Apse mosaic, St Sophia, Kyiv, c. 1037–1044 (Source: Natalia Teteriatnikov, Natalia Teteriatnikov Photographs of Byzantine Art and Architecture, Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for Harvard University, Washington, D.C.).

but to be assured that there is some significance to the irregularities, one would need to compare other contemporaneous programs of monumental decoration. Ideally, one should be able to demonstrate that the rendering of the architectural setting of the Communion of the Apostles differs significantly from comparable architectural settings in other images executed by the same workshop. Just such a case is furnished by the sanctuary of St  Sophia in Ohrid, built and painted before 1056. There, in contrast to its namesake in Kyiv, the apse composition contains only a single figure of Christ, centred behind the represented altar (Fig.  3). As Catherine Jolivet-Lévy has observed, the inscribed titles Metadosis and Metalēpsis, that is, the Communion of the Bread and Communion of the Wine, now illegible, appear above the apostles on either side.24 In fact, neither action described by the inscriptions is depicted in the fresco. Although the apostles approach as though to communicate, they are not actually being offered the eucharistic gifts, as at Kyiv, but only Christ’s gesture of blessing. From an architectural viewpoint, the representation at Ohrid is doubly strange: since Christ is at the far side of the altar from the viewer, one would assume that the implied viewpoint is from within the apse, just as one sees on the Riha paten.25 The placement of the gates of the sanctuary in front of the altar contradicts such a reading of the scene. These gates, moreover, seem to merge with the altar and with its canopy into a strange and illogical conglomerate. Unlike the

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Fig. 3.  Communion of the Apostles. Apse fresco, St Sophia, Ohrid, before 1056 (Source: Svetlana Tomeković, reproduced by permission).

enclosure encountered in the Menologion of Basil II, there is no space visible within: the same breccia pattern of the marble of the barrier fills up the interstices between the projecting cancellae and the altar itself. The figure of Christ overlaps three of the four columns that support the canopy’s pyramidal roof, and these same columns disappear behind the altar table without any clear resolution. Another oddity, to which we shall return, is the form of the vessel for the wine – which is a two-handled jug with a narrow neck, not anything resembling a standard chalice. This perplexing tangle of liturgical furniture at Ohrid might be understood as merely an extreme example of the synthesis of multiple viewpoints characteristic of Byzantine depictions of architecture, but we have, in fact, a comparison immediately at hand on the north wall of the sanctuary, where there is a fresco showing the liturgy of St Basil (Fig. 4). Compared to the Communion of the Apostles, this fresco is much more clearly legible in terms of its furnishings. At the left, a group of lay worshippers stands clustered within an interior space defined by a pair of columns and an arch and topped by an arcaded superstructure that vaguely recalls the façade of the church in Ohrid. In front of them, the liturgical celebration unfolds within a space defined only by its lateral wall (behind which other buildings are visible), before which stand three priests in the liturgical dress of phelonia and epitrachēlia. They attend to the liturgy celebrated at right by St Basil and two attendant deacons at an altar surmounted by a pyramidal canopy carried on four columns. To be sure, the artist has hardly obeyed the rules of Renaissance perspective, but the painted altar

Fig. 4.  Liturgy of St Basil. Fresco, north wall of sanctuary, St Sophia, Ohrid, before 1056 (Source: Maria Lidova, reproduced by permission).

actually appears to sit beneath its canopy; the paten, chalice, and gospel book atop the table are readily identifiable; and St Basil and the two attending deacons occupy spatially plausible places in front of and to the sides of this altar. A chronologically later example, St  Panteleimon in Nerezi (1164), presents us with an actual attempt to render the canopy over, rather than merely behind, the altar, with two very attenuated columns passing in front of, and two behind, the altar with its patterned purple cloth (Fig.  5).26 But Nerezi has its own bizarre spatial distortions. Two deacon-angels stand behind the corners of the altar, as at St Sophia in Kyiv, while a further pair, holding rhipidia, stand flanking the canopy.27 While their lower bodies are placed behind the fictive altar, the liturgical fans they hold pass in front of the forward two columns of the canopy. Even stranger, while the contour of the altar takes an oblique angle on its south side, indicating the distinction between its top and front surfaces, this distinction vanishes for the rest of its length, with no

discernable indication of an edge. The medallion-patterned textile cover gives the disconcerting impression that the chalice and paten in front of the angels are sitting on a vertical surface, ready to go into free-fall at any moment. As before in Ohrid, we have a point of comparison for knowing that painters at Nerezi could achieve more spatially coherent architecture if they wanted to, since we have the convincingly three-dimensional altar and canopy in the scene of the Presentation of Christ (Hypapantē) on the south wall for comparison (Fig.  6). The composition is framed by two bits of cityscape (that on the west side of the scene is largely lost), while a low wall of pinkish stone, shown as if inset with book-matched slabs of contrasting marble, runs across the background of the composition. Steps depicted as though made of a dark-green aggregate stone lead to the city gates at the sides – presumably here meant to represent the gates of the Temple Mount in Jerusalem – and at the centre serve to elevate the cubic altar and its canopy.28 Joseph and Anna, the prophetess,29 stand on the steps

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Fig. 5.  Communion of the Apostles. Apse fresco, St Panteleimon, Nerezi, 1164 (Source: Maria Lidova, reproduced by permission).

Fig. 6.  Presentation of Christ. Fresco, north wall of naos, St Panteleimon, Nerezi, 1164 (Source: Maria Lidova, reproduced by permission).

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at either side of the scene, while Symeon’s feet hover slightly against the background of the pinkish marble enclosure wall.30 Like the altar painted in the apse, the altar in the Presentation scene is draped, but sharp lines in the form of a parallelogram define its top surface. The jeweled codex that sits atop the altar is partially overlapped by the column that passes in front of the altar. The canopy presents two arches and three slender columns to the viewer, with the implication that the fourth column, on the far side of the altar, is hidden from the viewer behind the central column. If one were to take the image literally, the canopy would be at a 45° angle to the altar, but clearly that is not the intention – the apparent rotation seems intended to give a more legible angle from which to read the canopy as a three-dimensional object. We are thus presented with a space that, making allowances for the usual Byzantine modes of constructing images of architecture, is relatively comprehensible. Ambiguities remain – are the gates at left and right meant to be understood as lying parallel to the low wall behind the altar or, as seems more likely, as oriented at 90° to the picture plane? – but the overall relationship between the figures and the space they inhabit is clear. Contrary to more usual iconographic arrangements of the Presentation, the symmetry of the scenographic space is complimented by the sorting of the figures by gender, with Mary and Anna to one side of the altar, Joseph and Symeon to the other.31 So, it seems from images other than the Communion of the Apostles that Byzantine artists were capable of rendering something approaching a convincing arrangement of liturgical space, even if Albertian linear perspective was not in their grasp. So why does this particular iconographic theme so consistently throw us spatially illogical settings for its action? Furthermore, although the scenes are consistently strange, the precise way in which they are strange varies from monument to monument – whether it is the floating altar at St Sophia in Kyiv, the single-surfaced altar at Nerezi, or the odd position of Christ with regard to the viewer at Ohrid. This causes me to suspect that the irregularities we observe are not merely the result of artistic clumsiness in rendering three-dimensional space on a flat surface, but in fact represent a set of visual cues to alert the viewer not to mistake the image for a direct representation of liturgical reality. A number of scholars have attempted to link the renewed prominence of the theme of the Communion

of the Apostles to the theological controversies of the 11th century – particularly the disputes between Constantinople and Rome over liturgical practices.32 In the case of Ohrid, we know that the patron was intimately involved in the events leading to the Schism of 1054. A more fundamental concern is how to understand an image that represents the Eucharist. The iconoclastic Council of Hieria (754) named the Eucharist – along with the cross and the book of the Gospels – as the only fitting ‘images’ of Christ.33 This view was condemned by Iconophile writers not only for denigrating icons, but also for collapsing the distinction between image and sacrament.34 It seems that, even as they attempted to give pictorial form to the sacramental mystery, Byzantines of the eleventh century and later may have been conscious of the risk of re-instituting the same theological error.35 We noted before in the frescoes at Ohrid the fact that the vessel atop the altar does not resemble a chalice, but rather features a bulbous body with two handles and a narrow neck. This substitution of an amphora-like vessel for the cup is a widespread phenomenon, and one that recurs for centuries – one sees it in the eleventh or early twelfth-century frescoes in the northeast chapel at St Nicholas in Demre (Byzantine Myra) and again in the Communion of the Apostles at Sopoćani from about 1265.36 Mary Lee Coulson has suggested that these depictions of nonchalice vessels for the wine are meant to signify that the apostles communicate in the manner of clergy, who, from at least the 11th century, took the bread and the wine separately, in contradistinction to the laity, who received both at once, administered from the chalice with a spoon.37 Vasileios Marinis proposes that the vessel shape is meant to mimic antique amphorae, and thus to situate the scene in the biblical past.38 I would propose an extension of his argument: that the amphora, as the typical attribute of river gods and other aquatic personifications in Byzantine art, stands for a spring.39 Its use as a substitute for the expected cup helps to mark the image of the Communion of the Apostles as a depiction of the wellspring or source of the eucharistic sacrament. Furthermore, given that the shape of the vessel is so frequently ‘wrong’, it raises the question of whether its presence is intended precisely to put the brakes on too close an identification of the celebrant’s action with Christ’s – in other words, to avoid collapsing the distinction between the Eucharist as an enacted ‘image’ of the

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Fig. 7.  Communion of the Apostles. Mosaic from the Apse of the former Church of St Michael of the Golden Domes, Kyiv, c. 1108–1113, now installed in the galleries of St Sophia, Kyiv (Source: author).

Heavenly Liturgy and the literal image of this heavenly liturgy in paint and plaster. The importance of these visual ‘stumbling blocks’ can be gauged from an instance where they are seemingly absent: the twelfth-century apse mosaic from the monastery of St Michael of the Golden Domes in Kyiv, dated between 1108 and 1113.40 In 1935, prior to the demolition of the church by orders of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Ukrainian S.S.R., the mosaic was preserved and relocated to the south galleries of St  Sophia in Kyiv, where it remains (Fig.  7).41 Here Christ, depicted twice, stands within a low sanctuary barrier composed of white marble slabs set into a base and series of posts of light-veined black marble. An area of loss, restored in fresco prior to the twentieth century, cuts vertically through the composition, just to the right of the centre of the apse.42 Nevertheless, enough of the

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original mosaic surface is preserved to reconstruct its appearance. A  pair of gilded gates of arched profile occupy the middle of this barrier and give access to the altar behind them. The latter is covered with a red and green altar cloth and displays a paten and asterisk on its top. Two angel-deacons wave rhipidia in front of the diminutive canopy that stands behind the altar. Apart from the placement of the canopy behind, rather than over, the altar, everything about the liturgical arrangements in the mosaic from St Michael’s in Kyiv is almost diagrammatically clear. The liturgical vessels take the expected forms, including the asterisk used to keep the veils from disturbing the eucharistic bread, and Christ and the deacon-angels occupy identifiable spaces within the architectural enclosure. The problem with the mosaic’s image is rather that it is excessively realistic. The chalice held by Christ has visible within its bowl the fractions of the eucharistic

bread that would have, in a twelfth-century liturgy, been placed in the wine prior to the administration of communion.43 Christ holds the bowl of the chalice through a green cloth decorated with gold embroidery  – presumably the potērokalymma – as he offers it to St Paul and the other apostles (Fig. 8). This bit of liturgical realism, however, is problematic.44 For a human priest, holding the chalice through its veil is a well-established gesture of deference to the holy.45 On the Riha Paten, Paul approaches the chalice with covered hands, a gesture that is repeated in a number of compositions of the Communion of the Apostles, including the frescoes of Demre, the apse of St Sophia at Ohrid, and the now-destroyed mosaic at Serres. Even angels enacting the rôles of clergy are shown carrying the chalice through a veil.46 But the gesture of reverence becomes a puzzle when imitated by Christ: is his sacramental blood in the chalice meant to be holier than his human body? By over-exact imitation of the details of the Church’s liturgy, the artists of the mosaic at St Michael’s potentially subvert the intended nature of the image as a meditation on the celestial liturgy rather than an attempt to render it in literal form. Looking at images of so-called ‘liturgical realism’, one is struck by how consistently they evade exact correspondence with ‘real’ liturgical action. Rather than being a precise mirror of any single liturgical moment, they seem to use the image of one action to refer to another, or, as with the exchange of amphora for chalice, to mark the image of the Communion of the Apostles as something other than a simple and direct reflection of the liturgy happening in the church itself. Like the inscription, ‘Ceçi n’est pas une pipe’, on Magritte’s famous painting, The Treachery of Images, these inconsistencies interrupt our normal processes of identification of the image and its subject. Even as he was attempting to demonstrate the superiority of the Byzantine ‘reverse perspective’, Pavel Florensky noted some of the problems in that paradigmatic perspectival construction, Leonardo’s Last Supper: A simple measurement is enough to show that the chamber is barely the height of two men and the width of three man-lengths, so that the space cannot possibly accommodate the number of people in it or the grandeur of the occasion. However, the ceiling does not seem oppressive and the cramped space of the room gives the painting a dramatic saturation and fullness. Imperceptibly yet

Fig. 8.  Christ with Chalice. Detail of the Mosaic of the Communion of the Apostles from St Michael of the Golden Domes, Kyiv (Source: Natalia Teteriatnikov, Natalia Teteriatnikov Photographs of Byzantine Art and Architecture, Dumbarton Oaks, Trustees for Harvard University, Washington, D.C.). accurately, the master resorts to the violation of perspective, well known since Egyptian times.47

In his masterful analysis of the peculiarities of Leonardo’s Last Supper, Leo Steinberg also points out the apparent ‘failures’ of its perspectival system to create the illusion of a real space continuous with the viewer’s own. Although Albertian perspective trains the viewer to look on architectural spaces in painting as illusionistic windows onto a space beyond,48 The Last Supper frustrates the expectation of a trompe l’oeil spatial continuity. No vantage point within the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie allows for a view in which the sides of the depicted chamber might align with the walls of the room in which the viewer stands.49 As Steinberg argues, the deviations from the expected

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illusion of real architectural space reinforce the sacramental mystery of the depicted moment. The broken perspective and the broken bread together indicate that what it depicted is beyond mere nature.50 As PseudoDionysios the Areopagite points out in his treatise On the Celestial Hierarchies, the shock of ‘dissimilar images’ in scripture serves as a reminder to the viewer that the divine nature is beyond the limits of human intellection, whereas ‘similar images’, those that seem normal, can lull one into a false sense of identification between material image and spiritual reality.51 One can posit a similar sort of goal among the Byzantine painted programs: by introducing spatial anomalies within scenes of the Communion of the Apostles, the artists signal that this is a depiction of a peculiar sort, one that does not obey the usual rules of prototype and copy. They help to make strange a scene that resembles the lived experience of the Byzantine liturgy and to transpose it from the earthly to the heavenly realm. notes Antonio Manetti, The Life of Brunelleschi, ed. by Howard Saalman, trans. by Catherine Enggass, (University Park, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1970), pp.  42–43, 60–63; Samuel  Y. Edgerton, The Mirror, the Window, and the Telescope: How Renaissance Linear Perspective Changed our Vision of the Universe (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2009). 2  Oskar Wulff, ‘Die umgekehrten Perspektive und die Niedersicht. Eine Raumanschaungsform der altbyzantinischen Kunst und ihre Fortbildung in der Renaissance’, in Kunstwissenschaftliche Beiträge A. Schamarsow gewidmet (Leipzig: K. Hiersemann, 1907); Pavel Florensky, ‘Reverse perspective’, (given orally in 1920, published only in 1967 as ‘Obratnaia perspektiva’, Trudy po znakovim sistemam, 3 [1967], pp.  381–416), English translation, ‘Reverse Perspective’, in Pavel Florensky: Beyond Vision, Essays on the Perception of Art, ed. by Nicoletta Misler, trans. by Wendy Salmond (London: Reaktion, 2002), pp. 201–72; Slobodan Ćurčić, ‘Architecture as Icon’, in Architecture as Icon: Perception and Representation of Architecture in Byzantine art, ed. by Slobodan Ćurčić and Evangelia Hadjitryphonos (Princeton: Princeton University Press), pp. 23–26; Clemena Antonova, ‘On the Problem of “Reverse Perspective”: Definitions East and West’, Leonardo, 43 (2010), 464–69. For a contrary view of the spiritual potentialities of Renaissance linear perspective, see Charles H. Carman, Leon Battista Alberti and Nicholas Cusanus: Towards an Epistemology of Vision for Italian Renaissance Art and Culture (Burlington: Ashgate, 2014). 3  Florensky, ‘Reverse perspective’, p. 202. 4  Lev Zhegin, Iazik zhivopisnogo proizvedeniia: uslovnost’ drevnego iskusstva (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1970). The work is discussed and critiqued by Clemena Antonova, Space, Time, and Presence in the Icon: Seeing the World with the Eyes of God (Farnham: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 37–54. 1 

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Antonova, Space, Time, and Presence, pp.  103–05, referencing Umberto Eco, Art and Beauty in the Middle Ages (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1986), p. 118. 6  Antonova, Space, Time, and Presence, p. 153. 7  E. H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion: A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (New York: Pantheon, 1960), pp. 267– 69; Erwin Panofksy, Perspective as Symbolic Form, trans. by Christopher S. Wood (New York: Zone Books, 1991), pp. 31–34, 71. 8  Cf. Samuel Y. Edgerton, The Heritage of Giotto’s Geometry: Art and Science on the Eve of the Scientific Revolution (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), p. 28. 9  Evangelia Hadjitryphonos, ‘Presentations and Representations of Architecture in Byzantium: The Thought behind the Image’, in Architecture as Icon, p. 144. 10  Paul Underwood, The Kariye Djami, 4 vols (New York: Pantheon, 1966–75), I, frontispiece, pp.  42–43, II, pl  26–28; Robert Ousterhout, The Architecture of the Kariye Camii in Istanbul (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1987), frontispiece, pp. 118–19; Nancy Patterson Ševčenko, ‘The Portrait of Theodore Metochites at Chora’, in Donation et donateurs dans le monde byzantine. Actes du colloque international de l’Université de Fribourg, 13–15 mars 2008, ed. by Jean-Michel Spieser and Elisabeth Yota (Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 2012), pp.  189–205. On models of churches in donor images, see Maria Cristina Carile, ‘Memories of Buildings? Messages in Late Antique Architectural Representations’, in Images of the Byzantine World: Visions, Messages, Meanings: Studies presented to Leslie Brubaker, ed.  by Angeliki Lymberopoulou (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp.  15–34; Mabi Angar, ‘Stiftermodelle in Byzanz und bei christlich-orthodoxen Nachbarkulturen’, in Mikroarchitektur im Mittelalter: ein gattungsübergreifendes Phänomen zwischen Realität und Imagination, ed.  by Christine Kratzke and Uwe Albrecht (Leipzig: Kratzke, 2008), pp. 433–53. 11  Vasileios Marinis, Architecture and Ritual in the Churches of Constantinople: Ninth to Fifteenth Centuries (New York and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp.  41–44; Cecil  L. Striker and Doğan Kuban, Kalenderhane in Istanbul, 2 vols (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1997–2007), I, 107. 12  Compare the liturgical or quasi-liturgical architecture shown, for example, on pages 287, 324, and 358 of the Menologion. 13  There are tenth century iterations of the theme in monumental painting, but these occupy subsidiary rooms to the side of the sanctuary, not the apse itself. See the Church of the Nativity near Sangri, Naxos, Greece, and in Kılıçlar kilisesi, Göreme, Cappadocia. Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, ‘Images des pratiques eucharistiques dans les monuments byzantins du Moyen Âge’, in Pratiques de l’eucharistie dans les églises d’orient et d’occident (Antiquité et Moyen Âge), ed.  by Nicole Bériou and others (Paris: Institut d’études augustiniennes, 2009), p. 162. See also Sharon  E.  J. Gerstel, Beholding the Sacred Mysteries: Programs of the Byzantine Sanctuary (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1999), p. 49. 14  Rossano, Diocesan Museum, Codex Purpureus Rossanensis, fols 3v, 4r; Florence, Biblioteca Mediceo Laurenziana, cod. Plut. I, 56, fol. 11v. 15  On the iconography of the Communion of the Apostles, see now Vasileios Marinis, ‘A Reconsideration of the Communion of the Apostles in Byzantine Art’, forthcoming in Studies in 5 

Iconography, 42 (2021). I am grateful to Prof. Marinis for sharing a pre-publication draft of his essay with me. 16  The theme appears from the second half of the ninth century in the series of so-called marginal Psalters, including the Khludov Psalter (Moscow, Hist. Mus. MS. D.129, fol. 115r), and the Pantokrator Psalter (Mt.  Athos, Pantokrator 61, fol.  37r.). For Byzantine discomfort with non-iconic images, compare the selective ‘iconoclastic’ interventions – which often spare sacred images while targeting other types of representations – in the floor mosaics of Jordan. Henry Maguire, ‘“They worshipped the creature rather than the creator”: Animals in 8th Century Art and Polemic’, in L’aniconisme dans l’art religieux byzantin. Actes du colloque de Genève (1–3 octobre 2009), ed. by Matteo Campagnolo and others (Geneva: La Pomme d’or, 2014), pp. 141–47. 17  Gerstel, Beholding the Sacred Mysteries, pp. 141–48. For other scholars’ expressions of unease with pictorial ‘realism’ around the Eucharist, see Hans-Joachim Schulz, The Byzantine Liturgy: Symbolic Structure and Faith Expression (New York: Pueblo, 1986), pp. 103–04; Christopher Walter, Art and Ritual of the Byzantine Church (London: Variorum, 1982), p. 211. 18  Nicholas Mesarites: His Life and Works (in Translation), ed.  by Michael Angold (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2017), pp.  75–83 (introduction), 83–133 (translation); Glanville Downey, ‘Nikolaos Mesarites: Description of the Church of the Holy Apostles at Constantinople’, TAPS, 47 (1957), 855–924. 19  Nicholas Mesarites: His Life and Works, p.  81. Angold notes a scholion attesting to the inclusion of the image of the painter Eulalios in the mosaic of the Resurrection of Christ. For the documentary evidence on Eulalios, who was active in the reign of Manuel I Komnenos, see Cyril Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312–1453: Sources and Documents (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986), pp. 229–33. Constantine the Rhodian’s ekphrasis has recently been given a new edition and translation, Constantine of Rhodes, on Constantinople and the Church of the Holy Apostles, ed. by Ioannis Vassis and Liz James (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012). 20  Ἡ μὲν οὖν ἐπὶ τὸ ἑῷον ἁψὶς αὐτὴν ἡμῖν διαγράφει τὴν αὐτόχειρα διανομὴν τοῦ ἰδίου σώματός τε καὶ αἵματος τοῦ κυρίου καὶ σωτῆρος ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, ἣν ὁ σωτὴρ μέλλων ἐξιέναι πρὸς τὸν ἑκούσιον καὶ ἀοίδιμον καὶ ζωοποιὸν αὐτοῦ θάνατον πρὸς τοὺς μακαριστοὺς αὐτοῦ δαιτυμόνας καὶ ὀπαδοὺς ἐποιήσατο. ὑπεζωγράφηται γοῦν ὑπερῷον κυάνεον ἅμα τὲ καὶ πορφύρεον κἀκ διαφοροχροίων συγκεκροτημένον ψηφίδων, ἐπανθοῦντος αὐταῖς καὶ συνεκλάμποντος τοῦ χρυσοῦ. πέπλοι τῇ τοῦ ὑπερῴου πολυτελείᾳ κατάλληλοι, ἀνώγεων ταῖς ἀπ᾽ Αἰγύπτου τάπησιν ἐστρωμμένον, τράπεζα πέπλῳ κατακεκαλυμμένη συνυφασμένον ἐξ ἴσου φέροντι τὸ κόκκινον τῷ χρυσῷ, καὶ ὁ αὐτὸς καὶ θύτης καὶ θῦμα Χριστός, οἷά τινι θυσιαστηρίῳ τῇ τραπέζῃ ἐφεστηκώς· θυσιαστήριον γάρ ἐστιν ἀληθῶς ἡ μυστικὴ αὕτη καὶ ἱερὰ τράπεζα, ἐν ᾗ καὶ κατὰ τὸν χρυσοῦν τὴν γλῶτταν καὶ ἐσφαγμένος πρόκειται ὁ Χριστός. καὶ σφαγιάζει μὲν ἑαυτὸν ἀοράτως, αὐτὸς ἱερουργῶν ἑαυτὸν οὐδ᾽ ἀναμένων τὰς χεῖρας τῶν σταυρωτῶν, ἐκχέει δὲ τὸ αἷμα τὸ ἑαυτοῦ πρὸς ὃ κατ᾽ ἀντικρὺ μετὰ χεῖρας φέρει ποτήριον. καὶ δίδωσι μὲν αὐτοῖς ἐμφαγεῖν τῆς αὐτοῦ σαρκὸς πρῶτος ταύτης ἀπογευσάμενος· ‘ἐπιθυμίᾳ γάρ’ φησιν ‘ἐπεθύμησα τὸ πάσχα τοῦτο φαγεῖν μεθ᾽ ὑμῶν πρὸ τοῦ με παθεῖν’, ἵνα μὴ διὰ τὸ ἀσύνηθες τοῦ βρώματος [lacuna]. Trans. from Nicholas Mesarites: His Life and Works, p. 95; Greek text in Downey, ‘Description of the Church of the Holy Apostles’, p. 902. Note

that Angold’s translation renders ἐφεστηκώς as ‘sits’ at the table; ‘stands’ is an equally possible translation, and perhaps more likely in the context of the iconography described. 21  The Metropolis of the Saints Theodore in Serres was destroyed by fire in 1913, and its apse mosaic of the Communion of the Apostles, dating from the end of the eleventh or beginning of the twelfth century, is partly preserved in the Archaeological Museum of Serres. Unfortunately, the photographic documentation of the apse prior to the fire is insufficient to allow for a detailed discussion of the depicted altar and furnishings. See Thomas F. Mathews in The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era A.D. 843–1261, ed. by Helen C. Evans and William D. Wixom (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), pp. 47–49, cat. no. 14; Ioan D. Ștefănescu, L’Illustration des liturgies dans l’art de Byzance et de l’Orient (Brussels: Institut de Philologie et d’Histoire Orientales, 1936), pp.  121–22, pl LXXII, LXIII; P. Perdrizet and L. Chesnay, ‘La Métropole de Serrès’, MonPiot, 10 (1903), 123–44 (pp. 126–33). 22  Viktor Lazarev, Mozaiki Sofii Kievskoĭ (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1960), pp. 102–10, pl 31–47; Hrygoriĭ N. Lohvyn Sofiia Kyïv’ska: Derzhavnyĭ arkhitekurno istorichnyĭ zapovidnyk (Kyiv: Mystetstvo, 1971), p. 15, fig. 5, pl 51–68. 23  On the probable Constantinopolitan origins of the master mosaicists, see Lohvin, Sofiia Kyïv’ska, pp.  15–19; Liz James, Mosaics in the Medieval World: From Late Antiquity to the Fifteenth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), pp. 359–62. 24  Jolivet-Lévy, ‘Images des pratiques eucharistiques’, p.  170. On the Ohrid fresco, see also Alexei Lidov, ‘Byzantine Church Decoration and the Great Schism of 1054’, Byzantion, 68 (1998), 381–405; Ann Wharton Epstein, ‘The Political Content of the Paintings of Saint Sophia at Ohrid’, JÖB, 29 (1980), 315–29; Gordana Babić, ‘Les discussions christologiques et le décor des églises byzantines au XII siècle’, FS, 2 (1968), 368–86; and André Grabar, ‘Les peintures murales dans le choeur de Sainte-Sophie d’Ochrid’, CahArch, 15 (1965), 257–65. 25  On the Riha paten, see M. M. Mango, C. E. Snow, and T. Drayman Weisser, Silver from Early Byzantium: The Kaper Koraon and Related Treasures (Baltimore: Walters Art Gallery, 1986), pp. 165–70, no. 35; Stephen Zwirn in Dumbarton Oaks: The Collections, ed.  by Gudrun Bühl (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 2008), pp. 76–79. 26  Ida Sinkević, The Church of St  Panteleimon at Nerezi: Architecture, Programme, Patronage (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2000), pp. 30–32, figs XV–XVIII. 27  On the multiplication of the assisting angel-deacons, see Sinkević, Nerezi, p. 32. 28  It should be recalled that the Haram al-Sharif / Temple Mount was a Christian sanctuary under Crusader control at the time of the execution of the paintings at Nerezi. See Benjamin Kedar and Denys Pringle, ‘The Lord’s Temple (Templum Domini) and Solomon’s Palace (Palatium Salomonis)’, in Where Heaven and Earth Meet: Jerusalem’s Sacred Esplanade, ed. by Oleg Grabar and Benjamin Z. Kedar ( Jerusalem: Yad Ben-Zvi, 2009), pp. 133–49. 29  The (non-scriptural) text painted on Anna’s scroll, τοῦτο τὸ παιδίον οὐρανὸν καὶ γῆν ἐστερέωσεν, is also found in the Psalter of Queen Melisende, the churches of the Hagioi Anargyroi and Hagios Stephanos at Kastoria, and at Monreale. See Sinkević,

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Nerezi, p. 49, fn. 138; Hugo Buchthal, Minuature Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957), p. 4, pl. 3a. 30  On the feature of Symeon seeming to ‘levitate’ in images of the Presentation of Christ, see Henry Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981), pp. 84–90. The portion of fresco with the lower part of the figure of the Virgin is lost, so there is no telling what her feet are doing. 31  The centrally-placed altar is linked to the idea, highlighted by Ida Sinkević, that the Presentation on the south wall of the naos is deliberately juxtaposed with the Lamentation (thrēnos) on the north wall, reflecting the substance of the discussions at the Council of Constantinople in 1156/57 over the ‘the one who sacrifices and is sacrificed’ line of the offering prayer. Sinkević, Nerezi, pp. 49–50. See also Maguire, Art and Eloquence, pp. 87–90; and idem, ‘The Iconography of Symeon with the Christ Child in Byzantine Art’, DOP, 34–35 (1980–81), 261–71. 32  Epstein, ‘Political Content’, pp.  321–25; Lidov, ‘Byzantine Church Decoration’, pp.  392–95; Babić, ‘Les discussions christologiques’, pp.  368–86; Sinkević, Nerezi, pp.  33–35; Nicholas Mesarites: His Life and Works, pp. 77–78. 33  Mansi XIII, cols 261E–264C; English translation in Daniel J. Sahas, Icon and Logos: Sources in Eighth-Century Iconoclasm (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986), pp. 92–94. 34  Mansi  XIII, cols  264D–268A; Sahas, Icon and Logos, pp. 94–96; Nikephoros of Constantinople, Antirheticus II, Adversus Constantinum Copronymum, PG 100, cols 332–37; discussed in John Travis, In Defense of the Faith: The Theology of Patriarch Nikephoros of Constantinople (Brookline, MA: Hellenic College Press, 1984), pp. 114–19; Stephen Gero, ‘The Eucharistic Doctrine of the Byzantine Iconoclasts and Its Sources’, BZ, 68 (1975), 4–22; Charles Barber, ‘From Transformation to Desire: Art and Worship after Byzantine Iconoclasm’, ArtB, 75 (1993), 7–16. 35  As suggested by Christopher Walter, Art and Ritual, pp. 187– 88, n. 120. 36  Sema Doğan and others, Demre - Myra Aziz Nikolaos kilisesi (Istanbul: Arkeoloji ve Sanat Yayınları, 2015), pp. 63, 94; Vojislav Đjurić, Sopoćani (Belgrade: Republički zavod za zaštitu spomenika kulture, 1991), p. 63, fig. 9. 37  Mary Lee Coulson, ‘New Wine in Old Pitchers: Some Throughts on Depictions of the Chalice in the Communion of the Apostles’, in Lampēdōn: Aphierōma stē mnēmē tēs Ntoulas Mourikē, ed.  by Mairi Aspra-Vardavaki, 2  vols (Athens: Panepistēmiakes Ekdoseis, 2003), I, 145–56. 38  Marinis, ‘A Reconsideration’, forthcoming. 39  In addition to being a regular component of the iconography of the Baptism of Christ, one sees the motif of the personified river (male) or spring (female) pouring water from a jar in the scene of Jacob at the Well in the Vienna Genesis (fol. 7r), in the scene of David’s challenge to Goliath at the top of the large David Plate at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, in the personification of the Jordan on the Joshua Roll (fol. II), and in multiple

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representations of the Rivers of Paradise in the Vatican and Paris manuscripts of the Homilies of James of Kokkinobaphos, among many other examples. 40  Viktor Lazarev, Mikhaĭlovskie mozaiki (Moscow: Iskusstvo, 1966), pp.  25, 41–67, pl  3–52; Dimitriĭ Ainalov, ‘Die Mosaiken des Michaelklosters in Kiew’, Belvedere, 9–10 (1926), 201–16. 41  Olenka Z. Pevny, in The Glory of Byzantium, pp. 289–92; Iuriĭ Koreniuk, Mozaïky Mykhaĭlivs’koho Zolotoverkhoho Soboru  / Mozaics [sic] of St  Michael’s Golden-Domed Cathedral (Kyiv: ADEF-Ukraïna, 2013), pp. 23–51; Istoriia Ukraïns’koho Mystetstva, ed.  by Iu.  S. Aseev and others, 6  vols (Kyiv: Akademiia nauk URSR, 1966–70), I, 298–306. 42  In fact, the area of painted plaster extended over preserved parts of the mosaic surface, including the head of the deacon-angel on the south side of the apse. Lazarev, Mikhaĭlovskie mozaiki, pp. 48–49, fig. 1, pl. 4б; Ainalov, ‘Mosaiken des Michaelklosters’, p. 205. 43  On lay communion by intinction in Byzantium, see Robert F. Taft, ‘Byzantine Communion Spoons: A Review of the Evidence’, DOP, 50 (1996), 209–38. A  set of twelfth-century rubrics for the division of the bread between paten and chalice is given in Taft, ‘The Pontifical Liturgy of the Great Church according to a Twelfth-Century Diataxis in Codex British Museum Add. 34060’, OCP, 45 (1979), 279–307 (pp. 300–01). 44  The same detail of Christ holding the chalice through a veil occurs in the representation of the Communion of the Apostles in the ‘Frieze’ Gospels in Paris, BnF, MS grec. 74, fol. 156v. Paul, who receives the chalice, also covers his hands. 45  Eric Thunø, Image and Relic: Mediating the Sacred in Early Medieval Rome (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2002), p.  86. Compare the language of the epigram on the potērokalymma from Halberstadt, discussed by Ivan Drpić, Epigram, Art, and Devotion in Later Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), pp. 111–16. 46  Cf.  Jerusalem, Library of the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, MS Stavrou 109. A.  Grabar, ‘Un rouleau liturgique constantinopolitain et ses peintures’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 8  (1954), 161–200 (p. 174, fig. 10). 47  Florensky, ‘Reverse Perspective’, pp. 229–30. 48  Leon Battista Alberti, On Painting, trans. by John R. Spencer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1966), p. 56; Panofsky, Perspective as Symbolic Form, p. 27. 49  Leo Steinberg, Leonardo’s Incessant Last Supper (New York: Zone Books, 2001), p. 180. 50  Steinberg, Last Supper, pp. 192–94. 51  Pseudo-Dionysios, Celestial Hierarchies, II.5, PG 3, cols 144C– 145A; English translation in Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works, trans. by C. Luibheid and others (New York: Paulist Press, 1987), pp.  152–53. For discussion of the passage, see WiebkeMarie Stock, ‘Theurgy and Aesthetics in Dionysios the Areopagite’, in Aesthetics and Theurgy in Byzantium, ed. by S. Mariev and W.-M. Stock (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 23–25.

‘The Forgotten Symbols of God’

Screening Patterns from the Early Christian and Byzantine Worlds Eunice Dauterman Maguire & Henry Maguire This paper is dedicated to a scholar whose interests span from Antiquity to the early Ottoman period, and range from architecture to painting. It is appropriate, therefore, to try to present a topic of almost equal scope, even if our offering may fail in its attempt. The first part of our title, ‘The Forgotten Symbols of God’, is taken from the title of a book published by Patrik Reuterswärd in 1986 in Stockholm.1 In this work, which is now itself undeservedly forgotten, Reuterswärd argued that certain patterns and devices in early medieval art, usually dismissed as pure decoration, were in fact often imbued with Christian meaning and content. In the following presentation we will be following his lead by looking at some non-figurative designs which Early Byzantine and medieval Byzantine artists abstracted from figurative images. Like the patterns studied by Reuterswärd in 1986, they may at first sight look like pure ornament, whereas, in our opinion, they frequently carried symbolic significance. We view these patterns not in aesthetic terms, as ornament, but in terms of their meaning and functions as aniconic design. We are trying to interpret them as agents, with powers to encode, to embody, and even to act. For the purpose of our demonstration, we have chosen three designs which commonly appear in Roman, Late Antique, and Byzantine art, and which were closely associated with garden screens, so that the patterns in themselves became linked with the idea of gardens. The designs can be found, for example, in the well-known Roman frescoes of the Villa of Livia at Prima Porta, where there are fictive parapets

of stone that screen densely planted gardens, as illustrated in figure 1.2 Here, in the center of the photograph, we see beneath a bird cage four rectangles each of which is quartered by two diagonal lines; on either side of the quartered rectangles there are two panels with an imbricated, or scale-like, pattern; and beside the panels with the imbrications there are net-like grids made up of lozenges. In addition to their appearance in Roman portrayals of gardens,3 each of these three designs featured also in Early Christian paintings and mosaics, where they represented the screen of the garden of Paradise. For example, a fresco in a fifth-century tomb excavated in Thessaloniki shows Susannah with her arms raised in prayer, at the center of a garden that is suggested by the two trees painted at the left and right edges of the scene.4 On either side of her are the two ogling elders. In the foreground the garden is screened by an imbricated parapet, which not only encloses the physical space of Susannah’s garden, but also guards access to Paradise, to which Susannah rises with her righteous prayer for Salvation.5 A similar Paradisiacal context is suggested by the fifth-century mosaics in the Orthodox Baptistery at Ravenna. Here open-work imbricated parapets of stone are portrayed screening the gardens planted with cypress trees that flank the four divine thrones depicted in the lower zone of the dome.6 In the examples that we have considered so far, the trellises or imbrications form fences in front of portrayals of gardens; often, however, the patterns on their own represented a garden, with the motifs from

Fig. 1.  Villa of Livia, Prima Porta, painting of a garden with a stone screen (Source: PD-Art).

Fig. 2.  Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Museum, curtain. Lozenge grid with birds and flowers (Source: authors).

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nature serving as fillers in the individual lozenges or scales created by the design. This kind of composition, which was a kind of flattened, two-dimensional representation of a garden, was especially favored for floor mosaics and for textiles, such as curtains. In its two-dimensional form, the lozenge pattern could either represent a garden screen, or an overhead trellis, such as the latticed arbor shading a banqueting scene in the famous late Hellenistic floor mosaic from Palestrina.7 A fifth or sixth century curtain in tapestry weave of wool on linen, now in the Allard Pierson Museum in Amsterdam, shows colorful birds and flowers filling the spaces in the lattice, suggesting that we are looking through a fence, or perhaps an overhead trellis, in a garden (Fig. 2).8 Another curtain, which comes from Akhmim and is preserved in the British Museum, shows a similar design of a lattice filled with birds and flowers.9 Related patterns frequently occurred in floor mosaics, where they created two-dimensional surfaces suitable for walking upon. An example is the so-called ‘green carpet’ mosaic from the eponymous house at Antioch, whose lozenges are made up of lines of small red and white buds, which enclose stylized roses against a green ground.10 In a late fifth or sixth-century floor mosaic

Fig. 3.  Yale University Art Gallery, floor mosaic from Gerasa. Lozenge grid with leaves and crosses (Source: authors).

found in a room near the Church of St Theodore in the cathedral complex of Gerasa, and now in the Yale University Art Gallery, a similar lozenge grid created by rows of buds frames alternating rows of leaves and crosses (Fig. 3).11 An inscription beside this pavement declares that it is ‘the most graceful (or accomplished) place … of the male hymn singers’ from the adjoining church. As this inscription suggests, in Christian contexts flattened lattices of this kind could represent not just an ordinary garden but the very garden of Paradise. On a capital from the sixth-century church constructed by the Emperor Justinian at Mount Sinai lozenges frame various fruits, including pears, pomegranates and bunches of grapes (Fig.  4).12 Here the bounty is Christianized by the addition of crosses. A similar design was used to depict Paradise in illustrated copies of the Christian Topography by Cosmas Indicopleustes. In a miniature portraying the cosmos in an eleventh-century manuscript of this work now at Mount Sinai, the universe is portrayed as a gigantic box, with the seas, rivers and mountains of the earth shown below, and with a vaulted ceiling above, which, according to the flanking inscription, represents the heavens. At the center of the vault there is a medallion containing the bust of Christ, while on either side of Christ we see a golden lozenge grid filled with florets against a blue background, which evokes the gardens of Paradise.13 In the light of this miniature, we can see an early sixth-century capital from the church of St  Polyeuktos in Constantinople with fresh eyes

(Fig. 5).14 It is more than a pretty ornament of leaves and flowers; it is also a representation of the latticed screen that separates us from Paradise, even while we can glimpse the abundance of its blessing through the lattice. The large crosses carved on the adjoining faces support this interpretation. Another frequent association of our three designs, the lattices, the imbrications, and the quartered rectangles or squares, was with the parapets that guarded access to sacred spaces, both ecclesiastical and imperial. A floor mosaic from a church in Syria, perhaps of the fifth century, shows an imbricated parapet screening a ciborium containing two lighted candles and a hanging lamp.15 In the mosaics of the dome of the Rotunda church at Thessaloniki, there are representations of gilded sanctuaries that frame portraits. One of these individuals stood before a golden imbricated screen, its scales filled with purple; most of his body is now lost, but his name, Romanos Presbyter, is still preserved to the left of him.16 Likewise, on a seventh or eighth-century ivory from the Eastern Mediterranean, the Egyptian saint Menas stands in prayer between the camels that carried his body to its final resting place at Abu Mina.17 Behind him is the sanctuary that held his remains, lit by hanging lamps and protected by latticed screens. As late as the early fourteenth century, in a painting of the Hamilton Psalter an imbricated metal grille is shown guarding a shrine containing an icon of the Virgin Hodegetria placed on a stand and flanked by two hanging lamps.18

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Fig. 4.  Mount Sinai, Basilica of St Catherine, capital. Lozenge grid with fruits and crosses (Source: reproduced through the courtesy of the Michigan-Princeton-Alexandria Expedition to Mount Sinai).

Similar parapets guarded the most sacred of secular spaces, namely the presence of the emperor. We see them illustrated on the base of the obelisk erected by the Emperor Theodosius I in the late fourth century in the Hippodrome of Constantinople (Fig. 6). Here in front of the imperial court, there are parapets composed of lattices and imbrications, which are separated by upright posts in the form of herms with human heads.19 Such herms, which were protective in function, had also been incorporated into the screens of Roman gardens where they served to protect the garden and its fruits. Herms can be seen, for example, dividing the lattices of a garden fence portrayed in a painting from a tomb at Niš, in Serbia.20 At a later period, in medieval Byzantium, designs of lattices or imbrications containing leaves or flowers came to represent the idea that the emperor

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himself was the maker of a garden, the garden of his dominions, a world of peace and plenty cleared of disorder and strife. We find this idea illustrated both in works of art and in texts. For example, in the miniatures of an eleventh-century manuscript of homilies of John Chrysostom, now in the Bibliothèque Nationale of Paris, we find two portraits of the Emperor Nikephoros  III Botaneiates, in one case enthroned between his courtiers, and in the other standing between John Chrysostom and the Archangel Michael. In each case the emperor’s feet rest on a large hemispherical footstool that is covered with a silk fabric. In the enthronement scene the cloth is adorned with a lattice, with its individual lozenges filled with plant stems.21 In the portrayal of the emperor between the saint and the archangel, the silk covering the footrest is decorated with imbrications filled with fleshy leaves.22 Similar footrests,

Fig. 5.  Constantinople, St Polyeuktos, capital. Lozenge grid with leaves (Source: authors).

decorated with lattices or with lozenges, appear beneath the feet of archangels depicted in Byzantine art, as can be seen, for example, in the enameled icon of St Michael preserved in the treasury of San Marco, Venice (Fig. 7).23 The association of emperors with gardens was a frequent trope in rhetoric,24 as the following examples will attest. First, we have a court poet, John Geometres, describing the imperial park of the Aretai, or imperial ‘virtues’, which was laid out in the tenth century just outside the walls of Constantinople. To use his own words, the poet claims that the emperor who created the walled estate ‘gathered together all beauties’ and ‘is himself the greatest beauty of the place. Rather’, he adds, ‘[the emperor] is a beauty to the beauties in the place … a delight of delights’.25 Two centuries later, another court poet, Theodore Prodromos, wrote an epithalamium on the marriage of the

young Alexios, the grandson of the emperor Alexios I Komnenos, in which he compared the imperial bridegroom to a cypress tree, his comely locks of hair to clusters of ivy, his family to a beautiful vine abounding in grapes, and his character to a rose, more fragrant than the wild rose of the meadow. Each of his virtues became a different flower: his humility was a gentle myrtle, his moderation and kindness a lily, the gracefulness of his features a hyacinth, the eloquence of his speech above lotuses and honey. The imperial bridal chamber, declared the poet, is a nightingale set in a garden, a meadow of joy, a paradise of graces.26 Byzantine writers specifically interpreted imperial costume in terms of nature imagery. For example, the historian Kinnamos, describing the reception of the Seljuk Turkish sultan Kilic Arslan in the year 1162, said that the Emperor Manuel I sat on a jewelstudded throne, and that ‘his purple robe … was afire

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Fig. 6.  Constantinople, Hippodrome, base of the Obelisk of Theodosius. The imperial court screened by parapets (Source: authors).

with rubies and illumined with pearls, for art indeed sketched an undefiled meadow upon the garment’.27 Thus the emperor in the miniatures has his feet set upon the garden that he has created, the paradise made by his incomparable virtues. In all of the images discussed up to this point the screens are integrated with garden imagery, such as trees, leaves, flowers, or birds, or they are associated with portrayals of saints, or emperors, or their sanctuaries. But often the geometrical frames, the lozenge grids, quartered squares, and imbrications, acted as signs of gardens and protection on their own, unaccompanied by any other garden motifs. Sometimes the garden is deconstructed, as it were, so that the geometrical patterns of the screens are

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presented separately from the figurative imagery of the garden; at other times we see only the geometrical patterns, the figurative motifs being entirely absent. Examples of the first type, the deconstructed gardens, can be found on the so-called pilgrims’ bottles from Syria, usually dated between the fifth and seventh centuries. On a hexagonal example in the Corning Museum of Glass we find lozenge grids on two of the facets, separated from palm fronds or trees, which appear on the adjoining sides (the palm is shown on the left-hand facet illustrated in figure 8). The remaining two sides of the flask contain crosses.28 On another hexagonal bottle, also in the Corning Museum, a lozenge grid appears on one of the facets, while a square with two diagonals appears

Fig. 7.  Venice, San Marco, Treasury, enameled icon of St Michael. Screens of paradise (Source: Dimitris Kamaras).

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Fig. 8.  Corning Museum of Glass, glass flask. Lozenge grid and palm (Source: authors).

on another. On a third facet, adjoining the one with the quartered square, two birds can be seen, placed sideways.29 Thus on the bottles the designs that evoke the screens are separated from the garden motifs, such as trees and birds, which appear as discrete symbols on different sides of the bottle. On a four-sided flask now in the University Art Gallery at Yale the lozenge grid, evocative of the garden of paradise, is accompanied on the adjoining sides by a bird, a cross, and a stylite saint on his column.30

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Conceptually similar to these glass bottles is a group of late sixth or seventh century clay lamps from Bet Shean in Israel, which also present a kind of deconstructed garden.31 Here the channel is flanked by palm fronds, and the filling hole by square panels containing either lozenge grids or imbrications suggestive of a screen. A  similar repertoire of trees or palm fronds, lozenges, and imbrications can be found on Late Antique metal helmets. On one example, found at Sveti Vid in Dalmatia and dating to the turn of the fifth and sixth centuries, the ribs are incised with lozenges and decorated with trees and birds at their bases, while a pattern of imbrications covers the cheek guards. The appearance of crosses in conjunction with lozenges on other helmets from Sveti Vid suggests that the function of the motifs was not only to evoke paradise but also to invoke the protection of its screen.32 On the glass bottles and the clay lamp, the lozenges, imbrications, and quartered squares are accompanied by separate figurative motifs drawn from nature, providing a visual link with gardens. But, as noted above, in some cases the explicit references to nature are entirely absent, resulting in a purely abstract symbol of a garden. The progressive defiguration of the designs can be illustrated with the aid of fifth-century clay lamps from Bet Shean. For example, several of the lamps display, between their wick holes and their filling holes, panels with lozenge grids containing rounded forms in their interstices, which can be compared to the paradisiacal fruits that fill the lattice on the capital at Mount Sinai (Fig. 4), except that on the lamps the individual fruits have been reduced to simple circular blobs.33 Meanwhile, we find in the same location on another contemporary lamp a totally abstract lozenge grid, without any filling motifs or any overt garden imagery elsewhere on the vessel.34 This lattice is not pure ornament, but, as on the glass bottles, it conveys the idea of a paradisiacal garden, but here without any accompanying representations of foliage or fruits. The motif of imbrications underwent a similar process of abstraction, from garden imagery to geometric design. We can start with a sixth-century marble parapet slab in the Archaeological Museum of Istanbul, where the individual scales contain fish and dolphins, birds, a shell and a cantharos, all evocative of paradise.35 By contrast, at the center of an Early Byzantine slab from a chancel screen incorporated

Fig. 9.  Athens, Erechtheion, parapet slab. Imbrications in interlaced squares (Source: authors).

into the Erechtheion in Athens, the imbrications are presented simply as a geometric design, without filling motifs (Fig. 9).36 The scales are enclosed by two interlaced squares, itself an apotropaic device with cosmic connotations.37 The fruits that filled the imbrications on the panel in Istanbul have been displaced to the far outer corners of the relief in Athens, where figs and pomegranates can be found flanking triangles. More abstract still, is the appearance of imbrications in a fragment of a fifth or sixth-century impost capital from a church at Chaeronea in Greece, now in the Archaeological Museum of Thebes (Fig.  10). Here the pattern formed the background to a cross. The scales are not filled with any garden motifs such as leaves or flowers, but there can be little doubt that they are intended to represent Paradise. We may say the same of the gold background of the now destroyed mosaic of the Virgin orans in the apse of the church at Livadia on Cyprus, which dated from the last quarter of the sixth century or to the first half of the seventh century.38 In the background the tesserae were set in imbricated patterns, without any filling motifs. Brooke Shilling has explored the paradisiacal connotations of this design in the context of Marian imagery, and has contrasted the austerity of this mosaic with the earlier Cypriot apse at Kiti,

where the Virgin is surrounded by metaphorical images from nature that are figurative rather than geometric.39 We can trace the imbricated pattern in the background of mosaics right up into the Palaeologan period, to the famous early fourteenth-century composition over the entrance door to the naos of the Church of the Chora in Constantinople. In this image we see the splendidly attired donor, Theodore Metochites, seeking to expiate his manifold sins by presenting his church to Christ.40 Behind him the gold tesserae of the ground again are arranged in an imbricated pattern, which represents Paradise to which the supplicant earnestly desires to be admitted. The association of imbrications with paradise or with heaven also was made in the thirteenth century in the West, as is demonstrated by the medallion filled with golden imbrications at the top of the creation dome in San Marco, Venice.41 In this case the individual scales of the pattern contain stars against a blue ground, which as in the Cosmas manuscript at Sinai, evoke a celestial heaven, while the imbricated screen itself references the gardens of paradise. Similar gold imbrications, containing crosslets against a blue ground, appear behind the angels holding the cross reliquary portrayed in the mosaic over the door

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Fig. 10.  Thebes, Archaeological Museum, fragmentary impost capital from Chaeronea. Imbrications behind a cross (Source: authors).

to the treasury in the south transept and behind the Virgin in the mosaic panel in the south aisle of the church.42 The strength of the association of imbrications with gardens is demonstrated by the enamel icon of St Michael in the treasury of San Marco (Fig. 7). In many portrayals of soldier saints the warrior wears armor of the lamellar type, with overlapping rows of plates resembling imbricated scales.43 In the enameled icon, the individual scales contain plants executed in green, white, and red enamels. More plants grow luxuriantly behind the angel, so that the body of the bodiless being is transformed into an open screen guarding our view of paradise. Some of the most striking examples of paradisiacal screens are to be found on the exteriors of Late Byzantine churches, where the elaborate patterning of the bricks can assume figurative characteristics, especially around the windows of the sanctuaries.44 Thus in the eastern apses of the fourteenth-century church of the Holy Apostles at Thessaloniki, we find executed in bricks the same designs as we have already seen on the Early Byzantine clay lamps and glass bottles (figs 8 and 11).45 There are trees or palm branches,46 there are implied squares quartered by diagonals; and there are lozenge grids, either without motifs filling the individual cells, or with crosses. One lozenge gird contains long vertically placed bricks in its interstices, which possibly were intended

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to evoke leaves. Such an interpretation is suggested by the brickwork of the mid-fourteenth-century apse of the sanctuary of Hagios Savvas Kyriotissas at Veria, where there is a lozenge grid containing leafshaped inserts with pointed tops and bottoms, suggestive of plants.47 Finally, we may consider the eastern apse of the church of the Little Metropolis in Athens, perhaps thirteenth century in date, which incorporates two reused carvings with lozenge grids (Fig. 12).48 At the top of the left-hand facet, there is a slab decorated with a lattice without fillers; and in the central apse, above the eastern windows, there is another marble panel carved with imbrications above and a floral lozenge grid below. Even though the stone over the window has been inserted in such a way that the imbrications are upside down, there can be no doubt that the selection of these carvings to adorn the apse is purposeful. It may be noted that the arches of the windows are cut into the slab with the lozenge grid and the imbrications, so that the carving becomes, in effect, a screen guarding the opening into the church.49 As is well known, Maximos the Confessor in the seventh century had compared the nave of a church to the earth and its sanctuary to heaven,50 an idea that was echoed in the early fifteenth century by Archbishop Symeon of Thessaloniki, who said that the lower parts of the church represent the earth and paradise.51 Thus the lozenge grids that appear in the brickwork and stone sculptures on the exteriors of late Byzantine apses are, in effect, screens that open into a garden, that is, the paradise represented by the sanctuary within. In conclusion, it has not been our intention to imply in this chapter that the patterns discussed here had fixed and immovable meanings, like modern traffic signs. The meanings of the designs could be inflected, or changed, according to the contexts in which they appeared. Sometimes more than one meaning could be conveyed at the same time. For example, the pattern of imbrications could not only suggest a garden, but also the scales of lamellar armor. It could also represent the tail feathers of a peacock, itself a bird freighted with multiple symbolic and apotropaic significances, from the concepts of immortality and paradise to the deflection of the evil eye.52 Thus we find the mosaics on the undersides of the arches between the nave and the aisles of the late fifth century church of the Acheiropoietos in Thessaloniki decorated with a scale pattern derived

Fig. 11.  Thessaloniki, Holy Apostles, detail of central and south-eastern apses. Trees, quartered squares and lozenge grids (Source: authors).

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Fig. 12.  Athens, Little Metropolis, eastern apse. Slabs with imbrications and lozenge grid (Source: authors).

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from peacock feathers.53 In this case the imbrications echo the overlapping arrangement of the feathers at the base of the bird’s tail, while each scale contains an ‘eye’ characteristic of the outer part of the plumage. At the end of the Byzantine period, a pattern of imbrications becomes the device of Francesco  I Gattelusi, who supported John V Palaiologos in his efforts to recover the Byzantine throne, and who married his sister, Maria Palaiologina. Over the middle gate of the castle which Francesco restored on the island of Mytilene in 1373 there is a plaque displaying the imbricated emblem of the Gattelusi alongside the monogram of the Palaiologoi, and a crowned imperial eagle.54 In this case the imbricated design acquires the meaning of a heraldic device for the Gattelusi family, possibly in addition to its former imperial associations. The reading of such signs is a subtle and complicated matter, perhaps more akin to an art than a science.

notes Patrik Reuterswärd, The Forgotten Symbols of God, Stockholm Studies in History of Art 35 (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell Tryckeri, 1986). 2  Jane C. Reeder, The Villa of Livia ad Gallinas Albas: A Study in the Augustan Villa and Garden (Providence: Brown University, 2001), pp. 88–91, fig. 5.1 3  For further examples of screens in Roman paintings of gardens, see Monica Salvadori and Giulia M. B. Pavan, ‘Dall’ Hortus Pictus al Locus Amoenus cristiano: sopravvivenza e risemantizzazione di un tema iconografico negli affreschi dell’aula sud della Basilica di Aquileia’, Aquileia nostra, 83–84 (2012–13), 345–57, esp. figs 3 (Baláca, Villa Rustica, peristyle, with quartered rectangles), 4 (Bulla Regia, Casa del Pavone, room 7, with quartered squares), 6 (Brescia, complex of Santa Giulia, Domus C, with quartered rectangles and imbrications), 15 (Rome, Catacomb of San Sebastiano, Domus Petri, with quartered rectangles), 16 (Niš, tomb at Jagodin Mala, with lozenge grids and quartered squares). 4  Anastasia Drandaki, Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, Anastasia Tourta, Heaven and Earth: Art of Byzantium from Greek Collections, 2  vols. (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture and Sport, 2013), I, 71, no. 17. 5  The paradisiacal connotations of the imbricated screen in this fresco have been explored by Brooke L. Shilling, who has traced the motif and its meaning in Early Byzantine art in her thesis, ‘Apse Mosaics of the Virgin Mary in Early Byzantine Cyprus’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Johns Hopkins University, 2013), pp. 272–77; Brooke L. Shilling, ‘The Other Door to the Sanctuary. The Apse and Divine Entry in the Early Byzantine Church’, in Sacred Thresholds; the Door to the Sanctuary in Late 1 

Antiquity, ed. by Emilie M. van Opstall (Leiden: Brill, 2018), pp. 341-70 (pp. 359-61). 6  Friedrich W. Deichmann, Frühchristliche Bauten und Mosaiken von Ravenna (Baden-Baden: Grimm, 1958), pl. 62; Friedrich W. Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt des spätantiken Abendlandes, Geschichte und Monumente, (Wiesbaden: F.  Steiner, 1969), pp. 130–32. 7  Paul G. P. Meyboom, The Nile Mosaic of Palestrina: Early Evidence of Egyptian Religion in Italy (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 33–34, 258–59, notes 128–29. 8  Inventory number APM08094 9  Cäcilia Fluck, Gisela Helmecke, Elisabeth  R. O’Connell, Egypt: Faith after the Pharaohs, exhibition catalogue, The British Museum (London: The British Museum, 2015), p. 106, no. 114; Eunice D. Maguire, ‘Curtains at the Threshold: How They Hung and How They Performed’, DOP, 73 (2019), pp. 217-43 (pp. 22125, fig. 1) . 10  Doro Levi, Antioch Mosaic Pavements, 2  vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947), I, 315–56, II, pl. 128b. 11  Christine Kondoleon, ‘The Gerasa Mosaics of Yale: Intentionality and Design’, in Roman in the Provinces: Art on the Periphery of Empire, ed.  by Lisa  R. Brody and Gail  L. Hoffman (Chestnut Hill, Mass: McMullen Museum of Art, 2014), pp.  221–34 (p. 226), fig. 15.6; Eunice D. Maguire, ‘Firm Flowers in the Artifice of Transience’, in The Eloquence of Art: Essays in Honour of Henry Maguire, ed. by Andrea Olsen Lam and Rossitza Schroeder (Abingdon: Routledge, 2020), pp.  162-87 (pp.  174-77, fig. 10.11). Imbricated patterns containing floral motifs also appear in early Byzantine floor mosaics, where, like the lozenge grids, they act as two-dimensional representations of screened gardens. See, for example, the mosaic in the Baptistery of the Basilica of Shyrvallos at Paphos; Demetrios Michaelides, Cypriot Mosaics (Nicosia: Department of Antiquities, Cyprus, 1987), pp. 51–52, pl. 37. 12  George  H. Forsyth and Kurt Weitzmann, The Monastery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai: the Church and Fortress of Justinian (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1973), pl 63C, 64B; Eunice Maguire, ‘The Capitals and other Granite Carvings at Justinian’s Church on Mount Sinai’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Harvard University, 1986), pp. 79–131. 13  Sinai, MS. Gr. 1186, fol.  69r.; Maja Kominko, The World of Kosmas: Illustrated Byzantine Codices of the Christian Topography (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 69–70, pl. 4. A similar pattern, but with the grid made up of bands of white dots against a gold ground, represents heaven in the miniature of the Second Coming in the ninth century copy of Cosmas in the Vatican, MS. Gr. 699, fol. 89r., ibid, pp. 184–47, pl. 22. A  design of lozenges containing crosslets and stars occupies a band running along the top of the barrel vault in the Bahattin samanlığı kilisesi at Belisırma in Cappadocia, interpreted as the baldachin of heaven by Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, ‘The Bahattin samanlığı kilisesi at Belisırma (Cappadocia) Revisited’, in Byzantine Art: Recent Studies, ed. by Colum Hourihane (Princeton: Index of Christian Art, 2009), pp. 81–110 (pp. 86–89). In an early twelfth-century Psalter, Athos, Dionysiou MS. 65, fol.  12r., the lozenge pattern of an opus sectile pavement suggests a heavenly setting for the scene of a monk being admitted into paradise by angels; Vasileios Marinis, Death and the Afterlife in Byzantium:

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The Fate of the Soul in Theology, Liturgy, and Art (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), pp. 66–67, fig. 11. The background to the face of Christ on the Mandylion and Keramion was also depicted as a lozenge grid filled with flowers; Lydie Hadermann-Misguich, ‘Tissus de pouvoir et de prestige sous les Macédoniens et les Comnènes. À propos des coussins-de-pieds et de leurs représentations’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ, 17 (1993–94), 121–28 (pp. 124–25), fig. 6. 14  R.  Martin Harrison, Excavations at Saraçhane in Istanbul, 2 vols. (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1986), I, 132, fig. 151. 15  Now in the National Museum, Copenhagen, provenance unknown; Laskarina Bouras and Maria Parani, Lighting in Early Byzantium (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2008), p. 28, fig. 27. 16  Charalambos Bakirtzis, ed., Mosaics of Thessaloniki, 4th -14th Century (Athens: Kapon Editions, 2012), pp. 80–83, figs 44–45. 17  Helen  C. Evans and Brandie Ratliff, eds., Byzantium and Islam: Age of Transition, 7th-9th Century, exhibition catalogue, The Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2012), p. 48, no. 24M. 18  Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Kupferstichkabinett, MS. 78 A 9, fol. 39v.; Maria Vassilaki, ed., Mother of God: Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art, exhibition catalogue, Benaki Museum, Athens (Milan: Skira, 2000), pp. 388–89, no. 54. 19  Bente Kiilerich, Late Fourth Century Classicism in the Plastic Arts, Odense University Classical studies 18 (Odense: Odense University Press, 1993), pp. 35–37, figs 9b, 10b, 11b, and 12b. 20  Salvadori and Pavan, ‘Dall’ Hortus Pictus al Locus Amoenus Cristiano’, p. 354, fig. 16. 21  Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS. Coislin 79, fol. 2; Helen C. Evans and William D. Wixom, The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261 (exhibition catalogue, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), pp. 207–09, no. 143. 22  Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, MS. Coislin 79, fol. 2v.; Drandaki, Papanikola-Bakirtzi, Tourta, Heaven and Earth, p.  223, fig.  101. The lozenge grids and the imbrications are associated with imperial power in general by Hadermann-Misguich, ‘Tissus de pouvoir et de prestige sous les Macédoniens et les Comnènes’, p. 121–28. 23  David Buckton, ed., The Treasury of San Marco, Venice, exhibition catalogue, The British Museum (London: The British Museum, 1984), p. 171–75, no. 19. Compare also the imbricated footrests of Michael and Gabriel in the mosaics at Daphni: Ernst Diez and Otto Demus, Byzantine Mosaics in Greece: Hosios Lucas and Daphni (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1931), figs 66–67. 24  On this topic, see, in general, Henry Maguire, ‘Imperial Gardens and the Rhetoric of Renewal’, in New Constantines: The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in Byzantium, 4th - 13th Centuries, ed.  by Paul Magdalino (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1994), pp.  181–98; reprinted in Henry Maguire, Rhetoric, Nature and Magic in Byzantine Art (Aldershot: Ashgate 1998), no. 18. 25  Henry Maguire, ‘A Description of the Aretai Palace and its Garden’, Journal of Garden History, 10 (1990), 209–13 (p.  210); reprinted in Maguire, Rhetoric, Nature and Magic in Byzantine Art, no. 16.

