Medieval Cyprus: A Place of Cultural Encounter 3830933606, 9783830933601

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Schriften des Instituts für Interdisziplinäre Zypern-Studien volume 11

edited by Institut für Interdisziplinäre Zypern-Studien Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster

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Sabine Rogge, Michael Grünbart (eds.)

Medieval Cyprus A Place of Cultural Encounter Conference in Münster, 6–8 December 2012

Waxmann 2015

Münster • New York

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We would like to thank the Cluster of Excellence ‘Religion and Politics in Pre-Modern and Modern Cultures’ based at the University of Münster for the generous support with regard to printing costs.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de Print-ISBN 978‑3‑8309‑3360‑1 Ebook-ISBN 978‑3‑8309‑8360‑6 © Waxmann Verlag GmbH, 2015 Münster, Germany www.waxmann.com [email protected] Cover Design: Pleßmann Design, Ascheberg Cover Picture: Detail of a map of Cyprus by Abraham Ortelius, first edited in 1584; after Kostas Papavassilis, Cyprus – Maps, Views of Landscapes and Cities, Portraits of Historic Persons (Münster 2007) no. 17 on page 36. Print: Hubert & Co., Göttingen Printed on age-resistant paper, acid-free according to ISO 9706

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Contents

Preface Sabine Rogge, Michael Grünbart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Section I: History Michael Grünbart How to Become an Emperor: The Ascension of Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Peter Edbury Ernoul, Eracles and the Beginnings of Frankish Rule in Cyprus, 1191–1232 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 K. Scott Parker Peter I de Lusignan, the Crusade of 1365, and the Oriental Christians of Cyprus and the Mamluk Sultanate . . . . . . . . 53 Alexander Beihammer The Kingdom of Cyprus in the First Ottoman-Venetian War (1463–1479): Aspects of its Military and Political Significance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Christopher Schabel The Bullarium Cyprium: The Ongoing Mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Section II: Economy and Trade Tassos Papacostas Monastic Estates in the Middle Byzantine Period: Evidence from Cyprus for Local and Overseas Landowners . . . . . . . . . . 123 Marina Solomidou-Ieronymidou Sugar Mills and Sugar Production in Medieval Cyprus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Nicholas Coureas Islands East and West: Commerce between Cyprus, Majorca and Sardinia in the Early Fourteenth Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

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Section III: Material Culture Eleni Procopiou The Excavations at Akrotiri-Katalymata ton Plakoton 2007–2014 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Maria Parani Living in a Sweet Land: The Material Culture of Daily Life on Cyprus, 13th–14th Centuries . . . . . 219 Joanita Vroom Strike a Pose: Human Representations and Gestures on Medieval Ceramics from Cyprus (ca. 13th–15th/16th Centuries) . . . . . . 245 Ulrike Ritzerfeld The Language of Power: Transgressing Borders in Luxury Metal Objects of the Lusignan . . . . . . . 277 Michalis Olympios Resting in Pieces: Gothic Architecture in Cyprus in the Long Fifteenth Century . . . . . . . . . 309 Section IV: Settlement Patterns Myrto Veikou One Island, three Capitals – Insularity and the Successive Relocations of the Capital of Cyprus from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages . . . . . . 357

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Preface In December 2012 a three-day conference on medieval Cyprus was held in Münster, organized by two institutes of the University of Münster: the Institute of Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies and the Institute for Interdisciplinary Cypriot Studies. The invited scholars – all experts concerning the history and culture of Byzantine/Medieval Cyprus – convincingly demonstrated that the third biggest Mediterranean island with its multifaceted history and culture forms one of the most intriguing regions of the Mediterranean, where cross-fertilization and multidirectional processes of exchange and influence can be studied with profit. Several papers of this volume deal with the (political) history of the island. The reign of Isaakios Komnenos, who established himself as an antiemperor and dominated the island for a short period (from 1185 to 1191) is the topic of Michael Grünbart’s paper. Peter Edbury, by concentrating on the compilation and rearrangement of old French sources which depend on William of Tyre, investigates the beginnings of Frankish rule in Cyprus. To show how attentively written records have to be treated and interpreted is one of the main concerns of this paper. The Lusignan king Peter I is the person on which the paper of Scott Parker focusses. Parker offers a close look at the Oriental Christian confessions in Cyprus and analyses the effects of King Peter’s crusade in 1365. Alexander Beihammer reconstructs the role of the kingdom of Cyprus during the so-called first Ottoman-Venetian war (1463–1479), and Christopher Schabel draws the readers’ attention to the three volumes of the Bullarium Cyprium, in which many papal letters pertaining to Cypriot issues from 1196 to 1378 are published. Aspects of economic life in medieval Cyprus are treated in the papers of Tassos Papacostas, Marina Solomidou-Ieronymidou and Nicholas Coureas. Papacostas provides insight into the organisation, management and economic activities of monastic estates in the Middle Byzantine period; he emphasizes how land tenure was controlled by magnates from the island and by overseas landowners. Solomidou-Ieronymidou presents the impressive remains of several medieval sugar mills, which were erected during the Lusignan period, when the island became famous for its cane sugar production. These sugar mills can be analysed as pre-industrial production 7

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sites showing a highly organized work process. Coureas’ paper deals with the commerce between Cyprus and two other islands in the Mediterranean: Majorca and Sardinia. He shows that the island of Cyprus, maintaining an important geopolitical position and being well equipped with attractive agricultural areas, can be labelled a central region in the commercial network of the Mediterranean basin. The diverse material culture of medieval Cyprus is presented and discussed in several papers: Eleni Procopiou delivers a report on a major ecclesiastical complex close to the western shore of the Akrotiri Peninsula dating from the early 7th century. The ongoing excavations have revealed the remains of a unique structure on Cyprus, most probably to be interpreted as a martyrion. Cypriot artefacts of the 13th and 14th centuries and their function in daily life are presented by Maria Parani, whereas Joanita Vroom explores iconographic aspects of human depictions on ceramics produced in Cypriot kilns from the 13th until the 16th century. The paper of Ulrike Ritzerfeld focuses on luxury metal objects from the Lusignan period, which were doubtless influenced by Mamluk metal ware but possibly manufactured in Cyprus and not in Mamluk dominated areas. Michalis Olympios deals with rather disparate material in his paper on 15th-century architecture in Cyprus. However, in many cases the unfortunately undated and unprovenanced architectural elements enable a better understanding of the island’s Gothic architecture stemming from a period which is poorly documented compared to structures dating from the centuries before and after. Last but not least Myrto Veiko covers both the topics of settlement patterns and insularity. Looking at the successive relocations of the capital of the island of Cyprus from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, she starts a fruitful discussion on settlement transformation in island systems of the Eastern Mediterranean, thereby comparing the situation on Cyprus to the situation on the islands of Andros and Sicily. Finally, we would like to thank the Cyprus Ministry of Education and Culture and the International Office of the University of Münster for the financial support they granted to the conference. The Cluster of Excellence ‘Religion and Politics in Pre-Modern and Modern Cultures’ based at the University of Münster deserves our gratitude for the printing cost subsidies. At last three persons, who voluntarily helped with regard to translation, editorial and layout work, deserve our special thanks: Zachary Chitwood, Ulla Kreilinger and Thorsten Kruse. Sabine Rogge & Michael Grünbart Münster, summer 2015 8

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Section I: History

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Michael Grünbart

How to Become an Emperor: The Ascension of Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus) In contrast to the common opinion of a static appearance of the East Roman court and its representatives political history was a field of nervous ups and downs.1 Investigating and reconstructing Byzantine rulership in the Middle Byzantine period (9th–12th centuries), it becomes evident that the emperor often had to face rebellions and usurpations.2 Byzantine historiographers speak about stasis, epibouleuma or tyrannis, which means insurrection, conspiracy and tyranny.3 The term ‘usurpation’ can be used in a narrower and a broader sense (with smooth transition): 1. Firstly, a usurper is an illegitimate or controversial claimant to power supported by a group of loyal followers (‘Gefolgschaft’)4 or a military unit.5 Usurpation was accompanied by various rituals: The acclamation formed one of the main elements in ascending the throne,6 the enthronement and coronation followed in the course of the ceremonial develop­ment at the Byzantine court.7 Furthermore the usurper threw down the gauntlet by slipping in purple stockings: Purple symbolized power since the Hellenistic monarchies and the Roman emperors used it in various manners.8 Wearing purple stockings should not be exclusively understood in figurative or metaphoric sense, crimson footwear is depicted in different media.9 The 1

The eleventh century is in the focus of research since the turn of the 21st century, see the volume edited by Vasiliki Blysidou (Blysidou 2003). 2 See the systematic collection by Cheynet 1990; Lilie 2008; Heher 2015. 3 Cheynet 1995. On ‘civil war’ see Stouraitis 2010. 4 Beck 1965. 5 Kaegi 1981. 6 Dagron 2003, 27–29 (examples). 7 Lilie 1995. 8 Reinhold 1970; Blum 1998. 9 Dagron 2003, 173, 246–247. Codex Marcianus Graecus 17 provides the well-known image of Basil II wearing crimson boots and Roman military dress; he thus imitated king David, see Stephenson 2001.

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Michael Grünbart

importance of this distinctive element connoting power increased, since usurpers could not refer to having been born in the purple chamber of the imperial palace.10 The goal of a usurper was to enter the capital Constantinople and to overthrow, kill or chase away the ruling emperor; the next step was to affiliate to members of the predecessor’s family, e.g. via adoption or marriage. Romanos (I) Lakapenos (920–944) is one of the best examples demonstrating the process of establishing an own dynasty. He made his sons co-emperors and married his daughter Helene to the purpleborn Constantine (VII), son of Leo VI and Zoe Karbonopsina.11 A usurper focuses on the achievement of the emperorship (‘Kaisertum’) and control of the whole Roman territory (oikumene). ‘Kaisertum’ as a type of government was never discussed in Byzantine times12 (with one exception: in the late medieval period models of rulership based on antique philosophy were disputed at the Byzantine court in Mistras).13 To put it concisely: it were its exponents who became the objectives of criticism and attack.14 2. The second form of usurpation including elements of opposition to the sole emperor emerged and developed at the end of the middle Byzantine period: Several examples of local rulers are recorded, who tried to establish their own dominion adopting and imitating imperial habits. In 10th century Asia Minor so-called magnates acquired large estates and they often hired their own troops in order to defend their possessions against external (e.g. Arab or Seljuk troops) or internal enemies (e.g. tax-collectors). But they did not primarily think about seizing imperial power or using the emperor’s insignia (with a few exceptions), they intended to keep their independency (although they were tied to the central, imperial government by both bonds of kinship and function). In the last decades of the 12th century, however, some powerful lords openly acted as opponents to the ruling emperor and his court in the centre of the empire.15 Constantinople was still in the political and ideological focus of the shrinking Byzantine dominion. It became apparent that the centralized control of the empire weakened and gradually van10 11 12 13 14 15

Dagron 1994. Runciman 1929. Grünbart 2013. See now Hladký 2014. Tinnefeld 1971; Magdalino 1983. Hoffmann 1974 speaks of ‘Rudimente von Territorialstaaten’ (the term ‘Staat’ includes the idea of producing emblems like coins and sealed charters); Lilie 1984. Consult now Burkhardt 2014, 57–66.

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The Ascension of Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus)

ished. This process is often repeated in world history. The legally established emperor had to fight or to campaign against a counterpart, the anti-emperor seizing parts of the empire (‘Gegenkaiser’). This instance has to be kept in mind for the following presentation. A sample of investigations concerning late antique patterns of usurpations has been published quite recently by Joachim Szidat, François Paschoud and Egon Flaig.16 Jean-Claude Cheynet studied all Byzantine anti-imperial undertakings from 963 to 1210.17 The following diagram indicates a change of frequency in 12th-century Byzantium: A period of long-lasting rulerships ended after the death of Manuel I Komnenos in 118018 and the unstable political situation produced a series of usurpations leading to the disaster of 1202–1204 (Fourth Crusade) and the capture of Constantinople by Western auxiliaries; it generated a series of wrong emperors as well, especially the murdered Alexios II (†1183) re-appeared several times reflecting the desire for stability and regime.19 The following diagram shows emperors, their years of reign, usurpations during their reigns and the average number of usurpations during a year. 20

Emperor

Reign (years)

Cheynet 1990

Usurpations

Usurpations per year

Alexios I

1081–1118 (37)

nrs. 114–134

21

0,5

John II

1118–1143 (25)

nrs. 135–140

6

0,25

Manuel I

1143–1180 (37)

nrs. 141–154

14

0,4

Andronikos I + Alexios II

1180–1183 (3)

nrs. 155–158

4

1,3

Andronikos I

1183–1185 (2)

nrs. 159–163

5

2,5

Isaakios Angelos

1185–1195 (10)

nrs. 164–180

17

1,7

Alexios III

1195–1203 (8)

nrs. 181–199

19

2,4

Alexios IV

1203–1204 (1)

nrs. 200–204

5

5

Alexios V

1204 (1)

nrs. 205–207

3

3

16 Flaig 1992; Szidat 2010; Paschoud – Szidat 1997; Elbern 1984. See also Pfeilschifter 2013 on the central role of Constantinople. 17 Cheynet 1990. 18 Magdalino 1993 brilliantly describes his career. 19 This phenomenon is discussed by Menzel 2012 (Byzantine ‘wrong’ emperors in chapter 5: Byzantinische Geschichten, 85–105). See also Hoffmann 1974, 89 and Burkhardt 2014, 113–117; Schwinges 1987. 20 Cheynet 1990.

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Michael Grünbart

It is evident that the number of usurpations definitely increased after the death of Manuel I Komnenos. Alexios I Komnenos was the founder of the new dynasty, he diligently organized his reign by emphasizing on family ties; comparing Alexios I and Manuel I, both holding their office for the same duration, it becomes apparent that attempts of usurping power (in relationship to duration of reigns) minimized; after Manuel’s death periods of rulership shrank and numbers of usurpations increased significantly. In the following I will discuss the lives and political strategies of two usurpers, whose tenures of office overlap for a short period and whose careers intermingled in various ways: Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus)21 and Andronikos Komnenos.22 Reading the main Greek sources we obtain the impression of two rivals competing in their cruelties.23 Two Byzantine writers have to be consulted in order to reconstruct Isaakios’ life. The first one is the historiographer Niketas Choniates flourishing in the late 12th and the beginning of the 13th century;24 he introduces him in his historiography as ‘a man, called Isaakios, from best lineage, not to be intermingled with Angelos Isaakios’.25 The first phrase τις ἀνήρ suggests the negative attitude of the writer towards Isaakios – his description turns even worse. But is has to be noted that Niketas did not bury him in oblivion by deleting his name, a stylistic feature used for example by Anna Komnene a century earlier. The Cypriot monk Neophytos Enkleistos living in the same period provides some information on the life of our protagonist.26 He opens his ‘Misfortunes of the land of Cyprus’ with a rather pessimistic proem: ‘A cloud veils the sun, and a mist mountains and hills, and these for a while shut out the warmth and bright ray of the sun; and us too, for now twelve years, a cloud and mist, of successive calamities which have befallen our country, wrap round. For Jerusalem having fallen under the rule of the godless Saladin, and Cyprus under that of Isaac Comnenus, fights thenceforth and wars, tumult 21 Blachos 1974; Hoffmann 1974, 86–89; Rudt de Collenberg 1968; Barzos 1984, no. 229; Magdalino 1993, 197–201; Blachopoulou 2002; Metcalf 2009, 558–565; Burkhardt 2014, 57. For a general history of Cyprus see Hill 1949 22 Jurewicz 1970, Barzos 1984, no. 87. 23 The image of Andronikos in Latin historiography has been discussed by Savvas 2012; it is resonating until the 20th century, see Pontani 2003. 24 See now the overview to the historiographical work of Niketas and his personality by Simpson 2013. 25 Nicetae Choniatae historia, 290, 12–13: ‘Ἦν δέ τις ἀνήρ, τοὔνομα Ἰσαάκιος, γένους ἄριστα ἥκων, ἕτερος παρὰ τὸν Ἄγγελον Ἰσαάκιον.’ 26 A minute study of the monk’s oeuvre gives Galatariotou 1991; for a biography see Demosthenus 2007. The rich library of the monastery is documented by Jakovljević 2002.

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The Ascension of Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus)

and turbulence, plunder and dread events, covered the land in which these men ruled, worse than cloud and mist.’27 Neophytos was upset by Isaakios’ actions, especially the separation of Cyprus, because he disturbed the world order dominated by a central Byzantine government.28 Since Constantine I and his sons Constantinople became the capital of the emperors, who inherited, continued and secured the idea of the unique Roman Empire dominating the civilized (and Christianized) world. Isaakios is immediately mentioned after the infidel Saladin indicating the writer’s negative attitude towards the insurgent.29 The reconstruction of Isaakios’ family leaves some open questions:30 His mother was Eirene Komnene, daughter of the sebastokrator Isaakios (brother of Manuel I). His father possibly belonged to the distinguished Dukas-Kamateros family.31 It has been suggested that the name Dukas can be deciphered on coins minted during his reign in Cyprus, but Justin Sabatier’s reading was wrong and does not add to reconstruct his affiliation convincingly.32 In other words Isaakios was a grand-nephew of Manuel I Komnenos, who died in 1180. In the 1170s Isaakios married a daughter of the Armenian ruler Thoros II and was possibly appointed dux (general) and anagrapheus (fiscal official) of Cilicia by the emperor.33 He headed to Tarsos, an important military and economic centre in South-East Asia Minor, which remained a Byzantine city until 1172 (after its recapture by Ioannes II in 1137). He was asked to regain Byzantine territory from the Armenian kingdom of Cilicia, but his success had been limited so far. He was imprisoned by Ruben III, lord of Armenia (1175–1187), together with his family. After some negotiations he was sold to the Templars in about 1183.

27 Neophytos Enkleistos, Letter, 336: ‘Νεφέλη καλύπτει ἥλιον, καὶ ὁμίχλη ὄρη καὶ βουνούς, δι’ ὧν ἀπείργηται θάλψις καὶ φωταυγὴς ἡλίου ἀκτὶς χρόνῳ τινί· εἴργει δὲ καὶ ἡμᾶς δώδεκα χρόνους ἤδη νεφέλη καὶ ὁμίχλη ἀλλεπαλλήλων δεινῶν, τῶν τῆ χώρα συμβεβηκότων. Κρατηθείσης μὲν γὰρ τῆς ἱερουσαλὴμ ὑπὸ τοῦ ἀθέου σαλαχαντί, τῆς δὲ κύπρου ὑπὺ ἰσαακίου τοῦ κομνηνοῦ, μάχαι λοιπὸν καὶ πόλεμοι, ταραχαὶ καὶ ἀκαταστασίαι, λαφυραγωγίαι καὶ δειναὶ συναντήσεις, τὴν γῆν, ἐν ᾗ οἱ δηλωθέντες ἦρξαν, κατεκάλυψν νεφέλες καὶ ὀμίχλης πλέον.’ 28 See Galatariotou 1991, 212. 29 For a biography of Saladin see Möhring 2005. 30 Genealogical trees: Rudt de Collenberg 1968, after p. 128; Magdalino 1993, XXVI. 31 Polemis 1968, no. 103. See Edbury 1991, 1–7 and the most recent biography by Hendy 1999, 354–357. 32 Sabatier 1862, II 227. See the discussion by Hendy 1999, 355. 33 It is quite uncertain, that he was the legitimate governor of Cilicia, see Hendy 1999, 254 against Rudt de Collenberg 1968, 175. However, such a marital alliance made sense in political terms.

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Michael Grünbart

At that time another outstanding character had almost finished his journey to the imperial throne in Constantinople: Andronikos Komnenos, son of Isaakios, who on the other hand was the brother of emperor John II, appeared at the shores opposite the Byzantine capital.34 Although he grew up with the future ruler Manuel I, rivalry and competition lasted until the death of the latter. In the late 1170s they reconciled and Andronikos was granted the province of Pontos, where he enhanced his reputation. After Manuel had passed away Andronikos tried to usurp power in a subtle way by exploiting all legal means. He presented himself both as a guarantor for stability and as a protector of the minor son of Manuel I, Alexios II. After Andronikos was appointed co-emperor and then senior emperor (basileus) he eliminated his colleague in cold blood. His reign from 1183 to 1185 is described as a period of discord (neikos) and cruelty, which was ended by Isaakios Angelos in September 1185.35 Meanwhile Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus) was hold in prison in Antiocheia, but he had intercessors in Constantinople: Theodora Komnene, aunt of Isaakios and mistress of Andronikos, and two members of the court, Andronikos Dukas and Konstantinos Makrodukas, persuaded the emperor to send a first rate to Antiocheia for paying the ransom. Isaakios was released and he left his family in order to raise the second half of the sum called for by Bohemund. However, he did not return to the capital Constantinople fearing Andronikos, who tried to eliminate all relatives of the Comnenian dynasty. Andronikos worried, that someone may take revenge for his usurpation. Since he did not trust his advisors, he resembled his predecessors: He included supernatural advice to find out the future.36 Although he was sceptical about prophecy and mantic practices he did not detest all kinds of occult sciences.37 He consulted experts dealing with lekanomantia (reading the future in a water bowl). The main questions of any ruler are: ‘Who will follow me and: when and where will my follower appear?’

34 Out of date and highly problematic: Jurewicz 1970. Cf. now Grünbart 2011a and 2011b. 35 Kislinger 1997; Grünbart 2011b. 36 The so-called occult sciences were intrinsically discussed by Mavroudi – Magdalino 2006. 37 Nicetae Choniatae historia, 339, 10–19: ‘Καὶ δὴ τὴν θυτικὴν καταργηθεῖσαν πάλαι ὁρῶν καὶ τὴν διὰ ταύτης δήλωσιν τῶν ἐσομένων τεθνηκυῖαν καὶ ἄφαντον ἤδη παντάπασιν, ὡσαύτως καὶ τὴν δι’ὀρνίθων περιεργίας πάλαι ἀποπτᾶσαν ἐξ ὀρίων Ῥωμαϊκῶν ἐνυπ­νιασμούς τε καὶ κληδονισμούς, μόνους δὲ τοὺς διὰ πλυβῶν καὶ λεκανίδων φενακομάντεις περι­ λεπτομένους καὶ τοὺς ὅσοι τὰς τῶν ἄστρων θέσεις περισκοπεύουσιν, οὐχ ἧττον πλανῶντες ἤπερ πλανώμενοι, τὴν μὲν ἀστρονομίαν τῷ τέως ὡς συνηθεστέραν καὶ ἀξυμφανῶς τὰ μέλλοντα ὑπεμφαίνουσαν ὑπερέθετο, ὅλον δ’ ἐφίησιν ἑαυτὸν οἵπερ ὡς εἰπεῖν ἐν ὕδασι τεκμαίρονται τὰ ἄδηλα καὶ ὡς οἷά τινας ἀκτῖνας ἡλίου παραυγαζούσας ἰνδάλματά τινα τῶν ἐσομένων παρυφιστῶσιν ἐνθένδε.’ – See Grünbart forthcoming.

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The Ascension of Isaakios Komnenos (of Cyprus)

Skleros Seth, an expert of this kind of science, was approached by a confidant of Andronikos at the beginning of September 1185 and the emperor met the medium.38 Andronikos detected letters appearing in the water bowl: a Sigma similar to a half moon and a Iota; he interpreted this combination as Isauros that means a person from Isauria, the south east region of Asia Minor. Andronikos thought astutely the two letters connoted Isaakios, who had moved from Isauria/Cilicia to Cyprus; and the oracle precisely said that the follower of Andronikos will be visible at the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (14th September). Andronikos did not believe, that Isaakios could sail within fourteen days from Cyprus to Constantinople, and did not trouble over this prophecy.39 And he was almost right: Threat did not come from Cyprus, but another Isaakios – offspring from the family of Angelos – stepped into his shoes in the capital and dispatched him.40 Back to Isaakios Komnenos, who is described by Niketas Choniates like this: ‘Aspiring to power, he passionately desired to become emperor himself, and unable to bow the yoke of rulers, he ill-advisedly used the monies, provisions, and auxiliary forces sent him from Byzantion to canvass for the throne.’41

38 Magdalino 2006, 149–150. 39 The Greek text runs as follows (Nicetae Choniatae historia, 339, 20 – 340, 44): ‘Αὐτὸς μὲν οὖν παρεῖναι τοῖς τελουμένοις ἀπείπατο, ἐκκλίνων, ὡς ἔοικε, τὴν κωτίλον φήμην, ἣ τὰ ἐν κρυπτῷ δρώμενα διορᾷ καὶ τίθησι τοῖς ἅπασιν ἔκφορα, ἀνατίθησι δὲ τὴν μυσαρὰν ταύτην νυκτεργασίαν τῷ Ἁγιοχριστοφορίτῃ Στεφάνῳ, οὗ πολλάκις ἐμνήσθημεν. ὁ δὲ τὸν Σὴθ παραλαβών, ἐκ βούπαιδος τετελεσμένον τὰ τοιαδὶ καὶ τούτων ἕνεκεν ἐκκοπέντα τὰς κόρας παρὰ τοῦ βασιλέως Μανουήλ, ὡς ἐν τοῖς περὶ ἐκείνου λόγοις εἰρήκαμεν, ἐρώτησιν τίθησι δι’ ὥν ἔδρασεν (ὅσα ἐμοὶ μὲν γνῶναί τε καὶ εἰπεῖν οὐχ ἡδύ, μαθεῖν δ’ ἑτέρωθεν ἔξεστι τοῖς βουλομένοις) εἰδέναι, ὅς ἐστιν ὁ μετὰ τὸν βασιλέα ἄρξων Ἀνδρόνικον ἢ καὶ παραλύσων αὐτὸν τῆς ἀρχῆς. Τὸ δὲ πονηρὸν ἀποκρίνεται πνεῦμα, ἢ μᾶλλον ἀμυδρῶς ὡς ἐν ὕδασι, καὶ τούτοις θολεροῖς, παραδείκνυσι τῶν πρώτων γραμμάτων τινὰ Ἰσαάκιον νοεῖν ὑπεμβάλλοντα, οὐχ ἅπαν ξυνθὲν τὸ ὄνομα, ἀλλὰ σίγμα προφῆναν ὁποῖον τὸ τῆς σελήνης ἡμίτονον, καὶ τούτου ὄπισθεν προσδιατυπῶσαν ἰῶτα, εἰς τὸ ἀξυμφανὲς ἄγον ἐντεῦθεν τὸ μάντευμα καὶ οἷον τοῦ ἐσομένου προκέντημα, ἢ ἀληθεστέρως εἰπεῖν, ὃ μὴ ἀκριβῶς ἠπίστατο, τοῦτο τῇ ἀσαφείᾳ ὑπομελαῖνον τὸ πολυ­ μερὲς τὴν κακίαν νυκτινόμον δαιμόνιον, τὸν τοῦ ψεύδους ἐκτρεπόμενον ἔλεγχον. ὥστε καὶ Ἀνδρόνικος Ἴσαυρον ὑπετόπασεν, ἐξ ὧν ἤκουσε, τὰ ὀφθέντα σημαίνειν· καὶ τοῦτον εἶναι ἰσχυρίζετο τὸν Κομνηνὸν Ἰσαάκιον, ὃς τῆς Κύπρου κατετυράννευσε καὶ ὃν ἐνήγετο ὑποπτεύειν ἐνδελεχῶς ὡς διάδοχον τῆς ἀρχῆς, ἐπειδὴ καὶ Ἰσαυρίας ἀπάρας εἰς Κύπρον ἀφίκετο, […].’ 40 Kislinger 1997, 198. 41 Translation by Magoulias 1984, 161; Nicetae Choniatae historia, 291, 30–33: ‘[…] τυραννίδος δ’ἐρῶν καὶ ἀρχῆς ἔφεσιν τρέφων, οὐ μὴν ὑποκύπτειν ἀνεχόμενος ἄρχουσιν, ἐφοδίοις χρῆται καὶ συνερίθοις τοῖς πεμφθεῖσιν αὐτῷ ἐκ Βυζαντίου χρήμασιν εἰς τὸ κακοβούλως ἀρχὴν ἑαυτῷ μνηστεύσασθαι.’

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Isaakios acquired soldiers in Cilicia and headed for Cyprus (possibly in April 1185)42, where he showed falsified letters telling the inhabitants of the island that he came by order of the emperor Andronikos I.43 After he had settled down, he immediately established his tyranny and acted like an emperor; he took control of the whole island and established a brutal regime. Niketas Choniates directly compares his reign to the terror regime of Andronikos: ‘He exposed himself as a tyrant, revealing the cruelty which he nurtured and behaving savagely towards the inhabitants. Such was the disposition of this Isaac that he so far exceeded Andronikos in obdurateness and implacability as the latter diametrically surpassed those who were most notorious tyrants as the most ruthless men who ever lived. Once he felt secure in his rule, he did not cease from perpetrating countless wicked deeds against the inhabitants of the island. He defied himself by committing unjustifiable murders by the hour and became the maimer of human bodies, inflicting, like some instrument of disaster, penalties and punishments that lead to death. The hideous and accursed lecher illicitly defiled marriage beds and despoiled virgins.’44 Western historiographies, however, tell the events in a different way: An English chronicle, the Gesta Regis Henrici II, records that Isaakios fled from Andronikos and started a campaign against the sultan of Iconium. He was then captured by Ruben III, the ruler of Armenian Cilicia (1174–1187), who had established an alliance with the sultan of Iconium. Shortly after that event Ruben was captured by Bohemund III of Antiocheia, who asked for a ransom of 30,000 solidi. Ruben could not afford that sum and proposed to hand over his captive Isaakios. Bohemund agreed and asked for a sum of 60,000 bezants. Isaakios promised to raise the money and got credit from 42 Hendy 1999, 354. 43 Nicetae Choniatae historia, 291, 33–38: ‘[…] τοίνυν μετὰ χειρὸς συχνῆς καταπλεύσας ἐς Κύπρον τὰ μὲν πρῶτα τὸν ἔννομον καὶ πρὸς βασιλέως ἀπεσταλμένον δυνάστην ὑπεζωγράφει βασιλικὰ ὑπεδεικνύων τοῖς Κυπρίος γράμματα, ἅπερ αὐτὸς συνέθετο, καὶ διαταγὰς ἀναγινώσκων αὐτοκρατορικὰς ἐπιπλάστους τὸ ποιητέον δῆθεν ὑποτιθεμένας ἐκείνῳ καὶ τἆλλα διαπραττόμενος, ὅσα οἱ ἀφ’ ἑτέρων ἄρχειν ταχθέντες πρὸς ἀνάγκης ποιεῖν ἔχουσι.’ 44 Nicetae Choniatae historia, 291, 39–48: ‘[…] μετ’οὐ πολὺ δὲ τὸν τυραννοῦντα παρα­ γυμνώσας καὶ ἣν ἔτρεφεν ἀπήνειαν ἐκκαλύψας ἀπανθρώπως τοῖς ἐκεῖ προσφέρεται. Καὶ τοσοῦτον ἐς τὸ τοῦ ἤθους ἀκαμπὲς καὶ ἀμείλικτον Ἀνδρόνικον ὑπερέβαλεν, ὅσον οὗτος τοὺς πώποτε διαβοήτους ἀνεπιεικεῖς κατὰ διάμετρον ὑπερήλασεν. οὐ γὰρ διέλιπεν, ἐξ ὅτου περ ἀσφαλῶς ἤδη ἄρχειν ᾤετο, μυρία ἄττα ἀνόσια ἐπὶ τοῖς οἰκήτορσι τῆς νήσου ἐργαζόμενος. φόνοις τε γὰρ καθ’ ὥραν ἀναιτίοις ἐχραίνετο καὶ δηλήμων σωμάτων ἀνθρωπίνων ἐγίνετο ποινὰς ἐπάγων καὶ τιμωρίας οἷά τι συμφορῶν ὄργανον, ὁπόσαι κατῆγον εἰς θάνατον. καὶ κοίταις δὲ ἀθεμίτοις καὶ φθοραῖς παρθένων ὁ παναισχὴς καὶ ἐξάγιστος ἠκολάσταινεν [...].’ Galatariotou 1991, 42f., translation by Magoulias 1984, 161.

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Cypriot nobles. He sailed to Cyprus, where he was welcomed as prince due to his relation to Manuel I Komnenos reflecting legitimate tradition. The end of Andronikos I in September 1185 did not lead at all to an acceptance of Isaakios’ usurpation. Isaakios of Cyprus did not interact in Constantinopolitan affairs, channels of information worked too slow to permit spontaneous action. Isaakios Angelos became the new emperor and successor to the throne in Constantinople. Isaakios of Cyprus now declared himself as the legitimate heir of imperial power. He argued that he was the last descendant of the Comnenian clan in power for more than 100 years. Isaakios Angelos dispatched a fleet to reconquer Cyprus: Apart from the imperative of re-integrating this territory to Byzantium the island was still important both in providing agricultural products and in controlling the maritime routes to the Latin principalities and the Holy Land. Isaakios Angelos did not succeed, because Isaakios of Cyprus defeated the landed imperial army and the fleet was destroyed by the Sicilian admiral Margaritone, who was in service of William II of Sicily. The arrival of Richard I Lionheart, who lost a couple of ships separated by a storm from the main fleet and wrecked upon Cypriot shores (close to Limassol), on 6 May 1191, marked the end of Isaakios’ rulership. Although members of Lionheart’s family were taken captive by the usurper’s men, the English crusaders started to conquer the island. The rapid occupation (within a month) brought seven years of a disastrous tyranny to an end. Isaakios’ family and he himself were imprisoned and escorted to Tripoli.45 He was released after the payment of ransom by Leopold V, Duke of Austria, who was the son of Isaakios’ aunt Theodora.46 This agreement was part of the deal with Richard I Lionheart, who was captured by Leopold on his way back to England. After presenting these historical facts, let me draw your attention to the elements of usurpations in more detail. If we look more closely to Isaakios’ coup d’état, the pattern of usurping power in Byzantium becomes evident.

Out of Focus: The Capture of the Capital When Isaakios aspired to dominate a territory, it was clear that he would not head for Constantinople to gain power there – it was too dangerous and he knew about the fate of some members of his family (Komnenos). 45 Ghazarian 2000, 140–142. 46 A short biography of Leopold V by Koch 1985.

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The old pattern of usurpation slightly changed: In 9th- to 11th-century Byzantium it was important to conquer the capital and to withdraw the current ruler.47 Thomas the Slav in the early 820s or Bardas Skleros in the second half of the 10th century tried hard to set foot into the city, but both failed. Thomas sieged the capital more than a year, Bardas tried to weaken the imperial troops by guerilla tactics. In the end Thomas was executed and Bardas and the emperor Basil II reconciled in the shadow of the city walls in 989. The 11th century saw a series of rebellions and a continuation of instability, amongst other things leading to a decline of the monetary economy in Byzantium. But the goal was to reach and take possession of the imperial capital. The Comnenian rulers were aware of envy and desire for power by members of their clan and other families. The solution was to establish a regime based on family ties and consanguinity; family members were appointed to high positions and governorships. This system has been criticised as nepo­ tism, but the effect was that the frequency of usurpations and rebellions decreased (see diagram at the beginning). When an emperor faced problems with opponents, he tried to remove tensions by entrusting them with a province or thema, which was often located far away from the capital close to or in border regions. After their reconciliation in the late 1170s Manuel I Komnenos sent Andronikos Komnenos to the Pontos region, where he governed his territory sufficiently.48 We may call it friendly exile. From there he moved towards Constantinople following the traditional model of capturing the capital. Isaakios Komnenos was possibly appointed dux of Cilicia, but he did not fulfil the expectations. Arriving in Cyprus Isaakios followed a common pattern of taking office: The new governor showed his documents of appointment and he was accepted by the local administration. But then he decided to seize power and establish his own dominion thus differing from earlier usurpers.

The Display of Rulership Usurpation is defined by misusing imperial insignia as well; the most significant step was to wear purple stockings – reading Byzantine sources this expression means ‘usurping power“, but it should not exclusively be interpreted in metaphorical manner. When a usurper captured the capital, he adopted the imperial mint without any hesitation. Since Constantinople remained the only place, where 47 For Late Antiquity see Pfeilschifter 2013; Burkhardt 2014, 57–66. 48 Jurewicz 1970, 86; Magdalino 1993, 201.

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money was coined in that period, it was quite easy to take over the imperial workshop. Legends and iconography were changed within short time. Another advantage of an urban usurper has to be stressed: he could strike his coins in gold. Something extraordinary happened in Cyprus: Isaakios presumed to produce his own money. In contrast to western monetary habits only the Byzantine emperor or empress was allowed to emit his/her coins. Every attempt to falsify or imitate imperial money was sentenced by death. Until the 12th century almost no coins of usurpers are known. The situation changed around 1188, when Theodore Mankaphas usurped imperial power supported by the population of Philadelphia in Asia Minor; after 1204 he organized his dominion a second time, after it had been occupied by Theodore I Laskaris, the exiled emperor of Nicaea. Niketas Choniates describes the ascension of Theodore Mankaphas like this: ‘At first, he won over the many commoners of Philadelphia, who were both insolent and shameless and confirmed their loyalty to him by oaths. He conferred the name of emperor upon himself as he marched along, inducing the Lydians to rebel; he next attempted to win over the neighboring provinces and minted a silver coin with his own inscription engraved on it.’49 Since the 1960s material has been found, which confirms the statement by Niketas.50 It becomes evident that Mankaphas tried to establish his own dominion with his own administration. He is not interested in sieging or occupying the capital. How the monetary system of such an isolated territory worked, has to be investigated. Since its ruler was not accepted by the central government, it was difficult to use coins depicting Mankaphas in transactions across the borders. There is no written evidence for the coinage of Isaakios of Cyprus, but some emissions have been published.51 The coins are of some quality and one cannot fail to be amazed, how Isaakios was able to find die-sinkers. Since the 7th century there was no mint in Cyprus anymore. Therefore, Isaakios could not rely on local expertise. As Michael F. Hendy puts it: ‘In any case the assemblage betrays a curious mixture of logic and rigor in its system of production and of eclectic pastiche in its iconography, and one 49 Nicetae Choniatae historia, 399, 57–60: ‘[…] ὁδῷ δὲ προϊὼν καὶ βασιλείας ἑαυτῷ περιέθηκεν ὄνομα τοὺς Λυδοὺς πάντας εἰς ἀποστασίαν ἐπισπασάμενος· ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ τῶν προσοίκων ἀποσπειρᾶται χωρῶν καὶ ἀργύρεον κέκοφε νόμισμα τὴν οἰκείαν ἐγχαράξας ἐν αὐτῷ στήλην.’ Translation Magoulias 1984, 219; στήλη is rather an image than an inscription (that accompanied the depiction). 50 Hendy 1999, 392–396. 51 Metcalf 1975; Bendall 1989; Hendy 1969 and 1985; Hendy 1999, 358–364.

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can only suppose that Isaac’s die-sinkers had a high old time of it pillaging the current repertoire of designs.’52 The iconography of his coins naturally imitates imperial mints, but slight variations and new combinations can be found. Normally Christ or Christ Emmanouel is engraved on the obverse side in 12th-century Byzantine coinage. On the reverse the standing emperor is crowned by the Virgin or he is holding a cross with St. George. It seems that St. George became the favoured saint of the usurper. On Isaakios’ coins the important military saints depicted several times. Why did he coin his own money? As Isaakios did not want to send taxes to the capital, he produced a currency, that was not accepted by the emperor. As said before, it was part of an emperor’s authority to emit his own money and to control its circulation. Another important indicator of a ruler’s self-image and self-concept provides his chancery. A new appointed emperor had to dispatch charters and to circulate proclamations. Byzantine charters normally were sealed (Byzantine seals offer intriguing insights into Byzantine society). Seals allow a wide range of variations of iconography and inscriptions. The obverse of Isaakios’ seals (again) shows Saint George standing with a nimbus and wearing a chiton and chlamys; in his right hand he holds a spear and his left hand rests on a conical shield.53 The legend on the revers reads: ‘Protect me, Isaac, who descends from the Komnenos and the Dukas on the mother’s side, son-in-law and son of a daughter of the sebastokratores’.54 A further element of imperial representation were images, which were displayed in public. The English Benedict of Peterborough mentions imagines imperiales of Isaakios. The expression should not be understood as statues, but reliefs (possibly similar to the two extant copies in Venice and Dumbarton Oaks).55 Isaakios includes this imperial habit without hesitation.

By Grace of God – the Role of the Church A further element of paving the way to the throne should be discussed briefly. When a usurper had successfully completed his undertaking and seized power, he tried to legitimize his action by receiving the blessings of a cleric. Therefore the patriarch (of Constantinople) had to be contacted to 52 Hendy 1999, 357. 53 For a collection of seals depicting St. George see Wassiliou 2001. 54 Zacos – Veglery 1972, 1544–1546 no. 2736: ‘Κομνηνοδουκόπαιδα μητροπαθρόθεν / Ἰσα­ άκιον, ὃς σεβαστοκρατόρων / θυγατρόπαις γαμβρός τε, μάρτυς, μὲ σκέποις.’ Cf. Metcalf 2004, 338–339. See Polemis 1968, 132 no. 103. 55 Rudt de Collenberg 1968, 137; Metcalf 2009, 559. For the roundel cf. Vikan 1995, 104– 108 (no. 40) (with further references).

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prepare a coronation in the church. Coronations of emperors by the patriarch are reported since the 5th century.56 After the acclamation the new emperor was crowned by the patriarch. Since the 7th century coronation ceremonies are reported to have been per‑ formed in the main church of Constantinople, the Hagia Sophia. The above mentioned Thomas the Slav was accepted as basileus by the Caliph Ma’mun, who allowed him to be crowned by the Melchite patriarch of Antiocheia Job (813/4–844/5). Andronikos Komnenos sought to gain approval of the patriarch Theodosios Boradiotes (1179–1183) before he entered the outskirts of Constantinople.57 He knew too well, that the support of the patriarch of Constantinople was essential for a successful coup d’état. The head of the church could influence the masses of the capital. Patriarchs are often reported to be involved in usurpations, because they hoped to find better conditions. After his coronation Andronikos disposed Theodosios, who did not agree with his governance. Isaakios behaved in similar manner, according to Michael the Syrian he named a patriarch, who crowned him. The intention (and the validity) of this coronation has been discussed, but in my opinion Isaakios just wanted to legitimize his rulership and to spirit off the odour of tyranny.58

Concluding Remarks In contrast to earlier generations it was obviously possible – in the time of Isaakios – to install a dominion opposing the emperor in the capital. The case of Isaakios shows, that he followed the usual pattern of usurping power. He equipped himself with insignia and rituals underlining his legitimacy: Noble origin or the connection to the dominating family (Isaakios placed emphasis on continuing the Comnenian dynasty), coining one’s own money and the coronation by a cleric formed the main elements. His governance demonstrates the change of the old monarchic system that did not match the real situation any more. His rulership is at the turn of the 13th century, which saw the appearance of new powers and patterns of political behaviour.59 56 Lilie 1995. 57 Grünbart 2011b. 58 Hoffmann 1974, 87; Michael the Syrian, Chronicle, 402: ‘En ce temps, il y avait à Cypre, île des Grecs, un gouverneur grec nommé Comnéneh. Il se révolta contre l’empereur de Constantinople, rassembla les évêques grecs et leur ordonna d’instituer un patriarche qui sacra empereur ce Comnéneh. On proclama à Cypre cet empereur et ce patriarche (qui subsitèrent) en opposition avec ceux de Constantinople […].’ 59 Burkhardt 2014.

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am Goldenen Horn? Kaiserliche und patriarchale Macht im byzantinischen Mittelalter. Akten der internationalen Tagung vom 3. bis 5. November 2010, vol. 1. Byzantinistische Studien und Texte, vol. 3 (Berlin 2011) 15–29. Grünbart forthcoming = Michael Grünbart, ‘Unter einem guten Stern? Externe Instan­zen bei kaiserlichen Entscheidungsprozessen in Byzanz’, in: Festschrift (forthcoming). Heher 2015 = Dominik Heher, In den Schuhen des Kaisers. Performative Aspekte von Usurpationen im Byzantinischen Reich (10.–12. Jh.) (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Vienna 2015). Hendy 1969 = Michael F. Hendy, Coinage and Money in the Byzantine Empire 1081–1261. Dumbarton Oaks Studies, vol. 12 (Washington, DC 1969). Hendy 1985 = Michael F. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy, c. 300–1450 (Cambridge 1985). Hendy 1999 = Michael F. Hendy, Alexius I to Michael VIII, 1081–1261, part 1: Alexius I to Alexius V (1081–1204). Catalogue of the Byzantine coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, vol. 4,1 (Washington, DC 1999). Hill 1949 = George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 1: To the Conquest by Richard Lion Heart (Cambridge 1949). Hladký 2104 = Vojtěch Hladký, The Philosophy of Gemistos Plethon. Platonism in Late Byzantium, Between Hellenism and Orthodoxy (Farnham 2014). Hoffmann 1974 = Jürgen Hoffmann, Rudimente von Territorialstaaten im byzantinischen Reich (1071–1210). Untersuchungen zu den Unabhängigkeitsbestrebungen und ihr Verhältnis zu Kaiser und Reich. Miscellanea Byzantina Monacensia, vol. 17 (Munich 1974). Jakovljević 2002 = Andrija Jakovljević, Catalogue of Greek Manuscripts in the Library of the Monastery of St. Neophytus (Cyprus) (Nicosia 2002). Jurewicz 1970 = Oktawiusz Jurewicz, Andronikos I. Komnenos (Amsterdam 1970). Kaegi 1981 = Walter Emil Kaegi, Jr., Byzantine Military Unrest 471–843. An Interpretation (Amsterdam 1981). Kislinger 1997 = Ewald Kislinger, ‘Zur Chronologie der byzantinischen Thronwechsel 1180–1185’, in: Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 47, 1997, 195–198. Koch 1985 = Walter Koch, ‘Leopold V’, in: Neue Deutsche Biographie (NDB), vol. 14 (Berlin 1985) 281–283. Lilie 1984 = Ralph-Johannes Lilie, ‘Des Kaisers Macht und Ohnmacht: Zum Zerfall der Zentralgewalt in Byzanz vor dem vierten Kreuzzug’, in: Varia I. Beiträge von Ralph-Johannes Lilie und Paul Speck. Poikila Byzantina, vol. 4 (Bonn 1984) 9–120. Lilie 1995 = Ralph-Johannes Lilie, ‘Die Krönung des Kaisers Anastasios I. (491)’, in: Byzantinoslavica 56, 1995, 3–12. Lilie 2008 = Ralph-Johannes Lilie, ‘Der Kaiser in der Statistik. Subversive Gedanken zur angeblichen Allmacht der byzantinischen Kaiser’, in: Christos Stavrakos – Alexandra-Kyriaki Wassiliou – Mesrob K. Krikorian (eds.), Hypermachos. Studien zu Byzantinistik, Armenologie und Georgistik. Festschrift für Werner Seibt zum 65. Geburtstag (Wiesbaden 2008) 211–234 Magdalino 1983 = Paul Magdalino, ‘Aspects of Twelfth-Century Byzantine Kaiserkritik’, in: Speculum 58, 1983, 326–346.

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Magdalino 1993 = Paul Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge 1993). Magdalino 2006 = Paul Magdalino, ‘Occult Science and Imperial Power in Byzantine History and Historiography (9th–12th Centuries)’, in: Mavroudi – Magdalino 2006, 119–162. Magoulias 1984 = Harry J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium. Annals of Niketas Choniates (Detroit 1984). Mavroudi – Magdalino 2006 = Paul Magdalino – Maria Mavroudi (eds.), The Occult Sciences in Byzantium (Geneva 2006). Menzel 2012 = Gerhard Menzel, Falsche Könige zwischen Thron und Galgen. Politische Hochstapelei von der Antike zur Moderne. Beiträge zur Kirchen- und Kulturgeschichte, vol. 24 (Frankfurt/Main 2012). Metcalf 1975 = David Michael Metcalf, ‘A Follis of Isaac Comnenus of Cyprus, 1184–91, from the di Cesnola Collection’, in: Seaby’s Coin and Medal Bulletin, August 1975, 261–262. Metcalf 2004 = David Michael Metcalf, Byzantine Lead Seals from Cyprus. Texts and Studies of the History of Cyprus, vol. 47 (Nicosia 2004). Metcalf 2009 = David Michael Metcalf, Byzantine Cyprus 491–1191. Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, vol. 62 (Nicosia 2009). Möhring 2005 = Hannes Möhring, Saladin. Der Sultan und seine Zeit, 1138–1193. Beck’sche Reihe, vol. 2386 (Munich 2005). Paschoud – Szidat 1997 = François Paschoud – Joachim Szidat (eds.), Usurpationen in der Spätantike. Akten des Kolloquiums ‘Staatsstreich und Staatlich­ keit’, 6. – 10. März 1996, Solothurn, Bern. Historia, Einzelschriften, vol. 111 (Stuttgart 1997). Pfeilschifter 2013 = Rene Pfeilschifter, Kaiser und Konstantinopel. Kommunikation und Konfliktaustrag in einer spätantiken Metropole. Millennium-Studien, vol. 44 (Berlin – New York 2013). Polemis 1968 = Demetrios I. Polemis, The Doukai. A Contribution to Byzantine Prosopography. University of London historical studies, vol. 22 (London 1968). Pontani 2003 = Anna Pontani, ‘Henry de Groux, il pittore di Andronico’, in: Römische Historische Mitteilungen, 45, 2003, 219–239. Reinhold 1970 = Meyer Reinhold, History of Purple as a Status Symbol in Antiquity. Latomus, vol. 116 (Brussels 1970). Rudt de Collenberg 1968 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘L’empereur Isaac de Chypre et sa fille (1155–1207)’, in: Byzantion 38, 1968, 123–177. Runciman 1929 = Steven Runciman, The Eomanus Lecapenus and His Reign. A Study in Tenth-Century Byzantium (Cambridge 1929). Sabatier 1862 = Jean Sabatier, Description des monnaies byzantines (Paris 1862). Savvas 2012 = Neocleous Savvas, ‘Tyrannus Grecorum. The Image and Legend of Andronikos I Komnenos in Latin Historiography’, in: Medioevo greco 12, 2012, 195–284. Schwinges 1987 = Rainer Christoph Schwinges, ‘Verfassung und kollektives Verhalten. Zur Mentalität des Erfolges falscher Herrscher im Reich des 13. und 14. Jahrhunderts’, in: František Graus (ed.), Mentalitäten im Mittelalter. Methodische und inhaltliche Probleme. Vorträge und Forschungen, vol. 35 (Sigmaringen 1987) 177–202.

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Simpson 2013 = Alicia Simpson, Niketas Choniates. A Historiographical Study (Oxford 2013). Stephenson 2001 = Paul Stephenson, ‘Images of the Bulgar-Slayer: Three Art Historical Notes’, in: Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 25, 2001, 44–68. Stouraitis 2010 = Ioannis Stouraitis, ‘Bürgerkrieg in ideologischer Wahrnehmung durch die Byzantiner (7.–12. Jahrhundert). Die Frage der Legitimierung und Rechtfertigung’, in: Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 60, 2010, 149–172. Szidat 2010 = Joachim Szidat, Usurpator tanti nominis. Kaiser und Usurpator in der Spätantike (337 – 476 n. Chr.). Historia, Einzelschriften, vol. 210 (Stuttgart 2010). Tinnefeld 1971 = Franz Hermann Tinnefeld, Kategorien der Kaiserkritik in der byzantinischen Historiographie. Von Prokop bis Niketas Choniates (Munich 1971). Vikan 1995 = Gary Vikan, Catalogue of the Sculpture in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection from the Ptolemaic Period to the Renaissance (Washington, DC 1995). Wassiliou 2001 = Alexandra-Kyriaki Wassiliou, ‘Der heilige Georg auf Siegeln. Einige neue Bullen mit Familiennamen’, in: Revue des Études Byzantines 59, 2001, 209–224. Zacos – Veglery 1972 = Georges Zacos – Alexander Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, vol. 1,3: Nos. 2672–3231 (Basel 1972).

Sources Michael the Syrian, Chronicle = Jean B. Chabot, Chronique de Michel le Syrien, Patriarche Jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199), vol. 3 (Paris 1905, repr. 1963). Neophytos Enkleistos, Letter = Neophytos Enkleistos, Letter Concerning the Misfortunes of the Land of Cyprus, ed. Ioannes Tsiknopoullos in: Byzantion 39, 1969, 318–419, esp. 336–339 [English transl. in: Claude Delaval Cobham, Excerpta Cypria: Materials for a History of Cyprus (Cambridge 1908) 9–13]. Nicetae Choniatae historia = Nicetae Choniatae historia, ed. Jan-Louis van Dieten. Corpus fontium historiae Byzantinae, vol. 11 (Berlin – New York 1975) [English transl. in Magoulias 1984].

Michael Grünbart

Institut für Byzantinistik und Neogräzistik, Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, Rosenstr. 9, 48143 Münster (Germany) [email protected]

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Peter Edbury

Ernoul, Eracles and the Beginnings of Frankish Rule in Cyprus, 1191–1232 All historians concerned with the history of the crusades and the events in the Latin East between the 1180s and the middle years of the thirteenth century have made use of the related narrative accounts – all of them anonymous – that since the nineteenth century have been known as the Old French Continuations of William of Tyre or, as it is sometimes called, Eracles,1 and La Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier (henceforth Ernoul-Bernard).2 These works are in French and were clearly intended for a predominantly lay audience.3 They are informative, often preserving stories and historical details not found elsewhere. So far as Cyprus is concerned, they provide widely-used versions of both Richard the Lionheart’s conquest in 1191 and then the 1192 rising against the Templars and the subsequent settlement under the first Lusignan rulers. They also have a disconnected scatter of other anecdotes relating to the history of the island in the decades that follow. The importance of these sources is undoubted, but they present problems which mean that historians need to address them with a clear understanding of their strengths and weaknesses. In the past an analytical approach has often been lacking: at worst historians have naïvely accepted the information they provide at face value, drawing on the material when it is uncorroborated and suits their purposes and rejecting it when 1

L’estoire de Eracles empereur et la conqueste de la Terre d’Outremer: c’est la continuation de l’Estoire de Guillaume arcevesque de Sur, in: Recueil des historiens des croisades: Historiens occidentaux, vol. 2 (Paris 1859) 1–481. The only modern edition is of a section from the unique Lyon manuscript: La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184– 1197), ed. Margaret Ruth Morgan (Paris 1982). English translation in: Peter W. Edbury, The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade: Sources in Translation (Aldershot – Brookfield/Vermont 1996) 11–145. Eracles is the Old French form of Heraklios, the seventh-century Byzantine emperor, whose name appears in the opening passage of William of Tyre’s history. 2 La Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. Louis de Mas Latrie (Paris 1871). 3 These texts are the subject of my current research project. It has been funded by the British Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC) and will lead to a new critical edition.

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other, seemingly more reliable, accounts appear preferable. A more scholarly method, however, can and will yield valuable insights. Immediate and obvious difficulties arise from the fact that there exist three distinct versions of the Continuations. In the past scholars have failed to understand how they relate to one another and to the closely connected Ernoul-Bernard. They have also failed to treat them critically, tending to accord them equal value without considering basic questions such as the dates at which they were composed or seeking to understand how and why later authors modified them in the ways they did. It is only when we have confronted issues such as these that we can start to evaluate the various accounts of episodes such as the 1191 conquest or the rising against the Templars, and to do so first requires an examination of the genesis of the materials under consideration. As is well known, Archbishop William of Tyre wrote in Latin, and his history of the crusades and the Frankish settlements in Syria and Palestine is a major source for the period from the First Crusade to the year 1184. There is, however, no Latin author of William’s stature to take us on into the thirteenth century; what are available are various French vernacular narratives of which these examples are among the more important. In about the year 1220 someone evidently working in France translated William of Tyre’s Latin into French.4 Then, at a later date, apparently in the mid or late 1230s, someone else added extra material to the translation so as to continue the story from 1184, where William broke off, down to his own day. So it was that the Old French Continuations of William of Tyre first came into being. The relationship between the various versions of the Continuations is not particularly difficult to unravel, but the topic is vitiated by persistent misconceptions arising from the ways in which the texts have been viewed in the past. In the nineteenth century the idea gained currency that the longer versions were the originals, and the shorter versions, including Ernoul-Bernard, represent abridgements.5 This view, which was revived in a monograph published in 1973,6 is mistaken: as a thorough analysis of the manuscript tradition makes clear, the shorter versions come closest to the text as originally composed, and the longer narratives represent later developments.7

4 Handyside 2015, 114–119. 5 Mas Latrie 1871, 499. 6 Morgan 1973. 7 Edbury 1997b, 139–153; Edbury 2010, 107–113. My more recent research, some of it presented here, modifies some of the ideas expressed in these articles.

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Ernoul-Bernard came first. It was evidently composed in northern France, and it was there that the eight surviving medieval manuscripts were produced. This work is in no way related to William of Tyre and covers the period from 1100 and the founding of the Frankish states in the East until, depending on the recension, 1227, 1229 or 1232.8 From internal evidence it is clear that none of these recensions can be earlier than the early 1230s, but it is equally clear that even the 1232 text cannot have been completed much after that date.9 Ernoul-Bernard is a composite work in the sense that, especially in the first half, the author incorporated existing material, including an account of the topography of Jerusalem,10 a description of the sacred geography of the Holy Land,11 and a historical narrative by the eponymous Ernoul which described the events up to and including the surrender of Jerusalem to Saladin in 1187.12 As the concluding section makes clear, the author was an admirer of John of Brienne, successively king of Jerusalem and emperor of Constantinople. The story goes as follows. In 1210 John of Brienne, a nobleman from Champagne, had wed Maria of Montferrat, the heiress to the throne of Jerusalem, and so became king-consort. In 1225 their daughter and heiress married the western emperor, Frederick II of Hohenstaufen. This imperial wedding ought to have been the most brilliant marriage ever to have involved a member of the royal dynasty of Jerusalem. It should have meant that the entire resources of the Western Empire would be available to sustain the Frankish presence in the Holy Land, and it could be that the initial impetus for composing Ernoul-Bernard arose from this event. What the author did was describe events from the founding of the Latin Kingdom to the fall of Jerusalem in 1187 and then trace the subsequent history of the Latin East down to his own time with significant attention accorded to both the Fourth and the Fifth Crusades; he intertwined this narrative quite skilfully with an account of Frederick’s rise to power in Sicily and the Empire, culminating in his imperial coronation in 1220 and then his marriage. What is striking is that until we come to 1225 and his marriage to Isabella of Brienne, the narrator is generally sympathetic to Frederick.13 But then the mood changes: Frederick and John of Brienne fall out; Frederick treats his empress, John’s daughter, abominably; he quarrels with the pope; he prevaricates over going 8 9 10 11 12 13

For the manuscripts, Folda 1973, 93. In referring to individual manuscripts I follow Folda’s enumeration in his article: thus ‘F16’ denotes item 16 in Folda’s listing. The three recensions divide as follows: (1) F16, F17, F20; (2) F18 F19; (3) F24 F25, F26. Edbury forthcoming. Ernoul, 190–210. English translation in: Pringle 2012, 151–163. Ernoul, 62–80. English translation in: Pringle 2012, 135–145. See below. Ernoul, 301, 326–330, 396–407, 435–438, 448–451.

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on crusade; he is excommunicated; his negotiations with Sultan al-Kamil of Egypt are devious; he persecutes the Templars and generally throws his weight around in the East, while John of Brienne, against whom there is not a word of criticism and who had remained in the West after his daughter’s marriage, leads an invasion of Frederick’s lands in Italy at the behest of the pope; then, at the very end of the 1232 recension, he goes off to give much needed leadership to the ailing Latin Empire of Constantinople.14 These features might indicate that the author began his work in about 1225, taking a positive view of the emperor, and changed his tune in response to Frederick’s quarrel with John of Brienne and then his excommunication two years later. Ernoul-Bernard begins with the founding of the Latin kingdom in 1100. About a quarter of the narrative covers the history of the Latin East before 1184, the date at which William of Tyre’s Latin text ends. The events of 1185–1187 are then told in considerable detail, and that takes us approximately to the half-way point in the book. Most of the manuscripts, but not those that end in 1232, identify Ernoul, a squire of Balian of Ibelin, as the author of an incident that took place in 1187.15 It is my belief that this Ernoul originated much of the account of the events leading up to and surrounding the defeat at Hattin and the surrender of Jerusalem to Saladin in 1187, all of which he told from the standpoint of his master.16 As depicted by Ernoul, Balian, a leading member of the Jerusalem nobility, was the only major figure to emerge from collapse of the kingdom in 1187 with his reputation for probity intact. The culmination comes with Balian’s role in bargaining over the surrender of Jerusalem and the freeing of the population. Balian, the determined negotiator, is the hero, and Saladin, his foil, agrees and keeps his side of the bargain. This, incidentally, marks the beginning of the image in western literature of Saladin as the good and honourable Muslim.17 The circumstantial detail, the consistent political stance and the coherence that the passages concerned present argue in favour of this material coming from the pen of a single author. Although there can be no certainty on this point, it is likely that Ernoul was writing within a few years of 1187 – there is no hint that his master, Balian of Ibelin, who seems to have died towards the end of 1193,18 was dead at the time of writing. If this dating is correct, then the text in its original form would have been an early example of a historical composition in French prose. But even if it is agreed that a 14 Ernoul, 451–472 passim. 15 Ernoul, 149. 16 In my view Ernoul was responsible for the material found on pp. 114–119, 129–163, 167–176, 186–187, 211–235 of the printed edition. I am less certain how much, if any, of the earlier material is his. Edbury 2014, 181–183. 17 Jubb, 2000. 18 Edbury 1997a, 23

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significant part of Ernoul’s work survives embedded in Ernoul-Bernard, the anonymous text that since the nineteenth century has borne his name, we are still confronted by the intractable problem of knowing how far the compiler modified what he wrote. With the surrender and evacuation of Jerusalem towards the end of 1187, Balian of Ibelin disappears from the narrative, and from this and other evidence, not least the sketchy information about much of what follows, it would appear that Ernoul’s original account ended at that point. ErnoulBernard thus provides a detailed and knowledgeable, if decidedly biased, account of the events of 1185–87. What comes next – the events of the Third Crusade, including Richard’s conquest of Cyprus and the subsequent events on the island – are clearly far less well informed and give an altogether less satisfactory narrative. By the early 1230s therefore, there existed two major French-language narratives dealing with the history of the crusades to the Holy Land: the translation of William of Tyre, which ended in 1184 and is dated to around 1220, and the newly completed Ernoul-Bernard. What then happened was that someone working in the West had the idea of splicing the two together to give a detailed account of the crusading movement from the beginning of the First Crusade down to his own time. This editor took the 1232 recension of Ernoul-Bernard, discarded the pre-1184 material, except for a few passages that he re-positioned later in the text, and pasted the remainder (about three quarters of the whole) on to the end of the French William of Tyre;19 he also selected some other passages from the early part of Ernoul-Bernard and interpolated them into William’s text at appropriate points, the most significant of these being an account of the visit of Thoros of Armenia to the kingdom of Jerusalem, supposedly in the 1160s.20 Thus was born the first version of the Continuations which ended, like Ernoul-Bernard, in 1232. This original form of the Continuations with the interpolations survives in just one manuscript, the British Library Yates Thompson MS 12. In his study of this manuscript, Jaroslav Folda has argued that it dates to the 1240s and is of English provenance.21 It is of prime importance for our understanding of the transmission of these narratives. It contains a text of the translation that, the interpolations apart, shows every sign of being very close to its original form,22 and it has a text of the post-1184 Ernoul-Bernard material that, of all the Eracles manuscripts, is closest to that preserved in any of the Ernoul19 20 21 22

Starting at Ernoul, 116. Ernoul, 25–31 (Thoros), 35–41, 114. Folda 2011, 253–280. Edbury 2007a, 74–75, 78–79, 93, 104. In Folda 1973 the Yates Thompson 12 is F38; it was not used in the 1859 edition of the Continuations.

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Bernard manuscripts; it has a particular affinity with the text of Ernoul-Bernard found in the Bern Burgerbibliothek MS 113.23 The creation of the Old French Continuations of William of Tyre by amalgamating the translation with Ernoul-Bernard can be dated to some point in the 1230s. It would then seem that when some of the owners of existing manuscripts of the French translation of William of Tyre learnt that there was now an extended version of their history, they arranged for the 1184–1232 material to be added to the end of their copies. So it was that texts comprising both the French William of Tyre and the Ernoul-Bernard material from 1184 onwards but without the interpolated passages came into being; all the other extant manuscripts with a continuation are derived from composite texts of this type.24 The next stages in the development of the Continuations took place in the Latin East. For all its merits Ernoul-Bernard gave a distinctly unsatisfactory description of events in the Holy Land after 1187, and someone undertook to remedy this defect by expanding the text, adding material to the accounts of the collapse of the kingdom of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade and then completely rewriting the section from 1205 onwards which was now continued beyond 1232 to a point in the late 1240s, the date at which these additions were presumably composed. Some passages, for example the whole of the Fourth Crusade narrative, were left virtually untouched. The complete text of this new version only survives in two manuscripts, both of which are now in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris.25 In the nineteenth century these manuscripts were employed by the editors of the Recueil des historiens des Croisades to form the base for their 1859 edition of the Continuations. This edition remains standard, and generations of historians have assumed that this late 1240s version of the Continuations, the so-called Colbert-Fontainebleau Continuation named after the former owners of the manuscripts, is to be preferred over all others for the simple reason that this is the version that holds pride of place; it is printed in large type, with the other versions either consigned to much smaller print at the bottom of each page or with their variant readings given in the apparatus. 23 For a description of this manuscript see: http://www.hrionline.ac.uk/partonopeus/Bmanu scriptnotes.htm (accessed 19 Jan. 2013). Mas Latrie made only limited use of it in his edition of Ernoul-Bernard (MS F). In Folda 1973 it is F24. For further discussion, Gaggero 2012. 24 Adding the continuation to existing manuscripts would explain the fact that the stemma for the translation as established by Handyside (Handyside 2015, 216) and the stemma for the Continuations as established by Gaggero (Gaggero 2012) differ. Many of the major distinguishing characteristics of the stemma of the translation were evidently in existence before the continuation was added. 25 Paris BN ms. fr. 2628: Acre, third quarter of the 13th century (F73 = Eracles, MS B). Paris BN ms. fr. 2634: Paris, first quarter of the 14th century (F57 = Eracles, MS A).

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Later, apparently in about 1250,26 someone else working in the Latin East expanded or rewrote some parts of the Colbert-Fontainebleau Continuation so as to produce the text that, from the location of the unique manuscript, is known as the Lyon Eracles.27 But from 1197 onwards this manuscript contains the account as derived from Ernoul-Bernard, and the most likely explanation for the abrupt change in the recension is that the copyist changed exemplars at this point. There are thus three different versions of the material covering the period 1184–97: Ernoul-Bernard and the cognate version preserving that narrative incorporated into the original form of the William of Tyre Continuations; secondly, the Colbert-Fontainebleau recension, datable to the late 1240s, and finally the Lyon Eracles which would seem to have been composed around 1250. For the period 1197–1232 there are just two: Ernoul-Bernard and the cognate version in the Continuations, and Colbert-Fontainebleau. How the post 1232 material in the Continuations developed is another matter altogether and falls outside the scope of this paper. One point, however, does need to be stressed: for the years 1184–1232, the vast majority of the manuscripts of the William of Tyre Continuations – 39 out of the 45 dating from before 1500 – simply give a text which, with only comparatively minor textual variations, is essentially the same as the Ernoul-Bernard narrative.28 Some of the problems in using this material will now become apparent. It was proposed earlier that Ernoul-Bernard incorporates the writings of Ernoul, Balian of Ibelin’s squire, in describing the events leading up to the surrender and evacuation of Jerusalem towards the end of 1187. Accepting this suggestion prompts the questions: when was Ernoul writing? and how 26 Edbury 1997a, 140–141. 27 Lyon, Bibliothèque de la Ville, ms 828: Acre, circa 1280 (F72 = Eracles, MS D). The sections for the years 1184–1197 is edited in Morgan 1982 (cf. above note 1). Her edition also utilized related material for the years 1191–1197 from the Florence, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana, ms. Plu. LXI. 10: Acre, circa 1290 (F70). 28 The six which do not follow the Ernoul-Bernard form of the Continuation are the two Colbert-Fontainebleau manuscripts (F57 and F73) mentioned above; the Lyon manuscript (F72) and the related Florentine manuscript (F70), and two others not previously mentioned: F74 which follows the Ernoul-Bernard form of the Continuation except for a short passage taken from the Colbert-Fontainebleau recension relating to the battle of Hattin, and F50 which follows Colbert-Fontainebleau as far as the events of 1 May 1187 and thereafter, evidently as the result of a change of exemplar, the text of ErnoulBernard in its original form (i.e. not from the Continuation) to 1232 where it ends. In the 13th century there were two main centres of production for manuscripts of the Old French William of Tyre and its Continuations: Acre in the Latin East and Paris. Eight manuscripts survive from Acre, and there are a few more from Western Europe with characteristics that show that they were derived from manuscripts of the Acre group. But most of the manuscripts were copied in the West, many of them in Paris. All six manuscripts mentioned above in this note were either copied in the Latin East or were derived from manuscripts that were.

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far did the Ernoul-Bernard author, at work in the late 1220s and early 1230s, modify Ernoul’s original account. My own answers would be: ‘probably quite soon after the events themselves’, and ‘probably not much’; admittedly these contentions would be difficult to prove, but they seem more likely than the alternatives which would bring Ernoul’s composition closer to the 1220s and call for a greater degree of editorial intervention on the part of the later author. There is of course a risk here of piling hypothesis on hypothesis, but these questions should not be ignored, because leading on from them is a further issue of fundamental importance: when we find passages attributable to Ernoul being altered by the author of the Colbert-Fontainebleau recension, it would appear that we are faced by what is arguably a near-contemporary account being overwritten in the late 1240s, half a century or so afterwards. It is not difficult to identify these later additions, although that is an exercise that has never been undertaken systematically. It is worth stressing this point, if only because there are a number of anecdotes relating to the run up to the battle of Hattin and the surrender of Jerusalem that are frequently repeated by modern writers but which were only introduced into the story in the 1240s as part of the Colbert-Fontainebleau revisions.29 Once we move to the post 1187 period, it would seem that there was no pre-existing narrative for the Ernoul-Bernard author to use, and so he had to make up his account of the Third Crusade as best he could from such memories as were available to him in the late 1220s and early 1230s. It has to be said that the narrative of the Third Crusade as re-written in the 1240s by the Colbert-Fontainebleau author tends to be much more detailed and gives the appearance of being well-informed. That immediately raises the issues of where this mid-thirteenth-century author found his information and how sceptical should we be about additions that describe events from 50 years earlier. It is likely that this author had access to historical traditions preserved among some of the noble families in Latin Syria – when writing of the 1220s and 1230s he shows a particular interest in, and affinity with, the group of nobles around Balian lord of Sidon30 – but that is no guarantee of the historicity of the extra material for the late twelfth century. We might note, for example, that on occasion he got into a muddle: there are thus two accounts of the crusade and death of Frederick Barbarossa in 1190; in one, following Ernoul-Bernard, Barbarossa drowned while going for a swim in

29 For an examination of one set of such anecdotes, see Edbury 2011, 45–59. 30 For Balian, see Eracles, 311, 332, 346, 358, 364, 367–368, 370, 372, 375, 384, 389–390, 393–394, 397–398, 414. Balian had supported Frederick II until 1231, and the narrative seems to reflect the attitudes of those nobles who had hoped to be able to co-operate with him rather than that of the Ibelins, who had opposed him since his arrival in 1228.

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a river; in the other, he drowned when his horse slipped when fording a river.31 With these considerations in mind we can now turn to an examination of the episodes described in these narratives relating to the beginnings of Frankish rule in Cyprus: the conquest by Richard the Lionheart in May 1191, and then the rebellion against the Templars the following Palm Sunday and the subsequent settlement of the island under the leadership of Guy of Lusignan and his brother Aimery. For each of these episodes there are three accounts: Ernoul-Bernard written in the late 1220s or early 1230s, ColbertFontainebleau dating from the late 1240s, and the Lyon Eracles, composed around 1250 by someone who seems to have had access to the other two. The accounts all differ, perhaps more so than for many of the other episodes from these years dealt with by these texts. So far as the conquest is concerned, there are a number of other accounts with which the story as told by Ernoul-Bernard and by the Colbert-Fontainebleau and Lyon recensions of the Continuations can be compared. By contrast, the rebellion against the Templars is mentioned by, so far as I am aware, just one contemporary independent writer; there are no other accounts of the settlement, and for further insights historians have to look instead at what can be inferred from an examination of documentary and legal sources. The problem with the other sources for the conquest of May 1191 is that most of them were either written in England or in those parts of France in which Richard ruled. In describing the course of the Third Crusade, the authors were deliberately portraying the king as a military hero and his conquest of Cyprus as something to be applauded. They also disagree among themselves as well as with Ernoul-Bernard and the Continuations about the actual sequence of events.32 So any attempt at tracing Richard’s itinerary during the course of his invasion quickly runs into trouble: the accounts differ, and in the past historians have too often simply retold the story by following whichever narrative seemed to them to be the best informed while largely discounting the others.33 Two of the principal authors who described Richard’s conquest of Cyprus were themselves participants in the Third Crusade and could well have been directly involved in this episode. Roger of Howden was an English royal clerk who also served Richard as a judge and who wrote in Latin.34 He 31 Eracles, 117, 138. Cf. Ernoul, 249. 32 Nicolaou-Konnari 2000, 25–123. 33 For example, Jeffery 1926. This is only book-length treatment of the conquest; Jeffery followed the Itinerarium Peregrinorum. 34 Roger of Howden’s two historical works are: Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi Benedicti abbatis, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols. (London 1867) and Chronica, ed. William Stubbs,

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completed the earlier of his two versions of what happened during the Third Crusade in 1192,35 and so his account of events in Cyprus in May 1191 can be truly claimed as contemporary. Ambroise was from Normandy and wrote a rhymed chronicle of Richard’s crusade in French.36 He was writing his Estoire de la Guerre Sainte or History of the Holy War between 1194 and 1199. Although there has been some disagreement, his modern British editors believe that he was a priest and came from Normandy, and they are in no doubt that he was a participant on the Third Crusade and hence an eyewitness.37 Ambroise’s account formed the basis for a Latin re-telling of the conquest in the history known as Itinerarium Peregrinorum. This work is really two separate narratives stuck together. The first covers the story of the Third Crusade as far as the closing months of 1190 and would seem to have been written before the end of 1192, but it is the second part that contains the story of the conquest of Cyprus, and that seems to have been composed in England much later, probably between 1217 and 1222, apparently by a cleric named Richard de Templo, prior of the Augustinian abbey of Holy Trinity London.38 In the past, probably because it is the most detailed account and gives clear chronological indicators, historians have often given the Itinerarium priority in recounting the story of these events; but it is important to bear in mind that it is essentially derivative, adapted from an earlier narrative, and any extra information it contains should be seen simply as reflecting what was believed almost thirty years after these events or what the author wanted his readers to believe. The series of accounts of the 1191 conquest to be found in Ernoul-Bernard and the Colbert-Fontainebleau and Lyon recension of the Continuations are completely independent of these English or Anglo-Norman narratives. However, when we examine the Ernoul-Bernard account of the conquest 4 vols. (London 1868–1871). See Gillingham 1994, 141–153. For the conquest of Cyprus, see Gesta Regis, vol. 2, 162–168; Chronica, vol. 3, 105–110. 35 Gillingham 1994, 149. 36 The History of the Holy War. Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, ed. and trans. Marianne Ailes and Malcolm Barber, 2 vols. (Woodbridge 2003). For the conquest of Cyprus, see vol. 1, lines 1307–2116 (pp. 21–34), English trans., vol. 2, 49–62. 37 Ambroise, vol. 2, 1–3. Ambroise’s authorship and his presence on the crusade has been challenged: Vielliard 2002, 10–12; Labordy 2004, 8. Ailes and Barber reiterated the older views of Gaston Paris, and their view is endorsed by Rinoldi 2009, 8–12. 38 See Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, trans. Helen J. Nicholson (Aldershot – Brookfield/Vermont 1997) 6–12. For the first part, Das Itinerarium Peregrinorum. Eine zeitgenössische engli­sche Chronik zum dritten Kreuzzug in ursprünglicher Gestalt, ed. Hans Eberhard Mayer (Stuttgart 1962). The standard edition of the second part of the work remains Itinera­rium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, ed. William Stubbs (London 1864); for the conquest of Cyprus, see pp. 183–204.

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of Cyprus, we discover that it is thin and self-evidently ill-informed.39 The same is true of later episodes in the Third Crusade, such as Richard the Lionheart’s campaigns in southern Palestine.40 The author provides little more than the story of Isaac trying to entice Richard’s sister and his brideto-be ashore, thereby providing Richard with a pretext for invading, and the distinctly inconsequential detail that when Richard pursued Isaac on land, Guy of Lusignan, the discredited king of Jerusalem, brought the English fleet along the coast from Limassol as far as Kiti. Not surprisingly, historians have usually ignored this account in favour of others that are more informative. Like Ernoul-Bernard, the Colbert-Fontainebleau account starts with the story of Isaac trying to entice the royal women ashore – the n­ arrative is expanded but is still close enough to leave no question that the two accounts are related – but then it changes out of all recognition. Unlike Ernoul-Bernard whose author says no more than that Isaac wanted to get the royal women into his clutches, the Colbert-Fontainebleau narrator sets out to blacken his character, and to do so he introduces a story of how Isaac, apparently motivated by an irrational hatred of westerners, wanted to massacre shipwrecked pilgrims heading for the Holy Land, and how his plans were thwarted by the self-sacrifice of a Norman mercenary in his service.41 It is a motif taken from hagiography, and it may be wondered whether the whole of this episode is fictitious: if the pilgrims could escape into the countryside and so avoid death, why did the Norman not join them instead of staying behind and being killed? In any case, it is odd that the Anglo-Norman writers make no mention of this man’s bravery. The purpose of this story is obvious: we, the readers, are left in no doubt that Isaac was an evil tyrant and that Richard was thoroughly justified in making war on him. Once Richard had landed on Cyprus, a major feature of the ColbertFontainebleau account – but not those of Ernoul-Bernard or the Lyon Eracles – is an extended description of his face-to-face negotiations with Isaac and Isaac’s decision to flee rather than fulfil his promises. So besides being mendacious, Isaac is also duplicitous.42 There then follows a reasonably persuasive account of the campaign with some geographical details that provide a measure of verisimilitude. But although the account of the negotiations finds parallels in the AngloNorman sources, the details of the actual campaign differ significantly from those recorded by both the supposed participants, Ambroise and Roger of 39 40 41 42

Ernoul, 270–273. Ernoul, 278–283. Eracles, 160–163. Eracles, 163–167.

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Howden. It might also be noted that although the Colbert-Fontainebleau description of the conquest of Cyprus is far more detailed than Ernoul-Bernard’s, it omits the task entrusted to Guy of Lusignan of bringing the fleet to Kiti; perhaps in line with his more strident criticisms of Guy’s earlier ineptitude, he is deliberately down-playing his role. Moving on the Lyon Eracles, we find that this narrative is again strikingly different. It starts by repeating the Colbert-Fontainebleau account almost word for word: Isaac tries to entice the royal women ashore; the selfsacrifice of the Norman mercenary secures the safety of the shipwrecked pilgrims.43 But then, with the story of the actual conquest, the descriptions diverge radically. From this point on the Lyon Eracles account is less than half the length of Colbert-Fontainebleau’s, but it is far from being simply an abbreviated version of it. Rather, it is as if this author has totally jettisoned the other account and started writing from scratch. Colbert-Fontainebleau’s topographical details have all gone; so too has the account of the abortive negotiations in which Isaac and Richard met face to face; instead we are told that Richard defeated Isaac near Kolossi; he then captured his daughter at Kyrenia and Isaac himself at Buffavento; there is no mention of Guy of Lusignan.44 But there are two new elements in the account that are not to be found in either of the other two: divine help for Richard and an ecclesiastical dimension: ‘Mais le Rei de Gloire, qui avoit conduit le rei Richart jusques la, et voleit planter iqui la bone plante, ce est assaveir Sainte Yglise et la crestienté de la lei de Rome en la devant dite isle, et arachier la mauvaise racine des felons Giffons, il manda son bon conseill au rei Richart, que il se hasta et ala cuitousement vers le chastel de Cherines […].’45 And again ‘Mais la porveance et l’aïe dou Rei de Gloire, qui ne deguerpisse pas les siens, dona force et victoire au devant dit rei, que il desconfist autre feiz le Griffon Kirsac o toutes ses gens […]. Et ensi par l’aïe de Dieu sousmist le rei toute la seignorie de Chypre a son pooir, et la torna a la lei des Latins. Et fu fait arcevesque de Nicossie Alein, qui estoit arcediaque de Saint Jorge de Rames.’46

43 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §§111–116. 44 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §§116–119 (commencing 6 lines from the top of p. 119). 45 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §117. 46 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §118.

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The idea that Richard’s conquest had prospered thanks to the support of God is not repeated in the other accounts. More noteworthy, however, is the notion that the conquest opened the way for the establishment of Latin Christianity in Cyprus and the opportunity to ‘eradicate the evil root of the wicked Greeks’. We have to see this comment against the background of the hostile relations between the Greek and Latin Churches in Cyprus that was approaching an all-time low in the middle years of the thirteenth century, at precisely the time this passage was written.47 Perhaps it should be read as evidence for Latin frustration that the Greeks of Cyprus would not come into line. To the best of my knowledge the only independent and near contemporary mention of the Greek rebellion against the Templars on the Palm Sunday weekend (28–29 March 1192) is provided by the Syriac writer usually known in English as ‘Michael the Syrian’ – more properly Michael the Elder or Michael ‘Rabo’. Michael, who died in 1199 and whose Chronicle ends with the year 1195/6, did no more than confirm that the Greeks rebelled with the intention of killing the Franks and taking control for themselves, and that they were defeated in battle.48 There is no mention of the ensuing massacre, and that prompts the unanswerable question of whether the extent of the slaughter was in fact less than our later writers claimed. The Ernoul-Bernard account is again brief and short on detail. Why the Greeks rebelled is not discussed. The Franks found themselves besieged in the castle that afforded little protection; concluding that the best form of defence is attack, they charged the besiegers who offered no resistance. Having slaughtered a large number of people, they then decided that Cyprus was untenable and they would return it to King Richard.49 We might ask whether the claim that the Greeks did not put up a fight indicates that the Franks’ assessment of the gravity of the situation was mistaken, and also why, given that there seems to be no evidence for further opposition to Frankish rule on the part of the local population after this episode, the Templars found it necessary to hand the island back to the English king. The Colbert-Fontainebleau author clearly based his account on ErnoulBernard, but introduced a number of circumstantial details: the crowd came together on the occasion of a market; the Greeks were said to be motivated by the desire to avenge their relatives killed by the Latins, presumably the victims of the various engagements during the conquest; the Templar 47 Coureas 1997, 286–293. 48 Chronique de Michel le Syrien, patriarche jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199) (Paris 1899– 1924) vol. 3, 403. For Michael and his work, see Witakowski 2007, 255–261. 49 Ernoul, 285–286.

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commander was named Arnaut Bochart; there are precise numbers for the Franks who took refuge in the castle. Arnaut Bochart is spoken of well, and that raises problems in trying to gauge the author’s attitude in describing the massacre: this account emphasizes the scale of the slaughter and reports that a large number took refuge in a church, and the Franks killed them all. The way the text is worded leaves it uncertain as to whether the author saw the massacre as justified retribution for the challenge to Templar rule and the threat to slaughter the Franks, or whether he wanted to present it as an atrocity story that reflected badly on the perpetrators. The success of the charge is attributed to a lack of preparedness on the part of the Greeks, and the author seems to hint that the Templars’ decision to return Cyprus to King Richard seems to have come about because the inhabitants had fled to the mountains, and so presumably the Templars could not raise the revenue needed to pay the money they still owed.50 There is, however, no ambivalence in the Lyon Eracles account. The author, who would seem to have had both the Ernoul-Bernard narrative as it appears in the Continuations and the Colbert-Fontainebleau version at his disposal, leaves us in no doubt: the whole episode shows Templars in a poor light. It was their oppressive treatment of the Greeks that provoked the demonstration against them in the first place. Like the Colbert-Fontaine­ bleau account, the Lyon Eracles makes it clear that the Greeks refused to allow the Templars to withdraw peaceably from the island but expressed an intention to kill them all. When the Templars attack, there is far less emphasis here on the bloodshed than in either of the other accounts, with no mention of the massacre in the church. But then the criticism of the Templars reappears when we are told that the decision to return the island to King Richard shows their ‘poverty of resolve’ (‘grant povreté de cuer’).51 It is unfortunate that nothing else is known of the career of Arnaut (or, as he is called in the Lyon Eracles, ‘Reynald’) Bochart, and the silence of the sources means we have no way of telling whether or not he was in disgrace for his failure to manage the affairs of the island satisfactorily or was rewarded for his exemplary leadership at a moment of crisis. The seemingly even-handed treatment of the Templars in Ernoul-Bernard and the hostility towards the Order shown by the Lyon Eracles is paralleled elsewhere in these accounts. So for example, in describing the battle of Le Cresson which took place in May 1187 when a largely Templar force was almost annihilated when attacking a far larger Muslim army, Ernoul-Bernard avoids pinning the blame on the then Templar master, Gerard of Ridefort, while the Lyon Eracles and the here almost identical account given by 50 Eracles, 190–191. 51 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §§133–134.

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Colbert-Fontainebleau introduce extra elements into the story designed to damn his memory.52 Taken as a whole, Ernoul-Bernard is generally favourable to the Templars, and the last mention of them is in an account of their conflict with the author’s bête noire, the emperor Frederick II.53 Writing around twenty years later, the Lyon Eracles author adopted a hostile stance. The Order’s policies, privileges, wealth and failures laid it open to criticism, and from the time of William of Tyre, who was writing in the 1170s and early 1180s, it had had to put up with increasing censure. Indeed, William’s French translator, working around 1220, was, if anything, even more critical than William.54 There can be little doubt that the long tradition of negative comment contributed to the climate of opinion that acquiesced in the arrest and downfall of the Templars early in the fourteenth century. The stories of the Frankish settlement of Cyprus differ significantly. They do agree that Guy of Lusignan publicized his offer of fiefs and burgess properties throughout the Latin East and Cilician Armenia and attracted men and women who had lost their lands as a result of Saladin’s conquest, and that he provided a new start in life to the widows and orphaned daughters of Frankish knights who had died during the campaigns. Ernoul-Bernard and, evidently taking its cue from this source, the Lyon Eracles inform us that Guy enfeoffed 300 knights and 200 mounted sergeants, and that he gave away so much property in fiefs that he only had enough left in his own hands to support twenty knights. These two accounts both express their approval for Guy’s actions, comparing his open-handed policy with the less generous stance allegedly adopted by Baldwin of Flanders after the 1204 capture of Constantinople which in their view resulted in the failure of the Latin Empire.55 However, Ernoul-Bernard alone has the story of what happened after Guy’s death when his brother Aimery took charge in Cyprus. It was discovered that Guy’s grants had turned out to be worth twice as much as had been thought, and Aimery called the knights together and persuaded them to return some of their lands so that he, their lord, should not live in penury. The author makes it sound as if Aimery was appealing to the knights’ sense of honour and duty; it is only towards the end of this story that the suggestion emerges that he also brought force to bear in building up the royal income to an acceptable level.56 This story raises some interesting questions: for example, if we accept that it is substantially true, is it possible that Guy 52 53 54 55 56

Edbury 2011, 47–49. Ernoul, 462–467. Edbury 2007b, 25–37 at p. 32. Ernoul, 286–287; La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §136. Ernoul, 287–288.

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was working from Byzantine fiscal records that were out of date or which deliberately undervalued the properties of certain individuals? There is no way of knowing. But there is also the question of why neither of the other accounts echoes this part of the story. Could it be that the idea of vassals being persuaded or being forced to relinquish part of their fiefs to their lord was not something that the presumed aristocratic audience of these narratives would want to hear? Or, was it simply that the whole story seemed so farfetched that the authors did not believe it and so decided not to repeat it? Unlike Ernoul-Bernard, both the Colbert-Fontainebleau and the Lyon Eracles authors were interested in the financial aspects of the deal whereby Richard let Guy have the island. There is some divergence between them over the details, although they are agreed that Guy gave Richard 60,000 Saracen bezants.57 The Lyon Eracles tells how Guy had his chancellor, Peter of Angoulême bishop of Tripoli, raise the money as a loan from some wealthy citizens of Tripoli. We know from other evidence that the two men mentioned by name – Saïs and Johan de la Moneie – were indeed prominent figures there at this time.58 The Colbert-Fontainebleau account goes on to specify that a knight’s fief was fixed at 400 white bezants and a turcopole’s at 300.59 This statement raises two issues. At that time the Cypriot white bezant (an imitative Byzantine coin) was worth about a third of the so-called ‘Saracen bezant’ (an imitative Arab dinar), the gold coin used in the kingdom of Jerusalem.60 Evidence suggests that around 1200 a knight’s fief in Latin Syria might typically be in the region of 300 Saracen bezants.61 If so, the standard of 400 white bezants in Cyprus would seem distinctly low, and that would run counter to Ernoul-Bernard’s claim that Guy had been excessively generous.62 Secondly, Colbert-Fontainebleau alone speaks of ‘turcopoles’ where the other texts speak of ‘mounted sergeants’. Historians usually consider turcopoles to have been a distinctive group of warriors,63 but we have to wonder whether the two terms were being used interchangeably – certainly a turcopole a .ii. chevaucheures et hauberjon sounds rather like a mounted sergeant.64 57 Eracles, 191; La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §§134–135. 58 They regularly witnessed the acta of successive counts of Tripoli in the 1180s and 1190s. Röhricht 1893/1904, nos. 585, 602, 605, 621, 637, 645, 662, 731, 742, 754. 59 Eracles, 192. 60 For their respective weights and fineness, see Metcalf 1995, 44–48, 180–184. Pegolotti (p. 97), writing in the 1320s at a time when both currencies were moneys of account, stated that a Saracen bezant was then worth 3.5 white bezants. 61 Riley-Smith 1973, 10. 62 Ernoul, 286–287. 63 Smail 1995, 111–112. 64 Describing events of 1231, Eracles (p. 386) mentions sergens a cheval, whereas Philip of Novara (p. 146), describing the same incident, has valeés a cheval and turcopoles.

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The Lyon Eracles alone has Guy asking Saladin for his advice on how to proceed, and it is Saladin who advises the generous distribution of property to attract sufficient settlers to ensure the survival of the regime. The story is told in such a way as to emphasize Saladin’s integrity: he is called upon to give advice to an enemy, but even so he is careful to offer his advice in good faith.65 That Guy should consult Saladin may well appear implausible.66 However, by the mid-thirteenth century when this account was being composed, Saladin’s reputation in Christian circles as a man of honour was high, and there were far more fanciful stories about him than this in circulation – stories that would eventually secure him a place in the First Circle of Dante’s Inferno, the region of Hell otherwise reserved for the good pagans of Antiquity.67 This element in the story is therefore commensurate with widely held ideas in western Christendom about Saladin as the virtuous Muslim. Perhaps more unexpected are the disparaging remarks to be found in the Lyon Eracles about the origins of the Cypriot nobility. Guy gave fiefs to ‘Greeks and the knights he had brought with him, and to shoemakers, masons and Arabic scribes so that, may God be merciful! they became knights and great vavassors in the island of Cyprus’68. There is no doubt that at the outset the leading knights in Cyprus were drawn from among Guy’s household and from those members of the nobility who had supported him during the siege of Acre of 1189–91 and its aftermath. The idea that he promoted Greeks or base-born men to the higher echelons of the nobility is without corroboration.69 What this passage reveals is something of the author’s own social prejudice. Earlier, when writing of the terms for Guy’s release from Muslim captivity in 1188, he repeats the story found in the other versions that as part of the agreement Saladin allowed Guy to choose ten other captives who would be freed at the same time, but this author alone inserts the detail that Guy selected a scribe rather than a knight as the tenth beneficiary of this arrangement and expresses his disgust at this course of action.70 Such anecdotes were intended to undermine Guy’s reputation. The general tenor of all these accounts is that Guy acted wisely in his settlement policy, and it could be that this author, who like the others 65 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §135. 66 However, for evidence that Guy and Saladin were in correspondence shortly after Guy’s acquisition of Cyprus, see Abū Shāma, ‘Livre des deux jardins’, in: Recueil des historiens des croisades: Historiens orientaux, vol. 4 (Paris 1898) 509–510. 67 Jubb 2000, 36–37, 96–97 and chapters 4–10 passim. 68 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §136. 69 Edbury 1991, 16–19. 70 La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr, §49 (at p. 62). Cf. Eracles, 79.

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regarded him as primarily responsible for the collapse of the kingdom of Jerusalem in 1187, felt the need to qualify his praise. The author of the Lyon Eracles would therefore seem to have had a marked disdain for non-nobles. He was also aspersive about the origins of the Cypriot feudal class and, in his comments on the 1192 rebellion, showed himself critical of the Templars. He could speak of the conquest of Cyprus as being in accord with God’s will, and, in lauding the establishment of the Latin Church in the island and expressing his hostility to the Orthodox, he gave voice to a pro-Latin/anti-Greek sentiment that is rarely found so explicitly in historical writing. Unless there is a deliberate irony here that is too subtle for us to appreciate, the slur on the Cypriot nobility would seem to set him apart from the Ibelin family and their allies, as would his comments on the Templars with whom they generally had good relations. These views might perhaps identify him as a nobly-born churchman. That at least would allow him to have aristocratic prejudices while distancing him from the leading noble grouping of the time, and at the same time show him sharing the resentment of the Templars that was a characteristic of many members of the secular clergy. This is a hypothesis that needs to be tested further by a systematic, line-by-line identification and analysis of all the unique additions that this author contributed. This paper has been based on the premise that, if we can understand the context of our sources, we can evaluate how and why they describe particular events as they do more effectively and so arrive at a more nuanced view of the events themselves. In this instance we are confronted by a series of accounts of episodes from the 1190s that, at least in the form in which we have them, were composed between 40 and 60 years later; that feature by itself demands that they be treated with caution. Taking these sources together we can see that the Colbert-Fontainebleau author knew the ErnoulBernard text adapted as the original form of the Continuations, and that the Lyon Eracles author knew both texts. Placing them in that order means that not only can we see how successive authors added to, or modified what was in front of them, but also what they chose to reject. The question of where the later writers found their additional information is a major problem: were there written sources, or did they rely on memory? I have suggested that the original Ernoul-Bernard author had been close to John of Brienne, but, although that might go some way to explaining his treatment of the events of the Fifth Crusade and what happened subsequently between John and Frederick II, it is not much help in understanding his perception of the 1190s. I also believe that the Colbert-Fontainebleau author reflected the standpoint and hence the memories of the group of nobles of whom Balian 46

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of Sidon, who had died in 1240, had been a leading figure. That takes us into the world of the mid-thirteenth-century nobility of the kingdom of Jerusalem and their aspirations and uncertainties in the face of the increasingly volatile situation in the East. This author’s determination to blacken Isaac’s memory is in keeping with the passages he interpolated or re-wrote relating to the loss of Jerusalem in 1187 in which he showed himself more willing than Ernoul to emphasize his partisanship and apportion blame; in particular he was out to vilify Guy of Lusignan and his advisers, Reynald of Châtillon and the master of the Templars, Gerard of Ridefort.71 Whoever wrote the Lyon Eracles had a different standpoint with different stories to tell: could it be that the differences between this work and the Colbert-Fontainebleau recension result from the one being by a clerical author and the other by a layman? There is a further dimension. With all these vernacular narratives we are on the cusp between a sober recital of past events and romance. Some of the elements in the narrative – the story of the Norman martyr and Guy of Lusignan’s appeal to Saladin for advice on how to proceed – are arguably the stuff of fiction. These and other motifs embedded elsewhere in the narratives invite scepticism. At some point in the thirteenth century ErnoulBernard was re-written to give a highly fictionalized account for western audiences of Saladin’s supposed career: Les Estoires d’Outremer et de la naissance Salehadin.72 What the anonymous authors of our texts believed about past and what they expected their audience to believe is one thing, but how far did they spice up their writings with fictive elements drawn from contemporary romance? After all, like modern writers, they had to make it interesting enough to persuade their readers and hearers to stay with them. In reviewing this material I have perhaps identified as many problems as provided answers. In the past, historians have selected those elements in the different accounts that took their fancy and lined them up to produce a seemingly tidy narrative that is in fact a pastiche. Simply adopting what is sometimes called a ‘scissors-and-paste’ approach to construct our own version of events is not something that in our post-modernist age is intellectually defensible – although I have to admit that in the past I have been as guilty as anyone. All we really know is what the authors, writing between about 40 and 60 years after the events, believed had happened or wanted their readers to believe. So our question should not be ‘What actually took place?’ but ‘Why did the authors handle the material in the ways they did?’ What we do have is a series of stories: for the conquest of Cyprus they can be compared with other accounts, some of them composed much closer to 71 Edbury 2011, 47–49. 72 Les Estoires d’Outremer et de la naissance Salehadin, ed. Margaret Jubb (London 1990).

