Cities in Transition: Urbanism in Byzantium between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (AD 500–900) 9781407306070, 9781407335582

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BAR S2030 2009 ZAVAGNO CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM

B A R

Cities in Transition: Urbanism in Byzantium between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (AD 500–900) Luca Zavagno

BAR International Series 2030 2009

Cities in Transition: Urbanism in Byzantium between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (AD 500–900) Luca Zavagno

BAR International Series 2030 2009

ISBN 9781407306070 paperback ISBN 9781407335582 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407306070 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BAR

PUBLISHING

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank all the people that have helped me along the way in this book which stemmed from almost seven years of work on the Byzantine city: indeed, this book should be essentially regarded as a refinement of my doctoral dissertation which I defended at the University of Birmingham in July 2007. First and foremost, I would like to express my gratitude to Prof. Chris Wickham, who supervised my thesis, guided my research, read drafts of the book and acted as a mentor to me: I gained immensely from his invaluable academic assistance and suggestions. I wish I can tell him how much I owed to him as a student and as a young scholar who will be always struggling to follow in his footsteps; but sometime words are simply not enough to utter all your feelings. The same is true for my first teacher Prof. Antonio Capitanio, to whom my mind always goes when I need inspiration; it is simply because of him that I wanted to become an historian. I hope he will forgive me if I am still trying hard to follow his example. I am also grateful to my former supervisor, Dr. Roger White, for his support and help and to Prof. John Haldon for his assistance during my first years in Birmingham. Another group of people helped me in the development of my ideas and interpretations of Byzantine urbanism allowing me to follow their courses and seminaries or simply reading through each chapter of this book. These included Prof. Leslie Brubaker, Dr. Archie Dunn, Dr. Ruth Macrides, and Dr. Eurydice Georganteli, Prof. Eric Ivison, Prof. Alessandra Ricci, Dr. Pagona Papadopoulou and Dr. Christie Gruber. I gained enormously from their insights and bibliographical references. I must also express my great debt to Dr. Marlia Mundell Mango who invited me to follow her course on Byzantine pottery at the University of Oxford and to Prof. Scott Redford who invited me as Senior Post-Doctoral Fellow to the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations of Koç University in Istanbul. I also benefited from ideas and other help from Prof. Enrico Zanini (who accepted me as member of the Archaeological Campaign“ Gortina 2003“), Dr. Jim Crow (who spent an entire day to recall the details of his archaeological survey in Amastris to my benefit), Dr. Matthew Harpster, Dr. Michael Walsh, Dr. Luke Lavan, Dr. Vincenzo Gobbo, Dr. Marios Hadjianastasis, Dr. Aysu Dinçer, Dr. Erdem Çipa and Dr. Caterina Bruschi. Especial thanks go to Prof. Claudio Azzara, friend and “maestro”, who read and commented on all the sections of this thesis. In the course of writing the thesis and the book I have enjoyed the support of a number of institutions: the University of Birmingham, the Arts and Humanities Research Council, the British Institute in Ankara, the Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations of Koç University in Istanbul and the Scuola Archeologica Italiana di Atene. They all have provided me with invaluable intellectual and other sustenance. Special thanks go to Hawley Kusch who was so kind and patient to read through this book and correct all the mistakes I made in my non-existent English: if there are still some it is completely my fault and not hers. Lastly I want to thank my family (my mum, for her patience and love, and to my sister Marianna, friend of a lifetime), and my endless love Federica (who shared this enterprise with me, supporting me in bad and good times: “without her I simply cannot be”), for the immense help they have given me over the years. This book is mainly dedicated to them. Other people always stood by my side, my best friend Rudi (who, I am sure, will always be there for me as I will be for him), Linda, Luca Mango, Osea, Daniele, Ozlem, Gül, Aslı, Tomomi, Efi, Stefano, Steve, Marcello and Declan: I want to thank them all because they are filling my life of joy and happiness.

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A Note on Terminology and Chronology

Being aware that in books dealing with Byzantine history some preliminary remarks on transliteration and translation are, indeed, needed, I consider important to mention that I have referred to personal names and titles in the simplest possible way. In general Greek terms have been transliterated as literally as possible, without any accent or phonetic rendering. I have also anglicized the names of rulers and names for the lexicon of Saints, avoiding, also, the temptation to Latinize Greek names and using English for the title of the texts. Latin terms have been, indeed, used when needed (mainly for the period before 600 A.D. when Latin was still the main language of culture and State administration). Moreover, I have done my best to render place-names in modern and anglicized terms, although I have used both medieval and modern names (the latter in brackets) for the regions of Byzantine Empire now part of the Arab-speaking worlds. As recently pointed out by Jonita Vroom, ‘the archaeology of late Antiquity is inescapably an archaeology of chronological chaos’1. Indeed the manifold definitions attributed to overlapping and coterminous chronological phases (late Roman, late Antique, early Christian, early Byzantine, and early middle ages) contribute to enhance this confusion. Also one must be aware that different geographical, cultural, methodological and historical perspectives bring about different chronological labels. This being so, in this book I have decided to opt for a the term late Antiquity for the period spanning from the fifth to the seventh century and the term early middle ages for that ranging from the seventh to the ninth century, hoping that this solution will simplify the reader’s task. Unfortunately, I have not been able to systematically incorporate publications after May 2007.

1

Vroom 2004, 286.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1 The Byzantine City and its historiographical tradition: an introduction 1.1. What is a city? 1.2. The Byzantine City (5th - 9th Century): Historiographical perspectives 1.3. Different Regions, Different Perspectives: the status of archaeological research of Byzantium 1.3.1. Byzantine Italies 1.3.2. Balkans and Greece 1.3.3. Anatolia 1.3.4. Syria and Palestine

1 8 18 22 25 26 29

Chapter 2 Athens 2.1. Introduction: Why Athens? 2.2. Attica: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy 2.2.1. A brief historical overview: the Church and the State 2.3. The City 2.4. Conclusions

33 51 39 45 58

Chapter 3 Gortyn 3.1. Introduction: Why Gortyn? 3.2. Crete: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy 3.3. A brief historical overview: the Church and the State 3.4. The City 3.5. Beyond Gortyn (Urbanism in Crete) 3.6. Conclusions

61 65 67 74 91 93

Chapter 4 Ephesos 4.1. Introduction: Why Ephesos? 4.2. Western Anatolia: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy 4.3. A brief historical overview: the Church and the State 4.4. The City 4.5. Conclusions

95 100 102 107 125

Chapter 5 Amastris 5.1. Introduction: Why Amastris? 5.2. The Paphlagonian region: Landscape, settlement pattern,trade routes and economy 5.3. A brief historical overview 5.4. The City 5.5. Conclusions

129 131 135 138 149

Chapter 6 General Conclusions

153

Bibliography

173

Index of Names and Places

199

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List of Figures Chapter One Figure 1. Salamis-Constantia (Cyprus) mid sixth century pool (Author’s photo) Figure 2. Magnesia at the Meander (Turkey) early seventh century walls (Author’s photo) Figure 3. Umm Qay (Gardara, Jordan), walls of shops encroaching onto paved cardus (Author’s photo) Figure 4. Gerasa (Jerash, Jordan). Mosque (second half of eighth century, Author’s photo) Figure 5. The Adriatic Crescent (Venetiae) in the mid-seventh century (the so-called Venetiae) Figure 6. Miletos (Turkey), “Theater Kastell” (mid-seventh century, Author’s photo) Figure 7. Scythopolis (Israel), Umayyad workshops on Silvanus Street (second half of seventh century, Author’s photo) Chapter Two Figure 1. Athenian Agora (after Travlos, in Frantz 1988, p. 10) Figure 2. Map of Greece Figure 3. Map of Attica (after Etienne, 2004, p. 5) Figure 4. The road network linking athens with Corinth and Thebes according to the Peutingerian Table (after Cuntz, 1913, p. 4) Figure 5. The area within the Theistocleian Walls (after Travlos, in Frantz 1988, p. 20) Figure 6. The MM’ excavated area (after Setton, 1975b, p. 249) Figure 7. The Acropolis and the course of the post-Herulian Walls (after Frantz 1988, p. 35) Figure 8. Post Herulian Walls (Author’s photo) Figure 9. The Theseion and the Athenian Agora (Author’s photo) Chapter Three Figure 1. Map of the Messara Plain (after Di Vita, 1984a, p. 70) Figure 2. Map of Crete Figure 3. The Pretorium – Temple Area of Pythion (after Di Vita, 1984a, p. 82) Figure 4. Orthogonal Street plan (after Matruzo-Tarditi 1999) Figure 5. The excavated area of “Byzantine Houses” (after Zanini 2001, p. 380) Figure 6. Ruins of a fountain (Author’s photo) Figure 7. Main axis street running North-South: layers of beaten earth above the original orthostats (Author’s photo) Figure 8. Map of Gortyn (after Di Vita 2005, p. 463) Figure 9. The Acropolis of Gortyn (from Taramelli 1902, p. 145) Figure 10. 3D artistic impression of the plan of Hagios Titos (Author’s drawing) Figure 11. Artisitc impression of the Monastic Complex (after Di Vita 2005, p. 480) Chapter Four Figure 1. Plan of Ephesos (after Foss 1979, p. 49) Figure 2. Ephosos (Ayasoluk): The so-called Gate of Persecution (Author’s photo) Figure 3. Western Anatolia and its main rivers (after Beazeley-McNelly, 1989, p. 49) Figure 4. Main Roads in Western Anatolia (after Haldon 1999, p. 58) Figure 5. Map of Ephesos with the Sacred Way to Ayasoluk (after Scherrer 1995, p. 1) Figure 6. The Embolos (Author’s photo) Figure 7. The so-called Arkadiane and the ruins of the Justinianic Tetrapylon (Author’s photo) Figure 8. Alytarchen Stoa (Author’s photo) Figure 9. The Episcopal Complex (Author’s photo) Figure 10. The Hanghäuser (Author’s photo) Figure 11. The area around the Hanghäuser (after Foss 1979, p. 35) Figure 12. Possible islands of settlement in seventh-century Ephesos (after Scherrer 1995, p. 1) Figure 13. Miletos – Theatre Kastell (Author’s photo) Figure 14. Ephesos – Library of Celsus (Author’s photo) Chapter Five Figure 1. Map of Amastris (after Crown-Hill 1995, p. 257) Figure 2. The Paphlagonian region (after Crown-Hill 1995, p. 253) iv

Figure 3. The Black Sea from satellite (from Google Earth™) Figure 4. Anatolian road network (after Haldon, 1999, p. 58) Figure 5. View of the Western Harbour (Author’s photo) Figure 6. The so-called Bedestan (Author’s photo) Figure 7. The stepped tunnel giving access to the cistern (Author’s photo) Figure 8. Spolia embedded in the city walls (Author’s photo) Figure 9. The line of the walls (Author’s photo) Figure 10. The projecting Barbican (Author’s photo) Figure 11. The eastern gate (Author’s photo) Figure 12. The main door of the Mescidi Cami (Author’s photo) Figure 13. Amorion, view of the site from the upper mound (Author’s photo) Figure 14. The location of the Bedestan (after Marek, 1990, p. 374) Figure 15. The Peninsula of Amastris (Author’s photo) Chapter Six Figure 1. Pella: partial overview of the site from the acropolis (Author’s photo) Figure 2. Map of Pella (after Smith-Day, 1999) Figure 3. Naples, Media Plateia (now Via dei Tribunali, Author’s photo) Figure 4. Map of Naples Figure 5. Plan of the Church at S. Lorenzo Maggiore within the area of the former forum Figure 6. Naples, Carminiello ai Manesi (Author’s photo) Figure 7. Map of Amorion (after Gill, 2002) Figure 8. Amorion bath house (Author’s photo) Figure 9. Amorion, lower church complex (Author’s photo)

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CHAPTER 1 THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

1.1. What is a city?

undermine the effectiveness of any interpretative model concerning the evolution and the fate of the city in any historical period.

The well–known writer Guy de Maupassant, shortly after the Eiffel Tower was built in mid–nineteenth–century, used to go around Paris complaining about how much he despised the great building. Nevertheless, he went to the Tower’s restaurant for lunch every day. When his attention was drawn to the paradox in his behaviour, Maupassant calmly replied, “I go there because it is the only place in Paris where you do not actually have to look or even see the Tower”1. My general impression is that if one tries to analyze the essence, functions and even the historical origins of the urban phenomenon, in other words if one tries to define what is the real essence of the city, this, like the Tower, becomes invisible. Indeed, in these days, being in a city is such a common experience2 that it means a certain blindness or inability to see what it is and what has happened to it and, remarkably, what it has meant for other people.

Moreover, one should be aware that all models of the city have methodological4 and anthropological5 implications. On the one hand the terminology used by the sources is of great importance for the social and historical perceptions of the period under analysis: what does the continued use of the term polis for most Byzantine urban settlements in the seventh and eighth century imply6? Do its users mean the old classic polis–civitas, or a different type of settlement with military implications (kastron)7? On the other hand, we should be cautious when approaching people’s attitudes and feelings within the urban settlements: ‘attitudes and actions must have changed as towns, powers and the world around them changed’8. In other words we should try to grasp the deep social, structural and cultural impacts of a set of historical events on the urban townscape. Indeed, perhaps we expect too much at times of the archaeological evidence, since our modern cities are being transformed each day:

Accordingly, I feel it is impossible to approach the issues related to the urban settlements of a period of rapid change (such as the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages), if one ignores the trajectories of the urban entity per se. It might seem unusual to begin to talk about the Byzantine city by posing questions like “where does a city come from?” and “what is its real essence?” They could appear redundant or – worse – tautological, especially when one notices that so often scholars dealing with the history of urban phenomena in the Byzantine period do not propose a real definition of the city or take it for granted3. But to skip a preliminary definition of the urban phenomenon could imply a lack of awareness of the interrelated issues regarding the urban essence, function and social values and the built townscape, but it could also

the medieval urban fabric–in many cities– was only dislodged fully in early modern times and not always replaced by better forms since the urban space became more packed and more heavily choked by industrialization. There is no comparison with Roman and late antique cities, of course, but future archaeologists may see ruinous factories and vast car parks as indicative of crisis within the present urban hearts9. The way we look at modern cities today can, indeed, heavily influence our understanding of the medieval urban social fabric and townscape. Our expectations, moulded by misconceptions in evaluating different types of sources10,

The episode is reported in Said, 2004, 43. ‘In 1900 only 16 cities had a population of one million; in 2008 it is more than 400. In 2008 the number of people leaving in cities is about to overtake those left behind in the fields. In 1900, 10% of the world’s population lived in cities; by 2050 it is going to be 75%.’ Sudjic 2008; also Roncayolo 1988, 18. 3 Among the scholars who do make an effort to assert a definition of city or to propose their ideal model of urbanism I include (among others): Wickham (Wickham 2005, 592–6), Christie (Christie 2006, 183ff), Haldon (Haldon 1999 and Haldon 2005, 33ff.), Liebeschuetz (Liebeschuetz 2001), Lavan (Lavan 2003(a)), Ward–Perkins (Ward– Perkins 1998), Spieser (Spieser 2001), Brandes (Brandes 1999), Ivison (Ivison 2000) and Walmsey (Walmsey 2007). 1

Haldon 1999; Brandes 1999. Weber 1966; Rikwert 2002; Giddens 1989; and, partially, Mumford 1961 and Roncayolo 1988. On the “conceptual image of the sixth-century Byzantine city” see Zanini 2003. 6 Haldon 1999, 13. 7 Müller-Wiener 1986; Dunn 1994. 8 Christie 2006, 507 9 Ibid., 506. 10 The analysis of literary evidence did not always come to terms with the real cultural–social and historical background which produced the sources; different types of primary sources imply different methodological problems (see on this Brubaker–Haldon 2001).

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4 5

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) could impinge upon the model of city we are looking at. For example, very often we picture the classic polis11 with its high–density, regularly planned urban space and large sections of public monuments against the ruralised12, much sparser and demographically poor medieval townscape. ‘We, indeed, forget that in modern towns, areas could be equally underdeveloped or can decay and lie redundant: garden pockets or urban plots as well as animals grazing and penned within them may have been more common than is expected in classic towns’13. Indeed, historiographical reconstructions are often heavily influenced by the definition of modernity and progress which the historians choose to adopt: a sort of teleological interpretation of the theory of modernization, entrenched in a paradigmatic idea of history as “progress in process”14 having a precise (backward) starting point, a distinct present and a (superior) foreseeable future15, and this too affects the theory of urbanism. As we shall see, the old historiographical quarrel between “continuists” and “discontinuists” seems to deeply rely upon the distorted application of this very theory. This could lead us to plainly conclude that urban forms are an historical creation16:

transfer some of their very hopes, ambitions and utopias to a real space of daily–life18. In a sense this may allow us to understand the real link between urban society, spatial forms, urbanistic structures and architectural types19 which can assume peculiar shapes in different historical periods20. Architectural (urban) space and distribution are culturally created, representing what is on in the city21. So, each space has a meaning, which is moulded and forged by the same forces, which create the society itself22. This may diminish the urban environment, turning it into a simple mental construction: indeed, as will be seen, a good description of the complexity of urban social spaces, cultural structures, and functional criteria is needed to bridge any possible cultural and anthropological gap, allowing us to shed light on the city as a collective organization, that is a social formation with its own demographic, social or ethnic composition23. In other words, it seems impossible to regard the city as an autonomous social entity without taking into consideration the historical period and the cultural and social peculiarities, which influenced it. With all this in mind, as Roncayolo argues, a possible answer to two main questions is to be sought: does the city merely mirror social relationships? What pairs the urban social structure with its practical urban forms?24 In other words, we might imagine a city – as Calvino said– as composed of an interlinked skein of threads, which, over time, people renew and recompose through their relations with each other. When the skein becomes hard, the city moves over, choosing another place in which to thrive, leaving only a deserted unravelling skein25. If this analysis is correct, we could conclude that defining a city and answering these questions means finding the leading thread which allows us to undo the functional skein and to follow the trajectories of the urban settlement as both a social fabric and its built scenario26.

the history of the city dates back at least to 4000 years ago [...]. The city has a long lasting history, if it is considered as building and as structure for the social life, according to the bipolar symmetry that Isidore of Seville (quoting Augustine) pointed out – in the seventh century – in the distinction between the urbs made of moenia and civitas as cives; but in the urban history saxa and cives are so reciprocally involved that moenia bring a symbolic and holy meaning still deeply rooted in the mental landscape of the Mediterranean men; a meaning which stands out also after the breaking down of the walls in the urban area and [...] as a real summa of those values and limits which affect urban men, who derived the concepts of politics (politikè teknè, urban art) and of civilization (civilitas, condition determined by the civilitas body) from that of the city, between the fourth BC and the fifth A.D.17.

With all those caveats in mind, it is possible to propose a basic definition of a city, which should provide the reader with a set of guidelines to follow my idea of the fate of the Byzantine city from the fifth to the ninth century. It is my intention, in the next few pages, to proceed first to present a wide variety of definitions of city by other scholars, using them as comparisons in order to set out my own.

This being so, cities changed according to the civilization which built them: many historical experiences occur to give birth to a city; men and societies build cities in order to satisfy their social and physical needs, but also to

Proposing a definition of city is indeed far from simple. One could be tempted to adopt the renowned ideal type

The Roman and Greek city par excellence, which often is depicted ‘as a political and military centre, and a consumer of goods and services that exploited the rural environs, opposed to the medieval city regarded as a marketplace for its hinterland and producer of manufactured items’ (Nicholas 1997, 3). It should be noticed, however, that ‘cities were not necessarily centres of either production or economic exchange’ (Crone, 1989, 40). 12 Skinner 1994, 283. 13 Christie 2006, 262. Also Oikonomides 2001, 240 with regard to Constantinople. 14 Leopardi’s passage referring to “le Magnifiche sorti e progressive” (the magnificent and progressive fates (of the human genre) seem to fit well here. 15 Pappe, 2004, 3–5. 16 Roncayolo 1988, 4; also Mumford 1961. 17 Carile 1994, 87.

Francastel, 1968,4. Grohmann 2003, 11. 20 Walmsey 2007, 83. 21 Alston 2002, 48. 22 An example could be offered by the urban layout of Umm-al-Jimal in North Eastern Jordan – where in sixth-seventh century A.D. - a clear settlement hierarchy and thus social structured is mirrored in a urban landscape organized in groups of building clusters separated by large areas of open space utilized at community level. Each cluster was organized in blocks -inhabited by clans- composed by house unit, usually double or triple storeyed, serving the purposes of extended families (Walmsey 2007, 42ff.). 23 Roncayolo 1988, 5. Also Grohmann 2003, and Brown 2001, 64 ff. 24 Roncayolo 1988, 8. 25 Calvino 1993, 85–7. 26 Walmsey 1996.

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION proposed by Martin Biddle27 as a good starting point. According to his scheme, indeed, a city has: 1. Defences, 2. Planned Street System, 3. Market(s) 4. Mint, 5. Legal Autonomy, 6. “Role as a central place”, 7. Relatively dense and large population, 8. Diversified economic base, 9. Plots and houses of urban type, 10. Social differentiation, 11. Complex religious organization, 12. Judicial functions. 28

much to anthropological and cultic inferences, developing from the prehistoric mysteries of generation and death36 and a cosmogonist symbolism centred on the recreation of a Heaven on earth: ‘born as a representation of the Universe, as a tool to reproduce the Heaven on earth, the city turned out as a symbolic representation of what is possible’37. The closing stages of this concept could be traced in the Christian interpretation of the urban space: ‘the interior of the city is the heavenly places for churches, and for mankind, which belongs to God, with the walls denoting the separation from the surrounding space – a space that is natural, unmarked by human action, hence inhabited by demons, and by evil’38 (that is by death).

This paradigm has, however, limitations not only on the basis of logic but also on the practicability of meaningful research on every aspect. I think that it can be used as a useful roadmap only if one is aware of the inferences and values which could be embedded in the city concept. It is true that, as Wickham states, this could be an initial framing of urban characteristics good enough to be exported to different regions of the Byzantine empire (and beyond). However, such a definition might be regarded as too de–contextualised and over–balanced, since different elements could have a different importance in different areas and regional cultures; in other words, as seen above, we are at risk of dissecting the urban body, performing an autopsy on its organs, and burying it (that is defining it) in a de–contextualised environment (that is avoiding any historical, social and cultural inferences).

This conception of the city is, indeed, arguably limited to the religious sphere (pagan and Christian), glossing over any possible secular cultural, economic and political roles of urbanism. Other definitions of city seem, by contrast, to lean towards two opposite conceptions adopting two (apparently) opposing framings: political–institutional and economic criteria. On the one hand, indeed, it poses the city as the administrative centre and political stage39 mirrored by its classic monumentality and civilized life– style; in Liebeschuetz’s words, we look at the classic polis ‘with an urban population, monumental buildings, games and highly literate elites’40. As a chess opening can lead to different set–positions, so this definition could have manifold implications, paving the way to the idea of a Christian city as the main heir of the classic polis41 (the ecclesiastical city replaced the Roman one, so that the vitality of the city owed to the vitality of the clergy and the bishops42), or to the prominence of the ideological and political urban phenomenon over other functions43 or – as will be seen – to the concept of decline of the curial elite as the main outcome of the disappearance of the Greek–Roman monumental townscape (in fact, as will be demonstrated, a circular argument)44. This is not to underestimate the lessened importance of the curial elites nor its social consequences on the urban townscape45, but it is important to avoid any catastrophic inference which might blur any correct interpretations of the problem of changing urbanism in the Byzantine empire between late Antiquity and the early middle ages, an issue to which I will return in the next section.

Other scholars have followed different paths. Leaving aside Calvino’s appealing philosophical theories29, some of those scholars, like Mumford, Rykwert and, partially, Frugoni30, have centred their conception of urbanism over two main functions: defence and (demographic) regeneration: ‘the city covers and protects the individual, who for that reason is felt as a passive object, and not an active and integrating part contributing to the city’.31 According to those scholars, the price of protection is paid in social passivity, however allowing the continuous “palingenesis”32 which mankind found in the city33. Sheltered by the city–walls, the urban population could thrive, the enceinte34 being the main boundary of the urban environment, and the symbolic (semantic and aesthetic) definition of the city. Apart from the fact that often the walled ring (if the city has it at all) has seldom included and encompassed all the built fabric, the urban landscape and the demographic vitality of the city35, I feel that this idea falters because it owes more too Biddle 1996, 100. Wickham 2005, 592. 29 Calvino 1993, 128: ‘Why are you building this city? What is the outcome? – he asks– Isn’t a city the aim of a city being built? Where is your plan, your project?”; We will show it at the end of the day, now we can’t break down our work”, they answer. When the sun goes down the work is finally over. The night falls over the building yard. It is a starry night. “Here is the plan”, they admit’. 30 Mumford 1963; Rykwert 2002; Frugoni 1991 31 Frugoni 1991, 6. 32 That is, the exact reproduction of ancestral characteristics in ontogenesis. 33 Rykwert 2002, passim. 34 It is curious, though, that some of the world’s earliest towns, Çatal Hüyük (dated from about 6500 B.C. to about 5650 B.C.) near present day Konya in central Turkey, and Harappa or Mojieno-Daro, along the Indus River (around 2500 B.C.) did not possess any fortification. (HonourFleming 1984, 46-7; 60-2 with further bibliography). 35 Christie 2006, 287:‘walls could reflect the prosperity of a given site (through site stability/shrinkage/growth) and their extent could offer clues regarding the urban population, although this could be a simplistic inference, since we cannot be certain that (i) the circuit contained all the 27 28

Many re–appraisals of the political–institutional definition of urbanism have been attempted. Among these the approach proposed by Dagron46 seems to me important. active urban space; (ii) the urban population actually resided within the defended area’. Also Nicholas 1997, 10-14. 36 Mumford 1961, 13. 37 Ibid., 49. 38 Frugoni 1991, 10; also Grohmann 2003, 26ff. 39 A similar approach, although referred to the modern period, is adopted by Berengo 1999. 40 Liebeschuetz 2001, 1. 41 Scherrer 1995. 42 Cracco 1977, 466–7. 43 Whittaker 1990, 119. 44 Liebeschuetz 2001; Jones 1964. On this also Heather 2005, 110-119 and Saradi 2006. 45 Nicholas 1997,15. 46 Dagron 2002, 398ff.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) range, never coalesced into a single urban entity55. This being so, it also becomes possible to discard as non–urban a multifunctional site with no people in it or an economically active place with no other role than commercial exchange (paradoxical as this might seem). Only the recurrence and the combination of different functions, peculiar as they are to a certain society, civilization or historical formation, allow us to understand the essence of the “urban”: ‘that is a form, characterized by the gathering and meeting of all the elements of social life, from agricultural goods to cultural symbols and activities’56.

Dagron states, indeed, that a city (polis) is a microcosm of concentrated social institutions representing the antithesis to the countryside and acting as intermediary for and counterbalance to the power of the state. This being so, he can argue that any economic definition of urbanism is closely embedded in social relationships and has not acquired its proper rationally or autonomously47. This definition of city expressed in sociological terms is also partially repeated by Spieser and by Haldon, who, however, strike the chords of a much more multifunctional definition of urbanism: a city becomes a settlement associated with a range of fairly specific ideological, juridical and institutional attributes; a centre of production and exchange activity on regular basis, and a religious and administrative focus48. ‘So the transformation of the city is only one aspect of a broader evolution […] and we can see how a sub–system, that of town or cities, depended for its evolution on the evolution of a whole system of civilisation, but at the same time fed back into the whole’49.

The political function could lead us to the philosophic inferences of the Aristotelian and Platonic idea of the city as a polis57; my intention is, however, to regard the urban political function in terms of administrative power, local and central government structures (curiae and provincial governor), the bureaucracy and, lastly, tax–raising powers (responsibility to the government for the return of taxes58), which are embedded in the city: the ‘city is the seat of the secular administration’59. The other side of this coin is the city as seat of the ecclesiastical (Christian) administration, which equates to the urban religious function60. In a sense it may be possible to conclude – as Sjoberg states61 – that the city is built upon the predominance of politics and religion. This function of the city as religious focus endures after Christianity became the dominant religion of the Roman empire62 (prompting important cultural and ideological changes in the urban mental habit). The bishops rose to prominence in the city (as part of institutional and administrative changes in the urban context)63 and the blossoming of churches slowly changed the religious topography and spatial relations of the empire’s cities64.

As will be seen in the next pages, my definition of the city is, indeed, set within an economic framework, although, this criterion should be interpreted more as a starting point to draw a multifunctional conception of urbanism than an exhaustive definition. As Wickham argues, indeed, a market, a demographic concentration and economic activities differing from those of the countryside could be interpreted as a minimum characterization of urban activities50. In principle, I tend to agree with this idea of economy as the main sign of urbanism, whereby the political and institutional indicators acted more as secondary terms than as main indicators to supplement this conception of urbanism51. However, this definition of city would be more concerned with the multifunctional role of the urban settlement: the function is the raison d’etre of the city (‘the urban form is moulded according to the functions the city has to fulfil’52); functions tend to set the limits of the urban social content and life–style; at the same time they mark the role of the city within the spatial organization and the patterns of settlement53.

The cultural function comprises a set of behaviours and attitudes which contributes to explain the urban environment and its lifestyle; indeed, one could regard the expectations and devices of a society as an imaginative realm that shaped not only the physical structure of cities, and with it the image, but also the response to these

So, in my opinion a city is a settlement with a concentrated population (demographic function) and multifunctional roles (cultural, political, social, religious and, economic), among which the economic one should be regarded as the most useful interpretative key to understand the fate, trajectories and development of the urban body. As seen above, indeed, dissecting this body is hardly possible54; the multifunctional urban characters are too deeply intermingled, although exceptions did subsist, as in the case of an “almost-urban” pattern where different “urban functions” coexisted (although in non-exclusive terms) as located in separated foci of settlement. These foci, however, scattered as they were within close geographic 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54

Here, the reference is to the so-called Adriatic crescent, a marshy area around the Venetian lagoon, where, in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages a unique settlement pattern developed. A pattern which had composed and multifunctional features: from “quasi-cittá” (Heracliana and Metamaucum-Malamocco) to castra (Olivolo, S.Lorenzo in Ammiana), passing through centres of commercial importance (Torcello) and, a patriarchal seat (Grado), rural titula and towers (Turris Ducis and Fines). An urban focus unifying all these highly functionalised centres came only much later (in the early ninth century) with the elevation of Rivus Altus to administrative and political capital of the raising Venetian Duchy. See on this Dorigo 1983, 229 and Dorigo 1994, 88–90. See also Gelichi 2006, Augenti 2006 (with reference to Ravenna), Carile 2006 and Brogiolo 2006, 615-6. 56 Lefebvre quoted in Roncayolo 1988, 29. 57 See Plato, The Republic and Aristotle, The Politics. 58 Haldon 2005, 37. 59 Claude 1969, 1. 60 A function that is rooted in the importance of the Temple as a place of worship in the first Sumerian cities; temple around which the landowners built their own residences: see Rykwert 2002 and Roncayolo 1988, 27. 61 Sjoberg 1960, 42. 62 Ward–Perkins 1998, 392. 63 Liebeschuetz 2001, 137–68; Nicholas 1997, 17-8. 64 Ward–Perkins 1998, 394; Saradi 2006, 385ff. 55

Ibid., 396. Haldon 1999, 12. Spieser 2001, 14. Wickham 2005, 593. Ibid., 594. Grohmann 2003, 44-5. Roncayolo 1988, 25. Ibid., 26

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

1. Salamis-Constantia (Cyprus)-mid-sixth century pool (Author’s photo)

places and the ideologies they embodied65. It is possible, however, to tautologically regard the term culture as opposite to rusticity and tantamount to civilitas, urbanitas and urban66: ‘the city is the natural seat of the civic man’67. It is, however, more effective to consider the role of the city as the residence of the elites, whose wealth and taste helped to develop different cultural models68 (mirrored, for instance, in the material culture69 and in the urban architectural scenario70). This inevitably contributes to the moulding of urban identities: if cities changed, their own identities shifted too, thanks to the link between the definition of the city and the ideological pull that cities had for aristocracies71. Cultural changes mirrored the ideological–conceptual transformations of public spaces, even when there was no discontinuity of frequentation and occupation of a site72, something which allows us to

avoid any value judgment73 when we consider the decline or deterioration of the monumental set of classic public buildings74. As Roncayolo states, the cultural function of the city is deeply intermingled with demographic density and the levels of urban social differentiation75. If it is true that the notion of city implies demographic concentration and specialized activities, in contrast to agricultural exploitation and structured spaces; we must equally consider that the idea of the city also equates to the differences expressed by the distribution of the population in quarters and suburbs that (more or less visibly) separate social groups. Lastly, a possible definition of those social groups and their relationship can be linked to the division of labour, ‘which prompts to the allocation of properties to different economic activities, to the designation of the social attributes of groups of population, to the disparity in political power, in access to goods distribution and in

Bassett 2004, 46. Roncayolo 1988, 40. Also Liebeschuetz 2001, 223ff. And Grohmann 2003, 24-5. 67 Park quoted in Roncayolo 1988, 41. 68 Brown 2001, 42ff. 69 Walmsey 2007, 48ff: 70 ‘The urban elite expressed its culture and ideology which influenced the urban architecture, the function of buildings and the priorities of individuals and urban communities’ (Saradi 2006, 420) 71 Wickham 2005, 595. 72 Milojevic 1996, 247ff. 65 66

Like those Saradi implies with regard to the Byzantine city in the sixth century (Saradi 2006, 441ff.); although, she also admits that a new urban model develops according to the new function it is expected to fulfil (Saradi 2006, 465). 74 ‘The cultural record of human society helps to identify and explain various cultural and economic paths taken by a society in which continuity, discontinuity and change all play a part’ (Walmsey 2007, 69) 75 Roncayolo 1988, 40 73

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) cultural modes of expression’76. This leads me to take into proper consideration the economic function of the city. Using Calvino again, one could assert that following the economic thread means the proposing of an interpretative theory of urbanism, which would help to define the social fabric, the demographic character, the culture and political ideology of the urban settlement in the Byzantine world between the fifth and the ninth century. I am, indeed, perfectly aware that functions are to be regarded only as framings whose content changes in different periods77: it is important to define the role those functions play in a particular society and a civilization78. As already stated, this however, should not imply any moral judgment on the peculiar characteristics that urban functions assume in a specific period79. Far from considering only urban specializations, my idea of combined functions leans towards an exhaustive explanation of the relationship between the social fabric and the urban landscape, through the adoption of an economic category of analysis. Economic criteria are helpful in this sense because they rely upon the level of demand – sustained, as in every pre– industrial city, by the aristocratic elites (the upper echelons of the urban social hierarchy) which were structured along political, administrative and religious lines. This being so, the elites should be considered as the main driver of the productive and distributive exchange network since their level of demand underpins the development of artisan production, the extent of commercial networks, and city–countryside interchange. The erosion of the political position and status of local aristocrats did not always damage the (classic) city as centre of population and economic activity80. This economic activity is marked by new ways of investing urban wealth, which ring the death knell for a classic urban life–style and townscape (made of amenities, regular town planning, monumental buildings, political and social predominance of public space), not for the city per se81. Different and changing functions alter the kaleidoscope to a different urban typology. Archaeology, interpreted as an indicator of the continuous economic significance of urban settlements, is, indeed, important to re–arrange this kaleidoscope, providing us with different sets of information which should be read with methodological caution82, but also with a real awareness of their importance to set the economic framing of this newly–built typology: ceramics, coins, inscriptions, seals, artefacts83, and stratigraphical excavations are extremely useful to put urban transformations into perspective, by avoiding the temptation of labelling them as a collapse in

the urban scenario84. This is not to diminish the relevance of documentary elements, which provide useful snapshots of urban life and structures. These should be effectively combined with material documentations to paint a reliable and effective picture of urban life85: ‘the only methodologically correct way of interpreting the history of individual towns is one which combines the evidence gleaned from archaeological investigation with data from all other written sources’86. However, one should take into consideration that there are simply not enough written sources for the seventh and the eighth centuries to enable a clear and detailed picture of urban life in the Byzantine world; we cannot expect the sort of information available for the sixth century87. In this sense, a good deal of caution is also needed when one comes to analyze the terminology used by documentary sources when dealing with urban settlement: ‘in secular sources the cultural role of mimesis, the imitation of antique authors, leads someone to label all the cities as polis, whereby in ecclesiastical sources, the term polis refers to virtually every episcopal seat’88. Archaeology (the material available from reports of stratigraphical excavations and intensive/extensive survey, numismatic, epigraphic, sigillographic sources and ceramics) indeed, allows me to propose a model of the city for the period under examination; a model which would suit my definition of the city as a multifunctional settlement, with an accent on its economic activities; a model which, of course, has to be quite abstract, since many of its characteristics can, again, recur in different peculiar combinations for different regions. I am, of course, aware that characteristics such as the demonumentalization of fora, the encroachment of artisanal workshops and commercial stalls onto colonnaded streets, partitioning of large residential buildings, the disarray of the former regularly–planned, orthogonal and Hippodamean89 city–plan, the rejection of the classic life– style (in terms of amenities like stadia, theatres and baths) and the abandonment of the ideal of civilitas predicated upon the public and political (in its etymological sense), can be interpreted as tantamount to demographic collapse, brought about by the inability of the politico–institutional urban authority to sustain the classic townscape after from the late sixth century onwards90. However, my idea is that one can also interpret these phenomena in seventh and eighth century cities as a sign of economic vitality, which thus permits us to account for the transformation of the human and built urban landscape as a result of changing functional (political, social, cultural and religious) roles and as a by–product of a different imperial structure. One could point, for instance, to the multiplication of artisan workshops and commercial stalls encroaching upon the

Ibid., 69. Nicholas 1997, 3. 78 Roncayolo 1988, 29. 79 Tsafrir 1994; Cracco–Ruggini 1977; Liebeschuetz 2001. 80 Ward–Perkins 1998, 381. 81 Contra Saradi 2006, 288ff. 82 Wickham 2006. Also Walmsey 2007, 48-70; 138 ff.; Kennedy 2007, 28-49. For a methodological introduction to the use of numismatic evidence see Reece 2003 with further bibliography; for ceramics see Dark 2001, Vroom 2003 and Vroom 2004; for glass see François-Spieser 2002. 83 This category includes a wide range of objects made of different materials: glass, metals, stone, bone and ivory. 76 77

Whittow 1990. 7ff. Ibid., 193. Also Brandes 1999, 43ff. On this also Lavan 2003(a). 86 Brandes 1999, 43. 87 Haldon 1990, 92. For a detailed and methodological analysis of seventh– and eighth–century written sources see Brubaker–Haldon 2001 with further bibliography. 88 Brandes 1999, 27; see on this also Haldon 1990, 100–2; Haldon 1999, 13; Dunn 1994. 89 Owens 1992. 90 Wickham 2005, 594. Also Saradi 2006, passim. 84 85

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION colonnaded and paved streets, which characterize the urban townscape from the sixth century onwards. This phenomenon should be considered less as a decline91 than as a symptom of the transformation of the continuous economic role of a city as a market and as a centre of production and distribution92. The significant social role of local elites93 was a mechanism which sustained the levels of local demand (in terms of the exploitation of the agricultural hinterland, thanks to their continuous role as landowners), the productive activity of the artisans and the vitality of the commercial and distributive network (regional and inter–regional networks could, in fact, be paralleled by the elite’s importance as members of the central administrative–bureaucratic or military state machinery, as well as the ecclesiastical hierarchy94). The result was a different type of “post–classic” urban environment where:

housing as a result of the changing pattern of wealth investment, social–cultural attitudes, the political roles and social importance of the (still urban–oriented) aristocrats. In this sense, too, the mushrooming churches which dotted the urban landscape from the late fourth century onwards should be regarded as an alternative way of expressing the status, power and wealth of the local elites, supported by the increased relevance of the Christian religion. That the city retains its function as the religious focus of a changing society is hardly disputable; that this function is enhanced by the presence of the bishop101 (and his clergy), who from the sixth–century onwards became one of the main characters on the urban political, institutional and economic stage (with the cathedral often replacing the forum as a main urban hallmark and focus of social life), is equally undisputable102. However, by the same token, it is also true that the involvement of the elites in the new religion, either as priests or patrons, had important consequences for the urban economy in terms of their investment in, for example, luxurious marbles, mosaics and liturgical objects103 to embellish the interior of the churches which required the re–distribution of the agricultural surplus of the hinterland104, and attracted the devotion of pilgrims105.

paved streets were covered by layer of pressed earth: what must be stressed is that ‘ dark earth’ can highlight activity […] the earth may cover previous occupation of space, but often it denotes people using that space in a new alternative way, but still tied to people continuing to live in what had been urban centres95

Using an economically oriented approach to the multifunctional urban environment is also useful in order to overcome the terminological problems, which go hand in hand with any definition of city. Defining an urban settlement economically allows us to restrict the word “city” to those urban foci, which counted in economic terms, owing mainly to the high amount of public and private money passing through them. This also leads us to consider the bond between economic activities and the political / administrative function of the city, embodied by the spending power of the local elites (mirroring the pattern of local landowning) and the activities of the central government aimed at extracting surplus from the local population through tax–collecting. Again, we are here looking through the economic glass, in order to grasp the importance of the city in institutional terms, that is as a main focus for tax–gathering and political power.

where intramural burials yield important evidence on religious and mental changing ideals96; where new social forms of religious monumentality97 (such as the cathedral) took the place of old political structures; where utilitarian buildings could occupy and revitalize (in economic terms) public spaces; where the skeleton of the Roman townscape often dictated the layout of fragmented and scattered habitats or offered itself as a core to these98 (what Italian historiography calls the “citta’ a isole” –the city of islands). What we see here is simply a new form of urbanism99, expressing a changing (and more state– orientated) political system, the urban orientation of the local elites, and the economic persistence of the city, in different spatial forms. In this context archaeological evidence is, indeed, the key, which allows us to come to grasp with this form. It goes without saying that such a definition of urbanism must cast light over the changing uses of public and private space, the transformations of the monumental landscape, the new patterns of town–planning100 and residential

To sum up, one could conclude that the more aristocrats that there were in any settlement, the more other people, including merchants and artisans were lured into the settlement operating as a main productive and market centre106, as a social and cultural focus, and as religious and political point of reference. As seen above, this idea allows us to assert the importance of a multifunctional idea of a city, predicated mainly upon economic criteria, which acts as a model for the trajectories and developments of the urban social structure as mirrored by the urban fabric and townscape. An economic theory of urbanism, indeed,

Saradi 2006, 187ff. On this see Grohmann 2003, Walmsey 2007, 39 (with reference to Syria and Palestine); Nicholas 1997, 28-9 and Harris 2004. 93 Ellis 1989; Ellis 2004. 94 Ivison 2000, 1. 95 Christie 2006, 262. 96 Id. 97 ‘Construction of churches endowed the topography of […] Byzantine cities with the prestige and authority of a new religion’(Saradi 2006, 385). 98 Ibid., 270. Also Nicholas 1997, 24ff. 99 One could be tempted to tautologically say that this new form of urbanism is as urban as the classic one because it answered to the same functional problems, although it was in different ways determined by the new historical (social, political and economic) condition. ‘The Medieval city was so different from its Roman ancestors in economic, function, social structure, and street plan’ (Nicholas 1997, 26). 100 In the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages, Kennedy’s renowned idea (Kennedy 1985) of a mutation from polis to madina, that is from a regularly–planned townscape to a maze of semi–permanent 91 92

stalls, still acts as a main guideline. 101 Saradi 2006, 181-3; Nicholas 1997, 17. 102 ‘Churches marked the urban landscapes as major architectural units, becoming points of reference in urban topography’ (Saradi 2006, 422). 103 Whittow 1990, 25. 104 I am referring here to the charity distributions to the poors (See Durliat 1990, 138ff.) 105 On this Christie 2006, 73ff. 106 Wickham 2005, 595

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) should take into consideration also the peculiarities of different regions (in terms of networks of production and distribution, demographic concentration, geo– morphological and environmental peculiarities)107 and the historical outcomes of the socio–economic structure of the empire. A city, with its manifold roles, lies in between the influence of structural social, political and economic forces and its historical crystallization in terms of buildings, plans and spaces; however, most often this crystallization only lasts a blink of an eye: as the men who dwell in it, the urban body is constantly changing in space and in time.

Such arguments threaten to divert attention from the more important aspects of the debate such as the very idea of the city itself. The argument over continuity and discontinuity was deeply embedded in Jones’ idea of the fate of cities, which highly influenced the historiography of urbanism in the 60s. Indeed, Jones implied a continuous decline of the city, underlining its original political freedom and independence, which were broken first by the Hellenistic rulers and then by the more and more invasive domination of Rome116. Then, this progressive decline hastened to reach its nadir after the reign of Justinian ‘when the history of the city as an institution abruptly ceased’117. Moreover, as Brandes pointed out118, Jones proposed a definition of the polis as unity of city and land (chora), functioning as a self–governing administrative and economic base119 for the Roman state, allowing him to conclude that when the independent curial municipal administration faltered (from the fourth century onwards), the city–polis lost its urban character, together with its own chora120. In this sense Jones could propose a teleological idea of the fate of classic urbanism which came to an end in the late sixth century when the autonomous power that had been the main characteristic of the Greek polis was engulfed in the powers of the central government officials: ‘as the local councils (curiae) lost their richest and most enterprising members (whether through genuine poverty or through the lack of public spirit), as their revenues were curtailed, and as civic patriotism decayed, cities lost vitality and initiative’121. As will be seen, this “conservative” approach is far from having lost its historiographical appeal, since scholars like Liebeschuetz and Saradi122 seem still influenced by it when developing their own theory of urbanism in decline. Moreover, Jones’ concept was mainly based on the analysis of documentary sources, and on the few material sources available to him (mainly coins and inscriptions): ‘my most lamentable gap is the archaeological material, since I have not read the excavations reports on late Roman sites’123. Indeed, although some “material” sources had been considered from the onset of the debate concerning

1.2. The Byzantine City (5th – 9th Century): Historiographical perspectives108. The traditional debate on the fate of cities during the so–called Dark Ages has always begun from the point of departure of illustrating and also proving either the continuity or the discontinuity of the classic city, of the Greco–Roman concept of polis, during the middle ages. This historiographical polemic is best characterized in the works of two of its earlier protagonists, A. Kazhdan and G. Ostrogorsky109. The former stressed that the city – the polis considered in classic terms– vanished in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages, as proved by the progressive disappearance of coins; the latter paid attention to the list of bishops attending the ecclesiastical councils in the seventh and eighth centuries and to the continuous commercial life of the early Byzantine cities as mirrored by the uninterrupted issuing of gold coinage. Therefore, in the 1950s and 60s110, the historiographical outline was strongly characterized by the two opposite factions of “continuists” (who stressed that cities did survive physically; that, while they may have shrunk and often have been confined to their citadels as a result of constant enemy harassment, they nevertheless retained their role as centres of commercial activity, petty commodity production and administration111) and “discontinuists” (who argued for a total collapse of the antique urban organization, and of social and economic life112). An echo of this polemical debate is still perceptible today113, demonstrating that it has proved very difficult for scholars to move on from this kind of historiographical impasse, despite its sterility114. More recently, for instance, a furious debate on the wisdom of using the term “decline” to define the fate of the city in this period, has taken place115.

W.Liebeschuetz and B.Ward Perkins among the others. 116 Jones 1971, xiii–xiv. ‘I have therefore normally taken as my starting point the conditions prevailing under the later Persian empire […] I have next traced the activity of the Hellenistic kings in founding cities and the contemporary spontaneous diffusion of Greek political institutions which was an essential part of the general Hellenization of the East; at the same time I have recorded the restrictive effects of the centralized administrative policy of certain dynasties on the growth of cities in their dominions. As the several districts became provinces of the Roman empire I have described the effect upon them of annexation. […After the brief parenthesis of the Principate] a period of decay of civic life started in the thirds century, proceeding steadily during all the Byzantine period’. Also Jones 1964. 117 Jones 1971, xiv. 118 Brandes 1989, 12–3. 119 Jones 1973, 712. 120 Jones 1964, 30ff. 121 Jones 1973, 757. Although one should admit that Jones became less negative by 1973, since he admitted that in the Eastern empire cities retained more vitality in the sixth century and even seventh century whereby in the West ‘we have what is lacking in the East, positive evidence that the city councils continued to hold sessions down to the first quarter of the seventh century’ (Jones 1973, 761); 122 Liebeschuetz 2001 and Saradi 2006. 123 Jones 1964., vii.

Roncayolo 1988, 32; Kennedy 2007, 15ff. Zavagno 2008. 109 Ostrogorsky 1959; Kazdhan 1954. 110 In this perspective it seems to me essential to remember the papers of the 1961 International Byzantine congress in Ochrida and also Kirsten 1958. 111 Haldon 1990, 93. 112 Ibid. 113 Waelkens et al. 2006, 199-200. 114 However one must admit that ‘there is a fundamental disagreement between the two approaches (continuity and discontinuity) in regard to the role of the city […]. Those favouring the discontinuity viewpoint argue that the degree of urban life is diagnostic, and perhaps causative […] with the disappearance of civic institutions playing havoc with the [classic] social order. The opposite camp sees at least some cities and their appurtenances as surviving from Antiquity; the changes that do occur do not substantially alter the complex hierarchical relationship that defines urban existence’ (Kardulias 2005, 49). 115 Lavan 2001, 138–45. A debate involving L.Lavan, A.Cameron, 107 108

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

2. Magnesia at the Maeander (Turkey), early-seventh-century walls (Author’s photo)

urbanism, they were limited only to coins124 (stray finds, completely detached from their stratigraphical context) and inscriptions (increasingly rare from the sixth century onwards) so that urban archaeological research was far from having the pride of place in the historiography of urbanism. The difficulties related to archaeological research in the 50s and 60s were cogently summarized by Claude125 in 1969. Even though stating that archaeological excavations are an important source of information, Claude asserted that in his time:

cities (like Carthage, Alexandria, Thessalonica, and of course, Constantinople127) remain beyond archaeological accessibility (Athens, Ephesos, and Jerash are in this sense remarkable exceptions), whereas also our knowledge of the urban settlements of inner Anatolia is patchy. Overall, only a small group of cities has enough archaeological excavation to allow some conclusions on their topography and historical fate; however, these remain still partial and unaware of the regional contexts128.

only a few excavations are completed and the analysis of their result subjected to a continuous adjustment; moreover, the results yielded by the urban archaeological excavations remain often inaccessible (unpublished)126; this is owed to the lack of interest by the classic archaeologists, to the deficiency of financial means and to the fact that large excavations are seldom permitted by the authorities. Besides, the main Byzantine

Considering this, one might better recognize the value of the important, perhaps revolutionary, contributions As I am writing I cannot help myself but thinking how much the situation has changed in archaeological terms during the last forty years or so. One could, indeed, refer to the excavations at Carthage and Kom-el Dikka (Alexandria), which brought to light new evidence to explain the transformations of urban contexts from the Antiquity to the early Middle Ages (on Carthage see mainly Humphrey 1982, Humphrey 1988, Hurst 1994; on Kom-el Dikka see Alston 2002, Saradi 2006, 319ff. and Wickham 2005, 609-11); as for Constantinople (on the top of the suggestive work of Mango (Mango 1992), mainly based, however, on literary evidence) the excavations at Saraçhane (Hayes 1992) breathed new archaeological life in the study of the développement urbain of the capital. Indeed, the (still ongoing) impressive diggings in the area of the Great Palace and at the Theodosian Harbour (tod. Yenikapi) look extremely promising, for (as I could personally see during the visits I paid to both the excavation areas) once published, they may contribute to re-write the entire cultural, social and economic history of Byzantium. 128 Ibid, 4–6. 127

Zakyndinos 1966; Frances 1966. Claude 1969, 4ff. 126 Remarkably, even today scholars have very often to deal with this problem; this is peculiarly common in Italy, especially in Naples (where unfortunately the impressive summary of Arthur (Arthur 2002) cannot include the results of more recent excavations in different areas of the city and the data stemming from the so-called “scavi della Metropolitana”, which are still jealously lying in the dusty archives of the local Superintendence) and in the Venetian area as Gelichi (Gelichi 2006) and Augenti (Augenti 2006) have recently pointed out. 124 125

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) to the problem of the cities in the “transitional phase” represented by the books and the articles of Clive Foss129, who was able to introduce a new point of view focussed on the results of archaeological excavations in the cities of Asia Minor (and more recently on Syria130). Indeed, Foss’ archaeological point of view casts a new light on the problems relating to the fate of the early Byzantine city, focussing mainly on the seventh century as a historical watershed. In his contributions, Foss tries to put together the written sources and the material evidence, considering the latter as a material context for the documents131. This could possibly enhance some methodological imbalances:

In any case what seems valid for Sardis139 may not be true for other towns. In the case of Gortyn, recent excavations in the so–called Byzantine Quarter and in one of its theatres have put in question the traditional reference (made by Di Vita140) to the earthquakes, which supposedly turned upside down the Cretan metropolis in 621 A.D, causing the city’s terminal decline141. Foss’s contributions have been revolutionary because of the importance of the archaeological evidence and the novel way in which they are used (that is side by side with literary sources) and of the enhancing of some methodological inferences. But a number of criticisms of Foss’s conclusions have also been made, especially in the last decade142. As Dunn points out, a quite contradictory approach is noticeable in Foss’s approach to Anatolian material, which in practice defines and explains “the fate of the city” in terms of historically registered accidents: a barbarian or Muslim (7th–c.) raid, a natural disaster, with an accent on the instructive value of seventh century raids and earthquakes.143

one of the main methodological problems encountered in researching and interpreting the fate of Byzantine urbanism, as when researching the history of individual towns, is the necessity of combining pieces of evidences from the most varied type of sources [...]. Yet experience shows that data are often received and accepted too hastily, and without critical appraisal of what superficially looks like clear evidence.[...] For historians who concentrate principally on written sources, the result of archaeological work led to a need to reappraise data, and providing means for assessing the credibility of [...] historical sources; by the same token, the results of a more intensive analysis of these written sources suggest reappraisals to the archaeologist, who will often have recourse to these sources when dating discoveries132.

Dunn’s critique also spells out other failures in Foss’s argument, such as his focusing on cities that may not represent a typical case and his not being concerned with the context of the social and historical environment of the cities144. In this sense, one must, however, admit that Foss has tried to take into consideration these criticisms, even if only partially. In fact his recent contributions on Syria145 try to look beyond the urban environment. Indeed, in analyzing the settlement patterns in this area, Foss points to the importance of the network of market towns, villages and small settlements, taking the researches of Tchalenko, Tate and Sodini146 as his point of departure. He also tries to summarize both the structural evidence and the urban culture (in terms of public buildings or amenities, although the presence of facilities and public works are the main difference between city and countryside147), and the economic function of these sites. If in some works148 he focuses only on the villages as a point of reference for the Syrian landscape, most recently he apparently pays much more attention to the diversified outlook of these settlements (monastic, larger sites), by recalling the

Foss’s research on the fate of Ankara was, in this sense, particularly relevant, allowing a reappraisal and a new approach to the terminology and the description of this town both in the Byzantine and in the Arabic sources133. By the same token, however, misinterpretation can be a danger. As Russel has clearly pointed out there is a real danger of creating a vicious circle in which a theory that began as speculation is elevated to the status of historical fact134. From this point of view the case of Sardis could be paradigmatic. Thanks, especially, to Foss’s analysis, the Persian capture of the city in the early seventh–century has been assumed as a real watershed in the city’s history135, although in fact there is no documentary evidence of this invasion136. Indeed, recent work on the shops of Sardis137 tries to avoid suggestions on what brought about the city’s crisis, suggesting that the process of private encroachment of public areas was significant by the early seventh century, when ‘the Bath–Gymnasium complex and the Synagogue along with a row of modest, two storied shops were destroyed, [...] be it man or natural causes, is uncertain’138. 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138

As for Sardis, indeed, an analytical re-appraisal of the functional meaning and the urban relevance of the shops has been recently proposed by Anthea Harris (Harris 2004) 140 Di Vita 2000. 141 Zanini–Giorgi 2002. 142 For instance, as Kardulias points out, ‘he [Foss] does not consider situations in which excavators may have rapidly and casually removed Byzantine remains (as evident in the excavations of Byzantine churches at the Asklepeion in Athens): a not uncommon problem in classical sites’ (Kardoulias 2005, 52). Moreover, Whittow states that ‘one problem is that evidential base is not really large. [Foss’s] key sites (Ephesos, Miletos, Didyma Pergamon and Sardis–located as they are along the wealthy and well-Hellenized west coast and adjacent valleys of the Hemos and the Meander valley) have been stripped of the Byzantine and late antique levels long ago’ (Whittow 2001, 138-9). 143 Dunn 1994, 68. 144 Haldon 1990, 94 and note 4, with exhaustive bibliography. 145 Foss 1996; Foss 1997; Foss 2002. 146 Foss 1996 147 Foss 2002, 95. 148 Foss 1997. 139

Foss 1976; Foss 1977 (a); Foss 1977(b); Foss 1979, Foss 2002. Foss 1996, Foss 1997. Kardulias 2005, 52. Brandes 1999, 35–6. Haldon 1990, 112–13; Haldon 1999, 14–15; Brandes 1999, 40. Russel 1986, 140. Also important Sodini 1993. Russel 1986, 140. Foss 1976. Foss–Scott 2002 Russel 1986, 140. Also Rautman 1986. Crawford 1990. Ibid., 2.

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION “secondary settlement” in Dagron and Sodini–Morrison149, and re–using some parts of Tate’s work150. This allows us to understand how dense the network of different types of human settlements in this region can be. However, his opinion on the abrupt decline of the city life from the second half of the sixth century onwards remains unchanged:

history of urban development in the Byzantine world is neither linear nor continuous154; the quest for catastrophic events can obscure the possibility that fortified centres could also be a carefully considered strategic response on the part of the imperial government to a changing strategic situation155 (as in Amastris). I will return to this later.

the cities were not static, but each follows its own and regional developments, [...]. In most places, the heights of prosperity were reached in the late fifth and early sixth century. Almost all, however, succumbed to the invasions and the economic changes of the early seventh century to yield, in Greece and Asia Minor, to fortresses, and in that Syria to the new centres of Islam151.

Foss’s theory of urbanism prompted different reactions; some scholars, like J.W.H.G. Liebeschuetz, adopted a similar “conservative” approach (in term of rise and decline) to the changes of urbanism in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. In his works156, despite his real efforts for completeness in analyzing the urban realities in the whole (eastern and western) empire, Liebeschuetz focuses once again on the perspective of the discontinuity of civic life, asserting that cities could sometimes decline catastrophically to the point of extinction, in the sense that there was very little social activity of any kind left (decline seems in his vision the only word to express what happened in large areas in the West and then in the East too)157.

To sum up, Foss’ trajectories of urban development still describe a descending curve. If Foss reveals his ability in proposing a new approach to analyse the fate of the city in the so–called Dark Ages, at the same time he reveals his irresistible addiction to the deceptive perspective of continuity and discontinuity. This addiction is nuanced by the very idea of some catastrophic events (invasions, insecurity, earthquakes), which influenced the urban settlement pattern and life–style in different areas. To Foss, the early seventh century (620s A.D.) should be regarded as the summa of diverse regional turning points, which brought the essence of urbanism (interpreted in its classic forms) to an end. The aftermath, until the ninth–century recovery, comprises ruins, shrinkage of settlement areas, defensive installations, and a diminished urban population with an inward–looking life–style152. Foss’ point of reference for the seventh and eighth century Byzantine urbanism becomes Ankara (a reduced fortress) with Sardis, Miletos and Ephesos (here, as will be seen, Foss argues for a duplication of the classic settlement in two walled enceintes) following the same path. What Foss forgets is that the classic idea of urbanism is not the only possible frame for the social fabric and the urban landscape, and that the fortified, walled settlements are only one of the different types of urban transformation which characterize the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages in the Byzantine empire. Other possible developing trajectories of urbanism are cities with a good degree of continuity (Ephesos, Smyrna and Amorion) as opposed to “cities of islands” (Gortyn, and possibly Euchaita153) paired with “fortified outposts”. Moreover, as Haldon argues, the

In this sense, as already noted, Liebeschuetz’s approach seems embedded in a historiographical tradition, which has a convenient starting point in A.H.M. Jones158. Indeed, this perspective could be recognized as lying at the back of other interpretations of the urban trajectories between the fifth and the ninth centuries159. However, it is also true that these new interpretations have evolved from the starting point offered by Jones by enhancing the role of the social and economic network, which supported the autonomies of the cities160. This has been achieved by giving due weight to the importance of material sources, as opposed to epigraphic ones, and the methodological inferences drawn from both documentary and archaeological materials161; by exploring the significance of the terminology used in the debate within the social urban context162 and, lastly, by trying to acknowledge the fundamental structural tendencies in the development of cities in the context of late Roman state and its society, and determining the extent to which the political events referred to in the literary sources and evidenced in the archaeological record increased or otherwise influenced that process163. In other words, they allow a more complex and exhaustive definition of cities and their functions into an historical general context. Liebeschuetz does, indeed, use 154

Dagron 1979; Sodini– Morrison 2002, 179: ‘In the urban hierarchy there thus appears an intermediary level between city and village: large towns (komai, metrokomai, komopoleis) [...] which call to mind the “secondary centres” that were developing in the west during the same period (v.e.fourth–seventh century). The emporia, which were not necessarily located on the sea, and which are amply attested in Thrace, Bithynia and Moesia during the late empire, fall under this category of urban habitation: [these were] “satellite towns”, to use Dagron’s phrase, in which fairs (panegyreis, nundinae) were held and in which merchants circulated ‘. See on this also Ward–Perkins 1998, 373. 150 Foss 1996, 91. 151 Foss 2002, 87–88. 152 See on this Foss–Winfield 1986. 153 Trombley 1985. As for Euchaita the first results of the survey project directed by Prof. John Haldon of Princeton University are anxiously awaited. 149

155

Haldon 2005, 32-44. Ibid.

156 Expecially Liebeschuetz 1999,Liebeschuetz 2000, Liebeschuetz 2001(a), Liebeschuetz 2001(b); but in this perspective Kennedy– Liebeschuetz 1988 and Liebeschuetz 1992 are also useful.

Liebeschuetz 2001, 29. Jones 1964. Also Dunn 1994, 67–68 is useful in this sense. 159 Here I’m referring to the paradigmatic opinion that ‘by the later sixth century [...] the city of the empire had lost their fiscal, economic and political independence’ (Haldon 1990, 98). 160 Haldon 1999, 12. 161 Brubaker–Haldon 2001, Brandes 1989, Brandes 1999, Sodini 1993, Russel 1986 among the others. 162 Brandes 1999, Haldon 1999, Haldon 2001. 163 Haldon 1990, 94. 157 158

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) archaeology. All the same, his vision seems not to take into consideration this evolutionary background. In fact, as far as I can see, in his perspective a city is only an urban core serving as the administrative centre of rural territories164: the nature of the early sixth century change is mainly political165; other areas (economy and demography) are overlooked. Indeed, Liebeschutz’s urban model (‘the classic city, with an urban population, monumental buildings, games and a highly literate upper class’166) owes much to Jones’ theory. So, Liebeschuetz intentionally limits his analysis to the essential political–administrative implications of changing urban contexts almost discarding any economic inferences167. In this view the development of civic institutions of self-government occupied a very important place. Using Orlando Figes’s words, the urban phenomenon seems, from Liebeschuetz’s point of view, to be a “bet on the Strongest” 168. In political–administrative terms: the core of the problem is to demonstrate that the classic urban landscape declines in the first half of the sixth century (taking the city of the second century as a standard of comparison) because of the disappearance of the curiales, the ruling elite of the Greek–Roman period. The urban life–style and the aristocratic culture which founded the distinctively classic city also vanished, ‘be it a Greek or Early Roman, filled with public monuments erected through local aristocratic munificence, and paid for expensive amenities and entertainments, in order to create a suitable back–drop to civilized life’169. Therefore, the analysis of the urban phenomena is achieved only through the relationship between the aristocratic civic elite (curiales) and the monumental structures of the city (which is, in Liebeschuetz’s opinion, the best expression – together with the secular literary culture170 – of the curiae’s aretê). The decline of the former – between late Antiquity and the early middle ages – implies the decadence of the latter. The rising new urban ruling class – the so-called notables – acts as a real litmus paper of this decline: it is considered as highly negative, for no clear reason. In fact, Liebeschuetz tightly bounds its appearance on the historical stage – as a substitute for the curiales – to the end of the political free–standing role of cities and to the disappearance of the classic monumental appearance and culture171. Along with the notables, an essential role is also played by bishops, as lying at the very heart of the new Christian sociality and culture172. Liebeschuetz proposes an elite–focussed view of urban transformation, centred on their political–institutional role. This is largely because his references to the sources are more restricted than they seem at first sight; in particular, his interpretation of archaeological reports sometimes misleading. He usually takes into consideration only narratives, inscriptions, papyri and legal texts, almost completely leaving aside 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172

any other kind of evidence (numismatic and sigillography, ceramics and so on); moreover, Liebeschuetz’s use of the results of archaeological excavations are only used to support the idea that cities in the second half of the sixth century had already passed their peak population and prosperity while classic urbanism and monumentality had collapsed173. His idea seems to owe most to a negative interpretation of demonumentalization, suggesting that the fundamental change of emphasis in urban landscape (public squares losing their role as centres of assembly, walled-in or encroached colonnaded streets, the increasing importance of Christianity) means the end of the prosperity of the city seen in classic terms: ‘the story of the city in late Antiquity is a story of decline’174. A similar analytical approach, indeed, is noticeable in the recent book written by Helena Saradi, who basically explains the fate of the Byzantine city in terms of decline. In her view, the sixth century marked the end of the ancient city175, as result of a crisis, which finds its roots in the fourth century. This crisis involved both the urban public dimension (interpreted in monumental and architectonical176 but also spiritual177 and ideological178 terms). The transformation of urban public spaces, a process that had started in the fourth century, accelerated and was marked by a pronounced trend towards privatization179: the decline of the curial class and civic finances, the lack of financial resources, the institutional changes of municipal administrations together with the influence of Christianity brought about the collapse of the physical character of the Greco-Roman city180, the lessened prosperity of the local elites and the decay of urban economic vitality. Saradi, indeed, concludes by enthusing that two models of Byzantine city crystallized in the sixth century: the first resulting from the process of evolution of the classic polis which reached the seventh century as a relic of antiquity181, where degraded urban life, decline of ancient monumentality as a sign of disintegration of the complex aspect of civilized life, stagnation and economic recession, ruralisation and the invasions caused the collapse of the classicizing urban space; the second, responding to the new conditions of life, informed the transformation of the earlier social order and the perception of the new function of the city182 as ‘an ecclesiastical and military centre without the defining features of ancient urbanism’183. Like Liebeschuetz, essentially, also Saradi in her analysis

Liebeschuetz 2001, 28–102. Also Saradi 2006, 49-118: the very title of her book, indeed, bespeaks this attitude “Literary images and historical reality”. 174 Ibid., 414. 175 Saradi 2006, 439. 176 Ibid., 135-48. 177 Ibid., 165: ‘the ancient evergetism derived form ancient way of life and ancient values and it was perceived as directly connected with ancient culture’. 178 Ibid., 49-146; 353-470 179 Ibid., 150. 180 Ibid., 351. 181 Ibid., 441. 182 Ibid., 466. 183 Ibid., 469. 173

Liebeschuetz 2000, 1. Ibid., 408 Ibid., 1–2. Ibid., 7ff. Figes 1997, 236. Ward–Perkins 1998, 377. Liebeschuetz 2001. Liebeschuetz 2000. On this mainly Patlagean 1977 and Brown 2001.

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION gives the pride of place to literary texts184, which usually mirrored the cultural values and opinions of the highest social strata (so-called collegiality factor185). This is not to underestimate the contribution and analysis of this set of documentary and material sources, but, rather, to argue that the way in which it is interpreted could be deceptive for a real comprehension of the dynamics which lay at the basis of the transformation of the city in the period here examined. A definition of the city (which is lacking in both Liebeschuetz and Saradi) should, indeed, include a consideration of the complex social fabric mirrored by the built landscape, although this would not lead one to underestimate the important role the city continued to play ‘within the overall administrative, financial and military structures of church and state in the seventh and eighth century’186. In fact, social and economic transformation in the Byzantine empire as a whole implied that several types of Roman public buildings lost their fundamental functions within the urban community187. It has been also stressed that it is possible to give a different idea of what a city was, on the basis of the same kinds of evidence, Egyptian papyri, used by Liebeschuetz188. We can use these sources to understand urban private housing better. Therefore, even if clearly limited to a particular region, papyri references enable us to stress the peculiar urban density in Egyptian cities and to figure out a necessary counterweight to the great emphasis given by others to the relationship between classic monumental buildings and the political–administrative sphere. What Liebeschuetz seems to leave out is the importance of the dialectic between urban economic activities and administrative centrality (in terms of direct imperial intervention, provincial governors’ patronage, and aristocratic spending–power), which has consequences for urban demography and the city townscape.

changes in urban life–style191 (housing, amenities and entertainments)192 and in the monumental structure and make–up of the classic Roman towns brought about by the end of voluntary aristocratic civic spending193 as a backdrop to civilized life, ‘a tradition of ‘politics’ and ‘civilization’ profoundly tied up with the urban life of the polis and civitas’194. By the same token, however, the urban human and structured landscape resulting from this transformation could not be presented – as Liebeschuetz does – as a result of a story of decline195. This not to minimize Liebeschuetz’s outstanding approach, which is in its own terms of very high quality and which is enriched by the archaeological excavated sites of both the western and eastern regions of the empire196. On the contrary, I would like to stress that it could be more important to consider the curiae as a mirror in which three different images could be reflected. The first is concerned with classic Greek–Roman urban culture, embodied by regular street planning, by monumental luxury appearance, by public lifestyle, by the rich architectural style of aristocratic mansions197 and by the amenities like baths and recreational gaming places. The second expresses the relationship between the city and the countryside, a kind of relationship which had both economic implications and administrative consequences, considering that agriculture formed the main pillar of the economy, whether as regard the peasantry which provided the massive part of the population, and which existed on little if anything above subsistence level, or whether as regard the much smaller numbers of landowners and above all state which exploited it by inducing it to produce a surplus that they then clutched for their own purposes of rent or taxation198. The third relies on the interrelationship between the urban ruling class and the state superstructure. This relationship essentially draws on the crucial fiscal role of the curiae as ‘intermediaries between state and population in the assessment, collection and forwarding the revenues demanded by the state’199. Considering this all, I think that an analysis which takes into account the evolution of these three different but interrelated aspects could explain both why the curiales – in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages – lost their functional role and why their ideological evergetism (in its monumental aspects the most impressive factor of public assets of the polis) vanished. The continued urban–orientation of the informal groups (or notables, as Liebeschuetz called them200), replacing the curiales contributed, contrary to Liebeschuetz’s view, to the vitality of the city in economic and social terms: it is clear that while they may have experienced significant change in internal structure, use of space, architectural style and

Beyond a doubt, the changing nature of the elites in the fifth and sixth centuries implied the disappearance of the classic urban curiae (the city councillors, the government body of the city with its tax–raising powers) engulfed by the increasing tension between state, cities and private landowners from the fifth century onwards189 and the raising of a new “informal” local hierarchy (local landowners, figures of senatorial rank, local officials, the bishop and members of the administrative–military state machinery190). This, as seen above, should be regarded less as a sign of a diminished vitality of the social urban fabric than an outcome of the increasing political and institutional dominance of the state and church hierarchies. It is, indeed, clear that the erosion of the political position of local aristocrats running the curiae and the shift away from local autonomy towards a more central control was a fundamental change with far–reaching consequences for aristocratic culture and identity. It is reflected in the

191 192 193

184 185 186 187 188 189 190

Liebeschuetz 2001, 157–98. McCormick 2001,160. Ward–Perkins 1998, 410. Ellis 1988, 566. Wickham 2005, 609–13. See also Alston 2002, 130ff. Haldon 2005, 34. Liebeschuetz 2001, 110ff.

194 195 196 197 198 199 200

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Ellis 2004. Ward–Perkins 1998, 377–8. .Christie 2006, 268. Ward–Perkins 1998, 378. Liebeschuetz 2001, 414. Liebeschuetz 2001. Ellis 1988. Hendy 1989, 22. Haldon 2002, 98. Also Cosentino 2006. Liebeschuetz 2001, 401.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) street plan, many cities continued to thrive in the second half of the sixth century and even beyond: they continued to be the site of intense commercial and industrial activity and to sustain concentrated ecclesiastical and government administrative activities201.

late antique city211. Indeed, Trombley’s contribution seems to me important because it allows us to stress how strong and persistent the embers of the old debate are within the recent historiography on the city. However, it is clear that it could be out of keeping with a real comprehension of the urban phenomenon and of its historical development: in making every effort to demonstrate the continuous vitality of the Byzantine city between the seventh and the eleventh century, Trombley counts only on few literary sources, referring to particular urban contexts like Constantinople and Thessaloniki, while the contribution of the material sources pass almost unnoticed. Constantinople and Thessaloniki are indeed important centres, but they remain exceptional in being the major urban settlements of the empire; besides, more important than the pure concept of survival is the necessity of coming to terms with the different trajectories and developments of the fate of the city, the regional nuances of urbanism, together with the reasons prompting the vitality (or not) of the urban settlements. The overall street orientation of the urban plan could remain the same (as often happened in Italy, for instance), but beyond this framework, it is the economic, political, cultural, social and religious scenes and actors, which have inevitably changed in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages.

In fact, changing life–style and pattern of investment are a main factor in the process of reorientation of the urban social and economic functions202, having a direct impact on the way urban space was planned, built and used203. Urban–oriented (informal) elites, underpinning substantial levels of local demand, could allow the development of artisan and commercial activities, which partially explain the demonumentalization of classic public areas and monuments. In short if the former monumental areas were readapted to industrial purposes204 this owes less to an economic decline and abandonment of cities (as Liebeschuetz and Saradi assert205) than to their economic vitality and the development of a different type of urbanism. Moving away from Liebeschuetz’ theory, the reaction to Foss’ arguments has also led to the opposite side of the “continuist–discontinuist” debate206. In this sense, a recent contribution of F.Trombley seems to me indicative. Initially this scholar seems on the right track when he tries to search out a possible definition of the city. To do this he uses Biddle’s summa of the urban characteristics. ‘He has summarized the features of “Dark Age” proto– urbanism in north–western Europe during the period A.D. 600–1000[...]. No one has yet attempted to apply these paradigms to Byzantine urban settlement’207. Very soon, however, one realizes that these paradigms, which imply an unassailable compartmentalized vision of the city208, are important to Trombley only because they lead to the conclusion that many urban settlements did, indeed, survive during the so–called Dark Age in Anatolia and Greece, a view that opposed the current orthodoxy209. In fact, Trombley proceeds to a critique of the discontinuity perspective on the basis of Biddle’s paradigms210. This being so, Trombley’s concept seems to directly descend from Ostrogorsky, canvassing the evolutionary character of the Byzantine city as the immediate successor of the

It might be concluded, however, that Liebeschuetz’s (and in his own way Trombley’s) contributions sound like the end of an old historiographical tradition, which has encompassed a long time span. The influence of this tradition has also recently been attacked by scholars like Mark Whittow212 who has focussed his attention on the supposed collapse of the city as the ‘centre of aristocratic life and of aristocratic pride and competition for local status’213. Whittow does not hold in low esteem the crisis of the curiales, but he denies that this phenomenon must be labelled as the definite cause of the moral, ethical and cultural collapse of the urban entity in the sixth and early seventh century. Using a wide combination of material and literary sources214, he stresses the continuing prosperity of cities in the Near East (although only until the early seventh century). Although, again, his perspective mirrors the fighting between “continuists and discontinuists”, he correctly asserts the multifunctional facets of the city; despite casting light only on a particular region, Whittow broadens horizon of the debate, by considering the economic, social and cultural aspects of the development of cities between the fifth and the seventh century215. Whittow’s refutations have exerted a powerful impact on the “opposite side of the barricade”, leading to some interesting reappraisals:

Haldon 2005, 41. Ellis 1988, 573. 203 Haldon 2005, 41. 204 Wickham 2005, 615ff. Also Harris 2004. 205 Liebeschuetz 2001, 7–8; Saradi 2006, 288ff. 206 For other literature arguing for continuity or discontinuity see, among the others, R.S.Lopez 1959, Bouras 1981, Zakyndinos 1966. 207 Trombley 1993, 429–30. 208 Biddle 1990, 100. In Trombley’s words:’ Related criteria from a variety of paradigms include: 1. Craft specialization. 2. Monumental architecture. 3. Developed social stratification. 4. Writing. 5. Naturalistic art. 6. Residence– rather than kinship– based communities’. (Trombley 1993, 430). 209 Trombley 1993, 429. 210 For instance, talking about the planned street system he concludes: ‘the Hellenistic east–west and north–south orientation of urban plan of Thessalonike has survived until the present day, including the cardo and the decumanus. Persons arriving in the harbour often used to take the cardo directly to the north side of the agora mentioned by St. Theodore the Studite in one of his letters [...]. Constantinople needs no comment here’. (Trombley 1993, 432.) 201 202

although the decay of the civic monuments is an important change, it is important to put it into perspective. This change did not damage Brandes 1989, 12 Whittow 1990; Whittow 1996, 53–68. 213 Ward–Perkins 1998, 381. 214 Archaeological excavations (but he pays attention only to a specific region, that is the Near–East), metal work (Koper Koraon Silver Treasury), copper coinage, and monumental buildings together with the analysis of documentary material. 215 Whittow 1996, 61. 211

212

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION the Roman city as a centre of population and as a centre of economic activity […]. What had changed was how the [civic] status and the [aristocratic] pride were expressed216.

and sub–regional ambits229; a point of view which is hardly perceptible in the “conservative” historiography. Indeed, if, for instance, Liebeschuetz develops regional sections230, at the same time Saradi seems to completely overlook this problem by devising an encyclopedic model of analysis, focussed on the transformation of the classical built townscape, city plans and urban spaces; a model which encompasses and includes all the regions of the Byzantine empire (with the notable exception of rarely-mentioned Italy231) and which is closely linked to the importance assumed by the archaeological evidence232. In fact it is essential to search for single different answers (regional or simply local) that the cities elaborate to adapt themselves to new circumstances233. In this way we can underline the importance of an approach that stresses the “deconstructing and reconstructing” of urban functionality and essence, which come to the fore in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages (that is from the fifth to the ninth century). Therefore, what should be stressed are the real reasons, which prompted to redefine the structures and the ideological definition of the classic concept of urbanism and its development in the longer period. These reasons must be researched in the different trajectories of single cities, analyzed in their particular regional (or sub–regional234) context. On the other hand, one must also cater for the relationship between the changing imperial superstructure and the city to a considerable extent. This relationship has been clearly pointed out by the contributions of scholars like John Haldon and Chris Wickham235 who try to approach the transformation of the “Byzantine city” from a different perspective. Generally speaking, the long–term development of the city and its changing functional importance within the structure of late Roman social and economic relations should be taken into account.

However, as can be easily understood, the continuity– discontinuity debate has now revealed all its limits by impelling a real comprehension of origins, essence, functions and different facets of urban entity in the “transitional period”217. Different approaches have also recently come to the fore, which enhance different aspects of the city. The contributions made by single regional contexts increasingly stand out, especially taking into account the results of new archaeological excavations and surveys218. Among these, the contributions of Zanini219, centred on different areas of the Italian peninsula, which remained under Byzantine sway between the sixth and the eight centuries, retained a real importance (mainly for the efficient combinative use of archaeological and literary sources). Another outstanding example of regional study is Brandes’ book on the cities of Asia Minor between the seventh and the eighth century220. Here the author tries to pinpoint a concept (Begriff) of the city by analyzing all the literary sources written between the sixth and the eighth centuries221. In doing so, he deals with both the etymologic origins and the evolution of the term kastron (implicitly undermining the simplistic theory of a “direct involution” from polis to kastron222) and with Arabic sources about Byzantium as well223. A terminological perspective is developed in another Brandes article224, where he holds in high esteem the “cautions” to be adopted when reading and analyzing the literary sources. So for instance, it clearly stands out that ecclesiastical terminology225 leans towards226 ‘a use [of] the term polis to refer to virtually every Episcopal seat [...] [a bishopric] was by its very nature a polis, as is made clear in a law decreed by the Emperor Zeno (C.J. I, 3, 35)’227.

The point is quite simply, that the Byzantine ‘city’ was different from its classic predecessors since it no longer fulfils the same role, either in the social formation as whole or in the administrative apparatus of the state. Within this general context, then it seems entirely logical that we should expect the continued occupation, if on a smaller scale, of some sites, the abandonment of others, and even, for specific reasons, the (rare) continuation of certain cities within their original limits236.

Apart from the methodological problems (relating to a possible definition of town in a multifunctional sense228), Brandes points to the real importance of the different declensions of the urban phenomenon in different regional Ward–Perkins 1998, 381. See Haldon 1985, 76–77 for a critique of the concept of “transition” in this context. 218 See infra 1.3.1. 219 See mainly Zanini 1994 and Zanini 1998. Also 1.3.1 with further bibiliography. 220 Brandes 1989. 221 Ibid., 28–44. 222 See also Muller–Weiner 1986, Ravegnani 1984, Dunn 1994 and Gregory 1992. 223 Brandes 1989, 42: ‘einige Bemerkungen zur Terminologie der arabischen quellen, die uber Ereignisse und Verhaltnisse im Byzantinische Reich berichten’ 224 Brandes 1999. 225 Subscription lists of Ecumenical Synods, Notitiae Episcopatuum, Canons and Hagiographical Literature. 226 Partially because of the social and historical background ‘represented by the role played by bishops in towns, which grew so much in importance, that from the sixth century they occupied central positions in the towns’ (Brandes 1999, 29). 227 Brandes 1999, 26; Brandes 1989, 23. 228 Brandes 1999, 26. 216 217

So, even if the physical appearance of the cities changed, this does not mean a reduction in the economic and exchange activity, but reflects a deep change of the urban That is in relation to the regional differences which involve each urban settlement linked to the variety of historical events in the single regions. 230 Liebeschuetz 2001, 30ff. 231 Saradi 2006, passim. 232 Brandes 1989, 81–131. 233 The regionally–based approach in Wickham 2005 is really helpful in this sense. 234 See for instance the case of Civitas Nova Heracliana, whose historical development as a urban entity could not be understand if we relate it not only to the “Venetia” region but also to the coastal–lagoon area. 235 Wickham 2005 and Haldon 2005 are their most recent contributions. 236 Haldon 1990, 94–5. 229

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Constantinople in a new network of trade–exchange246 and a resulting pattern of social investment247, the redefinition of fiscal and administrative state policy (which bypassed in practice the cities as foci of the assessment, collection and distribution of taxes), and, lastly, the emergence of defensive needs248. This shift was already under way during the fifth century249 and contributes to explaining the fate both of the city as a corporative body and of its ruling class (curiales). Notwithstanding the economic inferences, which encourage us to see the city as a centre of consumption, a sociological definition also emerges from this sort of analysis250. Thus, a city is considered as the apex of an administrative–institutional structure, a focus for the population (and for exchange activities on regular basis), and as a religious centre.

life–style237 that is highly influenced by the state238. The Historical context is provided by the long term and complex process of erosion of the social and economic networks which supported the city as autonomous and self–governing body […]. This process included an increasing interventionism on the part of the state in civic administration, especially in respect of fiscal structures, on the one hand; and the concomitant erosion of the position of the middle and lower levels of the curial strata, on the other239. This approach deliberately gives pride of place to an economic (and fiscal) functional definition of the city240. But it also paves the way to a real comprehension of social formations as a result of the relationship of production in their totality, pinpointing the economic forms of the society within which political, legal, ideological (but also cultural) structures are embedded and with which they correspond241. Indeed, as Wickham states, very few cities were economic centres that ‘just grew’ without any external (direct imperial or state) intervention242. However, apart from this role, urban centres depended on another partially political and social element, aristocratic spending power. This allows him to conclude that aristocratic urban living in the Byzantine empire was less enforced than a choice: when aristocrats lived in cities, thus underpinning a relative urban survival they did so because those cities retained their importance as administrative centres243.

However, although both Wickham and Haldon agree that the discussion of Byzantine urbanism should privilege archaeology251 and that by the late sixth century the cities of the empire had changed their political structure (the dominant administrative and formally organized body252 within each city –curiae– was replaced by an informal one made up of ‘bishops and clergy, rich landowners, some of the centrally appointed officers of the imperial fiscal bureau, along with the now relatively unimportant curiales253)’, Haldon seems to focus his attention more on the role of the central state–administration, the fiscal and military institution and the directive role of the church in the urban economic transformations254 (although he also admits that the city is intimately linked to the ideology of the Byzantine world as an element of self–identity255). Wickham, in contrast, hints at the bases of the urban economies as being a mixture of political, fiscal, aristocratic and commercial interests256. This leads him, as seen above, to affirm that the difference between regions seem best explained through differences in the behaviour of the aristocracy (by the seventh century more increasingly attracted into the formal hierarchies of the state - and church - and lured into the golden cage of Constantinople)who remained the only big spenders, the only people capable of paying for luxury items, for artisans to clothe them and to build or decorate their house, that is to say for the basic demographic elements in any successful city, once the fiscal support to urban economies of the Roman empire was removed257.

In this sense, following Haldon, it is clear that the problem of “continuity or discontinuity” comes to nothing, if not embedded in the late Roman political and economic system: the continued physical existence and occupation of urban sites conveys little information about the changes in economic and social relations, which developed during the seventh century and after. The construction of city fortification, the disappearance of extra–mural urban suburbs and the reduction in size of urban settlements may be expected in the conditions existing in the seventh century. ‘That these urban settlements continued to survive in a physical form shows only that (1) part of the local population continued to regard a defended area as safer than the open countryside; (2) fortified settlements continued to act as administrative and ecclesiastical centres’244.

Angold 1985. Haldon 1985, Haldon 2002 and Whittow 1990. 248 ‘If cities survived physically during the period from c. 650–900 it was because they offered some shelter to both people and their possessions, and provided in addition useful bases for administrative officials” [..]. This picture is, of course, rather generalised, and leaves out the larger emporia and administrative centres of the empire’. (Haldon–Kennedy 1980, 92). 249 Haldon 1985, 99. 250 Haldon 1999. 251 Wickham 2005, 593; Haldon 1990, 99ff.. 252 Wickham 2005, 598ff. 253 Haldon 1990, 98, 254 Ibid., 113:’ whether [ cities are]defined in terms of their economic function, their position as centres of social wealth and investment, or in terms of their constitutional status, their administrative character or functions, or their role in the extraction of revenues on behalf of the state’. 255 Ibid., 124. 256 Wickham 2005, 616. 257 Ibid., 671. 246 247

By the same token, what is really at stake are four factors: the changing relationships between central government and provinces and that between landowners/landholders, land–workers and the state245, the increasing importance of Ellis 1988; Ellis 2004. Haldon–Kennedy 1980, Haldon 1985, Haldon 1999, Haldon 2000 and Haldon 2002. On this see also Ivison 2000, although with reference to the period between the eighth and eleventh century. 239 Haldon 1999, 1–2. 240 The city as an integral functional component of a whole system of economic relations. (Haldon– Kennedy 1980 and Haldon 1985) 241 Haldon 1985, 102. 242 Wickham 2005, 594. 243 Wickham 2005, 594–5 244 Haldon–Kennedy 1988, 87. 245 Haldon 1985, 99. 237 238

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION Other approaches to the problem of the Byzantine city in this period are, of course, possible. Even if there is no space here to deal with many of the increasing number of books and articles concerned with this problem, two contributions in particular seem to be relevant here. The first is an article by A.G. Walmsley on Byzantine Palestine and Arabia258. Before dealing with the focus of his research (that is a particular regional area of the Byzantine empire between sixth and seventh century), the author outlines a sound methodological approach to the urban phenomena. He argues that the city is defined by its manifold functions259, which act at different stages260 but are not clearly identified. In fact, it is really moulded by a complex matrix of evolving social, religious, political and economic factors, which is not a static system, but, on the contrary, brings clear changes to the material and social structure of towns. What really changes, therefore, is the urban character where many factors were at play and between them, above all the shifts ‘to the traditional concepts of urban life and the social identity of towns’261. This also because, according to Walmsey, towns do not evolve along linear lines, developing unitarily from one standardized form into another: ‘rather than evolutionary, the path was ancestral with many layers of urban traditions which came to outweigh the beginnings and transform the ancient core’262.

methodological passages to the construction of a model of town (made of monuments, civic pride, juridical and political status, an economic and social situation and a given idea of what a town is), which gives more prominence to cultural representations. However this model seems to have a specific way of functioning: its evolution is not merely a result of a profound period of crisis. So, it emphasizes how this process is interpreted and moulded by the inhabitants into new models of social behaviour and relationships: ‘deep transformation impressed minds, undercutting the legitimacy of the traditional models’266. To sum up, one might question if all these scholars and their theories in reacting and relating to Foss’ conception have really replaced or simply circumvented it. Some scholars (Liebeschuetz, Trombley) seem to have developed a conservative reaction to Foss, trying mainly to adapt the decline–continuity polemic to the new “archaeological” environment. Others (Ward–Perkins267, Spieser, Zanini268) have deliberately chosen to limit their analytical model of the urban trajectories chronologically, without crossing the symbolic threshold of the seventh century. In contrast Brandes, Walmsey and, partially, Whittow have followed in the footsteps of Foss in developing archaeologically exhaustive regional studies which propose peculiar solutions to the problem of the changing trajectories of Byzantine urbanism in seventh and eighth century. Lastly, Wickham and Haldon have moved along (economic) guidelines, recognizing the underlying structural tendencies that these have in the evolution of cities in the context of the late Roman state and society269, as well as describing the functional distinctions between different types of settlements and their changing types of permutations within the slow process of transformation of late Roman urban society, which entail a number of changes in the physical appearance and extent of towns.

The second contribution is the social approach proposed by J.M. Spieser263, who advances a new model of urban evolution in late Antiquity. Development eventually stabilised in a way that allowed the changing society to arrive at a new conception of itself, with new values, breaking traditional social divisions [...]. The transformation of the city is only one aspect of a broader evolution [...]; we can see how a sub– system –that of towns or cities– depended for its evolution on the evolution of the whole system, late antique civilisation, but at the same time, fed back into the whole. The system was held together by material conditions, by the economy, but also–the other side of the same coin– by a set of human relationship, by human considerations of what the world was or should be264.

The latter is a good starting point to approach to a comprehensive definition of the city. A definition which enables us on the one hand to pinpoint all the complex and interacting realities which compose a city: structural (monuments, housing, spaces and urban planning), socio– cultural, political and religious ones; while, on the other hand, enabling us to understand the real causes which lay at the basis of the complex transformation of urban phenomena in relation to the changing imperial superstructure between late Antiquity and the early middle ages. Addressing this definition is far from simple. As stated above, I propose a multifunctional approach to the urban problem, which by taking into consideration the manifold roles of a city and being aware of their historical particularities, might allow me to propose different models of urbanism (following regional and sub–regional declensions) in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. It is clear that those

Spieser’s analysis develops through terminological265 and Walmsley 1996. See also infra, 1.3.4. ‘Towns functioned as administrative centres for the government by collecting taxes, keeping registers, organising civic projects, and as a cultural, religious and economical focal points for the community‘(Walmsey 1996, 126). 260 ‘[The City has] a central role in the Byzantine Administration and economy[...]a dominant role in Byzantine Society[...], [...]served as the religious and focal points of rural society, [...] [and one must also considered that] the ruling–class was urban base’(id., 128, 147–8). 261 Walmsey 1996, 130. 262 Walmsey 2007, 83. 263 Spieser 2001. 264 Ibid. 14. 265 ‘I should like to insist that the former concept of polis ( citing Haldon ‘A settlement associated with a range of specific ideological, juridical and institutional attributes’ also marked by the presence of monumental architecture), was replaced by a very lose notion, expressed in various terms. That does not mean that we cannot explore this notion [...], but 258 259

we must be aware that the words we use to try to perceive and describe reality do not express immutable and precisely defined concepts and that we should take a cautious approach when we try to pinpoint the reality behind the words’ (Spieser 2001, 4–5). 266 Ibid. 11. 267 Ward–Perkins 1998; Ward–Perkins 2005. 268 Zanini 1994; Zanini 1998. 269 Haldon 2005, 94.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) models move away from the teleological superiority of the classic framework of urbanism (including orthogonal street plans, civic monuments and amenities, self–governing curial bodies, and their dependent territory) to propose an economically–oriented reading of the social and structural transformations of the city. This allows me also to stress the importance of archaeology in the interpretative model I am offering here. I have already partially mentioned its significance; here, indeed, I would like to argue that archaeological evidence has become paramount in unearthing the evolving fabric and content of town from Roman to medieval times270. This perspective, however, should include a balanced reflection on the results of the new stratigraphical excavations and a reappraisal of the old surveys (earlier excavations, such as those in Amastris or Ephesos, can be revisited), the awareness of the importance of the sigillographic, numismatic and epigraphic material with all its methodological implications (coins, seals, epigraphy and ceramics are all essential sources, as long as they are all seen in the context of the relationship of cities to their regions), the full recognition of the importance of ceramics when detailing the economic scale of the production, distribution and exchange and, of course, the level of urban demand271, and, finally, the appreciation of the methodological and practical inferences of archaeological research272. In this sense, one should be aware that perceptions could be easily distorted by the status of the archaeological research: what sites have been excavated? Which parts of the site have been analyzed in proper stratigraphical terms? Which historical periods have been focussed on when analyzing different strata? Are the excavators prone to avoid moral judgment when their finds differ from their expectations (sloppily–built workshops instead of classic monuments)?273

ruling class; on the contrary my intent is, indeed, to cast light on the transformations of those sub–structural functions pairing them with the changes of the “imperial” structure: ‘the changing nature of the social elite of the empire over the period in question also contributed to change within the Byzantine town’274, moulding the urban fabric, topography and morphology according to peculiar regional outcomes. Sometimes (Gortyn, and possibly Athens) these morphed into different foci of settlements (“città ad isole”– cities of islands) concentrated around key features (churches, old monuments) within the classic townscape, which, scattered as they are, still retained a level spatial coherence (which allows us to go beyond the negative interpretation of the demonumentalization, encroachment, or ruralization of public spaces) supported by their political importance, religious significance, demographic persistence and economic vitality; sometimes these morphed into fortress cities, although (as in the case of Amastris and Ankara) walls should be regarded less as a sign of abandonment of formerly urban sites (polis) in favor of hilltop fortified sites (kastra) than as a deliberate and strategic remodeling of urban functions in response to different military and administrative scenarios; sometimes, they morphed into “continuous cities” (Amorion and Ephesos) with considerable continuity in the use of infrastructure and public spaces, underpinned by the persistence of their commercial, religious and partially political functions; sometimes, lastly, they morphed into “new” cities (like Heracliana in the Venetian lagoon275), with populations transferring from a nearby settlement, which arguably remain the most fascinating case, since they imply a continuity in urban ideology and culture although adapted to new and specific historical conditions. It goes without saying that these trajectories could overlap (as a matter of fact they often do), and that these trajectories should be regarded as useful and suitable guidelines more than rigid characterizations. Especially if we consider that it is often the city as a product of its people’s impressions, reactions and behaviors which comes to the fore: in other words, the city–world seen through the eyes and the feelings of its people. A vision which again could recall utopian and non-pragmatic assertions, but which reminds us that a city can tell “God’s tales, even if its roots are in the impious heart of men”276.