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Theodoros Prodromos, historische Gedichte, ed.  by Wolfram Hörandner, (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1974), p. 401; English translation in Henry Maguire, ‘Davidic Virtue: the Crown of Constantine Monomachos and its Images’, in The Real and Ideal Jerusalem in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Art (= Jewish Art, 23/24), ed.  by Bianca Kühnel ( Jerusalem: Center for Jewish Art, 1997/8), pp.  117–23 (pp.  122–23); reprinted in Maguire, Image and Imagination in Byzantine Art (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), no. 12. 27  Ioannis Cinnami Epitome rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis gestarum, ed. by August Meineke, Corpus scriptorum historiae byzantinae, 26 (Bonn, 1836), p. 205; an English translation in Charles  M. Brand, Deeds of John and Manuel Comnenus by John Kinnamos (New York: Columbia University Press, 1976), p. 156. 28  David Whitehouse, Roman Glass in the Corning Museum of Glass, 3  vols. (Corning: The Corning Museum of Glass, 1997– 2003), II, 98–99, no. 591. 29  Whitehouse, Roman Glass, II, 99–100, no. 592. 30  Susan  B. Matheson, Ancient Glass in the Yale University Art Gallery (New Haven: Yale University Art Gallery, 1980), no. 353. For similar flasks with lozenge grids, palm fronds, birds, crosses, and stylite saints on different facets, see Evans and Ratliff, Byzantium and Islam, pp. 95–96, nos 62A–62C. For a gilded glass cup with a decoration of putti among flowers screened by a lattice of trails making a cage around it, see Whitehouse, Roman Glass, II, 275–77, no. 867. 31  Shulamit Hadad, Excavations at Bet Shean, vol. 1, The Oil Lamps from the Hebrew University Excavations at Bet Shean, Qedem Reports 4 ( Jerusalem: The Institute of Archaeology, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2002), pp. 74, 76–77, nos 328–32. 32  The helmets are now in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. Christian Beaufort-Spontin and Matthias Pfaffenbichler, Meisterwerke der Hofjagd- und Rüstkammer Kusthistorisches Museum Wien (Vienna: Kunsthistorisches Museum, 2013), pp.  50–51, no. 1. The imbrications engraved into the cheek guards also can be seen as metonymy for the overlapping scales of lamellar armour. For other examples of this pattern on the cheek guards of Late Antique helmets, see Joachim Werner, ‘Nuovi dati sull’origine degli altomedioevali del tipo Blandenheim’, in XXXVI Corso di Cultura sull’Arte Ravennate e Bizantina (Ravenna: Girasole, 1989), pp. 419–30, figs 1–3. 33  Hadad, Excavations at Bet Shean, pp.  40–41, 47, 49–50, nos 143, 150, 214, 215. 34  Hadad, Excavations at Bet Shean, pp. 41, 49, no. 151. 35  Nezih Firatlı, La sculpture byzantine figurée au Musée Archéologique d’Istanbul (Paris: Masionneuve, 1990), pp. 156–57, pl. 96, no. 309. 36  Bente Kiilerich, ‘FromTemple to Church: The Redefinition of the Sacred Landscape on the Acropolis’, in Sacred Sites and Holy Places: Exploring the Sacralization of Landscape through Time and Space, ed. by Saebjorg W. Nordeide and Stefan Brink (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 187–209 (pp. 203–04), fig. 40. 37  Andreas Schmidt-Colinet, ‘Deux carrés entrelacés inscrits dans un cercle. De la signification d’un ornament géométrique’, in Annemarie Stauffer, Textiles d’Egypte de la collection Bouvier: antiquité tardive, période copte, premiers temps d’Islam, exhibition 26 

catalogue, Fribourg, Musée d’art et d’histoire (Bern: Benteli Verlag, 1991), pp. 21–34. 38  Arthur H. S. Megaw, and Ernest J. W. Hawkins, ‘A Fragmentary Mosaic of the Orant Virgin in Cyprus’, in Actes du XIVe Congrès International des Études Byzantines, 1971, 3 vols. (Bucharest, 1976), III, 363–66; Michaelides, Cypriot Mosaics, pp. 56–57, pl. 41. 39  Shilling, ‘Apse Mosaics of the Virgin Mary in Early Byzantine Cyprus’, pp. 272–77; Shilling, ‘The Other Door to the Sanctuary’, pp. 359–61, fig. 12.5A; for Kiti, see Michaelides, Cypriot Mosaics, pp. 55–56, pl 26, 41. Imbrications also formed the background of the largely destroyed painting in the apse of the church of Hagia Kyriaki at Apeiranthos on Naxos; A.  Vasilaki, ‘Εἰκονομαχικὲς ἐκκλησίες στὴ Νάξο’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ, 3 (1962–63), 49–74 (p.  61); Klimis Aslanidis, ‘Remarks on the Architecture of the Church of Hagia Kyriaki at Apeiranthos, Naxos’, in L’aniconisme dans l’art religieux byzantin, ed.  by Matteo Campagnolo et  al., (Geneva: La Pomme d’or, 2014), pp. 223–29, fig. 6. 40  Paul Underwood, The Kariye Djami, 4 vols. (New York; Bollingen Foundation, 1966), I, 42–43, II, pl 26–29; Robert Ousterhout, The Art of the Kariye Camii (London and Istanbul: Scala, 2002), p.  23, plate on p.  29. An imbricated pattern with threelobed scales appears in the background of the somewhat earlier mosaic of the Deesis in Hagia Sophia; Thomas Whittemore, The Mosaics of Haghia Sophia at Istanbul: Fourth Preliminary Report, The Deesis Panel of the South Gallery (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1952), pp. 20, 38, pl 14, 29. 41  Otto Demus, The Mosaics of San Marco in Venice, 2 vols. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), II.1, 146, II.2, pl 107, 131. 42  Demus, The Mosaics of San Marco, II.1, 50, 66, 146, II.2: pl 18, 101; the scale pattern also appears in the openwork panels of the bronze doors by Bertuccio to the left and right of the main entrance of the west façade; Otto Demus, The Church of San Marco in Venice: History, Architecture, Sculpture (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1960), p. 181, figs 63, 87. 43  On lamellar armor and its portrayal in Byzantine art, see Maria G. Parani, Reconstructing the Reality of Images: Byzantine Material Culture and Religious Iconography (11th-15th Centuries) (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 104–10. 44  On Byzantine brickwork patterns, see Georgios  M. Velenes, Ερμηνεία του εξωτερικού διακόσμου στη βυζαντινή αρχιτεκτονική, 2 vols. (Thessaloniki; Aristoteleio Panepistemio, 1984).

Cyril Mango, Byzantine Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1976), fig.  303; Marcus  L. Rautman, ‘The Church of the Holy Apostles in Thessaloniki: A  Study in Early Palaeologan Architecture’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Indiana University, 1984), pp. 281–90; Velenes, Ερμηνεία, II, pl. 110a; 46  Interpreted as the Tree of Life by Jasmina S. Ćirić, ‘Décryptage du mur: l’Arbre de Vie dans l’architecture byzantine tardive’, in Spaces of Memory: Art, Architecture and Heritage (Belgrade: Faculty of Philosophy, 2013), pp. 17–31. 47  Velenes, Ερμηνεία, II, pl. 42b; Thanasis Papazotos, Wandering in Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Veria (Athens: Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 2007), p. 57, figs 56–57. 48  Henry Maguire, ‘The Cage of Crosses: Ancient and Medieval Sculptures on the “Little Metropolis” in Athens’, in Θυμίαμα στη μνήμη Λασκαρίνας Μπούρα (Athens: Benaki Museum, 1994), pp. 169–72; reprinted in Maguire, Rhetoric, Nature and Magic in Byzantine Art, no. 9, fig. 4. 49  On the role of brickwork patterns to create an illusion of transparency, see Jasmina  S. Ćirić, ‘Constantinopolitan Concepts, Old Symbols and New Interpretations: Façade Ornaments at St Sophia Church in Ohrid, Zaum and Lesnovo’, in Macedonia and the Balkans in the Byzantine Commonwealth: Proceedings of the International Symposium ‘Days of Justinian  I’, Skopje, 18–19 October, 2013, ed. Mitko B. Panov (Skopje: ‘Euro Balkan’ University, 2014), pp. 156–65 (pp. 162–63). 50  PG 91, col. 672. 51  PG 155, cols 337–40. 52  On the significance of the peacock in Early Christian literature and art, see Henry Maguire, Earth and Ocean: the Terrestrial World in Early Byzantine Art, Monographs on the Fine Arts Sponsored by the College Art Association of America 43 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1987), pp.  39–40; on its propitious role, see K.  M.  D. Dunbabin, The Mosaics of Roman North Africa: Studies in Iconography and Patronage (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), pp. 168–69. 53  Bakirtzis, ed., Mosaics of Thessaloniki, 4th -14th Century, pp. 219, 225–26, figs 32–33, 45–47. 54  Lillian Acheilara, The Kastro of Mytilene (Athens: Archaeological Receipts Fund, 1999), p. 22, fig. 22. Two imbricated slabs are also incorporated into the masonry of the south gate and of the Great Enclosure of the castle; ibid., p. 15, figs 13, 15. 45 

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Extended in the Imagination

The Representation of Architectural Space in Byzantium*

Roland Betancourt The point is that the Byzantine audience understood pictures as representational, but they did not understand either the meaning of a conceptual diagram or the purpose of a working drawing. And this is precisely what a blueprint or architectural drawing is – a conceptual diagram. Consequently, one may suspect that if the Byzantines did not understand them, they did not use them.1 – Robert Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium

In his groundbreaking text on architectural design and construction in Byzantium, Robert Ousterhout provides his reader with this poignant reflection regarding the legibility and use of architectural drawings in the Middle Byzantine period. The point being made here helps to substantiate the extensive evidence that Ousterhout has marshaled to underscore the fact that Byzantine masons worked on the ground to layout the plans of edifices, without architectural drawings, but rather using the skill and expertise of these workers to design and execute the building in situ. Yet, Ousterhout’s statements here also have compelling ramifications for how we understand images in the Byzantine world, particularly those seeking to depict architectural space in any regard. This proposition opens up a series of important questions: First, how do we articulate a distinction between representational and diagrammatic depictions through terms pertinent to Middle Byzantine viewers? Second, if images can be nothing but representational, how are we to comprehend nonrepresentational depictions of space, and consequently what mental processes might be at work in such instances? Finally, how do we perceive these more conceptual and cognitive processes being worked out in the visual arts of the Middle Byzantine period, particularly in the area of Constantinople and its neighbors?

Here, I will show that the representational strategies used by Byzantine artists to depict architectural space are deeply in keeping with contemporaneous theories of perception, where the role of the viewer’s imagination was precisely meant to seam the divide between diagrammatic depictions and fully-visualized representational models. My goal, however, is not to suggest the use of architectural drawings in Byzantium, but rather to articulate a form of seeing evidenced in Byzantine art and that of its neighbors. This is a form of looking that takes two-dimensional, diagrammatic depictions of space and uses the imagination to visualize how this architectural space would look three-dimensionally. Moreover, this chapter shall similarly argue for a cohesion between the representations of secular and sacred spaces, demonstrating an architectural imaginary that spans both realms, from siege warfare machines to churches. Representational Images and Conceptual Diagrams To consider the various questions opened by Ousterhout’s words and my own proposition, I  wish to begin here with the example that led to Ousterhout’s

conclusion and which Ousterhout himself drew to my attention just over a decade ago: the Parangelmata Poliorcetica, specifically, the manuscript known as Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 1605, which dates to the eleventh century and is an object that, despite being lavishly illustrated, has thus far eluded the sustained attention of art historians, except in passing mention.2 The Poliorcetica is a Byzantine treatise on siege warfare, composed by the socalled Heron of Byzantium in the mid-tenth century, which comes down to us in several carefully illuminated manuscripts with drawings and schematics for the construction and use of military tools and structures.3 Based on the earlier writings of Apollodorus of Damascus and others on siege-craft,4 this Byzantine treatise is notable for its visual translation of the schematic diagrams found in earlier manuscripts into three-dimensional, representative depictions that – in keeping with Ousterhout’s thesis – would have been more accessible and legible to the contemporary Byzantine viewer. This is perhaps best exemplified by a comparison of the depiction of the Ram of Hegetor in the Vatican Poliorcetica (folio 20r) (Fig. 1) with some of its sources in the sixteenth-century Vindonbonensis phil. gr. 120, folio 32r, and in the tenthcentury Paris. suppl. gr. 607, folio 23r (Fig. 2). Comparing the tenth-century Paris example with the Vatican Poliorcetica, we can observe notable differences in these two representational strategies. Perhaps the most striking factor at first glance is the highly schematic approach of the Paris manuscript, which outlines the frame and structure of the entire siege tower with a simple line drawing, using color sparingly. Similarly, one is struck by the schematic nature of the image, which depicts the base of the ram from above, as in a modern ground plan, but unites this with an elevation view above that shows the rest of the ram, notably the battering ram and the tower’s parapet. The ground and elevation views are united simply by the supports of the tower that come down and are affixed onto the undercarriage’s frame with the wheel assemblies. The only feature of the object that could be described as being handled in an outwardly representational or perspectival manner is the parapet itself, which is made of a brick-like wall with crenellations. A  limited red and green palette is all the illustrator uses to lend some three-dimensionality to the wheels down the center of the ram, to the battering ram itself and its adjoining columns, and the

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mechanism of chains sustaining it. Swaths of green highlight the clear, uncial captions that neatly gloss the various parts of the war machine. These captions play with the narrative of the text, much like in a modern patent, and allow the reader to compare the description of these machines in the narrative and their visual representation. In the Vatican Poliorcetica, however, the image takes a markedly representational approach by depicting the ram as a three-dimensional object. Most notably, there is the inclusion of human figures going about preparatory tasks, such as the two figures on the front of the battering ram. As the text tells us, the men of Hegetor ‘also were making (ἐποίουν) a scalingladder on the forward end of the ram, a board having been nailed (ἐφηλωθείσης) in front and a plaited net of considerable thickness…’5 The imperfect ‘they were making’ (ἐποίουν) and the aorist participle ‘having been nailed’ (ἐφηλωθείσης) turn mere description into narrative, making the illuminations of the Paris manuscript staid diagrams that in a sense would contradict the emphasis on procedures of building and construction that the Poliorcetica’s narrative wishes to emphasize. Thus, in this case, the inclusion of human actors narrativizes the illustration and makes it more congruent with the text itself. The parapet of the ram is particularly interesting, given that in both images, its perspectival handling and proportions are almost identical. Overlaying the two images emphasizes this point by affirming just how similar both are. Notably, however, the Vatican manuscript eschews the fanciful brick-like work of the parapet’s wall, replacing it with a wooden frame matching the rest of the siege machine’s appearance in that image. And, while the Paris manuscript bears the caption ‘siege-tower, that is breastwork’ (πυργίον ἤτοι θωράκιον) at the center of the parapet, denoting that reinforced shield, the Vatican example demonstrates this via the inclusion of human figures. In fact, this manuscript eschews the descriptive captions found in the Paris and Vienna examples, and instead uses figures to illustrate some of these finer details. Humans are used, therefore, not as subjects or agents, but rather as descriptive glosses to help explain the siege machine being detailed, much as the captions were used in the other manuscripts. In order to grasp this nuance, we must turn to the text of the Poliorcetica, which states: ‘Above the ram holder they affixed a breastwork (θωράκιον), like a fence, so that those watching out

Fig. 1.  Ram of Hegetor, Bibliothèque nationale de France, supp. 607, fol. 23r (Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France).

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Fig. 2.  Ram of Hegetor, Poliorcetica, Vat. gr. 1605, fol. 20r (Source: © 2020 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana).

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(ἐποπτεύοντας) for objects launched against the ram by the enemy could stand securely on it’.6 While the textual caption in the Paris example merely affirmed that this was indeed the breastwork of the tower, the figures here clarify this feature by showing the watch guards on duty in accordance with Heron’s text: their eyes look outward in the direction of the battering ram, hands readied with arms, standing safely behind the parapet wall. In other words, the Vatican Poliorcetica carefully deploys, with elegant detail, a highly narrative mode of illustration to schematize the siege machines, which the Paris example does through diagrammatic plan and elevation drawings. It is these complex acts of translation from twodimensional static diagrams into three-dimensional narrative illustrations that suggested to Ousterhout that the Byzantines understood images representationally, but not as conceptual diagrams. Ousterhout and others have noted specifically the various times that the illuminators misunderstood more complex diagrammatic images, which led them to produce nonsensical illustrations in the Vatican manuscript. It would also appear that Heron did not fully appreciate the technical force of the terms for ‘plan and elevation’ (τό τε κείμενον καὶ τὸ ὠρθωμένον), which appear to be interpreted by Heron as more like ‘the flat and the upright view’, as Ousterhout, following Sullivan, translates them in their tenth-century understanding.7 However, we are left with the nagging realization that while the Paris case features detailed plan and elevation drawings, it severely lacks the bristling emphasis on materiality of the Vatican one. The fanciful Corinthian-esque columns of the Paris ram gives way to sober Doric columns, if we can even call them that, on the ground-floor of the ram. The beams of the wheel assembly are dappled and textured in their color so as to stress their wooden facture, and each axle bears a simple pin through it to keep these wheels in place. The timber roof carefully notes every nail keeping the structure intact, using a crude metallic-gold paint to indicate the iron nails. The chains of the ram are similarly treated and suggest that they are composed of both metallic chains and some form of rope. In other words, this translation of the schematic diagrams into a three-dimensional, representational image appears to carry a far greater amount of detail regarding materials, carpentry, and construction, aspects that the author’s preface specifically emphasizes.

Imagination and Visualization In his introduction to the text, the Poliorcetica’s author self-reflexively muses on the obscurity and reticence of the subject matter’s comprehensibility, proposing that perhaps such images and concepts are perceptible through ‘ignorance alone’ (ἀγνωσίᾳ μόνῃ). He opens the text of his treatise justifying the translation of these diagrams into three-dimensional, representational images, writing: Ὅσα μὲν τῶν πολιορκητικῶν μηχανημάτων δυσχερῆ καὶ δυσέφικτα πέφυκεν, εἴτε διὰ τὸ ποικίλον καὶ δυσδιάγνωστον τῆς τούτων καταγραφῆς, εἴτε διὰ τὸ τῶν νοημάτων δύσληπτον ἢ μᾶλλον εἰπεῖν ἀκατάληπτον τοῖς πολλοῖς, ἴσως δὲ τῇ ἀγνωσίᾳ μόνῃ περιληπτῶν, ὡς μηδ’ ἀπ’ αὐτῆς τῆς τῶν σχημάτων θέας τὸ σαφὲς κεκτημένων καὶ εὔληπτον, ἅτε μὴ πᾶσιν ὄντων εὐκόλων τε καὶ γνωστῶν, μήτε μὴν πρὸς κατασκευὴν καὶ τεκτόνευσιν εὐχερῶν, μόνων δὲ τῶν ταῦτ’ ἐξευρηκότων καὶ συγγεγραφηκότων μηχανικῶν εἰς τὴν τούτων ἐξάπλωσιν καὶ σαφήνειαν δεομένων. Everything about siege machines is difficult and hard to understand, either because of the intricacy and inscrutability of their depiction, or because of the difficulty of comprehending the concepts, or, to say it better, because of their incomprehensibility to most men; perhaps they are comprehensible through ignorance alone. For the [machines] do not obtain clarity and comprehensibility even from looking at the drawings of them, since these are neither easy nor understandable for all, nor indeed readily useful for construction and carpentry. The engineers alone who have invented and described these [machines] are required for explanation and clear knowledge of them.8

In this opening, the author admirably presents the reader with a methodological statement, demonstrating that he perceives the need to make these materials more readily accessible because the ‘depiction’ (καταγραφῆς) of these and their ‘concepts’ (νοημάτων) are difficult to grasp, stressing that even their ‘drawings’ (σχημάτων) are intractable to most. The author then proceeds to deploy Neoplatonic language borrowed from Pseudo-Dionysius, Proclus, and Plotinus to describe his methodology regarding the separations between drawing (σχῆμα) and illustration (σχηματισμός) as a distinction between the ideated concept of a thing and the perceptible reality of said thing.9

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The key part of this passage, however, is the disclaimer that they are incomprehensible ‘to most’ (τοῖς πολλοῖς), but not all. A critical aspect of these images to note is that the manuscripts of Apollodorus, like the Paris example, were being transmitted with the same diagrammatic images in the tenth century, when Heron’s Poliorcetica was composed, and beyond. The Vatican Poliorcetica similarly evidences an indebtedness to such images: the perspective, scale, and composition of the tower’s breastwork in the Vatican’s Ram of Hegtor is nearly identical to that in the Paris version, even though the diagrammatic parts of the image bear little resemblance. This would suggest that the artist retained the aspects that were legible three-dimensionally but altered the parts of the siege machine that he deemed unfeasible or incongruent with the Poliorcetica. Note, for example, that the ground plan’s wheel assembly has been radically altered, moving the wheels outward, rather than in the center of the truck. This was done to accommodate the large host of soldiers that would have pushed the siege tower forward from within, covered by a roof, in keeping with contemporary practice and as evidenced in the manuscript’s images for the filler and besieger-protecting tortoises (i.e. fol. 8r). These details suggest that this artist was not just using contemporary knowledge of siege machines, depicting them from his imagination alone, or relying exclusively on the preexisting manuscripts, but rather closely looking at and working from the Paris manuscript (or a very close exemplar) alongside the Poliorcetica’s text and contemporary siege-craft practices. Thus, it is necessary to acknowledge that the Vatican manuscript’s artist was actively translating those images into three-dimensional representational images in the eleventh-century. This ascertains their enduring legibility to an educated group with the technical skill to read and comprehend such images, even if the artist at times erred in his handling of the more fanciful siege-craft machines, which were probably unfeasible altogether. The goal of the author and artist is to produce a manuscript that is readily useable ‘for construction and carpentry’ (πρὸς κατασκευὴν καὶ τεκτόνευσιν), hence we can understand the attention paid in these representational images to the material realities of the siege machines. The text repeatedly speaks about the sourcing of materials on the battlefield for constructing and using these machines. Therefore, we should understand that these illustrations are diagrammatic

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and conceptual in their own manner. They do not operate like the earlier ground and elevation drawings that merely indicated structure with little to no regard for materials and facture. Instead, the Vatican Poliorcetica sketches out the nuances of construction and carpentry, indicating arrangements of nails, pins in axles, wheel assembly constructions, the composition of pulley and suspension chains, and so on. What I wish to propose here is that these images were also being read as conceptual images, which deployed a three-dimensional representational model to articulate aspects of building and carpentry that the earlier images were inadequate at conveying to master builders working on the ground in the battlefield. As the Poliorcetica states in its closing chapter: Ταῦτα τοίνυν τὰ πρὸς ἀναγραφὴν καὶ σχηματισμὸν κατ’ ἐκλογὴν συνταχθέντα πολιορκητήρια μηχανήματα οἱ τῶν στρατευμάτων ἐξάρχοντες μετὰ λόγου καὶ συνεχοῦς μελέτης ἐπιμελῶς κατεργαζόμενοι, τὴν θείαν διὰ παντὸς ἐνοπτριζόμενοι δίκην, ἐπὶ δικαιοσύνῃ καὶ εὐσεβείᾳ κεκοσμημένοι καὶ τῇ κραταιᾷ χειρὶ συνεργείᾳ τε καὶ συμμαχίᾳ τῶν θεοστεπτῶν καὶ φιλοχρίστων ἀνάκτων Ῥώμης ἐνδυναμούμενοί τε καὶ φρουρούμενοι, εὐχερῶς τὰς τῆς Ἄγαρ μάλιστα λήψονται πόλεις, αὐτοὶ μηθὲν ἀνήκεστον ὑπὸ τῶν θεολέστων ἐχθρῶν πάσχοντες. If army commanders carefully complete with logic and continuous attention these siege machines, which have been selectively compiled for description and illustration, and always contemplate divine justice, being honored for their fairness and reverence, and strengthened and guarded by the powerful hand and cooperation and alliance of the God-crowned and Christ-loving emperors of Rome, they will easily capture cities, especially those of Agar and themselves suffering nothing fatal from the God-damned enemy.10

This statement stresses the importance of conceptual practices at work in the Vatican Poliorcetica. This harkens back to the text’s opening statements on the difficulty and incomprehensibility of these machines. That is, that ‘logic and continuous attention’ (λόγου καὶ συνεχοῦς μελέτης), are necessary for the sake of understanding the siege machines that have been selected for ‘description and illustration’ (ἀναγραφὴν καὶ σχηματισμὸν), even if these images were ostensibly already visual translations of difficult concepts and illegible diagrams, as the introduction had stated. The comprehension (or more-often incomprehension) of these

images is successively articulated in that introduction through a haptic language of perceptual comprehension via the adjectives: ‘hard to comprehend’ (δύσληπτον), ‘ungraspable’ (ἀκατάληπτον), or conversely, by virtue of ignorance, ‘comprehensible’ (περιληπτῶν).11 This diction is critical to ancient, late antique, and Byzantine theories of perception, which haptically stress the cognitive functions of the mind’s imagination, or phantasia, as it attempts to visualize mental impressions of sense data for thought and memory.12 For instance, as is well known, in his ninth-century homily on the image of the Virgin in the apse of Hagia Sophia, the Patriarch Photios rhetorically asks his listeners: Has the mind seen? Has it grasped (ἀντελάβετο)? Has it visualized (ἐφαντάσθη)? Then it has effortlessly transmitted the forms to the memory.13 While often understood to be indicative of a haptic theory of vision in Byzantium, as I have argued elsewhere, this litany instead carefully outlines the process of sense perception occurring in the mind of the viewer.14 Compare this, for example, to Photios’s parallel statements on hearing, where he similarly asks: Has [a person] inclined their ear to the story? Has their intelligence drawn to itself and visualized (φανταζομένη) the thing heard? Then, judging it with sober attention, they deposit it into the memory.15

The process of perception unfolds as cognition makes contact with the sense data offered by the body’s organs, then, apprehending this information, the imagination or phantasia goes on to produce an image of it that can be stored in the memory for the preservation of knowledge. Several authors echo this process with a similar deployment of haptic vocabulary, such as Porphyry in his commentary on Ptolemy’s Harmonics, stating that first ‘apprehension’ (ἀντίληψις) arising from sense-perception ‘contacting’ (ἐπαφωμένη) the entity; then, ‘belief-making assumption’ (δοξαστικὴ ὑπόληψις) receives what has been introduced; and, thirdly, phantasia produces an image of such things in the mind, which is then passed on to memory.16 This haptic language emerges precisely from the operation of the imagination. For the Stoics, phantasia could be a product of either sensual perception or from the combined acts of reasoning, the latter of which was described as a ‘graspable imagination’ (καταληπτική φαντασία) by figures like Sextus

Empiricus and Diogenes Laertius.17 This apprehensible imagination of a thing could be confirmed by reason, and thus is one that could be grappled with for thought and memory. Thus, we may understand the critical operation of the Stoic’s katalēptikē phantasia within the Poliorcetica’s use of haptic language to describe the comprehension of the schēma as schēmatismos. In the appended Geodesia, the treatise discussing applied geometric analysis in warfare, our same author discusses the definition of a triangle as having three angles equal to two right angles, resolving ‘thus every [triangle] through perception and imagination is able to be grasped’ (ὅθεν καὶ πᾶν τὸ αἰσθήσει τε καὶ φαντασίᾳ καταληφθῆναι δυνάμενον).18 Here, the author not only articulates comprehension with the verb καταληφθῆναι, but also demonstrates that it encompasses the act of recognizing a triangle in the world through perception, and also the act of visualizing a triangle in the imagination. In a sense, this is the type of mental faculties upon which the Poliorcetica’s resort to ‘ignorance alone’ deploys: the ability to actively imagine the working realities and mechanics of siege implements, which lie beyond the senses. These are neither completed through the textual descriptions, nor their images alone, but rather must be speculatively given flesh in the mind so as to actively imagine their various possibilities, conditions, and operating guidelines as practical knowledge. In the Poliorcetica, then, it is as if the visualization and imagination of objects is being actively deployed to educate humans about the polymorphic relations between actions and things as a metaphor for tactical operation. In other words, as I have suggested already, these three-dimensional representational images are in fact working conceptually and diagrammatically, but they simply have different goals in how they use the viewer’s technical imagination. If we are to give credence to this approach, then it is necessary to rethink how we read and put to use Robert Ousterhout’s claims, mentioned at the start of this article: that the Poliorcetica evidences mid-eleventh century viewers’ inability to comprehend the earlier depictions of the machines’ architectures, often depicted as hybrids of plans and elevations, as can be seen in the early-tenth century depictions from the works of Apollodorus of Damascus (i.e. Paris. supp. gr. 607, fols  21v and 23r). Nevertheless, two matters must be raised and reiterated: Firstly, as was noted at the start of this section, our eleventh-century author

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still managed to eloquently translate these plans into three-dimensional drawings, evidencing the legibility of such conventions. Not to mention, as well, that both in the tenth century and after, similar images were still being copied and transmitted alongside the text of Apollodoros and others. And, secondly, that this logic of spatial representation – combining plan and elevation, as well as fusing representational and diagrammatic depictions – is prolific within contemporaneous art in the Mediterranean world, which actively encouraged viewers to three-dimensionally visualize such diagrammatic depictions of architecture, shown in simultaneous plan and elevation. The Depiction of Architectural Space Take for instance the depiction of architectural space on Byzantine liturgical scrolls from the eleventh through thirteenth centuries.19 Intended for the recitation of prayers spoken by the priest officiating the Divine Liturgy, many such scrolls diagrammatically depict a church with a cluster of domes at the top, apse and side niches below, and further architectural features terminating in an altar scene above a square headpiece, similar to those usually found in contemporaneous Gospel books and lectionaries. In The Mediation of Ornament, Oleg Grabar suggests that such representations of architecture operate in between decorative conventions in manuscript illumination and a vague depiction of architectural forms that conjure up a sense of architectural space without precision or definite articulation.20 Grabar characterizes this as the ‘optisemic’ level of such images, whereby sight comes to recognize signs vaguely as, in his words, ‘a broad category of experience… without necessarily being aware of specific details’.21 While this is a valid observation, cautioning against the absolute and specific identification of one image with one building, I am more interested in the ways in which such images are constructed on the premise that they are to elicit their own three-dimensional recomposition in the imagination of their viewers. This point may be elucidated by turning to the badly-damaged, tenth-century folios from the Sana’a Quran, discovered in Yemen (Fig.  3). Here, we can observe a schematic depiction of space that represents the elevation of the building as a flattened twodimensional space set within the building’s ground

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plan, whereby the further spaces are articulated by the higher registers. This may be fruitfully compared to the depiction of a cloister in the ninth-century plan of Saint Gall, where the arcade is flattened out within the frame of the cloister’s footprint; or, similarly to the depiction of the main road and its arcade in the sixth-century mosaic map of Jerusalem from Madaba. In the Sana’a image, we can extrapolate that the building being represented seems to have a central nave, terminating in an apse with what appears to be a minbar set within it. The space has five bays on each side of the nave, divided by four arcades of stacked arches, which are reminiscent to those in the Great Mosque of Damascus.22 Each one of these arcades has a vessel (most likely a lamp) hanging from their lower-levels, helping to articulate a sense of top-and-bottom. This allows the viewer to not erroneously imagine that each tier of arches is a division of a bay, but rather clarifies that the smaller arches are stacked above their lower, lamp-bearing counterparts.23 In order to reconstruct this space therefore, the viewer must re-erect these various architectural elements with the topmost elements receding into the space before them, as in my reconstruction (Fig.  4). Note in particular, the manner in which the minbar’s oblique positioning in the flat image becomes optically corrected in this reconstruction so as to make it appear as if it is jutting out straight into the nave. While I would simply attribute this minor detail to a felicitous coincidence, we can understand that angled minbar in the flattened image as emerging from the artist’s desire to depict this monumental object head-on, while nevertheless denoting its three-dimensionality. The handling and articulation of this space in particular is telling for our approach to similar depictions of space in Byzantine liturgical scrolls. In the case of the twelfth-century Patmos scroll (Patmos, Library of the Monastery of Saint John, no. 707) (Fig. 5), I propose that such an image was meant to be dissected and reconstructed as a threedimensional image in the mind of its viewers as they scrolled through its parts during its use. Yet, unlike the simple ‘tilting-upwards’ per se of the component parts in the Quran folio, the Patmos scroll seems to fluctuate between interior and exterior views of the building that suggest a complex layering of space (Fig. 6). In the top register, the five huddled domes suggest a cross-in-square layout for this church, as would be typical of Middle Byzantine architecture.

Fig. 3.  Quran Frontispiece, Sana’a National Museum, Yemen. (Source: Oleg Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]).

Below that, we then seem to be gazing onto the east end of the church, with Mary in the central apse, and the half-domes of the prothesis and diakonikon visible to her left and right, respectively. Then, we appear to be confronted once again with the exterior of the

building with its three tripartite windows and the undulating lead roof below, projecting outward up to the front façade of the edifice. And, moving on below that we encounter the altar scene with what would appear to be the arches of the templon dividing the

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Fig. 4.  Spatial Reconstruction of Architectural Space from the Quran Frontispiece (Drawing by Howeyda al-Harithi in Oleg Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992]; three-dimensional composition by the author).

sanctuary from the rest of the nave – or, perhaps even the view into the naos from that narthex that is wonderfully articulated by the lower roofline. Thus, if we were to reconstruct this church, one would have to imagine it as depicting a layering of different views, whereby the architectural space projects outward to the viewer. The porphyry medallion on that rich green marble alludes to the interior of a church, like Hagia Sophia, yet it also echoes the image of the Virgin that lies beyond it spatially, as in my reconstruction. Meanwhile, the headpiece below, which might customarily open up a religious text in a codex, such as a twelfth-century Gospel book; also becomes the marble or opus sectile floor of a church, such as the South Church of the Pantokrator Monastery (1118–36) in Constantinople, whose façade is similarly echoed by

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the profile of the depicted rooftop, windows, and narthex. This logic of spatial layering is prolific throughout these liturgical scrolls and other frontispieces in books of homilies and lectionaries, which suggestively deploy the imagination of the viewer to recompose component parts into a coherent sense of space. A similar compositional strategy to the Patmos scroll is evident in a comparable scroll also dated to the twelfth century in Athens (National Library of Greece, cod. 2759) (Fig. 7). There, the register of the domes leads the eye down to the apse with an orans Virgin and the interior of the prothesis and diakonikon niches. Then, outward into the naos, peering into the sanctuary with the altar and priests through the iconostasis, which even features two icons set upon it, albeit high up. And, eventually, down to an

Fig. 5.  Liturgical Scroll, Patmos, Library of the Monastery of Saint John, no. 707 (Source: Courtesy of the Library of the Monastery of Saint John).

Fig. 6.  Spatial Reconstruction of Architectural Space from Liturgical Scroll, Patmos, no. 707 (Source: Three-dimensional composition by the author).

ornamental headpiece that functions in this context again as opus sectile flooring. The Athens scroll thus approaches the representation of the architectural space in the same manner as the Patmos one. In fact, comparing the Athens scroll to the similar depictions of church spaces in the frontispieces for collections of homilies on the Virgin by James Kokkinobaphos, to be discussed next, this configuration of space is strikingly similar. It is only looking back at the Patmos scroll now that we are able to confront the uniqueness of that middle architectural band that depicts for us the exterior windows and façade of the church, between the depiction of the Virgin with the domes above and the celebration of the liturgy in the sanctuary below. This positions the Patmos scroll as a unique exemplar in this illustrational program, presenting an

additional level of spatial complexity and play for viewers to reconstruct in their minds. Other analogous depictions feature a far more subdued undulation of interior and exterior spaces: for example, both the frontispieces for the twelfth century Homilies of James Kokkinobaphos (Vat. gr. 1162, fol. 2v and Paris gr. 1208, fol. 3v) (Fig. 8) bear a striking resemblance to the Athens scroll.24 These works depict a host of domes atop the church, but a view into the apse is not given: instead of an image of the Virgin, we see an image of Pentecost, which might suggest that we are looking up into the dome over the sanctuary, as is the case in the sanctuary of the main church of Hosios Loukas or in the western dome of San Marco in Venice and in its prototype, the Church of Holy Apostles in Constantinople. There,

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Fig. 7.  Liturgical Scroll, Athens, National Library of Greece, cod. 2759 (Source: National Library of Greece).

we also do not see the half-domes of the prothesis and diakonikon, but rather are given indication of these spaces from the outside of the church. The image presents the viewer with grilled windows, rather than the scalloped conches of the niches’ half-domes, as was suggested in the Athens and Patmos scrolls. The Patmos scroll even features very lightly traced images of Archangels in the half-domes, emphasizing figural imagery depicted inside the church. The unfolding of the Ascension of Christ in the center of the naos (with no indication of the bema or altar) in the Kokkinobaphos manuscripts might even be read as a depiction of the Ascension in the central dome of this

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depicted church, as was the case in San Marco, or in the southern dome of the Holy Apostles. We might even read the inclusion of Isaiah and David in the aisles, holding scrolls and pointing up to the scene, to represent the images in the pendentives of the dome. The resonances of these details have led scholars in the past to muse on the exact identity of this church, often arguing with little hesitation that the image of the Kokkinobaphos manuscripts ‘unmistakably’ represents the Church of Holy Apostles.25 In the frontispiece for the Sinai manuscript of the Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzos (Sinai gr. 339, fol. 4v)26 (Fig. 9), the eclectic jumble of rooftops and domes suggests the urban and unique profile of Hagia Sophia.27 There, the high-pitched dome is emphasized, and we see the brick-and-mortar exterior of the dome’s barrel, even with the small and squat, grilled windows at the lip of the building’s central dome. However, the artist bores through the exterior to show us the unique image of the Virgin in the apse’s half-dome, much like in the Patmos and Athens scrolls. But, the act of cutting through and into the building is certainly heightened in this example, and there is a clear sense of an architectural three-dimensionality that is being opened up for the viewer’s gaze. At the fringes of the image we are confronted with gardens and fountains that seem both to suggest the understructures of the church, perhaps even alluding to the Basilica Cistern, but most likely the gardens and fountains of the church’s courtyard. Gregory’s author portrait dominates the center of the naos, which radiates with gold leaf much like the interior of that church. Yet, at the fringes of the architecture, further details seem to affirm the association with Hagia Sophia. Firstly, the lozenged-patterned marble slab on the left that matches the ornamentation on the marble parapets of the gallery. And, secondly, the marble partition on the right, which appears to indicate the marble doorway in the south-eastern gallery. The reading of these spaces as the second-floor galleries is only emphasized by the fact that these details occur above marble arches, thus stressing that they depict an elevated area of the church. As the viewer overlays the experience of the church, these details become significant, not because they are prolix in their depth or specificity, but rather because they capture the experience and unfolding of particular identifying features of the church and its liturgy.

Fig. 8.  Homilies of James Kokkinobaphos, Vat. gr. 1162, fol. 2v (Source: © 2020 Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana).

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Fig. 9.  Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus, Sinai gr. 339, fol. 4v (Source: Gianni Dagli Orti / The Art Archive at Art Resource, NY).

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Fig. 10.  Frontispiece, Liturgical Scroll, Jerusalem, Greek Patriarchate, Stavrou, no. 109 (Source: Panagiotes L. Voktopoulos, Byzantine Illuminated Manuscripts of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, trans. Deborah M. Whitehouse [Athens: Greek Orthodox Patriarchate of Jerusalem, 2002]).

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The eleventh-century scroll in the Greek Patriarchate of Jerusalem best exemplifies these dynamics (Fig. 10): not only because it features a uniquely deconstructed church space in the frontispiece, but because its marginalia and initials appear to gloss the liturgical rite. Unlike the more blatantly architectural approaches, the Jerusalem scroll alludes to the liturgical space primarily in its wide-brimmed canopy. The pitch and width of this arch with its inset colonnade cues the image of the south and north tympana of the naos of Hagia Sophia. In the center of the scroll’s colonnade stands the Theotokos carrying the Christ-child and thus might suggest that we are looking toward a monumental depiction in the apse, as seen in the other scrolls and in countless Byzantine churches. The inclusion of John Chrysostom to the left and Basil the Great to the right, while fitting for a liturgical scroll, curiously match their positions in the tympana of Hagia Sophia. Looking toward the Virgin and Child on the apse in Hagia Sophia, John and Basil are depicted in the arches in the northern and southern tympana, respectively on one’s left and right. Below the colonnade we see an ornamental headpiece with the figure of Christ enthroned in the center. This headpiece appears to fuse floor and dome, as this Christ appears as we would expect to find him as Pantokrator in the main dome of a church – the scalloped frame is even reminiscent of the cascading domes at the crossing of Hagia Sophia. Later in the scroll, in fact, we encounter this border again at the opening of the Prayer of the Thrice Holy Hymn (Fig. 11). Here, it frames the text of the prayer itself, which aptly begins with a repetition of the same Christ Pantokrator in the prayer’s initial, the circular omicron that reasserts an association with a domical space. Below the conches of the frame also stand images of a tetramorph and seraphim, the seraphim in particular bearing a striking resemblance to the fourteenth-century seraphim on the pendentives of Hagia Sophia. In a sense, these cues indicate the spaces and locations in the church where these prayers and rites would have taken place, as a spatio-ritual map of the architectural space. My observations here are not meant to suggest a direct identification with Hagia Sophia itself, given that other prudent locales have been offered for this object.28 Instead, these homologies are intended to help us emplace this object in a potential liturgical space and work through a feasible iconographic

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context for such a scroll, given the paucity of such evidence for an eleventh-century Constantinopolitan object. André Grabar and others have noted the manner in which the initials and marginal images of the scroll contextualize the text with established mystagogical readings of the various portions of the rite, matching the symbolism attached to various instances by the liturgical commentaries of Germanos  I’s eighth-century Ekklesiastike Historia and Nicholas and Theodore of Andida’s eleventh-century Protheoria.29 As such, the scroll also offers us a ‘conceptual image’, as Vasileios Marinis calls it, which ‘add a layer of interpretation to the text they accompany’.30 My own interest here, however, is how such objects precisely go on to diagram and stitch together liturgical performances, their symbolic meanings, and potentially, as well, the architectural spaces in which they are unfolding. It is in this regard that such representational images bear with them the force of coded conceptual diagrams, motivated through an impetus on the part of the viewer to restructure and reconstitute these intimately familiar fragments of lived architectural and ritual experience. Conclusion: Extended in the Imagination In each of these various examples, we encounter images that masquerade as fully representational, just as those in Poliorcetica, but which require a great deal of cognitive visualization and piecing together to be legible and cohesive. These images inherently deploy a viewers’ familiarity with these structures, either through lived experience or textual description, so as to lead them to readily dissect and rearrange these spaces into congruent, three-dimensional models in the mind. This process builds on contemporaneous understandings of perception and cognition, which stressed the action of phantasia in processing sensory information and making that data into a workable three-dimensional and multisensory model, which a viewer could both use to think with and also to accurately remember. This process of viewing and cognition is explicitly tied to architecture in Syrianos’s fifth-century commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics when describing the process of the architect and the construction of buildings, writing:

Fig. 11.  Prayer of the Thrice Holy Hymn, Liturgical Scroll, Jerusalem, Greek Patriarchate, Stavrou, no. 109 (Source: Panagiotes L. Voktopoulos, Byzantine Illuminated Manuscripts of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem, trans. Deborah M. Whitehouse [Athens: Greek Orthodox Patriarchate of Jerusalem, 2002]).

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ὁμοίως καὶ ὁ μηχανικὸς τὴν ὕλην σχηματίζων ἐπανάγει πᾶσαν ἑαυτοῦ τὴν ποίησιν ἐπὶ τὰ ἄυλα σχήματα καὶ ἐν φαντασίᾳ μὲν διαστατῶς, ἐν διανοίᾳ δὲ ἀμερῶς τὴν ὑπόστασιν ἔχοντα. When an architect is making something, for instance, they shape their matter in accordance with the immaterial schēmata (ἄυλα σχήματα), which exist unextended in the mind and in extended (διαστατῶς) fashion in phantasia.31

Here, as Denis Sullivan notes, the literal action of this mental visualization or ‘extension’ into space of these architectural forms is seen not only as a critical action in construction, but also one of the key faculties of phantasia in technical, scientific thought.32 This reconstructive mental action is what the Poliorcetica’s author aspires to enact when he states that he has compiled this text for the purposes of ‘construction and carpentry’ (πρὸς κατασκευὴν καὶ τεκτόνευσιν).33 As Eric Marsden has clarified, in Greek and Roman warfare treatises, the term ‘construction’ (κατασκευή) specifically refers to ‘the complete construction of a piece of artillery from the drawing board to the finished product’.34 Thus, recognizing the entire mental and physical processes of design, execution, and production. This leads our attention toward such aspects of the Poliorcetica that operate with an understanding of human perception, imagination, and cognition as active participants in such acts of ‘construction’ that are by no means limited to the ‘carpentry’ (τεκτόνευσις) itself, as one might infer as a modern reader. Courtney Roby, for instance, has recently elucidated the critical role that ekphrasis and phantasia play in Greek and Roman scientific writings.35 In such instances, the rhetorical practices of ekphrastic vividness (or enargeia) are geared toward ‘bringing the subject vividly before one’s eyes’ (ὑπ᾽ ὄψιν ἄγων ἐναργῶς τὸ δηλούμενον),36 as Aphthonius writes in his fourth-century Progymnasmata, used for rhetorical education.37 Going back to Ptolemy, Roby has demonstrated how ekphrasis was used in scientific texts for the creation of workable models in the mind, which could be used to understand abstract mathematical concepts and complex scientific machinery, such as artillery and siege-craft implements.38 Rather than attempting to decipher a depicted building as a specific site or attempting to sketch out a holistic model or strategy of representation that applies to each of the cases discussed herein, my goal is

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to have demonstrated how Byzantine artists deployed various compositional strategies in depicting architectural space. The unifying aspect across these various strategies is the understanding that viewers would understand these representations in a diagrammatic fashion and would be encouraged to extend them in the imagination, to use Syrianos’s phrasing. Thus, we can observe a unified approach to the handling of architectural representation, yet the variety that we find their particular handling and composition of that space should speak to a desire to generate variety and complexity in how viewers animated and reconstructed those spaces in their imagination. My contribution to Robert Ousterhout’s landmark observation that the ‘Byzantine audience understood pictures as representational, but they did not understand the meaning of a conceptual diagram’ is not to disagree with this observation, but rather to suggest that Byzantine audiences also understood representational images diagrammatically. As readers of the Poliorcetica read the text, they would then encounter images that grounded the textual narratives and gave them a handle on how these structures could be constructed and put to use in wartime. As priests unfurled the scrolls at the beginning of the liturgy or opened up a book of homilies to their frontispieces, they would approach an image of the church, just as they entered and began the service. In the case of the scrolls, it is worth noting that the Patmos and Athens scrolls begin with the Prayer of the Prothesis in the Skeuophylakion (and, in the case of the Jerusalem example, the Prayer of the Entrance). This means that the frontispieces would be unfurled before beginning the rite and would prepare priests for the entry into the sanctuary: symbolically moving the viewer from the exterior facades of domes into the narthex and glimpsing the image on the apse and into the sanctuary. Thus, these representational images are not only diagrammatic in the manner in which they represent space, but they also are diagrammatic of the manner in which these architectural spaces were experienced and performed.

notes *  This chapter first emerged as my paper for Bob Ousterhout’s undergraduate seminar, “Historic Building Technologies” (Fall 2008), and it would serve as my writing sample for graduate school applications. Since then it has continued to evolve in

various capacities and what you encounter here is both an excerpt and expansion of the project’s current state. I stumbled onto this research after a meeting with Bob to decide upon an essay topic for his class that would also make for a suitable writing sample. During that meeting, Bob proposed I study the composition and construction of Byzantine domes with the suggestion that, “Sometimes, you just need to take out the calculator and count bricks.” I agreed, left the meeting, and swiftly thereafter sent Bob an email informing him that I would in fact not be pursuing that topic and instead would be looking at the conceptualization and semiotics of images in the Poliorcetica, inspired by my recent devouring of his Master Builders of Byzantium. I would like to think, however, that the present work captures a certain level of technical thinking, problem solving, reconstruction, and experimentation that Bob had hoped I would embrace when he sent me off to count some bricks. In a sense, this is my most sincere equivalent of counting bricks. 1  Robert Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, 2008), pp. 65–66. 2  See Robert S. Nelson, ‘“And So, With the Help of God:” The Byzantine Art of War in the Tenth Century’, DOP, 65/66 (2011– 12), 169–92. 3  On the text and manuscript’s history, critical edition, and translation, see Denis F. Sullivan, Siegecraft: Two Tenth-Century Instructional Manuals by ‘Heron of Byzantium’ (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2000), pp. 1–23. 4  See  P.  H. Blyth, ‘Apollodorus of Damascus and the Poliorcetica’, GRBS, 33 (1992), 127–58; E.  Lacoste, ‘Les Poliorcétiques d’Apollodore de Damas’, REG, 3 (1890), 230–81; F. Lammert, ‘Zu den Poliorketikern Apollodoros und Athenaios und zur Poliorketik des Vitruvius’, RhM, 87 (1938), 304–32; Otto Lendle, Texte und Untersuchungen zum technischen Bereich der antiken Poliorketik (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1983); K.  Müller, ‘Handschriftliches zu den Poliorketika und der Geodäsie des sogenannten Hero’, RhM, 38 (1883), 454–63. 5  Ἐποίουν δὲ καὶ ἐπιβάθραν ἐπὶ τῇ προφορᾷ τοῦ κριοῦ σανίδος ἔμπροσθεν ἐφηλωθείσης καὶ δίκτυον πεπλεγμένον ἐπὶ πάχος ἱκανὸν… Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 25.12–14, ed. and modified trans. by Sullivan, pp. 62–64. 6  ἄνωθεν δὲ τῆς κριοδόχης θωράκιον ἐπήγνυον οἱονεὶ περίφραγμα, ὥστε πρὸς αὐτὸ ἀσφαλῶς δύνασθαι ἑστάναι τοὺς ἐποπτεύοντας τὰ κατὰ τοῦ κριοῦ ἀπὸ τῶν ἐναντίων βαλλόμενα. Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 25.22–25, ed. and trans. by Sullivan, pp. 64–65. 7  Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium, p.  66. See Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 27.92, ed. and modified trans. by Sullivan, pp. 70–71. 8  Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 1.1–8, ed. and modified trans. by Sullivan, pp. 26–27. 9  Sullivan, pp. 8–14. 10  Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 1:3–5, ed. and modified trans. by Sullivan, pp. 26–27. 11  Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 58:1–10, ed. and trans. by Sullivan, pp. 112–13.

For the latest survey and bibliography of phantasia and the imagination in Byzantium, see Roland Betancourt, Sight, Touch, and Imagination in Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). 13  Photios, Homilies, XVII, ed. by Basileios Laourdas, ΟΜΙΛΙΑΙ (Thessaloniki: Hetaireia Makedonikon Spoudon, 1959), pp. 170– 71 (II 304–05); modified trans. by Cyril Mango, The Homilies of Photius Patriarch of Constantinople (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1958), pp. 293–94. 14  See Roland Betancourt, ‘Why Sight Is Not Touch: Reconsidering the Tactility of Sight in Byzantium’, DOP, 70 (2016), 1–23; and, Roland Betancourt, ‘Tempted to Touch: Tactility, Ritual, and Mediation in Byzantine Visuality’, Speculum, 91.3 (2016), 660–89. 15  Photios, Homilies, XVII, ed. by Laourdas, ΟΜΙΛΙΑΙ, pp. 170– 71 (II 304–05); modified trans. by Mango, The Homilies of Photius, pp. 293–94. 16  Porphyry, In Ptolemaei Harmonica commentarius, ed. and modified trans. by Andrew Barker, Porphyry’s Commentary on Ptolemy’s Harmonics: A  Greek Text and Annotated Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 88–91. On the perceptual process in Porphyry, see Peter Lautner, ‘Mental Images in Porphyry’s Commentary on Ptolemy’s Harmonics’, Apeiron, 48.2 (2015), 220–50; Michael Chase, ‘Porphyry on the Cognitive Process’, Ancient Philosophy, 30 (2010), 383–405; Riccardo Chiaradonna, ‘Platonismo e teoria della conoscenza stoica tra II e III secolo D.C.’, Platonic Stoicism – Stoic Platonism: A Dialogue Between Platonism and Stoicism in Antiquity, ed. by M.  Bonazzi and C.  Helmig (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2007), pp. 209–41 (pp. 228–34). 17  For a survey of late-antique phantasia, see Gerard Watson, Phantasia in Classical Thought (Galway: Galway University Press, 1998). Cf. Gerard Watson, ‘The Concept of “Phantasia” from the Late Hellenistic Period to Early Neoplatonism’, ANRW, 36:7 (1994), 4766–810. See also Anne Sheppard, The Poetics of Phantasia: Imagination in Ancient Aesthetics (London: Bloomsbury, 2014). 18  Heron of Byzantium, Geodesia, 6.36–37, ed. and modified trans. by Sullivan, pp. 126–27. 19  On liturgical scrolls, see most recently Vasileios Marinis, ‘Liturgical Scrolls’, A Companion to Byzantine Illustrated Manuscripts, ed.  by Vasiliki Tsamakda (Leiden: Brill, 2017), pp.  310–18. See also Nancy Patterson Ševčenko, ‘Illuminating the Liturgy: Illustrated Service Books in Byzantium’, Heaven on Earth: Art and the Church in Byzantium, ed. by Linda Safran (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1998), pp. 186–228 (pp. 198– 99); André Grabar, ‘Un Rouleau liturgique constantinopolitain et ses peintures’, DOP, 8  (1954), 163–99; Victoria Kepetzis, ‘Les rouleaux liturgiques Byzantins illustres (XIe–XIVe siècles)’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Université de Paris IV, 1979). 20  Oleg Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), pp. 155–93. 21  Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament, p. 172. 22  See Finbarr Barry Flood, The Great Mosque of Damascus: Studies on the Makings of an Umayyad Visual Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2001), pp. 15–113. 12 

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The lamps found in the folio are closely comparable to a glass ‘canteen’ from Iran or Iraq (ninth-tenth century) in the Corning Museum of Glass (55.1.125). 24  See Jeffrey C. Anderson, ‘The Illustrated Sermons of James the Monk: Their Dates, Order, and Place in the History of Byzantine Art’, Viator, 22 (1991), 69–120. 25  Richard Krautheimer, ‘A Note on Justinian’s Church of Holy Apostles in Constantinople’, Mélanges Eugène Tisserant, 2  vols [Studi e testi 232] (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1964), II, 265–70. See also A.  Heisenberg, Grabeskirche und Apostelkirche: Zwei Basiliken Konstantins, 2  vols (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1908), II, 200; André Grabar, ‘Quelques notes sur les psautiers illustrés byzantins du IXe siècle’, CahArch, 15 (1965), 61–82; Annabel Wharton, ‘The Rebuilding and Redecoration of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople: A Reconsideration’, GRBS, 23.1 (1982), 79–92 (pp. 85–86). 26  See Jeffrey  C. Anderson, ‘The Illustration of Cod.  Sinai. Gr. 339’, ArtB, 61.2 (1979), 167–86. 27  Bissera Pentcheva has also strongly suggested a potential affiliation between this manuscript and Hagia Sophia on similar grounds. See Bissera Pentcheva, ‘Visual Textuality: The Logos as Pregnant Body and Building’, RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, 45 (2004), 225–38. 28  See Grabar, ‘Un rouleau liturgique’, pp. 165–66. 29  Grabar, ‘Un rouleau liturgique’, pp.  161–99; Marinis, ‘Liturgical Scrolls’, pp.  312–16; Ann van Dijk, ‘“Domus Sanctae Dei 23 

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Genetricis Mariae”: Art and Liturgy in the Oratory of Pope John VII’, in Decorating the Lord’s Table: On the Dynamics between Image and Altar in the Middle Ages, ed. by Søren Kaspersen and Erik Thunø (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006), pp.  13–42 (pp.  13–16). See also Robert Ousterhout, ‘Temporal Structuring in the Chora Parekklesion’, Gesta, 34.1 (1995), 63–76. 30  Marinis, ‘Liturgical Scrolls’, p. 312. 31  Syrianus, In Aristotelis metaphysica commentaria, VI.98:26, ed. by W. Kroll, Syriani in metaphysica commentaria, Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca 6.1 (Berlin: Reimer, 1902). 32  Sullivan, p. 13, n. 31. 33  Heron of Byzantium, Parangelmata Poliorcetica, 1.7–8, ed. and trans. by Sullivan, pp. 26–27. 34  Eric W. Marsden, Greek and Roman Artillery: Technical Treatises (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), p. 44. 35  Courtney Roby, Technical Ekphrasis in Greek and Roman Science and Literature: The Written Machine between Alexandria and Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). 36  Aphthonius, Progymnasmata, 216:20–24, ed. by H. Rabe, Aphthonii progymnasmata, Rhetores Graeci 10 (Leipzig: Teubner, 1913), pp. 36–37. 37  See Ruth Webb, Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice (Surrey: Ashgate, 2009). 38  Courtney Roby, ‘L’ekphrasis e l’immaginazione scientifica in Tolomeo’, Estetica: Studi e Ricerche, 5.1 (2013), 109–25.