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the events but nevertheless presenting difficulties of their own in terms of bias and purpose; for the end of Templar rule in Cyprus and, except for what can be deduced from non-narrative sources, the policies adopted at the time of the Frankish settlement of the island they tell us virtually all we know. This of course raises important questions about our whole approach to medieval narratives. As historians we seek to understand and construct the past, and in so doing we use earlier attempts to construct the past by writers whose agendas were decidedly different to our own. In this case the problem is that we have ‘better’ sources for the conquest, but we don’t have ‘better’ sources for the end of Templar rule. Do we allow ourselves to slip into the illogical position of wanting to disregard the conquest narratives and, in the absence of other evidence, accept the accounts of the massacre and the settlement? Is that a legitimate approach? At least it is an approach we can now take with our eyes wide open.

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Bibliography Primary sources: Ambroise = The History of the Holy War. Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, ed. and trans. Marianne Ailes and Malcolm Barber, 2 vols. (Woodbridge 2003). La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr = La continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197), ed. Margaret Ruth Morgan (Paris 1982); English translation in: Peter W. Edbury, The Conquest of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade: Sources in Translation (Aldershot – Brookfield/Vermont 1996) 11–145. Eracles = ‘L’estoire de Eracles empereur et la conqueste de la Terre d’Outremer: c’est la continuation de l’Estoire de Guillaume arcevesque de Sur’, in: Recueil des historiens des croisades: Historiens occidentaux, vol. 2 (Paris 1859) 1–481. Ernoul = La Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. Louis de Mas Latrie (Paris 1871). Les Estoires d’Outremer et de la naissance Salehadin, ed. Margaret Jubb (London 1990). Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi, ed. William Stubbs (London 1864); English translation: Helen J. Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade: A Translation of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi (Aldershot – Brookfield, Vermont 1997). Das Itinerarium Peregrinorum. Eine zeitgenössische englische Chronik zum dritten Kreuzzug in ursprünglicher Gestalt, ed. Hans Eberhard Mayer (Stuttgart 1962). Michel le Syrien = Chronique de Michel le Syrien, patriarche jacobite d’Antioche (1166–1199), ed. and trans. Jean-Baptiste Chabot, 4 vols. (Paris 1899– 1924). Pegolotti = Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La pratica della mercatura, ed. Allan Evans (Cambridge/Mass. 1936). Philip of Novara = Filippo da Novara, Guerra di Federico II in Oriente (1223– 1242), ed. Silvio Melani (Naples 1994). Roger of Howden, Chronica = Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols. (London 1868–1871). Roger of Howden, Gesta Regis = Roger of Howden, Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi Benedicti abbatis, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols. (London 1867).

Secondary works: Coureas 1997 = Nicholas Coureas, The Latin Church in Cyprus, 1195–1312 (Aldershot – Brookfield/Vermont 1997). Edbury 1991 = Peter W. Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 1191– 1374 (Cambridge 1991). Edbury 1997a = Peter W. Edbury, John of Ibelin and the Kingdom of Jerusalem (Woodbridge 1997). Edbury 1997b = Peter W. Edbury, ‘The Lyon Eracles and the Old French Continuations of William of Tyre’, in: Benjamin Z. Kedar – Jonathan Riley-Smith – Rudolf Hiestand (eds.), Montjoie: Studies in Crusade History in Honour of Hans Eberhard Mayer (Aldershot – Brookfield/Vermont 1997) 139–153. 49

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Peter Edbury

Edbury 2007a = Peter W. Edbury, ‘The French Translation of William of Tyre’s Historia: the Manuscript Tradition’, in: Crusades 6, 2007, 69–105. Edbury 2007b = Peter W. Edbury, ‘The Old French William of Tyre, the Templars and the Assassin Envoy’, in: Karl Borchardt – Nikolas Jaspert – Helen J. Nicholson (eds.), The Hospitallers, the Mediterranean and Europe: Festschrift for Anthony Luttrell (Aldershot – Burlington/Vermont 2007) 25–37. Edbury 2010 = Peter W. Edbury, ‘New Perspectives on the Old French Continuations of William of Tyre’, in: Crusades 9, 2010, 107–113. Edbury 2011 = Peter W. Edbury, ‘Gerard of Ridefort and the Battle of Le Cresson (1 May 1187): The Developing Narrative Tradition’, in: Helen J. Nicholson (ed.), On the Margins of Crusading: the Military Orders, the Papacy and the Christian World (Farnham – Burlington/Vermont 2011) 45–59. Edbury 2014 = Peter W. Edbury, ‘Thoros of Armenia and the Kingdom of Jerusalem’, in: Simon John – Nicholas Morton (eds.), Crusading and Warfare in the Middle Ages: Realities and Representations (Farnham – Burlington/ Vermont 2014) 181 – 190. Edbury forthcoming = Peter W. Edbury, ‘Ernoul, Eracles and the Fifth Crusade’, in: Jan Vandeburie – Thomas Smith – Guy Perry – Liz Mylod (eds.), Contextualising the Fifth Crusade. Proceedings of the Conference Held at Canterbury 13–14 April 2012 (forthcoming). Folda 1973 = Jaroslav Folda, ‘Manuscripts of the History of Outremer by William of Tyre: a Handlist’, in: Scriptorium 27, 1973, 90–95. Folda 2011 = Jaroslav Folda, ‘The Panorama of the Crusades, 1096 to 1218, as seen in Yates Thompson ms. 12 in the British Library’, in: George Hardin Brown – Linda Ehrsam Voigts (eds.), The Study of Medieval Manuscripts of Eng­land: Festschrift in Honor of Richard W. Pfaff (Tempe 2011) 253– 280. Gaggero 2012 = Massimiliano Gaggero, ‘La Chronique d’Ernoul: problèmes et méthodes d’édition’, in: Perspectives Médiévales: Revue d’épistémologie des langues et littératures du Moyen Âge 34, 2012: http://peme.revues.org/1608 (accessed 19/09/2014). Gillingham 1994 = John Gillingham, ‘Roger of Howden on Crusade’ in: Richard Coeur de Lion: Kingship, Chivalry and War in the Twelfth Century (London – Rio Grande 1994) 141–153. Handyside 2015 = Philip Handyside, The Old French William of Tyre (Leiden – Boston 2015). Jeffery 1926 = George Jeffery, Cyprus under an English King in the twelfth century: the Adventures of Richard I and the Crowning of his Queen in the Island (Nicosia 1926). Jubb 2000 = Margaret Jubb, The Legend of Saladin in Western Literature and Historiography (Lewiston – Queenston – Lampeter 2000). Labordy 2004 = Gillette Labordy, ‘Les débuts de la chronique en français (XIIe et XIIIe siècles)’, in: Erik Kooper (ed), The Medieval Chronicle, vol. 3 (Rodopi 2004) 1–26. Mas Latrie 1871 = Louis de Mas Latrie, ‘Essai de classification des continuations de l’Historie des Croisades de Guillaume de Tyr’, in: La Chronique d’Ernoul et de Bernard le Trésorier, ed. Louis de Mas Latrie (Paris 1871) 473– 565.

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Ernoul, Eracles and the Beginnings of Frankish Rule in Cyprus

Metcalf 1995 = David Michael Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades and the Latin East in the Ashmolean Museum Oxford (London 1995, 2nd ed.) Morgan 1973 = Margaret Ruth Morgan, The Chronicle of Ernoul and the Continuations of William of Tyre (Oxford 1973). Nicolaou-Konnari 2000 = Angel Nicolaou-Konnari, ‘The Conquest of Cyprus by Richard the Lionheart and its aftermath: a Study of Sources and Legend, Politics and Attitudes in the Year 1191–1192’, in: Επετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 26, 2000, 25–123. Pringle 2012 = Denys Pringle, Pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land, 1187– 1291 (Farnham – Brookfield/Vermont 2012). Riley-Smith 1973 = Jonathan Riley-Smith, The Feudal Nobility and the Kingdom of Jerusalem, 1174–1277 (London – Basingstoke 1973). Rinoldi 2009 = Paolo Rinoldi, in: Revue Critique de Philologie Romane 10, 2009, 3–82 (review of The History of the Holy War. Ambroise’s Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, ed. and trans. Marianne Ailes and Malcolm Barber [Wood­ bridge 2003]). Röhricht 1893/1904 = Regesta Regni Hierosolymitani (MXCVII–MCCXCI), ed. Reinhold Röhricht, 2 vols. (Innsbruck 1893–1904). Smail 1995 = Raymond Charles Smail, Crusading Warfare, 1097–1193 (Cambridge 1995, 2nd ed.). Vielliard 2002 = Françoise Vielliard, ‘Richard Coeur de Lion et son entourage normand: le témoignage de l’Estoire de la guerre sainte’, in: Bibliothèque de l’École des Chartes 160, 2002, 5–52. Witakowski 2007 = Witold Witakowski, ‘Syriac Historiographical Sources’, in: Mary Whitby (ed.), Byzantines and Crusaders in Non-Greek Sources, 1025–1204. Proceedings of the British Academy, vol. 132 (Oxford 2007) 253–282.

Peter Edbury

Cardiff University, Cardiff School of History, Archaeology and Religion, John Percival Building, Colum Drive, CF10 3EU Cardiff (United Kingdom) [email protected]

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K. Scott Parker

Peter I de Lusignan, the Crusade of 1365, and the Oriental Christians of Cyprus and the Mamluk Sultanate In 1362, during the reign of King Peter I de Lusignan (1359–1369), Cyprus suffered yet another outbreak of the plague. Only fourteen years previously, the first outbreak of the Black Death had killed so many people that the Cypriots feared the Muslims might take over and, per the Mamlūk chronicler al-Maqrīzī, summarily proceeded to execute all Muslim prisoners and slaves. In the intervening period, the plague struck again in 1351 while an earthquake and tsunami also caused much destruction.1 It is little wonder, therefore, that the people of Cyprus reacted so strongly when the next outbreak of plague resulted in the deaths of thirty to forty people per day in Famagusta alone. The contemporary chancellor of Cyprus, Philip of Mézières, recorded that the charismatic Papal Legate Peter Thomas (1305– 1366) followed up his successful intercessory procession in Nicosia with another in Famagusta. But this was not a procession of Latin Christians alone walking barefoot, fasting, and singing hymns. Indeed, Famagusta was an exceedingly diverse city at this time, and Philip records the participation in the procession of Greeks, Armenians, East Syrians2, Syrian Orthodox3, Georgians, Nubians, Indians, Ethiopians, ‘and many other Christians’. Even ‘Saracens, Turks, and Jews’ joined in this procession, so reports the author.4 Cyprus was obviously Greek Orthodox historically and Byzantine from its re-conquest about 965 by Emperor Nikephoros II Phocas (reg. 963–969).5 Latin rule was established in 1191 with the conquest of Richard the Lionheart of England and subsequently the Lusignan dynasty was established in Cyprus the next year, in 1192.6 But Cyprus was a long way 1 2 3 4 5 6

Al-Maqrīzī 1958, 776; Dols 1977, 58–59. ‘Nestorians’. ‘Jacobites’. Mézières 1954, 97–100. Such multi-confessional processions were still taking place on Cyprus as late as 1580. Cf. Coureas 2001, 360. Hill 1940, 295. Edbury 1991, 1–12.

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from England, and with the decline of Byzantium under the Angeli and the expansion of the Turkish emirates, no longer so close to Constantinople. It was much closer, indeed, to the Armenian kingdom of Cilicia and the Latin principalities along the Syrian coast (while they lasted), and after 1291 to the Mamlūk Sultanate in Egypt and especially Syria.7 Thus while its native population was Greek and there was a strong Latin ruling minority, reflecting its proximity to the Syrian coast and to the historical events of the preceding century, it is little wonder that many of the natives of these lands should have settled in Cyprus.8 In this paper, I shall briefly examine these diverse communities in Cyprus in the mid-fourteenth century, demonstrating their connections to Greater Syria and Egypt and following with an examination of the effect of the crusade of King Peter I on these Oriental Christian communities.

Oriental Christian Confessions in Cyprus A Provincial Council was held at Nicosia in 1340 in which the Latin archbishop of Nicosia, Elias of Nabineaux, summoned all of the non-Latin hierarchy and explained to them Roman Catholic doctrine and persuaded them to all accept those positions that had hitherto separated the Eastern Christians from Roman primacy. Those present included at least Armenians, Melkites, Maronites, Syrian Orthodox, and East Syrians. Whether or not those clergy present were earnest in their acceptance of the Roman Catholic position, the lasting effect of this council was negligible, as is evidenced by the subsequent frequent attempts by the Latin hierarchy to repeat this process.9 Despite these efforts, there is evidence to suggest that the Lusignan kings did not always cooperate fully with the Latin hierarchy in the latter’s attempts to convert the Oriental Christians, as, for example, when the fiery Catalan preacher Raymond Lull visited the island and he was specifically forbidden to preach to the non-Chalcedonian Christians.10 This was pragmatic on the part of the crown, as harmony with these diverse communities was necessary for the prosperity of Cyprus. Let us briefly examine these Eastern Confessions: 7

Ghazarian 2000, 131–156. On Cypriot relations with the Mamlūk Sultanate, see: Edbury, 1995. 8 Earlier studies on medieval Cyprus’ diversity include: Fenoy 2010; Coureas 2004; idem 2001; Grivaud 2000; Jacoby 1989; Richard 1979. 9 Coureas 2001, 352–353. On Latin attempts to bring Oriental Christians into the Roman Catholic fold, see: Baldwin 1985; Hamilton 1980; and Richard 1977. 10 Golubovich 1906, 368–369; Bonner 1985, vol. 1, 39–40; Grivaud 2000, 64; and Coureas 2001, 351.

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Armenians The Armenian presence in Cyprus originally dates to the sixth century, but it was only after the creation of the Crusader States that a continuous community is really dateable.11 The Lusignan dynasty of Cyprus had from an early stage intermarried with the rulers of Acre, Antioch, and Cilicia, and – until their fall – played an important part in their defence and sustenance.12 In 1342, a scion of the royal house of Cyprus named Guy de Lusignan became king of Cilicia, taking the regnal name Constantine II (reg. 1342-1344). If his reign was to prove short-lived, the Lusignan royal position in the kingdom would continue until its final demise in 1375.13 Peter I de Lusignan himself accepted the crown of Cilicia in 1363, though this is a rather confused episode and he certainly was unable to visit that troubled land prior to his death in 1369.14 In Cilicia, in particular, the nobility and certain sectors of the Armenian Church had adopted Frankish and Latin customs, much to the opposition of the lower classes, the Vardopets, and monks. Many of these found their way to Cyprus, whether voluntarily or by exile.15 For example, in response to an unofficial anti-unionist council held at Sīs in 1309, which rejected acquiescence to Roman practice, King Ōshīn (1307–1322) imprisoned the Vardapets, killed many of the laity and some of the clergy, and exiled the monks to Cyprus.16 Many others were refugees, as over a century of constant invasion and devastation led many Armenians to flee to Cyprus. For example, the Augustinian friar James of Verona in 1335 witnessed the arrival of several ships of refugees: ‘In that city [Famagusta] of Cyprus and in the island I saw the novelties which I note here below. The first is that on that day, the last of June, and that very hour when I entered the harbour several large vessels and galleys and gripparia came from Armenia, from the city of Logaze, crowded with old men, children, women, orphans and wards more than fifteen hundred in number, who were flying from Armenia because the Soldan had sent hosts, many and mighty, to destroy it, and they burnt all that plain and carried off 11 Ghazarian 2000, 132–133; Coureas 2004, 132–133. Sizeable numbers of Armenians served in the Byzantine military forces in Cyprus in the twelfth century. 12 Edbury 1991, 74–100. 13 Ghazarian 2000, 158–163; Edbury 1991, 143; Boase 1978, 30–31. The title of king of Armenia was adopted by the kings of Cyprus after 1393 (Boase 1978, 33). 14 Ghazarian 2000, 166; Boase 1978, 186; Hill 1948, 359. 15 Golubovich 1906, 355 and 360; Stewart 2001, 171–180; Coureas 2001, 353; Hodgson 2011. 16 Bundy 1985, 50–55.

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captive more than twelve thousand persons, over and above those whom they had slain with the sword, and they began to destroy it, as I was told by Venetian merchants who were there, on Ascension Day, which fell on May 25. O Lord God, sad indeed it was to see that multitude in the square of Famagusta, children crying and moaning at their mothers’ breasts, old men and starving dogs howling. Hear it, ye Christians who live in your own towns and homes, eating and drinking and reared in luxury, who care not to make the Holy Land your own, and to restore it to the Christian Faith!’17 Not all Armenians in Cyprus were exiles and refugees, however, as many Armenians served as soldiers, artisans, merchants and in other occupations. Numerous Armenian churches and monasteries were found in Paphos, Limassol, Nicosia, Famagusta and Kyrenia, doubtless in Armenian communities.18

Melkites Regarding the Melkites, that is, those Greek Orthodox who were Arabicspeaking and culturally of the Arab Near East, they were present in Cyprus at least from 1222, but had come in substantial numbers to Cyprus following the collapse of the Crusader principalities from the 1260s and especially after 1291. As Chris Schabel has argued, by the later thirteenth century, the Melkites were likely third in population in Cyprus after the indigenous Greeks and the Latins. Melkites were of the same Church as the Greeks and had a shared hierarchy, although Arabic-speaking clergy. In 1260, Pope Alexander IV (reg. 1254–1261) issued his Bulla Cypria which recognised the Syrian Melkites as falling since ancient times within Greek jurisdiction. As the Melkite population increased dramatically with the demise of the Crusader States, however, their ecclesiastical jurisdiction became especially heated between the Greek and Latin authorities. Perhaps not surprisingly, papal legates repeatedly ruled in favour of the Latin claim, from the 1310s well into the fifteenth century.19 Despite this tension, the number of Melkites was so substantial that the Patriarch of Antioch, Ignatios II (1344–1363) (an Armenian by birth) sought refuge in Cyprus in 1359 during his period of exile likely due to the Palamist controversy. He remained on the island until his death between 1361 and 1364.20 He was welcomed by King Hugh IV (reg. 1324–1359), 17 James of Verona 1895, 177; trans. Cobham 1908, 17. 18 Ghazarian 2000, 135–137, and for Armenians in Cyprus in general, see: 131–154. 19 Schabel 2005, 168–170, 201–210. Cf. Grivaud 2000, 52–53; Fenoy 2010, 193; Richard 1979, 166ff. On the indigenous Greek population, see Nicolaou-Konnari 2005. 20 Schabel 2005, 181; Akindynos 1983, 394; Nasrallah 1968, 15–16.

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and was influential with him as well as Peter, once advising the former to have an icon painted of three Greek Saints to fight off a plague of locusts, which it successfully did. He also had a cross containing relics made to be used against locusts, drought, and the plague.21

Maronites The Maronites were oddly not mentioned by Mézières in his description of the procession in 1362, but perhaps they fell under the category of other Christians. Although they had a minor presence in Cyprus in the twelfth century, immigration following the Mamluk conquest of Tripoli and the other Crusader States certainly increased their numbers. There were Maronite communities in Famagusta and Nicosia, as well as more rural villages and a small monastery in the vicinity of the Greek Orthodox Monastery of Saint John Chrysostom at Koutsovendis in the Kyrenia Mountains.22

Syrian Orthodox The Syrian Orthodox (or Jacobites), who had largely benefited from Latin rule in Syria, were undoubtedly established in Cyprus from 1222, when they are referred to in a letter of Pope Honorius III. A century later, in 1326, Pope John XXII also complained of their lack of submission, testified to by their inclusion at a local synod in Nicosia in 1340 seeking the union of the Oriental Churches with Rome. Their merchant communities prospered in Famagusta and Nicosia, but the historical details are, unfortunately, rather limited.23

The Church of the East Likewise, adherents of the Church of the East, sometimes called East Syrians, East Syriacs, Nestorians, or Assyrians, also thrived.24 Theirs’ was a small community based in Famagusta and largely relocated from Frankish Tyre. Although very few in numbers west of Mesopotamia, they were able to maintain their trade network to Damietta and Alexandria in Egypt.25 James of Verona observed the East Syrian Christians in Cyprus in 1335, the 21 Schabel 2005, 181. 22 Papacostas – Mango – Grünbart 2007, 79–84; Grivaud 2000, 53–54; Schabel 2005, 166. 23 Schabel 2005, 164–166; Coureas 2001, 350–355; Grivaud 2000, 51–52. Although individual Oriental Christian clergy on a number of occasions converted to Catholicism, their co-religionists did not follow them. 24 On terminology, see: Brock 1996; Wilmshurst 2011, 253, 274, and 462–463. ‘Nestorian’ is somewhat controversial and misunderstood, while ‘Assyrian’ is linked with modern nationalism. 25 Wilmshurst 2000, 18–19 and 343–346; Baum – Winkler 2003, 101.

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same year that the priest Ṣlībā ibn Yōḥannān of Mosul copied a manuscript in Famagusta during the tenure of Metropolitan Elīyā, who was present at the Provincial Council of 1340. His flock, however, certainly did not follow this lead.26 An oft-cited example of East Syrian prosperity is that of the two brothers, Francis and Nicholas Lakhas, who were extremely wealthy and noted for their lavish gifts upon King Peter and his court. They also founded a church in Famagusta, before their abrupt collapse into poverty upon Genoese domination of the island after 1373.27

Georgians The Georgian monastic community in Cyprus – noted by both James of Verona and Philip of Mézières – was centred at the Monastery of Yialia (or Gialia) near Chrysochou. It was founded in the tenth century, but restored during the reign of Queen Tamar during Georgia’s golden age. As demonstrated in the Vita of Saint Nicholas Dvali, the monastery was closely linked with other Georgian monasteries in Syria and Palestine. In addition, there was a small Georgian community in Famagusta, most likely established by refugees from Acre after 1291.28

Ethiopians It may be surprising that Mézières lists Indians, Nubians, and Ethiopians in Cyprus in 1362. Of the first two, nothing is known. The Ethiopians were supposedly in Cyprus via Jerusalem during the Byzantine period, or perhaps after Saladin’s conquest of Jerusalem in 1187. They lived at the Coptic Monastery of Saint Antony in Famagusta, but eventually obtained a church in Nicosia.29 More contemporary is the monk Éwosṭatéwos (ca. 1273–1352), who reportedly spent some time on Cyprus via Jerusalem around 1340, before finally journeying to Armenia. He may have stayed with the small Ethiopian community there, or perhaps Armenian contacts from Jerusalem helped him to gain access to one of their monasteries. Nonetheless, little else is known about the Ethiopian community.30

26 Wilmshurst 2011, 303–304; idem 2000, 63, 66–67. 27 Makhairas/Dawkins 1932, vol. 1, 82–87; Coureas 2001, 358–360; Hill 1948, 369. 28 Papacostas – Mango – Grünbart 2007, 42; Grivaud 2000, 48; Schabel 2005, 164; Machitadze 2006, 99–101; cf. Pahlitzsch 2003. 29 Grivaud 2000, 50; Schabel 2005, 163. As the Coptic presence only began in the late thirteenth century, so too, then, must have this monastery at the earliest. 30 Turaiev 1906, 49–66; Tamrat 1972, 206–207; Uhlig 2005, 469–472. Éwosṭatéwos was controversial in Ethiopia and Egypt for insisting that the Jewish Sabbath day must be observed alongside Sunday.

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Copts The Coptic community in Cyprus – like most of the Oriental Christians – was established at the end of the thirteenth century. In Famagusta, they had a church and monastery dedicated to Saint Antony from early in the fourteenth century. As to why they were not included in the 1362 procession list (nor the 1340 synod), one can but speculate along with Coureas that – if not in the many other Christians category – they might have been considered part of the Syrian Orthodox contingent as was the earlier jurisdictional tradition between these two sister churches. Nonetheless, the Coptic presence in Cyprus grew substantially over the next two hundred years.31

Shared Space: Cyprus and the Mamlūk Sultanate in the Eastern Mediterranean That these Oriental Christian communities were connected to their lands of origin in Mamlūk Syria and Egypt is likely obvious. Despite their proximity, however, given the hostile relations between the Sultanate and Latin powers, the Papacy and the Latin Church of Cyprus sought to restrict trade contacts. During the early fourteenth century, there was theoretically a blockade of commerce – particularly war materials – with Mamlūk territory. As Nicholas Coureas has ably demonstrated, many merchants found ways around this blockade and, in the end, the Papacy sought to control and tax that which it could not prevent.32 After Venice lost its trade position in Tana in the Black Sea in 1344, their need for new markets pressured the Papacy into granting waivers, a policy that was gradually expanded.33 In 1346, the chief port of Cilicia – Āyās – was conquered by the Mamlūks and trade from the interior shifted south to Mamlūk-controlled Beirut.34 Into this gap, where Frankish merchants faced potential excommunication, Eastern Christians such as the Syrian Orthodox Simon of Famagusta filled the gap and were able to dominate – if not monopolise – trade to the Syrian coast. But this changed as the pope granted more and more merchant waivers, and especially after the Genoese-Cypriot War of 1373, as demonstrated by the misfortune of the Lakhas brothers.35

31 32 33 34 35

Coureas 2004, 135–144; Schabel 2005, 163; Grivaud 2000, 49–50. Coureas 2005, 395–408. Lane 1978, 431–440; Ashtor 1983, 64–70; Edbury 1991, 150–154. Fuess 1997–1998, 96. Hill 1948, 369, citing Malipiero, Ann. Ven., 593.

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In addition to trade, there were substantial monastic networks between Cyprus and the mainland. Many of the monastic communities – Greek, Oriental, as well as Latin – had originated in Greater Syria, Palestine, or in Byzantine lands. Much of the land on Cyprus was owned by monasteries, both domestic and by those located elsewhere. The Greek Orthodox Monastery of Saint Catherine, for example, owned properties in Cyprus (such as the Church of Saint Mary de la Cava in Famagusta) as well as elsewhere in the eastern Mediterranean.36 Often these properties were small metochia, with monks spending only a certain amount of time there. Contact between these monasteries was close, despite being located in different sovereign lands. The Georgian monk Nicholas Dvali, noted above, martyred in Damascus in 1314, was sent to Cyprus by his elders in Jerusalem after gaining his release from the Mamlūk authorities.37 This points to the established relations between the Cypriot communities and those on the mainland. There was also an active theological and philosophical exchange between Christian Cyprus and the Muslim Mamlūk Sultanate. Hugh IV hosted Muslim theologians and philosophers to debate at his court.38 The famous anonymous Christian apologetic Letter from Cyprus about 1316 to famous Muslim theologians such as Ibn Taymīya also bears witness to this established tradition.39

King Peter I de Lusignan and the Crusade of Alexandria, 1365 One might think that the Cypriot authorities would not want to disrupt this apparently prosperous setting. Nonetheless, in 1365, Peter I launched a long-planned crusade against Alexandria. Peter was a child of Cyprus but also very much of the chivalric tradition then current in Europe and keen on a major crusade to complement his successful raids and seizures on the Syrian and Anatolian coasts.40 Whether from spiritual ideals to reclaim Jerusalem or, as Peter Edbury has reasonably argued, in an attempt to stem the weakening Cypriot economy, Peter recruited a major fleet from many European powers and stealthily descended upon unsuspecting Alexandria, then

36 Coureas 1996, 482–484; Schabel 2005, 214. The Monastery of Koutsovendis became a dependency of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem only following the Ottoman Conquest in 1570–1571. See: Papacostas – Mango – Grünbart 2007, 59 note 109; 78 and 91. 37 Machitadze 2006, 99–101 38 Schabel 2005, 162. 39 Thomas 2005. 40 Edbury 1977, 94 and 97.

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the greatest mercantile city in the eastern Mediterranean.41 It is not my purpose, however, to dwell on the crusade itself, but rather on its effects upon the eastern Christian communities. The crusade began on Wednesday the eighth of October 1365 and lasted until Thursday, 15 October.42 Guillaume de Machaut recorded that some twenty thousand inhabitants were killed, while another five thousand were made captive and boarded onto the waiting ships. Alexandria burned, its places of wealth looted, its people dead, in exile, or enslaved.43 Of the five thousand captives taken, many were Christian and Jewish, as well as Muslim; these were taken back to Europe and disseminated to various rulers, often as gifts.44 Al-Maqrīzī’s account contains one passage about the indigenous Christians that is unique among the sources. He states that after the Franks had entered Alexandria on Friday, they ‘made proclamation of their religion. They were joined by the Christians of Alexandria, who showed them the dwellings of the rich people. They took what was in them.’45 It must be debated, however, whether this accusation of collusion by the native Christians was factual or simply typical Mamlūk anti-Christian rhetoric. It is not corroborated by the eye witness al-Nuwairī, despite his tendency towards the dramatic. Al-Maqrīzī does note that the Crusaders killed indigenous Christians as well as Muslims, in addition to enslaving them.46 In one episode, a Coptic woman – a crippled daughter of the priest Girgis ibn Faḍā’el – was forced to relinquish all of her personal wealth to save the nearby church from arson as well as to forfeit the silver liturgical vessels.47 These Crusaders were clearly off the mark when one recalls that Pope Urban’s original plea for the First Crusade included the chief aim of freeing the Eastern Christians from the Turkic Muslim yoke. King Peter was certainly familiar with the Oriental Christians, as they made up a substantial percentage of the Cypriot population; his recruits from Europe, however, were less likely to know, or to care. 41 Ibid., 90; but see also: Housley 1992, 42; Irwin 1986, 145–146; Atiya 1938, 323–324. The plague, of course, also dramatically influenced the economy by reducing both consumers and producers. See: Edbury 2000, 877–880. 42 Hill 1948, 331 and 334; Setton 1976, 258–284; Atiya 1938, 343 and 367–368; van Steenbergen 2003, 132–133. For the effects of the Crusade on Mamlūk-European trade relations, see: Ashtor 1983, 88–102. 43 For accounts of the sack of Alexandria, see: al-Maqrīzī 1970, 105–107; Machaut 2001, 62–87; Mézières 1954, 129–139; Atiya 1938, 348–369; idem 1977, 31–35. 44 Atiya 1938, 366; idem 1977, 34. 45 Al-Maqrīzī 1970, 105–107; trans. Holt 1986, 125–126. 46 Van Steenbergen 2003, 125 and 133. 47 Atiya 1938, 366; idem 1977, 34.

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The Crusade and the Oriental Christians A contemporary to these events was the Muslim al-Nuwairī al-Iskandarānī (d. 1372), a copyist of manuscripts by trade, who called the sack ‘the greatest catastrophe in the annals of Alexandria.’ He set forth seven causes for the attack on Alexandria by King Peter of Cyprus and the Crusader fleet. Ironically, given the outcome of the crusade, he lists the first cause as being the persecution of the Christians – indigenous and foreign – in 1354 during the reign of Sultan Ṣaliḥ Ṣaliḥ (reg. 1351–1354).48 Although this was unlikely to have been Peter’s primary casus belli, it is surely circular in its effect given that Peter’s retaliation for this persecution led to new and even greater outbursts of oppression throughout Mamluk domains. The immediate effects of the crusade upon the indigenous Christians were most obvious in Alexandria with the destruction of the city and of Christian property and the resulting impoverishment of the community.49 Aziz Atiya, reflecting on the passage from al-Maqrīzī‘s Kitāb al-Sulūk, opined: ‘If Alexandria had been mutilated by the Christians of the West, it had to be repaired at the cost of the Christians of the East. Indirectly, the Latin warriors of the Cross only plundered the fortunes of their Eastern co-religionists; for, as soon as the campaign came to an end, the Sultan issued a decree whereby all the property of the Christians in Egypt and Syria was confiscated and used to pay for the damage done to Alexandria. The Coptic Patriarch was dragged to the court where he and his community were subjected to all kinds of humiliation and exactions.’50 The Franks did not differentiate between Muslim, Christian or Jew when they took away some five thousand captives, and al-Nuwaīri reported that the relieving Mamlūk army stumbled over the corpses of Muslims, Jews, and Christians alike.51 Externally to Alexandria, al-Maqrīzī reported that the Christian population was immediately heavily taxed by the Sultan to ransom Muslim captives, pay for damages resulting from the crusade, and to help finance an avenging fleet. Additionally, churches were closed across the 48 Atiya 1977, 29–30. 49 If the Cairo Geniza documents dealing with Jewish merchant networks are any indication, it is most probable that these Confessional communities were well connected to their co-religionists and kinsmen on the Egyptian and Syrian mainland. Although the indigenous Christians in Cyprus were not immediately and directly affected by the Crusade of 1365, those in Mamlūk territories most certainly were. See: Goitein 1967, 59–70. 50 Atiya 1938, 366. 51 Atiya 1977, 35.

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land, including the Church of the Resurrection – that is, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre – in Jerusalem.52 Retaliatory Mamlūk policy turned against the indigenous Christians, the repercussions of which were felt far beyond Alexandria and Cairo. The Life of the Coptic Saint Marqus al-Antuni (ca. 1296–1386) states: ‘It happened that groups of Franks attacked the city of Alexandria, pillaged it, took its women captive, then left it and went away. Because of them, great suffering came upon the Christians of Egypt at the hands of the Amīr Yalbugha. He sent his men to all the monasteries, seeking their money […].’53 Further afield, in Jerusalem, an Armenian monk named Vardan Lrimecʽi recorded in 1366 that: ‘In this year the Franks carried off captives from [Alexandria]; hence, whatever Christians there were in this country they [the Mamlūks] seized and carried off; and whatever bishop and [monk] and priest there were they cast them in prison; and whatever churches there were they shut them all down. They killed our [ra’īs (community elders)]; they also killed numerous other priests and churchmen. And many became [Turks (meaning Muslims)] because of their bitter suffering. And those of us who were in [Jerusalem] spent the greater part of the year in prison, and, for the sake of Christ, we suffered much grief and torture, which I cannot describe in writing […]. I copied this under much anguish and fear; and day in and day out we expected to be tortured or killed […].’54 Following the sack of Alexandria, the Greek Orthodox Patriarch of Jerusalem, Lazaros (who had suffered torture the preceding decade in defense of his faith) fled to Constantinople rather than face the intense persecution that 52 The sultan reportedly threatened to destroy the Church of the Holy Sepulchre when the first Latin embassies in 1366 requested its reopening. It was not reopened until after a comprehensive treaty was signed in 1370 between the Sultanate and the Frankish powers. See: al-Maqrīzī 1970, 119 and 191. Guillaume de Machaut (ca. 1300–1377) recorded that the sultan, upon learning of the sack of Alexandria, ‘at once he ordered every Christian now in his land to be arrested, locked in prison, harshly treated, ransomed high.’ This almost certainly refers to Latins, as, in context, the author notes that there were Venetians living in Alexandria and then goes on to describe Venetian efforts to free them. See: Machaut 2001, 91. 53 Gawdat 2008, 97. This is an unpublished manuscript copied in 1699/1700. 54 Trans. Sanjian 1969, 94–95. This report of persecution in Jerusalem is repeated by one Grigor Aknercʻi in a manuscript of 1367: ‘[…] we were afflicted with manifold grief; we were imprisoned and put in chains; we were dragged before the judges every day, by reason of the fact that the Franks had occupied Skandər [Alexandria] and had killed numerous and countless Tačiks and had carried off men and women as captives to the island of Kipros [Cyprus].’ See Sanjian 1969, 90.

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broke out across Mamlūk territory.55 The chronicler Ibn Kathīr reported that Melkite Christians, often in the employ of Genoese and Venetian merchants, suffered greatly from Muslim anger at the attack. In Damascus, the Mamlūk nāʾib (governor) of Syria ordered the Melkite Patriarch of Antioch, Michael I ibn Bishara (June 1366 – August 1373), to write to both Peter and to the Byzantine emperor to relate the intense persecution upon the indigenous Christians caused by the Cypriot attack. The patriarch had been spared death for this specific purpose. It was known that Cyprus at this time had both a majority Greek population as well as a very large Arabic-speaking Melkite population. Although the Mamlūk governor may have misunderstood Byzantine-Cypriot relations at the time (as there were none), his intention was likely to use the Byzantine emperor’s influence with the Greek population of Cyprus to force the hand of King Peter to sue for peace and cease hostilities. In any event, the Byzantine Emperor John V Palaiologos (1341–1391) did indeed intercede for the Christians in Syria.56 The Maronites’ relative prosperity changed following the crusade as well. On 1 April 1367, the Maronite Patriarch Gabriel (Jibrāʼīl) of Ḥajūlā (ca. 1357–1367) was burned at the stake in the village of Ṭīlān, near Tri­ poli. A colophon written by Archbishop Jacob of Ihdin recorded that: ‘In this date [1365] the King of Cyprus went out to Alexandria and looted it, killing its men and taking its young captive. So the sultan of the Moslems was angered with the Christians and took their chief clergymen and imprisoned them in Damascus. Then I, 55 Todt 2006–2007, 59; Pahlitzsch 2005, 39–40. He was not alone, however, if several sixteenth century Russian chronicles are to be believed. They report that Mark, Archbishop of Saint Katherine’s Monastery, Germanos, a Metropolitan of Jerusalem, and others fled to Russian territory due to the persecution. These chronicles report that the Mamlūk sultan sent an army to Palestine and Syria, plundering Saint Katherine’s Monastery and many other churches and monasteries, imprisoning, torturing, and even killing many priests, monks, and prelates. Only the intervention of the Byzantine emperor eased the situation and restored the status quo, excepting for a penalty equating to twenty-thousand rubles placed upon the Christians. See: Schreiner 1979, 298–299 and 302. Also listed is Germanos, ‘Metropolitan’ of Jerusalem. Given their late and distant provenance, these chronicles’ accuracy is questionable. 56 Ibn Kathīr 1939, 319–320; Pahlitzsch 2005, 39–41; cf. Todt 2006, 86–87; idem 2011, 171; Nasrallah 1968, 19–20 (although Nasrallah’s dates differ somewhat). The later Byzantine emperors enjoyed a prestige in the Middle East beyond their actual capabilities, while Constantinople’s role as a transit for Mamlūk slaves also lent weight to their diplomacy. See: Korobeinikov 2008, 722; idem 2004, 65; Oikonomides 1992, 86; Kanta­ kouzenos 1828–1832, vol. 3, 96–97; Miller 1975, 136 and 229. A Russian chronicle recorded that the patriarch, Pachomios, was himself killed as a result of the persecution. See note 54 above. Furthermore, the request from 1364 to transfer the patriarchal resi­ dence from Antioch to the Syrian capital of Damascus was delayed by the Mamlūk bureaucracy as a result of the persecution and Mamlūk anger, although it was later granted under his successor Michael I ibn Bishara about June 1366. See: Ibn Kathīr 1939, 319–320.

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the humble Jacob, Archbishop [of Ihdin], ran away and left them, and the Lord Christ helped me; and I copied [these Gospels] while I was in hiding.’57 Like nearly all of the indigenous Christians of the Near East, the Maronites, too, suffered at the hands of misplaced Mamlūk vengeance. Nor were Latin Christians immune from these adversities following the crusade. Merchants, of course, were imprisoned immediately following the sack of Alexandria.58 Pilgrims unfortunate enough to be visiting the Near East at this time – such as the Englishwoman Isolda Parewastell59 – also found themselves in dire straits, despite the inherent lucrative nature of the pilgrimage route to the Mamlūk state. In Jerusalem, Franciscan monks, who had been ensconced since 1330 at the Convent of Saint Mary on Mount Zion, were arrested and – depending on the account – were either taken to Damascus and executed or imprisoned in Cairo for three years.60 Latin monks as a rule were treated well by the Mamlūk authorities in light of their position vis-à-vis foreign relations with the Latin powers. Nonetheless, there were instances of harassment, persecution, and even martyrdom as was the fate of six Franciscan friars between 1345 and 1364, and, following the crusade, sixteen more were killed in Damascus between 1365 and 1370.61 Finally, in a perhaps somewhat apocryphal account, Bertrandon de la Broquière, in 1432, reported meeting an agent of the French Duke of Berry named Pietre of Naples whilst in Constantinople. The latter had recently been in Ethiopia and, according to him, an account existed in Ethiopia of the crusade, too. The Negus in 1365, Sāyfā-Arʿad, upon learning of the Cypriot occupation of Alexandria, had gathered together his people and set off towards Jerusalem. When he reached the Nile River, however, he received word that Peter had abandoned Alexandria. He also discovered that some two million of his three million followers had perished in the desert heat. As such, he decided to turn back. These numbers are doubtless inflated, but the possibility that the Negus embarked on this journey is certainly possible, given the great importance they placed on Jerusalem and their then current aggressive territorial policies.62 57 Al-Duwayhī 1890, 386–387. Cf. Asseman 1881, 38; Salibi 1959, 75–77 and 145–147; and El-Hāyek 1990, 419. 58 Machaut 2001, 91–93. 59 Anthony Luttrell, ‘Englishwomen as Pilgrims to Jerusalem: Isolda Parewastell, 1365’, in: Julia Bolton Holloway et al. (eds.), Women in the Middle Ages (New York 1990) 184–197. 60 Little 1995, 213; von Suchem 1895, 101–102. 61 Golubovich 1919, 390–394; idem 1923, 29, 76, 109, and 113–115. 62 Broquière 1892, 142–143 and 148. Cf. Tamrat 1972, 251–254.

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Conclusion: Peter I and his Oriental Christian Subjects King Peter de Lusignan would have been familiar with these many and varied Oriental Christian confessions, at least to some degree. Peter had complained to Pope Urban V (1362–1370) in 1368, for example, that many Cypriot women professed to be Roman Catholics but actually preferred to visit the Greek, Melkite, Assyrian, or Non-Chalcedonian churches then thriving on the island.63 Peter’s own policy, however, was not so obviously pro-Latin (or, at least, not anti-Greek and Oriental Christian). When he was himself caught in rough seas sailing back to Cyprus he vowed to God to make gifts to all the monasteries on Cyprus – Greek as well as Latin – if he would arrive safely.64 Indeed, both Peter and his father, Hugh IV, were noted for their increased patronage of Greek churches and monasteries.65 We have also noted how Peter was richly entertained by the East Syrian Lakhas brothers. So what was the effect of Peter’s crusade on the Eastern Christians in Cyprus? The effect upon their kinsmen on the mainland has been amply discussed. Given this complaint of Peter’s regarding the frequenting of nonLatin churches three years after the crusade, it would appear that the crusade affected them directly negligibly. Their fortunes were in a sense tied to the overall prosperity of the Lusignan kingdom, which faltered mightily upon the outcome of the war with Genoa just a few years after Peter’s death in 1373. Indeed, under Lusignan rule, these minority Christian communities were able to find refuge and even prosperity in Cyprus. During the first years of Peter’s reign, in particular, these confessions continued to enjoy the peaceful relations noted during his father Hugh’s reign. Following the crusade, however, these Christians must have of a sudden found their Syrian markets closed, their brethren and partners on the mainland suffering persecution, and their position as intermediate agents on hold. If their situation improved upon the conclusion of a peace treaty with the Mamluks in 1370, nonetheless, as with all Cypriots, the loss to Genoa in 1373 resulted in a permanent decline.

63 Coureas 2001, 353–354. 64 Hill 1948, 362. 65 Schabel 2005, 181–183.

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Mamluk Eras, vol. 4: Proceedings of the 9th and 10th International Colloquia Organized at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven in May 2000 and May 2001 (Leuven 2005) 395–408. Dols 1977 = Michael W. Dols, The Black Death in the Middle East (Princeton 1977). Edbury 1977 = Peter Edbury, ‘The Crusading Policy of King Peter I of Cyprus, 1359–1369’, in: P. M. Holt (ed.), The Eastern Mediterranean Lands in the Periods of the Crusades (Warminster 1977) 90–105 (Reprinted in: Edbury, Kingdoms of the Crusaders [Aldershot 1999] art. XII). Edbury 1991 = Peter Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 1191– 1374 (Cambridge 1991). Edbury 1995 = Peter Edbury, ‘The Lusignan Kingdom of Cyprus and its Muslim Neighbours’, in: Κύπρος από την προϊστορία στους νεότερους χρόνους (Nicosia 1995) (Reprinted in: Edbury, Kingdoms of the Crusaders [Aldershot 1999] art. XI). Edbury 2000 = Peter Edbury, ‘Christians and Muslims in the Eastern Mediterranean’, in Michael C. E. Jones (ed.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 6: c. 1300 – c. 1415 (Cambridge 2000) 864–884. El-Hāyek 1990 = Elias El-Hāyek, ‘Struggle for Survival: The Maronites of the Middle Ages’, in: Michael Gervers – Ramzi Jibran Bikhazi (eds.), Conversion and Continuity: Indigenous Christian Communities in Islamic Lands, Eighth to Eighteenth Centuries (Toronto 1990) 407–421. Fenoy 2010 = Laurent Fenoy, ‘Refuge et réseaux: les chrétiens orientaux en Chypre entre 1192 et 1473’, in: Damien Coulon – Christophe Picard – Dominique Valérian (eds.), Espaces et réseaux en Méditerranée, VI e–XVI e siècle, vol. 2: La formation des réseaux (Paris 2010) 187–206. Fuess 1997–1998 = Albrecht Fuess, ‘Beirut in Mamlūk Times (1291–1516)’, in: Aram 9–10, 1997–1998, 85–101. Gawdat 2008 = Gabra Gawdat, ‘New Research from the Library of the Monastery of St. Paul’, in: William Lyster (ed.), The Cave Church of Paul the Hermit at the Monastery of St. Paul, Egypt (New Haven – London 2008) 95–105. Ghazarian 2000 = Jacob G. Ghazarian, The Armenian Kingdom in Cilicia during the Crusades: the Integration of Cilician Armenians with the Latins, 1080– 1393 (Richmond 2000). Goitein 1967 = Shelomo D. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, the Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, vol. 1: Economic Foundations (Berkeley 1967). Golubovich 1906 = Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente Francescano, vol. 1: 1215–1300 (Quaracchi 1906). Golubovich 1919 = Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente Francescano, vol. 3: dal 1300 al 1332 (Quaracchi 1919). Golubovich 1923 = Girolamo Golubovich, Biblioteca bio-bibliografica della Terra Santa e dell’Oriente Francescano, vol. 4: dal 1333 al 1345 (Quaracchi 1923). Grivaud 2000 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Les minorités orientales à Chypre (époques médiévale et moderne)’, in: Yiannis Ioannou – Françoise Métral – Marguerite Yon (eds.), Chypre et la Méditerranée orientale. Formations identitaires:

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perspectives historiques et enjeux contemporains. Actes du colloque tenu à Lyon, 1997 (Lyon 2000) 43–70. Hamilton 1980 = Bernard Hamilton, The Latin Church in the Crusader States: The Secular Church (London 1980). Hill 1940 = George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 1: To the Conquest by Richard Lion Heart (Cambridge 1940). Hill 1948 = George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 2: The Frankish Period, 1192– 1432 (Cambridge 1948). Hodgson 2011 = Natasha Hodgson, ‘Conflict and Cohabitation: Marriage and diplomacy between Latins and Cilician Armenians, c. 1097–1258’, in: Conor Kostick (ed.), The Crusades and the Near East (London 2011) 83–106. Holt 1986 = Peter M. Holt, The Age of the Crusades: The Near East from the Eleventh Century to 1517 (London 1986). Housley 1992 = Norman Housley, The Later Crusades (Oxford 1992). Ibn Kathīr 1939 = ‘Imād al-Dīn ibn Abī’l-Fidāʾ Ibn Kathīr, al-Bidāyah wa’l-Nihāyah fī al-Tārīkh, vol. 14 (Cairo 1939). Irwin 1986 = Robert Irwin, The Middle East in the Middle Ages: The Early Mamluk Sultanate, 1250–1382 (Beckenham 1986). Jacoby 1989 = David Jacoby, ‘The Rise of a New Emporium in the Eastern Mediterranean: Famagusta in the Late Thirteenth Century’, in: David Jacoby, Studies on the Crusader States and on Venetian Expansion (London 1989) art. VIII. James of Verona 1895 = James of Verona, Liber peregrinationis Fratris Jacobi da Verona, ed. Reinhold Röhricht, in: Review d’Orient Latin 3, 1895, 155–303. Kantakouzenos 1828–1832 = John VI Kantakouzenos, Ioannis Cantacuzeni eximperatoris historiarum libri IV, ed. Ludwig Schopen, Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae, 3 vols. (Bonn 1828–1832). Korobeinikov 2004 = Dimitri A. Korobeinikov, ‘Diplomatic Correspondence between Byzantium and the Mamlūk Sultanate in the Fourteenth Century’, in: al-Masāq 16, 2004, 53–75. Korobeinikov 2008 = Dimitri A. Korobeinikov, ‘Raiders and neighbours: the Turks (1040–1304)’, in: Jonathan Shepard (ed.), The Cambridge History of the Byzantine Empire, ca. 500–1492 (Cambridge 2008) 692–730. Lane 1978 = Frederic C. Lane, ‘The Venetian Galleys to Alexandria, 1344’, in: Jürgen Schneider (ed.), Wirtschaftskräfte und Wirtschaftswege: Festschrift für Hermann Kellenbenz, vol. 1 (Stuttgart 1978). Little 1995 = Donald P. Little, ‘Christians in Mamlūk Jerusalem’, in: Yvonne Y. Haddad – Wadi Z. Haddad (eds.), Christian-Muslim Encounters (Gainesville 1995) 210–220. Machaut 2001 = Guillaume de Machaut, The Capture of Alexandria, trans. Janet Shirley (Aldershot 2001). Machitadze 2006 = Zakaria Machitadze, Lives of the Georgian Saints, trans. David and Lauren E. Ninoshvili, ed. Lado Mirianashvili and the St. Herman of Alaska Brotherhood (Platina 2006). Makhairas/Dawkins 1932 = Leontios Makhairas, Recital concerning the Sweet Land of Cyprus entitled ‘Chronicle’, ed. Richard M. Dawkins, 2 vols. (Oxford 1932).

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Al-Maqrīzī 1958 = Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn ʿAlī al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-Sulūk li-maʿrifat Duwal al-Mulūk, vol. 2, part 3, ed. M. Muṣṭafā Ziyāda (Cairo 1958). Al-Maqrīzī 1970 = Taqī al-Dīn Aḥmad ibn ʿAlī al-Maqrīzī, Kitāb al-Sulūk li-maʿrifat Duwal al-Mulūk, vol. 3, part 1, ed. Saʼid̄ A.F.ʻAs̄ hur̄ (Cairo 1970). Mézières 1954 = Philip of Mézières, The Life of Saint Peter Thomas, ed. Joachim Smet (Rome 1954). Miller 1975 = Timothy S. Miller, The History of John Cantacuzenus (Book IV) (PhD thesis, Catholic University of America, 1975). Nasrallah 1968 = Joseph Nasrallah, Chronologie des Patriarches Melchites d’Antioche de 1250 à 1500 (Jerusalem 1968). Nicolaou-Konnari 2005 = Angel Nicolaou-Konnari, ‘Greeks’, in: Angel NicolaouKonnari – Chris Schabel (eds.), Cyprus: Society and Culture 1191–1374 (Leiden 2005) 13–62. Oikonomides 1992 = Nicolas Oikonomides, ‘Byzantine diplomacy, A.D. 1204– 1453: means and ends’, in: Jonathan Shepard – Simon Franklin (eds.), Byzantine Diplomacy: Papers from the Twenty-fourth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Cambridge, March 1990 (Aldershot 1992) 73–88. Pahlitzsch 2003 = Johannes Pahlitzsch, ‘Georgians and Greeks in Jerusalem (1099– 1310)’, in: Krijnie N. Ciggaar – Herman G. B. Teule (eds.), East and West in the Crusader States: Context, Contacts, Confrontations (Leuven 2003) 35–51. Pahlitzsch 2005 = Johannes Pahlitzsch, ‘Mediators between East and West: Christians Under Mamluk Rule’, in: Mamlūk Studies Review 9, 2005, 31–48. Papacostas – Mango – Grünbart 2007 = Tassos Papacostas – Cyril Mango – Michael Grünbart, ‘The History and Architecture of the Monastery of Saint John Chrysostomos at Koutsovendis, Cyprus’, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 61, 2007, 25–156. Richard 1977 = Jean Richard, La Papauté et les missions d’Orient au moyen age (XIIIe–XVe siècles) (Paris 1977). Richard 1979 = Jean Richard, ‘Le peuplement latin et syrien en Chypre au XIIIe siècle’, in: Byzantinische Forschungen 7, 1979, 157–173. Salibi 1959 = Kamal S. Salibi, Maronite Historians of Medieval Lebanon (Beirut 1959). Sanjian 1969 = Colophons of Armenian Manuscripts, 1301–1480: A Source for Middle Eastern History, ed. and trans. Avedis K. Sanjian (Cambridge 1969). Schabel 2005 = Chris Schabel, ‘Religion’, in: Angel Nicolaou-Konnari – Chris Schabel (eds.), Cyprus: Society and Culture 1191–1374 (Leiden 2005),157– 218. Schreiner 1979 = Peter Schreiner, ‘Byzanz und die Mamluken in der 2. Hälfte des 14. Jahrhunderts’, in: Der Islam: Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kultur des Islamischen Orients 56, 1979, 296–304. Setton 1976 = Kenneth M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant, 1204–1571, vol. 1: The Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries (Philadelphia 1976). Stewart 2001 = Angus Donal Stewart, The Armenian Kingdom and the Mamluks (Leiden 2001). Tamrat 1972 = Taddesse Tamrat, Church and State in Ethiopia, 1270–1527 (Oxford 1972).

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Thomas 2005 = David Thomas, ‘Cultural and Religious Supremacy in the Fourteenth Century: The Letter from Cyprus as Interreligious Apologetic’, in: Parole de l’Orient 30, 2005, 297–322. Todt 2006 = Klaus-Peter Todt, ‘Griechisch-Orthodoxe (Melkitische) Christen im Zentralen und Südlichen Syrien’, in: Le Muséon 119, 2006, 33–88. Todt 2006–2007 = Klaus-Peter Todt, ‘Das ökumenische Patriarchat von Konstantinopel und die griechisch-orthodoxen (melkitischen) Patriarchate unter muslimischer Herrschaft’, in: Historicum 95, 2006–2007, 54–61. Todt 2011 = Klaus-Peter Todt, ‘Zwischen Kaiser und ökumenischem Patriarchen: Die Rolle der griechisch-orthodoxen Patriarchen von Antiocheia in den politischen und kirchlichen Auseinandersetzungen des 11.–13. Jh. in Byzanz’, in: Michael Grünbart et al. (eds.), Zwei Sonnen am Goldenen Horn? Kaiserliche und patriarchale Macht im byzantinischen Mittelalter (Berlin 2011) 137–176. Turaiev 1906 = Acta Sancti Eustathii, Latin trans. Boryssus Turaiev, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Scriptores Aethiopici, vol. 21 (Rome 1906). Uhlig 2005 = Siegbert Uhlig et al. (eds.), Encyclopaedia Aethiopica, vol. 2: D–Ha (Wiesbaden 2005). van Steenbergen 2003 = Jo van Steenbergen, ‘The Alexandrian Crusade (1365) and the Mamlūk Sources’, in: Krijnie Ciggaar – Herman G. B. Teule (eds.), East and West in the Crusader States: Context, Contacts, Confrontations (Leuven 2003), 123–136. von Suchem 1895 = Ludolph von Suchem, De Itinere Terre Sancte, ed. Ferdinand Deycks, Bibliothek des Litterarischen Vereins, vol. 25 (Stuttgart 1851) (Translation in: Aubrey Stewart, Ludolph von Suchem’s Description of the Holy Land, and the way thither, written in the year A.D. 1350 [London 1895]). Wilmshurst 2000 = David Wilmshurst, The Ecclesiastical Organisation of the Church of the East, 1318–1913 (Leuven 2000). Wilmshurst 2011 = David Wilmshurst, The Martyred Church: A History of the Church of the East (London 2011).

K. Scott Parker

Department of History, Royal Holloway, University of London, Egham, Surrey, TW20 0EX (United Kingdom) [email protected]

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Alexander Beihammer

The Kingdom of Cyprus in the First OttomanVenetian War (1463–1479): Aspects of its Military and Political Significance

When, on 18 February 1451, Sultan Meḥmed II succeeded his father Murād II to the Ottoman throne, the Lusignan kingdom of Cyprus was already deeply involved in a political and military antagonism of Christian and Muslim powers in the Levant and the Near East. The island’s dependency upon the Mamluks of Egypt as a result of the naval campaign of 1426, the political ambitions of the Grand Karaman and other minor emirs in the southern coastland of Anatolia, and the gradual strengthening of the Ottoman naval power after the conquest of Constantinople in 1453 made this easternmost outpost of Christianity, along with the headquarter of the Knights Hospitaller on Rhodes, one of the primary targets of hostile Muslim activities in the region.1 The undiminished vigour of the Ottoman expansionist policy, resulting, among other things, in the subjugation of the Despotate of Morea on the Peloponnese (1460), of islands in the Aegean Sea, and of the Empire of Trebizond (1461), the papacy’s calls for a new crusade and various attempts of Christian forces to form a broad anti-Ottoman league were the main factors determining the political scenery in South-East Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean in the years after 1453.2 Just as the remaining Frankish and Italian lords in the Aegean, the rulers of Cyprus and Rhodes, too, were fully aware of the precarious situation they were facing.3 In addition to the external threats, the kingdom of Cyprus, following the death of Queen Helena and King John II in 1458, was drawn into a bloody civil strife between 1 For details and further bibliographical references, see Beihammer 2013; for the most important events, see Hill 1948/72, 511–525; Edbury 1995; for the relations with the Mamluks, see Fuess 2005; for the Ottoman naval power, see Imber 2002. 2 For Italy and the papal policy, see now Damian 2012, 79–94. 3 For the military activities of the Ottoman Empire in the years after 1453, see Imber 1995, 159–183; for the papal policy, see Setton 1978, 138–230; for reactions on Cyprus and Rhodes, see Beihammer 2013, 201–204.

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the faction of Queen Charlotte and her husband Louis of Savoy and that of Charlotte’s half-brother James the Bastard.4 When King James II in 1464 eventually emerged as victor in this conflict, the overall military situation had become even more dangerous with the outbreak of the Ottoman-Venetian war in July of the previous year.5 The theatre of hostilities soon extended from the Aegean Sea to Asia Minor. This was mainly due to the succession struggle in the emirate of Karaman among the sons of Ibrāhīm Beg (died summer 1464), which between 1465 and 1471 led to a series of Ottoman campaigns and the active intervention of another major power centred in eastern Anatolia and Azerbaijan, the Turkmen Akkoyunlu confederation headed by Uzun Ḥasan.6 It was on the occasion of these conflicts that the kingdom of Cyprus for the first time became actively involved in this war by supporting the negotiations between Venice and Ibrāhīm’s eldest son Isḥāḳ and by providing reinforcements for the defense of the emirate of Scandelore/Alanya, with which the royal government maintained peaceful relations based on a treaty of 1450.7 In this way King James II, despite previous discords due to his conflict with Charlotte, became an ally of Venice, and subsequently in 1467 the two sides started talks about James’s marriage with Catherine, the daughter of the Venetian nobleman Marco Cornaro. In the meantime the formation of a broad antiOttoman alliance including Venice, the papacy, King Ferdinand of Naples, and other European powers, on the one hand, as well as the Grand Karaman and the Akkoyunlu empire, on the other, was well under way. After initial contacts in 1463 and the appointment of Lazaro Quirini as Venetian emissary to Uzun Ḥasan, the two sides started discussing a joint military action against Sultan Meḥmed II, which took shape after the fall of Negroponte in the summer of 1470 and the failure of the ensuing peace negotiations between Venice and Constantinople.8 This collaboration culminated in the 1472–1473 campaigns against the Ottomans in Asia Minor and the Mamluks in northern Syria. With Uzun Ḥasan’s defeat in the battle of Başkent/ Otluk Dağı (near Erzincan) on 11 August 1473 the plan of wiping out the Ottoman forces from Anatolia through a big pincer movement based on attacks by land and by sea came to a failure. Venice kept on urging Uzun Ḥasan to take up arms again, but these efforts came to nothing. When this 4 5

6 7 8

The most comprehensive account is still Hill 1948/72, 548–620. From the rich bibliography on aspects of this conflict, see, for instance, Cessi 1944, 402–421; Babinger 1953, 241–262, 288–348; Turan 1965, 63–138; Setton 1978, 240– 321; Imber 1995, 185–221, 236–241; Woods 1999, 110–120; Stavrides 2001, 160–181, 212–234; for the peace treaty of 1479, see now Calia 2012, 45–59. Imber 1995, 192–194, 198–200, 204–208. Beihammer 2013, 212–213. Turan 1965, 74–82, 88–94.

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legendary Turkmen potentate, who for some years in Rome, Italy and many other Christian countries was considered a tangible hope of liberation from the Ottoman threat, died in early 1478, the Akkoyunlu confederation was deeply shaken by internal strife.9 The Ottoman predominance in Anatolia, henceforth, remained unchallenged. So far the well-known historical context of the repercussions of the first Ottoman-Venetian war on the Eastern Mediterranean, which decisively strengthened the predominance of the Ottoman Empire in the region to the detriment of the remaining Christian powers. The kingdom of Cyprus, though rather weak from a military point of view, gained increasing significance for the strategic planning of Venice and the Christian league because of its ideal geographic position in short distance from the southern coastland of Anatolia and the Syrian shore, especially during the decisive campaigns of the years 1472–1473. This was also the period in which Venice, because of the premature death of James II on 6 July 1473 and the succession of his widow Catherine against the scheming of the so-called Catalan party, laid the foundations for her overwhelming influence and legal claims on the island, thus preparing the takeover of 1489.10 In a recent study I have investigated the position of the kingdom of Cyprus in the broader context of the diplomatic and military antagonism between the Sublime Port, Venice, and the Mamluk sultanate of Egypt during the 1450s and 1460s. Here my purpose will be to focus on the crucial months of the Anatolian campaign in 1473, trying to elucidate the various facets of Cyprus’ strategic role in a large-scale conflict encompassing the entire Eastern Mediterranean basin and to better explain the reasons for the failure of the Venetian-Akkoyunlu collaboration, which had much to do with a lack of communication and insufficient coordination of movements between the Christian naval contingents, on the one hand, and the Muslim land forces operating in the Upper Euphrates region, on the other. While Venetian historical narratives like Coriolano Cippico’s Petri Moce­ nici imperatoris gesta and Domenico Malipiero’s Annali Veneti provide the most accurate accounts of the diplomatic and military events,11 it is mainly the decisions of the Venetian Senate and the reports of Venetian ambassa­ dors,12 which give us the most detailed image of opinions and assessments prevailing among Venetian authorities, their allies, and the royal government of Cyprus in particular. The most circumstantial descriptions can be found in the letters addressed to Doge Nicolas Tron by Josaphat Barbaro, who in 9 10 11 12

Woods 1999, 120–123. Hill 1948/72, 651–695. Cippicus 1477; Malipiero 1843–1844. See the collection of documents in Cornet 1856, and Berchet 1865, 102–149.

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February 1473 was appointed emissary to Uzun Ḥasan charged with the transport of firearms, ammunition, and soldiers in support of the Akkoyunlu invasion in Anatolia.13 Just as other Venetian ambassadors to Uzun Ḥasan’s court, Josaphat Barbaro, too, after his return composed a detailed travel account of his mission, which, however, primarily focuses on his sojourn in Tabriz and thus is rather brief as regards his activities in 1473.14 During his journey leading him via Zara, Corfu, Modon, and Rhodes to Cyprus and the opposite shores of Asia Minor, he dispatched 49 letters in total written between 21 February 1473 and 23 February 1474, 30 of which were written in the port of Famagusta and one at the cape of St. Andreas on the tip of the Karpass Peninsula.15 The rest of the letters were dispatched from ports at the Anatolian coast near Silifke (Seleukeia) like Colchos/Curco (Korykos, modern Kız Kalesi), Sigi/Siquini (Syke, modern Softa Kalesi), and S. Theodori Charamani (near modern Taşucu),16 which were frequented by Barbaro in the months between May and September 1473 and in February 1474 in support of Karamanid attempts to conquer these place and in order to establish contacts with the Akkoyunlu army.17 His letters have the character of day-to-day reports about the situation he was facing and the activities he was carrying out according to his instructions from 28 January 1473.18 This includes not only circumstantial descriptions of all his meetings, talks, and negotiations with representatives of Venice, other members of the Christian league, the royal court of Cyprus, and the emirs of Karaman, but also numerous letters from his allies quoted in summary or 13 Barbaro 1852; for Josaphat Barbaro, see Turan 1965, 101–126; Palombini 1968, 12–27. 14 The text was edited in the second volume of Ramusio’s Navigatione et viaggi (Barbaro 1559) and was already in the sixteenth century translated into English (Barbaro 1873); for his interesting self-characterization at the beginning of the second part of his report, see Barbaro 1559, 98v: ‘Essendo la nostra Signoria in Guerra con l’Otthomano del 1471, io come huomo uso à stentare, & pratico tra gente Barbara, et desideroso di ogni bene della Illustrissima Signoria, fui mandato insieme con uno ambasciadore di Assambei Signor della Persia, ilquale era venuto à Venetia à confortar la Illustrissima Signoria, che volesse proseguir la Guerra contra il ditto Otthomano, conciosia che anchor esso con le sue forze gli saria venuto contra. Partimmo adunque da Venetia con due galee sottili, & dietro di noi vennero due galee grosse, cariche di artiglieri, gente da fatti, & presenti, che mandava la detta Illustrissima Signoria al detto Signor Assambei, con commessione che io mi appresentassi al paese del Caraman, & à quelle marine, & venendo, over mandando lì Assambei, gli donassi tutte le dette cose.’ 15 Barbaro 1852, 9–35 nos. 6–13; 55–67 nos. 21–25; 86–121 nos. 30–46 (Famagusta); 79–86 no. 29 (cape of St. Andreas). 16 For the identification of these places, see Hild – Hellenkemper 1990, 315–320 (s.  v. Kōrykos), 402–406 (s. v. Seleukeia), 421–423 (s. v. Sykē), 444 (s. v. H. Theodoros). 17 Barbaro 1852, 36–46 nos. 14–16 (Siquini); 46–48 nos. 17–18 (Colchos); 49–55 nos. 19–20 (St. Theodore); 67–77 nos. 26–27 (Colchos); 77–79 no. 28 (St. Theodore); 121–128 nos. 47–49 (Colchos). 18 Berchet 1865, 116–129 nos. 9–10.

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in their original wording from translations made by interpreters working in Barbaro’s service. Already in May 1471 the Venetian Senate had dispatched Caterino Zeno as ambassador to Uzun Ḥasan’s court in response to a preceding Akkoyunlu embassy.19 Barbaro, from his bases in Famagusta and at the Anatolian shore, served as a connecting link between Uzun Ḥasan’s army, the headquarters of the Christian naval forces, the Cypriot royal court, and the central government in Venice, thus trying to coordinate the movements of all parties involved.20 While the kingdom of Cyprus on certain occasions had already actively participated in the activities of the anti-Ottoman league, the instructions of the Venetian Senate from 28 January 1473 for the first time express a clear vision of Cyprus’ strategic role during the conflict to come. The emissary was ordered to sail along with the papal legate, the ambassador of King Ferdinand, and Azimaemeth, i.e., Ḥāccī Muḥammad, Uzun Ḥasan’s latest emissary to Venice, to Cyprus ‘as the principal place where you have to disembark in order to learn truthfully about the advances of the said lord [= Uzun Ḥasan] and from where his person and his army are to be located so that you can take a better decision regarding your trip to his presence’.21 On the island he would meet King James II and Queen Catherine, whose mar­ riage had just been celebrated a few months ago in late 1472. The envoy’s talks with the royal couple comprised a ceremonial and a practical part. The former included the delivery of gifts and declarations concerning the mutual friendship, which had already existed from the time of the king’s predecessors but then became even stronger because of the newly established bonds of kinship with the Republic of Venice. Emphasizing the doge’s love and esteem for the queen was considered a means to increase her reputation at the royal court. These phrases of courtesy were obviously considered important instruments to project the new quality of the relationship between Cyprus and Venice and the significance of Queen Catherine as representative of Venice’s increasing presence and influence on the island. Terms of kinship served as verbal symbols of political dependency. 19 Cornet 1856, 23–24 no. 13 (response to Uzun Ḥasan’s ambassador dated 7 March 1871), Berchet 1865, 108–111 no. 6; 111–114 no. 7 (instructions for Caterino Zeno dated to 18 May and 10 September 1471). See also Malipiero 1843–1844, 68–69: ‘fo deliberado de responder al ditto Ambassador, che la Signora manda al so Signor Catharin Zen, per significarghe che I anemi nostri non è invilidi per la perdita de Negroponte; anzi, che semo disposti de continuar l’impresa con tutte le nostre forze, sperando in l’ajuto de Dio, che unida la potentia de esso Re de Persia con la nostra armada, se scaccerà ‘l Turco de stato.’ 20 Barbaro 1852, 65–66 (copy of a letter of Zeno dated 14 June); 71–73 (copy of a letter of Zeno dated 12 July); 75–77 (copy of a letter of Zeno dated 26 July); 82–84 (copy of a letter of Zeno dated 18 August, written straight after the battle of Başkent). 21 Berchet 1865, 116.

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On a practical level, Barbaro was ordered to urge King James II to offer all his support to the war against the Ottomans and to help Uzun Ḥasan and his allies. To this end, the king had to make ready as many galleys as he could. War was to be presented as the only possibility to cope with the Ottoman threat, and the royal government had to be convinced that the island was directly affected by the Ottoman advance in Asia Minor, which is compared with a fire threatening not only the entire Levant but all Christians with total consumption. In support of this argument, the ambassador was instructed to emphasize the isolated position of the kingdom, which could not expect any help from its neighbours nor had the possibility to attack ‘this rapacious and extremely powerful snake’.22 Similar arguments were to be used for the Grand Master of Rhodes, whose dominion was in even greater danger than those of his neighbours.23 The Venetian policy at first place aimed at securing the kingdom’s loyalty and readiness for war, which could be undermined either by separate agreements with the Ottoman government or by the pressure of other powers in the region. The possibility to arrive at a peace treaty with the sultan was seriously considered by the Venetian government itself after the conquest of Negroponte in July 1470, and the idea was certainly tempting for other allies as well, as the concerns about the future attitude of the kingdom of Hungary show.24 The most dangerous neighbour not specifically named in the senate’s instructions was the Mamluk sultanate, which considered the kingdom of Cyprus its vassal state and could not be directly influenced by Venice. When Uzun Ḥasan in the course of his Anatolian campaign during the winter of 1472/73 invaded Mamluk territories of northern Syria, the kingdom was suddenly trapped in an extremely dangerous situation.25 The second goal of Barbaro’s sojourn in Cyprus was to work out the best possible way to establish contacts with Uzun Ḥasan and to organize the transport of the weapons and soldiers he had brought to the latter’s camp. The envoy was instructed to gather intelligence about the state of affairs in the Akkoyunlu army and to betake himself there as quickly and safely as possible. The Venetian Senate, openly admitting ignorance of the whereabouts of Uzun Ḥasan’s troops, was aware of the fact that the successful outcome of all efforts mainly depended on how far from the Syrian coast the Akkoyunlu forces were at the time of Barbaro’s arrival in Cyprus.26 It was 22 23 24 25 26

Berchet 1865, 117. Berchet 1865, 117. Imber 1995, 204–205, 217–218. Hill 1948/72, 625–628. Berchet 1865, 118: ‘Nui non podemo indivinar dove se ritrova la persona et exercito del soprascritto illustrissimo signor, nè in che termine serano le cosse al zonzer tuo in Cipro.’; 123: ‘Zonti veramente in Cypro sel predecto illustrissimo signor fusse anchor

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also difficult to assess how far the Ottoman garrisons in Anatolia exerted control over land routes and lines of communication so that Barbaro had to figure out a way to overcome all these obstacles. Barbaro was allowed to do whatever he considered appropriate to reach his goal. Nevertheless, the Venetian Senate gave him certain guidelines pointing out a number of possibilities to get in touch with the Akkoyunlu ruler and a network of persons he could make use of for this purpose. This included King James, who could employ his own circle of officials to establish contacts with people in the adjacent regions and offer his galleys for the purpose of transport and protection, and Uzun’s ambassador Ḥāccī Muḥammad (agi Moham­ med), who could urge his lord in separate messages to come down to the coast to take over the war material. Additional messages could also be sent by the Captain General Peter Mocenigo (el capetanio nostro zeneral) and the Grand Master of Rhodes.27 Equally important as sending messengers was considered the public demonstration (la pubblica fama et dimostra­ tion) of the presence of the reinforcements sent in support of Uzun Ḥasan’s army. For this reason Barbaro was instructed not only to inform the emir of Karaman (signor Caraman) of his arrival but also to sail with his ships to the opposite coast to ensure the Karamanid allies about his arrival and thus to reach Uzun Ḥasan with their favourable escort.28 At the other end of this communication network stood Venice’s ambassador in Uzun’s camp, Caterino Zeno. A letter addressed to him by the senate, for reasons of security, had to be sent in several copies by several messengers, and Barbaro had to inform him separately about his own matters.29 He was also the most appropriate informant about details concerning the Akkoyunlu army and the aims of Uzun Ḥasan’s policy.30 For all these activities, Cyprus was an indispensable support point, granting access to the southern shores of Anatolia and the territories of the Grand Karaman and enabling the dispatch of messengers in all directions. The military support offered by the king of Cyprus certainly did not make a difference for the fighting force of the Christian league, but free access to his harbours, his entourage of officers, and his personal relations greatly facilitated the collaboration between the naval forces of the Christian league and the Muslim land troops in the interior of Anatolia.

27 28 29 30

tanto lontan de le marine, e le vie si precluse et impedite, ch’el passar vostro fosse o impossibile o periculoso et però tardo, l’è de nostra intention, che per quelli miglior modi et mezzi che a ti sia possibile de ritrovar, et per el mezzo de la maestà del re de Cypro, e per ogni altra via, tu mandi al nobel homo Catharin Zen le lettere […].’ Berchet 1865, 123. Berchet 1865, 123–124. Berchet 1865, 123. Berchet 1865, 118.

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Negotiating in Famagusta: Venetian-Cypriot Collaboration and Conflict Resolution After short stopovers in Modon and Rhodes, where they had meetings with the Captain General Peter Mocenigo and the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, Josaphat Barbaro and the other ambassadors on 29 March 1473 arrived in the harbour of Famagusta.31 His first stay in the town lasted until 7 May, on which day he and his colleagues along with four galleys set off for a first expedition to Silifke and other fortresses at the coastland of Karaman.32 During these five weeks, Barbaro and the other Venetian officials on the islands worked out a plan of how to establish contacts with Uzun Ḥasan and negotiated forms of collaboration with King James II of Cyprus in the framework of the imminent tasks and operations of the Christian league. Barbaro’s reports contain remarkable information about the spatial setting in which the contacts between the Venetian representatives and the Cypriot royal government were situated. There was a division between a public sphere, where official audiences with the king were held, and a private sphere, where preparatory consultations and confidential talks took place. All forms of public appearances were usually staged in the royal palace of Famagusta, which can be located at the site of the remnants of the Venetian Palace (Palazzo del Proveditore) (at the western end of the modern Namık Kemal Square). Private meetings took place in the church of the nearby Franciscan monastery, which was situated at the northern edge of the palace and connected with it through a passageway.33 In this church foreign and local dignitaries came together on a daily basis for the morning mass, something that always gave the opportunity for an exchange of opinions and latest news.34 The circle of persons participating in these meetings was of varying size, at times including only the chief emissaries of Venice, the pope, and Naples and at times being extended to other Venetian officials in Cyprus, such as Andrew Cornaro, brother of Marco and uncle of Queen Catherine,35 Venetian sopracomiti and influential merchants in Famagusta.36 Meetings of this kind were usually convened when messages from Uzun Ḥasan and the war zone arrived or serious disagreements with King James occurred, which required discussions about the further procedure and a common line of argument vis-à-vis the king’s position. In some cases the gath31 32 33 34 35 36

Barbaro 1852, 9 no. 6. Barbaro 1852, 36 no. 14. Langdale 2012, 340, 432–439. Barbaro 1852, 11 no. 6. Barbaro 1852, 9–10 no. 6; 17 no. 9. Barbaro 1852, 17 no. 9; 20 no. 10; 26 no. 12 (‘I sopracomiti dela vostra celne, et altri mar­ chadanti de quella, i quali se atrovano de qui’).

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erings took place on the initiative of the king, who did not appear in person but was represented by a messenger supporting the royal court’s views.37 The process of decision making, therefore, appears as a sequence of public and confidential talks, switching between the royal palace and the Franciscan church and employing royal messengers as intermediaries between the two sides. A certain bias in Barbaro’s accounts is due to the fact that he provides us with plenty of information regarding the thoughts and concerns of the Venetian dignitaries, but is not able to go beyond the official statements of the king with respect to the Cypriot party. This, unavoidably, places much more emphasis on the leading role of Venice and reduces our possibilities to reconstruct the motives and concerns of the royal government regarding their place and role in the Christian league. Another spatial arrangement facilitating the diplomatic contacts in Famagusta is the fact that Uzun Ḥasan’s ambassador Ḥāccī Muḥammad stayed in the same house as Josaphat Barbaro, so that the two ambassadors at any time could meet and consult with each other.38 Likewise, when on 12 April the galley of Peter Malipiero arrived, bringing the Karamanid dignitary Ḥāccī Bashīr as a second envoy of Uzun Ḥasan (Azibachir ambassador del Illmo S. Asambec), the latter was accommodated in the house of Andrew Cornaro. Most remarkably, a group of Venetian dignitaries escorted this man from the harbour straight to Cornaro’s house, while the Cypriot authorities seem to have been largely excluded from this event.39 The Venetian representatives obviously were eager to give due honour to the representatives of their most important Muslim ally, to establish close personal relations with them, and, at the same time, to keep them away from the Cypriot officials in order to avoid contacts the Venetian dignitaries were not able to control. Apart from Uzun Ḥasan and the Akkoyunlu army, Venetian and Cypriot dignitaries had also to keep an eye on other Turkmen emirs in Asia 37 Barbaro 1852, 11 no. 6 (discussion of Barbaro and the other two ambassadors after the first audience with the king); 17 no. 9 (the first message of the Mamluk dawādār resulted in a meeting ‘in la giesa de S. Francesco’, which on the instigation of the king [‘el vene uno messo dela predicta R. M. el qual per parte de quella el me rechiedete’] was also attended by the Venetian bailo and all sopracomiti); 19 no. 10 (meeting with the bailo and a royal messenger in St. Francesco after the arrival of a big galley with ammunition under the command of the sopracomito Peter Soranzo); 20 no. 10 (meeting with the other emissaries, the bailo and the sopracomiti after the king’s refusal to allow the galley’s entrance into the harbor of Famagusta); 26 no. 12 (meeting after the arrival of three royal galleys and an emissary sent to the Mamluk dawādār on the instigation of the king [‘la Mtà de questo sermo Re mandò a dirme per uno suo messo … e che subito me dovesse redur con miser lo bailo a S. Francesco’]). 38 Barbaro 1852, 16 no. 9 (‘et questo ho fatto per poter ogni hora plui salubremente consultar con el ditto Azimamet quello, che a proposito spesso me achade’). 39 Barbaro 1852, 15 no. 9 (‘et poi io insieme con questo Mco bailo, et altri sp. Sopra­ comiti, et zentilhomeni marchadanti, anadassemo a galia a levar el prefato ambassador’).

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Minor. News arrived that el S r de Adena, i.e., the ruling member of the Turkmen Ramażān Oghulları, had revolted against the Mamluk sultan and had submitted to Uzun Ḥasan, in which case the Venetians would have easy access to Cilicia and from there to the Akkoyunlu camp, but the information was not confirmed and needed further investigation.40 The situation of the Ramażān dynasty centred in Adana and other Cilician towns after 1426 was characterized by a chronologically hardly definable sequence of three brothers called ʽIzz al-Dīn Ḥamza Beg, Meḥmed Beg and ʽAlī b. Aḥmad.41 Just as the Dhū l-Ḳadir dynasty, the realm of which was situated further north in the mountainous region between the Ceyhan and the Euphrates River with Marʽash, Elbistan, and Malatya as main strongholds, the Turkmen rulers of Cilicia were largely dependent on the Mamluk sultanate or wedged between Ottoman and Mamluk claims to supremacy.42 Only very few details are known about their role during the Akkoyunlu campaign in Anatolia, but it seems that the perspective of Uzun Ḥasan’s invasion in conjunction with the Christian activities at the coastland and the restoration of the principality of the Grand Karaman were considered an opportunity to get rid of the Mamluk predominance and to take advantage from the new power constellations. As for the principality of Dhū l-Ḳadir, since 1465 there was an antagonism for control over its territories between Meḥmed II and the Mamluk sultan, who appointed as emirs the brothers Shāh-Suvār and Shāh-Budaḳ respectively. When the former in 1472 was executed in Cairo, his brother was recognized by the Mamluk government for a second time.43 During the Akkoyunlu advance in June 1473 through the Upper Euphrates region, el Dulgodar, i.e., Shāh-Budaḳ, appears as ally of Uzun Ḥasan, while his brother is said to have burned down the city of Karahisar.44 Another Turkish local lord who collaborated with the anti-Ottoman alliance was Kılıç Arslan of Alanya/Scandelore. After the conquest of his residence by the Ottoman vizier Gedik Aḥmed Pasha and a short stay in Gömülcine (modern Xanthi), he fled to Egypt and, thereafter, reappeared in early September 1473 on the fleet of Peter Mocenigo, who prepared himself for an attack against the Ottoman garrison of the said fortress.45 For the Turkmen emirs in southern Asia Minor, siding with the anti-Ottoman alliance was an opportunity to restore their former independency, while the Christian league saw them 40 Barbaro 1852, 11 no. 6. 41 Uzunçarşılı 1937, 177–178; Encyclopedia of Islam, vol. 7 (1995), 418–419, s. v. Rama­ ḍān Oghulları (F. Babinger). 42 Uzunçarşılı 1937, 169–175. 43 Uzunçarşılı 1937, 172–173; Encyclopedia of Islam, vol. 4 (1991), 239–240, s. v. Dhu ‘l-Ḳadr (J. H. Mordtmann and V. L. Ménage). 44 Barbaro 1852, 52 no. 20. 45 Barbaro 1852, 78 no. 28.

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as a means to further undermine the Ottoman power and to gain military advantages. What were the measures taken by the Cypriot royal government and the Venetian dignitaries in Famagusta in the light of the confusing situation in Anatolia and northern Syria? At first place, they aimed at a clarification of the actual state of affairs in the war zone and at informing Uzun Ḥasan about the arrival of the war material sent to his support. King James II is said to have sent a messenger to the gulf of Laiazzo (modern Ayas), who was to go to Aleppo to learn about the progress of the Akkoyunlu forces. At about the same time the Venetian sopracomito Paul da Chanal sailed on a galley to the Syrian port of Tripoli. Josaphat Barbaro, through Andrew Cornaro, asked King James to provide him with a light ship, so that he could send a messenger to Caterino Zeno in Uzun Ḥasan’s camp,46 but then he changed his mind, deeming it more secure and quicker to send the man on one of his galleys commanded by the sopracomito Agustin Contarini. On the advice of Ḥāccī Muḥammad, the man was to carry only a very small note written in ciphers instead of a letter, which could easily be detected.47 Apparently, nobody knew where and in what state the Akkoyunlu army was at that time. Moreover, the extensive territorial gains of the Ottoman campaigns in Karaman had made the main routes leading from the southern coastland across the Taurus Mountains and to the Euphrates Valley hardly accessible and messengers had an extremely risky job to do. Besides practical aspects concerning the negotiations in Famagusta and the communication with Uzun Ḥasan and other Turkmen lord, an equally important issue was the argumentation developed by the Cypriot royal government and the Venetian representatives in the light of the state of affairs in the war zone. In discords and controversial debates resulting from diverging interests and different assessments of the current situation, the two sides, on the one hand, defended their position, but, on the other, were also compelled to continue their collaboration in favour of the common goals. The political scenery in the spring of 1473 was determined by threats and demands for loyalty uttered by Yashbak, the dawādār of Sultan Al-Ashraf Sayf al-Dīn Qā’itbāy, as well as alarming news concerning setbacks of the Akkoyunlu forces in northern Syria.48 King James II was highly reluctant to support Venice in a way which could be perceived by the Mamluk authorities as an act of defiance. Uzun Ḥasan’s attack against territories of the kingdom’s Muslim overlord had pushed Cyprus into a very vulnerable position, and the Venetian representatives had to cope with King James’ fears 46 Barbaro 1852, 10 no. 6. 47 Barbaro 1852, 12 no. 7; Uzunçarşılı 1937, 94. 48 Hill 1948/72, 625–628; Imber 1995, 211–212; Woods 1999, 116–117.

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of being exposed to Mamluk aggression. On the other hand, the Christian allies could hardly dispense with the advantages provided by the use of the port of Famagusta and thus had to reach a reasonable compromise reconciling their own needs with the kingdom’s concerns of safety. The royal messenger Zuan the Cherkess and the Venetian sopracomito Paul de Chanal, on returning on 8/9 April 1473 from Aleppo and Tripoli respectively, brought bad news. According to Zuan’s report, Uzun Ḥasan was besieging the fortress of Bīra (modern Birecik near Urfa) at the Euphrates River, but the town was reinforced by large and well-equipped forces under the dawādār of the sultan. The Akkoyunlu camp, instead, had a great number of tents but few people. Moreover, the Ottoman sultan is said to have sent an emissary to the dawādār, offering him military support for a joint attack on Uzun Ḥasan’s forces. The dawādār refused this proposal, advising the sultan to attack the Akkoyunlu army from another direction.49 The possibility of an Ottoman-Mamluk alliance, thus, had become a realistic threat. A few days later, these discouraging messages were followed by a letter of the Mamluk dawādār, asking for 50 crossbowmen and bombardiers, whom the king of Cyprus was obliged to send ‘as servant and slave of the sultan’.50 The situation further worsened with the arrival of the galley of Peter Soranzo, carrying ammunition for Uzun Ḥasan’s army. King James II prohibited him to enter the harbour or to disembark any of his men until he would receive new orders.51 James’ argument mainly drew on the weakness of his kingdom, given that it was currently threatened by ‘the throats of two wolfs’, i.e., the Ottoman and the Mamluk sultan, in combination with a certain distrust of his Christian allies, from whom he could not be sure whether he would receive help in case of trouble.52 In another discussion he even expressed serious doubts about the positive outcome of Uzun Ḥasan’s campaign, in which case the Venetians would set off with their galleys and ammunitions, leaving him in the danger of ‘total ruin, annihilation, and destruction of his state’.53 For this reason he was forced to act as he can, not as he wants.54 49 50 51 52

Barbaro 1852, 14–15 no. 8. Barbaro 1852, 16 no. 9. Barbaro 1852, 18 no. 10. Barbaro 1852, 17 no. 9 (‘che la Sua Sertà era in faucibus duorum luporum, zioè da uno canto l’ottoman da l’altro el Soldan, e che la Mtà la qual è impotente, e incerto, che in ogni evento de adversità che a sua Serenità potesse intravergnir, de esser da alcuna potential de christianità ajutato’). Very similar also ibid. 19 no. 10. 53 Barbaro 1852, 20 no. 10 (‘sua Mtà non intende quello haverà a esser del S. Asambec, perchè se le suo cosse andasse altramente de quello speremo non vedessamo l’hora de tornar in drieto con le nostre galie, et munition et nel pericolo lasesamo la lua maestà con total ruina, consumption, e destruction del stado suo’). 54 Barbaro 1852, 17 no. 9.

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Acting openly against the sultan would go much beyond what the king had originally agreed with his allies.55 The manifold dependencies of the Cypriot kingdom resulting from its bonds of allegiance with both the Christian league and the Mamluk sultanate are expressed through terms of kinship. Already in the first audience with the foreign ambassadors, King James II opted for separate meetings with the representatives in order to stress his special reverence for Venice, who, obviously on the basis of James’ marriage to the Serenissima’s adopted daughter, was presented as the king’s mother.56 Accordingly, the pope as the supreme spiritual authority of Christendom was addressed as father,57 while the relationship with Ferdinand of Naples was one of equal rank as ‘brothers’. Moreover, James emphasized his consanguinity with Ferdinand,58 which most likely was due to the plans to marry James’ daughter Charla with Ferdinand’s son Alonzo.59 This concept of family relations within the Christian sphere stood in conflict with the fact that the king because of his tributary status was also considered ‘slave and son’ of the Egyptian sultan.60 King James, in his talks with the Venetian representatives, constantly stressed his peculiar position on the intersection between Christian and Muslim states. This contradictory role forced him under certain circumstances to distance himself from his Christian allies in order to satisfy he demands of his Muslim overlord. It is important to note that concepts of kinship were also adopted by the emirs of Karaman and Uzun Ḥasan in their contacts with the Christian league. Especially telling are certain statements in a letter of Emir Ḳāsim Beg to Josaphat Barbaro, which is quoted in his reports in an Italian translation:61 ‘The lordship of Venice was always friend with us and with our father [i.e., Ibrāhīm Beg], and my father and Asambec [Uzun Ḥasan] were relatives, and the Christian wife of Usson Cassan is our mother.’ In this way, the Karamanid lord not only underlines the long-standing friendship of his dynasty with Venice and the close relations with the Akkoyunlu chief, but also presents Theodora, daughter of the last emperor of Trebizond John IV, as connecting link between the house of Karaman and the 55 Barbaro 1852, 20 no. 10. 56 Barbaro 1852, 10 no. 6 (‘et precipue a mi per reverentia dela vostra Illa Sia la qual sua Mtà repute et existima madre’). 57 Barbaro 1852, 16 no. 9 (‘la sua Mtà tien de la Stà del Summo pontce esser reputato per fiolo’). 58 Barbaro 1852, 16 no. 9 (‘per la consanguinità, che sua Subtà ha con el sermo s. Re Ferdinando’). 59 Hill 1948/72, 642. 60 Barbaro 1852, 19 no. 10 (‘io sto con el soldano del qual son servidor e schiavo’). 61 Barbaro 1852, 35.

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Christian allies. The crucial role of Theodora in the diplomatic contacts with Uzun Ḥasan was also acknowledged by the Venetian Senate, which explicitly referred to her in the instructions for Josaphat Barbaro. The ambassador was ordered to visit ‘the lady of the aforementioned lord, who was the daughter of the emperor of Trebizond’ and to talk to her in a way he deems appropriate for her dignity.62 As part of the propaganda related to the antiOttoman alliance, rumours were circulating about Theodora’s positive influence on Uzun Ḥasan and the latter’s affinity to the Christian faith. A report ascribed to a certain Zorzi de Fiandra and preserved among the historical writings of Marino Sanudo the Younger (d. 1536) presents Uzun Ḥasan’s marriage with Theodora, which was concluded in 1458 in the framework of John IV’s attempts to find allies against the increasing pressure of the Ottoman Empire,63 as resulting from the Akkoyunlu ruler’s wish to have a Christian wife, which he held in devotion carissima. When with the conquest of Trebizond in 1461 Uzun Ḥasan for the first time came into open conflict with the Ottomans, Theodora is said to have given her husband a cross to wear on a chain around his neck, for it would protect him against all his enemies. From that time his affairs began to prosper until he became a great lord, and thus many people believe that he has converted secretly to the Christian faith.64 Hence, Theodora or Despina Hatun, as she is also known, in her capacity as Christian princess of imperial parentage and wife of the most important Muslim ally, was for both Christians and Muslims a point of reference and a guarantor for an alliance going beyond religious divides. Other arguments put forward by the king were focusing on the great hazard which Uzun Ḥasan’s war with the Mamluk sultan caused for the island, so that Venice and all Christians had to take care for its preservation.65 The Akkoyunlu invasion created new realities requiring the adjustment of the Venetian policy. Eventually, the debates culminated in a heavy outburst of anger on the part of King James. It cannot be verified whether this was a well-thought-out political step or a spontaneous outbreak of emotions caused by the pressure of the precarious situation. Barbaro, referring to his bewilderment at the king’s insults, apparently wanted to make his readers believe that the king had lost control of himself, but the subsequent change of attitude on the part of the Venetian officials may also lead us to the assumption that King James deliberately decided to counter Venice’s intransigence with a show of resoluteness and determination. The king ordered all 62 63 64 65

Berchet 1865, 124. Turan 1965, 65–66. Berchet 1865, 99–100. Barbaro 1852, 21 no. 10.

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Venetian galleys to leave the harbour of Famagusta within two hours and threatened to kill the crews. Doubtlessly, this was an exaggeration not to be taken seriously, but the Venetian officials at this conjuncture could hardly afford to come into conflict with allies who controlled the most important base for their operations in the Eastern Mediterranean. Hence, James’ demeanour was not as haphazard and outrageous as it appears at first sight. As regards the counter-arguments, Barbaro and the other Venetian representatives partly exerted moral pressure on King James by evoking his commitments towards God, the entire Christendom and Venice and partly followed a strategy of appeasement by stressing matters of safety and their wish to avoid any damage for the kingdom or a conflict with the sultan of Egypt. King James should not comply with the demand of the Mamluk dawādār, for such a thing is displeasing and abominable to God and all Christendom;66 the king should put aside all concerns and satisfy the doge by allowing the galley to enter the harbour, for there is great danger that something might happen to it and its men.67 Apart from that, Barbaro and the other ambassadors asserted that neither the doge nor any other Christian power intended to turn against the sultan, but only to support Uzun Ḥasan against the Ottomans.68 The Venetian bailo and the sopracomiti Agustin Contarini and Nicolò da cha da Pexaro further assured King James that they would not do any harm to the kingdom by having their galleys anchored in the harbour of Famagusta in order to have them at the disposal of the doge.69 As regards the king’s complaints about a group of soldiers who were suspected of having abandoned their post and having fled to Venetian ships, the commanders were ready to carry out an investigation on their galleys. 70 All in all, the Venetian representatives did not shrink from threatening the Cypriot allies with the doge’s anger and the disapproval of all Christians, but they were also interested in keeping the league intact. Eventually, the two sides reached a compromise with keeping the Venetian galley near the harbour of Famagusta, but outside the chain. In this way, the royal government signalled its compliance with the sultan’s demands while the Venetians ensured the security of their men and weapons.71 An opportunity for the Cypriot government to regain the initiative in the diplomatic power struggle between Venice and the Mamluk sultanate was given with the return on 20 April 1473 of an emissary, who had been sent to 66 67 68 69 70 71

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Aleppo for negotiations with the dawādār and brought news about the plans of the Mamluk government and the state of affairs in northern Syria. The dawādār is said to have expressed his disappointment about the behaviour of the Venetians, who while pretending to be friends were always doing just the opposite. Being informed about the presence of the Venetian galleys in the harbour of Famagusta, the Mamluk authorities were considering the possibility to imprison all Venetians in Syria and to replace them with Genoese. According to the details given in Barbaro’s account, King James, through his envoy, sought to assure the dawādār of his loyalty, stressing at the same time his commitments towards the Christian league and his weakness visà-vis Venice’s political and military predominance. The fact that gifts were sent to the king while threats were uttered against the Venetians shows that the Mamluks met the Cypriot explanations with benevolence. King James thus took advantage of the situation by offering his services as intermediary between the two sides. In this way he would fulfil his role as loyal vassal of the sultan and, at the same time, would help the Venetians avoid a further culmination of their conflict with the Mamluks. The Venetians, on their part, realized that such a movement would have undermined their predominance in Cyprus and would have limited their freedom of action with respect to their military operations. Hoping for a new momentum in Uzun Ḥasan’s campaign, they decided to ignore the Mamluk threats against their citizens in Syria.72 In the following months, their strategy proved to be correct, for when the Akkoyunlu army in July 1473 prepared itself for the decisive battle with the Ottomans, Sultan Qā’itbāy took up peace negotiations with Uzun Ḥasan,73 something that in all likelihood was due to the long-standing antagonism between the Ottomans and Mamluks for suzerainty over the principalities in Cilicia and the Upper Euphrates region.74

Betwixt Erzincan and Cyprus: Long-Range Warfare and Problems of Communication The most decisive phase in the 1473 military operations started with Uzun Ḥasan’s forced withdrawal from Bīra to al-Ruhā/Edessa in April and lasted until 20 September, when the Venetians for the first time received reliable reports about Uzun Ḥasan’s defeat in the battle of Bashkent/Otluk Dağı and 72 Barbaro 1852, 28–29 no. 12. 73 Barbaro 1852, 76: ‘In questi zorni el soldan ha mandado uno ambassador al fio de questo Illmo S., et al Charaman, aziò quelli se interpona con questo Illmo Sr, chel fazi pace con el soldan, e mandali a dir, chel vol far tuto quell piace a questo Illmo Sr.’ 74 Har-El 1995, 27–79.

