The Fluctuating Sea: Architecture and Movement in the Medieval Mediterranean 9780367608460, 9780367608484, 9781003100706

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The Fluctuating Sea

This volume fluctuates between conceptualizations of movement; either movements that buildings in the medieval Mediterranean facilitated, or the movements of the users and audiences of architecture. From medieval Anatolia to Southern France and the Genoese colony of Pera across Constantinople, The Fluctuating Sea investigates how the relationship between movement and the experiences of a multiplicity of users with different social backgrounds can provide a new perspective on architectural history. The book acknowledges the shared characteristics of medieval Mediterranean architecture, but it also argues that for the majority of people inhabiting the fragmented microecologies of the Mediterranean, architecture was a highly localized phenomenon. It is the connectivity of such localized experiences that The Fluctuating Sea uncovers. The Fluctuating Sea is a valuable source for students and scholars of the medieval Mediterranean and architectural history. Saygin Salgirli is Assistant Professor of Art History at the University of British Columbia. His research focuses on the art and architecture of the medieval and early modern Mediterranean and presents an integrative approach to the region through audience and user experiences.

Studies in Medieval History and Culture

Recent titles include The Bible and Jews in Medieval Spain Norman Roth The Cursed Carolers in Context Edited by Lynneth Miller Renberg and Bradley Phillis Women in the Medieval Common Law c.1200–1500 Gwen Seabourne Jews and Converts in Late Medieval Castile Breaking with the Past Cecil D. Reid Mobile Saints Relic Circulation, Devotion, and Conflict in the Central Middle Ages Kate M. Craig Monetisation and Commercialisation in the Baltic Sea, 1050–1450 Edited by Dariusz Adamczyk and Beata Możejko The Fluctuating Sea Architecture and Movement in the Medieval Mediterranean Saygin Salgirli People, Power and Identity in the Late Middle Ages Essays in Memory of W. Mark Ormrod Edited by Gwilym Dodd, Helen Lacey and Anthony Musson For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Studies-in-Medieval-History-and-Culture/book-series/SMHC

The Fluctuating Sea Architecture and Movement in the Medieval Mediterranean

Saygin Salgirli

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 Saygin Salgirli The right of Saygin Salgirli to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Salgırlı, Saygın, author. Title: The fluctuating sea : architecture and movement in the Medieval Mediterranean / Saygin Salgirli. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York : Routledge, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Contents: Polyrhythmia—Sequence—Rupture—Flux—Unrest—Arrhythmia. Identifiers: LCCN 2021008982 Subjects: LCSH: Architecture and society—Mediterranean Region— History—To 1500. | Civilization, Medieval. | Mediterranean Region—Civilization. Classification: LCC NA2543.S6 S235 2021 | DDC 720.1/0309822—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008982 ISBN: 978-0-367-60846-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-60848-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-10070-6 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

Frontispiece by the author List of figures Acknowledgements Note on transliteration Polyrhythmia

v ix xii xiv 1

1415 2 2017 2 Temporality 4 Architecture 7 Connectivity 11 1

Sequence

22

Lines and points 25 Solids and voids 30 A spider at the centre of a web 38 The two sequences 42 Multiple to multiplicity 45 2

Rupture

90

Travels in time and relative distances in space 93 A tear in the fabric of the universe 105 Experiences of architecture under temporal and spatial collapse 117 3

Flux Can bricks break dialectics? 155 The emperor’s new clothes 163

147

viii Contents A portolan chart, a traveller, and two fragments 168 The (un)bearable absence of Wally 189 4

Unrest

209

If on an autumn night a Dominican 217 Ghosts in a shell 227 The three-body problem 237 Into the multiverse 242 Arrhythmia

269

Index

277

Figures

1.1

Schematic map of caravan routes in Anatolia, pilgrimage routes in France, and the northern and southern Genoese routes to the Eastern Mediterranean 1.2 Satellite view of the Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.3 General view of the Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.4 General view of Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.5 General view of the Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, Toulouse, France 1.6 View of the Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.7 View of the Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.8 and 1.9 Sculpted capitals with squatting men, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.10 Sculpted capital with Lust as a man, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.11 Sculpted capital with Lust as a woman, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.12 Sculpted capital with unidentified cardinal sin, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.13 Sculpted capital with the parable of Dives and Lazarus, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.14 Tympanum with Christ in Ascension, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.15 Detail of the cross-nimbus, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.16 Left console with David, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.17 and 1.18 Historiated capitals, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.19 St. Peter triumphant over Simon Magus, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.20 St. James, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France 1.21 Spout with enthroned man and a bull, main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.22 Main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey

23 31 32 46 47 48 49 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 64 65

x Figures 1.23 Left wall of the vestibule, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.24 Dragon and the “bird,” left wall of the vestibule, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.25 Portal of the enclosed section, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.26 Intertwined dragons on the courtyard-façade of the main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 1.27 Dragon spout, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 2.1 Facing frontispieces, Kitāb al-diryāq (The Book of Antidotes, 1199), Arabe 2964 2.2 Andromachus inspects the fields and discovers a cure for leprosy, Kitāb al-diryāq (The Book of Antidotes, 1199), Arabe 2964 2.3 Left-side of the main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey 2.4 Bowl Depicting a Falconer and Four Pairs of Seated Figures, 12th–13th century. Fritware, covered with a turquoise glaze with in-glaze and overglaze painting in red, green, blue, yellow, black, and gold, 3 11/16 × 8 1/4 in. (9.4 × 21 cm) 2.5 Last Judgment tympanum, Church of Sainte-Foy, Conques, France 2.6 Lust and Avarice, Last Judgement tympanum, Conques, France 2.7 Stonepaste moulded model of a house with festive scene, 12th–early 13th century, attributed to Iran, 67.117 2.8 Brass pendant in the form of a cup holding man, 12th century, attributed to Iran or Central Asia, 68.67 2.9 Pillar base with tamga, enclosed section of the caravanserai, Karatay Han, Kayseri 3.1 General view of the multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey 3.2 General view of the multipurpose building of Murad I, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.3 General view the Palazzo Comunale, after 1315, Istanbul, Turkey 3.4 View of the Church of San Domenico (the Arab Mosque) with the belfry, after 1315, Istanbul, Turkey 3.5 General view of the Church of the Jacobins, 1335, Toulouse, France 3.6 Detail of the Lombard bands, the multipurpose building of Murad I, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.7 General view of the Kapan Hani, 14th century, Bursa, Turkey 3.8 Courtyard of Orhan Beg’s Cloth Market (Bedesten), c. 1340, Bursa, Turkey 3.9 Interior view toward the east, Church of San Domenico (the Arab Mosque), after 1315, Istanbul Turkey 3.10 Spolia marble and brick- and stonework under the belfry, Church of San Domenico (the Arab Mosque), after 1315, Istanbul Turkey 3.11 Portolan chart of the Mediterranean Sea, c. 1340–1360 3.12 Ulu Cami/the Great Mosque of Bursa, 1396–1399, Bursa, Turkey

66 67 69 70 71 110 111 119

120 123 123 124 126 130 150 150 151 152 153 156 159 159 161 161 169 174

Figures 3.13 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, lateral view with blind arches and spolia capital, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey 3.14 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, the vaulting of the central dome of the porch, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey 3.15 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, interior view toward the mihrab, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey 3.16 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, view of the eastern antechamber, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey 3.17 The multipurpose building of Murad I, central arch of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.18 The multipurpose building of Murad I, stringcourses of the porch, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.19 The multipurpose building of Murad I, interior view from the first floor, toward the entrance, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.20 The multipurpose building of Murad I, view toward the mihrab, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.21 The multipurpose building of Murad I, view of the medrese cells, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.22 The multipurpose building of Murad I, stringcourse of the first floor, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.23 The multipurpose building of Murad I, general view of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 3.24 The multipurpose building of Murad I, capital of the column dividing the eastern lateral arch of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey 4.1 Ahmedī’s Iskendername, the scene preceding the birth of Alexander, fol. 19a, manuscript dated to 1416, Turc 309 4.2 Ahmedī’s Iskendername, Alexander’s hunt in India, fol. 117b, manuscript dated to 1416, Turc 309 4.3 The Church of the Jacobins, view toward the apse, 1335, Toulouse, France 4.4 The Church of the Jacobins, choir vaulting, 1335, Toulouse, France 4.5 The Church of the Jacobins, groves for the screens separating the two sections of the nave, 1335, Toulouse, France 4.6 The Cathedral of Saint-Cécile, 1282–1480, Albi, France 4.7 The Church of San Domenico, view of the southern apse, after 1315, Istanbul, Turkey 4.8 St. George, exonarthex, Chora Church, 1316–1320, Istanbul, Turkey 4.9 The multipurpose building of Murad I, detail of the central arch of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey

xi 176 177 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 185 210 213 218 220 223 225 230 238 239

Acknowledgements

This is perhaps the most difficult part of the book to write. The physical entity that you are holding in your hands, or its digital counterpart that you are viewing on your screens, is the product of a long period of learning, research, writing, and rewriting, but the actual book has a much longer and less precise history than that. I cannot even remember when I first thought about the Mediterranean, rather than seeing it, or being in it. It was perhaps while reading an archeology book I found in my aunt Semra’s library, or among my father İskender’s collection; or maybe when I first read Cevat Şakir’s Mavi Kıta Akdeniz (Mediterranean the Blue Continent), long before I even knew about the existence of Fernand Braudel. Of course, the formation of some kind of an academic idea about the Mediterranean began with Braudel, in a historiography seminar at Koç University in Istanbul. That idea continued to grow and change in graduate seminars at Sabancı University, still in Istanbul and in the extended Mediterranean. Then, an ocean and a few hundred miles away from the Mediterranean, at Binghamton University in Upstate New York, the book puts on its first scholarly attire in the form of a distantly related dissertation. But, it was here, even farther away from the Mediterranean, in the Pacific Northwest that the physical form of the book started to take shape. That being the case, the list of names to thank along this journey is too long, and as in every list, there is always the danger of leaving someone out. So, I would like to thank all my professors, mentors, friends and colleagues, and my family who have contributed to the making of this book in one way or another. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers of the book for their valuable inputs and the editorial team of Routledge for their hard work. However, there are a few names that I would like single out. Without the encouragement, mentorship, and support of my advisor and dear friend Barbara Abou-El-Haj, none of this would have been possible; nor without the ever-rigorous critical insight of Rifa’at Abou-El-Haj, who continues to read and comment on my work. Equally indispensable were the genuine academic care that Nancy Um showed to my work and the professional guidance that she provided afterwards. The long journey of this book required two long stays in Toulouse. My beloved cousins Wlad and Marie-Jo’s hospitality, love, and humour proved that work and pleasure can be easily mixed as long as you have the right catalysts. Although

Acknowledgements xiii the writing of the book took place in many different locations across the world, a good chunk of it found its “microecology” in my mother Türkan’s balcony overlooking the Aegean, to the extent that one of her friends even joked that I was going to take away the balcony with me when I left. Although I thank her “for all the fish,” it is never going to be a “so long.” Happily, lovingly, and always with a smile she turned all my frustration and bitterness into joy. Last, but never ever the least, I want to thank my one and only love, comrade and companion for life, Sanem. She has been with me throughout the longest and most difficult part of this journey, and truly with me. From my moments of depression to our stolen days and Sunday roasts, from our heated discussions – whether academic or practically political – to our wine-infused lazy afternoons, during times of crisis and days of celebration, she has loved, cared, and inspired. And after three continents and nearly two decades, she is still not bored with me. So, thank you love, thank you, I owe you one, IOU :)

Note on transliteration

The structure of the following book, and its geographical and chronological span, requires some compromise, albeit to the dismay of the experts of the individual fields represented in its scope. In order to ease reading, transliteration has been avoided as much as possible. All names and terms from the Seljuq and Ottoman periods are given according to their contemporary Turkish pronunciations. For example, vakıf and not waqf, Keykubad and not Kayqubād or Qayqubād. Commonly used names in Arabic, such as Ibn Batuta, are similarly not transliterated. For all other names in Arabic, transliteration follows the International Journal of Middle East Studies guidelines, unless the names appear in titles and quotations that use other guidelines. Latin and Genoese terms are used only when translation is either impractical and/or impedes the meaning.

Polyrhythmia

What you are about to read is an unusual book. It tells a story about architecture that takes place in the medieval Mediterranean, but it is neither a history of the Mediterranean, nor of Mediterranean architecture.1 The story involves one thirteenth-century caravanserai from the central Anatolian town of Kayseri, built during the rule of the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum; one twelfth-century pilgrimage church from Toulouse in Southern France, dating back to the time when the town was the capital of an independent county; a Dominican church from Toulouse constructed in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries when the County of Toulouse was incorporated into the Kingdom of France; two fourteenth-century multipurpose buildings (zaviye-imaret) from the Western Anatolian town of Bursa, commissioned by two successive Ottoman rulers; and another Dominican church and a palazzo from the Genoese colony of Pera, situated across Constantinople. Yet, these are not the protagonists of the story, but the settings in and around which the narrative unfolds. What you are about to follow is not a story of architecture as a form, but as lived, perceived, and experienced space. Rather than how buildings from distant corners of the Mediterranean ended up looking so similar, you are going to read about how distant buildings that may or may not show formal-architectonic similarities were experienced differently by different audiences, and furthermore, how the commensurability of such differences could have become the ground for an architectural history of experiences and perceptions. And, this unusual story is going to reveal itself through chapters named and structured according to particular movements and rhythms, either facilitated and managed by the above buildings, or introduced and (re)configured by their intentional and unintentional users. That being the case, all of these oddities need some clarification, and that is going to be the endeavour of the following pages. But, after a short intermission as courtesy of international copyright laws that encourage ever-more creative ways to incorporate excerpts from fiction into scholarly publications: He realized that he had defeated the city. He crouched on the roof (of which building he did not know) and looked out over London at an angle from which the city was never meant to be seen. He had defeated the conspiracy of architecture, the tyranny by which the buildings that women and men had

2 Polyrhythmia built had taken control of them, circumscribed their relations, confined their movements. These monolithic products of human hands had turned on their creators, and defeated them with common sense, quietly installed themselves as rulers. They were as insubordinate as Frankenstein’s monster, but they had waged a more subtle campaign, a war of position more effective by far. Saul kicked carelessly off and stalked across the roofs and walls of London.2

1415 Between 1384 and 1400, the Venetian Senate sent a series of decrees to the colonial government in Crete, ordering the officials to find more reasonable means for the payment of debts. Insolvency had become a major cause of imprisonment, and many debtors, who feared the inevitable fate that awaited them, were either leaving the island, or worse, joining with Turkish corsairs in their raids against Venetian ports.3 Still worse, the Turkish corsairs were also receiving support from Cretans who were not necessarily in debt.4 The situation must have been particularly confusing for the Venetian authorities. Just a few decades ago, in the suppression of the Rebellion of St. Titus (1365) initiated by its own colonists on Crete, Venice had relied on the support of Turkish mercenaries.5 In 1403 though, things became even more baffling when Venice received an unusual request from Turkish refugees escaping the Mongol raids that followed the Ottoman defeat against Timur in the Battle of Ankara (1402). Numbering in hundreds, the refugees were willing to colonize the island of Samos in the name of Venice.6 But, other Turks were still troubling the Serenissima with their insatiable desire for piracy.7 Although not a direct concern for Venice, some were even taking the considerable risk of sailing fifty-seven nautical miles from Ephesus to the island of Leros, then under the control of the Knights of St. John, to engage in, what might be broadly termed social banditry: stealing the livestock of the peasants, and taking them back to Ephesus.8 And in 1415, when in every major district of Crete, men of the “vilest condition” began preaching rebellion for the freedom of all serfs, the threat was so big and so widespread that the authorities had to come up with the subtle yet ingenious plan to implement spies for better surveillance of the ringleaders.9 It seems that, unlike Fernand Braudel’s wishful imagination, the Mediterranean was not beating with the same rhythms, even the Venetian Mediterranean, even within the fifty years from 1365 to 1415.10

2017 The beach is uncharacteristically empty, and under the shade of the bar area there are too many empty chairs to blame the scorching sun. Marking the border between the bar and the beach are rusty poles, and on them, flapping with haste, the wind-thorn flags of every EU member country, including the twelve-star EU banner itself. It is a strange choice of decoration for a bar whose owner is a selfproclaimed hippy. The clues are written at the backs of the chairs: “We are all

Polyrhythmia 3 Europeans now,” “Give Greece a Chance.” They are mementos to the 2015 negotiations between the SYRIZA government and the Troika (EC, ECB, IMF) for a humane relief program to get Greece out of its financial crisis. The negotiations had failed drastically, and in 2017 Greece was still under harsh austerity measures imposed by the Troika. Yet, given the opportunism of travel agencies that produce ever cheaper package holidays for their sun and beer-hungry customers, one would have expected the economic crisis to fill the beach with happy middle-class families, and not with desolate sun beds. To slightly modify David Abulafia’s observations, it seems that easyJet flights and H&M bikinis are failing in their mission to maintain Mediterranean connectivity.11 Unlike other Greek islands with far more prominent Instagram presences, this particular one, in this particular corner of the Mediterranean, but still within the borders of a country which was the epitome of Europeanness, which was the one unmovable referent in the imagination of a unified European identity, is left like an empty sun-bed to decay under the Mediterranean sun. It seems that, after six hundred years, the Mediterranean is still not beating with the same rhythms. Indeed, as I will argue, the Mediterranean has always been polyrhythmic, reaching a level of cacophony that defied all metric measures. Yet, at the same time, such multiplicity of rhythms and movements, dissonant and often imperceptible though they may be, fluctuated across the waters and the terrains of the Mediterranean and maintained its connectivity, though not as a pristine puzzle with neatly fitting pieces, but as an assemblage of ever-rearranging fragments. There is, however, another particularity of the Mediterranean that we need to pay attention to. As polyrhythmic, fragmented, yet connected it has been, the Mediterranean has at the same time been an essentially political space; political not in the sense of military conflicts and diplomatic relations among the monarchies and republics that exerted claims over it, but political in the sense of movements of a different nature, sometimes taking the form of explosive rebellions, sometimes manifesting themselves more subtly on the micro level, but nonetheless allowing the multitudes to exert their presences onto the many landscapes of the Mediterranean. The sun-beds and chairs on the said beach are empty, precisely because of the ripple effects of this political Mediterranean. What began in 2010 in Tunisia, and what was quickly, and not very inaccurately termed the Arab Spring, was at the same time a Mediterranean-wide uprising. Every Arab country where protests took place was either a Mediterranean country by virtue of being on its shores, or it was part of the extended Mediterranean maintained by maritime and land routes dating back to the antiquity.12 The uprisings quickly spread to the northern shores of the Mediterranean, creating mass movements in Spain, France, Italy, Greece, and Turkey. It was in relation to the 2010–2013 movements that SYRIZA had come to power in Greece, and it was because no other party but SYRIZA was in power that the Troika had purposefully enforced its harsh measures.13 However, the solution to the curious case of the empty beach is not in the SYRIZA government, or in the economic crisis, which, as I already noted would have only been an invaluable profit opportunity for travel agencies. As the

4 Polyrhythmia uprisings of 2010–2013 spread along North Africa into the Eastern Mediterranean and beyond, they presented another kind of opportunity to other “agencies” of the West (West defined here in very Cold War terms as the leading members of the NATO). Various “agencies,” secret or otherwise could now close old files, gathering dust in the cabinets and consuming precious data in hard drives. Interventions in Libya and Syria, soon joined by other powers that be and wannabe, created two ongoing civil wars and a resurgence of militarized radical Islam, all of which subsequently led to the continuing displacement of millions of people from their homes.14 The latter of these, the EU defined quickly, and this time very inaccurately as a “refugee crisis.”15 It was the fear of the asylum seekers that had led to mass cancelations of package holidays in the summer of 2017. Here, then, is the ripple effect of 2010–2013, and the solution to the mystery of the empty beach on this beautiful Greek island, Samos, and here also, in this anecdotal account of the present is the logic of this book, which I am now going to unpack by looking at events, movements and rhythms in relation to temporality, architecture, and connectivity.

Temporality It is perhaps no coincidence that one of the most observant, self-reflexive and still relevant discourses on the practice of history was written during WWII, a present that proclaimed its presence with such unforgiving violence. It is no coincidence, because those words, perhaps written in some safe house, or in a cavern of the Massif Central, came from Marc Bloch while he was the leader of the Resistance based in Lyon, and lucidly argued that whatever history may be, it always begins in the present, it is always about the present.16 Of course, our understanding of history, along with the methodologies of various historical disciplines have significantly changed since then, which only confirms Bloch’s observations. Because, what he meant by the primacy of the present was not simply about the availability of empirical evidence: which archives are open, what kinds of documents are left, which objects are on view, which buildings, sculptures, and frescos can be seen, etc. He argued against a priori determinisms of what must have happened in the past, and instead proposed that the events and experiences of the present, and its conceptual tools should always encourage us to think anew what else might have happened in the past, and to question how differently we can reconsider that which has happened. In other words, change in the present always changes the past, and history does not unfold along a line of casual relationships. History is the aggregate of events and experiences scattered across a plane, where the connections between the present and the past are multiple and always reconfigured. Then, it is no coincidence that the most poetic expression of this non-historicist perception of history came from Walter Benjamin, another Jewish intellectual writing during the same tumultuous present and its violent presence: But no state of affairs having casual significance is for that very reason historical. It became historical posthumously, as it were, through events that

Polyrhythmia 5 may be separated from it by thousands of years. The historian who proceeds from this recognition ceases to tell the sequence of events like the beads of a rosary. He grasps the constellation into which his own era has entered, along with a very specific earlier one. Thus, he establishes a conception of the present as now-time [Jetztzeit] shot through with splinters of messianic time.17 Undoubtedly, the book you are reading is also informed by its present, which has significantly changed since 2017, when the above paragraph was first written. The situation in Libya and Syria has only worsened, and saw increased Turkish and Russian military interventions. The liberal-conservative New Democracy has replaced the SYRIZA in Greece, but as of today there are no clear signs of relief from austerity in the near future. On top of that, Greece and Turkey have come to the brink of military conflict in the Eastern Mediterranean. Asylum seekers are still escaping their war-torn countries, and those who manage to overcome the perils of the Mediterranean are only met with increased hostilities wherever they land. There have been newer social movements, most notably the gilets jaunes in France, but the farther the movement has spread from France, the farther to the right it has approached, as in Canada where it has become a xenophobic white nationalist movement. Finally, we are currently living under a global pandemic, with partial or full lockdowns. Masks that were once purchased en masse in Turkey for protection against the excessive use of tear gas by the police are now distributed by the government for protection against COVID-19. And for most of us, Mediterranean connectivity today is merely an online experience defined and limited by the visualized interfaces of computer codes. All that being said, let me clarify right away that this present does not inform the past(s) that will unfold in the remainder of the book in any analogical manner. The indebted Cretans of the fourteenth century are not the indebted Greeks of the twenty-first century. The Turkish refugees of Samos are not the Syrian asylum seekers on Samos. The Mongol invasion of Anatolia and the subsequent Ottoman civil war do not add up to the fifteenth-century equivalent of the situation in Syria. Medieval rebels are not the activists of the Tahrir Square, and to expose the elephant in the room, COVID-19 is not the Black Death. À la Marc Bloch, the present expands to the past through the epistemological openings that it provides, through the new questions, approaches and methodologies that it reveals. The first of such openings relates to temporality. One particularity of the 2010– 2013 movements has been commonly defined as their prefigurative nature; that is, the presence of the desired future already in the practices of the uprisings and the encampments. In W. J. T. Mitchell’s words, the participants refused “to describe or define in any detail the world that they wanted to create, while showing this world in its actual presence as a nascent community.”18 This aspect of the uprisings encourages a different perspective on the temporality of the event, again, not as a model that can be mechanically applied to the events of the past, but as a conceptual tool. If, in their prefigurative-ness, the 2010–2013 movements dissolve the linear sequentiality between the present and the future, then with the same logic, they cannot be circumscribed to a chronology with preparatory antecedents and conclusive aftermaths. Instead, it would be more accurate to think about the

6 Polyrhythmia event as existing in an expansive temporality, which we would define as stretching into the past and the future simply because of the numerical progression of our calendars, whether Gregorian or Hijri. Within this framework, the significance of the explosive intensification of the event notwithstanding, it becomes precisely that, an intensification, and not the consequence of a series of causes that succeeded one another chronologically. In that sense, once shot out of the rosary beads of historicist teleology, the event can be perceived not only as embodying the future in its present, but also as having already been embodied; prefigurative and having already been prefigured at the same time. This is the epistemological opening that allows a reconsideration of minor events and varied practices of resistance and subversion on the micro level in and of themselves, in their own prefigurative capacities, rather than simply as snowballs in the process of becoming avalanches. There are a number of momentous events in the purview of this book, some of which I have previously discussed in detail, including the relationship between architecture and one major rebellion.19 Although the same events and others will make their appearances in the following pages, my focus will be less on them, and more on the subtle interventions, hard to detect at times, but capable of producing different movements and rhythms, through which the multitudes experienced life and architecture differently. In that respect, movements and rhythms, as they relate to the event, are on the one hand what we might call medieval social movements and upheavals, either leading to or embodying the potential of large-scale structural transformations. On the other hand, they are firstly the simple rhythms of the everyday, the seemingly insignificant quotidian movements of the multitudes: how the life of a porter in Pera, or a baker in Bursa moved and rhymed differently than the lives of the patrons of the buildings that they saw every day. Secondly, they are the minute adjustments to existing movements and rhythms, slight tunings here and there by which the already existing differences of experience could have bypassed the intended functional and decorative significances of architecture. To rephrase one of the most widely evoked quotes in medieval history, even though peasant rebellions were “as endemic to the seigneurial regime as strikes are to large scale capitalism,” we know well by now that strikes are neither the only nor the most effective means of opposition.20 And, as I have argued elsewhere, the demands of the medieval rebels, the most ubiquitous of them being the communal use of property, are best regarded not as demands for a new future per se, but as proclamations of already existing practices that were to be the bases of a new future.21 It is admittedly difficult to pinpoint some of these practices with precision or to recognize them as political, particularly given the geographical and chronological scope of the book and the related divergence of sources that it relies on. For instance, in the second chapter of the book, most of the sections that discuss Anatolia during the thirteenth century come from the chronicle of Ibn Bibi, the court historian of the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum. This is not because Ibn Bibi’s account is the most reliable, or the only source on the period. Quite the opposite, it is a highly problematic narrative, and given that he was the court historian of the Sultanate, it provides a very biased view of the events.22

Polyrhythmia 7 This is precisely why I have selected it. Minor events and everyday practices on the micro level have always been in the blind spot of the authorities and their story tellers. Authorities only recognize the intensification of the event, explain it according to a causal logic that suits them, and find glory in its assumed suppression. It is this blindness of Ibn Bibi that makes his chronicle so invaluable. When read against the grain, it provides a perfect counterbalance to the parallel narrative of the second chapter, where communal records from Toulouse reveal what was hidden in chronicles comparable in their biased nature to Ibn Bibi’s account, hence allowing the intertwined discussion of different movements and rhythms, from different times and places, documented with varied levels of detail. Therefore, everyday practices on the micro level, quotidian movements and rhythms, and the minute readjustments and tunings that they receive are neither recorded with equal detail across the Mediterranean, nor are they of the same kind. They exist in the polyrhythmic landscapes of the Mediterranean, and they do not constitute a set of the same. The experiences of the porter in Pera and the baker in Bursa were not the same. They moved through life in different rhythms, and they re-tuned their movements and rhythms differently. Yet, in the liminal extensions of such differences, movements and rhythms revealed their commensurate potentiality to produce different experiences with architecture, and assembled into a multiplicity of ever-rearranging fragments. Precisely because this molecular world is mostly hidden, and is in the blind spot of not just medieval chroniclers, but also modern historians, its revelation requires careful scrutiny, and also a certain amount of imagination, even speculation. At times, the present book only asks questions, without giving answers, simply because the existing evidence, with all the scrutiny, imagination and speculation involved, often provides only the possibility of questions, without any definitive answers. But these questions need to be asked, because without the experiences of the users that change with new events, with new movements and rhythms of life, there is no architecture, but only bricks and stones. And this is the second epistemological opening of the present: a different conceptualization of architecture and spatial politics, in which the primacy of the built environment is replaced by the primacy of the events and movements that no longer simply activate space, but transform it. As the next section is going to clarify, the transformative capacity of events and movements constitutes one of the two lines of connectivity that linked distant buildings through experiences and perceptions; the other being the movements and rhythms that the buildings themselves facilitated.

Architecture “In the fourteenth century, the extraordinary diffusion of the ablaq [banded masonry] corresponded to a sort of international style in the architecture of all civilizations that overlook the Mediterranean.”23 These are the words that conclude Alireza Naser Eslami’s remarkable article that begins with two portals in Genoa, then expands to an elaborate discussion on the spread of architectural styles in the medieval Mediterranean. Eslami’s observation is undoubtedly accurate, and the

8 Polyrhythmia article, along with his other publications on Genoa and the Mediterranean, provides important contributions to the extensive literature on exchange and fusion in medieval Mediterranean architecture.24 The present book owes great debt to and relies extensively on the achievements of this scholarship. However, on the issue of cross-cultural exchange, it takes a slightly different path.25 To see that, let’s return to the extraordinary spread of the ablaq, and three important questions that it raises: Who would have recognized it as an international style? What did the buildings that applied alternating bichrome masonry have in common other than stylistic resemblance? And, what were the dynamics that defined the buildings’ relationship to their locale? With the increased travel restrictions of our pandemic-structured lives, we became both more dependent on and more conscientious of a privilege as extraordinary as the spread of the ablaq in the medieval Mediterranean. It is not much of an ordeal for us to travel between Cordoba, Genoa, Istanbul, and Damascus, and to view distant buildings side by side from the comfort of our homes. Given the physical and financial difficulties of a Mediterranean-wide excursion, the funding and grants that need to be secured to book even the cheapest flights and the most spartan of accommodations, this is a practice that we all occasionally resorted to long before the pandemic. But, when the internet became more or less the only means of travel, the privileges that it provided simultaneously became more apparent. Along with this realization, though, came another one. As university education in most parts of the world turned online, we understood that the internet is not a privilege that is democratically distributed across the globe. How much one can browse and download depends on a number of factors including the speed and stability of the connection, hence geography, social class and income level, and the lack or presence of government restrictions and censorship. As I will argue in the third chapter, and as one should expect, this discrepancy was far more obvious in the medieval Mediterranean, and extensive voyages that would have allowed experiences of multiple buildings was the entitlement of the few. For the majority, architecture was a highly localized phenomenon, its internationalism unrecognizable. Therefore, rather than projecting our contemporary possibilities of movement (physical and virtual) to the past, it would be more accurate to think through our incapacities and restrictions. This leaves us at somewhat of an impasse. On the one hand, formal and stylistic similarities between distant buildings could have been observed only by a limited number of people, which invites serious caution when it comes to making those correspondences the basis of a comparative study, unless that study is only concerned with the dynamics of patronage where such similarities do become meaningful. But, this book is not interested only in that. On the other hand, most of the buildings that shared certain formal or stylistic elements were at the same time typologically and functionally distinct: to stick with banded masonry, the Palace of the Porphyrogenitus in Constantinople and the Cathedral of San Lorenzo in Genoa, for instance. Then, what can be the link between them, how can we methodologically move from one building to the other?

Polyrhythmia 9 A useful exit strategy comes from Bernard Tschumi. In his introduction to Event Cities 4, Tschumi develops the idea of “concept-form” as the common element of the buildings discussed in the volume. Although written from the point of view of design, his arguments can also be methodologically applied to architectural history, but with some very careful readjustments. After all, in contrasting conceptform to type and typology, Tschumi defines it as a diagram that is not bound by history or historical context, which cannot be the approach of an architectural historian. But, Tschumi provides a potential opening when he argues that a circular form does not necessarily have to refer to a historical precedent, although they might share certain geometrical characteristics.26 In other words, in order to discuss the Dome of the Rock, one does not need to go back to Roman mausolea, on which the rotunda of the Holy Sepulchre was based and to which the Dome of the Rock responded.27 If we combine this observation with a reverse definition of the concept-form, so that rather than being an abstraction that becomes concrete as it is filled with a program and a content for a specific context, but a paradigm abstracted from the concrete by the empirical removal of its typological and programmatic normativity, then we have an exit from our impasse. Instead of type, form, style (including decoration), and program, this book focuses on what the buildings did in their machinic qualities. First of all, conceptform is less about what a building looks like, and more about what a building does as a generator of events, activities, and new conditions.28 To give an example from the first two chapters of the book, caravanserais and pilgrimage churches are typologically different buildings. They have distinct forms and styles, and they are programmed to fulfil different functions. However, they all facilitated sequential long-distance movements across space with metric rhythms. Although these movements served different purposes, they were central to the events, activities and the new conditions that the buildings generated. Secondly, what the buildings did, how they related to their locale was not always limited to their programmatic functions. Continuing with caravanserais and pilgrimage churches, for their construction and maintenance, they either fully or partially relied on the extraction of revenues in the form of taxes and rents sequenced throughout the year. In other words, while facilitating the long-distance movements of transient users, which either directly or indirectly contributed to their revenues, buildings also moved relationally into their locales, benefitting from the long-established division of medieval societies between rulers (broadly defined) and tax-paying subjects (broadly defined) of varied degrees of dependency. Therefore, while variants of these two movements generated and managed by buildings constitute the first line of connectivity that this book follows, at their disjunction emerges the second line, constituted by the movements of the multitudes who were not always among the targeted audiences of the patrons. Bernard Tschumi published Event Cities 4 in 2010, shortly before the uprisings and the encampments of the next three years began to redefine the relationship between users and the built environment. Tschumi’s theoretical approach to architecture and his practice already embodied a strong emphasis on the users’ potential to transform architecture through the events and movement that they

10 Polyrhythmia generated. Most clearly explored in The Manhattan Transcripts of 1981 (consider the related radicalism of “to really appreciate architecture, you may even need to commit murder” in Advertisements for Architecture, 1976–1977) and materialized in the anti-typological follies of the Parc de la Villette in Paris (1982–1997), this was an emphasis, like in the Event Cities series, that was directed at the architects; a call to revolutionary architects to produce revolutionary architecture that did not dictate, but was open to transformation through activation.29 However, in 2013 when Tschumi gave an interview to the journal Architectural Design, his focus switched away from the architects, whom, for the purposes of this book we might translate as the patrons, to the occupiers, whom, we might translate as the multitudes. Tschumi argued that the act of occupation, in its exposure of the contradictions in contemporary urban planning, such as the division between public and private spaces, and in its redefinition of all such categories, was an architectural act of transgression that no longer involved the planners and the architects, but was generated by the occupiers.30 Louis Rice followed the same line of reasoning, and via Alain Badiou, he redefined architecture as the immaterial production of processual qualities and relational assemblages, similarly generated by the occupiers.31 Yet, at this moment it is important to keep in mind Jonathan Mosley and Rachel Sara’s caution that transgression, whether considered from the point of view of design, or of user interventions, is always historically and culturally conditioned. One cannot expect to encounter the same transgression across time and space.32 Although this book has no intention to anachronistically transpose the present onto the past, following the epistemological opening of the present, and returning once again to Tschumi’s earlier writings, the book does argue that “there is no architecture without everyday life, movement, and action; and that it is the most dynamic aspects of their disjunctions that suggest a new definition of architecture.”33 That is why the second line of connectivity between distant buildings is composed of the molecular events of the everyday, the movements and rhythms of the multitudes, all of which, in their different capacities, with varied kinds of readjustment and re-tuning, transformed architecture. The introduction will conclude with a final section on connectivity, which is already “prefigured” in the lines above. However, before that I need to make one last clarification. So far, you have read about the two lines of connectivity between distant buildings, but not much about why these specific buildings were chosen, and not others. Similarly, I have not yet mentioned why my selection includes only so many buildings, and not more. The first part of the answer to these questions is very straightforward. As the first lines of the introduction already underlined, this book is neither a history of the Mediterranean, nor of Mediterranean architecture. Hence, it does not provide a survey of as many buildings as possible, from as many different parts of the Mediterranean as possible. The second part of the answer, on the other hand, is slightly more complex. The buildings of this book are not selective examples from a set with predetermined limits. They are paradigms for the methodological logic of the book.

Polyrhythmia 11 Let me clarify this step by step. In order to take the first step, it is imperative to remove any a priori rule or norm that makes a given building an example of a specific typology. Because, such a limited set only allows movements among the same, and obstructs the links between the different. Therefore, the second step is the generation of a movement from particular to particular, from singularity to singularity, where there is no a priori rule already determining what the emergent multiplicity should look like. The operational principle of this movement is immanence, rather than transcendence, and its multiplicity emerges in the movement from one singularity to another, as always immanent. Hence, the methodology is “radically empiricist,” and neither works according to universal norms, nor tries to become such a norm itself.34 Connectedly, this book does not work with a set constituted according to a priori rules that allow the expansion of the set only to the extent that such rules permit. Instead of enumerating examples whose limits are already defined, the book paradigmatically maps an open plane that can be folded and unfolded in all directions.35 That is why I have no claim to define a potentially transcendent taxonomy, such as Mediterranean architecture, but choose to present one possible cartography of linking distant buildings through movements, events, and experiences. And that is also why I have no claim to define (or redefine) what the Mediterranean is/was, but choose to think about the connectivity of movements, events, and experiences across its expanses.

Connectivity It would not be an exaggeration to argue that the Mediterranean escapes definitions just as its salty waters escape your grasp. And, I also think that it would equally not be an exaggeration to see Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell’s The Corrupting Sea as something of a milestone in Mediterranean studies, not only because of the sheer amount of literature that it generated, but also because Horden and Purcell refrained from drawing the boundaries of a Mediterranean with set limits, cultural and geographical alike.36 Instead, within a microecological framework, they explored the connectivity of its fragmented microregions, without imposing any absolute separation between town and countryside, nor providing any deterministic definition of either.37 It is a version of their methodology that I employ in this book, but again, reconfigured according to the epistemological openings of the present. Central to Horden and Purcell elaboration of connectivity is the interdependence and inseparability of two means of physical connectivity in the Mediterranean: the predetermined and relatively well-recorded trajectories of shipping lanes and land routes, and the more aberrant, less perceptible and not-so-welldocumented movements of all other kinds of maritime and inland carriers of things and peoples.38 As you might have surmised from my earlier comments on caravanserais and pilgrimage churches, these two intertwined movements will appear in this book as well. However, crucial though it may be, such polyrhythmic

12 Polyrhythmia mingling of connectivities still involves some level of economic incentive, or to use Horden and Purcell’s terminology, some degree of redistribution.39 The more radical intervention of The Corrupting Sea appears in the discussion of the immaterial means of connectivity maintained by lines of sound and sight, in the difference between the “vertical relation of the traveller to immediate physical setting” and the “horizontal one that binds ecologies together.”40 Starting with how sound operated as the means of connectivity between the mountainous villages of Ikaria (the closest settled island to Samos in the Middle Ages), and continuing with how sight was the primary “tool” used in navigation, while also maintaining visual connectivity between microregions, Horden and Purcell present a whole new sense of Mediterranean connectivity.41 This is where their analogy between Brownian motion and the oscillations between the predetermined, regularized trajectories of shipping lanes and the aberrant movements of caboteurs become more meaningful.42 Sights, sounds, linear trajectories, and entangled webs of movement begin to fluctuate into such a cacophonous polyrhythmia of connectivity that the link between one site, or building, and another can no longer be limited to immediately perceptible means. Connectivity exists in the observed movements of a particle, just as much as it does in movements that miss both sight and hindsight. Let us now take one final detour into the present and oscillate between The Corrupting Sea and the events of 2010–2013. It is no revelation to anyone who has ever followed the news that social media was always presented as the binding agent of the 2010–2013 movements, not just the ones in and around the Mediterranean, but also those across the Atlantic (Occupy Wall Street in US and the Vinegar Movement in Brazil, for instance). Accordingly, one can find an astounding amount of academic articles, book chapters, and dissertations on the role of the social media in various occupy movements.43 There is certainly something alluring about the dominant presence of the social media in the events of 2010–2013, but as Horden and Purcell warn, one needs to approach such alluringly dominant networks with caution, as they often hide more than they reveal.44 Following that warning, it is important to remember Marc Bloch once again. Wherever and under whatever circumstances Bloch was writing those precise sentences, he nonetheless recollected his experiences during another present, by then a past: WWI. He contemplated the fact that he had written so much on medieval battles and wars, without ever experiencing victory or defeat, until he was in the trenches. He continued by speculating on how differently he would have written those passages on medieval battles and wars had he had the experiences of WWI; and how all of that could have changed now, depending on with what kinds of experiences he was to leave the new war in which he was engulfed.45 There is something quite relevant and powerful in Bloch’s comments. Until time travel is invented beyond science fiction, none of us will ever have an experience of how exactly connectivity, communication, and physical movement operated in the medieval Mediterranean. But, in the overlap between Horden and Purcell’s interventions, Bloch’s remarks, and the experiences of the present, there is also an opening. And, I have to underline once again that in what follows there

Polyrhythmia 13 is no attempt to form analogical links, so all the clauses that include the phrase just as (or variants of it), and everything else that appears in italics should be interpreted as practical means to clarify my point. So, just as Bloch wrote, there is a difference between writing about something, and writing about that same thing after experiencing a version of it, even when those experiences may be separated by time and space; even when they may be categorically so different. Because, at the end of the day, an assemblage emerges not in the semiotic conjugation of the same, but in the unfolding disjunction of the different. During the 2010–2013 uprisings, for many of us in the encampments, connectivity and communication were not maintained by social media outlets transmitted through smart phones, which most of us did not own anyway, at least then. Information came through such means, but once it hit the ground, connectivity worked through other channels, which were not limited to older practices of word of mouth. There were so many instances when we were doing things that we were never told to do that it became difficult not to be suspicious of our own consciences. There is no question that information in “bulk” was carried through WiFi networks, just as there is no question that ships and caravans of the medieval Mediterranean carried the bulk goods, redistributing them in whichever port or city they landed. Yet, once information “landed,” the way that it was redistributed was as untraceable to us, as it was to the inhabitants of medieval ports and cities. There were always caboteurs involved in that movement of information, from those connected to global networks to those working on the ground, just as there were in the medieval Mediterranean, some operating very locally in their microregions, others always in touch with shipping lanes and caravan routes. Finally, during the nights, the trusted sentinels were not the invisible satellites and their networks, but the neighbourhood kids who kept watch over the barricades; who, when they caught any sight of police approach, communicated back not with their phones, but with the lines of sound transmitted through whistles. This is finally where all pieces of the introduction and the book come together in an aberrant assemblage. While defining the architectural paradox as the “impossibility of questioning the nature of space and at the same time making or experiencing a real space,” Tschumi identifies the realm of architectural conception with the Pyramid, and the realm of spatial experiences with the Labyrinth: a high point of ideas where architecture is conceived, and a maze of senses where it is experienced.46 Now, mingle that with one of the most frequently cited thinkers in any text on architecture and movement: Michel de Certeau, and particularly his distinction between the voyeur’s vision from the top of the World Trade Center and the walker’s remaking of the city by getting lost in the streets of Manhattan.47 It is impossible not to see the resonances between Tschumi’s Pyramid and the Labyrinth and de Certeau’s skyscraper and street, with their equal emphasis on the users’ potentiality to transform architecture through movements, events, and experiences. At this juncture, let’s also consider Horden and Purcell’s rejection of the urbanrural distinction in relation to Henri Lefebvre, a scholar who has had an even more dominant presence in architectural history and urban studies, and whose one

14

Polyrhythmia

crucial observation has unfortunately turned into a slogan and lost its broader context: “the city is a projection of the social relationships on the ground.”48 When re-situated into Lefebvre’s oeuvre, what the quote really underlined was the inseparability of the city and the countryside, precisely because the social relations that defined one flowed into the other as well.49 Rodney H. Hilton made a comparable observation in his study on medieval towns in England and France, where he argued that the overlapping distribution of political and economic authority between the city and the countryside produced a fluid relationship, unifying the urban and the rural.50 Similarly, to varying degrees, all the buildings discussed in this book relied on revenues from agrarian sources. Therefore, with such extensions into rural landscapes, it would be erroneous to define them as strictly urban, and obviously, caravanserais were not urban structures to begin with. But, it is also important to remember that movements between the town and the countryside, relational and physical alike, were not unidirectional. At least in the south of France, quite a few villages managed to form communal governments, which confused the authorities to such an extent that the residents of all such villages were recorded in the official documents as burghers.51 The ironic documentation of the villagers as burghers implies something quite significant: by establishing communal governments, the villagers in fact managed to escape the relational networks of the buildings (many of them urban) that extended into the countryside as the apparatuses of the ruling elites. Hence, it would not be all that preposterous to think about the possibility of architecture transformed by not just urban dwellers, but also by peasants and pastoralists who embodied the potential to render obsolete at least one intended function of the buildings that they might have never seen and experienced in person. The conclusion ends here, at this emergent assemblage, where connectivity gains such a polyrhythmic intensity that discernible trajectories and networks, established distinctions and normative taxonomies lose their dominance. This is where sights and sounds, caboteurs and their Brownian motions, the multitudes and their quotidian movements and rhythms, experiences and molecular events take the stage in the often-imperceptible entanglement of their differences. This is where masonry, banded or otherwise, breaks away from its structure, and structure no longer constitutes architecture. This is where a cloth merchant of Toulouse, a porter from Pera, a nomad in Kayseri, and a baker of Bursa meet in their defiance of spatial and temporal constraints, in their potentiality to transform architecture. Neither the Pyramid disappears, nor the Labyrinth, but the “the Labyrinth is such that it entertains dreams that include the dream of the Pyramid,” which, needless to say does not exclude the dream of its dissolution.52 This is where that dream begins, in fluctuations.

Notes 1 Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000), for the history in and history of distinction see 1–5, 43–45.