So, a detailed archaeologically–informed analysis of single urban settlements in their regional context is essential to come to explain the fate of the Byzantine city: it is important to stress that this perspective implies the necessity to follow this road map through the different form it assumes in the different regions of the empire. As partially seen above, the Byzantine city could move along different trajectories configuring a different type of “non–classic” urbanism: the vitality of aristocrats, the culturally changed way of investing their wealth, and their role in the ecclesiastical hierarchy and the state military and administrative machinery (meaning their altered relationship with the imperial superstructure) could underpin the economic persistence of artisanal and commercial activity. In other words, the elites set the pace of urban economic life. This not to blur the idea of the political, administrative and even military roles of this

1.3. Different Regions, Different Perspectives: the status of archaeological research of Byzantium. My intention in this section is to outline the current status of archaeological research in the different regions of the Byzantine empire. It seems clear at a glance that the first difference between those regions is, indeed, in their political fate: some of them (Anatolia and Greece) should be regarded as the core of the Empire in the seventh and eighth century. Others (Syria and Palestine, together with Egypt277, which is not included in this book) were severed

Haldon 2005, 192. Ibid., 706. 272 I have myself worked on unpublished excavations of Heracliana in Byzantine Italy and Gortyn in Crete. This has allowed me to fully grasp the idea that ‘the cultural record of human society offers the archaeologist considerable more information than a mere chronology of the past. [It helps] to identify and explain various cultural and economic paths taken by a society in which continuity, discontinuity and change all play a part’ (Walmsey 2007, 69). See also Kennedy 2007, 37-40. 273 See on this Ward–Perkins 1998, 404–5. 270 271

Haldon 1999, 19. On Heracliana see infra 1.3.1. 276 Roy 1997, 239. 277 On Egypt see Bagnall 1993, Alston 2002, Sarris 2005, Wickham 2005 and more recently Bagnall 2007 with further bibliography. 274 275

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

3. Umm Qays (Gadara, Jordan), walls of shops encroaching onto the paved cardus (Author’s photo).

by the Arab invasions, whilst Italy developed along independent political and military lines from the first decades of the eighth century onwards, although in my opinion it would be misleading to describe it as peripheral. However, it is also my intention to focus my attention on the different, peculiar, trajectories of urbanism in each of those regions. Indeed, urban trajectories in Syria–Palestine (under Umayyad rule), for instance, which I shall discuss in the conclusions are relevant as comparative measures to evaluate the transformations of the urban centres in the Byzantine world. This world, as will be seen, included Italy, where although (demographically and structurally) reduced, much poorer than their Roman forerunners, and often fragmented (in terms of landscape), cities experienced a good deal of continuity, owing mainly to the high rate of survival of the local curial elites. In Anatolia and inland Greece, in contrast, the cities in the seventh and eighth centuries could bear the hallmarks of the attractive pull of Constantinople, the sway of its administrative and ecclesiastical structures and the increasing force of the military hierarchies, whilst still partially preserving their political, economical and social functions predicated upon a morphologically and topographically different urban scenario. Lastly the Aegean area, which should be regarded as a sort of sub–regional articulation of the Byzantine hinterland, where urban settlements like Gortyn, economically active as they were (in terms of artisanal

production and commercial activity) in the seventh and eighth centuries, resembled the fate of the urban settlements of Syria and Palestine. It could, indeed, sound strange that a book on Byzantine urbanism between the fifth and the ninth centuries includes areas, which moved out of the Constantinopolitan grip. Some preliminary remarks are, therefore, needed in this sense. The first is empirical: in Syria and Palestine there are many abandoned cities from the late Roman and early Islamic periods, which makes large scale excavation much easier. Moreover, the stunning state of preservation of the urban fabric of some of the cities in this area is readily apparent even in the eye of a non–expert beholder (owing to the peculiar climatic and geo–morphological condition of this region278), in a sense allowing us actually to see (and not only imagine or reconstruct) the changing (but still economically active) urban landscape of the late Roman city. I am referring for instance, to both the encroachment of patchy–built walls of shops and stalls onto the paved street of Umm Qays (Gadara), and the structure built for commercial purposes within the former Basilica-Hall in Scythopolis, and, eventually, the line of shops erected in the wake of the Islamic conquest in Gerasa between the main decumanus and the new mosque in order to mask the divergence between the Roman street-grid and different orientation of the Islamic religious building. The second 278

19

Kennedy 2007, Walmsey 2007; also Hordern-Purcell 2000.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) is analytical: a social and cultural model of urbanism as mirrored by building technique, town–planning, housing, use of public spaces that is far from being curtailed by political boundaries. This is also true for regions like Crete, where, as will be seen, a city like Gortyn could develop more along Kennedy’s “madina–driven lines”, in terms of an economically active urban fabric and society losing its monumental allure to building encroaching onto streets and workshops infilling public monuments and squares.279 It thus more resembled Syrian and Palestine Arab cities like Gerasa, Gadara and Pella280 than the pragmatic (defensive) pattern of towns reduced to a walled central area containing administrative–ecclesiastical buildings and usually located on a naturally defensible site that could dominate scattered lower–order settlements281, which is typical of the Byzantine Balkans in the sixth century and then of the Anatolian Plateau in the seventh century282. This in a sense could lead us to conclude, as Wickham does, that the Byzantine empire should be analyzed in terms of discontinuities between the sea–coasts and the plateau283; or to assert, as Haldon does, that the military, social and economic role of cities depend on their location with regard to their distance from Constantinople284. Besides, one also has to factor in the role the state plays in non–Byzantine areas285. By the same token, as seen above, one could also argue the importance of a regional approach to Byzantine urbanism, although within a multifunctional interpretative model that privileges its economic function. Different political, economic, and social perspectives bring peculiar urban results inside distinct geographical contexts: the Mediterranean world is a real patchwork of microregions, highly varied in size and character, which cannot necessarily be internally homogeneous286. This being so, it would allow us to develop a sort of counterfactual approach to urbanism. What would have happened to Byzantine urbanism if (as in the Neapolitan Gulf, the Pontic region and the Aegean islands), the Arab invasions did not take place? Is indeed the model of the Anatolian plateau and the Balkans more a local result of peculiar economic, political,

social, geographic or other conditions? Here, as will be seen, the role of Syria and Palestine cities is important in terms of control and comparisons: urban trajectories in this area (under the Umayyad rule) are relevant as measures to evaluate the transformation of urban centres in the Byzantine world. It is also important to consider that the various urban “super–structures” articulate differently according to their relationship with the changing imperial structure. Increasing insecurity and invasions, political and social transformation (the new “informal” group of notables replacing the curiales as new urban social elite), the pull of Constantinople luring the elites into becoming members of the senate or the central administrative and bureaucratic apparatus287, the influence of the capital on the regional and (diminished) inter–regional pattern of exchange and redistribution of goods288, the deliberate rationalizing pattern of the distribution of cities according to the re–structured Imperial fiscal and military needs289, and the political and cultural importance of the Christian religion290, all contribute to draw a picture of seventh and eighth century Byzantine urbanism which is heavily nuanced in terms of social fabric and townscape. For a number of reasons, it is almost impossible to construct a general overview of the status of archaeological research on the different areas of the former Byzantine empire. Not only is there an increasingly growing number of surveys and excavations that are going on all over the Mediterranean area but these surveys are often delayed in the publication of their results. Further, one must bear in mind that the state of the art in this branch of studies induces important differences in relation to the different nations and geographical area. Essentially, this is brought about by the influence of local conditions (geo–morphological, climatic and stratigraphical291) but also by “external” factors (as the political situation and the cultural habits of both ruling class and population, or modern scholars’ peculiar aptitudes and attitudes292). Such issues directly affect the status of archaeological research in the different countries as is demonstrated by the huge discrepancy, for example, between the numbers of research projects in Italy and Syria, or between Asia Minor and Spain. This has

Kennedy 1985; also Wickham 2005, 619. See on those cities Walmsey 1996, Walmsey 2000 and Walmsey 2007 with further bibliography. 281 Haldon 2005, 39–44. 282 See on this Dunn 1994 and also Curta 2004, 40-53. 283 Wickham 2005, 29. 284 Haldon 2005. The inner zone around Constantinople was the source of much of the food supplied to the capital and , for this reason, was defended by the Theme of the Opsikion and included fortified sites; the middle zone was more exposed to the Arab raids during the period ca. 660– 740 A.D. and here cities largely evolved along a common pattern involving the occupation and defence of fortresses which served as administrative centre; the third zone, was more affected by a continuous warfare. 285 One should consider that Syria and Palestine belonged to a an inland polity stretched eastwards to Iran (the Umayyad caliphate), although they remained more open to the Mediterranean exchange network (even in their inland areas) making up a prosperous but economically fragmented region (Wickham 2005, 770ff.; also Kennedy 2007); moreover, they benefited from a pattern of fiscal regionalization which divided the region in several relatively small provinces which, although not fiscally autonomous from the capital (Damascus) maintained an high rate of accumulation of wealth. (Wickham 2005, 131–4, also Walmsey 2000). I will return to this in the conclusion. 286 Kennedy 2007, 67. See on this also Hordern-Purcell 2000. 279 280

Haldon 1999, 7–8; Haldon 1985, 111; Angold 1985, 4ff.; Wickham 2005, 633. 288 Wickham 2005, 780–94. Also McCormick 2001. 289 Haldon 1999, 9–10. 290 Christie 2006, 73–174. 291 Using this term I want to stress that the state of preservation of the different stratigraphical contexts are hardly comparable even on the same site. I would rather use the term stratigraphical because I am aware that– as Carandini pointed out (Carandini, 1999) – it could be referred both to the “normal” concept of horizontal layers and to the idea of vertical monumental structures (both of them are essentially a result of the piling up of human actions). 292 ‘Present perspectives are equally influenced […]. Sometimes they are explicit, as with the well–known advice from Colonel Gadafi to those with an interest in the Greco–Roman world that they ‘might want to examine their [the Libyan government’s] agrarian policies and so make archaeology relevant to modern problems’. [...] More problematic, when a specific perspective is adopted and questions posed within it, is the way in which certain answers are favoured by evidence selection’. (Roskams 1996, 170–1). 287

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

4. Gerasa (Jerash, Jordan), Mosque (second half of the eighth century) (Author’s photo).

enabled scholars to point to a deflecting perspective, which allows consideration of some particular areas as out of focus in relation to the central “core” of empire. It has been correctly argued that sometimes we prefer to analyze some areas as exceptional, as, for instance the Limestone Massif in Syria. This area is of course important in casting light on the economic, social, cultural and political relationships in a network made up of a highly complex settlement hierarchy. This essentially is due to its outstanding state of preservation293. But this does not mean that a kind of pattern of non–urban / non–rural lifestyle is a peculiarity of this area only294. The Life of St. Theodore of Sykeon casts light on a similar way of life for the Anatolian plateau295. Here, as elsewhere296, the material culture and the nature of the land had impeded the construction of dressed–stone–built houses or baths and had favoured planking, mud–bricks and straw thatch. This material, of course, deteriorated so that the buildings are less well preserved than in other comparable areas. However, its loss does not imply its

historical non–existence. Indeed, it is not impossible to trace its bleached footprints in the landscape297. It is simply much more difficult (and expensive). So, truism as it may seem, our mental schemes and models of interpretation can sometimes be deceived by the way we relate to the results of excavations and to the perceptions, methodology and process of site selection. A much more critical approach is needed, taking into account that “reliance on architectural considerations and on the documentary record to interpret archaeological evidence is a double–edged sword. One is additionally hampered by the fact that much energy has gone into discovering urban beginnings but far less into subsequent development [...]. But even where projects have concentrated directly on post–Roman matters, results are too often interpreted as leading to superficial town histories298. “ The latter aspect can easily lead to commentaries attempting to interpret sequences in terms of either continuity or discontinuity299. One must also bear in mind the simple and bare necessity of examining again the evidence and the conclusions of old excavations. This draws upon a new stratigraphical confidence and a methodologically more

Foss 1996, Foss 1997 and Foss 2002, for a recent reappraisal of Tate– Sodini’s work dated back to the 70s. 294 Heather 2005, 112-3. 295 Made of villages which sometimes had urban–style institutions and civic amenities, of tight relationships between the agriculturally exploited hinterland and important Anatolian cities or metropolis as Ankara and of a considerable level of wealth. (Vita Theodori Syceotae, I–II, passim). 296 I am referring here to the Venetian lagoon areas. See infra 1.3.1. 293

297 298 299

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Carandini 1999. Roskams 1996, 169. Ibid., 170.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) conscious approach to the excavated or surveyed areas that have been developed300; but also to new models of classification and new methods of analyzing the material evidence (above all pottery, but also glass and coins301) that have come to the fore. Their importance has been outlined in particular for the Syria–Palestine region:

recent and authoritative summary works on the Byzantine empire completely ignore the role of the Italian peninsula305. In my view the absence of Italian key studies in the archaeological overview in the economic history of Byzantium seems to me particularly harmful. It is true that this unpremeditated gap is partially due to the second factor, which I would like to point out here, that is, the delayed development of Byzantine archaeology in Italy306. Despite this it must be observed that important Byzantine sites have been surveyed and the results of these excavations have been published during the last decades (notably Squillace, Cosa, Luni, and the coastal settlements of Liguria among others307). Unfortunately, there are still imbalances in the urban archaeology of Byzantine Italy. In some sites archaeological excavations have yielded high–quality early medieval evidence (together with those already mentioned, one might include Venice, Comacchio, Grado, Ravenna, Rimini, Naples, Otranto and Cagliari308), while in others (mainly Sicily and Sardinia309) research is still coming of age. Moreover, it seems to me that we are dealing with perceptions more than with facts. That is the perception that Italy represented a peripheral area310 especially after the Lombard invasion (569 A.D.). I would like to invert this point of view by stressing both that some areas of the peninsula were highly important for Byzantium (especially Sicily)311. Byzantine influence (political, social, economic and cultural) anyway remained of great magnitude in the peninsula even after 569 A.D., and many areas moulded their social and political self–identity on their economic and institutional ties with Constantinople (Naples312, Calabria, and Abruzzo313 among others). This last consideration is particularly relevant for the so–called Venetiae in the north– eastern part of Italy. Here archaeological research has taken advantage of the presence of relevant foci of settlement which date back to Roman times (Verona, Padova, Trento, Oderzo/Opitergium, Altinum, Aquileia, Trieste), but here again there are very few traces of an interest for the late antique and early Byzantine period. Partial exceptions to this framework include the works of a number of scholars.

“the refinement of techniques in identifying and classifying Umayyad and Άbbasid ceramics is among the most exciting prospects in Islamic archaeology. This is not only true for ceramic analysis based on excavations presently undertaken, but (retrospectively) for reviewing analyses in published reports from bygone years as well302.” It seems clear that the possibility of considering this refinement as useful complement to a better comprehension of the social, political and economic assets of the Byzantine settlement pattern in the crucial phases of Islamic invasion of Syria and Palestine (that is in the first half of seventh century) is also implied303. In the next few pages, I will go through the different regions I have outlined above one by one, introducing the reader to the historiographical problems and perspectives related to each of them. 1.3.1. “Byzantine Italies” 304 Italy has often been considered a “daughter of a lesser God” by Byzantine historians. This might seem odd for a region which was the focus of the Justinian’s renovatio imperii in 535–554 A.D., that hosted the seat of the only western bulwark of the Byzantine political dominance (the Exarchate of Ravenna), was centred on the ideologically prominent city of Rome and which, for five centuries, was part of Constantinopolitan sphere of influence (although was limited only to the southern part of the peninsula after the fall of Ravenna to the Lombards in 751 A.D.). However, it is basically true that the role of Italy in the whole economy of the empire during the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages has been hardly considered. Two elements are relevant here. First of all, two of the most For instance: ‘Those scholars who wish to use survey results for determining settlement patterns must make the assumption that pottery from all the periods when a given site was occupied was found on the surface. While the limited number of subsequent excavations has generally confirmed the broad result of the surveys, there are some notable exceptions. [..] Surveys limited to parts of a site can also be misleading’.( Schick 1994, 36). 301 ‘ The proper identification of a clearly identifiable material cultural horizon especially in ceramics, glass and coins helped to fully appreciate “the smooth transition” from Byzantine to Islamic times in Syria and Palestine (early seventh century), which was accompanied by a minimal disruption to socio-economic life in both towns and countryside’ (Walmsey 2007, 48-9). 302 MacAdam 1994, 90. 303 Walmsey 2007, 48ff. 304 I am borrowing and translating Zanini’s term, referring to the different sub–regional trajectories of the Byzantine domination on different parts of the Italian peninsula. So, it is possible to speak not of a Byzantine Italy but of several Byzantines Italies, developing along peculiar economic, political, social and even , religious (I am thinking here to the sixth– century Tricapitolian Schism which spread across the north–eastern part of the peninsula) lines, with different degrees of separation (or unification) with the Constantinopolitan power and the central government structures. This idea counters the traditional concept of Byzantine Italy as a ‘unity within a larger whole (the Byzantine empire)’ (Guillou 1970(c), 219).

Mango 2002 and The Economic History of Byzantium 2002. More recently also Haldon’s authoritative Palgrave Atlas of Byzantium completely left Italy out of his focus (just few words are spent for the Italian peninsula until the tenth century). 306 As Zanini (Zanini 1994 and Zanini 1998) has clearly stressed. An exception is also represented by Wickham 2005 and by the impressive work of Christie (Christie 2006). Also some recent miscellaneous works like Augenti 2006 and , in which contributions are divided according to regional and sub-regional areas, help to shed new light on this topic. 307 Zanini 1998. 308 See Christie 2006 and Wickham 2005, 645 with further bibliography. On Venice see infra 1.3.1; on Grado see Brogiolo-Cagnana 2005 with further bibliography; on Ravenna see Carile 1991 and the recent volume edited by A.Augenti (Augenti 2006); on Rimini see Negrelli 2006; on Grado see Brogiolo-Cagnana 2005; on Comacchio, see Gelichi 2004(a) and Gelichi et al. 2006; on Naples, see mainly Arthur 2002; on Otranto see mainly Michaelides-Wilkinson 1992 and Arthur 2004, 30. 309 As for Sardinia mainly Christie 2006, 380–3 and Durliat 1982; for Sicily see Carra Bonacasa 2002. 310 Guillou 1970(a), 1. 311 Carra Bonacasa 2002, passim. On Calabria see Noyé 2000 with further bibliography. 312 I will include an analysis of the urban development of Naples in the conclusions (Chapter 6). 313 Staffa 2006(a) and Staffa 2006(b) with further bibliography.

300

305

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION Notably G.P. Brogiolo314, who is concerned with casting an archaeological light especially on the defensive settlement patterns of the north–eastern part of Italy (surveying the whole Po plain315). C. Wickham, by analyzing the overall structure of Byzantine Italian cities (Naples, Rome, Ravenna), has argued that even if the aristocracy still lived in a urban contexts, cities were materially poor and culturally conservative.316 Sauro Gelichi’s contribution has been to enhance the archaeological landscape of Ravenna317and recently has shed light on the importance of Comacchio (a centre located in the lagoon just north of Ravenna), which underwent a good level of economic activity (as displayed by recent archaeological excavations) in the seventh and eighth centuries318. E. Zanini has written an outstanding anthology on the state of archaeology in the Byzantine “Italies”319 while Bernard Bavant320 pays attention to the habitat urbaine in the central part of Italy. Ghislaine Noyè321 has been able to focus attention particularly on Calabria. Neil Christie’s recent impressive study of the archaeology in Italy from the fourth to the ninth century322 has offered an exhaustive and well–documented study of Byzantine and Lombard areas. Lastly, we can note Thomas Brown323, whose contribution on the Byzantine model of settlement in Italy has been often taken as a point of departure for further discussion324. It may prove useful to discuss the point of view of these last two scholars in particular, because of their use of archaeological evidence to demonstrate the complex network of different settlement patterns in Italy during the first Byzantine period in Italy, the sixth to eight century. In doing so they adopted a new methodological approach that brought to the fore a complex pattern of urban life that continued in Italy concluding that ‘full allowance must always be made for regional variation, local political developments and non–military economic and social pressure’325. So, the consideration of the peculiarities of individual areas under Byzantine political influence (Venetiae, Exarchate and Pentapolis, Liguria and Duchy of Rome and Perugia) is of great importance for Brown and Christie. Accordingly, they advance the existence of more than only one Byzantine Italy (the “Byzantine Italies”), a concept that Zanini326 expands and redefines with a stunning use of archaeological and documentary sources. Considering this, they rightly stress the importance of the general insecurity of the period, which moulded a new system of settlement pattern that, for the most part, was a pragmatic

response to local conditions and needs327. At the same time, they are also misleading. This is because, I suggest, assuming that the changing patterns of settlement were only embedded in castra would be a mistake. Christie, indeed, has recently and partially revised his point of view, contending that defence is only one of the factors within Italian urban evolutions and that due weight must be given to the role of the local elites, the ecclesiastic apparatus and the state machinery. However, Brown and Christie seem to try to enhance regional peculiarities (‘a series of military districts based on key towns and a lesser defensive castra with federate forces and commanders employed within [the Byzantine] zones’328) while they also search for a common denominator for all these areas, which should lie ‘in the political as well as military importance of the castra, erected or restored as an act of deliberate military policy’329. In this way the complexity of the functional role of the cities in Byzantine Italy comes to light. To put it bluntly, one could argue that there are not only castra in the peninsula. In fact one must recognize the dynamics of the administrative and territorial reorganization of Byzantine Italy330. These dynamics were essentially due to defensive needs, but developed in different ways. One of these was the militarization of society, which does not mean de facto “castralization”331. Crotone332 can stand as an example: here a siege took place during the war between Byzantium and the Goths, and the local inhabitants (Krotoniatai) guarded the city–walls acting as a sort of civic militia up to the arrival of the Stratiotai (central field army)333. Therefore, a new public model of civic defence was created as a part of the administrative and territorial reorganization. But not only military fortifications (either restored or new founded) and the walled outposts (especially those dotted along the main thoroughfares and the border zones and around important centres like Bologna and Naples334) make up this model335. Cities too played an essential role in the system both as political– administrative centres and as a strategic element in the territorial defensive organization. From this picture it is clear that it is almost impossible ‘that in all the Byzantine territories of northern and central Italy […], both the State administration and the social structure were relatively uniform’336. It is, indeed, impossible to picture a peculiar model of urbanism for those cities, which came under the sway of Byzantine administration337. Pragmatic responses to local needs do not fit with a uniform

Brogiolo 1989, Brogiolo–Gelichi 1993, Brogiolo 1999(a), Brogiolo 1999(b) and Brogiolo 2002. 315 Particularly relevant are Brogiolo–Gelichi 1993, with an extensive analysis of the Byzantine life–phases of fortified settlements like Monselice near Padua, but also like the Comacina Island near Como. See also Brogiolo–Cagnana, 2005. 316 Wickham 2005, 644–56. 317 Gelichi 1994 and Gelichi 1991 with further bibliography. 318 Gelichi et al, 2006. 319 Zanini 1998. 320 Bavant 1989. 321 Noyè 2000; Noyè 2006 and Raimondo 2006. 322 Christie 2006. 323 Brown–Christie 1989; but also Christie 2001 and the good synthesis in Christie 1989 (b). 324 Particularly by Zanini 1998. 325 Id., 399. 326 Zanini 1998. 314

Ibid., 381: ‘However in Byzantine Italy we have a change in the settlement pattern at an early stage( sixth century) through public initiative in response to security and military considerations. In some cases castra where set up as military outpost, in many cases, however they became refuges of population’. 328 Christie 2006, 369. 329 Id. 330 Arthur 2006. 331 Guillou 1970(b), 209. 332 Raimondo 2006, 526-8. 333 Zanini 1998, adapting Procopius’s narration of the siege in his Bell. Goth., VIII, xxv, 24. 334 Zanini 1998, 132; Guillou 1970(b), 206ff. I will return to Naples in the conclusions. 335 As Brown and Christie pointed out. 336 Brown– Christie 1989, 379. 337 Arthur 2006, 32. 327

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

5. The "Adriatic Crescent" in mid-seventh century (the so-called Venetiae)

social and administrative system. This appears particularly relevant in the Venetiae. In fact, here the redefinition of the institutional network of power by Exarch in Ravenna (that is, a figure who assumed both civil and political powers), called for more spaces of autonomy. These spaces were highly favoured by geo–morphological peculiarities. If it is true that the Venetiae (the use of the plural Latin form is not fortuitous) have been “suspended between the land and the sea” since their origins, it is also relevant that since the seventh century onwards their unit had been split up. Thenceforward, two opposite sides faced each other: the Byzantine–influenced coastal–lagoon area and the Lombard– influenced inland: each of them with its own political, administrative and religious institutions and developing a peculiar social system, which, on the Byzantine side, could be considered only in its uniqueness. Otherwise, it could not be possible to understand why, in this period, a new political, military and administrative elite – magistri militum and tribuni338– was in charge of the area. They initially depended

on Ravenna (as also proved by the famous epigraphic inscription of Torcello339, mentioning the magister militum for the Venetiae – a military official belonging to the military hierarchy of the Exarchate), but little by little they started to gain an autonomous status. Eventually, in this region, a new city was founded, Civitas Nova Heracliana, in the first half of the seventh century. It represents an extraordinary act of civic–imperial (and so public) patronage, pointing to direct Constantinopolitan interest in this region and thus can hardly be presented as a response to purely defensive needs340. Thus it is clear that even in the seventh century the Pertusi 1990. The inscription is dated to 639–40 A.D. Heracliana (Salvatori 1989; Salvatori 1990; Tozzi-Harari 1984, Concina 2003 and Calaon 2006) is not included in the present book although it will be the focus of a forthcoming article of mine. As a matter of fact, indeed, the relative dearth of primary sources and the lack of new published material coming from two recent excavations (paired with the lack of publications concerning the ceramic, sigillographic and numismatic materials yielded by the excavations conducted in the early 90s) render any possible summary very problematic. However, it must be admitted that Heracliana retains a lot of potential, especially if one pairs it with the results yielded by the recent archaeological campaigns in Comacchio (Gelichi et al. 2006). In fact, it is possible to picture the importance of the site as a newly–founded urban settlement, well integrated into the wider Byzantine political, institutional and shipping 339 340

338 Tribuni referred to an elite of officers in charge of administrative functions, which soon would become an ‘aristocracy de facto, based on land possessions and owning the keys of the access to the public offices’ (Azzara 1994, 96)

24

THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION considered by some scholars as one of much importance to explain ‘la grande brèche qui appauvrit la vie dans le pays grécques dans une telle mesure que ses vestiges sont àppeine perceptible’345. Today this way of interpreting is, erroneously, considered the best approach to the urban transformation in this region. But the contribution of archaeological campaigns has brought some light to an area, which was considered as essentially submerged by the barbarian invasions during this period (from the sixth to ninth century). There is no space here to deal with all the important contributions, which are the result of archaeological and survey campaigns focussed on cities like Iustiniana Prima346, Nicopolis ad Istrum347, Amphipolis348, Thessaloniki, Butrint349, Turnovo350, Argos351, Athens352, Corinth353, Thebes354 and Gortyn355. Of course expectations and results are different, especially because sometimes the Byzantine strata lie under modern settlement, hampering de facto our knowledge of the site (Thebes). In other cases open area excavations take place without any (physical) obstacle (Gortyn or Iustiniana Prima). But the picture now emerging seems to overturn the old theories of a glaring watershed of urban life in the fifth century. In the case of Athens, for instance, Paavo Castrèn has pointed out that Athens bears ‘witness of industrial activity, economic prosperity and flourishing export trade in the fourth and fifth century and well into the sixth centuries’. In fact, great lamp factories here produced hundred of thousand of items356, ‘large workshops were also turning out pottery, roof–tiles and terracotta figurines during this period and the marble quarries on Pentelikon and Hymettos continued to be exploited’357. Frantz358, also clearly stresses that seventh and eighth century houses were founded in the urban centre; although poorly built, they attest to the fact that city life continued perhaps well into the seventh century even in a format that was de–monumentalized and less grandiose in its public dimensions.

emperor could undertake an effort of administrative, political and also economic redefinition for an endangered area. This could be included in the Imperial effort aimed to reaffirm the Constantinopolitan grip over those regions of Italy, which remained under its sway. As Cosentino points out, the fiscal aspects of this politics retained a real importance although since in the mid seventh century the Byzantine grip over the fiscal administration was fading away, less money was poured into public urban infrastructure and the technical competence to survey and organize properties passed to the ecclesiastical hierarchy341. According to this interpretation, Heracliana might stem as a deliberate reassertion of the role of the central and administrative power on a strategically crucial area. An area moreover where, of course, the ancient infrastructural network and settlement pattern had been degraded and was actively threatened by the Lombard presence; an area too where the new needs of implementing and renewing control from the empire were more and more pressing. Indeed, the solution was a new urban foundation, which could highlight the vitality of the concept of urbanism342, and was not constrained in a sort of castrum but, on the contrary, expressed a real urban entity with functions and structure other than military (administrative, religious and also economic343), showing, again, that Byzantine Italy was far from being a marginal part of the empire. 1.3.2. Balkans and Greece. The Balkans and Greece have benefited from a great deal of attention from scholars. This is in part owing to the fact that these areas developed as one of the central cores (together with Anatolia) of the empire and to the attention drawn in the archaeological research by cities like Thessaloniki344, Athens, Corinth and Gortyn whose historical, cultural, economic, political and religious importance is not worth reiterating here.

Another city that can stand in comparison with Athens is Gortyn, although one must approach this urban entity with caution due to the geographical situation of Gortyn as the capital city of Crete, located at the centre of a fertile and wider plan in the southern part of an island. Talking about Crete and Gortyn in particular during the “transition” from late Antiquity to the early middle ages is very difficult. This difficulty stems from the “opacity” of the city (and of the

Further, the Limes Danubianii and its proximity to Constantinople played a relevant role in attracting “archaeological” attention to this area, even if often led astray by old-fashioned models of interpretation. The role of the fourth and fifth century invasions has been network, whereas its structural features, functional organization and material culture act as a model, although as yet at an embryonic stage, for the defining on a structural and organizational characteristics of a new set of river or lagoon urban and quasi–urban settlements (Torcello, Comacchio, Rivus Altus and Grado) which, thus, by extension, show the real interest of Byzantium in preserving the coastal–lagoonal strip under Constantinopolitan rule. 341 Cosentino 2006, 53. 342 This concept, I suggest, is also relevant for all the lagoon–coastal area where scattered castra were founded in S.Lorenzo in Ammiana (the Byzantine castellum of Castratium), an island north of Torcellum, in Olivolo (near Rialto), Caorle and Grado. But alongside with these military centres, foci of peculiar urban functions were coming to the fore: Torcello (emporion mega), Equilum (evidences of ceramic and glass trade and production), Grado (which was also a Metropolitan seat) and , in the eighth century, also Metamaucus and Rialto. (Dorigo 1994). 343 In fact, Heracliana was at the centre of the intersection of a plenty of commercial ways, terrestrial, maritime and fluvial/ “endo lagunaris” ones. It was also the seat of the magister militum after the fall of Opitergium in Lombard hands in 667 AD. 344 Saradi 2006, passim. Also Kourkotidou-Nikolaidou-Torta 1997.

Zakynthinos 1966, 132. Spieser 2001(b), with a brief bibliography 347 Poulter 1992. 348 Dunn 1997; Dunn 1999 349 Hodges et al. 1994. 350 Dochev 2002. 351 Abadie–Reynal 1989. 352 Frantz 1988 and Castrèn 1994 are among the most relevant recent works. Also Kazanaki–Lappa 2003. 353 The last overview on Archaeology in Corinth is in the EHB (Sanders 2003). 354 Louvi–Kizi 2002 355 De Vita 2000 with a fully comprehensive bibliography. 356 Athenian lamps were founded in Spain, on Black Sea sites, in Asia Minor and North Africa (Castren 1999, 212). 357 Castrèn 1999, 212–3. 358 Frantz 1988. 345 346

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) island) in the literary and documentary sources359. However, during the last few decades more information has come from the archaeological campaigns made by the Italian School of Archaeology in different areas of the urban territory. These campaigns, with particular reference that in the so–called “Byzantine quarter”, have established that during the first half of the sixth century an extensive monumental program, involving both the civic and the religious spheres, was promoted with the financial contribution and patronage of the Emperor Justinian360. This project had as one of its most important outcomes the rebuilding, restoration or renewal of the “mosaic of cities” that composed the empire. The newly-built environment of Gortyn was a glaring attempt to map out a city that aspired to the classic values of the civic urban amenities without losing sight both of the new functional and quotidian needs arising from the complicated and super–structural processes of transformation during this period, and the triumph of the new Christian culture and ethic. Then, after a troubled and obscure period361, a new urban phase began, perhaps owing to an earthquake that hit the city in 621 A.D., during Heraclius’ reign, as we shall see in Chapter 3.

which highlights the real complexity of the settlement patterns in the Balkans367 and emphasizes the necessity of avoiding an approach simply based on the opposition between the city and the countryside. Although avoiding a real definition of the city, which remains undiscussed beyond the “upper levels of settlements” concept, Dunn uses his classification to good effect to put the “transition from polis to kastron” on a new footing. Managing the archaeological (and topographical) evidence he tries to pinpoint the leading role of the Balkans in creating a new “settlement model”. The underlying idea is that the responses of the early Byzantine administration and army in the Balkans to the disruption of the economic base, and of the security of church and state, provided some practical models for the administrative and military responses to the crisis of urban and rural life precipitated in Anatolia by the Persian and Arab invasion368. This model, however, must be handled with caution, especially as Christie has already noted in Italy, it could focus attention only on the hilltop fortified kastra and to an analysis of the defensive structure369, losing sight of the “fate” of the other dimensions which contributed to defining an urban settlement.

Accordingly, it seems to me relevant to stress how, in the case of Athens, but now also in Corinth362 and Gortyn the archaeological contribution has been paving the way to a more complex and conscious approach to the fate of urban contexts in the passage between late Antiquity and the early middle ages. Again, the importance of the regional inferences and the local differences must be stressed. This is even especially true when we deal with the situation in the Balkans. In this area, the works of Archibald Dunn363 are very useful. In particular his methodological approach to the problems of archaeological research in the Balkans is relevant: ‘there are geographical, chronological, thematic, and general methodological imbalances’364. Dunn365 also introduces a simple categorization of the upper levels of settlement (“civic–urban”, “non–civic urban” and “non– civic, non–urban fortifications and fortified settlements”366),

1.3.3. Anatolia. The Anatolian region, notwithstanding its political and economical importance in the Byzantine empire, shows an absence of well excavated sites: that is sites that have been excavated with good stratigraphical awareness370 of the late antique–early medieval contexts, a scientific approach to the material culture (pottery, coins, metal works, inscriptions, seals and so on), and, not least, with a comprehensive (and published) analysis of the results. Foss’s important works must be recognized as the starting point for anarchaeologicalinterestinthisareawithanon–classicperspective. His work on Ephesos, Ankara, Sardis371, Nicea372 and the “Twenty cities” of Byzantine Asia, represent the obvious point of departure for any discussion on these sites, although further archaeological research has improved and focussed on new urban sites like

Zanini–Giorgi 2002, 2. Building of a new aqueduct, repaving of the network of city–streets near the Pretorium(proving a real functional and structural continuity of the articulated net of thoroughfares centred on the same Praetorium) and foundation of the church of Hagios Titos and of the Cathedral of Mitropolis.( Baldini–Lippolis 1998. 359 360

Zanini–Giorgi 2002 ,3; Di Vita 1991 e Di Vita 2000). 361 Crete was the object of a rising warfare as clearly testified by the literary sources ( in 623 A.D. the Slavs sacked the island and then the Arabs started a two century long set of incursions), 362 Scranton 1957; Sanders 2002 363 Dunn 1994 and Dunn 1998. Also Dunn 1999 and Dunn 1997. Here I am also taking advantage of the advice Dunn gave me during his course on Late–Antique and Byzantine Archaeology at the University of Birmingham. 364 Dunn 1994, 61: material specific to the Balkans is not well represented in the discussion, which has always been unbalanced, often unwittingly, in favour of a ‘civic urban category’ (except in the context of the limes); the increasing importance of the too often neglected archaeological and topographical evidence. 365 Dunn 1994, 60–3. 366 Ibid., 67: ‘it could be argued that , while ‘civic’ and ‘urban’ features disappeared during the ‘Dark Ages’, the former permanently, the latter temporarily, the Late antique ‘non–civic non urban’ survived as a level or category differentiated from the undefended rural community, whether

at a new sites or at the sites of former urban settlements, to become […] the upper level of the settlement systems of the seventh to ninth centuries (the level or category which included the places typically called kastra at this time)’. 367 Dealing with other context also Dagron (la “bourgade rural”) and Haldon 1980 and Haldon 1985 (emporia) have paid attention to types of settlement with accentuated peculiarity. A concept well summarized in Morrison–Sodini 2002, 179: ‘In the urban hierarchy there thus appear an intermediary level between city and village: large towns (komai, metrokomiai, komopoleis) [...]. The emporia, which were not necessarily located on the sea’. However, Dunn here points to a much more composed “intermediary level’. 368 Dunn 1998, 798. 369 See the comparison between the design of fortification of Salona and that of Ankara in Dunn 1998. 370 Niewöner 2007. 371 For a full bibliography see pp. 30ff. 372 Foss–Tulchin 1996.

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

6. Miletos (Turkey), “TheaterKastell” (mid-seventh century, Author’s photo).

Amorion373, Anemourion374, Amastris375, Side376, Pergamon377, Sagalassos378, Hierapolis379,Aphrodisias380 and Miletos381.

referring especially to Brandes’s work385 on the cities of Asia Minor and to Ruggeri’s less ambitious book386 on the religious architecture of the Byzantine empire. The former is an essential point of reference for the state of the art of archaeological research in the region and also an exhaustive approach to the different histories and trajectories of the urban phenomenon in the different areas of Asia Minor. The latter is useful as a survey of the architectural religious structure, which enables us to analyze some aspects of the sites, which have not yet been archaeologically explored.

However, a list of sites like this can be highly deceptive. As Wickham has correctly stressed there is hardly a single excavation whose chronology for the period post–600 A.D. is absolutely secure382: ‘we have good archaeology from a dozen of cities […] as in Syria and Palestine (and partially Greece383), however, the cities with most probable continuity into the eighth century, Nicaea, Smyrna, Attaleia, Trabzon and perhaps Nicomedia, are still occupied and have little excavation’384. Considering this, some contributions that have appeared in recent years have tried to set apart the imbalances of the archaeological research, configuring a full framework, which includes the Anatolian plateau. I am

Therefore, some peculiarities could be considered. In fact, ‘there are some cities which survived as economic centres because of their particular position’387 Nicaea is the most obvious candidate; although its fate is unknown in the period between the end of the sixth and first decades of the seventh century, its vitality, thanks to its strategic importance, should not have been diminished388. Other cities developed peculiar administrative or military functional roles. Amastris, for instance, thanks to its location on the southern coast of the Black Sea, probably became an administrative centre and naval base389, and Amorium which during the course of the fifth and sixth

See Conclusion with further bibliography. Russel 1986, Russel 2003. 375 See Chapter 5 with further bibliography. 376 Foss 2003. 377 Rheidt 2003 with full bibliography 378 Waelkens 1993;Waelkens–Poblome 1993-1997; Waelkens and Loots 2000; Waelkens 2006 and Waelkens et al. 2006. 379 D’Andria 2003; Arthur 2006a; Arthur 2006b; Ritti 2006 and Arthur and Bruno 2007. 380 Rouche’ 1989. 381 Muller–Wiener 1967; Muller–Wiener 1977 382 Wickham 2005, 626ff. 383 Thessaloniki remains, indeed, almost unexplored. 384 Wickham 2006, 626. On Nicaea see Foss-Tulchin 1996. 373 374

385 386 387 388 389

27

Brandes 1989. Ruggeri 1995. Haldon 1990, 110. Concina 2003, 141. See Chapter 5.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) century developed from a small and fairly insignificant Roman city, until in the middle seventh century it had developed into a major, impressively walled, military base and capital of the Anatolic theme390. Still other urban foci, such as Ephesos391, carried on with few changes until the Persian invasion and after: the city remained substantial, within its double–walled settlements, one extramural which had been built to protect the church of St. John and the other including a square kilometer of land. Civic activity remained undimmed even after damage caused by an earthquake of (probably) 614 A.D. remained unrepaired, and inside the wall, the cathedral was rebuilt in the eighth century on a smaller scale392. Other cities, eventually, like Hierapolis in the province of Phrygia Pacatiana393, although not showing any political, administrative or military first-hand role, retained, however, a degree of economic and social vitality (mirrored -in Hierapolis- by the residential foci of settlement scattered around the urban landscape by a relatively well-preserved road network394) and a significance as ecclesiastical and pilgrimage centre and, eventually, a persistence in terms of artisanal and commercial activity benefiting from the local and regional (Aegean) trade routes395.

which sometimes are the focus of Dunn’s works, figuring out the importance of prolonged warfare, of the local (sub–regional) city–countryside economic relationships, and, lastly also of the new role played by Constantinople which had an impact on the changing pattern of the elite’s socio–cultural investment. 399 The urban aristocracy was now much more attracted to the capital as a place where its wealth, its social status and its political influence could develop400. This process is paralleled by the increasing influence of the state in bypassing the civic administrative and fiscal function for a better fulfilling of its needs. The result was an adaptation of the city to the new situation, also in terms of building appearance. In this view Crawford’s book on the Byzantine Shops at Sardis is of considerable importance. The history of Sardis is marked by a profound break. As Foss states: before 616, it was the capital of the highly developed province of Lydia, which contained more than twenty cities and extensive agricultural and mineral resources. A metropolis adorned with imposing, public buildings, providing extensive services for its large population and a centre of varied economic activities (production and trade). [...] The entire nature of Sardis changed after 616 [...]: the ancient metropolis had become a field for ruins, while the city focussed on a castle of the ancient acropolis401.

It is only in the frontier zone to the east (Colonae396 and Anemurion) where urban settlements were abandoned more and less completely. Accordingly one must bear in mind these variations in outlining a possible settlement pattern:

During the former period of its existence, a row of “shops”402, dating back to the reconstruction of the city after the earthquake of 17 A.D.403, was built in Sardis along a marble–paved road, Main Avenue, which runs past the southern wall of the Bath–Gymnasium complex and the entire length of the Synagogue404. In Crawford’s opinion, the Byzantine phase of these “shops” steered a middle path between the monumental colonnade of the Roman age, and ‘the simple agglutinative, ‘squatter’ architecture of the medieval period (financed or merely executed by individuals)’405. Crawford interprets the increasing encroachment of public spaces and property406, mirrored by the Byzantine facies of the shops, as a general decline of the administrative urban authority during the fifth and sixth centuries407. I would, rather, suggest interpreting this phase as a marker of the adaptability of the city, in a period when the elites turned their back on the old fashioned way of expressing their wealth and status (the landscape of colonnades, marble–paved streets and amenities). They embraced a new way of giving expression to their

the archaeological record suggests [...] for many of the cities of Anatolia in the seventh century [...] a general shrinkage of the area covered by the original settlement– a shrinkage which it must be emphasized, begins already in the later fifth– and sixth– centuries, a result of structural developments [...]– and entailing the abandonment of much of the city and most or all of its suburban districts; together with fortification [...] of a much smaller area, more often than not on a hill or promontory or some other such easily defended position397. This is the case at Ankara, among other sites398. However, it is essential to seek the real causes lying at the basis of this model, namely the changing of the interacting realities which compose a city, structural, socio–cultural, political and economic. In this way it should be possible to look beyond the inferences of the defensive needs of the inhabitants and the structural fortifications of the site, On Amorium see mainly Lightfoot 1998, Lighfoot 2003, Ivison 2006, Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007 and my conclusive chapter with further bibliography. 391 I will return to Ephesos in Chapter 4. 392 Foss 1977. 393 Arthur 2006(b) 13. 394 Ibid., 128; 151. 395 ‘The nucleated centre of Hierapolis continued to survive on the same site and building continued throughout the ancient urban area with no substantial break until the end of the eleventh century’ (Arthur 2006(b), 43-4) 396 Haldon 1990 397 Ibid., 108. 398 See Chapter 4.

Also, Wickham 2005, 633. The new central administrative bureaucracy and the court were the focus of this “fatal attraction” 401 Foss–Scott 2002, 615. 402 For a different interpretation of these buildings, regarded as not built as shops and retail, but first as a place of coordinated non-domestic workshop activity and then as a possible residence for “wealthy poors” see Harris 2004. 403 Crawford 1990, 1. 404 Id. 405 Ibid, 6. 406 But also their reduced scale, poor building techniques and irregularities in the construction plan are of much consequences (Crawford 2002, 6). 407 Crawford 1990, 6.

390

399 400

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THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION priorities: using static cultural and political models could be fatal408. This was because in the city social context played a central role: a city is a place made for human life, and human demands faced a continuous change, simply to survive. So the prospect of a decline “per se” is here as deceptive as is the idea of hostile activity considered as the only factor in the process of urban evolution.

above, the presence of many abandoned settlements has played an important role in focus the archaeological attention on this region412. Here the extended excavated sites are scattered along different areas, enhancing different patterns of settlement (partially owing to the geo–morphological peculiarities or to the climate413): a Palestinian city like Caesarea414 – located along the coastline – can be differentiated from the inland urban foci of Gerasa, Pella415 or Scythopolis416. By the same token Apamea and Antioch in the North could be paired with Bosra or Philadelphia (Amman)417 in the south only with caution. There are also urban entities, which must be considered unique: the pilgrimage–centre of Sergiopolis (Resafa)418, and Jerusalem, for example, whose ideological and religious importance has been clearly stressed by Walmsey419. One must also recognise the Euphratian region in the north east where Byzantium and the Persian empire confronted each other up to the second decade of the seventh century and which shows a settlement system much more concerned with defensive needs (Palymra) but also the presence of a commercially important centre at Edessa420. Lastly, the desert fringe is of much consequence. It bears the traces of desert palaces, outposts anchored at strategic locations along the main military and trade routes of the area (Via Nova Traiana and Strata Diocletiana) and sites of indeterminate character421. All this considered, it is possible to make an overview of many archaeological excavations and field surveys, ‘casting the net as wide as possible for evidence of regional settlement’422.

“The urban settlements of Asia Minor were already suffering from the long–term effects of the general shift in the economic relations within the later Roman empire between the wealthiest magnates and their cities, and because of the change in the functions of the cities with regard to the state, they experienced a radical upheaval […] as a combination of factors [...]. This change affected their physical appearance, their extent, as well as their economic and social function”409. To sum up, Anatolia, although obviously central to the Byzantine empire in political, economic and strategic terms, appears to have been almost neglected (from the archaeological point of view) as a region on its own. A focus on Constantinople has blurred the distinct trajectories of urbanism of many of the areas of the peninsula. However, it is possible to use Constantinople as a starting point to look at the Anatolian plateau and the coastal zones. Indeed, although the Anatolian Plateau has been considered fairly marginal, because isolated from the sea by mountains, it was regarded by the Byzantines as the military bulwark against the Arab incursions; crisscrossed by a network of major highways, mainly exploited for military and fiscal needs, it became the support for a powerful landed aristocracy410. Tracing the peculiarities of urbanism along the plateau would help to readjust the focus of my research on the Byzantine city since it would allow one both to investigate the relationships linking cities with the local elites, and to interrelate urban trajectories in the plateau with cities in the coastal lowlands, such as Ephesos, Sardis, Miletos, Pergamon and Myra411. Although, as seen above, these relationships have often been expressed through the dichotomy polis–kastron, implying that sites on the plateau retained a political and military significance, in contrast with the continuing urban dimension of the coastal sites, there is space to analyse social, economic and building activity throughout Anatolia, through a more refined analysis of the reports of old surveys and the results of more recent archaeological excavations to propose a local urban model. That will, however, have to be for another project; only two Anatolian case studies, Amastris and Ephesos, will be considered here.

Starting from the North, the triangle Aleppo–Antioch– Apamea seems to be a good point of departure. C. Foss423 has recently published some articles which for the most part are concerned with this area and with two central questions: ‘what did the Arabs find when they conquered Syria and how they transform it during the first century of their rule?’ He focuses in particular on the so called villages of the limestone massif424 and Antioch, Apamea and Epiphania, stressing that Syria faced four historical stages. First the Justinianic period, when both the cities and See mainly Walmsey 2007 with further bibliography. Kennedy 2007 414 Lindley Vann 1983; also Patrich 2001. 415 Useful guide to the main phase of development of these urban realities (from an archaeological point of view) are Canivet–Coquais (ed.) 1992, Zeyadeh 1994 ,MacAdam 1994,Walmsley 1996, Walmsey 2000 and with further bibliography. 416 Tsafrir–Foerster 1994, Tsafrir–Foerster 1997, 417 Northedge 1992. 418 Walmsey 2007, 81-3. 419 Walmsey 1996. 420 Wickham 2005, 613–25. 421 Mac Adam 1994, 54: ‘An example is the village of Umm Sanana south–east of Bosra, visited by the Princeton Expedition: “it is difficult to form an opinion as to extent or character of this place in ancient times’. 422 Ibid., 51. 423 Foss 1996, Foss 1997, Foss 2002. Also relevant Zanini 1994, Kennedy 1985, Kennedy 1992, 424 ‘The barren limestone hills between Antioch and Aleppo and stretching far south as the great classic site of Apamea, present one of the most spectacular landscapes of the ancient world. Here, along the slopes and valleys of a rolling plateau [...] are the well–preserved remains of some 700 villages that flourished under the Christian Roman empire of the fourth century and later’.(Foss 1996, 48) For a bibliography Tate 1989. 412 413

1.3.4. Syria–Palestine In Syria and Palestine, which were conquered by the Arabs between 636 and 642 A.D. and after this date remaining out of Byzantine control, the number of archaeological surveys or excavations is quite impressive. As has been outlined 408 409 410 411

Aly Zayadeh 1994, 120. Haldon 1990, 112. Wickham 2005, 29–32; 780–794. Also Hendy 1985, 17ff. Foss 1993. 16ff.

29

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the coast433). These cities developed a more detailed and complicated socio–economic role as seaports434. Among these cities Caesarea is of particular importance because excavations here have been going on for nearly thirty years435 and the stratigraphy and pottery shows a clear continuity of occupation from the Byzantine to the Fatimid periods with the monumental centre maintaining its key role for the city–life also after the Arab conquest436: ‘a sure indication that the harbor continued to play a significant role in the life of Caesarea’437.

the countryside flourished425, then, a continuing prosperity up to the end of sixth century (although with regional differences426) next the Persian invasion at the beginning of the seventh century, which ‘may have been of great importance by provoking the departure of a class of people who had maintained the urban fabric for many centuries, thus interrupting the continuity of an urban life already badly shaken in the North by the disasters of the previous century’427 and last the brief Byzantine parenthesis, after the Persian defeat by Heraclius, preceding the Arab invasion. At that time Syria, where the Christian population was in the majority till the ninth century at least, became the seat of a governor. By that time much of the region, ‘especially the countryside was still intact and apparently enjoyed the same social and economic conditions as it had through late Antiquity’428. Thenceforward differences can be detected: the southern districts seemed to continue with the same life–style, as is reflected in the mosaic in the Churches of Khirbet al–Samra in 637 and 639 A.D. and by new building activity in Epiphania429, while Antioch completely lost its classic urban appearance and Apamea underwent a process of involution430 which seem to have been especially active in the mid–seventh century. Accordingly, it seems clear that cities in Syria maintained a prosperity and vitality up to the middle of the seventh century. The cities in the northeast part of the region (Apamea and Antioch) then suffered an economic weakening of the important agricultural region of the Limestone massif (whose economy was based on olive oil production, stock raising and cereal crops), the consequences of invasions and natural disasters, the social upheaval determined by the escape of the aristocratic ruling class (as proved by the encroachment of the prosperous elite mansion filling much of the centre of Apamea431) and the refocusing of the Arabic political centre on the southern part of Syria. Here, cities like Epiphania, Emesa, and Damascus, the capital of the Umayyad caliphate, seem to be thriving economically and politically432.

In the Trans–Jordan area a much more differentiated situation has been stressed by MacAdam, who distinguishes and analyses three separated sub–regional areas438:(1) the North East with a complex settlement pattern comprising the administrative and religious urban centre of Bosra439, Byzantine fortifications with no attempt to establish permanent civic settlements440, and, lastly, a few palace complexes441; (2) the North–West, an area much more fertile and characterized by urban communities and cities each boasting a constitution, coinage, calendar and chora442; here we find the bulk of the cities composing the so-called Decapolis (e.g. Gerasa, Pella, Gadara and Abila); (3) Central Jordan, an area well irrigated and with a wealthy agricultural landscape in which were dotted cities (Amman) but also desert palaces (e.g. Qastal, al– Mshatta443). Indeed, although MacAdam does not include it in his survey, one should also record the southern strip of Jordan, which includes the market town of Zugara444, located south of the Dead Sea that was linked through a frequented terrestrial road to Jerusalem, the ancient city of Petra (still an important urban centre in the sixth century445) and Ayla (al–‘Aqabah) at the head of the Gulf of ‘Aqabah on the Red Sea (built adjacent to the Roman– Byzantine township, which remained occupied until the early Άbbasid period, and rapidly became an active harbor exploiting trade along the Red Sea coast and into the Indian Ocean446). ‘In essence from North to South cities seem to command the landscape of TransJordan’447. Considering this, MacAdam pointed out the concept of “smooth transition” (which is also outlined by Zayadeh448), that is a high level of continuity in the occupation of urban and non–urban settlement in these areas during the passage from the Byzantine to the Islamic domination. This theory

In Palestine, Walmsey has effectively shed light on the development of the coastal towns like Caesarea, Arsuf, Asqalon and, Gaza (even if full of rich new buildings in the early sixth century, it has been excavated only to some extent and may well have run into trouble in the seventh century along with the recession in the wine export on 425 ‘Antioch of course suffered tremendously from the earthquakes of 526 and 528 A.D., but most of all from the Persian sack of 540 A.D. [...] Nevertheless , much of the city remains in ruins, and fully recovery was precluded by the succeeding disaster’(Foss 1997, 258–9).

Ibid., 622. Walmsey 2000, 291. 435 Ibid. and also Patrich 2001 and Wickham 2005, 622 with further bibliography 436 Vann 1983; also Walmsey 2007, 54-5;118. 437 Walmsey 2000, 293. 438 Also Graf 2001, 223-4. 439 Acting as the reference for a complex network of towns (Umm el– Jimal), villages, villas and military foci. 440 South and East of the Hawran 441 Eastern part of central Jordan. (Mac Adam 1994, 84). 442 MacAdam 1994, 89. 443 Walmsey 2000, 289. 444 Ibid., 302–3. 445 See Fiema 2001 with further bibliography; also Graf 2001, 229. 446 Walmsey 2000, 295–7 and Walmsey 2007, 94-5 with further bibliography. 447 Graf 2001,225. 448 Zayadeh 1994. 433 434

‘In Epiphania a cathedral was built (or rebuilt) in 595 A.D. [...]; Apamea suffered the fate of Antioch in 573, when it was sacked and destroyed by the Persians. The remains clearly confirm widespread devastation, but even there was a major effort to recovery[...]; Antioch offers little specific evidence, thought the sources narrate a dismal sequence of continuing disaster from the city could hardly have recovered’ (Foss 1997, 259). 427 Foss 1997, 262. 428 Ibid, 264. 429 Ibid, 264–66. 430 Foss 1997, 295, but also on the city Balty 1972, Balty 1981, Balty 1989 and Balty 1991. 431 Foss 1997, 217–26; Foss 2002, 85–7, but also Balty 1989. 432 Wickham 2005, 616. 426

30

THE BYZANTINE CITY AND ITS HISTORIOGRAPHICAL TRADITION: AN INTRODUCTION

7. Scythopolis (Israel), Umayyad workshops on Silvanus Street (second half of the seventh century, Author’s photo).

is also relevant for Walmsey, who, however, focuses on the causes, which brought about the transformation of the urban character in Byzantine Palestine (and Arabia449). In this region, the high level of urban prosperity and rural affluence450 is explained by a combination of factors: ‘a synchronous agricultural and pastoral economy, a burgeoning industrial sector, pilgrimage, patronage and trade in a period of broad political and social harmony. Undoubtedly the resultant strength of the economy was an underlining factor in the preservation and expansion of town in these areas’451. But complementary to this, a complex matrix of religious, social and political factors was in action. What is at stake is the changing of the urban character showed through the lens of the developing model of urban town planning (from “polis to madina”452), of the process of urban change (church construction and conversion of urban amenities) and, finally, of elements necessary for the maintaining towns (streets, water system and defences)453. This all is considered from the point of view of ‘the community attitudes to the urban environment during late Antiquity, expressed in the development of […] architectural forms, brought about by rising population density, military reforms and economic initiatives, as

factors equally influential but of variable impact’454. Finally, it may be useful to catch a glimpse of the western side of the Jordan, and of cities like Jerusalem (in its transition from a minor provincial centre to the symbolic focus of the caliphate and the Christian empire455) and Scythopolis–Bet Shean456, which reaches its peak in the late fifth – early sixth century. In fact, a massive building programme of redefinition of the urban structures and functions took place from the reign of Anastasius I (491– 518 A.D.), developing further under Justin I (518–527 A.D.) and Justinian (527–565 A.D.). So by the first half of sixth century, the city had become the scene of major urban developments. This phase of prosperity, however, seemed to come to an end, from the second part of the sixth century. Little by little Scythopolis went through a phase of demonumentalization, which – as Wickham argues – represents not decay but a real change that took place in a gradual process, which became very obvious by the end of the century. Many more examples of such developments, which changed the shape of Roman and Byzantine Scythopolis, have been found almost everywhere. As a rule, no large public institutions functioned as such. The theatre and the amphitheatre naturally played no role in eight–century Palestine […]. But the regular Byzantine houses, residential and commercial, continued to be used, frequently after repairs and alterations. It is likely that many of the buildings

On Arabia see mainly Graf 2001 and Walmsey 2007 with further bibliography. 450 With a settlement pattern varying from large conurbations to secondary towns and village in the surrounding countryside. See Walmsey 2007, passim. 451 Walmsey 1996, 151. 452 Kennedy 1985, but with the cautions suggested by Wickham 2005, 618–9. 453 Walmsey 1996, 143–47. 449

454 455 456

31

Ibid., 143. Walmsey 1996, 131–3, Zanini 1994, 143;also Wickham 2005, 622. Tsafrir–Foerster 1994, Tsafrir–Foerster 1997.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) belonged to Christian families. Churches and synagogues continued to exist. The majority of this alteration reflects an “organic” development in a city that shrank to a medium– size town according to new priorities457.

remitted to the central treasury’462. Syria and Palestine remained fiscally decentralized, but their cities benefited from the agricultural wealth of the countryside and the residual Mediterranean trade network albeit in crisis in the late seventh century463, with their former monumental areas often reconverted to industrial (artisanal–commercial) purposes and enhancing a significant economic vitality. I will return to Syria and Palestine only in the conclusion, but the contrast between the Byzantine empire and the Levant remains at the back of my mind throughout.

Even if in Scythopolis we could be tempted to infer – as Liebeschuetz did458 – a decline and deterioration of the city as such, it is very important to analyze this process not from a “moralistic point of view”. On the contrary, we must deal with it as a result of the transformation of a culture within the complexity of the changing empire. The main component that changed was the concept of urbanism that had shaped the city (as well as other cities of the East) since the Hellenistic Period. Palestine was ruled by western ideas and Greco–Roman concepts, blended with the cultures of the East, which created the world “Hellenism. […]. In the Byzantine period we find the first signs of a reversion from rigid town planning to the organic or spontaneous style. This process completed its triumphant return in the early Islamic period”459.

*

458 459 460 461

*

This chapter has been focussed on preliminary classificatory, methodological and empirical issues, in order to provide the reader with the necessary set of analytic tools for a better understanding of my argument. In the next pages it is my intention to focus on the situation in some specific urban centres of the Byzantine empire: Athens, Gortyn, Amastris and Ephesos, with some consideration of Naples, Amorium and Pella in the conclusion. It goes without saying that at times I will partially reprise the material and the ideas I have already discussed in this chapter (for this unavoidable repetition I pre–emptively beg the reader’s pardon). However, I hope that the detailed analysis of each urban centre in its own regional context (Anatolia, and finally, Italy, and Syria-Palestine) would help me to draw a regionally nuanced model of Byzantine urbanism that will allow me to write a final chapter unifying the regional models set out in each of my case studies and to explain the specific outcomes of Byzantine urbanism from late Antiquity to the early middle ages, taking into consideration the dialectic between coastal and mainland sites and the peculiarities of each geographical area.

To sum up, Syria and Palestine experienced a good deal of urban continuity, with cities functioning as socio–economic centres and political foci. It is worth noting that this continuity was matched by the high rate of development of the existing economic structures by the late seventh century onwards460. This allows us to assert that the region retained those urban structures allowing large–scale artisanal and commercial production, underpinned by urban–oriented elites461. The arrangement of Umayyads and early Άbbasids regionally–based administrative and tax structures may partially explain this situation: ‘most tax, which included goods in kind notably wheat and oils, was distributed at provincial level and only relatively small amounts were

457

*

Tsafrir–Foerster 1997, 137. Liebeschuetz 2001, 300–3. Tsafrir–Foerster 1997, 140. Walmsey 2000, 242 and Walmsey 2007, 113ff. Wickham 2005, 625.

462 463

32

Walmsey 2000, 344. See on this Wickham 2005, 770–80.

CHAPTER 2 ATHENS To Aedo, eternal bard

2.1. Introduction: Why Athens?

using this type of material evidence. Indeed, the recurrence of bronze coins in the late seventh and early eighth century should be regarded as a display of the role of Athens in the administrative, fiscal and military structures7 of the empire and possibly as the litmus paper for the existence of some kind of artisanal activity mirroring the continued social relevance of well–to–do aristocratic families.

The hiatus between classic Athens and the fate of the city in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages has attracted the attention of many scholars and archaeologists1, although, as we will see, their conclusions often remain less factual than declarative as a result of the relatively poor quality of the archaeological data. Whilst the dearth of documentary and literary sources depicting the fate of the city between the fifth and the ninth century is hardly unusual or surprising, the limited character of the published archaeological excavations (focussed mainly on the area of the ancient Agora) represents both an opportunity and a limit. ‘Most of the archaeological evidence for the late Roman [and Byzantine] city lies unexplored to the east, hidden under the modern buildings of Plaka, and we have only indirect evidence from such peripheral areas as the Old Greek Agora and the Keramikos’2. Conversely, even though the excavations at the Agora3 shed light only on a restricted part of the late antique urban structure, one should regard them as accurate and complete from the stratigraphical point of view. Especially after the publication of Frantz’s book4, which sums up almost a century of excavations in this area, it is possible to draw a clear picture of the fate of the Agora from the Herulian raid (267 A.D.) to the seventh century and beyond. Although this picture, is misinterpreted to depict a trajectory of decline and disaster5 in the fate of the whole city, it undoubtedly represents an overall and conclusive analysis of the historical development of the building structure of the old Agora: ‘the result from the excavations of the Agora may be regarded as definitive for that area’6. Regrettably, however, this analysis pays less attention to essential material sources like ceramics and seals than to the numismatic evidence. Indeed, Frantz uses coins only as guide to date the different stratigraphical layers, avoiding any economical and social inferences in

Even today, almost twenty years later, the importance of pottery and seals is not readily acknowledged: we are still waiting the analysis of the ceramics recovered during the Agora excavations8, while only in recent times has part of the sigillographic evidence from Athens been systematically catalogued and investigated9. From the questioning of these kinds of evidence one could hope for answers to the problems of the urban evolution of the city. These tend to move away from the traditional path (duly followed by almost all scholars10 dealing with the fate of the city in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages) rooted in Jones’ model11 of the rise and fall of the urban trajectory from the Hellenistic to the Byzantine period. Indeed, Frantz seems convinced that Athens headed towards the seventh–century disaster passing through stages of decline, chronologically demarcated by disastrous external invasions: Alaric’s Sack in 396 A.D., the Vandal incursion in 467 A.D., and, finally, the Slavic invasion in the late sixth century12. Although this last event did not strike the final blow to the city, which showed signs of recovery in the mid seventh century and even later13, it is regarded as the real turning point in the history of the city, twinned with the supposed closure of the renowned Neo-Platonic School of Philosophy and Rhetoric due to the famous edict, issued by Justinian in 529 A.D.14 In fact, according to Frantz, this School should be regarded Hendy 1985, 419–20. Robinson 1959 is a useful but old fashioned term of reference, while Vroom 2003 catches just few glimpses to the pottery recovered from the excavations at the Agora: ‘publication of early Byzantine ceramics has been rather neglected during the last 25 years’ (Vroom 2003, 51). Only a complete survey of the Athenian Lamp Industry is available today (Perizelweig 1963; Karjvieri 1996). 9 Koltsida–Makri 1996. Also Stavrakos 2000 and Karagiorgou 2006. 10 Last in this set is Saradi (Saradi 2006). 11 Jones 1964; see above Chapter 1, p. 8ff. 12 Frantz 1988, 199ff. 13 Infra pp. 51ff. 14 Frantz 1965, 197ff.; Saradi 2006, 80ff. 7 8

Among the others, Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, Camp 2001, Camp 1998, Frantz 1988, Sodini 1984, Spieser 1984 Setton 1975, Thompson– Wycherley 1972, Charanis 1970, Travlos 1960. 2 Camp 2001, 227. 3 Frantz 1988, Thompson–Wycherley 1972. 4 Frantz 1988. 5 An picture recently reasserted by Saradi (Saradi 2006, 80) and first proposed by Thompson (Thompson 1959). 6 Frantz 1988, 57. 1

33

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

1. Athenian Agora (After Tavlos, in Frantz, 1988, p. 10)

as the chief source of revenue for Athens, ‘the wealth of the city seems to have been largely in its hands, derived partly from their extensive land holdings, but frequently supplemented by bequests from their admirers’15, and the fees of the pupils. Moreover, the School supposedly 15

moulded (literally) the urban structure and the social and religious assets of the city. The urban history of Athens could be read in terms of passage from a resilient Paganism (which endured until the mid sixth century16, mainly owing to the influence of the teachers and the chiefs of the school,

Frantz 1965, 191–2.

16

34

Cameron 1969; Saradi 2006, 375.

ATHENS

2. Map of Greece

the so called diadochoi) to a late imposed Christianity (embodied by the late transformation of ancient temples into churches17).

and diadochoi of the Neo–Platonic school: an upper class composed entirely of intellectuals as pointed out possibly by the Expositio Mundi et Gentium, a late fourth century geographical account of various part of the empire20. By the same token the so called House of Proclus, a large building on the south side of the Acropolis, comes to be named after a late fifth–century diadochos, whose life is described by Marinus21: ‘an important passage in Marinus’ biography of Proclus makes it seem probable that this house […] served as the headquarters of the school for more than a century, until the school was closed in 529 A.D.’22. It is worth

It is difficult not to label this interpretational scheme as highly deceptive: moreover, it is also possible to judge it as a plain example of what I would call a methodological “fata morgana”. A “fata morgana” is a mirage, an optical phenomenon: in calm weather the undisturbed interface between warm air over cold dense air near the surface of the ground may act as a refracting lens, producing an upside–down image, over which the distant direct image, elongated and elevated as “a fairytale castle”, appears to hover. As the “fata morgana” deceives the beholder, so the small number of literary sources referring to late antique Athens has duped Frantz (and other scholars18 as well) into misinterpreting the archaeological evidence. So, in Frantz’s view, the rich residential villas (dated to the first half of the fifth century) unearthed along the slope of the Areopagus19 become the houses of the wealthy teachers 17 18 19

Geograp. Gr. Min., II, 513–28:’After Thessaly there is the land of Achaia […] which abounds in learning but in other respect is not self– sufficient for it is a small and mountainous province and cannot produce as much grain as Thessaly…’. The Expositio is indeed hardly reliable, having nothing but vague clichés. 21 Marinus, Vita Procli. 22 Frantz 1988, 43. Also Castrèn 1994, 12–13. Frantz and Castrèn both stress that the house would fit all the topographical specifications included in the Vita Procli, precluding the existence of any other comparable building in the area. In other words, it would be the supposed correspondence of the literary and archaeological evidence the main basis of their conclusions. According to Castrèn , the house had belonged to Syrianus and Plutarcus, two successive scholarches of the Academy, before Proclus; Frantz instead points out that the house would have been 20

Frantz 1965; Travlos 1960; Saradi 2006, 360-1. Mainly Thompson and Saradi. Frantz 1988, 37ff.

35

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) noticing that other residential buildings similar in size and plan to the so–called House of Proclus, have recently come to light in the same area23. As Sodini has clearly asserted24, there is no conclusive evidence, which shows that this building belonged to Proclus; nor could one affirm that the villas on the Areopagus slope were the residences of other pagan philosophers. Frantz prefers to discard the possibility, which Sodini and Karivieri25 regard as entirely feasible, that these houses could be attributed to wealthy Athenians, perhaps of senatorial rank or with priestly connections, or to high officials26. She prefers to support the idea that these villas hosted pagan philosophers (as implied by the remains of some statues concealed in a well27), who were ostracized by the Justinian’s edict28 which in 529 A.D. closed down the Neo–Platonic school following which the scholars chose the Persian court as the seat of a voluntary exile29. Frantz does not include in her analysis a critical approach to the literary sources she exploited; nor does she seem to be worried that the archaeological evidence provides us with no final proof about the effect of the law on the Neo–Platonic school. Moreover, she turns a blind eye to other references implying that a well–to–do class of landowners (without any connection with the school) lived in Athens in that period too30.

from a fifth –century zenith, when a rush in building activity followed the Sack of Alaric, and ended in the supposed disaster of the so-called Slav invasion. However, one should be aware that this interpretation (that could be defined as “stages of decadence”) is the final outcome of a traditional school of thought. Indeed, even though recent contributions, much like the results of archaeological excavations in different areas of the city36, and a more refined method of approach to the sigillographic, ceramic and epigraphic evidence, could partially shed a new light on the fate of Athens between the fifth and the ninth century, the idea of the city as a pagan–educational urban centre gradually declining in a Christian ruralised town37 has hardly been criticized. By and large, Travlos, Setton, Charanis, Thompson and more recently Kazanaki–Lappa, Concina, Camp and Saradi38 have adopted this model of urban development. Even Sodini39, who –as seen above– points out the dangers linked to a loose interpretation of the archaeological sources, and Spieser, have accepted the idea of a progressive degradation of Athens, culminating in the Slavic invasion at the end of the sixth century. One could be tempted to link this idea to the importance that the debate on the date, effects and recurrence of the Slavic incursions in Greece has held among scholars40.

What Frantz implies is a close connection between paganism and philosophy31, which would explain the disappearance of Athens from the historical horizon at the turn of the sixth century32. At the very moment the city became Christian, the Neo–Platonic school closed down, the philosophers left the city and so Athens started its decline: ‘with the eclipse of the schools, the main industry of Athens in late Antiquity, the whole city suffered a decline’33. The final blow was struck by the Slav invasion at the end of the sixth century34, although Frantz cannot ignore that a modest recovery began in the early seventh century when Athens remained one of the few parts of Greece not occupied by Slavs35. The model proposed by Frantz provides us with a pattern of the rise and fall of the city based indeed only on the results of the excavations at the Agora, which started

However, the time has come to move from this traditional way of interpreting the fate of the city. This necessarily implies analyzing the material and literary sources41 in a different way, trying to emphasize the similarities and differences with other urban contexts located along the shores of the Aegean Sea, such as Ephesos and Gortyn, so as to give a real importance to the “days after” the Slavic incursions. In this sense, as will be seen, one should go beyond the expedition of Constans II or the coin hoards dated to the reign of Philippikos and Leo III, as signs of military events, in order to give pride of place to those hints revealing the continuous (although diminished) role of Athens in the political, administrative, fiscal, military and religious imperial structure together with its importance along the main Mediterranean trunk–route42. The conclusions about the reliability of such an important source like the so–called Chronica of Monemvasia43 need to be critically assessed in the light of current, and growing, archaeological and palaeographic evidence. This includes the results of the examination of seals belonging to military and administrative imperial thematic functionaries44, a new analytical approach to the numismatic evidence45 and the belt–buckles found in the

built by Plutarcus at the very beginning of the fifth century. 23 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 29ff. The appeal of Frantz’s analysis is so strong that even these buildings have been labeled as the houses of neo–platonic philosophers! 24 Sodini 1984, 350. 25 Karivieri 1994(b), 138. 26 Frantz 1988, 46. 27 ‘All the sculptures were a collection made by lover of classic art. None of this is ordinary debris such as is commonly found in wells. All was in an excellent state of preservation and was obviously placed in the wells for purposes of concealment. Consideration of time and the condition of sculpture lead to the conclusion that the two events, the action of Justinian and the concealment of the sculpture, are closely related’ (Frantz 1988, 88). 28 Cod.Just. I.5.18.4; I.11.10.2; Dig.Const.omn. 7 29 On this Cameron 1969 and Af Hallstrom 1994 with further comments of the passage on Malalas (Malalas 18) and Agathias (Agathias, II. 30, 3–4) mentioning the closure of the school and the exodus of seven Athenian professors to Persia. 30 Damascii Vita Isidori, 257, 261. See on this Castrèn 1994, 13. 31 Frantz 1988, 43. Also Frantz 1979 and Frantz 1965. 32 Saradi 2006, 25. 33 Frantz 1988, 92. 34 Curta 2004, 53ff. 35 Frantz 1988, 117.

Parlama–Stampolidis 2001. Saradi 2006, 450-1. 38 Travlos 1960; Travlos 1971; Setton 1975; Charanis 1955(a); Charanis 1970; Thompson–Wycherley 1972; Camp 1998; Camp 2001; Camp 2003; Kazanaki–Lappa 2002; Concina 2003; Saradi 2006. 39 Sodini 1984; Spieser 1984. 40 Avramea 1997, 67ff.; Huxley 1977; Charanis 1955(b); Thompson 1959; Lemerle 1954; Lemerle 1963, Bon 1951, 51–55 ; Curta 2004, 53ff. See also Kardulias 2005, 53-5. 41 Indeed, these sources still remain too scarce and scattered to draw an exhaustive image of the Athenian urban structure. 42 McCormick 2001, 502ff. 43 Dujicev 1976; Lemerle 1963; Avramea 1997, 71ff. 44 Brandes 2003, 53ff. 45 Charanis 1955(b); Hendy 1985 (also Haldon 1990); Avramea 1997, 36 37

36

ATHENS Agora excavations46, more refined conclusions about the role and importance of Athens in the Theme of Hellas47, the investigation of the epigraphic evidence coming from the Parthenon48, the continuing relevance of Athens in the ecclesiastical hierarchy (evidenced by seals, the presence of the Athenian bishops in some councils and the excavated ruins of churches49), the results of recent archaeological excavations, which have revealed the existence of some residential areas (dated to the seventh and eighth century) in Sintagma Square50, and, not least, a reconsideration of the results of some old excavations (such as those around the so–called Theseion–Hephaisteion)51. The evidence seems to prove that Athens never went through the real “stages of decadence” but retained its role as a socio– economic and political centre for its territory and as one of the administrative and ecclesiastical foci of the Greek region. Even if it is extraordinarily difficult to reconstruct the process of demonumentalization in Athens, despite Sodini’s work in identifying squatter occupation of the old villas on the Areopagus slope52 and encroachment of public spaces after the sixth century53, Athens preserves traces of an urban artisanal activity (lamps and tiles workshops54), which can be exploited to point to some persistence of levels of demand until the late seventh century. As in the case of Gortyn, this does not mean that Athens remained unaffected by the seventh–century economic crisis: ‘the entire Aegean basin suffered from the disruption of the inter–regional Roman fiscal and commercial world system55; the Aegean exchange networks were simplified considerably and became substantially more localized and focussed on technologically simple items’56. By the same token, one should not be allowed to speak of a catastrophic disaster, either, even though Athens did not become a thematic capital (resembling in this, the fate of Ephesos and Gortyn), nor did some parts of the Agora retain their classic aesthetic appeal. On the contrary, one may consider Athens as a test case for the possible existence of an Aegean model of urbanism, whereby the results coming from better and wider excavated centres (Gortyn and Ephesos) could be compared. Of course, this approach would ideally need further excavations, which would broaden the horizons of those made at the Agora and allow us to reach a satisfactory explanation of the fate of Athens in the passage between late Antiquity to the early middle ages.

3. Map of Attica (after Etienne, 2004, p. 5)

2.2. Attica: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy. The triangular peninsula of Attica faces the island of Euboea to the north and the island of Aegina in the Saronic Gulf to the south. From the geomorphologic point of view, the peninsula reveals a mountainous character, like the rest of Greece57, enhanced by the high ranges of the Citheron and Parneia mountains, which formed a sort of natural border with Boetia to the north and the Megarid to the west. At the core of Attica lie the Aigaleo, Penteli and Hymettus ridges, which frame the plain of Athens, separating it from the fertile Mesogeia Vale, bordered to the south by the Laurion Mountains58. Due to the vicinity of these mountainous chains, land communications are extremely difficult, although some land routes find their way through large and low–lying passages between the lower slopes of the mountains59. These passes often follow the course of the local rivers. Interestingly enough the local hydrographical network has never been properly investigated60. Three main water courses flow from the mountains into the Saronic Gulf: the Cephisus; the Ilissos, which reaches Athens to pass to the south of the Olympieon and the Acropolis before merging with the Cephisus61 and the Eridanos,

78; Brandes 2003, 325ff. 46 Huxley 1977; Avramea 1997, 90ff. 47 Trombley 2001; Haldon 1999; Avramea 2001; Treadgold 1995. 48 Orlandos–Vranoussis 1970. 49 Brehier 1931; Lemerle 1943; Frantz 1965; Pietri 1994; Holtzmann 2003. 50 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 149ff. 51 Setton 1971, 246ff; Travlos 1971, 262; Frantz 1965. 52 Sodini 1984, 396. 53 For the fifth and sixth century see Wickham 2005, 626. 54 Karivieri 1996; Kazanaki–Lappa 2002. 55 Wickham 2005, 625. 56 Ibid., 785.

Hendy 1985, 21–26. Queyrel 2003, 11; Etienne 2004, 5; Holtzmann 2003, 25–6, Kazanaki– Lappa 1993, 686. 59 Queyrel 2003, 11. 60 Etienne 2004, 5. 61 Id. 57 58

37

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) whose course has been recently mapped out during the excavations for the Athenian metro62. It swerved around the Lycabettus, one of the three hills, which overlook the Athenian pedion, and crossed the northern part of the Agora and the Keramikos, before finally flowing into the Cephisus river63.

However, one should admit that due to its location almost at the end of a funnel–shaped peninsula, hemmed in by a set of mountains, only one main road led to Athens. This was a branch of the main land route, which ran from the north, via the Phocean city of Elatia, to Eleusis, and from here to Megara where it met with the other main road bordering the northern shore of the Corinth Gulf71. Another route starting from Athens headed northwards, reaching the town of Oropos, where it stretched westward towards Thebes in Beotia72.

The Athenian plan, facing the Saronic Gulf, is bounded by a set of calcareous low hills, aligned in a north–south direction with the Hymettus Ridge. This set comprises the northernmost Anchesmos hill (today, Tourcovonia), then the Lycabettus, the Acropolis, with its close satellite, the Areopagus, the Muses hill, the little Pnyx, and finally the now-erased Sicily mound64. This sort of natural amphitheatre is open to the sea thanks to its two harbours: the Phalerus and the Piraeus and so inevitably the sea offers the best options for communication. Moreover, Attica was located on a strategic position along the ancient trunk route connecting Italy with Constantinople65. This strategic role is echoed in two literary sources, enhancing the continuing importance of Athens along the shipping routes crisscrossing this part of the Mediterranean. The first, a late fifth –century horoscope, illustrates the range of goods loaded in a cargo, ‘a ship bound for Athens was carrying camels, draperies and other textiles, and silver litters from Africa’66. Two centuries later, in the seventh century, Constans II moved by land with his troops from Constantinople to Rome, wintering in Athens in 662/3 A.D. ‘Constans II’s passage has left archaeological tracks in the form of some army gear and a surge in deposit of copper coinage’67. Paul the Deacon states that Constans then sailed from Athens to Taranto68, underlying the importance of Athens as one of the main harbours along the trunk route: ‘by 700, traffic between Italy, Constantinople, and points east travelled mainly by sea, along the trunk route that circled Greece’69. It is also important to stress that, although Athens was mainly oriented towards the Aegean and Mediterranean shipping–routes, overland legs involving Greece and Attica retained some relevance. Again the expedition of Constans II is useful in this sense, because it shows that the winding land routes descending from the impervious mountains of northern Greece were still practicable, although with audacity and risk70.

It is impossible to say much more about the importance of these routes in the examined period, however, although one could infer that the Slavs followed them during their expeditions against Athens in the late sixth century73. Indeed, apart from Constans II’s journey, literary and documentary sources remain silent about the importance of land–routes in the seventh and eighth century, while archaeological surveys are simply non–existent. *

*

*

As Hendy clearly points out, the existence of north–west to south–east mountain barriers in the Balkan and Greek peninsula74, a geo–morphological scheme replicated on a small scale also in the Attica peninsula, highly influenced the climate and the pattern of vegetation and land use. Woodland and forests loomed large and arable land was undoubtedly rare, although on at least one occasion the Morea and Greece (meaning theme of Hellas–Peloponnesos) were used as a source for the supply of grain to Constantinople (this episode occurred later than our period, however, in the eleventh century)75. Land suitable for cultivating grain and orchards, vineyards and olive groves was mainly concentrated on plains like Attica. However, the late fourth–century Expositio Mundi described Achaia, Greece and Laconia as less fertile regions than the richer Thessaly, adding that they were small, mountainous and lacking of agricultural self–sufficiency76, whereby they produced only a little oil and the famous Attic honey. In my opinion this description has more to do with the classic fictional cliché of a city that typifies the literacy and culture of the period than to the prosaic daily activities. Indeed, the excavations at the Agora of Athens have yielded a set of four flourmills (dated to the fifth century)77 and some olive presses installed in the so-called Metroon78 and the Palace of Giants79. It is unreasonable to think that such an urban conglomerate would not exploit its fertile

Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 154; 259. Etienne 2004, 6. 64 Holtzmann 203, 25; also Etienne 2004, 6. 65 McCormick 2001, 502ff. 66 Ibid., 97. On this see also Mundell Mango 2001, 89ff. 67 McCormick 2001, 72: ‘…for his 27 year reign 769 copper coins as against 224 for the 31–year reign of Heraclius’. See also Hendy 1985, 419–20; Frantz 1988, 123ff. Lib. Pont., 186. 8–9: ‘venit Constantinus Augustus de regia urbe per litoraria in Athenas’. 68 Paul the Deacon, V, 6: ‘per littoralia iter habens Athenas venit, indeque mare transgressus Tarantum applicuit’. 69 McCormick 2001, 73. Even though it seems possible that a modest bunch of copper coins deposited in Corinth points to a possible march of the imperial troops to Corinth in order to avoid the dangerous circumnavigation of Cape Malea, the author seems to pay lip service to Paul the Deacon’s passage. 70 McCormick 2001, 67ff. It is also possible to consider the sources in a different way: why ever would Constans II take an army to Athens to then ship them to Italy? Why do not ship them from Constantinople? In this sense the world “littoralia–litoraria” would assume a different meaning, inferring to a sort of coastal shipping. But still Athens would be regarded 62 63

as a key stopover of this route. 71 Miller 1964, 578. Athens was 13 miles far from Megara. This itinerary is also mentioned by the Imperatoris Antonini Augusti Itineraria Provinciarum et Maritimum (Itin. Ant., 4). It is possible that some inscriptions mentioning the refurbishing of the Athens–Patra road (Sironen 1994, 37–42) referred to this very branch. 72 Cuntz 1913, 4. 73 Curta 2004, 70-3. 74 Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 11. 75 Hendy 1985, 24–5; 51; 145. 76 Rougè 1966, II, 513–28. 77 Parsons 1936. Frantz 1988, 80. 78 ‘The Metroon housed the urban archives as mentioned by Julian in one of his Orations and was probably converted into synagogue’ (Saradi 2006, 248). 79 Frantz 1988, 121.

38

ATHENS

4. The road network linking Athens with Corinth and Thebes according to the Peutingerian Table (after Cuntz, 1913, p. 4)

(although small) hinterland to support its population: ‘the economy of Athens was based on the cultivation of soil and the produce grown was consumed locally’80. Indeed, two different types of sources stress the importance of the agricultural hinterland of Athens. First, a recent survey at the suburb of Maroussi81 has revealed many architectural fragments reused as spolia in later monuments and found around post–Byzantine churches. The style and quality of the sculptured pieces have allowed the excavators to date these spolia to the fifth–sixth century. This implies that there was a building activity in that period. One could easily be tempted to conclude that life in this ancient suburb continued during the early Christian era: ‘this is quite natural for a fertile settlement, which had already flourished in the classic antiquity’82. Second, Hendy clearly

points out that some eleventh–century landed magnates existed in Attica in that period.83 Pairing this later evidence with the early fifth century reference to a rich landowner named Theogenes84, the fact that Athens was the birthplace of at least one Empress (Eudocia in the fifth century85), the manifold lead seals of seventh and eight–century diokētai86 (civil servants functioning as fiscal exactor)87, the graffiti on the columns of the Parthenon (mentioning some administrators of church estates)88 and, finally, the residential villas excavated in and around the Agora, it is possible to conclude that Attica’s rich but small agricultural hinterland was regarded as one of the main sources of wealth for a diminished but possibly still existent Athenian upper class, throughout the period to A.D. 800 2.2.1. A brief historical overview: the Church and the State

Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, 641. Although textual evidence concerning the role of the Peloponnese as one of the main productive centres of olive-oil in the Aegean is of a much later date (ninth- tenth centuries, see on this Karagiorgiou 2001, 147), both archaeological excavation and ceramic evidence (mainly LR2 amphorae) point to a long tradition of olive cultivation throughout the region in late Antiquity (on this Karageorgiou 2001 and Ward-Perkins 2001 with further bibliography). 81 Pallis 2004. The suburb located to the north–east of Athens, is named after the cult of Artemis Amarasya, the local deity of the ancient deme of Athmonon. 82 Pallis 2004, 75. Evidence from Maroussi district pairs with that from many regional surface surveys conducted around the Peloponnese, showing that late Antiquity was a prosperous era during which site numbers, population and economic well-being were at high level (Kardulias 2005, 113-6) 80

The Notitia Dignitatum, written in the early fifth Hendy 1985, 51ff. Ibid. 85 Wickham 2005, 235: ‘The Empress Irene is often said to be from an Athenian landowning family, but there is no basis for this; even the statement that she was Athenian is not recorded before the twelfth century– Theophanes only says that she arrived from Athens for her wedding in Constantinople in 769 (Theoph., 444)’. 86 Infra pp. 42ff. 87 Brandes 2003, 209.On this also Cosentino 2006, 50. 88 Orlandos–Vranoussis 1970, 126; 141. 83 84

39

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) century89, regarded Achaia as the first province among the six included in the Macedonian Diocese; moreover, it benefited from a special statute, being the only province headed by a Proconsul90, whereas Macedonia was now included in the newly–instituted Praefectura Illyrici91, based in Thessaloniki92. In this period Athens was the target of another incursion by the hands of the Visigoths leaded by Alaric93: the vision of Athena Promachos on its walls, however, supposedly saved Athens from the fury of the invaders94. As we will see, this event is regarded as a real watershed in the history of Athens, since after this supposedly disastrous incursion, whose consequences are still debated by scholars, the city went through a period of intense (public and private) building activity95.

scholars have been overly concerned with the problem of the effective ethnic background103 of the local populace in the seventh and eighth centuries (a problem with clear political inferences)104. Was Greece promptly “slavized”105? Did the local Greek population survive or did the so–called Sklaviniai occupy the entire Peloponnesos and beyond?106 Even the necessity of stating an exact date for the Slavs’ incursions was symptomatic of this state of mind: pairing the reports of the literary sources with the results of archaeological excavations, the toponymic analysis and the ethnical researches were all used to assert the exact moment when the Avars and Slavs invaded Greece107: did this event occur in the early 580s, as stated by John of Ephesos108, Evagrios109 and Menander the Guardsman110 or later (587– 8 A.D.) as asserted by the Chronica of Monemvasia111 and the so–called Scholium of Arethas112? Did the Slavs hold the entire Greek peninsula for 218 years, as the Chronica asserted? Did the eastern portion of the Peloponnesos remain under the Byzantine sway while its western parts were submerged by the Slav high water113? It is not my intention to delve into this debate, primarily because the recent works by Avramea and Curta114 represent in this sense an authoritative point of reference. Indeed, Avramea and Curta conclude that trying to date the beginning of the Avar and Slav incursions is impossible115. Slavs and Avars came in waves in a long period spanning from the

Achaia–Hellas was referred to in Hierocles’ Synecdemus96, dated to the early sixth century: twenty- two cities were stated to constitute the eparchias of Hellas, with Corinth as capital, although Hierocles (wrongly) asserts that the Illyricum was a Diocese and not a Prefecture97. The Prefecture of Illyricum functioned until the late sixth century and according to Procopius98, its administrative jurisdiction stretched from the Isthmus of Corinth to Thermopylae, and further north to the kleisoura, which represented a sort of geographical border between Greece and Illyria99. A passage of the Miracula Sancti Demetrii implies that peninsula Greece remained under the Prefect’s jurisdiction until the late sixth century100. As Brandes clearly pointed out, in the early seventh century, the invasions of Slavs and Avars did not bring about the end of the Prefectura Illyrici, which indeed, continued to function although changing its name to Eparchate of Thessaloniki and curbing its jurisdictional boundaries101.

Curta 2004, 56ff. Bon 1951; also Lemerle 1954; Charanis 1955(a). 105 Slabonizon is the verb used by Costantinus Porphyrogenitus to describe the situation of Peloponnesos after the noxious pest in 746/7 A.D. See De Them., II, 5. 106 Charanis 1970. 107 Avramea 1997, 67ff., with further bibliography and reference to the sources. 108 John of Ephesos, VI, 5. 109 Evagrios, VI,10 110 Menander the Guardsman 192–3. Other sources dating the invasion precisely to this period are John of Biclar II and Michael the Syrian, 362. For a good exegesis of the whole sources dealing with the Avar–Slav invasions see Charanis 1950, 149–53. 111 Dujcev 1976, 13–20. Also Huxley 1977, 92, Curta 2004, 115 and Charanis 1950, 148. ‘In another invasion [the Avars] subjugated all of Thessaly and Greece, old Epirus, Attica and Euboea […] [The Greeks] who succeeded in escaping from their blood–stained hands dispersed themselves here and there. The city of Patras emigrated to the territory of Rhegium in Calabria; the Argives to the island called Orobe; and the Corinthians to the island called Aegina. The Lacones too abandoned their native soil at that time. Some sailed to the island of Sicily […] others found an inaccessible place by the seashore, built there a strong city, which they called Monemvasia because there was only one way for those entering […]. Those who belonged to the tenders of the earth and to the rustics of the country settled in the rugged places located along there and have been lately called Tzaconiae. Having thus conquered and settled the Peloponnesos, the Avars have held it for two hundred and eighteen years, that is from the year 6096 [A.D. 587] from the creation of the world, which was the sixth year of the reign of Maurice, to the year 6313 [A.D. 805], which was the fourth year of the reign of Nicephorus the Old who had Staurakios as son. […] And only the eastern part of the Peloponnesos from Corinth to Male, because of its ruggedness and inaccessibility remained free from the Slavs and to that part a strategos of the Peloponnesos continued to be sent by the Emperor of the Romans’. 112 See on this Charanis 1950; Lemerle 1963, Bon 1951, 32–5; Avramea 1997, 67ff. 113 Dujcev 1976 15. 114 Avramea 1997; Curta 2004, 39ff. 115 Curta 2004, 71-5. 103 104

The relevance and extent of the Avar–Slav invasions has been highly debated102. Unfortunately, for decades many Not.Dign., V, 8–10. This is an official document of the Civic Imperial Administration, regarding both its central bureau and its provincial branches. 90 Not.Dign., I, 25–7. Also Avramea 1997, 33; Bon 1951; Lemerle 1954, 267ff.; Grumel 1951, 5–46. 91 Not.Dign., III, 4. 92 Dagron 1984, 2. 93 For a detailed analysis of the events leading to the sack see Heather 2005, 213-41. 94 Zosimus V, 5, 1–6; Eunapius, 65. According to Avramea (Avramea 1997, 33) the Visigoths settled (although only for a few years) in the northern part of Greece, impairing the land communications and giving a boost to the sea–routes linking Patras to Athens and beyond. 95 Mainly Frantz 1988, 57ff. and Saradi 2006, 238-9. 96 Hieroclis Synecdemus, 19, 636–657. 97 Ibid., 646–648. See on this Dagron 1984, 2ff. and Avramea 1997, 34. Also Chapter 3, pp. 67ff. 98 De Aedificiis IV, 2, 1–26. 99 Dagron 1984, 3: this border mirrors the partition set up by a novel of Justinian to separate the jurisdictions of the newly–founded Iustiniana Prima and Thessaloniki; almost half a century later, this line of demarcation recurs again in the Miracula Sancti Demetrii (Mirac. St.Demet. I, 128; 284). 100 Mirac.St.Demet. I, 128: in 586 A.D. the prefect “came down” to the country of the Hellenes. Dagron 1984, 3; Avramea 1997, 36; Lemerle 1954. 101 Brandes 2003, 53. Brandes’s assertion is mainly based on some passages of the Miracula and on the sigillographic analysis. 102 Thompson 1959 and more recently Curta 2004 56ff. and Kardulias 2005, 59;107ff. 89

40

ATHENS late sixth to the early seventh century116, and, so there is no point even in keeping track of their geographical place of settlement (based mainly on the location of coin hoards)117. Moreover, the analysis of both the ceramic evidence coming from the excavations at the thermal bath in Argos and at the Cemetery in Olympia118, and the belt–buckles found in Athens and Corinth (previously regarded erroneously of Bulgar or Avar origins119) have clearly pointed out that ‘the ethnic issue is a red herring since ethnic identities cannot be read off from material culture in any simple way’120. Although it is very likely that some cities remained under Byzantine sway (like Athens, Argos and Corinth) – as the Chronica of Monemvasia asserted121– while others were lost by Constantinople (Olympia)122, one should be aware that the two populations intermingled, whereby their material culture impinged on each other123.

of fact, the role of the city as a part of the administrative and ecclesiastical structure of the empire probably did not change, although it is only with extreme difficulty that one can keep track of the status of the former province of Achaia–Hellas in the second half of the seventh century. Indeed, the origins, extension and character of the Theme of Hellas remain a vexing question128 and we have to rely heavily on the sigillographic evidence to add to the dearth of literary sources. However it is worth making an effort to re–enact the historical stages, which led to the constitution of this Theme in order to come to grasp with the political and administrative background of the transformation and survival of Athens in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. We can easily date the creation of the Theme of Hellas to the period between 687 A.D. (the Iussio issued by Justinian II did not list it)129 and 695 A.D. (the first mention of a strategos Ellados by Theophanes)130. A military command of the Elladikoi is known to have existed in the late sixth century131, when the recurring Avar and Slav invasions may have prompted the diminishing of the old quaestura exercitus132 established by Justinian:

In Athens, archaeological excavations show a layer of destruction in the ancient Agora, paired by some late– sixth–century hoards of coins found in the same stratum and also outside the Agora (at the Dypilon gate and on the Acropolis)124. This does not mean that life ebbed away125. The city was not occupied by the Slavs and the conclusions about the disastrous effects of this episode owe more to the analysis of coin hoards126 than to an effective and critical appraisal of the material evidence as a whole127.As a matter

“its Aegean regions remained , as before, the sources of men, ships and resources for a maritime corps (in the later seventh century known as “ship troops” or Karabisianoi) probably based first on Rhodes and […] then developed into the core of the middle Byzantine naval power”133.

116 Isidor of Seville, in P.L. LXXXIII, 1056. On this also Curta 2004, 58-9. 117 Avramea 1997, 79. 118 For excavations at Olympia see also Volling 2001 and Kardulias 2005, 123. 119 Avramea 1997, 87; also Kardulias 2005, 123ff. with further bibliography. 120 Wickham 2005, 786. On this also Pohl 2000, 267ff. 121 Dujicev 1976, 16. Also Huxley 1977, 95 agrees with Avramea and regards the Chronica as a trustworthy source: “in general agreement with other literary and archaeological evidence”. 122 Huxley 1977, 95. 123 Avramea 1997, 90–1. Also Avramea 2001, 301–2. 124 Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, 640. Also Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 216ff; Frantz 1988, 93. 125 Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 216 and Thompson 1959. To the contrary T.E. Gregory asserts that ‘ the evidence can provide a perspective drastically in contrast to the conventional one, that is that the barbarian incursion contribute to the urban collapse; a key centre like Athens (but also Corinth, Sparta and Patras, weathered the storm with their civic institutions intact. Indeed it was these very institution that made the bulwark against the Slavs’ (as quoted in Kardulias 2005, 55.) 126 Frantz 1988, 93. Indeed, Curta states that ‘after the early 580s there was a sharp decline in the number of coins from Greek hoards, and new coins appear briefly only after 610 A.D. Stray finds seems to follow a similar pattern. Hoard finds from the first two decades of the seventh century are in sharp contrast to those from the remainder of the century. It has been suggested that responsible for the significant number of hoards closing in the early 600s were the Slavic invasion of Greece […] Such hoards indeed, indicate the presence of the Roman army. Indeed, hoards of solidi may represent payments to the army known as donativa which were still paid in 578 A.D. and perhaps as late as Heraclius’ reign; they were concealed […] not because of barbarian raids but to keep savings in cash in hiding places for lack of specialized institutions such a banks […] The hoards themselves are an indication of accumulated wealth and they were never recovered because of the general withdrawal of the Byzantine army from the Balkans.’ (Curta 2004, 74-5). 127 ‘The word desolation means less a state of complete destruction than the lack of material evidence of life for the seventh and the eighth century; moreover one should keep in mind that those picture is based only on the archaeological excavations at the Agora: a quite small portion of the urban area’ (Charanis 1970, 14–16).

With the Prefecture of Illyricum more and more restricted in its jurisdiction to the area around Thessaloniki, the Byzantine empire tried to reaffirm its control over the Greek peninsula, by creating a (naval) military command which came into existence in the second half of the seventh century134: ‘the Byzantine administration was fully committed to using its geopolitical capabilities for the economic exploitation of the coastland’135. Although the strategos of the Karabisianoi is mentioned by three different sources136, it is in my opinion possible to regard 128 Avramea 1997, 36ff.; Bon 1951, 38–9; Haldon 1999, 71ff; Pertusi 1952; Trombley 2001; Avramea 2001; Ahrweiler 1967; Tradgold 1995; Treadgold 1992; Charanis 1970; Curta 2004, 107-110. 129 This letter was addressed to Pope Conon and mentioned as witnesses ‘deinceps militantes incolas sancti palatii, nec non et collegiis popularibus, et ab excubitoribus, insuper etiam quosdam de Christo dilectis exercitibus, tam ab a Deo conservando obsequio, quamque ab Orientali, Thraciano, similiter et ab Armeniano, etiam ab exercitu Italiano, deinde ex Caravisianis et Septensianis seu de Sardinia atque de Africa exercitu’. Mansi, Tom. XI, 737ff. 130 Assuming that Theophanes is accurate. Theoph., 514 : “ Now the Patrician Leontios, who had been strategos of the Anatolics and proved successful in war […] was appointed strategos of Hellas. He was ordered to embark on three dromones”. Also Nikeph. 40.6, 94–5. 131 P.G. 88,169 132 Haldon 1999, 74. It was established by Justinian in Caria and Aegean islands “to secure supplies and a sound base for the Danubian frontier units, while avoiding further impoverishing an already devastated region” (Haldon 1990, 210). On this also Curta 2004, 46-8 and Karagiorgiou 2001,150. 133 Haldon 1999, 74. Also Haldon 2005, 68. 134 Charanis 1970, 10. 135 Trombley 2001, 168. 136 Mirac. St. Demet. I, 231.7; II, 154ff.; Lib.Pont. I, 390.10; III, 99: in 710–11 A.D. ‘Theophilus , patrikios and stratigos Caravisianorum received Pope Constantinus I in the island called Coea (Keos’).

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the Karabon less as a “proper” theme than as an army (a corps of marines, named after a Greek word for ship [karabōs] 137 or a fleet created as a frontline of defence138). Indeed, a recent refinement of the sigillographic evidence has pointed to the existence of a possible pre–thematic (with reference to the later Theme of Hellas) administrative unity in the Archōntia139. The literary sources140 and the sigillographic evidence141 demonstrate the existence of eighth and ninth century archōntoi of Hellas or Athens.

in each single province148, so their jurisdiction did not necessarily match with those of the thematic strategoi149. The resilience of the old province system, indeed, should come as no surprise, since it has been clearly asserted that “themes” were, at first, groups of province where different armies were based: only by the later eighth century some elements of fiscal as well as military administration were set up on a thematic basis, although the late Roman provinces continued to exist150. This is something that we can also trace in Crete151, and so may be a feature of Hellas as well. Moreover, one should be aware that the terms strategia and theme are not interchangeable: as Haldon152 has pointed out, the strategos has a purely military role before the early ninth century at the earliest (the sign of change is the appearance of seals of protonotarioi153for provinces or themata). So there is no reason why an administrative and a military system could not coexist, having different functions154. Indeed, the army of the Karabisianoi is attested until the early eighth century155, much later than the official creation of the Helladic Theme156. Accordingly its role was that of a maritime corps or a naval fleet, downplaying those theories regarding it as a proper naval Theme157 (with a strategos appointed as the military and administrative head of a peculiar region). it is possible to look at the Karabisianoi more as a first stage in the complex seventh century imperial reorganization of the military and administrative–fiscal governing system in Greece, than as a sort of final result, implying the coalescence of the administrative and military functions in the hands of its strategos.

In this sense the seal belonging to Peter hypatos and archōn of Hellas is of particular importance142. Variously dated, but definitively not later than the early eighth century, this specimen has been attributed to a chief of one of the Slav tribes settled in Greece143 or to the administrative supervisor of the strategic naval bases located along the main shipping–routes144. The latter of these two assumptions, if confirmed, could imply that during the seventh century an administrative role for Athens did survive along with the new military apparatus set in the Aegean region, though the city was still not a thematic capital; moreover it could also show that Athens retained an important role as one of the main regional harbours, stronghold for the logistics of the fleet and an administrative / fiscal focus. In a sense, a lead seal found at the Agora of Athens145, mentioning Theodoros, diokētai Ellados, possibly dated to the late seventh century, could support the latter hypothesis, for, as Brandes stresses, it seemed not to belong to a thematic officer: their jurisdiction is substantiated by the fact that many diokētai did not bear any official title. Rather the seal alludes to a low rank in the administrative hierarchy and a possible provincial competence146. The probable co–existence of an army of the Karabon, in its military capacity, paired with an administrative system based on the old province (Achaia) and a revised fiscal network seems probable147. Indeed, one should probably consider that the diokētai were responsible for the fiscal exaction

The advent of the Theme of Hellas by 695 A.D.158 seemed not to change this structural partition among military and administrative–fiscal competences: the evidence from the lead seals shows that the theme was an administrative unit, not just an army being focused on Hellas after 695 A.D.159 Moreover those seals point to the continued importance of the diokētes in the eighth and ninth century160 and the

Treadgold 1995, 23. On the origin and meaning of the term karabōn see Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 164 with further bibliography. 138 Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 25. This should be dated back to the period 655659 A.D. when although the main Byzantine fleet was annihilated at the so-called Battle of the Masts off of the South coast of Anatolia, Constans II managed to ratify a truce with the Caliph Mu’āwiya. 139 Brandes 2003, 211. See also Ahrweiler 1961, 41ff. 140 Takt. Uspenskij 49,13. See also Ahrweiler 1961, 57 141 Seibt 1999. 142 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 23, 8.2., Zacos–Veglery 1972, 2300. 143 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 23–4. Also Seibt 1999 and Oikonomides 1972, 342–3. Nesbitt and Oikonomides relate this specimen to an eight– century seal of Dargaskablou archontos Ellados now at the Athens Numismatic Museum: “ The name of the Archon is obviously Slavic … [he] was certainly a Slav chieftain of the eighth century…In the case of our seal and that of Dargaskablos, the authority of the archon is defined by the same term as the strategos. Consequently, one might think that a specific group of Slavs was for some reason named after Hellas and the owners of our seals were at their heads” (Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 23). On this also Curta 2004, 82-4; 106-7. 144 Ahrweiler 1961, 48–9. 145 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 26, 8.8(a), (b), (c); Zacos–Veglery 1972,1628 (a), (b); Avramea–Galaki Krikou–Touratsouglou 1990, 240. 146 Brandes 2003, 212. To the contrary, a mid-eight century specimen from Calabria mentions Georgios , hypatos, protospatarios kai diokētes (Cosentino 2006, 50). Indeed the calligraphic roughness of many inscriptions would imply that the seals were locally made. 147 Haldon–Brubaker 2005, 69. 137

Brandes 2003, 206. Indeed, it is hard to be sure what the diokēitai actually did, and who they were subordinated to. The word means an all–purpose middling official in Greek. 149 Ibid., 209. 150 Haldon 1990, 208–15;Haldon 2005, 68. See on the genesis of the theme Chapter 4, pp. 105ff. 151 See infra Chapter 3 pp. 70ff. 152 Haldon–Brubaker 2005, passim. 153 Like that of Sergios, imperial spatharios kai protonotarios of Hellas (ninth century): Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 38, 8.37, Zacos–Veglery 1972, 2359 154 Zuckerman 2004. 155 See above 156 Brandes 2003, 211. 157 Treadgold 1992; Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 25. 158 Possibly, with Corinth as its capital (Sanders 2002); for the unfolding of the events, which leads to the creation of the dismantling of the Karabon Army, see Chapter 3, p. 70. 159 Curta 2004, 107. 160 Kosmas, diokētai of Hellas (eighth –ninth ct.): Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994,26, 8.2.; Kosmas, hypatos and diokētai of Hellas (eighth –ninth ct.): Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 26, 8.3., Zacos–Veglery 1972,2081; Theodore, hypatos and diokētai of Hellas (eighth ct.): Nesbitt– Oikonomides 1994, 27, 8.9, Zacos–Veglery 1972,1044; B. spatharios, kourator and diokētai Ellados (eighth –ninth ct.): Makrì 1996, 46. It is also worth mentioning a lead–seal belonging to Stephanos basilikos spatharios Athinòn (eighth –ninth ct.) to whom has been cautiously 148

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ATHENS role of some officials subordinated to the strategos. In this context, it is relevant to mention another lead–seal belonging to Basil, droungarios of Hellas (dated to the eighth century). ‘He was the head of a military contingent of the thematic army, a subdivision of the tourma161, or a commander of a region providing sailors to the provincial fleet’162. Indeed, in the late 690s there appears a fleet attached to the region of Hellas163, perhaps as a result of the expansion of the Imperial fleet based on Constantinople164. In fact, in addition to the main war–fleet, the empire was also, it seems, developing a screen of naval forces around its most exposed coastal region165. The fleet of Hellas seemed to figure as the main character in this rapid development of the local naval power. Indeed, Theophanes alludes to a fleet of Hellas (and Cyclades Islands), which in 726/7 A.D., revolted against the Emperor Leo and moved to besiege Constantinople166. At the head of the expedition was Agallianos, tourmarch of the Hellas, who was defeated in the battle with the people of capital and then committed suicide. This episodes clearly points out that the fleet of Hellas was so powerful and numerous to attempt to make a bid for the imperial throne. Moreover, the Strategia of Hellas could count on a complex military hierarchical apparatus with a marked (but not exclusive) naval character167. The existence of a tourmarch168 and a droungarios should be interpreted as part of it. It is not by chance indeed that we possess a set of lead seals (dated to the late eighth - early - ninth century) belonging to a certain Epiphanios, who at an earlier stage of his career held the role of tourmarch of Hellas169 and then was elevated to the rank of imperial spatharios and strategos of Hellas170.