The Levant

Arch Identities

Structural Innovation and Tradition in the Medieval Levant Rory O’Neill In the late Roman cistern under the crypt of a Byzantine church at the Sheep Pool in Jerusalem, a series of four arches supports five transverse semicircular vaults (Fig.  1). The arches on the south side spring from a rock-cut wall on the west side and from a masonry wall on the opposite side. Three of the arches are semicircular or perhaps slightly pointed, while one is distinctly pointed. Based on this pointed profile, and in the absence of any other evidence to be found in the fabric of the stonework, Denys Pringle proposed that the pointed arch represents a medieval repair, Muslim or Crusader, to a Byzantine cistern.1 This is a reasonable proposal based on the prevalence of semicircular profiles found in Roman and Byzantine works, while Muslim and Crusader builders used pointed profiles almost exclusively in the Levant. However, care must be taken when dating an arch based on its shape. Can merely the form of an arch be used to date its construction? Can the shape of an arch profile establish the identity of the builders? Observing that arch profiles in masonry architecture from the sixth through the ninth centuries appear to become increasingly pointed over time, K. A. C. Creswell proposed the possibility that arches can be dated by their degree of ‘acuteness’.2 To develop the theory, he tabulated the distance between the centers of the two halves of an arch, ordering the rows of the table by date (Table 1). According to the table, acuteness does increase through the evolution of masonry architecture in Syria starting with the arches supporting the central dome at Qasr Ibn Wardan, with a separation of arc centers of one-eleventh the span of

the arch, and concluding with the recessed arches in the ninth-century Nilometer at al-Fusţāţ, with an arccenter separation of one-third the span of the arch. However, the pattern is not foolproof, since, as John Warren pointed out,3 Creswell omitted several works that would have countered the pattern such as the arches in the side chamber of the Great Mosque in Damascus. Still, the sequence does indicate a trend. Such a trend toward increasing acuteness has been noted in French Gothic architecture as well.4 Creswell did not attempt to explain what may have propelled this trend of increasing acuteness. Instead, he invoked the term ‘evolution’ in a casual way, tacitly assuming that the progression is somehow natural.5 For Creswell, as for many architectural historians, the term evolution is often used to refer to a discernible pattern in a chronological sequence of forms. Examples of stated evolutionary patterns in architecture include observations that, over time, Doric columns became more slender and Gothic churches became taller. However, once a pattern is sensed, knowledge of it can alter our perception, encouraging us to integrate other disparate works in such way as to fit the pattern.6 In fact, from an architectural perspective, by considering cases where a construction pattern is seemingly broken, we may learn more about the builders and their intent than if a tidy pattern had been maintained. Meanwhile, a more rigorous application of cultural evolution theory could help to better explain the pattern. Cultural evolution theory builds on the simple mechanism defined by the theory of biological evolution, namely a process of

Fig. 1.  Sheep Pool cistern, Jerusalem (Source: author).

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descent with modification in the presence of selective filters. To this mechanism, cultural evolution theory adds the assumption that all three elements may be influenced by orthogonal desires of human agents. It should be noted that cultural evolution theory does not imply value-laden Victorian ideas of ‘progress’ in cycles of art.7 With an evolutionary analysis, we may ask not only where certain architectural solutions descended from and how certain modifications occurred, but which factors led to the selection and copying of certain models? In this paper, I  argue that some builders in Byzantium were aware of the benefits of wall openings and vaults with pointed profiles, both for geometric adaptability and structural superiority, and particularly as a means of mitigating seismic hazard. I assert, however, that, despite this knowledge, they maintained use of the semicircular arch in deference to some other principle, namely a strong sense of Roman identity, thereby allowing style to trump technical benefits, even while modifying church designs to include other anti-seismic attributes such as centralized plans with bi-lateral symmetry, small wall openings, tensile reinforcements such as tie beams, thick walls and buttresses, and smaller church sizes overall.8 Getting to the Point Do the cistern arches at the Sheep Pool Chapel in Jerusalem represent the middle of a medieval evolutionary sequence that found Crusader and Muslim builders using pointed arches almost exclusively in the mainland Levant, or were they an early and tentative Byzantine experiment in pointed masonry construction? In the case of this cistern, it appears that there may have been some experimentation at work: the voussoir blocks are crudely fashioned, the profiles are not consistent, and there is not a clear use of a keystone, indicating a lack of refinement otherwise found in Muslim and Crusader works such as the eighth-century Islamic cistern in nearby Ramla about 20  miles to the west, and the pointed arches of the Crusader Church of St  Anne (1130s) on the edge of the Sheep Pool (Fig. 2).9 Perhaps this cistern represents a kind of architectural marginalia – a heterotopia, in Michel Foucault’s words, an other place, located outside of the mainstream of tradition where novel, unfamiliar activities can happen and where

crude experiments transpire out of view.10 According to Foucault, such places are permitted by societies and are, in fact, essential, serving as engines of innovation and change. In terms of architecture, such heterotopia might allow for departures from the otherwise strong traditional forces in medieval building, and perhaps these arches in a cistern hidden beneath a Byzantine chapel are an example of such a departure. While it is not clear if the Sheep Pool cistern represents Byzantine construction, some known early Byzantine works reveal that the builders were indeed experimenting with pointed profiles on the periphery, far from the center of imperial culture in Constantinople. One example is the arch fronting the apse at the Basilica of Sant’Apollinare in Classe (ca. 532–49), which has a slight pointedness to it.11 One might consider this to be a result of constructional error, were it not for the high quality of workmanship in the rest of the building.12 On the antipodal frontier to the east between Byzantium and Sasanian Persia, we find the palace church at Qasr Ibn Wardan (564 CE), where the remains of one of the arches that had helped to support the dome is evidence of a Byzantine experiment in pointed arch construction (Fig. 3). Here, a distinctly non-traditional form is featured in a very prominent position in the building. Another example on the periphery of Constantinople is the Karamağara Bridge in Cappadocia. Although its appearance with a bluntly pointed arch spanning the Arapgir Çayı gorge is similar to later Ottoman bridges, it has a sixth-century Greek inscription on its voussoir blocks.13 It is worth noting that the form of the bridge might be considered to be more strongly influenced by functional benefits and technical innovation than by aesthetic preferences.14 On the southern periphery in Salamis-Constantia in Cyprus is a reservoir known as the Loutron that hints at what may have been an early use of pointed groin vaulting by Byzantine builders. Charles Anthony Stewart pointed out that the bays along the south edge of the site are narrower than the square bays in the rest of the structure.15 He proposed that, since the narrower span would have required the use of semicircular arches that were smaller than those in the wider bays and that sprung from a higher point in order to maintain the ceiling height, the Byzantine builders experimented with pointed profiles that allowed for consistent heights for the arch springpoints and apexes.

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Fig. 2.  Church of St Anne, Jerusalem, nave bay and central dome (Source: author).

Stewart also discussed an aqueduct that brought water to Salamis-Constantia, the remains of which feature two pointed arches that are made from finely crafted ashlar block, demonstrating an intentionality of design. Camille Enlart proposed that these arches represented a thirteenth-century Lusignan restoration as part of a rerouting of the aqueduct from Salamis-Constantia to the new city of Famagusta to the south.16 Stewart presented the convincing case for dating the work to the early seventh century based on an analysis by T.  B. Mitford and others of inscriptions on blocks set into the original fabric.17 Stewart proposed that the pointed arches in the aqueduct were also an innovation based on a geometrical benefit, theorizing that pointed profiles provided a more practical geometry for a structure such as an aqueduct that was built on uneven ground and in fits and starts during intermittent construction campaigns.

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Pointed Benefits It is generally accepted that the geometrical adaptability of pointed arches, in which the width of the arch need not be exactly twice the radius, allowed masons to span bays of different dimensions while maintaining a common height. This adaptability led to a great variety of plans in medieval architecture – particularly in the case of rectilinear bays (Fig. 2) and radiating arcades that feature groin vaulting that connects arches with three or more radii. The slightly pointed profiles in the earliest extant work of Islamic architecture, the Dome of the Rock (680s), may have been generated by a geometrical solution. H. R. Allen noted that, in a curved arcade, if the imposts are to be rectangular, then the arched opening in the inner surface will have a smaller radius than that of the outer surface.18 A pronounced example of this can be seen in the circular arcade

Fig. 3.  Palace church, Qasr Ibn Wardan (Source: Michele Falzone, courtesy of Jon Arnold Images).

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Fig. 4.  Comparison of semicircular and pointed arches under physical simulation (Source: author).

of fourth-century Santa Costanza in Rome. Allen argued that, in the case of the Dome of the Rock, the builders may have pointed the arches in the circular arcade slightly in order to allow the top of the arches at the inner and outer surfaces to be the same height.19 Certainly, the geometry of such pointing allowed the early Gothic vaulting experiments at the French churches Saint-Denis at Morienval (1130), SaintMartin des Champs (1140) and Saint-Denis (1144), where the radiating vaults of the hemicycle connect arches of varying spans. Regardless of the origins of the pointed arch, a key benefit of its use, and one that would arise as a powerful force in its adoption, was structural superiority. Pol Abraham noted that pointed profiles reduce horizontal thrusts by approximately 20 percent for the same span as a semicircular arch.20 Jean Bony credited the pointed profile in the vaulting of Gothic churches with allowing for wider naves with ‘paper-thin walls’ supported by minimal buttressing.21 Modern engineering analysis using a variety of methods, including the testing of physical models, limit analysis, finite element analysis, and discreet element analysis, confirms that the more pointed an arch is, the more stable it will be in both static and dynamic loading, because more pointed arches transfer loads

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more directly to the ground and thus require less horizontal buttressing.22 The physical simulation model depicted in Figure 4 demonstrates the instability of a semicircular arch versus the stability of a pointed arch with the same span.23 Through an evolutionary process of trial and error, initial modifications to arch form may have been an inventive solution to a geometric problem (as noted above), a result of construction error, post-construction deformation, or a conscious breaking with tradition.24 Once a pointed form came into being, however, it would not have taken long for masons to realize the pointed arch’s geometrical benefits and structural efficiency, which, in the absence of other cultural forces, would have led to its increasing adoption. The benefits of reduced horizontal forces would not have been as important in the middle of a long basilican nave arcade since the horizontal thrusts of each arch is countered by the neighboring arches on each side. However, in the case of the structure of high vaults, such as the Crusader vaults and arches supporting the dome in the Holy Sepulchre (Fig.  5), the structural benefit of the pointed profile, once known, would have been an appealing solution to builders attempting to support monumental domes and vaults while minimizing materials needed for their support.

Fig. 5.  Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, north transept (Source: author).

Missing the Point I began this essay with a hypothesis that it is more likely for architectural experimentation to occur on the periphery, where traditional forces may tentatively give way to stylistic and functional innovations. What about the grand experiments going on at the heart of Byzantium in Constantinople under Justinian? In the churches of SS. Sergius and Bacchus, and Hagia Irene in Constantinople, the elongated rectilinear naves of late Roman Christian basilicas rather

suddenly gave way to a radical new design featuring centralized plans with domes supported by a ring of windows. These churches served as prototypes for an even grander experiment in the construction of Hagia Sophia. The design of Hagia Sophia essentially combined two of the most audacious Roman buildings, placing a dome comparable to the Pantheon atop a basilican plan on par with the gigantic Basilica Nova.25 The fact that Hagia Sophia’s dome sprang from a point much higher than the Pantheon’s rotunda walls amplified the

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effects of the dome’s horizontal thrusts. To support the east and west sides of the dome, the builders developed a system composed of radial semi-domed apses, which, while unprecedented at the scale of the great church, provided adequate support. On the north and south sides of the dome, the builders risked using minimal support, erecting a relatively thin curtain wall. Not only was the first dome not pointed, it was actually shallower than a semicircle, generating enormous horizontal thrusts which led in 586 to the first of three collapses. Such monumental experimentation in the center of imperial architectural production was possible because there was a kind of heterotopia emerging as the traditional rule of the aristocracy was challenged by Justinian  I, the nephew of a military interloper, Justin.26 Justinian hailed from a peasant family and scandalously married his courtesan, Theodora. His contentious early reign almost came to an end with the Nika riots in 532, which also resulted in the burning of the prior Theodosian basilica of Hagia Sophia. This upset of Byzantine political and cultural traditions opened the door to grand and risky architectural experiments. Nevertheless, in the capital, it seems, experimenting with the arch profiles remained off limits, maybe due to a conservatism in arch construction fostered by the high risk involved in the erection of vaults. Since the experiments in Byzantine pointed arches noted above had not yet occurred, nor had the level of risk involved with such monumental works, the tradition of semicircular vaults in structural engineering may have gone unquestioned. We can get a sense of the high stakes of Byzantine arch design and construction in a passage from Procopius, in which he elaborated on the precarious state of vaults during the construction of Hagia Sophia.27 Procopius explained that the main eastern arch began to push the supporting piers outward before it was completed. The architects, Anthemios of Tralles and Isidoros of Miletus, fearing a monumental failure, were at a loss to resolve the crisis. According to Procopius, the Emperor Justinian interceded with an assurance that could have come only through divine inspiration: when the arch was completed, it would no longer stress the piers. In Procopius’ narrative, knowledge of arch technology essentially served as a vehicle for legitimating the divine authority of the emperor. Pointed vaulting, domes, and arches would have helped support the superstructure of Hagia Sophia, as it did in the later Ottoman mosques based on

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Hagia Sophia, such as the Fatih Camii (1463)28 and the Süleymaniye Mosque (1550–57).29 Such features also would have provided a geometrical solution to the vaulting in the gallery, which had challenges spanning between arches of different radii and meeting the curved arcades of the apses. In later Byzantine works, after knowledge of pointed profiles was available from both Byzantine experiments and works of Islamic architecture, builders resisted such pointed profiles, and wall openings remained tenaciously semicircular. This was not necessarily based on the inertia of building practices and the conservative transfer of skills in masonic schools, nor did it indicate that the builders were uninterested in structural innovations. On the contrary: in the Middle Byzantine period, church forms changed considerably from the Justinianic prototypes. They exhibited increasingly effective anti-seismic traits mentioned above, such as centralized plans with bi-lateral symmetry, small wall openings, tensile reinforcements such as tie beams, thick walls and buttresses, and smaller church sizes overall.30 If we view architectural development through the lens of cultural evolution theory, we see that the origin of a modification need not be related to intentional structural or seismic designs. It can stem from error or be intentional for some other criteria, but if it is beneficial in helping the building pass through a selective filter, the forces of gravity, or seismic loading, then that architectural development is more likely to withstand hazards, and to be reproduced. As in modern seismic engineering, medieval builders would have better understood the selective filter of seismic hazard with each intermittent, but catastrophic event. ‘Despite the best efforts of scientists and designers, most truly effective anti-seismic design methods are those reinforced by experience … the biggest laboratory remains the real world and real earthquakes’, noted J. E. Ambrose and D. Vergun.31 Jan Delrue, a civil engineer who specializes in the analysis of historic masonry structures, considered the evolution of Armenian church architecture in the context of seismic hazard.32 In discussing this evolution, Delrue went beyond themes of transmission and patterned sequence to assert that, through an ‘infallible, but slow method of trial and error, subsequent generations have brought forth construction types that have stood the severe test of “survival of the fittest”’. In his discussion, he focused on the selective filter of

continual, though intermittent, seismic events, noting that certain modifications in medieval Armenian building forms allowed some constructions to survive while others failed. Through this process, Armenian churches evolved attributes that modern engineers deem to be anti-seismic: centralized plans, small size, large ashlar blocks, and small wall openings. While other cultural, demographic, or economic forces may have initiated successive modifications to Armenian churches, the fact that buildings incorporating these anti-seismic qualities survived an earthquake better than those that did not meant that they were more likely to be copied in the next generation of construction. In the Middle Byzantine period, churches too became smaller and more centralized with smaller windows.33 Although Delrue mentioned ‘designers of genius that had a very profound structural knowledge, a knowledge that might have originated in China, Persia or the Mediterranean countries but that got lost in the course of later history’, this ‘lost knowledge’ trope is not pivotal. Assuming that only buildings that withstood earthquakes could be copied, builders did not need to ‘invent’ any new forms; they merely needed to copy the random modifications that led to the more earthquake-resistant structures. This is not to say that there were not geniuses who advanced the evolutionary process toward seismic adaptation more quickly, but that such masterminds were not necessary for such evolution to take place. Slobodan Ćurčić applied a seismic selective filter to explain the sequence of changes in church forms in Byzantine Cyprus throughout the medieval period, where a notable decline in size and quality, and a greater preference for stone vaulting took place more rapidly than elsewhere in the Byzantine world.34 In his theory, Ćurčić did not suggest that great genius was needed to invent the modifications for eventual adaptation, rather that incremental attempts at solving the problems posed by seismic events led in time to the antiseismic features found in the Cypriot churches. On the basis of fresh archaeological evidence, he surmised that the wholesale destruction of older basilicas on the island was due to earthquakes as opposed to Arab raids, as Arthur  H.  S. Megaw had proposed, and that ‘the sequence of rebuilding strongly suggests that they were necessitated by recurring natural, rather than maninflicted, disasters’.35 In his analysis, Ćurčić noted that typically ‘the columnar arcades were replaced by pier arcades which, in turn, underwent a further sequence

of reinforcements and alterations’ and that ‘each successive rebuilding resulted in a substantial increase in the thickness of its walls at the expense of the volume of its interior space’.36 He theorized that the seismic events that historically plagued Cyprus provided a strong warning for each generation of builders. For Ćurčić, the frequent occurrence of seismic events during the medieval period on Cyprus provided an active and potent selective filter that fostered incremental problem-solving and creativity among local builders – a crucible of sorts that forged a unique regional style. If we agree with Ćurčić that Byzantine churches on Cyprus adapted to seismic geography, we might note that, even as their vaults, arches, and wall openings decreased in size, the form of these structural elements remained semicircular until Frankish builders became active on the island after the Frankish Lusignan dynasty began to administer Cyprus in 1192.

Double Identities Frankish architecture in the mainland Levant during the 12th century and in Cyprus during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries employed pointed profiles almost exclusively for vaulting and wall openings, but the expression of cultural identities during the two periods differed. Following the conquest of Jerusalem in 1099, Frankish builders in the Holy Land seemed interested in creating a kingdom that projected its own identity rather than that of their homelands – an identity befitting masters of a ‘new world’ – while those in Cyprus, driven out of the Holy Land and faced with the threat of Muslim invasion, looked homeward, seeking to build closer ties with France.37 In twelfth-century Jerusalem, many of the Crusader rank and file were second or third sons seeking adventure, fortune, and salvation. The contemporary chronicler of the First Crusade, Fulcher of Chartres, wrote that many Crusaders had forgotten the places of our birth; already these are unknown to many of us or not mentioned anymore …. Those who were poor in the Occident, God makes rich in this land. Those who had little money there have countless bezants here, and those who did not have a villa possess here by the gift of God a city. Therefore why should one return to the Occident who has found the Orient like this?38

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Although Fulcher of Chartres stops short of saying that the streets were paved in gold, his propaganda for Frankish settlers to remain in Outremer or for Europeans to migrate there indicates a popular interest in conceptualizing the Holy Land as a place to make a clean break – a heterotopia relative to their homelands.39 The Crusaders were building a new world, but they were bound to the sanctity of the sites under their care.40 This would have, in general, heightened their fidelity to local buildings and, to some degree, influenced to what extent they copied French or local models. Thus, they were free to break with Western traditions (except where inertia interceded on the part of individual practitioners) and more aggressively adopt the features they found in the Holy Land. Almost immediately after taking control of much of the Levant, the Crusaders set about building more than 400 churches over a 191-year period, borrowing from both Byzantine and Islamic works in their construction.41 Generally, local builders worked under the direction of Frankish patrons and, perhaps, master builders.42 These local builders transferred many of their hardlearned seismic lessons into their structures. Whether or not respect for the existing buildings and the sanctity of their stones led to the transmission of styles and forms back to Europe is a more complex matter. While Frankish builders tentatively experimented with the use of rib vaults in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the hospital of the Knights of St John in Acre, the use of pointed profiles for vaults, arches, and wall openings was pervasive.43 In France during the early twelfth century, semicircular profiles were still in vogue. For example, as the Church of St Anne at the Sheep Pool in Jerusalem was being built, the important French pilgrimage church of Sainte-MarieMadeleine at Vézelay with its semicircular barrel vaults and windows was consecrated (1120). During that same period, pointed profiles began appearing only in Burgundian abbey churches such as Fontenay Abbey (1118) in the form of pointed barrel vaults and walls with semicircular openings. By contrast, the Church of St Anne (1130s) had pointed groin vaults (without ribs), pointed wall openings, and pointed arches.44 St  Anne also featured pendentives between the arches supporting the crossing dome, perhaps a Byzantine element. In copying such a feature, the Crusader patrons were not necessarily approving of Byzantine

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styles, as they may have held Greek churches to be the architecture of a heretical branch of Christianity that was out of God’s favor.45 With only three bays in the nave, the Church of St Anne had a more centralized plan than its Romanesque counterparts in France. The pointed profiles in the church may have been copied from local Muslim works.46 Among the many examples of Islamic architecture in the Levant, and not far from the Church of St Anne, is the Dome of the Rock, which, as I have already discussed, featured original pointed arches in the circular arcade under the dome. In his chronicle, Fulcher of Chartres described the building as a ‘temple’ of ‘marvelous workmanship and very beautiful appearance […] All the Saracens had held this temple of the Lord in great reverence and used to say their prayers there according to their law more willingly than elsewhere, although they wasted them on an idol made in the name of Mohammed’.47 The author of the anonymous Gesta Francorum referred to the Dome of the Rock as the ‘Temple of the Lord’ and the Al-Aqsa Mosque as the ‘Temple of Solomon’.48 The acceptance of these building forms is underscored by the lack of modifications deemed necessary when they were converted for Christian use.49 Whether the Crusaders adopted pointed profiles from local works or brought them from Burgundy is not as relevant to our argument as is the swift adoption of local building features, including the almost exclusive use of pointed profiles. This embrace of local construction characteristics appeared to be a function of the Crusaders’ new Levantine identity and a break from traditions in their homelands, and, through this conformist bias, the new churches they built immediately acquired the anti-seismic traits that had evolved in that region over centuries.50 As the Holy Land progressively fell to invading Muslim armies, Christian refugees from the mainland arrived on Cyprus, increasing the island’s population and helping to shore up Latin rule of the fledgling Lusignan dynasty there. With the threat of invasion from the mainland, Byzantine or Muslim, the Franks in Cyprus were more interested in building closer ties to Europe than in creating a ‘new world’, as their First Crusade predecessors had been.51 The architecture they built on Cyprus reflected a prestige bias toward France.52 Based on stylistic attributes such as the pointed profiles of wall openings, molding profiles, and tracery, the

Fig. 6.  Selimiye Mosque (Cathedral of Holy Wisdom), Nicosia, chevet (Source: author).

Latin churches on Cyprus were a copy of French models rather than a tradition carried over from the Levant. Unfortunately, the importation of other aspects of French Gothic, such as elongated naves, large clerestory window openings, lofty heights, and flying buttresses represented a dangerous enterprise in one of the most seismically active regions on Earth – a region that was particularly active during the medieval period. Through a series of earthquakes in the thirteenth through fifteenth centuries, particularly in 1222, 1350,

and 1491, the Latin churches in Cyprus suffered damage and collapses that led to accretion of structure and, in later designs, a departure from Gothic solutions, which would help to mitigate seismic hazard. One of the first major Frankish works in Cyprus was the cathedral in the capital of Nicosia, constructed between 1201 and 1325, which shows influences from Île-de-France, Champagne, and Burgundy (Fig. 6).53 After a major earthquake in 1491, the chevet of the cathedral suffered a collapse. When the chevet was rebuilt, it was fortified with massive cascading

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Fig. 7.  Cathedral of St George of the Greeks, Famagusta, triapsidal east end (Source: author).

buttresses, the clerestory windows were reduced in size, and iron tie rods were added to the chevet hemicycle arcade. Two tiers of massive flying buttresses were added to the Church of SS. Peter and Paul in Famagusta. The cylindrical nave piers of the Cathedral of St  George of the Greeks in Famagusta were originally 1.6  meters in diameter, but the addition of an outer sleeve of curved ashlar increased their diameter to 2.5  meters. Side chapels were added to the Franciscan and Carmelite churches in Famagusta. Apsidal chapels were added to the cathedral of Nicosia, an addition that Enlart interpreted as a ‘degenerative’ return to Romanesque forms. While these side chapels, perhaps based on the parekklesia of Byzantine churches,54 may have been added to accommodate liturgical needs or pilgrimage, their net effect was to help stiffen the nave against torsional stresses. Later Frankish churches in Cyprus, despite their dangerous desire for elongated naves, were shorter and smaller. What Enlart described as a sequence that started with Gothic styles on par with twelfth- and thirteenth-century productions in France and eventually

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‘degenerated’ into Romanesque forms was actually an evolutionary process of French Gothic adapting to seismic geography.55 The Frankish churches of Cyprus present us with a vivid case of architectural evolution in action, and they punctuate how the selective filter of seismic hazard may lead to changes in architectural forms of time, much as Ćurčić noted in his discussion of the evolution of Byzantine churches on the island. While the Franks in Cyprus used pointed profiles from the outset, we can image the evolutionary pressure to adopt these profiles for structural reasons among the Greek builders on the island. The Cathedral of St George of the Greeks in Famagusta (mid-fourteenth century), for example, presents an interesting case in that it was built in a Gothic style, with very pointed vaults in the aisles (Fig.  7).56 The cathedral may manifest a prestige bias that followed a reconciliation of tensions between the Church of Cyprus and the Latin overlords at the apex of prosperity of the Lusignan dynasty.57 Or, perhaps because they were building a very tall church to rival the Latin cathedral of St Nicholas to the north of it, the

Table 1.  Table of Arch Forms Location

Feature

Date

Separation of Centers

Qasr Ibn Wardan

Church, arches under dome

561–64

1

/11th of span

Damascus

Great Mosque, arched frame at N. end of transept

705–15

1

/10th of span

Damascus*

Great Mosque, arches in side chamber

705–15

1

/6th of span

Qusayr Amra

Audience hall, transverse arches

712–15

1

/10th of span

Bosra

So-called ‘Umar Mosque’

720–21

1

/10th of span

Hammam as-Sarakh

Caldarium of bath

725–30(?)

1

/7-1/6th of span

Qasr al-Hair ash-Sharqi

Mosque

728–29

Very slightly pointed

Mafjar

Sirdab and portico of forecourt

(729–43)

1

/5-1/8th of span

Mshatta

Section of vaults

744

1

/6th of span

Qasr at-Tuba

Section of Vaults

744

1

/5th of span

Raqqa

Baghdad Gate

772

Four-centered arch

Ukhaidir

Vault of great hall

last quarter of 8th c.

Slightly pointed

Ramla

Arches of cistern

789

1

Fustat

Mosque of ‘Amr, windows

827

Slightly pointed

Samarra

Bab al-‘Amma

836

Four-centered arch

Fustat

Nilometer, recesses

861–62

1

Qairawan

Great Mosque, arches lining transept and under dome

862

Pointed, with slight return

Qairawan

Mosque of Muhammad ibn Khairun

252 H. (866)

Pointed horse-shoe arch

Qairawan

Great Mosque, portion of sanctuary

261 H. (875)

Pointed horse-shoe arch

Cairo

Mosque of Ibn Tulun

687–89

Irregular, about 1/4th of span and stilted

/5th of span

/3th of span

Based on Creswell, A Short Account of Early Muslim Architecture, p. 116 * Example of an omission in Creswell’s original tabulation

Greek builders applied a conformist bias to ensure structural success. Cannonballs from the Ottoman siege of the city in 1571 are still lodged in the western frontispiece of the Greek cathedral, leading some to believe that the church was destroyed by this bombardment, but it is more likely that it was felled by an earthquake in 1735.58 Despite the thickening of the piers, as mentioned above, and the use of pointed profiles, the midsection of St George of the Greeks collapsed as a result of the eighteenth-century earthquake. The surviving east end of the church, with

its thick semicircular apses (what Enlart might have considered ‘degenerative’) and pointed semi-domes, would have served as an example of effective antiseismic building features worth replicating. While St George of the Greeks is the most definitive use of pointed profiles in a Greek church in Cyprus, there are two other examples worth noting: The seventh-century church of Panagia tou Kampou just north of Choirokoitia and the sixteenthcentury church known as the Arablar Mosque (Stavros tou Missirikou) in Nicosia had semicircular

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arches supporting their central domes thickened with pointed arches. Although these arches may be Latin repairs (as was possible in the Sheep Pool cistern), it is interesting that these pointed profiles were used to provide structural strength. Elsewhere, on the periphery of Constantinople in the late Byzantine period, pointed arches began to make cameo appearances, such as in the west porch of Hagia Sophia in Trebizond (1238–63),59 Bogorodica Ljeviška in Prizren (1306–09), and the Gračanica Monastery church in Kosovo (1318–21).60 In the case of the latter, pointed vaults were employed to elevate the central dome high above the outer four domes, which were supported by semicircular arches. Perhaps the builders incorporated these pointed vaults because they knew that the more elevated a dome, the greater the deleterious effects of its horizontal thrusts on its supporting structure. Reasons notwithstanding, this and other such late uses of pointed profiles occurred on the periphery of Byzantine architectural influence and in the heterotopia of the declining Byzantine Empire. Conclusion Without a strong tradition to follow, early Islamic builders were able to evolve quickly, perhaps recognizing the structural and anti-seismic benefits of the pointed arch and proliferating it until it became identified with Islam. For the Frankish builders seeking a new identity in the Holy Land, the pointed arch may have provided a unique opportunity to conform to the aesthetic of the region; by adopting this modification (and other local features) prolifically, they also adapted more quickly to the seismic geography in which they suddenly found themselves. The benefits of the adaptations the Frankish builders embraced in the mainland Levant were lost when they began building in Cyprus in an effort to reassert their French identity. While the pointed profile enhanced the structural strength of these new Cypriot churches, other Gothic elements such as elongated naves, large windows, flying buttresses and larger building scales compromised the structures and precipitated a series of collapses that required heavy accretion of structure. In our brief account of Byzantine church productions, we would be justified in noting that the

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Byzantine builders’ preference for semicircular profiles was strong – strong enough, it appears, to have disregarded the intense and unforgiving filter of seismic hazard and the many examples of surviving pointed profiles throughout the region. Their preference for semicircular profiles over pointed ones also appeared to be quite specific, as they adopted many other architectural solutions to seismic hazard (although they altered these architectural forms stylistically). While other factors may have additionally informed their avoidance of pointed profiles in their constructions, the Byzantine builders seemed to have found a powerful bearer of cultural identity in the semicircular profile and its perpetuation.

notes Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus, 3 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), III, 392. For the Sheep Pool cistern, see Louis-Hugues Vincent and Félix-Marie Abel, Jérusalem: recherches de topographie, d’archéologie et d’histoire (Paris: Gabalda, 1912), pp. 686–87. 2  Keppel A. C. Creswell and James W. Allan, A Short Account of Early Muslim Architecture (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1989), p. 116. 3  John Warren, ‘Creswell’s Use of the Theory of Dating by the Acuteness of the Pointed Arches in Early Muslim Architecture’, Muqarnas, 8  (1991), 59–65. Meanwhile, Peter Draper noted in ‘Islam and the West: The Early Use of the Pointed Arch Revisited’, Architectural History, 48 (2005), 1–20, n. 10 that Creswell omitted the slightly pointed arches in the arcade of the Dome of the Rock, which would have further supported Creswell’s theory. 4  Jean Bony, in his French Gothic Architecture of the 12th and 13th Centuries (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), p. 26, observed that early Gothic experiments combining ribs with groin vaults began tentatively, with slightly pointed profiles, such as in the north aisle of Saint-Étienne at Beauvais and the ambulatory of the church at Morienval. 5  ‘The very evolution of the pointed arch – i.e., the gradual separation of the two centers – can be observed [in Syria]’. Creswell, Early Muslim Architecture, pp. 116–17. 6  Robert Ousterhout, in his ‘An Apologia for Byzantine Architecture’, Gesta, 35.1 (1996), 21–33 (p. 23), pointed out that inconclusive attempts to fit developments in Byzantine architecture into a linear typological pattern were based on patterns of development in Western medieval church architecture, noting that ‘Byzantine architecture developed in a different way, with many different building types existing side by side’. 7  For a comprehensive history of evolution theory in the arts, see Thomas Munro, Evolution in the Arts, and other Theories of Culture History (Cleveland: Cleveland Museum of Art, 1963). For an introduction to the cultural evolution theory as it applies to architecture, see Rory O’Neill, ‘Gothic on the Edge: Light, Levitation and Seismic Culture in the Evolution of Medieval 1 

Religious Architecture of the Eastern Mediterranean’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Columbia University, 2015), pp.  109–61. For an overall introduction to cultural evolution theory, see Alex Mesoudi, Cultural Evolution: How Darwinian Theory Can Explain Human Culture and Synthesize the Social Sciences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011). 8  Robert Ousterhout noted that studies of Byzantine architecture often ‘… have inadvertently accentuated its sameness rather than its diversity’: Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), p. 12. In exploring a theory of seismic evolution, generalizations of common anti-seismic traits are not intended to diminish a sense of the diversity of the churches. 9  For the Islamic cistern in Ramla, see Charles Jean Melchoir de Vogüe, ‘La citerne de Ramleh et le tracé des arcs brisés’, Mémoires de l’Institut de France, 39 (1914), 163–80; Myriam Rosen-Ayalon, ‘The White Mosque of Ramla: Retracing its History’, IEJ, 56 (2006), 67–83. For the church of St Anne, see Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, III, 56 and 137. 10  Michel Foucault and Jay Miskowiec, ‘Of Other Spaces’, Diacritics, 16.1 (1986), 22–27. 11  In revisiting the debate over the origins and transmission of the pointed arch, Peter Draper noted that the arch framing the apse at Sant’Apollinare in Classe was slightly pointed: ‘Islam and the West’, 4. 12  Richard Krautheimer suggested a contrast between local construction and foreign decoration in the sixth-century works in Ravenna: see Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), p. 187. 13  Cyril Mango, Byzantine Architecture (New York: H.  N. Abrams, 1976), pp. 70 and 73. For the inscription, see Vittorio Galliazzo and Raymond Chevallier, I  ponti romani (Treviso: Canova, 1995), pp. 92–93 and fig. 39. 14  On the topic of the introduction of structural technologies leading changes of aesthetic preferences, see Robert Mark and David  P. Billington, ‘Structural Imperative and the Origin of New Form’, Technology and Culture, 30.2 (1989), 300–29. 15  Charles A. Stewart, ‘Architectural Innovation in Early Byzantine Cyprus’, Architectural History, 57 (2014), 1–29. 16  Camille Enlart, Gothic Art and the Renaissance in Cyprus, trans. D. Hunt (London: Trigraph, 1987), p. 384. 17  Terence B. Mitford, ‘Some New Inscriptions from Early Christian Cyprus’, Byzantion, 20 (1950), 105–75; C. A. Stewart, ‘Flying Buttresses and Pointed Arches in Byzantine Cyprus’, Masons at Work, ed. by R. Ousterhout, R. Holod, and L. Haselberger (Philadelphia, 2012), pp.  1–23. http://www.sas.upenn.edu/ancient/ masons/Stweart-Flying_Buttresses.pdf. 18  H. R. Allen, ‘Observations on the Original Appearance of the Dome of the Rock’, in Bayt al-Maqdis: Jerusalem and Early Islam, ed. by Julian Raby and Jeremy Johns (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 197–213 (pp. 199–206). 19  Oleg Grabar argued in The Dome of the Rock (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2006), pp.  70–71, that the pointed arches in the Dome of the Rock are from a 16th-century restoration. Regardless of when the arches were built, their current state still reflects the geometrical benefit suggested by Allen. 20  Pol Abraham, Viollet-le-Duc et le rationalisme médiéval (Paris: Fréal, 1934), p. 14.

Bony, French Gothic Architecture, p. 35. The modern field of anti-seismic engineering and the analysis of historic masonry buildings is vast. A good overview is provided in P. B. Lourenço, ‘Computations on historic masonry structures’, Progress in Structural Engineering and Materials, 4.3 (2002), 301–19. Specifically for the analysis of arch structure, see Jaques Heyman, The Masonry Arch (Chichester: Horwood, 1982); Alessandra Romano and John  A. Ochsendorf, ‘The Mechanics of Gothic Masonry Arches’, International Journal of Architectural Heritage, 4.1 (2010), 59–82; Matthew  J. DeJong and others, ‘Rocking Stability of Masonry Arches in Seismic Regions’, Earthquake Spectra, 24.4 (2008), 847–65. 23  The author has developed a system for realtime structural analysis using PhysX in Unity3D to make physical simulation of masonry systems more accessible to historians. Rory O’Neill (February, 2018), mappinggothic.org/simulation. 24  Based on the pointed arcade’s proximity to the annular inscription denying the divinity of Jesus in the Dome of the Rock, Peter Draper pondered whether this pointing of the arches was not a deliberate break with the architectural tradition set forth in the nearby Byzantine Anastasis Rotunda: see Draper, ‘Islam and the West’, p.  6. Marvin Trachtenberg, ‘Suger’s Miracles, Branner’s Bourges: Reflections on “Gothic Architecture” as Medieval Modernism’, Gesta, 39.2 (2000), 183–205 (p. 188), proposed that, to the medieval eye, the arches of St Denis would not have looked pointed, but rather ‘broken’ – serving as an act of revolution in architectural tradition. 25  Robert Ousterhout noted that the diameter of the sphere defined by the pendentives of Hagia Sophia is approximately the diameter of the Pantheon’s dome: ‘Aesthetics and politics in the architecture of Justinian’, TM, 22/1 (2018), 103–20. Roland J. Mainstone noted in Hagia Sophia: Architecture, Structure, and Liturgy of Justinian’s Great Church (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1988), p. 179, the similarity between the layout of the piers of Hagia Sophia and the Basilica Nova in Rome. 26  For a general introduction to Justinian, see John  W. Barker, Justinian and the later Roman Empire, (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1966). 27  Procopius, de aedificiis I.1.67–78, as translated by Cyril Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire, 312–1453: Sources and Documents (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1986), pp. 76–77. 28  Though many of the domes of Ottoman mosques suffered partial collapses during the earthquakes of 1509 and 1766, the damage may have been worse had they used semicircular arches with greater horizontal thrusts. For a discussion of the influence of Byzantine architecture on Ottoman works, see Robert Ousterhout, ‘The East, the West, and the Appropriation of the Past in Early Ottoman Architecture’, Gesta, 43.2 (2004), 165–76. 29  Rowland  J. Mainstone, Structure in Architecture: History, Design, and Innovation (Aldershot, Hampshire; Brookfield, Vt.: Ashgate, 1999), pp. 16–17, credits other structural improvements in Sinan’s design of the Süleymaniye over that of Hagia Sophia, such as the elimination of wide side galleries, more effective lateral buttressing, finely cut ashlar in place of brickwork, and tie rods. 30  For a readable overview of basic principles of seismic engineering, see James E. Ambrose and Dimitry Vergun, Design for Earthquakes (New York: John Wiley, 1999). 21 

22 

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Ambrose and Vergun, Design for Earthquakes, ix. Jan Delrue, ‘Earthquakes as a Major Natural Selection of Structural Forms’, in Stable-Unstable?: Structural Consolidation of Ancient Buildings, ed. by Raymond M. Lemaire and K. Van Balen (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1988), pp. 287–98. 33  Citing small lay and monastic congregations, Robert Ousterhout rejected a common misconception that a loss of masonic skills led to smaller churches: ‘Apologia for Byzantine Architecture’, p.  23. However, regardless of the reason for small church sizes, the seismic benefits would have tended to promote this pattern. 34  Slobodan Ćurčić, ‘Byzantine Architecture on Cyprus: An Introduction to the Problem of the Genesis of a Regional Style’, in Medieval Cyprus: Studies in Art, Architecture, and History in Memory of Doula Mouriki, ed. by Nancy Patterson Ševčenko and Christopher Moss (Nicosia: Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation, 2000), pp. 71–91. 35  Ibid., p. 74. 36  Ibid., p. 75. 37  For a general history of the Crusades, see Carl Erdmann, The Origin of the Idea of Crusade (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977); Joshua Prawer, The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem: European Colonialism in the Middle Ages (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1973); Jonathan Riley-Smith and Simon Christopher, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1986); Steven Runciman, A  History of the Crusades (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988); Kenneth M. Setton, ed., A History of the Crusades, 6 vols. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1958–62). 38  Fulcher of Chartres 3.37, Fulchri Carnotensis historia Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), ed.  by Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitatsbuchhandlung, 1913), pp. 746–49, and as quoted in Jaroslav Folda, The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land 1098–1187 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995), p. 86. 39  Outremer was a term used to describe the Levant during the Crusader period. While it translates roughly to ‘overseas’, the word outré is the past participle of outrer, meaning to go beyond limits, to push to excess. In English, it has come to mean violating convention or propriety, bizarre (OED Online, January 2018, www.oed.com/view/Entry/133881. Accessed 24 February 2018); essentially heterotopic. 40  Robert Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: The Stones of the Holy Sepulchre’, JSAH, 62.1 (2003), 4–23 (p. 15). 41  Denys Pringle lists over 400 churches in the mainland Levant in Churches of the Crusader Kingdom. For Crusader architecture, see also Camille Enlart, Les monuments des croisés dans le royaume de Jérusalem (Paris: Geuthner, 1925); Paul Deschamps, Terre Sainte romane (La Pierre-qui-Vire: Zodiaque, 1964); Thomas  S.  R. Boase, Castles and Churches of the Crusading Kingdom (London and New York: Oxford University Press, 1967). 42  Boase in Setton, History of the Crusades, V: 74 and 168; Robert Ousterhout, ‘The French Connection: Construction of Vaults and Cultural Identity in Crusader Architecture’, in France and the Holy Land: Frankish Culture at the End of the Crusades, ed. by 31 

32 

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Daniel H. Weiss and Lisa Mahoney (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), pp. 77–94 (pp. 78, 83). 43  Robert Ousterhout argued in ‘The French Connection’ that the use of ribs in the vaults of the Holy Sepulchre and the Hospital of the Knights of St John in Acre expressed French identity. 44  The Church of St Anne had a terminus ante quem from 1165 when John of Würzberg saw it, but Pringle dates the building to the 1130s. Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, III, 142– 43, 155. 45  Based on a passage from Guibert of Nogent, Léan Ní Chléirigh suggested a general sentiment among the Latins that the successful Turkish encroachments on Byzantine lands were a sign of divine displeasure with Eastern Orthodoxy. Chléirigh suggested that animosity grew toward Constantinople almost immediately after the First Crusade in ‘Western Opinion of the Byzantine Empire’, in The Crusades and the Near East, ed. by Conor Kostick (London–New York: Routledge, 2011), pp. 161–88 (p. 181). 46  Adrian Boas posited that the Crusaders building in the Holy Land had a preference for French traditions in church architecture, save for the local traditions of flat roofs and pointed arches: Crusader Archaeology: The Material Culture of the Latin East (New York: Routledge, 2017), pp. 217, 222. 47  As quoted by Elizabeth M Hallam, Chronicles of the Crusades: Eye-witness Accounts of the Wars between Christianity and Islam (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1989), p. 92. 48  Rosalind Hill, Gesta Francorum et Aliorum Hierosolimitanorum: The Deeds of the Franks and the Other Pilgrims to Jerusalem (London: T. Nelson, 1962), pp. 91–92, 99. 49  Maria Georgopoulou noted that, compared to the extensive modifications undertaken at the Holy Sepulchre, to adapt the Dome of the Rock, the Crusaders needed only to cover the rock, install, and alter and redecorate wall surfaces for the ‘shrine to be freed from its association with the “infidels”’: see ‘The Artistic World of the Crusaders and Oriental Christians in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, Gesta, 43 (2004), 115–28 (p. 115). 50  An exception is the parish church in Ramla, whose builders stubbornly insisted on an elongated nave (although it has low vaults), and which today needs the help of tie rods spanning each transverse arch. For lengthier discussion of the anti-seismic properties of Crusader churches, see O’Neill, ‘Gothic on the Edge’. 51  The Latins feared a Byzantine revanche, which never materialized, as well as Muslim expeditions, which eventually did. Peter  W. Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 1191–1374 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), pp. 11, 32. 52  Camille Enlart postulated that the incoming Latin patrons intentionally emulated French models: Gothic Art, pp. 33–34. 53  Enlart, Gothic Art, pp. 91–94. 54  For a typology of parekklesia, see Slobodan Ćurčić, ‘Architectural Significance of Subsidiary Chapels in Middle Byzantine Churches’, JSAH, 36.2 (1977), 94–110. 55  Enlart, Gothic Art, p. 35. 56  For the Cathedral of St  George of the Greeks, see Jean Bernard de Vaivre, Philippe Plagnieux, and Christian Corvisier, L’art gothique en Chypre (Paris: Institut de France, 2006); Boase, History of the Crusades, 178–79; Enlart, Gothic Art, pp. 253–62.

Hugh  IV (1324–59) reversed the long-standing animosity of the Lusignan dynasty toward the Greek Church: de Vaivre and others, L’art gothique, pp. 274–76. 58  Ibid., p. 337. 57 

Mango, Byzantine Architecture, pp. 161–62. Slobodan Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans from Diocletian to Süleyman the Magnificent (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), pp. 664–66. 59 

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‘Architecture as Reliquary’

Latin Reconstruction and Rhetoric at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre Megan Boomer On 15 July 1149, fifty years to the day after the Crusader capture of Jerusalem, the Latin Patriarch Fulcher reconsecrated the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.1 The church complex was originally founded on Emperor Constantine’s orders c. 325 CE, following the discovery of the purported tomb of Christ, location of the crucifixion, and relics of the True Cross. For Latins, the site was one of the holiest in Christendom, and a desire to worship at the many loca sancta inside the complex’s walls propelled the armies marching towards Jerusalem at the end of the eleventh century.2 Following the city’s bloody seizure, the victors celebrated the Office of Resurrection in the church, an event an eyewitness described as nothing less than ‘the justification of all Christianity, the humiliation of paganism, and the renewal of our faith’.3 It is therefore of little surprise that the Latin patriarchs, canons, and kings left their mark on the monument. Patrons updated the church to contrast the venerated past with the ‘renewed’ present, using architecture, images, and inscriptions to define the monument for twelfth-century viewers. In so doing, they presented Latin ecclesiastical and political administration as a new chapter in salvific history. By taking Robert Ousterhout’s 2003 article ‘Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity’ as a point of departure, this essay explores how the Crusaders’ reconstruction worked as a reliquary for the older stones and stories.4 Early champions of the fourth-century Holy Sepulchre claimed the sacred sites inside its walls ‘enabled those who came as visitors to see plainly the story of the wonders wrought there, testifying by facts louder than any voice to the resurrection of

the Saviour’.5 As Ousterhout noted, the sanctity of the natural rock soon extended to the masonry that framed it.6 Rather than a single church, the earliest Christian monument on the site was comprised of multiple structures, accommodating the loca sancta, the prior layout, and the liturgy (Fig. 1).7 The tomb was enshrined in a small aedicule, which was surrounded by a larger rotunda accessed via a flattened eastern end. Eight doors opened into a colonnaded courtyard, which showcased the rock of Calvary in its southeastern corner. The apse of the west-oriented imperial basilica lay immediately to Calvary’s north. This larger church was connected to Jerusalem’s main street via an atrium and staircase. As a whole, the complex demonstrated Constantine’s munificence and devotion, and provided a focus for the institutionally sanctioned Christian cult of holy places. Although the Holy Sepulchre was a unique monument, elements of its sanctity were translated to other parts of the Christian world through architectural reference.8 In a variety of Late Antique and Early Medieval media, Easter narratives were set near an aedicule referencing the one in Jerusalem – instead of the cave described in the Gospel.9 Generations of scholars have debated which centrally planned churches and baptisteries were designed as ‘copies’ of the Anastasis (Resurrection) Rotunda, but it is indisputable that several were seen and used in ways that maintained associations with the prototypical structure.10 Pilgrimage texts from the fourth century onwards described the monument in order to represent both the biblical events at the site and personal responses to being in the sacred space.11 Because the

Fig. 1.  Fourth-Century Holy Sepulchre: 1. Atrium; 2. Constantinian Basilica; 3. Courtyard; 4. Calvary; 5. Anastasis Rotunda; 6. Tomb Aedicule; 7. Patriarchate; 8. Baptistery (Source: R. G. Ousterhout, redrawn after Corbo 1981 and Coüasnon 1974).

form of the church was intertwined with the sanctity of the sepulchre, reconsecration and reconstruction presented something of a paradox. In 1009, some kind of reconstruction became necessary. The Fatimid Caliph al-Hakim ordered the monument’s destruction, but large parts of its fourthcentury fabric survived.12 Local Christians and the Byzantine emperors were soon granted permission to rebuild, and largely maintained the prior appearance of the site (Fig. 2). However, the basilica was not reconstructed. Instead, architects added an eastern apse to the rotunda and rebuilt the dome and aedicule. New mosaics and paintings addressed eleventhcentury viewers, and signaled the church’s continuity with the biblical and imperial past.13 The courtyard between the rotunda and Calvary was also reconstructed, with an added gallery and eastern chapels in lieu of the basilica. These chapels commemorated relics and events in the Passion, and allowed pilgrims to enter a succession of intimate interior spaces as they relived the unfolding narrative.14 Local and Constantinopolitan masons worked together on the project, which was completed by the late 1040s.15 In ‘Architecture as Relic’, Ousterhout suggested that the presence of architectural elements that defy structural and aesthetic logic could be attributed

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to twelfth-century attitudes towards the structure’s sanctity.16 The Latins grafted a new choir onto and around the rotunda, courtyard, and Calvary chapels, creating points of visual dissonance that allowed viewers to see and understand the site’s authoritative ‘antiquity’ (which was in many cases only a century old) (Fig.  3). The recognizably modern style of the choir and new inscriptions drew attention to the fact that the monument was in the process of redefining itself. With the foundation of the Latin Kingdom, the sanctity of the site took on a new temporal layer in the eyes of its patrons.17 During the reconstruction, architecture and decoration were harnessed to make both the site’s sanctified antiquity and glorified modernity visible to pilgrims. In order to understand the dynamics of this reconstruction process, I  turn from the Holy Sepulchre’s stone relics to consider how the twelfth-century church was built as an enshrining reliquary. As Cynthia Hahn emphasized, although reliquaries were not inherently sacred, enclosed relics could not be seen as holy without their framing presence.18 In addition to providing a material splendor that distinguished sacred bones and stones from those which were not, the reliquary’s form, imagery, and inscriptions dictated the terms by which the relic was understood.19 These terms were

Fig. 2.  Eleventh-Century Holy Sepulchre (black: preserved Constantinian material, gray: eleventh-century additions): 1. Patriarchate; 2. Anastasis Rotunda; 3. Tomb Aedicule; 4. Courtyard; 5. Omphalos (center of the world marker); 6. Prison of Christ; 7. Chapel of the Flagellation; 8. Chapel of the Crown of Thorns; 9. Chapel of the Division of the Garments; 10. Crypt of the Invention of the Cross; 11. Calvary; 12. Chapel of St Mary; 13. Chapels of St John, Holy Trinity, and St James (Source: R.G. Ousterhout, redrawn after Corbo 1981).

both ritual, allowing the object to participate in the ceremonial life of the church, and ontological, establishing an identity for the otherwise unintelligible fragments within. For instance, some twelfth-century Western reliquaries of the True Cross signal their Eastern origins and contents.20 Relics coming from Jerusalem were often housed in containers shaped like a double-armed cross, a reference to their provenance adopted by goldsmiths in both the Latin Kingdom and Western Europe.21 Other reliquaries, like a casket in the Cathedral of Saint-Sernin in Toulouse, included pictorial and textual descriptions of the relic’s journey from Jerusalem to a European repository.22 In the Holy Sepulchre, the value of the site depended on a perception that the ‘facts are louder than any voice’, to quote the description of the empty tomb above, were preserved as testimonies of the past in the viewer’s present.23 Ousterhout’s foundational article did much to clarify how the church’s changing

architectural frames presented the monument’s loca sancta. As he noted, the church’s formal strategies for displaying the past are not unlike those of the medieval reliquary.24 The following study turns from the effects of this design to its implications, and argues that the conceptual model of the reliquary greatly clarifies the twelfth-century monument’s underlying rhetoric. To understand the nature of the frame, the first section describes how celebrations of Jerusalem’s capture transformed the Church of the Holy Sepulchre from a symbol of Christ’s resurrection into a symbol of the Latin resurrection of the Holy Land. To advance this claim, the loca sancta were set inside the reconsecrated structure, the focus of the second part. The passage between the rotunda and the choir became the characteristic bridge between relic and reliquary for both pilgrims and clerics. References to building atop and around the sacred past in the church’s twelfth-century inscriptions make it clear

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Fig. 3.  Twelfth-Century Holy Sepulchre (black: new Latin elements, dark gray: eleventh century; light gray: fourth century): 1. Patriarchate; 2. Anastasis Rotunda; 3. Tomb Aedicule; 4. Latin choir and transept; 5. Chapel of St Mary; 6. Chapels of St John, Holy Trinity, and St James; 7. Prison of Christ; 8. Ambulatory; 9. Chapel of St Helena; 10: Crypt of the Invention of the Cross; 11. Calvary; 12. Latin façade (Source: R.G. Ousterhout, redrawn after Corbo 1981).

that the additions were intended to provide new contexts for the older material. The setting performed a critical function by ensuring the stones of sacred history would be seen in present, Latin terms.25 Framing the Relic A surge in eleventh-century Western pilgrimage increased both knowledge of, and desire for, the Holy Sepulchre. A 1020–30s account of ‘an innumerable multitude’ of Jerusalem pilgrims across social classes is likely hyperbolic given the time, expense, and risk involved, but prelates and magnates crossed the continents with considerable retinues.26 In part, this increased demand reflected nascent currents of personal piety, as worshippers sought to walk in ‘the footprints marked by the feet of Jesus’.27 Bishops and barons returned with relics from the monument,

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which were occasionally enshrined in new ‘Holy Sepulchres’ in their home dioceses.28 The increased prominence of medieval Jerusalem also shifted how the biblical past and celestial future of the city were seen by Western Christians. Previously, according to Sylvia Schein, the earthly and heavenly cities had been considered somewhat separately.29 In the eleventh century, the past and future Jerusalems were mapped onto the city’s present space. This conflation of biblical, actual, and eschatological cities, in conjunction with larger apocalyptic expectations, led many to believe that the forces that would instigate the Second Coming were about to converge on Jerusalem.30 These factors were not the only ones that led an army of Frankish forces to Jerusalem’s walls in 1099.31 However, they illuminate how the Holy Sepulchre was presented in accounts of the First Crusade, which many participants termed an iter (or via) sancti sepulchri.32 Peter of Tudebode, who wrote of his experience

during the city’s capture, evoked the church as a multifaceted metonym, calling the armies the ‘Christians of God and the Holy Sepulchre’, the siege machinery a means to ‘enter the Sepulchre for the purpose of adoring their Lord and Savior’, and the source of their appeals ‘the name of Christ and the Holy Sepulchre’.33 This first entry and adoration after the church’s capture, according to Raymond d’Aguilers, required celebrants to refashion older models for a radical purpose: ‘A new day, new joy, new and perpetual gladness, the consummation of our labor and devotion, drew forth from all new words and new songs’.34 This rhetoric of the city’s capture as a renewal of holy sites and the Christian faithful was amplified by the Latin Kingdom historian William of Tyre. In his account of the Crusaders’ first visit to Jerusalem’s sacred sites, the revived loca sancta revive the meritorious soldierpilgrims. As they moved from the Holy Sepulchre to the other sites, the survivors saw their fallen comrades ‘visiting the holy places with the rest […] thus there was afforded us a substantial proof of the future resurrection’.35 Over the course of the twelfth century, writers in the Latin Kingdom and Western Europe emphasized that the events of 1099 renewed the places of Christ’s life and death as well as the participants who wrested it from non-Christian hands. These presentations of the resurrection and renewal of the Christian landscape, however, depended on a major act of historical amnesia.36 Descriptions of the building’s capture ignored the fact that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had remained under the control of the Jerusalem patriarch since its dedication.37 Furthermore, the monument seen by the Crusaders in 1099 was, for all the antiquity of its precedent, largely a new one – constructed just fifty years prior with Byzantine imperial support. Given the earlier influx of pilgrims and the Crusader leaders’ audience with the Byzantine emperor, the omission of the recent phase appears to be a conscious decision. Erasing more recent Christian memories and communities allowed the Latins to present their rule as a resurrection of a lost past. The changing forms of the July 15 liturgy provide insight into how the Latins presented the city’s capture and tied it to Jerusalem’s larger theological arc.38 In 1099, there was no codified rite for the unlikely event. It was quickly added to the annual festal calendar, and an extant office In Festivitate Sancte Hierusalem may record a pre-1114 iteration of the mass.39 According to Cecilia Gaposchkin, the text adapted

traditional prayers to fit the Latin understanding of the capture’s impact and effects.40 Instead of consecrating a church, dedication prayers suggested that the city was reconsecrated through conquest. The addition of material from Advent services presented Crusader triumph as a fulfillment of prophecy, and connected Christ’s first coming to his hoped-for return.41 A new sequence, Manu plaudant, described the ‘new miracles’ and veneration offered to the Sepulchre, declaring the redemption of the participants and calling for Christ to triumph over all infidels.42 Once again, the language of apocalypse emphasized the miraculous Resurrection of the city engendered by the Crusader capture.43 Much like the historical chronicles, the service situated the events in frameworks of sacred history and geography by highlighting moments of novelty or great historical change. Although the city’s capture is presented as an incarnation of new things, new miracles, and new militias across a sweeping historical arc, the city and church are described as temporally contingent and specific. Indeed, Fulcher of Chartres’ description of the city of Jerusalem in his account of the capture was included amongst the 15 July readings.44 The passage is more mundane than miraculous, as the following account of the Sepulchre makes clear: Sepulcri dominici ecclesia forma rotunda similiter, quae nunquam fuit tecta, sed semper foramine patulo architecti sapientis magisterio artificiose machinato, hiatu perpetuo aperta claret in summo.45 The Church of the Lord’s Sepulchre, also round in form, was never covered, but through a wide opening which was skillfully devised by a wise architect, the Sepulchre can always be seen from above.46

Rather than narrating the city’s capture, the reading narrated the city itself. While the other elements of the mass stressed the biblical resonance of the event, this passage suggested a secondary, and equally important, operation at work in the construction of a specifically Latin Jerusalem.47 The city, for all of its celestial and Christological resonances, was presented as a real terrestrial space. Encouraging pilgrims and the Latin faithful to see the city as it existed in the twelfth century, even as they traced Christ’s footsteps ‘with the eyes of faith’, enforced a visual distinction between the relics of past presence and their miraculous renewal.