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therefore decided to postpone all further activities to the next year, hoping for a new Akkoyunlu offensive. After crossing to Anatolia in the autumn of 1472, Sultan Meḥmed II in April 1473 started his counter-attack. A detachment of the Akkoyunlu army under Uzun Ḥasan’s son Ughurlu Muḥammad defeated the troops of the sultan’s son Bāyezīd and other Ottoman commanders near Karahisar (modern Şebinkarahisar) and entrenched himself in the region between the said town and Sıvas to await the arrival of his father’s main forces. Uzun Ḥasan, being prevented from advancing westwards towards the gulf of Iskenderun, marched in northeastern direction until in June he pitched camp on a place between Erzincan and Kemah.75 Letters dated to 14 June announced his imminent arrival in the territories of Karaman within the next month. His intention was to reach the southern coastland in order to receive the war material provided by the Venetian ships. At that time, the Christian naval forces along with troops of the Karamanid emir Ḳāsim Beg had just started to seize coastal strongholds occupied by Ottoman garrisons, and thus the harbour of Famagusta gained even greater importance as a secure base and supply point of the allied ships. Establishing channels of communication and gathering intelligence about the state of affairs in Asia Minor were indispensable prerequisites for the coordination of movements between the Venetian and the Akkoyunlu troops and the successful delivery of the war material destined for the latter. Josaphat Barbaro and Uzun Ḥasan’s emissary Ḥāccī Muḥammad were in charge of arranging these contacts with the aid of Venetian officers (sopra­ comiti), interpreters (turzimani), and merchants living in Mamluk ruled areas close to the combat zone. Uncertainties as to the itinerary of the Akkoyunlu army in combination with the fact that the major routes leading to central Anatolia76 were largely controlled by Ottoman units frustrated the attempts of messengers dispatched from Famagusta to come through. Consequently, the Karamanid allies holding sway over areas at the southern shores of Asia Minor and in the plateau north of the Taurus Mountains gained crucial importance as intermediaries in these contacts. Pir Aḥmad’s brother Ḳāsim Beg, who at that time was conducting sieges of several strongholds in the region, was the most appropriate person to collect reliable information about the advance of the Akkoyunlu army after its crossing the Euphrates River into the interior of Anatolia and to organize the correspondence with Uzun Ḥasan’s court. It comes as no surprise thus that one of the most prominent themes in Barbaro’ reports were his efforts to establish and maintain this complicated network of communication. Describing these details, the Vene75 Imber 1995, 214–215; Woods 1999, 117. 76 For the road system linking Cilicia with central Anatolia, see Hild – Hellenkemper 1990, 128–142.

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tian ambassador clearly pointed out the deficiencies of fifteenth-century logistics. Due to a constant delay or complete lack of information, it was hardly possible to effectively coordinate military operations taking place simultaneously in northern Anatolia and the marine area around Cyprus and the southern coastland. This, no doubt, was one of the main reasons for the ultimate failure of this diligently prepared pincer movement against the Ottoman army. From a military point of view, Peter Mocenigo’s fleet, within a few days between 29 May and 10 June 1473, managed to secure the predominance of the Christian allies in the Cilician coastland by forcing the Ottoman garrisons of Seghi/Sequini, Curco, and Silifke to surrender and by restoring these places to the authority of the Grand Karaman. According to an eyewitness, the captain general believed that Uzun Ḥasan’s forces were not more than a six-day march away from the coast, thus seeking to demonstrate the armada’s preparedness to lend full support to his Muslim allies. Were these places taken from the Ottomans Turks and given to the Karamanids, the same report continues, the former would have no other choice than to come to an understanding with the ‘king of Persia’.77 The kingdom of Cyprus participated in these operations with four galleys and supported the sending of victuals from the harbour of Famagusta.78 When later on supply problems became more pressing, King James II put additional quantities of provisions to the disposal of the armada and Barbaro’s galleys.79 A plan discussed in Venice aimed at a direct attack on Constantinople, provided that most Ottoman forces had been transferred to the interior of Asia Minor.80 The idea did not find much resonance in the senate, whereupon Mocenigo in July continued his operations against Ottoman strongholds, extending his control to the coastland of western Lycia opposite Rhodes by seizing the fortress of Makri (el chastel de Macri, loco de l’ottoman, modern Fethiye).81 At the same time, Ḳāsim Beg advanced to the central Anatolian 77 Barbaro 1852, 45–46 no. 16 (29 May, surrender of Siquini); 47–48 no. 18 (7 June, surrender of Curco); 49–50 no. 19 (10 June, surrender of Silifke); for a letter written by Luca da Molin Sopracomito on 14 June in the port of St. Theodore, see also Malipiero 1843–1844, 87–88. 78 Barbaro 1852, 44 no. 15 (‘uno del sermo Re de Cipro con galie Quattro […] A dì xxvi [May], de Cipro el zones qui el sp. Sopracomito misser Marin Dandolo, el qual disse, che a Famagosta era zonto do galie grosse carge de biscotti per l’armada’). 79 Barbaro 1852, 55–56 no. 21; see also 58–59 no. 23 (King James provided the galleys of Josaphat Barbaro with ‘cantera ccto de biscoto a raxon de ducati zinque el canter’, i.e., 1,000 gold ducats in total; the transaction was carried out with the help of Andrew Corner). 80 Malipiero 1843–1844, 86–87. 81 Barbaro 1852, 68 no. 26; for this place, see Hellenkemper – Hild 2004, 705–709 (s. v. Makrē).

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plateau, starting to besiege Larenda defended by a high-ranking Ottoman dignitary called Kamāl Pasha. Hoping that reinforcements of 10,000 men promised by Uzun Ḥasan would actually arrive, the emir asked the Venetians to send soldiers and arquebusiers (stratioti et schiopetieri) to his support.82 The Venetian officials, however, became increasingly suspicious of the situation in the interior of Asia Minor and thus refused Ḳāsim Beg’s demand, pointing to the long distance between the coastland and Larenda.83 In a letter written in August, Ḳāsim Beg made a new attempt to persuade the Venetians: it would be a shame to lift the siege, whereas after the town’s conquest, which could be easily achieved, he would immediately proceed to Ankara to find Uzun Ḥasan.84 But the Venetians kept on being reluctant to put their troops at risk in the Anatolian highlands, preferring, instead, to extend their influence over the coastland of eastern Pamphylia by attacking Scandelore/Alanya.85 All in all, by late summer 1473 the Christian fleet had gained access to large parts of the shoreline between Lycia and Cilicia, but was not able to or willing to extend its activities to the central regions of the Karamanid realm and to establish regular contacts with the Akkoyunlu army. Ḳāsim Beg was much too weak to envisage a confrontation with the main body of the Ottoman army, whereas the Christian allies may have disposed of modern firearms, but did not have sufficient infantry troops to resist a concentrated Ottoman attack. Hence, the joint military operations, without an effective collaboration with Uzun Ḥasan’s troops, did not have the slightest chance of success. The unexpected death of King James II on 6 July gave the Venetian representatives the opportunity to strengthen their influence in the kingdom through the succession of Queen Catherine and her unborn child, but also involved them in the local aristocracy’s internal struggle for power provoked by the attempts of the Catalan party to gain control over the island. For Barbaro and the commanders of the Christian fleet, it was of primary importance that the barons, knights, and leading court officials of the kingdom abided by the oath of loyalty they had sworn to Queen Catherine shortly before the king’s death,86 for this enabled them to maintain the status quo ante, as it had emerged in the last phase of James II’s reign. While all related issues were mainly handled by Andrew Cornaro, Barbaro restricted himself to commenting on some basic aspects of the succession 82 83 84 85

Barbaro 1852, 67–69 no. 26. Barbaro 1852, 70 no. 26. Barbaro 1852, 74–75. Barbaro 1852, 78–79 no. 28; for this place, see Hellenkemper – Hild 2004, 587–594 (s. v. Kalon Oros). 86 Barbaro 1852, 59 no. 23, and 67 no. 25 (17 July, new oath of loyalty sworn by ‘tuti baroni, chavalieri, e principali servidori chef o de questo Sermo Re’).

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procedure in Cyprus, such as the dangers emanating from the Catalan party, the guarantees given by Peter Mocenigo to support the queen with his army, the birth and baptism of James III, the heir apparent to the throne, and the dispatch of Zuane Mistachieli and the bishop of Limassol as ambassadors to Venice.87 These details served to show that everything was going according to plan in Cyprus without having serious repercussions on the Anatolian campaign. When in mid-November 1473 the Catalan party under Archbishop Louis Perez Fabregue, by murdering Andrew Cornaro started their coup-d’état against Queen Catherine and the Venetians, Josaphat Barbaro wrote a circumstantial account of what he witnessed during these days in Famagusta,88 but at that time Uzun Ḥasan had already withdrawn his forces to the East and the operations in Anatolia had come to an end. In what follows I will try to further expand on the reasons and para­ meters of the failed communication between the allies. In late April 1473 the sopracomito Nicolas da cha Pexaro was sent to Tripoli, being ordered to disembark a confidant of Ḥāccī Muḥammad in the gulf of Laiazzo. While the latter was ordered to reach the Venetian ambassador Caterino Zeno in Uzun Ḥasan’s camp, the sopracomito tried to contact Ḳāsim Beg and people in the Syrian towns. After leaving his colleague in Tarsus, at the Saleph River (modern Gök Su) he met a group of soldiers, who were besieging Silifke and Curco.89 On this occasion, Nicolas learned about the defeat of Meḥmed II’s son Bāyezīd near Karahisar, while Ḳāsim Beg’s khazāndār along with ten horsemen brought letters of the Akkoyunlu ruler addressed to the doge of Venice, Josaphat Barbaro and Ḥāccī Muḥammad. In addition the second Akkoyunlu envoy Ḥāccī Bashīr received a letter from his Karamanid wife.90 Setting off from there, Nicolas on 1 May reached Tripoli, where he met Venetian merchants. They had gathered intelligence from ‘a slave and friend of the Franks’ in Aleppo and had dispatched a certain confidant called Padoan to Caterino Zeno.91 Barbaro’s turzimano, who accompanied Nicolas on his mission, went in person to Ḳāsim Beg, who gave him another letter of Uzun Ḥasan referring to his recent success near Karahisar.92 Summarizing these details, one observes that much attention was paid to the identification of the source of each piece of information, which was 87 Barbaro 1852, 67 no. 25 (‘grandenissima suspicion, et potissimum per molte male spine è in quello, e maximamente per la nation chatelana, la qual in ditto regno è principalissima’); 69 no. 26 (14 August); 90 no. 31 (26 September, ‘hozi questa Serma Ra ha fatto baptizer questo principe suo primogenitor’); 91 no. 33 (6 October). 88 Barbaro 1852, 95–101 no. 36; for details, see Hill 1948/72, 671–680; Cessi 1944, 417. 89 Barbaro 1852, 31–32 no. 13. 90 Barbaro 1852, 32 no. 13. 91 Barbaro 1852, 33 no. 13. 92 Barbaro 1852, 34 no. 13.

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the only possibility to estimate its degree of reliability. In the best case they were loyal followers or relatives, who had personal links with and linguistic access to the Turkish-Arab ruling elite. The involvement of high-ranking officers and strong escorts reflect serious concerns about matters of safety. The same applies to the simultaneous dispatch of several messengers from various directions with the hope that at least one of them would reach his goal. Thirdly, disposing of an experienced interpreter being able to read the messages sent by the Muslim allies was of crucial importance for the successful outcome of these contacts. Persons being able to make word by word translations of Akkoyunlu correspondence were obviously rare, as Barbaro explicitly admits: ‘There is no person here, who knows to translate it, for it is a Moorish letter written in the Persian language.’93 When his turzimano was absent, there were serious linguistic barriers. On 24 May after weeks of impatient waiting, Barbaro received two letters from Ḳāsim Beg, which had been addressed to the latter by Uzun Ḥasan and Pir Aḥmad respectively, but nobody was able to translate them per esser lettera rabesca in lengua azimina litteral.94 It was only in July with the arrival of the first response letters of Uzun Ḥasan and his Karamanid allies, that a persona diligentissima translated all letters into Italian.95 Another issue was the protection of commercial interests which could be jeopardized by the presence of envoys. When King James decided to send his chancellor to the Mamluk dawādār for further negotiations, he offered the Venetians to send one of their own messengers with him. Barbaro refused, stating that he fully trusted the king, while explaining in his report to the doge that the dispatch of a messenger might have induced the dawādār to sell merchandise at a higher price than usually.96 The favourable prospects resulting from the victory of Karahisar led Barbaro to the decision to make a reconnaissance expedition to the Anatolian coast and to meet Ḳāsim Beg in order to get in touch with Uzun Ḥasan’s camp. King James was willing to support this mission in all possible ways, especially by putting his galleys at the ambassador’s disposal.97 Apparently, the cooperation between the two sides was not seriously affected by the preceding discords, and the Cypriot government had found a way to balance Mamluk and Venetian interests. When on 8 May Barbaro, along with four galleys and the other ambassadors, arrived at a place four miles from the fortress of Silifke, the first 93 94 95 96 97

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face-to-face meeting with Ḳāsim Beg was prepared through preliminary talks with Ḥāccī Muḥammad and the Karamanid khazāndār, i.e., ‘treasurer’.98 Barbaro wrote new letters to Uzun Ḥasan and Caterino Zeno, and Ḳāsim Beg dispatched messengers, who according to his promises within 15 days would be back with a reply.99 The ensuing military operations of the Kara­ manid troops, Barbaro’s galleys and the rest of the Christian fleet, which arrived on 25 May under Peter Mocenigo’s command, allowed the collection of more detailed information about the advance of Uzun Ḥasan, but still could not compensate for the overall obscurity of the situation in Anatolia. Although Ḳāsim Beg clearly intensified his efforts to reach the Akkoyunlu camp, messages continued to come rarely and with much delay. On 28 May, twenty days after the dispatch of his message, Barbaro still noted: ‘From day to day I expect to see letters from the magnificent ambassador misser Chatarin Zen written in response to the letters sent by me to his magnificence through Signor Chasumbec.’100 A week later on 4 June the sopracomito Peter Querini, coming to the port of Curco, brought the message of a courier of Ḳāsim Beg, saying that he had left the camp of Uzun Ḥasan five days ago at Sıvas, a three-day march from Tokat, and that after the sack of Karahisar (Charasaria) the latter was planning to proceed via Niğde (Nigdi) and Konya (Cunia) against the Ottoman army.101 This was encouraging news, yet could not make up for the long-awaited official statement of the Akkoyunlu ruler. As is clearly reflected in Barbaro’s reports, the Venetian ambassador became increasingly nervous. Ḥāccī Bashīr was permitted to set off for Uzun Ḥasan’s camp, for, as a native from Karaman, he knew the region well, but Barbaro suspected him departing for his hometown. ‘How is it possible that one cannot learn with certainty where Signor Asambec with such a big army is’, asked Barbaro the khazāndār on 7 June.102 After the surrender of Silifke a few days later, Barbaro decided to stay with his galleys near the newly conquered fortresses, still hoping that Uzun Ḥasan would be quickly informed of the recent victories and hasten to reach the coast.103 At a new audience on 15 June with Ḳāsim Beg, who was now in the possession of Silifke, another package of letters was sent to the leading dignitaries in Uzun Ḥasan’s camp.104 One of his men had met a brother of the governor of Konya called Dugurt Uguli, who in turn referred to an Otto98 Barbaro 99 Barbaro 100 Barbaro 101 Barbaro 102 Barbaro 103 Barbaro 104 Barbaro

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36–37 no. 14. 37 no. 14. 45 no. 15. 47 no. 17. 48 no. 18. 50 no. 19. 51 no. 20.

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man spy he had met in a town called Chenger (perhaps Çankırı?). According to this informant, Uzun Ḥasan had pitched camp at a place between Kemah and Erzincan (tra Chamac et Arsengan), gathering his troops. Ḳāsim Beg’s network, thus, made it possible to approximately locate the Akkoyunlu army, but it became clear that the allied troops were too far away to establish regular lines of communication. Against the original plan to proceed southwards, Uzun Ḥasan had taken the northern route, which was explained by the fact that he was not able to cross the Euphrates at certain points and thus was forced to go a long way round.105 In late June the Christian fleet was increasingly facing supply problems and had to return to Famagusta for the acquisition of provisions. The sudden death of King James on 7 July temporarily distracted the attention of the Venetian officials from Anatolia to the internal situation of the Cypriot kingdom. In the days following the king’s death the state of affairs in Asia Minor was as obscure as before, so that Barbaro on 13 July, along with Ḥāccī Muḥammad, returned to the coast of Anatolia.106 After two months of constant efforts, this was the first time that one of the previously dispatched messengers actually reached Silifke, bringing letters from Uzun Ḥasan, the Grand Karaman Pir Aḥmad, his brother Ḳāsim Beg, who at that time had begun besieging the city of Larende (modern Karaman), and Caterino Zeno.107 The problem was that the letters from Uzun Ḥasan’s camp were dating from 14–17 June and thus reflected the situation of a month ago. At that time Caterino Zeno had announced the arrival of the Akkoyunlu troops in Karaman for July,108 but days were passing by and there still was no sign of Uzun’s imminent arrival. The messages coming in mid-July after two months of silence hardly had any value concerning the actual military situation and the strategic planning of the officials in Cyprus. Indicative of the overall stagnation in the Venetian operations is the fact that Barbaro wrote his next report to the doge not before 14 August, when, after another full month of futile waiting, he eventually received new letters of Uzun Ḥasan and Caterino Zeno.109 At the time of the messenger’s arrival in Silifke, however, these messages dating from 12 July110 were already overtaken by the fast developments in the war zone of northern Anatolia. The 105 Barbaro 1852, 52 no. 20: ‘El qual Sr [i.e., Ḳāsim Beg] me respose, che in verità el non era possible questo [i.e., to have regular information from his brother Pir Aḥmad], per la gran volta l’haveva convenuto far con el ditto Illo Sr [i.e., Uzun Ḥasan] per passer el ditto fiume.’ 106 Barbaro 1852, 61 no. 24. 107 Barbaro 1852, 61–62 no. 24. 108 Barbaro 1852, 63–66, esp. 66 for Caterino’s letter. 109 Barbaro 1852, 67–71 no. 26. 110 Barbaro 1852, 70–73 no. 26.

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commanders of the Christian league were informed of the imminent clash between the Ottoman sultan and his Akkoyunlu opponent, when the latter along with the rest of his army was already fleeing back to his territories in the East. In an atmosphere of perplexity and helplessness, Barbaro between 28 July and 7 August went back and forth between the port of Famagusta and the Anatolian coastland, the last time coming as passenger on board of the fleet of Peter Mocenigo. In the meantime, Ḥāccī Muḥammad stayed near Curco while Barbaro’s faithful assistant Nicolas da cha da Pexaro first was sent as messenger to Mocenigo’s armada and then was ordered along with Barbaro’s turzimano to go to Silifke. Obviously, in these days Famagusta played its most crucial role in the whole campaign, on the one hand, as starting point of Venetian officials moving into various directions to maintain their network of communication and, on the other, as supply point for Mocenigo’s fleet preparing itself for new operations and awaiting the arrival of Uzun Ḥasan’s troops. Eventually, Barbaro’s turzimano sent to Silifke met uno patriarcha Chris­ tian del paexe del Charaman, i.e., a Christian prelate, who came as messenger bringing letters from Uzun Ḥasan and Caterino Zeno.111 As could be seen from Zeno’s account, the campaign had entered its most decisive phase and thus Uzun Ḥasan, apart from his Venetian allies, also addressed the German emperor Frederick III and King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary. The Akkoyunlu troops in the region of Erzincan had reached a size of 300,000 men and were expected soon to become 500,000. An Ottoman peace proposal had been refused. Camel loads of weapons and money were coming from Tabriz, so that Uzun Ḥasan would be able to pay his soldiers and to launch his attack against the sultan, who according to an Ottoman spy was drawing near with all his military machinery. The Akkoyunlu lord relying on his manpower presented himself confident of victory. Since the sultan had abandoned his lands to concentrate all his power against the invader, Uzun Ḥasan called the Christian lords to attack the Ottoman provinces in Europe, thus whipping his enemy from all directions. In this way he would not recover anymore and his name would be forever extinguished.112 In the light of the imminent conflict, the Akkoyunlu ruler styled himself as head of a large-scale Eurasian military project aiming at the total destruction of the Ottoman Empire and a full reorganization of the political landscape in Asia Minor and Southeast Europe. Moreover, Uzun Ḥasan’s addressing the German emperor and the king of Hungary has also to be viewed in the context of intra-Christian rivalries. Venice knew about a Hungarian embassy sent to Constantinople to negotiate a peace treaty as a result of Turkish spies trying to sow discord. Likewise, Frederick III was induced by Milano and Florence to convene an imperial diet in 111 Barbaro 1852, 69–70 no. 26. 112 Barbaro 1852, 71–73.

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order to impede the support of Uzun Ḥasan, ‘so that the Turk would prosper against the Signoria’. The Italian rivals feared that Venice would become predominant if she took possession of Greece.113 Hence, the Akkoyunlu ruler, most probably at the request of Caterino Zeno, contributed to an attempt to foster the spirit of collaboration among the European powers. These ambitious announcements, however, were hardly able to relieve the concerns of Barbaro, who was wondering why Zeno did not explain the reasons for Uzun Ḥasan’s delay. The Venetian officials still saw no tangible results of the Akkoyunlu advance and thus sent Aluvise de Bonixe, chancellor of the captain general, to Ḳāsim Beg to hand him over the Venetian response letters addressed to Uzun Ḥasan and his entourage, while the galleys carrying the ammunition for the allied army were ordered to stay in Famagusta for reasons of safety.114 As long as no Akkoyunlu soldiers made their appearance at the coastland, the Venetians obviously were not willing to put their troops and material at risk. Barbaro’s statements clearly indicate a certain suspicion that something was going wrong in Anatolia. On 23 August two Karamanid emissaries arrived in Curco, bringing a letter of their lord, which announced a great victory of Uzun Ḥasan over a son of the sultan and other Ottoman commanders.115 Once more, Barbaro was highly doubtful about this message, for there was no other source to confirm it. At least, Barbaro was able to identify the emir’s informant, who was the third messenger dispatched from Silifke to Uzun Ḥasan’s camp. The man had managed to return to Larenda with letters of Caterino Zeno.116 Zeno’s message dating from 26 July was very similar in content to the previous one from 12 July. Again he emphasizes the difficulties of communication due to the long distances. Most letters sent by Barbaro took a month to reach him and some had never arrived.117 A strong presentiment that the decisive clash between the two armies was coming closer made itself felt.118 Thus, on 31 August the Venetian officials were still under the impres­ sion of accounts referring to the situation in late July and early August, and obviously even Ḳāsim Beg did not know much more. The situation for several weeks remained unchanged, as can be seen in Barbaro’s report written on 12 September in the port of St. Theodore. He was still waiting for further details confirming the information about Uzun Ḥasan’s victory.119 113 Malipiero 1843–1844, 87. 114 Barbaro 1852, 70 no. 26. 115 Barbaro 1852, 73–75 no. 27. 116 Barbaro 1852, 74. 117 Barbaro 1852, 75. 118 Barbaro 1852, 76–77. 119 Barbaro 1852, 78–79 no. 28.

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The decisive turning point was the arrival on 20 September of a new letter of Caterino Zeno written on 18 August in the camp of Uzun Ḥasan at a four-day distance from Erzincan.120 The report, which was delivered to Josaphat Barbaro along with a number of other documents by Ḥāccī Muḥammad in the port of Curco, gives a brief and unemotional description of the two Akkoyunlu-Ottoman battles fought on 4 and 11 August respectively. Whereas the first clash ended with a victory of Uzun Ḥasan’s forces, the second one had disastrous results despite the sultan’s initial attempt to withdraw and the successful encirclement of the Ottoman army by detachments led by Uzun Ḥasan’s two sons Ughurlu Beg and Zaynal Beg as well as the commander Bayāndur Beg. A concentrated attack with infantry and artillery troops put the main body of the Akkoyunlu army to flight, thus enabling the Ottomans to seize Uzun Ḥasan’s camp and baggage train. The Akkoyunlu ruler managed to retreat with the rest of his army towards Tabriz.121 ‘This was no good news about what fortune has done in the affairs of the said most honourable Signor Asambec’, Barbaro concludes.122 It was quickly perceived that this event for the time being signalled the end of the operations in Asia Minor. To sum up, in the months between the first meeting with Ḳāsim Beg on 8 May and 20 September, Josaphat Barbaro and the Venetian dignitaries did not receive more than four reports from Caterino Zeno (13 July, 14 August, 23 August, and 20 September) and two letters of Uzun Ḥasan (13 July, 14 August), which regularly arrived with a one-month delay (dating from 14 June, 12 July, 26 July, and 18 August) and thus never corresponded to the actual state of affairs. Additional secondary reports of various informants and spies forwarded by Karamanid and Venetian messengers were closer to the events, but frequently obscure and doubtful as to their trustworthiness. This is to say that the Christian fleet throughout its operations at the southern shores of Asia Minor was forced to rely on unconfirmed rumours, details known from hearsay, and even pious wishes. Misguided by this kind of messages, which were talking about large Akkoyunlu detachments moving imminently towards the coastland, both the Christian commanders and their Karamanid allies for months were pursuing a wait-and-see strategy. When Ḳāsim Beg eventually made an attempt to proceed towards central Anatolia via the conquest of Larenda, the Ottoman forces were already too strong to give him any chance of success and the Venetians backed down. After 20 September, it was decided that the fleet would withdraw westwards, while Barbaro 120 Barbaro 1852, 79–84 no. 29. 121 Barbaro 1852, 82–84. 122 Barbaro 1852, 80 no. 29: ‘non esser bona nova per quanto haveva operato la fortuna nele cosse del ditto Sermo Sr Asambec’.

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would stay with his galleys in Famagusta and continue the correspondence with Ḳāsim Beg and Uzun Ḥasan.123 The kingdom of Cyprus and Famagusta, as an ideal stopover for warships and supply transports, essentially contributed to the successes of the naval operations and the network of communication built up in Asia Minor, but given that the Anatolian plateau and the inland routes remained largely inaccessible, it was hardly possible to coordinate the movements with Uzun Ḥasan’s army and to develop a common strategy. Thus, Cyprus lost its last chance to intervene in Asia Minor as part of a large Christian-Muslim coalition, and Venice from that time onwards at all costs had to keep control of the island as last stronghold in the Eastern Mediterranean.

Bibliography Babinger 1953 = Franz Babinger, Mehmed der Eroberer und seine Zeit: Weltenstür­ mer einer Zeitenwende (Munich 1953). Barbaro 1559 = Iosafa Barbaro, ‘Viaggio di Ioasafa Barbaro gentilhuomo Venetiano nella Persia, parte seconda’, in: Gian Battista Ramusio, Navigationi et viaggi, vol. 2 (Venice 1559) 98v–112r. Barbaro 1852 = Giosafatte Barbaro, Lettere al Senato Veneto, ed. Enrico Cornet (Vienna 1852). Barbaro 1873 = Stanley of Alderley (ed.), Travels to Tana and Persia by Josafa Barbaro and Ambrogio Contarini, translated from the Italian by William Thomas, Clerk of the Council to Edward VI, and by S. A. Roy (London 1873) 37–101. Beihammer 2013 = Alexander Beihammer, ‘The Kingdom of Cyprus and MuslimChristian Diplomacy in the Age of Meḥmed the Conqueror’, in: Crusades 12, 2013, 197–232. Berchet 1865 = Guglielmo Berchet, La repubblica di Venezia e la Persia (Turin 1865). Calia 2012 = Anna Calia, ‘The Venetian-Ottoman Peace of 1479 in the Light of Doc­uments from the Venice State Archive’, in: Iulian Mihai Damian – IoanAurel Pop – Mihailo St. Popović – Alexandru Simon (eds.), Italy and Europe’s Eastern Border (1204–1669) (Frankfurt/Main 2012) 45–59. Cessi 1944 = Roberto Cessi, Storia della Repubblica di Venezia, vol. 1 (Milan 1944). Cippicus 1477 = Coriolanus Cippicus, Petri Mocenici imperatoris gesta (Venice 1477). Cornet 1856 = Enrico Cornet, Le guerre dei Veneti dell’Asia 1470–1474, documenti cavati dall’archivio ai frari in Venezia (Vienna 1856). Damian 2012 = Iulian M. Damian, ‘From the “Italic League” to the “Italic Crusade”: Crusading under Renaissance Popes Nicholas V and Pius II’, in: 123 Barbaro 1852, 86–88 no. 30 (23 September); 88–90 no. 31 (26 September); 90–91 no. 32 (30 September); 91–92 no. 33 (14 October).

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Iulian Mihai Damian – Ioan-Aurel Pop – Mihailo St. Popović – Alexandru Simon (eds.), Italy and Europe’s Eastern Border (1204–1669) (Frankfurt/ Main 2012) 79–94. Edbury 1995 = Peter Edbury, ‘Οι τελευταίοι Λουζινιανοί 1432–1489’, in: Theo­ doros Papadopoullos (ed.), Ιστορία της Κύπρου, vol. 4: Μεσαιωνικόν βασίλειον – Ενετοκρατία (Nicosia 1995) 177–258. Fuess 2005 = Albrecht Fuess, ‘Was Cyprus a Mamluk Protectorate? Mamluk Policies toward Cyprus between 1426 and 1517’, in: Journal of Cyprus Studies 11, 2005, 11–28. Har-El 1995 = Shai Har-El, Struggle for Domination in the Middle East: The Otto­ man-Mamluk War, 1485–91 (Leiden – New York – Cologne 1995). Hellenkemper – Hild 2004 = Hansgerd Hellenkemper – Friedrich Hild, Lykien und Pamphylien, 3 vols. Tabula Imperii Byzantini, vol. 8 (Vienna 2004). Hild – Hellenkemper 1990 = Friedrich Hild – Hansgerd Hellenkemper, Kilikien und Isaurien. Tabula Imperii Byzantini, vol. 5 (Vienna 1990). Hill 1948/72 = George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 3: The Frankish Period 1432–1571 (Cambridge 1948, repr. 1972). Imber 1995 = Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire 1300–1481 (Istanbul 1990). Imber 2002 = Colin Imber, ‘Before the Kapudan Pashas: Sea Power and the Emergence of the Ottoman Empire’, in: Elizabeth Zachariadou (ed.), The Kapudan Pasha: His Office and his Domain, Halycon Days in Crete IV, a Symposium Held in Rethymnon 7–9 January 2000 (Rethymnon 2002) 49–59. Langdale 2012 = Allan Langdale, In a Contested Realm: An Illustrated Guide to the Archaeology and Historical Architecture of Northern Cyprus (Kilkerran 2012). Malipiero 1843–1844 = Domenico Malipiero, Annali Veneti dall’anno 1457 al 1500, ed. Agostino Sagredo, in: Archivio Storico Italiano ossia raccolta di opera e documenti finora inediti o divenuti rarissimi risguardanti la storia d’Italia, vol. 7/1–2 (Florence 1843–1844). Palombini 1968 = Barbara von Palombini, Bündniswerben abendländischer Mächte um Persien, 1453–1600 (Wiesbaden 1968). Setton 1978 = Kenneth M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), vol. 2: The Fifteenth Century (Philadelphia 1978). Stavrides 2001 = Theoharis Stavrides, The Sultan of Vezirs: The Life and Times of the Ottoman Grand Vezir Mahmud Pasha Angelović (1453–1474) (Leiden 2001). Turan 1965 = Şerafettin Turan, ‘Fâtih Mehmet – Uzun Hasan Mücadelesi ve Venedik’, in: Tarih Araştırmaları Dergisi 4–5, 1965, 63–138. Woods 1999 = John E. Woods, The Aqquyunlu: Clan, Confederation, Empire (Salt Lake City 1999, rev. ed.).

Alexander Beihammer

Department of History and Archaeology, University of Cyprus, P.O. Box 20537, 1678 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

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Christopher Schabel

The Bullarium Cyprium: The Ongoing Mission ...

As I write these words, having passed the age of 50, it is comforting to know that my field is blessed not only with longevity, but also with long careers. Steven Runciman lived to be 97 and published over a period of almost seven decades. Compared to Sir Steven, the numerous historians of Byzantium, the Crusades, and the Latin East who are still in their 70s must feel like children. In the second decade of the third millennium, two senior scholars completed major projects that had occupied them for decades: Hans Eberhard Mayer, at the age of 83, who is completing his sixth decade of authorial activity, and Jean Richard, now 94, who published his first work during World War II. For reasons that will become apparent, this paper is dedicated to these giants.

Bullarium Cyprium I–II In the late 1990s the archaeologist Maria Rosaria Belgiorno gave a lecture in Cyprus on her now famous excavations in the village of Pyrgos, near Limassol, where she found the world’s oldest perfumes.1 To supplement her historical survey of the village’s toponym, I told her that, according to Nicos Coureas, there was a connection between Pyrgos and the Cisterians in the Middle Ages.2 Prompted by Belgiorno, I did some further investigation in the Vatican Archives and found a summarized but not fully unpublished 1 2

You can read about it at: www.erimiwine.net/erimiwine_g000002.pdf (accessed 22-022013). Coureas 1997, 40–41 and 195–198. Nicholas Coureas is full of interesting information, as shown by his tracing the myth that there is evidence for sugar production in Byzantine Cyprus back to an undocumented claim in Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols. (English trans. of 2nd ed. New York 1973, reprint New York 1976), vol. I, 154: ‘sugarcane, which was brought from India to Egypt, passed from Egypt to Cyprus, becoming established there in the tenth century’.

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papal letter, the full text of which gave additional evidence not only for the Cistercian presence in Pyrgos, but also for a dispute between a knight and the Cistercian Order, a dispute that involved his lord, Alice of Champagne, the widow of King Hugh I of Cyprus and mother of the future King Henry I. Queen Alice was trying to use any means at her disposal, including re-marriage, to remove her uncle, Philip of Ibelin, from power and rule in her own right. Circumstantial evidence in other letters even indicated that she enticed the Emperor Frederick II to intervene in 1228 on his way to the Holy Land, which sparked the long Civil War of Cyprus.3 These findings also resulted in an archaeological study led by Froso Egoumenidou of the University of Cyprus, with Eleni Procopiou of the Department of Antiquities and the advice of French experts.4 The study revealed what seems to be a complex Cistercian water system involving a dam, an aqueduct, two cisterns, and a water mill. Although I was already well acquainted with the Vatican Library from my research in medieval intellectual history, this was my introduction to the Vatican Archives. In late 2012, completing the work that his professor, Charles Perrat, had started in 1926, and with my collaboration, Jean Richard, a member of the Institute de France, succeeded in publishing volume III of the Bullarium Cyprium, the corpus of papal letters spanning the period from the Frankish Conquest of Cyprus in 1191 down to the death of Pope Gregory XI, before the onset of the Great Schism in 1378.5 Professor Richard’s volume covers the properly Avignon popes before the Schism, John XXII, Benedict XII, Clement VI, Innocent VI, Urban V, and Gregory XI. With summaries of over 2000 letters packed into one volume, it is a magnificent achievement. Its very magnificence is linked to the reason why the Bullarium Cyprium mission will continue. When I was planning to publish the full text of the papal letters involving Cyprus down to the death of Pope Benedict XI in 1304, Nicos Coureas and Gilles Grivaud informed me that Jean Richard was working on papal letters to Cyprus as well. In late 2000 Professor Richard wrote me that his program involved only the period 1316–1378, however, so there was no overlap, and eventually he persuaded me to fill in the gap between our projects and cover the pertinent letters of Pope Clement V as well.6 Thus volumes I and II contain the full text (with exhaustive English summaries) of the surviving papal letters involving Cyprus written down to the death 3 4 5 6

Schabel 2000. Rizopoulou-Egoumenidou – Myriantheus – Hadjichristophi 2002, and Benoit – Berthier 2002. Bullarium Cyprium III. Letters of Jean Richard, 19-11-2000 and 05-05-2001.

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of Clement V in 1314, six or seven hundred, depending on how you count them.7 The pertinent letters of Celestine III, almost all of the complete correspondence of Innocent III, and summaries and sometimes full texts of all of the letters of Honorius III have been available since the nineteenth century, while by World War II almost all of the letters of the remaining popes down to Clement V had been published at least in summary form, mostly by the École française de Rome.8 Unfortunately, the Brepols online database of these texts and summaries, Ut per litteras apostolicas ..., was not available to me before 2010 when the volumes appeared,9 but using the published indices for the letters down to 1314 and then reading the main secondary bibliography for the handful of letters not preserved in the Vatican Registers,10 I was able to locate all but a few letters pertaining to Cyprus. Since I had only just begun the task in 2000, the relatively new project to digitize the Vatican Registers allowed me to work efficiently on Cyprus with digital reproductions purchased by the Cyprus Research Centre. According to Peter Edbury, I only missed three or four letters, which I promptly inserted into an addenda section in volume III,11 although in private correspondence Hans Eberhard Mayer has since corrected one of those.12

Bullarium Cyprium I–II. For previous editions and summaries, see Bullarium Cyprium I, xi–xv. See description in www.brepols.net/publishers/pdf/Brepolis_LITPA_EN.pdf (accessed 22-02-2013). 10 Especially Hill 1948, 1–285, Edbury 1991, 1–140, and Coureas 1997. 11 Bullarium Cyprium III, 499–505. 12 No. e-41a on p. 501 in Bullarium Cyprium III was edited in Mayer 1972, 206, no. 22 (and 193, no. 10, for the inserted royal charter) from an original that survives in Marseille, Archives municipales, AA 57, no. 16, which he inspected in 1969, although Professor Mayer warns (letter of 9-12-2012): ‘At the time, the archives were crowded into basement rooms of the university library and users had to leave it during lunch hours because the staff was eating there. Later on, when the conservatory got a new building, the archives were housed in the old conservatory building until they finally came to rest in a splendidly converted cigar factory. These movements did not leave things untouched. As far as I can tell the old shelfmarks did not rest completely unchanged, particularly the numbers of individual parchments within the cartons, although this is vehemently denied in Marseille. AA 57 is probably still all right. In any case, they find what one wants, if one describes it adequately. As for number 16, this may be a different story.’ Mayer’s fascinating description of the photography facilities cannot be printed, nor can his description of his visits to Iowa during his student days around 1950 (letter of 16-02-2002). 7 8 9

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Bullarium Cyprium III The story of the main body of volume III is much more complex.13 In 1926, Charles Perrat of the École française de Rome began compiling a volume of summaries of letters involving Cyprus from the Avignon papacy. At that time, the efforts to publish summaries of the letters of the six Avignon popes were underway, but nowhere near complete. Perrat therefore used the socalled Schedario Garampi, 125 volumes comprised of hand-written notices compiled by Giuseppe Garampi, prefect of the Vatican Archives, along with his assistants in the eighteenth century, as his base.14 Now, these catalogues, wonderful for their time, are neither easy to use, nor always accurate, nor in any way complete, but it was a start. Other occupations derailed the project until 1953, when Perrat asked the already experienced historian Jean Richard to join him. Over the next two decades Perrat and Richard systematically inspected the originals of the documents cited in the Schedario Garampi, having many photographs made, and in 1973 they gathered their data and began compiling the corpus. As Professor Richard writes in his preface to volume III, when Perrat died in 1976, they had a typescript of the entire text. For two reasons, Perrat and Richard had decided against publishing the full text of these letters. First, in comparison to the thirteenth century, the papal correspondence of the Avignon period, both pertaining to Cyprus and in general, was vastly more abundant. If my volumes would contain six or seven hundred letters for 120 years, Perrat and Richard had gathered twice that many for half the time, 1300 for six decades, almost 200 for Famagusta alone, some 300 pages of summaries. Second, much more often than is the case for the thirteenth century, the letters of the Avignon period are frequently repetitious and wholly formulaic, with collations of benefices and marriage dispensations, for example. Thus Perrat’s idea was to publish summaries with some commentary, aside from exceptional cases.15 Their original intent was to publishing the corpus of summaries with the École française de Rome, which had supported the research. But when he took over the complete dossier following Perrat’s death, Professor Richard was not able to find the time to complete the already half-century old project immediately. For one thing, he realized that there were lacunae that would require trips to Rome, in some cases, and he would need to double13 Some of it is told in Bullarium Cyprium III, 9–10, but most of my information comes from private correspondence and conversations in meetings in Cyprus (three conferences), Rouen (four PhD and habilitation juries), and Paris (three ad hoc discussions). 14 See http://www.luxinarcana.org/en/documenti/curiosita/la-chiave-dello-scrigno-schedariogarampi/ (accessed 22-03-2013). 15 Letters of Jean Richard, 19-11-2000, 05-05-2001, 08-04-2002.

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check others at the Institut de recherche et d’histoire des textes (IRHT) in Paris, which housed some microfilms. When in late 2001 I proposed to unite our projects, therefore, Professor Richard knew that there was still some work to be done, and that his 2002 presidency of the Académie would slow the work. The director of the École française de Rome, André Vauchez, was very understanding and agreed that the Cyprus Research Centre of the Republic of Cyprus was the natural home for the project. Thus began our collaboration in early 2002.16 Taking stock, Professor Richard reported that the research in the Vatican itself was pretty much done, that checking the work against the almost completed publications of the École française de Rome, for errors and acts they had missed, was almost finished, and that, as mentioned, they had gathered some 1300 documents in 300 pages, type-written, material that Professor Richard himself would enter into a computer. He and Perrat had planned to follow their summaries with extracts of texts and complete transcriptions when necessary, but the photographs of these letters that Perrat had collected had gone missing after his death. Hopefully the IRHT would help replace them.17 By 2005 Professor Richard had gradually come to realize that he had vastly underestimated the remaining work to be done. (As we shall see, the work was in fact only 60% complete.) First, the Schedario Garampi, already imperfect for what it is, contained only notes on the so-called litterae communes for the dioceses of the island, leaving out items such as curial letters and letters to the kings and their entourage. Moreover, the publications of the École française de Rome were incomplete for two popes. Thus he would need to go to the registers themselves, both the Registra Avenionensia, containing drafts of letters, and the more official Registra Vaticana, which Garampi did not employ and which the École française de Rome had not fully exploited. This would take considerable time, using the microfilms of the Centre de recherche sur la papauté in Avignon and the IRHT, although because of remodelling he would have to work at the Orléans branch and not Paris.18 From 1198 up until 1316, there is only the Registra Vaticana, but with Pope John XXII the correspondence is divided into the Registra Avenionensia (so-called because it was preserved in Avignon until the early eighteenth century) and the continuation of the Registra Vaticana. Often there are copies of the same letters in both registers, but for various reasons many letters 16 Letters of Jean Richard, 19-11-2000, 05-05-2001, and 26-01-2002. 17 Letter of Jean Richard, 08-04-2002. For the publications of the École française de Rome, see the bibliographies in Bullarium Cyprium III, 33, 157, 177, 301, 363, and 427. 18 Letter of Jean Richard, 07-05-2005.

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are in just one of the registers. Professor Richard also began looking at the Registra Supplicationum, which only begin in 1342 with Clement VI. Constituting an entirely different series, they contain records of the requests of various people and brief notes of the papal chancery’s responses.19 Unfortunately, Professor Richard discovered that the responses preserved in the other registers did not always match the requests in the Registra Supplicationum, necessitating further work. At least the IRHT was moving back to its older Parisian quarters.20 In 2006, as he worked in Avignon and Paris, Professor Richard ran into further complications, including the first of two computer deaths. At the IRHT in Paris he now had access to digital reproductions of some of the Registra Vaticana, but this work was often in relatively uncharted territory. The IRHT, moreover, did not have copies of the Registra Avenionensia, which he needed to check again because of their relationship with the Registra Vaticana. Finally, he had to continue to go to Avignon to work on the supplications.21 By early 2007 Professor Richard reported that 3.5 popes needed correcting and 2.5 were still on index cards. Progress was slow entering the data into the computer and the quality of the Registra Vaticana reproductions in Paris was often poor, which was all the more frustrating since, commuting from Dijon, he had only about three hours per week at the IRHT. At first it seemed that he could rely on the publications of Count Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, who had attempted to go through all these registers for his prosopographical studies on the Cypriots of the period, citing the manuscripts and folios. Professor Richard knew from the start, of course, that Collenberg’s work was not always exhaustive, but he was now discovering that Collenberg’s data did not always tally with his own, probably, he assumed, because they worked with different sources, Collenberg with the supplications and Richard with the other registers.22 In 2008 Professor Richard was able to go to Rome to work with the originals. Double-checking was made more difficult by the fact that he was allowed to see only six registers per day in the Vatican Archives. He did make the corrections and additions he had planned to, but he also found new errors and documents that he and Perrat had missed. More and more he realized that the discrepancies between his findings and those of Collenberg were not because of their different approaches: ‘It will be necessary 19 20 21 22

See also Bullarium Cyprium III, 11–14. Letter of Jean Richard, 28-05-2006. Letters of Jean Richard, 27-09-2006, 29-10-2006, 29-11-2006. Letters of Jean Richard, 19-11-2000, 30-03-2007, 28-06-2007, 08-10-2007; Rudt de Collenberg 1975/77, 1977, 1977/79, 1979, 1980.

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to check everything!’ Worse still, he even found errors ‘in the works that I admire, of G. Mollat and others; perfection is not of this world!’ Work continued in 2009, even while recovering from surgery in the hospital, when he typed in most of the material from Pope Urban V. He found that additional work had to be done for Gregory XI and that he should go to Rome to check some of Clement VI, but he was needed at home more and more, making travel difficult. Hopefully he would be able to get most of what he required in Avignon and by ordering things from the Vatican.23 Going back to 2001, therefore, when I asked Professor Richard to join his project with mine, this was the actual situation: his material was spread out over 477 volumes of registers in the three series, probably about 150,000 folios or 300,000 pages in manuscript. The Schedario Garampi was the product of an inspection of perhaps 45% of these folios, but many references were inaccurate and, naturally, difficult to verify, and the proportion of inaccurate references in the works of Rudt de Collenberg was, if anything, even greater. If the Schedario Garampi and Rudt de Collenberg were inaccurate in citing the documents they did find, it was also true that they missed a great number of letters entirely. As Professor Richard wrote in early 2010, ‘I realize the reckless character of Charles Perrat’s and my undertaking!’24 Luckily the project to digitize the registers continued to advance, and by 2010 the IRHT and the Centre de recherche sur la papauté in Avignon had digital reproductions of most of the Registra Vaticana and some of the Registra Supplicationum, although the project of photographing the Registra Avenionensia lagged behind and in any case the extant digital reproductions were almost nowhere to be found except in the Vatican itself. Using these resources and the new Brepols database, it was possible for Richard to do some final checking as he entered in the last data. He survived the second computer death without much fuss as well. But checking for errors and lacunae was cumbersome work, carried out away from his home in Dijon, where his family obligations grew more pressing. And when a reference in, say, Rudt de Collenberg could not be verified, what then? Insert DVD after DVD into a computer in Paris or Avignon and search and search and search? He had to accept that a work 80 years in the making was bound to have some errors and omissions.25 Before continuing, let me just outline what Professor Richard managed to accomplish, starting from the ca. 1300 documents he had in 2002: volume III of Bullarium Cyprium contains 2151 numbered entries. For reasons 23 Letters of Jean Richard, 14-04-2008, 01-05-2009, 25-08-2009. 24 Letter of Jean Richard, 26-02-2010. 25 Letters of Jean Richard, 23-06-2010, 28-06-2010, 07-07-2010, 26-10-2010.

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I will give below, the total number of letters is closer to 2280, and if you count the letters sent to others in eundum modum, ‘in the same fashion’, the number climbs to about 2750. Because fewer than 20% of the letters of Clement VI and Innocent VI to Cyprus were published in summary form by the École française de Rome, only about 60% of those of Urban V, and even for John XXII and Benedict XII Professor Richard found about 130 previously unknown letters, well over 1000 of these 2750 letters had never been published at all. Summaries of more than 500 letters of Clement VI alone are available for the first time. That is a lot of new source material! While Professor Richard was finishing up his volume, I brought out volumes I and II and began working on a University of Cyprus funded research program called Sources for Frankish and Venetian Cyprus, which included money for the purchase of digital reproductions from the Vatican Archives. In late 2011, while working on letters on the Avignon papacy connected to two other projects, an article on the administration of Nicosia Cathedral, now published in the journal Crusades, and, with Michalis Olympios, a book on the Cistercian nunnery of St. Theodore in Nicosia,26 I noticed two things. One I will discuss below, but the other was that there were new glitches in Richard’s work-in-progress: Perrat and Richard had assigned a couple of the letters regarding St. Theodore to two different popes. This was difficult to recognize by the summaries, but by editing the complete text of the letters it became obvious. When I informed him of the glitches, after some research he learned that some registers were split between popes. Realizing this, he looked for more such instances and made some other adjustments, although unfortunately the resulting removal of letters also necessitated extensive changes in the index.27 In January of 2012 Professor Richard was finally able to submit his text. I was put in charge of taking Richard’s raw files and putting them into shape for the printers, doing most of the mis-en-page. I had hoped that the glitches I had found were extremely rare, but at that point I was not fully aware of the incredible complexity of Professor Richard’s task and its twisting 86-year path, nor of the confusion in the registers themselves and in the works of some of Richard’s predecessors. When I decided to fill in some blanks with information from the Brepols database, I noticed the occasional remaining discrepancy with things like dates, places, register number, foliation, and so on. So I decided to do some systematic spot checking, taking John XXII myself and assigning Clement VI to Constantinos Georgiou, a 26 Schabel 2012 and Michalis Olympios – Chris Schabel (eds.), A Cistercian Nunnery in the Latin East: The History and Archaeology of St Theodore Abbey, Nicosia, Cyprus, for Brill’s series The Medieval Mediterranean. 27 Letters of Jean Richard, 19-10-2011, 16-11-2011.

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PhD student of mine employed in my research program. What we did was check the Brepols database for letters the summaries of which were previously published. In the event of disagreements in numbering, or with previously unsummarized letters, we checked the manuscripts. To work much more efficiently, we temporarily put our digital reproductions on external hard drives, so that if any error were in the number of the register, it would not require us to eject and insert DVDs into the computer over and over again. The results were disturbing, given that the book had to be turned in to the printers soon, with a Cyprus government printing deadline. There were not so many differences with the previously published material – although to my great dismay, I found glitches in the Brepols database, such as typographical errors with numbers! (The majority of the admittedly few errors lay in the new book, however.) More serious, for the previously unpublished letters, we found a number of errors and, in some cases, we could not locate the letter at all. It was only at this point that I realized the magnitude of Richard’s achievement. We worked on this for perhaps three weeks and sent Professor Richard the results. He then suggested that I join as an official collaborator, although time was running short. At this point I started all over again with a complete systematic check of every single entry against the manuscript, regardless of what the Brepols database said, since that and even the published summaries of the École française de Rome were not immune from error. Errors in register number or folio were the worst, and often the culprit was Collenberg, whose mistakes Richard had often spotted, but could not easily rectify. Let’s take the following reference: Reg. Av. 76, fo 233vo. Using the external hard drive, which saved me hundreds of hours, I would first check 233ro; then every possible single digit error: everything from 230 to 239, 33vo, 133vo, 333vo, 203vo, 213vo, and so on; then neighboring registers, 75 and 77, for example; then the other main register series, the Vaticana. This method usually uncovered the mistake, but in many instances, most often in Collenberg, more than one numeral was wrong, and it could take hours just to find one correct reference, and even then I failed on numerous occasions. This explains some of the many asterisks next to manuscript references in the published volume.28 Over a period of a couple of months, going more or less non-stop, from morning to night, seven days a week, the work progressed. In mid-May, a couple of weeks before the final deadline for the main text, I spent a week in the Vatican Archives to see the fifty or so registers that had not yet been photographed, and this time the staff bent over backwards to help me complete Professor Richard’s project, not only letting 28 See Bullarium Cyprium III, 23.

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me see more than six registers per day, but even allowing me to roam free among the 85 kilometers of shelves. I rarely made corrections of substance, but usually just fixed dates, places, and references. This was only possible because of the easy accessibility of the Brepols database and, more importantly, the hard drive with hundreds of DVDs loaded into it. Because compiling the index was itself a huge task and, due to the printing deadline, it was already at an advanced stage, certain modifications could not be made to the final text. In about 65 cases, corrections of dates meant that the chronological sequence was disrupted, but because of the index, it was decided to insert an asterisk after these dates to alert the reader of the disruption.29 Working with the digital reproductions in Paris and Avignon and with the originals in the Vatican itself, Professor Richard and I also uncovered new material in the final weeks – and even in the month after submission – especially in the relatively unexplored Registra supplicationum, so we added these items to existing numbers in parentheses, for example ‘u-44 (5)’. In total there are over 180 such additions, although Professor Richard had earlier entered most of these in this way intentionally. On the other hand, a number of other letters (of the St. Theodore type) proved to be phantoms, because several registers contain letters from more than one pope without a clear warning or indication of this. Since papal letters are only dated by regnal year, day, and month, in many cases a given letter could conceivably belong to any of several popes. This explains the circa 55 instances of ‘Numéro vacant’ in the publication, where a letter was inadvertently entered for two different popes from copies in two different registers. Actually, there are almost 60 of these, since I have found four more.30 Here is a rough chart of the final published letters: Pope/Letters John XXII Benedict XII Clement VI Innocent VI Urban V Gregory XI Total

525 82 637 303 241 363

In eundem modum 134 14 168 44 27 81

2151

468

Numbered

Others

Phantoms

36 7 19 16 90 16

-7 0 -30 (-34) -6 -6 -6

688 103 794 (790) 357 352 454

% published previously 80% 95% 20% 20% 60% 100% (typed)

184

-55 (-59)

2748 (2744)

not calculated

Total

29 See Bullarium Cyprium III, 23. 30 Phantoms not listed as Numéros vacants in Bullarium Cyprium III: t-111 is a phantom duplicate of s-31; t-116 is phantom of s-34; t-120 is phantom of s-39; t-125 is phantom of s-28.

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Among the previously unmentioned letters I found by chance on my visit to the Vatican, one, dated 1354, pertains to the Cistercian nunnery of St. Theo­ dore, the very monastery concerning which Michalis Olympios and I are editing a book.31 In the letter we learn that the post of abbess was vacant, perhaps because of continuing troubles with the main house of monks, Beaulieu Abbey, and the nuns in charge and the rest of the sisters had asked Pope Innocent VI permission to lease ‘certain uncultivated possessions situated in the place called “Stergno” in the diocese of Nicosia, which are almost useless to them and said monastery’, to Constanti[n]os Fermaca, for a yearly payment of 150 bezants. The nuns already had the permission of Archbishop Phillip Chambarlhac and ‘of Lord John, abbot of the monastery of Beaulieu, to whom the sisters and their monastery are immediately subject’, and a public instrument had been drawn up. The pope gave his approval, and this explains why the possessions were still known as those of Farmaca as late as 1469, and not necessarily because they were located in the village now known as Pharmaca, unless the village takes its name from Constantinos or vice-versa. The discovery of such new material, even on projects I was working on, alerted me to a fact that Professor Richard alludes to in his preface: there are still omissions.32 But the only way to avoid these omissions is to go through 300,000 pages in manuscript one by one. If the one thing I noticed was that there were glitches in the publications of the École française de Rome, the Brepols database, the first Richard draft, and, inevitably, the printed version of Bullarium Cyprium III, the other was that the previously published summaries are often inadequate. This I had already learned with Bullarium Cyprium I–II, as the example of Pyrgos given above shows. Indeed, I have based other studies around the full text of inadequately summarized letters. For example, on 10 June 1224 Pope Honorius III wrote concerning the archbishop of Patras in Greece. The published summary (124 words) relates that the complaints concerning the archbishop’s faults had increased since the time of Innocent III (died 1216), that various letters had been written to some named prelates, and that the pope is suspending the archbishop for a year, ordering him to live in a monastery for a year, assigning him two co-administrators for three years, and applying his income for that time to the cathedral decoration and restoration. The summary is lengthy, but the actual letter turns out to be ten times longer and lists in detail no less than thirty crimes that the archbishop allegedly committed, ranging from murder to the forgery of papal and imperial 31 Bullarium Cyprium III, no. u-44.5. The complete text of this and all letters pertaining to St. Theodore will be published in A Cistercian Nunnery in the Latin East (cf. above note 26). 32 Bullarium Cyprium III, 10.

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documents, even mentioning an otherwise unknown Greek monastery. The wealth of information, not to mention the extent of the crimes, is stunning.33 The practice of summarizing only the decision mentioned in papal letters is again apparent in a letter of Pope Boniface VIII dated 1 September 1296, where we are told in 27 words that the sentence of excommunication against Archdeacon Henry of Gibelet of Nicosia is lifted and his posts and income, taken away by Archbishop John, are restored. The full letter goes on for three pages and describes events that took place at least a decade earlier, before John became archbishop. Archbishop Ranulph allegedly had imprisoned the Greek Bishop Neophytos of Solea and committed other crimes, so Ranulph’s own chapter conducted a coup d’état, seizing the cathedral treasures and driving the archbishop into exile where he died.34 Perhaps the most striking example of the inadequacy of the published summaries comes from another letter of Boniface VIII, dated 11 June 1299, and summarized in a mere 34 words: the pope orders that a tax that had been exacted for years for the defense of Cyprus should cease. This summary merely describes the first of a dozen clauses in a five-page letter in which the pope delineates the rights and obligations in military and financial matters of the king, the archbishop of Nicosia, and the Hospitallers and Templars on Cyprus, an arrangement that Jean Richard has described as ‘a veritable concordat recognizing broad royal authority’.35 It is no surprise, therefore, that these shortcoming are apparent in the summaries of the letters of the Avignon period. I had to resubmit my article on the administration of Nicosia Cathedral when I saw that the published summaries of two letters of Pope John XXII from 1317 omit information in the manuscripts referring to a complex deal whereby the seneschal of Cyprus, Philip of Ibelin, rented the revenues of the cathedral for 50,000 gold bezants annually paid to the archbishop and his uncle, Cardinal Jacopo Colonna, who had earlier agreed to split the revenues of the Nicosia Church.36 Granted, many of the letters of the Avignon period do consist almost entirely of formulae, but there are also a great number that provide much new information. If there are still letters to be found, and if the summaries are not always adequate, then, using the tools available, it is worth continuing the Bullarium Cyprium. Indeed, as early as 2001, Jean Richard suggested to me that, ‘if you plan to extend your project into the fourteenth and (who knows?) fifteenth century [...] it is not impossible that our répertoire, that of Perrat 33 34 35 36

Schabel 2008. Schabel 2004. Bullarium Cyprium I, 13. Schabel 2012, especially 205–206, notes 30–31.

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and myself, is exactly the type that will facilitate your work’.37 Indeed it is: what Professor Richard has given us, besides an incredible research tool in itself, a wealth of new and conveniently gathered old information, is a base from which to launch phase two of the Bullarium Cyprium for the Avignon papacy. This will consist simultaneously of the complete edition of the letters summarized by Professor Richard, now that he has found them for us, and the complete examination of the 300,000 manuscript pages of papal letters for the Avignon period, to uncover any other unknown letters.

APEX But why stop there? Aside from Rudolf Hiestand’s Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande, which published just 203 papal letters, mostly from before 1198,38 the only pertinent corpus for the Latin East published so far is the Bullarium Cyprium I–III, although, as offshoots, for Pope Honorius III I have just published with William Duba Bullarium Hellenicum and Pierre-Vincent Claverie has already published Honorius’ letters to the Holy Land as Bullarium Terrae Sanctae, an appendix to his book on Pope Honorius and the East.39 Therefore, I have submitted a proposal for a 2.5 million euro, 5-year, EU grant for APEX, ‘The Avignon Papacy and Eastern Christianity: The Integration of Greece and Cyprus into Europe 1316–1417’, to put together a team of researchers to go through all papal correspondence from this century, seeking letters not only involving Cyprus for this period, but also, with associates for the previous century, for the other territories of the Latin East: the Kingdom of Jerusalem, the Principality of Antioch, the County of Tripoli, the Kingdom of Lesser Armenia, the Latin Empire of Constantinople, the Kingdom of Thessaloniki, the Principality of Achaea, the Duchy of Athens, the Duchy of Naxos/the Archipelago, Hospitaller Rhodes, Venetian territories such as Crete, Genoese territories, and a number of small entities. Compared to the medieval West, little has been done to recover the memory – via the documentary record – of most of these states, for two primary reasons. At present these territories, in modern day Israel, Lebanon, Syria, Turkey, Greece, Cyprus, and Egypt (Damietta) are almost exclusively populated by Muslims, Eastern-rite Christians, and Jews who do not identify themselves religiously, linguistically, or ethnically with the ruling and commercial elite of the crusader past, who were mostly French, Italian, or, 37 Letter of Jean Richard, 5-5-2001. 38 Hiestand 1985. 39 Bullarium Hellenicum and Claverie 2013, 279–477.

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in the case of the Kingdom of Armenia, Armenian speakers. For example, few Greeks and even fewer Turks have been active in the publication of Latin documents from their Frankish or Armenian past, which is often considered an era of alien occupation. Most have neither the necessary linguistic, palaeographical, codicological, and diplomatics skills nor the motivation to acquire them. This is, after all, difficult, time-consuming work requiring a variety of special abilities, in the case of the Latin East, work that traditionally has been accomplished by individuals and not teams. These reasons explain why it was only in 2010 that Hans Eberhard Mayer (with Jean Richard’s assistance for the French documents) published his incredible Die Urkunden der lateinischen Könige von Jerusalem in four volumes,40 an exhaustive corpus that took 44 years to compile and yet contains less than 850 royal charters (taken broadly, including lost charters) for the nearly two centuries that the Kingdom of Jerusalem existed. (We hope eventually to publish nearly 20 times that number.) For the APEX project, the Vatican has agreed to complete its digital photography of the papal registers down to 1417 and to furnish complete sets of digital reproductions to the IRHT and the University of Cyprus in exchange for a portion of the funds, to be applied to the costs of the photography. Even if we do nothing else, the completion of the digitization of the correspondence of the medieval papacy to 1417 is an achievement in itself. Safely in electronic form, the registers will then be available for purchase by anyone. Once we have the reproductions, the material will then be divided up chronologically to the members of the team. Using the Brepols database and the previously published materials where applicable, and basing themselves on a complete list of dioceses, important toponyms, and significant family names, the members will go through the registers themselves and compile summaries of the letters pertaining to all these territories. Afterwards, the team will divide up this material according to territory and distribute it to the experts on each time and place for revisions and publication, eventually publication of full texts. Scholars working on the previous century are also associated with the project, aiming to fill the gaps in our knowledge of the Latin East for the period 1198–1314. The territorial and temporal responsibilities are as follows: A. Kingdom of Jerusalem (including the Principality of Antioch and the County of Tripoli), from 1198 to 1291: Pierre-Vincent Claverie (Doct. Hab., Rouen) B. Kingdom of Lesser Armenia, from 1198 to 1375: Irene Bueno (PhD, European University Institute, Florence) 40 Mayer 2010.

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C. Conquests of the Fourth Crusade, from 1198 to 1311: Nickiphoros Tsougarakis (PhD, Leeds) D. Conquests of the Fourth Crusade, from 1311 to 1417: William Duba (PhD, University of Iowa) E. Rhodes (and Smyrna), from 1309 to 1417: Simon Phillips (PhD, Winchester) F. Kingdom of Cyprus, from 1316 to 1378: Constantinos Georgiou (PhD, University of Cyprus) and Christopher Schabel (supplementing and correcting Bullarium Cyprium III) G. Kingdom of Cyprus, from 1378 to 1417: Apostolos Kouroupakis (PhD student, University of Cyprus) The importance of these sources cannot be emphasized enough. Natural and man-made disasters, together with the disinterest of the long Ottoman period, have left almost nothing in situ of the once rich documentary tradition in the Latin East. What remains are chance survivals here and there in numerous western archives, although the Venetian and Genoese territories (Crete, for example) are better represented in the archives of the colonial powers.41 The papal letters not only make up for the local dearth of diplomatic sources in terms of bulk, but also in terms of significance. The papacy was intimately involved in the political, ecclesiastical, economic, and social affairs of these states, in some cases even more than in the affairs of the West. The new kingdoms and principalities depended in part on the popes for their legitimacy and for protection against surrounding Muslim, Greek, and Mongol powers. Much of the Latin diocesan structure was created by papal decree and frequently the bishops themselves were appointed by Rome. The papal curia was often a court of appeals for political and ecclesiastical matters. Trade with the nearby Muslims was both necessary for prosperity and problematic during the religious wars, and the Roman pontiff had his say in various ways. The papacy was constantly involved in the marriage negotiations among the small population of Latin elites, who as often as not were related within the prohibited degrees of consanguinity or affinity and required dispensations to marry. The existence of large nonLatin populations, Christians, Muslims, and Jews, who were subordinate to the Latins, led to complex social and religious situations that frequently demanded papal intervention. Finally, crusade planning and peace negotiations among the states constantly occupied the attention of the popes. For these and other reasons, the papal correspondence provides a wealth of historical information of every sort. 41 See the survey of surviving archival sources in Beihammer 2008.

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While only a handful of original papal letters concerning the Latin East survive, a portion of outgoing papal correspondence was copied into the registers. Sometimes formulae were abbreviated in the register copies of the letters, but all unique information is contained verbatim. Few registers survive from the period before 1198, the beginning of the papacy of Innocent III, but after 1198, with the exception of a few years later in Innocent’s own reign, the series is basically complete. For reasons that are not completely understood, not all letters emanating from the papal administration were copied into the registers. Certainly, some letters survive in the papal registers only because the recipients paid to have them registered. Based on my calculations for Cyprus, the portion of letters copied into the registers in the thirteenth century was probably less than 20%. If there is any reason to hypothesize that the papal chancery itself was prone to copy the more important letters into the papal registers, then a higher percentage of letters of minor significance was lost, and the real overall figure could be as low as 10%. In fact, 10–20% seems to be a good general estimate for the rate of copying letters into the registers in the first two thirds of the thirteenth century. Later, however, the volume of preserved correspondence increases dramatically, and one might guess that the proportion that is preserved also rises. For various reasons, the permanent move of the papacy to Avignon, corresponding roughly to the period from John XXII to Gregory XI, was accompanied by a substantial increase in the volume and complexity of papal documentation, as I mentioned above. The following period saw the Great Schism, with rival popes in Rome and Avignon (and after 1409 a third line) from 1378 to 1417. In addition to the Vatican and Supplications Registers, the Avignon Registers continued to record the correspondence of the Avignon line down to 1418, and now the so-called Registra Lateranensia contain material from the popes in Rome. For states in the distant East, the Schism presented an opportunity for an unprecedented degree of ecclesiastical independence, in addition to a chance to reduce the outflow of Church revenues. This affected the volume and nature of papal correspondence. For Cyprus, Collenberg found 316 letters for the Schism,42 but judging from his research for the previous period, the Avignon Papacy, his results are somewhat unreliable. Thus present research does not allow an estimate of the number of documents either for Cyprus or for any other state in the Latin East. Finally, the period after 1418 is the least explored both in terms of papal correspondence in general and for the letters to the Latin East in particular. A future project will inspect the Vatican, Supplication, and Lateran Regis42 Rudt de Collenberg 1982.

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ters down to 1492 (the death of Pope Innocent VIII, three years after the transfer of Cyprus to Venetian rule) in addition to the relatively recently opened archives of the Papal Penitentiary, which contains material in bulk beginning in the mid-fifteenth century. For Cyprus during the period 1417 to 1471, Collenberg again surveyed the Vatican Archives and found 424 letters,43 which would probably make about 600 for the entire era down to 1492, but there is no way of estimating accurately the true wealth of material that awaits us for this period. For Cyprus itself, a conservative estimate would be that the combined project will reveal another 1000 to 1500 papal letters and the edition of the full text of all this material, from 1316 to 1492, will require at least ten volumes. Overall, one might guess that 15.000 documents survive in the Vatican Archives that concern the states of the Latin East from 1198 to 1492, about 40–50 volumes of letters. Papal letters can bring to life and give voice to an otherwise dead and silent past. In 2004 in Nicosia, a bulldozer on the site of the new Law Courts of Cyprus uncovered a tombstone. Demetrios Michaelides and I were called in and we identified the grave marker as that of an abbess of the Cistercian nunnery of St. Theodore. Eftychia Zachariou and the Department of Antiquities, with the participation of students of the University of Cyprus, excavated the site, now preserved. As I mentioned, at present Michalis Olympios and I are editing a book on St. Theodore for Brill’s The Medieval Mediterranean, for which I am responsible for the historical survey. There are only about fifteen known written sources for St. Theodore from the Middle Ages, nine of them being documents from the Vatican Archives, virtually our only information for the monastery’s history from 1250 to 1450 (including the letter I found in the Vatican itself in May of 2012). The full text of these letters tells us that it was the wealthiest nunnery on Cyprus, but had difficulties in retaining serfs to cultivate its rural properties, which it had to rent out, and we are given the details of the arrangements. Most importantly, the nunnery went through a crisis in the fourteenth century, when the nuns were accused of sins of the flesh. Abbess Elizabeth Antiaume went to Avignon in person in the 1330s to counter these accusations at the papal curia, blaming St. Theodore’s woes on the abbots and monks of nearby Beaulieu Abbey, the Cistercian male monastery, who had been assigned to supervise St. Theodore. If the population of nuns had dropped from more than twenty to only nine, and if the behavior of many of the nuns was scandalous, this was because of the negligence of Beaulieu, the monks of which apparently wished to use the nuns for indecent purposes. The nunnery’s reputation for violence, rebellion against abbesses, 43 Rudt de Collenberg 1984/87. See also Rudt de Collenberg 1984.

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and sexual misconduct made it impossible to attract ‘virgins and widows of good life’ to enter St. Theodore. Along the way we learn the names of several nuns, the extent of the walls of Nicosia, and the name of a Greek man, the Constantinos Fermaca referred to above, who is called ‘a citizen of Nicosia’. The Bullarium Cyprium III is thus just the beginning. From the platform of Jean Richard, doctor honoris causa at the University of Cyprus, we can launch Bullarium Orientale, a continuing mission to explore strange newly digitized archives, to seek out new sources for lost civilizations, to boldly go where no one has bothered to go before.

Bibliography Beihammer 2008 = Alexander D. Beihammer, ‘Eastern Mediterranean Diplomatics. The Present State of Research’, in: Alexander D. Beihammer – Maria G. Parani – Christopher D. Schabel (eds.), Diplomatics in the Eastern Mediterranean 1000–1500: Aspects of Cross-Cultural Communication (Leiden 2008) 1–24. Benoit – Berthier 2002 = Paul Benoit – Karine Berthier, ‘Le système hydraulique du moulin de Pyrgos’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2002, 407–412. Bullarium Cyprium I = Bullarium Cyprium, vol. 1: Papal Letters Concerning Cyprus 1196–1261, ed. by Christopher Schabel, with an Introduction by Jean Richard (Nicosia 2010). Bullarium Cyprium II = Bullarium Cyprium, vol. 2: Papal Letters Concerning Cyprus 1261–1314, ed. by Christopher Schabel (Nicosia 2010). Bullarium Cyprium III = Bullarium Cyprium, vol. 3: Lettres papales relatives à Chypre 1316–1378, ed. by Charles Perrat and Jean Richard (with Christopher Schabel) (Nicosia 2012). Bullarium Hellenicum = Bullarium Hellenicum. Pope Honorius III’s Letters to Frankish Greece and Constantinople (1216-1227), ed. by William O. Duba and Christopher D. Schabel (Turnhout 2015). Claverie 2013 = Pierre-Vincent Claverie, Honorius III et l’Orient (1216–1227) (Lei­ den 2013). Coureas 1997 = Nicholas Coureas, The Latin Church in Cyprus, 1195–1312 (Aldershot 1997). Edbury 1991 = Peter W. Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades 1191– 1374 (Cambridge 1991). Hiestand 1985 = Rudolf Hiestand, Papsturkunden für Kirchen im Heiligen Lande (Göttingen 1985). Hill 1948 = George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 2: The Frankish Period 1192– 1432 (Cambridge 1948). Mayer 1972 = Hans Eberhard Mayer, Marseilles Levantehandel und ein akkonensisches Fälscheratelier des 13. Jahrhunderts (Tübingen 1972).

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Mayer 2010 = Hans Eberhard Mayer, Die Urkunden der lateinischen Könige von Jeru­ salem: Diplomata regum Latinorum Ierosolymitanorum (Hannover 2010). Rizopoulou-Egoumenidou – Myriantheus – Hadjichristophi 2002 = Ephrosyne Rizo­ poulou-Egoumenidou – Diomedes Myriantheus – Frine Hadjichristophi, ‘Ο νερόμυλος στον Πύργο Λεμεσού’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2002, 381–399. Rudt de Collenberg 1975/77 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les grâces papales, autres que les dispenses matrimoniales, accordées à Chypre de 1305 à 1378’, in: Επετηρίς του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 8, 1975–1977, 187-252. Rudt de Collenberg 1977 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les Dispenses matrimoniales accordées à l’Orient latin selon les registres du Vatican d’Honorius III à Clément VII (1223–1385)’, in: Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 89, 1977, 10–93. Rudt de Collenberg 1977–1979 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les Ibelin aux Xllle et XlVe siècles. Généalogie compilée principalement selon les registres du Vatican’, in: Επετηρίς του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 9, 1977–1979, 117–265 (Reprinted in: idem, Familles de l’Orient latin XIIe– XIVe siècles [London 1983] art. IV). Rudt de Collenberg 1979 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘État et origine du haut clergé de Chypre avant le Grand Schisme d’après les Registres des papes du XIIIe et du XIVe siècle’, in: Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 91,1, 1979, 197–332. Rudt de Collenberg 1979–1980 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les Lusignan de Chypre’, in: Επετηρίς του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 10, 1979–1980, 85–319. Rudt de Collenberg 1980 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Le choix des executores dans les bulles de provision au XIVe siècle d’après les bulles accordées à Chypre par les papes d’Avignon’, in: Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 92, 1980, 393–440. Rudt de Collenberg 1982 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Le Royaume et l’église de Chypre face au Grand Schisme (1378–1417) d’après les Registres des Archives du Vatican’, in: Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 94, 1982, 621–701. Rudt de Collenberg 1984 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Études de prosopographie généalogique des Chypriotes mentionnés dans les Registres du Vatican 1378–1471’, in: Mελέται και Υπομνήματα 1, 1984, 523–678. Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Le Royaume et l’église latine de Chypre et la papauté de 1417 à 1471 (d’après les Registres des Archives du Vatican)’, in: Επετηρίς του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 13–16, 1984–1987, 63–193. Schabel 2000 = Christopher Schabel, ‘Frankish Pyrgos and the Cistercians’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2000, 349–360 (Reprinted in: idem, Greeks, Latins, and the Church in Early Frankish Cyprus [Farnham 2010] art. VI). Schabel 2004 = Christopher Schabel, ‘The Latin Bishops of Cyprus, 1255–1313, with a Note on Bishop Neophytos of Solea’, in: Eπετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστη­

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μονικών Ερευνών 30, 2004, 75–111 (Reprinted in: idem, Greeks, Latins, and the Church in Early Frankish Cyprus [Farnham 2010] art. V). Schabel 2008 = Christopher Schabel, ‘Antelm the Nasty, First Latin Archbishop of Patras (1205 – ca. 1241)’, in: Alexander D. Beihammer – Maria G. Parani – Christopher Schabel (eds.), Diplomatics in the Eastern Mediterranean 1000–1500: Aspects of Cross-Cultural Communication (Leiden 2008) 93–137. Schabel 2012 = Christopher Schabel, ‘Who’s in Charge Here? The Administration of Nico­sia Cathedral 1299–1319’, in: Crusades 11, 2012, 199–208.

Christopher Schabel

Department of History and Archaeology, University of Cyprus, P.O. Box 20537, CY–1678 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

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Section II: Economy and Trade

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Monastic Estates in the Middle Byzantine Period: Evidence from Cyprus for Local and Overseas Landowners In the medieval period monasteries played an important role in the economic life of the Byzantine empire, based primarily on agriculture, like the economy of any pre-industrial society. These foundations developed into major landowners and agrarian units, best documented in the southern Balkans in middle and late Byzantine times principally through the abundant documentation surviving in the archives of the Athonite establishments. In fact this is the only type of property for which adequate information has survived from medieval Byzantium. The trend for increasingly extensive monastic estates is particularly noticeable from the eleventh century onwards and its repercussions were also felt in the building activity of the period.1 As Cyril Mango has observed, the eleventh century is precisely the time when sumptuous monastic churches are being put up across the empire (e.g. Hosios Loukas and Nea Moni), almost monopolizing investment in architectural projects.2 Large monasteries, especially those founded in Constantinople and the core provinces of the empire by aristocrats or with imperial patronage, were liberally endowed with land. A few well known examples will suffice to illustrate the point and set the scene. The monastery of the Virgin Petritziotissa near Bačkovo (to the south of Philippopolis/Plovdiv in Bulgaria), founded by the prominent military official Gregory Pakourianos in the late eleventh century, was given no fewer than twenty-nine estates with arable land, pastures and vineyards, including twelve chōria (villages), nine agridia (fields), six kastra (fortresses), two proasteia (rural estates) and other, smaller, dependent monasteries.3 The Great Lavra on Mount Athos, founded in the 1 2 3

The standard work is now Smyrlis 2006; for monasticism during the Komnenian era, see Angold 1995, 265–382. Mango 1980, 117–118, and Mango 1976a, 353–358. Gautier 1984, 35–45; Lemerle 1977, 181; Hendy 1985, 212–216; Smyrlis 2006, 83–84.

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mid-tenth century, owned over 47,000 modioi of land by the late eleventh century;4 its properties increased further during the following century, encompassing small islands in the Aegean (Neoi, Gymnopelagesion) and numerous metochia (dependent monasteries), churches and kellia (monastic cells), both on the holy mountain and elsewhere in Macedonia.5 In the mid-eleventh century nearby Iveron held sixteen monasteries and metochia with their own properties, eleven proasteia, several church buildings, mills and vineyards on Athos, around Hierissos and Thessaloniki, all over the Chalkidiki and in the Strymon valley to the east; by the end of the century the monastery owned over 100,000 modioi of land.6 The properties given by Emperor John II Komnenos (1118–1143) to Pantokrator in Constantinople included twenty-four chōria, sixteen proasteia, estates and smaller monasteries in almost every part of the empire (around the Sea of Marmara, in Thrace and Macedonia, in the Peloponnese and the Aegean).7 Pantokrator is an exceptional case, however, in that it was founded by the imperial family within the capital city in order to serve as their mausoleum. In the midtwelfth century John’s brother Isaac founded his own monastery of Kosmosoteira in Thrace, also in order to house his sepulchre, and granted it more than thirty estates and villages.8 These cases clearly illustrate the extraordinary flourishing of monastic real estate ownership during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. The aim of this brief essay is to present and discuss some evidence from the same period but pertaining to the empire’s periphery, namely from Cyprus, far from the well documented Constantinopolitan and Athonite milieux. How do monastic properties there compare to the above examples and what can they tell us about less prominent and august establishments?

Local owners Some twenty monasteries are securely attested in the written sources as functioning establishments on Cyprus from the period between its reintegration within the Byzantine empire in 965 and the island’s conquest by Richard Lionheart in 1191. If one takes into account the evidence from surviving One modios corresponds very approximately to one tenth of a hectare (i.e. 1,000 m2); thus 1,000 modioi would be 1 km2 (ca. 250 acres), although in the sources the modios varies greatly between ca. 900 and 1,300 m2 (ODB, vol. 2, 1388). 5 Svoronos 1970 with table at pp. 73–74; Smyrlis 2006, 52–55. 6 Lefort et al. 1985–1994, vol. 1, 70–91; Smyrlis 2006, 47–48. 7 Gautier 1974, 115–125; Smyrlis 2006, 70–72. 8 Harvey 1989, 71; Smyrlis 2006, 51–52. 4

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Fig. 1: Distribution map of monasteries.

buildings that represent otherwise unattested foundations this number rises to almost thirty; adding likely but not certain cases takes this even higher up, to well over fifty monasteries (Fig. 1).9 These were not necessarily functioning all at the same time of course, and information on their longevity, properties and their history is extremely scarce.10 Needless to add that for the few monastic communities attested on Cyprus before the eleventh century there is not even the slightest amount of such information.11 On the other hand, extensive references to Cypriot monastic properties survive from the Venetian (1489–1571) and Ottoman periods (mainly eighteenth/nineteenth century).12 As far as the Byzantine centuries are concerned, we are lucky to possess two rare documents regarding the properties of the Virgin of Krinia (Theotokos Krineōn/Kriniōtissa) near the north coast in the area of Lapithos, and the Cypriot properties of Saint Theodosios of Judea by the south-west littoral. Before looking at these exceptional cases, however, a survey of what we know about a few other Cypriot monasteries is in order. 9 10 11 12

Papacostas 1999, vol. 1, 105–123 and vol. 2, table 2. For two cases analyzed recently see Papacostas 2007, 29–83, and Grivaud 2012, 13–24. Papacostas 1999, vol. 1, 92–105. See for example Grivaud 1990, and Kyriazes 1950.

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Saint John Chrysostom at Koutsovendis, founded in 1090 according to its surviving liturgical typikon, must have owned at least some vineyards, which in the 1150s were tended by the young Neophytos, a novice there and not yet a famous recluse. Koutsovendis must have owned the land surrounding the monastery (documented in the cases of Machairas and Krinia, as we shall see below), where its cemetery was situated, together with the chapel of the Theotokos; it possibly owned a metochion at some unspecified location, if the brebion surviving in an early fourteenth-century manuscript (Vatican, Palatinus gr. 367) indeed belongs to this establishment.13 Later on Neophytos, after moving away from Koutsovendis, mentions in his encomium of Saint Arkadios (written in ca. 1170–1190) certain miracles that happened in his days or shortly before in Arkadios’ monastery, in the hills to the east of Polis (ancient Arsinoe, whose bishop Arkadios had been). One concerns the diligent but greedy officials (a geōmetrēs and a zōometrēs) who went to measure the monastery’s land and count its animals (presumably cattle); they were of course duly punished by the patron saint for trying to cheat the innocent monks.14 At the same time Neophytos refused to acquire any property for his own monastery, the rock-cut Enkleistra, which he established near Paphos. Only after the Latin conquest (1191) did the monastery acquire a vineyard, some arable land and cattle, when its financial situation deteriorated as a result of the influx of new recruits and the fleeing of its patrons who included members of the local aristocracy.15 Unlike Neophytos, the founders of Machairas in the eastern Troodos mountains were actively pursuing the enrichment of their establishment, travelling to Constantinople several times with rather rewarding results. According to the monastery’s early thirteenth-century typikon, sometime before 1172 Manuel Komnenos (1143–1180) offered the land surrounding the monastery and an annual grant of 50 gold pieces; Isaac II (1185–1195) granted an orchard from the crown domains in Nicosia and a tax exemption of 12 gold pieces, while Alexios III (1195–1203) exempted all the lands owned by the monastery and twenty-four of its tenant farmers (paroikoi) from all taxes, although by this time Cyprus was of course no longer ruled from Constantinople. Machairas also had metochia and proasteia with cattle, vineyards and other unspecified properties.16 The estates granted to the monastery of Kykko, founded in the late eleventh century with the help 13 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 102–103, Papacostas 2007, 86–87; for the brebion see now Beihammer 2007, 156. 14 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 86–87, with further bibliography; note that this applies to all subsequent references to this work: they pertain to catalogues which provide additional information and bibliographical references. 15 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 91–92. 16 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 108–109.

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of Manuel Boutoumites (sent to quash the rebellion of Rhapsomates), are known through unverifiable sources of the Ottoman period, allegedly based on a lost document of 1422 that recounted the history of the monastery’s foundation as this was told to its author by monks who survived the fire of 1365 that left the monastery gutted:17 the alleged successor of Manuel Boutoumites, the doux George, endowed Kykko with the nearby villages of Mēlon and Mēlikourion (Mylikouri), and with Peristerona in the western Mesaoria, offering as a metochion the monastery of Saint George, which the doux had founded near Pentayia (bay of Morphou), together with fields and a water-mill.18 Not surprisingly, and in contrast to the Athonite or Constantinopolitan foundations mentioned above, there is no indication of the amount of land that these Cypriot monasteries owned, although Elisabeth Malamut has attempted to assess that of Machairas. Based on the tax exemption of 12 nomismata, rightly assuming that this concerned only part of the Machairas estates, and considering that at least during the second half of the eleventh century the rate of land-tax (epibolē) was approximately one nomisma for 200 modioi, Malamut concludes that Machairas must have owned at least ca. 2,400 modioi of land.19 Yet another indication of Machairas’ wealth is provided by its annual revenue, which in the opening years of the thirteenth century exceeded 1,200 nomismata, at a time when the annual tax yield of Cyprus (in the late twelfth century) is said to have amounted to ca. 50,000 nomismata.20 For more detailed information, however, we have to turn to the first of the two afore-mentioned rare cases, which, in the Cypriot context, remains exceptional in its itemized listing of named estates. This is the monastery of the Virgin of Krinia/Krineōn in the Kyrenia (Pentadaktylos) mountains, whose date of foundation remains unknown. A register of this establishment’s possessions is to be found in a long note from a manuscript most probably copied in 1072/73 (Vatican, Barberini17 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 105–107. 18 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 95–96, 147–148, 151–152; Constantinides 2002; see also Kyrris 2004, Georgiou 2007, 40–42, and Metcalf 2009, 322–323. 19 Malamut 1988, vol. 2, 419; 200 modioi per nomisma was the average epibolē during the second half of the eleventh century according to Svoronos, although it varied greatly according to the quality of land and the particular circumstances of the owner: for example, land on the Aegean island of Gymnopelagesion had a rate of 170 modioi per nomisma in the late tenth century; Lavra in 1088/89 had an epibolē of 535.5 and then 590 modioi per nomisma; in 1095 for the monastery of Esphigmenou it was 150: see Harvey 1989, 93–95, and Svoronos 1959, 130–133. 20 The nunnery dedicated to the Blachernitissa at Tamasos received 8% of Machairas’ revenue; 24 nomismata out of this amount were earmarked for the payment of the nunnery’s priests and, according to Cyril Mango, their salary represented no more than 1/4 of Blachernitissa’s budget: Tsiknopoullos 1969, 64, Mango 1980, 121. On the tax yield of Cyprus see Hendy 1985, 173 and 598; and Georgiou 2007, 62–63.

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anus Gr. 528).21 In the past Jean Darrouzès had ascribed the undated note to the fourteenth century, based on palaeographical considerations, although he realized that it was a copy of an earlier inventory reflecting the state of the properties during the pre-1191 period. Subsequently Paul Canart showed that the note is roughly contemporary with the manuscript itself.22 There is therefore no doubt that what we have here is a unique document regarding monastic properties on late eleventh-century Cyprus; indeed, the only detailed document on land-holdings and their fiscal charges from Byzantine Cyprus.23 A translation of this precious text is provided as an appendix at the end of this essay. The ruins of Krinia’s dome-hall church, that may date to the middle Byzantine period, still stand near the mountain pass leading from Lapithos on the north flank of the Kyrenia range to Larnakas tis Lapithou on its southern foothills.24 The wording of the first entry in the inventory implies that Krinia’s ktētor was probably a wealthy layman whose name, however, is not given (‘[...] two donation charters from the father of the ktētor of the monastery and from other brethren together with both a document and a chryso­ bull’). The register contains seventeen more entries that state succinctly the type of property, its location and fiscal charge, mentioning its donation and/ or purchase documents and often the water rights attached to each property.25 There was a metochion with its own land at nearby Margi, where the remains of a late eleventh or twelfth-century church of the domed octagon type were still visible at the beginning of the twentieth century.26 The remainder of the properties consisted of ten proasteia with two vineyards, an olive-grove, two orchards, some twenty fields, a warehouse and mills (presumably water-mills, since they are all situated near streams).27 These are mainly located in the area around the monastery, within the enoria of Lapithos in the western Pentadaktylos (Fig. 2), with the exception of some estates at Platanistia (in the region where, as we shall see below, the properties of Saint Theodosios of Judea were located), at Paramytha and Limassol,

21 Constantinides – Browning 1993, 58–59; Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 103–104, 162–168 with commentary; see also Georgiou 2007, 43–44; and the discussion in Metcalf 2009, 519–520. 22 Darrouzès 1959, 47–51; Canart 1981, 27–29. 23 See the pertinent remarks of Grivaud 1991, 117–119, and Grivaud 1998, 330. 24 Hadjichristodoulou 2006, 116–119. 25 On water management in medieval Byzantium see Gérolymatou 2005. 26 Papacostas 1999, vol. 1, 153–159, vol. 2, 57; Hadjichristodoulou 2006, 380. 27 Water-mills were in fact the type most widely used in Byzantium: Harvey 1989, 130– 133, and ODB vol. 2, 1374; on water-mills in the Ottoman period see Given 2000, and on monastic mills, Smyrlis 2006, 119, 187.

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Fig. 2: The properties of the monastery of the Theotokos Krineon/Krinia.

all three on or near the south coast, and at Lythrodontas in the eastern foothills of the Troodos. What the Krinia inventory fails to provide information about is the extent of its domains. As in the case of Machairas, Elisabeth Malamut has attempted to estimate this, based on the fiscal charge (dēmosion) of each property.28 Taking 67 argyria as the total of tax on land (apparently excluding the estates with mills) and not distinguishing between argyria and nomis­ mata (the dēmosion of some properties is given in nomismata), Malamut concludes that Krinia owned some 4,000 modioi. It is nevertheless clear from the registry that the mills were part of larger estates almost certainly with cultivated land, except perhaps from the mill-works at Potami. If we therefore take into account the dēmosion of the excluded properties, the total rises to 88 argyria (90 including Potami) or ca. 30 nomismata (one nomisma being equal to 3 argyria, at least in the twelfth century), which would give a total of the order of ca. 6,000 modioi of land (600 ha/1480 acres).29 It should be stressed that this is nevertheless a very approximate figure, the values of both the modios and the epibolē varying greatly, as noted above. 28 Malamut 1988, vol. 2, 418. 29 These fiscal charges are given in tabulated form in Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 167–168.

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Overseas owners The second and only other reasonably well documented portfolio of real estate on Byzantine Cyprus pertains to Saint Theodosios of Judea. The Cypriot estates of the ancient and revered Palestinian monastery are known through a papal privilege of 1216 that also enumerates its holdings elsewhere in the Eastern Mediterranean and beyond (Palestine, Constantinople, Hungary). The dossier has been thoroughly discussed by Jean Richard, who identified the location of most of the Cypriot properties.30 These were mostly situated in the lower Ha-potami valley region, halfway between Limassol and Paphos, and were clearly acquired at some unknown date(s) before 1191.31 Although no indication of their size is given, they appear to have been rather extensive. Twenty-three entries are headed by the monastery of Saint Theodosios ‘de Acra’.32 Then follow ten church buildings with their dependencies, four villages, mills, vineyards, olive-groves, woods, fields, various estates and one fishery, all in the wider Ha-potami region (at Pissouri, Alektora and Palaipaphos, among others), whose ca. 10 km-long stretch of coast from Petra tou Romiou to Pissouri was also part of Saint Theodosios’ domains (Fig. 3).33 It is worth noting in this context that the toponym ‘Akra’ is recorded on a Roman (second-century) boundary stone found in 1910 in the forest of Randi/Rantidi, to the north of Petra tou Romiou, and Terence Bruce Mitford tentatively situated Akra along the bay of Pissouri to the east of Cape Aspro.34 If the ancient toponym really refers to a coastal location and is related to the medieval ‘Acra’ attached to the name of Saint Theodosios’ monastery, then it may mark the easternmost limit of its holdings along the shore. It also raises the question of the location of the monastery itself, which Jean Richard identified with the site of a (post-medieval) church dedicated to Theodosios near Pano Archimandrita, at a considerable distance from the coast in the foothills overlooking the Ha-potami valley. Alternatively, and probably more likely, the appellation of the monastery (‘de Acra’) may merely reflect the importance of coastal Akra as the collection centre for the produce of its agricultural estates and the main anchorage through which communications were carried out across the sea with Pales30 31 32 33

Richard 1986; for the text see now Schabel 2010, 180–181. Metcalf 2009, 546–549; Grivaud 1998, 331–332. Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 123. Fisheries are also attested on Athos, where Iveron owned one at Kalamitzia, according to a document of 1015 (Lefort et al. 1985–94, vol. 1, 74 and 220); the monastery of Kosmosoteira also had water rights along the Marica/Hebros river in Thrace for fishing purposes (Harvey 1989, 158–159). 34 Οὗτος ὅρος Ἄκρας: Mitford 1950, 64–66.

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Fig. 3: The properties of the monastery of Saint Theodosios of Judea.

tine and the mother-house.35 In other words, seen from the mainland, Akra was the entrance point into the Cypriot domain of the monastery. It is not known whether the latter owned sailing vessels for this purpose (and possibly for trade), but in view of the evidence from the Athonite and other monasteries in this period, this is not unlikely.36 In addition to the above, the Palestinian establishment also owned an orchard in Limassol, land and olive-groves at nearby Polemidia, vineyards and land at Kissousa, a house with a vineyard to the west at Letymbou (Paphos region) and finally a church, a hospital, an orchard and land in Nicosia (Fig. 3). Clearly Saint Theodosios’ estates were much more extensive than those of Krinia and, moreover, had an urban component in both the main port of the island and in its provincial capital (Limassol and Nicosia properties), necessary for the running of the monastery’s affairs. Other great establishments outside the island also owned properties there, and although the relevant information is far less detailed, it is nevertheless tantalizing.37 The Holy Sepulchre and the patriarchs of Jerusa35 In this case the suggestion that ‘de Acra’ may refer to Acre in Palestine (Pringle 2009, 161) appears unlikely. 36 Examples and discussion in Smyrlis 2006, 106–112, 228–230. 37 At some unspecified period the Great Lavra on Mount Athos owned a metochion on Cyprus, dedicated to Saint Andronikos; it may be identical to a monastery at Meniko near Nicosia, first attested in the fifteenth century (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 84).