Polyrhythmia 15 2 China Miéville, King Rat (New York: Tor, 1998), 221. 3 Nickiphoros I. Tsougarakis, “Prisons and Incarceration in Fourteenth-Century Venetian Crete,” Mediterranean Historical Review 29:1 (2014): 29–55, at 35. 4 Freddy Thiriet, ed., Délibérations des Assemblées vénitiennes concernant la Romaine, Vol. 2, 1364–1463 (Paris: Mouton, 1971), 84. 5 On the rebellion, see Sally McKee, “The Revolt of St Tito in Fourteenth-Century Venetian Crete: A Reassessment,” Mediterranean Historical Review 9:2 (1994): 173–204. 6 Freddy Thiriet, ed., Duca di Candia: Ducali e Lettere Ricevute 1358–1360; 1401– 14015 (Venice: Il Comitato Editore, Fonti per la Storia di Venezia, Sez. I-Archivi Pubblici, 1978), 36, 37. 7 For a report from the same year, see Freddy Thiriet, ed., Regestes des deliberations du Sénat de Venise concernant la Romaine, Vol. 2, 1400–1430 (Paris: Mouton, 1959), 41 (August 11, 1403). 8 de Clavijo, Ruy González, Text and Concordances of Biblioteca Nacional Manuscript 9218: Historia del gran Tamerlán (Madison: Hispanic Seminary of Medieval Studies, 1986), 26, 27 (fol. 13r). I had previously discussed some of these in the context of a major Ottoman rebellion in 1416. For that see, Saygin Salgirli, “The Rebellion of 1416: Recontextualizing an Ottoman Social Movement,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 55 (2012): 32–73. 9 Thiriet, ed., Regestes des deliberations du Sénat, Vol. 2, 139; and Michel Balivet, Islam mystique et revolution armee dans les Balkans ottomans: Vie du Cheikh Bedreddim Le ‘Hallaj des Turcs’ 1358/59–1416 (Istanbul: ISIS, 1995), 78, 79. 10 Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Vol. 1 (Berkley: University of California Press, 1995), 14, Preface to the English Edition. 11 David Abulafia, “A Globalized Mediterranean: 1900–2000,” in David Abulafia, ed., The Mediterranean in History (London: Thames and Hudson, 2003), 283–312, at 312. 12 Some of these connections will be explored in the next chapter. 13 See for instance, www.telegraph.co.uk/business/2016/07/28/imf-admits-disastrous-loveaffair-with-euro-apologises-for-the-i/; and www.opendemocracy.net/en/can-europemake-it/imf-abetted-european-union-s-subversion-of-greek-democracy/. 14 For the earlier phase of the situation in Libya and Syria, see Anas Abubakr Buera, “Libya’s Arab Spring: Revolution against a 42-Year Dictatorship,” Anas El Gomati, “Libya’s Islamists and the 17 February Revolution: A Battle for a Revolutionary Theology,” and Obaida Fares, “The Arab Spring Comes to Syria: Internal Mobilization for Democratic Change, Militarization and Internationalization,” in Larbi Sadiki, ed., Routledge Handbook of the Arab Spring: Rethinking Democratization (London: Routledge, 2015), 105–117; 118–132; and 145–159. For more recent developments, see Ibrahim Fraihat, Unfinished Revolutions: Yemen, Libya, and Tunisia afer the Arab Spring (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016), 22–40; Leonid Issaev and Andrey Zakharov, “Decentralization in Libya after the Arab Spring,” Middle East Policy 27:1 (2020): 56–70; C. S. R. Murphy, “United Nations and the Arab Spring: Role in Libya, Syria, and Yemen,” Contemporary Review of the Middle East 5:2 (2018): 116–136, and for a collection of essays on various aspects of the Arab Spring, including the EU – Mediterranean relations, see Cenap Çakmak and Ali Onur Özçelik, eds., The World Community and the Arab Spring (Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019). 15 See for instance, www.amnesty.org/en/what-we-do/refugees-asylum-seekers-and-migrants/ global-refugee-crisis-statistics-and-facts/; and www.theguardian.com/news/2018/jun/ 05/five-myths-about-the-refugee-crisis. 16 Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft (New York: Vintage Books, 1953), see especially 43–47. 17 Walter Benjamin, “On the Concept of History,” in Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings, eds., Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, Vol. 4, 1938–1940 (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of the Harvard University Press, 2003), 389–400, at 397. In this text, Benjamin is perhaps at his best, transforming messianic anticipation into the

16

18 19

20

21 22

23

24

25

Polyrhythmia revolutionary bringing about of the future (this is his messianic time), though admittedly, as Werckmeister observes, his initial optimism that posits the historian as the revolutionary, gradually leaves its place to a pessimism where revolution is only conceivable in history. On that, see O. K. Werckmeister, “Walter Benjamin’s Angel of History, or the Transfiguration of the Revolutionary into the Historian,” Critical Inquiry 22:2 (1996): 239–267. W. J. T. Mitchell, “Image, Space, Revolution: The Arts of Occupation,” Critical Inquiry 39:1 (2012): 8–32, at 10. Saygin Salgirli, “Orthodoxy, Dissent and Politics in Medieval France and Anatolia: A Comparative Perspective,” The Medieval History Journal 15:1 (2012): 63–102; “The Rebellion of 1416: Recontextualizing an Ottoman Social Movement,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 55:1 (2012): 32–73; and “Architectural Anatomy of an Ottoman Execution,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 72:3 (2013): 301–321. Marc Bloch, French Rural History: An Essay on Its Basic Characteristics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966), 170. For a more recent survey of medieval European rebellions, see Samuel K. Cohn, Jr., Lust for Liberty: The Politics of Social Revolt in Medieval Europe, 1200–1425: Italy, France, and Flanders (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006). Saygin Salgirli, “Radicalizing Premodern Space: A Perspective from the Late Medieval Ottoman World,” Radical History Review 130 (2018): 45–61. For the inadequacy of Ibn Bibi’s chronicle with regard to Seljuq-Mongol relations see Sara Nur Yıldız, “Mongol Rule in Thirteenth-Century Seljuq Anatolia: The Politics of Conquest and History Writing, 1243–1282,” (PhD Dissertation, University of Chicago, Chicago, 2006), 20–29; and for a critique of Ibn Bibi’s account of the Babai Rebellion (to be discussed in the second chapter of this book), see my “Orthodoxy and Dissent,” 82–85 (cited above). Alireza Naser Eslami, “Assimilazione, appropriazione e ricerca di un’architettura di ‘stile internazionale’ nel Mediterraneo medievale: la Porta Ianuae e l’architettura in ablaq a Genova,” in Alireza Naser Eslami, ed., Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo tra Bisanzio e il mondo islamico (Milano: Pearson Italia, 2016), 165–193, at 190. In addition to Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo, cited above, see also Alireza Naser Eslami, ed., Architetture e città del Mediterraneo tra Oriente e Occidente (Genoa: De Ferrari, 2006); Alireza Naser Eslami, Genova e il Mediterraneo: I riflessi d’oltremare sulla cultura artistica e l’architettura dello spazio urbano, XXI-XXVI Secolo (Genoa: De Ferrari, 2012); and Alireza Naser Eslami, Architetture del commercio e città del Mediterraneo: Dinamiche e strutture dei luoghi dello scambio tra Bisanzio, l’Islam e l’Europa (Milano: Bruno Monadori, 2010). Just to cite only a few key monographs, see, for instance Jerrilynn D. Dodds, Architecture and Ideology in Medieval Spain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990); William Tronzo, The Cultures of His Kingdom: Roger II and the Cappella Palatina in Palermo (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); Scott Redford, Landscape and the State in Medieval Anatolia: Seljuk Gardens and Pavilions of Alanya, Turkey (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000); Finbarr Barry Flood, The Great Mosque of Damascus: Studies on the Makings of an Umayyad Visual Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2001); Maria Georgopoulou, Venice’s Mediterranean Colonies: Architecture and Urbanism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001); Jill Caskey, Art and Patronage in the Medieval Mediterranean: Merchant Culture in the Region of Amalfi (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Robert G. Ousterhout, Eastern Medieval Architecture: The Building Traditions of Byzantium and Neighboring Lands (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019); and most recently, Suna Çağaptay, The First Capital of the Ottoman Empire: The Religious, Architectural, and Social History of Bursa (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2020). Unfortunately, while I am writing these final pages of the book, Çağaptay’s highly anticipated monograph is still not published.

Polyrhythmia 17

26 27

28 29

30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37

Therefore, I strongly encourage the readers to consult The First Capital and benefit from Çağaptay’s archeological expertise to fill any possible gap they might encounter in my discussion of Bursa. Bernard Tschumi, Event Cities 4: Concept-Form (Caambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2010), 13–21, at 15. Nasser Rabbat, “The Meaning of the Umayyad Dome of the Rock,” Muqarnas 6 (1989): 12–21. For more detail, Oleg Grabar, The Dome of the Rock (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006). And most recently, Milka Levy-Rubin, “Why Was the Dome of the Rock Built? A New Perspective on a Long-Discussed Question,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 80:3 (2017): 441–464. Tschumi, Event Cities 4, 19. Tschumi’s essays from 1976 to 1991 are collected in Bernard Tschumi, Architecture and Disjunction (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1996). See also Bernard Tschumi, The Manhattan Transcripts: Theoretical Projects (New York: Academy Editions/St. Martin’s, 1981); Louis Martin, “Transpositions: On the Intellectual Origins of Tschumi’s Architectural Theory,” Assemblage 11 (1990): 25–35; and Alexander Eisenschmidt, “Importing the City into Architecture: An Interview with Bernard Tschumi,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 130–135. Jonathan Mosley, “Architecture and Transgression: An Interview with Bernard Tschumi,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 32–37, at 35. Louis Rice, “Occupied Space,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 70–75, at 74. Jonathan Mosley and Rachel Sars, “The Architecture of Transgression: Towards a Destabilizing Architecture,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 14–19, at 15. Tschumi, Architecture and Disjunction, 23. Giorgio Agamben, The Signature of All Things: On Method (New York: Zone Books, 2009), 9–32, particularly 19–31; and on immanence, see Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, What Is Philosophy? (New York: Verso, 2009), 35–60. For that see Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987/2014), 12–17. It is neither practical, nor possible to give a full bibliography here. But, the following list of edited books encompass the most updated essays on the subject, including responses to The Corrupting Sea. They also provide further bibliographies of both past and recent studies. Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014); Mihran Dabag, Dieter Haller, Nikolas Jaspert, and Achim Lichtenberger, eds., New Horizons: Mediterranean Research in the 21st Century (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016); Brian A. Catlos and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., Can We Talk Mediterranean? Conversations on an Emerging Field in Medieval and Early Modern Studies (Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017); and Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Boundless Sea: Writing Mediterranean History (New York: Routledge, 2020). Of course, it is impossible not to include in this list David Abulafia’s cyclopean endeavour, The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). Finally, for an excellent contextualization of Islamic art and architectural history within Mediterranean studies, see Miriam Rosser-Owen, “Mediterraneanism: How to Incorporate Islamic Art into an Emerging Field,” Journal of Art Historiography 6 (June, 2012). And, see also the editorial “From ‘Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean’ to ‘Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean’,” Al-Masaq 26:1 (2014): 1–2, which announces the removal of “Islam” from the subtitle of the journal, since Islam has finally “become an acknowledged constituent of all things medieval Mediterranean.” For an elaboration of that, see Nicholas Purcell, “The Boundless Sea of Unlikeness? On Defining the Mediterranean,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18:2 (2003): 9–29; and Peregrine Horden, “Mediterranean Excuses: Historical Writing on the Mediterranean since Braudel,” History and Anthropology 16:1 (2005): 25–30. For the city-country discussion, see Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 89–122.

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38 Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 137–143. 39 Although the term is used throughout the book, se epsecially Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 342–365. 40 Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 124. 41 Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 124–133. 42 Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 142. 43 For the search query “social media occupy,” UBC library search engine reveals, directly or indirectly relevant 136,057 journal articles; 72,795 book chapters; 40,224 dissertations; and 1,524 books. Although the same query with “Arab Spring” reveals approximately 1/10 of these numbers, it is still remarkable. 44 Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 365–368. 45 Bloch, The Historian’s Craft, 44, 45. 46 Bernard Tschumi, “The Architectural Paradox,” in Tschumi, Architecture and Disjunction, 27–51, specifically, 43–51. 47 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 91–93. 48 Henri Lefebvre, “Right to the City,” in Eleonore Kofman and Elizabeth Lebas, eds., Writings on Cities (Malden, MA: Backwell, 2000), 63–181, at 109. 49 Łukasz Stanek, Henri Lefebvre on Space: Architecture, Urban Research, and the Production of Theory (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), 25–28. 50 Rodney H. Hilton, English and French Towns in Feudal Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 6–9, 25–53. 51 Monique Bourin, “Peasant Elites and Village Communities in the South of France, 1200–1350,” Past and Present 196:1 (2007): 101–114. 52 Tschumi, “The Architectural Paradox,” 49.

Bibliography Published primary sources de Clavijo, Ruy González, Text and Concordances of Biblioteca Nacional Manuscript 9218: Historia del gran Tamerlán (Madison: Hispanic Seminary of Medieval Studies, 1986). Thiriet, Freddy, ed., Regestes des deliberations du Sénat de Venise concernant la Romaine, Vol. 2: 1400–1430 (Paris: Mouton, 1959). ———, ed., Délibérations des Assemblées vénitiennes concernant la Romaine, Vol. 2: 1364–1463 (Paris: Mouton, 1971). ———, ed., Duca di Candia: Ducali e Lettere Ricevute 1358–1360; 1401–14015 (Venice: Il Comitato Editore, Fonti per la Storia di Venezia, Sez. I-Archivi Pubblici, 1978).

Secondary sources Abulafia, David, ed., The Mediterranean in History (London: Thames and Hudson, 2003). ———, The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011). Agamben, Giorgio, The Signature of All Things: On Method (New York: Zone Books, 2009). Balivet, Michel, Islam mystique et revolution armee dans les Balkans ottomans: Vie du Cheikh Bedreddim Le ‘Hallaj des Turcs’ 1358/59–1416 (Istanbul: ISIS, 1995). Benjamin, Walter, “On the Concept of History,” in Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings, eds., Walter Benjamin, Selected Writings, Vol 4: 1938–1940 (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of the Harvard University Press, 2003).

Polyrhythmia 19 Bloch, Marc, The Historian’s Craft (New York: Vintage Books, 1953). ———, French Rural History: An Essay on Its Basic Characteristics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1966). Bourin, Monique, “Peasant Elites and Village Communities in the South of France, 1200– 1350,” Past and Present 196:1 (2007): 101–114. Braudel, Fernand, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, Vol. 1 (Berkley: University of California Press, 1995). Çağaptay, Suna, The First Capital of the Ottoman Empire: The Religious, Architectural, and Social History of Bursa (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2020). Çakmak, Cenap and Ali Onur Özçelik, eds., The World Community and the Arab Spring (Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019). Caskey, Jill, Art and Patronage in the Medieval Mediterranean: Merchant Culture in the Region of Amalfi (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004). Catlos, Brian A. and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., Can We Talk Mediterranean? Conversations on an Emerging Field in Medieval and Early Modern Studies (Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017). Cohn, Jr., Samuel K., Lust for Liberty: The Politics of Social Revolt in Medieval Europe, 1200– 1425: Italy, France, and Flanders (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006). Dabag, Mihran, Dieter Haller, Nikolas Jaspert, and Achim Lichtenberger, eds., New Horizons: Mediterranean Research in the 21st Century (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2016). Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987/2014). ———, What Is Philosophy? (New York: Verso, 2009). Dodds, Jerrilynn D., Architecture and Ideology in Medieval Spain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1990). Editorial, “From ‘Islam and the Medieval Mediterranean’ to ‘Journal of the Medieval Mediterranean’,” Al-Masaq 26:1 (2014): 1–2. Eslami, Alireza Naser, ed., Architetture e città del Mediterraneo tra Oriente e Occidente (Genoa: De Ferrari, 2006). ———, Architetture del commercio e città del Mediterraneo: Dinamiche e strutture dei luoghi dello scambio tra Bisanzio, l’Islam e l’Europa (Milano: Bruno Monadori, 2010). ———, Genova e il Mediterraneo: I riflessi d’oltremare sulla cultura artistica e l’architettura dello spazio urbano, XXI–XXVI Secolo (Genoa: De Ferrari, 2012). ———, Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo tra Bisanzio e il mondo islamico (Milano: Pearson Italia, 2016). Flood, Finbarr Barry, The Great Mosque of Damascus: Studies on the Makings of an Umayyad Visual Culture (Leiden: Brill, 2001). Fraihat, Ibrahim, Unfinished Revolutions: Yemen, Libya, and Tunisia after the Arab Spring (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016). Georgopoulou, Maria, Venice’s Mediterranean Colonies: Architecture and Urbanism (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001). Grabar, Oleg, The Dome of the Rock (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2006). Hilton, Rodney H., English and French Towns in Feudal Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). Horden, Peregrine, “Mediterranean Excuses: Historical Writing on the Mediterranean since Braudel,” History and Anthropology 16:1 (2005): 25–30. Horden, Peregrine and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014).

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Horden, Peregrine and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000). ———, The Boundless Sea: Writing Mediterranean History (New York: Routledge, 2020). Issaev, Leonid and Andrey Zakharov, “Decentralization in Libya after the Arab Spring,” Middle East Policy 27:1 (2020): 56–70. Lefebvre, Henri, “Right to the City,” in Eleonore Kofman and Elizabeth Lebas, eds., Writings on Cities (Malden, MA: Backwell, 2000), 63–181. Levy-Rubin, Milka, “Why Was the Dome of the Rock Built? A New Perspective on a Long-Discussed Question,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 80:3 (2017): 441–464. Martin Louis, “Transpositions: On the Intellectual Origins of Tschumi’s Architectural Theory,” Assemblage 11 (1990): 25–35. McKee, Sally, “The Revolt of St Tito in Fourteenth-Century Venetian Crete: A Reassessment,” Mediterranean Historical Review 9:2 (1994): 173–204. Mitchell, W. J. T., “Image, Space, Revolution: The Arts of Occupation,” Critical Inquiry 39:1 (2012): 8–32. Mosley, Jonathan, “Architecture and Transgression: An Interview with Bernard Tschumi,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 32–37. Mosley, Jonathan and Rachel Sars, “The Architecture of Transgression: Towards a Destabilizing Architecture,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 14–19. Murphy, C. S. R., “United Nations and the Arab Spring: Role in Libya, Syria, and Yemen,” Contemporary Review of the Middle East 5:2 (2018): 116–136. Ousterhout, Robert G., Eastern Medieval Architecture: The Building Traditions of Byzantium and Neighboring Lands (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019). Purcell, Nicholas, “The Boundless Sea of Unlikeness? On Defining the Mediterranean,” Mediterranean Historical Review 18:2 (2003): 9–29. Rabbat, Nasser, “The Meaning of the Umayyad Dome of the Rock,” Muqarnas 6 (1989): 12–21. Redford, Scott, Landscape and the State in Medieval Anatolia: Seljuk Gardens and Pavilions of Alanya, Turkey (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000). Rice, Louis, “Occupied Space,” Architectural Design 83:6 (2013): 70–75. Rosser-Owen, Miriam, “Mediterraneanism: How to Incorporate Islamic Art into an Emerging Field,” Journal of Art Historiography 6 (June, 2012). Sadiki, Larbi, ed., Routledge Handbook of the Arab Spring: Rethinking Democratization (London: Routledge, 2015). Salgirli, Saygin, “Orthodoxy, Dissent and Politics in Medieval France and Anatolia: A Comparative Perspective,” The Medieval History Journal 15:1 (2012): 63–102. ———, “The Rebellion of 1416: Recontextualizing an Ottoman Social Movement,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 55 (2012): 32–73. ———, “Architectural Anatomy of an Ottoman Execution,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 72:3 (2013): 301–321. ———, “Radicalizing Premodern Space: A Perspective from the Late Medieval Ottoman World,” Radical History Review 130 (2018): 45–61. Stanek, Łukasz, Henri Lefebvre on Space: Architecture, Urban Research, and the Production of Theory (Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2011). Tronzo, William, The Cultures of His Kingdom: Roger II and the Cappella Palatina in Palermo (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). Tschumi, Bernard, The Manhattan Transcripts: Theoretical Projects (New York: Academy Editions/St. Martin’s, 1981).

Polyrhythmia 21 ———, Architecture and Disjunction (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1996). ———, Event Cities 4: Concept-Form (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2010). Tsougarakis, Nickiphoros I., “Prisons and Incarceration in Fourteenth-Century Venetian Crete,” Mediterranean Historical Review 29:1 (2014): 29–55. Werckmeister, O. K., “Walter Benjamin’s Angel of History, or the Transfiguration of the Revolutionary into the Historian,” Critical Inquiry 22:2 (1996): 239–267. Yıldız, Sara Nur, “Mongol Rule in Thirteenth-Century Seljuq Anatolia: The Politics of Conquest and History Writing, 1243–1282,” (PhD Dissertation, University of Chicago, Chicago, 2006).

Websites www.amnesty.org/en/what-we-do/refugees-asylum-seekers-and-migrants/global-refugeecrisis-statistics-and-facts/ www.opendemocracy.net/en/can-europe-make-it/imf-abetted-european-union-s-subversionof-greek-democracy/ www.telegraph.co.uk/business/2016/07/28/imf-admits-disastrous-love-affair-with-euroapologises-for-the-i/ www.theguardian.com/news/2018/jun/05/five-myths-about-the-refugee-crisis

1

Sequence

The beginning requires some imagination, and an affinity with science fiction. It involves an all-seeing eye, something far more advanced than existing satellite technologies, floating over thirteenth-century Anatolia, and observing with clarity from varying proximities all sites and movements, while itself remaining completely unknown to the life below. For simplicity, let’s call this all-seeing eye “the Lens.” What would such an impossible vantage reveal, and what would it hide? From the mid-range of the Lens, gone would be the political boundaries; clear lines drawn with designations such as Seljuq, Danishmendid, Mengüchekid, Byzantine, etc, and superimposed on historical maps as neat borders separating polities with certainty. Replacing them would be movements, reflecting the fluidities of lived and experienced space on a grand scale: nomadic pastoralists moving between summer and winter pastures, peasants sowing and harvesting, fields changing colour over seasons and across rotating crops, raiders pillaging, armies invading, tax-collectors appearing and disappearing, itinerant masons and artisans searching for commissions, dervishes and preachers searching for new followers, urban dwellers, ambassadors, curious travellers, crusaders, ceremonial processions; all oscillating on and across a vast canvas. Gradually, on this canvas certain lines appear, and crooked though they may be, they form a network with knots irregularly spread over Anatolia. The lines are roads, not the only ones, or the most frequently travelled ones, but very probably the most densely travelled ones, connecting towns and ports. Tying the lines together into a commercial network are the architectural knots, built primarily to accommodate merchants: the caravanserais. The Lens, from its mid-range, would also reveal the diverse sizes and plans of the caravanserais; some truly monumental, others more modest, some with visible courtyards, others without.1 By the 1250s, and from the wider perspective of the Lens, the canvas resembles the serpentine version of Piet Mondrian’s Broadway Boogie Woogie. Over two hundred caravanserais, all built between the late twelfth and the mid-thirteenth century, speckle the canvas, with caravans of various sizes and origins scurrying between them.2 Broadening the view further, the emerging picture becomes one of lines and points, extending from China to Iberia, on which the points unusually densify in central Anatolia. Undoubtedly, this is the picture of a connected

Source: drawn by the author on an empty map courtesy of d-maps.com (https://d-maps.com/carte.php?num_car=3134&lang=en).

Sequence 23

Figure 1.1 Schematic map of caravan routes in Anatolia, pilgrimage routes in France, and the northern and southern Genoese routes to the Eastern Mediterranean

24 Sequence world, maintained by merchants traveling along caravan routes and shipping lanes, transporting all sorts of commodities, from raw materials and dyestuff to luxury goods and slaves.3 With the Mediterranean as a mediator between different corners of Eurasia and North Africa, this is almost the visualized confirmation of Goitein’s idealized medieval world, democratized by free trade and merchant capital.4 Undoubtedly, this is also a beautiful picture. It is beautiful, because it is peaceful, clean, and pristine, devoid of irregularities. In that sense, it is also mathematically beautiful. It presents movement as a controlled, calculable, and predictable sequence, where again, there is no room for irregularities. And here, we start encountering the problems with the wide-range of the Lens, in relation to both what it reveals and what it hides. Although it is no revelation any more, the exposition of the medieval world as connected, rather than regionally isolated provides a useful perspective, even when one is concerned with just a single region. However, the Lens only shows connections of high-volume commerce between major ports and towns, which presents not a false, but an incomplete picture. Other modes of connectivity, the unpredictable (or less predictable) and irregular movements between the lines and around the points are invisible.5 Equally undisclosed are the regional and transregional commercial practices, treaties, pacts, and negotiations; storms, natural disasters, epidemics, and wars that facilitate or obstruct high-volume commerce. Focusing the Lens closer, we come across additional problems. For instance, we can see the clustering of caravanserais in central Anatolia, but this says nothing about why they were so densely built in a geography which was not necessarily a commercial hotspot. Similarly, although such a view shows the different layouts and sizes of the caravanserais, it provides no information as to how and why they came to be so. Also lacking is any indication of how they would have been experienced and perceived by their users. All we can see are movements in and out of the caravanserais. Finally, and most importantly, the Lens completely hides the political operations of architecture, where politics is not concerned with states, but with everyday experiences; with micro, rather than macro-level relations. In the following pages a story will unfold. Various views of the Lens, from its gargantuan width to its infinitesimal macro, will meet imaginary and real travellers to introduce different modalities of movement that maintained the connectivity of the Mediterranean. Soon, these movements will mingle with architecture, where two building types will emerge as the protagonists of the story. We will first encounter the Seljuq caravanserais of medieval Anatolia, then the pilgrimage churches of Western Europe as two institutions that similarly relied on their abilities to facilitate long-distance sequential movements, but simultaneously coexisted with and depended on other kinds of movement, both physical, in the sense of distances covered, and relational, in the sense of how buildings connected to their localities. The story will conclude with a conceptual movement that will bring these distinct typologies together. It will argue that the sculptural programs of caravanserais and pilgrimage churches were designed with specific audiences in mind, and in a manner to guarantee the continuation of their ability to orchestrate long-distance sequential movements and localized relational movements, the

Sequence 25 latter of which intimately connected buildings to the lives of people whom the patrons initially did not perceive as their target audiences, and redefined the perception and experience of architecture.

Lines and points In the eleventh book of The Odyssey, Odysseus visits the underworld and seeks advice from the soul of Teirésias the blind prophet, in order to see whether he will reach Ithaka, and if so how. After accounting the perils that await the hero, Teirésias tells him what he must do once he eliminates his wife’s suitors: start off, bearing an oar in your hands, well-fitted for rowing; travel until you arrive at a place where people have never heard of the sea and they eat no food that is mingled with sea-salt; nor in fact do they know anything about purple-cheeked galleys nor of the well-fitted oars which serve as the wings of a galley. This unmistakable sign I will tell you, and never forget it: when on the road you are met by another wayfarer who says that it is a winnowing fan you hold on your glistening shoulder, straightaway, when in the earth your well-fitted oar you have planted, making oblation of excellent victims to lordly Poseidon.6 There are multiple ways to interpret Odysseus’s journey to the underworld and his encounters there.7 However, the specific quote above unmistakably prophesies an encounter with the unfamiliar, defined in relation to the distance between the sea and the inland. Odysseus will know that he has arrived where he is supposed to only when he meets people who do not know the sea, and cannot distinguish an oar from a winnowing fan. To be straightforwardly literal, this is an encounter between a king-captain and a peasant-subject. After all, Odysseus is instructed to start off from his palace, and walk inland without ever leaving Ithaka, his island. Having already met, or destined to meet many strange lands, fantastic beings, ghosts, and deities, the most unfamiliar land for Odysseus seems to be (or is supposed to be) the interior regions of his own kingdom, and the most unfamiliar people are his own subjects who live away from the shores and outside the polis of Ithaka.8 There is also a bizarre degree to such unfamiliarity. When Odysseus encounters a cyclops, he will surely know that he is facing the unknown, but as he walks on Ithaka, the people he will meet inland will initially appear no different from his comrades and the residents of his polis. It is their lack of knowledge about the sea, about what it provides, and how it is navigated, and their attachment to the soil rather than to the water that defines their foreignness. Moreover, this encounter may take place sixty steps or six-hundred-thousand steps from the palace. Therefore, the distance that separates the familiar from the unfamiliar cannot be measured quantitatively. It is a qualitative distance that is neither physiognomic, nor ethnographic, nor linguistic. The measure of the familiar, again quite literally, is anchored in the sea.9

26 Sequence The world of The Odyssey is an imaginary one, but already in the antiquity it was associated with the real topography of the Mediterranean.10 There is no question that The Odyssey is a Mediterranean poem, that Homer’s imaginary world is based on the customs and beliefs of the Greeks before they were Greeks; that there is at least a glimpse into how the sea might have been experienced at the time.11 Although it is tempting to read the above passage along similar lines as a poetic reflection on an actual divide between the coast and the inland, it is important to recognize that Homer’s description of the unfamiliar is simultaneously a blurring of boundaries and definitive zones.12 In this one prophesied instance, Odysseus wilfully abandons his reliance on lines and points, and on conventional trajectories between ports. Drifting around the Mediterranean, desperately in search of his home, he was already in between the lines, always around the points, but never on them. This time, however, as he carries his meanderings inland, he inescapably connects the sea and the land, the city and the country, the ruler and the subject. Different modes of living, different practices of production, different habits and customs will eventually be mingled. The sea and its fruits will be known to the peasant, and the land and its produce to the sailor. The king will meet his subjects, and the subjects will know what a king is. In this one passage, we encounter the paradigm for Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell’s definition of Mediterranean connectivity: how fragmented microecologies “cohere, both internally and with one another,” without so much dependency on fixed lines and points that can be easily projected on a map.13 There are three key concepts that run through The Corrupting Sea, and hold the book together; not as binding agents, but rather as threads weaved throughout the work: microecology, fragmentation, and connectivity. They are first explained and presented as the components of the book’s methodology, and then shown in operation in concrete cases. Therefore, in order to see what these concepts mean and how they relate to movements and rhythms of late medieval Mediterranean architecture, let’s match the imaginary journey of Odysseus with a real one: the travels of Ibn Battuta (1304–1369), and specifically the beginnings of his second journey (1332–1347) that brought him to Anatolia. In 1332, we encounter Ibn Battuta in Jeddah. Having completed his pilgrimage to Mecca and his journey to India postponed, he plans to travel to al-Quasir, the Egyptian port on the Red Sea closest to the Nile. He first inspects a ship captained by a certain Abdullah of Tunisia, but finds it too shabby for such a long voyage. Incidentally, this vessel, large enough to carry a rowing boat, more than seventy pilgrims, and an undisclosed number of merchants in addition to its crew, sinks sometime after it leaves port. Then, Ibn Battuta takes a smaller boat with a single mast (sumbuq) to cross the Red Sea to ‘Aydhab in Sudan. Unfortunately, the wind pushes them approximately one hundred miles south, and they have to make port in the Dukhana bay. From then on, he travels across the desert with the native Beja people. The long journey to Cairo passes through various towns, smaller settlements, and shrines. Along the way, the group purchases sheep from the Beja after they run out of provisions, and Ibn Battuta shares his dried dates with an Arab boy

Sequence 27 who was once a captive of the Beja and for a year had no food other than camel’s milk. After crossing to Syria, and visiting more cities including Jerusalem, Ibn Battuta finally makes it to the port of Latakia, from where he embarks a large Genoese ship with multiple decks, which, after a ten-day-long journey, anchors in Alanya (Alaiye/Candelora) on the southern coast of Anatolia.14 Ibn Battuta’s story begins on the shores of the Arabian Peninsula, approximately eighty-five kilometres west of Mecca, and continues through the Sahel and the Sahara; all desert settings that seem to be both geographically and culturally distant from the Mediterranean. Yet, analogous to Odysseus’s inland journey, this is a deceptive distance. Whether based on geography and ecology, or on cultural practices and techniques, or on the extent of political integration, any effort to historiographically stabilize the limits of the Mediterranean is bound to fail.15 Its boundaries have been as fluid as its waters. Its flora continuously receded, expanded and changed in diversity, through natural causes, as well as human intervention.16 Consider, for instance the dates that Ibn Battuta shares with the Arab boy. Requiring a hot and dry climate with low humidity, the first cultivation of the date palm took place around 4000 BCE in lower Mesopotamia.17 By the time that Ibn Battuta encounters the Arab boy, dates were cultivated and consumed across a dry belt stretching from South Asia to Iberia, where their arrival, although occasionally attributed to the Arab conquests, probably went back to roughly second century BCE.18 Through a process impossible to trace with certainty, a plant, once endemic to the desert climate, had already become a Mediterranean delicacy. Now, let’s introduce into this picture the Tunisian captain, whose ship Ibn Battuta wisely saw as unsafe. Captain Abdullah the Tunisian is from the Mediterranean, but he is sailing in the Red Sea between the south-western coast of the Arabian Peninsula and the port of al-Quasir, which had been one of the major hubs connecting the Mediterranean to the Indian Ocean since the first century CE.19 Whether Abdullah himself circumnavigated the Arabian Peninsula into the Indian Ocean is impossible determine, but his passengers included merchants who were most likely connected to the Indian Ocean trade. They either operated in small-scale within the Arabian Peninsula, transporting goods between its eastern and western shores, or had direct and formal links with the Indian Ocean trade. In either case, they boarded Abdullah’s ship with their cargo, potentially destined for Mediterranean consumers. Therefore, the short-lived and doomed partnership between them and Abdullah is one among many demonstrations of how integrated the Mediterranean was with Sub-Saharan Africa, the Arabian Peninsula and the Indian Ocean.20 Moreover, along with Ibn Battuta’s contingent arrival in Alanya, it also demonstrates the varied modalities of connectivity which maintained that integration. Abdullah the Tunisian, as the captain of a large vessel, was sailing the Red Sea between points and along lines. However, over the long years that eventually wore his ship down, the people and the cargo that he transported could have made to his ship via routes which fell outside the visible lines that made up the network of high-commerce, such as small-scale merchants that operated within the

28

Sequence

Arabian Peninsula, but nonetheless sold goods that came from India. The widest view of the Lens would have only revealed Abdullah’s sequential voyages in the Red Sea, but not the irregular and less predictable movements that connected to his structured trajectories. In other words, while the network and its knots would have been visible, the jumbled threads that coexisted with it and fed it would have remained hidden. Similarly, from his Wikipedia entry to the scholarly editions of his travelogue, every single work on Ibn Battuta includes maps of his travels, each of which provides a pristine picture of lines and points; a replica of the widest range of the Lens. Yet, even the short episode summarized above clarifies that things were not always so easy for Ibn Battuta, that he continuously had to adapt to changing circumstances. When he decides not to board Abdullah’s ship, Ibn Battuta temporarily abandons the network of lines and points. He jumps on the small boat of a caboteur, operating along the jumbled threads. His journey outside the network continues across the desert until he reaches Berenike, whence on he is back on the remnants of a Roman network of lines and points, the Via Nova Hadriana.21 Finally, when he embarks the Genoese ship in Latakia, he enters one of the most structured networks of high-commerce in the medieval Mediterranean.22 Connectivity within the Mediterranean and its integration into a wider world were the products of such ceaseless oscillations between the network of lines and points, and all other kinds of movement and redistribution comprising the jumble of threads. Numerous Odysseuses drifted across the medieval Mediterranean and along its inland routes, some truly lost, others preferring to be castaways. They travelled side by side and lived in constant interaction with the notorious captains of commercial fleets. A combination of calculated choices and contingent decisions made by wealthy merchants, nameless caboteurs, pirates, bandits, vagabonds, and itinerants of all kinds linked the fragmented regions of the Mediterranean to one another in “overlapping phases of intensification and abatement.”23 All of these fragmented regions were microecologies in and of themselves. Each embodied its individual set of relationships among its inhabitants, and between its inhabitants and the environment, including wealth, means of substance, famines, epidemics, customs, modes and practices of production, settlement patterns, etc.24 Ibn Battuta’s exchanges with the Beja, and his encounter with the Arab boy is but one example of how the fragmented microecologies of North-Western Africa, South Arabia, and South-Eastern Africa were connected, regardless of how temporary such a connection may be.25 As I already hinted at in my inclusion of settlement patterns among the components of a given microecology, it is impossible to think of architecture independent of this framework. Production of architecture, just as the production of agricultural surplus, manufactured goods, and raw materials took place within fragmented, but connected microecologies.26 During his earlier passage through Egypt and South-East Africa, Ibn Battuta recounts an anecdote he has heard in Manfalut on the upper Nile, 350 km south of Cairo. Some time ago, the Mamluk Sultan an-Nasir Muhammad (d. 1341) commissions a minbar in Cairo to be

Sequence 29 placed in the Al-Haram Mosque in Mecca. The minbar is to be taken up the Nile, and then across the Red Sea. However, for some reason, and despite the assistance of the wind, the boat cannot proceed past Manfalut. After several days, a letter is dispatched to the Sultan, and in response, he orders the minbar to be placed in the congregational mosque of Manfalut.27 Thus the minbar, out of simple contingency, gains a new home. Instead of two distant microecologies that were planned to be connected through architectural patronage, two others are now linked. A minbar produced in the royal workshop of Cairo and according to local practices and techniques, rests in a mosque in Manfalut, built according to the practices of its own microecology.28 For a more straightforward case in point though, we have to leave Ibn Battuta behind, and move to thirteenth-century Peloponnese. The single, but highly informative case is Heather E. Grossman’s discussion of building activities in the Peloponnese under Geoffrey de Villehardouin, Prince of Morea.29 On the one hand in building techniques and emergent architectural forms, and on the other in the interchanging application of crocket and acanthus capitals, what we observe there is the connectivity of microecologies that also displays the oscillations between the network of lines and points, and the jumble of threads. Geoffrey de Villehardouin became the prince of Morea as part of a network of lines and points, in which religious zeal, military ambitions, and economic pragmatism overlapped: the Fourth Crusade. In his patronage of a Cistercian monastery in Zaraka, Stymphalia (1225), Geoffrey de Villehardouin’s intentions were twofold: on the one hand, to recreate in form the motherhouse of Morimond Abbey in central France, so as to continue his family’s tradition of sponsoring the Cistercian order, and, on the other hand, to architecturally inscribe his lordship in a foreign land. However, the church in Stymphalia, though showing close resemblance to her motherhouse in Morimond, diverged from the Cistercian building practices that relied on pure ashlar masonry. Geoffrey’s inevitable reliance on local masons resulted in a building that used newly-cut stones along with spolia and brick. Similarly, crocket capitals with linear shoots, common in Cistercian architecture of Champagne, appeared side by side with curled acanthus capitals, reminiscent of their Corinthian predecessors.30 The movement of crocket capitals, however, did not remain restricted to a sequential trajectory from Champagne to the Peloponnese. They continued their journey into two small rural churches, along the mountain routes connecting Corinth to the south: Church of the Virgin Rachiotissa near Nemea, and the Palaiomonasterio at Phaneromenis near Xiliomodi. Both of these were domed cross-in-square churches that served a local audience, but rather than the local curled acanthus capitals, each preferred crocket capitals with linear shoots. Here we have, expressed in architecture, the materialization of the oscillations between the network of lines and points, and the jumble of threads. Needless to say, same also goes for the perception and experience of architecture. As the crocket capitals leave the network of lines and points, and enter the local jumble of threads, the way they are viewed and understood simultaneously changes. They are no longer

30 Sequence the expressions of a family tradition of patronage, or displays of princely authority in a foreign land, but something categorically different; a difference that is hard to name for lack of evidence, but whose presence is irrefutable.31 The medieval Mediterranean, then, was as an assemblage of fragmented microecologies, where connectivity was maintained through continuous interactions between the most visible, the most structured networks of communication, and the least visible and the most contingent ones. Its architecture was produced, perceived, and experienced within the same parameters. Any architectural assemblage that can be placed under the umbrella of cross-cultural exchange existed within the larger assemblage of fragmented microecologies. Therefore, the two modalities of movement, those of the network and the jumble, were operative in architecture as well. On the one hand, as Grossman discusses, they transported and mingled architectural elements, forms, and building techniques. On the other, they largely determined how architecture would have been experienced beyond the mere perception of forms. Through the extraction and transportation of materials, the financing of construction and maintenance, and the various functions and services of a given building, the network and the jumble jointly moved buildings into the lives of the people that inhabited their microecologies. Not just the most immediate users of a given building, but even the most seemingly unrelated people were linked to it through this double movement. Inevitably, such a framework requires matching methodological movements between the various views of the Lens, including its street view. This becomes particularly important when the concern is not an analysis of the emergence of cross-cultural forms, where culture is often the culture of an elite, but an investigation into how that which is defined as crosscultural operated in the social and political milieu of its microecology. In other words, and to go back to The Odyssey, how architecture operated in and beyond the instance when the ruler and the subject were known to each other. In order to clarify this point, the following section focuses the Lens on the oscillations between the network of caravanserais and the jumble of threads in thirteenthcentury Anatolia.

Solids and voids It is commonly accepted that science-fiction is two things at the same time. In its imagination of the presently impossible, it is a projection into a potential future, while it simultaneously gets inspiration from the present. Sometimes, à la Black Mirror, the distance between the two is too close to call, as is the case with the Lens, which is very obviously inspired by Google Earth. In respectful acknowledgement, the following image was captured with Google Earth (Figure 1.2). At its centre sits a large rectangular solid of clean-cut stones with a courtyard. Covering an area of over three thousand square metres, this colossal structure is the Karatay Han, a caravanserai commissioned by the Seljuq official Celâleddin Karatay. It has an intact endowment deed (vakfiye) dated 1247–48, and its dedication inscription gives 1235 as the beginning date of its construction.32

Sequence 31

Figure 1.2 Satellite view of the Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: © Google Earth.

The road that passes in front of it connects Malatya to Kayseri (Caesarea) on an east-west axis, and it continues further west though Cappadocia to Konya (Ikónion), which served as the capital of the Seljuqs of Rum in the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries. From Kayseri, the northern road takes you first to Sivas (Sebasteia), and then to Samsun (Amisos) on the Black Sea coast, which, just as Sinop (Sinope) to its west, was once a Genoese trading colony.33 Directly south of Kayseri lies the Mediterranean port city of Mersin (Zephyrion/Hadrianopolis). Continuing east from Mersin, you reach Alexandrretta, east of which is Aleppo, and to its south are, in succession, Antioch and Latakia. Alanya, Ibn Battuta’s port of entry into Anatolia, is to the west of Mersin, just south of Konya, followed by Antalya (Attalea), another major port city. Expanding this picture further situates the Karatay Han at the core of the inland portion of a commercial network stretching from China and the Indian Ocean to Western Europe. Modern though it may be, it is possible to think of the road passing by the building as one of the many lines of the network, and the caravanserai as one of its many knots (or points), which included on the one hand, similar buildings in and outside Anatolia, and on the other, port cities, islands, and inland towns. The building itself, covering such a vast space, is nothing short of impressive, and it is one of the best-preserved caravanserais of thirteenth-century Anatolia.

32

Sequence

Its south facade, measuring forty-eight metres in length, supports a monumental muqarnas portal with a rich decorative program (Figure 1.3). Star-shaped towers rise from the corners of the facade, followed by another pair of towers with engaged pillars, situated midway from the portal. The central pillars of this second pair display an unusual design of thick interlocking geometrical patterns. The indisputably robust facade is in stark contrast to the decoration of the portal, which blends painstakingly detailed low relief carvings of stellar patterns, and roundels with floral and vegetal designs alongside human, animal, and fantastical figures.34 The western spout is carved with a squatting human on the front and bulls on the sides. This spout might have been matched by a pair on the other side of the portal, while two of the other spouts were in the form of dragon heads. The resulting combination produces a dynamic facade that rhythmically moves between sharp, smooth, rounded, and decorated surfaces, yet without compromising the fortress-like structural integrity of the building with a wall thickness of 1.4 to 2 metres. The Karatay Han, like most of its counterparts along the caravanserai network, was meant to be a defensive structure as much as a commercial one.35 A letter by Muḥyī d-Dīn ibn ʿAbd aẓ-Ẓāhir, who accompanied the Mamluk Sultan Baybars in his Anatolian campaign (1277), appears verbatim in the chronicle of Ibn Fadl Allāh al-‘Umarī (d. 1349), the Damascene historian who also worked in the chancery

Figure 1.3 General view of the Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Sequence 33 of the Mamluk Sultanate. Among the many crucial details that the letter provides about the Karatay Han, two directly relate to its defensive purposes. According to Ibn ʿAbd aẓ-Ẓāhir, before the main portal of the building, there was a paved courtyard with fortified walls, and the door of the caravanserai was of the highest quality iron.36 The total number of sixteen towers that surround the building support this observation. Lacking crenulations and internal access with archery slits, they may not have served as proper towers, but they certainly reinforced the structure. An incident from the early fourteenth century exemplifies the defensive capabilities of a caravanserai with a comparable size and form. The Sultan Han between Konya and Aksaray (Colonia) was commissioned by the Seljuq Sultan Alaeddin Keykubad I (r. 1220–1237), and completed in 1229. Its form, particularly its fifty-metre-wide facade is similar to the Karatay Han, but it covers a significantly larger area of 4,800 square metres. In the early fourteenth century, Anatolia was under partial Mongol/Ilkhanid control, though sporadic uprisings by the local emirs were not uncommon. One just rebel emir, a certain Ilyas, was pursued by the Mongol commander İrincin Noyan. Fearing an open confrontation, Ilyas took refuge in the Sultan Han, and for two months, he successfully defended the siege of a substantial army with archers and catapults, eventually forcing İrincin Noyan to retreat.37 Although the towers of the Sultan Han in Aksaray were more prominently defensive than those of the Karatay Han, they similarly lacked crenulations and archers’ slits. However, certain caravanserais incorporated elements of military architecture more directly; such as the Sultan Han in Kayseri (1232) with archery slits in its towers, the Alara Han (1231) and Kırkgöz Han (c. 1243) with both crenulations and archery slits. It is impossible to separate the defensive qualities of the caravanserais from their commercial functions. They were meant to provide not only hospitality, but also protection for the merchants and their merchandise; an intent that was occasionally matched with the provisioning of troops for the caravans.38 Their sizes varied, mostly due to the different ranks of their patrons; and since certain services that one caravanserai offered were not available in another, their plans similarly differed.39 However, among all possible variations, the one feature that remained more consistent than the others was the sense of security that the caravanserais communicated.40 This was primarily achieved by the repetition of the same formula of a fortified facade penetrated by a monumental portal. Along the Anatolian network of high-commerce, and ideally every thirty to forty kilometres, the same face greeted the merchants, and metrically sequenced the movement of goods. It is neither practical nor productive to typologically categorize caravanserais, no matter what parameters one works with. Yet, it is possible to argue that through the repetitive sequencing of their facades, the caravanserais formed an assemblage of territorial signs with a double function. On the one hand, they commercially marked the territory and structured the movement of goods. On the other, they became political marks, facilitating a whole different kind of movement. The road between Kayseri and Sivas, where the Karatay Han is situated, is approximately 200 km. A commercially efficient marking of the territory by sequencing the caravanserais every thirty to forty kilometres would have resulted

34 Sequence in six or seven buildings. However, by 1250, within the relatively short distance between Sivas and Kayseri, there were approximately twenty-four caravanserais; a quantity that completely defeats the purpose of metrically distributing institutions of hospitality in order to direct caravans from one town to the other.41 The density increases even more dramatically between Konya and Aksaray (approx. 150 km), where the distance between two caravanserais drops down to a few hours.42 Such disturbance of the metric measure, which transformed the network of high-commerce into a jumble itself, suggests the presence of a different kind of motivation behind caravanserai patronage. There are two possible explanations. They both relate to the political marking of the territory and involve interrelated non-commercial movements; one akin to the sequential visibility of high-commerce network, the other to the allusiveness of the jumble of threads. Konya was the capital of the Seljuqs of Rum, but like in most medieval monarchies, the ruler and the court constantly moved around, accompanied by part of the army. Antalya, to the south of Konya was the winter resident of the sultan and the court, and during the summers they occasionally travelled between Konya and Kayseri. Sivas, to the north of Kayseri was an important commercial town, and hence was often visited by the sultans and by high-ranking officials. Moreover, there were the military campaigns, naturally with the much more substantial presence of the army. During all these movements, the caravanserais were the providers of hospitality.43 They were also used for various ceremonial purposes, such as the reception of ambassadors, and wedding and ascension ceremonies.44 One such event, the ascension of Alaeddin Keykubad I to the Seljuq throne, is detailed in the chronicle of the court historian Ibn Bibi.45 Alaeddin Keykubad I’s succession to the throne was particularly eventful. First, he had to battle with his brother Izzeddin Keykavus, whom the majority of the Seljuq elite supported. He was defeated, and sent to confinement in an eastern fortress. It was only after the death of his brother in 1220 that he became the sultan.46 However, that too was not so easy. After Keykavus died, the highest-ranking members of the Seljuq elite assembled, and negotiated among themselves who the next sultan should be. Although, Ibn Bibi is silent on the content of the negotiations, much must have been at stake; from land holdings to titles and ranks. Finally, once an agreement was reached, Alaeddin Keykubad I’s ascension was announced and celebrated in Sivas.47 From there, the new sultan, his grand entourage, and a large army began their slow journey to Konya, following the caravanserai network. Every stop they made, whether in a town or in a caravanserai, was an occasion for feasts and festivities. Locals sacrificed animals, constructed temporary kiosks, assembled musicians and dancers, and presented money and gifts to the sultan. Expectedly, Ibn Bibi insists on the voluntary nature of what must have been extraordinary expenses, especially when he emphasizes how the people of Konya willingly spent all that they had saved in order to show their loyalty and devotion to the sultan.48 However, it is possible to imagine the sultan’s long procession as a sequence of appropriations. On the one hand, it included the appropriation of

Sequence 35 resources, particularly from the common people, whose voluntary contributions are most likely nothing more than literary tropes. On the other hand, when the caravanserais are concerned, it involved the appropriation of space. Among all Seljuq buildings of the thirteenth century, the patrons of only 203 can be identified. Of these, only twenty-six were commissioned by the sultans, and of these twenty-six, only seven were caravanserais: one between Konya and Aksaray (Colonia), one between Kayseri and Sivas, and five between Eğridir (Akrotiri) and Antalya.49 Considering the total number of over two hundred caravanserais, it is possible to argue that their operations as territorial markers of Seljuq political authority was largely, if not fully, dependent on the mobility of the sultan and his retinue. In each such instance, in each act of architectural appropriation, the caravanserai network was reconfigured into a new assemblage of political signs, into extensions of the sovereign. To go back to The Odyssey, the sultans’ sequential processions across the territory, and the accompanying spatial appropriations corresponded to the inland journey of Odysseus, to the extent that they were ritualized encounters between the sovereign and the subject where they became known to one another. However, this new assemblage was only temporary; its existence conditioned by the presence of the sultan. Without his presence, a given caravanserai was not necessarily associated with the Seljuq sovereign. Moreover, the sultans’ sequential processions were the equivalents of circulations along the high-commerce network. Just as the jumble of threads and the commercial network coexisted in a constant state of oscillations, a corresponding sequence oscillated with the sultans’ procession, which facilitated a different kind of political movement; not across the territory, but into its microecology. Let’s turn to the Google Earth image once again. At its centre is the Karatay Han, a knot or a point along the network of high-commerce, and passing by the caravanserai is one of the many lines of the network. Extending from the Karatay Han, almost like tentacles, are narrow paths; roads not less travelled, but probably less densely traversed. They meander through fields, across meadows and pastures, over hills and mountains, eventually reaching villages, towns, and ports. Travelers in medieval Anatolia could have easily preferred this jumble of threads over the lines, following a non-metric rhythm without a pre-structured measure; and in settlements of various sizes, they could have easily found accommodation in humbler and less formal institutions of hospitality.50 Hence, these tentacle-like paths, although stretching to and from the Karatay Han would have allowed travellers to bypass the caravanserais and the network altogether. They would have provided an alternative pattern of circulation. On the other hand, it was not that easy to escape from the caravanserai if your livelihood depended on the fields between the paths, on the meadows and pastures they passed through, or on the urban shops that they connected to. Caravanserais were commercial institutions, and long-distance trade, both transient and of produce and products from Anatolia, was an important source of income for the Seljuq state.51 However, whether their patrons were sultans or high-ranking

36 Sequence officials, all caravanserais, just as other Seljuq institutions, were established as charitable foundations (vakıf) through endowment deeds (vakfiye). The caravanserais were tax exempt, and the services they offered were free.52 In the Karatay Han, the travellers could expect to be fully taken care of. They received a daily meal composed of one kilogram of bread, 250 grams of cooked meat, and a cup of hot dish (unspecified). On Friday evenings, in celebration of the Friday prayer, a honey-based halva would be distributed. The guests could have their shoes mended, and if they were too poor to have any, they would be provided with a pair. Their animals were fed, and the horses’ shoes were fixed and changed. Should there be any need, there was also a veterinarian (baytar) to look after the animals. During the winters, the caravanserai burned oil and wood for heating, and its masjid, or prayer-hall, was lit with candles throughout the year. The sick would receive medical care until they recovered or passed away, and if the latter were the case, their funeral services would be free of charge. Finally, during their stay, the travellers had free access to a nearby bath (hamam) endowed to the caravanserai. In order to provide all these services, the caravanserai had eleven permanent employees with considerable salaries.53 For instance, the cook received an annual salary in kind of 2,400 to 4,800 kg of wheat, and a cash salary (200 dirhems) that could buy him an additional 2,000 to 4,000 kg of wheat or 20 sheep. Minor employees, such as the cobbler and the veterinarian received the same salary in kind, but half the cash salary.54 On top of the salaries, there were of course the general spending for the kitchen, the stables, maintenance, etc. Therefore, in and of themselves, let alone providing any direct contribution to what might be vaguely called the central treasury, or bringing profit to their patrons, the caravanserais had immense expenses. If the sequencing of long-distance trade did not provide any direct profit for the caravanserai patrons, then what was it that made their patronage so attractive, especially for Seljuq officials? The key is in the operations of the vakıfs, which need to be considered in relation to land tenure practices among the Seljuqs of Rum, and with a distinction in mind between practice and legal language.55 As it is often argued (and rightfully according to legal terminology), there was no private property in Seljuq Anatolia. All land belonged to God, which practically meant that, as the shadow of God on earth, all land belonged to the Sultan. From peasants to the landed elite, everybody received their holdings as tenure with no pre-set inheritance rights. Depending on their ranks, soldiers, military commanders, and administrative officials received iqtas, equivalents of fiefs in contemporary western Europe, or the pronia in the Byzantine Empire.56 While for the military elite, the iqtas were rural lands comprised of peasants and their tenured fields, for the administrative elite, iqtas could include towns (or parts of them) and pastures. Over their fiefs, and their inhabitants, the iqta holders had both rent and taxation rights, in return of military or administrative services to the sultan. The iqtas did not come with a hereditary title of status attached to them. More properly, they were payments in land for services received and to be received, and

Sequence 37 they could not be, in theory, passed on. However, the rights to tax and rent that they embodied, and the social status that they established, temporary though they may be, were no different from their western European and Byzantine counterparts. In practice, they were the lines that separated the ruling elite from the subjects. Moreover, the road to de facto privatization was open, and in the case of the vakıfs, privatization could easily become de jure.57 A vakıf, in the context of medieval Anatolia, could refer to any charitable institution that offered its services for free, including mosques, madrasas, baths, dervish lodges, urban markets, and caravanserais. A given vakıf was established with the alienation of land and property, and the allocation of their revenues to the institution. These endowments could be in the vicinity of the institution, or they could be quite distant. Once established, the vakıf was perpetual. It could not be taken away, alienated, or divided. Its endowment deed (vakfiye) identified the administrator (mütevelli) and his income, and detailed how the vakıf would be passed on from generation to generation. The same document also listed the endowments of the vakıf, and ideally clarified the services it was supposed to provide, along with the personnel it was going to employ, and what their salaries would be. For the Seljuq elite, the attractiveness of establishing a vakıf, regardless of which institution it was for, lay in the resources endowed to it, and in the fact that it was a legally protected perpetual holding. Therefore, although a caravanserai was a commercial institution built to attract and sequentially circulate high-commerce across Anatolia, the income of its patron came from the taxation and rent rights allocated to its vakıf. With some exceptions, such as the Karatay Han, all caravanserais were built outside settlements, in other words on land that was perceived to be empty, a void open to exploitation. In that respect, commissioning them in order to profit from their endowments must have become highly attractive for the Seljuq elite. On the one hand, this explains the construction boom of caravanserais, which made them numerically supersede any other building type in Seljuq Anatolia. On the other, it corresponds to the second political movement that disturbed the metric measure of caravanserai distribution; a sequence that oscillated with the sultan’s procession, but instead of continuing sequentially across the territory from caravanserai to caravanserai, it leaked from the caravanserai into its microecology. Unfortunately, only three caravanserai vakfiyes have remained from the Seljuq period, and of these, only the one belonging to the Karatay Han is itemized enough to provide a full picture.58 For instance, the vakfiye of Altun-aba (1202), drafted for a madrasa and a caravanserai, is very detailed about the former, but concerning the latter, the document only mentions that a single shop in Konya was endowed to the institution, lists the salary of the caravanserai’s innkeeper (hancı), and concludes that unspecified amounts of wood and oil would be purchased for heating and lighting.59 Similarly, the vakfiye of Er-tokuş, including a madrasa, a mosque, and a caravanserai, states that while one-fifth of the revenues from the endowments would be the salary of the administrator, the rest was to be used to cover the expenses of the three institutions.60 In such scarcity of documentary evidence,

38

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the vakfiye of Karatay Han becomes particularly important. However, not as an example that can be multiplied in the absence of other cases, but as a paradigmatic demonstration of how a caravanserai moved into its microecology. It is a mere coincidence that the most detailed caravanserai vakfiye to survive belongs to a building uncharacteristically constructed in an existing settlement, which also happens to have one of the most detailed and complex visual iconographies of all Seljuq buildings. Fortunately, this coincidence helps clarify one very crucial question. It is obvious that caravanserais were meant to structure and direct the traffic of high-volume commerce across Anatolia. Due to their status as vakıfs, they were secure and hereditary sources of income for their patrons. Occasionally, they were also appropriated by the sultans and their retinues for ceremonial and military purposes. Therefore, the picture is fairly clear when it comes to how a given caravanserai related to its primary intended users (the merchants), to its patron, and to the existing political authority. However, concerning how a caravanserai related to its microecology as a solid built on a land perceived to be an exploitable void, there is a matching, but this time real void.