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Well before changing the physical appearance of the Holy Sepulchre, the Latins transformed how it appeared in their imagination. By the time the Crusaders embarked on their iter sancti sepulchri at the end of the eleventh century, new devotional currents had stimulated a desire to visit and imagine the church, and returning pilgrims and architectural copies provided an image of what it looked like. Apocalyptic expectations may have contributed to the Crusaders’ quest, and were certainly highlighted in the liturgies developed to commemorate their success. In this context, the stones testifying to Christ’s resurrection, whether natural or structural, became a witness to the resurrection instigated by the Latin capture of the city.48 Although the relics had stayed in the same place, their interpretation had radically changed. Framing the Reliquary During the first decades of the twelfth century, the Latins used liturgy and history to construct a new claim to the Holy Sepulchre. The rhetoric around the loca sancta was translated for Latin audiences, emphasizing the divine support for their rule and the resurrection realized by their arrival. This discourse, once formulated, guided the reconstruction of the church. Adaptations highlighted the contrast between old and new, magnifying the glory of each. Much like the interaction between relic and reliquary, the visible stone fragments of the sacred sites and the enshrining interpretation through form, image, text, and use functioned as a sort of mutual mediation.49 Pilgrims remarked on the design of the new canons’ choir, and compared it to the antiquity of the venerable Byzantine rotunda. The Latin inscriptions layered on top of the monument’s most significant sacred and structural areas – the façades, the tomb aedicule, and Calvary – guided pilgrims through the church and provided institutionally sanctioned interpretations of wellknown events.50 New liturgies were developed in tandem with the space, and used processions to enhance the impact and resonance of the transition between altar and aedicule.51 For pilgrims in search of an immediate visual and spatial experience of Christ’s Resurrection, the church acted as a reliquary that framed their understanding of the larger salvific drama. The contrasting modes of visual and temporal experience in the twelfth-century project were structured

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around the eleventh-century complex. The Byzantine reconstruction included awkwardly positioned spolia, an unharmonious break in the façade, and other elements that adapted the older footprint to new uses. Circumstance, rather than choice, led to the loss of the Constantinian Basilica, but the smaller chapels built on top of its former apse were in any event better suited to eleventh-century ritual practice.52 The chapels housed relics and loca sancta that had migrated from elsewhere in the city, and could be visited in succession by pilgrims or processions.53 The mosaics commissioned for the rotunda updated the imagery to accord with new interpretations of the Anastasis as a church, event, and image. Constantine and Helena stood amidst apostles and prophets in the tambour, emphasizing continued imperial support for a monument that had not been under Byzantine control for several centuries.54 When Jerusalem’s original Anastasis Rotunda was built, the representation of the Resurrection was not yet fixed. By the eleventh century, the term ‘Anastasis’ referred to images of Christ pulling Adam and Eve out of hell, an iconography representing both the resurrection and its implications.55 It is therefore unsurprising that the new apse featured the eponymous image.56 In a variety of ways, architects, mosaicists, and clergy signaled the site’s history and status. While the Byzantine project solidified imperial and local claims by appealing to a continuity with the past, the Latins needed to refashion the church to present the miraculous novelty that underpinned their justifications for rule. By 1149, the loca sancta in the courtyard and the chapel under the former basilica were connected to one another and to the monastery for the canons. The addition, as Jaroslav Folda and others noted, converted the monument into an idiosyncratic approximation of a Western European pilgrimage church.57 The Byzantine apse was destroyed, although both the mosaic of and dedication to the Anastasis were recreated in the new canons’ choir to the east.58 The apse walls became an archway between the rotunda and the Latin choir. It is this new section, inserted in the former courtyard, which most resembles contemporary church architecture in the medieval west. Piers supported the vaulting of the transepts and choir, as well as the new domed crossing. The former eastern portico chapels were destroyed, but their dedications were to some degree preserved in radiating chapels in the new ambulatory. Bays were added to the Byzantine Calvary chapel, filling the space between the south piers and

an upper-level entrance vestibule, the ‘Chapel of the Franks’. This chapel was added to a new façade reminiscent of both the c. 1111 south portal of Santiago de Compostela and Jerusalem’s seventh-century Golden Gate, through which Christ was believed to have entered the city.59 These changes turned the complex of sacred sites into a single monument, albeit one defined by, and through, its visual heterogeneity. Western architectural vocabularies and local archaeological features were translated to suit the new church’s image and message. Although it is likely that construction continued into the 1150s, it was complete enough to reconsecrate on the fiftieth anniversary of the Latin capture of Jerusalem.60 To commemorate the event, a golden dedicatory inscription was painted on the arch connecting the new canons’ choir to the lower chapel of Golgotha or Adam. While undoubtedly celebratory, the language and location of the text acknowledges that the reconsecration of a church originally consecrated by the blood of Christ is something of a theological absurdity.61 It read: This place is holy, sanctified by the blood of Christ,

Est locus iste sacer, sacratus sanguine Christi,

By our consecration we add nothing to its holiness.

Per nostrum sacrare sacro nichil addimus (var: additur) isti.

But the house built around and above this sacred place

Sed domus huic sacro circum superedificata

Was consecrated on the fifteenth day of July,

Est quintadecima Quintilis luce sacrata

With other fathers present, by Fulcher the patriarch…62

Cum reliquis patribus a Fulcherio patriarcha63

The text suggests that, given the church in question, this consecration needed to be understood in different terms from the ecclesiastical norm. Even if the Latins could add nothing to its holiness, they could nonetheless build atop it (superaedificare) – the verb chosen to echo 1 Corinthians 3:10–13.64 Paul’s letter discusses the building of the Christian church (here describing the community of believers) in architectural terms, describing the original foundation as Jesus himself. In the Holy Sepulchre inscription, the architectural metaphors of 1 Corinthians are literalized and used to describe the church built atop the exposed bedrock of Calvary and the Tomb. Given the medieval use of the biblical passage as a definition of exegetical practice, the choice of superaedificare also

implies that the church could redefine the sacred events on which it was founded.65 The textual and architectural distinction between old and new elements recalls another architectural project of the 1140s – Abbot Suger’s reconstruction of the Church of Saint-Denis outside of Paris.66 Both Saint-Denis and the Holy Sepulchre were modernized by adding a new façade and choir to an older structure. Marvin Trachtenberg describes the two principal texts associated with Suger’s project, De Consecratione and De Administratione, as apologia intended to address anxieties regarding the destruction of a sanctified monument.67 Suger’s discussion of the modernitas of the chevet’s ribbed groin vaults establishes a powerful dialectic between the antiquam and the modernum echoed by the building itself.68 An interior inscription proclaimed that: ‘The year was the One Thousand, One Hundred, Forty and Fourth of the Word when [this structure?] was consecrated […] once the new rear part is joined to the part in front, the church shines with its middle part brightened’.69 In their final form, the Holy Sepulchre’s three ribbed groin vaults are visually and structurally similar to those previously employed at Saint-Denis.70 The ‘antique’ part of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, however, was considerably different in form and impact. Early twelfth-century verbal and visual representations of the monument emphasize the building’s roundness, presenting it as a mirror to the Dome of the Rock, which had been rechristened the Templum Domini.71 Such contrasts drew out parallels between topography and theology, contrasting Old Covenant and New. Furthermore, the characteristic roundness of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is reflected in its architectural copies, which remained centrally planned. It therefore appears that, despite the Latin changes, the Byzantine building remained the primary image of the structure in the medieval period. Drawings and descriptions added details about the new parts of the monument, but the rotunda continued to represent the historical sanctity of the Sepulchre. Indeed, Nurith Kenaan-Kedar observed that the radius of the Rotunda’s inner circle, from the aedicule’s center point to the Constantinian piers (10.4  meters), may be the guiding module for the Latin project.72 Given the collection of measurements for ‘authentic’ Holy Sepulchre copies, it is unsurprising that masons and patrons were attentive to their significance when planning the new addition.73

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Notably, the extension occupies almost exactly half the space, as the midpoint between the new apse of the choir and the old western apse in the rotunda is located under the thick connecting arch.74 This arch, formerly the Byzantine main apse, became the primary frame for processions and passages between the rotunda and the canons’ choir, and the key example of intentional anachronism in the twelfth-century structure. Looking at the choir from the rotunda, it is clear that the passageway is scaled to the height of the gallery and second cornice (Fig.  4). In the choir, however, the space is dwarfed by the piers and pendentives of the new, and taller, dome (Fig. 5). The distinction between the two spaces was remarked on by the pilgrims John of Würzburg (c. 1165) and Theoderic (c. 1172). John states: Diximus quod columpnae circulariter cum predicto numero sunt appositae, sed modo versus orientem mutate est earum dispositio et numerus propter adiectionem novae aecclesiae, ad quam inde est transitus, et continent illum novum et de novo additum aedificium, satis amplum scilicet chorum dominorum et satis longum sanctuarium, continens maius altare in honore anastasios, id est sanctae resurrectionis, consacratum […] Extra hoc altaris sanctuarium et infra claustra ambitum continetur satis latum spacium circumquaque, tam per hoc novum quam per antiquum prefati monumenti aedificium, processioni idoneum…75 We have said that the columns of the number we have mentioned [in the rotunda] are set in a circle. But towards the east their arrangement and number is changed, owing to the fact that a new church has been built there, to which this is the way through. This new church, a new addition, contains a very wide Priest’s Choir and a very long sanctuary. In it is a main altar dedicated in honour of the Anastasis, that is, of the Holy Resurrection […] Outside the sanctuary of the altar and inside the wall of the exterior of the building there is a wide space, and round it there is, in this new building (just as in the monument that was there before) a wide space suitable for a procession.76

Theoderic, his close contemporary, is briefer: Preterea sanctuarium, vel sancta sanctorum, a Francis postea opera mirifico constructum, huius ecclesie cor-

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pori continuatum est, qui etiam divinas in ea laudes die ac nocte decentissime celebrant omnibus canonicis horis, semper cursum beate Marie premittentes.77 The sanctuary, or Holy of Holies, was joined to the body of this church with marvelous workmanship by the Franks. They celebrate in proper fashion the divine praises by day and by night, that is, with all the canonical Hours according to the Order of the Virgin Mary.78

Both responses describe the visible disjuncture between the rotunda and the choir as a passage from old to new. Their primary destination was the tomb aedicule, from which they proceeded into the lightfilled choir. For medieval viewers, this represented more than simply a new architectural phase in the life of the church – as suggested by the immediate reference in both accounts to liturgical performance. By walking through the archway between rotunda and choir, the worshipper passed from eternal to historical time, and from personal encounter with the divine and the past to the liturgical worship of canons. Fortunately for scholars, the Holy Sepulchre’s liturgy was preserved by affiliated churches in the Latin East and West.79 Manuscripts in the Vatican and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Barletta are of particular interest for architectural historians.80 In addition to rubrics for services, each contains information regarding the places, people, and paraphernalia for site-specific Easter performances.81 Based on references to Patriarch Fulcher’s changes to the rite, Sebastián Ernesto Salvadó dated the Vatican manuscript to c. 1149, and argued that it was intended to adapt liturgical practice for the reconsecrated monument.82 Fulcher’s prominence in the dedicatory inscription implies that the new traditions and the new spaces were created in tandem, for their mutual enhancement. As Salvadó noted, the pairings of chant and celebration, as well as the shifting paths of the processions, highlight the role of the Resurrection in the life of the church and the faithful.83 In the twelfth century, the Western liturgical calendar usually commenced with the first Sunday of Advent, to highlight the beginning marked by the incarnation.84 At the Holy Sepulchre, Latin ordinals inserted a resurrection mass in the Sunday between Pentecost and Advent.85 From Advent to Easter, the clergy stayed

Fig. 4.  Holy Sepulchre rotunda, looking to choir (Source: author).

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Fig. 5.  Holy Sepulchre choir, looking to rotunda (Source: author).

out of the rotunda, restricting stational devotion to memorials of Christ’s terrestrial presence by passing from the choir to Calvary.86 From Easter to Advent, the Sunday services concluded with a procession from the choir to the altar behind the aedicule, and the canons sang the antiphon Sedit angelus to mark the angel’s presence (and Christ’s absence) as they moved through the monument.87 The distinction between ‘Christ-on-earth’ and ‘Christ-in-heaven’ was central to the formulation of the Holy Sepulchre’s public image, but could not have occurred prior to the construction and consecration of the new high altar and choir. To achieve their full resonance, the processions, like the pilgrims, used the archway to move from altar to aedicule. In other parts of the church, as Ousterhout discussed, the unharmonious design conditioned particular modes of sight.88 In the north transept, the spolia-laden Byzantine arcade abutted and doubled the supports for the Latin vaults, encouraging viewers

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to take in multiple phases of the building’s history in a single glance (Fig.  6). Conversely, the south transept arcade was destroyed to create a panorama of salvation that united the Christ-centered loca sancta to Latin rule.89 On entering through the main portal, pilgrims would have seen Calvary to their right and the rotunda to their left. In between, the tombs of the Latin kings, dedication inscription, and high altar proclaimed the space’s new identity, positioning the Latins amongst pilgrims’ first glimpses of the longed-for sacred structure.90 In different ways, the rotunda, north transept, south transept, and choir manipulated earlier elements of the church to create a frame for understanding and viewing sacred history according to Latin objectives. The dedication inscription and the royal epitaphs were not the only Latin texts that mediated pilgrims’ experience of the site. Short inscriptions identified and glossed the sacred events at the loca sancta themselves, occasionally accompanied by related

Fig. 6.  Holy Sepulchre north transept (Source: author).

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imagery. Inside the aedicule, a small chapel between the entrance doors and the empty ledge had a mosaic of the Entombment and the Marys at the Tomb, accompanied by the following inscription: Christo surgenti locus et custos monumenti angelus et vestis fuit estque redemptio testis.91 The place of the rising Christ and guardian of the monument, The angel, and the (burial) cloth, were and are a proof of redemption.92

Like several other inscriptions in and on the aedicule, main apse, and Calvary, the language of witnessing merged the reader’s present and the biblical past. The image recalled the story of the Resurrection for those about to cross the threshold to venerate the empty tomb. Jerusalem pilgrimage was an inherently anachronic practice, as individuals pulled historic places into the present, and considered them a confirmation of a desired future. In this case, the ambiguity of the custos monumenti seems designed to address twelfthcentury visitors. On an illustrative level, it refers to the soldiers mentioned in Matthew 28:4, who are frequently shown at the tomb in visual representations of the Marys’ visit.93 For pilgrims, it also likely recalled what Theoderic refers to as the ‘keen guards’ standing directly outside the aedicule’s two doors, regulating traffic and the flow of worship.94 In this way, the new guards became witnesses to and of the redemption assured by the site, and their present custodianship was positioned as a necessary part of its past and future.95

Conclusion The circulation of relics, reliquaries, and rhetoric between Western Europe and Jerusalem created new conditions for seeing and understanding the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For the nascent Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, the new phase of history initiated by their capture of the monument was a central component of their self-identity. The mid-twelfthcentury intervention allowed patrons to present the church according to these new terms. This framing activated the monument much as a reliquary acted on a relic. Architecture established a contrast between the older rotunda and the newer choir, as ceremonies

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and pilgrims choreographed their passage from aedicule to altar. Imagery and inscriptions surrounded the sacred core, guiding the viewer through the space and providing new language for its interpretation. The church-as-reliquary, with all its attendant visual, spatial, and ceremonial contexts, was what enabled the monument to represent not only the resurrection of Christ and the aspirational resurrection of all Christian believers, but also the specifically Latin resurrection of the territory. notes A version of this paper was presented at a Mandel Scholion Research Center (Hebrew University) seminar on Art and the Liturgy and the IV. Forum Kunst des Mittelalters. I would like to thank all participants and Sarah Guérin, Cynthia Hahn, Vasileios Marinis, Martin Schwarz, and Christine Zappella for their feedback. Material from this essay comes from my in-progress dissertation, Landscapes of Salvation: Architecture and Memory in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (University of Pennsylvania), whose research has been generously supported by fellowships from the University of Pennsylvania, W.F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research, Mary Jaharis Center, and Samuel  H. Kress Foundation. Above all else, this project has been profoundly shaped by Bob Ousterhout’s scholarship and mentorship. 2  Sylvia Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City: Crusader Jerusalem and the Catholic West (1099–1187) (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), p. 12. 3  Raymond d’Aguilers, Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Iherusalem (before 1105), trans. by Auguste C. Krey in The First Crusade: The Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres and Other Source Materials, 2nd ed., ed. by F. E. Peters (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), p. 260. 4  Robert Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: The Stones of the Holy Sepulchre’, JSAH, 62.1 (2003), 4–23. 5  Eusebius of Caesarea, Life of Constantine 3.28, trans. by Averil Cameron and Stuart  G. Hall (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 133. 6  Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 4. 7  Robert Ousterhout, ‘The Temple, the Sepulchre, and the Martyrion of the Savior’, Gesta, 29.1 (1990), 44–53. On the excavations of the fourth-century complex, Virgilio  C. Corbo, Il Santo Sepolcro di Gerusalemme, 3  vols ( Jerusalem: Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, 1981); Charles Coüasnon, The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, trans. by J-P. B. and Claude Ross (London: Oxford University Press, 1974); Shimon Gibson and Joan  E. Taylor, Beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem (London: Palestine Exploration Fund, 1994); Joseph Patrich, ‘The Early Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Light of Excavations and Restoration’, in Ancient Churches Revealed, ed.  by Yoram Tsafrir, ( Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1993), pp. 101–17. 1 

Recent years have seen an increase in scholarship on translations of Jerusalem in other spheres. For a selection of approaches, see Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, ed. by Bianca Kühnel, Galit Noga-Banai, and Hanna Vorholt (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014); Jerusalem as Narrative Space, ed.  by Annette Hoffmann and Gerhard Wolf (Leiden: Brill, 2012); New Jerusalems: Hierotopy and Iconography of Sacred Spaces, ed. by Alexei Lidov (Moscow: ‘Indrik’, 2009). 9  Martin Biddle, The Tomb of Christ (Stroud: Sutton, 1999), pp. 20–28. 10  A rich debate regarding architectural copies of the Holy Sepulchre and their medieval understanding and theorization has grown out of Richard Krautheimer, ‘Introduction to an “Iconography of Medieval Architecture”’, JWarb, 5 (1942), 1–33. See also Colin Morris, The Sepulchre of Christ and the Medieval West (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Kathryn Blair Moore, The Architecture of the Christian Holy Land: Reception from Late Antiquity through the Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). 11  On memory, architecture, and the medieval pilgrims’ progress, see Robert Ousterhout, ‘“Sweetly Refreshed in Imagination”: Remembering Jerusalem in Words and Images’, Gesta, 48.2 (2009), 153–68 (p. 153). 12  Robert Ousterhout, ‘Rebuilding the Temple: Constantine Monomachus and the Holy Sepulchre’, JSAH, 48.1 (1989), 66–78 (pp. 69–70). 13  Marie Luise Bulst-Thiele, ‘Die Mosaiken der “Auferstehungskirche” in Jerusalem und die Bauten der Franken im 12 Jhr’. FS, 13 (1979), 442–71; Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 13. 14  Ousterhout, ‘Rebuilding the Temple’, p. 78. 15  Nasir-i Khusrau describes the monument as complete by 1047. Naser-e Khosraw’s Book of Travels (Safarnama), trans. by W. M. Thackston Jr. (Albany: Bibliotheca Persica, 1986), pp.  37–38. On eleventh-century dating and patronage, see Ousterhout, ‘Rebuilding the Temple’, p. 70 and Biddle, pp. 74–80. 16  Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 13. 17  M.  Cecilia Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons: Liturgy and the Making of Crusade Ideology (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2017), p. 131; Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City, pp. 22–25. 18  Cynthia Hahn, The Reliquary Effect: Enshrining the Sacred Object (London: Reaktion Books, 2017), p. 6. 19  Cynthia Hahn, ‘What do Reliquaries do for Relics?’, Numen, 57 (2010), 284–316 (p. 311). 20  In addition to Jerusalem, Constantinople was a source for True Cross relics in the twelfth century. Strategies for presenting Byzantine material also included formal, stylistic, and iconographic references to the relics’ source. For an interesting example, see the Stavelot Triptych (c. 1156–58) (Morgan Library and Museum AZ001). Cynthia Hahn, Strange Beauty: Issues in the Making and Meaning of Reliquaries, 400 – circa 1204 (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012), p. 214. 21  Heribert Meurer, ‘Zu den Staurotheken der Kreuzfahrer’, ZKunstg, 48.1 (1985), 65–76; Jaroslav Folda, The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, 1099–1187 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp.  97–100, 166–69, 290–94; Treasures of Heaven: Saints, Relics, and Devotion in Medieval Europe, ed. by Martina Bagnoli and others (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), pp. 88–91; Barbara Drake Boehm, ‘The Cross of Jerusalem’, 8 

Jerusalem 1000–1400: Every People Under Heaven, ed. by Barbara Drake Boehm and Melanie Holcomb (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2016), pp. 57–62; Bianca Kühnel, Crusader Art of the Twelfth Century: A Geographical, an Historical, or an Art Historical Notion? (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1994), pp. 138–54; Anastasia Keshman Wasserman, ‘The Cross and the Tomb: The Crusader Contribution to Crucifixion Iconography’, in Between Jerusalem and Europe: Essays in Honor of Bianca Kühnel, ed. by Renana Bartal and Hanna Vorholt (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 13–33 (pp. 25–26). 22  Cynthia Hahn, ‘The True Cross – Prayer and Power from Jerusalem to Toulouse’ (paper presented to ‘Glorious Cities: The Presence of Jerusalem in the Urban European Space’, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, April 31, 2018); Barbara Drake Boehm, ‘The Cross of Jerusalem’, In Jerusalem 1000–1400, pp. 57–61. 23  Hahn, Reliquary Effect, p. 7. 24  Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 5. 25  Hahn, The Reliquary Effect, pp. 20–21. 26  Ademar of Chabannes, translated and discussed in Morris, The Sepulchre of Christ, pp. 139–46; David Jacoby, ‘Bishop Gunther of Bamberg, Byzantium and Christian pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the eleventh century’, in Zwischen Polis, Provinz und Peripherie. Beiträge zur byzantinischen Geschichte und Kultur, ed. by Lars Michael Hoffmann and Anuscha Monchizadeh (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), pp. 267–86 (pp. 271–75). 27  Lietbert of Cambrai (1051–76), written 1092–93, translated and discussed in Morris, Sepulchre of Christ, p. 144. On shifting forms of imitatio Christi prior to and during the twelfth century, see Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City, pp.  63–90 and William Purkis, Crusading Spirituality in the Holy Land and Iberia c. 1095–c. 1187 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2008). 28  On eleventh-century collections of Holy Land relics in episcopal contexts, see Julia  M.  H. Smith ‘Eleventh-century relic collections and the Holy Land’, in Natural Materials of the Holy Land and the Visual Translation of Place, 500–1500, ed. by Renana Bartal, Neta Bodner, and Bianca Kühnel (London: Routledge, 2017), pp.  19–35. On architectural replicas, Morris, The Sepulchre of Christ and Bianca Kühnel, ‘Productive Destruction: the Holy Sepulchre after 1009’, in Konflikt und Bewältigung: Die Zerstörung der Grabeskirche zu Jerusalem im Jahre 1009, ed. Thomas Pratsch (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), pp. 35–55. 29  Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City, pp. 109–24. 30  Daniel  F. Callahan, Jerusalem and the Cross in the Life and Writings of Ademar of Chabannes (Leiden: Brill, 2016). 31  Jonathan Riley-Smith, The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading: with a New Introduction (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009); Jean Flori, ‘Jérusalem terrestre, céleste et spirituelle: Trois facteurs de sacralisation de la première croisade’, in Jerusalem the Golden: The Origins and Impact of the First Crusade, ed.  by Susan  B. Edgington and Luis García-Guijarro (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), pp. 25–50. 32  Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City, 65. Such vocabulary is presumably tied to preexisting notions of the Roman pilgrimage ad limina apostolorum and its preliminary rites of blessing discussed in M. Cecilia Gaposchkin, ‘From Pilgrimage to Crusade: The Liturgy of Departure, 1095–1300’, Speculum, 88.1 (2013), 44–91 (pp. 48–50).

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Peter of Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano Itinere (c. 1110), in The First Crusade, pp. 246–47. 34  Raymond d’Aguilers in The First Crusade, p. 260. 35  William of Tyre, History of Deeds done Beyond the Sea, Vol. I: 8.21, trans. by Emily Atwater Babcock and A. C. Krey (New York: Columbia University Press, 1943), p. 375. 36  As Christopher MacEvitt has noted, such habitual silences constructed a vision of Frankish identity and ambitions in relation to a more easily polarized religious other, Christopher MacEvitt, The Crusades and the Christian World of the East: Rough Tolerance (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), pp. 102–06. 37  The several dozen eleventh-century Greek, Arabic, and bilingual manuscripts in the libraries of the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate and Mount Sinai suggest that local Christian culture was hardly moribund. Johannes Pahlitzsch, Graeci und Suriani im Palästina der Kreuzfahrerzeit (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 2001), pp. 40–60. 38  Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, 137–56; Amnon Linder, ‘The Liturgy of the Liberation of Jerusalem’, MedSt, 52 (1990), 110–31. 39  British Library Additional MSS 8927. It includes a mass by that title inserted after an account of the First Crusade and two early Latin Kingdom histories. For a critical edition, see Linder, ‘The Liturgy of the Liberation of Jerusalem’, pp. 113–21. For dating, see Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, pp. 139–40. 40  Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, pp. 148–56. 41  Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, pp. 144–46. 42  Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, p. 142. 43  Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, p. 131. 44  Linder, ‘The Liturgy of the Liberation of Jerusalem’, p. 115. The Barberini Ordinal’s office for the same feast, with the combined reconsecration celebration, removes this reading from the listed lectionaries. Sebastián Ernesto Salvadó, ‘The Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templar Rite: Edition and Analysis of the Jerusalem Ordinal (Rome, Bib. Vat. Barb. Lat. 659) with a Comparative Study of the Acre Breviary (Paris, Bib. Nat., Ms. Latin 10478)’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Stanford University, 2011), p. 199. Many thanks to Netta Amir for drawing this dissertation to my attention. 45  Fulcher of Chartres, Fulcheri Carnotensis Historia Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), ed. by Heinrich Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg: Carl Winters Universitätsbuchhandlung, 1913), p. 286. 46  ‘The Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres, Book I (1095–1100)’, in The First Crusade, p. 88. 47  Gaposchkin, Invisible Weapons, p. 147. 48  This represented a significant and conscious shift in Latin discourse on the monument from the site of the Sepulchre and burial to the site of the Resurrection and rebirth, as discussed by Schein, Gateway to the Heavenly City, pp. 70–71. 49  On Jerusalem’s sacred stones in the medieval period, see Yamit Rachman-Schrire, ‘The Stones of the Christian Holy Places of Jerusalem and Western Imagination: Image, Place, Text (1099– 1517)’, (unpublished doctoral thesis, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2015). 50  Sabino de Sandoli, Corpus inscriptionum Crucesignatorum Terrae Sanctae (1099–1291) ( Jerusalem: Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, 1974), pp. 5–67. 33 

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Salvadó, ‘The Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templar Rite’, pp. 218–54. 52  Ousterhout, ‘Rebuilding the Temple’, p. 78. 53  Daniel Galadza, ‘Greek Liturgy in Crusader Jerusalem: Witnesses of Liturgical Life at the Holy Sepulchre and St  Sabas Lavra’, JMedHist, 43.4 (2017), 421–37 (pp. 426–31). 54  Described by the c. 1106 Abbot Daniel, in Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185, ed. by John Wilkinson, Joyce Hill, W. F. Ryan (London: Hakluyt Society, 1988), p. 127. 55  Anna D. Kartsonis, Anastasis: The Making of an Image (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986). 56  Folda, Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, p. 230. 57  Folda, The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, pp. 202–04; Denys Pringle, ‘The Crusader Church of the Holy Sepulchre’, in Tomb and Temple: Re-Imagining the Sacred Buildings of Jerusalem, ed. by Robin Griffith-Jones and Eric Fernie (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2018), pp. 76–94. 58  Bulst-Thiele, ‘Die Mosaiken der “Auferstehungskirche”’, pp.  450–52. Folda, The Art of the Crusaders in the Holy Land, pp. 230–31 notes that the Greek labeled Anastasis appeared on patriarchal seals, and John of Würzburg describes and translates the Greek term, suggesting the adoption of both terminology and iconography were part of larger Latin efforts to shift the Sepulchre’s significance towards the salvific. John of Würzburg, Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185, pp. 262–63. 59  Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p.  18; Jaroslav Folda ‘The Crusader Church of the Holy Sepulchre: Design, Depiction and the Pilgrim Church of Compostela’, in Tomb and Temple, pp. 95–108. 60  Amnon Linder, ‘“Like Purest Gold Resplendent”: The Fiftieth Anniversary of the Liberation of Jerusalem’, Crusades, 8 (2009), 31–51. 61  John of Würzburg, when discussing the inscription and its implications, deemed it ‘superfluous’ (superhabundanti) – Jerusalem Pilgrimage, p.  263; Peregrinationes tres: Saewulf, John of Würzburg, Theodericus, ed.  by R.  B.  C. Huygens (Turnhout: Brepols, 1994), p. 123. The belief that the church was originally consecrated by Christ’s blood also appears in William of Tyre, History of Deeds done Beyond the Sea, 240, indicating it was a relatively common one in the twelfth-century Latin Kingdom. 62  The first five lines were recorded by John of Würzburg and Theoderic with a minor variation. Trans. by Biddle, pp. 93–94. 63  Peregrinationes tres, pp. 123, 156, addimus: Theoderic, additur: John. 64  ‘Secundum gratiam Dei, quæ data est mihi, ut sapiens architectus fundamentum posui: alius autem superædificat. Unusquisque autem videat quomodo superædificet. Fundamentum enim aliud nemo potest ponere præter id quod positum est, quod est Christus Jesus. Si quis autem superædificat super fundamentum hoc, aurum, argentum, lapides pretiosos, ligna, fœnum, stipulam, uniuscujusque opus manifestum erit: dies enim Domini declarabit’. Latin Vulgate accessed via www.biblegateway.com. The relationship to 1 Corinthians is also noted by Linder, ‘Like Purest Gold’, p. 36. 65  Mary Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 17. 51 

The comparison is also noted in Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 20. 67  Marvin Trachtenberg, ‘Suger’s Miracles, Branner’s Bourges: Reflections on “Gothic Architecture” as Medieval Modernism’, Gesta, 39.2 (2000), 183–205 (p. 195), and Abbot Suger ‘Scriptum consecrationis ecclesiae Sancti Dionysii’, in Oeuvres, Vol.  2, ed. and trans. by Françoise Gasparri (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2008), especially the respect for ‘ipsis sacratis lapidibus tamquam reliquiis’, pp. 26–27. 68  Trachtenberg, ‘Suger’s Miracles’, 195; Stephen Murray, Plotting Gothic (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014), pp. 86–90. 69  Clark Maines, ‘Good Works, Social Ties, and Hope for Salvation: Abbot Suger and Saint-Denis’, In Abbot Suger and SaintDenis, ed. by Paula Gerson (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1986), pp. 85–86. 70  Robert Ousterhout, ‘The French Connection?: Construction of Vaults and Cultural Identity in Crusader Architecture’, In France and the Holy Land, ed.  by Daniel Weiss and Lisa Mahoney (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), pp.  77–94. Given the epistolary exchange between the French King Louis VII and Abbot Suger over the course of the Second Crusade (1147–49), it is not unreasonable that those making design decisions in Jerusalem were familiar with contemporary French currents. 71  On twelfth-century ‘Crusader’ maps, see Milka Levy-Rubin, ‘The Crusader Maps of Jerusalem’’, in Knights of the Holy Land: The Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem, ed.  by Silvia Rosenberg ( Jerusalem: Israel Museum, 1999), p. 237; Bianca Kühnel, From the Earthly to the Heavenly Jerusalem (Rome: Herder, 1987), pp. 123–41; Milka Levy-Rubin, ‘From Eusebius to the Crusader Maps: The Origin of the Holy Land Maps’ in Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, pp. 253–64. 72  Nurith Kenaan-Kedar, ‘Symbolic Meaning in Crusader Architecture’, CahArch, 34 (1986), 109–17, (p. 110). 73  Krautheimer, ‘Introduction to an “Iconography of Medieval Architecture”’, pp. 12–13. 74  Kenaan-Kedar, p. 110. 75  Peregrinationes tres, p. 122. 76  Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185, pp. 262–63. 77  Peregrinationes tres, pp. 150–51. 78  Jerusalem Pilgrimage 1099–1185, p. 281. 79  Cristina Dondi, The Liturgy of the Canons Regular of the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004). 80  Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, MSS Barberini Latin 659. Sebastián Ernesto Salvadó ‘Rewriting the Latin Liturgy of the 66 

Holy Sepulchre’, JMedHist, 43.4 (2017), 403–23 (pp. 404–05); Iris Shagrir, ‘The Visitatio Sepulchri in the Latin Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem’, al-Masaq, 22.1 (2010), 57–77. See also the special issue of the JMedHist, 43.4 (2017) edited by Iris Shagrir and Cecilia Gaposchkin on ‘Liturgy and Devotion in the Crusader States’. 81  Shagrir, ‘The Visitatio Sepulchri’, pp. 66–67. 82  Salvadó, ‘Rewriting the Latin liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre’, pp. 406–10. 83  Salvadó, ‘The Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templar Rite’, pp. 218–54. 84  Stephan Borgehammar, ‘A Monastic Conception of the Liturgical Year’, in The Liturgy of the Medieval Church, ed. by Thomas J. Heffernan and E.  Ann Matter (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 2001), p. 24. 85  Salvadó, ‘The Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templar Rite’, p. 36. 86  Salvadó, ‘The Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templar Rite’, p. 225. 87  Salvadó, ‘The Liturgy of the Holy Sepulchre and the Templar Rite’, p. 224. A twelfth-century response to Sedit angelus directly cites the inscription under Christ’s feet in the main apse, ‘Crucifixum in carne laudate et sepultum propter vos glorificate’, constructing a further dialogue between aedicule and apse. Theoderic in Peregrinationes tres p. 151. Response text and text of inscription from c. 1160 Premonstratensian gradual in Bellelay Abbey, now Porrentruy, Bibliothèque cantonal, CH-P 18 [http://cantus.uwaterloo.ca/source/638308] 88  Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 13. 89  Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic’, p. 13. 90  This view has been substantially altered by later screens and adaptations to the monument, including the removal of all Latin tombs. 91  Peregrinationes tres, pp. 141, 148 [var: atque]. 92  I would like to thank Martin Schwarz for his assistance with this translation. He also noted that ‘surgenti’ conveys the ongoing action of the Resurrection in the quote. 93  The Vulgate edition of Matthew 28:4 refers to the soliders as ‘custodes’. 94  ‘acerrimos…custodes’ Peregrinationes tres, p. 148. 95  As Hahn, ‘The True Cross’ noted, the dress and wakefulness of the soldiers on the Saint-Sernin reliquary suggest the imagery of the Women at the Tomb was adapted to reinforce the role played by Latin custodians in the church in material associated with twelfth-century Jerusalem.

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Earliest Domed-Hall Churches in Cyprus Charles Anthony Stewart Every Byzantine church is unique. Unlike other artworks, such as icons and manuscripts, churches were designed for, and anchored to, particular locations so that the environment was integral to their composition. That is why it is remarkable when two or more churches share several structural and design characteristics regardless of their topography; in such cases, they are classified by archaeologists as belonging to an overarching type. The method of labelling, organizing and analysing reoccurring architectural forms is called typology. Labelling transforms tangible buildings into abstract concepts, which then can be examined hypothetically; as such, a type’s label encompasses a complex list of elements and, thereby, permits historians to write concisely without needing to repeat an entire list each time they reference a set of characteristics. Typology also assists in tracing innovation by identifying the first use of construction techniques and structural forms (i.e. prototypes) and, in turn, this allows historians to examine how ideas spread geographically, contributing to the overall interpretation of wider social behaviour such as political affiliation, trade networks and cultural exchange. Moreover, authors throughout history, such as Vitruvius and Eusebius, described typologies forming the basis of architectural history.1 One significant type that emerged in the Byzantine Empire has been identified as the ‘domed-hall’ church on the island of Cyprus.2 Across Cyprus there were several church types constructed from the fourth to the thirteenth centuries. Two types prevailed. In Late Antiquity (293–965), at least eighty-six wood-roof basilicas are known from archaeological remains; whereas in the

Middle Byzantine period (965–1191), domed-hall churches were the most common, of which sixtytwo still stand in various states of repair. Domed-hall churches are recognized by their ground plan and elevation: they are rectangular in plan, with a single aisle subdivided into three bays, and a dome covers their central bay.3 Around this basic shape various elements could be added – such as porches, ancillary chapels (parecclesia), narthexes, and niches, etc. In terms of distribution, domed halls are found in every part of the island (Fig.  1): on mountain tops (Panagia Krinia), in river valleys (Hagia Napa, Kantou), as seaside chapels (Hagios Eulalios), and within cities (Hagios Georgios, Nicosia). Some were well-built with imported bricks and associated with imperial funding (Hagia Triada, Koutsovendis) while others were rather crudely constructed with rubble masonry (Hagios Georgios, Choulou). A few stand in the centre of towns (Hagios Iakovos, Trikomo) serving villagers and many others served as monastic katholika (Hagios Euphemianos, Lysi).4 A few domed halls survive without their original decoration, while others house some of the most pristine and celebrated frescoes in the world (Panagia tou Arakou, Lagoudera).5 These churches were modest in scale when compared to imperial Byzantine architecture in Constantinople; nevertheless, their ubiquitous design, longevity and abundance suggest their importance in architectural history. Naturally, the question arises: How and why did the small domed hall come to replace the construction of colossal wood-roof basilicas? The available archaeological evidence indicates that there was a relationship between the early basilicas and domed

Fig. 1.  Sites mentioned in this text: a. Map of Cyprus; b. Detail of the Karpas Peninsula (Source: author).

halls, even though they are quite dissimilar in plan. My thesis is that the domed-hall church developed on Cyprus as a reduced form of the vaulted basilica. Barrel-Vaulted and Multiple-Domed Basilicas Scholars have proposed various diachronic models regarding how Byzantine buildings developed. Unlike biological evolution, in which antecedent species become extinct, monuments often survive over the course of centuries and exert continuous influence on subsequent architects and builders. For example, regarding the domed-hall church in Armenia, our ‘big picture’ surveys provide this progression: the three-aisled, wood-roof basilica (for example St Sargis, Tekor, fifth c.) led to the vaulted domed basilica (Odjun, sixth c.), from which developed the cross-in-square (or quincunx) (St Gayiane,

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Edjmiatzin, early-seventh c.), and finally to the aisleless, domed hall (Ptghni, late-seventh c).6 In contrast, as Robert Ousterhout has observed, ‘in the long process of experimentation…the process of transformation was neither neat nor linear’ and, based on my analysis, this observation applies to Cyprus, where the domed hall appears to have a different history than Armenia because intermediate types either were not built or have not been found.7 In Cyprus, domed halls appeared after the barrel-vaulted and multipledomed basilicas already had been developed, and domed halls appear prior to the emergence of the cross-in-square type.8 Barrel-vaulted basilicas developed in the northeastern area of Cyprus. Surviving examples have three aisles but no narthexes, and are covered with barrelvaults supported by transverse ribs. Five examples are concentrated in the Karpas Peninsula, within and around the now deserted city of Aphendrika; two

Fig. 2.  Comparison of plans. Panagia (Sykhada): a. elevation, b. ground plan (stairs not shown); Hagia Paraskevi (Geroskipou); c. elevation, d. ground plan (Source: author).

others stood at the opposite side of island.9 All were built over earlier wood-roof basilicas, and the majority preserved the basilical dimensions. The Karpas churches maintained their earlier basilica layout and include features such as the synthronon that were later omitted in Middle Byzantine architecture (i.e., dating between 965 and 1191); therefore, the current consensus is that the barrel-vaulted basilicas belong to the eighth century, if not earlier.10 Two of these examples, the Asomatos Church (Aphendrika) and the Panagia (Sykhada) had nine bays resembling the quincunx pattern (Fig. 2b). As a group, these barrelvaulted basilicas are closely related to the multipledomed basilicas that appeared on Cyprus at the same time.11 There are five multiple-domed basilicas in Cyprus. They share these characteristics: the nave is subdivided by three bays, over which are three domes, and over their side aisles were barrel vaults, and they originally had no narthex.12 The first example was constructed within the Cathedral of Hagios

Epiphanios (Salamis-Constantia) where an annex, linking the southern aisle to the baptistery, was transformed into a multiple-domed basilica after the cathedral was destroyed in the mid-seventh century, and so its architects designed a unique vaulted structure to fit an exceptional space. Two other examples of this type, the Hagia Paraskevi (Geroskipou) and the Hagioi Barnabas and Hilarion (Peristerona), had nine bays resembling the quincunx pattern (Fig.  2d). Because Cypriot archbishops became powerful politicians (πρόεδροι, presidents) in the wake of the Arab invasion of 649, this unique cathedral became a symbol of their authority for the next three hundred years, when the island was a neutral territory between the Byzantine Empire and the Arab Caliphate.13 Both types – the barrelvaulted and multiple-domed basilicas – demonstrate the transition from wood roofing to stone vaulting, and this was an important technological shift in Cypriot history, contributing to the advent of the domed hall.

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Historiography Since the late-nineteenth century, scholars have recognized the importance of the domed hall in the history of monumental architecture. For example, George Jeffery (1855–1935) sketched some of the first plans of the island’s Byzantine churches, including the domed hall, some of which no longer survive.14 Others scholars would soon follow, with their own unique contributions: Georgios M. Soteriou (1880– 1965) was the first to use photography in his analysis of Cypriot buildings, A.H.S.  Megaw (1910–2006) wrote the first surveys of Byzantine architectural history, and Athanasios Papageorghiou was a pioneer in Byzantine archaeology, who excavated the first domed halls.15 More recently, domed halls have attracted the attention of other notable scholars: Cyril Mango, David and June Winfield, Tassos Papacostas, and Eleni Procopiou.16 Procopiou surveyed and recorded the remains of thirty-six domed-hall churches. She observed that this collection could be further classified into two subtypes which had developed by the twelfth century.17 She labelled the first subtype as ‘Variant A’, which is characterized by arcades along the walls forming deep niches; I prefer to call this the ‘standard domed-hall church’. The second subtype, ‘Variant B’, was more simplified, consisting of a rectangular hall without arcading. She was able to organize these churches based on their morphology within a relative dating scheme and, thereby, place them in their historical context. From her research also emerged the understanding that the domed hall – as a typological concept – was a guiding factor in designing churches across the island. Obviously, there was human agency behind such guidance. Procopiou, thus, proposed that Byzantine imperial administration, headed by the regional governor with his headquarters on the island, had the authority and necessary resources to mandate and fund the widespread construction of these churches. This is reasonable since 90 per cent of domed halls were built during the Middle Byzantine Period.18 Other provinces also have examples, namely Crete and the Aegean islands (especially Naxos); and so Procopiou theorized that the type represented Cyprus’s wider connections to Byzantine officials and religious institutions outside the island, strengthening Cypriot Greek-cultural identity, especially in the twelfth century, when Latin Crusaders

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had brought new architectural styles to the eastern Mediterranean.19 With that said, the earliest domedhall churches – Hagios Photios (Seleniás) and Hagios Georgios (Aphendrika) – were constructed before the Byzantine reconquest and, therefore, their appearance on the island cannot be attributed to imperial influence. Hagios Photios (Seleniás) Hagios Photios stands in the northern foothills of the Theriá Mountains along the Karpas Peninsula (Fig. 3). Herbert Kitchener first recorded it in his Survey of Cyprus (1882) as ‘Hagios Photios tis Seleniás’ and associated it with the now abandoned village of Seleniás located about one km to the northeast. He also noted a cave immediately north of the church, which is no longer accessible today but possibly served as an ancient burial place, like many other caves in this area. Also, one km to the northwest of the church, Kitchener inscribed the word ‘ruins’, referring to a site that was once the medieval feudal estate of Anacnida.20 Hagios Photios would have been within the domain of the bishopric of Karpasia, located about five miles (9 km) to the northeast along the coast. It is not known when the church was abandoned. Camille Enlart (1862–1927) visited the site in 1896 and briefly noted its dilapidated condition in his book on Gothic architecture.21 In 1910 Jeffery visited the site and associated Hagios Photios with the barrel-vaulted basilicas at Aphendrika, which he and Enlart incorrectly considered to be twelfth-century ‘Romanesque’ buildings; in contrast, in 1930 Soteriou identified these structures as seventh or eighth-century Byzantine monuments and published the first photograph of Hagios Photios.22 In 1960 the church was remodelled by local villagers and it was used as a church once again; but then, after the 1974 Turkish invasion, it was desecrated and partly demolished. As it appears today, the church is a small rectangular structure surrounded by ruins and wild shrubland.23 It has a single aisle, divided into three bays covered by barrel-vaults flanking a central dome; at the eastern end is an apse with a single-stepped synthronon. Local limestone with lime mortar was used in its construction, and its interior was once completely covered in figurative frescoes; today these are fragmentary and covered by grime and graffiti.

Fig. 3.  Hagios Photios, Seleniás, sketch plan. Black - original basilica remains. Grey - later domed hall phase. White – hypothetical (Source: author).

Hagios Photios evidently had several phases of renovation, based on its surviving stonework and the surrounding ruins. For example, ashlars in the foundations are larger and more precisely cut than the stonework in the vaulting and upper courses, clearly demonstrating different construction techniques. Adjacent to the north wall are the remains of foundations for an aisle and apse. The narthex’s foundations were not bonded to the nave’s walls, indicating that this area belonged to an earlier phase; at the southern end, a stairwell leads up to a tower-like structure, providing access to a parapet or platform where, possibly, a semantron would have been used to call worshipers. A  similar tower once existed nearby at the barrel-vaulted basilica of the Panagia (Sykhada), and, given the historical framework, it is possible that

both churches also served as areas for Muslim prayer and, if so, these structures may have functioned as a type of ‘minaret’ during Arab occupation between 650 and 965.24 Hagios Photios’ dome construction is also worthy of mention. Papageorghiou wrote that pendentives supported the dome, although they were carved to resemble squinches (Fig.  4); I  disagree, because Soteriou’s photograph of the exterior shows that arches cut across the central bay’s corners, so that eight arches originally surround the substructure of the dome – and so, this demonstrates that squinches were, in fact, employed.25 It is the only church in Cyprus with this type of dome design and I consider its singularity as an early experiment in a vaulting technique that was not adopted by later builders.26

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Fig. 4.  Hagios Photios, Seleniás, north-west squinch, photograph taken in 2017 (Source: author).

Sufficient evidence survives to designate the original form of Hagios Photios as a three-aisled basilica. For instance, the narthex extends southwards beyond the current structure rather awkwardly; this suggests that there was another aisle south of the current nave. Moreover, a few column drums lay around the church, and these, presumably, were used to support a wood roof of an earlier basilica. Papageorghiou also mentioned that the marble templon had survived decorated with vines in low relief along with remains of a synthronon’.27 Unfortunately I have not been able to find these reliefs in any museum in Cyprus or above ground on site; nevertheless, because Cyprus has no marble quarries, the presence of marble furnishings

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are treated as expensive imports by archaeologists. The original basilica here would have been one of the smallest examples on the island, equal in scale to the remarkable basilica at the Panagia tes Kyra (Livadhia), about twenty miles to the southwest, which housed a costly program of wall mosaics, constructed with small-size gold and marble tesserae.28 While the northeast region of Cyprus seems desolate today, these churches and their artworks testify to the prosperity of the early Byzantine period. Hagios Photios’ rare tower and unique squinches attests to its experimental nature. By combining both historical and architectural analysis, an outline emerges regarding how this church developed. First, it was a wood-roof basilica (phase 1) constructed sometime between the fourth and seventh century; then it was rebuilt as a three-aisle barrel-vaulted structure with a central dome (i.e. a ‘domed basilica’) (phase 2); during a renovation phase, the south aisle was not restored, forming the two-nave structure (phase 3); and finally, the north aisle collapsed, leaving only the nave standing, and this resulted in the current domed-hall appearance (phase 4). The second and third phases of construction resemble the nearby barrel-vaulted churches, which are dated to the late seventh or the early eighth century, and so, I  suggest a similar date for Hagios Photios’ transition from wood roofing to stone vaulting. Procopiou came to the same conclusion, basing her argument on the similarities between Hagios Photios and the domed-hall churches of Naxos that have their original aniconic frescos intact, dating from the eighth to ninth centuries.29 Hopefully, in the future, the political situation in Cyprus will be resolved so that Hagios Photios can be protected according to its monumental importance and receive the scholarly attention it deserves. Only with archaeological excavation can we clarify the construction methods and narrow the dating of each phase. Even so, by examining its architectural remains above ground, it is possible to trace its typological development and, as a result, provide this plausible sketch of how the domed hall may have developed from the foundations of a previous basilica. Hagios Georgios (Aphendrika) Nine miles (15  km) northeast of Hagios Photios stands the church of Hagios Georgios. Both churches

Fig. 5.  Aphendrika, general view looking north from acropolis towards the harbor: Hagios Georgios is at the far left, Panagia Chrysiotissa is at the center, and the Asomatos Church is at foreground to the right (Source: author).

were linked together by a common coastline and an ancient highway, and the cathedral of Hagios Philon, Karpasia, stands precisely at the midpoint between these two churches. Hagios Georgios is at the edge of the now-abandoned port city of Aphendrika, where five other churches were concentrated at the foot of the ancient acropolis (Fig.  5). This ecclesiastical complex was a major cult centre in Late Antiquity, however, there are no surviving historical records about the site. As described above, two of these basilicas were barrel-vaulted structures incorporating the remains of earlier churches. The largest of these was the Panagia Chrysiotissa built over an earlier cavetomb that served as a crypt, and Hagios Georgios is oriented toward the Panagia’s entrance less than ninety feet (27 m) away, displaying a functional relationship between the two structures.30 Hagios Georgios’s two-apse design garnered the attention of several architectural historians (Fig. 6). In 1896 Enlart identified the church as a Byzantine construction and associated it with Hagios Photios, and in 1930 Soteriou published its ground plan.31 Then in 1964 Papageorghiou conducted a limited excavation at the church and discovered foundations of a narthex with two exedras belonging to a later phase.32 Panagiotes Vocotopoulos briefly discussed Hagios Georgios in his publication regarding Hagios Markos (Kerkyra, Corfu) in 1967, and suggested that this twin-apse design originated in Asia Minor and spread westward to Italy.33 In 1974 Megaw concluded that Hagios Georgios was the earliest domed

church in Cyprus.34 Two years later, George Dimitrokallis included the church in his large survey of 115 twin-apse churches in western Asia and Europe; he concluded that this type’s distribution into diverse regions challenges the notion that one theory of origins is possible, unless further historical or archaeological evidence is discovered.35 As it now stands, Hagios Georgios is a three-bay, single-aisle domed church with two apses and it has partially collapsed. It is often referred to as a ‘chapel’ because of its small size.36 In terms of construction, Hagios Georgios was built using the same techniques as the nearby barrel-vaulted basilicas, such as: builders used putlog holes (for centering the vaulting) and carved ashlars of irregular size to encase a rubble core, while more uniform ashlars were employed for the vaulting and voussoirs. Hagios Georgios’ interior was covered in plaster – whether this included decorative fresco cannot be determined due to its fragmentary condition. Its dome is supported by pendentives. While Hagios Georgios’ design was sound, there were some errors in its construction. Due to the central bay’s trapezoidal layout, the resulting dome was squarishly ovoid rather than round; moreover, the eastern transverse arch is taller than the side arches, producing an uneven base for the drum.37 Procopiou also detected that the foundations of the easternmost bay were skewed southwards by eleven degrees when compared to the trajectory of other bays.38 These errors are more noticeable today because the church is in a ruined state; when it was covered in plaster, these

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Fig. 6.  Hagios Georgios, Aphendrika, elevation and ground plans: a. section a-b; b. section x-y (Source: author).

flaws would have been less perceptible and, apparently, did not compromise the structural integrity. I associate the dome’s awkward construction as an indication of its experimental nature, like Hagios Photios. Blind niches are salient features within Hagios Georgios. Its western and eastern bays are very narrow in depth (about 3 ft/1m wide) and each of their walls have two blind niches flanking the nave, near the four corners, and these were unnecessary for

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supporting the vaulting while also being too shallow to serve any liturgical function. Similar blind niches are found in the side aisles of the basilicas nearby; however, these were essential in retrofitting earlier walls to support the later barrel-vaulting. At the multiple-domed churches of Hagios Barnabas (Salamis-Constantia) and Hagios Lazaros (Larnaca) blind arches were employed in the aisle walls but, like Hagios Georgios, these were structurally unnecessary

Fig. 7.  Hagios Georgios, Cholou, elevation and ground plans: a. section a-b; b. section x-y (Photo: author).

and impractically shallow. I propose, therefore, that these blind niches link Hagios Georgios to the barrel-vaulted and multiple-domed basilicas. In contrast, in standard domed-hall churches, these corner areas have arches spanning between central piers and the west and east walls, and these formed alcoves which strengthen the base of the vaulting above (see Figs 7 and 8); and, because of their depth, these could be used during the liturgy, especially in the eastern

bay, where they often include embedded shelves in the walls or offering tables. Middle Byzantine churches on Cyprus do not have these conspicuous blind niches. It seems that the earlier barrel-vaulted and multiple-domed basilicas were the sources that inspired Hagios Georgios’ design, because by comparing the profile of these churches (Figs  2a and 2b) with that of Hagios Georgios (Fig. 6b), one notices a similar three-bay layout; obviously, the main

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Fig. 8.  Ground plan comparison: a. Agioi Konstantinos and Helena, Souskiou; b. unnamed church at the site of ‘Naxos’ near Rizokarpaso (Source: Redrawn by C.A. Stewart after Soteriou, Τα Βυζαντινά Μνήματα, pl. 38; Papageorghiou, ‘Παλαιοχριστιανική και βυζαντινή ἀρχαιολογία’, 95).

difference is that these basilicas have arches in each bay that led to side aisles and, in contrast, Hagios Georgios’ blind arches led nowhere. Its design, I  suggest, was an abbreviated form of the three-aisled, threeapse basilica and its blind niches were vestiges of sideaisle entry points. In other words, if we take a plan of a three-bay domed basilica, such as Hagia Paraskevi (Fig.  2d), and remove the side aisles and reduce the length of the eastern and western bays, we end up with a domed hall. Hagios Georgios’ small space meant that the entire interior would have served as the bema (i.e. sanctuary where the liturgy was performed) and its altar necessarily would have been located under its dome, which then would have functioned as a type of ciboria or baldachin. Hagios Georgios’ date is uncertain since there are no inscriptions and historical documentation. The few scholars who have studied it, nevertheless, have concluded that it was constructed sometime between the eighth and tenth centuries based on the style of its design and construction, without explaining how they came to their conclusions.39 I agree with this timeframe and provide the following reasons why: In Cyprus there are over twenty-five Late Antique and Byzantine monuments that are securely dated based on associated coin, inscriptions, or other documentary evidence; moreover, there are other churches that are dateable based on either their associated artefacts obtained through archaeological excavation and, if present, their surviving frescos.40 These dated

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monuments can be fixed on a timeline, and around these certain points we can position undated churches based on their comparable characteristics, such as: construction techniques, materials, proportions, scale, furnishings, design, decoration, etc. One similarity is not enough, but when we have four or more similarities, we can place those monuments along the timeline next to the dated monuments, keeping in mind that development is both synchronic as well as diachronic.41 This method provides a plausible outline of architectural development, as long we keep in mind that this framework is based on relative characteristics that can potentially change with the recovery of new historical and archaeological data. So, in the case of Hagios Georgios, this church appears to be a transitional monument, having characteristics that are similar to earlier vaulted basilicas, dated between the seventh and ninth centuries, as well as traits similar to the standard domed-hall churches, built in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Its blind niches were residual design features inherent in earlier basilicas, thus preserving the palatial iconography that was important to Late Antique aesthetics, while the omission of aisles foreshadowed the advent of the Middle Byzantine period on Cyprus, when the majority of churches would be constructed as small, aisle-less, single-domed structures.42 Unlike Hagios Photios, which developed in stages from an earlier basilica, Hagios Georgios was built on virgin soil and conceived at the outset as a domed hall.

After weighing all the available evidence and comparing it with all other examples, Hagios Georgios seems to be the earliest surviving example. This notion is strengthened by the fact that there is another building that appears to be a direct ‘copy’. Located on the other side of the island, about 120 miles (193 km) to the southwest of Aphendrika in the village of Choulou, stands a small domed hall, also called Hagios Georgios, and it likewise has twin apses (Fig. 7). It was likewise built partly from the living rock, but has been recently dated to the eleventh century according to its fresco painting that partially survives.43 The main difference between the Choulou example and the church at Aphendrika is its deep niches that conforms to the standard domedhall type. Thus, the Choulou church can be considered as another transitional structure, having the earlier form of the prototype (twin-apses) while displaying adherence to the mature standard model (deep niches). Over time standard domed-hall churches would develop apart from Hagios Georgios by incorporating only one apse and deeper corner niches. There are many examples on Cyprus that can represent this entire group and so, for the sake of brevity, I will only describe two others. In the village of Souskiou, nine miles (14.5 km) southeast of Choulou, near the south coast stands the church of Hagioi Konstantinos and Helena (Fig. 8a). Soteriou recorded that its original form was a domed hall and dated it to the twelfth century based on its surviving frescos.44 This structure has internal dimensions and an arrangement like Hagios Georgios (Aphendrika) but its proportions are scaled down by 10 per cent. Nothing is known about Hagioi Konstantinos and Helena’s history except for the fact that there are substantial medieval structures around the church, hinting at its monastic character; and as Tassos Papacostas pointed out, the church’s decoration may have been commissioned by the monks from St  Theodosius of Judea (Al-Ubeidiya) who owned property in the region during the twelfth century.45 A much later domed-hall church, but almost identical to the Souskiou’s layout was discovered just four miles (7  km) southwest of Hagios Georgios (Aphendrika), at a site called ‘Naxos’ (Fig. 8b).46 Papageorghiou, who directed its excavation, dated the structure to the fourteenth century based on the few ceramic shards uncovered within, and so it would have been one of the last domed-hall churches constructed at a time when the Gothic style of construction was at the height of fashion.