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lem maintained close ties with Cyprus even before the middle Byzantine period. According to Patriarch Eutychios of Alexandria (935–940), Patriarch Thomas of Jerusalem (807–821) had requested timber from the island for repairs at the Holy Sepulchre, while a ninth-century painted inscription in the church of Kanakaria in north-eastern Cyprus, well known for its sixth-century apse mosaic, mentions the patriarch Solomon of Jerusalem (860–865).38 More frequent ties are recorded from the late eleventh century, when, threatened by the Muslim advance, Patriarch Symeon II fled to the island (1097?) where he probably resided until his death.39 During the same period the Cypriots are said to have contributed financially to the ransom demanded by the Saracens threatening to raze the Holy Sepulchre in the face of the Crusader armies’ advance towards the Holy City.40 After the latter’s establishment in Palestine (1099) and the creation of a Latin patriarchate in Jerusalem, Symeon’s immediate successors perhaps remained based on the island for a while before moving to Constantinople and one of them, John IX (fl. 1150s), possibly a Cypriot, started his career at the monastery of Koutsovendis.41 The properties of the Church of Jerusalem on the island, however, are not attested before the second half of the twelfth century and very little is actually known about them; they may have been acquired much earlier, prior to 1099.42 A certain Barnabas, monk and manager (megas oikonomos) of the patriarchate’s estates on Cyprus, is known from the colophon of a manuscript dated to ca. 1180 that was dedicated to him (Athens, Benaki Museum, Vitr. 34.3).43 More information is contained in the vita of Hegumen Leontios of Saint John the Theologian at Patmos, who had declined Manuel Komnenos’ offer of the sees of Kiev and then of Cyprus in the 1170s before becoming patriarch of Jerusalem (1176–1185).44 On his way to his Latin-held see Leontios made a long stopover on Cyprus in early 38 Oberhummer 1903, 44; Coüasnon 1974, 19; and Metcalf 2009, 438–439, on the Sepulchre repairs. On the inscription see Megaw – Hawkins 1977, 147–149; and Ruggieri 1991, 268 note 361. 39 ODB vol. 3, 1982; Gautier 1971, 227–231; Pahlitzsch 2001, 79–83; Papacostas 2007, 49. 40 Huygens 1986, vol. 1, 375; see also Wharton 1988, 55. 41 Englezakis 1996, 27 and 149–152; Papacostas 2007, 50–51. 42 More properties belonging to the Jerusalem patriarchate are recorded in later sources and appear to have been acquired after 1191: the village of Pentaschoinon on the south coast and the estate of ‘Lacridon’ in the region of Paphos were granted in 1201 and 1210 respectively (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 144, 151); in the sixteenth century the village of ‘Iaille’ (Gialia) and a monastery of the Panagia together with its estates belonged to the patriarchate, while by the eighteenth century the monasteries of Koutsovendis, Saint George of Pyrgos, Saint George Oriates and perhaps the Apsinthiotissa were also part of its possessions (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 85, 95, 99; Papacostas 2007, 91–93). 43 Constantinides – Browning 1993, 87–88; Cutler – Carr 1976, 313–321. 44 Angold 1995, 359–360; Tsougarakis 1993, 2–6; Pahlitzsch 2001, 150–181.

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1177, in order to look after the affairs of his patriarchate’s properties there. He first visited the local metochion (location unknown – Nicosia?) whose two remaining monks had taken wives.45 Then he found out that the estates under the supervision of the monk Hilarion had been plundered by the officials in charge of taxation (a certain Kyriakos and his subordinate Triakontaphyllos), while the young bishop Theodoulos of Amathus had appropriated the horses, oxen, mules and sheep belonging to the Church of Jerusalem.46 The involvement of the Amathus bishop may suggest that these properties were situated in the region of Limassol, a choice that would make perfect sense for contacts across the sea, considering that the coastal town was the main port of the island in this period. The patriarch put some order to his estates before sailing away and the culprits were of course punished accordingly by divine retribution. The great pilgrimage and monastic centre of Saint Catherine’s on Mount Sinai also had some Cypriot properties, first attested, like those of Saint Theodosios, in the early thirteenth century (in 1217 and in more detail later on) but most probably dating from at least the previous century.47 The papal documents that contain this information, regrettably, do not specify either the extent or location of Sinai’s estates; they are merely described in standard formulaic language as land, houses, prairies, vineyards and rights of use and pasture in forests and plains, roads and paths, water springs and mills.48 Confirmation of the long standing links between Sinai and Cyprus, that date back to Late Antiquity, may be provided by the world of icon and illuminated manuscript production:49 the style of a group of miniatures, icon panels and epistyle beams preserved at the monastery of Saint Catherine finds its closest parallels in the early twelfth-century fresco cycles of Cyprus (mainly Asinou and related works of art), and the panel paintings at least have been attributed to a Cypriot workshop active on Sinai during the first half of the twelfth century.50 Such artistic links may indeed reflect the assets held by Sinai on the island. As mentioned above, the imperial foundations of Constantinople such as Pantokrator owned properties in various parts of the empire. Yet for Cyprus there is only one potential case of relevance. It concerns the monastery of 45 46 47 48 49

Papacostas 1999, 2:99. Tsougarakis 1993, 116–122; see also Chatzipsaltes 1954, 34–37. Richard 1986, 65–66; text now in Schabel 2010, 191–192 and 340. Coureas 1996, 476–477, suggests that most properties were acquired after 1217. A seventh-century inscription at Sinai (on Mount Moses) mentions the archbishop of Cyprus Sergios (Ševčenko 1966, 264 no. 13), while the contemporary prolific author Anastasios of Sinai and his companion Stephen both hailed from Cyprus (Cameron 1992, 37–38; Flusin 1991, 391–396). 50 Weitzmann 1975; Weitzmann 1984, 65–67; Weitzmann – Galavaris 1990, 9–10.

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Saint George of Mangana outside Nicosia, first attested in 1231 and demolished during the building of the Venetian fortifications of the city in the sixteenth century.51 Despite the lack of corroborating evidence, its name strongly suggests that it was a metochion of its illustrious Constantinopolitan namesake, founded at great expense by Constantine IX Monomachos (1042–1055). The Nicosia metochion must have been founded then either in the second half of the eleventh or during the twelfth century, its Constantinopolitan mother-house having passed to Latin hands after 1204. It is not clear when the Nicosia Mangana acquired its own properties, not attested before the early fourteenth century and located near the provincial capital, in the region of Limassol (vineyards) and in Armenian Cilicia (Saint George of Lambron).52 Most probably this happened during the first Lusignan century, especially as far as the Cilician property is concerned, when relations between the kingdoms of Cyprus and Armenia were particularly close.

Overview The picture of monastic properties that the evidence presented above provides is neither complete nor is it clear. We are fortunate, however, in that the two main sources we possess concern the estates of establishments of a markedly different type, namely a purely local and not particularly prominent foundation (Krinia) and a large well known overseas monastery (Saint Theodosios). The latter’s domains are situated, as we have seen, in a wide area and include villages, several church buildings and urban properties, as would befit an important monastery and pilgrimage centre of Palestine. Sinai’s and the Holy Sepulchre’s estates must have been of a similar nature and perhaps even more extensive. Indeed, it has been plausibly suggested by Johannes Pahlitzsch that Cyprus hosted the bulk of the Jerusalem patriarchate’s properties in the Eastern Mediterranean.53 The same may apply to Saint Theodosios and to the patriarchate of Antioch, for which the evidence is nevertheless circumstantial and thus inconclusive.54 Cyprus was after all the closest Byzantine-held and Christian-controlled territory until the Crusader period. The evidence for these links with Sinai, Jerusalem, the Judean desert, and possibly Antioch, in conjunction with the dearth of similar information on the holdings of Constantinopolitan establishments on Cyprus, throws into sharp relief what the movement of monks and manuscripts, 51 52 53 54

Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 93–94; Papacostas 2012, 94. Coureas 1994. Pahlitzsch 2001, 174. Papacostas 2007, 36–37.

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some aspects of the art and architecture, and the overall economic fortunes of Cyprus in this period strongly suggest: that the nearby Levantine regions played a crucial role in the development of the island while it was being ruled from faraway Constantinople.55 Krinia, attested in the sources only through its register (at least until the Venetian period) and thus suggesting together with the remains of its modest church that it was a rather ordinary establishment, owned properties as far away as the regions of Limassol and Paphos (ca. 80 km away, across the Troodos mountains). The majority, however, are concentrated around the monastery itself and consist mainly of agricultural land. Neilos of Machairas favoured such an arrangement for his monastery, since it allowed easy access to and supervision of the properties.56 This might not always be possible, depending on the monastery’s location. The high-altitude mountainous land around Machairas was suitable for a limited range of agricultural activities, like the cultivation of fruit trees and perhaps the vine on the south-facing slopes; it was definitely not the place to grow olive trees or to produce grain, however, for which the monastery presumably owned land in the plain below. The same applies to the other monasteries established in similar locations in the Troodos mountains (e.g. Kykko, Saint Nicholas of the Roof/ Ayios Nikolaos tis Stegis, Lagoudera) and is confirmed by Kykko’s properties in the lowlands (metochion, water-mill and land at Pentayia near the north coast). One would wish to know more about monasteries such as Antiphōnētēs, Apsinthiōtissa, Asinou, or Hiereōn, all more prominent than Krinia if one is to judge from either their surviving middle Byzantine churches or the contemporary written record.57 As far as the urban and suburban monasteries and their domains in the countryside are concerned, our sources leave us in the dark again. The monasteries of Nicosia, the provincial capital of Byzantine Cyprus (e.g. Megalē Monē and Pallouriōtissa), like their much larger and wealthier Constantinopolitan counterparts, must have lived largely on revenues from such possessions.58 Another category that is scarcely represented in our sources is that of aristocratic foundations or those that enjoyed imperial and/or aristocratic patronage. The scanty evidence relating to Kykko and Machairas, whose patrons included Alexios Komnenos and his grandson Manuel respectively, does not allow us to compare them 55 Papacostas 2007, 42, 79–83, 146–148. 56 Tsiknopoullos 1969, 48. 57 Hiereōn in fact had a metochion at a location called Saria and another one in Nicosia, attested in 1264 and 1308 respectively (Darrouzès 1951, 28 and 31); it is not known whether these were acquired before or after the end of Byzantine rule. 58 Papacostas 2012, 96.

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with either Krinia or Saint Theodosios.59 Likewise, we do not know whether Eumathios Philokales, the patron of Koutsovendis’ north chapel (Holy Trinity) built and decorated in ca. 1100, endowed the monastery with any land.60 Nor do we know anything about the application in Cyprus of one of the most important practices in the medieval Byzantine monastic world (especially during the eleventh century), namely the charistikē, which allowed a private individual to supervise and manage a monastery together with all its properties and enjoy the surplus of its produce, a frequently lucrative affair.61 The proportion of land in monastic hands and the extent of Cypriot monastic properties, as everywhere in the empire, are both difficult to gauge with only a few figures available. Obviously and unsurprisingly the 6,000 modioi of Krinia (however approximate and inaccurate this figure may be) seem insignificant compared to the 100,000 modioi of Iveron, but still give us a measure of this monastery’s possessions. Krinia amassed its real estate from various sources. A chrysobull mentioned in the registry suggests some imperial privilege or endowment. The bequest of property to a monastery after the owner’s death and gifts by new recruits upon their admission were also important sources of property, implied in the text of Krinia’s inventory and frequently encountered during the middle Byzantine period; and this, despite late eleventh-century founders in other parts of the empire, like Michael Attaleiates and the afore-mentioned Gregory Pakourianos, disapproving of such monks’ gifts and solicitation of endowments.62 A similar pattern must have certainly prevailed in the case of other monastic properties. There is for example no reason to believe that the numerous acts of donation by both local villagers and the ruling class (including the royal family) to the monastery of Hiereōn in the western Troodos during the Lusignan period, recorded in marginal notes from a twelfth-century manuscript (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, gr. 1588), do not reflect practices inherited from the Byzantine period, when the monastery is known to have been active.63 The core of Krinia’s possessions was formed by the original endowment of the founder and his father. The monastery apparently pursued a sustained policy of purchasing property, presumably in order to augment donation 59 Robin Cormack has suggested that the workshop that decorated Philokales’ chapel at Koutsovendis may have been initially brought to Cyprus in order to carry out Alexios Komnenos’ commission at Kykko (Cormack 1984, 164). 60 Papacostas 2007, 72–76. 61 Thomas 1987, 157; it has been suggested, however, that most monasteries in Byzantine Cyprus were established in accordance with this institution: Mango 1976b, 8. 62 Thomas 1987, 144–148, 183, 222; Smyrlis 2006, 132–154. 63 Darrouzès 1951; Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 97–98.

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estates and render them more profitable. Eight out of eighteen entries in the inventory concern estates acquired by a combination of donation and purchase, as was indeed typical of the average Byzantine monastery during this period.64 Krinia also invested in a warehouse and two mills that were built on land bought by or granted to the community. Monasteries building mills are documented elsewhere in the empire (e.g. Pantokrator), and Krinia’s were rented out, in the same way that Kosmosoteira in Thrace, for example, rented out its bath as a business venture.65 The overwhelmingly agricultural character of Krinia’s economic activities is paralleled by those of Machairas in the late twelfth century: according to Cyril Mango, ‘it may be doubted if there existed in Cyprus at the time a more efficiently organized agricultural enterprise’.66 The Machairas administration included several offices whose holders’ primary task was to look after the monastery’s various interests, following meticulously set regulations about the running of its proasteia and metochia. The bitter remarks of Eustathios of Thessalonike (ca. 1115–1195/96) that monasteries were concerned with nothing but the maximisation of their profits seem to be corroborated by our evidence.67 Not surprisingly, the Cypriot examples confirm most trends observed elsewhere in the empire in this period. Encounters with tax officials were rarely uneventful, as the incidents at Saint Arkadios and the Holy Sepulchre’s estates show. Properties were principally rural with an agricultural vocation. Time and again in the sources pertaining to both Cyprus and Athos we come across vineyards, fields, mills, orchards and olive groves as the main types of property. Monastic establishments acquired an increasingly important economic role through the exploitation of these estates and through their consequent development into major agricultural enterprises.68 The long-held assumption that agriculture declined as a result of the growth of large estates such as those owned by monasteries has been overturned and it is now widely admitted that, on the contrary, this trend led to the extension and intensification of agricultural productivity.69 These developments had a certain impact on building activity, for even if no patronage was readily available, excess revenue from the produce of a monastery’s 64 Angold 1995, 322, where Theotokos Skoteine near Philadelphia is cited as an example; Smyrlis 2006, 146–151. 65 Harvey 1989, 131; Kaplan 1992, 53–55; Angold 1995, 313; Smyrlis 2006, 187; for the agricultural and commercial activities of the Athonite monasteries, see also Harvey 1996, 93–95. 66 Mango 1980, 121–122. 67 Angold 1995, 348–355. 68 Morris 1995, 200–240. 69 Magdalino 1993, 161; Harvey 1989, 160–161; Smyrlis 2006, 245–247.

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estates could be used to finance its building programme.70 This state of affairs provides a framework within which the construction of the numerous churches surviving on Cyprus from this period may be placed. Among well over one hundred identified monuments, a large proportion (between ca. 20% and 40%) appear to have been attached to monastic foundations. 71 Neophytos the Recluse, disapproving of property ownership but at the same time having in mind the costly construction of a projected church dedicated to the Holy Trinity, wisely authorized his community to accept imperial or aristocratic gifts of money if and when these came, for this specific purpose; at the same time he forbade his monks to solicit donations from the public for the new church. Neilos of Machairas, on the other hand, makes it clear that it was only after receiving such donations that he was able to build and decorate his monastery’s church and to construct a refectory and cells.72 Michael Attaleiates in eleventh-century Constantinople stipulated that half the surplus revenue from the lands belonging to the ptōchotropheion (poorhouse) and the monastery he founded should be used for the maintenance of their properties and buildings.73 In the same period Kekaumenos also links building expenditure to revenue from properties used for agricultural purposes, advising those with limited means to invest first in viticulture and the cultivation of land, before undertaking any construction work.74 In middle Byzantine monasteries real estate ownership clearly produced revenue in excess of what was necessary for the community’s maintenance and charitable work. The resulting additional funds were at least partly invested in the construction of new, sometimes ostentatious buildings. This is only one among many implications of the evidence presented in this essay, yet one that is still highly visible in the Byzantine chapels of the Cypriot countryside.

70 Smyrlis 2006, 240. 71 Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, table 1. 72 Tsiknopoullos 1969, 14, 90; Neophytos’ wish probably never materialized (a new church was built at the Enkleistra only in the opening years of the sixteenth century), while Neilos’ buildings at Machairas have long disappeared. 73 Harvey 1989, 189. 74 Spadaro 1998, 170.

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Appendix The inventory of the properties of Krinia [translation of the text on f. 192r.–v. of the Vat. Barb. gr. 527, as edited in Darrouzès 1959, 47–49, and reproduced in Constantinides – Browning 1993, 58–59] These are the proasteia of the monastery [of] the all-holy Theotokos of Krineōn: 1. This holy monastery as it survives, is situated with both its mountain and its field at the chōrion Lithiko and [it has] a right of three hours’ use of water; it also has a dēmosion [of] six argyria and two donation charters from the father of the ktētor of the monastery and from other brethren together with both a document and a chrysobull; and in the same manner [it owns] the metochion Margē as it is preserved and [this] has a dēmosion [of] 12 argyria and purchase and donation charters and symbibaseis 1 and 4 [?] and three documents. 2. There is also a proasteion, that is a vineyard, at the enōria of Kourion [at the] chōrion Paramēda with all its possessions and it has a dēmosion [of] 11 argyria and three purchase and donation charters and two documents and other fields [with] a dēmosion [of] 12 argyria [and a] crosssigned certificate with water [rights] too for the holder. 3. And in the enōria of Nemesos, an olive-grove and they have a dēmosion of 3 argyria and two purchase charters. 4. And another proasteion, Pladatē, of the enōria of Lapithos, with all its possessions and distribution of water for the holder, having a dēmosion [of] 7 argyria and a donation charter with a diatypōsis and a document. 5. A nd another orchard down at the public [road] having a dēmosion [of] 1 argy­rion and two charters, [one of] purchase and [the other of] donation. nd a field at Koskinēzousa and [this] has a dēmosion of one eulogia, 6. A that is a prosphora for Maundy Thursday, having a purchase charter. nd at the spring of Nikodēmos, a right of six hours’ use of water; and 7. A it has a dēmosion [of one] eulogia and a donation charter. 8. And another proasteion [at the] chōrion Thrinea with all its possessions and a right of use of water for the holder, having a dēmosion [of] six argyria and two charters, [one of] purchase and [the other of] donation.

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9. Another proasteion at the chōrion Lithiko, having 15 large [and] small fields and orchards together with the field of the metochion of the monastery and water supply [for] 1 hour, having a dēmosion [of] 1 argyrion and 13 eulogiai and 12 sale contracts and donation charters. 10. Another proasteion at the chōrion Kalaphatēs with all its possessions and water supply for the holder, having a dēmosion [of] 4 argyria and two eulogiai and five purchase and donation charters. 11. And at the spring at the chōrion Potami, a place for mill-works, having a dēmosion of two argyria; and a mill was built and [the monastery] receives its rent, having 3 charters [of] purchase and documents. 12. And at the river Philokomos, a field and a place for a mill and it has a dēmosion [of one] eulogia and a donation charter and a document and a mill was built and [the monastery] receives its rent. 13. And at the chōrion Kampylē, a vineyard having a dēmosion [of] two argyria and a purchase charter and a document. 14. And at the chōrion Myrtou, a proasteion with all its possessions and a right of use of water for the holder, having a dēmosion [of] 12 argyria and a donation charter with a diatypōsis. 15. And another proasteion at the chōrion Larnaka with all its possessions and a right of use of water for the holder, having a dēmosion of two argyria and a donation charter. 16. And at the chōrion Lethrinounta of the enōria of Kition, there is space and a warehouse was built, having a dēmosion [of one] eulogia and a donation charter. 17. And in the enōria of Paphos, a proasteion, Lower Platanistos, with all its possessions and a mill and river water, having a dēmosion [of] 1 nomisma and the rent of the mill and two charters, [one of] donation offering and [the other of] purchase, the so-called ‘of Kyrykos’. 18. And another proasteion, Upper Platanēstos, with all its possessions and a mill and river water, having a dēmosion [of] two nomismata and the rent of the mill and two charters, [one of] donation and [the other of] purchase, and a cross-signed certificate with two documents [and?] charters.

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Glossary – Commentary (the numbers refer to inventory entries) 1: Lithiko: unidentified village near the monastery (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 146); dēmosion: fiscal charge, basic land-tax; metochion at Margē identified with no longer surviving Byzantine church at Margi near Myrtou; argyrion: one third of a nomisma (in the twelfth century); symbibasis: agreement. 2: enoria: diocese or sometimes fiscal unit (Malamut 1988, vol. 2, 417 note 229; Svoronos 1959, 55–57); Paramēda: modern village of Paramytha (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 150). 3: Nemesos: late antique Neapolis / medieval and modern Limassol. 4: Pladatē: unidentified (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 153); diatypōsis: testamentary disposition, will. 6: Koskinēzousa: unidentified, presumably in Lapithos area (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 144); eulogia: oblation replacing fiscal charge; prosphora: similar meaning to eulogia, oblation. 7: Spring of Nikodēmos: micro-toponym preserved into modern times in the Lapithos area (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 166). 8: Thrinea: unidentified, presumably in the Lapithos area (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 157). 10: Kalaphatēs: identified with Kalapakki near Pyleri (Grivaud 1998, 175– 176; Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 143). 11: Potami: unidentified, although two such toponyms exist in the territories of nearby Myrtou and Diorios (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 154). 12: Philokomos: unidentified stream, presumably near the monastery. 13: Kampylē: modern village of Kampyli (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 143). 14: Myrtou: modern village of Myrtou (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 149). 15: Larnaka: modern village of Larnakas tis Lapithou (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 145). 16: Lethrinounta in enoria of Kition: perhaps modern village of Lythrodontas in the eastern Troodos foothills (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 145). 17: Kato (Lower) Platanistos / 18. Pano (Upper) Platanistos in enoria of Paphos: presumably modern Platanistia north of Pissouri (Papacostas 1999, vol. 2, 153). 141

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Gautier 1971 = Paul Gautier, ‘Le synode des Blachernes (fin 1094). Étude prosopographique’, in: Revue des Études Byzantines 29, 1971, 213–284. Gautier 1974 = Paul Gautier, ‘Le typicon du Christ Sauveur Pantocrator’, in: Revue des Études Byzantines 32, 1974, 1–145. Gautier 1984 = Paul Gautier, ‘Le typikon du sébaste Grégoire Pakourianos’, in: Re­ vue des Études Byzantines 42, 1984, 5–145. Georgiou 2007 = Stavros Georgiou, ‘Μερικές παρατηρήσεις για την οικονομία της Κύπρου κατά την περίοδο των Κομνηνών (1081–1185)’, in: Ἐπετηρὶς τοῦ Κέντρου Ἐπιστημονικῶν Ἐρευνῶν 33, 2007, 21–75. Gérolymatou 2005 = Maria Gérolymatou, ‘La gestion de l’eau dans les campagnes byzantines (8e–15e siècle)’, in: Revue des Études Byzantines 63, 2005, 195– 205. Given 2000 = Michael Given, ‘Agriculture, Settlement and Landscape in Ottoman Cyprus’, in: Levant 32, 2000, 215–236. Grivaud 1990 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Le monastère de Kykkos et ses revenus en 1553’, in: Ἐπετηρίδα τοῦ Κέντρου Μελετῶν τῆς Ἱερᾶς Μονῆς Κύκκου 1, 1990, 75– 93. Grivaud 1991 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Formes byzantines de la fiscalité foncière chypriote à l’époque latine’, in: Ἐπετηρὶς τοῦ Κέντρου Ἐπιστημονικῶν Ἐρευνῶν 18, 1991, 117–127. Grivaud 1998 = Gilles Grivaud, Villages désertés à Chypre (fin XIIe – fin XIXe siè­ cle) (Nicosia 1998). Grivaud 2012 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Fortunes and Misfortunes of a Small Byzantine Foundation’, in: Annemarie Weyl Carr – Andreas Nicolaïdès (eds.), Asinou Across Time. Studies in the Architecture and Murals of the Panagia Phor­ biotissa, Cyprus (Washington D.C. 2012) 13–36. Hadjichristodoulou 2006 = Christodoulos Hadjichristodoulou (ed.), Οδοιπορικό στα χριστιανικά μνημεία της μητροπολιτικής περιφέρειας Κυρηνείας (Nicosia 2006). Harvey 1989 = Alan Harvey, Economic Expansion in the Byzantine Empire 900– 1200 (Cambridge 1989). Harvey 1996 = Alan Harvey, ‘The Monastic Economy and Imperial Patronage from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century’, in: Anthony Bryer – Mary Cunningham (eds.), Mount Athos and Byzantine Monasticism. Papers from the Twenty-eighth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1994 (Aldershot 1996) 91–97. Hendy 1985 = Michael F. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy c. 300–1450 (Cambridge 1985). Huygens 1986 = Robert B. C. Huygens, Willelmi Tyrensis archiepiscopi chronicon, 2 vols. (Turnhout 1986). Kaplan 1992 = Michel Kaplan, Les hommes et la terre à Byzance du VIe au XIe siè­ cle. Propriété et exploitation du sol (Paris 1992). Kyriazes 1950 = Νeokles Kyriazes, Τὰ μοναστήρια ἐν Κύπρῳ (Larnaca 1950). Kyrris 2004 = Costas Kyrris, ‘Ιστορία της Ιεράς μονής Κύκκου εξ αρχής μέχρι του 1570–1571’, in: Ἐπετηρίδα τοῦ Κέντρου Μελετῶν τῆς Ἱερᾶς Μονῆς Κύκκου 6, 2004, 61–102. Lefort et al. 1985–1994 = Jacques Lefort – Nicolas Oikonomidès – Denise Papachryssanthou – Vassiliki Kravari – Hélène Métrévéli (eds.), Actes d’Ivi­ ron, 3 vols. (Paris 1985–1994). 143

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Lemerle 1977 = Paul Lemerle, ‘Le typikon de Grégoire Pakourianos (Décembre 1083)’, in: Paul Lemerle, Cinq études sur le XIe siècle byzantin (Paris 1977) 115–191. Magdalino 1993 = Paul Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge 1993). Malamut 1988 = Elisabeth Malamut, Les îles de l’empire byzantin, VIIIe–XIIe siè­ cles, 2 vols. (Paris 1988). Mango 1976a = Cyril Mango, ‘Les monuments de l’architecture du XIe siècle et leur signification historique et sociale’, in: Travaux et Mémoires 6, 1976, 351–365. Mango 1976b = Cyril Mango, ‘Chypre, carrefour du monde byzantin’, in: XVe Congrès International d’Etudes Byzantines, Rapports et co-rapports V.5 (Athens 1976) 3–13 (Reprinted in: Cyril Mango, Byzantium and its Image. History and Culture of the Byzantine Empire and its Heritage [London 1984] art. XVII). Mango 1980 = Cyril Mango, Byzantium. The empire of new Rome (London 1980). Megaw – Hawkins 1977 = Arthur H. S. Megaw – Ernest J. W. Hawkins, The Church of the Panagia Kanakaria at Lythrankomi in Cyprus: Its Mo­ saics and Frescoes (Washington D.C. 1977). Metcalf 2009 = Michael D. Metcalf, Byzantine Cyprus, 491–1191 (Nicosia 2009). Mitford 1950 = Terence Bruce Mitford, ‘New Inscriptions from Roman Cyprus’, in: Opuscula Archaeologica 6, 1950, 1–95. Morris 1995 = Rosemary Morris, Monks and Laymen in Byzantium, 843–1118 (Cambridge 1995). Oberhummer 1903 = Eugen Oberhummer, Die Insel Cypern, eine Landeskunde auf historischer Grundlage (Munich 1903). ODB = Alexander Kazhdan (ed.), The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, 3 vols. (New York – Oxford 1991). Pahlitzsch 2001 = Johannes Pahlitzsch, Graeci und Suriani im Palästina der Kreuz­ fahrerzeit. Beiträge und Quellen zur Geschichte des griechisch-orthodoxen Patriarchats von Jerusalem (Berlin 2001). Papacostas 1999 = Tassos Papacostas, Byzantine Cyprus: The Testimony of its Churches, 650–1200 (unpublished PhD thesis, 3 vols., University of Oxford 1999). Papacostas 2007 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘The History and Architecture of the Monastery of Saint John Chrysostomos at Koutsovendis’, Cyprus, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 61, 2007, 25–156. Papacostas 2012 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘Byzantine Nicosia’, in: Demetrios Michaelides (ed.), Historic Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 77–109. Pringle 2009 = Denys Pringle, The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusa­ lem. A Corpus, vol. 4: The Cities of Acre and Tyre (Cambridge 2009). Richard 1986 = Jean Richard, ‘Un monastère grec de Palestine et son domaine chypriote: le monachisme orthodoxe et l’établissement de la domination franque’, in: Πρακτικὰ τοῦ Δευτέρου Διεθνοῦς Κυπρολογικοῦ Συνεδρίου, vol. 2: Μεσαιωνικὸν τμῆμα (Nicosia 1986) 61 –75. Ruggieri 1991 = Vincenzo Ruggieri, Byzantine Religious Architecture (582–867): Its History and Structural Elements (Rome 1991).

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Schabel 2010 = Christopher Schabel (ed.), Bullarium Cyprium, vol. 1: Papal Let­ ters Concerning Cyprus 1196–1261 (Nicosia 2010). Ševčenko 1966 = Ihor Ševčenko, ‘The Early Period of the Sinai Monastery in the Light of its Inscriptions’, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 20, 1966, 255–264. Smyrlis 2006 = Kostis Smyrlis, La fortune des grands monastères byzantins (fin du X e – milieu du XIVe siècle) (Paris 2006). Svoronos 1959 = Nicolas Svoronos, ‘Recherches sur le cadastre byzantin et la fiscalité aux XIe et XIIe siècles: le cadastre de Thèbes’, in: Bulletin de corre­ spondance hellénique 83, 1959, 1–145. Svoronos 1970 = Nicolas Svoronos, ‘Le domaine de Lavra jusqu’en 1204’, in: Paul Lemerle – André Guillou – Nicolas Svoronos – Denise Papachryssanthou, Actes de Lavra (Paris 1970) 56–77. Thomas 1987 = John P. Thomas, Private Religious Foundations in the Byzantine Empire (Washington D.C. 1987). Tsiknopoullos 1969 = Ioannes P. Tsiknopoullos, Κυπριακὰ Τυπικά (Nicosia 1969). Tsougarakis 1993 = Demetrios Tsougarakis, The Life of Leontios Patriarch of Je­ rusalem. Text, Translation, Commentary (Leiden – New York – Cologne 1993). Spadaro 1998 = Maria Dora Spadaro, Cecaumeno: Raccomandazioni e consigli di un galantuomo (Strategikon). Testo critico, traduzione e note (Alessandria 1998). Weitzmann 1975 = Kurt Weitzmann, ‘A Group of Early Twelfth Century Sinai Icons Attributed to Cyprus’, in: Giles Robertson – George Henderson (eds.), Studies in Memory of David Talbot Rice (Edinburgh 1975) 47–63. Weitzmann 1984 = Kurt Weitzmann, ‘Icon Programmes of the 12th and 13th Centuries at Sinai’, in: Δελτίον τῆς Χριστιανικῆς Ἀρχαιολογικῆς Ἑταιρείας 12, 1984, 63–116. Weitzmann – Galavaris 1990 = Kurt Weitzmann – George Galavaris, The Monas­ tery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai. The Illuminated Greek Manuscripts, vol 1: From the Ninth to the Twelfth century (Princeton 1990). Wharton 1988 = Annabel Jane Wharton, Art of Empire. Painting and Architecture of the Byzantine Periphery. A Comparative Study of Four Provinces (University Park/Pennsylvania – London 1988).

Photo credits Figs. 1–3: Tassos Papacostas.

Tassos Papacostas

Centre for Hellenic Studies, King’s College London, Strand, London WC2R 2LS (United Kingdom) [email protected]

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Sugar Mills and Sugar Production in Medieval Cyprus

Historical and archaeological research has proved that Cyprus was covered with sugar cane plantations. The climate and soil of the island were suitable for the thriving and the growth of this plant, especially at its southern part (Fig. 1). Sugar was one of the major export products of the island during the medieval period and was very famous. The prosperity and wealth of medieval Cyprus was mainly due to this export commodity. Characteristically Anthony Luttrell, the well-known English historian, once said: ‘The island and its king would evidently have been poorer without their sugar. […] it was sugar which brought in foreign silver or other imports, which furnished credit and which created employment for labourers, refiners and middlemen’.1 Sugar cane makes its first appearance on the island in the tenth century AD after it was brought from Egypt. From a relatively large number of varieties of sugar canes, precisely twelve, the industrial or pharmaceutical variety named saccharum officinarum, mostly known as sweet cane was the one cultivated in Cyprus. But its cultivation was very restricted during the tenth and eleventh centuries. It was cultivated after the settling of the Crusaders on the island in the late twelfth century (1192) and especially after the end of the thirteenth century. From the early fourteenth and until approximately the late sixteenth century, sugar cane was one of the most important cultivations of Cypriot agriculture. Various historical documents (trade documents, legal records) as well as foreign travellers who visited the island between the fifteenth and the eighteenth centuries, provide us with a significant amount of valuable information concerning the cultivation of sugar cane, the sugar plantations, the processing and production of sugar and also of the sugar mills existing on the island. 1

Αnthony Luttrell, ‘The sugar industry and its importance for the economy of Cyprus during the Frankish period’, in: Vassos Karageorghis – Demetrios Michaelides (eds.), The Development of the Cypriot Economy from the Prehistoric Period to the Present Day (Nicosia 1996) 168–169.

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Fig. 1: Medieval map of Cyprus ‘Isola di Cipro’.

The largest sugar cane plantations were to be found at Kolossi, Episkopi and Kouklia, but there were also plantations at Achelia, Lemba, Emba, Morphou and Lapithos. There are also sites with unambiguous documentary evidence connecting them with sugar production such as Lefka, Akanthou, Kanakaria and Kellia. Finally there are sites with inadequate evidence like Nicosia, Foinikas, Potamia, Kyrenia, Kato Paphos, Ktima, Kythrea/Palaikythro, Sigouri, Polis tis Chrysochou and Mamonia (Fig. 2).2 The biggest owners of sugar plantations on the island were the royal family of the Lusignans, the military Order of St. John of Jerusalem (otherwise known as the Knights Hospitallers), the Catalan Ferrer family, the Latin Bishop of Limassol, and the Venetian Cornaro family who gradually became one of the largest cultivators of sugar cane and producers of sugar in Cyprus. Cypriot sugar was sold to foreign merchants, with the biggest part of its production being exported to Venice. The Venetian commercial house of 2 Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Cane sugar production sites in Cyprus. Real and imagined’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2000, 381–401; Aikaterini Aristeidou, Ανέκδοτα Έγγραφα της Κυπριακής Ιστορίας από το Κρατικό Αρχείο της Βενετίας, vol. 3: 1518–1529 (Nicosia 1999) 181–183 no. 90.

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Fig. 2: Map of Cyprus showing sites of cane sugar production.

Martini had in its hands almost the entire export of sugar which was being produced on the island. Ιn the fourteenth century the Venetian Marino Sanudo wrote that sugar production of Cyprus was such that the entire Christian world could be supplied with it, in such a way that Christians would stop buying sugar from the Saracens.3 The well-known Florentine merchant, Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, who visited Cyprus between 1324 and 1329 and also in 1336, judged that Cyprus produced the best quality of highly refined sugar in the world. He also left valuable information about the production of sugar and its various types. In the Middle Ages Cyprus produced three types of sugar: crystal sugar, known as polvere di zucchero, zamburo and melassa (the molasses). The quality of sugar depended on the number of times that the sugar cane juice was boiled. Sugar in powder was the best refined sugar, the second quality was zamburo and the last quality was melassa in the form of a syrupy mass which was kept in barrels. Cyprus was mostly known for the production of crystal sugar (polvere di zucchero).4 This is also testified by the archaeo3 4

Marino Sanudo, ‘Liber secretorum fidelium crucis’, in: Jacques Bongars (ed.), Gesta Dei per Francos, vol. 2 (Hannover 1611) 24: ‘in Cipro tanta quantitas zuchari nascatus, quad Christiani poterunt competenter Furniri’. Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La pratica della mercatura, ed. Allan Evans (Cambridge/ Mass. 1936) 364–365.

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logical excavations of the sugar mills of Episkopi, Kolossi and Kouklia; the number of conical moulds of the tall type being used in the production of crystal sugar was much larger compared with the number of conical moulds of the other two smaller sizes (Fig. 3). Both types of vessels are crude and undecorated and they correspond to the three qualities of Cypriot sugar just mentioned (Fig. 4). Pegolotti also makes references to the packing for the exportation of Cypriot sugar. This was packed in wooden cases, each of which would take sixteen cones of sugar, eight upwards and eight downwards, wrapped up in hemp cloths. We know that hemp was being cultivated in Cyprus since antiquity but its production was very limited until the first years of the Venetian period. In 1523 the total production was only two hundred quintals which in a period of fifteen or seventeen years later became five times larger, one thousand quintals. This proves that the Serenissima had fervently encouraged the cultivation of hemp on the island. The Czech travellers Jan Hasinsteinsky and Oldrich Préfat gave us important information concerning the sugar plantations, the processing of sugar canes and the production of sugar. The first one visited Cyprus in 1493 and the second in 1546. After a preliminary stage during which the leaves of the canes were removed and the latter were cut up into small pieces, after October when they ripen, the sugar canes were crushed in special sugar mills. These were mainly water-driven but we also have evidence of millstones being powered by animals. The huge millstones which crushed the canes were mechanically powered by water falling from a great height through an aqueduct. A thick dark syrup would be extracted from this grinding process which was transferred to huge copper cauldrons set in a specially arranged chamber called the refinery. In this chamber the sugar syrup or juice would be repeatedly boiled; the longer it was boiled, the whiter its colour and the better its quality became. The last stage of the process comprised the distillation of sugar. Sugar in a liquidized form was poured into the so-called ‘moulds’.5 Sugar was a product in great demand during the Middle Ages, at such a point that it was frequently being accepted as means of payment during various commercial exchanges or even as a dowry (in 1402 when Ladislaus from Napoli of Italy married Maria, the sister of the Lusignan king of Cyprus Janus [1398–1432], part of the dowry was given to him in sugar).6 In the sixteenth century, with the discovery of America and the introduction of the sugar cane into the new continent by Christopher Columbus, 5 6

Pavlos Flourentzos, Τα Τσέχικα Οδοπορικά της Αναγέννησης και η Κύπρος, vol. 2 (Nicosia 1977) 33. Karl Herquet, Cyprische Königsgestalten des Hauses Lusignan (Halle 1881) 167, 169.

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Fig. 3: Large number of conical moulds of the tall type used in the production of crystal sugar at the Episkopi-Serayia sugar mill.

Fig. 4: Conical moulds used in the production of crystal sugar.

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American sugar became much cheaper than the one produced in the Mediterranean world. In consequence sugar production in Cyprus started to decline, while cotton production increased. Anthony Luttrell said: ‘It [sugar] created [...] a Frankish Sugar Age which [...] was gradually replaced [...] by a Venetian Cotton Age’.7 However, although sugar plantations were gradually being replaced by cotton plantations, sugar production continued, though in smaller quantities, until the first decades of the seventeenth century. According to the Danish traveller Cornelis van Bruyn, who visited Episkopi and Kouklia villages in 1683, only cotton plantations were left where previously sugar cane had grown in abundance. Today there are no sugar plantations in Cyprus and therefore no sugar produced. The very rich archival records together with the written impressions of medieval travellers gain much greater importance and value when they are related and many times evidenced by the archaeological excavations. The ruins of three medieval sugar mills have survived in Cyprus and are being systematically excavated. All three seem related to comparable installations in the Crusader states. They are namely Kouklia (Palaepaphos)Stavros (Fig. 5), Episkopi-Serayia (Fig. 6) and Kolossi (Fig. 7). The remains of a fourth one are probably to be found at the Saranda Kolones Castle at Kato Paphos and would date before 1222. The one at Kouklia-Stavros belonged to the royal Lusignan family and dates to the late thirteenth century. The Episkopi sugar mill is part of a large manor which belonged to the well-known Venetian Cornaro family. The locality name Serayia, which is situated at the southern edge of the village, is very characteristic for it derives from the Turkish word Seray which means in Greek a palace. Archimandrite Kyprianos informs us that before the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when the village was known under the name of La Piscopia dei Cornari, Episkopi belonged to the Frankish noble Jean d’Ibelin and it was granted to the Cornaro family in 1363 by the Lusignan king of Cyprus Peter I (1359–1369).8 The Kolossi sugar mill together with the adjacent castle belonged to the military Order of St. John of Jerusalem, otherwise known as the Knights Hospitallers. According to documentary evidence, sugar was being produced at Kolossi by 1343, but production may well have started earlier, perhaps as early as 1210, when King Hugh I confirmed the grant of Kolossi to the Hospitallers. The operation of the sugar factory at Kolossi continued well 7 Luttrell op. cit. (above note 1), 163. 8 Archimandritis Kyprianos, Ιστορία Χρονολογική της Νήσου Κύπρου (Nicosia 1933, 1st ed. 1788) 538.

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Fig. 5: Medieval sugar mill at Kouklia-Stavros.

into the Ottoman period (1570–1878) – as evidenced both by the excavations and by the existing inscription built into the southern wall of the refinery; this informs us that the building was restored in 1591 when the island was under the governorship of Murad Pasha. The excavations undertaken until today at the various sites just mentioned, gave us important and valuable information concerning the arrangement of a medieval sugar factory. A very important document for the study of the Episkopi-Serayia sugar refinery is a unique manuscript plan of the specific site, dating to the year 1551, preserved in the Archives of Venice,9 and except for giving us a com­ plete picture of a Cypriot medieval sugar factory, it confirms the evidence 9

Archivio di Stato di Venezia (A.S.V.) Miscellanea, Mappe N. 1405, A-B-C-D: Il piano del Castello de Piscopia (first published by Gianni Perbellini, in: Castellum 25/26, 1986, 18–19).

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Fig. 6: Medieval sugar mill at Episkopi-Serayia.

Fig. 7: Medieval sugar mill at Kolossi.

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Fig. 8: Plan of installations at Episkopi-Serayia, dating from 1551; Venice, Archivio di Stato di Venezia, Miscellanea, Mappe N. 1405, A-B-C-D.

brought to light by the archaeological excavations at the three known sugar mills mentioned already (Fig. 8). Sugar factories consisted of a complex of buildings where the various stages in the production of sugar were carried out, beginning from the crushing and grinding of the sugar canes to the distillation and storing of sugar. Essential components of a medieval sugar factory were the aqueduct supplying the mill with water, the sugar mill where the canes were crushed and ground and the refinery where the sugar juice was boiled. As water was indispensable in all the phases of sugar production, the various water conduits were equally important features. With differences such as landscape configuration, extent of available area etc. (which mainly depend on the site on which these factories are built,) they present basic similarities as far as the above mentioned main compo155

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Fig. 9: Aerial photograph of Kolossi Castle and sugar mill.

nents are concerned. Beginning with the aqueduct, this is a massive construction (Figs. 9–10). It is adjacent to the grinding room and leads to a large subterranean vaulted chamber housing the water-wheel (Fig. 11). The subterranean chambers excavated at the three sites of Episkopi, Kolossi and Kouklia, are identical and they all bear marks on their side walls, an evidence that they housed the great water-driven wheel that turned the millstones in the grinding room just above. The water-wheel was made of wood and this has been confirmed by the excavations of the Kolossi sugar mill where several pieces of this wheel were found. It was a horizontal wooden wheel of the turbine type, with a shaft in the centre which extended into the grinding room above through a circular opening in the ceiling – an element present both at Kolossi and at Episkopi – and on to which were attached one or two millstones that ground the sugar canes. The sketch of a medieval sugar mill drawn in around 1560 by Juanelo Turriano from Mantua in Italy, who worked in Spain, is very helpful in our efforts to visualise how the Cypriot sugar mills might have looked like.10 The boiling installations are another component which is almost identical at all three sites. They consist of a large oblong hall with a series of hearths 10 Franz Georg Maier, Führer durch Alt-Paphos (Kouklia) (Nicosia 2006) fig. 73 on p. 96.

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Fig. 10: Kolossi sugar mill: Plan showing the excavated area.

Sugar Mills and Sugar Production in Medieval Cyprus

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Fig. 11: Kolossi sugar mill: Large subterranean vaulted chamber housing the water-wheel.

on which were placed the large copper cauldrons in which the cane juice was boiled (Fig. 12). Below the hearths were the fire chambers. These were vaulted rooms, oval in plan and built with mud-bricks solidified by the constant high temperatures. They were stocked from the outside through narrow pointed openings. Each fire chamber led to two hearths and each room had two fire chambers, thus each room had four hearths. The fire chambers had a height of approximately two metres. Following the historical evidence and views garnered from archaeo­ logical research is a more detailed discussion of the two major sites of Episkopi-Serayia and Kolossi, excavated by the Cyprus Department of Antiquities under the author’s directorship.

Episkopi-Serayia Sugar Mill Systematic excavations of the site began in 1988 and ended temporarily in 1997 (Fig. 6) in order to give priority to the excavations of the Kolossi sugar mill. The excavations are characterized by a singularity, unique for archaeo­ logical operations in general: the existence of the medieval drawing/plan of the Episkopi sugar factory and manor dating to 1551 mentioned above (Fig. 8). 158

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Fig. 12: Kolossi sugar mill: Refinery with a series of hearths where the cane juice was boiled in large copper cauldrons.

Fig. 13: Episkopi-Serayia: Grinding room.

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The following elements were brought to light: a. part of the aqueduct which is preserved at a height of about 3 m. b. the entire grinding room (measuring 10.8 × 7.45 m) (Fig. 13). c. the entire subterranean chamber housing the wooden water-wheel, preserved in an excellent condition (measuring 9.32 × 5.9 m). d. the staircase of 11 steps leading to the entrance of the subterranean chamber. It is situated at the south-western corner of the latter. e. the pressure channel in continuation of the aqueduct at the north-western corner of the subterranean chamber. f. an arched passage-way at the south-east corner of the subterranean chamber from which the water would be directed and serve the irrigation of the sugar plantations. g. a large paved room to the west of the grinding room, corresponding to the MAGAZENI (storerooms) of the medieval plan of 1551. h. the boiling area corresponding to the CUSINA FRANCA IN VOLTO of the medieval drawing. This consists of eight fire chambers instead of six marked on the drawing, thus increasing also the number of hearths to fourteen (it measures 24.70 m in length and 9.10 m in width). i. a large part of the room marked MASARA on the drawing. (The word Masara refers to the site where the sugar cane was crushed or the crushing installation; that is the sugar mill or even the area where sugar was stored. The term was used by Western Europeans in the period of Latin/Frankish rule in Syria and Palestine, meaning the olive press, wine press, sesame press. Also with diverse variations in the pronunciation, the term is used today with the same meaning in Syria, Egypt and Spain).11 j. parts of the stone water-channel situated immediately to the north of the hearths and fire chambers. k. a water cistern (measuring 3.54 × 2.85 m and 1.25 m in depth), to the north of the two easternmost fire chambers. l. important remains of probably a later milling device to the east of the aqueduct. The use of a vertical water-wheel at this point is a thought which must be clarified after further investigation. m. the north-west corner of the boiling area, enabling us to know the exact dimensions of this building: 24.70 m long × 9.10 m wide.

11 Elias Kollias – Maria Michaelidou, ‘Βιοτεχνικές εγκαταστάσεις παραγωγής ζάχαρης κατά το Μεσαίωνα στη νοτιοανατολική Μεσόγειο και τη Ρόδο’, in: Αρχαιολογικά τεκμήρια βιοτεχνικών εγκαταστάσεων κατά τη Βυζαντινή εποχή 5ος – 15ος αιώνας. Ειδικό θέμα του 22ου Συμποσίου Βυζαντινής και Μεταβυζαντινής Αρχαιολογίας και Τέχνης, Αθήνα, 17–19 Μαΐου 2002 (Athens 2004) 11–26.

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Fig. 14: Kolossi: Marble lintel with coat of arms probably referring to Louis de Magnac, the founder of Kolossi Castle in its present form.

Kolossi Sugar Mill The sugar factory of Kolossi stands to the east of the homonymous castle (Fig. 9). The still ongoing excavations began in 1994 and brought to light some very important remains (Fig. 10): a. the entire grinding room (measuring 5.85 × 9.40 m) which was still visible before the beginning of the excavations. b. the southern room (measuring 6.90 × 10.85 m) of the mill which is adjacent and in the same line as the grinding room. c. the entire subterranean chamber (measuring 8.10 × 4.80 m with a height of 3 m), housing the wooden water-wheel of turbine type (Fig. 11). The chamber was filled with debris of soil and large blocks of stone. It is in this debris that the various parts of the wooden water-wheel were found together with another exceptional find – a marble lintel (Fig. 14) bearing two coats of arms, one of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem and the other a fleur-de-lis. This could belong to Louis de Magnac, Grand Commander of Cyprus to whom are also attributed the coats of arms on the eastern façade of the castle and at other spots inside the building. Louis de Magnac is considered to be the founder of Kolossi Castle in its 161

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Fig. 15: Kolossi sugar mill: Clay smoking pipes from the Ottoman period found in the subterranean chamber.

present form. The marble lintel measures 88 × 41 cm and it is 17.5 cm thick. The other movable finds which came to light from the cleaning of the chamber, consisted mainly of a substantial number of clay Ottoman smoking pipes (Fig. 15). d. the pressure-channel and its mouth at the north-west corner of the subterranean chamber. This ends at a raised structure at the floor of which were found two iron wheels with their accessories. The evidence leads us to suppose that the chamber of the water-wheel was used at a later second historical phase, during the Ottoman period (1571–1878) and at an even later phase during the British occupation (1878–1960). The raised structure seems that it was used for the emplacement of another water-wheel, much smaller than the wooden medieval one, which occupied the entire width of the room (the traces can be seen on the side walls). Maybe this small wheel was used for the needs of a flour mill after the sugar mill ceased to operate, sometime during the Ottoman period. The subterranean chamber of Kolossi with the raised structure is very similar to the one of Kouklia-Stavros sugar mill. 162

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e. the staircase of 11 steps leading to the entrance of the subterranean chamber. This was found at the north-west part of the southern room of the mill. f. a rock-cut passage-way at the south-east corner of the subterranean chamber through which the water would be directed for the irrigation of the nearby sugar plantations. g. the boiling area which is housed in its largest part by the large vaulted building immediately to the south of the mill and in the same axis (Fig. 12). Eight fire chambers came to light along the east wall of the building. They are preserved at a height of approximately 2 m. A large part of these fire chambers was unfortunately destroyed by a later narrow wall built along the whole length of the east wall of the building and at a very small distance from it. (This later wall dates to the time of British rule when large-scale restoration of the vaulted building took place by the then Department of Antiquities.) The excavation trench opened along the east exterior of the same wall of the building confirmed our opinion that the three blind arches already seen on the east wall, which go down in depth of approximately 4 m, are nothing but the exterior wall of the fire chambers of the refinery. The entrance of the northernmost one is in relatively fair condition, measuring 80 × 61 cm. h. a water cistern which later became a rubbish pit, covering the southwest corner of the refinery. The cistern preserves its lime-mortar on three of its side walls. A fairly large number of intact moulds and jars were found during the cleaning of this space.

To the West of the Castle i. an earlier wall running parallel to the ruined building adjacent to the castle and at all its length (31 m). It is also adjacent to the remains of the round tower which also formed part of the initial phases of the castle. It dates to the beginning of the thirteenth century and this is evidenced by the presence of two Roman pillars used in its foundations for strengthening reasons; this is a characteristic of Crusader military architecture (Fig. 16). For comparative material, see the Castle of Saranda Kolones at Kato Paphos and the Sea Gate at Sidon.

To the West of the Sugar Mill j. a sugar press, a unique find in Cyprus (Fig. 17). k. a rock-cut circular ‘cavity’ (diam.: 2 m, depth: 63–90 cm) inscribed in a room with sloping floor to which ends a spout. The presence of post163

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Marina Solomidou-Ieronymidou

Fig. 16: Kolossi: Two Roman pillars in the foundations of an earlier wall west of the castle, dated in the beginning of the 13th century.

holes indicates that the cavity was once sheltered by some kind of structure (Fig. 18). l. a circular cistern cut in bedrock (diam.: 4.20 m, depth: 0.50 m) bearing on its sides a special water-proof material (Figs. 18–19). m. a later wall (long: 7.50 m) roughly built, cutting through the cistern from east to west (Fig. 19). n. a brick construction situated also within the circular cistern and directly associated with the later wall just mentioned, which could possibly be interpreted as a kiln (charcoal residues and traces of slag) (Fig. 19). 164

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Fig. 17: Kolossi sugar mill: Sugar press.

Fig. 18: Kolossi sugar mill: Various structures related to the production of sugar to the west of the sugar mill.

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Fig. 19: Kolossi: Large circular cistern in connection with the subterranean vaulted chamber housing the water-wheel.

o. a second circular structure, smaller than the previous one unearthed to the northwest and at a higher level (0.54 m higher) (Fig. 20). There is a communication ‘gutter’ between them. At a later phase, when both structures were out of use, the smaller one was covered with mortar and the connection opening blocked with a row of bricks. p. the extension of the south wall of the mill which separates the grinding room and the southern room with the staircase leading to the subterranean chamber running east-west was unearthed to the southern limits of the excavated area. 166

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Fig. 20: Kolossi: Ellipsoidal structure at the western side of the aqueduct.

q. a paved floor unearthed to the north of the previously mentioned wall. r. an elliptical stone structure (max. diam.: 3 m) which is in connection with the smaller circular structure made of bricks and situated at a higher level (1 m higher) than the floor of the circular structure. It is entirely made of irregular stones without any trace of binding material. It is not entirely unearthed (northern part still unexcavated). s. the opening towards the large rock-cut channel leading to the subterranean chamber came to light after the removal of a later date small wall standing in a Π-shaped form on top of the western side of the large rock-cut channel situated immediately to the west of the mill-room. This shows the direct connection between the two structures: large circular cistern with subterranean chamber housing the water-wheel (Fig. 19). The movable finds consist mainly of fragments of the characteristic crude and undecorated sugar vessels, the conical and the flat-bottomed jars used in great numbers in the process of sugar distillation. It must be mentioned that the excavation of the area to the west of the sugar mill proved to be very slow due to the presence of the big roots scattered/emerging all over the opened squares belonging to the nearby centuries-old tree, the well-known Macherium Tipu of Kolossi. Nevertheless, 167

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Fig. 21: Kolossi: Southern part of the western wall of the complex built on an ash layer dating to the 15th/16th century.

Fig. 22: Kolossi: The eastern cistern connected with the western one by a canal.

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Fig. 23: Kolossi: Cuttings at the bottom of the western cistern.

it seems that the work together with other factors created some conservation problems to the tree and there is a thought to re-bury the biggest part of this excavated area which is so vital for the well-being of the tree. For this reason the excavators work in close collaboration with the Forestry Department. The archaeological investigation of 2009 demonstrated that the western wall of the complex is extending further to the south. The southern part of this structure is not built directly on bedrock. On the contrary it was found on an ash layer, showing that it was added at a later date, probably during the fifteenth/sixteenth century as revealed by some fragments of glassed pottery of the Lapithos ware found in the corresponding layer (Fig. 21). The investigation within the ellipsoidal, partially excavated structure, at the western side of the aqueduct, was concluded. Its bottom consisted of a packed dirt floor and lime mortar (Fig. 20). During the 2010 campaign and after the necessary documentation it was decided to remove a wall, probably dated to the late Ottoman period, which covered part of the sugar cane press and the eastern cistern. The western cistern (Fig. 23), connected with the eastern one (Fig. 22) by a canal, after being left disused, was then enclosed in a square space and 169

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Fig. 24: Kolossi: Installations probably related to a metallurgical workshop built in the sugar factory after its abandonment.

sealed beneath its pavement. The stratigraphy of the cistern’s fill shows the sequence of two different layers, a fact that could prove that after the abandonment phase the fill of earth was realized at once and not gradually. The cistern unlike the other one found further to the east preserves some interesting cuttings at the bottom related to its use. The archaeological investigation of 2011 brought to light some interesting installations that could be related to a metallurgical workshop which was installed in the sugar factory after its abandonment, during the Ottoman period (Fig. 24). A rectangular feature measuring 1.35 × 1.24 m, 0.20–0.30 m high covered by mud-bricks was surrounded by a huge amount of slag, ashes and charcoal. These finds verify that the area which was previously part of the medieval sugar mill, changed its function preserving though its industrial character. The excavation was extended to the west of the vaulted building of the refinery. A pavement made of slabs and pebbles, which seems to continue to the south and west, was brought to light (Fig. 25). The 2012 campaign which was conducted to the south of the aforementioned pavement, showed its continuation. It is developed in three levels having an inclination towards the south (Fig. 26). At a distance of 2.50 m 170

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Fig. 25: Kolossi: Pavement of slabs and pebbles to the west of the refinery.

Fig. 26: Kolossi: Pavement to the west of the refinery built at three levels with an inclination to the south.

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Fig. 27: Kolossi: Two square foundations to the west of the refinery.

Fig. 28: Kolossi: Many phases of building activity just to the west of the metallurgical installations.

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to the west of the central pillars of the western wall of the vaulted building of the refinery two square foundations came to light demonstrating the existence probably of a portico to the west of the refinery (Fig. 27). The archaeological investigation continued to the southwest of the excavated area, just to the west of the metallurgical installations. The research confirmed many phases of building activity as revealed by a complex overlay of walls of different orientation (Fig. 28). The most recent structure belongs to a building of unknown character dated to the colonial period. The structural relation between the earlier building phase with the sugar mill installations is not yet clarified since the excavation is still in progress. Although there is still much to be done we believe that we are now much wiser on the subject, with Cyprus having the lead in the Mediterranean sugar archaeology and that an in situ Sugar Museum could very well fit in our future plans.

Photo Credits Fig. 1: Andreas and Judith Stylianou, The History of the Cartography of Cyprus (Nicosia 1980) 206, fig. 32. – Fig. 2: Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Cane sugar production sites in Cyprus. Real and imagined’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2000, 383, fig. 1. – Figs. 3–7, 9–28: Department of Antiquities, Cyprus. – Fig. 8: Gianni Perbellini, ‘Il Castello delle Quaranta Colonne in Paphos nell’Isola di Cipro’, in: Castellum 25/26, 1986, 18–19.

Marina Solomidou-Ieronymidou

Department of Antiquities, 1 Museum Street, 1516 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

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Nicholas Coureas

Islands East and West: Commerce between Cyprus, Majorca and Sardinia in the Early Fourteenth Century In this paper the phenomenon of trade between Cyprus and Majorca and Cyprus and Sardinia will be discussed on the basis of the notarial deeds in the collections of the Genoese notary Lamberto di Sambuceto, a Genoese notary resident in Famagusta in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century. By this time both Cyprus and Majorca were Western Roman Catholic kingdoms, Cyprus having been conquered in 1191 by King Richard I of England from a Byzantine usurper and Majorca in 1229 by King James I of Aragon from the Muslims. By 1300 Majorca was a flourishing trade emporium, exporting olive oil, figs, salt, wool, butter and later textiles and importing various goods not only from other parts of the Mediterranean but also from elsewhere. Raw wool was imported from England and cinnamon and cowrie shells from the Indian Ocean. In 1300 the kings of Majorca began minting their own coinage, thereby emancipating themselves from dependence on Catalan currency systems. As for Sardinia, it enjoyed close commercial ties with Majorca in the early fourteenth century and these links continued even after the Aragonese conquered it in 1323.1 The three things to be examined here, all interconnected, are the external political and commercial frameworks influencing trade between Cyprus, Majorca and Sardinia, the reasons why trade between Cyprus and Majorca was greater than that between Cyprus and Sardinia and the extent to which the Aragonese, Genoese and Pisan ambitions in the Mediterranean impinged on the commercial links between Cyprus and these two islands in the Western Mediterranean during the early fourteenth century. Majorca is mentioned several times as a destination for ships sailing from Cyprus. On 9 February 1301 the merchant of Barcelona Bernard Marchetus rent his ship the San Nicolo to the Templar knight Berengar Goamir, 1

David Abulafia, The Western Mediterranean Kingdoms 1200–1500: The Struggle for Dominion (London – New York 1997) 37–41, 127–128; idem, A Mediterranean Emporium: The Catalan Kingdom of Majorca (Cambridge 1994) 7–8, 103–128; Peter Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades 1191–1374 (Cambridge 1991, 19942 ) 2–9.

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acting on behalf of Berengar Cardona, the Templar preceptor of Aragon and standard bearer of Spain, to transport from Famagusta in Cyprus via Limassol to Majorca and Barcelona the two above-mentioned persons together with another four Templar brothers and 28 others, including twelve squires. On 1 March 1301 Marchetus informed the parties hiring the ship that it was ready to begin its voyage. On 25 February 1301 Majorca is mentioned as the destination for trade and repayment in a commenda contract concluded between two merchants from Majorca. According to its terms, Bartholomew Rivodoro received 200 doubloons of pure gold from Bernard Oliverius, with which to trade in Majorca or elsewhere and with an entitlement to one fourth of the profits, and with repayment to take place in Majorca or wherever the two parties should meet. Majorca was a destination involving the dead as well as the living. On 9 April 1301 the Genoese Peter Albertengus, a part owner of the ship San Antonio publicly acknowledged receipt before assembled witnesses of the sum of 184 white bezants of Cyprus from William Julian of Barcelona, undertaking to transport this sum, deriving from the effects of the late William Satrie of Barcelona, to the deceased’s heirs in Barcelona and in Majorca. As will be seen below, this ship had Majorcan owners as well.2 The Majorcan traders active on Cyprus and mentioned in the notarial deeds of Lamberto di Sambuceto figure mostly as ship owners engaging in currency transactions, not in the movement of specific goods, with the exception of cotton. They were few in number and at least two of the most oft-mentioned ones originated from Genoa, an indication of how trade involving Mediterranean islands in the fourteenth century was often handled by merchants from the major Italian merchant republics, not by natives of the islands in question. Most prominent among them were Ricetus Ricius and Peter Roveretus, both Genoese originating from Voltri near Genoa but explicitly described as citizens of Majorca and joint patrons of the ship San Antonio along with various other owners. Roveretus is mentioned in several notarial deeds of Sambuceto dating from the second half of the year 1300. On 24 September 1300 Roveretus lent 10 Genoese pounds to Opizzino de Volta, a citizen of Genoa, who undertook to repay him within the next six months. This money was repaid but nearly two years later, for in an act of 12 June 1302 Giovanni Rex of Voltri acknowledged receipt of this sum from Opizzino in his capacity as Roveretus’ procurator. In an act dated 8 October 1300 Roveretus acknowledged receipt of an unspecified amount of white bezants from the Genoese Andreolo Nigrus, for which he promised to 2

Notai Genovesi in Oltremare: Atti rogati a Cipro da Lamberto di Sambuceto (3 luglio 1300 – 3 agosto 1301), ed. by Valeria Polonio. Collana Storica di Fonti e Studi (henceforth CSFS), vol. 31 (Genoa 1982) nos. 219, 248, 258 and 307.

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give him on request eight Genoese pounds by way of exchange.3 Roveretus is also mentioned in three notarial deeds of 7–8 October 1300 involving Sardinia, but these will be discussed later on. Ricius and Roveretus both figure in other acts of early 1301 involving currency exchanges. All these acts showed that they acquired the local currency during their stops on Cyprus while promising to give the other parties Genoese or Spanish currencies on returning to Western Europe. Ricetus Ricius is mentioned as having borrowed 40 gold Saracen bezants, with each Saracen bezants being worth roughly 3.3 white bezants, from the Barcelonese trader Bernard Rubeus in a notarial deed dated 27 January 1301, for which he undertook to give him by way of exchange 10.5 reals of Valencia for each golden bezant by way of exchange, or alternatively Genoese currency or silver tournois at the rate of 16 reals for every tournois. Repayment was to take place in Genoa or some other location within 15 days of the arrival of the ship San Antonio, in the port of Famagusta at the time and owned by Ricius and his associates, at its final destination. Two months later, on March 27, Ricius and the above-mentioned Peter Roveretus acknowledged receipt of an unspecified sum of white Cyprus bezants from a certain Gaspar de Clavica, son of Simon, promising to give him or his repre­ sentative 125 Genoese pounds within 15 days from whenever their ship, the San Antonio, should make port in Genoa. Roveretus appears in another contract dated 31 March 1301 as promising Lanfranc de Rovereta and Giovanni Rex of Voltri to give them or their representatives 40 Genoese pounds within 15 days of his ship’s arrival in Genoa, by way of exchange for an unspecified sum in white Cyprus bezants that they had given him. Roveretus also appears in a deed of April 9 1301, in which the same Giovanni Rex acknowledged having borrowed an unspecified amount of white Cyprus bezants from him, undertaking to give him three Genoese pounds within the next five months by way of exchange. Both Ricius and Roveretus are mentioned in a similar contract of 10 April 1301, in which they acknowledged receipt of an unspecified sum of white Cyprus bezants from Ianuinus de Bonavita, also described as a citizen of Majorca, promising to give him or his representative 60 Genoese pounds within 15 days from when their ship should arrive in Genoa. Slightly different to the above contract but nonetheless within the same general terms of reference is the contract of 4 April 1301 in which Ricius and Roveretus received an unspecified amount of white bezants from Anthony Gambonus, promising to give him in exchange 160 Genoese pounds within one month from when their ship reached Genoa. In another 3

CSFS 31, nos. 6 and 40; Notai Genovesi in Oltremare: Atti rogati a Cipro da Lamberto di Sambuceto (Gennaio – Agosto 1302), ed. by Romeo Pavoni. CSFS 49 (Genoa 1987) no. 222.

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act of 8 April 1301 linked to the preceding one Anthony Gambonus ap­point­ed Obertus Campanarius as his procurator to recover various sums lent, mentioning in particular the sum of 160 Genoese pounds owed by Ricius and Roveretus by way of an exchange of currency.4 Other than through his involvement in currency exchanges Ricetus Ricius acquired money along with other co-owners of the ship San Antonio by hiring freight space on board this ship to merchants wishing to transport goods from Cyprus to Genoa. Particularly interesting and valuable is a detailed contract of hire dated 12 January 1301 concerning the San Antonio. It states that Ricius and other co-owners agreed to rent space on board the ship to the merchants Dominic Salvaigo, Cener de Deo and Adalano Boccanigra so that the latter could load 200 hundredweight of cotton at Famagusta weights and measures for transportation directly to Genoa, with no changes to the itinerary. The remainder of the freight space was hired to another three merchants, Marocello, Marabotto and Oberto, for them to load whatever goods they wanted without compromising the ship’s safety, with none others to load goods on board without the consent of the latter three merchants. All merchants were obliged to bring goods for loading on board by the middle of the coming February and to complete the loading of the cargo my mid-March, while the co-owners undertook to equip the ship with sail and rigging, provide a crew of 37 sailors and eight servants, as well as victuals and water for the next three months.5 The freight charges, half of which were payable in Famagusta and half on the ship’s arrival in Genoa, amounted to five Armenian bezants per hundredweight, with an exchange rate of eight Armenian daremi less four denarii per bezant. The other half payable in Genoa would have an exchange rate of ten Genoese pounds per bezant. Should the ship’s patrons default on any of their obligations the freight charges would be reduced to four bezants per hundredweight and should the merchants themselves default it would rise to six bezants per hundredweight. The importance of this contract is underlined by the fact that it was signed in the fondaco of the Genoese commune in Famagusta, which may refer in this period to either a residential or storage facility. Several days later, on 18 January 1301, Ricius and another co-owner of the San Antonio acknowledged the receipt of 400 gold Saracen bezants from Aldalo Salvaigo, who was also acting on behalf of Boccanigra, by way of part payment of these freight charges.6 Peter Roveretus is recorded in a subsequent act as hiring a specialized craftsman for the San Antonio, probably in view of the forthcoming voyage 4 5 6

CSFS 31, nos. 203, 209, 288, 302, 306, 314, 326 and 333. CSFS 31, no. 188. CSFS 31, nos. 188 and 194.

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to Genoa that it would undertake. Trained masters of adzes were always in demand on board ships and according to a contract of employment dated 27 January 1301 John of Messina in Sicily, having received the sum of 80 white bezants from Peter Roveretus of Voltri, acting on his own account and that of his associates, owners of the ship named San Antonio, moored in the port of Famagusta, promised to work faithfully and without fraud on board this ship as a master of adzes for the next three months. If he failed to do so he would not only return the sum received but would pay an additional penalty of double this sum to either Peter, the owners of the ship or their accredited representative. In addition, a certain boot maker named Georginus, whose father Simon had practised the same craft, interceded on John’s behalf with Peter, promising the latter to guarantee John’s services with his person and goods. This contract is an unusual record of terms of employment of craftsmen on board ship.7 Bartholomew Rivodoro was another prominent Majorcan merchant active in Cyprus. A notarial deed dated 23 February 1301 records how he lent the considerable sum of 1.000 Cyprus bezants to the citizen of Genoa Simon de Barra, who was acting for himself and for several others. Simon and his associates undertook to give Rivodoro by way of exchange 200 gold doubloons in Tunis or in Bougie on the North African coast within 15 days following their arrival there, which indicates that Rivodoro had business interests there and would receive this sum either in person or through a procurator based there. Given that Tunis and Bougie were both en route for ships sailing between Cyprus and Majorca Rivodoro’s interests there do not occasion surprise. Indeed trade with North Africa was so important for Majorca that in the thirteenth century after the island’s conquest Pope Gregory IX and Pope Innocent IV granted Majorca permission to trade with this region. Majorca concluded commercial treaties with North Africa in the years 1271, 1278, 1302 and 1313, with North African trade retaining its importance for the island kingdom throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Gold, wax, leather and slaves were imported from North Africa, while exports to the region included butter, barley and wheat. By 1302 Majorca had opened its own consulate in Bougie, despite Catalan opposition, and by 1313 Majorcan consulates had also opened in Tunis and other localities of the North African littoral.8 The trading interest of Majorcan merchants operating on Cyprus encompassed Turkey, Syria and potentially other Mediterranean destinations as 7 8

CSFS 31, no. 204. CSFS 31, no. 244; Abulafia, Mediterranean Emporium (cf. above note 1), 64, 66–67, 118, 120–125 and 159–161; idem, Western Mediterranean Kingdoms (cf. above note 1), 128–129.

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well. A notarial deed dated 14 June 1300 records how the two Majorcan traders Bellengerius de Porto Torres and Laurence de Clotis acknowledged the receipt of 1.000 white Cypriot bezants from the Genoese Bruschinus Zaccaria, estimated to be the equivalent of 4.000 Turkish dirhems. The two Majorcans promised to give Zaccaria 3 dirhems for every white bezant by way of exchange within 25 days following their return to Famagusta on board their ship the San Giovanni from the port of Alaya, either directly or via intermediaries. This ship’s itinerary was subject to variation, for the deed goes on to say that were it to travel to Syria, seven French silver tournois would be payable for every 10 dirhems, were it to go to Sicily then one ounce of gold at Sicilian weights would be payable for every 60 dirhems, in Cagliari in Sardinia four Genoese pounds would be payable for every 60 dirhems and in Tripoli on the North African coast one doubloon would be payable for every 15 dirhems. Were the two Majorcans to sell their ship in Alaya they undertook to pay by way of fulfilling the debt 5.000 Turkish dirhems.9 But things did not work out according to plan. In a deed with the same date, however, both Majorcans sold their ship, moored in the port of Famagusta at the time, to Zaccaria for the sum of 5.000 white Cypriot bezants, only to annul this agreement by a subsequent deed dated 15 June. The annulment of the contract of sale is probably explicable by the price quoted, since 5.000 white Cyprus bezants were equivalent to 15.000 to 20.000 Turkish dirhems on the basis of the exchange rates cited above, three or four times the value of the ship as stated in the first of the three contracts. The two Majorcans in question are recorded in a later contract of currency exchange concluded in Famagusta, in which they acknowledged receipt of an unspecified sum in white Cyprus bezants from the Genoese Iohaninus de Santa Agnete, undertaking to give him by way of exchange 75 gold doubloons within 25 days from when their ship, the San Giovanni, was unloaded. The fact that payment is specified in doubloons strongly suggests that the ship was bound for a North African destination, perhaps not specified deliberately in view of the papal prohibitions on direct trade with the Muslims in force since the Muslims’ capture of Acre and Tyre in 1291. Although the popes had exempted Majorca itself from such prohibitions, given that its trade with North Africa was vital to its survival, this was not the case with Cyprus itself where the ship was moored. Such prohibitions were often more honoured in the breach than in the observance.10 Actes de Famagouste du notaire génois Lamberto di Sambuceto (décembre 1299 – septembre 1300), ed. by Michel Balard, William Duba and Chris Schabel (Nicosia 2012) no. 143. 10 Ibid. nos. 144–145 and 231. 9

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In contrast to Majorca, hardly any record exists of trading relations between Sardinia and Cyprus, although Sardinia does resemble Majorca in that the one trader from that island active in Cyprus was a Pisan from Cagliari in southern Sardinia and not a native Sardinian, a reflection of the predominant role the Italian merchant republics played in trade between the Mediterranean islands. Sardinia at this time, divided territorially into four native judgeships, had an underdeveloped agricultural economy, with the Pisans and the Genoese who dominated the coastal areas and the main towns fighting each other for overall control. The notarial deed recording a Pisan from Sardinia trading in Cyprus, dated 8 February 1300, is the completion of a commenda contract. It states that the Pisan Tucius de Michele granted a quittance to his fellow Pisan John of Cagliari for the capital and the profit of a commenda contract of 438 white Cyprus bezants according to the terms of a public instrument written by the notary Peter in 1299. The rights of both parties over three sacks of cotton loaded on board the ship of Nicholas Formaggius were safeguarded, and it was specifically declared that Tucius had 1.585 Armenian daremi invested in these sacks and John a further 271. The only other mention of a Sardinian on Cyprus is that of Iane de Arestano, who on 7 August 1300 witnessed an act whereby Marcellinus de Iane of Acre appointed Philipuzius de Angelo of Ancona in Italy as his general procurator. There are also a number of notarial deeds recording Majorcans on Cyprus as witnesses.11 The originally Genoese citizens of Majorca Ricetus Ricius and Peter Roveretus also had trading interest involving, or rather potentially involving, Sardinia, as mentioned above. In a deed of 7 October 1300 they both acknowledged receipt from Ansaldo de Modulo of an unspecified sum of white Cyprus bezants, undertaking to give him for it by way of exchange eight ounces of gold calculated at a rate of 60 carlini per gold ounce within eight days from whenever the ship should make port and be unloaded, with a final provision that were the ship to stop at Cagliari they would give him three Genoese pounds and three soldi per gold ounce. In a similar contract dated 8 October 1300 and involving the same parties Ansaldo was promised eight Genoese pounds and five soldi in gold ounces at the rate of three pounds and 15 soldi per gold ounce in Sicily should the ship make port there, within eight days from whenever the ship arrived. If the ship journeyed to Cagliari instead, however, this money would be given to him in Genoese currency. In a third notarial deed also dated 8 October 1300 Ricius and Roveretus acknowledged receipt from Bruschinus Zaccaria of 500 white 11 Abulafia, Western Mediterranean Kingdoms (cf. above note 1), 123–127; Actes de Fama­ gouste (cf. above note 9), nos. 47, 97, 167, 188, 190, 204 and 227; CSFS 31, nos. 20–21, 35–36, 203, 209, 243 and 258.

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Cyprus bezants, undertaking to give him in exchange four Genoese pounds per bezant as soon as their ship made port in either Sicily or Cagliari.12 Given that Sardinia is both far larger than Majorca and nearer to Cyprus one would normally expect its trading relations with Cyprus to be more extensive and developed than those of Majorca. The fact that the exact opposite was the case is clearly attributable to Sardinia’s low level of political and economic development in the early fourteenth century compared to that of Majorca, an independent kingdom albeit within the Catalan orbit that developed vigorous and diversified trading relations throughout the Mediterranean area and beyond. It can be argued that the documentary evidence for this, consisting of the notarial acts of just one Genoese notary working on Cyprus from 1296 to 1307, just over a decade, is insufficient to warrant this conclusion, but when placed in a wider Mediterranean context this evidence is convincing inasmuch as it fits within the broader framework of trans-Mediterranean trade at the start of the fourteenth century.

Nicholas Coureas

Cyprus Research Centre, 6, Gladstone Street, 1095 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

12 CSFS 31, nos. 35–37.

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Section III: Material Culture

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Eleni Procopiou

The Excavations at Akrotiri-Katalymata ton Plakoton 2007–2014* The Location The Katalymata ton Plakoton site was located during the systematic archaeological survey conducted in 1954 by Colonel John Last (architect, member of the Kourion Mission) and the draughtsman of the Department of Antiquities Chryselios Polykarpou, under the direction of A. H. S. Megaw, before the submission of his opinion on the planned installation of British Bases on the peninsula. Although the sites found were protected as archaeological sites already in that era, they had not been all officially designated as ancient monuments at that point. In 1996 Lieutenant Colonel G. MacGar introduced a new approach to the authorities of the British Base for the research and management of the peninsula’s archaeological sites. Excavations, new archaeological surveys and legal actions for their protection were undertaken in collaboration with the Department of Antiquities, including the official designation of the old and the new sites as well, like the case of the site Katalymata ton Plakoton. The archaeological map prepared during this project (Fig. 1) indicates extensive activity in the Hellenistic-Roman but mainly Late Roman (Εarly Christian/Byzantine) period, in which the majority of the sites are dated. Among them are the Dreamer’s Bay port installations to the south1 dated from the fourth to seventh century (and perhaps are to be dated even earlier, * I would like to thank the ex-Director of the Cyprus Department of Antiquities Pavlos Flourentzos for the decision to entrust that systematic excavation to me, and to all his successors for keeping me in the site. I also express my gratitude to my collaborators, all the seasons’ workers of the Department of Antiquities, the mosaics conservator Eleftherios Charalambous and his team, the technician-draughtswoman Mary Makri Chamberlain, my assistant archaeo­logists Doria Nicolaou, Panagiotis Theofanous and Panagiotis Panagides, the Campus Archaeological Skills Exchange Programme Leonardo da Vinci and all the students who through that, or independently worked with me since 2007, the British authorities, especially the environmental section, and last but not least the community board of Akrotiri village. 1

Leonard 1997, 179, fig. 13; Ault – Leonard forthcoming.

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Fig 1: Map of the 1954 Akrotiri Peninsula survey by Colonel J. Last and Chr. Polykarpou.

Fig. 2: Aerial photo of the peninsula and the designated areas: 1. Dreamer’s Bay port installations, 2. Pano Katalymata settlement, 3. Kato Katalymata settlement, 4. Taratsos port, 5. Shillastasia settlement, 6. Arkosykia Settlement, 7. Lania/Lamies rock cut chambers, 8. Katalymata ton Plakoton site.

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Fig 3: Pebble mosaics on the west hill of the site.

to Hellenistic times) and two important settlement sites at Pano and Kato Katalymata (as yet unexcavated) dating to the Roman and Late Roman periods (Fig. 2). One more anchorage must have been on the eastern coast at the locality of Taratsos, related with the settlements of Shillastasia and Arkosykia. In between those settlements, cemetery sites were located along the shore, as well as in the Lamies quarries.2 Among the finds were two adjacent rockcarved basilicas oriented southward, which were used for Christian worship between the fifth and seventh centuries. The Katalymata ton Plakoton site is within the forest of the western part of the peninsula (Fig. 2). It is spread on low hills around a shallow basin (Fig. 4). Pebble and opus tesseratum mosaics (plakota) uncovered by the British of the W.S.B.A. Archaeological Society in 1995, on the west hill (Fig. 3), seem to belong to isolated structures, probably related with the huge complex but not immediately connected with it. It is because of those floors that the name of the locality is specified as Katalymata ton Plakoton – the first word, Katalymata, found in the two major site names Pano and Kato Katalymata as well, meaning in Greek ‘dwelling places’ or ‘places of refuge’. 2 The site was investigated between 1995 and 1996 by the author in collaboration with volunteers from the R.A.F Archaeological Unit and the W.S.B.A. Archaeological Society; Procopiou 1997; Procopiou 2006, 118–119.

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Fig. 4: Aerophotogrammetry picture of the Katalymata ton Plakoton site showing the arrangement of the ruins and the excavated part at the south wing of the complex (East view).

The ruins of the site form a Π-shaped, huge complex laid around the natural shallow basin mentioned above and the excavation occupies the interior part of the south wing of this complex (Fig. 4). This wing includes at least (until the 2014 excavation) two monumental ecclesiastical structures attached to the west and east sides of an atrium (with a side of 21 m). Its total length is 100 m and it is surrounded to the south and east external sides by adjacent living installations not yet excavated. The excavation began in 2007 from the western edge of this complex and is being extended gradually to the east. Until 2010 a transept basilica (Building A) oriented to the west was revealed3 and during the following seasons the atrium and the west part of a new monumental ecclesiastical structure, including an exonarthex (hexastyle propylon), attached to the eastern portico of the atrium (Figs. 5, 6, 12, 22). This building (B) is divided at least to the west into three aisles and measures 20 m in width and more than 47 m in length. Adjacent living spaces were developed mainly along the south side of the transept (Building A) and to the east of the new Basilica (Building B). 3

Procopiou 2014b.

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Fig. 5: The plan of the excavated site until 2014.

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Fig. 6: Building A (transept basilica).

Opening entrances are found at the four corners of the atrium, of which the south ones seem to communicate with the interior living spaces. It is unlikely that the openings to the north are actually extensions of the eastern and western porticoes; they are more probably main connective passages between the ecclesiastical structures of the whole complex running along the east and west sides of the natural basin/yard in the centre of the whole complex. To the south there seems to be a wall with a considerable number of wells lining it (not yet excavated).

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Building A This is the western structure of the south wing (Figs. 5, 6, 12, 22). It mea­ sures 36 metres in width and 29 metres in length, excluding the length of the protruding central west apse (3.25 m). It has the form of an inscribed threeaisled transept basilica, having a continuous corridor (περίστωον) surrounding the sides of the central aisles. Entrances were found in the east wall, at the centres of each aisle (a tribelon), through the west portico of the atrium. The aisles are divided with 5-style colonnades in the central axis and 3-style ones breadthwise (Figs. 5, 7, 8). At the transversal aisles the colonnades surround the continuous side corridor, beginning from the east-side entrances, and terminate at the north and south perimeter of a raised platform which occupies the central area (Fig. 16). The transept was totally inscribed and the corner partitions were occupied by adjacent rooms (Figs. 9 and 11). The area of the northern corner partitions comprised two huge halls (Fig. 9). The northern one is wider, is not paved and has a double opening to the exterior north side. It was probably a space for stabling the animals of outside visitors (βορδωνάρειον). The southern has an entrance from the north aisle of the east branch and a batch for the gifts. Several fragments of tables found toward the east end of that hall and behind the batch (Fig. 10) indicate a use related probably to the receiving of offerings: a sacristy (σκευοφυλάκιον). Smaller rooms for storage or usage are found in the south corner partitions, arranged along and around an interior yard with a well (Fig. 11). This open air area communicates through one or two openings with more installations to the south, which extended over an area of 500 m².

Funerary Character To the west, north and south facades of each branch there are small protruding funerary apses with a diameter of 2.25 m (Figs. 5–8), whereas in the east wall of the south branch instead of an apsis conch there is a small rectangular niche, close to which a small marble reliquary cover was found (Fig. 13). Those apses are part of the initial design of the building and are indicative of its funerary character, as a martyrion. It is worth mentioning that around them concentrations of wall tesserae were noted, some made of glass (gold plated), or of mother of pearl, as well as a quantity of glass cantelae fragments. The north apse was totally destroyed by the collapse of the whole side, whereas the others to the west were found empty. In the south one there was an intact larnax (Fig. 15). Its lid was decorated with a cross in relief 191

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Fig. 7: South branch of the transversal arm of Building A.

Fig. 8: North branch of the transversal arm of Building A.

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Fig. 9: Northern corner partitions.

Fig. 10: Fragments of marble offering tables in the southern hall of the north corner partitions (diaconicon?).

and has a perforation for libations in its centre.4 An undisturbed burial of an elderly male individual was found inside. The burial contained two bronze fibulae, used for securing clothing, burnt organic beads, possibly from a prayer bead, and five bronze coins of low value, three of which are illegible. They are small subdivisions of folleis, The best preserved are denominations of ten or five nummi from the mints of Carthage or six nummi from Alexandria, dated to the first decade of the reign of the Emperor Heraclius, 4

Laskaris 1996, 313.

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Fig. 11: Southern corner partitions.

most probably before the siege of Alexandria in 617.5 They can be regarded as the terminus ante quem for the construction date of the monument, as the perforation was not open during the period of use of the building. These coins, in relation with a terminus post quem coin dated to 616 A.D. (Fig. 14), found in a foundation trench to the NW corner (1.23 m below the floor level), specify a construction date after 616 and around 617. Uncleaned but well-preserved coins of Heracleonas from the destruction levels indicate a short period of use, which extends up to 640.

Liturgical Structures At the intersection of the arms, elements of four complex supports (Γ- or Τ-shaped), forming a square of 6.15 m, are preserved and enclosed within a raised exedra (ἐξέδρα) (Figs. 5 and 16).6 This podium occupies the central 5 Philips 1962, 228. 6 The term ἐξέδρα (exedra) is applied by Eusebius regarding the Tyros Basilica (Pallas 1954, 470–482). It is translated here in English as ‘podium,’ which describes a raised area within a church, usually demarcating the bema (sanctuary).

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Fig. 12: The transept basilica (NW view) with the protruding apses used for funerals.

Fig. 13: Marble lid of a sarcophagus shaped reliquary box.

Fig. 14 Bronze coin (half follis) from the foundation level dated to 616 A.D. (terminus post quem).

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Fig. 15: The larnax in the south apse.

space of the whole structure (measuring 10 metres in length and 7.80 metres in width) and ends in an apse, semicircular internally and polygonal to the exterior façade. In the conch of that apse a smaller one has been inscribed of the same diameter as the others (2.25 m), in which a larnax was set, with the most important human remains, translated during the abandonment of the structure. It was surrounded by a paved corridor, with trapezoid marble plaques, the traces of which are preserved on the plaster of their substratum. The podium is partially enclosed with low parapets – either built (along the western aisles) and decorated with marble revetments, or monolithic (along the western part of the central aisles). The basement of only one monolithic chancel is preserved, the body of which was found fallen in situ (Fig. 17), to the north side, together with a small pillar. This chancel was carved in low relief, and has at the centre a perforated monogram of Jesus Christ (Chrismon cross) (Fig. 18). A wreath surrounds the Chrismon cross, and is flanked by crosses connected by wavy sprouts ending in ivy leaves. The chancel is of a well-known type, widespread throughout the Empire in the late fifth and sixth centuries.7 It is accepted that this is a symbol of the 7 Constantinople, Italy, Asia Minor, Mainland Greece, Aegean Islands, Balkans, Libya, Tunisia, Palestine and elsewhere (see Procopiou 2014b, 77–78, fig. 6.17; notes 12 and 13 on p. 91).

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Fig. 16: The raised exedra/bema?

triumph of Christ over death, by His descend into Hell and by his Resurrection8 – the faith in which the unity of the Church is based on. Wide openings to the east part of the north and south sides indicate free communication with the central aisles of the side transepts. Two low benches (functioning as seats or tables) were below the parapets, as the preserved mosaic frame line indicates. A serious amount of marble fragmentary tables was found on and around the podium. Among them some were inscribed: one with the name of Paul can be read (in the genitive ΠΑΥΛΟΥ) and a second one with the name of Menas, ([ΒΟΗ]ΘΗΣΟΝΜΗΝΝΑ ΚΑΙ Π ...) (Fig. 19). Some of those were probably set on low bases found attached to the columns (mainly the eastern ones) of the central aisles of the transept. Special attention is given to the entrance from the east, in the middle of which the imprint of a threshold was found (Figs. 5 and 16). This entrance is linked with an axial corridor of 3.65 m in length, forming an official entrance/exit through the central aisle of the east branch and opposite to the central opening of the tribelon. To the left there was a step without obstacles, whereas to the right there was a low chancel in front of it.

8

Stouphi-Poulimenou 1999, 109–113.

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Fig. 17: Fragments of the marble chancel in situ.

Fig. 18: The same chancel with a perforated chrismon cross and wavy bands with ivy leaves holding crosses.

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Fig. 19: Fragment of a marble table with the preserved inscription ΘΗCΟΝΜΗΝΝΑΚΠ.

It is possible that this unfenced part in the front is the entrance for the deacon during the transferring of the offerings for the Liturgy from the sacristy to the exedra. Even though it is not possible to define the function of the architectural components of the complex without finding the main church, it is clear that Building A located at the interior west end of the south wing of the whole complex is a martyrion. The podium was used probably by the clergy to perform services relating either to the main saint’s relics within the apse, or to the other possible saints in the transept apses and conch. In that case the larnax in the west apse would have served, at least occasionally, as a Holy Altar. However, the western orientation of the whole structure and the arrangement of the podium openings indicate that this is not the actual Holy Bema, nor the main church of the complex, but only a station in a moving liturgical ceremony performed perhaps through the whole complex. This assumption was confirmed during the 2013 season with the revelation of a second basilica to the east (Fig. 5), even though it is still not clear, whether this is actually a second martyrion with the same function or the main church. The large quantities of table fragments, along with the benches in the central hall of the transept and at the sides of the podium, indicate ceremonies concerning propitiatory gifts, whereas the whole arrangement recalls the incensing rites (εὐχαί θυμιάματος). Those furnishings could be identified with the so-called παρατραπέζια (‘side altars’)9 – an expression used in the primary sources to describe secondary tables for the preparatory blessings 9

Trempelas 1993b, 144–152; Trempelas 1997, 18–19.

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of the offerings (εὐχαί προθέσεως) during a ‘pre-sanctifying service’, either Eucharistic bread and wine (πρόσφορον, νᾶμα), or for the blessings of other gifts (οἶνον, ἔλαιον, κηρόν, μέλι, ὀπώρας), and loaves (εὐλογίαι).10 The ritual reflected here indicates a very close affinity with the liturgical practices of the Eastern Churches, before the Introitus (Lesser Entrance), as exemplified by the Divine Liturgy of St. James, and especially the Egyptian liturgical tradition of St. Mark (Alexandrian Rite),11 and must not be confused with the offertorium (πρόθεση-προσκομιδή), when the oblation of the consecrated bread and wine arrives at the altar. These forms are still in use in the monastic Typikon of Lite (Λιτή) and reflect the emphasis on symbolism in the evolution of the Divine Liturgy in the 7th century. Τhe disposition of the gifts (wine, bread, oil, honey, candles and fruits) is the first step of this ritual. The offered gifts symbolize the offering of Jesus Christ as a sacrifice, as well as the offering of the faithful to tread upon the path that leads to the reunion of the fallen man with God, fulfilled in the Holy Communion. This is both the beginning and the end (A–Ω) of the mystery of human salvation, yet it emerged gradually within the stages of the spiritual life of each one as a person or as a congregation/ ekklesia in the history of the world, and respectively in the stages of the Divine Liturgy.12 This interpretation is attested in the east already from the 5th century by Theodore of Mopsuestia (428),13 but it was only in 614 that it was pointed out with a special glorious ritual practice in Constantinople by the Patriarch Sergios,14 on the occasion of the arrival in the capital of a fragment of the Holy Cross sent by the patrikios Niketas15, behind whom was most prob10 Galavaris 1970, 109–112. 11 Brightman 1896, 31–38; Cuming 1990; Trempelas 1993a, 23; Trempelas 1997, 22. 12 St. Maximos the Confessor: Cantarella 1931; Staniloae 1997, 175, 178 PG 91 693 C–D: Τὴν μεν οὖν πρώτην εἰς τὴν ἁγίαν Ἐκκλησίαν τοῦ ἀρχιερέως κατὰ τὴν ἱερὰν σύναξιν εἴσοδον, τῆς πρώτης τοῦ Ὑιοῦ τοῦ Θεοῦ καὶ Σωτῆρος ἡμῶν Χριστοῦ διὰ σαρκὸς εἰς τὸν κόσμον τοῦτον παρουσίας τύπον καὶ εἰκόναν φέρειν, ἐδίσασκε (ac. to Dionysios Areopagites) τὴν δὲ τοῦ λαοῦ σὺν τῷ ἱεράρχῃ γενομένην εἰς τὴν Ἐκκλησίαν εἴσοδον, τὴν ἐξ ἀγνοίας καὶ πλάνης εἰς ἐπίγνωσιν Θεοὺ ἐπιστροφἠν τῶν ἀπίστων, καὶ τὴν ἀπὸ κακίας καὶ ἀγνωσίας εἰς ἀρετὴν καὶ γνῶσιν, μετάθεσιν τῶν πιστῶν σημαίνειν. Sophronii Patriarchae Hierosolymitani Commentarius Liturgicus PG 87 3981–4001 (wrongly attributed to Sophronios, Patriarch of Jerusalem): Τὸ γοῦν προσαγόμενον πολ­ λοῖς ὀνομάζεται, καλεῖται γὰρ εὐλογία, προσφορά, ἀπαρχή, ἄρτος. Προσφοrὰ δὲ ὡς ἐξ ὅλου τοῦ ἀνθρωπείου φυράματος, οἶα τῆς φιλοτιμίας τῷ Θεῷ καὶ Κτίστη εἰς τᾶ τῶν Ἁγίων Ἅγια προσενέχθημεν ἀπαρχὴ δὲ ὡς πάντων τῷ Θεῷ προσενηνεγμένων τυγχάνουσα ἱερωτέρα και ἀνωτέρα. Ἄρτος δὲ λέγεται, ὡς τὸν οὐράνιον ἄρτον παραδηλῶν, τροφὴ ἡμῶν μεταλαμβανόντων γινόμενον. 13 Taft 2004, 35–38. 14 Philias 2006, 115. 15 Chronicon Paschale, PG 92, 988–989.

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ably St. John the Almsgiver, who succeeded in acquiring a fragment of the True Cross from the Bishop of Tiberias.

Atrium An atrium lies in between the two ecclesiastical monuments of the south wing of this huge complex (Figs. 5, 6, 12). It is an almost square peristyle atrium of 21.30  m in length (E–W) and 20.10 m in width (N–S). The width of the porticoes varies between 2.75 m (north) to 2.80 m (east and west) and 2.95 m (to the south). It is linked with the transept basilica (Building A) through three door openings (a tribelon). To the north end of this portico there is a wide door opening into a passage (of 3.26  m in width) which probably connects the atrium with an exterior yard. A small hall in a lower level to the south end of the west portico links the atrium with the structures further south and east. In that hall a marble stele with a bust of a horned man was found, fallen from a second storey (Fig. 20). It is a Dionysos bust re-carved as Alexander the Great, having horns and wearing a Phrygian cap. It is most probably related with the Syriac Alexander legend written in 630, which prophesizes victory over the Persians, portraying Heraclius as a new Alexander.16 To the north of the atrium a long hall measuring 13.85  m in length and 4.38  m in width was uncovered in 2013 (Fig. 21). It is actually the southern part of a wider space divided by a row of piers, carrying two double-arched openings. To its SW corner a kind of kiln was found in the shape of a quarter circle, with glass wasters and piles of tiles.

Fig. 20: Marble stele with a horned man bust, most probably a personification of the emperor Heraclius as the New Alexander the Great.

16 Reinink 2002; Chronopoulos 2010; Stewart forthcoming.

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Fig. 21: A workshop hall to the north of the atrium (2013 excavation).

The atrium’s eastern portico is linked through a door opening with a passage leading to the north (as yet unexcavated), whereas a door opening in the south wall is probably the link of the whole complex with the space to the south.

Building B The atrium does not have a wall at its east side, but most probably a colonnade (19.41 m in length) belonging to a hexastyle exonarthex (4.80 m in width) (Fig. 5). Further to the east the 2013 excavation revealed the west part of a second monumental structure, the total width of which is rather more than the length of the exonarthex (20.05 m). Even though the excavated area (8.30 m in 2014) is very limited, it seems that this space is divided into three aisles. A trial trench to the east indicates an inscribed or semi-inscribed cruciform order.

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Fig. 22: Plan showing the mosaic decoration in Building A.

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Fig. 23: Mosaic panel in front of the central apse depicting a vessel (kantharus) with deer on either side of it and tendrils in the back.

Structural Elements The floors of the transept basilica (Building A), as well as the central aisle of the eastern basilica (Building B), were decorated with mosaic panels, whereas the rest (transept adjacent rooms, atrium porticoes, exonarthex, side aisles of the eastern basilica [B]) were paved with Cypriot gypsum marbles (Figs. 7, 8, 16, 22, 23). The walls are constructed in zones with irregular and carved stones, in a technique, which combines traditional building methods with an innovative system of mouldings (ξυλότυπα), into which (gypsum-)plaster was poured. Revetments from Proconnesian marble with bronze joints decorated the facades. The colonnades of the transept basilica consisted of unfluted marble columns on square plinths with Ionicizing bases and mainly Corinthian or composite capitals (Corinthian-Aeolic) from Proconnesian marble (Figs. 24 and 25). The columns of the atrium were made of local limestone.

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Fig. 24: Fragment of a marble Corinthian capital.

