Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal 9789048541492

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Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome

Social Worlds of Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages Late Antiquity experienced profound cultural and social change: the political disintegration of the Roman Empire in the West, contrasted by its continuation and transformation in the East; the arrival of ‘barbarian’ newcomers and the establishment of new polities; a renewed militarization and Christianization of society; as well as crucial changes in Judaism and Christianity, together with the emergence of Islam and the end of classical paganism. This series focuses on the resulting diversity within late antique society, emphasizing cultural connections and exchanges; questions of unity and inclusion, alienation and conflict; and the processes of syncretism and change. By drawing upon a number of disciplines and approaches, this series sheds light on the cultural and social history of Late Antiquity and the greater Mediterranean world. Series Editor Carlos Machado, University of St. Andrews Editorial Board Lisa Bailey, University of Auckland Maijastina Kahlos, University of Helsinki Volker Menze, Central European University Ellen Swift, University of Kent Enrico Zanini, University of Siena

Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome Revising the Narrative of Renewal

Edited by Gregor Kalas and Ann van Dijk

Amsterdam University Press

A publication of the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville

Cover illustration: S. Prassede, Rome, apse vault, 817–24 (photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY) Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout isbn 978 94 6298 908 5 e-isbn 978 90 4854 149 2 doi 10.5117/9789462989085 nur 684 © The authors / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2021 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book. Every effort has been made to obtain permission to use all copyrighted illustrations reproduced in this book. Nonetheless, whosoever believes to have rights to this material is advised to contact the publisher.



Table of Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments

7

List of Abbreviations

9

1. Introduction: Revising the Narrative of Renewalfor Late Antique and Medieval Rome

11

2. Rome at War: The Effects of Crisis on Church and Community in Late Antiquity

41

3. Portraits of Poets and the Lecture Halls in the Forum of Trajan: Masking Cultural Tensions in Late Antique Rome

75

4. Rolling Out the Red Carpet, Roman-Style: The Arrival at Rome From Constantine to Charlemagne

109

5. (Re-)Founding Christian Rome: The Honorian Projectof the Early Seventh Century

149

6. After Antiquity: Renewing the Past or Celebrating the Present? Early Medieval Apse Mosaics in Rome

177

7. The Re-Invention of Rome in the Early Middle Ages

205

8. Rewriting the Renouveau

237

9. Renewal, Heritage, and Exchange in Eleventh-Century Roman Chant Traditions

279

Gregor Kalas and Ann van Dijk

Kristina Sessa

Gregor Kalas

Jacob Latham

Dennis Trout

Erik Thunø

John Osborne

Dale Kinney

Luisa Nardini

10. Reforming Readers, Reforming Texts: The Making of Discursive Community in Gregorian Rome

299

Manuscripts Cited

331

Index

333

William North



Preface and Acknowledgments

Recent studies in the post-classical and medieval history of Rome have focused attention upon historical memory with great nuance, exploring how perceptions of the past generated innovations and new expressions of identity. This volume considers Rome’s cultural developments during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages by shifting discourse away from the concepts of decline and renewal. There is no doubt that ancient Rome generated a consequential afterlife, since long-lasting reverberations originating from the imperial era shaped the medieval city. Further, there is clear evidence of post-classical Rome suffering from terrible hardships, and there is no denying the gravity of problems that arose throughout the Middle Ages. Yet Romans responded productively and inventively to both changing conditions and dire circumstances. They formulated new modes of literary production, new responses to food shortages, new approaches to scholarly thought, new formats of music and liturgies, and new schemes for presenting monumental artworks during the periods following the so-called fall of Rome. The essays included here by no means ignore periods of renewal, nor do we dispose of the indications of decline altogether; we simply wish to call attention to the importance of cultural stability and productive responses to evolving circumstances. In sum, the authors included in this volume take the post-classical city of Rome out of the shadow of its classical past to explore its continuing transformations and enduring creativity. Most of the research in this volume stems from a series of scholarly talks hosted by the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, each of which questioned the theme of renewal by analyzing an aspect of Rome’s culture during the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The Institute’s support brought together scholars who considered the ways in which post-classical Rome turned away from classical norms and how Romans responded productively to harsh circumstances. Grateful appreciation is due to all who were involved for their various contributions, including helpful feedback and excellent questions. The editors would like to thank the staff of the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies for generous assistance facilitating work on this publication. Thomas Burman, who now directs the Medieval Institute at Notre Dame, previously served and offered terrific guidance as the Riggsby Director of the Marco Institute. Jay Rubenstein, subsequently appointed to the same post, provided beneficial support and expert oversight. Dorothy Metzger Habel, Jacob Latham, and Amy Neff joined the two editors of this

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volume to serve on the committee developing the program. Particular recognition goes to Vera Pantanizopoulos-Broux and Katie Hodges-Kluck, successive program coordinators at Marco, for their intelligence and leadership. This volume was facilitated by generous financial support from the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies endowment, with major funding from Stuart and Kate Riggsby. The editors express further appreciation to the Jimmy and Dee Haslam Marco Fund, which provided additional assistance for this volume’s production. R.J. Hinde and Lynn Sacco of the University of Tennessee generously paved the way for a ‘Ready for the World’ grant; this subvention supplemented the generous support from the departments of English and History at the same university. Dean Theresa M. Lee of the College of Arts and Science at the University of Tennessee has been a constant source of encouragement and Professor Jason Young, Director of the School of Architecture, has offered both intellectual guidance and wise insights. Erin Dailey of Amsterdam University Press was the impressive editorial overseer of these essays and his stewardship of this volume was preceded by the support of Simon Forde. An anonymous peer-reviewer is to be thanked for helpful comments. The authors express their gratitude to faculty colleagues and graduate students at the University of Tennessee for sharing ideas and logistical assistance. Particular thanks go to Laura Howes, Katie Kleinkopf, Maura Lafferty, Anne-Hélène Miller, Kyrie Miranda, Brad Phillis, Bryan Pickle, Tina Shepardson, Klayton Tietjen, Aleydis Van de Moortel, Lydia Walker, and Lauren Whitnah. Thanks are finally due to our colleagues who either read versions of these essays, discussed the contents of the volume, shared publications, or provided other scholarly insights. For this, the authors thank Tommaso Astarita, Brenda Bolton, Stephen Collins-Elliott, Kate Cooper, Shaina Destine, Dillon Dunn, Chris Eaker, Kristine Iara, Anne Hrychuk Kontokosta, Ann Kuttner, Jessica Maier, Maureen Miller, Kirsten Noreen, Laurie Nussdorfer, Silvia Orlandi, Betsey Robinson, Michele Salzman, Cullen Sayegh, and Jessica Westerhold.

AASS AE CCCM CCSL CIL CSEL CSHB ICUR ICURns ILCV

List of Abbreviations Acta Sanctorum, 68 vols. (Antwerp and Brussels: Societé des Bollandistes, 1643–1940. Reprinted Paris: Victor Palmé, 1863–1870. Vols. 1–60 reprinted Turnhout: Brepols, 1966–1971). L’Année épigraphique Corpus Christianorum. Continuatio Mediaevalis (Turnhout: Brepols, 1954– ). Corpus Christianorum Series Latina (Turnhout: Brepols, 1953–). Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum (Berlin, 1862–). Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1866–2011; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012–). Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae (Bonn: Weber, 1828–1897). Inscriptiones Christianae urbis Romae septimo saeculo antiquiores, ed. by Giovanni Battista De Rossi, 2 vols. (Rome: Officina Libraria Pontificia, 1857–1888). Inscriptiones Christianae urbis Romae septimo saeculo antiquiores, nova series, ed. by Angelo Silvagni and others (Rome: Befani, 1922–). Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, ed. by Ernst Diehl, 3 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1925–31).

LCL

Loeb Classical Library

MGH

Monumenta Germaniae Historica Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Auct. Ant. antiquissimi, 15 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1877–1919). Epp. Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Epistolae Selectae, 5 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1916–1952). Fontes iuris Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Fontes iuris (Hannover: Hahn, 1869–).

10 

SS rer. Ger. N.S. Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores rerum Germanicarum, Nova series (Berlin: Weidmann, 1922–1967; Hannover: Hahn, 2003–). SS rer. Lang Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores rerum Langobardicarum et Italicarum (Hannover: Hahn, 1878–). PCBE PG PL

PLS PM

SC

Prosopographie Chrétienne du Bas-Empire, ed. by Charles Pietri and Luce Pietri, 2 vols. (Rome: École française de Rome, 1999–2000). Patrologiae cursus completus, series graeca, ed. by J.-P. Migne (Paris: Excudebat Migne, 1857–1866). Patrologiae cursus completus, series latina, ed. by J.-P. Migne, 1st ed., 217 vols. (Paris: Excudebat Migne, 1844–1855; reissued Leiden: Brill, 1990). Digital edition: Patrologia Latina: The Full Text Database, Proquest. Patrologia Latina. Supplementum. Paléographie musicale: les principaux manuscrits de chant grégorien, ambrosien, mozarabe, gallican publiés en fac-similés phototypique par les Bénédictins de Solesmes (Solesmes: Imprimerie Saint-Pierre, 1889–). Sources chrétiennes (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1958– ).

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Introduction: Revising the Narrative of Renewalfor Late Antique and Medieval Rome Gregor Kalas and Ann van Dijk

This volume considers Rome during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages by documenting continuity and innovation in the city’s artistic, cultural, economic, intellectual, and ritual life. Admitting the influential legacy of antiquity, the essays presented here shift discourse away from episodes of renewal in Rome so as to shed light on cultural stability and the emergence of new trends, including the creative responses to adversity. To be sure, the past exerted a pervasive influence on medieval Rome. Despite ample evidence that urban population levels and governing institutions suffered after the fifth century CE, the political and social turmoil of these times frequently sparked innovation. Turning toward the cultural changes of post-classical and medieval Rome without categorizing them as desperate measures, this collection of essays valorizes the city’s resilience. The story of renewal hinges on the concept of decline; yet people feared Rome’s decay long before Alaric’s invasion in 410 CE and the city’s fall that supposedly ensued. Notices of the city’s dented pride appeared already during the imperial period, when authors sometimes pondered why the wounds appeared to have been self-inflicted. Tacitus, for example, distinguished between the capital’s natural tragedies and those sparked by urban unrest by noting that Rome ‘was devastated by fires; the most ancient shrines were destroyed and the Capitol itself was burnt at the hands of the Roman people.’1 Rome’s integrity as an imperial capital, already vulnerable in the first century CE, began to be deemed as particularly threatened in the wake Alaric’s sack of 410. For instance, Jerome perceived the assault on the city as a portent of 1 Tacitus, Histories 1.2, (ed. Moore), pp. 6–7: ‘et urbs incendiis vastata, consumptis antiquissimis delubris, ipso Capitolio civium manibus incenso.’

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch01

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the empire’s demise. ‘The head of the Roman empire was hacked off, and, to speak more truly, the entire world perished together with that one city,’ wrote Jerome in a play on words that relies on the similarity between urbs (city) and orbis (world).2 Jerome’s prediction of the end times from his commentary on the prophet Ezekiel drew upon his readings in the Apocalypse of John. As an exile in Palestine, Jerome railed against emperor Honorius’s military policies in the western empire while advocating for the ascetic practices of elite women in Rome, whose virtues appeared as if a bulwark against invasions.3 Plausibly, Jerome sounded the apocalyptic alarm to galvanize potential supporters for his cause after the demise of his main patron, Pammachius.4 Predictions of a total political collapse were rhetorically charged in the early fifth century; yet scholars currently attend to evidence of lengthy imperial residences in Rome by Valentinian III after 440 when the city’s senatorial office holders maintained diplomacy and beefed up the secular administration there.5 While Jerome’s stance seems to assert the demise of Rome’s influence on the global stage, this turned out to overstate the case. Rome remained a hub for empire-wide networks until at least the 470s. Emperors residing in the palace on the Palatine Hill bolstered the ideal of Rome’s ceremonial role as a Mediterranean-wide center of imperial authority.6 Geiseric pillaged the city for two weeks in 455 without causing the elite to flee permanently. In the decades following the Vandal sack, aristocrats repopulated the city and placed their agendas at the top of the policy docket due to senatorial officials gaining more influence over the imperial administration than they had held during the Theodosian dynasty (379–455).7 Bishops also asserted their prominence in Rome after the fourth century with the foundation of grand, Christian basilicas and, in their public ceremonies, church officials adopted the insignia of high rank.8 The broad 2 Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem, prologus 1 (ed. Glorie), p. 3: ‘Romani imperii truncatum caput: et, ut verius dicam, in una urbe totus orbis interiit.’ See the discussion in Edwards, Writing Rome, pp. 74–82. 3 Salzman, ‘Apocalypse Then?’, pp. 178–188; 190–192. 4 McLynn, ‘Orosius, Jerome and the Goths’, pp. 328–331, notes that Marcella and Pammachius, the latter being Jerome’s consistent supporter, had died around the time of the sack. For the recurring theme of imperial collapse, see Shoemaker, Apocalypse of Empire, pp. 11–15. 5 Humphries, ‘Valentinian III’, pp. 166–174; Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna’; Marazzi, ‘Rome in Transition’, pp. 37–38. 6 Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna’; Dey, Afterlife of the Roman City, pp. 68–73. 7 Salzman, ‘Emperors and Elites’, pp. 246–253. The authors eagerly anticipate her monograph under preparation, Michele Renee Salzman, The ‘Falls’ of Rome: The City in Late Antiquity (270–603 CE) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). 8 Humphries, ‘From Emperor to Pope?’

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influence of Rome’s senatorial elite, resulting from their extensive property holdings throughout the empire, generated impressive largesse benefiting both church construction and civic projects.9 Evidence for collaboration among bishops, emperors, and senators appears in epigraphy, hagiography, and late antique historical narratives, revealing that the papacy’s growth occurred in tandem with strong civic institutions and the wide participation of the secular elites.10 The physical remains of antiquity were ever-present in medieval Rome with its impressive infrastructure surviving mostly intact, including the sturdy aqueducts, walls, and the network of streets. It is therefore important to link the enduring structures with the strategies through which bishops, elites, merchants, and civic authorities coopted them while also generating new activities within them. Thanks to important archeological discoveries, this process of transformation can be understood as an ongoing process of adaptation, reuse, and reconstruction that wisely optimized the pre-existing built environment.11

Archeological Evidence A highly nuanced understanding of urban continuity has emerged from extensive excavations indicating numerous instances in which key facets of Rome were preserved from antiquity into the early Middle Ages. Archeological campaigns indicate that Rome’s ancient built environment hardly suffered from early medieval neglect, since reused ancient structures began to serve as markets, residences, social service centers, and manufacturing workshops.12 Important adaptations of urban infrastructure point toward the city’s continuing vitality due to conscientious maintenance efforts; for example, emperor Honorius (r. 395–423) elevated the height of the Aurelian walls by making a major addition to the late third-century circuit.13 Funding 9 Matthews, Western Aristocracies, pp. 355–388; Salzman, Making of a Christian Aristocracy, pp. 178–199. 10 Cooper and Hillner, ‘Introduction’. For an analysis of the inscription evidence, see Niquet, Monumenta virtutum titulique, pp. 111–172. Machado, Urban Space, pp. 124–161, presents evidence that aristocrats played important roles in key ceremonies. 11 Goodson, ‘Roman Archaeology’, pp. 18–26. 12 A good case is the archeological evidence that official policies led to residential occupation in the Forum of Trajan during the ninth and tenth centuries, see Meneghini, ‘L’origine’. For social services, see Taylor and others, Rome, pp. 176–187. 13 Dey, Aurelian Wall, pp. 137–155; Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani, Roma nell’altomedioevo, pp. 53–65.

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for the significant repairs in Rome originated from local taxes, imperial revenues, and personal contributions from elite local officials, revealing that restorations provided important political benefits to emperors and the city’s upper echelon.14 Twenty-five years of attentive archeological campaigns in the imperial fora and the Crypta Balbi have further documented activities such as artisanal production and commercial shops inserted into the ancient structures.15 The Forum of Trajan remained well maintained prior to the ninth century, presumably due to great investments to sustain this architectural marvel.16 The preservation of ancient architecture gained momentum with the adaptation of pre-existing structures to establish churches, such as the transformation of a hall in the Templum Pacis to establish the church of SS. Cosma e Damiano in the sixth century.17 Central Rome also benefited from new housing construction and adaptive reuse for residences during the early Middle Ages.18 By the fourth century CE, builders in Rome instigated a transformed approach to construction when compared to the preceding centuries. New structures began to draw upon ample supplies of stockpiled and recycled materials. Around 350 CE, the dramatic change in Rome’s building industry was revealed in a dramatic slowdown in the production of new bricks; this was preceded by a reform that consolidated all building trades into a single, amalgamated entity.19 Rather than signaling a shortage in materials or a need to economize during a period of hardship, the late antique approach of combining building elements from storage with reused items occurred in impressive buildings, including the Constantinian basilicas of St. Peter’s and the Lateran.20 Moreover, the shift toward building with readily available elements occurred at the same time during which imperial directives proclaimed that reusing pre-existing structures was better than building anew. An imperial order issued in 376 to Rome by emperors Valens, Gratian, and Valentinian II prioritized adaptations. ‘No one of the prefects of the city 14 For the taxes known as the arca vinaria, from the proceeds of subsidized wine, see Dey, Aurelian Wall, pp. 106–107; for imperial budgets and the involvement of emperors together with urban prefects who administered the imperial budgets, see Machado, Urban Space, pp. 78–82. 15 Arena and others, ed., Roma dall’antichità al medioevo, I; Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani, Roma nell’altomedioevo, pp. 157–188; Manacorda, Crypta Balbi. 16 Meneghini, I fori imperiali. 17 Tucci, Temple of Peace, II, pp. 627–649. 18 Meneghini, ‘Episodi di trasformazione’; Coates-Stephens, ‘Housing in Early Medieval Rome’; Coates-Stephens, ‘Dark Age Architecture’. 19 Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Public and Private’, pp. 441–443; for the single collegium fabrum into which all the building associations were consolidated, see Fabiano, ‘Builders’. 20 Bosman, Power of Tradition, pp. 19–56; Bosman, ‘Spolia’.

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or other judges whom power has placed in a high position shall undertake any new building in the city of Rome, but shall direct attention to improving the old.’21 Commending those civic officials who safeguarded venerable monuments, the emperors implied that architectural preservation lent great prestige to benefactors, because the old structures kept alive memories of past generations of Romans. Among those who fostered the repairs were prominent members of the elite. A leading aristocrat (patricius), with the name of Decius, inscribed his name on one of the columns of the Temple of Mars Ultor during an episode of reuse, most likely occurring as early as 486 or as late as 546.22 Another individual belonging to the highest social rank, Gerontius vir spectabilis, attested to a campaign of reuse at the Colosseum between 487 and 523.23 In addition to purposefully recycling architectural elements, sponsors allocated extensive funds for both repairing structures and reusing them.24 The evidence of senatorial authorities participating actively in both adaptive reuse and the recycling of building materials counters perceptions that repurposed materials in high prestige projects signaled decline. There were indeed neglected buildings after the fifth century; yet the ruins coexisted with significant examples of repairs.25 The consistent importance of patronage focusing upon recycling and architectural adaptations persisted into the seventh century as these gestures of munificence generated excellent publicity for patrons, even as new civic construction projects so prevalent in the imperial era were increasingly rare.

Historiography and the Discourse of Decline and Renewal All of the efforts to sustain Rome physically into the early Middle Ages belie the narrative that the city declined precipitously. Nonetheless, Rome carries with 21 Codex Theodosianus 15.1.19 (in Theodosiani, ed. Mommsen and Meyer, II, p. 805): ‘Nemo praefectorum urbis aliorumve iudicum, quos potestas in excelso locat, opus aliquod novum in urbe Roma inclyta moliatur, sed excolendis veteribus intendat animum.’ Trans. by C. Pharr, Theodosian Code, p. 425. 22 The inscription is in the Epigraphic Database Roma (EDR) as number 003101= TM numerus 268351: ‘Pat(rici) Deci,’ with an indication of either Basilius Decius (consul in 486) or Flavius Decius (consul in 546). It was inscribed on a column in the Temple of Mars Ultor in the Forum of Augustus; see Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani, Roma nell’altomedioevo, pp. 71, 179–180. 23 Rea, ‘Rota Colisei’, pp. 153–160. 24 Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity, pp. 38–48, 92–118, 203–228. For an important discussion of architectural repairs in the imperial fora during Late Antiquity, see La Rocca, ‘Nuova immagine’. 25 Orlandi, ‘Past and Present’, p. 264.

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it an inherent ambiguity, as Romans early on conflated city with empire, the former understood as both the summary and epitome of the latter.26 Jerome’s comments, quoted earlier, demonstrate the currency of this notion in the early fifth century, and modern reports of Rome’s decay have long intertwined concepts of imperial power with the fate of the physical city. Edward Gibbon published The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–1789) as a way to explore historical change through the premise that the city of Rome displayed signs of the empire’s demise. More recent scholarly investigations attest that the events of the early fifth century elicit a wide divergence of responses, since some researchers champion episodes of transformation while others focus on events leading to collapse. Starting around the year 2000, a number of major studies returned to more traditional readings of the period that emphasize external invasion, material decline, and the loss of classical ideals in politics and culture.27 Lately, climate change and other environmental factors have taken center stage as determining factors.28 As for scholarship on the city of Rome, the year 2010 witnessed at least three major conferences plus a spate of other publications marking the 1600th anniversary of its sack by Alaric’s forces.29 Examining the episode from a multitude of angles, the ensuing publications arrived at a broad consensus that mainly minimizes the severity of the assault on Rome, when viewed in isolation, while recognizing that its wider significance, both in the immediate aftermath and in the long run, remains open to a broader range of interpretation. Recent iterations of the traditional view of Rome’s fall tend to downplay the role and significance of church authorities in preserving institutions and the development of ecclesiastical administration.30 This, too, has long historiographic roots. As J.G.A. Pocock demonstrates, Gibbon’s arguments that the Later Roman Empire relocated its base of operations to other cities denied popes the same authority as the emperors.31 Indeed, Gibbon understood the empire’s decline to be largely synonymous with a lapse into religiosity during the Middle Ages. 26 Edwards and Woolf, eds., Rome the Cosmpolis, especially their introductory chapter, ‘Cosmopolis: Rome as World City’, pp. 1–20. 27 For example Liebeschuetz, Decline and Fall of the Roman City; Ward-Perkins, Fall of Rome; Heather, Fall of the Roman Empire. See also Rutenburg and Eckstein, ‘Return of the Fall of Rome’. 28 For example Harper, Fate of Rome. For a critique of this and other scholarship in this vein, see Sessa, ‘New Environmental Fall of Rome’. 29 The conferences were published as Di Berardino and others, eds., Roma e il sacco del 410; Lipps and others, eds., The Sack of Rome; Harich-Schwarzbauer and Pollmann, Der Fall Roms. See also Van Nuffelen, ‘Not Much Happened’. 30 Rutenburg and Eckstein, ‘Return of the Fall of Rome’, pp. 119–121. 31 Pocock, Barbarism and Religion, pp. 286–291.

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In its negative attitude towards the medieval church, Gibbon’s account parallels the medieval legends that attribute the destruction of ancient books and statues to members of the papacy, the two commonly named culprits being Silvester I and Gregory the Great.32 Popularized in the thirteenth century, notably in Martinus Polonus’s much-translated Chronicle of the Emperors and Popes, legends from these texts presented popes ‘triumphing’ over paganism as praiseworthy and thereby imply that classical culture itself was a heretical movement. To the humanist supporters of ancient learning, however, the destructive acts attributed to Silvester and Gregory became a source of regret and, ultimately, criticism. An early example of this is Fazio degli Uberti’s Il Dittamondo (begun 1345) in which a personified Rome laments: Alas, how I am still pained by the memory of my great, beautiful and noble monuments which Gregory destroyed. I still bemoan the writings of my sons and the leaders of my armies, those works collected together with such labour and nearly all damaged or destroyed by this Pope. […] I do not know whether Gregory’s motives were good. But his deed brought me great sorrow.33

Even more pointed is Lorenzo Ghiberti’s critique of the destruction, which he placed in the time of Emperor Constantine and Pope Silvester, and the demise of the arts of sculpture and painting that he claimed was a result.34 Giorgio Vasari, in addition, disdained the Byzantine emperor Constans II for assaulting historic buildings in Rome, referring to the ruler stripping away valuable materials from ancient structures in 663 during a visit to 32 Buddensieg, Gregory the Great’, pp. 44–65; Frazier, Possible Lives, pp. 206–210. 33 Fazio degli Uberti, Dittamondo, ii. 16, pp. 91–102; translation by Buddensieg, ‘Gregory the Great’, p. 50: Ahi, quanto ancor mi duole a ricordare i grandi e belli e sottili intaglio i quai Gregorio allor mi fe’ disfare! E duolmi ancor che con lunghi travagli erano compilati piú volumi dei miei figliuoli e di miei ammiragli ne’ quali il bel parlare e i bei costumi e l’ordine de l’armi eran compresi sí ben, ch’a molti, udendo, facean lumi, che la piú parte fun distrutti e lesi per questo Papa; e se’l pensier fu bono non so; ma dur di ciò gran doglia presi. 34 Barkan, Transuming Passion, p. 117.

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Italy.35 Complaining of ancient imperial monuments suffering from neglect, Vasari commented that, ‘everything that had not been ruined by the popes, and particularly [Pope] St. Gregory I, who is said to have disposed of all the surviving statues on [Rome’s] buildings, finally fell miserably in the hands of this most wicked Greek [Constans II].’36 Despite the accusations of later authors, however, antipathy to pre-Christian art was, by and large, minimal in Rome during Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, as witnessed in the numerous preservation projects mentioned above. Indeed, the presumption of an opposition between paganism and Christianity has begun to unravel; for instance, Michele Salzman carefully demonstrates that Christians numbering among Rome’s elites by no means left aside the cultural inheritance of their forebears.37 Luxury objects with mythological imagery such as the Projecta Casket or illuminated manuscripts featuring texts by classical authors such as the Vatican Vergil demonstrate that late antique patrons continued to sponsor artworks in keeping with earlier traditions.38 The benefactions by Roman elites and ecclesiastical officials given to churches included donations of gold, silver, precious marbles, and extremely valuable textiles so that church gifts closely resembled earlier aristocratic and imperial munificence. The corollary to the traditional reading of Rome’s late antique history as a tale of unmitigated decline is the notion of the city’s periodic renewal in subsequent centuries. In this, scholarship on the city of Rome follows a major trend in the general development of medieval studies, a field that long felt the need to justify its existence in reaction to the primacy accorded the Renaissance in nineteenth-century scholarship.39 Working to establish their period’s value as an object of study, many scholars of the Middle Ages sought to diminish the sharp contrasts commonly used to distinguish the brilliance of the Renaissance from the barren and barbarous Dark Ages preceding it. They did this, in part, by demonstrating the periodic resurgence of the 35 Liber Pontificalis, I, pp. 343–344, attests to the destruction when Constans II visited Rome. For an earlier instance in which Pope Honorius received permission from the Byzantine emperor Heraclius to remove roof tiles from the Temple of Venus and Roma, see Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 323. 36 Vasari, Vite, p. 97: ‘E così tutto quello che non avevano guasto i pontefici, e San Gregorio massimamente, il quale si dice che messe in bando tutto il restante delle statue [. . .] e degli edificii, per le mani di questo sceleratissimo greco finalmente capitò male.’ See Kinney, ‘Rape or Restitution of the Past?’ 37 Salzman, Making of a Christian Aristocracy, pp. 200–230. 38 For the fourth-century Projecta Casket from Rome that is now in the British Museum, see Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 47–56. The Vatican Vergil is in the Vatican Library (Vat. lat. 3225); see Wright, Vatican Vergil. 39 As exemplified by Michelet, Renaissance; Burckhardt, Die Cultur der Renaissance.

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types of cultural and intellectual activity popularly thought to have died out between the fourth and the fourteenth centuries.40 The identification of a series of classical revivals, characterized by a revitalization of literature, art, political thought, and other forms of learning through a renewed awareness and emulation of ancient models, became a major preoccupation among twentieth-century scholars of medieval Europe. The 1920s were a particularly active decade for studies of this type, producing such works of enduring influence as Charles Homer Haskins’s The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century and Percy E. Schramm’s Kaiser, Rom und Renovatio.41 As the century progressed, additional ‘renaissance’ movements were discerned, with the creation of significant bodies of scholarship devoted to Theodosian, Carolingian, Northumbrian, Macedonian and Palaeologan Renaissances, among others.42 In the English-speaking world, perhaps no work was more influential in promoting the narrative of the Middle Ages as an era punctuated by intermittent classical revivals than Erwin Panofsky’s Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art, which shaped the thinking of a generation of scholars, particularly in the field of art history.43 However, almost entirely absent from his account, as from most early scholarship in this vein, is any discussion of medieval Rome. 44 Panofsky’s slightly younger and long-lived contemporary, Richard Krautheimer (1897–1994), deserves the greatest credit for addressing this omission and articulating Rome’s position within the broader narrative of intermittent revival and rebirth as it was then understood. An architectural historian, he developed a richly detailed and nuanced history of late antique and medieval Rome structured around a series of papally sponsored renewals. Starting from his seminal 1942 article, ‘The Carolingian Revival of Constantinian Architecture’, Krautheimer’s understanding of this history found its fullest 40 Ferguson, The Renaissance in Historical Thought, particularly Chapter 11, ‘The Revolt of the Medievalists. The Renaissance Interpreted as Continuation of the Middle Ages’, pp. 329–385. Already as early as 1840, Jean-Jacques Ampère made the precocious claim that the ‘grande renaissance’ of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries was but the last of three – the first occurring during the reign of Charlemagne and the second in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries: Ampère, Histoire littéraire de la France, III, 32ff. See also Sot, ‘Renovatio, renaissance et réforme’, pp. 62-72. 41 The same decade also saw the publication of Patzelt, Die karolingische Renaissance and Schneider, Rom und Romgedanke im Mittelalter. 42 See, for example, the studies collected in Treadgold, ed., Renaissances Before the Renaissance. 43 Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art; an earlier version of the first two chapters appeared almost twenty years earlier as an article, ‘Renaissance and Renascences’. 44 Notable exceptions are Schramm, Kaiser, Rom und Renovatio; Schneider, Rom und Romgedanke.

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expression in his magisterial Rome: Profile of a City, first published in 1980 and the distillation of more than forty years of research on the city and its buildings. 45 As he stated in the preface, among the goals he set himself was to show: […] how the memories of [Rome’s] ancient glories, pagan and Christian, kindled by tradition and by the ever-present monuments of her past, remained alive, even at the lowest points of her fortunes; how, together with the ever-growing might of the Church, spiritual, political, and material, these memories became a potent factor in shaping Rome’s dominant place in the medieval world; how that heritage, revived time and again, molded the minds of visitors, patrons, and artists and exerted its impact on church planning, painting, and sculpture and on the way the city grew […]. 46

In addition to expanding on his own earlier publications, Krautheimer championed the work of younger scholars, notably Hélène Toubert (b. 1932), who, in a series of articles published in the 1970s, made a persuasive case for a paleochristian renouveau in Roman mural arts of the late eleventh and twelfth centuries that served the ideals of the Gregorian Reform. 47 Krautheimer’s agenda in Rome: Profile of a City is evident in the chapter titles. Opening with ‘Rome and Constantine’, they include ‘The Christianization of Rome and the Romanization of Christianity’, ‘Renewal and Renascence: The Carolingian Age’, and ‘The New Rebirth of Rome: The Twelfth Century’. 48 Together, these chapters insist on the pivotal and enduring significance of Constantine to the city’s history and its powerful bishops. First describing the physical mark Constantine left on the city, they go on to tell the story of Christian Rome’s initial embrace of its classical heritage in the later fourth and fifth centuries and its subsequent ‘renaissances’ in the eighth–ninth centuries and then again in the twelfth–thirteenth 45 Among his numerous other publications, the five-volume Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae deserves special mention, as do the articles ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III’ and, for his approach to interpreting architecture in general, ‘Introduction to an “Iconography of Medieval Architecture”’. All three articles mentioned were reprinted with postscripts and additional bibliography in Krautheimer, Studies in Early Christian, Medieval and Renaissance Art, pp. 115–150, 181–196, 203–256. 46 Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, xv. 47 Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien à Rome’; Eadem, ‘Iconographie et histoire de la spiritualité médiévale’; Eadem, ‘Rome et le Mont-Cassin’. They were reprinted with a new introduction in Toubert, Un art dirigé. 48 Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, pp. 3–31, 33–55, 109–142, 161–202.

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largely through the evocation of a specifically Constantinian past. These chapters also provide the context for Krautheimer’s presentation of some of the city’s most prominent and well-known Early Christian and medieval monuments, including the churches of Santa Sabina, Santa Maria Maggiore, Santa Prassede, San Clemente and Santa Maria in Trastevere. By contrast, Krautheimer’s intervening chapters describe Rome’s ‘utter shabbiness’ in later fifth and sixth centuries (in Chapter 3, ‘The Times of Gregory the Great’) and the city and papacy ‘at their nadir’ in the tenth (in Chapter 6, ‘Realities, Ideologies, Rhetoric’).49 Described in geographic terms, the history of Rome assumes the topography of a hilly landscape whose bright summits alternate with deeply shadowed valleys. The impact of Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308 since its publication cannot be overstated. To achieve his goal of sketching a portrait of the city ‘as a living organism,’ told ‘through, rather than of her monuments,’ Krautheimer supplemented his own intimate knowledge of the city’s fabric with a broad range of sources and studies in other disciplines to produce a vivid account in which political, social, economic, religious, and cultural history intersect.50 Forty years later, scholarship on medieval Rome continues to show the imprint of Krautheimer’s compelling vision of the city. Inevitably, however, scholars have also begun to probe his methodology, question some of his conclusions, and augment his account with new research into portions of the city’s historical record that he himself recognized required attention.51 One aspect of Krautheimer’s narrative that has attracted particular scrutiny is the ‘renaissance’ framework on which it hangs, as well as the outsize influence it attributes to the person and memory of Constantine. This has emerged clearly in recent art historical scholarship on Carolingian Rome, for example. The ‘reappearance’ of the T-shaped basilica, championed by Krautheimer as key evidence for Constantinian revival, has lost some of its significance, in part because it is questionable that this architectural type ever truly disappeared in Rome, and in part because the ground plan – indeed, the architecture it generates – is just one of many features defining churches of this period.52 Even in a structure as clearly related to Old St. 49 Ibid., pp. 65, 145. 50 Ibid., pp. xxiii. Emphasis is original. 51 For example, the excellent critical article by Carver McCurrach, ‘Renovatio Reconsidered’, as well as the essays by Kinney, ‘Krautheimer’s Constantine’, and de Blaauw, ‘Richard Krautheimer e la basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore’. 52 Coates-Stephens, ‘Dark Age Architecture in Rome’; Goodson, ‘Material Memory’; Eadem, The Rome of Paschal I, pp. 81–159. For the U-shaped basilica as an alternative to the T-shaped basilica, see Coon and Sexton, ‘Racetrack to Salvation’.

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Peter’s as Pope Paschal I’s Santa Prassede [Fig. 6.1], the motivation now seems less to evoke the imperial splendor of Constantine than to create a setting that would highlight the papal celebrant and promote his role in fostering the cult of saints and their relics.53 Indeed, the whole notion that artistic production in this period consciously revived venerated prototypes associated with an illustrious past – the foundation of the concept of a Carolingian ‘renaissance’ – is called into question in recent scholarship on the apse mosaics in Paschal I’s churches.54 Sharing iconographic and epigraphic features with a group of mosaics ranging in date from the sixth to the ninth centuries, the Carolingian apse decorations present themselves neither as distinct creations, nor as copies of an ancient (but lost) model. Rather, in their cumulative repetition of visual and textual formulae that endured for three centuries, they display a changeless vision of the Ecclesia Romana existing in a continuous present. The discussions of art and architecture echo the papacy’s own institutional history in which bishops are the city’s major protagonists, unintentionally generating another discourse of waning imperial authority to characterize the civic governance of early medieval Rome as decreasingly robust. From its initial compilation in the sixth century and the subsequent updates added thereafter, the Liber Pontificalis creates the impression in its papal biographies that bishops consistently gained prominence while imperial influence waned. Rosamond McKitterick has established that papal biographers repurposed some of the narrative commonplaces about emperors generated by Suetonius, Aurelius Victor, and the anonymous author of the Historia Augusta, among others, so as to legitimate episcopal governance using imperial terms.55 The accounts in the Liber Pontificalis depict the papacy absorbing imperial prerogatives, and the biographies also erased the dissenting voices of episcopal rivals. Given the paucity of narrative sources furnishing civic perspectives on early medieval Rome, it is challenging to articulate the vigorous roles of artisans, merchants, and civic leaders. Even the institutional history of Rome’s bishopric remains difficult to see from outside the church’s own discourse. Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner have offered methods of using non-canonical historical documents to counter the pro-papal bias of many official sources.56 Thus, the picture of Rome 53 Emerick, ‘Focusing on the Celebrant’; Pace, ‘La “felix culpa” di Richard Krautheimer’; Goodson, The Rome of Paschal I. 54 Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome, pp. 13–38. 55 McKitterick, Invention of the Papacy, pp. 9–11. 56 Cooper and Hillner, ‘Introduction’ in Religion, Dynasty, pp. 1–18.

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recovering thanks to popes stepping into the vacuum left by absent emperors was carefully crafted to bolster the authority of bishops.57 The governance of Rome was surely more complex. Indeed, civic institutions and the contributions of the laity to medieval Rome appear to be as vital as the contributions of ecclesiastics. Thanks to scholarship that looks at private life in early medieval Rome, there is evidence to support the nuanced view that influential aristocrats worked together with bishops and that both groups asserted their authority in the city by establishing themselves in impressive residences.58 Early medieval ecclesiastical culture fostered new chants, liturgies, visual iconographies, and cult practices that point toward creative resilience. The involvement of lay benefactors and monastic institutions in running the charity centers of Rome has been noted by Chris Wickham and Hendrik Dey, both of whom acknowledge that the papacy transformed such joint ventures into regional centers for the ecclesiastical management of the city.59 The locations of church-based charities, or diaconiae, indicate that many of these institutions reused pre-existing urban structures including granaries and markets together with the well-constructed architectural infrastructure repurposed as hostels, or xenodochia, since many of these facilities housing pilgrims or the poor reused buildings from antiquity [Fig. 1.1]. Interconnected networks among high-ranking papal administrators and members of the clergy were critically important in the sense that bishops relied upon priests serving in each of the city’s regions, as Tommaso di Carpegna Falconieri has demonstrated.60 The participation of individuals of varied social ranks in the church-related economy, as analyzed by Federico Marazzi, indicates that the dichotomy between civic and religious life was not strict, particularly given that members of all these groups helped to supervise the vast territories in the papal patrimony fanning out beyond Rome’s walls.61 The culture of early medieval Rome was shaped but not necessarily constrained by hard times. There were indeed serious challenges due to the fifth-century Vandal raids followed by civil war and the sixth-century Byzantine reconquest of Italy. A rapidly growing body of recent scholarship 57 The traditional view has been revised by Sessa, Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 127–173, 208–246, who attests to the gaps in episcopal authority and she also documents the controversies over the bishop’s administrative practices. 58 Guidobldi, ‘L’edilizia abitativa’. For the image of Rome’s bishop as a householder, see Sessa, Formation of Papal Authority. 59 Dey, ‘Diaconiae’; Wickham, Medieval Rome, pp. 20–34. 60 Di Carpegna Falconieri, Il clero. 61 Marazzi, ‘Patrimonia’.

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Fig. 1.1. Map of Rome in the ninth century indicating the location of charity centers (diaconiae) labeled with numbers and the hostels (xenodochia) labeled with letters (drawing by Bryan Pickle).

examines the impacts of environmental changes in this period, and Kyle Harper has argued that a global plague pandemic during the sixth and seventh centuries instigated economic decline and a terrible increase in mortality rates.62 Resilience can nonetheless be noted in some of the reactions to crises. For instance, Jonathan Arnold’s work establishes how the militarized Ostrogothic elite transformed themselves from warring factions and enemies of the collapsing western empire into those who upheld Roman values in Italy.63 Of course, the Byzantine imperial reconquest of Italy returned the Ostrogoths to their previous role of enemies of imperial authorities. Nonetheless, the reaffirmation of connections between East and West after the Gothic Wars put the elites of the Latin-speaking world in communication once again with Byzantine Constantinople, as Jonathan Conant argues, even if the political integration of Rome and all of Italy into Byzantium as foreseen at the outset of the Gothic Wars did not fully come to fruition.64 62 Harper, Fate of Rome. However, see also the issues raised in the review of this scholarship in Sessa, ‘New Environmental Fall of Rome’. 63 Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration. 64 Conant, Staying Roman, which relies mostly upon North African sources.

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Medieval Resilience Embracing the seemingly contradictory notions of self-preservation (implying resistance to change) and adaptation (implying, on the contrary, openness to change), resilience is a complex concept with a rich, at times overlapping history in multiple disciplines.65 Popular in the social sciences, especially ecological and environmental studies, resilience as a theoretical paradigm has provided new tools for analyzing how human societies and natural environments react, as complex systems, to different types of stress.66 Recent work by historians, notably John Haldon, has employed this paradigm in collaborative work that seeks to expand understanding of how past changes in the natural world have impacted human societies and contributed to shaping the course of their political, social, economic and cultural developments.67 A particularly promising aspect of this method is its granularity; recognizing that human social units (states, empires or, as in this case, cities) are not monolithic and do not react to stress in a unified manner, it provides a means to analyze the varying responses to conditions and thus arrives at a nuanced understanding of how the unit as a whole adapts while maintaining certain fundamental aspects of its character.68 While, to our knowledge, no studies have yet applied this particular approach to the city of Rome, the value of resilience as a concept for understanding its postclassical and medieval history seems clear as the many recent findings outlined above demonstrate. A particularly positive aspect of Rome’s post-classical culture that demonstrates urban resilience is the creation of the city’s holy identity. For instance, the pro-Chalcedonian position ushered in with Pope Leo I’s christological definition and adopted by later popes is closely intertwined with significant waves of immigration from the Greek-speaking East during the seventh century, including such notable figures as Maximos the Confessor.69 These new arrivals of the seventh century, opposed to what they perceived as dangerous theological innovation on the part of the patriarch 65 Alexander, ‘Resilience’. 66 For a useful introduction to Formal Resilience Theory (also known as the Theory of Adaptive Change) with bibliography, see Haldon and Rosen, ‘Society and Environment’. 67 Haldon and Rosen, ‘Society and Environment’, as well as the other essays in the same issue of Human Ecology. 68 Haldon and Rosen, ‘Society and Environment’, pp. 277–278. Perhaps the most sustained application is Haldon, The Empire that Would Not Die. 69 See the introductory essays by Richard Price, Phil Booth, and Catherine Cubitt in The Acts of the Lateran Synod of 649, pp. 5–108.

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in Constantinople, encouraged the papacy to identify Rome separately as a global center for Chalcedonian orthodoxy by hosting the anti-monothelete Lateran Council of 649. The Roman church also curated the vital roles of foreign saints in a dynamic manner that forged strategic alliances with both the eastern Mediterranean and, later, Carolingian Francia as recounted by Maya Maskarinec.70 Finally, it should be emphasized that Rome’s culture was remarkably consistent, as if the imagery in apse mosaics or the chanted liturgies or the poetic inscriptions placed in churches and the tombs of the martyrs all represented hallmarks of early medieval life that remained ever-vital. This collection of essays does not attempt to chronicle all of the accomplishments that deserve recognition for establishing the vitality of early medieval Rome. Nor would it be productive to ignore the multiple crises that afflicted the city. In the pages to follow, a multi-disciplinary group of nine scholars explores some examples of resilience and creativity, while reflecting on a variety of approaches to the study of medieval Rome. Within the culture of innovation explored here, some cultural phenomena proved long-lasting, self-consciously referring to the past and yet undisturbed by moments of rupture. While the essays presented here accept the inadequacy of those traditional concepts of renaissance that privileged the revitalization of classical forms as the standard for success, the studies also recognize that the past (pre-Christian and Christian) was ever-present in Rome. Romans then appear to have been particularly adept at creatively assimilating the past in order to redefine themselves and meet the evolving challenges they faced in the Middle Ages.

Studies in Urban Developments Some of the essays in this volume present case studies of productive reactions to the challenges instigated by famine, political instability, and military vulnerability; meanwhile, other essays explore the continuities of art, literature, liturgies, rituals, and ecclesiastic culture. Certain studies also lay the foundation for reflections on the historiography of medieval Rome. Crises afflicting early medieval Rome raise the methodological challenge of characterizing the severity of physical suffering without setting forth apocalyptic narratives. Kristina Sessa takes up a fundamental problem in the late antique city by examining how the bishops Gelasius (r. 492–496) 70 Maskarinec, City of Saints.

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and Pelagius I (r. 556–561) confronted war-time hardship, emphasizing an institution under construction in its nimble responses to distress. Sessa’s contribution, ‘Rome at War: The Effects of Crisis on Church and Community in Late Antiquity’, examines the strategies of these bishops as examples of ‘disaster ecclesiology,’ drawing upon the arguments about ‘disaster capitalism’ of Naomi Klein. Gelasius, for instance, responded to an influx of refugees from Liguria seeking Rome’s food supplies by creating innovative grain distribution networks using the church’s wealth, a highly developed charitable system that by far outpaced the earlier alms given to the poor. Assistance provided to the refugees demonstrated Gelasius’s administrative acumen, according to Sessa, since the pope fundamentally transformed property management through alliances with elite landholders under the rubrics of transforming the patrimony’s governance. Sessa also shows that Pelagius built upon the network of alliances that Gelasius had already established when he forged bonds with the bishops of Arles and the nearby landowners in Gaul, since wars had disrupted the church’s protection of its closer lands in Italy. Relief to the poor functions as an important instance of crisis response, showcasing the leadership potential of bishops in creating effective systems to manage their vast estates. Through their responses to famine, these popes worked closely with landowners and the bishops of other cities in innovative ways and thereby bolstered the church as a resilient institution. Resisting the decline/renewal dichotomy, Sessa opens our eyes to important accomplishments by which late antique bishops shored up the papacy during hard times with long-lasting benefits to this institution. Major developments in the art and poetry of late antique Rome remind us that the public appreciated imagery eradicating the traces of hardships. The picture of literary culture in late antique Rome reveals that poetry helped the city’s populace to accept sieges and war according to Gregor Kalas, who argues that the recently revealed lecture halls of the Forum of Trajan hosted poetic performances where the city’s literary luminaries were in the spotlight during Late Antiquity. The article, ‘Portraits of Poets and the Lecture Halls in the Forum of Trajan: Masking Cultural Tensions in Late Antique Rome’, connects these auditorium spaces with the statues depicting Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius Apollinaris, documented as on display in the Forum of Trajan. All three poets wrote using a distinct literary genre – the epic panegyric – invented in Rome during Late Antiquity. Kalas argues that the authors used literary novelty – ironically – to deny the passage of time by characterizing emperors and their leading military elites as engaging in imaginary dialogue with Roma,

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an old-time goddess who began to speak with other deities as well as living emperors in the late antique poetry. The significance of the portrait statues located in close proximity to the audience halls is that both point toward f ifth-century Roman audiences’ continuing hunger for poetic fictions depicting eternal Rome using literary reminiscences traced back to works by Vergil. Poetry represented Rome not as a city abandoned by its emperors or doomed by threats from Goths or subjected to the strategies of its controversial military commanders, but it seemingly retained Trajan’s past in the fictional, everlasting realm depicted in the verses. This article serves as a reminder that the literary discourse on eternal, unchanging Rome remained vital throughout the fifth century, when wars inspired poets to consolidate the ideologies tied to the city’s preservation using an innovative poetic genre. Rome was an important center for processions that both celebrated and revealed the evolving character of rulership during Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, as Jacob Latham demonstrates in his analysis of the adventus (arrival) ritual. Tracing this procession from the late imperial era to the Carolingian period, ‘Rolling Out the Red Carpet, Roman Style: The Arrival at Rome from Constantine to Charlemagne’, suggests that the continuing practices of imperial rituals – even when honoring a military general or an Ostrogothic king – activated the monuments lining major thoroughfares and the grand plazas as the rites also turned the public’s attention toward governing authorities. Evidence in the sources that some Christian rulers rejected the tainted practices associated with ancient sacrifices during imperial rituals – refusing, for example to ascend the Capitoline Hill – possibly overemphasize the offensiveness of the traditional shrines, according to Latham. Nonetheless, there were shifts, such as the move toward grand gestures of munificence donated to St. Peter, or to the institutional church, and the inclusion of the Vatican basilica in the adventus itineraries. The official position of St. Peter’s in the processions of Charlemagne and the eighth-century popes shows the innovative ways in which Rome’s populace awarded authority to both bishops and secular rulers in the Christian city. The dynamic process of transforming the adventus ritual reminds us that respect for the ancient city and its ceremonial practices survived long after the tumultuous fifth century. At the same time, Rome displayed an openness to new authorities and new ritual practices during the early Middle Ages that is seen in the various iterations of the arrival procession. Cultural traditions and the many rhythms of daily life crumbled during the hardest times of the sixth-century Gothic Wars; yet, in the seventh century – after the last reported assembly of senators occurred – the city

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experienced a flourishing production of art and poetry. Dennis Trout documents Pope Honorius I’s (625–638) contributions to Rome’s identity as a city of martyrs through this bishop’s patronage at various pilgrimage sites. These included poetic compositions that both pay homage to the important verse inscriptions set up publicly by earlier popes and attest to Honorius breaking new ground in the ambition of his verses and their virtuoso compositions. In ‘(Re-)Founding Christian Rome: The Honorian Project of the Early Seventh Century’, Trout calls attention to the lasting legacy of verse inscriptions sponsored by Pope Damasus (r. 366–384) displayed at martyrs’ tombs and how the fourth-century poetry inspired the seventh-century pope. Trout analyzes Honorius’s activities at the Sant’Agnese complex on the Via Nomentana which, in part, show this bishop’s close attention to that earlier, epigraphic tradition. Pope Honorius also looked back at the poetic verses inscribed in previous centuries at the major basilicas, such as those texts sponsored by Pelagius II (r. 579–590) at Old St. Peter’s, where Honorius installed a long inscription on the main doors, newly sheathed in silver. By recapitulating bygone days, the seventh-century pope identified himself as one who continued the accomplishments of his forebears. In this way, Honorius’s literary projects cast a retrospective glance at Damasus and Pelagius II that seems to parallel the ways in which Claudian and his followers reinstated the discourse of Vergil, as analyzed by Kalas. Yet Trout also establishes that Honorius outstripped his predecessors in his striking language, thematic complexity, and ambitious self-presentation. This study is signif icant, then, for documenting how the self-referential system of poetry that commenced in late antique Rome was continually updated so as to create an ongoing dialogue lasting for multiple generations. In ‘After Antiquity: Renewing the Past or Celebrating the Present? Early Medieval Apse Mosaics in Rome’, Erik Thunø focuses on the imagery of apse mosaics whose consistency, which spanned centuries, created a sense of timelessness. Challenging arguments that Roman church decoration schemes experienced periodic upticks during a series of diachronic episodes of growth, Thunø sees a synchronic unity in the apsidal compositions produced between the sixth and the ninth centuries. Both the imagery and the verse inscriptions exhibit great uniformity, the latter typically displaying letters of golden tesserae that reflect light against dark-blue backgrounds so as to activate the metaphors of luminosity contained in the poetry. Similar to Trout’s discussion of the consistency between the fourth-century texts of Damasus and those from the seventh-century by Honorius at Sant’Agnese, Thunø identifies a self-referential system of apse

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decoration, starting with the sixth-century mosaics at SS. Cosma e Damiano near the Roman Forum, the earliest extant example, and continuing up to the ninth century, in which apocalyptic themes, dedicatory saints, the papal patron, and the poetic inscription all appear repeatedly. Thunø proposes that each early medieval Roman apse composition refers back to multiple exemplars from different points in time. There are many aspects of the consistency: shimmering light, for example, as mentioned in the verse inscriptions, describes the celestial light believed to have shined forth from the relics of the martyrs. Yet the distinctions among the mosaic inscriptions and the accompanying apsidal compositions exist topographically in Thunø’s account, since the differences between the evocation of a saint by an image at the basilica of San Marco varies significantly from the assembly of relics stored at the church of Santa Prassede, with each having a particular, local function in the wider city. Thus, the network of churches featuring apsidal mosaic imagery and accompanied by verse inscriptions, as studied by Thunø, tied the city together through their ongoing evocation of the community of saints. In an essay that engages with the process by which Rome created a new identity for itself as a holy city, John Osborne identified the early medieval period and specifically the seventh century as the pivotal turning point in the city’s transformation from imperial to Christian capital. Accepting the premise explored earlier by Kristina Sessa, Osborne acknowledges the productive capacity of upheaval to generate change. Following and frequently responding to the calamities of war, plague, and famine that beset the area in the late fifth and sixth centuries, Rome experienced many new developments in the seventh century: shifting demographics, the development of new elites (both lay and clerical), and changing burial and devotional practices. In this situation, Osborne argues, many of Rome’s monuments were repurposed or reinterpreted in order to incorporate them into an altered understanding of the city’s history, one that claimed that its Christian identity was pre-ordained. The transformation of such prominent buildings as the Pantheon and the Senate House into churches are wellknown examples of this. Osborne pays special attention to a less-known instance, Pope Sergius I’s (687–701) translation of the body of Pope Leo I (440–461) from a location near the entrance of Old St. Peter’s to a new chapel constructed in the basilica’s south transept, in close proximity to the apostle’s tomb. Seeking to understand the motivation behind this act, Osborne links it to the creation of a path for pilgrims that led the faithful past monuments in a sequence illustrating the transformation of Rome from a city of emperors to a city of popes, culminating in the tomb of St. Peter

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himself. Taking up a theme earlier addressed by Jacob Latham, Osborne also discusses how newly established litany processions contributed to Christianizing the city by imposing a network anchored by sites of religious significance on the urban landscape. In three essays by Dale Kinney, Luisa Nardini, and William North, the focus turns to the creative complexity of eleventh- and twelfth-century developments in art, music, and the intellectual training offered to the Roman clergy. In ‘Rewriting the Renouveau’, Dale Kinney interrogates the idea, long dominant in art historical scholarship, that the revival of Early Christian models of art and architecture after the eleventh century served as a material expression of ecclesiastical reform. Inventorying the rather modest artistic output associated with the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere in the eleventh century – two manuscripts and the remains of a sculpted portal – Kinney reminds us that, in Rome, the church officials who promoted moral renewal did not instigate the large-scale material renovation of church buildings before the twelfth century. Moreover, she points out that recent research on both artistic production and social organization (both lay and clerical) calls into question the traditional top-down model attributing the essential authorship of works of art in this period to learned, high-ranking clerics who determined the subject matter, dictated the iconography, and directed artists in the creation of artworks that effectively conveyed the official line of the Reform papacy. Instead, she proposes a collaborative model that posits a process of negotiation between donors (frequently lay), the resident (usually lower) clergy, and the artists, each of whom, while plausibly inspired by the Reform atmosphere surrounding them, nonetheless acted from differing motivations. Embodying those motivations, the resulting works of art likely satisfied multiple aims in their evocation of the past, including the expression of pious devotion and personal taste, and the display of artistic skill. Luisa Nardini’s ‘Renewal, Heritage, and Exchange in Eleventh-Century Roman Chant Traditions’ presents a study of the gradual manuscript (Cologny-Geneva, Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, 74 or Bod74) produced at Rome’s church of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere in 1071. The earliest to include musical notation, eleventh-century Roman chant manuscripts have traditionally been valued primarily as a means to attempt the reconstruction of an earlier and supposedly more pristine version of the Roman chant melodies they contain. Focusing on what defines Bod74 as a document of its own time, Nardini finds evidence both for the creative invention of new chants and modes of ornament in Rome, as well as a lively culture of musical exchange with other centers. In this, she sees parallels to the cosmopolitanism and

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influence of such figures as Desiderius of Montecassino, under whose tenure at Santa Cecilia in Trastevere the manuscript was produced. Finally, in ‘Reforming Readers, Reforming Texts: The Making of Discursive Community in Gregorian Rome’, William North addresses the creation of the institutional imaginary undergirding the ecclesiastical reform and renewal of the eleventh and early twelfth centuries. Like Kinney, North rejects a simple top-down model, characterizing the intellectual formation of the Roman curia throughout the period as an ideological work in progress that was both more complex and varied, and less sturdy, than usually assumed. Analyzing the careers and writings of three important contributors – Peter Damian, cardinal bishop of Ostia under Stephen X, Nicholas II and Alexander II; Atto, cardinal priest of San Marco; and Bruno, cardinal bishop of Segni – North discerns a recurring emphasis on the need to create communities with a shared knowledge and informed understanding of key authoritative texts, above all the Bible. In their attempt to forge such communities, all three authors worked to transform the Roman clergy into effective leaders and agents of reform and the Roman Church into an institution that could support its leaders’ increasing claims to primacy. Rome’s imperial past and the historical claims generated by the Christian rulers who supervised the city appear to be ever-present and remained relevant in many of the studies in this volume, as if Romans constantly sustained memories in an ongoing process rather than instigating revivals. A further theme reappearing in many of the essays is that of not prioritizing a single model or point of origins that generated all subsequent outgrowths. Much like Kristina Sessa argues for the varied approaches of Gelasius and Pelagius I in building up the Roman church in ages of crisis, Erik Thunø emphasizes that each of Rome’s apse mosaics has a specificity that does not disturb the overall sense that these mosaics belong to a timeless assembly scattered throughout the city. Further, Luisa Nardini rejects the study of extant chants to recreate a lost original, pointing out that this search for origins prevents us from appreciating how the preserved sources embed us in a lively culture of production and experimentation. Finally, it should be emphasized that the quest to explain historical change should not prevent us from seeing the degree to which post-classical and early medieval culture embraced the challenges presented by adversity while trying to idealize timeless persistence. Given the appreciation for preserving the past and safeguarding Rome that is well documented for Popes Honorius and Sergius I in the seventh century, it is clear that they built their positions on foundations that Claudian, Damasus, Gelasius, and others had built up long before.

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Bibliography Sources Epigraphic Database Roma, ed. by Giuseppe Camodeca, Giovanni Cecconi, Silvio Panciera, and Silvia Orlandi. Available at: www.edr-edr.it (accessed 22 July 2020). Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem libri XIV, ed. by François Glorie, CCSL 75 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1964). Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction, et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne and Cyrille Vogel, 3 vols. (Paris: E. Thorin, 1886-1892; Paris: E. de Boccard, 1957). Tacitus, Histories, ed. and trans. by Clifford Moore (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925). Theodosiani libri XVI cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis et leges novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes, ed. by Theodor Mommsen and Paul Meyer, 2 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1905).

References David Alexander, ‘Resilience and Disaster Risk Reduction: An Etymological Journey’, Natural Hazards and Earth Systems Sciences, 13 (2013), pp. 2707–2716. Jean-Jacques Ampère, Histoire littéraire de la France avant la douzième siècle, 3 vols. (Paris: L. Hachette; Leipzig: Brockhaus et Avenarius, 1839–40). Maria Stella Arena and others, eds., Roma dall’antichità al medioevo, 2 vols. (Milan: Electa, 2001–2004). Jonathan Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014). Leonard Barkan, Transuming Passion: Ganymede and the Erotics of Humanism (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1991) Sible de Blaauw, ‘Richard Krautheimer e la basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore’, in ­Ecclesiae Urbis. Atti del Congresso internazionale di studi sulle chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo), ed. by Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra Guiglia Guidobaldi, 3 vols. (Vatican City: Pontif icio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), I, pp. 57–64. Hugo Brandenburg, Ancient Churches of Rome from the Fourth to the Seventh Century: The Dawn of Christian Architecture in the West (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005). Lex Bosman, The Power of Tradition: Spolia in the Architecture of St. Peter’s in the Vatican (Hilversum: Uitgeverij Verloren, 2004). Lex Bosman, ‘Spolia in the Fourth-Century Basilica’, in Old St. Peter’s, Rome, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 65–80.

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Tilmann Buddensieg, ‘Gregory the Great, the Destroyer of Pagan Idols. The History of a Medieval Legend concerning the Decline of Ancient Art and Literature’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 28 (1965), pp. 44–65. Jacob Burckhardt, Die Cultur der Renaissance in Italien (Basel: Schweighauser, 1860). Catherine Carver McCurrach, ‘Renovatio Reconsidered: Richard Krautheimer and the Iconography of Architecture’, Gesta, 50 (2011), pp. 41–69. Robert Coates-Stephens, ‘Dark Age Architecture in Rome’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 65 (1997), pp. 177–232. Robert Coates-Stephens, ‘Housing in Early Medieval Rome’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 64 (1996), pp. 239–259. Jonathan Conant, Staying Roman: Conquest and Identity in Africa and the Mediterranean, AD 439-700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Lynda Coon and Kim Sexton, ‘Racetrack to Salvation: The Circus, the Basilica, and the Martyr’, Gesta, 59 (2020), pp. 1–42. Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner, ‘Introduction’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 1–18. Hendrik Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City: Architecture and Ceremony in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). Hendrik Dey, The Aurelian Wall and the Refashioning of Imperial Rome, A.D. 271–855 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). Hendrik Dey, ‘Diaconiae, Xenodochia, Hospitalia, and Monasteries: “Social Security” and the Meaning of Monasticism in Early Medieval Rome’, Early Medieval Europe, 16 (2008), pp. 398–422. Angelo Di Berardino and others, eds., Roma e il sacco del 410. Realtà, interpretazione, mito: Atti della giornata di studio, Roma, 6 dicembre 2010 (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 2012). Tommaso di Carpegna Falconieri, Il clero di Roma nel medioevo (Rome: Viella, 2002). Catharine Edwards, Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). Catherine Edwards and Greg Woolf, eds., Rome the Cosmopolis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). Judson Emerick, ‘Focusing on the Celebrant: The Column Display inside Santa Prassede’, Mededelingen van het Nederlands Instituut te Rome: Historical Studies, 59 (2000), pp. 129–159. John Fabiano, ‘Builders and Integrated Associations in Fourth-Century CE Rome: A New Interpretation of AE 1941, 68’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 12 (2019), pp. 65–87. Wallace K. Ferguson, The Renaissance in Historical Thought: Five Centuries of Interpretation (Cambridge, MA: Houghton Mifflin, 1948). Alison Knowles Frazier, Possible Lives: Authors and Saints in Renaissance Italy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005).

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Andrew Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna, and the Last Western Emperors’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 69 (2001), pp. 131–167. Caroline Goodson, ‘Material Memory: Rebuilding the Basilica of S. Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome’, Early Medieval Europe, 15 (2007), pp. 2–34. Caroline Goodson, ‘Roman Archaeology in Medieval Rome’, in Rome: Continuing Encounters Between Past and Present, ed. by Dorigen Caldwell and Lesley Caldwell (Farnham: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 17–34. Caroline Goodson, The Rome of Paschal I: Papal Power, Urban Renovation, Church Rebuilding, and Relic Translation 817–824 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). Federico Guidobaldi, ‘L’edilizia abitativa unifamiliare nella Roma tardoantica’, in Società romana e impero tardoantico, vol. 2. Roma – politica, economia, paesaggio urbano, ed. by Andrea Giardina (Bari: Laterza, 1986), pp. 165–237. John Haldon, The Empire That Would Not Die: The Paradox of Eastern Roman Survival, 640–740 (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 2016). John Haldon and Arlene Rosen, ‘Society and Environment in the East Mediterranean ca 300-1800 CE. Problems of Resilience, Adaptation and Transformation. Introductory Essay’, Human Ecology, 46 (2018), pp. 275–290. Henriette Harich-Schwarzbauer and Karla Pollmann, eds., Der Fall Roms und seine Wiederauferstehungen in Antike und Mittelalter (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013). Kyle Harper, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, and the End of an Empire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2017). Charles Homer Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927). Peter Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History of Rome and the Barbarians (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). Mark Humphries, ‘From Emperor to Pope? Ceremonial, Space, and Authority at Rome from Constantine to Gregory the Great’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900, ed. by Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 21–58. Mark Humphries, ‘Valentinian III and the City of Rome (425-55)’, in Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity, ed. by Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 161–182. Dale Kinney, ‘Krautheimer’s Constantine’, in Ecclesiae Urbis. Atti del Congresso internazionale di studi sulle chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo), ed. by Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra Guiglia Guidobaldi, 3 vols. (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), pp. 1–10. Dale Kinney, ‘Rape or Restitution of the Past? Interpreting Spolia’, in The Art of Interpreting, ed. by S.C. Scott (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 1995), pp. 53–67.

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Richard Krautheimer, Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae, 5 vols. (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1937–1977). Richard Krautheimer, ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III. A Fifth Century Renascence?’, in De Artibus Opuscula XL: Essays in Honor of Erwin Panofsky, ed. by Millard Meiss (New York: New York University Press, 1961), pp. 291–302. Richard Krautheimer, ‘The Carolingian Revival of Early Christian Architecture’, Art Bulletin, 24 (1942), pp. 1–38. Richard Krautheimer, ‘Introduction to an “Iconography of Medieval Architecture”’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 5 (1942), pp. 1–33. Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980). Richard Krautheimer, Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art (New York: New York University Press; London: University of London Press, 1969). Richard Krautheimer, Three Christian Capitals: Topography and Politics (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983). Eugenio La Rocca, ‘La nuova immagine dei fori imperiali. Appunti in margine alle scavi’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts. Römische Abteilung, 108 (2001), pp. 171–213. J.H. Wolfgang G. Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001). Johannes Lipps and others, eds., The Sack of Rome in 410 AD: The Event, Its Context and Its Impact: Proceedings of the conference held at the German Archaeological Institute at Rome, 04–06 November 2010, Palilia 28 (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2013). Carlos Machado, Urban Space and Aristocratic Power in Late Antique Rome, AD 270–535 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). Daniele Manacorda, Crypta Balbi. Archeologia e storia di un paesaggio urbano (Milan: Electa, 2003). Federico Marazzi, I ‘Patrimonia Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae’ nel Lazio (secoli IV–X). Struttura amministrativa e prassi gestionali (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, 1998). Federico Marazzi, ‘Rome in Transition: Economic and Political Change in the Fourth and Fifth Centuries’, in Early Medieval Rome and the Christian West: Essays in Honour of Donald A. Bullough, ed. by Julia M.H. Smith (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 21–41. Maya Maskarinec, City of Saints: Rebuilding Rome in the Early Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). John Matthews, Western Aristocracies and the Imperial Court, A.D. 364–425, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990). Rosamond McKitterick, Rome and the Invention of the Papacy: The Liber Pontificalis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020).

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Neil McLynn, ‘Orosius, Jerome, and the Goths’, in The Sack of Rome in 410 AD: The Event, Its Context and Its Impact, ed. by Johannes Lipps, Carlos Machado, Philipp von Rummel (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2013), pp. 323–333. Roberto Meneghini, ‘Episodi di trasformazione del paesaggio urbano nella Roma altomedievale attraverso l’analisi di due contesti. Un isolato in Piazza dei Cinquecento e l’area dei Fori Imperiali’, Archeologia Medievale, 33 (1996), pp. 53–99. Roberto Meneghini. I fori imperiali e i mercati di Traiano: Storia e descrizione dei monumenti alla luce degli studi e dei scavi recenti (Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 2010). Roberto Meneghini, ‘L’origine di un quartiere altomedievale romano attraverso i recenti scavi del foro di Traiano’, in II Congresso nazionale di archeologia medievale, ed. by G.P. Brogiolo (Florence: All’Insegna del Giglio, 2000), pp. 55–59. Roberto Meneghini and Riccardo Santangeli Valenzani, Roma nell’altomedioevo. Topografia e urbanistica della città dal V al X secolo (Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 2004). Jules Michelet, Renaissance, vol. 7 of Histoire de France (Paris: Chamerot, 1855). Heike Niquet, Monumenta virtutum titulique. Senatorische Selbstdarstellung im spätantiken Rom im Spiegel der epigraphischen Denkmäler (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2000). Silvia Orlandi, ‘Past and Present in the Late Imperial Epigraphy of the City of Rome’, in Ruin or Renewal? Places and the Transformation of Memory in the City of Rome, ed. by Marta Garcia Morcillo, James Richardson, and Federico Santangelo (Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 2016), pp. 259–271. Letizia Pani Ermini, Christiana Loca. Lo spazio cristiano nella Roma del primo millenio (Rome: Fratelli Palombi, 2000). Valentino Pace, ‘La “felix culpa” di Richard Krautheimer: Roma, Santa Prassede e la “rinascenza carolingia”’, in Ecclesiae Urbis. Atti del Congresso Internazionale di Studi sulle Chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo), ed. by Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra Guiglia Guidobaldi, 3 vols. (Vatican City: Pontif icio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), I, pp. 65–72. Erwin Panofsky, ‘Renaissance and Renascences’, The Kenyan Review, 6 (1944), pp. 201–236. Erwin Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1960; reprinted New York: Harper and Row, 1960, 1969, 1972). Erna Patzelt, Die karolingische Renaissance. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Kultur des frühen Mittelalters (Vienna: Österreichischer Schulbüchverlag, 1924); reissued in 1965 with a chapter by Cyrille Vogel, ‘La réforme cultuelle sous Pépin le Bref et sous Charlemagne’ (Graz: Akademische Druck- und Verlagsanstalt, 1965). Clyde Pharr and others, eds. and trans., The Theodosian Code and Novels and the Sirmondian Constitutions (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1952).

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J.G.A. Pocock, The Enlightenments of Edward Gibbon, 1737–1764, vol. 1 of Barbarism and Religion, 6 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). Richard Price, Phil Booth, and Catherine Cubbitt, eds., The Acts of the Lateran Synod of 649 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2014). Rosella Rea, ‘Rota Colisei’. La valle del Colosseo attraverso i secoli (Milan: Electa, 2002). Jeanne Rutenburg and Arthur Eckstein, ‘The Return of the Fall of Rome’, International History Review, 29 (2007), pp. 109–122. Michele Renee Salzman, ‘Apocalypse Then? Jerome and the Fall of Rome in 401 CE’, in Maxima Debetur Magistro Reverentia: Essays on Rome and the Roman Tradition in Honor of Russell T. Scott, ed. by Paul B. Harvey, Jr. and Catherine Conybeare (Como: New Press Edizioni, 2009), pp. 175–192. Michele Renee Salzman, ‘Emperors and Elites in Rome after the Vandal Sack of 455’, Antiquité Tardive, 25 (2017), pp. 243–262. Michele Renee Salzman, The Making of a Christian Aristocracy: Social and Religious Change in the Western Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002). Riccardo Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Public and Private Building Activity in Late Antique Rome’, in Technology in Transition A.D. 350–650, ed. by Luke Lavan, Enrico Zanini, and Alexander Sarantis (Leiden: Brill, 2007), pp. 435–449. Fedor Schneider, Rom und Romgedanke im Mittelalter. Die geistigen Grundlagen der Renaissance (Munich: Drei Masken Verlag, 1926). Percy Ernst Schramm, Kaiser, Rom und Renovatio. Studien und Texte zur Geschichte des römischen Erneuerungsgedanken vom Ende des karolingischen Reiches bis zum Investiturstreit. Studien der Bibliothek Warburg 17 (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1929). Kristina Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority in Late Antique Italy: Roman Bishops and the Domestic Sphere (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Kristina Sessa, ‘The New Environmental Fall of Rome: A Methodological Consideration’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 12 (2019), pp. 211–255. Kathleen Shelton, The Esquiline Treasure (London: British Museum Publications, 1981). Stephen Shoemaker, The Apocalypse of Empire: Imperial Eschatology in Late Antiquity and Early Islam (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). Michel Sot, ‘Renovatio, renaissance et réforme à l’époque carolingienne’, Bulletin de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France (2009), pp. 62–72. Rabun Taylor, Katherine Rinne, and Spiro Kostof, Rome: An Urban History from Antiquity to the Present, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). Erik Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome: Time, Network, and Repetition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015). Hélène Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien à Rome au début du xiie siècle’, Cahiers archéologiques, 20 (1970), pp. 99–154

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Hélène Toubert, ‘Iconographie et histoire de la spiritualité médiévale’, Revue d’histoire de la spiritualité, 50 (1974), pp. 265–284 Hélène Toubert, ‘Rome et le Mont-Cassin. Nouvelles remarques sur les fresques de l’église inférieure de Saint-Clément de Rome’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 30 (1976), pp. 3–33. Hélène Toubert, Un art dirigé. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990). Warren Treadgold, ed., Renaissances Before the Renaissance (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1984). Pier Luigi Tucci, The Temple of Peace in Rome, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). Fazio degli Uberti, Il Dittamondo e le rime, ed. by Giuseppe Corsi, 2 vols., Scrittori d’Italia 206–207 (Bari: G. Laterza, 1952). Peter Van Nuffelen, ‘Not Much Happened: 410 and All That’, Journal of Roman Studies, 105 (2015), pp. 322–329. Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ più eccelenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani . . ., ed. by L. Bellosi and A. Rossi (Turin: Einaudi, 1986 [original: Florence, 1550]). Bryan Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages: Public Building in Northern and Central Italy, AD 300–850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985). Bryan Ward-Perkins, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). Chris Wickham, Medieval Rome: Stability and Crisis of a City, 900–1150 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). David Wright, The Vatican Vergil: A Masterpiece of Late Antique Art (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993).

About the Authors Gregor Kalas is associate professor of architectural history at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where he is the Riggsby Director of the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. He is the author of The Restoration of the Roman Forum in Late Antiquity: Transforming Public Space (2015). Ann van Dijk is associate professor in the School of Art and Design at Northern Illinois University. Her publications examine the patronage of Pope John VII as well as its reception in the early modern period. Her articles have been featured in The Art Bulletin, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, Word & Image, and Renaissance Studies.

2.

Rome at War: The Effects of Crisis on Church and Communityin Late Antiquity Kristina Sessa

Abstract This chapter explores ecclesiastical responses to the military and subsistence crises that directly impacted Italy, and the city of Rome, during the later fifth and sixth centuries. It examines how a series of events, such as the civil war in 489–493 between the barbarian warlords Odoacer and Theoderic, the Gothic War from c. 535–554, and regional food shortages shaped the development of the Roman church both culturally and materially. While acknowledging the deleterious impact of these crises on individual bodies and communities, the chapter argues that war and its related effects were essentially generative in nature, offering opportunities for churchmen and laypeople to formulate new ecclesiastical ideals, practices, and spaces. Keywords: charity, war, refugees, environmental crisis, and food shortages

Introduction Sometime during his episcopate in the late fifth century, the Roman bishop Gelasius (492–496 CE) sent an impassioned plea to an Italian estate owner and femina illustris named Firmina. Gelasius wanted her to help Rome recover some church property that had been illegally seized during a recent war. ‘But it would most certainly contribute to the total of your reward if the estates which have been stolen either by barbarians or by Romans, to our disadvantage, were handed back by your arrangement for the feeding of the poor,’ he wrote. ‘Such a multitude has converged on Rome from diverse

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch02

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provinces that have been laid waste by the carnage of war, that we are hardly able to satisfy it.’1 When Gelasius became bishop in 492, the peninsula was still mired in a devastating conflict between the local forces of Odoacer, who had ruled Italy since 476, and the invading armies of Theoderic, who had been sent by the Emperor Zeno to unseat the barbarian king. From 489 to 493, their armies clashed, mainly in the northern provinces. The war culminated with a lengthy siege of Ravenna, and ended with Odoacer’s surrender and death. Late Roman military conflicts had many far-reaching effects that bishops such as Gelasius witnessed first hand: mass migrations, typically into fortified cities such as Rome, which, like all late ancient cities, were unequipped to deal with what we would call a refugee crisis; food shortages, often triggered by population displacement; epidemic illness, brought on by denser than usual living arrangements and the consumption of rotting food and polluted water; and the disruption of revenue streams, upon which late antique churches relied for maintaining clergy, buildings, and service to the poor. In fact, the Roman church lost more than money during the war between Odoacer and Theoderic. Reports were pouring into the city about shortages of clergy to perform the liturgy, including stories of severely mutilated priests. In short, what began as a confrontation between two warlords and their armies had quickly turned into a catastrophe for local churches and Christians throughout the peninsula. This chapter explores how war and material crises such as a food shortage affected the development of the Roman church, episcopal authority, and the Christianization of Roman social practices. It begins with the hypothesis that war and food shortages were not only problems of deformed, dead, and displaced bodies, though they were certainly that. They were also opportunities for churchmen and laypeople to formulate new ecclesiastical ideals, practices, and spaces. Focusing on the city of Rome in the late fifth and sixth centuries, this essay reassesses the so-called rise of the papacy by placing war and its attendant crises at the center of analysis. The argument unfolds through case studies of two bishops, who governed the church in acute periods of war and crisis: Gelasius, pope from 492–496, which was during the war between Theoderic and Odoacer; and Pelagius I, who led the Roman church from 556–561, just after the end of the Gothic War (c. 535–554). 1 Gelasius, Fragment 35, ed. Thiel, pp. 501–2. ‘Ad cumulum vero mercedis vestrae pertinere certissimum est, si praedia, quae vel a barbaris vel a Romanis inconvenienter invasa sunt, vestris dispositionibus egentium victui reformentur. Cuius tanta de provinciis, quae bellorum clade vastatae sunt, Romam multitudo confluxit, ut vix ei Deo teste sufficere valeamus.’ Unless otherwise specified, I shall use Thiel’s edition of Gelasius’s letters.

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It will examine how these particular material crises interrelated in complex, non-linear ways with ecclesiastical, doctrinal, economic, and social factors to produce new modes of episcopal authority and to create new conditions in which practices such as ecclesiastical property administration and resource allocation took form. More specifically, this chapter will argue that the Italian conflicts of the late fifth and sixth centuries led to a profound rescaling of traditional forms of charitable activity, wherein the Roman bishop came to be seen as the organizer of food relief for large numbers of displaced persons.2

The Challenges of Studying Crisis and Religious Change In a sense, the first and last scholar to examine the interconnections between war, crisis, and early Christianity was Edward Gibbon.3 Gibbon famously denounced Christian clergy and monks for their feeble pacifism in the face of barbarian onslaught and blamed an inward-looking church for destroying Rome’s martial valor. Perhaps because of Gibbon’s unpersuasive analysis, scholars of late ancient Christianity have given little thought to the impact of war and crisis on religious ideas and practices. Even in the wake of Peter Brown’s revolutionary reframing of Christianity as a boon to, rather than a burden on, the late ancient world, few scholars have taken seriously the relationship between war, material (including environmental) crisis, and the rise of the Christian church. This includes Brown himself. In his recent book, Through the Eye of the Needle, which extensively explores the intersection of wealth, the poor, and the church, war receives little attention. To be sure, there are studies on the conversion of the army and the emerging Christian concept of the ‘just war’. 4 There is also the work by Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil, which foregrounds crisis as a theme in episcopal letters.5 And, of course, there are studies of violence as a discursive agent in the process of Christianization.6 Yet, none of this work examines 2 This chapter is part of a larger study on the myriad effects of war on the development of Christian institutions in the late Roman West, from c. 400–650. In keeping with the regional approach of the book, this essay’s claims are specific to the Italian peninsula and in certain cases, to the city of Rome. 3 Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ch. 15. 4 Winn, Augustine on War and Military Service. 5 Allen and Neil, Crisis Management in Late Antiquity (410–590 CE). See also Neil, ‘Crisis in the Letters of Gelasius I (492–96)’, who discusses some of the material analyzed here. 6 See, for instance, Drake (ed.), Violence in Late Antiquity; Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity; and Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers of Christ’.

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the complex interrelationship between the material effects of warfare on a population, and the ways in which bishops responded to these effects in both rhetorical and practical ways. Alternatively, materiality is very much a concern to scholars such as Mischa Meier and Kyle Harper, who have sought to connect late Roman environmental crises, such as the so-called Justinianic Plague7 and climate change to broad transformations that led to the ‘end’ of the ancient world and the ‘beginning’ of the Middle Ages.8 In their studies, the authors have causally linked these environmental crises to everything from the decimation of the imperial population and catastrophic economic decline to a rise in Marian devotion, a shift from secular to Christian historiography, and a pervasive, deafening apocalypticism. Among other analytic weaknesses, Meier and Harper misdiagnose the impact of environmental and manmade crises on religious development, seeing the entire process largely as degenerative, wherein classical traditions (and physical conditions) gradually cease to exist. Most problematically, neither critically engages with the relationship between cause (environmental crisis) and effect (a profoundly changed cultural mentalité) on any level of detail or regional specificity: they merely assert that correlation implies causation on a grand cultural and geographic scale.9 This essay presents a new approach to the challenge of studying the relationship between the effects of material crisis (whether human or environmentally generated) and religious change. First, rather than assuming that material crisis necessarily catalyzed a cultural plunge into the dark ages of medieval religiosity (characterized by the eclipse of ‘secular’ thinking or the rise of apocalypticism), it argues that events such as the food shortage 7 So-called because the first major western pandemic of the bubonic plague occurred intermittently from 541 to 750, but it far outlasted the reign of the emperor Justinian (r. 527–565). On the interpretive fallacy of associating a 250-year series of environmental events with the reign of a single, sixth-century emperor, see Sessa, ‘The New Environmental Fall of Rome’. Moreover, serious and substantive scholarly objections have arisen against the very claim that the plague had catastrophic demographic (and hence material) impact on late Roman and early medieval society. See Mordechai and Eisenberg, ‘Rejecting Catastrophe’, and Mordechai and others, ‘The Justinianic Plague: An Inconsequential Pandemic?’. 8 Meier, ‘The “Justinianic Plague”’, and Harper, The Fate of Rome. The argument is not new. See Huntington, ‘Climatic Change and Agricultural Exhaustion’. 9 A more extensive methodological critique of Meier, Harper, and the larger body of scholarship that seeks to link the ‘end of the Roman Empire’ to environmental crisis and non-human historical agency is offered in Sessa, ‘The New Environmental Fall of Rome’. Haldon and others, ‘Plagues, Climate Change and the End of an Empire’, present an exhaustive, critical review of Harper’s environmental determinism in The Fate of Rome.

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of the early 490s and the myriad catastrophes of the mid-sixth century functioned as moments of creative possibility, wherein some – but not all – human agents and institutions found ways to convert disaster into opportunity.10 Drawing on Naomi Klein’s notion of ‘disaster capitalism’, it explores how Gelasius and Pelagius fashion something like a ‘disaster ecclesiology’ in their respective letters to laypeople and churchmen, wherein the ensuing crises are presented both as causes for direct action to relieve suffering and as discursive rationales for accepting new roles for bishops and a more distinctly hierarchical and/or unif ied vision of the Roman episcopal church.11 Second, we must adopt a model of historical analysis that examines the exigencies of war alongside the contingencies of individual human action on small scales of historical change. Methodologically, therefore, the challenge of this project is to avoid reductive analyses, wherein material factors are thought to determine broad cultural outcomes. The relationship between crisis and Christianization in Late Antiquity was not one of simple or unique causation; and precisely how it unfolded differed enormously from region to region, perhaps even from community to community.12 Consequently, this chapter examines crisis and religion on a relatively small scale of analysis, namely the Roman church and Italy between c. 489–560. Third, and related, this essay endeavors to reveal the extent to which some facets of late Roman society were more resilient than others. Indeed, ‘resilience’, understood in the environmental sense as ‘persistence, adaptability, and transformability of complex adaptive social-ecological systems,’ is a helpful heuristic for historians of late ancient and early medieval Rome, in that it captures the complex nature of the city’s urban, cultural, and institutional survival, without succumbing to teleology or assumed outcomes.13 Like (and perhaps better than) more familiar terms such as ‘reinvention’ and ‘renaissance’, resilience models a dynamic whereby historical change constitutes non-linear forms of adaptation and diverse pathways of development, whether we are talking about burial habits (as John Osborne’s contribution discusses), inscribed papal poetry (as examined here by Dennis Trout), or new ways of thinking about the relationship between Roman episcopal authority, the church, and local societies. In sum, this 10 In fact, scholars of apocalyptic literature and thought have long recognized its generative (rather than degenerative) capacities: see Palmer, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages. 11 Klein, The Shock Doctrine. 12 For a model example of this local, regional approach to material crisis and historical change, see Haldon, The Empire that Would not Die. 13 Folke, ‘Resilience Thinking’.

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chapter will show how acute material crises interacted with co-existing (or pre-existing) social, political, ideological, and cultural factors to produce new conditions of physical existence and discursive possibility, which individual historical agents – such as Gelasius and Pelagius – attempted to leverage to their advantage.