A spider at the centre of a web One can think of movement in two basic ways: either physically as the movement of people, animals, vessels, and things; or relationally as the weaving and extension of a web, through which what travel are not physical entities, but relationships. So far, I have primarily focused on the first aspect of movement, but in order to understand how a caravanserai (paradigmatically the Karatay Han) relates to its microecology, we have to switch to a conceptual and relational mode. As I have underlined, the tiny paths that spread from the Karatay Han could have provided travellers with an alternative pattern of circulation by positioning them on the jumble of threads rather than on the network of high-commerce. However, for those who lived and worked on the lands covered by the jumble of threads, it would not have been that easy to escape from the web weaved by the Karatay Han; a web of relationships of dependency. Whether living in its vicinity, or at the very edges of its web, the people whose lands, shops, and pastures were reallocated to the Karatay Han as its revenue sources became the tax paying subjects of the institution, hence its dependents. The microecology of the Karatay Han was the aggregate of these relationships of dependency that it weaved across the rural and urban topography of medieval Anatolia. The parcel on which the caravanserai was built might have been a void, but it fed from a web that extended to lands that were occupied, cultivated, and in common use. Therefore, the microecology of the institution extended beyond its locale in a manner similar to how the more well-known knots of the highcommerce network, the port cities of the Mediterranean, extracted resources from significantly distant regions.61 This was the political movement of the caravanserai that oscillated with the sultan’s procession. If the sultan’s sequential movement from caravanserai to caravanserai was analogous to the inland journey of Odysseus, to the extent that it made the ruler and the subject known to one another, then

Sequence 39 the Karatay Han’s invisible yet material movement through its web revealed what distinguished a ruler from a subject on the micro level of everyday relationships. In order to see that, we have to turn once again to the vakfiye. The first revenue source listed in the vakfiye of the Karatay Han is the village where the institution is located: Sarahor.62 Nothing is known about the history of Sarahor prior to its appearance in the vakfiye. Based on that and the etymology of the name, Osman Turan speculated that the village was most probably a Seljuq settlement, and its inhabitants were responsible for providing the Seljuq cavalry with hay.63 Whether that was the case is impossible to know, but one thing is certain. The village and the Karatay Han were situated in the vicinity of a major crossroad, connecting Anatolia on east-west and north-south axes, and with a history going back to the Old Assyrian period (c. 2000–1400 BCE).64 By the sixteenth century, the village was administratively divided into two. One, still named Sarahor, was a Christian village of seventy-two households, and half of these were still attached to the vakfiye of the Karatay Han. The other, named Karatay, had sixty-six households, all of which were Muslims and registered in the vakfiye.65 Although sixteenth-century numbers say nothing about the population of the village in the thirteenth century, they suggest that the religious makeup of medieval Sarahor was either completely, or predominantly Christian.66 This further suggests that the village was probably an earlier Christian settlement, which the Seljuqs either partially repopulated with Muslims, or simply renamed.67 Nevertheless, the most important information that the sixteenth-century data provides is the longevity of the vakıfs. Three-hundred years after the construction of the Karatay Han, and despite its changing status from a caravanserai to a Sufi lodge/hospice, its vakfiye was still in effect, and it received income from a total of 102 tax-paying households. Moreover, the sixteenth-century register lists fortyfour residents of Karatay as decedents of Celâleddin Karatay, and exempt from taxes. Due to lack of documentation that covers the period from the thirteenth to sixteenth centuries, it is impossible to know how exactly the administration of the Karatay Han passed on from generation to generation. However, the thirteenthcentury vakfiye is remarkably meticulous about how this should have happened. It lists a dozen possibilities through which the administration and the income of the Karatay Han would remain either within the Karatay family, or would pass on to its manumitted slaves. If and only if all these possibilities failed, would the administration be given to an honest and reliable kadı (judge) of Kayseri.68 Such concern to preserve the Karatay Han as a hereditary source of income raises the questions of what that income could have been, and how it would have been extracted, both of which are questions related to the movement of the Karatay Han into its microecology. Other than the village of Sarahor, the vakfiye lists the following revenue sources: the village of Lykandos, two houses in Kayseri, a han (urban market) in extramural Kayseri, two pastures outside Kayseri, and a hamam (bath house) in one of the many towns named Karahisar in Central Anatolia.69 In the absence of comparable data from a similarly sized caravanserai, it is impossible to know whether these generated a significant amount of income. However, approximately

40 Sequence two years after the original vakfiye, an addendum was made, which listed the new revenue sources of the Karatay Han. In and around Kayseri and Meşhed: a total of fifty-three parcels of arable land, eleven houses, and two bakeries. The sizes of only twenty-eight of the arable parcels are given, and these are calculated according to the amount of seeds that would be required to sow them. This comes to a total of approximately fifty-three tons (352 müds) of seed. In Sarahor: a hamam with all the houses in its vicinity, one orchard or vineyard (bağçe), and fifteen shops; and, finally, all of the nearby village of Güney.70 Although, by themselves, the numbers still do not say much about the income of the Karatay Han, all of the new revenue sources, except the village of Güney, were purchased after all the expenses of the caravanserai, including the salaries of its administrator and personnel, were covered. The original vakfiye clearly indicated that the institution could acquire new properties only from its surplus, and the addendum underlined that this had indeed been the case.71 Therefore, within the span of two years, the institution was able to generate enough surplus from its original endowments to invest in new property purchases. The issue at stake here is not the quantitative translation of the revenues of the Karatay Han to today’s currency. Whether the institution was able to extract a remarkable amount of income from its original endowments, or alternatively was able to purchase additional properties at reduced prices, the vakfiye and its addendum suggest that the Karatay Han’s relation to its microecology was as profit oriented as a landlord’s relation to its holdings. Part of the revenues of the caravanserai came from rents. Any real estate to be rented was to have a contract with a one to two-year term, at a good price, and made with an honest and reliable tenant. Only in extreme circumstances a three-year contract was acceptable, because long-term contracts, the vakfiye states, were not beneficial for the institution.72 This suggests that, even if a given property remained in the hands of the same tenant, with every new contract, the rent would have been increased, either annually or biannually. Although agrarian taxes in kind would have remained more stable over the years, it would not be too farfetched to imagine that the institution approached its rural endowments with a similarly profit-oriented mentality. Moreover, since the institution itself purchased all the agricultural tools and oxen to be used in cultivating its rural endowments, it is equally possible to imagine that such profitoriented mentality was also matched with a lordship attitude that reinforced the dependent position of the tenants, and made apparent the distinction between the ruler and the subject.73 The legal status of the caravanserai as a charitable foundation should not cloud this picture. Indeed, once read against the grain, the vakfiye reveals that the caravanserai distributed its charity services very selectively, according to rank, social status, and class. The vakfiye is very clear that the primary audiences of the caravanserai, as one would expect, are travellers. It is also very clear that all travellers, regardless of gender, religion, and social status (free or slave) received the same food in the same amount.74 Inevitably, such a clause surrounds the institution with an aura of egalitarian benevolence. However, if one reads the vakfiye more carefully,

Sequence 41 it becomes highly probable that although all travellers would have received the same food, in the same amount, they would not have received it in the same way. Among the kitchen expenditures of the caravanserai, there are fifty bowls made of clay, twenty plates made of copper, one hundred wooden bowls, and fifty wooden plates.75 The differences in the material quality of the vessels and the quantitative split between the high- and low-quality ones are very suggestive of a conscious and anticipated separation between two groups of travellers: the distinguished travellers who would have eaten their food from clay bowls and copper plates, and the rest who were left with wooden bowls and plates, albeit containing the same food, in the same amount. This conscious differentiation is observable in the extended charity services of the caravanserai and in its architectural layout, too. The residents of the village of Sarahor, the immediate locale of the Karatay Han and one of its most important endowments, are completely excluded from the original vakfiye. Although the document does not explicitly prohibit them from receiving charity services from the Karatay Han, it also gives no clues about whether the caravanserai was open to them at all. In fact, other than the travellers, the only group of people who were entitled to receive any charity from the institution were the needy and poor relatives, and manumitted slaves of Celâleddin Karatay, who were paid an annual support of 3.6 tons of wheat and 120 dirhems of cash, slightly less than the annual income of the innkeeper (same amount of wheat, but 150 dirhems of cash).76 The villagers appear as receivers of charity only in the addendum, but still not directly from the caravanserai. The newly purchased hamam was to provide its services for free to all villagers, as well as to the travellers.77 The appearance of this new hamam creates a dilemma, because the caravanserai already had a hamam, situated in the south-east corner of the courtyard, yet it is not listed among the services offered by the institution. Despite its size and dark setting, the stellar muqarnas vaulting of the bath is reminiscent of the more opulent and lavish stalactites that decorated royal and princely buildings around the Mediterranean. Based on this unlisted bath, and also on the presence of a suite composed of a toilet, a small room and a large room, Ayşıl Tükel Yavuz has argued that the Karatay Han incorporated the anticipation of differentiated guests into its architectural and functional layout.78 The bath, and the suite, where the small room was either a storage space or the servants’ quarter, were open only to the distinguished travellers that passed through the Karatay Han. In fact, the same was true for all the rooms on the south flank of the courtyard. The non-elite travellers, including the servants would sleep with the animals in the main covered section of the caravanserai, or if the weather permitted in the northern flank of the courtyard. The rooms on the southern flank were for the elite, with the suite reserved for the most distinguished among them. Ibn Fadl Allāh al-‘Umarī confirms the selective distribution of hospitality when he writes that hospitality was provided “for every traveller according to his rank.”79 So far, then, we have seen the operation of the caravanserais as signposts with monumental portals and fortified facades that sequentially structured the

42

Sequence

movement of high-volume commerce across medieval Anatolia. Overlapping with this macro movement was the equally sequential procession of the sultan, during which the caravanserais, as they were appropriated, also became political signs marking the territory. Meanwhile, there were also movements along the jumble of threads, through which travellers could bypass the caravanserai network and find accommodation in alternative institutions of hospitality. Finally, there was the invisible yet concrete movement of the Karatay Han into its microecology, like a spider weaving a web of relationships of dependency and revenue extraction, hence becoming a lord in both socio-political and economic terms. Therefore, as a paradigmatic case, the Karatay Han reveals the non-hierarchical coexistence of multiple movements that surrounded the building and brought it to life. However, of these movements, the two sequential ones were indispensable for the existence and survival of the caravanserai. The long-distance sequence of commercial movements and their metric rhythms were the reasons for the existence of the building, and the sequence of rent and tax extraction with its seasonal rhythms guaranteed the survival of the building into the sixteenth century, despite its functional and institutional transformation into a Sufi lodge/convent. From the perspective of architectural history, and for the purposes of this and the following chapter, the Karatay Han is revealing on another level as well. If such diverse modes of movement coexisted, then the spatial arrangement and the architectural decorations of the Karatay Han (including its inscriptions), whether intentionally or not, must have responded to multiple audiences: travellers of varied backgrounds and status, the sultan and his retinue, the distinguished guests, and the villagers of Sarahor, or more broadly speaking, the unintended audiences of the caravanserai. As I will argue in the following pages, these responses, whether programmatic or contingent, were ultimately shaped by the two sequences that the Karatay Han so fundamentally relied on.

The two sequences In their capacity and intention to accommodate multiple audiences, the caravanserais were not alone. Pilgrimage churches of medieval Europe similarly responded to multiple audiences. As Barbara Abou-El-Haj noticed and elaborated almost two decades ago, in the case of the pilgrimage churches, the multiple was in essence a double: the locals and the pilgrims.80 Beginning in the twelfth century, and overlapping with the re-emergence of money economy in western Europe, churches and cathedrals with claims to significant relics were systematically rebuilt in everincreasing sizes.81 Although abbots and bishops univocally claimed that they were responding to a rise in demand, what they were really engaged in was a spiritual economy, in which supply (larger and more lavish spaces) was provided with the hope of creating demand, and not in response to an already existing one. (Figure 1.1) Relics were stolen and invented, modest churches grew into monuments, decorations became more and more spectacular, reliquaries more and more opulent; all in a competitive effort to attract as many pilgrims as possible, who would be

Sequence 43 ready to dispense with their coins for the hope of a miracle from a gold-encased finger, which may or may not have belonged to a saint.82 In that respect, pilgrimage churches became signs along a different kind of a commercial network, following a different measure of rhythmic sequencing, and promising not free food and lodgings, but spectacle and miracles for a fee. However, as in the case of the caravanserais, the patrons still needed funds in order to rebuild and redecorate, and they still had to provide hospitality for the pilgrims. For the Seljuq elite, charitable institutions such as caravanserais were means to secure hereditary revenue sources in the form of land and taxation/rent grants. It was only with the construction of a caravanserai that a web of relationships of dependency was weaved between the building and its microecology. In medieval Europe, on the other hand, the patrons of pilgrimage churches, whether abbots, or bishops and archbishops, already held exclusive lordship rights over towns and villages. Therefore, they already had under their jurisdiction an exploitable pool for funds, labour, materials, and hospitality. In order to rebuild and redecorate so as to attract pilgrims, patrons extracted resources and labour from the local populations, and in order to accommodate the increasing number of pilgrims, they demanded hospitality. Often, such measures led to violent urban rebellions by which the townspeople sought to establish communal governments. In certain cases where such disputes are extensively documented, such as Vézelay, Santiago de Compostela, and Reims, it is possible to observe a stark contrast between architectural sculptures designed as spectacles for pilgrims, and those produced as antagonistic responses to the rebellious local populations. A wide repertoire of images, including scenes from the life of Christ (the Flagellation of Christ at Santiago de Compostela), hagiographies (the St. Remi portal at Reims), Old Testament stories (nave capitals of Vézelay), and direct references to contemporary disputes (tithe bearers on the narthex tympanum of Vézelay) were effectively utilized.83 However, from the twelfth century onward, the most ubiquitous reference to townspeople was through their personifications as the cardinal sins Avarice and Lust; the former as a man weighed down by moneybags (initially a reference to Judas and usury), and the latter as a woman (occasionally also a man) attacked by serpents. Whether appearing individually, or among the tormented figures of the damned in Last Judgement tympana, Avarice and Lust moved from the domain of moral debates to that of urban politics as they came to represent, with varying degrees of brutality, the antagonism of bishops and abbots toward their urban subjects and their struggles for political and economic liberties (lust for power, greed for money).84 A given pilgrimage church, then, just as a caravanserai, existed at the disjunction of two primary modes of movement: the long-distance sequence that it facilitated, and the microecological relations of dependency that it exploited. However, compared to a caravanserai, there was an important difference between how a pilgrimage church related to its local and distant audiences. From its locale, it extracted labour and resources for reconstruction and redecoration, so that it could attract pilgrims from distant lands. The anticipated profit for the patrons was not

44 Sequence limited to the donations that would be brought in by pilgrims, but also included the tolls and rents that would be collected form the merchants during pilgrimage. Meanwhile, the church continued to demand taxes and services from its urban and rural subjects. Therefore, the locals and the pilgrims experienced the church in two completely different manners. The locals, specifically in cases such as the above where we have records of urban rebellions, saw the churches as political signs that referred back to the authorities they were fighting against, and, at least potentially, they perceived the sculptural decorations as the visualizations of contemporary disputes. The pilgrims, on the other hand, came specifically for what the pilgrimage church offered. Regardless of their relationships with Church or monastic authorities in their hometowns, their perception of pilgrimage churches and their sculptures was not shaped by the same antagonistic context. Consequently, the duality of the audiences led to a duality in decoration, as well as in perception and experience. The revenues of the caravanserais, on the other hand, came exclusively from the web of relations of dependency that they weaved. Their appeal to travellers and merchants from distant lands was only a means to secure the continuation of the former, and did not generate any income in and of itself. Furthermore, we have no record of any dispute or rebellion from Seljuq Anatolia that was in direct correlation with the construction of a caravanserai, even in exceptional cases, such as the Karatay Han, where there was a local audience. However, the construction of the Karatay Han began five years before the Babai Rebellion in Anatolia (1239), which was one of the largest of its kind in late-medieval Eurasia, comparable perhaps only to the English Peasant Rebellion of 1381.85 As I will argue in the next chapter, there was an indirect connection between the Babai Rebellion and the construction frenzy in thirteenth-century Anatolia that reverberated through the microecological operations of caravanserais, as well as other charitable institutions. Therefore, although the architectural layout and decorations of the Karatay Han may not have been shaped by an immediate and localized dispute, and hence may not have been designed to display the kinds of dualisms that we observe in pilgrimage churches, the history of the institution was nonetheless situated in an indirect conflictual context. Connectedly, understanding the relationship between the Karatay Han and its multiple audiences requires, on the one hand, an expanded conceptualization of its temporality, and on the other, a methodological re-constellation that frees it from its typological and disciplinary isolation as a caravanserai confined to Islamic architectural history. The above differences notwithstanding, caravanserais and pilgrimage churches were points along the lines that constituted their respective commercial networks. They both relied on their capacity to facilitate long-distance sequential movements, which either directly or indirectly benefited their patrons, notwithstanding the fact that in each case a jumble of threads coexisted with the network that allowed the movement of travellers of all kinds independent of the sequence. At the same time, caravanserais and pilgrimage churches moved in their extended microecologies for the primary purpose of revenue extraction, which was a similarly sequential movement based on seasonal rhythms. In their self-promotion,

Sequence 45 they made comparable uses of religious associations; the former of charity and hospitality, the latter of piety and miracles. Finally, although caravanserais were built primarily to accommodate merchants, they also welcomed pilgrims travelling to and from Mecca, as well as to and from Jerusalem. Hence, by the empirical removal of the norms that categorize each building into separate universal sets (typological and disciplinary), it is possible to see the intersections that reassemble them together on a comparative plane. Such removal, when conceived paradigmatically, does not function as an exclusionary step, but instead allows the inclusion of seemingly disparate buildings into a multiplicity. In other words, it does not negate the particularities of pilgrimage, long-distance trade, architectural practices, and social and cultural formations, but also does not allow them to become means of separation. The intention here is not a better understanding of one phenomenon by way of another, but to approach medieval Mediterranean architecture as implicitly, discretely, and imperceptibly connected. If the medieval Mediterranean is defined by the connectivity of its fragmented microecologies, where the units of analysis are not the polities that surrounded it, but the networks and the jumbles of threads that maintained connectivity, then its architectural history needs to be equally unbounded, equally mobile. It needs to take a step that flattens separations and divisions onto a non-hierarchical and non-binary comparative plane, so that it methodologically reflects the historical connectivity of the region. However, such a step has to be as empirical as it is conceptual, which means that it is necessary to find a pilgrimage church that can be the paradigmatic equivalent of the Karatay Han: a church that was not constructed in direct antagonism with its microecology, but over time was re-situated at the centre of a violent conflict; and a church whose sculptures were not produced in a dual tension between local and distant audiences, but throughout their extended history gained new meanings for multiple viewers. On these grounds, the pilgrimage/ abbey church of Saint-Sernin in Toulouse can be considered as one such paradigmatic case.

Multiple to multiplicity Situated in the bourg of Toulouse, just outside its medieval walls, the pilgrimage/abbey church of Saint-Sernin, like most of its counterparts across western Europe, grew out of a modest basilica dating back to the fifth century (Figure 1.4). The old basilica is partially preserved in the crypt, which also holds the body of St. Saturnin, the first bishop of Toulouse, along with the bodies and remains of various saints, a piece of the True Cross, and a thorn from the Crown of Thorns (added in the thirteenth century). The new church was consecrated in 1096. With a nave 115 metres in length and 21 metres in height, and crossed by a 64-metre-long transept, it was the largest church in medieval Toulouse, surpassing the Cathedral of Saint-Étienne, the seat of the bishops of Toulouse (Figure 1.5).86 In addition to its participation in the lucrative pilgrimage economy, SaintSernin held vast territories and privileges. The parishes of St. Quentin and Le

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Figure 1.4 General view of Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

Taur were tied to it. It held Banh Clercil (just north of the city, on the Garonne) and Camp Raux (further north on the Garonne) as fiefs. It had ecclesiastical jurisdiction within the bourg, controlled the archidiaconate of Villelongue (towards the Pyrenees), and possessed the burial rights of the counts of Toulouse.87 In other words, the relational movement of Saint-Sernin in its extended microecology was as profitable as its participation in pilgrimage economy, if not more. Consequently, the counts and the bishops of Toulouse openly envied the wealth and privileges of Saint-Sernin. To the south-west of Saint-Sernin, just before the Bazacle Gate, and to the east of Banh Clercil was the allodium and villa of St. Pierre des Cuisines. In the mid eleventh century, this area, which developed around the early Christian church of St. Pierre des Cuisines, was legally neither part of the bourg nor the city.88 In 1067, count Guillaume IV, freed its residents from rent charges, taxes on hides and military service and declared the quarter a free-hold (allodium). After this date, the quarter was gradually absorbed into the bourg, while at the same time extending towards the city.89 This was also the time when the church of St. Pierre, with the support of bishop Isarn, was given to the Cluniac monks of Moissac, albeit with only two servile families under their jurisdiction due to the now liberated status of the area.90

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Figure 1.5 General view of the Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

Nonetheless, within ten years, Cluny also controlled the monastery of La Daurade, and in 1082, the bishop and the count expelled the canons of Saint-Sernin and turned the abbey into a Cluniac priory. However, this was a very shortlived success. Pope Gregory VII, who had previously declared Saint-Sernin an

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independent church directly under the jurisdiction of the Papacy, immediately stepped in and his legate excommunicated the Cluniac monks.91 This forced Abbot Hugh of Cluny to return the church to the canons, whose independence and privileges were renewed in 1090, 1093 and finally in 1096, during the consecration of the church.92 The external sculptures of Saint-Sernin are concentrated on two portals on its south side, facing the city of Toulouse. The earliest of these, dating to the 1070s, are on the capitals of the south-transept portal, the Porte des Comtes, which, as the name suggests was for the counts of Toulouse, and served primarily funerary purposes (Figure 1.6). A second set of sculptures, completed two to three decades later, decorates and flanks the Porte Miègeville, situated to the west of the Porte des Comtes, at the fifth bay from west (Figure 1.7). This was the portal through which the pilgrims entered the church and circulated its ambulatory, which gave access to eight radiating chapels that displayed the precious relics of Saint-Sernin. In that respect, the two portals overlapped with and facilitated two modes of movement. While the Porte Miègeville re-sequenced the long-distance movement of the pilgrims along its ambulatory and through its radiating chapels, the Porte des Comtes orchestrated the equally sequential, but local and funerary procession of the counts, which ceremonially emphasized the special relationship between the counts and Saint-Sernin, dedicated to the patron saint of Toulouse.

Figure 1.6 View of the Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

Sequence 49

Figure 1.7 View of the Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

Yet, each portal included sculptures that either directly or indirectly responded to Saint-Sernin’s disputes with the alliance between the count, the bishop, and Cluny; a dispute that concerned only the highest religious and secular authorities of Toulouse, and not the larger population.

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The Porte des Comtes is divided into two equal doorways with four columns flanking a pier. Each of the central identical capitals represents a squatting man whose raised hands are held by two men in tunics (Figures 1.8 and 1.9). It is hard to tell whether the latter are lifting him up or keeping him down. Nonetheless, the scene communicates an unmistakable sense of captivity. Indeed, the remaining three capitals of the left flank of the portal, all depicting cardinal sins, suggest that this is either imprisonment prior to eternal punishment, or voluntary submission to the Church for salvation. On the far-left capital, in one of those occasional instances, Lust appears as a standing man (Figure 1.10). Two winged demons hold him from the wrists in a manner resembling the figures of the central pier, and attack his genitalia with arm-like batons. The capital behind represents Avarice as a squatting man holding the moneybag hanging from his neck, as the two flanking demons torment him. Right across, Lust appears once again, more conventionally as a nude woman with serpents biting at her breasts (Figure 1.11). As her hair flows in agony, almost foretelling her horrifying reappearance at Vézelay, two women, piously clad in veils, hold her arms and direct their accusing fingers to her tormented face. The vices continue their parade onto the right wing of the portal, but this time accompanied by a hope of salvation, perhaps even a recipe for it. The right-flank counterpart of the female Lust capital features yet another squatting man (Figure 1.12). While he is trying to hold at bay the two dragons flanking him, the beasts firmly clutch his knees and gnaw on his head. His slightly gaping and contorting mouth seems to reflect the maddening pain of his punishment, but it is hard to tell for which particular sin he is suffering. The far-right capital to the front represents a similarly ambiguous scene in terms of the specificity of the vice: the parable of the Rich Man (Dives) and Lazarus (Figure 1.13). We see the Rich Man in the middle of one of his daily “sumptuous feasts.” His table is economized to the ornamented rectangular tray on his lap with one half and one whole loaf of bread. To his right, stands a squire or a servant, who is lifting the Rich Man’s robe, as if to pull attention to its “purple colour and fine linen,” indicating a prominent aristocratic status, perhaps even a royal one. The column relief to the right of the squire/servant seems to confirm the Rich Man’s distinguished social rank by setting the scenery as a lavish dining hall. With his right index finger, the Rich Man points to himself and with his left to Lazarus. Hence, he directs the narrative from the ostentatious interior of his residence to the poor Lazarus “lying at the gate,” and begging to be “filled with the crumbs that fell from the Rich Man’s table.” Paralleling the squire/servant’s gesture, Lazarus lifts his garment, but not to indicate any social status. Instead he reveals his sores as two dogs approach to lick them.93 The identification of the following apotheosis scene as that of Lazarus is only possible when it is viewed as the conclusion of the parable on the capital to the front, because unlike the more common formula following Luke 16, such as at the nearby Abbey of Saint-Pierre in Moissac, Lazarus is not depicted in Abraham’s bosom.94 This suggests that if the Porte des Comtes capitals were combined through a common iconographical theme, the pattern that connected them began

Sequence 51

Figure 1.8 and 1.9 Sculpted capitals with squatting men, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 1.10 Sculpted capital with Lust as a man, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

with the male-Lust on the far left, continued to the Avarice behind, then to the facing female-Lust; crossed the identical squatting men of the central pier onto the man attacked by dragons, then jumped to the far right capital with the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus and ended with the latter’s apotheosis on the capital behind. Therefore, it seems possible that the Rich Man was included in the program as the embodiment of the vices represented on the capitals, and as part of a didactic narrative based on the contrast between him and Lazarus. According to Thomas W. Lyman, the sculptures were completed before tensions grew between Guillaume IV and Saint-Sernin, and the count was actively involved in the project, hoping to create for himself a funerary “family pantheon,” in imitation of Charlemagne.95 This would have marked the funerary processions of the counts with a clear political intent, hence gesturing toward the temporary appropriation of caravanserais by Seljuq sultans that turned them into political signs. However, since the earlier conceptualizations of the vice Avarice argued that “it had to do not only with money, but high position; it was rightly called avarice when prestige was sought beyond measure,” it is also possible to interpret the sculptures, unintentional though they may be, as responses to Guillaume IV’s plan to take over Saint-Sernin; a final warning on a funerary portal about what

Sequence 53

Figure 1.11 Sculpted capital with Lust as a woman, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

awaits the count in the afterlife, and what needs to be done to avoid it: humility and total submission to the Church.96 The Porte Miègeville, completed after Saint-Sernin triumphed in its conflict with the count, the bishop, and Cluny, can similarly be interpreted as a response, though this time as a glorification of Saint-Sernin’s victory, rather than an unintentional and discreet warning (Figure 1.14). The rich sculptural program of the portal is distributed among the reliefs of St. James on the left and St. Peter on the right of the archivolts, the capitals of the four columns flanking the portal in pairs, the tympanum, the lintel, and the two consoles right below. Although it would be over-ambitious to search for a single meaning that unified the sculptures, three major themes seem to stand out: the earthly and divine royalty of Christ and his immortality, the mission of the Church and its indispensability for salvation, and a condemnation of usury. While the last directly referred to the attempts to take over Saint-Sernin and its possessions, the first two underlined the source of the Papal authority that had secured Saint-Sernin’s victory.97 The tympanum depicts Christ in Ascension, rising above the clouds, supported by two angels. Two more angels on each side, smaller ones slightly kneeling in the outer corners, turn toward him. While the angels salute and acknowledge

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Figure 1.12 Sculpted capital with unidentified cardinal sin, Porte des Comtes, SaintSernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

the miracle with opened hands, Christ turns his head to his left, gazing upward. Divided between the three arms of his cross nimbus is the word rex (Figure 1.15). The divine royalty of Christ is mirrored with his earthly one on the left console below, where the crowned figure of David appears seated on two lions and unusually holding not a harp, but a rebec (Figure 1.16).98 The Greek letters alpha and omega appear below the horizontal arms of the cross, signalling, in reference to Revelation 1: 8 (“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the ending”), Christ’s Second Coming at the end of times as the judge of the living and the dead. A third set of inscriptions is separated by the vertical arm of the cross nimbus. It reads deus pater, and hence underlines the unity of the Father, the ascending Son, and the descending Holy Spirit soon to fill the apostles on the lintel below, and initiate their Mission. As Christ is raising his arms with a codex in his left hand, his body gives the hint of a leftward turn. However, this is neither the inprofile ascending Christ of Early Christian, Carolingian and German art, nor the fully frontal Christ of Byzantine and Eastern Christian art, which also became the dominant mode of representation in France in the later centuries.99 Instead, we see Christ in a union of the two iconographical traditions, combining upward and leftward movements and adding dynamism to an otherwise static and hieratic composition.

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Figure 1.13 Sculpted capital with the parable of Dives and Lazarus, Porte des Comtes, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

The dynamism continues below, on the lintel, as the apostles witness the Ascension and look sharply upward with energetic gestures, as if to catch a glimpse of the ascending Christ who is now hidden from them by a line of clouds. Except the central figure of St. Peter, who holds a colossal key, the apostles are unidentifiable. Flanking them on each end of the lintel is an angel. The one on the right partially unravels a scroll, and pointing to a particular section of the text manages to catch the attention of the nearby apostle. The other angel, on the other hand, holds and points toward a codex, but the apostle next to it is more interested in the Ascension, and the angel turns its head left, as if in complaint of the apostle’s disinterest. Over all, the iconography seems to follow the description of the Ascension in the Acts of the Apostles, rather than in Mark 16: 9 and Luke 24: 51: while they beheld, he was taken up; and a cloud received him out of their sight. And while they looked steadfastly toward heaven as he went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel; which also said, Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven. (Acts 1: 9–11)

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Figure 1.14 Tympanum with Christ in Ascension, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

The reliance of the iconography on the Acts achieves two things simultaneously. On the one hand, it connects to the alpha and the omega on Christ’s cross nimbus and to the Revelation, and hence refers back to the Second Coming of Christ for the Last Judgment. On the other hand, it creates a perfect overlap between the Ascension, the Pentecost, and the Mission of the Apostles, the latter continuing through Apostolic Succession in the body of the Church, as indicated by St. Peter holding the keys to Paradise. The mission of the Church and its indispensability for salvation is further underlined with the second visual device (in addition to the line of clouds) that separates the ascending Christ from the Apostles: a rhythmically rolling scroll of vines with clusters of grapes, an unmistakable reference to the Eucharist, and to the centrality of the clergy and the Sacraments for salvation. This latter theme continues on the historiated capitals below the lintel. The right-back capital depicts Adam and Eve in the moment of their Expulsion. The Original Sin is already committed, the Tree of Knowledge has disappeared, and the flora is completely taken over by Eucharistic vines. The left-back capital continues with the Annunciation, foretelling the beginning of the history of salvation, and concludes in the left-front capital with the Massacre of the Innocents, Christ’s first triumph over death, while his second triumph appears on a monumental scale on the tympanum (Figures 1.17 and 1.18).

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Figure 1.15 Detail of the cross-nimbus, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

The Gregorian Reform and the Investiture Controversy were possibly among the reasons for the appearance of such a strong emphasis on Church authority. During a period when the popes and the German Emperors violently disputed the right to appoint and invest bishops and abbots, the tympanum sculptures make a powerful claim on papal supremacy through the divine and earthly royalty of Christ, and through the portrayal of the Papacy as his rightful successor. Moreover, the liturgical content of the tympanum, particularly its Eucharistic vine, corresponds to the conceptualization of the church as the physical space where the Sacraments were realized, a point that the Gregorian reformers repeatedly emphasized.100 However, curiously, this message appeared in Toulouse, and not in Italy or in the North.101 It is very likely that the sculptures were conceived not as independent statements of papal supremacy, but in conjuncture with the conflict between Saint-Sernin and the count, the bishop, and Cluny, which ended on behalf of Saint-Sernin with an actual exercise of papal authority. The most direct reference to this is the relief of St. Peter on the right side of the archivolts, who appears triumphant over Simon Magus (Figure 1.19). St. Peter is depicted young and without a beard. He stands on two lions, and makes a calm blessing gesture while the keys to Paradise dangle from his belt. From his left, a vine scroll extends upward, toward the two figures of angles above him, who are also making blessing gestures, each with a host

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Figure 1.16 Left console with David, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

inside its palm. Hence, the relief communicates with the Eucharistic theme of the tympanum, further underlining the supremacy of the Church. Below the figure of St. Peter is the defeated Simon Magus, with a demon on each side dragging him to hell. The inscription, to which Simon points with his right hand, reads: “Raged by magic art, Simon perishes among his own weapons.”102 The scene is set antithetical to the ascending Christ on the tympanum, and therefore seems to be based on the apocryphal Acts of St. Peter, rather than the Acts 8: 9–24. While two angles help Christ in his Ascension, the two demons flanking Simon hold him down. As such, in his ambition to prove his divinity by flying, Simon’s own weapons, the demons, betray him. He is vanquished beneath a fully frontal Peter, who has prayed for God’s help to stop the magician.103 In contrast to the relatively discrete appearances of Simon Magus on single capitals at Moissac, Saint-Lazare at Autun, Vézelay, and Neuilly-en-Donjon, and at best an implicit reference to simony at Santiago de Compostela and on the Vézelay tympanum, at Saint-Sernin, the magician is represented on an almost monumental scale.104 This suggests that rather than a general appraisal of Gregorian attitude against simony, the imagery refers to the more local and direct dispute between Saint-Sernin and the triple alliance of Count Guillaume IV, bishop Isarn,

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Figure 1.17 and 1.18 Historiated capitals, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 1.19 St. Peter triumphant over Simon Magus, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

and Cluny.105 The scene seems to claim that the count, the bishop, and the Cluniac monks, who sought to take over Saint-Sernin’s spiritual privileges for their own material benefits perished, just like Simon Magus did, under the feet of St. Peter. This confirmed once and for all the independence of Saint-Sernin as a pilgrimage

Sequence 61 church directly under the authority of the Papacy, as the mirroring image of St. James to the left of the archivolts clearly underlines (Figure 1.20). At a time when simony was vaguely defined, and purchase could mean any kind of appropriation, such a claim would have been both legitimate and meaningful.106

Figure 1.20 St. James, Porte Miègeville, Saint-Sernin, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

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The most direct and powerful response to the dispute with the triple alliance is expressed through the articulation of the two opposing movements of the ascending Christ and descending Simon Magus, and coincidentally on a portal that initiated the re-sequencing of long-distance pilgrimage along the ambulatory of Saint-Sernin. It must be equally contingent that the Porte des Comtes similarly matched the linear and sequential movement of a funerary procession with the movements of the ascending Lazarus and the already descended personifications of vices tormented in Hell. However, such aleatory overlaps, as in the case of the Karatay Han, render the otherwise invisible visible; that this initial conflict engulfing Saint-Sernin was about its control over two overlapping movements: the long-distance sequence of pilgrimage with its metric rhythms, and the microecological sequence of revenues extraction with seasonal rhythms. In this case, the latter sequence also included the unpredictable rhythms of human life: the burial rights of the counts of Toulouse. Therefore, the glorification of the authority and Mission of the Church was not only an expression of gratitude, but also intended to serve the more practical purpose of guaranteeing the continuation of Saint-Sernin’s control over the two sequences. As I will argue below, the Karatay Han did not face the same threat of being taken over. It was not involved in any conflict, even one that concerned only the highest echelons of society, which was the case with Saint-Sernin’s dispute with the triple alliance between the count, the bishop, and Cluny. However, its sculptural decorations similarly glorified higher authorities, probably as a precautionary measure, particularly in relation to the potential, yet temporary appropriation of the caravanserai by the sultan. As we leave Toulouse to its social and political transformation over the course of the next century, and travel back to the Karatay Han, we encounter an equally rich iconographical program, distributed among the exterior and interior facades of its main portal, the spouts of the front facade, the long vestibule that leads into the courtyard, and the courtyard portal that opens to the enclosed section of the caravanserai. Combining human and animal figures (fantastic and real alike), floral patterns, detailed ornamental designs, and inscriptions, all of which relate to various aspects of royal/princely authority in the broader Seljuq art that extends beyond Anatolia, the Karatay Han communicates an unmistakable message of grandeur. Moreover, since almost the same iconography could also be found on portable objects of varying qualities, and of different sites and periods of production (including coins), the decorations were intelligible to a larger group of audiences, and they implicitly overlapped with the primary function of the caravanserai as a facilitator of long-distance movement.107 One can easily imagine a merchant traveling from Syria with silverware or lusterware objects among his goods, adorned with the same kind of imagery that he would have seen at the Karatay Han. The most unusual aspects of the Karatay Han are probably the inscriptions on its two portals, the inner one dating possibly to 1235, and the outer to 1240. They indicate that the enclosed section of the caravanserai was completed before the courtyard and the main portal, but what makes the inscriptions unusual is the

Sequence 63 complete absence of Celâleddin Karatay’s name. The earlier one, on the courtyard portal, underlines God as the true owner of all possessions (or property), and glorifies the ruling sultan Alaeddin Keykubad I (r. 1219–1236). In a similar vein, the second inscription, on the main portal, presents God as the owner of the caravanserai, and glorifies Keykubad’s son and successor, Giyaseddin Keykhüsrev II (r. 1236–1246).108 It is very encouraging to interpret this anomaly as Celâleddin Karatay’s takeover of a building commissioned by two successive sultans.109 However, given that the vakfiye so clearly mentions Karatay as the patron of the caravanserai, and that Karatay’s name appears in only one inscription of the numerous buildings he commissioned, there is possibly another reason behind such discrepancy.110 Furthermore, the inscriptions do not necessarily identify the sultans as patrons, and instead refer to God as the true owner of all property, which is not against Seljuq or broader Islamic conceptualizations of the rulershipownership relation, but it is also not against the overall logic of the vakfiye system. Similarly, although it is not uncommon for a vakfiye to postdate the construction of a given building, it is uncommon for the vakfiyes of two successive sultans to disappear so without a trace, regardless of how tumultuous the conditions were. I suggest that the answer to this dilemma lies in the consideration of the inscriptions alongside the remaining iconographical program, and in tandem with the Porte Miègeville sculptures of Saint-Sernin, where the emphasis on divine authority and its earthly representative operated as a means to underline the independence of the church with its possessions and privileges secured. The spout to the immediate west (left) of the main portal has a dynamically protruding bull on each of its lateral surfaces (Figure 1.21). On the front side is a man in a tunic, now missing his head, who seems to be squatting, but is more likely enthroned in a manner similar to the image of Nur al-Din Muhammad of the Artuqid dynasty on a coin dated c. 1180.111 Although the presence of a throne is partially visible between his legs, what he might have held in his hands, the right one close to his right leg, the left raised to his heart, is impossible to tell. Based on the positioning of his two hands, one possible conclusion might point toward a single object, possibly a sword. However, in its extended history, both temporarily and geographically, such a figure usually holds either two objects or one, in each case with a clear indication of royal/princely authority, but the object is rarely a weapon. In almost all comparable depictions, the person who appears is a man holding a branch in his right hand close to his leg, with or without a flower, and a cup in the left hand close to his heart. Occasionally, he appears without the branch, and only with a cup. In its various iterations within the Islamic world and beyond, the iconography is both static, because of its relatively stable connotation with royalty, and incredibly mobile, because of its ubiquitous appearance across time, space, and media.112 If Gönül Öney’s interpretation of the bull as a symbol of darkness is correct, then the overall composition of the spout represents a ruler triumphant over darkness/evil, akin to the figures of Christ and St. Peter on the

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Figure 1.21 Spout with enthroned man and a bull, main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Porte Miègeville.113 Alternatively, the bull might be positively associated with the enthroned figure, reinforcing his power. In either case, there is clear emphasis on royal/princely authority, which is repeated and expanded to a cosmic scale in the remainder of the Karatay Han decorations.