Indeed, it is possible that the Theme of Hellas covered only scattered parts of the Greek peninsula (mainly the coastlands and in the eighth century, some inland areas)173, as the Chronica of Monemvasia claims174. This conclusion could be substantiated by the analysis both of the pattern of distribution of ecclesiastic sees175 and the numismatic evidence. A careful examination of the stray coins and coin hoards found in Greece, has indeed pointed out that the main cities of the Greek peninsula (Corinth176, Athens, Olympia, Patras) also remained inhabited in the seventh and eight century177, belying the old theory of an abandonment of the urban centres178. If, in this period some parts of the Greek peninsula were not under Byzantine political, administrative and military control179, this possibly owed more to the fact that they were not strategically relevant, than to the (supposedly catastrophic) invasion set out by politically unorganized tribal entities who came in waves to settle mainly in the rugged and mountainous hinterland180. A simple exercise of counterfactual history could help to make my point. If we ignored for a moment the sigillographic evidence and we asserted that the urban network was in complete disarray and the Byzantine government maintained control of only a small strip of coastal lands, how could we interpret the references to the pestilence travelling from Sicily to Greece in 745/6 A.D.181? Or the passage of Theophanes, referring to Constantine V who, in 754 A.D. patronized the resettling of families coming from the islands, Hellas and the southern parts (meaning, the Peloponnesos182) in Constantinople, to therby increase the local population183? Or the allusion (again in Theophanes) to the restoration of Valentinian’s aqueduct in Constantinople brought about by the 500 artisans and clay–workers that Constantine V collected from different parts of Hellas and the islands in 765–6 A.D.184? Or again, the reference to the empress–to– be Eirene who sailed from Athens to make her triumphal entrance in the capital in 768–9 A.D.185? It seems to me clear that relations between Greece and the capital were far from being interrupted or diminished, and that the political and military control over Hellas continued, although with some limitations due to strategic and geographical necessities186. Further evidence to this conclusion is brought by the scarce ceramics available: ‘Glazed White ware found in Athens, Corinth and Aigina point to a survival of a medium distance exchange pattern, focussed on Constantinople, as

The creation of the Themes of Peloponnese171 and Kephallonia in 809 A.D. by the hands of Nikephoros I (who decided to resettle the Slavs living in parts of Greece in these newly–founded themes), followed a series of military expeditions prompted by Constantinople in order to gain the upper hand in Greece172. These two new themes were indeed carved out from the old Helladic Theme, which as a result was substantially diminished. attached the title of diokētai (Brandes 2003, 214 and Zacos–Veglery 19723051) 161 See infra. 162 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 27. 163 Haldon 1999, 73. 164 Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 32. 165 Ibid., 74. 166 Theoph., 559–61. Also Nikeph. 60.7. 167 Avramea 2001; Treadgold 1995; Trombley 2001; Charanis 1970 168 Two more lead–seals of tourmarches of Hellas are known for the seventh and eighth century (Nesbitt–Oikonomides, 48) together with an early ninth–century tourmarchessa mentioned by Theodore Studites (Theodore Studites, 498.) 169 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994,48, 8.61 (a) and (b); Zacos–Veglery 1972,1876 (a) and (b) 170 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 40, 8.42; Zacos–Veglery 1972,1875. 171 De Them., II, 6. On this Curta 2004, 111ff. 172 Theoph., 641ff.: 783 A.D. Empress Irene sent the Patrikios Stauracius with a large army against the Slavs and he, passing through Thessaloniki and the Hellas, subjected and made the whole region tributary to the empire. Theoph., 661: 805 A.D. Nikephoros I brought back the entire Peloponnesos under the Byzantine sway, “creating a new ecclesiastical structure, resettling and undergoing a process of re–hellenisation” (Hendy 1985, 82).

See above, 42. Lemerle 1963, 28–9; Avramea 1997, 67ff. 175 Hendy 1985, 84–5. 176 Sanders 2002 177 Avramea 1997, 73–6. 178 Bon 1951; Metcalf 1962 (a); Metcalf 1962 (b). 179 Willibald depicted Monemvasia (on the Eastern coast of the Peloponnesos) as being in Slawinia Terra (in a Slav Land). (Willibald XV, I, 93). See on this Curta 2004 and Kardulias 2005, 107ff. 180 As results from the toponymical analysis: see Avramea 1997, 80. 181 Theoph., 585. 182 The term is tòn katonikòn meròn, an expression used since Strabo’s times to describe the Peloponnese. 183 Theoph., 593–4. 184 Ibid, 608. 185 Ibid., 613. 186 Curta 2004, 108-9. 173 174

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) a diminished, but still substantial, fiscally supported centre for commercial exchange’187. Finally, the large number of lead seals, dated to the eighth or ninth century, found in the Aegean islands188 also corroborate this idea, since this shows, with all probability, the extent of political, military (and ecclesiastical) Byzantine power across the entire Aegean sea, thanks to its naval predominance189.

since archaeological excavations have yielded some seals belonging to diokētai dated to the eighth – ninth centuries. The complexity of this state machinery is increased by the existence of some eighth century Slav archōntoi (shown by some lead–seals198), whose jurisdiction covered those Slavic tribes settled on Greek territory, loosely linked to Byzantine local government. Lastly, the appearance of the first protonotarioi of Hellas and the creation of two new themes (lessening the importance of the old Helladic Theme199), possibly signalled a transformation in the local system of government with Byzantium more in control (although still in need of ninth century Slav archōntoi) of the Slavic areas of settlement.

To sum up, much of Greece remained deeply rooted in the administrative, political and military imperial network, even during the so–called Slav invasions, which seemed to pave the way to a pacific coexistence with the local population190. Indeed, when the Prefectura Illyrici cut back its jurisdiction to Thessaloniki (due to the Avar, Slav191 and Bulgar192 incursions193), the old province of Achaia continued to exist, though probably with a revised fiscal and administrative (pre–thematic?) system, as evidenced by the seals of both the diokētai, and one archōn194. Furthermore, a military apparatus (the army of the Karabisianoi) matched the administrative–civic machinery, with its own hierarchy. In the late seventh century, with the creation of the Theme of Hellas, the droungarioi and the tourmarchoi subjected to the strategos seated in Corinth should be regarded as the commanders of the regional naval detachments, when the central fleet developed local branches to face the Slav195 and (later) Arab196 incursions targeting the Aegean shores. Although the Theme did not have a peculiar and exclusive naval character197, its paramount maritime relevance was owed to both the geography of the Greek peninsula and the Aegean islands, and its strategic location along the main routes linking Italy (and Sicily and Africa) with Constantinople. However, a double hierarchy (both military and fiscal–administrative) seems to have continued to exist,

*

*

*

Athens did not play a main role in these events, which changed the administrative and political face of Greece. Some lead–seals of both archōntoi and strategoi have been discovered during the excavations at the Agora and elsewhere in the city200, but they do not allow any conclusion on the historical trajectories of Athens. As we will see, some evidence comes from the excavations and the analysis of coins, but, again, the conclusions about the role of the city in the civic and military Byzantine machinery of government are more deductive than factual201. Even one of the graffiti at the Parthenon, mentioning Leon, basilikòs protospatarios kai strategòs Ellados202 is too late (circa 848 A.D.) to assume anything about Athens as a possible centre of fiscal administration in the seventh and eighth centuries. Instead, the relevance of Athens as a main ecclesiastical hub of the Metropolis of Achaia203 is much better documented. Here I will focus my attention on Athens as a bishopric of the Achaia ecclesiastical province, as documented both by literary sources (such as the lists of signatures of the Synods or ecclesiastical Councils) and by the sigillographic and epigraphic evidence, notably the graffiti on the Parthenon.

Wickham 2005, 783. On this argument see also Chapter 3, pp. 79ff. and Chapter 4, pp. 110, ff. 188 Vassos–Penna 1995; Avramea 1997, 98–101. 189 Although the loss of Crete to the Arabs century altered the strategic balance of the Eastern Mediterranean , ‘probably in response to their depredations and raids (and after a major defeat inflicted to a Byzantine fleet off of Thasos) alongside the Kybirraiōtai the North Aegean islands were erected into the maritime theme of the Aigaion Pelagos and the southern ones into that of Samos’ (Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 47). 190 Avramea 1997, 85ff; Avramea 2001. Contra Volling 2001. 191 Charanis 1950; Lemerle, 1954; Metcalf 1962; Charanis 1970; Avramea 2001 192 On the Bulgar incursion see Agathias , V, 11–20, 23ff.: In 558–9 A.D, some Bulgars known as Koutigours under a chieftain named Zabergan crossing the frozen Danube in the winter, made their way unchallenged through the province of Schythia and Moesia and in Thrace they diverted in three groups […] the third group sent into Greece, plundered Macedonia and Thessaly but were stopped by the garrison at the Thermopylae. See Setton 1950. 193 Curta 2004, 81-90. 194 See above pp. 42ff. 195 Mirac. St. Demet., I, 175.6: an immense crowd of Slavic people made some monoxyles (small ships carved out from a single trunk of a tree) and took the sea to ravage the entire Thessaly and its islands, together with the shores of Hellas, the Cyclads and the most of Illyricum. According to Lemerle, this raid occurred in 614 A.D. since it is also mentioned by Isidore of Seville (see Commentary, Mirac. St. Demet., II, 85ff.) 196 Curta 2004, 107-8; Setton 1975. On the chronological articulation of the Arab raids in the Aegean Sea see Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 26 ff. and Chapter 3, pp. 68-9. 197 In this sense, Athens was, beyond any doubt, the best Aegean port in the Theme, hence, for example, the reference to the sea–journey of Empress Eirene (see above p.43). 187

The episcopal seat of Athens always remained a simple bishopric of the province of Achaia, subordinated to the Metropolitan of Corinth204. The bishop of Athens did not attend the two Councils of Ephesos (431 A.D. and 449 A.D.), nor did he attend the Council of Chalcedon (451 A.D.). The first mention of the bishop of Athens is in the letter written by the Emperor Leo I to the Eastern Metropolitans (dated to 457 A.D.), which included Athanasius of Athens among the twenty bishops of the Achaia to whom the letter was addressed205. One year later, another bishop of Athens (Anatolios) was included in the list of signatures of the Synod of Constantinople206, together with the bishops of Colonea and Platea. Apart from a brief passage of John of Ephesos, which mentions a Seibt 1999; Curta 2004, 82-4; 106-7. Oikonomides 1972, 351: the patrikios and strategos of Hellas was hierarchically subordinated to those of Peloponnese and Kephallonia. 200 Makri 1996. 201 Kazanaki–Lappa 2002; Nesbitt–Oikonokides 1994, 49. 202 Orlandos–Vranousis 1973, 128ff. 203 Brehier 1936; Pietri 1994. 204 Brehier 1936, 17. 205 Mansi VIII, 611–12. 206 Ibid., VII, 911ff. 198 199

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ATHENS small Monophysite community of Triteites, which lived in the city in the mid–sixth century under its own bishop207, the sources then remain silent about the bishopric of Athens until 680 A.D., when John II attended the Sixth Ecumenical Council in Constantinople as representative of Pope Agatho208. The seat of Athens was then listed in the second Notitia Episcopatuum209 (the so–called Taktikon of Patriarch Nikephoros, dated to 810 A.D.) as Metropolis of the Eparchia of Hellas. This occurred well after 732–3 A.D., when Emperor Leo III transferred Illyricum, Calabria and Sicily from the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of the Roman papacy to that of the Patriarchate of Constantinople210.

to link the almost contemporary elevation of Athens to Archbishopric and the separation of the newly constituted Theme of Peloponnesos from the old Theme of Hellas. The previously mentioned epigraphic inscription, found among the graffiti of the Parthenon, recalling Leon basilikòs kai strategos of Hellas, points to a renewed importance of the city as a part of the Byzantine ecclesiastical, military and administrative system in the ninth century, a role, which perhaps Athens had never lost even in the preceding century. Indeed, the continuous vitality of the main trunk route and of the sea–links between Constantinople and Greece has already been stressed. The role of Athens as one of the main ports along this network of shipping routes is likely to have been of fundamental significance, overshadowing the harbour of Corinth, located on the “wrong side” of the Aegean basin; we have just pointed out the ecclesiastical relevance of Athens as episcopal seat, which spanned from the sixth century to its elevation to Metropolitan status in the early ninth century and it is mirrored by the evidence provided by the graffiti of the Parthenon.

Different bishops are known to have resided in Athens, thanks to the epigraphic evidence carved on the columns of the Parthenon of Athens, already converted into a church in the late seventh century211. Here, some graffiti, dated to the period between 550 and 848 A.D.212, mention a few of members of the ecclesiastical (bishops and diakonoi) and military (strategos) local hierarchy. In two cases the evidence provided by the graffiti overlaps with the sigillographic source: indeed, two lead seals mention the same Marinos and Ioannis213 referred to in the epigraphic inscriptions.

In sum, we have already traced the strategic lines of reassessment of the military and administrative power of the Byzantine State in Greece. The trace of this re– organization can be followed in both the pre–thematic (army of the Karabisianoi and Archōntia, both overlapping the surviving provincial bureaucratic layers of the central administration) and thematic periods (starting with the creation of the Themes of Hellas by the end of the seventh century) due largely to the Athenian sigillographic and (later) epigraphic evidence. Although Athens was not the capital of this theme, its strategic importance is attested by Constans II’s expedition stopover in 662/3 A.D. Its military significance is signified by the coin hoards pointing to the state–interventions in mobilizing troops in the first quarter of the eighth century216, while its administrative–fiscal role is emphasized by the sigillographic evidence that forms an “a contrario” argument attesting the consequences of the newly–built theme on the city. The creation of the Theme coincides with the start of the Byzantine revival in the ninth century and its importance to the Imperial government becomes more and more evident.

So, thanks to the sigillographic and epigraphic evidence, it is possible to set out an almost chronologically uninterrupted list of the names of the bishops of Athens from the late sixth to the early ninth century, showing that the city retained its role in the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Moreover, the engraved epitaphs of the Parthenon contradict a possible elevation of Athens to Archbishopric in 810 A.D., since the last bishop mentioned in the graffiti was Ioannis, who died in 819 A.D. If one accepts the ingenious theory made up by Laurent214, based on a letter of Abbot Hilduin to Louis the Pious215 in 835 A.D., the discrepancy should derive from the fact that Tarasios, Patriarch of Constantinople, had previously raised Athens to the rank of Metropolis, between 784 and 806 A.D. After Tarasios’ death, Corinth protested against the new status of Athens, which was stripped of the Metropolitan title. Athens had the title back only in the second quarter of the ninth century. It is, however, possible John of Ephesos, V, 1–2. Mansi XI, 614ff. 209 Not. Epis., 2.38. 210 Anastos 1957, 14–15. 211 Orlandos–Vranousis 1973, 28. Also ibid., passim: Ioannis ò agiotatos enon episcopos (550 or 595 or 640 A.D.); Theoktistos (603 or 702 A.D.); Andreas ò agiotatos emòn episkopos etous (693 A.D.); Marinos (704 A.D.); Ioannis (713 A.D.); Grigorios (779 A.D.); and, eventually, Ioannis (819 A.D.). On the Parthenon as a church see also Saradi 2006, 80, pointing, however, to an earlier date for the conversion of the temple into a church (second half of the fifth century) 212 Indeed, the graffiti provide us with references to the month, day, week and indiction. Reckoning the exact year in which the single graffito was carved becomes indeed very simple. Other graffiti refer to the period between the ninth and the eleventh century. In contrast, many others carved inscriptions are too ruined to be dated or interpreted (Orlandos– Vranousis 1973, 3–45) 213 Marinos, bishop of Athens: Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 50, 9.3; Zacos–Veglery 1972, 925; Laurent V/2 1822. Theodosius, bishop of Athens: Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1994, 51, 9.4; Laurent V/1 587. 214 Laurent 1943. 215 P.G., CVI, 19 BC. 207 208

2.3. The City Athens has as its natural core the Acropolis, the great rock standing apart not only from the neighbouring town but also the whole of Attica with its triad of mountains, Hymettos, Penteli and Parnes217. Even when one is on the mountain slopes and the Acropolis is many hundreds of metres below, it stands out as the landmark and the magnet to which one’s eyes instinctively turns towards218. Coupled with the lower hill of the Areopagus to the West, the Acropolis was dominated by the sanctuary of the Parthenon and by many temples of the classic period. Standing at the Infra p. 56. Thallon–Hill 1953, 3. 218 Ibid. From the side of the sea, whether one approaches from the Piraeus or Phaleron, or looks from one of the promontories along the coast, it stands dominating the landscape. 216 217

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

5. The area within the Theistocleian Walls (after Travlos, in Frantz 1988, p. 20)

foot of the rock, the city was contained with the impressive set of so–called Themistoclean–Valerian219 walls.

from the Piraeus leading into the heart of the city also reached the southern part of the Agora and there it forked: the North road joined the later East–West Street; the South Road, which headed to the east running around the lower slope at the Areopagus, became the main thoroughfare for this area223.

These encompassed a vast area, which included the three hills of the Acropolis, Areopagus and Pnyx and stretched up to the Ilissos vale to the South: even then, some classic buildings (like the Stadion and the so–called Kynosarges) stood outside the barrier. Different gates opened up along this massive enceinte. Among these, the so–called Sacred Gate at the Dypilon is arguably the most important. In fact, the Sacred Way (Panathenaic Way), a processional road, which retained its importance until the sixth century A.D.220, entered the city through this gate. From the Sacred Gate the Panathenaic Way, bordered by a series of colonnaded porticos, reached the Agora. Here, the road divided: one branch, laid out in the mid–fifth century A.D. (East–West Street) continued eastward, finally terminating at the Library of Hadrian (a path partially followed by the northern side of the later post–Herulian walls)221, while the processional road retained a more informal character222, crossing the Agora and heading south–eastward to the Boulè Gate on the west slope of the Acropolis. The road

As mentioned above, the Themistocleian enceinte temporarily lost its relevance when, after the disastrous Herulian incursion (267 A.D.), a new set of walls224 was built to defend a small part of the urban area, including the Acropolis and the neighbouring northern area225 up to the Library of Hadrian226. Along the western side of the enceinte227, south of the Stoa of Attalos, there stood Ibid., 15. Saradi 2006, 235; 367. 225 Frantz 1988, 125ff.; Camp 1998, 198. 226 Setton 1975, 233: ‘beginning at the entrance of the Acropolis, the wall ran north– along the east side of the Street of the Panathenea– to the Stoa of Attalos, which was incorporated in it; […] from the north end of the Stoa, the Wall was extended east as far as the massive Library of Hadrian, which was also incorporated into the circuit, and from here the wall travelled south, under the lofty eastern end of the Acropolis, to the Odeum of Pericles, […] the Theater of Dyonisius […] the Odeum of Pericles […] and that of Herodes Atticus. Finally from here the wall climbed up to the entrance of the Acropolis’. 227 Ibid., 15. Made mainly of spolia of the old buildings of the Agora, the enceinte was made of two faces built with large and regular blocks and an inner core carelessly laid and consisting of all sorts of architectural fragments. Two coins, found in its rubble core, prove that it was not built 223 224

The classic enceinte was indeed restored by the hands of the emperor Valerian (253–60 A.D.), a few years before the Herulian sack. See Zonaras, XII, 23; P.G. CXXXIV, 1064) 220 Saradi 2006, 238-9. 221 Frantz 1988, 15 222 Ibid., 28. 219

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ATHENS a gateway, flanked by two massive rectangular towers228, through which a road detaching from the Panathenaic Way entered the city. This road (so–called Broad Street)229 led to the Roman Agora and was flanked by the Stoa of Pantainos230, which in the fifth century was rebuilt as part of a new large two–storey residential building231, encroaching on part of a former colonnaded portico232. This “urban villa” occupied a sort of insula, bordered to the west by another street coming from a gate located along the northern section of the post–Herulian walls. Heading from North to South, this street met on the main thoroughfare crossing the entire walled area from East to West (Tripodos Street). Entering the walled area through another gate south of the great towered gateway233, Tripodos Street continued to the East, bounding the southern part of the Acropolis. Here, recent archaeological excavations have shed light on a set of main roads laid down and connected with the main gates in the Themistocleian walls234: these roads remained in use until the seventh century, marking an area characterized by building activity from the fourth to the sixth century235. I shall return to this last problem below.

Synesios243, both epigraphic and material evidences point to a “building boom” at the turn of the fifth century. In the Agora, this intensive building activity244 (including the restoration of the Library of Hadrian) seemed to have been partially patronized by Herculius, Praetorian Prefect of Illyricum (408–410 A.D.)245. Few years later, the Library underwent a further restoration phase: a tetraconch– building (possibly a church246) was erected in the middle of a former peristyle, where a large water–pool was formerly located247. Tetraconch aside, the public building activity of the early fifth century is solidly documented by the epigraphic evidence248, the archaeological excavations249, and by the literary250 evidence. I shall consider the problem of private building activity shortly. The outburst of public building activity included the restoration of the old Themistocleian–Valerian walls (possibly indicating a settlement outside the Herulian walls), the renovation of the Sundial of the archōn Phaedrus251 and the Bema of the Theatre of Dionysius (probably financed by the same archōn)252; the rebuilding of the Broad Street between the old Agora and the Roman Agora253, the so–called Hallenstrasse and Festtor in the Keramikos area254, the Metroòn255and the large building behind the Stoa of

Although the archaeological evidence is incomplete, it seems that the fourth century was a period of relative decline and larger–scale abandonment, especially in the Agora236, where most if not all the buildings, both public and private, suffered from the effects of fire237. According to the traditional historiographical interpretation of the fate of the city, Alaric’s raid epitomized the lowest ebb in the history of Athens238, although possibly only the urban outskirts and the Agora239– i.e. the settlement outside the walls– suffered from the incursion240. However, after a period during which civic, administrative and economic life had been seriously disturbed, the departure of Alaric conventionally signalled the beginning of a period of renaissance, regarding mainly the old Agora241. It is again possible that this prosperity is more apparent than real, owing to the fact that we have only good archaeology in the Agora (although nowadays some other areas of the city have also been partially excavated242) and some literary sources pointing to an outburst of public and private building activity. Indeed, apart from a passage in a letter of

Synesios, Ep. 135 (136) in P.G. LXVI, 1524 BC. Synesios wrote in the early fifth century that Athens (where he stayed for a while during a trip to Alexandria) once celebrated for its monuments and philosophical studies, had nothing grand but its famous place names. He also added that the famous Stoa Poikilè, located at the northwestern corner of the Agora, was stripped about that time of the famous paintings of Polygnotus of Thasos portraying the battle of Marathon. See also Day 1942, 262–6 and Saradi 2006, 175. 244 Saradi 2006, 238. 245 Frantz 1988, 63ff. A dedicatory inscription carved on the wall of the Library of Hadrian by the hands of the sophist Plutarch, pointed to Herculius’ role in the restoration of this complex see Sironen 1994, n.31. Possibly it was the seat of the cadastral archives, but a complex dedicated also to the imperial cult (Castrèn 1994, 12). See also Karivieri 1994(a). As for Plutarch see Frantz 1988, 63–4; Sironen 1994, 50.Frantz 1988, 63; 246 Ibid. The building dated to the first or second decade of the fifth century or later, according to its building technique, the stylistic analysis of the mosaic–floors and some pottery sherds found in its foundations. Also Frantz 1988, 72ff. 243

The Tetrachonch could be tentatively linked to the political relevance of the complex (a forum?), although there is no evidence pointing to the involvement of the Empress Eudocia (wife of the Emperor Theodosius II; Contra Karivieri 1994(a). Indeed, a part from an inscription (according to which a statue of the very Empress was erected somewhere in Athens [ Sironen 1994, 52–4]) and the oral tradition (attributing to Eudocia the building of twelve churches [On the folkloristic anecdotes concerning the Empress Eudocia –included the oral tradition regarding the 12 churches founded by her– see Burman 1994, 69–70; 82] one should regard any reference to the role of the Empress in the “building boom” as a mirage, due to the Athenian origins of her family (Malalas 14; Evagrius 1.20. See on this also Cameron 1969, 134) 247 Karivieri 1994(a), 103. Also Travlos 1971, 244–5. 248 Sironen 1994. 249 Frantz 1988; Thompson–Wycherley 1972; Thompson 1954; Karivieri 1996; Frantz 1965; Frantz 1969. 250 See on this Burman 1994. 251 Sironen 1994, 46; 252 Ibid. Also Castrèn 1994, 9. 253 Frantz 1988, 65; Castrèn 1994, 9 and Saradi 2006, 238-9. 254 Castrèn 1994. 255 Frantz 1988, 59. Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 211.This building was transformed into a basilica–like structure, possibly a synagogue, at the turn of the fifth century (as pointed out by the numismatic evidence).

before the reign of Probus (A.D. 280–2). It also had some projecting towers and were perched by eight gates, five of which coincided with the point of entrance of at least three main arteries 228 Setton 1975, 240: “where the little chapel of Panagia Pyrgoritissa once stood”. 229 Ibid., 67. 230 Setton 1975, 232. Frantz 1988, 67. 231 Camp 2003, 30. 232 Sodini 1984, 351. 233 Setton 1975, 240 234 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 29ff. 235 Ibid., 37–38. 236 Saradi 2006, 238-9. 237 Camp 1998, 198; Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 211. 238 Frantz 1988, 48–54; Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 210; Setton 1975, 235. 239 Camp 1988, 199. 240 See above. 241 Camp 1988, 200; Frantz 1988, 55ff; Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 210; Burman 1994, 82ff ; Castrèn 1994, 9ff. 242 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Attalos256; the installation of an aqueduct traversing the Agora (connected with an elaborate water–system)257, possibly linked to the renovation of three baths in the southern sector of the Agora258; the building of both a large Round structure259 along the Panathenaic Way (at the intersection with a road running along the west side of the Agora) and a Stoà260 along the very Panathenaic Way abutting into the Stoà Poikilè; the refurbishing of the enormous bath–house of Sintagma Square261and, lastly, the construction of the so–called Palace of Giants. This latter building, variously regarded as an official residence, a gymnasium, the university complex262, was built on the ruins of the old Odeion of Agrippa and the South Stoa263. According to Castrèn, the Palace was a great suburban villa of exceptional dimensions: it was in no way unusual264 with respect to its later western counterparts, except that it was much bigger than other similar buildings in Greece265. So, these enormous residential buildings could be easily interpreted as a sort of link with the numerous living structures266, which have come to light in different parts of the urban area. In all probability, these rich urban villas belonged to the members of the ruling class of landowners, who are less easy to document in the literary sources. I do not want to give a detailed description of these villas here, since both Sodini and Frantz have dealt exhaustively with this problem267. However it is worth noting that these lavishly–built villas, located outside the post–Herulian enceinte, were often similar in plan, size, architectural decoration and structural annexes (like baths or latrines): ‘there is little in general plan to distinguish them from the important houses of the major cities of the empire in the same period’268. Moreover, as Sodini269 has clearly pointed out, they were located not only on the slopes of

the Areopagus270 but in many different areas of the city271. Indeed, recent excavations in an area to the south and east of the Acropolis, have cast light on a large number of residential building complexes (perhaps an entire quarter), endowed with courtyards and mosaic floors272. This being so, it is possible to consider the so–called House of Proclus273 as part of this set of residential complexes. Other remains of fifth–century residential buildings have been found in an area just north of the Theseion–Hephaisteion (MM’ area. Here was rich evidence of habitation, which should be regarded as a part of a large suburb spreading from the north–west corner of the Acropolis to the Panathenaic Way, and which was flanked by two Stoas (North and South) both undergoing restoration in the early fifth century274. An important element in the lavish expenditure on their residential buildings by the Athenian aristocracy is that this must have contributed to the establishment of an economic demand for goods and services, which will have underpinned regional economic sophistication275. Indeed a good deal of artisanal activity is documented in Athens during the fifth and sixth century, plainly sustained by the strength of the wealth deriving from landowning. As elsewhere (Gortyn and Ephesos)276 this artisanal activity is mirrored in the artefacts of urban material culture (mainly ceramics) through which the technological level and the scale of production could be assessed277. As previously noted we do not yet possess a satisfactory analysis of ceramics for Athens; however, a recent publication on Athenian lamps278 provides us with some useful hints, which can be compared with the results of the archaeological excavations at the Agora and the stylistic examination of the architectural fragments belonging to the first urban churches279. As for the lamps, Frantz 1988, 37ff.: describing a group of buildings on the north slope of the Areopagus, which seem by size and relationship to each other to have served a common purpose. 271 Also Setton 1975, 248–51. 272 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 38ff. 273 Frantz 1988, 42–3; Sodini 1984, 350ff.; Castrèn 1994, 13ff. The so–called House of Proclus is a large building on the south side of the Acropolis named after one of the diadochs of the Philosophic School who allegedly resided here This lavishly–built residential building has been partially excavated, although ‘it appears clearly that we deal with a no ordinary house by Athenian standards. A large room opens into a wide apse; the lower part of the wall of the apse was surfaced with marble revetment slabs […] and in it there were seven niches suitable for sculpture. The floor of both parts of the room was covered with mosaic in geometric patterns […]. Against the outer face of the east– wall of the apse, was a small shrine of Cybele, identified by a statuette of the goddess’ (Frantz 1988, 43). As noted earlier, the house has been linked with Proclus because his biographer described the location of his residence in this area (Marinus, Vita Procli, 29). The house has come to symbolize the close connection between paganism and philosophy. A connection which was implemented by the recovering of some objects (statue, fragment of inscriptions, a number of grave offerings) interpreted as evidence for pagan inhabitants later ousted by the mounting Christian influence. 274 Setton 1975, 249–50. 275 Wickham 2005, 718–9. 276 See Chapter 3 and Chapter 4. 277 Wickham 2005, 700–2. 278 Karivieri 1996. 279 On the Christianization of the urban space of Athens mainly Saradi 2006, 239 with further bibliography. 270

Dated to this period according to the stylistic analysis of some bits of mosaics (Frantz 1988, 65) 257 Frantz 1988, 29. 258 Ibid., 30ff. 259 Ibid., 59. 260 Ibid,. 61. 261 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 149–61. 262 Ibid,. 64; Castrèn 1994, 10; Burman 1994, 82ff. Camp 1998, 200; Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 211–12; Setton 1975,240 and Saradi 2006, 249; 257; 276. The Palace is named after a set of statues coming from the Odeion and standing against the newly–built aqueduct on the other side of the Panathenaic Way. 263 Frantz 1988, 65: Conclusive evidence about the construction of the Palace between about 410 and 425 A.D. was provided by pottery and coins. 264 Except for being just outside one set of city walls and inside another: a condition which could be found–for example– at Daphne just outside Antioch (a settled area closest to the city where residential villas could be found). Wickham 2005, 454; 620. 265 Castrèn 1994, 11. Like in the aforementioned villas, there are here facades resembling triumphal arches, large ceremonial courts, thermae, residential areas and large spaces possibly reserved for public uses. For a typological and socio-economic analysis of these villas see Ellis 1988 and Ellis 2004. 266 Sodini 1984; Frantz 1988, 35–57; Setton 1975; Shear 1975; Thompson–Wycherley, 214; Parlama–Stampolidis 2001; Camp 1998; Karivieri 1994(b). 267 Frantz 1988; Sodini 1984. 268 Frantz 1988, 37. 269 Sodini 1984. 256

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ATHENS they show clearly that after the mid–fifth century the potters ‘abandoned their traditional settlement area around the Pompeion Area (close to the Dypilon Gate) to build new kilns outside the Themistoclean walls and near the Agora’280. Indeed, several pottery dumps have been found to the west of the Stoa of Attalos281, whereby the industrial character of the Agora in this period thus emerges clearly from the excavations, which also provide us with evidence of bronze foundries282 (remaining in use until the sixth century) and a set of flour–mills283. Unfortunately, scholars have interpreted this process of demonumentalization of the Agora less as a sign of economic vitality than as a symptom of decline284. Indeed, ‘in Athens the “Greek agora” was clearly becoming de-monumentalized by the fifth century […] all the same, good quality contemporary residential buildings certainly existed’285. The continuous activity of the ceramic workshops in the late fifth and sixth century had its turning point in the early sixth century, when the increasing importance of North–African and Asian lamps highly diminished the exportation of local products286. However, little by little, the local artisans became more and more expert on the imitation of the foreign imports. This “pirate copying” indeed points to a high level of local demand and to a diversified and structured local market. A similar decline in imported objects (including lamps, African Red Slip ware, Aegean and Palestinian amphorae) is documented also for Olympia287, while some Palestinian amphorae dated to the early sixth century have been found in the excavations at the Agora288. This being so, one could be tempted to find in this evidence a confirmation of the complex overlay of fiscal and commercial traffic in the fifth and sixth century Aegean, as noted by Wickham and Abadie–Reynal289. This is mainly because the Athenian lamps point to importation from Africa and Asia Minor, implying a possible role of the city both in the long– distance (fiscal) route to the capital and in the smaller scale but more complex commercial network. Indeed it is possible that the merchant, referred to in a letter of Synesios as enjoying a good deal of prosperity, would be involved in this very network290.

in archaeological excavations. Despite this, from the analysis of the fragmentary architectural decoration of these churches we can recognize the persistence of a peculiar classic stylistic tradition which points clearly to the existence of local workshops292 that remained active even during the sixth century: even lamp–production continued unabated until the early seventh century293, often imitating mythological motifs294. In the Justinian period a row of shops was added along the front of some houses along the southern part of the Agora, while the south colonnade of the Stoa on the Panathenatic Way was partitioned295. Furthermore, a large structure overlying the east–end of the South Stoa was divided longitudinally to create another row of shops296. The economic vitality of the city was twinned with its monumental vigour. Indeed, during Justinian’s reign the Themistocleian wall (and possibly also the post–Herulian enceinte) underwent a serious restoration297. It is unclear if this system of walls enabled Athens to survive during the dark ages298, since this idea derives from the classic historiographical interpretation of a city in disarray after the disastrous Slavic incursions. By the same token, there are no grounds to argue that the closure of the Neo–Platonic school took its toll on the city and on its pagan milieu299. I myself prefer to focus my attention on the fact that apart from the fortifications, Justinian seemed also interested in refurbishing the urban water–supply network, with the building of a huge cistern against the inner face of the post–Herulian walls and the restoration of the Klepsidia system300. Furthermore although the public re–building programme retained a paramount importance, it was the continuous vitality of the private aristocratic residences that is most visible element in the evidence. This vitality should come indeed as no surprise, considering the level of urban artisanal and commercial activity. Both the urban villas on the Areopagus slopes301 and the residential quarter south of the Acropolis (with the House of Proclus)302, as well as the area of the “Byzantine houses” around the Theseion–Hephaisteion303, reveal a good deal of continuity. As for the villas on the Areopagus slope, this assertion is corroborated by the analysis of the filling of some wells of a room with an elaborate water supply–system304. In two cases (the so–called House B and House C) the pottery sherds and pieces of sculptures composing the filling layers point to uninterrupted use into the sixth and occasionally

The flourishing of artisanal activity is noticeable also in the architectural decoration of the fifth and sixth century churches built in Athens. Indeed, according to a stylistic analysis of some surviving architectural ornaments, a large number of churches must have been built in Athens, although only few ecclesiastical buildings (the Tetraconch, the Basilica on the Ilissos and two other three–aisled basilicas291) have been identified

Kazanaki–Lappa 1993, 690. Karivieri 1996; Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 214. 294 Saradi 2006, 239. 295 Frantz 1988, 84. 296 Ibid. 297 It is not certain that an articulated and tripartite system of walls was put up by the emperor as a part of his programme of reconstructing the castle of cities all over Greece. On this see De Aedificiis IV, 2. 23–4; Anekdota XXVI.33. Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, 641; Concina 2003, 128. 298 Frantz 1988, 84. 299 An idea recently reinstated by Saradi (Saradi 2006, 80; 239). 300 Frantz 1988, 29. 301 Ibid., 38ff.; Sodini 1984. 302 Frantz 1988, 38ff; Sodini 1984, 350; Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 303 Setton 1975, 249. 304 Frantz 1988, 42; 47–8; Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 208–9 292 293

Karivieri 1996, 23. Ibid. 282 Frantz 1988, 80. 283 Ibid. Also Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 213 and Parsons 1936. 284 Saradi 2006, 450-1. 285 Wickham 2005, 626. 286 Karivieri 1996, 21ff. 287 Volling 2001, 306. 288 Robertson 1959, 113ff. 289 Wickham 2005, 780ff.; Abadie–Reynal 1989. 290 Synesios, ep. 53, 125–6. See on this Day 1942. 291 Frantz 1988, 72–3; Frantz 1965, 194ff.; Kazanaki–Lappa 1993, 690ff.; Blegen 1946, 373–4. 280 281

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) restoration to the central drainage conduit under one of the streets crossing the quarter’309. The settlement in the area around the Theseion–Hephaisteion, by contrast, declined rapidly ‘in the troubled decades that followed the death of Justinian, although some habitation continued here, for the wells in this area have yielded pottery finds from the sixth century A.D.’310 Restorations aside, houses of very new construction were also built in the Agora area in this period311: some houses clustered around the Palace of Giants with an elaborate sixth–century plumbing system and a latrine emptying into a terracotta drain; and the private houses that were constructed against the south–eastern quadrant of the so– called Tholos in 500 A.D. (according to the numismatic312 and ceramic evidence): the interior arrangement was irregular but included two courtyards313. Possibly, the new residential buildings all point to a good level of wealth accumulation by the local elites, based on a city–level scale of landowning: the elites continued to live in the city and their wealth structured the urban economy and, possibly, local politics. In this sense it is worth noticing that cultural change affected those elites, owing to the increasing influence of Christianity. This is emphasised by the late sixth century transformation of the manifold temples of Athens into lavishly decorated churches and to the functional change of the Palace of Giants. There is no necessity to link the conversion of the Athenian temples to the closing down of the Neo–Platonic school314 or to the crisis of the pagan milieu, which should support the role of Athens as main educational centre. Indeed, one may see in this Christianization of the old symbols of the classic Athens a sign of a new cultural interest in aristocratic–patronage and social differentiation of the elites. In this sense one could easily pair the conversion of the Parthenon315, Olympieion316 and the Asclepeion317, with the new Christian function of the so -called Palace of Giants. The latter building, indeed, originally used as a Praetorium318, after a brief period of abandonment at the beginning of 530s, enjoyed a period

6. The MM’ excavated area (after Setton, 1975b, p. 249)

into the seventh century305. Moreover House C showed signs of a radical transformation306 which Frantz and Saradi interpret as evidence of a transition to a Christian use of an official character after the closing down of the Neo–Platonic school307. On the contrary, Sodini308 prefers to emphasize the lack of any archaeological grounds for this interpretation. In my view, this transformation points to the existence of people with enough money and interest in an urban lifestyle to refurbish an expensive house. As for the residential quarter to the south of the Acropolis, a large quantity of pottery (including some amphorae), lamps, and miniature artefacts (including two plaques in high relief, part of an ornamental veneer of a fifth – sixth century wooden casket), point to a sixth–century phase of alteration and additions to the various buildings. This area was still densely populated, as pointed out by the

309 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 37ff. The restoration was made with spolia taken from the Theatre of Dionysius and the Asklepeion, both abandoned in the fifth century 310 Setton 1975, 250. 311 Frantz 1988, 83. 312 The latest coins are from the reign of Anastasius I. 313 Frantz 1988, 83; Saradi 2006, 239. It included at least ten rooms of different size and shape made of spolia and packed with terracotta tiles. 314 Frantz 1965, 201. 315 Travlos 1971, 445; Frantz 1965, 201; Holtzmann 2004, 241ff.; Saradi 2006, 322; 375. 316 Travlos 1971, 214: as matter of fact it was not a real conversion, since a Christian basilica (built with spolia of the Temple of Zeus) was built close to (and not into) the propileyon of the temple. 317 Frantz 1988, 92; Franzt 1965, 194–5; Travlos 1971, 128–38: this temple remained unabated until the fifth ct., (Marinus, Vita Procli, 29) and, then (possibly in the late years of Justinian’s reign) was converted into a three–aisled basilica dedicated to the Anargyroi Saints. 318 Lavan interpreted this as a symbol of the new role of Late Antique government overseeing urban politics (Lavan 2003, 316).

Thompson–Wycherley 1972, 208–9 Frantz 1988, 48.: re–laying of floors in three rooms, in the peristyle, overlaying a level of pottery dating from the early sixth century. 307 Ibid., 87: “The major innovation was the transformation of the south– east corner into a baptistery” (p.89). Also Saradi 2006, 239; 375. 308 Sodini 1984, 348–9. 305 306

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ATHENS of final occupation319of a possible monastic character320. A particular type of unguent flasks (so-called early-Byzantine ampullae321 dated by Hayes to 550–650 A.D. c.a.), found in large numbers in one of a series of small rooms added against the east section of the southern wall of the Palace together with some pottery–sherds and mid-sixth century coins, could lead us to conclude that they were made as souvenir–boxes for sanctified oil from the Holy Land322. Moreover, the southernmost of the rooms was enlarged and a new room added to the north to accommodate an oil–pressing installation (tentatively dated to the late sixth century, according to the stratigraphical analysis)323. Although we need further excavations and (possibly) analysis of the pottery recovered to corroborate this conclusion, the probable existence of a monastic complex in the Palace of Giants allows us to draw a comparison with Gortyn and Ephesos. In fact, in Gortyn the so–called Praetorium was also converted into a monastic complex in the mid–seventh century: here a good deal of artisanal activity is documented in the archaeological excavations, which have yielded a set of olive–presses of a similar type of those recovered (and dated to the seventh century), in the Palace of Giants324. In Ephesos, pilgrims such as Willibald and Thomas of Farfa, together with tags of eastern relics as those preserved in Sens pointed to a continuity of the role of the city along the shipping trade– routes325. The same could be stated for Athens, where the group of flasks would point to the continuous role of the city in the communications along the ancient sea–trunk linking the Aegean with Italy and the West326. To develop this idea, one could also take into consideration the results of the excavation made at the later Church of St. John the Areopagite on the northern slope of the Areopagus327. Here archaeologists have yielded a poor but extensive cemetery composed of 35 tiled–graves328. Although only a few of the tombs preserved some offerings, the recovered objects included some seventh century jugs, bronze–buckles329 and a bronze reliquary cross, ‘which fits easily into a series of 47 reliquary–crosses (dated to the late sixth–early seventh century) with closest parallel to some exemplars made in Palestine, to be sold to the pilgrims as reliquaries’330. So, one could conclude that Athens, even after the supposed disastrous Slav invasion, retained its importance as both a seat for the local aristocracy (although diminished in wealth and with a new social identity for it included the bishops

and people with local administrative responsibilities), and a stage along the Mediterranean shipping routes. I return to this problem in the section dealing with the seventh–eighth century. It has often been concluded that the flourishing of Athens came abruptly to an end in the late sixth century due to the Slavic incursion, which dealt the final blow to the city331 by bringing about its physical collapse332, as well as marking the end of its importance as one of the main imperial centres of pagan education333and the ebbing away of its political–administrative importance (since it did not become a thematic capital)334. But quite apart from the lack of literary evidence335 for this incursion, the results of the archaeological excavations have only yielded evidence of fire–destruction from the Stoa of Pantainos336, the flour–mills337 and the baths located south of the Agora338 (the latter two categories of buildings being susceptible to fire in any case). Conversely, the survey of the other monumental and residential buildings (like the Palace of Giants, the urban villas on the Areopagus slopes, the residential quarter to the south of the Acropolis, with the House of Proclus, and the Area MM’ around the Theseion– Hephaisteion) revealed less signs of violent destruction than simply of decay and abandonment339. Moreover, even if one takes very literally to the numismatic evidence (six hoards or concentrations of coins in the Agora, and two elsewhere in the city, dated to 580s)340, it would be only possible to conclude that a raid caused an abrupt but temporary interruption in the town–life of Athens341, since later bronze coins dated to the early– and mid– seventh century have been recovered in somewhat good quantity during the excavations at the Agora, pointing to the continued existence of daily transactions. Moreover, even the idea, recently asserted by Kazanaki–Lappa342, that the city shrink into the area of the post–Herulian walls seems not find any confirmation. It is true that the results of archaeological excavations at the so–called House at the Stoa of Pantainos343, do provide us with further evidence of late sixth century destruction–layers, as pointed out by the numismatic evidence recovered in two of the rooms344; but then the house, located in the post–Herulian enceinte, was later rebuilt, with beaten–earth floors and walls dividing up the single rooms345. Since the house was then destroyed

It was a use of very modest scale of its basement, as pointed out by several fragments of sigma tables, lamps of the second half of the sixth ct. with Christian symbols and several Christian ampullae found in its south–west unit. (Frantz 1988, 91). 320 Saradi 2006, 249. 321 Metaxas 2005, 70. 322 Frantz 1988, 91. On this type of flasks see also Vroom 2004, 301-4 with further bibliography. 323 Ibid., 121. A date after 582 A.D. seems likely for the installation of the presses in view of the fact that the east–wall of the original series of rooms had already been destroyed. 324 See Chapter 3, pp. 67ff. 325 See Chapter 4, pp. 103ff. 326 McCormick 2001,199; Curta 2004, 108. 327 Travlos–Frantz 1965. 328 Ibid., 166. 329 See Avramea 1997, 88–9. 330 Travlos–Frantz 1965, 167–8.

Frantz 1988, 93. Camp 1998, 212–13. 333 Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, 641. 334 Concina 2003, 91. 335 See on this Charanis 1970, 17ff. 336 Infra p. 52. 337 Camp 1998, 213; 338 Frantz 1988, 32. 339 Frantz 1988, 90; Setton 1975, 250; Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 39. 340 Frantz 1988, 93. Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, 640; Metcalf 1962 (a); Metcalf 1962(b); Kroll–Miles–Miller 1973; Vryonis 1963; Sodini 1984, 394; Thompson 1954. 341 Metcalf 1962(a), 136. 342 Kazanaki–Lappa 2002, 640 343 Built in c.a. 420 A.D. according to the numismatic and ceramic evidence: see Frantz 1988, 67; Camp 1998, 214. 344 Sodini 1984, 395. 345 Id.

319

331 332

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) and built up again in the late 630s346, one might be tempted to conclude that the residential areas contracted into the third–century fortification after the Slavic raids, while the extra–moenia parts of the city remained abandoned. On the contrary, however although partially disturbed, the urban fabric seemed to retain coherence in quite a wide area of Athens, even after the Slavic incursion: the extra–mural sectors of the city did not lie in a state of abandonment. The conversion of pagan temples into Christian churches continued in the early seventh century, when both the Hephaisteion347and the Erechtheion348 (as pointed out by both the statistical analysis of the ornamental and architectural decoration and the building technique) were transformed into three–aisled basilicas. The analysis of the filling of the wells of the House B and House C on the slope of the Areopagus has yielded evidence of a seventh century reuse349, pointing to a possible squatter occupation (given the scant amount of pottery and coins recovered and the poor maintenance of the buildings350). The private house built against the Tholos also remained in use, although damaged by fire. According to the numismatic and ceramic evidence351, it was later rebuilt in the late sixth - early seventh century and its floors rose. The South–West Bath at the Agora, which suffered from destruction in the late sixth century, was refurbished too, although in the sketchiest manner’352. Finally, a recently discovered cemetery in Sintagma Square (i.e. outside the Themistoclean walls) preserves numismatic evidence for an uninterrupted use until the mid–Byzantine period, pointing to the possible existence of a little hamlet clustered in and around an earlier bath. The cemetery included a group of seventeen Early Christian graves, which according to the coins found were very likely used as ossuaries until the eleventh century or twelfth century A.D.353. I will return to this in the next paragraph. Indeed, it could be easily possible that this community (like in the ruined Praetorium area in Gortyn) took advantage of the water pouring down from the ruins of an aqueduct and a system of water pipes354.

city. This supposed contrast makes little sense at all. In fact, as we will see, it seems to me arguable that Athens continued as urban centre during the seventh and the eighth century, although clearly not as prosperous356. Even if the archaeological and the literary evidence is almost nonexistent, one can still recognize traces hinting at a persistence of civic life and urban economy. Needless to say, we are desperately in need of further excavations and a decent reappraisal of the ceramics357. Moreover, we need to overcome the traditional interpretation of a sort of Slavic maelstrom hitting the city and bringing its urban existence to an end. In this sense, as we will see, Frantz’s book is a good point of departure358. So any analysis of seventh and eighth century Athens largely hangs on her conclusions. With this caveat in mind, it is my intention to implement her analysis both by proposing (where possible) some parallels with other urban contexts facing the Aegean basin (like Ephesos and Gortyn for instance) and by considering the development of the Byzantine administrative–fiscal, military, political and ecclesiastical structures in an area (the southern part of the Greek peninsula) that retained its relevance along the main shipping routes crossing the Mediterranean. This because it seems to me clear that the ‘political/ institutional elements could continue to have a direct causal role in the economic criteria acting as a definition of urban production’359. The fragmentary character of the ruins and the numismatic evidence do not provide us with any coherent topographical plan of the Agora in the seventh century, even though it is possible to conclude that the southern district from the Roman Market to the Roman bath at the south–western entrance of the Agora360experienced a good deal of continuity. Indeed the rebuilding of some parts of the Agora has been linked to the famous expedition of Constans II, which wintered in Athens in 662/3 A.D.361 In this sense, Frantz calls for the transitory nature of the entire rebuilding programme (prompted by the presence of the emperor and his retinue in the city), which should include a clumsy and flimsily built latrine362, a small (so– called) laundry establishment encroaching onto one of the gates363 of the post–Herulian wall364, the refurbishing of

To sum up, it seems to me impossible to regard the Slavic raid as the final stage of the urban history of Athens. This does not mean that the city did not experience urban recession or was not involved in the seventh century crisis, which affected the Aegean exchange network355. But this does not mean that Athens remained almost depopulated, its urban fabric reduced to its walled post–Herulian core. Scholars drawing such a picture seem more eager to put forward a contrast between the classic and flourishing pagan Athens and the early medieval and failing Christian

Ibid., 631. The study by John Hayes on the Fine Wares of the Athenian Agora is , in this sense, awaited with great expectations. 358 Frantz 1988, 117–24. She points to a recovery of modest scale at the turn of the century. Although basing her contribution mainly on the numismatic evidence, Frantz provides us with some archaeology to grasp the structural development of the Agora in the seventh century and even later 359 Wickham 2005, 595. 360 Frantz 1988, 118. 361 See above p. 45. 362 Frantz 1988, 119. 363 Ibid., 138ff. It is almost impossible to propose any date for the building of the gates (Hypapanti Gate, Christ Church Gate, Pyrgiotissa Gate, Asomata sta Skalia Gate, Megali Panagia Gate, and Kristalliotissa Gate), although according to the stylistic analysis of the architectural spolia embedded in their walls, we know that at least three of them (Kristalliotissa, Megali Panagia and Hypapanty) have been restored during the Justinian period. 364 Ibid. Also Setton 1975, 242. According to the coins found in the 356 357

Id. Also Curta 2004, 74. Frantz 1965, 202–4; Travlos 1971, 262; Camp 1998, 213–4. 348 Frantz 1965, 202; Travlos 1971, 214; Holtzmann 2004, 212–3. Saradi, on the contrary, points to an earlier date (end of sixth century) (Saradi 2006, 239). 349 Frantz 1988, 47. 350 Ibid., 90. 351 Ibid., 83. Coins of Justin II and Tiberius II were found among the debris together with a fragment of plate dated to 570–600 A.D. 352 Ibid., 120. 353 Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 160. 354 Ibid, 159. 355 Wickham 2005, 630–1;785. 346 347

52

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7. The Acropolis and the course of Post-Herulian Walls (after Frantz 1988, p. 35)

the former South–West bath that involved removing the bath’s facilities whereas its floors were re–paved and the west–hall subdivided by poor walls dividing the room in unequal parts)365 and, lastly, the Tetraconch, rebuilt as a three–aisled basilica church366. However the rebuilding programme also involved some private residential houses. As mentioned above, the so–called House at the Library of Paintainos underwent heavy restoration after a fire that laid

it in ruins in 630s; this restoration included a reduction in the scale of the inhabited parts of the buildings, the partition of much of the original colonnade to create some rooms, which were repaved in beaten earth and tiles. ‘The date is well attested by six coins of Constans II (dating between 646 and 658 A.D.)’367. It is hardly conceivable that the house was just cleared of debris and ruins to function as an imperial headquarters for the needs of Constans II368. On

destruction debris, a fire brought about the abandonment of the building in the second half of the seventh century. 365 Frantz 1988, 120. 366 Ibid., 72.

Ibid., 119. Also Sodini 1984, 395. It is , indeed, more likely that the Emperor resided as a guest on the Acropolis or in the Bishop’s palace. 368 Frantz 1988, 119. 367

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the contrary it could be regarded as a residential building reflecting a typological variation in housing life–style due to the transformations in the urban social–economical conditions369.

against a generalised picture of insecurity of urban markets and decline of city life associated with the lack of supplies of bronze coins377. More importantly, they speak also against the very idea that copper coins could be found only in Constantinople378 or in sites consistent with specific military events (indeed, like Athens itself, with regard to the coins dated to the reign of Constans II, Philippikos and Leo III). Although the use of money had been clearly reduced in the seventh and eighth century379, and fiscal interests predominate380, the analysis of the Athenian coin finds reveal instead the persistence of exchange transactions (although at a low level)381 and a local urban market (possibly sustained by the presence of a conspicuous elite) that benefited from the geo–strategic role of Athens along the main trunk route, linking Sicily with the capital. It is not by chance, indeed, that the general picture we draw from the bronze coins found in Sicily (although different in quantity, since nearly a thousand coins derive from Sicilian finds and local collections382) is similar to that of Athens: certainly, the period between 668 and 811 was, in Sicily too, a time of decline, but the reduction was far from total, and the amount of circulation was comparable to that of the Justinianic period383; as Haldon himself concedes: ‘that the production and distribution of bronze coins in mid seventh century (and beyond) was aware that this medium of exchange was necessary to urban markets is evident from the continued production of appropriate quantities of bronze’384, even though these quantities – as Athens and possibly Gortyn show – were not limited to Constantinople itself.

It is indeed possible that a former two–storied luxurious house became the living place for a few of families unable or unwilling to spend surplus wealth in their houses. As we shall see, it is plausible to assume a good deal of economic differentiation for seventh and eighth century Athens, which could be partially mirrored in the transformation of this residential building. Frantz’s idea of a temporary character of the rebuilding programme in Athens comes from the numismatic evidence, which reveals a clear declining pattern only episodically interrupted by some conspicuous finds (copper coins dating to the reign of Heraclius, Constans II, Philippikos and Leo III)370. ‘It can be regarded that whatever the circumstances that brought more coins in Athens it did not affect her political and economic declining status’371. But a mere quantitative approach to this problem is far from being exhaustive. On the contrary the very idea of a collapse of monetary finds in Athens has been recently re–apprised by Cécile Morrisson372, who focuses her attention on the provenience of 138 copper coins dated from to 668–820 A.D.: “if one excludes the 61 coins of Philippikos and the 23 coins of Leo III, to be regarded as a special case as Charanis argues, one notes the presence of 8 folles of Syracuse (5 of Constantine IV, 1 of Justinian II, 1 of Leo III, 1 of Constantine V) evidence of the persistence of the port’s links with Sicily and of the former’s traditional role as a stopping–off point along the route that connected the island with the capital”373.

As Brandes and Hendy point out, the sets of copper coins found in Athens (paired with that yielded in Corinth), reveal a ‘gradual decline also in the weight of the bronze follis and its fractions with the result that the smallest of these tended to drop out the monetary system’385. This means that instead of interpreting the rise and fall of the monetary series as a symbol of decline of urban civic life, the collapse of the monetary economy and the failing of commercial circuits, one should consider that the rejection of a large quantity of circulating money implied a revaluation of the currency and a modification in the forms and logic of the fiscal exaction386. Moreover, this monetary reform is also linked with a partial continuity in the soldiers’ remuneration, which (at least partially) continued to be paid in copper coins387. In other words, this implies that the Byzantine administrative and military structure was reflected in the pattern of contemporary coin production: ‘changes in metropolitan and perhaps regional fiscal–administration occurred at the very moment when the eastern section of the old […] pattern of coin production

Indeed, the amount of copper coin finds in Athens directly challenges the problem of the few copper coins on archaeological sites from the early/middle seventh century until at least 200 years later374. In other words, s we will seen also in Gortyn375, in Athens the very idea of a demonetization of Byzantine urban economy and of a government concerned almost exclusively with the fiscal functions of the coinage, ignoring its involvement in market exchange376, seems problematic. Both in quantity and in quality (and provenance) indeed, the good deal of seventh and eighth century stray coin finds recovered during the excavations at the Agora of Athens, speak Alston 1995, 63ff. Charanis 1955(a); Setton 1950; Metcalf 1962(b); Hendy 1985; Huxley 1977, 97; Morrisson 1986, 162. Morrison 2002, 957 371 Charanis 1955(a), 167. 372 Morrisson 2002. 373 Ibid., 957. 374 Laiou 2002, 712. Although it goes without saying that the quantity of coin finds dated to this period remains, in quantitative terms, substantially less that those dating to the fourth-sixth centuries. 375 Indeed, in Gortyn recent archaeological excavations at the so–called “Byzantine houses” quarter seem to reveal an extraordinary quantity of seventh and even eighth century copper coins. See infra Chapter 3, pp. 90ff. 376 Haldon 2000, 240; Curta 2004, 107; also Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 43ff. 369 370

377 378 379 380 381 382 383 384 385 386 387

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Haldon 2000, 240. Ibid. Laiou 2002, 713; Laiou-Morrisson 2007. Haldon 2000, 241. Laiou 2002, 713. Morrisson 2002, 957ff. Ibid. Haldon 2000, 241. Hendy 1985, 496–7 Brandes 2003, 326. Ibid., 327; Hendy 1985, 415ff.

ATHENS

8. Post-Herulian Walls (Author’s photo)

was dismantled; a shift of emphasis in coin production and fiscal administration from a regional pattern to one of more pronounced degree of centralization’388.

yielded an extraordinary quantity (61 specimens) of rare bronze decanummia dating to the reign of Philippikos396: the decanummia represent the remnant of a body of metropolitan coinage manufactured specifically for use at Athens, transported […] and put into circulation there; the fact that the distribution map shows a distinct concentration along the walls suggest an involvement of the military at some stage397.

This being so, one could hardly reject the idea that Athens played an important and permanent role in the new Byzantine bureaucratic-fiscal and military arrangement of those Greek regions under the Constantinopolitan sway. It is easier to object that we do not know in detail the features of this structure than to deny its existence. As seen before389, the sigillographic evidence clearly demonstrates that Athens was part of the complex administrative, fiscal and military imperial machinery, which could be defined as an Archōntia (as in Crete) or a strategia (with a plain division of the military and administrative competences) or, conceivably, both390. Apart from the passage in the Chronica of Monemvasia391 and the dramatic rise in the number of coins of the reign of Constans II other evidence points to the uninterrupted status of Athens within the Byzantine administrative system.

Another group (23 specimens) of Athenian decanummia came out few years later during the reign of Leo III (717–41 A.D.). Their presence is consistent with the appearance of the apotheke of Asia, Caria and the islands of the Hellespont (721–22)398. This allows Hendy to conclude that although Athens was not an island, it was within the reach of a number of Aegean islands, and since the term “Aegean Sea” and “the islands” were probably synonymous, we are dealing with a command with some provincial detachments of the fleet: Athens was possibly one of these399. If one accepts that the concentration of coins of Constans II was in some way related to the presence of the Emperor, his court, administration and army, and the two bodies of coins as associated to the mobilization of the Aegean Islands in two stages during the first quarter of the eighth century, it turns out that all ‘coin injections between 650–750 A.D. occurred as direct result of a particular state intervention’400. This being so, those late seventh and early eighth century lead–seals belonging to the apotheke of Hellas401could point to the creation of the Theme of

Athens, indeed, provides us with more numismatic evidence392 dated to the early eighth century, coupled with some lead–seals mentioning the apotheke393 of the Aegean Sea. In the reign of Philippikos (711–13 A.D.) lead–seals belonging to the apotheke of the Aegean Sea start to appear394. It is not by chance that this appearance coincided with an injection of coins, which is plainly witnessed by the excavations at the Agora. Here395 archaeologists have Hendy 1985, 420. Haldon 1999, See above pp. 56ff. 390 Ahrweiler 1961. 391 Dujicev 1976, 16. See above pp. 37–39. 392 Frantz 1988, 123; Hendy 1985, 419–20. Morrisson 2002, 957ff. 393 The Apotheke of a province or group of province involved the transport from the point of manufacture of certain goods, and their distribution to the soldiers of a given region for a specific purpose or campaign, a process supervised and directed by a general kommerkiarios (Haldon 1990, 234). On the apotheke see also Chapter 3, pp. 68ff. with further bibliography. See above all Brandes 2003, 239–418. 394 Zacos–Veglery 1972, I.1, 211. 395 ‘The great majority of the eighth–century coins were found along the Panathenaic way, from its entrance into the Agora and on up the Acropolis slopes. Most of the rest came from irrelevant contexts in the 388

area south of the Agora proper, probably having been washed down the slopes over the years’ (Frantz 1988, 123). 396 Frantz 1988, 123. 397 Hendy 1985, 420. 398 Zacos–Veglery 1972,I.1, 226. 399 Hendy 1985, 659–61. 400 Ibid., 655. 401 Konstantinos, apò eparchon kai genikòs kommerkiarios apothekes Ellados (698/99 A.D.): Zacos–Veglery 1972, I.1, 155; Anonymous tòn Basilikòn kommerkiarion Ellados (707 A.D): S.B.S. 5 (1992), 138; Anonymous tòn Basilikòn kommerkion Ellados (730/41 A.D.): Zacos– Veglery 1972, I.1, 174, 193–4; Anonymous tòn Basilikòn kommerkion strategies Ellados (738/9 A.D.): Hendy 1985, 655; Anonymous tòn Basilikòn kommerkion Ellados (748/9 A.D.): Zacos–Veglery 1972, I,

389

55

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Hellas402as a part of the new administrative–military structure of governance of the Greek peninsula and the Aegean Islands. Indeed, some eighth century lead seals recovered on different Aegean Islands403 could strengthen this conclusion, for they mention a set of officials and dignitaries of the Byzantine administration (among them also a specimen belonging to an anonymous spatharios and strategos of Hellas, found in Platea404) and local bishops. This could allow us to infer that we are dealing with a regional aristocracy, embodied by the ecclesiastical elites and administrative officialdom and well integrated into the Byzantine governance structures. As will be seen, it is reasonable also to suggest that some members of this elite resided in Athens, as pointed out by the numismatic evidence as well.

the continuous role of the city as a bishopric, enhanced by the epigraphic (the graffiti of the Parthenon), sigillographic409, documentary (signature lists of the Ecumenical Council), and even archaeological evidence. In this sense, conversion of temples aside410, the seventh or eighth century church of St. John the Areopagite on the slopes of the Areopagus411, together with its cemetery, is of much importance since it provides us with some useful indications of the social assets and the urban fabric of the city. That this complex entails the presence of a local community with a good deal of social and economic differentiation seems to me beyond doubt, as shown by the fact that nine out of thirty–five graves preserved some offerings. As seen above, these objects include a bronze reliquary cross and some bronze belt buckles of so–called Avar type. It is not my intention here to deal with the polemic concerning the barbarian or Byzantine origins of these objects.412 What seems important to me is that these belt–buckles revealed local manufacture, a variegated quality of workmanship (owing to different urban workshops and foundries) and possible cultural (and commercial) relations between foreigners and locals413. Moreover, it is highly possible that these objects did not point to an occasional and temporary military presence like the famous expedition of Constans II414. Indeed, the recent discovery of other exemplaries of “Avar” bronze belt buckles (also dated to the seventh century) in different areas of Corinth415 and Athens416 points less to the presence of a military garrison than to some local workshops specializing in the imitation of foreign objects417. These workshops can be coupled with some tile kilns, which came to the light during the excavations at the Agora418 to demonstrate a range of artisanal activity. Although Frantz interprets them as temporary establishments for the needs of the mid–sixth –century remodelling of the South–Bath, their presence resembles that of late seventh century industrial establishments in the area of the “Byzantine houses” in Gortyn, where workshops connected with the production and sale of local artisanal goods (tiles, knives, ceramics) started to appear in the same period419.

Coins, however, allow us to move away from Hendy’s fiscal interpretational model in order to consider the commercial implications of the role of local population and the Athenian elites: the presence of low denomination copper coins points to the existence of local markets of low price commodities, serving a population which had access to both low value coinage and sea lane405. Indeed, as seen above, the numismatic evidence also supported the conclusion that the city remained a substantial port along the main Mediterranean shipping route and an urban market. The coin finds enhance the idea that the vitality of the market was underpinned by local elites involved in the civic and ecclesiastical administration. In other words, it was the political and ecclesiastical establishment who had demands as consumers in terms of artisanal and agricultural products that representing one way through which bronze coins might reach the urban market406. This should come to no surprise, since when in the ninth century bronze coins started to re–appear from other urban archaeological contexts in Asia Minor and the Balkans, the increasing quantities of numismatic evidence is thought to suggest a clear recognition of a market–led demand for bronze (market activity) and the connection between that and the state’s fiscal requirements (extracted under the supervision of state’s officials and consumed by the army)407. In this sense, it seems clear to me, that Athens appears to have experienced this re–monetization (or perhaps better “continuous monetization”) well before Asia Minor and the Balkans, so that the city remained a conspicuous market while at the same time experiencing the presence of the army. Indeed, there always remained strong regional as well as chronological variations, areas in which urban or rural markets existed and were (relatively) secure from hostile attack (like Athens and, indeed, Gortyn) and were generally supplied not only with gold but also with bronze coinage408.

It is not certain that the activity of the Athenian workshops continued well into the eighth century (as in the Cretan city), and since good analysis of the ceramic evidence is lacking, we cannot really posit the existence of a level of See above pp. 56ff. Frantz 1965; Holtzmann 2003; Saradi 2006, 248-9. 411 Travlos–Frantz 1965, 169. the proposed date owes to the stylistic analysis of some architectural marbles decorating the church. 412 See on this Avramea 1997, 87 fn. 100 with further bibliography. 413 Avramea 1997, 89–90; Frantz 1988, 119. 414 Avramea 1997, 90. 415 On Corinth see Sanders 2002, 648–9: Belt buckles and coins indicate that two basilicas, a mortuary chapel in the Asklepeion and a small church on the Acro–Corinth continued to be used well into the seventh–century. The same type of buckles have been yielded by the excavations at the Roman forum, pointing out the area’s continued use for burial well into the eighth–century. 416 Ibid., 89. Loose belt–buckles have been found at the Agora, while others have been yielded in some tombs near the Haephesteion. Also Frantz 1988, 119. 417 Avramea 1997, 89. 418 Frantz 1988, 121. 419 See Chapter 3, pp. 79ff. 409 410

The existence in Athens of urban elites is also supported by 195. 402 Hendy 1985, 655. 403 Avramea 1997, 98–101; Vassos–Penna 1995. 404 Avramea 1997, 100–1 405 Curta 2004, 107. 406 Haldon 2002, 243. 407 Ibid., 242. 408 Ibid., 232.

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9. The Theseion and the Athenian Agora (Author’s photo)

aristocratic demand as we will be able to do elsewhere. What I propose here is an “a contrario” argument that could allow me to twin the faint traces of a structured aristocratic demand and local production–distribution (as enhanced by the recurrence in Athens of imitation of Glazed White wares)420 with some archaeological evidence of residential buildings (although not very impressive ones) scattered around the city and far beyond the post– Herulian walls. This not to say that Athens could configure its urban fabric as a “city of islands”421 (evidence is still too scarce to permit this conclusion), but to reappraise the idea of a demographic and economic weakness of the city, in the light of further archaeological excavations. The results of an archaeological survey indeed have yielded an eighth century residential area (continuing well into the ninth century). Unfortunately, the excavations have only yielded the later eighth to early ninth century levels of this settlement: some fragments of walls not extensive enough to reconstruct a room of a house (although layers of ashes points to a later destruction of these buildings) associated with early brown–glaze pottery and coins (for which no date has been provided)422. This settlement was centred on the converted temple of the Theseion–Hephaisteion (area MM’)423, possibly resembling the aforementioned urban focus settled around the church of St.John the Areopagite (although here we have a church and no burial areas). Unfortunately we do not possess further information about the ceramic and numismatic evidence, which allowed Setton to propose such a date for this quarter. We could, however, advance some hypotheses concerning a possible development of the urban building environment into

separate extra–mural quarters, interspersed by a network of urban roads: indeed, we possess scattered evidence for a continuous frequentation of part of the Panathenaic Way in the eighth century as provided by the bronze coins found in the excavations at the Agora424. On the opposite side of the city, again outside the post–Herulian walls, recent archaeological excavations in Sintagma Square have yielded a building articulated in a set of rooms, some of which preserved storage bins. As seen above, this building has been dated to the early eighth century thanks to a gold solidus issued by Justinian II (705 A.D.) found in one of the rooms425. This suggests that this building was a residential focus for another little urban community, which buried its own members in a closer cemetery that remained frequented until the eleventh century. Finally, this sketchy summary should include also the previously mentioned House of Library of Paintainos which, according to some coins belonging to the reign of Philippikos II (711–13 A.D.) embedded in the refurbished beaten–earth floors in two rooms, remained frequented well into the eighth century426. Could these residential quarters be the descendants of the urban villas where the former elites used to live?427 Are these quarters the new residential areas for an informal aristocracy, derived from the clergy and administrative hierarchies? Was there any centre (Acropolis?) functioning as political (and bishopric) core for the different islands of settlement? We need further archaeological excavations to sketch a complete topographical and social description of the urban fabric in the seventh and eighth century. For the time being however one could suggest that Athens did not falter after the Slavic incursion and that the expedition of Constans II did not mark the end of the city either. The city preserved elements of continuity. Artisanal activities and

Wickham 2005, 786–7. From the Italian “citta’ ad isole”: one of the current guiding images for urban archaeologists, meaning polynuclear settlement agglomerations scattered around and within the classic city limits; this implies both spatial destructuring (following the weakening of the old forum areas), the creation of more important new foci, like churches, and the demographic and economic fragmentation of the urban body, although preserving a good deal of coherence of the urban structure. (Wickham 2005, 640; 652). 422 Setton 1950, 250. 423 Ibid,. 420 421

Supra. Parlama–Stampolidis 2001, 160. Herrin 2007, 125, 426 Sodini 1984, 396. 427 Polci 2003. With regard to this, it must be admitted that a real planimetric description of these houses is lacking. So, they can only be temptatively compared to both those found in Ravenna or Rimini (Augenti 2006) in Italy and those described by Polci (Polci 2003, 95). 424 425

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) elites did survive and live in the city during this period. This is showed both by the excavations and the material (numismatic and sigillographic evidence). Indeed, Athens has revealed the persistence of a good level of monetization (in term of copper and gold coins428), substantiating the hypothesis of Athens as a vital urban market, where rural production and surplus goods were traded through the fiscal demands of the state and artisanal products met the demands of the local elite. Proving the real existence and the urban life–style of those elites is a trial in absence; ceramic evidence is indeed too scarce to point more to a generic exchange link with Constantinople, which, however, matches the result of the copper coin–finds, for they reveal the continuous role of the city along the main trunk route linking Constantinople with the West and, mainly, Sicily (as pointed out by the origin of some bronze coins minted in Syracuse). This can allow us to conclude that, since Sicily is regarded as one of the main grain– suppliers of Constantinople during the seventh century and even beyond429, non–commercial and commercial exchange met in Athens, explaining the persistence of the city as urban market and its demographic, political and economic vitality. Although crops were cultivated in Attica, one could, indeed, imagine that the city intercepted part of the provisioning directed to the Constantinopolitan market, itself fiscally sustained430, while benefiting from the activity of merchants ‘acting both on the behalf of the state and on their own behalf’431. In this sense one is tempted to recall a passage of the eighth century Life of St.Pankratios of Taormina which speaks of traders sailing between Sicily and Jerusalem and mentions, as items to import from Sicily, carpets from Asia, olive oil from Crete, incense and wine from the islands432. Athens could have benefited from this traffic, standing as it did between the Aegean basin, Constantinople and Sicily. In a sense, the importance of Athens within the circuits of the interregional commercial and non-commercial exchange could be regarded as a faint trace of the perpetuation of that complex overlay of fiscal and more commercial traffic, which the Aegean region experienced during the fifth and the sixth century. This, however, does not necessarily imply that Athens did not experience the simplification of the Aegean exchange networks in the context of the seventh century localisation of production and distribution433. Rather, the scanty ceramic

evidence allow us only to point to some Athenian wheel– made common wares and some imitation of GWW wares, far too little evidence to propose any conclusion about the role of Athens in the patterns of Aegean production and distribution. However, we have also evidence, sketchy as it is that the level of demand in the city seems to have remained substantial enough to underpin the building of artisanal workshops, and residential quarters focussed on some churches (sometimes resulting from the Christian conversion of the old temples). This permitted Athens to maintain some coherence in terms of urban fabric and (possibly) plan, although here, unlike in Gortyn or Ephesos, it is possible to draw sketchy conclusions about intra – or extra – mural islands of settlement (which, however, seem to have existed). In all probability, the local military, state and Church elites were responsible for the maintenance of such level of demands: this is clearly pointed out by the sigillographic and epigraphic evidence (which clearly asserts the importance of the city as a part of both the administrative imperial machinery and the ecclesiastic establishment), the material culture (belt–buckles pointing to urban socio–economic differentiation), and, again, the numismatic data, which prove that the state–apparatus, mainly the army, played an important role in Athens both in the seventh and in the eighth centuries. Less simple is to affirm how they did so, how populated was the city and what was their level of social and economic differentiation. In this sense we are expecting a lot from the ceramic analysis and further archaeological excavations, these being the only way to draw a new picture of the city and not simply a feeble sketch of its possible fate in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages. 2.4. Conclusions Athens remains arguably the least substantial of the key studies I am presenting in this book. The reasons for this are different. First one should consider that only a small portion of the city (mainly the area of the classic Agora) has been excavated, whereas most other parts of the city are still in an archaeological darkness, especially the areas within the so–called post–Herulian walls, where the contemporary densely packed urban environment constitutes a major impediment to archaeological excavations, or pay the price of the lack of any exhaustive studies appraising the stratigraphical, architectural, numismatic and sigillographic evidence. To make things worse, since the recent past434 the focus of the archaeologists has been set less on the passage between late Antiquity and the early middle ages than on the classic phases of Athenian history. Moreover, the fact that Athens very rarely recurs in the primary sources concerning this period has exacerbated the weakness of the secondary literature: the city has been perceived as a provincial city hit by demographic shrinkage and restriction of urban economic activity to become a small and insignificant town in the seventh and

As for the gold coins, here it is worth recalling –a apart from the the solidus of Justinian II (see the famous Attic hoard of 51 gold coins (668– 741 A.D.) studied by Vryonis (Vryonis 1963), who asserts that Byzantium possessed a money economy in the seventh and ninth century. Of course his conclusions are too oriented on the gold coinage (‘which played only an accidental role in commercial transactions, although where it was available and relevant to the type of transactions taking place, it might tend to be drawn in market exchanges’[Haldon 1990, 119]) to be reliable, but they still seem to retain validity in terms of relevance of the military expenditure and the fiscal system in funnelling the coinage circulation in gold: ‘the presence of gold coinage has very little to do with the existence of a market economy being a reflection rather of the needs of the state and its military, administrative and fiscal machinery’ (Haldon 1990, 118). 429 Teall 1959, 97;137–8. 430 Laiou 2002, 700ff. Wickham 2005, 694ff; Haldon 2000, 235ff. 431 Laiou 2002, 706: 432 This reference came from an unpublished Ph.D. thesis quoted in Laiou 2002, 708. 433 Wickham 2005, 785. 428

434

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Frantz 1988.

ATHENS eighth century435. Indeed, the last survey436 of the medieval fate of the city enhances the idea of seventh and eighth century Athens perceived as a black hole within the period of Byzantine domination (sixth to thirteenth century), from the notorious expedition of Constans II to the revival in the mid-ninth century. Also the dearth of a good analysis of ceramic evidence is serious, since ceramics are essential to understand the pattern of production, distribution and consumption, which mirrors the relationships between local and long distance trade and the role of commercial and non–commercial exchange in moulding the urban economy. Finally, yet importantly, the fact that Athens never became a thematic capital (Corinth remained the capital until the eleventh century437), contributed to downplaying its importance as an administrative, military and ecclesiastic centre (apart from a few military expeditions) in the eyes of the historians of the period438.

with the medium–distance exchange network, which seemed to privilege the Aegean islands and the coastal settlement. This network intermingled state and private shipping, depending mainly on Constantinople, although the crucial relevance of the demand in the capital and the reduction in demand in other centres (where artisanal activities barely survived) allow us to assert that the survival of medium–distance exchange in the Aegean was ultimately the work of the state. In this sense, even though Athens never became a thematic capital like Ephesos or Gortyn, it played an important administrative and ecclesiastical role, matched by its importance as a stage on the main shipping trunk–route and its role in the Aegean production–distribution network. The traces of seventh and eighth century weakened elites, retaining their urban–oriented life–style, are visible from the small amount of archaeology available. Unlike Ephesos and, especially, Gortyn, material evidence of a socio–economic persistence and spatial coherence of the urban morphology and structures, predicated upon the remodelling of existing spaces to accommodate manufacturing, artisanal and commercial activity, is scarce in Athens; by the same token, it is possible to assert (although with difficulty) the existence of scattered demographic and economic foci (a city of islands) or, as in Corinth, the relocation of much of the population around new much restricted centres around some or one extramural basilicas441. However, it could be argued that some members of the elites still resided in Athens442. Indeed, we could not state that they reconfigured around state–driven lines, although (like in Ephesos and Gortyn) the pull of Constantinople coupled with the role of Corinth as thematic capital and metropolitan seat must have played its part.

In the face of such difficulties, one could be tempted to dismiss Athens and its importance as a key study of the development of Byzantine urbanism in the passage between late Antiquity and the early middle ages. In a sense, however, one should consider that Athens is in good company, since the analysis of many other Byzantine cities in Asia Minor and the Balkans suffer from the same archaeological, methodological and historiographical impediments439. This incites me to try both using the scanty available evidence and re–apprising some old conclusions in order to offer a sort of paradigmatic framework of analysis, which could help to cast some light on the real urban trajectories without being lured in the repetitive argument of a seventh and eighth century fall after a fifth and sixth century rise. It seems to me possible to argue that Athens shows traces of persistence as an urban entity both in terms of social– cultural fabric, economic functions and political and ecclesiastical structures. Due to the lack of archaeological data it is nearly impossible to prove this development of the urban fabric, building environment and morphology. Moreover, it is almost impossible to determine the typological evolution of the very concept of urbanism. However, difficult as it is, one could follow the blueprints of this persistence through trying to follow the traces of the transformation of the urban socio–economic, cultural and political basis. Indeed, Athens remained a focus for the urban elites of the ecclesiastical and administrative hierarchies of the state, even though in a period of political crisis. It seems that the old city patrons (curiales), that is to say the aristocratic landowners boasting a civic life–style in their urban villas, suffered from the process of political crisis, demographic weakening and economic simplification of the Aegean system of exchange. In this sense, Athens, like Gortyn and Ephesos440, threw its lot

We could, however, assert that, like in Ephesos and Gortyn, the reduced but continued artisanal–commercial activity exhibited in Athens would point to their existence: only the demand of the members of the clergy and those provincial officials and clerks of the central administration living in the residential buildings and quarters found inside and outside the city walls could underpin the activities of manufacturing quarters. The evidence provided to us by the bronze copper coins seems to go in the same direction, pointing to the vitality of Athens as an urban market and showing that the city possibly benefited from its geo–strategic location along shipping routes linking Sicily with Constantinople through the Aegean Sea. In this sense, the similarities with Gortyn are more striking. There the persistence of a good level of urban monetary circulation and (consequently) demand supported in all probability by the vitality of the Gortynian elites is mirrored by the large amount of seventh and eighth century copper coins yielded by the excavations at the Byzantine house quarter. It is worth noticing that the same did not happen in Corinth, where ‘remarkable little pottery and an insignificant number of coins of the seventh to ninth century have been found within the excavated

Kazanaki–Lappa 2002.641. Ibid. 437 Sanders 2002, 649. Also Scranton 1957. 438 For a brief historiographical comment see above the introduction to the present chapter. 439 On this mainly Haldon 1990, 90ff.; Haldon 2005, 77–81; Wickham 2005, 636ff. 440 See Chapter 3 and Chapter 4. 435 436

Sanders 2002, 648. And precisely because Athens never became a thematic capital, its official elites are likely to remain local landowners.

441 442

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) area of the Roman forum’443. Moreover, one could hardly discard the fertility of the Attic hinterland, which should allow the persistence of the circuits of city–countryside exchange: in this sense one could hardly avoid, again, to pair Athens with Ephesos and Gortyn, which both benefited from a rich hinterland in terms of agricultural and grazing activities, even though consistent with a larger amount of production. Certainly too, Ephesos and Gortyn, like Athens, were not the main seat of the strategos, but were regarded as important ecclesiastical and administrative centres, hosting members of the fiscal–bureaucratic apparatus, the military officialdom and, eventually, the ecclesiastic hierarchy. Lastly, also Ephesos and Gortyn, like Athens retained their role along the intra–Mediterranean shipping and pilgrimage routes.

Gortyn and possibly Corinth. These similarities are to be followed through the darkness of the archaeological and documentary evidence, which allow us to cast only feeble rays of light onto the urban morphological and structural development of the city in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages. However, it is easier to pursue the social, economic and political background, which would have promoted the fate of the Athenian urban context in terms of spatial coherence, the presence of artisanal and the commercial activities at the expense of public spaces and monuments, and maintenance of a good density of settlement. That in Athens, one could follow the footsteps of a possible model of Aegean urbanism seems to me highly feasible. Concealed as it is by both the deficiencies of the archaeological analysis and the faltering historiography, this model is still less visible in Athens than in Ephesos or Gortyn, and so we will see it developed, with better evidence, there.

In conclusion, although with some caveats in mind, as seen above, it is possible to suggest that Athens presents us with conspicuous similarities with other Byzantine cities which faced the Aegean Sea, notably Ephesos,

Ibid., 649. Although, one should be aware that, in all probability, the excavated portion of Corinth is a poor suburb and that the commercial, administrative and ecclesiastical centre was located elsewhere. 443

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CHAPTER 3 GORTYN

3.1 Introduction: Why Gortyn?

in such a large urban area, and an interpretative analysis based on the “Jonesian” model9. I will return to this last problem in a moment. What I would like to point out, however, is the methodological importance of a case study like Gortyn. Indeed, in the case of Gortyn, as recent stratigraphical excavations show10, it is possible to use the archaeological evidence as a path to follow the main lines of development of the social, economic, political and religious urban trajectories during the passage from Late Antiquity to the early middle ages. Moreover, the results of these excavations also shed a new light on the old interpretative pattern, according to which Gortyn progressively lost its classic allure after the sixth century, experiencing a decline, which reached the final stage in the late seventh century. This pattern stems from the analytical approach of Antonino di Vita, who since 1978 has been in charge of the archaeological campaigns conducted by the Italian Archaeological School in Gortyn. As mentioned before, this approach clearly originates from Jones’ model11, which provides a rise and fall pattern to explain the development of urban contexts from the Hellenistic to the Byzantine period. This model depicts a trajectory of decline in the fate of the city after a blossoming period coinciding with the self–governing city–state; its original political freedom and independence were broken first by the Hellenistic rulers, and then by the increasingly “invasive” domination of Rome. This declining path, unsuccessfully curtailed by Justinian, came to its “natural” end during the so–called “Dark Ages”.

Gortyn lies on the northern edge of the plain of Messarà, the most fertile and rich of the few lowlands dotting the largely mountainous island of Crete. This plain, located on the southern–central coast of the island, is bounded by the steep ranges of the Ida Mountains to the north and the Asterousià Mountains to the south. The Libyan Sea cradles its eastern and western fringes1. As will be shown, the history of the city of Gortyn, whose origins go back to the Homeric period, is very closely linked with that of Crete. Indeed, it functioned, at least from the Roman conquest (67 B.C.) onwards2, as the main political and religious centre of this island, and retained a strategic role along the Mediterranean shipping routes (commercial and non–commercial3) linking the African coast with Constantinople and the Syrian–Palestinian region with the Byzantine west4. Since Gortyn retains a mythical importance in the eyes of the classic beholder5, many scholars have analyzed the history of the city in its Hellenistic and Roman periods6. The first archaeological excavations undertaken in the late nineteenth century by Italian pioneers like Federico Halberr and Antonio Taramelli7 focussed mainly on the recovery of the ruins of classic monuments such as the Odeion. As for the Byzantine period, Gortyn remained almost unmentioned by the literary sources8, while the archaeological interpretation still pays the price of both the patchy surveys and excavations that have taken place

As Di Vita clearly points out12, the zenith of Gortyn’s urban fate should be associated with the early Roman imperial zenith (between Hadrian’s reign and the Severan dynasty)13. In this period Gortyn was endowed with new amenities, like the Small Theatre, the Circus, the

See infra 3.2 for a more detailed geo-morphological description of Crete and of the Messarà. 2 For Crete (and Gortyn) in the Roman period see mainly Sanders 2002 and Di Vita 1984. 3 Wickham 2005, 694ff; and Laiou 2002 (a) (b). 4 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 214; also Tzougarakis 1988, McCormick 2001, Hendy 1985, Pryor 1992, Sanders 1982, Malamut 1988, AbadieReynal 1985; 5 According to the Greek mythology, Gortys , the eponymous founder of the city, was the grandson of Europe, struck by Zeus (disguised as a bull) under a tree on the Messarà plan. See on this R.Graves, I Miti Greci (Milan, 1983), 132-45. Homerus depicted the city as teichioessan (fenced by walls). Iliad, II, 646. 6 See Tzougarakis 1988, 19ff; Sanders 1982 and Detorakis 1995 with further bibliography. 7 For an history of the archaeological research in Gortyn see ZaniniGiorgi, 5, Di Vita 1984, 69ff., Taramelli 1902 and Pernier 1915, 8 Malamut 1988, Tzougarakis 1988, 91ff, Guarducci 1950. 1

Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 214. Ibid. I took part in these excavations as a member of the 2002-2005 Archaeological Campaign in Gortyn. 11 Jones 1964. See also Chapter 1, pp. 20ff. Although Di Vita does not specifically mention Jones, his theories appear clearly imbued with those of the English scholar. This perhaps owes to the Classic background both scholars belong to. 12 Di Vita’s rise and fall pattern comes to the fore between the lines of his many articles and reports about the history of Gortyn. It has been recently reasserted in his last reports on the excavations at the so-called Praetorium. Di Vita 2000 (c) and Di Vita 2005. 13 Di Vita 2000(c), Di Vita 2000(c); Di Vita 1995. 9

10

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

1. Map of the Messarà Plain (after di Vita, 1984a, p. 70)

Amphitheatre and the Great Theatre while, as a capital of the Roman province of Crete and Cyrene, it benefited from a brand new urbanistic plan focussed on the so– called Praetorium14 (to the East of the Hellenistic city), which implemented and expanded the old political and monumental urban core centred on the Greek Agora at the foot of the Acropolis. Then, during the fifth century, Gortyn became a Christian city. As will be seen15, a new Christian quarter was built along the Mitropolianos (one of the rivers crisscrossing the entire Messarà plain), in a peripheral area between the Greek Agora and the modern village of Mitropolis. It was provided with six churches and centred on the new episcopal church (the so–called “Double Basilica”16), named after Saint Titus, disciple of Saint Paul, who supposedly evangelized the island of Crete17. ‘Between the fifth and the seventh century the Christian quarter became the most vital part of the city with its lavish basilicas and its well–built residential houses’18. However, according to Di Vita, this quarter resulted from the ongoing process of urban fragmentation19. Indeed, the whole area between the temple of Apollo Pythion and the Praetorium was progressively occupied by an artisanal– residential quarter (the so–called Byzantine quarter), which encroached upon the public streets20: ‘houses made of spolia, which staged rectangular or square rooms, earth floors and open yards’21. Although these artisanal

workshops demonstrate an indubitable economic vitality by producing pottery, glass and domestic utensils, Di Vita clearly prefers to interpret this quarter as a sign of demonumentalization of public spaces and buildings, leading to the abandonment of some parts of the classic city such as the old trapezoidal square which connected the differently oriented Greek and Roman parts of the city22. From Di Vita’s point of view, during the first half of the seventh century the abandonment was further enhanced by the building of a system of fountains (replacing the aqueducts, refurbished in the Justinian period)23, supplied by a network of channels running on high walls, which crisscrossed the entire urban area24: ‘these fountains served an urban population now scattered around some autonomous foci’25. Even though the Emperor Heraclius rebuilt the entire city, probably after an earthquake in 618 A.D., by extensively reconstructing churches, and the old Praetorium area (itself embellished with a new judicial Basilica and a refurbished Nymphaeum26) this monumental intervention, in Di Vita’s opinion, should be regarded as the last gasp of urban existence. The city was indeed active enough to recover from the earthquake and to continue the old tradition of civic building and amenities essentially because it remained a main strategic node along the Mediterranean shipping routes. However, it continued along the path of decline and deterioration, ending up with another devastating earthquake in 670 A.D., which

On the Praetorium see Sodini 2003, 31 and Lavan 2003 with further bibliography. 15 See infra p. 74. 16 Farioli-Campanati 1998; Ricciardi 2005; Di Vita 1984; Di Vita 1998. 17 See Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 791 with further bibliography. 18 Di Vita 2005, 35-9. The translation from the Italian its mine. 19 Di Vita 1984 (a), 104; Di Vita 1991(a). 20 See infra pp. 74ff. with further bibliography. 21 Di Vita 1991, 178. 14

Di Vita 2000(c), 6 ; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 15 See infra pp. 74ff. 24 Di Vita 1984(a), 107; Di Vita 1991(a); Di Vita 1990; Di Vita 2000(a); Di Vita 2000(c). 25 Di Vita 1984(a), 107. 26 Wickham 2005, 618. 22 23

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GORTYN left the city in ruins and prostrate27. According to Di Vita, the city was totally destroyed and its urban and social structures were never rebuilt; the poor residential activity attested in the area of the Praetorium28 was henceforth merely complementary to the fortified settlement on the Acropolis. Here, the monumental walls29 enclosed a small settlement, focussed on a little chapel, a possible monastery and scattered tombs30 that survived up to the seventh and eighth century Arab raids. According to Di Vita, the city at its nadir was then definitively destroyed by another catastrophic earthquake in 796 A.D.31 In this sense, the work of other scholars, like Sanders, Christides and Tzougarakis32, whose analysis stems mainly from the results of excavations, seem to me to be orientated primarily towards an inventory of basilicas, defence buildings and even pottery sherds found in Gortyn (and in other Cretan urban centres), in order to point to a decline due to the recession and decay of urban elites.

The increasing attention paid to economic and social dynamics allows a new generation of scholars to enhance the importance of the numismatic, ceramic, sigillographic but also structural37 evidence coming from the excavations in order to depict a different image of the fate of Gortyn in the passage from Late Antiquity to the early middle Ages. However, this “new approach” does not depend on a mere quantitative study of the archaeological material. On the contrary, the Gortynian elites seem to remain vital in the seventh century, underpinning a good level of demand, as proved by both the so–called Byzantine quarter and the newly excavated area of the “Byzantine Houses”38. Here artisanal workshops, producing pottery, tiles and utensils, remained substantial until the first half of the eighth century39. Moreover, the idea of an economy on an autarchic basis has been challenged by the analysis of the numismatic evidence. As Garrafo has shown, the economic significance of the ecclesiastical, administrative and bureaucratic elites is corroborated by the importation and circulation of copper coins, which seems to rocket when the fleet was despatched to counter Arab naval raids40. Indeed, fourteen bronze coins (follis, half follis and decanummi) dated to the reign of Leontius (695–98) and to the period between the reign of Tiberius III and Theodosius III (711– 717 A.D.) have been recovered during the excavations. The appearance of this evidence could appear paradoxical in a period when the Arab incursions were affecting the island; however, one could regard these bronze coins issued in Constantinople as real evidence for the presence of the fleet in the Cretan waters and so to its needs41. The military importance of Crete in the seventh and eighth century is also substantiated by the literary sources42; furthermore, the sigillographic evidence evidences its role in the Byzantine administrative system43. The continuous presence and vitality of these members of a small elite, probably dominated by officialdom and clergy and well integrated in the Imperial defensive system, is also reinforced by a late reference (dated to 668 A.D.) to a member of the Gortynian curia, mentioned in a papal letter to the local Archibishop44. These elites seemed also to remain substantial enough in the late seventh and early eighth century to support a (minimal) level of

Di Vita’s theory of rise and fall has never been properly contested. It remains the point of reference for any approach to the fate of Gortyn. This is recognised, for instance, in a recent article published by J.P.Sodini33. The French scholar, indeed, continues along Di Vita’s footsteps, encapsulating Gortyn inside a complete and well–documented survey on the fate of urbanism within the Byzantine empire between the sixth and seventh century. In my view, his search for a ‘deliberate Mediterranean urbanism, which respected the canons of the aristocratic habitat’34, remains elusive, because it prompts us to look down on those artisanal and residential areas, which do not respect the regular street alignment and the public spaces. Nonetheless, Sodini feels himself compelled to treat Gortyn (together with the other Aegean islands) as a partial exception to his model of an urbanism in retreat in the Balkans and Greece. As a matter of fact, the Cretan city shows some preserved alignments and some respect for the old public buildings, although not for the streets. Besides, Sodini seems to take partially into consideration the results of the excavations of the so–called Byzantine quarter as a litmus test of the social and economic (and so urban) vitality of the city during the seventh century: Gortyn retains good levels of commercial (and non–commercial) exchange activity, although restricted to a local network35. That Sodini correctly associates this economic vitality to the role of Crete within the context of the shipping routes (mainly with fiscal and military functions) linking Constantinople with the Eastern basin of the Mediterranean36comes as no surprise.

Garrafo 1997; Garrafo 2005; Romeo-Portale 2005; Rendini 2005; Zanini and Giorgi 2002. 38 Zanini and Giorgi 2002. 39 Ibid.; the results of this preliminary report were substantiated by those of the 2003 campaigns which are still unpublished. 40 Garrafo 2005, 187-8. 41 Ibid., 191. 42 The presence of almost the entire Byzantine fleet in Crete after the loss of Carthage in 698 is mentioned in Theophanes , 516-7. 43 Mainly Dunn 2005 on a eight-century seal of a Vestitor and Protonotarios of the Imperial Treasury (sakellion) found in Knossos; another seventh century seal of Antiochos Koubicularios and Imperial Kartoularios was found during the excavation on the acropolis of Gortyn (see Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 89; Tzougarakis 1990, 147; Sanders 1982, 73; Zacos-Veglery 1972 I, 576) 44 Jaffè 2092(1616): ‘Paulo, episcopo Cretensi, praecipit, ut monasteria duo Iohanni, episcopo Lappensi, inique sublata, reddi iubeat. Reprehendit eum, quod Iohannem diaconum et ducere uxorem, et duabus in ecclesiis adhiberi passus sit. Eulampium, curialem quem habeat “quasi consiliarum”, clericorum mores corrumpentem dimitti praecipit’. Also Jaffè 2090 (1614). 37

Di Vita 2000(a), 35-9; Di Vita 1984(a); Di Vita 1986(b); Di Vita 1991. 28 See Di Vita 2000(c) and Di Vita 2005, 476 . 29 These walls are almost unanimously dated to the early seventh century (Taramelli 2002; Ortolani 2005; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217). However, R. Perna ( Perna 2005) put off their building to the late seventh-early eighth century. 30 Taramelli 1902, Doro Levi 1955-6; Rizza and Scriniari 1968. 31 Di Vita 2000(c); Di Vita 2005, 476. 32 Sanders 1982; Christides 1984 and Tzougarakis 1988. 33 Sodini 2005. 34 Ibid., 669. 35 Ibid., 671. 36 Ibid., 677. 27

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

2. Map of Crete

exchange45, which is mirrored by some imported Aegean and Palestinian amphorae46 Moreover, as we will see the uninterrupted production of a local painted ware (Highly Decorated Painted Ware)47 point to good levels of regional economic sophistication.

the seventh century economic crisis. The entire Aegean basin suffered from the disruption of the inter–regional Roman fiscal and commercial world system50. The Aegean exchange networks simplified considerably and became substantially more localized and focussed on technologically simple items. In Gortyn this was clearly pointed out by the plummeting quantity of both Phocaean and African red slip wares, which were replaced by the local Decorated Painted Ware, and imported amphorae51. As Wickham clearly asserts, what prevailed in the Aegean region is a local production and distribution system together with a surviving regional medium distance exchange pattern52. As seen above, this is true also for Gortyn where the archaeological excavations have yielded Glazed White ware and Globular amphorae53. Moreover, they have revealed early seventh–century Egyptian Coptic ware and amphorae type LR7, which point to a secondary regular commercial traffic piggybacking on the primary cereal transports54. They have also brought to ight African amphora of the so–called spatheion55 type, which point to a persistence of the role of Gortyn along the main shipping east–west routes56, as proved also by the fact that between a failed re–conquest of Africa in 697 A.D. and 901 A.D., war–fleets moved along the trunk route linking Rome with Constantinople via Sicily and around Greece, at least fifty times (although they were not alone, as pointed out by the pilgrims’ travels and the relic tags)57. In this sense the passage of Theophanes58 stating the presence of the entire

In the light of these considerations, it seems to me possible to propose a different approach to the fate of Gortyn. In fact, Gortyn could be regarded as a good example of a how a Byzantine city could have developed along trajectories similar to those affecting the Syrian and Palestinian urban economies, as we shall see further in the conclusion. In Gortyn, indeed, the so–called Byzantine quarter showed continued artisanal activity in the seventh and eighth century, which is similar to the Syrian and Palestinian regions. There, excavations in cities like Gerasa, Bosra, Pella and Scythopolis48, show that the process of demonumentalization and encroachment of public spaces continuing after the seventh century, indicating a late survival of urban activity. Di Vita and Sodini regarded this demonumentalization as the main marker of both the end of the city in its classic terms, and the weakening of municipal control over the public activity. However, they disregard that, like in the Levant, Gortyn seemed to maintain effective city–level economic infrastructures linking town and country (as proved by the fact that the Roman street grid around the Praetorium was maintained, although paved with rubble and partially encroached by the stalls and the workshops49), allowing large scale artisanal production to be concentrated in towns and permitted artisans to have access to the products of a fertile and rich countryside. As we will see, the Messarà plain was rich enough to underpin a continuity of urban landowning, urban artisanal activity and city–country integration, while Gortyn retained its role as a socio–economic and political centre for its territory and as the main administrative and ecclesiastical focus of Crete.

Ibid. Romeo and Portale2001. 52 Wickham 2005, 785ff. This is corroborated by the spread of Glazed White wares, a type of pottery produced exclusively in Constantinople, which replaced the old red slip wares, attesting continuous interchange with the capital. Moreover, this is also demonstrated by the expansion of the eighth-century amphora types (post LR2 globular amphorae) pinpointing communications linking together the Aegean coast. 53 Romeo and Portale2001, 402-406; Di Vita 1993(b); Rendini 1990. 54 Romeo and Portale2001, 404; Romeo and Portale2005. Portale and Romeo insist that this traffic continued even after the Arab conquest of Egypt (according to the amphorae yielded by the excavations), although clear evidence showing cereal-export after 642 A.D. is simply lacking. 55 Rendini 2005; Romeo and Portale2001, 406. 56 McCormick 2001, 501ff. 57 See on this Chapter 4 pp. 120ff. 58 See above p. 63. 50 51

This does not imply that Gortyn remained unaffected by 45 46 47 48 49

Romeo-Portale 2005, 973. Ibid., 970-2. See infra pp. 78. Ibid, 613 ff. Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999.

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GORTYN Byzantine fleet in Crete, after the loss of Carthage, speaks for the significance of the island along the main route at least until the Arab invasion in the 820s59.

and south coast63. Manifold geographical works, from Ptolemy to the Tabula Peutingeriana, from the Anonymous of Ravenna to Hymiari64, mentioned the city of Gortyn from the second century onwards, pointing to the importance of its geographical location65. Indeed, one should also take into account the fact that the prevailing Mediterranean breezes blowing from north–west to north–east made travels from north to south and west to east comparatively simple and fast.

Finally, it is worth noting that Gortyn did not suffer from the effects of the Slav and Arab raids. Indeed, although they recurred a few times in Crete in the seventh and eighth century, sometimes assuming the character of a temporary occupation of strategic parts of the island, they seemed not to affect the city, which remained relatively safe thanks also to its location suitably far from the coast60. Furthermore, these raids were repeatedly countered by naval expeditions launched by Constantinople61 until the final Arab conquest in 820s.

From Constantinople both the currents and prevailing winds facilitated voyages down the Bosphorus and Dardanelles to Crete, Rhodes and Cyprus. Moreover, from the Ionian Sea or Crete both Egypt and Palestine could be reached easily: east of Crete the main route to the Holy Land lay north–east to Rhodes and then to the bay of Attaleia, south–east to Cyprus and then across the coast […] before coasting down to Acre or Jaffa66.

To sum up, contrary to Di Vita, I believe Gortyn did not falter before the earthquake in 670 A.D., but retained its strategic role, experiencing a good degree of economic vitality and sophistication, which clearly resembled that of the Levant areas. This was mainly due to its fertile hinterland (the Messarà plan), to its geographical position on an island strategically located along the main North– South and, above all, West–East shipping routes, which justified its importance in the eyes of Constantinople and justified the efforts of preserving it from the Arab raids until the 820s. Gortyn was just too important an asset in the strategic Mediterranean to experience completely the enduring pull of Constantinople; also it was probably regarded as the main residential focus by the local landowners, simultaneously acting as the Cretan capital for the bureaucratic, ecclesiastical and military elites (as will be seen, some seventh and eighth century lead seals clearly attested its importance in the Byzantine administrative system).