Case Study #1: Gelasius and the Crises of the 490s Gelasius was elected Bishop of Rome at a critical juncture in the region’s history. Italy was in the midst of a war between the forces of Odoacer, king of Italy since 476 when he deposed Romulus Augustulus, and Theoderic the Goth, a Balkan warlord whom the Emperor Zeno had sent to unseat Odoacer and assume rule over Italy.14 Our sources place the conflict to the north of Rome. According to Procopius, Theoderic marched his army and followers around the Adriatic gulf into Italy. After crossing the Julian Alps and reaching the Isonzo River in August of 489, they met Odoacer’s forces and successfully pulled off a string of victories in Venetia and Verona as they marched south toward Ravenna. Enormous losses, however, were reported on both sides.15 Theoderic ultimately defeated Odoacer in 490 at a battle at the river Adda, but Odoacer fled to Ravenna. Unable to capture the capital quickly, Theoderic besieged the city for nearly three years until the bishop of Ravenna brokered a truce in 493, allowing for the two kings to govern Italy jointly. Theoderic then murdered Odoacer at the following celebratory banquet, and became sole ruler. In addition to creating dangerous conditions for the inhabitants of Ravenna and its environs, the conflict generated additional problems. Magnus Felix Ennodius (474–521), a contemporary to these events, reported in the Life of Saint Epiphanius of Pavia that the Burgundian king Gundobad sent an army into Liguria to take advantage of the political disorder. 16 We are told that his troops took local Ligurians captive 14 Procopius, Wars 5.1–25 offers our best description of the war, though there are many details lacking. See also Anon. Val. 49–59; Ennodius, Panegryicus Theoderico regi dictus 36–47, and Vita S. Epiphanii 109–111, 127; Jordanes, Getica 292 ff; Cassiodorus, Chronica s.a. 491; Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana 15.15. Modern accounts: Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire I, pp. 422–28; Stein, Histoire de la Bas Empire, II, pp. 54–8; and Moorhead, Theoderic in Italy. 15 Ennodius, Panegryicus Theoderico regi dictus 8.45–47; Anonymous Valesianus 50. 16 Ennodius, Vita Epiphanii 138–41. Epiphanius was bishop of Pavia during these events, and later requested aid from Theoderic to ransom the Italian captives from the Burgundians. Gelasius, Epistulae 13 to Rusticus of Lyon refers to this crisis.

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and caused extensive damage to local agriculture, causing further food shortages and dislocation. Additionally, the Vandals reportedly seized the opportunity to retake the Sicily in c. 490, and Theoderic, who had taken control of most of Italy (save Ravenna) by that point, was forced to defend the island. Finally, all contemporary sources place the conflict squarely in the northern half of the peninsula (excepting the Vandal raid in Sicily). Gelasius’s letters, four of which refer explicitly to the war, demonstrate that the destabilization of cities and countryside in the northern half of Italy triggered a series of developments that affected Rome and that were, or could become, ecclesiastical in nature.17 Liguria, for instance, was devastated by the Burgundian attack, and in the immediate aftermath of the war Theoderic found it necessary to grant the region a tax abatement.18 The lengthy siege of Ravenna also unsettled populations, and it is reasonable to believe that some of these displaced persons were among the refugees whom Gelasius describes in his letter to Firmina.19 But the demographic displacement had an additional impact on the Roman church. As people moved away from the conflict zones whether under duress as captives or in search of safer, food-abundant havens, they left fields un-worked and unattended. Food was neither grown, nor transported; rents went uncollected; and estates were left unprotected, leaving landowners like the Roman church vulnerable to theft – as Gelasius claims happened to Rome. In other epistles, Gelasius describes additional effects from the war. Letter 14, addressed to the bishops of Lucania, Bruttium, and Sicily, refers to shortages of ordained clergy, improperly obtained clerical offices, and accusations against clergy of f inancial improprieties involving church wealth. The physical bodies of Christian clergy were also injured, and these injuries had ecclesiastical repercussions. Fragment 9, an epistle written to Palladius, an Italian bishop of unknown provenance, recounts a harrowing tale involving a priest named Stephanus, who was pursued by hostile forces 17 Gelasius, Epistulae 14 and Fragments 9 and 35 make explicit reference to hostilities between Odoacer and Theoderic, while Epistulae 13 discusses the aftermath of the Burgundian invasion of Liguria. Frg. 36, to Theoderic’s Catholic mother Erelieuva, requests assistance for unspecific ‘poor’, whom Neil and Allen identify as displaced persons from the war, although this is not actually specified in the document (The Letters of Gelasius I, p. 199, n. 37). A rather large number of letters (Epistulae 36, 37, 38, 39, 20, 21) deal with murdered clergy and/or clerics guilty of crimes, though their connection to the war is unclear and may be unrelated. 18 Ennodius, Vita Epiphanii 189. 19 As discussed below, the ‘refugee’, as a social or legal category, did not exist as such in Late Antiquity (there is no Latin equivalent, for example). However, there were clearly displaced persons, and I use the term ‘refugee’ as an equivalent for convenience.

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and suffered permanent injuries from the attack.20 Here, Gelasius responds to a petition from Stephanus, who protested his subsequent deposition by Palladius on account of his disfiguring injury. In his letter to Firmina, Gelasius turns to a more immediate problem: an ensuing refugee crisis at Rome. He writes, we recall, that a ‘multitude’ had fled to Rome, where it seems that they expected to find supplies of food.21 While the Roman church’s reputation for charity was undoubtedly a factor, it was not the primary reason hungry people came to Rome during Late Antiquity in search of food. Since the early empire, food had been regularly supplied to Rome through a complex, state-run provisioning system known as the annona civilis. By the late fifth century, bread, pork, wine, oil, and perhaps salt were transported into the city from Sicily and from Italian estates primarily in the south. Select adult male citizens periodically received free rations, as well as access to cost-controlled commodities that were delivered regularly. To be clear, war refugees and other visitors likely did not have access to the annona, though they could have been registered as new residents. Four years after Alaric’s siege of Rome in 410, for instance, the urban prefect claimed that he was enrolling 14,000 new residents each day.22 The figure is absurdly high, but it does point to a dynamic demographic situation in the period immediately following Alaric’s campaign through Italy, when displaced persons likely migrated to Rome in search of security. Of course, the annona helped to maintain Rome’s population not only by providing some with free and subsidized food, but also, and perhaps more importantly, by facilitating the steady flow of food into Rome’s markets, which were open to all inhabitants.23 In other words, even if refugees were not entitled to receive free food from the state, they would have recognized Rome’s role as an economic center, where some food was likely available at a cost. In fact, major late Roman cities with active government provisioning systems, such as Rome and Constantinople, regularly pulled people in from the surrounding areas, who traveled not only to carry out official business (e.g. litigation), but also to seek sustenance, even if it meant begging on 20 Gelasius, Fragment 9. 21 Gelasius, Fragment 35. 22 Olympiodorus, Fragment 30, discussed in Durliat, De la ville antique à la ville byzantine, p. 179 and Purcell, ‘The Populace of Rome in Late Antiquity’, pp. 149–50. Note that Elio Lo Cascio interprets the reference to registrati not as new registrants but as returning annona recipients. See Lo Cascio, ‘La popolazione di Roma prima e dopo il 410’, p. 413. This is obviously a possibility, but as we shall see, the prefect was still short of grain in 414. 23 See, for example, Lo Cascio, ‘Canon frumentarius, suarius, vinarius’.

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the streets.24 Later, in 539, Justinian established a special magistracy in Constantinople – the quaesitor – to keep track of migrants entering the city from the surrounding countryside. According to Novella 80, able-bodied men and women who came to Constantinople in search of a better livelihood were to be put to work in the state bakeries and other public services.25 Those who could not work, the law stated, would have to rely on charity or leave. Among other issues addressed in the law, Novella 80 makes clear that Constantinople routinely attracted inhabitants from the surrounding countryside and cities, who perceived the capital as a potential site of stability, and that state viewed these migrants as a burden on the city’s resources. As Novella 80 suggests, the fact that large cities such as Rome and Constantinople were widely perceived as economic centers did not mean that they were always able to provide for everyone who entered in search of food and shelter – Justinian’s quaesitor was expressly tasked with expelling those who could not contribute to the city’s economy. The mismatch between supply and demand was especially acute during and just following periods of instability.26 In 414, the urban prefect of Rome wrote the emperor to request additional supplies of grain in order to furnish the annona distributions for a sudden growth in the citizen population; as noted above, he claimed to enroll 14,000 new residents daily. Alaric’s siege and sack of the city in 410 likely drove the population down – in fact, this event is part of a well-documented downward demographic trend for Rome that began in the fourth century.27 But the abrupt upticks that the urban prefect witnessed were arguably also part of a trend: as the state and market gradually adjusted to a smaller citizen population over the course of the fifth century, concurrent crises, such as the war between Odoacer and Theoderic, catalyzed sudden increases in food-needy visitors, who were difficult to accommodate within a contracting economic system. Thus, when Gelasius frantically wrote to Firmina asking for her assistance in recovering the church’s revenue so that he could provide 24 Purcell, ‘The Populace of Rome in Late Antiquity’, emphasizes the high rate of mobility into/out of the city and dynamic size of Rome’s population. 25 Justinian, Novellae 80.5 (539). The other sections of the novella deal with migrants who have come to Constantinople to engage in litigation. 26 This mismatch would have been even greater if our sources regularly inflated figures for those receiving annona distributions because it would mean that the numbers of citizens whose food was subsidized was considerably smaller than claimed. On the rhetorical nature of the ancient quantification of the annona, see Purcell, ‘The Populace of Rome in Late Antiquity’, pp. 138–40. 27 Rome’s population had been falling since at least the fourth century, but Alaric’s sack likely did not lead to the most severe decreases, as seen in the time of Gelasius and Pelagius. See Lo Cascio, ‘La popolazione di Roma’, and Durliat, De la ville antique à la ville byzantine, p. 117.

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for refugees, it was not the first time a sudden population surge caused problems for the city’s food supply. Nevertheless, the crisis he faced in the early 490s appears to have concerned only temporary residents, men, women, and children who fled to Rome from elsewhere – presumably from the north – in the hope of finding markets full of affordable food. It was precisely because this was a specific emergency that Gelasius believed he had not only an obligation but also an opportunity to assist the refugees. Gelasius’s action is the first recorded time when a Roman bishop attempted to draw on the church’s own estate holdings to relieve pressure on the city’s food supply. While previous popes had collected and distributed alms for Rome’s needy – Leo (441–461) made this a signature program in his tenure – none had faced a refugee crisis on this scale and then sought to remedy it through ecclesiastical revenues.28 Understandably, scholars such as Jean Durliat have isolated Gelasius’s action as well as the brief statement in the Liber Pontificalis that Gelasius ‘delivered the city of Rome from danger of famine’ and concluded that Gelasius likely directed the annona system in Rome as an emergency measure.29 However, this is clearly reading far too much into the evidence, and Gelasius’s interventions were not with the annona. As Michele Salzman shows in a recent article, the food supply in Rome remained a state endeavor through the sixth century.30 In fact, identifying Gelasius’s charitable response with papal oversight of the civic annona misses important rhetorical and ecclesiological dimensions of the crisis and the pope’s response to it. Consider the letter (Fragment 35) in its entirety: But it would most certainly redound to the total of your reward if the estates which have been stolen either by barbarians or by Romans, to our disadvantage, were to be handed back by your arrangements for the feeding of those in need. Such a multitude has converged on Rome from diverse provinces that have been laid waste by the carnage of war, that we are hardly able to satisfy it, with God as our witness. Therefore see how great would be your good works if the estates, which each bestowed for the good of his soul, are handed back to the blessed apostle Peter, and released by your assistance, second to God. I ask that you would deign to 28 On Leo’s commitment to almsgiving and charity, see Neil, ‘Models of Gift Giving’. 29 Liber Pontificalis, ed. Duchesne, p. 255: ‘Hic fuit amator pauperum et clerum ampliavit. Hic liberavit a periculo famis civitatem Romanam.’ Durliat, De la ville antique à la ville byzantine, pp. 134–36. 30 Salzman, ‘From a Classical to a Christian City’.

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receive with a gracious heart the gift of this blessing, which I have sent out of affection.31 Ad cumulum vero mercedis vestrae pertinere certissimum est, si praedia, quae vel a barbaris vel a Romanis inconvenienter invasa sunt, vestris dispositionibus egentium victui reformentur. Cujus tanta de provinciis, quae bellorum clade vastatae sunt, Romam multitudo confluxit, ut vix ei Deo teste sufficere valeamus. Conspicitis ergo, quantum boni operis acquiratis, si beato Petro apostolo praedia, quae pro sua quisque anima contulit, vestro post Deum praesidio liberata reddantur. Cujus benedictionis eulogias, quas pro affectione direxi, peto ut grata suscipere mente digneris.

In the letter, Gelasius conflates ‘those in need’ (egentes) with the refugees, i.e. those who have ‘converged on Rome from diverse provinces.’ The fact that Gelasius does not label them ‘refugees’ as such is not surprising; the word, let alone the legal category, did not exist in the Latin of his day.32 Instead, he uses a common word for ‘needy’ or ‘very poor’ (egens), but with an important qualification: these are the extreme poor who flocked to Rome from elsewhere. These egentes, in other words, are not a generic ‘poor’, but a specific population, whose circumstances are expressly conveyed. It is unclear whether the ‘poor’, whom Gelasius is said to have loved in the Liber Pontificalis along with the clergy, are the same as the egentes in his letter to Firmina.33 This is possible, and perhaps there was a large clerical contingent among them. If so, it would explain further why Gelasius felt compelled to act. In any event, for the first time, a pope presented himself as an administrator of famine relief for displaced persons, understood as a distinct sub-group of ‘the poor’. Gelasius’s engagement with a very precise demographic seems to contrast with the interventions of his predecessor Leo, whose interest in organizing alms collection and distribution in the Roman churches was aimed at assisting a different type of ‘poor’, who were ‘impoverished noblemen and citizens, [and] not beggars.’34 In Gelasius’s 31 Trans. adapted from Neil and Allen, The Letters of Gelasius, p. 207. 32 Refugium in Latin, from which our modern English ‘refugee’ derives, meant the safe place where endangered persons found protection. It did not refer to the state of being displaced. The word peregrinus/a might be used to connote a displaced person, but this was not its only or even primary meaning. 33 Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 255: ‘Hic fuit amator pauperum et clerum ampliavit. Hic liberavit a periculo famis civitatem Romanam.’ 34 Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle, p. 467.

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letter, alternatively, the estates of St. Peter are said to feed not any general poor or even local beggars, but needy persons displaced by war and famine. In other words, the image of the bishop as ‘patron of the poor’ has been distinctly modified.35 To provide for the migrants, Gelasius could not or would not dip into his personal funds to provide for Rome’s refugees; nor, it seems, was there enough cash or food in the church’s coffers. Instead, he reached out to a well-connected matron for assistance, a decision that we might describe as a calculated act of desperation. Indeed, as Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil note, it is entirely possible that Firmina had been the one who seized the church’s land during the war, and Fragment 35 is Gelasius’s attempt to secure its return.36 Regardless, the letter to Firmina is an attempt by a bishop with a weak elite support-base in Rome to forge a link with a well-known aristocratic laywoman.37 Firmina is almost certainly the same woman to whom Ennodius dedicated two poems and addressed a letter.38 She may have even been Ennodius’s kinswoman. Given Ennodius’s close relationship with Roman lay luminaries such as Anicius Probus Faustus Niger, one wonders if Firmina, too, was highly connected with the Roman senatorial Christian elite. Note that Gelasius offers her a blessing (eulogium) for her assistance, a gift for which the pope expects support in the recovery of the property and perhaps for similar help down the road. In fact, Gelasius’s letter illuminates how Roman bishops actually administered church property during the many upheavals of the fifth century. As the letter implies, they relied heavily on networks of non-Roman clergy and laypeople. Firmina, in other words, was precisely the sort of magnate who could both accomplish the difficult task Gelasius asks of her – recover control of property lost through war – and help connect the pope to new aristocratic networks on which he could further build. Moreover, Gelasius seems to have believed that presenting himself as the champion of hungry refugees would be rhetorically successful. As is often the case, we do not know how she responded to the pope’s entreaties. 35 Exigency created conditions in which Gelasius rebranded the bishop as a patron of refugee relief, but it is interesting to note that the pope’s response was part of a wider, fifth-century trend. See Gregory of Tours, Decem libri historiarum 2.21 on the actions of the lay landowner Ecdicius, who transported 4000 starving men and women to his Burgundian estate during a famine; and Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistulae 6.12, on Patriens of Lyon and his use of private wealth to feed the starving citizens of Clermont during a siege in 471. 36 Neil and Allen, The Letters of Gelasius, p. 203. 37 On Gelasius’s weak position in Rome with respect to local aristocrats, see Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter, pp. 73–102. 38 PCBC 2.1, 823, s.v. ‘Firmina’.

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Finally, St. Peter also appears in the letter, notably as the titular owner of Rome’s beleaguered estates. These are the praedia that belong to beatus apostolus Petrus. As scholars have noted, it is around this time that the Roman church began to organize its property in a more systematic manner, or at least when we begin to have evidence for it.39 In fact, Gelasius may have been the f irst pope to use the term patrimonium in the common administrative sense, to refer to estates that are grouped together on the basis of geography and managed as a unit. 40 To be clear, Gelasius does not use the phrase patrimonium Petri here or elsewhere (Pope Gregory I [590–604] is arguably the first to do this), but his deliberate yoking of what George Demacopoulos calls ‘the Petrine topos’ to Roman ecclesiastical property should not be overlooked. 41 Here, Gelasius raises the stakes of the request by claiming Peter’s possession of the stolen land as if to send a warning: were Firmina to refuse help, the apostle will judge her accordingly. The association of Peter with ecclesiastical estate management expands in the late sixth century, when Gregory demanded that his rectores and defensores swear oaths to uphold their duties on Peter’s tomb. 42 Peter’s appearance in Gelasius’s letter to Firmina, however, raises further questions: to what extent did war and crisis affect the administrative development of Roman ecclesiastical property? Did it afford conditions for the church’s standardization of a financial paper trail?43 The possibility that crisis generated institution building resurfaces in another Gelasian epistle linked to the war between Theoderic and Odoacer: a lengthy circular epistle addressed to the bishops of Lucania, Bruttium, and Sicily, regions that fall directly under the pope’s jurisdiction of suburbicarian Italy but, with the exception of Sicily, were not directly impacted by the events of 489–93. The letter is an example of what becomes known as a general decretal, in that it lays out both ancient and new (i.e. Gelasian) canons on matters of church law and discipline. In it, the bishop explicitly 39 Moreau, ‘Les patrimoines de l’église romaine’, and Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 113–124. 40 Moreau, ‘Les patrimoines de l’église romaine’, pp. 82–4. 41 Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter. 42 Ibid., p. 140. 43 Gelasius’s tenure, in fact, offers our first set of epistolary records that allude to the mechanisms of Rome’s patrimonial administration. It is, of course, difficult to decide whether this fact is the result of Gelasius’s innovations (possibly influenced by the war) or whether it is simply a result of the vagaries of manuscript transmission. In support of the former hypothesis, John the Deacon credited him with the creation of the polyptica (Vita S. Gregorii 2.24), though the term admittedly does not appear in our sources until the late sixth century. See Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 118–22.

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uses circumstances created by the war as a framework for building an ecclesiological discourse, which asserts both the Roman bishop’s unique power to create church rules and a more steeply ecclesiastical hierarchy in suburbicarian Italy. It was issued on 11 March 492, at the beginning of his episcopate, and in the midst of the Ostrogothic siege of Ravenna. The letter opens with Gelasius citing correspondence from the Ravennate bishop John, who reported that the war had created a dearth of eligible clergy, and that parishioners were consequently suffering. After highlighting these emergency conditions, Gelasius weighed the maintenance of tradition against a more pressing need for radical intervention. ‘We are constrained,’ he wrote, ‘by the necessary disposition of affairs and we are obliged to the governance of the apostolic see, so to balance the canonical decrees of our Fathers and to dispense the teachings of the leaders of past time.’44 Nevertheless, he concludes, the present conditions demanded unusual action: break with both apostolic and ecclesiastical tradition to create new, temporary rules governing clerical advancement: [B]y applying careful consideration, [we] may as far as possible regulate the alleviation that the exigency of present times demands for the renewal of the churches. In this we should not be regarded as wholly going beyond the formulation of the ancient rules by repairing the duties of the clerical profession, which the assault of war and famine has wasted through various parts of Italy. 45

Although early Christian churches followed different traditions governing clerical advancement in Late Antiquity, the system championed by at least one previous Roman bishop, Siricius (384–399), was lengthy with numerous requirements, such as a minimum age for the deaconate (thirty years) and time served in lower offices before advancement (at least five years in the deaconate before ordination to the priesthood). 46 In Letter 14, Gelasius outlined an alternative, abridged path in order to create more priests more quickly. Truncating a process that typically took many years to complete and doing away with age qualifications altogether, Gelasius permitted worthy men to become priests within a year if coming from a monastery, or eighteen months if from the laity. ‘We allow the churches which are either robbed of all their ministers or so bereft of sufficient service that they are not in 44 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.1. Trans. Neil and Allen, The Letters of Gelasius, p. 145. 45 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.1. 46 Siricius, Epistulae 1 and 5, discussed in Sessa, ‘Clerics’.

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a position to provide the divine gifts for those people belonging to them, to do away with the intervals for both appointing and advancing clerical service.’47 He is also clear that this bending of the rules applied only to churches where, ‘through the troubles of war, either nothing at all or very little has remained.’ Alternatively, he intoned, ‘churches unaffected by this situation which have not been laid low by a similar disaster, it is appropriate to uphold the original verdict with regard to conducting ordinations.’48 To a certain extent, therefore, Gelasius positioned himself not so much as an innovator (a dangerous figure for ancient leaders), but as an emergency management expert, prepared to break the rules only as an extreme measure in a time of crisis. Yet, many of the directives presented in the letter are only tangentially connected, if at all, to the troubles of the war up north. In addition to explaining how best to shorten the process of clerical advancement, Letter 14 contains 25 additional sections, which address numerous abuses and irregularities. Clergy should not collect fees for baptism, and second marriages cannot be denied to the laity. 49 Deacons should not presume the duties of priests, and priests should not presume the duties of bishops; women, under no circumstances, should serve at the altars.50 Clergy, moreover, should be satisfied with receiving only a quarter of the church’s annual revenues – an admonition that implies some were taking far more. Most intriguing is his claim that clergy in Picenum, a region in central Italy to the south of Ravenna and east of Rome (and thus not in southern Italy), ‘are intent on dishonorable business dealings and filthy profiteering.’51 Gelasius’s response is unequivocal: clergy who engage in such behavior will be deposed. In their notes on Letter 14, translators Allen and Neil suggest that the problem Gelasius addresses is usury, a biblical bugaboo of epic nature for sure (and indeed Gelasius cites the relevant biblical passages). We can perhaps go further and consider whether these clerics in Picenum were taking advantage of a crisis economy, wherein people were desperate for cash in order to ransom kidnapped loved ones or to purchase food in an inflated market. Yet, we should ask: what has all of this to do with the churches of Lucania, Bruttium, and Sicily, which saw little action during the war and thus presumably did not directly experience the war’s various ecclesiastical 47 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.2. 48 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.3. 49 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.5 (fees for baptism) and 14.22 (remarriage allowed for laypeople). 50 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.6 (priests), 14.7–8 (deacons) and 14.26 (women). 51 Gelasius, Epistulae 14.15.

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knock-off effects? I suggest that we read Letter 14 as Gelasius’s attempt to build his authority within his own ecclesiastical jurisdiction by showcasing his handling of the crisis and underscoring his singular power to adjust the canons to deal with the exigencies of war. Like Naomi Klein’s concept of ‘disaster capitalism’, wherein capitalist corporations take advantage of catastrophes like 9/11 to privatize formerly public services and institutions, Gelasius’s exploitation of the war suggests a ‘disaster ecclesiology’, wherein the very real and material circumstances created by the war of 489–493 engendered the construction of an emergency narrative that necessitated the Roman bishop’s immediate and autocratic intrusion over local church affairs. Among other goals, Epistle 14 seeks to root out a wide range of local practices, which themselves suggest a substantial degree of clerical autonomy on the level of the individual church (e.g. women performing liturgical services). Here, his rhetorical tool was not the specter of the apostle Peter (as invoked in his letter to Firmina – a sign, perhaps that she was perceived as a more obstinate and powerful reader) – but a crisis caused by war that, in his words, compelled him to act in radical and extreme ways.52

Case Study #2: Pelagius I (556–561) and the Gothic War Like Gelasius, Pelagius I served the Roman church during a period of acute instability. As a deacon and later bishop, he was a witness to and participant in the Gothic War (c. 535–554). Part of Justinian’s campaign to wrest control of western territories from barbarian rulers, the Gothic War pitted imperial forces led first by Belisarius and later by Narses against Ostrogothic armies in Italy. The war began in Sicily, but quickly spread into the peninsula, and virtually no region was unaffected by the presence of troops or active fighting. Moreover, this time the city of Rome was directly impacted. Between 537 and 550 it was sieged three times: in 537–538, 545–546, and 549–550. Procopius, our best source for the war, described a region heavily impacted by the conflict, with multiple food shortages, price gouging on available resources, population displacement, disease outbreaks, infrastructural damage, and many, many casualties.53 52 Significantly, Epistle 14 saw its history advance when it became a decretale generalis in the sixth century through the work of Dionysius Exiguus, who knew Gelasius but worked on the first Roman canonical collections after his death in 496. On the process, see Neil, ‘The Decretals of Gelasius I’. 53 Stathakopoulos, Famine and Pestilence collects many of the ancient references to environmental crisis in Procopius and other sources during the Gothic War.

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Environmental conditions were also highly unstable in Italy during this period. Following what was likely a major volcanic eruption in 536, Italy (along with other parts of the empire) was shrouded in dust and clouds for nearly a year, creating what one Italian observer described as a ‘summer without heat’.54 Our sources report regional crop failures and food shortages throughout Italy in the following year.55 Moreover, according to natural proxies, the decade between 536 and 545 witnessed the coldest summers in two thousand years.56 The effects of this prolonged temperature decrease on human activity in Italy or elsewhere remain unclear. But we could imagine that it affected how individuals experienced the war. No doubt a siege was always bad, but a siege in colder than normal temperatures would have been especially excruciating for soldiers and civilians alike. (Conversely, of course, cooler Roman summers may have meant a break from the normally punishing city heat). Finally, an outbreak in the East of bubonic plague, an often fatal disease caused by the pathogen Yersinia pestis, reached Italy by 543 at the latest.57 Without sufficient historical data, however, it is impossible to know how many Italians actually died from the plague in the 540s. Primary sources and epidemiological modeling suggest that it may have killed between 20 and 50 per cent of the inhabitants of Constantinople.58 Fatalities in Italy at this time were probably lower, but how much remains unknown. In the end, the social and economic impact of the plague on Italy may have been only significant in select localities, if at all. 54 Cassiodorus, Variae 12.25. 55 For the event and bibliography, see Stathakopoulos, Famine and Pestilence, pp. 265–69, Newfield, ‘Mysterious and Mortiferous Clouds’, pp. 94–97 as well as the essays in Gunn, The Years without Summer. On the food shortages in Italy, see Stathakopoulos, Famine and Pestilence, pp. 270–78. 56 Büntgen and others in ‘Cooling and Societal Change’ coined the phrase ‘Late Antique Little Ice Age’ to describe a longer sustained period of lower temperatures throughout much of the late Empire, which they date from 536 to c. 660. 57 There is an extensive literature on the first plague pandemic. See, for example, the essays in Little, Plague and the End of Antiquity. Harper, The Fate of Rome, pp. 206–220 nicely describes the many environmental and human factors that created the conditions for the outbreak in the eastern Roman Empire in 541; but he grossly overestimates the number of fatalities at 60 percent of the entire imperial population. In fact, two new studies make a compelling case for a decidedly minimalist view of the Justinianic Plague. See Mordechai and Eisenberg, ‘Rejecting Catastrophe’ and Mordechai and others, ‘The Justininiac Plague’. 58 None of the estimates is certain, and all depend on factors such as the total population of Constantinople, which is not precisely known. For the various estimates, see Stathakopoulos, Famine and Pestilence, pp. 139–41, who argues for a figure around twenty percent, and Harper, The Fate of Rome, 226, who settles on 50–60 percent, which strikes me as far too high. As Mordechai and others (“The Justinianic Plague’) show, there is very little material evidence for any substantive impact of the plague on late Roman society and economic life throughout the Empire.

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Yet, even without exact numbers of the dead and displaced, or evidence for catastrophic casualties from plague, literary sources emphasize that Italians suffered enormously in the years following the Gothic War. Pelagius’s letters depict a society reeling from crisis, particularly from problems created by the disruption of agriculture and the movement of populations in search of food and security. As we shall see in greater detail below, local supply chains were disrupted, and in Rome basic supplies, such as clothing and blankets, were in short demand. Churches were also affected and experienced severe financial troubles, including the Church of Rome. In fact, some Italian churches resorted to selling their own liturgical vessels to escape total ruin, another problem Pelagius was forced to tackle as bishop. Population displacement also created shortages of Italian clergy, and in places there were no priests to perform church services. Some of what Pelagius describes in his letters can be confirmed in the so-called Pragmatic Sanction, a document (or perhaps a bundle of documents) issued by Justinian’s consistory in August 554 that laid out certain provisions addressing administrative order, social life, and the economy in Italy.59 Among other crises, the Pragmatic Sanction refers repeatedly to property loss (land, instruments, and animals) as well as to population displacement, itself sometimes implied as the cause of loss, e.g. restoring ownership of abandoned flocks to their legal owners. It also addresses social crises that may have intensified during the war, such as the marriage of freeborn men and women to slaves.60 In one section, it calls for the full restoration of the annona in Rome (it was interrupted during the war) along with repairs to the city’s infrastructure, notably its public workshops, waterways, and aqueducts.61 Resuming the annona would have signaled to everyone in the city and surrounding regions that Rome was back in the food business, though probably at a radically contracted level. The resumption of the annona, in other words, may have been the proximate cause of the subsistence crisis that Pelagius describes in his letters. Pelagius first experienced the challenges and opportunities of war when he served as a deacon during the second siege of Rome, from 545 to 547. At the time, the bishop, Vigilius (537–555), was in Sicily awaiting (or stalling) a journey to Constantinople to answer Justinian on his refusal to condemn 59 Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. 3, Novellae Appendix 7. It is the only Latin language law issued in the 550s. See also Jones, The Later Roman Empire, pp. 291–2. 60 Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. 3, Novellae Appendix 7.3–4 (return of lost property), 13 (reclamation of abandoned flocks), and 15 (marriages between slaves and freeborn). 61 Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. 3, Novellae Appendix 7.22.

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the Three Chapters, the writings of three eastern theologians whom the emperor had declared heretics.62 Vigilius’s departure from Rome in 545 may also have been timed to avoid mounting backlash from citizens who blamed him not only for the death of his predecessor Silverius (536–537), but also for the ensuing crises within the city, namely food shortages and disease outbreaks.63 Perhaps to repair his reputation, Vigilius reportedly sent grain to Rome from Sicily to relieve the starving citizens, but the Goths intercepted the boats and the city remained at risk of starvation.64 Was this grain from the church’s estates or the bishop’s own private household? Procopius, our only source for this action, offers no qualifying details, but either seems possible. As with Gelasius, we should imagine Vigilius’s gesture as a limited intervention, aimed not at feeding all Romans, but at helping a select few, perhaps even only clergy. Regardless of Vigilius’s intentions, Rome was not saved by the bishop’s grain. There, the deacon Pelagius encountered an especially difficult situation. Although besieged and blockaded by the Gothic army under Totila, Rome was not entirely without food. Grain stores were available to those with cash or in command of the city. Pelagius apparently had the former, and at one point during the siege used his own money to provide assistance – a gesture that Procopius says substantially enhanced his reputation.65 In Procopius’s account, Pelagius’s intervention is essentially an act of civic euergetism, of the sort classical elites performed and that the Christian church encouraged its members to engage in. Procopius, moreover, offers no details regarding the identity of the needy assisted, and they were as likely to have been senators as slaves. We know that Pelagius teamed up at that time with remaining members of Rome’s elite to negotiate a temporary end to the siege.66 According to Procopius, the citizens tasked Pelagius with a mission to Totila, but the king refused even to hear the deacon’s request.67 62 For a biography of Vigilius, see Sotinel, ‘Pontif ical Authority and Imperial Power in the Reign of Justinian’. More on the Three Chapters Controversy below. 63 The Justinianic regime accused Silverius, who was appointed to the episcopate by Theodohad in 536, of collusion with the enemy. He died in exile on the island of Ponza near Naples in 537, clearly with Vigilius’s complicity. 64 Procopius, Wars 7.15.9. 65 Procopius, Wars 7.16.6. 66 Procopius, Wars 7.16.7–32. Here, I interpret Procopius’s ‘Romans’ as members of the city’s secular elite. Later, in his account of the 545–7 siege, Procopius makes clear that members of the senatorial aristocracy remained in Rome and were working to secure their own self-preservation. 67 Procopius, Wars 7.16.7–17. Late in 546, when Totila finally entered Rome and confronted Pelagius inside the sanctuary of St. Peter’s, the king received the deacon as a suppliant and agreed to spare the lives of all inhabitants. See Wars 7.20.23–5.

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Additionally, even with Pelagius’s monetary help, food became increasingly scarce and expensive. Sometime in 546, the Roman commander Bessas, who led the city’s imperial garrison, reportedly took control of the granaries and sold what wheat there was at exorbitant prices.68 Those who could not afford the commander’s grain resorted f irst to famine foods, including nettles and dung, and then starved to death. For some, suicide was the best option. Procopius tells the story of one desperate father of five who led his children to a bridge over the Tiber, where he tied a cloak around his head, and jumped to his death.69 As a deacon, therefore, Pelagius was directly involved in the ensuing crisis, though in ways which were deeply traditional, relatively limited, and tied to the self-interest of the city’s elites. When Pelagius became bishop in 556, Rome and Italy were only beginning to recover from decades of population displacement, abandoned fields and flocks, food shortages, disease, and a general disruption of civil order. These troubles were of primary significance, but the pope faced other challenges as well. From the time he was a deacon, Pelagius had been embroiled in the Three Chapters Controversy, which began in 543–545, when Justinian declared that the writings of three fifth-century eastern bishops were anathema in the attempt to force a rapprochement between hardline Miaphysites and Chalcedonians. While most eastern bishops signed the edict, many western clerics refused, including, initially at least, the deacon Pelagius.70 However, sometime in 554 or 555, he reversed his position, condemned the writings, and Justinian subsequently named him as Vigilius’s successor.71 When he returned to Rome to take Vigilius’s place, he faced substantial opposition in North Africa, Gaul, Italy, and even Rome. According to the Liber Pontificalis, his consecration was highly irregular, and rumors surrounded his elevation to the bishopric. He was accused of complicity in Vigilius’s death, abandoning the principles of Chalcedon, and purchasing his office.72 Questions regarding his integrity were so serious that Pelagius initiated his tenure with a solemn ritual procession from the 68 Procopius, Wars 7.17.9, and 17.20.1–3. 69 Procopius, Wars 7.17.20–22. 70 Pelagius, in fact, spent the last years of the war in Constantinople, and at one point was imprisoned for his refusal to condemn the Three Chapters. There he even wrote a tract defending them, In defensione Trium Capitolorum. 71 Many scholars speculate that Pelagius’s condemnation of the writings was a quid pro quo for his appointment to the bishopric. See Richards, The Popes and the Papacy, p. 157 and Sotinel, ‘Pelagio I’, pp. 532–3. 72 Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 303.

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church of St. Pancras atop the Janiculum Hill in what is the first known papal procession in Rome’s history.73 Holding a copy of the Gospels and a cross over his head, Pelagius marched alongside Narses while chanting hymns, and concluded the letania at St. Peter’s with a speech against simony. Thus, when we approach Pelagius’s responses to the city’s myriad crises following the Gothic War, we must keep in mind that his own legitimacy was chief among them. One of the first letters the bishop Pelagius wrote was to Sapaudus, bishop of Arles (552–586), on 14 December 556.74 In Letter 4, he alluded to a growing population of needy residents, who were requesting assistance for everything from food to blankets and clothing. Pelagius, however, was unable to supply these resources. He explained that the church’s Italian estates had been abandoned, and that no one was available to collect rents. Pelagius thus approached Sapaudus with a plan: he must ask his father, a lay patricius named Placidus, to oversee the collection of Rome’s revenues (presumably from its southern Gallic properties), and with that money, purchase clothing and blankets for shipment to Rome. Like his predecessor Gelasius, Pelagius’s decision to engage Sapaudus and his father was both pragmatic and strategic. It is possible that Pelagius specifically requested Placidus’s assistance because the lay magnate had seized the property opportunistically during the war, just as Firmina may have done during the conflicts of the 490s. Similarly, just as Gelasius had avoided calling out Firmina’s role in the property dispute, Pelagius, too, avoided any hint of impropriety on Placidus’s part in the letter, and instead focused on his own dire situation back in Rome. Described simply as ‘the poor’ (pauperes) in Letter 4, Pelagius did not qualify the needy of Rome in the same manner that Gelasius had.75 Were they former citizens returning to Rome at the war’s end after spending months, or even years, elsewhere? Alternatively, were they refugees from neighboring regions who traveled to Rome in search of food and supplies once word broke that the annona had resumed? Or were they exclusively Rome’s lay aristocrats, clergy, and close friends of the church, the sort of pauperes whom Leo championed in the fifth century? By leaving their identity unqualified, Pelagius could invoke a more expansive vision of his intervention: perhaps he was helping all of 73 For the procession and its development as a tool of episcopal authority, see Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers of Christ’, and his discussion of the adventus in this volume. 74 Pelagius, Epistulae 4, eds. Gassó and Batlle, pp. 12–3. All citations of Pelagius’s letters are from this edition. 75 Cf. Pelagius, Epistulae 4, 9, 85, 90 and 94, where he routinely referred to Rome’s needy simply as pauperes.

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Rome. It was evidently important for him to convey an image of the city with too many desperate inhabitants and insufficient resources, and to present himself as the champion of those who were most adversely affected by the harsh and chaotic conditions of the times. Although Pelagius’s identif ication of the war as the reason for the church’s inability to collect rents from its Italian estates may only have been a partial truth (see below), he nevertheless invoked the crisis as the framework for establishing a new set of social connections that directly linked him to an ecclesiastical-lay powerbase in southern Gaul. First, there was the matter of land and the material challenges of impoverishment. Pelagius now had to locate revenue streams for his church outside Italy, and so he looked first to estates in southern Gaul. Precisely how long these particular Gallic properties had been in Rome’s portfolio is diff icult to determine, and we cannot know for certain how they were administered before 556.76 If Gelasius’s administrative practices are any indication, Pelagius’s decision to rely on already-established networks of churchmen and laypeople for land management was not innovative. But looking to an extra-Italian lay-ecclesiastical dynasty with regional influence appears to be a new iteration of this strategy.77 Once again, war and its attendant property crises appear to have encouraged the Roman church to reorganize the way that it administered its patrimony. And while Pelagius could not have anticipated this outcome, the Arlesian-Roman link that Pelagius originally formed as an ad-hoc solution became a permanent feature of Rome’s estate management system. Until the very late sixth century, the Roman bishop employed a series of local aristocrats and Arlesian bishops – many of whom were related – to oversee their property in the region.78 Second, while Pelagius faced serious economic problems after the Gothic War, he also encountered equally serious ethical crises, which were driving factors behind his overtures to Arles. In short, Pelagius was widely suspected 76 I have assumed that the properties in question were in Gaul, but the letter does not state their location. On the extra-Italian properties of the Roman church, which were increasingly fewer in number over the course of Late Antiquity, see Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 116–7 and Moreau, ‘Les patrimoines de l’église romaine’. 77 Of course, many former Roman bishops had forged relationships with the see of Arles and its bishops. Symmachus, for instance, was closely connected to Caesarius of Arles, whose provincial aristocratic status made him socially similar to Sapaudus. However, we have no evidence to suggest that Caesarius assisted Rome in the administration of its Gallic estates. 78 Gregory ended this practice when he sent a Roman priest to Arles to manage Rome’s property directly. Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority, p. 122, n. 170.

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of heterodox sympathies because of his ultimate condemnation of the Three Chapters. In a letter to the Frankish king Childebert, dated just three days before his letter to Sapaudus in December of 556, Pelagius underscored his commitment to the decrees of Chalcedon and advised the king not to heed rumors circulating in Gaul by men he identified as ‘heretics’ concerning Pelagius’s theological orthodoxy.79 As the letter shows, some Gallic clerics and laypeople were deeply suspicious of Pelagius in light of his capitulation to Justinian on the Three Chapters. Pelagius desperately needed a loyal representative, whose family could assist in crucial administrative work, and who could support the Roman bishop against oppositional clergy in the region. In fact, the Three Chapters Controversy may help to explain why Pelagius struggled to collect Rome’s rents in Italy and needed Sapaudus’s and Placidius’s help in the first place. In another letter dated to April of 557, Pelagius refused to accept a declaration of separation from the bishops of Italia Annonaria, who withdrew their communion with Pelagius because of his doctrinal wavering.80 It is possible, therefore, that these renegade clergy and their lay parishioners deliberately dragged their feet when it came to their roles in the administration of Rome’s estates in these regions at this especially critical juncture. In early February of 557, less than two months after Pelagius wrote to Sapaudus for assistance, he offered the Arlesian bishop the pallium, a ritual gesture that signaled his elevation to the position of papal vicarius.81 To be sure, it was highly regular for a Roman bishop to offer the pallium to an Arlesian bishop: the tradition dated back to the tenure of Zosimus in the early f ifth century, and had continued intermittently even during the Gothic War.82 Nevertheless, it is hard to overlook the timing of the gesture at the very start of Pelagius’s tenure. In this case, Pelagius saw the pallium as a ritual means of social communication that might link him to Sapaudus both institutionally (as his papal vicar) and more informally, through a cooperative act of humanitarian assistance. Pelagius thus hoped that Sapaudus would support him in Gaul where the pope faced doctrinal opposition as well as obstacles to administering Rome’s properties. Disaster and crisis, in other words, operated discursively in Pelagius’s letters, just as they had in the writings of Gelasius. Through a 79 Pelagius, Epistulae 3. 80 Pelagius, Epistulae 10. 81 Pelagius, Epistulae 5. In fact, Pelagius may have first hinted at the pallium in Epistulae 4.3: Cf. Gassó and Batlle, n. 3, pp. 11–12. 82 Vigilius named Auxanius of Arles a papal vicarius in 545, for example.

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narrative of catastrophe and want, Pelagius rhetorically raised the stakes of his episcopate. Unity with Rome, he implied to Sapaudus, was crucial not only for ideological purposes but also to save its Christian citizens from starvation and death. For all his efforts, however, Pelagius’s entreaties to Sapaudus fell on deaf ears, at least initially. In April of 557, Pelagius wrote yet another letter to the Arlesian bishop, in which he restated the problems, and made the same requests for Placidus’s help in collecting rents and for the shipment of clothing and blankets.83 This time Pelagius wrote with heightened rhetorical intensity. ‘There is such poverty and nakedness in this city,’ he proclaimed, ‘that without the pain and anguish of our heart, I cannot see men whom I had known were of suitable birth for an honorable place.’84 Rome, he proclaimed with great sadness, was bereft of the right people, and Pelagius desperately needed Sapaudus’s help. Pelagius also continued his campaign for assistance by writing to bishops elsewhere. In an undated epistle that appears to be only partially extant, he reached out to Benignus of Herakleia (a see in Greece perhaps near Thessalonica), and lamented that his church’s penury was so great that he hardly had enough money to live on or help the poor.85 He also approached secular officials. As late as 560/561, in a letter to the African praetorian prefect Boethius, Pelagius suggests that ‘military devastation’ still paralyzed Italy in his day, and that only ‘strangers far and wide’ could now provide f inancial help for Italy’s pauperes and clergy. 86 Whether Placidus ever collected the money and Sapaudus sent the clothes and blankets, however, remain open questions.87 83 Pelagius, Epistulae 9. 84 Pelagius, Epistulae 9, p. 30: ‘quia tanta egestas et nuditas in civitate ista est, ut sine dolore et angustia cordis nostri homines quos honesto loco natos idoneos noveramus, non possumus aspicere.’ 85 Pelagius, Epistulae 94, pp. 223–4: ‘Si [in] isto tempore quo generalis, ut ita dicam, paupertas est, etiam de desertis ipsis detrahatur ecclesiae, ego ubi vivere non habeo; quia et non subvenire egentibus ecclesiam crimem est, et unde subveniri possit penitus non est.’ 86 Pelagius, Epistulae 85, pp. 207–8: ‘Pelagio Boetio praefecto praetorio Africano […].Romana cui Deo auctore praesidemus ecclesia, post continuam viginti quinque et eo amplius annorum vastationem bellicam in Italiae regionibus accidentem, et paene adhuc minime discedentem, non aliunde nisi de peregrinis insulis aut locis, clero pauperibusque, etsi non suff iciens vel exiguum tamen stipendium consequitur.’ 87 Note that Pelagius wrote Sapaudus on five other occasions, nearly all of which return to the subject of the pope’s impugned orthodoxy in light of his capitulation to Justinian in the Three Chapters Controversy. In April of 557 or 558, he sent a circular epistle to ‘all the people of God’ underscoring his faithfulness to his predecessors, especially Leo I, on matters of Christology and doctrine. See Pelagius, Epistulae 11.

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At the very beginning of his episcopate, therefore, Pelagius cast himself in the role of large-scale relief organizer, whose battered church could not provide assistance on its own. The crises of his day, he explained in numerous letters, required him to reach out beyond Rome and Italy, to establish networks in key regions, such as southern Gaul, Greece, and Africa. Yet, as dedicated he may have been to securing aid for the pauperes in Rome, Pelagius’s efforts to funnel goods into the city did not mark the Roman church’s assumption of Rome’s provisioning system. As noted, the Pragmatic Sanction called for the restarting of the annona; in fact, it may well have been this precise development that drew individuals back to Rome, and whose sudden convergence on the city overwhelmed the markets, thus catalyzing the very crisis Pelagius sought to resolve. Moreover, the Roman church hardly exercised a monopoly on post-war humanitarian aid. Pelagius’s letter of 560/561 to the imperial commander Narses, who governed Italy from 554, shows that the state too provided assistance to the needy, though perhaps in a manner that favored certain pauperes over others and allowed those in power to work the system to their advantage.88 Pelagius expressly complained in the epistle that some of those whom Narses assisted were not truly wanting – a fascinating but elusive comment, which at the very least suggests that some took advantage of the situation and that the ‘poor’ remained a fluid category. Pelagius’s tenure was also complicated by ecclesiastical crises in cities within suburbicarian Italy, where his jurisdiction was theoretically direct and complete. The war, for instance, had left a number of churches in extreme financial straits, and some clergy had resorted to selling church plate and property in order to generate income. Under most circumstances, the alienation of church property had long been prohibited in Italian churches.89 Typically, the only exceptions were for raising funds to ransom captives (and only moveable objects could be sold). If his letters are any indication, Pelagius consistently took a traditional position on the matter, condemning the sales and seeking instead to resolve the financial problems through institutional means. For example, when John of Nola inquired about the parish church of Sessulana, whose clergy had sold its liturgical vessels to escape penury, Pelagius directed him to bring the rural church directly 88 Pelagius, Epistulae 90, p. 216: ‘Bene noverit excellentia vestra, nos, habentibus dumtaxat hominibus et nullam necessitatem patientibus, res dare pauperum nulla ratione praesumere. Quia neque hoc vobis placere novimus, neque hoc esse officio conveniens iudicamus.’ 89 See Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 226-30 for a summary of the Roman sources on ecclesiastical property alienation and bibliography.

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under Nola’s control.90 While the intervention probably helped the local clergy to survive the immediate crisis, it also abrogated their independence. In this case an ad-hoc action cast as an emergency response to war became a permanent solution that strengthened the ecclesiastical hierarchy of Campania. Once again, we see the forces of ‘disaster ecclesiology’ at work in the development of church institutions. Pelagius demonstrated more flexibility with respect to the shortage of priests, which in one letter he expressly linked to population displacement.91 Just as Gelasius had been willing to bend the rules in an emergency, Pelagius too permitted men to advance to the priesthood whom the church would normally have rejected. In a letter to a bishop named Marcellus, Pelagius determined that a certain cleric, whose wife had been previously engaged to another man and had even gone so far as to participate in a veiling ceremony, was still eligible for the priesthood.92 It was a difficult situation further complicated by the fact that the socio-legal meaning of veiling betrothed women was still relatively fluid in the sixth century.93 But in the end, Pelagius concluded that the cleric’s marriage was in fact a ‘first’ for both spouses. Significantly, previous Roman bishops, notably Siricius and Gelasius, had drawn the opposite conclusion about the meaning of the veiling ritual when faced with a similar problem.94 Similarly, in 559, Pelagius both refused to depose a deacon caught living with a concubine and willfully ignored imperial legislation banning all fathers from the episcopate when he permitted the consecration of a Syracusan householder with a wife and children.95 In the end, the exigencies of war led to a crisis of displaced persons that in turn led to a ritual emergency in the Italian churches, which Pelagius sought to resolve through his own loosening of ecclesiastical laws. In so doing, of course, he used the uncertainties of the 90 Pelagius, Epistulae 17, pp. 51–2. The Letter is dated to September to December, 558. See also Epistulae 51, addressed to Hostilius Bishop (March 559), wherein Pelagius commanded the bishop to stop his clergy from selling the church’s vessels. These sales may have been for personal gain, but given the history of Sessulana, may also have been undertaken to save the church from financial collapse. 91 Pelagius, Epistulae 57, p. 152: ‘Sed de praesbyteris ex diversis Italiae regionibus per bellicam necessitatem disperis atque in illis locis modo consistentibus […].’ 92 Pelagius, Epistulae 57. 93 Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 130-9. 94 Siricius, Epistulae 1.5 (PL 13.1138) and Gelasius, Epistulae 73, ed. Ewald 1880, pp. 562-3, who argued that nuptial veiling was essentially tantamount to marriage in that it established intent and mutual consent. 95 Pelagius, Epistulae 47, pp. 127–28 (deacon and concubine) and Epistulae 33, pp. 89–92 (permission for a married father to be consecrated bishop of Syracuse).

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time and the very real crises on the ground as a rhetorical context in which to demonstrate expertise in clerical discipline and shore up his own regional authority as bishop of Rome.

Conclusions During the late fifth and sixth centuries, war interacted with multiple factors, some ecclesiastical others social and economic, to create a new environment in which the Roman bishop could stake a pre-eminent claim for a special type of pastoral oversight and civic authority. Claiming to care for the city’s displaced persons and resident needy was more than just a slogan. It involved a set of concrete and discursive actions and reactions, not all of which the pope and his clergy could have anticipated. Approaching the history of the ‘rise of the papacy’ looks rather different when examined through the lens of war and food shortages. First and most basically, we have shown how material and social interests shaped lay-ecclesiastical networks as much as doctrinal commitments. In fact, in the cases of Gelasius and Firmina, and Pelagius, Sapaudus, and Placidus it is virtually impossible to disentangle one from the other. And as we have seen, a series of related material crises might generate moral dilemmas with unexpected institutional implications. Thus, war led to food shortages and population displacement, which, in turn, created local shortages of priests to perform rites in certain towns and cities, which then demanded that the Roman bishop wade into debates about obviating or even altering ecclesiastical tradition that had far-reaching implications for religious life in the peninsula. Second and related, some of the catastrophes discussed in this chapter exposed both the papacy’s inherent weaknesses and its resilience as an institution. War clearly complicated estate management, especially given the fact that so many properties were temporarily abandoned but then opportunistically claimed by new possessors. The letters of Gelasius and Pelagius make clear that, with respect to its capacity to manage wealth, the Roman church suffered from the same administrative challenges as other large landowners during and in the wake of war. In order to reassert control over lost properties, Roman bishops were forced to rely on the good will, and muscle, of lay magnates, and thus to enter into a social relationship in which the bishop was arguably more of a client than a patron. Moreover, the Roman church was also clearly unable to marshal resources quickly to care for those who had flocked to Rome in search of security. It did not

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possess large stores of food and clothing to distribute, and it could not simply ‘turn back on’ a provisioning system. Roman bishops necessarily had to look beyond the city and to both lay and clerical authorities for help, and the results of their interventions remain inconclusive. (Did Firmina help Gelasius return the property? Did Sapaudus ever deliver the goods?) Additionally, the church was not the only institutional provider in the late fifth and sixth centuries; it worked alongside, and perhaps even competed with imperial assistance, as Pelagius’s letter to Narses shows. Third, conflict and crisis created discursive opportunities for Roman bishops to assert their authority in new ways. War and famine served as powerful rhetorical frames, providing narratives in which the pope was required to intervene in both local and distant church affairs. Gelasius most emphatically used war as an explanatory framework for deep disciplinary interventions into southern Italian churches that showcased his authority as the head of all suburbicarian churches. But Pelagius, too, promoted himself as the concerned provider of poor relief in his efforts to deflect attention away from his impugned doctrinal reputation and promote unity with Rome. Furthermore, both popes created within their particular circumstances a new niche for the Roman bishop as the organizer of urban and refugee assistance. The early Christian idea of the bishop as ‘patron of the poor’ has been notably scaled up in these late Roman documents, wherein the bishop seeks to perform a service that goes far beyond individual acts of alms collection or even traditional forms of civic euergetism. In Gelasius’s case specifically, it was expressly reframed as care for persons displaced by war. Ecclesiastical charity has been recalibrated as a large-scale action undertaken in acute emergency conditions that is no longer personal, but institutional. Looking forward to the later sixth century, it seems that the popes’ endeavors to be associated with war relief was so successful that it could even be used against them. According to a passage in the Liber Pontificalis that was likely written in the late sixth century, when Vigilius left Rome for Constantinople in 545, people threw rocks and pots at his ship and shouted ‘Take your famine with you! Take your killing with you! You treated the Romans badly, may you meet the evil where you are going!’96 War and famine, in other words, may have changed what Christians came to expect from their bishop and what their bishop felt obliged to provide for his parishioners. At the very least, it influenced the sixth-century writers of the Liber Pontificalis. 96 Liber Pontificalis, ed. Duchesne, p. 297: ‘Famis tua tecum! Mortalitas tua tecum! Male fecisti Romanis, male invenias ubi venit’. On the dating of Vigilius’s biography in the Liber Pontificalis, see Sotinel, ‘Vigilius in the Liber Pontificalis.’

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Bibliography Sources Anonymi Valesiani pars posterior, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, MGH Auct. Ant. 9 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892). Cassiodorus, Chronica, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Cassiodori Senatoris Chronica Ad A. DXIX. MGH Chron. Min. 2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894). Cassiodorus, Variae, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Cassiodori Senatoris Variae, MGH Auct. Ant. 12 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894). Corpus Iuris Civilis, ed, by Theodor Mommsen, Paul Krueger, Rudolph Schoell, and Wilhelm Kroll. 3 vols. (Berlin: Weidmann, 1895–1959). Ennodius, Opera, ed. by Friedrich Vogel, Magni Felicis Ennodi Opera. MGH Auct. Ant. 7 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1885). Gelasius, Letters, ed. by Andreas Thiel, Epistolae Romanorum pontificum genuinae et quae ad quos scriptae sunt (Brunsberg: E. Peter, 1867). Gelasius, Letters, ed. by Paul Ewald, Collectio Britannica, vol. 4, ‘Die Papstbriefe der Britischen Sammlung’, Neue Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 5 (1880). Gregory of Tours. Decem libri historiarum, ed. by Bruno Krusch and Wilhelm Levison, MGH Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum 1.1 (Hanover: Hahn, 1951) John the Deacon, Vita S. Gregorii Magni (PL 75.69–462). Jordanes, Getica, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Iordanis Romana et Getica. MGH Auct. Ant. 5 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1882). Justinian, Novellae, ed. by Rudolph Schoell and Wilhelm Kroll, Corpus Iuris Civilis vol. 3 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1959). Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction, et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne and Cyrille Vogel, 3 vols. (Paris: E. Thorin, 1886–1957). Olympiodorus, Fragments, trans. R. C. Blockley, The Fragmentary Classicizing Historians of the Later Roman Empire. Liverpool Texts for Historians (Liverpool: Francis Cairns, 1981). Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana, ed. by Amedeo Crivellucci, Pauli Diaconi Historia Romana, Fonti per la storia d’Italia 51 (Rome: Instituto Storico Italiano, 1914). Pelagius, Letters, ed. by Pius Gassó and Colomba Batlle, Pelagii I Papae Epistulae quae Supersunt (556–561) (Barcelona: Tallers Gràfics Marià Galve, 1956). Pelagius, In defensione Trium Capitolorum, ed. by Robert Devréesse, Studi e Testi LVII (Vatican: Biblioteca apostolica vaticana, 1932). Pragmatic Sanction = Appendix 7, ed. by Rudolph Schoell and Wilhelm Kroll, Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. 3 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1959).

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Procopius, Wars, ed. by Jakob Haury and Gerhard Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia, 4 vols. (Leipzig, 1965–1974). Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistles, ed. and trans. André Loyen, Sidoine Apollinaire, 3 vols. (Paris: Les Belles lettres, 1960). Siricius, Epistles, PL 13.

References Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil, Crisis Management in Late Antiquity (410–590 CE): A Survey of the Evidence from Episcopal Letters (Leiden: Brill, 2013). Peter Brown, Through the Eye of the Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West 35–550 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012). Ulf Büntgen and others, ‘Cooling and Societal Change during the Late Antique Little Ice Age from 536 to around 660’, Nature Geoscience, 9 (2016), pp. 231–6. J.B. Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire (New York: Dover Press, 1958). George Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter: Apostolic Discourse and Papal Authority in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013). Hal Drake, ed., Violence in Late Antiquity: Perceptions and Practices (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2006). Jean Durliat, De la ville antique à la ville byzantine. Le problème des subsistances (Rome: École française de Rome, 1990). Carl Folke, ‘Resilience’, in Framing Concepts in Environmental Science. Oxford Research Encyclopedias (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), DOI 10.1093/ acrefore/9780199389414.013.8. Edward Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, 6 vols. (London: Strahan & Cadell, 1776–1789). Joel Gunn, ed., The Years without Summer. Tracing AD 536 and its Aftermath, BAR International Series 872 (Oxford: Archaepress, 2000). John Haldon and others, ‘Plagues, Climate Change, and the End of an Empire: A Response to Kyle Harper’s The Fate of Rome (parts 1–3)’, History Compass 2018, e.12508, e.12506, and e.12507. John Haldon, The Empire that Would Not Die: The Paradox of Eastern Roman Survival, 640-740 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016). Kyle Harper, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, and the End of an Empire (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2017). Peter Heather, Rome Resurgent: War and Empire in the Age of Justinian (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). Ellsworth Huntington, ‘Climatic Change and Agricultural Exhaustion as Elements in the Fall of Rome’, The Quarterly Journal of Economics, 31.2 (1917), pp. 173–208.

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A.H.M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 2 vols. (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1964). Naomi Klein, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism (New York: Picador, 2008). Jacob Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers of Christ: Disputed Episcopal Elections and the Advent of Christian Processions in Late Antique Rome’, Church History, 81.2 (2012), pp. 298–327. Lester Little, ed., Plague and the End of Antiquity: The Pandemic of 541–750 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007). Elio Lo Cascio, ‘La popolazione di Roma prima e dopo il 410’, in The Sack of Rome in 410: The Event, Its Context and Its Impact, ed. by Johannes Lipps and others (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2013), pp. 411–421. Elio Lo Cascio, ‘Canon frumentarius, suarius, vinarius: Stato e privati nell’approvvigionamento dell’urbs’, in The Transformations of Urbs Roma in Late Antiquity, ed. by William V. Harris (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplemental Series, no. 33, 1999), pp. 163–182. Mischa Meier, ‘The “Justinianic Plague”: The Economic Consequences of the Pandemic in the Eastern Roman Empire and its Cultural and Religious Effects’, Early Medieval Europe 24 (2016), pp. 267–92. John Moorhead, Theoderic in Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). Lee Mordechai and Merle Eisenberg, ‘Rejecting Catastrophe: The Case of the Justinianic Plague’, Past and Present 244.1 (2019), pp. 3–50. Lee Mordechai and others, ‘The Justinianic Plague: An Inconsequential Pandemic?’, Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (December, 2019). Available at: www.pnas.org/content/pnas/early/2019/11/26/1903797116; last accessed 10 December 2019. Dominic Moreau, ‘Les patrimoines de l’église romaine’, Antiquité Tardive 14 (2006), pp. 79–93. Bronwen Neil and Pauline Allen, The Letters of Gelasius I (492–496): Pastor and Micro-Manager of the Church of Rome (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014). Bronwen Neil, ‘Crisis in the Letters of Gelasius I (492–96): A New Model of Crisis Management?’, in The Bishop of Rome in Late Antiquity, ed. by Geoffrey Dunn (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2015), pp. 155–74. Bronwen Neil, ‘The Decretals of Gelasius I: Making Canon Law in Late Antiquity’, in Lex et Religio. XL Incontro di Studiosi dell’Antichità Cristiana (Roma, 10–12 maggio 2012) (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 2013), pp. 657–668. Bronwen Neil, ‘Models of Gift Giving in the Preaching of Leo the Great’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 18.2 (2010), pp. 225–59. Timothy Newfield, ‘Mysterious and Mortiferous Clouds: The Climate Cooling and Disease Burden of Late Antiquity’, in Environment and Society in the Long Late

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Antiquity, ed. by Adam Izdebski and Michael Mulryan, Late Antique Archaeology 12 (Leiden: Brill, 2018), pp. 89–115. James Palmer, The. Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014). Nicholas Purcell, ‘The Populace of Rome in Late Antiquity’, in The Transformations of Urbs Roma in Late Antiquity, ed. by William V. Harris (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplemental Series, no. 33, 1999), pp. 135–61. Jeffrey Richards, The Popes and the Papacy in the Early Middle Ages (New York: Routledge, 1979). Michele Salzman, ‘From a Classical to a Christian City: Civic Euergetism and Christian Charity in Late Antique Rome’, Studies in Late Antiquity 1.1 (2017), pp. 65–85. Kristina Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority in Late Antique Italy: Roman Bishops and the Domestic Sphere (New York and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Kristina Sessa, ‘Clerics’, in Late Antique Knowing, ed. by C.M. Chin and Moulie Voulas (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2015), pp. 218–239. Kristina Sessa, ‘The New Environmental Fall of Rome: A Methodological Consideration’, Journal of Late Antiquity 12.1 (2019), pp. 211–255. Thomas Sizgorich, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). Claire Sotinel, ‘Pelagio I’, in Enciclopedia dei Papi (Bari: Edipuglia, 2000), I, pp. 532–533. Claire Sotinel, ‘Vigilius in the Liber Pontificalis: A Memory Lost or Manipulated?’ in Church and Society in Late Antique Italy and Beyond (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2010), pp. 1–21; f irst published (in French) as ‘Mémoire perdue ou mémoire manipulée. Le Liber Pontificalis et la controverse des Trois Chapitres’, in L’usage du passé entre Antiquité tardive et Haut Moyen Age, ed. by Maurice Sartre and Claire Sotinel (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2008), pp. 59–78. Dimitrios Stathakopoulos, Famine and Pestilence in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Empire: A Systematic Survey of Subsistence Crises and Epidemics (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2004). Ernest Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire, vol. 2. (Paris: Jean-Remy Palanque, 1949). Philip Winn, Augustine on War and Military Service (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2013).

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About the Author Kristina Sessa is associate professor of history at the Ohio State University. Her research focuses upon management practices in domestic space, the social lives of bishops, and early medieval responses to famine and war. She is the author of The Formation of Papal Authority in Late Antique Italy: Roman Bishops and the Domestic Sphere (2012).

3.

Portraits of Poets and the Lecture Halls in the Forum of Trajan: Masking Cultural Tensions in Late Antique Rome Gregor Kalas

Abstract The Forum of Trajan featured late antique statues of the poets Claudian, Flavius Merobaudes, Sidonius Apollinaris, and probably others in an outdoor exhibition honoring those authors whose works eased harsh political rivalries. This essay considers the statues as displayed in close proximity to the sculptural reliefs on the Column of Trajan. Its visual narratives depicting military campaigns in Dacia corresponded to Claudian’s descriptions of battles, Merobaudes’s narratives of war, and Sidonius’s tales of military prowess. The chapter also analyzes the performance venues in Trajan’s Forum, built during the reign of Hadrian, where poets performed before elite audiences. The portraits communicated messages in keeping with the poets’ verses, which upheld the long-lasting image of Rome’s resilience. Keywords: panegyrics, portrait statues; late antique Rome; late antique poetry; Forum of Trajan.

Enthusiasm for the muses and devotion to my poetic craft also disturb the silence at night. For I saw myself as if in the star-studded city of the heavens, producing verses at the feet of Jupiter. And in order to sustain this dream, the gods applauded what I spoke and a sacred crowd surrounded me in the sanctuary […]. Sleep can create nothing greater; and this lofty hall has shown the poet an assembly that is comparable to the heavenly gathering.1 1 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, praefatio 10–15, 24–25 (in Dewar, pp. 2–3): ‘Me quoque Musarum studium sub nocte silenti / artibus adsuetis sollicitare solet. / Namque poli media

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch03

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The preface of the final poetic panegyric composed by Claudian (active c. 394–c. 404) at the turn of the fifth century features the author’s daydream of performing before the gods. Imagining himself in a splendid, tall auditorium, Claudian invites readers to compare a fictional hall for deities with an actual performance space where poets read their works before audiences. This dream about a gathering of the gods is a commonplace from epic poetry in which Jupiter commands a celestial assembly, here used to advance the author’s main agenda of praising the emperor Honorius and his earthly court.2 Claudian inspired subsequent generations of poets to produce works about the ruling emperors and the military elite; I draw particular attention here to the authors Flavius Merobaudes (active c. 432–c. 460) and Sidonius Apollinaris (d. 489) who deployed the same epic tropes as Claudian. The verses by Claudian also offer tantalizing details about the real conditions in which poets presented their verse panegyrics before live audiences in Rome. A series of recently discovered halls in the Forum of Trajan helps us to envision the physical space in which Claudian and his successors read their works aloud. These newly unearthed performance halls indicate how literary events occurring throughout Late Antiquity united members of the elite to hear eloquent verses about Rome’s role in legitimizing rulers. Despite military raids and political intrigue, Rome continued to foster cultural vitality, particularly as a late antique center for writing verse and reading it aloud before the public. Claudian and others used descriptions of the metaphoric Rome to counter narratives of the city’s demise and the poets valorized urban culture when they performed in lecture halls such as those in Trajan’s Forum. Thus, Claudian and other late antique poets kept imaginary Rome alive in their verses, which, as I will argue, furthered the preservation of the real city. We know of Claudian’s pertinence to Rome’s Forum of Trajan in part because his likeness was displayed there together with additional statues depicting fifth-century authors, including Merobaudes and Sidonius Apollinaris. The portrait statues commemorated authors of verse panegyrics, the literary form excerpting legends about the city’s past to commend late antique emperors and military commanders.3 This installation of statues stellantis in arce videbar / ante pedes summi carmina ferre Iovis; […] Fingere nil maius potuit sopor, altaque vati / conventum caelo praebuit aula parem’. 2 Ware, Claudian and the Roman Epic, p. 13. 3 For the epigraphic testimony to the two extant statue bases and the literary testimony to the third, see notes 36, 50, 55, and 56 below. On the panegyrics written in verse, see Gillett, ‘Epic Panegyric’; Cameron, Claudian, pp. 254–255, 260–265. The first author to use poetry for panegyrics was Anicia Betitia Proba, according to Cameron, Last Pagans of Rome, pp. 327–337.

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eventually cohered, because these statues depicted authors who drew upon the ongoing narrative thread initiated by Claudian beginning in the 390s, and the poets continually added to this story over a sixty- year period. When considered together with the nearby audience halls, the now-lost statues of authors establish that there was cultural continuity as a consequence of the ongoing literary performances; textual evidence about the portraits and the archeological record of the performance venues suggest these conditions in the late antique Forum of Trajan. The flourishing production of epic poetry in Late Antiquity sustained Trajan’s memory with recollections of the earlier age when neither security concerns nor the competition from rival capital cities had tarnished Rome’s reputation. Even though this Forum focused upon Trajan’s imperial identity, the zone became primarily a cultural district in Late Antiquity, when senators’ portraits were also on display there. This differed substantially from the role of the Roman Forum, where portraits of emperors predominated with inscriptions indicating the ever-victorious qualities of rulers; the epigraphic record from statue bases substantiates this distinction between the two precincts. 4 Thus, the late antique portraits of poets and senators joined together in the Forum of Trajan to show aristocratic acclaim for the authors who imagined that the later Roman emperors preserved the good times of the past. Late antique literary texts feature the metaphor of the personif ied Roma to render the late antique city as persevering despite physical and political fissures. Emperors typically resided away from Rome in the fourth century, thereby compromising the city’s former status as a residential capital for rulers. During their occasional visits to the city, fourth-century emperors celebrated the adventus or their jubilees in the Roman Forum.5 After Theodosius I’s death in 395, the military general Stilicho began to gain unprecedented influence during the reign of emperor Honorius (r. 395–423). Stilicho and the generals who succeeded him ultimately suffered from the bitter conflicts pitting civilian authorities against those commanding the military: Honorius sent Stilicho to his death in 408; the emperor Valentinian III (r. 425–455) killed the military commander 4 Chenault, ‘Statues of Senators’, p. 105; Bauer, Stadt, Platz, pp. 94–97. For the intellectual role of the Forum of Trajan, see Marrou, ‘La vie intellectuelle’, pp. 95–103; for the portraits of late antique emperors in the Roman Forum, see Kalas, Restoration of the Roman Forum, pp. 75–96; Machado, Urban Space, pp. 95–123. 5 Latham, ‘Rolling Out’ in this volume. See also Chenault, ‘Statues of Senators’, pp. 103–115; Bauer, Stadt, Platz, pp. 72–79, 93–100, 130–133. Machado, Urban Space, pp. 96–123; Kalas, Restoration of the Roman Forum, pp. 81–96. For the fifth-century residences of emperors in Rome, see Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna’.

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Fig. 3.1. Hadrianic audience hall from the Forum of Trajan featuring steps covered by vegetation behind the collapsed remains of the concrete vaulting; currently the site is identified as within the Piazza di Madonna di Loreto, Rome (photo: author).

Aëtius in 454; and the commanding general Ricimer attacked the emperor Avitus (r. 455–456) in 456. Epic devices in the poetic panegyrics enabled authors to avoid direct discussions of such tumultuous episodes. Instead, poetry asserting the survival of past ideals helped Romans to minimize the trauma over the ongoing violence and the attacks on Rome of 410 and 455 in particular. Roma as a literary trope was particularly instrumental to Claudian’s project of easing anxieties over communication breakdowns, since the poet imagined dialogue between Roma, the emperors, the senators of Rome, and the imperially appointed military leaders. Merobaudes and Sidonius followed in Claudian’s footsteps by imagining further conversations between living individuals and the literary device of Roma, which continually glossed over the inf ighting. The repeated use of tropes in

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different late antique epic panegyrics coincided with the continued use of magnificent intellectual spaces in the Forum of Trajan into the 450s. Inscriptions accompanying some of the portraits of poets refer to the personified Roma, hinting that the statues themselves warded off fears by promoting eloquent dialogue about the city. Arguing that the idealized vision of Roma was a prominent feature of the staged literary events in Trajan’s Forum, this essay discusses how these performance venues united audiences with poets whose literary works imagined cultural resilience in this urban space.

Performances of Poetry in the Forum of Trajan Recent excavations confirm that the statues of Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius Apollinaris, exhibited outdoors in Trajan’s Forum, appeared close to performance venues constructed during Hadrian’s reign.6 One of the unearthed auditoriums features two sets of stepped platforms on the interior [Fig. 3.1] with vegetation currently masking the steps once used as risers to accommodate audiences [Fig. 3.2]. Originally, this auditorium, located to the northwest of the Column of Trajan, was flanked by two similar halls identified during the excavations of 2007–2010.7 The three halls belonged to a complex of buildings arranged around a curved portico at the far northern end of Trajan’s Forum [Fig. 3.3]. The central of the three halls measures 22.3 x 12.8 meters on the interior and its inlaid floor pavement features rectangular slabs of gray granite framed by yellow marble (giallo antico), which survive together with the two sets of five platform-like steps on either side of a central walkway. Audience members presumably positioned themselves in chairs on the stepped risers with the central walkway reserved for the performer [Fig. 3.3]. Today, the vegetation covering the marble pavers makes the stepped platforms appear like ramps, and there are surviving fragments of the former vaulting decorated with coffering and stuccoes – having fallen due to the vault’s collapse at an unknown date – establishing that the rectangular hall was originally barrel vaulted [Fig. 3.1]. Construction work for Rome’s subway line C first revealed these impressive structures positioned to the west of the church of S. Maria di Loreto and the Palazzo Valentini, close to where once stood the Temple of Trajan and Plotina, even though the dimensions and the exact location 6 Rispoli, ‘Gli scavi’. 7 Egidi, ‘L’Athenaeum di Roma’, pp. 3–7.

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Fig. 3.2. Detail of the Hadrianic audience hall in the Forum of Trajan, Rome, with the arrow indicating a stepped platform that is partly obscured by vegetation (photo: author).

of this temple are disputed.8 The absence of a stage inside the hall seems unusual for an auditorium; yet the steps upon which the audience members remained seated and the building’s proximity to the libraries in Trajan’s Forum advance Rosella Rea’s claim that this was a venue for lecturing.9 Based upon evidence from two brick stamps dated to 123–125 CE, Hadrian annexed the three halls at the north end of the Forum after the death of Trajan.10 8 Baldassarri, ‘Indagini archeologiche’, presents the case for the axial position of the temple. An additional fragment of the inscription pertaining to the temple was one of the discoveries during the Metro Line C excavations; see Orlandi and Egidi, ‘Una nuova iscrizione’. 9 Rea, ‘Gli auditoria,’ pp. 133–140. 10 CIL 15.1033 and 1209b; Barbera, ‘L’Athenaeum’; Claridge, ‘Hadrian’s Succession and the Monuments of Trajan,’ pp. 9–10.

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Fig. 3.3. Plan of the three audience halls joined with a curved portico facing the Temple of Trajan and Plotina in the Forum of Trajan, Rome (drawing: Bryan Pickle).

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Fig. 3.4. Interior of the Curia Senatus (Senate House), Rome. Photo courtesy of the Fototeca Unione (Neg 10728) © American Academy in Rome.

The auditoriums clarify the picture of rhetoric, scholarship, and public performances flourishing in Trajan’s Forum throughout Late Antiquity, when the precinct’s cultural events continued to target elite audiences.11 The appeal of the middle audience hall to aristocrats emerges from its similarities to the Curia Senatus in the use of gleaming, inlaid marbles and stepped platforms [Fig. 3.4]. Unlike the early fourth-century Senate House, featuring an elevated, stage-like platform along the north wall, however, the middle Hadrian-era auditorium configured the speaker at 11 This was first established by Marrou, ‘La vie intellectuelle’. More recently, López García, Auditoria, pp. 126–153 and 212–221, leaves open the precise function of the Hadrianic halls in Trajan’s Forum while making strong comparisons with lecture halls and tribunals for judges.

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the center of the two risers. Also, the Curia in Rome featured a timber roof, whereas the middle audience hall in Trajan’s Forum was vaulted.12 A comparison of these two spaces reveals that audiences on the stepped platforms in the lecture hall of Trajan’s Forum established more cohesion with the speaker positioned in their midst as opposed to the Senate House, where the presenter on the stage was relatively aloof from the listeners. Beginning in the 390s, Claudian emphasized his personal voice in his epic panegyrics, which clearly set forth his own identity as an author who spoke directly to audiences. Prior to Claudian, panegyrists wrote in prose and typically erased the author’s individual voice, opting to speak on behalf of the city without personally addressing the emperor or another high-ranking official. In Claudian’s pioneering epic panegyrics composed in verse, by contrast, the poet individually crafted propaganda benefiting the commissioning authority (an emperor or a general) and thereby the author’s own elegant turns of phrase deserved acclaim as well.13 Poets including Claudian forged close connections to elite audiences in Rome, which could have become particularly noteworthy when an author was positioned in the midst of his audience, such as on the walkway between the two stepped platforms in the Hadrian-era auditorium of Trajan’s Forum. Evidence indicates that senators gathered for political assemblies in the Curia Senatus whereas literary events occurred in Trajan’s Forum during Late Antiquity. Venantius Fortunatus recorded that the public continued to hear (audit) poetry in the Forum of Trajan in the sixth century, albeit less frequently than before. ‘Scarcely now are magnif icent poems of such brilliant refinement heard in the Forum of Trajan by the venerable city of Rome. What if you had recited such a masterpiece in the senate’s hearing? They would have spread before your footsteps threads of gold.’14 In comparing the gathering place for the senate with another for the ‘venerable city of Rome’, Venantius Fortunatus suggests that the Curia was exclusively for senators, as opposed to a less prestigious but nonetheless impressive venue for poetry in the Forum of Trajan. Similarly, Boethius confirmed that, during consular celebrations for two aristocratic brothers, their father delivered the panegyric in the Curia Senatus. The rhetoric 12 Egidi, ‘L’Athenaeum di Roma’, pp. 6–8. 13 Gillett, ‘Epic Panegyric’, pp. 280–284, establishes that Claudian invented this relationship between the author, the audience, and the honorand. 14 Venantius Fortunatus, Epistulae 3.18.7–10 (ed. and trans. by Roberts, pp. 184–185): ‘Vix modo tam nitido pomposa poemata cultu / audit Trainano Roma venerenda foro. / Quid si tale decus recitasses in aure senatus? Stravissent plantis aurea fila tuis’.

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was presented according to Boethius before ‘the crowd of aristocrats and the enthusiastic citizens […] with them [aristocrats] sitting in the curule chairs in the Curia.’15 The lecture halls in Trajan’s Forum, then, were distinct venues from the Curia Senatus, since the Senate House was both more exclusive and more overtly political than the three auditoriums constructed during Hadrian’s reign. In the Forum of Trajan, culture and erudition were set apart from the conflict-ridden political debates situated in the Curia. The identity of Trajan loomed large in the area adjacent to the auditoriums, with the statue of this emperor originally positioned visibly atop the column monument [Fig. 3.5]. A large platform (platea) extending to the north from the column flanked by the libraries marked a threshold leading toward the curvilinear portico in front of the audience halls.16 Hadrian’s additions to the Forum curated the historical memory of Trajan by providing spaces for oratory and poetic performances together with the temple honoring the emperor. Inscriptions accompanying statues attest to the subsequent preservation of the auditoriums in Trajan’s Forum; these were maintained as cultural spaces during Late Antiquity. Two statue bases with identical inscriptions found in the entrance corridor, immediately to the south of the middle auditorium, record that a high-ranking senator and urban prefect of Rome, Fabius Felix Passifilus Paulinus, took great care to support an installation of statues in the mid-fifth century, plausibly reusing artworks that he transferred from elsewhere in the guise of preservation. The phrase, studiis suis or ‘through his attentive care’, appears in both inscriptions and indicates that Passifilus, as the urban prefect of Rome, moved the unidentified statues to the plinths in or near the auditorium during a redecoration or restoration campaign.17 The terminology resembles that of other late antique inscriptions in which an elite Roman ‘curated’ (curavit) or ‘repaired’ (reparavit) pre-existing artworks.18 Silvia Orlandi has identified the ancient letter ‘S’ inscribed at the upper edge of one base sponsored by Passifilus 15 Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy, 2.3.29–31 (ed. by Stewart, p. 186): ‘sub frequentia patrum, sub plebis alacritate vidisti, cum eisdem in curia curules insidentibus […]’. 16 Claridge, ‘Hadrian’s Lost Temple of Trajan’, pp. 75–82. 17 Orlandi, ‘Urban Prefects’, p. 216, n. 32, identifies the other inscriptions of Fabius Felix Passifilus Paulinus near the office of the urban prefecture close to San Pietro in Vincoli, identifying the date of his urban prefecture as c. 450; a more precise date is currently not available. 18 Both inscribed bases read: ‘Fabius Felix Passifilus / Paulinus, v(ir) c(larissimus) et inl(ustris) / praef(ectus) urb(i) / studiis suis’; the recently unearthed inscriptions are published and analyzed in Orlandi, ‘Le testimonianze epigraphiche’. For the late antique statue bases using the term ‘curavit’, see CIL 6.1653; CIL 6.31879; CIL 6.31880; and CIL 6.37107; and in CIL 6.3864b appears the term ‘reparavit’.

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Fig. 3.5. Column of Trajan, Rome (photo: author).

as a mark indicating which statue was to be set up anew on the plinth.19 Plausible scenarios include Passifilus repairing the two artworks because they had been toppled, or he simply transferred them from elsewhere. This urban prefect upheld a venerable late antique tradition of either repairing or moving artworks within wider efforts to maintain the urban districts of Rome, suggesting that this senator’s special care likely extended to the buildings close to the statue.20 Passifilus’s two inscriptions thus attest to the continued use of the Hadrian-era auditoriums up to c. 450. An earlier late antique inscription indicates that a statue paid honor to a late antique 19 Orlandi, ‘Urban Prefects’, pp. 216–217. 20 For epigraphic testimony to other instances of local elites pursuing meaningful restorations, see Machado, Urban Space, pp.115–116 and Orlandi, ‘Urban Prefects’, pp. 216–219.

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emperor for preserving the virtues of his imperial predecessors in Trajan’s Forum. Specifically, the historian and urban prefect Sextus Aurelius Victor dedicated a statue to emperor Theodosius I there, after the emperor conquered Magnus Maximus in 388–389, with an inscription stating that the fourth-century emperor received honors for ‘exceeding the clemency, probity, and munificence of the old emperors.’21 Aristocrats enjoyed literature and exalted rhetoric within the Forum of Trajan during the fourth and fifth centuries. Just prior to Claudian issuing his first works in Rome, two orators of the 380s, Dracontius and his brother Hierius, read and corrected texts purporting to be authored by Quintilian while the two siblings worked at the school in the Forum of Trajan.22 Their textual corrections could be localized at one of the two libraries in this Forum. One repository for Greek texts and another housing Latin texts flanked the column of Trajan with additional evidence suggesting that there was a legal archive in one or both apses of the Basilica Ulpia.23 An important inscription recording the letter of emperors Valentinian III and Theodosius II, written in 431 to rehabilitate the once-purged memory of Nicomachus Flavianus the Elder, was inscribed onto a statue base displayed in the Forum of Trajan, where the public monument restored honors to the deceased senator and accomplished historian long after his official condemnation of 394.24 In the 440s, the laws issued by Valentinian III confirming specific privileges upon Rome’s senators were posted officially in the Forum of Trajan.25 Also, a lead pipe from the well-appointed room of a house uncovered beneath the Palazzo belonging to the Assicurazioni Generali di Venezia, which is just beyond the far northern limit of the Forum of Trajan, likely features the name of Flavius Turcius Rufius Apronianus Asterius, consul in 494; he was a scholar who wrote commentary on Vergil.26 Late antique senators maintained continuity with the past through their literary accomplishments as they were also granted legal prerogatives in Trajan’s Forum. 21 CIL 6.1186: ‘[ve]terum principum clementiam,/ [sa]nctitudinem munificentiam / supergresso / d(omino) n(ostro) Fl(avio) Theodosio, pio, victori / semper Augusto/ Sex(tus) Aur(elius) Victor, v(ir) c(larissimus), urbi praef(ectus) […]’. 22 Marrou, ‘La vie intellectuelle’, p. 95, records a marginal note in a manuscript of the declamationes maiores of the Pseudo-Quintilian from Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale fonds lat. 16230): ‘legi / et emendavi ego Dracontius cum fratre / Ierio incomparabili arrico [sic] urbis Romae in schola fori Traiani, feliciter.’ 23 Meneghini, ‘Nuovi dati sulla funzione e le fasi’, pp. 660–688. 24 CIL 6.1783; Hedrick, Jr., History and Silence. 25 Humphries, ‘Valentinian III and the City of Rome’, pp. 170–171. 26 La Rocca, ‘Le domus’, pp. 392–393. The inscription reads ‘Fl. Asteri v. c.’ and is recorded in AE, 1904, no. 46.

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Literary figures frequently received public honors in auditoriums or near libraries in late ancient cities.27 Audience halls accompanied the libraries of Vespasian’s Templum Pacis in Rome and Hadrian sponsored an auditorium in close proximity to his library in Athens.28 Portraits of philosophers, poets, and orators were significant features of libraries, theaters, bath complexes, and lecture halls, and these installations continued to be on display in Late Antiquity.29 The tradition of memorializing intellectual achievements with open-air displays of honorific statues in the spaces where authors encountered the public continued unabated into the fifth century.30 Intellectuals jostled with the crowds in Trajan’s Forum, since an inscription accompanying a bronze portrait dating to the 360s at the earliest honors a ‘teacher […] [whose statue appeared] in the busiest [place] […] shining with splendor.’31 There is the possibility that this fragmentary inscription was dedicated to Marius Victorinus, a teacher of philosophy whose portrait was located in the Forum of Trajan according to Jerome.32 In his remarks upon Victorinus’s remarkable talents, Augustine also attests that this professor was one of many who received an honorif ic statue in a forum without identifying Trajan’s Forum specifically.33 Another fourth-century inscription celebrates a grammarian named Boniface whose activities were localized in the Forum of Trajan.34 Thus, the statues exhibited close to the Hadrian-era 27 Rea, ‘Gli auditoria’. For the public expressions of veneration for poets and other intellectuals in Greek and Roman contexts, see Zanker, Mask of Socrates, pp. 158–180. 28 Rea, ‘Gli auditoria’, pp. 133–136; Petrain, ‘Visual Supplementation’. The library in the Templum Pacis was destroyed in a fire of 192 CE; see Tucci, Temple of Peace, I, p. 183. 29 A notable exhibition of author portraits including Sappho, Heraclitus, Herodotus, Homer, Pindar, Menander, Vergil, and Xenophon was on display in Constantinople’s Baths of Zeuxippos, constructed initially for Septimius Severus and restored under Constantine; see Bassett, ‘Historiae custos’; Bassett, Urban Image, pp. 51–59. John Ma, Statues and Cities, pp. 93–94, discusses the portraits of playwrights and poets which appeared in the Athenian Theater of Dionysos. 30 Leghan, ‘Cultural Heroes’. 31 CIL 6. 41347: ‘---/ [---] miro [--?] / [---a]uctoritate/ [---e]ruditori / [---?comiti sacri consis]torii, / [--- loco celeber]rimo memo/[r--- ad exe]mplum / [---statuam auri splend]ore ful/[gentem ---] us impe/[rator]exit / ----’. 32 Jerome, Chronicon anno 354 (ed. Helm, p. 239): ‘Victorinus rhetor et Donatus grammaticus praeceptor meus Romae insignes habentur. E quibus Victorinus etiam statuam in foro Traini meruit’. 33 Augustine, Confessions 8.2.3 (CSEL 33, 171): ‘doctor tot nobilium senatorum, qui etiam ob insigne praeclari magisterii, quod cives huius mundi eximium putant, statuam foro meruerat et acceperat’. 34 See the tomb inscription dating to the fourth or fifth century specifying that the city wept after seeking Bonifatius in vain at an atrium in Trajan’s Forum: CIL 6.9446=CIL 6.33808: ‘Benemeriti Bonifatio sc [. . .] / grammatico Aeliana c[oniux caris]/sima posuit, qui vixit ann[is] [. . .] / in pace, et fecit cum uxor[e annis] [. . .] / depositus kal(endis) ianuaris [. . .] / Traiani qu[a]eren[t] atria m[e] [. . .] / tota Roma flebit et ipse […]’; see also Marrou, ‘La vie intellectuelle’, pp. 97–98.