Significance of Early Domed Halls After the wood-roof basilicas in Cyprus were destroyed by the end of the seventh century, several types of churches replaced them. For instance, barrel-vaulted and multiple-domed basilicas were two types that preserved the foundations of earlier basilicas; and, eventually, the domed hall appears to be another type that was designed to solve the same problem. By removing the aisles from the vaulted basilica plan, a hall was formed; and by adding a dome in the central bay, a new aesthetic emerged. An outline for typological development on Cyprus, therefore, can be outlined as follows: (1) columnar wood-roof basilica (fourth to seventh c.); (2) squarepier wood-roof basilica (seventh c.); (3) barrelvaulted basilica (late seventh to early eighth c.); (4) multiple-domed basilica (late seventh to mid-tenth c.); (5) three-aisled, domed basilica (late-seventh to mid-tenth c.); and (6) single-aisle domed and barrel-vaulted halls (ninth to fifteenth c.). The earliest sequence (from 1 to 4) was clearly charted by excavations at the Cathedral of Hagios Epiphanios (Salamis-Constantia), while the entire sequence was uncovered at the Cathedral of Hagios Spyridonos (Tremetousia).47 The fact that these cathedrals – the most prestigious architecture on the island – underwent these typological transformations along with smaller churches in the countryside, demonstrates that there was a concerted strategy to maintain the memory of, and physically preserve, their original bemas over the centuries. Hagios Georgios (Aphendrika) can be visualized as a basilica reduced to a bema. The bema was the quintessential element because it housed the altar and, sometimes, holy relics. Thus, altars were physical symbols of spiritual beliefs and linked a specific geography with timeless presence of ritual practices. Archaeology has also demonstrated that the preservation of bemas were the deciding factor in the rebuilding of the churches at Kalavasos-Kopetra and Polis in Cyprus.48 Regarding Kalavasos, systematic excavations show how its basilica was built in the sixth century and had been damaged by the mid-seventh century; immediately afterwards a small chapel was subsequently built to enshrine its earlier bema.49 Other recent excavations demonstrate similar developments, but in these cases a basilica was transformed into a domed hall: for example, at the Panagia tou Kampou

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(Choirokitia, near Kophinou), Panagia (Kophinou), and Hagia Napa (Kantou).50 Archaeology, thus, has provided analogous data that supports the interpretation regarding the development of Hagios Photios described above. In these cases, basilicas were transformed into domed halls across the island as one strategy, among several, to preserve ancient bemas. Final Remarks This chapter briefly outlines how the domed hall developed in Cyprus, starting with Hagios Photios and Hagios Georgios. Builders employed this architectural type at a time in history when early woodroof basilicas were being redesigned with vaults. Preserving ancient bemas was their chief goal and domed halls could serve this goal by covering the central nave of previous basilicas with fire-proof vaulting. The domed hall was scalable and, thus, versatile; in other words, the plan could be scaled-down for use in small monasteries or scaled-up for large congregations. The form was structurally sound, able to withstand fires and earthquakes that are frequent on the island. In some instances, when snow accumulation created problems in mountainous environments, Cypriots constructed unique wood gables above the domes and vaulting.51 A variety of materials could be used for domed halls: brick, well-cut ashlars, and/or rubble masonry. Its design was also simple and replicable, so that it was taught by local masons to their apprentices, without the need of an advanced engineering education. It was so successful that the domed hall was employed where no earlier basilicas had existed before, such as Hagios Georgios (Aphendrika), which seems to be the first example – perhaps even serving as a ‘demonstration model’. I am convinced by Procopiou’s thesis that the domed hall became the prevalent type only after the instalment of a new imperial administration in the year 965 and its members preferred this architectural type over others on the island, such as the multipledomed basilicas, perhaps, because the latter were too idiosyncratic.52 Prior to 965, Cyprus had been a neutral territory that paid taxes to the Arab Caliphate and the Byzantine Empire; and so, the Byzantine reconquest included a program to reintegrate Cyprus into the imperial fold, including restructuring the island’s cultural institutions, such as its autochthonous Church

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and monasteries. Since Cypriots revolted three times against the Empire during this period (in the years 1042, 1092, and 1185), it is understandable why the imperial government would impose conformity on the local Church that had previously enjoyed some political autonomy.53 While Cyprus had the greatest concentration of domed-hall churches compared to other regions in the Byzantine Empire, they are not unique to the island, and are found in Greece (especially in Naxos), Anatolia, the Balkans, and, most notably, in Armenia.54 The question still remains: What was the relationship between Cyprus’s domed halls and those of other regions? This requires a nuanced answer. Architecture in Cyprus and its relationship with the buildings of the surrounding mainland is difficult to summarize because the political situation was consistently changing throughout the Byzantine period. That is why the year 965 marks an important turning point for architectural history on Cyprus, when the island’s contacts with the Aegean and Constantinople were stabilized and strengthened. Megaw concluded that the domed hall was imposed on the island from other regions within Byzantium, though he did not explain exactly where or why he thought this.55 Likewise, Papageorghiou theorized that the domed hall was introduced into the island during the eleventh century by the imperial administration, based on the assumption that Constantinople had earlier examples; however, as I mentioned above, the domed hall appears to have developed on Cyprus much earlier, and Constantinopolitan influence is doubtful since there are no comparable monuments there today.56 In contrast, Richard Krautheimer proposed that ‘the origin of the type remains to be clarified’, while fully aware that the earliest examples had been found in Armenia.57 At the moment, the most tenable explanation is that different regions developed the domed hall as one possible solution to address the problems associated with rebuilding wood-roof basilicas. In the case of Naxos, I do think there is a close correlation with Cyprus regarding how art and architecture developed there in the eighth and ninth century based on stylistic analysis, but there is no direct historical or archaeological evidence.58 There is surviving documentation regarding Armenians settling in Cyprus during the sixth century and throughout the Middle Ages, and this was facilitated by the Cilician Sea that connects Cyprus with eastern Anatolia.59 There is at least one

domed hall in Cyprus that has an Armenian connection, of which little is known. In 2011, I examined the aftermath of recent vandalism at the katholikon of Sourp Magar, an Armenian monastery in northern Cyprus, whose fabric was once hidden by a thick coat of stucco; illegal defacement of the church’s interior exposed Byzantine-period brickwork.60 The church’s small dimensions indicate, most likely, that the original church was a domed hall; moreover, this was attached to a much earlier dormitory built of rubble masonry, which may be the oldest surviving monastic cells on Cyprus. It remains an open question what role this monastery played in the development of the domed-hall church on Cyprus – if at all. Only with further research and preservation of such monuments will we be able to draw more precise conclusions. notes Vitruvius stated that there were ‘five types of temples’ (species autem aedium sunt quinque) (III.3.6, c.f.  III.2) while Eusebius mentioned that the Emperor Constantine worshiped in a tent as ‘a type of church’ (ἐκκλησίας σχήματι) (Vita Constantini  IV.56). Typology is essential to all scholarly architectural analysis, represented by, but not limited to, Ernst Seidl’s Lexikon der Bautypen: Funktionen und Formen der Architektur (Stuttgart: Reclam, 2006) and The Multilingual Illustrated Dictionary of Byzantine Architecture and Sculpture Terms, ed. by Sofia Kalopissi-Verti and Maria Panayotidi-Kesisoglou (Heracleion: University of Crete Press, 2010). 2  This material was intended to be published in this previous article but was omitted for brevity’s sake: ‘The First Vaulted Churches in Cyprus’, JSAH, 69:2 (2010), pp.  162–89. Subsequently, I  presented a paper titled ‘Hagios Georgios and the Domed-Hall Churches of Cyprus’ during the 2010 Byzantine Studies Conference, at the University of Pennsylvania, and is published here with suggestions made by that audience along with updated material. I must thank Dr Eleni Procopiou for sharing her unpublished and ongoing research with me. 3  I prefer the term ‘domed hall’ as opposed to the alternative label ‘compressed cross-in-square’ since the examples on Cyprus are neither square nor cruciform. The term domed hall is also preferred by scholars in other languages: kuppelhalle (German), salle à couple (French), and sala a cupola (Italian). In Italy, the type has long been associated with Greek identity as connoted by the titles of churches, such as San Giorgio dei Greci (Venice) and Santa Maria dei Greci (Molinara). Alternative terms ‘compressed crossin-square’ or ‘atrophied cross’ imply that the domed hall developed from another form known as the ‘cross-in-square’ – which I am arguing against, in the case of Cyprus. The ‘cross-in-square’ is a church subdivided into nine bays, with the central bays forming a cross, and has a dome covering the crossing square, and is also known as a quincunx design. 1 

Annemarie Weyl Carr, A  Byzantine Masterpiece Recovered (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1991). 5  Andreas Nicolaïdès, ‘L’église de la Panagia Arakiotissa à Lagoudéra, Chypre’, DOP, 50 (1996), 1–137. 6  Richard Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), pp.  321–22; Cyril Mango, Byzantine Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1985), pp. 9–100; Giulio Jeni, ‘Architectural Typologies’, in The Armenians: 2000 years of Art and Architecture, ed. by Adriano Novello (New York: Booking Press, 1995), pp. 195–97; Annegret PlontkeLüning, Frühchristliche Architektur in Kaukasien (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaft, 2007). 7  Robert Ousterhout, ‘The architecture of Iconoclasm’, in Byzantium in the Iconoclast Era (ca. 680–850): The Sources, ed. by Leslie Brubaker and John Haldon (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), pp. 5–25. 8  Regarding the ‘cross-in-square’ type, see note 3 above. 9  For the Karpas examples see: Charles Stewart, ‘First Vaulted Churches’, pp. 162–89; for the Panagia Limeniotissa in Paphos, see Athanasios Papageorghiou, ‘Ἡ Παλαιοχριστιανικὴ καὶ βυζαντινὴ ἀρχαιολογία καὶ τέχνη ἐν Κύπρῳ κατὰ τὸ 1968’, Ἀπόστολος Βαρνάβας, 30 (1969), 82–88; and for the South Basilica at Polis-tes-Chrysochou, see William Caraher, R. Scott Moore, ‘The South Basilica at Polis, Cyprus’, Hesperia 88 (2019), 319–64. 10  Stewart, ‘First Vaulted Churches’, p.  182; Athanasios Papageorghiou, Christian Art in the Turkish-Occupied Part of Cyprus (Nicosia: Holy Archbishopric of Cyprus, 2010), pp.  359, 371; T. Papacostas, ‘Byzantine Cyprus: the testimony of its churches’, 3 vols (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Oxford, 1999), II, 10, 17, 74; Papageorghiou, ‘The Narthex of the Churches of the Middle Byzantine Period in Cyprus’, in Rayonnement Grec, ed. by Lydie Hadermann-Misguich et al. (Brussels: Université libre de Bruxelles, 1982), pp. 437–48. 11  Charles Stewart, Domes of Heaven: The Domed Basilicas of Cyprus (published doctoral dissertation, Indiana University, 2008); Charles Stewart, ‘The Development of Byzantine Architecture on Cyprus’, in Cyprus and the Balance of Empires, ed. by Charles Anthony Stewart and others (Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research, 2014), pp. 107–34 (pp. 116–19). 12  Like the barrel-vaulted type, multiple-domed basilicas were built over the earlier wood-roof basilicas and reused their foundations, except for Hagia Paraskevi (Geroskipou), which has little direct evidence for an earlier basilica phase. 13  Stewart, Domes of Heaven, p. 198. See also Andreas I. Dikigoropoulos, ‘The political status of Cyprus A.D. 648–965’, Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus (1940–48), pp. 94–114. 14  George Jeffery, ‘On the Northern Coast of Cyprus’, The Builder, 88 (1905), 397–401 (p. 399). George Jeffery, ‘Byzantine Churches of Cyprus’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries in London, 28 (1915–16), 106–34; Despina Pilides, George Jeffery: His Diaries and the Ancient Monuments of Cyprus (Nicosia, 2009). 15  Georgios Soteriou, ‘Τὰ παλαιοχριστιανικὰ καὶ βυζαντινὰ μνημεῖα της Κύπρου’, Ἀκαδ.Ἀθη.Πρ. (1931), 477–90; Τὰ Βυζαντινὰ Μνημεῖα τῆς Κύπρου (Athens: Ακαδημία Αθηνών, 1935); ‘Ὁ ναός καὶ ὁ τάφος τοῦ Ἀποστόλου Βαρνάβα παρὰ τὴν Σαλαμῖνα τῆς Κύπρου’, Κυπρ.Σπ., 1  (1937), 175–87; ‘Les églises byzantines de Chypre à trois et à cinq coupoles et leur place dans l’histoire de 4 

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l’architecture byzantine’, in Atti del V Congresso Internazionale di Studi Bizantini (Rome: Tip.  del Senato, 1940), II, 401–09. Athananios Papageorghiou, ‘Ἡ Παλαιοχριστιανικὴ καὶ βυζαντινὴ ἀρχαιολογία’, pp. 37–43, 91–97, 225–304. 16  Cyril Mango, Ernest Hawkins, and Susan Boyd, ‘The Monastery of St  Chrysostomos at Koutsovendis (Cyprus) and Its Wall Paintings. Part  I: Description’, DOP, 44 (1990), 63–94; David and June Winfield, The Church of the Panaghia tou Arakos (Washington D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 2005), pp.  65–68; Tassos Papacostas and others, ‘The History and Architecture of the Monastery of Saint John Chrysostomos at Koutsovendis, Cyprus’, DOP, 61 (2007), 25–156. Eleni Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής Εγγεγραμμένος Ναός στην Κύπρο’, (unpublished doctoral thesis, National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, 2006); ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής Εγγεγραμμένος Ναός στην Κύπρο’ (Nicosia: Kykko Monastery, 2007); ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής Εγγεγραμμένος Ναός στην Κύπρο’, Κυπρ.Σπ., 71 (2007), 31–36; ‘Η αρχιτεκτονική του ναού της Παναγίας Κοφίνου’, in Ευθύμιος Φιλόκαλης: Ανάδειξη Βυζαντινών μνημείων Κρήτης και Κύπρου, ed. by Eleni Procopiou and Nikoletta Pyppou (Rethymno: Εφορεία Βυζαντινών Αρχαιοτήτων, 2014), pp. 220–309. 17  It should be mentioned that Dr  Procopiou identified a total of seven subtypes of domed-hall church; however, those other than the ‘variant A/B’ subtypes are either one-of-a-kind or elongated versions of variant A/B with additional bays; Procopiou, ‘Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής’, pp. 401–11. 18  This percentage is based on the chronological scheme of thirtyeight churches as outlined by Procopiou, which includes the bestpreserved examples; ‘Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής’, 455–60. In 965, the Byzantine army reconquered the island, so that Cypriots no longer paid a tribute to the Arab Caliphate; in 1192 the island came into the possession of the Latin Kings of Jerusalem, under the Lusignan Dynasty. 19  Procopiou, ‘Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής’, pp. 5–10 and 34. 20  The site of Anacnida appears on Abraham Ortelius’ maps of Cyprus published in Antwerp between 1570 and 1600 based on Jacomo Franco’s 1570 map of Cyprus published in Venice, which in turn, seems based on Leonida Attar’s map of 1542; Francesca Romanelli and Gilles Grivaud, Cyprus 1542. The Great Map of the Island by Leonida Attar (Nicosia: Bank of Cyprus Cultural Foundation, 2006). 21  Camille Enlart, L’art gothique et la Renaissance en Chypre, 2 vols (Paris, 1899), I, 407. 22  George Jeffery, A description of the historic monuments of Cyprus (Nicosia: Government Printing Office, 1918), p.  253; Georgios Soteriou, Τὰ Βυζαντινὰ Μνημεῖα, Plate 40b. 23  Because of its remote location it has been a recent victim of vandalism, target practice, and graffiti. I  should mention the church’s dimensions, in case this information is lost due to collapse: the church currently measures 3.5m wide by 8m in length from each wall and is about 7m tall (from the current floor to the dome’s center). 24  Based on literary sources it seems that, during the early Arab occupation of Palestine and Cyprus, Muslims used churches for prayer. As such, it was possible for a building to be both a mosque and a church, shared by two different communities in the same

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location but at different times during the week; Stewart, ‘First Vaulted Churches’, p.  185, n.  42.; Yizhar Hirschfeld, Excavations at Tiberias, 1989–1994 ( Jerusalem, 2004); Lennart Rydén, ‘Cyprus at the Time of the Condominium as Reflected in the Lives of SS. Demetrianos and Constantine the Jew’, in The Sweet Land of Cyprus (Nicosia: Cyprus Studies Centre, 1993), pp. 189– 02. The church known as the Panagia Limeniotissa (Paphos) also has a tower in its narthex, associated with the Arab renovation of this building, based on the discovery of Arabic inscriptions and tombstones found in its vicinity; Andreas  I. Dikigoropoulos, ‘Cyprus “betwixt Greeks and Saracens”’, A.D. 647–965’, (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Oxford, 1961), p. 230; Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Reflections on Byzantine Paphos’, in Καθηγήτρια: Essays presented to Joan Hussey for her 80th Birthday (Camberley: Porphyrogenitus, 1988), pp. 135–50. 25  Athanasios Papageorghiou, ‘L’architecture de la période byzantine à Chypre’, CorsiRav, 22 (1985), 325–35 (p.  331); Papageorghiou, Christian Art, p. 465. 26  See note 1 above. 27  Papageorghiou, Christian Art, p. 465. 28  Arthur H.S. Megaw and Ernest Hawkins, ‘A fragmentary mosaic of the Orant Virgin in Cyprus’, in Actes du XIVe Congrès International des Études Byzantines, Bucarest, 1971, 3  vols (Bucarest: Ed. Academiei Republicii Socialiste Romania, 1974), III, 363–66. 29  Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος’, p. 455. 30  Stewart, ‘First Vaulted Churches’, p. 164. 31  Enlart, L’art gothique, I, 407; Soteriou, Τὰ Βυζαντινὰ Μνημεῖα, Figure 7, Plate 13b. 32  Papageorghiou, ‘Παλαιοχριστιανικὴ καὶ βυζαντινὴ ἀρχαιολογία’, p. 96. 33  Panayiotis Vokotopoulos, ‘Συμβολή εἰς τὴν μελέτην τῶν μονοχώρων ναῶν μετὰ δύο κογχῶν ίεροῦ’, in Χαριστήριον εἰς Α. Κ. Ὀρλάνδον, 4 vols (Athens, 1967), IV, 66–74. 34  Curiously Megaw did not recognize the similarity in design between Hagios Georgios and the church of Hagia Triada at the Monastery of St  John Chrysostomos (Koutsovendis); concerning the later, he characterized it as a ‘normal inscribed-cross in embryo’, which I find rather puzzling; Arthur H.S. Megaw, ‘Byzantine Architecture and Decoration in Cyprus: Metropolitan or Provincial?’ DOP, 28 (1974), 57–88 (pp. 78, 83). 35  Georgios Dimitrokallis, Οἰ δίκογχοι χριστιανικοὶ ναοί (Athens: Γρηγόρης, 1976), pp. 61–63. 36  It measures twenty-five ft (7.5m) long by twenty-one ft (6.5m) wide, and twenty-five ft tall. 37  The central bay’s ground plan measures 10.17 by 11.15 ft (3  × 3.4 m). 38  Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος’, Figure 19. 39  Papageorghiou, ‘Παλαιοχριστιανικὴ καὶ βυζαντινὴ ἀρχαιολογία’, p. 96; Megaw, ‘Byzantine Architecture’, p. 78; Papacostas, ‘Byzantine Cyprus’, II, 30; Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος’, pp. 29 and 455. 40  For a list of these churches and their dating evidence, see Stewart, ‘Development of Byzantine Architecture’, pp. 115, 130 notes 39 and 40. 41  Regarding the nature of architectural development and chronology in Cyprus, see Stewart, ‘Domes of Heaven’, pp. 53–55. 42  The relationship between the basilica and Near Eastern palaces was a matter of fact for Late Antiquity and Byzantine

writers. For example, Isidore of Seville (c. 560–636) mentioned that ‘…buildings were originally called “basilicas”, from where this term is derived, for the term βασιλεύς means king, and basilicas means royal dwellings; but now basilica means holy church because that is where worship and sacrifices are offered up to God, King of all’ (Etymologies XV.4.9). Likewise, Byzantine authors commonly referred to their emperors as ‘basileus’; for example, see the entry ‘basilica’ in the tenth-century Suda, where it refers to the ‘The basilica (βασιλικῇ) behind the Milion…at the time of Heraclius the king (Ἡρακλείου τοῦ βασιλέως)’; Ada Adler, Suidae Lexicon, 5 vols (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1928–38), I.  B. 157. For the iconographical symbolism of the basilica, see Charles Stewart, ‘Churches’, in Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology, ed. by David Pettegrew et al. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), pp. 128–46 (pp. 134–40). 43  Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος’, pp.  303–15; Athanasios Papageorghiou, Annual Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus (Nicosia: Government Office, 1980), p. 21; Rupert Gunnis, Historic Cyprus (London: Methuen, 1936), p. 270. 44  Soteriou, Τὰ Βυζαντινὰ Μνημεῖα, p.  49; Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος’, pp. 280–90. 45  Papacostas, ‘Byzantine Cyprus’, II, 25. 46  The ‘Naxos’ church was about forty per cent larger than Hagios Georgios; Papageorghiou, ‘Παλαιοχριστιανικὴ καὶ βυζαντινὴ’, p. 95. 47  Dikigoropoulos, ‘Cyprus “betwixt Greek and Saracen”’, p. 188; Stewart, ‘Development of Byzantine Architecture’, pp.  116–19. Athanasios Papageorghiou, ‘Ἔρευνα εἰς τὸν ναὸν τοῦ ἁγίου Σπυρίδωνος ἐν Τρεμετουσιᾶ’, Κυπρ.Σπ., 30 (1966), 17–33. 48  For Polis: William Childs, ‘First preliminary report on the excavations at Polis Chrysochous’, Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus (1988),127–29; Papalexandrou and Caraher, ‘Polis/Arsinoë’, pp. 30–31; and City of Gold: The Archaeology of Polis Chrysochous, ed. by William Childs and others (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), pp. 269–80, 317. 49  Marcus Rautman, A Cypriot Village of Late Antiquity (Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2003), pp. 90–120; ‘The context of rural innovation: an early monastery at KalavasosSirmata’, Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus (2001), 307–18; ‘The Busy Countryside of Late Roman Cyprus’, Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus (2000), 317–31; ‘The villages of Byzantine Cyprus’, Les villages dans l’empire byzantin, ed. by Jacques Lefort et al. (Paris: Lethiellleux, 2005), pp. 454–63. 50  Eleni Procopiou, ‘The Kalymata ton Plakoton’, in Cyprus and the Balance of Empires (Boston: American Schools of Oriental Research, 2014), pp.  69–98 (pp.  87–89); ‘Η νεότερη έρευνα σε βυζαντινά μνημεία της Ιεράς Μητροπόλεως Τριμυθούντος 2009– 2010’, in Κτίτωρ: Αφιέρωμα στο δάσκαλο Γεώργιο Βελένη, ed.  by Ioannis Varalis and Flora Karagianni (Thessaloniki: Hagioreitike Hestia, 2017), pp. 277–87. Procopiou and Pyppo, Ευθύμιος Φιλόκαλης, pp.  221–300; ‘Η νεότερη έρευνα’, p.  286; Procopiou, ‘New evidence for the Early Byzantine ecclesiastical architecture

in Cyprus’, in Church Building in Cyprus (Mainz: Universität Münster, 2018), pp. 73–98. 51  Athanasios Papageorghiou, Οι ξυλόστεγοι ναοί της Κύπρου (Nicosia: Government Printing Office, 1975). 52  Procopiou, ‘Συνεπτυγμένος Σταυροειδής’, p. 36. 53  The patriarch of Constantinople, Nicholas  IV Mouzalon (c. 1070–1152), was especially critical of the Byzantine administration of the island, when he had earlier served as archbishop of Cyprus between 1107 and 1110; see Sophia Doanidou, ‘Ἡ παραίτησις Νικολάου τοῦ Μουζάλωνος ἀπὸ τῆς ἀρχιεπισκοπῆς Κύπρου’, Ελληνικά, 7  (1934), 109–50; and Cyril Mango, ‘Chypre carrefour du monde byzantin’, in XVe Congrès international d’études Byzantines: rapports et co-rapports 5 (Athens: Comité d’organisation du congrès, 1976), pp. 1–13. 54  Slobodan Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), pp.  321–22; Georgios Dimitrokallis, ‘La Genèse de l’église en croix grecque inscrite’, Βυζαντινά, 23 (2002–03), 209–32; Vojislav Korać, ‘Les églises a nef unique avec une coupole dans l’architecture byzantines des XI–XII siècles’, Zograf, 8 (1977), 10–14. 55  Megaw, ‘Byzantine Architecture’, p. 83. 56  Athanasios Papageorghiou, ‘Constantinopolitan Influence on the Middle Byzantine Architecture of Cyprus’, JÖB, 32.4 (1982), 468–78 (p. 472). 57  Krautheimer, Early Christian, pp. 441, 323; J. Stryzgowski, Die Baukunst der Armenier und Europa (Vienna: A.  Schroll, 1918), pp. 188–202; Georg Tschubinaschwili, ‘Zur Frage der Kuppelhallen Armeniens’, BZ, 28 (1928), pp. 73–97. 58  Procopiou, ‘Ο Συνεπτυγμένος’, pp.  454–56; Charles Stewart ‘Fresco painting in Early Byzantine Cyprus’, in Melusine of Cyprus: Studies in Art, Architecture, and Visual Culture in Honor of Annemarie Weyl Carr, ed. by Ioanna Christoforaki and others (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). 59  Since the first century, the port of Aphendrika had been a disembarkation point for immigrants and travellers entering the island from the north; Stewart, ‘First Vaulted Churches’, p. 164; Noubar Maxoudian, ‘A brief history of the Armenians in Cyprus’, Armenian Review, 27.4 (1975), 398–416 (p.  403); Charles Stewart, ‘Early Byzantine Military Architecture in Cyprus’, Cahier (Centre d’études Chypriotes), 43 (2013), 287–306 (pp.  291, 301); Stewart, ‘Development of Byzantine Architecture’, pp. 126–28. 60  Surprisingly very little architectural analysis has been carried out at Sourp Magar monastery, though it was recognized as a historical monument by Jeffery in 1918 (Description, p. 334). According to local lore, the monastery dates at least to the early eleventh century and Armenians had acquired it from an earlier Coptic community (Maxoudian, ‘Brief History’, p. 403). I have not been able to locate any historical documentation that verifies this tradition although the recently exposed masonry supports that date. Because of the current political situation in northern Cyprus, archaeological excavation is currently not possible.

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Conflict Architecture

Making History at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, Hebron

Jordan Pickett ‘An ancient building more intact and less understood can hardly be found in contemporary Palestine than the monument erected over the cave of Machpelah in Hebron, the traditional sepulchre of the Patriarchs’ (Fig. 1). So begins the most recent architectural study of the Tomb of the Patriarchs at Hebron, conducted in 1920, begun by E.T. Richmond and finished by the architect Ernest Mackay.1 A remarkable publication – with contributions by Pères Vincent and Abel of the Ècole Biblique2 and photographs by Antonin Savignac3 and K.A.C. Creswell4 – the chief concerns of the British Mandate Mission were two. First, to establish the Herodian antiquity of the structure by virtue of its masonry, via a comparison of stones at the Hebron Haram al-Khalīl with those in Jerusalem’s Haram al-Šarīf, the Temple Mount, or Noble Sanctuary. And, second, to better document the Crusader church on the site of the present mosque in the structure’s south-east half. My concerns in this chapter are located, instead, in the building’s more recent history, namely the nearly one hundred years from the present day in 2018 since the establishment of the British Mandate for Palestine in 1920. These years were gravely punctuated by the events of the Six Days War in 1967, which initiated the present period of total and de facto, if not de jure Israeli control of the building. During this last century, the Haram al-Khalīl’s neighborhood context, means of access, internal organization and decorations have been much modified, largely coincident with the appropriation of its northwest half for use as a synagogue and the increasing segregation of the complex. These material changes – side-by-side with

shifting perceptions of the building’s longer history – have important consequences for the construction of sacred space at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, which is perhaps the most conflicted holy place in Israel/Palestine apart from the Temple Mount. Despite extensive superficial changes, the bones of Haram al-Khalīl’s structure remain basically untouched since Vincent and Mackay drew their new plans and elevations, published in 1923 (Fig. 2), which improved upon the earlier sketches by the Spaniard Domingo Badia y Leyblich before 1816,5 an excellent plan with details of surrounding buildings drawn by Pierotti in 1859 (who disguised himself as a Muslim to gain entrance) (Fig.  3),6 Claude Conder’s plan incorporated into the 1881 Survey of Western Palestine,7 and an official Turkish plan was reprinted by the French consul Ledoulx from 1886.8 Leaving aside, for the moment, differences between these drawings – which are especially important for understanding changes to the building’s access and its neighborhood context – we might observe the continuity of essential elements in the building’s structure. The precinct of the Haram al-Khalīl is a rectangular structure some 53  meters long and 29  meters wide, whose exterior walls are nearly 3m thick, with heavy, drafted- or recessed-margin masonry blocks (>1m long), punctuated by wide pilaster strips, which together tower 10m over the courtyard pavement below.9 The Haram is noticeably set askew, and divided in two, with south-east and north-west halves. A Crusader church composes the structure’s southeast half, in the present-day mosque: a three-aisled basilica without an apse, divided into groin-vaulted

Fig. 1.  Entry plaza on the southwest side of the Tomb of the Patriarchs (Source: author).

Fig. 2.  1923 plan of Tomb of the Patriarchs (Source: Vincent and Mackay, now in public domain).

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Fig. 3.  1859 plan of Tomb of the Patriarchs (Source: Pierotti, now in public domain).

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Fig. 4.  Contemporary synagogue under canopy in the northwestern interior courtyard of the Tomb of the Patriarchs (Source: author).

bays carried on compound piers. Under the arches of the middle bay are pyramidal Mamluk-period cenotaphs for Isaac and Rebecca, set before the mihrab niche’s Ayyubid-Mamluk glass mosaics and the wooden minbar, which was brought from Huseyn’s mashad in Askalon by Saladin, and which is reputedly the world’s oldest minbar still in use.10 A long wall, pierced by three doors divides the building’s south-east and north-west halves near its midpoint: this is the only element dated by Vincent and Mackay as Byzantine in the entire complex.11 Openings through the long wall are today blocked by heavy iron blast doors, which serve to partition the mosque from the synagogue that now occupies the northwest half of the building. Access from the exterior into the mosque is gained only from the north-east door, via a small vestibule, cut off from the synagogue by the blast doors and a security checkpoint. (In the Ottoman period, this same Byzantine wall separated the

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men’s from the women’s mosques, which shared the new, northern exterior doors and vestibule.)12 In the building’s northwest half, beyond the long partition wall, an open narthex gives access to the tombs of Abraham and Sarah, the tombs of Jacob and Leah, and to a long covered hall often called el Ambar, with a door into the domed tomb-chamber of an individual variously identified as Adam, Caleb, or most commonly as Joseph (despite the latter’s more famous and also highly-contested tomb at Nablus/ Shechem).13 Between these spaces is an open courtyard or rather, what was formerly an open courtyard, before the post-1967 installation of a Torah-shrine under a semi-permanent tent canopy, hard-anchored into the walls (Fig. 4). We will return to these recent developments in more detail below. With the notable exception of visits by several European monarchs in the later nineteenth century, including Prince Albert and Claude Conder

in 1882,14 the Haram al-Khalīl was officially closed to all but Muslims after an order promulgated by Sultan Baybars in 1266.15 Between Baybar’s time and the end of Ottoman control in 1917, Christians were excluded from the mosque, though they were permitted to approach the northeast door of the former church to pray. Jews were allowed only so far as the seventh step of the stairs at the building’s south corner.16 The Haram al-Khalīl was not formally party to the Status Quo for Holy Places established by the fiat or firmans of Ottoman sultans in the 1850s, because it was understood that the Tomb of the Patriarchs was, by long-standing tradition, an exclusively Muslim building.17 The British Mandatory Charter from 1920, as well as the agreement made by King Faisal and Chaim Weizmann for the WZO at the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, prevented “the Mandatory authority [from interfering] with the fabric or the management of purely Moslem sacred shrines, the immunities of which are guaranteed”, implicitly including Hebron.18 A small Jewish community – stable and living in Hebron for centuries – continued coming to the seventh step at Machpelah to pray during the Ottoman period and the Mandate, but made no moves for access to the interior. In August 1929, however, Jerusalemite tensions focused on the addition of Jewish prayer screens at the Temple Mount’s Western Wall visited Hebron, and between Friday August 23 and Saturday 24 – with riots ongoing in Jerusalem – the small Jewish quarter in Hebron was attacked, resulting in serious damage to the Beit Hadassah hospital, the Hebron Yeshiva, the Avraham Avinu synagogue, and the murders of 67 Jewish residents.19 From this moment forward, the Hebron Massacre and with it, the Tomb of the Patriarchs, became touchstones for nascent Israeli national consciousness. Machpelah begins to appear on Hebrew tourist posters around the same time, though its Jewish community disappeared after the Massacre in ‘29: for instance, the poster Come and See Erez Israel by famous graphic artist Ze’ev Raban c. 1929 shows the Mamluk portal at the building’s south corner which, after 1967, would be destroyed by Israeli bulldozers (Fig. 5). The years between 1929 and 1967 gave the Israelis no foothold into the building: in the 1948 war, Hebron was occupied early by Egyptian forces, then quickly reinforced by Jordanian forces, under whose control the city remained by the terms of the 1948 Armistice agreement. Contrary to its obligations

toward Israel in accordance with the Armistice, which guaranteed seemingly unconditional but poorly defined ‘free access to the Holy Places’, Jordan did not allow Jews to visit Holy Places in its territory, particularly the Western Wall, nor Machpelah at Hebron.20 Seven hundred years of Jewish exclusion from the Tomb of the Patriarchs ended with the Six Day War in 1967. On 8 June, 1967, the day after the Israeli sack of East Jerusalem, Israeli troops entered Hebron without a fight, legendarily greeted by the sight of white sheets hung from the windows and rooftops of Arab homes where residents still feared for retaliation from the 1929 massacre. Accompanying the troops was Army Chief Rabbi Shlomo Goren, who the previous day had climbed the Temple Mount, incurring the wrath of the IDF who called his behavior inappropriate.21 Goren now made a bee-line for the Tomb of the Patriarchs, and after shooting off the gate’s lock, he became the first Jew to enter the building since, quite possibly, some near-contemporary of the travelers Benjamin of Tudela or Rabbi Petachia, who visited Machpelah in the twelfth or thirteenth century before Baybars excluded all but Muslims in 1266.22 Thus seven hundred and one year later, on 8 June 1967, the Tomb of the Patriarchs was reopened to Jewish visitors. Moshe Dayan – the one-eyed IDF commander, atheist, and amateur treasure-hunter – recounts in his biography how ‘the city [became] thronged each day with multitudes of pilgrims … [converging] on the Cave, taking in the huge Herodian stones in the surrounding walls, exploring with reverence the hushed interior, and standing in prayer near the tombs’.23 Dayan’s account leaves out an important event. Just as the Maghrebi neighborhood near the Western Wall had been quickly bulldozed, within three days of the capture of Jerusalem, here too in Hebron a dense cluster of medieval and Ottoman constructions at the south- and west- ends of the building were quickly demolished. Documentation is lacking and the precise extent of the destruction – or the reconstruction that soon followed – is difficult to define.24 We have some hints, however. In Pierotti’s plan of 1859, this area is occupied by the ‘château’ and ‘maisons musulmans’ (Fig.  3), while Conder’s Survey of Western Palestine of 1881 includes an amazing pen-and-ink drawing showing the density of construction in this neighborhood (Fig. 6). Closer to 1967, we might compare, for

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Fig. 5.  Tourist poster by Ze’ev Raban c. 1929, Come Visit Israel (Courtesy of the Central Zionist Archive).

instance, Creswell’s photograph of these buildings still intact and adjacent to the Haram al-Khalīl’s south corner, ca. 1920,25 with another photograph taken by Pinchas Nussbaum in July of 1967, one month after Hebron’s fall to the Israelis. Apparently fresh rubble and earthmoving equipment can be seen in the background, with empty space around the southern corner where the Mamluk portal and buildings once stood (Fig. 7).

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What might explain demolition works in this area around the Tomb of the Patriarchs in 1967? Besides creating space for the new entry plaza, denuding the enclosure’s exterior wall of later medieval accretions heightened the similarity of its immense, draftedmargin ashlars to those in the Temple Mount. Dayan emphasized the ‘huge Herodian stones’ of the Hebron enceinte’s walls in his biography.26 Their identification as Herodian followed on Vincent

Fig. 6.  1881 drawing by Charles Conder of the south corner of Tomb of the Patriarchs (Public domain).

and Mackay’s publication,27 which had engaged the oft-debated question of the building’s patron – also held to be Solomon, David,28 Constantine and Helena,29 or genies30 – by systematically and positively comparing features, measurements, and proportions of the Temple Mount’s Herodian masonry with the drafted-margin masonry of the Haram al-Khalīl.31 This comparison between Hebron and Jerusalem was underlined by Israeli demolition, after 1967,

of Crusader and later structures in what is now the southern Machpelah plaza, through which Israeli pilgrims and settlers approach, greeted by the isolated Haram al-Khalīl, whose bare exterior now emphatically (and intentionally) recalls the Haram al-Šarīf, the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Coincident with these changes to the plaza in ’67 were re-arrangements of temporal and spatial access to the building, which would become architecturally

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Fig. 7.  A photograph (one of three) dated July 1967 showing evidence of recent demolitions on south side of the Tomb of the Patriarchs (Public domain, courtesy of the Digital Media Center at the University of Haifa’s Younes and Soraya Nazarian Library).

divided between Jewish and Muslim visitors along the line that formerly divided the mosque between men and women. To set the terms of the temporal détente, Dayan arranged a meeting with Muslim representatives at the Tomb of the Patriarchs for August 1, 1967. To quote from Dayan’s biography, the agreement struck together with the mayor and mufti of Hebron, and the mosque’s imam included the following: ‘1) the curfew would be lifted to allow for Muslim prayer at 3am. 2) Non-Muslims would be allowed to enter the building between 7 am and 11 am, and between 1:30pm and 5pm. 3) The muezzin would be allowed to make the call to prayer. 4) Between 1:30pm and 5pm, the Muslim community would be allowed to pray but would use a separate entrance. 5) Non-Muslims would wear respectful attire (no mention of shoes), and there would be no smoking or sale of candles or alcohol’.32 The temporal division of Machpelah/Haram al-Khalīl was to

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include, besides day-to-day arrangements, a carefully choreographed changing of the guard to take place four times a year. This has been documented by the video artist Nira Pereg in her work Abraham Abraham, Sarah Sarah which records the preparations and changes made for each side when Jews and Muslims are, respectively, accorded ten holidays a year for total access. The use of a separate entrance for Muslims seems also to have entailed, sometime between 1920 and 1967, the creation of a separate entrance for Jews into the northern half of the complex, whose interior courtyard became a synagogue. This would be the present-day entrance near the northwest corner (Fig.  8). The aforementioned photograph from the Creswell archives, taken ca. 1920, shows only a pile of rubble where the modern staircase and entry now stands, providing a terminus ante quem non for its construction.33 The stairway appears fully formed,

Fig. 8.  Photo of stairs and entryway at northwest corner of the Tomb of the Patriarchs, with distinctive ‘Jerusalem Stone’ cladding typical of construction after 1967 (Source: author).

however, in a photograph taken by Pinchas Nusbaum from July 1967 (Fig. 7). The masonry of these stairs deserves closer notice: they are built of the distinctive limestone, cut into small ashlars with drafted margins known colloquially as ‘Jerusalem Stone’ which, as Eyal Weizmann has explained, was used to ‘dissolve “old” with new, [and to meld] archaeology with living fabric’, thereby creating impressions of historicity in new building projects at historic sites after 1967.34 Dayan’s biography describes another important change at the Tomb of the Patriarchs after ’67, namely the beginning of formal prayer services and the installation of a canopy over the open court where ‘there were iron hooks in the walls, which showed that this sort of covering had been used in the past, so there was a precedent’.35 Precedent for a canopy, perhaps, but there is no clear historical precedent for a synagogue in the complex at any date. The installation of synagogues at the site of tombs

is a rare phenomenon, both in Antiquity36 and today, for instance (amidst great contestation) at King David’s tomb below the Cenacle.37 Indeed, the Haram al-Khalīl was certainly not originally built as a synagogue, but as a ritual enclosure to prevent pollution from the dead bodies contained within. Notably, it is unclear whether or not the complex even had a door in its original phase. Jewish veneration at Machpelah may have been, as John Wilkinson argues, a response to Christian worship at the site, just as the Piacenza Pilgrim tells us that by the 630s the Tomb of the Patriarchs was divided with ‘a screen down the middle, Christians come in on one side, and Jews on the other, and they use much incense’.38 The presence of a synagogue at Machpelah is now – since 1967 – an indisputable ‘fact on the ground’.39 Yet this change in function has been accomplished with nary a major structural change to the edifice. Potentially more radical, as the anthropologist Robert

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Paine puts it, is that the development of a synagogue shared under one roof with a mosque has escalated ‘the semiotics of mutual offense – of mutual desecration – between [Islamic and Jewish communities at Hebron]. Jews use ceremonial wine which is a profanity for Muslims; Muslims conduct funeral processions inside the mosque, which is a profanity for Jews; Jews enter the Haram with their heads covered, Muslims do not; Jews and Christians freely enter the Haram with shoes while Muslims enter barefoot… Here, at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, is a concentration of Jewish-Muslim antipathies’.40 In the years after 1967, these antipathies extended beyond the Tomb of the Patriarchs into the city of Hebron itself, as Zionist followers of Meir Kahane from the extremist Kach movement began to settle in the city, motivated by their stated desire to replace the Jewish community that had been massacred at Hebron in 1929.41 Settlers actively buttressed the aura of Jewish historical presence around the Tomb of the Patriarchs with archaeological excavations that sought Abraham and David’s presence in the city (at nearby Admot Yishai/Tel Rumeida), and by developing a new cultural itinerary of reclaimed historical spaces.42 All of these antagonisms – of site, ritual practice, and politics – erupted on February 25, 1994, during the overlapping holidays of Purim and Ramadan, when Baruch Goldstein entered the Ibrahimi mosque at the Tomb of the Patriarchs and opened fire on worshippers during morning prayers. Twenty-nine were killed, and 125 were wounded before Goldstein was overpowered and beaten to death. The Israeli state response was swift: the Kach party was banned, weapons were confiscated from some settlers. Hebron’s downtown al-Shuhada street was closed to Palestinians, with arrangements for division of the city into H1 and H2 formalized by the Oslo Accords in 1995.43 Soon thereafter, a surveillance regime descended on the Tomb of the Patriarchs: closed-circuit cameras appeared throughout the complex (Fig.  4), blast doors formalized the partition between mosque and synagogue, and security checkpoints (‘entry pavilions’) were installed outside both the Jewish and Muslim entrances to the building. When I visited Hebron in March 2017 the south-side checkpoint was being upgraded and made more permanent (Fig. 1). The magnitude of change wrought by ‘temporary’, non-structural changes and additions to the Tomb of the Patriarchs should give pause to archaeologists and

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architectural historians accustomed to visible traces of functional change within a building’s fabric. At Hebron, these include security cameras and checkpoints, the tent-canopied synagogue in the courtyard, book shelves and Torah shrines, and the vast quantity of embroidered textile votives that festoon the interior walls, obscuring Ottoman decoration and inscriptions and windows that would otherwise open lines of sight between the divided Jewish and Muslim sides (Fig. 9). For instance, visible in the vestibule outside the tomb of Abraham is a textile embroidered in Hebrew stating ‘these are the three places that the nations of the world cannot say “they don’t belong to you”. Machpelah [in Hebron], the Holy Temple [in Jerusalem], and the Tomb of Joseph [in Nablus]’. Another, from the tomb of Jacob, ‘How great are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel!’ and its companion for Sarah, the story of Abraham’s purchase of her tomb from Genesis 49, the foundation of ‘the first Jewish property in the land of Israel’.44 Modern and miniaturized Israeli images of the Tomb of the Patriarchs – witness, for instance, the build-it-yourself toy versions of Machpelah or the 1:25 model at the tourist attraction called Mini-Israel near Latrun (Fig. 10) – reproduce the post-’67 status quo at Hebron, enforcing the ideological significance of the building through implicit comparison of its southwest corner with the Temple Mount, and erasing the modern security apparatus at the site. These miniaturized versions of the Tomb of the Patriarch include the post-’67 stairwell leading to the synagogue, but erase the wrap-around corridor that gives Muslims access to the mosque; missing too are the security check-points and blast-walls so conspicuous to any visitor. In contemporary representation, then, the Tomb of the Patriarchs ‘appears [decontextualized] in an idealized state… cleansed of its [historicism] and its Palestinian/West Bank geography, [re-] placed in biblical Judea’.45 Robert Ousterhout’s seminal 2003 article ‘Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: the Stones of the Holy Sepulcher’ concluded by comparing Crusader interventions at the Holy Sepulcher with Abbot Suger’s reconstruction of St Denis, where the abbot’s stated intention was to ‘complete’ the building, to ‘respect the very stones, sacred as they are, as if they were relics’.46 Ousterhout demonstrated how Crusader sacred space at the Holy Sepulcher creatively re-used the building’s historical fabrics, time

Fig. 9.  Embroidered wall-hangings, room-dividers, and other furniture between the tombs of Jacob and Leah at the Tomb of the Patriarchs (Source: author).

Fig. 10: Model of the Tomb of the Patriarchs at Mini-Israel in Latrun (Source: author).

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and again, and emphasized how this patterned re-use and framing of historical elements within the building was critical for the construction of sacred space in the centuries that followed at this, the holiest site in Christendom.47 Just so, we might consider how the Status Quo enshrined these conservative and preservationist tendencies at single-faith buildings such as the Sepulcher or Church of the Nativity.48 On the other hand, I  hope to have outlined here how – at multi-faith sites such as the Tomb of the Patriarchs, not just since 1967 – more iconoclastic dynamics can emerge at antagonistically shared multi-faith sites, where sacred space is not constructed with additions that ‘respect the very stones, sacred as they are’, but with erasure and division, instead.49 notes Ernest Mackay, Louis Vincent, and Félix-Marie Abel, Hébron. Le Haram el-Khalīl, sépulture des Patriarches (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1923), p. 1, but pace Denys Pringle’s short but authoritative review of literature on the Haram al-Khalīl, found in Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem: A Corpus Volume I: A-K (excluding Acre and Jerusalem). (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), I, 224–39. 2  For the history of the École Biblique, see Jerome MurphyO’Connor, ‘École Biblique et Archéologique Française’, Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East, ed. by Eric Meyers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 187–89. 3  For Savignac’s necrology, see René Dussaud, ‘Nécrologie – Le R. P. Raphaël Savignac’, Persée, 30.3 (1953), 373–74. 4  For Creswell’s necrology, see Robert  W. Hamilton, ‘Keppel Archibald Cameron Creswell’, Proceedings of the British Academy, 60 (1974), 1–20. On Hamilton’s work in Palestine, see Daniel Monk, An Aesthetic Occupation: The Immediacy of Architecture and the Palestine Conflict (London: Duke University Press, 2002). 5  Ali Bey al-Abbassy (Domingo Badia y Leyblich), Travels of Ali Bey in Morocco, Tripoli, Cyprus, Egypt, Arabia, Syria, and Turkey, Between the Years 1803 and 1807, 2 vols., (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1816), II, 232–33 pl LXXIII–LXXIV. 6  Ermete Pierotti, Macpela ou tombeau des Patriarches à Hebron (Lausanne, 1869). 7  Charles R. Conder, ‘Lieutenant Conder’s Reports’ PEFQ, 13.4 (1881), 247–81 (pp. 266–71), and Charles R. Conder, ‘Report of the Princes’ Visit to the Holy Land’ PEFQ, 14.4 (1882), 193–234, with plan at 196; republished as Charles R. Conder and Horatio H. Kitchener, The Survey of Western Palestine. Memoirs of the Topography, Orography, Hydrography and Archaeology (London, 1881), III, 333–46, fig. 1. 8  Charles Ledoulx, ‘Note explicative d’un plan de la mosquée d’Hébron, adressée au Président du conseil, ministre des affaires étrangères’, CRAI, 30.1 (1886), 54–63, with plan inserted between 54–55. 1 

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The largest drafted-margin blocks visible in these walls are gigantic, with one block on the east face near the southeast corner measuring 7.51 x 1.45 x 1.15m. See David M. Jacobson, ‘Decorative Drafted-margin Masonry in Jerusalem and Hebron and its Relations’ Levant, 32.1 (2000), 135–54. These antique blocks contrast with the much smaller ashlars at the northwest portal and stairway, which is characteristic of the so-called Jerusalem stone that was quarried and cut extensively for use after 1967, as described by Eyal Weizman, Hollow Land: Israel’s Architecture of Occupation (London: Verso, 2007), pp. 27–28. 10  For the inscription on the minbar and the account of the discovery of the head of Huseyn at Ascalon, prior to the minbar’s conveyance from that city, see Mehmet Tutuncu, Turkish Palestine (1069–1917): Inscriptions from Al-Khalīl (Hebron), Nabi Musa and Other Palestinian Cities Under Turkish Rule (Haarlem: Haarlem SOTA, 2008), pp. 94–97. 11  Mackay, Vincent, and Abel, Hébron, p. 2 and their Fig. 1. 12  Mackay, Vincent, and Abel, Hébron, p. 25. 13  See Andrew Petersen, Bones of Contention: Muslim Shrines in Palestine (Singapore: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), pp. 123–40 for Nablus. 14  On the visit of Prince Albert with Charles Conder in 1882, see the latter’s ‘Report on the visit of their Royal Highnesses Princes Albert Victor and George of Wales to the Hebron Haram, on 5th April, 1882’, PEFQ 14.4 (1882), 193–234. 15  See Makrīzī, Kitāb al-sulūk li-ma’rifat duwal al-mulūk, 544 and Moshe Sharon, ‘al-Khalīl’, Encyclopedia of Islam, eds. Emeri van Donzel, Bernard Lewis, and Charles Pellat, 2nd ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1997), IV, 954–61 (p. 960); this point is emphasized by Moshe Dayan, Story of My Life (New York: Da Capo, 1978), p. 390 in his account of how the complex was re-taken in 1967. 16  Paraphrasing Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, I, 228. According to Kabalistic traditions, a crack in the stones here led to the Garden of Eden; Jews still pray here despite more recent events giving them control of more than half of the building. See now Rabbi Petahya of Regensburg’s account written 1174–1187, Die Rundreise des R.  Petachjah aus Regensburg, ed. and trans. Lazarus Grünhut ( Jerusalem-Frankfurt: Kauffmann, 1905), pp.  33–34. See Guy Le Strange, Palestine Under the Moslems (London: Watt, 1890), pp. 309–27 for old translations of most of the Arabic sources from this period. 17  For commentary on the 1852, 1853, and 1856 firmans, see Enrico Molinaro, Holy Places of Jerusalem in Middle East Peace Agreements (Brighton: Sussex, 2010), pp.  36–39. For the full text of the 1852 firman see the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict: An Interactive Database at https://ecf.org.il/issues/issue/1370. 18  For the text of the British Mandatory Charter, see the Yale Law School’s Avalon Project: Documents in Law, History, and Diplomacy at http://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/palmanda.asp. 19  For Jewish settlement at Hebron before 1929, and the circumstances of the massacre, see Edward Platt, City of Abraham: History, Myth and Memory (London: Picador, 2014) and Jerold  S. Auerbach, Hebron Jews: Memory and Conflict in the Land of Israel (Lanham MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2009). 20  This despite the latter’s aforementioned inclusion in Mandate tourist itineraries, and a growing place in contemporary literature and popular exegesis, which began to more loudly extol the Patriarchs’ tomb as the first truly Israeli land, purchased by Abraham for 9 

400 silver shekels, “a dear price”, to bury his wife Sarah (Gen. 23: 1–20), before it became King David’s first capital (2 Sam. 2–5). See here also Molinaro, Holy Places of Jerusalem…, 93–4; and for the 1949 Armistice Agreement between Israel and Jordan, Yale Law School’s Avalon Project: Documents in Law, History, and Diplomacy at http://avalon.law.yale.edu/20th_century/arm03.asp. 21  Shifra Mescheloff, ‘The Temple Mount in the Teachings of Rabbi Shlomo Goren’, Israel Studies Review, 32.1 (2017), 88–103. 22  Famous is the (possibly apocryphal) story of Shlomo Goren accidentally entering Hebron alone, before Israeli troops, to find the city full of white sheets of surrender. He recounts the story in his biography, With Might and Strength (New Milford: Maggid Books, 2016). For the ban on Jews in the Haram al-Khalīl between the time of the Crusaders and 1967, see e.g. with references Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, I, 228–29 23  Moshe Dayan, Story of My Life (New York: Da Capo, 1976), pp. 388–92. 24  For the 1967 demolition at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, see below and Fig. 7. For demolition of the Maghrebi quarter beside the Temple Mount at today’s Western Wall Plaza, see Michael Dumper, ‘Israeli Settlement in the Old City of Jerusalem’ Palestinian Studies 21.4 (1992), 32–53 and N. Masalha, The Bible and Zionism: Invented Traditions, Archaeology and Post-Colonialism in Palestine-Israel (London: Zed Books, 2007), pp. 82–84 with reference to a fuller account in Uzi Benziman, Yerushalayim ( Jerusalem: Hotsa at shoken, 1973), non vidi [in Hebrew]. 25  See the Ashmolean Museum’s Creswell Photographic Archive, neg. EA.CA.5244, showing neighboring structures at the southern corner still intact c.  1920: http://creswell.ashmolean.org/, accessed 02/21/2019. 26  Dayan, Story of My Life, p. 391. 27  Mackay, Vincent, and Abel, Hébron, pp. 40–52. 28  Jewish traditions for David as builder of the Haram al Khalīl: see Uri ben-Simeon [16th cent.], Jichus ha-Aboth, translated to Latin by Johann Heinrich Hottinger in Cippi Hebraici, Genealogia Patriarcharum (Heidelberg, 1659; 2nd ed. 1662), p. 30. 29  This claim was made by Boniface of Ragusa and repeated by Franciscus Quaresmius in the Elucidatio Terrae Sanctae and others: on this point, with references, see Mackay, Vincent, and Abel, Hébron, p. 197. 30  See the account of Mukaddasi, translated in Le Strange, Palestine Under the Moslems, pp. 309–10. 31  Note the most recent work on this question several decades ago by Donald Chen, using a very circumstantial ratiometric approach to proportions in masonry: ‘The Tombs of the Patriarchs in Hebron, Judaea: The Design of the Peribolos’, Zeitschrift für Vermessungswessen, 105.9 (1980), 450–53. 32  Dayan, Story of My Life, pp. 390–93. 33  Besides stating that the only entrance to the building is in the long eastern wall (now the Muslim entrance), Conder had earlier explained in 1881 how ‘in the northwest corner of the long chamber a wooden door was broken open (at R). It was found to lead, through the thickness of the ancient rampart wall, into a groin vaulted chamber … about 50 feet by 20 feet, one side being formed by the outer face of the old rampart. It stands upon substructions, forming a passage to the lower tomb of Joseph, subsequently explored. Near the north end of the wall was a structure which at first sight looked like the head of a stairway with the steps covered over. … No remains

of any staircase were found afterwards while exploring the passage beneath’. Quoted from Charles R. Conder and Horatio H. Kitchener, The Survey of Western Palestine. Memoirs of the Topography, Orography, Hydrography and Archaeology, 3  vols (London: Committee of the Palestine Exploration Fund, 1881), III, 333–46 (p. 341). 34  Weizman, Hollow Land, pp. 27–28. 35  Dayan, Story of My Life, p. 392. 36  Lee Levine, The Ancient Synagogue (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), p. 242 and passim suspects that, because of Midrashic prohibitions against proximity to the bodies of the dead, which were impure and cause for pollution, Jewish veneration of tombs came late and only as a response to Christian practices. Note, for instance, Judah b. Simon (4th century) explaining that a house of assembly (beth va’adh) was built above the Tomb of Hezekiah; or the excavations of a synagogue near the tomb known as the Mausoleum of Shammai at Khirbet Shema, Galilean Tekoa, dating to the third or fourth century: see Eric Meyers, Thomas Kraabel, and James Strange, Ancient Synagogue Excavations at Khirbet Shema; Upper Galilee; 1970–1972 (Durham: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1976). 37  Jacob Pinkerfield, ‘David’s Tomb. Notes on the History of the Building: Preliminary Report’, Bulletin of the Louis Rabbinowitz Fund for the Exploration of Ancient Synagogues, ed. M. Avi-Yonah ( Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1960), pp.  41–43 characterizes the Roman phase of the Tomb of David below the Cenacle in Jerusalem as a purpose-built synagogue in association with the tomb. Rather, like the tomb of Nahum and its synagogue at AlQosh in Iraq, this is a medieval construction which is sometimes dated by the age of the tomb inside: see e.g. from Haaretz 03 June 2015 http://www.haaretz.com/jewish/archaeology/1.659381. 38  See the translation by John Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims Before the Crusades (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 2002), p. 143. 39  Nadia Abu el-Haj, Facts on the Ground: Archaeological Practice and Territorial Self-Fashioning in Israeli Society (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010). 40  Robert Paine, ‘Behind the Hebron Massacre, 1994’, Anthropology Today, 11.1 (1995), 8–15, here paraphrasing and quoting from p. 8. 41  See the Hebron Settlement’s official webpage, on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/hebronofficial/. 42  Platt, City of Abraham. 43  These are the UN peacekeeper designations for areas of control in Hebron. 44  Author observation, March 2017. 45  See Morag Kersel and Yorke Rowan, ‘Beautiful, Good, Important and Special: Cultural Heritage, Archaeology, Tourism and the Miniature in the Holy Land’, Heritage & Society (2012), pp. 199–220, quoting here from p. 200. 46  Robert Ousterhout, ‘Architecture as Relic and the Construction of Sanctity: The Stones of the Holy Sepulcher’, JSAH, 62.1 (2003), 4–23 (pp. 20–21). 47  The last major changes of structure and access occurred at the Holy Sepulcher in the twelfth century, when Crusaders preserved the fourth-century Constantinian rotunda, obliterated the eleventh-century Byzantine apse and bema, and replaced them with a more spacious and stylish high-vaulted chapel and ambulatory that gave access to chapels and holy places that had sprung up within the precinct since Late Antiquity, like Calgary or St  Helena’s Chapel and the Omphalos. The modern

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preservationist tendency at the Holy Sepulcher is perhaps most famously demonstrated by the “immovable ladder” found above the entrance since the eighteenth century. 48  For Bethlehem: Jordan Pickett, ‘Patronage Contested: Archaeology and the Early Modern Struggle for Possession at the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem’, Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, eds.

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Bianca Kühnel, Galit Noga-Banai, and Hanna Vorholt (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), pp. 35–44. 49  For erasure and division at the Tomb of the Patriarchs’ pendant, the Temple Mount / Haram al-Sharif, see Katharina Galor, Finding Jerusalem: Between Science and Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017), pp. 146–62.

Anatolia and Armenia

Into the Sacred Space

Facing Ayasoluk and Its Gate of Persecutions

Suna Çağaptay The act of passing through a city gate evokes a variety of experiences often overlooked in urban and architectural studies. More specifically, a gate can signal a zone of religious practice wherein the passage marks a transition from one realm to the next.1 In this chapter, I revisit the Gate of Persecutions at Ayasoluk (Fig. 1), a medieval settlement that was established near the ancient city of Ephesos. I consider the ways in which the gate functions as a liminal space – a ‘threshold’ that is part of an active pilgrimage experience but also a commemoration of the previous passing throughs2 – by examining the gate’s degrees of sacrality and how it serves as a divider of realms and at the same time a transitional zone.3 In analyzing the Gate of Persecutions as a threshold, I position it in relation to two important pilgrimage centers: First the Artemision and later the Church of Saint John, and also to the rise of Ayasoluk as a sacred precinct within medieval Ephesos. I  focus on the perceived image, both sacred and urban, of the gate and the settlement of Ayasoluk more generally as displayed in other media, such as pilgrims’ ampullae. Earlier scholarship has often treated the gate separately from the rest of the urban transformations in Ayasoluk. These analyses, all valuable and thought-provoking, examine discrete facets of the gate. By contrast, I cast the gate as integral to the construction of the larger sacred landscape, in terms of both pilgrimage and protection. I aim to set the gate in its structural, decorative, and historical context while discussing its function as a threshold within the larger sacred urban framework. I will also look at the role of the city walls as ‘divine defenses’,4 focusing on the correspondence between

the planning of the gate and the rise of the cult of Saint John, as well as how his relics signal the military and political history of Ayasoluk. The Via Sacra Connecting Ephesos and Ayasoluk, the Via Sacra (Fig. 2) of Artemision had economic, religious, and political dimensions. Travelling in the lowlands from Ephesos to Ayasoluk and beyond, the road created a sacred link connecting the nearby cities of Magnesia and Tralles in the south and Smyrna in the north.5 The Via Sacra, beginning in Ephesos, had two routes: one, known as the anodos (direttissima), traveled upward from the area of the stadium and the gymnasium and provided a more direct path to the Artemision; the second, the kathodos, headed downhill from the Magnesian Gate.6 Both anodos and kathodos eventually converged for the final approach to the temple, which in medieval times was buried under three meters of silt. I would like to argue that the Byzantine Via Sacra (noted in dotted lines in Fig. 2) reused the classical path (noted in solid lines in Fig.  2), and the Christian landmarks, such as the Grotto of Saint Paul, the Tomb of Luke, and the Cave of the Seven Sleepers were situated along the kathodos. The contours of the Via Sacra are further elucidated by the archaeological evidence. According to Sabine Ladstätter, barriers were erected in the seventh and eighth centuries to keep the paths free of rubble, allowing access to the pilgrimage sites along the route.7 These cleared paths

Fig. 1.  General view of the Gate of Persecutions, taken in 2017 after the restorations (Source: Suna Çağaptay).

Fig. 2.  Site map of Ephesos and Ayasoluk (Source: Redrawn and retouched from Helmut Koester, Ephesos Metropolis of Asia. An Interdisciplinary Approach to its Archaeology, Religion, and Culture, by author).

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are thought to have facilitated use by pedestrians and, correspondingly, modern archaeologists have discovered comparatively higher levels of ceramic and coin finds dating to the late tenth and early eleventh centuries. The lack of maintenance and corresponding deterioration of the pilgrimage routes from the east of the city most likely resulted from the siltification of the harbor at Ephesos from the twelfth century on, as confirmed by the archeological evidence.8 However, frescoes added to the Grotto of Saint Paul, the finds at the Tomb of Saint Luke, and graffiti and frescoes found in the Cave of the Seven Sleepers, show that at least a small group of people still made the pilgrimage during these years. The areas around those sites also bear evidence of habitation, and the variety of graffiti – with writing in Greek, Armenian, Syriac and Latin – bespeaks the diverse backgrounds of visitors.9 Because no accounts of the actual movements of individual pilgrims have been uncovered, we are left to speculate about their experiences from the material remains of the buildings and clues offered by their spatial layout. Although the architectural setting and landscape shaped the movements of pilgrims into a recognizable route, the pilgrimage through, within, and around structures was inherently an ephemeral activity, leaving little or no trace.10 The Via Sacra and the Gate of Persecutions became the major landmarks highlighting this monumentalization of movement.