Sequence 65 On each side, a wide border with delicately interlocking stellar girih patterns flank the portal in exactly the same manner as at the Sultan Han in Aksaray (Figure 1.22). This is followed by a thicker and more angular interlocking design. Although the relief has eroded significantly, it is possible to see faint suggestions that this might have been a highly stylized depiction of intertwined serpents or

Figure 1.22 Main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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serpentine dragons, which, as I will discuss below, would not have been unusual at the Karatay Han, or on other Seljuq buildings.114 The outer arch of the portal switches back to a thin stellar design, as it meets the vegetal and floral motifs of the inner arch that extend from the two cuboctahedron capitals that surmount the semi-circular columns on the outer corners of the deep portal. The capital to the left has a bird of prey on both the frontal and the inner surfaces, which switches to rampant lions on the right capital. The scroll that extends from the two capitals, and make up the inner arch of the portal is filled with vine leaves and lotus flowers. Above the left capital, on the level most visible to passers-by and visitors, animated figures of dancers symmetrically fill the spaces between the branches. Mirroring the dancers on the right side are the fontal depiction of a bull, and a human face right above it.115 Below the muqarnas vaulting of the portal are five roundels. Although they have also eroded, the outer two appear to be sun-disks or wind-roses, and the inner three, one barely visible, are most likely elaborate articulations of the Seal of Solomon. The Seal of Solomon appears twice more on the main portal, in an equally elaborate manner: one on each side of the upper triangular portion of the muqarnas. The decorations continue their movement on the left wall of the long vestibule, where a door opens to a tomb chamber with an unidentified occupant (Figure 1.23). The wide and arched portal, now covered with a modern wooden

Figure 1.23 Left wall of the vestibule, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Sequence 67 door, is framed on three sides with a band that repeats the stellar girih of the main portal borders. A metric sequence of muqarnas carvings run outside the stellar border, with vegetal/floral scrolls underneath the left and right vertical bands, and an animal figure underneath each horizontal segment above the portal. Fifteen or fourteen in total, they are all real animals, except the last two figures to the right: a serpentine interlaced dragon, and a strange, bird-like creature (Figure 1.24). The animal figure to the farthest right has so far been identified as a bird holding a round object in its beak. I would argue that there are two possible interpretations, in none of which this figure is just a bird. Jean-Paul Roux has already provided a dragon-esque description for the animal by underlining its heavy wings folded on its back, its strong paws, thick head, and short tail.116 To that, I would add the underside of its body covered with ventral scales, and suggest the possibility that we are not looking at two animals, but one double-headed dragon, spread across two niches. It is not uncommon to encounter a double-headed dragon’s two heads facing each other in a confrontation, and this possibility also supplements the only other anticipated and executed confrontation in the animal sequence, in which, farther to the left, a lion and a bull face each other in battle poses.117 The second possibility follows the same logic, where animal and monster fights are signs for either royal/princely acts of valour and heroism, or for contrasts between darkness and light. It suggests that the last two animals on the right are a dragon, and not

Figure 1.24 Dragon and the “bird,” left wall of the vestibule, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

68 Sequence just any bird, but simurgh. The dragon-simurgh confrontation appears on numerous objects, especially on blades, and alludes to the contrast between darkness and light, death and rebirth.118 In that respect, although the vestibule animals might have been inspired by the Chinese-Turkish animal calendar, I concur with Roux that there are too many discrepancies between the Karatay Han images and the calendar to suggest a direct reproduction.119 Instead, as we shall see below, they seem to support the overall emphasis of the decorations on the cosmic and earthly dimensions of royal/princely authority. Merchants or travellers who chose to stay at the Karatay Han, or perhaps walked into the courtyard just out of curiosity would have seen the repetition of the stellar borders, the sun-disks/wind-roses, and the Seals of Solomon on the second, but older portal that opened into the enclosed section (Figure 1.25). Depending on their ranks and social status, they would have eaten from wooden or copper plates, stayed in single cells and the suit or slept with the animals, and taken their bath either at the village hamam or at the one inside the caravanserai. And as they left, they would have been sent off with the relief carving of two symmetrically intertwined dragons facing each other above the courtyard surface of the main portal, whose presence is foretold by three spouts on the main facade in the form of dragons, their legs once held by human figures, and the smaller dragon among animal series of the vestibule (Figures 1.26 and 1.27). An effort to unify the sculptural decorations of the Karatay Han into a single program is as ambitious and difficult as it is at Saint-Sernin, where there were similarly two building campaigns for its two portals. Yet, just as at Saint-Sernin, there are certain themes that might be seen as the main emphases of the Karatay Han sculptures. Consider, for instance, the repeated and prominent appearances of dragons. As I have already mentioned, this was not unusual in Seljuq and Islamic art and architecture. Dragons could be seen on a variety of portable objects from mirrors to candlesticks, such as the silver and copper-inlaid brass candlestick from the first half of the thirteenth century, probably produced in Jazira, and now at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There, the central zigzag that runs around the candlestick contains a series of knotted winged dragons facing each other, and all, like the vestibule dragon at the Karatay Han, if it is indeed a double-headed dragon, have a second head on their tails.120 Dragons also adorned a wide range of buildings, including citadels and palaces, hospitals, bridges, mosques, madrasas, and at least two more caravanserais from Anatolia: the Sultan Han in Kayseri, and the Susuz Han in Burdur with an unknown patron (c. 1244–46).121 And the double-headed and knotted dragons that once decorated the city walls of Konya are remarkably similar to the ones on the MET candlestick.122 Most visitors of the Karatay Han, then, regardless of their social status, would have already seen other dragon reliefs: on the walls of the cities they visited or came from, on the bridges they passed, and in the mosques they prayed. The more distinguished guests, whether officials or wealthy merchants, perhaps even owned objects decorated with dragon motifs. However, it is hard to imagine that such a wide range of audiences interpreted the dragon images in the same way, as it is hard to imagine that any of their interpretations matched the intentions of the patron.123

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Figure 1.25 Portal of the enclosed section, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Unlike the Biblical stories/themes and the personifications of vices on the Saint-Sernin portals, dragon imagery did not have a singular textual or theological reference point. Depending on geography and cultural context, medium, placement, and accompanying images, it would have had a variety of different, even

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Figure 1.26 Intertwined dragons on the courtyard-façade of the main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

contrasting meanings. It functioned as a royal/princely attribute, particularly on palaces and citadels, and in such settings, it also had apotropaic qualities as protection against evil, or against actual present and future enemies, particularly in the case of citadels and city walls. In other instances, it had a straightforward astrological or cosmological significance as the representation of the pseudoplanet al-jawzahr, believed to be responsible for the solar and lunar eclipses.124 If the animals in the vestibule were derived from the animal calendar, then the dragon there could have easily been included with such a cosmological intention, perhaps conflating the then distant and vague memory of the animal calendar, where the dragon is the constellation Draco, with the then more prevalent, and not necessarily unrelated notion of al-jawzahr. Similarly, the individualized appearance of two dragons above the courtyard surface of the main portal could have had a talismanic significance, overlapping with the purpose and architectural qualities of the building as a provider of safety and security for the merchants. However, when the dragon image was accompanied by other signs and personifications, such as solar disks, personifications of the moon and the sun, and enthroned princely figures, cosmological associations of the dragon conflated with the notion of cosmic rulership, where the ruler was perceived as the link between the heavenly/divine and earthly realms.125 In these

Sequence 71

Figure 1.27 Dragon spout, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

latter instances, the dragon became a negative sign referring to darkness, rather than a positive or neutral one as in other instances. The facade sculptures of the Karatay Han, whether the second border of the portal included dragons or not, suggest that there was a comparable intention to

72 Sequence conflate cosmology and rulership. According to Abbas Daneshvari, in the iconography of the figure with a branch and a cup, the two objects respectively represented darkness and light, and through that the sovereign’s ability to bring death and destruction to his enemies, while providing abundance and prosperity for his loyal subjects.126 The latter theme is furthered with the inclusion of a tree of life on each inner surface of the portal, each depicted with a pair of sirens.127 Similarly, when alongside a dragon, a human figure appeared, either as the personification of the sun or the moon, or as an enthroned ruler, the dragon, as al-jawzahr, represented the ever-present desire of darkness to swallow light. Antithetically, the human figure referred to the inevitable victory of light over darkness, while simultaneously equating the sun or the moon with the ruler, and hence overlapping the cosmic/divine order with the earthly one.128 The comparable association of the bull with darkness suggests that the dragon spouts, and their vestibule and courtyard counterparts were not included as separate decorative pieces. The association between serpent-dragons and water made them favourite choices in spout decorations.129 The vestibule dragon may have easily had an astrological significance, or a heroic one in relation to the dragon – simurgh confrontation, and the courtyard dragons were most probably, if not definitely, talismanic. Yet, none of these should suggest that they were detached from the overall theme of cosmic rulership.130 This is further supported by the double appearance of the lion on the right capital. In thirteenth-century astronomy, the domicile of the sun was in Leo, and in the now destroyed Talisman Gate of Baghdad, decorated with two knotted dragons flanking a personification of the moon as a royal figure, two lion figures were included as representations of the sun.131 Although, it is impossible to tell now, the two courtyard dragons of the Karatay Han might have similarly flanked a round personification of either the moon or the sun, once located inside the circle formed by their conjoining tails. Nevertheless, as Gönül Öney suggests, if the bull head above the lion capital is Taurus, and the human head above that is a personification of the moon, then what we have is darkness squeezed by two sources of light, underlining a powerful cosmic theme that runs across the main portal, and intricately connects to other aspects of rulership through the remainder of the sculptures.132 While the right capital of the portal, along with the reliefs above it underline the cosmic/divine implications of rulership, the imagery on the left seems to represent the earthly aspects of rulership, but never in detachment from the former. The two birds of prey do not appear in their heraldic poses, and since they decorate the portal of a caravanserai and not a mausoleum, it is hard to think of them in relation to a quasi-Shamanistic funerary context.133 Instead, they seem to connect to the figures of dancers, and possibly other animals (some may even be fantastical), dispersed on and between the stems of the vine scroll above. All together, they most likely represent, though implicitly, the courtly activities of leisure and hunting, probably within a paradisal setting. Two contemporary brass objects make similar references to courtly life, but this time very explicitly: the Blacas Ewer from Jazira, now at the British Museum, and

Sequence 73 a Candlestick with Equestrian Medallions from Anatolia, now in the David Collection in Copenhagen. In medallions and along its central band, the Blacas Ewer contains every conceivable image related to kingship: dancers, musicians, drinkers, hunting and battle scenes, an investiture, even scenes from the Shahnama, all appearing alongside a rich repertoire of mythological and fantastical beasts. Although on the Copenhagen candlestick the emphasis is more heavily on hunting, there, too, the equestrian figures are accompanied by princely figures of cup bearers and drinkers, and mythological beasts. Moreover, one of the equestrian figures is not merely a hunter, but a dragon slayer.134 Finally, on both objects, all of these scenes and figures, just as at the Karatay Han, are appended by sun disks with their cosmic connotations, and by the Seal of Solomon, which did not only have talismanic qualities, but also referred to Solomon as the Quranic example of good kingship.135 To conclude this discussion with a plausible speculation, I want to introduce the two roundels that flank the outer arch of the portal, just underneath the inscription. Whatever images they might have framed once are now long lost. However, given the overall emphases of the sculptures on cosmology, either independently or in relation to royalty, one can easily imagine that, at some point the roundels were decorated with the personifications of the sun and the moon, as was the case at the Sivas Hospital (1217), the Alaeddin Mosque in Niğde (1223), and the Mosque/ Hospital Complex in Divriği (1228).136 This would have truly crowned the crown portal of the Karatay Han, and completed its powerful royal iconography. So far though, my discussion seems to have not resolved the discrepancy between the inscriptions and the vakfiye, and contrary to my initial observations, it seems to have favoured the possibility of Celâleddin Karatay taking over a caravanserai commissioned by two successive sultans. However, it is important to remember that the earliest known precedent of an iconography comparable to the Karatay Han portal through the joint presence of a ruler and dragons is the Bobrinski Bucket (1163), which was commissioned for a prominent merchant of Herat. As Oya Pancaroğlu underlines, it would be erroneous to assume that images of cosmic kingship were the prerogative of sultans and princes. They had a much wider appeal that even included wealthy people, such as merchants, who did not hold official positions and titles, and hence would not have qualified as members of the Seljuq elite.137 I suggest that for such a high ranking official as Celâleddin Karatay, the coexistence of images of cosmic rulership, and inscriptions that exalted the two sultans but did not name them as patrons, would have served two purposes at the same time. They would have certainly glorified Celâleddin Karatay, but in such a discreet and indirect manner that any sultan who visited or temporarily appropriated the caravanserai would have seen his own glorification; on the one hand, in the sculptures and the ornaments, and on the other, through dynastic succession, in the inscriptions. *** Christ ascends into heavens while sun disks glimmer and align with Solomonic emblems, and inscribed celebrations of divine sanction from an indivisible God

74 Sequence taunt their Trinitarian sisters. A fallen magician is dragged into the black pits of hell, as draconic eclipses and raging bulls of darkness are overcome by celestial light and princely valour. Through the branches and leaves that surround them, dancers extend their hands to Apostles, who, in hopeful despair, struggle hard to see between vines and clouds the once-incarnate God whom they had so intimately known. Faint remnants of Trees of Life gesture to an invisible Tree of Jesse, whose presence is hinted only with a troubadour David. Syrian silk merchants have impossible conversations with Angevin cobblers, and Parisian goldsmiths unknowingly step in ghostly camel dung. Salawats echo from golden reliquaries, as wooden cups of soup are passed around to the mutterings of Anima Christi. Worlds, words, images, forms, styles, spaces, and experiences collide, crumble, and reassemble into a multiplicity, once the norms that subscribe them into typologically defined disciplinary cells are removed, and the practice of Mediterranean architectural history is allowed to flow as fluidly as the sea that defines it. Yet, this is no call for a romantic celebration of cultural unity, just as it is not an invitation to get lost in an orgy of infinite methodological possibilities. This multiplicity, this new assemblage is carefully and empirically crafted for a purpose, to demonstrate that in their new intertwined existence, the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin paradigmatically reveal their otherwise hidden characteristics as institutions that fundamentally relied on their ability to orchestrate two sequential movements at the same time: a long-distance sequence, either high-volume commerce or pilgrimage, with metric rhythms; and a microecological sequence of revenue extraction, rhythmed according to seasonal cycles. The Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin equally depended on the support and guarantee of higher authorities (sultanic and papal), so as to preserve their privileges and maintain their abilities to manage two simultaneous sequences. In their sculptural programs, at Saint-Sernin specifically on the Porte Miègeville, the two institutions sought to secure the continuation of their distinguished statuses, either through the direct (Saint-Sernin) or subtle yet recognizable (Karatay Han) celebration of their guarantors. Yet, in each case, the patrons similarly managed to include their self-glorifications. Finally, although the sculptures of Saint-Sernin and the Karatay Han might have been designed with particular intents, specific messages and audiences in mind, they were fuzzy enough to be reinterpreted by different audiences, and equally importantly, according to changing circumstances and microecological transformations. The temporally off-beat synchronicity of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin was soon retuned on a new comparative plain. In their own historical sequences, the two buildings found themselves in the midst of aberrant movements with sporadic rhythms that neither their patrons nor their primary users could have predicted. They became sites of unforeseeable conflicts that radically transformed the significance of their sculptures, and embedded their solids and voids with new experiences. Rather than the two simultaneous movements that they managed on the micro and macro levels, the aberrant movements that enveloped them and redefined them became the new imperceptible lines of connectivity that linked the

Sequence 75 buildings, and re-assembled them into a new multiplicity. The Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin became intertwined once again, neither at the juncture of the longdistance and microecological movements that they managed, nor at the juncture where the rulers became known to the subjects; but in rupture, where the microecology aberrantly flowed back, and where the subjects, relieved of their subjectivity, reintroduced themselves to the rulers. In rupture, the Lens is shattered, and no prophet can guide Odysseus. The following chapter, Rupture, re-assembles the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin in a history where the protagonists are neither the buildings and their patrons, nor sultans, counts, state officials, bishops, and abbots. In Rupture, the actors are the multitudes that occupied the microecologies of the two institutions, who were not necessarily perceived as the audiences of the buildings. Yet, with their sporadic rhythms and aberrant movements, they were redefining the architectural and sculptural significances of the buildings. Rupture did not follow Sequence chronologically, and it was not caused by Sequence. It was the continuous reconfiguration of the respective microecologies of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin, already in effect in Sequence; or to refer back to the metaphor of the spider, it was the relentless buzzing and whirling of the insects, tearing the web apart.

Notes 1 Ayşıl Tükel Yavuz, “The Concepts That Shape Anatolian Seljuq Caravanserais,” Muqarnas 14 (1997): 80–95. 2 Kemal Özergin, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” Tarih Dergisi (1965): 141– 170; Yavuz, “The Concepts That Shape Anatolian Seljuq Caravanserais”; and Mustafa Önge, “Caravanserais as Symbols of Power in Seljuk Anatolia,” in Jonathan Osmond and Ausma Cimdiņa, eds., Power and Culture: Identity, Ideology, Representation (Pisa: PLUS-Pisa University Press, 2007), 49–69. 3 David Abulafia, “Asia, Africa, and the Trade of Medieval Europe,” in Edward Miller, Cynthia Postan, and M. M. Postan, eds., The Cambridge Economic History of Europe from the Decline of the Roman Empire, Volume II: Trade and Industry in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 402–473; Michel Balard, “Le film des navigations orientales de Gênes au XIIIe siècle,” in Henri Dubois, JeanClaude Hocquet, and André Vauchez, eds., Horizons marins, itinéraires spirituels (Ve-XVIIIe siècles), volume II: marins, navires et affaires, mélanges en l’honneur de Michel Mollat (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1995), 99–122; Michel Balard, “Navigations génoises en Orient d’après les livres de bord du XIVe siècle,” Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 132–4 (1988): 781–793; Michel Balard, “Escales génoises sur les routes de l’Orient méditerranéen au XIVesiècle,” in Michel Balard, ed., La Méditerranée médiévale: espaces, itinéraires, comptoirs (Paris: Éditions Picard, 2006), 61–74; and Enrico Basso, “Prima di Tolfa: i mercanti genovesi e l’allume orientale,” Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome – Moyen âge [Online] 126–1 (2014). 4 Shelomo Dov Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, 5 Vols. (Berkley: University of California Press, 1967); and for a critical assessment see Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2000), 34, 35.

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5 As an exercise over contemporary shipping lanes of the Mediterranean, see www. marinetraffic.com/en/ais/home/centerx:17.3/centery:37.9/zoom:5 (Accessed July 21, 2018); and include into this picture the invisible movements of fishers, daily leisure cruises, smugglers, private yachts, and refugee boats. 6 Homer, The Odysseys, trans., Rodney Merrill (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002), 223 (XI: 120–130). 7 For instance, see Thomas Van Nortwick, The Unknown Odyssey: Alternate Worlds in Homer’s Odyseey (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2008), 57–61. 8 For the city-country distinction in The Odyssey, see Anthony T. Edwards, “Homer’s Ethical Geography: Country and City in the Odyssey,” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974–2014) 123 (1993): 27–78. 9 On poetic as well as topographical boundaries in The Odyssey, see Alex Purves, “Unmarked Space: Odysseus and the Inland Journey,” Arethusa 39:1 (2006): 1–20. 10 Jonathan S. Burgess, “Localization of the Odyssey’s Underworld,” Cahiers des études anciennes 80:1 (2016): 15–37. See also Horden and Purcell, 43, where the authors’ assertion that The Odyssey has been the creator of the Mediterranean ultimately relates to this long and double history of localizing the poem in the Mediterranean and simultaneously conceptualizing the Mediterranean with reference to it. 11 M. I. Finley, The World of Odysseus (New York: The Viking Press, 1954), 3–16. 12 Purves, 2–4. 13 Horden and Purcell, 123–172. 14 Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, A.D. 1325–1354, Vol. 2, ed., H. A. R. Gibb (New York: Routledge, 2016), 413–416 and notes. Candelora, with variations, was the name used by Italian merchants in the Middle Ages, derived from the Greek name of the port, Kalonoros. For that see Roger Mason, “The Medici-Lazara Map of Alanya,” Anatolian Studies 39 (1989): 85–105, specifically 94 and note 31. 15 Horden and Purcell, 11–25. 16 Paolo Squatriti, “The Vegetative Mediterranean,” in Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 26–41. 17 Daniel Zohary and Maria Hopf, Domestication of Plants in the Old World: The Origin and Spread of Cultivated Plants in West Asia, Europe and the Nile Valley (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 165–170. 18 Jonathan D. Sauer, Historical Geography of Crop Plants: A Select Roster (Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press, 1993), 185; and Diego Rivera, et al., “Date Palm Status and Perspective in Spain,” in Jameel M. al-Khayri, Shri Mohan Jain, and Dennis V. Johnson, eds., Date Palm Genetic Resources and Utilization: Volume 2: Asia and Europe (New York: Springer, 2015), 490, 491. 19 Steven E. Sidebotham, Berenike and the Ancient Maritime Spice Route (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 100 for Indian ships at Red Sea Roman harbours, 221–258 for Roman maritime trade with the Indian Ocean, 206–220 for inland routes and Roman roads. 20 For more, see Ray A. Kea, “The Mediterranean and Africa,” in Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 425–440; and Nicholas Doumanis, “The Mediterranean and Asia,” in Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 441–456. 21 Sidebotham, 125–136. 22 For the northern Mediterranean route of the Genoese, see Balard, “Navigations génoises,” and Balard, “Escales génoises.” For the Southern route to Latakia, which was most likely taken by this particular ship, see Armando Sapori, Le Marchand Italien au Moyen Age (Paris: Librairie Armand Colin, 1952), LIV–LVI. See also, Quentin van Doosselaere, Commercial Agreements and Social Dynamics in Medieval Genoa

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23 24 25 26 27 28

29 30 31 32 33

34 35 36

37 38 39

40 41 42 43

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 100–117, which provides a relevant discussion of the relationship between high-commerce network and micro-level social dynamics. See also Appendix C. Horden and Purcell, 123–172. Horden and Purcell, 53–88. For Ibn Battuta’s earlier and more detailed encounters with the Beja see Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, A.D. 1325–1354, Vol. 1, ed., H. A. R. Gibb (New York: Routledge, 2016), 68, 69. Horden and Purcell, 342–344. Ibn Battuta, Vol. 1, 64. Similarly, see Michael Greenhalgh’s study on the circulation of quarried and repurposed marble in the medieval Mediterranean. Michael Greenhalgh, Marble Past, Monumental Present: Building with Antiquities in the Mediaeval Mediterranean (Leiden: Brill, 2009). Heather E. Grossman, “On Memory, Transmission and the Practice of Building in Crusader Mediterranean,” Medieval Encounters 18 (2012): 481–517. Grossman, 490–506. Grossman, 506–514. Osman Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay, Vakıfları ve Vakfiyeleri,” Belleten 12:45 (1948): 17–182; Zehra Odabaşı, Selçuklu Devleti’nde Mühtedı Vakıfları: Celâleddin Karatay Vakfıfları Örneği (PhD Dissertation, Selçuk Üniversitesi, Konya, 2012). Andrew C. S. Peacock, “Sinop: A Frontier City in Seljuq and Mongol Anatolia,” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 16 (2010): 103–124, 537; and Sergej Karpov, “The Black Sea Region before and after the Fourth Crusade,” in Angeliki Laiou, ed., Urbs Capta: The Fourth Crusade and Its Consequences / La IVe croisade et ses conséquences (Paris: Lethielleux, 2005), 285–294. Jean-Paul Roux, “Le décor animé du caravansérail de Karatay en Anatolie,” Syria 49:3/4 (1972): 371–397. Ayşıl Tükel Yavuz, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansaraylarında Mekân-İşlev İlişkisi İçinde Savunma ve Barınma,” Vakıf Haftası 9 (1992): 253–284. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 52–54. For the English translation of the text and its Arabic transcription, see Patricia Blessing, Rebuilding Anatolia after the Mongol Conquest: Islamic Architecture in the Lands of Rum, 1240–1330 (London: Routledge, 2016), 176, 177. Osman Turan, “Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” Belleten 39 (1946): 471–496, specifically 477, 478. Osman Turan, Selçuklular Târihi ve Türk-İslâm Medeniyeti (Ankara: Ötüken, 1965/ 2008), 356. In addition to Yavuz, “The Concepts That Shape Anatolian Seljuq Caravanserais,” (cited above), see also Mustafa Önge, “Caravanserais as Symbols of Power in Seljuk Anatolia,” 54. On hierarchies among caravanserais, as demonstrated by their inscriptions, see Scott Redford, “Reading Inscriptions on Seljuk Caravanserais,” Euroasiatica 4: ‘A mari usque ad mare’ Cultura visuale e materiale dall’Adriatico all’India (2016): 221–233. Yavuz, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansaraylarında Mekân-İşlev İlişkisi,” 255–259. Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 16, 17. Yavuz, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansaraylarında Mekân-İşlev İlişkisi,” 254. See also, the catalogue of caravanserais in Özergin, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” 144– 170; and the map in Yavuz, “The Concepts That Shape,” 80. Osman Turan, “Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” 480; Yavuz, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansaraylarında Mekân-İşlev İlişkisi,” 254; and Ayşıl Tükel Yavuz, “Anatolian Seljuk Caravanserais and Their Use as State Houses,” in François Déroche et al.,

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52 53 54 55

56

57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68

Sequence eds., Turkish Art: 10th International Congress of Turkish Art, 17–23 September 1995, Proceedings (Geneva: Fondation Max Von Bechem, 1999), 737–765. Oya Pancaroğlu, “Devotion, Hospitality and Architecture in Medieval Anatolia,” Studia Islamica 108 (2013): 48–81, specifically 54. On Ibn Bibi and his chronicle see Herbert W. Duda, “İbn Bîbî’nin Selçuk Tarihi,” Şarkiyat Mecmuası 2 (1958): 1–10. Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c. 1071–1330 (New York: Taplinger, 1968), 120,121, 124. Ibn Bibi, El Evamirü’l – Ala’iye Fi’l – Umuri’l -Ala’iye (Selçukname) I, trans., Mürsel Öztürk (Ankara: T. C. Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları, 1996), 218–228. Ibn Bibi, 228–232. Howard Crane, “Notes on Saldjūq Architectural Patronage in Thirteenth Century Anatolia,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 26 (1993): 1–57; specifically, 6, 7. Turan, “Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” 492; and Pancaroğlu, “Devotion, Hospitality.” Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 160–168; Claude Cahen, “Le commerce Anatolien au début du XIIe siècle,” in Mélanges d’histoire du Moyen Age, dédiés à la mémoire de Louis Halphen (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1951), 91–101; and Turan, Selçuklular Târihi, 359–365. Turan, “Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” 479. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 113–115. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 113, 114, and for the value calculation of the salaries, 60–62. The most comprehensive comparative study on this distinction is still Halil Berktay, “The Search for the Peasant in Western and Turkish History Historiography,” Journal of Peasant Studies 18:3–4 (1991): 109–184. For a discussion of land tenure among medieval Muslim dynasties see Claude Cahen, “L’évolution de l’iqtâ du IXe au XIIIe siècle: contribution à une histoire comparée des sociétés médiévales,” Annales 8:1 (1953): 22–52. The Byzantine pronia system was still in development when the Seljuqs entered Anatolia in the late eleventh century, and they did not encounter it in the lands they conquered. For that, see Speros Vryonis, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamization from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971/1986), 469. Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 173–183; and Mustafa Akdağ, Türkiye’nin İktisadī ve İçtimaī Tarihi, Cilt I, 1243–1453 (Istanbul: Cem Yayınevi, 1974), 36–38. Mustafa Denktaş, “Karatay Hanı,” in Anandolu Selçuklu Dönemi Kervansarayları, ed. Hakkı Acun (Ankara: T. C. Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları, 2007), 369. Osman Turan, “Şemseddin Altun-aba, Vakfıyyesi ve Hayatı,” Belleten 11:42 (1947): 197–235. Osman Turan, “Mübârızeddin Er-Tokuş ve Vakfiyesi,” Belleten 11:43 (1947): 415–429. Horden and Purcell, 113, 117–119. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 111. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 63, note 127. Gojko Barjamovic, A Historical Geography of Anatolia in the Old Assyrian Colony Period (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 239, 240. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 64. According to Osman Turan, this is also supported by the clause in the vakfiye that no more than 1/5 of the produce should be taxed, which corresponded to the Seljuq policy of taxating the non-Muslim peasantry. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 67. It is possible that Sarahor is either the Roman settlement of Larissa, or is situated very close to it. For that see, William Mitchell Ramsey, The Historical Geography of Asia Minor (London: John Murray, 1890), 267, 272, 273. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 115, 116.

Sequence 79 69 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 111, 112. 70 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 122–127. Since in the original vakfiye the village of Sarahor was endowed in its totality, these later endowments were probably built, and, in the case of the orchard/vineyard, cultivated after the original vakfiye was drafted. 71 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 116, 122, 125, 126. 72 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 112, 113. 73 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 113. 74 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 114. 75 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 113. 76 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 115. 77 Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 127. 78 Yavuz, “Anatolian Seljuk Caravanserais,” 758, 759. 79 Blessing, Rebuilding Anatolia, 176. 80 Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “The Audiences for the Medieval Cult of Saints,” Gesta 30:1 (1991): 3–15. 81 On medieval European pilgrimage, see, for instance, Diana Webb, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage in the Medieval West (London: I. B. Tauris, 1999), and Diana Webb, Medieval European Pilgrimage, c.700-c.1500 (New York: Palgrave, 2002). For broader connections between money/profit economy and religion, see Lester K. Little, Religious Poverty and the Profit Economy in Medieval Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1978), and Jacques Le Goff, Your Money or Your Life: Economy and Religion in the Middle Ages (New York: Zone Books, 1998). 82 For an interesting perspective on the business strategies of pilgrimage churches, see Adrian R. Bell and Richard S. Dale, “The Medieval Pilgrimage Business,” Enterprise and Society 12:3 (2011): 601–627. 83 On these, in addition to Abu-El-Haj, “The Audiences for the Medieval Cult of Saints,” see Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “Santiago de Compostela in the Time of Diego Gelmírez,” Gesta 36:2 (1997): 165–179; Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “Artistic Integration Inside the Cathedral Precinct: Social Consensus Outside,” in Kathryn L. Draper et al., eds., Artistic Integration in Gothic Buildings (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000), 214–235; Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “The Urban Setting for Late Medieval Church Building: Reims and Its Cathedral Between 1210 and 1240,” Art History 11:1 (1988): 17–41; Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “Building and Decorating at Reims and Amiens,” in Herbert Beck and Kerstin Hengevoss-Dürkop, eds., Studien zur Geschichte der europäischen Skulptur im 12./13. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt am Main: Henrich, 1994), 763–776; and her unfinished book on Reims and Amiens, maintained as a collaborative project by International Center of Medieval Art, The Lordship & Commune Project: A Collaboratory, www.medievalart.org/lordship-and-commune. On Vézelay, see also John Scott, John O. Ward, and Eugene L. Cox, trans., eds., The Vézelay Chronicle and Other Documents from Ms. Auxerre 227 and Elsewhere (Binghamton, NY: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1992). 84 Abou-El-Haj, “Santiago de Compostela,” 172–174, and “The Audiences for the Medieval Cult of Saints,” 7–10. On the changes in Church discourse on cardinal sins, see Lester K. Little, “Pride Goes before Avarice: Social Change and the Vices in Latin Christendom,” The American Historical Review 76:1 (1971): 16–49. 85 For the Babai Rebellion, see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Babailer İsyanı: Aleviliğin Tarihsel Altyapısı yahut Anadolu’da İslâm-Türk Heterodoksisinin Teşekkülü (Istanbul: Dergah Yayınları, 1996); and for a comparative perspective, see Saygin Salgirli, “Orthodoxy, Dissent and Politics in Medieval France and Anatolia: A Comparative Perspective,” The Medieval History Journal 15:1 (2012): 63–102. 86 Michel Labrousse, Toulouse antique: des origins a l’établissement des wisigoths (Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1968), 424–427; and Marcel Durliat, Haut-Languedoc roman (Toulouse: Zodiaque, 1978), 47, 67–77. Although the church was consecrated in 1096, in the 1070s most of the chevet, the ambulatory and the transept doors were

80

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93 94 95 96

Sequence complete. See Thomas W. Lyman, “Notes on the Porte Miegeville Capitals and the Construction of Saint-Sernin in Toulouse,” The Art Bulletin 49:1 (1967): 25–36; and Thomas W. Lyman, “Raymond Gairard and Romanesque Building Campaigns at Saint-Sernin in Toulouse,” The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 37:2 (May, 1978): 71–91. On Saint-Sernin, see also Marcel Durliat, Saint-Sernin de Toulouse (Toulouse: Eché, 1986). Pierre Gérard and Thérèse Gérard, eds., Cartulaire de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse (Toulouse: Amis des archives de la Haute-Garonne, 1999), 121–157; John Hine Mundy, Liberty and Political Power in Toulouse, 1050–1230 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1954), 15. These are only some of Saint-Sernin’s possessions. By the 1240s, there were approximately 60 churches and parishes under its jurisdiction, and it held lands all around the County of Toulouse. Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 7, 8; John Hine Mundy, Society and Government at Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1997), 20, 21; and Jean Coppolani, Toulouse: etude de géographie urbaine (Toulouse: Privat-Didier, 1954), 52, 53. Histoire générale de Languedoc avec des notes et les pièces justificatives par dom Cl. Devic & dom J. Vaissete, Vol. 5 (Toulouse: E. Privat, 1872–1892), no: 277, cols. 544–546 (from here on: HGL). HGL, Vol. 5, no: 277, cols. 544–546. Gregory VII’s legate was Abbot Richard of Saint-Victor at Marseilles. The pope’s letter to the abbot, which was composed upon complaints from the canons of SaintSernin, clarifies that the Cluniac takeover was the joint venture of the count and the bishop: “the harassment of seculars against the said place has already begun and, what is more to be wandered and grieved about, the hatreds of ecclesiastics have begun to spring up.” Gregory VII, then goes on to explain Saint-Etienne’s ambition to take over the cemetery of Saint-Sernin and along with it the burial rights of the counts. H. E. J. Cowdrey, trans., ed., The Registers of Pope Gregory VII, 1073–1085: An English Translation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 429, 430 (Book 9.30); Philippe Jaffé, ed., Regesta Pontificum Romanorum ab Condita Ecclesia ad Annum post Christum Natum MCXCVIII, Vol. 1 (Leipzig: Veit und Co, 1885/Graz: Akademische Druck-U. Verlagsanstalt, 1956), 643, no. 5258 (3951) and see no. 5239 (3952) for the excommunication. Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 14–16; O. K. Werckmeister, “Cluny III and the Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela,” Gesta 27: 1/2 (1988): 103–112; and Thomas W. Lyman, “The Politics of Selective Eclecticism: Monastic Architecture, Pilgrimage Churches, and ‘Resistance to Cluny’,” Gesta 27: 1/2 (1988): 83–92. For the economic implications of the Cluny enterprise see Georges Duby, “Économie domaniale et économie monétaire: Le budget de l’abbaye de Cluny entre 1080 et 1155,” Annales ESC 7 (1952): 155–172. For Urban II’s consecration of Saint-Sernin see Jaffé, Regesta, Vol. 1, 687, no. 4648 (4228). For the confirmation of Saint-Sernin’s burial rights see C. Douais, ed., Cartulaire de l’Abbaye de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse, 844–1200 (Paris: A. Picard, 1887), no. 2. The parable is from Luke 16: 19–31. The sections in quotation marks are either direct quotes or adapted to match the syntax, and they are all from the 1899 American edition of the Douay-Rheims Bible. On Moissac see Meyer Schapiro, “The Romanesque Sculpture of Moissac,” The Art Bulletin 13:3 and 4 (1931): 249–351 and 464–531; and Ilene H. Forsyth, “The Narrative at Moissac: Schapiro’s Legacy,” Gesta 41: 2 (2002): 71–93. Thomas W. Lyman, “The Sculpture Programme of the Porte des Comtes Master at Saint-Sernin in Toulouse,” The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 34 (1971): 12–39, specifically 30. Little, “Pride Goes before Avarice,” 20, translated from De divisione naturae of Gregory the Great. Note that Marcel Durliat situates the bulk of the building campaign

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between 1070 and 1100. For that see Durliat, Saint-Sernin de Toulouse, 33–38. However, based on archeological evidence, Henri Pradalier has proposed an earlier building campaign beginning around 1060, with the Porte Miègeville completed by 1096. See Henri Pradalier, “Saint-Sernin de Toulouse au Moyen Âge,” in Congrès Archéologique de France, 1996 (154e session): Monuments en Toulousain at en Comminges (Paris: Société française d’archéologie, 2002), 256–301, specifically 266–270 and 279–181. On the Porte Miègeville, see Thomas W. Lyman, “Le style comme symbole chez les sculpteurs romans: essai d’interprétation de quelques inventions thématiques à la Porte Miégeville de Saint-Sernin,” Cahiers de Saint-Michel de Cuxa 12 (1981): 161– 180; and Olivier Testard, “La porte Miégeville de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse: proposition d’analyse iconographique,” Mémoires de la Société archéologique du Midi de la France 64 (2004): 25–61. According to Gretchen Peters, documentary references to the rebec rarely appear in medieval France, and only in the later centuries. Indeed, this may be the earliest indication of the presence of the instrument outside Iberia, where it gradually evolved from the Arab rabab, and is similarly visualized in the depiction of David at Satntiago de Compostela. See Gretchen Peters, The Musical Sounds of Medieval French Cities: Players, Patrons, and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 255. For variations in the depictions of the Ascension between the in-profile Christ climbing up a mountain to reach the hand of God, and the fully frontal, enthroned or standing Christ in a mandorla, see Emile Mâle, Religious Art in France, the Twelfth Century: A Study of the Origins of Medieval Iconography (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978), 92, 93. For a more updated account, see Peter Murray and Linda Murray, The Oxford Companion to Christian Art and Architecture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 34, 35; and most recently, Magali Guenot, “Les images de l’ Ascension du Christ dans la chrétienté latine entre le 9e et le 13e siècle” (PhD Thesis, Archéologie et Préhistoire. Université de Lyon, Lyon, 2016). Dominique Iogna-Prat, “La imagen sacramental de la Iglesia y la iglesia como ‘lugar de resturación’,” in José Ignacio Saranyana, ed., La reforma gregoriana y su proyección en la cristiandad Occidental. Siglos XI-XII: Actas de la XXXII Semana de Estudios Medievales de Estella. 18–22 de julio de 2005 (Pamplona: Gobierno de Navarra, 2006), 153–193. Compare for example with the Modena Cathedral, where Gregorian ideals are expressed much subtly. See Dorothy F. Glass, “Revisiting the ‘Gregorian Reform’,” in Colum Hourihane, ed., Romanesque Art and Thought in the Twelfth Century: Essays in Honor of Walter Cahn (Princeton: Index of Christian Art, Department of Art & Archeology, 2008), 200–219. Arte furens magica Simon in sua occidit arma. A charter of 1060 from the monastery of Saint-Victor at Marseilles tells the same story, which strongly suggests that the apocryphal version was well-spread: “Peter acted in such a way that having prayed to God, he cast down to earth his [Simon’s] wicked body, which he saw flying in the air by magic arts”. See Joseph H. Lynch, Simonical Entry into Religious Life from 1000 to 1260: A Social, Economic and Legal Study (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1976), 67. See Kirk Ambrose, “The Fall of Simon Magus on a Capital at Vézelay,” Gazette des Beaux-Arts 137 (April, 2001): 151–166; Ilene H. Forsyth, “Word-Play in the Cloister of Moissac,” in Colum Hourihane, ed., Romanesque Art and Thought in the Twelfth Century: Essays in Honor of Walter Cahn (Princeton: Index of Christian Art, Department of Art & Archeology, 2008), 154–179, specifically 172, 173, 176 and note 50; Denis Grivot and George Zarnecki, Gislebertus: Sculpteur d’Autun (Paris: Éditions Trianon, 1960), 68; and Helene S. Setlak-Garrison, “The Capitals of St. Lazare at Autun: Their Relationship to the Last Judgement Portal,” (PhD Dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles, 1984), 80–85; W. Cook, “A New Approach to

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118

Sequence the Tympanum of Neuilly-en-Donjon,” Journal of Medieval History (Amsterdam) 4:4 (1978): 333–345. For a discussion on simony at Santiago de Compostela see Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “Santiago de Compostela,” 172 and note 70. For an argument on implicit reference to simony at Vézelay see Michael D. Taylor, “The Pentecost at Vézelay,” Gesta 19:1 (1980): 9–15, specifically 12. Although he did not use the term simony, Urban II was the first pope, since the early ninth century, to explicitly forbid the demand of gifts for entry into a monastic order. The canon was first established in 1089 in Melfi, and repeated in 1099 in Rome. See Lynch, 69. For Urban II’s attitude against clerical simony see also H. E. J. Cowdrey, “The Succession of the Archbishops of Milan in the Time of Pope Urban II,” The English Historical Review 83:327 (April, 1968): 285–294. Lynch, 67–72; and Timothy Reuter, “Gifts and Simony,” in Esther Cohen and Mayke B. de Jong, eds., Medieval Transformations: Texts, Power, and Gifts in Context / Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions: Medieval and Early Modern Peoples, Vol. 11 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 157–168, specifically 161, 162. For a different, but highly informative discussion on the relationship between portable objects and architecture in medieval Anatolia, see Scott Redford, “Portable Palaces: On the Circulation of Objects and Ideas about Architecture in Medieval Anatolia and Mesopotamia,” Medieval Encounters 18 (2012): 382–412. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 51, note 98. For that see Redford, “Reading Inscriptions on Seljuk Caravanserais,” 223. Odabaşı, “Selçuklu Devleti’nde Mühtedi Vakıfları,” 83, 84. In the coin, Nusr al-Din’s hands are in reverse order, and in his right hand he seems to be holding a globe. Sheila R. Canby, Deniz Beyazit, Martina Rugiadi, and A. C. S. Peacock, Court and Cosmos: The Great Age of the Seljuqs (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2016), 66–71. For an interpretation see Suzan Yalman, “Ala Al-Din Kayqubad Illuminated: A Rum Seljuq Sultan as Cosmic Ruler,” Muqarnas 29 (2012): 151–186, specifically 164–166. On the vast geographical distribution of the iconography from Dandan-Uiliq to Palermo, see Abbas Daneshvari, “Cup, Branch, Bird and Fish: An Iconographical Study of the Figure Holding a Cup and a Branch Flanked by a Bird and a Fish,” in Bernard O’Kane, ed., The Iconography of Islamic Art: Studies in Honour of Robert Hillenbrand (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005), 103–125. For the Seljuq stucco panel from Iran with an enthroned ruler (possibly Tughril) holding a cup, see Canby et al., Court and Cosmos, 76, 77. Gönül Öney, “Anadolu Selçuklu Mimarisinde Boğa Kabartmaları / Bull Reliefs in Anatolian Seljuk Architecture,” Belleten 133 (1970): 83–120; Gönül Öney, “Anadolu Selçuk Mimarisinde Arslan Figürü / Lion Figures in Anatolian Seljuk Architecture,” Anadolu (Anatolia) 13 (1971): 1–64; Eva Baer, “A Group of Seljuq Figural Bas Reliefs,” Oriens 20 (1967): 107–124, specifically 112–116; and Savaş Yıldırım, “Aslan-Boğa Mücadelesi Kompozisyonu,” Ankara Üniversitesi Dil ve Tarih Coğrafya Fakültesi Dergisi 43 (2003): 1–18. Unlike the half-stars composed of superimposed lines of relief at the Sultan Han in Kayseri, the pattern here is unmistakably an interlace. The reliefs have decayed tremendously over the centuries. For older photographs see Roux, “Le décor animé,” figures 7–10. See also Kurt Erdmann, Das anatolische Karavansaray des 13. Jahrhunderts, Vol. 3 (Istanbuler Forschungen Bd. 21, 31, Berlin: Verlag Gebr. Mann, 1961–76), 148–152. Roux, “Le décor animé,” 387. In addition to the studies of Öney, Baer, and Yıldırım, see also Jean-Paul Roux, “Mosquées anatoliennes à décor figuratif sculpté,” Syria 57: 1 (1980): 305–323, at 306, 307, for an earlier application of the lion-bull fight in architectural decoration, in the Great Mosque of Diyarbakır. Abbas Daneshvari, Of Serpents and Dragons in Islamic Art: An Iconographical Study (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2011), 103, 104; 166–176.

Sequence 83 119 For an argument in favour of the calendar, see Gönül Öney, “Anadolu Selçuk Sanatında Ejder Kabartmaları / Dragon Figures in Anatolian Seljuk Art,” Belleten 33 (1969): 171–216, specifically 181, 182. For the critique, see Roux, “Le décor animé,” 387–392. 120 For the candlestick, see Canby et al., Court and Cosmos, 232, 233. For a discussion of the ubiquity of dragon figures on portable objects, see Sara Kuehn, The Dragon in Medieval East Christian and Islamic Art (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 35–48. 121 For a survey of dragons in architectural settings, see Kuehn, The Dragon, 21–34; Öney, “Anadolu Selçuk Sanatında Ejder”; and Katharina Otto-Dorn, “Figural Stone Reliefs on Seljuk Sacred Architecture in Anatolie,” Kunst des Orients 12:1/2 (1978/1979): 103–149, specifically 125–136. 122 See, for instance, Persis Berlekamp, “Symmetry, Sympathy, and Sensation: Talismanic Efficacy and Slippery Iconographies in Early Thirteenth-Century Iraq, Syria, and Anatolia,” Representations 133:1 (2016): 59–109, at 83–90. 123 For another discussion of multiple meanings, see Berlekamp, “Symmetry, Sympathy, and Sensation.” Though, as I will elaborate in the next chapter, my approach to the multiplicity of meanings, or significances differs from Berlekamp’s. 124 In addition to Öney, “Anadolu Selçuk Sanatında Ejder,” and Otto-Dorn, “Figural Stone Reliefs,” 125–136; see also Oya Pancaroğlu, “‘A World Unto Himself’: The Rise of a New Human Image in the Late Seljuk Period (1150–1250),” (PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, Boston, MA, 2000), 199, 224, 225. For a broader discussion of dragon iconography, and the multiple meanings of the dragon, see Daneshvari, Of Serpents and Dragons, especially 7–47; and Kuehn, The Dragon. 125 For a detailed discussion of cosmic rulership in Seljuq art, see Pancaroğlu, “‘A World Unto Himself’,” 225–250. 126 Daneshvari, “Cup, Branch, Bird, and Fish.” 127 Gönül Öney, “Anadolu Selçuklu Sanatında Hayat Ağacı Motifi,” Belleten 32 (1968): 25–50; Otto-Dorn, “Figural Stone Reliefs,” 136–139; and Roux, “Le décor animé,” 384–386. 128 Pancaroğlu, “‘A World Unto Himself’,” 224–229. 129 Daneshvari, Of Serpents and Dragons, 43. 130 Kuehn, The Dragon, 113, 114; and Sara Kuehn, “The Dragon in Transcultural Skies: Its Celestial Aspect in the Medieval Islamic World,” in Niels Gutschow and Katharina Weiler, eds., Spirits in Transcultural Skies: Auspicious and Protective Spirits in Artefacts and Architecture between East and West (New York: Springer, 2015), 71–98. 131 Pancaroğlu, “‘A World Unto Himself’,” 228, 229. 132 Öney, “Anadolu Selçuklu Mimarisinde Boğa Kabartmaları,” 103, 104. 133 Otto-Dorn, “Figural Stone Reliefs,” 114–125; and Gönül Öney, “Anadolu Selçuklu Mimarisinde Avcı Kuşlar, Tek ve Çift Başlı Kartal,” in Malazgirt Armağanı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1972), 139–172. 134 On the two objects, see Canby et al., Court and Cosmos, 75, 147–148; and for a bibliography see notes for Cat. 15 and Cat. 77. For a discussion of the iconography of dragon slayers in the Islamic arts of medieval Anatolia, see Oya Pancaroğlu, “The Itinerant Dragon-Slayer: Forging Paths of Image and Identity in Medieval Anatolia,” Gesta 43:2 (2004): 151–164. 135 The lore of Solomon was very powerful from the early years of Islam, and played a fundamental role in the construction of its first monument, the Dome of the Rock. For that see, Nasser Rabbat, “The Meaning of the Umayyad Dome of the Rock,” Muqarnas 6 (1989): 12–21; and Nuha N. N. Khoury, “The Dome of the Rock, the Ka‘ba, and Ghumdan: Arab Myths and Umayyad Monuments,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 57–65. 136 Pancaroğlu, “‘A World Unto Himself’,” 229–231. See also Otto-Dorn, “Figural Stone Reliefs,” 107, 108; and Gönül Öney, “Sun and Moon Rosettes in the Shape of Human Heads in Anatolian Seljuq Architecture,” Anatolica 3 (1969–1970): 195–203. 137 Pancaroğlu, “‘AWorld Unto Himself’,” 243–247. See also, Kuehn, The Dragon, 114, 115.

84

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Duda, Herbert W., “İbn Bîbî’nin Selçuk Tarihi,” Şarkiyat Mecmuası 2 (1958): 1–10. Durliat, Marcel, Haut-Languedoc roman (Toulouse: Zodiaque, 1978). ———, Saint-Sernin de Toulouse (Toulouse: Eché, 1986). Edwards, Anthony T., “Homer’s Ethical Geography: Country and City in the Odyssey,” Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974–2014) 123 (1993): 27–78. Erdmann, Kurt, Das anatolische Karavansaray des 13. Jahrhunderts, Vol. 3 (Istanbuler Forschungen Bd. 21, 31, Berlin: Verlag Gebr. Mann, 1961–76). Finley, M. I., The World of Odysseus (New York: The Viking Press, 1954). Forsyth, Ilene H., “The Narrative at Moissac: Schapiro’s Legacy,” Gesta 41:2 (2002): 71–93. ———, “Word-Play in the Cloister of Moissac,” in Colum Hourihane, ed., Romanesque Art and Thought in the Twelfth Century: Essays in Honor of Walter Cahn (Princeton: Index of Christian Art, Department of Art & Archeology, 2008), 154–179. Glass, Dorothy F., “Revisiting the ‘Gregorian Reform’,” in Colum Hourihane, ed., Romanesque Art and Thought in the Twelfth Century: Essays in Honor of Walter Cahn (Princeton: Index of Christian Art, Department of Art & Archeology, 2008). Goitein, Shelomo Dov, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Communities of the Arab World as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, 5 Vols. (Berkley: University of California Press, 1967). Greenhalgh, Michael, Marble Past, Monumental Present: Building with Antiquities in the Mediaeval Mediterranean (Leiden: Brill, 2009). Grivot, Denis and George Zarnecki, Gislebertus: Sculpteur d’Autun (Paris: Éditions Trianon, 1960). Grossman, Heather E., “On Memory, Transmission and the Practice of Building in Crusader Mediterranean,” Medieval Encounters 18 (2012): 481–517. Guenot, Magali, “Les images de l’ Ascension du Christ dans la chrétienté latine entre le 9e et le 13e siècle,” (PhD Dissertation, Archéologie et Préhistoire Université de Lyon, Lyon, 2016). Homer, The Odysseys, trans., Rodney Merrill (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2002). Horden, Peregrine and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000). Iogna-Prat, Dominique, “La imagen sacramental de la Iglesia y la iglesia como ‘lugar de resturación’,” in José Ignacio Saranyana, ed., La reforma gregoriana y su proyección en la cristiandad Occidental. Siglos XI-XII: Actas de la XXXII Semana de Estudios Medievales de Estella. 18–22 de julio de 2005 (Pamplona: Gobierno de Navarra, 2006), 153–193. Karpov, Sergej, “The Black Sea Region before and after the Fourth Crusade,” in Angeliki Laiou, ed., Urbs Capta: The Fourth Crusade and Its Consequences/La IVe croisade et ses conséquences (Paris: Lethielleux, 2005), 285–294. Kea, Ray A., “The Mediterranean and Africa,” in Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 425–440. Khoury, Nuha N. N., “The Dome of the Rock, the Ka‘ba, and Ghumdan: Arab Myths and Umayyad Monuments,” Muqarnas 10 (1993): 57–65. Kuehn, Sara, The Dragon in Medieval East Christian and Islamic Art (Leiden: Brill, 2011). ———, “The Dragon in Transcultural Skies: Its Celestial Aspect in the Medieval Islamic World,” in Niels Gutschow and Katharina Weiler, eds., Spirits in Transcultural Skies: Auspicious and Protective Spirits in Artefacts and Architecture between East and West (New York: Springer, 2015), 71–98.