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auditoriums are clear testimony to the intellectual and literary vitality of Trajan’s Forum throughout Late Antiquity, when Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius received public acclaim in this zone for their poems featuring imagery of Rome’s timeless continuity.

Statues of Late Antique Poets in the Forum of Trajan Two extant inscriptions originally accompanying the portraits of Claudian and Merobaudes provide specific details about why these authors received honorific statues, and Sidonius’s own verses document that his portrait was also on display in Trajan’s Forum. As markers of high rank, the statues with their inscriptions establish that senators coordinated with emperors to confirm that literary accomplishments numbered among the prominent virtues to be commended in public space. Further, the surviving inscriptions imply that poets fostered elegant dialogue about imperial authority, since the installations mostly recognized the authors for their rhetoric in praise of emperors. The bronze portraits depicting poets do not survive. Yet the extant epigraphic evidence indicates that the authors’ verses prompted emperors and senators to agree on promoting Rome’s cultural life. Given the display context in Trajan’s Forum, the late antique honors for the poets enunciated the terms for the physical revitalization of the precinct’s grand architecture, which had long protected the city’s intellectual traditions.35 The senate honored Claudian by installing a statue with an inscription extolling him for his fusion of Homeric verse with Vergilian wisdom. In the inscribed statue base, the Latin dedication precedes a couplet in Greek that describes Roma as assisting the emperors in praising Claudian.36 [Statue] of Claudius Claudianus, man with the rank of clarissimus. To Claudius Claudianus, man with the rank of clarissimus, tribune and notary, among other standard arts the most famous of poets: even though 35 Niquet, Monumenta, p. 231; Chenault, ‘Statues of Senators’, pp. 110–112; Stewart, ‘Continuity and Tradition’, p. 31. 36 CIL 6.1710 and p. 4740: ‘[Cl.] Claudiani v.c. / [Cl]audio Claudiano v.c., / tri[bu]no et notario, inter ceteras / [de]centes artes prae[g]loriosissimo / [po]etarum, licet ad memoriam sem/piternam carmina ab eodem scripta / sufficient, adtamen / testimonii gratia ob iudicii sui / [f]idem, dd. nn. Arcadius et Honorius [fe]licissimi ac doctissimi / imperatores, senatu petente / statuam in foro divid Traiani / erigi collocarique iusserunt . / Εἰν ἐνὶ Βιργιλίοιο νόον / καὶ μοῦσαν Ὁμήρου, / Κλαυδιανὸν Ῥώμη καὶ / Βασιλῆς ἔθεσαν’.

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his verses grant him a lasting memorial, nevertheless our lords Arcadius and Honorius, most lucky and celebrated emperors, have ordered as testimony of their kind judgment this statue to be set up at the request of the senate in the forum of the divine Trajan. [in Greek] Vergil’s mind and Homer’s muse in one person: Claudian was installed by Roma and the emperors.

The comparison of Claudian to both Homer and Vergil specifies that the late antique author composed in the epic voice of his poetic forebears. Claudian’s own poem, De Bello Getico, points toward the stringent criteria to be met in order to receive a bronze statue. In the preface to this work, Claudian mentions his own statue with an inscription on display in a forum: ‘But my former success won for me a brazen statue and the fathers set up my likeness in my honor; at the senate’s prayer the emperor allowed the claim […]. Now that my name is read and my features are known in the forum my muse labors for a sterner critic than before.’37 Claudian then documents that his honorific statue resulted from an agreement between senators and the emperor who together conferred the award. Located on the extant statue base, the Greek couplet mentioning that Roma set up the portrait with the emperors leads Gavin Kelly to conclude that, on account of the parallels between the Latin and Greek phrases, Roma clearly articulated a senatorial voice.38 Also, the surviving inscription attests to Claudian earning acclaim from both the eastern emperor Arcadius and his western counterpart Honorius; yet, mostly, Honorius received commendation in Claudian’s verses. Nonetheless, the inscription for Claudian praises the poet’s loyalty to both rulers, creating an impression that the author’s literary and intellectual accomplishments placed him among the empire-wide elite and situating this portrait comfortably among the other late antique statues in Trajan’s Forum. Here, images of senatorial aristocrats indicated their high rank under the auspices of imperial authorities ruling the entire realm, according to the epigraphic record.39 Given that the references to 37 Claudian, De Bello Getico, praefatio 7–14: ‘Sed prior eff igiem tribuit successus aënam,/ oraque patricius nostra dicavit honos;/adnuit hic princeps titulum poscente senatu; /[ . . .]/ et magis intento studium censore laborat, quod legimur medio conspicimurque foro’. (trans. M. Platnauer, Claudian, vol. II, p. 125). 38 Kelly, ‘Sidonius and Claudian’, p. 178. 39 Weisweiler, ‘From Equality to Asymmetry’, pp. 329–332. For the expression of global elite status in the Forum of Trajan using such strategies as the exhibition of literary talents, see Meurer, Vergangenes verhandeln, pp. 107–116.

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the poet’s muse, as cited in both the inscription and in the preface of Claudian’s poem, establish that literary accomplishments signaled virtue, cultural vitality was of fundamental importance to Trajan’s Forum where no overt military honors were installed during Late Antiquity.40 Claudian received the highest form of public recognition for infusing epic themes into the new genre of verse panegyrics through which this poet valorized rulership in Rome. The text accompanying the portrait does not mention that Claudian also championed Honorius’s military commander Stilicho, who had served as Honorius’s guardian when the ruler was young and Stilicho eventually became the emperor’s father-in-law.41 A performance in 400 CE celebrating Stilicho’s consulship that occurred in Rome may have been the event that earned Claudian the honor of the public statue. 42 In the poem read on this occasion, De Consulatu Stilichonis, Claudian credits the general Stilicho with bringing imperial authorities back to Rome. ‘Thanks to him [Stilicho], power, long degraded and all but transferred, no longer, forgetful of itself, is exiled in lands of servitude, but, returned to its rightful home, restores to Italy its victorious destiny’. 43 In a subsequent poem, Claudian again proposed to reinstate Rome’s old role as the home for exalted imperial authority when he urged rulers to return there in his panegyric for Honorius’s sixth consulate. ‘In truth, no other place was fitting to be the home of the rulers of the world, and on no hill can power’s majesty better take its own measure or sense the pinnacle of highest authority’. 44 Delivering these words to the senate seems to have earned Claudian aristocratic favor, since Rome’s elites yearned to reclaim the city’s historic role as the foremost capital of the empire. To make this argument, Claudian characterizes Rome as the city that confers legitimacy. The poet fabricates an ancestry for Honorius and his father Theodosius I, tracing the lineage back in a fictional account to Trajan’s Ulpian family – originally from Spain and destined for Rome – in the panegyric on the emperor’s fourth consulship of 398. ‘Neither undeserving of honor, nor only just recognized by Mars, is the Ulpian dynasty [of Trajan] 40 Chenault, ‘Statues of Senators’, p. 109. 41 Cameron, Claudian, pp. 42–62. 42 Ibid., p. xv; Chenault, ‘Statues of Senators’, p. 111. 43 Claudian, De consulatu Stilichonis 3.125–127: ‘per quem fracta diu translataque paene potestas / non oblita sui servilibus exulat aruis, / in proprium sed ducta larem victricia reddit’. Trans. from Claudian, vol. II, ed. and trans. Plattnauer, pp. 50–53. 44 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, 39–41: ‘non alium certe decuit rectoribus orbis / esse larem, nulloque magis se colle potestas/ aestimat et summi sentit fastigia iuris.’ Trans. in Dewar, p. 7.

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and the Spanish household that delivered crowns to the world’. 45 Even though he was well aware that Honorius was not living in Rome at the time, Claudian encouraged a physical shift of the imperial court back to the traditional capital essentially by dangling the promise of inheriting Trajan’s legacy before the youthful emperor. Trajan’s Forum, then, functioned as the site where late antique emperors received poetic praise for their triumphs, or where they celebrated their imagined dynastic connections to earlier emperors. Claudian wrote a narrative strand supplied in various episodes traced across different poems, consistently presenting Stilicho as Rome’s protector. In 397, Constantinople took over Rome’s grain supplies originating from North Africa as an apparent attempt by eastern authorities to deprive Stilicho of his support among Roman senators. 46 In response, Stilicho paid off a rival faction in Libya working to restore the African grain destined for Rome; then, the senate of Constantinople reacted by labeling Stilicho a public enemy, which was never enforced in the west. Instead, Claudian’s last extant poem praised Stilicho’s restoration of grain supplies as if it were a military victory numbering among other reported triumphs. 47 Claudian also records the honors granted to Stilicho at Rome during the ritual marking Honorius’s sixth consulship in 404. 48 These celebrations coincided with the outset of an extended residence of that emperor in Rome after Honorius traveled south from his former capital in Milan. 49 In 408, Honorius was ruling from Ravenna when, feeling threatened by Stilicho’s ambitions, the emperor jailed and then assassinated the general; this occurred after Claudian had ceased writing and yet the poet’s commitment to Rome remained alive in his still-circulating texts. In short, Claudian championed Rome’s political prominence while also countering narratives valorizing the alternate capitals – Constantinople, Milan, and Ravenna – prior to 404. In 435, Merobaudes received a statue comparable to Claudian’s that was also displayed in the Forum of Trajan with an inscription praising him for both literary and military accomplishments. This installation referred back to the earlier portrait of Claudian by reiterating that Roma and the emperors conferred the award. 45 Claudian, De quarto consulatu Honorii, 18–20: ‘haud indigna coli nec nuper cognita Marti / Ulpia progenies et quae diademata mundo / sparsit Hibera domus.’ 46 McEvoy, Child Emperor Rule, pp. 162–171. 47 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, 427–435, in Dewar, p. 30. 48 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, 578–586, in Dewar, pp. 38–40. 49 Kelly, ‘Claudian’s Last Panegyric’.

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[Statue dedicated] to Flavius Merobaudes, man with the rank of spectabilis, count (comes), [and] member of the imperial court. To Flavius Merobaudes: a courageous and learned man, known both for his commendable actions and for praising the actions of others; famous for his experience at the military camp, exceptional in his eloquence and enthusiasm for learning; who (maintained) from his youth an equal interest in virtue and in eloquence; whose genius destined him for strength and for learning alike, he is accomplished with both the sword and the pen; suffering neither in retreat nor in the shadows that the vigorous mind of a scholar should be numbed by idle pursuits, he soldiered with words and with weaponry in the Alps where he sharpened his eloquence. Therefore to him is granted as reward neither insignificant twigs [of laurel] nor mere ivy, the honor of Mt. Helicon placed upon the head, but an image cast of bronze, which antiquity had desired to honor men of rare distinction, those commended in battle or the best of poets. This Roma, together with the most dignified rulers Theodosius and Placidius Valentinian [Valentinian III], lords of their dominion, grant to him in the Ulpian forum, new glories repaying a man of ancient nobility for both his activity as a soldier and as a poet, in whose public proclamation glory increases for the triumphant empire.50

The inscription celebrates Merobaudes’s literary accounts of battles alongside his actual military exploits. Although the precise battles in which Merobaudes fought are not specified, this poet clearly served during the reign of the western emperor Valentinian III (r. 425–455), who is identified in the inscription together with the eastern ruler Theodosius II (r. 408–450). In the extant fragments of his poetry, Merobaudes also celebrates the military leader Aëtius for working on behalf of Valentinian 50 CIL 6.1724 and p. 4743: ‘(Fl. Merob)audi v.s. com. s.c. Fl. Merobaudi aeque forti et docto viro, tam facere laudanda quam aliorum facta laudare praecipuo, castrensi experientia claro, facundia vel otiosorum studia supergresso; cui a crepundiis par virtutis et eloquentiae cura; ingenium ita fortitudini ut doctrinae natum stilo et gladio pariter exercuit, nec in umbra vel latebris mentis vigorem scholari tantum otio torpere passus, inter arma litteris militabat et in Alpibus acuebat eloquium: ideo illi cessit in praemium non verbena vilis, nec otiosa hedera, honor capitis Heliconius, sed imago aere formata, quo rari exempli viros seu in castris probatos seu optimos vatum antiquitas honorabat: quod huic quoque cum augustissimis Roma principibus Theodosio et Placido Valentiniano rerum dominis in foro Ulpio detulerunt, remunerantes in viro antiquae nobilitatis novae gloriae vel industriam militarem vel carmen, cuius praeconio gloria trumfali crevit imperio.” Written on another side: ‘dedicata III kal. Aug. conss. dd. nn. Theodosio XV et Valentiniano IIII’.

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III in an evident parallel to Claudian issuing poems in praise of Stilicho’s alliance with Honorius. However, Aëtius’s name does not appear in the inscription. In the panegyrics justifying Aëtius’s role under Valentinian III, Merobaudes deploys Claudian’s modes of address and supplements the ongoing story invented by Claudian with only slight changes to the cast of characters.51 For example, Merobaudes uses the first person to speak directly to Valentinian III in his first panegyric (Panegyric I). ‘As often as I or anyone else engaged in this business of speaking discuss certain things about your deeds, we either cultivate our character or the desires of everyone else […]. There is no region, no place, and, finally, no tongue which is without praise of you’.52 In the 430s, when Merobaudes wrote his first panegyric, the young Valentinian III was dominated by the military commander Aëtius, whose sway over the troops made the general a potential threat to Rome. In light of senators fearing a military takeover, Merobaudes issued verses justifying Aëtius’s authority. Elite Romans accepted the propaganda, since the author’s first panegyric – surviving only in fragments – mentions that the trope Roma, standing in for the city’s senators, joined the emperor in installing the poet’s statue at Trajan’s Forum. Merobaudes writes, on account of this praise for you, Roma, together with the emperor, [they] have fashioned me in bronze destined to endure; finally, on behalf of this, the emperor closest to the rising sun has recently elevated me to a title of the greatest honor. For the emperor realized how faithful I was in recounting his [presumably, Aëtius’s] actions when he was present, since I did not keep silent about his good deeds when he was absent.53

The extant snippets from Merobaudes’s first panegyric hint at but do not explicitly state the name of Aëtius, who is praised outright only in the surviving portions of the second oration (Panegyric II); here, Aëtius is said 51 McEvoy, Child Emperor Rule, pp. 268–272; see also the discussion of Merobaudes’s description of images of the imperial family of Valentinian III in Bruzzone, Panegirico, pp. 13–16. 52 Merobaudes, Panegyric I, fragment 2A 2.16–23, trans. Clover, ‘Flavius Merboaudes’, p. 12: ‘Ergo vel ego vel alii qui in hac dicendi professione sunt, quotiens de actibus tuis aliqua disserimus, aut ingenia nostra exercemus aut vota ceterorum tu tibe inniteris. [. . .] et tamen nulla regio, nullus locus, nulla denique lingua laudibus tuis vacua est.’ 53 Merobaudes, Panegyric I, fragment 2A, 2.4–7, trans. slightly modified from Clover, ‘Flavius Merobaudes’, p. 12: ‘pro his me laudibus tuis Roma cum principe victuro aere formavit, pro his denique nuper ad honoris maximi nomen illi nascenti soli proximus imperator evexit. Intellexit enim, qua fide eius praesentis memorarem, qui de absentis meritis non tacerem’.

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to have the favor of both the populace and the elites.54 Thus, the statues of Claudian and Merobaudes appeared to have worked in tandem with the literary texts recited before senatorial audiences in which authors advanced the authority of emperors and their topmost generals. Poets continually updated the argument that Rome was sustained when emperors took up residence in the city until at least 456; at this time, Sidonius Apollinaris earned the last documented literary statue in Trajan’s Forum for verses on the emperor, Avitus. Letters and poems reveal Sidonius’s awareness of his statue situated within Trajan’s Forum; neither the portrait itself, nor its inscribed statue base survives. It is described in a letter by Sidonius written to Priscus Valerianus in which the author claims to be unworthy of the public honor. ‘All the praise does not increasingly serve me, neither the shining, reddish bronze [statue] in the portico of Ulpia, nor the applause of the senate and people of Rome still resounding in the hollows of Rome’.55 In a different letter, addressed to Firminus, Sidonius mentions the proximity of his own portrait to Trajan’s column monument. ‘One thing the Roman people bestowed upon me, and senators dressed in purple granted me, and the expert judgment of colleagues at my rank consigned to me, was the inscribed statue seen by Nerva Trajan at the permanent spot of writers between the two libraries’.56 Sidonius characterizes Trajan’s statue as glancing down at the late antique author and thereby the poet hints that the second-century emperor inspired an ongoing literary tradition of praise for rulers going back to Pliny. The statue of Sidonius was located at a portico overlooking the audience halls and close to the libraries of Trajan’s Forum, linking the portrait with the repository for texts by Claudian and Merobaudes, among others.57 The statues of literary figures thus attest that Trajan’s identity inspired poetic performances in which Rome was allegorized as the pre-eminent capital up to the reign of Avitus in 455–456. 54 Merobaudes, Panegyric II, 106–107, in Clover, ‘Flavius Merobaudes’, p. 65: ‘Aëtium coniunctus amor populique patrumque / et procerum mens omnis habet’. 55 Sidonius Apollinaris, Panegyric on Avitus 8-10 = Carmen 8.8-10 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 295): ‘nil totum prodest adiectum laudibus illud / Ulpia quod rutilat porticus aere meo / vel quod adhuc populo simul et plaudente senatu/ ad nostrum reboat concava Roma sophos’. 56 Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistulae 9.16.3, verses 21-27 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 235): ‘Quam mihi indulsit populus Quirini, / blattifer vel quam tribuit senatus, / quam peritorum dedit ordo consors iudiciorum,/ Cum meis poni statuam perennem, / Nerva Traianus titulis videret, / inter auctores utriusque fixam bybliothecae’. 57 It is possible that editions of Claudian’s and Merobaudes’s collected works were each issued as separate manuscripts; see Cameron, Claudian, pp. 227, 252, 417–418; Gillett, ‘Epic Panegyric’, pp. 269 and 287.

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Trajan’s success in military campaigns served as a historical precedent for Avitus as presented in the poetry by Sidonius, who takes up the themes described by the earlier authors of epic panegyrics. Like Claudian and Merobaudes, Sidonius deployed historical tropes and made them relevant to the fifth-century issues of the western capital by putting words into the voice of personified Roma. Sidonius’s verses depict Roma as both degraded and elderly; she begs in desperation for assistance from a new emperor. ‘Roma dragged herself slowly, headfirst down the stairs [from heaven] with her neck bent and with her head crowned not by a helmet but by dust’.58 Likely, the disheveled Roma called to mind the city that had suffered during Geiseric’s assault in 455. In Sidonius’s poem, Jupiter speaks to a gathering of gods and identifies Avitus as Roma’s noble savior. Countering objections that Avitus lacked an imperial lineage, Sidonius had Jupiter state the following in an address to Roma: ‘But at that time I was ready to present Avitus to you, Roma. He shines brilliantly on account of his ancestors who repeatedly wore robes embroidered with palms [and] due to his family tree covered with fresh branches’.59 In this panegyric, Sidonius goes on to compose a speech by Roma in which she requests a ruler who could uphold the model of Trajan. Roma calls out for another ruler from Gaul, indicating that Sidonius cited Trajan’s Spanish birthplace to legitimize Avitus’s Gallic origins. According to Sidonius, the fifth-century emperor possessed the virtues of one ‘originating from whence Trajan came: […] strong, loyal, unharmed, and vigorous. In this captivated state I beg for one so great. I do not know if anyone can be equal to Trajan, unless by chance Gaul will once more send a man to succeed him’.60 In the end, Avitus appointed influential Gallic aristocrats to prominent posts in Rome while also spending down the treasury on the Gothic military in an apparent affront to Rome’s local aristocrats.61 Sidonius, however, did not mention the tensions in Rome during Avitus’s brief, difficult reign. Poetic fictions legitimized Avitus in Sidonius’s verses casting the emperor from Gaul as a heroic successor to Trajan, drawing 58 Sidonius Apollinaris, Panegyric on Avitus 45-48 = Carmen 7.45-48 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 233): ‘trahebat / pigros Roma gradus, curvato cernua collo / ora ferens; pendent de vertice, tecti / pulvere, non galea […].’ 59 Sidonius Apollinaris, Panegyric on Avitus 153–155 = Carmen 7.153-155 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 281): ‘sed cedere Avitum / dum tibi, Roma, paro, rutilat cui maxima dudum / stemmata complexum germen, palmata cucurrit / per proavos, gentisque suae.’ 60 Sidonius, Panegyric on Avitus 114–118 = Carmen 7.114-118 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 280): ‘Ulpius inde venit […] fortis, pius, integer, acer. / talem capta precor. Traianum nescio si quis / aequiperet, ni fors iterum tu, Gallia, mittas/ qui vincat.’ 61 Salzman, ‘Elites and Emperors’, pp. 246–249.

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upon the literary strategies originating in Claudian’s project of imagining past rulers as the predecessors of Honorius. Sidonius was highly conscious of his own place in literary history. Like Claudian, Sidonius used the genre of verse panegyrics to burnish the reputation of a military leader, which was the case in the panegyric about Avitus, who previously had served as a general (magister utriusque militiae). When describing his own works in a letter to his friend Magnus Felix, Sidonius identifies Claudian and Merobaudes as literary forebears who joined with the additional poets Quintinianus and another unidentif ied author. Sidonius describes the anonymous poet as praising the military commanders Boniface and Sebastianus, both of whom were high-ranking generals working under Galla Placidia and Valentinian III. Also, Quintinianus championed Aëtius’s loyalty to Valentinian III and therefore wrote about the same topic as Merobaudes.62 Sidonius’s account plausibly hints that Quintinianus and the unnamed poet received portraits displayed in the Forum of Trajan, though conf irming this is impossible. In the last lines of this literary history in verse, Sidonius presents Merobaudes as a poet ‘to whom the applauding citizens of Rome and the emperor so beloved after courting popular favor set up a shining statue in the Forum of Trajan’.63 This description of a literary tradition demonstrates how the advocacy by poets on behalf of specific generals and imperial authorities – many of whom no longer remained in favor according to Sidonius – benefited the poets much more than the emperors and generals, as Stilicho, Aëtius, Valentinian III, and Avitus all suffered tragic fates. Later, when Sidonius Apollinaris sent a comforting letter to his friend Burgundio stricken with a bout of flu, the author identified Rome as a city of literary distinction during times of peace which attracted authors seeking acclaim. In this letter, Sidonius indicates that authors received applause in Rome only ‘if peaceful conditions and the option of travel allowed it.’64 Hinting that conflict had prevented Burgundio from journeying to Rome, 62 Sidonius Apollinaris, Carmen 9.274–281 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 303), lists the authors not included in the poet’s book: ‘non Pelusiaco status Canopo, / qui ferruginei toros mariti / et Musa canit inferos superna, / nec qui iam patribus fuere nostris / primo tempore maximi sodales, / quorum unus Bonifatium secutus / nec non praecipitem Sebastianum / natales puer horruit Cadurcos […].’ 63 Sidonius Apollinaris, Carmen 9.298–301 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 304): ‘plosores cui fulgidam Quirites / et carus popularitate princeps / Traiano statuam foro locarunt.’ 64 Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistulae 9.14.3 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 229): ‘si pacis locique condicio permitteret.’

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Sidonius addresses his friend directly. ‘You are entirely worthy of Rome welcoming you with her approving arms and to have the wedged seats shake in the Athenaeum with the clatter of applause while you recite’.65 While it is tempting to define the newly identified auditoriums of Trajan’s Forum as belonging to the ‘Athenaeum’, the localization of this venue remains uncertain.66 Aurelius Victor indicated that Hadrian had established the Athenaeum in Rome as an academy, presumably for the training of poets and rhetoricians, without specifying its location.67 Whether or not the Athenaeum was the name given to the Hadrianic audience halls in Trajan’s Forum, the proximity to libraries accords well with defining the auditoriums as holding literary presentations.68 Even though the assemblies of enthusiastic audiences gathering during peaceful times began to dwindle once conditions became increasingly tumultuous, according to Sidonius, one goal of poets was to maintain the production of official panegyrics denying the existence of such hardships. Portraits of literary figures in the Forum of Trajan linked each author’s poetic accomplishments with the survival of Rome’s physical splendor during the f ifth century. To accomplish this, the poets referred to the tradition of turning brutal war into captivating imagery, taking up themes inspired by the sculptural reliefs on the column of Trajan. One scene on the column represents the upright, dignified Trajan shown as if a civilizing authority who lords over the conquered bodies of the ‘barbarian’ Dacians [Fig. 3.6]. Alluding to themes appearing on these reliefs, Claudian casts Honorius’s return to Rome in 404 as replicating Trajan’s homecoming after the victory in Dacia in the poet’s epic panegyric performed at Rome that year.69 Later, Sidonius claimed that Avitus reaffirmed Rome in the wake of Geiseric’s assault on that city in 455 much as Trajan had earlier restored the military strength of the capital.70 In the end, Sidonius’s words of praise allowed Avitus only a brief interlude of support from Rome’s 65 Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistulae 9.14.2 (Sidonius, ed. Mohr, p. 229): ‘dignus omnino, quem plausibilibus Roma foveret ulnis, quoque recitante crepitantis Athenaei subsellia cuneata quaterentur.’ 66 For an argument that the ‘Athenaeum’ was in the Forum of Trajan, see Serlorenzi and Egidi, ‘L’Athenaeum di Adriano’, p. 194. 67 Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus 14.2–4. For a discussion of all the sources for the Athenaeum, see Lopez García, ‘Una revisión de las fuentes históricas’. 68 Nicholls, ‘Roman Libraries’, p. 275. 69 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, 335–336: ‘Dacica bellipotens cum fregerat Ulpius arma/ atque indignantes in iura redegerat Arctos.’ 70 Sidonius, Panegyric on Avitus 45–49= Carmen 7.45–49. See also Gillet, Envoys and Political Communication, pp. 91–95; Salzman, ‘Elites and Emperors’, pp. 246–250.

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Fig. 3.6. Trajan presented with the heads of Dacians, relief on the Column of Trajan, Rome (photo: author).

local senators as the elite soon turned against this emperor from Gaul. Yet Sidonius’s honorific portrait joined with others in Trajan’s Forum to indicate that cultural and intellectual values remained intact up to the reign of Avitus. Not a single artwork in this Forum depicted a late antique general: neither freestanding images, nor the inscribed names of the military commanders from the fourth and f ifth centuries appeared in this precinct as Robert Chenault has observed.71 Indeed, all of the military honors celebrated in the inscription on Merobaudes’s statue base were specif ically intertwined with his poetic achievements. Briefly stated, the Forum of Trajan offered particular praise for those who reframed controversy and narrated violent warfare in a manner that rendered these events more palatable to the public during Late Antiquity, explicitly neglecting to honor generals in the precinct’s monuments and forming a clear contrast to the tendency to commemorate military victories in the Roman Forum.72 71 Chenault, ‘Statues of Senators’, p. 109. 72 Statues were displayed in honor of Stilicho in the Roman Forum (CIL 6.31987 and CIL 6.1731). A statue of Aëtius was set up in the Atrium Libertatis (CIL 6.41389).

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The Stability of Roma during a Time of Change Late antique poetry focused upon the withering stability of the personified Roma who launched fictions about later Roman emperors and their topmost military leaders; these stories helped to maintain the city’s vibrant image during an era of tumultuous change.73 Two statue bases of Claudian and Merobaudes installed in Trajan’s Forum after 400 CE were accompanied by inscriptions mentioning Roma’s name explicitly as the one who joined with senators and emperors to praise poets.74 Audiences may have perceived that Roma stood for the long-standing traditions of the senatorial aristocrats who initiated the display of statues of poets with imperial authorities subsequently confirming the honors. It is not possible to document who dedicated Sidonius Apollinaris’s statue due to the loss of its inscription. Alan Cameron established that the topmost military commander of the west, Stilicho, commissioned most of the poems by Claudian, whose works advanced this general’s position both at the imperial court and among Rome’s elite.75 In a persuasive article, Andrew Gillett asserts that the military leader Aëtius sponsored the poetry of Merobaudes, who praised the alliance between Aëtius and the emperor Valentinian III, and that Sidonius used the literary device of Roma to keep the city’s senatorial aristocracy on board with the general Avitus’s appointment as the western emperor.76 Thus, Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius used the metaphoric Roma as a spokesperson who requested that senators grant authority to the generals at the imperial court while also arguing for an ideal location of the court in the city of Rome. Claudian pioneered a novel approach to verse panegyrics when he allowed the figure of Roma to speak while he also drew upon the fictional time travel of earlier epics to render Honorius and Stilicho in heroic terms.77 In his poem celebrating Honorius’s sixth consulate, Claudian pretends that Roma addressed the emperor directly, telling him that, ‘through you a truer glory now restores the old customs’.78 Later, Claudian’s same poem presents more 73 Ware, Claudian and the Roman Epic, pp. 67–98; Paschoud, Roma aeterna, pp. 154–155. 74 CIL 6.1710; CIL 6.1724. 75 Cameron, Claudian, pp. 42–45; 421. 76 Gillett, ‘Epic Panegyric’, pp. 288–289. 77 Poetry in the imperial era allowed for fictional travel across time; for example, poets of the second century CE created an imaginary present of the 30s BCE in poems such as the encomium of Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus written by the pseudo-Tibullus. See Peirano, Rhetoric of the Roman Fake, pp. 117–172. 78 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, 403–404 (Dewar, p. 28): ‘restituat priscum per te iam gloria morem verior.’

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dialogue of Roma, who asks for an explanation about why power is no longer rooted in its proper home, since Honorius – then residing in Milan – had neglected Rome’s imperial palace.79 Claudian’s emphasis on the speaking voice of the personified Roma valorized the city’s local senators and the capital city that was their base of operations, even delivering this message to audiences outside of Rome who also appreciated the poet’s eloquence.80 Collapsing Rome’s past and its slightly compromised present, Claudian inserted into the epic literary world the living figures who registered no evidence of such developments as the advent of Christianity.81 Prior to the 390s, when Claudian’s verse panegyrics first appeared, church leaders had already used the deity Roma to argue against ancestral practices. An exchange of letters in the 380s sent by both Bishop Ambrose of Milan and Q. Aurelius Symmachus to the emperor Valentinian II argued over the altar of Victory once located in Rome’s Senate House. During the high point of the debate in 384, the Milanese prelate announced that the aged figure of Roma could be rejuvenated by embracing the new ideas of Christianity.82 It is likely that Claudian was aware of Ambrose’s letters, even if this cannot be securely documented. In a stark contrast to Ambrose, Claudian emphasized that Roma, as an aging interlocutor with the other gods, deserved the lasting respect accorded to an aging parent. Claudian, then, explicitly bracketed Christianity by creating fictional dialogues between Roma and the traditional gods including Jupiter.83 Finally, Claudian was fully aware that Honorius, Stilicho, and most of the aristocratic elite of Rome were Christians; yet the poet depicted the old gods at a fictional level to sustain Rome’s traditions. Amid these distinctions between the old-fashioned Roma and the Christianized trope going by the same name, Pope Damasus (r. 366–384) installed poetic inscriptions at the extra-mural tombs of saints with verses that claimed military triumphs for martyrs. Damasus challenged the literary traditions of the city by adopting civic terms of praise for martyrs, pointedly repurposing the phrases once applied to administrative elites 79 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii 407–410 (Dewar, p. 28): ‘quem, precor, ad finem laribus seiuncta potestas / exulat imperiumque suis a sedibus errat? / cur mea quae cunctis tribuere Palatia nomen / neclecto squalent senio, nec creditur orbis / illinc posse regi?’ 80 For a discussion of the imperial and senatorial audiences who heard Claudian’s presentations in Rome or Milan and also for the wider distribution of the poet’s written texts, see Charlet, ‘Claudien et son public’, pp. 8–9. 81 Ware, Claudian and the Roman Epic, pp. 48–53. 82 Ambrose, Epistulae 18.7; see Roberts, ‘Rome Personified’, pp. 535–538. 83 Claudian, De Bello Getico, pp. 50–53, 436–437

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for the saintly heroes.84 For instance, Damasus described Sts. Nereus and Achilleus as carrying triumphs, an honor formerly bestowed upon civic authorities, and he placed an inscription on a papal tomb mentioning that the friends of Bishop Sixtus ‘carry trophies from the enemy.’85 Damasus, then, transformed triumphant phrases once reserved for military leaders when he linked martyrs’ victories to Christ. Thus, the senators’ initiative ratified by the emperors to honor Claudian with a portrait statue in the Forum of Trajan resonated with the important, nearby performances as an inner-city counterpoint to the poetic inscriptions in which Damasus praises the martyrs at the outskirts of Rome and close to the locations for memorial masses. In celebrating poets who supported both the imperial administration and its military leadership in traditional terms, the statues in Trajan’s Forum pointedly countered the current popularity of poetry about the martyrs. Claudian’s poetry, using the techniques of past epic verses to generate an innovative literary genre devoid of Christian references, emphasized that maintaining past traditions could forestall anxieties about the tumultuous present. Poets further relied upon the trope of the elderly but surviving Roma to articulate the lasting utility of the well-preserved spaces in Trajan’s Forum. In other words, verses imagining an unvanquished if compromised city encouraged local aristocratic families to support the maintenance of Rome’s architectural heritage. After the 440s, Valentinian III made Rome his residential capital while also fostering the authority of those from the most elite families who received appointments in the imperial administration including the urban prefecture, an office with oversight of the built infrastructure.86 Valentinian III issued policies and laws to benefit the senatorial class; these laws were set up for public viewing in the Forum of Trajan. The Forum’s ancient architecture and its adornments embodied the idea of Rome under the historic leadership of Trajan, which survived into Late Antiquity thanks to both legal and poetic advocacy.87 Thus, the statues of poets occupied the spot where the memory of Trajan’s imperial authority continued to be activated by both laws and verse orations, emphasizing how 84 Trout, ‘Damasus and the Invention of Rome’, pp. 522–523. 85 In the cemetery of Domitilla, the inscription for Saints Nereus and Achilleus includes the phrase ‘confessi gaudent christi portare triumfos’ in Damasus, Epigrammata Damasiana 8. The tomb of popes at the cemetery of Callisto features an inscription including the phrase: ‘hic comites Xysti portant qui ex hoste tropaea’ in Damasus, Epigrammata Damasiana 16. See Trout, Damasus, pp. 98 and 113–114. 86 Humphries, ‘Valentinian III and the City of Rome’, pp. 170–182. 87 Marano, ‘Roma non è stata (de)construita’, p. 29.

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conversations between emperors, poets, and senators on Rome’s beauty in the late antique poetry successfully advanced the cause of physically maintaining this Forum’s architecture. Most of the verse panegyrics presented in the Forum of Trajan were not about peace, but rather hinted at the imperial project of defending Rome. Trajan as he appeared in late antique poetry functioned as the key exemplar of a triumphant leader whose victories deserved ongoing commendation. Both Honorius and Avitus received explicit praise for having followed in Trajan’s footsteps.88 The epic panegyrics, the statues of poets, and the continuing use of auditoriums in Trajan’s Forum for poetic performances, thus, all cohered in promoting the idea that Rome continually upheld Trajanic traditions in the city’s valiant responses to military threats. It is difficult, admittedly, to offer precision about the display spots of the open-air portrait statues other than that they were installed somewhere in Trajan’s Forum and situated relatively close to the libraries flanking the column monument. Despite this lack of certainty, the archeological picture of Trajan’s Forum helps to confirm what epigraphy and literary testimony has already defined: Romans rallied around their cultural past of having strong rulers so that during the reigns of weak emperors they could banish thoughts about political tensions.

Conclusion Evidence suggests that audiences gathered in lecture halls at Trajan’s Forum and enthusiastically upheld Rome as a safe haven for archaizing poetry through which audiences sidestepped grief over grim conditions in the fifth-century city. Late antique literature applied a veneer of eloquence over political troubles, since the hard times of this era seem to have actually augmented the momentum of Rome’s poetic culture. In their military roles, Stilicho, Aëtius, and Avitus offered to protect Rome from the difficulties as if they were epic heroes, or so we read in late antique verse panegyrics. Yet the poets Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius received honorific statues in this forum at a time when none of the zone’s monuments recognized the age’s military leaders. The failure of the inscriptions to record the names of generals in the fifth-century Forum of Trajan suggests that the local senators and the author portraits they commissioned masked the rising authority of the military at the imperial court. Those late antique poets whose portraits 88 Schmidt-Hofner, ‘Trajan’.

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appeared in Trajan’s Forum further used their verses to circumvent fears about the inexperienced, often youthful emperors and their inglorious military exploits. Inheriting a rich literary practice from Claudian, his two successors, Merobaudes and Sidonius, maintained Rome’s vigorous and long-standing epic tradition.89 Thus, the installation of statues in the Forum of Trajan celebrated the chief poetic discourse of early fifth-century Rome, which was characterized by continuity, perseverance, and restoration, all themes that resonated with the audiences who plausibly heard poetry presented in the auditoriums located there. I believe that the denial of conflict was physically evident in the fifthcentury Forum of Trajan, a well-preserved center for performances of poetry including the panegyrics featuring the personified Roma. The archeological testimony from the audience halls in this Forum offer a context for appreciating the late antique poets who communicated effectively with elite audiences, since when reading works aloud the authors plausibly stood in the middle of the well-appointed auditorium in close proximity to the spectators [Fig. 3.1]. In halls such as these, Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius all characterized Roma as a speaking character who represented the collective voice of the city’s senators. Many of the late antique verse panegyrics were read aloud during consular celebrations or other ceremonies at Rome including the rituals bestowing great honors upon the emperors Honorius, Valentinian III, and Avitus.90 The Forum of Trajan functioned as a center for poetry and elite culture which negated the trauma of war as the poets championed the victorious aspects of battles in their works. The series of statues in the Forum of Trajan memorializing poets and installed over a sixty-year period ensured that audiences continually valued the zone’s architecture as integral to the city’s cultural vitality. It is not possible to prove definitively that the authors presented their works in the halls located close to where the portraits were erected; yet the enthusiasm of elite audiences for works by these poets cohered with methods of sustaining Trajan’s memory that is suggestive of such events occurring in this Forum. Cultural continuity was an evident theme of the late antique inscriptions accompanying portraits throughout Rome.91 Over time, Claudian, Merobaudes, and Sidonius consolidated a tradition of describing Roma in a manner that 89 Kelly, ‘Sidonius and Claudian’, pp. 190–191; Gillet, ‘Epic Panegyric’. 90 For consular celebrations, see Bagnall and others, eds., Consuls, pp. 386–445; see the important analysis of the rise of ceremonies during an age of numerous child emperors in McEvoy, Child Emperor Rule, pp. 318–320. 91 Niquet, Monumenta, pp. 151–167.

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fostered appreciation for preserving the city’s built environment. Indeed, it was important for poems to counter the image of fifth-century Rome as a ravaged capital. Up until Sidonius’s statue was installed in the 450s, epic panegyrics reprised the poetic concept that the trope Roma grew stronger with age. Therefore, the portraits of authors document the persistent authority of poets in Rome. As an important cultural center, the Forum of Trajan was safeguarded during late antiquity so that Rome’s elite could mask discord as they celebrated the works of epic poets in this precinct.

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Matthew Nicholls, ‘Roman Libraries’, in Ancient Libraries, ed. by Jason König, Katerina Oikonomopoulou, and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 261–276. Heike Niquet, Monumenta virtutum titulique: Senatorische Selbstdarstellung im spätantiken Rom im Spiegel der epigraphischen Denkmäler, (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2000). Silvia Orlandi, ‘Le testimonianze epigraphiche’, Bollettino di Archeologia online, 4 (2013), pp. 45–59. Available at: https://bollettinodiarcheologiaonline.beniculturali.it/numero-2-3-4-2013-anno-iv/; last accessed 22 July 2020. Siliva Orlandi, ‘Urban Prefects and the Epigraphic Evidence of Late-Antique Rome’, Antiquité Tardive, 25 (2017), pp. 213–222. Silvia Orlandi and Roberto Egidi, ‘Una nuova iscrizione monumentale dagli scavi di piazza Madonna di Loreto’, Historika, 1 (2011), pp. 301–319. François Paschoud, Roma aeterna. Études sur le patriotisme romain dans l’Occident latin à l’époque des grandes invasions (Rome: Institut Suisse de Rome, 1967). Irene Peirano, The Rhetoric of the Roman Fake: Latin Pseudepigrapha in Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). David Petrain, ‘Visual Supplementation and Metonymy in the Roman Public Library’, in Ancient Libraries, ed. by Jason König, Katerina Oikonomopoulou, and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 332–346. Rosella Rea, ‘Gli auditoria pubblici nel mondo romano,’ in La biblioteca infinita. I luoghi del sapere nel mondo antico, ed. by Roberto Meneghini and Rosella Rea (Milan: Electa, 2014), pp. 133–144. Maria Rispoli, ‘Gli scavi di Giuseppe Gatti per il construzione delle Assicurazioni Generali’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung, 122 (2016), pp. 123–170. Michael Roberts, ‘Rome Personified, Rome Epitomized: Representations of Rome in the Poetry of the Early Fifth Century’, American Journal of Philology, 122 (2001), pp. 533–565. Michele Renee Salzman, ‘Emperors and Elites in Rome after the Vandal Sack of 455’, Antiquité Tardive, 25 (2017), pp. 243–262. Sebastian Schmidt-Hofner, ‘Trajan und die symbolische Kommunikation bei kaiserlichen Rombesuchen in der Spätantike’, in Rom in der Spätantike: Historische Erinnerung im städtischen Raum, ed. by Ralf Behrwald and Christian Witschel (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2012), pp. 333–359. Mirella Serlorenzi and Roberto Egidi, ‘L’Athenaeum di Adriano: Storia di un edificio dalla fondazione al XVII secolo’, in Bollettino di Archeologia online, 4 (2013), pp.192–198. Available at: https://bollettinodiarcheologiaonline.beniculturali. it/numero-2-3-4-2013-anno-iv/; last accessed 22 July 2020.

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Peter Stewart, ‘Continuity and Tradition in Late Antique Perceptions of Portrait Statuary’, in Statuen in der Spätantike, ed. by Franz Alto Bauer and Christian Witschel (Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2007), pp. 27–42. Dennis Trout, ‘Damasus and the Invention of Early Christian Rome’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 33 (2003), pp. 517–536. Dennis Trout, Damasus of Rome: The Epigraphic Poetry (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). Pier Luigi Tucci, The Temple of Peace in Rome, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017). Catherine Ware, Claudian and the Epic Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Catherine Ware, ‘Learning from Pliny: Claudian’s Advice to Emperor Honorius’, Arethusa, 46 (2013), pp. 313–331. John Weisweiler, ‘From Equality to Asymmetry: Honorific Statues, Imperial Identity, and Senatorial Power in Late-Antique Rome’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 25 (2012), pp. 319–350. Paul Zanker, The Mask of Socrates: The Image of the Intellectual in Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1995).

About the Author Gregor Kalas is associate professor of architectural history at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where he is the Riggsby Director of the Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. He is the author of The Restoration of the Roman Forum in Late Antiquity: Transforming Public Space (2015).

4. Rolling Out the Red Carpet, RomanStyle: The Arrival at Rome From Constantine to Charlemagne Jacob Latham

Abstract The arrival ceremony (adventus) provides important insights into the social imaginary of late antique Rome. On the one hand, the adventus visibly highlighted the power of those arriving. On the other hand, the city presented a version of itself in the form of the welcoming committee. How, for whom, and by whom these arrivals were staged reveals the changing ways that Rome was imagined. Though the ceremony remained deeply traditional for a very long time – emperors greeted by the senate and Roman people – over centuries, the ritual was slowly adapted to suit a Christianizing city. Bishops not only joined the welcoming committee, but they themselves were welcomed back into Rome in grand style. Keywords: adventus (arrival ceremony), Christianization, late antique Rome, performance, processions, triumph

And so we came to Rome. Brothers from that place, when they heard about us, came as far as the Forum of Appius [65 km] and Three Taverns [50 km] to meet us. Acts 28:14–15

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch04

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In a way, Paul’s arrival may be the first Christian adventus (arrival ceremony) at Rome.1 As Paul and his entourage (a centurion named Julius, other prisoners, and the narrator of Acts) approached the city, two different groups of brothers, and possibly also sisters (adelphoi), greeted him at great distances from the city. At Rome, Paul was allowed to live in rented rooms with the soldier who had accompanied him on his journey. Then, on the third day after his arrival, Paul assembled and spoke to the leaders of the Jewish community.2 Whatever may have really happened, the author of Acts certainly described how a figure like Paul should have been greeted, following, more or less, the standard pattern for a ritualized arrival at Rome: a joyous greeting outside the city by some representative group, an address to (some of) the citizens and/or an offering of thanks for a safe arrival, and the assumption of his or her residence. This pattern had been set by the late Republic, when Cicero returned from exile in 57 BCE. According to Cicero himself, ‘the Roman people honored me with their large and joyful escort from the gate to the Capitol and from there to my house.’3 Elsewhere, Cicero claimed that ‘the senate and the whole people […] every man and woman of every class, age, and rank, of every fortune and place’ assembled outside the Porta Capena to greet him with ‘the utmost applause,’ after which the crowds conducted him to the Capitol and, the next day, he delivered a speech in the senate to express his thanks for the (eventual) return of his house.4 A similar pattern held for Trajan’s return to Rome in 99 CE, not long before the probable composition date of Acts. As he walked into the city, playing the civilis princeps (the gentlemanly leader), in contrast to more arrogant emperors who were carried on litters, Trajan ‘greeted the senate with a kiss […] called out the equestrian order […] greet[ed his] clients […] [and] walked [among] the thronging people.’ Trajan then ‘set out to climb the Capitol,’ before he ‘sought the palace, with the same moderate expression as if it were a private house.’5 1 On Paul in Acts, see Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi, pp. 126–127; and Pervo, Acts: A Commentary, pp. 669 and 677–678. 2 Acts 28: 16–17. 3 Cicero, De domo suo, c. 76 (all translations are my own unless otherwise indicated). 4 Cicero, In Pisonem, c. 52; and Epistula ad Atticum 4. 1. 5 [73]. On the Republican adventus, see Benoist, Rome, le prince et la Cité, pp. 25–35; Ronning, ‘Stadteinzüge in der Zeit der römischen Republik’; Meister, ‘Adventus und Profectio’; and Luke, Ushering in a New Republic, esp. pp. 88–112 on Cicero. 5 Pliny (the Younger), Panegyricus 23. 1–2, 23. 4, and 23. 6; and Badel, ‘Adventus et Salutatio’, esp. pp. 167–172 on civiltas or humanitas.

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Cicero claimed to have been greeted as a returning savior; Trajan performed the role of a model princeps. Both were greeted by a representative assembly of Romans, the senate and Roman people (with equestrian order in Trajan’s case), which met the arriving dignitaries at or outside the city gates, conducted them to the Capitol to pay homage to Jupiter Optimus Maximus, and then escorted them home (sometime later in Cicero’s case). This pattern would survive, in many respects, from Constantine to Charlemagne. In Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, the adventus at Rome became increasingly important as Roman emperors were increasingly absent from the imperial city, while early medieval kings never permanently resided in the symbolic capital of Latin Christendom. Perhaps due to its increased significance, the ceremony remained quite traditional for a very long time. Through the fifth century, emperors largely monopolized the ceremony; the senate and Roman people comprised the occursus (modern usage for the welcoming committee, which was typically understood as a kind of civic cross section); and the Forum and the imperial palace were still the key stops on the route. Eventually, but slowly, fitfully, and unevenly, the ritual was adapted to suit new socio-political realities. First, the identity of those arriving would change: emperors would give way to kings, exarchs, and, eventually, bishops. Second, the public performance of the arriving dignitary would evolve: a grand civic ceremony yielded first to an even grander military, not to say triumphal, one under Septimius Severus (190–211 CE) – a product of a shared idiom of spectacle common to all imperial ceremonies –and, ultimately, to a scrupulously pious one. Third, the composition of the occursus would also adapt: the senate and Roman people would eventually include the bishop of Rome, who would, later still, dominate the occursus.6 The civic status of the bishop would finally catch up, as it were, to his ecclesiastical stature. And fourth, even the itinerary would be modified: an ascent to the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Rome’s sovereign god, on the Capitol would be replaced centuries later by a visit to St. Peter’s basilica in the Vatican; while the imperial palace on the Palatine would be replaced by a hostel near St. Peter’s or the Lateran episcopal complex. In the end, the development of the adventus ceremony from Constantine to Charlemagne catalogues the Christianization of Rome in four dimensions, so to speak. In other words, all of these changes, which took place at different rates over the course of centuries, index and embody the transformation of the social imaginary of Rome over the longue durée of the long Late Antiquity. 6 Bodnaruk, ‘Beyond a Landscape of Conflict’ on the political import of the occursus.

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Figure 4.1. Adventus of Constantine (312 CE) from the east frieze of the Arch of Constantine, Rome, 315 CE (photo: D-DAI-Rome 3134).

Emperors and their Armies On 29 October 312, the day after the epochal battle of the Milvian bridge, Constantine ‘drove into Rome with songs of triumph,’ according to Eusebius, during which ‘the senate and Roman people,’ as the panegyrist Nazarius styled the occursus, joyously welcomed the civil war victor.7 While the literary sources remain silent concerning Constantine’s self-presentation (though effusive about the joy and happiness of Rome itself), a Constantinian relief from the short, east side of the arch of Constantine shows a full-fledged, military triumph [Fig 4.1] On the relief, armed infantry lead the way, followed by the cavalry, some of whom carry aloft dragon banners streaming in the wind, with another group of foot soldiers directly in front of Constantine, who sits on a four-wheeled wagon (a decidedly non-triumphal pose – a triumphator stood, during the high empire at least, in a two-wheeled currus triumphalis), and a standard bearer bringing up the rear.8 The joy of the senate and Roman people was long a standard feature of ceremonial protocol (or perhaps better, descriptions of the ceremony), while a militarized entry led by soldiers and conducted by an emperor seated on a quadriga – as opposed to on foot – was a more recent addition to the ritual performance. Previously, emperors were enjoined to enter Rome as a civilis princeps, like Trajan. And so, according to Tacitus, in 69 CE the would-be emperor Vitellius ‘was deterred by the counsel of friends from entering Rome as if it were a 7 Chronographus anni CCCLIIII. Mensis October: IIII Kal Nov, ADVENT DIVI (CIL I.1 2, p. 274); Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica 9. 9. 9 (and Vita Constantini 1.39.1); and Nazarius, Panegyrici Latini iv (10). 30. 4. Panegyrici Latini xii (9). 19, 1–2; and Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, c. 44. 9 both describe the occursus similarly. See also Prudentius, Contra orationem Symmachi I. 489–495: a colorful re-imagining of the scene; and Wienand, ‘O tandem felix civili, Roma, victoria!’, esp. pp. 176–187 on the transformation of civil war into a legitimate victory. 8 A relief, once interpreted as a representation of this same arrival procession, has now been convincingly re-read as Constantine’s profectio (departure), on which see Mastino and Teatini, ‘Ancora sul discusso ‘trionfo’ di Costantino’, esp. pp. 308–318.

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conquered city; so he donned a toga praetexta and walked before a carefully arranged column [of the army],’ which he led to the Capitol.9 With evident dislike, Suetonius noted that Vitellius ‘entered the city at the call of a trumpet, wearing a military cloak and girt with a sword, surrounded by standards and banners, his staff clothed in military cloaks and his troops with weapons bared.’10 In 193 CE, Septimius Severus ‘arrived at Rome with all the rest of his army, equipped with arms […]. The people and the senate, bearing laurel garlands, welcomed him,’ according to Herodian.11 The late-fourth-century Historia Augusta seconded the sentiment, asserting that Severus, ‘armed and accompanied by armed soldiers, entered Rome and mounted the Capitol. Then, he marched, in the same attire, to the Palace,’ appearing the next day in the Curia still accompanied by an armed entourage.12 Dio Cassius, by contrast, rehabilitated Septimius Severus insisting that he, just like Vitellius before him, only ‘went as far as the gates on horse and in cavalry gear; but there he changed to citizenly clothes and walked. And the entire army, both infantry and cavalry, fully armed followed him.’13 However one juggles these, at times conflicting, accounts, an emperor entering the city armed and/or with an armed entourage was still strongly discouraged into the early third century CE. Even so, many subsequent imperial arrivals at Rome were described as triumphal, which suggests that they prominently featured fully and magnificently armed and armored soldiers, who also starred in the triumph proper. In 203 CE, for example, Septimius Severus ‘was welcomed as a victor by the Roman people with great praise and ceremony,’ when he returned after his victory over the Parthians – a seeming conflation of a triumph, an honor that Septimius supposedly declined, and an arrival.14 Though accompanied by an 9 Tacitus, Historiae, 2. 89. 1. 10 Suetonius, Vitellius, c. 11. 1. 11 Herodian, Historia, 2. 14. 1. 12 Historia Augusta, Severus, 7. 1. 13 Dio Cassius, Historia Romana, 74. 1. 3. On these arrivals, see Levene, ‘Pity, Fear, and the Historical Audience’; Flaig, ‘Introitus Infaustus’; and Jonquières, ‘L’adventus définit le mauvais princeps’. 14 Herodian, Historia, 3. 10.1 on which, see also Dio Cassius, Historia Romana, 76. 1. 3 and Historia Augusta, Severus, c. 16. 6; and for other ‘triumphal’ entries (or outright triumphs), see e.g. Herodian, Historia, 8. 7. 8 and Historia Augusta, Alexander Severus, c. 56–57, Maximini duo c. 24. 8, Maximus et Balbus c. 13. 1–2, and Aurelius c. 33–34 (concludes at palace), Panegyrici Latini x (2). 13. 2, and, on the return to and triumph at Rome by Diocletian and Maximian, Zonaras, Epitome Historiarum, xii. 32 with Eutropius, Breviarium, 9. 27. 2 (MGH Auct. Ant. ii, 166), Chronographus anni CCCLIIII, Breviarium Urbis Romae (MGH Auct. Ant. ix. 148), Jerome, Eusebii Caesariensis Chronicon: Hieronymi continuatio, anno 304 (ed. Helm, pp. 227–228); Prosper, Epitoma chronicon, anno 302 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 447), Cassiodorus, Chronica, anno 306 (MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 150); and Theophanes, Chronographia, anno mundi 5796.

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army, Septimius Severus observed the customs of a traditional, benevolent emperor, celebrating his tenth anniversary with games and shows. Only an angry or uncertain emperor unsure of his power would descend on Rome in an openly and aggressively military fashion – or, at least, the sources construed the arrival of such emperors in such terms. And so, after quelling Albinus’s attempt to seize imperial power in 197 CE, Septimius Severus, hastened to Rome, taking the entire army with him […]. [A]ngry at the friends of [Albinus] who were still around, he drove into Rome. The people, bearing laurel branches, welcomed him with every honor and acclamation, to which the senate added its own greeting. Most, however, were in a state of great fear, believing that he would not spare them.15

In the end, good emperors entered Rome as if in triumph, which justified the presence of the army, while bad emperors and their menacing soldiers marched upon the city as if attacking an enemy. In 312, then, Constantine entered Rome as a good emperor, that is to say triumphally accompanied by ‘triumphal jests’, but not in triumph as if the defeated were foreign enemies instead of Romans.16 Constantine arrived like a traditional emperor, like Septimius Severus in 203 (not 197), and was greeted by the traditional occursus of the senate and Roman people, however colorfully depicted; more on the Constantinian itinerary in the next section. The performance, or rather its literary memorialization, transformed war into liberation, overlooking the army entirely – an omission that allowed Constantine to redeem a civil war victory by placing him in the mainstream of late imperial tradition. The frieze on the Arch of Constantine, by contrast, captures the triumphalization or, better, the militarization of the arrival ceremony, dominated by the army in full panoply with banners held aloft [Fig. 4.1]. An emperor driving a long line of infantry and cavalry, both armed and armored, into the city would become a defining feature of the late antique adventus.17 According to a well-known passage from Ammianus Marcellinus, whose veracity should probably be viewed with some skepticism, Constantius II arrived at Rome in 357, also on the heels of a civil war victory, ‘as if he were to frighten the Euphrates or the Rhine by a show of arms […]. On each side 15 Herodian, Historia, 3. 8. 3 and see also Historia Augusta, Severus, c. 12. 7. 16 Panegyrici Latini, xii (9). 18. 3. By contrast, Lange, ‘Constantine’s Civil War Triumph’, argues that the entry was in fact a triumph and, moreover, that the adventus and triumph remained clearly distinct ceremonies. 17 MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity and McCormick, Eternal Victory on the triumphalization of the adventus.

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marched twin rows of armed men with shields and crested helmets, radiant with glittering light, clad in shining breastplates. Interspersed among them were mailed cavalry (whom they call clibanarii), masked, furnished with cuirasses, and girt with iron belts.’18 Though Ammianus assuredly aimed to criticize Constantius for his apparent desire to celebrate something like a triumph – the emperor actually sat non-triumphantly in a carriage (carpentum) – his portrayal of the adventus might not have been wholly fabricated. In fact, Attius Caecilius Maximilianus was awarded an honorific statue for his ‘diligence and foresight during the adventus at the city of Rome of our lord, Constantius, the greatest, victor and triumphator,’ while Sozomen, a mid-fifth-century church historian, noted that Constantius desired a triumph at Rome.19 In short, all signs indicate that Constantius orchestrated a military pageant, a show of strength that may have verged on intimidation, for this famous arrival at Rome. The occursus, however, remained deeply faithful to earlier tradition. Constantius was greeted by ‘the senate and the august likenesses of patrician stock […] [and] crowds of men of every type [who] had flocked from all quarters to Rome’ – an artfully conjured image of Rome as the senate and Roman people, but the senate and Roman people all the same. The traditional composition of the welcoming party would remain remarkably unchanged through the fourth and fifth centuries. In fact, ‘the people and senate welcomed [Eusebia, wife of Constantius] with joy and eagerly went and welcomed her according to custom for an empress,’ at her arrival in Rome in 354.20 While imperial public performance had already changed, shifting from civilian or citizenly to military and martial in the Severan age, the civic self-representation of Rome did not – emperors and empresses would be greeted by the senate and Roman people until 500. In 389, after defeating the ‘usurper’ Magnus Maximus in yet another civil war, Theodosius with his son Honorius simply entered Rome, according to the laconic chronicle tradition. 21 By contrast, the church historians 18 Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae, 16. 10. 6 and 16. 10. 8; on which, see, from a massive literature, Flower, ‘Tamquam figmentum hominis’, who rightly questions Ammianus’ accuracy and whose notes provide a sample of the scholarship on this passage. 19 CIL 6.41332, on which, see Mazzarino, ‘L’adventus di Costanzo II’; and Sozomen, Historia Ecclesiastica 4. 8. 20 Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae, 16. 10. 5–6; Julian, Oratio 3. 129c; and see Latham, ‘Adventus, Occursus, and the Christianization of Rome’, on the welcoming committee in late antiquity. 21 Hydatius, Chronica, Olympi 292 (389 CE, ed. Burgess, 79); Consularia Constantinopolitana, anno 389 (ed. Burgess, 242); Chronicon Pascale, anno 389 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 245); Consularia Italica: Fasti Vindobonenses Priores, anno 389 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 298); Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, anno 389 (MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 62); and Theophanes, Chronographia, anno mundi 5881.

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have Theodosius and Honorius, mistakenly identified as Valentinian by Sozomen, enter Rome in triumph – that is, accompanied by the army.22 In yet another variation, the panegyrist Pacatus, in his speech performed at the ceremony, presented a multivalent arrival in which Theodosius – ‘sometimes in a chariot, a procession of litters in front, sometimes on foot, distinguished either way, now triumphant in war, now over arrogance’ – appeared both as a late imperial triumphant commander and a Trajanicstyle civilis princeps.23 A fragment from the so-called Alexandrian world chronicle may represent the more civilian adventus [Fig.4.2].

Figure 4. 2. Emperor Theodosius and his son Honorius on foot (389 CE), detail of a papyrus miniature from the Golenischev papyrus, folio 6 verso (photo: Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, I.1.6 310/8, A Fragment of the World Chronicle).

22 Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica, 5. 14. 3–4; Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica, 7. 14. 7; and Rufinus, Historia ecclesiastica, 11. 17. 23 Pacatus, Panegyrici Latini, ii (12). 47. 3.

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Above a famous image of Bishop Theophilus standing in triumph over the now ruined Alexandrian Serapeum and next to the text that records the visit to Rome stand what seem to be Theodosius, the taller figure on the right, and his young son Honorius, the shorter figure on the left. The image is an attempt, perhaps, to capture the citizenly arrival in which the emperor walked.24 It would seem that a triumphal or martial adventus could still be contentious – especially in the context of a civil war. For that reason possibly, Claudian, in his panegyric on Honorius’s sixth consulship delivered in 404, sought to distance Theodosius (and ultimately Honorius) from ‘those triumphs stained with guilt’ – that is, civil war victories – by insisting that, though a victor, Theodosius (and by extension Honorius who accompanied his father) ‘played the part of citizen’ during his arrival in 389.25 Despite Claudian’s defense of Theodosius (and so also Honorius) as civilis princeps, Honorius’s own arrivals at Rome (and elsewhere) struck a resoundingly military note. In 395, in honor of his third consulate (which he assumed in January 396), Honorius entered Milan ‘on a triumphal chariot […] [accompanied by] an army troop with crested helms […] the brightness of bronze blinds the eyes and a field of unsheathed swords with the brilliance of Mars redoubles the day. Some are equipped with bows, some long-range javelins, some bristling with pikes for close quarters.’26 A brilliant, military host escorted the triumphant emperor all the way to the palace. Strikingly, the more famous, and more fulsomely described adventus in 403 in honor of Honorius’s sixth consulship (taken up in 404) supposedly presented the emperor ‘as a citizen, while those before had come as masters,’ even though ‘horseman clad in steel and stallions hidden beneath their covering of bronze’ provided escort. 27 Subsequent imperial arrivals at Rome are not, unfortunately, so extravagantly conjured. In 416/417, Prosper’s Chronicle notes that ‘Honorius entered Rome in triumph with Attalus [the disgraced pet emperor of the Visigothic king, Alaric] leading his chariot,’ a terse description typical of the

24 Bauer and Strygowski, Eine alexandrinische Weltchronik, fol. 6 verso; and Burgess and Dijkstra, ‘“Alexandrian World Chronicle”’, p. 84 and pl. 2. 25 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, lines 406 and 58–59 (trans. Dewar, pp. 7 and 29); on which, see Wienand, ‘O tandem felix civili, Roma, victoria!’, pp. 187–197. 26 Claudian, De tertio consulatu Honorii, lines 130 and 133–137. 27 Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, lines 559 and 569–570 (trans. Dewar, p. 39); on which, see Kelly, ‘Claudian’s Last Panegyric’.

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genre.28 Emperor Valentinian III described his own arrival at Rome in 450 to his co-emperor Theodosius II in equally simple terms: ‘I arrived at Rome to placate divinity’ – insisting upon a pious motive for his visit, a sign of things to come.29 In his chronicle, Cassiodorus notes that ‘Anthemius was sent by emperor Leo to Italy [in 467], who [Anthemius] took up imperium at the third milestone from the city at a place called Brontotae,’ which suggests a ritual arrival and investiture.30 Hydatius, in his chronicle, simply noted that ‘Anthemius was acclaimed Augustus at the eighth mile-marker from Rome.’31 Unfortunately, Hydatius did not indicate who acclaimed Anthemius, as details of the occursus disappeared from the descriptions of these last three ceremonies. Indeed, after Honorius’s triumphal arrival in 403, details of imperial ceremonial protocol at Rome decline in general. Even so, the taciturn evidence suggests that emperors were still greeted in what had become a traditional, military ceremony. In 416, Honorius entered Rome in triumph, while in 467 an assembly, the army probably (accompanied by senators perhaps), hailed Anthemius as emperor. The pious arrival of Valentinian III remains an outlier. Beginning with Septimius Severus and continuing into the f ifth century, emperors arrived at Rome in martial style, presenting themselves as victors and conquerors, even if only in civil wars. The senate and Roman people, often explicitly named as such or colorfully evoked in other terms, greeted the emperor with joy, escorted him to the Forum and f inally to the Palatine palace – at least, when the occursus and itinerary were specif ied. After Anthemius, however, the next imperial arrival at Rome in person, as opposed to the arrival of imperial portraits, would not take place until nearly 200 years later. In the interim, other rulers and dignitaries would stage their own adventus at the eternal city – and the welcoming committee and itinerary would change accordingly.

28 Prosper, Epitoma chronicon, anno 417 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 468); and Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna’, pp. 137–141, on Honorius’ sojourns in Rome. 29 [Leo], Epistula 55 (PL 54, col. 857), on which see Humphries, ‘Valentinian III and the City of Rome (425–55)’, esp. p. 170. 30 Cassiodorus, Chronica, anno 467 (MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 158). 31 Hydatius, Chronica, Olympi 311 (467 CE, ed. Burgess, 118); on which Humphries, ‘Emperor to Pope?’ who examines these lesser studied arrivals.

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Changing of the Guard According to an anonymous biographer, After peace was made in the city of the church, King Theodoric went to Rome and with utmost devotion he greeted St. Peter just as if he were catholic. The Pope Symmachus and the whole senate and Roman people met him outside the city with complete joy. Then coming to and entering the city, he came to the senate and address[ed] the people at the Palm […]. For his tricennalia [probably his decennalia], he entered the palace triumphantly for sake of the people and presented circus games to the Romans.32

In many respects, Theodoric entered Rome as had emperors for centuries before: the senate and Roman people met him outside the walls with great joy, a detail echoed centuries later by Paul the Deacon; he then he addressed the senate in the Forum, and took possession of the palace in triumph, that is, accompanied by his army.33 There are, however, three notable innovations. First, Theodoric was not an emperor but rather king of the Ostrogoths who served in the name of or in the stead of the eastern Roman emperor. Claudian, however, imagined a similarly joyful arrival for Stilicho, another non-imperial guest of honor, a full century earlier, and Stilicho also rode with Honorius during the emperor’s arrival in 403 – so, a non-imperial adventus was not entirely novel.34 As a kind of imperial surrogate, Theodoric often acted in an imperial, that is to say traditional, manner, which this classicizing adventus amply demonstrates.35 Cassiodorus, in his chronicle, confirmed this classicism: ‘King Theoderic, sought by the prayers of all, arrived at Rome and, conducting himself with admirable courtesy in his senate, he gave rations of food to the Roman plebs.’36 Describing a king who acted like an emperor, Cassiodorus evoked a traditional adventus, prominently featuring the senate and Roman people. The two other changes are more strikingly pioneering. For the very first time, the bishop of Rome found a place in the welcoming committee. In fact, Bishop Symmachus seems to have led it, at least according to the anonymous 32 Anonymus Valesianus, Chronica Theodericiana, c. 65–67, on Theodoric’s arrival and its sources, see Vitiello, Momenti di Roma ostrogota, pp. 56–71. 33 Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana, c. 15. 18 (MGH Auct. Ant. ii, 215). 34 Claudian, De consulatu Stilichonis, 2. 397–405 and De sextu consulatu Honorii, lines 578–583. 35 See Vitiello, ‘Teoderico a Roma’, esp. pp. 73–81, on Theodoric’s maintenance of tradition. 36 Cassiodorus, Chronica, anno 500 (MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 160).

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biographer. Even so, the bishop stood at the head of an otherwise traditional occursus; the senate and Roman people greeted the arriving ruler with joy. The Life of Fulgentius, in a description of the bishop’s visit to Rome at the time of Theodoric’s arrival, highlights the traditional joy of the senate and Roman people: ‘There was, then, the greatest joy in the city, the presence of King Theodoric causing the assembly of the senate and the Roman people to rejoice’.37 And so, while headed by the bishop, a largely traditional occursus greeted King Theodoric. The third innovation is less straightforward. The anonymous biographer seems to suggest that the king took a slight detour from the standard itinerary, making a short stop just outside the walls before continuing on to the Forum. The phrase occurrit beato Petro (‘he greeted St. Peter’) plausibly points to a visit to the basilica of St. Peter in the Vatican.38 The phrase, however, is ambiguous. It may be metaphorical, meaning simply that Theodoric came to the seat of the heirs of Peter – that is, Rome – where he met the bishop, one of Peter’s heirs. Moreover, he did so piously and respectfully, ac si catholicus (‘as if he were a catholic’) and not the ‘heretical’ adherent to an alternate form of Christianity that he, in fact, was. Moreover, the same biography used similar phrasing to portray the reception that emperor Justin gave Bishop John of Rome: ‘the emperor Justin greeted (occurrit) him at his arrival as if he were St. Peter’ – ac si beato Petro.39 In other words, Justin welcomed the bishop of Rome respectfully as befits an heir of the apostle. And so, Theodoric might have simply arrived at Rome and treated the bishop with all due consideration. If, however, Theodoric did visit the basilica before entering the city, the pious station accords well with the need to demonstrate support for the embattled Bishop Symmachus who was still struggling with a rival, Laurentius, for the episcopacy. 40 Though Theodoric came to Rome to celebrate his tricennalia (or, better, his decennalia) in imperial fashion, his performance during the arrival itself was construed as pious, whether or not he stopped at the basilica. 41 37 Vita S. Fulgentii c. 9 .27 (CCSL xci, 192). 38 Vitiello, Momenti di Roma ostrogota, pp. 13–38, and Liverani, ‘Dal trionfo pagano all’adventus cristiano’ and idem, ‘Victors and Pilgrims in Late Antiquity’, both, very reasonably, read the passage this way. 39 Anonymus Valesianus, Chronica Theodericiana, c. 91 (emphasis added). Vitiello, ‘Nouve prospettive sull’adventus’, p. 561, notes that the phrase sounds like a common expression, but will still maintain that Theodoric visited the basilica. 40 From an impressive literature on this schism, see Sessa, Formation of Papal Authority, pp. 213–216 for an accessible overview. 41 Arnold, Theodoric and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 204-209.

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The potential addition of St. Peter’s basilica to the standard itinerary, with a stop in the Forum and concluding at the palace, may have culminated a process nearly 200 years in the making. In 313, an anonymous panegyrist noted that ‘some even dared […] to complain that [Constantine] entered the palace so quickly,’ forgoing, it has been argued, the traditional ascent of the Capitol to pay homage to Jupiter Optimus Maximus.42 In fact, no text (whether ‘pagan’ or Christian) mentions an ascent of the Capitol or veneration of Jupiter during this arrival, which was a regular, though not obligatory, element of ritual description. In addition, the Constantinian reliefs on the arch of Constantine do not show the Capitol; yet adventus iconography (see also, for example, the arch of Galerius) tends to focus on the one arriving and the crowds gathered. Even so, the so-called silence of the sources may have been deliberate.43 Perhaps. Panegyrics and other descriptions of the adventus were not required to name every element of the ceremony, even though they did often allude to the Capitol and its attendant rites, even if only in passing. However, as is well known, arguments from silence can be dangerous. For example, Orosius contended that emperor Philip ‘the Arab’ (r. 244–249) was a Christian, a dubious assertion made only by Orosius and his source, Eusebius, who described the millennial celebration of the ludi Saeculares as dedicated to Christ simply because no author mentioned an ascent to the Capitoline temple for the customary sacrifices. 44 The Historia Augusta – a key source on the extravagant millennial celebrations including, supposedly, 1000 pairs of gladiators – had no qualms about calling out Elagabalus for his supposed refusal to ascend the Capitol, suggesting that the work would have also mentioned a similar indiscretion by Philip. 45 Similarly, if Constantine had refused to ascend, then one might expect Christian sources, like Lactantius and Eusebius, to trumpet the rejection of so-called idolatry. The evidence, or its lack, is equivocal and the assumption that Constantine, as a Christian, could not perform the rituals on the Capitol is just that – an assumption. 46 After all, Christians could and did sacrifice if the occasion 42 Panegyrici Latini, xii (9). 19. 3. 43 On this argument from silence, see Nixon and Rodgers, In Praise of Later Roman Emperors, pp. 323–324, n. 119 contra; and Fraschetti, La conversione, pp. 9–63 pro. 44 Orosius, Historiarum adversum paganos libri VII, 7. 20. 3; and Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica, 6. 34. 45 Historia Augusta, Gordiani tres c. 33. 1–3 and Antoninus Heliogabalus, c. 15.7; on which, see Pohlsander, ‘Philip the Arab’. 46 Both Paschoud, Eunape, Olympiodore, Zosime, pp. 67 and 273–83; and Fraschetti, La conversione, pp. 9–19, 47–63, and 76–82, insist that Constantine would not have mounted the Capitol simply because he was a Christian.

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demanded it. For example, Bishop Cyprian of Carthage lamented that many Christians sacrificed, some on the Capitol itself, and did so willingly, eagerly even, during the Decian persecution; while Lactantius insinuated that the arch-persecutor, Diocletian, forced his possibly Christian daughter, Valeria, to sacrifice.47 Even Bishop Marcellinus of Rome (r. 295–303) was remembered as having offered sacrifice, incense, in the Liber Pontificalis, the ‘official’ biography of the bishops of Rome. 48 Martyrs were exceptions, not the rule. Canon 59 of the synod of Elvira (c. 309 CE), which may be a later addition, barred any Christian from ascending the Capitol to see the sacred image and to offer sacrifices, which suggests, of course, that some Christians did just that. 49 Those who did would only be re-admitted to the Christian community after ten years of penance. As late as the reign of Justinian (r. 527–565), fully baptized Christians were still thought to participate in traditional cult: ‘some have been found who, […] having left behind the worship of the true and only God […], were offering sacrifices to idols and celebrating festivals […]; even those who had already been deemed worthy of sacred baptism have committed these sins.’50 If, in the early sixth century, a baptized Christian might sacrifice at an altar before a divine image, then an early fourth-century Christian emperor like Constantine might have climbed the Capitol – at least, until Ossius of Cordoba, Constantine’s advisor on Christianity, convinced him otherwise.51 According to an oft-cited and much debated passage from Zosimus (c. 500), an imperial bureaucrat and historian who is typically dismissed as ‘stubbornly pagan,’ Constantine had mounted the Capitol or was prepared to do just that in 326: When an ancestral festival arrived during which it was necessary for the army to go up to the Capitol [at Rome] and perform the customary rites, for fear of the soldiers Constantine took part in the festival; but when the Egyptian [seemingly code for Ossius of Cordoba] sent him an 47 Cyprian, De lapsis c. 8: Christians eagerly sacrif icing, mentioning the Capitol by name, Cyprian, Epistula, c. 21. 3: a Christian who seems to have stopped herself before mounting the Capitol, and Cyprian, Epistula, c. 59.1 3: sacrifices on the Capitol; Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, c. 15. 1; and, on the quieter Christians, Boin, Coming out Christian, esp. pp. 33–34. 48 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 16 (Marcellinus, 30. 2). 49 Concilium Eliberritanum, canon 59; on which, see Sánchez, ‘L’état actuel de la recherche sur le concile d’Elvire’. 50 Codex Iustinianus I. 11. 10. praefatio. 51 On Constantine’s legislation concerning sacrifice, see e.g. Eusebius, Vita Constantini, 2. 25, 4. 23, and 4. 25; Codex Theodosianus, 16. 10. 2; Libanius, Oratio, c. 30. 37, on which, see Bradbury, ‘Constantine and the Problem of Anti-Pagan Legislation’.

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apparition which reviled without restraint this ascent of the Capitol, he stood aloof from the sacred rites and aroused the hatred of the senate and the people.52

Everything about this passage has been disputed, most especially the date and occasion. A number of scholars have asserted that this event must have taken place in 312 or 315, because Constantine, as a Christian, could not have sacrificed. If, however, one sets aside assumptions about what Constantine’s conversion may or may not have entailed, there is little reason to revise Zosimus’s own date of 326. The ‘ancestral [or customary] festival’ that required the army’s presence on the Capitol seems to have been an imperial celebration. For example, in 262, shortly after, or perhaps during, Gallienus’s arrival in Rome, the army supposedly joined the emperor in an extravagant procession to the Capitol for an over-the-top sacrifice during his decennalia. By contrast, in 326, Constantine may have refused to ascend with his army sometime during his vicennalia celebrations, earning him the animosity of the senate and Roman people.53 Though the precise occasion remains murky (an adventus procession is a strong possibility), this anecdote seems to recount the very moment when the Capitol as a site of imperial ritual was decisively abandoned in 326, in favor of a more exclusionary understanding of Christian religious obligations. After 326, it seems, no subsequent emperor would be caught climbing Rome’s sacred mountain, except Constantius who did so only as a tourist.54 However, a substitute sacred site was not inserted into the itinerary until 500 – if, that is, Theodoric actually stopped at the basilica of St. Peter as part of the ritual itinerary instead of simply coming to Rome and treating the bishop with respect. The addition, while not certain, is plausible. For just over a century, St. Peter’s attracted imperial visitors sometime during their sojourn at Rome, though not during their adventus.55 In the 380s (perhaps), John Chrysostom claimed that ‘at most imperial Rome, emperors, consuls, 52 Zosimus, Historia Nova, 2. 29. 5, on which, see Paschoud, Cinq études sur Zosime, pp. 44–62, Zosime, Histoire Nouvelle vol. 1 2, ed. Paschoud, pp. 234–240 n. 39, and idem, Eunape, Olympiodore, Zosime, pp. 67 and 273–83; Fraschetti, La conversione., esp. pp. 87–108; Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital, pp. 71–75; and Moralee, Rome’s Sacred Mountain, p. 42 n. 54 and 123–127, who sees this passage as polemic. 53 Historia Augusta, Gallieni duo, 8.1; and Libanius, Orationes, c. 19. 19 and c. 20. 24, on Constantine enduring insults from the Roman people, possibly in 326. 54 Moralee, Rome’s Sacred Mountain, esp. pp. 40–42 and 51–55. 55 On visits to St. Peter’s, see Fraschetti, La conversione, pp. 261–269, Vitiello, ‘Nuove prospettive sull’adventus’, pp. 556–564; and Liverani ‘Victors and Pilgrims’, pp. 91–93.

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and generals, having put away everything else, run to the tombs of the fisherman and the tentmaker’ – that is, the highest imperial dignitaries visited the basilicas of Peter and Paul sometime while they were in Rome.56 Elsewhere (but before 393), Chrysostom conjured another emperor (perhaps Theodosius in 389), paying homage at the tombs of Peter and Paul: ‘he who was crowned with a diadem begs earnestly with prayers that he may have the maker of tents and the fisherman as patrons, though they fulfilled fate [that is, they died].’57 While by no means conclusive, Chrysostom certainly imagined that emperors visited the churches of Peter and Paul in Rome in the late fourth century, though not, seemingly, during their arrival ceremonies. A short while later, in 404, Augustine painted a very similar picture of emperor Honorius: There [in Rome] is a tomb of a fisherman; there the temple of an emperor. Peter is there in a tomb [under the church], Hadrian is there in a temple [actually a tomb]. A temple for Hadrian, a memorial for Peter. The emperor comes. Let us see to whom he runs, where he wished to place his knees: in the temple of the emperor or in the memorial of the fisherman? Setting aside his diadem, he beat his breast where the body of the fisherman lies.58

To judge from Chrysostom and Augustine, it would seem that the Theodosian dynasty inaugurated a practice of visiting Rome’s illustrious martyr sites – though, again, not during the adventus itself. Emperor Valentinian III confirmed this imperial habit in a letter of 450 to his co-emperor Theodosius II concerning his pious visit to Rome. After his arrival in Rome, ‘on the next day, [Valentinian III] went to the basilica of St. Peter.’59 Galla Placida, the emperor’s mother, also wrote to the eastern emperor about paying homage to Peter at the very altar of the martyr.60 A short while later, in the presence of St. Peter the apostle, Bishop Hilarus (r. 461–468) compelled the emperor Anthemius, who had been met and made emperor at Brontotae in 467, to promise not to allow unnamed opposing 56 John Chrysostom, Contra gentiles demonstratio quod Christus sit Deus, c. 9. 6 (PG 48.825). 57 John Chrysostom, Homilia in epistulam ii ad Corinthos, c. 26. 5 (PG 61.582). 58 Augustine, Sermo, 360B .26 (Dolbeau 25 = Mainz 61); and also Augustine, Sermo, 341. 4 (Dolbeau 22 = Mainz 55) 417 CE; Augustine, Epistula 232.3; and Augustine, Ennarationes in psalmos 65.4, 86.8, and 140.21. See Gualandri, ‘Honorius in Rome’, who notes that Claudian, De sextu consulatu Honorii, appears all the more traditional or even ‘pagan’ in light of Augustine’s sermon. 59 [Leo I], Epistula, 55 (PL 54.857a). 60 [Leo I], Epistula, 56 (PL 54.859c).

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Christian sects to hold assemblies in Rome.61 Imperial visits to the basilica of St. Peter seem to have become customary in the fifth century, but the basilica did not replace the Capitoline temple in the adventus itself until 500 – if Theodoric did in fact visit the church.62 Even if Theodoric did not stop at the basilica, the biographer described the arrival ceremony in notably pious, not martial, terms even though the king came to Rome, in part, to celebrate a traditional imperial jubilee ritual, his decennalia. In the long run, Rome would become known as the threshold of St. Peter. But, even as the Vatican basilica took its place in the late antique image of Rome, the ancient Capitol was still a powerful presence.63 In fact, despite Christian rhetorical attacks, the Capitol remained the imagined destination of imperial triumph in the mid-fifth century. Though Sidonius Apollinaris neglected to commemorate an adventus in his panegyric on Majorian, a notable break with rhetorical tradition, he did conjure a future imperial triumph ‘in the manner of the ancestors […] [in which] the golden Capitol would look upon chained kings’ – invoking the sacred mountain and its gilded temple by a very traditional tag.64 If, then, Theodoric did stop at the basilica of St. Peter during his adventus, it was a novel departure that still had to struggle against the weight of tradition. Indeed, even after Theodoric it seems to have taken well over a century before the basilica of St. Peter became a standard stop on the arrival itinerary. By contrast, the presence of the bishop in the occursus became ingrained in the ritual habitus more quickly, though still slowly, while the red-carpet treatment for non-imperial dignitaries took root immediately, as Theodoric’s royal heirs were also greeted with all due pomp. In 518, Eutharic, son-in-law of Theodoric, ‘triumphed at Rome’ perhaps with the king himself, according to the anonymous biographer of Theodoric, signaling it would seem an armed arrival.65 Unfortunately, the biographer offered no further details and Cassiodorus only noted the ‘marvelous thanks’ with which the senate and people received Eutharic and then described both 61 Gelasius, Epistula, 95. 61 (CSEL xxv.390–391). 62 For other stops at the basilica before entering the city, see Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistula, 1. 5. 9 (467 CE); and from c. 514–550 CE the Passio Gallicani, c. 3 (Mombritius, Sanctuarium I, 571) whose hero, Gallicanus, had previously sacrificed on the Capitol, but now pays homage to the apostle Peter before entering Rome, on which see Lapidge, Roman Martyrs, pp. 363–368. 63 See Fraschetti, Conversione, pp. 109–122 and Moralee, Rome’s Sacred Mountain. 64 Sidonius Apollinaris, Carmen, 5. 586–593; Edwards, Writing Rome, p. 70 n. 6, on golden Rome; and MacCormack, Art and Ceremony, pp. 62–64, on the omission of the adventus. 65 Anonymus Valesianus, Chronica Theodericiana, c. 80; on which see Arnold, Theodoric and the Roman Imperial Restoration, 215-218

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the royal heir’s generosity to the senate and the magnificence of the spectacles that he produced.66 Almost twenty years later, King Theodahad planned a trip to Rome, for which Maximus, vicarius of Rome, was to construct a temporary bridge over the Tiber – a sufficiently sturdy bridge lest Maximus be called out in front of the occursus (including the senate).67 It would seem, then, that Ostrogothic kings and their heirs still staged traditional adventus ceremonies at Rome and that the senate, but not apparently the bishop, still played a prominent role in the occursus. After Theodahad, Justinian’s Gothic Wars to ‘re-conquer’ Italy gave occasion for a number of arrival ceremonies, which witnessed yet more changes to the rite. At the beginning of the Gothic Wars, in 536, General Belisarius ‘came to Rome. He was received kindly by the lord [one-time bishop] Silverius.’68 Given the circumstances, it is not clear if this was a formal adventus, but Belisarius was, at any rate, welcomed by Silverius with no mention of the senate and Roman people in any form – at least according to the Liber Pontificalis, a serial biography of the bishops of Rome. Jordanes, writing in Constantinople in the mid-sixth century, construed Belisarius’s initial arrival rather differently: ‘consul Belisarius entered the Roman city and was received by those people who had once been Roman and the senate (at present that name is nearly buried along with its virtue).’69 For Jordanes, Belisarius was greeted by an entirely traditional occursus, the senate and Roman people – albeit a degraded and degenerate one, echoing the pervasive tenor of decline in his history. More radically, a few years later, a (temporarily) victorious ‘patrician Belisarius, coming to Rome, presented to St. Peter the Apostle by the hands of Pope Vigilius from the spoils of the Vandals: a gold cross with gems, weighing 100 pounds, with an inscription of his victories, and two great silver-gilt candlesticks.’70 While Sidonius Apollinaris could imagine emperor Majorian mounting the Capitol to display captive kings, the Liber Pontificalis, by contrast, had Belisarius dedicate (some of) the Vandal spoils to St. Peter at some point 66 Cassiodorus, Chronica, anno 518 and 519 (MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 161). 67 Cassiodorus, Varia, 12. 19. 3–4. 68 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 291 (Silverius, 60. 6); see also Procopius, De bellis, 5. 14. 4–14 and Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, anno 536. 8 (MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 105). There were many seemingly non-ceremonial arrivals at Rome by many different parties in the mid-sixth century: e.g. Deodatus in 534 (Agnellus, Liber Pontificalis ecclesiae Ravennatis, c. 62 [CCCM cxcix, 232); Witigis in 536 and Belisarius in 545 (Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, anno 536. 5 and 545. 3 [(MGH Auct. Ant. xi, 104 and 107]); and Belisarius in 539, Vadua in 549, and Narses in 571 (Consularia Italica: Fasti Vindobonenses Posteriores, anno 539 and 549 [MGH Auct. Ant. 9, 334] and Consularia Italica: Excerpta Sangallensia, anno 571? [MGH Auct. Ant. 9, 336]). 69 Jordanes, Romana, 373 (MGH Auct. Ant. v. 1, 49). 70 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 296 (Vigilius, 61. 2).