Ephesos and Ayasoluk: Changing Fortunes, Changing Functions Ephesos The Hellenistic founder of Ephesos, Lysimachos (r.  306–281 B.  C.), is credited with relocating the city of Ephesos away from its Archaic and Classical core (dating back to the seventh century B. C.), corresponding to the area of the Artemision in the valley between Mount Pion (Panayırdağ) and Mount Coressus (Bülbüldağ).11 Lysimachos not only sought to alter the urban dynamics of Ephesos, but also to change the city’s name, calling it Arsinoeia after his wife, who was of Ptolemaic origins. But while seeking to de-emphasize the cult of Artemis and replace it with Hellenistic ideals, he failed to acknowledge that cultic practices were already being followed within

his new city walls. Former incarnations of the cult involved the placement of altars along the Via Sacra, indicating stops along the processional path. It was believed that Artemis would transmit her goddess powers to the deceased by visiting the tombs.12 In Roman times, the emperor Augustus (r.  27 B. C.–14 A. D.) experienced similar struggles in his quest to Romanize the city. He, too, wanted to detach the urban core from the sacred realm of the Artemision, to this end reclaiming all property and rights of the complex lost around the time of the Roman civil war. Augustus had thought that this act would ‘gratify Artemis and she would repudiate her claim to dominate the city’.13 But her cult was already present in the heart of the classical city, where the prytaneion had become the sanctuary of the goddess against Augustus’ inability to understand the continued pull of the worship of Artemis.14 The Artemision retained interest even in later periods, attracting the attention of learned people such as Cyriacus of Ancona who, when visiting Ephesos in the 1430s, looked in vain for the temple which was then buried under debris. He nevertheless wrote a poem praising Diana, Artemis’ Roman counterpart.15 The earliest Christian remains in Ephesos (Fig.  2) predate Constantine the Great (r. 306–37),16 with structures having been converted from pagan to Christian usage, including the Church of Mary (2.13) and the Temple of Serapis (2.33). Within the walls of the seaside centre were the palace, residential quarters, several churches, and a few monuments that housed the tombs of Christian figures, among them future saints such as the Apostles Luke and Paul, Timothy (Paul’s disciple), the martyr Hermione (daughter of the Apostle Philip), Mary Magdalene, and the Virgin Mary.17 Also located in, and adjacent to, the lower urban center was the Grotto of Paul (2.79), the Tomb of Luke (2.68), and the Cave of the Seven Sleepers (2.71), the last site associated with the miracle that befell seven devout Christian men from Ephesos around the third century AD.18 Ayasoluk The urban arrangement we see at Ayasoluk leads us to examine a different kind of transition to Christianity in Byzantine times. Ayasoluk, atop the area’s northernmost hill, was known to the Byzantines as Hēlibaton (lit. ‘steep’).19 Judging from the small size

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of the settlement (2. 3 hectares), we can conclude that, from its inception, Ayasoluk delimited a sacred quarter and was not a true economic or political centre.20 Moreover, even though the bishop’s seat was transferred from Ephesos to Ayasoluk in the seventh century, the name of the bishopric always remained Ephesos. Soaring above the River Caystros, it served in this transformational period as an urban manifestation of the growing impact of Christianity.21 As early as the fourth century, the Church of Saint John and his oratory22 on the acropolis served as a Christian pilgrimage site.23 According to tradition, in the early Christian period, Saint John the Evangelist likely would have been buried on this hill in what was then a Roman cemetery. His tomb was revered even before Emperor Constantine’s conversion.24 Later, the tomb structure was replaced by a martyrion, then a three-aisled, timber-roofed church, before arriving at its final form as part of an imperial rebuilding process endowed by Justinian (r. 527–565 A. D.) and Theodora in 535–36.25 Instead of attempts to move away from the Temple of Artemis and her cult, we see the replacement of the goddess’ role with Saint John. Andreas Pülz, using archaeological and literary evidence, underscores how the vacuum in the city’s ritual life was filled by this new cult of Saint John. He observes that, although Mary would have made more sense as a replacement, the evidence indicates otherwise.26 No specific relics or pilgrimage practice surrounded the church of Mary, which was located within the walled city of Ephesos near the stadium and the gymnasium.27 Previous scholarship has shown that Ephesos, although theoretically protected by fortifications, was gradually abandoned due to a string of invasions from the seventh century on, coupled with natural events such as earthquakes and the siltification of the harbour. As a result, Ayasoluk became the de facto center of the area, and archaeological evidence with tenth- to fourteenth-century dating suggests the settlement may have had a larger catchment area of people than previously claimed by the excavators.28 Throughout the Byzantine period, the walled city of Ephesos existed more as a superstructure, a medieval cityscape slowly abandoned, whereas Ayasoluk and its Gate of Persecutions literally had the area’s sacred history engraved within it. For example, both the walls of Ayasoluk and the church of Saint John were

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built from reused pieces of the Artemision, reinforcing its role as cultic heir. Ayasoluk was comprised of two rings of fortifications (Fig.  3), one encompassing the Gate of Persecutions (3.1), the tomb (3.3), and the church of Saint John (3.4), and the second one surrounding the acropolis, where the oratory of Saint John (3.19) was located. While these were major attractions, the site could only be inhabited for brief periods by visitors due to lack of water, as evidenced by the presence of the pithoi remains and cisterns. Furthermore, the space available within the walls would have been insufficient for housing.29 Attesting to the onetime lack of water was Procopius’ reference to the barren nature of the area around the church.30 During the Justinianic period, the settlement was reconstructed and an aqueduct added to provide ample water to the district.31 With the introduction of water, several other transfers from Ephesos to Ayasoluk occurred, such as that of the bishop’s seat (3.8) and hence the construction of the sekreton (3.5), where the bishop presided as judge. The area in its entirety was eventually labelled Saint Theologos (Hagios/Ayos Theologos) for its association with the cult of the saint.32 Given this etymological provenance, Crusader-era accounts referred to the city as Sanctus Iohannes.33 Italian speakers called it Ayo Thologo and later Alto Luogo, and finally the Turkish version Ayasoluk (lit. ‘holy breath’) emerged.34 The same name with variations was retained by the Aydinids and Ottomans, who embraced the sacrality associated with the site. But they also added their own associations, such as labelling it the Throne of Jamshed, after the Persian hero and mythical king.35 Experiencing the Gate Marking the entrance to Ayasoluk, the Gate of Persecutions occupies an important role in the creation of the Byzantine sacred road. According to Mircea Eliade, the Gate of Persecutions ‘is the limit, the boundary, and the frontier that distinguishes and opposes two worlds’.36 Visitors, soon after passing through the gate, traveled under a triple Roman arch (Fig. 3.2),37 likely intensifying a sense of expectation regarding the encounter with their ultimate destination.38 Once through the Gate of Persecutions, upon arrival at the

Fig. 3.  Site map of Ayasoluk (Source: Redrawn and retouched from Ayasoluk Tepesi ve St Jean Anıtı Kazısı Takip Kapısı Projesi”, Pamukkale Üniversitesi Online Publications, 11 by author).

Church of Saint John and his tomb in the lowlands, the pilgrim reached the midpoint of the route, followed by Saint John’s oratory on the acropolis where, according to tradition, the saint wrote the Fourth Gospel. The oratory bears the inscription ‘Holy House of the Apostle’.39 Yet the Gate of Persecutions was more than a threshold to a sacred precinct. With all its ceremonial implications it also symbolized the pious or devout yearnings of the visitor and the power of pilgrimage, as well as, practically speaking, protecting the sacred precinct and its relics. Here, two examples of clay ampullae bearing the images of Saint John

warrant mention.40 In one, Saint John, who according to tradition is supposed to remain asleep until the Second Coming of Christ, shows signs of life by dispersing the manna dust with his breath (Fig. 3.3).41 In another, the Evangelist is shown resting the Gospel on his chest on one side of the ampulla and composing it on the other, possibly in his oratory. These ampullae may have been among those massproduced in Ephesos during the Justinianic period and sold to pilgrims as souvenirs. They were said to contain dust, or even holy water collected from the air shafts linked to the Evangelist’s tomb and purported to carry miraculous powers.42 The contents of

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the ampullae functioned as the blessing, or eulogia, of the Evangelist. For visitors, the ampullae acted as reminders of their encounter with the holy precinct at Ayasoluk, as well as a link to the story and miracles of the Evangelist. When the ampullae were no longer fashionable, they were replaced by hollowed crosses.43 Framing the Gate: Architectural Context and Dating The massive fortification system at Ayasoluk included not only the Gate of Persecutions but also two lesser gates on the east and west sides (3.12 and 3.13). The system’s stout defensive walls (approximately four meters thick) were arranged hierarchically, with one surrounding the acropolis and its thirteen towers, while a second, lower ring of walls included twentytwo rectangular and hexagonal towers that were placed at irregular intervals governed by no apparent organizing pattern.44 The walls consisted of a mortared rubble core covered by a veneer of spoliated pieces recovered from the nearby Artemision,45 the cemetery,46 the stadium and gymnasium, and other ruins in Ephesos. In its current iteration, the Gate of Persecutions consists of a round, arched single entrance with square towers on either side. Reliefs coming from two different sarcophagi, dated stylistically to the early third century A. D., depicted Trojan-themed scenes above the arch.47 Today at Ayasoluk only a small fragment depicting a Bacchanalia scene survives. The other reliefs were transported to England by the scholar and clergyman Francis V. J. Arundell.48 These were purchased in the 1820s by the sixth Duke, John of Bedford (1766–1839).49 They are now on display at Woburn Abbey in Bedford, UK. The dating of both the city walls and the gate remains a matter of debate. A proposal led by MüllerWiener claims that the initial date of the fortifications was likely Justinianic and the assembling of the reliefs datable to the same period.50 However, there is another group that accepts the Justinianic date for the construction of the walls but argues a later date for the construction of the Gate of Persecutions, with dates varying from the mid-seventh to the late eighth century, citing damages caused by the earthquake of 614 and the Persian invasions of 616 as reasons for remodelling.51

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Today, new archaeological evidence gathered and discussed by Mustafa Büyükkolancı, the scholar leading the excavation and restoration projects at Ayasoluk since 2007, dates the immuring of the reliefs in the gate to the late eighth century based on analysis of the excavated remains.52 Büyükkolancı has argued for two later interventions: a round arch salvaged from the older triple Roman arch was reintroduced, and the soffit of the arch was decorated with a range of apostle- or prophet-like figures depicted within an arched background fresco.53 This is supported by historical events: In 795, just after the city successfully turned back the Arab invasion, Emperor Constantine VI (r. 780–797) visited the city, which enabled Ayasoluk to finance the rebuilding of the gate and thereby secure the boundaries of the sacred city.54 Specifically, the Emperor’s visit meant Ayasoluk would receive the proceeds from the panegyrion of Saint John, which amounted to 100 pounds of gold.55 This was also the time when the towers were remodeled into pentagonal forms and the Trojan-themed reliefs added to the gate. Due to a lack of maintenance, the pentagonal-shaped outer layering is thought to have eventually collapsed, leaving the arched gate with its square towers. In the Eyes of the Travelers: From Evliya to Arundell The famed Ottoman traveler Evliya Çelebi visited Ephesus in 1671, the clergyman and Oxford scholar Thomas Smith in 1672, and the medical doctor and Cambridge scholar John Covel in 1673. Çelebi admired the gate, describing it as ‘strange and marvelous, quite ancient’. Referring to the depictions above the arches, he remarked that they ‘dazzle the eye and puzzle the mind’.56 He then compared the reliefs to those of the Athenian acropolis, fresh in his mind since he had seen them only a few years earlier.57 Upon visiting Ayasoluk, Smith observed the reliefs immured in the Gate to be Classical in date. He primarily focused on the middle panel showing Hector being dragged away, offering two different interpretations. For his book written in English, he says that there are ‘very curious figures engraven, representing several, who seemed to be haled and dragged away, as if perchance the design had been to shew how the poor Christians were formerly seized

Fig. 4.  First spoliated sarcophagus panel with the depictions of Hector being dragged behind Achilles’ chariot, Priam begging for Hector’s corpse, the return of the body of Patroclus (Source: author).

upon and treated by their heathen persecutors’.58 For the Latin edition, however, he is more cautious with his interpretation and says the figures ‘were carved with a curious and artificial hand, as if showing to the eyes someone snatched by force; what these figures signify, to me is clearly uncertain, and it is irksome to proffer conjecture ineptly’.59 Smith reports that his interpretation is based on the experiences of local Christians in the city, leading him to call it the Gate of Persecutions, the name still used today.60 Similarly, Covel describes the reliefs as depicting men in armour pulling a naked male body and accompanying female figures in mourning, but dismisses the scenes as little more than a Mithraic episode referred to in Appian, and strongly refutes any references to the Christian Persecutions.61 He derisively calls the reliefs a ‘patchit piece of work’.62 Despite Smith’s ambivalent interpretation of the reliefs found in the English and Latin editions of his

work aimed for different audiences and Covel’s erroneous identification, it is true that the scenes do not convey the narrative of Christians fleeing the Roman Persecutions.63 Instead, they are Homeric scenes from the Trojan War. One relief (Figure 4) depicts, from left to right, Hector being dragged behind Achilles’ chariot, Priam begging for Hector’s corpse, and the return of the body of Patroclus.64 The second one (Figure 5) shows, from left to right, Astyanax being pulled away from his mother Andromache together with her mourning and the Trojans paying the ransom for Hector.65 Spolia in Action: Meaning and Symbolism How might we interpret the spoliation of the reliefs on a Byzantine gate? The depiction of mythological themes on sarcophagi was a common practice during the Roman period.66 Among such scenes, those

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Fig. 5.  Second spoliated sarcophagus panel with the depictions of Astyanax being pulled away from his mother Andromache and her mourning, and the Trojans paying the ransom for Hector (Source: author).

relating to Achilles and Hector were most frequent.67 As Paul Zanker and Björn Ewald discuss, episodes from the Iliad would have been selected based on their suitability for a visual narrative. The Ayasoluk reliefs emphasize two elements of the Homeric narrative of the Trojan War in particular: the destruction of Ilion and the broader notion of death. The sarcophagi depict the atrocities of the war, including the slaughter of the weak and innocent and sanctuary offered to those who managed to escape the brutality of the conflict. The war’s aftermath is also illustrated, including widows in mourning as well as scenes of cruel death, to invoke the concepts of destiny and the helplessness of mortals in the face of fate.68

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One reason suggested for the revival of the Trojan War and death-related themes on sarcophagi is the redrawing of the political boundaries of the Roman Empire in the second and third centuries A. D. Zanker and Ewald note that, just as the Empire’s borders were imperiled, a corresponding increase in death scenes occurred.69 It is as if the Homeric poem was intended to reflect the state of the Empire. We can speculate that, at a time when Ayasoluk was recovering from an earthquake and endeavoring to protect itself against Persian attacks (614–616), war-related themes served to remind inhabitants of the importance of fortifying their own city against attackers. In essence, they were prematurely reenacting a mourning ritual.

Assuming my dating of the reconstruction to just after the 616 Persian sack of Ayasoluk and the immuring of the reliefs by 795 is accurate, I contend that the reference to the sack of Illion reflected a conscious attempt by the rebuilders at commemoration.70 In this context, the scenes involving the dragging of Hector and the plea for the recovery of the body of Patroclus may have signified wartime losses and gains endured by the residents of Ayasoluk. Because of their prominent placement at the entrance to the sacred, walled precinct, the portrayal of death, suffering, and loss may have served as a talisman against destruction that was intended to safeguard the tomb and the Church of Saint John the Evangelist. A  symbolic explanation for the re-use of sarcophagus reliefs is particularly compelling given that the gate leads directly to the city’s sacred quarters. Moreover, the reuse of the reliefs may have been designed to carry historical continuity into the Christian era rather than attempting to glorify specific Trojan references.71 Rather than beginning from a blank slate, these pieces serve to pull the past into the present, thereby serving current societal needs. But there is an alternative reading of the significance of the reliefs: The name itself, Gate of Persecutions, refers to the misfortunes associated with the city, from the sealing of the Seven Sleepers to the anti-Christian persecution of John, which resulted in his exile to Patmos. Because the reliefs are situated prominently, at a height of three meters, it was once thought that pilgrims, or perhaps inhabitants, had Christianized the visual imagery.72 This is particularly true with regard to the image of the dead Patroclus at the bottom and Hector at the right end corner. These could easily be likened to the dead body of Christ, as well as the other martyrs. One further inference can be made here. As mentioned earlier, the site of Ayasoluk was known to the Byzantines as Hēlibaton (lit. ‘steep’).73 Siren Çelik notes that helibatos (ἡλιβάτος), the adjective form of this word, is used in Book Fifteen of the Iliad to describe the Greeks’ reaction upon seeing Hector, when they are compared to game animals escaping death by running away.74 Given that Procopius’ Buildings uses λοφωδη (lit. ‘hilly’) to refer to the lofty nature of the hill and considering my dating of the immuring of the Trojanic reliefs into the Gate of Persecutions to 795, I wonder if the Homeric references were glorified and revived in this period. Perhaps this

was how the name Hēlibaton made it into the Synaxarium in the tenth century as the descriptive term for the settlement in Ayasoluk.75 As the world and poetry of Homer enjoyed a privileged position throughout antiquity, the reverence for the ‘divine’ figure of Homer’s narrative was perhaps regarded as the first-hand representation of what had happened in the Trojan War.  In those writings, the image of Odysseus lashed to the mast was interpreted as a prefiguring of Christ on the Cross.76 Later, especially in literary works from the eleventh and twelfth centuries, there are a number of examples where the Homeric tradition is borrowed and Christianized.77 This supports my thoughts on the naming of the site as Hēlibaton. The reuse of Trojan-themed reliefs bring to mind notions of permanence and timelessness.78 The Trojan imagery is Christianized with the addition of the aforementioned frescoes decorating the soffit of the arch, together with seven figures depicted before an arcaded background: four on the left and three on the right, separated by three other figures in roundels in the middle.79 Concluding Remarks As exemplified by my discussion of the use of spolia, through the Gate we can see deep layers of social, political and religious change that, rather than being separate, are woven together. Frederick W. Hasluck once argued that Ayasoluk’s sacred spaces remained more stable in the transition from paganism to Christianity than in the subsequent transfer to Islamic power.80 Although Hasluck’s assertion has some validity, a deeper examination of Ephesos, Ayasoluk, and specifically of the Gate of Persecutions suggests that, in fact, remnants of the pre-Islamic ruins endure today. My analysis is meaningful in revealing the ways in which the Gate of Persecutions itself, as well as Ayasoluk and Ephesos, are best understood when approached holistically rather than as a collection of discrete architectural elements. This comprehensive understanding spotlights how a long line of people and cultures reflected and perceived, but also appropriated and influenced, these sacred sites. Encounters with the Gate of Persecutions and the two settlements allowed residents and visitors

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alike to move from mundane to holy ground. Yet the degree to which they were able to perceive this fundamental shift was contingent on a variety of factors, including the particular condition of the sites at the time of their visit, the visitors’ points of origin, and their awareness of the constructed and spiritual layers everywhere around them. This study of the Gate of Persecutions has therefore sought to uncover the complex and bi-directional relationship between architectural elements and human perceptions of a threshold replete with history and symbolism. notes This paper derives from my ongoing study of urban transformation in the city of Ephesos at the cusp of Christian and Muslim rule, as part of my research position on ‘The Impact of the Ancient City’, in the Faculty of Classics at the University of Cambridge. Funding for the on-site and library research for this paper was generously provided by the European Research Council Grant/ ERC Advanced Grant Agreement n. 693418. An earlier incarnation of this paper was presented at a project meeting and was followed by a visit to the reliefs now on display at Woburn Abbey in Bedford, facilitated by the assistant curator, Victoria Poulton. On both occasions, I received many valuable comments and questions from team members. I  am especially grateful to Elizabeth Key Fowden and Carrie Vout, who read this piece and brought to bear their deep knowledge of Early Christian saints and aspects of sacrality and the Classical world respectively. Needless to say, that all remaining errors are mine. While examining the afterlife of the Ayasoluk castle under the Aydinids, I was struck by the Gate of Persecutions, with its puzzling sacred and architectural layering and apotropaic associations. My encounter with the story of the gate’s journey from Ayasoluk to Woburn enhanced the writing and revision of this essay, given the enthusiasm imparted for antiquities and related matters. As Bob Ousterhout once remarked, fortifications are particularly difficult to date. But the Gate of Persecutions and the city that it protects are especially compelling examples of the fortification genre, as this paper elaborates. The more I learned about the gate, the more I understood the ways in which this architectural element could shed light on so many other phenomena, from travellers’ narratives to spolia, to the power of pilgrimage and the creation of sacred spaces. My investigation allowed me to contextualize ideas and life lessons that Bob had first introduced me to, both in and out of the classroom, including his suggestion that I take classes for reading proficiency in German to fulfil my language requirements at the University of Illinois, which has proven to be deeply useful in this current line of scholarship. As a token of my gratitude, I warmly dedicate this piece to him. Daniel Jütte, ‘Entering a City: On a Lost Early Modern Experience’, Urban History, 41.2 (2014), 204–27 and more recently, Daniel Jütte, The Strait Gate: Thresholds and Power in Western History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015). 1 

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I am indebted to Livia Bevilacqua’s inspiring piece, ‘Recycling Myths in Byzantine Art.  Spolia on the Gate of Persecutions of Ephesus’, in Revisitar o Mito/Myths Revisited, ed. by Abel do Nascimento Pena et  al. (Ribeirão, V.  N. Familação: Húmus, 2015), pp. 331–41, especially the analysis on p. 339, which challenged me to re-think my ideas about the ‘language’ of the city gates and the interplay between their inner and outer boundaries. It was her work that stirred in me the desire to study the Gate of Persecutions and its architectural and symbolic framework. Whereas Bevilacqua’s discussion is specific to the Gate of Persecutions, other studies offer theoretical readings of the gate as a threshold. See Julian Gardner, ‘An Introduction to the Iconography of the Medieval Italian City Gate’, DOP, 41 (1987), 199–213, especially p.  202. For more on the western medieval perspective, see Felicity Ratté, ‘Architectural Invitations: Images of City Gates in Medieval Italian Painting’, Gesta 38.2 (1999), 142–53; Jütte, ‘Entering a City’, p. 67. For the threshold theory, Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane (NY: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1959), pp. 25 and 181. 3  Bevilacqua, ‘Recycling Myths’, p. 339. 4  Elizabeth Key Fowden, The Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergios between Rome and Iran (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), p. 3. 5  Strabo, Geography, Volume  VI: Books 13–14, trans. Horace Leonard Jones, Loeb p.  223. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929), 14.1.20 describes it as a luscious grove. For a reading on the origins, nature, and cultural pedigrees of the goddess, see Frederick E. Brenk, ‘Artemis of Ephesos: An Avant Garde Goddess’, Revue international et pluridisciplinaire de religion grecque antique 11 (1998): especially pp.  157–71; Michael Immendörfer, Ephesians and Artemis: The Cult of the Great Goddess of Ephesus in the Epistle’s Context (Tübingen: Mor Siebeck, 2017), pp. 125–40. 6  Dieter Knibbe, ‘Via Sacra Ephesiaca: New Aspects of the Cult of Artemis’, Ephesos, Metropolis of Asia. An Interdisciplinary Approach to its Archaeology, Religion, and Culture, ed. by Helmut Koester (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), pp. 148–50. There is also an environmental factor: the prograding of the Caystros’ delta into the area of the Artemision, behind this re-centering of the urban core, as evidenced by the excavations and coring. Dieter Knibbe, et al., ed. Via Sacra Ephesiaca, Vol. I. (Wien, 1993); Dieter Knibbe and Hilke Thür, ed. Via Sacra Ephesiaca, Vol.  2. (Wien, 1995); John  C. Kraft, et  al., ‘Geographies of Ancient Ephesos and the Artemision in Anatolia’, Geoarchaeology: An International Journal 22.1 (2007): pp. 129, 133–35, 143, and figure 13, especially pp. 135–45. For a discussion of the extramural and peri-urban location of the Artemision, see Brenk, ‘Artemis of Ephesos’, pp. 161–62. 7  Sabine Ladstätter, ‘Ephesus’ in The Archaeology of Byzantine Anatolia. From the End of Late Antiquity to the Coming of the Turks, ed. Philipp Niewöhner (Oxford, 2017), p. 246. 8  See fn. 6 and 7. 9  Accordingly, Norbert Zimmermann and Sabine Ladstätter, ed., Wall Painting in Ephesos from the Hellenistic to the Byzantine Period (Istanbul: Ege Yayinlari, 2011), examines the wallpainting programs dated to the Roman and Byzantine periods in Ephesos. In it, the following sections are particularly relevant to this piece: Norbert Zimmermann, ‘Byzantine Wall Paintings 2 

in Ephesos’, pp. 192–97; Renate Pillinger, ‘Grotto of Saint Paul’, pp. 174–80; Andreas Pülz, ‘So-Called Tomb of Luke’, pp. 181–83; Zimmermann and Ladstätter, ‘Cemetery of the Seven Sleepers in the Byzantine Period’, pp. 203–06; Also, see Pülz, ‘Ephesos als Pilgerzentrum’, p. 101. 10  My thoughts on the ephemerality of pilgrimage are inspired by Troels Myrup Kristensen and Wibke Friese, ‘Introduction: Archaeologies of Pilgrimage’, in Excavating Pilgrimage. Archaeological Approaches to Sacred Travel and Movement in the Ancient World, ed. by Troels Myrup Kristensen and Wibke Friese (New York: Routledge, 2017), p. 4. 11  The temple had several remodeling and rebuilding phases, but it always remained in the same location. The oldest artifacts in the temple are dated to the fourteenth century BCE. On the chronology, architecture, archaeology, and ritual practices at the Artemision, see Ulrike Muss ed., Die Archäologie der Ephesischen Artemis: Gestalt und Ritual eines Heiligtums (Vienna: Phoibos Verlag, 2008); Immendörfer, Ephesians and Artemis, pp. 125–40. 12  As discussed in detail by Knibbe, ‘New Aspects of the Cult of Artemis’, p. 145. 13  Ibid., p. 146. 14  Ibid., p. 146, fn. 8. 15  Edward  W. Bodnar and Clive Foss, Cyriac of Ancona: Later Travels. The I Tatti Renaissance Library (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 2003). 16  For an introduction to the earliest Christian remains, Clive Foss, Ephesus after Antiquity: A  Late Antique, Byzantine and Turkish City (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979), pp. 30 and 36. 17  For an introduction to those figures, see Foss, Ephesus, p. 33. 18  Other places in Turkey also claim provenance for this event, as well as sites in Syria, Jordan, China, and Tunisia. Muslim geographers were aware of references to Ephesos, and the story itself finds a correlative in Islamic tradition. See Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘Caves, Borderlands, Configurations of Sacred Topography in Medieval Anatolia’, Mésogeios, 25/26 (2005), 249–81. 19  Francis  V.  J. Arundell, Discoveries in Asia Minor (London: R. Bentley, 1834) 2: 253; Synaxarium CP, col. 664, mentions Ayasoluk with the variant Libaton; see also Foss, Ephesus, p. 46. 20  I use economic and political functions in a much broader urban and administrative sense. It is apparent that Ayasoluk had economic revenue due to pilgrimage, but this is a separate dynamic compared to the rest of the commercial activities in Ephesos. The measurement is from Andreas Külzer, ‘Ephesos im siebten Jahrhundert: Notizen zu Stadtgeschichte’, Porphyra 20.10 (2013), 9; for a broader reading of the pilgrimage dynamics, Andreas Külzer, ‘Handelsgüter and Verkehrsweger: Wirtschaftliche Aspekte byzantinischer Pilgerzentren’, in Handelsgüter und Verkehrswege. Aspekte der Warenversorgung im östlichen Mittelmeerraum (4. bis 15. Jahrhundert), ed.  by Ewald Kislinger, Johannes Koder, and Andreas Külzer (Vienna: Verlag der österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2010), pp. 185–96. 21  Synaxarium CP, col. 664 and Foss, Ephesus, p. 46. 22  This structure is located at the summit of the acropolis and bears the foundations of an apsed structure built of brick which was converted into a cistern when the Aydinid rulers took over the city in 1304. Very little of the actual building has survived,

making further excavation and stratigraphic study difficult. Otto Berndorf and William Wilberg, ‘Studien am Artemision’, Ephesos  I, 29 (1935), B146–48, especially fn.  43. Magnetic testing of the brick composition in the area found it contemporaneous with that of Saint John (i.e., dating roughly to 500); see Anton Bammer, ‘Die gebrannten Mauerziegel von Ephesos und ihre Datierung’, ÖJh, 47 (1964–65), pp. B289–300; Foss, Ephesus, pp. 92 and 94, fn. 96–97. 23  Clive Foss, ‘Pilgrimage in Medieval Asia Minor’, DOP, 56 (2002), 132; Andreas Pülz, ‘Ephesos als christliches Pilgerzentrum’, Mitteilungen zur Christlichen Archäologie, 16 (2010), 71–102; Andreas Pülz, ‘Archaeological Evidence of Christian Pilgrimage in Ephesus’, Herom, 1  (2012), 225–60; Andreas Külzer, ‘Ephesos im siebten Jahrhundert’, p. 6; Maggie Duncan-Flowers, ‘A Pilgrim’s Ampulla from the Shrine of Saint John the Evangelist at Ephesus’, The Blessings of Pilgrimage, ed. by Robert Ousterhout (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1990), pp. 125–39. 24  Foss, Ephesus, 87, and Daniel Knibbe, ‘Neu Inschriften aus Ephesos I’, ÖJh 48 (1966/67), 96–102. 25  Foss, Ephesus, 88. The first archaeological expeditions at the Church of Saint John took place in the 1920s, led by Georgios A. Soteriou, followed by the Austrian Archaeological Institute team in the late 1920s and 1930s. Further work has been carried out by Hans Hörmann, Die Johanneskirche, Forschungen in Ephesus  IV.3 (Vienna: Verlag des Österreichischen Archäologischen Institutes, 1951). In 1960–62, the Turkish Ministry of Culture and Tourism, underwritten by the Quatman Foundation (the American Society of Ephesus), conducted further excavations in and around the church – the same period during which the Gate of Persecutions began to be restored for the first time. Excavations were later continued under the auspices of the Efes/Selçuk Archaeological Museum until 2007. Mustafa Büyükkolancı, ‘Zwei neugefundene Bauten der Johannes- Kirche von Ephesos: Baptisterium und Skeuophylakion’, IstMitt, 32 (1982): 237–53; Mustafa Büyükkolancı, “Zur Bauchronologie der Justinianischen Johanneskirche in Ephesos”, JbAC, 20 (1995), 598–602; Mustafa Büyükkolancı, Johanneskirche: Das Leben des Heiligen Johannes und die Johanneskirche (Selçuk: İzmir, 2000); Andreas Thiel, Die Johanneskirche in Ephesos (Spätantike – Frühes Christentum – Byzanz) (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2005). 26  For a discussion on the absence of Mary in Early Christian Ephesos and the brief emergence of her cult in the Syriac literature of the tenth and eleventh centuries, followed by a significant revival of her image in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, see Pülz, ‘Archaeological Evidence’, pp. 225–26; Külzer, ‘Ephesos im siebten Jahrhundert’, p. 13. 27  Pülz, ‘Archaeological Evidence’, p. 228. For a more detailed discussion on the transformation of the Church of Mary, see Külzer, ‘Ephesos im siebten Jahrhundert’, pp. 12–13. 28  Külzer, ‘Ephesos im siebten Jahrhundert’, pp. 8–9. 29  Landstätter, ‘Ephesus’, p. 247; Pülz, ‘Ephesos als Pilgerzentrum’, p. 85; Pülz, ‘Das Stadtbild von Ephesos in byzantinischer Zeit’, in Ephesos in byzantinischer Zeit, ed. Falko Daim and Sabine Ladstätter (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2011), 77–78. 30  Procopius, Buildings, trans. Henry Bronson Dewing with Glanville Downey (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1940),

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7.5.1, pp. 4–6, quoting verbatim: ‘There chanced to be a certain place before the city of Ephesus, lying on a steep slope hilly and bare of soil and incapable of producing crops, even should one attempt to cultivate them, but altogether hard and rough’. 31  Foss, Ephesus, p. 92, fn. 96 for earlier bibliography and, more recently, Gilbert Wiplinger, ‘Die Wasserversorgung von Ephesos in byzantinischer Zeit’, in Byzanz- das Römerreich im Mittelalter, ed. by Falko Daim and Jörge Drauschke (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 2010), II, 593–613 and more recently Jordan Pickett, ‘Water and Empire in the De aedificiis of Procopius’, DOP, 71 (2018), p. 103 and Table 1. 32  While previous scholarship cast Ayasoluk as a later settlement that initially functioned during the Middle Ages, recent archaeological expeditions in the area have revealed a history of settlement dating to the Hittite period. For the etymology of Ephesos, John Garstang and Oliver Robert Gurney have suggested ‘Apasa’, mentioned in the fourteenth century B. C. Hittite tablets, primarily known as the Arzawa letters, ‘The Geography of the Hittite Empire’, Occasional Publications of the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara 5 (London, 1959), pp. 83–100. The excavations on the acropolis corroborate the textual evidence, on which see Mustafa Büyükkolancı, ‘Excavations on Ayasuluk Hill in Selçuk, Turkey’, in Die Ägäis und das westliche Mittelmeer: Beziehungen und Wechselwirkung 8 bis 5 J h. v. Chr., Akten des Symposions, Wien, 24. bis 27. März 1999, ed. Friedrich Krinzinger (Vienna: Institut für Klassische Archäologie, 2000): pp. 39–43. More recently, Peter Scherrer, ‘D’Apasa á Hagios Théologos, histoire et habitat de la région d’Ephèse de la préhistoire á l’époque byzantine, vue sous l’angle des contraintes maritimes et fluviales’, in Archéologie et environnement dans la Méditerranée antique, ed. by François Dumasy and François Queyrel (Geneva: Droz, 2009), pp. 25–54. The first written evidence linking the city with the name ‘Theologos’ dates to the ninth century; the vita of Saint Lazarus, dated to the first decade of the eleventh century, includes such evidence as well, along with a document dated to 1082 referring to a treaty with Venice. Foss, Ephesus, p.  121; for further bibliography, see fn. 19 and 21. 33  Odo of Deuil, De Profectione Ludovici VII in orientem, ed. by Virginia Gingerick Berry (New York: Columbia University Press, 1948), p.  106; Willibald, Epistulae  I, ed. by Peter Jaffe (Berlin, 1864), p. 153. 34  For consistency, I use the term ‘Ayasoluk’ throughout this piece. Foss, Ephesus, pp. 120–22. Despite suggesting that the name is, in fact, a combination of two Turkish words, Aya (holy) and Soluk (breath), A. Pülz, in his ‘Archaeological Evidence’, p. 233, fn. 33, proposes that the name is indeed a corruption of Saint John’s nickname. One wonders why the two explanations cannot coexist. Indeed, in both academic and everyday references to the site, there are two more alternative spellings: Ayasuluk (literally, ‘holy water cup’) and Ayasülûk (‘spiritual path’). Each Turkish version offers interesting parallels to the notion of sacredness. However, in light of our present knowledge, we cannot be certain that these names play any part in the Late Medieval, Islamic/Turkish perception of the site. One final and amusing etymological discussion involves Arundell’s proposal in Discoveries in Asia Minor, 2, 252, that the name Aiasaluk or Ajaslik (the latter used by the historian of Timur, when the city was sacked in 1402), literally ‘the

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little moon or crescent’, is ‘an allusion to the worship of Ephesian Diana, as well as the talisman of the Turks’. 35  For the Aydinid and Ottoman perceptions of Ayasoluk see Foss, Ephesus, pp. 141–81 and pp. 174–75 and, most recently Johannes Pahlitzch, ‘The Greek Orthodox communities of Nicaea and Ephesus Under Turkish Rule in the 14th Century: A New reading of Old Sources’, in Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia, ed. by Andrew C. S. Peacock and others (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), pp. 147–53; Yücel Dağlı, Seyit Ali Kahraman, and Robert Dankoff, Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, (Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayınları, 2005), IX, 151. For further reiterations in a Persianate context, see Roy Mottahadeh, ‘The Eastern Travels of Solomon: Re-imagining Persepolis and the Iranian Past’, in Law and Tradition in Classical Arabic Thought, ed. by Michael Cook and others (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), pp. 247–67. 36  See fn. 2. Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane, p. 25 and p. 181. 37  In a similar arrangement, pilgrims entered through a triple Roman arch (recalling the earlier excavated remains of a triple Roman arch, fn. 53, in this piece) and took the path to the south side of the church at Qalat Siman, as examined by Ann Marie Yasin, ‘The Pilgrim and the Arch: Paths and Passageways at Qa‘lat Seman, Sinai, Abu Mena and Tebessa’, in Excavating Pilgrimage: Archaeological Approaches to Sacred Travel and Movement in the Ancient World, ed. by Troels Myrup Kristensen and Wibke Friese (London: Routledge, 2017), pp. 171–72 and figure 10.3. 38  Ibid., 168. 39  See fn. 22 and 33 in this piece. For a discussion of the iconography of the ampullae, see Duncan–Flowers, ‘A Pilgrim’s Ampulla’, pp.  136–37, fn.  14, and Derek Krueger, Writing and Holiness: The Practice of Authorship in the Early Christian East (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013), pp. 49–50, fn. 83. The pilgrims who discuss the oratory are Gregory of Tours and Willibald. 40  Ibid., both reportedly originated in Ephesos. One is now located at the Spurlock Museum at the University of Illinois, Champaign-Urbana. See Duncan–Flowers, ‘A Pilgrim’s Ampulla’, pp. 125–39; the other is in The Art Museum at Princeton University, on which see Slobodan Ćurčić and Archer St Clair, Byzantium at Princeton (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), pp. 120–21. 41  Air shafts to let out the dust have been identified beneath the tomb chambers. Hörmann, Die Johanneskirche, p. 198, figure 51. 42  Pülz, ‘Archaeological Evidence’, p. 242, referring to the provision of water for the site during the Justinianic period, questions the discovery of a pithos embedded in the ground to the north of the grave chambers and the presence of hydraulic infrastructure, which would mean water was also part of the eulogia. 43  Ibid., pp.  239–40, figure 7 for a hollowed cross found in the excavations. 44  Wolfgang Müller–Wiener, ‘Mittelalterliche Befestigungen im südlichen Ionien’, IstMitt, 11 (1961), 90–111, especially pp.  107– 08; Foss, Ephesus, pp. 103, 107, 113, 135, 137 and 198. 45  Muss ed., Die Archäologie der ephesischen Artemis; Immendörfer, Ephesians and Artemis, pp. 125–40; Knibbe, ‘Via Sacra Ephesiaca’, pp. 141–55. 46  The earliest identification of the necropolis in the area is by Knibbe, ‘Neue Inschriften aus Ephesos I’, pp. 96–98.

Elizabeth Angelicoussis, The Woburn Abbey Collection of Classical Antiquities (Monumenta Artis Romanae XX) (Mainz: Von Zabern, 1992), pp.  82–83 and fn.  30. Slight differences in the heights of the central and side panels suggest that the reliefs may have come from two different sarcophagi: Bevilacqua, ‘Recycling myths, p. 337, fn. 8. The measurements are given by Angelicoussis, The Woburn Abbey Collection, p. 79. The pieces are now assembled in the shape of a single sarcophagus and stored in a depot at Woburn Abbey. 48  Fn. 19 in this piece. The book cover of Ernst Rudolf ’s Attische Sarkophage aus Ephesus (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1989), gives a snapshot of the dismantling of the reliefs, as it depicts the very moment these pieces were lying on the ground. Also see Luigi Mayer, Views in the Ottoman Dominions, in Europe in Asia, and Some of the Mediterranean Islands (London: P. Bowyer, 1810). 49  Angelicoussis, Woburn Abbey Collection, pp. 13–16. 50  Müller–Wiener, ‘Mittelalterliche Befestigungen’, pp.  95–97; Pülz, ‘Das Stadtbild von Ephesos’, pp.  51–81; Thiel, Die Johanneskirche, p.  115. Foss, Ephesus, p.  113; Landstätter, ‘Ephesus’, p.  245. For a recent piece on the analysis of the gate that proposes a seventh-century date for the immuring of the reliefs, see Vasilis Ayiannides and Petros Mextidis, ‘Η “Πύλη του Διωγμού” στην Έφεσο’, in H Oχυρωματική Aρχιτεκτονική στο Aιγαίο και ο Mεσαιωνικός Oικισμός Aναβάτου Xίου, ed. by Aριστέα Kαββαδία and Παναγιώτης Δαμούλος (Chios: Alpha Pi Books, 2012), pp.  49–55, especially pp.  49–50. I thank Sotiris Voyadjis for sharing a copy of this piece with me. Angelicoussis, The Woburn Abbey Collection, p.  79, fn.  1; Ine Jacobs, ‘Gates in Late Antiquity. The Eastern Mediterranean’, Babesch 84 (2009), 197–213, especially p. 199. Jacobs has claimed here an uncertain mid-sixthcentury dating. 51  Michael Greenhalgh, Marble Past, Monumental Present. Building with Antiquities in the Medieval Mediterranean (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp.  205 and 241; Bevilacqua, ‘Recycling Myths’, p.  335; John Haldon, Byzantium in the Seventh Century. The Transformation of a Culture (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1997), pp. 212–14, associates the beginning of this theme with a decree passed in 687. Mustafa Büyükkolancı, “Ayasoluk Tepesi ve St Jean Anıtı Kazısı Takip Kapısı Projesi”, Pamukkale Üniversitesi Online Publications, 11, accessed online, 26 February 2018, pp. 14–17. Büyükkolancı also dates the eighth-century frescoes found on the soffit of the brick arch within the same context to the remodeling phase, while cautioning about several details, such as the busts surrounded by garlanded medallions, which find their closest comparisons in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, p. 17, figures 15–16. At present, lacking a thorough restoration, the figures and narratives portrayed are difficult to identify. However, the depiction of the figures in an arched background, combined with prophet-like figures, suggests a connection to decorative programs used in tenth-century Cappadocian churches. I thank Tolga Uyar for sharing his initial thoughts on this fresco program. For the earthquake and invasion damage in the reign of Heraclius (r. 610–41), see Foss, Ephesus, p. 107. Confining the destruction to the seventh century has been disproven by recent archaeological finds. For details on a longer destruction and gradual transformation of the Byzantine city of Ephesos and the emergence 47 

of Ayasoluk using a much larger framework discussing military, environmental, and religious factors, see Andreas Külzer, ‘Ephesos in byzantinischer Zeit: ein historischer Überblick’, in Byzanzdas Römerreich im Mittelalter, II, 34 and more recently, Andreas Külzer, ‘Ephesos im siebten Jahrhundert’, pp. 6–12. 52  Büyükkolancı, ‘Ayasoluk Tepesi’, accessed online, 26 February 2018, pp. 14–17. 53  Ibid. and fn. 37 and 51 in this piece. 54  Written for the book edited by Philipp Niewöhner, Jim Crow’s chronology follows the terminology that was established by the volume’s editor, on which see Philipp Niewöhner, ‘Introduction’, The Archaeology of Byzantine Anatolia. From the End of Late Antiquity to the Coming of the Turks, ed. by Philipp Niewöhner (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), p. 2. The invasion period is noted as occurring from the seventh to the ninth centuries. Crow, ‘Fortifications’, p. 97. 55  Foss, Ephesus, p.  110; Külzer, ‘Handelsgüter und Verkehrsweger’, pp. 185–96; Crow, ‘Fortifications’, p. 97. 56  Robert Dankoff and Kim Sooyong, An Ottoman Traveller: Extracts from the ‘Book of Travels’ of Evliya Çelebi (London: Eland, 2010), p. 310. For a full account of Evliya’s observation of Ayasoluk, Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, XI, 73. 57  For Athens, Evliya Çelebi Seyahatnamesi, VIII, 161; Elizabeth Key Fowden, ‘The Parthenon, Pericles and King Solomon: a case study of Ottoman archaeological imagination in Greece’, BMGS, 42 (2018), 263–68. 58  Thomas Smith, Remarks upon the Manners, Religion, and Government of the Turks (London: Moss Pitt, 1678), p. 261. For a recent analysis of Smith’s interpretations on the Gate, Thomas Roebuck, ‘Antiquarianism in the Near East: Thomas Smith (16381710) and His Journey to the Seven Churches of Asia’ Beyond Greece and Rome: Reading the Ancient Near East in Early Modern Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020), pp. 144–47. 59  As discussed by Roebuck, ibid, 145 and Thomas Smith, Epistolae duae, quarum altera de moribus ac institutis Turcarum agit: altera septem Asiae ecclesiarum notitiam continet (Oxford, 1672), p. 161. I use the translation by Roebuck for the Latin quotation, see ibid, fn. 69. 60  Smith, Remarks upon the Manners, p. 261. 61  John Covel, British Library MS. Add 22912, p.  46v–47r. On Covel, Lucy Pollard, The Quest for Classical Greece (London: IB Tauris, 2015), p. 143. 62  BL, MS. Add. 22912, 72 r. His writing appears to be missing a word. 63  Ibid.; Foss, Ephesus, figure 39 uses this image, and the Gate of Persecutions is numbered 2 in the depiction of Ephesos/Ayasoluk. The notion of the persecution remains vivid in the naming of the gate across different languages: e.g., La Porte de la Persecution (in French), Tor der Verfolgung (in German), Πύλη του Διωγμού (in Greek), and Takip Kapısı “Gate of the Chase” or “Gate of Chasing” (in Turkish). 64  Bevilacqua, ‘Recycling myths’, p.  335, notes that Patroclos’ return to the Achaean camp appears early in the Homeric poem. 65  The descriptions of the scenes are examined in detail, making reference to the Homeric version of the Trojan narrative, with an emphasis on the figures and the execution of carving and costume details by Angelicoussis, The Woburn Abbey Collection, pp. 80–81.

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Paul Zanker and Björn  C. Ewald, Living with Myths: The Imagery of Roman Sarcophagi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 32–34. 67  Ibid., pp. 283–84. 68  Ibid., pp. 70 and 74. 69  Ibid., pp. 109 and 262. 70  See the earlier discussion in fn. 51–55 in this piece. For a similar example of commemoration, Benjamin Anderson, “Leo III and the Anemodoulion,” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 104.1 (2011), 41–54, discusses how, at the order of Leo III (r. 717–41), reused pieces dating to the late antique period were assembled into the Anemoudoulion, the monumental weatherwane in Constantinople, to commemorate the capsizing of the Arab fleets ships due to winds during the siege of 717–8. 71  Helen Saradi, “Christian Attitudes to Pagan Monuments in Late Antiquity”, DOP, 44 (1990), 52–53; Cyril Mango, ‘Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder’, DOP, 17 (1963), 55–75; Mark  C. Bartusis, ‘The Functions of Archaizing in Byzantium’, Byzantinoslavica 56, (1995), 271–78; Gilbert Dagron, Emperor and Priest. The Imperial Office in Byzantium, trans. Jane Birrell, (Cambridge, 2003), p.  36; Amy Papalexandrou, ‘Memory Tattered and Torn: Spolia in the Heartland of Byzantine Hellenism’, in Archaeologies of Memory, ed.  by Susan Alcock and Ruth  M. Van Dyke (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2003), pp.  56–80; Sarah Guberti Bassett, The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformation of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 66 

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Here I follow Benjamin Anderson, ‘“An Alternative Discourse”: Local Interpreters of Antiquities in the Ottoman Empire’, Journal of Field Archaeology, 40.4 (2015), 450–60, on the local interpretation of classical themes and remains. 73  Fn. 19 in this piece. 74  For the Homeric reference, Iliad, Volume, II: Book 15, trans. Augustus Taber Murray, Loeb 170. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1924), p. 273; Siren Çelik, Manuel II Palaiologos (1350–1425): A  Byzantine Emperor in a Time of Tumult (Cambridge University Press, forthcoming 2020), the section on Manuel  II’s (r.  1391–1425), Letter 16, lines 7–10. I  thank Siren Çelik for sharing her work prior to its publication and discussing the intricacies of the term. Çelik discusses how Manuel II’s description of the mountains and the flight in Asia Minor is comparable to the Homeric narrative. 75  Footnotes 19, 30 54 and 55 in this piece. 76  Julia Hillner, ‘Homer in Late Antiquity’, Oxford Dictionary of Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), I, 737. The pastiche of poetic forms containing lines from a classical text and utilizing them in a new context is known as the cento, as discussed in the same volume: Scott McGill, ‘Cento, Greek’, Oxford Dictionary of Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), I, 309. 77  Robert Lamberton, Homer the Theologian (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), p. 248. 78  Bartusis, ‘The Functions of Archaizing’, pp. 270–78. 79  See fn. 3. 80  Frederick William Hasluck, Christianity and Islam under the Sultans (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1929), pp. 113–18. 72 

Carving, Painting, and Inscribing Sacred Space in Late Byzantium

Bezirana Kilisesi Rediscovered (Peristrema-Cappadocia) Tolga B. Uyar Following the establishment of the Seljuk Sultanate as the main political and economic power in late twelfth-century Anatolia,1 Christian art and architecture in Cappadocia remained attached to Byzantine traditions, drawing upon a variety of sources shared by different Christian cultures in the eastern Mediterranean.2 While the artistic production of Cappadocia provides plentiful evidence of this shared vocabulary, which spread across different spheres of cultural and political influence, Cappadocian Christian art and architecture also maintained aspects of a Byzantine communal identity, particularly when it came to the sacred dimension of worship and commemoration spaces.3 The conventional pattern for the study of sacred space in Byzantium focuses on the network of interactions between architectural form and function, ritual and liturgical text, and iconographic programs.4 However, recent input from broader theoretical and methodological discussions across the humanities creates a more dynamic view, placing emphasis on the ‘beholder’s share’. Principally inspired by reception theory and taking into account sensorial experiences, current art historical approaches foster new connections between verbal, visual and sensorial communication, posing related questions about the role of the patron and church users in seeing and living within sacred space.5 Using the carved interior, inscriptions, and painted decorations of Bezirana Kilisesi in Cappadocia as a case study, in light of recent theoretical discussions this paper aims to illustrate to what extent the making of sacred space in a remote region outside imperial territory – and under Islamic rule – can mimic

the well-established patterns and symbol systems of Byzantium’s urban and cultural centers. The Church The church lies at the outskirts of Belisırma (Byzantine Peristrema),6 a small village located in the Ihlara valley, some twenty-five miles southeast of Aksaray, an important urban center under Seljuk authority.7 It is a rock-carved funerary monument of modest size painted at the end of the thirteenth century. The first partial study of the church by Jacqueline LafontaineDosogne dates back to 1968.8 While Nicole Thierry and Catherine Jolivet-Lévy subsequently explored some features of the painted program,9 their studies were based exclusively on old photographs, as the monument appears to be untraceable to scholars for some reason after the 1980s.10 In 2010, the locals of Belisırma agreed to show scholar Hülya Şahna a tiny hole into the church during her doctoral field research.11 Bezirana Kilisesi, whose dedication to the Theotokos is now confirmed by a dedicatory inscription, is a single-aisled church. Its nave measures approximately 3.8 meters by 2.1 meters, and its flat ceiling is divided into four relief coffers that form a carved cross framed by a heavy crown molding (Fig. 1). The bema is slightly horseshoe-shaped with low templon panels, a low bench to the south, a prothesis niche to the north, and the altar against the rear wall. Two small arched niches appear on either side of the bema, symmetrically framing the eastern wall of the nave (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1.  Bezirana Kilisesi, naos, looking east, image of the scaled 3D mesh model created with Agisfot Photoscan software (Source: author).

Fig. 2.  Bezirana Kilisesi, naos, looking southwest, image of the scaled 3D mesh model created with Agisfot Photoscan software (Source: author).

The north wall is lined with three high arcades; the eastern one is a tiny barrel-vaulted space (Fig. 4). The tomb cut into the floor and a long epitaph mark this privileged burial area that opens into the nave. The central and the western blind arcades of the north wall may also have accommodated burials in the floor level. The south wall is adorned with three similar arcades, two of which are arched doorways that give access to two annexes connected through a passageway (Fig. 2).

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This passageway, as well as much of the eastern chamber, may represent later carving, while the western chamber housed the original entrance. The western wall is punctuated by three high arcades; the central one is an arched doorway that leads to a tiny blocked rectangular space (Figs  2, 3). Do we have another privileged burial here? Only an excavation could reveal the function of this space, where one would expect to find the original entrance of the church on

Fig. 3.  Bezirana Kilisesi, naos, looking toward the west wall, image of the scaled 3D mesh model created with Agisfot Photoscan software (Source: author).

axis with the apse. Two lateral arcades are blind, and presently the church is accessed through an opening in the northern arcade of the west wall that partially destroyed the rear wall and its embellishment. Carving and Painting the Sacred Space As occurs frequently in the rock-cut architecture of Cappadocia, the wall articulations of the church of Theotokos near Belisırma accentuate the architectonic character of the space; the interior walls are lined with high blind arcades and pilasters, emphasizing the architectural structure and decorative program.12 Both carved and painted decorations are closely linked to the function and symbolic meaning of the sacred space. The sanctuary and extension offer the most prominent zone in which the visual language of both the non-figural and figural painted decoration merges with the materiality of the carved ornamentation in an effort to emphasize the iconic character of the sacred space (Fig. 1). Two thick pilasters with capitals of lively-rendered volutes (both carved and painted) frame the large, high apse opening. In the same manner, on the upper corners of the east wall, carefully carved half-volutes augment the dynamism and three-dimensionality of the eastern portion of the church space.

The spandrels between the carved capitals and the apse arch are symmetrically filled with two painted roundels. The red color of the southern disk and the dark gray of the northern one suggest the sun and moon. Antique symbols of cosmic power associated with the divinity of Christ, these two planetary bodies highlight the timeless authority of Christ in various iconographical settings such as the Apocalyptic Vision, the Crucifixion, and the Second Coming of Christ. At first glance, their status as an isolated iconographic feature in the eastern wall seems unusual, yet they appear to be associated with the program of the sanctuary that combines a well-developed Melismos in the apse wall and a Deesis in the conch.13 The ciborium over the Amnos and the eucharistic inscriptions on the scrolls of bishops were the visual focus of the program, intended to be seen by the faithful over the sacred threshold (Fig. 1).14 The ciborium, a symbolic depiction of Golgotha associated with the death, burial and Resurrection of Christ15 and the depiction of the Deesis, representation par excellence of the intercessory prayer, offer not only a liturgical reference but also a heavenly vision outside time for the faithful who are visually disconnected from the sacred mystery celebrated in the sanctuary. In one of his portrayals of the Divine Liturgy from the Painter’s Manual, Dionysios of Fourna begins his description of the heavenly vision associated with

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Fig. 4.  Bezirana Kilisesi, naos, looking northwest and interior of the apse, image of the scaled 3D mesh model created with Agisfot Photoscan software (Source: author).

the Eucharist and the prayer of intercession with the words, ‘Heaven, with the sun, moon and stars; Christ is sitting in the midst…’.16 Solar and lunar evocations at the apse opening of the Bezirana Kilisesi created a meaningful dynamic between what was going on in the sanctuary and what was seen and/or unseen, heard, smelled, and felt by the faithful;17 moreover, these evocations seem to contribute to the symbolic perception of the entire eastern wall as a ‘spatial icon’.18 The painted ornaments and carved environment of the apse opening in the Theotokos church at Belisırma have another frame of reference, apart from the liturgical function of the sacred space. The pilasters and capitals that constitute the carved framework highlight the correlation between the symbolic content of the two niches of the eastern wall and the function of the screen barrier as both an apotropaic boundary of the sacred space and a protecting threshold.19 Both niches are decorated with ornamental crosses accompanied by tetragrams, confirming their protective and prophylactic function (Fig.  1). To the south, ‘E O Θ T, Ἑλένῃ Ὤφθη Θεοῦ Τάφος’ (The Tomb of God appeared to Helen), and to the north, ‘[IC] XC N[I] KA, [’I(ησοῦ)ς] Χ(ριστὸ)ς ν[ι]κᾷ’ ( Jesus Christ conquers).20 Another, now lost inscription, documented by Jacqueline Lafontaine-Dosogne, at the front of the rock-carved altar reads: ‘Οὕτως ἔδωκεν τὴν νίκην

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καὶ τὸ κράτος’ (Thus (the Cross) gave the victory and power).21 An extremely rich variety of floral and geometrical patterns along with the carved program create a manuscript, folio-like impression and quality not only on the eastern wall but also in the rest of the naos, although to a lesser extent. Colorful painted ornamentation comprises an extensive program in a network of successive circles, diamond-shaped tiles, and stylized floral patterns.22 The lower east wall and the low templon screens at the sanctuary entrance decorated with a pattern of interlaced squares, each of which contains a floral motif, simulate in a realistic way the sculpted slabs carved in low relief of the Middle Byzantine period (Fig.  1).23 Another realistic depiction of faux marble can be observed under dirt on the lower southern wall (Fig. 4). Apart from the accurately imitated marble panels, it consists of concentric circles in the center of a series of square plaques whose spandrel corners are decorated with a fleur-de-lis form attached to the outer ring of the central circular motif. This particularly notable design element, found in Constantinopolitan depictions of textile patterns, seems to be rare in the sculpted repertoire of the Byzantine capital during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. However, it is exemplified by a fragmentary arch spandrel in the Istanbul Archeological Museum,24 unlike in the Frankish-influenced

Peloponnese at the same period, where several iterations of this spandrel survive.25 The painted imitations of the Middle and Late Byzantine carved slabs are enriched with darker or lighter brush strokes that accentuate the play of perspective, luminosity, and contrast across the surface. The three-dimensional plasticity of the carved pilasters, the capitals on the eastern wall, and the effect of lighting devices reflect the material strategies of the painting makers and users, as well as the agency and affective properties of visual language in sacred and other social contexts. Within the provincial setting of Cappadocia in this period, the painted rendition of such architectural elements must have been something spectacular, suggesting the splendor of the metropolitan monuments. Thus, the communicative power of non-figurative wall paintings was not limited to aesthetic content or the excellence of the painter; the paintings emphasized sensory and embodied experiences of the sacred. A  worshipper entering the Bezirana Kilisesi at the end of the thirteenth century would have immediately understood the visual and material allusions to the Byzantine world in the wall paintings carefully orchestrated by the donor, an educated elite Christian member of the Anatolian society. The interplay between visual and material from the perspective of cultural translation reveals the Byzantine identity of the patron, yet another abstract pattern linked to the significance of the sacred space reflects an additional layer in his personal identity. A lavish red zigzag or chevron pattern appears on a white background in the intrados of the apse arch (Fig. 4). Existing in the late antique tradition as part of the sculptural ornamentation, the zigzag pattern is very common in the ceramic decoration of the Middle and Late Byzantine periods.26 However, its use in Bezirana Kilisesi seems to go beyond the mere replication of a Byzantine trope. The points in every horizontal chevron line terminate both on top and bottom in a stylized form that evokes the tip of a sharp metallic object. This pattern may be an abstract representation of different emblematic forms such as bow and arrow, spearhead, banner, staff, or tent pole head. Thus the whole pattern could hypothetically be interpreted as the stylized amalgamation of different signs or devices, and the red hue as the color of political power for both dynastic and personal rulership in Seljuk Anatolia or in wider Asia Minor.27

One of the pertinent symbols of authority and rulership in thirteenth-century eastern Mediterranean, the zigzag pattern is found in various artistic and architectural contexts across borders, ethnicities, and religious beliefs.28 Similarly associated with the religious Christian iconography in Cappadocia due to its apotropaic and protective connotations, the alternating color chevron motif appears over the shields of the holy riders in the late thirteenth-century painted programs of the church of Yüksekli 1, the church of Saint George in Belisırma, and the church of Stratelates in Güzelöz29 – all closely linked to Bezirana Kilisesi in style, iconography, and epigraphy. The same bicolor zigzag pattern appears in the shield of the holy rider represented on a thirteenth-century painted bowl from northern Syria, which contains Seljuk, Crusader Byzantine influences.30 In the Theotokos church near Belisırma, the white background of the chevron motif, which contrasts dramatically with the gray-blue background in the rest of the wall paintings, aims to highlight its specific significance as visual threshold for the sacred (Fig.  4). I  believe the inclusion of a Seljuk insignia of authority and rulership in the decorative program of the sanctuary, which reproduces Late Byzantine concepts and manners of art and liturgy, is an impressively evocative case of how personal identity, individuality, and subjectivity were fashioned, represented, and performed in late medieval Cappadocia. In the previously mentioned church of the Stratelates in Mavrucan, the iconography of a large wall panel depicting the holy riders slaying the dragon offers a comparable case to the attempt for the construction of a complex identity through visuality in Bezirana Kilisesi. In Mavrucan, Saint George carries a sword in his right hand to attack the dragon. This differs from the conventional iconographic formula that shows the saint raising a spear, and this iconographic element, in which the spear is substituted with a sword, remains a hapax in the visual culture of the Christian East at this time. The inclusion of the sword in traditional iconography of dragon-slaying saints apparently derived from the royal imagery of a mounted warrior carrying a sword, frequently found in Islamic Anatolia from the twelfth century onward. This symbol speaks to the political authority and rulership of the Christian donor, as well as the cultural, political, or ideological relationship between the Christian donor and the Seljuq Rūm society in

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Fig. 5.  Bezirana Kilisesi, naos, ceiling, looking east, image of the scaled 3D mesh model created with Agisfot Photoscan software (Source: author).

which he must have held an important position. In the same manner as the hybrid iconography of Saint George on horseback slaying the dragon with a sword in the church of Stratelates in Mavrucan, the notion of Christian sacred space in Bezirana Kilisesi has been used to divulge the personal identity of the donor erected upon the shared apotropaic beliefs and chivalric cultures of that time.31 Therefore, the way in which the sacred environment of the church of Bezirana was conceived raises questions about visual replication of the physical materials in the making of images, act of display, construction of identity, and cultural hybridity. Finally, it expands the methodological issues related to visuality, materiality, and intermediality between Byzantium and Christian Cappadocia during the late medieval period.32 Some of these abstract ornaments seem to function as frameworks for emphasizing and introducing the spatial-hierarchical organization of the figural paintings.33 For example, the Transfiguration and Baptism, along with two other compositions that do not survive, are in framed panels in the ceiling (Fig. 5). The only feast images of the program, these four scenes have been physically and symbolically separated from the figures of saints on the lower level by a border of floral ornaments inscribed in circles, thereby turning the entire ceiling into a framed icon composed of four scenes of the Great Feasts. Current scholarship