It is worth noting that sea–travels from south to north or to east to west were, indeed, much more difficult, due to the meltemi winds, which blow down the Aegean from the Black Sea, making voyages to Constantinople difficult from July to September67. On the contrary, from Crete to Sicily, winds on the starboard beam facilitated an easier passage, although they could easily change and send a ship back68. The strategic role of Crete along the Mediterranean travel routes was further enhanced by its peculiar geo– morphological characteristics. According to the fifthcentury historian Orosius, ‘Crete measures 172 miles in long and 50 in width’69. The long Cretan coast was provided with manifold coves, anchorages and harbours, which functioned as a natural outlet for the mainland cities. Gortyn, for instance, was of a piece with the inter– regional and Aegean trade routes thanks to the nearby ports of Lebena and Matala, located along the eastern coastal fringe of the Messarà plain. Also Eleutherna, situated at the feet of the northern side of the central Psiloritis Range (which includes the Ida mountain), profited from its port of Stavromenos70. From these coastal sites the traffic was conveyed inland through a network of local markets, mainly located along the river valleys and the plains, which spread from north to south, wedging into the stepped central mountain spine, which runs along the island71.

The large artisanal–residential area (the “Byzantine Houses”) recently discovered between the Pythion and the Praetorium, enhanced the analytical considerations proposed for the so–called Byzantine quarter, by allowing the Gortynian elites to remain relatively prosperous (even in the first quarter of the eighth century) to sustain a lessened but still substantial level of demand. However, one must be aware of the fact that further excavations are required to understand the real extent of this urban transformation. Could Gortyn be a Byzantine version of the trajectories leading the Syrian and Palestinian cities from polis to madina?62 What are the cultural changes resting at the basis of the changing conception of urbanism? Lastly, what is the contemporary fate of other Cretan urban centres like Knossos? We will come back to these issues at the end of the chapter.

In fact, in geo–morphological terms, Crete could be Pryor 1992, 94; see also McCormick 2001, 501ff For Ptolemy’s Geography see Tzougarakis 1988, 93-5; Peutinger Table (Miller, 1916), 32; Ravennatis Anonimi Cosmographia (Schnetz 1915): ‘Cretam quae et Cretae dicitur, in qua plurima fuisse civitatis legimus …’; al-Hymiari is a thirteenth-century Arab geographer who recalled Orosius in his description of Crete (see Christides 1984, 99). For the Arab works on Crete see Christides 1984, 20ff. 65 Tzougarakis 1988, 93ff. 66 Pryor 1992, 90-6. 67 McCormick 2001, 98. 68 Pryor 1992, 90. 69 Orosius 1.2.97 : ‘Creta habeat in longo milia passum CLXXII, in lato L’. 70 Vogt 2005, 940. 71 Ibid. 63 64

3.2 Crete: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy Crete was the navigational key of the eastern part of the Mediterranean. In fact the island was strategically located along the shipping routes, which skipped around its north 59 60 61 62

McCormick 2001, 506; also Pryor 1992. See infra. Garrafo 2005. Kennedy 1985.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) more easily looked at through the dichotomy between this central mountainous backbone, composed by four different ranges (from east to west: the Siteian plateau, the Dictaean Massif, the Ida–Psiloritis Range and the Lefka Mountains), and the coast72. The mountainous spine, as seen above, is crisscrossed by river valleys (as the Spili and Amary Valleys, which run in between the Lefka and Ida Massif) or large plains (like the one that spreads across the Dictaean Massif, centred on Knossos). The most important urban settlements of the island (Siteia, Knossos, Ierapetra, Eleutherna and Kastellou) lay along these fertile open–ranges, set mainly on the coastal or internal plains. Messarà has the pride of place among these plains. Located in the southern–central part of Crete, it covers an area of almost 36.000 ha, watered by the river Ieropotamos, the ancient Laethos, running east–west, and the river Anopodaris, running west–east 73. It is bounded to the south by the Asterousia mountains (rich in minerals), by the Dicte range to the east and, to the north, first by a rather desolate plateau and then, beyond the source of the Ieropotamos, by the Ida range74. Incontestably the most fertile large area of Crete, the Messarà plain has been a region of rich agricultural activity since Hellenistic times75. Messarà was easily accessible both by land and sea, thanks to the harbours of Lebena and Lasaia to the south, and Matala on the eastern coastal fringe. The main road stretched across the southern edge of the Ida massif, along the high valley of the Mitropolianos (a tributary of the Ieropotamos), reaching first Zaròs (a well forested, fertile and proverbially wet area76) and then Priniàs. This road should be regarded as the main and link between the northern part of the island and the Messarà since the Hellenistic period, and was reinforced by fortified outposts dating back to both the Roman and the Byzantine domination77. It followed the Mitropolianos valley. Gortyn lay on the plain, protected to the north by two parallel ranges of steep hills, running from west to east78.

exploited for both self–consumption and export. ‘In considering the economic activities laying at the basis of the Cretan wealth, one hardly needs to stress that the island’s economy was basically agricultural’80. Although the evidence for cereal production is very poor81, it is worth noticing that the archaeological excavations in Festòs and Gortyn have yielded big vessels (pythoi), which were reused in the seventh and eighth century as containers to store crops82. Moreover, the excavations of the so–called Arab building in Knossos (ninth century) have revealed three fragments of a circular limestone, perhaps used for grinding corn, which could be interpreted as a part of the building equipment83. Apart from cereals, vineyards and orchards were among the other cultivation84: a passage the mid–fourth century Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium, praised the wine produced in Crete85. Despite the scanty literary evidence, some eighth century olive–presses, decanting ponds and squeezing pools have been recovered during the excavations at the little monastery built over the ruined Praetorium86, pointing to a local production of olive–oil. An isolated olive–mill coming from the rural complex excavated at Festòs87 corroborates this evidence. Cretan honey had been extremely prized since Roman times88. Sheep and cattle farming was another important Cretan resource: in the eighth century, Gregory Akrites was put in charge of his parents’ flocks89. In later periods, one of the most renowned products of the island was cheese, as pointed out by the eleventh–century Arab geographer Idrisi, mentioning a town named Rabd–el Jobn (“the town of cheese)90. ‘By comparison with agriculture the various industries known from Crete were probably of little importance and produced nearly entirely for local demand’91. Mines and ore (copper and gold) were exploited, probably supplying raw material to the artisanal quarters excavated in Gortyn (fifth to eighth century) and the workshop close to the Arab building in Knossos (ninth century), which produced iron nails and domestic

The fertility of the area, irrigated by the Ieropotamos, and one of its tributaries, the Mitropolianos, which wedged itself between the hills of Hagios Ioannis and Pervolopetra, and, lastly, the effective protection provided by the fortifications along the stepped hills, allowed Gortyn to retain the pride of place among the Messarian settlements79.

Tzougarakis 1988, 270. Sanders 1982, 32. 82 For Gortyn, see Di Vita 2000(a), 37-40, about the economic infrastructure of the eight-century monastery built over the ruined Praetorium; for Festòs see La Rosa and Portale 2005. One inscribed lid of a pythos has been published by Bandy (Bandy 1970, 65) 83 Warren-Mills 1972, 288. 84 Pliny 14.81. See also Hendy 1985, 51. 85 Espositio Tot. Mund., 208 (LXIV). 86 Di Vita 2000(a); Di Vita 1995, 437: ‘the restoration of the spatial topography in the area of the Basilica allows us to point to a building complex, which follow the foundations of the old structure and is partitioned into rooms with different size and shape, partially conspicuous with the olive-oil production. The stratigraphical analysis point out that the industrial structures are contemporary to the excavated levels within the Basilica, which have yielded a late eighth-century miliarensis’ . Also Sanders 1982, 32ff. 87 La Rosa and Portale 2005, 505-8. 88 Tzougarakis 1988, 287 and La Rosa and Portale 2005, 505-8. Indeed, it is worth recalling the Late Antique ceramic beehives recently yelded by some excavators in Gortyn and generically dated to the period 650-750 A.D. (Vroom 2004, 321). 89 Life of Gregory the Akrite, 372.22-8. 90 Mentioned in Tzougarakis 1988, 278. Also Christides 1984, 117. 91 Sanders 1982, 33. 80 81

Gortyn was the most important economic centre of the plain, benefiting from its rich agricultural hinterland, Tzougarakis 1988, 139-40; Sanders 1982, 16-30. Sanders 1982, 20-23; Di Vita 1984, 69-72; La Torre 1988-89, 278; Tzougarakis 1988, 135ff. 74 Sanders 1982, 20. 75 Ibid, 21; also Tzougarakis 1988, 135. The road is also mentioned by Strabo IV, 10.4.7 and depicted in the renowned Tabula Peutingeriana (Peutinger Table, 606-10). 76 The famous caput aquae, the starting point of the main aqueduct supplying the city of Gortyn, was located in this area. Sanders 1982, 22; Taramelli 1902; La Torre 1988-9, 303ff.; Di Vita 2000(c), 6. 77 La Torre 1988-9, 282ff. This recent survey has revealed the ruins of a complex of “Byzantine fortifications”, which reused an existent Hellenistic fortress. No date has been provided, but its very existence points to a continuous significance of this road since the classic period. 78 La Torre 1988-9, 278. 79 Di Vita 1984(a), 70; Tzougarakis 1988, 135. 72 73

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GORTYN utensils92. Salt pans and fishing were prized economic activities on the coast93, together with the production of timber94. Finally, it is worth noticing that glass and pottery manufacture was carried on at several Cretan sites. This is shown by the archaeological evidence found both at the “Byzantine Quarter” in Gortyn and, for an earlier period, in the Tarrha region (along the south–west coast of Crete), where a possibly fifth–century glass factory using imported cullet manufactured vessels destined for export by sea95.

be part of the Prefectorian Prefecture of Illyricum and ranked eleventh in a list of sixty–four provinces. The Praefectura Praetorio Illyrici, indeed, dated back to 395 A.D, when Arcadius detached the two Dioceses of Dacia and Macedonia from the Italian Prefecture, and attached them to the Pars Orientis, by encapsulating them in a new Prefecture. ‘Thus the Praefectura Praetorio Illyrici had two dioceses, that of Dacia and that of Macedonia. Dacia had five provinces, while Macedonia was composed of seven: Macedonia, Macedonia Salutaris, Epirus Nova, Epirus Vetus, Thessalia, Achaia and finally Crete’102. The newly constituted Praefectura Illyrici had its capitals first in Sirmium until the Hun’s attack in 448 A.D., and then in Thessaloniki103. However, the changing asset of the civic administration had no repercussions on the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Indeed, as we will see, the Illyrian provinces encapsulated in the new Prefecture, remained under papal authority.

3.3 A brief historical overview: the Church and the State There is no space here to deal with the classic history of Gortyn, to indulge in the charming mystery of the Homeric Kritin ekatompolin (Crete of one hundred cities) and the Gortyn teichioessan (fenced by walls)96 or to describe the events leading to the Roman conquest of the island in 69 B.C.97 It is, however, worth mentioning that first the Senate, and then Augustus, decided to twin the island with Cyrene, setting up a Senatorial province administered by a proconsul with praetorian rank. The Diocletianic reform, in 295–7 A.D. brought about the separation of Crete from Cyrene. Indeed, the island, now part of the Diocese of Moesia, was made into a single province under an equestrian praeses98. Constantine upgraded Crete into a Senatorial Province under a consularis, passing it under the jurisdiction of the Vicar of the Macedonian Diocese in the Prefecture Africae, Italiae et Illyrici99. Crete was again referred to in Hierocles’ Synecdemus100, dated to the early sixth century: twenty–two cities were stated to constitute the eparchias of Crete (under the jurisdiction of a Konsularion)101, and Gortyn was mentioned as the provincial metropolis. The eparchias appears to

Crete appeared to enjoy an unabated period of political peace until the seventh century. The governors’role seemed to be mainly ‘a judicial one; and helping the reconstruction of some important buildings like the Odeion in Gortyn’104. However, administrative changes did occur, as pointed out by the decision of Justinian to alter the title of the governor of the island, so that henceforward a proconsul governed it105. A sixth–century inscription mentioning Helios the illustrious proconsul (anthipatos)106 clearly referred to this change. Since Hierocles mentioned a consularis as Cretan governor, ‘it appears therefore that when the Emperor Justinian made changes in the administration of his provinces he preferred the use of the title anthipatos, which had been up to the time of Diocletian, the title of the Prefects of Crete’107. It remains unclear, however, if the change of title represented a promotion or was simply a higher title without any corresponding increase in the importance of the province itself108. It is also possible that the governor was supported in his administrative duties by a Provincial Council (Koinōn tis Kritis Eparchias)109, conceived in times prior the Roman conquest and continuing throughout the sixth and seventh century (although according to the epigraphic evidence, there is no proof of its existence after the fifth century110): ‘that this Koinōn was the same institution in the early Byzantine era as the Koinōn of the pre–Roman period cannot be doubted, though its function and composition have undergone substantial changes’111.

92 Zanini and Giorgi 2002; Warren-Mills 1972, 291. See also Christides 1984, 117 93 Tzougarakis 1988, 276-7; Sanders 1982, 33. 94 Tzougarakis 1988, 275; Sanders 1982, 33. 95 Tzougarakis 1988, 275. The site of Tharra seemed to have been occupied possibly until the fifth century, according to the stratigraphical analysis of the excavators. Here a waste deposit of glass seemed to point to the presence of a glass-factory (‘a waste which had been brought to be used in the factory’). See on this Davidson Weinberg 1960, 100. 96 Iliad, II 46; 49. 97 On this see Detorakis 1994, 85-94; Tzougarakis 1988, 19-20 and, mainly, Sanders 1982, 3-6. 98 The Verona List (Later.Veron., 249) written in 305-20 A.D. mentions Crete as the last of eleven Moesian provinces. 99 Not. Dign., I 75; III, 10. This work defines the administrative imperial framework and mentions Crete as the third of six provinces in the Macedonian Diocese. The Laterculus Ptolemii Silvii, v.17, 257, eventually, refers to Crete as the 1sixth province in the Illyricum. See also Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 30; Tzougarakis 1988, 155; Sanders 1982, 6-7; Anastos 1957, 14, and Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 789. 100 Hieroclis Synecdemus, 19, 649.3-650.16.’An official document, a handbook for State officials detached to the provinces dating to the first years of Justinian’s reign but using earlier sources’ (Tzougarakis 1988, 115). See also Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 215; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 789. 101 Curiously enough, Heraklion and Lebena, mentioned in an almost contemporary geographical work like the Stadiasmos Maris Magnii (mentioned in Tzougarakis 1988), are not included in Hierocles’ list of Cretan cities. According to Jones (Jones 1971, 503), this owes to the fact that the Synecdemus ‘is particularly apt to omit units of government, which are not cities, regions, climata, saltus or villages. So we are not sure it lists all the settlements in Crete at that time’.

The system of government described above, seems to have lasted in its basic elements up to the seventh century. As Tzougarakis 1988, 155. The author is here paraphrasing a passage in Not. Dign.., III. 103 On the creation of the Prefecture Illyrici see mainly, Palanque 1951, Dvornik 1930 and Anastos 1957 with further bibliography. 104 Sanders 1982, 7. The reconstruction of the Odeion is dated to c.100 A.D., thanks to an epigraphic inscription (I.C. IV, 331). 105 Tzougarakis 1988, 157. Laurent 1961-2, 382. 106 Bandy 1970, n.31, 58-61. The inscription was found amid the ruins of a church near the temple of Pythian Apollo. Also I.C.IV, 460. 107 Bandy 1970, 59. 108 Tzougarakis 1988, 157. 109 Sanders 1982, 8-9; Tzougarakis 1988, 161-2. 110 I.C. IV 313; 325. 111 Tzougarakis 1988, 161. 102

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) we have previously noticed, in this period Crete is nearly invisible in literary and documentary sources112. So, we have to rely mainly on the sigillographic record to prove evidence of the administrative status of the island113. Indeed, the lead seals mention some late sixth – early seventh century officials and dignitaries, like Dionysius, apo hypaton, Theophilaktos kubikoularios114, Antiochos, kubikoularios and imperial chartularios115, and Theodosios trakteutes of Crete116. The rank of kubikularios is deeply interrelated to the role and functions of the sakellarios117 (one of the key administrative figures of the state financial bureaucracy118) for – as Brandes points out – the title of kubikularios was often awarded to a sakellarios119. It is possible that also the specimen mentioning Antiochos had something to do with the sakellion, since the chartularios was the chief administrative figure overseeing the duties of the sakellarios120. Indeed, one must be aware that a real conflation of chartularioi with administrative, military and even ecclesiastical responsibilities is attested from the second half of the sixth–century. As a matter of fact, it is even impossible to single out the specific sphere of competence of each chartularios mentioned by the sigillographic or documentary evidence121. However, the presence of these officials in seventh–century Crete pointed to the fact that the island was still entrenched in the articulated administrative and governmental structure, predicated upon the possible continuous municipal functions of the local cities (like Gortyn)122. Moreover, the last of the aforementioned specimens (the seventh– century seal of Theodosios trakteutes of Crete) should be stressed, because it proves the existence of an official responsible for tax collection in the single imperial province123, pointing to some continuity of the fiscal apparatus on the island124. Moreover, two seals belonging to Constantine ekoubitoros and Peter scribon125 reveal the

presence of military officials involved in the recruitment and evaluation of soldiers126. Lastly, although bearing only a name or a monogram, some loose lead seals, many of them coming from Gortyn (and broadly dated to the sixth– seventh century), could point to a substantial and qualified presence of bureaucratic and military officials both on the island and in its capital127. If we accept this, it would be easy to trace a pattern of (continuous) administrative and fiscal importance of the island in the eighth century Byzantine administrative system. This pattern also seems to have continued well into the eighth century, as shown by both a set of seals belonging to some local archontes, and the Knossos’s specimen noting an official of the Imperial Treasury (Sakellion)128. I will return to this in a moment. In this instance, however, it is worth remarking on another important lead–seal, dated to the second half of the seventh century, which belonged to Julian apo hypathon and general kommerkiarios of the Apotheke of Crete129. Indeed, other lead seals exist (all dating between 687/8 A.D. and 691/2 A.D) mentioning Julian himself as apo hypathon and general kommerkiarios of other Apothekai located in Cilicia, Asia and Caria, Helenospontos, Constantinople and Lydia130. “The Apotheke of a province or group of provinces involved the transport from the point of manufacture of certain goods, and their distribution to the soldiers of a given region for a specific purpose or campaign, a process supervised and directed by a general kommerkiarios”131. According to Haldon and Hendy132, the Apotheke of Crete was created in connection with the preparations for Justinian II’s campaign against Thessaloniki, dated to 688/9 A.D. The mobilization in Crete was the responsibility of Julian (who seemed to be involved in the call–up of other provinces, as pointed out by the aforementioned lead seals). Indeed it is possible that this mobilization regarded some naval forces, since the emperor, advancing through the Via Egnatia, between the Rodope Mountains and the sea, would have needed the support of the fleet. ‘It is generally observable that the Apotheke system was applied to the islands more or less along with Western Anatolia and Thrace, and well before it was regularly applied to the Balkans’133.

Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 213. With regard to this, a recent contribution is Toukatsoglou-KoltsisdaMakre-Nikolau 2006. 114 Tzougarakis 1988, 162; Tzougarakis 1990, 28; 29. The second specimen comes from Rethymnon. 115 Sanders 1982, 73; Tzougarakis 1990, 14, n.30. This seal was found during the excavation at the Acropolis of Gortyn (Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 89) 116 Tzougarakis 1988, 162; Tzougarakis 1990, 140; 146 n. 15; NesbittOikonomides, II, 36.7. This seal has an unknown provenance, although definitively coming from Crete. 117 Brandes 2003, 441. Sakellarios was an administrative authority holding responsibility for the Sakellion, a term tantamount to latin Fiscus, meaning the Private Imperial Treasure. On the complex historical development of this institution from the fifth to the ninth century see Brandes 2003, 451ff. 118 Brandes 2003, 441, 447. 119 See for instance the mid-seventh century seals (unknown provenience) bearing the name of Leontios, kubikoularios, kartularios kai sakellarios (Zacos-Veglery 911; Laurent II, 739; Brandes 2003, 446) and Maurice, kubikoularios, Basilikos kartularios kai sakellarios (Zacos-Veglery 932(a)(b)(c); Laurent II, 744; Brandes 2003, 446). 120 Brandes 2003, 441. 121 Ibid., 101.3. 122 Ibid., 292. 123 Ibid., 72-79 on the figure of the Tractatores/trakteutai. 124 Two more seals of Cretan traktateutis have been published by Laurent and Konstatinopoulos (mentioned in Tzougarakis 1988, 162), but their articles remained unavailable to me. 125 Constantine ekoubitoros: Zacos-Vaglery 1972, 290; Tzougarakis 112 113

1988, 163; Tzougarakis 1990, 147 n.27. The elite corps of the “excoubitors” was founded by Leo I (see De Magistratibus, I, 134).Peter scribon: Zacos-Vaglery 1972, 321; Tzougarakis 1988, 163; Tzougarakis 1990, 147 n.26. 126 Tzougarakis 1988, 163-4. In the sixth century scribons were officials of the tagma of the “excoubitors”, involved in recruitment and evaluation of soldiers. 127 Tzougarakis 1990, 149-50. Tzougarakis provides us with a list of several seals and, unfortunately, he does not single out those coming from Gortyn. 128 Dunn 2005. 129 Zacos-Veglery 1972, I/1, 149; Tzougarakis 1988, 271; Tzougarakis 1990, 146, 14; Zarnitz 1992; Sandroskaja, reported in SBS 5, 118, proposed an earlier date (644 A.D.). The exact provenience of this seal remains unknown. Also Brandes 2003, 335, 527, 571, 584, 592, 599, 606. 130 Brandes 2003, 527. 131 Haldon 1990, 234. 132 Ibid; Hendy 1985, 657. 133 Hendy 1985, 656.

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GORTYN The Vandals carried out the first naval raid against the island during the mid–fifth century134. Then the island remained inviolate until the Slavs ravaged its coastal settlements in 623 A.D.135, but it was only from the second half of the seventh century, after the growth of Arab naval power, that the island was seriously and repeatedly under attack. That these raids had serious repercussions on the Cretan social and economic structures could arguably be stated. However, the assertion that Crete underwent a deep crisis after the seventh century seems to me based only on a distorted analysis of the archaeological material. It is almost impossible to infer from the existing archaeological evidence that the population dwindled, the towns were deserted and the urban inhabitants preferred a life in small rural settlements136. It is also impossible to presume an increasing militarization of the settlement pattern, since no stratigraphical excavations have been focussed on a Byzantine fortification, nor have the walls on the Acropolis of Gortyn been properly analysed. The quantitative assertion, which implies that in the late seventh – early eighth century fewer sites were occupied and fewer basilicas were built137, should also be handled with care on two accounts. First, archaeology is mainly a work in progress as highlighted by the recent excavations at the Byzantine Quarter of Gortyn, which have shed light on an artisanal quarter, which remained active well into the eighth century138. Second, the sigillographic, numismatic and ceramic evidence, away from a mere quantitative approach, reveal levels of social differentiation and economic complexity, presumably underpinned by the elites still resident on different settlements on the island. As we will see in the next section, the case of Gortyn counters the idea of an end of Cretan urban life and allows us to propose a more cautious approach to the fate of urban settlements. As Sanders pointed out in 1982: ‘the almost total lack of archaeological evidence for the last 150–200 years before the final fall of the island is probably misleading, revealing an ignorance of material like pottery139 instead of a decline in occupation’ and urbanism140.

of the commercial exchange. Moreover, the main trunk route connecting Italy to Constantinople enhanced the persistence of the strategic importance of Crete along the routes to the Holy Land and also to Alexandria: ‘all trips between the West and the Holy Land around 700(A.D.?) whose routes are known transited through the Byzantine empire, following the main axis between Rome and Constantinople or Aegean ports like Ephesos or through Cyprus and Crete to Alexandria’142. What the Arab raids143 really highlighted was the strategic significance of Crete along the Mediterranean shipping routes. Indeed, the island was highly prized and, became an important stage of the naval warfare between the Arab and the Byzantines, at least until the early eighth century. Arab raids are attested in 654 A.D.144, 656 A.D.145, 671 A.D.146 and, lastly, in 673–4 A.D. when, according to Theophanes147, an Arab force under Abd Allah bn Qays and Faydal wintered in Crete. Although Theophanes provided us with no more details, some Arab sources148 speak about a temporary conquest of part of Crete by the invaders149. Indeed, it is likely that a few raiders could catch the Byzantine fleet off guard, which was forced to defend Constantinople during the Arab siege. However, this occupation, even if it took place, did not last for long. Indeed, as stated earlier, Theophanes mentions the presence of almost the entire Byzantine fleet in Crete after the loss of Carthage in 698 A.D. Here the fleet revolted against the Emperor, killed its own commander – the patrician John – and proclaimed Apsimar–Tiberios as the new Emperor150 Although nothing in the passage points to the existence of a large naval151 base, the presence of the fleet in the Cretan waters implied the strategic significance of the island as a station along the main shipping “trunk route”, and as a military stronghold to counter the raids of the Arabs. That, however, Crete was in this period still directly connected with the central administrative and governmental apparatus, is pointed out by a recently discovered lead-seal belonging to the very Emperor Tiberios152.

It could be possible that the Arab raids prompted some disruption of established trade routes and undermined the role of Crete as a strategic node along the Mediterranean routes141. That Crete, like the Aegean basin, suffered from the seventh century crisis is made plain by both the demise of the (fiscally supported) Mediterranean inter– regional exchange network, in which the entire area was structurally integrated, and the reduction and localization

McCormick 2001, 507. Miles 1964, 10. Zanini-Giorgi, 2002, 216. 144 Mich.Syr., II(1), 442. The author, writing in the twelfth century, records the earliest of these raids, leaded by Abu l’Awar, who attacked Crete after plundering the island of Kos, sacking its citadel and slaughtering almost the entire population. Those who survived became slaves. (Kalopissi Verti 1991, 245) 145 According to the Arab geographer Hymiari ( mentioned in LeviProvençal 1956,II, 51, 55), the governor of Egypt ‘Abd Allah bn. Sa’d bn. Abi Sarh, not only raided but also occupied Crete in 656 A.D. This source, however, is considered reliable by Christides 1984, 88, but not by Tzougarakis 1988, 22 146 An inscription found in Heraclion testifies an Arab assault (unmentioned by the literary sources) against the city, which was repulsed. See Logiadou-Platonos 1961-2. 147 Theophanes, 495. 148 Baladhuri, 266; Yaqut, I, 366. 149 Christides 1984, 89; Tzougarakis 1988, 23. 150 Theophanes 516-17. According to Ahrweiler 1964, 50(4), Apsimar was the droungarios of the Kybirreots (also in Nicephori Patriarchae, 40), a low-rank official of the Karabisianoi fleet, who was in charge of the naval squadron patrolling the Isaurian and Pamphilian Coast. 151 Tzougarakis 1988, 24. 152 Toukatsoglou-Koltsisda-Makre-Nikolau 2006, 50 n.1 (provenience unknown). 142 143

De Bello Vandalico, III, V. 23. See Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 790. Liber Calipharum, I, 116: ‘Slavi Cretam ceterasque insulas invasere atque illic pii viri Kenesrinesque comprehensi sunt, quorum feci viginti interfecti’. Possibly (I, 118) an earlier raid could be responsible of the destruction of the Sanatorium Basilica in Knossos). This source dated to the seventh century and has only been preserved in a Medieval Latin translation. See Detorakis 1994, 113; also Sanders 1982, 9 and Malamut 1988, 105. 136 Tzougarakis 1988, 149. 137 Ibid, 144-5. 138 Zanini and Giorgi 2002. 139 Romeo-Portale 2005, 973. 140 Sanders 1982, 133. 141 Tzougarakis 1988, 149; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 216. 134 135

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) The ceramic and numismatic evidence, yielded during the excavations in Gortyn153, also seems to confirm the passage of Theophanes, and point to a possible recurring presence of the fleet in the Cretan waters during the eighth century. That the Byzantine fleet repeatedly struggled to retain control of the island owed less to the threat posed by the Arabs to the shipping routes than to the importance of Crete as launching pad towards Constantinople. Indeed, Crete was raided again in 705–6 A.D. and 714–15 A.D.154, but since the failed Arab siege of Constantinople (715–8 A.D.), the incursions were aimed more at seizing booty and slaves than at the possession of an advanced base from which harass the Byzantine capital155. As a matter of fact, only two encomia delivered by Saint Andreas, Archibishop of Crete from 712 A.D. to 740 A.D.156, and a passage of his Life (written by Niketas Magistros in the second half of the eighth century157) mention further Arab raids, dated to 720–6 A.D.158 This last passage seems particularly relevant to me, since it reports that the enemy (Arabs) arrived on many ships and besieged a castle called tou Drimèos, where the Saint and his flock had sheltered. The Arabs fought hard using some kind of siege engines, but thanks to the Saint’s prayers they failed to capture the fort159. Indeed, some scholars have associated the fort tou Drimèos with Gortyn and its Acropolis160. However, there is no evidence to substantiate this conclusion and this account cannot, therefore be taken to imply that the Gortynian settlement was then completely within the walls of the Acropolis161.

thanks to the sigillographic evidence164, however their role and functions are still difficult to establish. One could only emphasize that in the Taktikon Uspenskij (compiled in the second half of the ninth century)165, which is a catalogue of Byzantine officials and dignitaries listed in hierarchical order of precedence, the archontes appeared as units of an inferior rank with regard to the thematic strategoi, though enjoying a certain degree of administrative independence166. According to Ferluga, since each archontate was close to the sea and preserved a large number of towns (still an economic element of importance), they ought to express a degree of centralization and control on the part of the Constantinopolitan structures of government and administration167. ‘They [the archontes] must have been government officials appointed by a superior authority, eventually the higher representatives of the provincial administration or even directly from Constantinople’168. We are in possession of a series of seven Cretan lead seals169 mentioning an archon170, all dated between the second half of the eighth and the early ninth century. Six specimens mentioning the archontes are preceded by the title of imperial spatharios. One also combines the archon with the title of paraphylax. According to Nesbitt– Oikonomides and Tzougarakis171 the paraphylax appears in the Phylotes’ List172 as “paraphylax of the castles”, which in their view can mean only the military commander of a fortified city, probably with some sort of police functions. Moreover they are mentioned on a series of ninth–century seals of officials from Abydos, Thessaloniki, Nicaea and Ephesos–Theologos. These seals seem to refer to officials exercising maritime or harbour duties because they are almost invariably (apart from Nicaea) connected with a port. But as Nesbitt and Oikonomides hint, in the case of Crete the paraphylax should have exerted its authority over the “fortified” city of Gortyn. So, the title should be a contraction of “archon of Crete and paraphylax of Gortyn”, with some sort of equivalence between Crete and its capital, since also the Archbishop called himself Kritis while residing in Gortyn173. It is worth mentioning that neither the archon nor the Paraphylax had exclusively maritime duties (archontes, indeed, existed also in towns

From the late seventh century onward the administrative dependency of Crete seems to have undergone some changes. Indeed, scholars have been debating since the 1950s on the real extent and form of these changes. Some of them, like Ahrweiler162, have focussed their attention on the reorganization of the Byzantine naval forces after the failed siege of Constantinople by the Arabs. This reorganization, carried on by Leo III, led to the dissolution of the former naval Strategia of the Karabisianoi, and divided it up into squadrons and autonomous commands linked to the coastal regions of the empire163. In this perspective, Crete should be regarded as a frontier region and a naval stronghold administered by archontes in charge of the local fleet. That many archontes were appointed in Crete is undisputable,

See Sanders 1982, 11. See on this Ferluga 1953, 95; Treadgold 1980, 269; Oikonomides 1972, 45-7 166 Ferluga 1953, 95. 167 Ibid., 97. 168 Nesbitt-Oikonomides 1994, 95. 169 They definitively come from the island but their exact provenence remain unknown. 170 1. (Leo?) Imperial spatharios and archon of Crete (NesbittOikonomides II, 36.2; Zacos-Veglery 1972, I, 2645/6; Tzougarakis 1990, 146 n.16). 2. John archon and paraphylax of Crete (Nesbitt-Oikonomides 1994, 36.5; Zacos-Veglery I, 2001; Tzougarakis 1990 147 n.30). 3. Basil Imperial spatharios and archon of Crete (Nesbitt-Oikonomides 1994, 36.1; Zacos-Veglery I, 1782, Tzougarakis 1990, 146 n.18). 4. Constantine Imperials spatharios and archon of Crete (Tzougarakis 1990, 146 n.19). 5. Nicholas, hypathos, Imperial spatharios and archon of Crete ( ZacosVeglery I, 2646; Sanders 1982, 11; Tzougarakis 1990, 146 n.17) 6. Petronos Imperial spatharios and archon of Crete (Tzougarakis 1990, 147 n.22). 7. Baasakios Imperial spatharios and archon of Crete (Tzougarakis 1988, 169; Tzougarakis 1990 147 n.23). 171 Nesbitt-Oikonomides 1994, 96-7; Tzougarakis 1988, 175-6. 172 Oikonomides 1972, 161 n.343. 173 See p. 70. 164 165

Garrafo 1997; Garrafo 2005; Romeo-Portale 2005. Tzougarakis 1988, 24; Christides 1984, 89. See also Christides 1981. See also Chapter 2, p.85–9 fn.143 on the Archontia. 155 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217.Tzougarakis 1988, 29. 156 Detorakis 1994,114. 157 Gallas-Weissel-Bouboudakis 1983, 16; Tzougarakis 1988, 114-5; Vasiliev 1935, 52-3. 158 For the Encomia see Tzougarakis 1988, 114-5 and Vasiliev 1935, 52-53. The first one (Encomion for Titos Apostle) reports a raid struck by the Egyptians (P.G., 97, 1141-1170); the second (Encomion to the Holy Martyrs) mentions a naval attack of the Agarenoi, using many pollas michanas (many war-machines). Eventually, during a sea battle all the Arab ships were sunk or destroyed; the third (In Circuncisionem Domini et Sancti Basilium) refers to some Arab raids against Crete (P.G. 97, 932). 159 Vita Andrea Cretensis, 169-79. 160 Gallas-Weissel-Bouboudakis 1983, 16; Tzougarakis 1988, 114-5 161 See infra pp. 115-17. 162 Ahrweiler 1964 and Ahrweiler 1961. 163 Ahrweiler 1964, 25-31. 153 154

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GORTYN away from the coast)174. Although the evidence on the paraphylax is meagre175 and his real responsibilities far from being documented, it seems possible that this official acted as both a local governor (possibly using the Acropolis of Gortyn as his main residence) and an archon of the island. The latter would imply that Crete was deeply entrenched in the administrative imperial structures, which developed in pre–thematic forms. I will return to this in a moment. Indeed, other contemporary lead–seals refer to imperial spatharioi176, stratelates177 and to a tourmarches of Crete178, who, with all probability, served as a subaltern military–official under the Cretan archon179. Together with the late eighth–mid ninth–century seal of the Vestitor and Protonotarios of the Imperial treasury found in Knossos, this set of seals help us to assert that between the eighth and the early ninth century the province of Crete was governed by archontes and was of a piece with the central bureaucratic and administrative Byzantine system. So, as pointed out by the seal of the paraphylax, it seems possible to me that Gortyn was still regarded as the political centre of this province. As we will see, this fact matched its importance as ecclesiastical seat of the Metropolitan archbishop and the economic vitality (as the recent excavations at the Byzantine Quarter have revealed) of its artisanal quarter.

is clear that all the three titles used in the text […] were used vaguely to denote any governor or chief official that happened to be in charge at that time’184. Indeed, the word theme (introduced in the seventh century) seems to refer to a field army or a division, which was re–located on the Anatolian plateau after being forced to withdraw in front of the Arab invasion185. So, a small theme of Crete would be inappropriate among the large themes that existed before they were broken up in the early ninth century186. Finally, the first reference to a strategos of Crete in the literary sources comes in the Taktikon Uspenskij, one of the main sources on the organization of the Byzantine army in the ninth century187, which mentions a patrikios and strategos Kritis together with an archon Kritis188. Although Ahrweiler implies that in Crete the Byzantine military–administrative system relied on both an archon (commanding the local naval fleet) and a strategos (at the head of the Theme), it has been pointed out189 that the contemporary mention of the two titles is due to the presence of some obsolete ranks in the Taktikon. ‘Crete, having been governed by archontes, might have been recently promoted to Theme Status, and the compiler of the Taktikon Uspenskij (compiled during the second quarter of the ninth century) inserted the new title of strategos of Crete but omitted to strike out the old one’190. Since the obsolescence could not survive the frequent revisions of the list, it is possible that the first strategos was Theoktistos191, who in 843 A.D. led a large naval operation to recover Crete from the Arabs192. This being so, it is conceivable that a Theme of Crete existed “on paper”, as a programmatic intention set up by the Byzantine administration with a view to the day after the expected (re)conquest of the island. Unfortunately, the expedition led by Theoktistos failed and the purposed re–organization of the island along thematic lines was abandoned.

If we accept these conclusions, it becomes extremely difficult to assert the thematic status of Crete before the Arab invasion180. Those who support the idea that Crete became a theme during the seventh century build their assumptions on both a late seventh–eighth century stray lead–seal found at Gortyn, bearing the name of Stephen Strategos181, and a passage of the early ninth–century Life of St. Stephen the Younger182, mentioning the archistatrapis, strategos and archon Theophanes Lardotyros. However, the seal does not expressly refer to Stephanos as the Strategos of Crete183. Moreover, as seen above, we possess seven later specimens belonging to the local archontes. As for Theophanes Lardotyros, ‘since the life is a hagiographic work, its author was obviously not specifically interested in presenting the official nomenclature accurately, and it

To sum up, the sigillographic evidence thus testifies the provincial status of Crete within the Byzantine administrative system. At some unknown time during the first half of the eighth century, this status changed; although it was not elevated to a Theme, the island, nevertheless turned into an independent administrative unit governed by an archon, who perhaps resided in Gortyn193. Crete continued to be governed by the archontes until the first quarter of the ninth century.

Tzougarakis 1988, 140-1. For instance Brandes’s massive and compelling book on the Byzantine financial administration do not mention this official at all. 176 Tzougarakis 1990, 148 n.34 (Anastasios Imperial spatharios); n.32 (Markianos, Scribo and Imperial spatharios); also ToukatsoglouKoltsisda-Makre-Nikolau 2006, 57 n.14 (Nikolaos Spatharos) and n.15 (Nikolaous Spatharou). 177 Toukatsoglou-Koltsisda-Makre-Nikolau 2006, 59 n.12 (Theodosios Stratelate) and n.13 (Constantine Stratelates) 178 Tzougarakis 1988, 169; Zacos-Veglery 1972, I, 2059; NesbittOikonomides 1994, 36.9; Tzougarakis 1990, 141. 179 Nesbitt-Oikonomides 1994, 97. 180 Christides 1984, Bourboudakis 1991, Spiridakis 1951, Oikonomides 1972, 353, Ahrweiler 1961 and , eventually, Herrin, J., ‘Crete in the Conflicts of the eighth century’, in Afieroma stòn N.Sborono, I (Rhetymnon, 1986), 113ff. This last article remains inaccessible to me. However, a good review is made by Mango-Scott 1986 (see Theophanes, 574, n.11). 181 Tzougarakis 1990, 148 n.33; Tzougarakis 1988, 169; 171; Laurent 1961-2, 385-7; Ahrweiler 1961, 219; Spiridakis 1951, 636 182 Vita Steph.Iun 58, 13-17. 183 Laurent 1961, 385; Tzougarakis 1988, 168-9; contra Ahrweiler 1961, Spiridakis 1951, 174 175

Tzougarakis 1988, 171. Also Laurent 1961, 385-8. Theophanes (Theoph. 385-6), states that in 714-5 A.D. the logothete of Genikon was put in charge of a detachment of ships from the metropolitan fleet with the forces of the Opsikion theme as military backing. It was nominated for the occasion Stratege kai Kephalè. The title has anything to do with an administrative-military circumscription (Theme): it is merely the recognition of his military role as chief of the expedition. 185 Haldon 1990, 210-15; Wickham 2005, 127; Hendy 1985, 618ff. On the historical origins of the themes see Chapter 4, pp. 103ff. 186 Treadgold 1980, 279. 187 See above 188 Oikonomides 1972, 48-9; 52-53. 189 Tzougarakis 1988, 171; Treadgold 1980, 277. 190 Tzougarakis 1988, 172. 191 Theoph. Cont. 283; 291 ; Georg.Monac., 814-5; Sym.Magist., 229. 192 Laurent 1961, 388. 193 Tzougarakis 1988, 169-73. 184

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) The Arab conquest of Crete marked an important change194. On the one hand, indeed, the island seemed to have benefited from its new central role along the commercial routes linking it with the Muslim world195: together with the conquest of Sicily (in 820s), ‘the importance of the seizure of Crete was very important both strategically and in terms of slave supplies’196. Using Crete as a starting point, the Arabs began to raid the Aegean islands197, adding a new stream of slave supply to those operating since the eighth century198.

a band of Spanish Muslims, exiled from Spain by the local Umayyad ruler, first tried to seize Egypt, taking advantage of a civic war in the Άbbasid Caliphate, and then (when the Άbbasids were back in control) sailed to Crete204 where they landed in the 820s. Here ‘Abu Hafs ’Umar Aysi, the Andalusian, known as the “conqueror of Crete”, first conquered a fortress and resided in it, and then proceeded to conquer [the island] piece by piece until nothing was left to the Byzantines’205. This passage of Baladhuri (who lived in the second half of the ninth century) attesting a progressive conquest of Crete206 by the Arabs, is confirmed by the repeated attempts staged by the Byzantine fleet to repel the invaders. First Photeinos, strategos of the Anatolic Theme, and the constable Damianos, were despatched to the island, but they were defeated207. Then, after some Cretan raids against the Aegean islands, the strategos of the Kybirreots Krateros, was sent to re–conquer Crete, but he failed, and escaped to the island of Kos, where he was captured and killed by the Arabs208. Eventually, one Ooriphas, collected a naval force and ‘freed many islands’209, but he could not reach Crete.

“The Arab raiders were as eager to collect saleable women and men as to plunder treasure […] All it took was regular relations with the prey society that allowed them to communicate with their prisoners’ home and to negotiate payments […] This process is well attested for the Cretan Arabs”199. On the other hand, the Arab conquest appeared to have a negligible impact on the shipping and travel infrastructure, for the only explicit evidence of structural impediments to communication and movement of the 340 travellers catalogued by McCormick, is limited to the seizure of Crete by the Arabs. In fact a disciple of Gregory the Dekapolite, a man named Joseph, was ordered to sail to Rome to obtain the papal support against Iconoclasm. His mission was, however, aborted when the Arab pirates on Crete captured his ship and, rather than selling him as a slave, held him for ransom200. By way of comparison, in the late eighth century Gregory Akrites could run away from Crete, finding a passage on a ship to Seleukia201.

In 843 A.D. a naval expedition led by the logothete Theoktistos, involving a large number of troops and ships, left Constantinople for Crete210. As soon as he landed in Crete he thoroughly frightened the “Hagarenes” who could not yet211 match up to his strength. Subsequently, the Arabs circulated rumours about that Empress Theodora (who held the regency for his minor son Michael (then Michael III), was enthroning a new emperor. These rumours, presumably spread by bribed Byzantine generals, forced Theoktistos to return to Constantinople, while his lieutenant Sergios

There is no space here to focus in details on the historiographical debate about the chronology of the Arab invasions202, which according to the Byzantine sources203 was due to the consequences of Thomas the Slav’s revolt (821–23 A.D.). It is sufficient to say that around 813 A.D.

The Byzantine sources refer to the invaders as coming directly from Spain. The Egyptian “intermezzo” is mentioned only in the Arab and Syriac sources: Genesius 32-34; Theop.Cont. 73. 5-77; De Adm.Imp. 22.41-7; Mich.Syr. XII, 13, 60; Kindi, 158; Ibn al Athir, 212; Ya’qubi , II, 542; Tabari, I, 278ff; Nuwayri (reported in Christides 1984, 91); 205 Baladhuri, 238 (translated passage in Christides 1984, 90). Also Gallas et al.1983, 17 and Tzougarakis 1988, 40. 206 Christides 1981, Christides 1984, 87; Tzougarakis 1988, 38-9. 207 Theoph.Cont 74-6; Cedrenus, 93-4; Skylitzes, 43. First, Photeinos was despatched to Crete, but when he arrived, he immediately appealed to the Emperor to send reinforcements to aid the expulsion of the enemy. So Damianos was sent with dunamìn tina. 204

194 Christides 1981; Christides 1984, 38-9; Pryor 1992, 103ff; McCormick 2001, 753ff; Tzougarakis 1988, 30-41; Setton 1954; Miles 1964; Brooks 1913; Vasiliev 1935, 49-61; 195 Christides 1984, 114ff; Christides 1981 ; Tzougarakis 1988, 265. 196 McCormick 2001, 753 197 ‘The Moslems of Crete , while completing their conquest of Crete, were also engaged in raiding the other island’ (Christides 1981, 89). Many hagiographical sources refer to these raids: the tenth-century Life of St.Luke the Younger ( P.G., 111, 441-44), the tenth-century Life of St.Theodore of Thessalonica (P.G., 150, 753-772), and the ninth- century Life of St.Theoctiste Lesbia, 11. However, only the last one plainly attests that Cretan Arabs “shocked and awed” one of those islands (Lesbos). The other sources merely speak about ‘tas sunecheis efodus ton ek tis Agar’, without any geographical indication of their provenience. See also Miles 1964, 35, Tzougarakis 1988, 44. See also Theoph.Cont, 77; Skylitzes 1963, 44, and Narration of the Relics of Saint Valerius the Bishop , 301-4: the heretical Moslems conquered the island of Crete and they occupied it and using it as their base […] sacked the narby places, cities and islands, among which the “island of the Cow-owners” (Elaphonesos?). See on this Christides 1981, 106-7. 198 Raids aiming to slave-gathering and booty are attested in eighthcentury Crete. 199 McCormick 2001, 769. See infra for the travel of Joseph the Hymnographer. 200 Life of Greg.Decap. 29, 71-19-72.11. See McCormick 2001, 202-3 with further bibliography. 201 Life of Gregory Akrite, 372.28-31. 202 On this mainly Christides 1984, 85-86, Brooks 1913, Tzougarakis 1988, 41ff., Christides 1981; Vasiliev 1935, 49-61. 203 Theoph.Cont, 74. 14-16; Genesius 33.11-13; Georg.Monac., 797-8.

The chronology of the first two or three expeditions against Crete is entirely uncertain (Tzougarakis 1988, 41) The only real chronological indication is offered by Sphrantzes (Sphrantzes, 240): ‘The battle between Photeinos-Damianos and the Arabs was fought at Almyros, 20 stadia from Chandax in 831/32’. 208 Genesius 34, 12; Theoph.Cont 79. 13-81. According to Genesius, Krateros first won a victory against the Arabs, but then neglected to keep guard during the night and had his forces annihilated during an unexpected attack. 209 Genesius 35, 13.. Genesius placed the event in 829, but as Tzougarakis and Brooks (Tzougarakis 1988, 45; Brooks 1913, 433) point out, this event should take place after the disastrous defeat of the Byzantine fleet off of Thasos in 829 A.D.(Theoph.Cont., 39) and so during Theophilos’ reign. On Ooriphas’ expedition see also Theoph.Cont 81, 6-15 and Sym.Mag., 624. 210 Theoph. Cont. 283; 291 ; Georg.Monac., 814-5; Sym.Magist., 229. See also Brooks 1913; Vasiliev 1935, 194-5; Ahrweiler 1964, 112; Tzougarakis 1988, 46-7. 211 Theoph.Cont 283: adunatos eti pros tin strateian autou antagonizesthai.

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GORTYN Niketas212 was left with the army. The Arabs then attacked and defeated the Byzantine expeditionary corps. However, the landing of the Byzantine army and its transitory success implies that part of Crete was still under the Byzantine control until the second half of the ninth century. This would confirm a passage of Ibn–Khordhadbeh, who, writing in the second half of the ninth century, included Crete among the territories belonging to the Romans213. Moreover, as seen above, one could also explain why the Philoteos’ List mentioned a strategos and an archon of Crete214.

Acacian Schism (489–512 A.D.)224, but forty Illyrian bishops denounced the Vicar, who made communion with Timothy the bishop of Constantinople, and signed a joint declaration of alliance with Rome225. After the end of the Schism, the Illyrian dioceses returned to Papal jurisdiction, but the Vicariate of Thessaloniki lost its status, and Crete was directly administered from Rome226. The Archbishopric seat of Gortyn appeared (together with its suffragans of Knossos, Chersonesos, Lappè and Eleutherna) in the signature lists of the Third Ecumenical Council (431 A.D.), the Fourth Ecumenical Council (451 A.D.), and the Fifth Ecumenical Council (553 A.D.)227, while three letters (dated between May 591 and May 599), written by Gregory the Great, show its relations with Rome228.

The failed invasion staged by Theoktistos remained the last Byzantine attempt to re–conquer the island until the famous expeditions dated to 911 A.D. and 949 A.D.215. Indeed, the last resorts of Byzantine resistance crumbled and Crete became an Arab emirate216until 961 A.D. when under Nikephoros Phocas the Byzantine flag waved again on the island.

In 667–8 A.D. Pope Vitalian sent two letters to Archbishop Paul of Gortyn229. These letters concerned the case of Bishop John of Lappè, who was deposed by Paul and his Synod230. As we will see, these letters should be considered as the last Roman jurisdictional accomplishment with regard to Crete. A few years later, Basilius, episcopos metropoleos Gortinis231, was among those who signed the Acts of the sixth Ecumenical Council of Constantinople (680–1 A.D.). He autographed the acts as legate of the Holy Synod of the Apostolic Throne of Old Rome232. This title resembled that the same Basil used to sign the acts of the following Quinisex Council: Lieutenant (locum tenens) of the whole Synod of the Holy Roman Church233. Indeed, according to the Liber Pontificalis234, the legates of the Apostolic See were deceived and induced to sign the Acts, since the pope had decided not to send any official representatives. However, the pope had previously detached agents to the Imperial Court on a permanent basis. This allowed Basil, episcopus Gortynae metropolis Christum amantis Cretae, to take part in the Quinisext Council as at that time he was

The ecclesiastical history of Crete begins with the mission of the Apostle Paul and his disciple St. Titus.217 There is no space here to deal with the history of the Cretan church until the fifth century. All the same, however, we should refer to the prominence which the Gortynian bishopric seat has retained since the first ecumenical council and even before218. In the early fifth century, the island, now part of the Praefectura Praetorio Illyrici and administratively attached to the Pars orientis, remained under papal jurisdiction. Indeed, in this period Pope Damasus created the Vicariate of Thessaloniki219 in order to strengthen its grip over the Illyrian provinces. This measure sanctioned the supremacy of Thessaloniki over the other churches of Illyricum: the election of the Archbishop of Gortyn (like that of any other Archbishop of the different Illyrian provinces220) would have been authorised by the Vicar221. Indeed, the Constantinopolitan Church repeatedly tried to counter the Papal move. In 421 A.D. a law issued by Theodosios II222 annexed the episcopos in Illyrico to the Church of the capital. In spite of the fact that this law was also included in the Theodosian and Justinian Codes223, the Popes retained Illyricum under their sway. A new Constantinopolitan assault was staged during the

224 Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 794; Dvornik 1930, 64; Tzougarakis 1988, 199. 225 Theoph., 246. 226 Jaffè 1885-8, I, 2071. 227 A.C.O. I, 3, 31, n.1; A.C.O. II, 1, 57, n.48; A.C.O. III, 115, n.31 228 M.G.H., EE, I, 69-70; II, 12; II 157. In the second and third letter Gregory explicitly addressed John, the Metropolitan Archbishop of Crete. See also Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 794 and Tzougarakis 1988, 200. 229 Jaffè 1985-8, 2090; 2092. See on their debatable chronology McCormick 2001, 73-4. Also Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 794; Tzougarakis 1988, 200; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 18. 230 The first letter annulled the deposition and ordered John to be reinstated; the second letter asked the Archbishop to restore the Monasteries of Palea and Arsilli to the Bishopric of Lappa, to which they have previously belonged (On the ruins of these monasteries see Tzougarakis 1988, 244 and Sanders 1982, 107.

See on him Laurent 1961, 388; Tzougarakis 1988, 47-8. Ibn-Khordhadbeh VI, 85. 214 See above p. 70. 215 See Tzougarakis 1988, 58ff with further bibliography. 216 On the History of Crete under the Arabs see Christides 1981, Christides 1984; Setton 1954; Miles 1964, Tzougarakis 1988, 30-58; 164-79; Detorakis 1994, 120-132. 217 Acts XVII, 8-21; 62 218 See on this Detorakis 1994, 106-20 and Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 796ff , with further bibliography and references to the sources. 219 The jurisdiction and powers of the Vicariate were further refined under Pope Siricius and Innocent I. See Dvornik 1930, 63, Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 793; Tzougarakis 1988, 198. Two letters written by Pope Innocent to the Vicar Rufus referred to Crete. The first, dated to 412 A.D. ranked Crete as the fifth Greek dioceses(P.L. XX, 515 B); the second, dated to 414 A.D., is concerned with two heretic prelates based on the island (P.L. XX, 539 A). 220 Mansi, VIII, 751. 221 See the Letter written by Pope Siricius to Anysus (Mansi VIII, 750): ‘etiam dudum huiusmodi literas dederamus, ut nulla licentia esset sine consensu tuo in Illyrico episcopos ordinare praesumere’. 222 Seeck 1919, 345. 223 Codex Theod. XVI, 2, 45; Cod.Just. XI, 21. 212 213

According to McCormick this file of letters together with the bishop, was sent first to Syracuse- where Emperor Constans II resided- since two accompanying letters (Jaffè 1885-88, 2091; 2093) went to the bishop of Syracuse and to the Imperial Cubicularios Boones asking them to help in this matter (McCormick 2001, 73). A seal of John is in Zacos-Veglery 1972, I, 1086. 231 Mansi XI, 209CD. 232 On the title see Tzougarakis 1988, 202; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 794. Indeed, Basil signed the letter sent by the very Council to the Pope with in the name of its own Cretan Synod (Mansi XI, 689A). 233 Mansi XI, 989B. See also Tzougarakis 1988, 202; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 794, and, mainly, Laurent 1965, 13-15. 234 Lib.Pont. I, 372.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the Apocrisarius in charge. He acted not as a special envoy, however, but only as a silent witness235.

he requested the restoration to the Roman See of the bishoprics and archbishoprics, which the first iconoclast emperor had removed from Roman control244. So, there is no doubt that Illyricum, Calabria and Sicily passed under the control of the Constantinopolitan Patriarchate, since Hadrian made plain that the subtraction of the dioceses from the papal sovereignty was associated with Leo III’s confiscation of the patrimonies in the southern part of Italy in 732–3245.

Only four Cretan bishops are known through some inscribed lead seals236, dated between the late seventh and the late eighth century237 . Among these, the most important is the seal of Andreas proedros (metropolitan) of Crete, dated to the first half of the eighth century, and belonging to the famous hymnographer Andreas of Crete238. This specimen was found in Knossos, and so could be easily interpreted as a match to the later seal of the Vestitor and Protonotarios of the Sakellion239, pointing to a physical presence of an ecclesiastical elite in this city.

In 787 A.D. for the first time the Archbishop of Crete (Elias of Gortyn) attended an Ecumenical Council (with his entire synod) as a part of the Constantinopolitan hierarchy246. However the first Notitia Episcopatum (composed during the seventh century) did not include Crete. Crete was mentioned only from the second Notitia (dated to the late eighth –early ninth century) onward247. Indeed, it is worth noticing that the Notitia mentioned the Eparchy of Crete and not the Metropolis of Gortyn248 –as Gregory the Great did in his letters to the Cretan Metropolitan– with its 21 suffragans249.

The final stage of the fate of the Cretan dioceses was reached in 732–3 A.D., when ‘Emperor Leo III transferred Illyricum, Calabria and Sicily from the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of the Roman papacy to that of the Patriarchate of Constantinople’240. It is difficult to ascertain why Leo III made this decision. According to Theophanes, the Emperor was furious with the Pope for the secession of Rome and Italy (due to his opposition to the Imperial Iconoclastic Decree of 726 A.D.), and so fitted out and despatched a fleet under the command of Manes, strategos of the Kybirreots241. The fleet shipwrecked in the Adriatic Sea and so Leo III (whom Theophanes dubbed as “God’s enemy”) imposed a capitation tax on one third of people of Sicily and Calabria. Although Theophanes does not mention Crete in this passage, he later recalls the time of the impious Leo both as regards the orthodox faith and civil administration, the latter in Sicily, Calabria and Crete, for reasons of dishonest gain and avarice242. Besides, Theophanes’s silence on the new ecclesiastical administration of Illyricum is counterbalanced by a passage in a late eighth–century letter of Pope Hadrian’s l243, where

3.4 The City Within the “wealthy and endowed–with–a–hundred– city”250 Crete, Gortyn had always been not only the political and administrative capital, but also the ecclesiastical metropolis and one of the main economic foci, thanks to its location on the Messarà plain. The importance of the maxima and splendidissima civitas Gortynorum251 stemmed from its relation with its fertile and agriculturally exploitable hinterland. One of the hills framing the urban landscape to the north functioned as the Acropolis of the city, and some of the main urban monumental features developed both on its slopes and at its foot. These included the Theatre, the Odeion, the Agora, and later the Cathedral of Hagios Titos. Indeed, one of the main axes of the urban landscape commenced from this area, extending one of the most important access roads, which came from the north and climbed down the Mitropolianos valley, running beside the arches of the aqueduct supplying the Acropolis and the lower city. Aside from the Acropolis, the urban landscape preserved two different orientations, still today visible in the area between the Greek temple of Pythion Apollo and the Roman Praetorium, where a trapezoidal square was built in the late fourth century to conceal the diverging alignment of the Greek and Roman street grid252:

235 Laurent 1965, 14-15. Also Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 795. On the contrary, Tzougarakis (Tzougarakis 1988, 203-5) asserts that Basil’s presence pointed to a pro-Constantinopolitan attitude, which is an indication of the way ties were being strengthened between Crete and Constantinople in spite of the official bond with the Church of Rome. A few years later, the Life of Saint Andreas the Hymnographer and Archbishop of Crete (written in the mid eight century) could provide us with another indication of the close relationship between Constantinople and Crete. Instead of being elected by the Cretan bishops (alone or together with other Illyrian prelates), and confirmed by Rome, Andreas was enthroned in Constantinople (712 A.D.), without the participation of the local synod, as became regular later in the ninth and 10th century. (Vita Andrea Cretensis, 174). 236 Another lead seal belong to the Church of Kissamos. Tzougarakis 1990, 143-4; Laurent V/2, 1596. 237 1. Stephanos (Metropolitan) of Crete (Zacos-Veglery, I, 1294; NesbittOikonomides, 36.11; Tzougarakis 1990, 144; Tzougarakis 1988, 395). 2. George, Archbishop of Crete (Zacos-Veglery, I, 1913; Laurent V/3, 1753; Nesbitt-Oikonomides, 36.9; Tzougarakis 1990, 144; Tzougarakis 1988, 395). 3. Menas, bishop ( Laurent V/1, 995; Tzougarakis 1990, 144) 238 On the seal see Nesbitt-Oikonomides 36.8; Laurent V/1, 619; SBS 5(1996), 191; Tzougarakis 1990, 144. 239 I am particularly grateful to Archie Dunn, who provided me with this information. 240 Anastos 1957, 14-15. Also on this Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 795; Detorakis 1994, 115ff.; Tzougarakis 1988, 205ff; 241 Theophanes, 568. Mango and Scott, in their commentary, suggest that this expedition could not be directed against the Pope but against the Lombard, who had temporarily seized Ravenna. On the earliest mention of the Strategos of a maritime theme see Ahrweiler 1964, 81-3. 242 Theophanes 547 (A.D. 739-40). 243 Jaffè 1885-8, I, 2448 and Mansi XIII, 808. See on this Dvornik 1930,

“the Roman city lay alongside the Hellenistic one, by occupying the plain to the east of a stream, which limited the Greek urban landscape; the stream was filled in with 69; Anastos 1957, 23-5; Tzougarakis 1988, 207 244 Mansi XIII, 808: ‘consecrationes archiepiscoporum seu episcoporum sicut alitana constet traditio, Romanae diocesis existentes’. 245 Anastos 1957, 26. See on this also Marazzi 1991. 246 Mansi XII, 994; XIII, 136, 365, 381. 247 Not.Epis. 2.10; 3.14 etc. See also Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 8012. 248 Gortyn appears only in Not.Epis 13.481 and 14.3, 14-239. 249 Not.Epis. 2.208-227. See Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 801. 250 Iliad, II 46; 251 Espositio.Tot.Mund., 64: C.I.L., III, 13565 mentioned in Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 785. 252 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 13; Di Vita 2000(c), 10-11.

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GORTYN debris and replaced by a large paved street (the so–called North–South Street), while the main axis of the Hellenistic city was prolonged to the east but smoothly displaced in order to adjust the new orthogonal grid to the plan”253.

abandoned between the first and the fourth century266. A closely packed set of houses was built in this area around several churches, which dated from the fifth to the first half of the seventh century, together with a grid of well–paved orthogonal streets, meant to connect this quarter with the other parts of the city267.

Elsewhere, the city hides its Hellenistic phases under the cloak of the Roman and Byzantine ruins. In fact, the Roman monumental strip around the eastern and southern part of the city is even today evident in the ruins of the Circus254, the Great Theatre, the Amphitheatre255 and the massive bath complex named “The Megali Porta”256. On its western edge the city was limited by the Mitropolianos and by a belt of cemeteries, which spread even across the river. Starting from the late fourth century, this area of the urban landscape was partially occupied by the so–called “Christian quarter”, a new residential area focussed on the episcopal Basilica, several Christian churches, and martyria257.

According to Di Vita, in the grand urbanistic development of Gortyn, this quarter should be more in the nature of a coda than an overture, since it stressed the “breaking up” of the (continuous?) Roman urban landscape268 and therefore, the “beginning of the end” of the city. In Di Vita’s opinion this “breaking–up” process was further enhanced also by the development of another residential and artisanal quarter, which “encroached” on the trapezoid square between the Praetorium and the Temple of Pythion Apollo269. Here, a set of workshops and stalls, the so–called “Byzantine Quarter”, occupied the area along the North–South Street, opposite the western façade of the Praetorium270.

The earthquake258, which in the second half of the fourth century left the city ruined259, could be regarded as a convenient starting point for the Late Antique phase of the city. After this event, the city underwent a phase of large rebuilding and restoration, which involved the main urban foci. In 382–83 A.D., the so–called Praetorium was restored for the most part, and was dedicated by the praeses Dositeus Asclepiodotus to the emperors Gratian, Valentinian III and Theodosius I260. This restoration preserved the original monumental portal, allowing the visitor to enter first a vestibule and then the so–called Judicial Basilica with its rectangular apse261, which possibly served as the judgment seat of the local governor. Moreover, the portion of the orthogonal street grid, which passed to the east (North–South Street) and the north (East–West road) of the insula Pretorii, linking it to the other areas of the city, was also repaved262. The so–called Megali Porta bath also underwent a phase of restoration263, while on the Acropolis a little basilica was built on the site of the ruined Temple of Athena Poliouchos264.

However, Di Vita’s analysis does not grasp the fact that these two quarters mirrored the vitality of the urban elites, which were rich enough to sustain lavish expenditure in a new monumental form (Christian shrines) and to underpin a rich artisanal production. I shall return to this very last problem in a moment. What we should recall here is the scale of the building activity in the “Christian quarter” between the second half of the fifth century and the second half of the sixth century. Unfortunately we do not possess any evidence of private residences belonging to the elites: of course this does not imply that they did not exist at all, but the lack of archaeological and documentary evidence on housing forces us to restrict our analysis to the monumental Christian buildings. Apart from the first phase of the so–called Double Basilica of Mitropolis271, two other Christian buildings were built in this period. One was a Trichoncos272, which according to its architectural typology should have been the burial place of a martyr. Indeed, one might be persuaded to identify this shrine with the final resting place of the Ten Holy Martyrs273, which according to their Passio were beheaded in 250 A.D.274. As has been pointed out275, however, the martyrs were buried in a church close to the village of Hagii Deka. Another famous local martyr was the local bishop Cyril, supposedly executed during Diocletian’s reign (304 A.D.)276, but there

This process of restoration on a large urban scale continued during the fifth century, possibly because the city was struck again by at least one earthquake265, and as mentioned above, resulted in a new urban quarter (the so–called Christian quarter) built along the Mitropolianos, between the Acropolis and the modern Village of Mitropolis. This quarter occupied a peripheral area with regard to the focus of the Roman city, which appears to have remained

Di Vita 1984(a); Di Vita 1998. Di Vita 1984(a), 74.. 268 Di Vita 1984(a), 101-4. 269 Di Vita 1988, 231ff. 270 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 221. 271 Farioli-Campanati 1998, 108-9. 272 Gallas et al.1983, 369-71; Sanders 1982, 112-3; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 797; Tzougarakis 1988, 310. 273 Gallas et al.1983, 369. 274 Passio of the Holy ten Martyrs, 30-1. This work was written between the sixth and the eighth century, although it was based on an earlier work of the fourth-fifth century. It mentions Gortyn, Knossos and Heraclion (among the other cities) as place of origin of the famous martyrs, who were executed in 250s at a place called Alonion. Also Tzougarakis 1988, 113; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 791; Detorakis 1994, 107-8. 275 Their execution took place in the amphitheatre of Gortyn. Nowadays, the church of Hagii Deka stands in the place to commemorate the event. See on this Di Vita 1991(c), 340-1. 276 Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 791; Detorakis 1994, 107-8. Genesius 266 267

Di Vita 2005, 467. Di Vita 1987, 514. 255 Di Vita 1991(c); Di Vita 2005, 470-1. 256 Sanders 1982, 70ff; 157-9. 257 See infra 258 On this earthquake, see mainly Di Vita, 1986(b); Guidoboni 1989, 450. 259 Malalas LXIV. 61; Zosimos 4.18. 1-2; Cedrenus 550-1. 260 Di Vita 2005, 473; Di Vita 2000(a), 24-25; Di Vita 2000(c), 7.Di Vita 1993(a), 469;Di Vita 1995, 444ff. 261 Di Vita 2000(a), 24-5. 262 Belli Pasqua- La Torre 1999. 263 Masturzo and Tarditi 1999, 261-6. See also Malalas LXIV, 61. 264 Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 69ff.; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 797. 265 Evagrius, 65; Theophanes 150. See also Di Vita 1986(b), 438 and Guidoboni 1989. 253 254

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the continuation of the large East–West Street, which headed to the Praetorium, and a north–south axis, which bordered the river Mitropolianos282. Other paved streets paralleled these two main axes (two east–west roads and one north–south lane283), forming a chequerboard, whose insulae may be occupied by Christian shrines and (with all probability) private residences, but which still remain unexcavated. As implied above, the Christian quarter underwent a further phase of restoration and embellishment in the second half of the sixth century. In fact, here a recent excavation has shed light on the Episcopal Cathedral (the so–called “Double Basilica”)284. This was a five–aisled Basilica (with an atrium and narthex), whose northern side opened on a large paved square, that was located along the main north–south axis of the orthogonal street grid. The archaeological excavations have revealed a large sewer covered by the orthostats of the pavement. This sewer is dated by a follis of Justinian’s reign (541–2 A.D.) lying on the foundation of the conduit. The Basilica itself was lavishly decorated with marble slabs and mosaic panels. Moreover, it preserved some architectural fragments belonging to the liturgical fittings (ambo285, solea and tribelon), which enhanced the Constantinopolitan–type articulation of its internal space286. Two mosaic panels help to date the church to the second half of the sixth century. The first panel bears a dedicatory inscription mentioning Bishop Theodore, who took part in both the Synod of Constantinople (536 A.D.) and the fifth Ecumenical Council (553 A.D.). Besides, this bishop is mentioned also in the epigraphic inscription (dating to 539 A.D.), celebrating the (possible) renovation of a Church near the temple of Pythion Apollo287. Another mosaic panel has recently come to light during the excavations at the Basilica; it too bears an inscription, celebrating a Bishop called Vetrianos288. A theory has been recently advanced that equates Vetrianos with the monograms reproduced on the capitals of the church of Hagios Titos, on one of the bronze polykandela belonging to a late sixth–century liturgical treasure found in the same building, and also on the capital of a (now lost) basilica in Matala289. If one accepts this conclusion, two remarks should immediately come to the fore: first, the otherwise unmentioned Vetranios, could fill a void in the

3. The Pretorium–Temple Area of Pythion (after Di Vita, 1984a, p. 82)

is no evidence to assert that the Trichoncos was his final resting place either. Close to this possible martyrion, a Tetrachoncos lies in ruins277. This building, dated to the fifth century (without any possible hint to narrow this large time span), was possibly linked to a Christian complex, whose function remains unknown278. Along with these churches, it is worth mentioning also another Christian shrine built over the ruins of the temple of Pythion Apollo279. Unfortunately, since the Byzantine and medieval layers were removed during the first “heroic” archaeological campaigns carried on during the late nintheen - early twentieth century by Federico Halberr280, it is almost impossible to provide any detailed information about the plan and the chronology of this church. As we will see, however, a dedicatory inscription, referring to a sixth–century restoration phase, has been recovered among the ruins of the church281. The Christian quarter continued to flourish also in the Justinianic period, along with other sectors of the city. What one should bear in mind, indeed, is that even if the monumental centre became less important (and this is not the case, as we will see), the city could have remained substantial in the economic sense (as the Byzantine quarter clearly shows). Moreover, even though Gortyn became a “city of islands” at this stage (an image, which, in my view owed more to the location of the excavated areas than to a real breaking up of the urban fabric), the fragmentation of the urban landscape did not imply any decline. Gortyn maintained its political and ecclesiastical importance and, above, all a good level of coherence in its urban structure, as highlighted by the orthogonal street plan, which, continued up to the eighth century (although, as we will see, with different forms and characteristics). Indeed, a network of streets at right angles has been revealed also in the new Christian quarter, focused upon two main lanes:

Di Vita 1984 (b), 74; Di Vita 1986(a), 56-68; Di Vita 1986(b), 47582; Di Vita 1998, 284. 283 Di Vita 1984 (b), 74 284 Di Vita 1984 (a);Di Vita 1984(b); Di Vita 1985, 141-2 ; Di Vita 1986(a); Di Vita 1986(b), 495-500; Di Vita 1987, 518ff.; Di Vita 1995, 481-6; Di Vita 1998; DiVita 2000(c), 8-9; Farioli-Campanati 1998. 285 Farioli-Campanati 1998, 91-109. The pulpit seemed to be of Constantinopolitan style (two opposite ramps of stairs), recalling that described by Paul Silentiary in Hagia Sophia. The solea was located along the main axis of the central nave, like in the churches of the capital. 286 Farioli-Campanati 1998, 98. 287 See Bandy 1970, 58-69, n.31; I.C. IV, 460. See also Di Vita 1998 This inscription reports that ‘at the time of Theodorus, the most holy archbishop, and Helios the illustrious proconsul, a wall was renovated auspiciously in the consulship of the most illustrious Flavius Apion, in the second year of indiction’. 288 Farioli-Campanati 1998, 118-9. 289 Baldini-Lippolis 1998, 70ff; Sanders 1982, 114. On the monogram see also Bandy 1970, 49, n.31; I.C. IV, 405 and Orlandos 1926, 304-5. On the treasure Orlandos 1926, 322-6. 282

wrongly asserts that this very bishop was martyrised during the Arab invasion of Crete (Genesius, 33). 277 Gallas et al.1983, 371-2 278 Ibid. 279 Sanders 1982, 112-3; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 797; Pernier 1915, 60. 280 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 220. 281 Bandy 1970, 58-61, n. 31.

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GORTYN chronological succession of the gortynian Archbishops290, positioning himself between Theodore and John (597–99 A.D. as attested by Gregory the Great’s letters291); second, the question of the chronology of the Church of Hagios Titos292 would be sorted out for good. If this association is correct, the church should be dated to the second half of the sixth century and be attributed to the munificence of this very Vetranios293. The analysis of the architectural decoration and liturgical fittings seems to corroborate this conclusion. Although differing in its ground plan (cross– form basilica with a dome) from the Double Basilica, the Church of Hagios Titos showed a similar architectural decoration and articulation of the liturgical space (tribelon and double–ramp ambo)294. Moreover, its peculiar plan (provided with a transept, which gave access to the bema, flanked by two accessory rooms) and building technique seemed to point to the late Justinianic period and the Constantinopolitan cultural influence295. Not far from the Church of Hagios Titos, which was located on the northern fringe of the Christian quarter, another three–aisled basilica was built to the east of the Cathedral during the first half of the sixth century: the Basilica of Mavropapas296. Besides, in this period, the Christian quarter underwent a further phase of development. South of the church of Hagios Titos, archaeological excavations have shed light on a necropolis, spreading on the ruins of a small bath, which seemed to belong to a community of peasants and artisans297. An anthropological analysis of some of the skeletons buried in this cemetery has revealed family burials belonging to an endogamous group of people298. In all probability, this necropolis was in use until the second half of the seventh century, as evidenced by the numismatic and ceramic evidence299.Some discarded

4. Orthogonal Street plan (after Matruzo-Tarditi, 1999)

sherds of local amphorae–types and pots, and a pottery kiln, also attest to the economic vitality of this sector of the Christian quarter300. The “Byzantine quarter”, located between the temple of Pythian Apollo and the Praetorium, also experienced a good level of vitality. In the Justinianic period, the arches of an aqueduct, running along the west side of the North– South Street, were purposely attached to the façade of the workshops and stalls facing this side of the paved road301. Some coins of Anastasius I and Justin I, recovered from the foundations of one of the pillars of the aqueduct and the stratigraphical analysis (hinting that these very foundation were dug throughout the road–pavement), date this work to the first half of the sixth century302. The aqueduct303 was part of a complex system of water–supply built to satisfy the needs of the Gortynians. It is worth noting that this system partially stemmed from the private munificence of the local elite, as pointed out by some sixth–century inscriptions. Indeed, they mention one Georgios, who appears to have been a wealthy benefactor, who took care for the restoration of a cistern and a canal network, in a period when the city was short of water304. One of those inscriptions mentions Georgios and the pater poleos305.

Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 804-7. See above pp. 73–4. 292 As we will see in a moment, this church was located on the northern edge of the Christian quarter, to the south-east of the Acropolis hill. 293 Baldini-Lippolis 1998, 66-72; Farioli-Campanati 1998, 118-9. On the vexata questio of the origin of the this church see also Curuni 1991, 167(second half of the sixth century); Fife 1907(sixth century); Gallas et al.1983, 365 (sixth century); Di Vita 1984 (a), 101; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 796-7 (sixth century); Orlandos 1926 (Justinian period); Christides 1971 (seventh-eighth century); Sanders 1982, 110-2(first half of the seventh century). 294 Baldini-Lippolis 1998, 68. 295 Ibid., 66-8. Also Orlandos 1926, 304ff. 296 Di Vita 1984(a), 104; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 798; Gallas et al.1983, 370; Sanders 1982, 109. A dedicatory inscription from this church is mentioned by Bandy 1970, 54-5, n.22 (also I.C. IV, 405). 297 Di Vita 1984(a), 108-9; Di Vita 1986(a); Di Vita 1986(b), 449-51; Allegro et al., 1981. 298 Allegro et al., 1981. The anthropological and genetic analysis has revealed also that the child death-rate was very high and thalassaemia had spread. “These people were tall, well-built (they mainly ate meat) and muscled, a feature which point to the fact that they were agricultural or artisanal workers” (Di Vita 1984(a), 108) 299 Di Vita 1984 (a) 108-9; Di Vita 1986(a), 89: the excavations yielded a good quantity of table wares and kitchen wares dated to the second half of the sixth century. Unfortunately, the archaeological campaign, during which this portion of the Christian quarter has been under investigation, was carried on as an emergency survey. Apparently and curiously enough, the importance of the residential and artisanal part of the Christian quarter has been neglected in his recent summary regarding the fate of Gortyn between the sixth and the eighth century, which focuses mainly on the area immediately around the Double Basilica (Di Vita 2005). 290 291

Di Vita 1986(a), 89. Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 21. Di Vita 1987, 475-7; Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 161-2 302 Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 148; 157ff. 303 Indeed, it was only a branch (so-called Branch C) detaching from one of the main conducts supplying the water from Zaròs. See also Di Vita 1988, 232ff; Di Vita 1999 357-60. 304 Bandy 1970, 61-3, n. 32-3. One inscription has been found (loosen) at the village of Hagioi Deka: the other was dug up of the ruins of the Odeion. 305 Tzougarakis 1990, 147 n.27; Bandy 1971, 32, 61-63; Sanders 1982, 73; Rizza and Scriniari 1968, Rouechè 1979, 179. Adedicatory inscription, which refers to the restoration of a pavement of a church or a cistern. Due to the fact that the inscription was transcribed and transmitted only in a manuscript (Codex.Vat.Gr. 1759 fol.135r), it has been tentatively simply dated to the sixth-seventh century. 300 301

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) As Rouechè, has clearly pointed out the pater poleos is an institution, which not every city had306: ‘it will be found only in cities with a substantial income from possessions of their own: this money will come from loan income or from city own land, and the management of both was specifically entrusted to the pater’307. With regard to the cistern, Georgios cooperated with two other men, John and Helladios. One of these inscriptions also mentions Sigilios, the most illustrious scriniarios and (another) father of the city. Clearly both Georgios and Sgillios were members of the informal group that replaced the curiae as the authority, ran the city and raised taxes.

East–West road, linking the Praetorium with the Christian quarter314, while its western part led into a courtyard. The numismatic evidence and the stratigraphical analysis date the building, whose functions remain unknown, to the Justinianic period, providing us with further information on the extent and the importance of the building activity, which encompassed the entire urban landscape and, particularly, this part of the Byzantine quarter. Although only partially excavated, other areas of Gortyn preserved traces of this extensive building activity. At the thermal complex known as Megali Porta, another branch of the aqueduct supplied an extensive residential and artisanal quarter, which occupied the ruins of the ancient bath and the nearby areas of the so–called Twin Temples, where a little church had been built315. The vitality of this quarter, which seems to be frequented until the late seventh century, is pointed out by the analysis of the ceramic evidence recovered from the sites. Local and imported amphorae (spatheia and LR5), kitchen wares, Cretan–type lamps (“high–neck lamps”), African and Phocaean red slip ware, together with a good amount of highly decorated Painted Ware, provide us with a distinct time span during which this quarter developed (sixth–seventh century). Moreover, some discarded sherds of pottery and waste point to the existence of some productive structures (in all probability furnaces for the manufacture of amphorae316), enhancing the same residential–artisanal settlement pattern found in the Byzantine quarter317.

Coming back to the aqueduct, one could surmise that the North–South street, encroached on by its pillars, continued to be frequented, although used only by pedestrians308. This clearly pointed to the persistence of the structural maintenance and functional continuity of the road network around the insula praetorii309 (which seemed also to undergo some badly documented restoration310). In the second half of the sixth century, the residential buildings and the artisanal workshops started to spread across the entire area between the Pythion and the Praetorium, by now concealing the trapezoidal square. As for the western part of this quarter (Byzantine Houses), it seems possible to conclude that the artisanal workshops and the houses, progressively advanced on the street, encroaching on the space among the pillars of the aqueduct, but still respecting the street alignment311. Findings in the open house–shops along the North–South Street, included imported table–wares, amphorae (LR1; LR4; LR7), glass, and ivory objects from North Africa, Egypt, Cyprus, western Turkey and Constantinople, together with locally produced amphorae and Painted ware, dated between to somewhere between the fifth and the eighth century312. As we will see, the analysis of the ceramic evidence, however, has confirmed that the traditional fiscal–commercial Aegean exchange pattern313 also fits Gortyn. The relatively commercially–orientated Phocaean Red Slip wares, indeed, became predominant in the Gortynian deposits from the late fifth century. As for African Red Slip wares, more part of a long–distance route, they became less and less important, although from the second half of the sixth century to the second half of the seventh century, they underwent a revival, which seems to point to a new stage in relations between Crete and Byzantine Africa.

The Acropolis also underwent building activity. The so– called Kastron, a rectangular and massive construction, dated to the third–fourth century (according to the building technique) and possibly built as a part of the complex urban system of water supply318, was refurbished in the Justinianic period319 along with the little fourth–century basilica adjacent to it. Indeed, the church was also enlarged in the same period; it covered the entire area of the old temple and it was provided with three naves, a wider narthex, and a large atrium320. A little necropolis spread around the basilica, yielding tiles, kitchen wares, amphorae, African red slip and Painted Ware321, which point to the existence of a little quarter (dating to the sixth century), which again seems to remain frequented until the late seventh century322. To the north of this basilica, a former building underwent a phase of restoration. This phase appeared to be contemporary to the refurbishment of the church, since the new edifice aligned with the orientation of the church and matched its pavement level. Moreover, the

In the western part of the Byzantine quarter (the so–called “Byzantine Houses”) the most recent archaeological excavations have yielded, a large rectangular building whose northern façade lined up with the western branch of the

Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 224. I want here to thank Prof.E.Zanini, who allows me to include in this chapter the, still unpublished, results of the 2003 archaeological campaign. 315 Masturzo and Tarditi 1999, 306 316 Ibid., 277. See also on this Romeo and Portale2001. 317 Masturzo and Tarditi 1999, 276-7. Also Monnazzi 1999. 318 Perna 2005, 545-7. 319 Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 81ff. 320 Ibid. Also Levi 1955-6, 213-5; Sanders 1982, 109-10; Ortolani 2005, 801. 321 This Painted Wares belong to the so-called Ceramica Sovradipinta type (see infra fn. 340) and are decorated with geometric pattern and stylistic birds and fishes in a red brown slip (Vroom 2003, 55). 322 Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 88. 314

Rouechè 1979, 182; also Alston 2002, 310 and Liebeschuetz 2002, 110-24. 307 Rouechè 1979, 182.. 308 Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 147. The authors pointed to the absence of any ruts along the paved street. 309 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 216. 310 Di Vita 2000(a), 29-31. On the traditional urban city councils see Chapter 1, p. 8ff. 311 Di Vita 1987, 475. 312 Vroom 2003, 56. 313 Abadie-Reynal 1986. 306

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GORTYN same kind of ceramic evidence has come to the light in the excavation of its main room (a massive and rectangular space resembling a sort of tower)323. Unfortunately, the lack of further analysis and extensive excavations leaves us without any clue about the functions of this building.

that had existed before the Vandal conquest’ (439 A.D.)330, however, so it is possible to assert that this exchange network was increasingly marginal to the local economy. All the same, the increasing importance of the relation between Crete and Africa is illustrated by the large number of spatheia (cylindrical African amphorae), which could be interpreted as ‘a dress rehearsal of the evidence coming from the sixth–century wine–amphorae increasingly imported from the Eastern region of the empire’331. It is worth noting that during the seventh century some of these spatheia, were reused (inserted one into another) to build the water conducts serving the house and workshops of the Christian quarter332. However, not only bulk goods and fine wares travelled along the resurgent East–West route: some tombs “à caisson”, which came to the light in the Christian quarter, witnessed an African cultural influence333. This increasing African export volume is attested also in the excavations at Pseira334 and Eleutherna335. The strategic role of Crete along the main trunk–route should be stressed, when one comes to consider this renewed (even if far from hegemonic) importance of the African production. It could be, indeed, possible to suppose that Gortyn retained an important re–distributive role for the African supplies along both the local–regional commercial routes and the inter–regional fiscal exchange network, although we do not possess any evidence of this role as in, for instance, the discovery of Cretan ceramics elsewhere in the East– Mediterranean region336.

According to a sixth–century inscription, the Circus (which lay on the south–eastern edge of the city, south of the Amphitheatre) remained in use in this period. This inscription provided, indeed, evidence for the continuing existence of Circus factions, since it acclaimed the Greens324. This could, perhaps, mean that, since the city was the capital of the Cretan province and the ecclesiastical metropolis, the city life was modelled after that of Constantinople. Unfortunately, since the Circus has been badly excavated, any other conclusion about the fate of this building is speculative325. *

*

*

In the last pages I have often referred to the ceramic evidence yielded during the surveys and excavations in different parts of the urban quarter. Indeed, Gortyn provides us with a good methodological opportunity, allowing us to understand both the morphological, decorative and typological evolutionary pattern of the different ceramic– types and their productive and distributional pattern (in terms of local and imported pottery), which illuminates the functional role of the elite in terms of demand, social differentiation and cultural orientation. Regional and inter–regional exchange patterns are also displayed by the analysis of the different types of wares and amphorae. In this sense, it appears to me possible to include sixth–century Gortyn in the complex overlay of the fiscal and more local –commercial traffic suggested by the distribution of African (ARS) and Phocaean Red Slip (PRS) wares.

Apart from the imports, one should take into account also the significance of locally produced ceramics and amphorae. This is because in Gortyn, we benefit from the rare opportunity of studying the origins, development and productive–distributive patterns of a peculiar ceramic class (so-called Highly Decorated Painted Ware)337: ‘it is the first locally–made ceramic class, which provide us with enough material, morphological forms and a definite chronology’338. This class of ceramics belonged to that ‘wide array of more local table wares, which had more restricted distributions and showed that local taste was moving away from the RS tradition’339. It spanned from the end of the sixth to the beginning of the ninth century.340 Thanks to the recent excavations in Gortyn, but also in Pseira and Eleutherna341, it is clear that the circulation of

PRS represented the most prominent type of imported fine wares, and together with some Aegean amphorae (LR2, LR3)326 they point to a sustained commercial exchange in the Aegean basin. As for ARS, a good recovery in the level of importation of this ceramic type has been detected in all the excavated sites of Gortyn from the second half of the sixth century onward327. Although ARS never did overwhelm PRS and retained a poor morphological variety328, its resurgence seems to confirm the temporary upturns produced by the Byzantine re– conquest of Africa329. ‘The re–establishment of the grain and oil annona, towards Constantinople and the temporary reunification of most of the Mediterranean coast under the Roman rule did not revive the commercial networks

Ibid. Also Abadie-Reynal 1989. Romeo and Portale2001, 402. Rendini 2005. 332 Rendini 2005, 976.Di Vita 1986 (b), 451-2. 333 Di Vita 1991(a), 182ff.; Di Vita 1986(b), 454. 334 Poulou-Papadimitriou 1995. 335 Vogt 2005. 336 Romeo and Portale2001, 401. Also pilgrimage travel could be taken into account here. See infra Chapter 4, pp. 120ff. 337 Vitale 2001; Dello Preite 1997; Di Vita 1986(b); Di Vita 1988, 142-9; Di Vita 1995, 477; Vroom 2003, 56-7; Vitale-Magnelli 2005. 338 Di Vita 1988, 148. 339 Wickham 2005, 782. 340 Vitale-Magnelli 2005, 1002: “According to the comparison of the stratigraphical data yielded by the various excavations, the “Ceramica Sovradipinta” began to be produced in Gortyn at the end of the sixth century; the level of production increased after the earthquake in 618 A.D., and continued unabated until the end of the eighth-beginning of the ninth century”. 341 Poulou-Papadimitriou 1995. Vogt 2005. Also Vroom 2003, 56-7. 330 331

Ibid., 90ff. Levi 1955-6, 214. Sanders 1982, 70-1; Bandy 1970, 48-9, n.20; I.C. IV, 415; Cameron 1976, 126; 314; Spiridakis 1967. 325 Di Vita 1987, 514. 326 Romeo and Portale 2001; Romeo and Portale 2005, 968; Rendini 1990, 238-9; 327 Romeo-Portale 2005; Vroom 2003, 55-6; Romeo-Portale 2001; Dello Preite 1997 (a); (b); (c); Dello Preite 1988. 328 Dello Preite 1988, 192. 329 Wickham 2005, 712. 323 324

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

5. The excavated area of "Byzantine Houses" (after Zanini, 2001, p. 380)

this type of pottery was wide enough to cover large parts of the island of Crete342. However, it seems to have been produced mainly343 in Gortyn, where some productive foci have been discovered in the Byzantine quarter (recently even in the area of “Byzantine houses”344), in the Christian quarter and in the residential and artisanal quarter around the Megali Porta345. Alongside the highly decorated Painted Wares, the excavations have yielded abundant evidence of locally made amphorae346, which show the good level of the Gortynian production (presumably focussed on wine and oil) and the economic vitality of the city at a regional

level of exchange. Indeed, the numismatic evidence (from the increasing amount of coins dated between the early sixth and the second half of the seventh century)347 points to the sophistication of the urban productive structures and, so, to the strength of the Gortynian elite. This is mirrored in the lavish building programme documented for the sixth and the first half of the seventh century, in the evidence of city–countryside economic relations and, finally, in the level of urbanistic coherence which the urban landscape showed (as exemplified by the preservation of the existing road network linking the main areas of the urban landscape, both in functional and architectural terms).

Eleutherna was located in the northern side of central part of Crete, while Pseira is an offshore island on the north-eastern Cretan coastline. 343 Some recent analyses have proved this type of highly decorated Painted wares (so-called Ceramica Sovradipinta) as produced in Gortyn. Apart from the pottery-furnaces yielded during the archaeological excavations in different areas of the city, many distinguishing features vouch for the Gortynian origins of these decorated Painted Wares: an extremely- purified type of clay (which fits the terrain around the city), a small layer of slip of the same colour as the clay, the stylistic decoration (stylized geometric or vegetarian motives) and a repetitive formal repertoire (small size). (Vitale 2001, 96; Vitale-Magnelli 2005, 1002-6). 344 A furnace destined to the production of pottery came to the light during the 2003 campaign. Little evidence of highly decorated Painted Ware had been recovered until that moment in this area. Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 24. 345 See above pp. 74ff. 346 Romeo-Portale 2005, 965; Rendini 1990, 238.

To sum up, Gortyn seems to remain substantial up to the beginning of the seventh century. The archaeological excavations in different areas of Gortyn shed light on a city, which preserves a complex social and demographic structure, a vital economic life and a political and religious importance. This is mirrored by an urban landscape, which preserved its coherence in term of fabric and morphology, although revealing the first traces of a changing type of urbanism. Indeed, in a city that still had elements of

342

Garrafo 2005, 186; also Garrafo 1997, 106. Unfortunately the author mentions that “some” coins have been yielded during the recent excavation at the Praetorium, providing us only with the date (from emperor Anastasius to Foca and Heraclius) and the mint (mainly Constantinople). 347

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GORTYN “classic” monumentality (in terms of an orthogonal road– network, water–system and buildings like the Circus), the Church, the State and the local elites348 were the social and economic forces (re)moulding and (re)functionalising the townscape. The numerous sixth–century churches (Hagios Titos, Double Basilica of Mitropolis, the Trichoncos, the Tetraconchos, Basilica of Mavropapas), the lavishly–built residential houses at the “Christian” and “Byzantine” quarters and the artisanal workshops starting to encroach on the public space between the Pythion and the Praetorium, all point to the considerable social and economic vitality of the ecclesiastical and administrative elites. On the one hand, this is partially because Gortyn remained important in the governmental structure of the empire349. On the other hand, the importance of the city in the regional and inter–regional exchange patterns, mirrored in the ceramic evidence, further stresses this economic vitality. As mentioned in the introduction, Gortyn seems to have moved along lines similar to those of the cities in the Syrian and Palestine context.

Although a recent survey has revealed that part of this network could be dated to the second half of the sixth century356, its seventh–century origin currently remains more plausible357. Some of these fountains have been excavated358: they were made of stone and bricks bounded in solid mortar, and had a façade enlivened by niches. They were supplied through a network of high walls, stemming from the different branches of the aqueduct. According to Di Vita, 42 fountains359 were built in the first half of the seventh century360. These fountains then underwent a restoration phase, as pointed out by the analysis of the niches. Indeed, the niches were built first with decorative purposes (hosting sculptures), but later (the exact moment is impossible to pinpoint) they were coated and shut by marble or limestone slabs. This suggests that at a certain moment, the city was concerned with problems in the water–supply: the northern fountains seemed to steal water from the southern ones. To sort out the problem, the Gortynians reduced the flow of water, by closing the original spring–mouth and opening a lower one in each fountain361.

Considering all this, the extensive rebuilding phase in 620s, which Gortyn went through (possibly after another earthquake tentatively dated to 618 A.D350) comes as no surprise. Although the city suffered from the effect of this tremor, the Emperor Heraclius patronised an extensive monumental activity, which involved a large part of the urban landscape, while the “residential–artisanal islands” continued their activities351 almost unabated.

Part of this water–supplying network of fountains was made for the needs of the artisanal workshops, which spread across many areas of the urban landscape. Indeed, the Byzantine quarter, as seen above, survived the earthquake almost unaffected. Moreover, it began to encroach on some, public areas of the city like the North–South street, where the buildings, developed as terraced houses/workshops with a fenced courtyard and a large roofed residential room, protruded onto the road362. Artisanal workshops and houses also began to encroach upon the large rectangular building and its courtyard, located in the Byzantine Houses area363. A series of roof–tile– and pottery–kilns, which, according to the discarded sherds, produced highly decorated local Painted Ware (tentatively dated to the second half of the seventh century, although further analyses are in progress), have come to light in this part of the city, alongside pestles, mortars, carved shells (imitating ebony and ivory decorative patterns), a bronze scale, some iron–made keys364, buckles,

The insula praetorii underwent a large rebuilding phase, which involved both the Basilica and the road network which bounded it. Walls made of spolia encroached on the west side of the North–South Street, which was now paved by a layer of beaten–earth derived from the levelling of the debris and rubble produced by the earthquake352. It is worth noting that the excavationshavealsorevealedaformersewer,convertedinside the terminal of an external conduit, which, running over a wall, fed the water to a small cistern that served one of the artisanal workshops now facing the street353. This conduit appeared of a piece with the refurbished water–system supplying the area. In fact, the entire urban landscape was dotted with fountains, partially replacing the damaged branches of the aqueduct, in order to distribute water to the city. One of these fountains has been excavated354: it was located at the crossroad of the North–South and East–West Street, adjacent to the arches of the Justinian aqueduct. Indeed, one of the arches was closed and became the west wall of a rectangular cistern (covered by a barrel–vault roof) made of looted limestone columns. Near to this cistern another open–air fountain was built355.

356 According to Zanini’s personal comment to the preliminary and unpublished results of the 2003 campaign. 357 At least until the publication of the results of the 2003 and 2004 campaigns. See Di Vita 1985, 139ff; Di Vita 1988; Di Vita 1993(a), 464-6; Di Vita 1999; Di Vita 2000(c), 13; Di Vita 2005, 454; Di Vita 1995, 470-1. Here it is worth noticing that a similar water-supply system can be found in the same period in Hierapolis (located on the on a wellwatered limestone plateau, overlooking the Lykos valley in the province of Phrygia Pacatiana in south-west Anatolia). Here, indeed, although the complex public water supply broke down after an earthquake at the beginning of the seventh century, drinking water points located along the surviving road-system and a series of open water channels continued to supply the local population and, in all evidence, supported a level of artisanal vitality as pointed out both by stone cutting activity (Arthur 2006b, 48-50). 358 Di Vita 1988, 221-3. 359 Di Vita 2000(c), 13; Di Vita 2005, 454; also Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217. 360 According to the stratigraphical and stylistic analysis (whose details possibly remain in Di Vita’s mind, since he never disclosed them in any publication available to me). 361 Di Vita 1988, 223ff. 362 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 220. 363 Ibid, 24. 364 Di Vita 1993 (b), 333ff.

348 See infra p. 82 the paragraph concerning the pater poleos and Eulampius, member of the urban curia. 349 For the role of the city as a character (“personaggio”) in the structures of government see Berengo1999, 59ff. 350 Di Vita 1986(b), 439. See also on Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217, which rightly point to the lack of any literary source mentioning this earthquake (on this Guidoboni 1989). 351 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 218. 352 Belli Pasqua- La Torre 1999, 141-3. Di Vita 1993, 453. 353 Di Vita 1993, 453. Also infra fn. 357. 354 Di Vita 1999, 357. 355 Ibid.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) decorated glasses365, and a set of knife–handles made of goat–horn366. Other areas of the urban landscape showed the same settlement pattern: as hinted above, the workshops and houses discovered both in the area around the Megali Porta (and the Twin Temples), and in the Christian quarter, remained vital and were frequented until the late seventh century367. The Megali Porta quarter underwent further phases of renovation and refurbishment dated by the numismatic and ceramic evidence to the first half of the seventh century368. Indeed, it seems possible to attribute to this period the (re)building of a complex of houses and cisterns located in the each temenos of the Twin Temples, and the uninterrupted frequentation of the little basilica369. As for the Christian quarter, its northern part evidenced a system of water–conduits supported by high walls and the widening of the necropolis, which continued to be in use until the late seventh century370. In its central part, archaeological excavations have revealed that the limestone orthostats of the main axis street running North–South were covered by a layer of beaten earth, dated to the first half of the seventh century, based on the numismatic evidence371. Indeed, the whole street network maintained its functions, as proved by the contemporary restoration of the underground drainage system, while along its eastern side a water–pipe372 (made of African spatheia slotted one in the other) seems to indicate some high–status houses around the Double Basilica373. Since traces of an analogous system have come to light both in the Pythion and in the Praetorium area, it is possible to surmise that a large underground water–pipe system, complementary to the “walled conducts”, supplied at least part of the urban landscape, possibly its ecclesiastical and civic core: the Christian quarter, with the Cathedral and some high–status residences, and the Praetorium374, that is two areas which underwent a large rebuilding activity in this period. Finally, it is also worth mentioning that a large number of follis dated to 616–7 A.D. were accidentally found in one of the houses located around of the Basilica (Christian quarter), providing us with a possible evidence to date the earthquake375, which is unknown to the literary sources.