Fig. 25: Fragment of a marble capital (Corinthian-Aeolic).

Typology The Katalymata ton Plakoton structure has striking similarities to the Great Basilica of Abu Mena (Fig. 26).17 This complex is located in the region known as the Ikingi Maryut, 45 kilometres southwest of Alexandria (Egypt). Most scholars agree that it dates to the Justinianic Period. This site was abandoned in 616 and recovered in 641.

17 Grossmann 1984; Grossmann 1989; Grossmann 2007, fig. 6.7; Egeria 2008, 80.

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The form goes back to the Constantinian martyria of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople, St. Peter in Rome and the Katapoliani in Paros18, and was renovated throughout the 5th and 6th centuries, when it appeared in small or large versions like for example the Church of St. Demetrios in Thessaloniki,19 the Church of the Prophets, Apostles and Martyrs at Gerasa,20 and the cruciform basilicas of Thasos21 and Dalmatia22. In Constantinople the closest parallel was the main church of the Blachernae constructed by Justin I (518–527),23 and in Jerusalem the Justinian shrine of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem (532),24 although their transept colonnades were semi-circular in plan. The type was renovated and reshaped again on a scale befitting the Great Church by the architects of the Emperor Justinian in the influential cruciform martyrion of St. John the Theologian at Ephesus25, the sketch of which was also used for the new phase of the Church of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople26 and for the Katapoliani of Paros27.

Towards an Interpretation Though the Akrotiri peninsula was known to Roman and Late Roman geo­ graphers28 as the seaport of the city of Kourion, none gives even a hint of 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Orlandos 1965. Bakirtzis 2002, fig. 1; Egeria 2008, 97–100. Crowfoot 1931, 30–31. Οrlandos 1951, 52–56. Dyggve 1934. Mango 1998, fig. 1. Egeria 2008, 132–135. Soteriou 1924; Hörmann – Keil – Miltner 1951; Thiel 2005. Soteriou 1924, 205–218. Orlandos 1965. Chatziioannou 1973, 314–315: Strabo: Κουριὰς ἄκρα χερσονησώδης, πόλις Κούριον ὅρμον ἔχουσα; 302 (anonymous): Σταδιασμός ἤτοι Περίπλους τῆς μεγάλης Θαλάσσης and Geographi Graeci Minores (Paris 1855) 502: Ἀπὸ τοῦ Κουριακοῦ ἐπὶ Καργαὶας στάδιοι μ΄, Ἀκρωτήριον ἐστιν ἔχον λιμένα, ὕφορμον καὶ ὕδωρ. Forty stadia are 600 feet, which in that period would have measured 188.88 m (Kountoura 1996), i.e. 7.5 kilometres. The distance between the two areas is within those limits (Leonard 1997). In later publications of Ptolemy’s Geography (Chatzipaschalis – Iacovou 1989, 82, figs. 25–26), as well as in other medieval maps, the current salt lake area is depicted as a gulf opening to the east, which was most probably the main port. References regarding a harbour of the Late Bronze Age in the vicinity of Asomatos village, north of the Salt Lake, are the result of confusion with the Late Bronze Age site in the Kyrenia District, which has the same name, Swiny 1982, 166; Blue 1997, 37; Catling 1962, 149. However, the name Kargaia could be related with the Argives, the Late Bronze Age settlers of Kourion who were probably established in the area as the preserved tradition indicates: In 1573 Étienne de Lusignan wrote: Curias era città anticamente & Regale, temporanea delle altre,

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Fig. 26: Plan of the Justinianic transept basilica (martyrion) of Abu Mina in Maryut of Egypt.

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a settlement or a pilgrimage installation that could justify the existence of such a significant ecclesiastical monument as indicated by its dimensions, architectural order and decoration. Although in the list of sites recorded by the archaeological survey it seems that five of them were flourishing in the same period, none of them is recorded in any written source. However, a strong written and oral tradition related with the foundation of the monastery of St. Nicholas of the Cats by Saint Helena and Duke Kalokairos is more probably indicative of the importance of the peninsula for the imperial navy in relation with ports,29 settlements and ecclesiastical monuments30 of the time, than of the importance of the foundation of the later monastery of St. Nicholas itself 31.



al tempo delli noue Re: & questa è appresso allamarina, discosto da Arsenoe tre leghe. Fù edificata da gli Argiui, quando re gnauano in Cipro, avanti che fusse fabricata Paffo vecchia, circa glianni del mondo 3600 avanti l’avvenimento dí Christo 1595 (fol. 7r, 7v) and […] dunque il Re Crasso ouer Argo prese l’Isolas, & edifitò la città, hora il Casal Accathu, & la città di Piscopia detta Curias [...] (fol. 35v). The later French translation adds: L’an du monde deux mil trois cents quarante & deux, Crasse, ou comme les disent, Arge, Roy des Argives, passa de Cilicie avec une armee en Cypre, & aborda un rivage plein d’arbres, où y avoit un petit bois fort espez. Là ils edifierent une ville, & l’appellerent Actes de Argives, qu’on nomme pour le iourdhuy le village d’Accanthou (91v). See the Modern Greek translation by Perdikis 2004, §20. 29 Leonard 1997, 179, fig. 13; Ault – Leonard forthcoming. 30 A) St. Marcus Catacomb in the locality known as Agios Markos lay to the west of the Kato Katalymata site (Survey E. Procopiou 11 May 2006), B) Cave-Hermitage of Agios Sylas, close to the western cape Zeugari in the locality Agios Sylas (Survey E. Procopiou 11 April 2006), C) Ruins of an Early Christian church dedicated to Agia Iphigenia in the locality Agia Phinia to the west of Agios Sylas cave (Survey E. Procopiou 26 October 2005), D) Vaulted early Byzantine chapel of St. Demetrianos (Philotheou 2006, 132, fig. 4; Procopiou 2006, 125–125, fig. 29; Procopiou 2008, 16), E) A vaulted chapel of the 18th century, Katholikon of a ruined monastery dedicated to St. George to the north of the community of Akrotiri, F) Ruined chapel of Agios Varas to the SE of the Monastery of St. Nicholas (Information from the Ecclesiastical Committee of Akrotiri), G) The church of Panagia Galousa dating to the early Middle Byzantine period for its initial phase (Procopiou 2007, 191–218), H) Ruins of Agios Eleutherios at the west bank of Kouris river close to the M1 road (Information from the Ecclesiastical Committee of Akrotiri). 31 Lusignan 1580/1968, 19–20. Τhe church of the monastery of St. Nicholas of the Cats cannot be dated before the 14th century and it is clear that the ruins of the monastery belong to the period of the 14th–16th cent. The ruins which Enlart saw to the south of the Katholikon in the 19th century (Enlart 1987, 348–352) and which were restored by the Cyprus Department of Antiquities soon after 1974 belong to the last phase of the reestablishment of the monastery by Bishop Makarios of Kition in the middle of the 18 th century (Kyriazis 1937, 96–131) and not to the 16th century, as Enlart supposed, being ignorant of the Kition codices. In written sources the monastery is found only beginning in the 15th century but mainly in the 16th, when the monks were forced by the Turks to abandon it.

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The fact that the peninsula was within the boundaries of the province of Amathus,32 and had a great strategic naval importance, not only for the province but for the whole island as well, led researchers to the historical events of the period of its date (616–640) – events, which could give an adequate explanation for the erection of the Katalymata ton Plakoton monument. In the Life of St. John the Almsgiver, the Amathusian Patriarch of Alexandria, which was written by Leontios, Bishop of Neapolis, there is crucial information about the erection by the Patriarch, between 617 and 619, most probably in the vincinity of Amathus, of a divine church so as to deposit and venerate the rescued relics of the Protomartyr Stephan and St. James, the Son of Joseph, stepbrother of Jesus Christ. To this church, which was most probably in the vicinity of Amathus and dedicated to the Protomartyr Stephan,33 he also devoted his entire personal fortune.34 Most probably after evading the Persians35 the clergy of the Patriarchate of Jerusalem found refuge on Cyprus and most probably in the vicinity of Amathus, where the Alexandrian Patriarch St. John the Almsgiver was also transferred with his clergy36 – and why not with the precious relics of his patriarchate (e.g. those of St. Menas). 32 From the ecclesiastical point of view the area is under the Bishop of Kourion. 33 Ruggieri 1991, 270. 34 Chatziioannou 1988a, 166, Addendum Α΄: Greek codex 349 of the St. Marcus Library in Venice, fol. 163ν–202: Tῶν περσικῶν οὖν στρατευμάτων ἄρδην ληϊσαμένων πᾶσαν Συρίαν, Φοινίκην τε καὶ Ἀραβίαν καὶ λοιπὰς ἄλλας πόλεις, ἠπείλουν οἱ ἀλιτήριοι καὶ αὐτὴν Ἀλεξάνδρειαν ἑλεῖν. Τότε δὴ θεόθεν γνοὺς ὁ ἅγιος ἐπιβουλήν τινα μελεττωμένην γενήσεσθαι κατ’αὐτοῦ φονικήν, ἐπὶ τὴν οἰκείαν πατρίδα Κύπρον ἐξέπλευσεν. Ἀσπαγούριος δὲ τις τοὔνομα στρατηγὸς ἐπὶ Κωνσταντίαν τὴν κατὰ Κύπρον σταλεὶς καὶ μὴ δεχθεὶς παρὰ τῶν τῆς πόλεως, εἰς πόλεμον ὡπλίσθη κατ’ αὐτῶν κἀκεῖνοι δὲ κατ’ αὐτοῦ ἀνθωπλίζοντο˙ οἱ καὶ πρὸς τὸν κατ’ ἀλλήλων φόνον ὅσον οὕπω χωρεῖν ὁμοσε ἔμελλον, εἰ μὴ προκαταλαβὼν ὁ τοῦ εἰρηνικοῦ μαθητὴς Ἰωάννης ὁ πανθαύμαστος ἀμφότερα τὰ μέρη πρὸς εἰρηνικὰς κατά καταλλαγὰς μετέβαλεν καὶ καλῶς συνεβίβασεν. Ὁ αὐτός ποτε λείψανα δεξάμενος ἐξ Ἱεροσολύμων Στεφάνου τοῦ πρωτομάρτυρος καὶ Ἰακώβου τοῦ Θεαδέλφου θεῖον τε δειμάμενος οἶκον ἐπ’ ὀνόματι τούτου τοῦ μεγάλου πρωτομάρτυρος, τούτῳ πάντα τὰ ὑπάρχοντα αὐτοῦ καταγραψάμενως φιλοφρόνως ἀφιέρωσεν. Ἰσαάκιος τοίνυν ὁ τότε στρατηγὸς τὴν Ἀλεξανδρέων πόλιν προδούς, φυγὰς τὴν Κύπρον κατέλαβεν˙ ὃς εὑρὼν ἐκεῖσε τὸν ἁγιώτατον πάπαν, συσκευὴν κατ’ αὐτοῦ φονικὴν κατειργάσατο, ὅπως τῇ δευτέρᾳ τῆς πρὸ τῶν βαΐων ἑβδομάδος τοῦτον διαχειρίσηται. 35 In the Life of Saint Anastasius the Persian it is attested that soon after his martyrdom in 627 his brother tried to translate his relics to the monastery of his tonsure, St. Sabba. Passing from Jerusalem they found nobody except Bishop Elijah, a presence that was regarded as God’s plan (Flusin 1992, II. ch. 2, 100–101). 36 Regarding the fate of other Christians in Egypt, an eleventh-century source notes that St. John the Almsgiver left from Alexandria with just a remnant of his congregation ([…] ἀνεχώρησεν ἐκεῖθεν οὖ μετὰ πολλῶν τῶν ὑπ’αὐτοῦ λαὀν); Nikon of the Black Mountain, Taktikon (Sinai, MS gr. 436, folio 172).

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The dating of the monument, its close typological relation with the famous Justinianic martyrion of Abu Mina, in Maryut of Alexandria, its short period of use, the special care in its design for venerating at least six relics of saints or privileged persons, as well as the presence of symbols in the mosaic decoration related with the propaganda of Emperor Heraclius for the Persian invasions,37 as spread through the writings of George of Pisidia38 and the historians of that period, indicate that this monument must have been part of a complex erected within the context of his policy probably for refugees and ransomed relics from the destroyed monasteries of the Holy Land39, Syria, or/and Alexandria, as the above text attests, or even for the heroes of Heraclius’ ‘Crusade’40. The raids and occupation of Syria (610–613), Palestine (614) and Egypt (619) by the Persians, the Avar-Persian alliance that led to the siege of Constantinople (626),41 the struggles for the defense of the city and the recapture of important imperial possessions, ending with the erection of the Holy Cross in Jerusalem by Heraclius (630), the tribulations of heresies (Nestorianism, 37 The first striking symbol indicating the propaganda of Heraclius about the Persian wars is the hexagram (Shield of David), depicted in the centre of the north panel of the central aisle of the north branch. This is a motif found in Cyprus only in the seventh century (the other known example is dated to 620, and belongs to the renovation of the St. Philon’s Basilica of Karpasia (Taylor – Megaw 1981, 237, 250, pl. XLIII; Michaelides 1993, 95, figs. 18f.). Most probably they are both symbols of the New David, a name attributed to Emperor Heraclius, symbolizing his efforts against the Persians – the new Goliath (de Boor 1883, 335: Theophanis Chronographia: Ἡρακλείῳ ἐν τῇ ἀνατολῇ Δαυίδ). In the same context of that propaganda the representations on the silver plates of Lapithos can be explained (Wander 1973). The second intriguing motif lay in the corridor joining the mutatorium exedra with the central aisle of the east branch. There, two attached squares include a mosaic with a couple of pumpkins and a pair of Persian sandals (Piccirillo 1993, 76–78). The pumpkins have already been interpreted as a symbol of the nations in sin and ignorance, as the Prophecy of Jonas indicates (Trempelas 1993b, 78–85; Marki 2005, 86). As St. Theodore of Sykeon, who was respected by Heraclius’ father, noted ἐὰν μὴ ἐπιστρέψωμεν καὶ μετανοήσωμεν πρὸς τὸν Θεὸν, ὥστε διαλλαγῆναι ἡμῖν ὡς ἐπὶ τῶν Νινευϊτῶν, πάλιν ἐλεύσεται μετὰ δυνάμεως πολλῆς καὶ ἐρημώσει πᾶσαν τὴν γῆν ἔως θαλάσσης. 38 George of Pisidia’s epic poems, such as In restitutionem S. Crucis, Expeditio Persica, and Heraclias combine classical themes with Christian values for the purpose of political propaganda. But there are other examples, like the Syriac Alexander Legend. There is a growing amount of scholarly literature on this subject: Reinink 1985, 263–281, and Reinink 2002, 84–91. Also see the general summary by Regan 2006, 15, 105, 126, and more recently, Chronopoulos 2010. 39 Concerning the destruction of monasteries, churches and sites in 614 see Hirschfeld 1992, 16; Dauphin 1993, 46; Dauphin – Edelstein 1993, 53; Aviam 1993, 65; Tzaferis 1993, 77, 205; Patrich 1993, 113 (the Holy Sepulchre was not totally destroyed); Hirschfeld 1993, 152; Hizmi 1993, 163; Magen 1993, 174. 40 The possibility of honouring heroes is only an open possibility. As far as I know there are no such references in written sources. Regarding the characterization of the campaigns of Heraclius as a crusade see Regan 2006 and Kolia-Dermitzaki 1991. 41 See chronological table of Kaegi 2003, 325.

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Monophysitism, Monothelistism and Monoergetism), the conflicts with the Jews and the appearance of the Arab danger (634), all this constituted an explosive and critical situation for the period and the region. Cyprus, being one of the most reliable and secure parts of the imperial administrative system of the East, was designated as an important stopover for the restructuring of the defense system of the empire, as well as for the coherence of its spiritual powers. A dialogue between Heraclius and the Bishop of Edessa, Cyrus, after 619 is emblematic of this, as Heraclius recommends that Cyrus should go to Cyprus to learn how to read the ecclesiastical books,42 while stories about epiphanies of Cypriot saints to Monophysite monks on Cyprus urging them to rejoin Chalcedonian Christianity are characteristic of the prestige that the Cypriot church enjoyed in the region during that period.43 The relationship which developed between Emperor Heraclius’ most trustworthy general, his cousin Niketas, and the family of the eparchos (έπαρχος) of Cyprus, Epiphanius, and especially with his son John, mentioned by Leontios,44 was of far-reaching importance. John was recommended by Niketas for the throne of the Alexandrian Patriarchate as the most trustworthy and appropriate person to restore the prestige of the church and the ecclesiastical order in Egypt. His activity and presence in Amathus, which has gradually been unfolded by recent archaeological research, must have convinced Niketas of his charismatic personality. This relationship must have been initiated by the care and close collaboration of the general and the provincial governor in the reformation of the defense system in the area, including the installation or revival of naval bases (the promontories of Drepanon and Cats, as well as Karpasia)45 and fortifications (walls of Amathus),46 used probably for the strengthening of Heraclius’ authority in Egypt (609–610), and the reorganization of his forces,47 along with actions aiming at a spiritual renaissance undertaken personally by John (e.g. the foundation of monasteries).48

42 Chrysos 1999, 207. 43 Chrysos 1999, 207–208: John, a Monophysite monk from Egypt, arrived in Cyprus after the Persian invasion in 619. He found other Monophysite priests and monks there who gave him Holy Communion but after a miraculous vision of St. Epiphanius he returned to the orthodox dogma. 44 Festugière 1974, 261; Chrysos 1984, 61. 45 Taylor – Megaw 1981, 250. 46 Aupert – Leriche 1994, 337, 340–341; Aupert – Balandier – Leriche 2008. 47 Chrysos 1984, 60–61; Dunn 1998, 797. 48 Pralong 1994, 455; Chatziioannou 1988b; Prophet Eliah, Germasogeia: Procopiou 2001, 71.

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Internal unity was one of the major goals of these two men, Niketas and St. John. St. John in particular could not attain unity without the spiritual charity. His charity (both spiritual and physical) is an expression of his devotion to this task and surpassed even the expectations of the patrikios Niketas.49 During his tenure at the Patriarchate of Alexandria (610–617) he worked for the redemption of hostages, prisoners and captives of the Persian invasion, their rehabilitation,50 as well as the retrieval of the honours to the rescued or ransomed holy relics (e.g. fragment of the Holy Cross saved by the Bishop of Tiberias).51 An important role to that work was given by St. John to Theodoros,52 who also recommended that he become Bishop of Amathus, and most probably even from that rank he continued the same mission even after St. John’s departure from this life (619). New settlement sites or extensive expansions are associated with more than one of the ecclesiastical monuments of the early 7th century – like Kalavasos,53 the basilicas B and C of Peyia,54 the Agia Mavri Basilica at Alassa and the settlement at that spot,55 the PylaKoutsopetria site with its monastery,56 and probably the new basilicas located under the Panagia tou Kampou Church in Khirokitia57 and under the Panagia Church of Kofinou58. 49 50 51 52

53 54 55 56 57 58

Kaegi 2003, 81. Festugière 1974, 350, 357–358; Kaegi 2003, 91. Kaegi 2003, 91. Chatziioannou 1988a, 176, Παράρτημα Β΄: Paris Codex 1487 fol. 134r–137r, 108–112: Περσῶν γὰρ τὸ τηνικαῦτα τὴν Σύρων γῆν πᾶσαν ληϊσαμένων, οἱ τὰς τούτων χεῖρας ἐκφυγεῖν δυνηθέντες, ὅσοι τε τῶν λαϊκῶν ἦσαν ἄρχοντες ὁμοῦ καὶ ἀρχόμενοι, καὶ ὅσοι τοῦ κλήρου αὐτοῖς ἐπισκόποις εἰς Ἀλεξάνδρειαν καταφεύγουσιν, οἷς πᾶσιν ὁ πλούσιος ἐκεῖνος καὶ ἀστεναχώρητος ἑστιάτωρ ἱλαρῶς καθ’ ἑκάστην ἐχορήγει τὰ πρὸς τὴν χρείαν, οὐ πρὸς τὸ πλῆθος βλέπων τῶν δεομένων, ἵνα τι καὶ μικρόψυχον ὑποστῇ, ἀλλὰ πρὸς τὸν ἀνοίγοντα χεῖρα καὶ παντὶ ζώῳ εὐδοκίας μεταδίδοντα. Ρασμιόζου δὲ τοῦ ἀρχιστρατήγου Χοσρόου, τοὺς σεβασμίους τῶν Ἱεροσολύμων τόπους δῃώσαντός τε καὶ ἐκπορθήσαντος, ἐπεὶ τοῦτον ἤκουσεν ὁ τοῦ Θεοῦ ἄνθρωπος, καὶ ὡς πάντα τὰ ἅγια πυρὶ παρεδόθη, θρηνεῖ μέν ἐπίσης Ἱερεμίᾳ το γεγονός, οὐ μέχρι δὲ τούτου τὸ συμπαθὲς ἵστησι, ἀλλὰ καὶ Κτήσιππόν τινα θεοφιλῆ ἄνθρωπον ἀποστέλλει χρυσίον αὐτῷ συχνὸν ἐγχειρίσας, σῖτον τε καὶ τροφὰς ἑτέρας καὶ περιβόλαια καὶ πρὸς τὴν αὐτῶν μετακομιδὴν ὑποζύγια πάμπολλα, ὁμοῦ μὲν τὴν ἐρήμωσιν κατοψώμενον, ὁμοῦ δὲ τοὺς ἐκ τῆς αἰχμαλωσίας περιλειφθέντας ἱκανῶς διὰ τῶν εἰρημένων ἀνακτησόμενον. Πρὸς τούτῳ καὶ Θεόδωρον Ἀμαθοῦντος ἐπίσκοπον καὶ Ἀναστάσιον τὸν τoῦ ὃρους τοῦ μεγάλου καθηγουμένου Ἀντωνίου καὶ Γρηγόριον Ρινοκουρούρων ἐπίσκοπον ἐπὶ ἀναλήψει τῶν αἰχμαλώτων ἐκπέμπει, χρυσίον οὐκ εὐάριθμητον παρασχόμενος. Rautman 2003, 235–239. Megaw 1974, 70–72; Bakirtzis 1995, 251. Pointed out by Pavlos Flourentzos: Flourentzos 1996, 37. Excavated by Maria Hadjicosti: Hadjicosti 1993. Excavation conducted by the writer in 2010 (see Annual Report of the Department of Antiquities 2010 under publication). Procopiou 2014a; Dimitriou – Procopiou 2014.

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Somewhere, probably in one of those sites, the Orthodox Bishop of Edessa, Paul, in 619 found shelter, as is mentioned by Jacob, the Syrian Bishop of Edessa.59 The still ongoing excavation at the Katalymata ton Plakoton site has revealed from the earth and from historical sources as well important information about the very critical period of the early 7th century. It elucidates the strategic role of the island regarding the naval control of the Eastern Mediterranean and the defence system of the Eastern Provinces of the Empire.

Bibliography Ault – Leonard forthcoming = Bradley A. Ault – J. R. Leonard, ‘The AkrotiriDreamer’s Bay Ancient Port Project: Ancient Kourias Found?’, in: Ellen Herscher (ed.), The Ancient Kourion Area: Penn Museum’s Legacy and Recent Research in Cyprus. Proceedings of a conference held at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, March 27– 29, 2009 (forthcoming). Aupert – Leriche 1994 = Pierre Aupert – Pierre Leriche, ‘Fortifications et histoire à Amathonte’, in: Revue des études anciennes 96, 1994.1–2, 337–348. Aupert – Balandier – Leriche 2008 = Pierre Aupert – Claire Balandier – Pierre Leriche, ‘Amathonte: la muraille’, in: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 132.2, 2008, 841–860. Aviam 1993 = Mordechai Aviam, ‘Horvat Hesheq: A Church in Upper Galilee’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 54–65. Bakirtzis 1995 = Charalampos Bakirtzis, ‘The role of Cyprus in the grain supply of Constantinople in the early Christian period’, in: Vassos Karageorghis – Demetrios Michaelides (eds.), Proceedings of the International Symposium ‘Cyprus and the Sea’, Nicosia 25–26 September, 1993 (Nicosia 1995) 247–253. Bakirtzis 2002 = Charalampos Bakirtzis, ‘Pilgrimage to Thessalonike: The tomb of St. Demetrios’, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 56, 2002, 175–192. Blue 1997 = Lucy K. Blue, ‘Cyprus and Cilicia: The Typology and Paleogeography of Second Millennium Harbors’, in: Stuart Swiny – Robert L. Hohlfelder – Helena Wylde Swiny (eds.), Res Maritimae, Cyprus and the Eastern Mediterranean from Prehistory to Late Antiquity, Proceedings of the Second International Symposium ‘Cities and the Sea’, Nicosia, Cyprus, October 8–22, 1994 (Atlanta 1997) 31–43. Brightman 1896 = Frank E. Brightman, Liturgies Eastern and Western (Oxford 1896). Cantarella 1931 = S. Massimo Confessore [Maximus Confessor], La mistagogia ed altri scritti, ed. by Raffaele Cantarella (Florence 1931). Catling 1962 = Hector Catling, ‘Patterns of Settlement in Bronze Age Cyprus’, in: Opuscula Atheniensia 4, 1962, 129–169. 59 Chrysos 1999, 207.

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Chatziioannou 1973 = Kyriakos Chatziioannou, Ἡ ἀρχαία Kύπρος εἰς τάς ἑλληνικάς πηγάς, vol. 2 (Nicosia 1973). Chatziioannou 1988a = Kyriakos Chatziioannou, Λεοντίου Eπισκόπου Nεαπόλεως Kύπρου, Bίος του Aγίου Iωάννου του Eλεήμονος (Nicosia 1988). Chatziioannou 1988b = Kyriakos Chatziioannou ‘Τα μοναστηριακά ιδρύματα του Αγίου Ιωάννου του Ελεήμονος στην Αμαθούντα και οι εκεί ανασκαφές του Τμήματος Αρχαιοτήτων’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 1988.2, 235–238. Chatzipaschalis – Iacovou 1989 = Andreas Chatzipaschalis – Maria Iacovou, Xάρτες και Άτλαντες (Nicosia 1989). Chronopoulos 2010 = Ιoannis Chronopoulos, Ηράκλειος ο Μ. Αλέξανδρος του Βυζαντίου (Athens 2010). Chrysos 1984 = Evangelos Chrysos, ‘Ὁ Ἡράκλειος στην Κύπρο’, in: Kostas Ν. Konstantinidis (ed.), Πρακτικά Συμποσίου Κυπριακής Ιστορίας, Λευκωσία 2–3 Μαΐου 1983 (Ioannina 1984) 53–62. Chrysos 1999 = Evangelos Chrysos, ‘Ἀπὸ τὴν ἱστορία τοῦ μοναχισμοῦ στὴν Κύπρο τόν 7ο αἰῶνα’, in: Ἐπετηρίς Κέντρου Μελετῶν Ἱερᾶς Μονῆς Κύκκου 4, 1999, 205–218. Crowfoot 1931 = John W. Crowfoot, Churches at Jerash (London 1931). Cuming 1990 = Geoffrey J. Cuming, The Liturgy of St. Mark (Rome 1990). Dauphin 1993 = Claudin Dauphin, ‘A Byzantine Ecclesiastical Farm at Shelomi’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 43–48. Dauphin – Edelstein 1993 = Claudin Dauphin – Gershon Edelstein, ‘The Byzantine church at Nahariya’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 49–53. De Boor 1883 = Carl de Boor, Theophanis Chronographia, vol. 1 (Leipzig 1883). Dimitriou – Procopiou 2014 = Dimitra Dimitriou – Eleni Procopiou, ‘Ανασκαφική έρευνα στην Παναγιά της Κοφίνου’, in: Eleni Procopiou – Nikoletta Pyrrou (eds.), Ευμάθιος Φιλοκάλης – Ανάδειξη βυζαντινών μνημείων Κρήτης και Κύπρου (Rethymno 2014) 240–249. Dunn 1998 = Archibald W. Dunn, ‘Heraclius, “reconstruction of cities” and their sixth-century Balkan antecedents’, in: Nenad Cambi – Emilio Marin (eds.), Acta XIII Congressus Internationalis Archaeologiae Christianae (Split – Poreč 25. 9. – 1. 10. 1994), vol. 2 (Vatican City 1998) 795–806. Dyggve 1934 = Ejnar Dyggve, ‘Salona Christiana’, in: Atti del III congresso internationale di archeologia cristiana, Ravenna 25–30 settembre 1932 (Rome 1934) 237–254. Egeria 2008 = Egeria. Monuments of Faith in the Medieval Mediterranean (Athens 2008). Enlart 1987 = Camille Enlart, Gothic Art and the Renaissance in Cyprus (London 1987; 1st edition 1899 in French). Festugière 1974 = André Jean Festugière, Léontios de Néapolis. Vie de Syméon le Fou et vie de Jean de Chypre (Paris 1974). Flourentzos 1996 = Pavlos Flourentzos, Excavations in the Kouris Valley, vol. 2: The Basilica of Alassa (Nicosia 1996). Flusin 1992 = Bernard Flusin, Saint Anastase le Perse et l’histoire de la Palestine au début du VIIe siécle, vol. 1: Les textes (Paris 1992).

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Galavaris 1970 = George Galavaris, Bread and the liturgy. The symbolism of early Christian and Byzantine bread stamps (Madison 1970). Grossmann 1980 = Peter Grossmann, ‘Neue Funde aus dem Gebiet von Abi Mina’, in: Πρακτικά του 10ου Διεθνούς Συνεδρίου Xριστιανικής Aρχαιολογίας, Θεσσαλονίκη, 28 Σεττεμβρίου – 4 Οκτοβρίου 1980, vol. 2 (Thessaloniki 1984) 141–151. Grossmann 1989 = Peter Grossmann, Abu Mina, vol. 1: Die Gruftkirche und die Gruft (Mainz 1989). Grossmann 2007 = Peter Grossmann, ‘Early Christian architecture in Egypt and its relationship to the architecture of the Byzantine world’, in: Roger S. Bagnall, (ed.), Egypt in the Byzantine world, 300–700 (Cambridge 2007) 103–136. Hadjicosti 1993 = Maria Hadjicosti, ‘Excavations at Pyla Koutsopetria’, in: Annual Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 1993, 70–72. Hirschfeld 1992 = Yizhar Hirschfeld, The Judean Desert Monasteries in the Byzantine Period (New Haven – London 1992). Hirschfeld 1993 = Yizhar Hirschfeld, ‘Churches in Judea and the Judean Desert’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 147– 154. Hizmi 1993 = Hamaya Hizmi, ‘The Byzantine Church at Khirbet el-Beiyûdât in the Lower Jordan Valley’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 155–163. Hörmann – Keil – Miltner 1951 = Hans Hörmann – Josef Keil – Franz Miltner, Die Johanneskirche. Forschungen in Ephesos, vol. 4,3 (Vienna 1951). Kaegi 2003 = Walter E. Kaegi, Heraclius, Emperor of Byzantium (Cambridge 2003). Kolia-Dermitzaki 1991 = Athina Kolia-Dermitzaki, Ο βυζαντινός ιερός πόλεμος. Η έννοια και η προβολή του θρησκευτικού πολέμου στο Βυζάντιο (Athens 1991). Κountoura 1996 = Argyriou M. Kountoura, Τα αρχαία μέτρα, Ελληνικά, Ρωμαϊκά, Βυζαντινά (Thessaloniki 1996). Κyriazis 1937 = Nikos Kyriazis, ‘Παλαιογραφικά’, in: Kυπριακά Xρονικά 12.3, 1937, 96–131. Laskaris 1996 = Nikolaos Laskaris, ‘Παλαιοχριστιανικά και βυζαντινά ταφικά μνημεία της Ελλάδος’, in: Βυζαντιακά 16, 1996, 295–350. Leonard 1997 = John R. Leonard, ‘Harbor Terminology in Roman Periploi’, in: Stuart Swiny – Robert L. Hohlfelder – Helena Wylde Swiny (eds.), Res Maritimae – Cyprus and the Eastern Mediterranean from Prehistory to Late Antiquity, Proceedings of the Second International Symposium ‘Cities on the Sea’, Nicosia, Cyprus, October 8–22, 1994 (Atlanta 1997) 163–200. Lusignan 1580/1968 = Estienne de Lusignan, Description de toute l’isle de Cypre (Paris 1580, reprint Brussels 1968). Magen 1993 = Yitzhak. Magen, ‘The Monastery of St. Martyrius at Maale Adummin’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 170–196. Mango 1998 = Cyril A. Mango, ‘The origins of the Blachernae shrine at Constantinople’, in: Nenad Cambi – Emilio Marin (eds.), Acta XIII Congressus

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Internationalis Archaeologiae Christianae, Split – Poreč (25.9. – 1.10.1994), vol. 2 (Vatican City 1998) 61–76. Marki 2005 = Efterpi Marki, ‘Η απεικόνιση των οπωρών στην παλαιοχριστιανική τέχνη. Η περίπτωση της Θεσσαλονίκης’, in: Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας 26, 2005, 85–92. Megaw 1974 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Byzantine Architecture and Decoration in Cyprus: Metropolitan or Provincial?’, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 28, 1974, 60–88. Michaelides 1993 = Demetrios Michaelides, ‘Opus Sectile in Cyprus’, in: Anthony A. M. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’, Papers Given at the Twenty–Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 69–113. Οrlandos 1951 = Anastasios K. Orlandos, ‘Η σταυρική βασιλική της Θάσου’, in: Αρχείον των Βυζαντινών Μνημείων της Ελλάδος 7, 1951, 3–61. Οrlandos 1965 = Anastasios K. Orlandos, Η πρόσφατος αναστήλωσις της Καταπολιανής της Πάρου (Athens 1965). Pallas 1954 = Dimitrios I. Pallas, ‘Αἱ παρ΄ Εὐσεβίῳ ἐξέδραι τῶν ἐκκλησιῶν τῆς Παλαιστίνης’, in: Θεολογία 25, 1954, 470–483 (reprinted in: Συναγωγή μελετῶν βυζαντινῆς ἀρχαιολογίας, vol. 1 [Athens 1987–1988] 49–97). Patrich 1993 = Joseph Patrich, ‘The Early Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Light of Excavations and Restoration’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed, (Jerusalem 1993) 101–117. Perdikis 2004 = Stylianos K. Perdikis, Λογίζου Σκευοφύλακος Κρονικὰ, ἤγουν χρονογραφία τοῦ νησσίου τῆς Κύπρου, Chorograffia et breve historia universale dell’isola de Cipro, vol. 1 (Nicosia 2004). Philias 2006 = Georgios N. Philias, Παράδοση και εξέλιξη στη λατρεία της εκκλησίας (Athens 2006). Philips 1962 = J. R. Philips, ‘The Byzantine Bronze Coins of Alexandria in the Seventh Century’, in: The Numismatic Chronicle (7th ser.) 2, 1962, 225241. Philotheou 2006 = George Philotheou, ‘Τα εκκλησιαστικά μνημεία της Φραγκο­ κρατίας Ενετοκρατίας’, in: Anna Marangou (ed.), Λεμεσός – Ταξίδι στους χρόνους μιας πόλης (Limassol 2006) 129–150. Piccirillo 1993 = Michele Piccirillo, The mosaics of Jordan (Amman 1993). Pralong 1994 = Annie Pralong, ‘La basilique de l’Acropole d’Amathonte (Chypre)’, in: Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana, 70, 1994, 411–455. Procopiou 1997 = Eleni Procopiou, ‘Akrotiri-Lania’, ‘Basilique paléochrétienne’ and ‘Souni-Chiliandri’, in: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 121, 1997, 902 (Akrotiri-Lania), 904–905 (Amathonte, basilique paléochrétrienne), 929 (Souni-Chiliandri), and in: Annual Report of the Department of Antiquities 1996, 47–49. Procopiou 2001 = Eleni Procopiou, ‘Excavations at Germasogeia-Kalogeroi’, in: Annual Report of the Department of Antiquities 2001, 71. Procopiou 2006 = Eleni Procopiou, ‘Τα μνημεία της πόλης και Επαρχίας Λεμεσού κατά την παλαιοχριστιανική, πρωτοβυζαντινή και μεσοβυζαντινή περίοδο 324–1191’, in: Anna Marangou (ed.), Λεμεσός – Ταξίδι στους χρόνους μιας πόλης (Limassol 2006) 113–128.

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Procopiou 2007= Eleni Procopiou, O συνεπτυμένος σταυροειδής εγγεγραμμένος ναός στην Κύπρο (9ος–12ος). Μουσείο Ιεράς Μονής Κύκκου, vol. 2 (Nicosia 2007). Procopiou 2008 = Eleni Procopiou, ‘Iερός ναός Αρχαγγέλου Μιχαήλ, Κελλάκι: Συμβολή στη μελέτη των καμαροσκέπαστων μεσοβυζαντινών ναών της Επαρχίας Λεμεσού’, in: Κυπριακαί Σπουδαί 70, 2006, 13–17, 219–228. Procopiou 2014a = Eleni Procopiou, ‘Η αρχιτεκτονική του ναού της Παναγίας Κοφίνου’, in: Eleni Procopiou – Nikoletta Pyrrou (eds.), Ευμάθιος Φιλο­ κάλης – Ανάδειξη βυζαντινών μνημείων Κρήτης και Κύπρου (Rethymno 2014) 220–239. Procopiou 2014b = Eleni Procopiou, ‘The Katalymata ton Plakoton: New light from the Recent Archaeological Research in Byzantine Cyprus’, in: Charles Anthony Stewart – Thomas W. Davis – Annemarie Weyl Carr, Cyprus and the Balance of Empires: Art and Archaeology from Justinian I to Cœur de Lion (Boston 2014) 69–98. Rautman 2003 = Marcus L. Rautman, A Cypriot Village of Late Antiquity, Kalavasos-Kopetra in the Upper Vasilikos Valley. Journal of Roman archaeology, supplementary series, vol. 52 (Portsmouth 2003). Regan 2006 = Geoffrey Regan, Ηράκλειος. Ο πρώτος Σταυροφόρος (Athens 2006). Reinink 1985 = Gerrit J. Reinink, ‘Die Entstehung der syrischen Alexanderlegende als politisch-religiöse Propagandaschrift für Herakleios’ Kirchenpolitik’, in: Carl Laga – J. A. Munitz – L. van Rompay (eds.), After Chalcedon. Studies in Theology and Church History Offered to Professor Albert van Roey for his Seventieth Birthday. Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta, vol. 18 (Leuven 1985) 263–281. Reinink 2002 = Gerrit J. Reinink, ‘Heraclius, the New Alexander. Apocalyptic prophesies during the reign of Heraclius’, in: Gerrit J. Reinink – Bernard H. Stolte (eds.), The reign of Heraclius (610–641). Crisis and Confrontation (Leuven 2002) 81–94. Ruggieri 1991 = Vincenzo Ruggieri, Byzantine religious architecture (582–867): Its history and structural elements (Rome 1991). Soteriou 1924 = Georgios Soteriou, ‘Ἀνασκαφαὶ τοῦ Βυζαντινοῦ Ναοῦ Ἰωάννου τοῦ Θεολόγου ἐν Ἐφέσῳ’, in: Αρχαιολογικόν Δελτίον 7, 1921–1922, 89– 226. Staniloae 1997 = Dimitru Staniloae, Μυσταγωγία του Αγίου Μαξίμου του Ομολο­ γητού (Athens 1997, 3rd ed.). Stewart forthcoming = Charles Antony Stewart, ‘The Alexander-Heraclius Stele: Byzantine Literature Manifested in Sculpture’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2016. Stouphi-Poulimenou 1999 = Ioanna Stouphi-Poulimenou, Το φράγμα τού Ιερού Βήματος στα παλαιοχριστιανικά μνημεία της Ελλάδος (Athens 1999). Swiny 1982 = Helena Wylde Swiny, An archaeological guide to the ancient Kourion area and the Akrotiri Peninsula (Nicosia 1982). Taft 2004 = Robert F. Taft, A History of the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, vol. 2: The Great Entrance: A History of the Transfer of Gifts and Other Pre-anaphoral Rites (Rome 2004, 4th revised ed.).

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Taylor – Megaw 1981 = Joan du Plat Taylor – Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Excavations at Ayios Philon – The ancient Carpasia, Part II’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 1981, 209–250. Thiel 2005 = Andreas Thiel, Die Johanneskirche in Ephesos (Wiesbaden 2005). Trempelas 1993a = Panagiotis N. Trempelas, Λειτουργικοί τύποι Αἰγύπτου καῖ Ἀνατολῆς. Συμβολαὶ εἰς τὴν Ἱστορίαν τῆς Χριστιανικῆς λατρείας, vol. 2 (Athens 1993, 2nd ed.). Trempelas 1993b = Panagiotis N. Trempelas, Ὁ Προφήτης Ἰωνᾶς (Athens 1993). Trempelas 1997 = Panagiotis N. Trempelas, Αἱ τρεῖς Λειτουργίαι κατὰ τοὺς ἐν Ἀθῆναις κώδικας (Athens 1997, 3rd ed.). Tzaferis 1993 = Vassilios Tzaferis, ‘The Early Christian Holy Site at Shepherds’ Field’, in: Yoram Tsafrir (ed.), Ancient churches revealed (Jerusalem 1993) 204–206. Wander 1973 = Steven H. Wander, ‘The Cyprus Plates: The Story of David and Goliath’, in: Metropolitan Museum Journal 8, 1973, 89–104.

Photo credits Fig. 1: Colonel J. Last and Chr. Polykarpou. – Fig. 2: Google Earth with markings by the author. – Figs. 4, 6: D. Skarlatos, Cyprus University of Technology, Limassol. – Figs. 3, 9–11, 13, 15, 17, 19–21, 23, 25: Eleni Procopiou. – Fig. 5: M. Makri Chamberlain. – Figs. 7, 8, 16: Department of Antiquities, Cyprus. – Fig. 12: British Royal Air Force. – Figs. 18, 24: F. Sharbel. – Fig. 26: redrawn by C. A. Stewart after Grossmann 1989.

Eleni Procopiou

Department of Antiquities, Cyprus, 1 Museum Street, 1516 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

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Maria Parani

Living in a Sweet Land: The Material Culture of Daily Life on Cyprus, 13th–14th Centuries*

When Richard the Lionheart sold Cyprus to the dispossessed king of Jerusalem Guy de Lusignan in 1192, he set in motion the events that would lead to the transformation of the erstwhile province of the Byzantine Empire into a successful and, for at least the first 150 years of its existence, a peaceful and thriving crusader kingdom under the French Lusignan dynasty. The surviving material witnesses of this period – the castles, sugar-refineries, churches, wall-paintings, icons, manuscripts, sculptures, tombstones, ceramics, and coinage – constitute the focus of a constantly expanding corpus of scientific studies dedicated to discussions of types, styles, function and meaning, topography and distribution, economics of production and patronage. They are also at the heart of a number of fruitful enquiries into questions of cultural identity and the dynamic interaction between the two dominant and best documented ethnic and religious groups on Cyprus, the Orthodox Greeks and the Catholic Franks, thus contributing to the further elucidation of the social, religious, and cultural history of the insular kingdom. Not least, these tangible remains are being profitably employed to trace the role of Cyprus in and its contribution to the intricate communication and exchange networks that animated the multi-ethnic, multi-faith, multi-lingual, and multi-cultural world that was the Eastern Mediterranean during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.1 Yet, despite significant advances made in our understanding of certain aspects of the material culture of Cyprus during the Frankish or medieval *

An early version of this paper was delivered at the study day ‘Cyprus from Byzantium to the Renaissance’ organized at Dumbarton Oaks, Washington D.C., on April 1, 2011. I am grateful to the editors of the present volume, Sabine Rogge and Michael Grünbart, for the opportunity to present the findings of this survey here.

1 For a general and informative overview of society, economy, religion, and culture in Cyprus during the period under consideration here, see the studies collected in NicolaouKonnari – Schabel 2005.

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period as it is often called, with architecture and monumental religious painting coming readily to mind,2 there are others that still remain understudied and, consequently, elusive. The realia of daily life on medieval Cyprus fall under this category, with the significant exception of medieval Cypriot ceramic production.3 Beyond pottery and especially ceramic glazed fine wares, our knowledge of the material culture of daily life in the medieval kingdom of Cyprus remains fragmentary and incomplete largely as a consequence of the nature of the archaeological investigation of this particular period. Though a number of regional archaeological surveys help to conjure an image of a populated Cypriot countryside from the late twelfth century onwards,4 the targeted and systematic archaeological exploration and, most importantly, publication of non-ecclesiastical medieval sites, whether urban or rural, has so far been limited to a handful of cases. One has in mind in particular the early thirteenth-century castle of Saranda Kolones at Paphos,5 the sugar-refineries at Episkopi, Kouklia, and Kolossi,6 and the late fourteenth-century royal manor at Potamia with its surrounding area.7 Admittedly, medieval occupation layers are often revealed during the archaeological investigation of important ancient sites such as, for example, Polis Chrysochous/Arsinoe at the north-western part of the island8 or the Roman theatre and the great late antique basilica of Chrysopolitissa/Ayia Kyriaki at Paphos,9 but these still await final publication. Also in process of publication are the results of two major urban rescue excavations in Nicosia that brought to light significant medieval archaeological deposits. The remains revealed in Area VIII of the Hill of Ayios Georgios comprise at least four successive phases of ecclesiastical buildings. According to preliminary observations by the excavator, Despina Pilides, the smaller church associated with Phase 4 could have been built in the thirteenth or the fourteenth century and was apparently destroyed in the sixteenth. It was associated with a number of tombs, the study of which is expected to provide impor2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

For two recent contributions, see Petre 2012; Carr – Nicolaïdès 2012. For the most recent addition to the already extensive body of the relevant scientific literature, see Papanikola-Bakirtzis – Coureas 2014.. See, for instance, Symeonoglou 1972; Catling 1982; Wallace 1982; Gregory 1987 and 1993; Given – Knapp 2003, 284–294 (by Michael Given and Timothy E. Gregory); Todd 2004; Moore – Gregory 2011. Megaw 1971, 1972a, 1972b, 1982, 1984; Rosser 1985, 1987, 1997, 2004. Von Wartburg 2001; see also the contribution of Marina Solomidou-Ieronymidou in the present volume. François – Vallauri 2001; Lécuyer et al. 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004–2005; Lécuyer – Michaelides 2004; Lécuyer 2004; Nicolaidès – Vanderheyde 2004. Papalexandrou – Caraher 2012. Theatre: Green – Barker – Gabrieli 2004, 30–34; Cook 2004. Chrysopolitissa: Papa­ nikola-Bakirtzis 1988.

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tant information on burial rituals, but also on the daily life of the people that worshipped and were buried at the Hill of Ayios Georgios. Intriguingly, the excavator also alludes to the possibility that the burials could provide evidence for the conversion of the church from the Orthodox to the Latin rite at the time, but, pending the publication of the results, this suggestion remains to be verified.10 As for the second site, that of the Palaion Demar­cheion, this is located at the very heart of the city of Nicosia, in the shadow of the great Latin cathedral of Saint Sophia. It has yielded significant remains of what appears to have been a lively quarter of the medieval capital, with a road, two churches adorned with wall-paintings and associated with burials, domestic buildings, workshops, cisterns, and wells.11 Movable finds include dress-accessories and jewellery, pottery, weapons, tools, as well as some unique discoveries like the black bishop from a medieval chess-set (Fig. 1).12 Evidence for artisanal production is provided by the discovery of clay tripods and wasters that imply the operation of a ceramic workshop in the area, as well as by a bronze plate which could have been used for the creation of badges or embossed ornaments bearing a lion rampant comparable to an example in the collection of the Leventis Municipal Museum of Nicosia.13 In anticipation of the study and Fig. 1: Chess-piece in the form of a bishop (mid 15th century) from Nicosia, publication of the results of past Palaion Demarcheion Excavations; and current archaeological invesNicosia, Cyprus Museum, inv. no. Π.Δ. ΜΤΧ1/2002. tigations into the medieval era of 10 Pilides 2012 and 2013. 11 Hadjisavvas 2002, 81–84; Flourentzos 2003, 82–84; 2004, 84–86; 2004–2005, 1681– 1685; 2005, 73–74; 2006, 90–91; Violaris 2004. 12 Violaris 2004, 73; Hadjisavvas 2010, cat. no. 196 (Yiannis Violaris). 13 Clay tripods and wasters: Flourentzos 2003, 83, Violaris 2004, 73; bronze plate: Hadjisavvas 2010, cat. no. 195 (Yiannis Violaris); badge with lion rampant: Durand – Giovannoni 2012, cat. no. 92 (Loukia Hadjigavriel).

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Cyprus, the student of the material culture of everyday living on the island is forced to fall back on other types of evidence in search of information. As recently demonstrated quite aptly by the doctoral dissertation of Philippe Trélat on the society, economy, and urban space of medieval Nicosia,14 the contemporary written record, encompassing a variety of texts such as historiographical works, notarial acts, and travellers’ accounts, when used judiciously can offer invaluable glimpses into the realities of day-to-day life on the island during the period under consideration here. The second alternative source to which one can have recourse is the artistic record, comprising first of all a number of portraits in pigment and stone, which have already been used successfully in the study of dress.15 Additional information can also be gleaned from figural representations on medieval Cypriot ceramics,16 but also from the wall-paintings of rural churches and this despite the, on the whole, conventional treatment of the trappings of the material world in religious painting of the Byzantine tradition.17 The following quite preliminary and by no means comprehensive discussion of the material culture of everyday life on Frankish Cyprus is based on archaeological and written testimonials. During the period that concerns us here the majority of the island’s population consisted of Greeks, settled in the cities, but also in the countryside, where they were the dominant element. The ruling Franks preferred to reside in the urban centres of Cyprus, especially in Nicosia, the seat of royal power and the See of the Latin archbishop. While a small percentage of Armenians, Syrians, and Maronites are attested as living in rural areas, especially in the northern part of Cyprus, most members of these and other ethnic and religious minorities settled on the island, such as Jews, Italians, Provencals, and Aragonese, also congregated in the cities, above all the kingdom’s capital and its two major ports, Limassol and Famagusta. It is to these various groups that the nobles, burgesses, merchants, clerks, soldiers, artisans, workers, peasants, clerics, and monastics making up the fabric of medieval Cypriot society belonged. Beyond the pale of religious and funerary art, identifying many of these ethnic, religious, and social groupings in the material record, let alone attempting a coherent narrative of their daily lives in the kingdom of Cyprus is, as things stand today, a daunting, if not an impossible task. Finds like the copper-alloy basin with a Mamluk profile and a non-deciphered Hebrew inscription from the Akamas peninsula are 14 Trélat 2009. 15 See, for instance, Christoforaki 1999, and the studies by Françoise Piponnier, Pari Kalamara, and Jean-Pierre Reverseau in Imhaus 2004. 16 See, for instance, Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1987 and 1996b. 17 See, for instance, Argyrou 2001 and 2007.

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Fig. 2: Copper-alloy basin with Hebrew inscription (15th or first half of 16th century); Nicosia, Leventis Municipal Museum, inv. no. B/2004/30-40.

not only exceedingly rare but also very difficult to interpret, especially in the absence of a secure archaeological context (Fig. 2).18 Not least, as far as ethnic origin is concerned, the non-Cypriot provenance of specific objects or styles could equally attest to current tastes and the movement of ideas and artefacts as to the ethnicity of individual owners. Still, enough has survived to allow us to start the discussion of the material paraphernalia of the daily life of selected groups, beginning with the royals and the nobility. Considering that the main lines of the development of male and female dress on 18 Durand – Giovannoni 2012, cat. no. 100 (Sophie Makariou).

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Cyprus in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries have already been traced by other scholars,19 the focus of what follows will be primarily on household effects. Wilbrand, count of Oldenburg, who visited Cyprus in 1211, was not particularly impressed by the morals of the inhabitants, loosened, as he judged them to be, by the rich, sweet wines of the island.20 This, however, did not stop him from speaking of Nicosia with wonder: ‘It has inhabitants without number, all very rich, whose houses in their interior adornment and paintings closely resemble the houses of Antioch. In this city is the seat of the archbishop. Also the court and palace of the king, where I first saw an ostrich.’21 At the time of Wilbrand’s visit, the Lusignan kings and their ostrich were still residing in the house of the Venetian Leonardo Sabatini, which had been confiscated after 1191/2. It is only in the second half of the thirteenth century that they proceeded with the erection of a royal palace proper, an initiative which is usually ascribed to Henry II (1285–1324). In the absence of securely identified material remains, Gilles Grivaud has reconstructed the layout of the palace on the basis of a number of written accounts. Surrounded by an enclosure wall, the Lusignan royal residence had a rectangular courtyard with a fountain at the centre, where the inhabitants of the capital could come for water. Around this central open space were arranged the various palace buildings, which included a grand throne room or great hall, a royal chapel, residential quarters, administration offices, the treasury, an arsenal, a prison and a torture chamber, a bakery, storage rooms, stables, kennels, and menageries to house the multitude of dogs, leopards, and falcons that the kings took with them when they indulged in their favourite sport – hunting. The great hall appears to have been particularly impressive, adorned with golden tapestries and carpets.22 As for the royal throne itself, Nicolὸ Martoni, who visited Cyprus in 1394, describes it as being exquisitely beautiful ‘with many fair columns and ornaments of various kinds’, possibly, as has been suggested, a reference to a Gothic-style ciborium under which the throne stood.23 Other works of art displayed in the palace included the great organ with the melodious sounds, which was taken away by the Mamluks in 1426.24 The organ, however, was not the only extravagant and curious device that one could encounter in the Lusignan palace. In 1334, the successor of Henry II, Hugh IV (1324–1359) 19 See above, note 15. See also Sofocleous 1997; Semoglou 2001; Stancioiu 2009, 205– 232; McNulty 2010, passim. 20 Cobham 1969, 13. 21 Ibidem, 14. 22 Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 139–143. 23 Cobham 1969, 26; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 140. 24 Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 140.

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had a particularly expensive clock made by a goldsmith in Venice.25 Apparently, the fourteenth-century kings of Cyprus also enjoyed the products of Mamluk metalwork tradition if not production, as three rare extant vessels – two adorned with the coat of arms of the Lusignan – intimate.26 The third and most famous of the three is the basin that bears the name of the same Hugh of the Venetian clock, today housed in the Louvre. Made of brass and inlaid with silver and gold, the basin was adorned with astrological signs and the coats of arms of the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the aristocratic family of the Ibelins, to which Hugh’s wife belonged. It bears inscriptions in French and Arabic, the latter extolling the Lusignan king as the one ‘who rises in the van of the elite-troops of the Frankish kings’.27 The conspicuous eclecticism of the Lusignan court must have gone far to display the wealth, status, but also the influence of the kings of Cyprus that allowed them access to such prestigious products of both western Christian and oriental Islamic craftsmanship. As others have argued, it may have also served to promote the image of the fourteenth-century Cypriot rulers as the leading Christian monarchs in the Eastern Mediterranean in a position to counterbalance and face successfully the rising power of the Mamluk Sultanate, just as the Arabic inscription on Hugh’s basin claims.28 Hugh’s son and successor, Peter I, in fact, turned the rhetoric of art and word into action when he mounted a crusade against the Mamluks, culminating in the sack of Alexandria in 1365. This foolhardy endeavour, however, had disastrous longterm consequences for Cyprus and in 1373–1374, following a catastrophic war with Genoa, the island kingdom was partitioned with the occupation of Famagusta by the Genoese. Still, it would seem that it was after this traumatic event that James I (1385–1398) established a royal manor at Potamia to the south of Nicosia to serve as a peaceful retreat surrounded by gardens and orchards, but also as the place where foreign emissaries to the Lusignan court could rest and enjoy themselves before continuing their journey to the capital.29 The material remains of this rural royal residence have been largely obliterated, with the exception of some rooms built of dressed stone that were incorporated into a later Ottoman complex.30 Interestingly, the archaeological investigation of the site, limited in scale due to the instability of the standing struc25 Ibidem. 26 Durand – Giovannoni 2012, cat. no. 99 (Sophie Makariou). See also the contribution of Ulrike Ritzerfeld in this volume. 27 Carr 1995, 246–250 (English translation of Arabic inscription on p. 248); Durand – Giovannoni 2012, cat. no. 98 (Sophie Makariou). 28 E.g. Carr 1995, 246–250. 29 See above, note 7; see also Christophidou 1994, 168–169. 30 Lécuyer et al. 2002, 611–613; 2004–2005, 1078–1081; Lécuyer 2004, 15–17.

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tures, brought to light a rather unexpected element of the architectural decoration of the royal manor, namely a number of small wall-tiles with vegetal motifs executed in blue on a white background. These have been identified by the excavator as being of Syrian origin and have been ascribed a date in the last quarter of the fourteenth century.31 One is reminded of the houses adorned in the manner of Antioch mentioned by Wilbrand of Oldenburg. However, as opposed to the thirteenth-century practice, the decoration of the late-fourteenth-century manor with these tiles attests not to a sentimental bond with the crusader homeland, but, one could argue, to the cosmopolitan tastes of the late Lusignan court and, perhaps, given that this was a space for the reception of foreign envoys, to a desire to maintain the façade of a political power with regional footing and ambitions. Be this as it may, the riches of the land and its inhabitants were extolled by a number of travellers to Cyprus, even down to the beginning of the fifteenth century. Around 1341, Ludolph von Suchen claimed that ‘the princes, nobles, barons and knights are the noblest, best and richest in the world’.32 The members of the Frankish nobility who had followed the Lusignan to Cyprus chose to establish their domicile in the cities and particularly Nicosia, close to the centre of power that was the royal court, and not in the properties that had been granted to them in the country. When they did leave the cities to go hunting in the mountains with their dogs, their falcons, and their retainers, they stayed in tents, Ludolph informs us, moving from place to place trailed by package trains of camels and other beasts of burden.33 As for their houses in the cities, judging mostly by written accounts, they apparently belonged to a type that was widespread both in the Levant and in Byzantium and which was distinguished by a clear separation in function between the ground floor, used primarily for storage and the stabling of animals, and the upper floor, where the living quarters were located. Subsidiary buildings opening onto the enclosed courtyards of the houses included small chapels and private baths.34 Luchino dal Campo in 1412 described with great admiration the furnishings of the bath of prince Eudes de Lusignan, which was located close to the royal palace: ‘it was wonderfully and richly decorated with very delicately worked tapestries of gold and silk, with beds, sheets, and towels worked in gold and silk, with a great deal of rose-water’ and the uccelletti of Cyprus, the latter apparently small fabric balls containing perfume, which were then pierced to allow the 31 Durand – Giovannoni 2012, cat. no. 102 (Lucy Vallauri – Nolwenn Lécuyer). 32 Cobham 1969, 20. 33 Ibidem. On hunting and hawking in Cyprus, see Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1986; Aristeidou 1994; Christophidou 1994, 183–186. 34 Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 143–146.

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scent to be released.35 Less luxurious, but nevertheless well-furnished with various basins, vessels for warming water, and, especially, bath towels was the bath of the Latin bishop of Paphos Oddon de Cancaliis in his manor at Marona in the Paphos District.36 According to the inventory of his belongings compiled in 1357 following his death probably in late 1356 – and as already pointed out by Richard – the late bishop of Paphos had lived in comfort not to say luxury. His possessions were primarily divided between his residences in Nicosia and Marona, with hardly anything remaining in his third residence at Paphos. At the time of the compilation of the inventory, the bulk was located in his rural manor. In addition to the bath mentioned above, the Marona manor had a well-provided kitchen with various types of cooking vessels and other cooking equipment made of copper alloy, lead, and iron, basins, serving platters, trays, and jugs, as well as earthenware storage vessels and barrels. As opposed to a variety of chests and caskets for storage and transportation, other types of furniture were limited to a pair of iron faldstools, two bed boards, three tables with their trestles, and seven chairs. Much more impressive and extensive was the collection of textile furnishings, including carpets, curtains and other hangings, covers for benches or chests, bedding, and towels. Two old covers and one old hanging are described as being ‘of Cata­lonia’, perhaps brought to Cyprus by the bishop himself, who was, it has been suggested, of possible Catalan origin. Other personal effects included various garments and two ivory combs, while a third one was recovered from the house at Paphos, all three probably similar in appearance to some rare extant examples recovered from medieval contexts in Paphos and Nicosia (Fig. 3).37 The reference to an altar cover made of leather, two surplices, three copper alloy candelabra, and four small panels with images for the altar could indicate the existence of a small chapel at the Marona manor.38 A more complete array of ecclesiastical vestments, liturgical vessels, and chapel furnishings, including one wooden altar and a second portable one, were included among Oddon’s possessions found in his residence in Nicosia. Other items listed comprised cooking equipment and storage vessels, tableware – including two platters of porcelain –, a variety of tools, and a small collection of weapons. As in Marona, so in Nicosia there was a wide range of textile furnishings for the bed-chamber and the bath, while furniture included two faldstools, one of iron and one of wood, stools, and a number of crumbling chairs and tables. 35 Grivaud 1990, 46; English translation in Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 141. Cf. Christo­ phidou 1994, 175–177; Trélat 2013, 461. 36 Richard 1984–1987, 14, 19–20. I thank Nicholas Coureas for bringing this document to my attention. 37 Flourentzos 1994, 6, 19, pl. III. 38 Richard 1984–1987, 14, 17–22.

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Fig. 3: Ivory comb from Nicosia (14th century); Limassol, Medieval Museum, inv. no. 1989/XI-14/1.

Also present were armoires as well as numerous chests and coffers that were essential equipment in the household of a prelate who would travel regularly between his various residences. Lastly, there was also a cabinet, which, according to Richard, was probably used for the display of the bishop’s silver-plate listed at the end of the inventory. This comprised a variety of vases, platters, sauce-boats, small bowls or cups, spoons, jugs for rose-water and for washing the hands, basins, a pair of candelabra for the table, and, not least, an unusual object described as a ‘small candelabrum for little birds’ (parvum candelabrum pro aviculis), perhaps a kind of perch for melodious birds suggests Richard.39 Somewhat different is the impression one derives from the inventory of the possessions of Guy d’Ibelin, the Latin bishop of Limassol and a Dominican, which was compiled after his death in 1367.40 Though some of the differences observed may be a reflection of the more constraint financial circumstances of the Latin diocese of Limassol as compared to Paphos41 or, even, of the ruinous financial consequences of Peter I’s crusade, others may be ascribed to the different personalities of the two prelates. Indeed, one could claim that the categories of objects represented in the inventory of 1367 reflect the multiple identities of Guy: an ecclesiastic, a man of letters, a monk, and, not least, a Frankish feudal lord of the Kingdom of Cyprus. To begin with, in addition to items pertaining to his office, such as his bishop’s seal and throne, he owned more than fifty books, as opposed to Oddon de Cancaliis, who owned less than ten. In terms of clothing, other than Guy’s 39 Ibidem, 14, 22–27. 40 Richard 1950; cf. Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 144–145. 41 Cf. Richard 1984–1987, 3.

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vestments, hardly any items are listed, namely a number of headdresses and a cheap belt from Alexandria. Equally scarce are listings of jewellery. Other personal belongings comprised an ivory comb in a leather case, a silver toothpick, a small silver spoon, a knife with a coral handle, and various purses and pouches made of leather or silk. Richard suggested that such austerity could perhaps be ascribed to the fact that Guy was a Dominican.42 Being a Black Friar, however, did not stop him from owning an impressive quantity of arms and armour nor from indulging into pleasant past-times like playing chess and backgammon and hunting with his falcon – Guy, in fact, owned a tent that he could have used for his hunting outings. The recorded table and kitchen vessels included a few cauldrons, a surprisingly small number of silver platters and plates, a silver salt-cellar, three vessels ‘of Damascus’ for cooling wine, and two old bronze bowls for washing the hands. With the exception of large pithoi for storing wine, no ceramic or glass vessels are listed in the inventory. Lastly, as far as furniture is concerned, while Guy owned a large number of chests and caskets of different sizes, low divans, and a notable array of textile furnishings, such as mattresses, pillows and pillow-cases, cushions, blankets, spreads, bench-covers, and covers, he had only few items of wooden furniture in his possession, some of which, beds and tables, appear to have been collapsible. The comparable impression derived in this respect from Oddon’s possessions suggests that the relative dearth of wooden furniture in Guy’s household need not be interpreted as a sign of Dominican rigour or financial hardship. Rather, I would follow Richard in attributing it to a choice of lifestyle.43 The limited use of stationary wooden furniture, as opposed to textile furnishings, which can be easily stored away in chests and moved around, appears to have been a common feature of living in the Byzantine and the Islamic Eastern Mediterranean, with Cyprus right in the middle.44 Martoni in the late fourteenth century repeatedly complained that during his visit to the island he could find neither an inn nor a house with an actual bed on which to sleep, save a room rented to him by a woman ‘from the parts of the West’.45 Earlier that same century, Sir John Maundeville had observed that ‘in Cyprus it is the manner of lords and all other men to eat on the earth’, because it was cooler. He then proceeded to add that ‘at great feasts, and for strangers, they set forms and tables as men do in this country; but

42 Richard 1950, 103–104. 43 Ibidem, 104–105. 44 For the dearth of stationary wooden furniture in Byzantine households, see Oikonomides 1990, 208–209, 212–214. 45 Cobham 1969, 25, 26, 27.

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they had rather sit in the earth’.46 The implication of this last observation seems to be that on official occasions or in the presence of guests, when perhaps the projection or the affirmation of a western identity was desired, wooden furniture, associated with a western way of life, would be brought out and used. In the comfort of the home or the leisure of the hunting tent, however, the Frankish nobles of Cyprus appear to have adapted their lifestyle to the climatic and cultural realities of their homeland in the East. Bishop and all, Guy d’Ibelin seems to have been no exception. Guy’s inventory is of particular interest also because the compilers sometimes recorded the provenance or foreign style of specific objects. When they did not, the typology and materials of certain items listed can in themselves provide an indication. Thus, we learn that the bishop owned a hat of camlet, a fine fabric made of a mixture of camel hair and wool for which Frankish Cyprus was famous.47 Moreover, some of the smaller caskets in Guy’s possession, particularly a casket made of cypress wood, could have been produced on the island, considering that, according to the written sources, there was an industry for the manufacture but also for the export of such items to the West, where they were put to both secular and ecclesiastical usage.48 As suggested by a few extant examples of possible Cypriot provenance in western European collections, these caskets were sometimes provided with metal openwork casings made of tin and lead. The decorative scheme of these casings consisted of roundels enclosing fantastical animals and heraldic creatures, such as the rampant lion of the Lusignan and the double-headed eagle that is usually associated with Byzantium and the Palaiologoi (Fig. 4).49 Interestingly, another occurrence of this decorative scheme, including the juxtaposition of lion and eagle, is encountered on the fourteenth- or fifteenth-century painted templon of the principal church, or katholikon, of the monastery of St. John Lampadistis at Kalopanagiotis on the Troodos Mountains.50 To my mind, the decoration of both caskets and templon constitutes an instance of the development and usage of what has been identified in a broader Eastern Mediterranean context as a common artistic language of symbols of power and status that transcended linguistic barriers and, in the case of Cyprus, could appeal to and be appreciated by both Franks and Greeks, Catholic and Orthodox.51 46 47 48 49 50 51

Ibidem, 21. Jacoby 2012. Durand – Giovannoni 2012, cat. no. 121 (Philippe Trélat); Trélat 2013, 461–462, fig. 2. See previous note; see also ibidem, cat. nos. 122 (Philippe Trélat) and 123 (Jérôme Ruiz). Parani 2012, figs. 6–7. Ibidem, 297–298; cf. Ousterhout 2009. On the suggestion that the occurrence of the two heraldic symbols at Kalopanagiotis had a more precise political and religious significance implying Lusignan patronage of the church, see Grivaud 2007, 261–262.

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Fig. 4: Openwork revetment plaque for a casket made of an alloy of lead and tin (14 th century); Paris, Musée de Cluny – Musée national du Moyen Âge, inv. no. Cl.17746b.

Guy d’Ibelin also owned items of a non-Cypriot provenance or appearance. Thus, we hear of a divan covered with a leopard skin ‘in the Tartar fashion’, of shields and a purse in the style of Armenia, of Turkish carpets, of Venetian caskets, and of covers and textiles from Alexandria, France, and Catalonia. As for the three vessels for cooling wine, a pen-case-with-inkwell, and a cuirass, all ‘of Damascus’ or, probably, damascened, they reveal that the taste for Islamic metalwork was not confined to the royal court alone. Whether these items were products of commerce, gifts, heirlooms, or warbooty – Guy was present at the sack of Alexandria in 1365 – we cannot say. They do, however, seem to reflect in material terms the position of the Frankish nobles of Cyprus, western in their roots and in their overall cultural and religious orientation, but with tastes and feelings of the Orient to paraphrase a famous Greek poet.52 What, now, of the other inhabitants of the urban centres of medieval Cyprus? They too had a reputation of wealth, particularly the merchants of Famagusta, ‘a thing not to be wondered at’, claims Ludolph von Suchen, ‘for Cyprus is the furthest of Christian lands, so that all ships and all 52 Cf. Constantinos P. Cavafy’s poem, Επάνοδος από την Ελλάδα (Going back home from Greece), 1914, available at http://www.kavafis.gr/poems/content.asp?id=259&cat=4 [accessed 27/9/2014].

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wares [...] must needs come first to Cyprus’.53 Notarial acts recording various transactions of members of the Italian mercantile communities active in Famagusta sometimes contain references to personal belongings and household effects. The very small number of texts I was able to examine can hardly be called representative and none of them is as detailed as the inventories of Oddon de Cancaliis and Guy d’Ibelin. Still, silver tableware, purses of silk, luxurious textile furnishings, and, of course, imported items were valued and enjoyed as much by the merchants as by the members of the nobility of the island.54 However, a lot more work needs to be done with such documents, not only in terms of a more systematic exploration of extant collections in order to locate the relevant information but also in terms of deciphering the meaning of the technical terms used to describe the artefacts in question. As we move lower on the hierarchical social ladder, the written evidence becomes less forthcoming from the point of view that concerns us here and the scarcity of targeted archaeological investigations of medieval settlement sites is felt even more keenly. Having said this, the work that was done at the early thirteenth-century castle of Saranda Kolones at Paphos needs be acknowledged. The castle, overlooking the harbour of Paphos, was built during the first years of the Lusignan rule, but was destroyed by a severe earthquake a few decades after its construction and was never restored. The working areas around an interior courtyard comprised stables, a forge, a mill room and an oven, complemented by six latrines at three of the four corners.55 Built against the western outer wall of the fortified perimeter, the excavators identified the living quarters of a soldier by the sword that was found lying on the floor. Probably, he had come to Cyprus from the Levant, as did some of his belongings, such as a ceramic medicine jar covered in green glaze and, perhaps, a bronze bowl with an Arabic inscription.56 Finds of military equipment, ivory dice, tools and implements, metal dress accessories, cooking pots and frying pans, as well as ceramic and glass tablewares help the archaeologists to reconstruct daily life in the castle before the earthquake struck.57 Less straightforward to explain are the finds of five fragmentary scent bottles made of painted luxury coloured glass of a type also attested in Nicosia and outside Cyprus, but whose origin, Byzantine

53 Cobham 1969, 20. 54 See, for instance, Balard – Duba – Schabel 2012, nos. 42, 189, 224. I am grateful to Chris Schabel for bringing these documents to my attention. Cf. Trélat forthcoming. 55 See above, note 5. 56 Megaw 1972b, 338; Rosser 1997, 27. 57 Rosser 1997.

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Fig. 5: Copper-alloy basin from Nicosia (14th century); Limassol, Medieval Museum, inv. no. 1989/XI-14/1.

for many, is still in dispute.58 Perhaps the odours of the harbour were too ripe for some of the inhabitants of the castle; or, perhaps, there were women included among its residents. One woman did die in the castle during the earthquake, wearing converted Byzantine golden earrings as rings.59 As to who she was and what she was doing in the castle, this is a question that only our imagination can answer. Pending the publication of other sites with extensive medieval occupation layers, at present we have enough material available to comment briefly only on the use of ceramic kitchen and table wares, which, as amply documented by both regional surveys and excavations, were accessible to a wide spectrum of the population of the island, urban as well as rural. An interesting assemblage of kitchen wares dated to the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was unearthed during the excavation of a well in what would have been the south-eastern quarter of medieval Nicosia. In addition to the exceedingly rare discovery of a plain bronze basin (Fig. 5), the finds from the well included, among others, deep ceramic cooking pots for the preparation of stews, broths, and other liquid foods, shallow pans with a rudimentary spout, lug handles, and a glazed interior surface suggesting their use for the preparation of foods with some sort of sauce or gravy through roasting or simmering, rather than frying, two miniature cooking pots perhaps used as containers for spices, a large plain bowl which could have been employed for the preparation or serving of uncooked food, and a jar for the storage of liquids.60 Other finds from Nicosia but also from Paphos confirm that cooking vessels, 58 Megaw 1959; 1968; 1972b, 341–342; Rosser 1997, 27; cf. Flourentzos 1994, 19–20, fig. 6, pl. IV; Ristovska 2009. 59 Megaw 1972a, 177; 1972b, fig. 45. 60 Flourentzos 1994, 9–10, 12–13, pls. XXII–XXV.

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whether locally made or during the thirteenth century imported from the Levant, comprised mainly deep cooking pots with rounded bases and shallow pans with rudimentary handles.61 In fact, evidence from Paphos seems to point towards an increase in the relative number of low open cooking vessels, which were more suitable for baking, roasting, and frying, as opposed to stewing, the latter associated with the deep cooking pots.62 Such a change in cooking practices, if confirmed by future research, could also point to a concomitant change in dietary habits on the island during medieval times.63 The results of further investigation into both these questions will certainly prove significant in evaluating the potential impact on local diet of the settlement of the Franks and other ethnic groups on the island from the thirteenth century onwards.64 Not least, the study of cooking and dietary habits could also have interesting repercussions on the discussion of the evolution and function of Cypriot ceramic table wares, which will be the last category of household effects to concern us here. The ceramic glazed fine wares in use on Cyprus during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries included both open shapes, like plates and, mostly, medium-sized bowls, and closed shapes, like jugs and flasks for serving water and, of course, Cypriot wine (Fig. 6). When not in use at the actual table, these colourful products of the potter’s art could have been put on display on high shelves or cabinets as part of the interior decoration of the house.65 Some of the vessels in use were imported, documenting Cyprus’s integration into the commercial and communication networks that connected the lands of the Mediterranean basin. Thirteenth-century imports included the so-called Zeuxippus and Aegean Wares, produced at as yet unidentified workshops located in western Asia Minor and the Aegean, but also the crusader ware known as Port Saint Symeon Ware. A small number of products of Islamic workshops were imported through­out the period under consideration here, while imports from Italy and, even, Spain are recorded in fourteenth-century contexts. In their majority, however, the ceramic table wares used in Cyprus were the output of local workshops, the operation of 61 Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1999, 16–17, figs. 29–31; Gabrieli 2008. 62 Gabrieli – McCall – Green 2001. 63 The diachronic study of Cypriot cooking pots in terms of typological and technological development and function and of cooking and dietary habits on the island as revealed through food-residue analysis constitutes the object of the interdisciplinary research project Stirring Pots on Fire: A Diachronic and Interdisciplinary Study of Cooking Pots from Cyprus, funded by the Anastasios G. Leventis Foundation under the direction of Athanasios K. Vionis (University of Cyprus). 64 On the postulated impact of the Frankish presence on changes observed in the typology of cooking pots at Corinth, see Joyner 2007, but also the cautionary remarks by François 2010, 345–347. 65 Papanikola-Bakirtzis 2012, 307–308.

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Fig. 6: Pitcher, a product of the Paphos workshops (14th century); Paris, Louvre, inv. no. OA6091.

which seems to have begun in the early thirteenth century in the region of Paphos. The technology, typology, chrono­logy, and economics of production of Cypriot glazed wares have been discussed by ceramic specialists and need not be reiterated here.66 Equally extensively studied is the iconography of the vessels, which in addition to geometric, vegetal, and animal motifs, included heraldic animals and coats of arms (Fig. 7), warriors, hunters, falconers, dancers (Fig. 8), and richly-attired women (Fig. 9) and couples.67 Veronique François proposed that the source of inspiration of these themes, which she understands as expressing western knightly values and a crusader ethos, were primarily the courtly romances of the medieval West, also popular among the Frankish nobility of Cyprus. She went on to suggest that these vessels were primarily destined for a Frankish clientele ‘exiled’ in the East 66 On medieval glazed wares in Cyprus, see, among others: Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1993, 1996a, 2004 and 2012; von Wartburg 1997a, 1997b, 2003; François – Vallauri 2001; Cook – Green 2002; Cook 2004; and studies collected in Papanikola-Bakirtzis – Coureas 2014. 67 See previous note; see also Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1996b.

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Fig. 7: Footed bowl with the representation of a lion rampant (late 14th century); Larnaca, Pierides Museum, inv. no. MD 54.

Fig. 8: Small bowl with dancing female figures around a central mask (14th century); Larnaca, Pierides Museum, inv. no. MD 125.

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Fig. 9: Platter with a woman holding a pitcher and a goblet from Nicosia (14th century); Limassol, Medieval Museum, inv. no. 1989/XI-14/1.

in order to remind them ‘of who they were’ and to bolster their Frankish sense of self.68 However, the distribution of these vessels appears to have been too widespread for their use to have been limited to or destined for a particular ethnic or cultural group.69 What is more, the themes of the noble, brave warrior, the hunt, and love, were not exclusive western traditions and their appeal extended to Greek audiences in Byzantine lands and on Cyprus. One only needs to bring to mind the akritic poetic cycle, which, it has been argued, was popular among the Greeks in the medieval Cypriot kingdom.70 Not least, as we have seen, even western heraldic imagery might have found 68 François 1999. 69 For the problems involved in the study of cultural identity through ceramics, see Vroom 2011. 70 Grivaud 2009, 179–183.

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resonance in a non-Frankish audience. Irrespective of its ultimate sources of inspiration, the iconography of Cypriot glazed ceramics, I would argue, celebrating heroic ideals and the pleasures of life, could appeal to everyone regardless of ethnicity. Here, as in other aspects of the material culture of daily life on medieval Cyprus discussed above, we can detect what I would call a convergence, at least between the two dominant and best-documented ethnic and cultural groups on the island, a convergence favoured by prevalent living conditions and by the existence of comparable frames of reference. Whether this rapprochement could have also paved the way for the creation of a sense of cultural or social cohesion is a question that can only be answered by more in-depth investigation into the realities and the realia of living in the ‘sweet land of Cyprus’.

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Bulletin de correspondance hellénique Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes Dumbarton Oaks Papers Επετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus

Aristeidou 1994 = Aikaterini Aristeidou, ‘Το κυνήγι με γεράκια στην Κύπρο από την αρχαιότητα μέχρι την τουρκοκρατία’, in: EKEE 20, 1994, 143–163. Argyrou 2001 = Christos Argyrou, ‘Παραστάσεις μουσικών οργάνων στις τοιχο­ γραφημένες εκκλησίες της Κύπρου (12ος – 16ος αιώνας). Η βυζαντινή παρά­ δοση και δυτικές επιδράσεις’, in: EKEE 5, 2001, 215–243. Argyrou 2007 = Christos Argyrou, ‘Όψεις του καθημερινού βίου μέσα από τη μνημειακή τέχνη της Κύπρου’, in: Anna Marangou et al. (eds.), Κύπρος. Από την αρχαιότητα έως σήμερα (Athens 2007) 232–259. Balard – Duba – Schabel 2012 = Michel Balard – William Duba – Chris Schabel, Actes de Famagouste du notaire génois Lamberto di Sambuceto (décembre 1299 – septembre 1300) (Nicosia 2012). Carr 1995 = Annemarie Weyl Carr, ‘Art in the Court of the Lusignan Kings’, in: Nicholas Coureas – Jonathan Riley Smith (eds.), Η Κύπρος και οι Σταυρο­ φορίες / Cyprus and the Crusades (Nicosia 1995) 239–274. Carr – Nicolaïdès 2012 = Annemarie Weyl Carr – Andréas Nicolaïdès (eds.), Asi­ nou across Time. Studies in the Architecture and Murals of the Panagia Phorbiotissa, Cyprus (Washington D.C. 2012). Catling 1982 = Hector W. Catling, ‘The Ancient Topography of the Yalias Valley’, in: RDAC 1982, 227–236. Christoforaki 1999 = Ioanna Christoforaki, ‘Female Dress in Cyprus during the Medieval Period’, in: Vassos Karageorghis – Loukia Loizou Hadjigavriel (eds.), Female Costume in Cyprus from Antiquity to the Present Day (Nicosia 1999) 13–19.

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Christophidou 1994 = Nasa Christophidou, ‘Εικόνες από τη βασιλική αυλή του Ιανού’, in: EKEE 20, 1994, 165–191. Cobham 1969 = Claude D. Cobham, Excerpta Cypria. Materials for a History of Cyprus (Nicosia 1969). Cook 2004 = Holly K. A. Cook, ‘The Hellenistic Theatre at Nea Paphos and Its Medieval Players’, in: Mediterranean Archaeology 17, 2004 [Festschrift in Honour of J. Richard Green], 275–285. Cook – Green 2002 = Holly K. A. Cook – J. Richard Green, ‘Medieval Glazed Wares from the Theatre Site at Nea Pafos, Cyprus: Preliminary Report’, in: RDAC 2002, 413–426. Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012 = Nicholas Coureas – Gilles Grivaud – Chris Schabel, ‘Frankish & Venetian Nicosia, 1191–1570’, in: Demetrios Michae­ lides (ed.), Historic Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 111–229. Durand – Giovannoni 2012 = Jannic Durand – Dorota Giovannoni (eds.), Chypre entre Byzance et l’Occident, IVe – XVIe siècle (Paris 2012). Flourentzos 1994 = Pavlos Flourentzos, A Hoard of Medieval Antiquities from Nicosia (Nicosia 1994). Flourentzos 2003 = Pavlos Flourentzos, Annual Report of the Department of Antiqui­ ties for the Year 2003 (Nicosia 2005). Flourentzos 2004 = Pavlos Flourentzos, Annual Report of the Department of Antiqui­ ties for the Year 2004 (Nicosia 2006). Flourentzos 2004–2005 = Pavlos Flourentzos, ‘Chronique des fouilles et découvertes archéologiques à Chypre en 2003 et 2004’, in: BCH 128–129, 2004– 2005, 1635–1708. Flourentzos 2005 = Pavlos Flourentzos, Annual Report of the Department of Antiqui­ ties for the Year 2005 (Nicosia 2007). Flourentzos 2006 = Pavlos Flourentzos, Annual Report of the Department of Antiqui­ ties for the Year 2006 (Nicosia 2008). François 1999 = Véronique François, ‘Une illustration des romans courtois. La vaisselle de table chypriote sous l’occupation franque’, in: CCEC 29, 1999, 59–80. François 2010 = Véronique François, ‘Cuisine et pots de terre à Byzance’, in: BCH 134, 2010, 317–382. François – Vallauri 2001 = Véronique François – Lucy Vallauri, ‘Production et consommation de céramiques à Potamia (Chypre) de l’époque franque à l’époque ottomane’, in: BCH 125, 2001, 523–546. Gabrieli 2008 = R. Smadar Gabrieli, ‘Towards a Chronology – The Medieval Coarse Wares from the Tomb at Icarus Street, Kato Pafos’, in: RDAC 2008, 423–454. Gabrieli – McCall – Green 2001 = R. Smadar Gabrieli – Bernadette McCall – J. Richard Green, ‘Medieval Kitchenware from the Theatre Site at Nea Paphos’, in: RDAC 2001, 335–356. Given – Knapp 2003 = Michael Given – A. Bernard Knapp, The Sydney Cyprus Survey Project. Social Approaches to Regional Archaeological Survey (Los Angeles 2003). Green – Barker – Gabrieli 2004 = Richard Green – Graig Barker – R. Smadar Gabri­eli, Fabrika. An Ancient Theatre of Paphos (Nicosia 2004).

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Gregory 1987 = Timothy E. Gregory, ‘Circulation of Byzantine and Medieval Pottery in Southwestern Cyprus’, in: David W. Rupp (ed.), Western Cyprus: Connections (Göteborg 1987) 199–204. Gregory 1993 = Timothy E. Gregory, ‘Byzantine and Medieval Pottery’, in: Lone Wriedt Sørensen – David W. Rupp (eds.), The Land of the Paphian Aphro­ dite, vol. 2: The Canadian Palaipaphos Survey Project Artifact and Ecofac­ tual Studies (Göteborg 1993) 157–176. Grivaud 1990 = Gilles Grivaud, Excerpta Cypria Nova, vol. I: Voyageurs occiden­ taux à Chypre au XV è me siècle (Nicosia 1990). Grivaud 2007 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Les Lusignans patrons d’églises grecques’, in: Byzan­tinische Forschungen 29, 2007, 257–269. Grivaud 2009 = Gilles Grivaud, Entrelacs chiprois. Essai sur les lettres et la vie intellectuelle dans la royaume de Chypre, 1191–1570 (Nicosia 2009). Hadjisavvas 2002 = Sophocles Hadjisavvas, Annual Report of the Department of Antiquities for the Year 2002 (Nicosia 2007). Hadjisavvas 2010 = Sophocles Hadjisavvas (ed.), Cyprus, Crossroads of Civiliza­ tions (Nicosia 2010). Imhaus 2004 = Brunehilde Imhaus (ed.), Lacrimae Cypriae. Les larmes de Chypre, vol. 2: Études et commentaries. Planches des dessins (Nicosia 2004). Jacoby 2012 = David Jacoby, ‘Camlet Manufacture, Trade in Cyprus and the Economy of Famagusta from the Thirteenth to the Late Fifteenth Century’, in: Michael J. K. Walsh – Peter Edbury – Nicholas Coureas (eds.), Medie­ val and Renaissance Famagusta: Studies in Architecture, Art and History (Farnham – Burlington 2012) 15–42. Joyner 2007 = Louise Joyner, ‘Cooking Pots as Indicators of Cultural Change. A Petrographic Study of Byzantine and Frankish Cooking Wares from Corinth’, in: Hesperia 76, 2007, 183–227. Lécuyer 2004 = Nolwenn Lécuyer, ‘Le territoire de Potamia aux époques médiévale et moderne: acquis récents’, in: CCEC 34, 2004, 11–30. Lécuyer – Michaelides 2004 = Nolwenn Lécuyer – Demetrios Michaelides, ‘Archaeo­ logical Survey at Potamia – Ayios Sozomenos’, in: Maria Iacovou (ed.), Archaeological Field Survey in Cyprus. Past History, Future Potentials (London 2004) 139–149. Lécuyer et al. 2001 = Nolwenn Lécuyer et al., Potamia – Agios Sozomenos (Chypre). La constitution des paysages dans l’Orient medieval, in: BCH 125, 2001, 655–678. Lécuyer et al. 2002 = Nolwenn Lécuyer et al., ‘Potamia – Agios Sozomenos (Chypre). La constitution des paysages dans l’Orient medieval’, in: BCH 126, 2002, 598–614. Lécuyer et al. 2003 = Nolwenn Lécuyer et al., ‘Potamia – Agios Sozomenos (Chypre)’, in: BCH 127, 2003, 574–577. Lécuyer et al. 2004–2005 = Nolwenn Lécuyer et al., ‘Potamia – Agios Sozomenos’, in: BCH 128–129, 2004–2005, 1078–1095. McNulty 2010 = Barbara R. McNulty, Cypriot Donor Portraiture: Constructing the Ideal Family (unpublished PhD thesis, Temple University 2010). Megaw 1959 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘A Twelfth Century Scent Bottle from Cyprus’, in: Journal of Glass Studies 1, 1959, 58–61.

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Megaw 1968 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘More Gilt and Enameled Glass from Cyprus’, in: Journal of Glass Studies 10, 1968, 88–104. Megaw 1971 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Excavations at “Saranda Kolones”, Paphos. Preliminary Report on the 1966–67 and 1970–71 Seasons’, in: RDAC 1971, 117–146. Megaw 1972a = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Saranda Kolones: A Mediaeval Castle Excavated at Paphos’, in: Athanasios Papageorgiou (ed.), Πρακτικά του Πρώτου Διεθνούς Κυπρολογικού Συνεδρίου (Λευκωσία, 14–19 Απριλίου 1969), vol. 2: Μεσαιωνικόν Τμήμα (Nicosia 1972) 173–182. Megaw 1972b = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Supplementary Excavations on a Castle Site at Paphos, Cyprus, 1970–1971’, in: DOP 26, 1972, 322–343. Megaw 1982 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Saranda Kolones 1981’, in: RDAC 1982, 210–216. Megaw 1984 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Saranda Kolones: Ceramic Evidence for the Construction Date’, in: RDAC 1984, 333–340. Moore – Gregory 2011 = R. Scott Moore – Timothy E. Gregory, ‘Athienou Archaeological Project Survey Pottery’, in: Michael K. Toumazou – P. Nick Kardulias – Derek B. Counts (eds.), Crossroads and Boundaries: The Archae­ ology of Past and Present in the Malloura Valley, Cyprus (Boston 2011) 203–213. Nicolaidès – Vanderheyde 2004 = Andreas Nicolaidès – Catherine Vanderheyde, ‘La topographie cultuelle chrétienne de la region de Potamia – Agios Sozo­ ménos’, in: CCEC 34, 2004, 251–266. Nicolaou-Konnari – Schabel 2005 = Angel Nicolaou-Konnari – Chris Schabel (eds.), Cyprus, Society and Culture 1191–1374 (Leiden – Boston 2005). Oikonomides 1990 = Nicholas Oikonomides, ‘The Contents of the Byzantine House from the Eleventh to the Fifteenth Century’, in: DOP 44, 1990, 205–214. Ousterhout 2009 = Robert Ousterhout, ‘Byzantium between East and West and the Origins of Heraldry’, in: Colum Hourihane (ed.), Byzantine Art: Recent Studies (Princeton 2009) 153–170. Papalexandrou – Caraher 2012 = Amy Papalexandrou – William Caraher, ‘Arsinoe in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages’, in: William A. P. Childs – Joanna S. Smith – J. Michael Padgett (eds.), City of Gold. The Archaeology of Polis Chryscochous, Cyprus (New Haven – London 2012) 267–282. Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1986 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, ‘Γεράκια και γερα­ κάρηδες σε κυπριακά μεσαιωνικά εφυαλωμένα αγγεία’, in: Theodoros Papadopoullos – Venediktos Englezakes (eds.), Πρακτικά του Δεύτερου Διεθνούς Κυπριολογικού Συνεδρίου (Λευκωσία, 20–25 Απριλίου 1982), vol. 2: Μεσαιωνικόν Τμήμα (Nicosia 1986) 567–575. Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1987 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, ‘Ο μεσαιωνικός κόσμος της Κύπρου μέσα από παραστάσεις εφυαλωμένων αγγείων’, in: Αρχαιολογία 24, 1987, 41–43. Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1988 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, ‘Χρονολογημένη κεραμεική 14ου αιώνα από την Πάφο’, in: RDAC 1988,2, 245–248. Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1993 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, ‘Cypriot Medieval Glazed Pottery: Answers and Questions’, in: Anthony A. M. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’: Papers given at the

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Twenty-Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 115–130. Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1996a = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, Μεσαιωνική εφυαλω­ μένη κεραμική της Κύπρου. Τα εργαστήρια Πάφου και Λαπήθου (Thessaloniki 1996). Papanikola-Bakirtzis 1996b = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, ‘Ο κόσμος της μεσαιωνι­ κής εφυαλωμένης κεραμικής της Κύπρου’, in: Loukia Loizou Hadjigavriel (ed.), Πρακτικά συμποσίου ‘Λεόντιος Μαχαιράς – Γεώργιος Βουστρώνιος, δύο χρονικά της μεσαιωνικής Κύπρου (Nicosia 1996) 79–85. Papanikola-Bakirtzis 2004 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, Colours of Medieval Cyprus. Through the Medieval Ceramic Collection of the Leventis Munici­ pal Museum of Nicosia (Nicosia 2004). Papanikola-Bakirtzis 2012 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, ‘La vaisselle de table chypriote (XIIIe – XVIe siècle)’, in: Durand – Giovannoni, 2012, 302–308. Papanikola-Bakirtzis – Coureas 2014 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis – Nicholas Cou­reas (eds.), Cypriot Medieval Ceramics. Reconsiderations and New Perspectives (Nicosia 2014). Parani 2012 = Maria Parani, ‘Le royaume des Lusignan (1192–1489): la tradition byzantine’, in: Durand – Giovannoni, 2012, 293–301. Petre 2012 = James Petre, Crusader Castles of Cyprus. The Fortifications of Cyprus under the Lusignans: 1191–1489 (Nicosia 2012). Pilides 2012 = Despina Pilides, ‘A Short Account of the Recent Discoveries made on the Hill of Ayios Yeorgios (PASYDY)’, in: Demetrios Michaelides (ed.), Historic Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 212–214. Pilides 2013 = Despina Pilides, ‘Excavations at the Hill of Ayios Yeoryios, Area VIII: The Churches’, in: Maria Parani – Demetrios Michaelides (eds.), The Archaeology of Late Antique and Byzantine Cyprus (4th – 12th centuries AD). Conference in Honour of Athanasios Papageorghiou = CCEC 43, 2013, 243-252. Richard 1950 = Jean Richard, ‘Un évêque d’Orient latin au XIVe siècle: Gui d’Ibelin, O. P., évêque de Limassol et l’inventaire de ses biens (1367)’, in: BCH 74, 1950, 98–133. Richard 1984–1987 = Jean Richard, ‘Les comptes du collecteur de la Chambre Apostolique dans le Royaume de Chypre (1357–1363)’, in: EKEE 13–16,1, 1984–1987, 1–47. Ristovska 2009 = Natalija Ristovska, ‘Distribution Patterns of Middle Byzantine Painted Glass’, in: Marlia Mundell Mango (ed.), Byzantine Trade, 4th–12th Centuries. The Archaeology of Local, Regional and International Exchange (Farnham 2009) 199–220. Rosser 1985 = John Rosser, ‘Excavations at Saranda Kolones, Paphos, Cyprus, 1981–1983’, in: DOP 39, 1985, 81–97. Rosser 1987 = John Rosser, ‘The Lusignan Castle at Paphos called Saranda Kolones’, in: David W. Rupp (ed.), Western Cyprus: Connections (Göteborg 1987) 185–198. Rosser 1997 = John Rosser, ‘The “Castle of the Forty Columns”, A Crusader Castle in Cyprus’, in: Minerva 8, 1997, 26–29. Rosser 2004 = John Rosser, ‘Archaeological and Literary Evidence for the Destruction of “Saranda Kolones” in 1222’, in: EKEE 30, 2004, 39–50.

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Semoglou 2001 = Athanasios Semoglou, ‘Portraits chypriotes de donateurs et le triomphe de l’élégance. Questions posées par l’étude des vêtements du XIVe au XVIe siècle. Notes additives sur un materiel publié’, in: Αφιέρωμα στη μνήμη του Σωτήρη Κίσσα (Thessaloniki 2001) 485–509. Sofocleous 1997 = Sofocles Sofocleous, ‘Ritratti di donne nella Cipro bizantina, medioevale e rinascimentale (dal XII al XIV secolo)’, in: Francesco De Caria – Donatella Taverna (eds.), Dame, draghi e cavalieri: medioevo al femminile. Atti del convegno internazionale, Casale Monferrato, 4–6 otto­ bre 1996 (Turin 1997) 51–59. Stancioiu 2009 = Cristina Stancioiu, Objects and Identity: An Analysis of Some Material Remains of the Latin and Orthodox Residents of Late Medieval Rhodes, Cyprus, and Crete (unpublished PhD thesis, University of California Los Angeles 2009). Symeonoglou 1972 = Sarantis Symeonoglou, ‘Archaeological Survey in the area of Phlamoudhi, Cyprus’, in: RDAC 1972, 187–198. Todd 2004 = Ian A. Todd, The Field Survey of the Vasilikos Valley, vol. 1 (Sävedalen 2004). Trélat 2009 = Philippe Trélat, Nicosie, une capitale de l’Orient latin, société, écon­ omie et espace urbain (1192–1474) (unpublished PhD thesis, University of Rouen 2009). Trélat 2013 = Philippe Trélat, ‘Le goût pour Chypre. Objets d’art et tissus précieux importes de Chypre en Occident (XIIIe –XVe siècles)’, in: CCEC 43, 2013, 455–472. Trélat forthcoming = Philippe Trélat, ‘D’or et d’argent: l’orfèvrerie chypriote entre Orient et Occident (XIIe–XVe siècle)’, in: Élisabeth Antoine-König – Michele Tomasi (eds.), Orfèvrerie gothique en Europe, production et reception (Lausanne forthcoming). Violaris 2004 = Yiannis Violaris, ‘Excavations at the Site of Palaion Demarcheion, Lefkosia’, in: CCEC 34, 2004, 69–80. von Wartburg 1997a = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Lemba Ware reconsidered’, in: RDAC 1997, 323–340. von Wartburg 1997b = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Medieval Glazed Pottery from the Sanctuary of Aphrodite at Palaipaphos (site TA). A Preliminary Survey’, in: RDAC 1997, 184–194. von Wartburg 2001 = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘The Archaeology of Cane Sugar Production: A Survey of Twenty Years of Research in Cyprus’, in: The Antiquaries Journal 81, 2001, 305–335. von Wartburg 2003 = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Cypriot Contacts with East and West as Reflected in Medieval Glazed Pottery from the Paphos Region’, in: Charalambos Bakirtzis (ed.), VII e Congrès International sur la Céramique Médiévale en Méditerranée, Thessaloniki, 11–16 Octobre 1999: Actes (Athens 2003) 153–166. Vroom 2011 = Joanita Vroom, ‘The Morea and Its Links with Southern Italy after AD 1204: Ceramics and Identity’, in: Archeologia Medievale 38, 2011, 409–430. Wallace 1982 = Paul W. Wallace, ‘Survey of the Akhera Area’, in: RDAC 1982, 237–242.