Sequence 87 Labrousse, Michel, Toulouse antique: des origins a l’établissement des wisigoths (Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1968). Le Goff, Jacques, Your Money or Your Life: Economy and Religion in the Middle Ages (New York: Zone Books, 1998). Little, Lester K., “Pride Goes before Avarice: Social Change and the Vices in Latin Christendom,” The American Historical Review 76:1 (1971): 16–49. ———, Religious Poverty and the Profit Economy in Medieval Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1978). Lyman, Thomas W., “Notes on the Porte Miegeville Capitals and the Construction of SaintSernin in Toulouse,” The Art Bulletin 49:1 (1967): 25–36. ———, “The Sculpture Programme of the Porte des Comtes Master at Saint-Sernin in Toulouse,” The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 34 (1971): 12–39. ———, “Raymond Gairard and Romanesque Building Campaigns at Saint-Sernin in Toulouse,” The Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 37:2 (May, 1978): 71–91. ———, “Le style comme symbole chez les sculpteurs romans: essai d’interprétation de quelques inventions thématiques à la Porte Miégeville de Saint-Sernin,” Cahiers de Saint-Michel de Cuxa 12 (1981): 161–180. ———, “The Politics of Selective Eclecticism: Monastic Architecture, Pilgrimage Churches, and ‘Resistance to Cluny’,” Gesta 27:1/2 (1988): 83–92. Lynch, Joseph H., Simonical Entry into Religious Life from 1000 to 1260: A Social, Economic and Legal Study (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1976). Mâle, Emile, Religious Art in France, the Twelfth Century: A Study of the Origins of Medieval Iconography (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1978). Mason, Roger, “The Medici-Lazara Map of Alanya,” Anatolian Studies 39 (1989): 85–105. Mundy, John Hine, Liberty and Political Power in Toulouse, 1050–1230 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1954). ———, Society and Government at Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1997). Murray, Peter and Linda Murray, The Oxford Companion to Christian Art and Architecture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). Ocak, Ahmet Yaşar, Babailer İsyanı: Aleviliğin Tarihsel Altyapısı yahut Anadolu’da İslâmTürk Heterodoksisinin Teşekkülü (Istanbul: Dergah Yayınları, 1996). Odabaşı, Zehra, “Selçuklu Devleti’nde Mühtedı Vakıfları: Celâleddin Karatay Vakfıfları Örneği,” (PhD Dissertation, Selçuk Üniversitesi, Konya, 2012). Öney, Gönül, “Anadolu Selçuklu Sanatında Hayat Ağacı Motifi,” Belleten 32 (1968): 25–50. ———, “Sun and Moon Rosettes in the Shape of Human Heads in Anatolian Seljuq Architecture,” Anatolica 3 (1969–1970): 195–203. ———, “Anadolu Selçuklu Mimarisinde Boğa Kabartmaları/Bull Reliefs in Anatolian Seljuk Architecture,” Belleten 133 (1970): 83–120. ———, “Anadolu Selçuk Mimarisinde Arslan Figürü/Lion Figures in Anatolian Seljuk Architecture,” Anadolu (Anatolia) 13 (1971): 1–64. ———, “Anadolu Selçuklu Mimarisinde Avcı Kuşlar, Tek ve Çift Başlı Kartal,” in Malazgirt Armağanı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1972), 139–172. Önge, Mustafa, “Caravanserais as Symbols of Power in Seljuk Anatolia,” in Jonathan Osmond and Ausma Cimdiņa, eds., Power and Culture: Identity, Ideology, Representation (Pisa: PLUS-Pisa University Press, 2007), 49–69. Otto-Dorn, Katharina, “Figural Stone Reliefs on Seljuk Sacred Architecture in Anatolie,” Kunst des Orients 12:1/2 (1978/1979): 103–149. Özergin, Kemal, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” Tarih Dergisi (1965): 141–170.

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Pancaroğlu, Oya, “‘A World Unto Himself’: The Rise of a New Human Image in the Late Seljuk Period (1150–1250),” (PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, Boston, MA, 2000). ———, “The Itinerant Dragon-Slayer: Forging Paths of Image and Identity in Medieval Anatolia,” Gesta 43:2 (2004): 151–164. ———, “Devotion, Hospitality and Architecture in Medieval Anatolia,” Studia Islamica 108 (2013): 48–81. Peacock, Andrew C. S., “Sinop: A Frontier City in Seljuq and Mongol Anatolia,” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 16 (2010): 103–124. Peters, Gretchen, The Musical Sounds of Medieval French Cities: Players, Patrons, and Politics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). Pradalier, Henri, “Saint-Sernin de Toulouse au Moyen Âge,” in Congrès Archéologique de France, 1996 (154e session): Monuments en Toulousain at en Comminges (Paris: Société française d’archéologie, 2002), 256–301. Purves, Alex, “Unmarked Space: Odysseus and the Inland Journey,” Arethusa 39:1 (2006): 1–20. Rabbat, Nasser, “The Meaning of the Umayyad Dome of the Rock,” Muqarnas 6 (1989): 12–21. Ramsey, William Mitchell, The Historical Geography of Asia Minor (London: John Murray, 1890). Redford, Scott, “Portable Palaces: On the Circulation of Objects and Ideas about Architecture in Medieval Anatolia and Mesopotamia,” Medieval Encounters 18 (2012): 382–412. ———, “Reading Inscriptions on Seljuk Caravanserais,” Euroasiatica 4: ‘A mari usque ad mare’ Cultura visuale e materiale dall’Adriatico all’India (2016): 221–233. Reuter, Timothy, “Gifts and Simony,” in Esther Cohen and Mayke B. de Jong, eds., Medieval Transformations: Texts, Power, and Gifts in Context/Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions: Medieval and Early Modern Peoples, Vol. 11 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 157–168. Rivera, Diego, et al., “Date Palm Status and Perspective in Spain,” in Jameel M. al-Khayri, Shri Mohan Jain, and Dennis V. Johnson, eds., Date Palm Genetic Resources and Utilization: Volume 2: Asia and Europe (New York: Springer, 2015). Roux, Jean-Paul, “Le décor animé du caravansérail de Karatay en Anatolie,” Syria 49:3/4 (1972): 371–397. ———, “Mosquées anatoliennes à décor figuratif sculpté,” Syria 57:1 (1980): 305–323. Salgirli, Saygin, “Orthodoxy, Dissent and Politics in Medieval France and Anatolia: A Comparative Perspective,” The Medieval History Journal 15:1 (2012): 63–102. Sapori, Armando, Le Marchand Italien au Moyen Age (Paris: Librairie Armand Colin, 1952). Sauer, Jonathan D., Historical Geography of Crop Plants: A Select Roster (Boca Raton, FL: CRC Press, 1993). Schapiro, Meyer, “The Romanesque Sculpture of Moissac,” The Art Bulletin 13:3/4 (1931): 249–351 and 464–531. Scott, John, John O. Ward, and Eugene L. Cox, trans. and eds., The Vézelay Chronicle and Other Documents from Ms. Auxerre 227 and Elsewhere (Binghamton, NY: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1992). Setlak-Garrison, Helene S., “The Capitals of St. Lazare at Autun: Their Relationship to the Last Judgement Portal,” (PhD Dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles, 1984). Sidebotham, Steven E., Berenike and the Ancient Maritime Spice Route (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011).

Sequence 89 Squatriti, Paolo, “The Vegetative Mediterranean,” in Peregrine Horden and Sharon Kinoshita, eds., A Companion to Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell, 2014), 26–41. Taylor, Michael D., “The Pentecost at Vézelay,” Gesta 19:1 (1980): 9–15. Testard, Olivier, “La porte Miégeville de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse: proposition d’analyse iconographique,” Mémoires de la Société archéologique du Midi de la France 64 (2004): 25–61. Turan, Osman, “Selçuklu Kervansarayları,” Belleten 39 (1946): 471–496. ———, Selçuklular Târihi ve Türk-İslâm Medeniyeti (Ankara: Ötüken, 1965/2008). van Doosselaere, Quentin, Commercial Agreements and Social Dynamics in Medieval Genoa (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Van Nortwick, Thomas, The Unknown Odyssey: Alternate Worlds in Homer’s Odyseey (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2008). Vryonis, Speros, The Decline of Medieval Hellenism in Asia Minor and the Process of Islamization from the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971/1986). Webb, Diana, Pilgrims and Pilgrimage in the Medieval West (London: I. B. Tauris, 1999). ———, Medieval European Pilgrimage, c.700-c.1500 (New York: Palgrave, 2002). Werckmeister, O. K., “Cluny III and the Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela,” Gesta 27:1/2 (1988): 103–112. Wolper, Ethel Sara, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 16, 17. Yalman, Suzan, “Ala Al-Din Kayqubad Illuminated: A Rum Seljuq Sultan as Cosmic Ruler,” Muqarnas 29 (2012): 151–186. Yavuz, Ayşıl Tükel, “Anadolu Selçuklu Kervansaraylarında Mekân-İşlev İlişkisi İçinde Savunma ve Barınma,” Vakıf Haftası 9 (1992): 253–284. ———, “The Concepts That Shape Anatolian Seljuq Caravanserais,” Muqarnas 14 (1997): 80–95. ———, “Anatolian Seljuk Caravanserais and Their Use as State Houses,” in François Déroche et al., eds., Turkish Art: 10th International Congress of Turkish Art, 17–23 September 1995, Proceedings (Geneva: Fondation Max Van Berchem, 1999), 737–765. Yıldırım, Savaş, “Aslan-Boğa Mücadelesi Kompozisyonu,” Ankara Üniversitesi Dil ve Tarih Coğrafya Fakültesi Dergisi 43 (2003): 1–18. Zohary, Daniel and Maria Hopf, Domestication of Plants in the Old World: The Origin and Spread of Cultivated Plants in West Asia, Europe and the Nile Valley (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 165–170.

Websites www.marinetraffic.com/en/ais/home/centerx:17.3/centery:37.9/zoom:5 www.medievalart.org/lordship-and-commune

2

Rupture

In Ladri di saponette (The Icicle Thief, 1989), Maurizio Nichetti reimagines Vittorio de Sica’s neorealist film Ladri di biciclette (The Bicycle Thief, 1948) according to the world of modern TV broadcast, when films are sequentially interrupted with commercials of things often as distant to the lives of the viewers, as they are to the lives of the fictional characters whose twenty-four-frames-persecond movements are put on temporary pause. In Nichetti’s humorous critique though, there is no pause, and there are no distances. There is instead rupture of time and space. The characters in an imaginary Italian neorealist film dream of the icicles in the commercials, and a woman in one commercial dives into the crystal blue pool of a contemporary villa, only to emerge in black and white from a murky pond in 1940s Italy. In Ladri di saponette, the modernist sequencing of time and distancing of space melt, dissolve, and reassemble into the possibility of a new imagination of temporal and spatial relations; an imagination which inspires a reconceptualization of the medieval Mediterranean along similar lines. If the Mediterranean never beat with the same rhythm, but with varied rhythms and movements, then any consideration of Mediterranean connectivity should have both spatial/geographical, and temporal flexibilities. Consider Ibn Battuta’s travels discussed in the previous chapter. He was in different temporalities while crossing the Red Sea, riding through the Sahel and the Sahara, and sailing on the Genoese ship, not because he was in different time zones, but because he experienced time differently, relative to the speed and the rhythms of his movements, and to the distances he covered. Similarly, consider Jacques Le Goff’s still valuable study of different perceptions and experiences of time by different classes in medieval Europe. Although its socially grounded equivalent is still wanting for the eastern Mediterranean, Le Goff’s work very astutely expounds that, in the Middle Ages, time was not a singular universal determinant. Instead, there were multiple times, for the Church, the merchants, and the laborers, each perceived and experienced differently, and each defined by different modes of movement and rhythm.1 The Karatay Han and the Church of Saint-Sernin are separated by a distance that is vast even in modern standards. Someday, if a researcher chances upon a document in an overlooked archive that directly or circumlocutorily links a

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merchant that passed through the Karatay Han to Toulouse, that would indeed be a remarkable discovery. Unfortunately, to this day no such document exists. Yet, its existence, or that of a link between the two sites, undocumented though it may be, is not implausible at all. Saint-Sernin was a knot on the pilgrimage network, while Toulouse was a knot on the long-distance network of commerce. Toulouse had a remarkably long history as a prominent commercial town connecting the Mediterranean to the Atlantic via the Rhône and Garonne Rivers, and the Pyrenees to the Massif Central by land routes.2 Although it is astounding and relevant to picture the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin as buildings connected through the sequential trajectories of caravan routes and shipping lanes oscillating with the jumbled movements of caboteurs and local merchants, this is not the kind of spatial/geographical flexibility that this chapter is concerned with. The Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin are also separated by time, which, if it were measured like distance, could be equally called vast. Saint-Sernin was consecrated in 1096, and the construction of the Karatay Han began around 1235. A separation by approximately 140 years means that by the time construction began on the Karatay Han, the sculptures of Saint-Sernin were already blackened, and it was probably in need of some basic repairs. However, in 1245, which is a median date, but as I will clarify below, also an important date, both buildings were standing, and their histories had finally connected. From 1245 on, it is astounding and relevant to consider the histories of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin in sequence, finally moving with overlapping rhythms. This chapter, though, is not interested in a temporal flexibility that is limited to a (re)sequencing of time. Instead, it highlights the non-metric synchronicity of the two buildings, opened up by the aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms of rupture that bended time and space. The measure of distance, whatever unit is used, is always stable, and changes only in its expression. The distance between point A and point B, whether along a straight line, on a navigational chart, or across a caravan route, is always a numerical constant. Even when the route changes, it merely receives a new value: six miles over the mountains, twelve around them, and four nautical miles by boat. However, in the medieval Mediterranean, numerically calculated and expressed distances had little relevance, if any at all. Distances were time-bound, and they were often measured in days, weeks, and months. More importantly, time was also never a constant. Medieval travellers were perhaps more aware that time is only an abstract concept invented to make sense of change and permanence, difference and repetition. Just as distance, it materialized only when it was experienced and perceived in movements and rhythms. The ideal distance between two caravanserais was approximately thirty to forty kilometres. Yet, this measure was not the result of a metric calculation. It was based on the time that a horse could travel without over-exhaustion, and that time, in return, was not determined according to a universal temporal measure, but according to the speed and intensity of the horse’s movement. The measure, in that respect, was centred on the health of the horse, which guaranteed the continuation of the journey, and made possible the construction of another caravanserai

92 Rupture along the network of high-commerce. Therefore, time and distance were not calculated and measured according to universal constants, but perceived and experienced in relative aggregates of movements and rhythms. In a well-known fragment, which Plutarch attributes to Heraclitus, the preSocratic philosopher famously asserts “one cannot step twice into the same river,” not because the river will be different as time moves on, but because the river will change (though remaining a river in essence) by the flow of its waters. Time is irrelevant, movement is essential.3 Being the Roman he was, Seneca perceived the fragment in relation to questions of old age, arguing that one cannot step into the same river twice, because one ages with every passing minute, and hence changes. It is never the same river, and it is never the same person who steps into it.4 That being said, for centuries, philosophers’ main interest in Heraclitus revolved around issues of being and logos, most notable of which are Martin Heidegger’s lectures on Heraclitus at the University of Freiburg during the summers of 1943– 1944.5 But, let’s be more imaginative and flexible about the fragment and consider that it is not one, but many individuals who step into an ever-changing river, each positioned at a different location along the length of the river. As they step in, they are always in a different river because its waters keep flowing, but precisely because of the movement of the river, an individual up the river is in the same river with another down the stream. With movement, the river that one was in becomes the river that the other is in. They are in the same place and in the same time, not according to a metric measuring of distance and temporality, but according to the flow of the river that bends time and space.6 In the context of the late medieval Mediterranean, when time and space were experienced relative to movements and rhythms, it becomes irrelevant to wait for the histories of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin to reach a sequence on a specific date, so that their stories can be jointly told. It becomes similarly irrelevant to wait for the appearance of one document that would indisputably prove the connection between them. There was already a river flowing between them. Here, I am not forming an analogy between Heraclitus’ river and the Mediterranean. The river I am referring to is the one opened by rupture buzzing with aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms, bending time and space; a river that was neither a singular line nor linear in nature, but a multiplicity of temporally and spatially scattered encounters, perceptions, and practices that connected buildings as lived and experienced spaces. In the following pages, the story opens with two narrative cycles, each bridging temporal and spatial distances between Anatolia and the Languedoc, but each focusing on different protagonists. The first cycle follows the events from the point of view of the aristocracies, while the second cycle switches the focus to the multitudes, whose aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms were in a continuous process of opening up rupture. The intention here is to demonstrate that rupture did not correspond to a singular Event that could be localized in a particular time and place, but amounted to multiple events, movements, and rhythms which were already unfolding before the eyes of the aristocracies, but to which they

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remained oblivious. In other words, what was to come in the future was already in the present. After the two narrative cycles, the chapter concludes with a series of observations and propositions on experiences and perceptions of architecture in rupture, arguing that buildings, which were produced in sequence and for its continuation, were already being transformed by the aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms of rupture. Before continuing any further, a word of caution though: in accordance with the title of the present book, both narrative cycles fluctuate between different times and spaces. Names and places change from one paragraph to the other with linguistic and terminological switches that may appear to be somewhat frustrating. However, in each cycle, there is a logic that informs the fluctuations, and the readers are strongly encouraged to follow that logic, rather than the individual stories of the characters. As the readers will soon see, by the end of the second cycle, all named and nameable characters will become obsolete and leave their places to nameless multitudes.

Travels in time and relative distances in space In the last years of his rule, Pope Urban II was a busy politician. A year before he arrived in Toulouse to consecrate Saint-Sernin and to reconfirm its privileges, he had already preached the First Crusade.7 It is probably not a coincidence that the Count of Toulouse at the time, Raymond de Saint-Gilles, was the first monarch to accept the Pope’s call. He might have had prior knowledge of Urban II’s ideas, and perhaps he was even involved in the initial planning of a military campaign against the Seljuqs, eventually to reconquer Jerusalem.8 However, regardless of Raymond’s religious fervour and the vigour of his military ambitions, there seem to be other issues at stake that motivated him, issues much closer to home than the Holy Land. On May 24, 1096, when Urban II consecrated Saint-Sernin, Raymond de SaintGilles was present, and he wholeheartedly announced that Saint-Sernin was a free church. On July 8 of the same year, along with Urban II, he took the side of the canons of Saint-Sernin to settle their dispute with Bishop Isarn of Toulouse. Four days later, just before he publicly revealed that he would join the crusade, Raymond declared that he was giving back to the Abbey of Saint-Gilles all the rights and privileges that he and his forefathers had enjoyed in Saint-Gilles.9 Therefore, when Raymond de Saint-Gilles left Toulouse in a heroic gesture of piety and began his journey to Jerusalem, he was not just fulfilling a religious duty with the prospect of serious economic gains. He must have sighed with relief that he had finally mended the relationships with the Papacy, which were damaged during his brother Guillaume IV’s reign. Toward the end of July 1225, the Seljuq Sultan Alaeddin Keykubad I received an ambassador from the city of Maragheh, situated south of Tabriz, and at the time the seat of the Khwarazmian Sultanate. The ambassador was Mucireddin Tahir, grand vizier to the ruling Khwarazmian Sultan Celâleddin el-Harezmî. He

94 Rupture presented the Seljuq Sultan with a curious letter. The letter opened with a long and anticipated section of praises, which must have boosted Keykubad I’s ego as he was named, among many things, “Alexander of our times,” “the ninth heaven,” “the great sun,” and “the shadow of God on two worlds.” The author of the letter, Celâleddin el-Harezmî, concluded his correspondence with a request for political and military alliance, for he was the “extinguisher of the heathens’ fire of mischief in the East,” while Keykubad I was a “firm fortress against the evildoers of the West.”10 Keykubad I knew well that the “heathens of the East” were the Mongols, who had defeated Celâleddin el-Harezmî, and forced him to retreat to Maragheh. As a gesture of good will, Keykubad I sent the Khwarazmian ambassador back with a huge caravan of gifts, including slaves. There was also a response letter included in the return package, which was less generous in its titles of compliment, and even included a line that might have potentially angered Celâleddin el-Harezmî: “second Alexander.” More importantly though, Keykubad I’s letter did not directly agree to an alliance. In summary it simply said: “let’s keep in touch.”11 While Raymond de Saint-Gilles was marching on to extinguish the fire of his heathens, his absence from Toulouse had become a cause for concern. In Raymond’s place, his son Bertrand ruled the county, but Bertrand was more like his uncle than his father, and he quickly reinitiated Guillaume IV’s failed project to take over the possessions and privileges of Saint-Sernin. This time, however, the Pope’s aging eyes and ears were fixated on the East, and he neither had the time nor the will to save Saint-Sernin. A helping hand eventually came, but from an unexpected place. In 1097, probably while Raymond was still in Constantinople and preparing to move toward Nicea,12 the townspeople of Toulouse invited Guillaume IV’s daughter Philippa and her husband Guillaume IX (the Count of Poitiers and the Duke of Aquitaine) to replace Bertrand. In 1108, Bertrand conceded, and making peace with Saint-Sernin, he re-entered Toulouse. Yet, Bertrand’s eyes and ears were also fixated on the East, not on Jerusalem, but on his now-deceased father’s possessions. When he left Toulouse in Raymond’s footsteps, Guillaume IX saw the opportune moment. He divorced Philippa and took complete control of the county, which forced Raymond de Saint-Gilles’ younger son Alphonse-Jourdain to flee Toulouse.13 As all these events unfolded, and Toulouse ended up under Poitevin rule, one can easily picture the canons of Saint-Sernin contemplating in their cloister about what the future would look like for them. However, they probably could not have realized that the future was already in the present. All they had to do was pay attention to the details, but while their eyes and ears were fixated on counts and bishops, they could not have seen that the actors who would shape the history of Toulouse in the following centuries had already, always been there. Alaeddin Keykubad I was in Alanya when he heard the news about the arrival of a second Khwarazmian envoy. Probably out of frustration that Celâleddin elHarezmî did not understand what “let’s keep in touch” truly meant, Keykubad I dispatched a group of Seljuq emirs and instructed them to entertain the

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Khwarazmian ambassadors. For five days, they drank wine and listened to music. The Sultan arrived on the sixth day, when the sun was brightly shining in the blue sky. He briefly listened to the troubles that the ambassadors encountered during their long journey, and then absented himself. The festivities continued for eight more days, the last one organized according to the directives of Keykubad I. The Sultan returned on the ninth day, and received the ambassadors once again, when the night sky was clear, and the stars and the moon were visible. He was, after all “the great sun” and “the ninth heaven.” Instead of providing the ambassadors directly with a letter, Keykubad I gave a long speech, which was written down as he spoke. Underlining that he appreciated Celâleddin el-Harezmî’s desires for an alliance, Keykubad I invited him to the Lands of Rum, to enjoy its beauty and prosperity, once the Khwarazmian Sultan concluded his wars with Abkhazia and satisfied his desires to conquer Tbilisi. Then, his already imperious tone increased its intensity. He instructed Celâleddin el-Harezmî to stop attacking the city of Ahlat, to refrain from shedding the blood of the Armenians, and to negotiate and make peace with the Mongols, rather than mindlessly trying to defeat them. Yet, Keykubad I had learned that in diplomacy, he had to match his arrogance with an equal amount in gifts. Hence, the Khwarazmian envoy departed with two hundred camels and a hundred mules, loaded with gifts of various kinds.14 Meanwhile, Poitevin rule in Toulouse was not going smoothly at all. There was something lurking in the shadows, something that has always-already been there, but remained invisible to counts, bishops, and canons. In 1119, the townspeople of Toulouse, who, for the canons of Saint-Sernin were inconsequential details in a much bigger game, rebelled against the Poitevin dynasty, and brought back Alphonse-Jourdain from exile, yet not out of any special attachment to his aristocratic legacy. In return for Alphonse-Jourdain’s recognition as the new count of Toulouse, the townspeople demanded that they are legally acknowledged as the “Good Men of the Bourg and the City,” a self-governing political body.15 Their first act, in 1120, was buying out the dues imposed upon loading and unloading goods on the bank of the Garonne.16 In 1141, when Louis VII and Eleanor of Aquitaine laid an unsuccessful siege on Toulouse, the townspeople supported the count in exchange for further concessions, which cost the count first his import tax on wine and salt and then his right to collect tallage (landtenure tax) and forced loans. He could tax none of the imports, and could demand for military service from the townspeople only when Toulouse was under attack (1147).17 In five years’ time, the Good Men became a legislative assembly with six elected members from the bourg and six from the city: the “Common Council of Toulouse.”18 While the Council was discussing its first regulations, which included, among other issues, limitations on the right to sanctuary, in the cloister of Saint-Sernin, the canons were finally beginning to realize that the future had already arrived.19 Alaeddin Keykubad I was a crafty politician. His letters to Celâleddin elHarezmî, supplemented with sumptuous gifts, were tactical measures. His eyes and ears fixated on the East, Keykubad I planned to keep the Mongols as far away

96 Rupture from his lands as possible. Knowing that they had proven to be unstoppable in battle, he had hoped that a peaceful policy would keep the Mongols at bay, and allow him to consolidate his then five-year-old reign. In order to secure the success of his plan, he had sent his ambassadors to the Khwarazmian court. Yet, tactics fail as often as they succeed. After a prolonged stay in the Khwarazmian court, Keykubad I’s ambassadors galloped back to Anatolia in haste as the bearers of disturbing news. Celâleddin el-Harezmî was relentlessly pursuing his siege of Ahlat, had no intention to negotiate and make peace with the Mongols, and was now a serious threat for the Seljuqs. In alliance with Rükneddin Cihanşah, the malik who ruled the eastern frontier city of Erzurum as Keykubad I’s vassal, Celâleddin el-Harezmî was determined to invade Anatolia. Keykubad I took the news calmly. He immediately dispatched a provisional cavalry to secure the main passages, and waited for the arrival of additional troops from his vassals, and particularly from his allies, the Ayyubids.20 With his eyes and ears turned to the East, Keykubad I had a plan, but like his counterparts in Toulouse, he was fixated on sultans and khagans. There was something lurking in the shadows, something that has always-already been there, but remained invisible to sultans and emirs. In 1145, shortly before the formal establishment of the Common Council, but during the twenty-fifth year of the commune, Toulouse received a celebrity visitor: Bernard of Clairvaux, the most famous of the Cistercians, a fervent defender of orthodoxy, and a dedicated reformer with a notorious despise for monastic art.21 In addition to his primary agenda to persuade southern monasteries to adopt the Cistercian model of reform, Bernard was chasing a certain Henry of Lausanne, an independent preacher who had caused some serious trouble in the city of LeMans by instigating a rebellion against its bishop. When Bernard passed through the city gates of Toulouse, Henry, a heretic and a “cunning serpent” according to Bernard, was already dead.22 Yet, Bernard was truly a fervent defender of orthodoxy, so he nonetheless gathered the townspeople of Toulouse, and demanded that they suppressed heresy wherever they saw it. In the presence of the count, and ecclesiastical and monastic authorities, the townspeople readily agreed. The precise answer they gave though, was not something that Bernard, his companions, and the present authorities anticipated. For the church, there was a simple recipe of interrelated policies to combat heresy: penance, confiscation of property, exile, excommunication, and an occasional burning. In contrast, the townspeople of Toulouse said: “heretics will not be eligible to give evidence or seek redress in the courts, and nobody will have any dealings with them either socially or commercially.”23 The difference was fundamental, but none of the self-proclaimed authorities could see it. In 1231, perhaps when construction had just begun on the Karatay Han, six years of cat-and-mouse diplomacy between Alaeddin Keykubad I and Celâleddin el-Harezmî came to an end. War was the only way out now. In July, Keykubad I, “the sultan of the planets,” “unsheathed his sword” and thus began the march of a composite army drawn from Keykubad I’s own domains, and form his vassals and allies, with soldiers form various ethnic and religious backgrounds.24 There is no

Rupture 97 room for romanticism here, though. All the soldiers who marched with Keykubad I, and their commanders and sovereigns, either owed service to the Seljuq Sultan as their overlord, or allied with him for their own tactical reasons. On July 29, 1231, the armies of Alaeddin Keykubad I and Celâleddin elHarezmî met in Yassıçemen in eastern Anatolia. The result of the battle was a decisive victory for Keykubad I, and it allowed him to bring under his direct rule all the eastern provinces of Anatolia. Although he shortly lost the province of Diyarbakr in the south-east to the Ayyubids, he would regain it in 1233, except the city of Diyarbakr/Amed.25 Therefore, in 1231, Keykubad I was in a relatively hopeful mood. He had lost the security of a buffer zone between his lands and the Mongols, but now he ruled over a larger territory with a firm grip over it. Yet, his eyes were still fixated on the khagans of the East. He was still blind to what was lurking in the shadows, blind to the fact that he was not the sultan of an empty territory, but of towns and lands that were occupied, cultivated, and grazed by multitudes with their own concerns, needs, and agendas. As Alaeddin Keykubad I was busy calculating new tactics and strategies to forge further alliances, and subordinate more rulers so as to secure himself against the Mongols, the commune in Toulouse was going well and strong. The members of the Common Council had not found a single heretic in Toulouse, and very likely, they were not searching for any. Instead, taking advantage of the liberties that they had gained, and the wealth that came alongside, they were rebuilding the bourg of Toulouse with fortified and towered houses, gesturing to their counterparts in Italian republics.26 They had only minor quarrels with the ecclesiastical and monastic authorities of Toulouse, but they were also aware that the means by which they acquired property and wealth could be easily condemned as heretical: mortgages and moneylending. It was probably because of that awareness that every mutual oath sworn between the Council and the count took place on a neutral ground, the Church of Saint-Pierre-des-Cuisines in the bourg: the only church in Toulouse that had no seigniorial rights over its parish, since Count Guillaume IV had declared the quarter a free-hold in 1067.27 However, in a monarchical regime, it is unrealistic to think that a switch of power from sovereignty to a communal government would have been smooth. In 1177, Count Raimond V sent a letter to the general chapter of Cîteaux, the motherhouse of the Cistercian order. In alliance with both the bishop of Toulouse and the canons of Saint-Sernin, he complained about the continued presence of heresy since Bernard of Clairvaux’s visit, and asked for a second and more rigorous mission for its complete eradication.28 The Count still could not see what had already unfolded before his eyes, and believed that he was meant to be the one and only ruler of Toulouse. Following his victory over the Khwarazmians, Alaeddin Keykubad I returned to central Anatolia. Perhaps passing by the Karatay Han still under construction, he arrived at the Kubadiye Palace (1224–1226), four miles outside Kayseri.29 It was probably here that he planned and put into practice his long-term strategy to protect his domains from the Mongols. After resolving a minor uprising by the governor of Alanya, Keykubad I retreated to a more recent palace complex he had

98 Rupture commissioned south of Konya, Kubadabad, where, incidentally, the large palace replicated a caravanserai plan.30 Content with securing his eastern provinces, and confident in the strength of his armies, for a whole year Keykubad lived the happy life of an ideal sultan, indulging himself in all kinds of leisure activities. In 1232, however, messengers interrupted his easy-life with the news that an expeditionary Mongol army had pillaged the areas around Sivas. Keykubad I immediately dispatched his standing army, but by the time that they had arrived in Sivas, the Mongols were long gone. The commander to whom Keykubad I had entrusted his forces was on the same page with the Sultan when it came to dealing with the Mongols. Instead of chasing after them and agitating them even more, he remarked that the whole thing was probably out of some misunderstanding, or the result of encouragement from a rival monarch.31 His eyes and ears still on the khagans of the East, still unable to see what was lurking in the shadows, Alaeddin Keykubad I was content once again. Raymond V quickly received a response to his letter of 1177, which arrived in the form of an unexpectedly large delegation, composed of Henry of Marcy (abbot of Clairvaux), Peter of Pavia (papal legate and cardinal priest of Saint Chrysogonus), the archbishops of Narbonne and Bourges, and the bishops of Bath and Poitiers. Once in the Languedoc, the archbishop of Auch and the bishops of Cahors and Toulouse joined the deputation.32 How content Raymond V must have felt when he thought that he finally had the chance to get back the city that once belonged to his predecessors. The over-crowded delegation, on the other hand, had a very difficult mission to accomplish: to succeed where the famous Bernard of Clairvaux had failed. However, Raymond V was as cunning a tactician as Alaeddin Keykubad I. He had framed his letter in such a fashion that the heretics in Toulouse would be unbound by time. They were not simply the followers of Henry of Lausanne whom Bernard of Clairvaux had chased after. They were following Manichaeism and Arianism, heresies that had inflicted the Church since its birth.33 The Count had a plan, and the delegation followed through. They investigated relentlessly and with passion, and eventually, they found a surprising number of heretics, three in total. The fates of the first two were quickly sealed by excommunication.34 Petrus Maurandus, however, one of the wealthiest residents of the bourg, had a very unpleasant surprise waiting for him. The relief that came with the retreat of the Mongol raiders turned out to be a very short one. Throughout the remainder of his rule, Alaeddin Keykubad I incessantly tried to secure his eastern territories against the Mongols. Their sporadic raids were continuing, particularly into Armenia, and the region around Ahlat was significantly depopulated. Moreover, although the Khwarazmian army was decimated, there were still renegade soldiers around, who, being soldiers, often turned to pillaging. In order to prevent a political and territorial vacuum in Armenia, which would have been an open invitation to the Mongols, Keykubad I brought under his vassalage a large chunk of land extending to Tbilisi. Then, after preventing a very badly planned Mamluk invasion, he turned south and brought Northern Mesopotamia under vassalage.35

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Keykubad I was not interested in full-conquest. As long as he had loyal vassals in the East, he would be protected against the Mongols. Yet, loyalty could not be guaranteed by force alone. It required diplomacy, and diplomacy required gifts. In the context of medieval Anatolia, this translated as land grants and titles. With every new battle and every new treaty, farmlands, villages, and towns exchanged hands. The extent of this redistribution is hard to estimate, but an earlier event demonstrates that when it came to securing loyalties, Keykubad I could be quite generous. In 1221, when the ruler of Alanya, Kir Fard, surrendered the town without resistance, he received in return the town of Akşehir (south of Konya) as an iqta along with the title emir. More importantly, Keykubad I gave him the full ownership (mülk) of several villages, each bringing an income equal to that of a city.36 With comparable gestures of generosity, and an occasional display of his military prowess, Keykubad I was almost content once again, until, in 1236, a messenger from the Mongol Khagan Ögedei appeared at his doorstep; of all people, a simple artisan-merchant called Servan, originally from Qazvin, but living in Erzurum.37 Petrus Maurandus, on the other hand, could not care less about Mongol ambassadors. He had his own problems to deal with. He was taken in haste from his towered house in the bourg of Toulouse, and brought to Saint-Sernin. He knew the church well, both as a building that he saw every day, and as home to the canons with whom he was in dispute over tithes at Launaguet, Valsegur, and Castelion, where his family owned substantial lands.38 It was 1178, and the people who stood before Petrus, some familiar others not, were all accusing him of heresy. Count Raymond V ardently led the way, producing witnesses to prove Petrus’ heresy. Eventually the count succeeded, leaving Petrus in shock and terror. Shortly after the trial, came his punishment. Petrus was dragged naked and barefoot through the streets flanked by the bishop of Toulouse and the abbot of Saint-Sernin, while batons were beating his back and flaying his skin. Before the altar of Saint-Sernin, he kneeled down and pleaded for absolution. But it was not enough. His property was confiscated, the towers of his houses (he had another one in Valsegur) were destroyed, and every day, he was to walk barefoot to a different church in Toulouse, until he took his penitential pilgrimage to Jerusalem, which, in 1178 was more or less equal to a death sentence. Although nobody expected, if, with some miracle Petrus ever returned to Toulouse, he would receive his property back. The towers of his houses, however, would not be rebuilt, because they were “signs of heretical depravity.” Finally, he surrendered the tithes at Launaguet, Valsegur, and Castelion to Saint-Sernin, and paid five hundred pieces of gold to Raymond V.39 The count was probably confident that after such a brutal display of authority, the townspeople would finally abandon their heretical fantasy of a commune, and give the town back to him. Servan, the artisan-merchant and messenger for the Mongol Khagan, was in a similarly tight situation, though, unlike Petrus, not in any immediate danger. He never wanted to act as an ambassador. He had excelled in manufacturing textiles decorated with jewels and pearls, and all he wanted to do was add the Mongol court to his list of customers. It was by pure coincidence that he met Ögedei while

100 Rupture presenting his cloths to the Mongol treasury, and it was with some implied threat that he ended up as the Khagan’s messenger. It is clear that Servan knew the contents of the letter that he carried for Alaeddin Keykubad I. Hence, his wait in Kayseri for the Sultan’s arrival from Alanya must have felt painfully long. The letter was short, merely a paragraph. It contained no anticipated praises, and did not add any more titles to Keykubad I’s already long list of attributes. In contrast, and in an explicitly threatening tone, it simply said: We heard that [from Servan] you are a good and just ruler. That pleases us. We want you to be in comfort and peace in your lands. But know that the Great God [Tengri] has made us mighty and glorious, and has given the earth to our lineage [to rule]. You are on a righteous path; thus, we ask your submission and obedience. Know the fate of those who refuse our offer. We eradicate them, enslave their women and children, and pillage their lands. This letter was written in the Year of the Monkey [1236].40 It is hard not to imagine the beads of sweat that must have been falling down Servan’s face as Keykubad I read the letter. The Sultan’s response, however, was in line with his previous tactic of appeasement. He asked Servan whether Ögedei would still have an eye on his lands if he established a friendly relationship. Upon learning that as long as he presented the Khagan with gifts he would not attack Seljuq lands, Keykubad I ordered the preparation of a sumptuous caravan of precious of gifts. On June 1, 1237, before the caravan departed, Keykubad I organized a grand feast in Kayseri, perhaps in celebration of his successful management of the Mongol problem.41 Yet, the feast turned out to be anything but a celebration. Nobody knows whether Petrus Maurandus made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem and came back. His fellow citizens though, were not going to abandon their hardwon liberties so easily. In 1181, confident in the outcome of the 1178 tribunals, Raymond V rode back from a military campaign in the countryside and arrived at the city gates of Toulouse. The doors, however, were firmly shut, and Raymond V had to lay siege to his own town for a whole year. Eventually, he re-entered, but only to sit down with the townspeople to discuss the terms of a peace settlement. The first issue they agreed on, probably in relation to Petrus’ unfortunate fate, was that a Toulousan could only be exiled if he attacked another Toulousan or her/his property.42 Still blind to the fact that the future was in the present, Raymond V went on after his own pursuits. He believed that what he gave to the Toulousans was only a minor concession, and that his grip on the town was still firm. So, in 1188, he rode with his army to resolve an on-going dispute with Richard the Lionhearted. In his absence, the townspeople rebelled, and when the count returned in 1189, the two parties met again, but this time on the previously agreed neutral grounds of Saint-Pierre-des-Cuisines. After long negotiations, Raymond V pardoned all Toulousans who joined the rebellion, but in return he received their fidelity and loyalty. There is no argument that the negotiations were settled with a final gesture that clearly underlined the count’s sovereign position.

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This was the one and only thing an oath fealty signified. But, ironically, and contrary to Raymond V’s sentiments when he left the table, after the settlement of 1189, the counts of Toulouse were no longer the actors that they used to be.43 Wine flowed like water, musicians played and sang, dancers swirled around the hall, savoury dishes came and went. After a while, Nasireddin Ali, head of the royal kitchens and Keykubad I’s food taster, entered the room with a tray of roasted chicken. He cut the chicken before the Sultan, and placed the still-sizzling meat on a plate. Keykubad I took a bite, then his face suddenly changed. There was something wrong. Keykubad I jumped on his horse, and rode to the Kubadiye Palace. In the evening of June 1, 1237, Celâleddin Karatay was summoned to the Sultan’s bedchamber. The news was not good. Keykubad I knew that he was not going to survive and wanted to prepare his will. Poisoned in a conspiracy, with the knowledge and participation of his own food taster, that night Alaeddin Keykubad I died. What followed was a true game of thrones. Gıyaseddin Keyhüsrev II (r. 1237–1246) succeeded his father. However, there was a rumour that Keykubad I had in fact designated his other son, Izzeddin as his successor, which led to a short-lived and unrealized plan to overthrow Keyhüsrev II. Then, Sadeddin Köpek, Keyhüsrev II’s chief advisor, took the reins of government in his hands. With or without Keyhüsrev II’s approval, Köpek initiated a hostile policy against the Khwarazmians, while at the same time imprisoning and executing the Seljuq officials closest to Keykubad I. Hence, Köpek became the de facto ruler of the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum.44 So far, the story has been told by Ibn Bibi, the court historian of the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum. Like his patrons, his eyes and ears were fixated on sultans, emirs, and khagans. The world moved according to the deeds of men, good and evil, great and inadequate alike. Ibn Bibi also had his personal concerns and prejudices. For instance, he saw Keyhüsrev II as an insufficient and weak sultan, and he utterly despised Sadeddin Köpek. Therefore, when an indigent preacher and a supposed magician appeared in the city of Kefersud, east of Malatya, the events that followed could not have been anything other than the combined results of poor rulership and pure malevolence.45 The only magician in Toulouse was still the relief sculpture of Simon Magus, next to the Porte Miègeville. However, the growth of the Common Council’s power was almost magical in itself. For centuries, the townspeople had lived as subjects to comital, ecclesiastic, or monastic authorities, owing services, tithes, and taxes. Counts, bishops, and abbots believed that they had a God-given right to rule, and that their subjects were equally bound by God to serve them. For centuries, counts, bishops, and abbots presided in lavish buildings, blind and deaf to the aberrant movements of the people with sporadic rhythms. After all, the townspeople had no presence beyond their capacity as subservient subjects. Therefore, when they came out of the shadows as the new political actors of Toulouse, in the eyes of the Toulousan aristocracy, secular and religious alike, the townspeople had appeared out of nowhere, rabbits out of a hat. Yet, it was the unpredictability of their movements and rhythms that gave that appearance. They calculated and

102 Rupture swiftly responded to every opportunity that came their way, which demonstrates that the commune and its practices were not the results of a teleological culmination, but the aggregate of events spread across time, appearing aberrantly and sporadically. Their response to Bernard of Clairvaux in 1145 strongly suggests that the townspeople recognized neither the authority of comital and ecclesiastic courts, nor their norms of punishment. In direct relation to how they experienced the world, the punishment that the townspeople promised was social and economic isolation. For centuries, they had been living a different life in the shadows, and that life was now going to determine the new conduct of justice in Toulouse, and its new micro-politics. After the rebellion of 1188, the change revealed itself evermore intensely. In a series of decrees, the Council switched its focus from tax concessions to political control over Toulouse, and from individual wealth to communal property purchases. In 1199 they passed their first decree against a Toulousan parish and ordered the prior of la Daurade to open a passage for boats on his dam between Pont-Neuf and Pont-Vieux, and a year later, they limited the comital bailiffs’ use of force against Toulousans.46 By 1200, the canons of Saint-Sernin could no longer refute that the future was in the present, that life was now lived with new movements and in different rhythms outside their control; movements and rhythms that already existed, but had remained invisible to them. The preacher and supposed magician who appeared in Kefersud was called İshak, or Baba İshak, a common honorary title for heterodox Sufi sheikhs. Poor and thin, always with tears in his eyes, he spoke with a quiet voice, almost whispering. Gradually, he gathered a large following among the poor and the rich, the Turks and the Kurds. He could have rebelled there and then, but he had other plans. He was not after plunder, and he did not seek a short-lived glory as the leader of a war band. So, İshak disappeared, and years later, he re-emerged unexpectedly north, in Amasya, just south of the Black Sea port of Samsun. There, he volunteered as a shepherd, did not accept any payments or donations, and lived with what he could find for himself in the wilderness. When he was respected and known enough, he built a convent on a hill, and remained there as a Sufi sheikh with a small number of apprentices. Pursuing an isolated life of voluntary poverty, he was out of public sight, but his followers spread around, reaching as south as Northern Mesopotamia. The word was finally out, a rebellion was coming on a predetermined date to eradicate malice and to better the lives of the people. It is very likely that preparations were going on for years, that the call was anticipated, because all who answered the calling came out of the shadows with such intensity, and with such confusing movements and rhythms that they were like “ants and locusts rushing from all corners;” and in 1239, a huge area, covering almost all Seljuq lands to the east of Konya started to “buzz like a wasp’s nest.” Thus began, what came to be known as the Babai Rebellion. For the aristocracies of Anatolia, whose eyes were fixated on each other, who thought that they had a God-given right to rule, and that their subjects were equally

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bound by God to submit to their authorities, the Rebellion of 1239 was almost magical. The rebels swarmed out of nowhere, like ants, and locusts, and wasps, simply because of İshak’s magic tricks and heinous preaching; İshak, who was none other than the Deccal, the Antichrist.47 Yet, magic or not, just as in Toulouse, the rabbits were out of the hat. The sporadic rhythms and aberrant movements that were already buzzing in the shadows were now shining in the light. Two years after the Council restricted the comital bailiff’s use of force, something very unexpected happened in Toulouse. In 1202, new consular elections were held, and it became clear that there were shadows even within the shadows. Until 1202, all successive consuls came from prominent Toulousan families. They were certainly not aristocrats, but they all belonged to old and wealthy families with significant influence. With the 1202 elections, this oligarchy shattered, and now all new consuls belonged to families that never appeared in municipal records before.48 More significant than this shift in the Council’s makeup was what its new members did as their first legislative act. The southern entrance to the city of Toulouse was the Narbonne Gate, and next to it stood the Château Narbonnais, the residence of the counts of Toulouse. Covering an area of approximately 2,000 square metres, the chateau was a rectangular structure, with a tower at each corner.49 The old Roman cardo stretched from this colossal symbol of comital authority, and connected to the bourg through the Portiere Gate. Prior to the establishment of the commune, when the counts had complete jurisdiction over all trades, the shops lining the cardo were the counts’ tenants.50 In that respect, the architectural manifestation of comital authority was matched with a microecological and relational movement through the urban topography of Toulouse, with sequential rhythms of tax and rent collection. On April 7, 1202, the Council purchased a tower, houses, and land by the Portiere Gate, and used this area facing the Château Narbonnais for the construction of the Capitol, the city hall of Toulouse, and the new seat of government.51 The consuls immediately coupled their architectural response with a reconfiguration of the networks and jumbled threads in and around the town. On April 27, before construction even began on the Capitol, they granted all Toulousans taxfree transportation of wheat and wine on land and water, throughout the extended microecology of Toulouse.52 As the wasp’s nest continued to buzz, and ants and locusts kept swarming in aberrant movements and with sporadic rhythms, the story of İshak got a little more complicated. Years after the events, a middle-aged Bar Hebraeus (Abū al-Faraj ibn al-ʻIbrī) wrote down what he remembered from his days as a thirteen-year-old boy in Malatya. In his memory, the man who suddenly appeared in Amasya and found a following was a Turkmen, who claimed that he was the true messenger of God and had come to replace the false prophet Muhammad. However, this Turkmen was simply called Baba, and İshak was his chief apprentice, dispatched to Northern Mesopotamia to instigate the rebellion.53 The name of this new Baba appears as İlyas, approximately one hundred years later, in a hagiography written by his great-grandson, Elvan Çelebi. There, the roles change once again, and İlyas emerges as an honest Sufi sheikh, loyal to Keykubad I. He

104 Rupture joins the rebellion because of his apprentice İshak’s insidious manipulations and Keyhüsrev II’s injustices.54 What a messy tangle we are suddenly in. Who are these İlyas and İshak? Who is the sheikh? Who is the apprentice? How could either one of them be blasphemous enough to claim to be the true messenger of God and still generate a massive following? The solution to the tangle is simple. Do not try to untangle it. Do not try to re-construct the story with historiographical scrutiny. Construct a story anew by joining the tangle, by following not the named protagonists and antagonists, but the nameless ants and locusts, by buzzing alongside them in the cacophony of their movements and rhythms. The eyes and ears of Seljuq chroniclers (Ibn Bibi), Syriac primates (Bar Hebraeus), and privileged Sufi sheiks (Elvan Çelebi) will always be on individuals, they will always look for heroes and villains, and write about their deeds, good and evil alike. But this is the story of rupture, not a moralizing parable. As the story in Anatolia morphed into a tangle, Toulouse received a soon-tobe-unwelcome visitor. With ghostly ants and locusts buzzing in his ears, in 1203, Pierre de Castelnau, the Cistercian legate of Pope Innocent III entered Toulouse in search of, not very surprisingly, heretics. He met with the consuls in the presence of Bishop Raymond of Toulouse, Abbot Guillaume of Saint-Sernin, and Count Raymond VI’s representatives. The consuls promised to expel heretics from Toulouse, as long as the Papacy guaranteed that the customs and liberties of Toulouse were protected.55 According to a rumour, however, Count Raymond VI publicly announced that he would take no part in such business. This was a truly surprising turn of events, especially given how enthusiastically Raymond V had mobilized the Papacy to suppress the commune. The response from Pierre de Castelnau was not very surprising though. In 1204, he excommunicated the Count, and Innocent III quickly confirmed the decision.56 Four years later, Pierre de Castelnau was assassinated while crossing the River Rhône. Innocent III’s counterattack came swiftly. Two months later, Raymond VI received a letter from the Pope, which held him directly responsible for Pierre de Castelnau’s assassination. As the “minister of Devil,” the Count was accused of publicly threatening Pierre with death, for planning the ambush on him, and for protecting and rewarding his murderer. Raymond VI’s excommunication was seconded with an anathema, and all people who were bound to the Count with an oath were declared free to occupy his lands. The letter ended with a full-fetched military campaign into Raymond VI’s lands, promising the participants all the spiritual and material privileges granted to the Crusaders. Consequently, a large army under the command of King Philip Augustus of France began its march to the South, initiating what was to be known as the Albigensian Crusade.57 One more tangle. Why did Raymond VI act in such a manner? Was he involved in the assassination of Pierre de Castelnau? If so why, and if not, why did he not take immediate action? And why was Innocent III so concerned with Toulouse? Yet, this is not a story about counts and popes, bishops and abbots, as it is not about sultans and emirs.