In this sense, it seems to me possible to assert that in the first half of the seventh century the city experienced both a continued demonumentalization of some former public areas376, which were converted for a wide range of industrial purposes, and, as we will see, the persistence of a extensive and lavish monumental programme, enhancing the role and status of Gortyn as the ecclesiastical and administrative capital of Crete. On the one hand, a lead seal (dated to the early seventh century) coming from the excavations at the Acropolis of Gortyn and mentioning Antiochos, kubikoularios and imperial chartularios377, points to the fact that official and centrally–appointed elites existed in Gortyn in this period. On the other hand, evidence of the role and importance of the Archbishop for this period comes from both the ecclesiastical history of the island378 and, as we will see, the lavish rebuilding program involving the most important church of Gortyn: the Double Basilica Cathedral. However, hand in hand with this “ruling class”, a “local aristocracy “–stemming from the rich local landowners, who plainly retained an urban–oriented lifestyle –maintained an important role in the political, cultural and economic life of the city. In other words such an institution implies that Gortyn did not depend only on the munificence of the Church and the state officials, but in all probability still hosted members of a local aristocracy, who could spend money in the maintenance of the urban fabric. Their existence could be further inferred by the already–cited passage in a letter sent by Pope Vitalianus to the Archbishop John of Gortyn (668 A.D.)379, referring to one Eulampius, curialis. Although of course it does not imply any functional persistence of this institution (this Eulampius is referred to as a counsellor of the Bishop) one could deduce from the passage that, as hinted above, some aristocrats remained socially and politically evident, even if not officially involved in the central–appointed or ecclesiastical ruling class. As mentioned above, during the first half of the seventh century, Gortyn experienced a large rebuilding and monumental programme. It focussed mainly on the area around the Praetorium, the Cathedral, and, possibly the Acropolis. The “Heraclian” refurbishment of the insula Praetorii380 focussed on the whole area between the eastern part of the Dositean Praetorium and the North– South and East–West road (which were both encroached by paved porticoes)381. The massive façade, which in the sixth century was moved to the northern side of the insula, was restored, while the main colonnaded porticos,

Di Vita 1986(b); See also Gortina II 1987, 231-64 and Gortina V.3 2001, 125ff. 366 This is a traditional activity, which is still today alive in Gortyn. See Di Vita 1986, 453. 367 Masturzo and Tarditi 1999, 304-7; Di Vita 1986 (b), 458ff.; Di Vita 1986(a). 368 Follis of Foca, Heraclius and Constans II and Highly decorated Painted wares came to the light during the excavations. See Masturzo and Tarditi 1999, 286-7. 369 Ibid., 287ff. 370 Di Vita 1986(a), 90ff. Di Vita 1984(b), 73; Di Vita 1984( a), 1089. That the necropolis should be in use until the late seventh century is proved by the stratigraphical analysis and the ceramics (shreds of Gortynian highly decorated Painted Ware) yielded in some of the tombs (mainly Di Vita 1986(a), 142ff). 371 Allegro 1986, 59-68. Di Vita 1986(b), 479-82. 372 Rendini 2005, 975. 373 Di Vita 1985, 143. The possible existence of those houses seemed to be of no interest to Di Vita, who never mentions them in his following works concerning Gortyn. So, this passage is the only existing reference to these high-status houses. 374 Rendini 2005, 977-81. 375 Ibid., 292. 365

Unfortunately the lack of excavations do not allow any conclusion about the area of the former Agorà, where , according to Pernier (Pernier 1915), some Byzantine houses and burials were found around the Odeion. 377 Sanders 1982, 73; Tzougarakis 1990, 14, n.30. This seal was found during the excavation at the Acropolis of Gortyn (Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 89) 378 See above pp. 67ff. 379 See above pp. 79ff. 380 Di Vita 1987, 509; Di Vita 1993(a), 470ff. Di Vita 1995, 438ff.; Di Vita 2000(c), 13; Di Vita 2000 (a) 34ff; Di Vita 2005; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217. 381 Di Vita 2000(a), 34. 376

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GORTYN

6. Ruins of a fountain (Author’s photo)

which gave way to its three monumental doors, were prolonged to the west reaching the square in front of the old Temple of the Augustii. This square also received a new monumental colonnaded façade382. Another internal colonnaded corridor on the western edge of the Dositean Praetorium, bounded the renewed Judicial–basilica, which still probably preserved its role as the official seat of the local governor. The large aula was lavishly refurbished and repaved, using some orthostats of the North–West road and even some marble seats robbed from the Odeion. A dedicatory inscription to Heraclius and his family praised the role of the Emperor in the restoration of the complex383.The southern façade of the Basilica preserved the same architectural composition as the northern one: a tripartite front centred on the apse and framed by the same triumphal arch that decorated the main entrance384. To the west of the Judicial–Basilica, the so–called “little palace” was (re)built385, with a large entrance–hall and a partly elevated aula that reused a former thermal triconch, which had been remained in use throughout the sixth century386. Another little thermal building, partially built on a former frigidarium, was linked to the “little palace”387. Opposite to the refurbished northern portico, on the other side of the large East–West Street, a high–status residential complex was built388. The complex consisted of a series of large rooms, made of spolia, which ran parallel to the road. They were embellished by a pavement made of reused marble

slabs, while a monumental entrance, enlivened by honorific columns (as in the façade of the Judicial–Basilica), faced the large crossroads formed by the East–West and North– South Street, now partially encroached by one fountain389. West of this residential building a Monumental Nymphaeum, was linked to the crossroads (and to the large house) through a colonnaded portico. This Nymphaeum was sumptuously restored too, and should be included in Heraclius’ monumental programme. It is, however, possible to regard this building both as a functional part of the new urban water–supply system and as an amenity390. This because the restoration transformed the building, once decorated by statues and marble columns, into a large cistern with a barrel–vault roof from which the water poured into three sarcophagi, reused as basins. A high parapet made of spolia covered the cistern, while a little ramp linked the street to an elevated square paved with marble slabs391. Standing on the square the beholder could have been struck by four acclamatory inscriptions (dated between 618 and 638 A.D)392, addressed to Heraclius, his son Constantine and his wife Epiphania Eudokia. These inscriptions highlight the role of the building as a monumental celebration of the new Imperial dynasty. They could be regarded as the cultural expression of a political dynamic, typical of Constantinopolitan society. This was further enhanced by other acclamatory inscriptions carved in the columns along the western portico of the North–South Street393. Since these columns faced the eastern part of the Byzantine quarter, they could be taken as a monumental expression of the two different

Di Vita 2000 (c), 10; 13. I.C. IV, n.510. 384 Ibid. 385 Ibid, 35, documenting a possible Justinian phase of the building. Also Di Vita 1993(a), 470. 386 Di Vita 1995, 455. Di Vita 1988, 240ff. 387 Di Vita 2000(a), 35. 388 Di Vita 1999, 360-2; Di Vita 1991(b), 473-6. 382 383

389 390 391 392 393

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Di Vita 1999, 362. Ortega 1991. Ibid., 136-159. Ibid. Also Bandy 1970, 50-1, n.23. Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 141; Di Vita 1993(a), 456-7.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) dynamics which were moulding the urban landscape of Gortyn: on the one hand, the continuity of public spaces and monuments, possibly used as a scene for processions or other formal ritual moments (as in Constantinople or Ephesos394), which showed the role and importance of the centrally–appointed military–bureaucratic elites; on the other hand, the progressive demonumentalization of some urban areas, a process without many parallels in the Byzantine hinterland395, which owed less to the weakening of municipal control than to the economic vitality of the city. In a sense, one could easily recall the results of the excavation at the so–called Byzantine shops in Sardis, where a lively commerce seems to have existed until the second quarter of the seventh century, as witnessed by a large quantity of ceramics, lamps, coins and glass396. As Crawford states:

section. Here the dominant feature is indisputably a pentagonal tower, carefully built with spolia, which included a little rectangular room with an apse in correspondence to the protruding prow404. Another rectangular tower to the north projected from the walls, possibly overlooking the main entrance405. This enceinte has been dated to the early seventh century, based mainly on the building technique406 and, more recently, in consequence of the finding of the kubikoularios Antiochos’ lead seal407. A later date has been proposed for this wall408 by Perna, on the basis of a comparison of the structural and ichnographic analogies with the enceinte of Ankara, Ayasoluk (Ephesos) and Iustiniana Prima. However, this association does not seem solid; if the Iç Kale of Ankara could be dated to the second half of the seventh century409 (although possibly it was begun by Heraclius in about 630 A.D.410), we cannot assert the same for the walls of Iustiniana Prima (which were built in the first half of the sixth century) and Ephesos411 (late sixth century). In my view, the archaeological evidence is too scant to advance any reliable conclusion on the origin of the enceinte, mainly because no stratigraphical excavations have been carried out there, and even the most recent contributions are highly indebted to the Taramelli survey (dated to 1902)412. However, whether built in the early or late seventh century, the Gortynian enceinte show that the fortifications built on the top of hills (Acropolis kastra) should not necessarily imply an abandoned settlement.

‘the Byzantine Shops’ Colonnade represents a transitional phase between the monumental shops colonnades of the Roman empire and the simple, agglutinative, “squatter” architecture of the medieval period […] the major trend is the increasing appropriation of public spaces and property for private use […] however, the Shops’ poor execution, irregularities and reduced scale reflect a change in patronage from the centralized support of an emperor, city or aristocrat to that of individual shop owners with vastly inferior resources’397. It is also worth mentioning that another Nymphaeum, located at the Megali Porta quarter, was converted into a cistern (with a barrel–vault roof)398. Although this restoration cannot be precisely dated, it is possible that this building was of a piece with the extensive rebuilding programme patronised by Heraclius. The existence of a contemporary artisanal–residential quarter and a three– nave basilica in this area of Gortyn can easily support this conclusion.

Finally, as mentioned above, the most important church of Gortyn (the Cathedral) underwent a restoration phase in the first half of the seventh century. Since the late sixth–century Double Basilica413 lay in ruins after the (presumed) earthquake of 618 A.D., a new church was built. It preserved the same plan of the late–Justinianic one, although with different (smaller) dimensions. Probably it retained also the function of Cathedral414. It was built of spolia, with walls replacing the internal colonnades and a wider solea. The church has been dated to the second quarter of the seventh century thanks to a follis of Heraclius (620–21 A.D.), found in the ruins of the former building (then levelled and used as the basis for a new pavement made of reused marble slabs)415.

The Acropolis of Gortyn also experienced widespread building activity. The top of the hill of Hagios Ioannis was fenced by a massive enceinte399, which has been variously interpreted both as a sign of the city becoming a kastron400 (reflecting a loss of urban characteristics and the militarization–fortification of the site), and as a strategic stronghold overlooking the plan and the main access–route to the city401. The enceinte enclosed the top of the hill and was built with an exterior dressing made of poros stone, derived from other pre–existing buildings, enclosing the kernel of rubble (emplecton)402. The line of the walls followed the geo–morphological configuration of the hill, with a triangular bastion on its projecting northern side and four403 towers strengthening its more accessible western

In conclusion, during its “short” seventh century416 Gortyn Taramelli 1902, 141-6; Ortolani 2005, 806. Perna 2005, 552. 406 Taramelli 1902, 154 407 Ortolani 2005, 803. See also Rizza and Scriniari 1968. 408 Perna 2005, 551. 409 On Ankara mainly Foss 1977, 27-87 and Brandes 1989, 106-7. 410 Dunn 1998, 798-99 411 See Chapter 4 pp. 97–8. 412 Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217 hint that the walls could have been built in the Justinian period. Ortolani 2005, 806 points to an early seventh century date; eventually, Taramelli 2002 , 1954, left an open door to a possible ninth century date, in face of the Arab invasion. 413 Di Vita 1995, 481-6; Farioli-Campanati 1998; Di Vita 1998; Di Vita 1984(b); Di Vita 2000(c), 12; Di Vita 2005, 472-3. 414 Di Vita 1995, 485. This is shown by the remains of a large building to the east of the church, possibly the Episcopal palace. 415 Di Vita 1998, 292ff. 416 If we accept the idea that Gortyn experienced a phase of restoration after the earthquake of 618 A.D. 404 405

See infra Chapter 4: Ephesos. Ibid. 396 Crawford 1990, 13ff. 397 Ibid., 6. 398 Ortega 1991, 171ff. 399 Taramelli 1902, 142-58. Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217. 400 Perna 2005, 550-4. On the problematic concept of the transition see Dunn 1994. 401 Ortolani 2005, 803-4 402 Taramelli 1902, 141. 403 Perna 2005, 550. 394 395

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GORTYN developed along the lines previously outlined, both experiencing a transformation in social, economic and political terms and developing a different kind of urbanism. To an extent the impressive re–building and re–furbishing programme patronized by the emperor Heraclius reveals the intent of moulding the structural and functional morphology of the city, preserving its spatial coherence (as enhanced by the water network and the partial preservation of the road–system linking different areas of the city) and deliberately boosting its monumental structures. In a sense Heraclius’ building programme could be regarded as the celebrative and imperial recognition of the continuous role of Gortyn as administrative and ecclesiastical focus of the island during the seventh century (the evidence provided by the lead seals is, indeed, conclusive417). This means that public activities in the city could still be predicated upon formal and traditional moments, centred on those components of the building townscape like the insula praetorii, the Cathedral, and possibly the Acropolis, which mirrored the importance assumed by the State structures of government and the socio–cultural influence of the Church in the urban daily life. However, this picture could still be deceptive, since the importance of Gortyn, as a capital city does not explain its peculiar urban trajectory, which experienced a degree of what could be regarded as a progressive demonumentalization. Artisanal workshops and private residences impinging upon public areas (like the North–South street) or partitioning large buildings (like in the Byzantine Quarter) seem apparently at odds with the Heracleian rebuilding programme, because they would point to a loss of coherence and a fragmentation of the townscape: cities would fragment because ‘their centres become less powerful, because new foci , like churches on the edge of town and outside city walls, become more important, and crucially because their demography and urban economic activities become too weak’418. On the contrary, Gortyn seems to show that demonumentalization could fit with demographic and economic vitality, for archaeological findings point to an assorted artisanal production, partially underpinned by the wealthy local elites. On the one hand, their existence contributes to explain the high–level of demand mirrored by the artisanal quarters and the persistence of urban–based exchange (enhanced also by the numismatic evidence419). On the other hand, the pater poleos and the urban curia may show that the local ruling class was still so substantial as to retain a role in the political and social urban life (although, as seen above, this is far from certain). Although the city– level aristocrats had slipped out of their role as tax–raising authorities to the benefit of the imperial officials by the end of the sixth century, they still constituted an influential (although informal) group. It was this group –together with the provincial governor – which chose the city–based officials, such as the pater poleos. In all probability, the rich agricultural hinterland of the Messarà plain allowed a continuous pattern of landowning structured local politics, enhancing the vitality of these urban–oriented 417 418 419

7. Main axis street running North–South: layers of beaten earth above the original orthostats (Author’s photo)

elites. This being so, it seems clear to me that the dichotomy represented by “monumentalization” vis-à-vis “demonumentalization”, interpreted in its etymological sense, does not explain the urban trajectory of Gortyn. Here we are facing a different concept of city, delineated by the social and political significance of the informal local elites, state officials and the Church (bishop), which collectively and economically sustained the blossoming artisanal production and the demographic subsistence of the city. Urban topography and morphology changed of course, but this phenomenon is more a re–structuring than a decline: is it possible to play down the workshops, the evidence of commercial networks and housing, and the persistence of good level of social differentiation because the classic appearance of the city was lessened420? Is the administrative and ecclesiastical importance of the city a mere corollary? Or do they showing that Byzantine urbanism could follow different routes where conditions were favourable? As we will see, a possible answer to all those questions lies ahead in the further evolution of the city during the late seventh–early eighth century. According to the traditional theory about the fate of

See above pp. 96-7. Wickham 2005, 653. Garrafo 2005; Garrafo 1997.

420

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Di Vita 2005.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

8. Map of Gortyn (dots represent fountains) (after Di Vita, 2005, p. 463)

Gortyn421, the Heraclian rebuilding phase represented the last stage of relative prosperity of the city; deprived of its classic civic amenities, progressively depleted of its water supply, hit by the Arab invasions, and, above all, levelled by another earthquake422. Regarded as the epitome of real urban catastrophic change, Gortyn emerged diminished, demographically lessened, while its residual population sheltered in the enceinte of the Acropolis. Yet the recent analysis of the ceramic and numismatic material found in the excavations, together with the results of the latest archaeological campaign, provides us with a different representation of the development of the Gortynian urban

trajectory between the late seventh and the early ninth century. Gortyn, which in the sixth and first half of the seventh century evidenced a good level of productive sophistication, acting as an exchange market along the main shipping routes that crisscrossed the western and eastern half of the Mediterranean, continued to benefit from its strategic (commercial and non–commercial) role at least until the second half of the eighth century423. As will be seen, this assertion mainly lies on the analysis of amphorae found in the excavations in the Praetorium; indeed, they point to imports from both the Levant (Palestine) and Egypt424. However, this does not mean that Gortyn did

See Di Vita 2005. This article sums up the Di Vita’s idea of the city in decline, which has been plentifully described in the introductory section of this chapter. 422 Di Vita 1986(b), 440. 421

423 424

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Romeo-Portale 2005, 973. Ibid.

GORTYN not experience at all a seventh century systemic crisis, which hit the Byzantine hinterland and, to a lesser extent, the Aegean425. Neither does this mean that Gortyn did not show signs of demographic, economic and urbanistic weakening. On the contrary, one must adequately take into account these considerations, while putting them in the perspective of a city, which, thanks to its strategic position and its role as ecclesiastical and administrative capital of Crete, retained a level of economic activity more similar to the Syrian and Palestine region than to the Aegean mainland. Pottery production, iron and copper–work, and glassmaking are attested in cities like Gerasa, Pella, Bosra, Caesarea and Tiberias426. As in the Levant, indeed, the archaeological evidence point both to a continuity of the city–level economic infrastructure and to the fact that the elites stayed urban–oriented. What one should highlight is the role of Gortyn in both local production/distribution and medium–distance exchange patterns. On the one hand, indeed, the analysis of the ceramic evidence yielded by the late seventh– and eighth–century strata emphasises the constant production of the highly decorated Painted Wares 427 (similar evidence comes also from the excavation at Pseira428) and locally made amphorae429. On the other hand, it is unmistakable that the level of imported goods plummeted from the second half of the seventh century430 (in fact, none of the non–Cretan ceramics can be dated after 700): ARS wares disappeared and PRS progressively contracted (and ceased to be produced at the end of the seventh century), although Cypriot Red–Slip continued well into the seventh century431. Although the spatheion–type amphorae almost disappeared from the excavated layers of the second half of the seventh century, the exchange network linking Gortyn with the Levant and Egypt experienced more continuity432. In this sense, it is worth mentioning that the excavations in Gortyn has yielded evidence of seventh century Coptic ware (rarely attested outside Egypt and produced until the end of the seventh century)433, which seemed to go hand in hand with a small (but still substantial) amount of seventh century Egyptian LR7 wine–amphorae434. The LR7 amphorae might possibly underpin a secondary traffic piggy-backing (until the late seventh century) on a primary importation of grain (which partially endured the Arab conquest of Egypt), perhaps directed to the capital -although proof of that is lacking). Indeed, after 642 A.D. Egypt no longer supplied Constantinople with grain in tax; for the interregional exchange, commerce was all that was left. It

9. The Acropolis of Gortyn (after Taramelli 1902, p. 145)

certainly did still exist, since the excavations at Sarachane showed that Levantine products reached Constantinople in substantial quantities even after the Persian and Arab conquest435. Accordingly, one could be tempted not to dismiss the role of the machinery of taxation in shaping the movement of goods from the Levant to and the level of demand in late seventh or eighth century Gortyn. This is due to the fact that, even in this period, the city continued to be the capital of Crete and so was the focus of the ecclesiastical elites (centred on the archbishopric) and the civilian provincial hierarchies. Besides, since the city had a strategic importance in the face of rising Arab naval power, it is conceivable that military officials acquired a dominant position among the local elites (even if Crete did not become a theme before the mid–ninth century). This comes as no surprise if one considers the evidence provided by both the eighth century archontes’ lead–seals and the Imperial Vestitor’s lead–seal found in Knossos436. These seals actually prove that the island (and of course its capital) was relatively well–integrated into the Byzantine administrative system437. It is possible to regard Gortyn as an effective centre for tax raising and military organization. Indeed, Gortyn diverges from Knossos, ‘where a provincial or “provincialised” civil, military and ecclesiastic elite of the seventh to the ninth century came into perspective thanks to a fiscal official’s seal and despite an apparent absence of seventh, eight or nine century coins, fine pottery, and the continuing lack of evidence for the elite residence for this period’438. Thanks to the extensive archaeological excavations, it becomes possible to recognize the traces left by the Gortynian elite of the late seventh to the late eighth century and to pinpoint the fiscal and commercial implications of its role.

Wickham 2005, 626ff. Ibid., 618. 427 Vitale Magnelli 2005, 1002. See also Vitale 2001. 428 Poulo-Papadimitriou 1995, 1122. 429 Romeo-Portale 2001; Romeo-Portale 2005; Rendini 1990, 238ff. 430 Romeo-Portale 2001, 403. 431 Dello Preite 1997, 193-7. This ceramic-type is attested elsewhere in Crete (Knossos, Haghios Savvas, Kastelli Kissamonou), whereby in Gortyn we find seventh-centuries exemplaries of Hayes 9-cups. See also Dello Preite 1984, 191). 432 Romeo-Portale 2001, 404. 433 Dello Preite 1997, 197. 434 Romeo-Portale 2001, 404. The relationships between the Umayyad Egypt and Crete is also enhanced by the itinerary of the Archibishop Paul of Gortyn, who travelled from Alexandria to Constantinople via Cyprus. 425 426

Apart from the extensive production of local Highly Decorated Painted Wares, the stratigraphical excavations in 435 436 437 438

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Hayes 1992, II, 100-5. Dunn 2005. For the archontes see above pp. 68–70. Dunn 2005, 143. Ibid., 145.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the Praetorium and the Byzantine Quarter have yielded a wide range of pottery styles including Glazed White Wares439 (a type of pottery produced in Constantinople from the early seventh century onwards440), amphorae of the Hayes (Sarachane) 35 type (found almost only in Constantinople and dated to late seventh–early eighth century441), pointing to the consistency of the shipping link with the capital; a type of undersized African spatheia442, dated to the last quarter of the seventh century, alluding to the continuous importance until then of the main trunk route443 as well as a large amount of copper coins, which peaked during the period between the reign of Leontius( 695–698 A.D.), and again in the second decade of the eighth century444, pointing possibly to the stationing of the Byzantine fleet in Cretan waters445. Indeed, Garrafo provides us with a small but still significant group of 14 bronze specimens dating to the late seventh – early eighth century, of which almost half (two folles and six half–folles) belong to Leontius’ reign446. This concentration is particularly striking because copper coins of Leontios reign are rarely found in archaeological excavations447; moreover, Theophanes’ testimony allows us to associate the numismatic with the literary evidence, since Crete witnessed a drama in 698 A.D. when the Byzantine naval expedition force rebelled, murdering its own commander–in–chief (the patrikios John) and proclaiming Tiberius Apsimar as emperor448. The importation and circulation of copper–coins could be related to this episode, since in all probability the fleet needed to be paid and provisioned during its stay in Crete449. However, this significant amount of late seventh– early eighth–century copper coins found in the excavations450 matches with the extensive evidence provided by coin–finds from the (unpublished) excavations at the Byzantine quarter451 and tentatively dated to the seventh–eighth century.

This being so, the numismatic evidence would allow us to re–adjust Morrison’s theory of ‘decline and impoverishment of towns in the Eastern part of the empire, based on the fact that the last issues attested in significant quantities are those of Constans II’452. Accordingly Gortyn would resemble less one of the few better–located sites (like Athens, Ephesos and Amorion453) where, according to Morrisson, a persistence of the exchanges could be observed, although on a reduced scale454, than the situation of Sicily or Constantinople. Here, the monetary series provided by archaeological excavations (Constantinople) and isolated finds (Sicily) point to the absence of any diminution or interruption between 668 A.D. and 811 A.D.455 and the increasing ‘regionalization of the circulation of bronze coins’456. In the Gortynian context, however, such a regionalization must be set against both the vitality of shipping routes (although an analysis of the minting–places is still lacking457) and the administrative–ecclesiastical importance of the city, as shown by the sigillographic evidence. To sum up, the numismatic evidence from Gortyn (together with that recovered in Sicily, Athens and Ephesos) nuances Morrisson’s idea that further excavations would not change the general picture of the interruption of monetary circulation (with a consequent urban decline) between 668 A.D. and 811 A.D. 458. Moreover, this kind of evidence points to the persistence of a good level of urban monetary circulation and (consequently) demand supported in all probability by the vitality of the Gortynian elites whose choices and prosperity underpinned the structures of urban living. That the local elites included in its ranks members of the Byzantine bureaucratic–administrative State–system is sustained by the sigillographic and ceramic evidence; by the same token, the importance of Gortyn as seat of the Archbishop of Crete should imply the presence of well–to–do ecclesiastics and members of the clergy among the “urban aristocrats”; but is it possible to delineate a third element in re–composing this little jigsaw concerning Gortynian elites? And, at the same time, is it possible to explain the means of wealth, which underpin their economic importance and the structures of power display?

Di Vita 1993(c), 352-4. Hayes 1992, II, 12-18. 441 Romeo-Portale 2001, 406. 442 Ibid. 443 Mc Cormick 2001, 502ff. 444 One follis of Tiberius II Apsimar (698- 705 A.D), one follis dating to the second reign of Justinian II (705-711 A.D.), one follis and one half follis of Anastasius II (713-15 A.D.), one follis and one half-follis of Theodosius III (715-717 A.D.). 445 Garrafo 2005, 187-88; 191. 446 Ibid., 191. Also Garrafo 1997, 108. 447 The Saraçhane excavations at Constantinople have indeed yielded 36 specimens dating to the period from 668 A.D. to 717 A.D. A.D., whereby only one of those belong to Leontius’ reign (see Garrafo 2005, 189 with further bibliography); in Corinth the percentage of coins dating to our period is almost irrelevant (Metcalf 1973, 186); Athens preserved just a few of coins of Leontius and Theodosius III, although a good amount of later bronze coins, dating to the early eighth century is documented (see Hendy 1985, 659-62 and Chapter 2, pp. 41–3.) 448 Theoph., 517. Here, as seen above, the recently studied lead-seal belonging to this Emperor is highly significant. 449 Garrafo 2005, 191. 450 Garrafo’s analysis takes into consideration the whole amount of isolated coin-finds recovered in more than fifty years of archaeological excavations in the entire urban area (more than 2000 specimens dating from Diocletian to 820s). 451 I myself witnessed the recovery of almost 40-50 copper-coins on the paved street contouring the northern side of the quarter and a layer of pressed-earth of a workshop. Prof. Zanini defines this bunch “one of the most striking quantity of seventh-eighth century coins ever found in the history of Byzantine archaeology”. 439 440

As mentioned above, we are dealing with a consistent amount of material evidence, which is a foil for the scant literary sources (regarding mainly the activity and role of the local Archbishops459) and seems to confirm that a military and ecclesiastic elite was centred on Gortyn, underpinning both a minimal level of commercial and fiscal interregional exchange, and a persistent local economic sophistication. Indeed, inasmuch as the diminished interregional exchange was an outcome of the strategic Morrisson 2002, 955. Also Morrisson 1986, 158ff. Lightfoot 1998; Lightfoot 2002.For a detailed overview of Amorion see my conclusive chapter. 454 Morrisson 2002, 957. 455 Ibid. 456 Ibid., 958. 457 Such an analysis is essential to enhance the stating and stoppingoff points along the routes connecting Gortyn with the rest of the Mediterranean. 458 Morrisson 1986, 158ff. 459 See above pp. 70ff. 452 453

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GORTYN location of the island and to a minor impact of the Arab invasions (which were mostly in the shape of raids), so the strong persistence of the local level of production and distribution was due to the strength of the wealth deriving from landowning. The fertility of the Messarà plan, was indeed proverbial, and recent excavations at Festòs have shed the light on a little rural community, focussed on two farms built (according to the scarce ceramic evidence) in the late seventh –early eighth century460. These farms (possibly dependent on a larger settlement focussed on a nearby hill and built around a church and an old thermal building) remained frequented during the entire eighth century and even later, as demonstrated by the ceramics yielded from the excavations. Indeed, the comparative analysis of the linear decoration found on the kitchen ware and a ceramic basin used for the transportation and conservation of food (a common–type in late seventh century–eighth century Syria and Palestine461) allow us to propose such a late date462. The farms showed a similar plan and economic functions, but point to a consistent level of socio–economic differentiation between local land– owners. This is showed both by the different size of the two building–complexes, in all probability belonging to a little rural settlement (hamlet–type)463, possibly dependent on the close larger village of Hagios Ioannis, where a recent survey has revealed the existence of a bath and, possibly a church with baptistery (both undated)464, and by the consistently dissimilar ceramic evidence recovered (with a few multifunctional forms and the absence of table–wares and amphorae465). Although further evidence is needed, one could be tempted to assert that the richest of these land–owners could partially retain an urban–oriented life– style. Indeed, as we will see, although no elite residence has been discovered in Gortyn, the vitality showed by some artisanal quarters in the last part of the seventh and in the eighth century, could suggest that the city (even if diminished in size and population) experienced a continuity in its economy. This in turn allows us to understand that the elite, although reduced in wealth, probably supported the patronage of urban artisans as long as they could afford them. In this sense, the lasting strength of urban civilization in Gortyn was similar to that of the Syrian and Palestinian region and so less dependent on the survival of the political and fiscal structures of the Roman empire. Put another way, with all probability, Gortyn remained as effective as economic focus for its rich urban territory as the urban settlements in the Levant: any rural territory with any degree of economic development has surplus to sell, and if there is a city in the centre of it, that city will be able to acquire it.

Di Vita466shows that Gortyn was struck by another terrible earthquake in the late seventh century: the archaeological excavations provide us with extensive structural ruins, dated, according to numismatic evidence, to the last years of Constans II’s reign467. A different question, however, is if the Arabs between 673 and 677 A.D occupied the city and whether any literary source mentioned the fact and any archaeological traces of this event have been recovered. Di Vita argues that these two events put an end to the city, which from now on huddled inside the enceinte of the Acropolis468. However, it is especially important to distinguish between an apocalyptical end to urbanism (as Di Vita asserts469), and a diminished density of settlement, a lessened structural coherence, a reduced size of urban landscape and a weak economic activity. In this instance, the archaeological evidence has recently countered the idea of a city limited to the fortification of the Acropolis. Indeed although the Double Basilica fell in the 670s earthquake (and was never rebuilt, as demonstrated by the numismatic evidence470), the Christian quarter was ruined and the artisanal quarter around the Megali Porta abandoned, the Byzantine quarter and the insula praetorii survived the disaster. At the Praetorium, the Judicial Basilica and its western portico collapsed and fell onto the North–South Street (as demonstrated by the columns lying down along the street471). A monastery partially occupied the area from the late seventh century472 and a small church (dichonchos) encroached on part of the former square at the crossroads473. This church was built of spolia and columns from the old portico, and its walls were covered with plaster474. As for the monastery, it seemed to be a single complex with several rooms, which covered almost the same area of the “Heraclian” Praetorium. This monastery retained important economic functions, as singled out by the fact that the excavations have yielded structures destined for olive–production (grindstones, presses, decanting pools)475and pythoi used as storage jars476. This monastic community encroached on the east side of the North–South Street. The same happened in the west side, where the artisanal activity at the Byzantine quarter continued even after the earthquake. Indeed, some workshops concerned with the production of glass, pottery (a kiln producing highly decorated Painted Wares was in use before and after the earthquake477) and utensils (mainly knives with handles made Di Vita 1986(b), 440;Di Vita 1991(a), 169; Di Vita 2000(c), 14 ; Di Vita 2005, 474 467 Di Vita 1986 (b), 440. 468 Di Vita 1991(a), 169. 469 See Di Vita 2005. 470 Farioli-Campanati 1998; Di Vita 1984 (b), 74. Indeed, the latest coins yielded from the excavations is a follis of Constans II dated between 661- and 668 A.D. 471 Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 472 Di Vita 1987, 492ff; Di Vita 1995, 437; Di Vita 2000(c), 14; Di Vita 2005, 475-6. 473 Di Vita 2000(a), 37-40; Di Vita 1987, 501ff; Di Vita 1995, 438-40. 474 Di Vita 1987, 501. 475 Di Vita 1995, 437; Di Vita 1987, 506; Di Vita 2000(a), 40. 476 Di Vita 1995, 437. An invocatory inscription is preserved on a terracotta lid of one of these storage jars: see Bandy 1970, 36 and I.C. IV, 402. 477 Di Vita 1987, 490. 466

La Rosa and Portale 2005, 499-501. This could point to a common cultural milieu or to an eighth-century Syrian import. La Rosa and Portale remain agnostic with regard to this problem. 462 La Rosa and Portale 2005, 501-2. 463 La Rosa and Portale hypothesizes planimetric and structural similarities with the rural settlements of the Syrian-Palestinian area (La Rosa and Portale 2005, 510 and fn.109) 464 La Rosa and Portale 2005, 491ff. 465 Ibid., 513ff.. 460 461

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) of ram’s horn)478, protruded on the road, while also other workshops and houses spread southwards. One of the buildings was enlarged and two stalls were built together with a pottery kiln served by a drainage channel479. A continued artisanal activity has been proved also by the recently excavated western part of the Byzantine quarter (the so–called Byzantine Houses), where some workshops producing roof–tiles and utensils (again ram–horn–handle knives) seemed to remain frequented until the first half of the eighth century480. The numismatic evidence recovered from the excavations (copper folleis of Leontius and Justinian II481) and the stratigraphical analysis of the different layers of beaten–earth paving the encroached North–South Street482, allow us to date this occupation to the late seventh–first half of the eighth century. Indeed, it is also worth mentioning that the North–South road, although heavily encroached, continued to be frequented (as indeed proved by two different layers of beaten–earth paving it between the late seventh and the first half of the eighth century483). In all probability it served the artisanal area and the monastery. A minimal degree of continuity in the urban infrastructural network, linked to the needs of this quarter, was also showed by the water–supply system, which, even if badly damaged by the earthquake, was still functioning484. This is demonstrated by a new fountain, built of spolia485, which took the place of the vaulted cistern built in the first quarter of the seventh century486. Moreover, a set of basins leant against some pillars of the Justinian aqueduct from which some water still poured487. That this network served the area around the Praetorium is made plain also by the structural evidence showing that a little residential quarter (generically dated by Di Vita to a period between the late seventh – and the early eighth century) and a necropolis spread across the ruins of the little palace and its thermal annexe488. Would these burials imply a ‘breakdown in the state of controls over the local townscape’489? Could the vicinity of the monastery be more than accidental, explaining the association of the necropolis with the diconchos church? Only further excavations and analysis in the area could provide the answer to this dilemma. In my view what seems clear is the spatial continuity of this part of the city, although along de–monumentalized and de– structured lines, which delineate a series of islands (isole) of settlement490.

was not the only part of the urban landscape to survive the second earthquake. The Church of Hagios Titos also underwent a large restoration after the 670s tremor. This church, built on the southern fringe of the Greek Agora, experienced a complete structural and ichnographic renovation491. The side naves were abandoned and were despoiled of decorative marble–plaques; a new monumental access was opened in the northern façade, while the atrium was repaved and remodelled in a trapezoid form. The church changed its plan and became a Cross–Church. The interior, partially rebuilt with spolia, retained only the central nave, separated from the narthex by the old tribelon. Possibly, it was re–decorated with frescos, while a new pulpit took the place of the old one (whose platform was embedded as building material in the walls)492. It is possible to link this building into the broader social sequence of the eighth century city493. Hagios Titos indeed in all probability retained a role as a point of devotion and pilgrimage for the local population (holding the relics of the first bishop of Crete494) until the Arab invasion in 820s495. Moreover, one should bear in mind the economic implication of such a large renovation, in terms of patronage and investment. The renovation could imply the social prominence of the bishop and local clergy, for the church was the seat of the Bishopric of Crete; however, it seems almost impossible to exclude the involvement of state officials and, possibly, the upper echelons of the local landowning elite in the refurbishment, since the revised decoration and ornamentation displayed in the church could well be a way of boasting prestige and status for the richer local political figures. Moreover, the church scale of renovation seems to reveal not only the prosperity of the elites but also the material culture of the local population. One can link the sculptural works of the refurbished interior of Hagios Titos to the artisanal workshops, which spread across the city’s landscape. Local builders, craftsmen and even perhaps painters must have been at work in Hagios Titos. The church might be regarded as another urban focus, although all the evidence regarding a possible quarter stretching from around the Odeion to Hagios Titos, at the feet of the Acropolis, was disgracefully wiped out during the first excavations dated to the beginning of the last century496.

It is also important to emphasise that the artisanal quarter

Finally, on the Acropolis the building located to the north of the little church was largely restored and perhaps became a fortified monastery497, around which a community spread (as evidenced by a little necropolis). Although the identification of the structures concerning this phase of frequentation is still problematic, the ceramic498 and

Di Vita 1993(a), 458ff. Ibid., 448-50. 480 In first instance, Prof.Zanini (see Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 229) attributed this phase of the workshops to the second half of the seventh century. The results of the (still unpublished) 2003 excavations (with special regard to the numismatic evidence) allow him to propose a later date. 481 Di Vita 1993(a), 464-9. 482 Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 138. 483 Ibid., 151. The authors do not provide us with details concerning the precise date of this phase. 484 Di Vita 1993(a), 458ff; Belli Pasqua and La Torre 1999, 148. 485 Di Vita 1999, 358; Di Vita 2000(c), 14; Di Vita 2005, 476. Di Vita does not provide us with a precise date for the fountain: he generally stated it was built after the 670s earthquake. 486 See above pp. 97ff. 487 Di Vita 1999, 358-60. Di Vita 1993(a), 450. 488 Di Vita 1995, 450-6. 489 Christie 2006, 97. 490 Wickham 2005, 672. 478 479

Baldini-Lippolis 1998, 73. The author does not provide any specific date for this restoration: she writes about a generic transformation after the 670s earthquake. 492 Ibid., 75. 493 Christie 2006, 75. 494 Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 802. 495 Baldini-Lippolis 1998, 76. 496 Di Vita 1984, 80; Sanders 1984, 65-6. 497 Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 90ff. 498 One “Byzantine-Arab” lamp of the so-called high-neck type. This type of lamps dates to some period after the sixth-century (RizzaScriniari’s analysis is made on comparative basis: see Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 96). 491

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GORTYN numismatic evidence (two coins dated to the reign of Leo V (813–20 A.D.), and one specimen belonging to the first Emir of Crete ‘Umar and his son Shu’aib (828–80 A.D.)499 recovered during the excavations allow us to date the monastery (?) to the second half of the eighth – to the early ninth –century.

to the persistence of the city. The evidence of the fortified monastery on the Acropolis, the role of the archon would corroborate this conclusion, and a possible later restoration of Hagios Titos504 However, the same scholars505 have also pointed out that, even if it survived, the city suffered from the overturning of the Cretan urban settlement pattern, with the diminished importance of the old commercial centres of the southern coast in favour of the new (or renewed) harbours of the northern coast (like Heraklion, possibly the new Arab capital, or Chania). Even over the continuity of the Gortynian episcopate the debate is still open506.

The evidence provided with regard to the urban development of Gortyn during the late seventh – and early eighth century, could finally help us to answer to the pending questions posed at the end of the section concerning its “short” seventh century. Di Vita’s concept of decline should be rejected; Gortyn remained vital in economic, political, social and cultural terms. One could assert that workshops and utilitarian buildings occupying parts of its old centre, the urban density changing (with encroachments and non–orthogonal streets–alignments), and townscape experiencing spatial de–structuring by following the monumental weakness and reassembling around scattered foci of settlement are more a sign of demographic and economic change than of deterioration. One should avoid value judgments. I have tried to offer a picture (based on different types of material evidences) of the centrality of Gortyn along the Mediterranean shipping routes, its role in the regional (Aegean) and even long distance exchange patterns, its administrative and political significance, the persistence of the Byzantine State–oriented fiscal and military–naval structures, the role of the ecclesiastical hierarchy (as seat of the Archbishopric of Crete), the possible existence of wealthy urban–oriented landowners supporting good level of artisanal activities. This picture developed in a type of urbanism, which can once again be described as “city of islands”: several foci of settlements conveniently linked to each other by the remains of the old road–system. Although architecturally and structurally less than ambitious, these foci can hardly be interpreted as signs of physical dereliction, social fragmentation and economic decline. If so, the same could be asserted for the modern urban centres where just a few blocks from revitalised city centres you can see shoddy housing and wasted land500. The scattered spatial foci arguably mirrored the social, economic and cultural identity of eighth century Gortyn. In my view, Gortyn shows that Byzantine urbanism could be built on the same basis as in the Levant if the conditions were positive. I will return to this in the final conclusion.

More than ever, indeed, further excavations and a refinement in the analysis–technique of some types of pottery are required in Gortyn in order to tackle the issue of the fate of the city in the ninth century. 3.5 Beyond Gortyn (Urbanism in Crete). Of course, Gortyn was the most important city of Crete, but not the only one. According to the literary sources, the Notitia Episcopatum, and the signature lists of the Ecumenical councils other important urban settlements (like Knossos, Lampe, Kydonia, Chersonesos, Eleutherna, Heraklion507) dotted the island. Indeed, Genesius asserts that there were 29 cities when the Arabs took Crete508 and a late Arab source confirm that at ‘the time of Moslem rule “many cities (mudun) and villages (qariah) spotted the island of Crete’509. However, apart from the fact that some cities (or their bishops) existed on the island, nothing more is known about their fate in the passage between the late Antiquity and the early middle ages. The reasons are understandable: only a few sites have been systematically (and stratigraphically) excavated, and, even worse, among them, only Knossos (and recently Pseira and Eleutherna) have yielded ceramic or numismatic evidence. As for Knossos, three churches dated to the late fifth–early sixth century have come to light510. Among these there is the famous Sanatorium Basilica511, which lay outside the limit of the city512, and ‘remained in use long enough for repairs to its floors and mosaic’513. After a period of use, the church collapsed or was destroyed: ‘beneath an enormous block of fallen masonry sunk into natural clay, was found a follis of Heraclius and Heraclius Constans; this coin could be dated to 612–3 A.D. […] Another follis of Heraclius was found nearby’514. The cause of the end of the church could have been an earthquake (possibly that of 618 A.D.) or, as

What happened to Gortyn on the eve of the Arab invasion? Did the city survive another disastrous earthquake dated to 796 A.D.501? Or was it simply abandoned502? Unfortunately the present state of the archaeological research in Gortyn, allows us only to pose these questions. Indeed, in spite of the dearth of evidences, some scholars have acknowledged that the city subsisted in the second half of the ninth century. They pinpoint that some later chronicles and hagiographic works and some scattered Arab coins503 point

Orlandos 1926. Malamut 1988, 193-7; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217. 506 Tzougarakis 1988, 209ff; Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 806-7; Malamut 1988, 264-5; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 217. 507 Stiernon and Stiernon 1986, 799-800.Tzaougarakis 1988, 303ff. 508 Genesius, 33. 509 Yaqut, 236. 510 Hood-Smith 1981, 23ff. 511 Frend 1962; Sanders 1982, 105-7. 512 Sanders 1982, 152-3. 513 Frend 1962 514 Ibid., 197. 504 505

Rizza and Scriniari 1968, 91. Rogers, R., “How to build intelligent suburbs” in The Guardian 2/12/2006. 501 Theophanes, 646. 502 Di Vita 2005, 476. 503 Literary sources : Malamut 1988, 198-200 ; Coins: Miles 1964, 10; Zanini and Giorgi 2002, 231, n.46; Garrafo 1997, 108-110. 499 500

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) excavations have yielded a good quantity of PRS and ARS wares, highly decorated Painted Wares, local and imported amphorae. The analysis of the pottery have confirmed that the island should be regarded as an important site along the shipping route which linked Crete to the rest of the Mediterranean basin (in this sense a Palestinian–type lamp and an eighth–ninth century bronze buckle similar to those found in manifold excavations from the Black Sea to the Levant could be highly relevant525). Besides, the presence of locally made highly decorated Painted Wares possibly points to the fact that this kind of pottery was produced elsewhere than Gortyn. Finally, it is worth noticing that this monastery was abandoned at the end of the ninth century, possibly because of the disastrous earthquake mentioned by Theophanes526. In this instance, one could also consider that evidence of seventh–eighth century building activity or frequentation comes from two other ecclesiastical complexes (the Basilicas of Vizari and Panormos527).

10. 3D Artistic Impression of the plan of Hagios Titos (Author's drawing)

seen above, a slave raid515. Basing their assertions mainly on the fate of the Basilica, many scholars516 pointed to the fact that also other public buildings went out of use in this period. So, ‘since the city would have been too difficult to defend without any walls the administrative centre of the region must have transferred to Heraclion’517. However, a recently discovered set of lead seals (dated to the seventh and eighth century) belonging to the city (bishopric) of Knossos, could support the idea of the persistence of the city at least as an important ecclesiastical centre518. The occupied area may have, indeed, shrunk around one (Episcopal?) of the churches (as pointed out by two late graves in this area)519. Some recent analysis of the ceramic evidence yielded in almost fifty years of excavations, have confirmed this idea, showing a good quantity of ARS but rare examples of PRS520. However, some other late tombs have been excavated beyond the limits of the Roman city and some late pottery (eighth century) was recovered from a small pit or wall521. Moreover, the excavations at the so– called Arab building, a simple rectangular structure with the long north and south walls curved or bowed, close to the river Koiratos522, have recovered pottery, metal finds and a millstone523. In all probability this building had an important economic function, focussed on a well– developed metal workshop.

The excavations at Eleutherna, a site dominating the surrounding countryside from its promontory between two streams on the Northern–central part of Crete , have provided us with a complete study of the pottery yielded from the site528, which in large part confirm the results of the analysis of the Gortynian material529. Contrary to Gortyn, however, Eleutherna was apparently almost completely abandoned during the first half of the seventh century, while its inhabitants retreated to the Acropolis530. Overall, indeed, one could conclude from this cursory overview that few sites experienced a good deal of continuity in Crete after the second half of the seventh century, although it is, indeed, almost certain that there was more than one important urban settlement in the island. 3.6. Conclusions Lack of proper excavations, gaps in the analysis of the material evidences, problems in the publication of archaeological data have raised fundamental difficulties in mapping Cretan urbanism adequately. Nevertheless, it is better to use this imperfect evidence531to counter the lack of comparative studies for Crete and to draw some more general remarks on the nature of urbanism in this area of the Byzantine empire.

All this considered, it is clear that the site of Knossos continued to be frequented also after the first half of the seventh century, but further excavations are required to understand the term and developing trajectories of this occupation.

First, it seems clear that Di Vita’s concept of decadence should seriously be revisited, if not written off for good. It is indeed difficult to assert the extinction of urban life when the main city of the island in all evidence continued to exist in economic, demographic, political, administrative and religious terms. Gortyn was never reduced to its fortified Acropolis, where only the remains of communitarian life existed532. This does not mean that Cretan urban trajectories developed along the same lines as Gortyn. As

As to the other sites, a little monastic complex was built in the seventh century on the small island of Pseira (located on the Bay of Mirabello along the North–East coast). It remained in use throughout the eighth century524. Here the 515 516 517 518 519 520 521 522 523 524

See above. Sanders 1982, 157; Hood-Smith 1981. Hood-Smith 1981, 26. Toukatsoglou-Koltsisda-Makre-Nikolau 2006, 52-3; 64-5. Hood-Smith 1981, 26 Coldstream-Eiring-Forster 2001; Hayes 2001. Hood-Smith 1981, 26. Warren-Miles 1972, 285. Ibid., 288-92. Poulo-Papadimitriou 1995, 1126.

525 526 527 528 529 530 531 532

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Ibid., 1125-26. Ibid., 1126. Sanders 1982, 115-19. Vogt 2005. Also Sanders 1982, 162-3. Vogt 2005, 940ff. Ibid., 944. Alston 2002, 155 Di Vita 2005, 474.

GORTYN seen above, some sites (like Eleutherna) vanished in the seventh century and while others continued in the seventh (Knossos) and even in the eighth century (Pseira), their existence was simply less evident in structural and social terms. In all evidence this picture should owe less to the lack of good archaeology for those sites than to the exceptional importance of Gortyn as main city of the island which obscures what is happening in the lesser centres. Second, I believe Gortyn could be regarded as a possible model for an alternative Byzantine urbanism. Here, indeed, any concept of urban decline, decay or deterioration should be considered as a tissue of clichés: cities, which were focal centres in the sixth century, could partially retain the same role in the eighth century. As seen above, from the seventh century onwards Gortyn changes its morphology, geography and its structural aspects according to a process of demonumentalization involving public spaces converted into shops and artisanal workshops, building encroaching onto streets, open squares replaced by stalls or religious buildings. That this process could be interpreted in both ways, as the sign of a still economically active urban environment533 or evidence of depletion and abandonment of the classic townscape534, is evident. That this process, however, also showed another type of urbanism and spatial distribution is even more striking. In turn this allows us to assert something of the texture of urban society, economy and culture. A pedestrian535wandering around seventh– or eighth–century Gortyn must have been aware of the multi-functional image of the city; in other words he should have discerned that he was passing through areas of different character in which he could find commercial activities and artisanal workshops with residential housing (Byzantine Houses, Praetorium); there were also areas where there were concentrations of religious buildings (Hagios Titos, the monastery at the Praetorium) and possibly military–administrative State–driven institutions (Acropolis); in all probability areas where members of the local informal landowning elite resided also existed (although only indirect proof of their existence is archaeologically available). What emerges is an elaborate pattern of a “city of islands” where the different foci of settlement retained a level of spatial coherence, as stressed by the persistent (although patched) road and water system. Although poorly built, architecturally de–monumentalized and demographically diminished, those foci remained the core of urban economic activity, also benefiting from both the strategic role of Gortyn and Crete along the transmarine routes and the fertile and agriculturally rich countryside (Messarà plain).

11. Artistic impression of the Monastic Complex (after Di Vita, 2005, p. 480)

The resilience of the elites contributed to explain this fragmented urban but still intricate townscape; although predicated upon different parameters than the fifth– and sixth–century curial “aristocrats”, they still supported local demand and production while sustaining monetary circulation. Provincial military and fiscal officials of the Byzantine administrative system, members of the high and lesser clergy and possibly local landowners were the new social and political loci of power. In resembling the urban trajectories which characterize Syria and Palestine, where, however, cities like Gerasa536 still look more prosperous than Gortyn at least until 750s, the continuing artisanal activities explain demonumentalization as a functional change of use of public areas. Regional urban–oriented elites maintained effective city–level economic infrastructures and local production, pairing urban with rural prosperity, and moving away from the “normal” developments of Byzantine urbanism. Although city elites became partially part of the Byzantine state apparatus, urban aristocrats did not exclusively reconfigure along state–driven lines when Constantinople was too far away to impose all its hegemonic pull. Thus Gortyn stands out as a model for a type of Byzantine city which would in fact have any future after 800 or so. This model mixing urban landowning, artisanal activities, and city–countryside assimilation with the partial survival of the political, military and fiscal structure of the Byzantine empire: in other words a Byzantium in Umayyad disguise or a madina of Constantinopolitan type.

Crawford 1990; Wickham 2005; Kennedy 1985. Brogiolo-Gelichi 1998. 535 Here I am borrowing and overhauling a passage of Alston’s book referring to early fourth-century city of Panopolis in Egypt (Alston 2002, 155). 533 534

536

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See on Gerasa Chapter 1, p. 20.

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CHAPTER 4 EPHESOS

4.1. Introduction: Why Ephesos?

harbour and the abandonment of the episcopal complex of St. Mary that brought about the slow demographic and economic decline of the ancient lower city. Ephesos was endowed with a new walled enceinte which, apparently in a careless way, set aside the two/third of the old urban landscape, using the massive buildings like the theatre and the stadium to re-orient itself5. Two different urban foci came to the fore6, while the city as a whole slanted towards the role of a fortress and a centre of pilgrimage and ecclesiastical activity7. On the one hand, the old city landscape in ruins, on the other the hill of Ayasoluk where Justinian’s great Basilica, built over the tomb of Saint John and a later fortification, enhanced its role as successor of the classic Ephesos8. ‘The centre of the city gradually shifted from the port city to the fortified hill of Ayasoluk. The change is mirrored in the increasing use of the new name Theologus, from which the Turkish name for the city, Ayasoluk (Ayos Theologos) and the Italian Altoluogo’9.

Ephesos lies on the western coastal plain of the Anatolian peninsula. Inserted in the saddle between two slope hills (Bulbul Dağ and Panayr Dağ), the city had a rich port which benefited from the Mediterranean system of shipping and exchange and was renowned in both the ancient and Christian period as a pilgrimage centre with its Temple of Artemis recognised as one of the Wonders of the Ancient World. The literary sources recognised its importance from the classic period and Ephesos retained a significant economic, political and religious role through the Roman period down to the Byzantine era1. This role is plainly mirrored both in the many books devoted to the city and in more than a century of archaeological activity within the urban area2. As for the Byzantine period, however, fewer historians have focused their attention on the fate of the city in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. Clive Foss’s work3 remains, even after thirty years, the unavoidable starting point of any analysis on the historical trajectories of the city between the fifth and the ninth century. More than a generation of historians and archaeologists of every country have followed Foss’s classic path of decline, shrinking and duplication of the ancient city of Artemis.

This pattern of rise and fall has never been revised since 1979: some scholars, like Wolf Liebeschuetz, suggest that the progressive de-urbanization started at least twenty years earlier - well before Arab invasions10; others, like Wolfram Brandes, prefer to point to the seventh century earthquakes as the main cause for the ruin of the city11. Between 612 and 616 A.D., an earthquake, supposedly the most incisive event in the history of the city, arguably brought about the end of Ephesos as a polis12. More recently others, such as John Haldon13 and Chris Wickham14 (and also partially Brandes) have tried to put the fate of Ephesos in the context of the slow process of transformation in the pattern of late Roman urban society and economy, which predated the Persian and Arab invasions and entailed a number of changes in physical appearance and extent of the town. As

‘The city maintained its prosperity in the fourth, fifth and, partially, in the sixth century […] Thereafter, Ephesos may have entered on a decline […] After Justinian, there is no record of new construction for the rest of the period. The Persian invasions, whether or not they were the immediate cause of the decline, marked the end of late Antiquity and introduced a new age, the Dark Ages’4. During this latter period, a particular settlement pattern came into sight resulting from a search for more security during the Arab raids, together with the silting of the

Eillinger 1985, 204. Brandes 1989. 7 Carile 1999, 136. 8 Concina 1999, 99. 9 Foss 1979, 121. 10 Liebeschuetz 2001, 49. 11 Brandes 1982 , and above all, Brandes 1989, 89ff. An idea recently reinstated by Thur (Thur 2003, 63). 12 Brandes 1989, 90: ‘Die einschneidendste Ereignis in der Geschichte von Ephesos fand dann zwischen 612 und 616 statt. Ein sehr starkes Erdbeben setze der Existenz von Ephesos als antiker Polis ein Ende’. 13 Haldon 1990, 111. 14 Wickham 2005, 626–35. 5 6

For a good overview classic and Roman period see Karwiese 1995 and Eilliger 1985; on Byzantine Ephesos mainly: Foss 1979, Concina 2003, 96–102, Brandes 1989 and Liebeschuetz 2001, 32ff., Carile 1999. 2 A good scholarly review of this activity is in Krinzinger 2006. A fascinating and beautifully illustrated overview of the last hundred years of archaeological research is in Krinzinger 2007. 3 Foss 1979. 4 Ibid., 98–9. 1

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

1. Plan of Ephesos (after Foss, 1979, p. 49)

we will see, this reading is the key to the interpretation of the fate of Ephesos in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. However, one should not completely discard Foss’s interpretation, merely aware of its weak points.

Indeed, it seems to me that his conclusions on Ephesos are less compelling than the results of his survey on Sardis15. Ephesos lies on a less firm ground in terms of his own model of external invasion and internal strife: although 15

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Foss 1980.

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2. Ephesos (Ayasoluk): the so-called Gate of Persecution (Author’s photo)

diminished and duplicated, the city - according to the literary sources - retained an economic, religious and administrative importance16. Moreover, the extent of the Persian invasion is unsupported and the influence of the Arab invasions is questionable17.

fact that their course left outside some parts of the classic city (the Embolos and the Upper Agora) and thus fits his model of urbanism in decline21: ‘severe reduction in city size and abandonment or destruction of formerly inhabited areas, is one of the most striking phenomenon of the Dark Ages in Byzantium’22. By the same token, Foss, argued that the walls of Ayasoluk were built in the same period. Here, indeed, the analysis of the style of construction and the coin finds23 help Foss to build an argument on more solid ground, although again he states that the measures to protect the Basilica and the surrounding settlement owed more to the need to protect the city from the onslaught of the Arabs, paving the way to the development of Ephesos in two separate walled centres a mile apart24.

Foss’s conclusions also dangerously assume a hierarchical pattern of urban settlements in Byzantine Asia Minor, which seems to be dependent on the stylistic and structural peculiarities of their walls (size, bulkiness, building technique and plan) ‘which expressed the transformations of urban life marking the beginning of the Middle Ages in the Byzantine empire’18. In fact, if this model seems tailormade for Nicaea and even Constantinople, other centres, such as Ankara do not fit it: here, according to Foss’s hierarchy, such an important and massive wall enceinte should have included a larger area, especially if we consider the role of the city as thematic capital. Moreover, cities like Amastris, with its impressive enceinte, prove that elaborate defences are typical not only of the main urban centres, but also of the “provincial” cities19. As for Ephesos, Foss assumed that the city walls20 were a response to the seventh century Arab invasions, merely because the

Foss’s archaeological material is also open to question. This is due more to his methodological incapability in dealing with metalwork, glasswork and ceramics (and partially seals and coins) than to the exiguity of the archaeological remains for the seventh and the eighth century25. In this Foss not only fails to grasp the differences expressed For a detailed critique of Foss’s argument concerning urbanism in decline see Chapter 1, pp.8ff. 22 Foss 1979, 106. 23 23 stray coins of Constans II have been found in the area, although their find spots have not been recorded (Foss 1979, 107; Foss–Winfield 1986, 132). 24 Foss 1979, 107; also Foss–Winfield 1986, 132. 25 Foss 1979, 111. 21

Foss 1979, 107–111. Ibid., 192–4. (on the supposed capture of the city by Maslama in 716 A.D.) 18 Foss–Winfield 1986, 136. 19 Ibid. See on this also Ivison 2000. On Amastris see infra Chapter 5. 20 Foss-Winfield 1986, 132–3. 16 17

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) by the material culture of the city, but also ignores the principal markers of the scale of any economic system from which we can assess the scale of the production, distribution and the degree to which any type of goods is available in a certain area26. Since the epigraphic inscriptions mainly support his conclusions on the fate of the city in the fifth and sixth century, when they disappear, Foss moves uneasily. In his mind, he seems to re-adjust Gramsci’s motto: “optimism of the intellect, pessimism of the will”27. “Pessimism of the will” is in his stubborn research of the main causes of the considerable reduction in size and prosperity of Ephesos in the seventh century: Foss remains on the lookout for the final blow, which is, in his opinion, represented more by the Persian and Arab invasions28 than by the ruinous earthquake dated to 61216 A.D. “Optimism of the intellect” is in the unavoidable recognition that Ephesos does not match either Sardis or Pergamon (both according to Foss reduced to a fortress), and ‘survived as a sizeable city of the time, becoming a major administrative and military centre, and retained its importance as a market’29.

The problem area in this is that the lower settlement was walled too. Yet this model is clearly less fitting if one then takes into consideration the demographical implications of the large intramural space within the walls (4 km².)31, the geographical and strategic location of the city in the “core zone” around Constantinople (i.e. the crucially important source of much of the food which supplied the capital), its role as a pilgrimage and religious centre, its significance as a commercial centre for long and short distance trade and, lastly, the archaeological and stratigraphical evidence that points to a fragmentation of the inhabited area (so-called città a isole) both intra and extra moenia32; Ephesos can hardly be classed as a ‘refuge’. Also Chris Wickham’s paradigm for urban development in the Byzantine hinterland (Greece, Aegean and Anatolia), seems partially to rule out Ephesos (and Miletos) as an exception. Indeed, as with other cities in the same area, the old city of Artemis remained prosperous until the late sixth and early seventh century and its monumental centre maintained its vitality, although signs of economic or demographic weakening are apparent in the late sixth century33. Moreover, Wickham rightly argues that the fate of Ephesos owed less to invasions than to the signs of systemic crises of the Aegean region in the seventh century: ‘the tendency is now to locate de-urbanization within a large period of disruption’34. But if Ephesos suffered from the disorder in the Mediterranean interregional system of exchange35 it is also true that the city remained substantial and possibly involved in those dynamics of Mediterranean shipping which Michael McCormick has pointed out36. In fact, the accounts of pilgrims such as Willibald and Thomas of Farfa and the survival of eastern relics such as those preserved in Sens, point to the strong integration of Ephesos within the shipping trade-routes37. This presence is reflected too in the continuing communications along the ancient sea-route linking the Aegean with Italy and the West, although horizons were by now contracted, narrowed to Constantinople, Smyrna and Thessaloniki (and, of course, Ephesos)38. Conversely, considering that the enduring influence of Constantinople brought about the reconfiguration of urban elites around a small number of provincial-thematic centres39, one must admit that neither the literary sources nor the sigillographic evidence points to the role of Ephesos as a capital of the Thrakesian theme. Analysis of the lead-seals of the Theme of Samos suggests rather that there was a possible overlapping jurisdiction between the two themes over the south part of the coastal strip40. One could be tempted to place some

One should also be aware of the strong points of Foss’s analysis, that give pride of place to the results of the archaeological excavations, run in different sites of the city at different times, and tries to interpret them in the context of the literary and documentary sources. This effort brings into being an, even today, unmatched survey of the development of the Ephesian urban settlement, completed with a detailed analysis of the single monuments and buildings of the city. However, this analysis urgently needs an update. Indeed, thirty years have passed by since Foss’ book. Since then many archaeological excavations have shed light on new parts of the city, and some scholars have started to look back to the results of the old surveys, on the lookout for new stratigraphical approaches. Such studies give pride of place to the analysis of pottery, metalwork and glasswork samples, that had been almost ignored by the first excavators, yet which offer a key to elucidating the changing economic and social superstructure and the different imperial response to the changing strategic situation in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. As a result of such work, it becomes apparent that Ephesos hardly fits into current models of urban settlement. In this sense, John Haldon encapsulates Ephesos in his model of cities in Asia Minor: the city is regarded as a refuge for the local rural population, as a fortress and military and administrative centre, but also as a market town30. On the one hand, if one looks at the great reduced central walled area filled with ecclesiastical buildings and at the fortified hill of Ayasoluk, Ephesos could possibly (but only just) fit into the settlement model of a fortress serving as a refuge for the more exposed lower part of the city.

On the walls of Ephesos see mainly Müller–Wiener 1961 and Foss– Winfield 1986. 32 Müller–Wiener 1986. See infra pp. 123ff. 33 Wickham 2005, 626ff. 34 Ibid., 628. 35 Ibid., 780ff. 36 McCormick 2001, 502ff. 37 Willibald 19f., 60; Thomas in Chronicon Farfense 3.25–5.8 reported in McCormick 2001, 172 fn.70. 38 McCormick 2001, 290ff. 39 Wickham 2005, 633. 40 See on this Nesbitt–Oikonomides, II, 1993, 109–11 and also Foss 1979, 195–6. On the Thematic organization in the area see infra p. 103ff. 31

Ibid., 700. A.Gramsci, Letters from Prison (19 December 1929) (London, 1979). 28 Foss 1977. 29 Foss 1979, 115. 30 Haldon (pers.comm.). 26 27

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3. Western Anatolia and its main rivers (after Beazeley-McNelly, 1989, p. 49)

residual members of elites in the city and argue that the spatial fragmentation of the urban landscape was neither a sign of the breakdown of urban coherence, nor did it point to the social and economic collapse of the city. The lower city did not vanish into the fortified hilltop settlement of Ayasoluk, although the quality of the residential and ecclesiastical structures clearly diminished41 and the city’s lifestyle suffered from some minor Arab raids by sea and land42. Ayasoluk did not become the walled “Aventino” of the Ephesians, as in the interpretations of Concina, Eilliger

and Karwiese43. Ephesos persisted as urban centre44, and it is not by chance that Theophanes refers to a great fair, a panegyrion45, which dated at least to 794/5 A.D., and possibly earlier46. Perhaps the role of Ephesos as a main centre of pilgrimage allows us to compare it to the model Frank Trombley proposes for Euchaita: a secluded centre of the Armeniakon Theme, whose fortifications acted as a node for scattered residential foci, which included substantial part of the classic town and the Church of

See for instance the Hanghäuser 1 and 2 , and the seventh century rebuilding phases of the church of St.Mary. Lang–Auinger 1996; Karwiese 1999 and Karwiese 1995 (a). 42 Brandes 1999, 55ff.

43

41

44 45 46

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Concina 2003, Karwiese 1995 (b), Eilliger 1985. Wickham 2005, 630. Theoph., 645. McCormick 2001, 199.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) St.Theodore47, a pilgrimage centre renowned throughout all the region and beyond. Although Ephesos was much bigger and split in two walled settlements, the Church of St. John retained its importance in pilgrimage routes, while scattered inhabited areas seemed to dot the old urban landscape. This is proved, for instance by the residential quarter built around the church of St. Mary and over the ruins of the Olympieon and the vitality of the extramural Hanghäuser, with a series of mills and a storehouse dated to the middle seventh century and beyond48. In this sense also the exceptional importance of the local bishop in the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the Constantinopolitan Patriarchate should be given due recognition. Further, one should not forget the various monasteries hosted by the city territory and mentioned by seventh and eighthcentury sources49, which will have attracted the patronage and the wealth of the local elites: ‘ambitious and wealthy patrons were using churches to make major monumental statements’50.

enhancing its role as grain supplier55, and to fuel local levels of production and distribution, as demonstrated by the presence of a ceramic workshop manufacturing a local variant of PRS, Phocean Red Slip Ware (until the first half of the seventh century)56, and later, by the vitality of the artisanal quarter of the Hanghäuser and the continuing importance of its port. 4.2 Western Anatolia: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy. Ephesos hosted the Temple of Artemis, one of the seven Wonders of the ancient world, which was founded around 700 B.C. on a slope of a hill (now Ayasoluk) outside the Lysimacheian walls57 (which post-dated 700 B.C.). The Ephesians regarded Artemis as the city goddess, and the glory and the importance of this temple clearly resounded in the shouts of one Demetrios a jeweller and souvenirdealer, who rebuked Paul during his effort to convert the city: “Great is The Artemis of Ephesians”58. Indeed, many scholars, in dealing with the fate of the city, point to the passage from the patronage of Artemis to that of Mary as the main turning point in the history of the city59: Paul’s mission was signed and sealed in 431 A.D., when the Third Ecumenical Council consecrated the city and its cathedral to the Theotokos. Then, in the inscribed words of one Demeas, Artemis became a dangerous demon whose sculpture should be destroyed and exorcised by the cross:

To sum up, Ephesos underwent important changes during the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages both in its urban appearance (demonumentalization, which however, does not imply an inferior form of urbanism or urban recession51) and functions. It suffered from an economic weakening, which resulted from the systemic crisis of the Aegean region, but the city did not vanish into the walled kastron of Ayasoluk52. Instead it showed some continuity, which benefited from its significance as pilgrimage centre, from the presence of an important ecclesiastical hierarchy and possibly, the residual members of the old local aristocratic elites. In this sense, we could discern that Ephesos retained its importance both for the state-based fiscal system.

‘Demeas, tearing down the deceitful likeness of the demon Artemis, set up the sign of truth […] the Cross, the victorious, immortal symbol of Christ’60. The importance of the city was mainly due to its strategic location: Ephesos lay along the river Cayster valley, one of the great and fertile vales of western Anatolia61, which in ancient times was divided into three main districts, Mysia on the north, Lydia in the centre, and Caria on the south. These districts stretched from the Aegean Sea to the central Anatolian plateau, which was rimmed about on the north and south by high mountain-chains and broken on the northwest and west into single groups; ‘on their slopes rise the streams uniting to form the great rivers which […] continue their course through ever-widening plains into the Propontis and the Aegean’62. These rivers (the Kaikos, the Hermos, the Cayster and the Maeander) flow westwards, and their basins were divided from one another by wellmarked ranges that stretched from the central plateau to the sea in slender and almost parallel lines. ‘These rivers

One could tentatively say that Ephesos’ closeness to Constantinople and its strategic position on the local Aegean shipping routes, could allow its elites to retain a role in its internal political dynamics, as proved by the fact, as in Constantinople, the city elites proclaimed their political life-style along the main urban spaces through acclamations and inscriptions. For the state, Ephesos’ purpose was as a base for the tax-collection process (as proved by the lead-seals and by the kommerkion collected during St.John’s panegyrion53). Ephesos, resembling in this, Marseille in the West, could be one of the few cities closely dependent on international Mediterranean pattern of exchange and shipping54. Its distance from the frontier allowed the city, although suffering from Arab raids, both to exploit the high levels of demand of the capital,

Nicephorus Gregoras, XIII.12; Vita Davidis, Symeoni and Georgii, 13, 225.11–25. 56 Outschar 1993. Empereur–Pycon 1986; Mayet–Picon 1986. 57 Plutarch, Alexander, 3.3; Strabo XIV. 58 Acts 19. 59 Foss 1979; Concina 1999; Karwiese 1995(a); Limberis 1999; Eilliger 1985. 60 Published in Foss 1979, 32. 61 For a geographical survey of the area see mainly Wickham 2005, 29ff. (although not detailed), Hendy 1985, 43ff., Magie 1950. A complete geologic survey of the Ephesian region is in Kraft–Kayan–Bruckner– Kapp 1995. 62 Magie 1950, 34. 55

Trombley 1985. On this also Wickham 2005, 630. 48 See infra p. 109. 49 Vita Steph.Iun. 1164: on the persecutions of local monks by the hand of Michael Lachanodrakon, general of the Thrakesian Theme; Cedrenus I, 787: on the Emperor Theodosius III, who abdicated in 717 A.D. and became a monk in Ephesos; Ignatios Deac. 9. 53. 10–21. 50 Wickham 2005, 669. 51 Ibid., 626ff. 52 Müller–Wiener 1986. 53 On the kommerkion mentioned by Theophanes 645, see infra pp. 122– 3 and mainly Haldon 1990, Carile 1999 and Brandes 1989, 93. 54 Wickham 2005, 667–70; McCormick 503ff. 47

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EPHESOS were the chief factor in the development of the cultural and economic life of the Asia Minor, for […] through their valleys led the highways, which penetrated to the remote interior of the Anatolian plateau’63. Therefore, they acted as a sort of intermediary between two different landscapes: the fertile and well-watered terrain, characterizing the intensively cultivated and populated coastal plain, and the steppe-like nature of the plateau64. Recently, Chris Wickham has argued that the discontinuities between the sea-coast and the plateau, two broadly different zones, should represent the key to interpreting the economic political trajectories of the Byzantine empire in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. In fact, after the Arab invasions and the political-economic crisis of the seventh century, the Byzantine heartland was cut back, and limited to eastern Greece and Anatolia. This coupled a large, poor, upland region isolated from the sea by mountains to its north and south with an area keyed into the Mediterranean economy albeit one that, by that period, was in systemic crisis)65.

a late eighth-century famine, during which the Smyrniots (Smyrna lies less than 20 miles north of Ephesos) sent a ship with 500 modioi of grain to a coastal shrine on Lesbos75. Vineyards and orchards were also other local cultivations: the whole region was broad and fruitful in all kind of wine and oil76. Indeed, the broad valleys of the Cayster and Maeander were all famous for their fertility and apart from grain and fruit, Lydia had been renowned since the antiquity for its wines: ‘inferior in quality to none of the celebrated wines’77. Sheep and cattle farming was another important local resource: the wool of Miletos was highly prized and in Ephesos Roman inscriptions78 point to the existence of a prosperous guild of “wool-workers” and “wool-dealers”. The city of Artemis was also renowned for the production of perfumes79 and for its silversmiths (like Demetrios). Moreover, the mountains contained also deposits of antimony, cinnabar and stone of excellent quality80. ‘Nowhere, perhaps, has nature dictated more precisely than in western Anatolia, the course of the principal means of communication, stretching between the Aegean and the East, leading up the Hermus, the Maeander and the Cayster valleys, and over the mountains to the central plateau’81. Two main highways ran from the coastal plain up to the Anatolian Plateau. The first was the so-called “Royal Road” of the Persians. Two branches of this road led to the ancient city of Sardis; one linked Ephesos and Smyrna, and the second ran over a saddle close to the western end of the Tmolus range82. East of Sardis, these two branches joined up, heading to the Hermus mountains and then into Phrygia. The second was the Maeander route (also called the Southern Highway), a more direct path of communication, free from natural obstacles. From Ephesos this road led southwards over an accessible pass and across the hills to Magnesia-on-the-Maeander. Here it turned east, running up the valley of this stream up to the plain of Hierapolis. From this city it then reached Lycaonia, Cappadocia and Cilicia83.

However, this was all the last of the paradoxes of the Anatolian region. While, on the one hand, the river valleys carried the fertile coastal plain some way into the barren plateau66, these same streams with their rapid waters, flowing between the mountains, constantly carried down soil that was deposited down-valley towards or at their mouths67, a silting process against which man has relentlessly struggled since the classic period. As early as the time of Strabo, Ephesos had been troubled by the silt brought by the Cayster and deposited in its harbour, cutting it off from the sea68. This process continued into the medieval period69. Nonetheless, the tie between the river and the city of Ephesos had also political and economic implications. According to Hierocles70 (and before him Pliny71), in the fifth century Ephesos controlled a huge territory which included 23 cities which dotted the whole valley of the Cayster and the northern valley of the Maeander together with its lower course (a pattern which the ecclesiastical diocese of Ephesos almost entirely imitated72). Moreover, the Cayster valley was exploited as a local source for cereal crops, among which the most important were wheat and barley73. As brought out by a later Byzantine writer (Nikephoros Gregoras), when Constantinople was deprived of its main supplies, the grain came from Ionia (including the ancient Lydia, Mysia and Caria), Phrygia and Bithynia74. This passage reinforced the earlier Vita Davidis, Symenoni et Georgii, which mentions

Apart from these two main east-west highways, ribbons of transverse routes ran from north to south. The westernmost one led along the coast itself from the Hellespont, along the Aegean, to the mouth of river Kaikos. Here a branch headed eastward up the valley of this river past Pergamon, while the main road continued southward to Smyrna and Ephesos. According to Strabo84 the section linking these two cities run for 320 stadia. In addition to this main Vita Davidis, Symeoni and Georgii 13, 225.11–25. Also McCormick 2001, 880. 76 Espositio Tot. Mund., 47. 77 Strabo IX; XIII; XIV. Also Vitruvius VIII, 3, 12 and Pliny, V, 10; XIV, 74. 78 Magie 1950, 810. 79 Pliny, XIII, 10; XX,177 80 Ibid, 45ff. 81 Foss 1979, 5–6. 82 Magie 1950, 39ff. The route from Ephesos to Sardis (540 stadia according to Herodotus V, 54) led northward from the plain of the lower Cayster to the Nef Cay through the pass of Kora Bel. 83 Strabo XIV; Tab.Peut. IX–X. Also Magie 1950, 41 and fn.18. 84 Strabo XIV.

Ibid., 37. Hendy 1985, 43ff. 65 Wickham 2005, 29–33. 66 Strabo XIII, 626: the Cayster flows through prosperous plains (panton arista pedion) 67 Hendy 1985, 62; Magie 1950, 37. 68 Strabo XIV, I, 24. 69 See infra p. 119–20; also Kraft–Kayan–Bruckner–Kapp 1995 70 Mentioned in Jones 1998, 78. 71 Pliny, V, 120. 72 See infra pp.102ff. Not.Epis. I, 206–7. As Metropolis of the Eparchias of Asia, Ephesos had 27 suffragan dioceses. 73 Hendy 1985, 48–9. 74 Nicephorus Gregoras, XIII.12. 63

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) coast with the Anatolian plateau and Constantinople with the southern rim of the Anatolia peninsula. This pattern seems also to have influenced the trajectories and the fate of these urban settlements in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. Whereas Pergamon and Sardis experienced an abrupt disruption and were reduced to hilltop fortresses, Miletos, Smyrna87 and Ephesos enjoyed a good degree of continuity, at least partially owing to their geographical location on the coast. 4.3 A brief historical overview: the Church and the State. Ephesos owed part of its importance to its administrative role first as the capital of the Roman Asia and then, after Diocletian’s provincial reform of the third century, as the seat of the Proconsul of the Asia, ‘who held a high rank in the administrative system […] as head judge, and chief appellate judge of Asia’88. Since the church organization also appeared to be congruent with that of the state, Ephesos became the seat of the Metropolitan of the ecclesiastical province of Asia, with claims to jurisdiction over the whole region. The Proconsul acted as the main political figure for over three centuries, presiding over the province thanks to a large staff of clerks and officials89 who worked with financial representatives appointed by the central government to assess and collect taxes. The Metropolitan owed its importance to the early traditions of the Ephesian church: ‘according to tradition, the church was founded by Paul’s disciple Timothy, and the city was blessed by the presence of John the Evangelist, the holy martyr Hermione, daughter of the Apostle Philip, Mary Magdalene, and Mary mother of Christ’90. The church was recognized as an Apostolic See during the First Ecumenical Council in Nicaea (325 A.D.): the sixth canon of the Council acts acknowledged Ephesos as the head of the Asia Proconsularis that is the eleven provinces forming Asia91. Then, the second canon of the Second Ecumenical Council (Constantinople 381 A.D.) reinforced the role of the Ephesian Metropolitan whose jurisdiction extended over the whole of Western Asia Minor. However, at the same time, the Council recognized also the role of Constantinople as second only to Rome ‘in honour and legitimacy’, effectively starting to displace Ephesos’ sovereignty92. The Constantinopolitan bishop began to undermine the Ephesian Metropolis, which was regarded as a dangerous rival. Around 400 A.D., John Chrysostom (then in charge of the Constantinopolitan see) ‘began a trespass upon the Ephesian bishop’s territorial jurisdiction’93. According to Palladius94, in that period 22 metropolitans of Asia came to Constantinople and bishop

4. Main Roads in Western Anatolia (after Haldon, 1999, p. 58)

road, there was at least a circuitous route85leading from Smyrna to Ephesos through the cities of the Ionian coast. Its stations, shown by the Tabula Peutingeriana86, were Smyrna, Teos, Lebedos, Colophon and Ephesos. Then, a road led from Ephesos to Miletos, but its course remains even today unknown. Land routes, rivers and sea communications set up a double settlement pattern: on the one hand, the sea-oriented coastal cities (Smyrna, Miletos and Ephesos) located at the rivers’ mouths, which benefited from the natural resources of their rich hinterland, and their strategic role along the main commercial shipping routes (thanks to their harbours); on the other, cities like Sardis and Pergamon, which overlooked a river valley and were set astride and more orientated onto the land-highways which linked the 85 86

I will address these cities as a comparison in the conclusion of this chapter. 88 Foss 1979, 5–6. 89 Foss 1979, 8. 90 Foss 1979, 33. See also Gregory of Tours, I, 30. 91 Limberis 1995, 333–4. 92 Ibid. 93 Ibid. 94 Palladius, 88–90. Palladius was ordained by John as bishop of Helenopolis and during the investigation of Antoninus. 87

Foss 1979, 6 and Magie 1950 , 786. Tab.Peut. X.

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EPHESOS Eusebius of Valentinopolis accused Antoninos, bishop of Ephesos, of some horrible crimes95. John Chrysostom decided to investigate the charges by himself and moved to Ephesos. In the meantime Antoninos died and so the suffragan bishops of the Ephesian seat appealed to John96 to select a new bishop. It sounded clear from the tone of their appeal and the Codex Theodosianus97 that by that time the Ephesian diocese was shaken by ferocious quarrels between Arians, Pagans98 and the Orthodox. These disorders played into Chrysostom’s hands. He could take advantage of the state of confusion of the Asian diocese in his political-ecclesiastical actions against the Ephesian seat99. Chrysostom appointed Heracleidis as the new Metropolitan, who immediately removed six bishops accused of simony. Although the Ephesian Church quickly reinstated its own clergy and deposed Heraclides as soon as Chrysostom was out of power100, Constantinople had constituted an important precedent.

The Ephesian see was further diminished during the Justinianic period by being acknowledged as a second level “metropolitanate” after Caesarea in Cappadocia104. According to the list of suffragan bishoprics reported by the Notitia Episcopatum Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae105, Smyrna remained an autocephalous see (although a sixth century inscription seems to prove a claim of the Smyrniotic bishop to the higher rank of Metropolis106), while the boundary between the Asian and the southern Carian Eparchy was the Maeander. The Ephesian jurisdiction wedged itself between the Lydian Eparchy (centred on Sardis) and the Smyrniot ecclesiastical province, extending to as Pergamon and the Ida Mountains to the north. However, it seems that this lessening of ecclesiastical power did not affect the religious importance of the city as a focus for episcopal administration and a pilgrimage centre. Even though its claim of hierarchical primacy had been frustrated, Ephesos was, indeed, renowned for its religious importance throughout the early middle ages and even beyond.

The choice of Ephesos as seat of the Third Ecumenical Council (431 A.D.) and the development of the Marian cult pointed, paradoxically, to the increasing role of Constantinople and the diminishing of the importance of Ephesos101. Moreover, the Fourth Council at Chalcedon in 451 A.D. ratified, in its 2eighth canon, that Asia Proconsularis - i.e. the territories under the jurisdiction of Ephesos - would thereafter be under the jurisdiction of the Patriarchate of Constantinople: ‘as a result Constantinople used Ephesos as a pawn in its bid for patriarchal dignity and power’102. To make things worse for Ephesos, Smyrna was made independent of the Metropolitan of Ephesos. The Council of Chalcedon sanctioned that the Archbishop of Smyrna had his own jurisdiction, although his rank in the patriarchal hierarchy was lower than that of Ephesos103.

As for the state administrative machinery, in general the division between military and civil spheres of authority was maintained until the late sixth century107. This traditional separation slowly came to an end in the seventh and eighth century with the introduction of the thematic system. The word thema seems to be a term introduced during the seventh century to mean an army or division, which represented the field forces under the command of different magistri militum108. At some point during the seventh century, in advance of the Arab invasions, these forces spread out across the Anatolian peninsula with a defensive role linked to a zone of relative agrarian prosperity. They occupied areas of Asia Minor on what was to become a permanent basis109, each covering a number of provinces and ‘gaining clear geographical identity in the early eight century and fiscal autonomy in the late eighth century’110. As Lilie and Haldon have plainly demonstrated111, these new districts did not bring about the abrupt end of the old civic provincial organization. According to the list of the secular dignitaries attending to the sixth ecumenical Council, to the Iussio issued by Justinian II in 687 A.D.112 and to the kommerkiarioi lead seals113, it seems that a clear

Antoninus’s crimes included embezzlement, simony, peculation and connivance in a murder. 96 Palladius, 89: ‘…since in times past both the laws and ourselves have been greatly confused, we thereby beg Your Honour, to come, please, and lay down an order from God on high to the Church of Ephesos’. 97 Codex Theodos. 16,1,3 ; 6, 5, 28. 98 According to the Church histories of Socrates and Sozomenos, we know that pagan rites continued to be celebrated at the end of the fourth century; Isidore of Pelusium states that, in the first quarter of the fifth century, the pagans dug up remains in the Temple of Artemis and reverenced them (Isidore of Pelusium (PG 78), 217). Also Foss 1979, 32ff., Limberis 1995 and Limberis 1999. 99 Limberis 1995, 338. 100 Sozomenos 8, 6; Socrates. 6,11. 101 Limberis 1999, 334ff. On the one hand, Theodosius II chose Ephesos for the site of the Council, because Constantinople needed to subdue the Asian Metropolis (and the much more serious rival sees of Antioch and Alexandria) in order to secure its position as first see of the empire: Ephesos was nothing but a convenient location. On the other, the relics of Mary were exclusively attributed to Constantinople (the churches consecrated to the Virgin, the hymns and some legendary texts, such as the Transitus Mariae and the History of Euthymius, expressed this acknowledgment at the urban and ideological level), while the influence of Pulcheria (Theodosius’ sister) in alliance with the Juvenal, Patriarch of Jerusalem, devalued the Ephesian pretensions of hosting Mary’s tomb (boasted by the Panarion written by Epiphanius). With the imperial blessing Jerusalem was eventually recognized as the burial place of the Virgin, and even though again in the sixth century Hypatius, bishop of Ephesos, reprimanded the claims of Jerusalem, Ephesos had lost forever its claim to Mary’s presence and holiness 102 Ibid., 334. Also Foss 1979, 6. 103 Not.Epis.II, 217: Smyrne and Miletos are counted perì autokephalon 95

archiepiscopòn : the former with regard to Asian Eparchy the second the Carian Eparchy. 104 Limberis 1995, 337. See Not.Epis. I, 206: 1. Eparchìa Kappadokias (metropolis Kaisareìas) 2. Eparchìa Asìas (metropolis Ephèsou). 105 Not.Epis. I, 206–7. It includes 37 bishops, among which the most important are those of Adramittion, Phokias, Pergamon, Priene and Colophon. 106 Foss 1979, 6. 107 Haldon 1990, 209ff. 108 Ibid. Also Haldon 1999, Lilie 1977 and Brandes 1989, passim. 109 Haldon 1990, 215; 110 Wickham 2005, 127. 111 Lilie 1977 and Haldon 1990 and Haldon 1999. 112 This letter was addressed to Pope and mentioned as witnesses ‘deinceps militantes incolas sancti palatii, nec non et collegiis popularibus, et ab excubitoribus, insuper etiam quosdam de Christo dilectis exercitibus, tam ab a Deo conservando obsequio, quamque ab Orientali, Thraciano, similiter et ab Armeniano, etiam ab exercitu Italiano, deinde ex Caravisianis et Septensianis seu de Sardinia atque de Africa exercitu’. Mansi, XI, 737ff. 113 Haldon 1990, 232ff.; Hendy 1985, 615ff., Dunn 1993; Lilie 1977

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5. Map of Ephesos with the sacred way to Ayasoluk (after Scherrer 1995, p. 1)

occupied different areas: according to the tenth-century De Thematibus, the field forces of the Thracian contingentthat is the army of the magister militum per Thraciassettled down in the Provinces of Asia, Lydia, Caria and a small part of Phrygia Pacatiana116. ‘The transfer of the exercitus thracianus to Anatolia has been the subject of a highly-charged debate’117: the name of the theme and of some auxiliary units (tallying with those of the army of Thrace in the fifth century118) attested a transfer of troops from Europe to Asia Minor. In all probability, the Thracian forces were established in the western part of the Anatolian peninsula at the same time as the troops of the magister militum per Orientem

distinction between civic and military spheres endured until the late seventh century. Moreover, the fact that the provincial boundaries were respected by the retreating army, showed on the one hand, ‘that when the field armies were established in Asia Minor, they were established at a time when the older civil administration was fully operational and by officials who were aware of the boundaries of their provinces; while on the other hand, it proved that the withdrawal was ‘carefully organised, coordinated and planned’114. However, little by little, the term thema, while retaining its original sense of army, started referring to a distinct geographical and fiscal area: more and more the army came to be recruited and supplied locally115. As seen above, the armies withdrawn to Asia Minor

De Them., 125. Hendy 1985, 621. 118 Haldon 1984, 238: tourmarchai “ton Viktoron” and “ton Theodosion” (Cerularius, 663). 116

13ff.; Brandes 1989, 126ff. 114 Haldon 1990, 227. Also Hendy 633ff. 115 Wickham 2005, 127.

117

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EPHESOS withdrew into Asia Minor: this because a magister militum per Thracias commanded an army on his front and was sent with his troops to reinforce Egypt in 638 A.D.119 According to Lilie120, the new Thrakesion theme (resulted from the relocation of the Thracian contingent in the western Asia Minor) had been in place in 687 A.D., when Justinian II’s Iussio listed the four field armies in hierarchical order, giving the pride of place to a deo conservando Obsequium, followed by the exercitus Orientalis , the exercitus Thracianus and, finally, the exercitus Armenianus121. So, the redeployment of the Thracesian forces happened at the same moment as the withdrawal of the other three exercitus in front of the Arab invasions. The Thrakesion was entrusted with the defence of the economically crucial western part of the Anatolian peninsula122.

the role of capital of the Thrakesian theme. A passage of Constantine Porphyrogenitus’s De Thematibus130, does mention Ephesos as capital of the Thrakesian theme, but it also says that it was a turma – an administrative subdivision of the naval theme of Samos- implying that it was not in the Thrakesion at all. This in itself shows how complicated the problem is. The most important (and possibly only) contribution on this subject is still today Foss’ appendix131 to his book on Ephesos. Here he discusses all the literary and sigillographic sources132, which could lead to the conclusion that Ephesos was the thematic capital. Those evidences are not conclusive and taken with the geo-strategic location of Ephesos (‘on the sea far from the frontier in a location more suitable for trade than for fighting’133) suggest that one of the inland cities of Chonae, Hierapolis or Laodicea134 effectively was the real capital of the Thrakesion theme135. In particular neither Theophanes136 nor any other Byzantine or Arab source137 explicitly assert that Ephesos was a thematic capital (even though it obviously remained an important centre), so, one is tempted to conclude that, as will be seen in the Paphlagonian region, an administrative-military duality characterised the Thrakesian theme. There Amastris acted as the main port and naval fortress, whereas Gangra retained its role as main inland city and capital of the Paphlagonian Theme138; here Ephesos could be regarded as a strategic harbour (with some military implications, as made manifest by the activities of the strategos Michael Lachanodrakon139) and a coastal stronghold, whereas

Theophanes, who recounted the expedition of Justinian II against Sinop in 711 A.D., made the first attestation of the Thrakesion theme: “the emperor sent at the head of few dromones, the patrician John surnamed the Syrian, who was logothetes of the Genikon, and Christopher, tourmarches123 of the Trakesians with 300 armed men. Justinian marched against Sinope, taking along the contingent of the Opsikion and part (meros) of the Thrakesian”124. Theophanes mentioned as well the first known strategos of the Thrakesian theme, one Sisimakos, who in 740 A.D. – during the civil war between the “usurper” Artabasdos and Constantine V - fought, together with his troops, on the loyalist side125. A lead-seal, mentioning the kommerkia of the strategia of the Trakesioi dates back to the same period126. This means that in this period, the system, focussed on the tax-contractors named kommerkiaroi and meant to arrange the production and delivery of weapons and equipment from local craftsmen and state-run factories to the troops, was in place in the Trakesian theme127. Moreover, the kommerkiarioi were also involved in luxury exchange (sale and production of silk)128.

De Them. 68, 81ff. Appendix VI: Ephesos as capital of the Thracesian theme (Foss 1979, 195–6) 132 As for the sigillographic evidence, Foss relies on the late eighth– early ninth century lead–seals of members of the provincial and military bureaucracy based in Ephesos (dioketes, oikonomos, notarius, turmarch; see infra pp. 117ff.) and on a ninth century seal belonging to the archon tou Theologou (Zacos–Veglery 1972, 2283(a), whose contribution he reckons as inconclusive for establishing the capital of the Theme. This mainly because: “ the seals naming high thematic officials make no mention of Ephesos, and the officials listed in connection with the city –the dioketes, oikonomos, notarius,turnarch, archon) could have been local subordinates of the general, without implying that he was himself stationed in the same city” (Foss 1979, 195). For the literary sources see fn. 139. On the sigillographic evidence see also infra pp.117ff.. 133 Foss 1979, 195. 134 According to Foss (Foss 1979, 196) all these cities were more suitable as Thematic capital since all were better located near the frontier at a major road junction from which any part of the province was easily accessible. In particular, Foss leans towards Chonae because a passage of the Arab geographer al–Yaqut (quoted in Foss 1979, 196) mentions a place called Qaniyius as a fortress of the istratighus of the (unknown) district of al–Warithun: “it may be possible to identify Qaniyius with Chonae”. On Chonae also Foss 1991. On Hierapolis, D’Andria 2003 and Chapter 1, p.26 with further bibliography. 135 Ibid., 196. 136 Theoph. 445ff. 137 For instance, Life of St.Anthony the Younger 218, 14; Idrisi, Geographie, II, 299. See also Foss 1977, 195. 138 See Chapter 5, p. 136–7. 139 Theoph. 614ff. Michael Lachanodrakon was appointed as strategos of the Thrakesian theme by Constantine V in 765 A.D. (Theoph. 608.); he emulated his preceptor (i.e. the Emperor) by gathering at Ephesos all the monks and nuns who were in the theme. Indeed, this remains the only passage mentioning Ephesos with reference to the Thrakesian theme. Theophanes further referred to the Stategos Lachanodrakon in three different (and victorious) battles against the Arabs (Theoph., 623; 629). 130 131

Apart from these passages of Theophanes’ Chronographia, it becomes quite difficult to follow the historical trajectories of the Thrakesian theme from the late seventh onwards. Above all it remains unclear where its capital was located, since Ephesos still was the capital of Asia into the seventh century (as demonstrated by the Embolos’s inscriptions mentioning Proconsuls129), but it is unlikely that it had Nikeph. 24, 19. See on this Haldon 1984, 173; Haldon 1990, 216. Lilie 1977, 22ff. Also Haldon 1990, 214. 121 Mansi, Tom. XI, 737ff. 122 Lilie 1977, 26: `den wirtschaftlich wichtigen westlichen Teil der Halbinsel’. 123 A seal belonging to an eighth century turmarch is listed in Nesbitt– Oikonomides 1996, III, 2.60 and Zacos–Veglery 1972, 2644. 124 Theoph., 528. 125 Theoph., 575–6; 578–80. 126 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, III, 2.31, p.14. (also Zacos–Veglery 1972, 261)According to Nesbitt–Oikonomides the seal, which refers to tòn basilikòn kommerkìon tès strategies tòn Trakisìon, is dated post 730–1 A.D. when the seals of the Imperial Kommerkia replaced those of the kommerkiaroi. 127 Haldon 1990, 240ff. 128 Ibid, 238; Oikonomides 1986. 129 See infra p.107. 119

120

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Chonae or Hierapolis in the mainland acted as the thematic capital.

the title of military commanders149 and exerted over the sailors, while the plain soldiers and the other taxpayers were under the authority of the strategos of the Thrakesion. To sum up, the earliest strategoi of Samos resided in the islands when the first maritime themes were built up; then the theme of Samos was abolished and two droungarioi took over its jurisdiction. Eventually, in the early ninth century, it reappeared bearing its original name150 even though the seat of the strategos and its officers was now in the mainland.

The problem concerning the interspersed jurisdiction of the naval theme of Samos and the Thrakesion theme on the coastal strip of Lydia would reinforce this hypothesis. Indeed, Haldon notes that the central and southern part of the old quaestura exercitus (established by Justinian in Caria and the Aegean islands ‘to secure supplies and a sound base for the Danubian frontier units, while avoiding further impoverishing an already devastated region’140) became the basis for the newly constituted strategia of the Caravisiani (centred on Samos and dated to 654141). According to Nesbitt and Oikonomides ‘most of the Aegean islands had administration related to the fleet […] some, such as Samos, gave their name to the theme, which included part of the mainland [such as] Ephesos (and Smyrna)’142. The commander of a provincial naval theme, installed in parts of the mainland, appeared to have authority over persons (and ports?), rather than any substantial territory: this is why, in the De Thematibus many ports appear to belong to two themes simultaneously143. However, the Theme of Samos disappeared in the early eighth century. Just as the Theme of Kibyrrhaiotai (with Attaleia as capital) came into being the Aegean was split into two different jurisdictions under two droungarioi:

It is most difficult to understand the reasons behind the overlapping jurisdiction between the two Themes of Samos and the Thrakesion151. However, the presence in Ephesos of a eighth century drungarios’ lead seal and the reference to a ninth century tourmarchas of the Themes of Samos, together with those specimens pointing at the Thrakesian bureaucracy152, could point to the importance of the city both for the State administration and for the military naval machinery. It could be also linked to the vitality of Ephesos as the main port along the regional exchange route, especially if one considers that the almost contemporary Willibald pilgrimage route touched the islands of Kos and Samos before landing at Ephesos153 and that, in the first half of the ninth century, Gregory the Dekapolite travelled by sea from Ephesos to the island of Proconnesos154. The renowned fertility of the Maeander valley (probably producing a good agricultural surplus for local purposes)155, the existence of an important fair156 in the late eighth century (and possibly before157) and the acknowledged role of the Ephesian region as grain supplier for the Constantinopolitan markets158 could imply that Ephesos acted as a vital urban market. Even though Ephesos was probably not a thematic capital, the relative economic and politic stability enjoyed by the city, its location along the shipping routes towards the capital (which allows to include the city among those urban centres sharing its sustenance with the capital159) and the West (the main trunk-route160), as well as its centrality within the state and Church administrative machinery (an essential prerequisite for the existence of urban-oriented elites which underpinned the local demand in terms of staples, luxury commodities and artisanal products161) and, lastly, the exceptional fertility of its hinterland (enhancing a more stable relationship between the city and rural production) allowed Ephesos to retain its urban functions into the seventh and eighth centuries. As will be seen, these functions were perhaps more vital than thought in the

‘the northern Droungarios controlled the Aigion Pelagos (a term designation the islands of Aegean Sea) while” the southern Droungarios controlled most of the islands and was called after the popular name Dodekanesos or after Kos or after a more general term, Kolpos, indicating the sea and the islands; when its authority extended over parts of the western littoral (in the ninth century) he became a strategos with the (revivified) name of Samos’144. One of their lead seals (dated to the second half of the eighth century), was recently found in Ephesos145. Perhaps, it referred to the period when their authority stretched across parts of Aegean Sea and the western littoral of Asia Minor. Eventually, as seen above, one of these droungarioi became the new strategos of Samos146, who according to Constantine Porphyrogenitus was seated in Smyrna147 (and not in Samos), while two of his tourmarches resided in Ephesos and Adramytton148. This theme probably retained a main naval function, shown by the numerous seals bearing Haldon 1990, 210. Also Haldon 1999, passim. Or possibly one year later, if we follow Prior-Jeffreys’ idea that the fleet of the Karabisianoi based on Samos was probably created as a front line of defence shortly after the Byzantine navy was annihilated by the Arabs at the so-called Battle of Masts (655 A.D.). (Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 25). 142 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, II, 109. 143 Ibid. See De Them. XVI, 8–9. 144 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, II, 111. 145 Seibt 1999, 147: Ioanne spatharios kai droungarios.Another specimen mentioning a drungarios tou theologou dated back to the second half of the ninth century. Foss 1979, 117. See Zacos–Veglery 1972, 2561. 146 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, II, 44.10: Seal of Theodore imperial protospatharios and strategos of Samos, dated back to the late eighth– early ninth century. 147 De Them. XVI , 16. The capital of the naval theme of Samos was indeed in the mainland (Smyrna) and not in the homonymous island (Nesbitt–Oikonomides, 1993, III, 49) 148 De Them. XVI , 8–9. 140 141

Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, II, 130ff. Ahrweiler 1966,108. However, the Theme of Kybirreoti did not disappear and maintained its jurisdiction over the Pamphilian, Isaurian and Lycian coast (Ahrweiler 1966, 80; 120). 151 See on this Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 46-7. 152 Foss 1979, 117. See mainly infra pp. 117ff. 153 Willibald 19f., 60 154 Ignatios Deac., 9, 53.10–21. 155 Cedrenus II, 199. 156 Theoph. 608ff.. Also Laiou 2002, 709ff. 157 See McCormick 2001, 172. 158 Teall 1959, 126. 159 Teall 1959, 125–6. 160 McCormick 2001, 502ff. 161 Haldon 2000, 243. 149 150

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EPHESOS civic centre. In fact, as nearly everywhere, the curia or boulè, the city council with powers of tax-raising, ceased to exist168. The last mention of the Ephesian assembly of the curiales dates to around 431 A.D.: during the Third Ecumenical Council: ‘Count Candidianus called meetings of the Bouleuterion daily in order to gain the votes to replace the bishop’169. Similarly, the last attestation of public meetings in the Market Agora is dated to 431 A.D. too170, for in an almost contemporary inscription Emperor Theodosius II urged the Proconsul Heliodoros not to neglect certain bodies of citizens, among which figured the councillors171. After this, councillors are not recalled again and it is possible that already by the mid fifth century, the role of the Ephesian curiae as local authorities entrusted with tax-collection and city government, had passed into the hands of the provincial governor, even though the aristocratic elite did not abandon an urban lifestyle. One simple sign of the weakening of the curia was the physical decay of the forum/agora and its associated civic buildings. In Ephesos the civic buildings of the upper Agora were abandoned during the fifth century172. What followed was a reorientation of the ways of stating wealth and patronage in the urban structured landscape. This did not lead (yet) to a demonumentalization of the city: the forum areas faded, but churches started to dot the city173, creating a new monumental and political centre dominated by the Cathedral of Saint Mary, the bishop’s residence and the governor’s palace174 to the north of the Agorai. Within the Roman urban extension, many public and private buildings were restored and refurbished. Further, the city was endowed with a new commercial core focussed on the lower Agora and the Embolos, which was closed to wheeled traffic175 and filled with restored stoai, baths and public buildings boasting Imperial and Proconsuls’ inscriptions on their marble columns176. Therefore, the very existence of the Embolos leaves us with less ground to interpret the fifth and sixth century vitality of the city as simply a result of the structural ‘Christianization of the City’177. The Christianization of the city thus simply took advantage of the natural (and human) disasters that affected the city in the fourth century but these changes were also, of course, a reflection of wider ideological and social changes in society178.

past162, demonstrating a good deal of spatial and urbanistic coherence and a consistently structured urban morphology in a demographic, political and economic sense. 4.4. The City If we look at the city map of Ephesos we see that two different landscapes play a part in designing the city. On the one hand, the western part of the city lies on a flat plain (made up by the colluvial deposits of the river Cayster flowing into the Aegean Sea just few miles northwards); on the other hand, the eastern portion rests on a saddle inserted among two slopes (the northern Panayr Dağ and the south-western Bulbul Dağ), which leads to a raised ground, hosting the main political centre of the Hellenistic city163. The roads crossing the urban landscape played an essential part in maintaining a level of coherence within the urban structure. The so-called Arkadianè, the colonnaded street stretching from the port to the market agora, belongs to the Roman extension of the Lysimachean city, which enhanced the building up of new infrastructures in the northern and western areas of the town and linked the new “Roman city” with the eastern, old Hellenistic quarters164. Another road (the Sacred Way165), joined the western and north-eastern parts of the city with, at the centre, the hill of Ayasoluk, one mile to the east, which dominated the urban landscape. This road started from the Temple of Artemis, placed at the foot of Ayasoluk (outside the Roman extension to the Lysimacheian city) and then divided to skirt the Panayr Dağ along its southern and northern side. The southern branch entered the city at the Magnesian Gate to became one of the main urban axis (Embolos) connecting the Upper Agora (the administrative and political core of the city) with the Lower Agora. Here the two branches reunited at the so-called Triodos, where in Roman times the Library of Celsus and Hadrian’s Gate stand. Here, they met another processional way leading to Ortygia, which was the legendary birth-place of Artemis and her brother Apollo. The Ephesians placed Ortygia in a south-western suburb of the city, on the southern slope of the Bulbul Dağ. The series of earthquakes, which in the second half of the fourth century left the city almost in ruins166, could be regarded, here and elsewhere, as a convenient starting point for the late antique phase of the city167. Ephesos experienced a phase of urban renewal, which lasted into the sixth century, although, it did not include the old

Wickham 2005, 596. Also Liebeschuetz 2001, 104ff. A.C.O. I, i, iii, 47, cited in Foss 1979, 14. 170 When rioters opposing Nestorius filled its colonnades and heralds bandied his deposition about. Foss 1979, 63. 171 Foss 1979, 17–8. 172 Ibid., 80–3. 173 Eilliger 1985, 170–1. Apparently four churches (including the Cathedral dedicated to St.Mary) dated to the late fourth–century: a church close to the so–called East–Gymnasium; a simple rectangular church along the slope of the Bulbul Dăg in front of the Odeion; the supposed church built within the peristyle of the Hanghaus 1 (although, as will be seen, the identification of this building with a church has been recently questioned). Also Scherrer 1995, 20ff. 174 Liebeschuetz 2001, 32–4; Eilliger 1985, 168ff. 175 Thur 1989. 176 Feissel 1999. 177 Foss 1979, 36ff., Eilliger 1985, Karwiese 1995(a), Concina 2003. 178 Scherrer 1995, 25; Thur 2003. 168 169

Foss 1977, passim. Foss 1979, 46. 164 Schneider 1999, 475. See also infra pp. 108–10. 165 Knibbe 1999. 166 See Amm. Marc. 17, 7, 1–8; 26, 10, 15–19. Malalas 342. The earthquakes which shattered the Western Part of Asia Minor are dated to 358 AD, 365 AD and 368 AD, see Ladstätter 2002, 29ff., Foss 1979, Eilliger 1985, Karwiese 1995 (a). on this also Thur 2003, 133-5. 167 An inscription dated to 370/1 A.D. mentioned the role of the Emperors Valens, Valentinian and Gratianus in the reconstruction of those parts of the city, which lay in ruins (Thur 1999, 107). Public works were also built on the orders of the provincial governors (Foss 1979, 25). 162 163

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6. The Embolos (Author’s photo)

In this context the recent contribution of Beatrix Asamer179 on the supposed chapel of Hanghaus 1 seems relevant. This was one of the two residential complexes made of a series of insulae re-built in the early fifth century on the sloping land along the southern side of the Embolos180. According to a former interpretation made by Vetters181, three rooms located in the south-western part of one of the two residential insulae facing the southern part of the Embolos, should be regarded as the apsidal nave, the narthex and atrium of a little chapel dated to the late fifthearly sixth century. At the foundation of this interpretation lies a fountain, which incorporates discarded pieces of Christian sculptural decoration. A further analysis made by Asamer has however proved that Christian symbols and inscriptions flourished in this period in both public and private buildings: the crosses are of a piece with the cultural world of the local residents, often without any relationship with ecclesiastical urban spaces. So, the fountain and the three rooms are probably more correctly seen as a sixth-century artisanal stone-workshop, dedicated to the production of refined and semi-refined sculptural pieces. Christianization, therefore, did not exclusively imply transformation of former public buildings into churches, the building of chapels in private/public residences, cross carved on city gates and defacement of pagan monuments182. Certainly, the city underwent changes in taste, material culture and ideology but it did not become the “City of Councils”183. It might have changed its patron from the 179 180 181 182 183

pagan goddess Artemis to the Christian Virgin Mary, but it maintained secular political, economic and cultural spaces and secular vitality. Public buildings remained the focus of urban political life: as in Constantinople public spaces were structured until the late sixth-early seventh century by processions, while the presence of colonnaded roads underscored the persistence of this public activity184. Also, one should note that in the early fifth century (and again in the Justinianic period) the Arkadianè was elegantly restored185. Two Gates punctuated the street: the western one, overlooking the Harbour, and the eastern one heading to the Theatre Square. The street, which originally dated to the Severan period186, was re-named after the Emperor Arcadius, as proved by an inscription walled into one of the colonnaded halls lining the street187. His restoration provided the road with a new set of arcades, mosaics and a fountain. Besides its functional aim, the street must have become a superb urban scenario, emphasised not least by the provision of night illumination, as documented by the inscription188. A further refurbishment of this marble-paved road took place in the Justinianic period when the arcades were again restored and a beautifully decorated Tetrapylon was built about halfway to the harbour, at the exact point where another marble-paved street led off to the south. This monument consisted of four columns built on a podium made by three large steps encroaching onto the Wickham 2005, 634. Rouchè 1999, passim. See on this infra pp. 110. 185 Eilliger 1985, 179–80; Foss 1979, 56ff., Schneider 1999, Karwiese 1995, 34; Müller–Wiener 1986, 447. 186 On the earliest phases of the Arkadianè see Schneider 1999. 187 Schneider 1999, 474. 188 Ibid.; Foss 1979, 56–7. 184

Asamer 2003. Foss 1979, 74–77. Vetters 1977 Foss 1979, 36ff.; Eilliger 1985. Concina 2003, Karwiese 1995(a), Eilliger 1985.