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during his visit. A triumphal ceremony of sorts now took place at the altar of St. Peter – suggesting that the basilica of the apostle could replace the abandoned temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus in both the adventus and other rites. In 554 CE, Narses led the armies of Justinian to an important victory at Capua. Afterwards, according to Agathias (a near contemporary historian in Constantinople), ‘the Romans […] according to customary practice […] stripped the enemy and collected a large treasure of arms and armor [.…] So, loaded with booty, chanting victory songs, and wearing wreaths, [the Romans], leading their general [Narses] in state, returned to Rome.’71 Like Belisarius, Narses returned to Rome in triumph escorted by an army laden, it seems, with enemy weapons, bedecked with laurel crowns, and chanting jubilantly. East Roman generals seem to have had a strong appreciation of Roman triumphal tradition; but who greeted either Belisarius or Narses, and to whom did Narses dedicate the spoils? To judge from the example of Belisarius, the Apostle Peter would likely have received a share. But did Narses parade the spoils of war to the basilica or somewhere else? In 571, the patrician Narses returned to Rome: ‘leaving Naples, he entered Rome and the Capitol and removed his (a?) statue from the Palatine.’72 Based on this passage, Robert Coates-Stephens has argued that Narses revived the classical itinerary of the triumph.73 The triumph, indeed, concluded on the Capitol, but the early imperial adventus, by contrast, included a stop on the Capitol and ended on the Palatine. And so, perhaps Narses revived rather the traditional itinerary of the adventus, mounting the Capitol for the first time since Constantine, before continuing to the Palatine – though, admittedly, the passage does not indicate for what reason Narses entered the Capitol. In the end, the evidence suggests that Belisarius and Narses produced ceremonies that evoked Roman traditions, but identifying the specific allusions, if any, to a specific ceremony or ceremonies remains elusive. Not long after the east Roman army defeated the Ostrogoths and established an exarchate at Ravenna, the Lombards invaded Italy. According to the so-called Copenhagen Continuator of Prosper (writing c. 625 in northern Italy), in 593, the Lombard king, Agilulf, marched with his entire army at full strength to lay siege to the city of Rome. And there, when he met with St. Gregory [bishop of Rome 71 Agathias, Historiarum libri quinque, 2. 10. 7 (CSHB 2, p. 87). 72 Consularia Italica. Excerpta Sangallensia, anno 571 ? (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 336); and see Liber pontificalis, I, p. 305 (Iohannes III, 63. 3–5). 73 Coates-Stephens, ‘Forum Romanum in Byzantine Period’, pp. 402–403.

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590–604 CE], who was then leading the church excellently and who, by himself, had gone to out to meet [Agilulf] on the steps of the basilica of St. Peter, first of the apostles, he [Agilulf] gave up the siege of the city, having been softened by his [Gregory’s] prayers and having been moved by the wisdom and serious religious observance of so great a man.74

This aborted siege was not, of course, an adventus. It may be construed as something like a hostile anti-adventus (akin to that of Septimius Severus after defeating Albinus in 197), whose occursus consisted only of Bishop Gregory standing on the steps of St. Peter’s to await the Lombard king in the tradition, perhaps, of Bishop Symmachus, who may have similarly greeted Theodoric at the Vatican basilica nearly a century earlier. Agilulf did not, then, storm the city, but rather, impressed by Gregory’s prayers and piety, abandoned his siege – a scene strikingly similar to the legendary account of Bishop Leo I’s encounter with Attila. It may be that Agilulf was impressed less by Gregory’s piety than by his pocketbook, as the bishop would complain in 595 about how much the church at Rome spent on the Lombards and the Copenhagen Continuator contended that the Romans paid Agilulf 500 pounds of gold on this occasion.75 After Agilulf’s anti-adventus, Rome witnessed its final (east) Roman imperial arrival. In 663, Emperor Constans II made his way from Sicily up to Rome. According to the Liber Pontificalis, ‘the Apostolicus [Bishop Vitalian] with his clergy went out to meet [Emperor Constans II] at the sixth mile-marker from Rome and welcomed him. On the same day, the emperor walked to St. Peter for prayer and there he presented a gift.’76 In 500, the bishop greeted King Theodoric alongside the senate and Roman people, while, in 663, the bishop and his clergy by themselves comprised the occursus. Moreover, on the very day of his arrival, and so likely part of the arrival ceremony itself, the emperor paid a visit to the Apostle Peter. Beginning with the Theodosian dynasty, emperors like Honorius and Valentinian III regularly crossed the sacred threshold of St. Peter’s, but only after the adventus had concluded, while King Theodoric, who was greeted by the bishop alongside the senate and Roman people, may have visited the basilica before he entered Rome. By contrast, Constans II was greeted by the bishop and his clergy and walked to the basilica of St. Peter to conclude what may reasonably be considered the 74 Consularia Italica. Continuatio Havniensis Prosperi, Auctarii Havniensis Extrema 17 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 339). 75 Gregorius Magnus, Registrum 5. 39 (MGH Epp. ii, 328.9–17); and Consularia Italica. Continuatio Havniensis Prosperi, Auctarii Havniensis Extrema 22 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 339). 76 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 343 (Vitalianus, 78. 2).

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earliest extant description of a fully Christianized imperial adventus – even if Constans subsequently looted the city of its bronze and other valuables.77 In addition to despoiling the city, ‘on Sunday, [Constans II] with his army, all holding candles, processed to St. Peter and he, himself offered a pallium woven with gold,’ again according to the Liber Pontificalis.78 This ritual recalls in many ways Gallienus’s decennalia procession 400 years earlier, though Constans processed to the Vatican to give a pallium to the apostle while his soldiers carried tapers – instead of heading to the Capitol to sacrifice 100 white oxen with gilded horns alongside his soldiers dressed in white.79 In the late eighth century, Paul the Deacon seems to have conflated Constans’s adventus with this subsequent procession to conjure a more classicizing scene: ‘At the sixth mile-stone from the city, Pope Vitalian with his priests and the Roman people came to meet him. When the Augustus had arrived at the threshold of St. Peter, he offered there a pallium woven with gold.’80 In both accounts of the adventus, the bishop headed the occursus and the itinerary included a stop at St. Peter’s where the emperor gave a gift. Paul the Deacon, however, found a place for the Roman people – replacing the senate and Roman people with the bishop (alongside his priests) and the people – and had the emperor donate a pallium to the apostle upon his arrival instead of the following Sunday. Either way, Constans’s ceremonial performance was marked by piety not military spectacle; even the soldiers solemnly carried candles. Shortly thereafter, signs of a fully constituted early medieval arrival ceremony emerge during the furtive adventus of the exarch John in 687. As the Liber Pontificalis notes, ‘the banners and standards [perhaps crosses] did not go out with the soldiery of the Roman army to greet (occurrissent) [the exarch] as was customary at the usual place, but only near the Roman city,’ because John attempted to arrive in secret.81 Despite the exarch’s efforts, an adventus was conducted largely following the ritual prescriptions of a distinctly early medieval ceremonial protocol. A now customary occursus consisting of Rome’s militia (an elite body which had replaced the defunct senatorial aristocracy) with banners and standards welcomed John – just not at the usual location at the first mile marker from the city.82 77 Ibid. (Vitalianus, 78. 3). 78 Ibid. (Vitalianus, 78. 2). 79 Historia Augusta, Gallieni duo c. 8. 80 Paul the Deacon, Historia Langobardorum, v. 11 (emphases added, MGH SS rer. Lang. i, 149). 81 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 372 (Sergius, 86. 3). 82 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 497 (Hadrianus, 97. 36), quoted below. For other arrivals of exarchs, but with little to no detail, see Liber pontificalis, I, p. 312 (Gregorius, 66. 2), Liber pontificalis, I, p. 319 (Deusdedit, 70. 2): exarch Eleutheris received (but where and how?) by the bishop, Liber

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While late-seventh-century custom demanded that the militia meet the exarch at a set location, a late-eighth-century king commanded a much more pompous ceremony. When King Charlemagne came to Rome in 774 CE, Pope Hadrian I: arranged for him an occursus, all the judges [high state officials], at nearly the 30-mile marker from this Roman city, at the place called Novae. There they welcomed him with a banner. And when [Charlemagne] had almost reached the one mile marker from the Roman city, [Pope Hadrian] had arranged all the scholae of the militia with their officers and children, who were just beginning to learn letters, all bearing branches of palm and olive, and all singing his praises to receive the king of the Franks. […] His holiness, arranging venerable crosses, that is standards, to meet him, as was the custom in welcoming an exarch or patrician, made him welcome with the utmost honor. […] [W]hen [Charlemagne] caught sight of those holy crosses and standards coming to meet him, he dismounted the horse upon which he was sitting, and then he with his judges took pains to make haste to St. Peter on foot. The aforementioned alms-giving pontifex, rising at dawn that holy Saturday, with all the clergy and Roman people hastened to St. Peter to greet the king of the Franks and on the steps of the very hall of the apostle he with his clergy waited for [Charlemagne].83

Charlemagne received the full red-carpet treatment, an utterly spectacular Christian arrival ceremony. First, high state officials traveled thirty miles to meet the king and conduct him to Rome. Then, the militia and schoolchildren with crosses and standards waited at the one-mile marker, while the pope and his clergy stood upon the steps of the basilica to receive the king in the presence of the Roman people (such ceremonial needs an audience after all). A process seemingly initiated by Constantine in 326 and continued by Theodoric, perhaps, in 500 and Constans II in 663 came to completion in 774 when Charlemagne, arriving at Rome from the north, paid reverence to the apostle at his church before entering the city. Only after this initial prayer did the pope escort the king into Rome. By contrast, Constans, approaching pontificalis, I, p. 328 (Severinus, 73. 1), and Liber pontificalis, I, p. 337 (Martinus, 76. 5). Brown, Gentlemen and Officers, esp. pp. 98–99, on the role of the army in the arrivals of 687 and 774. 83 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 496–497 (Hadrianus, 97. 35-37), on which, see Kantorowicz, ‘“King’s Advent”’, esp. pp. 210–211; and McCormick, Eternal Victory, pp. 342–362, on Frankish royal victory ceremonies.

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Rome from the south, was welcomed, entered the city, and then made his way to the Vatican basilica. Either way, piety had become the defining feature of the imperial-royal adventus. The arrival of imperial icons, when emperors themselves could not be present, reveals a similar dynamic. In 452, ‘icons of the emperor Marcian entered Rome on the third day before the Kalends of April [30 March].’84 Though the chronicle offers a ritually unmarked description, the icons may have received a jubilant reception similar to the formal delivery of the Theodosian Code to Rome in 438, which featured (over 700) acclamations by the senate in the home of the praetorian prefect and consul Anicius Acilius Glabrio Faustus.85 In 603, Bishop Gregory recorded the grander and more obviously Christian reception of the icon of Phocas and Leontia. The icon of the above-mentioned Augusti, Phocas and Leontia, came to Rome on the seventh day before the Kalends of May (25 April), and it was acclaimed in the Lateran in the basilica of Julius by all the clergy and senate: ‘Hear us, Christ! Life to Phocas Augustus and to Leontia Augusta.’ Then the most blessed and apostolic Pope Gregory ordered the icon itself to be placed in the oratory of St. Caesarius inside the palace.86

After the watershed of the sixth century, when the imperial adventus changed markedly, imperial icons were greeted in a new way: the clergy joined the senate (in what may have been its last act as an institution); the imperial icon was acclaimed in a church; and then it was housed in an oratory, a domestic church, in the imperial palace on the Palatine.87 In fact, much as a station at St. Peter’s basilica during an adventus had become traditional by the late seventh century, so too had it become traditional to host imperial icons in a church. After the death of Justinian II in 711, Philippicus Bardanes ascended to the imperial throne, but ‘his image was not introduced in church,’ as was seemingly the custom, as a sign of the rejection of a ‘heretical’ emperor.88 At this point, we are a long way from the Emperor Elagabalus, who supposedly also had an icon of himself sent to Rome, so that the senate 84 Continuatio Prosperi, Codicis Reichenaviensis 21 (MGH Auct. Ant. ix, 490); on which, see Humphries, ‘Emperor to Pope’, pp. 44–45. 85 Gesta senatus romani de Theodosiano publicando c. 1 (ed. Mommsen and Krueger, 1). 86 Gregorius Magnus, Registrum 13. 1 (MGH Epp. ii, 364–365); see also John the Deacon, Vita S. Gregorii Magni 4. 20 (PL lxxv. 185); on which, see Humphries, ‘Emperor to Pope’, pp. 21–26. 87 Brown, Gentlemen and Officers, pp. 21–27, on the disappearance of the senate. 88 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 392 (Constantinus, 90.10).

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and people would become accustomed to his unusual (to a senatorial audience) priestly attire: a very large, full-length icon was painted of him just as he appeared performing sacred rites and also represented in the picture was the image of his native god, to whom he was shown making a favorable sacrifice. Having sent the icon to Rome, he ordered that it should be set up right in the middle of the senate, very high up over the head of the divine image of Victory, where all those assembled in the senate house burn incense and offer a libation of wine.89

In 218, an icon of Elagabalus was installed in the senate house to be honored with incense and libations offered to Victory, while in 603 imperial icons were acclaimed in the Lateran by the clergy and the senate, before being transferred to a chapel in the Palatine palace.

Episcopal Arrivals The Christianization of the imperial adventus stretched from Constantine to Constans II, culminating in the spectacularly pious arrival of Charlemagne, though the royal arrival of Theodoric already featured many characteristics of a Christian adventus. As it turns out, the development of an episcopal arrival ceremony at Rome was similarly protracted – setting aside the adventus of Paul conjured by the author of Acts. The regular residence of the bishop in Rome, unlike the emperor, may partly explain the slow and stuttering institution of an episcopal arrival protocol. The earliest arrivals seem under-developed, under-ritualized, and ad hoc, especially in comparison to the adventus of emperors and kings (or even Cicero). Moreover, some early episcopal arrivals were rhetorical inventions than ritual events. That is, some Christian sources occasionally imagined exiled bishops to have been greeted by an adventus upon their return to Rome, because, like Paul, a bishop should have been so greeted – even if he was not. For example, Bishop Cyprian of Carthage avowedly fantasized that Bishop Lucius would return to Rome in 253 to the utmost joy of its people: What exultation of all of the brethren there, what an assembly and embrace of welcoming individuals! [The assembly] of those embracing 89 Herodian, Historia, 5. 5. 6–7.

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is hardly satisfied with kisses; the visages and even the eyes, themselves, of the people are hardly able to be satiated by your appearance.90

Just before Cyprian anticipated the joyous return of Lucius, the bishop of Carthage admitted that he would not be there. That is, Cyprian openly imagined how Lucius’s return should be – not at all what it, in fact, was. Lucius’s arrival had not even happened yet, and so Cyprian’s sentiments capture the ideal, not the real, as the bishop fulsomely employed the technical terminology and rhetorical force of an adventus.91 By contrast, the Liber Pontificalis, which tends to exaggerate the accomplishments of early bishops, simply notes that Lucius ‘by the will of God returned unharmed to the church.’92 Just under a century later, in 340, ‘after the death of this Constantine [the “heretical” son of Constantine I], [Bishop Julius] returned in glory to the seat of St. Peter the Apostle.’93 Similarly, Bishop Liberius (352–366), exiled by Constantius II in 355, ‘returned [in 357 CE] and the Roman people went out to meet him with great joy’ – at least, according to a letter written by a partisan of Bishop Ursinus (r. 366–367), a would-be successor to Liberius, who was locked in a deadly contest for the see of Rome with Bishop Damasus (r. 366–384).94 The description, which clearly trades on the legacy of Liberius to bolster the candidacy of Ursinus, adheres closely to a ‘typical’ adventus, with its insistence on a joyous welcome by the Roman people outside the city. In his Chronicle, Jerome sarcastically evokes a similarly celebratory atmosphere, though without details, insisting that Liberius ‘entered Rome as if a victor.’95 The pro-Ursinian (and pro-Liberian) letter then contends that Ursinus, after having been temporarily expelled from Rome, ‘along with the 90 Cyprian, Epistula, 61. 4. On episcopal arrivals, see Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi, pp. 268–284; Twyman, ‘Papal Adventus at Rome’; and Fuentes Hinojo, ‘Adventus Praesulis’, who all envision greater ceremony/ritualization than I do. 91 Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi, pp. 268–284, esp. 268–269 on this ‘adventus’ and its classical rhetoric. Cyprian used adventus, laetitia and synonyms, and occurro (for an occursus), all of which were, at this point, technical terms. 92 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 153 (Lucius, 23. 2); see also Liber pontificalis, I, p. 154 (Stephanus, 24. 2): Stephen I (254–257) also returned safely to Rome. 93 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 205 (Iulius, 36. 1); see also Liber pontificalis, I, p. 170 (Silvester, 34. 1): Sylvester reportedly returned in glory from exile to baptize Constantine, who was however baptized in Nicomedia (by Bishop Eusebius) according to contemporary accounts. 94 Collectio Avellana, 1. 3 (CSEL xxxv, 2); on which, see Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, Adventus Christi, pp. 272–273; see also 297–298 on the bones of Bishop Pontian supposedly returned to Rome in state; and e.g. Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital, pp. 129–137 on the schism. 95 Jerome, Eusebii Caesariensis Chronicon: Hieronymi continuatio, anno 349 (ed. Helm, 237).

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deacons Amantius and Lupus, returned to the city, on the 17th day before the Kalends of October in the consulship of Lupicinus and Jovinus [367 CE]. The holy people gratefully went to meet (occurrit) him.’96 Ursinus, at least, had an entourage (even if the deacons were also fellow exiles), though the phrase ‘holy people’ (plebs sancta) suggests that a small occursus comprising partisans, and not the people as a whole, met the bishop at some unknown location. Whatever actually happened during these rather unspectacular arrival ceremonies – if they are, in fact, adventus rituals – their descriptions emphasize either the bishop’s triumphant or victorious return or the joy of the welcoming party, but not both, and only the party greeting Liberius was said to have gone out (exivit) to meet the bishop. In other words, these arrivals appear under-ritualized, with only minimal indications of the public performance of the bishop (what does it mean for a bishop to return in glory, or as if a victor?), little clarity about the composition of the occursus, and almost no mention of a processional itinerary. From Paul to Ursinus, the rhetoric of adventus, but not seemingly the ritual, was employed to signal the authority of the one arriving and, at times, the supposedly joyful greeting of those in the welcoming party. These descriptions provided the bishops a claim on the city, much as the actual ceremony allowed emperors to claim Rome. Nevertheless, these examples are not yet an episcopal adventus. The return, in 419, of Bishop Boniface (r. 418–422), who had been forced out of the city during his battle with Bishop Eulalius (r. 418–419) for the see of Rome, offers a more compelling case. Coincidentally, shortly before his proto-adventus, Boniface marched upon the city in an attempt to return by force, but he was stopped short by the urban prefect Aurelius Anicius Symmachus – a kind of anti- or failed adventus like that of King Agilulf.97 According to the same Symmachus, who had previously turned the would-be bishop away, Boniface later entered Rome ‘as all the people were running up to meet him, just as your Serenity [emperor Honorius] ordered.’98 Unfortunately, the urban prefect did not indicate who ‘all the people’ were or where they met the bishop, but an imperial command does suggest a centrally organized affair. Even so, questions remain: did the welcoming party, assuredly comprising at least in part Bonifatian supporters, meet the bishop outside the walls? Did the bishop arrive in glory or as a victor, whatever that might mean? On that same day, the Roman people shouted acclamations in honor of the emperor for restoring civic order, but did 96 Collectio Avellana, 1.10 (CSEL xxxv, 4). 97 Ibid., 16.3 (CSEL xxxv, 62). 98 Ibid., 34.3 (CSEL xxxv, 81).

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they similarly acclaim the returning bishop?99 In the end, all these early proto-arrival ceremonies lacked ritualization: there were only occasional invocations of crowds, a more regular employment of the rhetoric of joy, a single indication of an extramural greeting, and notable imperial involvement in the return of Boniface. It would take, according to the extremely scanty evidence, almost 300 years before a bishop of Rome would be greeted by something more like an adventus. In 711, after a trip to Constantinople – where he was greeted in a magnificent adventus by Tiberius, son of emperor Justinian II – Bishop (now rightly called Pope) Constantine (r. 708–715) ‘came to the port of Caieta unharmed, where he found the sacerdotes (higher clergy) and a large number of Roman people; and then, on the twenty-fourth day of October in the tenth indiction, he entered Rome, and all the people reveled and rejoiced.’100 While both sacerdotes and (some of) the Roman people (elite laity perhaps) greeted the pope at a port some 130 km from Rome, his arrival back home seems to have been marked merely by the non-descript rejoicing of the people. Altogether, however, Pope Constantine’s return was celebrated by a kind of adventus. In 741, Pope Zacharias (r. 741–752) traveled to Terni with his sacerdotes and other clergy to negotiate with King Liutprand for the return of four cities to papal control. The pope succeeded, ‘and so, he returned, by God’s favor, with the palm of victory to this city of Rome.’101 After this seeming adventus in 742, if that is what it was, the pope organized a collecta procession in which the participants congregated at one church and processed to another. After gathering at ‘the church of the holy mother of God called ad Martyres [the former Pantheon], everyone hasten[ed] as a whole with a public prayer (letania) to St. Peter, prince of the apostles.’102 As the Liber Pontificalis has it, a relatively unmarked episcopal or rather papal adventus, if one was produced, was upstaged by a collecta procession, which assembled at Santa Maria ad martyres before parading to St. Peter’s. 99 Ibid., 34.4 (CSEL xxxv, 81). 100 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 390 and 391 (Constantinus, 90. 5 and xc. 7). See Moorhead, ‘Papa as “bishop of Rome”’, on the gradual restriction of the title ‘pope’; and Noble, Republic of Saint Peter, on the increasing independence of the bishop from the Roman (or Byzantine) empire in the late seventh century. 101 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 429 (Zacharias, 93. 11). 102 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 429 (Zacharias, 93. 11); and on collectae, see Baldovin, Urban Character of Christian Worship, pp. 158–166; Saxer, ‘L’utilisation par la liturgie de l’espace urbain’, pp. 952–959; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 60–62 and 436–442; and Twyman, “Romana Fraternitas and Urban Processions.”

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The next pope, Stephen II (r. 752–757), after negotiating once again with a Lombard king, Aistulf, for the return of a number of cities to papal control, was escorted back to Rome by the Frankish envoys who had mediated the talks in 755. According to a seemingly trustworthy interpolation in the Liber Pontificalis, ‘in the Campus Neronis [probably the flat plain between Hadrian’s mausoleum and St. Peter’s basilica], [Stephen II] encountered clergy (sacerdotes) with crosses chanting psalms and giving great thanks to the Lord and similarly a great, mixed crowd with as many men as women shouting “here comes our shepherd and, after God, our salvation!”’103 It would seem that the recovery of territory, and moreover their revenues, was worthy of celebration – garnering Stephen, at least, a rather robust welcome, replete with chanting clergy and popular acclamations. Even so, the pope would have to wait until 799 to receive the full redcarpet treatment, or at least the first full-fledged description of one. On 25 April 799, disgruntled Roman nobles ambushed Pope Leo III. After the attack, the pope was imprisoned in a monastery, from which he was rescued, eventually ending up at the court of Charlemagne who supported the embattled pope.104 The royal court then ‘sent [Leo III] forth to be returned honorably to his apostolic seat with an abundance of honor, as was proper’: And city by city, where [Leo III] was received as if he were the apostle himself, they led him to Rome. Welcoming their pastor, with abundant joy, on the eve of St. Andrew the apostle [29 November 799], all the Romans as a whole, as many leading members of the clergy with all the clergy as nobles, the senate, and the entire militia, as well as all the Roman people with nuns and deaconesses and noble matrons and even all the women, together with all the scholae of foreigners, that is Franks, Frisians, Saxons, and Lombards, all bound together at the Milvian bridge and with standards and banners they welcomed him with spiritual chants; and then they led him to the church of St. Peter the apostle where he celebrated the rite of mass.105

Greeted at each city along the route, as Roman emperors had once been, Leo made his way to Rome, where the clergy, the lay nobility, the urban militia, and the Roman people including nuns, deaconesses, noble women (indeed, 103 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 451 (Stephanus II, 94. 39); on which, see Davis, Lives of the Eighth-Century Popes, p. 67. 104 Liber pontificalis, II, p. 4-6 (Leo III, 98. 11–18); on which, see Noble, Republic of Peter, pp. 199-200. 105 Liber pontificalis, II, p. 6 (Leo III, 98. 18–19).

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all women), along with the residents of the foreign hostels (pilgrims and other visitors) greeted the pope well outside the city walls at the Milvian bridge, where Constantine had famously defeated his imperial rival Maxentius. The gathered crowds waved banners and standards (perhaps crosses of some sort) as they acclaimed the pope with spiritual chants. The pope was then conducted towards the city, but before entering he performed mass at St. Peter’s, where he also spent the night. ‘On the next day, according to ancient custom, celebrating the festival of St. Andrew, [Leo], entering Rome with powerful joy and rejoicing, entered the Lateran patriarchium.’106 In short, after a magnificent, pious, and utterly Christianized occursus culminating with a eucharistic ritual, the pope entered the city and took possession of the papal palace – much as Roman emperors had once been greeted by the senate and Roman people outside the walls before being conducted to the Forum where the emperor gave a speech, then to the Capitol to give thanks, and finally up the Palatine to take possession of the imperial palace. Until this adventus, most previous episcopal arrivals lacked something. The third- and fourth-century proto-adventus ceremonies were all underritualized, comprising an unaccompanied bishop, save for Ursinus whose fellow exiles escorted him back to the city, and various crowds who were typically joyful. Only Liberius’s welcoming party seems to have gone out beyond the walls to greet him. Boniface’s adventus, in 419, at least, took place on orders from the emperor and included, on the same day, acclamations of the emperor. In the fourth and f ifth centuries, then, episcopal arrivals were distinctly underdeveloped. After a prodigious gap in the evidence, Pope Constantine was met by priests and (some of) the Roman people 130 km away from Rome in the early eighth century, an impressive ceremonial gesture, but his arrival at Rome was decidedly understated, marked simply by nebulous joy. Pope Zacharias seemingly staged a collecta instead of an adventus; or, rather, the collecta from Santa Maria ad martyres to St. Peter’s overshadowed the adventus in papal institutional memory. Then, clergy holding crosses and singing psalms along with a large crowd acclaiming the pope as a savior seemingly met Stephen II in the Vatican. Finally, the full ritual panoply (clergy, nobility, chants, pilgrims, standards, and banners) was deployed to greet Leo III as he returned from the court of Charlemagne – a king whose own arrival at Rome a couple of decades earlier may be taken as the culmination of the Christianization of the imperial-royal adventus. 106 Ibid. (Leo III, 98. 20).

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Conclusion The shifting choreography of the adventus performed the irregular reshaping of the late ancient and early medieval Roman social imaginary, a collective understanding tied to a common set of concepts, symbols, and practices shared among members of Roman society.107 That is to say, the arrival ceremony both (re-)presented and (re-)produced the monumental transformations of the Roman empire, Roman culture, and also Rome itself during the long centuries from Constantine to Charlemagne. The adventus of Theodoric, for example, not only expressed his regal power, but also sanctioned its exercise. The same ceremony not only recognized the status of the bishop, who found a place in the occursus for the first time, but also worked to construct his episcopal status in the face of fierce competition from a rival. In short, who participated (and how they participated) mattered. In addition, the stage, the itinerary to and through the city, performed an equally important role in this complex choreography. The location of the initial reception(s), the stops and stations along the way, and the f inal destination (from the Palatine to either the Vatican or the Lateran) were all part of the performance of a shifting social imaginary. Emperors had once dominated the ceremony (as they had once dominated the city), but in Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, Rome began to roll out the red carpet for kings, exarchs, and, eventually, bishops, who all played their parts in specific ways. Before the Severan age, a good emperor was supposed to act like a civilis princeps, a gentlemanly prince who walked during his ritualized arrival, bowing to the dictates of republican, aristocratic tradition in the negotiations between ruler and ruled. After Septimius Severus, however, emperors favored the role of ever-victorious commander, riding in a chariot flanked by armed soldiers. Even Charlemagne arrived on horseback ‘with many armies.’108 At the same, the favor of the heavens was often performed during the ceremony, or, at least, sometime during the sojourn in Rome. Emperors had traditionally, it seems, mounted the Capitol to give thanks to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. Sometime after his conversion however, Constantine – constrained by different religious scruples – refused to ascend the Capitol, after which no other arriving dignitary climbed the hill with the puzzling exception of Narses (and Constantius’s sightseeing excursion). Strangely, a comparable Christian sacred site was not included in the itinerary of 107 On the social imaginary, see Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries, esp. pp. 23–30. 108 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 496 (Hadrian, 97. 35).

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an adventus until possibly Theodoric’s in 500, whose arrival represents something of a watershed, or more certainly that of Constans II in 663. Yet emperors, beginning with Theodosius, seem to have stopped at the basilica of St. Peter sometime during their stay, while Theodoric publicly performed his piety during his arrival acting as if he were catholic, whether or not he made a stop at the basilica. Even the hostile Agilulf piously retreated in response to the bishop of Rome’s ostentatious display of devotion on the steps of St. Peter’s. The occursus, imagined as a kind of civic cross section that supposedly represented the city (or the part of the city that mattered), had long been dominated by the senate and Roman people (a symbolic assembly with a long republican pedigree). But as the senate as an institution began to decline and episcopal administrative infrastructure began to develop, the occursus needed to accommodate new configurations of civic authority. The addition of the bishop to the occursus did not, however, merely express a shift in social reality; it also worked to claim civic authority, allowing the bishop to perform his power in public. And yet, only apparently in the eighth century, it seems, concomitant with episcopal-papal efforts to loosen bonds with the emperor in Constantinople, was the bishop or pope welcomed in grand, imperial (or rather royal) style in a ceremony often inflected by the liturgy. In the end, for whom, how, by whom, and where Rome rolled out the red-carpet frames – in a double sense of both foregrounding and fashioning – the variably shifting contours of political, civic, and religious authority and identity from Constantine to Charlemagne.

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Consularia Constantinopolitana, ed. Richard Burgess, The Chronicle of Hydatius and the Consularia Constantinopolitana: Two Contemporary Accounts of the Final Years of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). Consularia Italica, MGH Auct. Ant. IX, ed. Theodor Mommsen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892). Continuatio Prosperi, Codicis Reichenaviensis, MGH Auct. Ant. IX, ed. Theodor Mommsen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892). Cyprian, De lapsis, CCSL 3.1, ed. Maurice Bévenot (Turnhout: Brepols, 1972). Cyprian, Epistulae, CCSL 3b–c, ed. G. F. Diercks (Turnhout: Brepols, 1994–1996). Dio Cassius, Historia Romana 71–80, LCL 177, ed. Earnest Cary (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927). Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica, LCL 265, ed. J. E. L. Oulton (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1932). Eusebius, Vita Constantini, Griechischen Christlichen Schriftsteller, ed. Friedhelm Winkelmann (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008)/ Eutropius, Breviarium ab urbe condita, MGH Auct. Ant. II, ed. H. Droysen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1879). Gelasius, Epistulae, CSEL XXXV, ed. Otto Guenther (Vindobonae: Tempsky, 1895). Gesta senatus romani de Theodosiano publicando, ed. Theodor Mommsen and Paul Krueger (Berlin: Weidmann, 1905). Gregorius Magnus, Registrum, MGM Epp. II, ed. L. Hartmann (Berlin: Weidmann, 1899). Herodian, Historia, LCL 454 and 455, ed. C. R. Whittaker (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969 and 1970). Historia Augusta, LCL 139–140 and 263, ed. David Magie (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921, 1924, and 1932). Hydatius, Chronica, ed. Richard Burgess, The Chronicle of Hydatius and the Consularia Constantinopolitana: Two Contemporary Accounts of the Final Years of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). Jerome, Eusebii Caesariensis Chronicon. Hieronymi continuatio, ed. Rudolf Helm, Eusebius Werke, Band 7. Die Chronik des Hieronymus: Hieronymi Chronicon (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1984). John Chrysostom, Contra gentiles demonstratio quod Christus sit Deus (PG 48.813–838). John Chrysostom, Homilia in epistulam II ad Corinthos 26 (PG 61.575–583). John the Deacon, Vita S. Gregorii Magni (PL 75.69–462). Jordanes, Romana, MGH Auct. Ant. V.1, ed. Theodor Mommsen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1882). Julian, Orationes 1–5, LCL 13, ed. Wilmer C. Wright (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913).

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Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, Oxford Early Christian Texts, ed. J. L. Creed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984). Le Liber Pontificalis. Texte, introduction, et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne and Cyrille Vogel, 3 vols. (Paris: E. Thorin, 1886–1892; Paris: E. de Boccard, 1957). [Leo], Epistulae 55–56 (PL 54.856-862). Libanius, Orationes, LCL 452, ed. A. F. Norman (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977). Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, MGH Auct. Ant. XI, ed. Thedor Mommsen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894). Orosius, Historiarum adversum paganos libri VII, CSEL 5, ed. C. Zangemeister (Vindobonae: apud C. Geroldi filium, 1882). Panegyrici Latini, ed. C. E. V. Nixon and Barbara Saylor Rodgers, In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini: Introduction, Translation, and Historical Commentary with the Latin Text of R. A. B. Mynors (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1994). Passio Gallicani, ed. B. Mombritius, Sanctuarium seu Vitae Sanctorum, 2 volumes (Paris: Fontemoing, 1910). Paul the Deacon, Historia Langobardorum, MGH SS rer. Lang. I, ed. L. Bathmann and G. Waitz (Hannover: Impensis Bibliopolii Hahninai, 1878). Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana, MGH Auct. Ant. II, ed. H. Droysen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1879). Pliny (the Younger), Panegyricus, LCL 59, ed. Betty Radice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969). Procopius, De bellis in ed. Jakob Haury and Gerhard Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia, 4 vols. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1965–1974). Prosper, Epitoma chronicon, MGH Auct. Ant. IX, ed. Theodor Mommsen (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892). Prudentius, Contra orationem Symmachi, LCL 387, ed. H. J. Thomson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1949). Ruf inus, Historia ecclesiastica, Brepolis Library of Latin Texts – Series A, Brepols. Available at: http://clt.brepolis.net/llta/pages/Toc.aspx; last accessed 2 December 2019. Sidonius Apollinaris, Carmina, LCL 296, ed. W. B. Anderson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936). Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistulae, LCL 296 and 420, ed. W. B. Anderson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936 and 1965). Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica, SC 477, 493, 505, and 506, ed. Pierre Maraval (Paris: Cerf, 2004-2007). Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica, SC 306, 418, 495, and 516, ed. J. Bidez (Paris: Cerf, 1983-2008).

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Suetonius, De vita Caesarum, LCL 31 and 38, ed. J. C. Rolfe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1914). Tacitus, Historiae, LCL 111 and 249, ed. Clifford H. Moore and John Jackson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925 and 1931) Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. C. de Boor (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883). Vita S. Fulgentii, CCSL 91f, ed. A. Isola (Turnhout: Brepols, 2016). Zonaras, Epitome Historiarum, 6 volumes, Bibliotheca scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana, ed. Ludwig Lindord (Leipzig: Teubner, 1868-1875). Zosimus, Historia Nova, 3 volumes, Collection Budé, ed. François Paschoud (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1979-2000) and volume 1 2, ed. François Paschoud (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2003).

References Jonathan Arnold, Theodoric and the Roman Imperial Restoration (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014). Christophe Badel, ‘Adventus et Salutatio’, in Les entrées royales et impériales. Histoire, représentation et diffusion d’une cérémonie publique, de l’Orient ancien à Byzance, ed. by Agnès Bérenger and Éric Perrin Saminadayar (Paris, Boccard, 2009), pp. 157–175. John F. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy (Rome: Pont. Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987). Adolf Bauer and Josef Strygowski, eds., Eine alexandrinische Weltchronik, Text und Miniaturen eines griechischen Papyrus der Sammlung W. Goleniščev (Vienna: Gerold, 1905). Stéphane Benoist, Rome, le prince et la Cité. Pouvoir impérial et cérémonies publiques (Ier siècle av. – debut du IVe siècle apr. J.-C.) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2005). Sible de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor. Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medievale: Basilica Salvatoris, Sanctae Mariae, Sancti Petri, 2 vols. (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1994). Mariana Bodnaruk, ‘Beyond a Landscape of Conflict: The Occursus in FourthCentury Rome’, in Landscapes of Power: Select Papers from the XV Oxford University Byzantine Society International Graduate Conference, ed. by Maximilian Lau, Caterina Franchi, Morgan Di Rodi (Bern: Peter Lang, 2014), pp. 31–54. Douglas Boin, Coming out Christian in the Roman World: How Followers of Jesus Made a Place in Caesar’s Empire (New York: Bloomsbury, 2015).

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Scott Bradbury, ‘Constantine and the Problem of Anti-Pagan Legislation in the Fourth Century’, Classical Philology, 89 (1994), pp. 120–139. T.S. Brown, Gentlemen and Officers: Imperial Administration and Aristocratic Power in Byzantine Italy, AD 554–800 ([London]: British School at Rome, 1984). R.W. Burgess and Jitse H.F. Dijkstra, ‘The “Alexandrian World Chronicle”, Its Consularia and the Date of the Destruction of the Serapeum (with an Appendix on the List of Praefecti Augustales)’, Millennium Jahrbuch, 10 (2013), 39–113. Robert Coates-Stephens, ‘The Forum Romanum in the Byzantine Period’, in Marmoribus vestita. Miscellanea in onore di Federico Guidobaldi, ed. by Federico Guidobaldi, Olof Brandt, and Philippe Pergola (Vatican City: Pontificio istituto di archeologia christiana, 2011), pp. 385–408. John Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital: Rome in the Fourth Century, Oxford Classical Monographs (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000). Raymond Davis, ed. and trans. Lives of the Eighth-Century Popes (Liber Pontificalis): The Ancient Biographies of Nine Popes from AD 715 to AD 817, second edition (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2007). Pierre Dufraigne, Adventus Augusti, adventus Christi. Recherche sur l’exploitation idéologique et littéraire d’un cérémonial dans l’antiquité tardive (Paris: Institut d’études augustiniennes, 1994). Edwards, Catharine. Writing Rome: Textual approaches to the city (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). Egon Flaig, ‘Introitus Infaustus. L’adventus des usurpateurs – trois exemples: Galba, Vitellius, Septime Sévère’, in Les entrées royales et impériales. Histoire, représentation et diffusion d’une cérémonie publique, de l’Orient ancien à Byzance, ed. by Agnès Bérenger and Éric Perrin Saminadayar (Paris, Boccard, 2009), pp. 177–185. Richard Flower, ‘Tamquam figmentum hominis: Ammianus, Constantius II and the Portrayal of Imperial Ritual’, Classical Quarterly, 65 (2015), pp. 822–835. Augusto Fraschetti, La conversione. Da Roma pagana a Roma cristiana, Collezione Storica (Editori Laterza) (Rome: Laterza, 1999). Pablo Fuentes Hinojo, ‘Adventus Praesulis. Consenso social y rituales de poder en el mundo urbano de la Antigüedad Tardía’, Studia historica: Historia Antigua, 29 (2011), pp. 293–339. Andrew Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna and the Last Western Emperors’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 69 (2001), pp. 131–167 Isabella Gualandri, ‘Honorius in Rome: A Pagan Adventus? (Claud. Hon. VI Cons.)’, in Culture and Literature in Latin Late Antiquity: Continuities and Discontinuities, ed. by Paola F. Moretti, Roberta Ricci, and Chiara Torre (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 25–39.

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Mark Humphries, ‘From Emperor to Pope? Ceremonial, Space, and Authority at Rome from Constantine to Gregory the Great’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900, ed. by Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 21–58. Mark Humphries, ‘Valentinian III and the City of Rome (425–55): Patronage, Politics, Power’, in Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity, ed. by Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 161–182. Cécile de Jonquières, ‘L’adventus définit le mauvais princeps’, in Rituels et transgressions de l’Antiquité à nos jours, ed. by Geneviève Hoffmann and Antoine Gailliot (Amiens: Encrage, 2009), pp. 81–88. Ernest Kantorowicz, ‘The “King’s Advent” and the Enigmatic Panels in the Doors of Santa Sabina’, Art Bulletin, 26 (1944), pp. 207–231. Gavin Kelly, ‘Claudian’s Last Panegyric and Imperial Visits to Rome’, Classical Quarterly, 66 (2016), pp. 336–357. Carsten Hjort Lange, ‘Constantine’s Civil War Triumph of AD 312 and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition’, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici, 37 (2012), pp. 29–53. Michael Lapidge, The Roman Martyrs: Introduction, translations, and commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018). Jacob A. Latham, ‘Adventus, Occursus, and the Christianization of Rome in Late Antiquity’, Studia Patristica, 92 (2017), pp. 397–409. D.S. Levene, ‘Pity, Fear, and the Historical Audience: Tacitus on the Fall of Vitellius’, in The Passions in Roman Thought and Literature, ed. by Susanna Morton Braund and Christopher Gill (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), pp. 128–149. Paolo Liverani, ‘Dal trionfo pagano all’adventus cristiano. Percorsi della Roma imperiale’, Anales de Arquelogía Cordobesa, 18 (2007), pp. 385–400. Paolo Liverani, ‘Victors and Pilgrims in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages’, Fragmenta, 1 (2007), pp. 83–102. Trevor Luke, Ushering in a New Republic: Theologies of Arrival at Rome in the First Century BCE (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2014). Sabine MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1981). Attilio Mastino and Alessandro Teatini, ‘Ancora sul discusso “trionfo” di Costantino dopo la battaglia del Ponte Milvio. Nota a proposito di CIL, VIII, 9356 = 20941 (Caesarea)’, in Varia epigraphica. Atti del Colloquio internazionale di epigrafia, 8–10 giugno 2000, ed. by Gabriella Angeli Bertinelli and Angela Donati (Faenza: Fratelli Lega Editori, 2001), pp. 274–327. Santo Mazzarino, ‘L’adventus di Constanzo II a Roma e la carriera di Pancharius’, in Antico, tardoantico ed èra constantiniana, 2 vols. (Bari: Dedalo, 1974), I, pp. 197–220.

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Michael McCormick, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press and Paris: Editions de la Maison de sciences de l’homme, 1986). Jan Meister, ‘Adventus und Profectio. Aristokratisches Prestige, Bindungswesen und Raumkonzepte im republikanischen und frühkaiserzeitlichen Rom’, Museum Helveticum, 70 (2013), pp. 33–56. John Moorhead, ‘Papa as “Bishop of Rome”’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 36.3 (1985), pp. 337–350. Jason Moralee, Rome’s Sacred Mountain: The Capitoline Hill in Late Antiquity, Oxford Studies in Late Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018). C.E.V. Nixon and Barbara Rodgers, trans., In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini: Introduction, Translation, and History Commentary (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1994). Thomas F.X. Noble, The Republic of St. Peter: The Birth of the Papal State, 680–825 (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1984). François Paschoud, Cinq études sur Zosime (Paris: Belles Lettre, 1975). François Paschoud, Eunape, Olympiodore, Zosime. Scripta Minora: Recueil d’articles, avec addenda, corrigenda, mise à jour et indices, Munera 24 (Bari: Edipuglia, 2006). Richard Pervo, Acts: A Commentary (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2009). Hans Pohlsander, ‘Philip the Arab and Christianity’, Historia, 29 (1980), pp. 463–473. Christian Ronning, ‘Stadteinzüge in der Zeit der römischen Republik. Die Zeremonie des Adventus und ihre politische Bedeutung’, in Einblicke in die Antike: Orte – Praktiken – Strukturen, ed. by Christian Ronning (Munich: Utz, 2006), pp. 57–86. Victor Saxer, ‘L’utilisation par la liturgie de l’espace urbain et suburbain. L’exemple de Rome dans l’Antiquité et le Haut Moyen Âge’, in Actes du XIe Congrès international d’archéologie chrétienne. Lyon, Vienne, Grenoble, Genéve et Aoste (21–28 septembre 1986), 3 vols., ed. by Noël Duval, Françoise Baritel, and Philippe Pergola (Rome: École française de Rome, 1989), II, pp. 917–1033. Miguel J. Lázaro Sánchez, ‘L’état actuel de la recherche sur le concile d’Elvire’, Revue des sciences religieuses, 82 (2008), pp. 517–546. Kristina Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority in Late Antique Italy: Roman Bishops and the Domestic Sphere (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Charles Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004). Susan Twyman, ‘Papal Adventus at Rome in the Twelfth Century’, Historical Research, 69 (1996), pp. 233–253. Susan Twyman, ‘The Romana Fraternitas and Urban Processions at Rome in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, in Pope, Church and City: Essays in Honour

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of Brenda M. Bolton, ed. by Frances Andrews, Christoph Eggers, and Constance M. Rouseau (Leiden: Brill, 2004), pp. 205–221. Massimiliano Vitiello, ‘Nuove prospettive sull’adventus in età imperiale’, Mediterraneo antico, 3 (2000), pp. 551–579. Massimiliano Vitiello, ‘Teoderico a Roma. Politica, amministrazione e propaganda nell’adventus dell’anno 500 (Considerazioni sull’ ‘Anonimo Valesiano II’)’, Historia, 53 (2004), pp. 73–120. Massimiliano Vitiello, Momenti di Roma ostrogota. Aduentus, feste, politica, Historia Einzelschriften 188 (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2005). Johannes Wienand, ‘O tandem felix civili, Roma, victoria! Civil-War Triumphs from Honorius to Constantine and Back’, in Contested Monarchy: Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century AD, ed. by Johannes Wienand (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), pp. 169–197.

About the Author Jacob Latham is associate professor of history at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. He writes about the religions of ancient Rome and the Christian civic practices of the early medieval city. Latham is the author of Performance, Memory, and Processions in Ancient Rome: The Pompa Circensis from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity (2016).

5.

(Re-)Founding Christian Rome: The Honorian Projectof the Early Seventh Century Dennis Trout

Abstract Honorius I (625–38) became pope at an opportune moment of relative peace and stability in Italy. His energetic building program and revitalization of the ecclesiastical carmen epigraphicum index his intention to re-found Christian Rome after the difficulties of the war-torn and plagueridden sixth century. His program was not only sensitive to inherited forms of papal patronage and popular piety, but distinctly capitalized, in new ways, upon Rome’s growing reputation as the city of martyrs par excellence. Hence it is reasonable to consider Honorius’s pontificate as a pivotal moment in the transition from late ancient to early medieval Rome and to offer it a place in any new narrative of renewal in Roman urban history. Keywords: Pope Honorius I, S. Agnese fuori le mura, carmen epigraphicum, Old St. Peter’s

Honorius I was elevated to the papacy in October 625. In the preceding two decades, following the death of Gregory I in 604, five different men had held the Roman episcopacy.1 Honorius would serve as the city’s bishop for twelve years and eleven months, until October 638, a tenure only seven months short of Gregory’s. For the remainder of the seventh century, only two men surpassed his nearly thirteen years on the papal cathedra (and then just

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Sabinian, Boniface III, Boniface IV, Deusdedit, and Boniface V.

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barely).2 In Honorius’s case, time mattered. He inherited a city diminished and in tatters, one that, even now, despite recent re-thinking and new information, remains hard to visualize amid an age so long (considered) ‘dark’.3 Yet, it is just possible – on the basis of contemporary documentary, epigraphic, literary, and art historical evidence – to see Honorius’s episcopacy as a period that laid the foundations for a new instantiation of Christian Rome, one whose Janus-like image not only looked back to the city’s fifthcentury heyday of church building and papal imagineering, but also solidified Rome’s status as the medieval West’s ‘city of saints’ par excellence. 4 If ‘renaissance’ is understood to denote a particularly self-conscious moment of ‘self-reinvention’ through the assimilation and creative transformation of the past – and not simply a movement in which ancient texts and literary forms are recuperated – then Honorian Rome may merit consideration as home to yet another renaissance in a city that, perhaps more than most, had long been deeply committed to curating its past for present purposes.5

Honorius and Italy It is well known that the battles, sieges, and pathogens that roiled Italy throughout the sixth century left the peninsula depleted and its population drastically reduced. Countryside and cities alike suffered the ravages of military campaigns and sickness.6 ‘No good thing,’ it has been observed, 2 Surpassed only by Vitalian (657–72), by a year and half, and Sergius I (687–701), by less than a year. 3 Chris Wickham’s Framing the Early Middle Ages and The Inheritance of Rome (with its subtitle Illuminating the Dark Ages) point a way forward. For the evolving cityscape of late antique and early medieval Rome in this age, see Pani Ermini, ‘Lo “spazio cristiana”’ and ‘Forma urbis. Lo spazio urbano’. 4 Different but complementary views of seventh- and eighth-century Rome as the caput urbium for martyr cult and relics are offered by Pergola, ‘Santuari dei martiri romani’; Thacker, ‘In Search of Saints’; Thacker, ‘Rome of the Martyrs’; and Maskarinec, City of Saints, pp. 117–37. 5 For renaissance as a term appropriate to linking together moments of ‘self-reinvention’ on a global scale, see Schildgen, Zhou and Gilman, ‘Introduction,’ in Other Renaissances: A New Approach to World Literature, pp. 1–16. For a narrower definition of ‘renaissance’ as ‘any revival of knowledge of Greek and Latin literature after a ‘dark age,’ (wherein seventh-century Italy roughly occupies dead-center of ‘the Dark Age par excellence’), see Treadgold, ‘Renaissances and Dark Ages’, in Renaissances Before the Renaissance, pp. 1–22. On the centrality of monument and building preservation and urban renewal programs to Roman identity and collective memory from antiquity through the sixteenth century, see Karmon, The Ruin of the Eternal City. 6 On Italy’s difficulties see Richards, Consul of God, 4-24, Humphries, ‘Italy, A.D. 425-605’, pp. 533–8; Taylor, Rinne, and Kostof, Rome, pp. 162–4.

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came of Justinian’s Reconquista: ‘most people simply suffered, dreaded, and hoped for release.’7 Also in those years, the bubonic plague (Yersinia pestis) arrived from the East. The disease’s initial impact was devastating, but the resilient pestilence would continue to reassert itself periodically for the next two hundred years.8 No wonder that on assuming office in 590 Gregory (the Great) lamented in a sermon: ‘What happiness is there left in the world? Everywhere we see war. Everywhere we hear groans. Our cities are destroyed; our fortresses are overthrown; our fields laid waste; the land is become a desert’. As for Rome itself, like Ezekiel’s Sodom, it lay in ruins.9 Thereafter, Gregory would spend much of his pontificate weathering the storms that blew in with the Lombard dispersion across central Italy. Yet, not long after Gregory’s death, a semblance of order began to return. A peace treaty signed in 605 between the emperor Phocas and the Lombard king Agilulf brought some relief, though it also acknowledged that Italy was now a patchwork of competing sovereignties.10 Rome itself would even see decades of blessed ‘disinterest’ on the part of the Lombards,11 while the plague receded into an early seventh-century lull.12 The conditions, at least, were good for reimagining the city’s future. Honorius’s immediate papal predecessors were, perhaps, too short-lived to capitalize on the benefits of the new order, but Honorius’s pontificate shows clear signs of energetic initiatives, regional and international. He quickly involved himself in various far-flung enterprises: the politics of the Lombard court at Pavia, the long-lived Istrian schism (yet one more manifestation of the Three Chapters affair), and (unfortunately in the long run) the monothelete controversy set in motion by the Constantinopolitan Patriarch Sergius I (609–38).13 He extended the reach of the papacy by 7 O’Donnell, The Ruin of Rome, p. 266. 8 Harper, The Fate of Rome, pp. 199–245. 9 Gregory, Homiliae in Hiezechihelem prophetam 2.6.22, (ed. by Adriaen, p. 310): ‘Quid est iam, rogo, quod in hoc mundo libeat? Ubique luctus aspicimus, undique gemitus audimus, Destructae urbes, eversa sunt castra, depolulati agri, in solitudine terra redacta est’. Translation by Richards, Consul of God, p. 23. 10 On the seventh-century Lombard-Byzantine détente, see Wickham, Early Medieval Italy, p. 33, and Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome, pp. 140–41. Honorius’s epitaph (ICURns 2.4161.14) praised him for providing optata quies. 11 Gasparri, ‘Roma e i Longobardi’, pp. 223–4: ‘i Longobardi si disinteressarono di Roma per circa un secolo.’ 12 Harper, Fate of Rome, pp. 238–41. 13 For concise accounts of Honorius’s papacy, see Richards, The Popes and the Papacy, pp. 179–80; Thanner, Papst Honorius I.; Sennis, ‘Onorio I’; Moorhead, The Popes and the Church of Rome, pp. 172–8. On the origins of the Three Chapters Affair, to which the Istrian schism is connected, see Richards, The Popes and the Papacy, pp. 139–61. Booth, Crisis of Empire, pp. 186–277, though

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granting the recently founded monastery of Bobbio the first known papal protectorate and exchanged letters (and most likely books) with Spanish bishops who were in the midst of their own (Isidorian) intellectual and literary boom.14 Though Honorius’s reputation would eventually be tarnished by his anathematization at the Sixth Ecumenical Council (680) for his promotion of monotheletism, in his own moment he can hardly have been perceived as anything but engaged and successful.

Honorius and Rome Like Italy, Rome was a shadow of its former self when Honorius assumed the papacy. Significant portions of the cityscape within the third-century Aurelian walls had reverted to agriculture; ancient buildings had been repurposed or were being mined for spolia.15 Intramural cemeteries now dotted the landscape or occupied former public or imperial complexes, such as the Forum of Peace.16 All of this makes it difficult to visualize fully how Honorius’s initiatives modified the image of Rome, but there can be no doubt that some contemporaries saw his investments in church building and renovation, his patronage of epigraphic poetry, and his concern for clerical education as a return to form. His vita in the Liber Pontificalis, presumably composed not long after his death, would mention his desire to polish up his clergy before it launched into a lengthy and detailed account of his many-faceted building program.17 Clearly, his energy caught the eye of contemporaries. His own verse epitaph (ICURns 2.4161), installed at the Vatican basilica of St. Peter, praised him for his skill as a poet as well as for his policies and pragmatism in ecclesiastical affairs. The seventh-century itineraria, guidebooks to Rome’s martyr shrines and churches, atypically singled him out for mention.18 Not long after his death, Jonas of Bobbio, who had met Honorius in Rome, included his obituary notice in the second book of his Life of Columbanus and His Disciples, identifying focused on the eastern theater of the monothelete controversy, makes clear what was at stake for Honorius. The Liber Pontificalis (I, p. 323) styles Honorius ‘ex patre Petronio consule’. I cite the Liber Pontificalis from the edition of Louis Duchesne. 14 Conte, Chiesa e primate; Cipolla, Codice diplomatico, pp. 100–03; Trout, ‘Poets and Readers’. 15 Kinney, ‘Spoliation in Medieval Rome’. 16 Capponi and Ghilardi, ‘Scoperta’; Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani, I Fori Imperiali, pp. 120–2. 17 Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 323: ‘hic erudivit clerum’. 18 The Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae (CSEL 175, pp. 305–11), dating between 625 and 649, draws attention to his work at the basilicas of Valentinus (2), Agnes (12), and Pancratius (31).

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him as ‘a venerable bishop, keen-minded, vigorous in council, in learning – or monastic discipline – renowned, in mildness and humility prevailing.’19 In part, these celebrations of Honorius’s sway were predicated upon appreciation of his ability to reanimate a fading vision of the past while also recalibrating Rome for present (and future) needs. Church building had been a prerogative and distinction of the city’s bishops since the mid-fourth century, signif icantly altering not only Rome’s extra-mural landscape, but also breaching the walls with such fifth-century intra-mural churches as S. Maria Maggiore on the Esquiline and S. Stefano Rotondo on the Caelian and, in time, reaching the Forum Romanum with Felix IV’s early sixth-century conversion of an imperial complex into the church of Cosmas and Damian.20 Yet, papal building activity had nearly ground to a halt in the half century after Pelagius II (579–90), Gregory’s predecessor, had constructed a grand new basilica over the tomb of St. Lawrence on the Via Tiburtina.21 Similarly, the patronage of poetry on stone and in mosaic, a mainstay of papal cultural work in the fourth and fifth centuries, well represented by Damasus’s martyrial elogia, Sixtus III’s verses (ILCV 976) in S. Maria Maggiore and Felix IV’s (ILCV 1784) in Cosmas and Damian, had withered. Indeed, not only would Honorius set out extensive verses in his new or refurbished churches, he also saw to the composition of verse epitaphs for one, if not two, of his most recent papal predecessors. Moreover, all of this required significant financial outlay, another feature of Honorius’s project that should not have escaped contemporary notice. In fact, if the silver and gold donation lists of the Liber Pontificalis are an accurate indicator of papal spending on public works, then it would not be until the pontificate of Hadrian I (772–795), nearly a century and a half later, that a bishop of Rome would surpass Honorius’s outlay. 22 19 Jonas of Bobbio, Vita Columbani, 2.23 (Krusch, p. 283): ‘erat enim “venerablis presul Honorius sagax animo, vigens consilio, doctrina clarens, dulcedine et humilitate pollens”.’ On Jonas’s source for this description, see Trout, ‘Sagax animo’. 20 On these churches, see Brandenburg, Le prime chiese di Roma, pp. 195–207 (S. Maria Maggiore), pp. 216–33 (S. Stefano Rotondo), and pp. 242–51 (Cosmas and Damian). 21 Like the church of Cosmas and Damian (526–30) by the Roman Forum, S. Maria Antiqua (first half of the sixth century) was built into pre-existing fabric, while in 609 the Pantheon became S. Maria ad Martyres. Gregory I’s major (but limited) projects were, it seems, construction of the annular crypt at S. Pietro in Vaticano and redesign of the presbyterium at S. Paolo f.l.m.; see de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 530–4, Brandenburg, ‘S. Pauli basilica’, pp. 175–6, and Camerlenghi, St. Paul’s Outside the Walls, pp. 105–12. See also the surveys by Guiglia, ‘Il VI secolo’, and Taddei, ‘Il VII secolo’, especially pp. 145–8, on the lacuna between Gregory and Honorius. 22 Delogu, ‘The Rebirth of Rome’, Fig. 15, wherein (as Delogu recognized) Honorius is a striking anomaly.

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Appreciating just what may have distinguished Honorius in contemporary eyes as well as grasping more fully the nature of the program he sponsored can begin with a closer look at two initiatives that quite clearly index his pontificate’s ambitions.

Honorius, Church Building, and the Topography of Martyrdom It is indicative of Honorius’s perspective and aims that he focused his attention on the ancient topography of martyrdom that ringed Rome beyond the Aurelian walls [Fig. 5.1], intervening at the memorial churches or shrines of Peter on the Vatican, Valentinus on the Via Flaminia, Agnes on the Via Nomentana, Marcellinus and Peter on the Via Labicana, Paul on the Via Ostiensis, and Pancratius on the Via Aurelia. 23 Honorius’s was a vision of Rome still f irmly rooted in the paradigm shift of the fourth century, when the imperial family and the city’s bishops f irst monumentalized (or invented) sites associated with the tombs of Rome’s legendary martyrs and drew up the blueprint for a new image of the city.24 Eventually, in the Carolingian age, this model would give way to a new vision for (medieval) Rome and many of the suburban cemeteries and catacombs of the late ancient city would be lost to memory as their holy relics were displaced to churches within the walls. In Honorius’s early seventh century, however, those developments were still a century and more in the future. Although the majority of the extra-mural sites at which Honorius intervened were f irst overtly monumentalized in the Constantinian age, consecutive emperors and popes had augmented and embellished Rome’s sacred suburban topography. In the sixth century, however, the pace had slowed considerably. As noted, Pelagius II’s new basilica of S. Lorenzo on the Via Tiburtina (579–90), erected directly atop the martyr’s hillside grave, adjacent to the site of a Constantinian funerary hall, is the exception.25 Now, however, some four decades later, Honorius followed suit. At the shrine of Agnes on the Via Nomentana, where the empress Constantina, a daughter of Constantine, had constructed a 23 Liber Pontificalis, I, pp. 323–27; Taddei, ‘Il VII secolo’, pp. 149–58. 24 E.g., Salzman, ‘The Christianization of Sacred Time and Sacred Space’; Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital; and Trout, ‘Damasus and the Invention of Early Christian Rome’. 25 Serra, ‘S. Laurentii basilica’; Andaloro, La pittura medievale, pp. 77–94; Brandenburg, Le prime chiese, pp. 260–66; Mondini, San Lorenzo, pp. 13–19. The dedicatory inscription is ILCV 1770 = ICURns 7.18371 (demovit dominus tenebras).

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B, K, 7–9

J

A, 1–4

S. Hadrianus H

S. Lucia G

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Honorian Rome

Sources Recording Honorian Interventions, Renovations, and Building Activity Liber Pontificalis A. S. Pietro in Vaticano complex (multiple interventions) B. Ecclesia of the martyr Agnes, Via Nomentana C. Ecclesia of the martyr Cyriacus, Via Ostiensis D. Ecclesia of the Quattro Coronati, Caelian Hill E. Coemeterium of the martyrs Marcellinus and Peter, Via Labicana F. Basilica of the martyr Pancratius, Via Aurelia G. Ecclesia of Lucia (in Orfea), Clivus Suburanus H. Basilica of Hadrian, Forum Romanum I. Monasterium in honor of Andrew and Bartholomew, Lateran

Fig. 5.1. Plan of Honorian Rome (drawing by C. Trout).

Notitia Ecclesiarum J. Basilica of martyr Valentine, Via Flaminia K. Ecclesia of Agnes, Via Nomentana L. Ecclesia of Pancratius, Via Aurelia Itinerarium Einsidlensis M. Monasterium of Honorius, Lateran Inscriptions 1–4 S. Pietro in Vaticano: ICUR 2.4119, 2.4120, 2.4160, 2.4162 (?) 5 S. Pancrazio, Via Aurelia: ICUR 2.4292 6 S. Paolo, Via Ostiensis: ICUR 2.4792 7–9 S. Agnese, Via Nomentana: ICUR 8.20755, 8.20756. 8.20757

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large ambulatory basilica in the 340s and Pope Damasus (366–84) had installed an elogium at the virgin martyr’s tomb, Honorius erected a new basilica ad corpus. This S. Agnese loudly echoed Pelagius’s S. Lorenzo in both placement and design. Similarly, Honorius carried out renovation work at a cemetery on the Via Labicana, which by then was associated with the martyrs Marcellinus and Peter, a site also distinguished by a Constantinian basilica and imperial mausoleum (that of Constantine’s mother Helena). His efforts there centered upon conversion of the crypt of the two martyrs into a compact subterranean basilica ad corpus. 26 Likewise, on the Via Ostiensis, another site that had received Constantine’s attention, a fortuitously preserved inscription (ICURns 2.4792) records Honorius’s intervention at the Theodosian-age basilica that had stood atop the tomb of St. Paul since the early fifth century.27 With far greater detail, the Liber Pontificalis documents Honorius’s actions at the Constantinian St. Peter’s on the Vatican. There, Honorius covered the apostle’s confessio with 187 lbs. of silver and clad the basilica’s main doors in another 975 lbs. of the precious metal. He reroofed the early fourth-century building with bronze tiles stripped (with imperial permission) from the temple of Venus and Roma in downtown Rome and donated silver panels and candlesticks. In the southeast corner of the church’s atrium, he dedicated a new chapel (basilica) to the Ravennate martyr Apollinaris. 28 Finally, and still outside the walls, Honorius contributed a new basilica dedicated to St. Pancratius on the Via Aurelia and he was most likely responsible for the construction of a three-nave basilica atop the tomb of Valentinus on the Via Flaminia, replacing a single nave fourth-century structure in a manner meant to accommodate larger crowds. 29 Altogether, it was a stunning display of wealth and patronage directed at the refurbishment of Rome’s suburban shrines and important (and surely lucrative) pilgrimage destinations. To be sure, Honorius did not ignore Rome’s intra-mural zones. He built, renovated, or repurposed at least three structures within the walls (as well as several others in the immediate region of Rome).30 He intervened 26 Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 324: ‘renovavit et cymiterium beatorum martyrum Marcellini et Petri, via Lavicana.’ See Guyon, ‘Marcelliani et Marci basilica’, pp. 19 and 24. 27 The Theodosian age basilica replaced a Constantinian period church; see Brandenburg, Le prime chiese, pp. 107–8; Camerlenghi, St. Paul’s Outside the Walls, pp. 31–40. 28 Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 323. 29 Pancratius: Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 324. Valentinus: Palombi, ‘S. Valentini basilica’, p. 218. 30 The Liber Pontificalis records work within the walls at S. Hadriano (the Roman curia), SS. Quattro Coronati, and S. Lucia and regionally at S. Cyriaco (Via Ostiensis) and S. Severino (Tibur).

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in some manner at the ancient church of the Quattro Coronati on the Caelian hill, although his other two known projects within the walls anticipate a trend – the introduction to the city of new and non-Roman cults – that would become ever more pronounced as the seventh-century advanced.31 On the one hand, he choreographed the debut of St. Lucy, imported from Sicily, with construction of a brand new church in the Suburra.32 On the other, he converted the existing Roman senate house (curia) into a church dedicated to St. Hadrian. Like Lucy, Hadrianus was new to Rome. Unlike her, he came from the East. A Roman administrator who, according to his passio, was martyred at Nicomedia, Hadrianus had long been celebrated at a shrine in the Constantinopolitan suburb of Argyropolis.33 His appearance at Rome is a clear precursor of things to come. As the seventh century unfolded, Rome would welcome and embrace a host of eastern saints. Today, it is S. Agnese f.l.m. that provides our best view of the architectural, aesthetic, and spiritual principles that guided Honorius in his projects. Much of the Honorian church survives in the current parish church [Fig. 5.2], which stands some fifty meters east of the remnant walls of Constantina’s mid-fourth century basilica.34 In the words of the anonymous author of his vita in the Liber Pontificalis, Honorius built from the ground up the church of the blessed martyr Agnes, at the third mile from Rome on the Via Nomentana, where she rests. He decorated it to perfection throughout and there he placed many gifts. He also decorated her tomb with silver weighing 252 pounds. He set over it a gilt-bronze canopy of marvelous size. He also made three gold dishes each weighing one-pound. He made the apse of the same basilica of mosaic, and there, too, he presented many gifts.35

31 Maskarenic, City of Saints. 32 Marinone, ‘S. Lucia in Orfea’. 33 Maskarenic, City of Saints, pp. 46–9. 34 Barbini, ‘S. Agnetis basilica, coemeterium’, pp. 35–6; Brandenburg, Le prime chiese, pp. 266–73; Andaloro, La pittura medievale, pp. 67–74; Trout, ‘Vergil and Ovid at the Tomb of Agnes’. 35 Liber Pontificalis, I, 323: ‘Eodem tempore fecit ecclesiam beatae Agne martyris, via Numentana, miliario ab urbe Roma III, a solo, ubi requiescit, quem undique ornavit, exquisivit, ubi posuit dona multa. Ornavit autem sepulcrum eius ex argento, qui pens. lib. CCLII; posuit desuper cyburium aereum deauratum, mire magnitudinis; fecit et gavatas aureas III, pens. sing. lib. sing; fecit abside eiusdem basilicae ex musibo, ubi etiam, et multa dona optulit’. Translation modified from Davis, The Book of Pontiffs, p. 66.

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Fig. 5.2. Nave and apse of S. Agnese, Rome (photo: author).

S. Agnese’s spoliated columns still stand, decorously arranged in matching pairs that face one another across the nave; the church’s second story galleries echo those introduced at S. Lorenzo by Pelagius II.36 Also as at S. Lorenzo, vertical alignment of the church’s altar with the holy tomb located in the catacombs below was preceded by extensive excavation of the hillside. S. Agnese’s surviving apse mosaic likewise reveals the influence of earlier designs, both that of the extant apsidal arch mosaic of Pelagius’s S. Lorenzo (the Pelagian church’s apse conch was lost to Honorius III’s expansion of S. Lorenzo in the early thirteen century) and the majestic apse mosaic of Felix IV’s early sixth-century church of Cosmas and Damian near the Roman Forum.37 Both of these plans – S. Lorenzo’s apsidal arch and Cosmas and 36 Hansen, The Spolia Churches of Rome, pp. 100–111. 37 On the Pelagian apsidal arch mosaic, however, the central figure is Christ, who is flanked on viewer right by Paul, Stephen, and Hippolytus and on viewer left by Peter, Lawrence, and

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Damian’s apse – were inspirational, offering a scheme that Honorius and his artists would adapt for S. Agnese—a central figure flanked by other individuals, including the donor pope.38 In S. Agnese’s apse, however, this scheme was boiled down to its essentials: the isolated figures of Agnes (in the center), Honorius, and another bishop set against a glittering solid gold background [Fig. 5.3]. Only a lingering eye will detect the instruments of Agnes’s martyrdom arranged at her feet or the phoenix embroidered on her garment. Yet, if the design of Honorius’s S. Agnese apse mosaic nods to earlier papal works, its stylistic features are worlds apart from the naturalism and classicism that art historians have often identified as the distinguishing principles behind Cosmas and Damian’s busy and dramatic scene. Indeed, because the linearity and abstraction of Honorius’s lofty and detached figures contrast so sharply with Cosmas and Damian’s three-dimensional naturalism, art historians have happily detected at S. Agnese a harbinger of the changes that would lead to the flowering of a Byzantine iconographic style, one that elevated symbolic over natural representation.39 At the same time, other modern observers have found in S. Agnese’s art and architecture an exemplary display of one of the paramount religious imperatives of Honorius’s age: the promotion of the tombs of the martyrs as special places where the power (virtus) of God and the saints disrupted the order and rhythms of everyday existence. 40 That wave, of course, had begun to gain momentum in the fourth century and by the sixth had washed into nearly every corner of the former empire. Rome, however, had enjoyed the benef it of an imperially sponsored head start and an episcopacy generally committed to capitalizing on the city’s unsurpassed number of saints and martyrs. A century or so before Honorius achieved the papacy, the acta, gesta, and passiones of the Roman martyrs were popularized in a flood of (now) anonymous compositions. Notably, one Pelagius. See Thunø, The Apse Mosaic, pp. 55–6 and Plate XIV. On the successive stages of restoration between the sixth and the twenty-first century (2001), see Andaloro and D’Angelo, Mosaici medievali a Roma, pp. 103–49, with confirmation that the current design is generally faithful to the original (e.g. p. 103). Pelagius’s apse mosaic was destroyed by the thirteenth century, perhaps in the twelfth, along with the apse itself, though its verse inscription (ICURns 7.18371) was reset above the apsidal arch mosaic in the nineteenth century; Mondini, San Lorenzo, p. 13. The inscription around the rim of the arch is ICURns 7.17671. 38 For an alternative, non-linear, approach to this series of apse mosaics, see Thunø, The Apse Mosaic. 39 E.g., Kitzinger, Byzantine Art in the Making, pp. 103–4. For more on this and what follows, see Trout, ‘Pictures with Words’. 40 All roads begin with Brown, Cult of the Saints.

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Fig. 5.3. S. Agnese, Rome, apse mosaic (photo by Robin Jensen)

of the most widely read of these dramatic re-enactments was dedicated to the virgin, Agnes, heroically martyred when she refused both marriage and pagan sacrif ice. 41 It is hardly surprising then that Honorius invested so heavily in refurbishing and further monumentalizing the site of Agnes’s tomb. Nor is it unexpected that the new basilica’s altar and apse surmounted her tomb, or that her image above in the apse, clad in imperial robes sewn with jewels, gave face and form to her praesentia. 42 Thus, Honorius provided the saint’s passio with striking visual authority, for the brilliance of the apse’s golden tesserae and the bejeweled guise of its heroine directly reflect primary elements of the passio’s narrative, wherein Agnes appears in several scenes bathed in stunning light or boasting of the (metaphorical) jewels bestowed upon her by her heavenly lover (Christ). In essence, the choices that informed the design and style of Honorius’s church and apse mosaic reflected and reinforced the same strain of spirituality that led Agnes’s passio to conclude with a reminder of the miracles still performed at her tomb. So, while it seems likely that familiarity with Agnes’s passio influenced the images of the Honorian apse, it is nearly certain that many early medieval visitors to the Honorian 41 Lanéry, ‘Agnes et Emerentiana’. For translation and commentary see now Lapidge, The Roman Martyrs, pp. 348–62. 42 Trout, ‘Pictures with Words’.

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church would have instinctively collated their memories of the passio with their experience of viewing the apse mosaic. Elsewhere in the Roman suburbs, Honorius was, it seems, engaged in similar, if less well-documented, projects aimed at revitalizing the city’s topography of martyrdom and the allure of its martyrs. In doing so, he sponsored a remarkable revival of church construction and refurbishment in Rome. In quantity, and perhaps in quality, though the latter is harder to judge, it emulates and rivals the heyday of the fifth-century building boom at Rome.43 This Honorian resurgence would spark the composition of guidebooks to the Roman suburbs, two of which would be composed either in the last years of Honorius’s pontificate or soon thereafter. 44 Perhaps it should come as no surprise, then, either that, as noted above, these works singled out his recent efforts to improve the pilgrimage experience, or that some of those among the Anglo-Saxons and Franks who visited the city’s suburban martyria paused to copy out the lines of poetry that were another seductive feature of Honorius’s churches. 45

Honorius and the Allure of Poetry The origins of ecclesiastical epigraphic verse at Rome coincide with the emergence of public Christian architecture in the city. This is demonstrable at St. Peter’s as well as at Constantina’s Via Nomentana basilica dedicated to Agnes. Thereafter, inscribed epigrams flourished in the churches of Rome, most often patronized by the city’s bishops but not without the occasional imperial sponsorship, as was the case when Galla Placidia and Leo I together carried out repair work at the basilica of St. Paul on the Via Ostiensis. 46 Yet, like papal church building, new papal ecclesiastical versification had all but disappeared in the decades leading up to Honorius’s pontificate. There is no known activity for the previous thirty-five 43 For comparative assessment see Moorhead, The Popes and the Church, pp. 173–5; Krautheimer, Profile of a City, p. 87. 44 Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae 12 (CSEL 175, 306), dating between 625 and 649: ‘Deinde via Numentana ad ecclesiam sanctae Agnae, quae formosa est, in qua sola pausat – et ipsam Honorius miro opere reparavit’. The concluding phrase is in a more ‘slender (gracilior)’ script. The roughly contemporary De locis sanctis martyrum 21 (CSEL 175, 319), dating between 635 and 645, describes the church as mirae puchritudinis but does not mention Honorius. 45 Thacker, ‘Rome of the Martyrs’; briefly on the medieval epigraphic syllogae, see Trout, Damasus of Rome, pp. 63–5. 46 ICURns 2.4784 = De Santis, Sanctorum Monumenta, no. 36.

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years, from the death of Pelagius II in 590 through the following line of six popes, the series that included Gregory I. For this reason alone, Honorius’s ecclesiastical epigrams come as a pleasant surprise to anyone aware of the dearth of such compositions in the preceding period. Moreover, Honorius’s verses are innovative as well as imitative. On this count as well, Honorian Rome takes on the glow of a city simultaneously being renewed and embarking upon a novel course. Seven Honorian inscriptions have been preserved [Fig. 5.1]. One is Honorius’s verse epitaph for his papal predecessor Deusdedit (615–18).47 The other six accompanied Honorius’s building work and renovation projects in the cemetery centers of the Roman suburbs: three at S. Agnese; two at St. Peter’s; and one at S. Paolo f.l.m.48 Together, they constitute seventy-six lines of verse, almost entirely in elegiac couplets.49 They reveal a highly creative program that both draws upon older poetic models, classical as well as papal, and blazes new paths. With the exception of the S. Agnese apse epigram, these verses, patronized if not composed by Honorius, are preserved exclusively in medieval syllogae. This is not an insignificant fact. Regardless of the distaste expressed by some modern readers of the Honorian corpus, the syllogae attest to the appeal of this poetry to seventh- and eighth-century connoisseurs of epigraphic verse. Though this body of poetry awaits a more thorough study, even a cursory examination reveals an epigraphic program distinguished by modulations in tone, language, and imagery that are keyed to location and sensitive to context. The epigram that Honorius placed at the subterranean tomb of Agnes, for example, openly advertised its ties to the once trend-setting elogia that Damasus had installed at venerated tombs throughout the Roman suburbs in the fourth century, including at the tomb of Agnes.50 Accessible

47 ICURns 2.4160. The epitaph (ICURns 2.4162) of Boniface V (619-25), Honorius’s immediate predecessor, may also have been Honorius’s handiwork, but unlike the former it does not contain his name as ‘signature’. 48 S. Agnese: ICURns 8.20755–56 = De Santis, Sanctorum Monumenta , nos. 99–100; ICURns 8.2057. St Peter’s: ICURns 2.4119–20. S. Paolo f.l.m.: ICURns 2.4792. There was also an Honorian prose inscription in the apse of his newly built S. Pancrazio (ILCV 1786 = ICURns 2.4292 = De Santis, Sanctorum monumenta, no. 29). 49 On the versatility of the elegiac couplet in late antiquity, see Roberts, ‘Late Roman Elegy’. 50 When the tablet inscribed with Damasus’s elogium (37) was discovered in 1728 it was being used face-down as a paving stone in the floor of the Honorian church; see Trout, Damasus of Rome, p. 151. How or when it moved from the crypt to become flooring is unclear, but it seems likely that Honorius would have preferred to set his new text in proximity to Damasus’s, especially considering the likely allusion (inclita) suggested below.

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to visitors through the ancient catacomb galleries unwinding beneath the church, Honorius’s verses read:51 inclita vota suis adquirunt pr(a)emia laudis  dum perfecta micant mente fide meritis. virginis hoc Agn(a)e clauduntur membra sepulchro  qu(a)e incorrupta tamen vita sepulta tenet. hoc opus argento construxit Honorius amplo  martyris et sanct(a)e virginis ob meritum. Celebrated vows attract to themselves the rewards of praise  when, once fulfilled, they glitter with reason, faith, merit. The limbs of the virgin Agnes are enclosed by this tomb,  which, though buried, life undiminished possesses. This work Honorius fabricated with silver aplenty  on account of the merit of the martyr and holy virgin.

The epigram’s three couplets replay well-tested Damasan themes: an allusion to the spectacular gesta that have earned the martyr the rewards of praise;52 the paradox of the animated tomb; and the donor’s action carried out martyris ob meritum. Words and phrases echoed Damasan lines that attentive pilgrims could still have encountered at shrines throughout the city’s suburbs. Damasus’s martyrs, too, are due and receive praemia while fides and meritum are favorite Damasan terms for expressing the martyrs’ virtues and accomplishments.53 At the cemetery of S. Callisto, readers learned that while the revered tombs (sepulcra) held the bodies of the saints, heaven had taken up their spirits (animae); along the Via Ardeatina, the limbs (membra) of Damasus’s sister, Irene, most likely a consecrated virgin, were likewise resting in her tomb (hoc tumulo sacrata deo nunc membra quiescunt); and on the Via Salaria, a tumulus contained the limbs of Maurus (tumulus pia membra retentat).54 Typically, Damasus, too, signaled his act of veneration and commemoration by including his name in his epigrams’ final lines, as he did at the tomb of Agnes. His elogium for Agnes also ended

51 ICURns 8.20755 = De Santis, Sanctorum monumenta, no. 99. 52 I understand the vota of line one as referring to the actions of Agnes not of Honorius (who occupies the final couplet). 53 E.g., praemia: Damasus 15.2 and 17.8; fides: 7.2, 7.4, 34.2; meritum: 40.8 and 21.12. 54 Damasus 16.2–3, 11.1, and 44.1.

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by addressing the young virgin as inclyta martyr (renowned martyr).55 Surely not by coincidence, inclita was also the first word of Honorius’s new Agnes epigram. In its themes and words, then, the epigram that Honorius placed at Agnes’s tomb was both an homage to his fourth-century papal predecessor, whose epigrams had codified the genre of the martyrial elogium, and an affirmation of strains of piety rooted in Rome’s identity as an unparalleled city of martyrs. While these same themes are in play throughout Honorius’s poetry, elsewhere they are overshadowed by other aesthetic and managerial agenda. His twelve verses set out in mosaic tesserae in the apse of S. Agnese, for example, significantly surpassed the classicizing initiatives of any previous pope, imaginatively portraying the apse’s glittering golden mosaic as a Vergilian landscape of fountains and fields enlivened by the rays of Dawn (Aurora) and the colors of the Rainbow (Iris).56 fontibus e niveis credas aurora subire  correptas nubes roribus arva rigans (2–3) You would suppose Dawn springs up from clear white fountains,  moistening the fields with dew as the clouds are swept away

Although the epigram had begun with a nod towards the poem that a century earlier Pope Felix IV had installed in the apse of Cosmas and Damian (whose design, as we have seen, influenced Honorius’s at S. Agnese),57 it quickly veered off into uncharted territory. While the epigram at Agnes’s tomb below the altar banked on familiarity, the poem surmounting it in the apse risked its capital on novelty. Unprecedented images are expressed in eye-catching language: the classical Chaos, a Vergilian deus, stands in for death and darkness and, remarkably, Agnes’s tomb is designated a bustum, a ‘pagan’ term (used fourteen times by Ovid) that here makes its sole appearance in Roman epigraphic verse to denote a martyr’s tomb.58 55 Damasus 57.10: ‘ut Damasi precibus faveas precor inclyta martyr’ (I pray, renowned martyr, that you favor the prayers of Damasus). 56 ICURns 8.20757, with text, translation, and commentary at Trout, ‘ICUR 8.20757: Poetry and Ambition’, and fuller discussion at Trout, ‘Poets and Readers’. 57 Felix (ILCV 1784.1): ‘aula dei claris radiat speciosa metallis’ (the resplendent hall of God beams with brilliant stones) and Honorius (ICURns 8.20757.1): ‘aurea concisis surgit pictura metallis’ (the image rises golden from cut stones). 58 Vergil Aeneid 4.510–11: ‘deos Erebumque Chaosque / tergeminamque Hecaten’; Aeneid 6.264-5: ‘di […] et Chaos et Phlegethon’. On bustum, see De Santis, Sanctorum monumenta, pp. 47–8.

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qui potuit noctis vel lucis reddere finem  martyrum e bustis hinc reppulit ille chaos (7–8) He who was able to fix the limit of night and day,  that one has driven Chaos from the tombs of the martyrs.