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The movements and rhythms of rupture are neither sequential, nor in sequence with other movements and rhythms. Bending time and space, rupture is a tear in the fabric of the universe. It is not the consequence of a singular event, and it cannot be localized to a specific time and place. It has always been everywhere, but always invisible to counts, sultans, bishops, and emirs, who perceived the world in sequences, and whose eyes and ears were only on one another. They were only able to perceive the intensifications of rapture, be it a rebellion, or the establishment of a communal government, and they reacted accordingly, either through military force, or through tribunals and inquisitions, to suppress what they saw as the event. Contrary to the assumptions of the aristocracies, rupture does not have an article, neither definite nor indefinite, and it receives no adjectives. There is no big rupture, or small rupture. Rupture is the aggregate of sporadic rhythms and aberrant movements that cannot be sequenced. So, leaving the perspective of the aristocracies and of their chroniclers behind, let’s join the tangle.

A tear in the fabric of the universe In 1202, two scribes were carefully and attentively recording each and every word uttered in their presence. Both wrote with witnesses in attendance, but one was in the Languedoc, the other in Central Anatolia. The scribe in the Languedoc was putting on paper the peace treaties that the Common Council had settled with the neighbouring towns and villages of Rabastens, Aubiet, Corbarieu, Blanquefort, and Comminges. In order to back up their legislation of the same year that granted tax-free transportation of wheat and wine to Toulousans, the consuls had initiated a series of military campaigns, and now they were finalizing their victories.58 The scribe in Central Anatolia, on the other hand, was dipping his read pen into ink to round up the vakfiye of Şemseddin Altun-aba, a prominent Seljuq official. The vakfiye was devised for a caravanserai, a madrasa, services for the burial of the poor, which unusually included mummification, and additional services to assist new converts to Islam.59 The recording of the vakfiye overlapped with the reign of Rükneddin Süleymanşah, who had taken over the throne from his brother Gıyaseddin Keyhüsrev I and forced him to exile in the Byzantine court in Constantinople. The latter was the real “once and future king,” who ruled the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum between 1192–1196 and 1205–1211. Yet, his biography has a whole other relevance for the present story. For the moment, let me just mention that the vakfiye of Altun-aba included among its revenue sources, the hamlet of a village called Lâdik.60 The consuls relentlessly pursued their military campaigns, and by 1204, they had fought with and received concessions from almost every single town and village within an approximately sixty-kilometre radius of Toulouse. Some of the battles and the subsequent negotiations were between the consuls and local lords.61 In other instances, the consuls confronted people who had gained similar liberties. Often, sitting at the other side of the table there were Good (or proud) Men and Women, as the consuls were once called, and in the case of Gaillac, a

106 Rupture legally recognized council.62 However, these were not campaigns for conquest, and the treaties were not meant to secure territorial gain. Although it would be accurate to interpret the process as the Common Council’s effort to build a sphere of influence, or a contado, the consuls were simultaneously inscribing themselves into the microecology of Toulouse, into its networks and jumbled threads, redefining them with their own movements and rhythms, with little or no concern for seasonal sequences of revenue extraction.63 It is true that the new movements and their rhythms were commercial in essence, but the removal of comital, ecclesiastic, and monastic control over microecological networks and jumbled threads provided other possibilities. In 1203, when the Council declared that the Toulousans were free to use military force against any foreigner who attacked them – as it will become clear in the following pages, they probably foresaw the coming necessity of such possibilities.64 When the Common Council of Toulouse met with the Council of Gaillac, Altun-aba’s institutions were successfully continuing their relational movements in their own microecologies; extracting taxes and rents through sequential movements, following seasonal rhythms. In addition to the taxes it levied on several villages in the vicinity of Konya, Altun-aba’s vakıf collected rents from an urban market in Konya, and from numerous shops in and around Konya.65 However, what the villagers of Lâdik might have thought about this story of success is a different matter. In 1196, Gıyaseddin Keyhüsrev I was on his way to his exile in Constantinople when he and his retinue passed by Lâdik. At Some point, Keyhüsrev I realized that the two royal princes were missing: İzzedin Keykavus, the future Keykavus I, and Alaeddin Keykubad, the future Keykubad I. The exiled Sultan immediately gathered his men and rushed to Lâdik, only to encounter the rage of its villagers. They insulted him, attacked and injured his men, and plundered his possessions. In shock and terror, Keyhüsrev I turned his horse around, and rode to Larende, where he wrote a letter to his brother Rükneddin in a tone mixed with plea and contempt, which slightly implies that Keyhüsrev I somehow thought that Rükneddin was responsible for the attack. The concluding section of the letter is very telling about the mentality of a Seljuq Sultan: “How can you stand and watch my sons grow without a father, how can you tolerate the abhorrent acts of a people who are mere slaves.” Rükneddin responded immediately. He may have deposed his brother, but mere slaves had no right to attack royalty. Hence, Lâdik was burned down with his orders, and henceforth the village was known as Lâdiki Suhte, the burned Lâdik.66 In 1178, when Petrus Maurandus was dragged to Saint-Sernin, his accusers had different but overlapping concerns. For the Church, moneylending, money changing, and take-over of lands and rights that were deemed to belong to ecclesiastic or monastic authorities were all considered heretical. Similarly, Raymond V perceived any act against him, whether political or economic, as unlawful, especially when it had a physical expression in the form of houses with pretentiously advertised towers. Hence, there are no records of which precise heresy Petrus was

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questioned and condemned for, except repeated accusations against him, and his repeated refusals.67 For the same reasons, it would not be too difficult to imagine that, as Petrus Maurandus was dragged in and out of Saint-Sernin, either for his trial or for his brutal penance, a few fingers pointed toward the personifications of Avarice and Lust on the Porte des Comtes, or to the figure of Simon Magus next to the Porte Miègeville. Petrus had become the living archetype of sins that once referred to the predecessors of two of his present accusers: the count, and the bishop. So, when the consuls met with Pierre de Castelnau in 1203, regardless of the new makeup of the Council, how genuine could the consuls have been in their agreement to suppress heresy, especially given their ongoing campaigns in the surrounding countryside? It cannot be a coincidence that two years after their meeting with Pierre de Castelnau, instead of pursuing after heretics, they hired Guilhem Bernard, a notary, to copy every single charter of liberties the Council had received, every single decree it had passed, and every single treaty it had signed.68 And, on March 17, 1208, a month after Pierre de Castelnau was assassinated, and a week after Innocent III accused Raymond VI of heresy, the Council declared that any harm suffered by the residents of the city and the bourg of Toulouse would be amended by the consuls upon investigation.69 The continuation of the fury of the villagers of Lâdik is not recorded anywhere. Neither they, nor the inhabitants of any other village or town in medieval Anatolia formed a commune with scribes and notaries that could have recorded their achievements. Moreover, the narrator of the attack on Keyhüsrev I, Ibn Bibi, is expectedly silent on details. But, let’s recall the terminology Keyhüsrev I used in his letter, and how his brother responded to the event. Keyhüsrev I was not only the true “once and future king,” he was also the historical Odysseus, meandering toward the unfamiliar in his own territories. In Lâdik, while expecting to make himself known to his subjects, the subjects, who were of absolute servile status, introduced themselves to Keyhüsrev I, not as docile serfs, but as ants and locusts, buzzing erratically. In response, Rükneddin reminded them what a ruler really was by burning their village. In 1202, the same villagers became the subjects of a vakıf, established by Şemseddin Altun-aba, not a sultan, but as a high-ranking official, definitely a ruler. The revenue sources of Altun-aba’s vakıf, like all its counterparts in Anatolia, were not concentrated in one village. They were dispersed across the microecologies of its two primary institutions: the madrasa and the caravanserai. Hence, through its relational movements of revenue extraction with sequential seasonal rhythms, the vakıf established an unintentional and invisible network between disparate “once and future” ants and locusts. Furthermore, all vakıfs were structured similarly, and each supported at least one major building, often a caravanserai. Consequently, the network extended throughout Anatolia, invisibly linking the fragmented microecologies of Konya, Kayseri, Sivas, and Malatya. In 1239, the rebels inscribed themselves into this network and into the surrounding jumbled

108 Rupture threads, and redefined them with their sporadic rhythms and aberrant movements. And, as we shall see, there were also other networks in place, which played crucial roles in the growth of the wasp’s nest, and the intensification of its continuous buzzing. Meanwhile, by 1209 Count Raymond VI of Toulouse was in serious panic. The armies of King Philip August were steadily approaching Toulouse, and the Count had failed at every attempt to prevent an inevitable war. On June 18, 1209, with an unexpected tactical manoeuvre, the Count managed to appease the Papacy, and joined the Northern army.70 Toulousans already knew what a count was, and they had been preparing themselves for the worst. The consular decree of 1203, which gave Toulousans the right to retaliate in kind against anyone who inflicted violence on them, and the 1208 follow-up that promised consular assistance, were most likely calculated preparations for potential conflicts. The townspeople of Béziers, on the other hand, were caught completely unawares. Once Raymond VI joined the Northern army, the army diverted its march from Toulouse to the lands of Raimond-Roger Trencavel, viscount of Béziers, Carcassonne, Razès and Albi.71 On July 21, 1209, the Northern army broke through the city gates of Béziers, massacred close to 20,000 people, and burned the city to the ground.72 The people of Béziers now knew what rulers really were. Unfortunate for him, Raymond VI was still in the blind, living the illusion that he and his lands were now safe. Once the conquest of Raimond-Roger Trencavel’s lands was complete, the Northern army elected Simon de Montfort as their new leader and as the new viscount of Béziers, Carcassonne, Razès and Albi. After burning his first heretic, Simon de Montfort turned to Raymond VI, and demanded his full submission, along with the surrender of all heretics in Toulouse.73 In panic once again, the Count dispatched a letter to Innocent III asking what exactly was meant by heretics. Innocent III’s response was a lesson in political vagueness: “those who publicly preach against the Catholic faith, or those who advocate or defend heresy, those who confess their heresy to priests, and those who are convicted of heresy.”74 The Count was still in the blind, baffled. But, the Toulousans knew that what Innocent III really meant was simple. A heretic was any ant or locust that bothered the Church. As the townspeople of Toulouse were embracing for what was coming, the continued endowments of lands and urban properties for more and more vakıfs kept expanding the wasp’s nest in Anatolia, without the knowledge of the patrons. In 1220, a scribe wrote down the vakfıye of the Sivas Hospital (1217), commissioned by İzzeddin Keykavus I, and bearing the personifications of the sun and the moon on its main portal as attributes of cosmic rulership. The vakfiye lists five villages, 108 shops, seven arable parcels, an orchard, and a water mill along with its silo and stables as the revenue sources of the hospital.75 But, let’s first consider the hospital and its vakfiye in light of a painted manuscript, completed approximately two decades ago, probably in Jazira, the Kitāb al-diryāq (The Book of Antidotes, 1199). As Oya Pancaroğlu observes, although the author of the manuscript claims that the book is a translation of Galen’s work, the text was very probably derived form a tenth-century Arab scholar’s translation of various ancient Greek texts on

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medicine. More importantly, the book was written and painted with a concern to guarantee that the practice of medicine and the preparation of antidotes remained in the monopoly of institutionally affiliated physicians and not left to old wives and unlicensed physicians. The facing frontispieces of the manuscript made a well-calculated use of the contrast between light and darkness (Figure 2.1). The personifications of the moon in the form of seated princely figures with attendants represented light, while the dragons that encircled them into a mandorla referred to the pseudoplanet al-jawzahr, hence to darkness.76 Although connotations of cosmic rulership were still present, in this specific context light was the light of knowledge that could only be provided by proper physicians attached to recognized institutions of knowledge. Moreover, the manuscript paintings also reflected the class aspirations of contemporary physicians via anecdotes attributed to their ancient Greek colleagues. Consider for instance the painting depicting Andromachus’ accidental discovery of a cure for leprosy (Figure 2.2). The discovery takes place during Andromachus’ visit to his agricultural fields. On the top left corner of the painting, the physician solemnly observes the fields with his servant who is bringing food and drink for the workers. Andromachus appears as the owner of agricultural fields where labour is performed by servile peasants, all depicted half naked and skinny, but nonetheless energetically toiling in crooked gestures. The implications are clear. The educated physicians, by the virtue of the knowledge they possessed, which was beneficial for all segments of society, deserved a social status akin to that of the official elite.77 Given that the second illustrated copy of the Kitāb al-diryāq from the thirteenth century reduced the application of anecdotal knowledge to a courtly sphere, and itself was most likely produced for a courtly audience, the ambitions of madrasa-educated physicians for upward mobility and prestige become clearer, especially in the context of increased institutionalization of knowledge.78 A comparable emphasis is also suggested in the vakfiye of the Sivas Hospital, and from both angles. In their selection criteria, the physicians and surgeons of the hospital are distinguished from their non-institutional counterparts through repeated references to expertise and experience, which are, of course, expertise and experience gained from/in similar institutions. On the other hand, with similar frequency, the vakfiye stresses modesty and refrain from vanity as equally important selection criteria, which implies the continued presence of self-glorification among institutional physicians. It is not too far-fetched to imagine that among the potential audiences of the Sivas Hospital, in addition to people whose fields and shops were endowed to it, there were also old wives and unlicensed physicians, whose practices were deemed illicit, at best inferior, by the hospital staff. They may not have been the users of the hospital, but nonetheless they would have passed by its monumental portal decorated with the personifications of the sun and the moon, perhaps on their way to a shop which had become the tenant of the hospital. With or without an approximate knowledge of iconography, would these people not have had a different perception of the building, shaped by their everyday experiences?

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Figure 2.1 Facing frontispieces, Kitāb al-diryāq (The Book of Antidotes, 1199), Arabe 2964 Source: BnF, Paris, France.

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Figure 2.2 Andromachus inspects the fields and discovers a cure for leprosy, Kitāb al-diryāq (The Book of Antidotes, 1199), Arabe 2964 Source: BnF, Paris, France.

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Through their professions and shared experiences, wouldn’t they have formed a network, already buzzing with ants and locusts, but invisible to the hospital and its patron, İzzeddin Keykavus I? And this invisible network, through the fields, villages, and shops endowed to the hospital, extended beyond Sivas, to Tokat, Malatya, Konya, and the village of Efkere just north of Kayseri.79 While the probable scenario of an old wife passing by the Sivas Hospital was unfolding, the townspeople of Toulouse received the final confirmation that they had understood Innocent III’s letter correctly. With Count Raymond VI excommunicated once again, and Simon de Montfort’s armies approaching the city gates, the consuls met with the papal legates.80 In order to prevent the invasion of Toulouse, the consuls offered their cooperation. The legates, however, asserted that the terms would be agreeable only if Toulouse accepted the rule of a new count that the Northern nobles would elect among their numbers. Otherwise, all consuls would be regarded and treated as heretics. The consuls staunchly rejected the offer, upon which, all clergy left Toulouse, while the papal legates and Bishop Fulk of Toulouse put the town under interdict.81 The consequence of the interdict was another testament to the aristocracy’s inability to comprehend change and see the new networks and the new jumbled threads buzzing with aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms. Rather than breaking the Toulousan resistance, the interdict united a once divided town. The urban nobility of Toulouse lived in the city, and many of them were in debt. Most of the moneylenders, on the other hand, resided in the bourg. Bishop Fulk had taken advantage of the situation, and organized the city under a White Confraternity against the Black Confraternity, a primarily bourg-based organization. The members of the White Confraternity had so far supported the Northern army, hoping that with the strong presence of the Church, usury, hence their debts would be eliminated.82 However, with the interdict, and with Bishop Fulk abandoning the town, they realized that the Church was not their friend, and they allied with the Black Confraternity.83 Once unified, Toulousans managed to keep Simon de Montfort at bay for a while, but in November 1215, at the Fourth Lateran Council, Pope Innocent III officially recognized de Montfort as the new count of Toulouse.84 In 1216, King Philip Augustus accepted him as his vassal over the county of Toulouse, the duchy of Narbonne, and the viscounties of Béziers and Carcassonne.85 In two years, though, Simon de Montfort of many titles was dead. The buzzing of the ants and the locusts never stopped. They continued to move and organize. In 1217, Toulousans rebelled against Simon de Montfort. During the second year of the rebellion, a group of women and their daughters were operating a catapult. Their aim turned out to be better than anyone anticipated. They launched a stone, which flew over the Toulousan skyline, hit Simon de Montfort in the head and killed him.86 Simon de Montfort’s son and successor Amaury immediately fled Toulouse, and the Northern army followed. In 1220, the Common Council declared that all Toulousans had the right to retaliate against Amaury, his men, and the Northern army.87 Until 1228, Toulouse was once again a self-governing town.

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Imagine now the townspeople walking the streets of the bourg, and clearing the rubble of their towered houses that were destroyed with Simon de Montfort’s orders.88 What would they have thought when they saw the sculptures of SaintSernin? How much would they have been convinced by the righteousness of the church and its indispensability for salvation? How would they have perceived the tormented personifications of Lust and Avarice, which now most certainly referred to them, and not to the count? And think of these in light of how, in 1274, the wife of a Toulousan carpenter expressed her views on the so-called Albigensian Crusade: “the invasion of the French (Galli), and the destruction of the people by the joint efforts of the clergy and the French.”89 In Anatolia, the story of urban confraternities called fityān was following a somewhat similar trajectory. The fityān operated according to moral codes called futuwwa. By the twelfth century, conduct in the marketplace and issues pertaining directly to urban life had become important components of futuwwa, and both the code and the fityān had spread to all corners of the Islamic world. Simultaneously, scholars and jurists began to raise their voices against futuwwa and the fityān, arguing that the code was too unorthodox, and the confraternities too unruly. However, in 1180, when al-Nāsir li-Dīn Allāh became the new Caliph, instead of pursuing an openly hostile policy, he initiated a plan to bring the futuwwa under his control. By 1207, his plan had largely succeeded, and in 1214, the Caliph’s intention to extend his control over Anatolian confraternities received an official response when Izzeddin Keykavus I requested to join the caliphal futuwwa.90 Similar to Bishop Fulk’s much smaller scale strategy, al-Nāsir and Keykavus I hoped to turn the confraternities into extensions of their authority. Although they might have initially succeeded, there were two aspects of Anatolian fityān, or akhīs as they were locally known, that distinguished them from their counterparts in the rest of the Islamic world. Firstly, the akhīs had a much broader appeal, and as early as the eleventh century, there were Armenian-Christian confraternities that very much resembled Muslim akhī organizations, and by the late thirteenth-century the two had become virtually indistinguishable from one another.91 Therefore, a complete caliphal or sultanic control over all confraternities was a highly difficult task to accomplish. Secondly, the akhīs were avid builders. After the sultans and Seljuq officials, they were the third most prolific sponsors of architecture, commissioning lodges in almost every town where they existed.92 Certainly, akhī lodges were not directly dealing with urban government, and hence they were not the exact equivalents of the Capitol in Toulouse. However, in the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the akhīs were ruling the city of Ankara by themselves, which strongly suggests that they were both willing and ready to establish self-governing bodies, should the opportune moment arrive.93 Moreover, in Ankara, the akhīs had extended their architectural patronage beyond lodges. The Ahi Şerafeddin mausoleum and mosque complex (c. 1290–1331) is a prime example of the akhīs’ ability to inscribe the political power they held into the urban topography with almost monumental visibility.94

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The more common example of akhī patronage, though, the lodges, had one very important distinguishing quality. They existed outside the control of the Sultanate, and formed the nodes of an alternative network. They welcomed, even invited the residents of their respective cities, as well as travellers from distant towns. In that respect, they consciously connected the dispersed microecologies of medieval Anatolia though jumbled threads that bypassed officially controlled madrasas and caravanserais.95 In 1239, İshak (or İlyas) was living in a rural convent. Although this was not an akhī lodge, it was a similarly independent building outside the direct control of the Seljuq administration. Therefore, when the relational networks of vakıf patronage overlapped with the off-the-grid networks of akhī lodges and independent convents, the already present buzzing of the ants and the locusts, in every direction and with unpredictable rhythms increased in intensity. Yet, there is still one more network to add to the equation, seemingly the least urban and the least architectural of all. In Toulouse, questions about the possibilities of new experiences of architecture were soon no longer questions. In 1229, after a year-long siege brought the city to the verge of starvation, Toulouse finally surrendered to the Northern army under the command of King Louis VIII of France, and the Treaty of Paris officially ended the twenty-year-long campaign.96 The Common Council partially retreated to the shadows, but alternative networks and the jumbled threads were long established, and they were still buzzing. The alleys of Toulouse were not safe to wander about, neither for the invaders, nor for the locals who wanted to take advantage of the situation for personal gains. Anyone who sought after heretics (whoever they were, and however they were defined) was attacked and killed.97 When the Count, in accordance with the Treaty of Paris, promised monetary rewards per-heretic brought to him, the self-proclaimed bounty hunters suffered the same fate.98 There were, however, new players in town, resilient, experienced, and confident that God would always be on their side: the Dominican friars, who had first appeared in Toulouse during Simon de Montfort’s brief rule, but had been dormant since then. In the 1230s, they resurfaced with a violent vengeance. In 1231, the friars burned two people posthumously. Both bodies were exhumed, dragged through the streets, and publicly burned.99 Three years later, the fire hit the living as well. Upon hearing that a woman was about to embrace heresy on her deathbed (how and which heresy nobody knows), the Dominicans carried the woman to the count’s meadows while she was still on her bed, and burned her. In 1235, however, the friars learned that God was not always on their side. In response to the insatiable violence of the Dominicans, the Common Council declared that on penalty of corporal punishment nobody was to provide the friars with any assistance. Yet, the Dominicans were urban in essence, and they were well-experienced in building their own networks, so they kept receiving food and supplies from their supporters. The consuls raised their hand by surrounding the friars’ newly completed Church of the Jacobins (1229–1335, and more on that in the next two chapters) with the urban militia.100 The resilience of the Dominicans, however, was unexpectedly strong. So, finally, in November 1235, the consuls,

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along with the urban militia and an angry mob of Toulousans, broke into the church, then into the cloister, and dragged the Dominican out of Toulouse.101 A year later, the friars returned with their determination stronger than ever. They continued to burn the living and the dead, and all their targets can be identified by name as belonging to notable families of Toulouse. For instance, the nine people they burned posthumously were from the bourg, and came from consular families who had organized the Dominican’s expulsion.102 The tide turned even more strongly against the Toulousans, or so it seems, in May 1245, when the Dominican inquisitors Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre summoned over five thousand people to the cloister of Saint-Sernin to begin the “largest inquisition of the Middle Ages, conducted in the shortest time.”103 In the cloister of Saint-Sernin, peasants and merchants, consuls and serfs, and all their respective networks mingled. Those who had seen the sculptures of Saint-Sernin every single day met with people who were seeing sculptures for the first time in their lives. And in that harrowing assembly, regardless of iconography, and regardless of one’s familiarity with it, the sculptures meant something new, something as dire as the summoning that had brought the accused to Saint-Sernin. As we approach the median year of 1245 (the beginning of Inquisition of Toulouse, the completion of the main portal of the Karatay Han, and six years after the suppression of the Rebellion of 1239), the expansion of the network unintentionally established by the vakıf endowments continued to expand in Anatolia, overlapping and resonating with the informal networks and jumbled threads of the akhī lodges and similarly independent Sufi convents. Meanwhile, there was another network that was spreading, more rapidly than the others, both in sequences and with aberrant movements, but always with surprising twists and turns. As I have already mentioned in the previous chapter, there are only a few vakfıyes that have remained from the first half of the thirteenth century, and they are in quantity and quality not enough to construct a sequence of how the vakıf network grew. But this chapter is not about sequences, it is about breaks, sporadic rhythms and aberrant movements, it is about rupture. So, if we break the sequence, and look at the vakfıyes in a broader spectrum, paradigmatically stretching them to the fourteenth century, what is the new, non-sequential rhythm that emerges? The primary condition for the establishment of vakıfs is that they should have enough revenues to provide the services they need to provide, support their personnel, and bring income to their benefactors. Majority of the endowments allocated for this purpose were arable lands and urban shops, and the people who occupied those shops and toiled on those lands were paying taxes to one or another authority for centuries. However, if we follow the Seljuq vakfıyes out of sequence, and in temporally broken rhythms, a new pattern emerges. In addition to peasant holdings and shops that were already taxed, the vakfıyes indicate that lands, which were previously under no ownership and open to the use of all, in other words, the commons, were also endowed. The vakfiye of the Karatay Han is very clear on this, and lists pastures, hills, lakes, rivers, and forests

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among its endowments.104 The vakfiye of the Sivas Hospital is equally explicit about the endowment of the common lands.105 Similarly, when Sahib Ata commissioned a hospice in Konya (1264) and a madrasa in Sivas (Gökmedrese, 1271), he included the commons among the revenues sources of both institutions.106 In 1321, when Rükneddin Hattâb turned his father’s house in Sivas into a hospice for orphans, widows, and the poor, he saw no problem in appropriating the commons.107 Finally, Seyfeddin Turumtay’s vakiye for the Gök Medrese of Amasya (1266) implicitly mentions the endowment of common lands.108 In medieval Anatolia, as elsewhere around the Mediterranean, the commons were important resources for the peasants, but in Anatolia, they were essential for the survival of the nomadic Turkmens, who seasonally moved between highlands and lowlands, and fundamentally relied on the pastures to graze their animals. The construction boom of the thirteenth century, in light of the above pattern, would have rapidly increased the amount of alienated pastures. Furthermore, in the 1230s, when the Mongols declared Azerbaijan as the grazing ground of their soldiers, the influx of approximately 200,000 people and three to four million sheep and goats pushed the nomads of Azerbaijan into Anatolia.109 In 1239, the relational networks of the vakfiye system, the akhī networks of the towns, the pastoral networks of the nomads, and all the jumbled threads that they oscillated with were now buzzing in cacophony; and the ants and locusts were capriciously buzzing and scurrying with off-beat rhythms. The year 1245 is a median date. It marks an approximate point on the linear timeline when the Inquisition of Toulouse and the Rebellion of 1239 bring the histories and architectural histories of the Languedoc and Anatolia to synchrony. However, as I have already mentioned, this chapter is not concerned with a sequential tuning. Rupture is not a singular event that can be located in a given time and a given place. It is also not the consequence of the aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms of the ants and locusts. It is the aggregate of such movements and rhythms that tear the fabric of the universe, and such tear is not restricted to a date, or to a specific location. It has always been everywhere. The Toulousan commune was not the result of a chain of events that began with Raymond de Saint-Gilles’s departure for the Crusade and culminated with the Common Council. The commune and the Council were already present the day Raymond rode his horse through the Narbonne Gate. Similarly, the expulsion of the Dominicans in 1235 was not the consequence of a teleological sequence of confrontations with the Church that started with Bernard of Clairvaux’s mission and continued with the trial of Petrus Maurandus. In 1145, when the Toulousans met with Bernard of Clairvaux, the Dominicans were already expelled, even before they existed. In 1196, when the villagers of Lâdik attacked Gıyaseddin Keyhüsrev I, they were not setting in motion a domino effect with the Babai Rebellion of 1239 as the last piece to fall. The villagers were already shouting “Baba Resulullah/Baba the Messenger of God.”110 In 1225, when an old wife passed by the Sivas Hospital, she was already an ant, or a locust. Finally, none of these events were the consequence of the deeds of men, good or evil, great or inadequate.

Rupture 117 While in Toulouse women and their daughters were shooting stones with catapults, and carpenters were fighting alongside wine merchants and moneylenders, in Anatolia women were wielding swords and spears, and defeating Seljuq armies together with akhīs, peasants, and nomadic pastoralists.111 Rupture is the multitude’s reconfiguration of their microecologies with their own movements and rhythms, not for a few material gains, but to replace their sovereigns’ vertical exercise of authority with their own sovereignty, and to eliminate the sequential and seasonally rhythmed extraction of revenues. The timeless and ubiquitous presence of rupture as the aggregate of aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms encourages a reconsideration of architecture along the same lines. If architecture is eventually defined by movements and events, and if conceived architecture only comes to life when it is lived, perceived, and experienced, then its temporality and locality need to be bended and collapsed. Movements, events, and their rhythms that define architecture can both predate and postdate the physical presence of a given building, and a microecology can already be reconfigured before the construction of a given building begins. Time is relative, distance is irrelevant; events, movements, and rhythms are essential. In rupture, buildings do not have an afterlife. They have lives much longer than they can ever be aware of, and they reach places where they have no intention to go to. Although rupture did not follow sequence chronologically, and it was not caused by sequence, the two modalities of movement and their corresponding rhythms were intricately connected. It was with sequences of revenue extraction and rent collection that caravanserais and pilgrimage churches entered the lives of people who probably never saw them, while it was rupture that redefined what a caravanserai or a pilgrimage church was, and what their sculptures meant. After these long historical cycles, the final section of this chapter is going to revisit Saint-Sernin and the Karatay Han. It is going to discuss, how the movements and rhythms of rupture changed the two buildings, while simultaneously rendering obsolete the temporal and spatial distances between them.

Experiences of architecture under temporal and spatial collapse The cloister of Saint-Sernin, which no longer stands, was a rectangular courtyard measuring forty-one metres to thirty-six metres.112 It was in this space that the Dominican inquisitors Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre questioned over five thousand people in approximately a year. Given the magnitude of the event, the number of people who were brought in, and the speed with which they were questioned, all of which must have significantly transformed this once-private space, it seems only logical to wonder why Saint-Sernin was chosen for the tribunals. Interestingly, not many people asked this question. There is no comparison between the sheer quantity of literature on Saint-Sernin, and what has so far been written about the Karatay Han, or about Seljuq caravanserais in general. By 1994, there were over five-hundred publications that dealt with one or another aspect of Saint-Sernin.113 However, only one among these, a modest six-page-long article by Raymond Rey questioned the selection of Saint-Sernin for the inquisition.114

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Similarly, although the stand-alone reference book on the Babai Rebellion of 1239 is still Ahmet Yaşar Ocak’s Babiler İsyanı (The Babai Uprising), almost every book, chapter, or article on thirteenth-century Anatolia mentions the Rebellion. However, mostly either as one of the causes that has weakened the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum prior to the Mongol Invasion of 1243, or, more understandably, as an important episode in the history of heterodox Islam in Anatolia. Perhaps because there was such a substantial nomadic Turkmen participation, the relationship between the Rebellion of 1239 and architecture has not even been a question. As the following pages return to Saint-Sernin and the Karatay Han, I am going to address both of these questions, but never as a matter of a cause and effect relationship. In other words, the concern is not going to be why Saint-Sernin was chosen for the inquisition, or why the Karatay Han, as paradigmatic of the construction boom in thirteenth-century Anatolia, contributed to the growth of the Rebellion of 1239. The concern is going to be how the two buildings found themselves engulfed by movements and rhythms outside their control, and how the two buildings changed in the course of the events that surrounded them. If one focuses on the inquisition and the rebellion as singular events, it is clear that they become too distinct for comparison. However, my interest is not in the Event as a defining moment or a turning point, but in events, and their movements and rhythms, which also include the inquisition and the rebellion, but without singling them out, and without essentializing them. The inquisition and the rebellion were simply events, differing from other events only in their intensity. So, without further ado, let’s retune the histories of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin out of sequence, aberrantly, sporadically, collapsing time and space. In 1245, the main portal of the Karatay Han was just completed. Its sculptures were in pristine condition, while Saint-Sernin was already an old building. As Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre were summoning the first group of people into the cloister of Saint-Sernin, six years had passed since the Seljuqs had crushed the Rebellion of 1239 with the support of heavy-armoured Latin Christian (Frenk) knights, and the Mongols had just plundered Kayseri and executed part of its population somewhere between the Kubadiye Palace and the Karatay Han. Among the executed residents of Kayseri, there were most probably also akhīs, who had organized the defences of the city.115 Before Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre decided to appropriate SaintSernin for the inquisition, Dominicans used to travel to villages and towns within the county of Toulouse. Since the networks and jumbled threads were still buzzing with ants and locusts, this was a precarious task. In 1242, the Dominican inquisitor Guillaume Arnaud, his assistant the Franciscan Esteve de Saint-Thibéry and their eight companions were assassinated in Avignonet.116 Meanwhile, following their defeat against the Mongols in 1243, and the subsequent Mongol invasion of Anatolia, the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum was no longer an independent polity. Nonetheless, in 1246, the Seljuq elite elected İzzeddin Keykavus II as their new sultan. Celâleddin Karatay was among the officials who participated in the election, which elevated him to the prestigious position of regent.117 In 1245, while people were carried into the cloister of Saint-Sernin, nothing comparable was happening in or outside the Karatay Han, except the occasional presence of Mongol troops.

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The left-side of the main portal of the Karatay Han most likely represented the earthly aspects of kingship, with its bird of prey capital and the vine scrolls extending upward with figures of dancers, animals and flowers (Figure 2.3). As I have mentioned in the previous chapter, images associated with princely leisure existed in the visual cultures of the Islamic world from very early on, and they

Figure 2.3 Left-side of the main portal, Karatay Han, Kayseri, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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formed an important part of the arts of the larger Seljuq world. What is important to remember here, though, is the dissemination of such images across a broad spectrum of audiences, from different social backgrounds. There are two objects at the Museum of Seljuk Civilization in Kayseri that demonstrate such dissemination on the local level. The first is a terracotta bowl, the inner surface of which is decorated with the figure of a standing man, and a bird of prey to his left. The iconography of the bowl gestures to its more lavish even princely examples, but its style, technique, and quality of execution suggest that it was produced for a more modest audience.118 The second object from the museum, also a terracotta bowl, is much more intriguing. At the centre of its inner surface is a falconer on horseback. He is surrounded by two seated cup-holders and two stylized birds set between four tulip-shaped ornamental designs.119 In form, the iconography is significantly similar to a better known and much more luxurious bowl currently at the Brooklyn Museum of Art (Figure 2.4). However, in style and content, there are obvious differences to suggest a different clientele for the Kayseri bowl.120 On the Brooklyn bowl, the falconer is surrounded by four pairs of seated courtly figures in conversation, separated by four ornaments which are distantly similar

Figure 2.4 Bowl Depicting a Falconer and Four Pairs of Seated Figures, 12th–13th century. Fritware, covered with a turquoise glaze with in-glaze and overglaze painting in red, green, blue, yellow, black, and gold, 3 11/16 × 8 1/4 in. (9.4 × 21 cm) Source: Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the Ernest Erickson Foundation, Inc., 86.227.65. Creative Commons-BY (Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 86.227.65_top_PS9.jpg)

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to the ones on the Kayseri bowl. Unlike the individual cup-holders of the Kayseri bowl, the presence of couples in dialogue is more indicative of a courtly gathering. Similarly, the falconer of the Brooklyn bowl is clearly a princely figure. His chequered gold and blue tunic, his headdress, the decorations of his horse, the solemnness of his posture all attest to that. In contrast, the Kayseri falconer leans forward on his horse as the animal gallops. He wears a simple green tunic with no indication of status, and his horse supports only the most basic equipment. Like all other figures on the bowl, including the birds and the ornaments, he is drawn and painted with little attention to detail, almost in haste, as if the bowl were part of a mass-produced series. Finally, and most interestingly, both objects have on the rim of their inner surfaces the word “peaceful/provider of peace” in Arabic, repeated continuously, which is perfectly in line with the wishes of prosperity and peace that often appear on similar objects. In the Brooklyn example, no space is left between each repetition of the word. On the Kayseri bowl, however, the word is written in red paint, and between each of its occurrences there are additional inscriptions in black ink, which are neither in Arabic, nor are they pseudo script. If, based on its Brooklyn counterpart, we can date the Kayseri bowl to the twelfth or the thirteenth century, then the inscriptions in black are the late medieval variants of the old Turkic runes, which were longabandoned by the Seljuq elite. Therefore, the audience of the bowl must have been the Turkic population of Anatolia, and perhaps the nomadic pastoralists, some of whom were still familiar with the old alphabet, as I will detail further below. Imagine now the buzzing multitudes that passed by or lived around the Karatay Han, whether they were there as part of the rebellion, or happened to be there at any given moment. In either case though, consider the possibility that they had in their possession bowls with similar figures, or that they had seen them in the hands of their friends, in houses that they visited, and in market places that they passed through. We know, for instance, from Ibn Faḍl Allāh al-‘Umarī’s account that the walled and paved courtyard before main portal of the Karatay Han had shops, which would have been the places where such wares exchanged hands, and where they would have been talked about.121 Is it not possible that the non-elite owners or viewers of these bowls perceived the images in ways that had no relation to royalty and princely leisure? Also imagine that among the “once and future” ants and locusts, there were also akhīs, who, either through their professions, or through their extensive networks knew perfectly well that falconers and dancers referred to the sumptuous leisure activities of the sultans and the elite. Although some of the akhīs would have gazed at the Karatay Han sculptures in envy, others might have not. Finally, the villagers of Sarahor, who witnessed the rise of a monument practically in their backyards, may have had no prior experience with sculptures. But, right in front of them was a richly decorated portal that marked the entrance to the very institution that taxed them, and owned their oxen and ploughs. And the people of Sarahor lived in a village that was occasionally flooded with merchants and travellers who were highly familiar with images, having seen them on objects and on other buildings. Therefore, the audiences of the Karatay Han, intended and otherwise, lived in an

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expansive visual microecology, networked and conjoined by experience, perception, and word of mouth.122 As the residents of a vibrant commercial town, Toulousans inhabited an equally expansive visual microecology. Toulousan merchants travelled widely, and the town received visitors from distant lands, merchants and pilgrims alike. In the early 1200s, when the Common Council began to reconfigure the microecology of Toulouse, the emergent networks and jumbled threads extended to a geography that included other important pilgrimage sites, such as Conques and Moissac. It is possible that just as its merchants, the sculptors of Toulouse too were avid travellers, or they were in networks that indirectly brought them in touch with relatively remote towns, such as Santiago de Compostela, the termination point of the pilgrimage routes.123 Therefore, similar to the Karatay Han, the audiences of Saint-Sernin, intended and otherwise, had a broader understanding of iconography; and their knowledge of the Parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, and the personifications of the vices was not limited to what they saw on Saint-Sernin’s portals. Before the townspeople’s first conflicts with Church and monastic authorities began, before the trial of Petrus Maurandus, and before the inquisitions of the 1230 and 1245–1246, Toulousans already knew what else the sculptures of Saint-Sernin could have meant. The west-portal tympanum of the abbey Church of Sainte-Foy in Conques (c. 1140) blends the history of the abbey and the cult of St. Foy into a Last Judgement composition with a brutal distinction between salvation and damnation (Figure 2.5). An enthroned and fully frontal Christ separates the saved on his right side and the damned on his left with a raised right hand and a lowered left hand. Immediately below him, Archangel Michael and a demon are weighing the souls of the dead. The demon insidiously smiles, and presses a finger on his side of the scales in a futile effort to win the game of psychostasia. Underneath the Archangel and the demon, a straight line separates the saved being led to the gates of Paradise from the damned fed into the Hell-Mouth in what appears to be the earliest visual reference to the idea of a purgatory. Although there is a clear and linear division between damnation and salvation, before the figures pass through the gates of Paradise or fall through the Hell-Mouth, they are all in the same non-place, so much so that one of the saved and a demon directly gaze into each other’s eyes.124 On the side of the elect, the hermit Dadon, the founder of the abbey, walks right behind the Virgin Mary and St. Peter. They are followed by an abbot holding Charlemagne’s hand, who had donated the land to Dadon. Below them, St. Foy prays before the hand of God, and the empty shackles hanging from the arches of her church visually testify that St. Foy’s intercessions truly work and free prisoners. Meanwhile, in hell, there are no identifiable individuals. Instead, space is filled with personifications of the cardinal sins as socially recognizable types. Most important for our purposes are the personifications of Lust and Avarice, flanking the central figure of the enthroned Devil, and joined together with serpents extending from one vice to the other (Figure 2.6). Lust appears as a half-naked woman and a man hanging together, and Avarice as a man with a

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Figure 2.5 Last Judgment tympanum, Church of Sainte-Foy, Conques, France Source: photograph by the author.

Figure 2.6 Lust and Avarice, Last Judgement tympanum, Conques, France Source: photograph by the author.

moneybag around his neck being hanged by a demon.125 Imagine now a hypothetical but highly plausible conversation between a Toulousan and a pilgrim or a merchant from Conques in the 1140s, long before the earliest recorded disputes between the Toulousans and Saint-Sernin began; or alternatively imagine

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a Toulousan in Conques. Would such a conversation not have introduced to Toulouse a whole different experience, and the possibility of a whole new perception of the Porte des Comtes sculptures? As I have already mentioned, it is plausible to imagine similar conversations taking place in Anatolia, even right in front of the Karatay Han, but with an important difference. In Anatolia, it was not only people who travelled, but also objects, either decorated with the portable and two-dimensional counterparts of architectural sculptures, or moulded and cast as architectural models. In the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, there is a very interesting object dated to late twelfth or early thirteenth centuries and attributed to Iran. It is not a unique object. There are two similar examples in the MET collection, and many more in museums and private collections across the world. The object is the stone-paste mould of a rectangular courtyard, measuring approximately eleven to eighteen centimetres (Figure 2.7).126 There are eleven figures inside the courtyard.

Figure 2.7 Stonepaste moulded model of a house with festive scene, 12th–early 13th century, attributed to Iran, 67.117 Source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC, USA.