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EPHESOS street, and embellished by lavishly decorated ornaments and sculptures. Possibly, the columns supported statues of the four Evangelists189. This road was again repaved in the early seventh century, when a partial “Bazariesung” (the creation of a colonnade converted into shops, permanent or semi-permanent stalls encroaching onto open spaces)190 was rife. But the Arkadianè retained its role as urban axis, as proved by the fact that the new set of city-walls, probably erected in the seventh century191, followed its course192. Eventually, however, possibly in the late seventh-early eighth century, the road was obliterated by a poorly-built residential quarter193. Unfortunately the lack of details available for this quarter (apart from the few lines dedicated to it by Foss194) do not allow us to draw any conclusions about the structural terms and functional purposes of this possible later re-conversion of a former monumental area. Indeed, still in the second half of the sixth century the Arkadianè was a vital artery195, lined with shops, enhancing the fact that parts of the “classic” city still retained a monumental vitality, that building patronage was not only focussed on the great churches and that the marginalization of some areas of the urban fabric was yet distant. However the Arkadianè lacked the numerous graffiti, statues and honorary dedications to be found in another street, which was the centre of Ephesian life: the Embolos196. The Embolos was a branch of the Sacred Way, the ancient processional route, linking the lower Market Agora with the upper State Agora and indubitably it became the main road of the city until the sixth century. Even though the excavators called it Kureten Strasse197, it is clear from both epigraphic inscriptions and the literary sources, that the road had been named Embolos since the classic period198. Here during the Dionysicae (a pagan festival in honour of Dionysius), St. Timothy (a disciple of St. Paul) was stoned to death by the mob199. The Embolos had its start at the socalled Triodos, the meeting point of the northern branch of the Sacred Way (Marble Street) with the road to Ortygia200 and the Embolos itself. A gate (the so called Hadrian’s Gate) overlooked a marble-paved square at this juncture. This Gate, built in the second century A.D.201, faced Marble Street and did not encroach on the Embolos but marked the branching of the processional way. Another Gate, the so-called Heracles’ Gate202, marked the western end of

7. The so-called Arkadianè ant the ruins of the Justinianic Tetrapylon (Author's photo)

the Embolos, and gave access into the upper Agora. Both these gates were restored in the mid fifth century203, when the street was closed to wheeled traffic. In this period, the Embolos and the buildings lining it were adorned or repaved with spolia, taken from the Prytaneion (located on the State Agora and used for ceremonies and other civic official functions) which lay in ruins. Particular targets for reuse were the columns which were inscribed with yearly lists of priests and statues of various proconsuls204. Thus from the fifth century the Embolos became a pedestrian road lined with colonnaded arches containing artisan’s workshops and tabernae205. Along its northern side the street was lined with two insulae, separated by a street (Akademie Gasse), which hosted the Bath of Scholastikia and a public latrine. The former building was named after an inscribed pedestal, which asserted that around 400 A.D.206, ‘the devout and wisest Lady Scholastikia spent a large sum to refurbish a part of’ the old Bath of Varius207. Close to the Bath another colonnaded porch (Kureten Halle) was built, even though it was hardly of a piece with the Scholastikia’s re-building programme208. Although the extensive use of spolia from

Schneider 1999, 467; Foss 1979, 57. Schneider 1999, 476ff. 191 Müller–Wiener 1961, 87–88. 192 Ibid. 193 The marginalization of the Arkadiane’ possibly owed to its location just inside the walls and the silting of the harbour at its western end 194 Foss 1977, 112–3. The last available synthesis about the Arkadianè (Schneider 1999) simply speaks of a “Bazariesung” of the area during the first half of the seventh century (Schneider 1999, 467). 195 Schneider 1999, 467ff. 196 Foss 1979, 65ff; Thur 1999; Whittow 2001, 147-9. 197 The street is named after the list of some curiales inscribed on the columns sustaining the sideway arcades. See on this Thur 1999, 105 198 On the epigraphic inscriptions see Thur 1999, 105–6. 199 Acta S.Timothei , 45–60. 200 ‘The mythical birthplace of Artemis’ (Scherrer 1995, 2). 201 Thur 1989, 116–7. 202 Foss 1979, 77. Also Karwiese 1995(a), 132 and Thur 1999, 107. 189 190

The Gate named after two sculptured friezes depicting Heracles, located alongside the main arch, and preserved a magical inference, which lasted also in Christian times. 203 Foss 1979, 69; Thur 1999, 125. 204 Scherrer 1995, 20–21; Karwiese 1995(a), 131; Thur 1999, 111; Foss 1979, 67. 205 Thur 1999, 110. 206 Scherrer 1995, 19. 207 Reported in Thur 1999, 114. Also Scherrer 1995, 19. Since a cross is carved in the inscription, it has been dated after 391 A.D. 208 Thur 1999, 115.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) of urban space as the locale for political scenarios. Indeed, in the classic period these inscriptions, promoting the decrees of the curia, adorned the facades of civic buildings located on the upper State Agora (the Boulouterion, the Prytaneion and the Basilica). After the curia vanished, these inscriptions moved away from the old civic core to the new focus of urban political activity215. Moreover, it is not by chance that these epigraphic notices are found not just on the buildings lining the Cathedral of Saint Mary and the Basilica of Saint John. From the fifth century onwards, urban political life assumed two different forms: a classic formal public and civic space (boasting the Imperial and State levels of power) and a religious space (directed by the local bishop and its clergy). This epigraphic balance mirrored the new assets of power, which focussed mainly on the local dominance of the central governmental officials and the ecclesiastical hierarchy216. The inscriptions carved on buildings along the Embolos included Imperial constitutions or letters217 addressed to the proconsuls and pro-consular edicts218. They show the vitality of the State administrative machinery from the fifth to the early seventh century (as an effaced inscription of Maurice proves)219. As seen above, indeed, the city underwent cultural and ideological changes, which did not exclusively consist of a process of Christianization. Ephesos retained its own civic spaces, moulded on the Constantinopolitan example, albeit adapted to its peculiar political conditions and skewed by the increasing importance of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. The inscriptions on the Embolos demonstrate a political vitality220 which could be matched by the acclamations carved along the colonnades of the Marble Street and on the Hadrian’s Gate221. These acclamations repeatedly mentioned the relationship between Emperors Phocas and Heraclius and the local branches of the Green and Blue factions222. Although in all probability these factions confronted each other not in the Constantinopolitan scenario of the Hippodrome but in the more unpretentious Ephesian theatre on Marble Street223, they clearly continued a political civic tradition, centred not only on the Basileus but also on its local officials: the Proconsuls. To sum up we could assert a good deal of continuity in urban space and morphology, which preserved some functionalities of classic period for the era between the fifth and the early seventh century. The inscriptions lining the colonnades of the Embolos paired with those adorning

8. Alytarchen Stoa (Author’s photo)

the Prytaneion and some stylistic considerations209 initially dated the Kureten Halle to the early fifth century, further stratigraphical and epigraphic considerations210 put the building into the Justinianic period211. On the opposite side of the Embolos, three parallel roads (Stiegen Gasse) gave access to the two residential complexes labelled Hanghaus 1 and Hanghaus 2 by the excavators212. ‘These residential complexes rose in five levels and were accessible from [three] steep and narrow streets running up the hill on east and west and another street on south not parallel to the Embolos but following the Hyppodamian plan of the city’213. Along the southern façade of Hanghaus 1, there stood a Stoa, which, in the late fifth-early sixth century, was replaced by a luxuriant colonnaded portico, decorated by rich mosaics. According to two epigraphic inscriptions (after one of which the building was named Alytarchen Stoa), the terminus ante quem of this restoration should be 440 A.D.214. The importance of the Embolos as a main urban street in the fifth and sixth centuries is emphasised by the numerous inscriptions which adorned its monuments. As seen above, these epigraphic evidences are proof of the continuing role

Feissel 1999, 123. Also Rouchè 1999. Feissel 1999. 217 Ibid., 130. 218 Indeed, Lavan points out that ‘The Embolos of Ephesos with its exceptional concentration of governor’s stautes and Late Antique decrees could be interpreted ceremonially, in relation to the adventus of the Proconsul, the most important secular ceremonial event in the life of the city’ (Lavan 2003(b), 329ff.). Also Leggio 2003. 219 Feissel 1999, 126. Only the name of the emperor was indeed obliterated, suggesting that the effacement took place after the Phocas’ coup in 602 A.D., and that the text remained in force. 220 Rouchè 1999. 221 Thur 1989, 73–5; Cameron 1976, 147–8; Foss 1979, 61. 222 Thur 1989 and Cameron 1976. 223 Foss 1979, 15; Cameron 1976, 193–229. 215 216

Based on the decoration and the architectural characteristic of the capitals (see Thur 1999, 115ff) 210 Mainly the new dating proposed for a decree of the Proconsul Flavius Arcasius Phlegetius, who accorded his pardon to the Smyrneians, inscribed on a column of the Kureten Halle (Feissel 1999, 131). Previously this decree had been erroneously dated to 441 A.D., but Thur (Thur 1999, 115) and Feissel (cit.) tend to put it off to the sixth century. 211 Thur 1999, 117. 212 Foss 1979, 75–77; Vetters 1977; Jobst 1977; Ladstätter 2003; Liebeschuetz 2001, 34–7; Lang–Auinger 1996; Lang–Auinger 2003 213 Foss 1979, 74. 214 Thur 1999, 112ff.; Also Foss 1979, 74. 209

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EPHESOS the interior of the Ephesian churches224 also demonstrate how the ecclesiastical authorities were highly involved in the daily life of urban administrative and juridical activities225. Bishops, Proconsuls, Emperors (meaning the state, provincial and ecclesiastical hierarchies) occupied the urban scene, ousting the formal body of the curiales and metaphorically boasting their presence through the inscriptions and proclaiming their public role both internally (churches) and externally (colonnade streets). This could be interpreted as a sign of the progressive reassertion of the central state power in the transformation of the urban social elites226.

the urban water-supply system was completely renewed232. Classic monuments like the Library of Celsus, Hadrian’s Gate, and the Western Gate of the Agora were reused as splendid and sometimes elaborate Nymphea, while fountains were provided along the Arkadianè, the Embolos and in the theatre233. Meanwhile, the local bishops also patronized further building activity, notably on the new Cathedral of Saint Mary and the new Episcopal palace234, both built over the site of the old Olympieion, north of the Arkadianè. The first building–phase of the Cathedral dated back to the third quarter of the fifth century and thus well after the Third Ecumenical Council, which probably took place in a hurriedly arranged part of the southern Stoa235 later despoiled of its marble decoration and its pillars by Bishop Antonios236. The official acts of the Council support this interpretation, since they provide no reference to the dedication of the Church to the Virgin. Moreover, the results of recent archaeological excavations also assert a similar chronological time-span for the Cathedral. The Church was built in the form of a colonnaded basilica (Säulen Kirche) in the late fifth century237.It then underwent a further restoration during the first half of the sixth century, as proved by the long inscription of the bishop Hypatius found in the narthex238. In 557 A.D. an earthquake devastated the Cathedral, and the Säulen Kirche was replaced with a double-apse Church, crowned by an impressive vault (or dome) supported by a set of pillars. As for the episcopal palace239, the results of archaeological excavations point to ‘a large house with a peristyle court and a bath of several rooms with latrine’: it was remodelled at least once (in the early fifth century) when Bishop Antoninos ‘took columns from the adjacent church to put in his dining room and used marble from the baptistery to decorate his bath’240.

In fact, although Ephesos until the beginning of the seventh century clearly remained a stable and attractive stage upon which to play politics, the actors were changed. The formal hierarchies of the central state administration and the church assumed the main role in shaping the political, economic and cultural life of the city. This life shows, however, traces of transformation. Although monumentalised, there were nevertheless signs of a diminishing magnificence in the much poorer building techniques or in the use of spolia227. Despite being predicated upon the classic use of the public space for political purposes, it showed the changing social structure of local political power, which was no longer in the hands of the former curiales. As will be seen, the development of this process becomes more and more visible from the seventh century onwards when it permeates and moulds the changing trajectories of urban structures and spaces. The State bureaucracy and the Church hierarchy now ruled the city, shaping a new urban focus of civic, political and religious life. This focus included the so called Palace of the Governor, one the most important and wellbuilt structures of late antique city (within the Roman extension)228, provided with a bath, a reception hall and an entrance hall. This building dated to the late third-early fourth century, but underwent a further restoration in the sixth century229. The role of the local governor (Proconsul) was largely to maintain the fiscal support endorsed by the urban economy. Benefactions of grain were provided by the State or, alternatively, by the bishops, as proved by the crowd of eraniaroi (recipients of bread) who in mid fifth century helped Bishop Stephen to seize the episcopal throne230. According to two inscriptions of the fifth century one Proconsul Demeter provided the blessing of grain to the Ephesians, while Proconsul Diogenes built a warehouse for storage of the grains231. During the fifth century also

Apart from the Episcopal complex, the most important ecclesiastical focus of the city was the Basilica consecrated to Saint John241 on the hill of Ayasoluk, 2 kilometres from the rest of the city. In Foss’s opinion, in the early fifth century a three-nave church stood isolated on the top of Ayasoluk over the burial-place of the Saint. This church Thur 1989, 127. Hofbauer 2002, 177–87 . 234 Karwiese 1995(b); Karwiese 1999; Eillinger 1985, 169–75 . Also Foss 1979, 52–3. 235 Karwiese 1995 (b), 318. A possible later date for the first phase of the church has been effectively rejected by Harl (Harl 2001, 309-10), who developed a detailed analysis of the building phases of the perimeter walls 236 Foss 1979, 52; Palladius, 88–90. 237 Ibid., also Karwiese 1999, 83. 238 Foss 1979, 52. 239 Ibid, 53; Eilliger 1985, 168. 240 Foss 1979, 52. See above. 241 Eilliger 1985, 195ff. Foss 1979, 33: ‘As early as the second century uncertainty concerning the identification of the John buried on Ayasoluk arose: was he the Apostle, who was presumably the Evangelist, author of the Fourth Gospel, or was the author of the Apocalypse, or were both identical? […] In time of Eusebius a convenient tradition asserted that there had been two men of the same name and that both were buried in Ephesos. Subsequently the identity of the Apostle and the Evangelist was generally accepted, for the Great Basilica on Ayasoluk is referred to variously as the Apostoleion or the Church of Theologus, the Evangelist’. 232 233

Feissel 1999, 127ff. Indeed the imperial letters carved and exposed in Saint Mary and Saint John’s Churches symbolize the ‘growth of the political and social activities once conducted in the agorai/fora, around cathedrals and other churches’ (Lavan 2003(b), 324). 225 Feissel 1999, 128. 226 Haldon 1999, 230. 227 Foss 1979, 69: ‘Although the street was finely designed, most of the material was reused [in late fifth–early sixth century]: hardly any two columns of the streets are matching’. 228 Foss 1979, 50–1; Eilliger 1985, 168–9. 229 Eilliger 1985, 168. Perhaps the sixth–century chapel mentioned by Foss (Foss 1979, 51 fn.9) referred to this restoration. Also Lavan 2001 230 A.C.O. II, i 405–6, mentioned in Foss 1979, 25; Durliat 1990, 591 231 Foss 1979, 27. 224

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9. The Episcopal Complex (Author’s photo)

was then abandoned and re-built on an impressive and lavish scale by Justinian. In this, Foss seems to follow the well-known passage of Procopius’ De Aedificiis, which described Ayasoluk as a ‘steep, slope, hilly bare of soil and incapable of bearing crops, even should one attempt to cultivate them, but altogether hard and rough’242. According to Procopius, an ancient little church stood in poor condition on this hill. The Emperor Justinian razed it to the ground and built in its place a large and beautiful five-nave basilica, resembling the Church of the Apostles in Constantinople243. Foss also suggests that a nearby aqueduct should also be dated to the Justinianic period. If so it points to the development of a semi-residential quarter in this area, which owed its existence to the increasing role of the Church of Saint John as the focus for pilgrimage244. Later, though unmentioned by Procopius, a hastily-built enceinte enclosed the complex245. Recent archaeological excavations, focussed on the atrium246, the skeuophylakion247 and the church248 have proposed

some adjustments to Foss’s analysis. Specifically, the excavations in the atrium249 have revealed traces of a fortified enceinte around the pre-Justinianic church250, while Marina Falla Castelfranchi has pointed out that the church itself (dated to the fifth century) never fell into ruin. A baptistery251 was built alongside the church, which took as its model the cruciform Church of the Apostles in Constantinople. In this sense, the Justinianic period led not to a new ichnographic conception, but only to a lavish and splendid embellishment of the church, that in size and dimensions recalled its fifth-century predecessor. Possibly the skeuophylakion (the church treasury252) was erected in this period, owing to the increased wealth derived from pilgrims253 This refurbishment possibly commenced before Bishop Hypatios’ ecclesiastical reign since an inscription recovered at the Arkadianè, mentioning the Archbishop Epiphanios (520-35 A.D.), should be related to the beginning of Justinian’s restoration of the complex254. John of Ephesos (a sixth–century Ephesian bishop) narrates that a monophysite missionary in 541 A.D. ordained more than 70 men at night in the precinct (atrium according to Foss 1977, 88 fn.88) of the house of Mar John of Ephesos. (John of Ephesos, Lives of Eastern Saints, 336ff mentioned by Foss 1977, 88). 250 Thiel 1999, 251 Falla Castelfranchi 1999, 92–4. 252 Buyukkolanci 1999. 253 Ibid., 106–7. 254 On the later phases of both St.John and St.Mary church see infra pp. 249

De Aedif.., V, 1, 4. 243 Ibid, V, 1, 6. 244 Foss 1979, 92. Apart from the aqueduct, the existence of this settlement is pure conjecture, since no archaeological excavations have been conducted to find it. 245 Müller–Wiener 1961, 86–7; Müller–Wiener 1986, 456–7. 246 Thiel 1999. 247 Buyukkolanci 1999. 248 Falla–Castelfranchi 1999. 242

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10. The Hanghäuser (Author’s photo)

So, the renewal of the Cathedral and Pilgrimage Basilica should be regarded as an ecclesiastical duplication of the Constantinopolitan role in the shaping of the political urban spaces. Here, in fact, it should owe to a premeditated intention to imitate and reproduce in the Ephesian landscape, the relationship between the two main Constantinopolitan churches: the Church of the Apostles and Hagia Sophia255. This mimetic process could be regarded as the last stage of an old conflict with the Patriarchate of Constantinople; after a religious tussle which lasted for over three centuries256. Inevitably this conflict ended with the triumph of Constantinople over Ephesos, which, although defeated, could take advantage of the capital to shape the structural spaces of its own political and religious vitality during the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages.

away. This is mirrored in the demonumentalization and abandonment of the for a and by the low aesthetic and structural quality of the residential buildings (such as the two Hanghäuser). What should be emphasised here is that ‘being an informal but powerful urban notable maintain its attractiveness only if the city itself remain a stable and attractive stage to play politics’257. As seen above, Ephesos seemed to retain a political role at least until the early seventh century, a role also matched by its economic vitality. This is pointed out by the researches at the Upper State Agora258 and at the two Hanghäuser. Indeed, at the Hanghäuser new archaeological excavations have partially rebuked the old interpretation, which, focussing mainly on the numismatic evidence259, showed a similar history for both the complexes: a major rebuilding at the end of the third century, a further extensive reconstruction after a ruinous fire in the late fifth – early sixth century, and

Although the state-imperial bureaucracy and the Church hierarchy were able to rule Ephesian political and civic life from the fifth to the early seventh century, one should be aware that in this period the more and more enfeebled and weakened urban elites did not disappear. They had undoubtedly become economically and politically weaker, as their fiscal role as main tax-collector had faded

Scherrer 1995, 14. Foss 1979, 78–82. Here the terrace of the Temple of Domitian contained shops and storerooms on its north and east sides, which were expanded and modified at various time, while extensions to some shops were built onto the street( which represented the continuation of the Embolos coming from the Heracles’ gate and then turning eastward in direction of the Magnesian Gate) in the fifth or sixth century; in the western parts of this colonnaded street, houses were built behind the arcades in the fifth century or later, whereas elsewhere along the street colonnades were walled up and the road itself narrowed by re–buildings. 259 Foss 1979, Vetters 1977, Jobst 1977, Liebeschuetz 2001. 257 258

125ff. 255 Falla Castelfranchi 1999, 91ff. 256 See on this Scherrer 1995, Thur 2003 and Krinzinger 2007 with further bibliography.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) eventually a remodelling in the Justinianic period which lasted until the final destruction in the early seventh century260. According to the old interpretation each stage of this chronology would mark a progressive lessening in the wealth of the owners and in the resident population261. In contrast, the results of the most recent archaeological excavations262 point to a growing commercial vitality of the two insulae, which went hand in hand with that attested in the Embolos. A metal workshop was built in the so-called Octagon, located along the southern edge of the paved Embolos. As demonstrated by the ceramic material, this workshop dates to the first half of the sixth century and seems to be of a piece with both a Stein Sage (stonedressing workshop) and a set of mills stretching along the eastern side of Hanghaus 1263. Indeed, the stratigraphical and ceramic evidence yielded by the excavations at the Hanghaus 1, point also to a small artisanal quarter, which included another stone-dressing workshop264 and a smith’s forge265, and a residential quarter resulting from the encroachment, partition and subdivision of the large classic housing spaces dating back to the late fifth-early sixth century266. This residential quarter showed a good level of prosperity, mainly attested by its decorative system, but it made also clear that a different architectural conception formed the basis of the newly built quarter. This conception resulted from a different urban culture and taste stemming from the new functional role of the local elites, which were substantial enough to underpin a basic level of urban economic sophistication. These elites, although politically diminished and cut out from the tax-raising system (now steadily in the state’s hands), were evidently rich enough to invest in new buildings (such as the mausoleum erected in the first half of the sixth century by a banker called Abradas close to the Seven Sleepers cave267) and to buy artisanal products on a good scale. Indeed, infrastructures of artisanal production were not limited to the Hanghäuser: ceramic finds point to the existence of a local production of Phocaean Red Slip ware268, whose main manufacturing foci were located in the hinterland of Smyrna269. Recent researches have revealed the existence of a “potteryquarter”, located on the southern slope of the Bulbul Dağ, on the road to Ortygia, which was supplied by a branch of an aqueduct270. Here, many potsherds (especially Peacock 44 and 45 amphorae)271, found in the ruins of some shops, allow us to postulate that the quarter was in use from the early fifth to the early seventh century. Both

in this quarter and in the Hanghäuser the archaeological evidence is too thin to be taken as a basis for a quantitative comparison. Despite this analysis of the Hanghäuser, ceramics demonstrate that Phocean RS expanded quickly to overwhelm the African RS in sixth-century Ephesos as elsewhere272. ARS was in a minority, although its presence in the stratigraphical contexts of the fifth and the sixth century at the two Hanghäuser273 would point to Ephesos as one of the major ports along the long-distance route, such as that of the grain annona, especially once Africa had been re-conquered by Justinian274. So, it seems possible to me that the role of Ephesos in the commercial and non-commercial (fiscal) exchange system, contributed to keep the elite urban-oriented. Indeed, if in the sixth – early seventh century Phocean Red Slip could be seen as a local commodity being moved around on a small scale from harbour to harbour (while African Red Slip were part of a long-distance commercial route), the presence of wine amphorae (Late Roman 3, Late Roman 4 and Peacock 45) in the Hanghaus 1 and 2275 and of wine and oil containers at the Lower Agora276 together with the evidence of a whole cargo of the latest version of Peacock 45 amphorae (in a fragmentary state and evidently destined for the export market277) found in the “potteryquarter”, supports an interpretation that Ephesos had a role in the commercial exchange network. This comes as little surprise since the Aegean was one of the late antique foci of wine production278. East Mediterranean amphorae (although not identical with those of the wrecked cargo found at the “pottery quarter”279) found in Carthage and dated to the fifth-sixth century, ‘could point to African merchants selling grain in the eastern empire, and getting wine in return’280. This, together with the revival of African tax-collection (late fifth-early sixth century) and the role of the Egyptian annona in feeding Constantinople, would be a possible source for the grain-benefactions attested in Ephesos281. Indeed, the eastern trade routes were more independent of the main grain annona, whereas the peculiar strategic position of Ephesos speaks of a complex overlaying pattern of fiscal, interregional and 272

57.

The relation between ARS and PRS is 1:3. See Lang–Auinger 1996,

Ladstätter 2002, 20–2; Lang–Auinger 1996, 26ff. Abadie–Reynal 1989, 155ff. 275 Ladstätter 2003, 32ff; Lang–Auinger 2003; Lang–Auinger 1996. 276 Bezeckzky (Bezeckzky 2003) reports that only 20-25% of the amphorae found at the Tetragonos Agora were imported. They belong to different types and different areas of production: Late Roman 1 (from Eastern Mediterranean and Black Sea Region centres of production), Late Roman 2 (Aegean and Black Sea region), Late Roman 7 (Egypt), and African Spatheion all dated from the fourth to the early seventh century (and even later), together with sixth century Samos Cistern Type amphorae. 277 Outschar 1993, 51. Further evidence about this cargo is lacking. Dating this type of amphorae is problematic, since their time–span looms large (first–seventh century). However Outschar attests that the latest versions started to be produced from the fourth century onwards. 278 Wickham 2005, 714. 279 LRA 1 and LRA 2 (Fulford–Peacock 1984, i.2, 119–23; 258–60.). See also Bezeckzky 2003, 203-9. 280 Wickham 2005, 711. 281 See above pp. 100–1. 273 274

Foss 1979 74ff; Vetters 1977, 28; Jobst 1977, 29. Liebeschuetz 2001, 37. 262 Thur 1999; Lang–Auinger 1996; Lang–Auinger 2003, Ladstätter 2003, Asamer 2003. 263 Thur 1999, 106. 264 Asamer 2003. See above, pp. 113–4. 265 Lang–Auinger 2003, 336. 266 Ibid, 280, 335–6. Lang–Auinger 1996, 27. 267 Foss 1979, 8. 268 Lang–Auinger 2003, 117–19; Mitsopulos–Leon 1991, 140; Empereur–Picon 1986. Artisanal workshop producing this local wares imitating the PRS have been found also in Sardis and around Smyrne (Mayet –Picon 1986; Empereur–Picon 1986) 269 Empereur–Picon 1986. 270 Outschar 1993, 51. 271 Ibid, 52ff. 260 261

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EPHESOS local commercial traffic itineraries282. On the one hand, the State system of sending supplies to Constantinople structured the Aegean system of exchange283, on the other, the long-distance commercial exchange, the smallscale distributive pattern of wine-amphorae within the Aegean region284, and the sub-regional context comprised of an array of more local tableware (PRS and more local production) and amphorae285 were doubtless a sign of a local and Mediterranean commercial network. Indeed, Ephesos was regarded as one of the coastal sites, which continued to serve as a local market centre and an entrepot for commerce, within a port-to-port trade system and a longer distance commerce from the Black Sea and the Aegean island and coastal zones to Constantinople286. A feature of the emerging Ephesian cityscape in this sixth – seventh century period is the appearance of buildings very different from those that had dominated the classic landscape. For example, the urban buildings that emerged as a result of the parcelling out of Roman residential compounds which were now replaced by less-carefullybuilt houses and workshops, often made out of spolia and facing out onto roads (such as the Embolos) closed to wheeled traffic and infilled by stalls and encroachments. In consequence a different urban landscape seemed to emerge in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. Some spatial deconstruction undoubtedly occurred, following the monumental weakening of the forum areas (but the Lower Agora underwent a phase of restoration during the reign of Emperor Maurice287 (582-602 A.D.), although new political and religious centres replaced the old one (Palace of the Governor, Cathedral of Saint Mary and the extra-mural Basilica of Saint John), contributing to a level of coherence of the urban structure. Even if the archaeological evidence is thin and obscure, one can infer traces of some new urban quarters. One of these quarters spread out around the Cathedral, over the old Harbour Gymnasium and the Palaestra: it consisted of large and small private houses (including two with peristyle courts paved with late Roman mosaics), shops, storerooms and a public latrine, which seemed to extend to the east where scattered walls belonging to some houses were founded288. The stratigraphical analysis and the apotropaic inscription on a lintel of one of the houses of this quarter289 (mentioning

11. The area around the Hanghäuser (after Foss 1979, p. 35).

Abgar of Edessa’s letter to Jesus and his reply) perhaps results from the same cultural milieu as the stone-dressing workshop at the Hanghaus 1. If so then it too might date the residential complex to the fifth – sixth century290. Evidently this quarter benefited from its vicinity to the port and the refurbished Arkadianè. Similarly, some structural remains of the Stadium, located along the northern branch of the processional Sacred Way, remained in use (according to the numismatic evidence)291 from the sixth to the eighth century. Some time in this period292 a church was built within the ruins, while a graveyard spread around it293. In all probability, this burial ground, consistent with the stratigraphical levels of frequentation recovered from the excavations at the raceway of the circus294, resulted from a local inhabited quarter centred on the ruined structures of the old Stadium and on the newly built church.

282 The recent analysis of the amphorae collected at the Lower Agora seems to bolster this conclusion (Bezeckzky 2003). 283 Wickham 2005, 719 284 Ibid, 717. 285 Like those found at the Lower Agora, where a large amount of amphorae (Ephesos type 56, Late Roman 3 and one handle jars, counting for the 50% of the total sherds yielded during the excavations) have been recently proved to be locally made (on a large scale) between the end of the fourth and the end of the sixth-beginning of the seventh century (Bezeckzky 2003, 204-7). 286 Ibid., 257–8. 287 Leggio 2003, 365 (relying, however, on an older archaeological survey dated to 1923). 288 Foss 1979, 60–1. Dating these structures is extremely difficult. The only evidence provided to us is that all the structures mentioned lied below a later Byzantine level and contained spoils from the third and fourth century. This , together with the epigraphic evidences, allow us to tentatively date this building phase to the fifth–sixth century 289 The exact location of this house remains unknown (Foss 1979, 60– 61)

A row of shops also lined the southern half of Marble street, These shops lay behind a colonnade constructed from secondhand columns and capitals, which pointed to a late fifth – early sixth century date, fully consistent with the repaving and refurbishment of the road (patronized by one Eutropios, a native of Ephesos, as attested by a statue and an inscription295) Foss 1979, 60–1. Karwiese 1994; Karwiese 1995(c). The author does not provide us with any further details concerning the coin–finds: he only speaks of Münzfunden in general terms. 292 The excavators do not provide us with any chronological hints about the first building–phase of this church (Karwiese 1994, 24; Karwiese 1995(c), 23.) 293 Saradi 2006, 309. 294 Karwiese 1995(c). 295 Foss 1979, 61. 290 291

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) and with a series of rooms on the other side of the street296.

the seventh century due to the dominance of the current theories linking the plummeting fortunes of the city to the Persian war, Arab invasions or earthquakes.

Houses were built behind the north colonnade of the street crisscrossing the Upper Agora: ‘these houses had excavated rooms dated to the fifth century or later’297. These houses were consistent with the sixth-century restoration of the local system of water supply centred on the so-called Hydreion and a Nympheion298. However, it is mainly the excavations at the Basilica, which have brought to light part of a house (dated to the sixth century), paved with brick and endowed with a peristyle court, which was built there from spolia299. According to the ceramic evidence recovered at this site300 (ARS and, mainly, PRS wares), this residence remained frequented from the second half of the fifth to the early seventh century, a time-span almost identical to that evidenced by the Hanghäuser.

As in an Agatha Christie novel, each detective waved his finger at a different culprit. Foss accused the Persians of the “murder” of the city305. Russel306 and Hendy307 eventually discharged them, pointing to the methodological and analytical weak points of Foss’s theory, only to scapegoat the Arabs, fully backed in this by Carile and Müller-Wiener308. Brandes, together with Lang-Auinger, Ladstätter and Karwiese309, blamed the ruinous earthquakes as the “äussere” reason of the Ephesian “Niedergang”310, although rightly asserting that long-term changes of the socio-economic sphere should be held responsible for this decline. Indeed, Ephesos as the other urban settlements of the Asia Minor suffered more from the change in function of the city with regard to the State. Whether Anatolia experienced a good level of urban prosperity until the beginning of the seventh century, with a slight trend to the demonumentalization and few signs of economic strain, ‘by the seventh century a failure rate of perhaps 80 per cent occurred’311. Ephesos seems to count among the residual 20 per cent. This is not because the urban population was not diminished by the effects of the Arab invasions, nor because the city did not feel the enduring pull of Constantinople as a strong hegemonic force attracting the members of the Ephesian elite into the central state and ecclesiastical apparatus (the city was no longer a provincial capital), nor, lastly, because of the consequences of the failure of the large-scale economic exchange network (as the end of PRS ware production demonstrates). These factors did affect the city but it can be demonstrated that it was the local social and economic context, which explains the fact that Ephesos remained substantial in the seventh century. This perhaps contributes to clarify why each scholar dealing with the fate of the Byzantine city in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages is almost compelled to consider the city as an exception to his evolutionary model312.

Accordingly one can, indeed, conclude that in Ephesos the old urban centre was still fully occupied (although slightly demonumentalized) during the early seventh century. In all probability the artisanal and residential quarters of the Hanghäuser and the Upper Agora, the refurbished Arkadianè, the Embolos, and the area focussed on the Cathedral were all interconnected (possibly including also a quarter centred on the old stadium), representing an extensively inhabited urban settlement (with the exception of the detached hill of Ayasoluk) which was undoubtedly less monumentally impressive (apart from the cathedral and palace complex) but which retained an economical and ceremonial vitality well into the seventh century. To sum up, one could be tempted to assert a comparison between Ephesos and a western city, lying at the other end of the ancient Mediterranean shipping trunk301 (the main sea-route linking the Tyrrhenian to the Aegean sea since Roman times): Marseille302. Both cities were the main port of their region, both showed intense activity beside the port, both maintained a good level of urban coherence and both were successful until the breakdown of the Mediterranean exchange network at the end of the seventh century303. Eventually, it was mainly this breakdown, which brought about the crisis from which both cities suffered. As will be seen, Ephesos experienced a better fate than the port of Gaul. *

*

One should look at the changing strength of the geographical scale of the fiscal system and the wealth drawn from landowning313. On the one hand, Ephesos lay far from the frontier, belonging to the so-called inner core of the Byzantine heartland, supplying Constantinople with food.

*

The archaeological and documentary evidence for the fate of Ephesos during the seventh century remains thin and inconclusive. In the late 1970s Foss emphasised the exiguity of the archaeological remains304 and this complaint still holds true almost thirty years later. It is thus still difficult to determine the urban trajectories of the city after the early seventh century. The historiographical debate has often recoiled from any assertion of urban trajectories in

‘While this region was raided on several occasions during the second half of the seventh century […] much of the imperial effort went on to protecting it […]. By the 730s and 740s the thematic structures which had evolved beginning to offer a more effective résistance to invasion, Ibid. Russel 2001. 307 Hendy 1985. 308 Carile 1999; Müller–Wiener 1986. 309 Lang Auinger 2003, Karwiese 1995(a), Ladstätter 2002. 310 Brandes 1989, 85. Also Brandes 1982. 311 Wickham 2005, 631. 312 Foss 1979; Haldon 1990 and Haldon 2005; Brandes 1989; Müller– Wiener 1986 and eventually Wickham 2005. 313 Cheynet 2006, 21ff. 305

296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304

Ibid, 77. Ibid, 79. Ibid, 80, Foss 1979, 82. Mitsopulos–Leon 1991, 140ff. McCormick 2001, 502ff. On Marseille see Loseby 1998;.Loseby 1999. Wickham 2005, 667. Foss 1979, 111.

306

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EPHESOS dioketes325. This last specimen seems to me particularly relevant326, since it mentions the Basilikòs and Silentiarios Theodotos, Dioketes of Ephesos. As we saw earlier327, the dioketes is an official of the imperial fiscal administration responsible for a single province or a city328. It has been also shown that the geographical sphere of competence of each dioketes did not match with the thematic administrative boundaries, meaning that these officials could be detached to a single city at least on temporary basis329. The dioketes of Ephesos is consistent with other similar officials detached in eighth century Miletos and in ninth century Sardis330. Local bishops and archbishops also struck a congruent number of lead seals331, while a specimen belonging to a late eighth century Ephesian oikonomos (a member of the ecclesiastical bureaucratic machinery) has been recently found in Beirut332.

so that hostile action thereafter only rarely affected this zone’314. On the other hand, evidence points to the restructuring of the state and provincial fiscal administration, which went hand in hand with the establishment of the thematic field armies in Anatolia. The Byzantine empire retained a strong tax system, which was mainly in kind (with a money element too). This multifarious fiscal system was aimed at the maintenance of the themata now settled on the Anatolian mainland315 and shaped a centralized state. Indeed, the economically and politically diminished urban elites (more and more reconfigured around the arising thematic capitals) could neither underpin high levels of demand nor economic sophistication. Nonetheless, as in the Ephesian case, they probably continue to exploit the agrarian wealth of their hinterland. There is no direct evidence to point to an urban resilience of the aristocratic magnates in seventh and eighth century Ephesos; neither, however, can we prove that the city became the capital of the Thrakesian Theme. Certainly it retained its role as important political regional focus as proved, for instance, by a set of lead seals (recovered in Ephesos), mentioning high-rank dignities, dated from the late sixth to the second half of the eighth century (and even early ninth-century)316. One of these lead-seals317 belongs to a chartularios, a lowrank official of the civic, military and even ecclesiastical administration318; others were struck by cubicularioi319, whose role in the Byzantine financial administration is intertwined with that of the sakellarios (the head of the Imperial treasure)320.

To sum up, the sigillographic evidence demonstrates that Ephesos was clearly a major centre for administrative and fiscal activities and a focus for the thematic bureaucracy in the seventh and eighth century. In all probability, although the strategos never resided in it, the city showed resilience in demographic terms as the seat of the administrative structures of the state, its fiscal apparatus and its military machinery. Consequently the members of the Constantinopolitan apparatuses, paid in cash for their duties by the state, probably supported the persistence of a monetary economy and the artisanal and commercial activities, as well as swelling the ranks of the local elites. Therefore, if one accepts the significance of Ephesos for the state (and also ecclesiastical) apparatus, it could be possible to regard its demographic consistency and its economic vitality (together with its urban walled landscape, which, as will be seen, seems to have developed along a “città ad isole” trajectory) as a sign of a more urban than ruraloriented lifestyle of its local elites333. This interpretation is supported by the construction, during the first half of the seventh century, of a new set of walls in Ephesos, including only one third of the area of the Lysimachean city334 (and incorporating some buildings as bastions, such as the theatre) but leaving outside the upper and lower Agorai together with the Embolos. The exclusion of the Embolos from the walled area could shed some light on the development of urban topography and morphology;

Since Cécile Morrison has recently argued convincingly that, usually, lead seals are inclined to stay close to the place where they have been issued321, the mentioned specimens should belong to members of the local state machinery. By the same token, the same could be said of the two strategoi’s lead-seals effectively found in Ephesos: the first struck by Leon hypostrategos of Trakesioi, the second issued by Jean strategos of the Kibirreotai (both dated to the eighth century)322. Even if it seems hardly possible to me that Ephesos was the capital of two different themes, two stray specimens should not allow any conclusions on the role of Ephesos in the thematic organization323. However, it is all the more crucial that the lead-seals point to the presence in the city of some members of the thematic administration, such as a ninth century notarios324 and a

325 Theodotos, imperial silentiarios and dioketes of Ephesos. Zacos– Veglery 1972, II, 2487. 326 Brandes 2003, 215; Zacos–Veglery I, 3, 2487. 327 See Chapter 2, pp. 41–44. 328 Brandes 2003, 204ff.; Stein 1922, 68ff. 329 Brandes 2003, 212. 330 Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 1918; Zacos–Veglery 1972, III, 3203. 331 See Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, III, 31ff. The oldest one is the lead– seals belonged to Theodore bishop of Ephesos and dated to the second half of the seventh century (Laurent V/3 1689; Zacos–Veglery, I, 1249). 332 Cheynet–Morrisson 1998, 123. This specimen is also mentioned by Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, III, 14.10, Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 2492 and Laurent V/3 1699. 333 As Cheynet points out with regard to the geographic distribution of the aristocratic land-estates, it is highly possible that members of the local and Constantinopolitan elites were already in possession of major land holdings in the area of the Thrakesion theme (the furthest from the Arab front) at the beginning of the eight century (Cheynet 2006, 21-2). 334 Liebeschuetz 2001, 32.

Haldon 2005, Haldon 1990, 208ff.; Haldon 1999, 137ff., Wickham 2005, 129. 316 Seibt 1999, 145–51. Among these it is worth mentioning a late eighth–century lead–seal belonging to Ioanni spatharìo kai drougarìo. 317 Kostantinos Chartularios (second half of the eighth century) Seibt 1999, 147. 318 Brandes 2003, 101–3, 319 Ioanni Koubikoularios (beginning of the seventh century); Christophoros koubikoularios kai parakoimemonos ( 741–43 A.D.). Seibt 1999, 149. 320 Brandes 2003, 451ff. 321 Morrison 1987, 1–25. 322 Cheynet–Morrison 1998, 125. 323 See also Foss 1979, 116–7. For all those seals the exact find–place remains unknown. 324 Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 2218; Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, III, 14.3. 314 315

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) I will return to this in a moment. The walls seem to be contemporary to a (second phase?) enceinte, which encircled the top of the hill of Ayasoluk335. The attribution of these walls has been greatly debated by the scholars: some have dated them to the sixth century336, whereas others have ascribed them to the seventh century337. The debate took place in the context of a dearth of stratigraphical investigations and ceramic or numismatic evidence338. ‘The problem is whether the early Byzantine wall is a response to the military problems of the seventh century or representing recognition of a shrinking of a built-up area, which had become conspicuous by the early or middle sixth century’339. Müller-Wiener340, analysing the building technique, the structural development and the plan of the enceinte, nonetheless dates the wall to the period of the Arab incursions, although he did not choose between two possible time-spans (first or second half of the seventh century) admitting that further survey was needed. Foss341 concurs:

to stand out against the Persian and Arab invasions348, nor because the defences disregarded the late antique city, occupying a fraction of its ancient site, but also in the light of a comparison with the fate of the nearby cities of Miletos, Pergamon, Sardis and Smyrna. We could easily infer from the comparisons with the nearby urban settlements that the walled enceinte of Ephesos was probably built in the second quarter of the seventh century, a date, which, on the base of spolia, the historical circumstances and the coin finds (a large group of coins of Constans II349), matches that proposed for the Ayasoluk fortifications350. In Miletos, Foss-Winfield’s researches have showed that the city built an enceinte with a similar building technique to the Ephesian wall351. Moreover, in the seventh century, the local theatre was included in the fortification walls as a stronghold352, which appeared to have functioned as a sort of citadel for the reduced urban area. Here a church and a cistern were built over the orchestra353. Miletos, like Ephesos, shrank behind its walls, but seems to have preserved a good level of continuity. Moreover, it possibly was an important pilgrimage-centre, since as proved by the Life of St. Paul the Younger, some Eastern monks, fleeing the Arab invasions354, settled down in the city. Smyrna is the only city that provides a date for the (re)-building of its walls. According to two inscriptions, the Emperor Heraclius restored and expanded the urban walls in 629 and 641 A.D.355 The walls of Pergamon are also wellsurveyed. A recent archaeological survey has proposed to date them to the first half of the seventh century356, when the city declined and the ancient acropolis (as shown by the numismatic finds) served as an occasional shelter for the population of the lower city, and probably also as military base357. Pergamon thus became part of an articulated defensive strategy, focussed on the erection of some fortified centres in advance of the Arab invasions358. Indeed, Foss is much more precise: he dates the wall to the period of Constans II359, influenced as he is by the results of the archaeological excavations in Sardis. According to Foss at Sardis, during the seventh century ‘the great

“because of its disregard of the late antique city plan and buildings and since it leaves some of the most important structures of the period outside its circuit, it is certainly to be dated to a time after the severe destruction which took place around 614 […] The style and historical circumstances suggest a date early in the Dark Ages, when the reduced city needed protection against the Arabs”342. Brandes agrees with Foss, advocating the existence of two separate walled strongholds (Befestingungen) at the beginning of the seventh century: the old city and Ayasoluk343. Schneider344 points generically to two earthquakes (612 and 616 A.D), which should be the terminus post quem for the construction of the wall as pointed out by the unpublished coin finds (notably a coin of Heraclius dated to 612-6 found in the burnt level345) yielded by the excavations at the two Hanghäuser. On the contrary, Liebeschuetz346 and Karwiese347 prefer an earlier date (between the end of the fifth and the beginning of the sixth century) although Liebeschuetz himself is aware of the dilemma, but his assertion appears undermined by the results of the excavations at the Hanghäuser and by the Embolos inscriptions: as we have seen, the area outside the wall certainly did not reflect a shrinking of the built-up area by 550.

Foss–Winfield 1986, 133. Foss–Winfield 1986, 132. 350 Foss–Winfield 1986, 135 , Müller–Wiener 1961, 95 and Brandes 1989, 81. 351 Foss–Winfield 1986, 134. Recent archaeological excavations at Miletos are currently ongoing under the direction of the German Institute of Archaeology and the results- according to the excavators- will be published in a forthcoming volume. For this reason updated information on the site remained unavailable to me. 352 Müller–Wiener 1967, 280. Also Müller–Wiener 1986, 453. Müller– Wiener dated the fortification to the seventh century on the base of a pure stratigraphical survey of the building, paired with an accurate analysis of its building technique. Brandes (Brandes 1989, 91) accepts his conclusions. Foss And Winfield asserts that the solid bastions of the citadel are a feature found at Sardis and Pergamum, dating it to the late seventh century (Foss–Winfield 1986, 138). 353 Brandes 1989, 87ff.. 354 Vita S.Pauli Monachi in Monte Latro 109,25. 355 Brandes 1989, 126. 356 Klinkott 2001. However, his conclusions are mainly substantiated by a stratigraphical analysis of the walls and a survey of the building– technique, although his dating remains highly uncertain. 357 Rheidt 2002, 625. Also Rheidt 1991; Rheidt 1999. 358 Klinkott 2001, 99. 359 Foss 1977, 480ff. 348 349

Considering all this, a seventh century date seems, indeed, more plausible to me, not only because in this period the fortifications became the great necessity of the day in order Müller–Wiener 1986, 456–7. Liebeschuetz 2001; Karwiese 1995(a). 337 Foss 1979; Foss–Winfield 1986; Brandes 1989; Müller–Wiener 1961; Müller–Wiener 1986; Wickham 2005. 338 Foss–Winfield 1986, 133. Also Brandes 1989, 80ff. 339 Liebeschuetz 2001, 33. 340 Müller–Wiener 1986, 456ff. 341 Foss 1979, 110. 342 Foss–Winfield 1986, 133. 343 Brandes 1989, 83. 344 Schneider 1999, 475. 345 Foss 1979, 77. 346 Liebeschuetz 2001, 34ff. 347 Karwiese 1995(b). 335 336

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EPHESOS late antique city ceased to exist and was replaced by a settlement or settlements on such a smaller scale’360. The main urban road of Sardis was rebuilt in the second half of the seventh century: a new pavement of cobblestones partially encroached onto the shops and the colonnades of the old Bath-Gymnasium. ‘Finds of coins date the work and suggest that it was carried out by a detachment of imperial troops’361. The same period and personnel should be regarded as responsible for the massive fortification walls, which surrounded the acropolis. This fortress, entirely built of spolia, sheltered a substantial settlement.

as to understand the Ephesian structural and urbanistic trajectories at this time. In this sense, many scholars have preferred to focus on the shrinkage of the classic city, as the prelude to its progressive disappearance369. It is true that these walls cut out the Embolos and the Agorai, together with the south-western quarters of the city: ‘in the northern part of the city the wall generally follows the course of the Lysimacheian walls; it bends to incorporate the Church of Saint Mary and ends at a round tower on the Harbour. The southern course is highly irregular […] and takes advantage of the walls of the theatre to provide a bulwark […].The well-fortified main approach from the south led through the abandoned [lower] Agora. There the southern entrance had its arcade replaced by a wall with three gates […]. A path led across the Agora to a new entrance on the north side, which was constructed entirely of spoils and had a cutting reminiscent of a portcullis. Construction in the northeast corner of the Agora apparently belongs to a tower’370.

Consequently it is possible to conclude that the dating of most of these walls is based on very poor evidence (both material and documentary), although Smyrna and Sardis at least reveal their Heraclian origin and this dating is not disproved for any of the others. In this sense this would reinforce my argument concerning the Ephesian walls, which were possibly built in the same period (i.e. early seventh-century) in accord with those of the near cities of Miletos, Pergamon, Smyrna and Sardis.

However, these walls stretched for 4km and still included a substantial area371. This could be hardly interpreted as a sign of the demographic disruption of the city, especially if one considers that the enceinte included some important social-economical and religious foci like the Cathedral of St. Mary, the residential quarters on the old Gymnasium, the stadium, and the harbour.

Much like Pergamon, Sardis suffered a catastrophic blow in 716 A.D. when Arab troops, headed by Maslama, captured the city362. It has been argued that this raid never struck Ephesos363, which the literary sources mentioned only a few times as the goal of one of the Arab incursions which hit the Anatolia peninsula in the seventh and eighth centuries. In 654 A.D., the Arabs, under the command of Muyāwiya, invaded western Asia Minor: they reached out to Chalcedon and put Ankara under siege364. Constantine Porphyrogenitus gives a more detailed description of this raid, mentioning Ephesos, Halicarnassos and Smyrna among the ravaged Ionian poleis365. Almost twenty years later, in preparation for the Siege of Constantinople, the Ionian coast was struck by an Arab naval expedition366. In 671 A.D. an Arab fleet wreaked havoc on the coastal plain of western Asia Minor and occupied Cyzicus367; in 672 A.D. a first expeditionary corps landed in Smyrna, while two others devastated the Lycian shores and the island of Rhodes368. In this case, one could only infer that Ephesos could not remain safe and sound, since almost no source mentions the city at all.

Let us look at the evidence for urban activity in Ephesos first of all: the harbour seems to remain in use in this period, more and less as frequented as it was in the fifth century, when a Coptic source narrated that “the harbour basin in the centre city was still in operation, seaworthy ships went about and dropped anchor [outside the harbour] and loaded their cargos in barks that reached the inner city harbour above the runoff channels”372. As such, one could possibly imagine that seventh and eighth century pilgrims like Willibald, Thomas of Farfa and Madolveus373, bishop of Verdun, when reaching urbem Effesiam374followed the imaginary footprints of some fifth century bishop by landing at the mouth of the harbour and transferring to a smaller boat or barge, because, he said ‘our ship could not travel inside the harbour’375. As in antiquity, in fact, the main problem of the Ephesian harbour was the gradual silting of the harbour with silt brought down by the Cayster river376. That could explain

It is vital to take this sequence of events into account so Foss 1980, 55. Foss–Scott 2002, 618. Also Foss 1980, 57, Hendy 1985, 641ff., Zanten–Thomas–Hanfmann 1975 and Brandes 1989, 87. 362 Theoph., 390–91; see on Sardis Foss–Scott 2002, 618 also Brandes 1989, 67. On Pergamon see Foss 1977, 480, Rheidt 2002, 625, Klinkott 2001, 99. 363 Brandes 1982, 617. Also Foss 1979, 192ff. This opinion derives from a translation of a passage of ninth–century Ibn–Khordhadbeh (quoted in Foss 1979, 192) who mentions the triumphant entrance of Maslama in Ephesos celerated by an inscription in the local mosque; however, the existence of a mosque at Ephesos is nowhere attested before the Turkish conquest in 1304. Moreover, no other Arab or Christian source makes any mention of Ephesos with regard to the expedition of Maslama in 715/16 A.D. 364 Histoire d’Heraclius par l’èvèque Sebeos ,140ff. Also Ibn al–Atir, cited by Brooks 1898. 365 De Adm.Imp., 10, 10ff. 366 Brandes 1989, 60. 367 Theoph. 353, 6 368 Ibid, 353, 14. 360 361

Eilliger 1985, Carile 1999, Concina 2003. Foss 1979, 111 371 Müller–Wiener 1986, 455–6. 372 Quoted in Kraft–Kayan–Bruckner–Kapp 1995, 191. See infra fn.376. 373 Willibald, 19f., 60ff.., Chronicon Farfense 3.25–5.8 and Bertarius, 4.44.1 374 Willibald, 19ff., 3–4, 90.7–102.18. 375 A Fifth–century Coptic narrative about Abbot Victor quoted in Engelmann 1996, 134. 376 Kraft–Kayan–Bruckner–Kapp 1995, 190ff. The geological analysis allows proposing simple estimations of the position of the early– Byzantine coastline, the high Byzantine coastline and the late Byzantine coastal barrier accretion plain and swamps are shown in Kraft–Kayan– Bruckner–Kapp 1995. This analysis cannot definitively propose the later coastal positions for detailed drilled core data are lacking. ‘However, the coastlines shown are designed to fit the literature and the concept that at 369 370

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) why in this period some nearby anchorages like Phygela or Anea)377 gained momentum. Willibald, for instance, when departing from Ephesos, travelled two miles by road to reach Phygela378. Here he stopped for one day in the “villa magna”, got bread and ate by a fountain379. At first sight this argument seems to undermine the idea of a possible continued vitality of the ancient harbour; however, one must be aware that Willibald disembarked at the old port, when he arrived at Ephesos380.

burials within the vaulted portion of the building385. This time-span is also consistent with that resulting from the excavations of the church and the quarter around the ancient stadium, which seems to be abandoned sometime in the late eighth century386. We can trace another focus of the urban economic and social life outside the walled enceinte. The importance of the Embolos as a main urban route seems to come to an end at the beginning of the seventh century, its marginalization stemming from a redefinition of the urban topography. The long-term trend in the urban development of Ephesos was always oriented northwards. Accordingly, the dominance of Ayasoluk would have resulted in the increasing importance of the north road387 to the Justinianic Basilica of St.John, whilst the spreading of different foci of settlements possibly deprived the Embolos of its infrastructural role as the southern extension of the Sacred Way. Instead, it developed into a sort of cul de sac between the extra-mural Hanghäuser quarter and the residential area focussed around the harbour.

Secondly, some residential quarters benefited from the vitality of the port: the houses built on the former Harbour Gymnasium survived and expanded southwards, while the small dwellings built with spolia spread across the Arkadianè381. In this sense, one must be aware that archaeological evidence for these houses and other areas of Ephesos are limited and inadequate; consequently any conclusion, which one could draw from the analysis of the urban morphology and structures of Ephesos should be taken with a pinch of salt. However, it is possible to assert that the inhabited area around the Cathedral of Saint Mary remained substantial. Although in the second half of the seventh century, the Episcopal palace may have been abandoned382, the church in the late seventh - early eighth century underwent some alterations and restorations after a fire. The refurbished church, built of brick, filled only the western part of the ruined Basilica. Stylistic criteria have suggested a date in the early eighth century383. Indeed, while its atrium was used as support for the new city walls, the small, single-nave cross-domed church was (re-)built on the ruins384. The rebuilding of Saint Mary in the eighth and ninth century (although as a smaller church) points to its importance as a pilgrimage-centre and as a focus for a nearby settlement, as pointed out by a set of cemetery

However, it is worth noting that although the monumental scenarios flanking the Embolos lay in ruins and the classic boulevard was left outside of the seventh-century city wall388, there is evidence contradicting the idea of a desolated district389. This is because recent archaeological excavations390 have cast light on a functional re-conversion of the area of the residential complexes (so–called Hanghäuser), facing the southern side of the Embolos. Here, although the two Hanghäuser were given up, presumably after the earthquake which struck the city in 612/14 A.D.391, the area of the Hanghaus 1 was terraced and used as a foundation for new buildings. Here, a storehouse with several rooms (a large building of about sixty by thirty metres)392, a cistern, small shops and some scattered houses were built in the late seventh century early eighth century393, enhancing the possibility that the urban life was not limited to the intra-mural spaces and that economic and demographic activities took place even outside the city walls.

a certain point in time the flow velocities of the lower Cayster River were great enough to transport large amounts of sand–sized particles from the interior drainage basin to the coastal distributaries where the sand was redistributed by Aegean waves via littoral transport processes into the coastal barrier accretion plain that extends to the present day’ (Kraft– Kayan–Bruckner–Kapp 1995, 192). On this also Foss 1979, 185–8. Foss dates the demission of the ancient port to the early ninth century, since the Byzantine fleet could no longer use the harbour and instead sailed from Phygela.

Therefore, from the second half of the seventh century, the city seemed to develop into a spatially fragmented “città ad isole” pattern, with several separate areas of occupation, some of which maintained the vitality gained in the sixth century. It

On the erosion process which brought about the silting up of the Ephesian harbour also Arthur 2007, 69. 377 Ibid, 199–200 ; Foss 1979, 124. 378 Phygela is also mentioned in La Vie Merveilleuse de Saint Peter d’Atroa, 148: during the revolt of Thomas the Slave( 820–23 A.D.) a certain notary, named Zacharios took the side of the rebels and set out for Lydia. He was taken prisoner by a loyal general and secluded in Phygela. 379 Willibald, 100.4. 380 Ibid., 98.3. 381 Foss 1979, 112–3. Any further evidence is simply unavailable. 382 Karwiese 1995 (b), 317: his numismatic and chronological evidence (mainly focussed on an not–dated “treasure” of liturgical object such as an incense burner, a leaden ampoule and even a glass bottle with depiction of the menorah) remain , however, very obscure. Karwiese does not provide us with details concerning the coin–finds: he only concludes that since the coins existed alongside with the “liturgical treasure”, they should be concealed during the plundering expedition headed by Muyāwiya in 654/6 A.D. This expedition would lead to the abandonment of the old Episcopal seat for the new one on Ayasoluk. 383 Foss 1979, 112. Buchwald suggests a early sixth century date (see Buchwald 2001) 384 Ibid. Also Karwiese 1995(b), Karwiese 1999.

Karwiese 1995(a), 317. Karwiese 1995(c), 23. Again, as seen above, the author mentions only unspecified “Münz– und Keramikfunden”. 387 On this road see infra p. 125. 388 On the course of the seventh–century urban enceinte see infra p. 125. 389 Foss 1977, 113. 390 Ladstätter 2003. 391 Foss 1979, 113; Vetters 1977,18; Ladstätter 2002; Lang–Auinger 2003; Lang–Auinger 1996. 392 Leggio 2003, 365. This building remained in use until the mid-eight century, as pointed out by the analysis of the numismatic evidence (coins (of unspecified material) dating to the reign of Constantine V (741-75 A.D.) found in a conduit located in one of the rooms of the building and apparently used as public latrine). 393 Vetters 1977, 28; Foss 1979, 113. We are not provided with any dating element for this constructive phase. The conclusions of Foss and Vetters are the result of a pure stratigraphical analysis. Moreover, any further details concerning this area remain unavailable. 385 386

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EPHESOS is almost impossible394 to say if these were foci for some citybased aristocratic activity. Moreover, we must recognize that other extra-mural foci also gained momentum: the port and “villa magna” of Phygela and, above all, the hill of Ayasoluk. The hill was (re)-enclosed by a stronger ring of fortifications in the late seventh or early eighth century395, which partially reused the atrium of the Saint John Church as foundations for towers396. These fortifications ‘included the Church, an open space between it and the main gate, a large area to the north which could accommodate a sizeable settlement; of the original walls only those in the vicinity of the church survived’397. The new ring was massively built of marble spolia from the Temple of Artemis, the Stadium and other ruined buildings of the old city. The plan and the building technique of its southern gate, the so-called Gate of Persecution398, have revealed two different phases. On the basis of the numismatic399 evidence and the spolia filling the walls, the first building-phase has been dated to the mid seventh century while the second seems to belong to the reign of Leo III (717- 741 A.D.). During the second phase, the square towers flanking the entrance were strengthened and converted into pentagonal ones400. Also the Church of Saint John underwent further alterations in this period: an exonarthex was added in the seventh or eighth century and the synthronon for the clergy was enlarged401. The strategic importance of the hill and the relevance of the church as pilgrimage-centre and (possibly) new episcopal seat402 lay at the basis of the increasing development of the fortified hill. Curiously enough, also this walled settlement had its extramural outskirts. In fact, a church, possibly built in the late fifth century among the ruins of the ancient Temple of Artemis (along the southern slope of Ayasoluk) and restructured in the Justinian period, was repeatedly restored in this period403.

for the residual rural inhabitants of the lower city404 (like Pergamon and Sardis). Such a picture would not explain why the main road linking one walled centre with the other was repeatedly repaved (with mortar and bricks) from the late seventh century onwards405: a pointless functional persistence if the lower city lay in ruins, but a significant one if one imagines that many pilgrims could have walked along this street to reach the important sanctuaries in and around the hill of Ayasoluk. Indeed, one should not forget that Ephesos in the medieval period was renowned not only for the Tomb and the Basilica of Saint John, but also for the burial-cave of the Seven Sleepers, located on the eastern slope of the Panayr Dağ406. Together with the legendary tomb of Saint Timothy, Mary Magdalene and Saint Luke407, they were one of the many attractions Ephesos offered to the pilgrims who had been continuing to visit the city from the late fourth century408. The role of Ephesos as pilgrimage centre is further enhanced by the analysis of ritual vessels such as unguentaria and pilgrim’s flasks409 found in Ephesos and dated to the sixth century410. Moreover, as seen above, three pilgrims are attested in Ephesos in the eighth century. Willibald, an Anglo-Saxon leaving his country for Jerusalem (together with two companions) in 720 A.D., spent some time visiting the Church of Saint John and the tombs of Mary Magdalene and the Seven Sleepers. Thomas of Farfa411, travelled to Jerusalem in the last decade of the seventh century, spent three years in Ephesos and venerated the Tomb of Saint John the Evangelist. Finally, Madalveus, bishop of Verdun passed through Ephesos after 772 and before 775 A.D.412 Unexpected though it is, especially if one considers that in this period the contacts between the West and the Middle East are conventionally reckoned at their nadir, the evidence from the acquisition of relics in a church of Gaul (Sens) tallies with the data on the travellers413. Michael McCormick has, indeed, analysed 144 relic tags written between the seventh and the eleventh century in the monastery of Sens. Among the Mediterranean relic cults which reached Sens before the late seventh century both the Holy Land and Constantinople occupied a smaller place, while the towns of Asia Minor (Euchaita, Smyrna,

Therefore, one could alternatively regard Ephesos both as a duplicated city, with two main walled foci, or as a “città ad isole”, whose main walled core was surrounded by a crown of intra and extra-mural settlements, with the pilgrimage and episcopal centre of Ayasoluk as its most splendid jewel. Either way one cannot picture seventh or eighth century Ephesos as a fortress-city, focussed on its walled settlement on the top of a hill acting as a refuge Especially since we do not have any information about the exact findspots of the lead seals. 395 Foss 1979, 113; Brandes 1989, 84; Müller–Wiener 1961, 91–97. No further dating elements are available a part for a few coins and the structural–stratigraphical analysis made by Müller–Wiener more than forty years ago. See infra pp. 125ff. 396 Thiel 1999, 436. 397 Foss 1979, 113. Also Müller–Wiener 1961, 91. 398 This large gate is almost in axis with the Church dedicated to St.John and is composed of a large external door flanked by two massive, protruding, square towers and an internal gate. (Müller–Wiener 1961, 92–3.). 399 A large group of coins of Constans II is perhaps to be associated with the construction of these fortification. Foss–Winfield 1986, 132. 400 Foss 1979, 113; Foss–Winfield 1986, 132; Müller–Wiener 1961, 90– 111. For a comparative analysis with the Byzantine fortress of Dereağzi in Lycia (which shows a similar combination of reinforcements , irregular polygonal bastions and towers) see Morgestern 1993, 59ff. 401 Foss 1979, 115. It seems, indeed, that St.John was increasing its size, while St.Mary was shrinking. 402 Karwiese 1995(a). 403 Bammer 1999, 88. See also for the Justinian period Russo 2001, 265–78. The church was possibly consecrated to the Virgin. 394

Carile 1999, Concina 2003. Knibbe 1999, 453. The author provides us with a mere stratigraphical survey on this street; any further material evidence is lacking. 406 Piatnitsky 1999; Karwiese 1995 (a), 134; Eilliger 1985, 198–99; Foss 1979, 42ff. The Seven Sleepers of Ephesos were a group of young men who took refuge in a cave near the city from the persecutions of Decius and only awakened two centuries later in the reign of Theodosius. See also Theoph. 430, 139–40. 407 Foss 1979, 43. 408 Itinerarium Egeriae 23.10; Itinerar. An.Pl., 148. 409 Vroom 2004, 301-2. 410 Metaxas 2005, 74ff. These vessels very often brought stamped and carved Episcopal monograms which, together with the results of a punctual stylistic and petrographical analysis, allow us to propose such a date. 411 Chronicon Farfense 3.25–5.8. According to McCormick (Mc Cormick 2001, 172 fn.70) this source preserves authentic data from around 700: it is an itinerary without western parallels in the eighth century. The prosopographical details about Thomas’ otherwise unknown companions smack of authenticity. 412 McCormick 2001, 172. 413 Ibid, 318. 404 405

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) recent scholarship has disclosed about town life in earlymedieval Asia Minor, when the old urban centres dwindled away and Constantinople emerged as the great solitary city of the empire’415. A third phase (ninth century) underscores only a change in the proportion not in the cult places (Byzantium remains limited to Constantinople and Ephesos)416. The relic gathering at Sens between the seventh and the ninth century points to a continuing communication between the West and the Eastern Mediterranean, although with contracted horizons. At the same time, it highlights the role of Ephesos as a main pilgrimage centre and as a port along the residual shipping route crisscrossing the earlymedieval Mediterranean. For a variety of reasons the ancient sea-lane connecting Rome with the east via Sicily and Monemvasia persisted almost alone as the western Europeans’ eastward route in the first decades of the eighth century417. In McCormick’s opinion, it was the major fair of Ephesos, which helped the city to keep such an important role side by side with Constantinople418. According to Thophanes, Constantine VI went to Ephesos in 794/5 A.D., and ‘after praying in the Church of the Evangelist, remitted the customs dues (kommerkion) of the fair (panegyrion) which amounted to 100lbs. of gold- in order to win the favour of the holy apostle, the evangelist John’419. The size, function and dating of this fair has been highly debated with uncertainty focussed especially on the exact meaning of the word kommerkion420. The fair needs to be considered in the context of eighth century Aegean exchange, which should be seen at two different levels: local production and distribution, and surviving regional-level patterns421. On the one hand, ceramic evidence is completely lacking for Ephesos (since the excavators rarely publish it422) from the second half of the seventh century, so it becomes extremely difficult to trace the trajectories of local production expertise. We do not know if hand-made pottery existed at all or if, indeed, it coexisted with more complex levels of production, as in some parts of the Greek side of the Aegean Sea. However, medium distance exchange patterns existed and were ‘characterized by a visible presence of private shipping, linking, one could propose, the fairs and markets of surviving cities of each coast of the Aegean (the main one of these was of course Constantinople)’423. Nonarchaeological evidence attested to this pattern at work in Ephesos. As seen above, Theophanes mentions the lateeighth century Ephesian panegyrion. Moreover, Ignatios

12. Possible islands of settlement (in dark grey) in seventheighth century Ephesos (after Scherrer 1995, p. 1)

Ibid., 302. Ibid, 306. 417 Ibid, 502ff. 418 Ibid, 302. The fair occurred on the eighth of December. 419 Theoph.794–5, 645. 420 Brandes 1989, 146ff; Foss 1979, 110; McCormick 2001, 172 , 302; Carile 1999, 144–5; Laiou 2002, 209. Also Mango–Scott commentary to Theoph 794/5, 645. 421 Wickham 2005, 780. 422 The book Spatäntike und mittelaterliche Keramik aus Ephesus edited in 2003 is a notable exception. However, the different contributors to this volume do not stretch the chronological limits of their analysis to the Early Medieval period (mid seventh-mid ninth century). 423 Ibid, 789. 415 416

Ephesos) loomed much larger414. A second phase of relic hoarding began in the eighth century. During this phase, the Holy Land and Italy dominated, while Africa and Spain vanished and the Byzantine heartland of Constantinople and Asia Minor remained stable: ‘the Imperial Capital now accounted for five of the six relics. In the eighth century only Ephesos is left standing next to Constantinople […]. The difference mirrors what 414

Ibid, 297.

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EPHESOS iconophile monks and nuns429. Although one should handle with care literary passages on the iconoclastic persecutions of monks430, the references to the growing importance of monasticism in eighth century Ephesos431 and to the confiscations of monastic possessions, books and holy vessels could be regarded as a result of the patronage of the local elites. Artisanal epigones of the jewellery-dealer Demetrios432 could have perpetuated the tradition of the souvenir-dealers dating back to classic times, focussing on the area around the Basilica of St.John in Ayasoluk, in the area of the Hanghaus 1 (where some shops have been excavated433) and in the Arkadianè quarter (possibly owing to the continuous vitality of the old harbour).

the Deacon, writing in the second quarter of the ninth century, probably described the continuation of this annual fair424. His historical account of Gregory the Dekapolite’s travel included the description of an Ephesian stay: winter prevented Gregory from continuing his trip beyond Ephesos and he stayed in a local monastery. In the spring he made the decision to leave for Constantinople. Ships crowded (plèthos ploìon) the port of Ephesos and their captain seemed eager to leave with their merchandise. But the skipper feared to put to sea because Moorish pirates were reported only 20 km away. Gregory assured the captain of divine protection, and they safely shipped out, sailing north and they stopped at Proconnesos425. So, according to this description, eighth-century Ephesos was an important regional port, attracting merchant ships and pirates, while travels seemed to be easy around the Aegean and towards Constantinople and even beyond426. The three pilgrims mentioned above also seem to attest to a persistence of part of the interregional exchange network, if, as McCormick has proposed, pilgrims always travelled (on their own initiative) piggy-back on state or merchant convoys. They used Ephesos both as the Asia Minor arrival and departure point presumably following the same sea-route exploited by those relics recollected in Sens. In this sense Ephesos retained a significant role as an intermediate stage along the sea-route to Constantinople, whose fiscal system contributed to determine the level of the demand for the goods in hand. However, this did not imply that the fiscal system shaped the whole social and economic relationship: Constantinople acted as a fiscally supported centre for exchange, but attracted some commercial trade as well, both from the outside and the inside of the Aegean Sea. Moreover, the importance of Ephesos in the State and ecclesiastical administrative apparatus (even though the city possibly never became a Thematic capital) supplemented good levels of demand. Perhaps, as attested to by the passage of Theophanes, Ephesos also maintained taxation in money, as did other lands close to Constantinople427, while its hinterland acted as an important grain supplier for the Capital428. One could also infer that some members of the local aristocracy underpinned and benefited from these levels of demand. In the spatially fragmented, but still cohesive, urban landscape the presence of relatively prosperous local landowning elites is evidenced by the existence of a tzoukanisterion, a pitch for playing a sort of polo, supposedly used by Michael Lachanodrakon as a stage for the maltreatments of 424

Unfortunately there is no archaeological evidence to back up this narrative-based picture of the city life from the second half of the seventh century to the ninth century. Literary sources themselves are sketchy enough. However, there is enough information to revise Foss’s conclusions on the crisis of the seventh and eighth century. In this period Ephesos became economically weaker: it suffered from the effects of the Arab invasions and earthquakes and it experienced the end of the Mediterranean interregional exchange network and the systemic crisis of the Aegean trade network. However, it did not fail. The city maintained an important role as a religious (episcopal and monastic) and pilgrimage centre, it was the focus of the State (local officials in the themes) and ecclesiastical bureaucratic apparatus, it benefited from its strategic location within the “inner core” of the Byzantine empire and as a harbour astride the regional and interregional sea-routes and, lastly, it retained a good level of urbanistic coherence (even though spatially fragmented and shrunk behind its new set of walls). Thus, in the ninth century there was less for Ephesos to recover from434. Although some new Arab incursions occurred in the late eighth century435 and a Paulician raid desecrated the Church of Saint John in 86870 A.D.436, the city retained its role as an administrative437 Theoph. 770, 445. On the tzoukanisterion , see Zavagno 2003 with further bibliography. 430 See Brubaker–Haldon 2001, 165ff. and Whittow 1995, 89ff. On the persecution Theoph,, 614: in 769/70 A.D. Michael Lachanodrakon, appointed by Constantine V as strategos of the Thrakesian Theme, gathered at Ephesos all the monks and nuns of the Theme: he led out to a plain called tzoukanisterion and said to them whoever wishes to obey the Emperor, as well as us, let him put on a white garment and take a wife forthwith. Those who do not do so will be blinded and banished to Cyprus. See on this also Cheynet 2006, 22. 431 Foss 1979, 109. See Vita Stephani Junioris, 1140 and 1164ff.; Cedrenus I, 787. 432 See above pp.100–1. 433 See above p. 107. Although any evidence concerning souvenir selling has not been yielded. 434 Foss 1979, 116. 435 Chronography of Gregory Abu–l–Faray, 128: ‘And in the year one thousand and ninety two (781 A.D.), the Arabs carried away from Ephesos about 7000 people and about four thousand of Arabs died’. Also Mich. Syrien, III, 2., Theoph., 781, 455. See also Lilie 1976, 173 fn.43. 429

McCormick 2001, 199. Ignat. Deac., 9, 53, 10–21.

Ignatius wrote the life five or ten years after Gregory’s death (at Constantinople in 841–42A.D.). He had been the iconoclastic Metropolitan of Nicea. Gregory was born in the Dekapolis around 797 in the Taurus Mountains of Isauria and he came from an influential family. His hometown was Eirenoupolis. After spending 14 years in a monastery and then withdrawn in a cave, around 830/1 he set out westward to please god. 425 Ignat. Deac., 9, 53, 10–21. I am here taking advantage of the translation made by McCormick (McCormick 2001, 198–203) 426 Gregory reached the island of Proconnesos, while in the second half of the eighth century, during the Iconoclastic persecution, some monks will be exiled to Cyprus (Theoph. 769/70, 614). 427 Brubaker–Haldon 2001, 116ff. Laiou 2002, 690–1. 428 Hendy 1985, 43ff.

In 798 A.D. another Arab incursion invested the city. At–Tabari, mentioned in Brandes 1989, 84–5, Theoph. 798, 651. See also Chronography of Gregory Abu–l–Faray,(Gregorius Abulfaradasch), 222. 436 Hist.de Reb. 121, 86: The Paulicians attacked Ephesos a their Chief Chrysocheir , used the Church of St.John as a stable for his horses. 437 Foss 1979, 117.

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) and religious focus. However, the fortressed hill of Ayasoluk begun to eclipse the lower city; according to the lead-seals, the name Theologos was currently used when speaking of the medieval town: a Pantaleon prophilax to kourou tou Theologou 438 is attested for the ninth century contemporary to an archon and a droungarios439 (both also appearing as tou Theologou): as seen above, Ephesos probably continued to be equated with the administration of the both the themes of Samos and Thrakesion. Meanwhile in the late ninth century the main urban port paid the final price of the continuous silting and bridging caused by the river Cayster440: recent drill core studies have, indeed, shown that the expanding shoreline of the Cayster River delta (bypassing far beyond the harbour mouths and thus changing the port into a quiescent settling basin) brought about the abandonment of the harbour441. Eventually, outer ports like Panormos442 and Kenchrai443 took its place, as Ephesos could not perpetuate its historical function of the Great City at the Mediterranean gates of the Asia Minor any longer.

and political (fiscal and administrative officials belonging to the state–thematic hierarchies) functions. That Ephesos remained substantial and did not constitute a mere walled stronghold is further demonstrated by the persistence of the street linking the city with the hill of Ayasoluk, which as seen above, was repeatedly repaved in the seventh century and beyond444. Moreover, the literary and material evidence (like the relic-tags from Sens) demonstrate that Ephesos played an important role as a pilgrimage and economic centre (as a market and port), whereas the sigillographic evidence enhances its significance as administrative and military focus of some sort (although it never was a thematic capital); lastly, Ephesos, as outlined above, remained still relevant as hub for Christian religion as Metropolis of the Asian Eparchy445. This being so, I would go back to my multifunctional model in order both to interpret the fate of the city in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages, and to resolve this model in terms of urban fabric, topography and morphology. I would like to start from the Basilica of St. John on Ayasoluk , which clearly was an important destination along the medieval Christian pilgrim routes, due to the relics of the Baptist, and eventually (possibly in the early ninth century) became the local cathedral. Here, in all probability, a little quarter developed, benefiting from the presence of the pilgrims, complete with commercial and artisanal activities (souvenir dealers?), residential structures (hostels for the visitors) and petty commodities. The hill of Ayasoluk was connected through a road to the walled city, which remained the official centre for the state fiscal and administrative machinery, the seat of the bishop (located alongside the Cathedral of St. Mary, another important “attraction” for the pilgrims), and, possibly, the residence of the local landowning elites until the ninth century at least. Here, inside a substantial walled area, different islands of settlement (possibly with partially different functions) spread across the classic urban landscape: for example, the residential quarter at the Arkadiane’-Old Gymnasium and the inhabited area (complete with a little church) at the Stadium. These islands clearly benefited from the vitality of the local harbour (which remained active until the ninth century) where pilgrims disembarked and manifold goods were shipped to Constantinople and other Aegean ports. Indeed, city-life did not cease with the walls: extramural quarters, like that at the Hanghäuser, did continue to host ordinary settlement and artisanal and commercial activities (pairing with similar occupations in the intramural foci). These activities undoubtedly took advantage of the local panegyrion, the annual fair which, from the second half of the eighth century onwards, attracted many merchants, peasants from the mainland and visitors and took place in an open space easily accessible from the port (possibly the very tzoukanisterion which functioned as a gathering place for the local community by hosting games or public castigations). It is indeed possible to conclude that the manifold roles (ecclesiastical, social, political, administrative, and economic) played by Ephesos as a

It is worth concluding this section by proposing a brief recapitulation of the fate of Ephesos between the seventh and the ninth century. It has clearly emerged from the evidence provided above that from the second half of the seventh century Ephesos developed as a defended but still substantial site. A large area of the classic city was walled however, which included different islands of settlement focused on old buildings (like the stadium or the Harbour Gymnasium), religious-political constructions (like the Cathedral of St. Mary and the Episcopal palace), and persisting infrastructures (like the harbour). Indeed, areas of the extra-mural area remained at least partially occupied: important traces of seventh and eighth century artisanal activity have been yielded by excavation at the Hanghäuser on the southern side of the Embolos. This allows us to conclude that the enceinte did not fence all the urban settlement, but presumably only its more important parts (also in demographic terms, considering its size), primarily fulfilling ecclesiastical (as seat of the local bishop) Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1993, III, 14.30, 30. Also Laurent V/1 2283. He was the guardian of John the Theologos, that is of its church and his relics. 439 Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 2282a and 2561a. See also Foss 1979, 117. 440 Kraft–Kayan–Bruckner–Kapp 1997, 192. 441 Ibid., 190–1. 442 Foss (Foss 1979, 149) suggests that the outer harbour of Ephesos, namely Panormus, was possibly located along the southerly flank of the then rapidly westward infilling Gulf of Ephesos( See also Kraft et al.1997, 199ff.). Another position has been proposed for Panormos on the base of “toponymic inferences”: it should be located in the north– westerly corner of the lower Cayster River embayment near the village of Zeytinkoy (Kraft et al.1997, 192). A major support for this location is that the northwesterly corner of the ancestral Gulf of Ephesos received lesser amounts of fluvium from the Cayster River throughout the antiquity than did the central and southerly region” (Kraft et al.1997, 192). 443 A later harbour for late Byzantine–Turkish–Venetian commerce may have lay in a small cove along the low, rocky, cliffs of the southern part if the embayment the Kenchrios river and the modern resort Pamucak. ‘The coastal barriers, which first developed in late Byzantine times do not extend to or merge with the southwesterly flanking hills of the embayment. This might be caused by currents of the Cayster River […] or by the dredging actions that were continued by late Byzantine and Selçuk people to keep open access into possible small harbour areas’ (Kraft et al.1997, 192). 438

444 445

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See above p.107. Not.Epis. I.79.

EPHESOS city fitted with its changed urban fabric and topography. Although experiencing demonumentalization and losing the Hippodameian morphology of the classic city (as shown by the marginalization of the Embolos), Ephesos retained a degree of spatial and structural coherence that allowed not only the persistence of the city as social focus for the local population but also of its local urban identity. The very concept of Ephesos as an urban settlement was not indeed lost with the building of two separate walled foci, but continued, providing an exemplary (although atypical) model for the fate of Byzantine urbanism between the seventh and the ninth century.

main ports were Ephesos and Smyrna) had merchants who organized a consortium to buy grain from as far away as Sicily456. Eventually, at the beginning of the ninth century, another literary source testifies that the city was rich enough to buy grain to supply the island of Lesbos during a famine457, having its defence strengthened in 8567 A.D. to enhance its role as naval base458. Smyrna seems to have retained a good degree of economic development due mainly to its rich hinterland and its port. Miletos, like Smyrna, had been an autocephalic bishopric since the first half of the sixth century459. The city underwent important building activity between the late fifth and the early seventh century (the same time-span is documented in Ephesos): the church of Saint Michael was rebuilt on a lavish scale as late as 595-606 A.D., while some houses were razed to the ground (sixth century) and the episcopal palace was eventually erected (seventh-eighth century)460. In the late sixth century its importance diminished and in the seventh century a wall cut the old city in two (as in Ephesos), including the old theatre as a bulwark (Theater Kastell)461. Although on a smaller scale, Miletos seemed to survive and curiously enough, the nearby temple of Apollo in Didyma (linked to the ancient city by a Sacred Way), was fortified462 and became an episcopal see463. In a sense, although in a sketchy manner (since Didyma was a village within the territory of Miletos464) the duplication of the urban plan partly resembles the fate of Ephesos: on the one hand, a conspicuous part of the old cityscape was enclosed by a wall, on the other hand a stronghold on a close hill was fortified enclosing an important shrine, which became the main episcopal complex.

4.5. Conclusions It seems useful to me to finish this chapter on Ephesos by trying to analyze the urban trajectories of the other cities that lay close to Ephesos. This is mainly because the case of Ephesos can be better understood in the context of the urban changes of its micro-regional area. This area was extremely fertile from the urban point of view. Cities like Miletos (to the south), Smyrna and Sardis (to the north) and, Pergamon could offer an interesting comparative group. Unfortunately the state of the archaeological surveys and excavations are different for each of these cities although we are provided with good starting point in Wolfram Brandes’s work on Asia Minor cities446 . Smyrna had been the rival par excellence of Ephesos since the classic period: inscriptions give evidence of the existence of this rivalry in the fifth and in the sixth century447. The dispute reached a new stage when the bishop of Smyrna (made independent by Ephesos during the Fourth Ecumenical Council448) claimed to the rank of Metropolitan, which he was not to obtain until the ninth century449. Smyrna has little excavation but we know with certainty that in the sixth and seventh century its hinterland was one of the main centres of production of Phocean Red Slip ware450. In the city a good level of building activity is documented for the fifth and the sixth century both at the ancient Agora451 and in different areas of the city452. The city blossomed at least until the early seventh century and its port competed with that of Ephesos, taking advantage of the same land-routes to reach the internal plateau453. As for the seventh century, there is good archaeological evidence pointing to re-occupation of buildings in the old agora454. As seen above455, two inscriptions show the restoration of the city walls during the reign of Heraclius (629 and 641 A.D.). Smyrna was harassed by the Arab incursions in 665 and 672 A.D., but no details are known about them. According to an eighth century source, Lydia (whose 446 447 448 449 450 451 452 453 454 455

Willibald visited Miletos in 723 A.D. and here he admired some stylites465, before taking a ship for the nearby island of Kos. One could easily imagine that Miletos retained its importance as pilgrimage centre and as an important stop along the shipping routes linking the coast to the nearby Aegean islands. Sardis had been the ecclesiastical Metropolis of Lydia since the fourth century and it never lost its status until the end of the Byzantine domination466. The city lay at the junction of the Pactolus and the Hermus river valleys. Since the city was partially surrounded by mountains, these valleys were the easiest way to reach the interior of Asia Minor467. Archaeological excavations have made plain that the city remained substantial during the sixth century, when the 456 Life of Philip of Argyron, c.25. Also Wickham 2005, 788 and McCormick 2001, 543–4. 457 Vita Davidis, Symeoni et Georgii, 225, 231. See Brandes 1989, 127 and Wickham 2005, 788. 458 Ivison 2000, 26. 459 Not.Epis. I, 205 (53), II(56), etc…. 460 Brandes 1989, 89. Wickham 2005, 627. On Miletos see mainly Müller–Wiener 1973, 101–3; 117–25 and Müller–Wiener 1986. 461 Müller–Wiener 1967. Müller–Wiener 1986, 453, 462 Brandes 1989, 89. 463 Not.Episc. XIII(691); XIV(49). 464 Brandes 1989, 91. 465 Willibald , 98.7. 466 Not.Epis.I (144); II(164), etc. 467 Crawford 1990, 1.

Brandes 1989. Foss 1979, 6. Not.Episc. I, 205(43) Foss 1979, 6. Empereur–Picon 1986. Also Wickham 2005, 612. Brandes 1989, 126. Foss 1977, 481ff. with further bibliography. See above pp. 100–1. Brandes 1989, 126ff. See above p.118–9.

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13. Miletos- Theater Kastell (Author’s photo)

urban settlement expanded in the lower plain468 and the city was the capital of the Province of Lydia, including more than twenty cities and an extensive agricultural hinterland469. ‘Its destruction in the seventh century was characterized by violent burning extensively attested in the archaeological record and a cessation of coin finds after 616 A.D.: the result of a Persian attack’470. Some scholars have cast doubts on the numismatic evidence, revising the picture proposed by Foss and pointing to a steady decay of the urban life instead of a sudden death by the hands of the Persians471. As in the Hanghäuser in Ephesos, an extensive late Roman residential quarter south of the main avenue flanking the so-called Byzantine Shops472 experienced a decline in the mid sixth century. Subdivision of the old reception and ceremony rooms, blocking of doorways and building of intrusive structures are attested in the complex. Moreover, in more southern residences a makeshift latrine was constructed in one of the doorways and an early seventh century brick bread oven (dated by associated pottery) was built against one of the walls473. 468 469 470 471

7.

472 473

Here scholars have often instead preferred to stay with Foss’s case474, pointing to an abrupt end of the city. The result of the excavations at the Byzantine Shops475, indeed, ‘gave the impression that activity stopped abruptly around 610s and everything ceased except for a flurry in c.660’476. Only small and scattered areas remained inhabited in the lower town, while, during Constans II’s reign, a wall secured the acropolis, and the street in front of the shops was repaved for military purposes477. So, although the numismatic evidence remains unclear478, the city probably underwent a drastic reduction in the seventh century with a hilltop kastron replacing the ancient city and showed less continuity than Ephesos, Smyrna and Miletos. Like Sardis, Pergamon had an acropolis situated on a steep, mountainous hill. It overlooked the valleys of the Selinos and Ketios rivers, towering over the wide plain of the Caicos. Although the city always remained a simple bishopric within the Ephesos’ eparchy479, in the fourth and fifth century the urban landscape was characterized by important churches480 (a large basilica with two-storied

Brandes 1989, 86; Foss 1980, 39ff.; Foss–Scott 2002, 615 Ibid. Also Foss 1980, 67; Brandes 1989, 86 Russell 2001, 65ff. Also Hendy 1985, 640ff. and Haldon 1990, 226–

474

Crawford 1990. Russel 2001, 67.

479

475 476 477 478

480

126

Brandes 1989, 89; Foss–Scott 2002. Crawford 1990; Russell 2001, 65. Wickham 2005, 629. Brandes 1989, 89; Foss–Scott 2002. Brandes 1989, 88. Not.Episc. I (100), II (115), III(124) etc…. Rheidt 1991, 182ff.

EPHESOS

14. Ephesos- Library of Celsus (Author’s photo)

aisles built in a former temple and the basilica in the lower Agora481), while the acropolis lost its importance. ‘The centre of the settlement of Pergamon in late Roman and early Byzantine times lay at the foot of the fortified hill; the residential settlement expanded from the centre of the Roman city, where the churches were erected later, far out into the plain’482. The city underwent a decline in the Justinianic period, when pestilence and persecutions against the local pagans seemed to undermine the economic and social urban structure483.

in Ephesos, Miletos and Sardis486. As in this last city, the enceinte could be the result of the building activity of a local detachment of troops487. Eventually, the city retracted behind its new bastions becoming a shelter for the rural population and, perhaps, a military base488. It seems possible to infer from this sketchy picture both similarities and differences between the cities of the Ionian coastal plain in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages. One difference is plainly visible: owing to the geographical and strategic location of these cities: those in the inland (Pergamon and Sardis) became too small to support urbanism both in an economic and in a political sense. Only military functions could be attested to here. On the contrary, those overlooking the sea (Miletos, Smyrna and Ephesos), persisted as urban foci in the seventh and eighth century, although on reduced in size and sometimes dwindled behind a new set of walls.

From the seventh century the city population dropped dramatically, as a result of the Persian and Arab invasion, and a new set of walls enclosed the acropolis484, leaving out most of the area inhabited in late Antiquity. According to the numismatic evidence this work could have been carried out in the reign of Constans II485 and it seems to be contemporary to the fortifications that were erected

The reasons for this persistence can be tentatively catalogued: their harbours retained a good level of functionality, assuring their role in the Aegean (and sometimes also in the residual interregional) commercial and non-commercial exchange routes; they remained demographically substantial, even though their new-

Rheidt 2002, 622. 482 Ibid, 624. 483 Rheidt 1991, 243–4. 484 Foss 1977, 480; Brandes 1989, 110–111; Rheidt 1991, 245ff; Rheidt 1995, 395; Rheidt 2002, 624 and, mainly, Klinkott 2001, 97–99. Rheidt prefers to date the walls to the sixth century, Foss and Klinkott are inclined to the seventh century. Brandes states that the city suffered from two ruinous Arab invasions in 664 A.D. and 717 A.D., after which the rest of the city were steadily fortified. 485 Foss 1977, 480. 481

486 487 488

127

Klinkott 2001, 99. Ibid, 97. Ibid. Also Rheidt 1991, 245, Rheidt 2002, 624.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) built (or re-built) walls cut out parts of the ancient city, and maintained a good level of urban coherence; they grew as important religious, monastic and pilgrimage centres, attracting people travelling along those routes and indubitably benefiting from their presence in the economic sense; the State administrative apparatus regarded them as important foci for the tax-raising and collection system, and perhaps as important military naval-bases. Located as they were in the inner core of the Byzantine empire, the Arab invasions harassed these cities rarely (although they were more exposed to their naval raids), whereas the Capital acted as an opportunity for the rich agricultural hinterland of these cities. They were able to take advantage of this opportunity, exploiting the Aegean shipping routes

and, presumably, maintaining a landowning-oriented local aristocracy, even if they did not become (as with Ephesos) a thematic capital. In this sense, they were able to (partially) counterbalance the pull of the capital and its administrative and ecclesiastical hierarchies, and one could easily imagine that some families that moved to Constantinople could retain their connections and economic influence within their native city (by taking advantage of the closeness of the capital and the shipping routes). Indeed, this phenomenon is documented for fifth and sixth-century Ephesos489. In conclusion, Ephesos, Miletos and Smyrna continued without a break in their role as ports on the maritime (and land) routes linking the West with the East.

489

128

See Foss 1979, 77.

CHAPTER 5 AMASTRIS

5.1 Introduction: Why Amastris?

coast (with mountain ranges often falling steeply into the Black Sea, few stretches with sandy beaches and, lastly, numerous indentations caused by the successive river valleys6, ‘made the coastal roads into a series of zigzags, up down and across the spines of the mountains’7. From this topography, it is hardly surprising that Amastris was strongly linked to the sea8. This strategic link with the Black Sea had both military and commercial implications, allowing Amastris to maintain a central role in the political and economic history of the Paphlagonian region. Amastris benefited both from its location as a port on the Black Sea9, half way from Constantinople and Trebizond, and as a terminal of one of the “side land–roads” (linking the city to the regional capital, Gangra and then with Ankara). So, it effectively linked the Anatolian plateau and the Eastern regions with the northern outposts of the Byzantine empire, such as Cherson and the Crimean region. Thanks to this exceptional strategic and economic importance, Amastris showed a high degree of continuity between the fifth and the ninth century. Indeed, if we took at face value Brandes’s parameters to gauge city development (population and urban structures), we should not rule out the idea that Amastris could be considered a ‘Stadt mit relativer continuität’10. In fact, according to Brandes, the city, which in both Hellenistic and Roman times spread over the isthmus and onto the mainland, shrunk back to its acropolis during the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages, while the population seemed to find shelter in a hastily built fortification on the acropolis. Brandes seems here to follow Foss’s idea, by giving too much emphasis to one of the few Arab invasions of the Paphlagonian region (perhaps the only one which reached Amastris11), to account for the building of the fortifications

The peninsula (of Amastris) is bounded to the inland by a stretching isthmus, which reaches a minimum length of 200 metres, while, along the two sides, there are two ports: the eastern and the western1. Joseph Marie Jouanin, an official interpreter of a nineteenth century French scientific and commercial expedition, described with these words the site of Amastris (today Amasra). It is worth noticing that his description matches another famous picture of Amastris drawn by Strabo almost eighteen centuries before2: ‘Amastris stands after the river Parthenios [...] It is on a peninsula and has two ports along the two sides of the isthmus’. So Amastris remained unchanged through the centuries. The settlement in Amastris is located on the isthmus of a peninsula projecting from the Paphlagonian coast into the Black Sea; the isthmus leads to a dominant promontory rock, defended by the Byzantine fortification, which protects the east harbour. The whole site is further protected by the closely adjacent island of Boz Tepe, enclosing the northern side of the west harbour3. Another island, Tavçan Adasi, stands out in front of Boz Tepe. Indeed, Amastris hugely benefited from its natural location: ‘the site was doubtless chosen because of its good natural harbours [...] boats have long been a major mean of communication in and out of Amastris’4. Paphlagonia is a mountainous region, with long valleys running from east to west hardly broken by north–south dales with rivers. In the Roman and Byzantine era, the land routes, which stretched along these valleys linked the coastal towns with the main inland thoroughfares: indeed, in the Anatolian plateau, communications along the grain of the landscape– north–west to east– are even today much easier than those against5. Apart from these inland routes, intersected with a set of river courses and side roads, there was a coastal roadway, which mutually bounded the various coastal towns. However, the peculiar geo–morphological characteristics of the Black Sea 1 2 3 4 5

T.I.B. IX, 48–54, Crow–Hill 1990, 5; Crow–Hill 1995, 251; Bryer– Winfield 1985, 19. 7 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 19 8 ‘The Pontic coast is different from the rest of Turkey. For more than 5000 years this coast has been connected to the cultures and economies of the Black Sea, at times seeming more remote from the rest of the Anatolian land mass than Greece, Africa or Italy […]. Before the introduction of dynamite, most travellers in the region crossed from the central Anatolian Plateau to the coast at Trabzon or in the western part of the region where the mountain crossing where easier’ (Doonan 2004, 7-8). 9 McCormick 2001, 419. 10 Brandes 1989, 124–130: “a city with a relative degree of continuity”. 11 Ibid., 129. The episode is mentioned in the Life of St.George of Amastris (from now Life St.George), see infra. 6

Cited in Robert 1980, 1962. Strabo, XII, 3, 10. Crow–Hill 1995, 251. Ibid. Whittow 1995, 28.

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1. Map of Amastris (after Crown-Hill 1995, p. 257)

in Amastris, while archaeological evidence is reduced to silence. In other words, Brandes speaks against himself: if his parameters, the demography and extent of urban area, are valid, Amastris should not be regarded as a city with relative continuity.

government. It was one of the main ports for the Byzantine fleet patrolling the Black Sea, and, later, the seat of its main officer (the katepano). So, apart from its strategic importance and its central role in the trade routes along the Black Sea, Amastris must also be regarded as an imperial naval fortress: ‘the large defence circuit reflected the economic importance of the harbour and town as well as its military and political significance of the Black Sea’14.

This is because – as he argued – the city shrank and its population dramatically decreased12. Notwithstanding this, Brandes seems not to disregard the vitality of Amastris, even though it really contradicts his main considerations.

Moreover, Amastris could be considered as a model for urban development along the whole Black Sea coast. As we will see, other cities of this area, such as Sinop and Cherson, showed a similar degree of continuity of urban life within a walled context albeit without such direct imperial intervention. From this point of view, we should rule out the idea that Amastris can be regarded as an anomalous city in the Anatolian area. On the contrary, it should be regarded as a prototype of a sort of hypothetical history: what could have been the fate of a Byzantine provincial city, in the seventh and eighth century, had it realized the benefits of a strategic location along some important naval trade–routes? Would this particular location have allowed

This vitality is due to something Brandes largely ignores, that is the fact that the coastal urban fortification and the shrinking of the city must be regarded not as a merely response to security13, but as a commitment through imperial patronage. During the seventh and the eighth centuries Amastris became an administrative and military focus of the imperial Ibid, 129. Brandes mentions the famous Arab raid against Amastris, but he curiously ignores its implications: if the Saint summoned people from neighbourhood into the fortified walls to save them from the Arabs, this may imply, as will be seen, that part of the local population could live outside the enceinte or in the hinterland of the city. 12 13

14

130

Crow–Hill 1995, 265.

AMASTRIS a city to thrive even in a rugged and economically poor landscape (as is the Paphlagonian one)? More than a possible answer to these questions, as will be seen, Amastris remains a model of the real urban trajectories along the Black Sea area, where (also according to Brandes) in the eighth century transactions and trading were vibrant and real15. ‘Scattered texts show that ships and commerce flowed along two main axes pivoting on Constantinople […] one reached toward the north and the Black Sea […] By the later ninth century this stream branched out in three directions’16: towards the Bulgarian empire, across the Black Sea towards the fortified outpost of Cherson and, finally, towards the Caucasus and its mountain passes leading to Iran. I will return to this in a moment. In my opinion, Amastris reveals its importance also from the methodological point of view. In fact, it represents a city where archaeological research, although in an incomplete manner, has been able to fill a gap in the documentary sources, drawing a reasonable picture of the urban development between the sixth and the ninth century. Indeed, the recent archaeological campaigns have allowed us to understand the development of Amastris before the ninth century foundation of the Paphlagonian Theme and the contemporary Katepanate of Amastris. There is, now, no doubt at all that Amastris gained a strategic significance well before its ninth century renaissance17. This conclusion is easily reached having taken into consideration the fact that the massive, carefully constructed and accurately planned fortifications date back to the late seventh–early eighth century 18, which is more than a century before the reshaping of the Anatolian thematic structure and the reorganization of the Black Sea fleet.