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on the notion of framing a devotional object or space associates the decorative frame with a vehicle of spiritual reality that functions as a sacred threshold.34 The creation of the sacred environment in Bezirana Kilisesi therefore raises additional issues concerning the materiality of the wall painting. Here the frame’s role does not seem limited in order to convey the view and intercede in favor of the spectator, but also to establish a more intimate connection between the donor and the spatial icon on the ceiling, revealing both the patrons’ predilection for a complex display and his privileged status. Two additional symbolic ornamental patterns were used for the articulation of space: the step pattern (or the radiant freeze) and the folded-plate pattern. Employed from the early to Middle Byzantine period, they become a standard feature in Byzantine monumental painting, manuscript illuminations, icons, and so on during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.35 On the face of the arches, alternate depictions of the step pattern and the folded-plate pattern create sacred boundaries in Bezirana Kilisesi (figs 1, 2, 3, 4). Two ornaments alternately demarcate the pictorial program of the sanctuary in the blind arcades: the painted icons of military saints, and an archangel with the three youths in the fiery furnace. Furthermore, two symmetrical roundels containing a three-dimensional folded star pattern, common in the ornamental repertoire of Late Byzantine

art (and found also in the late thirteenth-century painted program of the Church at Yüksekli in Cappadocia), are depicted in the spandrels of the west wall and highlight the symbolic content of the central blind arcade (Fig.  3).36 In the same manner as the step pattern and the folded-plate pattern on the face of the arches, these circular ornaments flank the image of the three youths in the fiery furnace which, in turn, are placed above the dedicatory inscription. The folded star pattern, an additional adornment for the frame that constitutes the center blind arcade and its visual and scriptural content, functions as a sacred boundary that defines a space of contact and access between not only the patron but also the faithful and the ‘spatial icon’ conceived in the west wall. The group of abstract patterns are ultimately echoed by the floral arrangements that border the portraits of martyrs in four roundels, placed in the spandrels of the blind arcades on the south and north wall (figs 2, 4). The concept of embellishment individualizes units and zones following the spatial connotations as liturgical, votive, commemorative, and protective. Embellishment also connects separate elements in a network of messages on behalf of the patron and emphasizes his effort in constructing a devotional identity. This effort should be understood in the context of the emergence of adornment as a critical category in later Byzantine aesthetics and the active involvement of the ktetor in this elite cultural and artistic culture of late Byzantine civilization. In several areas where the paintings are damaged, another type of non-figural ornamentation linked to the sacral character of the space can be observed through a previous layer of painting, likely executed shortly before the main fresco decoration (figs 1, 2, 3, 4). This simple linear painting in earthy, ochre tones was applied directly to the rock surface and is very common in Cappadocia in all periods. It is generally assumed that this rudimentary ‘folkloric’ decoration was likely completed by the carver-architects right after the carving process to mark the church interior as a sacred space.37 The distinctive characteristic of this decoration is therefore meant to emphasize architectural details such as arches, moldings, cornices, pilasters, capitals, and so on, as in Bezirana Kilisesi. On the faces of the arches of the nave distinctive’s blind arcades is the ornament of red lines alternating with semicircles, imitating the bricklike patterns commonly used in ceramic plastic decoration of Late

Byzantine architecture, but also to some extent in Seljuk Anatolia in the same context (figs 2, 3).38 However, the most significant adornment marks the east wall: a complex knot pattern on the face of the apse arch, in which the red pigment stands out against a white background in areas of patterning (figs  1, 4). The typology of this particular interwoven three-lace form is common from the twelfth century onward in Byzantine templon barriers and in the monumental portals of large Seljuk religious and secular public buildings.39 Although they were later covered by the ‘real’ painters, the preliminary layer underneath the frescoes in Bezirana Kilisesi is extensive and carefully done. It was likely intended as a symbolic decorative program, attentively orchestrated in connection with the significance of the sacred space. Here again the nexus of notions such as materiality, visuality, and cultural hybridity sheds light on the identity of donors, carvers, and painters, as well as their links to the Anatolian and Byzantine worlds. The case of Bezirana Kilisesi exhibits both the ability and adaptability of architects working in stone, as well as painters in the creation of sacred space within the church interior. Generally speaking, there is not a precise masonry prototype lying behind the carved forms in Cappadocia, and deviation from the norm is quite common.40 However, in Bezirana Kilisesi, closely associated architect-carvers and painters seem to have succeeded in realistic renderings of three dimensionality and dynamism within the rockcarved architectural space. On the other hand, while the architectural space and painted program are richly and genuinely articulated, they lack symmetry, thus following the aesthetics of the Late Byzantine era.41 A certain taste – I would even venture to say a connoisseurship of Late Byzantine art and architecture – seems to be a leading force behind the carved and painted interior in Bezirana Kilisesi. Inscribing the Sacred Space At a growing rate, recent scholarship continues to stress the close relationship between the verbal and the visual in the Middle Ages. Figural and abstract representations and texts, as well as rituals involving sensorial experiences and an environment projected by the donor (particularly through his/her literary

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aspirations), certainly overlapped. Bezirana Kilisesi offers an original case study of the commonalities in the use of writing as art in the Late Byzantine world. An exploration of the inscriptions in the church reveals the motivations underlying their production and use. Starting from the bema, a rich body of inscriptions surrounds the inner space of the monument, creating an additional setting centered on the visuality, materiality, and performativity of the script. It is thus imperative to explore diverse formal, artistic, and spatial approaches of communication in regard to this richly-inscribed environment. As is the case in many thirteenth-century churches in Cappadocia, the conch of the apse, which belongs to the heavenly zone, is occupied by the image of the Deesis. The funerary function of the church justifies the communality of the intercessory image par excellence. But an additional scriptural statement, the Cappadocian epithet of ‘[ΙC] ΧC Ο ΦΙΛΑΝΘΡΩΠΟC, [’I(ησοῦ)ς] Χ(ριστὸ)ς ὁ Φιλάνθρωπος’ (Christ Philanthrōpos [Lover of Humankind]) distinguishes the image of Deesis in Bezirana Kilisesi. As one would expect, the epithet uses the figurative and emotional language of liturgical hymnody.42 In monumental painting, the association of the qualitative epithet of ‘Philanthrōpos’ with the apse image of Deesis is found in the thirteenth-century church of Saint George at Lathrenos in Naxos, which shares several iconographic and epigraphic similarities with thirteenth-century Byzantine painting in Cappadocia.43 But the epithet is most commonly attached to images of Christ in Late Byzantine icons that served as objects or wall panels for personal devotion.44 The qualifier ‘Philanthrōpos’ should be similarly interpreted in the context of the rise of the icon cult in Late Byzantine devotional culture and the unprecedented proliferation of adjectives and metaphors describing the compassion of Christ and the Virgin Mary for mankind, as well as their role in the economy of redemption.45 Epithets such as Christ Φωτοδότης (‘giver of light’), or Ζωοδότης (‘giver of life’), and Virgin Καρδιοβαστάζουσα (‘She who bears up the heart’), have also been attested in other late thirteenth-century Cappadocian painted programs, all of which follow the same iconographic, artistic, and epigraphic styles used in Bezirana Kilisesi.46 An understanding of Late Byzantine literary, aesthetic, and cultural styles enables us to reconstruct a Byzantine identity and motivation for the patrons

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of Cappadocia. These patrons sought to conceive of their donations as ‘spatial icons’ in the Late Byzantine era, an era attached to the notion of the real ‘living painting’, according to the oft-cited expression of Michael Psellos.47 The lower register of the apse is decorated with celebrant bishops in a three-quarter pose, holding open scrolls inscribed with liturgical texts (Fig.  1). Basil and John Chrysostom, however, are turned toward the central Amnos, holding no scrolls and instead raising their right hands in a benediction. The realism of the rendering of this three-quarter pose, the gestures, the vestments, and the specific form of the liturgical scrolls are visual reflections of the contemporary liturgy. Seen from this perspective, the three-dimensional cursive verses on the open scroll show the way in which the painter meant to convey the visuality and materiality of the painted text as an icon or image. One must also consider the use of minuscule, which, following its introduction in the ninth century, remained primarily a book script in Byzantium. The script on the scrolls, an exceptionally elegant minuscule version of Byzantine Perlschrift, confirms the literacy of the patron and painter scribes. Additionally, it is comparable to the script used in the illustrated Gospel book (Gennadios Libr. MS Gr. 1, 5), copied and dedicated in 1226 in Kayseri by prōtonotarios Vasileios Meliteniotes, most likely a high secretary in the Seljuk court.48 The dedicatory inscription at the center of the west wall, which merits further discussion on the materiality and visuality of the script, reads (Fig. 3): † ΕΚΑΛΗΕΡΓΗ[ΘΗ] Ο ΠΑΝCΕΠ ΤΟC ΝΑΟ[C ΤΗΣ ΥΠ]ΕΡΑΓΙΑC Θ[ΕΟΤΟΚΟΥ ---] † Ἐκαληεργή[θη] ὁ πάνσεπτος ναὸ[ς τῆς ὑπ]εραγίας Θ[εοτόκου ---] The all-sacred church of the most holy Theotokos has been decorated…

Not only is this inscription, which appears below the image of the three Hebrews in the fiery furnace, placed in a privileged architectural setting, but it is also executed with what may be termed ‘material imagination’. A vivid imitation of mosaic in painting creates the rich visual background for the dedicatory

text, adding a new example to the very limited number of decorations known for the display of fictive rather than real materials on the walls of Byzantine churches. The use of such pictorial technique associated with the inscribed word may have had a particular impact on its medieval audiences, evoking the impressiveness of the metropolitan monuments. The faux mosaic in painting must have been intentionally chosen as a vehicle for the construction of personal identity for the patron.49 The funerary space, an arcosolium that largely opens in the northeastern corner of the naos, offers a similarly suggestive visual environment for the use of writing as artistic performance in late Byzantium (Fig. 4). The painted program associates a large panel of the Theotokos and child enthroned at the back wall with the figures of Saint John the Baptist holding an open scroll, Saint Nicholas on the east wall, Saint Euthymios on the west wall, and saints Kosmas and Damian on the arch. The mediatory role of the saintly figures assembled within the burial’s painted program is supplemented by the voicing of the simple and metrical prose of the long funerary inscription below the figures of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Euthymios. The hope for salvation of the deceased meets the actual expectations of the viewer and reader, transforming the space into a vocal and visual framework of performance tied to the ritual commemoration of the dead. In a similar manner, the scroll that Saint John the Baptist holds is inscribed with an unparalled supplicatory prayer addressed to Christ (Fig.  6). The inscription is in dodecasyllable with a caesura after the fifth syllable (except the fourth verse: caesura after the seventh syllable), and a stress on the penult. The petition of John the Baptist is written in black minuscule:50

The world impells me to worship you, Word (Logos) of God, along with your all pure mother and virgin, for the salvation of those at fault, the unworthy supplicants.

The answer of Christ is depicted in red majuscule letters (except the ligature ει, line 2): † Χ(ριστό)ς· Θάρσει, προφῆτα, [τ]ὴν χάριν δίδω. Christ: Be courageous, prophet, I grant grace.51

The long funerary inscription begins on the eastern wall within the burial space but continues over the northern wall of the naos (Fig. 4). This unusual arrangement of the epitaph suggests that the funerary text was not only intended for the deceased but also for the living, both clerics and laypeople coming into contact with the visual and written atmosphere. The text written in black majuscule letters52 is as follows (Fig. 7): Ὁ πονηρὸς κεράσα̣[ς] με τῶν εἱδονῶν τὸ πο̃μα, εἰς ὕπνον [με] κατοίνεγκεν ἀλλὰ θανατηφόρον | καὶ νῆν κατάκειμε νεκρός, ἄπνους, ἀπεγνοσμένος· Νικόλαε, μακάριε, φωστὴρ τῆς οἰκουμέ|νης, προστάτα τῆς ψυχῆς μου, διῶκτα τῶν δαιμόνων, τὴν ποίμνην σου λύτρωσαι παν|τὸς πηρατηρ[ίο]υ. ‘O πονηρὸς κεράσας με τῶν ἡδονῶν τὸ πῶμα, εἰς ὕπνον με κατήνεγκεν ἀλλὰ θανατηφόρον καὶ νῦν κατάκειμαι νεκρός, ἄπνους, ἀπεγνωσμένος· Νικόλαε, μακάριε, φωστὴρ τῆς οἰκουμένης, προστάτα τῆς ψυχῆς μου, διῶκτα τῶν δαιμόνων, τὴν ποίμνην σου λύτρωσαι παντὸς πειρατηρίου.53 Having regaled me with the drink of pleasures, The wicked one [i.e., the devil] put me to sleep, but a death-bringing one. And now I lie down dead, without breath, hopeless. O blessed Nicholas, light of the world, Protector of my soul, persecutor of demons, Save your flock from every temptation.54

† Κόσμος με κηνῆ π̣[ροσ]κηνεῖ[ν], Θ(εο)ῦ Λ[ό]γε, σὺν τῇ πανάγνῳ μ(ητρ)ί σου (καὶ) παρθ(ένῳ), [ὑ]πὲρ σ̣φ̣αλ[έ]ν̣των ἱκετῶν [ἀν]αξίων: † Κόσμος με κινεῖ προσκυνεῖν, Θεοῦ Λόγε, σὺν τῇ πανάγνῳ μητρί σου καὶ παρθένῳ, ὑπὲρ σφαλέντων ἱκετῶν ἀναξίων.

The text is a unique poetic inscription. The first four lines are composed in the so-called political verse.55 Each line has fifteen syllables, a caesura after the eighth syllable, and a stress on the penult. Verses five

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Fig. 6.  Bezirana Kilisesi, detail of the east wall of the arcosolium in the northwestern corner of the naos, showing the supplicatory prayer inscribed in the scroll of Saint John the Baptist (Source: author).

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Fig. 7.  Bezirana Kilisesi, detail of the funerary inscription on the eastern wall within the burial space that continues over the northern wall of the naos, flattened image of the curved wall surface with Photoshop software. (Source: author).

and six are ‘defective’ and have fourteen syllables each (Fig. 7). In Byzantine epitaphs, it is quite common for the deceased to speak in the first person,56 while the motif of the devil offering a ‘drink of pleasures’ does not seem to be a topos, and we could hardly think of any parallel to it. At the end of the inscription, the deceased speaks to Saint Nicolas, naming him as the light of the world, protector of the soul, and persecutor of demons. In the hymnography devoted to the feast of Saint Nicolas (December 6th), the saint appears as protector from all kinds of dangers, enemies, demons, temptations, diseases, and heresies. His most commonly quoted qualities are his power of protection from demons and temptations, as well as his power to save people from death.57 In art, Saint Nicolas is commonly associated with the commemoration of the deceased, thus the final address to Saint Nicholas in our inscription is rather peculiar; the speaker refers to the saint as the protector of his soul, but strictly speaking, he is not asking for the saint’s intercession on his behalf at the future judgment. Rather, the speaker asks the saint to protect the living, thus calling to mind the epithet Προστάτης (protector), often attached to Saint Nicholas in wall painting.58 This curious quote may be related to the specific historical context of the production of the Bezirana Kilisesi paintings, when the Greek-speaking Orthodox were under Islamic rule in the second half of the thirteenth century. The protection for the living, asked by the deceased who speaks in the epitaph, may be

compared to another little-known inscription in the church of Saint Nicolas at Başköy, whose paintings are closely linked to the Church of Theotokos in Belisırma. One of the celebrant hierarchs in the apse wall of the eponymous church in Başköy, the bishop of Myra holds an open scroll inscribed with a passage taken from the intercessory prayer of the liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom. Extremely rare among liturgical roll inscriptions in Byzantine art and written with a mixture of majuscule and minuscule letters, the text reads: ‘Μνήσθητι | Κ(ύρι)ε τῆς πόλεως | ἐν ᾗ παρηκοῦ|[μεν κ(αὶ) πά]σης | πόλεος [κ(αὶ) χώρ]ας’ (Lord remember the city in which we live, and every city and country).59 The only two other appearances of this liturgical text are found in contemporary Greece. The first is inscribed on the scroll of Saint Athanasios in the apse decoration of the previously mentioned church of Saint George at Lathrenos in Latin-ruled Naxos toward the end of the thirteenth century.60 The other occurrence, within the episcopal program of the main church of the Hypapante monastery in Meteora dated to 1366/67, is assigned to Saint Oecumenios, recognized as the bishop of Trikala, according to local tradition.61 These paintings may have been related to the Athonite monks who fled the first wave of plundering of the Turkic pirates and took refuge in Meteora.62 How should we interpret the links, if any, between geographically and chronologically separated decorations in Cappadocia, Naxos, and Meteora? From a historical and cultural perspective, the inscribed verses were chosen to establish the viewer’s interaction not

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only with the sacred space but also with the broader social context in which he or she lived. In this sense, inscriptions, images, and rituals reflect the hope of protection expressed among the various populations of the Christian East living in more or less similar sociopolitical and cultural conditions. They also create a sort of mirror in which the patron and viewer comprehend their unique identity in this particular context outside Byzantium. The liturgical and funerary content of the inscribed word also suggests additional functionality and performativity, relying on the expectations and imaginations of the communities. Conclusion: Sacred Space and Context The ‘Byzantine’ paintings of Bezirana Kilisesi are not isolated in late thirteenth-century Cappadocian artistic production under Islamic rule, as they were executed by the same artist who also worked on another late thirteenth-century monument, Yüksekli Kilise 1. Furthermore, as I have argued elsewhere, the Bezirana/Yüksekli workshop is also linked to another group of closely interconnected murals in the second half of the thirteenth century.63 Although not as exceptional as the the paintings of Bezirana/Yüksekli, these similar paintings aspire to reproduce Late Byzantine fashions in regard to complex visual, textual, commemorative, and intercessory performances within the sacred space. A comprehensive investigation across the late medieval painted programs in Cappadocia shows how the fashioning of sacred space involved forging close links between the deceased and the living (both clerics and laypeople), as well as between decoration, commemoration, and the idea of protection, thus replicating the construction process of Late Byzantine cultural identity. A systematic inquiry into the sacred character of these church spaces thereby challenges commonly accepted notions of center and periphery in the cultural production and communal identity of Cappadocia in opposition to the rest of the Byzantine Empire at this period. Although the carved, painted, and inscribed environment of Bezirana Kilisesi is a product of the ‘post-Byzantine’ social and cultural context, the result represents one the of the finest and most opulent Late Byzantine sacred spaces.

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notes 1  For the selective recent scholarship on the political and sociocultural transformations in Central Anatolia between the twelfth and the fourteenth centuries, see: Dimitri Korobeĭnikov, ‘Raiders and Neighbours: The Turks (1040–1304)’, in The Cambridge History of the Byzantine Empire (500–1492), ed. by Jonathan Shepard (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 692–727; Kate Fleet, ‘Anatolia under the Mongols’, in The Cambridge History of Turkey, ed. by Kate Fleet and others, 4 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006–13), I  (2009), 51–101; The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East, ed. by Andrew C. S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız (London: I. B. Tauris, 2013); Dimitri Korobeĭnikov, Byzantium and the Turks in the Thirteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia, ed. by Andrew C. S. Peacock and others (Farnham, Surrey, England; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015); Rustam Shukurov, The Byzantine Turks, 1204– 1461 (Leiden: Brill, 2016); Patricia Blessing, Rebuilding Anatolia after the Mongol Conquest: Islamic Architecture in the Lands of Rūm, 1240–1330 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2017); Alexander  D. Beihammer, Byzantium and the Emergence of Muslim-Turkish Anatolia, ca. 1040–1130 (London: Routledge, 2017). 2  For a preliminary overview of artistic production in thirteenthcentury Cappadocia between Byzantium, Seljuk Rūm, and Eastern Christianity, see B.  Tolga Uyar, ‘Thirteenth-Century Byzantine Painting in Cappadocia: New Evidence’, in Change in the Byzantine World in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, First International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, Istanbul, June 2007, ed. by Ayla Ödekan and others (İstanbul: Vehbi Koç Vakfı, 2010), pp. 617–25. 3  Tolga  B. Uyar, ‘Art et société en pays de Rūm: les peintures “byzantines” du XIIIe siècle en Cappadoce’, 2 vols. (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Paris 1, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 2011), I, 229–370, esp. pp. 370–79. 4  Otto Demus, Byzantine Mosaic Decoration: Aspects of Monumental Art in Byzantium (New Rochelle, N.Y.: Caratzas Bros., 1976); André Grabar, Martyrium: recherches sur le culte des reliques et l’art Chrétien antique, 3  vols (Paris: Collège de France: 1943–46). 5  Liz James, ‘Senses and Sensibility in Byzantium’, AH, 27 (2004), 522–37; Hierotopy: Creation of Sacred Spaces in Byzantium and Medieval Russia, ed.  by Alexei Lidov (Moscow: Indrik, 2006); Jérôme Baschet, L’iconographie médiévale (Paris: Gallimard, 2008), pp.  67–101; Spatial Icons: Performativity in Byzantium and Medieval Russia, ed.  by Alexei Lidov (Moscow: Indrik, 2011); Bissera Pentcheva, The Sensual Icon: Space, Ritual, and the Senses in Byzantium (University Park: Penn State Press, 2010); Sharon  E.  J. Gerstel, ‘Monastic Soundspaces: The Art and Act of Chanting’, in Resounding Images: Medieval Intersections of Art, Music, and Sound, ed. by Susan Boynton and Diane J. Reilly (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 135–52; Knowing Bodies, Passionate Souls: Sense Perceptions in Byzantium, ed. by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and Margaret Mullet (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2017); Sharon E. J. Gerstel, ‘Soundscapes of Byzantium: The Acheiropoietos Basilica

and the Cathedral of Hagia Sophia in Thessaloniki’, Hesperia, 87 (2018), 177–213. 6  Friedrich Hild and Marcell Restle, Kappadokien (Kappadokia, Charsianon, Sebasteia und Lykandos), TIB 2 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1981), pp. 254– 57. The locality, referred as to ‘Belesereme’ in retrospective sources such as the earliest Ottoman tax registers, has Christian majority in the early sixteenth century: Irène Beldiceanu-Steinherr, ‘La géographie historique de l’Anatolie centrale d’après les registres ottomans’, CRAI, 126.3 (1982), 443–503, esp. TT 40 on p. 479. 7  For the city of Aksaray in the Seljuk period, see: İsmail Hakkı Konyalı, Ābideleri ve Kitabeleri İle Aksaray Tarihi (İstanbul: Fatih Yayinevi Matbaası, 1974); Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘Aksaray’, in Encyclopaedia of Islam, III (Leiden: Brill 1999); Doğan Yörük, XVI. Yüzyılda Aksaray Sancağı (1500–1584) (Konya: Tablet, 2005). 8  Jacqueline Lafontaine-Dosogne, ‘Une église inédite de la fin du XIIIe siècle en Cappadoce: la Bezirana Kilisesi dans la vallée de Belisırma’, BZ, 61.2 (1968), 291–301. 9  Nicole Thierry, ‘La peinture de Cappadoce au XIIIe siècle. Archaïsme et contemporanéité’, in Studenica et l’art byzantin autour de l’année 1200 (Belgrade: Academie Serbe des Sciences et des Arts, 1988), pp. 359–75; Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines de Cappadoce: le programme iconographique de l’abside et de ses abords (Paris: Éditions du CNRS, 1991), pp. 315–17. 10  Several scholars including myself tried in vain to locate the monument. One of the reasons for which the Bezirana church became suddenly undetectable may be the extreme difficulty of the Ihlara valley’s topography. A  landslide, which frequently occurs in Cappadocia, may also have buried the entrance that the earlier scholars used. 11  Hülya Şahna, ‘Kapadokya Bölgesi, Ihlara Vadisi (Belisırma) ve Yaprakhisar Yerleşimlerindeki Bizans Dönemi Kaya Mimarisi’ (‘Rock-cut Architecture in the Settlements of the Ihlara Valley (Belisırma) and Yaprakhisar in Cappadocia’) (doctoral thesis in progress, University of Hacettepe–Ankara, supervisor Prof. Sacit Pekak). 12  For a recent theoretical premise for the use and ‘overuse’ of the architectural features in rock-carved environment, see: Robert Ousterhout, Visualizing Community: Art, Material Culture, and Settlement in Byzantine Cappadocia, (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2017), pp. 157–75. 13  A similar disposition of the sun and moon on the eastern wall above the apse arch appears in the decorations of the tenth-century Eğri Taş Kilisesi and Pürenli Seki Kilisesi in Ihlara Valley, see Jolivet-Lévy, Églises byzantines, pp. 301, 303. 14  Small cavities on the intrados of the apse arch may have housed a wooden dowel to suspend curtains, so that the elements of the program that mirrored the priestly liturgy on the lower register could have been hidden from the eyes of the faithful throughout much of the service. For the archaeological and textual evidence on the use of curtains, see Sharon  E.  J. Gerstel, Beholding the Sacred Mysteries: Programs of the Byzantine Sanctuary (Seattle: College Art Association, 1999), pp. 9, 15, 66, 72, 76. 15  Germanos of Constantinople, On the Divine Liturgy, trans. by John Meyendorff (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1984), ch. 5, pp. 58–59.

The Greek priest and painter Dionysios of Fourna compiled his ‘painter’s manual’ in the seventeenth century, however it is generally admitted that the manuscript was based, at least partly, on the medieval data concerning the depiction of the religious iconography, The ‘Painter’s Manual’ of Dionysius of Fourna, Revised Edition, trans. and ed.  by Paul Hetherington (London: Sagittarius Press, 1981), p.  45. See also Elizabeth  S. Bolman, ‘Painting Heaven: Art and the Liturgy’, in The Canopy of Heaven: The Ciborium in the Church of St Mamas, Morphou, ed. by Michael Jones and Angela Milward Jones (Cyprus: SAVE, 2010), pp. 134–62. 17  Although dissimilar from the display of bi-color discs above the apse opening as in Bezirana Kilisesi, symmetrical rounded patterns, mainly sculpted, are common symbols of duality over the Byzantine proskynetaria flanking the sanctuary entrance on the lower level: Sofia Kalopissi-Verti, ‘The Proskynetaria of the Templon and Narthex: Form, Imagery, Spatial Connections, and Reception’, in Thresholds of the Sacred, pp. 107–32. 18  In light of the recent theoretical debate, the term ‘spatial icon’ is used here to define sacred space’s transitive relation to image, rite and the user’s sensorial contact. For example Ian Verstegen, ‘Otto Demus, Byzantine Art and the Spatial Icon’, Journal of Art Historiography 19, published online on December 2018, p. 8: https:// arthistoriography.files.wordpress.com/2018/11/verstegen.pdf. 19  Sharon E. J. Gerstel, ‘An Alternate View of the Late Byzantine Sanctuary Screen’, in Thresholds of the Sacred, pp. 146–47. 20  A now lost occurrence for the “E O Θ T” tetragram in Cappadocia is recorded by Henri Grégoire, ‘Rapport sur un voyage d’exploration dans le Pont et en Cappadoce’ BCH, 33 (1909), 3–169 (p. 134); the only other non Cappadocian example of “E O Θ T” is from Thessaloniki: Anna Tsitouridou, Ο ζωγραφικός διάκοσμος του Αγίου Νικολάου Ορφανού στη Θεσσαλονίκη. Συμβολή στη μελέτη της Παλαιολόγειας ζωγραφικής κατά τον πρώιμο 14ο αιώνα (Thessaloniki: Αριστοτέλειο Πανεπιστήμιο Θεσσαλονίκης, 1986), p. 217. For tetragrams see Andreas Rhoby, ‘Secret Messages? Byzantine Greek Tetragrams and their Display’, In-Scription–Livraisons I Première livraison, published online on November 17, 2017: http://09.edel.univ-poitiers.fr/in-scription/index.php?id = 180; Christopher Walter, ‘IC XC NI KA: The Apotropaic Function of the Victorious Cross’, REB, 55.1 (1997), 193–220; Gordana Babić, ‘Les croix à cryptogrammes peintes dans les églises serbes des XIIIe et XIVe siècles’, in Byzance et les Slaves: Études de civilisation: mélanges Ivan Dujčev, ed. by Suzy Dufrenne (Paris: Association des amis des études archéologiques des mondes byzantino-slaves et du christianisme oriental, 1979), pp. 1–13. 21  Lafontaine-Dosogne, ‘Une église inédite’, p.  293, Andreas Rhoby, Byzantinische Epigramme auf Fresken und Mosaiken (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2009), p. 289 (Nr. 200). 22  Comparanda with the ornamental vocabulary of the twelfthand thirteenth-century manuscripts, in particular with the frontispiece arrangements, are abundant: Lydie HadermannMisguich, ‘Influence de miniatures constantinopolitaines sur les peintures murales des Saints-Anargyres de Castoria et SaintGeorges de Kurbinovo’, in Διεθνές Συμπόσιο Βυζαντινή Μακεδονία 324–1430 μ.Χ., (Thessaloniki: Εταιρεία Μακεδονικών Σπουδών, 1995), pp.  115–27; Vrej Nersessian, Treasures from the Ark: 1700 16 

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Years of Armenian Christian Art (London: British Library, 2001), pp.  163–65; Sirarpie Der Nersessian, Armenian Manuscripts in the Freer Gallery of Art, (Washington: 1963), pl.  17–23; Jeffrey C. Anderson, ‘Manuscripts’, in The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261, ed. by Helen  C. Evans and William  D. Wixom (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), pp. 83–87; Helen C. Evans, ‘The Armenians’, The Glory of Byzantium, pp. 351–55; Jules Leroy, Les manuscrits syriaques à peintures conservés dans les bibliothèques d’Europe et d’Orient (Paris: P. Geuthner, 1964). 23  André Grabar, Sculptures byzantines du Moyen Âge II (Paris: A. et J.  Picard, 1976), pls. LIXd, LXXIc and d, LXXVIIIa; Maria Sklavou-Mavroïdi, Γλυπτά του Βυζαντινού Μουσείου Αθηνών. Κατάλογος, (Athens: TAΠ, 1999), p. 160, cat. 218; Nezih Fıratlı, La sculpture byzantine figurée au Musée Archéologique d’Istanbul, revised and presented by Catherine Metzger and others (Paris: Librairie d’Amerique et d’Orient Adrien Maisonneuve, 1990), pl. 102, 334a; Sema Doğan, ‘Likya’da Bizans Taş Yapıtları’, in The 3rd Symposium on Lycia, 07–10 November 2005, Antalya, Symposium Proceedings, ed. by Kayhan Dörtlük and others, 2 vols (Antalya: Suna-İnan Kıraç Akdeniz Medeniyetleri Araştırma Enstitüsü, 2006), I, 209–24; Mustafa Büyükolancı, ‘Exemples de plaques de parapet en provenance de Saint Jean à Ephèse’, in La sculpture byzantine VIIe–XIIe siècles: Actes du colloque international organisé par la 2e éphorie des antiquités byzantines et l’École française d’Athènes (6–8 Septembre 2000), ed.  by Charalambos Pennas and Catherine Vanderheyde (Athens: École française d’Athènes, 2008), p. 75, cat. 53. 24  Sarah T. Brooks, ‘Sculpture and the Late Byzantine Tomb’, in Byzantium: Faith and Power (1261–1557), ed. by Helen C. Evans, (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2004), p. 106, cat. 51a; Sklavou-Mavroïdi, Γλυπτά, p. 115, cat. 155. 25  Brooks, ‘Sculpture and the Late Byzantine Tomb’, pp. 106–07, and n.  2; Amy Papalexandrou, ‘The Architectural Layering of History in the Medieval Morea: Monuments, Memory, and Fragments of the Past’, in Viewing the Morea: Land and People in the Late Medieval Peloponnese, ed. by Sharon E. J. Gerstel (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2013), p. 25, fig. 2. 26  Robert Ousterhout, The Architecture of the Kariye Camii in Istanbul (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1987), pp.  28–30, 132–34; Fıratlı, La sculpture byzantine, pl. 96, 310. 27  Scott Redford, ‘Rum Seljuk Flags: Visual and Textual Evidence’, in Textiles and Identity in the Medieval and Early Modern Mediterranean, ed. by Nikolaos Vryzidis, (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols forthcoming). I thank Scott Redford for sharing the manuscript of his paper. For the abstraction of the bow and arrow and its significance, see Redford ‘A Grammar of Rum Seljuk Ornament’, Mésogeios, 25–26 (2005), 283–310. 28  Alicia Walker, ‘Middle Byzantine Aesthetics and the Incomparability of Islamic Art: The Architectural Ekphraseis of Nikolaos Mesarites’, Muqarnas, 27 (2010), 79–101 (pp. 82–83); Redford, ‘A Grammar of Rum Seljuk Ornament’, pp. 283–310; Scott Redford, Landscape and the State in Medieval Anatolia: Seljuk Gardens and Pavilions of Alanya, Turkey (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000), pp.  87–90; Scott Redford, ‘Thirteenth Century Rum Seljuq

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Palaces and Palace Imagery’, Ars Orientalis, 23 (1994), 215–32 (pp. 222–23). 29  Uyar, ‘Art et société’, I, 696, II, pl. 41d, pl. 48b; Uyar ‘The Question of the Greek Painters in Seljuk Court’, in Islam and Christianity, figs 9.6, 9.7. 30  David Nicolle, Arms and Armor of the Crusading Era, 1050– 1350. Islam, Eastern Europe and Asia (London: Greenhill Books; Pennsylvania: Stackpole Books, 1999), p. 184, fig. 432. 31  Uyar, ‘The Question of the Greek Painters’, pp. 222–31. For the fundamental premises of identity construction through visuality in the medieval period, see Brigitte M. Bedos-Rezak, When Ego Was Imago: Signs of Identity in the Middle Ages (Leiden: Brill, 2011). 32  A comprehensive view of different theoretical approaches on materiality and ornamentation in Byzantine art is given in Alicia Walker, ‘“The Art that Does Not Think”: Byzantine “Decorative Arts”–History and Limits of a Concept’, Studies in Iconography, 34 (2012), 169–93 (esp. pp. 182–83). For wider conceptual methodologies on materiality from the perspective of Western medieval art: Caroline Walker Bynum, Christian Materiality: An Essay on Religion in Late Medieval Europe (New York: Zone Books; Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2011); Herbert Kessler, ‘The Object as Subject in Medieval Art’, The Haskins Society Journal, 23 (2011), 205–28; Jean Claude Bonne, ‘Entre l’image et la matière: la choséité du sacré en Occident’, Bulletin de l’Institut Historique Belge de Rome, 69 (1999), 77–112; Jean Claude Bonne, ‘Ornementation et Représentation’ in Les Images dans l’Occident Médiéval, ed. by Jérôme Baschet and Pierre-Olivier Dittmar (Turnhout: Brepols 2015), chap. 12; Ittai Weinryb, ‘Living Matter: Materiality, Maker, and Ornament in the Middle Ages’, Gesta, 52.2 (2013), 113–32. For an in-depth introduction to intermedia theories: Peter Wagner, ‘Ekphrasis, Iconotexts, and Intermediality’, in Icons, Texts, Iconotexts: Essays on Ekphrasis and Intermediality, ed. by Peter Wagner (Berlin; New York: W. de Gruyter, 1996), pp. 1–42. Intermedia perspectives have also been applied to Byzantine studies: Helena Bodin, ‘Metaphor and Metonymy in the Byzantine Representation of the Divine: Remarks on the Interart Aspects of Byzantine Aesthetics’, in Cultural Functions of Intermedial Exploration, ed.  by Erik Hedling and Ulla–Britta Lagerroth (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002), pp.  67–74; Liz James and Ruth Webb, ‘To Understand Ultimate Things and Enter Secret Places: Ekphrasis and Art in Byzantium’, AH, 14.1 (1991), 1–17. 33  On the organizational function of the ornament: Ernst Hans Gombrich, The Sense of Order: A Study in the Psychology of Decorative Art (Oxford: Phaidon, 1979). 34  Glenn Peers, Sacred Shock. Framing Visual Experience in Byzantium (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004); The Rhetoric of the Frame: Essays on the Boundaries of the Artwork, ed. by Paul Duro (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Bissera V. Pentcheva, ‘The Performative Icon’, ArtB, 88.4 (1996), 632–55; idem, The Sensual Icon; Ivan Drpić, Epigram, Art, and Devotion in Later Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), in particular ‘Kosmos, Matter and the Sacred’, pp. 144–67. 35  Several occurrences of these patterns are attested in other thirteenth-century decorations in Cappadocia, Tolga Uyar, ‘L’église de l’Archangélos à Cemil: Le décor de la nef sud et le renouveau

da la peinture byzantine en Cappadoce au début du XIIIe siècle’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 47 (2008), 119–30 (p.  122); Uyar, ‘Art et société’, I, 91, 150, 162; Lydie Hadermann-Misguich, Kurbinovo, Les fresques de Saint-Georges et la peinture byzantine du XIIe s. (Brussels: Éditions de Byzantion, 1975), pp. 296–97; Maria Kambouri-Vamvoucou, Les motifs décoratifs dans les mosaïques murales du XIe siècle, (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Paris 1, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 1983), pp.  34–35; Svetlana Tomeković, ‘Le “manierisme” dans l’art mural à Byzance 1164–1204’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Paris 1, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 1984), II, pl.  XVII, 1–3; Slobodan Ćurčić, ‘Divine Light: Constructing the Immaterial in Byzantine Art and Architecture’, in Architecture of the Sacred: Space, Ritual, and Experience from Classical Greece to Byzantium, ed.  by Bonna  D. Wescoat and Robert G. Ousterhout (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 307–37. 36  C.  Jolivet-Lévy, ‘Nouvelle découverte en Cappadoce: Les églises de Yüksekli’, CahArch, 35 (1987), 113–41 (pp. 113, 130, 140 n. 92). 37  Robin Cormack, ‘Byzantine Cappadocia: The Archaic Group of Wall Paintings’,  JBAA, 30 (1967), 19–36; Engin Akyürek, ‘Folkloric Decoration’, in Cappadocia, ed. by Metin Sözen, pp. 304–12 (Istanbul, Ayhan Şahenk Foundation, 1998); Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, pp. 191–98. 38  Comparanda in Slobodan Ćurčić, Architecture in the Balkans from Diocletian to Süleyman the Magnificent, (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), pp.  507–699; Ömür Bakırer, Selçuklu öncesi ve Selçuklu dönemi Anadolu mimarisinde tuğla kullanımı (Ankara, Ortadoğu Teknik Üniversitesi, 1981). 39  Grabar, Sculptures byzantines, pp.  105–06, pl.  LXXVII, 88a-b; Alâeddin’in lambası: Aladdin’s Lamp: Sultan Alâeddin Keykubâd and the Art of the Anatolian Seljuks Age, ed. by M. Baha Tanman and Rıfat Samih (İstanbul: Yapı Kredi Kültür Sanat Yayıncılık, 2001), pp. 117–52; Gerd Schneider, Geometrische Bauornamente der Seldschuken in Kleinasien (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1980), ills 2, 3, 12. 40  Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, p. 24. 41  Robert Ousterhout, ‘Reading Difficult Buildings: The Lessons of the Kariye Camii’, in The Kariye Camii Reconsidered, ed.  by Holger  A. Klein and others (Istanbul: İstanbul Araştırmaları Ensitüsü, 2011), pp. 95–105. 42  The epithet ‘Philanthrōpos’ abounds in the Analecta Hymnica Graeca recorded in Thesaurus Linguae Graecae. See also references in Μaria Panayotidi, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Γεωργίου Λαθρήνου στη Νάξο’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 16 (1992), 139–54 (p. 140, n. 6). 43  Panayotidi, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Γεωργίου’, p. 148. 44  Kurt Weitzmann, The Monastery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai: The Icons. Vol.  I: From the Sixth to the Tenth Century (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1976), no. B.1; Antony Eastmond, Art and Identity in Thirteenth-Century Byzantium: Hagia Sophia and the Empire of Trebizond (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004), fig. 92. 45  Drpić, Epigram, Art, and Devotion, pp. 352–74. 46  Church of Saint George in Belisırma, Jolivet-Lévy, Églises byzantines, p. 318, n. 129; church of Gökçetoprak, Tolga B. Uyar, ‘Un monument peu connu de Cappadoce: L’église de Gökçetoprak’, in Mélanges Catherine Jolivet-Lévy (TM, 20/2), ed.  by

Sulamith Brodbeck and others (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2016), pp. 629–45 (pp. 637–38). 47  Hans Belting, Likeness and Presence: A  History of the Image Before the Era of Art (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), pp.  261–62; Glenn Peers, ‘Real Living Painting: QuasiObjects and Dividuation in the Byzantine World’, Religion and the Arts, 16.5 (2012), 433–60. 48  Angeliki Mitsani, ‘Το εικονογραφημένο ευαγγέλιο του Βασιλείου Μελιτηνιώτη (Καισάρεια, 1226)’, Δελτ.Χριστ.Ἀρχ.Ἑτ., 44 (2005), 149–64. On the identity of Vasileios Meliteniotes, see also Uyar, ‘Art et société’, I, 654–62. 49  The only other parallel in Cappadocia for the simulation of tesserae in wall painting is found in the apse decoration of the Cistern Church near Göreme dated to the late tenth or early eleventh century, Nicole Thierry, ‘Un atelier cappadocien du XIe siècle à Maçan-Göreme’, CahArch, 44 (1996), 117–40, at 121. With the exception of the two Cappadocian examples, in the entire monumental art of Byzantium, the mosaic imitation is solely attested in the artistic production of the medieval kingdom of Serbia: Vojislav  J. Djurić, ‘La peinture murale serbe au XIIIe siècle’, in L’art byzantin du XIIIe siècle. Symposium de Sopoćani 1965, ed. by Vojislav  J. Djurić (Belgrade: Faculté de philosophie, Département de l’histoire de l’art, 1967), pp. 145–67, esp. 151–53; Svetozar Radojčić, ‘Zlato u srpskoj umetnosti XIII veka’, Zograf, 7 (1977), 28–35; Vojislav J. Djurić, ‘Srpski mozaici iz XIII veka’, in Danica. Srpski narodni ilustrovani calendar za godinu 1999, ed. by Miodrag Maticki and Nada Milošević–Djordjević (Belgrade: Vukova zaduž bina, 1998), 66–78; Branislav Todić,‘Banjsko zlato–poslednji ostaci fresaka u crkvi Svetog Stefana u Banjskoj’, in Manastir Banjska i doba kralja Milutina, ed. by Dragiš a Bojović (Niš: Centar za crkvene studije, 2007), 163–74. I thank Ivan Drpić for sharing with me his ongoing research entitled ‘Between Painting and Mosaic: Serbian Gilded Murals’. 50  Except the letters Κ (lines 2 and 8), C (line 1), Η (lines 2 and 4), and Ξ (line 9), written in majuscule. 51  The reading of the inscription is by Maria Xenaki. 52  Except the letter Α in the word ΠΡΟCΤαΤα (line 3). 53  The reading of the inscription is by Maria Xenaki. 54  I am grateful to Ivan Drpić for his assistance in the translation of the text in English and for his valuable comments. 55  Rhoby, Byzantinische Epigramme, pp. 63–64. 56  Marc  D. Lauxtermann, Byzantine Poetry from Pisides to Geometres: Texts and Contexts, Vol. I (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2003), pp. 215–18. 57  Nancy Patterson-Sevcenko, The Life of Saint Nicholas in Byzantine Art (Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1983), p. 173. 58  Myrtalē Acheimastou-Potamianou, Holy Image, Holy Space: Icons and Frescoes from Greece, (Athens: Byzantine Museum of Athens, 1988), cat. no.  38; Chrysanthē Mauropoulou-Tsioume and Sapphō Tampake, ‘Ο άγιος Νικόλαος: Η απεικόνισή του στις τοιχογραφίες της Καστοριάς’, in Δώρον: Τιμητικός τόμος στον καθηγητή Νίκο Νικονάνο, ed. by G. Karadedos (Thessaloniki: 10η Εφορεία Βυζαντινών Αρχαιοτήτων Χαλκιδικής και Αγίου Όρους, 2006), pp. 104–05, 110–11. 59  Frank Edward Brightmann, Liturgies Eastern and Western, Vol. I (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1896), p. 335.; Nilüfer Peker

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and Tolga Uyar, ‘Güzelöz – Başköy ve Çevresi Bizans Dönemi Yerleşimleri 2009’ in 28. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı, Vol.  1 (Ankara, T.C. Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı Kültür Varlıkları ve Müzeler Genel Müdürlüğü, 2011), p. 289; Uyar, ‘Art et société’, I, 249, II, pl 22b, 417b. 60  Panayotidi, ‘Οι τοιχογραφίες του Αγίου Γεωργίου’, pp. 144–46. 61  Gordana Babić and Christopher Walter, ‘The Inscriptions upon Liturgical Rolls in Byzantine Apse Decoration’, REB, 34

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(1976), 269–80, esp. p. 272, for another questionable example of this text, see pp. 277–78. On the recent discussion about the identity of Saint Oecumenios, see, Oecumenius, Commentary on the Apocalypse, trans. by John N. Suggit (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006). 62  ODB, s.v. ‘Meteora’. 63  Uyar, ‘Art et société’, I, 446–90, II, pl 333–407; Uyar, ‘Un monument peu connu de Cappadoce’.

Questioning Boundaries in Byzantine Cappadocia Secular Spaces, Sacred Spaces, and Interfaces In Between*

Fatma Gül Öztürk Büke Located in central Turkey, Cappadocia is known for its peculiar volcanic landscape and extensive rockcut architecture. The geological formations and historical remains of Cappadocia are predominantly situated within a triangle of modern cities: Aksaray, Niğde, and Kayseri. Alongside entire settlements cut out of the rock, abundant Byzantine churches, many of which contain surviving wall paintings, form the sacred landscape that has often been described as monastic. The estimated number of regional churches varies in the literature, but there are certainly hundreds, and the process of uncovering all these settlements and churches (often by chance) is ongoing. This paper aims to provide insight into the nuances of these sacred spaces, and to question the boundaries between sacred and secular spaces in Byzantine Cappadocia with regard to two related sites: the Açıksaray settlement and, three kilometres west, the site of Karşı Kilise.1 Açıksaray Settlement Açıksaray (lit. ‘open palace’) is located west of the present Kırşehir-Nevşehir road, sixteen km north of Nevşehir in Cappadocia, central Turkey.2 The Açıksaray settlement occupies the northern opening of the Açıksaray Valley that stretches seven km south to the modern village of Çat. The Kızılırmak River (ancient Halys River) flows just 1.5  km north of the settlement. A concentration of nine rock-cut structures organized around courtyards can be seen along the first 500 metres of the valley (Fig. 1). Here,

two parallel outcrops define the western and eastern boundaries of the valley. Seven of the rock-cut courtyard complexes (Areas 1–7) were opened in the western outcrop, while two of them (Areas 8–9) were opened in the eastern outcrop. Our archaeological survey of the site took place in 2013 and 2015. In addition to these courtyard complexes, we documented thirteen free-standing churches (Church nos  1–13) in and around the settlement. It is important to note that while free-standing churches are barely noticeable, the courtyard complexes with their remarkable rock-cut façades and prominent positions are highly visible within the volcanic landscape (Fig. 2). Miscellaneous agricultural spaces (Outlying Settlement) such as rock-cut wine presses and cellars are found in the southwestern border of the settlement. Comparable settlements organized as courtyard complexes can be seen in other parts of Cappadocia, such as in Çanlı Kilise (western Cappadocia, near Aksaray) and Selime-Yarakhisar (western Cappadocia, at the north end of the Peristrema/Ihlara Valley).3 Throughout most of the twentieth century, scholars often understood these sites to be monastic establishments, although more recent interpreters believe them to have been secular settlements. In light of contemporary studies, it is perhaps most accurate to suggest that the majority of these courtyard complexes were mansions of the landowning military elites who dominated the region during the tenth and eleventh centuries.4 The first intensive study to make this suggestion was penned by Robert G. Ousterhout, who surveyed Çanlı Kilise in western Cappadocia between 1994 and 1997.5

Fig. 1.  Açıksaray. Site plan showing location of nine individual areas comprising courtyard complexes, thirteen freestanding churches, the cemetery, the irregular outlying settlement, and the Roman tombs. Surveyed by the author and Aykut Fenerci/drawn by Aykut Fenerci; adapted by author to the aerial photo from Google Earth, accessed 3/19/2009.

In her 1985 book Cave Monasteries of Byzantine Cappadocia, Lyn Rodley insisted on the monastic identity of Cappadocia, classifying supposedly ‘monastic’ establishments into three groups: refectory monasteries (those containing a room with a rock-cut table [trapeza] and benches), courtyard monasteries (those carved around a courtyard that included ‘a church and several rooms, all carefully carved to imitate built architecture’),

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and hermitages.6 Today, more than forty examples of Rodley’s ‘courtyard’ group (Fig.  3) have been recorded throughout Cappadocia, either as cluster settlements like Açıksaray, Çanlı Kilise, and SelimeYarakhisar, or as free-standing structures,7 although it is now widely accepted in academic circles that these complexes were indeed houses of the elite rather than monasteries.8 Strikingly, despite the many wellpreserved examples of her ‘courtyard’ group, Rodley

Fig. 2.  Açıksaray. Area 1 (at rear) and Area 2 (in front) seen from the plateau above Area 3.1–3.2 (Source: author).

challenged the classification of previous scholars9 and studied Açıksaray as a separate secular group.10 She argues that Açıksaray was a secular settlement by pointing to the ‘paucity and apparent lowly status of the churches’ in Açıksaray.11 Even more interestingly, our intensive archaeological surveys report that although only three of the nine courtyard complexes (Areas 5, 8, and 9) in Açıksaray have attached churches, there are a dozen free-standing churches on the site.12 On the other hand, it should be noted that in each case (Areas 5, 8, and 9), the attached church is set off-axis to one side and is thus secondary in importance to the central hall in the respective complex (Fig. 3).13 Furthermore, it is important to note that of the thirteen free-standing churches, only two (Church nos 1 and 8) are in the centre of the settlement, while the others lie at the outskirts. Six of the free-standing churches (Church nos  2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7) mark the southern end of the settlement, while five

others (Church nos 9, 10, 11, 12, 13) mark the northern and eastern boundaries (Fig. 1). Attached Churches The location and architectural details prove that attached churches were part of the initial carving in Areas 5, 8, and 9. In all three cases, the churches are located on the left side of the courtyard complex when viewed from the courtyard facing the complex. In Areas 5 and 8 the church entrance is in the courtyard (Fig. 3), while in Area 9 the church opens off the vestibule. In Areas 5 and 9 the attached church has a barrelvaulted, single-aisled plan. In Area 5 the naos measures approximately 5.5 by 8 meters, while in Area 9 the naos measures approximately 3 by 3 metres. In Area 5 the sanctuary is separated by a templon. In Area 8 the highly damaged church has a cross-in-square plan (a Middle Byzantine plan type) and a narthex. Here the

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Fig. 3.  Açıksaray. Plan of Area 5 and photo of the main façade. Surveyed by author and Aykut Fenerci/drawn by Aykut Fenerci; photograph source: author.

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naos measures approximately 3.5 by 4.5  metres. Surprisingly, despite their private context, these churches did not serve as funerary chapels for the family, and burials are not recorded. A probable burial chamber14 adjacent to the church in Area 8 and a probable rockcut refectory above this chamber were discovered in 2013, but these are barely recognizable as such. Given its small scale and location, this probable refectory, having only an L-shaped bench with an emphasized end but no table, seems to have been an occasional meeting place for private commemorations of the deceased rather than a monastic refectory.15 Free-standing Churches The small scale and large number of the churches identified in the course of our survey at the outskirts of the settlement are strong indications of private use.16 Although the evidence does not allow us to assign a specific date and function to the individual churches, together they seem to have functioned as an outer boundary – both a ‘spiritual’ defence wall and landscape marker (Fig. 1).17 The plans of the free-standing churches vary in form, with barrel-vaulted single-aisled (Church nos 1, 4, 8, 9, 10),18 barrel-vaulted double-aisled (Church nos 5, 13),19 domed Greek-cross plan (Church nos 2, 3, 11, 12),20 and domed cross-in-square plan (Church no.  7)21 churches. Greek-cross plan churches draw attention due to their similarity in size, architectural detail, and fine degree of carving. Multiple sanctuaries are seen in the cross-in-square church (Church no.  7) and double-aisled churches (Church nos  5, 13). Although severely damaged, evidence in Church no. 8 indicates that at one time another single-aisled church stood beneath the surviving one. Likewise, surviving Church no. 6 was likely the side chapel of a larger church complex that has not survived. With double-aisled Church no. 5 located directly beneath Church no. 6, this spot in the southern outskirts of the settlement initially housed several sanctuaries side by side and on top of one another (Fig.  1). Within the churches, templa are common, and in rare cases, a small narthex or porch foregrounds the naos. The only painted adornment in the attached churches are red crosses, while three of the free-standing churches contain traces of figural paintings (Church nos  7, 9, and 10). The largest and most elaborate of these, the cross-in-square church (Church no. 7), is carved

into a solitary cone on the southern extension of the settlement (Fig.  1). The paintings therein were the main focus of early scholars, who generally dated them to between the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.22 A small narthex leads into the cross-in-square naos with domed atrophied Greek-cross plan. The narthex is centrally located in the north of the naos. When entering the naos from the narthex, one is confronted with a single large arcosolium in the centre of the south wall of the naos. Indeed, the majority of the few burial sites that can be identified with certainty in Açıksaray are in the form of arcosolia cut into the walls of some free-standing churches. The floor of the small narthex in Church no.  7 also bears traces of burials. Given the fact that the interiors of many of the churches have been partly filled with earth, it is probable that other burial sites may have escaped notice. Nevertheless, it is difficult to identify these as funerary churches, due to their easy access and the scarcity of preceding narthexes or annexed chambers, which were the most common places for burials in Middle Byzantine churches in Cappadocia.23 In similar settlements, such as Çanlı Kilise and SelimeYaprakhisar, as well as in other isolated courtyard complexes, the majority of churches indeed seem to have had a funerary function.24 Only very few privileged people in Açıksaray may have been guaranteed a private burial place within a church, often in the form of an arcosolium. Despite the large number of churches found at Açıksaray, their small size, the paucity of paintings therein, and their secondary location may still validate Rodley’s claim of the ‘apparent lowly status of the churches’.25 At first glance, the location of the freestanding churches seems to have been determined by the given topography and rock mass suitable for carving. Yet when we connect these churches on the map, we notice that they align to form a kind of boundary in the southern, northern, and eastern ends of the settlement. While the exterior of the free cones housing these churches did not accommodate rock-cut graves (as seen abundantly elsewhere, for instance at Çanlı Kilise and Güzelöz26), the frequency of small irregular spaces – accessible only by ladder and carved in the same cones above the churches – is noteworthy. Although we can identify a hermit’s cell with certainty only above Church no. 10, it is highly probable that there were other hermits in connection with the free-standing churches in Açıksaray.

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Cemetery Apart from the attached and free-standing churches discussed above, there is a church with an unusual plan in the atypical Area 3.2. The complex here, although located at the core of the settlement, does not follow the courtyard typology (Fig. 1). This centrally located inverted T-plan church is the largest church in the settlement. The longest distances in the naos are approximately 9.5  metres in one direction and 13 metres in the other direction. Due to its location and size, it may at some point have functioned as the parochial church of the habitation in Açıksaray. The large arched apse suggests a foundation predating the Middle Byzantine settlement. A  cemetery comprising approximately one hundred rock-cut graves – including those of infants – is found on the plateau above the church and in Areas 3.1 and 3.2. Hermitage The only hermit’s cell that can be identified with certainty in Açıksaray was discovered in the 2013 season in an isolated cone at the northeast end of the settlement. Here, a free-standing church (Church no.  10) and a hermit’s cell with its rock-cut furnishing were carved, one on top of the other. Today, the floor level in the naos of this single-aisled church is approximately one metre higher than the original, yet the arched recess, part of the initial design in the southern wall, is evidence for an arcosolium as a privileged burial place. The paintings in the naos, tentatively dated to the thirteenth century, are more likely a later addition, postdating both the church and the hermit’s cell.27 Roman Necropolis A large number of Roman tombs are cut into isolated cones just north of the settlement, between the present-day Kırşehir-Nevşehir road and the Kızılırmak River. These tombs are a good indication that a Roman town stood nearby. Indeed, Gülşehir, a small township just 3  km northwest of Açıksaray, was known in antiquity as Zoropassos in the Cappadocian Strategia Morimene.28 Clusters of carved Roman tombs are also found in other sites in Cappadocia. Yet, as Ousterhout points out, a systematic study of Roman tombs is absent in Cappadocia.29 Such a study would be worthwhile, not only to locate ancient towns, but also to understand the association

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of sacred and secular Byzantine establishments with ancient cemeteries. Based on an architectural comparison with similar settlements such as Çanlı Kilise and Selime-Yaprakhisar, the main period of habitation in Açıksaray is estimated to be between the tenth and eleventh centuries.30 A thirteenth-century date for the painted program in some free-standing churches (Church nos 7 and 10) and refuges added later to some of the courtyard complexes (Areas 8 and 9) indicate a partial occupation of the site through less secure times up to the establishment of Seljuk power in the thirteenth century. The Site of Karşı Kilise Famous for its thirteenth-century wall paintings, Karşı Kilise (St  John) is a rock-cut church in Gülşehir (ancient Zoropassos), just three km west of Açıksaray. Our survey of the site of Karşı Kilise took place in 2015. During the survey we noticed a variety of churches – the earliest of which may date back to the sixth century – around Karşı Kilise. Two hermits’ cells situated alongside the churches and an elaborate Roman tomb can also be found in close proximity (Fig. 4). Karşı Kilise itself consists of two churches stacked on top of one another.31 The lower, older church was likely built in the tenth or eleventh century, while the recently restored paintings in the upper, newer church are firmly dated to 1212 due to the inscription on its apse.32 Karşı Kilise, its neighbouring churches, and the hermits’ cells that bear no direct relation with a settlement, indicate that this was a sacred and partly secluded spot. Furthermore, a close study of the different plan types and styles of the churches over the centuries reveals that this site was regarded as sacred for several generations. Karşı Kilise in Turkish means the ‘church opposite’. Karşı Kilise and the four additional churches around it are carved into separate volcanic cones in the valley, while further west a triangular peninsulalike cliff exposes a multi-story irregular settlement (Fig. 4). The carved spaces in this irregular settlement are humble and arbitrary in nature when compared with the elaborate courtyard complexes at the site of Açıksaray. The only exception that bears similarities with the architectural vocabulary of Açıksaray is a poorly preserved room, carved at the top of the cliff

Fig. 4.  Karşı Kilise. Site plan showing the location of Karşı Kilise (St John), four neighbouring churches, two hermits’ cells, a Roman tomb, the irregular settlement, the ‘castle’ and the cemetery. (Source: aerial photo from Google Earth, accessed 3/16/2018).

settlement in a natural, castle-like formation. Because of this formation, today the area housing the irregular settlement is called ‘Büyükkale’ (‘big castle’ in Turkish). The southern slope of the so-called ‘castle’ bears traces of dozens of rock-cut graves and broken stone lids spread throughout the landscape. This area was likely a large medieval cemetery (Fig. 4). Karşı Kilise (St John): The Lower Church (Old Church) The lower church of Karşı Kilise is in the form of a domed Greek cross (room 1 in Fig. 5). The dome was destroyed either by the construction of the upper, newer church or earlier. Initially, one would enter the church by passing through a rectangular transverse narthex located in the western side. The wall separating the naos and the narthex has not

survived. The naos measures approximately 4.5 by 5  metres. Four free-standing churches with Greekcross plans that were identified and documented in 2013 in Açıksaray (Church nos 2, 3, 11, 12) share features with the lower church of Karşı Kilise in size and proportions, architectural and decorative details, and geometric motifs in red paint (Fig. 6). Jolivet-Lévy dates the construction of the lower church of Karşı Kilise to the eleventh century,33 corresponding with the tenth or eleventh century dating of the Açıksaray settlement. These are sound indicators of contemporaneity; the same craftsmen seem to have been at work in the Açıksaray settlement and the site of Karşı Kilise. To the north of the narthex there is a wine cellar. From the narthex, a tunnel leads south and connects the church to the probable hermit cell. No burial sites in this church complex have been identified.

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Fig. 5.  Karşı Kilise. Plan of Karşı Kilise (St John) and photo of the entrance façade. Surveyed by the author and Aykut Fenerci/drawn by Aykut Fenerci; photograph source: author.

Karşı Kilise (St John): The Upper Church (New Church) The traces of the destroyed original stairs leading to the upper church can be seen along the western and northern walls of the narthex. Today, a metal staircase provides access. The rock-cut floor of the upper church is partially collapsed and covered by a metal and wooden structure. The entirely painted upper church is a single-aisled and barrel-vaulted (room 2

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in Fig.  5). The naos measures approximately 4.5 by 6 meters. Niches of various sizes are carved into the walls. Ousterhout describes the lateral vaulted bays with freestanding piers in front of the bema as ‘the only innovation in the plan’. According to him, these elements are borrowed from the cross-in-square plan, and we usually do not see this kind of mixing of forms in masonry architecture.34 According to the inscription on the apse, the paintings are from 1212. B. Tolga Uyar states that thirteenth-century interventions in

Fig. 6.  Açıksaray, Church no. 3 (left) and old church (lower church) of Karşı Kilise (St John) (right) (Source: author).