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Photo credits Figs. 1, 3, 5, 9: Courtesy of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus. – Fig. 2: © The Leventis Municipal Museum of Nicosia. – Fig. 4: © RMN Grand Palais (Musée de Cluny – Musée national du Moyen Âge) / Jean-Gilles Berizzi. – Fig. 6: © RMN Grand Palais (Musée du Louvre) / Jean-Gilles Berizzi. – Figs. 7 and 8: Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis – Maria Iacovou (eds.), Byzantine Mediaeval Cyprus (Nicosia 1997) nos. 86 and 80.

Maria G. Parani

Department of History and Archaeology / Archaeological Research Unit, University of Cyprus, P.O. Box 20537, 1678 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

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Joanita Vroom

Strike a Pose: Human Representations and Gestures on Medieval Ceramics from Cyprus (ca. 13th–15th/16th Centuries) Introduction ‘Italians frequently perceived Spanish gesture as an absence of gesture. Thus Pedro de Toledo, Viceroy of Naples, surprised the local nobility by the fact that when he gave audience he remained immobile, like “a marble statue”.’ (Burke 1991, 78 and note 23) The aim of this article is to explore iconographical aspects of human depictions on medieval ceramics from Cyprus. These depictions feature examples of both gesture and non-gesture, the last being described by the cultural historian Peter Burke as ‘immobility’ in the case of the total absence of gesture displayed by Pedro de Toledo, the Viceroy of Naples, in his 16th-century court (in the text above). Firstly, I present an overview of human representations on glazed decorated pottery which is dated to Late Byzantine/Late Medieval times, ranging approximately from the 13th to the 15th/early 16th cen­ turies. This material originates mostly from the eastern Mediterranean, in particular from grave contexts on Cyprus. The pottery finds are nowadays on display in several museum collections in Europe and in Cyprus (e.g. Leventis collection, Pieridis collection). Secondly, I set out to explore the world of bodily representation and signs of distinction. After a short survey of the research on gestures and body language, I try to establish whether modern theories can help us to comprehend differences in gestures, postures, gender, use of objects and clothing in the depictions on the medieval Cypriot ceramics. Finally, I hope to address the fundamental questions related to the human representations on this pottery. Questions such as: do we see gestures on the Cypriot vessels, or rather bodily postures? In what way and by whom are these performed? And how do the human depictions on the medieval Cypriot vessels change over time? 245

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Joanita Vroom

TAESP My interest in medieval Cypriot ceramics started in the years 2001 and 2002, when I worked on the pottery finds from a surface survey on Cyprus with the name TAESP (which is the shortening for: Troodos Archaeological and Environmental Survey Project). This project was carried out under the direction of Bernard Knapp and Michael Given of the University of Glasgow (UK) and Vassiliki Kassianidou of the University of Cyprus, and I would like to thank them for the possibility to study the later pottery finds from their survey.1 The TAESP survey has been operating in central Cyprus, and mainly in the north-central part of the Troodos Mountains (Fig. 1). For the project I worked mostly with medieval and post-medieval glazed pottery, ranging in date from circa the 10th/11th to the 20th centuries from this region.2 The survey area amounted to around 164 square kilometres. The core of the TAESP methodology consists of an intensive archaeological and geomorphological survey. The survey area includes well-watered valleys, drier plains, copperbearing foothills and the northern part of the Troodos Range itself. When we look at the intensive survey zone around the medieval church of Asinou, one may notice that the zone is divided in the Asinou Church area (TS08) and in the Asinou Khalospities area (TS12). The graph in figure 2 displays the quantities of glazed wares, sgraffito wares (with an incised decoration) and painted wares found in the Asinou Church area (TS08) and in the Asinou Khalospities area (TS12), showing thus the distribution of these wares on rural sites in the countryside. All these wares were probably used by the majority of the population living in these settlements (Fig. 2). Many fragments of these decorative glazed wares, found in the Asinou area and in the other TAESP survey zones, are locally produced. We know that medieval pottery was produced in Cyprus from the 13th century onwards, because evidence was until now found at Enkomi, at Lapithos and in the Paphos area.3 In addition, Soloi and Nicosia have been mentioned as production areas.4 The archaeological evidence includes wasters (or refuse from the pottery making process) as well as potter’s tools, such as tripod stilts which were used for separating glazed pottery during firing in the kiln. After manufacture, the Cypriot made ceramics were distributed inland, as 1 E.g., Given et al. 2007; Given et al. 2013, vols. 1 and 2. Furthermore, I would like to express my gratitude to the Netherlands Organisation of Scientific Research (NWO) awarding me with a VIDI research grant for the years 2010–2015 that allows me to do research in the eastern Mediterranean. 2 Vroom 2013. 3 See in general, Wartburg 2007, 422–423 with further literature. 4 See Flourentzos 1994, 2–3 for Nicosia.

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Fig. 1: Map of Cyprus with location of the TAESP survey area (TAESP = Troodos Archaeological and Environmental Project).

Fig. 2: Distribution of medieval glazed decorative wares in the Asinou Church area (TS08) and in the Asinou Khalospities area (TS12), both situated in the TAESP survey area.

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well as abroad: ranging from Syria (Al-Mina), Jordan, Israel (Athlit, Acre, Jerusalem), Turkey (mostly along the southern coast, such as in Cilicia, Meramlik, Corycos), Greece (Rhodes, Athens), Italy (Venice) and even to southern France (Marseilles).5

Museum Collections The most complete local products from medieval Cyprus (with almost complete shapes and decorative designs) can nowadays be found in various museum collections. I have selected here published material from four collections, the Leventis collection in Nicosia,6 the Pierides collection in Larnaca,7 the Von Post collection in Stockholm,8 and the Sèvres collection in Paris (Fig. 3).9 It concerns here a total of around 244 published vessels, which can be roughly dated between the 13th and the early 16th centuries. We should keep in mind, however, that these well-preserved vessels in museums and private collections often come from clandestine excavations (such as robbed tombs).10 So, we have complete shapes and designs, but unfortunately neither provenances nor good archaeological contexts of these vessels. If we zoom in into the pottery shapes from these four collections, it is clear that we are dealing here primarily with open shapes (such as dishes, bowls and goblets). The most favourite shape among the 244 vessels are bowls, and among these the most popular are footed bowls of the 14th century (Fig. 4). In addition, I have been looking at the use of colour on these 244 vessels, dividing them into groups with just one colour, with two colours and with three colours. It is clear that ceramics with three colours are most common in the repertoire, specifically in the 14th century, followed by three-coloured vessels in the 15th century (Fig. 5). While looking at the motifs on the 244 vessels, we may notice that these can be divided between the following designs (Fig. 6): • human figures, • animals (such as birds and fishes), • objects (such as keys and heraldic shields), • vegetal designs, • (more abstract) geometric motifs. 5 6 7 8 9 10

Vroom 2005, 120–121. Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004. Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989. Piltz 1996. Kontogiannis 2003. An exception are the ceramic finds from a medieval well in Nicosia; cf. Flourentzos 1994.

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Collection

Place

Leventis Collection

Nicosia

102 Ca. 13th–16th c.

Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004

Pierides Collection

Larnaca

60 Ca. 13th–16th c.

Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989

Von Post Collection

Stockholm

67 Ca. 13th–14th c.

Piltz 1996

Sèvres Collection

Paris

15 Ca. 14th–15th c.

Kontogiannis 2003

Total

Total NMV Date

Publication

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Fig. 3: Four museum collections with medieval glazed decorated complete vessels from Cyprus.

Fig. 4: Four museum collections: total of main shapes of the medieval glazed decorated vessels by century.

Of these motifs, the vessels with vegetal motifs are most common, especially in the 14th century. If we take the material from one collection – in this case the pottery from the Leventis collection with a total amount of 97 published vessels – we may notice the same pattern, with a dominance of vegetal designs (in particular, floral ones) in the 14th century, followed by geometric motifs in the 14th century and thirdly by human beings and animals in the 249

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Fig. 5: Four museum collections: total of main colours of the medieval glazed decorated vessels by century.

Fig. 6: Four museum collections: total of main designs of the medieval glazed decorated vessels by century.

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Fig. 7: Leventis collection, Nicosia: total of main designs of the medieval glazed decorated vessels by century.

15th century (Fig. 7). In addition, the most common motif within the human figures repertoire of the published vessels from the Leventis collection is the portrayal of a single man represented by 64% of the total (Fig. 8). If we differentiate this amount of the depiction of human figures in the Leventis collection over the centuries, it is clear that the motif of a single man is the most common one on published vessels of the 14th century (Fig. 9). Although the iconography of some of these Cypriot glazed ceramics was already studied by other scholars (e.g., Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis, Véronique François and Marie-Louise von Wartburg),11 I would like to use here a different approach by first showing an inventory of the full repertoire of the human depictions by century, and then to try to combine these representations with interpretative models on gestures and bodily communication (if possible).

Gestures and Body Techniques It is worthy to give first a definition of what gesture actually means in order to see how its features can be studied in relation to the Cypriot ceramics. The Concise Oxford Dictionary defines gesture as ‘a significant movement 11 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1999; François 1999; Wartburg 2001.

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Fig. 8: Leventis collection, Nicosia: total of main human depictions on the medieval glazed decorated vessels.

Fig. 9: Four museum collections: total of main human depictions on the medieval glazed decorated vessels by century.

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of limb or body’, or ‘use of such movements as expressions of feeling or rhetorical device’.12 To be even more explicit, a gesture can include any bodily movements varying from a hand wave to mimic codes or facial expressions, as long as it ‘transmits a message to the observer’, either intentionally or inadvertently.13 Gestures can of course only be defined by contexts. With the aim of mapping the current geographical distribution of human gestures in Europe, the British zoologist/ethnologist Desmond Morris and his collaborators carried out interviews with 1200 informants in 15 languages and in 25 countries. The outcome of their research resulted in a classification including 20 key symbolic gestures that appear to have many different meanings in various European regions, varying from positive to offensive or even threatening.14 Apart from regional differences in Europe, attention was also drawn to changes of gestures through time. An historical interest in gestures as a key to cultural codes was, for example, expressed by various authors in the publication A Cultural History of Gesture, edited by the Dutch historians Jan Bremmer and Herman Roodenberg.15 In this volume we may notice that gestures change from one period to another, and these changes provide us with insights into social and cultural developments. The book explores changes in Europe through the ages: from modes of walking, standing, sitting and oratorical gesture in ancient Greece and Rome to the modern male handshake.16 In particular, the culture of the Middle Ages is described in this volume as a ‘gestural culture’, based on three notions: expressivity, non-verbal communication and efficacy.17 Another publication by Herman Roodenberg related to the meaning of gestures focussed on the well-documented family of the Dutch poet and composer Constantijn Huigens (1596–1687).18 Topics included the upbringing of well-to-do children in the Dutch Golden Age through exercises in dancing, fencing and horse riding as well as the representation of the elite’s natural grace in Dutch paintings and prints. In addition, illustrations in painter’s books as the Groot Schilderboek (1707) by Gerard Lairesse showed instructive rules for graceful movements by depicting contrasting groups and their movements according to social status.19 12 See Thomas 1991, 1 and note 1. 13 Thomas 1991, 1. 14 Morris et al. 1979. 15 Bremmer – Roodenburg 1991. 16 Cf. for the use of gesture in medieval and Renaissance times in particular, Schmitt 1991 and Burke 1991. See also Benson 1980 for the use of gesture in medieval poetry. 17 Schmitt 1991, 59 and 64–65. 18 Roodenburg 2004. 19 Roodenburg 2004, 120–127, figs. 32–35.

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Gestures in paintings and sculptures were also studied by art historians, as they practice the visual academic discipline pur sang.20 The Austrian-born art historian Ernst Gombrich, for instance, was concerned with the psychology of perception, cultural history and tradition as well as the relationship between art and science. Among his many publications he had also paid attention to the symbolic meaning and form of gesture in art, because art historians are obliged to ‘master the language before they can decode the picture’.21 The first illustration in his lucid article ‘Ritualized gesture and expression in art’ shows the anti-war poster of 1924 by the German artist Käthe Kollwitz.22 In this picture we can detect, according to Gombrich, in the heightened two finger gesture (tonus) of the main figure all elements of expression ‘that accompany the emotion of mass enthusiasm or Begeisterung’.23 From Gombrich’s tonus it is a small step to the study of gestures in Byzantium. We may distinguish various stylized gestures (especially hand gestures) in Christ and the saints portrayed in Byzantine art, such as on frescoes, mosaics and icons.24 The right hand gesture of Jesus in Byzantine art, for instance, is unmistakably the gesture of power and of giving a blessing. Nevertheless, several varieties of Byzantine hand gestures of blessing and benediction existed according to region and religion (varying from Greek Orthodox to Russian Orthodox). From history and art history we come to the realm of sociologists, anthropologists and social psychologists in order to understand technical variations in gesture and bodily behaviour. The concept of ‘body techniques’ was introduced in 1935 by the French sociologist Marcel Mauss (1872– 1950), facilitating thus an empirical analysis of embodiment.25 Mauss paid attention to the most elementary ways of moving (such as standing, sitting, walking or swimming) from society to society, while drawing upon his own experience in World War I. According to him, gesture was not a universal language, because body techniques varied by sex, by age, by education and by social and cultural differences.26 In addition, the book Bodily Communication, published in 1988 by the British social psychologist Michael Argyle, showed the diverse repertoire of gestures and postures – as forms of non-verbal communication in 20 21 22 23 24 25

Cf. for medieval and Renaissance art, Baxandall 1972; Garnier 1982 and Barasch 1987. Thomas 1991, 4 and note 11 with further literature. Gombrich 1982, 63. Gombrich 1982, 64. See in general, Maguire 1981 and Brubaker 2009. Mauss 1973 (reprinted English version of originally French article published in 1935); see also Crossley 2007, who uses Mauss’ concept of body techniques to explore ‘embodied meanings’. 26 Mauss 1973, 76–78.

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which visible bodily actions intend to communicate particular messages to an audience.27 Argyle distinguished three different forms of gestural communication, dividing them in: 1. ‘emblems’, or non-verbal acts (usually hand movements) which have a direct verbal translation; 2. ‘illustrators’, or movements tied to speech; and 3. ‘self-touching’, or bodily movements (like emotional expressions and affective states).28 An archaeological perspective to this third category (the self-touching gestures) was provided by Stephen Matthews, who aimed to concentrate on past relationships between gesture and ethnicity in European Bronze Age society.29 He was, for example, looking at the relationship between femaleassociated ornaments and male-associated swords deposited in European Bronze Age hoards and graves in order to study from a material perspective the generate field that structured the appropriate use of gestures and bodily communication. In the end Matthews came to the following conclusion: ‘There may have been a shared idea of the body, but not just the way it was dressed or presented, but a shared idea of how the body moved – its gestures, posture and comportment – that institutionalised the social context within which the notion of the warrior may have existed – systems of gender, age and class’.30

Male Depictions After this short exposé about the previous focus on gesture in various academic disciplines, it is now time to look at the human depictions on the Cypriot vessels in the four (already mentioned) museum collections.31 We first start with the male depictions, and in particular the well-executed images of a single standing beardless man depicted frontally on 13th-century bowls (Fig. 10).32 These depictions are carried out in the so-known ‘incised sgraffito’ technique with alternating thin and thick incisions, following thus Byzantine and Islamic decorative styles.33 All single male figures 27 28 29 30 31

Argyle 1988. Argyle 1988, 188. Matthews 2004. Matthews 2004, 17. Apart from using vessels from the already mentioned four museum collections, I have added a few more examples of Cypriot human representations (of another origin or from another collection) in order to reinforce the existing patterns. 32 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 70–71; id. 1993, pl. IIa–b; id. 1996, pl. IX nos. 45, 47 and 48, pl. XV no. 73 (Benaki) and pl. XXI no. 106; id. 2004, 51 (Leventis); Papa­ nikola-Bakirtzi – Mavrikiou – Bakirtzis 1999, 155 and 161 no. 335 (Benaki), although described here as a female figure. See also Du Plat Taylor – Megaw 1951, pl. IV no. 3 and Diki­goropoulos – Megaw 1958, 84, fig. 5. 33 Vroom 2003, 163–164; id. 2005, 90–91.

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are dressed in this period in a vertically striped or pleated knee-length skirt (also known as a podea or fustanella) with a belt, often in combination with scale armour or chain mail on the upper body.34 Their hair is depicted either straight or curly, around chin length, and their eyes are large.35 Looking at the bodily postures on the 13th-century Cypriot bowls, it is clear that all single men are active and in movement, sometimes holding objects or a bird in their hands. One male figure is holding two birds and is surrounded by a third bird (Fig. 10). These are probably birds of prey, as one of them is shown with its jesses (thin straps, traditionally made from leather, used to tether a hawk or falcon in falconry).36 Three other depicted males seem to make music (with cymbals, castanets or a lute?),37 another figure is wearing a large elongated object (maybe a shield?)38 and others seem to hold a lance or a spear in their hands.39 The images of a single standing male figure, depicted a century later, show a completely different picture. One may suddenly notice on 14th-century vessels heavily armoured men or soldiers with short curly hair, wearing kneelength (scale and mail armoured) garments with long sleeves (Fig. 11).40 All figures are in action, holding a sword and a shield in their hands in order to distinguish themselves in battles and tournaments.41 One male figure has an additional bird on his left side,42 and two others have an extra shield or unre­ cognizable coat of arms (Fig. 11).43 We must, however, keep in mind that these generic heraldic devices are not only Western elements, as the depiction of shields is also known in the Islamic world, especially during Mamluk times.44 34 An exception is the warrior depicted on a bowl from the Theatre excavations at Paphos (see Cook 2004, fig. 6b). This male figure is dressed totally in chain mail (including his legs and feet). Furthermore, he is holding a western-style shield and sword in his hands. 35 One may notice the same features (curly hair and large eyes) in the warrior depictions of the Byzantine frontier heroes of Acritic songs, among them Digenis Akritas, on 12thcentury pottery; cf. Notopoulos 1964, 121. 36 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 70–71; id. 1993, pl. IIa; id. 1996, pl. IX no. 45 (Pierides). 37 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1993, pl. IIb; id. 1996, pl. XV no. 73 (Benaki) and pl. XXI no. 106; id. 2004, 51 (Leventis); Papanikola-Bakirtzi – Mavrikiou – Bakirtzis 1999, 155 and 161 no. 335 (Benaki). See also Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1996, pl. IX nos. 47–48 for more male figures of the 13th century on Cypriot vessels. 38 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1996, pl. IX no. 46. 39 Du Plat Taylor – Megaw 1951, pl. IV no. 3; Wartburg 1998, figs. 62–63 no. 26 (from Grube 30A in Palaepaphos), suggesting that the depicted man is holding a liturgical fan (flabellum). See also Stern 2012, 61, fig. 4.21b, pl. 4.44 no. 1 showing a 13th-century Cypriot dish with a male figure from the Knight’s Hotel in Akko (Israel). 40 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 132–133 and id. 1996, pl. XXXIV no. 1 (Pierides); id. 2004, 55, 56 and 58 (Leventis); Piltz 1996, 44 no. 27 (Von Post). 41 As one can also find them on funerary slabs from this period of time; cf. Imhaus 2004. 42 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 56 (Leventis). 43 Piltz 1996, 44 no. 27 (Von Post); Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 55 (Leventis). 44 See in general, Mayer 1933; Leaf – Purcell 1986.

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Fig. 10: 13th-century bowl with human depiction of a single man; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 11: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of a single man; Nicosia, Leventis collection.

Images of a single standing man with short curly hair are depicted again frontally on vessels of the 14th – early 15th centuries. This time we can distinguish next to the figure a spiral vegetal shoot,45 a spiral vegetal shoot in combination with a bird,46 or two birds (Fig. 12).47 Whereas some male figures at first still have arms and hands, others are gradually keeping theirs underneath a decorative or embroidered cloak (Fig. 12). This gives them a rather stiff and rigid impression, although the feet and legs of all are still shown. There exist many images of a single standing man with short curly hair depicted frontally on vessels of the 14th – 15th/early 16th centuries.48 These figures all have their hands and arms hidden away underneath a decorative embroidered cloak, or underneath a cloak with a more abstract herringbone motif (Figs. 13–14). They only have two spiral shoots or stylized ferns on both sides. All look immobile and inactive in this period. During the 15th century the male figures become more schematic and abstract.49 45 Flourentzos 1994, pl. XI no. 22 (Nicosia well); Piltz 1996, 53 no. 36 (Von Post). 46 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 158–159 and id. 1996, pl. XXXIV no. 2 (Pierides); id. 2004, 37 no. 7 (Leventis). 47 Du Plat Taylor – Megaw 1951, pl. VI no. 16; Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1996, pl. XXXIV no. 3. 48 E.g. Du Plat Taylor – Megaw 1951, pl. VI nos. 13–15; Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 154– 157, 160–169 (Pierides); id. 1993, pl. IIIb; id. 1996, pl. XXXV nos. 4–6, pl. XXXVI nos. 7–8, pl. XXXVII no. 9, pl. LXI no. 77 and pl. LXI nos. 76–77; id. 2004, 60–65 nos. 10–15 (Leventis); Flourentzos 1994, pl. XI (Nicosia well); Piltz 1996, 14, fig. 5, 60–64 nos. 43–47 (Von Post); Kontogiannis 2003, 318 nos. 1–5, 324 no. 14 (Sèvres). 49 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 162–165 (Pierides); id. 1996, pl. XXXV no. 6.

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Fig. 12: Early 15th-century bowl with human depiction of a single man; Nicosia, Leventis collection.

Fig. 13. 15th-century bowl with human depiction of a single man; Nicosia, Leventis collection.

Fig. 14: 15th-century bowl with human depiction of a single man; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 15: Early 15th-century bowl with human depiction of two men; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Two Cypriot vessels show two men with short curly hair, depicted frontally on vessels of the early 15th century (Fig. 15). We may notice here the same pattern again as on the previous vessels, but this time the two men are portrayed underneath one large decorative cloak next to stylized ferns.50 Their two faces look towards each other, but there is only pair of feet turning to the right. This double silhouette looks stiff and immobile, and it looks 50 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 152–153 (Pierides); id. 2004, 59 no. 9 (Leventis).

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as if the two men cannot be separated. One bowl from the Pierides collection, dated to the late 14th century, is even more complex, with five men portrayed as schematic figures without arms and hands around a small shield in the centre.51

Female Depictions We now turn to the female depictions on the published Cypriot ceramics. As far as I know, there exist no female depictions on 13th-century Cypriot vessels. We can start distinguishing various images of a single standing woman, depicted frontally on vessels of the 14th century (Figs. 16–17).52 They are dressed in a foot-length decorative or embroidered garment, and they all wear a long embroidered veil. Furthermore, they have in their spread out arms and hands all kind of objects, which can be related to drinking habits (such as jugs and goblets). One female figure has a bird next to her,53 two others have an added heraldic shield or coat of arms on one side (Fig. 16).54 Another female image on a 14th-century bowl from the Pierides collection is wearing an embroidered napkin or scarf (mandil) at her left arm (Fig. 17).55 They all look very active and mobile (pleasure-bearing) figures, with distinct body movements. We see the same pattern again on images of a single standing woman, depicted frontally on vessels from the 14th to early 16th centuries.56 But this time these women have less objects in their spread out hands and arms. Furthermore, we see the female images in the early 16th century becoming more schematic and abstract.57 Nevertheless, they all look like very active and mobile figures, lively moving or perhaps even dancing. Only one woman on a 15th-century vessel has an object in her hand, although it is not clear what it exactly is (perhaps a jug?).58

51 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 130–131 (Pierides). 52 E.g. Megaw 1968, 106, fig. 320; Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 94–99 (Pierides); Flourentzos 1994, pl. XIV (Nicosia well); Piltz 1996, 54 no. 37 (Von Post; due to garment the figure on this vessel is not a male but a female one); Wartburg 2001, pl. 71 nos. 2, 4–7. 53 Flourentzos 1994, pl. XIV (Nicosia well). 54 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 94–95 (Pierides); Piltz 1996, 54 no. 37 (Von Post). 55 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 98–99 (Pierides). 56 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 53–54 nos. 3–4 (Leventis); Flourentzos 1994, pl. XIV (Nicosia well). 57 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 54 no. 4 (Leventis). 58 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 53 no. 3 (Leventis). The object mentioned is perhaps a stylized depicted jug.

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Fig. 16: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of a single woman; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 17: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of a single woman; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 18: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of two women; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 19: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of two women; Nicosia, Leventis collection.

The images of two women portrayed together on 14th-century vessels (Fig. 18) look more mobile and active than the two men together.59 They are wearing very decorative, embroidered garments and long veils, having their arms and hands spread out. On one vessel from the Pierides collection the 59 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 88–89 (Pierides); id. 2004, 52 no. 2 (Leventis); Flourentzos 1994, pl. XV (Nicosia well); Piltz 1996, 42 no. 25, because of the clothes this a depiction of two women and not of a couple (Von Post).

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women have a jug and an embroidered napkin or scarf in their hands.60 On another bowl, they are not portrayed frontally but towards each other with the hands up, as if they are dancing (Fig. 19).61

Couples and Others Mobile and active are also the images of a couple, of a man and a woman portrayed frontally together on 14th-century published vessels (Fig. 20).62 The men portrayed in the couples often wear festive looking clothes. They are often holding a sword in one hand; only on one vessel the man is holding a jug.63 Furthermore, there are occasionally added objects such as a bird, a shield and various heraldic devices shown next to the couples (Fig. 20). The same pattern of decorated garments can be seen in the couples on the 14th-century vessels. The only exceptions are two images on the medieval Cypriot vessels, where we suddenly see the couple portrayed behind each other.64 The images of human faces are worthy of notice, depicted in the centre of 13th- and 14th-century vessels.65 They often portray an anthropomorphic sun or moon, borrowing this image from astrological imagery – as is also shown on contemporary coins and metal vessels (Fig. 21).66 A bowl from the Pierides collection even shows eight women dancing around the sun or moon figure.67 In this group one can also distinguish more realistic looking human faces on 14th-century vessels.68 One of these depictions shows curiously enough 60 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 86–87, 90–93 (Pierides). 61 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 52 no. 2 (Leventis). 62 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 86–87, 90–93 (Pierides); id. 1993, pl. IVb (Limassol); Flourentzos 1994, pl. XII (Nicosia well); Piltz 1996, 43 no. 26; 50 no. 30 (Von Post); Saladin 2001, 134 (wrongly dated). 63 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 90–93 (Pierides). 64 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2002, no. 337 and Wartburg 2007, fig. 4 no. 6; id. 2001, pl. 71 no. 8. 65 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 100–101, 124–129 (Pierides); id. 1996, pl. XI no. 60 and pl. XII no. 65; id. 2004: 66–67 nos. 16–17 (Leventis); Flourentzos 1994, pl. IX (Nicosia well); see also Violaris 2004, fig. 17 (Nicosia). 66 Cf. the contribution of Ulrike Ritzerfeld on metalware with similar iconography in this volume, as well as Spengler – Sayles 1992 for Artuqid and Zenghid figural coinage; see also Baltrušaitis 1994, 174–177 for sun and moon faces in medieval art. Morgan 1942, fig. 101, shows an anthropomorphic sun or moon and small human faces on Byzantine vessels from Corinth. 67 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 100–101 (Pierides). 68 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 124–129 (Pierides).

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Fig. 20: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of a couple; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 21: 14th-century bowl with an anthropo­ morphic sun or moon face; Nicosia, Leventis collection.

two faces stuck to each other (Fig. 22).69 Véronique François suggested that this could be the portrayal of a ‘grylle’, a composite monster of the cephalopod variety (head and legs, but no body) common in Gothic art, as is often shown in the fantastic paintings of Hieronymous Bosch (1450–1516).70 Or it could be rather the double head of the month January, showing an old and a young man representing the past and the future.71 Finally, there are some images, which are put in the category ‘other’ (Fig. 23). They include fantastic mythical creatures (such as a hunting centaur surrounded by four dogs)72 as well as a saint on a horse dressed in chain mail (this could be either the portrayal of the equestrian saint St. George, St. Sergius or St. Bacchus)73 and a sitting male figure with a goblet and a sword in his hands.74 They are complex images, borrowing themes from magical astrological imagery, from traditional Graeco-Roman themes, from Byzantine art and from Christian faith. 69 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 126–127 (Pierides). 70 François 1999, 71; see also, in general, Baltrušaitis 1994, 17–73 on ‘Gryllen’ in Gothic art. 71 François 1999, 72. 72 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 118–119 (Pierides). Cf. François 1999, 69, fig. 3.3 and Wartburg 2001, 459 and note 12, showing different interpretations on this hunting centaur. See also Notopoulos 1964, 118–119 and note 41 referring to Byzantine centaur dishes found in Corinth. 73 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 120–121 (Pierides). I would like to thank Mat Immerzeel of the University of Leiden for his comments on the potential equestrian saint on this bowl, drawing my attention to a similar looking late 13th-century Cypriot icon with the portrayal of St. George (IMG 2648). 74 Du Plat Taylor – Megaw 1951, pl. V no. 9; see also Wartburg 2001, 462 no. 1, pl. 71 no. 1.

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Fig. 22: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of a double face; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Fig. 23: 14th-century bowl with human depiction of a centaur; Larnaca, Pierides collection.

Broader Background If we put the images of the human figures on the Cypriot ceramics in a wider context, it is clear that they can be connected to similar looking contemporary depictions coming from various regions in the Mediterranean. I would like to discuss a few published examples from the ceramic repertoire. We may notice, for instance, the single standing man with a sword and shield from Cyprus (Fig. 11) on similar looking warrior images from southern Italy, Greece and southern Turkey.75 Furthermore, we can compare the lively image of the active single standing woman depicted on 14th-century vessels from Cyprus (Figs. 16–17) with similar looking contemporary female images on pottery from southern Italy.76 Furthermore, her 15th-century sister from Cyprus can be compared with 15th-centry vessels from northern Italy, where the women are wearing similar looking elaborate decorative garments.77 In addition, the portrayal of the Cypriot couple (Fig. 20) has its parallels in the depiction of couples in Syria, Greece and northern Italy.78 The lunar 75 E.g. Ragona 1960, 10, pl. 2a; Rozenberg 1999, nos. 235, 236, 238, 239; Redford 2004, fig. 12.8; Redford 2005, 174, fig. 50 group IV, IV–WW. See also Vroom 2011, 411, figs. 1–2. 76 Rozenberg 1999, nos. 234 and 237; Fiorillo 2005, pl. XXI no. 1. 77 Nepoti 1991, 146, colour pl. VIII; 203 no. 39; 187 no. 11; Munarini – Banzato 1993, 70 and 125 cat. no. 14; 77 and 155 no. 61. 78 E.g. Morgan 1942, colour pl. LII; Nepoti 1991, 147, colour pl. IX; 206–207 no. 44; Saladin 2001, 102 no. 76 with further literature; Wartburg 2001, 465 no. G, pl. 72 G; Vroom 2003, 39, fig. 2.6; id. 2005, 92, fig. MBYZ 12.2.

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or solar faces from Cyprus (Fig. 21) find their equivalents in images from the Islamic world (Turkey, Syria, Iran) and from northern Italy.79 The awkward sitting figure found in Cyprus with a goblet in his hand can be compared with similar looking images on Islamic ceramics from Syria, Iran and southern Turkey (where these pleasure bearing cup-holders are also known as ‘saqi’s’).80 And finally, the centaur with cross-bow portrayed on a 14th-century Cypriot vessel (Fig. 23) can be compared with hunting scenes on dishes from Greece and fantastic imagery from southern Turkey and Syria.81 It is also interesting to see how late medieval contemporary garments and realistic looking objects are depicted on the Cypriot ceramics. Clothes can give information about a certain identity, social role or economic background of the depicted persons.82 In addition, objects acquire a different purpose and meaning in the way they are used.83 We may notice paintings of male cloaks in Renaissance Italy, which look very similar to the decorative cloaks as portrayed on the single standing men of 14th–15th-century vessels from Cyprus (Figs. 12–13).84 Furthermore, on a 1474 fresco from the Church of Archangel Michael in Pedoulas in Cyprus the woman donors are wearing the same female outfits with dresses and long veils as the single standing women on the Cypriot vessels.85 Finally, jugs and goblets made in glass, metal and earthenware of this period in Syria and Cyprus can be distinguished on the Cypriot ceramics (Fig. 16).86

Classifications If we put all the evidence of the body postures together, I would like to suggest that the 13th-century standing single man has a heraldic active appearance, connected to hunting and music making (Figs. 10 and 24–25). 79 E.g. Nepoti 1991, 158, colour pl. XXb; 246–247 nos. 136–139; Munarini – Banzato 1993, 72 and 142, cat no. 39; François 2003, figs. 6 and 11; Saladin 2001, 103 no. 79. 80 E.g. Redford 2004, figs. 12,2–4, 12,10 and 13 with further literature; Redford 2005, 147, fig. 29, group II, II–SS; see also François 2003, fig. 7; Wartburg 2001, pl. 72 nos. A–B, D–F and Saladin 2001, 51 no. 44. 81 Notopoulos 1964, 118–119 mentioning Byzantine centaur dishes from Corinth. See for Turkey and Syria, Saladin 2001, 102 no. 75 with further literature; Redford 2004, 288– 289, figs. 12.5–6; Redford 2005, 148–149, figs. 30–31, group II, II–UUa and UUb. 82 Matthews 2004, 5. 83 Matthews 2004, 5; Crossley 2007, 90. 84 Cf. Vocino 1952. 85 Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989, 47, fig. 3; Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004, 46. 86 E.g. Saladin 2001, 61 no. 57; 189 no. 198; 190 nos. 199–201.

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Fig. 24: Representation, use of hands and appearance of human depictions by century on the medieval glazed decorated vessels from four museum collections.

The 14th-century single man is also presented in a heraldic way, but with a more ostentatious military appearance (Figs. 11 and 24–25). The single man and the two men of the (late) 14th to early 16th centuries, however, have no gestures or the use of hands at all, they look in fact like inactive and stiff noblemen (Figs. 12–15 and 24–25). The single woman and the two women of the 14th to early 16th centuries, on the contrary, look very active with hands spread wide out (as if they are moving or dancing) (Figs. 16–19 and 24–25). The 14th-century couples are portrayed lively as well, with hands spread out in combination with embracement (Figs. 20 and 24–25). These vessels with the depiction of embracing intertwined couples are connected by some scholars to marriage customs, to wedding presents or to love couples in French medieval chivalric literature (such as the Roman de Troie) and in 12th–13th-century Byzantine poems (such as the Digenis Akritas epic, or the story of Libistros and Rodamne as well as of Belthandros and Chrysantza).87 87 E.g. Jouanno 1998; Jacoby 1984; Jacoby 1986; François 1999. See also Frantz 1940–41; Morgan 1942, no. 1685, pl. LII; Notopoulos 1964, 129–132.

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Fig. 25: Standard appearance and variations of appearance of human depictions by century on the medieval glazed decorated vessels from four museum collections.

The objects, added attributes and clothes connected to the human figures on the Cypriot vessels also tell – as social markers – an interesting story (Fig. 26). We see that the 13th-century standing single man is light armoured, holding birds and (possibly) musical objects (Figs. 10 and 26). He is nicely incised and painted in a style which shows similarities to contemporary Byzantine ceramics. A century later (in the 14th century), the single man is more heavily armoured (Figs. 11 and 26). In fact, he is portrayed as a warrior in action with a western-style shield and sword. Whether this last presentation is perhaps connected to a new definition of knighthood, or perhaps to historical events, we do not know yet. It is clear, though, that from the late 14th century onwards the standing single man is primitively sketched as a stiff nobleman and restricted to a simple cloak in combination with simplified vegetal ornaments such as stylized ferns (Figs. 12–14 and 26). We have to keep in mind, though, that this artificial impassivity and this absence of gestures or movements was often a sign of imperial majesty and dignity in Byzantium and in the West.88 It is possible that we see therefore the portrayal of dignified noblemen. 88 Maguire 1989, 222 and note 25; Brubaker 2009, 38.

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Fig. 26: Objects, added objects and clothes of human depictions by century on the medieval glazed decorated vessels from four museum collections.

Towards the late 15th and 16th centuries the human depictions on the Cypriot bowls become more and more abstract and simplified (Fig. 14). Some questions therefore turn up: is this simplification perhaps related to quick mass-production of these Cypriot decorative vessels, or rather to the disappearance of the potter’s craftsmanship in Cyprus, or perhaps to the import of other pottery types in Cyprus (like the high-quality Maiolica from Italy penetrating the market at that time). Again, we cannot answer yet these questions, for this needs further study. The single woman and two women of the 14th century, on the other hand, are decoratively dressed, carrying jugs, goblets and napkins/scarfs (man­ dil) with them (Figs. 16–19 and 26). They show courtly pleasure such as dancing, in combination with objects connected to wine drinking.89 In short, we may distinguish in the Cypriot ceramics a difference between male and female associated objects throughout the centuries. Figure 27 shows this gender distinction in attributes and human figures even more strongly. It is further interesting to notice in this graph that the 14th-century couples have a mix of male and female-associated objects. 89 According to Wartburg 2001, 462 and note 29, iconographical elements of this courtly lifestyle are also depicted on art and objects from the Islamic repertoire, such as from the Syrian-Iranian region, Egypt, Sicily and Spain.

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Fig. 27: Male and female associated objects and added objects of human depictions on the medieval glazed decorative vessels from four museum collections.

Conclusion It is evidently interesting to observe that suddenly so many human figures were depicted on Cypriot ceramic bowls between the 13th and the early 16th centuries. At first, in the 13th and 14th centuries, these images were well executed, but they became more sketchy and abstract towards the 16th century (when we start to see a sort of Picasso-like though quite uninspired human depictions) (see Fig. 14). Before and after this period human figures are quite unknown on Cypriot pottery. In assessing the artistic value of the human figures, we have to keep in mind that we are dealing with daily-life objects, which permitted only a restricted repertoire. The potters and decorators were limited to a small area in the interior of open vessels (such as footed bowls with a small rim diame­ ter) for cutting and painting the designs. In addition, these vessels were local products for a local market, so it was also the task of the potter or a middle­ man to relate to local customers who were to consume food or liquids from these bowls. In short, the mechanisms of taste and demand, of fashions in design and manners of consumption, were functioning here. 268

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Furthermore, we must also not forget that these vessels were found in archaeological contexts connected to graves. So, these bowls could have been used as religious gifts for important occasions during one’s life time and later placed in graves as an accessory for the afterlife. Or perhaps they were used for burial and libation ceremonies and then placed in or around the graves.90 The use of a new ambiguous iconography on these portable objects remains intriguing. Surely, the vessels had not only utilitarian but also decorative purposes. We see a mixture, a melting of Byzantine Orthodox, Western European, Armenian, Eastern Christian and Islamic decorative motifs from various parts of the Mediterranean and the Near East. These range from heraldic symbols and Western and Eastern elements of chivalry to Byzantine and Western romantic epic traditions, astrological and mythological images, symbols of Christian faith and scenes of a privileged courtly life (including hunting, drinking and dancing). In his 2004 article ‘On Saqi’s and ceramics: Representation in the north-east Mediterranean’, Scott Redford suggested that easily replicable and widely diffused objects, such as glazed ceramics, propagated from the 12th century onwards ideas about and a taste for a certain kind of courtly life between Christian, Armenian Cilician and Muslim states, whose artistic production has usually been considered separately.91 I think his perspective would be fruitful with respect to understanding the Cypriot ceramics discussed in this paper. This pottery seems to reflect a sort of supra-regional identity, representing a shared ideology and a common artistic ground based on the exchange of motifs, styles and ideas. In this cross-cultural iconographical koinè, the Cypriot potters were easily copying, borrowing and merging elements from surrounding cultures. In doing so they developed a complex imagery on portable objects as a kind of non-verbal communication, the exact content of which we are only beginning to comprehend. Major influences in this process were apparently the Italian-dominated maritime trade and traveling craftsmen. It is clear that several iconographical elements are still unknown to us and need further study. More fundamentally, the gestures on the Cypriot bowls, if they are real gestures, remain problematic. Leslie Brubaker rightly observed in her article on gestures in Byzantium that visual expressions of gestures ‘had meanings to the Byzantines that are no longer blatantly obvious to us’.92 The same could be the case with the gesticulations on the 90 Vroom 2009, 167; id. 2011, 167. 91 Redford 2004; see also Georgopoulou 1999 for the mechanisms of the multi-ethnic markets of the Levant. 92 Brubaker 2009, 55.

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Cypriot vessels; perhaps they had a totally different significance than our modern gestures. Indeed, the question is whether we are really dealing with gestures as we understand them. In fact, we do not see many distinguishable hand or finger gestures on the bowls, but perhaps rather changes in bodily postures which change over the centuries. After the 13th century the Cypriots came in contact with a new visual style for pottery decoration, which included the depiction of human figures in various body postures unknown to them. This new visual language was probably introduced by the influx of a heterogeneous group of immigrants (including artisans) who came to Cyprus during the 14th century from the Syrian and Cilician mainland.93 The human depictions surely transmitted new messages through their various bodily postures, which may very well be related to social interaction and new social configurations, to shifts in economic and political power, to the growth of a new shared taste, as well as to a cultural transformation and diversification of late medieval society in general.94 During the course of the same 14th century, we also start to notice on the Cypriot vessels an absence of gestures (especially in the inactive single male figures). This absence of gesture obviously gained high social status during the Renaissance in Europe – as is illustrated by Peter Burke’s immobile Viceroy of Naples who was described as ‘a marble statue’.95 Apparently, there existed in this period a growing distance between two body languages: the flamboyant and the disciplined, the uncivilised and the civilised – the last being praised as displaying a strict control of bodily expressions by Desiderius Erasmus in his small treatise De civilitate morum puerilium (1530).96 The bodily postures on the Cypriot vessels may even help us to understand gender roles (whether or not unconsciously accepted by them – and us), which were emphasized by clothes and attributes associated to traditional male and female behaviour. The female way of dancing on the pottery seems to be a way of distinguishing oneself as feminine by ways of movement, with pleasure-bearing women spreading their arms out in a graceful manner.97 In addition, the presence of ‘elite’ attributes, such as harmful weapons for the man versus harmless goblets for the women, seem to influence the 93 Jacoby 1989; Carr 2009, 129 and note 10 with further literature; see also Imhaus 2004 for an inventory of Frankish, Greek and Syrian funerary slabs found on Cyprus. 94 See also Schmitt 1991, 67. 95 Burke 1991, 78 and note 23. 96 Burke 1991, 79; see also Fontaine Verwey 1971 on Erasmus’ book of etiquette for children. The history of increasing stricter bodily control is, of course, best described in Elias 1939. 97 According to Burke 1991, 77 and note 21, dancing was a ‘festive mode of inculcating discipline’ in Renaissance Italy.

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way the figures perform certain bodily movements. However, it remains doubtful whether these images represent the realities of Cypriot society as they were. Perhaps the depictions show Cypriot realities rather ‘as they were supposed to be’. In this perspective, the pottery would reflect the aspirations for new social values by the target group, that is to say, the customers who bought and used these vessels, and perhaps rather dreamed of courtly life than lived the courtly life. My research on this group of pottery is still continuing. In particular, I aim to focus in the near future on the clothes and the artefacts depicted on these ceramics, if possible in combination with related archaeological and art historical evidence. I hope that in this way it will be possible to obtain more information about these intriguing human figures on the medieval vessels found in Cyprus.

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Jacoby 1986 = David Jacoby, ‘Knightly values and class consciousness in the Crusader States of the Eastern Mediterranean’, in: Mediterranean Historical Review 1, 1986, 158–186. Jacoby 1989 = David Jacoby, ‘The rise of a new emporium in the eastern Mediterranean: Famagusta in the late thirteenth century’, in: Μελέται και Υπομνήματα 1, 1984, 143–174 (reprinted in: David Jacoby, Studies on the Crusader States and on Venetian expansion [Northampton 1989] article 8). Jouanno 1998 = Corinne Jouanno, Digénis Akritas, le héros des frontères. Une épopée byzantine (version de Grottaferrata) (Turnhout 1998). Kontogiannis 2003 = Nikos Kontogiannis, ‘Κυπριακή Μεσαιωνική κεραμική στο Μουσείο των Σεβρών’, in: Επιστημονική Επετηρίδα του Τμήματος Αρχαιοτήτων για το 2003, 311–326. Leaf – Purcell 1986 = William Leaf – Sally Purcell, Heraldic Symbols: Islamic In­ signia and Western Heraldry (London 1986). Mauss 1973 = Marcel Mauss, ‘Techniques of the body’, in: Economy and Society 2, 1973, 70–88 (English translation of ‘Les téchniques du corps’, in: Journal de psychologie normale et pathologique 39, 1935, 271–293). Maguire 1981 = Henry Maguire, Art and Eloquence in Byzantium (Princeton 1981). Maguire 1989 = Henry Maguire, ‘Style and ideology in Byzantine imperial art’, in: Gesta 28.2, 1989, 217–231. Matthews 2004 = Steven G. Matthews, ‘The instantiated identity: Critical approaches to studying gesture and material culture’, paper presented in ‘The Materialisation of Social Identities’ session at the annual Theoretical Archaeology Group conference, University of Glasgow, 17–19 December 2004, 1–22. Mayer 1933 = Leo A. Mayer, Saracenic Heraldry. A Survey (Oxford 1933, repr. 1999). Megaw 1968 = Peter Megaw, ‘Byzantine pottery’, in: Robert J. Charleston (ed.), World Ceramics (London – New York – Sydney – Toronto 1968) 100–106. Morgan 1942 = Charles Morgan, Excavations at Corinth, vol. XI: The Byzantine Pottery (Cambridge/Mass. 1942). Morris et al. 1979 = Desmond Morris – Peter Collett – Peter Marc – Marie O’Shaughnessy, Gestures. Their Origin and Distribution (London 1979). Munarini – Banzato 1993 = Michelangelo Munarini – Davide Banzato, Ceramiche rinascimentali dei musei civici di Padova (Milan 1993). Nepoti 1991 = Sergio Nepoti, Ceramiche graffite della donazione Donini Baer (Faenza 1991). Notopoulos 1964 = James A. Notopoulos, ‘Akritan iconography on Byzantine pottery’, in: Hesperia 33, 1964, 108–133. Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1989 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, Μεσαιωνική Κυπριακή κεραμεική στο Μουσείο του Ιδρύματος Πιερίδη (Larnaca 1989). Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1993 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, ‘Cypriot Medieval glazed pottery: Answers and questions’, in: Anthony A. M. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’. Papers Given at the Twenty-Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 115–130. Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1996 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, Μεσαιωνική εφυαλωμένη κεραμική της Κύπρου. Τα εργαστήρια Πάφου και Λαπήθου (Thessaloniki 1996).

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Papanikola-Bakirtzi 1999 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, ‘Cypriot Medieval ceramics: A contribution to the study of individual artists’, in: Nancy Patterson Ševčenko – Christopher Moss (eds.), Medieval Cyprus. Studies in Art, Architecture, and History in Memory of Doula Mouriki (Princeton 1999) 197–204. Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2002 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, ‘Medieval glazed ceramics’, in: Vassos Karageorghis (ed.), Ancient Art from Cyprus in the Collec­ tion of George and Nefeli Giabra Pierides (Nicosia 2002) 238–259. Papanikola-Bakirtzi 2004 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi, Colours of Medieval Cyprus Through the Medieval Collection of the Leventis Municipal Museum of Nicosia (with essays by Sir David Hunt and Eleni Loizides) (Nicosia 2004). Papanikola-Bakirtzi – Mavrikiou – Bakirtzis 1999 = Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzi – Fofo Mavrikiou – Charalambos Bakirtzis, Byzantine Glazed Pottery in the Benaki Museum (Athens 1999). Piltz 1996 = Elisabeth Piltz, The Von Post Collection of Cypriote Late Byzantine Glazed Pottery. Studies in Mediterranean Archaeology, vol. 119 (Jonsered 1996). Redford 2004 = Scott Redford, ‘On Sāqīs and ceramics: Systems of representation in the Northeast Mediterranean’, in: D.H. Weiss – L. Mahoney (eds.), France and the Holy Land. Frankish Culture at the End of the Crusades (Baltimore – London 2004) 282–312. Redford 2005 = Scott Redford, ‘Neutron activation analysis of Medieval ceramics from Kinet, Turkey, especially Port Saint Symeon Ware’, in: Ancient Near Eastern Studies 42, 2005, 83–186. Ragona 1960 = A. Ragona, ‘Influssi saraceni nella ceramica italiana al tempo degli Svevi e degli Angioini’, in: Faenza 46, 1969, 3–12. Roodenburg 2004 = Herman Roodenburg, The Eloquence of the Body. Perspectives on Gesture in the Dutch Republic (Zwolle 2004). Rozenberg 1999 = Silvia Rozenberg (ed.), Knights of the Holy Land. The Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem (Jerusalem 1999). Saladin 2001 = L’Orient de Saladin. L’art des Ayyoubides. Exposition présentée à l’Institut du Monde Arabe (Paris 2001). Schmitt 1991 = Jean-Claude Schmitt, ‘The Rationale of Gestures in the West: Third to Thirteenth Centuries’, in: Jan Bremmer – Herman Roodenburg (eds.), A Cul­ tural History of Gesture: From Antiquity to the Present Day (Cambridge 1991) 59–70. Stern 2012 = Edna J. Stern, ‘Akko I. The 1991–1998 Excavations. The CrusaderPeriod Pottery. IAA Reports, vols. 51/1–2 (Jerusalem 2012). Spengler – Sayles 1992 = William F. Spengler – Wayne G. Sayles, Turkoman Fig­ ural Bronze Coins and their Iconography, vol. I: The Artuqids; vol. II: The Zengids (Lodi 1992). Thomas 1991 = Keith Thomas, ‘Introduction’, in: Jan Bremmer – Herman Roodenburg (eds.), A cultural History of Gesture: From Antiquity to the Present Day (Cambridge 1991) 1–14. Violaris 2004 = Yiannis Violaris, ‘Excavations at the site of Palaion Demarcheion, Lefkosia’, in: Cahier du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 34, 2004, 69–80.

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Vocino 1952 = M. Vocino, Storia del costume. Venti secoli di vita italiana (Rome 1952). Vroom 2003 = Joanita Vroom, After Antiquity. Ceramics and Society in the Aegean from the 7 th to the 20 th Century A.C. A Case Study from Boeotia, Central Greece (Leiden, 2003). Vroom 2005 = Joanita Vroom, Byzantine to Modern Pottery in the Aegean. An Intro­ duction and Field Guide (Utrecht 2005; 2nd rev. ed. Turnhout 2014). Vroom 2009 = Joanita Vroom, ‘Breaking pots: Medieval and Post-Medieval ceramics from Central Greece’, in: John Bintliff – Hanna Stöger (eds.), Medieval and Post-Medieval Greece. The Corfu Papers. BAR International Series, vol. 2023 (Oxford 2009) 167–176. Vroom 2011 = Joanita Vroom, ‘The Morea and its links with Southern Italy after AD 1204: Ceramics and identity’, in: Archeologia Medievale 38, 2011, 409–430. Vroom 2013 = Joanita Vroom, ‘Medieval–Modern fine wares’, in: Given et al. 2013, vol. 1, 74–80. Wartburg 1998 = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Mittelalterliche Keramik aus dem Aphroditeheiligtum in Palaiopaphos’, in: Archäologischer Anzeiger 1998, 133–165. Wartburg 2001 = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘“Hochzeitspaare” und Weintrinker. Zu Bildmotiven der mittelalterlichen Keramik Cyperns’, in: Sabrina Buzzi et al. (eds.), Zona Archeologica. Festschrift für Hans Peter Isler zum 60. Geburtstag. Antiquitas, series 3, vol. 42 (Bonn 2001) 457–465. Wartburg 2007 = Marie-Louise von Wartburg, ‘Chronology and stratigraphy of the Medieval pottery of Cyprus: A critical review’, in: Beate BöhlendorfArslan – Ali Osman Uysal – Johanna Witte-Orr (eds.), Çanak. Late Antique and Medieval Pottery and Tiles in Mediterranean Archaeological Contexts. Byzas, vol. 7 (Istanbul 2007) 419–440.

Photo credits Figs. 1–2: TAESP and J. Vroom. – Figs. 3–9, 24–27: J. Vroom. – Figs. 10, 14–18, 20, 22–23: Pierides collection, Larnaca. – Figs. 11–13, 19, 21: Leventis collection, Nicosia.98

Joanita Vroom

Leiden University, Faculty of Archaeology, P.O Box 9514, 2300 RA Leiden (The Netherlands) [email protected]

98 I would like to thank Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis warmly for allowing me to use the pictures from her catalogues of the Pierides collection in Larnaca and of the Leventis collection in Nicosia.

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Ulrike Ritzerfeld

The Language of Power: Transgressing Borders in Luxury Metal Objects of the Lusignan*

Various studies of recent years have observed that in late medieval Mediterranean courts cultural borders were crossed, resulting in an artistic koine.1 Robert Ousterhout has reached the conclusion that there existed a language of objects and symbols, a ‘language of power’, which was used for presenting one’s own importance within the Mediterranean elite.2 In this manner a visual vocabulary was created that linked the courts and facilitated communication. Such a phenomenon, otherwise called a ‘shared culture’ of objects and practices or ‘zone of intelligibility’ is recognizable throughout the Mediterranean and deep into Western and Central Asia.3 Late medieval Cyprus under Lusignan rule was part of this area of shared objects and practises. The art of the island displays elements from the Crusader states, from Armenia and Byzantium alongside those from France and Italy. This tendency also applies to the artistic commissions of the court of the Lusignan kings, these being distinguished by a parallel use *

A fellowship in the German Study Centre in Venice (Deutsches Studienzentrum in Vene­dig) enabled me to prepare this paper.

1

Most important are the publications of Scott Redford, for example, ‘A Grammar of Rum Seljuk Ornament’, in: Mesogeios 25/26, 2005, 283–310. See also Stefan Burkhardt – Margit Mersch – Stefan Schröder – Ulrike Ritzerfeld, ‘Hybridisierung von Zeichen und Formen durch mediterrane Eliten’, in: Michael Borgolte et al. (eds.), Integration und Desintegration der Kulturen im europäischen Mittelalter. Europa im Mittelalter, vol. 18 (Berlin 2011) 467–560. For economic considerations see Maria Georgopoulou, ‘Fine Commodities in the Thirteenth-century Mediterranean. The Genesis of a Common Aesthetic’, in: Margit Mersch – Ulrike Ritzerfeld (eds.), Lateinisch-griechisch-arabische Begegnungen. Kulturelle Diversität im Mittelmeerraum des Spätmittelalters (Berlin 2009) 63–89. 2 Robert Ousterhout, ‘Symbole der Macht. Mittelalterliche Heraldik zwischen Ost und West’, in: Margit Mersch – Ulrike Ritzerfeld (eds.), Lateinisch-griechisch-arabische Begegnungen. Kulturelle Diversität im Mittelmeerraum des Spätmittelalters (Berlin 2009) 91–109. 3 Oleg Grabar, ‘The Shared Culture of Objects’, in: Henry Maguire (ed.), Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204 (Washington D.C. 1997) 115–129; Kinoshita 2012, 46.

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Fig. 1: Vessel for Sultan al-Malik an-Nasir Muhammad, anonymous, late 1320s or 1330s; London, British Museum, inv. no. OA 1851.1 - 4 ,1.

of different styles and traditions.4 An artistic eclecticism seems to be especially characteristic of the 14th century during the reign of King Hugh IV (1324–1359), when Cyprus became a cultural as well as a commercial centre of cross-culturation. Annemarie Weyl Carr considers the stylistic choices of the Lusignan Court to be a reflection of the origins, the connections and the political claims of the dynasty.5 Such motivations also hold good for a group of fine metalware items of Mamluk tradition made for the Cypriot royal family, which will be discussed in this paper. These precious objects are characterized by their culturally hybrid appearance, offering information on Cyprus as a place of cultural encounter and on the role of King Hugh IV as promoter of cultural exchanges, adaptions and entanglements. Sumptuous metalworks with fine incrustations of silver, gold or copper were very popular in the Mediterranean region and beyond, where they were diffused early on across cultural, political and religious boundaries. In the middle of the 13th century the products manufactured in the Jazira were exported and given to foreign rulers.6 Under the Mamluk regime (1250–1517) the 4 5 6

Carr 1995; Annemarie Weyl Carr, ‘Art’, in: Angel Nicolaou-Konnari – Chris Schabel (eds.) Cyprus. Society and culture 1191–1374 (Leiden – Boston 2005) 285–328. Carr 1995. David Rice, ‘Inlaid Brasses from the Workshop of Ahmad al-Dhakī al Mawṣilī’, in: Ars Orientalis 2, 1957, 283–326, here 283–284. Rice refers to the Spanish geographer Abu Sa’id writing of his visit in the Jazira.

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Fig. 2: Tray for Sultan al-Malik al-Mugahid Sayf ad-Din ʿAli (1321–1363), anonymous; Paris, Louvre, inv. no. OA 6008.

craft of metalworking flourished, especially in Cairo and Damascus.7 The principal clients were the Mamluk sultans and their emirs, as the local population probably could not afford such costly items (Fig. 1).8 But the objects were also delivered to rulers of the Middle East, such as the Rasulid sultans in Yemen (1229–1454) (Fig. 2).9 They were treasured even at the Byzantine 7 For the question of its origin see Ward 1989, 208–209; Auld 2009. 8 Cf. Baer 2003, 65. 9 See Dimand 1930/1931; Porter 1987, 225–229. It is not clear if the Mamluk objects arrived in Yemen as diplomatic gifts or if they were ordered by the Yemenite sultans in Egypt. The multitude of objects could indicate that both was the case. But the imitation of Mamluk buildings in Yemen suggests an initiative of the Yemenite sultans. See Dimand 1930/1931, 229; Atil 1981, 52.

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court.10 In the 14th and 15th centuries Europe gained importance as a key market for Mamluk metalware.11 Travel accounts, for example from the Italian pilgrim Simone Sigoli who visited Damascus in 1384/85, attest to the delight of the European customers in these luxury articles.12 References to metalwork from Damascus in the inventories of excellent European collections, such as the one of Charles V of France (1338–1380), of his brother, the Duc de Berry (1340–1416), of Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici (1416–1469) and his son Lorenzo (1449–1492) as well as other important personalities mostly in Florence, Venice, and Lucca testify to the popularity of these objects among members of the prosperous European ruling class.13 Lorenzo de’ Medici alone possessed over 100 objects alla domaschina or domaschini.14 In fact the popularity of Mamluk metalwork encountered in Europe was such that in the 15th and 16th centuries a large amount of mass produced metal commodities was imported to or made in Venice, resulting in a wide diffusion of metalworks of Mamluk tradition throughout European society.15 They were highly esteemed as valuable, technically demanding, decorative, rare and ‘exotic’ preciosities, and – so has been supposed – maybe even as religiously connoted testimonies from the Holy Land of the Bible.16 The appearance of 14th century Mamluk metalwork is dominated by epigraphic fields with Arabic inscriptions, supplemented by ornamental zones with motifs from China and Iran (Fig. 1).17 Popular features are friezes and 10 See Robert Nelson, ‘Letters and Language’, in: Irene A. Bierman (ed.), The Experience of Islamic Art on the Margins of Islam (Reading 2005) 61–88, here 61–71. 11 For a long time the importance of the European market to the Mamluk metalworking industry has not been seen because the so-called veneto-saracenic metalwork, that is inlaid brass vessels in Islamic style with European coats of arms, was thought to be the work of immigrant craftsmen in Venice. Only recent publications like the ones of Rachel Ward have given attention to the subject. For details see Ward 1989; Ward 2007; Howard 2007, 75; Mack 2002, 21, 140–141. 12 Sigoli 1829, 58. 13 Ward 1989, 209. 14 For the Medici collections see Marco Spallanzani, ‘Metalli Islamici nelle Raccolte Medicee da Cosimo I a Ferdinando I’, in: Le Arti del Principato Mediceo (Florence 1980) 95–115; Marco Spallanzani, Metalli islamici a Firenze nel Rinascimento (Florence 2010); Giovanni Curatola – Marco Spallanzani (eds.), Metalli Islamici dalle Collezioni Granducali. Firenze, Museo Nazionale del Bargello (Florence 1981). 15 On the disputed provenance of these works see Mack 2002, 142–147. 16 Mack 2002, 1–7. Cf. Baer 1989, 1–5, 41–49. Eva R. Hoffman, ‘Pathways of Portability: Islamic and Christian Interchange from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century’, in: Eva R. Hoffman (ed.), Late Antique and Medieval Art of the Mediterranean World (Oxford 2007) 317–349, here 324, puts it like this: ‘Foreign objects enjoyed a higher status than local ones, and those from exotic “Eastern” empires were held in highest esteem as para­digms of imperial luxury and grandeur.’ 17 See Ward 1993, 106–121.

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bands interrupted by large medallions and small roundels filled with writing or figures of chasing animals, floral forms and abstract patterns. Lengthy Arabic phrases in the bands or radiating in the rondos in Thulut or Nashki glorify and name the owner, mentioning and blessing his name and titles. Signs of office of the emirs at court (such as a bow or a beaker) further individualize the items and their possessors. Metalware made for export can show certain changes in form, motifs, and structure of decoration in comparison with examples made for local use. In items destined for the Rasulid sultans of Yemen, for instance, their dynastic sign, the five-petaled rosette of the Rasulids (Fig. 2), makes its appearance.18 By comparison the products produced for export to the same extent, but to Europe, show many modifications. According to Rachel Ward, these were effected at the request of the Venetian merchants, who functioned as mediators between the workshops and the European customers.19 The forms of the objects were increasingly adapted to their specific needs, the candlesticks for example to the dimensions of European candles.20 The Arabic titular inscriptions remained initially, but were later substituted by neutral words, benedictions or poems. The Mamluk signs of office were replaced by blazons of the Western type. During times of large scale exports the shields intended to bear coats of arms would be left undecorated, probably for a later addition of the coat of arms of the new European owner. Hence these objects of Mamluk manufacture, which were already of a culturally and stylistically hybrid appearance, blending ornamental elements of the Middle and Far Eastern regions, also acquired a European or specifically Western feature. These changes in form, dimension, and decorative scheme indicate an attempt to satisfy the consumers’ habits and their specific aesthetical preferences. Indeed, they are indicators of a deliberate adaptation to the visual vocabulary of the European elites. This aim has been observed mainly in objects of the second half of the 14th and the 15th century. What we lack extensive knowledge of is the initial phase of exports to the West in the first half of the 14th century and the decisive factors behind it.21 Given 18 19 20 21

For the rosette see Porter 1987, 231–232. Ward 2007, 267. Ward 2007, 269–271; Ward 1989, 206; Mack 2002, 140–147. In general the activities of European merchants in the context of changing political backgrounds are seen as responsible for the export of Mamluk metalware to the West. Cf. Ward 1989 and 2007. But during the time of the papal embargo there must have been at least some difficulties in the trade between European countries and Mamluk territories. It was not until the last quarter of the 14th century that these links became stable. See Eliyahu Ashtor, ‘Observations on Venetian Trade in the Levant in the XIVth Century’, in: Journal of European Economic History 5, 1976, 533–586, esp. 541–550, 553–558; Nicholas Coureas, ‘Controlled Contacts: The Papacy, the Latin Church of Cyprus and Mamluk Egypt, 1250–1350’, in: Urbain Vermeulen – Jo van Steenbergen (eds.), Egypt

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Fig. 3: Tray with coat of arms of the Lusignan, anonymous, 1324–1359; Paris, Louvre, inv. no. MAO 1227.

the proximity of the Mamluk territories to Cyprus and the important role of the island as intermediary station for trade during the time of the papal embargo it is not surprising that among the few known metalware items of Mamluk tradition datable to this period and created for European nobles, several were destined for the Lusignan royal family. There are a small basin, a tray and a vessel bearing the coat of arms of the Lusignan royal family (Figs. 3–4). Additional items can also be linked to the Lusignans, as will be seen in the following pages. There is only scant information regarding the small basin, not even its actual location is known.22 Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg has published a photograph of the object that shows its decoration with Arabic inscriptions, which seem and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras. Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, vol. 140 (Leuven 2005) 395–408. 22 Makariou mentions it as being in an American private collection: Makariou 2012c, nos. 99 and 214. To my knowledge the little bowl has not been discussed at all until now, but only mentioned in passing. It appears to have been sold at Christie’s in 1950 (Makariou 2002, 42) or in 1966, lot 134 (Mack 2002, 213, note 3).

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Fig. 4: Vessel for Hugh IV of Lusignan, anonymous, 1324–1359; Paris, Louvre, inv. no. MAO 101.

to cite a poem, and with the so-called ‘old coats of arms’ of the Lusignans combining the Jerusalem cross with the Lusignan lion.23 This type of coats of arms first appeared under King Hugh IV (1324–1359) and so the item is datable to this period.24 A tray in the Louvre is similarly decorated, being made of a copper alloy incrusted with silver, gold and a black substance (Fig. 3).25 It bears a simpler version of the Lusignan family coat of arms (barry of six with a lion rampant) in its centre within a rondo of lotus flowers. The rondo is surrounded by an unadorned band and a second, larger band that is interspersed with four roundels, each depicting a crowned king holding a cup. Each segment of this second band is inscribed with blessings that alternate with scenes depicting the pleasures of drinking and music. On the outside, the tray bears a frieze composed in exactly the same manner. The inscriptions on the inside and outside are slightly different, bestowing blessings 23 Rudt de Collenberg 1977, 143, fig. 41. 24 Cf. Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘Le décor héraldique sur les monuments médiévaux’, in: Jean-Bernard de Vaivre – Philippe Plagnieux (eds.), L’Art gothique en Chypre (Paris 2006) 426–472, esp. 432. 25 Paris, Louvre, inv. no. MAO 1227. It measures 9.5 cm in height and 40.5 cm in dia­ meter. For the platter see Makariou 2012c, nos. 99 and 214; Makariou 2000 and 2002.

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of glory, victory and long life to the noble and the virtuous.26 The use of the term majid for the noble or majestic is rare in Mamluk inscriptions and could indicate its destination to a king.27 The enthroned ruler is a traditional motif of Islamic art, but not common in Mamluk artefacts of the early 14th century. Furthermore, the headgear of the sovereigns in the tray resembles a Western crown more than the types of headgear of Mamluk sultans depicted normally.28 Ward concludes that an enthroned figure wearing a crown must represent a foreign ruler.29 Interestingly, this motif also appears on other objects made for European nobles, as will be seen below. The fact that the enthroned potentate and the coat of arms were chosen to decorate the roundels in place of the usual radiating Arabic inscriptions indicates the desire to translate the content into a figurative form. It was thereby made transculturally comprehensible, employing concurrently the iconographic tradition of the Middle East as well as the specifically European manner of representation with a coat of arms. The tray therefore shows an adaptation to its owner’s culture and needs, introducing figurative motifs of power besides the use of inscriptions and Western symbolism. Stylistic features of the decoration, including the rondo of lotus flowers, hark back to the second third of the 14th century, when Hugh IV was the king of Cyprus. Therefore his name has been proposed as being that of the recipient of this tray.30 It is certain that King Hugh IV commissioned the famous vessel in the Louvre, fashioned out of a single sheet of brass with inlays in silver and black organic material (Fig. 4).31 This item combines Mamluk craftsmanship and 26 De Hond – Mols 2011, 22. For the inscription on the tray see Christie’s, A brass basin made for Prince Aimerey or Prince Guy de Lusignan, Lot 516 / Sale 6098; London, 20 April 1999. The inscription on the inside within the two cartouches reads: ‘Glory, victory and long life to the noble, the good; praise’. The exterior inscription is similar, reading: ‘Glory and victory and long life to the noble, the good; praise and excellence and [?] greatness and elevation’. Christie’s online: http://www.christies.com/lotfinder/ lot/a-brass-basin-made-for-prince-aimerey-1449872-details.aspx?intObjectID=1449872 (accessed 18/12/2012). Cf. Makariou 2012c, nos. 99 and 214; Makariou 2002, 41. 27 Makariou 2000. 28 Makariou 2000 and 2002, 42, stresses the rarity of this motif in Mamluk metalware. Little is known of the headgear of Mamluk sultans. It is clear that they could wear different types of headgear and that customs changed during the period of Mamluk rule. There seems to have existed a kind of crown named sharbūsh, but only in early times, and its appearance is not known with certainty. So there is no secure information available at present. Cf. Albrecht Fuess, ‘Sultans with Horns: The Political Significance of Headgear in the Mamluk Empire’, in: Mamluk Studies Review 12/2, 2008, 71–94, esp. 76; and in relation to this article Ritzerfeld 2014. 29 Ward 1999, 117. Cf. previous note. 30 Makariou 2002, 43–44; Makariou 2000; Makariou 2012c, nos. 99 and 214. 31 Paris, Louvre, inv. no. MAO 101. It measures about 57 cm in diameter and 28 cm in height. For the basin see Makariou 2012b; Sophie Makariou, ‘Dinanderie des Lusignan

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Arabic inscriptions with Christian symbols, Western coats of arms and a French inscription on the rim. The latter is preceded by a cross and calls the Cypriot king ‘Tres haut et puissant roi Hugue de Iherusalem et de Chipre que Dieu manteigne’ (His highness the mighty King Hugh of Jerusalem and Cyprus, whom God protect). But the dominant features of the decoration are eight Arabic inscriptions. They are placed on the inside and the outside. The two big ones in cursive Thuluth script circle around the body of the vessel. They are interspersed with round medallions alternatively filled with small radiating inscriptions between flying birds or shield of arms between flowers. Sophie Makariou translates the inscriptions, which are also partly preceded by crosses, as ‘Made to the orders of his Highness the most splendid Ouk the blessed, he who is at the head of the select armies of the Frankish kings, Ouk of the Lusignans, may his glory last into eternity’.32 There are unusual and even ungrammatical features in the wording. Some words seem to be rather a translation from the French.33 All the same, the fine script denotes a high degree of calligraphic proficiency. The French inscription on the rim and the shields, executed in another technique ‘in an utterly un-Islamic manner’, are the work of another possibly Western craftsman.34 Nonetheless the similarity of the French and the Arabic texts with regard to their content and their even similar wording indicates that the decoration of the basin was executed within the framework of one project. Makariou has recently reached the conclusion that the inscriptions were composed at the chancellery of the Lusignan court.35 In fact the inscriptions do not conform to the Mamluk titular regulations.36 Instead the French inscription seems to include interpretations of Western formulas of royal authority.37 Annemarie Weyl Carr has shown that the French formulae are unusual to any regime except the Lusignans’, and that the spelling of

32 33 34 35 36

37

de Chypre’, in: Les Arts de l’Islam au Musée du Louvre (Paris 2012) 268–270; Ritzerfeld 2011, esp. 527–529, 534–536; Carr 1995, esp. 246–250; Schryver 2005, 164–177; D’Allemagne 1987; Welch 1979, 84; Rice 1956. Makariou 2000. Other translations in d’Allemagne 1987, 513; Rice 1956, 397; Welch 1979, 84. For details see Rice 1956. Rice 1956, 402. However, this fact does not necessarily signify that the decoration of the vessel was run in two different countries such as Mamluk territories and Cyprus, as Makariou implies 2012b, 246. Cf. Ritzerfeld 2014. Makariou 2012b, 249. Rice 1956, 401. Instead of giving the title mutamalik (occupier) prescribed in protocols for a Christian ruler of a territory once under Muslim rule, Hugh is called ‘roi’ and the Frankish kings are called muluk (plural of malik). Makariou 2012b, 249, writes that the term malik was reserved normally for Muslim sovereigns, which, however, does not seem to be the case. In reality the term was quite commonly used for addressing a Christian ruler. I am obliged to Daniel König for this information. Makariou 2012b, 248.

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Hugh’s name with the v-shaped u accords with the distinctively idiosyncratic orthography of the Cypriot coinage.38 Moreover, the Arabic inscriptions describe Hugh as the head of the soldiers of the Frankish kings, which indicates a close connection between the Lusignan dynasty and the Western kingdoms and emphasizes the military role of the Cypriot sovereign as the protagonist of the Christian forces. The armorial shields in the medallions complete this picture of Western power in the Eastern Mediterranean, displaying either the arms of the kingdom of Jerusalem or the cross pattée (the cross does not appear to be the one from the blazon of the family of Ibelin which differs in the length of its arms, extending to the edge of the shield).39 The cross pattée or Tatzenkreuz is a traditional motif of the crusaders, whose inheritance the Lusignan kings of Cyprus claimed for themselves.40 Since 1269 the kings of Cyprus were titular kings of Jerusalem. Peter Edbury has shown, however, that only in the second quarter of the 14th century could they claim the title exclusively.41 And that seems to be exactly what the decoration of the vessel aims at: a claim on the magical lost kingdom of Jerusalem.42 In fact the French inscription appears to translate the official Latin title the Lusignan rulers used to assert their position as Jerusalem et Cypri rex.43 For this purpose the decorative programme avails itself of the language of the political rival and the occupying force of the Holy Land.44 James Schryver has reached the conclusion that Hugh used the inscriptions for demonstrating the superiority of his rule by symbolically limiting the power of the Mamluk dominion in his role of embodying the vanguard of the West. By using the Arabic script and subordinating the message that it transmitted to that of the French inscription around the rim, Hugh symbolically subordinated the power associated with the script to his rule.45 In fact, in the Arabic world the characters themselves, as transmitters of the words of the Koran, had an aura of sanctity and power.46 Therefore the written name of the ruler possibly represented the state; and Jews and Christians were only allowed 38 Carr 1995, 247. 39 Cf. Sophie Makariou, ‘Dinanderie des Lusignan de Chypre’, in: Les Arts de l’Islam au Musée du Louvre (Paris 2012) 268–270. 40 See Edbury 1991, esp. 107–108. For a further discussion see Ritzerfeld 2011, 538–541, 546–548. 41 Edbury 1991, 156. 42 For the importance of the title see Schabel 2004, 146–150. 43 Edbury 1991, 108. 44 For the relation to the Mamluk reign see Edbury 1993. 45 Schryver 2005, 176–177. 46 See Annemarie Schimmel, Islamic Calligraphy (Leiden 1970) esp. 3, 20, 54; Welch 1979, 23.

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a limited use of Arabic letters. The phrase: ‘We shall not engrave Arabic inscriptions on our seals’ is already found in the pact of ‘Umar, which is supposed to have been the peace accord offered by the Caliph ‘Umar to the Christians of Syria in the 7th century – an accord which formed the basis of later interactions with the dhimmis, the non-Muslim communities living under Muslim rule.47 In 1301 an edict of Sultan an-Nasir Muhammad forbade Jews and Christians to use Arabic characters on their seals.48 The importance of inscriptions seems to apply especially to the following period, considering the abundant presence of Arabic calligraphic script in Mamluk court life and art, as can be seen in the metalwork made for Mamluk emirs and sultans in the 14th century. The vessel of King Hugh IV, however, invokes the figurative form of Mamluk symbolism of power as well. The decoration of the interior base consists of a solar system, planets and zodiacs revolving around the sun. It is a typical motif of Islamic metal objects. According to the traditional interpretation this motif exalts the king: the ruler should shine in the centre of his dominion in the same way as the sun dominates the solar system.49 The symbolism of solar and royal power is also inherent in roundels with inscriptions that praise the owner with radiating beams. Such decoration was reserved for the ruling class and appears on the vessel as well.50 Not only the Arabic script and the solar system but also the vessel itself can be considered as a symbol of power and prestige. In general sumptuous Mamluk metalware was commissioned by the emirs or by the sultan to be given to officials on the occasion of their appointment to a new position.51 They represent the courtly and therefore the social standing of the owner with their inscriptions and signs of office, given the fact that in the Mamluk society the standing of a man was based on his position at court.52 The objects were three-dimensional versions of the textile panels, with blazons and inscription bands of titles positioned behind the emirs when sitting in session.53 Thus the vessels functioned as status symbols of their owner.54 47 Only younger versions of the text are known, but similar agreements seem to have existed. Normally the phrase referring to the limited use of Arabic script seems to have been part of the accords. Cf. Mark Cohen, ‘What was the Pact of ‘Umar? A LiteraryHistorcal Study’, in: Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 23, 1999, 100–157. I want to thank Johannes Pahlitzsch and Lorenz Korn for their help in this matter. 48 For the edict see Antoine Fattal, Le statut légal des non-musulman en pays d’Islam (Beirut 1958) 106–107, 262–263. 49 For an interpretation of the solar systems see Baer 1983, 258–274. 50 Baer 2003, 55–58; Gelber 2003, 78–79. 51 Ward 2004, 68. 52 Stowasser 1984. 53 Ward 2004, 68. 54 Ward 1993, 95–116.

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We can deduce that the Cypriot king availed himself of the foreign symbols of power, namely the Mamluk basin as an object of prestige, the traditional symbols of Islamic metalwork, and the Arabic letters, and combined them with his own cultural signs. Thus the object demonstrates the cross-cultural pretensions of power of its owner, proves the position of the Cypriot ruler as being at the vanguard of the allied Christian forces and underlines his claim, legitimate before God and men, to the kingdom of Jerusalem. In reality the kings of Cyprus only slowly acquired acceptance of their claim to the kingdom of Jerusalem and an equal standing with the crowned heads of Europe.55 Annemarie Weyl Carr has therefore reached the conclusion that Hugh’s basin should be regarded as a ‘sign of Cyprus’s maturity among the crowns of Europe, […] packaged here in the stylistic rhetoric of seniority among the courts of the Middle East’.56 James Schryver stresses that it is a ‘political statement’, a ‘symbol of the entrance of Lusignan Cyprus into the contemporary political sphere of the Eastern Mediterranean, at that point dominated by the Mamluks, as an equal player’.57 In fact, the ‘affiliation with a “fellowship or family of kings”’, as Eva Hoffman puts it, was taken by smaller states as a validation for identity and legitimacy.58 In the Cypriot court of the 14th century this desire was expressed very markedly by artistic means in the styles of the high courts, Palaiologan, Gothic and even Mamluk.59 We may conclude that the political alliances and pretensions of King Hugh IV were decisive in determining the decoration of the basin. The political message of the decoration could signify that the basin did not only function as an object of luxury and as a status symbol, but that it was also used as a representative object in specific religious and political ceremonies, thus demonstrating the Lusignan claim to the kingdom of Jerusalem and their will to be at the head of the Western armies; such event could be the coronation ceremony held in the cathedral of Famagusta in 1324 for example – when the Cypriot sovereign was crowned King of Jerusalem.60 Another opportu55 Edbury 1991, 107–108. 56 Carr 1995, 249. 57 James G. Schryver, ‘Monuments of Identity: Latin, Greek, Frank and Cypriot?’, in: Sabine Fourrier – Gilles Grivaud (eds.), Identités croisées en un milieu méditerranéen, le cas de Chypre. Publications des Universités de Rouen et du Havre, vol. 391 (MontSaint-Aignan 2006) 385–405, esp. 387. 58 Eva R. Hoffman, ‘Pathways of Portability: Islamic and Christian Interchange from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century’, in: Eva R. Hoffman (ed.), Late Antique and Medieval Art of the Mediterranean World (Oxford 2007) 317–349, esp. 324. 59 Carr 1995; Annemarie Weyl Carr, ‘Art’, in: Angel Nicolau-Konnari – Chris Schabel (eds.), Cyprus. Society and culture 1191–1374 (Leiden 2005) 285–328. 60 Sophie Makariou subscribes to this opinion. Sophie Makariou, ‘Bassin au nom d’Hugues de Lusignan et aux armes des Ibelin et de Jérusalem’, in: Jannic Durand – Dorota Giovannoni (eds.), Chypre entre Byzance et l’Occident IVe –XVIe siècle (Paris 2012) nos. 98 and 212. A function of the basin in religious ceremonies is a hypothesis also adopted by

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Fig. 5: Vessel for Elisabeth of Carinthia, anonymous, 1343 (?); Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, inv. no. N.M. 7474.

nity could have been the festivities after the spectacular capture of Smyrna in 1344, perhaps the most significant achievement against the infidel in the 14th century – a victory which had only been possible after Hugh had taken the initiative in forming the second naval league, in which he had joined the various Western and Aegean powers against the Turks. But the King of Cyprus was not the only European ruler to possess a symbolically loaded metal basin of Mamluk tradition claiming a lost territory. Elisabeth of Carinthia, the politically important wife of the Sicilian King Peter II of the house of Aragon (1305–1342/reigned 1321/1337–1342), likewise owned such a vessel (Fig. 5). It is fashioned out of brass with incised and engraved decorations.61 Jan de Hond and Luitgard Mols have suggested that it might have originated from the same workshop as the tray in the Louvre.62 In fact, it might even have been a gift from King Hugh IV himself.63 This vessel of Elisabeth unites elements of different cultures, lanAvinoam Shalem, Islam Christianized: Islamic Portable Objects in the Medieval Church Treasuries of the Latin West (Frankfurt/Main 1998) 295. 61 Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, inv. no. BK-NM-7474. It measures 19.6 cm in heigth and 46.8 cm in diameter (rim). It has been prepared for inlays which, however, have never been put in place. De Hond – Mols 2011, 10–11. 62 De Hond – Mols 2011, 22. The decoration on the inside is similar to that on a basin in the Museum of Islamic Art in Doha, dated around 1350, while the decoration on the outside is also rather unusual. See James Allan, Metalwork Treasures from the Islamic Courts (Doha – London 2002) 68–69. 63 Ritzerfeld 2014.

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guages, and visual traditions.64 It is decorated with an Arabic inscription as well as a Latin one. The Arabic inscription in Naskhi wishes the owner – as in the tray he is called majid – power, fame, good fortune, and victory.65 The unusual text combines the benedictory wishes with anonymous titles and pseudoinscriptions or simply mistakes.66 The Latin inscription on the other hand cites a phrase from the legend of Saint Agatha. It might indicate a liturgical use of the basin, possibly for festivities in honour of Saint Agatha, the highly venerated patron saint of the city of Catania in Sicily.67 The tiny figure of an eagle on the outside of the vessel next to the coat of arms of Elisabeth points to another direction. It refers to the tradition of the Hohenstaufen dynasty of Southern Italy which placed the eagle on coins, mosaics, and various vessels and plates. Josef Deér states that after the fall of the Hohenstaufen the eagle was used by the related dynasty of Aragon for demonstrating the claim on their lost lands – in this case it would be the claim of the Sicilian house of Aragon on the territories of the Sicilian kingdom on the mainland which had been lost to the house Anjou following the treaty of Caltabelotta in 1302.68 Therefore the eagle on this particular basin might have a dynastic and territorial significance, making the vessel express a political claim regarding the rights of the Sicilian royalty of Aragon. The metal items discussed up until now present some common characteristics apart from their relationship or possible relationship to the Lusignan dynasty. Form and style indicate their production in around the second quarter of the 14th century and at least some of them may have been manufactured by the same hand or workshop.69 Of particular importance in their appearance are inscriptions containing unusual aspects pertaining not only to their language, but also to expressions and titles. Their wording comprises even grammatical errors suggesting that the items were not made 64 For the vessel of Elisabeth of Carinthia see Mols 2012; De Hond – Mols 2011; Ritzerfeld 2011, 529–532, 536–538; Ritzerfeld 2014. 65 See Ritzerfeld 2011, 530 note 265. 66 Mols 2012, 205-206. 67 Cf. Augusta Tosone (ed.), Agata Santa. Storia, arte, devozione (Florence 2008). 68 Josef Deér, ‘Adler aus der Zeit Friedrichs II.: Victrix Aquila’, in: Percy E. Schramm (ed.), Kaiser Friedrichs II. Herrschaftszeichen. Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen. Philologisch-historische Klasse, Serie 3, vol. 36 (Göttingen 1955) 88–124, esp. 124; Ritzerfeld 2011, 548–549. 69 Elements as the motif of radiating inscriptions, the rosettes, the use of the so-called old blazon of the Lusignan and other features confirm a production date not before his reign of Hugh IV, possibly in the 1330s or 1340s. Furthermore, the loss of Cyprus’ commercial importance after the lifting of the papal trade embargo in 1344 as well as the personal temperament and general orientation to the West of King Peter I make it harder to imagine a Mamluk-style basin proclaiming the king’s greatness under the son of Hugh IV. Makariou 2002, 43–44; Kinoshita 2012, 57–59.

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under Mamluk rule, where inscriptions and especially titles seem to have been prescribed and controlled rigidly.70 We can conclude that they were commissioned by Hugh IV or members of his family, probably in culturally mixed workshops on Cyprus where various craftsmen combined Eastern and Western visual traditions and symbols according to the needs of the person commissioning an artefact.71 A specific trait is the tendency to substitute the usual epigraphic components, generally the praise of the owner and in this case the praise of the sovereign, with figural representations, for example a crowned ruler in the tray and in the basin for Elisabeth of Carinthia. This tenor is further developed in two vessels and a small bowl comparable in their shape, technique and culturally hybrid appearance to the items discussed above (Figs. 6–7 and 11–12). They were made by the craftsman Muhammad ibn al-Zayn and his workshop and several elements in their decoration confirm their production between the third decade and the middle of the 14th century.72 They are unique to their period because of their complete lack of epigraphic bands and medallions. The dominant figurative motifs of these objects, rulers on a throne accompanied by members of court, hunting, fighting or playing musical instruments or polo are difficult to find in Mamluk art of the 14th century. Similar decorations were appreciated further back in time. Scenes of rulers and their court, of hunting and fighting are traditional for earlier Islamic metalware.73 Comparable scenes existed also in the Mamluk court of the 13th century. There were two, now vanished, palaces in the Citadel of Cairo with representations of courtly figures on their walls.74 Courtly scenes, musicians, huntsmen and drinking figures existed 70 J. Michael Rogers, ‘Court Workshops under the Bahri Mamluks’, in: Doris BehrensAbouseif (ed.), The Arts of the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria – Evolution and Impact (Göttingen 2012) 247–265, esp. 248. 71 See Ritzerfeld 2014. 72 The form of the large vessels for example was very popular in that time. Certain elements of the decoration of the Baptistère as the abbreviated versions of the tripartite blazon format introduced into Mamluk heraldry ca. 1325 and the comparison with illustrations in a group of manuscripts dated between 1334 and 1360 support a date in or after the third decade of the 14thcentury. Ward 1999, 121. 73 For the decoration of Islamic metalware see Ward 1993 and Baer 1983. 74 One was built by Sultan al-Zahir Baybars (1260–1276) in 1264 and is known as the Qubba Zahiriyya. On its interior walls were represented (painted?) figures of the sultan and his emirs. The scenes may have shown Baybars and his emirs and retinue in procession, maybe they were part of a larger cycle of princely scenes. The military aspect of the images has been stressed as well as the fact that Baybars preferred scenes of horsemen and warriors to surround him in his hall, unlike the Fatimid and Tulunid rulers before him who chose to portray themselves among singers and in drinking settings. The second known example is the audience hall or diwan renovated by Sultan al-Ashraf Khalil (1290–1293). It was decorated with representations of his emirs, each with his own emblem above his head. They functioned probably as images of sovereignty, reflecting the political and military context of the Mamluk state. Rabbat 2012, 24–26.

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also in examples of Mamluk metal work of this period.75 During the reign of Sultan an-Nasir Muhammad (1293–1341 with two interruptions), however, a new style developed. Figural representations were abandoned and images in royal buildings gave way to standardized inscriptions containing formulaic, fixed sultanic titulatures on monuments and items. This change had its impact in the mode of self-representation of the emirs and in the decoration of items of any type. The previously mentioned textile panels with blazons and inscription bands of titles were now positioned behind the emirs when they were sitting in session.76 Luxury products took up the new kind of decorative pattern. Epigraphic elements came to occupy a prominent place in metalware as well as in enameled glass, sculptured wood and ivory, stucco decoration and textiles.77 Products of low social status, like pottery for example, reflected the decoration of luxury artifacts.78 Thus human figures began to disappear towards the end of the 13th and early 14th century. In the second quarter of the 14th century they disappeared entirely, being replaced by calligraphy and floral ornaments.79 According to Ward, this new style created a distinctive public face for the Mamluk regime.80 Therefore, the following questions arise: Who commissioned such unusual works of art like the objects under discussion and why did the commissioner and the artists responsible choose not to follow the fashion? Uncommon elements in their decoration indicate that the aim was not to simply replicate older models and decorative patterns. Instead the decoration of the items was created 75 A little basin from around 1300 in Berlin with friezes of hunting scenes and prominent inscriptions between medallions with coats of arms represents the evanescent 13th century tradition of figurative scenes in Mamluk art giving way to epigraphic decoration. Berlin, Museum für Islamische Kunst, inv. no. I. 3597: Annette Hagedorn ‘Small waterbasin’, in: Discover Islamic Art. Place: Museum With No Frontiers, 2013: http://www. discoverislamicart.org/database_item.php?id=object;ISL;de;Mus01;48;en (accessed 21 May 2013). 76 Ward 2004, 68. 77 Miniatures in Mamluk manuscripts are difficult to compare because the majority of the illuminations in works from the Bahri period (1250–1390) is based on former examples, relying on compositions, figure types, and settings created in the first half of the 13th century. The provenance of only very few works can be determined. The manuscripts seem to have been made not for the elite, but for second-generation Mamluks. There was therefore a certain interest in manuscript illuminations among the upper classes, but no imperial patronage with a court studio housed in the capital as was the case during the end of the Mamluk empire, resulting in the flourishing of a new style. Esin Atil, ‘Mamluk Painting in the Late Fifteenth Century’, in: Muqarnas 2, 1984, 159–171, here 159. 78 Roland-Pierre Gayraud, ‘Ceramics in the Mamluk Empire: An Overview’, in: Doris Behrens-Abouseif (ed.), The Arts of the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria – Evolution and Impact (Göttingen 2012) 77–94, esp. 88. 79 Baer 2003, 58, 63. 80 Ward 2004, 68.

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according to specific terms and intentions, revealing information concerning the identity of the commissioner. The most famous piece of the group is the much discussed but still enigmatic so-called Baptistère de Saint Louis (Figs. 6–7).81 It is fashioned out of hammered brass and encrusted with silver, gold and a black paste. Its appearance is characterised by a very rich full-field decoration. Friezes of animals and small roundels with the fleurs-de-lys frame a large central band with four large medallions in it. These are filled on the outside by the figures of three hunters on horseback fighting wild animals – one of them seems to be a dragon –, and by one horseman brandishing a polo stick. Between them runs a frieze with court dignitaries, adorned with signs of their office: for example the Master of the Royal Wardrobe and the Master of the Royal Hunt. In two medallions in the interior we find figures of a ruler sitting on a throne with a cup in his hand, just as in the tray and the basin for the Sicilian queen consort. The sovereign is accompanied by his secretary and his sword-bearer. Two additional medallions bear coats of arms. In the band between the medallions there are hunting and battle scenes, while the base is decorated with aquatic animals. In this manner the four horsemen on the exterior correspond to the sovereigns and the coats of arms in the inside roundels. Therefore they can also be regarded as personifications of a ruler between the members of his court.82 Images of riders and hunters and poloplayers in Islamic metalwork refer to princely virtues, to courage, strength and perseverance. Riding and hunting was also seen as an ideal preparation of the ruler for fighting and warfare. Depictions of hunters with falcons and leopards could be an allusion to the rulers’ immense wealth, their being able to afford to keep and train expensive hunting animals and to hold lavish hunting parties. There can also be found scenes of groups of hunters or medallions with a single riding hunter confronting a dangerous animal like a lion or a bear or some kind of monster, referring to heroic princely deeds in literary sources.83 Thus, the programme combines different ways of representing the princely activities of a ruler and his court, by way of substitution of epigraphic praise of his accomplishments. 81 Paris, Louvre, L.P. 16. It measures 22.2 cm in height and 50.2 cm in diameter (rim). To name only some of the most important publications: Rice 1950 and 1951; Ettinghausen 1954; Behrens-Abouseif 1989; Ward 1999; Makariou 2012a . 82 Jonathan Bloom suggests, referring to the vessel in Jerusalem (see below), that other figures too, such as riders and hunters could be the ruler’s emblems. Bloom 1987, 20. In fact, in the Baptistère some figures depicting dignitaries are shown in front of the horsemen while performing a gesture of reverence. 83 Annette Hagedorn, Die Blacas-Kanne: Zu Ikonographie und Bedeutung islamischer Me­tallarbeiten des Vorderen Orients im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert (Münster 1992) 127– 133, 152–253.

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Figs. 6–7: Vessel called ‘Baptistère de Saint Louis’, Muhammad ibn al-Zayn, mid 14th century; Paris, Louvre, inv. no. L.P. 16.

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This fact, as well as the courtly iconography, the exquisite quality and the great value of the object imply that its owner was a ruler himself.84 Certain elements indicate his European origin, as Ward has shown.85 In fact, for Mamluk patrons, who relied on inscriptions to communicate the significance of an object by stressing its ownership, purpose and/or destination, it would have been most unusual to own a vessel without extensive inscriptions. Furthermore there are blazons which indicate a European destination for the vessel. They take the place of the radiating inscriptions in the medallions and roundels naming and praising the owner of the object. The two roundels in the interior bear the coats of arms of France.86 These were added in the 19th century. The shields under them are empty, originally they must have been intended for the coats of arms of the owner of the basin, but were not completed. The fleurs-de-lys in the little roundels on the other hand were engraved over the figures of a lion rampant and a key-form made in the same style (Fig. 8). One can conclude that the basin was adapted at least twice for a later owner. As Ward has pointed out, the shape of the shields is European and the lion and the key are popular elements in European heraldry.87 The lion rampant is an element of the coat of arms of the Lusignans. On Cyprus in general, but also in case of the Lusignan dynasty of the 14th century, a free handling with coats of arms is characteristic. As shown by the small basin and the tray discussed above as well as other artistic projects financed by the Lusignans, an object they had sponsored could be identified by different kinds of blazons or simply by the figures of lions.88 Therefore it seems possible that the lions on the vessel represent the royal family of Cyprus, even if they are directed to the right and not to the left, as would be usually the case. A key on the other side appears in a nonidentified blazon in the Cypriot monastery of St. Nicholas of the Cats on the Akrotiri Peninsula, a royal foundation of the Lusignans (Fig. 9). With this in mind, Makariou has hypothesized recently that the Baptistère was made for the Lusignan court.89 84 Ettinghausen 1954, has pointed out that the patron of such a precious object would have been distinguished clearly, but we should keep in mind the experimental character of the object and the fact that the two shields in the interior were left incomplete where the coat of arms of the owner were intended to be placed. See below. 85 Rachel Ward was the first to suggest a European patron. Ward 1999. 86 For the blazons see Rice 1950; Makariou 2012a, 8–11. 87 Ward 1999, 115–117. 88 See Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘Le décor héraldique sur les monuments médiévaux’, in: Jean-Bernard de Vaivre – Philippe Plagnieux (eds.), L’Art gothique en Chypre (Paris 2006) 426–472; Rudt de Collenberg 1977. Cf. for example the paintings in the churches of Sts. Joachim and Anna in Kaliana and of St. Herakleidios (Monastery of St. John Lampadistis) in Kalopanagiotis: Andreas Stylianou – Judith Stylianou, The Painted Churches of Cyprus (Nicosia 1997, 2nd ed.) 109, fig. 51; 305, fig. 182. 89 Makariou 2012a, 10–11, 17–18.