In short, though composed for and installed in the same martyr complex, the poem at Agnes’s sepulcher and the one in the apse above could hardly have been more different from each other, nor together more effectively display the emotional and artistic range of Honorius’s poetry. Although Honorius’s newly built S. Agnese quickly became a popular stop on Rome’s pilgrimage circuit, it may have been across town, at the basilica of St. Peter, that the bishop’s poetic ambitions were most evident. As noted earlier, included among the Liber Pontificalis’s list of Honorian projects commissioned and carried out at S. Pietro in Vaticano, is the notice that he sheathed the basilica’s central doors in 975 lbs. of silver (riches destined to be plundered by Arab raiders in 846).59 The Liber, however, does not mention that Honorius also enveloped those doors in 38 lines of poetry. Fortunately, the medieval syllogae preserve the twelve couplets (24 lines) that adorned the left door panel and the seven couplets (14 lines) that could be read on the right.60 Already their length sets them apart from most previous ecclesiastical epigrams at Rome, which seldom surpassed ten lines. So, too, their particular blend of theology, doctrine, and reportage on contemporary events distinguishes them not only from earlier epigraphic verse, but also from Honorius’s own poems installed in the S. Agnese complex. The text on the right-hand door panel, the shorter of the two (lumine sed magno), perhaps bears fewer surprises. Like other ecclesiastical texts, but unlike the S. Agnese apse epigram, it explicates the visual imagery that it accompanies – drawing attention to the images of Peter (engraved on the left door) and of Paul (on the right), protectors of the ‘sacred threshold’.61 Also, like many other late antique apse inscriptions, it luxuriates in the language of dazzling luminescence. The first couplet alone offers lumine 59 Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 323: ‘Investivit regias in ingressu ecclesiae maiores, qui appellatur mediana, ex argento, qui pens. lib. DCCCCLXXV’. 60 ICURns 8.4119 (lux arcana); 8.4120 (lumine sed magno) = De Santis, Sanctorum monumenta, no. 24. Both were also printed by Duchesne at Liber Pontificalis, I, 325. For the syllogae, see de Rossi, ICUR 2.1, 52.3–4. For brief discussion, see de Rossi, ICUR 2.1, p. 53; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, p. 525, though these two texts and the doors they adorned seem (another surprise) to have attracted very little discussion. 61 ICURns 2.4120.3: ‘vultus servantum limina sacra’.

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sed magno vibrare, the classically poetic astriferum polum, and nitor.62 And although the lines that follow are difficult to interpret, the epigram appears to reference both an arrangement of jewels embedded in the silver doors and a purple curtain (blattea palla) that somehow further marked the boundary between the basilica’s narthex and ‘sanctuary’.63 The word selected to denote the sanctuary – fanum – is, like bustum in the apse of S. Agnese, willfully idiosyncratic; Christian writers almost exclusively used it to indicate a pagan temple.64 Overall, in its striking lexical choices – gaza, petalum, blattea, and palla as well as astriferus and fanum (all poetic or exotic words) – and its offbeat themes – highlighting the fear that the images of Peter and Paul should inspire in viewers – the poem can join S. Agnese’s apse epigram as an outlier. For the moment, however, the longer of the two portal epigrams serves to illustrate the verve and daring that characterize the corpus of Honorian ecclesiastical verse. With nearly unprecedented thematic scope, the verses from the left-hand door sweep from epitomizing the Incarnation, Christological doctrine, and the Petrine commission to praising (with premature optimism) Honorius’s resolution of the Istrian schism and his generous adornment of Peter’s fores with so much costly silver (the gift of one doorman to another).65 lux arcana dei verbum sapientia lucis  atque coruscantis splendida imago patris ad nos descendit nec quo fuit esse recessit  ut caecas mentes erueret tenebris. plenus homo in nostris et verus nascitur isdem  virginis ex utero totus ubique deus. discipulis praecepta dedit petrumque beatum  hos inter primum sanxit et egregium, cuius in arbitrio caelum terramque reliquit,  pandere vel potius claudere cumque velit. nam sub mortigenae quidam iacuere gehennae  verbere confossi mente fide opera.

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62 The colorful astriferus is post-Augustan but deployed by Lucan, Statius, and Valerius Flaccus. 63 ICURns 2.4120.9–10: ‘aureis in petalis gemmarum clauditur ordo / et superna tegit blattea palla fanum’. 64 De Santis, Sanctorum monumenta, pp. 166–7. 65 ICURns 8.4119. I offer a working translation of a challenging text. Especially optimistic is the rendering of couplets seven and eight (Histria […] numerosa fuit), though I hope to have come close to the sense.

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histria testatur possessa hostilibus annis  septies et decies scismate pestifero esset ut impletum hieremiae voce canentis  ultio captivis tam numerosa fuit. sed bonus antistes dux plebis Honorius armis  reddidit ecclesiae membra revulsa piis doctrinis monitisque suis de faucibus hostis  abstulit exactis iam peritura modis. at tuus argento praesul construxit opimo  ornavitque fores petre beate tibi tu modo caelorum quapropter ianitor alme  fac tranquilla tui tempora cuncta gregis The hidden light of God, the word, light’s wisdom  and brilliant image of the flashing father, came down to us, yet did not abandon being where it was,  in order to release unenlightened minds from the shadows. Fully man among us, also was he truly born  from the womb of a virgin, completely and everywhere God. He instructed his disciples and the blessed Peter  he appointed first and foremost among them, in whose judgment he left heaven and earth,  to open or rather to close howsoever he wishes. For some have fallen under the blow of death-dealing Gehenna,  shattered in mind, faith, and works. Istria offers witness, occupied by a pestiferous schism  during seventy years of hostility so that [the schism] might end in accord with the words of prophesying Jeremiah,  since for the captives [in Babylon] retribution was just as long. But the good bishop, leader of the people, Honorius, with  righteous arms restored the sundered limbs of the church. Through his teaching and counsel, he snatched [those limbs], about to perish, from  the jaws of the Enemy when the measure of time was fulfilled. And your bishop constructed and adorned with sumptuous  silver these doors for you, blessed Peter. Wherefore you, kind doorman of heaven, now  make peaceful all the seasons of your flock.

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Like the S. Agnese apse epigram, this one on the doors of St. Peter’s opens by gesturing towards an earlier text, in this case an epigram of Pelagius II located elsewhere in the same Vatican basilica. Pelagius’s poem (ICURns 2.4117) had begun with two couplets that, in rather generic language, also referenced the Incarnation and Christ’s commission to the disciples (before moving on to advertise Pelagius’s prayers undertaken on behalf of the efforts of the emperors Maurice and his sons to secure peace and orthodoxy in a troubled empire, paralleling the Honorian epigram’s expatiation on the Istrian schism): vox arcana patris caeli quibus aequa potestas descendit terras luce replere sua. hanc deus humanam sumens de virgine formam discipulos mundo praecipienda docet. The hidden word of the father, two who share equal power in heaven, descended to fill the earth with his light. God, taking this human form from a virgin, taught his disciples the things they were to teach the world.

Honorius’s f irst three words unabashedly referenced this Pelagian text (lux arcana dei / vox arcana patris) before expanding its Christological and commissioning frame from two to five couplets. In doing so, Honorius deployed sophisticated theological and scriptural language that included an Augustinian echo and a poetic epitome of the Gospel of Matthew’s account of Christ’s commission of Peter to be the rock of the church.66 Moreover, while Pelagius, in the following four couplets of his twelve line epigram, had been content to allude subtly to his own Petrine authority, while also aligning it with the imperium of the reigning principes (Maurice and his sons), Honorius’s epigram (in its second five-couplet section, introduced by nam) foregrounded the ‘righteous arms (arma pia)’ that Honorius wielded 66 The correspondence with the Pelagian epigram has been previously noted, for example by Duchesne, Liber Pontificalis, I, p. 325. For the Augustinian echo, compare Honorius’s ‘ad nos descendit nec quo fuit esse recessit / ut caecas mentes erueret tenebris’ with Augustine’s sermon observation (sermo 263A = PLS 2.494): ‘Ille de caelo non recessit, cum ad nos inde descendit; nec a nobis recesit, cum in caelum rurus ascendit. nam quia ibi erat cum hic esset, ita ipse testatur: nemo, inquit, ascendit in caelum, nisi qui de caelo descendit, filius hominis qui est in caelo’. On Peter’s commissioning, compare Honorius’s ‘cuius in arbitrio caelum terramque reliquit / pandere vel potius claudere cumque velit’ with Matthew 16.19’s ‘tibi dabo claves regni caelorum; et quodcumque ligeraveris super terram, erit ligatum in caelis, et quodcumque solveris super terram, erit solutum in caelis’.

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himself in order to restore ecclesiastical unity and re-claim (schismatic) Istria from the ‘jaws of the Enemy.’ Furthermore, these verses not only positioned Honorius as heir to Peter’s supreme arbitrium, but also clothed him in the finery of the Old Testament prophet Jeremiah by equating Istria’s seventy years of wallowing in error (thus dating the schism’s beginning to the ordination of Paulinus of Aquileia in 557) with the seventy years of Babylonian captivity predicted by Jeremiah.67 Not unexpectedly, then, this extremely confident poem ends in a flourish with two couplets that underscore the intimacy between Honorius and Peter (tuus praesul, beate Petre) and effect a clever twist by highlighting the gift of ornate silver doors given by Honorius to heaven’s true doorman, Peter, the caelorum ianitor (a phrase that also anticipates the ianua in the f irst line of the lumine sed magno epigram that follows on the right-hand door). Finally, this ambitious thematic complexity is seconded throughout by vivid metaphors (de faucibus hostis), colorful and rhyming language (sub verbere mortigenae gehennae), a neologism (the hapax legomenon mortigena presumably fashioned to echo the Biblical Gehenna), and allusions to both other epigrams and Christian scripture. Even this brief tour of Honorius’s extant epigraphic oeuvre should suggest that his engagement with the tradition of inscribed poetry extended beyond revival to exuberant refashioning. While the epigram at the tomb of Agnes adhered fairly closely to the expectations of the form as it had been established in the fourth and fifth centuries, much of the rest of this poetry strained to express new ideas and flash unconventional language. Sometimes the strain may have been too much. There are to be found here and there in these poems the kinds of metrical and grammatical idiosyncracies that tax modern readers (and perhaps contemporaries as well).68 There are also ambiguities that challenge translation (and perhaps, for this reason, translations are few and far between), though we may wonder if even these eccentricities were not calculated bids for attention. There can be no doubt, however, that what remains of the Honorian corpus testifies to Honorius’s desire to reformulate a medium of papal communication and self-promotion that had largely fallen silent in recent decades. 67 The ploy has long been noted: see De Rubeis, Monumenta ecclesiae Aquileiensis, p. 300. The epigram’s esset ut impletum hieremiae voce canentis appears to allude directly to Jeremiah 25.11–12, where God says, ‘this whole land shall become a ruin and a waste and these nations shall serve the king of Babylon seventy years. Then after seventy years are completed (cumque impleti fuerint anni septuaginta)[…]’; and Jeremiah 29.10: ‘For this says the Lord: Only when those seventy years are complete (cum coeperint impleri […] septuaginta anni) […]’. 68 One case is detailed at Trout, ‘Poetry and Ambition’.

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An Honorian Renaissance? Is it at all reasonable to speak of an Honorian renaissance in early seventhcentury Rome? Perhaps, modestly and as an inflection of more pessimistic evaluations of the period that followed upon the Gothic wars, the arrival of the plague, and the disruptions of the Lombard settlement in Italy. In ways still illuminated by the surviving evidence, the Honorian project seems aimed at re-inventing both Christian Rome and the papacy. That process involved concerted efforts to re-establish the city’s bishop as the frontline patron of ecclesiastical building and ecclesiastical verse. Both initiatives are characterized by the refashioning of inherited traditions for the expression of new aesthetic and pragmatic ends. S. Agnese f.l.m arose adjacent to a funerary basilica of the Constantinian age, but its location (atop Agnes’s tomb) and its architectural elements (galleries) are those of a new style martyrial church. The epigrams inscribed on the silver doors of St. Peter’s joined a program of epigraphic ecclesiastical verse initiated in that very basilica by the Constantinian dynasty and maintained thereafter by the city’s line of bishops. Yet, at the same time that Honorius’s verses flaunt their allegiance to that community of texts, they also challenge its boundaries and conventions. Honorian Rome remains understudied, in part because the sources for doing so are scattered and difficult. As I hope to have shown, however, careful attention to Honorius’s building program and his epigrams suggests how, in the wake of so many decades of difficulty and distraction, Honorius’s papacy pushed forward in part by looking back.

Bibliography Sources The Book of Pontiffs (Liber Pontificalis): Revised Edition, Translated with an Introduction, ed. and trans. by Raymond Davis (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000). Codice diplomatico del monastero di S. Colombano di Bobbio, Vol. 1, ed. by Carlo Cipolla (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1918). Gregory I, Homiliae in Hiezechihelem prophetam, ed. by Marcus Adriaen, CCSL 142 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1971). Jonas of Bobbio, Vita Columbani, in Ionae Vitae Sanctorum Columbani, Vedastis, Iohannis, ed. by Bruno Krusch, in Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in Usum

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Scholarum ex Monumentis Germaniae Historicis separatim editi (Hanover and Leipzig: Impensis Bibliopolii Hahniani, 1905). Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction, et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne and Cyrille Vogel, 3 vols. (Paris: E. Thorin, 1886–1892; Paris: E. de Boccard, 1957). Paola De Santis, Sanctorum Monumenta. ‘Aree sacre’ del suburbio di Roma nella documentazione epigrafica (IV–VII secolo) (Bari: Edipuglia, 2010).

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John Moorhead, The Popes and the Church of Rome in Late Antiquity (London and New York: Routledge, 2015). James J. O’Donnell, The Ruin of the Roman Empire: A New History (New York: HarperCollins Books, 2008). Cinzia Palombi, ‘S. Valentini basilica, ecclesia, coemeterium’, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae, Suburbium 5 (Rome: Quasar, 2008), pp. 217–25. Letizia Pani Ermini, ‘Forma urbis. Lo spazio urbano tra VI e IX secolo’, in Roma nell’alto Medioevo, Vol. 1 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 2001), pp. 255–23. Letizia Pani Ermini, ‘Lo “spazio cristiano” nella Roma del primo millennio’, in Christiana loca: Lo spazio cristiano nell Roma del primo millennio, Vol. 1, ed. by Letizia Pani Ermini (Rome: Fratelli Palombi Editori, 2000), pp. 15–37. Philippe Pergola, ‘Santuari dei martiri romani e pellegrinaggio tra IV e IX secolo’, in La comunità cristiana di Roma. La sua vita e la sua cultura dalle origini all’alto medio evo, ed. by Letizia Pani Ermini and Paolo Siniscalco (Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2000), pp. 385–96. Jeffrey Richards, The Popes and the Papacy in the Early Middle Ages 476-752 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979). Jeffrey Richards, Consul of God: The Life and Times of Gregory the Great (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1980). Michael Roberts, ‘Late Roman Elegy’, in The Oxford Handbook of the Elegy, edited by K. Weisman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 85–100. Michele Renee Salzman, ‘The Christianization of Sacred Time and Sacred Space’, in The Transformations of Urbs Roma in Late Antiquity, ed. by W. V. Harris (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1999), pp. 123–34. Brenda Deen Schildgen, Gang Zhou, and Sander L. Gilman, eds., Other Renaissances: A New Approach to World Literature (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006). Antonio Sennis, ‘Onorio I’, Enciclopedia dei Papi, Vol. 1 (Rome: Trecanni, 2000), pp. 585–90. Simonetta Serra, ‘S. Laurentii basilica, balneum, praetorium, monasterium, hospitia, bibliothecae’, Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae, Suburbium 3 (Rome: Quasar, 2005), pp. 203–11. Alessandro Taddei, ‘Il VII secolo. Da Sabiniano (604–606) a Sergio I (687–701)’, in La committenza artistica dei papi a Roma nel Medioevo, ed. by Mario D’Onofrio (Rome: Viella, 2016), pp. 148–80. Rabun Taylor, Katherine Wentworth Rinne, and Spiro Kostof, Rome: An Urban History from Antiquity to the Present (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016). Alan Thacker, ‘In Search of Saints: The English Church and the Cult of Roman Apostles and Martyrs in the Seventh and Eighth Centuries’, in Early Medieval

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Rome and the Christian West: Essays in Honour of Donald A. Bullough, ed. by Julia M. H. Smith (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 247–77. Alan Thacker, ‘Rome of the Martyrs: Saints, Cults, and Relics, Fourth to Seventh Centuries’, in Roma Felix: Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome, ed. by Éamonn Ó Carragáin and Carol Neuman de Vegvar (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 13–49. Anton Thanner, Papst Honorius I. (625–638) (St. Ottilien: EOS Verlag Erzabtei St. Ottilien, 1989). Erik Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome: Time, Network, and Repetition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). Warren Treadgold, ed., Renaissances Before the Renaissance: Cultural Revivals of Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1984). Dennis Trout, ‘Damasus and the Invention of Early Christian Rome’, in The Cultural Turn in Late Ancient Studies: Gender, Asceticism, and Historiography, ed. by Dale Martin and Patricia Cox Miller (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), pp. 298–315. Dennis Trout, Damasus of Rome: The Epigraphic Poetry (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Dennis Trout, ‘ICUR 8.20757: Poetry and Ambition at S. Agnese fuori le mura’, in Fide non Ficta. Essays in Honor of Paul B. Harvey. Jr., ed. by John Muccigrosso and Celia Schultz, Biblioteca di Athenaeum 64 (Bari: Edipuglia, 2020), pp. 147-63. Dennis Trout, ‘Pictures with Words: Reading the Apse Mosaic of S. Agnese f.l.m. (Rome),’ Studies in Iconography, 40 (2019), pp. 1–26. Dennis Trout, ‘Poets and Readers in Seventh-Century Rome: Pope Honorius, Lucretius, and the Doors of St. Peter’s’, Traditio, 75 (2020), pp. 39-85. Dennis Trout, ‘Sagax animo: Jonas of Bobbio and the Verse Epitaph of Honorius’, Early Medieval Europe. Forthcoming. Dennis Trout, ‘Vergil and Ovid at the Tomb of Agnes: Constantina, Epigraphy, and the Genesis of Christian Poetry’, in Ancient Documents and their Contexts. First North American Congress of Greek and Latin Epigraphy (2011), ed. by John Bodel and Nora Dimitrova (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2015), pp. 263–82. Chris Wickham, Early Medieval Italy: Central Power and Local Society, 400–1000 (London: Macmillan, 1981). Chris Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean, 400–800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). Chris Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome: Illuminating the Dark Ages, 400–1000 (New York: Penguin Books, 2009).

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About the Author Dennis Trout is professor of Classical Studies in the Department of Ancient Mediterranean Studies at the University of Missouri. His publications examine literary texts by Paulinus of Nola together with the Latin poetry of Late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, now focusing upon the verse inscriptions in Rome. His publications include Damasus of Rome: The Epigraphic Poetry (2015).

6. After Antiquity: Renewing the Past or Celebrating the Present?Early Medieval Apse Mosaics in Rome Erik Thunø

Abstract This chapter looks beyond the concept of ‘renewal’, which still dominates our view of the medieval art and architecture of Rome. An alternative approach examines selected monuments from a synchronic view in which linear time transforms into what I would like to define as a ‘continuous present’. This amplifies our view of how medieval images worked, not only in Rome, but also more broadly. Perceived as special and unique to Rome, the current narrative ends up isolating the city and its monuments within a sort of closed self-contained cyclical system with little relevance to what is going on fuori le mura. Discussing a number of the city’s early medieval apse mosaics, I argue that the narrative is ready for revision. Keywords: apse mosaics (Rome), relics, inscriptions in churches, temporality, communio sanctorum

The art and architecture of the medieval city of Rome is typically presented in art historical scholarship as periodically renewing itself across some thousand years – from the emergence of the first Christian basilicas in the fourth century, to the fourteenth century when the papacy left the Urbs (1309) to reside in the French city of Avignon, returning in 1376. The source for these revivals is, of course, the city’s imperial past as caput mundi – pagan or Christian – as reflected in the splendor and exalted artistic quality of its monuments. Perhaps no other study on the topic has proved more influential in promoting this narrative than Richard Krautheimer’s book Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308, first published in 1980 by Princeton University Press. The

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch06

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goal of this superbly written historical survey, as stated by its author, is: ‘to outline a history of Rome during a thousand years through, rather than of, her monuments.’1 What transpires from his presentation of this millennial trajectory, as told by the monuments themselves, is the ebb and flow of the reception of imperial Rome in the city’s visual and architectural culture. A classical ‘revival’ of the fifth century followed by a ‘renewal and renascence’ of the Carolingian period and another ‘rebirth’ and ‘renewal’ from the late eleventh through the thirteenth century are thus seen to alternate with periods of urban devastation, ‘eastern’ political dominance or utter moral, social, and economic decline.2 Notwithstanding its enormous contribution to our understanding of the city of Rome in the Middle Ages, Krautheimer’s diachronic approach to its monuments can be challenged by an alternative, synchronic view, as will be proposed in this chapter. In what follows, some of the city’s most important monuments – apse mosaics from the early Middle Ages – will be considered not just as expressions of their specific historical moment, but also as operating above and across linear time as we move from the early sixth and into the middle of the ninth century. Within the limitations of apsidal compositions in mosaic and the early Middle Ages, admittedly microhistorical with respect to Krautheimer’s thousand-year span but nonetheless encompassing several distinct historical periods, these mosaics (all of them also discussed by Krautheimer), I argue, shape their own concept of time. More precisely, through various and shared pictorial and textual strategies that are intrinsic to them, the mosaics transform linear time into what I would call a ‘continuous present’. By taking this view of the mosaics, we discover a different type of visual dynamic that is less affected by the ups and downs of history than by its shaping of a new timeless reality. This process, in which the agency of the mosaics themselves is implicated, may also be helpful to understanding how other medieval images worked – and perhaps not only in Rome. Indeed, one of the concerns with the current narrative is that not only does it appear as a dominant and difficult to contest monolith, 1 Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, p. xv. 2 As outlined in Part 1 of Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, pp. 3–302. See also Panofsky’s influential, Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art, pp. 42–113, where prior to the ‘real’ Renaissance, the author identified periods of classical-imperial ‘rapprochements’ (p. 42) in the Carolingian period and, again, in the twelfth century. See also the discussion in the introduction of this volume. On Rome: Profile of a City and subsequent scholarship, see Thunø, The Apse Mosaic, pp. 6–7. In their contributions of the present volume, John Osborne and Dennis Trout argue respectively for a seventh-century ‘re-invention’ or ‘Honorian Renaissance’ (625–38) of Rome.

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Fig. 6.1. S. Prassede, Rome, general view, 817–24 (photo: Soprintendenza Speciale per il Patrimonio Storico, Artistico ed Etnoantropologico e per il Polo Museale della città di Roma).

but since it is perceived as special and unique to the city of Rome, it ends up isolating its monuments within a closed and self-contained cyclical system with respect to the broader medieval visual and architectural culture fuori le mura. Through the lens of the apse mosaics of early medieval Rome, this article therefore seeks to identify certain artistic strategies, interactions and concepts that may also be applicable to visual material elsewhere.3 Between the sixth and ninth centuries, the popes commissioned a series of splendid apse mosaics that hold a unique place in the medieval visual culture of the Urbs. A well-known example is the mosaic decoration in the church of S. Prassede on the Esquiline hill, built and decorated between 817 and 3 See also Thunø, Apse Mosaic, from which the present article draws materials and conclusions. On the specific issue of visual representation and time as studied by art historians, see Ibid., pp. 9–11 and Moxey, Visual Time.

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824, that is, during one of Krautheimer’s ‘renascences’ [Fig. 6.1]. The mosaic in the apse vault of S. Prassede is the most eye-catching and interactive part of the whole impressive early ninth-century visual ensemble [Fig. 6.2]. Terminating the nave and suspended above the main altar, a shimmering hierarchy of frontally gazing saints, gathered against a deep-blue background around a hovering golden-robed Christ, attracts and then fixes the eye of the beholder as he or she enters the early medieval basilica. From here, the viewer’s gaze is drawn upward to the other parts of the mosaic decoration that are configured to interact with the celestial realm in the apse: the Book of Revelation’s Adoration of the Lamb by the Four Living Creatures and the Twenty-Four Elders on the apsidal arch surrounding the vault [Fig. 6.3], and the unique depiction of the Heavenly Jerusalem as defined by a gem- and pearl-encrusted golden wall, on the monumental triumphal arch in front. In this way, the mosaic in the apse conch serves as the fulcrum around which the entire pictorial decoration pivots and the locus that both begins and concludes the viewer’s visual journey. 4 Augmenting the interest of the apse vault as a point of attraction for the beholder is the monumental inscription that runs across its lower rim [Fig. 6.2]. Its Latin hexameter verses, executed in golden capital letters all’antica that flicker against a deep-blue background, honor the saint to whom the church is dedicated, credits the pope with his patronage, and points out the intercessory powers of the saints buried in the church. Finally, it consciously and purposefully emphasizes the power of its apse mosaic to pervade the entire space of the church with dazzling light: [This is the] hall of the devout Praxedis, well pleasing to the Lord, in honor above the skies. It shimmers in light, adorned with diverse metals through the zeal of Paschal the supreme pontiff, foster-son of the Apostolic See. He buried many bodies of saints beneath these walls, placing them at various sites, confident that, because of them, he may be found worthy to approach the threshold of the heavens.5 4 Wisskirchen, Das Mosaikprogramm; Goodson, The Rome of Pope Paschal I, pp. 228–241; Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 1, 43 with further references. 5 EMICAT AVLA PIAE VARIIS DECORATA METALLIS PRAXEDIS D[OMI]NO SVPER AETHRA PLACENTIS HONORE PONTIFICIS SVMMI STVDIO PASCHALIS ALVMNI SEDIS APOSTOLICAE PASSIM QVI CORPORA CONDENS PLVRIMA S[AN]C[T]ORVM SVBTER HAEC MOENIA PONIT FRETVS VT HIS LIMEN MEREATVR ADIRE POLORVM Thunø, Apse Mosaic, p. 211 (Appendix).

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Fig. 6.2. S. Prassede, Rome, apse vault, 817–24 (photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY).

Fig. 6.3. S. Prassede, Rome, apse vault and apsidal arch, 817–24 (photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY).

In the non-narrative imagery in the apse vault above the inscription, the focal point of the interior of the basilica, the most significant transformations occur during the Roman Middle Ages. The triumphal arch mosaic of S. Prassede, to be sure, is an unusual ad hoc expansion of a decorative program that typically consists only of the apse vault and its surmounting arch, as found, for example, in the churches of SS. Cosmas and Damian (526–530) on the Forum [Fig. 6.4] and San Marco (827–844) [Fig. 6.5] on the present-day Piazza Venezia. The representation of the Adoration of the Twenty-Four Elders was standard on apsidal arches already by the f ifth

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Fig. 6.4. SS. Cosmas and Damian, Rome, general view, 526–30 (photo: Bibliotheca Hertziana – MaxPlanck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte, Rom).

century, as originally seen in San Paolo fuori le Mura on the Via Ostiense [Fig. 6.6]. Whereas this narrative theme from the Apocalypse remains largely unchanged, insofar as it continues to include most or all of the same protagonists (Lamb/Living Creatures/Elders), there are a number of specific features in the apse vault of S. Prassede that are as distinctive among early medieval apse mosaics in Rome as they are unprecedented in mosaics of the fourth and f ifth centuries and that were discontinued in those of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Certainly, the idea of transforming the apse conch into a timeless hierarchy of heavenly figures organized around Christ, who directly faces the viewer, goes back to the earliest known apse decorations, such as the apse mosaic in S. Pudenziana on the Esquiline hill (c. AD 400) [Fig. 6.7], but the choice of some of those figures within that celestial order should draw our attention. Similarly, while inscriptions are known to have accompanied apse mosaics from the earliest times, their contents and appearance become particularly uniform among the early medieval apse mosaics that I will be considering in this chapter. These largely focus on the presence not of apostles as represented in S. Pudenziana, but rather of post-apostolic saints – that is, saints who lived and were martyred in eras post-dating

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Fig. 6.5. San Marco, Rome, apse vault and apsidal arch, 827–44 (photo: Marc Haegeman).

Fig. 6.6. San Paolo fuori le Mura, Rome, apsidal arch, mid-fifth century, after Ciampini, Vetera Monimenta, II, tab. LXVVV (photo: Bibliotheca Hertziana – Max-Planck-Institut für Kunstgeschichte).

the apostles, chiefly during the Christian persecutions of the second and third centuries. In this way, the mosaics always represent the basilica’s dedicatory saints but often also introduce other related saints. In the apse of S. Prassede, for instance, St. Praxedes is accompanied by her sister, St. Pudentiana [Fig. 6.2]. The Roman sisters, recorded as having lived in the

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Fig. 6.7. S. Pudenziana, Rome, apse vault, 401–417 (photo: Soprintendenza Speciale per il Patrimonio Storico, Artistico ed Etnoantropologico e per il Polo Museale della città di Roma).

second century, are shown presenting their crowns of martyrdom as they are introduced to Christ by Sts. Peter and Paul. At the far right margin of the group stands an additional saint represented as a deacon holding a book (St. Zeno?). And together with the introduction of post-apostolic saints, another figure typical for early medieval apse mosaics in Rome joins the heavenly hierarchy of saints – that is, the living pope as patron. Thus, in S. Prassede from the left margin of the apse conch, Pope Paschal presents a model of his newly built church to Christ. Beyond the inclusion of such figures – post-apostolic saints (the titular saint included) and a papal donor – the inscriptions glossing the early medieval apse mosaics also stand out among their earlier and later counterparts in Rome for both their formal qualities (golden capital letters on deep blue) and the verses’ combined concern with the titular saint(s) and papal patron, on the one hand, and the light-emitting qualities of the artistic medium, on the other. In this way, the shimmering mosaics and their golden inscriptions jointly underline the new figures, while making light and material splendor key topoi. As we shall see, the saints, the popes, and the ancient topos of radiating light thereby are intertwined in ways that originate in the cult of relics.6 6 For an overview: Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 13–38, with examples of earlier and later apse mosaics, including their inscriptions.

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This particular combination of iconographic and epigraphic features, as witnessed by the apse vault in S. Prassede, constitutes what I have def ined as a ‘formula’ constituent to the early medieval apse mosaic in Rome. Hence, the presence of the titular saint(s) and the patron pope in conjunction with an inscription similar in content and appearance to that discussed earlier is far from new to S. Prassede, but is shared by a large proportion of the apse mosaics created in Rome between the sixth and ninth centuries that are still in situ in their churches: SS. Cosmas and Damian [Fig. 6.8]; S. Agnese fuori le Mura on the Via Nomentana (625–638) [Fig. 6.9]; the San Venanzio Chapel in the Lateran Baptistery (640–642) [Fig. 6.10]; S. Cecilia in Trastevere (817–824) [Fig. 6.11]; and San Marco (827–844) [Fig. 6.5]. Except for S. Agnese and S. Cecilia, the mosaics in these settings to this day comprise the apse vault, or apse conch, and the arch above it, or the apsidal arch.7 To be sure, the apse vaults discussed here reveal obvious compositional and iconographic differences in the choice, number, and arrangement of the figures. The background colors and paradisiacal landscape elements also differ from one another. The mosaics in question, then, may at f irst sight appear unrelated, indeed heterogeneous, especially in view of the fact that they were made in widely separate historical eras – from the pre- to the post-Byzantine conquest of Rome and into the Carolingian period – and in disparate styles. However, their fundamental contiguities are revealed if a closer look is given to the types of figures occupying their compositions. Whether or not Christ continues to dominate the center, it is clear that all of the apse mosaics mentioned are strongly focused on celebrating their titular (and sometimes additional) saints as well as the popes who built and adorned the churches. In fact, the presence of the latter persists even when such typical components as Christ and the apostle princes are absent, such as in S. Agnese fuori le Mura. Whereas the saints are post-apostolic martyrs who typically hold books, scrolls, or the victorious crowns of their martyrdom, the bishop – still alive at the completion of the church and its mosaic – usually wears a square halo and presents a model of the church to the protagonist at the center: Christ or the titular saint.

7 Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 3, 13–29; Thunø, ‘The Power and Display of Writing’, pp. 95–114. The apse mosaic in S. Maria in Domnica could also be added to this series, but for reasons of brevity I have excluded it from the present discussion; see Thunø, Apse Mosaic, p. 60.

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Fig. 6.8. SS. Cosmas and Damian, Rome, apse vault, 526–30 (photo: Scala/Luciano Romano/Art Resource, NY).

Fig. 6.9. Sant’Agnese fuori le Mura, Rome, apse vault, 625–38 (photo: Rome101.com).

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Fi. 6.10. San Venanzio Chapel, Rome, apse vault, 640–42 (photo: Andrea Jemolo/Scala/Art Resource, NY).

Fig. 6.11. S. Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome, general view, 817–24 (photo: Soprintendenza Speciale per il Patrimonio Storico, Artistico ed Etnoantropologico e per il Polo Museale della città di Roma).

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Fig. 6.12. S. Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome, golden inscription in apse vault (detail), 817–24 (photo: Soprintendenza Speciale per il Patrimonio Storico, Artistico ed Etnoantropologico e per il Polo Museale della città di Roma).

The stylistic and compositional differences among the apse mosaics recede further into the background when one also considers their golden inscriptions. Indeed, the mosaics in question not only share an established cast of characters, but they also feature lengthy and eye-catching inscriptions that stretch across the entire lower rims of their apse conches. With the exception of the inscription in the San Venanzio Chapel that features capital lettering in white against a deep-blue background, these monumental poetic texts are set in large golden classicizing majuscule that shimmers against a deep-blue background [Fig 6.12]. Although largely ignored both in content and visual appearance, these golden hexameters deserve much closer scrutiny than they have until now been given. As is true of the figural compositions, these inscriptions are far from identical, differing both in length and content and therefore deserving individual study. Yet, each (San Venanzio included) consistently acknowledges the titular saint(s) and the papal patron shown in the mosaics and evokes the splendor of the church it decorates by self-referentially emphasizing its own and the entire apse mosaic’s power to dazzle and glitter with light. As such, the apse inscriptions demonstrate a marked uniformity in which appearance and content mutually reinforce each other.8 Seen from this perspective, the early medieval apse mosaics share a formula of visual and textual features in which titular saint(s), the papal patron, and the focus on material splendor are the constituent elements. This formula transcends changes in style and composition over time and links the mosaics as segments of a series that suspends rather than manifests linear historical time. In their search for cultural specificity in the mosaics and the persistent attempt to make them into manifestations of certain historical moments in time, however, art historians have typically turned a blind eye to those features that link rather than separate the mosaics one from the other.9 8 Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 27–28. 9 For an overview of the historiography of the apse mosaics of medieval Rome: Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 5–8, 28. See also Kinney, ‘Communication in a visual mode’, pp. 311–332.

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The proposed formula makes it possible to use a renewed, more wide-ranging lens with which to view a ninth-century apse mosaic like that of S. Prassede [Fig. 6.2], for example, not just in relation to a more or less direct prototype of the sixth century, such as the apse mosaic in SS. Cosmas and Damian [Fig. 6.8], but also as connected to apse mosaics from the intervening period. Conversely, the apse mosaics from S. Agnese [Fig. 6.9] and San Venanzio [Fig. 6.10] no longer appear merely as isolated instances from a period when Rome was under ‘eastern’ influence, be eclipsed later by the Carolingian ‘renascence’, but now take their place in a continuum stretching from the early sixth-century apse mosaic of SS. Cosmas and Damian [Fig. 6.8] to those of the ninth century [Figs. 6.2; 6.5; 6.11], carrying on a formula that thereby creates an interconnected series of early medieval apse mosaics.10 The formula, in other words, rearranges the apse mosaics from the sixth to the ninth centuries in ways that are at odds with the traditional narrative that tends to compartmentalize the material into separate groups each belonging to a particular historical period. To that end, I intend to challenge the prevailing narrative. I do so by looking beyond a number of commonly emphasized features feeding the above-mentioned narrative, such as the renowned aura of the apse mosaic in SS. Cosmas and Damian as mediating between early Christian prototypes and their later Carolingian followers on both specific and more general levels [Fig.6.8]; the ‘foreign’ and hence isolated characteristics of San Venanzio and S. Agnese [Figs. 6.9-6.10]; and the much celebrated Roman revival as embodied by S. Prassede, S. Cecilia, and San Marco [Figs. 6.2; 6.5; 6.11]. The proposed formula, by contrast, works as a tool that flattens this traditional trajectory in favor of a new alignment that is not submerged by what are perceived as the historical ups and downs of Rome, but which is underpinned by the mosaics’ own visual and textual features.11 Eventually, the formula allows us to move beyond the anachronistic notion of ‘renaissances’ in medieval Rome. The early medieval apse mosaics we have thus far considered are found in churches with very different origins and functions within Rome’s sacred topography, a fact that may seem surprising in light of the shared visual and textual formula that identifies them as a distinct group. Just as this formula persisted over three successive centuries, so it appears to rise above the topographical and historical specificity of each church. What instead motivated the formula were the relics of saints. The patron popes’ reburial and orchestration of early saints’ relics – whether imported from abroad 10 The terms ‘eastern’ and ‘renascence’ are those used by Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, pp. 89–90 and 109–142. 11 Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 28–29.

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(SS. Cosmas and Damian; San Venanzio chapel), left in their original burial sites (S. Agnese), or transferred into the city from suburban cemeteries (S. Prassede; S. Cecilia; San Marco) – in new architectural settings, coincided with the continuous manifestation of the formula in the early medieval apse mosaics. In fact, by visualizing some of the newly installed saints in conjunction with the pope as patron, and often recording in words the circumstances that prompted the new church and its mosaic, the formula engages directly with its own origins.12 The formula linking the early medieval apse mosaics to one another as a series and the newly orchestrated relics of Christianity’s early martyrs should be considered as two sides of the same coin. Further, the golden inscriptions in particular played a key role in linking the early medieval apse mosaics and their churches to the presence of the relics. As most recently explained by Cynthia Hahn, essential to the empowerment of relics is an understanding of them as generators of light, a ‘light not stable but one that flickers, flashes, and coruscates; in short it is incandescent.’ In suggesting the healing power of the relics of St. Stephen, Augustine writes how ‘it [his body] shed its light on many lands,’ and Gregory of Tours records how the relics of St. Martin and other saints were brought into the oratory of St. Illidius whereby ‘a frightening flash filled the room […] and flared about through the entire oratory’ that he identified as the power (virtus) of the saint.13 Patricia Cox Miller has argued that the association of relics with such physical qualities as light and brilliance was essential to an apprehension of these objects as not opaque and dead bones, but as spiritual and living objects.14 Seen against this background, the focus on glitter and brilliance in the golden apse inscriptions is surely as much about the relics installed in their churches as it is about the materiality of the apse mosaics. Executed in flickering, flashing letters of gold within glass tesserae, the inscriptions, together with the multicolored apse mosaics above them, operate to enhance the experience of the relics in the church below as embedded with sacred power [Fig. 6.12]. By amplifying with meaning the luminous power of the mosaics, the inscriptions imbue the latter with that sanctifying potential. Rather than objectively ‘describing’ the power of the medium of mosaic, however, these texts represent an emotional and living response to the 12 Ibid., pp. 40–47. 13 Hahn, Strange Beauty, pp. 26–27; Augustine, Sermon 319.6.6, p. 153; Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors 20, p. 17. See also de Nie, Views from a Many-Windowed Tower, pp. 183–193; Angenendt, ‘“Der Leib is klar, klar wie Kristal”’, pp. 387–399, 391; Thunø, Apse Mosaic, p. 51. 14 Miller, ‘The Little Blue Flower is Red’, pp. 213–236. See also Miller, The Corporeal Imagination, pp. 62–81.

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mosaics aimed at making their subject – the relics – alive to the congregation in the church. Akin to a shimmering reliquary of precious metals, the church, decorated with mosaics and sheltering the relics, becomes both a generator and receptacle of light – the spiritual light of the saints. In this way, the inscriptions clearly demonstrate the interdependence between the early medieval apse mosaics, on the one hand, and the bodily remains of the saints present in the altar or crypt within their churches, on the other. The early medieval apse mosaics were generated by popes whose goal was to create ornate and accessible liturgical settings for the bodily remains of early martyrs, thereby subjecting them to stronger institutional control than had hitherto been accomplished. Crucial to this undertaking were their monumental apse inscriptions that, as in S. Prassede, drew attention to the presence of the saints in the church, pointed out their intercessory powers, emphasized the material splendor of their new abode, and highlighted the pope as their benefactor. Although unprecedented in apse mosaics, as noted above, the central role that these eye-catching texts play in promoting the martyrs and their papal sponsors can be demonstrated to have had a venerable tradition in Rome.15 Thus, we may parallel the undertakings of the early medieval popes to Pope Damasus’s (r. 366–384) promotion of the early martyrs in the city’s suburban cemeteries. Essential to the latter’s campaign was the creation of monumental inscriptions, also known as the ‘Damasian epigrams’, engraved on blocks of marble and installed near tombs at eighteen separate sites encircling the city [Fig. 6.13].16 These exceptional texts, widely recorded by pilgrims of the early Middle Ages, were typically executed in a strikingly beautiful, intricate, and original script associated with the name of Furius Dionysius Filocalus. Composed in hexameter verse and incorporating citations from writings by Vergil and Ovid, the Damasian epigrams frequently offered a short eulogy for the deceased martyr revolving around his or her triumph over a torturous death, followed by an invocation of the martyr’s intercessory power in heaven.17 It is fortunate for our purposes that one of the few remaining intact 15 For the exact wording of each inscription, see the Appendix in Thunø, Apse Mosaic. 16 The epigrams, many of which exist only in very fragmentary forms, have been critically edited by Antonius Ferrua, Epigrammata Damasiana, who counted almost sixty authentic examples in stone composed by Damasus himself or by clerics commissioned by this pope. Recent literature includes Diefenbach, Römische Erinnerungsräume, pp. 289–329; Löx, Monumenta sanctorum, pp. 72–88, 133–142 and Trout, Damasus of Rome. 17 Fontaine, Naissance de la poésie dans l’Occident chrétien, pp. 111–125; Fevrier, ‘Vie et mort dans les “Epigrammata Damasiana”’, pp. 91–111; Reutter, Damasus, pp. 60–62, 111–130, 137–149; Trout, Damasus, pp. 16–26.

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Fig. 6.13. Map of Rome with extra-urban sites marked by Damasian epigrams (drawing: James Huemoeller after Guyon, ‘Damase et l’illustration des martyrs’).

Damasian epigrams was placed on St. Agnes’s tomb in the catacomb on the Via Nomentana [Fig. 6.14], the site of the later church of S. Agnese with its apse mosaic commissioned by Pope Honorius (r.625–638) [Fig. 6.9]. The large epigram was subsequently removed by Pope Honorius to serve as a paving stone in his new basilica ad corpus.18 In his epigram, which represents the earliest known hagiographical recollection in Rome, Pope Damasus offered the following panegyric of the much-venerated Roman martyr: 18 A former dedicatory acrostic, carved on a monumental marble tablet and perhaps sponsored by Constantina (307/317–354), is recorded as situated ‘in apsida’ or ‘super archum’ (apsidal arch?) of the previous fourth-century basilica on the site. It, too, served as a eulogy for the martyr: Ferrua, Epigrammata Damasiana, pp. 246–250.

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Fig. 6.14. Damasian epigram, S. Agnese fuori le Mura, Rome, 366-84 (photo: author).

According to tradition, some time ago her devout parents reported that when the trumpet summoned her with its mournful melody, their daughter Agnes suddenly left her nurse’s bosom; voluntarily she scorned the cruel tyrant’s threats and rage when he decided to burn her noble body in the flames: Despite her weakness he failed to inspire in her a powerful fear. She let her hair flow down over her naked body so that no mortal man should gaze upon the temple of the Lord. You whom I revere, gentle and holy ornament to virginity, look kindly, O glorious martyr, on the prayers of Damasus, I pray.19 19 [FAM]A REFERT SANCTOS DUDUM RETULISSE PARENTES/ [AG]NEN CUM LUGUBRES CANTUS TUBA CONCREPUISSET/ [N]UTRICIS GREMIUM SUBITO LIQUISSE PUELLAM/SPONTE TRUCIS CALCASSE MINAS RABIEMQ(UE) TYRANNI URERE CUM FLAMMIS VOLUISSET NOBILE CORPUS/VIRIB(US) INMENSUM PARVIS SUPERASSE TIMOREM/NUDAQUE PROFUSUM CRINEM PER MEMBRA DEDISSE/ NE DOMINI TEMPLUM FACIES PERITURA VIDERET/O VENERANDA MIHI SANCTUM DECUS ALMA PUDORIS/UT DAMASI PRECIB(US) FAVEAS PRECOR INCLYTA MARTYR. Trans. White, Early Christian Latin Poets (London, 2000), pp. 43–44. Ferrua, Epigrammata Damasiana, no. 37, pp. 175–178; also edited by Reutter, Damasus, p. 82. The epigram, now

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A comparison between this text and Pope Honorius’s apse inscription reveals no contingent relationship. While the Damasian epigram narrates from the life of the martyr, whose intercession is personally invoked by Damasus toward the end of the poem, the seventh-century mosaic inscription is mainly focused on the material splendor that Honorius had bestowed on his new church to honor the young female martyr: A golden picture arises from specks of metal and daylight itself, shut out [from here], embracing it is in it enclosed. Dawn, you could believe, mounts over the gathered clouds as though from snowy fountainheads wetting the fields with dew. Or [you could believe] the sort of light that rainbow will produce among the stars and a purple peacock himself gleaming with color. He who was able to set the boundary of night or light has here beaten chaos back from the tombs of martyrs. Any who once cast an eye overhead sees these votive offerings the bishop Honorius has given. By his garments and offering, his works are signified, as also bearing light [inwardly] in his heart of hearts he shines [outwardly] to the beholder’s eye.20

This sort of emphasis is generally absent from Damasian epigraphical poetry. This is not to say that all Damasian epigrams are completely attached to the wall of the staircase that leads down to the narthex of the church, measures 3 m by 0.85 m. See also Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 173; Trout, Damasus, pp. 150–151. 20 AVREA CONCISIS SVRGIT PICTVRA METALLIS ET COMPLEXA SIMVL CLAVDITVR IPSA DIES. FONTIBVS E NIBEIS [NIVEIS] CREDAS AVRORA SVBIRE CORREPTAS NVBES RVRIBVS [RORIBUS] ARVA RIGANS. VEL QVALEM INTER SIDERA LVCEM PROFERET IRIM PVRPVREVSQVE PAVO IPSE COLORE NITENS. QVI POTVIT NOCTIS VEL LVCIS REDDERE FINEM MARTYRVM E BVSTIS HINC REPPVLIT ILLE CHAOS. EVRSVM [SVRSUM] VERSA NVTV QVOD CVNCTIS CERNITVR VNO PRAESVL HONORIVS HAEC VOTA DICATA DEDIT. VESTIBVS ET FACTIS SIGNANTVR ILLIVS O[PE]RA LVCET ET ASPECTV LVCIDA CORDA GERENS. Thunø, Apse Mosaic, p. 210. See also, Thunø, ‘Power and Display’, pp. 105–108. On this inscription, see too Dennis Trout’s article in the present volume which also lists his latest contributions on the same subject.

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distinct in substance from the golden apse inscriptions; indeed, frequently, both types of inscription invoke the heavenly abode in which the saints are present, and the saints through whose intercessions the pope and all the faithful can hope to enter that abode. The Damasian epigrams, too, like the apse inscriptions, sometimes place emphasis on the pope as patron. But with their primary focus on the martyr, the epigrams qualify as a separate genre, distinct from the apse inscriptions, which, as I have argued elsewhere, tap into a long tradition of ancient building ekphrasis. 21 Notwithstanding differences in content and medium, the Damasian and Honorian inscriptions are comparable in further meaningful ways. First, both give an elaborate and visually conspicuous text a central place in a new setting created to promote and venerate a saint. The Damasian epigrams, like the golden apse inscriptions, exemplify a papal strategy of seizing control of the tombs and relics of saints while facilitating public access to them. To that end, Pope Damasus carried out various works in the catacombs such as enlarging their cubicula, expanding the galleries leading down to the tombs, and installing new stairways and light wells. In an epigram for SS. Protus and Hyacinthus, which conjures up the apse inscription in S. Agnese, Damasus promotes himself as restorer of the catacombs, describing how he brought the tomb to light again after it had been buried deep beneath the mountain.22 Typically, the renovated tomb was equipped with a mensa and flanked by a pair of pillars or columns topped by an architrave, as well as being further monumentalized by the addition of a ciborium-like arch. Finally, the epigram would be situated either between the columns or above the arch [Fig. 6.15]. Either way, just as is true of the apse inscriptions, the monumental text was centrally and directly exposed to the visitor.23 What really makes the apse inscriptions more akin to the Damasian epigrams than to earlier examples of texts embedded in mosaics, however, is their standardized format. As noted above, the format of the apse 21 Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 47–51. See also Thunø, ‘Inscription and Divine Presence’, pp. 279–292, pp. 285–286. 22 Ferrua, Epigrammata Damasiana, 142, no. 47, 1. See also Reutter, Damasus, pp. 103–110; Löx, Monumenta Sanctorum, pp. 83–88, 193–214, who points out the archeological diff iculties in determining if certain of these alterations were actually made during or shortly after Damasus’s pontificate. 23 Löx, Monumenta Sanctorum, pp. 76–77. For the pictorial embellishment of Damasus’s tombs, see Reekmans, ‘L’oeuvre du Pape Damase’; Paleani, ‘Probabili influssi dei carmi damasiani’, pp. 359–387.

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Fig. 6.15. Tomb of Ianuarius (Praetextatus Catacomb) with Damasian epigram, reconstruction, Rome, 366-84 (drawing: James Huemoeller after Guyon, ‘Damase et l’illustration des martyrs’).

inscriptions, manifest in both style and content, is unique. No other inscriptions prior to their Damasian counterparts exhibit such rare qualities of visual and verbal standardization. The parallel is of great significance. In calling attention to their strong visual resemblance through their distinct and elaborate monumental lettering on large rectangular marble blocks, Jean Guyon argued that this visual uniformity among the Damasian epigrams was deliberate:24 it served to relate the incised texts to one another and to further an experience of the disparately placed martyrs they commemorated as a

24 Most blocks were cut according to a 2 to 1 relationship between length and width; see Guyon, ‘Damase et l’illustration des martyrs’, pp. 162–163, who speaks of a ‘veritable standardization’ among the epigrams.

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unified and collective body, a communio sanctorum, an idea also recently endorsed by Steffen Diefenbach.25 The notion that the Damasian epigrams create a network of martyrs across time and space yields a fresh perspective on the famous enterprise of the fourth-century pope, which, in turn, gives rise to wide-ranging implications for how we may understand the early medieval apse mosaics and their shared formulaic nature. Rather than merely considering the verbal repetitions in the apse inscriptions for what they are, topoi taken from ancient ekphrasis on pagan buildings, they may have served, just as do their counterparts on the Damasian epigrams, as the reference points within a network of related monuments. Moreover, the idea that this repetitive formula serves to establish a communal body of saints, a communio sanctorum, is suggested by the tendency in almost every church with an early medieval apse mosaic to assemble larger numbers, even masses of martyrs, whether through visual representations of those martyrs (e.g. S. Cecilia; San Marco) and/or through their actual relics (e.g. S. Prassede). Similar to the Damasian epigrams, the individuality of the martyrs is also obscured by their stereotypical inscriptions. The early heroes of the Church appear more as types in a universe in which numbers and general intercessory qualities enjoyed priority over individual powers and histories. The efforts to create a certain type of apse mosaic whose constituent features are repeated again and again thus coincide with effacing the celebrated saints as singular characters while multiplying their numbers.26 The foregoing has demonstrated that the practice of gathering the saints into a collective body through a network of sacred sites, as proposed for the early medieval apse mosaics, was not new to the city of Rome, but had arisen centuries earlier when the martyrs’ remains were still located in their extra-urban cemeteries. This concerted action, as well as the principal strategies to implement it, were conceived during this early period. It is safe to say that as far as their role as martyr-saint impresarios is concerned, the papal patrons of the early medieval apse mosaics followed in the footsteps of their distinguished fourth-century predecessor. Indeed, by using the example of Sant’Agnese and Pope Honorius, Dennis Trout offers in his contribution within this volume a clear example of how directly the early 25 Guyon, ‘Damase et l’illustration des martyrs’, p. 160, characterizes the Damasian enterprise as having a ‘caractère systématique’ and an ‘intention délibérée’ to establish ‘renvois perpétuels d’une nécropole à l’autre’ (p. 168). Diefenbach, Römische Erinnerungsräume, pp. 289–329; his conclusions are reiterated in Diefenbach, ‘“Urbs” und “Ecclesia”’, pp. 193–251, esp. 213–215. See also Löx, Monumenta Sanctorum, pp. 80–81; Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 176–177. 26 Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 58–61, 177–181.

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medieval popes showed interest in Pope Damasus and his epigrams.27 Hence, Honorius himself commissioned an epigram in stone that he placed at Agnes’s subterranean tomb. Not only did he thereby replace the abovementioned Damasian epigram that was once there, but he also honored his fourth-century predecessor by explicitly repeating certain themes, even phrases and words, pertinent to Damasus’ famous epigrams. Yet, as Trout also argues, Honorius’ verses at the tomb of St. Agnes differed significantly in content from the ones the seventh-century pope had composed for his apse mosaic in the same church, which, as noted, formed part of a network of apse mosaics with inscriptions which were different from yet inspired by the Damasian epigrams in terms of their standardized format. In a number of important ways, then, Pope Damasus and his early medieval successors made use of the same overall strategies in handling the early martyrs of the Church. By facilitating access to their relics through a series of architectural and artistic interventions, among which the apse mosaics were key, these papal patrons inserted their shrines into a network of textual and artistic repetitions aimed at promoting the martyrs as a collective body, thereby underscoring the heavenly intercessors as temporal bridges who could reconnect the Church with its sacred but increasingly distant past, as well as linking it directly and atemporally with heaven. Crucial to implementing those strategies was both parties’ use of inscriptions. Although the location and nature of their artistic enterprises differ considerably, what made us associate the early medieval apse mosaics with the Damasian epigrams in the first place was – whether incised in stone or composed of golden tesserae – the central and consistent display of monumental writing in sacred spaces.28 It is important to note that, although both Damasian epigrams and apse mosaics work toward creating a unified Ecclesia Romana that bridges the living and the martyrs of the early Church, the realization of this project occurred in separate time spans and in different spaces. Three steps have been identified as a process whereby Rome was converted into a unified sacred space that integrated the living with the dead. First, there was what Robert Markus has described as the ‘momentum’ of the cult of martyrs, which unfolded in cemeteries outside the walls. Then came the multiplication of urban churches for public worship. This, in turn, was succeeded by transferring saints’ relics into urban churches.29 While the Damasian 27 Chapter 5 in this volume. 28 Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 180–184. 29 Markus, The End of Ancient Christianity, p. 147. For a useful overview of the Christian urbanization of Rome, see Reekmans, ‘L’implantation monumentale chrétienne’, pp. 861–915,

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epigrams represent the earliest of these three phases, the early medieval apse mosaics coincide with the last one – although Sant’Agnese was an extra mural site with relics of its titular saint remaining in situ. Hence, whether the relics had been moved into a new shrine within the city, or vice versa, a new shrine had been built around the relics outside the city walls during this final stage, the church united the worshipping congregation and the martyrs under one roof, or more precisely, around the altar. The Damasian sites, as noted, had accommodated the martyrs and made their veneration possible through a setting with a mensa for offerings donated by the faithful, but they were not churches that gathered the congregation around an altar to celebrate the Eucharist. The first urban churches, by contrast, fulfilled precisely these functions, but without yet accommodating any saints.30 By combining extra-mural anniversary celebrations of the saints with eucharistic worship, the early medieval churches discussed here closed the gap between extra-mural burial place and urban church. Whether inside or outside the walls of the city, these holy sites, (re)built and decorated between the sixth and ninth centuries, physically brought together the dead and the living, and spiritually enabled this union through the celebration of the Eucharist. By comparing and contrasting the Damasian epigrams with the golden texts of the early medieval apse mosaics, the latter may, similar to the Damasian epigrams, be seen as shaping a communio sanctorum that transcends both earthly space and linear time, and includes all saints and their worshippers at any time.31 The diverse body of saints gathered by the apse mosaics through their shared textual and visual formulae further highlights repetition as a mechanism that produces not only unity, but also a horizontal relationship among the mosaics that oscillates back and forth across their proper historical moments and between inside and outside the walls of Rome. It thereby becomes clear that the proposed interactions among the mosaics suspend the chronological time that separates the community of saints and worshippers, with full bibliography. See also Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 41–47. 30 Pietri, Roma Christiana, pp. 491–514; Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, pp. 33–58; Brandenburg, Ancient Churches of Rome, pp. 110–113, 134–222. 31 On the history and meaning of communio sanctorum, see Kelly, Early Christian Creeds, pp. 388–397; Benko, The Meaning of Sanctorum Communio; Kretschmar, ‘Die Theologie des Heiligen’, pp. 77–125, 120. See also Kirsch, The Doctrine of the Communion of Saints; Pierre-Yves Emery, The Communion of Saints; Heinzelmann, Gregory of Tours, pp. 166–172. On Augustine’s use of communio sanctorum as the fellowship of the Church, see his Sermo 52, 3; PL 38, 357; Pelikan, Mystery of Continuity, pp. 106–122; Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 180–181. On saints from abroad venerated in Rome during the early Middle Ages, see Maskarinec, City of Saints.

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established by each one of the early medieval apse mosaics, and the age-old division between intra and extra muros. Instead, the mosaics form what Augustine significantly coined as a ‘stable and eternal present’ – a continuous present – as contained and defined by the community of saints and their worshippers. Hence, time on earth may move on, but as a union with God through the saints, the communio sanctorum remains stable – then, now, and in the future. It is a space without past or future and one that exists not only on earth (in Rome), but also in heaven.32 Rather than being merely agents of early Christian or ‘eastern’ influences, or a Carolingian ‘renascence’, the apse mosaics in early medieval Rome, then, in concert with their inscribed text and martyrs’ relics, create a new conception of time and place that is neither confined to a linear trajectory, nor limited to the earthly fabric of the Eternal City.

Bibliography Sources Augustine, De Civitate Dei, ed. by Bernhard Dombart and Alfons Kalb, CCSL 48, XI. Augustine, The City of God Against the Pagans, trans. by Robert W. Dyson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). Augustine, Sermon 319, trans. by Edmund Hill, in The Works of Saint Augustine. A Translation for the 21st Century, part 3, volume 9: Sermons 306–340A (Brooklyn, NY: New City Press, 1994). Antonio Ferrua, ed. Epigrammata Damasiana (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1942). Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors, trans. by Raymond van Dam (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2004).

References Arnold Angenendt, ‘“Der Leib is klar, klar wie Kristal”’, in Frömmigkeit im Mittelalter. Politisch-soziale Kontexte, visuelle Praxis, körperliche Ausdrucksformen, ed. by Klaus Schreiner (Munich: Fink, 2002), pp. 387–398. Stephen Benko, The Meaning of Sanctorum Communio (Naperville, IL: A.R. Allenson, 1964). 32 Augustine, De Civitate Dei, pp. 21, 339; City of God, trans. Dyson, p. 475; Pelikan, The Mystery of Continuity, pp. 43, 90–105; Thunø, Apse Mosaic, pp. 74–81, 197–205, in which the significance of the Incarnation and the Eucharist in collapsing time and space is addressed.

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Hugo Brandenburg, Ancient Churches of Rome from the Fourth to the Seventh Century: The Dawn of Christian Architecture in the West, trans. by Andreas Kropp, (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005). Giovanni Giusto Ciampini, Vetera monimenta, 2 vols. (Rome: Ex typographia Joannis Jacobi Komarek, 1690–1699). Giselle de Nie, Views from a Many-Windowed Tower. Studies of Imagination in the Works of Gregory of Tours (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1987). Steffen Diefenbach, Römische Erinnerungsräume: Heiligenmemoria und kollektive Identitäten im Rom des 3. bis 5. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007). Steffen Diefenbach, ‘“Urbs” und “Ecclesia”. Bezugspunkte kollektiver Heiligenerinnerung im Rom des Bischofs Damasus (366–384)’, in Rom in der Spätantike. Historische Erinnerung im städtischen Raum, ed. by Ralf Behrwald and Christian Witschel (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2012), pp. 193–251. Pierre-Yves Emery, The Communion of Saints (New York: Morehouse-Barlow, 1966). Paul-Albert Fevrier, ‘Vie et mort dans les “Epigrammata Damasiana”’, in Saecularia Damasiana. Atti del convegno internazionale per il XVI Centenario della Morte di Papa Damaso I (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1986), pp. 91–111. Jacques Fontaine, Naissance de la poésie dans l’Occident chrétien: esquisse d’une histoire de la poésie latine chrétienne du IIIe au VIe siècle (Paris: Études augustiniennes, 1981). Caroline J. Goodson, The Rome of Pope Paschal I. Papal Power, Urban Renovation, Church Rebuilding and Relic Translation, 817–824 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). Jean Guyon, ‘Damase et l’illustration des martyrs. Les accents de la devotion et l’enjeu d’une pastorale’, in Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective, ed. by Mathijs Lamberigts and Peter van Deun (Leuven: Leuven University Press; Leuven: Peeters, 1995), pp. 157–177. Cynthia Hahn, Strange Beauty: Issues in the Making and Meaning of Reliquaries, 400-circa 1204 (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2012). Martin Heinzelmann, Gregory of Tours. History and Society in the Sixth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). John Norman Davidson Kelly, Early Christian Creeds (London, New York, and Toronto: Longmans, Green & Co., 1950). Dale Kinney, ‘Communication in a visual mode: Papal apse mosaics’, Journal of Medieval History, 44, 3 (2018), pp. 311–332. Johann Peter Kirsch, The Doctrine of the Communion of Saints in the Ancient Church. A Study in the History of Dogma, trans. by John R. M’Kee (Edinburgh: Sands, 1910).

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Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980). Georg Kretschmar, ‘Die Theologie des Heiligen in der frühen Kirche’, in Aspekte der frühchristlicher Heiligenverehrung, ed. by Fairy von Lilienfeld and others (Erlangen: Lehrstuhl für Geschichte und Theologie des Christlichen Ostens an der Universität Erlangen, 1977), pp. 77–125. Markus Löx, Monumenta sanctorum. Rom und Mailand als Zentren des frühen Christentums: Märtyrerkult und Kirchenbau unter den Bischöfen Damasus und Ambrosius (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013). Robert Markus, The End of Ancient Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). Maya Maskarinec, City of Saints. Rebuilding Rome in the Early Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). Patricia Cox Miller, The Corporeal Imagination: Signifying the Holy in Late Ancient Christianity (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009). Patricia Cox Miller, ‘“The Little Blue Flower is Red”, Relics and the Poetizing of the Body’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 8 (2000), pp. 213–236. Keith Moxey, Visual Time. The Image in History (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2013). Maria Teresa Paleani, ‘Probabili influssi dei carmi damasiani su alcune pitture cimiteriali a Roma’, in Saecularia Damasiana. Atti del convegno internazionale per il XVI Centenario della Morte di Papa Damaso I (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1986), pp. 359–387. Erwin Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1960). Jaroslav Pelikan, The Mystery of Continuity. Time and History, Memory and Eternity in the Thought of Saint Augustine (Charlottesville, VA: University Press of Virginia, 1986). Charles Pietri, Roma Christiana. Recherches sur l’Église de Rome, son organisation, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte III (311–440), 2 vols. (Rome: École française de Rome, 1976). Louis Reekmans, ‘L’implantation monumentale chrétienne dans le paysage urbain de Rome de 300 à 850’, in Actes du XI Congrès International d’Archéologie Chrétienne: Lyon, Vienne, Grenoble, Genève et Aoste (21–28 Septembre 1986), 3 vols. (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana; Rome: École française de Rome, 1989), II, pp. 861–915. Louis Reekmans, ‘L’oeuvre du Pape Damase dans le complexe de Gaius a la Catacombe de S. Callixte’, in Saecularia Damasiana. Atti del convegno internazionale per il XVI centenario della morte di Papa Damaso I (Vatican City: Pontif icio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1986), pp. 261–281.

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Ursula Reutter, Damasus, Bischof von Rom (366–384). Leben und Werk (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009). Erik Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome. Time, Network, and Repetition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). Erik Thunø, ‘Inscription and Divine Presence: Golden Letters in the Early Medieval Apse Mosaic’, Word & Image, 27 (2011), pp. 279–292. Erik Thunø, ‘The Power and Display of Writing: From Damasus to the Early Medieval Popes’, in Die Päpste und Rom zwischen Spätantike und Mittelalter. Formen päpstlicher Machtentfaltung, ed. by Norbert Zimmermann and others (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2017), pp. 95–114. Dennis Trout, Damasus of Rome. The Epigraphic Poetry. Introduction, Texts, Translations, and Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Carolinne White, trans. Early Christian Latin Poets (London: Routledge, 2000). Rotraut Wisskirchen, Das Mosaikprogramm von S. Prassede in Rom. Ikonographie und Ikonologie (Münster: Aschendorff, 1990).

About the Author Erik Thunø is professor of medieval art at Rutgers University. His publications examine issues of materiality, viewership, text and image, and temporality in relation to a variety of media such as icons, mosaics, reliquaries, and golden altars. His most recent book is The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome: Time, Network, and Repetition (2015).

7.

The Re-Invention of Rome in the Early Middle Ages John Osborne

Abstract The history of Rome in the early Middle Ages is best understood as a continuous evolution from Rome of the Caesars to Rome of the popes, with the latter taking on many of the roles of their imperial predecessors. A critical moment occurs in the seventh and early eighth centuries, when the physical ‘landscape’ of the city is ‘re-invented’, essentially transformed from pagan to Christian through an appropriation of the material vestiges of the ancient city, as well as aspects of ritual behavior such as the development of the stational liturgy. This landscape was imbued with memories and meaning, transmitters of the city’s identity and history; and these understandings were ‘Christianized’, fulfilling the city’s manifest destiny. Keywords: intramural burial, Old St. Peter’s, Pantheon, papal tombs, litany processions

Few cities can boast that they have served as the capital of an empire extending to three continents, and fewer still can claim that they have played an important role on the world stage for more than two millennia. In fact, there is probably only one: Rome, the ‘Eternal City’ not only in name. Rome’s unique position as a site of continuous and continuing significance is due in part to its geography, and in part to the vicissitudes of its history. But the city’s longevity also owes much to its remarkable ability to ‘re-invent’ itself, as appropriate to changing circumstances. And the most significant moment of ‘re-invention’ is also perhaps one of the least studied: the period of the early Middle Ages. No longer the political capital of a far-flung empire, Rome re-invented itself as the urbs sacra, the focal point of a powerful world religion, acquiring a new lease on life that continues to this day.

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch07

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This process of re-invention did not happen overnight; indeed, it would evolve over many centuries. In the fourth and early fifth centuries CE, as Richard Krautheimer has demonstrated, the physical imprint of Christianity was mostly to be found on the edges of the city, and outside the circuit of the Aurelian walls, focused on the Lateran basilica and the adjacent residence of the bishops of Rome, and the suburban cemeteries with their attached churches and monasteries.1 The primary patronage of new building activity remained initially lay, not clerical, although gradually extending outwards from the imperial family itself to embrace members of the aristocracy and others with wealth or authority. But after the imperial court moved eastwards to Constantinople, and within Italy first to Milan and then to Ravenna, with only a brief return to Rome in the mid-fifth century, the Roman church increasingly stepped into the vacuum; and as the population of the city declined, leaving large tracts of uninhabited land and many abandoned buildings inside the urban perimeter, what Richard Krautheimer has termed the ‘Disabitato’,2 the focus of new activity also shifted, from the periphery to the city center; and from the fifth century onwards papal participation becomes more prominent.3 An instructive example is provided by the shrine church of St. Peter’s, located at the site of an extramural cemetery that contained what was believed to be the grave of Rome’s most significant saintly patron. St. Peter’s, an imperial foundation, remained largely outside the control of the ecclesiastical hierarchy through at least the first half of the fifth century, when the Emperor Honorius added a dynastic mausoleum to its southern flank;4 and it is not until the turn of the sixth century, during the Laurentian schism, that we find a pope, Symmachus (498–514), undertaking significant building work there.5 As Federico Marazzi has so aptly expressed it: ‘In the fifth century there emerged a “church of the city”, but Rome was not yet a “city of the church”’.6 1 Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, pp. 21–31; Krautheimer, Three Christian Capitals, pp. 7–40. 2 Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, pp. 311–326. 3 For the new pattern of patronage in the fifth century, see most recently Gianandrea, ‘La “riscoperta” di Roma nel patronato artistico imperiale’; Gianandrea, ‘Il V secolo’; published in English as ‘The “Rediscovery” of Rome’ and ‘The Artistic Patronage of the Popes’. For case studies of continuing lay patronage: Mathisen, ‘Ricimer’s Church in Rome’, and Kalas, ‘Architecture and Elite Identity in Late Antique Rome’. 4 For the mausoleum of the Honorian dynasty, see Koethe, ‘Zum Mausoleum der weströmischen Dynastie’; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 466–468; Johnson, The Roman Imperial Mausoleum, pp. 167–174; and McEvoy, ‘The Mausoleum of Honorius’. Significant papal interest in St. Peter’s begins with Pope Leo I (440–461), the first pope to be buried there. See also Bauer, ‘Saint Peter’s as a Place of Collective Memory’, and Thacker, ‘Popes, Emperors and Clergy at Old Saint Peter’s’. 5 Liber pontificalis, I, pp. 261–262. 6 Marazzi, ‘Rome in Transition’, p. 35.

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The specifics of the transition over the course of the following centuries remain somewhat opaque, but we can certainly say with confidence that the process of transformation was complete well before the middle of the twelfth century, when Pope Innocent II (1130–1143) commandeered the porphyry sarcophagus of the emperor Hadrian for re-use as his own tomb.7 The thinking behind that appropriation can be traced back at least half a century earlier to Pope Gregory VII’s 1075 Dictatus papae, the eighth thesis of which specifies that imperial symbols and insignia are to be reserved for the pope alone.8 Imperial Rome was understood to have been made complete by Christian, and, more specifically, papal Rome. From about the same time, we have the earliest extant version of the influential text, the Mirabilia urbis Romae,9 aptly described by Robert Brentano as ‘a sort of palimpsest with one civilization written over the other, or perhaps a tapestry with the two stitched together.’10 The Mirabilia is not about the revival of ancient Rome, but rather an attempt to demonstrate that Christian Rome, and more specifically papal Rome, had surpassed its historic predecessor in importance: ‘Plus Caesare Petrus,’ in the words of the contemporary poet, Hildebert of Lavardin.11 It is significant that, following the lists of gates, triumphal arches, hills, baths, palaces, bridges, cemeteries, and so on, which serve to set the Mirabilia within the context of traditional descriptions of Rome, the first actual ‘marvel’ (cap. 11) is the story of the Emperor Augustus’s vision of the Ara Coeli, perhaps the most fundamental link in the meta-narrative that joined imperial Rome and Christian Rome. There is probably no better symbol of that ‘stitching together’ of Rome’s many histories than the building known as the Pantheon, among the finest surviving specimens of the architectural and engineering capabilities of the ancient world, and hugely influential on the architecture of subsequent eras. But it also constitutes, in microcosm, a useful example of the city’s ability to adapt its urban infrastructure to changing circumstances. The first Pantheon, or ‘temple to all the gods’ (albeit not its original dedication, which remains the subject of considerable debate), was constructed in the time of Rome’s first emperor, Augustus, by his friend and adviser, Marcus Agrippa, in the years following the Battle of Actium. The present building is 7 Deér, Dynastic Porphyry Tombs, pp. 142–154. 8 ‘Quod solus possit uti imperialibus insigniis’: Dictatus papae, p. 204. See also Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 502–507. 9 For the text of the Mirabilia: Codice topographico, III, pp. 3–65. See also Kinney, ‘Fact and Fiction in the Mirabilia urbis Romae’. 10 Brentano, Rome before Avignon, pp. 79–80. 11 For Hildebert’s elegies on Rome: Oxford Book of Medieval Latin Verse, pp. 220–222.

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the third on the site, dated by brick stamps to the early second century CE, although the façade inscription maintains Agrippa’s name.12 But arguably the most significant moment in the Pantheon’s long history – the moment that secured its survival over the centuries when many other ancient buildings were despoiled and ransacked for their building materials – came in the year 609, when Pope Boniface IV sought and received permission from the Byzantine emperor, Phocas, to transform the structure into a Christian church, dedicated to Mary and all the martyrs. Although this re-purposing of buildings was not an uncommon practice in the Mediterranean world, in most instances the precise details are lacking.13 But the conversion of the Pantheon is singled out for attention in the otherwise brief entry for Boniface in the Liber pontificalis: ‘At that time he asked the emperor Phocas for the temple called the Pantheon, and in it he made the church of the ever-virgin St Mary and all martyrs. In this church the emperor presented many gifts.’14 It is the first mention in this authoritative text of the conversion of a standing building to a new purpose, and it is worth noting that while agency is attributed to the pope, the building was still regarded as imperial property, hence the need to request permission of the emperor in Constantinople. Incidentally, this conversion did not spare the building from subsequent depredation. The Liber pontificalis entry for Pope Vitalian (657–672) records the twelve-day visit to Rome of Emperor Constans II in July 663, noting that ‘he dismantled all the city’s bronze decorations; he removed the bronze tiles from the roof of the church of St Mary ad martyres, and sent them to the imperial city with various other things he had dismantled.’15 The practice of recycling architecture was not without precedent. Almost a century earlier another pope, Felix IV (526–530), had transformed an apsed hall forming part of the Emperor Vespasian’s great Forum of Peace into a church dedicated to the two saintly physicians, Cosmas and Damian, a foundation also recorded in the Liber pontificalis, but without any mention of the building’s previous history or function, nor even that it used a pre-existing structure.16 While this may simply be an act of omission, the fact that these details are recorded for the Pantheon may signal a change in 12 Ziolkowski, ‘Pantheon’; Hetland, ‘New perspectives’. 13 For an overview of this phenomenon, see Caillet, ‘La transformation en église’. 14 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 317; Book of Pontiffs, p. 61. De Blaauw, ‘Das Pantheon als christlicher Tempel’, suggests an alternative year of 613, when the traditional dedication date of 13 May fell on a Sunday. See also Thunø, ‘The Pantheon in the Middle Ages’, p. 234. 15 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 343; Book of Pontiffs, p. 70. For the context: Coates-Stephens, ‘The Byzantine Sack of Rome’. 16 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 279. For the building: Tucci, The Temple of Peace in Rome.

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thinking about how the material legacy of the past could be incorporated into a dramatically changing present. The Pantheon was demonstrably different in one other important way. As a site of former pagan cult practice it required special care; indeed, the deep suspicion of such sites, and the consequent need to exorcise the evil spirits with which such temples were associated in the popular imagination, lingered on throughout the Middle Ages. Master Gregorius, the learned English cleric and passionate proto-antiquarian who visited Rome some 600 years later, probably in the early thirteenth century, refers to it as ‘once the idol house of all the gods, or rather of all the demons.’ This would seem to imply some memory of the presence of pagan statuary, or at least an understanding that the large interior niches would have been intended for that purpose. Gregorius makes no mention of statuary inside the building, so presumably none remained in his time, although he does provide the earliest record of two lions and a porphyry basin that stood outside the entrance.17 ‘Popular’ opinions provide a useful supplement to more consciously historical narratives, and often embed important understandings. One of the more curious legends doing the rounds in medieval Rome was that of the salvatio civium, a series of statues representing the various provinces or nations of the Roman empire, each with a bell around its neck. If a nation rose in revolt the statue would move, causing the bell to ring, and thus alerting the emperor, who would then dispatch his troops to quell it.18 As with most such tales, this is a wonderful blend of possible fact and utter fantasy. A series of statues representing the various Roman provinces and subject peoples is certainly possible, and a set has been excavated at Aphrodisias in Turkey, albeit of marble, not bronze, and with no trace of any bells! Many medieval accounts of the city include some version of this tale, including both Master Gregorius and the more authoritative Mirabilia urbis Romae. Master Gregorius adds an additional detail: ‘Above this hall of statues there was a bronze soldier on horseback who would move in conjunction with the statue, aiming his lance at the race whose image had stirred’.19 Gregorius does not specify the site of the magic figures, although the Mirabilia places them on the Capitoline.20 But perhaps the most interesting version is that 17 Magister Gregorius, Narracio de Mirabilibus, pp. 23–24; Marvels of Rome, pp. 29–30, 76–79. The Pantheon had some 34 spaces available for statues: see Thomas, ‘The Cult Statues of the Pantheon’, pp. 189–206. 18 Graf, Roma nella memoria, pp. 148–167; Cilento, ‘Sulla tradizione della Salvatio Romae’. 19 Magister Gregorius, Narracio de Mirabilibus, pp. 18–19; Marvels of Rome, pp. 24, 54–57. 20 Codice topografico, III, p. 34.

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of the German traveler, Nikolaus Muffel of Nuremburg, who came to Rome in 1452 for the coronation of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick III by Pope Nicholas V. Muffel claims that the original location of the statues was the Pantheon,21 although it is possible that he had a faulty memory of having read the relevant Mirabilia passage, which mentions the salvatio civium in its chapter on Agrippa’s foundation of that temple. Both the Pantheon and the hall with the bell-ringing statues also feature prominently in another set of legends, related to portents and events that took place in Rome on the night of Christ’s birth, intended, like the star which drew the Magi, to signal a profound ‘disturbance in the force,’ albeit in this instance a very positive one. Master Gregorius, for example, continues his discussion of the salvatio civium with these words: They say moreover that in the same hall there was an inextinguishable fire. When the artificer of this wonderful work was asked how long it would burn, he responded that it would last until a virgin gave birth. I’m told that the hall and the soldier collapsed in a great heap on the night that Christ was born of the Virgin, and that its magic artificial fire was justly extinguished when the true eternal light made its appearance.22

The Mirabilia urbis Romae makes the same claim for the collapse of a golden statue of Romulus, housed in an eponymous palace located in the Forum.23 And there are numerous others, all recording events on what, by all accounts, must have been a most unusual evening in Rome, including, at a more prosaic level, the miraculous appearance of a fountain of oil at the future site of S. Maria in Trastevere, the latter memorialized in Pietro Cavallini’s mosaic of the Nativity in the drum of that church’s apse.24 Another useful example of this particular genre brings us back to the Pantheon. An anonymous English author whose Itinerarium cuiusdam anglici includes an account of a visit to Rome in November 1344, preserved in a single manuscript now housed in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge (MS 370, fols. 85v–97v), offers the following account of the atrium of Old St. Peter’s: ‘The ascent is by many steps, the entrance by a door, and there is a certain large court, and in the middle is the top of the round temple, 21 Michaelis, ‘Le antichità’, p. 262 22 Magister Gregorius, Narracio de Mirabilibus, p. 19; Marvels of Rome, p. 24. 23 Codice topografico, III, p. 21. 24 Graf, Roma nella memoria, pp. 256–257. The story was known to Paul the Deacon in the second half of the eighth century; see Maskarinec, ‘Who were the Romans?’, p. 316.

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once called the Pantheon and now St Mary Rotunda. That top of bronze in the shape of a pine-cone was carried off there by the devil on the night on which the Virgin brought Christ into the world’.25 The object of discussion is the bronze pine cone, originally the centerpiece of a fountain, and now in the Vatican Museum where it gives its name to the ‘Cortile della Pigna’.26 The Itinerarium is a wonderful source of great stories, for example that one of the aqueducts was built by the emperor Nero to bring wine from Naples … but we digress! The intent of such legends about the birth of Jesus, like the repurposing of buildings like the Pantheon, was to demonstrate the inextricable link between Christianity and the physical aspect of the city of Rome, signifying God’s intention ab initio that it should serve as the center of that faith. The twelfth-century Mirabilia can easily be seen to represent a terminus ante quem for this sea-change in thinking about the meta-narrative of Rome’s history, but can we be more precise about when exactly that change took place? And what is meant here is not simply the overlay of medieval Rome on ancient Rome in terms of the physical infrastructure, the sort of thing that would largely happen naturally and unconsciously over time, and for which we have considerable archaeological evidence at sites like the Crypta Balbi,27 but rather the very deliberate incorporation of the material legacy of the ancient city into a new understanding of Rome’s ‘manifest destiny’, in other words the ‘re-invention’ of the city’s identity or ‘brand’. There are certainly hints of such thinking in the sixth century, for example in the poem declaimed by Arator in the church of San Pietro in Vincoli in 544.28 But this chapter will propose that the critical moment of conscious ‘re-invention’, a fundamental re-thinking of Rome’s place in human history, took place over the course of the seventh century, and, consequently, that it was largely in place before the political break between the Roman church and Byzantium in the mid-eighth century, when it was made manifest in one of the most famous forgeries of the Middle Ages, the so-called Constitutum 25 Parks, English Traveler to Italy, p. 576; Latin original at Itinerarium cuiusdam anglici, p. 25. 26 See Liverani, ‘La pigna vaticana’; Bauer, Das Bild der Stadt Rom, pp. 160–163; and Kinney, ‘Spolia’, pp. 32–35. The precise date of its relocation to Saint Peter’s is unknown, although a strong case can be made for the mid-eighth century, prior to the installation of a copy at Charlemagne’s palace in Aachen. But later dates have also been proposed, for example by Picard, ‘La quadriportique du Saint-Pierre-du-Vatican’, p. 887. Its removal on 4 September 1608 was recorded by Grimaldi. The Mirabilia urbis Romae also claims that the bronze pigna originally closed the oculus of the Pantheon, but does not specify when or how it was moved to St. Peter’s. 27 Manacorda, Crypta Balbi. 28 De Nie, ‘“Whatever Mystery May be Given to My Heart”’, p. 3.

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Constantini, or ‘Donation of Constantine’,29 as well as in Paul the Deacon’s Historia Romana.30 The period of the late fifth and sixth centuries witnessed the complete disruption of the existing patterns of social and political life in Rome, the result of plagues, famine, and significant population displacement occasioned by warfare.31 This phenomenon was much lamented at the time by Pope Gregory I (590–604), who evoked strong eschatological overtones.32 The old aristocratic families, many of whom had decamped to Constantinople during the Gothic wars, faded into oblivion, as did the Roman Senate;33 and at the same time we find the beginnings of a new aristocracy, emerging from the military officers and their families who increasingly settled and became major landowners.34 Religious life in the city also experienced a profound change. Despite attempts by the last of the popes linked to what might be deemed the ‘old’ aristocracy, Honorius I (625–638), son of the consul Petronius, to revive the cult of the Roman martyrs following the model of Pope Damasus (366–384),35 by the middle of the seventh century momentum had begun to swing sharply in favor of new communities of Greek-speaking monks and clergy, many of them refugees from the Persian and then Arab conquests of Egypt, Syria, and Palestine;36 and for the next century the popes would increasingly be drawn from this group, for example Theodore (642–649), whose father had been the bishop of Jerusalem,37 or John VII (705–707), son of Plato, the bureaucrat responsible for the upkeep of the imperial palace on the Palatine.38 These newcomers brought with them new cults of ‘non-Roman’ saints.39 29 Das Constitutum Constantini. See also Huyghebaert, ‘Une légende de fondation’, and Goodson and Nelson, ‘The Roman Contexts of the “Donation of Constantine”’. 30 Maskarinec, ‘Who Were the Romans?’, pp. 314–318. 31 See Sessa, ‘Rome at War’, in this volume. 32 In both his Dialogues (3.38) and his Homilies on Ezekiel (6.22); see McNally, ‘Gregory the Great and His Declining World’. For the more general decline of material culture across Italy and Western Europe, as revealed by the archaeological record, see Ward-Perkins, The Fall of Rome, pp. 107–124. 33 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 298; Chastagnol, ‘La fin du Sénat de Rome’. 34 Brown, Gentlemen and Officers, pp. 101–108; Noble, ‘Rome in the Seventh Century’, pp. 71–75. 35 See Trout, ‘(Re-)Founding Christian Rome’, in this volume. 36 The Greek presence in early medieval Rome is most fully documented in Sansterre, Les moines grecs et orientaux à Rome. 37 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 331: ‘natione Grecus, ex patro Theodoro episcopo de civitate Hierusolima’. 38 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 385: ‘natione Grecus, de patre Platone’. For the epitaph of Plato, ‘cura palatii urbis Romae’, formerly in the church of Sant’Anastasia, Liber pontificalis, I, p. 386, note 1. 39 Maskarinec, City of Saints.

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Perhaps the most telling manifestation of the almost total abandonment of earlier patterns of urban life is the substantial change that occurs in burial practice, manifested most dramatically in the location of graves, and specifically the new practice of placing them inside the perimeter of the pomerium, defined by the city’s walls, overturning almost a millennium of legislated practice going back to the Law of the Twelve Tables. 40 This change is by no means unique to the city of Rome – indeed, it can be found throughout large parts of the late Roman world, particularly in Western Europe and North Africa – but perhaps nowhere else can it be so fully documented. 41 One of the first to examine the phenomenon of intramural burial in the early Middle Ages was the Danish architect and archaeologist, Ejnar Dyggve, who became interested in the topic in the 1920s when he excavated the city of Salona on the Dalmatian coast. Salona has an extensive late Roman cemetery in the area outside the walls, and the study of this area played a major role in his book, History of Salonitan Christianity, published in 1951. That same year, at the 8th International Congress of Byzantine Studies, Dyggve proposed as a general rule of thumb that as most burials in this period were ad sanctos, in other words situated in proximity to the tombs of Early Christian saints, the extramural cemeteries remained in use until the saintly relics were removed. He thus proposed that burials followed the relics inside the city walls. 42 But this view is demonstrably in error. There are very few dated extramural burials of the sixth century, and even fewer beyond that time; and this disappearance also seems to coincide more or less exactly with the earliest burials to have been discovered inside the city. But the massive translations of relics to churches inside Rome’s Aurelian walls are a phenomenon of a later period c. 750–850, when popes like Paul I (757–767) and Paschal I (817–824) attempted to empty the catacombs in order to sanctify their new intramural foundations. Pope Paschal brought more than 2,000 bodies to the church of Santa Prassede alone. 43 Thus it would appear that, in contrast to Dyggve’s contention, burial practice in Rome shifted some two centuries before the movement of relics. In an earlier study, I suggested an alternative scenario, 40 Toynbee, Death and Burial, p. 48. 41 For a survey of the evidence from cities in northern Italy: DeGasperi, ‘Sepolture urbane e viabilità a Lucca’, and Chavarria Arnau and Giacomello, ‘Sepolture e cattedrali nell’alto medioevo in Italia settentrionale’. 42 Dyggve, ‘L’origine del cimitero’. 43 Osborne, ‘The Roman Catacombs in the Middle Ages’, pp. 286–93; Goodson, Rome of Paschal I, pp. 228–234.