2.The Paphlagonian region (after Crown-Hill 1995, p. 253)

Within the geographical limits defined above, the political divisions could be transient: indeed, as will be seen, the western part of Paphlagonia was included in the province of Honorias from the fifth century. The main geographical features of the region are the three ranges of mountains running parallel to the coast from the Sangarios in the west to the Pontus in the east, with a complicated pattern of ridges branching out from north to south. The first east–west chain is that of Akçacoca– Bolu and Kure Dağlari. These two ranges of mountains are divided by the hilly area around the River Billaios (Parthenios). The western part of this chain (Kure Dağlari) spread along the entire territory of Amastris (Amastrianè falling steeply into the sea, with a watershed very close to the coast. Therefore, from Amastris to Sinop (around 300 km.), the coastal strip offers only one important harbour, Ionopolis. After Sinop, the Kure Dağlari lengthens eastward, forming the Pontic Alps. The second west–east montainous range is the Oligas Oros (Ilgiaz Dağlari), separated by the Kure Dağlari by the river Amnias and the high–course of the Billaios. Lastly comes the massive Koroglu Dağlari, the natural barrier

5.2. The Paphlagonian region: Landscape, settlement pattern, trade routes and economy. The Paphlagonian region is located on the northern part of the Anatolian peninsula, and even though it tectonically belongs to the central Anatolic plateau, its rugged and mountainous landscape is of a piece with that of the northern part of Anatolia. So, it is difficult to trace the exact geographical (and political) boundaries of this region. In fact, apart from the Black Sea to the north, chains of mountains surround the whole region while the Anatolic Plateau stretches into the southern Paphlagonia in the territory of Gangra (the political and ecclesiastical capital)19. The plateau represents a large, poor, upland region isolated from the sea by mountains to its north and south. Following Bryer–Winfield and Belke, we can roughly set out the eastward limit at Sinop, one of the few natural harbours of the coast, while the westward brink falls at the Sangarios River (now Sakarya Nehri). Another river (the ancient Halys) and the watershed of the Koroğliu Dağlari Mountains could be taken as a reliable southern border20.

between Paphlagonia and the Ankara plateau, whose western part is isolated by the river Devrez and the Halys– Halmiros. The main land routes followed the course of the mountain ranges, wedging often in the river valleys between the chains. So, one can readily trace three parallel roads21: the coastal one, which ran from Heracleia to Sinop, which, was built by the Emperor Claudius (first century A.D.)22. According to the Peutinger Table, the most important stations along this road matched those of the sea–route 23. Recently some scholars have cast doubt

Brandes 1989, 157; also Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 65. McCormick 2001, 588. 17 Ibid. 18 Crow–Hill 1990; Crow–Hill 1995; T.I.B. IX, 167. 19 T.I.B. IX, 48–54. Also Hendy 1985, 26–58 and Brandes 1989, 157ff. 20 ‘The most suitable crossing through the Pontic mountains is via the valley of Kizilirmak (ancient Halys) river which is not particularly 15 16

suitable for high volume long-distance trade’. (Doonan 2004, 8). 21 Ibid., 118. 22 Ibid., 161. 23 Tab.Peuting. IX 3–X 1. T.I.B. IX, 127.

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3.The Black Sea from the satellite (from GoogleEarth™)

on its existence, mainly focusing their arguments on the narrowness of the coastal strip. However, it really existed, as proved by both the manifold milestones found along the littoral and the ruined parts of the paved–way still in place today (especially in the Amastrianè)24. Perhaps, one could consider it as a sort of integrated sea–land route system: the terrestrial road would allow travellers to avoid the most dangerous parts of the littoral, when the weather conditions were particularly harsh. However, apart from these speculations, the main feature of the coastal road was to link the settlements along the Black sea shore. ‘The pattern of coastal settlement comes from the antique world and has survived better into medieval times than in most other parts of Anatolia’25. This pattern was made up of small coastal towns, emporia26, seasonal anchorages, natural harbours, fortifications on rocky spurs and real cities (like Amastris and Sinop), which benefited from the trade routes across the Black Sea. It is also clear that differences in the dimension and importance of the various coastal settlements were due both to their geo– morphological characteristics (the harbours had to be deep enough and offer protection from the wind. They also

needed to be easily defensible27) and to their location at the end of side road across the mountain, which lead to the main land–routes in the inland. Moreover, a further consideration was the presence of an accessible hinterland 28 . As will be seen, Amastris fulfilled all these conditions. Another road started at Heracleia, on the coast and extended out between the more internal routes and the coastal roadway. It continued into the western part of Paphlagonia, coming out at the side road linking Safranbolu with the harbour of Tios on the western part of the littoral; then, it reached Kastamonou and Pompeioupolis in the eastern Paphlagonia. Lastly, the most important inland road linked Nicomedia with Gangra, passing through the so–called Bolu–Kargi Furche29 and forged into the Devrez valley to reach first Pimolisa and then Amasya. However, the importance of these three roadways matched that of the side–routes which penetrated into the valleys branching out from north to south of the ranges and thus cut across the course of the west–east ranges of mountain. These valleys are usually deep and contain swift–flowing rivers. ‘The aspect of these river valleys varies from that of a wide and fertile bottom [...] to gorges of cliffs, containing raging torrents’30. A few of these rivers could be navigated; the others allowed logs to float down to the sea. ‘River mouths also attracted the smallish ships, for they afforded shelter and fresh water’31. Some cities could be found along these

T.I.B. IX, 127. Bryer–Winfield 1985, 11; also Doonan 2004, 23ff. 26 McCormick (McCormick 2001, 606ff) mainly uses the term emporium to define large settlements located along the “northern arc” of Europe, which typified contemporary trading circuits. Wickham (Wickham 2005, 680–88) develops a detailed analysis of the different urban trajectories of this particular type of settlement, designed to focus not only interregional exchange but also long distance commerce (Venice, Dorestad, Hamwic). 24 25

Id., 7: water must be free from rocky hazards; winds often develop quickly into gale force ones sufficient to endanger shipping of small tonnage. On this also Doonan 2004, 10. 28 Ibid. 29 T.I.B. IX, 119. 30 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 2. 31 McCormick 2001, 419. 27

Although I am aware of the implications of their analysis, here I am simply referring to emporium as a permanent or occasional harbour, strategically located along the coastal strip, which acted as a local economic and commercial centre without claiming any urban status.

132

AMASTRIS valleys which led from the watershed ridge to the coast (Klaudioupolis and Parthenia–Bartin among others). But it is worth noticing that, apart from the pure inland stretch Ankara–Krateia, these “side–routes” inked the main Black Sea ports to the inner Paphlagonian cities (Gangra and Pompeioupolis), through hardly viable mountain passes. As Brier and Winfield noted, life in these inland cities was highly dependent on this network of routes which accordingly had a military, administrative, and commercial significance32. However, these north–south roads could be used only with difficulties: ‘the slowness of pre–mechanized travel must constantly be remembered‘33. Even in a less rugged landscape, the transport of bulk goods remained prohibitively expensive and extremely slow in the late Antiquity and the early middle ages 34. So, the coastal sea route should be easily regarded as the safest and shortest means of communication35 and supply, although one should always take into consideration the destination of any trip; indeed, the population of inland cities like Gangra were inevitably highly dependent on the existence and maintenance of land routes36. However, the ports along the Paphlagonian littoral played a double role: on the one hand there were important cities, such as Amastris, Heracleia, and Sinop, which acted both as emporia in the trade between Asia, Europe and Crimea37 and as trading–posts along the main route between Constantinople and Trebizond38. Indeed, around 800 A.D. Epiphanios39described a journey along the southern coast of the Black Sea, in St.Andrew’s footsteps. In so doing, he sailed to Nicomedia, Daphnousia, Herakleia, Amastris and Sinop40, possibly depicting the main stages of the sea route41. On the other hand, although any conclusive evidence is lacking, we are tempted into assuming that some level of local trading activity involved the ‘shipping out of whatever cash, crops, or minerals that were produced in the mountain valleys and the supply in return, of the few necessary imported goods: this kind of small scale trade was carried on through anchorages at the village or small town’42.

4. Anatolian road network (after Haldon 1999, p. 58)

must also bear in mind the role of the Paphlagonian coast as shelter for the imperial fleet. Indeed, as seen above, some branches of the Roman Nnavy patrolling the Black Sea seemed to operate from Amastris and Sinop: in the second century Amastris is mentioned as the seat of a prefectus orae maritimae Amastris et classis ponticae43. Then, in the seventh and eighth centuries the city maintained this privileged role, by becoming a fortified shelter and the main port for the Byzantine fleet of the Black Sea and, later, for that of the Paphlagonian Theme. The reason for such a predominance of the naval activity could be easily found in the rugged Paphlagonian landscape, where mountains were covered with woods and forests whose timber could be easily used to build ships and boats44. By floating it down through the rivers, timber easily reached the coast, where it was worked in the local shipyards45. Indeed, according to the later Life of Saint Phokas46, the father of the future sailors’ patron saint was a naupegos (shipbuilder), who lived in Heracleia (or Sinop)47. It is obvious too that timber could be also used for houses and furniture. But even though the Paphlagonian landscape was uneven and mountainous, this does not mean that land was not agriculturally exploited. Both in the epigraphic and documentary sources48 references occur to the economic importance of the agricultural industries49. However, it is conceivable that these activities did not quite match the prominence of ship–building or, possibly,

When giving the pride of place to the naval routes, one

Ibid., 12. Id., 17. 34 Whittow 1995, 54. 35 Doonan 2004, 96. 36 McCormick 2001, 588–9: in the 790s, merchants from Amastris had been active further east at Trebizond, the meeting place of shipping and caravan routes from the interior of Anatolia and Iran (see infra Life of St.Georg Amastr., 27–30, 42.4–47.10). 37 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 18; T.I.B. IX, 135–37. 38 See above. ‘In the early ninth century a local man hailed Amastris as the market place where the Byzantines and the northern barbarians (Scyths) met’ (Laudatio Sancti Hyacinthi, 4 quoted in McCormick 2001, 589). 39 Vita Andreae apostoli, 120.221B–224. 40 The strategic importance of Sinop made it the station for the Roman Black Sea fleet until the third century. See on this Doonan 2004, 96ff. with further bibliography. 41 McCormick 2001, 588–9. 42 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 18. On the sources see McCormick 2001, 588–9. 32 33

T.I.B. IX, 137; 161. Haldon 2005, 6; Doonan 2004, 20. 45 Id., 139: ‘Dass Schiffe und Boote fur den lokalen zivilen bedarf ( Fischerai und Handel; die Paphlagonika und die Boukellaria ploia sowie die plagiatika Pontu) an Ort und Stellehergestellt wurden, kann angesichts der durchgehenden Bedeutung besonders von Amastris und Herakleia als Hafenstadte und Schiffahrtszentren vorausgesetz werden’. 46 According to its editor, the life has been written in the eleventh century ( Life of St.Phokas , 271). 47 Life of St.Phokas , 1, 279–80: ‘Pamphilos tis to genei Pontios eugenestatos ton ek metoikesias helthen en te polei Sinopis tou Pontou… nv de ergasiotes naupegos’. 48 For the epigraphic sources see T.I.B. IX, 140. 49 Doonan 2004, 21. 43 44

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) grazing, which remained one of the main local economic resources. In this sense, an important although hardly reliable source50 for the description of Paphlagonian country life is represented by the Life of St. Philaretos the Merciful of Amnia, written by his grandson, the monk Niketas, in 821–2 A.D. Philaretos is depicted as a wealthy landowner with estates in Paphlagonia, Galatia and Pontus. He lived in Amnia, a village near the provincial capital Gangra. Sheep and goats represented same of the main sources of his wealth51, but also his holdings in land were also of real importance, as the text claims he had a hundred pairs of oxen used for ploughing fields 52.

carried to Cherson on ships coming from the Paphlagonian and Boukellarion themes60. It could easily be that the vessels described by Pope Martin also came from the southern coast of the Black Sea. A special commercial relationship is also confirmed by an inscription incorporated in one of the wall towers of Sinop61. This was an epitaph, recalling the place of burial of Kylita, the wife of Anastasios the meizoteros62 of the bishop of Cherson. ‘That the wife of the meizoteros of the see of Cherson was buried in Sinop hints that Cherson had property on the southern side of the Euxine and that Anastasios was its agent for it’63. One could easily imagine that these properties produced cereal crops, grapes, vegetables and fruit. Indeed, Sinop had a hinterland providing ample arable and pastoral land to support the city64.

According to the documentary sources, the products of land cultivation and livestock (cheese and meat 53), were regarded as important assets for trading. Indeed, the Book of Eparch54, an important historical document dating to the tenth century and representing the commercial relationship in Constantinople55, reportsthat in the region beyond the Sangarios (pera tou Sangariou) presumably to Paphlagonia and Phrygia, meat–dealers (makelarioi) could repair to meet those sheep dealers (exothen probatarioì) driving their herds (ageloi) towards Nicomedia for sale.

The same could be said for Amastris. In fact, the city had some agricultural hinterland, which produced surpluses of timber and nuts. ‘The latter presumably provided oil, which could have filled the Hellenistic Amastrian amphorae, which have been found at sites on the northern coast of the Black Sea’65. So, some parts of the rugged Paphlagonian region , especially those located on the coastal strip and along the river valleys, could be agriculturally well–exploited, yielding both the supplies to maintain the population of the closest cities and, sometimes, profitable surpluses66. This is demonstrated in a famous episode in the ninth century hagiographic life of St.George of Amastris which, although hotly contested as a reliable source67, shows the saint (and bishop) of Amastris, during an Arab incursion, summoning the peasants working outside the fortified enceinte and gathering them into the city fortification to protect them68. It might be possible that the author of the Life wanted to rhetorically credit the bishop with great influence over the military and political life of the city69; however, one might assume that a wider settlement is referred here. Although archaeological grounds for any conclusion is still lacking, one could be tempted to conclude that the fortifications in Amastris acted as a point of reference for a more scattered settlement, enhancing an urban morphology, which might resemble Euchaita, the capital of the Armeniakon Theme (where churches and even parts of the classic monuments survived outside the walled enceinte)70 and Amorion71, the military base of the Anatolikon theme (whose churches,

It is worth noting too that there are many references to commercial trade especially between the Crimean region and the Paphlagonian coast56. As will be seen, these kinds of relations are not limited only to the economic sphere, but included also administrative and military bounds57. However, as for the trade links between Crimea and the southern coast of the Black Sea, Pope Martin’s complaint seems particularly relevant in this context. The Pope, who was sent in exile to Cherson in 654–5 A.D.58, alluded59 to Roman ships which sold bread cereals, wine and olives. According to Martin, these ships then went back bringing salt and other local commodities: unfortunately their port of origin remains unknown. Additionally, according to Constantine Porphyrogenitus’s De Administrando Imperio, during the ninth–tenth centuries wine and cereals were 50 Brubaker–Haldon 2001, 225: ‘The details [of this life], which have been frequently taken more or less at face value, should be treated with considerable caution, although it is certainly possible to draw some conclusions about social history from them’. 51 Crow 1996, 21–22. Also T.I.B. IX, 141 and the Fourmy–Leroy’s introduction to the Life (Fourmy–Leroy 1934, 85–109) 52 Life of St.Philar. 114–25. Hendy 1985, 57: ‘The role of mixed farming should not be minimised [...]in the eighth century the wealth of Philaretus of Amnia, in Northern Paphlagonia, was reckoned primarily in terms of livestock (oxen, horses and mules), but he also owned estates which were at least partly devoted to arable’. On the unreliable role of this hagiographical work see Ludwig 1997, 74–171. 53 T.I.B. IX, 143–4 and Hendy 1985, 55. 54 To Eparkhikon Biblion XV.3. 55 Brandes 1989, 18. See mainly Nicole 1970. 56 ‘The circulation of surface currents in the eastern and western lobes of the Black Sea assists sailors departing across Crimea and coming back’. (Doonan 2004, 10) 57 The north-south axis of economic and cultural interaction in the Black Sea’s coastal development is stressed by Bratianu (Bratianu 1969); with reference to Sinop, Doonan (Doonan 2004, 6) points out that in times when the nort-south axis of trade was important, the strategic significance of this port was critical to the military, political and/or economic systems around the Black Sea. 58 Lib. Pont. 76. 59 P.L., 87, 202–4.

De Adm. Imp., 184. Bryer–Winfield 1985, 74–5:’…of Anastasios.+Place of deposition of Kylita(‘) wife of Anastasios, the meizoteros of the bishop of Cherson. Indiction 9’. The authors do not provide us with any date for the inscription, although the simple reference to a bishop of Cherson should suggest an early date (possibly the sixth century). 62 The meizoteros is a figure concerned with the civil affairs of a church of a monastery. See also Life of Theodore of Sykeon, I, 30 and Di Segni 1995, 312. 63 Brown–Winfield 1985, 75. 64 ibid., 7. Also Doonan 2004, 93ff. 65 Crow–Hill 1995, 251; also T.I.B. IX, 142. See on this Sceglov 1986. 66 Doonan 2004, 9;19;95. 67 Abrahmse Zani Ferrante 1967, 43–45. 68 Life of St.Georg. Amastr., 24. 69 Abrahmse Zani Ferrante 1967, 177 70 Trombley 1985. Also Wickham 2005, 630, Haldon 1990, 95; 120, Haldon 2005, 77; 81. 71 Although in Amorion, as will be seen, recent excavations seem to point to a more densely inhabited landscape than thought before. 60 61

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AMASTRIS according to the archaeological excavations, were located in a pleasant and fertile district72). Indeed, with regard to Euchaita it is also worth noting that the eighth century Miracles of St.Theodore the Recruit referred to the citadel to which citizens fled during the Arab attacks in the eighth century73.

Council of Chalcedon (451 A.D.) which referred to all these cities as suffragan of the seat of Gangra82. Moreover, the Chalcedonian Council recognized the autocephalous status of the Gangrian Metropolitan, who had been consecrated by the Archbishop of Ankara since its institution in the fourth century83.

Lastly, two other important local economic resources are worth mentioning: fishing and mining74. As for fishing, Amastris, together with Sinop, Heracleia and Tios, was one of the few suitable ports for the small fishing vessels, which, during well–organized annual expeditions, caught large quantities of tuna fish that were then preserved in salt and exported in barrels75.The Paphlagonian region also produced a large quantity of copper (especially in the Kastamonou region), iron (rich fields were located between the river Sangarios and Hypios) and salt (Gangra was renowned for its salt mines)76.

The administrative reforms of Justinian represented another turning point in Amastris’ local history. Indeed, Justinian, inspired by the Pretorian Prefect John of Cappadocia, decided to join the two provinces of Honorias and Paphlagonia together again, labelling the new administrative region as the Province of Paphlagonia. The province was governed by a Praetor Paphlagoniae Iustinianus (with the rank of spectabilis)84, whose duties included tax collection85, the administration of justice and the prosecution of thieves. Contrary to the bureaucratic structure, ecclesiastical assets remained unchanged and based on the two different archdioceses of Honorias (metropolis: Klaudioupolis) and Paphlagonia (metropolis: Gangra86). On the contrary, Justinian’s civil reform did not last more than a few years: as pointed out by a sixth century inscription, when John of Cappadocia was disgraced, Paphlagonia and Honorias returned to their previous state of independent provinces87. The Pontic Vicariate, which had been previously abolished, was restored and provided with fiscal, judicial and military powers, while the single provinces passed under the control of a civil governor.

5.3. A brief historical overview. Diocletian’s administrative reform at the end of the third century represents a convenient starting point for Paphlagonian political and institutional history. This reform, which came immediately after a ruinous Gothic incursion, brought into existence the province of Paphlagonia as part of the newly built Pontic Diocese. It was the first time that the geographical and political boundaries almost matched: until this moment Amastris had been the western part of the Pontus–Bithynia province77. It is worth noticing that the ecclesiastical diocese also seems to have had a similar history: the bishop of Pompeioupolis, Ionopolis and Amastris took part in the Council of Nicea in 325 A.D, although the future metropolitan seat of Gangra was not mentioned in the list of the participants78. In the fifth century, however, Theodosius II created the new province of Honorias, including part of the old Bithynia and the western portion of the Paphlagonian region, and dividing Paphlagonia again. The capital of the newly built province was first Heracleia and then, from the latter half of the fifth century, the inland city of Klaudioupolis79. As for the province of Paphlagonia, it was ruled by a Corrector (whose rank, according to the Notitia Dignitatum, stood between the Praeses and the senatorial Consularis80) seated in the capital of Gangra, which became also the see of the local metropolitan bishop, while the cities of Amastris, Ionopolis, Pompeioupolis and Sora became bishoprics81. This is proved by the subscription lists of the

The traditional separation of civil and military powers came to an end in the seventh and eighth century with the introduction of the thematic system88. The province of Honorias became part of the Opsikion, ‘which incorporated a number of imperial guards regiments and the remains of the sixth–century central field army’89. Its eastern territorial limit was the river Halys, while its strategos seated in Ankara90. In contrast, Paphlagonia was included in the Armeniakon theme, which was the army of the former magister militum per Armeniam redeployed in north–eastern Asia Minor91. Its jurisdiction stretched A.C.O. II, 1. 3S. 97–99. Also T.I.B. IX, 107. Id., 197.According to Theophanes , the Council decided also to ban Dyoscoros, the monophysite Patriarch of Alexandria, to Gangra, where he died one year later. (Theoph. 163). 84 Id., 67. 85 Iust. Novel. XXIX. 86 Crow 1990, 20. It is worth noting that this latter structure never changed, for it also survived during the thematic reform (seventh –eighth century), and came to an end only with the Turkish invasion (eleventh century). 87 The coming into existence of the old Province of Honorias is proved by an inscription found in Adrianopolis mentioning an imperial warning (commonitorium). This warning was issued in the second half of the sixth century against the so called xylocaballaroi (literally soldiers with wooden weapons). Essentially, these were bands of horse soldiers hired by the local landowners to their own service. They were used to intimidate and bully the local population. The inscription ordered the confiscation of their equipment (horses and weapons) and summoned them to the local capital. T.I.B. IX, 68. On the inscription mainly Feissel–Kaygusuz 1985, 397–419. 88 See Chapter 4, pp. 103–4ff. 89 Whittow 1995, 120. 90 T.I.B. IX, 69. 91 Ibid. Also Haldon 2003, 73–4, and Whittow 1995, 120 with further bibliography. 82 83

On Amorion see in detail Chapter 6, pp. 164ff. with further bibliography. Here I mention only Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007 and the up -to-date internet website concerning the in–progress–excavation: http:// www.amoriumexcavations.org/ also Haldon 1990, 113. I would also like to thank the Amorium Project (and Prof. Ivison in particular) for inviting me to be part of the 2008 campaign. 73 Vita et Miracula Theodorii (tironis), 4. See on this Abrahmse Zani Ferrante 1967, 85–6 and above all Trombley 1985. 74 Doonan 2004, 95. 75 T.I.B. IX, 145. 76 ibid , 145–6. 77 Ibid., 65. 78 Honigmann 1939, 45–6. 79 On Klaudioupolis see T.I.B. IX, 235–7 with further bibliography. 80 Not. Dign. I 104.. 81 Laurent 1963, V, 318. Not.Epis. 1–228 ; 2–285 ; 3–329. 72

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) southwards up to Gangra. A strategos of the Armeniakon was implicated in Saborios’s mutiny (668 A.D.), while a Turmarches is mentioned in 625/6 A.D.92

be interpreted as a posthumous miracle (St. George died around 825 A.D.) or as a real account of one of the late eighth–century expeditions which ravaged the northern part of Anatolia (Amorion 796 A.D.; Ankara 798 A.D.). In this sense, a passage from the Life of St.Philaretos the Merciful could be helpful. This describes the ominous consequences of an Arab raid104 and then the setting up of a military expedition against the “Ismailites”105. According to the editor’s interpretation106, which is essentially based on Theophanes’s account, the events could be dated back to the end of the eighth century, referring to one of the manifold Arab raids which, in that period, also involved the Paphlagonian region. Therefore, although one cannot take at face value both the accounts107, it is possible that the Arab raid on Amastris could be regarded as contemporary with the raids ravaging the regions of Amorion and Ankara.

As the Persian invasions before93, the Arab raids, which ravaged and sacked the whole Anatolian peninsula, almost spared the Paphlagonian region. Only five incursions into the region are recorded by the literary sources94. All took place in the eighth century and, apart from the famous passage in the life of Saint George, there is no evidence that the raids reached the coastal strip. Two of these incursions (712 and 727 A.D.) may have had the metropolitan seat of Gangra as their final goal95. The latter was of enhanced importance because on this occasion the city was occupied by the troops of Hisham, who ordered the destruction of its walls96. Another incursion against the Paphlagonian region took place in 732 A.D. It is doubtful whether this raid reached Gangra, as Theophanes again, when describing the raid, fails to mention the city97. A fourth invasion against Paphlagonia is dated to 741–42, when the Arabs took advantage of the civil war between Constantine V and the usurper Artabasdos98. The last and best-known invasion is mentioned in the Life of St. George Bishop of Amastris99. This hagiographical source was the work of Ignatios the Deacon, written probably between 839 and 842 A.D.100 Although there is no strict chronology in the life, recent discussions have concluded that the episode reporting that the bishop ‘rallied the population from neighbouring villages into the shelter of the walls in the context of a threatened Arab raid’101 may be identified with a raid in Amorion in 797 A.D. or possibly later against Euchaita in 811 A.D.102 If so the reference, which represents the clearest date for the fortification at Amastris103, could

To sum up, according to the sources, Paphlagonia seems to have been off the main land–routes which the Arabs followed into Anatolia between the seventh and the ninth centuries. Moreover, the coastal cities, shielded by the massive mountain ranges remained almost untouched, given also the absence of any Arab fleet in the Black Sea. If Amastris could survive, with a good degree of continuity, this was helped by the fact that, apart from its important functional role as an imperial naval fortress, it was safe from Arab land and sea raids. The peculiar Paphlagonian geography and its almost unviable roads, which linked the inland to the coast, should be regarded as the main reason to explain this kind of immunity. In the ninth century the old Armeniakon theme was split, with the foundation of the Paphlagonian and Chaldia themes. Gangra regained its status as metropolis, provincial capital and seat of the strategos108. The first mention of the Paphlagonian strategos, according to the Life of St. Theodore of Studios, has been dated to 826 A.D.109, although doubts have been also cast over this dating110. According to the Arab geographer Abi Muslim al–Garmi111, there were five important castles (husun) in the small Paphlagonian theme, while the local army, under

Theoph. 453; 456: ‘The emperor Heraklios sent turmarch of the Armeniacs, as far as the river Narbas, where the Persians camp lay, to ascertain whether the river had a ford’. T.I.B. IX, 69. 93 Ibid., 68. The Persians raged the southern part of Paphlagonia only once (608 A.D. or 611A.D.), during the famous raid against Calcedonia. 94 Brandes 1989, 44–81; T.I.B. IX, 71. 95 Theophanes does not mention the city, which, however, is repeatedly quoted by the Arab sources (Theophan., 382). See Brandes 1989, 65 with further bibliography on the Arab sources. 96 Yaqubi II, 395 Also T.I.B. IX, 196. 97 Theoph., 567–8: [731/2 A.D.] ‘Muias, son of Isamos, invaded the Roman country. He came as far as Paphlagonia and withdrew with many captives’. See also on this Brandes 1989, 71; T.I.B. IX, 196. 98 Brandes 1989, 75; T.I.B. IX, 71–2. 99 Life of St.Georg.Amastr. 27. There is no consensus on the reliability of the biography, and so the events described may not refer to any raid at all, for people may fear invasions so much whether or not they happened and saints intervened in them; moreover, all these raids are fairly sketched documented by other sources, leaving their exact number in the dark. However, one could at least regard the fact that the coast is mentioned only once with reference to an Arab incursion as highly significant (see infra fn.89).Indeed, the difficulties in using this type of source is well known: the Life of St. Philaretos the Merciful (d.792), for instance, seemed to be ‘skilled reworking of classic folk tales motifs into the plotline of the Book of Job and all its apparently circumstantial material is virtually useless’ (Wickham 2005, 234); see on this mainly Ludwig 1997. 100 Brubaker–Haldon 2001, 212–13. See also Da Costa–Louillet 1954, Markopoulos 1979 and Abrahamse 1967, 43ff. 101 Life of St.Georg.Amastr. 24. See also Crow–Hill 1995, 261. 102 Crow–Hill 1995, 261. Also T.I.B. IX, 72. 103 Crow–Hill 1995, 261. The role of Amastris as relevant urban centre in the early ninth–century is further enhanced by another passage of 92

Theophanes indirectly attesting the prestige of the local bishopric. Indeed, Theophanes mentioned that in 806 a.D. Gregorius, oikonomos of Amastris, was sent to Aaron (the leader of the Arabs which had invaded the Byzantine empire) by the Emperor Nikephoros (together with the metropolitan of Synada and Peter, abbot of Gouleion) to ask for peace. (Theoph., 661–62). The oikonomos occupies the second place in the Episcopal hierarchy. He was an important figure which was in charge of the finance of the local diocese. See also Life of Theodore of Sykeon, 34. 104 Life of St.Philar.. 114–15. 105 Id., 124–28. 106 Fourmy–Leroy 1934, 101. 107 See pp. 142–3. 108 Zacos–Veglery I ,1972, 2261. Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 37–40; Studies in Byzantine Sigillography 1999, 86; Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 421. 109 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 25. 110 P.G. 99, 309C. See also T.I.B. IX, 74. 111 Al–Garmi, quoted in Ibn Khurdadhbih 77ff. He was retained as prisoner of war in Constantinople, during the second quarter of the ninth century. His work was handed on by Ibn–Khordhadbeh (Ibn– Khordhadbeh, 1889), but it lay on well–known Arabic geographical sources. T.I.B. IX, 76.

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5. View of the Western Harbour (Author’s photo)

the command of a tourmarch112, amounted to 5000 men113. However, the Paphlagonian theme was also provided with its own fleet, as part of the Black Sea Byzantine navy, under the command of a katepano. As will be seen, the katepano was located in the naval fortress of Amastris (as proved by the manifold seals struck by this official114) and, although nominally under the authority of the strategos, he was directly appointed by the Emperor115. It seems clear to me that the new arrangement of the thematic system, after the splitting up of the Armeniakon, went together with the reform of the navy organization.

Petronas helped the Khazars to found a new city (Sarkel) along the River Tanai (Don), and then was rewarded with the title of strategos of Cherson. The episode suggests once again the close and mutual relationship intercurring between Crimea and Paphlagonia, a relationship which seemed to have political and military overtones118, aside from its commercial significance. But this special link with the northern coast of the Black Sea was also bound to be of concern to the Paphlagonians. In fact, a miracle mentioned in the Life of St.George dealt with an attack on Amastris by the Rus119. Scholars have debated on the exact date of this incursion for almost a century120: did the raid occur in 843 A.D. (that is, before the death of Ignatios the Deacon, who wrote the Life of St.George) or in 860 A.D. (which would mean that the episode is a posthumous miracle added in the tenth century in the same mould as Photios’s works121) or, even, in 941 A.D. (when Prince Igor attacked Constantinople)? However122, it seems highly possible that the raid did take place immediately before the major Rus’

In this context, it seems particularly relevant that in 839 A.D116,–according to Constantine Porphyrogenitus, the spatharokandidatos Petronas was sent to Crimea by the Emperor Theophilos with a fleet composed of imperial ships and chelandia117 of the katepano of Paphlagonia. 112 A seal belonging to Tourmarches of Paphlagonia is mentioned in Revue des ètudes Byzantines 49 (1991), 229. On the aristocratic origins of the Tourmarches in this period see Haldon 2003, 273. 113 Quoted in T.I.B., IV, 76. 114 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 31–2. Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 1060, 798 and 348. 115 T.I.B. IX, 74. 116 De Adm.Imp., 42. 117 On this type of warship see Ahrweiler 1966, 408ff.: ‘le term chélandion derive vraisemblement du mot egchélys–chélys (=anguille), indique leur form allongée’. A recent and more detailed analysis of the origins, development and use of this ship is in Prior-Jeffreys 2006, 167ff.

See infra. Life of St.Georg.Amastr., 43; also Da Costa–Louillet 1954, Markopoulos 1979, Crow–Hill 1995, 261. 120 T.I.B. IX, 78–9 121 Markopoulos 1979, 77–82 122 As seen before, however, although this hagiographic account may not describe a real raid, it certainly reflects the fear of one; such a feeling could be easily begin to develop sometimes between 843 A.D. and 860 A.D. 118 119

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) strike against Constantinople in 860 A.D.123. The Russians came to Amastris, sacking and plundering but when they approached Saint George’s grave, they immediately felt sick and were paralysed124. According to the author, the Russian leader was so impressed that he decided to become a convert to Christianity himself along with his people. As will be seen, the attack could be an obvious, although partial, explanation for the major ninth–century programme of ‘middle Byzantine re–building which is so apparent throughout the walls and the churches of Amastris’125.

Homer127, Amastris was founded in the late third century B.C. 128. Thanks to its two harbours, the city became a key strategic site on the commercial routes, which linked Constantinople with Trebizond and with the rest of the Black Sea 129. This maritime and commercial connection was a notable characteristic of the city during the Roman period. The importance of Amastris as a port is alleged by Lucian130, and substantiated by the ruins of an important building, the so–called Bedesten131. This can be compared to similar structures in Sinop132 and Ionopolis133: ‘all these buildings are likely to have been used as substantial commercial structures, reflecting the important trading role of the major harbour emporia of the Black Sea’134. They were brick– faced concrete constructions built in the early imperial period (according to their construction technique, the so–called opus reticulatum135), which possibly remained in use in the early Byzantine period (as demonstrated by analysis of the building–technique136) and represented an important measure of the continued commercial importance of those cities137. The lasting significance of Amastris as a trading port across the Black Sea and to Constantinople is testified in an encomium written by Nicetas David Paphlago, who lived in Amastris during the end of ninth –beginning of

5.4. The City Amastris occupies a coastal rocky promontory, shielded by two islands, Böz Tepe, close to the peninsula, and Tavçan Adasi (Büyük Ada), to the east. The city developed across the islands and inland, and this topographical configuration did not change from the classic period126. Although the city regarded itself as an ancient foundation, traditionally associated with 123 As Markopoulos effectively alleged , 860 A.D. it seems to me the best possible date for the incursion. However, Markopulos asserts that the Life of St.George has been heavily interpolated: the internal analysis of the text has revealed similarities with Photios’s works. This allows the author to conclude that the passage concerning the Russian invasion was added later in order to show that the Russians ‘conversion to Christianity owed to the Byzantine diplomacy and to Photios’ intercession. Although heavily altered, the passage may retain an echo of the Russian incursion against Amastris. This mainly because in his Homilies Photios shows his cognisance of these event (Homilies 34, 8–12 quoted by Markopoulos 1979, 81). Contra T.I.B. IX, 79. 124 Life of St.Georg.Amastr., 43–45:

Iliad II, 853. See also Crow–Hill 1995, 252. Ibid. The city was a result of synoecism involving the fourth major settlements of the region: Sesamos, Tios, Kytoron and Kromna. According to Strabo (Strabo XII, 3, 10) Sesamos was located on the acropolis of Amastris ( a substantially artificial mound at the centre of the modern town where fragments of Late Bronze Age pottery have been discovered), while Kytoron was the emporion of the Sinopans. These different settlements, which , however, soon became three, because of the defection of Tios, were brought together by the queen Amastriane, the widow of the King of Heracleia Pontica, after whom the new city was supposedly named 129 Ruggeri 1995, 62. 130 Toxaris, or Friendship, 67. Crow–Hill 1995, 252: ‘He refers to men of the Bosporus voyaging along the coast and stopping at Amastris, and, in the Toxaris, Amastris is described as a port of call for people sailing from Scythia. [...] Toxaris and his friend Sisinnes took lodgings near the harbour and suffered from having their belongings robbed from their room. In order to restore their fortunes, Sisinnes entered a gladiatorial contest which was being held in the theatre. This is an interesting reference to gladiatorial contests being held in a Greek theatre rather than a dedicated amphitheatre’. 131 Ibid. Also Marek 1989, 383. 132 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 81. Also Doonan 2004, 54-5. 133 T.I.B. IX, 220. 134 Crow–Hill 1995, 252. AlsoDoonan 2004, 98-99. 127 128

‘There was an invasion of the barbarian Rus, a people, as everyone knows, who are brutal and crude and bear no remnant of love for humankind […]They came as far as the native city of the saint and cut down unsparingly people of both sexes and every generation […]Knocking over churches and desecrating relics, they set up ungodly altars in their place and performed unlawful libations and sacrifices […] The good Shepard was not present in body, but rather was together in spirit […] When the barbarians entered [his] church and viewed [his] tomb, they suspected that the treasure truly was a treasure. And rushing forward to dig it up, their hands and feet were visibly weakened, bound by invisible fetters, and they remained completely motionless, piteous, and filled with amazement and fear. They were able to do nothing but speak. Since their leader recognized the paradox of the deed he was overawed with fear and consternation. He summoned one of the prisoners and asked him why this had happen, what God as this power, what is buried here and why were his soldiers suffering. “This is the power of God” he said […] the one who appears pure before Him on account of his good deeds, this one is worthy of great honour from him, both while living and when dead”. “And what is this honour?” he asked. He responded, “To accomplish everything they desire in His name, to show kindness to those who honour them, and to avenge those who attempt to dishonour them. Therefore, as you see, since your soldiers dared to dig up the tomb, and this was hubris for them to seek out the dead with their unholy and barbaric hands, he bound their hand and feet through his intimacy with God. If you wish to learn the truth, give gifts to Him and propitiate Him by means of us Christians and your men will be freed from their painful bonds.” He then asked, “What gifts please Him and what will He accept?” He answered, “Oil and wax. For this is a customary act among Christians. And he also wants you to free the prisoners and respect the churches. If you wish to do and maintain all these things, you will see your soldiers as strong as before.” The barbarian was amazed by these things and promised to do everything as quick as possible’. 125 Crow–Hill 1995, 261. 126 Ruggeri 1995, 62.

These buildings could have also functioned as “horrea” (imperial granaries), which points to the role of the Pontus region as one of the main supplier of cereals to Contantinople (Laiou-Morrison 2007, 65 with further bibliography). 135 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 81. They allege that the complex laying in Sinop had been originally a palace or a gymnasium–bath, then adapted as a granary for Constantinople as part of an imperial policy in the early seventh–century. 136 Crow–Hill 1995, 252 also Bryer–Winfield 1985, 81–2: the secondary use of the ruins [of the Sinopian Bedestan] can only be determined by excavations, but the massive scale and regularity of the cuttings suggest an early date, Justinianic or Middle Bizantine. 137 Crow–Hill 1995, 252 also Bryer–Winfield 1985, 81–2.

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AMASTRIS tenth century138, and who praised Amastris as the eye of the Universe. Indeed, in his Laudatio Sancti Hyacinthi, he, somewhat rhetorically, paid tribute to the functional buildings, the massive walls and to both the harbours which allowed the city to thrive thanks to its commercial relationship with the Scythians139. So, the importance of Amastris as a trading port was old in the early Byzantine period, and perhaps it is also the reason why Trajan, in 110 A.D., sent Pliny the Younger to Amastris as a governor. “It was under Trajan that the harbour at Trabzon was developed, and it is entirely conceivable that the great commercial buildings at Sinop, Ionopolis and Amastris reflect a general Trajanic interest in developing the harbours along the south coast of the Black Sea”140. A letter sent by Pliny to his Emperor bears witness to the classic urban facies. Pliny asked to cover a stream (nomine quidem flumine), in reality a most foul sewer (re vera cloaca foedissima et sicut turpis immundissimo aspectu ita pestilens odore teterrimo), which stretched along the entire length of the city’s attractive main street (pulcherrima eademque longissima platea)141. Amastris is described in this letter as an elegant and finely built city with rhetorically outstanding structures. In his response Trajan approved the covering work, even though Pliny had to find the money for the project142. Apparently he found it, because a Roman arch and traces of canalization could still be seen until at least the 1990s143. It is worth noticing that Pliny requested a similar permission to build a 16–mile aqueduct to bring water to the city of Sinop: this project was also to be financed by the local citizens, but if it was begun, it left no traces at all144. However, it is clear from this correspondence (and from Lucian) that in Roman times, Amastris was a “typical” urban centre, endowed of amenities (like the theatre, whose mound is still visible today), public spaces (like the colonnaded street mentioned by Pliny), residential quarters (like the so–called ieronikon amphodon145) and temples146. It benefited from its strategic location on the Black Sea coast for trading salted fish, wood and hazelnuts147 (the latter exported to Crimea in locally produced amphorae148). In the second century Amastris had also an institutional role: as main see of the local council (koinon) of the Pontic part of the double Province Pontus–Bithinia. As seen above,

6. The so-called Bedesten (Author’s photo)

the prefectus orae maritimae Amastris et classis ponticae, in charge of the local fleet, was located in Amastris. The city spread out across the isthmus, covering a wide area. There is no space here to deal in detail with the plan of the Roman city, but it is worth noticing that it seems to have adapted the classic orthogonal grid of streets to the irregular shape of the isthmus149. The acropolis on Zindan Kalesi and the island of Boz Tepe were protected by Hellenistic walls. As it will be seen, these two sets of walls had the same functions as during Byzantine times: those on the southern side of Boz Tepe were primarily designed to protect the western harbour (where a Hellenistic quay and wharf have been recently found), while the enceinte on the Zindan Kalesi promontory was built to protect the urban settlement on the acropolis150. Amastris continued to flourish in the fifth and sixth century A.D. Hierocles included it in his Synekdemos151. It seems that a new set of “late Roman” walls, was built in this period, although any further evidence concerning their location and date is lacking152. According to Crow– Hill153, the late Roman walls possibly excluded part of the classic poleis (including the Bedesten), but they included three important Christian basilicas, decorated with fine Proconnesian marble capitals and other early Christian stonework154. Leaving St. Andrew’s legendary preaching along the Black Sea coast out of the account, the

T.I.B. IX, 79. On Nicetas see Jenkins 1965. Laudatio St.Hyacinthi in P.G. 105, XIX 4. 140 Crow–Hill 1995, 254. 141 Pliny , X, 96. 142 Id., 99. 143 Crow–Hill 1990, 6; Crow–Hill 1995, 254; Ruggieri 1995, 68. I myself have tried to find traces of this canalization during my visit to Amastris, but nothing remains of it. 144 Bryer–Winfield 1985, 70–1. 145 Robert 1980, 151–54; Doonan 2004, 96. 146 One of the urban temple is described by a French traveller– Eugene Borè– in the late eighteen century: ‘un temple en marbre blanc, dont le temps et le main des hommes n’ont point effacè le derniers festons, qu’y avait prodiguès le sculpture’ (quoted in Marek 1989, 382). For a more detailed account on Amastris in the classic period see Robert 1980, Marek 1989, Eyece 1965, Eyece 1969, Sakaoglu 1987 and T.I.B. IX, 166. 147 T.I.B. IX, 161. 148 Sceglov 1986. 138 139

An account of this argument can be found in my unpublished undergraduate thesis: Zavagno 2002, 66–70, with further bibliography. 150 Crow–Hill 1995, 162. 151 Hieroclis Synecdemus, 34, n. 696. ‘An official document, an handbook for State officials detached to the provinces dating to the first years of Justinian’s reign but using earlier sources‘(Tzougarakis 1988, 115). 152 Crow–Hill 1990, 6. I myself have not found any trace of this wall. 153 Crow–Hill 1990, 6. They simply avoid mentioning any further details concerning the walls and their locations and path. I suspect that their opinion was heavily influence by a large panel at the Museum of Amastris, depicting the city in Roman times, where the turreted walls secluding the northern part of promontory are visible. Indeed, in their later publication (Crow–Hill 1995, 255) they only refer to the Hellenistic enceinte, traces of which are still visible in various places as incorporated in the Byzantine walls. 154 Ibid., 6. 149

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) first reference to Christianity in Amastris is in Eusebius, who claimed that Dionysius the Areopagite wrote to the local Bishop at the end of the second century155 and that a synon ton kata Ponton episcopon (a synod of all the Pontic bishops), was held on the festival of the Saviour’s Passover. More certainly, the Bishop of Amastris took part both in the Council of Nicea (325 A.D.)156 and to that of Chalcedon (451 A.D.) as suffragan of the Metropolitan of Gangra157. The role of the Amastrian Bishopric as a suffragan of Gangra is attested also in the Notitia Episcopatum Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae158. Amastris retained this position159 until the ninth–tenth century, when it was elevated to the rank of Archbishopric160 without suffragans161.

fortifications, can help to fill the gap. Indeed, these researches (carried out in the late 1980s––early 1990s and mainly focussed on the walls) provide us with the only available stratigraphical evidence regarding Amastris. This owed to an intensive survey of the Byzantine walls and an extensive survey of the urban landscape, which (with all its limits), remain the cornerstone of the discussion concerning the urban morphology and structures. The surviving Byzantine walls protected the rock at the northern side of the promontory and the island of Boz Tepe, which, as will be seen, was connected to the mainland by a fortified bridge. They dominated the two harbours and overlooked the large area of the classic city to the south, incorporating small stretches of the ancient Hellenistic enceinte168. The strongest part of the circuit was the landward–facing southern section of the walls, running between the two harbours. They were equipped with closely spaced towers and had a double line. Amastris was not located on a hilltop –unlike the new Anatolian fortresses of the seventh and eighth centuries– so it needed additional works (like this double enceinte) which, according to Foss169, are rarely attested anywhere else during this period170. The outer line of defence, preceded by a ditch, is much less well preserved than the main wall, but it had towers, too, positioned in the intervals between those of the inner enceinte171. It was built over and embedded parts of a late Roman bath house, with a cistern172. Another cistern, once part of the classic city, was discovered outside the external wall; a stepped tunnel173with regular niches for lamps linked the reservoir with the space between the two lines of defence: ‘though the classic city was abandoned by the fortress builders, its cistern was still needed in times of crisis and a tenuous link was therefore maintained through the rock–cut channel’174.

As seen above, during the seventh century Amastris did not experience the serious effects from the Persian and Arab raids. In consequence Amastris remains almost unmentioned by the literary sources until the late eighth– early ninth century, when a katepano was seated in what had possibly become an imperial naval fortress. Filling this chronological gap to draw a picture of the urban development of Amastris between the seventh and the eighth century is very difficult. The only literary reference to Amastris is contained in the Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor and Nikephoros’ Short History. These sources, both written in the early ninth century162, reported that when Justinian II seized the throne of Constantinople for the second time (706 A.D.), he ‘elevated to the Patriarchate one Kyros, who had been a hermit on the “island” of Amastris’163, for having predicted his restoration to a second reign164. In all probability, Kyros lived at Tavçan Adasi, where recent archaeological surveys165 have brought to light three churches along with the traces of a monastic enclosure on the southern end of the island166. Apart from this reference, the sources are silent on the fate of Amastris in the seventh and eighth century. However, new archaeological researches167, focusing on the urban

The outer and slighter enceinte protected the massive inner walls (still standing today and rising to 9 m. in height, where the parapet is preserved that included an area of 400m by 100m (without considering the attached Boz Tepe Island). The construction of these walls involved different building phases175, the first of which is made of large blockwork courses, with different mortar beds, and carved spolia for decorative purposes. Thus it seems clear that both the squared stone blocks (robbed from the ancient city) and the spolia were carefully cut and set into the walls according to a predefined constructive model, which could be regarded as one of the main figures of Byzantine architecture in the sixth–seventh century across the whole empire, from Palmyra to Oderzo176.

Euseb., IV, 23, 147. Honigmann(b), 46 : Bishop Euphsukios of Amastris 157 Mansi, VII, col. 610. However, Gangra is not mentioned by the List of the Nicean Fathers. See Honigmann(b). 158 Not. Epis., 1. 228 159 Seals of several bishops of Amastris are well documented. Two are reported by Laurent (Laurent 1963, V, 1, 440–441): one of them is dated back to the seventh century (Adrianou episkopou Amastris).See also Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 41; Studies in Byzantine Sigillography 1998, 110. 160 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 41. The first seal mentioning the Archibishop of Amastris is the one bearing the name of Eudokimos, who attended at the Photian Synod in 879. Indeed Laurent reported a lead–seal of the Bishop Eutychianus, which is traced back to the first half of the ninth century (Laurent 1963, V, 1, 441). 161 Not. Epis. 8. 56. 162 Brubaker–Haldon 2001, 168–71. 163 Nikeph. 42.67. 164 Nikeph., 42.67; Theoph., 523. 165 The monastic complex has been excavated and plans and maps are published in Eyece 1965. Also Hill 1990; Hill 1991a, Crow–Hill 1990; Crow– Hill 1992, Hill–Waddington 1994, Crow–Hill 1995.. 166 Hill 1991a, 21. During my own survey of the island, I found that bushes and vegetation have completely covered the ruins, which are hardly recognizable. Today only segals nests among the ruins. 167 Hill 1990; Hill 1991a, Crow–Hill 1990; Crow– Hill 1992, Hill– Waddington 1994, Crow–Hill 1995. 155 156

Crow–Hill 1995, 255; Crow–Hill 1990, 5. Foss–Winfield 1986, 131ff. 170 Crow–Hill 1995, 262. 171 Crow–Hill 1990, 9. 172 I myself have surveyed another Roman and then Ottoman Bath, lying in ruins astride the isthmus. Any further information concerning this and the late Roman bathhouse (including their dating) are simply unavailable. 173 Its dating is unknown. 174 Crow–Hill 1995, 265. 175 Crow–Hill 1990, 7; Crow–Hill 1995, 256; Hill 1990, 82; Hill 1991, 312. 176 Zanini 1998, 229 and fn.51. 168 169

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7. The stepped tunnel giving access to the cistern (Author’s photo)

The method of construction fits with the impressive scale of the first building phase, ‘which is much stronger than the needs of the successor of a Classic city should have required’177. Closely spaced and projecting rectangular towers strengthened the inner walls 178. According to the stratigraphical analysis179, they all belong to the first constructive phase. Two of them (which are still standing today) are particularly relevant: the so–called towers E and D. The former, in the middle of the enceinte, lies where the course of the walls clearly shifted, and was particularly strongly constructed. Perhaps it represents the core of the fortifications. The latter was built with monumental blocks robbed from the theatre or stadium, as proved by the seats inside the towers used as they were found, without recourse to re–cutting180. ‘It is clear from the step built into the inner face of the wall toward the west end of the south circuit that a parapet walk ran along the top of the curtain wall between the towers’181. The inner and the outer walls have been proved to be contemporary; in fact, the inner circuit has some postern gates, which opened into the space between the two lines 182. The double enceinte reinforced the weakest and most approachable section of the walls, whereas, on the seaward–facing sides, the walls appeared to be less complicated, because of the sloping rocky cliffs which offered a natural defence183.

8. Spolia embedded in the city walls (Author’s photo)

This double system of walls should be regarded not only as a practical and functional response to defensive needs, but also as recognition of status. This conclusion does not derive from the fact that the triple defensive line (ditch– outer–inner walls) occurred also in Constantinople, but, rather, from stylistic and structural evidence. The overall plan of the fortress can be compared with other Byzantine fortifications in the seventh and eighth century, such as Amasra and Ankara, while ‘details of a second phase blockwork are reminiscent of early eighth–century work at Nicaea’184.Moreover, the projecting barbican on the island of Boz Tepe is also relevant. The island of Boz Tepe was provided with three different lines of walls, which were not contemporary. These fortifications, overlooking the western harbour, were connected to the mainland by a fortified bridge. The bridge led to a primary gate, covered with an external layer of plaster and originally flanked by two towers185. The gate had ornamental marble jambs, lintels and a corbelled vault. So, the projecting barbican occurred as a secondary addition, protruding from the first door. This massive construction dominated the western end of the bridge and was built with spolia used with decorative purposes, among which an impressive cornice stands out. ‘The barbican went through at least two significant alterations in the blockwork phase, involving the insertion

Hill 1991, 312; Crow–Hill 1990, 8; Crow–Hill 1995, 255. Crow–Hill 1990, 8. Hill 1990: ’The towers were not bonded to the walls in their lower courses, but only at the top’. 179 This is the only dating evidence we are provided with. Here I am using the term stratigraphical with regard to the buildings and walls like Carandini does. See Carandini 1991, 195ff . 180 Hill 1991, 312: ‘The method of construction can be seen most clearly at the point east of the tower D, where the curtain wall is least well preserved. Here it can be seen that the lower courses of the curtain wall were constructed as a retaining wall with only one face on the outer side, but with rubble and mortar packed behind. At a higher level the curtain wall also had a rear face’. The same technique was used to build the walls on the island of Boz Tepe. A similar method of construction can be traced in the repairs to the walls of Nicea (dated to 727-730 A.D.) as pointed out by Foss and Winfield (Foss-Winfield 1986). I am particularly grateful to Prof. Ivison for suggesting this comparison to me. 181 Crow–Hill 1990, 8. 182 Crow–Hill 1995, 255. 183 Crow–Hill 1991, 315. 177 178

184 185

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Crow–Hill 1995, 257 Id., 264.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) towers 70 and 93 of the walls of Nicaea. Both of these cornices in Amastris and in Nicaea191 seem to recall the marble decorations of the Constantinopolitan Golden Gate (late fourth century)192, indicating a deliberate imitation of an earlier Imperial model and hints at a specific Imperial role in the urban defences193. ‘The Nicaean towers belong to the restoration works of Leo III which were carried out in 730 A.D.’194 So, it is possible to propose a similar date (early eighth century) for the construction of the Amastris barbican, which, as secondary addition, came later in the Byzantine building sequence. There may have been relatively short intervals between the various phases of building activity in Amastris but, taking into consideration the massive scale and extent of the walled structures, it could easily be that the scheme of the fortifications began during the seventh century195. Another feature which could be useful to understand the chronology of the walls of Amastris are the two gates of the inner enceinte. In all probability, the eastern gate should be regarded as the main land access to the city. Its structural history is very complicated. The first construction phase had ornate marble jambs and lintels as the main façade of the barbican, while a massive corbelled vault dominated its front. Later came the addition of an outer gate, un–mortared and differently built196. At the opposite end of the fortifications lay the western outer gate, which was strengthened in three occasions. ‘A strong barrel–vaulted passage was added in front of the gate, and at a later stage a second gate was added along with an outwork system which included a well–head within the system; the Genoese added machicolation at the top of the secondary gate’197. Both gates were well protected, and those approaching them had to turn through several angles to enter the fortress198. It seems a baffled entrance was strengthened further by an outer gateway at the east gate or a tunnel vault at the west gate). Again, it is possible to provide a close parallel with the baffled entrance of the Ankara fortress (Kale), although such entrances otherwise seem to recur more frequently in middle Byzantine castles like Kastamonou, than in the seventh–eighth century199. In Ankara, the fortress formed a rectangle, containing 40 towers– almost all pentagonal– and a massive polygonal corner tower on the southeast. The main entrance was on the south. It was not a simple and direct opening through the walls: there were two flanking towers projecting from the wall forming a barbican; the entrance was adjacent to the curtain wall on the east side of this rectangle200.

9. The line of the walls (Author’s photo)

of a finely constructed barrel–vault roof over the passage and the complete remodelling of the main south façade’186. The defended bridge has no parallels187, and probably owes its existence to the naval significance of Amastris: indeed, the walls of Boz Tepe dominated the western harbour. This harbour preserved evidences of chain workings to fence off the entrance, two phases of quay walls spreading across the south and eastern part of the port and, lastly, a sequence of probable lighthouse–towers (the ruins of a Byzantine lighthouse are still visible)188. Accordingly, it seems reasonable to consider the western port as the main harbour both in Roman and Byzantine times 189. Returning to the projecting barbican, it is possible to draw a comparison with the projecting inner gate of the fortress at Ankara, built by Constans II (641–668 A.D.)190. This is emphasised on stylistic grounds by the match between the reused moulded cornice on its façade with those on Id., 258. The same, however, could be stated about a harbour island so close to the shore. 188 Hill–Waddington 1994, 6; Crow–Hill 1995, 255; Crow–Hill 1990, 7. According to Prof.Ivison the opus mixtum masonry in the so-called lighthouse at the western harbour should point to a temptatively ninth century date for this building. 189 The other natural harbour, the Eastern Büyük Limani, is now more important and shows two phases of construction, one is Hellenistic and the other Byzantine (Hill–Waddington 1994, 7) . A rise of the sea level relative to the land of approximately 1 m. is witnessed in Amastris between the Classical period and the Late Byzantine period. So, the later byzantine quays are higher than the Hellenistic ones. 190 Although I tend to agree with Dunn when he thinks that the emperor Heraclius built the wall: see Dunn 1998. Also Foss–Winfield 1986, 133ff. 186

This gate, piercing the side of a rectangular court, was built in the mid–seventh century when Ankara was

187

Foss 1977; Foss–Winfield 1986. Concina 2002, 12–13; 30–43; 99. 193 Crow–Hill 1992, 89–90. 194 Crow–Hill 1995, 258. 195 Ibid. 196 Crow–Hill 1990, 10. 197 Id. Also Hill 1991, 314. 198 Crow–Hill 1990, 10; Hill 1991, 314; 199 Crow–Hill 1995, 264; Crow 1996. 200 Foss–Winfield 1986, 133–5. ‘A force attacking the gate would be subjected to fire from the walls on the right as well as that of the tower directly behind’. Also Zanini 1994, 201–3 and Foss 1976, 74–5. 191 192

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10. The projecting Barbican (Author’s photo)

transformed into a large and powerful fortress201. Even though ‘the defended circuit at Amastris appear to be larger than Ankara, reflecting the economic importance of the harbour and town as well as its military and political significance’202, the similarities between Amastris and Ankara traced above (baffled entrance, barbican, closely spaced towers, masonry203) allow us to consider them as roughly contemporary.

walls included two churches, which could be interpreted as a sign of civic activity. I will return to this in a moment. These two churches too, (now Mesçidi Çamii and Fatih Çamii)208 are extremely useful to understand the fate of the city in the seventh–eighth century. At least one of them was built on the remains of a former and larger basilica and was completely restored in the middle Byzantine period (ninth–tenth century)209. However they contained spolia of the early Byzantine period (like marble jambs and lintels decorating the main door of the Mesçidi Çamii) which match those on the Boz Tepe main façade and the East gate. Moreover, the masonry and the mortar type used on the lower courses of the two buildings are comparable to those on the walls. In fact, in both cases the analysis of the building technique proves to be useful to follow the developing phases of the structures. So, one could point out that in both the churches and the walls, after an earlier blockwork phase there followed a secondary stage of re–building. In this later phase, the reused courses of

Indeed, both Ankara and Amastris should be regarded as major works of imperial defence and not simply a shelter for the local inhabitants204. Moreover, as it will be seen, it can be pointed out that this newly built seventh century fortress preserved, at least in the first period, a separation between civil and military defences. At Amastris one could easily argue that the Boz Tepe was fortified for military reasons (mainly to control the western harbour for the Byzantine fleet), whilst the inland walls included what was left of the ancient city205. Indeed, it has been tentatively proposed to identify the two buildings, massively standing between two fortified lines at Boz Tepe, with barracks, in so far as it is ‘hard to conceive that structures in this position would have been used for domestic purposes’206. Conversely, even without any trace of residential buildings207, the inland

2009 (in course of press), they would be virtually invisible to any survey and traceable only by proper excavations ( on Amorion see LightfootLightfoot 2007 and Ivison 2000; on the poor building technique used in the construction of domestic structures also La Rocca 2006, with reference to the Italian peninsula). I will return to Amorion later and, in detail, in my conclusive chapter. 208 For a detailed account of the two churches see Eyice 1954, Eyice 1965 and Ruggieri 1995.

Foss–Winfield 1986, 133–5. Crow–Hill 1995, 265. 203 Foss–Winfield 1986, 134: ‘the walls of Ankara consists entirely of spoils, ruins of the ancient city, arranged carefully and often with remarkable elegance’. 204 Crow 1996, 24. 205 One could be tempted to assert that the ecclesiastical and military elites resided in the Kale, but any evidence is lacking. 206 Crow–Hill 1995, 256. 207 If, like in Amorion, those residential buildings were made of cobblestone, mud-brick and spolia (a building technique which was very commonly found in the Anatolian Plateau (see Lightfoot-Ivison 201 202

As Prof. Ivison has suggested, it could be possible that the largest one (the Fatih Çamii , which is now the principal mosque of the city) acted as the local cathedral. I am particularly grateful to him for these remarks, which, however, lack of any substantial evidence. 209 Ruggeri(Ruggeri 1995, 61–2) asserts that both the churches were built on a former basilica, but I have not found any traces of foundations at the Mesçidi Çamii. I have found traces of the ruins of a basilica (?) beneath the Fatih Çamii; unfortunately, it is impossible to propose any dating for this building, for any survey or excavation are lacking.

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12. The main door of the Mesçidi Çamii (Author’s photo)

central Constantinopolitan government214 to invest the Paphlagonian city with an important functional role during a period of reorganization of the administrative, political and military structures, a role that would pre–date the recognition (by the literary sources and the sigillography) of the city as the seat of the katepano in the first half of the ninth century. So, seventh– and eighth–century Amastris was not the result of a simple contraction of a classic city. It was an imperial naval fortress, strategically located on the southern Black Sea coast. Besides, its vitality was not merely symbolized by its imperial fortifications. Indeed, Amastris had commercial facilities and a narrow fertile agrarian hinterland. Indeed, it would be misleading to regard the walls as the only core of the city, given that it had remained almost untouched by Arabs raids, was immune to naval assaults and was protected by the massive Paphlagonian Mountains. In all probability, the population of Amastris took advantage of the fertility of the Amastrianè, living in villages outside the walls or in the area of the classic city. It could be argued that the urban landscape of Amastris developed in several settlements, evoking the idea of a city of islands215 or simply of a relatively dense settlement outside the walls. In this sense, the famous episode of St.George gathering together the peasants working in some neighbouring villages in the fortress could be easily matched with another well–known passage of the Miracula St.Demetrii216. According to one of this passage, a group of barbarian raiders assaulted the city of Thessaloniki and captured many citizens who were about to harvest their fields outside the walled enceinte: they ravaged the fields and plundered the livestock together

11. The Eastern Gate (Author’s photo)

squared blocks are smaller, recurring together with a more extensive use of brickwork. The relationships between the different phases of masonry are particularly noticeable in the outer west gate and, as just seen, in the two churches. Therefore, it is likely that there is a close and precise relationship between the building of the fortifications and churches in Byzantine Amastris: ‘the primary phase of the churches was contemporary with the building of the Kale, and it may will be the case that, as they survive, the churches reflect the period of substantial middle Byzantine improvements to the fortification system’210. It has been also recently proposed to identify two small buildings, located along the road linking the two churches, with the episcopal complex211. A wall fenced it off from the rest of the city and a doorway gave space to the main road. This door was embellished with a reused marble lintel. It was later carved with a cross and some hearts 212. If this identification is established213 (although probably it would have existed since the fourth–fifth century), it could be easily inferred that there was an imperial commitment to enhance a new role for Amastris as an imperial naval stronghold for the Black Sea fleet, evidenced by the building of the military fortress, the city wall and the Episcopal complex. It could, indeed, be argued that the city would be the focus of a deliberate plan set out by the

Ivison 2000, 7ff. Wickham 2005, 630ff. 216 Mirac.Sancti Demetrii II, 197. This collection of miracles is divided into two parts. The first florilegium was written by John the Archibishop of Thessaloniki in the first quarter of the seventh century, focussed on some events occurred when his predecessor headed the Metropolitan seat. The second florilegium, anonymously written, included six miracles and is dated back to the second half of the seventh century. See Albini– Maltese 1984, 244–5. 214 215

Crow–Hill 1990, 11. Ruggieri 1995, 62. 212 Ibid., 65. 213 Theoph., 661–62. Unfortunately I did not see any traces of this complex. Possibly its ruins were demolished to build a modern terraced house. 210 211

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AMASTRIS with the harvesting tools. Another image of fragmentation of the urban structure comes from Euchaita217, on the Anatolian plateau to the north–east of Ankara. Here, as seen above, although the population was not particularly large, a pilgrimage (thanks to the fame of St.Theodore the Recruit) and rural centre developed by enlarging the sixth century walls. This centre was regarded as the focus of a wider settlement218. The same could be true for Amastris, even though the persistence of the town as urban centre astride the massive enceinte should owe less to its role as pilgrimage focus than to its military importance as naval base for the Byzantine fleet.

As in Amorion, also in Amastris, the archaeological investigations have shed light on the ruins of some (three) early Byzantine churches in the area of the Classic city (which should be paired with the possible continuous economic role played by the Bedesten until the ninth century and beyond230). Those churches – even if not dated yet– together with the Bedesten could point to the existence of scattered residential extra–mural islands of settlement or to an extra–mural quarter231, that, in all probability, benefited from the access to the Western harbour, itself located outside the enceinte. This being so, one might assert that Amastris probably experienced a spatial deconstruction and the demonumentalization of its classic monumental core (whether if in terms of concentrated or dispersed settlements located beyond the later Byzantine enceinte), but the degeneration of the urban landscape was hampered by three main factors, which contributed to retain a level of urban structural coherence. First, the political and military importance of Amastris in the eye of the Constantinopolitan government, which brought about the building of such a massive fortress: in other words, instead of acting as the main factor of the process of de–urbanization, the Byzantine state with its military apparatus, contributed to avoid the “supersession” of the urban stage232. This is even more important if one consider that even if Amastris configured its urban trajectory along state–driven lines233 and if its elites (whose life–style and dwelling areas remain obscure due to the lack of archaeological and literary evidence) experienced the allure of Constantinople (in terms of attraction of local elites by the formal hierarchies of the state), the city (to the contrary of Amorion) was not a thematic capital. Second, the persistence of a good level of economic activity, which, as will be seen, is reflected by the functional persistence of the two harbours, the strategic location of the city along the Black Sea routes234, and the networks of trading exchange. This much is apparent despite the fact that we do not posses any ceramics or coherent numismatic evidence235, which could allow us to determine the levels of social demand, the forms of production and distribution and the consumption of social wealth by the local elites. Third, there was the existence of a relatively rich and fertile hinterland, which in all

This role allows us to propose some similarities with Amorion, which lies in a fertile district of the Anatolian plateau to the north of Ankara219. Indeed, in the Phrygian city of Amorion, the strategic advantages of the landscapes, the administrative needs of the government and the rising of the urban centre to the status of thematic capital of the Anatolikon theme in the mid-seventh century220, led to the partition of the urban landscape in two different zones: the upper fortified mound, possibly including the secure headquarters of the Strategos (the military commander) and the other imperial administrators221, and the residential lower city whose walls- built in the later fifth or early sixth and restored sometimes between the late sixth and the early ninth century222- fenced some foci of settlement which preserved the ‘late antique framework of public buildings, streets and public and private spaces forming the grid within which the Dark Age city developed’223. The excavations have, in fact, yielded traces of streets and numerous wells224, public buildings (like the so called bathhouse complex225), artisanal installations (wine-presses226) – pointing to a consistent economic activity throughout the seventh and the eighth century227- and four churches (among which the so-called Lower City Basilica228). So, it is possible to hypothesize for Amorion some kind of zoning, mainly as a response to the administrative and needs of the Imperial government229, which determined the compartmentalization of the city in two –functionally specialized- areas. A similar picture could, indeed, be proposed for Amastris, where, as we have seen, the fortifications on the island of Boz Tepe could possibly act as a walled stronghold, enhanced by the restricted access through the barbican and the fortified bridge, whereas the massive enceinte included a “lower city” with ecclesiastical , and, perhaps, residential quarters.

The Bedesten is a brick–faced concrete construction, located to the south of the walled enceinte. Details such as the opus reticulatum suggest that it was constructed in the early imperial period. According to a cursory analysis of the building technique, the Bedesten (like a similar building in Sinop) remained in use throughout the Byzantine period. (Crow–Hill 1995, 252). See also infra. 231 I could see nor visit them, but the Director of the local Museum assured me that they existed, although he refused to tell me their dating and their exact location. On the role of the churches as foci of extra-mural settlements see La Rocca 2006 with further bibliography. 232 Wickham 2005, 633. 233 Ibid. Also Ivison 2006. 234 See McCormick 2001, 529ff. 235 Although only poorly published the seventh-eight-century coin collection from Amastris museum seems to show a similar chronological pattern of coin circulation to that recognized in Amorion. Here, indeed the several copper coins- dated between the reign of Heraclius and Theophilus- yielded by the excavations point to the city’s continued wealth and vitality as a reflection of conditions in the surrounding countryside. Lightfoot 2002, 236ff. Also Ireland-Ateşoğullari 1996. 230

Trombley 1985. Haldon 1990, 120–1.; also Brandes 1989, 47–9. 219 For further details on Amorion see also Ivison 2000,; Ivison 2007; Lightfoot-Lightfoot, 2007, Ivison-Lightfoot 2009 (in course of press). I will return to Amorion in my conclusive chapter. 220 Ivison 2007, 12. 221 Lightfoot-Lightfoot, 2007, 144ff. 222 Ibid., 104-110; also Ivison 2006, 13. 223 Ivison 2007, 15. 224 Lightfoot-Lightfoot, 2007, 79. 225 Ibid., 126ff; Ivison 2006, 18-22. 226 Lightfoot-Ivison 2009(in course of press). 227 Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 48; Lightfoot 2006, 173-81. 228 Ivison 2006, 24-26 229 Ibid., 28; also Ivison 2000. 217 218

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13. Amorion, view of the site from the Upper mound (Author’s photo).

probability underpinned the demographic vitality of the city and was substantiated in different, but coherent foci of settlements. In other words one could be tempted to analyse the urban morphology of Amastris in terms of a structured and functional dialogue between a double walled core (the first acting as headquarters for the administrative and military authorities resided, the other including the main ecclesiastical buildings, the bishop’s palace and, possibly, the domestic quarters of the local elites) and some scattered or at least extra–mural settlements, partially located at the feet of the massive enceinte236. So, it seems possible to me that fortifications could be used as a temporary shelter from dangerous raids, even though they were not the living– place of the local rural population. As a matter of fact, the archaeological surveys have not revealed any traces of residential–domestic quarters237, but only feeble hints of possible aristocratic residences (on the north eastern side of the walled promontory)238.

Part of the local population was clearly committed to trading and commercial activities. This conclusion is suggested by the two harbours (which are the main natural feature of the promontory), and the strategic location of the city on the Pontic coast. It is demonstrated too by documentary sources. The Life of St. George tells of some merchants of Amastris that were arrested in Trabzon, wrongly accused of public crimes. They were seized and handed over to the public jail by the local strategos and sentenced to death. The Saint left his homeland, embarking on a ship and set sail to aid them, notwithstanding the length of the journey nor making an excuse of wintry weather.239. This episode casts light over the commercial relationship between the towns on the southern part of the Black Sea, which could be reached by ships also during winter. This does not mean that a sea–journey during the bad season could be taken less than seriously240. The shipwreck suffered by the fleet sent by Justinian II in 711 A.D. to ravage Cherson241 and the miracle of St.George who, coming back from Constantinople, saved his own ship from a storm at the

236 As also pointed out by an inscription referring to the village of Ziporia in the chora of Amastris (Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 20 and n.24) 237 Although- as suggested above- this could owe to the “archaeological invisibility” (in terms of building technique and material) of these quarters. 238 This suggestion has been proposed by Prof. J. Crow. I am particularly grateful to him for his helpful comments and encouragement. Unfortunately, during my survey of the city I have not found any trace of those residences.

Life of St.Georg.Amastr. 27. Although one could stress that the anti-clockwise circulation of surface currents in the Black Sea (from North-West to South East) may favour the sea-journeys also during winter. See on this Doonan 2004, 10ff. 241 Nikeph., 45, 108–9. 239 240

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AMASTRIS mouth of the Sangarios242, can be taken at face value to demonstrate how dangerous the Black Sea could be even in summer or spring. As will be seen, also the extent of local trade is borne out by the similar buildings (the so–called Bedesten) which have been identified in the main coastal ports of the southern side of the Black Sea243. Moreover, together with coastal trade, more significant local and international exchange was carried out across the sea with the Crimea. Faint traces of this peculiar relationship with the Crimea could be found in the literary sources244. Furthermore, an analysis of recently published seals is particularly illuminating. Although the bulk of the lead seals recovered in Crimea should be dated to the ninth and tenth centuries, some specimens like the seal (early eighth century) of the kommerkiarion apothekes Onoriados, Paphlagonia kai paralou Pontou, found in Sudak245, pointed to an earlier bond with fiscal inferences 246 between the northern and the southern coast of the Black Sea. This seal recalled three similar specimens, one bearing the inscription kommerkia apothekes Amastris)247, the others – dated back to the later seventh century – referring to some general kommerkiaroi of Paphlagonia and Honorias248. These seals249 were struck by customs officials (kommerkiarioi), who controlled the movement and the sale of certain merchandise in the provinces. Moreover, they led the so–called apotheke which could be regarded as provincial custom depots or, better, customs stations where taxes were supposed to be collected (often in kind)250. They seem also to be civic functionaries in charge of providing what the Army needed. The kommerkiarioi and the apothekai which they administered were connected with some aspects of the supplying of imperial forces251. Although, according to Brandes, their presence in the Byzantine provinces is related more to urban centres, economically in control of the local territory, than to commercial relationships252, the specimen found in Sudak easily recalls the ships carrying crops, wine and other products, which both Pope Martin

14. The location of the Bedesten (after Marek 1990, p. 374)

in the seventh century and Constantine Porphyrogenitus in the tenth century253 described . Besides, if we take for granted the assertion made by Brandes, who, recalling a passage in a ninth century Arab history, alleging that the apothekai could be also graniers pour l’approvisionment de l’armèe254, it would be possible that the three coastal Bedesten also fulfilled also these functions between the seventh and the ninth century255. One could advance the hypothesis that they provided the navy with the equipment they needed for their expeditions. If so, Amastris and the other centres located along the shores of the Black Sea could have fulfilled an important role within the fiscal shipping network. This role was clearly enhanced by the geo–political importance of the city as military naval fortress. In all probability it was the fiscal system which acted as the basic underpinning of the interregional commercial exchange256. Again, any counterproof (especially in terms of ceramics or artisanal activity) is lacking, but one could easily imagine that the upper echelons of the military and ecclesiastical hierarchy seated in Amastris (but also in the other urban centres along the Black Sea coastal strip) should support a good level of local economic sophistication257: the almost total absence of Arab incursions, and the network of sea and land communication, paired with the persistence of the fiscal system point to the economic complexity at regional and inter–regional level. A late ninth–century seal found in Cherson points to the shipping of crops between Paphlagonia( via Amastris) and Crimea: it bears the inscription Niketa Basiliko spathario kai diokete Amastridos258. The dioketes was, as we have seen, an allpurpose fiscal official. Indeed, the easing of sea–routes around and across the Black Sea might have allowed Paphlagonians to sell the crop surplus to their Crimean neighbours or even to the Constantinopolitan markets259. ‘Cherson seems to have been something of a centre of

Life of St.Georg.Amastr., 36. McCormick 2001, 589. 244 These are: the above–mentioned episode of the Life of Pope Martin, banned in Cherson (above pp. 133–4), the passage of the Life of S.John of Gotthia , who fled from his Crimean prison to Amastris where he died at the end of the eighth century (T.I.B. IX, 162), Beda’s reference to one Abbas Kyros( the future Patriarch) who looked after Justinian II during his exile in Cherson (T.I.B. IX, 71) and , eventually, Constantin’s Porphyrogenitus’s account of the foundation (839 A.D.) of the city of Sarkel by the chelandia of Paphlagonia(above pp. 136–7). 245 Sandrovskaja 1998, 46. 246 On the kommerkiarioi see Haldon 1990, 232ff. and, more recently, Brandes 2003, 239ff. with further and complete bibliography. References to this topic can be found in all my chapters and in the conclusions. 247 Brandes 2003, 565; T.I.B. IX, 162. The seal is not dated and its provenience is unknown. 248 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 6.1 : George patrikios and Theophilaktos, general kommerkiarioi of the apotheke of Paphlagonia and Honoris (692/3 A.D.); 11.20: Stephanos apo hypathon, patrikios, stratiotikos logothethes and general kommerkiarios of the apotheke of Paphlagonia (659– 668). (Provenience unknown). 249 See Brandes 1989, 153, Oikonomides 1985, 21 and , more recently, Oikonomides 2001, Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 80ff. and Brandes 2003, with further bibliography. 250 Brandes 1989, 160–1; Brandes 2003, 245–7; Haldon 1990, 233ff.; 251 Haldon 1990, 234; Hendy 1985, 631ff; Dunn 1993. 252 Brandes 1989, 171; also Cosentino 2006, 43-44. 242 243

See above pp. 133–5. Brandes 1989, 168: “Cereal depots for the army”. 255 Brandes–Winfield 1985, 81–82. 256 Wickham 2005, 718. 257 Ivison 2000, 25ff.; Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 119-21. 258 Alekseenko 2003, 80; Studies in Bizantine Sigillography 2003, 156. A dioketes of Tios is mentioned in a tenth century (Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 10.1, 23. 259 Teall 1959, 118. 253 254

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) exchange for its own hinterland and the Pontic area. Merchant ships from Paphlagonia brought to Cherson wine and grain’260. In all probability grain was also shipped to fulfil the needs of the navy and army detachments stationed in Cherson, the real centre ‘of a grain deficit area on the north shore of the Black Sea’261. This would explain the involvement of state–fiscal officials in the shipping of crops. Moreover, as proved by the Sinop inscription mentioning the bishop of Cherson’s meizoteros, the Crimeans could be profitably involved in the trading system as landlords 262.

after the siege of Constantinople in 717 A.D.272 So, it is possible that at the beginning of the eighth century the imperial court was committed to planning a renewal of communicational and strategic sea–routes, by fortifying some particular coastal areas both in the Aegean and in the Black Sea region. It is also possible that Amastris was arguably one of the foci of this administrative and military re–organizing planning. Amastris experienced significant transformations in its institutional, administrative and military role at the beginning of the ninth century. As seen above, during the first quarter of this century a new theme of Paphlagonia (whose strategos was seated in Gangra273) came into existence: ‘about 819 A.D. emperor Leo, probably provoked by the emergent Russians, made two coastal parts of the Armeniac Theme into the new military districts of Paphlagonia and Chaldia’274. The local strategos is mentioned in the later tenth century Book of Ceremonies written by the Emperor Constantine VII275. Indeed, this source preserves the payroll of different strategoi (rogai ton strategon), which are enlisted according to a hierarchical order made by the emperor Leo VI (886–912 A.D.)276.

According to recent archaeological works263 and to the sigillography264 Cherson did not experience any crisis in the seventh–eighth century265. The rare archaeological evidence for this period indicates a certain continuity in the importation of Mediterranean amphorae and terra sigillata in the second half of the seventh century266. Traces of a bronze workshop have also been found267 together with a basilica built in the seventh century (which remained in use until the ninth century) and a cistern (linked to the Crimean journey of the strategos Petronas Kamateros), which was filled with pottery sherds dated back to the late eighth–early ninth century268. The good continuity, which Cherson experienced in the seventh–eighth centuries, could be regarded as an explanation for the strategic role of Amastris as a main stronghold along the Black Sea shipping routes. A role which matches its military significance as a naval base269 as well as its ecclesiastical importance as a suffragan bishopric (also proved by the episode reported by Theophanes involving the local ecclesiastical oikonomos270). It also provides an explanation for the imperial patronage from which the city benefited in the late seventh– early eighth century.

Almost contemporary to the creation of the Paphlagonian theme, the Emperor Theophilos appointed a katepano as the official in charge of the Paphlagonian thematic fleet277, anchored in the harbour of Amastris. The newly– appointed official is mentioned278by different lead–seals. Although dating to the tenth and eleventh centuries, these seals pair with the ninth century reference to the katepano found in Constantine Porphyrogenitus279 and Theophanes Continuatus280, emphasizing the continuous activity of this official long after the turn of the ninth century. There is some argument about the katepano’s dependence on the strategos281. He had his own bureaucratic staff (a basilikos of the diocesis and a horrerarios are known through two seals282) and seemed to act almost independently, for his main duties concerned more the sea than the land since he was in charge of the chelandia (fleet) of the Paphlagonian katepano283, which, although sometimes used for patrolling the coastal waters, was also called for duties284 as part of the imperial navy of the Black Sea. Besides, a lead seal285dated to the first half of the tenth century reflects the joining of naval task forces of two themata (Boukellarioi

It might be possible that Amastris, in this period, had the same experience as the island of Orobi in Greece, which became the strategic focus and the main naval base of the newly–founded Karabisianoi Theme271. Moreover, Leo III established different thematic and regional fleets when he reformed the military and bureaucratic system Laiou 2002, 727. On this see also Laiou-Morrissson 2007, 65. Teall 1959, 118. 262 See above, pp. 134–5. 263 Bortoli–Kazhansky 2002. 264 Alekseenko 2003; Alekseenko 1995. 265 Arthur 2006, 34-5. 266 Bortoli–Kazhansky 2002, 661: LRA–1, LRA–2, LRA–4, LRA–5/6 and some African terra sigillata Hayes 95, 105, LRC 3f and G, have been found and dated to 650–70 A.D. by coin finds of 641–668 A.D. 267 Ibid. 268 Alekseenko 1995, 151. The author does not provide any further reference to classify those “sherds”: ‘Bei den Ausgrabungen hier sind keramische Fragmente vom Ende des VIII. bzw der ersten Halfte des IX Jarhunderts gefunden worden’. On this assemblage from the Roman reservoir one could also see ’The Ceramic Complex of the first half of the 9th century from the reservoir excavation in Khersonesus’, in Rossijskaya Archeologjia (1995), 170-77, which, however, remained unavailable to be 269 According to a seal inscription (Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 10.3, 24), a droungarios seated in the near harbour of Tios in the eighth century. It could be possible that, in the same period, an official bearing a similar title had his seat in Amastris. 270 See above 271 Avramea 1997, 100. 260 261

Ibid., 102. Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 11.31–41, 37–40. Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 421. 274 Treadgold 1995 , 31 275 De Cerimon. II.50. 276 Brandes 2003, 490. On this also Treadgold 1995, 66ff. 277 Treadgold 1995, 114. 278 Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 11.16–17; Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 1060, 798. 279 De Adm. Imp. I, 182. 280 Theoph.Cont., 123. 281 See on this Ahrweiler 1966, 110–11. 282 Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 88 and Nesbitt–Oikonomides 1996, 12.1, 41. 283 De Adm.Imp. I, 184. 284 Like the foundations of the Crimean city of Sarkel in 839 a.D. (De Adm.Imp. 184). 285 Zacos–Veglery 1972, II, 348.: ….imperial protospatarios and katepano of the Boukellarioi and Paphlagonia. 272 273

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AMASTRIS and Paphlagonia) under a single commander (katepano), showing a sort of (temporary) conflation of some naval squadrons in view of particular military tasks.

one was set about by the Genoese at the beginning of the fifteenth century290) is clearly shown by the masonry technique used in the inner land walls, and although only on a purely stratigraphical basis, a ninth century dating has been proposed for it291. Indeed, the relationships between the different major phases292 of masonry are particularly apparent in the outer façade of the outer west gate. This gate, which is itself a secondary Byzantine feature, gave access to a court, which had been added in front of the original main gate. However, the analysis of the building technique point to a major repair during the later Genoese period293.

One can also be tempted to link the newly appointed katepano with the creation of the new Theme of Cherson (on the other side of the Black Sea), as a part of the imperial effort to reorganize the military and administrative structure of the regions overlooking the Black Sea. This would act as a partial explanation for the fact that Amastris never became the capital of the Paphlagonian Theme. The peculiar geo–political location of the city and the geo–morphological configuration of the region would have suggested an informal (but functional) sharing of duties between the strategos and the katepano. This would provide us with a good explanation for the coexistence of two important officials in the same area, as pointed out by the aforementioned lead seals. Indeed, the administrative reorganization of the Paphlagonian region, which was ruled by two distinct and apparently independent officials (one in charge of the inland and the other of the coastal strip), could be regarded as a part of a general reshaping of the regional civic and military structures. Indeed, the bulk of the lead seals found in Cherson286 seem to be related to the constitution of a local theme287 during the first half of the ninth century. It is possible that, during the ninth century , Cherson, Amastris, and , possibly Trabzon, acted as the main foci of the Black Sea, showing both a direct imperial patronage and their pre–existing importance as strategic, military and commercial outposts along the coast of the Black Sea. As for Amastris, according to the archaeological evidence, as will be seen, in the ninth century it benefited from its previous importance (seventh–eighth centuries) as a naval imperial fortress. In this sense, we should speak of a renewed and, now, officially recognized role in the administrative and military imperial system, rather than a newly–gained significance in the regional urban hierarchy. A hierarchy based upon two main centres: the inland seat of the strategos (Gangra), and the coastal harbour ruled by the katepano (Amastris).

The ninth century rebuilding of the city, and its new role as main seat of the katepano, matched the modifications to the ecclesiastical hierarchy. In fact, Amastris became first an autocephalous bishopric and then a Metropolis without suffragans294. Once again, its civic importance and military functions marched together to create a strategic focus along the southern Black Sea coast. A focus which, thanks to its commercial importance and imperial interventions, led to a real continuity in urban life in political, economic and demographic terms. Amastris never died, but maintained its role of providing city living deeply intermingled with the Black Sea. If Amastris was already a link in the Classic Greek colonial chain of coastal settlements along the Black Sea295, we can argue that in the Byzantine period that link stands out as one of the strongest. 5.5. Conclusions It could be possible to approach Amastris through Foss’s traditional typological approach to the cities of Asia Minor. According to this approach Anatolian urbanism was almost entirely wiped out by the Persian and Arab invasions. ‘Once urban life was virtually come to an end, the fortifications became the greatest necessity of the day. So, the so–called Dark Ages were a great period for the construction of defences of all kind in all places’296. In this sense, Foss’s argument is useful to date the first phase of Amastris fortification, back to the late seventh or early eighth century (through a comparison between the building technique and the typological structure of the walls of the Paphlagonian city and those of the fortifications at Ankara, Miletos, Ephesus and Sardis297). However, it is this very date which gives a lie to the Foss’s conclusion. If Amastris

In 860 A.D. – according to the Life of St.George– a Rus’ raid stormed Amastris288. The invaders cut people down, destroyed churches (possibly the extramural ones) and desecrated relics. Even if this never happened at all, the episode is extremely useful because it supports the archaeological evidence, pointing to a major Middle– Byzantine rebuilding programme, which appears evident in the reconstruction of the two churches. The walls were restored too, as shown, for instance, by the secondary defence line on the island of Boz Tepe. Here, a second inner wall of uncoursed rubble was built immediately after a dilapidation of the sea walls and strengthened with triangular towers similar to those in Sinop289. The Middle Byzantine date for this rebuilding phase (a later

Crow–Hill 1995, 258: ‘The dating for the Genovese activity is secured by the surviving Genoese heraldic inscriptions, eight of which are still in situ, serving as terminus ante quem for the constructions of the fortifications. The Genoese inscriptions fall into two chronological series. [...] Three are dated between 1430 and 1435, while several others share with them features of style and content which put them, too, in the period of Milanese rule in Genoa (1421–1436) or very soon afterwards’. 291 ibid. 292 ibid.: ‘In the second phase, blockwork foundations were reused, but upper courses consisted of coursed work with substantially smaller squared stones and occasional prominent use of brickwork’. 293 ibid. 294 Above pp. 134ff. 295 Ascherson 1998. 296 Foss–Winfield 1986, 131. 297 Id., 131–39. 290

Alekseenko 2003, 75; Alekseenko 1995, 139. A specimen struck by Michael III seems here of much relevance. 287 Treadgold 1995, 69. 288 Life of St.Georg. Amastr., 43–46. 289 Crow–Hill 1995, 262. For the triangular towers, see Bryer–Wienfield 1986, 78–9. 286

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15. The peninsula of Amastris (Author’s photo)

was endowed with strong and massive walls, it did not owe this to the Arab raids, which remained rare along the entire coastal strip. On the contrary, these fortifications resulted from a deliberate Imperial plan focused on enhancing the strategic role of the Paphlagonian city. Its walls dealt more with its political and naval significance rather than defensive needs. Military, civic and commercial functions were mixed together and spread across the intra– and extra–mural areas of Amastris. In this sense, one cannot avoid noticing some striking similarities with Amorion. Here, indeed, the military and political importance of the city as thematic capital and administrative centre from the mid-seventh to the early ninth centuries298 sustained a good level of sophistication of the structures of production and demand, the persistence of discriminating buyers299 (including the local landowners and ecclesiastical elites benefiting from imperial service and benevolence300) and the existence of degrees of social differentiation which were mirrored by ‘a built-up environment supporting a range of public/private activity, an occupation of urban landscape denser over time’301, and a duplication of the city in two highly-functionalised, spatially coherent and fortified foci of settlement, relying on the fertile surrounding countryside.

excavated303), showed a good degree of continuity into the seventh century and possibly beyond304. Merchants and villagers from the whole Paphlagonian region will have been attracted by the importance of Amastris as a trading post along the Black Sea, possibly stimulating some market trade and small–scale commodity production (as in the bronze workshops in Cherson), although unfortunately any evidence for these activities is lacking. The city functioned as centre for imperial officers as well as for the Church. Monastery and churches were built inside and outside the walled enceinte, which remained the main feature of the city together with the military stronghold of the island of Boz Tepe. Indeed, Amastris took advantage of its geo– morphological condition and its strategic location, which, thanks to the imperial patronage, became the reason why the city could survive and thrive during the passage between late Antiquity and the early middle ages, enhancing its military importance and its civic significance. To sum up, the urban vitality of Amastris came about from its multifunctional roles: political, even though it never became not the seat of a thematic strategos (a role further enhanced and celebrated by its massive enceinte which was less a response to raids and incursion than an architectural (visual) symbol of the State (and Imperial) interest in its military function as the naval base for the Byzantine fleet of the Black Sea); administrative, as focus for the imperial bureaucracy; religious, as an episcopal (and possibly a pilgrimage) centre; and, last but not least, economic, as the strategic hub along the commercial shipping routes crisscrossing the Black Sea as far as Constantinople. The economic significance of Amastris, indeed, was also underpinned by the presence of urban–oriented (mainly military and administrative) elites, which, in all probability, bolstered the local level of the demand for artisanal and agricultural goods.

Just as Amorion did, Amastris also benefited from a narrow strip of land (the Amastrianè), which was fertile and rich enough to nourish the local population302. Outside the wall one could, indeed, easily imagine a fertile and agriculturally-exploited landscape, dotted of farms and villages which resembled the one emerging from a recent extensive survey made in Sinop. This survey has, indeed, focussed on the highland and valleys which dotted the immediate hinterland of the city, yielding a highly-dense rural settlement pattern made of industrial installations, oil production facilities and residential areas, which –according to the analysis of the ceramics and structural evidence (two fifth-sixth-century churches have been

To conclude, it is also worth noticing that Amastris could be regarded also as an example of a “Black Sea urbanism model”. In fact, other cities along the so-called Pontic Sea, like Trabzon, Sinop305 and Cherson306, reflected historical and functional similarities with Amastris, holding the same

Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 81ff. Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 119-21. 300 Ivison 2000, 28. 301 Ivison 2006, 15. 302 Amastris could in this sense be regarded as an example of a conceptual shift (from the sixth century onwards) to cities whose walls defended a territory receiving in turn economic support (Zanini 2003, 216-7). 298 299

303 304 305 306

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Hill 1995. Doolan 2004, 100ff. Brier–Winfield 1985, 69–88. Also Doonan 2004. Bortoli–Kazhansky 2002.

AMASTRIS set of urban priorities. First of all, Sinop, Cherson and Amastris were important ports, on the Black Sea and close to Constantinople; two of them (Sinop and Amastris) had a similar geo–morphological configuration, straddling a narrow causeway that links what is, in all other respects, an island to the mainland. The three cities were also linked to their inland through land roads, which remained, however, of secondary significance (especially in mountainous Paphlagonia and Pontus). Second, their hinterland satisfied their immediate needs307, allowing them also to exploit a highly profitable surplus, which were channelled to Cherson or Constantinople itself. Apart from their role in trading around and across the Black Sea, a good degree of prosperity was also assured by the ship–building industries and by fishing (salt–fish was processed in local manufactories and then exported). All these cities played a dominant role in the economic life of their region. Third, they maintained an essential civic and military role as foci of the local Byzantine administration and of the ecclesiastical bureaucracy. In fact, it is clear from the numerous lead seals belonging to Justinian I, Phocas, Heraclius, and Justinian II that Cherson was of much importance for the central Constantinopolitan court (the governor of the local climata308 was located in the town which also possessed a mint309), while its role as an outpost for the conversion of the Khazars and the Rus’ people attracted the interest of

the Patriarchate of Constantinople310. On the other hand, Amastris and Sinop311, although they were not the capital of their thematic provinces, were regarded as essential naval strongholds along the southern coast of the Black Sea. As for the urban form and town planning, the three cities were laid out on a classic plan (Amastris “lost” this when the massive naval fortress was built), even where, as in Sinop, the geo–morphological conformation stood against a proper regular grid312. All the cities were fortified by walls which sometimes must be regarded also as a recognition of their important status (Amastris), preserving peculiar similarities in the construction technique and in the outline (triangular projecting towers in Sinop and Amastris). Trading facilities were found in the three urban settlements: although sometimes located outside the walls, as in the case of the two Bedesten in Amastris and Sinop. The long vitality of these buildings is an important feature, which points to their commercial significance. These inferences must be regarded mainly as hints and faint traces of a possible urban model: more archaeological excavation and researches would be needed to implement this hypothesis. To sum up, it could be said that the real and main feature, which allows us to think of a possible existence of this model, is the unlimited but finite distances of the Black Sea313.

Brier–Winfield 1985, 70; Bortoli–Kazhansky 2002, 660–62: Although Cherson’s agricultural surroundings have not been sufficiently analysed, the archaeological evidence from parcels of farmland around towns shows that few agricultural units continued to be worked during Roman times to the ten century. 308 Climata is the area under Byzantine rule in the South–western Crimea. 309 Bortoli–Kazhansky 2002, 662. 307

Alekseenko 2003, 75–6. It seems particularly relevant to me the seal bearing the inscriptions of one Bosphoric bishop Peter (sixth–seventh century). 311 Brier–Winfield 1985, 71. 312 Doonan 2004, 76-7. 313 Ascherson 1998, 235. 310

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CHAPTER 6 GENERAL CONCLUSIONS

My intention throughout this book has been to offer a detailed analysis of four different cities, outlining their fate during the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. I have tried to approach each city according to my multifunctional interpretative model of the city, which, by privileging an economic marker, the wealth of the aristocrat as the major underpinning of the scale of urban demand, exchange and production, allowed me to frame the urban trajectories within their particular regional (and even sub–regional) contexts and against the transformation of the imperial super–structure. As seen in the introduction, the political, religious, cultural, social and economic roles a city could play, developed and changed in this period, resulting in a different type of urban settlement in demographic, morphological and topographical terms that functionally responded to different needs and was heavily influenced by the local peculiarities and the modifications of the fiscal, bureaucratic, and military apparatus of the Byzantine state.

Plateau or of the Balkans and Italy, remain partially beyond this analysis. However, I think that this problem can be effectively addressed both by using as a control mechanism cities that remained outside the Byzantine sway, for example Pella in Palestine, and by introducing two new comparisons in this final chapter, Amorion and Naples, that could function as controls in less well-showed Byzantine regions for the approach I am proposing here. All these cities, indeed, have recently been the foci of systematic, analytical and stratigraphically-aware archaeological campaigns which were paired with the results of a detailed research into documentary and literary sources1. This allows us to shed light on urban development in topographical, structural and social terms, of different urban contexts. Pella, as stated above (p. 29), was an important regional centre in an area (Syria and Palestine) where the fiscal structure, administrative machinery and bureaucratic personnel of the early Arab caliphate played an essential part in the survival of a partially centralized and state-oriented society. If it is true that peculiar climatic and geographical conditions2 have helped to preserve the monumental buildings and the urban fabric of cities in this region until the present day, it is also important to consider that the resilience and prosperity of cities within the newlybuilt Umayyad polity (and within a new religious context) owed much to the urban orientation of local (landowning) aristocracies, a good degree of city-countryside economic integration, and to the prosperity of the local peasantry, all propelled by the persistence of a coherent central (although regionalised3) administration.

Hopefully, this approach, which benefits from a widespread use of the results yielded by archaeological excavations and surveys (matched by a critical scrutiny of the documentary sources), has allowed me to advance an explanatory model for the transformation of the urban social and structural fabric in different areas of the Byzantine empire between 500 and 900 A.D. Obviously, this model has more a methodological than a comprehensive validity, for it offers an interpretative grid which could have different and variegated outcomes according to different regional or sub–regional particularities. It is, indeed, impossible to regard each city as less than a unique response to the different forces moulding the Byzantine empire. However, beyond similarities and differences between each and every city, it is also possible to draw a picture made up of regional urban patterns which allow us to re–create the jigsaw of Byzantine urbanism, without being dragged into the old polemic debate about continuity and discontinuity, or remaining enmeshed in the deceptive perspective of polis against kastron.

As regards Naples, its role in this chapter is twofold. On the one hand, as stated above4, it provides us with the opportunity to put Italy into focus, and thus to overcome the traditional historiographical assertions of marginality of the Italian peninsula within the Byzantine empire. On the other hand, Naples represents an exceptional5 urban context See infra for a complete and detailed bibliographical summary of the works devoted to each of these cities. 2 Wickham 2005, 26ff. 3 Ibid., 131-3. 4 See above, chapter 1.3.1, pp. 22ff. 5 It is worth noting that all the scholars which have analysed Naples in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages feel compelled to regard the city as an “exception” in their (different) Byzantine models of urban development. See Whitehouse 1986, Von Falkenhausen 1989, 1

I am indeed perfectly aware that any overall conclusion is bound to be partial, since the results of the archaeological excavations are very often sketchy and geographically patchy as some areas are better documented than others. Some parts of this jigsaw, like parts of the Anatolian 153

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.)

1. Pella: partial overview of the site from the Acropolis (Author’s photo)

for its role as a non-capital city (it is not Rome or Ravenna) which nonetheless retained different social, economic, political, cultural and religious urban functions for local elites, the members of the bureaucratic and administrative apparati, the military hierarchies and the clergy. These functions permeated the urban fabric and pointed both to the role of the city as the centre of a fertile region6 and to the integration of Naples into the wider Byzantine political, institutional and maritime network (thanks to its harbour) as shown by recent archaeological surveys and excavations7, which have yielded a well-researched ceramic (table wares, common wares and amphorae) and numismatic (although not sigillographic and epigraphic) body of evidence spanning from the sixth to the ninth century8. This allows us to overcome the traditional (and

often teleological) historiographical narratives of the (supposedly) declining fate of the Byzantine city during the (so-called) Dark Ages9, and to offer a new, more analytical approach to the changing function and structure of the urban environment in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. In this sense, Naples could be regarded as the other side of the “urban coin”, if we compare it with the last of my brief control studies that is Amorion. If Naples was a noncapital city on the “peripheral edge” of the empire, partially benefitting from its role along the Mediterranean and Tyrrhenian shipping routes, Amorion was a land-oriented urban settlement (although strategically located astride one of the main military highways crossing Asia Minor10). Moreover, Amorion from the mid-seventh century on11 acted as a thematic capital for the Anatolikon theme on the Anatolian plateau, one of the two main geographical zones (the other being the Aegean) which formed the heartland of the Byzantine empire from the seventh century on12. Indeed, in Amorion, the extraordinary and well published results of more than twenty-five years of systematic and

450-1, Arthur 1995; Arthur 1998 and Zanini 1998, 141-7. 6 Arthur 2002, 83ff. It is worth mentioning here that in the fourth century the area around Naples was still recorded as the granary of Rome by the Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium(Espositio Tot. Mund. I, III). 7 See on this Arthur 2002 with further bibliography. It must be also admitted that in Naples even though many stratigraphical excavations have been run in the last two decades (see the detailed report in Arthur 2002, 153-9 and the recent, impressive- but still unpublished- Scavo della Metropolitana) we suffer from a lack in published archaeological reports and studies; a problem, as seen in my introductive chapter (pp. 22ff.), often recurrent in many cities of Byzantine “Italies”. 8 See infra pp.22ff. and mainly Arthur 2002, 118-40 with further bibliography.

9 For a good review of these narratives see Cuozzo-Martin 1995; also La Posta 1994 and Russo Mailer 1988. 10 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 42ff. 11 Ivison 2008, 18ff. 12 Haldon 1990, 41-53.

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS stratigraphical excavations13 allow us to move from the traditional Fossian quest for a walled or hill-top urban settlement (acting as a sort of urban version of “Byzantium on the defensive”14) with no economic pretension and shrunk around a diminished population on the run from the Arab invasions. To the contrary, ‘the best preserved remains of a Medieval Byzantine city’15 paired with the analysis of the scant documentary evidence show that Amorion have been a ‘sizeable settlement covering more than 50 ha of habitable land and lasting from the end of the fifth to the late eleventh century’16; a settlement including a dense urban fabric, a rich and variegated monumental landscape made of walls, churches, residential quarters, and public buildings and streets, and an active economic role (mirrored in the artisanal and commercial structures documented in the so-called “enclosure”17) evidently underpinned by the persistence of a local social network. A network, as stated by Ivison, composed of local aristocrats (benefitting from the fertile surrounding agricultural district) and members of the administrative provincial governance, the upper echelons of the military thematic hierarchy, the bishop, the clergy and the civilian population (apparently of different ethnicities)18.

2.Map of Pella (after Smith-Day, 1999)

the genesis of the different functional trajectories of the Byzantine city began after the early seventh century and was consequent on the re–organization of the social, political and economic super–structure of the Byzantine empire.

In this conclusion, therefore, I will discuss different urban settlements in different geographical areas, briefly, in order to complete, a little more fully, my regional and comparative picture of Byzantine urbanism between the fifth and the ninth centuries through researching a different combination of functional variables.