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Fig. 8: Coats of arms on the ‘Baptistère de Saint Louis’.

Fig. 9: Monastery of St. Nicholas of the cats, portal with coats of arms.

Even in the figurative scenes there are Western, partly even Cypriot elements. The figures wearing hats display features characteristic of Christian paintings of the 13th and 14th centuries. The wide-brimmed hat, short tunic, long cape knotted in front, thick belt, leggings and boots are typical of Western military dress, even if the artist has misinterpreted several details.90 Michael Rogers has recently established a connection with Benedictine or Cistercian manu90 Ward 1999, 118. For the problematic reconstruction of Mamluk dress see Bethany Walker, ‘Rethinking Mamluk Textiles’, in: Mamluk Studies Review 4, 2000, 167–217. Walker herself holds the clothing of the figures on the Baptistère and the Vasselot bowl as characteristic of Mamluk dress.

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Fig. 10: Donor portrait of Michael Katzouroubis and his wife in Agios Demetrianos church, Dali (fresco dated 1317).

script paintings.91 Ward compares the features and headwear with those of an early 14th century donor portrait in the church of Dali on Cyprus (Fig. 10), which again might suggest a Cypriot background of the vessel.92 Unusual for Mamluk metalwork is also a direct relationship between separated scenes, for example two dignitaries in the friezes performing a gesture of reverence in front of the horsemen in the medallions.93 According to Ward, the riders with hats holding the reins in one hand and a lance in 91 J. Michael Rogers, ‘Court Workshops under the Bahri Mamluks’, in: Doris BehrensAbouseif (ed.), The Arts of the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria – Evolution and Impact (Göttingen 2012) 247–265. 92 Ward 1999, 118. 93 Also curious is the appearance of a little figure between the riding ruler with a polostick and the bowing dignitary. Given the fact that it also has a polo-stick it must stand for someone in connection with the game practiced by the Mamluk elite.

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the other, cape flying out behind, and a dragon or a bear trampled underfoot, can be compared with images of St. George and the Dragon.94 The figure of the equestrian dragon slayer had a great success in the Mediterranean world and appeared in Christian as well as Muslim contexts. His representations transcended the passage between cultures and religions and could therefore address an especially wide and varied public.95 At the same time by using such a famous motif known in the whole Mediterranean sphere the ruler was presented as a virtuous embodiment of a knight.96 With regard to the figures of hunting rulers it may be interesting to remember that from the 12th century onwards the French branch of the Lusignans, proud of their royal branch in the East, did not display on their seals the usual knight on horseback equipped with a sword, but a horseman ready for hunting – possibly alluding to the splendid hunts for which the kingdom of Cyprus was famous.97 Therefore the ruler out hunting seems to be a highly suitable subject for a vessel of a Lusignan king. It appears especially fitting for King Hugh, who was a very active huntsman.98 The appearance of the figures with different occidental or oriental facial features and dressed in different styles, for example with hats or turbans, is puzzling. There has been much discussion over the reasons behind such diversity of the princely entourage, but without any convincing result. It has been supposed that these differentiations refer to the historical situation in Egypt, with indigenous servants and Mamluk emirs of Tartar stock, or to specific events like the exchange of embassies or festivities at court.99 But there existed no tradition of history painting in Mamluk art where every important representation was usually accompanied by an inscription explaining its meaning. Therefore another idea is that the scenes on the Baptistère simply reflect different pictorial sources without any historical reference.100 The resulting impression, however, is that of different rulers with culturally varying courts – because even the figures of the hunting riders show different cultural signs in features and clothing. They seem to refer to rulers of varied origins and culture, ruling over different subjects, something that would make the decoration of the basin a general scheme of princely ruling and courtly culture in the Mediterranean. Bearing in mind the interpretation 94 95 96 97

Ward 1999, 117. Cf. Pancaroğlu 2004. For the diffusion of knightly values see Jacoby 1986. Vera K. Ostoia, ‘The Lusignan Mirror’, in: Metropolitan Museum of Art bulletin, new ser., 18,1, 1959, 18–27, esp. 23. 98 Rice 1956, 402; George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 2: The Frankish Period 1192– 1432 (Cambridge 1948, reprint 1972) 285–307, esp. 305. 99 Rice 1951; Knauer 1984; Behrens-Abouseif 1989. 100 Ward 1999, 117–118.

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given regarding the vessel of King Hugh, namely as a manifestation of his desire to rank as an equal among the crowned heads of Europe and as an equal player in the courts of the Middle East, the Baptistère could also be understood as a demonstration of that precise claim, only this time represented by a cross-culturally understandable figurative programme. But even if the characteristics of the vessel are in line with a supposed Cypriot and Lusignan background one should keep in mind that there remains the problem of the key as a coat of arms, which is still unresolved (Fig. 8).101 There are some curious tiny inscriptions in the scenes (Fig. 7). The name of the craftsman Muhammad ibn al-Zayn appears six times, which is un­usual for an object of Islamic art.102 This pointed self-representation of the artist is hard to imagine on a vessel fashioned for a Mamluk owner. It indicates a self-conception in general foreign to Mamluk craftsmen, trying to create visually significant evidence of his artistic identity and entrepreneurship.103 Other inscriptions refer to objects. Two pen-boxes bear the Arabic word for pen-box (dawât); on a bowl held by one of the figures we read: ‘I am a vessel to carry food’ (ana makhfiya lihaml al taʿâm). We know of similar inscriptions on Mamluk metalware, where they form part of poems praising the object’s beauty and craftsmanship.104 Referring to this custom, the scenes on the vessel show a descriptive, even narrative character which is unusual for Mamluk metalwork and Mamluk art in general, but familiar for objects of European origin. The unique use of inscriptions as well as difficulties attendant on reading the programme of the basin prove the experimental character of this kind of craftsmanship. Obviously models or prototypes for a work of art as hybrid as this particular object in cultural terms did not exist. The commissioner or his local merchant and the craftsmen had to develop a new kind of decoration, combining and adapting different motifs and traditions in order to exalt the owner, while perhaps also demonstrating his political pretensions of Mediterranean rulership. In any case, it would appear that the death of the commissioner preceded the completion of the object, leaving the shields on the inside without coats of arms. Since it is known that at least since about 1440 the item was in the possession of the French court and since the added fleurs-de-lys are of the same style 101 Cf. Rice 1951, 27; Rice 1950. 102 For Muhammad ibn al-Zayn and the inscriptions see Allan 1996; Liutgard Mols, Mamluk Metalwork Fittings in their Artistic and Architectural Context (Delft 2006) 152. 103 See Ritzerfeld 2014. 104 Doris Behrens-Abouseif, ‘Veneto-Saracenic Metalware, a Mamluk Art’, in: Mamluk Studies Review 9, 2, 2005, 147–172, esp. 152–153. Cf. Gerrit Reinink – Hermann Vanstiphout (eds.), Dispute Poems and Dialogues in the Ancient and Medieval Near East (Leuven 1991).

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as the lions and the keys one can assume that the basin was altered shortly afterwards, partly according to the needs of a new owner in France.105 It was possibly send as a gift by King Peter I Lusignan to King Charles V. The latter was known as a patron of the arts and as a collector of Mamluk metalware with close contacts to Cyprus, and also as the founder of the Sainte-Chapelle of Vincennes where the vessel was kept in the following centuries.106 In the 17th century the members of the royal family would be baptized in the vessel, showing that in the French court the hybrid metal item of Mamluk tradition was held in high esteem for hundreds of years.107 A brass basin in the L.A. Mayer Memorial Institute in Jerusalem closely resembles the Baptistère in its decorative pattern, its courtly theme, and its individual design, even if it is lacking the interior decoration (Fig. 11). 108 The exterior was prepared for inlays, but they were never put in place. There are no inscriptions at all, only the engravings of figural decoration – all in a bad state of preservation and barely legible. Some figures even derive from the same pounce as the Baptistère, occasionally reversed. Therefore it has been ascribed to the same artist, to Muhammad ibn al-Zayn.109 The central band is decorated with hunters and fighters on horseback and with standing courtiers with their signs of office around enthroned sovereigns placed in roundels.110 There are no coats of arms, but the similarity to the Baptistère as well as the fact that two of the rulers are crowned as in the case of the tray and the basin of Elisabeth of Carinthia discussed above (Figs. 3 and 5) indicate that the object was intended for a Western noble and probably a royal patron. But curiously enough the other two enthroned figures wear 105 Makariou identifies the flowers as a heraldic motif of the house of Qualawun and consequently develops the hypothesis of a later confiscation of the vessel on their part. Makariou 2012a, 8–11. But the flower looks rather like a stylized form of the French fleur-de-lys. Moreover, the trefoiled flower was a very common motif in medieval Mediterranean and therefore is not necessarily linked to the Qualawun. Cf. Robert Ousterhout, ‘Symbole der Macht. Mittelalterliche Heraldik zwischen Ost und West’, in: Margit Mersch – Ulrike Ritzerfeld (eds.), Lateinisch-griechisch-arabische Begegnungen. Kulturelle Diversität im Mittelmeerraum des Spätmittelalters (Berlin 2009) 91–109, esp. 103. 106 An occasion may have been the voyage of Peter I Lusignan together with his chancellor Philippe de Mézières – who was later to live as counselor of the French king at his court – and the papal legate Peter Thomas to France in 1362 in search for support of a new crusade. 107 For the history of the vessel in France see Makariou 2012a, 8; Jean Chapelot, ‘Un objet d’exeption: le baptistère de Saint Louis de la Sainte Chapelle de Vincennes au département des arts de l’Islam du musée du Louvre’, in: Bulletin de la société des amis de Vincennes 58, 2007, 5–25; Rice 1950. 108 Jerusalem, L.A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Art, inv. no. M. 58. It measures 21 cm in height and 52 cm in diameter. Bloom 1987, 15; Makariou 2012a, 14–15. 109 Behrens-Abouseif 1989, 18. 110 Bloom 1987.

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Fig. 11: Vessel, perhaps manufactured by Muhammad ibn al-Zayn in the mid-14th century; Jerusalem, L.A. Mayer Museum for Islamic Art, inv. no. M. 58.

turbans; so symbols of power deriving from different cultures were used.111 Thus the decoration comprises, comparable to the Baptistère, various cultural affiliations in courtly life, in ruler- and ownership, suggesting in this case as well an interpretation of the object as a claim of its owner – possibly the king of Cyprus – to a position among the Mediterranean rulers. Whether the result did not meet his approval or whether the project was abandoned because of his death or because of a crack in the brass is not known.112 The so-called Vasselot bowl in the Louvre seems to focus on the same target (Fig. 12).113 It is fashioned out of brass, inlaid with silver and gold and signed by Muhammad ibn al-Zayn. Its decoration resembles the one of the two vessels described above (Figs. 6 and 11) and its form is identical to the aforementioned basin of unknown location.114 A frieze with figures of mem111 Bloom 1987, 15. 112 For the crack see Bloom 1987, 15. 113 Paris, Louvre, MAO 331.It measures 10.3 cm in height and 21.5 cm in diameter. For this object see Sophie Makariou, ‘Baptistère de Saint Louis’, in: Les Arts de l’Islam au Musée du Louvre (Paris 2012) 282–288; Allan 1996, 199; Esin Atil, Renaissance of Islam, Art of the Mamluks (Washington 1981) 74–75 no. 20. 114 Cf. notes 22 and 23 above.

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Fig. 12: Bowl from the Vasselot bequest, manufactuered by Muhammad ibn al-Zayn in the mid 14th century; Paris, Louvre, inv. no. MAO 331.

bers of the court with their signs of office, of hunting and music around sitting rulers on thrones with cups in their hands decorates the exterior.115 The interior is left blank apart from the traditional motif of the fish pond in the base. As in the Baptistère the name of the artist (Muhammad ibn al-Zayn) is inscribed in a large cup held by a member of the court sitting next to the figure of a ruler, the royal cup-bearer. The rulers bear different types of headgear, one of them a crown, as in the vessel in Jerusalem. To sum up the facts: It is certain that King Hugh IV of Lusignan commissioned one of the described basins and probably owned the other two vessels as well as the tray and the little basin, and other similar items perhaps, like the Vasselot bowl.116 The personal preferences and interests of the sov115 Apart from the three rulers in medallions there is a further important personage sitting on a throne – Atil identifies him as a high Turkish emir – between court officials, probably as symbol of the administration. Atil 1981, 74. 116 There are several other objects with similar charateristics as the ones made by Muhammad ibn al-Zayn, for example a bowl in the Louvre with planets and musicians (inv. no. OA 6032). Atil 1981, 75.

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ereign accorded with the commission of precious metalware of Mamluk tradition. King Hugh IV is known as a sponsor of uncommon valuable objects as well as architectural projects.117 According to Henry-René d’Allemagne the king of Cyprus was following the practice of Muslim princes in Egypt, Syria and Mesopotamia in his artistic patronage.118 As Johannes Pahlitzsch has recently stressed, there existed transcultural relations between the Cypriot and Mamluk rulers, which in this case might have inspired the royal commissions.119 At the same time the metalware items place King Hugh in the tradition of the Latin upper class of the Holy Land, which in the 13th century had appreciated the exclusive luxury objects of the Muslim elite and purchased, amongst others, examples of metalwork from Northern Syria. But his patronage went far beyond artistic objects and also beyond the Eastern area. Like King Roger II of Sicily and Emperor Frederick II before him, King Hugh IV stimulated the cultivation and circulation of Greek and Arabic scientific traditions. He had Latin, Greek and Arabic scholars debating, translating and writing at his court. Hugh’s far-ranging intellectual patronage included the polymath George Lapithes as well as the Italian writer Boccaccio.120 Sharon Kinoshita states that this image of Hugh as sponsor of science and literature conforms to a recognizable type in the culture of shared practices in the Mediterranean area: rulers who deployed intellectual patronage as an assertion of political and dynastic power.121 We can add that part of this activity for the affirmation of Lusignan might as one of the major political players of the Mediterranean was also the patronage of artistic projects of cosmopolitan excellence, including not only the artistic traditions of the European high courts but also the powerful Mamluk neighbour. The objects discussed form part of the overlapping cultures of elites, transcending geographical, religious and political borders and culminating in a preference for special objects, materials, forms, motifs, and working methods. As in the cases of the stylistically hybrid architecture and paintings created on Cyprus in the 14th century there is good reason to believe that precious metalware items were manufactured on Cyprus as well, in independent workshops or even in a court workshop.122 The different types 117 Carr 1995, 248; Rice 1956, 402. 118 D’Allemagne 1987, 512. 119 Johannes Pahlitzsch, ‘The Mamluks and Cyprus: Transcultural Relations between Muslim and Christian Rulers in the Eastern Mediterranean in the Fifteenth Century’, in: Rania Abdellatif – Yassir Benhima – Daniel König – Elisabeth Ruchaud (eds.), Acteurs des transferts culturels en Méditerranée médiévale (Munich 2012) 111–120. 120 Schabel 2004, 125–131; George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 2: The Frankish Period 1192–1432 (Cambridge 1948, reprint 1972) 285–307, esp. 305. 121 Kinoshita 2012, 53. 122 Ritzerfeld 2014.

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of programmes and the experimental character of the design show different artists at work trying to combine successfully linguistically and culturally varying elements. The individualized appearance and politically charged programmes of some objects demonstrate a specific interest of the royal commissioner in these ventures. Special adaptations were motivated by the desire of representation of power and social status, using foreign as well as indigenous visual traditions for that purpose. Therefore the objects could even be charged with political messages, claims on territories and kingdoms for example. There remain many open questions regarding the use of the objects. In Mamluk society inlaid metalware seems to have had a primarily representative function, displayed in festivities and rituals, probably used for hand washing before prayers and meals.123 The luxury objects were highly decorative status symbols of the owner,124 representing his courtly and by extension his social standing, mirroring his success and importance with laudatory inscriptions, signs of office and titles, given the fact that in the Mamluk society the status of a man was based on his position at court.125 The considerable value and unusual appearance of such luxury items on Cyprus indicate even more their function not for daily use, but only on special occasions. The great dimensions of these items and their politically charged programmes, as in the case of the basin of Hugh IV, point to an important political ceremony. Other types of programmes and forms, on the other hand, as in the case of the tray, with scenes depicting various courtly pleasures allow us to imagine its use in the court life of the Lusignan rulers. Maybe the Cypriot kings followed Mamluk customs and gave such objects as gifts to members of their court as well as sending them to other European nobles, such as the Sicilian queen consort Elisabeth of Carinthia and King Charles V of France.126 However the objects may have arrived in the West, their appreciation there is also part of the developing taste for Cyprus, as Philippe Trélat calls it. The Western appraisal was marked by the dissemination of precious fabrics and art objects produced in Cyprus in the 13th – 15th centuries.127 Trélat is of the opinion that this development owes a great deal to the visit of Peter I (1328–1369) to European capitals in 1362 and the presence of Anne de Lusignan (1418–1462) at the court of Savoy. But the discussed metalware objects indicate that the Lusignan court 123 Mack 2002, 5. Cf. Sigoli 1829, 22–24. 124 Ward 1993, 95–120; Ward 2004, 68. 125 Stowasser 1984, 13–20. 126 Ritzerfeld 2014. 127 Trélat 2013.

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had been significant for the growing Western taste for Cypriot luxury items even before, thereby also furthering the diffusion of Mamluk traditions of decoration. Turning back to the statement of Robert Ousterhout I come to the conclusion, that the partly shared visual vocabulary of the Mediterranean court culture could indeed be used as a language of power. The Lusignan court of King Hugh IV seems to have had a major role in transmitting Mamluk art and its special language to the West. Intensive trade connections between Cyprus and the West, gifts to European rulers and visits at the Lusignan court conveyed the preference of King Hugh IV and his court for fine Mamluk metalware to the European elites, resulting in its appreciation and in its systematic purchase at Western courts, which in turn should lead later on to a circulation of similar metalwork in broad segments of the European society, adapting the items to the specific needs of the Europeans customers. Therefore King Hugh IV was not only – as his basin proclaims –, the vanguard of the Frankish kings on the borders of the Mamluk territories. Indeed, the Cypriot Lusignan king and his court also functioned as transmitters of Mamluk art and Mamluk symbolism of power to the West.

Bibliography Allan 1996 = James W. Allan, ‘Muhammad ibn al-Zain: Craftsman in Cups, ­Thrones and Window Grilles?’, in: Levant 28, 1996, 199–208. Atil 1981 = Esin Atil, Renaissance of Islam. Art of the Mamluks (Washington 1981). Auld 2009 = Sylvia Auld, ‘Cross-Currents and Coincidences: a Perspective on Ayyubid Metalwork’, in: Robert Hillenbrand – Sylvia Auld (eds.), Ayyubid Jerusalem. The Holy City in Context 1187–1250 (London 2009) 45–71. Baer 1983 = Eva Baer, Metalwork in Medieval Islamic Art (New York 1983). Baer 2003 = Eva Baer, ‘Mamluk Art and its Clientele: a Speculation’, in: Assaph 8, 2003, 49–70. Behrens-Abouseif 1989 = Doris Behrens-Abouseif, ‘The Baptistère de Saint Louis: a Reinterpretation’, in: Islamic Art 3, 1989, 3–13. Bloom 1987 = Jonathan M. Bloom, ‘A Mamluk Basin in the L.A. Mayer Memorial Institute’, in: Islamic Art 2, 1987, 15–26. Carr 1995 = Annemarie Weyl Carr, ‘Art in the Court of the Lusignan Kings’, in: Nicholas Coureas – Jonathan Riley-Smith (eds.), Cyprus and the Crusades (Nicosia 1995) 239–274. Dimand 1930/1931 = Maurice S. Dimand, ‘Unpublished Metalwork of the Rasulid Sultans of Yemen’, in: Metropolitan Museum Studies 3, 1930/1931, 229–237. 305

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D’Allemagne 1987 = Henry-René d’Allemagne, ‘A Note on a Brass Basin Made for Hugh IV, King of Cyprus 1324–1361’, in: Camille Enlart, Gothic Art and the Renaissance in Cyprus, translated and edited by David Hund (London 1987) 511–519. De Hond – Mols 2011 = Jan de Hond – Luitgard Mols, ‘A Mamluk Basin for a Sicilian Queen’, in: The Rijks Museum Bulletin 59, 2011,1, 6–33. Edbury 1991 = Peter Edbury, The Kingdom of Cyprus and the Crusades, 1191–1374 (Cambridge 1991). Edbury 1993 = Peter Edbury, The Lusignan Kingdom of Cyprus and its Muslim Neighbours (Nicosia 1993). Ettinghausen 1954 = Richard Ettinghausen, in: Ars Orientalis 1, 1954, 245–249 (review of The Baptistère de Saint Louis, a Masterpiece of Islamic Metal Work by David S. Rice [Paris 1953]). Gelber 2003 = Metzada Gelber, ‘Reflections in Metal’, in: Assaph 8, 2003, 71–84. Howard 2007 = Deborah Howard, ‘Venice and the Mamluks’, in: Stefano Carboni (ed.), Venice and the Islamic World 828–1797 (New York 2007) 72–89. Jacoby 1986 = David Jacoby, ‘Knightly Values and Class Consciousness in the Crusader States of the Eastern Mediterranean’, in: Mediterranean Historical Review 1, 1986, 158–186. Kinoshita 2012 = Sharon Kinoshita, ‘“Noi siamo mercatanti cipriani”: How to Do Things in the Medieval Mediterranean’, in: Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski – Kiril Petkov (eds.), Philippe de Mézières and His Ages. Piety and Politics in the Fourteenth Century (Leiden – Boston 2012) 41–60. Knauer 1984 = Elfriede R. Knauer, ‘Einige trachtgeschichtliche Beobachtungen am Werke Giottos’, in: Scritti di storia dell’arte in Onore di Roberto Salvini (Florence 1984) 173–181. Mack 2002 = Rosamond E. Mack, Bazaar to Piazza. Islamic Trade and Italian Art, 1300–1600 (Berkeley – Los Angeles – London 2002). Makariou 2000 = Sophie Makariou, Two Objects Made by the Mamluks for the Lusignan Kings, Exhibition Flyer, Nicosia, The Leventis Municipal Museum, 19 May – 31 July 2000. Makariou 2002 = Sophie Makariou, Nouvelles acquisitions, arts de l’Islam (Paris 2002). Makariou 2012a = Sophie Makariou, Le Baptistère de Saint Louis (Paris 2012). Makariou 2012b = Sophie Makariou, ‘Le bassin d’Hugues de Lusignan, nouvelle interpretation’, in: Bulletin de la Société nationale des antiquaires de France 2012, 241–249. Makariou 2012c = Sophie Makariou, ‘Plateau aux armes “Lusignan ancien”’, in: Jannic Durand – Dorota Giovannoni (eds.), Chypre entre Byzance et l’Occident IVe –XVIe siècle (Paris 2012) 99. Mols 2012 = LuitgardMols, ‘Arabic Titles, Well-wishes and a Female Saint: a Mamluk Basin in the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam’, in: Venetia Porter – Mariam Rosser-Own (eds.), Metalwork and Material Culture in the Islamic World. Art, Craft and Text, Essays presented to James W. Allan (London 2012) 201–213. Pancaroğlu 2004 = Oya Pancaroğlu, ‘The Itinerant Dragon-Slayer: Forging Paths of Image and Identity in Medieval Anatolia’, in: Robert Ousterhout – Dede

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Fairchild Ruggles (eds.), Encounters with Islam. Gesta, vol. 43,2 (New York 2004) 151–164. Porter 1987 = Venetia Porter, ‘Die Kunst der Rasuliden’, in: Werner Daum (ed.), Jemen. 3000 Jahre Kunst und Kultur des glücklichen Arabien (Innsbruck – Frankfurt/Main 1987) 225–236. Rabbat 2012 = Nasser Rabbat, ‘In Search of a Triumphant Image: the Experimental Quality of Early Mamluk Art’, in: Doris Behrens-Abouseif (ed.), The Arts of the Mamluks in Egypt and Syria – Evolution and Impact (Göttingen 2012) 21–36. Rice 1950 = David S. Rice, ‘The Blazons of the Baptistère de Saint Louis’, in: Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 13,2, 1950, 367–380. Rice 1951 = David S. Rice, Le Baptistère de Saint Louis (Paris 1951). Rice 1956 = David S. Rice, ‘Arabic Inscriptions on a Brass Basin Made for Hugh IV de Lusignan’, in: Studi Orientalistici in Onore di Giorgio Levi della Vida, vol. 2 (Rome 1956) 390–402. Ritzerfeld 2011 = Ulrike Ritzerfeld, ‘Mamlūkische Metallkunst für mediterrane Eliten – Grenzüberschreitungen in Luxus und Machtrhetorik’, in: Michael Borgolte – Julia Dücker – Marcel Müllerburg – Bernd Schneidmüller (eds.), Integration und Desintegration der Kulturen im europäischen Mittelalter (Berlin 2011) 534–552. Ritzerfeld 2014 = Ulrike Ritzerfeld, ‘Made in Cyprus? Fourteenth-Century Mamluk Metal Ware for the West: The Question of Provenance’, in: Nicholas Coureas – Tamas Kiss – Michael J.K. Walsh (eds.), The Harbour of all this Sea and Realm. Crusader to Venetian Famagusta (Budapest 2014) 107–133. Rudt de Collenberg 1977 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘L’Héraldique de Chypre’, in: Cahiers d’Héraldique 3, 1977, 85–158. Schabel 2004 = Chris Schabel, ‘Hugh the Just: The further Rehabilitation of King Hugh IV Lusignan of Cyprus’, in: Επετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 30, 2004, 123–152 (Reprinted in: Christopher Schabel, Greeks, Latins, and the Church in early Frankish Cyprus [Farnham 2010], art. X). Schryver 2005 = James G. Schryver, Spheres of Contact and Instances of Interaction in the Art and Archaeology of Frankish Cyprus, 1191–1359 (PhD thesis, Cornell University 2005). Sigoli 1829 = Simone Sigoli, Viaggio al Monte Sinai (Florence 1829). Stowasser 1984 = Karl Stowasser, ‘Manners and Customs at the Mamluk Court’, in: Muqarnas 2, 1984, 13–20. Trélat 2013 = Philippe Trélat, ‘Le Goût pour Chypre. Objets d’art et tissus précieux importés de Chypre en Occident (XIIIe – XVe siècles)’, in: Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 43, 2013, 455–472. Ward 1989 = Rachel Ward, ‘Metallarbeiten der Mamluken-Zeit, hergestellt für den Export nach Europa’, in: Gereon Sivernich (ed.), Europa und der Orient: 800–1900 (Gütersloh et al. 1989) 202–209. Ward 1993 = Rachel Ward, Islamic Metalwork (New York 1993). Ward 1999 = Rachel Ward, ‘The “Baptistère de Saint Louis”– a Mamluk Basin Made for Export to Europe’, in: Charles Burnett – Anna Contadini (eds.), Islam and the Italian Renaissance (London 1999) 113–132. Ward 2004 = Rachel Ward, ‘Brass, Gold and Silver from Mamluk Egypt: Metal Vessels Made for Sultan Al-Nāṣir Muḥammad. A Memorial Lecture for

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Mark Zebrowski, Given at the Royal Asiatic Society on 9 May 2002’, in: Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (Third Series) 14,1, 2004, 59–73. Ward 2007 = Rachel Ward, ‘Plugging the Gap: Mamluk Export Metalwork 1375– 1475’, in: Annette Hagedorn – Avinoam Shalem (eds.), Facts and Artefacts. Art in the Islamic World (Leiden – Boston 2007) 263–275. Welch 1979 = Anthony Welch, Calligraphy in the Arts of the Muslim World (New York 1979).

Photo Credits Figs. 1–2: Ritzerfeld 2011, pls. 1 and 9. – Figs. 3–7, 12: 2–4, 6, 7, 9. – Fig. 8: Rice 1951, fig. 26. – Fig. 9: Photo by Andreas and Judith A. Stylianou, The Painted Churches of Byzantine Art (Nicosia 1997, 2nd rev. ed.) fig. 256. – Fig. 11: M. Bloom, with permission.

Ritzerfeld 2014, pls. the author. – Fig. 10: Cyprus. Treasures of Drawing by Jonathan

Ulrike Ritzerfeld

Deutsches Studienzentrum Venedig, Venice (Italy) [email protected]

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Resting in Pieces: Gothic Architecture in Cyprus in the Long Fifteenth Century* Architectural histories are written almost exclusively on the basis of the textual sources and the standing material remains, whether well-preserved, radically restored or ruined. Only rarely are those humble pariahs of scholarship, the disjecta membra left behind from buildings long gone, accorded enough scholarly attention to begin making sense within a local/regional or broader context and, eventually, offer novel insights into aspects of architectural production as diverse as design, carving technique, chronology and patronage. Headway is being made in the study of medieval lapidary assemblages or collections in northern Europe and the Mediterranean, yet we are still a long way from establishing the cataloguing, study and publication of these collections as a core element of the discipline.1 Looking critically at loose, undated and unprovenanced architectural members, no matter how tedious or unpromising a task it may seem at first, can enrich and deepen our understanding of architecture in periods that have been relatively well studied. On the other hand, applying the same methodo­ logy to periods almost shorn of standing buildings could considerably alter our outlook on their significance and place in the grander scheme of things. The Cypriot fifteenth century is a case in point. Situated between two more intensely studied periods, the years from the 1360s/‘70s to the *

I wish to extend my sincerest thanks to Michael Grünbart and Sabine Rogge for inviting me to Münster to take part in the conference of which these proceedings are the final outcome, and for being such gracious hosts. Even though the subject of the present contribution is but tenuously related to the paper I delivered at this meeting, I can only hope it will prove to be no less interesting.

1 For some pioneering attempts, see Timbert – Hanquiez 2008; Hanquiez 2011. The project entitled ‘Η δυτική τέχνη στην Κρήτη’ (= ‘Western art in Crete’), run by the Institute for Mediterranean Studies in collaboration with the ephorates of Byzantine antiquities in Crete, aims at documenting and studying works of art with European pedigree on the island, including the architectural sculpture of the Venetian period. For further information on this long overdue initiative, see Gratziou 2007 and the project’s webpage at http://digital crete.ims.forth.gr/.

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1470s/‘80s have not attracted the same degree of interest.2 The period is largely excluded from the more recent surveys of Gothic architecture in Lusignan Cyprus, where it is described as a turbulent era unpropitious for large-scale building, insular and inward-looking, a period of almost unsalvageable decline.3 The seeming dearth of both texts and buildings has left a yawning gap between the heyday of Lusignan rule in the fourteenth century and the Venetian period – but does this lacuna correspond to the realities of fifteenth-century artistic production? Or does it reflect the current unavailability of published contemporary documentation and the weaknesses in our typologies, dating schemes and overall methodology? In this preliminary study, I propose to examine selected aspects of the architectural output of the ‘long’ fifteenth century, by correlating evidence drawn from the extant edifices and the fragments kept at the Lapidary Museum, the stone dépôt north of St. Catherine’s and other places around Nicosia; and by oscillating between the better known fourteenth and sixteenth centuries. The present account does not aspire to comprehensiveness so much as it seeks to open up ways of thinking about the disparate material at hand.

Architectural Activity from the Reign of Peter II (reg. 1369/ 1372–1382) to the End of the Lusignan Period (1489): Some Documentary Pointers By the middle of the fourteenth century, building work at the great Latin cathedral chantiers of Nicosia and Famagusta was winding down, while construction of the almost equally ambitious basilicas of St. George of the Greeks and Sts. Peter and Paul in Famagusta would keep masons occupied for another two decades. Most of the kingdom’s major Latin monastic and mendicant foundations had been provided with, often quite splendid, ecclesiastical and conventual buildings.4 While it might seem as if there was little scope for further work at these prestigious (mostly urban) sites, textual evidence for new private Latin foundations and their buildings indicates that there 2 3

4

For a recent assessment of architecture in the Venetian period, with earlier bibliography, see Papacostas 2010. Coldstream 1987, 10; Coldstream 1998, 58–60; Soulard 2006a, 108; Plagnieux 2012, 229. With the exceptions of Pyrga and Kolossi, the fifteenth century is rarely dealt with in the monographic studies devoted to individual monuments in de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006. For architectural developments in Cyprus during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, consult mainly Enlart 1899; Enlart 1987; de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006; Olympios 2010; Franke 2012; Plagnieux 2012.

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would have been continuous demand for experienced builders through to the end of the fourteenth century and beyond. In the reign of Peter I (reg. 1359–1369), the royalty, the nobility and the burgesses of the kingdom (and occasionally foreign individuals) engaged in the foundation of a fair number of private chapels (sometimes, at least, endowed with funerary functions) and hospitals for the poor and pilgrims.5 The reign of his son, Peter II, showed little sign of abatement as far as architectural patronage was concerned. The king saw to the completion of the walls and the construction of the citadel in Nicosia, which was finished in the reigns of James I (reg. 1383–1398) and Janus (reg. 1398–1432).6 The chapel of Our Lady de Cava, near Nicosia, founded in the 1290s and rebuilt by the hermit William of Palermo in the 1360s, furnished with a new portal in 1370 and served by the members of a confraternity of the Virgin housed in the immediate vicinity, had long been favoured by the royal family. King Peter himself, together with Queen-Mother Eleanor of Aragon and Prince John of Antioch, installed a Clarissan convent on the site in 1373, which was intended to take over the administration of the chapel. The papal letter ceding permission for the new foundation mentions explicitly the erection of a new church with belfry, houses and other dependent structures on the site of the chapel.7 Another female convent, this time Augustinian, was to be founded and built by Joseph Zaphet in Famagusta after 1371. In this very year, John Roberti of Cosenza, a cleric of the Famagusta diocese, was granted a papal indulgence for the repair of the chapel of Sts. Peter and Paul which he had constructed out of his own goods in Famagusta. Hospitals were still being built, as the Florentine Sophia de Archangelis acquired papal permission in 1370 to found ‘branches’ of the hospital of Our Lady of Mount Sion in Famagusta, Padua, Venice and Crete.8 The cataclysmic events of 1373–1374, which wrenched Famagusta from royal control, appear to have triggered a decisive shift in Cyprus’ financial fortunes and, eventually, building activity. The royal treasury, ailing under the debts incurred by Peter I’s disastrous military expeditions, was taxed even further by the loss to the crown of the kingdom’s major port and entrepôt of international trade and by the mounting debt owed to the Genoese, Famagusta’s new rulers. These hardships exacerbated the dire situation caused by the mighty blow dealt to trade and pilgrim traffic by the lifting of the papal 5 6 7 8

Bullarium Cyprium III, u-65, u-150, v-24, v-44, v-48, v-127, v-159, v-189, v-190, v-197, v-220, v-239, w-7; Rudt de Collenberg 1975–1977, 216–217, 251–252; OttenFroux 1993, 425; Otten-Froux 2000, 156 and note 177; Otten-Froux 2001, 145–146. Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 137–139; Petre 2012, 299–312. Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 189–191; Bullarium Cyprium III, v-51, w-9, w-15, w-203; Imhaus 2004, fiche no. 703. Bullarium Cyprium III, v-239, w-16, w-36.

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embargo on trade with the Muslims in the 1340s, leading to the island’s downward spiral into acute financial debt and gradual impoverishment. The recurring visitations of the Black Death, the ruination of crops by locusts, successive earthquakes, the Mamluk raids of the 1420s (following which the kingdom became tributary to the sultanate), the civil war for the crown in the 1450s and other calamities are thought to have brought Cyprus to its proverbial knees both demographically and financially, a situation from which it would only recover in the Venetian period.9 Despite all this doom and gloom, architectural projects of some importance are not unknown in this period. Peter II’s successor, James I, is credited by the chroniclers with the construction and repair of a multitude of buildings. He is attributed the foundation of the church of Our Lady of Mercy (Misericordia) in Nicosia, the building of the palaces at Potamia and Cava, the construction of the fortified site at Sigouri, the strengthening of the defences of Paphos and other fortifications and houses. Some of these works appear to have come as a response to the Genoese occupation of Famagusta, yet others, such as the royal residences at Potamia and Cava, with their impressive gardens, imply a desire for display that was untempered by financial considerations.10 Janus turned a thirteenth-century Gothic church into Limassol Castle, while he must have overseen the creation of the fresco cycle (and probably the building) of the tiny chapel of the Passion at his rural residence in Pyrga.11 On the instigation of his wife, Charlotte of Bourbon, he financed the rebuilding of the hostel at the capital’s Augustinian convent.12 John II (reg. 1432–1458) and his queen, Helena Palaiologina, were burdened with the foundation of a hospice for pilgrims in Limassol and, perhaps, repairs to this town’s Latin cathedral. The queen is also attested as having spear9

For an account of the political history of the period, see Edbury 1995a, 114–158; Edbury 1995b. For the economic history, Jacoby 1995, esp. 422–454. On the natural disasters and epidemics, Grivaud 1998, 293–296, 317–325, 431–440. 10 De Mas Latrie 1891, 494–495; de Mas Latrie 1886, 352; Dawkins 1932, §597; Pieris – Konnari 2003, 411; Lusignan 1573, 59v; Lusignan 1580, 36r; Leventis 2005, 165, 179, 370–371; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 190–191; Petre 2012, 256–266, 357–367, 372–375, 387–388. For Potamia (sometimes attributed to Peter II), see also Lécuyer et al. 2001, esp. 674–676; Lécuyer et al. 2002, esp. 611–613; Lécuyer et al. 2003, 575– 577; Lécuyer 2004, 15–21; Lécuyer et al. 2004–2005, esp. 1078–1081; Lécuyer 2006, esp. 243–244, 246–247, 249. 11 For Limassol Castle, see Corvisier – Faucherre 2000; Corvisier 2006; Petre 2012, 273– 298; Olympios forthcoming. On Pyrga, see Carr 2005, 325–326 for earlier literature, as well as Schryver – Schabel 2003; de Vaivre 2006a; Wollesen 2010, who argues for a considerably earlier date for the frescoes (in the reign of Henry II). 12 Dawkins 1932, §642; Pieris – Konnari 2003, 429; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 194; Trélat 2012, 278–279.

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headed the rebuilding of the Greek monastery of St. George of Mangana near medieval Nicosia.13 Narrative sources (and, occasionally, pilgrims’ travelogues) appear to emphasise royal above other kinds of patronage. For a more nuanced view of the issue, one needs to turn to contemporary archival material. Private churches were still being built in the fifteenth century, although known instances of papal documents ceding such license are rare: in 1412, Zenobius of Castagneto, a citizen of Nicosia, was granted permission to found a chapel of St. George in the capital.14 A church of St. Catherine in Famagusta is described in the Genoese Massaria as newly built in the fifteenth century.15 The Augustinian archbishop William Gonème (1460–1471) erected (or rebuilt?) the hostel of the capital’s convent of the Augustinian Hermits.16 Preceptor Louis de Manhac undertook to restore the Hospitaller keep at Kolossi, at his own expense, in the middle of the fifteenth century.17 Whereas the works at Kolossi entailed a thorough rebuilding of the old tower, for the most part maintenance of earlier structures would probably not have envisaged radical alterations to the buildings’ fabric. In 1406, Benedict XIII issued an indulgence for repairs to the church of Nicosia’s Dominican convent; in 1427, Nicholas of Tenda, bishop of Famagusta, wished to import a quantity of wooden planks (tabule) from Genoa in order to repair his episcopal palace; in 1455, the Benedictine nuns of St. Barbara, Nicosia received an indulgence for repairs to their buildings, books and ornaments; and Limassol Castle had to be repaired at least twice in the first two thirds of the century, following devastation by the Mamluk armies.18 An indulgence was promulgated in 1450 for the repair of the walls of Famagusta, which the Genoese had been keeping in serviceable condition since the town’s capture. At about the same period, similar spiritual incentives were put forward for the funding of the completion of the walls of Nicosia.19 13 Dawkins 1932, §711; Pieris – Konnari 2003, 461; Feyerabend 1584, 244v (the version in Grivaud 1990, 66, excerpted from this first edition of Feyerabend’s Reyssbuch, does not mention the queen). For Palaiologina’s art patronage, see Kaoulla 2006, 140–144. For the current excavations at the site believed to have been that of the Mangana monastery, see Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 212–214 (segment by Despina Pilides). 14 Rudt de Collenberg 1982, 695. 15 Balard 2008, 240–241. 16 Kehayoglou 1997, 174–175; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 194; Trélat 2012, 280. 17 Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987, 162; De Vaivre 2000; de Vaivre 2006b; Borchardt – Luttrell – Schöffler 2011, nos. 298–299; Olympios forthcoming. 18 Rudt de Collenberg 1982, 688; Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987, 163; Balletto 2001, 74, 92; Olympios 2014. 19 Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987, 159, 162; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 138; Petre 2012, 189–193, 310. In Genoese Famagusta, a master mason was employed in an official capacity by the capitano, while masons were occasionally mentioned as witnesses in notarial acts: Balletto 1995, 43; Balard 2008, 247.

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On the face of it, this limited number of references to building or repair works in the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries cannot compare with the relative abundance of material culled for the earlier fourteenth century. However, this apparent scarcity of architectural activity may partly derive from the nature and limitations of the available sources. In spite of Rudt de Collenberg’s detailed lists and brief summaries of documents in the Vatican archives related to fifteenth-century Cyprus (which, he admits, are not even close to being exhaustive), we still lack full editions of these texts which, if undertaken, would greatly add to our knowledge of the period.20 To what extent such a project would revolutionise our understanding of fifteenth-century architecture is, nevertheless, debatable: after the Schism (1378–1418), the papacy and the Church of Cyprus drifted apart, with contacts between the two becoming more episodic as the kings sought to maintain control over the local ecclesiastical hierarchy and its revenues. This could go some way towards explaining the shortfall in indulgences concerning building or the granting of permission for new foundations.21 What is more, many of the do­cuments that would be capable of shedding welcome light on contemporary buildings (e. g. the Genoese texts and the notarial acts for fifteenth-century Famagusta) remain largely unpublished. Be that as it may, the references cited above clearly demonstrate that, far from ceasing altogether, building activity carried on on a more modest scale, often concerned with preserving the older edifices than setting up new ones. Naturally, the fifteenth century should not be treated as barren of new buildings (or of building campaigns at older sites), even if the pace of construction had slowed down considerably since the boisterous fourteenth century.

Late Gothic Flourishes Apart from a number of fortified sites, such as Limassol Castle or Kolossi, many of the aforementioned buildings attested in the written record as having been built in the fifteenth century have entirely perished or their vestiges remain unidentified. Consequently, texts are of little use in illuminating such essential information as the precise dates of fifteenth-century construction campaigns at extant sites, the identity of the patron(s) and the function(s) of the buildings and their architectural or sculptural ornament. Therefore, an account of fifteenth-century Gothic in Cyprus will need to begin by singling out the relevant material on the basis of stylistic and archaeological argu­ments. 20 Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987. 21 Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987, 63–72, 77–81, 117, 126–127.

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The obvious way to go about identifying fifteenth-century work amidst the fragmentary survivals would be by attempting to relate the latter to broader European developments beyond the island’s shores. ‘Late Gothic’, the umbrella label frequently applied to Northern European architecture of the later fourteenth to about the mid-sixteenth centuries, has been shown by Jan Białostocki to have had a protean quality, having been perceived in different aesthetic, cultural, national and chronological terms in the course of the nineteenth and the first half of the twentieth centuries.22 Its extraordinary inventiveness, as well as the astonishing variety of regional manifestations, have ensured the resistance of ambitious architecture north of the Alps to yielding to sweeping scholarly syntheses reaching across modern national boundaries.23 Despite the difficulties inherent in defining ‘Late Gothic’ as a sum of its parts, the period’s hallmark innovations in spatial design and decorative vocabulary and syntax are recognisable enough to help distinguish its products from those of earlier or later eras.

The Lusignan Palace Window and Other Fragments in the Lapidary Museum The use of curvilinear tracery in windows or as surface ornament is a case in point. ‘Curvilinear’ or ‘flowing’ tracery developed out of fourteenthcentury experiments with the use of the ogee (or double-curved) arch and eventually came to dominate Continental European window design and sculptural surface patterning in the fifteenth and part of the sixteenth centuries. Curvilinear tracery is characterised by sinuous instead of geometric designs, made up of a combination of soufflets (fusiform shapes) and mouchettes (directional shapes).24 In Cyprus, as in several parts of northern Europe, ogee arches emerged ca. 1300 and made occasional appearances in sculpture and window tracery of the first half of the century. I argue elsewhere that curvilinear tracery may have been introduced in the kingdom at Bellapais and Nicosia as early as the third quarter of the fourteenth century via the work of English masons.25 Nevertheless, this seems to have been a brief interlude without long-term bearing on the subsequent history of tracery design on the island, given that none of the distinctive peculiarities of this early work (five-/multi-cusped arches, mouchettes containing ‘squashed’ quatrefoils) reappear in later curvilinear designs. It is, therefore, probable 22 Białostocki 1966. 23 A recent survey of aspects of Gothic design in the North ca. 1500 has been hazarded by Kavaler 2012. Modern research on the French Flamboyant has focused more on regional studies, taking advantage of the copious archival sources and steering away from strict formal analysis and comprehensive period overviews. For the state of this field, see Meunier 2010 and Hamon 2012. 24 Brodie – Coldstream online. 25 Olympios 2014.

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that inspiration for the fifteenth-century works that will be discussed presently had come from other sources. The great window of the gatetower to the interior courtyard of Nicosia’s last Lusignan palace was removed when the complex was pulled down in 1905, then reassembled in the north wall of a Venetian-period house converted into the present Lapidary Museum by 1928 (Fig. 1). Pre-demolition photographs show that the window surmounted the entrance to the complex on the courtyard side, above a royal coat-of-arms, which, together with a myriad other fragments retrieved from the site, are kept at the museum (Fig. 2). As the site survived the Lusignan period to serve as the seat of government in the Venetian and Ottoman periods, the buildings ended up hosting a pastiche of fragments of various periods. At any rate, no evidence appears to contradict the view that the gatetower was of a single build, or at least that coat-of-arms and window were contemporary and that they would have been put up during the period between the establishment of the royal court at this residence (once owned by the knight Hugh de la Baume) following King Janus’ return from captivity in Cairo in 1427 and the end of the Lusignan period in 1489.26 The window consists of four lights topped by an internally cusped trefoil arch each and crowned by a reticulated scheme of soufflets enclosing a group of three interlocking mouchettes. A hood-mould crawling with lively foliage springs from corbels carved in the form of male figure heads and crests in a small ogee with an exuberant finial (Fig. 3). The corbels carrying the hood-mould on the exterior side are carved from the same piece of stone as the springers of the moulded frame of the window arch, and the same is true of the very similar corbels that bracket the window on the interior side and which now stand purposeless, since no hood-mould has been reconstructed here. Fragments of a foliated hood-mould identical to the one on the exterior are preserved in the museum, as well as in the stone assemblage to the north of St. Catherine’s, and would presumably have originated from the window in question (Fig. 4). Other fragments at the museum and St. Catherine’s, such as window embrasure pieces identical in profile to those 26 Enlart 1899, vol. 2, 535–536; Enlart 1987, 397–398; Jeffery 1918, 26, 58, 89; Leventis 2005, 237–243, 387; de Vaivre 2006c, 446; Pilides 2009, vol. 1, 19, 36–38, 82; vol. 2, 388–389, 599–600, 603–604, 672–675; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 142–143; de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2012, 61–63. The style in which the mane of the lion supporters of the Lusignan coat-of-arms is rendered is very close to the treatment of the beard of the right corbel head on the side of the courtyard, which is probably suggestive of chronological contemporaneity (as is the overall high quality of both works). A 1446 document, drawn up ‘in palatio regio, videlicet in lozetta Viridarii’ is hard to interpret with reference to the remodelling of the new royal residence, given that the location of the garden in question is uncertain (in the main courtyard?) and the extent to which the court took over existing structures, without many alterations, is currently unknown. For the document, see Bliznyuk 2009, 126–128.

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Fig. 1: Window from the last royal palace; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

Fig. 2: Nicosia, last royal palace (Konak), gatetower before demolition in 1905.

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Fig. 3: Window from the last royal palace, external side, detail of left corbel and hood-mould; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

of our window, beg for a reasonable explanation. Scrutiny of pre-demolition views of the gatetower reveals that the current stunted proportions of the window must be a result of its reassembly in the context of the museum. The window is now much squatter than it used to be, owing to the removal of a number of its embrasures’ courses, which were then deposited at the museum. In the light of these observations, it seems that the present reconstruction of the palace window is not faithful to the original schema in all its details, and thus the interpretation of its design should proceed with due care. The lithe contours of the tracery and the veined, bloated foliage with sharp edges break with fourteenth-century Cypriot Gothic tradition, enunciating a fifteenth-century North European repertoire not unlike that of contemporary French Flamboyant.27 Examples of generally similar, though not identical, decorative schemes in France include the great east window of the chapel at Angers Castle (early fifteenth century); the clerestory and great west window of Saint-Séverin, the nave clerestory windows of Saint27 On French fifteenth-century foliage, consult Enlart 1929, 669; Jalabert 1932, 234–243; Jalabert 1965, 111–115.

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Fig. 4: Fragments of hood-mould and embrasures from the window of the last royal palace; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

Germain-l’Auxerrois (both second half of fifteenth century) and the chevet clerestory of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont (early sixteenth century) in Paris; the window of the axial bay of the chevet of Saint-Jean at Ambert (late fifteenth – early sixteenth century); the chevet windows of Notre-Dame at Bressuire (first third of sixteenth century); and some of the clerestory windows of Condom Cathedral (first half of sixteenth century), among others.28 Nevertheless, a closer look at the moulding profiles articulating the window jambs indicates a degree of local adaptation. If one allows for the evolution of moulding formations into more compact designs from the second half of the fourteenth century (see below), then the jamb section vividly recalls the profile of the windows in the first storey of the north tower of the porch at Nicosia Cathedral, datable to the second quarter of the fourteenth century (Fig. 5). Thus, it can be argued that the present window would not be among the very first examples of its kind in Cyprus, but probably the product of the style’s local adaptation. An analogous creation process could be conjectured for another fragment now in the Lapidary Museum: a piece (22 x 72 cm) belonging to a thin octagonal column carved on all its facets 28 For these works, see generally Gardelles 1992, 87–91; Blomme 1993, 93–98; Blomme 1998, 36–43; Courtillé 2002, 118–124; Bos 2003, 149–163, 167–175, 259–267; Hamon 2011, 250–258 and passim.

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Fig. 5: Nicosia, window embrasure profiles: a) royal palace gatetower, fifteenth century, b) cathedral west end, upper storey of north tower, second quarter of fourteenth century.

Fig. 6: Fragment of octagonal column adorned with various combinations of geometric and curvilinear blind tracery motifs; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

with a combination of relief geometric and curvilinear tracery motifs (Fig. 6). Columns of this type have been linked to light, timber-roofed arched porticoes and are rather frequent finds on the island – although this is by far the most elaborate specimen known to date.29 Its precise provenance and function is unknown, yet it signals exceptional financial means and elite patronage. Furthermore, it attests to the adaptation of a Flamboyant vocabulary to a traditional local form. The Lapidary Museum houses more unprovenanced fragments that can be confidently dated to the fifteenth century. An ogeed hood-mould encrusted with a variant of the restless foliage seen on the palace window and the top of a pinnacle, now both incorporated in the eastern wall of the museum’s courtyard, are two such cases (Fig. 7). A wall respond capital adorned with cabbage-leaves and branded with the arms of an unidentified house serves as a pale reminder of the patronage of the nobility; the same arms mark the exterior and interior of a chapel added to the south side of 29 Olympios 2009, 114–117.

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the nave of Nicosia Cathedral, which is also unanimously dated to the fifteenth century (Fig. 8).30

The Beaulieu Abbey Monastic Buildings Further Late Gothic accents permeate the architecture of the monastic buildings at Beaulieu Abbey in Nicosia, the wealthiest and most powerful Latin male monastery on the island during the fourteenth century. The site of Beaulieu, inhabited successively by the Franciscans of the province of Syria (1220s – ca. 1250), the Cistercians of Pyrgos (1250s – second half of the fifteenth century), Benedictines (second half of fifteenth century – before 1507) and the Franciscan Observants of the Custody of the Holy Land (after 1507–1567), was excavated by Camille Enlart in 1901.31 The site in question, located near the Armenian Cemetery, was known as ‘Toudjarbashi’s Chiftlik’ after the name of its owner, Tüccarbaşı Hacı Ahmet Derviş Paşa, a major figure in Muslim Cypriot politics at the beginning of the twentieth century32. However, soon concerns arose regarding the safety of the tombs that came to light in the monastery’s chapter house on account of the wish of the site’s owner to excavate below the unearthed remains, allegedly in the hope of discovering hidden treasure lurking underneath. Despite the insistent efforts of the island’s British administration to demonstrate that the Turkish proprietor’s rights did not extend to the archaeological material in the subsoil, damage to the tomb slabs was reported in 1905 and the site was apparently reburied soon thereafter.33 With the exception of the very few pieces of architectural sculpture donated by Enlart to the Musée de Cluny in Paris, the loose stonework extracted thence entered the collection of lapidary fragments which was eventually deposited in the Lapidary Museum.34 Thus, although even the exact location of the monastery is not known with absolute certainty, Enlart’s sketches of the finds and the surviving pieces furnish some idea of the decorative detailing lavished on its buildings. 30 Enlart 1899, vol. 1, 121–122, 137; Enlart 1987, 112, 128; Jeffery 1918, 76; Plagnieux – Soulard 2006b, 128; de Vaivre 2006c, 442–443. 31 For the history and architecture of Beaulieu, see Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 173–175; Olympios 2012, with extensive earlier bibliography. Enlart 1909 is the fullest published excavation report. An unpublished report by Major Tankerville Chamberlayne, illustrating some of the finds and adding detail to Enlart’s brief account is filed in the Cyprus State Archive, SA 1 / C555 / 1901, 18–26. 32 The practicalities of Enlart’s excavation are revealed in correspondence kept in the Cyprus State Archive, SA 1 / C555 / 1901, passim. The name of the property is given in SA 1 /166 / 1900. For Derviş Paşa, see Bryant 2004, 99–120. 33 Cyprus State Archive, SA 1 / C555 / 1901, 6, 9–12, 15, 17, 30–31, 33–34; SA 1 / 1887 / 1905, 1–2; SA 1 / 4242 / 1905. 34 Cyprus State Archive, SA 1 / C555 / 1901, 8, 12–13, 16, 30–31; SA 1 / 446 / 1901, 17; SA 1 / 2 / 1901, 11; SA 1 / 327 / 1902; Olympios 2012, 49 note 26; Le Pogam 2012.

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Fig. 7: Fragments of hood-mould and pinnacle; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

Fig. 8: Fragment of respond; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

Enlart had identified two main building phases at Beaulieu, a thirteenthcentury one comprising the church and the rooms opening out from the east walk of the cloister, and a fourteenth-century one to which the rest of the monastic complex could be ascribed. He wrote his report of the excavations in the first decade of the twentieth century, under the assumption that the Franciscans had occupied the site continuously from the latter half of the thirteenth century onwards, and thus he was inclined to assign patronage of the monastic buildings to the friars’ great supporter, King Henry II (reg. 1285–1324).35 Later historical research established beyond reasonable 35 Enlart 1909.

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doubt that the monastery was in Cistercian hands throughout the fourteenth century, weakening the excavator’s argument for an early date.36 Interestingly, it seems that Enlart himself had trouble reconciling the date suggested by the style of the unearthed architectural fragments and his stern belief that Henry was somehow involved. In unpublished correspondence with the Musée de Cluny, Enlart proposed a construction date range for the monastic buildings between the reign of Henry II and the Genoese invasion of 1373, stressing the similarities with Hugh IV’s (reg. 1324–1359) buildings at Bellapais Abbey and favouring a date in about the middle of the century for the sculptural fragments acquired by the museum.37 Since his allegations for Franciscan occupation of the site during Henry’s reign can no longer be sustained, the early date proposed in the published report need not concern us further. A fresh look at the evidence will help place the architectural finds in a more apposite chronological context. The parallels which Enlart drew between the Cluny pieces and comparable works at Bellapais appear to still hold water. The corbel from the Beaulieu lavatorium chamber bearing a winged beast would not look out of place amidst the figured corbels in the cloister and other spaces at Bellapais, while the fragment of the refectory pulpit (Fig. 9) betrays an overall design very close to that of its counterpart in the mountain abbey.38 On the other hand, the capitals of two of the refectory’s angle responds (Figs. 10–11), kept at the Lapidary Museum and identified here by means of Enlart’s published sketches, steer attention towards comparable works surviving in Nicosia itself.39 The compact design of the capital blocks (and, presumably, their matching respond shafts) and the deployment of large undulating leaves across the capital bells of all three shafts recall very strongly the similar treatment in the capitals of the sole surviving angle respond at the ruined 36 See discussion in Olympios 2012, 26–28. 37 Archive of the Musée national du Moyen Âge – Thermes de Cluny, letter of 21 January 1903 (excerpt): ‘Saint François s’élevait sur l’emplacement de l’ancienne abbaye cistercienne N. D. des Champs et en avait gardé des parties du XIIIe s., mais une reconstruction presque totale avait eu lieu au XIVe, entre le règne d’Henri II qui protégea le couvent et y fut enterré en 1317 [sic] et l’invasion génoise de 1373 qui ruine trop profondement le pays pour qu’on ait pu faire de constructions de luxe dans les années qui suivirent. Saint François présentait les rapports les plus frappantes avec l’abbaye de Lapaïs édifiée par Hugues IV (1317+1361) [sic]. Je date les débris que vous possédez du milieu environ du XIVe siècle.’ 38 The latest account of these pieces is Le Pogam 2012. For the Bellapais monastic buildings, see mainly Enlart 1899, vol. 1, 205–209; Enlart 1987, 177–179, 187–200; Jeffery 1918, 323–324, 328–334; Plagnieux – Soulard 2006c, 202–217; Soulard 2006a, 108; Olympios 2010, vol. 1, 244–277. 39 Enlart 1909, 226; Enlart 1925–1928, vol. 1, 154 (and pl. 35 for the drawings, reproduced here as figs. 10 and 14).

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Fig. 9: Fragment of refectory pulpit from Beaulieu Abbey; Paris, Musée national du Moyen Âge.

Fig. 10: Fragments from the refectory of Beaulieu Abbey Nicosia (pulpit, respond capitals) and assorted pieces.

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Fig. 11: Refectory respond capitals from Beaulieu Abbey; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

Fig. 12: Nicosia, Yeni Camii church, detail of respond capitals in southwest angle of nave.

church known as Yeni Camii in the capital (Fig. 12).40 The architecture of the Yeni Camii takes its cue from that of St. Catherine’s nearby, commonly identified with the chapel of a hospital for the poor known to have been ‘recently constructed’ in 1362.41 In the evolutionary scheme by which the wall responds of the refectory and cloister of Bellapais, consisting in the main of three contiguous shafts of roll-and-fillet section, were gradually compressed (and merged) into more compact forms, Yeni Camii represents the third stage, after St. Catherine’s (Fig. 13). The Beaulieu capitals’ similarities with those at the Yeni Camii would, therefore, point towards a date in the latter half of the century. A later, rather than an earlier, date could also be surmised on the evidence of another piece of architectural sculpture, now lost: a block carved with a series of shaft bases destined for a wall respond in the cloister (or the 40 The dimensions of the capital block in the museum courtyard are 26.5 x 16.5 x 23 cm. On the Yeni Camii church, see Enlart 1899, vol. 1, 168–170; Enlart 1987, 150–152; Jeffery 1918, 62–63; Plagnieux – Soulard 2006d, 168–169; Olympios 2010, vol. 1, 289– 294 with fuller bibliography. 41 Enlart 1899, vol. 1, 171–176; Enlart 1987, 152–157; Jeffery 1906, 490–493; Jeffery 1918, 90–93; Plagnieux – Soulard 2006d; Soulard 2006a, 104–105; Olympios 2010, vol. 1, 278–288 with further bibliography.

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Fig. 13: Nicosian respond profiles, middle and second half of fourteenth century: a) Bellapais Abbey, cloister, b) Bellapais Abbey, refectory, c) St. Catherine, nave wall, d) Yeni Camii, nave wall, e) Bellapais Abbey, refectory, angle of east end, f) St. Catherine, angle of west end, g) Yeni Camii, angle of west end, h) St. Theodore, apse (?).

refectory?).42 Enlart’s sketch of this find indicates that the general aspect of the responds to which these bases belonged was very similar to that of their counterparts in the Bellapais refectory and St. Catherine’s nave, sporting a section made up of clusters of filleted rolls (compare figs. 13b–c and 14). The bases and plinths themselves certainly resemble the ones at Bellapais, St. Catherine and the Yeni Camii in overall design.43 The main difference lies in the way the responds’ constituent parts are articulated. In the Beaulieu example, a rhythmical alternation of primary and secondary visual elements has been implemented, wherein the bases of the shafts carrying the formerets or of other minor motifs are smaller in size and positioned slightly higher than those of the more substantial shafts carrying the ribs and arches of the vaulting, which are larger and sunk to a lower level. Furthermore, the moulding girding the lower part of the continuous plinth is seen dancing to the tune of the base symphony, rising visibly underneath the (equally raised) bases of every secondary element. Thus, the plinth moulding forms a dynamic ‘crenellated’ ring around the bases, quite unlike the conservative straightforwardness observable in the other aforementioned examples in Nicosia and Bellapais. 42 Enlart 1909, 224; Enlart 1925–1928, 154. 43 At the Yeni Camii, the respond bases lie buried below present ground level, except for a fragment reintegrated in a masonry mass inserted at the east end of the extant part of the south wall of the westernmost nave bay.

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Fig. 14: Fragment of base from south walk of the cloister (or refectory?) of Beaulieu Abbey, Nicosia. Fig. 15: Fragment of marble cloister ­mullion; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

The only other work known to me which displays an almost identical hierarchical treatment of primary and secondary constituents is the base of a cloister mullion (26/29 x 15/18 x 38.5 cm), now in the Lapidary Museum (Fig. 15). In spite of the blatant resemblance to the respond base fragment under discussion, it cannot be conclusively shown that the piece in question, together with the mullion that topped it (also housed at the museum), were found in the Beaulieu excavations. Enlart’s report mentions the discovery of fragments of cloister tracery without offering accompanying illustrations, and none were published in his later works.44 What is more, the mullion and its base are made of marble, as are other cloister mullion fragments of comparable design in the museum’s collection. The Bellapais cloister was not as generously furnished, but we know from written sources that at least the two cloisters of Nicosia’s Dominican convent were bedecked with marble.45 Unfortunately, in his report Enlart does not always dwell on the material of the objects that his excavations brought to light and therefore the items in question will have to remain without provenance for the time being. Be this as it may, examination of the mullion base reveals that here too the secondary elements, namely the emaciated shafts lodged in the angles between the arms of the mullion’s cruciform core, have their individual bases (complete with the miniature corbels underpinning the protruding lower torus) perched atop the base moulding servicing the rest of the mullion. Once again, the section of plinth moulding below these secondary bases slides upwards, creating the impression that the bases of the secondary shafts have been subsumed into the larger mullion bases without entirely losing their 44 Enlart 1909, 224. 45 Lusignan 1573, 15v; Lusignan 1580, 32v; Cobham 1908, 44.

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individuality. The relegation of the secondary bases to a higher tier of the mullion base structure is complemented by the selective raising of the plinth moulding at the points below them, implying that both base and plinth form an indissociable entity with fixed and indissoluble proportions. In fact, despite the fluctuation in individual base and plinth sections positions, the distance between base and plinth moulding remains a constant ca. 16 cm throughout. The visual disjunctions provoked by subverting established design canon and reconfiguring it in a playful manner was one of the key traits of Late Gothic aesthetics. Fifteenth- and sixteenth-century examples of elaborate multi-level bases with fused and interpenetrating elements abound in Northern Europe, and it is to this tradition that the Beaulieu bases and the Lapidary Museum fragments can be more fruitfully related.46 On the strength of this argumentation, a date for the Beaulieu cloister (or refectory?) bases in this period would not be unreasonable. Given the relative stylistic homogeneity of all the discussed fragments, assuming that the refectory, the lavatorium and the cloister were all heavily restored or rebuilt during the thoroughgoing repairs that we know were carried out in the early sixteenth century by the Franciscan Observants after settling at the site would probably be overestimating the friars’ means and resources.47 Barring a date as late as that, and taking into consideration the close stylistic affinities of the aforementioned fragments with work of the later fourteenth century in Nicosia, it may be legitimately conjectured that we are dealing with a protracted building campaign initiated some time in the second half of the fourteenth century and carried on into the first half of the fifteenth. It would be easier to imagine the Cistercians shouldering such a vast undertaking at a time when the monastery’s influence and finances were still healthy, even if their efforts were being backed by wealthy patrons. If this dating is accepted, then the Beaulieu monastic buildings postdated those at Bellapais, with the later parts (cloister?) spilling into the fifteenth century.48

The Twin South Aisles of the Virgin Hodegetria The Greek cathedral church of the Virgin Hodegetria in Nicosia, known today as the Bedestan, is a ‘mongrel’ building consisting of several different parts stitched together in a rather ungainly manner. Current research has discerned construction phases ranging from the fifth/sixth to the six46 Sanfaçon 1971, 58; Wilson 1990, 250; Kavaler 2012, 11–12. 47 Olympios 2012, 28 and note 9. 48 Note that stylistic affinities with the Bellapais cloister have been reported for the sculptural ornament of the Potamia manor buildings, dated to the last third of the fourteenth century, at the time the Beaulieu structures would have been underway: Lécuyer 2004, 15; Lécuyer 2006, 244.

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teenth centuries (Fig. 16).49 Our discussion here will concentrate on the twin southern aisles, which are usually considered to be amidst the earliest parts of the building still standing. Each aisle was entirely rib-vaulted, culminated at an internally semi-circular apse crowned by a semi-dome at its eastern extremity and was divided from its counterpart by a row of slender round piers. What is particularly interesting here is the way the ribs of the aisles’ quadripartite vaulting penetrate into the core of the vertical continuation of the piers above the level of the capitals. The ribs appear not to be resting atop the capital abaci, but to ‘die’ into the mass of masonry above them (Fig. 17). Dying mouldings appeared in France and England already in the early thirteenth century, yet did not become a major design element until the Late Gothic period, when the independence of traditional architectural forms was undermined by their fusion and interpenetration according to what Anne-Marie Sankovitch has termed the principle of ‘formal indeterminacy’50. To my knowledge, dying ribs do not put in another appearance in surviving Cypriot architecture, although more inconspicuous similar refinements (interpenetrating mouldings) occurred earlier in the porch of Nicosia Cathedral (at the springing of vault ribs, transverse and portal arches on the east side). What is the date of the Hodegetria dying ribs? The stylistic features of the twin aisles – rib, transverse arch and formeret profiles, corbel forms etc. – would not be out of place in the fourteenth century, the date often assigned to them. However, the aisles should not be considered coeval, as has been the consensus until now. A clear masonry break exists at the junction between the two apses in the east end (Fig. 18). Furthermore, the corbel carrying the vault ribs, transverse arches and formerets at this point shows signs of extensive recutting. Its left side is perfectly formed in all its details, in accordance to the form of the angle corbels in the northeast and northwest angles of the northern of the two aisles. On the other hand, the right side is much more summarily treated, especially concerning the abacus roll-and-fillet profile, which devolves here into a plain, unadorned strip (Fig. 19). What is more, this corbel is curiously asymmetrical, as its left half is conceived as the quarter of an octagon, while the right half as the quarter of a hexagon (namely, there are two facets to the left of centre, whilst only one to the right). Further asymmetries and irregularities exist between the two 49 Enlart 1899, vol. 1, 150–162; Enlart 1987, 136–146; Jeffery 1918, 84–89; Willis 1986; Papacostas 2005; Plagnieux – Soulard 2006a, 181–189; Soulard 2006b, 365–384; Papacostas 2012, 91–93. To off-set the effects of the radical recent restoration on the building’s masonry, the evidence discussed here has been checked against pre-restoration photographs. 50 Sanfaçon 1971, 28–30 and passim; Jansen 1982; Sankovitch 1995, 170–171; Recht 2001, 157–158; Kavaler 2012, passim.

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Fig. 16: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, plan. The arrows indicate masonry break between campaigns.

Fig. 17: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, southern aisles, detail of dying mouldings above third pier from the west.

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Fig. 18: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, southern aisles, apses looking southeast. The thin black line indicates the presence of a masonry suture at that point.

halves of this corbel: the formeret and the rib of the north aisle spring from congés atop the corbel abacus, which is not the case for the transverse arch and the rib of the south aisle. In fact, the latter springs in midair quite above the level of the corbel, while the formeret framing the south aisle apse wall leads a solitary existence carried on its own miniature corbel. These incongruities surely resulted from the corbel not being wide enough to accommodate all the elements of vaulting and wall articulation. The evidence cited above would lead to the conclusion that the south aisle was added to the pre-existing north aisle at a later date. When the south wall of the north aisle was removed, the southeast angle corbel (which originally looked identical to the extant ones in the northeast and northwest angles) was cut back and reconfigured to serve both aisles, old and new. The corbel’s stone block had obviously not been foreseen to be large enough for this purpose, which explains the awkward way the transverse arch and south aisle rib and formeret were treated. The south aisle was conceived as the identical twin of the north one, doubling the original space while simultaneously taking over its formal vocabulary. Even so, a look at the detailing reveals signif-

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Fig. 19: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, southern aisles, detail of corbel between apses, at the junction of the two aisles. The dashed line separates the part of the corbel retaining its original form (left) from the part which was subsequently recarved (right).

icant deviations: witness, for instance, the different form of the southeast angle corbel in the south aisle compared to those in its northern counterpart. Now that the chronology of the twin aisles has become clearer, let us turn to the issue of date. Obviously, the central colonnade could only have been erected at the time of the building of the southern aisle. As already stated, a conscious attempt was made then to pay homage to the style of its older twin, frustrating modern attempts at gauging the date by stylistic ana­ lysis. Be that as it may, crucial clues are provided by the pier capitals: while some of them further west seem to be early-fourteenth-century spolia, the ‘retro’ crocket capitals of the two easternmost piers feature coats-of-arms of types most commonly paralleled in the Venetian period.51 Dying mouldings were not employed in buildings in Venice itself at this time and, since no other extant monument from this late period in Cyprus has them, they must have been drawn from a lost fifteenth-century edifice. Moreover, their use 51 Coats-of-arms of this type appear on monumental art and tombstones from the Venetian period. For some examples of the latter, see Imhaus 2004, vol. 1, fiche nos. 263 (1533), 264 (sixteenth century), 565 (1547), 705 (1505?). Fiche no. 291 may or may not be earlier (1457?), according to Papacostas 2010, 141–143.

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might have been predicated on their supplying a satisfactory solution to the problem of visually reconciling the anomalies generated by the addition of the south aisle: ribs and transverse arches could penetrate the support at different heights and angles, avoiding as much as possible the accentuation of misalignments and congestion at the springing. Although this looks like an ad hoc answer to a specific problem, the inspiration for it could have been derived from fifteenth-century parallels on the island. From a methodological standpoint, working back from the Venetian period could shine new light on the immediately preceding period. After all, the gable of the main portal of the retrospective sixteenth-century north front of the Hodegetria contains an oculus filled with a fine specimen of openwork curvilinear tracery.

A Deep-seated Conservatism Other buildings that are known to have been erected or modified in the course of the fifteenth century show absolutely no European input. The ground storey of the keep in Limassol Castle, the showpiece of an otherwise rather parsimonious building campaign, with its block-like responds, prismatic vault ribs and busy keystone foliage does not deviate from fourteenth-century design precepts; and the small, unassuming chapel at Pyrga could hardly be any more plain in regard to its architecture and sculptural ornament. It could be argued that both were designed relatively early in the century, and that they were never conceived to rival the more ambitious royal projects, for which reasons they should not be expected to break new ground in terms of style. However, the view from the kingdom’s main centre of architectural innovation in this period, Nicosia (Famagusta was in Genoese hands), indicates that, in spite of a limited number of superficial Late Gothic refinements, much of the late-fourteenth-century architectural vocabulary retained its currency in later decades and, as we shall see presently, has frustrated scholars’ attempts at dating later medieval buildings and construction campaigns and, by implication, defining fifteenth-century styles. In May 1932, during earth removal operations along the periphery of Nicosia’s Venetian wall circuit, the remains of a ‘Byzantine Church, with wall paintings’ were uncovered next to the Caraffa Bastion, north of Famagusta Gate. George Jeffery, Curator of Ancient Monuments, was asked to take its excavation in hand, but he declined after declaring the finds ‘of little importance or interest – a fragment of the north wall with traces of coloured plaster adhering to the bottom courses’. He dated the ‘chapel’ to the Ottoman period, dismissing its importance and consenting to its remains being 333

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swept away.52 Thus, although the site had been painstakingly excavated by the Cyprus Museum and the Nicosia municipality, by 1934 the municipal authorities were destroying the church remains in order to re-use the stone, with Jeffery’s assent. This apparently caused some public outcry, recorded in the indignant letter of Rupert Gunnis, Inspector of Antiquities, and Joan du Plat Taylor, Acting Curator of the Cyprus Museum, which is preserved at the State Archive, Nicosia.53 What is left of the building in question is a handful of photographs of the site and finds in the Photographic Archive of the Department of Antiquities, a very terse excavation report and a number of sculptural fragments now divided between the Lapidary Museum, the St. Catherine assemblage and the reserves of the Cyprus Museum.54 The report mentions the discovery of a complex of structures, including a church the apse of which was mutilated when the walls were built in the 1560s (Figs. 20–22). Judging by this text and the photographs, the church was a rib-vaulted single-nave edifice built in good ashlar and furnished with a staircase turret in its northwest angle, which gave access to the upper parts. Its walls were pierced by relatively narrow traceried windows and frescoed internally. The sanctuary area was raised in relation to the rest of the building, and the base of the high altar barely escaped the wholesale annihilation to which the apse was subjected. At a later date, a large (ecclesiastical?) building was attached to its northern side. The chrono­ logical priority of the church may be established by observing the lack of coursing between it and the attached structure, the discontinuation of the church’s plinth moulding at the junction between the two buildings and the fact that the semi-circular flight of stairs leading up to the north building’s south entrance was laid partly atop the straight steps in front of the church’s west front (Fig. 20). Since (roof?) tiles were found in the dig, parts of the complex may have been roofed in timber. Moving on to a more detailed assessment of the church’s features, one is struck by the little idiosyncrasies that have crept into an otherwise undistinguished and bland design in Cypriot Gothic ecclesiastical architecture. The wall responds from which the ribs and transverse arches of the vaults sprang are simple prismatic, five-sided masonry protrusions quite unlike 52 Cyprus State Archive, SA 1 / 574 / 14, 94 (letter of Porphyrios Dikaios to Colonial Secretary, 7 May 1932), 96 (letter of George Jeffery to Colonial Secretary, 13 May 1932). See also Pilides 2009, vol. 1, 321, for Jeffery’s diary entry, where he calls the ruined chapel which he inspected ‘worthless’. 53 Cyprus State Archive, SA 1 / 926 / 1921 / 1, 137–140 (letters of Rupert Gunnis and Joan du Plat Taylor to Colonial Secretary, 18 September, 11 and 13 October 1934). 54 Du Plat Taylor 1932, for the excavation report. Consideration of the excavated remains has only been given in studies devoted to Nicosia’s topography, such as Grivaud 1992, 305; Leventis 2005, 41–45; Trélat 2009, vol. 1, 282–287; Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012, 196–197.

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Fig. 20: Nicosia, Caraffa Bastion church, west end and adjacent structure, looking northeast.

anything in the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries (Fig. 21). The correspondence of respond shafts to specific vaulting elements (ribs, transverse arches, formerets) had been ‘violated’ elsewhere, with the use of voluminous engaged semi-columns along the walls in the Augustinian church in Nicosia or the dormitory at Bellapais. In the same way that the latter schemes were devised by applying arcade support types to wall elevations, the Caraffa Bastion church responds display an unmistakable kinship to free-standing quadrangular piers with chamfered angles, usually employed in domestic contexts, such as the timber-roofed portico of the last royal palace.55 In a way, these blocked-out responds represented the culmination of the trend towards more compact respond forms in the latter half of the fourteenth century, complementing exceptionally well the prismatic form of the vault ribs. The window tracery found in the excavations is no less intriguing. One of the photographs shows a number of fragments assembled into a geometric tracery pattern which would have enlivened one of the church’s windows 55 Enlart 1899, vol. 2, 536–537; Enlart 1987, 398; de Vaivre – Soulard 2012, 62–63.

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Fig. 21: Nicosia, Caraffa Bastion church, detail of north wall showing respond and remains of wall painting.

Fig. 22: Nicosia, Caraffa Bastion church, view of interior towards southeast, including reassembled window tracery on the pavement.

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(Fig. 22). The angle at which the shot is taken makes it especially difficult to discern the nature of the design, but a close look shows that the outer groove of the tracery is filled with a string of pearl ornament. Insofar as this is a unique combination, unknown from elsewhere on Cyprus, the photographic stills divulge good evidence for tracking down these fragments, currently scattered between the Lapidary Museum, the St. Catherine dépôt and the Cyprus Museum (Fig. 23). Study of these pieces confirms the geometric character of the design. The presence of pearl ornament is intriguing: its earliest occurrence was in the bases, portal jamb plinths and north portal tympanum arcade in the ground storey of the west end of Nicosia Cathedral from the last quarter of the thirteenth century.56 It enjoyed a relatively restrained dissemination in the fourteenth century, appearing in the Famagusta Franciscan convent in the century’s first half and on the reader’s pulpit from the Beaulieu Abbey refectory in the latter half or later.57 This motif had become quite de rigueur by the Venetian period, when it was arrayed freely on moulded frames, portals, bases, tomb niches and other places, frequently associated with classicising ornament, such as dentils.58 The growing popularity of pearl ornament in the later period may imply a place for our window further down the timeline from the fourteenth century. Discussion of the form of the nave responds and the window tracery has led us down a path diverging from the hitherto accepted date for the building, which is that proposed by its excavator, namely the thirteenth century. Surely, the window tracery, with its pearled frame, could not be assigned such an early date. Furthermore, the jamb mouldings of the west doorway, to the extent that they are decipherable in the photographs, seem to share the flatness and compactness of their counterparts in the north and south doorways of Famagusta’s ‘Tanners’ Mosque’, usually dated to the fifteenth

56 For the date of the Nicosia Cathedral west end, see Olympios 2010, I, 124–155, 354–383. 57 Olympios 2009, 114–117; Olympios 2010, vol. 1, 140–141, 163–165, 298–301. On the Beaulieu refectory pulpit fragment, see the literature cited in the relevant sub-section above. 58 Further fifteenth-/sixteenth-century examples of pearl ornament in and around Nicosia include the plinth of the easternmost (main) portal of the Hodegetria’s north front (and other details, such as the capital of the engaged north west angle-shaft of this façade), the frame of the rectangular panel on the lower storey of the all’antica façade to the north of the Augustinian church, the capitals of the engaged angle shafts re-employed in the Büyük Hamam, Nicosia, the capitals and hood-moulds of doorways of domestic buildings in the same town, the corbels carrying the hood-mould above the doorway to the north aisle of the church of the Archangelos, Lakatamia, and the pilasters and (unfinished) arches of the classicising burial niches along the walls of St. Mamas at Ayios Sozomenos. The motif’s growing popularity in the Venetian period should probably be linked with its frequent use in buildings in Venice itself at that time.

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Fig. 23: Fragments of window tracery from Caraffa Bastion church; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

Fig. 24: Vault keystone from Caraffa Bastion church; Nicosia, Lapidary Museum.

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Fig. 25: Gros of James II, type B1.

century.59 Admittedly, the accrued evidence is hardly conclusive for a confident attribution of the Caraffa Bastion church to the fifteenth century. What may prove decisive in this respect is the more tangible testimony of heraldry. Amidst the debris excavated within the space of the church were two keystones from the quadripartite rib vaults of the nave. While the one is carved with the ubiquitous Agnus Dei, the other bears a rendition of the arms of Jerusalem, where the crosslets nestling between the arms of the central cross have been rotated sideways to form Xs (Fig. 24). This is a highly unusual variant, thus far without parallel in monumental art. On the other hand, in the numismatic record, which preserves an uninterrupted sequence of representations of the Jerusalem arms from their debut on Amaury of Tyre’s coinage in the early fourteenth century to the end of the Lusignan period, the ‘X-variant’ is only employed on the coinage of two reigns, those of John II (reg. 1432–1458) and James II (reg. 1460–1473) (Fig. 25).60 If the coins and the keystone were coeval, as is probably the case, and since there is no reason to believe that the vaulting belonged to a later campaign of repairs, our church would seem to date from well into the fifteenth century.61 Incidentally, such a dating would not necessarily clash with the edifice’s current identification as the church of the capital’s old Templar house, since it is known from texts that the Temple was fully functional, in Hospitaller hands, into the sixteenth century (it was demolished only in 1567, to 59 Enlart 1899, vol. 1, 386–391; Enlart 1987, 299–302; de Vaivre 2006d, 29; de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2012, 176–177. 60 Metcalf 1995, 202–224; Metcalf 2000, 77–81, 94, 100, 105. The ‘X-variant’ arms on coins bearing the name of John II occur in specimens which have occasionally been thought to have been minted later (perhaps in the reign of James II), using older dies. Crosslets turned sideways sometimes appeared in representations of the Jerusalem arms on coins of Louis of Savoy (reg. 1459–1461) and Catherine Cornaro (reg. 1474–1489), although in this case not all four crosslets were ever affected. 61 I am very grateful to Annemarie Weyl Carr for discussing with me, in personal communication, the remnants of wall painting visible on fig. 21, which she would date to the fifteenth or early sixteenth century.

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Fig. 26: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, north aisle, general view of east end of interior looking east.

make way for the new walls), and could have been rebuilt, even from the ground up, at any point. The implications of the revised dating for the Caraffa Bastion church vis-à-vis other, precariously dated structures cannot be overestimated. The simple prismatic wall responds crop up again at the edges of the easternmost bay of the north aisle at that most bewildering of buildings, the cathedral of the Virgin Hodegetria. Here, they are preserved to their full height, up to the abaci carrying the tas-de-charge for the vaulting, which makes it easier to appreciate their low-cost efficiency (Fig. 26). No attempt is made to fuse together vault and support, creating continuous orders or resorting to 340

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a creative way of achieving visual transition between the two in Late Gothic fashion. Thus, although the capitals are entirely dispensed with, their articulating function is still present in the moulded abaci, which implies that these are ‘poor man’s responds’, cheap and unimaginative. Aesthetic deficiency may have been one of the reasons which led to these responds’ eventual suppression in the parts of the aisle further west. When the decision was made in the Venetian period to renovate the church’s north façade by crafting a stunning sculptural display inspired by the west portals of the Latin cathedral next door, the core of this north wall was not pulled down. The new front was applied as a new masonry skin on the exterior, starting from the northwest angle and moving eastwards. For whatever reason, the work stopped abruptly just to the east of the eastern buttress of the main portal, leaving a series of pierres d’attente as a tell-tale sign that the remodelling was planned to sheath the entire north front in new masonry. What is less evident at first is that the interior surface of the old north wall was also reworked at the same time: a clear masonry break is visible immediately to the west of the westernmost ‘prismatic’ respond, that is, at about the same point as the jagged masonry on the exterior (Figs. 16, 27). Comparing the wall surfaces to the left (west) and right (east) of this respond bears out the differences, which on the whole are not as noticeable as on the exterior. The length of individual ashlar blocks is consistently larger on the left than on the right, a point that is also valid for the exterior: longer blocks for the renovated parts and shorter for the older wall (Fig. 28). However, the aisle’s west end shows the same short ashlars as the east end and was apparently unaffected by the renovation; in fact, the new sculpted exterior skin does not extend across it.62 Furthermore, the vault ribs and transverse arches spring from corbels on the left and the, by now infamous, ‘prismatic’ responds on the right. It follows from all this that both surfaces of the cathedral’s north wall were reworked concurrently from west to east in the Venetian period; and that what is left of the north aisle, at the east and west ends, is earlier. If one were to judge by the surviving ‘prismatic’ responds at the aisle’s east end, one would be inclined to date this part of the cathedral to the fifteenth century, by comparison with the Caraffa Bastion church. Scholars 62 Measurements of the ashlar blocks on both sides of the wall were taken at its lower end, without the aid of scaffolding. Blocks in the eastern part of the north aisle and the west front measure on average ca. 33.3 x ca. 23.5 cm (minimal and maximal block lengths measured: 28, 42 cm), while those on the refaced parts of the north wall (on both the exterior and interior) give ca. 64.1 x ca. 29.6 cm (minimal and maximal block lengths measured: 47, 77 cm). These figures, although based on a relatively small random sample, are indicative of the average differences in size (especially length) of the ashlars used in the two distinct phases of the north wall.

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Fig. 27: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, north aisle, masonry break between Lusignan and Venetian period campaigns on the exterior (left) and the interior (right).

have sometimes dated this phase to the fourteenth century, although not without some discomfort.63 The architecture is extremely plain, with a simple apse crowned by a semi-dome at the east end, a flat façade pierced solely by a moulded doorway and a small oculus further up, relatively modest lancet windows in austerely moulded frames and competently rendered stringcourses, ribs and transverse arches.64 None of these elements would be out of place in the later fourteenth century, and the only feature heralding a later period is the ‘prismatic’ respond. Interestingly, when the cathedral’s south aisle was doubled in the Venetian period, the ‘prismatic’ responds of the north wall were replicated on its south pendant – this must have taken place before the revisions affecting the north wall and, thus, before this type of respond was deemed undesirable. Both the Caraffa Bastion church and the north aisle of the Hodegetria belong to a fairly conservative strand of architecture exercised during the ‘long’ fifteenth century. There is very little here that could be considered new, either in terms of space and structure or in terms of decoration. Apart 63 Plagnieux – Soulard 2006a, 185–188; Soulard 2006b, 369–370. 64 Note that the original north portal of the west façade was subsequently substituted by the present round-arched doorway. Of the earlier arrangement, only a hollow jamb moulding and a short section of a moulded arch survive immediately to the right (south) of the current doorway.

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Fig. 28: Nicosia, Bedestan/Hodegetria, north aisle, wall respond between third and fourth bay from the west, and surrounding masonry.

Fig. 29: Kolossi, Hospitaller preceptory, sugar refinery, detail of wall respond.

from nigh imperceptible changes in moulding sections and the preference for certain motifs over others, what stands out is the simplicity of sculptural ornament. The ‘prismatic’ respond was shared between religious and industrial architecture: in the (undated) sugar refinery building at Kolossi the barrel vaulting was reinforced by transverse arches springing from responds of this type (Fig. 29).65 Although the carefully cut and assembled ashlar, the more or less richly decorated windows and doorways and, most importantly, wall painting and furnishings still marked out the higher rank of church buildings, the dearth of expensive sculptural dressing in a building branded with the arms of Jerusalem (which may denote royal approval or some degree of royal involvement, however minor) and, especially, a cathedral church may reflect the dire financial straits in which the patrons and the kingdom had found themselves in these years.66

65 For the Kolossi refinery building, Enlart 1899, vol. 2, 685, 694; Enlart 1987, 495, 501– 502; de Vaivre 2000, 115; de Vaivre 2006b, 419. 66 In this period, the Hodegetria was receiving funds for memorial masses from Greek notables concerned with the well-being of their souls, see Otten-Froux 2002, 120, 125–130.

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Building in the Age of Disaster: Conclusions and Future Prospects Defining the character of fifteenth-century Gothic in Cyprus is a task fraught with peril, for the subject is elusive in its fragmentation and its multiplicity. As we have seen, plausible narratives have to rely heavily on the evidence of undated and unprovenanced architectural fragments, as well as on that of (parts of) standing buildings which are often attached a date on shaky stylistic grounds, given that the available textual sources are hardly forthcoming on the issue at hand. As a result, dates of buildings in this study that are believed by the author to fall in the late fourteenth/fifteenth century have in most instances been left open. Future research may aid in narrowing down this broad chronological spectrum in individual cases – but this will require the exploitation of fresh archival and archaeological material, as well as the collaboration of archaeologists, historians and architectural historians. Part of the problem of seeing the fifteenth century clearly in the material record is its multifaceted texture. Buildings with Late Gothic formal elements, such as curvilinear tracery or hierarchically articulated shaft bases, are of exceptionally high quality (so far as we can judge from the surviving fragments) and presuppose top-of-the-tier patronage. The palace window is obviously linked with the royal court, and the fact that Late Gothic accents have until this point turned up only in Nicosia may mean that the crown and the nobility were major players in their introduction in the Cypriot capital. After all, there exists no serious reason to suppose that foreign-bred royalty, such as Janus’ queen, Charlotte of Bourbon (reg. 1409/1411–1422), whose close relatives in France were active patrons of the Flamboyant style, would not have wished to sponsor works in that style in her adopted land.67 Charlotte had brought a number of skilled French musicians with her to Cyprus in 1411, and more entered her service in the following years. Since her presence on the island is thought to have reinvigorated the Lusignans’ cultural ties to France, and given the flow of gifted singers from her homeland to the Mediterranean kingdom, other artists and craftsmen (including masons) could very well have followed suit.68 Although the calamities that afflicted Cyprus in these years must have taken their toll on the royal treasury, Gilles Grivaud demonstrated that, all things considered, things could have been far worse budget-wise for the fifteenth-century Lusignan court.69 Tellingly, 67 For the patronage of the Vendôme Chapel in Chartres Cathedral by Charlotte’s brother, Louis of Bourbon, see Prache 1993–1994, esp. 569–570. Portraits of Janus and Charlotte appear in the stained glass fitted in the chapel’s Flamboyant window, for which see Delaporte 1926, 183. 68 Kügle 1995, 170–172; Wathey 1995, 34–35. 69 Grivaud 2001, 368.

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musical culture and other courtly aspects seem to have flourished, even if perhaps on a more modest scale than before.70 The fact that what little architecture has survived shows signs of local adaptation hints at a more or less locally acclimatised stylistic mode and a number, however limited, of (now lost) works with North European stylistic features that exercised a certain influence on local building traditions. The dying mouldings in the capital’s Greek cathedral were probably inspired by such models. However, designs implementing ideas of European pedigree were not representative of the totality of fifteenth-century architectural patronage. Other works seem to have rehearsed the fourteenth-century architectural precepts developed in Nicosia, with a penchant for simplification and austerity perhaps conditioned by the financial hardships the island endured. In this respect, the contrast between the stark plainness of the Hodegetria’s north aisle and the luxuriousness of its Venetian masonry coating could not be more revelatory. What may be considered certain is that fifteenth-century architecture in Cyprus was anything but monolithic, and that the present article has far from exhausted the available possibilities. The exploration of the interplay between religious, domestic and ‘service’ architecture, only briefly touched upon here, could elicit new data on design and construction in an era when the great cathedrals were no more setting the pace for high-standard building. Investigating possible links with buildings in nearby Hospitaller Rhodes could coax further insights out of the Cypriot material, especially since at least one Rhodian master mason is documented as overseeing the works at Kolossi in the 1450s.71 Tassos Papacostas has put out the call for a more rigorous approach to the study of the earliest manifestations of Italian Renaissance designs on the island, which might go back to before the Venetian period.72 Fifteenth-century rural Greek ecclesiastical architecture remains an understudied field waiting to be mined. There is clearly much work to be done on the period’s architectural output, whether ‘Gothic’ or otherwise. Scholars have tended to see 1373 or the 1420s as watersheds in artistic production, approaching the volatile fifteenth century with trepidation and unease. As a consequence of this attitude, the better-defined fourteenth and sixteenth centuries often absorbed anything in between, leaving the inter70 On music in Janus’ and Charlotte’s court, see the essays in Günther – Finscher 1995; Simard 2005. Nevertheless, compare Kügle 1995 and especially Kügle 2012, where it is proposed that the musical codex Turin J.II.9 was compiled in Italy in the early 1430s for a member of the Avogadro family, who wished to bask in the prestige of the courtly culture of Lusignan Cyprus for their own ends. 71 See the literature cited in the section on textual testimony above. 72 Papacostas 2010, 141–144.

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vening century almost empty. Nevertheless, fifteenth-century Gothic is there, if we can find the patience to tease it out. We may not be able to evaluate the impact of the 1420s on the landscape of architectural production (yet), nor altogether distinguish earlier from later works, but broad patterns are just beginning to crystallise. We should expect them to cast new light on the – supposedly relatively well-documented – architectural history of both the preceding and succeeding periods, along with perhaps more than a few surprises.

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Coldstream 1987 = Nicola Coldstream, ‘Introduction. Camille Enlart and the Gothic Architecture of Cyprus’, in: Camille Enlart, Gothic Art and the Renaissance in Cyprus, ed. and trans. David Hunt (London 1987) 1–10. Coldstream 1998 = Nicola Coldstream, ‘Gothic Architecture in the Lusignan Kingdom’, in: Demetra Papanikola-Bakirtzis – Maria Iacovou (eds.), Byzantine Medieval Cyprus (Nicosia 1998) 51–60. Corvisier – Faucherre 2000 = Christian Corvisier – Nicholas Faucherre, ‘Une chapelle templière dans la redoute turque? L’énigme archéologique du château de Limassol en Chypre’, in: Utilis est lapis in structura. Mélanges offerts à Léon Pressouyre. Mémoires de la section d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’art, vol. 9 (Paris 2000) 345–371. Corvisier 2006 = Christian Corvisier, ‘Le château de Limassol, ancienne chapelle du Temple?’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 395–399. Coureas – Grivaud – Schabel 2012 = Nicholas Coureas – Gilles Grivaud – Chris Schabel, ‘Frankish & Venetian Nicosia 1191–1570’, in: Demetrios Michaelides (ed.), Historic Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 111–229. Courtillé 2002 = Anne Courtillé, Auvergne, Bourbonnais, Velay gothiques. Les édifices religieux (Paris 2002). Dawkins 1932 = Richard M. Dawkins (ed.), Leontios Makhairas, Recital concerning the Sweet Land of Cyprus entitled ‘Chronicle’, 2 vols. (Oxford 1932, reprint New York 1980). de Mas Latrie 1886 = René de Mas Latrie (ed.), Florio Bustron, Chronique de l’île de Chypre. Collection des documents inédits sur l’histoire de France, Mélanges historiques, vol. 5 (Paris 1886). de Mas Latrie 1891 = René de Mas Latrie (ed.), Chroniques d’Amadi et de Strambaldi, vol. 1: Chronique d’Amadi (Paris 1891). de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006 = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre – Philippe Plagnieux (eds.), L’art gothique en Chypre. Mémoires de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, vol. 34 (Paris 2006). de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2012 = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre – Philippe Plagnieux, Monuments médiévaux de Chypre. Photographies de la mission de Camille Enlart en 1896 (Paris 2012). de Vaivre 2000 = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘La forteresse de Kolossi en Chypre’, in: Fondation Eugène Piot – Monuments et Mémoires 79, 2000, 73–155. de Vaivre 2006a = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘La chapelle royale de Pyrga’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 287–304. de Vaivre 2006b = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘La forteresse de Kolossi’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 410–422. de Vaivre 2006c = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘Le décor héraldique sur les monuments médiévaux’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 425–472. de Vaivre 2006d = Jean-Bernard de Vaivre, ‘Sur les pas de Camille Enlart en Chypre’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 15–56. Delaporte 1926 = Yves Delaporte, Les vitraux de la cathédrale de Chartres, vol. 1 (Chartres 1926). Du Plat Taylor 1932 = Joan du Plat Taylor, ‘A Thirteenth Century Church at Nicosia, Cyprus’, in: Antiquity 6, 1932, 469–471. Edbury 1995a = Peter W. Edbury, ‘Ἡ πολιτικὴ ἱστορία τοῦ μεσαιωνικοῦ βασιλείου ἀπὸ τὴ βασιλεία τοῦ Οὕγου Δ’ ἕως τὴ βασιλεία τοῦ Ἰανοῦ (1324–1432)’, in:

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Theodoros Papadopoullos (ed.), Ἱστορία τῆς Κύπρου, vol. 4: Μεσαιωνικὸν βασίλειον – Ἑνετοκρατία, part 1 (Nicosia 1995) 51–158. Edbury 1995b = Peter W. Edbury, ‘Οἱ τελευταῖοι Λουζινιανοί (1432–1489)’, in: Theodoros Papadopoullos (ed.), Ἱστορία τῆς Κύπρου, vol. 4: Μεσαιωνικὸν βασίλειον – Ἑνετοκρατία, part 1 (Nicosia 1995) 177–258. Enlart 1899 = Camille Enlart, L’art gothique et la Renaissance en Chypre, 2 vols. (Paris 1899, reprint Famagusta 1966). Enlart 1909 = Camille Enlart, ‘L’ancien monastère des Franciscains à Nicosie de Chypre’, in: Florilegium ou Recueil de travaux d’érudition dédiés à Monsieur le Marquis de Vogüé à l’occasion du quatre-vingtième anniversaire de sa naissance (Paris 1909) 215–229. Enlart 1925–1928 = Camille Enlart, Les Monuments des Croisés dans le royaume de Jérusalem. Architecture religieuse et civile, 2 vols. (Paris 1925–1928). Enlart 1929 = Camille Enlart, Manuel d’archéologie française depuis les temps méro­ vingiens jusqu’à la Renaissance, première partie, architecture religieuse, vol. 2 (Paris 1929, 3rd ed.). Enlart 1987 = Camille Enlart, Gothic Art and the Renaissance in Cyprus, ed. and trans. David Hunt (London 1987). Feyerabend 1584 = Sigmund Feyerabend, Reyssbuch dess Heyligen Lands, das ist, ein grundtliche Beschreibung aller und jeder Meer und Bilgerfahrten zum Heyligen Lande (Frankfurt/Main 1584). Franke 2012 = Arne Franke, ‘St Nicholas in Famagusta: A New Approach to the Dating, Chronology and Sources of Architectural Language’, in: Michael J. K. Walsh – Peter W. Edbury – Nicholas S. H. Coureas (eds.), Medieval and Renaissance Famagusta. Studies in Architecture, Art and History (Farnham – Burlington 2012) 75–91. Gardelles 1992 = Jacques Gardelles, Aquitaine gothique (Paris 1992). Gratziou 2007 = Olga Gratziou, ‘Αναζητώντας τη γλυπτική των Βενετών στην Κρήτη. Ένα πρόγραμμα καταγραφής έργων γλυπτικής της βενετικής περι­ όδου’, in: Olga Gratziou (ed.), Γλυπτική και Λιθοξοϊκή στη Λατινική Ανα­ τολή 13 ος – 17 ος αιώνας (Herakleion 2007) 180–195. Grivaud 1990 = Gilles Grivaud, Excerpta Cypria Nova, vol. 1: Voyageurs occidentaux à Chypre au XVème siècle. Source et études de l’histoire de Chypre, vol. 15 (Nicosia 1990). Grivaud 1992 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Nicosie remodelée (1567): Contribution à la topographie de la ville médiévale’, in: Επετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 19, 1992, 281–307. Grivaud 1998 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Villages désertés à Chypre (fin XIIe – fin XIXe siècle)’, in: Μελέται καὶ Ὑπομνήματα 3, 1998. Grivaud 2001 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Peut-on parler d’une politique économique des Lusignan?’, in: Athanasios Papageorghiou (ed.), Πρακτικά του Τρίτου Διεθνούς Κυπρολογικού Συνεδρίου, Λευκωσία, 16–20 Απριλίου 1996, vol. 2 (Nicosia 2001) 361–368. Günther – Finscher 1995 = Ursula Günther – Ludwig Finscher (eds.), The CypriotFrench Repertory of the Manuscript Torino J.II.9. Report of the International Musicological Congress, Paphos 20–25 March, 1992. Musicological Studies & Documents, vol. 45 (Neuhausen – Stuttgart 1995).