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Four individuals are seated along each of the longer sides. On one of the shorter sides, a couple sits on some kind of a raised platform, while across, a bearded man wearing a turban observes them from a mihrab like pulpit. The eight figures along the longer sides of the courtyard are all holding cups, and their head dresses and hair, though much simplified in execution, are reminiscent of Seljuq stucco statues of the twelfth-thirteenth centuries, similarly from Iran.127 The significance of the scene is hard to determine. The presence of the bearded and turbaned figure on a pulpit suggests a religious context, and the appearance of a couple on a platform, and in the presence of cup-holders point toward a wedding ceremony, or a combination of both. It is very possible that house models were produced as gifts, either for weddings, or in celebration of the Nawruz, the New Year.128 For instance, Ibn Bibi reports that luxurious examples of house models in gold and silver, and decorated with precious stones were among the wedding gifts presented to Keykubad I during his marriage to the Ayyubid Princess Ghaziya, in accordance with the “customs and traditions of Damascus.”129 The stone-paste moulds could have been the cheaper and more widely disseminated versions of the same genre, available to a broader audience, or the wide-spread presence of the stone-paste models might have inspired their luxurious and more elaborate versions. However, as Margaret S. Graves has pointed out, there are other aspects of the house models, which, for the purposes of this chapter, are more important than their origin or immediate function. The first point to recognize is the ubiquitous appearance of cup-holders and musicians in majority of the house models. Whatever the occasion might have been, they all seem to refer to a festive and joyful activity.130 As I have discussed earlier, cup-holders and musicians are recurrent themes in Seljuq art. It is also possible to find comparable examples in the nomadic arts of Central Asia, such as the twelfth-century brass pendant at the MET, which depicts a standing cupholder, probably in association with the investiture/cup rites of Central Asia (Figure 2.8).131 My argument here is not for a linear trajectory of dissemination that begins in Central Asia, passes through Iran, and ends in Anatolia. To the contrary, regardless of origins and trajectories, I want to underline the geographically and temporally wide-spread presence of similar figurines and images to a culturally and socially diverse audience.132 A remarkably large number of portable and decorative earthenware figurines of musicians, dancers and drinkers have been excavated in Iran, Iraq, and Anatolia. Particularly the discovery of over four hundred such object in a single workshop in Wasit (Iraq) attests to the availability of the figurines to a non-elite audience.133 This was also the case for the house-models. According to Graves, the courtyards were all based on the vernacular domestic architecture of Iran. Being moulds, they were mass-produced, and commissioned by the non-elite members of Seljuq/Iranian society, whether wealthy merchants or less well-to do urban dwellers.134 The distinguishing quality of objects is not limited to their portability, which allows them to disseminate across time and space, and between and among

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Figure 2.8 Brass pendant in the form of a cup holding man, 12th century, attributed to Iran or Central Asia, 68.67 Source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC, USA.

various social classes. They are also just that, objects. They are not simply meant to be observed. They need to be held and used. They require a tactile experience, and they encourage contemplation. The more time one spends with an object, the more personalized its meaning becomes, and hence, without necessarily losing

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sight of the broader significance of a given imagery, such as cup-holders or dancers, it becomes possible to transform them.135 In that respect, the dancers on the portal of the Karatay Han, and the cupholder(s) on its spout(s) were both signs of princely/royal authority and not. This was not only because the multitudes that buzzed around the Karatay Han saw something completely different in its sculptures, but also because at least some of them saw exactly what they were supposed to see, and its alternative: the undeservedly sumptuous wine-gathering of a prince, and the undeservedly modest wedding of a cobbler. Therefore, for the unintended audiences of the Karatay Han, the sculptures opened up to reinterpretation for two main reasons. On the one hand, their commensurate and much more modest examples were widely available, and in mediums that allowed personally, culturally, and socially diverse experiences. On the other hand, the Karatay Han sculptures were not derived from a rigid didactic or doctrinal source, and this made their meanings and significances highly flexible. Paradoxically, at Saint-Sernin what allowed and encouraged the reinterpretation of its sculptures was the exact opposite. Equivalent images only existed either in the religious context of other churches and cathedrals, or in painted manuscripts available to a limited audience. Moreover, they were tied to an extremely rigid religious normativity. On the Porte des Comtes capitals, the relationship between the parable of Dives and Lazarus and the personification of Avarice as a man with a moneybag was only tangential, and neither Dives nor Avarice initially referred to merchants or usurers. Similarly, the antithetical relationship between the squatting figures (in reference to submission to the Church for salvation) and the tormented personifications of vices was subtle enough to caution any definitive conclusion. In the early twelfth century, Lust and Avarice, Dives and Lazarus reappeared in Moissac, on the left wall of the south-portal porch of its abbey church. They were carved in a unified composition where relationships were unmistakably straightforward, and across them, on the right wall was the equally unified representation of selective scenes from the Infancy of Christ. As the beginning of the history of salvation, the Infancy of Christ was both thematically and formally antithetical to the parable of Dives and Lazarus, and to the accompanying personifications of Lust and Avarice tormented in Hell.136 Although the sculptures’ emphasis on the importance of charity and donation (to the abbey) suggests that the intended audience was the nobility of Moissac,137 in style and form the sculptures reflected a very clearly defined position with regard to the contrast between vices and virtues. The parable of Dives and Lazarus appears in a single register that runs across the length of the porch. The narrative begins on the right with the feast of Dives. Unlike at Saint-Sernin, the Rich Man is not alone in his feast. His wife sits next to him at the table, as a servant keeps passing them more and more food. The lavish dining hall is clearly separated from the outside, where Lazarus is lying on the ground in hunger with dogs licking the sores on his legs. Further to the left, Lazarus reappears in the bosom of an enthroned Abraham. Next to them a prophet points to an open scroll and to the inevitability of the outcome of the parable. Right underneath the feast scene, on the right side of a double arched arcade that frames the lower section of the composition, Dives lies on his deathbed, with

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his wife kneeling and crying next to him. Behind the bed, and invisible to the crying woman, a demon holds the Rich Man’s moneybag, while another demon pulls his soul out of his mouth. On the left side of the arcade, Dives’ soul is dragged into hell along with his moneybag. On the lowest register, we encounter Dives once again as the near-life-size personification of Avarice. The moneybag heavily hangs from his neck, while a demon seated on his shoulders is tormenting him. To his immediate right, Lazarus emerges from a door. Dressed as a pilgrim and accompanied by an angel, he is given the privilege to have a glimpse at the eternal damnation of Dives. To the right of Lazarus, behind the column that separates the two sides of the arcade, Dives’ wife, almost skeletal now, screams in pain as serpents attack her breasts and genitalia, while a laughing demon taunts her. As her husband has become the personification of Avarice, she has become Lust. The Infancy of Christ on the right wall of the porch follows exactly the opposite narrative order, most probably to create an almost perfectly overlapping antithetical relationship. The story begins with the Annunciation on the lower left corner, and hence the Archangel Gabriel and the Virgin Marry become the mirror images of the laughing demon and Lust. It continues to the right with the Visitation, corresponding to Lazarus’ visitation of Dives/Avarice in Hell. Right above the Visitation is the Nativity. Although the scene does not face the death of Dives, unlike in any other depiction of the Nativity, the Virgin and Christ are on a bed, which is identical to the one on which Dives is giving his last breath. Moreover, from a thematic point of view, while the image of Dives dragged into Hell on the opposite wall is a reference to despair and damnation, the Nativity is directly associated with hope and salvation. Similarly, the Three Kings who appear with their gifts to the left of the Nativity scene openly contrast with the miser Rich Man whose undeserved wealth is snatched from him the moment he dies. Finally, on the top register, the Presentation at the Temple and the Flight into Egypt, chronologically separated by movements in opposite directions, completes the narrative. As opposed to Dives, who continues his sumptuous feast completely oblivious to what awaits him, Joseph attentively listens to the angel’s warning while Christ is brought into the Temple. Accordingly, just as Lazarus – also watched over by an angel – is saved in the bosom of Abraham, the Holy Family reaches safety in Egypt. The townspeople of Toulouse did not own portable objects that depicted the parable of Dives and Lazarus, or the personifications of the vices. For them, the most immediate context for seeing such images was the Porte des Comtes of Saint-Sernin. However, they travelled extensively, and they received visitors from nearby towns, such as Conques and Moissac, where similar images were executed far more antagonistically, if not in intent, certainly in form and style. They encountered people with different experiences and different perceptions, and they listened to their stories. More importantly, they listened to sermons, particularly in the context of the Albigensian Crusade, when the significance of the Porte des Comtes sculptures had already changed alongside Toulousans’ changing experiences with the ecclesiastical and monastic authorities of their town. They had established an urban commune, and many of them were moneylenders and

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moneychangers, and for the Church, there was a direct link between usury and heresy.138 Jacques de Vitry, who participated in the Albigensian Crusade, repeatedly underlined the same point in the sermons he gave in Toulouse in 1214, and then went a few steps further. He argued that there was not a single commune that was not at the same time a safe haven for heretics. It was in the communes that usury and Avarice, which were one and the same, strived.139 This was not an attitude that remained isolated to sermons and to Church discourses. It was also violently put into practice. Along with the Albigensian Crusade there came severe Church laws on usury, to such an extent that it became impossible to distinguish a communard, a moneylender, and a heretic from one another.140 Starting with the inquisition of 1245–1246, confiscation of property, life imprisonment, and social isolation through the imposition to wear two yellow crosses remained among the most common sentences passed by the inquisitors.141 Secular participants of the Albigensian Crusade did not behave any differently. In a council he summoned in Pamiers in 1212, Simon de Montfort announced a set of customs and laws that bound all people living in his newly conquered lands. After a series of articles that guaranteed ecclesiastical and monastic privileges, the document underlined that those who dared to form communes would lose their property, and even their lives.142 The audiences of the Karatay Han, intended and unintended alike, did not listen to sermons or speeches that made use of sculptures in order to convey normative messages on proper conduct and behaviour. Neither in discourse nor in art, nobody portrayed them as the personifications of vices, or connected their activities to heresy. However, they lived in an expansive microecology that provided them with varied experiences and a broad visual repertoire, allowing them to see buildings and sculptures with a different eye. So far, though, the admittedly speculative suggestions I have made with regard to the potential reinterpretations of the sculptures were mostly limited to either the urban populations of Anatolia, or to people who had direct links with townspeople, including the villagers of Sarahor who regularly received merchants and travellers. With the exception of the brass pendant of a cup-holder, and the Kayseri bowl with Turkic inscriptions, the nomadic pastoralists of Anatolia, one of the main actors in the Rebellion of 1239, remained mostly out of the picture. As I have previously mentioned, they formed seemingly the least architectural network in the rebellion, but the keyword here is seemingly. On the one hand, the alienation of their pastures through vakıf endowments indirectly connected them to Seljuq monuments. On the other hand, they were directly involved in the construction of Seljuq buildings, including the Karatay Han itself. Imagine a line that runs across Anatolia from Amasya in the North, Kayseri at the centre, and Niğde in the South, in other words a line that cuts contemporary Turkey almost in the middle on a north-south axis. Most of the Seljuq buildings to the east of that line, including those in the cities of Amasya, Kayseri and Niğde, had masons’ marks, which, in and of itself is not unusual. Masons’ marks existed in the Western Mediterranean as well, and they have allowed architectural

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historians to trace the movements of traveling workshops. On the surface, traveling workshops seem to have existed in Anatolia as well. Some of the masons’ marks in the Kayseri region could be found as far as North Eastern Anatolia/ Greater Armenia, and Northern Mesopotamia.143 However, in the particular case of Anatolia, the presence of the same mark in significantly distant locations did not necessarily indicate the presence of traveling workshops, and the marks themselves were not masons’ marks in the traditional sense of the term. The marks show great variety across Anatolia, as well as on individual buildings. Although many of them remain enigmatic to this day, others are more easily identifiable, and among these there seems to be a widespread consistency in the use of Turkic tribal emblems (tamga), talismanic signs, runic letters from old Turkic alphabets, and signs used in animal branding. In other words, a substantial number of carvings on Seljuq buildings are directly associated with the nomadic Turkmen populations of Anatolia.144 The Karatay Han alone has over twenty-three different signs carved on different stones around the building, including the one at the base of a pillar inside the main covered section, which must have been among the first stones laid down when the construction began around 1235 (Figure 2.9). In addition to the common Turkic

Figure 2.9 Pillar base with tamga, enclosed section of the caravanserai, Karatay Han, Kayseri Source: photograph by the author.

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signs, the carvings of the Karatay Han include one swastika, one Seal of Solomon, one pentagram, two misspelled Arabic inscriptions, a couple of schematic depictions of masonry, and one peculiar carving that represents the interlocking designs of the engaged columns on the front facade of the building.145 Some of the Turkic signs can be found in sites as far apart as north of Konya in the West, and Diyarbakr in the South-East. Two of the markings were used in animal branding in Kars and Ardahan in North Eastern Anatolia/Greater Armenia.146 It is tempting to interpret the carvings as masons’ marks as such, and imagine the presence of Turkic/Turkmen traveling workshops working in various parts of Anatolia. However, these were nomadic peoples, with no training or qualification in construction, and with at most a rudimentary knowledge in cutting stones. Given the precision with which the stones were cut and laid in the Karatay Han, it is hard to imagine nomadic pastoralists as the masons in charge.147 They must have had a different role in the construction of the Karatay Han. To the north of Kayseri and north-west of the Karatay Han is the Gesi region, encompassing the ancient stone quarries of the Derindere Valley and several villages, including Ağırnas, hometown of the famous Ottoman architect Sinan, and Efkere that was endowed to the Sivas Hospital. For centuries, the predominantly Christian residents of the region were renowned for their expertise and mastery in stonework, and from the Byzantine period well into the twentieth century, Gesi’s main sources of income were stonework and construction. Today, most of the houses in the region are from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, but their precisely cut stones and elegant decorations still attest to a high quality of craftsmanship. Particularly interesting are the spouts on houses and churches in the shape of various animals, including dragons.148 Therefore, a more likely scenario suggests that residents of Gesi were employed as master masons in the construction of the Karatay Han, while the nomadic pastoralists were used not as masons per se, but as the main labour force of the project.149 Connectedly, the appearance of the same carvings on buildings spread across a vast geography does not point to traveling workshops. Instead, it suggests the presence of a common cultural and visual milieu among people who might have never seen each other, but who all worked in the construction of Seljuq monuments, and visually linked them with their labourer’s marks. How the nomadic Turkmens were recruited for construction projects is impossible to determine. They might have been coerced, they might have found shortterm employment economically feasible; or having lost the free use of their pastures to vakıfs, they might have had no other choice. Nonetheless, the fact remains that nomadic pastoralists left their marks on the same buildings that were systematically appropriating the commons, the very source of their livelihood. It is important to remember that majority of these buildings were located in the same area that the Rebellion of 1239 spread across. In other words, among all the ants and the locusts who took part in the rebellion, the nomadic pastoralists were the ones who had the most direct and probably also the most conflictual relationship with the built environment. They transported the stones, set them in place, polished their surfaces, and perhaps in brief moments of rest, they left their laborers’ marks. Even before a

132 Rupture given building was completed, the nomadic pastoralists already had a different understanding of what it meant and signified. Yet, the pastoralists’ connection to the built environment was not limited to their roles as laborers, either. There are at least two vakfiye references to the presence of urban Turkmen markets; one in Kırşehir, to the north-west of Kayseri, the other in Ereğli, near Konya. While the shops and the urban market building (khan) in Kırşehir were tied to a caravanserai vakıf established by the emir of the town, thirty shops in the Ereğli market were part of the Sivas Hospital endowments.150 Therefore, let alone being the least urban of the ants and the locusts, the nomadic Turkmens were instrumental in bridging the urban and the rural, having experienced the effects of the thirteenth-century construction boom on multiple levels. If the Karatay Han was paradigmatic of how caravanserais moved in their microecologies relationally in sequences of seasonally rhythmed revenue extractions, then the experiences of the Turkmens were paradigmatic of how the unintended audiences of a building, who were either ignored or assumed to be unquestioningly compliant, unexpectedly moved back, aberrantly, in their own rhythms, and engulfed architecture in rupture. *** As I have frequently underlined, sequence and rupture did not follow one and other, neither in a causal chain, nor in chronological succession. But, without consonance, they coexisted, fluctuated, and mutually defined how architecture was perceived and experienced. Sequence was not only embedded in the operations of caravanserais and pilgrimage churches, it also defined their architectural plans, decorations, and the manners in which they offered their services. Spaces were organized according to liturgical processions and the circulation of the pilgrims, and according to the traffic of incoming and departing caravans. Sculptures and decorations were set in sequences, whether narrative and theological, or figurative and cosmological. Finally, services were offered in accordance with liturgical temporality and the saints’ feast days, or in lieu with the sequencing of time according to the five-time prayer and annual Muslim feasts. Similarly, the aberrant movements and sporadic rhythms of rupture were not limited to the political responses of the multitudes, whether in the form of large-scale rebellions and communal movements, or in the form of micro-level and everyday practices of resistance. In its temporal and spatial dispersal, rupture was at the same time an aggregate of varied experiences, perceptions, and interpretations, scattered across the extended histories of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin. Each narrative cycle or cosmological hierarchy, each sequenced circulation of pilgrims or caravans was matched with an aberrant and unpredictable counterpart, transforming spatial and visual experiences and perceptions. The sculptures of the Karatay Han were flexible in meaning and significance. They followed a well-established iconographical tradition, but one that was not framed by strict didactic or doctrinal norms. Furthermore, there was a comparable repertoire of images available to a culturally and socially broad audience. All of these would have allowed the multitudes to interpret its sculptures with

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new imaginations and from challenging perspectives. Where there was royalty, they could have seen a Nawruz celebration, where there was a princely gathering, they could have seen a joke. They could have seen darkness in light, and light in darkness. The sculptures did not impose anything, or dictate anything, but they existed on a building that was associated with, and commissioned by an authority that always dictated and demanded. The authority was not the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum. It was the institution itself, existing and acting in its locality and over its microecology just as a sovereign acted over his territory. In the case of Saint-Sernin, on the other hand, it was the repeated emphasis on the presence of an unbreakable chain between moneylending, Avarice, urban communes, and heresy that opened the sculptures to new perceptions. By the time that Petrus Maurandus was brought to Saint-Sernin, and most probably even before, the Porte des Comtes sculptures had nothing to do with the counts of Toulouse, but everything to do with the townspeople. In the images of Avarice and Lust, the townspeople did not see anything different from what the Church wanted them to see. They understood what the sculptures had come to mean, but this did not suggest that they agreed with what the sculptures said. It was precisely this disagreement, which reversed the negative-positive discourse of the Church to a positive-negative that defined the Toulousans’ new interpretation of the sculptures. Through sermons, laws, inquisitions, and punishments they were made to know, and by knowing they reimagined. Instead of voluntary submission for redemption, they saw imposition of new norms, confiscation of their properties, imprisonments, and death. In the same incongruous mutuality, sequence and rupture fluctuated across the Mediterranean, and imperceptibly connected disparate, typologically distinct, and seemingly unrelated buildings. This was a connectivity simultaneously maintained by the movements and rhythms that conceived and sustained the buildings, and those that transformed them into lived and experienced spaces. In that sense, it operated on a plane of experiences, between buildings with no formal resemblances; and equally importantly, it operated in regimes of sovereignty where the exercise of authority was always vertical, where even the most horizontal microecological movements were extensions of that verticality, moving with the ultimate goal to rule. Yet, as I will argue in the next chapter, Flux, regimes mutate, and so does architecture. It is hard to tell when exactly this happened, and such a chronological triangulation is not the concern of this book. At some point though, the verticality of sovereignty was matched with an administrative horizontality concerned with managing relationships, rather than simply ruling. Similarly, buildings became more reciprocally relevant to their microecologies, responding to multiple concerns and needs. In flux, which was not an evolutionary succession to sequence and rupture, but a mutation, movements were horizontal and multidirectional, and rhythms were subtle and ever-changing. Buildings smoothly blended into their local architectural topographies, while simultaneously displaying remarkable formal similarities across the Mediterranean. It is precisely because of this last point, because of the irresistible charm of formal comparison that this chapter

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ends with a caution, which I will repeat once again in the next chapter: only a small minority among the inhabitants of Mediterranean microecologies was able to experience and make sense of architectonic and decorative similarities between disparate buildings. For the majority, connectivity was still on the plane of experiences, in the multiplicity of the relationships managed, networked, and fluctuated locally through flux.

Notes 1 Jacques Le Goff, Time, Work, and Culture in the Middle Ages (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 29–52. 2 For that, see Michel Labrousse, Toulouse antique: des origins a l’établissement des wisigoths (Paris: Éditions E. de Boccard, 1968); Philippe Wolf, Histoire de Toulouse (Toulouse: Editions Privat, 1974/1988), 7–67; and Jean Coppolani, Toulouse: etude de géographie urbaine (Toulouse: Privat-Didier, 1954), 3–32. 3 Charles H. Kahn, The Art and Thought of Heraclitus: An Edition of the Fragments with Translation and Commentary (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 53, fr. LI. 4 Richard M. Gummere, trans., Seneca: Epistles 1–65 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917), 400, 401, LVIII / 23. 5 Martin Heidegger, Heraclitus: The Inception of Occidental Thinking and Heraclitus’ Doctrine of the Logos (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2018). 6 Rather than my rudimentary remarks, for a properly philosophical discussion of the relationship between time and movement, and the political significance of various conceptualizations of time, see Éric Alliez, Capital Time: Takes from the Conquest of Time (Minneapolis: Minnesota University Press, 1996), especially the Forward by Gilles Deleuze at x–xiii. 7 For various versions of the Clermont sermon and Urban II’s subsequent letters, see Edward Peters, ed., The First Crusade: ‘The Chronicle of Fulcher of Chartres’ and Other Source Materials (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1998), 25–46. For the appeal of the Pope’s propaganda and the ideology of the Crusade, see Paul E. Chevedden, “Pope Urban II and the Ideology of the Crusades,” in Brian Boas, ed., The Crusader World (London: Routledge, 2015), 7–83; and Jonathan Phillips, The Crusades, 1095–1204 (London: Routledge, 2014), 17–24. 8 John Hugh Hill and Laurita Lyttleton Hill, Raymond IV, Count of Toulouse (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1962), 29–32. 9 Hill and Hill, Raymond IV, 33, 34. 10 Ibn Bibi, El Evamirü’l – Ala’iye Fi’l – Umuri’l -Ala’iye (Selçukname) I, trans., Mürsel Öztürk (Ankara: T. C. Kültür Bakanlığı Yayınları, 1996), 375–377. 11 Ibn Bibi, 377–379. 12 Hill and Hill, Raymond IV, 33, 34. 13 John Hine Mundy, Liberty and Political Power in Toulouse, 1050–1230 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1954), 16, 17. 14 Ibn Bibi, 381–385. 15 Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 16, 17, AA1: 14, Archives Municipales, Toulouse. 16 AA1: 14. 17 AA1: 1, 2. 18 AA1: 4, 5. 19 AA1: 4, 5. 20 Ibn Bibi, 385–388; and Claude Cahen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey: A General Survey of the Material and Spiritual Culture and History, c. 1071–1330 (New York: Taplinger, 1968), 128, 129.

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21 For Bernard of Clairvaux’s views on art see Conrad Rudolph, The ‘Things of Greater Importance’: Bernard of Clairvaux’s Apologia and the Medieval Attitude Toward Art (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993); and Diane J. Riley, “Bernard of Clarivaux and Christian Art,” in Brian Patrick McGuire, ed., A Companion to Bernard Clarivaux (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 279–304. For the early history of the Cistercians in the first half of the twelfth century when there was no centralized order yet, see Constance Hoffman Berman, The Cistercian Evolution: The Invention of a Religious Order in Twelfth-Century Europe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000), 46–161. 22 Bruno Scott James, ed., The Letters of St. Bernard of Clairvaux (New York: AMS Press, 1980), 388; and R. I. Moore, ed., The Birth of Popular Heresy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995), 39, 40. 23 Moore, The Birth of Popular Heresy, 43. 24 Ibn Bibi, 394. 25 Chaen, Pre-Ottoman Turkey, 130–132. 26 John Hine Mundy, Society and Government at Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1997), 117. 27 AA1: 8, 10; and Histoire générale de Languedoc avec des notes et les pièces justificatives par dom Cl. Devic & dom J. Vaissete, Vol. 5 (Toulouse: E. Privat, 1872–1892), 544–546 (no: 277). 28 HGL, Vol. 6, 77–80. 29 Ibn Bibi, 418; and Scott Redford, “Thirteenth-Century Rum Seljuq Palaces and Palace Imagery,” Ars Orientalis 23 (1993): 219–236, specifically, 220. 30 Ibn Bibi, 420; and Redford, “Thirteenth-Century Rum Seljuq Palaces,” 220, 221. 31 Ibn Bibi, 421. 32 HGL, Vol. 6, 77–80. 33 HGL, Vol. 6, 77–80. 34 William Stubbs, ed., Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi Benedicti Abbatis: The Chronicle of the Reigns of Henry II and Richard I (A.D. 1169–1192), Known Commonly under the Name of Benedict of Peterborough (London: Lessing-Druckerei Wiesbade, 1867/1965), 200–202. 35 Ibn Bibi, 421–446. 36 Ibn Bibi, 266. 37 Ibn Bibi, 448, 449. 38 Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 61. 39 For the sentence on Petrus see HGL, Vol. 6, 77–80 and William Stubbs, ed., Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Houedene (London: Lessing-Druckerei Wiesbade, 1869/1964), 164, 165. For the surrender of the tithes see C. Douais, Cartulaire de l’Abbaye de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse, 844–1200 (Paris: A. Picard, 1887), no: 688 and John Hine Mundy, The Repression of Catharism at Toulouse: The Royal Diploma of 1279 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1985), 231. For the Maurandus family see John Hine Mundy, “Noblesse et hérésie: Un famille cathare: le Maurands,” Annales: Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations 29:5 (1974): 1211–1223; Mundy, Repression of Catharism, 229–241 and John Hine Mundy, Studies on Social and Ecclesiastical History of Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 161–167. 40 Ibn Bibi, 449, 450. 41 Ibn Bibi, 451. 42 AA1: 6. 43 Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 60; and AA1: 8, 9. 44 Ibn Bibi, Vol. 2, 19–48. 45 Ibn Bibi, Vol. 2, 49. 46 AA1: 13, 22. 47 Ibn BIbi, Vol. 2, 49, 50. 48 AA1: 35.

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49 Labrousse, 283–286. For more on the chateau, see Maurice Prin and Jean Rocacher, Le Château Narbonnais: Le parlement et le palais de justice de Toulouse (Toulouse: Privat, 1991); and the reports and the photographs of L’Institut national de recherches archéologiques préventives (Inrap), www.inrap.fr/recherche?search_api_views_ fulltext=Château+Narbonnais (Accessed July 9, 2019). 50 AA1: 1, 2; Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 46, 47; and Mundy, Society and Government, 32–34. 51 AA1: 35; and Pamela Sue Marquez, “Recentering the City: Urban Planning in Medieval Toulouse in the Early Thirteenth Century,” (Unpublished PhD Dissertation, University of Colorado, 1999), 214–236. 52 AA1: 25. 53 Ernest A. Wallace Budge, trans., The Chronicle of Gregory Abû’l Faraj, 1225–1286, the Son of Aaron, the Hebrew Physician, Commonly Known as Bar Hebraeus; Being the First Part of His Political History of the World (London: Oxford University Press, 1932), 473. 54 Elvan Çelebi, Menakıbu’l-Kudsiyye fi Menasıbi’l-Unsiyye: Baba İlyas Horasani ve Sülalesinin Menkabevi Tarihi, eds., İsmail E. Erunsal and A. Yaşar Ocak (Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Yayınları, 1984), 30, 32, 33, 47, 48. 55 The record of the meeting between the papal legate and the consuls in quoted verbatim in Guillaume Catel, Histoire de comtes de Tolose (Toulouse: Pierre Bosc Marchand Libraire, 1623), 236. 56 W. A. Sibley and M. D. Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade: Peter of les Vaux-de-Cernay’s Historia albigensis (Woodbridge: Boydell Press), 21 and note 35. It appears that Raymond VI was excommunicated either for protecting heretics and breaking the Peace of God by retaining mercenaries, or only because of the mercenaries. For the contradictions see, Janet Shirley, trans., ed., The Song of the Cathar Wars: A History of the Albigensian Crusade, William of Tudela and an Anonymous Successor (Brookfield: Ashgate, 1996), 14 and Appendix F, i, b. 57 J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologiae cursus completus: Series latina 215 (Paris: Garnier, 1844–1902), cols. 1354–1358 (from here on PL); and Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 31–3–318. Peter quotes Innocent III’s letter verbatim. For Philip Augustus’ response to this final call to arms from Innocent III, see HGL, Vol. 8, col. 558. In the letter, the king repeats his former concerns about the ongoing war with England, and his legitimate right to take over Raimond VI’s lands, if the count was convicted of heresy. For Innocent III’s call for a military campaign also see Augustus Potthast, ed., Regesta pontificum romanorum inde ab a. post Christum natum MCXCVIII ad a. MCCCIV (Graz: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1874–75/1957), no. 2225. See also Potthast, no. 2404, 2682 and 3223 for the privileges equating the participants of the Albigensian Crusade with the crusaders in the East. 58 AA1: 29 (Rabastens), 38 (Aubiet), 60 (Corbarieu), 41 (Blanquefort), 56 (Comminges/ Muret). For the treaties, see also Judicaël Petrowiste, “Le consul, le comte et le marchand: Commerce et politique à Toulouse au seuil du XIIe siècle,” Annales du Midi 67: 251 (2005): 291–321, especially 291–299; and Pamela Sue Marquez, “Urban Diplomacy: Toulouse and Its Neighbors in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries,” Viator: Medieval and Renaissance Studies 33 (2002): 87–100, especially 94–96. 59 Turan, “Şemseddin Altun-aba,” 200, and 207–220 for a discussion of the last two services. 60 Osman Turan, “Şemseddin Altun-aba, Vakfıyyesi ve Hayatı,” Belleten 11:42 (1947): 197–235, at 204. 61 See, for instance AA1: 59 (Sacalm of La Salvetat), 39 (Géraud d’Armagnac, a second treaty with Bernard d’Armagnac was signed in 25 March 1204, no. 63), 40 (Guillaume de Maurens). 62 AA1: 42 and 60 (Corbarieu), 57 (Vaure), 61 (Saint- Paul), 62 (Saverdun), 64 (Verfeil), 65 (Gaillac) and 66 (Auterive). See also Monique Bourin, “Peasant Elites and Village

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63 64 65 66 67 68

69 70 71 72

73

74 75 76

77 78 79 80

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Communities in the South of France, 1200–1350,” Past and Present 195, Supplement 2 (2007): 101–114. For the contado discussion, see Mundy, Liberty and Political Power, 68; and Philippe Wolff, Les Toulousains dans l’histoire (Toulouse: Privat, 1984), 30. AA1: 24. Turan, “Şemseddin Altun-aba,” 204; and for the complete text, see 223–235. Ibn Bibi, Vol. 1, 55–58. HGL, Vol. 6, cols. 77–80; Stubbs, Chronica Magistri Rogeri, 164, 165. François Bordes, “Les cartularies urbains de Toulouse (XIIIe-XIVe siècles),” in Daniel Le Blevec, ed., Les Cartulaires méridionaux. Actes du colloque organisé à Bréziers les 20 et 21 septembre 2002 par la Centre historique de recherches et études médiévales sur la Méditerranée occidentale (Paris: Ecole des Chartes, 2006), 217– 238, specifically 221. AA1: 88. PL 216, col: 95. Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 48. Shortly after the city was overrun by the crusaders, the papal legates Arnold Amalric and Milo sent a letter to Innocent III, describing the events. For that see PL 216, col. 137–141. See also Chanson, I,. 48–62; Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 49–51 and W. A. Sibley and M. D. Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William of Puylaurens: The Albigensian Crusade and its Aftermath (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2003), 33; and PL 216, col. 139. Mark Gregory Pegg, The Corruption of Angels: The Great Inquisition of 1245–1246 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 7. For the burning of the anonymous dissident in Castres, see Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 62, 63. Over the following years, burnings reached a tremendously brutal number. The numbers that William of Puylaurens gives are as follows: In 1210, in Lavaur, three hundred people were burned (this number is a hundred lower than William of Tudela’s, in Chanson I), and sixty in les Cassès. When Lavilledieu was captured, although William does not give any numbers, all soldiers found “perished, some by the sword, some by being impaled on stakes”. The knight Gerald of Lamothe and his followers, on the other hand, were burned as “heretics.” After the surrender of Montségur in 1244, two hundred more dissidents were burned, and at Agen, in 1249, eighty more. For these numbers see Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William of Puylaurens, 40 (also see note 46), 41, 76, 108 and 113. Potthast, no. 3886 (January 23, 1210). Refet Yinanç, “Sivas Abideleri ve Vakıfları,” Vakıflar Dergisi 22 (1991): 15–44, specifically 39. Oya Pancaroglu, ˇ “Socializing Medicine: Illustrations of the Kitāb al-diryāq,” Muqarnas 18 (2001): 155–172. See also Sara Kuehn, “The Dragon in Transcultural Skies: Its Celestial Aspect in the Medieval Islamic World,” in Niels Gutschow and Katharina Weiler, eds., Spirits in Transcultural Skies: Auspicious and Protective Spirits in Artefacts and Architecture between East and West (New York: Springer, 2015), 71–98. Pancaroglu, ˇ “Socializing Medicine,” 157–161. Pancaroglu, ˇ “Socializing Medicine,” 163, 166–170. Yinanç, “Sivas Abideleri ve Vakıfları,” 35–40. While on his way to meet with the papal legates, Simon de Montfort captured Raymond VI. He was first excommunicated by archbishops of Narbonne and Arles, and the bishops of Avignon, Maguelonne, Toulouse and Orange. Then, Innocent III confirmed the excommunication. For these, see HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 612–619; Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 107, 108 and note 38, and Walter L. Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition in Southern France, 1100–1250 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 104, 105; and PL 216, cols. 410, 411.

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81 HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 612–619 and Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 120. 82 Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chroinicle of William of Puylaurens, 36, 37; and Mundy, Society and Government, 20–26. 83 HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 612–619 and The Chroinicle of William of Puylaurens, 40–42. 84 Chanson, II, 40–89; Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 253–255; Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William of Puylaurens, 53–55 and HGL, Vol. 8, col. 681 for Innocent III’s decision at the Fourth Lateran Council. 85 Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 255, 256, note 58; and John W. Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus: Foundations of French Royal Power in the Middle Ages (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986), 336–339. 86 Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William of Puylaurens, 54; Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, 277 and Chanson, III, 206–208. 87 AA1: 9. 88 Joseph R. Strayer, The Albigensian Crusade (New York: The Dial Press, 1971), 129– 136; and Jaques Madaule, The Albigensian Crusade: An Historical Essay (New York: Fordham University Press, 1967), 87–89. 89 Mundy, The Repression of Catharism, 70. 90 Rachel Goshgarian, “Futuwwa in Thirteenth-Century Rūm and Armenia: Reform Movements and the Managing of Multiple Allegiances on the Seljuk Periphery,” in A. C. S. Peacock and Sara Nur Yıldız, eds., The Seljuks of Anatolia: Court and Society in the Medieval Middle East (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 227–263, specifically 228–230. For more on the futuwwa, see also Rachel Goshgarian, “Beyond the Social and the Spiritual: Redefining the Urban Confraternities of Late Medieval Anatolia,” (Unpublished PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, 2007); and Rachel Goshgarian, “Opening and Closing: Coexistence and Competition in Associations Based on Futuwwa in Late Medieval Anatolian Cities,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 40:1 (2013): 36–52. 91 Goshgarian, “Futuwwa in Thirteenth-Century Rūm and Armenia,” 234–236; and Goshgarian, “Opening and Closing,” 36, 37. 92 Ethel Sara Wolper, Cities and Saints: Sufism and the Transformation of Urban Space in Medieval Anatolia (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 1–13. For the earlier thirteenth century, lodge patronage is more difficult to determine, but there is an observable increase in independent patronage in the later thirteenth century. 93 Goshgarian, “Beyond the Social,” 225. 94 Patricia Blessing, Rebuilding Anatolia after the Mongol Conquest: Islamic Architecture in the Lands of Rum, 1240–1330 (London: Routledge, 2016), 192–197. 95 Oya Pancaroğlu, “Devotion, Hospitality and Architecture in Medieval Anatolia,” Studia Islamica 108 (2013): 48–81, at 72. 96 Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William Puylaurens, 78, 79. 97 Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William Puylaurens, 85. 98 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 211, 212. 99 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 210. 100 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 219. 101 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 221, 222. 102 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 224, 225, and note 86.

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Pegg, The Corruption of Angels, 3, 4. Turan, “Celâleddin Karatay,” 112. Yinanç, “Sivas Abideleri ve Vakıfları,” 39. Sadi Bayram and Ahmet Hamdi Karabaca, “Sahib Ata Fahrü’d-din Ali’nin Konya İmaret ve Sivas Gökmedrese Vakfiyeleri,” Vakıflar Dergisi 13 (1981): 31–69, specifically, 39, 58–61. İsmet Kayaoğlu, “Rāhat Oğlu ve Vakfiyesi,” Vakıflar Dergisi 13 (1981): 1–29, specifically, 10. İsmet Kayaoğlu, “Turumtay Vakfiyesi,” Vakıflar Dergisi 12 (1978): 91–112, specifically 105, 106. Rudi Paul Lindner, Nomads and Ottomans in Medieval Anatolia (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1983), 14. Ibn Bibi, Vol. 2, 51; Budge, trans., The Chronicle of Gregory Abû’l Faraj, 473, 474. Ibn Bibi, Vol. 2, 50, 51. A. Auriol and Raymond Rey, La Basilique Saint-Sernin de Toulouse (Toulouse: Édouard Privat, 1930), 334, 335. André Hermet and Marie-Louise Prévot, Bibliographie de l’histoire de Toulouse: ouvrages, brochures, articles et autres imprimés relatifs au passé de la ville, Vol. 1, les grandes églises du vieux Toulouse (Toulouse: Archistra, 1989–1994), 33–68. Raymond Rey, “Le Cloître de Saint-Sernin et L’Inquisition a Toulouse au XIIIe Siècle,” Bulletin Monumental 110 (1952): 63–69. Ibn Bibi, Vol. 2, 52, 73–75. Pegg, Corruption of Angels, 28, 38. Ibn Bibi, Vol. 2, 88, 89. Museum of Seljuk Civilization / Catalog, Vol. 1 (Kayseri: Kayseri Büyükşehir Belediyesi, 2016), 22, 23. Museum of Seljuk Civilization / Catalog, Vol. 1, 100, 101. For the bowls from the Museum of Seljuks Civilizations in Kayseri, see Museum of Seljuk Civilizations / Catalog, 22, 23, 100, 101 at www.kayseri.bel.tr/uploads/pdf/ Selçuklu%20Uygarlığı%20Müzesi%201.cilt.pdf. Blessing, Rebuilding Anatolia, 176. Although it is impossible to know whether the market place in front of the Karatay Han was also a production site, for a discussion of the markets as spaces for such encounters and exchanges, see James W. Allena and Ruba Kana’an, “The Social and Economic Life of Metalwork,” in Finbarr Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoğlu, eds., A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture I, 2 Vols. (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell, 2017), 453–477. Thomas W. Lyman, “The Pilgrimage Roads Revisited,” Gesta 8:2 (1969): 30–44; and John W. Williams, “‘Spain or Toulouse?’ A Half Century Later Observations on the Chronology of Santiago de Compostela,” in Actas del XXIII Congreso Internacional de Historia del Arte. España entre el Mediterráneo y el Atlántico, Granada, 1973 (Granada: Universidad de Granada, 1976), 556–567. On purgatory see, Jacques Le Goff, The Birth of Purgatory (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1990), 133–153. On Conques, see Don Denny, “The Date of the Conques Last Judgment and Its Compositional Analogues,” The Art Bulletin 66:1 (1984): 7–14; and Kim Ambrose, “Attunement to the Damned of the Conques Tympanum,” Gesta 50:1 (2011): 1–17, especially note 1 for further bibliographical information. On the emphasis on social class, see Jérôme Baschet, Les justices de l’audelà; les représentations de l’enfer en France et en Italie,12e-15e siècle (Rome: École française de Rome, 1993), 146–157. Sheila R. Canby, Deniz Beyazit, Martina Rugiadi, and A. C. S. Peacock, Court and Cosmos: The Great Age of the Seljuqs (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2016), 78–79.

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127 On these statues, see Stefan Heidemann, Jean-François de Lapérouse, and Vicki Parry, “The Large Audience: Life-Sized Stucco Figures of Royal Princes from the Seljuq Period,” Muqarnas 31 (2014): 35–71. 128 Margaret S. Graves, “Ceramic House Models from Medieval Persia: Domestic Architecture and Concealed Activities,” Iran 46 (2008): 227–251, specifically 248, 249. 129 Ibn Bibi, Vol. 1, 313. 130 Graves, “Ceramic House Models,” 243. 131 For the Central Asian cup rites, see Emel Esin, “‘And’: The Cup Rites in Inner Asian and Turkish Art,” in O. Aslanapa and R. Nanmann, eds., Forschungen zur Kunst Asiens: In Memoriam Kurt Erdmann (Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi, Türk ve İslâm Sanatı Kürsüsü, 1969), 224–261. 132 On ceramics, see Oliver Watson, “Circulation of Ceramics,” in Finbarr Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoğlu, eds., A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture I, 2 Vols. (Holboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell, 2017), 478–500. For the broader appeal of cupholder imagery, see Scott Redford, “On Saqis and Ceramics: Systems of Representation in the Northeast Mediterranean,” in Daniel H. Weiss and Lisa Mahoney, eds., France and the Holy Land: Frankish Culture at the End of the Crusades (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 282–312. On the availability of figurative art to a diverse audience, see Oya Pancaroğlu, “Figural Ornament in Medieval Islamic Art,” in Finbarr Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoğlu, eds., A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture I, 2 Vols. (Holboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell, 2017), 501–520. 133 Canby, et al., Court and Cosmos, 159. For reproductions and the diversity of the figurines, see The Illustrated London News 201 (July 25, 1942): 108, 109. 134 Graves, “Ceramic House Models,” 238–243. On the patronage of figurative objects, or objects with figurative imagery, see Oleg Grabar, “The Visual Arts, 1050–1350,” in J. A. Boyle, ed., The Cambridge History of Iran, Vol. 5: The Saljuq and Mongol Periods (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 626–658, at 648; and Richard Ettinghausen, “The Flowering of Seljuq Art,” Metropolitan Museum Journal 3 (1970): 113–131, specifically 113–115. For a critical reappraisal of their proposition of a bourgeoisie patronage in an open-market, see Margaret S. Graves, Arts of Allusion: Object, Ornament, and Architecture in Medieval Islam (New York: Oxford University Press, 2018), 11–13. 135 On this, among Avinoam Shalem’s numerous studies, see especially Avinoam Shalem, “Multivalent Paradigms of Interpretation and the Aura or Anima of the Object,” in Benoît Junod et al., eds., Islamic Art and the Museum: Approaches to Art and Archeology of the Muslim World in the Twenty-First Century (London: Saqi, 2010), 101–115. 136 For the antithetical relationship between the two walls of the portal and more, see Meyer Schapiro, “The Romanesque Sculpture of Moissac,” The Art Bulletin 13:3/4 (1931): 249–351 and 464–531. 137 For this interpretation, see Ilene H. Forsyth, “Narrative at Moissac: Schapiro’s Legacy,” Gesta 41:2 (2002): 71–93. 138 Mundy, Society and Government, 204–209. 139 For the relevant sections of Jacque de Vitry’s Sermo II ad burgenses and Sermo II ad mercatores et campsores, see Arthur Giry and Ernest Lavisse, Documents sur les relations de la royauté avec les villes en France de 1180 à 1314 (Genève: Slatkine Repr., 1974), 58–62. For his meeting with bishop Fulk of Toulouse, who convinced him to preach in the Albigensian Crusade, see Sibley and Sibley, trans., The Chronicle of William of Puylaurens, 60; and Beverly Mane Kienzle, Cistercians, Heresy and Crusade in Occitania, 1145–1229 (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2001), 172. For Jacques de Vitry’s sermons during the Albigensian Crusade, see Carolyn Muessig, “Les sermons de Jacques de Vitry sur les cathares,” in Cahiers de Fanjeaux 32: La predication en Pays d’Oc, XIIe-début XVe siècle (Toulouse: Privat, 1997), 69–83.

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140 Mundy, Society and Government, 204–209. 141 For the sentences by Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre (1245–46), see Célestin Douais, ed., Documents pour servir à l’histoire de l’inquisition dans le Languedoc (Paris: Société de l’histoire de France, 1900), 1–89, particularly the sentences 1 through 40. In 1279 a general amnesty issued by King Philip III pardoned 278 Toulousans formerly sentenced for various crimes, including heresy. For the general amnesty, see AA34: 3, also published in Mundy, Repression of Catharism, 77–79, see also 33–38. Of these, 157 were sentenced by the inquisition in 1237, and 57 in 1245–1246. For that, see Pegg, The Corruption of Angels, 39–44. For the fourteenthcentury sentences from Bernard Gui’s registers, see James B. Given, Inquisition and Medieval Society: Power, Discipline, and Resistance in Languedoc (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 69, 70. 142 HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 625–635; and Sibley and Sibley, trans., The History of the Albigensian Crusade, Appendix H, 321–329. 143 Mehmet Çayırdağ, “Kayseri’de Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri Binalarında Bulunan Taşçı İşaretleri,” Türk Etnografya Dergisi 17 (1981): 79–108. 144 In addition to Çayırdağ, “Kayseri’de Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri,” see also Mehmet Tezcan, “Eski Türklerde Damga,” (MA Thesis, Atatürk Üniversitesi, Erzurum, 1990), especially 264. On Turkic tribal emblems, see also Tuncer Gülensoy, Orhun’dan Anadolu’ya Türk Damgaları: Damgalar, İmler, Enler (Istanbul: Türk Dünyası Araştırmaları Vakfı, 1989). For a critical perspective on emblem studies, see Sergey A. Yatsenko, “Some Problems Related to Early Medieval Turkic Tamga-Sign Studies,” Re:Marks 1 (2013): 9–27. 145 Çayırdağ, “Kayseri’de Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri.” 146 Çayırdağ, “Kayseri’de Selçuklu ve Beylikler Devri,” 95–100. 147 For a similar view, see Richard P. McClary, “Craftsmen in Medieval Anatolia: Methods and Mobility,” in Patricia Blessing and Rachel Goshgarian, eds., Architecture and Landscape in Medieval Anatolia, 1100–1500 (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 27–58. See also Ömür Bakırer, “Anadolu Selçuklu Dönemi Mimarisinde Taşçı İşaretleri,” in Uluslararası Sanat Tarihi Sempozyumu, Prof. Dr. Gönül Öney’e Armağan, 10–13 Ekim (Izmir: Ege Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Yayınları, 2002), 59–69; and Scott Redford, “The Kible Wall of the Kargı Hanı,” Adalya 10 (2007): 351–358. 148 Vacit İmamoğlu, Gesi Evleri: Mimar Sinan’ın Yetiştiği Yöredeki Köyler ve Geleneksel Evler (Kayseri: Kayseri Büyükşehir Belediyesi, 2010), 11, 23–25; and for the spouts, 245–251. The book is available for download at: www.kayseri.bel.tr/e-kitaplarimiz (Accessed August 8, 2019). 149 It was not uncommon for the sultans and emirs of medieval Anatolia to employ Armenian architects and masons. For that see, Armen Ghazarian and Robert Ousterhout, “A Muqarnas Drawing from Thirteenth-Century Armenia and the Use of Architectural Drawings during the Middle Ages,” Muqarnas 18 (2001): 141–154. 150 Scott Redford, “Caravanserais and Commerce,” in Paul Magdalino and Nevra Necipoğlu, eds., Trade in Byzantium: Papers from the Third International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium (Istanbul: Koc University Press, 2016), 297– 311, specifically 302, 303; and Yinanç, “Sivas Abideleri ve Vakıfları,” 35.

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Websites www.inrap.fr/recherche?search_api_views_fulltext=Château+Narbonnais www.kayseri.bel.tr/e-kitaplarimiz

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A robust facade with a porch resting on heavy pillars greeted the visitors. Blind arches circulated the perimeter of the building, irregularly interrupted by lancet windows high above the street level. Although rounded corners, ornamental tiles, and spolia marbles with delicate designs softened the rigidity of the structure, its brick and stone fabric communicated an unmistakable sense of sturdiness. You could certainly trust this building. Yet, at the same time, there was something uncanny about it. The building seemed to be shape-shifting, almost in response to the expectations of the viewers, as if it had a desire to please whomever saw it and whomever walked into it. Occasionally, the blind arches became wider, and in a mimicry gesture they replaced the real arches of the facade. The tiles disappeared, the lancet windows got shorter and rounder, the corners became angular, stones turned into bricks, and crenulations sprouted out of thin air. As you walked in, the uncanny became uncannier. The building had an uninterrupted wide nave, but from one angle it appeared to be divided by pillars, and in that particular view, the altar whizzed from the east end to the north wall. When light shone through the oculus of its dome, barrel-vaulted rooms replaced the aisles, and the east-end altar turned into an elaborate mihrab. You could sense the presence of a second floor, or a gallery, but the staircases seemed to go to different places. Taking one, you found yourselves overlooking the wide nave, while the second staircase took you to narrow corridors lined with tiny rooms, where you could hear recitations in Arabic. The third one, a little sheepish in character, materialized only when it liked, and led to a spacious meeting hall decorated with coats of arms. If you paid attention, you could hear that the Arabic recitations were joined by heated discussions on commercial treaties, exchanges on the sinfulness of usury, Sufi chants, and mundane talks about the weather. This was indeed a strange building, and it is a pity that it never existed. The above paragraph is the spatially collapsed description of five buildings located in three cities. If one is to have faith in typological classifications, they belonged to three different typologies, responded to different functional requirements, but regardless of their conceived functions, they all served multiple purposes. Two of the buildings were meant to have multiple purposes from the beginning. Hence, in their cases space was designed to accommodate

148 Flux particular programs. For the rest, new programs were introduced into existing spaces, sometimes with physical modifications, sometimes by coupling old functions with new ones. Even from a purely formalist point of view, there were enough similarities between the buildings to blend them into a single imaginary structure. In all of them, brick was the predominant construction material, appearing in varying quantities, but always with a significant presence. They all employed variants of blind arches, in different sizes and to satisfy different structural and aesthetic concerns; and all of the buildings used repurposed materials, either for practical or symbolic reasons. Finally, although all five buildings could be considered newcomers to their respective cities, they had a remarkable ability to blend into the existing architectural topographies of their microecologies. Even the most monumental ones among them embodied architectonic and visual elements that broadcasted a sense of familiarity to the local populations. Given the formal resemblances between the five buildings, it is tempting to argue that some level of sameness is enough to bring them under a comparative umbrella. However, all of the shared characteristics that encourages one to morph and coalesce five typologically distinct buildings into a single structure make sense only when we view the buildings in light of the movements and rhythms that they facilitated, and in light of the events and experiences that filled them. The five buildings in question were either commissioned by sovereigns as such, or for people who assumed for themselves some level of sovereign position. The construction and maintenance expenses of the buildings, and the income of their permanent occupants and/or patrons were covered either by sequential tax and rent extractions with seasonal rhythms, or by revenues accumulated through long-distance commerce and banking, equally sequential and temporally rhythmic. In that respect, all of the five building were sustained by revenues generated in sequences, and by people who can be broadly defined as members of an elite, whether they held actual sovereign authority or not. Caravanserais and pilgrimage churches also relied on sequential tax and rent collections, which they matched with the similarly sequential long-distance movements that they managed, from the purely commercial career of caravans to the primarily devotional journey of pilgrims. On the other hand, in contrast to the horizontality of these two sequences, caravanserais and pilgrimage churches acted over their microecologies vertically, mirroring the vertical exercise of sovereign power. To put it very simply, the sovereign is the conqueror and owner of his territory, but he is always external to it. The territory exists as an extension of himself, as an extension of his sovereign power. Just as law emanates from him, but he is not bound by it, the territory emanates from him, but he is above it. The sovereign is not the member of a monarchy, he is the monarchy. Of course, it would be inaccurate to argue that caravanserais and pilgrimage churches had exactly the same relationship to their microecologies. However, there is one crucial and undeniable overlap. The horizontal movement of caravanserais and pilgrimage churches was almost exclusively for revenue extraction. To refer back to the first chapter, they were like spiders at the centre of their webs. They weaved the web,

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but they moved along it for the sole purpose of gathering and consuming what was caught. Then, they retreated. Just like spiders, the web was their extension, emanating from them, but they did not belong to the web. As exemplified with Saint-Sernin’s participation in the efforts to suppress the Toulousan commune, and with the continued appropriation of the commons for vakıf endowments well into the fourteenth century, caravanserais and pilgrimage churches were indifferent to the dynamics of their microecologies. But, like all living organisms, spiders can mutate. The five mutant spiders of our story, whose identities will soon be revealed, behaved very un-spiderly. They weaved webs, and they were certainly sovereigns of their webs, but they did not simply grab what they caught only to retreat back to their recluse of indifference. They were uncharacteristically social. It is true that certain species of spiders prefer a social existence where they share a common web, and even share their prey. This cooperative life, though, is only among spiders. The prey is still prey; captured, cocooned, and consumed. The mutants, on the other hand, acted as if they were part of their webs, which they treated as habitats. They moved around constantly, made sure that their preys were well and alive, and they fed the entrapped insects in such a way that the insects rarely realized that they were living at the mercy of their deadliest predator. The mutant spiders were also sovereigns, or at least maintained some kind of a sovereign attitude, but their exercise of power had a managerial quality that was not vertical, but horizontal. In that vein, while our five buildings still relied on revenue generated through sequential movements, rather than matching that with a vertical exercise of sovereign power, they matched it with the horizontal flux of a governmental power that was multi-directional, non-linear, non-sequential, and took its cues from the movements and the rhythms of the respective microecologies of the five buildings. The similarities between the five buildings, and their ability to blend into the architectural topographies of their microecologies were not consequential to, but symptomatic of this horizontal flux. Two of the buildings are located in Bursa (Prousa) in Western Anatolia, two of them are in Pera across Constantinople, which officially became a Genoese colony in 1303, and one is in Toulouse. The buildings in Bursa are the ones designed as multipurpose structures from scratch. The earlier one was commissioned in 1339– 1340 by the Ottoman ruler Orhan Beg, shortly after the conquest of Bursa (1326) (Figure 3.1).1 The patron of the second one was Orhan’s son and successor Murad I, and the building was largely completed by 1385 (Figure 3.2).2 Extensively built in the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, Ottoman multipurpose buildings had spaces to satisfy a variety of different needs: rooms for travelling and resident Sufi dervishes, accommodation for travellers, a casual gathering hall, and a prayer hall; all enveloped in a variant of a reverse T plan, where the casual gathering hall was flanked by the rooms for dervishes and travellers (the arms of the T), and the prayer hall extended from it. And outside, each such building had a soup-kitchen that served both travellers and the local poor.