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linking the shift in burial practice to the breakdown of civic order that characterized much of the period in question, particularly during moments of actual armed conflict. 44 The abandonment of many public buildings, gardens, bath complexes, and other areas of the city inside the walls, due to the dramatic collapse of the population between the years 400 and 600, meant that sites available for intramural burial became plentiful; and at the same time, access to the suburban cemeteries was cut off during the long periods in which the city was under siege. Indeed, we have two explicit mentions of this latter phenomenon in contemporary sources. The first is from the New History of Zosimus (5.19), in his account of the unsuccessful siege of Rome by Alaric and the Visigoths in 408: And when there was no means of relief, and their food was exhausted, plague not unexpectedly succeeded famine. Corpses lay everywhere, and since the bodies could not be buried outside the city with the enemy guarding every exit, the city became their tomb. 45

And just over a century later, we find a similar situation during the twelvemonth Ostrogothic siege of 537–538. The historian Procopius, an eyewitness, records the dramatic effects on life in the city, and again the twin scourges of famine and disease. When a deputation of citizens comes to voice their complaints to the Byzantine general, Belisarius, the inability to follow the normal practice of burying their dead outside the city walls is explicitly mentioned. 46 This view has been largely corroborated by recent archaeological reports. Among the first to address this topic was Marina Marcelli’s account of a necropolis on the Oppian hill, in part of what had once been the Porticus Liviae, containing some fifteen tombs.47 These were cut into a late fourth- or early fifth-century mosaic floor, which provides a useful terminus post quem, and the few objects of glass and other materials found in the graves led Marcelli to suggest a date near the end of the sixth century. The initial trickle of data quickly became a torrent. In the 1990s, Roberto Meneghini and Riccardo Santangeli Valenzani presented evidence from some 74 burial sites within the walls of Rome, including the Crypta Balbi, most of which they proposed to date to either the second half of the sixth 44 Osborne, ‘Death and Burial’. 45 Zosimus, New History, p. 120. 46 Procopius, Wars 6.3.19 (Dewing, III, pp. 312–313). 47 Marcelli, ‘Su alcune tombe tardo-antiche’.

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century or the seventh century, on the basis of stratigraphy and finds of glass and ceramics. 48 It should be noted, however, that very few of the many hundreds of burials now assigned to this period can be dated with anything resembling absolute precision. The tombs themselves are either in simple trenches or else re-use earlier materials. ‘Grave goods’ are rare; and inscriptions rarer still. But their analysis does confirm that there is no connection between the movement of relics into cities and the origins of intramural burial, either in Rome or elsewhere. The latter clearly comes first. Also confirmed is the view that there was no one single dramatic moment when the change occurred. Rather, it evolved over time, and the sixth century should be viewed as a significant period of transition, when both practices can be shown to have co-existed more or less simultaneously. The large number of burials that are now documented does, however, permit some advances in our understanding of the general process. Rossella Rea has proposed that urban burials in Rome can be plausibly divided into three groups, roughly following a chronological succession, although with the second and third perhaps overlapping. 49 The first comprises what can be termed ‘casual’ burials, usually in isolation, with little or no formality or organization, and rarely with grave goods. Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani assign such tombs to momenti di emergenza, when normal burial practices were disrupted,50 and the accounts in Zosimus and Procopius provide concrete examples of precisely such moments. Evidence of more systematic burials within the walls can be found from roughly the middle of the sixth century, and probably reflects the simple reality that large areas of the city, including many public buildings, were no longer being used for their previous purpose, with the result that these spaces had been abandoned. But it is not long before urban burials begin to cluster around the city’s churches, for example Santa Maria Antiqua in the Forum,51 and burial in or adjacent to urban churches would become the norm from at least the eighth century onwards.52 The ‘re-invention’ of Rome needs to be seen in the context of this fundamental disruption of the previous patterns of life in the city. Despite profound social and demographic changes, the ‘constant’ was the physical 48 Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Sepolture intramuranee a paesaggio urbano’, and ‘Sepolture intermuranee a Roma’. 49 Rea, ‘Roma. L’uso funerario della valle del Colosseo’. 50 Meneghini and Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Sepolture intramuranee a paesaggio urbano’, p. 106. 51 Augenti, Il Palatino nel Medioevo, pp. 163–168. 52 For the suggestion that this phenomenon reflects a desire by the Christian church to exert control over burial practice: Costambeys, ‘Burial topography’.

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aspect of the city itself, defined by the circuit of the Aurelian walls,53 and characterized by monumental buildings and statues that required, if not a new function, then at the least incorporation into a new narrative of the city’s history. By the first half of the seventh century, the moment was ripe for such a process. In addition to the conversion of the Pantheon, many other existing buildings in Rome would be ‘re-purposed’ during this period of transition, including the Senate House in the Roman Forum, transformed into the church of Sant’Adriano by Pope Honorius I (625–638).54 Is this the moment when the fundamental change in thinking takes places regarding Rome’s place in history? Other bits of evidence may certainly be adduced to support such a contention. Admittedly, this evidence is highly circumstantial, but for this period the paucity of written sources,55 and of archaeological materials and standing remains, makes it necessary to look carefully at anything that may shed light on this question. An important item for consideration is the rather unusual act of Pope Sergius I (687–701), who, in 688, moved the tomb of Pope Leo I (440–461) in Old St. Peter’s from its original placement in the secretarium, located at the south end of the eastern porticus or narthex, to a new location at the other end of the church, set against the west wall of the south transept.56 Leo I was both the first pope to be buried in St. Peter’s and also the first to have his tomb subsequently relocated within the church. The selection of St. Peter’s is perhaps not a great surprise, given Leo I’s fledgling efforts to establish the bishop of Rome as primus inter pares among Christian prelates, based on the direct line of succession from Peter, the ‘rock’ on which Christ stated that he would build his church (Matthew 16:18).57 But the choice was unprecedented, and broke completely with previous custom. Earlier popes had all been buried in the city’s extramural cemeteries, for the most part in the catacomb of Priscilla on the via Salaria, or in the catacomb of St. Callixtus on the via Appia, or at the shrine of St. Laurence on the via 53 Dey, The Aurelian Wall. 54 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 324; Bartoli, Curia Senatus. 55 A similar role in melding imperial and Christian history has been envisaged for the Liber pontificalis: see McKitterick, ‘Transformations of the Roman past and Roman identity’, pp. 226–227. 56 For the original tomb: Liber pontificalis, I, p. 239; Davis, Book of Pontiffs, p. 37. For the secretarium, where the popes were vested: de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 469–470. 57 For the claim to be the legal ‘heir’ to Peter, see Ullmann, ‘Leo I and the Theme of Papal Primacy’; and Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter, pp. 39–72. For the related effort to shift the focus of the papal liturgy to the Vatican: Salzman, ‘Leo’s Liturgical Topography’.

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Tiburtina.58 By the beginning of the fifth century, burial ad sanctos had become the norm for pontifical tombs, with an emphasis on proximity to those saints who were of Roman origin: for example, Leo’s predecessor, Sixtus III (432–440), had elected burial at San Lorenzo fuori le Mura ‘in the crypt close to the body of St Laurence.’59 Leo’s strong promotion of the cult of Peter, over and above all other saints associated with the Roman church, may have prompted this significant change in papal practice.60 Only two of his fifth-century successors would make different choices: Hilarus (461–468), who returned to San Lorenzo, and Felix III (483–492), who was buried at San Paolo fuori le Mura.61 But St. Peter’s was also the preferred location for popes Simplicius (468-483), Gelasius (492-496), Anastasius II (496-498), and Symmachus (498-514),62 establishing a pattern that, by the beginning of the sixth century, with very few exceptions, would continue to the present day. It was the beginning of ‘une nouvelle époque,’ in the words of Jean-Charles Picard.63 The text of Leo’s original fifth-century epitaph has not survived.64 But we are much better informed about the translation of his relics to a new location on 28 June 688. The Liber pontificalis entry is explicit about this action, although not the precise location: ‘He [Sergius] reburied the body of the highly esteemed Father and pontiff St Leo, which had been placed inconspicuously in the lower areas of the “secretarium” of the basilica, after carefully constructing a tomb in a public part of the basilica as revealed to him, and he decorated the tomb itself’.65 There is no reason to question the accuracy of this account. The seventh-century papal biographies are broadly considered to have been compiled immediately after the death of each pontiff, and are consequently believed to be highly reliable, particularly 58 For the siting of early papal tombs: Liber pontificalis, I, pp. clv–clix; Picard, ‘Étude sur l’emplacement des tombes des papes’; Borgolte, Petrusnachfolge und Kaiserimitation, pp. 49–126; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 832–837; McKitterick, ‘The Representation of Old Saint Peter’s Basilica’, pp. 105–114; Lucherini, ‘Il IV secolo’, pp. 60–62; and de Blaauw, ‘Die Gräber der frühen Päpste’. 59 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 235; Davis, Book of Pontiffs, p. 36. 60 McKitterick, ‘The Representation of Old Saint Peter’s Basilica’, pp. 116–118, also offers the intriguing suggestion that the choice was prompted, at least in part, as a papal response to the construction by the Emperor Honorius of the imperial mausoleum on the church’s south flank. 61 Liber pontificalis, I, pp. 245, 252. 62 Ibid., pp. 249, 255, 258, 263. 63 Picard, ‘Étude sur l’emplacement des tombes des papes’, p. 749. 64 For the original tomb: Janssens, ‘Le tombe e gli edifici funerari’, pp. 246–249; and de Blaauw, ‘Die Gräber der frühen Päpste’, pp. 92–95. 65 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 375; Davis, Book of Pontiffs, p. 84.

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with regard to their record of public actions in public locations. Furthermore, the vita of Sergius is included in one of the oldest manuscripts of the Liber (Lucca, Biblioteca Capitolare Feliniana MS 490), in a section probably written early in the eighth century, since initially it contained the lives up to that of Pope Constantine (708–715), before later adding those from Gregory II (715–731) to Hadrian I (772–795) in separate quires.66 Additional documents can assist us to fill in the missing details. The new shrine was identified by a metrical inscription of twenty lines, the text of which is recorded in two early medieval collections: the Sylloge Laureshamensis (Lorsch) and the Sylloge Virdunensis (Verdun), both compiled in the eighth century and published by Giovanni De Rossi and Angelo Silvagni.67 The Verdun sylloge also copies two additional prose lines, one of which specifies the precise date of Pope Sergius’s translation, on ‘III KAL IUL INDICTIONE I’ (28 June 688). Other sources confirm that Pope Leo’s remains were located in the south wing of the transept by at least the second half of the eighth century. The description of St. Peter’s appended to the only known manuscript of the seventh-century guidebook for pilgrims, the Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae,68 describes the path of a pilgrim entering through the chapel of St. Andrew, a converted mausoleum on the south flank of Old St. Peter’s,69 then proceeding through the chapel of St. Petronilla into the south transept, and passing the shrine of Leo on the left before descending into the annular crypt beneath the high altar to venerate the relics of St. Peter. This path for pilgrims may also be reflected in a series of six epigrams found in two ninth-century Reims manuscripts, two of which are also quoted by the Anglo-Saxon cleric Aldhelm in his Carmina Ecclesiastica.70 The approach to Peter’s relics from the south transept is further confirmed by the presence of a large number of graffito crosses and signatures found at the southern entrance to the semi-annular crypt during the excavations of the 1940s.71 The mention in the Notitia ecclesiarum appendix of an altar of St. Petronilla, who by tradition was identified as the daughter of St. Peter, 66 See discussions by Duchesne, Liber pontificalis, I, pp. clxiv–clxvi; Davis, Book of Pontiffs, pp. xiii, xlvi; and McKitterick, ‘Transformations of the Roman Past’, pp. 241–242. For the function, authorship, and audience of the Liber pontificalis: McKitterick, ‘The Papacy and Byzantium’. 67 ICUR, II, pp. 98, no. 1; 139–140 no. 30; ICURns, II, pp. 22–23, no. 4148. 68 Codice topografico, II, p. 95; Story, ‘The Carolingians and the Oratory of Saint Peter the Shepherd’. 69 Rasch, ‘Zur Rekonstruktion der Andreasrotunda’; Gem, ‘The Vatican Rotunda’. 70 Story, ‘Aldhelm and Old St Peter’s’. 71 Apollonj Ghetti, Esplorazioni, p. 175; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, p. 618.

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provides a terminus post quem for this text of the rededication in 757 of the second large mausoleum on the south side of St. Peter’s by Pope Paul I, who translated Petronilla’s relics from the Catacomb of Domitilla;72 and the lack of mention of the tomb of Pope Hadrian I (772–795) – with the famous epitaph composed by Alcuin and shipped to Rome by Charlemagne – also set against the western wall of the south transept, probably indicates a terminus ante quem of 795. The single manuscript that preserves this text (Vienna, ÖstNatBib 795) is itself dated to the late eighth century.73 The description of St. Peter’s also locates the tomb of Leo with reference to an altar dedicated to the ‘mother of God’ (genetrix Dei), undoubtedly the one described in the Liber pontificalis biography of Paul I (757–767) in precisely this location, constructed by Paul to house his own tomb.74 The Liber pontificalis similarly locates Paul’s funerary chapel in relation to Leo’s tomb: ‘Inside St Peter’s he newly constructed a chapel in honour of God’s holy mother, close to pope St Leo’s oratory, alongside the entrance doors to St Petronilla’s and St Andrew’s. […] In this chapel he also constructed his own tomb’.75 Paul’s oratory, with its lavish mosaic decorations, would survive in the south transept until the eventual demolition of Old St. Peter’s at the end of the sixteenth century. The shrine-chapel of Leo I is mentioned in a number of other passages in the Liber pontificalis. In the early ninth century, it received gifts of 109 lbs. of silver, as well as a Gospels book, from Pope Leo III (795–816).76 And in the time of Leo IV (847–855), it was rebuilt and embellished with marble and mosaic, possibly repairing damage incurred during the Arab sack of St. Peter’s in August 846.77 Additional gifts of precious textiles are also documented. At the beginning of the twelfth century, Pope Paschal II (1099–1118) added the remains of popes Leo II, Leo III, and Leo IV, as documented in the second half of that century by a canon of the church, Petrus Mallius, in his Descriptio Basilicae Vaticanae.78 The lost funerary inscription installed by Pope Sergius specified the location of the new tomb as ‘in front of the holy shrine’ (line 16: ‘in fronte 72 Liber Pontificalis, I: 464; see also de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 576–577. For the political context of the translation of Petronilla: Goodson, ‘To Be the Daughter of St Peter’. For the original function of this rotunda: McEvoy, ‘The Mausoleum of Honorius’. 73 Story, ‘The Carolingians and the Oratory of Saint Peter the Shepherd’, p. 261. 74 De Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, p. 569. 75 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 465; Davis, Lives of the Eighth-Century Popes, p. 83. 76 Liber pontificalis, II, pp. 26, 27. 77 Ibid., II, p. 113. 78 Codice topografico, III, pp. 390–393.

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sacrae […] domus’), and this has given rise to some debate about where exactly Leo’s body was relocated. Most commentators have assumed that the south transept was the site chosen by Sergius for the new tomb in 688. The one exception to this was Giovanni De Rossi, more recently followed by Alan Thacker, both of whom have suggested that the initial translation did not go beyond the eastern porticus, or narthex, which ran along the façade of the church.79 This view depends on the precise interpretation of the phrase ‘in front of the holy shrine,’ as well as of the Liber pontificalis’s description of the new location as being ‘in a public part of the basilica’ (‘in denominata basilica publico loco’). But, as noted by Louis Duchesne, both descriptions could also easily apply to the south transept.80 This was very much a ‘public’ space, and an important one: it was immediately ‘in fronte’ of the ‘domus’ (relic shrine) of Peter, in the crypt installed in or about the time of Pope Gregory I (590–604), to which access was obtained from a staircase in the same south arm.81 Indeed, as previously noted, pilgrims approaching the tomb of St. Peter did so precisely from the south transept. Accepting De Rossi’s view would necessitate there having been a second translation of Leo’s remains in the period between Sergius and Paul I, an action of which there remains no trace in any source. One might also add that such an additional hypothetical translation would have required the transfer and re-incorporation of Sergius’s epitaph, from the façade of the church to the transept, an action that seems unlikely given papal practices of the day. Any pope undertaking such an important break with tradition is much more likely to have commissioned a new inscription, as Sergius himself had done, rather than crediting a predecessor. Thacker suggests that the instigator of the hypothetical and unrecorded second translation might have been Paul I himself, but Paul’s translations of relics of the saints from the catacombs, to San Silvestro in Capite and to St. Peter’s, were both recorded in contemporary inscriptions.82 That he would have carefully moved and preserved the epitaph composed in the time of his seventh-century predecessor, without adding anything of his own, seems a most unlikely scenario, especially 79 ICUR, II, pp. 139–141; Thacker, ‘Rome: The Pilgrims’ City’, pp. 100–102. 80 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 379 n. 35; III, pp. 97–8. 81 For the insertion of the crypt, see Krautheimer, Corpus Basilicarum, V, pp. 265–267; and de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 530–539. The Liber pontificalis (I, p. 312) provides few specifics, stating only that ‘[Gregory] brought it about that mass could be celebrated above St Peter’s body’ (Book of Pontiffs, p. 60). Further additions would be undertaken in the eighth century by Pope Gregory III (Liber pontificalis, I, p. 417). For a reconstruction of the arrangement as it would have appeared in the mid-eighth century: McClendon, ‘Old Saint Peter’s’, p. 218, fig. 11.2. 82 Gray, ‘The Paleography of Latin Inscriptions’, pp. 52–53, nos. 10–11.

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when De Rossi’s objections regarding the language used to describe the location are so easily countered. Consequently, there is no valid reason to question the view that, in 688, Pope Sergius I transferred Leo’s relics from the secretarium directly to the south transept, and this date is now taken for granted by most scholars.83 The questions must now be posed: what prompted Pope Sergius to undertake such an action, and why to this particular location within the interior of the basilica? It was an action without any precedent, and presumably the decision was neither accidental nor whimsical, nor the choice of site random. An answer may perhaps be found in the use made of this specific area of the church. At the time of the construction of Old St. Peter’s in the fourth century, the transept, and indeed much of the interior of the basilica, was reserved for burials.84 The main, and initially only, point of access was from the spacious atrium,85 and this route would remain in use for liturgical processions and other ceremonial occasions, as well as for the faithful wishing to attend liturgical services, throughout the Middle Ages. Pope Honorius I (625–638) sheathed the main doors with silver amounting to some 975 lbs.86 The Ordines Romani also attest to the continued use of the atrium entrance for papal processions and major events such as adventus ceremonies and imperial coronations.87 Charlemagne, for example, entered through the atrium on his first visit to Rome at Easter of 774.88 But by the end of the sixth century, as the cult of Peter increased in popularity and his shrine church became an important destination for pilgrims,89 competition intensified for use of the space around the high altar, necessitating a substantial physical reorganization intended to allow both the celebration of the liturgy and the veneration of Peter’s relics to occur simultaneously. This was achieved by Gregory I’s insertion of the crypt, including a semi-annular access corridor, with its entrance through a staircase in the south transept and its exit on the opposite north side, from which an axial passage led directly to the grave believed to be that of Peter. At the same time, the 83 For example, de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 568–569. 84 Krautheimer, ‘The Transept in the Early Christian Basilica’; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 459–460, 496–498. 85 Picard, ‘La quadriportique’; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 463–466. 86 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 323; for the doors see also Trout, ‘(Re-)Founding Christian Rome’ in this volume. 87 Les ‘Ordines Romani’ du Haut Moyen Age, IV, p. 459; see also Latham, ‘Rolling out the Red Carpet, Roman style’ in this volume. 88 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 497. 89 For pilgrimage to the shrine of Peter: Bauer, Das Bild der Stadt Rom, pp. 154–159.

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altar was raised to a higher level, situated directly over the relics.90 Prior to this alteration, pilgrims seem to have venerated Peter’s relics from above: Gregory of Tours and John Moschus both describe how small pieces of cloth would be lowered down into the tomb of Peter, with those that became true ‘contact’ relics of the saint gaining weight in the process.91 By separating the two functions of the altar/tomb of Peter, as the focus of the liturgy and the focus of veneration by pilgrims, and by providing separate access routes for each group, the congestion was eased if not actually eliminated. Apart from the actual architectural/liturgical arrangements, and the graffiti at the entrance to the crypt, rather little is known about the actual route taken by early medieval pilgrims through Old St. Peter’s, and written sources are almost completely silent on this topic. Nor has the issue been much addressed in modern scholarship. The one outstanding exception is the aforementioned eighth-century description of the church attached to the earlier Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae, which explicitly specifies entrance through the chapel of St. Andrew, adjacent to the Vatican obelisk: ‘Intrante in porticum Sancti Andreae’.92 Pilgrims then passed through the second rotunda, the mausoleum built circa 400–415 CE for the tombs of the Emperor Honorius and his family,93 re-purposed in the mid-eighth century as the chapel of St. Petronilla, before entering the basilica itself. The two rotundas were connected by a vestibule, and then a second vestibule allowed passage through to an exedra at the end of the south transept.94 Thus, at some point, certainly prior to the late eighth century when this description of St. Peter’s was composed, the south transept had become the final space encountered by those approaching for the purpose of venerating the relics of Peter. Additional evidence for the development of an important entrance to St. Peter’s on the south side may perhaps be adduced from the attention paid to this area by a series of pontiffs in the early ninth century.95 Pope Leo III (795–816) built a triclinium, lavishly decorated with marble and mosaics, ‘at the Needle’ (‘in Acoli’), which is to say the Vatican obelisk at the entrance to the rotunda of St. Andrew, and later refurbished ‘chambers’ (cubicula) 90 See above, note 81. 91 De Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 494–495. Gregory of Tours, De gloria martyrum, 28, PL, LXXI, 729; Glory of the Martyrs, pp. 45–66. For John Moschus: Sauget, ‘Saint Grégoire le Grand’. 92 Codice topografico, II, p. 95. 93 See above, note 4. 94 Tolotti, ‘I due mausolei rotondi’; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 467–468. 95 Duchesne, ‘Notes sur la topographie de Rome’, pp. 344–349; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 515–517.

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and constructed a bath (balneum) in the same location, ‘iuxta columnam maiorem.’96 A few decades later, Gregory IV (827–844) added a small hospice (‘hospicium parvum’) in the same location, ‘iuxta Accolam,’ where the pope could rest after services.97 The south wing of the transept was traversed by every pilgrim at the climax of their spiritual journey, and consequently became a space of particular sanctity and significance, unlike its counterpart on the north side. It was certainly appropriate that, immediately prior to venerating the tomb of Peter, visitors would encounter the tomb of a pope who had been hugely instrumental in promoting the cult of Peter and its connection to papal claims for ecclesiastical authority. Furthermore, for his role in the Council of Chalcedon, which, in 451, gave official approval to the dogma of the two natures of Christ, Leo I was seen as the principal papal champion of Christian orthodoxy. In the seventh and eighth centuries, his writings were frequently invoked in this regard, and his image was placed in churches such as Santa Maria Antiqua.98 While no surviving source states explicitly the thinking that prompted Pope Sergius’s choice of the site for Leo’s relocation, apart from his biographer’s cryptic comment that it was ‘revealed to him’, such a rationale makes excellent sense. And presumably this same thinking may also have prompted Paul I to choose precisely the same space for his own funerary chapel, prepared in his lifetime and dedicated to Mary, as well as the subsequent selection of this same location for the tomb of Hadrian I following his death in 795. The Liber pontificalis is explicit in stating that Paul built the chapel to house his tomb, although no such claim of intentionality is made for Hadrian.99 But is there a meta-narrative present here? Elsewhere I have proposed that the pilgrim’s experience, embodied in the physical approach to St. Peter’s, and culminating in the veneration of his relics, was intended to be a physical mimesis of Rome’s sacred history.100 All those approaching the extra-urban basilica from the city first crossed the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the only one of Rome’s bridges to survive between the Milvian Bridge and the Tiber Island, where they encountered the imposing mausoleum of the emperor Hadrian. Turning westwards, they followed a portico, probably 96 Liber pontificalis, II, pp. 8, 27–28. 97 Ibid., II, p. 81. 98 Gianandrea, ‘Leone Magno e i pontefici del Medioevo romano’. 99 Liber pontificalis, I, pp. 465, 514. 100 Osborne, ‘Plus Cesare Petrus’.

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constructed in the late fifth century and certainly in place by the second quarter of the sixth century (when it is mentioned by Procopius),101 which took them past two additional ancient monuments that in the Middle Ages were broadly, albeit erroneously, identified as the tombs of famous Romans of antiquity: the Meta Romuli, a pyramid, believed in later centuries to be the tomb of Romulus, the city’s legendary co-founder; and the Vatican obelisk, which until 1586 stood on the south flank of St. Peter’s, where it had been erected on what was originally the spina of the Vatican circus. Its bronze orb was believed throughout the Middle Ages, and well beyond, to contain the ashes of Julius Caesar. Entering the shrine complex beside the obelisk, visitors next encountered the tombs of Christian emperors. The last recorded late Roman burial was that of Theodosius, the son of Galla Placidia, in 450; but the imperial association appears to have continued well into the Middle Ages, as this location was chosen for the tomb of the Empress Agnes, wife of Henry II, in January 1077. Her funerary inscription was recorded by Grimaldi and others.102 And then finally, in the south transept, were the tombs of important popes. The pilgrim’s path thus led past the memoriae (real or imagined) of individuals who had figured prominently in the city’s history, with this physical movement mirroring the historical transformation of the caput mundi from seat of political empire to seat of the Christian faith – quite literally plus Caesare Petrus, in the words of Hildebert of Lavardin. Pope Sergius’s new placement of the tomb of Leo I moved it squarely into this sequence, situating it as the last tomb of the many that the pilgrim would venerate before that of Peter. In this manner, Rome’s sacred history was encapsulated physically in a ‘memorial landscape’ lined with the tombs of significant actors in this drama,103 culminating in the bones of Peter. And it is probably not a coincidence that it was Pope Leo I who had paved the way for such thinking, in a sermon in which Peter and Paul are cast as the new gemini succeeding the city’s founding twins, Romulus and Remus.104 101 Procopius, Wars, 5.22.12–25. 102 Cancellieri, De Secretariis Basilicae Vaticanae, pp. 991–995. 103 For the concept of ‘memorial landscapes’: Boholm, ‘Reinvented histories’. 104 Sermon 82, ‘In Natali apostolorum Petri et Pauli’, PL LIV, cols. 422–428; English translation in Neil, Leo the Great, pp. 113–118. See also Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter, pp. 44–45. This text may well have prompted the identification of the two Augustan-era pyramids as the tombs of Romulus and Remus, since by a fortunate coincidence they flanked the roads leading to the shrine churches of Peter and Paul.

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The precise moment when Leo’s remains were moved to the south transept is therefore of some interest, because it constitutes a possible terminus ante quem for this shift in the way in which pilgrims entered and experienced the church of Old St. Peter’s, and, in turn, for the larger process of ‘reinvention’ of the city’s history. There is no obvious rationale for relocating the tomb here before that shift in thinking has taken hold, in other words before the south transept had become a very public space encountered by all pilgrims, and situated in a sequence of other funerary monuments reflecting the progression of the city’s sacred history. And the exact moment when that happens is far from certain. The conversion of the pre-existing third-century mausoleum into the chapel of St. Andrew, an appropriation of a private funerary monument for public ecclesiastical purposes undertaken by Pope Symmachus (498–514), who also added an exterior access staircase,105 almost certainly constitutes a terminus post quem for the creation of the new approach, since prior to that change the only entrance was through the atrium; but the critical moment is likely to have come with the dramatic re-modelling of the sanctuary c. 600, and the decision to place the entrance to the crypt in the south transept. From the year 688 onwards, the sequence of individuals prominent in the city’s history would have included Pope Leo I. Consequently, there is reason to believe that the underlying thinking that led to the creation of this new ‘via sacra for the cult of Saint Peter,’106 had been developed by the late years of the seventh century, in or before June 688. Additional evidence to support a seventh-century date for the process of ‘reinvention’ may be found in the development at this time of religious processions through the streets of Rome, an activity that also demonstrated in a very physical way the overlay of Christianity on the existing urban fabric. John Baldovin and others have distinguished between ‘personage-centered’ processions, primarily focused on the person of the pope and his attendant clergy as they moved through the city to perform the stational liturgy, and ‘participatory’ processions, which involved the Roman public.107 The latter were either penitential in nature, or collectae in which the devout gathered at one site and then processed together to another location for a stational service. These ‘participatory’ processions are also known in medieval texts 105 Liber pontificalis, I, p. 261, 262; Book of Pontiffs, p. 44. For the building, demolished in 1777 by Pope Pius VI, see Gem, ‘The Vatican Rotunda’. 106 Story, ‘The Carolingians and the Oratory of Saint Peter the Shepherd’, p. 264. 107 Baldovin, Urban Character, pp. 159–160; de Blaauw, ‘Contrasts in Processional Liturgy’, p. 358.

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by the name letaniae (usually translated in English as ‘litanies’), a term first encountered in a letter written by Pope Gregory I in 591.108 While the precise origins of both the papal stational liturgy and the more public litany processions are unknown, conscious efforts to formalize existing customary practices can be traced back at least as far as Pope Gregory I and his successors. For example, Gregory was the first to formalize the so-called ‘Major Litany’ (letania maior), performed annually on 25 April, in which the clergy and people processed from the church of San Lorenzo in Lucina to St. Peter’s, taking a circuitous route along the Via Flaminia and crossing the Milvian Bridge before then returning along the right bank of the Tiber. Like many other Christian practices, the ‘Major Litany’ echoes a pre-Christian predecessor, an agricultural ritual known as the Robigalia, which had followed the same route, and had been performed on the same day in April; and both were intended to secure divine providence.109 Pope Gregory I is also thought to have originated the more complex letania septiformis, first documented in the years 590 and 603, in which seven groups met at seven different churches before processing to Santa Maria Maggiore.110 It is perhaps useful here to recall the famous story, recorded in the later Middle Ages in Jacobus de Voragine’s Legenda aurea, of the litany procession along the Tiber at a time when Rome was being ravaged by a plague. While passing the Mausoleum of Hadrian, Gregory had a vision of an angel standing on the top of the fortress, sheathing its sword, which was interpreted as a sign that the plague would end and the city delivered. This is, of course, the story that gives rise to the current name for that structure: the Castel Sant’Angelo;111 and it is yet another important example of the process of Christianizing Rome’s urban landscape. Regardless of the veracity of the story or the moment of its creation, it is significant that it should be associated with Gregory I, who in another medieval tradition, reported by Master Gregorius and others, was seen as the destroyer of pagan statuary in the city.112 No other pontiff features as prominently in documented or reported efforts to ‘reinvent’ the city’s physical space. Most historians of liturgy see the seventh century as the important moment for the development of numerous other litany processions, for example those undertaken in the summer of 676 to protect the crops from damage by 108 Baldovin, Urban Character, p. 159. 109 The letania maior is recorded in Ordo XXI: Les ‘Ordines Romani’, III, pp. 237–249. See also Dyer, ‘Roman Processions of the Major Litany’. 110 Latham, ‘Making of a Papal Rome’. 111 Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, I, p. 174. See also D’Onofrio, Castel S. Angelo, pp. 94–101. 112 Buddensieg, ‘Gregory the Great, the Destroyer of Pagan Idols’.

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unusually violent thunderstorms;113 and the Liber pontificalis records that, at the end of the century, Pope Sergius I (687–701) was responsible for instituting the litanies from Sant’Adriano in the Roman Forum to Santa Maria Maggiore on the four major Marian Feasts: 2 February (Presentation); 25 March (Annunciation); 15 August (Dormition); and 8 September (Nativity of the Virgin).114 The purpose of both categories of procession was to lay claim in a manifestly physical way to the urban space of the city. Baldovin refers to them as ‘a means of both prayer and propaganda,’ and observes that they helped to transform the activity of worship into ‘an expression of the very heart of urban life, of the very meaning of the civitas as a holy place […]. The city itself became a house for the Christian assembly. It could even be conceived of as a domus dei.’115 Significantly, it is also in the seventh century that imperial adventus ceremonies became ‘Christianized’, with St. Peter’s becoming their new destination.116 Slowly but surely, early medieval Rome assimilated the cultural and material legacy of its predecessor, giving new and meaningful identifications to ancient monuments and ritual social practices with the aim of incorporating them into the new understanding of Rome’s continuity as caput mundi; but now that mundus was Christian. Ancient Rome was not discarded, but instead integrated into a new unified vision. And while some of this absorption may initially have happened naturally, and possibly even without active intent, the seventh century CE emerges as the moment when the new thinking about Rome’s place in the divine plan is most likely to have become both conscious and broadly understood.

Bibliography Sources Codice topografico della città di Roma, ed. by Roberto Valentini and Giuseppe Zuchetti, 4 vols. (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1940–1953). Das Constitutum Constantini, ed. by Horst Fuhrmann, MGH Fontes iuris 10 (Hanover: Hahn, 1968). Dictatus papae: Das Register Gregors VII, ed. by E. Caspar, MGH Epp. Sel. 2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1920–23), pp. 202–208. 113 Liber pontificalis, I, pp. 346–347. 114 Ibid., I, p. 376. 115 Baldovin, Urban Character, p. 268. For the processions as a means of unifying Roman society at a moment when it had been significantly fractured, see also Romano, Liturgy and Society, pp. 135–139. 116 See Latham, ‘Rolling out the Red Carpet, Roman Style’, in this volume.

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Gregory I, Dialogues, ed. by Umberto Moricca, Fonti per la Storia d’Italia 57 (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano, 1924). Gregory I, Homiliae in Ezechielem, PL 76: 786-1074. English translation: Theodosia Gray, The Homilies of Saint Gregory the Great on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (Etna, CA: Center for Traditionalist Orthodox Studies, 1990). Gregory of Tours: Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Raymond Van Dam (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988). Itinerarium cuiusdam anglici, ed. by Mariana Cocciolo (Lecce: Edizioni digitali del Centro Interuniversitario Internazionale di Studi sul Viaggio Adriatico, 2010). Available at: www.viaggioadriatico.it/ViaggiADR/biblioteca_digitale/titoli/ scheda_bibliografica.2010-03-31.4496126281 Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints, trans. by William Granger Ryan, 2 vols. (Princeton. NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993). Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction, et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne and Cyrille Vogel, 3 vols. (Paris: E. Thorin, 1886–1892; Paris: E. de Boccard, 1957). English translations: The Book of Pontiffs (Liber Pontificalis): The Ancient Biographies of the First Ninety Roman Bishops to AD 715, tr. by Raymond Davis, Translated Texts for Historians 6, rev. 3rd ed. (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010); and The Lives of the Eighth-Century Popes (Liber Pontificalis), tr. by Raymond Davis, Translated Texts for Historians 13, rev. ed. (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2007). Magister Gregorius, Narracio de Mirabilibus Urbis Romae, ed. by R.B.C. Huygens (Leiden: Brill, 1970); The Marvels of Rome, trans. by John Osborne, Mediaeval Sources in Translation 31 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1987). Les ‘Ordines Romani’ du Haut Moyen Age, ed. by Michel Andrieu, 5 vols. (Louvain: Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, 1931–1961). The Oxford Book of Medieval Latin Verse, ed. by Frederic Raby (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959). Procopius with an English translation by H.B. Dewing, 7 vols. (London: William Heinemann, 1953–1954). Zosimus, New History. A translation with commentary by Ronald T. Ridley, Byzantina Australiensia 2 (Sydney: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1982).

References Bruno Maria Apollonj Ghetti and others, Esplorazioni sotto la confessione di San Pietro in Vaticano eseguite negli anni 1940–1949 (Vatican City: Tipografia Poligotta Vaticana, 1951). Andrea Augenti, Il Palatino nel Medioevo. Archeologia e topografia (secoli VI–XIII) (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1996).

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John Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship. The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 228 (Rome: Pontificio Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987). Alfonso Bartoli, Curia Senatus. Lo scavo e il restauro (Rome: Istituto di studi romani, 1963). Franz Alto Bauer, Das Bild der Stadt Rom im Frühmittelalter. Papststiftungen im Spiegel der Liber Pontificalis von Gregor dem Dritten bis zu Leo dem Dritten. (Wiesbaden: Dr. Ludwig Reichert Verlag, 2004). Franz Alto Bauer, ‘Saint Peter’s as a Place of Collective Memory’, in Rom in der Spätantike. Historische Erinnerung im städtischen Raum, ed. by Ralf Behrwald and Christian Witschel (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2012), pp. 155–170. Sible de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor. Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medievale (Vatican City: Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, 1994). Sible de Blaauw, ‘Das Pantheon als christlicher Tempel’, in Bild- und Formensprache der spätantiken Kunst: Hugo Brandenburg zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. by Martina Jordan-Ruwe and Ulrich Real (Münster: K. Wilmers, 1994), pp. 13–26. Sible de Blaauw, ‘Contrasts in Processional Liturgy. A Typology of Outdoor Processions in Twelfth-Century Rome’, in Art, cérémonial et liturgie au Moyen Âge, ed. by Nicolas Bock and others (Rome: Viella, 2002), pp. 357–396. Sible de Blaauw, ‘Die Gräber der frühen Päpste’ in Die Päpste. Amt und Herrschaft in Antike, Mittelalter und Renaissance, ed. by B. Schneidmüller and others (Regensberg: Schnell & Steiner, 2016), pp. 77–99. Åsa Boholm, ‘Reinvented Histories: Medieval Rome as Memorial Landscape’, Ecumene, 4 (1997), pp. 247–272. Michael Borgolte, Petrusnachfolge und Kaiserimitation. Die Grablegen der Päpste, ihre Genese und Traditionsbildung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989). Robert Brentano, Rome before Avignon: A Social History of Thirteenth-Century Rome (New York: Basic Books, 1974). Thomas S. Brown, Gentlemen and Officers. Imperial Administration and Aristocratic Power in Byzantine Italy A.D. 554–800 (London: British School at Rome, 1984). Tilmann Buddensieg, ‘Gregory the Great, the Destroyer of Pagan Idols. The History of a Medieval Legend Concerning the Decline of Ancient Art and Literature’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 28 (1965), pp. 44–65. Jean-Pierre Caillet, ‘La transformation en église d’édifices publics et de temples à la fin de l’Antiquité’, in La fin de la cité antique et le début de la cité médiévale de la fin du IIIe siècle à l’evènement de Charlemagne, ed. by Claude Lepelley (Bari: Edipuglia, 1996), pp. 191–211. Francesco Cancellieri, De Secretariis Basilicae Vaticanae Veteris ac Novae (Rome: Salvioni, 1786).

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Manuela Gianandrea, ‘La “riscoperta” di Roma nel patronato artistico imperiale di V secolo’, in Il potere dell’arte nel Medioevo. Studi in onore di Mario D’Onofrio, ed. by Manuela Gianandrea, Francesco Gangemi, Carlo Costantini (Rome: Campisano Editore, 2014), pp. 497–50. Manuela Gianandrea, ‘Il V secolo. Da Innocenzo I (401-417) ad Anastasio II (496-498)’, in La committenza artistica dei papi a Roma nel Medioevo, ed. by Mario D’Onofrio (Rome: Viella, 2016), pp. 73–108. Manuela Gianandrea, ‘The Artistic Patronage of the Popes in Fifth-century Rome’, in The Fifth Century in Rome: Art, Liturgy, Patronage, ed. by Ivan Foletti and Manuela Gianandrea (Rome: Viella, 2017), pp. 183–216. [English translation of Gianandrea, ‘Il V secolo’] Manuela Gianandrea, ‘The “Rediscovery” of Rome in Imperial Patronage of the Arts in the Fifth Century’, in The Fifth Century in Rome: Art, Liturgy, Patronage, ed. by Ivan Foletti and Manuela Gianandrea (Rome: Viella, 2017), pp. 243–253. [English translation of Gianandrea, ‘La “riscoperta” di Roma’] Manuela Gianandrea, ‘Leone Magno e i pontefici del Medioevo romano. L’esegesi di un mito e la strumentalizzazione della sua imagine’, in ‘Survivals’, ‘Revivals’, Rinascenze. Studi in onore di Serena Romano, ed. by Nicolas Bock, Ivan Foletti, Michele Tomasi (Rome: Viella, 2017), pp. 59–72. Caroline Goodson, The Rome of Paschal I: Papal Power, Urban Renovation, Church Building and Relic Translation, 817–824 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). Caroline Goodson, ‘To Be the Daughter of St Peter: S. Petronilla and Forging the Franco-Papal Alliance’, in Three Empires, Three Cities: Identity, Material Culture and Legitimacy in Venice, Ravenna and Rome, 750–1000, ed. by Veronica WestHarling (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 159–184. Caroline Goodson and Janet Nelson, ‘The Roman Contexts of the “Donation of Constantine”’, Early Medieval Europe, 18 (2010), pp. 446–467. Arturo Graf, Roma nella memoria e nelle immaginazioni del Medio Evo (repr. Turin: Ermanno Loescher, 1915). Nicolette Gray, ‘The Paleography of Latin Inscriptions in the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth Centuries in Italy’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 16 (1948), pp. 38–162. Lise Hetland, ‘New Perspectives on the Dating of the Pantheon’, in The Pantheon: From Antiquity to the Present, ed. by Tod Marder and Mark Wilson Jones (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 79–98. Nicolas Huyghebaert, ‘Une légende de fondation. Le Constitutum Constantini’, Le Moyen Age, 85 (1979), pp. 177–209. Jos Janssens, ‘Le tombe e gli edifici funerari dei papi dell’antichità’, in Ecclesiae Urbis. Atti del Congresso Internazionale di Studi sulle Chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo).

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Roma, 4–10 settembre 2000, ed. by Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra Guiglia Guidobaldi (Vatican City: Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), pp. 231–263. Mark Johnson, The Roman Imperial Mausoleum in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Gregor Kalas, ‘Architecture and Elite Identity in Late Antique Rome: Appropriating the Past at Sant’Andrea Catabarbara’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 81 (2013), pp. 279–302. Dale Kinney, ‘Spolia’, in St Peter’s in the Vatican, ed. by William Tronzo (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 6–47. Dale Kinney, ‘Fact and Fiction in the Mirabilia urbis Romae’, in Roma Felix: Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome, ed. by Éamonn Ó Carragain and Carol Neuman de Vegvar (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 235–252. Harald Koethe, ‘Zum Mausoleum der weströmischen Dynastie bei Alt-Sankt-Peter’, Römische Mitteilungen, 46 (1931), pp. 9–26. Richard Krautheimer, Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae, 5 vols. (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1937–1977). Richard Krautheimer, ‘The Transept in the Early Christian Basilica’ in Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art (New York: New York University Press 1969), pp. 59–68. Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980). Richard Krautheimer, Three Christian Capitals: Topography and Politics (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1983). Jacob Latham, ‘The Making of a Papal Rome: Gregory I and the letania septiformis’, in The Power of Religion in Late Antiquity, ed. by Andrew Cain and Noel Lenski (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 293–304. Paolo Liverani, ‘La pigna vaticana. Note storiche’, Bollettino Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, 6 (1986), pp. 51–63. Vinni Lucherini, ‘Il IV secolo. Da Silvestro I (314–335) ad Anastasius I (399–401)’, in La committenza artistica dei papi a Roma nel medioevo, ed. by Mario D’Onofrio (Rome: Viella, 2016), pp. 51–72. Charles McClendon, ‘Old Saint Peter’s and the Iconoclastic Controversy’, in Old Saint Peter’s, Rome, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 214–228. Meaghan McEvoy, ‘The Mausoleum of Honorius: Late Roman Imperial Christianity and the City of Rome in the Fifth Century’, in Old Saint Peter’s, Rome, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 119–136. Rosamond McKitterick, ‘The Representation of Old Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Liber Pontificalis’, in Old Saint Peter’s, Rome, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 95–118.

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Rosamond McKitterick, ‘Transformations of the Roman Past and Roman Identity in the Early Middle Ages’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Clemens Gantner and others (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 225–244. Rosamond McKitterick, ‘The Papacy and Byzantium in the Seventh- and Early Eighth-Century Sections of the Liber pontificalis’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 84 (2016), pp. 241–273. Robert McNally, ‘Gregory the Great and His Declining World’, Archivum Historiae Pontificiae, 16 (1978), pp. 7–26. Daniele Manacorda, Crypta Balbi. Archeologia e storia di un paesaggio urbano (Milan: Electa, 2001). Federico Marazzi, ‘Rome in Transition: Economic and Political Change in the Fourth and Fifth Centuries’, in Early Medieval Rome and the Christian West. Essays in Honour of Donald A. Bullough, ed. by Julia M.H. Smith (Leiden: Brill, 2000), pp. 21–41. Marina Marcelli, ‘Su alcune tombe tardo-antiche di Roma: Nota preliminare’, Archeologia Medievale, 16 (1989), pp. 525–540. Maya Maskarinec, ‘Who Were the Romans? Shifting Scripts of Romanness in Early Medieval Italy’, in Post-Roman Transitions: Christian and Barbarian Identities in the Early Medieval West, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. 297–363. Maya Maskarinec, City of Saints: Rebuilding Rome in the Early Middle Ages (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018). Ralph Mathisen, ‘Ricimer’s Church in Rome: How an Arian Barbarian Prospered in a Nicene World’, in The Power of Religion in Late Antiquity, ed. by Andrew Cain and Noel Lenski (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 307–25. Roberto Meneghini and Riccardo Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Sepolture intramuranee a paesaggio urbano a Roma tra V e VII secolo’, in La storia economica di Roma nell’alto medioevo alla luce dei recenti scavi archeologici (Atti del seminario, Roma 2–3 aprile 1992), ed. by Lidia Paroli and Paolo Delogu (Florence: Edizioni all’Insegna del Giglio, 1993), pp. 89–111. Roberto Meneghini and Riccardo Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Sepolture intermuranee a Roma tra V e VII secolo d.C.: Aggiornamenti e considerazioni’, Archeologia Medievale, 22 (1995), pp. 283–290. Adolf Michaelis, ‘Le antichità della città di Roma descritte da Nicolao Muffel’, Mittheilungen des kaiserlich deutschen archaeologischen Instituts. Römische Abteilung, 3 (1888), pp. 254–276. Bronwen Neil, Leo the Great (London and New York: Routledge, 2009). Thomas F.X. Noble, ‘Rome in the Seventh Century’, in Archbishop Theodore: Commemorative Studies on His Life and Influence, ed. by Michael Lapidge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 60–87.

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About the Author John Osborne is former dean of the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at Carleton University in Ottawa. His significant publications analyze Roman catacombs, the medieval churches of San Clemente and Santa Maria Antiqua in Rome, and the artistic exchange between the Byzantine Empire and the West during the Middle Ages. Recently, he published Rome in the Eighth Century: A History in Art (2020).

8. Rewriting the Renouveau Dale Kinney Abstract The art and architecture of eleventh-century Rome are predominantly discussed within the framework of an ‘early Christian renewal’ (renouveau paléochrétien) closely tied to the Gregorian Reform. Articulated fifty years ago in accordance with the prevailing top-down model of history, the framework is incompatible with more recent historical approaches that emphasize agency from below. This essay argues for a more distributed model of agency in the making of eleventh-century art. A case study of Santa Maria in Trastevere, reformed in 1065, calls into question the model of a Reform art directed by cardinals. A comparison with cinematic auteur theory questions the concept of a Reformist ‘directed art’ from another perspective. Keywords: Gregorian Reform, portal sculpture, Giant Bibles, San Clemente, Santa Maria in Trastevere, auteur theory

In one of the most influential contributions to the study of medieval Roman art of the past century, Hélène Toubert made the case that Roman wall paintings and mosaics of the later eleventh and twelfth centuries constituted a renouveau paléochrétien inspired by Montecassino and the institutional Reform associated with Pope Gregory VII (1073–1085).1 Her argument was endorsed by Richard Krautheimer in his equally influential monograph of 1980, in a chapter titled ‘The New Rebirth of Rome’.2 Krautheimer’s purview was broader than Toubert’s, encompassing architecture, marble ornament, and salvaged antiquities in addition to painting, and he posited a wider 1 Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien’. See Romano, in Riforma e tradizione, p. 163; Barral i Altet, ‘Arte medievale e Riforma’. 2 Krautheimer, Rome, pp. 161–202 and 352 (‘my mainstay throughout this chapter has been Toubert’s brilliant paper’).

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch08

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context, integrating the revival of early Christian forms and motifs into an overall revival of antiquity. According to Krautheimer, the revival arose from a ‘matrix’ of Petrine, Constantinian, and imperial traditions, ‘pregnant with political implications.’3 Krautheimer’s emphasis on politically charged renovatio was echoed by Peter Cornelius Claussen, who refined the approach by distinguishing three phases: a phase of repair and consolidation (restauratio) before 1100, heavily dependent on Montecassino; a wave of renewal (renovatio) under Pope Paschal II (1099–1118), which achieved the fullest material expression of the Gregorian Reform; and a triumphal phase (renovatio triumphans) after the conclusion of the Investiture Controversy in 1122, in which Constantinian and Petrine models were emulated to signal the quasi-imperial stature of the popes. 4 Claussen argued that the turn to the past was fueled less by the fragments of Roman antiquity visible everywhere in the medieval city than by an ideal image of ancient splendor. In the medieval imaginary, ancient Rome was an ‘aesthetic utopia’ marked by shiny, colorful surfaces of marble and gold.5 Among scholars of the mural arts, Toubert’s appeal to the Reform continues to be the guiding thread.6 Frescoes uncovered in the 1970s–1980s in the nave of Santa Maria Immacolata in Ceri, 30 km from Rome, have been consistently identified with the Reform by leading scholars, despite an argument that they could not have been painted until after 1160.7 Stefano Riccioni’s monograph on the apse mosaic of San Clemente confirmed Toubert’s line of interpretation, albeit with a new approach.8 His subsequent analysis of the mosaic in Santa Maria in Trastevere (1141–1143) found it to be ‘the apex of Gregorian art.’9 The volume of the corpus of medieval Roman painting covering the later eleventh and twelfth centuries, edited by Serena Romano, is called Riforma e tradizione. A conference at the University of Lausanne in 2004 resulted in the volume Roma e la Riforma gregoriana, also edited by Serena Romano, with articles mainly on wall painting but 3 Ibid., p. 191. 4 Claussen, ‘Renovatio Romae’; Idem, ‘Marmo e splendore’. 5 Idem, ‘Marmo e splendore’, pp. 151–153; 169–170. 6 For a multi-faceted account of the historiography up to 2010, see Riccioni, ‘La décoration’. 7 Bertelli, ‘San Benedetto’, p. 301; Zchomelidse, Santa Maria Immacolata; Kessler, ‘L’antica basilica’, p. 55; Osbat, ‘Il santuario’, pp. 34–37; Riccioni, ‘La décoration’, pp. 346–347. For the late date, see Cadei, ‘S. Maria Immacolata’, pp. 26–29 (‘settimo o ottavo decennio del millecento’); provisionally followed by Toubert, ‘Peinture murale’, pp. 130–132 (‘vers 1170–1180’). Maddalo, ‘I santi Giorgio e Silvestro’, proposed a mid-twelfth century date and an association with a ‘second phase’ of the Reform. 8 Riccioni, Il mosaico absidale. 9 Idem, ‘The Word in the Image’, p. 88.

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also on manuscript illumination, sculpture, liturgy, and even ‘A Gregorian Reform Theory of Art’.10 Like Claussen, Romano refined the correlation of Reform and renouveau, though in a different way. She associated the Reform with painting before the reign of Paschal II, especially the extraordinarily inventive and influential murals in the lower church of San Clemente, and the renouveau with painting and the revival of mosaic in the first half of the twelfth century.11 She further distinguished two aspects of the renouveau: the ideological expression of the renewal of the Roman Church beginning with Paschal II, and a refined antiquarianism associated with Popes Callixtus II (1119–1124) and the family of Pietro Pierleone (Anacletus II, 1130–1138).12 Against the tide of this overwhelmingly positive reception, a few notable skeptics and dissenters have stood out. Carlo Bertelli (1982) challenged Toubert’s argument for the seminal role of Montecassino, insisting that the eleventh-century ‘rinascita’ of Roman painting was ‘autochthonous’, even if ‘the younger school’ of Montecassino contributed ‘technical perfection’ and ‘formal elaboration’.13 Returning to the subject some years later, Bertelli (1994) termed the ‘San Clemente style’ a ‘rediscovery’ rather than a renewal, arguing that its practitioners found their greatest inspiration in the ornamental repertoire of late antique opus sectile revetment.14 He described a ‘turn’ in the use of ancient models under Callixtus II, when Roman antiquity took on a political cast, and a ‘new orientation’ under Pope Innocent II (1130–1143), whose apse mosaic in Santa Maria in Trastevere, in his view, does not show the conservative retrospection of the Reformers.15 Francesco Gandolfo (1989) likewise questioned the role of Montecassino, as well as the attribution of ideological content to painters’ use of antique motifs. Though he allowed some Cassinese influence on wall painters’ iconography and figure types, Gandolfo maintained that the frames painted around the scenes, where the antique elements touted as evidence of a renouveau are largely confined, are not expressions of a revival but the continuation of tendencies in Roman painting going back to the tenth century.16 Proposing a distinction between painters of ornament (quadraturisti) and painters of scenes ( figuristi), he argued that the work of the former reflected contemporary taste rather than ideology.

10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Roma e la Riforma gregoriana. Romano, in Riforma e tradizione, pp. 15–35, 163–182. Ibid., pp. 163-164, 174-178. Bertelli, ‘San Benedetto’; quotations on pp. 283, 302. La pittura in Italia, pp. 227–232. Ibid., pp. 233–235. Gandolfo, ‘La pittura romana’, pp. 21–26.

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Ursula Nilgen (2006) questioned Toubert’s model of authorship, according to which signal examples of the Reform/renouveau – frescoes in the lower church of San Clemente and the apse mosaic of the upper church – were effectively the work of highly educated clerics who directed the artists who made them and, in the case of the frescoes, the lay donors who paid for them.17 She also observed that, depending on the date of the frescoes, they could just as well reflect the Reformist ideals of the anti-Gregorian party as those of the Gregorian cardinal to whom they were credited by Toubert. Valentino Pace (2007) took a stronger stance, arguing that it must have been the donors of the San Clemente murals, Beno de Rapiza and his wife Maria Macellaria, who chose the subjects to be depicted, because the frescoes were their personal ex voto.18 Pace concurred with Gandolfo that in Rome, artistic antiquarianism was a ‘workshop practice’ not to be confused with the programmatic expression of clerical beliefs.19 On a different plane, Xavier Barral i Altet (2010) objected to the tendency to extend Toubert’s notion of a Reform-inspired renouveau paléochrétien to the whole of Europe. Noting that the scope and import of the Reform are still being debated by historians, he cautioned against conflating it, as Toubert implicitly did, with the historiographic conceit of the ‘renaissance of the twelfth century,’ which was coined with regard to literature.20 He advocated a collective ‘pause for reflection.’21 Whether or not one agrees with her critics, it must be admitted that the historical framework of Toubert’s argument is obsolete. Like Krautheimer and other scholars of her era, she adhered to a top-down model of history in which events and changes are driven by political and intellectual leaders. In the case of the ‘Gregorian’ Reform, the model assumes the causal role of ‘Great Popes,’ in the words of Maureen Miller, who effected change through personal charisma, obscuring the ‘practical, ground-level methods of organizing collective action, extracting and mobilizing resources, communicating ideas, and exerting pressure’ that today’s historians find more productive of historical explanation.22 Similarly, Chris Wickham observed that the history of Rome has been dominated by a ‘papal grand narrative’ that casts the city and its inhabitants as ‘simply an Other’: at best witnesses, and often obstacles, 17 Nilgen, ‘Die Bildkünste Süditaliens’, p. 320; cf. Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien’, pp. 300, 305; Toubert, ‘Rome et le Mont-Cassin’, pp. 236–237. 18 Pace, ‘La Riforma’, pp. 55–56. 19 Ibid., pp. 51, 59. 20 Barral i Altet, ‘Arte medievale e Riforma’, p. 79. 21 Ibid., p. 80. 22 Miller, ‘The Crisis’, p. 1574.

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to the self-realization of the papacy, which is the story.23 Wickham’s own recent history, focused not on the popes but on ‘the society of the city, and the overarching economic structures that made it work,’ produces an interpretive context quite unlike the one assumed by Toubert.24 His Rome is populated by citizens of diverse socio-economic stature, including a ‘medium elite’ comprising landholders and artisans working in more than 100 trades: leather workers, metalworkers, woodworkers, shoemakers, locksmiths, food preparers, providers of animals, doctors, money changers, etc.25 These relatively well-off laypeople had considerably more cultural agency than Toubert’s model permits. They participated in the Reform independently of the ecclesiastical factions emphasized by art historians; pious Romans like Beno and Maria were inspired to contribute to the betterment of their churches by an ‘ideal of post-apostolic sanctity’ rather than by political allegiances.26 The important book by Tommaso di Carpegna Falconieri on the medieval Roman clergy (2002) is equally disruptive of the top-down paradigm.27 In contrast to the common but oversimplified view of the clergy as a social unit whose views and behavior mirrored the pope’s, di Carpegna Falconieri detailed the emergence of a split between clerics who served the pope and the ‘urban clergy’ who ministered to the congregations of titular basilicas like San Clemente. He showed that the cardinal-presbyters assigned to the 28 tituli ceased to perform liturgical and administrative duties in those churches in the second half of the eleventh century, as they were progressively absorbed into the papal administration.28 Busy at the Lateran or sent out of Rome as legates, cardinals left their title-churches in the charge of archpriests, who controlled their ministry and finances with little oversight.29 These priests and lesser clergy formed a loosely political block that sometimes took the side of the so-called anti-popes, notably in the case of Wibert of Ravenna (1084–1100), who ruled Rome as Pope Clement III in the time of Gregory VII (d. 1085), Victor III (d. 1087), Urban II (d. 1099), and Paschal II.30 Urban priests resisted the efforts of Reform popes to change 23 Wickham, Medieval Rome, pp. 13–15. 24 Ibid., p. 20. 25 Ibid., pp. 140–142. See also Moscati, Alle origini, whose book is an important precedent to Wickham’s, and Bertelli, ‘San Benedetto’, p. 289. 26 Wickham, Medieval Rome, p. 354. 27 di Carpegna Falconieri, Il clero di Roma. 28 Ibid., pp. 109–127. 29 Ibid., pp. 167–172. 30 Ibid., p. 170.

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their lifestyle by requiring them to renounce marriage and private property. Di Carpegna Falconieri traced these efforts to a ‘pre-Reform’ moment in the first half of the eleventh century, when communities of independent priests began to be replaced by secular canons living according to the Institutio canonicorum Aquisgranensis promulgated in 816.31 In 1059, this rule was proclaimed to be too lax, and Popes Alexander II and Gregory VII tried to impose the stricter rule of canons regular, who lived like monks. According to di Carpegna Falconieri, they had little lasting success, and most of the urban clergy of Rome continued to observe the Rule of Aachen at the turn of the twelfth century.32 Under the Aachen Rule they did give up marriage but continued to possess property. Di Carpegna Falconieri’s picture of a cardinalate disengaged from its local title-churches and potentially at odds with the urban clergy presents an obvious challenge to Toubert’s scenario for the paintings in San Clemente. Pursuing a line of interpretation suggested by Pace and di Carpegna Falconieri, Lila Yawn (2012) demonstrated that the San Clemente murals could easily have had a pro-Clementine rather than a Gregorian intention, reasoning that it is impossible to determine which faction controlled the church in the decade 1084–1093, and the rhetoric on both sides is so similar that it could have been written by ‘monozygotic twins.’33 Although she cautioned that ‘attempting to discern the politics of the putative designers of an undocumented painting cycle on the basis of the cycle’s iconography impresses me as […] a game of historiographically induced preconceptions, self-projection, and cognitive chance,’ Yawn made a convincing circumstantial case that not only the murals, but the entire lower church of San Clemente were so strongly attached to the memory of the homonymous anti-pope that Cardinal Anastasius, who took San Clemente as his title church in or before 1102, was obliged to demolish and bury it under the church that exists today.34 It is not my purpose in this article to denigrate the work of Hélène Toubert. She was an outstanding scholar who almost single-handedly pushed the study of Roman art in the eleventh and twelfth centuries into a new and 31 Ibid., pp. 178–188. 32 Ibid., pp. 187–188; see also the excellent account by Barclay Lloyd, The Medieval Church and Canonry, pp. 203–225. 33 Yawn, ‘Clement’s New Clothes’, pp. 185, 193; endorsed by Wickham, Medieval Rome, pp. 356–357. Although her style-based dating of the murals before 1084 precludes the proClementine reading, Romano acknowledged its possibility: Riforma e tradizione, pp. 129–130. 34 Yawn, ‘Clement’s New Clothes’, quotation on p. 196. For Anastasius: Barclay Lloyd, The Medieval Church and Canonry, pp. 60–65.

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remarkably productive era. Nearly fifty years out, many of her discoveries, insights, and conclusions are still valid. Like all of us, however, she was a product of her time, as was her approach to art history. She followed Erwin Panofsky’s method of iconography, which – although resistance to it was beginning to build up – was still ‘state-of-the-art’ when she wrote in the 1970s.35 Panofsky’s method fits well with the top-down understanding of history, because it assumes a hierarchical mode of communication in which the artist instills meaning in a visual object, and the viewer is obliged to decipher it. The ‘correct’ meaning is the one the artist intended the viewer to see.36 Today, when many historians are less interested in the intentions of leading individuals than in the horizontal nexus of forces that fosters social and cultural movement from below, new art historical models are in order. With due respect for all it has done for us, it is time to rewrite the narrative of the renouveau. To the piecemeal process of rewriting that is already underway, I offer here two suggestions for new chapters. One follows the line of scholars like Claussen and Romano, who have attempted to clarify the precise relation between clerical Reform and the production of art. The second treats the problem of authorship.

Art and the Gregorian Reform: A Case Study For scholars of architecture, the touchstone of the Reform/renouveau has been the church of St. Benedict at Montecassino, magnificently rebuilt by Abbot Desiderius in the 1060s. Decorated by artists imported from Constantinople, the basilica embodied a self-proclaimed revival of art forms (notably bronze casting and wall and pavement mosaic) forgotten by magistra Latinitas, and its elevation with a continuous transept (as reconstructed by Kenneth John Conant) was thought to recreate the Constantinian elevation of St. Peter’s basilica in Rome.37 Krautheimer maintained that Desiderius’s revivalist project inspired the transept basilicas that represent the renovatio in Rome itself, San Crisogono and Santa Maria in Trastevere.38 For historians of monumental art the touchstone is San Clemente, where both 35 Toubert, ‘Iconographie et histoire’. On the resistance see Recht, Warnke and others, Relire Panofsky. 36 Panofsky, Studies in Iconology, pp. 6–7. 37 Conant, Carolingian and Romanesque, pp. 362–364; Bloch, Montecassino, I, pp. 40–71, 88–93. See the revisionist assessments by Claussen, ‘Scultura’, pp. 208–209 and Gandolfo, ‘L’XI secolo’, pp. 265–267. 38 Kinney, ‘Rome’, pp. 200–208.

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the lower-church murals and the upper-church apse mosaic are thought to have been inspired by Montecassino as well, with an infusion of decorative motifs from the local storehouse of antiquities. Manuscript illumination, though not neglected, has not been fully integrated into the narrative of Reform/renouveau based on the monumental arts, even though one genre in particular – the Giant (or ‘Atlantic’) Bibles – was wholly bound up with the Reform. In this section, I will argue that the lessons of recent scholarship on the Giant Bibles are useful for reconsidering the relation between art-making and the Reform. My case is based on the example of Santa Maria in Trastevere, where the Reform is clearly documented in 1065, eighty years before the making of the transept basilica and apse mosaic held by some to be its material expression. The eleventh-century artworks made for the basilica do not sit comfortably within the prevailing master narrative, but they do show characteristics of the piecemeal production of the Giant Bibles. For much of the twentieth century, the ‘monstrous’ Bibles (up to .6 m tall, .4 m wide, and weighing up to 25 kg) were considered the quintessential example of Reform-driven art.39 Thought to have been planned and promoted by Pope Gregory VII and produced in a single scriptorium at the Lateran, the Bibles were meant to disseminate an authoritative new edition of the Bible, attributed by some to the pope’s friend Peter Damian (d. 1072). 40 More recent research has shown that this model is far too simple. It is true that the Bibles conform to a standard type: written in double columns in a deliberately deracinated Caroline minuscule, unlike the romanesca prevalent in contemporary Roman scriptoria, and decorated with initials in a distinctive style dubbed ‘geometric’ by E. B. Garrison. Figural illuminations recall early Christian exemplars like the fifth-century frescoes in St. Paul’s basilica, as well as Carolingian intermediaries like the oversized Bible presented to Pope John VIII by Emperor Charles the Bald in 875, and later given to St. Paul’s by Gregory VII. 41 Despite these generic resemblances, however, careful study of eleventh-century Bibles has shown that they do not contain a single edition of the Bible text, nor can they be traced to a single scriptorium. It has not been possible to identify an antigraph of the text nor to establish stemmata of the illustrations. 42 Guy Lobrichon posited only a 39 On the size: Condello, ‘La Bibbia’, p. 349; Lobrichon, ‘Le succès ambigu’, pp. 237–238. 40 For the traditional view, see Supino Martini, ‘Aspetti’, p. 232; Ayres, ‘Bemerkungen’, p. 325, Orofino, ‘La decorazione’, pp. 357–359; Orofino, ‘Pittura e miniatura’, pp. 161–162; Riccioni, ‘La décoration’, pp. 325–326. Ayres, ‘Le Bibbie’, posited a single ‘export scriptorium’ that spawned Giant Bibles and other books. 41 Condello, ‘La Bibbia’, pp. 352–357. 42 Ibid., p. 359; Maniaci and Orofino, ‘Dieci anni di studi’, p. 9.

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guiding impulse to produce a Bible suited to liturgical use, while the text underwent three phases of editing between 1050 and 1100. 43 Paleographers have observed that variations in the order of the Biblical books correspond to a mode of production in which multiple scribes – as many as fifteen in one case – worked on a single Bible simultaneously. 44 This observation has led to differing interpretations. On the one hand, Noemi Larocca attributed six early Bibles to a single, strictly regimented scriptorium designed for the serial production of a ‘specific edition’, without taking account of Lobrichon’s three editorial phases, all of which are represented in her sample. 45 At another extreme, Lila Yawn envisaged ‘fluid assemblies’ of independent scribes coordinated by ‘literate middlemen’ and brought together in various locales as commissions for the Bibles arose. 46 Lobrichon similarly invoked ‘project managers’ (maîtres d’œuvre) and commanditaires in connection with individual books, as well as ‘heads of workshops’ (maîtres des ateliers), ‘leaders of the Reform’ who were responsible for the dissemination of the books, and ‘inventors’ (concepteurs) who conceived the Giant Bible in the abstract. 47 With scholarship on the Giant Bibles still in flux, the lessons to be drawn from it so far were nicely summed up by Emma Condello in 2005. The intention to make a new edition of the Bible emerged around mid-century, but for various reasons, including the fact that the books went into production immediately, their hasty distribution, and the rapid unfolding of the Reform itself, the edition was never definitively completed. 48 The appearance of the books – the choice of the script, the sobriety of the decoration and the deliberate lack of luxury – was in keeping with their purpose to provide a readable and authoritative text for the Reform ideal of the communal reading of Scripture. The Bibles were not imposed by Rome as models but ‘offered themselves spontaneously for imitation’ by virtue of their ‘intrinsic value’. 49 The classicizing appearance of the script is a side effect of the primary intention, which was to appear traditional and universal.50 43 Lobrichon, ‘Le succès ambigu’, pp. 244–251. 44 Maniaci, in Maniaci and Orof ino, ‘L’off icina delle Bibbie’, p. 203; Larocca, ‘Linee di una ricerca’, pp. 26–27. 45 Larocca, ‘Linee di una ricerca’, pp. 31–32. 46 Yawn, ‘Haste, Cost’; Eadem, ‘Scribe-Painters’. 47 Lobrichon, ‘Le succès ambigu’, pp. 244, 245, 251. The meaning of commanditaire is discussed below. 48 Condello, ‘La Bibbia’, pp. 358–359. 49 Ibid., p. 360, quoting Supino Martini. 50 Ibid., pp. 363–364.

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The only artifacts that can be securely connected to the reform of Santa Maria in Trastevere are also books. Although far more modest than the Giant Bibles, they were similarly intended to facilitate Reform ideals of community through the provision of texts. Like the Bibles, they were made strictly for clerics. They were not commissioned by the reigning pope or titular cardinal but were most likely made by the canons for their own use. Features of their execution suggest some commonalities with the mode of production posited for the Giant Bibles. The book that signals the reform of the community of Santa Maria in Trastevere is now in the British Library (Add. 14801). It contains a version of the Hieronymian Martyrology (fols. 5–44) and the Institutio canonicorum Aquisgranensis (fols. 45–205).51 Although the history of the manuscript before its purchase from a London book dealer in 1844 is unknown, there is ample evidence that it was made for Santa Maria in Trastevere. Entries in the martyrology mention that church specifically, and the notice of the feast of Pope Callixtus I (217–223), who was venerated as the basilica’s first founder, is especially elaborate.52 The martyrology is dated by the entries for 25 March, which begins ‘In Jerusalem our Lord Jesus Christ was crucified,’ and 27 March, the Resurrection.53 The only years in the eleventh century when Easter fell on 27 March were 1065 and 1076.54 The entry for 22 May – a Sunday in both years – records the dedication of Santa Maria in Trastevere ‘by the hand of Pope Alexander, with four bishops, two cardinals, and the entire schola of the Lateran.’55 Since Alexander II died in 1073, the dedication probably occurred in 1065, and the book was produced the same year. It was written in a ‘very typical’ Roman minuscule (minuscola romanesca) by a single scribe.56 Many hands added notes in the margins of the martyrology 51 Catalogue of Additions, List of Additions 1844, pp. 7–8; Necrologi, pp. 85–87. 52 British Library, Add MS 14801, fol. 15 (‘Rome depositio iulii pape […] positu ad SCA MARIA trans tiberi’); fol. 36v (‘Nat sci calixti pp qui in p sequutione alexandri imperatoris diutius fame cruciatus’ etc.). 53 British Library, Add MS 14801, fol. 14 (‘hierosolima. dns nr ihc xpc crucifixus e[st]; hierosolima. Resurrectio dni nri ihu xpi’). The importance of these passages was first pointed out to me by the late Thomas Waldman. 54 Handbook of Dates, p. 166. My thanks to Brenda Bolton for expert advice on dates. 55 British Library, Add MS 14801, fols. 19v–20 (‘Dedicatio basilice SCE MARIE transtyberim per manum alexander pontificis et cum epi IIII. cardinalis II. scole lateranensis omibus’). This notice was mistakenly published as a marginal addition by Egidi, who attributed it to Alexander III (1159–1181): Necrologi, p. 94. It has been partially abraded and crossed out, probably after the consecrated building was replaced by Pope Innocent II. For a full discussion see Kinney, ‘S. Maria in Trastevere’. 56 Supino Martini, Roma e l’area grafica romanesca, p. 118.

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Fig. 8.1. Martyrology of Santa Maria in Trastevere, fol. 51. London, British Library, Add MS 14801 (photo: © The British Library Board).

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Fig. 8.2. Gospel Book of Santa Maria in Trastevere, fol. 24: Portrait of St. Matthew. London, British Library, Add. MS 6156 (photo: © The British Library Board).

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Fig. 8.3. Gospel Book of Santa Maria in Trastevere, fol. 130: Portrait of St. John. London, British Library, Add. MS 6156 (photo: © The British Library Board).

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between 1091 and the fifteenth century, indicating that the book remained in use at Santa Maria in Trastevere for hundreds of years.57 It probably was taken away or sold sometime before the eighteenth century, since the learned students of Santa Maria’s history of that era, Pietro Moretti (fl. 1730–1750) and Pier Luigi Galletti (d. 1790), seem not to have known it.58 In addition to the presence of the Aachen Rule for canons, Add. 14801 has other hallmarks of the Reform. The martyrology (calendar) conforms to Pierre Jounel’s observation that Roman calendars of the second half of the eleventh century contain many more popes than the early Christian original, a development that he attributed to Pope Gregory VII, possibly even before he was pope.59 The calendar in Add. 14801 contains nearly every pope from Peter to Innocent I (401–417), as well as selected fifth-, sixth-, and seventh-century popes, one eighth-century pope (Gregory II, 715–731), and one contemporary pope (Gregory VI, 1045–1046).60 The text of the Carolingian Rule exhibits alterations mandated by the Lateran synods of Nicholas II in 1059 and Alexander II in 1063.61 The obvious implication is that the manuscript was written in conjunction with the reform of the basilica’s clergy, which concluded with the consecration by Pope Alexander II. Almost immediately, the pope appointed as titular cardinal the distinguished Reformer Giovanni Minuto (1066–1073).62 If its few decorated initials give Add. 14801 ‘a certain solemnity’ (Fig. 8.1), it is plain compared to the other eleventh-century survivor of the chapter’s library, a Gospel book also now in the British Library (Add. 6156).63 Its miniatures were published in 1985 by Jonathan Alexander, who observed that the compendium of Gospel lections at the beginning, which includes readings for stations ‘ad sanctam Mariam transtiberim’ on the second Thursday of Lent and the Sunday after the feast of Pope Callixtus I (14 October), indicates that the book was made for that church.64 Although she was unable to study the manuscript closely, on the basis of photographs Paola Supino Martini opined that its ‘calligraphic’ Roman minuscule is very similar to that of Add. 14801, which she believed could have been made at Santa Maria in 57 Necrologi, pp. 88–103. 58 Ibid., p. 86. 59 Jounel, ‘Le Sanctoral’, pp. 80–81. 60 For Gregory VI: British Library, Add MS 14801, fol. 43v (‘Dep. sci gregorii epi’). Despite the wording, the entry is on the date of the pope’s abdication, 20 December, not his death. 61 Supino Martini, Roma e l’area grafica romanesca, p. 118. 62 Di Carpegna Falconieri, ‘Giovanni Minuto’. 63 Initials of Add. 14801: Supino Martini, Roma e l’area grafica romanesca, p. 118. 64 British Library, Add. MS 6156, fols. 8v–9 (Luke 16:19–31) and fol. 15 (Matt. 18:23–35); Alexander, ‘A Manuscript’, p. 193.

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Trastevere.65 Alexander judged that the Evangelist portraits are compatible with a date in the late eleventh or very early twelfth century.66 He noted that the portraits are ‘in essentials identical’: all four seated in profile to the right with a lectern rising between their knees.67 He attributed the images to two artists: one who drew Matthew (Fig. 8.2), Mark, and Luke; and a second, ‘clearly problematic’ artist responsible for John (Fig. 8.3). He struggled to find clear parallels for the style of either artist, finally concluding that they ‘are likely to have used […] an 11th-century Gospels as a model and perhaps one from north France or Flanders.’68 In addition to the possible (mis)use of an unfamiliar model, the peculiarities of the illuminations in the Santa Maria in Trastevere Gospels might be explained by a mode of production in line with Lila Yawn’s account of the making of the Giant Bibles. As mentioned above, she proposed that many of the Bibles were produced by ‘ad hoc scribal teams’ organized by ‘master scribes or middlemen,’ some of whom also did painting.69 The scribes were not trained as painters and their work often betrays the lack of a painter’s expertise. The signs of a scribe-painter include irregular outlines of painted initials, asymmetries in shapes, and pigments that spill over borders to invade adjoining fields.70 All of these traits are conspicuous in the initial I that accompanies the portrait of John in the Santa Maria in Trastevere Gospels, and they also occur in the L on the page with the more accomplished St. Matthew. A scenario that would explain these features is this: the manuscript was written at Santa Maria in Trastevere by a canonscriptor who created the illuminated initials and left spaces for the addition of the portraits. A painter was engaged to make the portraits but left after drawing only three. The scribe then tried his own hand at the fourth, and he or another inexperienced painter added the colors. A similar process was followed, with better results, in a Gospel Book now in the Biblioteca Malatestiana in Cesena, produced in Rome and dated 1104 by an inscription.71 The book was written in Roman minuscule, leaving space for decorated initials that were added by the scribe.72 A painter was 65 Supino Martini, Roma e l’area grafica romanesca, p. 119 n. 39. 66 Alexander, ‘A Manuscript’, pp. 201, 203. 67 Ibid., p. 203. 68 Ibid. 69 Yawn, ‘Haste, Cost’, pp. 44–46. 70 Ibid., p. 43. 71 Cesena, Biblioteca Malatestiana, Piana 3.210, fol. 1v (‘Anno dominice incarnationis millesimo CoIVo’); Unfer Verre, ‘Problemi’, p. 94. 72 Unfer Verre, ‘Decorazione’, pp. 48–51.

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Fig. 8.4. Cesena Evangeliary, fol. 1v: Dedication image. Cesena, Biblioteca Malatestiana, MS Piana 3.210 (photo: Biblioteca comunale Malatestiana).

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Fig. 8.5. Portraits of Beno de Rapiza and Maria Macellaria. Rome, San Clemente, lower church (photo: after Wilpert, Die römischen Mosaiken, IV, detail of pl. 241).

brought in to make a full-page presentation scene (Fig. 8.4). His skillful monochromatic drawing shows a lay couple, presumably donors, standing on either side of Christ enthroned, accompanied by St. John the Baptist and a deacon saint, perhaps the titular saints of the church or monastery for which the book was made.73 Another layman, who may be the scribe or the maître d’oeuvre, kneels at Christ’s feet, proffering the book.74 The miniature is especially interesting because of the close resemblance of the donors to the figures of Beno and Maria in San Clemente, noted by Garrison and recently elaborated by Gaia Elisabetta Unfer Verre (Fig. 8.5).75 The Cesena manuscript illustrates not only the combination of scribe-painters and what might be called professionals, but also the possibility that professional painters worked across media and on large and small scales. The manuscript also demonstrates that ‘medium elite’ laypeople might finance a fine book. The reform of Santa Maria in Trastevere evidently did not entail rebuilding, as archaeological research under the pavement of the present basilica revealed that the lower wall of the original fourth-century apse was still standing when

73 Zanichelli (‘La funzione del disegno’, p. 122) and Unfer Verre (‘Decorazione’, p. 51) agree that the artist never intended to add color to the drawing. I am grateful to Dott.ssa Unfer Verre for kindly providing a copy of the invaluable 2012 monograph on the Cesena manuscript, and to Dott.ssa Paola Errani for supplying the image shown in Fig. 8.4. 74 Unfer Verre, ‘Decorazione’, pp. 56–57; Eadem, ‘Problemi’, p. 95. Gandolfo identified the standing figures as devotees and the kneeling one as the ‘vero committente’ (‘Il ritratto’, pp. 282–283). 75 Wilpert, Die römischen Mosaiken, IV, pl. 241; Unfer Verre, ‘Decorazione’, pp. 54–56; Eadem, ‘Problemi’, pp. 95–102.

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Fig. 8.6. North door of Santa Maria in Trastevere with 11th-century jambs and lintel (composite photo: Darko Senekovic).

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Pope Innocent II leveled the site to make his own church in 1141.76 There may have been significant repairs, however, in line with Claussen’s posited phase of restauratio in the decades before 1100. The original basilica would have been 700 years old around 1050. Parts of it had fallen in already in the ninth century, and Popes Leo IV (847–855) and Benedict III (855–858) had to shore up the apse.77 The Carolingian repairs may themselves have needed restoration in the eleventh century. In addition, if the ‘pretty dwellings’ of the monastery erected by Pope Gregory IV (827–844) ‘by the side of the basilica’ were still usable, they would have been renovated for the canons.78 A marble door frame now in the wall of the north aisle may have been part of the basilica’s restauratio. The present door was made in the sixteenth century, reusing three blocks carved with medieval reliefs (Fig. 8.6). Two more blocks were discovered by Alessandro Zuccari in 1991 in the remains of a different door in the façade of the nearby oratory of Maria Santissima Addolorata, also on the north side of the church.79 The five extant blocks comprise left and right jambs, decorated with inhabited vine scrolls, and a lintel on which a more stylized vine creates regular roundels framing floral motifs and, in the center, two bust images of angels flanking an orant female in queenly regalia, presumably the Virgin Mary (Figs. 8.7–8.8). The monolithic jambs were carved on the lateral faces of ancient fluted Corinthian pilasters, which were turned into the wall in reuse (Fig. 8.9). The size of the door originally framed by the extant pieces would have been at least 2.74 m wide by 3.76 m high.80 Zuccari supposed that the fragments found in the entrance to the oratory of the Addolorata were in their original location, and that the oratory originally was constructed in the twelfth century by Pope Innocent II.81 It cannot be ruled out, however, that the jambs found in 1991 were already in secondary use in the oratory and had been moved there from somewhere else, possibly the pre-twelfth-century church. The reused blocks are not easily datable by style. Gioia Bertelli, the f irst to study them closely, proposed a tenth-century date for the lintel 76 Coccia and others, ‘Santa Maria in Trastevere’; Coccia and others, ‘Titulus Iulii’. 77 Liber pontificalis, II, pp. 78 (‘per circuitum locis longo senio erat praerupta’); 120 (‘absidam, quae pre nimia vetustate ruitura manebat, […] restauravit’); 147 (‘absidam maiorem […], que in ruinis posita, noviter atque fundamentis faciens, ad meliorem erexit statum’). 78 Liber pontificalis, II, p. 78 (‘iuxta latus praenominate basilicae monasterium a fundamentis statuit et novis fabricis decoravit […] modo, Deo dispensante, pulchra sunt habitacula monachorum’). 79 Zuccari, ‘Dalla “Theotokos”’. These blocks were excavated and removed to a corridor off the sacristy. 80 Ibid., p. 136. 81 Ibid., pp. 141–146.

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Fig. 8.7. North door of Santa Maria in Trastevere, right jamb (photo: Almuth Klein).

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Fig. 8.9. North door of Santa Maria in Trastevere, right jamb (photo: Almuth Klein).

Fig. 8.8. North door of Santa Maria in Trastevere, lintel (photo: author).

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but a late eleventh- or twelfth-century date for the jambs, where she found a ‘totally different flavor.’82 Other scholars believe the lintel and jambs are contemporary, dating them anywhere from the late tenth to the mid-twelfth century.83 Most recently, Karin Einaudi, who examined the blocks after they were cleaned and restored in 1995, affirmed that they are homogeneous, albeit by different hands. She favors a date in the second half of the eleventh century, possibly at the time of the consecration by Pope Alexander II.84 The portal fragments can be compared to a group of similar reliefs that includes the dismantled door frame of Sant’Apollinare now in the Vatican Grottoes, pieces of a door frame reused as a frieze in the prothyron of the entrance to Santa Pudenziana, and fragments of a door frame reused as a step in San Giovanni a Porta Latina, as well as the so-called ‘porta speciosa’ of the monastery church at Grottaferrata.85 These marble frames are decorated with clipeate images and inhabited rinceaux that suggest antique models like the spoliate pilasters reused in the chapel of Pope John VII (705–707) in St. Peter’s.86 The reliefs differ in style and quality, and none is precisely dated. Corrado Fratini argued from the epigraphy of their inscriptions that the blocks from Sant’Apollinare and the frieze at Santa Pudenziana (Fig. 8.10) are contemporary with the frescoes in the lower church of San Clemente. He dated them to the pontificate of Gregory VII and proposed that their inscriptions and iconography reflect the ‘first phase’ of the Reform.87 The 82 Bertelli, ‘Precisazioni’, p. 72. 83 Cecchelli, ‘Incorniciature’, p. 25 (1130–1143); Russo, “Integrazioni’, p. 96 n. 3 (mid-12th century); Sartori, ‘Possibili valenze’, p. 292 (before 1080); Claussen and others, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, III, p. 184 (10th–early 11th cen.); Zuccari, ‘Dalla “Theotokos”’, p. 144 (1130–1143); Parlato and Romano, Roma e Lazio, pp. 74–75 (uncertain). 84 Einaudi, ‘S. Maria in Trastevere’. 85 Cecchelli, ‘Incorniciature’, pp. 23–25; Gandolfo, ‘I programmi’, pp. 529–535; Claussen, ‘Renovatio Romae’, pp. 90–91; Sartori, ‘Possibili valenze’, pp. 290–292. The portal of Santo Stefano degli Abessini may also belong to this group, but some date it significantly later (Pace, ‘Nihil innovetur’, pp. 44 n. 29; Parlato and Romano, Roma e Lazio, p. 147), while the frame of the central door of S. Maria in Cosmedin, previously considered part of the group, has been convincingly dated to the late tenth or early eleventh century by Michael Schmitz, ‘S. Maria in Cosmedin’, pp. 178–193. For Grottaferrata: Pace, ‘La chiesa abbaziale’, pp. 422–425; Silvestro, ‘L’incorniciatura’ (contra Sartori, ‘Possibili valenze’, p. 301, proposing a date around 1024). 86 Sartori, ‘Possibili valenze’, p. 309. For the spolia: Kinney, ‘Spolia’, pp. 30–31; Ballardini and Pogliani, ‘A reconstruction’, pp. 193–196. 87 Fratini, ‘Considerazioni e ipotesi’, pp. 57–64; endorsed by Claussen, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, I, p. 104; Idem, ‘Un nuovo campo’, p. 62; Idem, ‘Scultura’, pp. 209–211; Riccioni, ‘From Shadow to Light’, pp. 227–228. For other opinions, see Angelelli, La Basilica, p. 166; she also notes that the frieze was ‘strongly reworked if not in large part remade’ during a restoration in 1870.