Cappadocia are usually works of communities rather than individuals. Accordingly, in the thirteenth century older structures were reused and/or expanded to house paintings whose programs often followed established formats.35 Church No. 1 and the Hermit’s Cell Church no. 1 is located less than 100 meters northeast of the Karşı Kilise (Fig. 4). It is officially registered as ‘Komşu Kilise’ in Turkish and translates as ‘neighbouring church’.36 A probable small hermit’s cell is carved in the cone next to it. It is easier to access the church than the hermit’s cell. Church no. 1 is a three-aisled church with a large apse in the centre (Fig.  7). The naos measures approximately 4.5 by 7 meters. A bench and niches carved along the curved wall of the apse constitute the synthronon. The bench for sitting runs along the northern and southern walls of the naos. Two L-shaped piers separate the naos into three aisles. Like the upper church of Karşı Kilise, vaulted bays flank the space in front of the bema. Here too the bays are separated from the rest of the naos by means of the aforementioned freestanding piers. The side aisles are separated from the nave by arches between the piers and the western wall. The naos has a flat ceiling, and carved in the centre is a large cross with equidistant arms, enclosed in a circle. There is no evidence available to date the interior, but the large sanctuary and the carved cross on the flat ceiling indicate an early construction, perhaps sixth century. Neither burials in the floor nor arcosolia have been identified.

Church No. 2 Church no. 2 is located less than 300 metres southwest of the Karşı Kilise (Fig. 4). It is officially registered as ‘Şapel’ in Turkish (‘Chapel’).37 Like the lower church of Karşı Kilise, Church no. 2 also has a Greek-cross plan. The naos measures approximately 4.5 by 5 metres. The naos can be accessed through a square narthex. The sanctuary area is elevated above the level of the naos floor and screened by a surviving templon. In the bema there is a rock-cut altar attached to the back wall of the apse. Neither paintings nor inscriptions can be seen; the only decorative feature is a red painted Maltese cross above the door leading from the narthex to the naos. A bench for sitting is carved along the templon as well as the northern and southern walls of the naos. No burial sites can be identified in the naos or in the narthex of this easily accessible structure. Church No. 3 Church no.  3 is located 100  metres west of Church no. 2 (Fig. 4). Despite its proximity to Karşı Kilise, we could not find any registration records by the Regional Conservation Committee. Church no. 3 is a three-aisled church with three apses (Fig. 8). According to Ousterhout, three-aisled churches were much less common after the early Christian period.38 The naos measures approximately 6.5 by 9.5 metres. Each apse has an altar attached to its back wall; the number of altars indicates that the church was used for more than one liturgy a day.39 Four piers divide the naos into three aisles, while arches spring between the piers and the walls. Each of the aisles is covered by a

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Fig. 7.  Karşı Kilise. Plan of Church no. 1 and photo of the interior. Surveyed by the author and Aykut Fenerci/drawn by Aykut Fenerci; photograph source: author.

barrel vault. The western wall of the church has not survived, and the floor level is slightly higher than the original. No burials are identified, and the church is easily accessible. Church No. 4 Church no.  4 is located just a few metres north of Church no.  2. Severe deterioration makes it almost impossible to document. We could not find any records of registration by the Regional Conservation Committee, but traces of a rock-cut altar and curved

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bench on the back wall of the apse are evidence that it was indeed a church. Because of its raised floor level and high degree of erosion, we could identify neither rock-cut burial sites in the floor or arcosolia. The church seems to be easily accessible. Roman Tomb Next to Church no. 4 is an elaborate Roman tomb (Fig.  9). The tomb is carved in a free-standing cone and is easily accessible. Its portico foregrounds the rather simple tomb chamber. Two

Fig. 8.  Karşı Kilise. Plan and section of Church no. 3. Surveyed by author and Aykut Fenerci/drawn by Aykut Fenerci.

freestanding columns mark the portico-façade. Two red painted crosses (one a Maltese cross in a medallion) flanking the opening to the chamber indicate that this antique tomb was Christianized at some point.40 Conclusion When we divert our attention from single monuments to the broader context, a number of questions arise. Unfortunately, it is difficult to answer these questions with certainty. From the beginning

of scholarship on Byzantine Cappadocia at the turn of the twentieth century, researchers focused their attention on the paintings found in rock-cut churches. Due to this emphasis, and because of the rarity of paintings in this religious context, the Açıksaray settlement apparently was not considered ‘worthy’ of study. Almost a century later, based on a quick survey in the 1980s, Rodley was still claiming a ‘paucity’ of churches in Açıksaray. My extensive study of the settlement and its vicinity between 2007 and 2015, however, revealed dozens of undiscovered churches that were no doubt carved as an initial part of the settlement.

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Fig. 9.  Karşı Kilise. Roman tomb (Source: author).

Although only three of the churches in Açıksaray were part of the courtyard complexes, the small size and large number of free-standing churches may still indicate private use. Various plan types and furnishings further complicate the situation – some churches feature additional altars, others house burials, and yet others connect with hermits’ cells. This variety of features points to the ‘variations in worship practices within the same settlement’.41 Furthermore, the discovery of the large cemetery leads us to reconsider the probable function of the churches within and at the boundaries of the settlement. These results need to be further evaluated within the broader context of Cappadocia with regard to similar but distant settlements such as Çanlı Kilise and Selime-Yarakhisar. In Çanlı Kilise, dozens of rock-cut graves can be found carved into the rock mass covering some of the churches,42 while Açıksaray features a common, open-air cemetery with up to 100 graves cut into the

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plateau that forms the roof of the complex in Areas 3.1 and 3.2. The cemetery partly occupies the area above the large, inverted T-plan church in Area 3.2 (Fig.  1). Graves of infants and children evince the presence of families. In Selime-Yaprakhisar, funerary churches outlined the boundaries of the settlement.43 In case of Açıksaray, free-standing churches marking the boundaries of the settlement were not primarily funerary in function. The few graves that they accommodate often formed an arcosolium that signalled the resting place of several highly privileged individuals. Those churches that are aligned to form the northern and eastern boundaries of the settlement simultaneously serve as a buffer zone between the aforementioned Roman tombs and the settlement. It is also worth noting that the common medieval cemetery at the core of the Açıksaray settlement was carved in visual connection with the antique tombs.

The site of Karşı Kilise, just 3 km west of Açıksaray, further complicates the picture. This site is located at the outskirts of Gülşehir (ancient Zoropassos), a modern town that bears no evidence of medieval settlement. Büyükkale, the castle-like natural formation west of the Karşı Kilise church, is full of irregular rock-cut spaces, like a honeycomb. The poorly carved settlement here does not resemble the elaborate rockcut courtyard complexes of Açıksaray, while the slope on the southern side of this natural ‘castle’ suggests the presence of a large cemetery like that of Açıksaray. Near Karşı Kilise, the cluster of several churches is noteworthy, not to mention the two probable hermitages and an elaborately carved Roman tomb recorded during our survey of the area. It is also noteworthy that while none of the churches in the valley are physically related to the irregular cliff settlement, there is a visual connection between the cliff settlement and the probable sacred ground (Fig.  4). The spatial organization of the irregular settlement, the free-standing churches, and the open-air cemetery at the site of Karşı Kilise may parallel the spatial organization of the Açıksaray settlement (Fig. 1). It is difficult to determine the relationship bet­ ween the sites of Açıksaray and Karşı Kilise. Did the site of Karşı Kilise offer a different kind of sacred ground? In what ways did the churches in Karşı Kilise differ in function from the numerous churches of Açıksaray? Like the churches in the Açıksaray settlement, the Karşı Kilise churches were not predominantly funeral. Although the sizes of the churches in both sites do not radically differ, the rock-cut benches along the walls of the naos in most of the Karşı Kilise churches (an element that we do not encounter in the Açıksaray churches) may indicate some nuances in use. The need for seating could indicate the length of worship gatherings.44 Architectural details support the contemporaneity of the Greekcross churches of Açıksaray and the lower church of Karşı Kilise (Fig.  6). We can even surmise that some of the churches in Açıksaray and that in Karşı Kilise were the production of the same workshop. Irregular small, nearly inaccessible cells are found at the site of Karşı Kilise and Açıksaray in connection with the churches and may suggest the existence of hermits. The cluster formation of the churches in one location and their alignment as a settlement boundary line may also support the existence of hermits. There may have been a mutual dependence between

the hermits and those living in the settlement: the hermits’ prayers would protect the patrons and their families in Açıksaray, and the patrons would meet the physical needs of the hermits. The case of the sites of Açıksaray and Karşı Kilise demonstrates once again that the boundaries between sacred and secular grounds in Cappadocia were blurred, and the denotations were nuanced from settlement to settlement. For Cappadocia, we are only beginning to ask these questions, many of which are unanswerable. notes *  I wish to thank the Republic of Turkey’s Ministry of Culture and Tourism General Directorate of Cultural Heritage and Museums for granting me a student work permit for the sites of inquiry in 2007, 2008, and 2009; and an archaeological survey permit in 2013 and 2015. Special thanks go to the American Research Institute in Turkey for granting a fellowship in 2012 and to Çankaya University for its generous financial support in 2013. Heartfelt thanks go to Prof.  Suna Güven and Prof.  Robert  G. Ousterhout for their input throughout my research. Finally, I would like to express my appreciation to Aykut Fenerci for the precise architectural drawings. 1  Unless otherwise noted, spaces discussed in this paper are all rock-cut. 2  In 1999, Açıksaray was recognized as a Natural and Archaeological Heritage Site of the First Grade by the Regional Conservation Committee for the Cultural and Natural Heritage of Nevşehir. 3  For Çanlı Kilise, see Robert  G. Ousterhout, A  Byzantine Settlement in Cappadocia (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2005; rev. ed. 2011); for SelimeYaprakhisar see Veronica Kalas, ‘The 2004 Survey of the Byzantine Settlement at Selime-Yaprakhisar in the Peristrema Valley, Cappadocia’, DOP, 60 (2006), 271–93. 4  For an early suggestion of residential use for courtyard complexes in general, see Thomas  F. Mathews and Annie-Christine Daskalakis-Mathews, ‘Islamic-Style Mansions in Byzantine Cappadocia and the Development of the Inverted T-Plan’, JSAH, 56:3 (1997), 294–315. For a critical approach to the unfounded yet common opinion that Cappadocia was a monastic centre, see Robert G. Ousterhout, ‘Questioning the Architectural Evidence: Cappadocian Monasticism’, in Work and Worship at the Theotokos Evergetis 1050–1200, ed.  by Margaret Mullett and Anthony Kirby (Belfast: Belfast Byzantine Enterprises, 1997), pp. 420–31; and Veronica Kalas, ‘Early Explorations of Cappadocia and the Monastic Myth’, BMGS, 28 (2004), 101–19. For Cappadocian aristocracy and wealthy landowners during the tenth and eleventh centuries, see Michel Kaplan, ‘Les grands proprietaires de Cappadoce (VI–XI siècles)’, in Le aree omogenee della civilta rupestre nell’ambito dell’Impero Bizantino: La Cappadocia, ed. by Cosimo Damiano Fonseca (Galatina: Congedo Editore, 1981),

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pp.  125–58; and Jean-Claude Cheynet, ‘L’aristocratie cappadocienne aux Xe et XIe siècles’, Dossiers d’Archéologie, 283 (2003), 42–49. 5  Robert G. Ousterhout, ‘Survey of the Byzantine Settlement at Çanlı Kilise in Cappadocia: Results of the 1995 and 1996 Seasons’, DOP, 51 (1997), 301–06. 6  Lyn Rodley, Cave Monasteries of Byzantine Cappadocia (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), pp. 11, 151. For fresh insight on the discussion of the differentiation between Rodley’s ‘refectory’ and ‘courtyard’ types and their functions, see Fatma Gül Öztürk, ‘The Unusual Separation of Cappadocian Refectories and Kitchens: An Enigma of Architectural History’, Middle East Technical University Journal of the Faculty of Architecture, 29:1 (2012), 153–69. 7  For a recent comparative architectural examination of fortythree courtyard complexes in Cappadocia, see Fatma Gül Öztürk, ‘Negotiating between the Independent and Groups of Courtyard Complexes in Cappadocia’, in Proceedings of the Society of Architectural Historians, Australia and New Zealand: 30, Open, ed. by Alexandra Brown and Andrew Leach (Gold Coast, Qld: SAHANZ, 2013), II, 837–49. 8  Mathews and Daskalakis-Mathews, ‘Islamic-Style Mansions’; Ousterhout, ‘Cappadocian Monasticism’; Veronica Kalas, ‘Rockcut Architecture of the Peristrema Valley: Society and Settlement in Byzantine Cappadocia’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, 2000); Filiz Tütüncü, ‘The Land of Beautiful Horses: Stables in Middle Byzantine Settlements of Cappadocia’ (unpublished M.A. thesis, Bilkent University, 2008); Fatma Gül Öztürk, ‘A Comparative Architectural Investigation of the Middle Byzantine Courtyard Complexes in AçıksarayCappadocia: Questions of Monastic and Secular Settlement’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Middle East Technical University, 2010); Rainer Warland, Byzantinisches Kappadokien (Darmstadt–Mainz: Philipp von Zabern Verlag, 2013). 9  Roman Oberhummer and Heinrich Zimmerer, Durch Syrien und Kleinasien, Reiseschilderungen und Studien (Berlin, 1899); Hans Rott, Kleinasiatische Denkmäler aus Pisidien, Pamphylien, Kappadokien, Lykien (Leipzig: Dieterische Verlagsbuchhandlung Theodor Weicher, 1908); Guillaume de Jerphanion, Une nouvelle province de l’art byzantine: Les églises rupestres de Cappadoce, 2  vols (Paris, P.  Geuthner, 1925–42); Paolo Verzone, ‘Gli monasteri de Acik Serai in Cappadocia’, CahArch, 13 (1962), 119–36; Spiro Kostof, Caves of God: The Monastic Environment of Byzantine Cappadocia (Cambridge, Mass.; London: MIT Press, 1972); Günter Paulus Schiemenz, ‘Die Kreuzkirche von Açıksaray’, IstMitt, 23/24 (1973–4), 233–62. 10  Rodley, Cave Monasteries, pp. 121–50. 11  My comparative study of Cappadocian courtyard complexes reveals that attached churches are found in fully two-thirds of the complexes, and therefore supports the unlikeliness of Açıksaray. See Öztürk, ‘Courtyard Complexes’, p. 845. 12  For more on the courtyard complexes and the settlement structure in Açıksaray, see Fatma Gül Öztürk, ‘Açıksaray “Open Palace”: A Byzantine Rock-cut Settlement in Cappadocia’, BZ, 107 (2014), 785–810. 13  Compare the central location of the vestibule and the main hall (room nos 2–3 in Fig. 3) with the secondary location of the

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attached church (room no. 6 in Fig. 3) on the eastern side of the courtyard, in Area 5. Note also the location and small scale of the free-standing church (church no. 1 in Fig. 3) northeast of Area 5. 14  Since this room has been filled with earth up to one-third of its height, its identification as a burial chamber is uncertain, yet niches in the walls and the fact that it was only accessible through the narthex may still suggest a funerary function. 15  Robert G. Ousterhout, ‘Remembering the Dead in Byzantine Cappadocia: The Architectural Settings for Commemoration’, in Architecture of Byzantium and Kievan Rus from the 9th to the 12th Centuries, ed. by Oleg Ioannisian and Denis Jolshin (St Petersburg: the State Hermitage Publishers, 2010), pp.  89–100, esp. p. 97, pointing to the emphasis on burials in the vicinity of refectories in Cappadocia, where the author questions their monastic identity, and proposes them as places where refrigeria meals were sometimes taken to commemorate the deceased. See also Öztürk, ‘Refectories and Kitchens’. 16  Multiplication while ‘miniaturization’; in other words, the large number of churches that were small in size was peculiar neither to Açıksaray nor Cappadocia, but was relatively common in medieval Byzantium. See Thomas  F. Mathews, ‘Private Liturgy in Byzantine Architecture: Toward a Reappraisal’, CahArch, 30 (1982), 125–38. See also Öztürk, ‘Açıksaray’, p. 808. 17  See Veronica Kalas, ‘Sacred Boundaries and Protective Borders: Outlying Chapels of Middle Byzantine Settlements in Cappadocia’, in Sacred Landscapes in Anatolia and Neighboring Regions, ed. by Charles Gates, Jacques Morin, and Thomas Zimmermann (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2009), pp. 79–91, esp. p. 88 for a discussion on the ‘sanctified boundary’ and ‘defining the settlement’s outer limits’ in Selime-Yaprakhisar. In Selime-Yaprakhisar, churches or chapels that formed the boundaries of the settlement often had a funerary function. Likewise, Ousterhout, ‘Çanlı Kilise’, p. 304, notes ‘a sort of sacred axis’ where several churches – both rock-cut and mason-crafted – in Area 12 at Çanlı Kilise were located on different levels, but more or less on the same line. 18  The naos in each case measures approximately 2.5 by 4 meters, except for Church no. 8, where the naos is twice as large. 19  In Church no. 5 the naos in each aisle measures approximately 2.5 by 4 meters, while in Church no. 13 the naos in each aisle measures approximately 3.5 by 5.5 meters. 20  In these churches the naos is close to square, the edge of which varies between 3.5 and 5 meters. 21  The naos is a square measuring approximately 5.5 by 5.5 meters. 22  Schiemenz, ‘Die Kreuzkirche von Açıksaray’; Friedrich Hild and Marcel Restle, Kappadokien (Kappadokia, Charsianon, Sebasteia und Lykandos), TIB 2 (Vienna, 1981), p.  135; Rodley, Cave Monasteries, p. 150. Exceptionally, Catherine Jolivet-Lévy believes that there is no evidence against an eleventh century date for the paintings in this isolated church. See Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines de Cappadoce: Le programme iconographique de l’abside et de ses abords (Paris: Éditions du CNRS, 1991), p. 227. 23  For burial practices in Cappadocia, see Natalia B. Teteriatnikov, ‘Burial Places in Cappadocian Churches’, GOTR, 29/2 (1984), 141–57; Natalia B. Teteriatnikov, The liturgical planning of Byzantine Churches in Cappadocia (Rome: Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 1996), pp. 165–82; Ousterhout, ‘Remembering the Dead’; and Robert Ousterhout, Visualizing Community: Art, Material

Culture, and Settlement in Byzantine Cappadocia (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2017), pp. 371–85. See also Vasileios Marinis, ‘Tombs and Burials in the Monastery tou Libos in Constantinople’, DOP 63 (2009), 147– 66; and Kalas, ‘Sacred Boundaries’, p. 88. 24  Öztürk, ‘Courtyard Complexes’, p.  845. See also Alexander  D. Grishin, ‘The Church of Yusuf Koç near Göreme Village in Cappadocia’, Mediterranean Archaeology 3 (1990), 39–45 (pp.  40–42); Alexander  D. Grishin, ‘Açık Saray and Medieval Military Campaigns’, in Our Medieval Heritage: Essays in Honour of John Tillotson for his 60th Birthday, ed. by Linda Rasmussen and others (Cardiff: Merton Priory Press, 2002), pp. 164–71 (pp. 167–68); Ousterhout, ‘Çanlı Kilise’, p. 303; Rainer Warland, ‘Die byzantinische Höhlensiedlung von Gökçe/Momoasson in Kappadokien: Gehöfte, Grabkapellen mit Wandmalerei und ein vermögender Salbölhändler’, IstMitt, 58 (2008): 347–69 (pp. 353–59); and Kalas, ‘Sacred Boundaries’, p. 88. 25  Rodley, Cave Monasteries, p. 148. 26  For Güzelöz see Nilüfer Peker and B.  Tolga Uyar, ‘GüzelözBaşköy ve Çevresi Bizans Dönemi Yerleşimleri 2010’, in 29. Araştırma Sonuçları Toplantısı: 23–28 Mayıs 2011, Malatya, ed. by Adil Özme, 3  vols (Ankara: T.C.  Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı Yayınları, 2012), II, 251–66. 27  I thank Dr Nilüfer Peker for sharing her expertise and for her preliminary suggestion of dating here. According to Rodley, it is likely that the pre-existence of the ‘holy men’ in Cappadocia has given rise to pilgrimage and the succeeding patronage of numerous churches and supposed ‘monasteries’ in the region. See Rodley, Cave Monasteries, pp. 252–54. 28  William Mitchell Ramsay, The Historical Geography of Asia Minor (New York: Cambridge University Press, [1890] 2005), pp. 220–21; Hild and Restle, ‘Kappadokien’, pp. 308–09. 29  Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, p. 372. 30  See Rodley, Cave Monasteries, p. 150. Grishin, in Grishin, ‘Açık Saray’ suggests that the different sides of the valley in Açıksaray were constructed in subsequent phases: the first belonging to the second half of the tenth century and the second coming a century later. Hild and Restle, in Hild and Restle, ‘Kappadokien’, p. 135, suggest that the complexes are probably no older than the

eleventh or twelfth century. For more on the dating of the settlement, see Öztürk, ‘Architectural Investigation’, pp. 192–95; and Öztürk, ‘Açıksaray’. 31  Registered by the Regional Conservation Committee for the Cultural and Natural Heritage of Nevşehir in 1999. 32  For more on the paintings of Karşı Kilise, see Jerphanion, Une nouvelle provence, II, 5–16; Catherine Jolivet-Lévy, ‘Images et espace culturel à Byzance: L’exemple d’une église de Cappadoce (Karşı Kilise, 1212)’, in Le sacré et son inscription dans l’espace à Byzance et en Occident, ed. by Michel Kaplan (Paris: Éditions de la Sorbonne, 2001), pp. 163–81; and Nilüfer Peker, ‘Gülşehir Karşı Kilise Duvar Resimleri’, in Change in the Byzantine World in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, First International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, Istanbul 25–28 June 2007, Proceedings, ed.  by Ayla Ödekan and others (Istanbul: Ege Yayınları, 2010), pp. 572– 81. See also Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, pp. 239–40. 33  Jolivet-Lévy, ‘Karşı Kilise’, p. 165. 34  Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, p. 153, p. 168. 35  B. Tolga Uyar, ‘Thirteenth Century Byzantine Painting in Cappadocia: New Evidence’, in Change in the Byzantine World in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, First International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium, Istanbul 25–28 June 2007, Proceedings, ed.  by Ayla Ödekan and others (Istanbul: Ege Yayınları, 2010), pp. 617–25. 36  Registered by the Regional Conservation Committee for the Cultural and Natural Heritage of Nevşehir in 1999. 37  Registered by the Regional Conservation Committee for the Cultural and Natural Heritage of Nevşehir in 1999. 38  Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, p. 72. 39  Teteriatnikov, The Liturgical Planning, p. 7 40  Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, points to Christianization of the Roman Necropolis in Göreme. 41  Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, p. 172. 42  See Ousterhout, Byzantine Settlement, pp. 87, 91, 93; and Ousterhout, Visualizing Community, p. 374. 43  See Kalas, ‘Sacred Boundaries’, pp. 79–91. 44  Teteriatnikov, in The Liturgical Planning, p. 127, suggests that ‘the constant presence of benches and individual seats’ points to ‘the long-lasting night vigils’.

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The City of Ani

Constructing a Medieval Capital in the Christian Orient Armen Kazaryan Introduction In this article I analyze the urban and architectural development of Ani – the renowned capital of Bagratid Armenia. Study of the impressive ruins of Ani began in the nineteenth century and reached its climax with the Ani Expedition led by Nikolay Marr (1892–1893, 1904–1917) and authorized by the Russian Imperial Archaeological Commission.1 Since 1920 the site has been part of Turkey, and after decades of absence of any archaeological research, the site has started to attract public attention once again. In 2016 the ruins of Ani were included in the UNESCO World Heritage List.2 We are still in the investigation stage of new material on the Ani monuments, those that are well-known and those that are still hidden in the ground, and this stage requires decades of work. Historians of architecture formulate more and more questions connected to the theoretical comprehension of these remains. Attempts have been made to explain the advanced stylistic evolution of churches in Ani, (compared to the Byzantine Empire and Europe)3 noted by travelers and scholars already in the nineteenth century,4 and to evaluate the contribution of the great Ani architect Trdat.5 Analysis of this group of monuments allows us to clarify the periodization of Armenian architecture of the Bagratid period6 and also to discuss construction techniques as not only a result of mechanistic evolution, but also as a reflection of aesthetic ideas that influenced transformation of architectural compositions of churches and the ways of their implementation.7

The Armenian historiography of the eleventh to thirteenth centuries, ‘The Universal History’ by Stepanos Taronetsi or Asoghik (early eleventh century), was focused on the most important events of military and political history and the associated issues of Church history. Even the relations with neighboring states were presented as a series of political events with special emphasis on all kinds of failures, military defeats, and threats to enslave the homeland. The contemporary historical research inherited this emotional, empathic approach. Especially those works by authors with special objectives and a desire to convey the historical picture in accordance with the spirit of the medieval chronicle, as if it were written by a chronicler who lived in that particular period of time. Such is, for example, the major monograph by Professor Karen Yuzbashian’s, Armenian States of the Bagratid Era and the Byzantine Empire of the 9th–11th centuries.8 This work analyzes the formation and decline of these states, including Greater Armenia, with its center in Ani. The history of Byzantine domination in Armenia, up to the conquest of its territory by the Seljuks in 1064, has been thoroughly studied. This attention to the historical stages of formation and, especially, to the stages of the Fall, indicates Yuzbashian’s involvement in the centuries-old tradition of Armenian historiography. The author does not analyze the history of the kingdom of the Ani Bagratids during its heyday, which lasted from the time the new capital was founded in 961 until the end of the reign of Hovhannes Smbat (1017–1041), as if these eight prime decades never existed.9 However, there are no

Fig. 1.  Ani Cathedral (985–989, 992–1001), view from the southeast (Source: author).

missteps in chronology in Yuzbashian’s book; it is just that this scholar focused on the problem of political confrontation of the Armenian kingdoms with the Byzantine Empire and the sequence of retreats, as well as on the turmoil within the Ani kingdom, which began with the death of Gagik  I (989–1017). This view is fair only if we rely on written sources. We have to admit that staying true to the content and the spirit of historical chronicles, in fact, makes it impossible to tell the history of Armenia from any other point of view. The relations in the spheres of economy and art, which were among the most important constituents of the cultural development of Asia Minor and the Armenian Highland, are left outside the scope of scholars’ view and remain obscure. Works of art and, especially, architectural monuments tell an entirely different story (Fig. 1). It is well known that there are plenty of them around the Armenian

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capital. These are also historical sources of their own kind, the thoughtful reading of which helps us to answer many questions or at least give them a second thought. Architectural objects and urban-planning structures of ancient times contain information about economic and social relations, the level of technical development, the character of culture and philosophy, and, finally, the ideas that occupied the minds of the elites – the milieu of wealthy clients and architects, who were highly privileged at that time. Complex interdisciplinary studies of Ani conducted by Nikolai Marr and his colleagues in the early twentieth century, together with recent research by such historians as Karen Matevosyan, who was the first to notice the unique development of church life in the city and in the surrounding monasteries, were a step forward toward understanding the history of the Armenian capital.10 Scholars of the early twentieth century emphasized the secular component of urban culture

of the Armenian capital, and researchers of the Soviet period tried not to demonstrate the religious origin of the medieval world view. Nowadays, in the post-Soviet era, studies of religious culture have come to the fore and cover a series of important events of church life in Ani and its religious, sacred imagery. Matevosyan points out the religious component in the concept of establishing the city on the site of an ancient fortress and a neighboring ancient sanctuary where, according to legend, a church was founded by Gregory the Illuminator. He also provides the facts of consecutive sacralization of Ani throughout the period of its rise by transferring the residence of the Armenian Catholicos there in 992, as well as bringing the relics of the Virgin of Hripsime and her martyr companions in the late tenth century, a piece of the True Cross in 1035, and building numerous churches in the city and decorating guard towers with khachkars and mosaic crosses.11 The sources call the city ‘tagavorabnak’, meaning that it was the place where the king lived. They also describe it as ‘astvatsabnak’, the place where God lives, the name which was traditionally given to large monasteries and to only one city – Jerusalem.12 Matevosyan also noticed a number of peculiarities in the ‘Entry into Jerusalem’ miniature by Ani artist Margare, which allowed the scholar to assume that this piece of art implies ‘Christ’s entry into Ani’.13 It seems undisputable that Ani combined the concept of the king’s capital, where the secular and spiritual authorities were geographically united, with the centuries-long idea of a sacred city. This connection is confirmed by the qualitative characteristics of the architecture of Ani and, principally, by its incredibly appealing cathedral that delivers a special mood to the viewer. There is no doubt that the implementation of the original intention of founding the revived state’s capital took place within the framework of the development of Armenian culture and was accompanied by attempts to solve these problems on a national scale. But was this phenomenon isolated from the development of world culture or, as in the case of the interpretation of Armenian history by Stepanos Taronetsi and his predecessors, was it integrated into the universal context of the history of mankind? This issue urges us to return to the problems of the relations between Armenia and the Byzantine Empire that were raised in the aforementioned study by Yuzbashyan in the context of the political advancement in the history of the ninth to the eleventh centuries.

What do we know about such interaction in the sphere of culture and, especially, architecture? The restoration of the dome of St Sophia in Constantinople by Ani architect Trdat has been attested and studied to a certain point.14 This fact proves the closest of contacts between the two capitals, the awareness and mobility of the architects of that era and, most importantly, the fact that the Armenian architects reached the highest levels of qualification in engineering in the second half of the tenth century. However, this fact does not prove the exchange of architectural ideas per se, since the work of Trdat, while being extremely complicated, was of a purely technical nature. Equally important is the assumption made by prominent scholars that the architectural forms inherent in the Armenian tradition penetrated into the architecture of Byzantine churches of the tenth to twelfth centuries. Such an opinion, based on the comparison of church types and their individual forms, has indicated a problem that is being considered very slowly. Was there a reverse migration of architectural ideas? Historical chronicles do not contain the slightest hint of this. As far as we know, this issue has not been raised by historians of architecture either. However, it seems no less promising than the preceding question and no less difficult to understand the essence and reasons why these connections existed. The study of some aspects of Ani’s urban structure, topography and its specific architecture provides the most fertile ground for such analysis. This city’s evolution in the period when the Christian world lost the Holy Land is intentionally compared with another Christian capital – Constantinople – considering the difference in scale and the development of the Byzantine royal city in Late Antiquity. Comparing Ani and Constantinople: Town-Planning These two cities – the largest Christian centers in the tenth and eleventh centuries from the Balkans to the Caspian Sea – have a number of clear similarities that have never been fully noted by other scholars.15 The most basic thing that is quite obvious, but never discussed because of the difference in landscape, is the generalized form of the master plans of the two capitals (Fig. 2). The Bagratids, who until the end of the ninth century resided in Bagaran, a picturesque fortress city at

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Fig. 2.  Schematic plans of two Medieval towns showing the main churches in the eleventh century: a) Ani; b) Constantinople (Source: author).

the confluence of the Akhurian and Araks rivers, later chose different settlements for the royal town of their newly formed kingdom, with each new ruler establishing a new residence. At the beginning it was the city of Yerazgavors or Shirakavan on the hilly terrain upstream from the Akhurian River, in the province of Shirak, and later in the center of Vanand province that, protected by a fortress on a steep rock, there appeared the city of Kars. Ashot Bagratuni, ‘the Merciful’, chose the ancient fortress of Ani as a new center, thus returning to the bank of the Akhurian, undoubtedly with the intention of taking advantage of the landscape for protection. The fortress on the hill, which later was turned into the king’s palace and called Midjnaberd (or Vyshgorod, the ‘High City’ in Russian scholars’ tradition) in contemporary literature, occupied an acute angle of the plateau above deep gorges on which the city gradually began to grow. As early as Ashot the Merciful’s rule, the city districts accommodated the area below the citadel and were protected from the vulnerable plateau side in its narrowest place by a strong wall with rounded towers.

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Under the rule of the next king, Smbat, another system of fortifications was constructed away from this wall in the middle of the plateau. It was designed to protect the so-called New City, which grew behind the first Ashot’s walls. Thus, the two gorges and the second line of fortifications built by Smbat defined the triangular form of the city with the citadel and the royal palace in the far end. Choosing natural areas of a triangular form was a traditional method to start a settlement in Armenia. The Classical Antique Garni Fortress that had existed before Ani used to have such a form, and the tenth to eleventh centuries saw the construction of Amberd fortress (Its foundation in pre-Arabic time is also possible). However, in Ani this idea is embodied at an incomparably larger scale and for the first time in the context of a capital city. In this sense, Constantinople was its closest counterpart. The two sides of the city’s triangle, impregnable for enemy forces, are washed by the Bosporus and the Golden Horn. In Ani, the gorges of Akhurian and Tsakhkotsadzor play the same role. From the third, flat side, both cities are bounded by strong walls (the walls in both cases were erected along

Fig. 3.  Ani, central part of Smbat’s ramparts (Source: author).

with the other sides of the triangle for greater safety). The royal palaces in both cities are located on the cape, in the most remote area from the main walls’ corner of the triangle. The streets of the city were oriented towards the gates in the city wall, and behind the wall they continued as roads to other important cities. It is possible that this resemblance may be accidental, and similar types of urban-planning in both capitals could be explained by historical circumstances and the fact that the development of both cities started from a distant cape, as well as by similar natural outlines. However, further consideration suggests that this similarity was appreciated by the Armenian kings and emphasized by their actions and desire to make their capital look even more like the center of the Eastern Christian Empire. I think we should consider Theodosius’ walls in Constantinople (413–440) as a prototype for the Smbat walls (the construction of which started around 978), reimagined and interpreted by their architect. The similarity between these fortifications in the two capitals has also been noted by T. Breccia Fratadocchi,

who believed that Armenian architects had studied the Constantinopolitan walls before the construction of the fortifications in Ani.16 As with the Byzantine capital, the Ani walls were built in front of the moat in two rows (the inside walls higher than the outside walls) and supplemented with towers, some of which were built in pairs and flanked all the city gates. All towers of the Smbat walls are hollow inside, with ceilings, some of which are tiered (Fig. 3).17 This was unprecedented in Armenia: All the earlier medieval towers that were confined in fortress walls were solid, with rubble fill. Such are the towers in Amberd, Bdjni, and other fortresses. However, according to some historians, there were chapels inside the Ashot walls of Ani. Their existence was archaeologically confirmed, but it was combined with the basic principle of filling these towers with rubble concrete. It is very possible that Armenian masters could have studied the fortifications of Constantinople, but was it done in order to achieve the technical level of the defensive capacity of the largest city of that time, or did it pursue other goals, for example, the desire to bring the city closer to the capital of the empire? In other words,

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Fig. 4.  Ani, tower of Shanush, the relief (Source: author).

is it possible that the mission of the creators of Smbat’s fortifications was to create a specific image of the city? The appearance of these structures proves that the fortifications not only had a utilitarian function, but a symbolic one as well. Unlike Constantinople, they were entirely made of stone, as was customary in Armenia. In Armenia, this was the first time that fortifications were built entirely of ashlars using tuff of the same color and quality that was used for the construction of the Ani churches. Employing such costly material specifically for the purpose of defense was meaningless. However, it increased the prestige of the new capital by making it stand out from the dozens of other eastern fortresses and cities. We should keep in mind that Ashot’s walls in Ani, according to local tradition, were made of rough stone. These fortifications impressed with their impregnability. Smbat’s walls give a completely different impression. While used for defense, they represent the identity and aspirations of the city. They demonstrate an extraordinary purity of form and even elegance, if such a description is applicable to fortifications. The fortifications made of neatly cut stone indicate the general trend of the Ani school of architecture 244

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and the entire culture of the Armenian capital of the tenth and early eleventh centuries to follow the model of Antiquity, which manifested itself in numerous interpretations of antique forms and architectural principles. It was during the heyday of Ani when the distinctive features of the capital’s unique architectural ‘school’ was formed. Buildings created by the representatives of this school, and first of all by the architect Trdat, included Hellenistic style portals, reinterpreted façade arches resembling antique orders, and a new type of profiled base. The type of ornamentation was updated and, as a result, for the first time since the end of the sixth century, various kinds of Greco-Roman motifs began to prevail in carving.18 Studying the Smbat walls, which were created when Armenian architecture began its deliberate and conceptual turn towards antique models, we must remember the appearance of ancient, Hellenistic Armenian cities and fortresses such as the fortress of Garni, Artashat, the ancient capital of Armenia, or Tigranakert city in Artsakh (which is now being excavated). The defensive walls of some of these settlements were made in the style of classic Hellenistic masonry, with the use of tightly fitted ashlars

Fig. 5.  Ani, khachkar on the eastern part of Smbat’s ramparts (Source: author).

connected by dovetail clamps. The walls of other settlements were built with the use of rubble and concrete between well-dressed layers of stone. This tradition of giving city walls a noble look existed in Late Antiquity and occasionally in Early Byzantine times (Anazarbus in Cilicia, Resafa in Syria). If the architects of the Ani churches were influenced by the compositional features and forms of ancient buildings, it is equally possible that the masters who created the Ani walls could have done the same. Without a doubt, the Smbat walls appear to have architectural merit, and not just engineering mastery. It is well recognized by historians of architecture who see in Trdat the best architect of the time, and the creator of these fortifications.19 Nevertheless, by emulating the forms, character, and texture of the ancient city walls (including those of Late Antique Constantinople), as we have seen is the case in church construction, it could not have been purely mechanical. Some particular concept was clearly behind the image of these walls. As a consequence, the realization of this concept led the builders to a Late Antique fortification style and to the interpretation of forms of this ancient heritage.

Constructing the Image of a Holy City The hypothesis above suggests that the approach to creating Smbat’s fortifications was never strictly utilitarian. This is evident not only in the type of masonry used but also in the decoration of its walls, towers and gates with khachkars, mosaic crosses, solemn inscriptions and zoomorphic images. The main gate of the interior walls contains a relief figure of a lion or leopard with a polychrome stone cross above it, which was still intact in the early twentieth century. This composition is often thought to be the Bagratid coat of arms, but it could also be the coat of arms of the city of Ani. Two rounded towers, one in the central and one in the eastern part of the ramparts, have a peculiar horizontal stringcourse. In its middle section is an image of a bull’s head surrounded by two dragons with open mouths. The bodies of the dragons take the form of wide interlace extending to the sides and embracing the tower (Fig.  4). This ornament, together with khachkars on the towers (a few of which were created during the construction of the walls, while others were added during maintenance Th e Ci t y of Ani

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work carried out in the thirteenth or perhaps even the fourteenth century) face away from the city. Only some of the khachkars, inserted in niches near the gates, could serve for praying. It seems that the rest of the ornamentation served as talismans of the city as well as demonstrating the Christian character of the Armenian capital (Fig. 5). Perhaps such a demonstration was intended to highlight the juxtaposition of Ani to Dvin – the more ancient capital of the country that, in the seventh century, was conquered by the Arabs and eventually dominated by Muslims. Thus, the long reach of advanced fortifications protecting the city from invasions had developed an architectural design that pursued ideological goals to create the image of a capital city that was also a holy city. Such a union is consonant with the idea of uniting the symbols of secular and religious authorities that were concentrated in this city, as depicted on the Ani coat of arms above the city’s main gates.20 It is also noteworthy that high up on the inner surface of the Main gates’ surviving tower there is a large swastika made of ochre and gray stones (more precisely, it is a left-sided ‘sauvastika’) (Fig. 6). This symbol of eternal life and eternal movement, the symbol of the sun that was so popular among the most ancient peoples and, at the same time, widespread in ancient art, appears here for a reason. It seems that researchers never attempted to explain this phenomenon, but putting this sign in such a place surely was meant to convey some particularly important idea, and it conveyed it together with another sign (perhaps a similar one, but mirrored) on the neighboring long-lost tower. This idea was passed on to the citizens of Ani as a constant reminder of something very important for them and for the royal dynasty. Was this wish for well-being and prosperity connected with the etymology of the word? Perhaps. Nevertheless, this notion suggests that the space of Ani was perceived by its citizens as sacred, not only by the presence of numerous churches and images of the cross, but also by symbols that had no direct relation to Christianity. It seems quite probable that the Ani residents recognized the Christian period as the present stage of their people’s history and, as is understood from Armenian historiography, linked their historical path with the pre-Christian, ancient

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past by referring to ancient forms and symbols connecting their current history and fate with the preceding stages. The idea of building a capital city mainly through the interpretation of the topography of Constantinople and by deliberately shaping an image of the holy city is reflected in the sphere of church construction that took place in the city and its vicinity. This assumption is based not only on the emotional perception of the scale of construction and the quality of the church’s architecture. Some dedications and peculiarities of the location of the most important churches contain the necessary information for such ideas. In the biggest part of Ani – the New City – apart from the cathedral, there are two larger domed churches of the tenth and eleventh centuries that stand out: These are the church of St  Gregory the Illuminator, or Gagkashen, constructed in honour of its founder, King Gagik Bagratuni; and the church of the Apostles (Arakelots), probably built immediately after Gagkashen during the reign of the same king. Of all the major churches, the cathedral is the closest to the royal palace. It is noteworthy that, as with Constantinople, the church of the Apostles was the city’s main church and, in relation to the main cathedral, it was positioned near the outer walls. It is interesting and, I believe, not accidental that both churches were dedicated to the apostles, had a cross-shaped composition and were the only ones that had five domes within the city. The main difference between the Armenian and the Byzantine Church of the Apostles is that four additional domes were not located above the arms of the cross, but above the corner chapels. This decision, made by an Ani architect, possibly Trdat, could be based on the understanding of the composition, with short arms of the cross articulated by the semicircular exedrae, and also on the example of another cathedral built in Avan in the late sixth century, which was also a tetraconch with domes in the center above corner compartments. However, considering the iconography of the architecture, the location of these domes is not as important as the fact of their sheer presence, together with the shape of the cross and the number of domes on the one hand, and the function and dedication of the church on the other. These elements coincide with the Church of the Holy Apostles in the Byzantine capital founded by Constantine and later reconstructed by Justinian.

Fig. 6.  Ani, the Main Gate, view from the city (Source: author).

The round church of Gagkashen, built according to the example of the Zvartnots church (641–661), as indicated by Stepanos Taronetsi, undoubtedly possessed the specific symbolism of a rotunda with the central space encircled by an arcade. Research connects the composition of this structure with the Rotunda over the Holy Sepulcher as well as Zvartnots. This complex monument should be interpreted not just

as a copy of the Holy Sepulcher, but as the embodiment of the idea of ​​the Heavenly Jerusalem, which also reflects the features of Jerusalem on earth.21 The form of Gagkashen, built in 1001 (either completed or founded) apparently represented the memory of the great Armenian shrine created by Catholicos Nerses the Builder in the middle of the Ararat valley, at the place where King Trdat and Gregory the Illuminator

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Fig. 7.  Ani, Surb Prkich Church (1035), the view from the east (Source: author).

met (the embodiment of the unity of secular and ecclesiastical principles!). By the end of the tenth century, Zvartnots was already in ruins. The emergence of a church such as Zvartnots in the capital accentuated the sacralization of Ani and rendered the idea of its analogy with Jerusalem stronger. A final reason to assume the existence of such a connection between the two cities of the East in the minds of the dwellers of Ani is the historical fact that pieces of the True cross were transported to the Armenian capital. This relic was put into the foundation of a round church dedicated to the Savior (Surb Prkich) with eight exedrae inside (Fig. 7). This historical fact is presented in the form of a building inscription and connects the fate of the three cities – Jerusalem, Constantinople and Ani.  Composed in the name of Marzpan Aplgharib Pahlavuni, it tells the story of his visit to Constantinople and his

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carrying of the message from Shahanshah Smbat to the ‘Emperor of the Greeks’ Michael IV (1034–1051), and his return with a piece of the Holy Cross as well as of the establishment of the church in Ani in 484 (according to the Armenian calendar which begins in the year 551 A.D.): ‘In the year 484 [1035 A.D.], I, Ablgharib Marzipan, (took) an edict on behalf of Smbat Shahanshah to the Emperor of the Greeks, Michael, at Constantinople, and with great effort and great expense, I  brought a piece of the Holy Cross and, when I returned, I  completed this church and erected the sign of light as a crown of this spouse of Christ […]’.22 Concluding Remarks Are these historical facts and the echoing of architectural features of the largest Ani churches and the

most important buildings of Constantinople and Jerusalem coincidental? Is it a coincidence that the main fortifications of Ani resemble the fortifications of the Byzantine capital, where the walls, towers and gates of the city were given features and symbols referring to the image of the Heavenly City? The coincidences are so many that we can discern the result of the conceptual embodiment in Ani of the image through a sacred city and the image of a royal city, which at that time was represented by the Byzantine capital. In this concept, conceived in the minds of the founders of the new Armenian capital and consistently developing during the reign of the four kings, the Shahanshahs, we understand the need for the political and cultural revival of the country, their will and ambition. There is also a demonstration, if not a rivalry, of noble coexistence of the Shahanshahs (the very title of the Armenian kings testifies to the inheritance of the eastern line of independent rulers) and emperors. It should be noted that in this case we are not discussing the distribution of architectural ideas under a certain ‘influence’ of Byzantine architecture. The peculiarities of the realization of the images conceived by the Armenian clients demonstrate the outstanding growth of their own architectural tradition. The majority of compositional ideas, architectural forms and technical solutions are found in the ‘treasury’ of Early Medieval Armenian architecture. However, prototypes of some of the solutions are found in the architecture of Antiquity, which includes both Classical Greco-Roman, Eastern, and Iranian traditions.

NOTES Armen Kazaryan, ‘The Ani Archaeological Institute: The Range of its Operations and the Foundation of its Progress’ [‘Анийский археологический институт. Диапазон деятельности и основы достижения успеха’], in Problems in the General History of Architecture [Вопросы всеобщей истории архитектуры], vol. 7 (Moscow; Saint Petersburg: Nestor-Istoria, 2016), pp.  9–27. Among the first studies of Ani architecture were: Iosif A. Orbeli, The Ruins of Ani: Their History, Modern Preservation, and Excavation [Развалины Ани: История, современное состояние, раскопки] (Sankt-Petersburg: “Neva” Journal Publ., 1911); Nikolay Ya. Marr, The Textual History of the Town and Excavations on the Site of the Ancient Settlement [Ани. Книжная история города и раскопки на месте городища] (Moscow, Leningrad: OGIZ Publ., 1934). Several structures of Ani were investigated in the work by J.  Strzygowski, based on drawings by T.  Toramanian,

1 

see: Josef Strzygowski, Die Baukunst der Armenier und Europa (Wien: A. Schroll & Co., G.m.b.H., 1918). 2  Ani became more popular in recent decades. Besides several articles on its history and architecture, some illustrated albums and exhibition catalogs were published: Ani. Capitale de l’Arménie en l’an mil. Catalogue de l’exposition au Pavillon des Arts, 7 février – 13 mai 2001, ed. by Raymond H. Kevorkian (Paris: Paris-Musées, 1987); Samvel Karapetyan, Ani – 1050. Illustrated album (Yerevan, 2011) (in Armenian, English and Russian); Toros Toramanyan, The Cathedral Church of Ani (Yerevan: Agency of Historical-Cultural Museums and the Preservation of Historical Environments, 2008) (in Armenian, English and Russian); Ani: The Millennial Capital of Armenia (Yerevan: History Museum of Armenia Publ., 2015) (in Armenian and English). 3  Armen Kazaryan, ‘The Ani School of Armenian Architecture at the End of the Tenth Century: Anticipations of the “Gothic” Style’ [‘Анийская школа армянской архитектуры в конце X века. Предчувствие «готики»’], in Ancient Russian Art.  The Byzantine World: Regional Traditions in Artistic Culture and the Difficulties of Researching Them [Древнерусское искусство. Византийский мир: региональные традиции в художественной культуре и проблемы их изучения], ed. By Maria Orlova (Moscow: State Institute for Art Studies Publ., 2017), pp. 197–208. 4  Particularly in Harry Finnis Blosse Lynch, Armenia. Travels and Studies (London, New York: Longmans, Green, and Co, 1901); Josef Strzygowski, Die Baukunst der Armenier. 5  Christina Maranci, ‘The Architect Trdat. Building Practices and Cross-Cultural Exchange in Byzantium and Armenia’, in JSAH, 62 (2003), 294–305; Christina Maranci, ‘The Architect Trdat: From the Great Church at Ani to the Great Church at Constantinople’, in Armenian Kars and Ani, ed. by Richard G. Hovannisian (Costa Mesa, California: Mazda publishers, 2011), 101–26. 6  Armen Kazaryan, ‘The Metropolitan School of Armenian Architecture of the Bagratid Period. A New Survey of the Development’ [‘Столичная школа армянской архитектуры эпохи Багратидов. Новый обзор развития’], in Questions of the History of World Architecture [Вопросы всеобщей истории архитектуры], vol.  9 (Moscow; Sankt Petersburg: Nestor-Istoria, 2017), 87–116. 7  Armen Kazaryan, ‘Architectural Ideas and Metamorphoses of Technique in the Ani School of Armenian Architecture of the Bagratid Era’, in Gravity: Building Practices in the Pre-Industrial World, ed.  by Robert Ousterhout and others, Philadelphia, 20–22 March 2015, (Publication by the Center for Ancient Studies), University of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia, PA, 2016). http:// www.sas.upenn.edu/ancient/againstgravity_abstracts.html. 8  Karen  N. Yuzbashyan, The Armenian States of the Bagratid Epoch and Byzantium in the 9th–11th Centuries [Армянские государства эпохи Багратидов и Византия IX–XI вв.] (Moscow: Nauka Publ., 1988). 9  Yuzbashyan, Armenian States, pp. 156–60. 10  Karen Matevosyan, Ani: Eclessiastical Life and the Manuscript Heritage [Անի, եկեղեցական կյանքը ևձեռագրական ժառանգությունը] (Etchmiadzin: Holy Etchmiadzin Publ., 1997). 11  Matevosyan, Ani, pp. 12–17. 12  Matevosyan, Ani, p. 19. 13  Matevosyan, Ani, p. 18. 14  Maranci, ‘The Architect Trdat’, pp. 101–26.

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My preliminary attempt is Armen Kazaryan, ‘Ani.  Towards the Fashioning of the Metropolitan Image’ [‘Ани. К вопросу о сложении столичного образы’], in Armenia and Oriental Christian Civilisation – II International Conference dedicated to the 90th anniversary of the Eminent Armenologist-Byzantinist Karen Yuzbashyan (1927–2009), Papers and Abstracts of Papers (Yerevan: National Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Armenia, 2017), pp. 128–35. 16  Tommaso Breccia Fratadocchi, ‘Notes on Armenian military architecture’, in Environmental Design. Trails to the East. Essays in Memory of Paolo Cuneo, ed. by Marisa Calia and others (Rome: Dell’oca Editore, 1997–99), p. 70. 17  An important period of investigation of Smbat’s ramparts are related with the work of the French archaeologic Team of Ani (1998–2005), see: Philippe Dangles, ‘Armenian medieval architecture along the boundary of the Akhurian River: French researche in Turkey and Armenia’, in Advances in Social Science, Education and Humanities Research, volume 171: International Conference on Art Studies: Science, Experience, Education (ICASSEE 2017) (Paris: Atlantis Press, 2007), pp.  136–39; Philippe Dangles, ‘Ani, an Archaeological Study of the Fortifications’, in Ani 1050 (Yerevan: National Academy of Sciences of the Republic of Armenia Publ., 2012), pp. 189–202. 18  Shmavon Azatyan, ‘Armenian Portals with Elements of Classical Decoration’ [‘Армянские порталы с элементами античной декорации’], in Lraber Hasarakakan Gitutiunneri, 4  (1972), 39–43; Armen Kazaryan, ‘Classical Heritage of Armenian Architecture of the Late 10th – Early 11th Century. Towards the 15 

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Question of “Renaissance” in Medieval Culture’ [‘Античное наследие в армянской архитектуре конца X –начала XI века. К проблеме «ренессансов» в средневековой культуре’], in Architecture [Архитектура], 6 (Minsk: Belarus National Technical University Publ., 2013), pp. 21–26; Armen Kazaryan, ‘The “Classical” Trend of Armenian Architectural School of Ani (10th–11th centuries): The Greco-Roman Model and the Conversion of Medieval Art’, in A Handbook to Classical Reception in Eastern and Central Europe, ed. Zara Martirosova Torlone and others (John Wiley & Sons, 2017), pp. 528–40. 19  Stepan Kh. Mnatsakanian, Masters of Masters – Manuel, Trdat, Momik [Վարպետաց վարպետներ – Մանուել, Տրդատ, Մոմիկ] (Yerevan: Academy of Sciences of the Armenian SSR Publ., 1982), pp. 79–142. 20  Matevosyan, Ani, p. 13. 21  A.  Yu.  Kazaryan, Church Architecture of the 7th Century in Transcaucasian Countries: Formation and Development of the Tradition [Церковная архитектура стран Закавказья VII века: формирование и развитие традиции], 4 vols (Moscow: Locus Standi, 2012), II, 442. 22  Translation is from Gabriella Uluhogian, ‘The Evidence of Inscriptions’, in Ani, ed.  by Paolo Cuneo (Milan: OEMME Edizioni, 1984), p.  77. Concerning the church see Armen Kazaryan, İsmail Yavuz Özkaya and Alin Pontioğlu, ‘The Church of Surb Prkich in Ani (1035). Part 1: History and Historiography – Architectural Plan – Excavations of 2012 and Starting of Conservation’, in RIHA Journal 0143, 2016, URL: http://www. riha-journal.org/articles/2016/0143-kazaryan-özkaya-pontioğlu.

List of Contributors

Benjamin Anderson (Ph.D., Bryn Mawr, 2012) is Associate Professor of the History of Art and Classics at Cornell University, and author of Cosmos and Community in Early Medieval Art (Yale University Press, 2017). Roland Betancourt is Professor of Art History and Chancellor’s Fellow at the University of California, Irvine. He is the author of Byzantine Intersectionality: Sexuality, Gender, and Race in the Middle Ages (Princeton University Press, 2020), Performing the Gospels in Byzantium: Sight, Sound, and Space in the Divine Liturgy (Cambridge University Press, 2020), and Sight, Touch, and Imagination in Byzantium (Cambridge University Press, 2018). Megan Boomer received her PhD in the History of Art from the University of Pennsylvania in 2019. Her dissertation, Landscapes of Salvation: Architecture and Memory in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, investigated the physical and rhetorical construction of biblical sanctity through architecture, images, inscriptions, and liturgy in the twelfth-century Holy Land. Other research projects include studies of Islamic and Christian shrines in the Eastern Mediterranean. Suna Çağaptay is a Medieval Mediterraneanist (UIUC, 2007) working on the artistic and cultural interactions in the eastern Mediterranean and their reflections on the built environment. Currently, she is a research fellow funded by the European Research Council working on ‘The Impact of the Ancient

City’, a project based in the Faculty of Classics at the University of Cambridge, examining the ‘afterlives’ of ancient cities in Anatolia and the Balkans in the Medieval era to the modern period. She has held this position since March 2017, while on research leave from her teaching position at Bahçeşehir University, Istanbul. She has a forthcoming volume titled Bursa: The First Ottoman Capital (IB Tauris, 2020), as well as two co-edited books and numerous articles that have appeared in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, Muqarnas, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, Speculum, EIThree, and the Turkish Studies Review. Eunice Dauterman Maguire having been an academic curator (Krannert Art Museum, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, and Johns Hopkins University Archaeological Museum), follows design and expressive patterns from Late Antiquity onwards, in architectural sculpture and other functional art, from ceramics and furnishings to person-defining imagery on clothing. For printed publications see the Hollis catalogue online; digital publications (accessed 2/18/20) include ‘Dressed For Eternity: A  Prelude’, http://egypt.cla.umn.edu/eventsr.html, p.  39–71; and interpretive discussions (on fragments BZ.1972.2 and BZ.1973.3) in the Catalogue of the Textiles in the Dumbarton Oaks Byzantine Collection, with an essay on curtains: https://www.doaks.org/resources/ textiles/catalogue#b_start=0&c5=Maguire Armen Kazaryan is the director of the Research Institute for Theory and History of Architecture and Town Planning (NIITIAG) (Moscow). He is also a

vice-director of the State Institute for Art Studies of the Ministry of Culture of the Russian Federation. His book on church architecture of the seventh century in Transcaucasian countries (Moscow, 2012– 2013) was honored with the Europa Nostra Award (2014). In the last years, he is participating in a large study of the architecture of Ani, the medieval capital of Armenia, as well as in the study of the Armenian church architecture in Southern Russia. Michalis Kappas studied archaeology at the Aristotle University of Thessalonike. He did his postgraduate studies in the University of Paris  I and in the University of Thessalonike, where he obtained his PhD (2009). For the academic year 2016–2017 he was a fellow at Dumbarton Oaks. Since 2005, Kappas has worked as an archaeologist in the Ephorate of Antiquities of Messenia, Kalamata, where he holds the position of Head of the Department of Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Monuments. Henry Maguire is Emeritus Professor of the History of Art at Johns Hopkins University and Honorary Professor at the University of Birmingham. He has also taught at Harvard and at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. From 1991 to 1996 he served as Director of Byzantine Studies at Dumbarton Oaks in Washington D.C. He has authored six books on Byzantine art, and co-authored three more with Eunice Dauterman Maguire. In addition, he has published, with Ann Terry, a study of the wall mosaics in the Cathedral of Eufrasius at Poreč. He is currently studying the functioning of ornament in Byzantine art. Vasileios Marinis is Associate Professor of Christian Art and Architecture at Yale University. His current research interests include the textual construction of sacred space and the cult of the martyr Euphemia in Byzantium. Rory O’Neill is an Adjunct Professor of Architecture at Columbia University in New York. Rory’s research centers on the structure of masonry buildings in the medieval period and the adaptations of architectural forms to seismic geography, with a particular focus on modifications of the Gothic style in the eastern Mediterranean. In addition to archaeological investigations, Rory has developed physical simulation

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technologies that allow for rapid analysis of masonry structures under static and seismic loading, fostering collaboration between seismic engineers, archaeoseismologists and architectural historians. Fatma Gül Öztürk Büke graduated from Universität Stuttgart, Department of Architecture in Germany in 2000. She received a Ph.D. in Architectural History Program from Middle East Technical University in Turkey in 2010. Her thesis was on rock-cut courtyard houses in Byzantine Cappadocia. In 2013–14, she was a postdoctoral fellow at the University of Pennsylvania, working on Byzantine domestic architecture in Anatolia under the direction of Robert Ousterhout. Currently she is teaching at Çankaya University, Department of Architecture in Turkey. Her research interests include Medieval Anatolia, Byzantine architecture, Cappadocia, rock-cut architecture, housing and settlement in the Mediterranean. Amy Papalexandrou is Lecturer and Adjunct faculty at the University of Texas at Austin. Prior to this she was Constantine George Georges & Sophia  G. Georges Associate Professor of Greek Art & Architecture at Stockton University, where she taught Art and Architectural History for the Program in the Visual Arts in the School of Arts and Humanities. She is an Assistant Director of the Princeton-Cyprus Archaeological Expedition to Polis-Chrysochou (Cyprus), where she works with a team of scholars on the Late Antique and Early Medieval levels of the site (5th–16th cent.) in the remote NW corner of the island. Jordan Pickett is an Assistant Professor of Classics at the University of Georgia. He earned his PhD from the University of Pennsylvania in 2015. Jordan’s research is concerned with the architecture and environments of Roman cities during Late Antiquity, with resultant publications in the Dumbarton Oaks Papers, the Journal of Archaeological Science, Quaternary Science Reviews, and Human Ecology. He has worked with survey and excavation projects across the Mediterranean, and currently serves as a co-principal investigator for survey of Byzantine fortifications at Sardis. Jordan is also busy preparing a monograph concerned with the evolution of Roman water infrastructure during Late Antiquity.

Anna M. Sitz received her PhD in 2017 at the University of Pennsylvania and is currently a Postdoc at the Universität Heidelberg (Germany) in the Materiale Textkulturen research group (SFB 933). She is an archaeologist of Late Antiquity and excavates at Labraunda in Turkey. Her research investigates ancient inscriptions as material culture and their role in creating and maintaining sacred space. She has also published on Byzantine Cappadocia. Anna previously held fellowships at the Harvard Center for Hellenic Studies and the Deutsches archäologisches Institut, and spent two years in Athens at the American School of Classical Studies. Charles Anthony Stewart is an Associate Professor of Art History at Benedictine College (Atchison, Kansas). He specializes in the development of Late Roman and Early Medieval architecture, especially in

the eastern Mediterranean region. His research investigates transitional periods of history, as well as artistic, technological, and economic exchange between neighboring cultures. Warren  T. Woodfin is Kallinikeion Associate Professor of Art History at Queens College, CUNY. He earned his PhD from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign in 2002. He is author of The Embodied Icon: Liturgical Vestments and Sacramental Power in Byzantium (Oxford, 2012) and co-editor of Clothing the Sacred: Medieval Textiles as Fabric, Form, and Metaphor (Edition Imorde, 2015) with Mateusz Kapustka. In 2018 he curated the exhibition From the Desert to the City: The Journey of Late Ancient Textiles at the Godwin-Ternbach Museum at Queens College. He is also active in the ongoing publication of finds from a 13th century burial in southern Ukraine.

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