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Hamon 2011 = Étienne Hamon, Une capitale flamboyante. La création monumentale à Paris autour de 1500 (Paris 2011). Hamon 2012 = Étienne Hamon, ‘L’architecture flamboyante en France aujourd’hui: entre fragile réhabilitation et promesses d’une vision synthétique’, in: Stépha­ nie D. Daussy – Arnaud Timbert (eds.), Architecture et sculpture gothiques: renouvellement des méthodes et des regards (Rennes 2012) 47–64. Hanquiez 2011 = Delphine Hanquiez (ed.), Regards sur les dépôts lapidaires de la France du Nord (Caen 2011). Imhaus 2004 = Brunehilde Imhaus (ed.), Lacrimae Cypriae / Les larmes de Chypre, ou Recueil des inscriptions lapidaires pour la plupart funéraires de la période franque et vénitienne de l’île de Chypre, vol. 1 (Nicosia 2004). Jacoby 1995 = David Jacoby, ‘Τὸ ἐμπόριο καὶ ἡ οἰκονομία τῆς Κύπρου (1191– 1489)’, in: Theodoros Papadopoullos (ed.), Ἱστορία τῆς Κύπρου, vol. 4: Μεσαιωνικὸν βασίλειον – Ἑνετοκρατία, part 1 (Nicosia 1995) 387–454. Jalabert 1932 = Denise Jalabert, ‘La flore gothique. Ses origines, son évolution du XIIe au XVe siècle’, in: Bulletin monumental 91, 1932, 181–246. Jalabert 1965 = Denise Jalabert, La flore sculptée des monuments du Moyen Âge en France. Recherches sur les origines de l’art français (Paris 1965). Jansen 1982 = Virginia Jansen, ‘Dying Mouldings, Unarticulated Springer Blocks, and Hollow Chamfers in Thirteenth-Century Architecture’, in: Journal of the British Archaeological Association 135, 1982, 35–54. Jeffery 1906 = George Jeffery, ‘Notes on Cyprus, 1905’, in: Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects 13, 1906 (3rd series), 481–493. Jeffery 1918 = George Jeffery, A Description of the Historic Monuments of Cyprus (Nicosia 1918, reprint London 1983). Kaoulla 2006 = Christina Kaoulla, ‘Queen Helena Palaiologina of Cyprus (1442– 1458), Myth and History’, in: Επετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 32, 2006, 109–150. Kavaler 2012 = Ethan Matt Kavaler, Renaissance Gothic (New Haven – London 2012). Kehayoglou 1997 = Georgios Kehayoglou (ed.), Τζώρτζης (Μ)πουστρούς (Γεώργιος Βο[σ]τρ[υ]ηνός ή Βουστρώνιος), Διήγησις Κρονίκας Κύπρου. Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, vol. 27 (Nicosia 1997). Kügle 1995 = Karl Kügle, ‘The Repertory of Manuscript Torino, Biblioteca Nazionale J.II.9, and the French Tradition of the 14th and Early 15th Centuries’, in: Ursula Günther – Ludwig Finscher (eds.), The Cypriot-French Repertory of the Manuscript Torino J.II.9. Report of the International Musicological Congress, Paphos 20–25 March, 1992. Musicological Studies & Documents, vol. 45 (Neuhausen – Stuttgart 1995) 151–181. Kügle 2012 = Karl Kügle, ‘Glorious Sounds for a Holy Warrior: New Light on Codex Turin J.II.9’, in: Journal of the American Musicological Society 65,3, 2012, 637–690. Le Pogam 2012 = Pierre-Yves Le Pogam, ‘Cul-de-lampe et fragment de corniche provenant du monastère des cisterciens de Beaulieu à Nicosie’, in: Jannic Durand – Dorota Giovannoni – Dimitra Mastoraki (eds.), Chypre entre Byzance et l’Occident IVe – XVI e siècle (Paris 2012) 236.

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Lécuyer 2004 = Nolwenn Lécuyer, ‘Le territoire de Potamia aux époques médiévale et moderne: acquis récents’, in: Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 34, 2004, 11–30. Lécuyer 2006 = Nolwenn Lécuyer, ‘Marqueurs identitaires médiévaux et modernes sur le territoire de Potamia-Agios Sozomenos’, in: Sabine Fourrier – Gilles Grivaud (eds.), Identités croisées en un milieu méditerranéen: le cas de Chypre (Antiquité – Moyen Âge). Textes issus d’un colloque organisé par le Groupe de recherche d’histoire de l’Université de Rouen, 11–13 mars 2004 (Mont-Saint-Aignan 2006) 241–256. Lécuyer et al. 2001 = Nolwenn Lécuyer – Ludovic Decock – Benoît Devillers et al., ‘Potamia-Agios Sozomenos (Chypre). La constitution des paysages dans l’Orient médiéval’, in: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 125, 2001, 655–678. Lécuyer et al. 2002 = Nolwenn Lécuyer – Gilles Grivaud – Démétrios Michaélidès et al., ‘Potamia-Agios Sozomenos (Chypre). La constitution des paysages dans l’Orient médiéval’, in: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 126, 2002, 598–614. Lécuyer et al. 2003 = Nolwenn Lécuyer – Gilles Grivaud – Démétrios Michaélidès et al., ‘Potamia-Agios Sozomenos (Chypre)’, in: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 127, 2003, 574–577. Lécuyer et al. 2004–2005 = Nolwenn Lécuyer et al., ‘Potamia-Agios Sozomenos’, in: Bulletin de correspondance hellénique 128–129, 2004–2005, 1078– 1095. Leventis 2005 = Panos Leventis, Twelve Times in Nicosia. Nicosia, Cyprus, 1192– 1570. Topography, Architecture and Urban Experience in a Diversified Capital City. Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, vol. 49 (Nicosia 2005). Lusignan 1573 = Estienne de Lusignan, Chorograffia et breve historia universale dell’isola di Cipro principiando al tempo di Noè per il fino al 1572 (Bologna 1573, reprint Famagusta 1973, reprint Nicosia 2004). Lusignan 1580 = Estienne de Lusignan, Description de toute l’isle de Cypre (Paris 1580, reprint Famagusta 1968, reprint Nicosia 2004). Metcalf 1995 = David M. Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades and the Latin East in the Ashmolean Museum Oxford (London 1995, 2nd ed.). Metcalf 2000 = David Michael Metcalf, The Gros, Sixains, and Cartzias of Cyprus 1382–1489. Corpus of Lusignan Coinage, vol. 3; Texts and Studies of the History of Cyprus, vol. 35 (Nicosia 2000). Meunier 2010 = Florian Meunier, ‘L’architecture. Le triomphe du Flamboyant et les débuts de l’Italianisme’, in: France 1500. Entre Moyen Âge et Renaissance. Paris, Galeries nationales, Grand Palais, 6 octobre 2010 – 10 janvier 2011 (Paris 2010) 54–58. Olympios 2009 = Michalis Olympios, ‘The Franciscan Convent of Famagusta and its Place within the Context of Early-Fourteenth-Century Cypriot Gothic Architecture’, in: Κυπριακαί Σπουδαί 73, 2009, 103–122. Olympios 2010 = Michalis Olympios, Gothic Church Architecture in Lusignan Cyprus, c. 1209 – c. 1373. Design and Patronage, 2 vols. (unpublished PhD thesis, University of London – Courtauld Institute of Art 2010).

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Olympios 2012 = Michalis Olympios, ‘Between St Bernard and St Francis: a Reassessment of the Excavated Church of Beaulieu Abbey, Nicosia’, in: Architectural History 55, 2012, 25–55. Olympios 2014 = Michalis Olympios, ‘Looking Anew at the Curvilinear Tracery of the Bellapais Abbey Cloister’, in: Cahiers du Centre d’Etudes Chypriotes 43, 2013, 405–422. Olympios forthcoming = Michalis Olympios, ‘Rummaging through Ruins: Archi­ tecture in Limassol in the Lusignan and Venetian Periods’, in: Angel Nicolaou-Konnari – Chris Schabel (eds.), Lemesos: A History of Limassol in Cyprus from Antiquity to the Ottoman Conquest (Newcastle upon Tyne forthcoming). Otten-Froux 1993 = Catherine Otten-Froux, ‘Antonio Foglieta’s deeds: Evidence about Famagustan life in the 15th century’, in: Anthony A. M. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’. Papers Given at the Twenty-Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 425–426. Otten-Froux 2000 = Catherine Otten-Froux (ed.), Une enquête à Chypre au XVe siècle. Le Sindicamentum de Napoleone Lomellini, capitaine génois de Fama­ gouste (1459). Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, vol. 36 (Nicosia 2000). Otten-Froux 2001 = Catherine Otten-Froux, ‘Notes sur quelques monuments de Fama­ gouste à la fin du Moyen Âge’, in: Judith Herrin – Margaret Mullett – Cathe­rine Otten-Froux (eds.), Mosaic. Festschrift for A. H. S. Megaw (London 2001) 145–154. Otten-Froux 2002 = Catherine Otten-Froux, ‘Les investissements financiers des Chypriotes en Italie’, in: Chryssa A. Maltezou (ed.), Κύπρος – Βενετία. Κοινές ιστορικές τύχες. Πρακτικά του Διεθνούς Συμποσίου, Αθήνα, 1 – 3 Μαρτίου 2001 (Venice 2002) 107–134. Papacostas 2005 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘In Search of a Lost Byzantine Monument: Saint Sophia of Nicosia’, in: Επετηρίδα του Κέντρου Επιστημονικών Ερευνών 31, 2005, 11–37. Papacostas 2010 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘Echoes of the Renaissance in the eastern confines of the stato da mar: Architectural evidence from Venetian Cyprus’, in: Acta Byzantina Fennica 3, 2010, 136–172. Papacostas 2012 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘Byzantine Nicosia 650–1191’, in: Demetrios Michaelides (ed.), Historic Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 77–109. Petre 2012 = James Petre, Crusader Castles of Cyprus. The Fortifications of Cyprus under the Lusignans: 1191–1489. Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, vol. 69 (Nicosia 2012). Pieris – Konnari 2003 = Leontios Machairas, Χρονικό της Κύπρου. Παράλληλη διπλωματική έκδοση των χειρογράφων, ed. Michalis Pieris – Angel Nicolaou-Konnari. Texts and Studies in the History of Cyprus, vol. 48 (Nicosia 2003). Pilides 2009 = Despina Pilides, George Jeffery: His Diaries and the Ancient Monuments of Cyprus, 2 vols. (Nicosia 2009). Plagnieux 2012 = Philippe Plagnieux, ‘L’architecture gothique en Chypre: entre Occi­dent et Orient’, in: Jannic Durand – Dorota Giovannoni – Dimitra Mas-

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toraki (eds.), Chypre entre Byzance et l’Occident IVe – XVI e siècle (Paris 2012) 218–229. Plagnieux – Soulard 2006a = Philippe Plagnieux – Thierry Soulard, ‘Nicosie. Le Bédestan (cathédrale grecque de Nicosie)’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 181–189. Plagnieux – Soulard 2006b = Philippe Plagnieux – Thierry Soulard, ‘Nicosie: La cathédrale Sainte-Sophie’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 121–159. Plagnieux – Soulard 2006c = Philippe Plagnieux – Thierry Soulard, ‘L’abbaye de Bellapaïs’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 190–217. Plagnieux – Soulard 2006d = Philippe Plagnieux – Thierry Soulard, ‘Nicosie: L’église Sainte-Catherine’, in: de Vaivre – Plagnieux 2006, 160–169. Prache 1993–1994 = Anne Prache, ‘La chapelle de Vendôme à la cathédrale de Chartres et l’art flamboyant en Île-de-France’, in: Wiener Jahrbuch für Kunstgeschichte 46/47, part 2, 1993–1994, 569–575. Recht 2001 = Roland Recht, ‘Le goût de l’ornement vers 1300’, in: Danielle Gaborit-Chopin – François Avril – Marie-Cécile Bardoz (eds.), 1300 – L’art au temps de Philippe le Bel. Actes du colloque international, Galeries nationales du Grand Palais, 24 et 25 juin 1998. Rencontres de l’École du Louvre, vol. 16 (Paris 2001) 149–161. Rudt de Collenberg 1975–1977 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Les grâces papales, autres que les dispenses matrimoniales, accordées à Chypre de 1305 à 1378’, in: Επετηρίδα του Kέντρου Eπιστημονικών Eρευνών 8, 1975– 1977, 187–252. Rudt de Collenberg 1982 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Le royaume et l’église de Chypre face au Grand Schisme (1378–1417) d’après les registres des archives du Vatican, in: Mélanges de l’École française de Rome 94, 1982, 621–701. Rudt de Collenberg 1984–1987 = Wipertus-Hugo Rudt de Collenberg, ‘Le royaume et l’église latine de Chypre et la Papauté de 1417 à 1471 (d’après les Registres des Archives du Vatican)’, in: Eπετηρίδα του Kέντρου Eπιστημονικών Eρευ­ νών 13–16, 1984–1987, 63–193. Sanfaçon 1971 = Roland Sanfaçon, L’architecture flamboyante en France (Quebec 1971). Sankovitch 1995 = Anne-Marie Sankovitch, ‘A Reconsideration of French Renais­ sance Church Architecture’, in: Jean Guillaume (ed.), L’église dans l’archi­ tecture de la Renaissance (Paris 1995) 161–180. Schryver – Schabel 2003 = James G. Schryver – Chris Schabel, ‘The Graffiti in the “Royal Chapel” of Pyrga’, in: Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus 2003, 327–334. Simard 2005 = Andrée Giselle Simard, The Manuscript Torino J.II.9: A Late Medieval Perspective on Musical Life and Culture at the Court of the Lusignan Kings at Nicosia (unpublished MM thesis, The University of Akron 2005). Soulard 2006a = Thierry Soulard, ‘La diffusion de l’architecture gothique à Chypre’, in: Cahiers du Centre d’Études Chypriotes 36, 2006, 73–124. Soulard 2006b = Thierry Soulard, ‘L’architecture gothique grecque du royaume des Lusignan: les cathédrales de Famagouste et Nicosie’, in: Sabine Fourrier – Gilles Grivaud (eds.), Identités croisées en un milieu méditerranéen: le cas de Chypre (Antiquité – Moyen Âge). Textes issus d’un colloque orga-

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nisé par le Groupe de recherche d’histoire de l’Université de Rouen, 11–13 mars 2004 (Mont-Saint-Aignan 2006) 355–384. Timbert – Hanquiez 2008 = Arnaud Timbert – Delphine Hanquiez (eds.), L’architecture en objets: les dépôts lapidaires de Picardie. Histoire médiévale et archéologie, vol. 21 (Amiens 2008). Trélat 2009 = Philippe Trélat, Nicosie, une capitale de l’Orient latin, société, économie et espace urbain (1192–1474), 2 vols. (unpublished PhD thesis, Université de Rouen 2009). Trélat 2012 = Philippe Trélat, ‘L’ordre des frères ermites de Saint-Augustin en Médi­ terranée orientale et leur couvent nicosiate (XIIIe–XVIe siècles)’, in: Augustiniana 62,3–4, 2012, 265–290. Wathey 1995 = Andrew Wathey, ‘European Politics and Musical Culture at the Court of Cyprus’, in: Ursula Günther – Ludwig Finscher (eds.), The CypriotFrench Repertory of the Manuscript Torino J.II.9. Report of the International Musicological Congress, Paphos 20–25 March, 1992. Musicological Studies & Documents, vol. 45 (Neuhausen – Stuttgart 1995) 33–54. Willis 1986 = Michael D. Willis, ‘Byzantine Beginnings of the Bedesten’, in: Κυπριακαί Σπουδαί 50, 1986, 185–192. Wilson 1990 = Christopher Wilson, The Gothic Cathedral. The Architecture of the Great Church 1130–1530 (London 1990). Wollesen 2010 = Jens T. Wollesen, Patrons and Painters on Cyprus. The Frescoes in the Royal Chapel at Pyrga. Studies and Texts, vol. 169 (Toronto 2010).

Photo credits Figs. 1, 3, 4, 5–9, 11–13, 15, 17–19, 23, 24, 26–29: by the author. – Fig. 2: Enlart 1987, pl. XLVIII. – Figs. 10, 14: Enlart 1925–1928, Atlas I, pl. 35 no. 116. – Fig. 16: Enlart 1987, fig. 73 with additions by the author. – Figs. 20–22: Department of Antiquities, Cyprus, Photographic Archive. – Fig. 25: Metcalf 2000, pl. 20 no. 5.

Michalis Olympios

Department of History and Archaeology / Archaeological Research Unit, University of Cyprus, P.O. Box 20537, 1678 Nicosia (Cyprus) [email protected]

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Section IV: Settlement Patterns

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Myrto Veikou

One Island, three Capitals Insularity and the Successive Relocations of the Capital of Cyprus from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages

In the late antique and medieval Eastern Mediterranean Sea, water is most clearly a link rather than a boundary. Therein the acquisition of wealth − by war or sea-trade − is the strongest incentive for maritime circulation and communication. Contact and interchange among the islands in the area provide them with their concurrent double function as both closed and open systems. I will here discuss the successive relocations of the capital of the island of Cyprus from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages as an example of settlement transformation in island systems of the Eastern Mediterranean. My main purpose in relation to the particular island of Cyprus is to describe different aspects of its inhabitants’ flexibility to ‘adjust’ their focus of interest and land-use to constant changes of power, trade networks and cultural interactions − usually provoked by central administration. These adjustments will be considered in relation to concurrent developments in two other examples of island systems within the Byzantine Empire, one in the Eastern Mediterranean (Andros in the Aegean Sea) and one in the Western Mediterranean (Sicily in the Tyrrhenian Sea) (Fig. 1). In relation to some facts regarding settlement transformation in Cyprus from the fourth to the twelfth century, I will here attempt to answer two main questions: 1. What were the particular qualities of islands within settlement networks during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages? 2. What does the location − and relocation − of the islands’ capitals represent within the context of the overall transformation of their settlement during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages?

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Fig. 1: The islands of Cyprus, Andros and Sicily in the Mediterranean Sea.

Definition of Islands’ Particular Qualities within Settlement Networks during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages As would be the case for any geographic object, a discussion of islands requires a clarification of their definition based on their particular qualities. I will therefore start approaching an answer to the first question with an attempt to clarify the notion of insularity according to both our own understanding and some Byzantine ideas based on textual evidence. After this notion has become clearer, I will consider some particularities of the island of Cyprus and I will compare them with the two other cases of islands, Andros and Sicily, in order to investigate aspects of settlement practices and strategies on Mediterranean islands during the Middle Ages.

The Concept of an Island The question of insularity today remains a subject under debate as it is extremely difficult to establish scientific data that would enable us to define islands and their limits with any certainty. To outline only some of the problems, first of all, according to Elizabeth Malamut, ‘[…] if it is true that an island is “a land surrounded by water”, the question arises where the notion of continent begins and where the notion of the island ends. The answer to this question is not simple, yet it is the key-element to the notion of insularity. Thus the notion of insularity refers to the proportion between land and 358

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sea: it is generated through the discontinuity and the disproportion between land and sea, generated by the hydrosphere, and through the contrast between the surfaces which are blocked by the sea and the lands which seem to have no end. So it is the particular relation between sea and land that constitutes the base of the notion of insularity. Therefore: an island exists as such as long as it consists of a piece of land isolated by the sea. It is, then, the water that makes the island and provokes its original isolation. However, the debate does not necessarily end by the aforementioned definitions. For example, in cases of islands located close to the continent, water doesn’t seem to be an obstacle. Many things dissociate an island located in the middle of the sea, like Crete in the Aegean, and one almost adjacent to the continent like Euboea near Attica or surrounded by different coasts like Cyprus. Also is it reasonable to compare a small isle like Kea with a big island like Cyprus?’1 Contemporary geographers have, then, complemented the notion of insularity with that of islandness. Islandness could be defined as the sum of representations and experiences of islanders, which thus structure their island territory, whereas insularity could be viewed as the particular physical characteristics that define insular space. How are these notions defined? For the sake of argument, I will offer a set of alternative suggestions: ‘An island is deemed to be small when each individual living there is aware of living within a territory circumscribed by the sea. An island is deemed to be “big” when the society in general is aware of its insularity, while individuals may be unaware or forget that they live on an island.’2 According to François Taglioni; this definition relies upon the fields of representation, vision, experience and islandness.3 Joël Bonnemaison refers to the ‘good island’, the characteristics of which are born of its bipolar insularity: ‘A “good island” is a mountain surrounded by a coastline which can serve as a harbour. Thanks to this “good coastline,” separation from the rest of the world is less abrupt. Thanks to the mountain, the island has inland depth, which allows for a degree of diversity’.4 1 Malamut 1998, 27 (translation by the author). On the issue of isolation see Braudel 1991, 183–185. For a discussion of the notion of insularity in the case of Cyprus, in relation to its proximity to surrounding coasts from the north, the east and the south see Grivaud 1998, 3. 2 Françoise Péron, Des îles et des hommes, l’insularité aujourd’hui (Rennes 1993) 3 (transl. by Taglioni 2011, 46). 3 Taglioni 2011, 46. 4 Bonnemaison 1991, 122.

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She also defines the concept of islandness as follows: ‘[…] insularity is isolation. Islandness is separation from the rest of the world and thus describes a space that is not part of space, a place that is not part of time, a naked place, an absolute place’.5 The epistemological uncertainty surrounding insularity and islands is by no means a new phenomenon and a chronological reading of the works written since the beginning of the twentieth century reveals the following statements:6 • ‘It is thus impossible to give a simple definition of insularity because a definition should conciliate contradictory general characteristics. We must study the diverse aspects of human existence on islands, and not claim to establish an illusory unity from this diversity.’7 • ‘In other words, we need to ask whether there is, whether there can be, for anthropogeography and − in its wake − for history, a category labelled ‘islands’ which would be valid irrespective of circumstances.’8 • ‘In this instance also, if we were to try and find an imperative, a law of islands influencing men and human societies, we would find only variety and diversity.’9 So, while determinism of any kind in island definition must be ruled out, one suitable compromise would be to consider insularity as ‘the dynamic relationship that has evolved between an insular space and the society living within it’.10 By observing this we do not deny the fact that the islands are more or less enclosed or that they possess physical particularities as a result of their size and isolation. However, these characteristics are never absolute, nor do they give rise to development issues that could be seen to inevitably place islands in a position of isolation or marginality in relation to the world system.11

5 Bonnemaison 1991, 119; Bonnemaison 1997, 122. 6 For full discussions of this issue see e.g. Taglioni 2003 and Stéphane Gombaud, Iles, insularité et îléité. Le relativisme dans l’étude des espaces archipélagiques (PhD thesis, University of the Réunion, Réunion 2007). 7 Camille Vallaux, Géographie sociale (Paris 1908) 110 (transl. by the author). 8 Lucien Febvre, La Terre et l’évolution humaine (Paris 1922) 227 (transl. by Taglioni 2011, 51). 9 Ibidem. 10 Philippe Pelletier, La Japonésie: géopolitique et géographie historique de la surinsularité au Japon (Paris 1997) 21. 11 Taglioni 2011, 54.

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The Concept of an Island in Byzantium The Byzantine insular world constituting a large and essential part of the empire, implies the existence of a Byzantine notion of insularity. Malamut has discussed this concept as lying on two fundamental aspects which are, on one hand, the islands (νῆσοι) as opposed to mainland (ἤπειροι), and on the other hand the island as land isolated by sea.12 In that way, their notion of insularity was quite close to ours. Land meant mainland and sea, if not accompanied by further specification, meant the sea water with the islands. However, next to the bipartite contrast between island and mainland, an equal tripartite distinction, between ‘mainland – town − island’ is also recurrent in the texts.13 Anna Comnene wrote about the peace treaty between Bohemond and Alexios I as follows: ‘He [Alexios] also wrote to the chiefs of the maritime districts and even to the islanders urging them not to lose courage nor to be careless but to watch and be sober, take measures for their protection and be on the lookout for Robert. Otherwise he might, by a sudden descent upon them, make himself master of all the maritime towns, and even of the islands, and after that cause embarrassment to the Roman Empire.’14 So the island constitutes a reality, distinct from both mainland (with the meaning of countryside) and town, which is situated at the base of hierarchic scale of settlements within the Byzantine territory. Furthermore, the notion of the island which is isolated by the sea is very present in the spirit of Byzantine writers. Michael Choniates for example mentions the difficulty of the inhabitants of Kea to keep up their contact not only with the mainland but also with other islands.15 He equally mentions the isolation of Kea in relation to the most important maritime trade routes;16 this recalls the distinction discussed above between good and bad islands, where contact is good and isolation is bad.17 Indeed other Byzantine writers attest this link between island and isolation − including Manasses who was sent in Cyprus and describes it as the worst φρούριον − at least for the non-islanders.18 Malamut notes the islanders’ notion of an island as a small whole world: the island, isolated from the rest of the world, becomes a sort of reduction of the whole of the empire and the insular soci12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Malamut 1998, 26. Malamut 1998, 28. Anna Comnene, Alexiad III.9. Malamut 1998, 29. Malamut 1998, 29. See the definition of a ‘good island’ by Joël Bonnemaison, above (with note 4). Malamut 1998, 30.

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ety becomes a miniature version of the conflicts prevailing in the entire Byzantine territory.19 As St. Neophytos has put it, speaking about his own island of Cyprus, ‘our land, our island of Cyprus, our country and island of Cyprus, our homeland Cyprus’.20 In that land, of Cyprus, the third largest island of the Mediterranean, which lies less than 100 km from the Cilician and Syro-Palestinian coasts, the sea offered both barrier and bridge to contact with the mainland.21 Located astride traditional Levantine sea routes Cyprus has always played a role in regional power structures. Inhabitants recognized the island’s land and mineral wealth, which draw the attention of foreign settlers.22 Thus in addition to all aforementioned insular connotations, Cyprus also has an attribute described by Theodore Papadopoulos as a ‘frontier status’.23 Being on the boundaries of the Eastern Mediterranean and at times changing hands between the Byzantines, the Arabs, the Franks and the Venetians, it hosted not only violence and separation but also ethnic contacts, cultural interpenetration and a remarkable flexibility of adjustment to political change with concurrent preservation of internal stability and economic sustainability.24

The Meaning of the Location and Relocation of the Islands’ Capitals within the Context of Settlement Transformation during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages Both these attributes of the island of Cyprus, i.e. insularity and its frontier status as described above, seem to be very much connected to the settlement patterns which diachronically developed on its territory. In fact, the islands’ remarkable flexibility of adjustment to political change with concurrent preservation of internal stability and economic sustainability, in particular, seems to be reflected to a specific aspect of the transformation of its settlement from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages. This aspect is the three successive relocations of the island’s capital, whose details and meaning will be discussed below in order to attempt an answer to the second question set in the beginning of this study, i.e. what does the location − and relocation − of a capital represent within the transformation of settlement during Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages? 19 20 21 22 23 24

Malamut 1998, 30. Malamut 1998, 31. Rautman 2001, 241. Rautman 2001, 242, 243, fig. 1. Papadopoulos 1993. Papadopoulos 1993; Metcalf 2009, 42, 567–579.

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Fig. 2: Map of Cyprus with indication of the settlements mentioned in the text: 1 Paphos, 2 Constantia, 3 Carpasia, 4 Agios Georgios, Pegeia, 5 Vassilikos Valley, 6 Pyla-Koutsopetria, 7 Lefkosia, 8 Keryneia, 9 Neapolis, 10 Famagusta.

The Case of Cyprus Cyprus saw three successive relocations of its capital in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Fig. 2). Paphos had been the capital of the island for six centuries since the Ptolemies had chosen to settle there as it was at the closest point to Egypt. This lasted until the beginning of the fourth century AD. As well established in literature, with the reform of Diocletian, Cyprus was removed from the authority of the Senate which had been appointing a proconsulas governor of Cyprus, and subordinated to the comes Orientis, having his seat in Antioch, who appointed a praeses as governor of Cyprus.25 After that, Salamis, which was rebuilt by emperor Constantius and renamed Constantia, replaced Paphos as the capital of Cyprus, partly due to the administrative reform of Diocletian and partly due to the strong personality of St. Epiphanios, who was elected in 366 AD as metropolitan of Cyprus.26 Salamis had most advantages for a capital as it was located not only at the eastern edge but also at a junction of all land routes running along the circumference and crossing the hinterland of the island.27 This relocation east25 Mitford 1980, 1291; Chrysos 1993, 5; Papageorgiou 1993, 27. 26 Mitford 1980, 1309, 1321; Papageorgiou 1993, 27, 30; Papacostas 2001, 108. 27 Mitford 1980, 1288, fig. 1; Rautman 2001, 243, fig. 1.

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wards is not surprising should one consider the amount of necessary official correspondence and the duration of sea and land trips in those times. The city grew into an elaborate capital, a settlement larger than before and with impressive buildings, as compared to the rest of the island cities the vast majority of which, as far as we know, continued to exist.28 The reconstruction and prosperity of ancient Carpasia during the same period as Constantia (fourth to seventh century according to ceramic and numismatic evidence) perhaps is also a sign of this same interest in the north-eastern part of Cyprus, obviously in relation to its proximity to Antioch and also to Asia Minor.29 Paphos was no exception to the prosperity of late antique cities, although it was merely relocated eastwards due to environmental problems that became intense after the fourth-century earthquakes.30 When it comes to changes that occurred to the rest of the settlement, though, the latter was by no means developed facing eastwards as well. Instead, a number of economically important sites appeared also on the southern, western and northern coasts, e.g. at Agios Georgios near Pegeia at Cape Drepanon, in Vassilikos valley, and in the vicinity area of Pyla-Koutsopetria in the area of Larnaca.31 Many of these sites, orientated towards the sea and not towards the inland, seem to have been emporia for the distribution of agricultural and industrial surplus produced in the inland through contacts with the Aegean, Egypt, Palestine, Lebanon, Syria;32 similar sites meet elsewhere during this period for example Itanos at the Eastern edge of Crete, Emborio at the southernmost edge of Chios, Alassarna on the southern coast of Cos, Korykos in Cilicia etc.33 28 Mitford 1980, 1321–1323; Pallas 1977, 288–299; Papageorgiou 1993, 30–33; Megaw 2001; Papacostas 2001, 108; Megaw 2007. 29 Taylor − Megaw 1981. Tassos Papacostas has discussed the evidence of frequent maritime traffic between Cyprus, Antioch and Asia Minor during this period: Papacostas 2001, 114. 30 Papageorgiou 1993, 28–29, 35–36; Pallas 1977, 273–275; Rupp et al. 1984; Rupp 1997, 246, fig. 4. 31 Anastasiadou 2000; Bakirtzis 1995; 1996; 2001; Fejfer − Mathiesen 1991; Fejfer − Mathiesen 1992; Fejfer 1995; Rautman 2000, esp. 322–328, fig. 4; Rautman 2003 and 2004; Caraher − Moore − Noller − Pettegrew 2005; Pettegrew − Caraher − Moore 2006; Caraher − Moore − Noller − Pettegrew 2007; Caraher − Moore − Pettegrew 2007; Caraher − Moore − Pettegrew 2008; Papacostas 2001, 119–121; Taylor − Megaw 1981. 32 Rautman 2003, esp. 241ff; Pettegrew − Caraher − Moore 2006; Caraher − Moore − Pettegrew 2008, 23. See relevant discussions by Tsigonaki (2009, esp. 170) as well as by Pettegrew − Caraher − Moore (2006, chapter 2) who identified as such the sites of Katalymata, Tornos and Dreamer’s Bay. Charalambos Bakirtzis, on the contrary, has suggested a rather different role for the settlement of Agios Georgios in Pegeia: Bakirtzis 1995, 1996, 1997, 2001. 33 See relevant discussions by Tsigonaki 2009, esp. 170; Trombley 1987; Balance et al. 1989; Georgia Kokkorou-Alevras – Sophia Kalopissi-Verti – Maria Panayotidi-Kesiso­

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According to Papacostas, considerable demographic changes must have occurred in Cyprus after the sixth-century plague and the Persian attacks in the neighbourhood (which brought refugees from the Syro-Palestinian mainland while the island itself most probably suffered from one of those attacks around the year 619).34 However, these changes do not seem to have affected the overall settlement pattern; according to the archaeological evidence, prosperous life went on uninterrupted in most known settlements at least until the mid-seventh century. The situation seems to have changed only after the Arab attacks and during the so-called condominium. Arthur (Peter) Megaw was convinced that the Arabs installed a garrison at the city of Paphos and used it as their stronghold probably for the same reason that the Ptolemies had chosen the location for their capital, i.e. due to its proximity to Egypt.35 He has also suggested that the Arab and Greek populations lived separately on the island, however all this is not supported by particular archaeological evidence.36 Constantia was still vivid and the centre of Byzantine administration, although reduced in size and population. 37 In 723, farmers and animals lived there, its urban character altered by the end of the eighth century and it resembled a large village thought it was still the seat of an archbishop.38 Archaeological evidence has shown that Greek and possibly also Arab populations lived in Paphos and their settlement expanded eastwards.39 It also showed continuity of settlement in most parts of the island.40 Several sites of this period were fortified.41 On the other hand, while Early Byzantine prosperity in Cyprus subsided after the Arab

34 35 36 37

38 39

40 41

glou, The Sanctuary of Apollo and the Early Christian Settlement at Kardamaina (ancient Halasarna) on the island of Kos (Athens 2006). Papacostas 2001, 108. Megaw 1986, 514–516, 519; Megaw 2007, 175. Megaw 1986, 516. The archaeological evidence supporting this consists of: the repair of the baths at its Northern part in the late 7th − early 8th centuries, repairs at St Epiphanius basilica, a new wall encircling the central part of the city after the mid 7th century and new houses built over the ruins of earlier buildings outside this wall. Famagusta was a small village and only after the fall of Acre (1291) did it experience a resurgence as port destined to become an international commercial centre by the early 14th century. See Papageorgiou 1993, 50–51; Papacostas 2012, 80–81. In 723 St. Willibald visited Paphos for three weeks and then Salamis for three months. See Papageorgiou 1993, 50–51. This evidence is the occupation of the site of the Saranda Kolones castle, the re-erection of Limeniotissa church and the remodelling of the northern inner aisle of the Chrysopolitissa basilica into a chapel. The latter was replaced in the 11th − 12th centuries by a cruciform church and ca. 1500 by Agia Kyriaki. Remnants of at least three churches to the east of the Paphos city walls have been mentioned. See Megaw 1971; Megaw 1986, 514–515; Papageorgiou 1993, 35–36; Megaw 2007, 175. Papageorgiou 1993, 34–50. Megaw 1985; Megaw 1986; Balandier 2003.

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raids, Tassos Papacostas, based on archaeological evidence, has observed clear regional differences: decline set in earlier in the western part of the island (late sixth or early seventh century) than in the eastern one.42 Gilles Grivaud has indeed also spoken of ‘islands in the island of Cyprus’, having discerned differences among different parts of the island and in fact three separate geomorphological entities with relevant geographical and economic features during medieval and modern times: the area of Troodos, that of Mesaoria, and the Northern coast with Carpasia.43 The emergence of Nicosia during this period as the principal city of the inland is indisputable.44 Middle Byzantine Lefkosia developed on the site of late antique Ledra.45 Scattered churches imply expansion of the town in the sixth century and gain in importance. It is later mentioned with the names Ledra, Kallinikisis, Leukotheon, Kermia, Kirboia, Lefkousia.46 It survived the Arab threats and became capital after 965 in connection with the port of Kyrenia on the northern coast, which was important for contacts related to the administration and military affairs of Byzantine Cyprus.47 Papacostas has plausibly argued that the new Nicosia−Kyrenia axis was a shift towards the northwest, in the direction of Byzantium.48 The fertile, densely populated area of the northern coast, where settlement had been uninterrupted until the eighth century, declined and the settlements were relocated.49 The same happened with the settlements to the south of the Kyrenia Range.50 In the Mesaoria plain and the southern coast settlements seem to have equally relocated inland towards the mountainous areas.51 A number of religious monuments and monasteries − parts of villages and estates which were properties of the crown, the church and the local aristocracy − appeared in the area of Troodos.52 Place-names such as Agridia and Agros attest agricultural activity while Arminon and Armenochori speak for Armenian settlements.53 The island was known for producing silk, enamels and illuminated 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

Papacostas 2001, 109–111. Grivaud 1998, 3–8. Megaw 1986, 505; Papacostas 2012, 81–82. For the late antique material remains in Nicosia see: Michaelides − Pilides 2012, 53–62. Papageorgiou 1993, 48; Papacostas 2012, 87–88. Papacostas 2012, 81–83. At least during the 11th century, Anna Comnena mentioned that Nicosia was the centre of the operations carried out by John Doukas and Manuel Voutomytes. Papacostas 2012, 81–83. Papageorgiou 1993, 43. Papgeorgiou 1993, 43. Papageorgiou 1993, 48–49. Gounaridis 1996, 177–178; Grivaud 1998, 329–337; Malamut 1998, 512–513. Malamut 1988, 245, 161–163; Metcalf 2009, 489–490.

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manuscripts, which point to the existence of agrarian and industrial activity, mining, monastic environments and of course overseas trade centres for trading them.54 In the maritime routes of the eleventh and twelfth century, Salamis has disappeared and the big ports are Kyrenia, Limassol (Neapolis) and … Paphos again.55 Finally, in the Karpass peninsula some of the settlements (e.g. Ayia Trias) were abandoned for some reason while others, such as Ayia Varvara to the south of Korovia, Syka to the southwest of Rizokarpaso, and Kanakaria continued.56 Later, the Latin rulers seem to have used the settlement structure they found on the island and further developed it with an additional re-orientation of the island towards the east coast where the already existing settlement of Famagusta served as their major trading centre from the thirteenth century onwards.57 A few issues arise from the aforementioned account of settlement in Cyprus. First of all, all relocations of the capital of Cyprus in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages seem to be associated with political change. As a matter of fact, Terence Mitford has already discussed how Archaic and Classical Cyprus was an inward-looking land, to which the sea was not important and its hinterland could flourish.58 When the island was subjected to foreign overlords, Ptolemaic and Roman, those inland cities which had no outstanding assets rapidly decayed. With the exception of Tamassus, a mining centre, and Chytri, owner of a celebrated spring, all Roman cities were coastal.59 So, economic exploitation and thus the settlement system was determined in large part by the political system in effect. At the same time, though, the rest of the picture of settlement reflects economic and other social dynamics. While the capital settlement was adjusted to the East or West coast according to central administration, the rest of the settlements flourished following the money, on the southern, northern and western coasts towards the Aegean and central Mediterranean, as loci of the thriving long distance trade. Arabs provoked an abandonment of cities and other coastal sites at the time of Heraclius, however after the mid-eighth century and in the ninth century the population of the island increased.60 The long intervals between the Arab raids of this period and the arrival of iconophile refugees from Asia Minor and Christians from Syria and Palestine must have contributed 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

Malamut 1988, 431–432; Gounaridis 1996, 176. Grivaud 1998, 546, annexe 6; Metcalf 2009, 544–546; Papacostas 2012, 82. Papageorgiou 1993, 49; Metcalf 2009, 472–474. Metcalf 2009, 557. Mitford 1980, 1308–1309. Mitford 1980, 1309. Papageorgiou 1993, 51; Gounaridis 1996, 176.

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to this revival. Better conditions for agriculture and the neutrality of the island between the Byzantines and the Arabs contributed to the flourishing of the economy and the increase of the population.61 By the mid-tenth century, Cyprus, according to the contemporary geographers Istakri, ibn Hawqal and Muqaddasi, was full of large towns and full of provisions and of merchandise.62 Gilles Grivaud has discussed another demographic crisis which occurred around the late twelfth century.63 The present discussion of capitals’ relocations does not mean to overstress the importance of urban centres within an evaluation of settlement. Timothy Gregory in 2001 discussed the cities of Late Roman Cyprus in order to argue that cities indicate the continuation of ancient civilization whereas their disappearance must signal the advent of the Middle Ages.64 Athanasios Papageorgiou and George Hill seem also to evaluate settlements within a hierarchic scale as compared with rural settlements in their discussions of Byzantine Cyprus.65 Apart from such evaluations there is also a ne­cessity for a re-contextualization of capital cities within a historical context of settlement, by acknowledging the possible different rates of development and a variety of responses to peoples’ needs and opportunities for economic, social and cultural growth in different periods of time. Such a view does not necessarily focus on the decline of Paphos, the older elaborate late antique capital; instead, it finds it more challenging to discover where its population moved to and how they settled; for because those developments represent their culture. So, as I have previously suggested in other case-studies, re­searchers, if they are interested in settlement, need not take as a prerequisite the duality of city and countryside but instead zoom out, withdraw from the dilemma of cherchez la ville and look at concentrations of population as if those were settling a white canvas.66 That could help sorting out for example other problems such as problematic identifications of place-names. Two good examples of this are related to the case of settlement in Cyprus. The first example concerns the puzzle of the variety of place-names for Nicosia in Byzantine texts, also discussed

61 62 63 64 65 66

Papageorgiou 1993, 51. Papageorgiou 1993, 51; Gounaridis 1996, 176. Grivaud 1998, 269–273. Gregory 2001, 715. Papageorgiou 1993; Hill 1949/2010, 261ff. Veikou 2009, 2010, 2012. See also relevant discussion by Tassos Papacostas, specifically in relation to aspects of the economy of Late Antique Cyprus, who suggested that the variety of regional economic patterns in a small area like Cyprus cannot be detected by looking at the urban centres alone, for these offer a much more uniform picture: Papacostas 2001, 120–121.

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by Papacostas:67 Ledra (the late antique name), Kallinikisis, Lefkon Theon, Lefkoupolis, Lefkousia, and Kermia namely Lefkousia (Porfyrogennitos) as well as the mentions of Lefkousia together with Kyrenia. Lefkoupolis, Lefkon Theon and Lefkousia may be considered as variants of essentially the same name. The rest of the names in the texts, can possibly be a result of the authors’ – or their informants’ − confusion. However, an alternative explanation may involve a pre-existence of a concentration of population in the vicinity of Lefkosia arranged in more than one nucleus of settlement, with Kyrenia as main port, which was though flourishing enough as to be eventually used as the island’s administrative centre. Obviously that centre no longer needed to be a city in the form of the nuclear urban settlements of Late Antiquity. The second example concerns the comment civitas destructa by the German pilgrim, Wilbrand von Oldenburg, on Salamis in 1211, which has been so far regarded as an indication of decline, destruction and depopulation of the settlement of Salamis-Contantia.68 An alternative interpretation of this phrase might be that the site of the antique city core was no longer used – however the area around Salamis might well have been settled, yet in a dispersed way and on a different scale. While the successive relocations of its capital seem to be associated with political change, it is essential to know whether these changes are particular to Cyprus in order to evaluate and interpret their role within the settlement transformation in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Do we have parallel practices in the same context of the Byzantine Eastern Mediterranean and if so, what was their meaning?

The Case of Andros The consideration of the example of a second island in the same historical context of the Eastern Mediterranean, Andros, a fertile island located in the Aegean Sea, may prove useful at this point in that it may indicate certain particularities of medieval cultures regarding the relocation of island capitals (Fig. 3).69 The investigation of settlement on Andros during the Middle Ages revealed the existence of two clearly distinct geocultural zones on the island during the Middle Ages, in the northern and the southern part, which had independent yet interrelated historical courses. However, a closer look on the function of the island within relevant networks of settlement in the long duration demonstrated that the distinct entities are in fact four: the northern 67 Papacostas 2012, 87–88. 68 Papacostas 2012, 81; Papageorgiou 1993, 50–51. 69 On the geomorphology and economy of medieval Andros see Kolovos 2006, 87–89.

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Fig. 3: Map of Andros with indication of the settlements mentioned in the text: 1 Paleopolis, 2 Gavrion, 3 Korthi, 4 Batsi, 5 Theotokos, 6 Faneromeni Castle, 7 Mesaria, 8 Ypsilo, 9 Mesathouri, 10 Melida, 11 Panachrandou, 12 Vouni, 13 Makrotandalos Castle, 14 Zoodochos Pigi Monastery.

and southern part but also the western and eastern coasts. While the demo­ graphy of the northern part was different form that of the southern, the island also presented a cyclic shift of orientation from the eastern to the western coast according to economic and other relations with settlements on either side, developed by its inhabitants: Attica, Peloponnese, Boeotia and Euboea on the west and the Aegean and Asia Minor on the east. In brief, during the prehistoric, ancient and Roman times the island of Andros was settled in its western part as it was politically and economically orientated towards Attica. Material remains of the Early Byzantine period (fourth to seventh centuries) have been located exclusively on coastal sites of the eastern and western coasts. The interest of the inhabitants for the western coast − a post along a great maritime trade route linking the Western Mediterranean with Constantinople via Peloponnese, Attica, and the Kafireas passage –, is reflected in the continuous habitation of the ancient capital, Paleopolis, and the use of the harbour of Gavrion.70 Yet as far as central 70 Malamut 1998, 549. Two basilicas of the 5th or 6th century have been excavated in Paleopolis and a 6th-century inscription was found at Charakas. See Gkioles 2009; Kiourtzian 2000, 46.

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administration is concerned, the island belonged to the Province of Islands and from the seventh century to the Province of Rhodes, which reveals close contacts with the Aegean and the coasts of Asia Minor.71 The interest in the eastern coast for the first time is materially expressed by a small settlement in the area of Korthi Bay.72 The Slavic and Arab raids of the sixth-eighth century seem to have provoked a gradual loss of interest for the western coast. The Slavic presence in Attica and Boeotia and the piracy in the Aegean caused an abandonment of coastal navigation in favour of an open sea navigation which was now possible due to changes in boat-building.73 The settlement of the island changed around this time. While Paleopolis on the western coast was still inhabited, another small fortified settlement of rather military nature appeared at Batsi.74 At the same time, new settle­ ments appeared on the eastern coast: a small settlement similar to the one near Batsi on the isle of Theotokos and another one at the top of a high hill to the north of Korthi Bay where the Castle of Faneromeni later appeared.75 During the Middle Byzantine period, the island was divided in three regions: the Outer Land (Έξω Χώρα or Έξω Mερέα at the northern part), the Middle Land (Μεσοχώρα or Μεσαρέα) and the Back Land (Πίσω Χώρα or Πίσω Μερέα at the southern part).76 Habitation was organized in small scattered settlements mostly in the mainland − where the new capital (Μεσαρέα) seems to have been located − and on the eastern coast of the island.77 According to a number of place-names, most probably of Byzantine 71 Malamut 1998, 312, 315, 341. 72 The initial construction of the church of Agios Ioannis Theologos and scattered sculptures at Ano Korthi as well as a phiale embedded in the Castle of Faneromeni have been dated by S. Mamaloukos, Ch. Pennas and G. Pallis in the 5th and 6th centuries: Mamaloukos − Pennas 2006; Pallis 2009, 252–253, 259–260. 73 Makris 2002, 91–92, 98. 74 Some ribbed potsherds of the 7th century as well as 2 folleis struck during the reign of Heraclius (610–641) are among the finds of the excavations at Paleopolis (Gkioles 2009, 166) while building remains and sigillographic and ceramic evidence allow dating the settlement at Batsi during the reign of Constans II (641–668) (oral information by Adonis Kyrou). 75 I thank Adonis Kyrou for this oral information. According to him, archaeological finds dated exclusively during the 7th century have been found on the small island, among which a lead seal now kept at the Kairios Library in Chora of Andros while numismatic and ceramic evidence allow dating the use of the hill of the later Faneromeni Castle during the 7th century. 76 Orlandos 1954–55, 2. 77 Several churches at Melida, Mesaria, Mesathouri and Ypsilo are indication of settlement at the central area of the island during this period. Agios Ioannis Theologos at Ano Korthi and 11th- and 12th-century sculptures found at Faneromeni Castle confirm settlement of the area of Korthi Bay at this time. The monasteries of Agios Andonios at Vouni and Panachrandou are also supposed to have been founded in the years 1141 and 963–969 respectively. Orlandos 1954–55; Malamut 1988, 211; Pallis 2009, 253–260.

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origin, some aspects of settlement distribution were as follows: Byzantines were interested in the area of Korthi on the eastern coast (agrarian activity indicated by the names Agridia and Gerakones, religious administration by Piskopio, ethnicity by Gianissaio), in fortifying the north-eastern, north and north-western part of the island (Vigla, Viglaki etc.).78 Slavonic sites must have existed on the western coast as indicated by the names Sklavouri, Zaganiari and Zagora, while Arabs seem to have been interested in commercially important sites of both the eastern and western coasts.79 Armenians settled on the eastern coast (as indicated by the names Armeni and Armeniako) and Jews settled in Korthi and its hinterland possibly in relation to silk production (jugding from the names Vryokastro and Evraika).80 It seems, then, that from the seventh century more attention was attracted by the eastern coast and the maritime route passing near the Aegean part of Andros. The cause of that was possibly the change of maritime sea routes, since Andros and some of its nearby islands now played an important role in the Byzantine trade in the Aegean Sea.81 This island chain linked Constantinople and the coasts of Asia Minor with a variety of naval routes according to a ship’s final destination.82 However, because of the silk trade and despite the fact that settlement had already turned towards the east side of the island, the maritime trade route of the western coast regained importance from the end of the tenth century onwards, when the island became part of the Theme of Hellas.83 Already from the eleventh century onwards, galleys from Venice to Constantinople stopped at Methoni and then Euboia, where silk from Andros was traded through the port of Evripos.84 Strong evidence of the close contacts with Athens and the Peloponnese are some influences in religious architecture.85 For what it’s worth, the situation was modified again under the Latin rulers of Andros who changed again the geopolitical orientation of the island by turning it again towards the east by means of settlement – exactly as in the case of Cyprus.86 Their sites offered links to Constantinople as well as

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

Malamut 1998, 183. Malamut 1998, 157. Malamut 1998, 161, 169, Jacoby 2009, 140. Avramea 2002, 85; Malamut 1998, 549. Jacoby 2009, 140. Jacoby 2009, 142–143, 148–149; Vroom 2005; 250; Malamut 1988, 311. Malamut 1988, 589. See D. Polemis, Ιστορία της Άνδρου (Athens 1981); Deliyianni-Dori et al. 2003; DeliyianniDori 2006; Stamatis Kambanis − Diamandis Basandis, Η Άνδρος μέσα στον χρόνο (Athens 2012) 149–153.

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with Crete, the biggest Venetian centre in the Aegean Sea.87 Yet the maritime route of the western coast was used again extensively by the Venetians from the fourteenth century onwards when navigation practices changed again in favour of coastal routes.88 This new interest was expressed by the foundation of the Venetian fort of Makrotandalos in the thirteenth century and the settlement of the northern part of the island with Albanian populations in the late fourteenth-early fifteenth century, who were controlled by the very important monastery of Zoodochos Pigi (1531–1571).89

The Case of Sicily Sicily, located in an immensely strategic area like Cyprus, was inhabited and influenced by various cultures residing in and crossing through the Mediterranean (Fig. 4). Here, too, the capital was relocated in accordance to shifts in political power and subsequent economic interests from the eastern to the western coast, as the island was changing hands from the Roman/ Byzantine administration to the Arabs and the Normans. In antiquity, while Greece had colonized much of eastern Sicily, Carthage had also established a city in the eighth century on the northern coast, Palermo; Greece and Carthage were constantly fighting for power in the following centuries, which opened the door for a new, larger power to intervene: Rome.90 During Late Antiquity, population in Sicily declined slightly in the third century AD, only to peak again in the fifth century, while the agricultural landscape had never been so intensively exploited before, and would not see comparable levels of population and activity again until the twentieth century.91 The Roman conquest had a profound effect on life and settlement in Sicily. By the second and first centuries BC Rome had grown into a city of a million people, and Sicily was one of the major food-supplying regions. The Northern Illinois University Survey in Monte Polizzo revealed a huge leap in the number of datable finds in the second century BC, and also a great shift in settlement patterns.92 As also in the case of Greece, back in the sixth century BC, most sites in Sicily were on hilltops.93 In the case of Sicily, settlement contracted on a few centres in the fifth century; then in the late fourth many of these were reoccupied, gradually Ibidem. Vroom 2003, 250; Avramea 2002, 79. Deliyianni-Dori 2006; Kolovos 2006, 102–103. Greeks founded large cities such as Syracuse, Selinous, Akragas, Himera and Gela. See Holloway 1991; Wrightson 2012, 2. 91 Blake et al. 2004, [10]. 92 Blake et al. 2004, [9]. 93 Blake et al. 2004, [10]. 87 88 89 90

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Fig. 4: Map of Sicily with indication of the settlements mentioned in the text: 1 Palermo, 2 Syracuse, 3 Gela, 4 Selinous, 5 Akragas, 6 Salemi, 7 Marsala, 8 Mazara, 9 Trapani, 10 Himera.

being abandoned in the third.94 The great shift of the second century, as in most other parts of the Roman Empire, was that settlement shifted drastically to lowland locations, which were easier for the Romans to control.95 This was a long-term shift in the case of Sicily since this pattern lasted for five-hundred years.96 While Syracuse was the main settlement on the eastern coast, Alicia (perhaps at the place of modern Salemi) was the main centre of the western coast, mentioned as a civitas by Pliny.97 Big Roman villas have been also found in Marsala and Palermo.98 Despite political chaos in the Western Roman Empire, most parts of the Mediterranean experienced an economic boom in the period ca. 300–550 and Sicily was no exception. The NIU survey suggested that population in the western part of the island was growing.99 General Belisarius, under order of Justinian, captured and converted Sicily into a Byzantine province in 535. Under Byzantine rule, Sicily officially became Christianized and monasteries and churches were established around 94 Blake 95 Blake 96 Blake 97 Blake 98 Blake 99 Blake

et et et et et et

al. al. al. al. al. al.

2004, 2004, 2004, 2004, 2004, 2004,

[10]. [10]. [10]. [10]. [10]. [11].

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the island.100 Although the island was now under the umbrella of Christianity, there was still tension over control between the church, centred with the papacy in Rome, and the Emperor, centred in the Byzantine capitol of Constantinople.101 The two powers remained balanced in Sicily until the early eighth century when the problem of iconoclasm erupted in the Eastern Mediterranean.102 Throughout the rest of the Byzantine rule, until the 870s, Sicily was a peaceful place in the Mediterranean, populated by an array of people practicing different religions, including Muslim merchants, a Jewish community, and both Latin and Greek Christians.103 Syracuse was always the Byzantine capital of the island.104 The situation changed, as also in the cases of settlement in Cyprus and Greece, during the period of the Arab conquest. Major Arab raids plundered the island during the years 727–753.105 The war in Sicily started from the Western part of the island and there were tensions between the Spanish and African Muslims, and several Byzantine victories.106 Despite the conquest of Marsala and Alicia in 827, the result of the war was uncertain in western Sicily till September 831, when the Arabs captured Palermo; after that it was clear that the Arabs were there to stay, and over the next eleven years immigrants from North Africa took over most of the land in the Val di Mazara.107 From 842 on the theatre of war shifted to eastern Sicily. The Arabs sought to colonize Sicily and fought the Byzantine Empire for the region until 878 when the city of Syracuse fell to the Arabs. At this point Sicily was no longer a Byzantine province and was now under complete control of the Arabs.108 The Arab conquest of the west left many Byzantine fortresses in ruins, and a number of towns, e.g. Salemi, were rebuilt in typical Arab style. Immigrants from North Africa (not actually Arabs, but Islamic Berbers from Algeria) continued to move into western Sicily; by 950, there were probably half a million Muslims living in the Val di Mazara while the area around Salemi was thoroughly Islamic in the tenth through twelfth centuries.109 The Arabic capital of the island was Palermo which grew into a major port under the Kalbite dynasty (940–1052), with a population of perhaps 300,000; here 100 Wrightson 2012, 3. 101 Wrightson 2012, 3–4. 102 Wrightson 2012, 4. 103 Wrightson 2012, 4. 104 Maurici 1995, 40. 105 Blake et al. 2004, [13]. 106 Blake et al. 2004, [13–14]. 107 Blake et al. 2004, [14]; Maurici 1995, 96. 108 Wrightson 2012, 4. 109 Blake et al. 2004, [14].

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Arabs from Spain and North Africa exchanged goods with Christians from Italy and France.110 The Arabs diversified Sicilian agriculture by introducing cotton from Syria, pistachios from Persia, and sugar cane and Arab farmers improved irrigation and extended olive and citrus cultivation. The growth of Palermo, Mazara, Trapani, and Marsala in the tenth century improved markets for agricultural goods, and farming expanded.111 By 1050 western Sicily was ethnically and culturally quite distinct from central and eastern Sicily. It was overwhelmingly Muslim, and had large plantations run by slave labour, often producing sugar.112 In the twelfth century Palermo was the undisputed marketplace of the west Mediterranean; that is why the new, Norman, rulers of the island, kept it as their capital, although they destroyed many of the Arab towns in Sicily – thus contributing to the fact that only very few physical remains survive from the Arab era.113

Conclusions The consideration of the examples of Cyprus, Andros and Sicily makes clear, I think, the double function of late antique and medieval island systems.114 First of all, they need to work as closed systems (miniatures of the world as thought by Neofytos) in order to seek and preserve self-sustainability. In the case of Cyprus it seems to be clear to the islanders that internal stability is a necessary condition for prosperity. However, what allows prosperity is not internal production but the export of the surplus of production through trade. Gregory the Theologian discussed how coastal cities can tolerate food shortage because they can sell their own goods and receive support from the sea; οn the contrary, surplus in the hinterland is non profitable, he said, while scarcity is incurable since there are no means for selling whatever surplus and import missing goods.115 A side benefit from such activity is communication and cultural interaction. This second function, as a system which is also open to contacts and external influence, reminds the term of gateway community assigned to Cypriot and Aegean settlements of the Bronze Age.116 110 Blake et al. 2004, [14]. 111 Blake et al. 2004, [5, 14]. 112 Blake et al. 2004, [14]. 113 Blake et al. 2004, [14]. 114 The idea of ‘islands’ systems’, from a social point of view, is considered to presuppose inwards and outwards acts of consistence, continuation and interdependence. See Braudel 1991, 181–182, 188–193, 340–346. 115 S. Grigorii Theologi, Οratio XLIII, ΛΔ΄ (P.G. 36, 542–543) in: Tsigonaki 2009, 169. 116 Hirth 1978.

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It is, I think, also quite clear that all three islands, here discussed, fit Joël Bonnemaison’s definition of good islands, mentioned at the beginning of this study; good islands’ characteristics stem exactly from the aforementioned bipolar insularity: good islands are mountains surrounded by a coastline which can serve as a harbour; thanks to their good coastline, separation from the rest of the world is less abrupt and thanks to the mountain, the island has inland depth, which allows for a degree of diversity.117 Cyprus, Andros and Sicily are not only strategically located in the Mediterranean Sea in relation to nearby mainland coasts but also have Bonnemaison’s distinctive geomorphology which also provides them with their own fertile hinterland; they are therefore good islands, because their population has opportunities for both growth through contacts with other places and sustainability by means of exploiting local resources. Secondly, as far as the location of the sites of island settlements is concerned, a comparative study of settlement transformation on the three islands from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages presents the following features. First of all, common patterns are present in the cases of the Byzantine islands, Cyprus and Andros: coastal sites flourish until around the seventh century (and occasionally somewhat later, in the course of the eighth century). After that, settlements withdraw to the hinterland while coastal sites decline or vanish or are relocated to ensure more favourable conditions. It seems rather clear that scattered settlements flourished in the inland of both islands between the eighth and the twelfth centuries, because settlement adjusted to the development of the communities’ production potential allowed by the specific geographical space through dry agriculture and pastoral activity, industry and trade. Scattered settlements could not be fortified so they were selecting and developing the advantage of the geographical location: in high altitude, away from the coast and in places which were invisible from the sea. On the contrary, in the case of Sicily, the coastal settlements flourished during the medieval period due to its different political administration − under stable Arab rule −, strategic location and economic role in the Western Mediterranean. The retreat of coastal sites in favour of inland sites after the seventh or eighth century is a well known phenomenon around the Byzantine Eastern Mediterranean which is not related only to external threats. In the case of the two Byzantine islands (Cyprus and Andros) examined here, a priority seems to be given to their function as closed systems during the Middle Byzantine period in order to ensure both security and sustainability (by means of agricultural and industrial production). However, there was also a parallel adjustment to new conditions aiming to allow them to function 117 Bonnemaison 1991, 122.

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again as open systems (by means of changes of ports, maritime routes, products, markets and trade networks). Both islands functioned within both regional and long distance trade networks in an effective way. The presence of Armenian and Jewish communities in both of these islands has been linked to silk industry and trade. The maps by Malamut are quite eloquent concerning the diachronic preference of foreign populations (Arab, Armenian, Jewish and finally Venetian) towards specific Byzantine islands, among which Andros and Cyprus.118 Despite the stability of settlement patterns in the case of Sicily, a similar function of the island as a closed and open system is evident from the fact that different economic and cultural networks (Byzantine and Arabic) were aimed for by the relocation of its capital from the eastern to the western coast, respectively. The concept of connectivity has already been set forth as a key-element in the interpretation of settlement in the Mediterranean, because it contextualizes urban centres as simply the largest nodes within a broad matrix of exchange and elevates the smaller links of the chain; villas, villages, and small towns may have lacked urban status but they still produced surpluses, participated in trans-regional exchange, and functioned with varying degrees of economic autonomy.119 William Caraher, Scott Moore and David Pettegrew have discussed this concept in relation to late antique Cyprus, and the site of Pyla-Koutsopetria in specific.120 They argued that this small island was never a central place in the Roman economy per se but it did sit astride major maritime trade routes linking Egypt, the Aegean, and the Levant, and was, by consequence, connected directly to the wider Mediterranean matrix. Its economic activity within that matrix consisted of a fair share of sizable urban centres – Salamis, Paphos, Kition, and Kourion – as well as a rather busy countryside, with a breadth of smaller settlements that flourished in the Roman and Late Antique periods.121 However, connectivity alone offers potential and opportunity; it does not determine or presuppose the nature of relationships among inhabitants; the latter is a cultural aspect which also has to be taken under consideration. In this study I have shown that each one of the islands of Cyprus, Andros and Sicily consisted of more than one geocultural entity at different periods of time; differences in settlement patterns on the same island are evident in these cases not only between different periods of time but also between different − contemporary − geo-cultural entities. Therefore, we should broaden up our overview of settlement in the 118 Malamut 1988, 630. 119 Peregrine Horden − Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea – a Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford 2000) 123–172. 120 Caraher − Moore − Pettegrew 2008. 121 Caraher − Moore − Pettegrew 2008, 21–22.

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late antique and medieval Mediterranean islands by keeping in mind that, apart from the strategic and economic potential of any site, which invites human agency, the dynamic picture of settlement is also an outcome of a constant re-negotiation of human relations − both internal within the island microcosm and external with the rest of the known world. Thirdly, as far as the selection of the specific location of settlements is concerned, it shows an effort to control the sea routes, deriving from an obvious agony for security within a most vulnerable territory as it is accessible from almost all around. What becomes also evident in most medieval sites on the three islands, and especially in those of fortifications, is that their location apart from controlling nearby maritime passages also allows control on large parts of nearby settlements. Therefore, one cannot help wondering whether the planning of these sites made prevision for also keeping an eye on the neighbour ... In the case of the relocation of capitals, similar strategies were followed in both Andros and Cyprus: the population went up the rivers towards the mountains and settled inland locations which were invisible from the sea (from Paleopolis to the area of Mesaria and from Constantia to Nicosia, respectively). These populations had obviously in mind defensive strategies which would still allow them to avoid giving up on their already established communication routes. This defence strategy had obviously been developed against the new reality of Arab raids, since it did not occur in the case of the capital of Arab Sicily. In both Cyprus and Andros, new ways of communication were gradually selected instead of or aside the old ones. In the case of Cyprus, communication through the harbour of Kyrenia was gradually selected instead of the old one through Constantia, firstly because the alluvial phenomena in the Pediaios river delta eventually put the harbour of Constantia out of use and, secondly, because the use of the harbour of Kyrenia facilitated and shortened considerably the communication with the Byzantine provinces to the north. In Andros, while communication through the western coast never ceased, another way of communication through the eastern coast was now of interest, as discussed above. Fourthly, the relocations of island capitals reflect foci of central administration; however the overall developments in the islands’ settlement outline other aspects of their social dynamics. So the relocations of capitals should be considered out of ‘suffering from a fixation upon a decontextualized city’, as described by Archibald W. Dunn, and within the context of concurrent settlement whether urban, rural or other.122 A researcher interested in settlement should bear in mind that settlement is a flexible process and most 122 Dunn 2004, 568; Veikou 2009 and 2012a.

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susceptible to change as it reflects different ways in which people exploit natural resources according to their culture. The relocation of capitals and other settlements as an expression of the shifts of economic, political and military interest from coast to hinterland and from one coast to another, within the context of an overall extensive transformation, confirms what has been set forth from many other case studies: i.e. that people in the Middle Ages were very aware of different qualities of their geographical space as well as of the potential for growth those offered.123 Indeed, Byzantine texts provide data which confirm that Byzantine people used their space as a developmental apparatus. In that way physical space, which has its own dynamic development, is revealed through the archaeological evidence and historical texts as a parameter of historical becoming, i.e. as a ‘social space’, since it interacts with human agency. To reconstruct it, it is necessary to attempt to re-assemble historical spaces, i.e. to make space itself (independent of any remains of human intervention) the subject of archaeological research.124 Last but not least, I mean to emphasize that different settlement patterns and land uses in Byzantium are linked to cultural aspects − such as spatial functions and qualities − springing from the diverse spatial experiences of its people in variant conditions and occasions. Shedding light on these patterns and uses can help archaeologists reconstruct such cultural aspects and human practices as reflected upon land use and settlement, among which settlement relocations. As far as islands are concerned, I have here attempted to show that while they are considered as one insular entity they may well consist of more than one geo-cultural entity because they can simultaneously function as both closed and open systems. The transformation of natural space into a socially constructed landscape is indeed a complex phenomenon of great interest not only for historical but also for environmental and social studies. The theme here presented is part of a greater research project which partly involves the investigation of the insular part of Byzantine provinces in Asia Minor and in modern Greece in order to define aspects of its double function within the transformation of settlement. The main aim is to allow clarifying attributes of these closed and open systems where islands, alone or organised in subgroups, function according to their production capacity and geopolitical location in relation to the maritime trade routes of different periods and always in connection with nearby continental coasts. 123 I have discussed this in length in a few other occasions, cf. Veikou 2009, 2010 and 2012a. 124 Veikou 2012b.

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The complex and varied interrelations of Byzantine settlements assume indeed an additional dynamic among the islands of the Mediterranean Sea. Physical insularity presents any society with distinct challenges and advantages, which are conditioned by internal resources and locational proximities. Environmental factors, for example, acquire special importance within a confined space, and brief topographic spans can belie vast cultural differences. At the conclusion of this study the specific nature of the Byzantine island as a geographical object as well as the details of its dual function as a closed and open system remain open to question. But is this not an artificial problem? Town planners experience difficulties when trying to define a town but that does not prevent towns from existing or planners from studying them.125 The key theme is not in fact Byzantine islands, but rather − medieval or contemporary − insularity, islandness, insularism and the interrelated topics of, isolation, contiguity, connectivity, discontinuity, enclosure and peripherality.126 It is to this end that, besides attempting an interpretation of the three successive relocations of capitals of Cyprus from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, I have tried to apprehend insularity and its variability by investigating the transformation of settlement in different places characterised by insularity within the mare nostrum.

Bibliography RDAC Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus Anna Comnene, Alexiad = Anna Comnena, The Alexiad, book 3, English translation by Elisabeth A. S. Dawes (online edition at http://www.fordham.edu/Halsall/ basis/AnnaComnena-Alexiad03.asp; last visited on 27/06/2013). Anastasiadou 2000 = Theodora Anastasiadou, ‘The Rock-Cut Tombs at Agios Georgios tis Pegeias’, in: RDAC 2000, 333–347. Arbel 1996 = Benjamin Arbel, ‘The economy of Cyprus during the Venetian Period (1473–1571)’, in: Karageorghis – Michaelides 1996, 185–192. Avramea 2002 = Anna Avramea, ‘Land and Sea Communications, Fourth-Fifteenth Centuries’, in: Angeliki E. Laiou (ed.), The Economic History of Byzantium: From the Seventh through the Fifteenth Century. Dumbarton Oaks Studies, vol. 39 (Washington DC 2002) 57–90. Bakirtzis 1995 = Charalambos Bakirtzis, ‘The Role of Cyprus in the Grain Supply of Constantinople in the Early Christian Period’, in: Vassos Karageorghis – Demetrios Michaelides (eds.), Proceedings of the International Symposium ‘Cyprus and the Sea’, Nicosia 25–26 September, 1993 (Nicosia 1995) 247–253. 125 Taglioni 2011, 61. 126 Taglioni 2011, 61.

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Bakirtzis 1996 = Charalambos Bakirtzis, ‘Description and Metrology of Some Clay Vessels from Agios Georgios, Pegeia’, in: Karageorghis – Michaelides 1996, 153–162. Bakirtzis 1997 = Charalambos Bakirtzis, ‘Η θαλάσσια διαδρομή Κύπρου – Αιγαίου στα παλαιοχριστιανικά χρόνια’, in: Η Κύπρος και το Αιγαίο στην Αρχαιότητα. Από την Προϊστορική περίοδο ως τον 7ο αιώνα μ.Χ., Λευκωσία 8–10 Δεκεμβρίου 1995 / Cyprus and the Aegean in Antiquity. From the Prehistoric period to the 7th century A.D., Nicosia 8–10 December 1995 (Nico­ sia 1997) 327–332. Bakirtzis 2001 = Charalambos Bakirtzis, ‘Αποτελέσματα ανασκαφών στον Άγιο Γεώργιο Πέγειας (Ακρωτήριον Δρέπανον), 1991–1995’, in: Athanassios Papageorgiou (ed.), Πρακτικά του Τρίτου Κυπρολογικού Συνεδρίου, Λευκω­ σία, 16–20 Απριλίου 1996, vol. 2 (Nicosia 2001) 155–170. Balance et al. 1989 = Michael Balance − Perry G. Bialor − Juliet Clutton-Brock − Spencer Corbett − Sinclair Hood, Byzantine Emporio. Excavations in Chios, 1938–1955 (Athens 1989). Balandier 2003 = Claire Balandier, ‘The Defensive Works of Cyprus during the Late Roman and Early Byzantine periods (4th–7th century A.D.)’, in: RDAC 2003, 261–272. Blake et al. 2004 = Emma Blake et al., Stanford Excavations at Monte Polizzo, Sicily. Project handbook 4th edition, 2004, chapter 5: A very brief history of Sicily: http://www.stanford.edu/group/mountpolizzo/HandbookTOC.htm (last visited on 26/07/2013). Bonnemaison 1991 = Joël Bonnemaison, ‘Vivre dans l’île, une approche de l’îléité océanienne’, in: L’Espace géographique 1990–1991, no 2, 119–125. Bonnemaison 1997 = Joël Bonnemaison, ‘La sagesse des îles’, in: André-Louis Sanguin (ed.), Vivre dans une île – une géopolitique des insularités (Paris – Montreal 1997) 121–129. Braudel 1991 = Fernand Braudel, Μεσόγειος, transl. Klairi Mitsotaki, vol. 1 (Athens 1991). Caraher – Moore − Noller − Pettegrew 2005 = William R. Caraher − R. Scott Moore − Jay S. Noller − David K. Pettegrew, ‘The Pyla-Koutsopetria Archaeological Project: First Preliminary Report (2003–2004 Seasons)’, in: RDAC 2005, 245–268. Caraher − Moore − Noller – Pettegrew 2007 = William R. Caraher − R. Scott Moore − Jay S. Noller − David K. Pettegrew, ‘The Pyla-Koutsopetria Archaeological Project: Second Preliminary Report (2005–2006 Seasons)’, in: RDAC 2007, 293–306. Caraher – Moore – Pettegrew 2007 = William R. Caraher − R. Scott Moore − David K. Pettegrew, ‘Across Larnaka Bay: Recent Investigations of a Late Antique Harbor Town in Southeast Cyprus’ (paper presented at the 33rd annual Byzantine Studies Conference, Toronto, Canada, October 2007): http://www.pkap.org/2007%20BSC%20Paper%20final.pdf (last visited on 27/06/2013). Caraher − Moore − Pettegrew 2008 = William R. Caraher − R. Scott Moore − David K. Pettegrew, ‘Trade and Exchange in the Eastern Mediterranean: A Model from Cyprus’, in: Bollettino di archeologia online (­ edizione speciale): Meetings between cultures in the ancient Mediterranean,

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Roma 2008, XVII International Congress of Classical Archaeology: http://151.12.58.75/archeologia/bao_document/articoli/2_MOORE_et%20al. pdf (last visited on 27/06/2013). Chrysos 1993 = Evangelos Chrysos, ‘Cyprus in Early Byzantine Times’, in: Anthony A. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’. Papers Given at the Twenty–Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 5–14. Deliyianni-Dori et al. 2003 = Helene G. Deliyianni-Dori − Panayotis Velissariou − Μ. Μichaelidis, Κάτω Κάστρο: η πρώτη φάση των ανασκαφών στο βενετικό φρούριο της Χώρας Άνδρου. Ανδριακά χρονικά, vol. 34 (Andros 2003). Deliyianni-Dori 2006 = Helene G. Deliyianni-Dori, ‘H έρευνα στο Επάνω Κάστρο της Άνδρου. Μερικές σκέψεις’, in: Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας 27, 2006, 471–480. Dunn 2004 = Archibald W. Dunn, ‘Continuity and change in the Macedonian countryside, from Gallienus and Justinian’, in: William Bowden − Luke Lavan – Carlos Machado (eds.), Recent Research on the Late Antique Countryside. Late Antique Archaeology, vol. 2 (Leiden − Boston 2004) 535–586. Fejfer − Mathiesen 1991 = Jane Fejfer − Hans Erik Mathiesen, ‘The Danish Akamas Project. The First Two Seasons of Work (1989 and 1990)’, in: RDAC 1991, 211–223. Fejfer − Mathiesen 1992 = Jane Fejfer − Hans Erik Mathiesen, ‘Ayios Kononas. A Late Roman/Early Byzantine Site at the Akamas’, in: Paul Åström (ed.), Acta Cypria, Acts of an International Congress on Cypriote Archaeology held in Göteborg on 22–24 August 1991 (Jonsered 1992) 67–83. Fejfer 1995 = Jane Fejfer (ed.), Ancient Akamas, vol. 1: Settlement and Environment (Aarhus 1995). Gkioles 2009 = Nikolaos Gkioles, ‘Ανασκαφές στην παλαιοχριστιανική βασιλική της αγοράς στην Παλαιόπολη της Άνδρου’, in: Dimitris Kyrtatas – Lydia Palaiokrassa-Kopitsa – Michalis Tiverios, Evandros. Volume in Memory of Demetrios I. Polemis (Andros 2009) 155–176. Gombaud 2007 = Stéphane Gombaud, Iles, insularité et îléité. Le relativisme dans l’étude des espaces archipélagiques (PhD thesis, University of the Réunion, Réunion 2007). Gounaridis 1996 = Paris Gounaridis, ‘The economy of Byzantine Cyprus: Cyprus, an Ordinary Byzantine Province’, in: Karageorghis – Michaelides 1996, 175–184. Gregory 2001 = Timothy E. Gregory, ‘Cities of Late Roman Cyprus: Preliminary Thoughts of Urban Change and Continuity’, in: Athanassios Papageorgiou (ed.), Πρακτικά του Τρίτου Κυπρολογικού Συνεδρίου, Λευκωσία, 16–20 Απριλίου 1996, vol. 2 (Nicosia 2001) 715–726. Grivaud 1998 = Gilles Grivaud, ‘Villages désertés à Chypre (fin XII e – fin XIX e siècle)’. Μελέται και Υπομνήματα, vol. 3 (Nicosia 1998). Hill 1949/2010 = George Hill, A History of Cyprus, vol. 1: To the Conquest by Richard Lion Heart (Cambridge 1949, reprint 2010). Hirth 1978 = Kenneth Hirth, ‘Inter-regional trade and the formation of prehistoric gateway communities’, in: American Antiquity 43, 25–45. Holloway 1991 = Ross Holloway, The Archaeology of Ancient Sicily (New York 1991).

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Jacoby 2009 = David Jacoby, ‘Silk in Medieval Andros’, in: Evangelos Chrysos – Elissavet Zachariadou (eds.), Captain and Scholar. Papers in Memory of Demetrios I. Polemis (Andros 2009). Karageorghis – Michaelides 1996 = Vassos Karageorghis – Demetrios Michaelides (eds.), The Development of the Cypriot Economy from the Prehistoric Period to the Present Day (Nicosia 1996). Kiourtzian 2000 = Georges Kiourtzian, Recueil des inscriptions grecques chrétiennes des Cyclades, de la fin du III e au VII e siècle après J.-C. (Paris 2000). Kolovos 2006 = Elias Kolovos, Η νησιωτική κοινωνία της Άνδρου στο οθωμανικό πλαίσιο (Andros 2006). Luttrell 1996 = Anthony Luttrell, ‘The Sugar Industry and its Importance for the Economy of Cyprus during the Frankish Period’, in: Karageorghis – Michaelides 1996, 163–174. Makris 2002 = George Makris, ‘Ships’, in: Angeliki E. Laiou (ed.), The Economic History of Byzantium: From the Seventh through the Fifteenth Century. Dumbarton Oaks Studies, vol. 39 (Washington D.C. 2002) 91–100. Malamut 1998 = Elisabeth Malamut, Les îles de l’Empire byzantin, VIII e–XII e siècles, 2 vols. Byzantina Sorbonensia, vol. 8 (Paris 1988). Mamaloukos − Pennas 2006 = Stavros Mamaloukos – Charalambos Pennas, ‘Ο ναός του Αγίου. Ιωάννου του Θεολόγου στο Άνω Κόρθι της Άνδρου: ένα άγνωστο παλαιοχριστανικό μνημείο’, in: Εικοστό Έκτο Συμπόσιο Βυζαντινής και Μεταβυζαντινής Αρχαιολογίας και Τέχνης. Πρόγραμμα και περιλήψεις εισηγήσεων και ανακοινώσεων (Athens 2006) 57–58. Maurici 1995 = Fernando Maurici, Breve storia degli arabi in Sicilia (Flaccovio 1995). Megaw 1971 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Excavations at Saranda Kolones, Paphos, Preliminary Report on the 1966–67 and 1970–71 seasons’, in: RDAC 1971, 117–146. Megaw 1985 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Le fortificazioni bizantine a Cipro’, in: Corso di Cultura sull’Arte Ravennate e Bizantina 32, 1985, 199–231. Megaw 1986 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Betwixt Greeks and Saracens’, in: Vassos Karageorghis (ed.), Acts of the International Archaeological Symposium ‘Cyprus between the Orient and the Occident’, Nicosia, 8–14 September 1985 (Nicosia 1986) 505–519. Megaw 2001 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘The Soloi Basilicas Reconsidered’, in: Athanassios Papageorgiou (ed.), Πρακτικά του Τρίτου Κυπρολογικού Συνεδρίου, Λευκωσία, 16–20 Απριλίου 1996, vol. 2 (Nicosia 2001) 171–180. Megaw 2007 = Arthur H. S. Megaw, Kourion: Excavations in the Episcopal Precinct. Dumbarton Oaks Studies, vol. 38 (Washington D.C. 2007). Metcalf 2009 = D. Michael Metcalf, Byzantine Cyprus, 491–1191 (Nicosia 2009). Michaelides 1996 = Demetrios Michaelides, ‘The Economy of Cyprus during the Hellenistic and Roman Periods’, in: Karageorghis – Michaelides 1996, 139–152. Michaelides − Pilides 2012 = Demetrios Michaelides − Despina Pilides, ‘Nicosia from the Beginings to Roman Ledroi’, in: Demetrios Michaelides (ed.), Historical Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 1–75. Mitford 1980 = Terence B. Mitford, ‘Roman Cyprus’, in: Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II, 7/2, 1980, 1286–1384.

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Orlandos 1955–56 = Anastasios K. Orlandos, ‘Βυζαντινά μνημεία της Άνδρου’, in: Αρχείον των Βυζαντινών Μνημείων της Ελλάδος 8, 1955–56, 1–67. Pallas 1977 = Demetrios Pallas, Les monuments paléochrétiens de la Grèce decouverts de 1959 à 1973 (Vatican City 1977) 267–307. Pallis 2009 = Giorgos Pallis, ‘Χριστιανικά γλυπτά από το Επάνω Κάστρο της Άνδρου’, in: Dimitris Kyrtatas − Lydia Palaiokrassa-Kopitsa − Michalis Tiverios, Evandros. Volume in Memory of Demetrios I. Polemis (Andros 2009) 251–268. Papacostas 2001 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘The Economy of Late Antique Cyprus’, in: Sean Kingsley – Michael Decker (eds.), Economy and Exchange in the East Mediterranean during Late Antiquity, Proceedings of a Conference held at Somerville College, Oxford – 29th May, 1999 (Oxford 2001) 107–128. Papacostas 2012 = Tassos Papacostas, ‘Byzantine Nicosia 650–1191’, in: Demetrios Michaelides (ed.), Historical Nicosia (Nicosia 2012) 77–109. Papadopoulos 1993 = Theodore Papadopoulos, ‘Frontier Status and Frontier Processes in Cyprus’, in: Anthony A. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’. Papers Given at the Twenty–Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 15–24. Papageorghiou 1993 = A. Papageorghiou, ‘Cities and Countryside at the End of Antiquity and the Beginning of the Middle Ages in Cyprus’, in: Anthony A. Bryer – George S. Georghallides (eds.), ‘The Sweet Land of Cyprus’. Papers Given at the Twenty–Fifth Jubilee Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Birmingham, March 1991 (Nicosia 1993) 27–51. Pettegrew − Caraher − Moore 2006 = David K. Pettegrew − William R. Caraher − R. Scott Moore, ‘Between City and Country: Settlement on the Fringe in Late Roman Cyprus’ (paper presented on November 16, 2006, at the annual meeting of the American Schools of Oriental Research, Washington D.C.): http://www.pkap.org/between%20city%20and%20country.pdf (last visited on 27/06/2013). Rautman 2000 = Marcus Rautman, ‘The busy Countryside of Late Roman Cyprus’, in: RDAC 2000, 316–331. Rautman 2001 = Marcus Rautman, ‘Rural Society and Economy in Late Roman Cyprus’, in: Thomas S. Burns − John W. Eadie (eds.), Urban Centers and Rural Contexts in Late Antiquity (East Lansing 2001) 241–262. Rautman 2003 = Marcus Rautman, A Cypriot Village of Late Antiquity, KalavasosKopetra in the Upper Vasilikos Valley. Journal of Roman Archaeology, supplementary series, vol. 52 (Portsmouth 2003). Rautman 2004 = Marcus Rautman, ‘Valley and Village in Late Roman Cyprus’, in: William Bowden − Luke Lavan − Carlos Machado (eds.), Recent Research on the Late Antique Countryside. Late Antique Archaeology, vol. 2 (Leiden – Boston 2004) 189–218. Rosser 1985 = John Rosser, ‘Excavations at Saranda Kolones, Paphos, Cyprus, 1981–1983’, in: Dumbarton Oaks Papers 39, 1985, 81–97. Rupp et al. 1984 = David W. Rupp − Lone Wriedt Sørensen − Roger H. King − William A. Fox, ‘Canadian Palaipaphos (Cyprus) Survey Project: Second

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Preliminary Report, 1980–1982’, in: Journal of Field Archaeology 11, 1984, 133–154. Rupp 1997 = David W. Rupp, ‘“Metro” Nea Paphos: suburban sprawl in southwestern Cyprus in the Hellenistic and Earlier Roman Periods’, in: Neil A. Mirau − Steven W. Gauley − Walter E. Aufrecht (eds.), Aspects of Urbanism in Antiquity: from Mesopotamia to Crete (Sheffield 1997) 236–262. Taglioni 2003 = François Taglioni, ‘L’île est-elle un objet géographique spécifique? Étude conceptuelle et critique’, in: Recherche sur les petits espaces insulaires et sur leurs organisations régionales, vol. 2 (Paris 2003): http://www.taglioni.net/Section%202.pdf (last visited on 27/06/2013). Taglioni 2011 = Francois Taglioni, ‘Insularity, Political Status and Small Insular Spaces’, in: Shima: The International Journal of Research into Island Cultures 5/2, 2011, 45–67. Taylor − Megaw 1981 = Joan du Plat Taylor − Arthur H. S. Megaw, ‘Excavations at Ayios Philon, The Ancient Carpasia, Part II: The Early Christian Buildings’, in: RDAC 1981, 209–250. Trombley 1987 = Frank R. Trombley, ‘Korykos in Cilicia Trachis: The Economy of a Small Coastal City in Late Antiquity (saec. V–VI) – a Precis’, in: The Ancient History Bulletin 1, 1987, 16–23. Tsigonaki 2009 = Christina Tsigonaki, ‘Ίτανος: ιστορία και τοπογραφία μιας παράκτιας θέσης της ανατολικής Κρήτης κατά την πρωτοβυζαντινή περίοδο’, in: Olga Gratziou – Christos Loukos (eds.), Ψηφίδες – μελέτες ιστορίας, αρχαιολογίας και τέχνης στη μνήμη της Στέλλας ΠαπαδάκηOekland (Herakleio 2009) 159–174. Veikou 2009 = Myrto Veikou, ‘“Rural Towns” and “In-between Spaces”. Settlement Patterns in Byzantine Epirus (7th–11th centuries) in an Interdisciplinary Approach’, in: Archeologia Medievale 36, 2009, 43–54. Veikou 2010 = Myrto Veikou, ‘Urban or Rural? Theoretical Remarks on the Settle­ ment Patterns in Byzantine Epirus (7th–11th centuries)’, in: Byzantinische Zeitschrift 103, 2010, 171–193. Veikou 2012a = Myrto Veikou, ‘Byzantine Histories, Settlement Stories: Kastra, “Isles of Refuge”, and “Unspecified Settlements” as In-between or Third Spaces’, in: Antonia Kioussopoulou (ed.), Byzantine Cities, 8th–15th century (Rethymno 2012) 159–206. Veikou 2012b = Myrto Veikou, Byzantine Epirus. A Topography of Transformation. The Medieval Mediterranean, vol. 95 (Leiden – Boston 2012). Vroom 2003 = Joanita Vroom, After Antiquity. Ceramics and Society in the Aegean from the 7th to the 20th Century A.C. A Case Study from Boeotia, Central Greece (Leiden 2003). Wrightson 2012 = Rebecca S. Wrightson, Cultural Complexity in Medieval Sicily (2012). Senior Honors Projects. Paper 304: http://digitalcommons.uri.edu/ srhonorsprog/304 (last visited on 26/06/2013).

Photo credits Figs. 1–4: Courtesy by Google Earth.

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Acknowledgements I would like to thank the organizers of the conference, Michael Grünbart and Sabine Rogge, for the invitation to participate and especially Michael Grünbart for suggesting the existence of analogies between the cases of Cyprus and Sicily. I also thank Adonis Kyrou for his information on insular archaeological sites of Greece. This publication is part of the Research Project with the title ‘Continuity and change in the perception of natural space, the land use and settlement in Byzantine Eastern Mediterranean (6th–13th centuries): a reappraisal of the cases of Southern Balkans and Asia Minor from an interdisciplinary approach’. The Project is coordinated by the author in collaboration with Antonia Kioussopoulou (University of Crete) and Alexander Beihammer (University of Cyprus). The research project is implemented within the framework of the Action ‘Supporting Postdoctoral Researchers’ of the Operational Program ‘Education and Lifelong Learning’ (Action’s Beneficiary: General Secretariat for Research and Technology), and is co-financed by the European Social Fund (ESF) and the Greek State.

Myrto Veikou

Department of History and Archaeology, University of Crete (Greece) [email protected], [email protected]

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Schriften des Instituts für Interdisziplinäre Zypern-Studien

10 Vassos Karageorghis, Elena Poyiadji-Richter, Sabine Rogge (eds.)

Cypriote Antiquities in Berlin in the Focus of New Research 2014, 262 pages, pb., with numerous illustrations, € 39,90, ISBN 978-3-8309-3167-6 E-book: € 35,99, ISBN 978-3-8309-8167-1

I

n May 2013 a conference took place in Berlin organized by the Cypriot-German Cultural Asso­ ciation on the occasion of its 35th anniversary. The event – presented in close collaboration with the Collection of Classical Antiquities of the State Museums in Berlin (Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin) – was prompted by the reorganization of the Neues Museum, which comprises a magnificent gallery of Cypriote antiquities. Most of the Cypriote objects kept in Berlin were publish­ ed with short entries in the collection’s catalogue which appeared in English and in German in 2001 and 2002 respectively. The conference, however, provided a platform for a number of scholars to present their recent studies on some of the Cypriote objects of the Berlin Museums – objects ranging from the Late Bronze Age until the Hellenistic period, such as an exceptional vessel with animal protome, an elaborate bronze stand, vases of the Pictorial Style, finds from the ›Royal Cemetery‹ of Tamassos and the necropoleis of Marion as well as examples of funerary and votive sculpture made of limestone and terracotta.

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9

Candida Syndikus, Sabine Rogge (eds.)

Caterina Cornaro Last Queen of Cyprus and Daughter of Venice Ultima regina di Cipro e figlia di Venezia 2013, 480 pages, hardcover, with numerous, partly coloured illustrations, € 49,90, ISBN 978-3-8309-2907-9 E-Book: € 44,99, ISBN 978-3-8309-7907-4

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aterina Cornaro (1454–1510) came from one of the most important Venetian families of her time and became the last queen of Cyprus. On the occasion of the fifth centenary of her death, an international conference was held in Venice in September 2010 – organised by the two editors of this volume. During that interdisciplinary event, well-known scholars from the fields of history, art history, literary history, archaeology, Byzantine studies and musicology presented the results of their most recent research across a broad subject area. The queen’s biography and myth were traced, as well as the reception of this historical figure in art and on stage. Stress was laid upon socioeconomic and cultural phenomena resulting from the close contact between Venice and Cyprus during the Renaissance period, and also in focus was the literary production at Caterina’s court ‘in exile’ in Venice and the neighbouring mainland. The present volume offers a collection of the conference’s papers.

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Renate Bol, Kathrin Kleibl, Sabine Rogge (Hrsg.)

Zypern – Insel im Schnittpunkt interkultureller Kontakte Adaption und Abgrenzung von der Spätbronzezeit bis zum 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. 2009, 326 Seiten, br., mit zahlreichen Abbildungen, 29,90 €, ISBN 978-3-8309-2319-0 E-Book: 23,90 €, ISBN 978-3-8309-7319-5

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ieser Band enthält Beiträge aus den Bereichen Klassische Archäologie und Alte Geschichte von Teilnehmern des Zypern-Symposiums 2006 an der Gutenberg-Universität Mainz. Im Mittelpunkt der Tagung standen die interkulturellen Kontakte der Insel. Besonderes Augenmerk galt dabei den diversen Adaptions- und Abgrenzungsprozessen – und zwar im Zeitraum von der Spätbronzezeit bis zum 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Weitere Themen waren die zyprische Kalkstein- und Terrakottaplastik, die ungewöhnliche Gattung der anthropoiden Sarkophage, die sehr spezielle Keramik der Amathous-Werkstatt, Räuchergeräte (Thymiateria) als Zeugnisse des Orientalisierungsprozesses im Mittelmeerraum, die Interpretation der Siedlungsreste von Tamassos sowie Votivfiguren in zyprischen Heiligtümern. Sämtliche Beiträge messen den vielfältigen Beziehungen Zyperns zu den benachbarten Kulturen große Bedeutung bei.

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Sabine Rogge (Hrsg.)

Zypern und der Vordere Orient im 19. Jahrhundert Die Levante im Fokus von Politik und Wissenschaft der europäischen Staaten 2009, 294 Seiten, br., mit zahlreichen Abbildungen, 29,90 €, ISBN 978-3-8309-2176-9 E-Book: 23,90 €, ISBN 978-3-8309-7176-4

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nlässlich seines 10-jährigen Bestehens hatte das Institut für Interdisziplinäre ZypernStudien der Universität Münster Wissenschaftler aus Deutschland, Frankreich, den Niederlanden und Zypern zu einer interdisziplinären Tagung eingeladen, deren Thema „Zypern und der Vordere Orient im 19. Jahrhundert“ reichlich Raum für wissenschaftlichen Austausch bot. Von der „Orientalischen Frage“ samt den in sie verstrickten Hauptakteuren ausgehend wurde im Rahmen der Tagung vor allem erörtert, wie der Vordere Orient und Zypern im Europa des 19. Jahrhunderts wahrgenommen wurden und wie sich die verschiedenen europäischen Staaten auf Zypern und in der Levante in mehr oder weniger legalen Ausgrabungen engagierten, deren wissenschaftlicher Anspruch zum Teil durchaus zweifelhaft war.

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