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Fig. 8.10. Main door lintel, Santa Pudenziana (photo: author).

carving of the frame at Santa Maria in Trastevere is less accomplished than these examples. In style it is more like the ‘gradino’ in San Giovanni a Porta Latina; typologically, it resembles the ‘porta speciosa’ at Grottaferrata, made just after 1100 according to Valentino Pace.88 The frames in Trastevere and Grottaferrata are often compared to the inhabited rinceaux on the main door of Salerno cathedral, which was consecrated in 1084.89 Although not standardized like the Giant Bibles, the numerous new door frames may also have been an effect of the Reform. The church door is a highly charged point of passage. As St. Augustine told the newly baptized: ‘There are two doors: the door of paradise and the door of the church; through the door of the church we enter the door of paradise’.90 The door is Christ (John 10:7–9: ‘I am the door: by me if any man enter in he shall be saved’).91 An 88 Pace, ‘La chiesa abbaziale’, p. 425, followed by Silvestro, ‘L’incorniciatura’, p. 119. 89 Pace, ‘Campania XI secolo’, pp. 227–229; Glass, Romanesque Sculpture, p. 22; Pace, ‘La Cattedrale’, pp. 211–224. For a full discussion of the door frame at S. Maria in Trastevere and its comparanda, see Kinney, ‘S. Maria in Trastevere’. 90 Augustine, Sermo CLIX, De Pascha I, 3, PL 39, col. 2059: ‘Duae enim sunt portae, porta paradisi et porta ecclesiae: per portam ecclesiae intramus in portam paradisi’; cited by Götz, ‘Bildprogramme’, p. 18. 91 The Vulgate, pp. 538–539; Götz, ‘Bildprogramme’, p. 11.

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inscription in the upper fillet of the frieze over the door at Santa Pudenziana reiterates this traditional symbolism: ‘O You! who wish to come to life’s repose / Look! an entrance is open if you have sincerely turned back / He who is the way, the guide, the door-keeper summons / Promising joys and forgiving all faults’.92 The hailing of a passer-by is ironic, as the inscription is too small to be read from the ground; but it expresses the intention of the portal to attract attention. This door especially welcomed those who had ‘turned back’ from sin. Calling out to reformed Christians, a new door frame might have signaled the presence of a spiritually renewed church within. Like the Giant Bibles, the door frames follow a common idea but are diverse in execution. Despite their generic similarity in the evocation of classical ornamental motifs, especially the inhabited vine scroll, the reliefs differ stylistically and in techniques of carving. The many variations suggest the lack of an established practice of figural sculpture in Rome in the mid-eleventh century.93 When a demand for such sculpture arose, it was met by enterprising local craftsmen, perhaps inspired by an outsider, ‘John of Venice’, who signed the portal of Santa Maria in Cosmedin before the Reform was underway.94 Stefano Riccioni called these works a dialectical ‘series of events,’ which, despite their diversity, led to a single result: the renewal of ‘visual language.’ He described these artistic events as mirroring the dialectical unfolding of the Reform itself, ‘which was not the result of a pre-established project and had no single root.’95 Riccioni’s description may be generally true, but in the specific case of sculpture it seems that the dialectic did not achieve its final synthesis. As noted by Claussen, the demand for figural sculpture abruptly ceased after around 1100, when the distinctive aniconic work of the Roman marmorarii (the so-called Cosmati) took hold. Claussen wondered if we should call this brief burst of figural

92 Montini, Santa Pudenziana, p. 36 (AD REQVIEM VITAE CVPIS O TV QVOQVE VENIRE/ EN PATET INGRESSVS FVERIS SI RITE REVERSVS/ADVOCAT IPSE QVIDEM VIA DUX ET JANITOR IDEM/GAVDIA PROMITTENS ET CRIMINA QVAEQVE REMITTENS); less reliably Fratini, ‘Considerazioni e ipotesi’, p. 59; cf. Angelelli, La Basilica, p. 166 n. 44. Her transcription seems to contain a typo (advovat). Riccioni (‘From Shadow to Light’, p. 226) emended the last line to CRIMINAQVE QVI REMITTENS, claiming it as an example of metaplasm. I am grateful to Éamonn Ó Carragáin for his learned help in construing the second line, where RITE is usually taken literally to refer to ritual. 93 Pace, ‘Nihil innovetur’, p. 23. 94 IOANNES DE VENETIA ME FECIT; La II regione ecclesiastica, pp. 163–165; Pace, ‘Nihil innovetur’, pp. 24–27; Schmitz, ‘S. Maria in Cosmedin’, pp. 182, 188–192. Documentary evidence suggests a relative scarcity of marble carvers in the city: Wickham, Medieval Rome, p. 144. 95 Riccioni, ‘From Shadow to Light’, pp. 231–232.

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sculpture ‘Ghibertine’, since much of it occurred in the decades when Wibert (Clement III) was dominant in Rome.96 This case study of Santa Maria in Trastevere is a reminder that the Reform slogan ecclesiae primitivae forma (the model of the original church), often invoked by art historians in connection with the renouveau paléochrétien, was first and foremost a way of life. It denoted the vita communis described in the Acts of the Apostles, in which possessions were held in common and ‘as many as were owners of lands or houses sold them and brought the price of the things they sold and laid it down before the feet of the apostles.’97 The first priority of popes from Leo IX (1049–1054) onward was to ensure that the clergy adhered to this communal apostolic model, made more austere by the added requirements of celibacy and the rejection of any cleric whose office had been bought. Presumably, the canons of Santa Maria in Trastevere met the last two criteria, while being permitted to retain ownership of private assets by adopting the Rule of Aachen. Moral reform was not without a material aspect. Catchwords like restaurare, instaurare, innovare, renovare, and reparare were used in a dual sense, and according to various authors of the era, the renewal of the communal lifestyle should be accompanied by the repair or renovatio of church buildings.98 In central Italy, as noted above, the great exemplar of material renovatio was the abbey church at Montecassino. In Rome, no such spectacular rebuilding is known to have occurred before the twelfth century.99 Desiderius himself, as titular cardinal of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere, made or renewed six relic altars in and around his titulus between 1060, the year after his appointment, and 1080, when Pope Gregory VII dedicated the altar of the confessio.100 He also encouraged new forms of liturgical chant, as discussed in this volume by Luisa Nardini. Yet the setting for these liturgical 96 Claussen, ‘Un nuovo campo’, p. 63; Idem, ‘Scultura’, pp. 209–213. Claussen, ‘L’altare’, posits one properly ‘Gregorian’ work of the period in the altar of Santa Maria in Cappella. 97 Acts 4:32–35 (‘nec quisquam eorum quae possidebat aliquid suum esse dicebat, sed erant illis omnia communia […] Quotquot enim possessores agrorum aut domorum erant vendentes adferebant pretia eorum quae vendebant et ponebant ante pedes apostolorum’); The Vulgate, pp. 632–635. Olsen, ‘The Idea’, pp. 65–66. Miccoli, ‘Ecclesiae primitivae forma’, traces the changing manifestations of the concept from c. 1080 onward. 98 Robinson, ‘Reform’, pp. 268–270. 99 New churches showing the influence of Montecassino were built in the eleventh century, but they were small: Barclay Lloyd, ‘The Medieval Church’; Claussen, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, I, pp. 177–178; Claussen, ‘Un nuovo campo’, pp. 61–62. 100 Claussen, ‘Renovatio Romae’, pp. 91–93; Idem, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, I, pp. 227–229; Idem, ‘Scultura’, p. 209; Goodson, ‘Material Memory’, pp. 12–13, 31–32; Gandolfo, ‘L’XI secolo’, p. 265.

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innovations, the Carolingian basilica, remained intact. Reasons for the absence of large-scale architectural renovations in Rome include the clerical resistance documented by di Carpegna Falconieri; the disruptions of the lengthy schism caused, according to his critics, by Pope Gregory VII; and the sheer immensity of the task.101 Rebuilding the gargantuan Constantinian cathedral was out of the question.102 It was renovated only at the end of the thirteenth century by Pope Nicholas IV (1288–1292).103 The same was true of St. Peter’s, which was still tottering in the fifteenth century, and St. Paul’s, which survived with sporadic repairs into the nineteenth century. The great signature churches of Rome remained decrepit throughout the Gregorian/ Ghibertine era for want of the material and technical resources needed to overhaul them.104 It was not until the twelfth century that popes undertook the restoration of even mid-scale early Christian basilicas like San Clemente and Santa Maria in Trastevere, and then largely through intermediaries in the curia. These renovations took place in a changed environment, with evidence of centralized planning and oversight lacking in the century before.105 St. Paul’s basilica did receive a marvelous new bronze door in 1070, manufactured in Constantinople at the expense of a member of the same wealthy Amalfitan family that sponsored a similar embellishment at Montecassino (Fig. 8.11).106 It was a bright spot in the towering façade of the vast fourthcentury basilica, but just a spot: a symbolic gesture, like the new door frames, altars, and paintings that accompanied the reform of lesser churches. Even the ostentatious renovation of Santa Cecilia, marked by high-profile altar dedications by bishops, cardinal bishops, and the pope, was piecemeal.107 In addition to the new altars, it included a beautiful new opus sectile pavement in the external Cappella del Bagno, a remnant of the early Christian insula thought to have been St. Cecilia’s abode; the gift of a Giant Bible, one of the finest eleventh-century examples of the type; and the large-scale in-house production of liturgical books.108 The renovation of Santa Cecilia may have 101 For the criticisms of Gregory VII, see Robinson, ‘Reform’, pp. 278–283. 102 Even reforming the officiating community was a challenge: Ibid., p. 280. 103 Claussen, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, II. 104 For the problem of roof beams alone, see Kinney, ‘Patronage’, pp. 359–362. 105 Kinney, ‘Romanità a Roma’, pp. 53–56; Guidobaldi, ‘Un estesissimo intervento’. 106 Götz, ‘Bildprogramme’, pp. 202–211; Matthiae, Le porte bronzee, pp. 73–82, pls. 16–48; Pace, ‘L’arte di Bisanzio’; Camerlenghi, St. Paul’s, pp. 146–147. I am grateful to Nicola Camerlenghi for sharing the photo reproduced in Fig. 8.11, and to Robert Glass for allowing me to reproduce it. 107 Claussen, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, I, pp. 227–228; Goodson, ‘Material Memory’, pp. 31–32. 108 Cappella del Bagno: Claussen, Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom, I, pp. 242–246; Goodson, ‘Material Memory’, pp. 28–33. Bible: Larry Ayres, in Le Bibbie atlantiche, pp. 126–131. Books made in-house: Supino Martini, Roma e l’area grafica romanesca, pp. 113–117.

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Fig. 8.11. Bronze door, San Paolo fuori le mura (photo: Robert Glass).

been meant to be exemplary, but it was probably atypical. Giant Bibles were exported far and wide as symbols of the Reform, but they were almost never gifted to city churches.109 The case of Santa Maria in Trastevere, where the

109 Condello, ‘La Bibbia’, p. 368.

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eleventh-century Reform produced artistic ‘events’ of relatively modest scale and quality, seems to have been more representative.

Artist, auteur Her initial analysis of the wall paintings and mosaics constituting the renouveau paléochrétien led Toubert to conclude that they embody hidden meanings beyond the ken of contemporary artists. They reflect ‘the knowledge of a scholar’ – of necessity a cleric – who was the ‘author of the program’ that the artists carried out.110 Endorsing her position, Ernst Kitzinger argued the primacy of the patron as a point of method: a patron may not only prescribe the subject content of a work of art but may also choose the artists who are to be employed, the medium they are to use, and the models they are to follow. His choices and initiatives may, and often do, reflect broader ideas […] and they may affect not merely subject matter and iconography, but specifically artistic qualities, including style. In this way, ‘history’, through the agency of the patron, may affect the very core of the art historical process, as was indeed the case […] in the ambient of the Reform Papacy […].111

Toubert later revised her formulation to take account of the role of donors like Beno and Maria. This led to a triangular model for the creation of the art ‘willed’ by Reform popes and clerics, ‘a play of connections among painters, patrons and lay donors.’112 The relationship of patrons and donors was clarified by replacing ‘patron’ with commanditaire, from commander, ‘to order’.113 Expressing a distinction elided in the English ‘patron’, commanditaire (like the Italian committente) denotes a director of the artist’s work, who may or may not also pay for it.114 In the case of the San Clemente frescoes, the 110 Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien’, pp. 268, 306. 111 Kitzinger, ‘The Gregorian Reform’, pp. 100–101. 112 Toubert, ‘Introduction’, p. 12; Eadem, ‘Peinture murale’, pp. 158–160. 113 Toubert, ‘Introduction’, p. 10. Thanks to my colleague Grace Armstrong for clarifying the meaning of commanditaire, on the basis of her own study of Marie de Champagne and Chrétien de Troyes: ‘the difference […] between “patron” and “commanditaire” is that the former protects/ finances/often lodges the artist whereas the latter […] asks him to execute certain orders.’ 114 I am grateful to Valentino Pace for illustrating the distinction between committente and donor (mecenato): ‘per l’edificio di [Frank Lloyd] Wright il Guggenheim è il committente. All’interno ci sono opere donate dai mecenati.’

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donors financed the work and determined the saints to be honored and possibly also the scenes to be depicted. The commanditaire made sure that their choices were appropriate, and then told the artists what to do: what models to follow, what significant details to include. The choices of the commanditaire revealed the general artistic and ideological orientation of the Reform clergy, and sometimes his personal preferences as well.115 Although the parallel was doubtless unintended, in its own context Toubert’s model of authorship recalls the cinematic auteur theory widely discussed in France in the 1950s and 1960s. In its founding statement by François Truffaut, auteur theory advocated a cinéma des auteurs – that is, films conceived by directors who wrote their own screenplays – over the predominant French genre of films adapted from literary works by scriptwriters.116 Unlike scriptwriters, who saw the essence of the film in the plot and for whom directors were merely ‘framers’ (metteurs en scène), auteurs understood the unique, extra-literary potential of their medium. Truffaut’s polemic was controversial. The critic André Bazin noted that it aligned film with arts like literature and painting, in which there is an equivalence of ‘author’ and ‘work’. He questioned whether this model is appropriate to film-making, an enterprise with so many participants and variables that identifying a single author might not be possible.117 In fact, the auteur was a discursive construct that subsumed the work of other agents – actors, cinematographers, scriptwriters, etc. – under a single name.118 Auteurism had its heyday in the 1960s.119 In the US, the critic Andrew Sarris advocated it as a ‘critical device’ that focused attention on certain criteria of value: technical competence; personality; and ‘interior meaning’ (‘extrapolated from the tension between a director’s personality and his material’).120 Directors embraced it as a means of asserting their individuality in an increasingly corporatized environment.121 Many aspects of auteur theory, including its capitalist context, its emphasis on the expression of subjective individuality, and the conflation of the auteur with the Modernist conception of the self-expressive artist, are manifestly irrelevant to the Middle Ages. Yet, there are also fundamental 115 Toubert, ‘Introduction’, p. 10. 116 Truffaut, ‘Une certaine tendance’, pp. 25–28. I am indebted to Homay King for a cogent orientation to auteur theory. 117 Bazin, ‘De la politique’; Sarris, ‘Notes’, pp. 1–5; Sbragia, ‘Fellini’, p. 663. 118 Menne, ‘The Cinema’, p. 41. 119 Ibid., pp. 36–37, 41. 120 Sarris, ‘Notes’, pp. 6–7. 121 Menne, ‘The Cinema’, pp. 36-37.

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similarities with Toubert’s model of the clerical author or commanditaire, notably the premise of the author’s control over all aspects of the project, the subordination of other contributors to the singular vision of the author, and the function of the author for the modern interpreter as a ‘critical device’. The device of the learned author enabled Toubert to apply the Panofskyan method of iconographic analysis, which assumes the unified intention of an artist or patron. Without this device, the interpreter confronts the possibility of multiple intentions that do not coalesce into a program. Toubert acknowledged this alternative (‘it is […] possible that our mosaicist […] copied the motifs contained in his models without a precise iconographic intention’), but she rejected it in favor of the ‘thought’ of a single planner, for whom every detail of the composition had a specific symbolic meaning that contributed to the unified concept of the whole.122 Today’s scholars tend to accord greater agency to artists and donors. Serena Romano, in particular, elevated the status of the painters at San Clemente to a point of near equality with the author of the ‘program,’ ascribing their many pictorial innovations to the ‘sole mind’ of the lead painter, ‘an artist in the deepest and most complex sense of the word,’ whose work exhibits imagination, inventiveness, emotional expression, and a capacity for narrative that ‘almost comes out of the blue.’123 Romano positioned the lay donors as committenti and described them as the ‘go-between’ (tramite), who mediated the intention and ecclesiastical knowledge embedded in the program and ‘the occasion of staging it.’124 The ‘intention’ was that of the titular cardinal, who is thus – as for Toubert – in the role of commanditaire. Valentino Pace, on the other hand, claimed more agency for the donors, arguing that they, as devotees of St. Clement and grateful for his protection of their little son (puerulus Clemens), dictated the subjects of the paintings and conceived them as representations of their own devotion (‘as if it were exclusive to them’), even if their choices were subject to the guidance of a ‘spiritual counselor’ who may have asked them to undertake the project and suggested the scenes to be depicted.125 This last provision retains the role of the commanditaire, albeit in diminished form. Pace’s emphasis on the piety of the donors was echoed robustly by Chris Wickham, who claimed that analysts of the frescoes ‘have almost universally gone wrong’ in attributing the guiding hand to the cardinal-priest Rainerio (later Pope Paschal II) – or 122 Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien’, p. 289. 123 Romano, in Riforma e tradizione, p. 29. 124 Ibid., p. 27. 125 Pace, ‘La Riforma’, pp. 55–56.

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any cardinal.126 Contextualizing the commission in the manifestations of lay piety seen elsewhere in Italy at the time, Wickham argued for a habit of lay patronage that would not have needed the guidance or organization of a cleric; ‘which is to say, lay piety and church politics operate on wholly different levels, and we must avoid linking them at all tightly.’127 Kirstin Noreen had previously stressed the initiative and potential independence of lay donors in painting the walls of the extramural church of Sant’Urbano alla Caffarella.128 Historically, there is considerably more evidence for lay patronage of churches in eleventh-century Rome than there is for the involvement of cardinals. Some of this evidence, like ‘donor’ portraits, is direct, and some is circumstantial. I counted seventy Roman churches whose names first appear in documents of the tenth and eleventh centuries. Many of the names belonged to families, individuals, and artisanal groups or scolae.129 Their churches presumably were built, maintained, and decorated by lay founders; if so, laypeople in the eleventh century were accustomed to playing decisive roles in the material life of their churches. The same would have been less true of cardinals. Donors who aspired to undertake embellishments of a titular basilica must have had to obtain permission from the officiating clergy, but as demonstrated by di Carpegna Falconieri, this would likely have meant dealing with an archpriest, not a cardinal. The archpriest and the community of canons had charge of the material and financial aspects of their churches. Cardinals like Atto of San Marco, discussed by William North in his important contribution to this volume, oversaw the canons’ liturgical practice and instructed them, but on purely practical grounds it is implausible that they oversaw artistic decoration. Only a very useless cardinal would have had time to stand around his title church supervising painters or mosaicists. The canons, on the other hand, were there every day. As intermediaries between the hyperliterate members of the curia and the people, canons could have served as the ‘spiritual counselors’ posited by Valentino Pace. Instead of the triangular auteur model, with the commanditaire at the apex directing the program to be carried out by donors and artists, we might imagine something like a knot, in which the intentions of donors, artists, 126 Wickham, Medieval Rome, p. 356. 127 Ibid., p. 357. 128 Noreen, ‘Lay Patronage’, pp. 50–54. 129 Kinney, ‘Rome’, pp. 212–213; Eadem, ‘Romanità a Roma’, pp. 70–72. On the scolae: Wickham, Medieval Rome, pp. 152–154.

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and clergy are entwined. A project originates in the desire of one or more parties – of the canons to beautify their church, of the donors to display their devotion, of the artists to exercise their skills – and evolves to satisfy all of them as well as possible. The product is refined through repeated conversations and exchanges of expertise, as all parties can meet on-site repeatedly. In such a model, the program of a work is not imposed beforehand from above but comes about in a dynamic manner as the project unfolds. Such a collaborative ‘coming about’ is most possible when – as in the case of the San Clemente frescoes – the social hierarchy of the participants is relatively flat. Donors and painters were both of Wickham’s medium elite artisanal class, and the canons, though of the higher clerical elite, had a pastoral mission that fostered familiarity with their lay parishioners. Collaborative production – like any negotiation – may have entailed struggles for the direction of the project. Intentions may have clashed, or they may have been perfectly complementary. The cardinal may have intervened if he noticed problematic deviations from standard iconography. Procedures and outcomes are more variable and much less predictable than the auteur model allows. In my view, the collaborative model is better suited to the interpretation of much medieval art, especially monumental art, but not always. In Rome it does not even carry over to the twelfth century, when the papal administration seems to have eschewed lay participation in church building and decoration, and Toubert’s notion of a ‘directed art’ is more appropriate.130

Conclusion In closing I want first to reiterate that this essay was not conceived, nor is it intended to be read as a disparagement of the scholarship of Hélène Toubert. On the contrary, it is a call to all art historians to rise to her standard of selfconsciousness and clarity about art historical method and its assumptions, even as we reevaluate those assumptions in light of the latest scholarship of our own day. With Barral i Altet, I suggest a ‘pause’ in what has become a reflexive recourse to Toubert’s assumptions about cause and effect, in which Reform was a cause and art works largely an effect. I have suggested that, in the case of Santa Maria in Trastevere, the artistic effects of the reform of a clerical community were much more modest than the brilliant and imposing basilica constructed for the distant successors 130 Kinney, ‘Rome’, pp. 213–215.

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of those clerics 75 years later. The eleventh-century artifacts that can be associated with the reform comprise two books and possibly one marble door frame. The books were produced in-house by scribes with the participation of a traveling painter. The door frame is generically related to several other such marble portals made around the same time by a motley group of artisans. Though only one example, the case of Santa Maria in Trastevere tends to confirm Claussen’s conception of the eleventh century in Rome as a distinct era of artistic production and art historical research.131 I have also proposed a new model of authorship, in which laypeople and lesser clergy have an agency not accorded them in the top-down model centered on popes and cardinals. Well suited to the standardized, didactic, and glamorous marble ornament and mosaics of the twelfth century, the top-down model does not do justice to the lively and artistically uneven art of the eleventh. I would suggest that it is precisely the participation of lay donors and ‘undirected’ artists that makes eleventh-century artwork distinctive. In accord with Wickham’s emphasis on lay piety as a driving force, we might say that Reform ideals articulated by popes, antipopes, and the curia permeated the religious culture of the city and – like the text and apparatus of the Giant Bibles – ‘offered themselves for imitation’ to lesser clergy and laypeople. It was the enthusiasm of the latter that drove a demand for material expression that local craftsmen were not immediately prepared to satisfy. The ensuing scramble prompted developments in expertise that in the case of figural sculpture never reached fruition. In that sense, the eleventh-century chapter of Roman art history was left incomplete. Wall painting was an exception, whether because painters had more opportunities to exercise their craft, or because the geniuses of San Clemente truly ‘came out of the blue.’132 Not discussed here is a feature of the Reform that has dominated the attention of art historians in the wake of Toubert, namely, the political struggle with secular rulers over the right to appoint bishops and archbishops and to invest them with the insignia of their office. Highlighted by contemporary chroniclers, this aspect of the Reform was of great significance to the papacy, and art historians have tended to assimilate art-making to the ‘papal grand narrative’ by assuming that instances of renouveau in painting, sculpture, and architecture encode political claims and messages related to papal politics. Francesco Gandolfo has been a somewhat lonely critic of 131 Claussen, ‘Un nuovo campo’; Idem, ‘Scultura’. 132 Although I have discussed only the murals in San Clemente, the quantity of surviving 11th-century wall paintings in Rome is substantial; see Riforma e tradizione and Riccioni, ‘La décoration’, pp. 330–340.

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this tendency, objecting that there is absolutely no independent evidence that eleventh-century popes had a ‘politics of art.’133 A methodological hypothesis that sees a necessary, indissoluble connection between manifestations of Roman artistic classicism in the eleventh-twelfth centuries and the reformed Church cannot be generally applied. The enthusiastic adherence to such a line of interpretation, set out a few decades ago and immediately perceived as a kind of liberating panacea, in the sense that an art of the Reform […] can finally be sought, case by case, in programs of decoration and their historical and cultural motivations […] should subside.134

Gandolfo was careful to note that the reflexive recourse to ideological explanations was not a fault of Hélène Toubert, who was more careful, but of her followers.135 He advocates a more complex and ‘slippery’ model of interpretation, which takes the return to antique and early Christian art forms as a matter of taste and fidelity to the artistic tradition of Rome. Similarly, Serena Romano described the renouveau paléochrétien in painting as a ‘conscious ripescaggio’ of appropriate models from the past.136 A synonym of another untranslatable Italian word, riproporre (‘to repropose’), ripescare also connotes fishing. Intentionally or not, Romano’s description evokes the image of artists and patrons fishing in the vast sea of the Roman artistic heritage, reeling in ingredients for their own chefs d’oeuvre. Ripescaggio is a much less tidy interpretive model than that of the predictable ideological program. For that very reason, it seems to me that it may be closer to the reality of art-making, especially, but not only, in eleventh-century Rome.

Bibliography Sources British Library, Add. MS 6156, Gospels from Santa Maria in Trastevere, 11th century. British Library, Add. MS 14801, S. Hieronymi Martyrologium etc. from Santa Maria in Trastevere, 11th–15th centuries. 133 Gandolfo, ‘L’XI secolo’, pp. 266–269. 134 Idem, ‘I puteali’, pp. 173–174. 135 Ibid., p. 173 n. 24. 136 Romano, ‘I pittori romani’, p. 119.

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Augustine of Hippo, Sermo CLIX, De Pascha I, PL 39, cols. 2058–2059. Le Liber pontificalis. Texte, introduction et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne and Cyrille Vogel, 3 vols. (Paris: Ernest Thorin, 1888–1892; Paris: E. de Boccard, 1957; repr. Paris: E. de Boccard, 1981). The Vulgate Bible, vol. 6, The New Testament. Douay-Rheims Translation, ed. by Angela M. Kinney (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013).

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Michael Schmitz, ‘S. Maria in Cosmedin’, in Die Kirchen der Stadt Rom im Mittelalter 1050–1300, vol. 4, M–O, ed. by Daniela Mondini, Carola Jäggi, and Peter Cornelius Claussen (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2020), pp. 135–271. La II regione ecclesiastica, ed. by Alessandra Melucco Vaccaro, Corpus della scultura altomedievale, vol. 7, pt. 3 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, 1974). Silvia Silvestro, ‘L’incorniciatura della “Porta Speciosa” della chiesa abbaziale di Grottaferrata’, Bollettino della Badia greca di Grottaferrata, new ser. 48 (1994), pp. 115–140. Paola Supino Martini, ‘Aspetti della cultura grafica a Roma fra Gregorio Magno e Gregorio VII’, in Roma nell’alto medioevo. Settimane di Studio del Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto Medioevo, 48 (2001), repr. in Scritti ‘romani’. Scrittura, libri e cultura a Roma in età medievale, ed. by Giuliana Ancidei, Emma Condello, Marco Cursi, Maria Edvige Malavolta, Luisa Miglio, Maddalena Signorini, and Carlo Tedeschi (Rome: Viella, 2012), pp. 213–250. Paola Supino Martini, Roma e l’area grafica romanesca (secoli X–XII) (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 1987). Hélène Toubert, ‘Iconographie et histoire de la spiritualité médiévale’, Revue d’histoire de la spiritualité, 50 (1974), pp. 265–284; repr. in Un art dirigé. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990), pp. 19–36. Hélène Toubert, ‘Introduction. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie’, in Un art dirigé. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990), pp. 7–15. Hélène Toubert, ‘Peinture murale romane. Les découvertes des dix dernières années. Fresques nouvelles, vieux problèmes, nouvelles questions’, Arte medievale, 3 (1987), pp. 127–160. Hélène Toubert, ‘Le renouveau paléochrétien à Rome au début du XIIe siècle’, Cahiers archéologiques, 20 (1970), pp. 99–154, repr. in Un art dirigé. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990), pp. 239–310. Hélène Toubert, ‘Rome et le Mont-Cassin. Nouvelles remarques sur les fresques de l’église inférieure de Saint-Clément de Rome’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 30 (1976), pp. 3–33, repr. in Un art dirigé. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990), pp. 193–238. François Truffaut, ‘Une certaine tendance du cinéma français’, Cahiers du cinéma, 6, 31 (1954), pp. 15–29. Gaia Elisabetta Unfer Verre, ‘Decorazione e illustrazione del codice’, in L’Evangeliario di Papa Chiaramonti. Storia di un codice del secolo XII, ed. by Paola Errani and Marco Palma (Cesena: Editrice Stilgraf, 2012), pp. 47–64. Gaia Elisabetta Unfer Verre, ‘Problemi di miniatura romana nell’età della Riforma: L’Evangeliario Piana 3.210 di Cesena’, in Il Codice miniato in Europa. Libri per la

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chiesa, per la città, per la corte, ed. by Giordana Mariani Canova and Alessandra Perriccioli Saggese (Padua: Il Poligrafo Casa Editrice, 2014), pp. 93–103. Chris Wickham, Medieval Rome. Stability and Crisis of a City, 900–1150 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). Joseph Wilpert, Die römischen Mosaiken und Malereien der kirchlichen Bauten vom IV. bis XIII. Jahrhundert, 4 vols. (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1917). Lila Yawn, ‘Clement’s New Clothes. The Destruction of Old S. Clemente in Rome, the Eleventh-Century Frescoes, and the Cult of (Anti)Pope Clement III’, Reti Medievali Rivista, 13, 1 (2012), pp. 175–208. Available at: http://rivista.retimedievali. it; last accessed 15 February 2021. Lila Yawn, ‘Haste, Cost, and Scribes as Painters in Italian Giant Church Books of the Mid and Later Eleventh Century’, Rivista di Storia della Miniatura, 17 (2013), pp. 43–58. Lila Yawn, ‘Scribe-Painters and Clustered Commissions: Eleventh-Century Italian Giant Bibles and the Bamberg Moralia in Iob’, in Comment le Livre s’est fait livre. La fabrication des manuscrits bibliques (IVe–XVe siècle). Bilan, résultats, perspectives de recherche. Actes du colloque international organisé à l’Université de Namur du 23 au 25 mai 2012 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 87–109. Giuseppa Z. Zanichelli, ‘La funzione del disegno nei codici italiani fra XI e XII secolo’, in Come nasce un manoscritto miniato. Scriptoria, tecniche, modelli e materiali, ed. by Francesca Flores d’Arcais and Fabrizio Crivello (Modena: Franco Cosimo Panini, 2010), pp. 115–126. Nino M. Zchomelidse, Santa Maria Immacolata in Ceri. Pittura sacra al tempo della Riforma Gregoriana / Sakrale Malerei im Zeitalter der Gregorianischen Reform (Rome: Archivio Guido Izzi, 1996). Alessandro Zuccari, ‘Dalla “Theotokos” alla “Sponsa Christi”. Il portale laterale di Santa Maria in Trastevere e l’icona della Clemenza’, in Il potere dell’arte nel medievo. Studi in onore di Mario D’Onofrio, ed. by Manuela Gianandrea, Francesco Gangemi, and Carlo Costantini (Rome: Campisano Editore, 2014), pp. 131–151.

About the Author Dale Kinney is Eugenia Chase Guild Professor in the Humanities emeritus at Bryn Mawr College, where she also served as the dean of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. Her influential articles explore architectural spolia and the built environment of medieval Rome. Together with Richard Brilliant, she is the co-editor of Reuse Value: Spolia and Appropriation in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Sherrie Levine (2011).

9. Renewal, Heritage, and Exchange in Eleventh-Century Roman Chant Traditions1 Luisa Nardini

Abstract The creative outburst of the Roman schola cantorum – which ultimately led to the formation of the so-called Gregorian chant – was probably completed before the turn of the seventh century. The copying of the first notated manuscripts in Rome, however, dates to the mid-eleventh century at the earliest. Scholars have generally discussed Roman manuscripts either to speculate about the earlier, more pristine, status of the melodies, or for comparison with their Gregorian counterparts. This essay considers Roman chant manuscripts as documents of their own times. Through textual and melodic analysis as well as through examination of the manuscript tradition of selected pieces, it also redefines Roman influence upon other European centers in the later centuries of the Middle Ages. Keywords: Gregorian chant, Roman chant, neo-Gregorian chant, tropes, Benevento, Montecassino

The provision of texts and melodies for the church rituals of medieval Rome must have been completed, at the latest, before the eighth century, when the considerable repertory that is generally called Roman chant was transmitted to Francia and eventually influenced the formation of Gregorian chant.2 It was about four centuries later, however, that the first 1 All manuscript sigla are described in the Appendix. 2 As a general reference to the history and style of Roman chant, see Dyer and Hucke, ‘Old Roman Chant’. On seventh- and eighth-century Church culture in Rome, see the essays by Trout

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch09

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large manuscript with musical notation, the gradual Cologny-Geneva, Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, 74 (henceforth Bod74) was copied in 1071 by the hand of Johannes Presbyter. Because of an emphasis on the quest for the origins of Western chant and a perceived stylistic superiority of Gregorian over Roman chant, scholars have tended to examine chant books copied in Rome between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries, more with the aim of reconstructing the status of the melodies before the transmission to Francia than for their intrinsic value as documents of their own times. Consequently, late compositions or signs of musical exchanges with other regions have either been overlooked or considered less worthy of examination. The emphasis on the pre-eleventh century history of Roman chant has parallels in architectural studies, in which, as Sible de Blaauw remarks, the attention devoted to the early Christian and Carolingian history of Rome’s five patriarchal basilicas (St Peter’s, S. Giovanni in Laterano, S. Paolo fuori le Mura, S. Lorenzo fuori le Mura, and S. Maria Maggiore), for example, overshadowed the status and renovations that occurred to the same churches between the mid-eleventh and the end of the thirteenth centuries.3 The analogy with architecture is useful under multiple points of view. In general, churches and melodies are integral to liturgical enactments, since both surround, punctuate, and amplify – physically and aurally – the ritual gestures of the clergy and the congregation. Specifically, pre-eleventhcentury Roman churches and chant provided the models that eventually influenced the rest of Europe. Finally, the survival of documents – the Liber pontificalis for the patriarchal basilicas and some the Ordines Romani for liturgy and chant – have also played an essential role in attracting the attention of scholars. 4 On the other hand, the architectural and liturgical realities of Rome between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries are equally important. As for chant, the eleventh century is not only the period in which the first chant books with musical notation appeared, but also the time when the and Osborne in this volume. Also see Kinney’s essay in this collection about the ‘renouveau’ of the eleventh century. 3 De Blaauw, ‘Reception and Renovation’, p. 152. 4 On the role played by the Liber pontificalis for the reconstruction of the Carolingian past of Roman basilicas, see de Blaauw, ‘Reception and Renovation’, p. 152. The Ordines romani and sacramentaries produced at this time were primarily non-Roman documents ‘which were prepared from or under the influence of Roman models’, Hiley, Western Plainchant, p. 516. On their informative value, see Ibid., pp. 289–291; Dyer, Levy, and Conomos, ‘Liturgy and Liturgical Books’.

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increased power of influence of the Roman curia over other regions resulted in pastoral exchanges that are also reflected in music. During this period, in fact, Roman cantors were still actively reworking liturgical formularies by either composing new chants or acquiring them from elsewhere.5 This essay analyzes some chant formularies to redefine the liturgical reality of Rome during the late eleventh century when the earliest of the notated manuscripts, Bod74, first appeared. There are many reasons to consider Roman documents as witnesses of the liturgical culture of their own times, in addition to mirroring the earlier, pre-Gregorian musical culture of the city. As mentioned above, compositional activity in Rome as well as exchanges between Italy and other sites of liturgical importance north of the Alps continued well after the eighth century. Chant analysis and manuscript examination may disclose new perspectives on chant practices and techniques of melodic elaboration at Rome and other centers in the eleventh century. This, in turn, may illuminate some patterns of music elaboration that might have already been in place during Carolingian times. In sum, Rome deserves to undergo a reassessment for its role as a major cultural center with its multidirectional influences as documented in liturgical music from the eleventh through the thirteenth century. In order to discuss these issues, a little background on the formation of Gregorian chant is necessary. Gregorian chant – the repertory used with few exceptions by the Latin Church since at least the mid-eighth century – is commonly seen as the confluence of two major chant dialects: Roman chant (formed in Rome sometime before the end of the seventh century and maintained in use until at least the thirteenth century) and Gallican chant (a series of liturgical traditions spread mostly in Francia before the end of the eight century). The repertory that resulted from these exchanges was then transmitted to the rest of Europe due to the Carolingian pursuit of liturgical concord for the rites of the Latin Church.6 Gregorian chant thus bears the backbone of the Roman liturgy (the structure and texts of the Gregorian Mass and Office are predominantly Roman in origin) and a mix of Roman and Gallican musical features.7 A 5 Some examples of chants that were composed at Rome after the eighth century are discussed in Nardini, ‘Roman Intruders’; Nardini, ‘The St. Peter Connection’. 6 There is an extensive bibliography on the subject with often quite contrasting theories. For a summary and a reference to the main theories on the subject, see Hiley, Western Plainchant. 7 A table showing a comparison between the Gregorian and Gallican (as reconstructed through indirect sources) and additional bibliography are included in Nardini, ‘In the Quest of Gallican Remnants’, p. 12.

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proper musical comparison between the three repertories – the archetypal Roman and Gallican and the resulting Gregorian – is however impossible, given the lack of Gallican exemplars with musical notation8 and the span of at least four centuries between the creation of Roman chant and the production of the earliest extant version notated in Bod74.9 Consequently, a reconstruction of the eighth-century original Roman and Gallican chants can only be conjectural and, for the latter, mostly based on a comparative analysis of texts and melodies from other repertories. These attempts have generally focused on documents with mentions of the Gallican liturgy, the identification of musical features that are extraneous to Roman chant, and the analysis of chants connected with feasts that were present in the Gallican tradition, but not in the Roman (as, for instance, the feasts of the Invention of the Cross, the Chair of St. Peter, and the Rogation days).10 Conversely, most studies on Roman chant lean toward the consideration of Roman manuscripts as primary witnesses of the eighth-century status of Roman chant in the form antedating the emergence of the Gregorian repertory. In an effort to privilege the quest for the ‘origins,’ chant scholars, while acknowledging that Roman chant books reflect the status of melodies at the times of the manuscripts’ redaction, rather than their status at the time of the transmission of the repertory to Francia, generally emphasize how Roman chant forged and informed the Gregorian, possibly because of a perceived stylistic superiority of latter over the former. The emphasis on the derivative and non-original nature of the chants contained in Roman manuscripts also influenced the opinions of those scholars who have often stressed the non-pristine, almost decadent status of Roman chants, a notion that is also often triggered by the relative transience of Roman chant, which was superseded by the Gregorian after the thirteenth century in Rome. James McKinnon, in his The Advent Project, mentions some of these pejorative evaluations: Roman chant, while not explicitly denigrated by […] scholars, is described as having an overlay of formula and consistently stepwise ornament that is “monotonous,” “verbose,” “redundant” and “less purposeful” than Gregorian melody, which is more “compact,” more “def initive,” more 8 There are very few documents containing traces of Gallican liturgy (all without notation) and some chants included in Gregorian manuscripts for which a Gallican origin has been invoked. For a list, see Nardini, ‘In the Quest of Gallican Remnants’; Huglo, Bellingham, and Zijlstra, ‘Gallican Chant’. 9 The manuscript is a gradual, tropary, and sequentiary; Lütolf, Das Graduale. 10 For a synthesis see Nardini, ‘In the Quest of Gallican Remnants’.

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“purposeful” and, to expand upon that last word, more characterized by the “intense expression of a tonal plan.”11

As a consequence of this general attitude, scholars have tended to dismiss the chants that were composed at Rome after the emergence of Gregorian chant or to overlook musical and liturgical exchanges between Rome and other centers after the first transmission of Roman chant to Francia in the eighth century (see above).12 In general, it seems as if Roman chant is valued more because of its connection with Gregorian chant than as a document of the musical and liturgical culture of Rome between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries. On the other hand, during these centuries, Roman cantors continued to elaborate the old melodies to the status of ornamentation documented in extant manuscripts, composed new chants, and had mutual exchanges with other churches, especially those within the domain of the Papal State. These exchanges encompassed the circulation of melodies from and to Rome and can be considered as the musical counterpart of exchanges on political and artistic matters that have been extensively studied by historians of politics and visual arts. In some cases, these exchanges were not directly musical (actual chants transmitted from one place to another), but reveal the influence that the visual apparatuses of churches like Montecassino and Sant’Angelo in Formis, deriving from the pictorial cycles of the Old St. Peter’s in Rome, had on chant composition.13 Finally – and this is highly hypothetical – the transmission of some chants in medieval sources shows patterns of musical elaboration that might reflect an attitude toward chant performance involving the continuous elaboration of musical phrases. This could have been already part of Roman cantors’ instruction to the Franks in and after the eighth century and could explain the Franks’ difficulties in learning the repertory. 11 McKinnon, The Advent Project, p. 381. 12 Exceptions to this general attitude include Kelly, ‘A Beneventan Borrowing’; Iversen, ‘Nostris tu parte ruinis’; Kartsovnik, ‘Proper Tropes’; Planchart, ‘Proses and Their Alleluias’; Baroffio, ‘Le prosule alleluiatiche’; Nardini, ‘Roman Intruders’; Nardini, ‘The St. Peter Connection’; Dyer, ‘St. Peter and His Neighbors’. 13 For the possible influence that the visual apparatus of churches under the artistic influence of Old St. Peter’s might have exerted on the composition and circulation of chants, especially for the feasts of the Epiphany, the Transfiguration, and the Holy Cross, see Nardini, ‘Liturgy as Historiography’; Eadem, ‘The Masses for the Holy Cross’; Eadem, Interlacing Traditions, pp. 59–62; Eadem, ‘In the Quest of Gallican Remnants’. On Montecassino’s influence on Roman churches, see Kinney’s essay in this volume.

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Well known is Notker Balbulus’s account in the Gesta Karoli with the stigmatization of the ‘clerics […] from Rome’ who plotted among themselves (since all Greeks and Romans are ever consumed with envy of Frankish glory) how they could so alter the chant that its unity and harmony might never be enjoyed in a realm and province other than their own. So they came to Charles […] and dispersed to the most prestigious locations. And, in these various localities, every one of them strove to sing and to teach others to sing, as differently and as corruptly as they could possibly conceive.14

It is possible that the Franks’ bewilderment and difficulty at reproducing Roman melodies and their accusations that the Romans were teaching a corrupted and altered version of chant might have derived from the Romans’ continuous elaboration of the same melodies. This variability, based on improvisatory re-elaborations of the same musical profiles, seems confirmed by the transmission of Roman melodies that were never Gregorianized, but that circulated outside of Rome, also discussed below. At any rate, Pope Stephen II’s visit to Pepin III in 754 was crucial to the transmission of Roman chant to Francia. Not only is it possible that singers belonging to the Roman Schola Cantorum accompanied the pope, but musical exchanges between north and south continued throughout the second half of the eighth century. These exchanges also included the copying and transmission of liturgical books, which, however, did not include musical notation at this time. There are various theories as to how the interplay between orality and literacy could have affected chant transmission in the eighth century as well as the preservation of musical traditions in later sources. Kenneth Levy advanced the hypothesis that it was the difficulty of retaining the melodies that prompted the need to devise a system of musical notation as early as 800.15 A strikingly different view favors a prolonged regime of orality in chants transmission and preservation that entailed the continuous reworking of 14 Emphasis mine. The standard edition of Notker’s text is Haefele, Gesta Karoli Magni Imperatoris, pp. 12–15; here cited after McKinnon’s translation in The Early Christian Period, p. 72. On Roman, non-Gregorianized melodies circulating outside of Rome, see Nardini, ‘Roman Intruders’; Eadem, ‘The St. Peter Connection’. That cantors might have been equipped with the ability to improvise and ornament received melodies, notwithstanding the general uniformity of Gregorian chant books, seems also to be suggested by the transmission of some Gregorian melodies, as the cases of a few communions discussed in Nardini, Interlacing Traditions, pp. 356–367, demonstrate. 15 Levy, ‘Charlemagne’s Archetype’.

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melodies on a quasi-improvisatory basis.16 Finally, David Hughes considered the relative uniformity of Gregorian melodies in European chant books of later periods as the sign of the repertory stability at an early date.17 We will probably never know how the musical interactions between Romans and Franks really occurred and when a practical system of music notation was introduced in the West as a way to ease the transmission of chants. What we do know, however, is that the earliest notated Gregorian manuscripts (late 9th century) antedate the extant Roman ones by a few centuries. We also know that Bod74, in addition to being the earliest notated Roman manuscript, is also the one with the highest degree of hybridization. This was the likely consequence of Desiderius of Montecassino’s influence in its redaction, as will be discussed below. In view of its date and hybridity, the Bodmeriana source is an excellent tool to investigate the status of Roman chant and its interconnections with Gregorian and neo-Gregorian chants – melodies composed throughout Europe after the creation of Gregorian chant for feasts of later institution or local relevance – in the second half of the eleventh century. In a recent essay, Joseph Dyer provides a comprehensive account of the liturgical and musical exchanges between Rome and its ‘neighbors’ after the eighth century.18 Most of these exchanges are localized within the Beneventan region, even though there are signs of direct connections with other, mostly Italian, centers. In his examination, Dyer identifies six main categories, which also provide the titles to sections of his essay: ‘Old Roman music in non-Roman sources’;19 examples attesting to the ‘shared texts and music’ in Rome and Benevento; ‘chants based on Greek texts’; ‘Roman Easter vespers and Pascha ieron’; ‘a chant for Ember Saturday’; and, finally, ‘Beneventan, Gregorian, and neo-Gregorian chant in Roman chant manuscripts’.20 In addition to the examples discussed by Dyer, one of the imports in Bod74 is the formulary for the Invention of the Cross, where chants of different origins are mixed together (Table 1 and Figs. 9.1 and 9.2).21 The 16 Hucke, ‘Die Einführung Des Gregorianischen Gesands’; Treitler, ‘Homer and Gregory’; Treitler, ‘“Centonate” Chant’; Van der Werf, The Emergence of Gregorian Chant. 17 David Hughes, ‘Evidence for the Traditional View’. On the earliest notated chant manuscripts, see the now fundamental Susan Rankin, Writing Sounds in Carolingian Europe. 18 Dyer, ‘St. Peter and His Neighbors’. 19 On these, see also Nardini, ‘Roman Intruders’; Eadem, ‘The St. Peter Connection’. 20 Dyer, ‘St. Peter and His Neighbors’, pp. 306–331. 21 This mass is also copied in another Roman manuscript, Vat. lat. 5319 and in other Italian manuscripts. Nardini, ‘The Masses for the Holy Cross’.

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Table 1: Formulary for the feast of the Invention of the Holy Cross (3 May) in Bod74. * indicates cued pieces. F. 98

F. 98v

An Nos autem gloriari In Nos autem gloriari* Al Dulce lignum    Pros Omnipotens rex    Pros Animas quas redemisti    Pros O alma crux Sq Alma fulges Of Deus enim firmavit* (non notated) Co Spiritus ubi vult

Fig. 9.1. Bod74. Cologny (Geneva), Fondation Martin Bodmer, MS 74, fol. 98. Reproduced with permission.

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Fig. 9.2. Bod74. Cologny (Geneva), Fondation Martin Bodmer, MS 74, fol. 98. Reproduced with permission.

Mass opens with the processional antiphon Nos autem gloriari. This is a piece of Gallican origins, which took on different guises when reappearing in various European regions. It is used as an antiphon for Rogation days in Aquitaine, an offertory in Milan, and two different, but interrelated, communions in some Gregorian manuscripts.22 Each version presents its own idiosyncratic form so that, while the melodic general profile remains unchanged, the ornamentations vary. The piece was probably acquired 22 A study of this and other Gallican remnants in European manuscripts, with full comparative transcriptions, is Nardini, ‘Aliens in Disguise’.

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from Aquitaine together with the alleluia Dulce lignum, a neo-Gregorian chant from Francia.23 Other pieces, the prosulas Omnipotens rex eterne and Animas quas redemisti for the alleluia Dulce lignum and the sequence Alma fulget lux preclara, are from southern Italy. The prosula O alma crux for the alleluia Dulce lignum was probably composed in loco in imitation of the other imported prosulas.24 Finally, the gradual Christus factus, the alleluia Dominus regnavit, the offertory Deus enim firmavit, and the communion Spiritus ubi vult, while sharing their texts with those of the Aquitanian mass for the Invention, are according to the Roman, rather than the Gregorian style. These pieces, in fact, had been composed in Rome for different liturgical destinations and were later exported to Francia where they were Gregorianized and re-used for the Invention of the Cross. Apparently, when Roman cantors re-received them within the formulary for the Invention of the Cross, they reverted to the Roman melodic version of these chants. Roman cantors thus produced a pastiche, juxtaposing pieces with multiple origins: Gallican (the processional antiphon), Frankish (the alleluia), Beneventan (the two prosulas and the sequence), and Roman (the gradual, offertories, communion, and one prosula). This shows that Roman chant traditions were not only permeable to external influences, but that local cantors were able to negotiate continuously between external and autochthonous styles and traditions, and that Masses with hybrid formularies were likely occurrences in Rome during the second half of the eleventh century.25 The composition of a new prosula for a Frankish neo-Gregorian chant also suggests that Roman cantors were able to experiment with the language and techniques of both Gregorian and neo-Gregorian chants. There are a few other examples that show the competence of Roman cantors in handling Gregorian or neo-Gregorian chants, which is manifest in the way they transcribed and manipulated neo-Gregorian melodies recorded in Beneventan manuscripts. The Beneventan region, the area where the so-called Beneventan script and notation were in use,26 was particularly fecund in the 23 See above for a definition of neo-Gregorian chant. 24 On proses and prosulas in Roman manuscripts, see Planchart, ‘Proses and Their Alleluias’; Baroffio, ‘Le prosule alleluiatiche’. 25 Another instance of musico-liturgical interconnections between Roman and non-Roman traditions is the formulary for the Mass of the Dead. Not present in Bod74, it reveals the mixing of Roman and non-Roman elements in several medieval liturgical books. This mass is the subject of an on-going collaborative research with Rebecca Maloy and will be published in a forthcoming essay. Partial results have been presented in Maloy and Nardini, ‘Musical Hybridization’; Eaedem, ‘Between Rome and Francia’. 26 There is an extensive bibliography on Beneventana. The classical studies are Loew, The Beneventan Script; Loew, ‘A New List of Beneventan Manuscripts’. Brown periodically updated

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composition of neo-Gregorian chants. A number of these were incorporated into Roman chant manuscripts, and especially in Bod74, possibly due to the influence of Desiderius of Montecassino in the redaction of the codex.27 One such example is the offertory Diem festum for St Agatha for which the scribe of Bod74 adds a more conclusive cadence to correct an otherwise truncated cadence.28 Other examples include three neo-Gregorian alleluias, likely from the Beneventan zone, that were copied in Bod74 as well (Table 2). Table 2:  Neo-Gregorian alleluias copied in Bod74 Textual incipit

Liturgical occasion

Manuscript sources

Non vos relinquam

1st

Sunday after Ascension

Quasi modo

Octave of Easter

Bod74, 102v; Ben20, 55b; Ben29, 195b; Ben33, 97va; Ben34, 182v; Ben35, 110v; Ben38, 94; Ben39, 91; Ben40, 72; Vat603, 78v; Vat6082, 160 Bod74, 87v; Ben20, 13, 13vb; Ben29, 188b; Ben30, 90v; Ben33, 88a; Ben34, 144v; Ben35, 81; Ben38, 63v, Ben39, 46v; Ben40, 40; MC318, 257b; Vat603, 71; Vat 6082, 157v Bod74, 94; Ben35, 178; Ben38, 163v; Cor; MC318, 273a; MC540, 48v; Vat6082, 245

Gloria et honore

The alleluia Non vos relinquam (Example 1) circulates in Beneventan manuscripts in two main versions: version A in Ben20, Ben35, Vat603, and Vat6082; and the more extended version B in Ben33, Ben34, and Ben40. Bod74 offers yet another version that expands the conclusive figure that starts with the notes F-a-b in version B first by repeating it with the deletion of the note c in the middle, and then by adding a cadential figure on the notes a-b-a-b-G-a a-G. As with the offertory Diem festum mentioned above, in this case, too, the more extended version of Bod74 provides a more conclusive and appropriate cadence to the piece. A reverse situation is that of the alleluia, Quasi modo, for which Bod74 has the same truncated version that appears in Ben33, Ben34, Ben35, Ben38, Vat603, and Vat6082, as opposed to the longer version appearing in Ben30, Ben39, and Ben40 (Example 2). As for Gloria et honore, Bod74 first has it lists of Beneventan manuscripts in: ‘A Second New List of Beneventan Manuscripts’; ‘A Second New List of Beneventan Manuscripts (II)’; ‘A Second New List of Beneventan Manuscripts (III)’; ‘A Second New List of Beneventan Manuscripts (IV)’; ‘A Second New List of Beneventan Manuscripts (V)’. These articles are now grouped together in Brown, Beneventan Discoveries. 27 More on Desiderius’s influence in the redaction of Bod74 below. 28 This case, with musical transcription, is discussed in Nardini, Interlacing Traditions, pp. 334–335, 337–338.

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Example 1. Manuscript comparison for the end of Alleluia Non vos relinquam.

Example 2. Manuscript comparison for the end of Alleluia Quasi modo

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Example 3. Manuscript comparison for Alleluia Gloria et honore.

transposed one fifth below and second has a shorter version of the alleluia jubilus and a shorter melisma on “hono-re” than both Ben35 and Ben38 (Example 3).29 In all these cases, manuscript comparison shows that there was no direct filiation among the sources. While Beneventan manuscripts tend to be consistent in the neumatic version (the shape and grouping of notes), Bod74 differs from them, even for passages that are melodically identical.30 29 Being a tonary, MC318 only provides the incipits and therefore cannot be compared to the other manuscripts for the transmission of the melisma. 30 Note groupings are rendered with slurs placed above notes in the transcriptions. The variants in the shape and grouping of notes could have been the result of the switching between aural

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The Mass of the Invention of the Cross and the neo-Gregorian alleluias with melismas of varying extension show how Roman cantors approached formulary composition and chant reception at the time when Bod74 was copied. For the Mass of the Invention, also copied in Vat5319 and VatF22,31 Roman cantors showed an ability to juxtapose Roman and Gregorian styles. The provision of notation for all chants redacted according to Roman style, on the one hand, was probably meant to avoid confusion with the Gregorian version of the same texts, which the cantors might have known. That these cantors were competent in the style of Gregorian chant, on the other hand, is testified by the scribe’s ability to intervene on foreign melodies according to the Gregorian style, as in the cases of the three neo-Gregorian alleluias and the offertory Diem festum. Examples could be multiplied with the sizable repertories of tropes and sequences that appear in Roman manuscripts, some imported, some locally composed. In the latter instance, Roman scribes showed the ability to master non-native structures and styles, thus revealing their cosmopolitanism and versatility, the possible consequences of the multidirectional exchanges and travels. Desiderius of Montecassino (c. 1026–16 September 1087) was a prime example of this cosmopolitan identity. He transited between his native Benevento, Cava de’ Tirreni, Capua, the Tremiti Islands, la Maiella in the Abruzzi region, Florence, Bari (when he was about to embark for a mission to Constantinople), before becoming abbot of Montecassino in 1057, cardinal at Santa Cecilia in Trastevere (Rome) in 1059, and pope as Victor III in 1087. It was under his tenure at the church of Santa Cecilia in Rome that Bod74 and other manuscripts were copied. His extensive travels show the type of liturgical and musical background that high-ranking ecclesiastical authorities in Rome possessed and make it evident that the liturgical uses of Rome could have been hybridized. The interpolations discussed here – consisting of repetitions, augmentations, or suppression – possibly reveal modes of musical cognition that were typical of Roman singers and scribes and also attest to the transmission of Roman chant to Francia. The communion Lux eterna, a piece that was likely composed in Rome after the creation of Gregorian chant and was nonetheless widely known in medieval Europe, shows forms of pitch ornamentation in which a single syllable is variously ornamented in all extant sources. This and written modes of transcription, as discussed in Nardini, ‘“God Is Witness”’. 31 The feast of the Invention is at fols. 104v–105 in Vat5319, and at fol. 79v in VatF22. The digital versions of both manuscripts are available at: http://digi.vatlib.it/view/MSS_Vat.lat.5319 and http://digi.vatlib.it/view/MSS_Arch.Cap.S.Pietro.F.22; last accessed 5 December 2018.

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type of ornamentation, which is not regionally characterized, seems to be the consequence of extemporaneous practice – a practice that, although rarely documented by Gregorian sources, Roman singers could have taught to their Frankish colleagues.32 This technique of melodic elaboration, in which the basic melodic profile remains unchanged but surface details are continually varied, often through the continuous repetition of melodic cells, might be considered as the sonic counterpart of the opus sectile that embellished so many medieval Roman and south Italian churches, where similar designs can be indefinitely varied through a different combination of parts.33 The examples discussed in this essay show that the role of Rome in shaping the liturgical traditions of Europe in the Middle Ages is broader than normally acknowledged. First, new chants continued to be composed at Rome and acquired elsewhere after the eighth century. Second, some modes of chant elaborations, which seem to have been intrinsic to Roman musical culture, might have been transmitted to other regions. Finally and most importantly, Roman cantors showed permeability to external influences that resulted in the incorporation of chants of foreign origins into local manuscripts well before the suppression of the Roman style of chant in the thirteenth century.

Appendix List of manuscripts cited Ben20 Ben29 Ben30 Ben33

Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 20. Breviary-Missal (pars aestiva), Benevento, Chapter, 12th century. Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare 29, (olim London, British Library, Egerton 3511). Plenary Missal, Benevento, St. Peter inside the walls, early 12th century. Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 30. Missal, Benevento?, probably for a small parish church, 13th century. Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 33. Plenary Missal, Benevento (or diocese of Salerno), 10th–11th century. Facsimile edition: PM, vol. 20, Le Manuscript VI–33, Archivio Archivescovile Benevento. Missel de Bénévent (début du XIe siècle) (Berne: Lang, 1983).

32 On Lux eterna, see Nardini, Interlacing Traditions, pp. 357–361; Maloy and Nardini, ‘Musical Hybridization’. 33 I was inspired in the formulation of this idea from discussion with Dale Kinney during the Marco symposium, ‘Rome: Beyond the Discourse of Renewal’, at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, 4–5 March 2016.

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Ben34

Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 34. Gradual with tropes and prosulas, Benevento, first half of 12th century. Facsimile edition: PM, vol. 15, Le Codex VI. 34 de la Bibliothèque Capitulaire de Bénévent (XIe–XIIe siècle). Graduel de Bénévent avec prosaire et tropaire (Solesmes: Abbaye Saint Pierre, 1937). Ben35 Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 35. Gradual with tropes and proses, Benevento, St. Peter outside the Walls, early 12th century. Ben38 Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 38. Gradual with tropes and proses, Benevento, before 1050. Ben39 Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 39. Gradual with tropes and proses, Benevento, St. Peter inside the walls, late 11th century. Ben40 Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare, 40. Gradual with tropes and proses, Benevento, Santa Sofia? first half of 11th century. Facsimile edition: Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare 40, ed. by Nino Albarosa and Alberto Turco (Padua: La linea, 1991). Bod74 Cologny-Genève, Bibliotheca Bodmeriana, 74. Gradual with Roman chant, Rome, Santa Cecilia in Transtevere, 1071. Facsimile edition in Das Graduale von Santa Cecilia in Trastevere (Cod. Bodmer 74), ed. by M. Lütolf, Fondation Martin Bodmer, Cologny-Genève 1987. Cor Corfinio, Archivio Capitolare della Cattedrale S. Pelino, S.N. Gradual-Antiphoner, 12th century. NL IV VatF22 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Archivio del Capitolo di S. Pietro, F 22. Gradual with Roman chant, Rome, 13th century. Montecassino, Archivio dell’Abbazia, 318. Theoretical writings, region of MC318 Benevento, second half of the 11th century. MC540 Montecassino, Archivio dell’Abbazia, 540. Missal (pars hiemalis), Montecassino, 11th century. Vat5319 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vat. lat. 5319. Gradual with Roman chant-Kyriale-Proser, Rome, San Giovanni in Laterano? late 11th–early 12th century. Transcription published in Monumenta Monodica Medii Aevi 2, ed. by Bruno Stäblein and Margareta Landwehr-Melnicki (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1970). Vat603 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. lat. 603. Missal, Caiazzo, 12th–13th century. Vat6082 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Vat. lat. 6082. Missal, Montecassino, 12th century.

Bibliography Giacomo Bonifacio Baroffio, ‘Le prosule alleluiatiche del graduale Bodmer 74’, in Hortus troporum. Florilegium in honorem Gunillae Iversen: A Festschrift in honour of Professor Gunilla Iversen at the occasion of her retirement as Chair of Latin at the Department of Classical Languages, Stockholm University, ed. by Alexander Andrée and Erika Kihlman, Studia Latina Stockholmiensia 54 (Stockholm: Stockholms Universitet, 2008), pp. 155–61. Sible de Blaauw, ‘Reception and Renovation of Early Christian Churches in Rome, c. 1050-1300’, in Rome Across Time and Space: Cultural Transmission and the

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Exchange of Ideas c. 500–1400, ed. by Claudia Bolgia and others (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 151–166. Virginia Brown, Beneventan Discoveries: Collected Manuscript Catalogues, 1978–2008, ed. by Roger Reynolds, Monumenta Liturgica Beneventana 6 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2012). Joseph Dyer, ‘St. Peter and His Neighbors: Reflections on Roman and Italian Chant and Liturgy’, in Nationes, Gentes und die Musik im Mittelalter, ed. by Frank Hentschel and Marie Winkelmüller (Berlin and Boston, MA: Walter de Gruyter, 2014), pp. 287–340. Joseph Dyer and Helmuth Hucke, ‘Old Roman Chant’, Grove Music Online. Available at: http://oxfordmusiconline.com; last accessed 4 December 2018. Joseph Dyer, Kenneth J. Levy, and Dimitri Conomos, ‘Liturgy and Liturgical Books’, Grove Music Online. Available at: http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com; last accessed 20 March 2018. Hans Haefele, ed., Gesta Karoli Magni Imperatoris, MGH SS rer. Germ. N.S., vol. 12 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1959). David Hiley, Western Plainchant: A Handbook (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993). Helmuth Hucke, ‘Die Einführung Des Gregorianischen Gesangs Im Frankenreich’, Römische Quartalschrift, 49 (1954), pp. 172–87. David Hughes, ‘Evidence for the Traditional View of the Transmission of Gregorian Chant’, Journal of the American Musicological Society, 40 (1987), pp. 377–404. Michel Huglo, Jane Bellingham, and Marcel Zijlstra, ‘Gallican Chant’, Grove Music Online. Available at: http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com; last accessed 13 July 2018. Gradual, Tropary, Sequentiary. Cod. Bodmer 74 (Cologny, Collection of the Fondation Martin Bodmer, n.d.), in E-codices: The Virtual Manuscript Library of Switzerland. Available at: http://www.e-codices.unifr.ch/en/list/one/fmb/cb-0074; last accessed 22 November 2020. Gunilla Iversen, ‘Nostris tu parte ruinis. On Tropes in the Gradual of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere’, in Roma, magistra mundi. Itineraria culturae medievalis: mélanges offerts au Père L.E. Boyle à l’occasion de son 75e anniversaire (Louvain-la-Neuve: Fédération internationale des instituts d’études médiévales, 1998), pp. 439–81. Viatcheslav Kartsovnik, ‘Proper Tropes in the Old Roman Gradual of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere (A.D. 1071)’, in Chant and Its Peripheries: Essays in Honor of Terence Bailey, ed. by Bryan R. Gillingham and Paul A. Merkley (Ottawa: The Institute of Mediaeval Music, 1998), pp. 62–109. Thomas Forrest Kelly, ‘A Beneventan Borrowing in the Saint Cecilia Gradual’, in Festschrift Max Lütolf Zum 60. Geburstag, ed. by Bernhard Hangartner and Urs Fischer (Basel: Wiese Verlag, 1994), pp. 11–20.

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Kenneth J. Levy, ‘Charlemagne’s Archetype of Gregorian Chant’, Journal of the American Musicological Society, 40 (1987), pp. 1–30. E.A. Loew, The Beneventan Script: A History of the South Italian Minuscule. Text, 2nd ed. prepared and enl. by Virginia Brown, 2 vols., Sussidi Eruditi (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1980), I. E.A. Loew, ‘A New List of Beneventan Manuscripts’, in Collectanea Vaticana in honorem A.M. card. Albareda, Studi e testi 220 (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1961), pp. 211–44. Max Lütolf, ed., Das Graduale von Santa Cecilia in Trastevere: Cod. Bodmer 74, 2 vols. (Cologny-Geneva: Fondation Martin Bodmer, 1987). Rebecca Maloy and Luisa Nardini, ‘Musical Hybridization in the Roman Mass of the Dead’, paper presented at the Meeting of the American Musicological Society, Pittsburgh, 2013. Rebecca Maloy and Luisa Nardini, ‘Between Rome and Francia: The Mass of the Dead in Central and Northern Italy’, paper presented at the Meeting of the International Medieval Society ‘Cantus Planus’ Study Group, Växjö, 2018. James W. McKinnon, The Advent Project: The Later-Seventh-Century Creation of the Roman Mass Proper (Berkeley, Los Angeles, CA, London: University of California Press, 2000). James McKinnon, ed., The Early Christian Period and the Latin Middle Ages, Source Readings in Music History 2, rev. ed. (New York: W.W. Norton, 1998). Luisa Nardini, ‘Aliens in Disguise: Byzantine and Gallican Chants in the Latin Liturgy’, Plainsong and Medieval Music, 16, no. 2 (2007), pp. 145–72. Luisa Nardini, ‘“God Is Witness”: Dictation and the Copying of Chants in Medieval Monasteries’, Musica Disciplina, 57 (2012), pp. 47–76. Luisa Nardini, Interlacing Traditions: Neo-Gregorian Chant Propers in Beneventan Manuscripts, Monumenta Liturgica Beneventana 8 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2016). Luisa Nardini, ‘In the Quest of Gallican Remnants in Gregorian Manuscripts: Archaisms in the Masses for the Holy Cross in Aquitanian Chant Books’, in Music Censorship, ed. by Patricia Hall (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), pp. 7–38. Luisa Nardini, ‘Liturgy as Historiography: Historical, Narrative, and Evocative Values of Eleventh-Century Masses’, in Early Music Context and Ideas II (International Conference in Musicology, Krakow: Jagellonian University, Institute of Musicology, 2008), pp. 27–38. Luisa Nardini, ‘The Masses for the Holy Cross in Some Italian Manuscripts’, in ‘Qui musicam in se habet’: Essays in Honor of Alejandro Planchart ed. by Anna Zayaruznaya and others (Madison, WI: American Institute of Musicology, 2015), pp. 41–70.

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Luisa Nardini, ‘Roman Intruders in non-Roman Chant Manuscripts: The Cases of Sint lumbi vestri and Domine si tu es’, Acta Musicologica, 82 (2010), pp. 1–20. Luisa Nardini, ‘The St. Peter Connection and the Acquisition of a Roman Offertory in Bologna and Benevento’, Mediaeval Studies, 82 (2010), pp. 39–74. Alejandro E. Planchart, ‘Proses in the Manuscripts of Roman Chant and Their Alleluias’, in The Study of Medieval Chant: Paths and Bridges, East and West; In Honor of Kenneth Levy, ed. by Peter Jeffery (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2001), pp. 313–39. Susan Rankin, Writing Sounds in Carolingian Europe: The Invention of Musical Notation. Cambridge Studies in Paleography and Codicology. (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2018). Leo Treitler, ‘“Centonate” Chant: Übles Flicwerk or E Pluribus Unus?’, Journal of the American Musicological Society, 28 (1975), pp. 1–23. Leo Treitler, ‘Homer and Gregory: The Transmission of Epic Poetry and Plainchant’, Musical Quarterly, 60 (1974), pp. 333–72. Hendrik van der Werf, The Emergence of Gregorian Chant, 2 vols. (Rochester, NY: H. van der Werf, 1983).

About the Author Luisa Nardini is associate professor of musicology in the Butler School of Music at the University of Texas, Austin. Her scholarly work investigates the oral and textual transmission of medieval chant. She is the author of Interlacing Traditions: Neo-Gregorian Chant Propers in Beneventan Manuscripts (2016).

10. Reforming Readers, Reforming Texts: The Making of Discursive Community in Gregorian Rome William North

Abstract The late eleventh century witnessed the growing assertion of the Roman pope’s role as judge over ecclesiastical affairs. Yet, the institutional imagination behind these developments was more complex and fragile and less developed than is often assumed. Using three specific witnesses – Peter Damian; Atto, cardinal priest of San Marco; and Bruno, cardinal bishop of Segni – this essay reveals the focused, but idiosyncratic, attention that members of the Roman clergy paid to ‘the ecclesial imaginary’. These witnesses reveal that the Roman clergy’s own consciousness of its place and power was hard won mental terrain that had continually to be reinforced and defended. They also reveal sustained effort to anchor this transformed institutional consciousness firmly in the authority of texts. Keywords: exegesis, canon law, clerical cognition, Peter Damian, Bruno of Segni, Atto of San Marco

In his now classic study of the social dimensions of medieval reading techniques, The Implications of Literacy. Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, Brian Stock introduced the term ‘textual communities’ to describe groups who came to be united by a set of shared texts and, more importantly, a shared allegiance to specific individuals who guided their understanding of these texts and their implications for personal and institutional life.1 He noted that: 1 Stock, The Implications, p. 90.

Kalas, G. and A. van Dijk (eds.), Urban Developments in Late Antique and Medieval Rome: Revising the Narrative of Renewal. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2021 doi 10.5117/9789462989085_ch10

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An important consequence of literacy in any society arises from the area of social organization. Relationships between the individual and the family, the group, and the wider community are all influenced by the degree to which society acknowledges written principles of operation. Literacy affects the ways in which people conceptualize these patterns of operations, and these patterns of thought inevitably feed back into the network of real dependencies.2

For Stock, ‘literacy’ thus represented not so much the mere ability to read or otherwise access the content of texts, but rather the more comprehensive and demanding instinct or habit to process the world and human behavior through the refractive and defractive power of texts. In his study, Stock concentrated on the way in which this concept of literacy could assist in understanding the emergence of lay heretical and reformist groups in France and Italy during the eleventh century. Yet, in focusing his analysis on groups at the margins of, or antagonistic to, established institutional authority, Stock risked implying that such habits of reading could be taken for granted among the institutional clergy and that, in essence, to be a bishop, a priest, or a cleric was ipso facto to belong to a functional textual community and to possess assumptions about textual authority and habits of mind that translated texts into life and life into texts. This essay seeks to address this risk by investigating Stock’s concept of ‘textual community’ not at the margins of the institutional church, but at what was becoming its conceptual and juridical center: the church of Rome and the papal curia under the leadership of the so-called ‘Gregorian reform popes’, in those critical years of the later eleventh century when the church of Rome and, in particular, its bishop and his curia took on increasingly vocal and visible roles in the reform and governance of the church throughout western Europe.3 Here, if anywhere, one might expect a ‘textual community’ in Stock’s sense not only to have existed but to have been robust, and scholars have documented with care and in detail the ways in which popes and clergy from the time of Leo IX (1049–1054) through Callixtus II (1119–1124) and beyond attempted to strengthen episcopal and papal authority, to collect and rationalize canon law, and to reform clerical life. 4 To be sure, 2 Ibid., p. 88. 3 On broader ecclesiastical developments beginning in the tenth century, see the accounts in Blumenthal, The Investiture Contest; Tellenbach, The Church. 4 The scholarship on the period often characterized as the ‘Gregorian Reform’ or the ‘Investiture controversy’ is vast and wide-ranging. Studies that have been particularly influential for this

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significant attention has also been paid to the ongoing divisions within the Roman church, particularly during the most intense period of struggle with the Salian king and emperor Henry IV when a significant number of cardinals and Roman clergy broke with Pope Gregory VII (1073–1085) and allied with Pope Clement III, the former bishop of Ravenna, Wibert, who was advanced by Henry IV and occupied Rome for more than a decade.5 Yet, these divisions have usually been understood as alignments or realignments motivated by pragmatic considerations of self-interest, survival, or breaks in otherwise coherent group identity provoked by extreme circumstances and political interest rather than as manifestations of the heterogeneity of clerical cognition among the Roman clergy. A reading of the surviving evidence attentive to dissonance and disjunction, however, reveals that, even among the members of the curia of the reform popes themselves, agreement in perception, principle, and approach could not be taken for granted. During the pontificate of Nicholas II (1059–1061), for example, Archdeacon Hildebrand (the future Gregory VII) had urged his colleague Peter Damian, cardinal bishop of Ostia, to put his considerable intellectual resources to work compiling a canonical collection that would undergird the Roman church’s claims to primacy. At the time, Damian had thought the project ‘of little importance and […] superfluous rather than necessary,’ a judgment he later regretted.6 Decades later, in the years between 1078 and 1083, Hildebrand, now Pope Gregory VII, believed that a biography of his predecessor, Pope Leo IX, would be a valuable addition to the resources of both Rome and clerical reform and had asked members of his curia to come up with something. As one witness, Bishop Bruno of Segni, later recounted: Sometimes when [Gregory] spoke about him to those of us listening, he would start to rebuke us, and especially me (or so I believed because he kept his eyes intent upon me) because we were allowing the deeds of the blessed Leo perish in silence and because we were not writing things that would be to the glory of the Roman church and [serve] as an example of humility to the many who listened. But because he poured out his words to no one in particular (in commune), not a single person wrote what he author have been Laudage, Priesterbild; Miccoli, Chiesa Gregoriani; Capitani, Tradizioni; Fornasari, Medioevo Riformato. 5 On Wibert, see Ziese, Wibert, and the essays in Longo and Yawn, eds., ‘Framing Clement III’. 6 Peter Damian, Letter 65, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, II, pp. 228–247 at p. 229, line 10 and p. 230, line 3.

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ordered to be written by all. Nor even now would I have written these things, if I had not been forced in a certain way to write them, as I shall make clear in what follows. May both popes have mercy on me, because I recognize that I have offended both in this.7

On the one hand, both of these accounts bear witness to Hildebrand/Gregory VII’s own belief that an essential part of strengthening reform lay in the production of texts that would energize and fortify the ‘textual communities’ of reformers in and beyond Rome in particular ways. This commitment is also attested elsewhere by both supporters and critics of the Gregorians. Gregory VII’s staunch ally, Bishop Anselm of Lucca, prefaced his canonical collection by invoking the pope as its guiding muse, while critics from within the curia itself regarded this initiative with suspicion: they saw people like Cardinal Deusdedit, Odo of Ostia and other nameless ‘discipuli Hildebrandi’ desperately searching through archives and books for authorities to legitimate their pernicious agenda.8 On the other hand, these vignettes bear quiet but irrefutable witness to the presence and active consequences of intellectual diversity among the circle of Roman reformers centered in the papal curia. Although they may have been united institutionally, their ways of thinking and interpretation, their levels of education, and their structuring values – that is to say, their coherence as a ‘textual community’ – remained a work in progress rather than a given. Such heterogeneity manifested itself, as noted above, in different attitudes towards particular research and writing projects and how they might or might not serve the institution. It could also emerge in specific policy discussions as when in May of 1082, as King Henry IV, having already besieged the city in 1081, threatened to approach again with his army, a portion of the reform curia met without the pope to assess the canonicity of using church property to hire mercenaries to defend the city.9 The formation of a coherent ‘textual community’ in Gregorian Rome was therefore not an abstract desideratum or optional extra, and it was certainly not a cultural formation that could be taken for granted. Rather, contemporary calls for and efforts to create a community of readers within the Roman church who shared texts, values, and interpretive approaches represent a fundamental, if neglected, dimension of the Roman church’s 7 Bruno of Segni, Libellus de simoniacis c.3, ed. by Sackur, p. 548. 8 For a discussion of these witnesses, see North, ‘Polemic, Apathy, and Authorial Initiative’, pp. 113–125, with the literature cited there. 9 Zafarana, ‘Sul “conventus”’. This was an idea that some in the circle of Gregory VII had wished to do. The conventus concluded that it was not canonical.

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ongoing process of institutional transformation that would undergird its assertion of its role as supreme judge and ecclesial model within both the local and universal ecclesial orders. Through a closer examination of three surviving voices from Roman clerical circles – Peter Damian, cardinal bishop of Ostia; Atto, cardinal priest of San Marco; and Bruno, cardinal bishop of Segni – this essay explores the ways in which contemporaries recognized, and attempted to overcome obstacles, such as diverse interests, limited or compromised textual resources, and the lack of the right cognitive training, that were seen to prevent the Roman clergy from forming a coherent ‘textual community.’ Each of these individuals, in his own way, sought to further this process of transforming the Roman church, and members of the curia in particular, into a textual community by explicitly emphasizing the centrality of texts and textuality to clerical identity and by providing the new resources whereby clergy might acquire the written authorities as well as habits of reading and interpretation necessary to enact their true identity. Born in 988 in Ravenna, Peter Damian came of age in a period of growing experimentation with forms of eremitic and cenobitic life as well as growing criticism of the condition of the clergy in Italy and beyond.10 Damian became a devoted follower of the way of life cultivated by Romuald at Fonte Avellana and eventually wrote the biography of the founder of the Camaldolese order.11 Despite his commitment to the solitary ascetic life, Damian’s concerns about the state of the church and his effectiveness as an advocate for reform led him during the 1040s and 1050s to become a leading advocate of clerical reform, in the service of which he composed many letters and letter-treatises exhorting contemporaries from diverse regions and ranks to pursue a more fervent and pure religious life personally or more aggressively pursue reform measures through legislation, exhortation, and rigorous discipline and punishment. In recognition of his importance as a spokesperson and advocate for clerical reform – but very much contrary to his wishes – Pope Stephen IX (1054–1058) consecrated Damian cardinal bishop of Ostia late in 1057, one of the most important positions within 10 The literature on Peter Damian’s life and works is immense but unevenly focused. For a fundamental biographic account, see Dressler, Petrus Damiani. Leben und Werke, and Freund, Die Wirksamkeit. For assessments of ongoing scholarship see Reindel, ‘Neue Forschungen’, Freund, ‘Forschungen’, and the articles gathered in Pier Damiani. For extended treatment of Damian as biblical commentator, see Wünsch, Spiritalis intelligentia. 11 For Damian’s connections with reformed monasticism, the literature is vast. For recent perspectives, see Longo, Come angeli in terra and Cushing, ‘Of locustae’. For the context more generally, see now Howe, Before the Gregorian Reform.

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the newly internationalized cardinalate. He would serve in this position until Pope Alexander II (1061–1073) released him from the office in 1067. During this period of activity, Peter Damian composed two letters to his fellow cardinals. The first, from 1057, was sent just after he assumed his new office, and in it he offered his fellow cardinal bishops greetings. Yet, he also developed a vision of the critical position that he and they shared within Christendom.12 In 1063, early in the pontificate of Alexander II, Damian sent a second letter which presented the cardinal bishops with a sterner, more intensively documented message of warning, especially regarding their vulnerability to avarice, a sin that would not only compromise their spiritual salvation but undermine fatally their roles as leaders of the Christian community.13 Throughout the letter of 1057 to his fellow cardinal bishops, Damian consciously invoked a sense of their shared understanding of their position. They were the ‘guardians on the watch tower,’ who call to each other in warning and to ensure wakefulness so that the Christian inhabitants of the city may be protected.14 From this watchtower, he claimed, they saw what he saw: a world rushing headlong into vices the variety and gravity of which had been prophesied for the end time by the Apostle Paul. They and he, he insisted, shared a common interpretation of the world. This shared interpretation, in turn, led them to their shared charge to stand against this onslaught and to offer sanctuary, as the embodiment, along with the pope, of the Roman church. They would be the safe and calm harbor of virtue and piety where Christians might find safety amidst the deadly trials of world’s sea and the whirlpools of vice that threatened to sink even the strongest of spiritual ships.15 The Roman Church, centered in the Lateran, was the ‘apex’ and ‘vertex’ of all other churches and they, as the only seven prelates permitted to approach its sacred altar and celebrate the divine mysteries, shared in its institutional essence. Indeed, Damian asserted, the role of the cardinal bishops had been foretold when the prophet Zacharias declared: ‘Behold, the stone that I laid before Jesus! Upon this one stone there are seven eyes,’16 because it was clear that the stone to which Zacharias referred was none other than that petra upon which Christ declared that he would build his church in Matthew 16.18; that is, the Petrine foundation of the Roman Church. Exploiting the symbolism 12 Peter Damian, Letter 48, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, II, pp. 52–61. For a discussion of these letters with a different emphasis, see Robinson, ‘“Polemical Allegory”’, pp. 82–84. 13 Peter Damian, Letter 97, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, III, pp. 64–83. 14 Peter Damian, Letter 48, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, II, p. 53. 15 Ibid., pp. 54–55. 16 Ibid., p. 56; see Zachariah 3.9.

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of the number seven as well as contemporary understanding of vision that understood the eye to emit light like a beam, Damian encouraged his colleagues once again to imagine themselves within the apocalyptic frame of John the Evangelist’s vision in Apocalypse 1.20: they were the seven-branched candelabrum, the seven stars, and the seven angels in the seven churches. For Damian, these various biblical symbols converge in what he presented as their common pursuit as cardinal bishops: ‘we who are like seven eyes upon one stone, who hold the image of the stars, who hold the dignity of angels because we have the duty to proclaim: let us see [like eyes], let us radiate [like stars], and let us proclaim [like angels] the words of life to the peoples not only in words but in our conduct.’17 This was not an idle exhortation, for just as the cardinals looked out upon the wide world of Christendom, so, too, the peoples of the world who came to the papal curia at the Lateran as if to the center of the Christian world needed to see in them exemplars of the religious life. Their lives and speech, therefore, had to be blameless so that they would constantly present not only to faithful laity but to priests themselves a perfect regula vivendi. This exemplarity would have an exponential effect prefigured both by Moses and in the Gospels. Just as bishops, Damian noted, took on the leadership role of the twelve apostles, so priests assumed the role of the seventy disciples. With these critical numbers – 12 and 70 – established as rooted in both the apostolic age and the contemporary ecclesiastical hierarchy, Damian then invited his colleagues to imagine their Church as the land of Elim where the Israelites took refuge after leaving Egypt and were nourished by twelve springs and seventy date palms.18 These twelve springs were the bishops, flowing with the life-giving wisdom of sacred scripture that, in turn, irrigated the priests who remain evergreen in their declaration of heavenly rewards to the people. In this trickle-down theory of salvific wisdom, the cardinal bishops played a critical role because they were the ‘teachers of priests.’ In every aspect of their being they would encourage the good and suppress the bad in the priests who observed them. Invoking the imagery of the moneyer, Damian exhorted the cardinal bishops to be like an adamantine die with hardness capable of re-imprinting a true image on the corrupted coin of priestly life while remaining unaltered themselves. In doing so, Damian claimed, they rightly shall share in the power of the keys to bind and loose given to Peter.19 17 Ibid., p. 57. 18 Ibid., p. 60. 19 Ibid., p. 61.

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It is unknown whether the imagery and exegetical arguments of Peter Damian’s letter to the cardinal bishops struck home and met with approval, were understood but politely ignored, or simply seemed puzzling, like allusions to books unread. Certainly, Damian spoke as if he were telling his colleagues what they already knew or hoped that they knew and invoking images and connections that he thought would be effective. As he initially described the ills of the contemporary world, he wrote as if they, too, were looking out on the world with the words of Paul’s letter to Timothy about the signs of the end times sounding in their ears. Likewise, he mobilized a variety of interpretive techniques, such as the association of similarly numbered items or the metaphorical connections between water and words, without comment, suggesting that these explanations should be, if not familiar and obvious, at least comprehensible. Yet, it is important to beware of the assumption that Damian expressed perspectives fully shared, or even understood, by his fellow bishops – the periodic shifts between ‘us’ (nos) and ‘you’ (vos) suggest that he believed that they still had work to do; Damian’s may well have been an aspirational text in both its goals and its arguments. Instead, through his confident linking of their identity and responsibilities with texts rich in imagery and driven by the logic and authority of biblical narratives, Damian implicitly encouraged his colleagues to reimagine themselves in these terms and thereby perceive more clearly and consistently their institutional roles through the lens of the biblical text. Six years later, Peter Damian wrote again to the cardinal bishops. He had been released, however briefly, from his episcopal duties by Pope Alexander II and had returned to the solace of the cloister once again. Yet, his former life as a pastor and advocate of reform ideals still pressed upon him. As he remarked: ‘I fled the episcopal palace, but I did not escape the bishop’.20 People continued to come to him asking for advice, relief, support, and influence as if he were still bishop. More pressing, as Damian observed the curia from a distance, was his growing concern that their role as leaders of reform and exemplars of priestly virtue was being critically compromised by their increasing preoccupation with wealth and the trappings of material power. Portraying himself as a veteran soldier, retired from the field of battle but overflowing with ‘battlefield’ wisdom to share, Damian warned the bishops: Among all the forces of vice that rage around us, and amid the dense storms of missiles raining down on us like hailstones, you should be especially 20 Peter Damian, Letter 96, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, III, p. 47.