In this sense, it might be possible to understand the urban phenomena that are generally seen as being symptomatic of decay: demonumentalization, encroachment of public spaces, flourishing of religious buildings, fragmentation of the urban landscape (the city of islands), simpler construction techniques and abandonment of amenities, as owing less to a decline than to the changing cultural– ideological, economic and social priorities which were predicated upon different modes of investing wealth on the part of the local urban elites:

It should be stressed that, within this large time–span, although the data are richest in the fifth and sixth centuries my attention has focused more on the seventh and eighth centuries, that is, the period when the transformation of the urban scenario is most visible in functional and demographic terms. This transformation owes most to three main structural changes within the empire, all byproducts of the seventh century, in which the Byzantine state faced its greater, although not terminal, crisis. First, the persistence of weakened fiscal structures which still supported regional economies, such as that in the Aegean area around Constantinople, or in the Italian Tyrrhenian sub-region or in the Black Sea region, which demonstrate that interregional (commercial and non–commercial) shipping links were not completely severed. Second, the change in the culture and identity of aristocratic elites who still resided in the cities, even though affected by the political influence of the Constantinopolitan hierarchies (ecclesiastical, administrative and military) and economically impoverished by a decrease in the scale of their landowning wealth. Third, an increasing regionalization of the system of exchange which was no longer part of the Roman world–system. In other words,

we must recognize both the polyvalence of changes and the implications of their accumulation; we have usually found several of them present in any individual urban case study: put together they may represent different sorts of cultural change, but they also mean a steady weakening of the fabric of a city19. The transformations of the multifunctional image of the city is inevitably mirrored in the changes in its social and structural fabric, its morphology and topography, and, lastly, its demographic persistence as centre of population (in particular as the focus of urban–oriented elites). This being so, some similarities do emerge between the cities I have analysed so far. First the persistence of each city as a settlement focus for its immediate agricultural hinterland: Athens with regard to the Attica plan, Amastris to the Amastriane’, Ephesos to part of the fertile Aegean coastal strip, and Gortyn to the rich Messara plan. This allows us to assert the partial continuity of the city as a scenario where the (still urban–oriented) local landowning elites played a central role supporting local demand: artisanal workshops, commercial activities and a persistence of a monetary economy have been documented by archaeological excavations in Gortyn, Ephesos, and Amorion although

See mainly Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007 with further and detailed bibliography. 14 Whittow 2005, 15 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 21. 16 Ibid., 17. 17 Ivison 2009? 18 Ivison 2008, 18ff. The civilian population included a significant Jewish community which left no archaeological traces. 13

19

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Wickham 2005, 673.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) the Cretan centre undoubtedly is the most prominent of those cities in terms of the economic vitality of the urban fabric20.

developments in its social and economic structure30. The baths were demolished and covered with a paved courtyard; a broad staircase was inserted between the street and the Cathedral; the Odeion was abandoned together with the Agora; while a new central market (with a blacksmith shop, indicating light artisanal activities31) was built in the northern court of the Cathedral. This latter comprised a paved open court that was converted into a large enclosed market by the construction of perimeter rooms, porticoes and porches on two levels along the north Cathedral wall32. These changes were further enhanced after the earthquake dated to 659–60 A.D., when Pella had already passed under the rule of the Arabs as part of the new Islamic province of Urdunn33, which caused the collapse of the residential quarter on the Tell, as well as damaging the churches and undermining the fortress. However, the city showed a good degree of resilience, since the churches were restored; and the rebuilding of the domestic quarter resulted in three large new courtyard houses34, encroaching on public areas. Although diminished in structural terms (large parts of the former public buildings or spaces remained abandoned)35, Pella seemed to continue a prosperous existence, as shown by the domestic houses and by commercial and artisanal activities.

Here, a comparison with the situation in Syria and Palestine is particularly important to allow us to understand how Byzantine cities could move along the lines of Arab cities21 in pairing demonumentalization and spatial de–structuring with social and economic re–structuring and spatial coherence. A brief case study of the city of Pella in the highlands between the River Jordan and the desert, is our example here as already mentioned. The city22 (nowadays Tabaqat Fahl in northern Jordan) was perfectly situated for there is a spring here which issues into a small river and never runs dry (Wadi Jirm); it divided a central mound (Tell–al Husn) from a smaller hill (Khirbat Fahl), both of them foci for the city. Pella was one of the cities of the Decapolis, an inland group of urban centres (including Gadara, Gerasa, Tiberias, Philadelphia–Amman, Abila, Capitolias, Scythopolis) that were geographically close together and were located around and to the south of the Lake Galilee, on land good enough to be cultivated without irrigation23. Pella has been well studied (although not yet completely), and the results of the archaeological excavations allow us to draw a detailed picture of its urban development up to the mid– eighth century and even beyond24. In the sixth century the city was the centre of a district in the province of Palestina Secunda25, and underwent (particularly in the second quarter of this century) a major redevelopment. Public buildings were refurbished: two public bath–houses, the Odeion26, and the so–called fortress on the flat top of the Tell al–Husn27. A domestic quarter was (re)built along the slopes of the Tell; many buildings of the previous century were replaced by large multi–roomed mansions with a grid of gravelled streets, which were lined with small shops, some of which were provided with a second internal room, housing retailing activities, light manufacturing and food processing industries28. Lastly the fifth–century cathedral church was renovated, and paired with a large new triapsidal basilica (the West Church)29.

The economic vitality of Pella is indeed established by the detailed analysis of the ceramic and numismatic36 evidence which allows us to recognise the role of the local elites which underpinned the persistence of the city–countryside interchange and large–scale artisanal production. Indeed, excavations at Pella have yielded explicit evidence of ceramic production, with appearance of new types of locally produced wares during the seventh and the eighth century37, notably Red Painted Wares and Palestinian Fine Table Wares38, which, however, had a short–range distribution; this reinforces our impression of active and regionally distinctive distribution networks in Palestine that were built upon a series of overlapping circles39. This did not mean end of the imports (as shown by the presence of bag–amphorae, which were made on the coast and attested in Pella from the beginning of the eighth century onwards40): ‘changes in distributions and frequency patterns of amphorae in the seventh and eighth century did

In the early seventh century, Pella underwent further changes in terms of urban fabric and plan, as part of broader

Walmsey 1992, 251 Smith–Day 1989, 67–71.Walmsey 2000, 285. 32 Walmsey 2000, 284–5; Walmsey 1992, 253; Smith–Day 1989, 60– 71: according to Smith and Day this building was a clergy house or an ecclesiastical structure. It is a double–storey building with rooms, porches and upper balconies which remained in use until the 749 A.D. Walmsey argues it might be a khan–caravanserais (Walmsey 1992, 253) (on the caravanserais see also Walmsey 2000, 285ff). 33 Walmsey 2000, 265–70. Also Walmsey 1992, 254. 34 Walmsey 1992, 254. 35 Wicham 2005, 624 36 Walmsey 2000, 332ff.; Walmsey 1992, 258ff; Walmsey 2007, 556. The numismatic evidence speaks for an expansion of economic and commercial contacts in the eighth–century, pointing to an appreciable improvement of traffic along the old–routes, particularly along the Gerasa–Pella route and the route from Damascus to Palestine through north–Jordan. 37 Walmsey 1992, 256; Sodini 1992, 201–206. 38 Walmsey 2000, 322–25. 39 Walmsey 2000, 326. 40 Sodini 1992. 198. 30 31

The excavated Byzantine quarter is, indeed, almost unique in showing a notable vitality in terms of artisanal production, commercial vivacity and economic vigour continuing from the sixth to the eighth century. See Chapter 3, pp. 78ff. 21 Kennedy 1985. 22 Smith and Day 1989; McNicoll et al. 1992; Walmsey 1992; Walmsey 2000; Wickham 2005, 617ff. 23 Wickham 2005, 623. 24 Walmsey 1992: McNicoll et al. 1992. 25 Walmsey 1992, 251. 26 According to Walmsey this building (Walmsey 1992, 251), located on the south–west corner of the Cathedral Atrium, remained in use with key public civic purposes into the next century; other scholars (Wickham 2005, 624: Smith–Day 1989, 28–33) assert that it was abandoned by 550 A.D. 27 Walmsey 1992, 251–2 28 Ibid., 252. 29 Ibid., 251. Another smaller fifth–century church (East Church) was located on the eastern heights of the city. 20

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS not herald the end of interregional trade’41. This is further emphasized by a few eighth–century Egyptian amphorae which were recovered during the excavations in the city. Nonetheless it seems that the sixth century unification of Syria–Palestine, embodied in access to the standard set of Mediterranean terra sigillata wares, hade given gave way to a separation between the coastal strip and an inland with more localized distribution networks, which was mirrored in the regionally–oriented fiscal structures of the Umayyad caliphate42.

self-contained (possibly two storeyed) units centred on one or more sizeable courtyards’52. Originally depicted as confused and weakened,53 this transformation in the layout of the residential quarter instead reveals a new social and economic urban structure. This is where the development of houses as organic living social institutions comes into focus. There is no question that the houses had lost their former glory, in that their urban role had changed from ‘components in regime of elaborate social display to practical living units’54: internal space was subdivided and functionally redefined, the ground floor being applied for practical uses (where the daily life of the household took place) rather than for an ostentatious display of family wealth55. However, ‘the change, then, was not a symptom of urban failure, but, rather, a deliberate shift towards an all encompassing house unit suited to multi-faceted socioeconomic activity […] including animal stabling, workshop production, storage of goods and cooking at ground floor level, whereas much of the social life of the household occurred in the upper floor’56. It is clear that the elites living in these houses showed a changing socio-economic perspective (hardly at all influenced by the advent of Islam57), preserved a degree of social differentiation58, and benefited not only from the rich agricultural productivity of Pella’s hinterland, but also from its strategic location along the intra– and interregional road network59. This allows us to argue that Pella (a simple provincial city, though still a local fiscal centre) could represent a blueprint to orient ourselves when interpreting the possible trajectories of the Byzantine city.

To sum up, Pella benefited from a development of the existing economic structure and trade system from the late seventh century onwards. The numismatic evidence reveals a tangible expansion of trade (as demonstrated by ‘the wide distribution of both regular Byzantine coins and local imitations revealing the continuous importance of the monetary economy’43) while ceramics clearly show that commerce was conducted through sets of overlapping networks influenced by the regional fiscal structures of Umayyad government. Long-distance trade existed, although it was not obviously encouraged by this decentralised administration44. The city retained its spatial coherence, centred on the new market centre with commercial and industrial functions (pottery, glass– making45) that endured a second disastrous earthquake in 749 A.D46, whereas many open spaces, like the Agora, lost their original role47. However, demonumentalization did not bring with it abandonment or weakening of the urban fabric48. Indeed, active urban elites clearly resided in Pella, supporting this economic vitality during the whole Umayyad caliphate and even beyond. They resided in substantial town–houses (a domestic quarter located on the eastern slope of the main mound49), which as Wickham has shown have parallels in Palmyra, Damascus and Gerasa50 and are ‘especially revealing as to living standards and available wealth at Pella’51 during the late Antique and early Islamic period. Indeed, as Walmsey has recently pointed out, these houses reveal the long-term urban development of the city which began with a major restoration of a pre-existing living quarter in the first half of the sixth century, and continued with the rebuilding after an earthquake in the mid-seventh century, in which the original residential terrace-houses were ‘replaced by 41 42 43 44 45 46

6.

The importance of Pella, and other Syria and Palestinian cities60, is that they can function as a point of reference to demonstrate not only how Byzantine urbanism could have been without the political crisis, but also to interpret how (sometimes) it really did develop, although structured by different functional tendencies and regional–driven lines. These differences are apparent in the analysis of Byzantine cities, which demonstrates that (apart perhaps from Gortyn) they seldom showed such a level of economic vitality as the cities of the Levant. This is essentially due to the importance of the state apparatus and the enduring pull of Constantinople as a capital, which exerted a centralizing focus in fiscal, administrative, military and even religious terms. The lack of consistent archaeological traces of elite urban housing in my main case studies, and also the evidence for demonumentalization and apparent loss of spatial coherence, suggests that different models

Walmsey 2000, 328. Also Sodini 1992. Wickham 2005, 772. Walmsey 2000, 334. Ibid., 343. Ibid., 285; 307. Also Walmsey 2007, 118. Smith–Day 1989, 116–18; Walmsey 1992, 255; Walmsey 2007, 55-

Ibid., 129. The result of a judgmental analytical approach to the nature of these changes (Walmsey 2007, 127). 54 Ibid, 132. 55 Ibid., 127-32. 56 Ibid, 129-30. 57 Ibid., 132. 58 As pointed out, for instance, by the evidence yielded from one of the excavated houses (House G), where a bulk of artisanal (domestic) goods (glass vessels, ceramic, copper objects and stone items) has been excavated together with precious silk clothing and gold coins (all the objects are however of a later date, i.e. mid-eight century). Walmsey 2007, 130. 59 Walmsey 2000, 300–3. 60 See on this Chapter 1.3.4., pp. 29ff. with further bibliography. 52 53

‘The crowding of town centres with shops and markets in Late AntiqueEarly Islamic transition, was concurrent with the expansive, almost explosive, growth of industrial activity within towns and their immediate hinterland: ceramic factories, glassblowing workshops, metalworking centres, tanneries and textile mills occupied vacated spaces such as abandoned temples or functionally obsolete Roman-period bathhouses’ (Walmsey 2007, 117). 48 ‘The supposed lacklustre urban life has revealed evidence for considerable economic urban activity including significant construction’(Walmsey 2007, 87-8). 49 Walmsey 2007, 129. 50 Wickham 2005, 616–7. Also Walmsey 2007, 126-32. 51 Walmsey 2007, 130. 47

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) are required to map the trajectories of Byzantine cities. As a result we can begin to understand how, in the cities I have analysed, the presence of different settlement foci, partially focused around commercial and artisanal activities (as in the Byzantine quarter in Gortyn, in the extramural pottery workshop in Ephesos, in the enclosure workshops in Amorion61), the importance of the rural territory, and the persistence of political and religious roles (even in cities that were not thematic capitals), allow us to avoid the negative impression produced by supposed features of ’decline’. Symptoms such as demonumentalization, encroachment, the partition of public space and public structures, the abandonment of amenities, poor construction techniques, the centrality of religious buildings, contrast with the transformation of urban morphology, fabric and topography in the Byzantine empire. This leads us to revalue the importance of city–level elites, who benefited from their role as officials of the state bureaucracy or as members of the military and ecclesiastical hierarchies. One should, indeed, not underestimate the role of the state (and the church) in the preservation of a voluntary urban orientation of those elites. Conversely, one should not conclude that only a restricted number of urban centres survived without being bases for themes. In fact, Amastris, Athens, Ephesos, and Gortyn never became thematic capitals, even though they preserved a real political (and administrative, fiscal and even military) importance for their region. In this sense one can propose a parallelism with Pella where excavations have shown that change in urban planning (as shown by new arrangements of domestic spaces and by the establishment of industrial or commercial quarters after the earthquake of 749 A.D.) was in tune with a ‘greater focalisation of urban activities across all spheres’62. Evidently this was an outcome of the concentration of urban artisanal and commercial activities and the resilience of the city–countryside connections combined with the persistence (at least in Syria-Palestine) of a regionally–oriented fiscal or administrative structures.

matched by the well-published results of the excavations at the residential complex of Carminiello ai Mannesi67, and the partial reports concerning surveys and excavations along the walls68, at the Monastery of Santa Patrizia69, the church of San Lorenzo70, and the area of the Cathedral71, shed considerable light on the urban development in the seventh and eight centuries72. This allows us to move away from a traditional urban narrative centred on the origins of the autonomous Neapolitan duchy73. Indeed, as Whitehouse has clearly pointed out, ‘Naples remained an urban community throughout the Dark Ages’74 although heavily battered by the consequences of the Gothic Wars75. However, it is important to come to grips with the social organization, economic activities, political roles, cultural identities and religious functions which mirrored any evidence for the Neapolitan urban layout and fabric. It is true that for seventh- and eighth-century Naples it is difficult to propose any model of settlement which would encompass both the area within the walls (built by Valentinian III in 440 A.D. and refurbished in the mid-sixth century76) and the extra-mural foci (like the pilgrimage centre developed around the catacombs of Saint Ianuarius77), due to the limited spatial character of any urban stratigraphical excavation78. All the same we can use the evidence yielded by the excavations (mainly pottery and coins, but also metal objects and jewels, glass and building material) and the analyses of it79 to draw a picture of the different functions of the city. In social terms, Naples seems have had a hierarchical structure, dominated by the persistence of the political role of the local landowning elites, by the administrative functions of the members of the fiscal-bureaucratic Byzantine apparatus, by the importance of the military by some John the Deacon , both dated between the late ninth and the beginning of the tenth century. For a detailed review of the literary and documentary sources concerning the history of medieval Naples see Capasso 1902. 67 Arthur 1994; Arthur 2002, 52ff. 68 Napoli 1969, 739-59; Pani Ermini 1993-4. 69 Arthur 1984; Arthur 2002, 155. 70 Johannowsky 1961;Hirpinus 1961; De Simone 1985; Arthur 2002, 55; 66. 71 Di Stefano-Strazzullo 1971; Arthur 2002, 62-5. 72 However, it must be admitted, as preliminary, methodological remark, that the majority of these excavations tried to reaffirm and confirm the information provided by the written sources, like the Chronicon Episcoporum, and so-with the notable exception of Carminiello ai Mannesi- are all centred upon churches. 73 Cuozzo-Martin 1995. 74 Whitehouse 1986, 287. 75 For a detailed account of Naples during the sixth-century see Zanini 1998, 142ff..; also Russo-Mailer 1988, 352-5; La Posta 1994, 102-112 with reference to the primary sources. 76 An inscription (C.I.L., X, 1485) dates the original wall circuit to Valentinian’ s reign; documentary (Vita Athanasii, 440) and limited archaeological evidence (Arthur 2002, 37) point to sixth-century works attributed to Belisarius and Narses. See also Napoli 1969, 539ff. and Pani Ermini 1993-4. 77 Arthur 2002, 64-5. 78 Here we are dealing with the emergency and patchy character of many excavations and the lack in any strategic archaeological plan which would target promising and representative areas considered critical for the medieval history of the site’ (Ivison 2008, 20). 79 Arthur 1993; Arthur 1995; Arthur 1998; Arthur-Patterson 1994; Arthur 2002, 118-50.

Here a second parallel may help further. The city of Naples in southern Italy, stood on a platform sloping southwards towards a sandy beach; the platform upon which the city was built was separated from the surrounding land by marshes to the east, a gully to the immediate north (later adapted as a fossatum) acting as a barrier against the coastal dunes stretching inland ‘as far north as Poggioreale where the ground begins to rise’63. The city highly benefitted from its peculiar and strategically positioned harbour64, which increased in importance from the late fifth century on ‘due to the dramatic decline of Campania’s leading commercial city, Puteoli, and the pulling out of the Imperial fleet from the neighbouring base of Misenum’65. In Naples, the analysis of the documentary evidence66, See pp. 129. Walmsey 2007, 131. 63 Arthur 2002, 4. 64 Napoli 1969, 770-2. 65 Arthur 2002, 10-2. 66 Mainly the letters of Pope Gregory the Great (late sixth-early seventh century), the Vita Athanasii Episcopi Neapolitani written by the Lombard Guarimpotus, and the Gesta Episcoporum Neapolitanorum written 61 62

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS apparatus and by the relevance of the elements of the local episcopal clergy. The vitality of the local aristocracy seems not to depend only on the increased militarization of the local society80; indeed, if in Naples the municipal role of the local curial elites was slipping away81, the informality of urban elites could still coexist with two strong and continuous formal hierarchies, that of the central government and that of the church82. The letters of Gregory the Great attest a early-seventh century elite, uncooperative and factional, heavily involved in political battles for the control of the episcopal see83. This was matched by the persistence of public ceremonial forms84 (mirrored both in the resilience of the Roman street grid85, including the triumphal embolos between arches close to the area of the former forum86), and also the role of the Neapolitan “honesti”87 as urban-oriented landowners in the seventh and eighth century (possibly playing also a minor role in the local military hierarchy, as is seen by the use of the terms such as lociservator or tribunus88). A substantial degree of social differentiation89 is perceptible through the continuous social role played by patronage on the part of surviving noble families90, by the existence of a senatorial elite as shown in Gregory the Great’s letters91, and also by informal and spontaneous assemblies of citizens (gathering in the seventh and eighth centuries) dominated by the most

3. Naples, Media Plateia (mod. Via dei Tribunali) (Author’s photo)

prominent and influential possessores and honesti92. It is, indeed, not impossible that these elites inherited part of the large-scale senatorial landowning network centred on the Rome-Naples axis93 (now curtailed due to the Lombard conquest of northern Campania and the foundation of the duchy of Benevento94). The vitality of the local elites can also be related to the increasing role played by Naples in the administrative and bureaucratic structures of the Byzantine empire, a role embodied by the civic and military power of the local duke and his armed forces. ‘The duke controlled his territory through praefecti, tribuni and comites (counts) [and] nominations to high posts seems to have been made by the exarch of Ravenna95, though court titles continued to be granted by Constantinople well into the eighth century’96. The political and military importance of Naples to the Byzantine state is also shown by the journey of Constans II to Italy in 663 A.D., since the emperor chose Naples as main base for his diplomatic and military expedition97. The continuous activity of a local Neapolitan mint issuing Byzantine-style bronze and gold coins well into the seventh and the eight century98; the importance of the local garrison in facing Lombard raids from the Beneventan ducal territories99; the use of Greek in official inscriptions and documents; the persistence of official Constantinopolitan rank titles100; and the presence of Byzantine high officials

Although Gregory’s letters reveals a certain division of authority between military, municipal officials and the church, they also point to a ‘steady accumulation of power in the hands of military commanders of Campania’ (see for instance Maurentius, Magister Militum in 598/99 A.D. mentioned in Greg. IX, 53. 159; Gudeliscus, dux campaniae in 600 A.D. mentioned in Greg. X.5) Brown 1984, 19; also Zanini 1998, 143. This militarization culminated in 603 A.D. when the first Duke of Naples is attested by Gregory (Greg. XIV. 10). ‘By late seventh century the superior authority of the military commanders was complete’ (Brown 1984, 54). 81 Gallo 1919; Gallo 1920; Gallo 1921. The resilience of the curiales as informal political body was attested by the persistence of the name (still used in the ninth-tenth century for the local college of notaries). 82 Wickham 2005, 601. 83 Greg IX, 44; Greg. X, 19; Greg. XIII, 4. 84 See Brown 1984, 92. On the occasion of the visit of the governor of Sicily to Naples in 788 A.D., the local population and authorities organized a real ceremonial entry: ‘accolto cum signis et bandis’ (Codex Carolinus, 82-83 quoted by Brown 1984, 92). One should, however, consider that in the period under scrutiny detailed information on civic institution or political competition is still lacking (Skinner 1995, 299) 85 Arthur 2002, 38-40. The ancient street grid included three main roads (summa, media and imma plateia) and no less than 22 lesser perpendicular roads. 86 ‘The media plateia (mod. Via dei Tribunali) approaching the forum may have been organized as processional way delimited by two arches. An ‘arcus antiquus qui vocatur cabredatus’ […] seems to have been located at the junction of Via dei Tribunali with Via Atri and Via Nilo, whilst an ‘arcum roticorum’ may have lain at the point where Via dei Tribunali now meets Via Duomo’ (Arthur 2002, 44). Also Arthur 1998, 250. 87 Brown 1984, 133. ‘Some landowners where able to survive the turmoil of late 6th century as is shown by the numerous cases of honesti recorded as holding land in Rome, Ravenna and Naples’ (Brown 1984, 216). 88 Brown 1984, 58-60. 89 Arthur 2002, 25-7. 90 Skinner 1995, 285. This is substantiated, for instance, by the foundation of churches (like the late seventh century church of Saint Ianuarius), monasteries (Arthur 2002, 69-74), diaconiae (taking over the late Roman distribution of panis gradilis and annona; see Arthur 2002, 68-9) and by the development of professions in building and arts (Arthur 2002, 118ff.). 91 Greg. IX, 76. On this mainly Brown 1984, 18-19; 24. 80

Brown 1984, 213-6. Wickham 2005, 204. Also Skinner 1995, 289. 94 Arthur 2002, 12-6; Zanini 1998, 141ff.. 95 However, after the fall of Ravenna in 751 A.D., the Neapolitan government depended upon the Sycilan strategos. See Arthur 2002, 17; Von Falkenhausen 1989, 450-1. 96 Arthur 2002, 16. 97 Lib.Pont, I, 333-4; Paul the Deacon, V, 7-11. For a detailed account of the expedition see also Zanini 1998, 88-9; Brown 1984, 88-9; La Posta 1994, 123ff. 98 Arthur 2002, 133ff.; La Posta 1994, 123; for the economic significance of these emissions see infra p.162. 99 According to Brown and Zanini the military burden was also shared by the local citizens. See Brown 1984, 93-6 and Zanini 1998, 142. On the Lombard-Byzantine diplomatic and military intercourses in Campania see Arthur 2002, 18, Russo-Mailer 1988, 358 ff. and Zanini 1998, 74-5. 100 Brown 1984, 147. 92 93

159

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) using the local harbour as port of the main trunk route linking Constantinople with the Tyrrhenian Sea101. I will return to this last point in a moment.

repeatedly pointed out, eighth-century ceramic assemblages from Neapolitan archaeological excavations (Carminiello ai Mannesi, S. Patrizia) have wielded parallels with the material wielded at the Crypta Balbi in Rome114; moreover, clay lamps are attested as coming to Naples from Rome115, whereas the emergence of locally produced Forum ware (dated to the mid-late eighth century)- a class of pottery common around Rome- has led Arthur to ask ‘whether its appearance in Naples indicates the import of agricultural goods from Rome, especially grain’116. The import of grain matches other literary117 and material evidence (transport amphorae of Roman origins118) to show links between Rome and Naples during the seventh and eighth centuries. This is generally associated with the export of wine to Rome, as Neapolitan amphorae in that city show.

The political magnitude of Naples, stemming from its dependence on the Byzantine polity was also matched by its religious prestige. Indeed, not only did the church gain increasing power, wealth, and civic responsibility from the fifth century onwards (a process documented in the letters written by pope Gregory the Great102 and in the scanty sigillographic evidence103), but the episcopal authority was heavily involved in the shaping of the urban fabric and social structure; different churches and monasteries were built during the sixth, seventh and eighth century, while the cathedral complex replaced the forum104 as one of the main foci of social life. Moreover, the church played an essential part in the Neapolitan economy with the foundations of institutions such as the diaconiae dispensing food to the urban population105. This reaffirms not only its ‘major development as a major power in the politics, administration and economy’106, but also its influence in shaping urban topography, creating new foci of settlement centred upon ecclesiastical buildings107. I will return to this in a moment. Eventually, Naples emerged as an important pilgrimage centre due to the relics of Saint Severinus108 (in a monastery on the island of Megaris109) and those of Saint Ianuarius in the homonymous catacombs of S.Gennaro to the north east of the walled city110.

The common material culture showed by Rome and Naples can thus be taken as a good starting point to enable us to draw a picture of the economic function of the Neapolitan duchy. The role of Naples as an administrative, political and military focus for the members of the Byzantine governmental machinery, as a bishopric, monastic and pilgrimage hub, as residential centre for the local landowning elites, and as a gravitational point for a fertile hinterland, matched by close links with Rome, all strengthened local economic life. On the one hand the demand of the local elites and the directional role of the Byzantine state, on the other hand the strategic location of the Neapolitan harbour along the inter- and intra-regional shipping routes, allow us to point to put the material evidence in perspective. Indeed, the assessment of ceramics yielded by different urban stratigraphic excavations119 allows us to conclude that ‘although production became increasingly localized, the quality of fine painted cooking wares and the tentative introduction of the technology of glazing during the course of the eighth century’120 point to the fact that the manufacture of pottery remained in the hands of professional potters (their production in all probability was stimulated by the persistence of local secular and ecclesiastical elites). Artisanal production of different type is further attested by the Roman Liber Pontificalis (which states that Naples was well-known for the production of purple-dyed cloths during the eighth century121) and by archaeological evidence pointing to the existence of blacksmiths, jewellers, glassmakers, shipbuilders, mosaicists, and painters122 in the

It is also worth noticing that if politically the local elites revealed the enduring attraction of the Constantinopolitan court, the ecclesiastical authorities could hardly escape the political, religious but also economic111 weight of the nearby papal authority: ‘Naples’s ecclesiastical history [from pope Gregory’s lifetime onwards] was often a tugof-war between Rome and Constantinople’112, peaking in period of the iconoclastic controversy113. The influence of the Roman papacy can be weighted against the material evidence for Roman connection; indeed, as Arthur has 101

16.

Mc Cormick 2001, 458; 503; La Posta 1994, 127ff.; Arthur 2002,

Arthur 2002, 61; Zanini 1998, Arthur 2002, 133. 104 Ibid. 44. 105 Whitehouse 1986, 286ff. Arthur 1995, 21ff. Arthur 2002, 59-82. 106 Arthur 2002, 60. 107 Ibid., 80-1. 108 Transl. Sanct. Sever. 5. 109 This island, together with the Lucullanum, laid not far from the city, facing the hill of Pizzofalcone. Nowadays the island, smaller than it was in the medieval period, is known as Castel dell’Ovo. (Arthur 2002, 69). 110 Ibid.,,74ff. 111 Papal properties are attested around Naples: Pope Gregory’ letters (Gr. III, 34-35) mention the Rector Patrimonii Campaniae; Duke Theodore leased the island of Capri with a local monastery and some casalia from Pope Gregory II in the first half of the eight century (Brown 1984, 101-2; Arthur 2002, 98). 112 Arthur 2002, 60; also Russo Mailer 1988, 356; La Posta 1994, 127. 113 In 762 A.D Bishop Paul defied a Constantinopolitan prohibition and went to Rome to be consecrated by the Pope: ‘Sed propter detestabilem imaginum altercationem […] novem sunt menses elapsi, in quibus non potuit consecrari; qua tunc Parthenopensis populus potestati Graecorum favebat. Attamen hic cum cupere praedicto papae quasi amicus de talibus aliquot modo suffragari, clanculo Romam perexit’ (Gest.Episc. 41, 424) 102 103

Arthur-Patterson 1994, 415-19; Arthur 2002, 124. McCormick 2001, 625; Arthur 1998(a) 504-5. 116 Arthur 2002, 132. Evidence for this is only circumstantial however; indeed, Arthur, quoting Wickham, points to the foundation of the socalled domuscultae in the Roman Campagna in lieu of lost papal property in Sicily. 117 Gr.IX, 53.; two leases drawn up between the Duke Theodore and Pope Gregory II in 720s point to the flux of supply guaranteed by Naples to Rome at a time of great difficulty for the Papacy (when Leo II was tightening his fiscal policy towards the Papal properties and confiscating lands) (Arthur 1993, 240). 118 Arthur 1993, 235; McCormick 2001, 625. 119 Arthur 1984; Arthur 1993; Arthur 1995; Arthur 1998; ArthurPatterson 1994; Zanini 1998, 145. 120 Arthur 2002, 126. 121 Lib.Pont. II, 30. 122 Arthur 2002, 119ff. 114 115

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS seventh and eighth century. Unlike Pella, here it is not yet possible to trace the presence of artisanal workshops and commercial shops within the city; the only possible hint is the (later) concentration of smithing activities around the Church of Saint George123.

in 709 A.D.134, merchants135 and even fictional travellers like the eighth-ninth century Saint Nikon, whose deeds are reported in his Passio136. The evidence from literary and documentary sources is reinforced by the analysis of imported amphorae (revealing from the mid-seventh century onwards an increasing role of local production137 alongside some imported vessels-sporadic though they were- produced around the Aegean138) and above all by numismatic data; bronze and gold coins continued to be issued in seventh-eighth century Naples, and although their quantities are low, they fit with imported copper coins139 in pointing to a diminished, but still existing, monetary economy and to a petty-commodity exchange sustained by the well-documented urban artisanal and commercial activities140.

As regards the importance of Naples in shipping commercial routes, the city and its harbour played a threefold role. First, Naples should be regarded as a regional hub along the local, coastal routes linking the city with the islands of its bay (Ischia, Capri, and Procida124). Second, the Neapolitan harbour was strategically located at the heart of the southern Tyrrhenian shipping zone, acting as a port of call in a system with several port towns (Gaeta, Naples, Amalfi) rather than one main centre dominating the local traffic125. Here, with all probability, Naples also benefited from the vicinity of the Lombard polity of Benevento126, the relative closeness of Sicily as the principal grain province of the empire from the mid-seventh to early ninth century127, and, as seen above, the role of Rome as centre of demand for local artisanal and agricultural production128. Third, Naples was a significant port in the so-called trunk route, the shipping lane stretching from Rome, around Greece to the Aegean and Constantinople129. This is revealed by the presence of travellers who, for different purposes, used Naples as a port of call in their voyages along this route; in fact, during the seventh and eighth century, we can track down pilgrims like Willibald130 and officials and ambassadors like the newly appointed exarchs John Rizokopos (709 A.D) and Eutychius (727 A.D.) who both landed in Naples from Constantinople131; or the two spatharioi and one dioketes132 who came to Naples from Constantinople via Sicily; here they ‘were granted an adventus and received by the local bishop in 788 A.D.’133. Other visitors to Naples were important religious authorities like Pope Constantine I and his large party who stayed at Naples before embarking for Constantinople

The functional persistence of Naples as political, administrative, religious, social and economic urban centre is, as already mentioned, hardly perceptible in material terms: that is to say in the urban fabric, topography, distribution of private-public spaces or the monumental outlook of the early medieval city. However, it is my intention to sketch a brief picture of Naples as a possible poly-nucleated, poly-focal centre which retained a good degree of coherence in urban spatial and building structures during the so-called Dark Ages. This coherence was visually defined by the walled enceinte which delimited the city and its harbour. The Neapolitan wall circuit, in fact, could be regarded as playing a double role: in terms of defence, strengthening a naturally favourable position; and as ‘a further eloquent evidence for the fundamental role Naples had assumed in eastern eyes from the midsixth century onward’141. Moreover, it clearly marked out the limits of the urban environment, although, as will be seen, the urban social and religious identity crossed this physical barrier to include the extramural pilgrimage centre of the catacombs of S.Gennaro. Within the walls, urban coherence was further enhanced by the persistence of the street-grid, preserving the same alignment as in the Roman period142, and acting as a sort of urbanistic compass,

Skinner 1995, 291. Arthur 2002, 98. 125 McCormick 2001, 537ff. See for instance the voyage of Gregory the Decapolite (Life of Greg.Decap.55.25-56.9) who in the early ninthcentury stopped in Reggio di Calabria and then boarded on another ship to reach Naples. 126 This is possibly pointed out by the (later) Pactum Sicardi (836 A.D.) between the prince of Benevento and the nominally Byzantine sea-cities of Naples, Sorrento and Amalfi, which stated that merchants, soldiers and envoys from these towns could cross the Lombard frontier without hindrance. (Pactum Sicardi, 13, 220-.17-25) 127 Wickham 2005, 125-6. See also the Sicilian “Rosary” style clay lamps reaching Naples in the early eight century (McCormick 2001, 628). It is possible that lamps accompanied cargos of food supply stopping at Naples on their way to Rome (Arthur-Patterson 1994, 416). 128 It is also possible that other sources of commercial trade were on the one hand ‘luxury goods created by the special wealth of the Roman church and pilgrims’, on the other hand ‘slaves, whose supply was ‘good enough in mid eight-century Rome to feed external markets’ (McCormick 2001, 625 with further bibliography). 129 Mc Cormick 2001, 503. 130 Stopping at Naples on his way for Ephesus and the Holy Land in 723 A.D. (Willibald 4, 93). See McCormick 2001, 131; 455. 131 For Rizokopos see Lib.Pont. 222; for Eutichius see Lib..Pont. 405.19406.13. See also Arthur 2002, 17 and La Posta 1994, 127. 132 Jaffè 1885-8, 2461. 133 McCormick 2001, 458, 883. 123 124

Lib.Pont. 222.19-20. Although ‘Campanian commerce with the caliphate and Byzantium in the early middle ages is mainly sustained by later tenth century developments and documents’ (McCormick 2001, 627). 136 Nikon boarded a ship taking him from Naples to Constantinople (see AASS Mart 3 quoted in McCormick 2001, 268). 137 Arthur-Patterson 1994, 416; Arthur 1993, 233ff.; Arthur 2002, 12832. 138 Arthur 2002, 131; also Zanini 1998, 306-8. 139 Like the hoard found at Carminiello ai Mannesi including emissions dated to the reigns of Heraclius (610-41 A.D.) and Constans II (642-68 A.D.), and issued at Carthage and Rome (Arthur 1994 , 344). 140 Indeed, the recent discovery of “Neapolitan” copper coins among the 34 finds of the Saint Tomà Hoard (in Venice), seems to buttress the idea that bronze coins continued to be used in the coastal towns still controlled by the Byzantines, since they seem to have circulated in Venice [although] as far as mints are concerned, Syracuse and Constantinople far outstrip Naples and Rome’ (McCormick 2001, 367ff.) 141 Arthur 2002, 35. In this period, indeed, restoration works (which extended the defences to include the harbour) are attested by documentary sources and archaeological evidence (see Arthur 2002, 35-6, Pani-Ermini 1993-4 and Napoli 1969). 142 Arthur 2002, 36-40. 134 135

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5. Plan of the Church of S.Lorenzo Maggiore within the area of the former forum

since both the main secular (the baths of S.Chiara143, the residential quarter at Carminiello ai Mannesi144, and the Ducal residential complex145) and ecclesiastical buildings (cathedral, churches and monasteries146) respected the original road orientation. Of course, as Arthur pointed out, the thoroughfares were often encroached by residential, artisanal or commercial structures147 or even obliterated by accumulation of dark earth layers148 (due to difficulties in repairs, or a failure in the maintenance of the public system of waste disposal and dumping of organic waste149). All the same, these might be interpreted less as a sign of economic decay, ruralization150 and a ‘blurring distinction between city and countryside’151 than as a sign of reduced, but still pivotal, economic activities underpinned by local secular and religious elites and by the crucial, strategic position of Naples along the sub-regional, regional and Mediterranean shipping lanes. It might also be possible to propose a continuous political and ceremonial role for some of the main intra-mural arteries, moulding the social and cultural identities of the local population and complementing the importance of the area of the cathedral as a centre of civic life152. The street-grid as a real social and structural urban skeleton appears to have been underpinned by the survival of considerable stretches of the water-supply system. This is shown by the fact that the bath-building at the later

Franciscan monastery of S. Chiara153 was still in use in the seventh-eighth century, and also by the continuing functionality of parts of the Roman drain system154. One might well consider the road and water networks as supporting either a rather densely-occupied settlement or, at least, a city arranged and planned according to different functional roles for different inhabited foci. Archaeological evidence is still too scanty to draw any real conclusion concerning the urbanism and topography of early Medieval Naples. However, in terms of urban layout, town-planning and fabric it seems to me possible to propose three different conclusions. Indeed, on the one hand during the seventh and eighth centuries the urban fabric seems to have coalesced around churches and monasteries built during the Justinian period over former Roman buildings155: San Giovanni Maggiore156, Santa Maria Maggiore157, San Lorenzo Maggiore158, the Cathedral of Santa Restituta with the Basilica Stefania and the baptistery of San Giovanni in Fonte159 and the Monastery of Santi Nicandro and Marciano (later renamed as Santa Patrizia)160. To these religiously-oriented foci of settlement one could possibly add the five diaconiae attested by the literary sources as founded in the seventh and eighth century161 and acting as Arthur 2002, 45. Id. 155 Arthur 1995, 21; Arthur 2002, 62-73. 156 Built by bishop Vincent (555-78 A.D.) (Gest.Episc.Neap. 19) and set within the restructured, re-planned and enlarged south-western stretch of walls attributed to Narses (Arthur 2002, 35). 157 Built by bishop Pomponius in 533 A.D. (Gest.Episc.Neap. 14) 158 This church was built by the bishop John II (537-557 A.D.) upon the area of the former forum (Gest.Episc.Neap. 16) and –according to the toponymical evidence- preserved some of its commercial functions (Arthur 2002, 44). See De Simone 1986; Hirpinus 1961; Johannowski 1961; Di Stefano-Strazzullo 1971. 159 Arthur 2002, 62-3 with further bibliography. 160 Arthur 1984. 161 Arthur 2002, 68-9. Although their exact location remained unknown, 153 154

Ibid., 44ff. Arthur 1994. 145 Arthur 2002, 41-2. 146 Ibid., 62-78. 147 Ibid., 49-52. 148 See on this Chapter 1. p.7. 149 Ibid., 39. 150 Arthur 1995, 22; Arthur 1998(b), 174-85; Arthur 2002, 53ff. 151 Arthur 2002, 148. 152 Replacing in this the forum which had been out of use since the midsixth century (Arthur 2002, 44). 143 144

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS

6. Naples, Carminiello ai Mannesi (Author’s photo)

7. Map of Amorion (after Gill, 2002)

essential institutions of ecclesiastical welfare (providing people in need with free distribution of food and prime necessities162). On the other hand, in the south-western area of the city the ducal residential complex played a preeminent role; literary sources and toponymical analysis have, indeed, revealed that the duke’s palace (functioning both as a military compound and headquarters of the bureaucratic and administrative machinery163) included, in the period under scrutiny, at least the mint, a monastery and a church (bearing the revealing name of San Iohannis in Curte)164. Finally, some residential areas have been discovered thanks to the analysis of literary sources165 and to the evidence yielded mainly from the archaeological excavations at Carminiello ai Mannesi166. Here a Roman insula originally occupying the area between the media plateia and one of the stenopoi (close to the church of San Giorgio Maggiore) underwent a reorganization of the ‘spaces in and around the [former] Roman edifice’ sometime in the eighth century. Multi-roomed dwellings were built, partially encroaching onto the stenopos; the analysis of the pottery, metal objects, glasses and coins found in the stratigraphical-excavated layers allowed us to conclude that the area was a possible nub for artisanal and commercial activities and a residential centre167. It is not by chance, indeed, that- as previously stated- we possess ninth-century documentary evidence for a quarter of smiths

residing around the Church of San Giorgio Maggiore168. To sum up, in the light of the material and literary evidence, it seems to me possible to propose a sort of functional, topographical and structural differentiation of different areas of settlement in Naples (which coherence was enhanced by the walled enceinte), stemming from a complex urban social fabric; this in turn depended on the central role of the economic demand of the local elites and of the administrative and bureaucratic machinery. To this picture, one should add the importance of the city as the residence of the local bishop and his clergy, the role played by the monasteries and, eventually, its significance as pilgrimage centre, thanks to the extramural catacombs of S. Gennaro169. Here, indeed, the tomb of Naples’ patron saint was regarded not only as an unavoidable stop for pilgrims like Willibald170, but also as the main burialplace for local bishops and dukes (who rested in the late fifth-century funerary basilica built upon the grave of the saint171) and as a point of attraction for acts of artistic and architectural patronage on the part of the Neapolitan secular and ecclesiastical authorities172. One could argue about whether the catacombs and the basilica constituted the focus of a real residential settlement, or only a ceremonial locus for state funerals and a stopping place for sightseeing tours of the main religious attractions of the city, but it is, in my view, hardly possible to deny the coherent functional role that S.Gennaro’ pilgrimage centre played as a consistent part of the urban fabric, if not physically, at least ideologically, politically and socially.

it ay be guessed that they would have been founded in settled areas and not vice-versa. Indeed at least five diaconiae were sited around the imma plateia, possibly indicating the residential areas of the lower social classes. 162 Arthur 2002, 68. 163 Ibid., 41. 164 Id. The name means, indeed, within the court (i.e. the ducal palace). 165 Skinner 1995. 166 Arthur 1994. 167 Ibid., 73. The residential destination of the area is further confirmed by the presence of undated medieval chapel and seven tombs of children (dated to the eighth century)

The economic resilience, political and administrative importance, the religious significance and the social Skinner 1995 Arthur 2002, 56; 64. 170 In competition with the developing “Lombard” pilgrimage centre of Cimitile (see Arthur 2002, 91ff.). Willibald 4, 93. 171 Arthur 2002, 57 172 Ibid, 66. 168 169

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8. Amorion. Bathhouse Complex (Author’s photo)

vitality of Naples, could be seen, however, as the result of a peculiar geographical location (a harbour city benefitting from the vicinity of Rome and the local and intra-regional shipping routes) and the relatively peripheral role it played in the eyes of the Constantinopolitan court as a non-capital city; a role which developed into the increasing localization of the local military and bureaucratic apparatus and the growing political (and religious173) antagonism towards the Byzantines from the early ninth century on174, ending up in the autonomy of the local duchy175 after the fall of Ravenna in 751 A.D. Here, indeed, my third short case studyAmorion- seems to me helpful as a contrast, for it allows us to draw a comprehensive picture of the urban social and structural fabric of a city which acted as a thematic capital and was located at the very heart of the Byzantine heartland, the Anatolian plateau: that is, a city which could be regarded as a sort of photographic negative for cities like Pella, Naples and also Gortyn, Ephesus, Amastris and

Athens, non of which had a similar state role. The city of Amorion176 lies in a wide plateau surrounded by mountains, near the springs of the river Sangario in eastern Phrygia, 170 kilometres southwest of Ankara, on a sort of peninsula formed by two streams that run alongside each other177. Here the Amorion Excavations Project has aimed to trace the development of the city from the late antique period through the middle ages, with particular attention focused on the so–called Byzantine Dark Ages of the seventh–ninth centuries178. The archaeological survey comprises two main sectors: the Upper city (the mound functioning as the nucleus of the site) and the Lower city (a large area extending around the south and east sides of the mound)179. The Lower city was enclosed by fortifications180 which 176 Lightfoot–Ivison et al. 1995; Lightfoot–Ivison et al. 1996; Lightfoot 1998; Harrison 2001; Gill 2002: Lightfoot 2003; Lightfoot et al. 2003; Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007; Ivison 2000; Ivison 2008; Ivison 2009; http:// www.amoriumexcavations.org . I want to thank here Prof. Eric Ivison and Dr.Chris Lightfoot to have accepted me as a part of the team for the 2008 campaign; Prof. Ivison has also provided me with his invaluable guide and help by reading through many parts of this book and giving me precious pieces of advice. 177 Harrison 2001, 67. 178 Gill 2002, 5. 179 Ibid., 7. 180 On the peculiarities of the enceinte see Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007,

Especially during the Iconoclastic period (see for instance the bishop Sergius (716-46 A.D.) who was rewarded with the title of archbishop, but after a harsh rebuke by the Pope, returned to the iconophile ranks (Gest.Episc. 36: ‘Hic dum a Graecorum pontefice archiepiscopatum nancisceretur, ab antistite romano correctus, veniam impetravit’) 174 Brown 1984, 161-2. 175 Whitehouse 1986; Russo Mailer 1988, 359ff.; La Posta 1994, 127ff; Zanini 1998, 41-5;Arthur 2002, 16ff. 173

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS

9. Amorion. Lower church complex (Author’s photo)

belonging to an illoustris named Anastasios187. Another district of settlement, this time intramural, was probably centred on the so–called Lower city church188, ‘a major monument of the city, forming a large complex of rooms and buildings’189, which had two different building phases. The building was originally a basilica divided by colonnades into a nave and two aisles, with a narthex to the west; ‘pottery from the construction fills beneath the narthex, together with the plan, sculptured decoration and stamped bricks, indicate the late fifth–early sixth century as a possible construction date’190. To the northwest of the church a baptistery with adjoining narthex have recently been found; the analysis of the building technique, plan, and style of architectural and artistic decoration shows its contemporaneity with the Lower city church, which was later destroyed by a fire and successively rebuilt in the late ninth–early tenth century as a domed church (as shown by the analysis of the architecture, mural decoration,

preserved a gateway flanked by two triangular towers181: ‘no firm evidence for an absolute date of these walls has been recovered’182, although the radiocarbon analysis of some wooden beams recovered from one of the towers, and the investigation of the numismatic material183 found in the layers of debris, have revealed that the walls were possibly built in the late fifth– early sixth century and maintained throughout the Dark Ages184, to be destroyed only around 800 A.D. (perhaps to be linked with the sack of the city by the Abbasids in 838 A.D.185). A passage of the early seventh-century Life of St.Theodore of Sykeon186 states that an enceinte was in place when the saint visited the city. The passage also asserts that an extramural settlement area existed, since St.Theodore stayed in a private aristocratic residence with a chapel, 104-108. 181 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 108-9. 182 Gill 2002. 8. 183 ‘Only few coins were found inside the tower, the latest of which is a copper alloy follies of the Emperor Theophilus (A.D. 829-842)’ (Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 110) . 184 Ivison 2008, 33. 185 Lightfott-Lightfoot 2007, 111. 186 Life of St.Theod.of Syk., I, 107: the saint visited Amorion during one of his travels in Anatolia and was greeted by the local inhabitants who came out of the walls to welcome him.

Life of St.Theod.of Syk., I, 107. See also Lightfoot 1998, 60. Lightfoot–Ivison et al. 1995, 105–24.; Lightfoot–Ivison et al. 1996, 92–7; Lightfoot 1998, 67ff.; Gill 2002, 14–15; 189 Ivison 2008, 14. Indeed, the Lower City church was not the only one within the Lower city, since recent surveys have pointed out the existence of other three basilicas which are still awaiting to be excavated (Ivison 2008, 24). 190 Gill 2002, 14. Also Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 83-5; Ivison 2008, 34. 187 188

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) sculpture fittings and furnishings191). In all probability, the original church was destroyed during the sack of 838 A.D. as well. Another building (a possible palace or official structure in the southern part of the Lower city)192 has also revealed analogous constructive phases (erection in the late fifth– early sixth century, then destruction by fire before a rebuilding in the tenth century)193. Indeed, one could conclude that important parts of the Lower city continued to be occupied until (and after) the siege of 838 A.D. as also shown by the continuous role played by the lower enceinte, ‘sufficiently well maintained to provide a viable defence during the Abbasid attack’194.

This wall possibly surrounded a paved street, some houses aligned with it and a church (which showed a similar plan and construction as the Lower city basilica and so, in all probability, dated to the late fifth-early sixth century)206. As Lightfoot states, it is possible that the Upper city fulfilled the same functions as the citadel of Ankara, when these two places became thematic capitals in the latter part of the seventh century207; indeed, ‘the fact that the upper walls run round the whole of the mound […] suggest that the Upper City was a distinct and separate zone within the city’208. Amorion seems to have functioned not only as a military centre; it was also a civic, religious209 and economic focus for the local population, since a potter’s workshop and a kiln with masses of discarded sherds have been excavated within the upper enceinte and dated to the late eighth-early ninth century, according to the analysis of the associated pottery210. A second building–phase of the Upper enceinte has been documented after a destruction which has been again attributed to the disastrous event of 838 A.D.211: the new ring of walls was built over a substantial level platform resulting from the dumping of a massive quantity of fill212. ‘This enceinte was the latest Byzantine fortification and it was of a piece with the major reconstruction of the upper city after the sack of Amorion by the armies of the Abbasid caliph al–Mut`asim in 838 A.D’213.

This is further shown by the exceptional vitality showed by the so-called bathhouse-district (‘the enclosure’)195. Here, recent excavations have revealed the existence of clusters of residential, artisanal and commercial buildings made of mudbrick and reused material, densely occupying a large area fenced in by a massive stone wall of uncertain function196. This area reveals ‘continuity and reuse of some old Byzantine structures, discontinuity and abandonment of others and a radical redevelopment of new buildings’197 from a monumental public bathhouse flanked by a large courtyard, streets, wells and large buildings198(originally built some time in the course of the sixth century199) into an industrial and later residential and artisanal quarter related to the process, production and export(?) of wine. ‘The wineries at Amorion appear to be part of a densely built-up wine-making quarter with presses and treading floors located in a series of interconnected buildings and courtyards with a large number of workers involved’200. One should also notice that this substantial industry, developing from the mid-seventh century onwards, together with the presence of other small scale workshops201, did not entail the end of the old public bathhouse; on the contrary the building apparently functioned throughout the whole seventh and first half of the eighth century and underwent major alterations only at the end of the eighth century202, pointing to a new social use as an amenity possibly destined to a few privileged members of the local military, civil and ecclesiastical elites203.

It seems clear that from the middle seventh century Amorion had become a major, impressively walled, military base and capital of the Anatolikon theme. This development derived from its strategic position, its political and administrative importance as thematic capital, its role in the Imperial fiscal system (as shown by the analysis of the sigillographic evidence214), its military magnitude (stressed by the massive double ring of walls which were the target of repeated Arab raids215), its religious significance first as a bishopric and then- possibly from the late seventh- first half of the eighth century- as an autocephalous archbishopric216, and, finally, its agriculturally rich hinterland. a date in the early or mid–seventh century would not seem inappropriate for the construction of the first phase (Lightfoot 1998, 65.) . Se also Ivison 2000, 17. 206 Gill 2002, 8; 15–16. 207 Lightfoot 1998, 65 208 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 145. 209 Not.Episc. 1.239; Amorion was a suffragan bishopric in the Galatian Eparchy (Metropolis: Pisinounton). According to the sigillographic evidence (Nesbitt-Oikonomides 1993,III, 165-7), the city was first mentioned as bishopric in the fifth century and then obtained the rank of an autocephalous archibishop by 787 A.D. (Laurent V/1 369; 570), although according to a seal published by Zacos-Veglery (ZacosVeglery 1970, 1876) a later date can be proposed (first half of the eighth century). 210 Gill 2002, 17. 211 Lightfoot 1998, 66. 212 Gill 2002 , 17. 213 Ibid., 13. Ivison 2000, 14-18. 214 Nesbitt-Oikonomides, 1993, III, 166 ( specimen 88.2 “Lykastos dioiketes of Amorion” dated to the 7th-8th century). As already mentioned, the dioiketes was, an all-purpose fiscal official responsible for the taxation sent to each single province or city on temporary basis. But it is hard to be sure what the dioiketai actually did, and who they were subordinated to. 215 Ivison 2008, 26. 216 Nesbitt-Oikonomides, 1993, III, 165-7 with further bibliography. Ivison, on the contrary, points to a ninth-century date see Ivison, 2008, 31.

As for the Upper city, here the archaeological reports have shed light on another fortified enceinte (made of rubble core with large facing blocks and spolia) dated to the first half of the seventh century204, according to stratigraphical analysis and investigation of the building technique205. Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 86-97. Gill 2002, 11. 193 Ibid. The conclusions are based on the analysis of the construction technique and associated (but unspecified) finds. 194 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 111. 195 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 118 ff.; Ivison 2008, 38. 196 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 118-9. 197 Ivison 2008, 34. 198 ‘A rectangular block divided into six rooms and a single large round hall’ (Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 128). 199 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 131; Ivison 2008, 39. 200 Ivison 2008, 40. 201 Idem. 202 Ibid., 39; also Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 132-43 and Ivison 2009, xx. 203 Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 141-3. 204 Lightfoot 1998, 63ff.; Gill 2002, 15–16; Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 144-5. 205 The use of spolia is common in many Byzantine fortifications, and 191 192

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GENERAL CONCLUSIONS But excavations in Amorion have also shed light on the economic vitality of the city during the so-called Dark Ages. In particular, the coin finds from the excavated areas ‘constitute a unique body of evidence for the patterns of economic life in central Anatolia between the seventh and the eleventh centuries’217; indeed, although of very poor quality, the several copper coins- dated between the reign of Heraclius and Theophilus- yielded by the excavations point to ‘the city’s continued wealth and vitality as a reflection of conditions in the surrounding countryside’218 and, in all evidence, to a good level of petty-commodity exchange and monetisation of the local economy.

bathhouse complex227), four churches (among which the so-called Lower City Basilica228)and artisanal installations which-as we have seen- point to a good level of economic activity throughout the seventh and the eighth century229. So, as already mentioned, it might be possible that the administrative and bureaucratical needs of the central government moulded the urban fabric in two different, separated and heavily functionalized zones. It is possible to highlight some differences between Amorion and the other cities I have analyzed in this book. Indeed, Amorion was a capital of a theme, preserving a main role as political, administrative and military focus, as well as a centre with ecclesiastical importance. These roles, in all probability, contributed to sustain a substantial level of economic activity, as shown by the analysis of the material culture, and to underpin the demographic vitality of the centre, shaping the urban fabric and landscape. The lower church, the lower enceinte and the impressive upper ring of walls were among the structural landmarks of the city (together with three other churches, and the bathhouse). The walls in Amorion stood as a visual assertion of this primary military–political role as thematic capital, often harassed by Arab incursions230. On the contrary, none of the other cities I have discussed became a capital of a theme. Although they indubitably preserved a political and administrative role which benefited from the urban orientation of the local bureaucratic officials of the state apparatus, it seems to me that this role never surpassed the other functions those cities preserved. In other words, Athens, Gortyn, Amastris, Ephesos (and Naples) fulfilled different functions (political, military, but also cultural, economic, social and administrative) which seemed to mould the urban topography, morphology and structure equally. Again, the walls serve as a useful example: Gortyn never had a fortified enceinte, whereas the walls of Ephesos, Naples and Athens (massive as they were) were rarely tested by invasions, and those of Amastris were prompted more by a desire for political status than to the search for security231.

The analysis of the stratified pottery shows that the ‘majority of the pottery from seventh-eighth century Amorion seems to be locally made, with lack of comparisons in terms of unglazed pottery from Constantinople, Aegina, Emporion and Corinth’219 and only a small quantity of Constantinopolitan Glazed White Ware. This allows us to assert that in Amorion, although exchange was substantially localized and the structure of demand and production had weakened, the demand of local elites (mainly administrative, ecclesiastical and military) was still substantial enough to underpin local artisanal activities. The economic activity of Amorion is also documented by the literary sources: ‘during the Muslim siege of 716 A.D., Leo general of Anatolikon, organized a large travelling market and sent it to the Muslim army encamped outside Amorion under truce: here the Greeks traded freely without fear’220. It would have been economically profitable for workers in metal, leather, canvas, livestock dealers and traders to make the journey to Amorion since the roga or military pay of the Anatolikon theme was disbursed there221. As for the urban layout, in Amorion, the strategic advantages of the landscape, the administrative and fiscal needs of the government, and above all the raising of the urban centre to the status of thematic capital of the Anatolikon theme in the mid-seventh century222, led to the partition of the urban landscape into two different zones: the upper fortified mound, possibly including the secure headquarters of the strategos (the military commander) and his staff, together with other imperial administrators223, and the residential Lower city whose walls- built in the later fifth or early sixth centuries and restored some time between the late sixth and the early ninth224 - included foci of settlement which preserved the ‘late antique framework of public buildings, streets and public and private spaces forming the grid within which the Dark Age city developed’225. The excavations have, in fact, yielded traces of streets and numerous wells226, public buildings (like the so-called

217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226

This allows us to assert that Byzantine cities often continued even when they were not fortified strongholds fulfilling the religious, military and political functions of a thematic capital; nor was the attraction of the Constantinopolitan hierarchies (administrative and ecclesiastical) so substantial as to reduce all urban settlements to deurbanized kastra. In other words it was not necessary to be a thematic capital to survive as an urban centre. But, on the other hand, even a thematic capital as Amorion showed an undiminished economic and demographic vitality, as it was embodied by built-up urban environment around the central mound. Rather, indeed, Amorion bears some similarity to Pella and Naples in the development of Byzantine urbanism in the seventh and eighth centuries. The Anatolian centre was an

Lightfoot 2002, 235. Ibid. 237. Bohlendorf Arslan, 2007, 292. Reported in Trombley 2001(b), 227. Ibid. Ivison 2008, 32. Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007, 144ff. Ibid., 104-110; also Ivison 2008, 33. Ivison 2008 37. Lightfoot-Lightfoot 2007 79.

Ibid., 126ff; Ivison 2008, 38-42. Ivison 2008, 44-48. 229 Laiou-Morrisson 2007, 48. 230 Brandes 1989, 53ff. 231 Also acting as a possible demarcation of military zones that had more restricted access to civilians. 227 228

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) urban settlement with persisting economic, religious and social functions and a major role as military and political (administrative) centre. The Jordanian city abandoned its classic urban façade while at the same time maintaining an enduring economic importance, its different political and administrative role, a persisting significance as a Christian centre (churches were still rebuilt well after the Arab occupation of the city) and thus a changing social and cultural fabric. In Naples the exceptional strategic location of the city and its closeness to Rome allowed the local elites to survive, also benefitting from the importance the city had as an Byzantine administrative, political and military stronghold facing the Lombard duchy of Benevento; hence, considering also the role the city played as ecclesiastical and pilgrimage centre, it comes as no surprise that the economic life of the city (as mirrored in the ceramic and numismatic evidence) retained a good degree of vitality supporting the demographic, monumental, topographical and infrastructural coherence of the urban fabric. All three cities, in truth, preserved an urban conscience and awareness of “being a city”, which are mirrored both in the structural and spatial coherence (in Amorion the presence of the lower enceinte visually marked this cohesiveness, as also in Naples232), which should be regarded as consistent with a urban centre predicated on different functional patterns: the cities remained a real point of reference for their hinterland, for the local elites, for the economic activities of their populace, for the church, and for the state.

much clearer (for the exceptional state of preservation of the urban fabric). Moreover, the recent discovery of an eighth-century mosque may allow us to draw another comparison with Naples (but also with Amastris, Athens, Ephesos and Gortyn) as all these cities retained a functional role as (Christian) religious centres, often matched by their importance as a hub along the pilgrimage routes. In this sense, Amorion should be regarded less as a test than as a further anchorage for my interpretative grid: what if a urban centre, which is considered as “typical” of the Fossian scheme (a diminished Roman town reduced to a stronghold acting as a regional capital and lodging only the local bishop and the strategos) and one of the few still worth being called with the name of city by the contemporary sources233 proved to be more than a settlement with a main defensive purpose? What if the military and political functions shaped the city well beyond the building of a fortified enceinte? What if the life in a thematic capital was more in tune with cities laying at the edge of the political and military core of the empire, which never played such an important role as main foci for the Byzantine administrative and fiscal machinery, military apparatus and ecclesiastical bureaucracy? Archaeology, here, luckily comes to rescue, proving that the main functional characteristics which shaped the urban social fabric and landscape in nonthematic capitals can be traced, magnified and overstated, in Amorion, where the consistence and magnitude of the state-sponsored elites strengthened the economic life of the city even more than in Athens, Amastris, Gortyn and Ephesos. In this sense, the levels of density and vitality of Amorian economy as boasted by the excavations at the so-called enclosure, are even comparable to those traced in Pella; paradoxical as it may seems in the light of the traditional quest for discontinuity, one can follow the development of artisanal and commercial activities at Amorion as developing during the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages and can point more towards its similarities with other (although less politically and military relevant) urban foci in different regions and sub-regions of the Byzantine empire. This being so, Athens, Amastris, Ephesos, Gortyn (and Naples) are “typical”, because their elites remained substantial enough to underpin a vital local economic life, whereas Amorion looks to me as “non-typical” only because here the “usual” urban orientation of local aristocracies received a stronger support from the importance the city had for the Byzantine fiscal-administrative state machinery. In other words it is in Amorion where we can trace, magnified as they are, some of the main functional characteristics of the other (provincial if one would like) Byzantine cities; this also owed to the fact that in Amorion we have better archaeology and to its peculiar strategic-military and political role within the structures of power of the Byzantine empire.

This being so, one may assert that these cities bear strong similarities with the other four case studies I have already addressed. Although different in terms of density of urban landscape, planning and topography, distribution of public (and private) spaces and road network, these cities show the same functional “trajectories” I have proposed for Athens, Ephesos, Amastris and Gortyn. Indeed, my intention was to use Naples, Amorion and Pella, as already stressed, to bolster the comparative character of this book, with an inter-Mediterranean accent. Naples and Pella lay on the fringe of the Byzantine Mediterranean (even if the former remained of a piece with the Byzantine empire for longer than the Palestinian city), but should not be regarded as exogenous in terms of urbanism: indeed, they show many characteristics we can trace in the cities of the Byzantine heartland: economic vitality (artisanal and commercial) supported by the role and urban-orientation of the local landowning elites, continuous presence of state burocraticadministrative personnel, significant role within the fiscal machinery, and, finally, a considerable degree of social sophistication enhanced, within the urban fabric, by the presence of shops, workshops, residential dwellings and public buildings and mirrored in a functional partition of the urban layout in specialized areas (political, economic, cultural and religious). All these characteristics could be traced in each of the chapters I devoted to the urban case studies. It is, indeed, not by chance that I included also Pella in the picture. There, the impact of a thriving economy on urbanism is highly perceptible and visually 232

Here, in carefully balancing and weighting against each other the possible nature of the local elites and the role they played in moulding the social, cultural, political, religious and, of course, economic aspects of urban

Although Naples did not have two separate enceintes.

233

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Whittow 1996, 153.

GENERAL CONCLUSIONS life, lies the essence of this book. These elites, first and foremost, acted in different local contexts, leading me to stress the similarities and dissimilarities between different urban settlements belonging to diverse regional and sub-regional areas (Amorion on the Anatolian plateau, Athens, Ephesos and Gortyn along the Aegean and interMediterranean coastal routes of the Byzantine empire, Amastris on the Black Sea, Naples along the Tyrrhenian coast of the Byzantine Italies, and, finally Pella, as “placenon place” for a history of the Byzantine urbanism); this allowed me to address the problem of cities in transition between the fifth and the ninth century in comparative terms predicated upon coast-mountain, Mediterraneannon-Mediterranean, (supposed) Byzantine peripheryheartland and even Byzantine- non Byzantine lines (as in the analysis of Syrian and Palestinian urbanism in another transitional phase, that between the Byzantine and Early Islamic sway). I will return to this later.

magnitude of Constantinople could not be regarded as the main explanation for the processes laying at the basis of the transformation of the Byzantine city between the fifth and the ninth century. Different regional and sub-regional trajectories (predicated upon local, geo-morphological, geo-political, and strategic characteristics), the peculiarities of the local social- property relations, the socio-cultural persisting pre-eminence of the urban, post-curiales, elites (as effective holders of landowning productive power and inevitably including the local religious authorities) interpreted as the strongest economic force underpinning the persistence of substantial level of demand, and the incidence of a perseverant social coherence (and even differentiation) of the urban landscape mirrored into a newly moulded urban fabric and planning. The different spatial rationality and the re-modelled architectonic, planimetric and volumetric geography of the city (where for instance churches and other public buildings became the centre around which orbited diverse artisanal or commercial foci or residential islands of settlement), reflected the changed functional needs of the urban population, which in turn, moulded into new residential models (two-storeyed buildings lodging artisanal and commercial activities), new places of political ceremonialism (not focused anymore upon the forum), new role of the ecclesiastical buildings as reference for the social piety of the local population, and new economic districts (as “privatised” quarters often encroaching the former main public arteries or spaces). This created a dis-homogeneous but synchronic interpretative model of the transformations and trajectories followed by the Byzantine city in the passage from late Antiquity to the early middle ages. In other words, what I am proposing here is a model where the pride of place is given to the regional peculiarities predicated upon the importance and significance of different urban functions; functions which are common to and traceable beyond the geographical areas controlled by Constantinople (as in Pella). Here the significance of a preliminary definition of city resounds unmistakably, because it helps to explain the transition without issuing any moral judgment on the qualities displayed by urban functions in a specific historical period or in a peculiar geographical environment.

Secondly, the multifunctional approach with an economic accent engrossed into a double purpose. On the one hand, it permitted me to propose a real definition of city, which should regarded as preliminary to any discourse concerning the role and trajectories of Byzantine urbanism; overlooking this introductory classification–as I have already stated- could be easy, but at the same time it would deprive the reader of a basic interpretative guide when following the transformation of the urban social fabric as mirrored in the urban landscape; on the other hand, this interpretative guideline must be regarded as essential upon analyzing the very development of urbanism in social terms; this especially when one tackles the sophistication and diversification of the social urban roles. Here the elites come to a head mainly because of their visibility in the analysis of the material and documentary sources, although one should also (and often unsuccessfully) try to trace the urban image of the other social layers composing the urban body, mainly relying upon the (often underdeveloped) analysis of common ceramics, bronze coins and stratigraphical reports. As regards this, one should carefully consider the role of the Byzantine state apparatus; very often, indeed, it has been argued that in the passage between late Antiquity and the Byzantine early middle ages, cities survived as long as they maintained a central role for the State and the Church234; on the contrary my case studies have promoted the idea that cities could survive and even thrive although they are faraway (or so close to, according to Wenders) from Constantinople. Indeed, the role played by the central Imperial court and bureaucratic-administrative machinery remained essential in structural terms, for it dictated mode and tempo of the re-structuring of the fiscal, administrative and military apparatus (after the mid seventh-century baulk in front of the Arab invasions and the broken Egyptian tax-spine), the re-orientation of the structures of political and religious power, the re-organization of the regional (mainly Aegean) and sub-regional exchange networks, and, finally, the reconstruction of the social hierarchies, ideologies and modes of acquisition of status and rank. However, the 234

Having this is mind, it is, indeed, possible to scrutinize the transition of the Byzantine city within a functional ‘multi-stranded, open ended, path- dependent but not teleological narrative […] without denying the uniqueness of the particular sequences of causes and effects’235 which make different cities into what they are. Cities changed in the period between the fifth and ninth centuries: some prospered, some barely survived, and some even died; all of them changed and adapted in functional terms to the new conditions. One can, indeed, consider the different fates of cities without prejudices and without judging the transformation in rigid and mono-causal explanatory terms, caught in the trap of the vacuous debate on continuity and discontinuity. Here one should refer to the etymological sense of transition, which is a passage, a changeover typical, indeed, of human history seen as an inherently

See on this Chapter 1, p. 17ff.

235

169

Runciman 2007, 13.

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) open-ended evolution: a non -predetermined process. My approach is to present an attempt to move away from the traditional historiographical system of interpretation of Byzantine urbanism in the passage from the late Antiquity to the early middle ages, by relying on the contribution of the material evidence (through a re-appraisal of the old results and a careful analysis of the contemporary surveys) as inevitably matched by the scrutiny of the documentary and literary sources. This should allow me to unravel the diverse fate of different urban settlements according to a multi-functional pattern of analysis which stemmed from a detailed consideration of the regional and sub-regional areas of the Byzantine empire.

and commercial activities; it also had social and cultural implications, as members of the ecclesiastical hierarchy maintained their urban orientation. Lastly, Athens (and Ephesos as well) clearly shows how the walled enceintes which characterized all these cities (Gortyn had a separate wall on the acropolis), did not embrace the whole urban fabric: islands of settlement often spread outside the city walls. These walls, indeed, did not really respond to mere defensive needs (Gortyn remained practically untouched by invasions until the early ninth century), but rather then delineated the public/ecclesiastical space (as in Ephesos) and stressed the social status and identity of the urban settlement.

One should be aware that, in the delineation of the possible trajectories of Byzantine urbanism, regionalization is a crucial element. Regional and sub–regional differentiations allow us to propose different models of development for the cities of the Byzantine empire which should be measured against each other to understand how different local needs produced different multifunctional answers to similar problems.

Second, I have analysed Amastris in Paphlagonia as a representative of the urban trajectories on the Black Sea coast. Here, the massive walled enceinte which separated a peninsula and a nearby island from the mainland represented the main characteristic of the city, and enhanced its role as a base for the Byzantine naval fleet. Apart from its military functions, the city was also an important administrative and religious focus, acting as a real coastal counterpart to the mainland centre of Gangra (the regional thematic capital and ecclesiastical metropolis) located beyond the crest of the Paphlagonian mountains running parallel to the sea, although, once again it was never a thematic capital itself. The political and military importance of Amastris is echoed by other fortified cities facing the Black Sea like Sinop, Trabzon, and Cherson, which all acted as foci for the Byzantine administrative and fiscal machinery and ecclesiastical bureaucracy. All those cities, indeed, showed further similarities, for they all had an agriculturally active hinterland, and retained a crucial economic role as commercial hubs along the shipping routes crossing the Black Sea. As for Amastris, however, my analysis has allowed me to conclude that the city also extended beyond the massive ring of walls (either with islands of settlement or with a single extra–mural quarter), which should be regarded more as an imposing architectural tribute to the importance of the city as a naval station for the fleet and as a celebrative assertion of the role of the state and ecclesiastical elites living within it, than as a protective shield against Arab incursions.

First I have tried to propose a model of “Aegean urbanism”, triangulating the Aegean Sea by analyzing three cities located along its shores (Athens, Ephesos and Gortyn). My intention was to compare those cities with reference to their sub–regional peculiarities (Aegean islands for Gortyn, the so–called “inner zone”236 of the Anatolian peninsula for Ephesos, and eastern mainland, Greece for Athens), which stemmed from the simplification and crisis of the Aegean exchange system in the seventh century. All these cities evidently suffered from the vicinity of Constantinople, which acted as a pole of attraction for local elites (in political, religious and administrative terms). However, they all remained substantial, benefiting from the shipping traffic along the main trunk route linking the Byzantine capital with Italy which complemented a diminished but still existing level of medium–distance exchange. The economic vitality of those urban settlements is well–exemplified by Gortyn, which clearly resembles Pella (and other cities in Syria–Palestine) in showing that demonumentalization and abandonment of classic amenities can be set against substantial artisanal and retail activities, which took over the encroached public spaces and partitioned colonnades, and resulted in different areas of settlement focused on new political and religious foci (like the Basilica) or ruined classic buildings (like the Praetorium). Moreover, Gortyn exemplifies the persistent political and administrative significance of these cities, for the Cretan centre acted as the informal “capital” of the island until the Arab invasion of 827 A.D., hosting the officials of the state’s administrative and bureaucratic machinery, although never becoming a thematic centre. Conversely, Ephesos illustrates the role played by the Christian religion in moulding the urban social and structural fabric, since the city benefited from its exceptional position as a focus of pilgrim routes and as a Metropolitan see. This role had economic consequences, that it boosted local artisanal 236

Third, in the conclusions I have proposed a briefer comparison with Pella, Naples and Amorion, which will allow the reader to come to grips with different models of urbanistic development in other regions which remain neglected when an outline of Byzantine urban history is proposed, whether because of inappropriate historiographical prejudices (Italy), different political and cultural trajectories (Syria-Palestine), or a lack of proper archaeological evidence (the Anatolian Plateau). One the one hand, an area (Syria- Palestine) where especially during the first half of the eighth century, established regional centres benefited from targeted programmes of urban renewal, including mosque building, administrative complexes and commercial infrastructure’237.; on the other hand, a region (Anatolia), where urban fabric and society

See Chapter 4, p. 116.

237

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Walmsey 2007, 90.

GENERAL CONCLUSIONS seemed to become weaker and, due to the localization of the military (thematic) organization and the partially de-monetised fiscal system. Cities often continued as fortification perching from the hill tops (so-called kastra). However evidence coming form Amorion helped us to re-formulate this idea, since the city showed a substantial and diversified level of economic activity paired with an important political-military and religious role. Amorion was , indeed, a thematic capital, but still the level of dense occupation contrast with the traditional expectations of scattered occupation and reduced-in-scale economy. Lastly, Italy, which far from being a peripheral quarter of the Byzantine empire, should be regarded as an integral part of the debate on the fate of Byzantine urbanism. This owed in part to the fact that, the cities of the Byzantine Italies, as my analysis of Naples has shown, continued to play an important and multifaceted role (economic, fiscal, bureaucratic, and religious) in the Byzantine imperial structure (vis-à-vis to the increasing power of papal Rome). This is also due to the vitality of the local elites bolstering the economic prosperity of the urban settlements and, finally, by the similarities as far as multi-functional development of the urban social fabric and landscape with other cities of the Byzantine heartland.

the city walls. The economy, indeed, helps us to better grasp the different functions the Byzantine city played in the seventh and eighth century, and its demographic persistence. The social function of the city as a point of reference for the population of both its agricultural hinterland and (in more general terms) its regions helps to explain the urban orientation of local elites (landowners, state–officials, bureaucrats, military officers, members of the ecclesiastical hierarchies), who also took advantage of the political–administrative and religious functions the urban settlement continued to play, and fuelled an urban economic vitality which was mirrored by the artisanal workshops and commercial booths encroaching onto classic public buildings and open spaces. Indeed, I am perfectly aware that the cities I have include in this book can be regarded as non-typical, because many others failed during the same period, nevertheless I am confident enough to assert that my interpretative model can also be used to analyse, explain and interpret the fate of those urban settlements that did not survive the passage from late Antiquity to early middle ages. Secondly, as seen above, the differences between the cities I have discussed show above all the variety of regional and sub–regional models, which can be used as basic comparative elements within the overall frame of the Byzantine empire. I am of course aware that the three models I have just proposed have only partially sketched the trajectories of Byzantine urbanism. Many urban centres still await proper archaeological excavations, scientific analysis of the material found or else publication of the results of stratigraphical surveys; moreover, many regions and sub–regions still lie beyond the limits of this thesis. However, I am confident that the multifunctional approach I have proposed can offer a methodological path to assess coherently the future contributions of urban Byzantine archaeology and to interpret other possible models of Byzantine urbanism. Quoting Calvino, the Byzantine city seems to me the “elsewhere”: here we can recognize the little we have and the large amount that we have never had and will not ever have238.

To sum up, in this book I have tried to offer a multifunctional interpretation, in order to analyse how the nature and characteristics of urbanism in Byzantium changed between the sixth and the eighth century. First, the deconstruction of the classic forma urbis (the end of urban amenities, the de–structuring of the urban landscape and the Hippodamean plan, the development of religious buildings as new urban foci), which still had been commonly adopted in the fifth–sixth century, was followed not by a decline but by a re–constructing process along different multifunctional lines. The seventh–eighth century Byzantine city was predicated upon new roles (cultural, political, religious, administrative and economic), which moulded its structural and social fabric. We often see now a city of islands, with different political, religious, residential, and artisanal and commercial foci, scattered around the old classic landscape, and not interrupted by

238

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) ZAVAGNO, L., La Città Bizantina: i casi di Apamea, Amastris e Nauplia, Unpublished Italian Degree Thesis (Venice, 2002). ZAVAGNO, L., ‘‘Playing in the City: the Ludic Dimension between Late Antiquity and Early Middle Ages’, in The British Bulletin of Byzantine Studies (BBBS), 29 (2003), 73. ZAVAGNO, L., ‘La città bizantina tra il V e il IX secolo: le prospettive storiografiche’, in Reti Medievali Rivista, IX, 2008, ZAVAGNO, L., http://www.storia.unifi.it/_RM/rivista/ saggi/Zavagno_08_1.htm ZARNITZ, M.L., ‘Drei Siegel aus dem bereich der kommerkia’, in Studies in Byzantine Sigillography, 4 (1992),181-5. ZEYADEH, A., ‘Settlement patterns. An Archeological Perspective. Case Studies from Northern Palesine

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200

Index Abadie-Reynal, Catherine, 25, 49, 61, 78–79, 114

Antioch, 29–31, 48, 103 n. 101

Abbasid caliph al-Mut’asim (Caliphate), 166

Antoninos, (Bishop), 103, 111

Abbasids, 165–6

Apamea, 29–30

Abi Muslim al-Garmi, 136

Aphrodisia of Caria, 27, 193

Abgar of Edessa, 115

Areopagus (Athens), 36–37, 44–46, 48 n. 270, 49, 51–52

Abila, 30, 156

Arcadius, (Emperor), 67, 108

Abradas, 114

Argos, 41

Abruzzo, 16

Arkadiane, 107–9, 111–2, 115–6, 123–4

Abu Hafs, 72

Armeniakon (Theme), 99, 134–7

Achaia, 35–40, 42–4, 67

Arsuf, 30

Acre, 65

Artabasdos (usurper), 105

Acropolis: Athens, 35, 37–42, 45–51, 53, 57; Gortyn, 62–63, 68–71 74–7, 82–92, 118, 170; Ephesos, 18–19, 118–29; Amastris, 138–9; Pella, 154

Arthur, Paul, 9, 22–3, 27–8, 81, 120, 148, 154, 158–64 Artemis, 39, 95, 98, 100–1, 103, 107–9, 121 Asamer, Beatrix, 108, 114 n. 264

Adramytton, 106

Asqalon, 30

Aegean Islands, 44, 55, 59, 63, 72, 106, 125, 170

Athanasius, 44

Aegina, 37, 40, 167

Athens, 9–10, 18, 25–26, 32–60, 88, 155, 158, 164, 167–70

Agatho, Pope, 45

Attaleia, 27, 65, 106

Agrippa (Odeion of), 48

Attalos, Stoa of (Athens), 46

Ahrweiler, 41–2, 55, 70–74, 106, 137, 148

Attica, 37–38, 58, 155

Aigaleo, 37

Augustii (Temple of), 83

Akçacoca-Bolu Mts, 131–2

Avars, 40

Akrites, Gregory, 66, 72

Avamea, Anna, 36–7, 40–44, 51, 56, 148

Alaric, 33, 36, 40, 47

Ayasoluk, 84, 95–100, 104, 107, 111–12, 116–24

Aleppo, 29

Ayla (al- ‘Aqabah), 30

Alexandria, 9, 47, 69, 87, 103, 135 Altinum, 22

Baladhuri 69, 72

Amasra, 129, 141, 182

Balkans, 20, 25–26, 41,

Amasya, 132

Bartin (Parthenia-), 133

Amastris, 11, 18, 26–27, 29, 32, 97, 105, 129–51, 155, 158, 162, 167–70

Basil, (Bishop of Gortyn), 70–73

Amman, 29–30, 156

Bavant, Bernard, 23

Amnia, 134

Bedesten, 138–9, 145–7, 151

Amorion, 11, 18, 27, 88, 134–36, 143–6, 150–8, 163–71

Benevento, 159–161, 168

Amphipolis, 25

Bet Shean, See Scythopolis

Anastasios (Meizoteiros), 71, 134

Biddle, Martin, 3, 14

Anatolia, 9, 14, 18–24, 25–26, 28–29, 32, 42, 81, 98–99, 100–2, 104, 116–7, 119, 131–37, 136, 165, 167, 170

Billaios (Parthenios), 131

Anatolic Theme, 27, 72

Bithynia, 11, 101, 135

Anatolios, (Bishop), 44

Black Sea, 27, 65, 92, 114–5, 129–51, 155, 169

Anchesmos Hill, 38

Boetia, 37

Andreas of Crete, (Hymnographer), 74

Bosra, 29–30, 64, 87

St Andrew, 133, 139

Boule Gate, 46

Anemourion, 27–8

Boz Tepe, 129, 138–45, 150–151

Ankara, 10–11, 18–21, 28, 84, 97, 119, 121, 133–6, 141–5, 150, 164, 166

Brandes, Wolfram, 1, 6–17, 27, 36–43, 54–55, 68–71, 84, 95, 99–104, 116–136, 145–8, 167

Anopodaris, 66

Brier, Anthony, 133, 151

201

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Brogiolo, Gianpietro, 4, 22–23, 93 Brown, Thomas, 2, 5, 12, 23, 134, 159–60, 164

Dacia, 67

Bulbul Dağ, 95, 107, 114

Dagron, Gilbert, 3–4, 11, 26, 40

Butrint, 25

Damascus, 20, 30, 156–157 Damianos (Constable), 72

Caesarea Maritima, 29–30, 87

Daphnousia, 133

Cagliari, 22–3, 40

Dead Sea, 30

Calabria, 22, 42, 45, 74, 161

Decapolis, 30, 156

Calvino, Italo, 2–3, 6, 171

Demeas, 100

Caria, 41, 55, 68, 73, 100–6, 135

Dictaean Massif, 66

Carile, Antonio, 2, 4, 22, 95, 100, 116, 119–22

Diocletian (Emperor), 29, 67, 75, 88, 102, 135

Carminiello ai Mannesi (Naples), 158, 160–3

Dioketai, 39–44

Carthage, 9, 63, 65, 69, 114, 161

Dionysius (Areopagite), 140

Castelfranchi, Maria Falla, 112–13

Dionysius, Theater of (Athens), 47, 50, 68, 109

Castren, Paavo, 25, 35–6, 48

Di Vita, Antonio,

Cayster River, 100–1, 107, 119–24

Dypilon Gate (Athens), 41, 46, 49

Celsus (Library), 107, 111, 127

Dunn, Archie, i, 1, 6, 10–11, 15, 20, 25–8, 63, 68, 74, 84, 87, 103, 142, 147, 156

Cephisus River, 37–8 Chalcedon, 44, 103, 119, 135, 140

Edessa, 35

Chaldia (Theme), 136, 148

Egypt, 13, 18, 64–5, 69–72, 78, 86–7, 93, 105, 114, 157, 169

Cherson (Theme) 129–31, 134, 137, 147–51, 170

Eirene (Empress), 43–4

Chiara, Monastery of St. (Naples), 162

Elatia, 38

Chonae, 105–6

Eleusis, 38

Christie, Neil, 1–3, 7, 13, 20–3, 26, 90, 116

Eleutherna, 65–6, 73, 79–80, 91–3

Cilicia, 68, 101

Elladikoi, 41

Civitas Nova, Heracliana, 4, 15, 18, 24–5

Emesa, 30

Claudius, Emperor, 131

Emporion, 25, 138, 167

Colonae, 28

Eparchia, 40, 45, 67, 101, 103

Colophon, 102–3

Ephesos, 9–11, 18, 26–32, 36–40, 44, 48–52, 58–60, 69–70, 84, 88, 95–128, 155, 158, 167–70

Comacchio, 22–25 Concina, Ennio, 24, 27, 36, 49, 51, 95, 99–100, 107–8, 119, 121, 142

Eridanos River, 37

Constans II, 36–38, 42, 45, 52–59, 73, 82, 88–89, 97, 118, 121, 126–7, 142, 159–61

Euchaita, 11, 99, 121, 134–6, 145 Eudocia, (Empress), 39, 47

Constantia, 5

Euboea Island, 37, 40

Constantine I, 67, 70

Eutychius, 161

Constantine V, (Emperor), 54, 105

Euxine, 134

Constantine VI, (Emperor), 122, 148 Constantine Porphyrogenitus, 105–6, 148

Evagrios, 40

Constantinople, 2, 9, 14, 16, 19–22, 24–29, 38, 43–45, 54–55, 58–9, 61–103, 108–24, 128–70

FestosFest, 66, 89

Corinth, 25–6, 38–45, 54–60, 88, 167

Figes, Orlando, 12

Cosa/Luni, 22

Foss, Clive, 10–11, 14, 17, 21, 26–30, 84, 95–129, 140–155, 158, 168

Cosentino, Salvatore, 13, 25, 39, 42, 147

Frantz, Alison, 25, 33–41, 46–58

Crawford, J.S., 10, 28, 84, 93, 125–6

Frugoni, Chiara, 3

Crotone, 23 Crow, Jim, i, 129–49

Gadara, 19–20, 30, 156

Crypta Balbi, 160

Galatia, 134, 166

Curta, Florin, 41–4, 51–4, 56, 61

Gangra, 105, 129–40, 148–9, 170

Cyprus, 5, 65, 69, 78, 87, 123

Garrafo, Salvatore, 63–5, 70, 80, 85–8, 91

Cyrene, 62, 67

Gaza, 30

Cyril (Bishop of Gortyn), 75

Gelichi, Sauro, 4, 9, 22–4, 93

Cyzicus, 119

Genesius, 72, 75–6, 91

202

INDEX Gennaro, St., Church and Catacombs (Naples), 160–3

Jaffa, 65

George, St. of Amastris, 129, 134–8, 144–9, 161

Jerash, See Gerasa

Gerasa, 19–21, 29–30, 64, 87, 93, 156–7

Jerusalem, 29–31, 58, 103, 121

Giorgio Maggiore, San Church (Naples), 163

John, St. Chrysostom, 102–3

Gortyn, 10–11, 18–20, 25–32, 36–7, 48, 51–93, 155–8, 164, 167–170

John the Areopagite, (Church of St.), 28, 51, 56–7, 111–12, 121–4

Grado, 4, 22, 25

John of Cappadocia, 100, 141

Gramsci, Antonio, 98

John of Ephesos, 40, 44–5, 112

Gregory Akrites, See Akrites, Gregory.

John of Gortyn, 82

Gregory the Dekapolite, 106, 123, 161

John of Lappe (Bishop), 73

Gregory the Great (Pope), 158–60,

Jones, A.H.M., 8–12, 33, 61, 67, 101 Jouanin, Joseph Marie, 129

Hadrian (Emperor), 61

Justin I (Emperor), 77

Hadrian I (Pope), 74 Hadrian’s Gate (Athens), 107–11

Justinian (Emperor), 8, 22, 26, 29, 31, 33, 36, 40–1, 49, 52–4, 61–2, 67, 73, 76–8, 84, 95, 112–4, 135–8, 139, 151

Hadrian (Library of), 46–7

Justinian II (Emperor), 54, 57–8, 68, 88–90, 103–6, 140, 147, 151

Hagios Ioannis (church, Gortyn), 66, 84, 89 Hagios Titos (church, Gortyn), 26, 70, 74–7, 81, 90–3

Karabisianoi (Theme), 41–5, 69–70, 106, 148

Halberr, Frederico, 61, 82

Karwiese, Stephen, 95, 99–100, 107–11, 115–21

Haldon, John, i, 1, 4–8, 10–22, 26–9, 36–7, 41–3, 54–9, 68–71, 95, 98, 100–6, 111, 116–7, 123, 126, 133–7, 140, 145, 147, 154

Kastamonou, 132, 135, 142

Halicarnassos, 119

Kephallonia, 43–4

Halmiros, 131

Khazars, 137, 151

Halys River, 131, 135

Khirbet al-Samra, 30

Hanghäuser, 99–100, 113–26

Klaudioupolis, 133–5

Hellas (Theme of), 37–45, 55–6

Knossos, 63–75, 87, 91–3

Hendy, Michael, 13, 29, 33, 36–9, 43, 54–6, 61, 66, 68, 71, 88, 100–4, 116, 119, 123, 126, 131, 134, 147

Korogliu Doğlari Mts, 131

Kazanaki-Lappa, Maria, 25, 33, 36, 44, 49, 51, 59

Kos, 69, 72, 106, 125

Hephaisteion (Athens), 37, 48–57

Krateia, 133

Heracliana. See Civitas Nova Heracliana.

Kure Doğlari, 131

Heraclius (Emperor), 26, 30, 38, 41, 54, 62, 80–5, 91, 110, 118–19. 125, 142, 145, 151, 161, 167

Kureten Halle (Ephesos), 109–10

Hermos, 100

Kynosarges, 46

Hierapolis of Phrygia, 27–8, 81, 101, 105

Kyros (hermit in Amastris), 140

Hierocles, 40, 67, 101, 139 Hilduin (Abbot), 45

Lachanodrakon, Michael (general and Strategos), 100, 105, 123

Honorias, 131, 135, 147

Ladstätter, Sabine, 107, 110, 114, 116, 120

Hymettos Ridge, 25, 45

Lasaia, 66

Hypatius (Bishop), 103, 111

Laethos River, 66 Lang-Auinger, Claudia, 99, 110, 114, 116, 120

Ibn-Khordhadbeh, 73, 119, 137

Laurent, Vincent, 45, 67–8, 71–4, 117, 124, 135, 140, 166

Ida Massif, 66

Laurion Mts, 37

Ida-Psiloritis Range, 65–6

Lebedos, 102

Idrisi, al-, 66, 105

Lebena, 65–7

Ierapetra, 66

Leo III (Emperor), 36, 43, 45, 54–5, 70, 74, 121, 142, 148

Ieropotamos River, 66

Leo V (Emperor), 91

Ignatios the Deacon, 100, 106, 122, 136–7

Leon (protospatharios of Hellas), 44–5

Ilissos River, 37, 46, 49

Leontius (Emperor), 63, 88, 90

Illyricum, 40–7, 67, 73–4

Liebeschuetz, JWHG, 1–17, 32, 78, 95, 107, 110, 113–18

Ionopolis, 131, 135–9

Liguria, 22–3

Iustiniana Prima, 25, 40, 84

Limestone Massif, 21, 29–30

Ivison, Eric, i, 1, 7, 16, 28, 97, 125, 135–147, 150, 154–5, 158, 164–7

Lombards, 22 Lucian (of Samosata), 138–9

203

CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Lycabettus, 38

Oderzo/Opitergium, 22, 141

Lydia, 28, 68, 100–6, 120, 125–6

Oikonomides, 2, 42–5, 68–71, 74, 98, 105–6, 117, 124, 136–7, 140, 147–8, 166

Lysimacheian Walls (Athens), 100, 107, 119

Olympia, 41, 43, 49 MacAdam, Henry, 22, 29–30

Olympieon (Ephesos), 37, 100

Macedonia, 40, 44, 67

Ooriphas, 72

Madalveus (Bishop of Verdun), 119, 121

Opsikion (Theme), 20, 71, 105, 135

Maeander River, 100–3, 106

Ortygia, 107, 109, 114

Magnesia on the Maeander, 9, 101

Ostrogorsky, Georg, 8, 14

Marciano St (church, Naples), 162

Otranto, 22

Marinus, 35, 48–50 Maroussi, 39

Padova, 22

Marble Street (Ephesos), 109–15

Palace of Giants (Athens), 38, 48, 50–1

Matala, 65, 72, 82

Palestine, 7, 17–32, 51, 65, 81, 86–89, 93, 153, 156–8, 170

Martin, Pope, 134, 147

Palmyra, 141, 157

Mavropapas Basilica (Gortyn), 77, 81

Panathenaic Way (Athens), 46–48, 55–7

McCormick, Michael, 13, 20, 36–38, 51, 61–5, 69, 72–3, 98–101, 106, 116, 121–5, 129–33, 145–7, 160–1

Panayr Dağ, 95, 107, 121

Megali Porta (Gortyn), 52, 75–84, 89

Pantainos Stoa (Athens), 47, 51

Megarid, 37

Paphiagonia 105, 129–45, 149–51, 170

Megaris, 160

Paphlagonian (Theme), 105, 131–7, 144, 147

Messara, 62–6, 74, 85, 89, 93, 155

Parneia, 37

Metroon (Athens), 38, 47

Parnes Mts, 45

Michael III (Emperor), 72, 149

Parthenon (Athens), 37–9, 44–5, 50, 56

Miletos, 10–11, 27–9, 98, 101–3, 117–19, 125–8, 150

Parthenios River, 129, 131

Mitropolianos River, 62, 66, 74–6

Patras, 40–3

Mitropolis, 26, 62, 75, 81

Patrizia St, Monastery of (Naples), 158, 160, 162

Monemvasia, 36, 40–3, 55, 122

Paul of Gortyn, 73, 87

Morea, 38

Paul the Deacon, 38, 159

Morrisson, Cecile, 54–5, 88

Pella, 20, 29–32, 64, 87, 102, 153–8, 161, 164, 167–70

Mshatta, 30

Peloponnesos (Theme), 38, 40, 43–5

Mu’yāwiya (General and Caliph), 42, 119–20

Pentapolis, 23

Mumford, Steven, 1–3

Penteli, 37, 45

Müller-Wiener, Wolfgang, 1, 27, 98, 100, 108–9, 112–25

Pentelikon, 25

Myra, 29

Pergamon, 10, 27, 29, 98, 102–3, 118–27

Mysia, 100–1

Perna, R., 63, 78, 84

Panormos Basilica, 92, 124

Perugia, 23 Naples, 9, 22–3, 32, 153–71

Pervolopetra, 66

Nesbitt, John,

Peter (nyattos), 136

Nicaea, 27, 70, 97, 101, 141–2

Peter (scribon), 42, 68

St Nicandro, 162

Peter of Atroa (Saint), 120

Nicomedia, 27, 132–4,

Petra, 30

Nicopolis ad Istrum, 25

Phalerus, 38

Niketas, Magistros, 70

Philadelphia, 29, 156

Niketas, Sergios, 73

Philaretos St, 134–6

Nikephoros (Patriarch), 45, 140

Philippikos, 36, 54–7

Nikephoros I (Emperor), 43

Phocas (Emperor), 73, 110, 151

Nikephoros Gregoras, 101

Phokas St, 133

Nikephoros Phocas (Emperor), 73

Photeinos (Strategos), 72

Nikon St, 161

Phrygia, 101, 134, 145, 164 Phrygia Pacatiana, 28, 81, 104

204

INDEX Phygela, 120–1

Seleukia, 72

Piraeus, 38, 45–6

Sens, 51, 98, 121–3

Plaka, 33

Sergiopolis, See Resafa.

Platea, 44, 56

Setton, Kenneth, 33, 36–7, 44, 46–54, 57, 72–3

Pliny the Younger, 66, 101, 139

Seven Sleepers, 114, 121

Pnyx, 38, 46

Severan Dynasty, 61, 108

Poikile Stoa (Athens), 47–8

Shu’aib Emir of Crete, 91

Pompeion, 49

Sicily, 22, 38–45, 54, 58–9, 64–5, 72–4, 88, 122, 125, 159–61

Pompeioupolis, 132–5

Sirmium, 67

Pontic Alps, 131

Sinop, 105, 130–151, 170

Pontic Region, 20, 129, 133–40, 146, 148, 151

Sintagma Square (Athens), 37, 48, 52, 57

Pontus, 131–9, 151

Siteia, 66

Prinias, 66

Siteian Plateau, 66

Proclus, 35–6, 48–51

Sklavinia, 40

Proconnesos, 106, 123

Slavs, 26, 36–43, 69

Procopius of Caesarea, 23, 40, 112

Smyrna, 11, 27, 98–106, 118–121, 125–8

Prytaneion (Athens), 109–10

Sodini, Jean-Pierre, 10–11, 26, 33, 36–7, 47–57, 62–64, 156–7

Pseira, 79–80, 87–93

Sora, 135

Psiloritis Range, See Ida-Psiloritis Range.

Spain, 20, 25, 72, 122

Pythion (Apollo) Temple, 62, 65, 74–82

Spieser, JM Spili Valley, 66

Qastal, 30

Squillace, 22 Stavromenos, 65

Rabd-el Jobn, 66

Stefania, Basilica of (Naples), 162

Ravenna, 4, 22–4, 57, 65, 74, 154, 159, 164

Stephen Strategos, 71

Resafa, 29

Stephen the Younger St, 71

Restituta St. (Naples), 162

Strabo, 43, 66, 100–1, 129, 138

Rhodes, 41, 65, 119

Strata Diocletiana, 29

Rimini, 22, 57

Sudak, 147

Rizokopos, John, 161

Synesios of Cyrene, 47–9

Rodope Mts., 68

Syracuse, 54, 58, 73, 161

Rome, 8, 22–3, 38, 61, 64, 69, 72–4, 102, 122, 154, 159–64, 168, 171

Syria, 7, 11, 18–32, 89–93, 153–8, 170

Roncayolo, Martin, 1–8 Rouechè, Charlotte, 77–8

Tanai River, 137

Ruggeri, Vincenzo, 27, 138, 143

Taramelli, Antonio, 61–66, 84, 87

Rus’, 138, 149, 151

Taranto, 38

Russel, James, 10–11, 27, 116, 126

Tarasios (Patriarch), 45

Rykwert, Joseph, 3–4

Tate, Georges, 10–11, 21, 29 Tchalenko, Georges, 10

Safranbolu, 132

Thebes, 25, 38–9

Sagalassos, 27

Themistoclean-Valerian Walls (Athens), 46–52

Salamis, Constantia, 5

Theodore of Studios St., 136

Samos (Theme), 44, 98, 105–6, 124

Theodore of Sykeon St., 21, 134, 136, 165

Sangarios River, 131–5, 147

Theodora (Empress), 72

Sarachane, 9, 87–8

Theodosius I (Emperor), 75, 121

Saradi, Helena, 3–15, 25, 33–40, 45–52, 56, 115

Theodosius II (Emperor), 47, 88, 103, 107, 135

Sardinia, 22, 41, 103

Theodosius III (Emperor), 63, 88, 100

Sardis, 10–11, 28–9, 84, 98, 101–3, 114, 118–27

Theodotos, 117

Sarkel, 137, 147, 149

Theogenes, 39

Saronic Gulf, 37–8

Theoktistos

Scythopolis, 19, 29–32, 64, 156

Theophanes

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CITIES IN TRANSITION: URBANISM IN BYZANTIUM BETWEEN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE EARLY MIDDLE AGES (500-900 A.D.) Theophannes Lardotyros

Venetiae, 22–4

Theophilaktos

Venice, 22, 132, 161

Theseion-Hephaisteion, 37, 48–51, 57

Verona, 22, 67

Thessaloniki, 14, 25–7, 40–4, 67–70, 73, 98, 144–5

Via Egnatia, 68

Thessaly, 35–8, 44

Via Nova Traiana, 29

Tholos (Athens), 50, 52

Vitalian (Pope), 73

Thomas of Farfa, 51, 98, 119, 121

Vizari Basilica (Crete), 92

Thomas the Slave, 72, 120 Thrakesion (Theme), 105–6, 117, 124

Ward-Perkins, Bryan, 1, 4, 6, 11–18, 39

Timothy St (Bishop of Constantinople), 73, 102, 109, 121

Whitehouse, David, 153, 158, 160, 164

Tios, 132, 135, 138, 148

Whittow, Mark, 6–7, 10, 14, 16–17, 109, 123, 129, 133, 135–6, 155, 168

Titus St., 62, 73 Tourcovonia, 38

Wickham, Chris, i, 1–9, 13–23, 27–32, 37–39, 41, 44, 48–9, 52, 57–8, 62–4, 71, 79, 85, 87, 90, 93, 98–108, 114–18, 122, 125–6, 132–6, 144–7, 153–161

Tourmarches, 43, 71, 106, 137

Willibald, 43, 51, 98, 106, 119–121, 125, 161, 163

Torcello, 4, 25

Trabzon, 27, 129, 139, 146–51 Trajan (Emperor), 139 Tripodos Street (Athens), 47

Zanini, Enrico, i, 1, 10, 15, 17, 22–3, 26, 29, 31, 61–3, 67–70, 73–84, 88–91, 141, 143, 150, 154, 158–161, 164

Trombley, Frank, 11, 14, 17, 37, 41, 43, 99–100, 134–135, 145, 167

Zayadeh, 29–30

Tzougarakis, Dimitri, 61, 63, 65–77, 82, 91, 139

Zindan Kalesi, 39 Zugara, 30

Umar, Emir of Crete, 72, 91 Umayyads, 19–22, 30–2, 72, 87, 93, 153, 157 Umm Qay. See Gadara Valentinian (Emperor), 107 n. 167, 158 Valentinian III (Emperor), 75, 158 Valentinopolis, 103 Venetia, 15

206