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wary of avarice, always protecting yourself with your shield against the arrows it unleashes. This vice rushes headlong towards its objective, to inflict a lethal wound on miserable men; in the beginning though, it seeks to blind, not the eye, but the heart. […] For men still advancing in rank it furnishes with bribes and through them attacks and blinds the hearts of those who acquire the position of giving advice in high places.21

Damian elaborated this argument at length by invoking carefully chosen passages from sacred scripture, his biblical eye keyed to terms like munus/ munera, donum/dona, retributio, divitiae, as well as avaritia itself. His presentation transformed avaritia into an active enemy of the clergy, an alter diabolus, seeking through gifts of all kinds to penetrate the castrum of the clerical heart. Using passages from Isaiah, for example, Damian made clear that it was not enough for the cleric not to seek out gifts and rewards; he had to avoid liking them at all.22 The story of Samuel’s sons from II Kings made clear that the penalty for avarice was the loss of principatus and with texts drawn from the Pentateuch and prophets, he reminded his colleagues of how strongly and consistently the Bible condemned avarice, bribery, and the blindness it caused in those empowered to judge.23 Invoking passages from Ecclesiasticus – especially Ecclesiasticus 10.9-10 ‘Nothing is more wicked than avarice’ – as well as from other Old Testament books, Damian refuted the argument that the desire to acquire could be justified through the use to which one put that wealth – in essence, the ends could never justify means that involved avarice.24 To the contrary, Damian argued that avarice would vitiate the value of practically any good work in the eyes of God: almsgiving; prayer; church building; peacemaking; preaching; fortifying those doubting the faith; and celebrating the sacraments.25 In addition to rendering good deeds meaningless, avarice also made the avoidance of other sins like murder, theft, fornication, and perjury valueless.26 Indeed, using the characteristically pungent language of Ezechiel, he described how avarice had the power to turn all to filth, the stench of which enraged God: No rotting wound could smell more foul in the nostrils of God than the filth of avarice. When the greedy man accumulates sums of foul money, 21 22 23 24 25 26

Peter Damian, Letter 97, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, III, p. 65. Ibid., p. 66. Ibid. Ibid., pp. 68–9. Ibid., p. 69. Ibid.

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he piles up a mountain of filth, turning his episcopal seat into a latrine. This is why Ezechiel says: ‘Their silver shall be cast out, and their gold shall be as filth. And their silver and gold shall not be able to free them on the day of the Lord’s wrath.’27

Damian continued inexorably in his effort to demonstrate biblically the profound spiritual danger of avarice in its many-faced forms. Setting forth examples like the apostle Judas from the Gospels; Giezi, servant of Elishu, from IV Kings; and Eliu, the prophet-turned-magus from the book of Job, he showed the power of avarice to lead individuals to forsake a position of honor for one of destruction and death.28 Avarice, too, lay at the root of simony, both for the buyer and the seller of the Holy Spirit, for in both cases a desire for gain drove the individual to confound the proper order of goods, slipping eventually into idolatry.29 The Bible was not Peter Damian’s only source of arguments against avarice; he could also invoke examples from Roman history,30 as well as his own personal experience as a cardinal. Ridiculing prelates who saw honor and worth in the trappings of office rather than in proper devotion to God and pastoral care, he recalled the bishops of Trani and Ascolano, both of whom were deposed from their offices at the papal curia: ‘It profited them nothing that these wooden bishops used golden staffs since it is not the gleam of garments that creates priestly merit but the guide of spiritual virtues, and it is not shimmering pearls and gems that befit the priest but golden behavior’.31 As he concluded his letter-treatise, Damian changed tack, encouraging the cardinal bishops to imagine themselves in two distinct but convergent ways. Channeling their strong association with the city of Rome itself and its imperial legacy, Damian urged them to imagine themselves as a spiritual senate, boldly going forth as consuls to bring progressively more of the world under the benevolent dominion of the true emperor, Jesus Christ. Alternatively, they might imagine themselves in a more biblical mode, conquering new Christians through their preaching and teaching just as King David conquered the city of Rabaat, foreshadowing Christ’s own subjection of the world’s multitudes to his laws.32 In these final suggestions, both of 27 28 29 30 31 32

Ibid., pp. 67–8. Ibid., p. 71. Ibid., pp. 71–2. Ibid., pp. 74–5. Ibid., pp. 74–7, quotation at p. 77. Ibid., p. 81.

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which are centered on conquest and acquisition, Damian allowed his readers to see ways in which they might channel the force of desire to positive ends: they needed to yearn not for private material gain but for collective spiritual accumulation. But how would such victories be won? Damian’s letter proposed a complex, two-fold answer that offers significant insight into an eleventh-century theory of cognition.33 First, the bishop needed to recognize that the human heart – by which Damian seems to have meant the imagination – was an underdetermined space, a kind of empty room. Its nature would be entirely dependent on what images were allowed in or, more actively, how the individual chose to decorate it. If he filled his heart with images of bodies mingled in sex, it would become a brothel; if with sword blows and bloodlust, the imagination would become a gore-soaked battlefield; if with roasts, wines, and intricately seasoned fare, it would become a kitchen. He concluded: ‘Our mind holds the pictures of those things which it carefully meditates and paints them as so many images in action, insofar as it thinks about them as either unprofitable or useful’.34 In other words, spiritual victory depended on the prelate’s ability to re-populate the Christian ‘heart’, including his own, with the right words and images and the right objects of meditation. Such an understanding of the workings of the ‘heart’ led organically to Damian’s view on how prelates might win back diabolically detained souls whose hearts had hardened (or been wrongly populated with images) during their captivity. To explain, he again turned to the imagery of Scripture, employing the startlingly violent words of Jeremiah 23.29: ‘Are my words not like fire, says the Lord, and like a hammer crushing stone,’ in combination with imagery from II Kings: ‘He took its inhabitants and kept them under guard, drove iron carts over them, cut them to piece with knives, and transported them like bricks’. Each element Damian interpreted allegorically as another technique for positive pastoral action upon the believer’s mind: the carts – made of the impregnable metal iron and equipped conveniently with four wheels – represent the evangelists, and by extension the entire teaching of the Gospels. When these carts drove over the captive hearts, they, like clods of soil being broken by the plow, would be crushed, making them receptive to the seeds of saving doctrine. They are cut open with knives when, with the word of God – sharper than any sword – souls 33 Peter Damian’s approach to cognition awaits deeper study. Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory, does not mention Peter Damian but focuses on the twelfth-century and later centuries. For an initial probe, see van’t Spijker, ‘Peter Damian and the homo interior’. 34 Peter Damian, Letter 97, in Briefe des Petrus Damiani, III, 80.

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bloated with the pus of sin were lanced and allowed to become clean and heal. They were like bricks on a cart because, having been refined and molded, the now humble souls are baked and made firm by heat of the Holy Spirit and the love of God. In exhorting his former cardinalate colleagues to action, therefore, Damian insisted on the vital importance of scriptural knowledge and of preaching as the critical tools for pastoral victory. Yet, a necessary preliminary was the regulation and proper population of prelates’ own ‘hearts’ or imaginations, a practice he modeled in his own letter-treatise where he broke open his readers’ imaginations in carts heavy with the weight of biblical argument and scriptural analogy and pounded away on their hearts, reforming them with the hammer of preaching and fire of divine words like an evangelical blacksmith. Directed to the cardinal bishops at two distinct moments in the history of the reform curia, these two letters by Peter Damian demonstrate, if not the existence of a ‘textual community’ at the curia in Rome, then a belief that the creation of one among the cardinal bishops and eventually encompassing their fellow clergy was a key desideratum. Damian also had a clear idea of what such a community would look like: a collection of prelates whose hearts had been filled through preaching and scriptural study with the imagery and narratives of the Old and New Testaments and whose minds, as they contemplated such content, moved reflexively to relate these ideas and images to their own ecclesiastical existences. That Damian chose to emphasize biblical imagery and injunctions over other kinds of content – for example, canon law or sententiae of the church fathers – is worth noting and may have stemmed from a desire to found the textual community of the cardinalate on the most fundamental, authoritative, and widely available of authorities – the Bible – and the essential interpretive logics that might be derived from and reinforced by homily and sermon. It is clear that, for Damian in 1063, the cardinal bishops had not yet achieved such cognitive unity whether because of the fractures prompted by the disputed election of Alexander II or simply the evolving nature of the cardinalate itself – textual communities were not static. Yet, through both the exhortations and the techniques modeled in this letter, Damian may have hoped that, in this moment, his fellow cardinals and bishops would again work on themselves and their subordinates to form the kind of Christian ‘textual community’ that might serve as a model for all churches, just as the cardinals themselves were to offer a regula for the vita sacerdotalis. Damian’s letters to the cardinal bishops pursued the creation of the kinds of shared, textually grounded understandings of the world that characterized

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Brian Stock’s ‘textual community’. At the same time, Damian’s discussion of human imagination highlighted the potential challenges prelates might face in creating and maintaining such a unified cognition – a single heart – amidst the many competing focal points for the imagination. In the canonical collection known as the Breviarium composed about fifteen years later in Rome, its author, Atto, cardinal priest of the church of San Marco, bore witness to a different set of challenges to the formation of textual community in Gregorian Rome.35 Little is known about Atto prior to his emergence as the candidate in the contested election for the archbishopric of Milan. Born to a noble family in the region of Milan, Atto found himself elevated precipitously to the archbishopric of Milan, thanks to the support of the miles Erlembald, lay leader of the popular movement for clerical reform known as the Pataria. From the outset, however, his election was contested, often violently, by partisans favoring the imperial candidate Gottfried IV, and he was never able to be consecrated in the see, despite the support of popes Alexander II and Gregory VII.36 Arriving in Rome sometime after 1073, Atto was installed as the cardinal priest of the church of San Marco. Almost immediately, it seems, he began to assemble the Breviarium, a work that survives in a single witness, Vaticanus latinus 586, a manuscript that preserves either an autograph or a contemporary copy, as can be determined from the unique account of a synod in May of 1082, in which Atto participated, that is found on the manuscript’s final folium.37 As he explained in his prologue, Atto had been moved to undertake this work by what he believed to be a dangerous textual pollutant within the cognitive environment the clergy of San Marco: I know, my most beloved brethren, that there are two reasons for your ignorance. One is that the unhealthiness of the place does not allow strangers to live who could teach you. The second is that your poverty does not allow you to go places where you might learn. For these compelling 35 For an overview of Atto’s career, see Abbondanza, ‘Attone’. An English translation of the work’s preface is provided in Somerville and Brasington, Prefaces, pp. 118–121. For a discussion of the Breviarium as a canonical collection, see Fournier, ‘Les collections’, pp. 288–294. (At the time of his writing, the manuscript of Atto’s work used for the edition of Angelo Mai had not yet been identified and Fournier’s comments reflect this uncertainty), and more recently, the excellent pages of Kéry, ‘Recht im Dienst der Reform’, pp. 354–360. 36 For details, see the lucid account of Cowdrey, ‘The Papacy’. 37 Zafarana, ‘Sul “conventus”’. Interestingly, the Breviarium, which occurs on folia 91r–123v, follows a quite elaborated contemporary copy of Gregory I’s Pastoral Rule from ff.1–90v, giving the manuscript as a whole a distinctly pastoral orientation.

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reasons it has happened that an apocryphal penitential for Rome was created in a rustic style; that those who do not know the authentic canons and do not understand letters, place their faith in these fables; that these men confidently seize a priesthood of which they are unworthy; and that, as blind leaders, they fall into a ditch with their followers.38

On the one hand, Atto implicitly confirmed that his clergy were employing texts in the administration of penances to repentant sinners. In this regard, they were a functioning textual community. On the other, he identified a critical weakness in the way in which they were bringing texts to bear in shaping lives and worlds: they had chosen the wrong texts on which to depend. This mistaken trust had occurred, in turn, because they did not know enough themselves about authentic canonical decrees to know that theirs were flawed, nor did they know how properly to ‘understand’ what they were reading, a dearth of interpretive acumen that he traced back ultimately to their fundamental lack of hermeneutical leadership (teachers) and corrupted textual resources. Through his own presence and greater training, Atto may well have tried to fill the gap in hermeneutical leadership through oral instruction and quotidian training that has left no trace in the historical record. It would have been a long-term process of building habits of interpretation and specific logics of engaging texts: the ‘intelligere letteras’ of which he spoke. Yet, by composing the Breviarium – and thereby, in essence, removing the problematic lens through which this clerical community perceived and addressed the penitential needs of their community – Atto not only found a more immediate way to improve his clergy’s application of texts to world, but also to offer them an object lesson in one critical hermeneutical principal: the use of papal authority as a guide to authority. Ironically, the durability of the textual culture already present in the clergy of San Marco emerges in Atto’s extended demonstration that their penitential was apocryphal and that such texts should not be given authority. Observing that the Roman penitential that they used bore no indications of the order, age, or knowledge of the authorities it presented, Atto invoked as sufficient authority Jerome’s dictum that if a text is not bolstered by divine authority (by which he meant a clear connection to ecclesiastical authority), it should be rejected as soon as it is examined. On this criterion alone, Atto implicitly claimed, their current guidebook to penance was rendered null and void. 38 Atto, Breviarium, p. 60.

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Atto had a broader, more far-reaching point to make to his clergy about the hermeneutics of textual authority, however: the approval of the bishop of Rome was the true litmus test of canonicity. ‘For just as, according to [the book of] Job [28.1], there is a place for refining gold, so the place for minting this coin is here with us. As a consequence, no text is authoritative that has not been confirmed by the bishop of Rome’.39 He modeled the kind of textual reasoning that he wanted to see by evoking the moment when John Scotus Eriugena sent his translation of the work of Pseudo-Dionysius on divine names and the celestial hierarchy from Greek to Latin to Pope Nicholas I (858–867) for approval, a referral that Nicholas, in turn, justified by invoking the dictum of Pope Julius I (337–352) that no council was or would be valid unless it was supported by the authority of the see of Rome. The bishop of Rome was, quite literally, the gold standard to which his clerics should look when deciding what textual authorities to trust. Atto clinched his point with memorable wordplay: ‘Peter (Petrus) is the goldsmith’s stone (petra) which tests whether gold is true or false’.40 Papal authority, in other words, had to be the clerics’ gold standard, and they needed to assay the worth of all canonical coin on the basis of its purity. On this basis, he concluded, ‘the penitential of Rome – whether the person who composed it was Roman or falsely titled this crude text using the authority of the Roman church – was not valid,’ a comment that again reminded his clerics that the mere fact that something was written did not make it true and that, precisely because texts were so mutable, one needed to temper the use of texts by metatextual means. In the absence of their traditional penitential guide, Atto knew that his clergy also turned to the Decretum of Burchard of Worms for guidance, a comment that bears explicit witness both to the arrival and active use of this canonical collection in Rome as well as to the textual orientation of his clerical brethren. 41 Here, too, he urged upon them the need for epistemological caution and critical reading, because some of Burchard’s content, though valid insofar as it was not in conflict with papal decrees, nonetheless had no necessary validity outside its original home because of its lack of papal authorization. More troubling, he warned, was the fact 39 Ibid. 40 Ibid., p. 61. 41 On Burchard’s Decretum, see G. Austin, Shaping Church Law, with the literature cited there, and on Burchard’s reception in Italy, see Cushing, ‘Law, Penance, and the “Gregorian Reform”’. An eleventh-century inventory of the library and treasury of the cardinal bishop of Porto also attests to the availability of Burchard’s Decretum in the environs of Rome: Swarzenski, ‘Ein unbekanntes Bücher-und Schatzverzeichnis’, p. 130.

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that some of Burchard’s content was false, incorrectly attributed, or dealt with matters too shameful even to contemplate. These qualities, some of which the clerics of San Marco themselves had already recognized, had led them into quaedam confusio such that they did not know what to uphold and what to reject. Though they may have been blind leaders, his clerical brethren at least had become aware of their deficit and sought assistance. With his expertise now at hand, they had urged Atto to help them by providing them with a properly selected set of canons that could guide their administration of penance and resolution of cases. In formulating his solution, Atto kept several qualities of the ‘textual community’ of San Marco in mind: they were readers marked by a simplicitas in their approach to texts who could not intellectually manage the corpus decretorum as a whole. But even if they could have grasped the content intellectually, they were readers who lacked the intellectual stamina and curiosity to do so: they would get bored. 42 What Atto produced, therefore, was a canonical defloratio, or bouquet, specially selected and trimmed to offer ready and easy access to the essentials from the papal decrees and ecumenical councils (concilia transmarina). Yet, though they might be a curated and edited collection, Atto explicitly aff irmed that he had not altered any of the included texts, save to add a phrase here and there to integrate parts of the same edited text. Although such defensiveness about textual manipulation and falsification may seem ironic given the problems that Atto outlined in the community’s prior addiction to apocrypha, he may, in fact, have been reinforcing the core principle of textual integrity – forged texts must not be trusted – by explicitly conf irming that he remained true to his sources. He also cautioned that they should not expect to see indications with each canon of the original addressee for these authoritative statements – modeling themselves on the apostle (Paul), the doctores did not include these references, so neither did he. At the same time, he implied that their question about addressees, that is to say, the original context of the canonical statements, was a good one but one for a more advanced stage of study than they currently occupied. He closed likening his work in the Breviarium to that of an innkeeper touting for business: ‘Although, like an innkeeper, I am inviting you travelers to come in and sample the wine, nonetheless I ask that once you have settled in, you investigate further, lest you be condemned for ignorance’. 43 42 Atto, Breviarium, p. 61: propter fastidium legere non possetis. 43 Ibid., p. 62.

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The Breviarium was therefore meant to be a first taste, a sample, rather than a full meal of canonical fare. Atto hoped to whet, not satisfy, his colleagues’ appetites with it. Some modern commentators have suggested that Atto’s work would not have been that useful to contemporaries because of its chronological rather than thematic organization and his selection of often quite generic principles such as: ‘Nothing is more precious than a soul’ or ‘There is nothing more wretched than a shepherd who glories in the praises of wolves.’44 And it is true that the Breviarium seems to have had a limited life, surviving only in one known manuscript and having very limited, if any, use by contemporaries. 45 Yet, such an assessment perhaps views the Breviarium too much sub specie aeternitatis rather than as a work emerging in and for a very specific community of Roman clerical readers, the clerics of San Marco, to address a local crisis in jurisprudence and legal hermeneutics at a specific moment. If it was ultimately successful, Atto meant his work to become irrelevant, for the ‘textual community’ would develop the ability to recognize the right texts and have the necessary modes and powers of understanding to bring these texts into productive dialogue with their local world of pastoral care. With their minds populated and trained by such general jurisprudential principals, Atto believed that they would be provoked to further study by a cultivated belief in the centrality of canonical knowledge to their own identities as priests. At that point, this ‘textual community’ would leave aside this defloratio canonum, now prepared to engage the full corpus decretorum: the Breviarium was, in essence, designed to catalyze the positive evolution of this clerical ‘textual community.’46 Attending the conventus of curial members in May 1082 was another prelate who, like Atto, had arrived in Rome in the late 1070s and found himself quickly advanced to a position of authority: Bruno, bishop of Segni, a hill town near Rome in southern Lazio. Born in Asti and trained in the clerical schools of northern Italy, he had assumed the episcopacy in 1077/1078, having been invited by famed Vallombrosan reformer and episcopal neighbor Peter Igneus, cardinal bishop of Albano, and elected 44 Ibid., pp. 61–62. For modern skepticism about usefulness, see Kéry, ‘Recht im Dienst der Reform’, p. 359. 45 It is also worth noting in this context that Atto may have been among those prelates who ultimately abandoned Gregory VII for Clement III in 1084. If so, awareness and use of the Breviarium may have been limited by circumstance. 46 Dale Kinney (‘Rewriting the Renouveau’, in this volume) highlights a similar, communityspecif ic, reform effort of the clerical community of Santa Maria in Trastevere in 1060s that involved the production of texts such as the Rule of Aachen, liturgical texts, and a Gospel lectionary.

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by the diocese’s clergy. He served there until his death in 1123, a tenure that was combined with a nine-year period (1103–1112) when he was first monk, then abbot at Montecassino. 47 Over the course of his career, Bruno remained active in the curias of Popes Gregory VII (1073–1085), Victor III (1085–1087), Urban II (1088–1099), and Paschal II (1099–1118) as a legate, judge, advisor, and preacher. Although the information about his early career is limited, it demonstrates that he was already an accomplished exegete by the time that he arrived in Rome. In a later preface to his commentary on the Apocalypse, he noted that before he had become a bishop he had composed commentaries on both the Psalter for Bishop Ingo of Asti and the Song of Songs for the canons of the cathedral of Siena with whom he was living at the time. 48 In the vita written some fifty years after his death, too, its author made Bruno’s skill in explicating sacred scripture a central factor in his being elevated to the episcopacy, suggesting that for the local clerical community as well, his local memory was inextricably bound up with his skill in interpreting the Bible. Perhaps because the vita was composed decades after the bishop’s death, the value of its account of Bruno’s election for understanding the dynamics of the Gregorian curia has not been fully realized. Yet, the highly circumstantial nature of the account – including accounts of conversations and attention to procedure – suggests that the author was not so much inventing a narrative as transmitting personal stories that Bruno had shared with his clergy about this critical moment; as such they are worthy of closer attention. Arriving in Rome on other business from Siena, Bruno had lodged with Bishop Peter of Albano, a Vallombrosian monk and noted proponent of reform in Tuscany prior to his promotion to the see of Albano in 1074. 49 During his stay, Bruno happened to be present when Berengar of Tours was called to Rome to defend his interpretation of the eucharist; according to the Vita, Bruno was ordered by Gregory VII to dispute with him.50 Later, when interpreting a passage from Leviticus on the nature of proper sacrifice, Bruno explicitly recalled that ‘Berengar was leading us into logical conundra (impossibilia) concerning the body and blood of Christ by disputing in the manner of philosophers.’ In response, Bruno did not try to use ‘ratio’ but 47 On Bruno’s life and works, see Gigalski, Bruno, Bischof von Segni; Grégoire, Bruno de Segni; North, ‘In the shadows of reform’. 48 Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Apocalypsim, cols. 605A–C; Vita s. Brunonis c. 6, p. 479. 49 On Peter Igneus, see Miccoli, Pietro Igneo. 50 On this period in the Berengarian controversy, see now Radding and Newton, Theology, Rhetoric, and Politics with further bibliography. They do not examine this account but do note Bruno’s reference in his Expositio in Leviticum, col. 404C, to Berengar.

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instead mobilized the auctoritates fidei sanctorum to consume Berengar’s position in the fire of the spirit and love.51 After he had witnessed Bruno’s intellectual skills in some curial setting that remains uncertain, the Vita reported that Gregory spoke with Peter ‘de fratrum consilio’ and recommended that he persuade the clergy of Segni – whose bishop had recently died – to accept Bruno as their bishop, thereby enabling him, implicitly, to join the pope’s community of advisors.52 The bishop of Albano offered the pretense of ecclesiastical business in Campania and invited Bruno to accompany him. Pausing at Segni, ostensibly to rest, Bruno was invited to preach on the vacca rufa of Numbers 19. After Bruno had finished, Peter spoke with the canons without Bruno present, persuading them to elect Bruno as their new bishop. The canons readily agreed and sent to Gregory VII to approve their election. Gregory, in turn, sent secretly to Peter, urging him to persuade Bruno to accept this office and not hide away the ‘talent’ of knowledge that had been entrusted to him by God.53 He eventually did accept, moved in part by a vision in which a beautiful virgin showed him around the Lateran palace and eventually placed the ring, which she had been wearing, on his finger, and a second vision in which this same virgin showed him a basket in which seven other baskets were contained, an image he later recognized (using his skill in allegorical interpretation) as a symbol of the church of Segni and its seven dependencies.54 The evidence preserved in Bruno’s Vita thus attests to Gregory VII’s conscious, and sometimes quite elaborate, effort to recruit talented clerics to participate in the consilium fratrum based in the Lateran and encompassing the cardinals. In this case, Bruno’s special skill set seems to have been his training in biblical exegesis and his mastery of the commentaries of the fathers. The evidence of Bruno’s commentaries bears witness to his assumption almost immediately of the role of in-house expert on the meaning of the Bible for members of the cardinalate. We gain a vivid picture of this biblical study group within the cardinalate from the prologue to the first commentary – on the book of Isaiah – that Bruno wrote as bishop: Although I was asked many times by my brothers to explain to them the book of the prophet Isaiah which is of such great sweetness and pleasantness that even those who do not understand its words delight in 51 52 53 54

Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Leviticum, col. 404C Vita Sancti Brunonis, c. 7–8, pp. 479–480. Ibid., c. 10, p. 480. Ibid., c. 11, p. 480.

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hearing it, I long delayed and did not agree to their request easily, both because I thought that it was beyond my powers and because, prevented by other business, I did not have the leisure (otium) to carry out so great a project.55

The repeated incursions of King Henry IV in the area around Rome radically changed his plans. After being initially trapped by Henry’s military in the city in 1081 and early 1082 (when, as noted earlier, he participated in the conventus also attended by Atto of San Marco), Bruno tried to return to Segni to resume his episcopal duties. Captured by pro-Henrician nobles and released three months later, Bruno returned to Rome, only to be besieged with Gregory and his curia in the Castel Sant’Angelo. Though a desperate situation, this siege had an unexpected benefit: There, since I was very much at leisure and free of all worldly affairs – and especially since the venerable Damian, abbot and one of the seven deacons of the sacred palace, had asked me especially, I placed my trust in the one who says: Open your mouth and I shall fill it and began. And working on it from Christmas until Easter, I finished it.56

He closed by briefly commenting on his method: ‘Although this volume is, in itself, quite large and extensive, I have strived for brevity as much as possible, but I have not abbreviated the sententiae but have so tightly arranged everything that the book does not exceed measure and the diligent reader may find in it the material whence he can advance either my or his sermon.’57 In his pathbreaking study of polemical allegory in Bruno’s works, I.S. Robinson has noted in detail the ways in which in this commentary Bruno connected specific passages from Isaiah with the immediate political situation through what he calls a technique of ‘political allegory.’58 Yet, what can be missed in the focus on the select passages that connected overtly with themes of reform and papal power of immediate import is the fact that the majority of this large commentary was not specifically focused on such themes but rather offered the reader many different allegorical approaches that would enable him to employ this crucial prophetic text to 55 56 57 58

Amelli, ‘S. Bruno di Segni’, p. 8. Ibid., p. 9. Ibid. Robinson, ‘“Political Allegory”’, pp. 59–98, especially pp. 72–79.

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address many different, transcendent themes, from the moral evolution of the individual believer, to aspects of Christ’s mission, to the nature of the Christian community in past, present, and future. Bruno’s prologue also bears witness, as did Atto’s, to a ‘textual community’ seeking to be realized. The cardinals, led by Abbot Damian, wanted to be a textual community that participated in the dulcedo and suavitas of Isaiah and who could ‘understand’ its words rather than simply delight, in ignorance, in the flow of language. Shared through a written commentary that could then be diffused, Bruno’s expertise would help them achieve this greater interpretive capacity by providing them both with a reference work with which they could formulate their own biblically informed discourses or a treasury from which they might borrow interpretations directly. The prefaces to Bruno’s extant commentaries bear repeated witness to the desire of members of the Roman curial community for ongoing training in biblical exegesis. Looking back on the origins of his commentary on the Apocalypse, his second exegetical work composed after becoming bishop, Bruno noted: We have taken care to work on this exposition after the many others who have explained it because although they have done a good job with regard to the [individual] interpretations (sententiae), they seem to have not said much about the continuity and discontinuity of the visions. […] For this reason, some of my friends asked me to do this, and I thought it fitting to obey their request and wishes. […] I have divided the book about which we are going to speak into seven books, because even if it has many visions, there are, nonetheless, seven main ones, and even if their words are different, the argument nevertheless seems to be almost the same. For in all of them, the persecutions of the Church are narrated, except that in the last one, the buildings of the heavenly Jerusalem are described.59

As with Isaiah, so with the Apocalypse, Bruno cited friends and curial colleagues as the prime movers who spurred composition.60 Likewise, although the Apocalypse’s theme – the persecutions of the Church – would certainly find contemporary resonance during the conflict with Henry IV, Bruno seemed focused upon a narrower and more abstract set of interpretive questions – the hidden continuities and discontinuities of John’s visionary 59 Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Apocalypsim, col. 605A–C. Emphasis added. 60 His remark that he thought it f itting to accede to their request suggests a hierarchical relationship between Bruno and his friends, whether based on institutional or spiritual status.

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experience and what they convey about the larger periodizations and dynamics in the history of the Christian community. Here, again, members of the Gregorian curia emerge as readers who are curious to understand the biblical text yet dependent on Bruno to guide them. At the outset of his exposition of the book of Genesis, Bruno again invoked a colleague – his sweetest father and fellow bishop Peter – as the driving force behind composing a commentary on this first biblical book: You asked me, Peter, my sweetest father and fellow bishop, to explain the book of Genesis to you. Yet the consequence of your love for me has been so abundant that you ought rightly not to have asked but to have commanded. But because I was prevented by many matters which, as you know better than anyone, I could not fittingly avoid, I refused to fulfill your request until now and preferred to disobey for a time whom I knew to forgive readily than not to do them at all. For if I had not done them, I would also have seemed reprehensible to you. Nonetheless, if belatedly, I have finally done what you ordered by asking.61

Although the identity of this ‘Petrus’ to whom Bruno dedicated his commentary has not been determined with certainty, it seems likely that he is none other than Peter of Albano, the Vallombrosan bishop who played such a pivotal role in Bruno’s election and who had shown interest in the vacca rufa of Numbers.62 If this is correct, Bruno’s text reveals the presence of exegetical interest at the highest levels of the ‘textual community’ active within the Roman curia: the cardinal bishops. 61 Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Genesim, col. 147A. 62 Grégoire (Bruno de Segni, pp. 67–119) does discuss explicitly the dates of composition of Bruno’s various commentaries but asserts without comment that Bruno’s commentaries on the Pentateuch and the Gospels were written for Peter of Albano, who died in 1089. This terminus ante quem would require Bruno to have composed his commentaries on the Apocalypse and the other nine books of Scripture in about five years (a fast pace even for Bruno). Gigalski (Bruno, Bischof von Segni, p. 115) preferred Peter of Anagni (d. 1105) as the recipient for all commentaries, assuming that Bruno would need the quiet of his monastic retreat in 1103 to complete the work. This author (In the Shadows of Reform, 87) argued that Peter of Anagni was the probable recipient of both Pentateuch and Gospel commentaries because of the explicit interconnection made between the projects in the preface to the commentaries on the Gospels and the documented friendship between them. In doing so, however, he assumed that the ‘tu’ in the ‘tuae voluntati’ of the preface to the Gospel commentaries was the dedicatee of the Pentateuch project and, furthermore, that all of the books of the Pentateuch project were dedicated by the same recipient. Neither of these assumptions is necessary and, in fact, both are probably incorrect. It seems entirely possible for the Genesis commentary to have been composed for Peter, and the remainder of the project advanced for and at the urging of others (including the canons of Segni).

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Writing to Peter, but perhaps imagining his wider curial audience, Bruno explained that he had varied his treatment of Genesis based on his sense of its difficulty: From the beginning of the book until after the building of Noah’s ark, everything has been explained in a continuous way, because these things seemed to be more difficult and [such an exposition] seemed very necessary. From there up to the place where Jacob blesses his sons with their own blessings, we have supplied allegories for certain individual chapters – whatever seemed to require explanation – quite briefly, after briefly noting the stories first. Because the blessings of Jacob seemed to have a bit of this same difficulty, you will find them treated with a continual explanation.63

Such comments signal that Bruno composed his commentary for a specific community of readers whose general level of understanding as well as interpretive strengths and weaknesses specifically in relation to the Bible he believed he could anticipate. As he continued to work on the later books of the Pentateuch he continued this approach: treating more lightly or summarizing biblical materials that seemed straightforward or had already been explained elsewhere, while explaining more fully and deeply sections that seemed difficiliora.64 When Bruno – again at the request of an unnamed colleague (tuae voluntati obedientes) – turned to produce a commentary on the four gospels and thereby to complement his exegetical work on the Old Testament with a similar treatment of the New, he worked selectively: We have interpreted completely and in order Matthew, who comes first in the order [of the gospels], and we have composed peace and concord between him and the other evangelists wherever we thought it necessary. In Mark we have been careful to explain only what was not explained in Matthew. For it seemed pointless that what was explained already in Matthew, be explained again in Mark. We have done likewise in Luke and John, explaining only those things in these later [evangelists] that were not explained in the earlier ones. Thus, we shall have explained everything briefly, and have neither said anything pointless nor passed over anything necessary. We have divided Matthew into four parts, Luke 63 Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Genesim, col. 147A. 64 For example, in the preface to his commentary on Deuteronomy, Bruno noted: ‘Passing over what has been explained in previous books, we propose to explain the rest with God’s help, yet not everything but only certain more difficult parts’; Expositio in Deuteronomium, col. 505C.

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into two, and John into three so that, once the rubrics have been examined, the reader may more easily find what he seeks.65

This differentiated, efficiency-oriented, approach to exegetical instruction seems to have stemmed, on the one hand, from Bruno’s own practical limits as an exegetical teacher. Engaged in the duties of pastoral care and other curial business, Bruno himself – as he noted repeatedly – did not have time to dwell at length and in depth on every aspect of the biblical text as an object worthy of its own full exposition, nor did he think it necessary or even worthwhile. In this, he distinguished his approach from the attitude toward scripture that was more characteristic of monastic commentators, for whom each word or phrase of scripture could be considered worthy of extended meditation. On the other hand, that Bruno consistently decided to keep his biblical interpretations to a manageable length and to take advantage of his readers’ own skills and repeated materials to render his works more usable may also bear witness to an audience without time to spare and who needed to balance the desire to deepen their capacity to understand Scripture with many other tasks and imperatives. Bruno’s working assumption that his readers would be able to access his exposition of the other Mosaic books also points to a geographically concentrated set of readers, for it would have made little sense to refer readers to resources that would have been out of their reach. In other words, through his exegetical works, Bruno contributed both specific kinds of intellectual training and the material supports needed to disseminate these new modes of textual interpretation within the ‘textual community’ of the curia. What were the core lessons that Bruno attempted to instill in this nascent, and probably ever changing, community of Roman readers? In many regards, Bruno’s commentaries introduced and trained his readers in what might be called the classic mode of allegorical exegesis; that is, the ways in which the narratives of the Old Testament prefigured aspects of the life and teaching of Jesus Christ. At the same time, he wanted in particular to share with his readers the techniques of tropological and ecclesiological allegory that would enable them to perceive the ways in which the Bible spoke directly to their contemporary situation as Christians and clerics. As he noted at the outset of his commentary on Leviticus: Although all the sacrifices of the Jews do, in fact, proclaim in some way the passion and death of Christ, nevertheless certain of them signify 65 Bruno of Segni, Commentaria super evangelia, col. 63A–6B.

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properly in the spiritual sense that greatest and unique sacrifice which Jesus himself offered to God the Father as both priest and sacrifice, certain of them signify what is done each day by priests in the church in memory of him, still others signify the passions of the holy martyrs, while others refer to the tormenting of our own flesh, and still others the contrition of our heart and spirit.66

The figures and narratives, the prescriptions and descriptions offered by Moses, or rather, as Bruno clarified, by the Holy Spirit through Moses, thus not only foreshadowed the life and teachings of Christ to come but addressed the quotidian Christianity of clergy and people, especially the celebration of the eucharist, penance, and dimensions of the ascetic life enjoined upon all Christians but especially the clergy. Although such connections might not have surprised readers with advanced training in allegorical interpretation, evidence suggests that at least some of Bruno’s circle of curial readers viewed such connections between the deep past of the Hebrew people and Mosaic law and the present realities of clerical existence with astonished excitement. In writing to Walter, bishop of Maguelonne in southern France, Bruno, apologizing once again for the long delay in delivering a promised work, recalled with evident pleasure a moment when he, Walter, and likely the bishop of Porto and others were studying together the rituals of the tabernacle described in Exodus: When we were together a while ago on the [Tiber] Island in the house of the bishop of Porto and were reading in the book of Exodus certain typologies signifying things of great mystery about the tabernacle of testimony, the vestments of Aaron, you began to be amazed, and I began to wonder, too, that we still see things like these happen in the church, even though the old has now passed away and all things have become new. Indeed, many things are done in the dedications of churches, many things in the other sacraments of the church which seem to be done under shadow and figure no less than those things [in the Old Testament]. You therefore asked that, just as I had explained those things, I might try to explain these. I promised that I would do it but, prevented by other business, I had almost completely forgotten your request and my promise.67 66 Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Leviticum, col. 377B–C. 67 Bruno of Segni, Tractatus de Sacramentis, cols. 1089B–1091C. On the dating of this text, this author places it close to 1103/1104, when Walter would have been in Rome to have his election confirmed. For a much later date, see Hamilton, ‘To Consecrate’, p. 125.

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Although Walter was not part of the regular ‘textual community’ of the curia, this vignette offers a precious glimpse into its intimate operations: groups of clerics gathering at various locations to read and discuss aspects of sacred scripture among themselves, new ideas and perspectives being introduced, and these conversations leading to further questions and requests for written treatments. Bruno’s remembered moment also conveyed a sense of the emotional impact such conversations could have had. In this case, though Bruno himself was probably already quite familiar with the resonance and parallels between contemporary liturgies and Hebrew rituals, he portrayed himself as sharing in the wonder and excitement of Walter’s realization that his work and identity as a Christian priest might be anchored deep in sacred Scripture and that, as he performed the sacraments, he was making incarnate among the new chosen people a role foreshadowed for him (and for others) by the priests who led the chosen people of old. When viewed in the context of Peter Damian’s conception of the human heart as a mental room the walls of which required decoration, it seems clear that Walter believed that he gained through Bruno’s instruction an array of new images along with their associated values and logics, upon which his mind might now meditate as it considered its actions. Yet, such new décor was fragile and could crumble or dangerously shift without the reinforcement of these ideas made enduring in texts. When considering a movement for ecclesiastical reform centered in Rome and associated closely with the papacy, it is easy to take for granted the centrality of written authorities like the canons and sacred scripture, the advanced training of its members, the coherence of their ideas, and the consistency of their approach to texts. The utterance of any becomes an expression of the thought of many, and the modes of argument, the ideas, and the values of an individual voice take on explanatory and descriptive power for a collectivity. Indeed, the Gregorian reformers come to be treated, whether implicitly or explicitly, as a ‘textual community’ par excellence, an assembly of virtuosi rather than novices, who apply to their readings, whether of texts or images, a more or less singular and quite stable interpretive lens. To be sure, opposition and fracture within Roman curial circles are documented, yet such breaks are explained all too readily as the result of pragmatic considerations of survival or advancement. In other words, institutional rupture results from clergy going against what they know and believe rather from clergy knowing and believing something different or perhaps not knowing at all. Ignorance, inattention, inadequate or different interpretive training, and sheer puzzlement or incomprehension all too rarely enter into accounts of the dynamics of the Roman reform circle itself.

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This close analysis of three different Gregorian voices – Peter Damian, Atto of San Marco, and Bruno of Segni – has revealed a more dynamic milieu in which, though the desire of some for a coherent ‘textual community’ was strong, its realization by others remained a distant goal rather than a point of departure. In Atto’s Breviarium, textual naiveté, corrupt texts, faulty interpretive assumptions, and underdeveloped attention spans combine to threaten the health of the ‘textual community’ of San Marco and their capacity to perform their priestly duties. In Bruno’s commentaries, members of the reform curia emerge as eager but significantly underprepared interpreters of sacred scripture, lacking both the training and guiding texts necessary to make the Bible speak to them as fully they would wish both for themselves and for those dependent on them. Bruno’s repeated comments challenge the all too easy assumption that the biblical references and allusions that fill the letters and polemics advancing reform would have been fully comprehensible and have had their intended impact. Like seeds, textual references, allusions, and metaphors needed to fall upon fertile mental soil and that soil needed to be cultivated. Yet, how was such propitious mental ground to be created? It is Peter Damian’s letters to his fellow cardinals that articulate at once the imperative to form a coherent community of thinkers rooted in the reading of texts among the members of the Roman curia and the challenges inherent in human cognition that opposed such an effort. Because it had been populated constantly by images – sensory and social – that pressed upon it from its earliest days and often brought with them sensory rewards (however fleeting they might be), the reform of the clerical mind required nothing less than wholesale redecoration, a kind of cognitive conversion in which old images and patterns of thought would be discarded and new ones – rooted, above all, in the sacred words of scripture – would take their places, activating new sensibilities and proper actions. Seen in this light, the particular projects of Atto and Bruno take on new meaning as textual efforts to accomplish some of this essential and ongoing work of reforming and maintaining the Roman clergy’s cognitive approach to themselves, their institution, and the world. They represented a verbal complement to the equally ambitious visual and architectural revisions that were transforming various religious spaces in and around Rome in the late eleventh and early twelfth century.68 For both kinds of projects 68 See, for example, the studies of Riccioni, Il Mosaico and Toubert, Un art dirigé, for the Gregorian period. The Marian chapel behind the apse of Santa Pudenziana and decorated at the time of Gregory VII deserves further study in this regard. Stroll, Symbols as Power, and Perchuk,

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were, in the end, designed not as passive expressions of an imaginary, but as hard-edged tools crafted to achieve the same fundamental, if ultimately unachievable, goal of transforming the diverse and ever-changing ranks of Roman clergy, and the Roman curia in particular, into an authentic ‘textual community’ through whose leadership and example successful reform might in the end be achieved.

Bibliography Sources Atto of San Marco, Capitulare seu Breviarium canonum, ed. by Angelo Mai, in Scriptorum veterum nova collectio e Vaticanis codicibus edita, 10 vols. (Rome: Typis Vaticanis, 1825–1838), VI, pt. 2, pp. 60–100. Bruno of Segni, Commentaria in IV Evangelia, PL 165, cols. 63–604. Bruno of Segni, Commentarium in Isaiam, ed. by A. Amelli, Spicilegium Cassinese 3 (Montecassino: Typis Montis Casini, 1897). Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Apocalypsim, PL 165, cols. 603–736. Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Genesim, PL 164, cols. 147–234. Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Deuteronomium, PL 164, cols. 505–550. Bruno of Segni, Expositio in Leviticum, PL 164, cols. 233–377. Bruno of Segni, Libellus de simoniacis, ed. by Ernst Sackur, in MGH Libelli de lite imperatorum et pontificum, vol. 2 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1892), pp. 546–562. Bruno of Segni, Tractatus de Sacramentis, PL 165, cols. 1089–1110. Peter Damian, Letters, ed. by Kurt Reindel in Die Briefe des Petrus Damiani, 4 vols., MGH Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit 4 (Munich: Hahnsche Buchhandling, 1983–1993). Vita s. Brunonis Episcopi, in AASS, Julii, vol. 4 (18 July) (Paris: Victor Palmé, 1868), XXXI, pp. 478–84. ‘In the image of Elijah’ offer quite different, but equally fascinating, discussions of the use of visual environments to form and maintain communities. In this volume, Kinney (‘Rewriting the Renouveau’), in addition to providing an insightful corrective to globalizing assessments of ‘reform art’, offers a fascinating, and parallel, case study (Santa Maria in Trastevere) of the way in which individual clerical communities pursued distinctive pathways, with distinctive chronologies, of cultivating reform sensibilities. These spatial and visual transformations of different spaces in Rome, although diversely inspired, offer a material complement to the cognitive ‘remodeling’ and ‘redecoration’ that Peter Damian saw as fundamental to clerical formation.

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References Roberto Abbondanza, ‘Attone’, Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, 98 vols. (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1960-), IV (1962), pp. 564–565. Ambrogio Amelli, S. Bruno di Segni, Gregorio VII ed Enrico IV (1081–1083), illustrati da un documento inedito della Biblioteca capitolare di Verona (Montecassino: Typis di Montecassino, 1903). Greta Austin, Shaping Church Law around the Year 1000: The Decretum of Burchard of Worms, Church, Faith, and Culture in the Medieval West (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2009). Uta Renate-Blumenthal, The Investiture Controversy. Church and Monarchy from the Ninth to the Twelfth Century (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994). Ovidio Capitani, Tradizione ed interpretazione. Dialettiche ecclesiologiche del secolo XI (Milan: Jouvence, 1990). Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A study of memory in medieval culture, 2nd ed., Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). H.E.J. Cowdrey, ‘The Papacy, the Patarenes and the Church of Milan’, Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, ser. 5, 18 (1968), pp. 25–48. Kathleen G. Cushing, ‘Law, Penance, and the “Gregorian Reform”: The Case of Padua, Biblioteca del seminario vescovile MS 529’, in Canon Law, Religion, and Politics: Liber Amicorum Robert Somerville, ed. by Uta-Renate Blumenthal and others (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012), pp. 28–40. Kathleen G. Cushing, ‘Of locustae and Dangerous Men: Peter Damian, the Vallombrosans, and Eleventh-Century Reform’, Church History, 74 (2005), pp. 740–757. Fridolin Dressler, Petrus Damiani, Leben und Werke, Studia Anselmiana 34 (Rome: Sant’Anselmo, 1954). Giuseppe Fornasari, Medioevo riformato del secolo XI. Pier Damiani e Gregorio VII (Naples: Liguori editori, 1996). Paul Fournier, ‘Les collections canoniques romaines à l’époque de Grégoire VII’, Mémoires de l’Institut de France, 41 (1920), pp. 271–397. Stephan Freund, ‘Forschungen zu Petrus Damiani, 1983–1995’, Revue Mabillon, new series, 7 (1996), pp. 289–299. Stephan Freund, Studien zur literarischen Wirksamkeit des Petrus Damiani. Anhang: Johannes von Lodi, Vita Petri Damiani, MGH Studien und Texte 13 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1995). Bernhard Gigalski, Bruno, Bischof von Segni, Abt von Monte-Cassino (1049–1123). Sein Leben und seine Schriften. Ein Beitrag zur Kirchengeschichte im Zeitalter

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des Investiturstreites, Kirchengeschichtliche Studien, vol. 3, pt. 4 (Münster i. W.: H. Schöningh, 1898). Réginald Grégoire, Bruno de Segni, Exégète médiévale et théologien monastique, Centro Italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, Pubblicazioni, 3 (Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 1965). Louis I. Hamilton, ‘To Consecrate the Church: Ecclesiastical Reform and the Dedication of Churches’, in Reforming Church Before Modernity: Patterns, Problems and Approaches, ed. by C.M. Bellitto and Louis I. Hamilton, Church, Faith and Culture in the Medieval West (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 105–137. John Howe, Before the Gregorian Reform: The Latin Church at the Turn of the First Millennium (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016). Lotte Kéry, ‘Recht im Dienst der Reform. Kanonistische Sammlungen der Reformzeit und ihre “Adressaten”’, in Brief und Kommunikation im Wandel. Medien, Autoren und Kontexte in den Debatten des Investiturstreits, ed. by Florian Hartmann, Papsttum im mittelalterlichen Europa 5 (Köln: Böhlau, 2016), pp. 335–380. Johannes Laudage, Priesterbild und Reformpapsttum im 11. Jahrhundert, Beihefte zum Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 22 (Köln and Wien: Böhlau, 1984). Umberto Longo, Come angeli in terra. Pier Damiani, la santità e la riforma del secolo XI (Rome: Viella, 2012). Umberto Longo and Lila Yawn, eds., ‘Framing Clement III, (Anti)Pope, 1080–1100’, special section in Reti Medievali Journal, 13.1 (2012), pp. 115–208. Available at: https://doi.org/10.6092/1593-2214/345; last accessed 15 November 2020. Giovanni Miccoli, Chiesa Gregoriana. Ricerche sulla Riforma del secolo XI, Storici Antichi e Modemi, new ser. 17 (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1966). Giovanni Miccoli, Pietro Igneo. Studi sull’età gregoriana (Rome: Istituto Storico per il Medioevo, 1960). William North, ‘In the Shadows of Reform: Exegesis and the Formation of a Clerical Elite in the Works of Bruno, Bishop of Segni (1078/9–1123)’, PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1998. William North, ‘Polemic, Apathy, and Authorial Initiative in Gregorian Rome: The Curious Case of Bruno of Segni’, Haskins Society Journal, 10 (2002 for 2001), pp. 113–125. Alison L. Perchuk, ‘In the Image of Elijah: The Artistic Foundations of Community in a Medieval Italian Monastery’, PhD diss., Yale University, 2009. Pier Damiani: l’eremita, il teologo, il riformatore (1007–2007), ed. by Maurizio Tagliaferri (Bologna: Casa editoriale dehoniana, 2009). Prefaces to Canon Law Books in Latin Christianity: Selected Translations, 500–1245, trans. by B. Brasington and R. Somerville (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998). Charles Radding and Francis Newton, Theology, Rhetoric, and Politics in the Eucharistic Controversy, 1078–1079 (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2003).

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Stefano Riccioni, Il Mosaico absidale di S. Clemente a Roma. Exemplum della chiesa riformata, Studi e ricerche di archeologia e storia dell’arte 7 (Spoleto: Fondazione Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, 2006). Kurt Reindel, ‘Neue Literatur zu Petrus Damiani’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters, 32 (1976), pp. 405–443. I.S. Robinson, ‘“Polemical Allegory” in the Exegesis of Bruno of Segni’, Recherches de Théologie Ancienne et Médiévale, 50 (1983), pp. 59–98. Ineke van’t Spijker, ‘Peter Damian and the Homo Interior: Life as a Work of Art’, in Latin Culture in the Eleventh Century: Proceedings of the Third International Conference on Medieval Latin Studies Cambridge, September 9–12, 1998, ed. by Michael W. Herren and others, Publications of the Journal of Medieval Latin 5, 2 vols. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), II, pp. 464–475. Georg Swarzenski, ‘Ein unbekanntes Bücher- und Schatzverzeichnis des Cardinalbistums Porto aus dem XL Jahrhundert’, Römische Quartalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte, 14 (1900), pp. 128–13. Brian Stock, The Implications of Literacy. Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983). Héléne Toubert, Un art dirigé. Réforme grégorienne et iconographie (Paris: Les Editions du CERF, 1990). Gerd Tellenbach, The Church in Western Europe from the Tenth through the Early Twelfth Century, trans. by T. Reuter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). Thomas Wünsch, Spiritalis intelligentia. Zur allegorischen Bibelinterpretation des Petrus Damiani, Theorie und Forschung 190 (Regensburg: S. Roderer, 1992). Zelina Zafarana, ‘Sul “conventus” del clero romano nel 1082’, Studi medievali, 7 (1967), pp. 399–403. Jürgen Ziese, Wibert von Ravenna. Der Gegenpapst Clemens III. (1084–1100), Päpste und Papsttum 20 (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1982).

About the Author William North is professor of history and co-director of Medieval and Renaissance Studies at Carleton College in Northf ield, Minnesota. His research focuses on the culture of reform in eleventh-century Italy and his publications explore texts by Bonizo of Sutri, Bruno of Segni, and Abbot Richard of Préaux.



Manuscripts Cited

Benevento, Biblioteca Capitolare MS 20: 289 MS 29: 289 MS 30: 289 MS 33: 289 MS 34: 289 MS 35: 289, 291 MS 38: 289, 291 MS 39: 289 MS 40: 289 Cesena, Biblioteca Malatestiana Piano MS 3.210: 251-253 Cologny-Geneva, Bibliotheca Bodmeriana MS 74: 31, 279-280, 281, 282, 284, 285-288, 289-292 Corfinio, Archivio Capitolare della Cattedrale S. Pelino S.N.: 289 London, British Library MS Add. 6156: 248-249, 250-251 MS Add. 14801: 246-247, 250 Lucca, Biblioteca Capitolare Feliniana MS 490: 218 Montecassino, Archivio dell’Abbazia MS 318: 289 MS 540: 89 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana Archivio del Capitolo di S. Pietro, F 22: 292 MS Barb. lat. 603: 289 MS Vat. lat. 586: 311 MS Vat. lat. 5319: 285 n. 21, 292 MS Vat. lat. 6082: 289

Index Aachen Rule see Rule of Aachen Achilleus, saint 101 Aëtius 78, 92-93, 96, 99, 102 adventus (arrival ceremony) see processions, adventus agency 178 cultural 31, 208, 237, 240-241, 263-268 historical 22-23, 44, 240-241 top-down model and challenges to it 31, 237, 240-241, 243, 268 Agilulf, Lombard king 127-128, 134, 139, 151 Agnes, saint 154, 159-165, 170, 192-193, 198 see also apse mosaics, early medieval, at S. Agnese fuori le Mura; epigrams; Damasian epigrams, at S. Agnese fuori le Mura; Passion of St. Agnes; Rome, buildings and topography, S. Agnese fuori le Mura Alaric, king of the Visigoths 11, 16, 48-49, 117, 214 Alexander II, pope 32, 242, 246, 250, 257, 304, 306, 310-311 Alexander, Jonathan 250-251 Allen, Pauline 43, 52, 55 Ambrose, bishop of Milan 100 Ammianus Marcellinus 114-115 Anacletus II, pope 239 Anastasius, cardinal of San Clemente 242 annona see food, distributions in the annona civilis Anselm, bishop of Lucca 302 Anthemius, emperor 118, 124 antiquarianism see classical past, engagement with Apocalypse, biblical book 12, 305, 316, 319-320 imagery from 30, 180-182 Apollinaris of Ravenna, saint 156 apse mosaics, early medieval 22, 26, 29-30, 32, 158-161, 164, 177-191, 198, 238-240, 244 at S. Agnese fuori le Mura 157-160, 162, 164-166, 168, 185-186, 189, 194-195, 199 at S. Prassede 179-181-185, 189, 191 formulaic character 29, 185-190, 197, 199 hierarchical compositions 180, 182-184 inscriptions 29-30, 164-166, 168, 180, 182, 184-185, 188, 190-191, 194-200 light and 29, 180, 184, 188, 190-191 material splendor 184, 188, 191, 194 see also relics; saints; time/timelessness Aquitaine 287-288 art dirigé see agency, cultural Arcadius, emperor 89 artists 20, 239, 243, 251-253, 268 John of Venice 259 role of 31, 240, 243, 263-269

Asterius, Flavius Turcius Rufius Apronianus (consul in 494) 86 Atlantic Bibles see Giant Bibles Atto, cardinal priest of San Marco 32, 299, 303, 311-315, 319, 325 Breviarium 311-315 papal authorization of texts 313 untrustworthy texts, dangers of 311-313 see also ‘textual community’ Augustine of Hippo 87, 124, 168, 190, 200, 258 auditoriums see Rome, buildings and topography, Forum of Trajan, auditoriums auteur theory 237, 264-265 authorship and art see agency, cultural avarice 304, 306-308 Avitus, emperor 78, 94-99, 102-103 Barral i Altet, Xavier 240, 267 Belisarius, military general 56, 126-127, 214 benefactors see donors Benevento 292 Beneventan script 288 liturgy and music 285, 288-291 Beno di Rapiza 240-241, 253, 263 Berengar of Tours 316-317 biblical interpretation see exegesis bishops, Roman interactions with lay elites and other bishops 23, 27, 52, 61-65, 67-68 corruption 60-61 see also simony episcopal authority 12-13, 16, 22-23, 28, 43, 45, 53-54, 56, 62, 67-68, 111, 138-139, 216, 300-303 management of church estates 27, 50-53, 59, 61-63, 65, 67 management of relics and saints 189-191, 195, 197-198 management of the Roman church 16, 22-23, 27, 42, 50-56, 58, 62, 67-68 see also canon law; charity; clerical reform, role of cardinal bishops in; ecclesiastical food distributions; donors, papal; processions, adventus, of bishops; processions, papal Boethius, exarch of Africa 64 Boethius, philosopher 83-84 Boniface, grammarian 87 Boniface, military leader 96 Boniface I, pope 134-135, 137 Boniface IV, pope 208 Bruno, bishop of Segni 32, 299, 301-303, 315-325 allegory, use of 318, 322 Berengar of Tours, dispute with 316-317

334 

Urban Developments in L ate Antique and Medieval Rome

biblical exegesis by 316-317, 319, 320-324 readers 319-322, 325 visions of 317 Vita 316-317 see also ‘textual community’ building practices in Late Antiquity 14-15 see also renewal Burchard of Worms, Decretum 313-314 burial 30, 45 ad sanctos 213, 217 archeological evidence for 214-215 intramural 213-215 papal 216-221 war and 214-215 see also Rome, buildings and topography, St. Peter’s; saints, tombs calendar see martyrology Callixtus I, pope 246, 250 Callixtus II, pope 239, 300 canon law 53-54, 56, 300, 310, 315, 324 see also Burchard of Worms, Decretum canons see clergy, Roman Capitol see Rome, buildings and topography, Capitol/Capitoline Hill cardinals see clergy, Roman Cassiodorus 118-119, 125 catacombs see Rome, buildings and topography, catacombs Chair of St. Peter, liturgy see liturgies, Chair of St. Peter Chalcedon, Council of 60, 63-64, 223 chant 32 church buildings and 280, 283, 293 Gallican 281-282, 287-288 Gregorian 279-283, 285, 288, 292-293 incipits Alma fulget, sequence 288 Animas quas redemisti, prosula 288 Christus factus, gradual 288 Deus enim firmavit, offertory 288 Diem festum, offertory 289, 292 Dominus regnavit, alleluia 288 Dulce lignum, alleluia 288 Gloria et honore, alleluia 289 Lux eterna, communion 292 Non vos relinquam, alleluia 289 Nos autem gloriari, antiphon 287 Nos autem gloriari, communion 287 Nos autem gloriari, offertory 287 O alma crux, prosula 288 neo-Gregorian 279, 285, 288-289, 292 Roman 31, 279-293 transmission 31, 279-288 see also Benevento charity 23, 51, 65, 68, 120 centers in Rome see Rome, buildings and topography, diaconiae

ecclesiastical food distributions 27, 48, 50-52, 59 Charlemagne 28, 111, 130, 136, 138-139, 211n.26, 219, 221, 284 Childebert, Frankish king 63 Christ 160, 168, 210-211, 216, 223, 246, 304, 308, 319, 322-323 representations in church decoration 180, 182, 184-185, 253 metaphors of 258 Christianization 20, 42-43, 45, 111, 129, 132, 137 church management in Rome see bishops, management of the Roman church Cicero 110-111, 132 civilis princeps 110, 112, 116-117, 138 classical past, engagement with 26, 28, 77-78, 101, 207-212, 224, 226, 308 art 31, 238-239, 240, 245, 255, 259, 269 literature 164-165 destruction accounts 17-18, 22 poetic evocation of 28, 76-77, 99-100 see also renewal Claudian, poet 27-29, 32, 76-77, 83, 88-91, 94-96, 99-103, 117, 119 De Bello Getico 89 De Consulatu Stilichonis 90 De quarto consulatu Honorii 90-91 De sextu consulatu Honorii 75-76, 99 portrait statue of see statue(s), of Claudian in the Forum of Trajan Claussen, Peter Cornelius 238, 243, 255, 257, 259-261, 268 Clement III, antipope 241, 259-260, 301, 315 clergy advancement in a clerical career 54-55 corruption 55 private property held by 43 shortages in the clerical ranks 42, 54, 58, 66 Roman 42-43, 52, 54-55, 59, 241-242, 299-301, 323-324 art and 31, 240, 263-268 avarice and 306-308 cardinals 241-242, 265-266, 268 intellectual training of 32, 303, 310-315, 319, 325-326 manuscripts and 246 marriage and 260 networks 23 private property and 260 urban clergy 241-242 see also bishops, Roman; clerical reform clerical reform 31-32, 260, 300, 303 at Santa Maria in Trastevere 31, 237, 241-242, 246-250, 253, 260, 267-268 cardinal bishops’ role in 304-306, 308-310 Pataria 311 scripture and 304-310 texts and 32, 301-302, 324

Index

see also Atto, cardinal priest of San Marco; Bruno, bishop of Segni; Damian, Peter; Gregorian Reform; Rule of Aachen; ‘textual community’ climate see crisis, environmental cognition, clerical 299, 301, 303, 309-311, 325-326 collaboration 13 art production 31, 251, 260, 268 in governance 22-23 commanditaire 245, 263-266 Constans II, emperor 17-18, 128-132, 139, 208 Constantine, emperor 17, 20-22, 112, 114, 121-123, 130, 137-138 Constantine I, pope 135, 137 Constantina, daughter of Constantine 154157, 161 Constantinople 24, 26, 48-49, 57-58, 292 Constantius II, emperor 114-115, 123, 133, 138 cosmati work see opus sectile crisis 26 economic 24 emergency management 55-56, 58, 66, 68 environmental 16, 23-24, 44, 57 see also Late Antique Little Ice Age population displacement 42, 47, 49-52, 58, 66-67 refugees in Constantinople 47-49 refugees in Rome 27, 42, 48-49-52, 61, 68 volcanic eruption see Dust Veil Event (536 C.E.) see also epidemics; food, shortages; Rome, sieges of; war Damasian epigrams 153, 162-163, 191-199 at S. Agnese fuori le Mura 156, 191-194, 198 textual characteristics 191, 194-196, 198 visual characteristics 191, 195-198 Damasus I, pope 29, 32, 100-101, 133, 153, 156, 162-164, 192-194, 198, 212 interventions in the catacombs 191, 195, 198 see also Damasian epigrams Damian, Peter 32, 244, 299, 301, 303-311, 324-325 avarice, dangers of 306-308 biblical exegesis, use of 304-310 cardinal bishops, role of 304-306, 308-310 cognition, ideas about 309-310, 325 see also ‘textual community’ Damian, abbot and cardinal 318-319 Decius, patricius 15 Desiderius of Montecassino 32, 243, 260, 285, 289, 292 see also Victor III, pope destruction of classical works see classical past, engagement with Deusdedit, cardinal priest of San Pietro in Vincoli 302 Deusdedit, pope 162

335 Di Carpegna Falconieri, Tommaso 241-242 Dictatus papae 207 disease see epidemics Donation of Constantine 211-212 donors 18, 263-264 clerical 21 lay 15, 23, 31, 84-86, 240, 265-266, 268 papal 30, 153-154, 156-157, 163, 165, 180, 184-185, 188-191, 195, 197-198 portraits of 30, 184-185, 188, 190, 253, 266 see also patronage Dracontius, orator 86 Dust Veil Event (538 C.E.) 57 Dyer, Joseph 285 Dyggve, Ejnar 213 Ecclesia Romana see Rome, civic and cultural identity economy, of the church 23 ekphrasis 195, 197 Ennodius 46, 52 Life of Saint Epiphanius of Pavia 46 environmental crisis see crisis, environmental epidemics 59 bubonic plague 44n.7, 57, 150-151 Justinianic plague 24, 30, 44, 57n.57 epigrams 161-169, 198 see also Damasian epigrams; poetry, carmen epigraphicum episcopal authority see bishops, Roman, episcopal authority Eusebius 121 Eutharic, Ostrogothic prince 125 exegesis, biblical 304-306, 319-320 see also Bruno, bishop of Segni; Damian, Peter Ezekiel, prophet 12, 307-308 Faustus Niger, Anicius Probus 52 Felix IV, pope 153, 158, 164, 208 famine see food, shortages Filocalus, Furius Dionysius 191 Firmina, estate owner 41, 47, 49-53, 56, 61 Firminus (friend of Sidonius Apollinaris) 94 Flavianus, Nicomachus, the Elder 86 food 43, 49-52, 55, 59-61 crop failure 57 distributions by the church see charity, ecclesiastical food distributions distributions in the annona civilis 48-50, 58, 61, 63, 65 markets 49-50 shortages 27, 30, 42, 47-50, 57-61, 67-68 state bakeries in Constantinople 48 supply in Rome 49-50, 59-61 Fortunatus, Venantius 83, 86 Francia liturgical chant 279-284, 288, 292

336 

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Galla Placidia 96, 161 Gallican chant see chant, Gallican Gallienus, emperor 123, 129 Gandolfo, Francesco 239-240, 268-269 Geiseric, king of the Vandals 12 Gelasius I, pope 26-27, 32, 41, 45-56, 61-63, 67 letters by 46-54, 56 Gerontius, vir spectabilis 15 Ghiberti, Lorenzo 17 Giant Bibles 244-246, 251, 258-259, 261-262, 268 Gibbon, Edward 16-17, 43 golden letters see inscriptions, golden letters Gothic Wars 24, 28, 42, 56, 61, 126 Gottfried IV, archbishop of Milan 311 Gratian, emperor 14 Gregorian chant see chant, Gregorian Gregorian Reform 300-302, 324 art and 20, 31, 240, 243-244, 260-263, 268 church building/restoration and 243, 253, 255, 260-261 role of the papacy in 240-241 see also clerical reform; Giant Bibles; Rule of Aachen Gregorius, Master 209-210, 226 Gregory I, pope 17-18, 21, 53, 128, 130-131, 149, 151, 162, 212, 220-222, 226 Gregory II, pope 218, 250 Gregory IV, pope 223, 255 Gregory VI, pope 250 Gregory VII, pope 207, 237, 241-242, 244, 250, 257, 260-261, 301-302, 311, 315-318, 325 Gregory of Tours 190, 222 Grottaferrata see portal sculpture Gundobad, Burgundian king 46 Hadrian, emperor 80, 97 sarcophagus 207 Hadrian I, pope 130, 153, 218-219, 223 Hadrian, saint 157 Helena, mother of Constantine 156 Henry IV, king and emperor 301-302, 318-319 heresy 59, 63, 120, 131, 133, 300 classical culture associated with 17 see also Three Chapters controversy Hierius, orator 86 Hildebert of Lavardin 207, 224 Hildebrand of Sovana see Gregory VII, pope Historia Augusta 22, 113, 121 Holy Cross, liturgy see liturgies, Invention of the Holy Cross Homer 89 Honorius, emperor 12-13, 115-119, 128, 134 Honorius I, pope 18n.35, 29, 32, 149-170, 192, 194, 197-198, 212, 216, 221 Honorius III, pope 158 Innocent I, pope 250 Innocent II, pope 207, 239, 255

inscriptions 77, 84-87, 88-94, 98-99, 102, 152-154, 159-169 golden letters 29, 180, 184, 188, 190, 195, 198-199 see also apse mosaics, inscriptions; poetry, verse inscriptions Institutio canonicorum Aquisgranensis see Rule of Aachen Invention of the Holy Cross, liturgy see liturgies, Invention of the Holy Cross Investiture Controversy 238, 268 Irene, sister of Damasus 163 Isaiah, biblical book 307, 317-319 Istrian schism 151, 166-168 Itinerarium cuiusdam anglici 210-211 Jerome 11-12, 16, 87, 133, 312 Johannes Presbyter 279-280 John, exarch of Italy (687-702) 129 John VII, pope 212 John Scotus Eriugena 313 John of Venice see artists Jonas of Bobbio 152 Life of Columbanus and His Disciples 152 Julius I, pope 133, 313 Jupiter 75-76, 95, 100 Justinian, emperor 44n.7, 49, 56, 58, 60, 63, 127 see also, Pragmatic Sanction (legislation of Justinian) Justinianic Plague see epidemics, Justinianic Plague Justinianic reconquest of Italy 151 see also Justinian Klein, Naomi 27, 44, 56 Krautheimer, Richard 19-21, 206, 240, 243 Rome, Profile of a City 20-21, 177-178, 180, 237-238 Late Antique Little Ice Age 57n.56 Lateran Council (649) 25-26 law see canon law Leo I, pope 25, 30, 50, 61, 128, 161, 216-221, 223-225 Leo III, pope 136-137, 219, 222-223 Leo IV, pope 219, 255 Leo IX, pope 260, 300-301 libraries 87, 94 Liber pontificalis 22, 126, 129, 133, 135-136, 152-153, 157, 165, 208, 217-220, 223, 227, 280 Liberius, pope 133, 137 light see apse mosaics; relics litany see processions, litany liturgies Chair of St. Peter 282 Invention of the Holy Cross 282, 285-288, 292 memorial masses 101 Rogation Days 282, 287

337

Index

St. Agatha 289 stational 225-226 see also Benevento; processions Lobrichon, Guy 244-245 Lucius I, pope 132-133 Lucy, saint 157

Old St. Peter’s see Rome, buildings and topography, St. Peter’s opus sectile 239, 259, 261, 293 Ordines Romani 221, 226n.109, 280 Ostrogoths 24 Ovid 164, 191

manuscripts evangelist portraits in 251 illumination 239, 244, 250-253 made for Santa Maria in Trastevere 31, 246-252 patronage of 253 production of 251-253, 268 scripts 244, 246, 250-251 see also Giant Bibles for individual manuscripts, see Manuscripts Cited Marcellinus and Peter, saints 154-156 Maria Macellaria 240-241, 253, 263 marriage 55, 66 Martin, saint 190 Martinus Polonus, Chronicle of the Emperors and Popes 17 martyrology 246-247, 250 Maurice, emperor 168 Maurus, saint 163 Maximos the Confessor 25 Maximus (Magnus Maximus, usurper) 86, 115 McKinnon, James 282-283 Merobaudes, Flavius, poet 27, 76, 79, 88, 91-94, 96, 98, 102-103 Panegyric I 93 Panegyric II 93 portrait statue of see statue(s), of Merobaudes migration into Rome 42 military leaders 96, 98-99, 101-102 Minuto, Giovanni, cardinal 250 Mirabilia urbis Romae 207, 209-211 Monothelete controversy 151-152 Montecassino, abbey of St. Benedict 237-239, 243-244, 260-261, 283, 292, 316 mosaics see apse mosaics Moschus, John 222 Moses, prophet 305, 323

Pace, Valentino 240, 242, 258, 265-266 Palladius, Italian bishop 47-48 pallium, ritual of 63, 129 painters see artists Pammachius, patron of Jerome 12 Pancratius, saint 154-156 Panofsky, Erwin 243, 265 Renaissance and Renascences in Western Art 19 panegyrics 83 see also poetry, verse panegyrics papacy see bishops, Roman Paschal I, pope 22, 180, 213 representation in apse mosaics 184 Paschal II, pope 32, 219, 238-239, 241, 265, 316 Passifilus (Fabius Felix Passifilus Paulinus) 84-85 Passion of St. Agnes 159-161 Pataria see clerical reform patronage 206, 208, 263-266 see also donors, commanditaire Paul, saint 109-110, 124, 132, 224, 304, 306, 314 representation of 165-166, 184 see also Rome, buildings and topography, S. Paolo fuori le Mura Paul I, pope 213, 218-219, 220, 223 Paul the Deacon 119, 129, 211-212 Paulinus of Aquileia 169 Pelagius I, pope 27, 32, 42, 45, 56-67 accusations of heresy 60, 63 letters by 58-66, 68 Pelagius II, pope 29 Pepin III, king of the Franks 284 performance 115, 138-139 personification of Rome see Rome, civic and cultural identity, Roma Peter, saint 28, 53, 56, 119-120, 124, 126, 167, 169, 224, 250, 305, 313 as rock (petrus) 168, 216, 313 patrimony of St. Peter see bishops, management of church estates representations of 165-166, 184 see also Rome, buildings and topography, St. Peter’s Peter Igneus, cardinal bishop of Albano 315317, 320 Petrus Mallius, Descriptio Basilicae Vaticanae 219 Philip ‘the Arab’, emperor 121 Phocas, emperor 151, 208 Placidus, father of Sapaudus of Arles 61, 67

Narses 56, 61, 65, 68, 127, 138 Neil, Bronwen 43, 52, 55 Nereus, saint 101 Nicholas I, pope 313 Nicholas II, pope 250, 301 Nicholas IV, pope 261 Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae 218-219, 222 Notker of St Gall, Gesta Karoli 284 occursus (welcoming party) 111, 114-115, 118, 120, 125-126, 128-130, 134, 137 Odoacer, king of Italy 42, 46, 47n.17, 49, 53

338 

Urban Developments in L ate Antique and Medieval Rome

plague, Justinianic see epidemics, bubonic plague; epidemics, Justinianic plague Pliny the Younger 94 poetry about the martyrs 100-101, 162-164 carmen epigraphicum 153, 162-164 epic 27, 76-77, 89, 101, 104 performance of 27, 77-88, 90, 94, 96-97, 101, 103 verse epitaphs 152, 162 verse inscriptions in catacombs and churches 100-101, 153, 161-169 see also apse mosaics, inscriptions verse inscriptions in civic contexts 88-89 verse panegyrics (epic panegyrics) 27, 76n.3, 78, 96, 99-102, 104 see also Claudian; Damasian epigrams; epigrams; Merobaudes; Sidonius Apollinaris political turbulence in Rome 46, 78, 93, 102 popes see bishops, Roman population see crisis, population displacement portal sculpture and Gregorian Reform 258-259 Grottaferrata 257-258 S. Apollinare 257 S. Giovanni a Porta Latina 257-258 S. Maria in Trastevere 31, 255-257-258, 268 S. Paolo fuori le Mura 182-183, 217, 262, 280 S. Pudenziana 257, 259 Salerno Cathedral 258 poverty 51, 61-62, 64-65, 67 Pragmatic Sanction (legislation of Justinian) 58, 65 Praxedes, saint representation in apse mosaics 183-184 see also Rome, buildings and topography, S. Prassede processions adventus 28, 110-139 route 110, 118, 121-123, 135, 137-139 of bishops 132-137 see also occursus (welcoming party) collecta 135, 137 litany 31, 225-227 papal 60-61 to St. Peter’s, Rome 124-130, 135-137, 226-227 triumph 112-114, 116-118, 127 see also Rome, civic identity of, rituals as a representation of Procopius, historian 46, 56, 59, 214, 215, 224 property loss of 41 management of 43, 50, 59 see also bishops, management of church estates

Pudentiana, saint representation in apse mosaics 183-184 see also Rome, buildings and topography, S. Pudenziana Quintinianus, poet 96 Rainerio, cardinal-priest of S. Clemente see Paschal II, pope Ravenna 42, 46-47, 54, 127, 301, 303 reform see clerical reform; Gregorian reform refugees see crisis, refugees in Constantinople; crisis, refugees in Rome relics 22, 30, 198 apse mosaics and 184, 189-191, 197-198, 200 light and 30, 190 liturgical settings for 191, 199 translation of 198, 213, 215, 220 Leo I 30, 217-221 St. Petronilla 218-219 of St. Peter 218, 220, 221-223 see also bishops, management of relics and saints renascence see renewal renaissance see renewal renewal Carolingian period and 19, 21-22 discourse in medieval studies 11, 18-22, 26-27, 45, 177-178, 189, 200 literary ‘renaissance’ 77, 150-152, 162, 170 resurgence in building activity 152, 161-162 see also classical past, engagement with; clerical reform; Gregorian Reform, art and; Rome, city renouveau see Gregorian Reform and art resilience 11, 23-26, 45, 67 theoretical paradigm 25 Riccioni, Stefano 238, 259 Ricimer 77 ripescaggio 269 Rogation Days, liturgy see liturgies, Rogation Days Roma (personification of Rome in poetry) see Rome, civic and cultural identity Roman chant see chant, Roman Romano, Serena 238-239, 243, 265, 269 Rome, buildings and topography Arch of Constantine 112, 114 Athenaeum 97 auditoriums see below Forum of Trajan Aurelian Walls 13, 154 Basilica Ulpia 86 Capitol/Capitoline Hill 11, 28, 111, 113, 121-123, 125-127, 137-138 Castel Sant’Angelo see below Mausoleum of Hadrian catacombs 195 of St. Agnes 192 see also Damasus I, pope

Index

Colosseum 15 Column of Trajan 84, 94, 97 Crypta Balbi 14 Curia Senatus see below Senate House diaconiae 23-24 Forum of Trajan 13n.12, 14, 27-28, 76-91, 94, 96-98, 101-104 auditoriums in 27-28, 79-84, 82n.11, 87-88, 94, 97, 102-103 educational and literary activities in 27, 79, 86-88, 101-103 libraries in 84, 86, 94, 97 see also statue(s), portrait statues displayed in the Forum of Trajan Forum of Peace (Templum Pacis) 14, 87, 158 house under the palazzo of the Assicurazioni Generali di Venezia 86 imperial palace 100, 111, 118, 137 Janiculum Hill 61 Lateran basilica and complex 14, 111, 137-138, 280 S. Venanzio Chapel mosaic decoration 185, 187-189 relics 190 Mausoleum of Hadrian (Castel Sant’Angelo) 136, 223, 226, 318 Milvian Bridge 112, 136-137 Meta Romuli 224 Oratory of Maria Santissima Addolorata 255 Palatine Hill 12, 118, 127, 131, 137-138 Pantheon 30, 207-211 see also below S. Maria ad Martyres Roman Forum 77, 98, 118, 121, 137, 158 see also statue(s), portrait statues displayed in the Roman Forum S. Adriano 157 S. Agnese fuori le Mura 29, 154, 156-161, 164-166, 190, 192-193, 197-199 relics 190 see also apse mosaics, Damasian epigrams S. Apollinare 257 S. Callisto, cemetery of 163 S. Cecilia in Trastevere 31-32, 185, 187-189, 197, 260-261, 292 relics 190 S. Clemente 21, 241-242, 261 apse mosaic 238, 240, 243-244 mural painting in lower church 239240, 242-244, 253, 257, 263-265, 267-268 see also Beno di Rapiza, Maria Macellaria SS. Cosma e Damiano 14, 30, 153, 158-159, 164, 208 mosaic decoration 30, 181-182, 185-186, 189-190 relics 190

339 S. Giovanni a Porta Latina 257-258 S. Lorenzo fuori le Mura 153-154, 158, 217, 280 S. Lucia in Selci 157 SS. Marcellino e Pietro 154, 156 S. Marco 30, 32, 299, 303, 311-312, 314-315, 325 mosaic decoration 30, 181, 183, 185, 189, 197 relics 190 S. Maria ad Martyres (former Pantheon) 135, 137 S. Maria Antiqua 215, 223 S. Maria in Cosmedin 259 S. Maria Maggiore 21, 153, 226-227, 280 S. Maria in Trastevere 21, 31, 237-239, 243, 244, 253, 260-261, 263, 267-268, 315, 326 see also clerical reform; manuscripts; portal sculpture SS. Quattro Coronati 157 S. Pancrazio 61, 154, 156 S. Paolo fuori le Mura 154, 161-162, 244, 261, 280 mosaic decoration 181-183 tomb of St. Paul 124, 156 St. Peter’s 14, 21-22, 28-29, 111, 120-121, 123-128, 130-131, 133, 135-138, 154-156, 161, 165-169, 206, 243, 261, 280, 283 atrium 210-211, 221 burial at 217, 221 mausoleum of Honorius 206, 222, 224 tomb of Pope Leo I 30, 216-221 tomb of Pope Paul I 219, 223 tomb of St. Peter and annular crypt 30-31, 124, 218, 221-222, 225 Chapel of St. Andrew 218, 222, 225 Chapel and Altar of St. Petronilla 218219, 222 doors 29, 165-168 Oratory of Pope John VII 257 pilgrims and 30, 218, 221-225 processions to see processions, to St. Peter’s, Rome Secretarium 216 S. Pietro in Vincoli 211 S. Prassede 21-22, 30, 179-180 relics 30, 190, 197 see also apse mosaics S. Pudenziana see portal sculpture apse mosaic 182, 184 S. Sabina 21 S. Stefano Rotondo 153 S. Venanzio Chapel see above Lateran basilica and complex S. Urbano alla Caffarella 266 Senate House (Curia Senatus) 30, 119, 157

340 

Urban Developments in L ate Antique and Medieval Rome

Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus 111, 121, 127, 138 Temple of Trajan and Plotina 79-80 Temple of Venus and Roma 156 Templum Pacis see Rome, Forum of Peace Tiber River 126 Vatican obelisk 222, 224 xenodochia 23-24 Rome, city economy 49, 57, 61-62 Greek community in 25-26 re-use and repurposing of building materials and structures 14-15, 23, 30, 157-158, 170 sieges of 56-59 preservation and repair of ancient heritage 13-15, 76, 84-85, 90, 97, 100-104 see also, sack of Rome (410); sack of Rome (455) Rome, civic and cultural identity continuity 26 decline, narratives of 11-12, 44-45, 126 Ecclesia Romana 198-199 holy city 25-26, 30, 205-227 imperial capital 11-12, 30, 90-91, 94, 99, 101 intellectual life of 87 literary production in 76, 96, 102-104 mirror of Roman empire 15-16 rituals as a representation of 115 Roma (personification of Rome in poetry) 17, 27-28, 76-78, 88-89, 92-93, 95, 99-101, 103-104 Rome, empire 24 decline, narratives of 11-12, 16, 126 reflection in city 15-16 Rule of Aachen 242, 246, 250, 260 sack of Rome (410) 11, 16, 49, 78 sack of Rome (455) 12, 78, 97 see also Vandals St. Agatha, liturgy see liturgies, St. Agatha saints 26, 180, 191, 195, 199 as intercessors 180, 191, 194-195, 197-198 in apse mosaics 30, 180, 182-185, 188, 190, 197, 199-200 communio sanctorum 30, 196-197, 199-200 images of see apse mosaics, early medieval spatial and temporal networks of 197-200 tombs of 154-156, 159, 163-164, 191-192, 194-196, 198-199 see also Rome, buildings and topography, St. Peter’s veneration of 22 see also bishops of Rome, management of relics and saints; Damasian epigrams; time/timelessness Salzman, Michele 18, 50 Salvatio civium legend 209-210 Sant’Angelo in Formis 283

Sapaudus, bishop of Arles 61, 63-64 sculptors see artists Senate see senators of Rome spiritual 308 senators of Rome 13, 28, 110-111, 114-115, 118-120, 126, 129, 131, 136 Septimius Severus, emperor 111, 113-114, 118, 128, 138 Sergius I, patriarch of Constantinople 151 Sergius I, pope 30, 32, 216-219-221, 223-224, 227 Sidonius Apollinaris, poet 27, 76, 79, 88, 94-98, 102-103, 125-126 letters 94, 96 Panegyric on Avitus 94n.55, 95 portrait statue of see statue(s), of Sidonius Apollinaris Silverius, pope 59, 59n.63, 126 Silvester I, pope 17 simony 61, 308 Siricius, pope 54, 66 Sixth Ecumenical Council 152 Sixtus I, pope 101 Sixtus III, pope 153 Song of Songs 316 statue(s) of Claudian in the Forum of Trajan 27, 76, 79, 88-91, 94, 99, 101 of Merobaudes in the Forum of Trajan 27, 76, 79, 88, 91-94, 96, 98-99 of Sidonius Apollinaris in the Forum of Trajan 27, 76, 79, 88, 94-98 portrait statues displayed in the Forum of Trajan 77, 84-95, 97-99 portrait statues displayed in the Roman Forum 77 portraits of literary figures 87-98, 101 Stephen II, pope 119-120, 128, 136-137, 284 Stephen IX, pope 32, 303 Stilicho 77, 90-91, 99-100, 102, 119 Stock, Brian 299-300, 311 Suetonius, historian 22 sylloges 218 Symmachus, pope 119-120, 128, 206, 217, 225 Symmachus, Q. Aurelius 100 Tacitus, historian 11 ‘textual community’ 299-300, 302-303, 310-312, 314-315, 319-320, 322, 324-326 Theodahad, Ostrogothic king 126 Theoderic, king of Italy 42, 46-47, 49, 53, 119-120, 123, 125, 128, 130, 132, 138-139 Theodore, pope 212 Theodosius I, emperor 77, 116-117, 124 Theodosius II, emperor 86, 92, 118, 124 Three Chapters controversy 59-60, 63 time/timelessness apse mosaics and 29, 32, 178, 182, 188, 198-200 continuous present 177-178, 200 unity among churches 198

341

Index

Totila 59 Toubert, Hélène 20, 237-243, 263-265, 267-269 Trajan, emperor 28, 77, 84, 90, 94-95, 97, 101-103, 112 triumph see processions, triumph Uberti, Fazio degli, Il Dittamondo 17 Urban II, pope 241, 316 Ursinus, pope 133-134 Valens, emperor 14 Valentinian II, emperor 14, 100 Valentinian III, emperor 12, 77, 86, 92-93, 96, 101, 103, 118, 124, 128 Valentinus, saint 154-156 Valerianus, Priscus, prefect of Gaul 94 Vallombrosa 315-316, 320 Vandals 23, 47 Vasari, Giorgio 17-18 Vergil, poet 18, 28-29, 86, 89, 164-165, 198 Vespasian, emperor 208 Victor III, pope 241, 316 see also Desiderius of Montecassino

Victor, Sextus Aurelius, historian 22, 86, 97 Victorinus, Marius 87 Vigilius, pope 58-60, 68, 126 vita sacerdotalis 310 Vitalian, pope 208 Vitellius, emperor 112-113 Walter, bishop of Maguelonne 323-324 war 27, 42, 46, 49, 53, 55, 61-62, 66-68, 97, 102-103, 114-117, 126 see also Gothic Wars Wibert of Ravenna see Clement III, antipope Wickham, Chris 23, 240-241 Yawn, Lila 242, 245, 251 Zeno, emperor 42 Zeno, saint 184 Zosimus, New History 214, 215 Zacharias, pope 135, 137 Zacharias, prophet 304 Zosimus, historian 122-123