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Figure 3.1 General view of the multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Figure 3.2 General view of the multipurpose building of Murad I, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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The buildings in Pera are the Palazzo Comunale (Figure 3.3), the seat of government of the Genoese colony, and the Church of San Domenico (Figure 3.4), which replaced a chapel dedicated to St. Paul, which itself was built over a sixthcentury Byzantine church. Both Genoese buildings postdate the fire of 1315 that had destroyed most of Pera.3 Finally, the building in Toulouse is another Dominican church, the Church of the Jacobins, which took its final form after the fourth building campaign between 1325 and 1335 (Figure 3.5).4 Unlike in the case of the

Figure 3.3 General view the Palazzo Comunale, after 1315, Istanbul, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 3.4 View of the Church of San Domenico (the Arab Mosque) with the belfry, after 1315, Istanbul, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 3.5 General view of the Church of the Jacobins, 1335, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

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154 Flux Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin, these five buildings are in close temporal proximity, and there were more discernible connections between them. There was a commercial and military alliance between Toulouse and Genoa going back to the twelfth century, and Narbonne, the most immediate gateway of Toulouse to the Mediterranean, renewed its commercial treaties with the Genoese in 1279.5 While it was through the Genoese merchants operating from Narbonne and Montpellier that Toulouse had access to the Mediterranean markets, as an ironic testament to the twists and turns of economic interests, Simon de Montfort’s military campaigns against Toulouse were partially financed by Genoese bankers.6 And later on, the arrival of the Dominican Guillaume Bernard de Gaillac from Toulouse was instrumental in the formation of Dominican presence in Pera.7 Meanwhile, the first commercial treaty between the Ottomans and the Genoese of Pera dated back to 1351, the reign of Orhan Beg, which was renewed in 1387, during Murad I’s sultanate.8 Filippo Demerode and his brother Giovanni acted as commercial and diplomatic agents of Orhan and Murad I, regularly travelling between Pera and Bursa.9 Around the same time, cloths from Toulouse and Narbonne made their ways into Anatolian markets through the port of Theologos (Ayasluk/Ephesus).10 Although it is hard to tell whether Toulousan cloth ever reached Bursa, it was certainly available in Constantinople and Pera.11 Finally, it is important to keep in mind that not long ago Pera and Bursa were parts of the Byzantine Empire, and they continued to exist in constant interaction with the Byzantine world. It must have been clear by now that despite the undeniable importance of the networks linking the three cities, either directly or indirectly, despite the equal importance of the chronological overlap between the five buildings, and despite their intriguing similarities, this book is more concerned with the connectivity of experiences and perceptions, and it is more about movements and events than forms and structures. The buildings discussed in this and the next chapter operated in flux, facilitating governmental-managerial movements across a horizontal plane in complex networks that included, but were not confined to sequences, whether for revenue extraction, or for directing journeys. In that respect, what follows is first a brief introduction to the five buildings. Structured around the imaginary but empirically very plausible journey of a group of Genoese merchants, this first section is also the first problematization of the logic of sameness that is often employed in architectural comparison. The second section is similarly an introduction, but this time to the operations of flux, both in its governmental-managerial capacity, and in its ability to link disparate buildings across the Mediterranean. Concluding with a question on mobility in the medieval Mediterranean, the second section connects to the third with a discussion over a Genoese portolan chart, continues with Ibn Battuta’s visit to Bursa, and finally reconnects with the imaginary Genoese merchants, and their potential encounters with two real residents of Bursa. The final section of the chapter, as it follows the merchants’ return to Pera is also the second problematization of the logic of sameness, and it proposes the connectivity of experiences as an alternative methodology of architectural

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comparison. Before we start, though, a heads-up: although the Church of the Jacobins in Toulouse and the Church of San Domenico in Pera will receive their short introductions in this chapter, they will feature more predominantly in the opening sections of the next chapter, for the basic reason that their articulation of flux very aptly introduces certain aspects of unrest, which is the theme of the next chapter.

Can bricks break dialectics? “The first building that a traveller encounters whilst entering the city, and one that is worth seeing, is a beautiful church to the right of the mountain. A Greek master had built it in the architectural style of the Greeks. Inside, there are marble columns, and a gallery above.”12 “More than its beauty, the mosque is worth attention for its convenience. Just like our hospitals in England, there are galleries and rooms on its first floor, where there are teachers and students.”13 These are the earliest descriptions of the multipurpose building of Murad I. The first by Stephan Gerlach, a German theologian who saw the building in 1576, and the second by John Covel, an English clergyman who was in Bursa a century later, in 1675. Two travellers, a century apart, and none could make heads or tails of what this building was. It is true that they saw the building centuries after its construction, but their perceptions are very telling of the affect that the building would have had on its fourteenth and fifteenth-century observers. Unfortunately, there are no descriptions of Orhan Beg’s building predating the nineteenth-century, but it is easy to imagine that even the viewers of this more modest multipurpose building were similarly muddled. Part of the confusion came from the material and formal qualities of the buildings, which made their straightforward association with the Ottomans highly difficult. They had only a few tell-tale signs that could be tied to one or another conception of Islamic architecture. For instance, Orhan’s building definitely, and Murad’s building most probably did not have a minaret, and both of them incorporated building techniques and motifs common to contemporary and near-contemporary Byzantine architecture.14 The building of Murad I took a step further with the addition of a gallery above its porch, and with the articulation of Lombard bands, which, at least for one nineteenth-century observer, made the building resemble not only a Byzantine church, but also a Venetian palace (Figure 3.6).15 The multipurpose building of Murad I did in fact have features reminiscent of a palazzo, but there was no need to go as far as Venice to find a comparable example. There was already a palazzo in Genoese Pera with an unexpected and indirect connection to Venice. The Genoese had begun to settle in Pera in 1267, but they received the official concession decree from the Byzantine emperor Andronikos II Palaiologos only in 1303, which was granted in order to secure the area with fortifications following the devastation caused by the Venetian attack of 1296.16 So, when fire hit the colony in 1315, the Genoese had a relatively short presence there. The old Palazzo Comunale was among the few public structures standing at the time, and it was one of the first to be rebuilt. The current state of the building is misleading in

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Figure 3.6 Detail of the Lombard bands, the multipurpose building of Murad I, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

every sense of the word. It has been partially destroyed and painted over twice, its arched windows have been reframed into rectangles, and its ground floor has been overlaid with plaster. However, combining Baron Romualdo Tecco’s engraving (1850s) with the details revealed under the decaying final coat of paint, it is possible to have a fairly good idea about how the building would have looked like in the fourteenth century.17 According to Romualdo Tecco’s engraving, the facade of the Palazzo Comunale facing today’s Bankalar Street had three wide and deep blind arches with banded voussoirs, topping the three portals. There are clear indications above the central and right doors that they were once larger and arched portals, so it is very likely that the fourteenth-century building was a more open structure than its nineteenth-century form. The Palazzo Comunale extends from the Bankalar Street up the hill toward the Galata Tower, until it terminates at the Kart Çınar Street. Almost halfway toward the Kart Çınar Street, the blind arches, smaller and narrower now, reappear once again at a level that would correspond to the first floor of the Bankalar Street facade. Yet, due to differences in elevation, they surmount the ground-floor windows and the single portal (at least, today) of the facade facing the Kart Çınar Street.

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Despite some irregularities, there seems to be a pattern in the distribution of the windows, at least on the Bankalar Street facade. The first-floor windows were double arched, the second triple, and the third single, but all uniformly marked with banded voussoirs. As it is still visible today, alternations between light and dark in the application of the bands were achieved by the use of one course of stone and three courses of brick, which was also the construction technique used in the rest of the building, and the most wide-spread building method in contemporary Byzantine architecture. There are no records about the masons of the Palazzo Comunale, but given that in 1392 a Greek glass master was commissioned for the windows of the palazzo, it is possible to presume the involvement of Greek masons in the construction of the building.18 Regardless though, the resulting building had a remarkable ability to exist in multiple places at the same time. On March 13, 1261, two Genoese ambassadors, Guglielmo Visconti and Guarnerio Giudice finalized the Treaty of Nymphaeum with the Nicaean emperor Michale VIII Palaiologos, which established a Byzantine (Nicaean) – Genoese alliance against the Latin Empire of Constantinople, and for the Genoese, particularly against Venice. Although the reconquest of Constantinople was not explicitly included among the clauses of the treaty, and was achieved without any significant Genoese military assistance, the treaty initiated an uneasy, but longlasting partnership and laid the grounds for the official establishment of the Pera colony.19 It also allowed the Genoese to appropriate the stones and sculptures of the Venetian edifices of Constantinople, including the Venetian palazzo, which they used in the ongoing construction of the Palazzo San Giorgio in Genoa.20 The Palazzo Comunale of Pera was in fact the colonial recreation of the Palazzo San Giorgio.21 Both buildings used banded voussoirs to crown their multipartite arched windows. Palazzo San Giorgio interspersed white and grey stones in its ablaq masonry, which made the otherwise all-brick structure rising above a stone portico resonate with the banded masonry of other buildings in Genoa, such as the Cathedral of San Lorenzo.22 Similarly, in the Palazzo Comunale, alternations between brick and stone, in both the banded voussoirs and in the overall construction technique allowed the building to inconspicuously blend into the urban topography of its microecology, where alternations between brick and stone were visible, among many other edifices, in the late thirteenth-century Palace of the Porphyrogenitus in Constantinople, and, to an extent, also in the Nymphaeum Palace where the treaty of 1261 was negotiated and concluded.23 Same techniques and architectonic elements were also among the characteristics of fourteenthcentury Ottoman buildings in Bursa. Imagine the arrival of a convoy of Genoese merchants in late fourteenth-century Bursa. They would have made port either in Mudanya or in Trilye on the Marmara Sea coast, just to the west of Bursa. After resting for a day or two, they would have passed by wheat fields, olive groves, and vineyards, and found themselves gazing upon the facade of the multipurpose building of Murad I, the first structure to greet visitors approaching Bursa from the West. Now, also imagine that these merchants were all newcomers, embarking on a journey to Bursa for the first time. The continuous arrival of new migrants to the eastern Genoese colonies (despite a

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decrease in the fourteenth century) would have made this a highly probable case.24 So, before the eyes of our newcomer stood a building with a five-bayed porch, and a gallery above with five bi-partite arches. The whole building, including the banded voussoirs crowning the arches alternated between three courses of brick and one course of stone with a disciplinary consistency. The only exceptions were the pillars of the porch and the gallery, but even there, a rhythm was maintained. While the porch pillars were all ashlar, the gallery pillars were all brick. On top of all of these, and literally on top of the building, Lombard bands circulated the roofline of the structure with significantly increased sizes on the lateral walls. Anticipating to be surprised by the unfamiliar, the merchants were bewildered by the inexplicable appearance of the familiar.25 Their bafflement only increased when they learned that this building, which looked so much like the palazzi of Liguria and Lombardy, housed an institution of hospitality. The merchants were welcome to go in and rest, and receive free food from the nearby kitchen. The Genoese knew well the caravanserais that lined up the trade routes from Anatolia to Transoxiana, but clearly, this was no caravanserai.26 All kinds of people walked in and out of the building. Some were poor, others not. Some were obviously travellers; others were locals chatting among themselves in different languages. Strangest of all, quite a few of them were only barley dressed, some in nothing but animal skins. As the merchants learned that these were “Turkish monks,” a group of kids peeking down from the gallery level giggled at their astonishment. Let’s suppose that the commercial ambition of the merchants overpowered their curiosity, and instead of going into the building, they continued their journey into the town centre of Bursa. As they came close to the commercial hub of the city, the quarter called the Lower Citadel, another familiar face and another surprise would have saluted them. Above a porticoed ground floor, two regularly fenestrated floors went around a rectangular courtyard, open on the western side (Figure 3.7). Just as the building the Genoese merchants had just seen, the masonry on this one, consistently switched between brick and stone, but instead of a Lombard band, a sawtooth cornice circulated the roofline.27 The merchants were told that, like the previous building, it was commissioned by the “magnificent lord Murad Beg, great emir and the lord of the emirs of Turchia.”28 It looked like a loggia, and known as the Kapan Hanı, or the measurement market, it was indeed a building concerned with regulating commerce, though not one that would have interested the Genoese. No silk textiles or spices passed through this one. For those, the merchants had to walk a little more. And walk they did, until they passed through the gates of the Bedesten, or the Cloth Market, built by Orhan Beg, Murad’s father (Figure 3.8).29 Standing inside a square courtyard, its portico and gallery irregularly marked by pointed and round arches, the Genoese found themselves surrounded by fellow merchants in various costumes, some locals, others from as far as Iran. Camels and mules scurried in and out of the courtyard, loaded with merchandise. The Genoese were just beginning to get a proper feel of being in a foreign land, but their stalkers revealed themselves behind sumptuous displays of colourful textiles: bricks and stones danced

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Figure 3.7 General view of the Kapan Hani, 14th century, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Figure 3.8 Courtyard of Orhan Beg’s Cloth Market (Bedesten), c. 1340, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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in triple metre across the fabric of the edifice and somersaulted over the arches in perfect harmony, accompanied by the equally metric parade of sawtooth cornices. Although the effect was achieved by different materials and building techniques, Bursa was a city as striped as Genoa was in the fourteenth century.30 In this very likely scenario, having concluded their negotiations and secured a considerable load of locally produced and imported silk cloth, the Genoese might have decided to explore the Lower Citadel quarter a little more, perhaps to diversify their purchases with spices. In 1432, Bertrandon de La Brocquiere arranged his passage back to Constantinople with the help of three Genoese merchants, who were preparing for their return to Pera, having just bought spices from one of the Lower Citadel markets.31 Our newcomers, however, were not yet acquainted with Bursa, and as they wandered around, if they had expected to find a monumental Friday mosque, they were destined for a disappointment.32 Instead of that one sure landmark of Turchia, surrounding them were more shops, one more market building, a bath, and yet another curious structure, the multipurpose building of Orhan. Being a single-story edifice with an externally visible dome, it was certainly less familiar than Murad’s building, but the incessant dance of bricks and stones and banded voussoirs continued here, too. Moreover, the same cacophonous presence of people of various costumes, languages and social status surrounded this building as well, save for the giggling kids. If the Genoese merchants had arrived through Trilye, they would have also realized that from its construction technique and voussoirs to the application of blind arcades on its lateral sides, Orhan’s building amiably gestured to the contemporary Byzantine Church of the Panagia Pantobasilissa in Trilye.33 Once the Genoese merchants returned to Pera, it is very likely that they would have spent some time at the Palazzo Comunale, but it is similarly likely that they would have also paid a visit to the nearby Church of San Domenico, though not necessarily to listen to yet another Dominican sermon against usury. It was not uncommon to use the church for secular and practical purposes, such as the negotiation and settlement of debts.34 Architecturally though, situated across the capital of Orthodox Christianity, the fifty-two-metre-long Church of San Domenico was an unmistakable monument of Roman Catholicism (Figure 3.9). Its basilican axiality with two aisles and a nave, and its towering belfry and lancet windows clearly distinguished it from the Byzantine churches on the other side of the Golden Horn. However, it was constructed with alternating courses of brick and stone, its frescoes were most definitely painted by Greek artists, and like all the building that the Genoese merchants had encountered on their journey to Bursa, it liberally incorporated spolia materials (Figure 3.10).35 This one episode in the story of our Genoese merchants would have likely concluded in Pera, or perhaps in Caffa or Chios. Yet, it is important to keep our imaginations alive, and maintain an open mind. What if, some of the merchants eventually returned to the Western Mediterranean, and being the adventurers they were, decided to travel north of Narbonne and Montpellier, their historical entry ports into the Languedoc markets, in order to pay a visit to Toulouse? Given the close connection between the Toulousan Dominicans and Pera, perhaps the

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Figure 3.9 Interior view toward the east, Church of San Domenico (the Arab Mosque), after 1315, Istanbul Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Figure 3.10 Spolia marble and brick- and stonework under the belfry, Church of San Domenico (the Arab Mosque), after 1315, Istanbul Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

162 Flux merchants found their way to the Church of the Jacobins. The Dominican church of Toulouse looked nothing like the church in Pera, or any of the buildings the Genoese had encountered during their travels in the East. The Church of the Jacobins was constructed completely of red brick, with colossal lancet windows rising between thick buttresses fully engaged into its fabric. Yet, given the wide-spread use of red brick as the primary construction material in a variety of buildings in Liguria and Lombardy, what the Genoese merchants saw was not really a surprising building, at least from the outside (more on that in the next chapter). Moreover, despite the stark differences between the Church of the Jacobins and the architectural topographies of Pera and Bursa, the Dominican church of Toulouse existed in its microecology in the same way that Genoese and Ottoman buildings existed in their microecologies. Its red bricks blended into the urban landscape of Toulouse, and along with its building technique and formal details, they resonated with other churches in the Languedoc, most notably with the Cathedral of Albi (again, more on these in the next chapter). Are we then face to face with a dialectical chain of bricks and stones? The title of this section, as the readers might have noticed, is a play on the 1973 Situationist film Can Dialectics Break Bricks: René Viénet and his collaborators’ détournement of Tu Guangqi’s Hong Kong-produced film Crush, in which martial arts liberate Korea from Japanese colonialism. Dubbed with revolutionary dialogues with references to Marx, Bakunin, and Gramsci (among many others), the détourné version of the film is a critique of both the right-wing nationalist content of the original, and of revolutionary politics in post-1968 France. As Tessa Dwyer notices, scholars of Situationism found the film too comical to be politically valuable, while film studies and translation studies scholars regarded it to be too political to be any fun at all.36 However, the film operates precisely in that in-between of parodic-serious that Guy Debord and Gil J. Wolman defined as the characteristic of détournement. Furthermore, although Debord and Wolman attributed a dialectical principle to détournement, as exemplified in the linear propagation of its light by negating the negation, when put to practice, détournement broke all potential conceptualizations of a dialectical chain. When “elements, no matter where they are taken from” and “no matter how far apart their original contexts may be,” are brought together, they form a new assemblage which changes the nature of the previous one, not necessarily by the addition of new elements, but always by the subtraction of the elements that gave meaning to the previous assemblage, and such subtraction results more from alterations than from physical removal.37 Hence, Can Dialectics Break Bricks is a new assemblage achieved by the alteration of the original dialogues. It critiques the previous assemblage, but without positioning itself in a dialectical opposition to it. This, I argue, is exactly how the bricks (and stones) of the buildings I have briefly described above broke dialectics. The Genoese buildings of Pera, the Ottoman buildings of Bursa, and the Dominican church of Toulouse did not exist in a dialectical chain of commensurate architectonic elements. The Church of the Jacobins already breaks such a formalist chain with its all-brick envelope and strikingly distinct style, but the

Flux 163 five buildings were also not chained through the architectural-formal relationships they established with their individual microecologies, regardless of how crucial those relationships were. In fact, they were not chained at all. They existed as assemblages in fragments, or as fragmented assemblages. Obviously, they were not détournements, but each building took certain motifs, techniques and architectonic elements, altered them and mixed them with new ones. They were not the recreations of the old assemblages. They were new and distinct, but just as a Situationist détournement, they were also familiar. More importantly, though, fragmented though they may have been, they were nonetheless connected. What maintained connectivity among the five buildings were the multidirectional and continuously changing movements and subtle rhythms of flux. They all existed in and operated through flux, and it was through flux that the architectural-formal qualities of the buildings became meaningful, both in their own microecologies and beyond; for the simple reason that flux was itself an assemblage of multiple managerial and governmental techniques and strategies. It was neither only the application of sovereign authority nor only the exercise of governmental power, but an in-between assemblage.

The emperor’s new clothes In Hans Christian Andersen’s well-known story, something seems to be truly rotten in the state of Denmark. First published in 1837, approximately a decade before the transition from absolute to constitutional monarchy (1849), The Emperor’s New Clothes is a moralizing critique of royal vanity and the calculated poltroonery of the court, in which the truth that the emperor has no clothes can only be uttered by a child. Expectedly, all interpreters of the story, from Freud to Derrida, have focused on the location, nature, and function of truth.38 However, beyond its apparent psychoanalytical, philosophical, and, of course, literary relevance, the story is also revealing on another level. The emperor is so fond of new clothes that he spends more time in his dressing chamber than in council. He neglects all matters of state, he is publicly present only to show off his newest attire, but “in the great city where he lives, life is always gay.” If there is something rotten in the state of Denmark, it has no effect on the public. There is no oppression, no injustice, and no poverty. The emperor is completely self-absorbed, and the court willingly feeds his vainglory. Yet, despite everything, the governmental machinery continues to function, and to such an extent that even the imperceptible product of the weavers’ labour (the swindlers in the story) is appreciated for its subjective value, for what it is: a social product that works in and is necessary for the maintenance of the existing social relations.39 In the state of Denmark, despite the presence of a rotten emperor and a rotten court, flux continues its multidirectional movement with subtle rhythms, and manages the relationships among people, and between people and all things related to their lives. In the state of Denmark, there is a sovereign, and a defunct one at that, but there is also governmentality, the imperceptible threads that surround the sovereign and allow him to exist even when his existence is no longer necessary.

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The term governmentality was first coined by Michel Foucault in his Collège de France lectures (1977–78), which were first published in 2004, and then translated into English in 2007.40 In his lectures, Foucault traces the genealogy of governmentality to the political treatises that emerged in the late sixteenth century as responses to Machiavelli’s The Prince, where oikonomia was plucked out of its roots in classical Greek philosophy as the management of the household, and adapted as a model for the government of the state. In that respect, the “art of government” was defined as governing the state as meticulously as one governed the family. There are four points in Foucault’s lectures that directly relate to the concerns of this chapter. First, governmentality deals with the management of relationships among people and between people and things, where things include wealth, means of substance, limits and qualities of the territory, climate, famines, customs, epidemics, etc. Second, because its concern is the management of relationships, even in most territorial states, the target of governmentality is not the territory as such, but its qualities (as things) and the relationships that take place on and through the territory. Third, in order to manage a multiplicity of relationships, governmentality needs to be a multiplicity itself; an assemblage of “institutions, procedures, analyses and reflections, calculations, and tactics.” Finally, the emergence of governmentality is not the consequence of a linear progress from one regime to the other, and does not entail the disappearance of neither the figure of a sovereign, nor of sovereignty.41 The concept of oikonomia might have been reinvented in early modern Europe, but it certainly had not disappeared after Greek antiquity, and in all its subsequent appearances, even in the most seemingly conceptual instances, it denoted a practice (or set of practices) rather than an epistemic knowledge. In The Kingdom and the Glory, Giorgio Agamben follows precisely this story, particularly with regard to how oikonomia has related to the coexistence of and the separation between sovereignty and government. Two of the paradigmatic cases that Agamben discusses are of particular importance. In the first, he comments on Innocent IV’s decretal Grandi of 1245, with which the Pope appointed Afonso of Boulogne as the administrator of the Kingdom of Portugal, while his brother, King Sancho II remained as the sovereign, and the people still owed fealty to him. Although the basis of the Grandi was the doctrine of papal supremacy over the empire, unlike the exemplary case of the doctrine in which Pope Zachary replaced the Merovingian king Childeric III with another sovereign (Pepin the Short), Innocent IV separated the exercise of sovereignty (invested in Afonso of Boulogne) from regality (still with Sancho II). In other words, what the Pope demonstrated was the separability of territorial sovereignty from governmental power, which also seems to be the situation in Andersen’s imaginary kingdom, where an imperceptible governmental machinery keeps running in spite of the absolute indifference of the sovereign.42 Agamben’s second paradigmatic case is Jābir ibn Hayyān’s ninth-century commentary on Alexander of Aphrodisias, a second-century commentator of Aristotle. In order to explain how divine care works, Jābir ibn Hayyān refers to a story that Alexander of Aphrodisias narrates, in which the locus is once again a

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household. The master of the household has no intention to care for the mice, the lizards, the cockroaches, and the ants that co-inhabit the house. However, while providing subsistence for his family, he unintentionally also provides for the animals and the insects. This, Agamben argues, corresponds to the collateral nature of governmentality. Despite all calculations, despite all the planning, there will always be collaterals, whether good or bad.43 In other words, what Agamben’s discussion reveals is that governmentality is not the application of pure calculation. Instead, we need to read it as an assemblage of practices that includes planning, strategies, and tactics, but is never simply the effect or the consequence of a programmatic-epistemic knowledge. Hence, there is no science of government, but an art of government. It is a practice that is equally defined by accidents and calculated outcomes. Now, in order to bring this discussion closer to home, first geographically, then historically, let’s revisit Jābir ibn Hayyān’s commentary. In the original text, the term that Jābir ibn Hayyān uses, as I did in the above paragraph, is care, or ‫ﻋﻨﺎﻳﺔ‬. In order to realign Jābir ibn Hayyān’s commentary with Christian theology, Mauro Zonta has translated care as providence, which has then carried on to Agamben’s discussion.44 Rather than a semantic question of whether there is a loss/transformation of meaning (and there is not), the replacement of care with providence raises a historical question, because there is an account, almost contemporary with Jābir ibn Hayyān’s commentary, where care is used alongside the direct etymological root of government, κυβέρνηση. The tenth Homily of Photius I (c. 810–893), the Ecumenical Patriarch of Constantinople, includes an ekphrasis of the Pantokrator mosaic at the Church of the Virgin of the Pharos inside the imperial palace complex. In Photius’ clever use of language, what seems to be the beginning of a visual description of the visible quickly reveals itself as the praise of the ever-present invisible. What Photius lists as the “traits of Christ” are the “orderly arrangement and government” of the earth, and the “Creator’s care” for humanity.45 Photius does not use oikonomia, and his ekphrasis is best regarded as a discursive or doctrinal exercise on the correlation between divine authority and imperial authority.46 Yet, that correlation is described neither in purely pantokratic terms, nor in purely autocratic terms. The traits of Christ to be imitated by the basileus are all governmental, to such precision that “orderly arrangement” is exactly how Xenophon defines oikonomia in fifth-century BCE.47 Centuries later, when the Byzantine Empire was far less hopeful about the future, one emperor completely reshaped the role and function of the autocratic basileus with a conscious and openly pronounced return to oikonomia; and he did it in such a way that modern theories of governmentality and Photius’ ekphrais ended up being strangely synchronized. There is a passage in the Chronicle of George Sphrantzes (c. 1401–1478), which appears in two important books on the late Byzantine Empire: Nevra Necipoğlu’s Byzantium Between the Ottomans and the Latins and Tonia Kiousopoulou’s Emperor or Manager. The passage narrates a meeting between emperor Manuel II Palaiologos (r. 1391–1425) and his son and co-emperor John VIII, which took place during the last years of Manuel’s life and reign. The circumstances

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at the time must have been highly depressing for the Byzantines. In 1396, in the Battle of Nicopolis, the last crusader army of the middle ages, summoned by King Sigismund of Hungary, was decimated by the Ottomans under Bayezid I (r. 1389–1402). Although in 1402, the same Bayezid had fallen captive to Timur following the second Mongol invasion of Anatolia (more on that in the next chapter), in 1422, the Ottomans were back on their feet and at the gates of Constantinople, laying their first full-scale siege to the city. The dialogue between Manuel II and his son took place in the context of this growing Ottoman threat on the one hand, and the negotiations with the Papacy to unite the two Churches on the other, which John VIII saw as the only viable plan to stop the Ottomans. Manuel II, however, proposed a different solution: continuing the negotiations with the Papacy to keep the Ottomans under check, but without ever reaching a resolution; while at the same time maintaining peaceful relationships with the Ottomans, at least on the surface. When John VIII left the room in silent but apparent disapproval of his father’s proposal, the latter turned to Sphrantzes: “My son the emperor is fitted to be an emperor but not at the present moment. For he has great vision and plans but ones that were needed in the good old days of our ancestors. Today, as our affairs consume our attention, the empire needs not an emperor (basileus) but an administrator (oikonomos).”48 Nevra Necipoglu and Tonia Kiousopoulou have explained the switch from emperor/basileus to administrator/oikonomos as consequential to the shrinking size of the Byzantine Empire, and the limited authority of the emperor.49 There is no doubt that size and limitations mattered and pushed Manuel II to conceive of a new imperial model, but there is a fundamental qualitative difference between John VIII’s basileus attitude of conquest and extermination, and Manuel II’s oikonomos attitude to strategize and to manage. In that respect, it is important to revaluate what Manuel II was proposing independent of the circumstances that made its application possible. First of all, his model is significantly different from how oikonomia was understood in the antiquity. Implicitly in Xenophon, explicitly in Aristotle, oikonomia was always articulated in relation to the household and as categorically separate from the administration of the polis. Only Plato conflated the oikos and the polis, and his position was swiftly criticized by Aristotle.50 In contrast, Manuel II defines oikonomia as a set of practices for the government of the whole empire, which, by the 1420s, was admittedly no larger than a polis. Secondly, unlike the predominantly theological usage of oikonomia from the late antiquity into the middle ages, Manuel II’s understanding is purely secular, in the sense that his government concerns only the administration and management of temporal relations. He takes onto himself all the traits that Photius I had attributed to Christ, but in ways that Photius could not have imagined. Without explicitly pronouncing supremacy over the Church, he suddenly has Patriarch Antony IV (r. 1391–1397) announcing that for him more powerfully than ever.51 Thirdly, unlike Innocent IV, he does all of these without separating sovereignty from the exercise of governmental power. Just as Photius I’s Pantokrator, and in accordance with how Patriarch Antony IV (r. 1391–1397) described the role of the emperor, Manuel II is above everyone

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else. Yet, his power does not act vertically. It moves horizontally, through his ability to manage relations, strategies, negotiations, and compromises, in which, as Kiousopoulou demonstrates, he was remarkably successful.52 In order to get out of this detour from détournement, and to expand the practice of governmentality/oikonomia beyond the confines of early fourteenth-century Constantinople, let’s revisit The Corrupting Sea, and look at how Horden and Purcell define political control in the Mediterranean. They argue that political domination over the Mediterranean always relied on controlling the network of communications. If the Mediterranean is to be perceived as a territory, then in order to control it, you had to treat it not as a territory, but as an aggregate of lines of communication. It was the medium rather than its ground that needed to be managed, which made the political map of the Mediterranean “a map of the horizon of communications.”53 Therefore, the shipping lanes, the caravan routes, and the entangled threads that oscillated with them mattered more than ports, islands and inland towns. Quentin Van Doosselaere and Monique O’Connell have shown that this was precisely how Genoese and Venetian empires operated, while Alma Poloni has revealed that certain practices associated with a Foucauldian understanding of governmentality were already present in medieval Italian communes.54 In other words, whether its practitioner was a sovereign acting as an administrator, or a body of imperceptible threads surrounding the body of the sovereign, or a sovereignty without a sovereign, late-medieval governmentality was a Mediterranean-wide assemblage of practices. It moved in flux, horizontally and in multiple directions, with changing rhythms at every new turn. The Ottoman Emirate of the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries was no exception to this, neither was the Dominican Order. The Ottomans did not leave behind any late medieval treatises or chronicles that explicated the governmental aspect of their regime, but governmentality was an assemblage of practices and not a programmatic-epistemic knowledge. And the Ottomans did produce documents that recorded precisely such practices. The detailed tax and land registers (mufassal tahrir), which they started to keep in the late fourteenth century, demonstrate their treatment of the territory as an aggregate of qualities and relations, rather than as territory per se.55 Similarly, if governmentality has been continuously assembled from elements far apart, then it also gathered the practices of actors who were neither sovereigns, nor were necessarily associated with a polity, such as the Dominicans; particularly their ability to manage relationships, and establish networks and alliances even in the most hostile settings, as I will discuss in the next chapter. Most importantly though, governmentality also moved in and through architecture, through spatial practices, which, not consequentially, but symptomatically and paradigmatically produced assemblages of motifs, forms, techniques, and functions. Buildings existed as fragmented assemblages, but they were nonetheless imperceptibly connected, because just as governmentality, they operated in flux. They were not static edifices, and through flux they also formed a Mediterranean-wide assemblage. Yet, if architecture comes to life as much in movements as in events and experiences, who could have experienced this Mediterranean-wide assemblage

168 Flux in the fourteenth century, given that, even with today’s budget flights and charter ferries, it is a significantly expensive enterprise?

A portolan chart, a traveller, and two fragments Among the maps collection of the Library of Congress in Washington DC there is a fourteenth-century portolan chart, most probably produced in Genoa between 1340 and 1360 (Figure 3.11).56 When considered simply as a map, it is no more interesting than any other map from the late medieval Mediterranean, except the fact that, like the remaining approximately thirty portolan charts from the fourteenth century, it is multi-directional.57 For instance, unlike the well-known Tabula Rogeriana of Al-Idrisi (1154), which to the modern eye appears to be upside down, there was no correct way to hold a portolan chart. In other words, there was no stable reference point where the viewers could position themselves. Observing closely the convergences and intersections of the windrose lines, one can easily see that they did not correspond to beginning points of naval voyages, or to any particularly significant place. Some of the lines crossed over in unnamed inland locations, others in the middle of the sea. In fact, more than navigational aids, the lines were most probably the remnants of the method used in the production of the charts.58 Port cities and islands were naturally identified, and vigias were included to clarify the rocks and shoals dangerous for shipping.59 Although such details suggest the practical use of portolan maps in navigation, none of the surviving fourteenth-century charts bear any signs of being used aboard a ship, and we know that navigation in the Mediterranean depended on sight and visibility, rather than on navigational charts.60 Hence, to this date, there seems to be no consensus among historians of cartography as to how they were used. The opinions range from their indispensability for navigation to arguments in favour of their production as cultural artefacts representing a mercantile vision of the world.61 The question of use is certainly important for history of cartography. However, when viewed from an art historical perspective, as visual expressions, portolan charts reveal other things. First of all, whether put to practical use on ships, or kept in libraries for reference purposes, or circulated as cultural artefacts, they most definitely reflected a particular vision of the world. And that vision was not static. It was not centred and stabilized in a particular location. The only reference point of a portolan chart was movement itself; a multidirectional movement in an open world of almost infinite possibilities. The lines may or may not have had a technical function, but visually they overlapped with such a world view, envisaging a life on the lines, on the horizon of communications, rather than on the points. In other words, quite contrary to being territorial, portolan charts defied territoriality and emphasized the medium that maintained Mediterranean connectivity. Whether to assist sailors, or for other purposes, they travelled the Mediterranean while simultaneously depicting a world in flux on multidirectional trajectories of movement. Furthermore, if nothing else, portolan charts were assemblages of varied components, ranging from language and place names to visual devices

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Source: Library of Congress Geography and Map Division, Washington D.C., USA.

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Figure 3.11 Portolan chart of the Mediterranean Sea, c. 1340–1360

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and technical knowledge.62 Therefore, in their conceptualization of movement, in their assembled forms, the portolan charts reveal a sense of correspondence between the governmental and artistic practices of the fourteenth century. Such correspondences were even more apparent in architecture. It is imperative to think about the five buildings of this chapter not simply as cross-cultural or hybrid assemblages in their own microecologies, but also as parts of a Mediterranean-wide assemblage. Locally, the five buildings were assemblages in a non-dialectical resonance with their individual urban topographies. Yet, they were not static edifices. They were in perpetual flux, managing a multitude of relations. Simultaneously, the multidirectional movements and everchanging rhythms of flux on the microecological level fluctuated across the Mediterranean, and assembled disparate buildings into what I have previously termed architectures of governmentality.63 Despite their typological distinctions and their existence in fragmented microecologies, these buildings were imperceptibly linked, although not necessarily because of the formal similarities between them. The particular vision of the world that the fourteenth-century portolan charts paradigmatically reflected, a world that was experienced always on the move, always on the lines, was a privilege only a limited number of people had in the late medieval Mediterranean. Long-distance merchants and distinguished travellers apart, for most people living around the Mediterranean experiences of architecture were significantly localized. Therefore, the portolan charts should not be seen as examples of how everyone around the Mediterranean truly experienced the world. Instead, they should be regarded as paradigms for how the connectivity of highly localized experiences of architecture can be reconsidered, both conceptually and empirically, in relation to the movements and rhythms of flux. Now, in order to see that, let’s reconnect with Ibn Battuta, whom we had left in the first chapter at the southern-Anatolian port of Alanya, and let’s follow his journey from there to Bursa. Oya Pancaroğlu has discussed in detail Ibn Battuta’s travels in Anatolia, particularly his encounters with the akhīs, the places where he found accommodation, and the kinds of hospitality that he received.64 One of the most important points that Pancaroğlu raises is the increasing prominence of the akhīs and their urban networks. Ibn Battuta’s hosts are almost always akhīs, and it is mostly through them that he meets the rulers of Anatolian cities. Keeping that broader context in mind, what I want to focus on are sections of Ibn Battuta’s account that more directly relate to experiences of urban space and architecture. To recall from the first chapter, the Genoese ship had left Ibn Battuta in Alanya in the late spring of 1333. After spending some time in Alanya, Ibn Battuta travelled west to another port city, Antalya, which, at the time, was ruled by a Turkmen dynasty. Ibn Battuta generously praises Antalya as one of the “most handsome cities to be seen anywhere,” but also reveals that it was one of the most segregated cities imaginable. The Christian merchants, the local Greek Christians, the Jews, the Muslims, and the ruling elite lived in separate walled enclosures, and the Christian merchants were locked into their quarter at night and during the Friday prayer.65 There is no doubt that Antalya was a cosmopolitan city, but there are also

Flux 171 no clues in Ibn Battuta’s memoirs to suggest a life of shared experiences between various ethnic and religious groups on the one hand, and between different social classes on the other. To the contrary, he paints the picture of a town with structurally and architecturally separated lives. Unfortunately, Ibn Battuta does not pay equal attention to architecture and urban life in every town he visits. It is not possible to gather much more from his account until he reaches Lādhiq, which is the contemporary city of Denizli in Western Anatolia and should not be confused with the rebellious village of Lâdik in Central Anatolia. In addition to learning that the town had seven Friday mosques, several baths, and two akhī hospices, we understand that life was far less segregated than in Antalya. The famous cotton textiles of Lādhiq with golden embroidery were produced by Greek women, who sold their products in the main bazaar of the town alongside Muslim artisans and merchants. Of course, it is impossible to talk about an actual equality between Muslim and Christian subjects. The latter paid the additional jizya tax, which was not just an additional economic burden, but also a marker of social separation. Moreover, in Lādhiq, it was a common practice to purchase Greek women slaves and force them into prostitution. Along with this dark side of coexistence, there were some displays of benevolence as well. At least during the festivities to celebrate the end of the Ramadan, all akhī confraternities and the ruling elite came together and held a feast that was open to all social classes, which should be interpreted as all Muslims.66 In Konya, on the other hand, the former capital of the Seljuq Sultanate of Rum, segregation operated on a profession basis, and in the bazaar each craft had its own section. Meanwhile, a hospice attached to the mausoleum of Jalāl ad-Dīn Rūmī offered food to all travellers, though there is nothing to indicate whether such generosity extended to the poor of the town as well.67 Interestingly, Kayseri had become one of the strongholds of the akhīs. Although the town housed Ilkhanid troops and was the residence of an Ilkhanid princess, like Ankara in the later fourteenth century, it was governed by an assembly of akhīs.68 Naturally, Ibn Battuta’s travels in Anatolia included other towns, where his narrative focuses more on the deeds and qualities of the rulers and prominent religious scholars he met, and less on architecture and urban life. Still, it is possible to see that certain architectural features were common to almost all of the cities he visited: Friday mosque(s), bath(s), akhī hospice(s), and bazaar(s). However, at least based on the more detailed accounts above, it is also possible to observe that urban space in its totality, and buildings in their individuality were experienced differently in each town. In other words, each town was governed and administered differently, leading to different experiences. Even within the relatively limited geography that Ibn Battuta covers, when the point of reference is experience rather than the persistent appearance of certain structures, the already outdated category of the “Islamic city” completely shatters. Connectedly, when Ibn Battuta arrived in Bursa in the early autumn of 1333, only seven years after the Ottoman conquest, he did not encounter yet another example from a homogenous set, but a distinct city.

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Travelling from Balıkesir, Ibn Battuta entered Bursa from the west (like our imaginary Genoese merchants), and, the first building he saw – the multipurpose building of Murad I not yet being in the horizon – was the hot-spring bath in the outskirts of the town, in today’s Çekirge neighbourhood. Although Ibn Battuta describes this building as of Ottoman construction with separate sections for women and men, it must have been the old Byzantine bath, still in use in the early fourteenth century. The first Ottoman bath in this area was built in 1365 by Orhan Beg, and in 1394, Murad I commissioned a second one, which was built over the old Byzantine bath, and stood right next to his multipurpose building. Ibn Battuta also notes that in the vicinity of the hot-spring bath, there was a hospice which offered free lodgings and food to travellers for a period of three days.69 I will return to this building shortly, but for now let’s continue with Ibn Battuta’s observations. If nothing else, Ibn Battuta was certainly a man of comfort and habit. As we have seen in his travels from Mecca to Alanya, contingency often pushed him to make concessions, but whenever he could, he chose to travel in the most comfortable way possible, and wherever he could, he was keen on receiving the best hospitality available. So, in Bursa, instead of staying at the aforementioned suburban hospice next to the hot-spring bath, Ibn Battuta stayed at the hospice of Akhī Şemseddin, where, during the day of the ‘Ashūrā, he joined the official elite and the prominent citizens of Bursa in a sumptuous feast. During the feast, he listened to the homilies of an ascetic Sufi preacher called Majd al-Din al-Qunawi: a man who had no possessions, owned just enough clothing to barely cover himself, accepted no charity, and not having a home, slept in the town cemetery.70 An unfortunate incident that occurred during Majd al-Din’s homilies leads Ibn Battuta to narrate one of his famous anecdotes, which, together with the details of the ‘Ashūrā feast, reveals significant information on life in fourteenth-century Bursa. Majd al-Din al Qunawi delivered his homilies toward the end of the night, just before the dawn prayer, which would be roughly around 8:30 pm. When he was finished, a poor man nicknamed “the shrieker” gave a loud cry and fainted. Not being able to reach a consensus whether the man was alive or dead, the guests let him be. But, in the morning they found out that the poor man had actually passed away. Then, Ibn Battuta learned that “the shrieker” was an ascetic himself, who spent most of his time in a cave, performing unspecified devotional exercises. Although he was not a disciple of Majd al-Din, “the shrieker” attended all his homilies, and at the end of the sermons, he always shrieked, hence the nickname. His arms and legs being self-mutilated, “the shrieker” was not able to work, and his mother looked after him with what she earned from spinning. When she died, “the shrieker” lived on wild plants.71 What have we learned then from Ibn Battuta’s account? The most obvious point is that ascetic Sufism, including its more extremely heterodox expressions with self-mutilation practices, was widely popular in Bursa, appealing to the elite and the wealthy, as well as to the poor.72 Similarly, important celebrations, such as the ‘Ashūrā day feasts, were attended not just by the upper echelons of the society, but also by poor people like “the shrieker.” Secondly, given that “the shrieker’s”

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mother was able to look after herself and her son by spinning, we can infer that there was enough demand for yarn. In other words, the textile industry of Bursa, for which it would soon become famous, was already burgeoning. Implicitly confirming this is Ibn Battuta’s description of Bursa as “a great and important city with fine bazaars and wide streets.”73 Now, let’s spice this information with additional clues. Ibn Battuta accurately locates the tomb of Osman Beg (the founder of the Ottoman dynasty and Orhan’s father) in the Byzantine Monastery of Prodromos. Although he seems to be confident that the church of the monastery was converted to a mosque, contrary to Ottoman practices in other towns, there is no archaeological evidence to suggest that this or any other church/cathedral in Bursa was ever converted to a mosque.74 Leaving aside the speculation of whether such a conversion ever happened, Ibn Battuta’s narrative sheds light on another issue. In order to see the Monastery of Prodromos and the tomb of Osman, he had to go into the Upper Citadel, which corresponded to Byzantine Prousa. Given the date of his arrival in Bursa, Ottoman construction projects in the Lower Citadel had not yet begun, and most of the population lived in the old town. Interestingly though, other than the supposedly converted monastic church, Ibn Battuta does not mention a single mosque. Indeed, the first Ottoman mosque in the Upper Citadel was built for Orhan’s elder brother Alaaddin Beg either in 1332–1333, more or less overlapping with Ibn Battuta’s presence in Bursa, or around 1335, two years after Ibn Battuta’s visit.75 If the mosque was already standing when Ibn Battuta arrived in Bursa, one reason why he does not mention it might be because of the inconspicuous presence of the mosque. With its unpretentious size enveloped in alternating brick and stone masonry and decorated with spolia capitals, Alaaddin Beg’s mosque, like later Ottoman buildings of fourteenth-century Bursa, easily blended into the architectural topography of the town. It would not have been too difficult to miss this building as one strolled around the Upper Citadel. However, what is more interesting, as I already hinted at in the imaginary journey of the Genoese merchants, is the fact that the situation would not have been too different had Ibn Battuta visited Bursa later in the fourteenth century. Ottoman building campaigns in fourteenth-century Bursa were more urban expansion projects than reconstructions. Although new buildings were added to the Upper Citadel, such as the Mosque of Alaaddin Beg and the Citadel Mosque of Orhan (1337),76 the focus was on the urbanization of the Lower Citadel on an eastwest axis, which began with a complex (külliye) of four or five buildings commissioned by Orhan Beg in 1339–1340. Unlike later Ottoman complexes where the hub is a Friday Mosque, this focal point of Orhan’s complex was a multipurpose building (which the Genoese merchants briefly saw), and it additionally included a cloth market (where the merchants purchased silk textiles), a bath (hamam), a soup-kitchen, and possibly also a school (medrese).77 As our imaginary Genoese merchants experienced first-hand, until the construction of the hypostyle Ulu Cami/the Great Mosque of Bursa between 1396–1399, the Lower Citadel did not have a conspicuous Friday Mosque (Figure 3.12). Even after the appearance of this ashlar masonry monument with twenty domes, the urban topography of the

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Figure 3.12 Ulu Cami/the Great Mosque of Bursa, 1396–1399, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

lower citadel was still dominated by Orhan’s complex, additional shops and markets, and public squares in between them. In other words, for the first decades of their rule in Bursa, Ottomans concentrated their building efforts on public edifices that would have served all residents of the town, rather than on mosques which had an exclusively Muslim audience. Of all such public edifices, multipurpose buildings are perhaps the most peculiarly Ottoman ones. In the two cases that concern us here, the multipurpose buildings of Orhan and Murad I, the foundational documents of the institutions, the vakfiyes, describe the two buildings in almost the same terms as “the zaviye (lodge/convent), known among the people (or popularly known) as the imaret.”78 Although imaret came to designate a hospice/soup-kitchen, which was among the services offered at multipurpose buildings, its etymological root imar (‫ )ﺍﻋﻤﺎﺭ‬simultaneously meant to construct/build, and to make prosperous. As such, imaret also referred to another function of multipurpose buildings that was not inscribed into their architectural layouts, and was not included among their services. Without a doubt, one reason behind the wide-spread construction of multipurpose buildings in the fourteenth and the early fifteenth centuries was the key role that they played in urban expansion, for which Bursa was no exception.79 However, their dominant presence in the urban topography of Bursa strongly suggests that neither the hospitality and charity services that the multipurpose buildings

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provided, nor their participation in urban growth were ends in themselves. They seem to have been the components of a larger assemblage. The hospice that Ibn Battuta locates next to the hot-spring bath does not appear in other accounts of Bursa, nor in Ottoman documents and the archaeological records of the city. However, the provisioning of free food and lodgings for three days overlaps so precisely with the hospitality services offered in Ottoman multipurpose buildings that it is very possible that what Ibn Battuta encountered in the western suburbs of Bursa was one of the auxiliary buildings of the Byzantine bath converted to a hospice. This suggests that the first Ottoman conversion in Bursa was not of a church to a mosque, but of one public building to another. In 1397, Bursa received another visitor, though this time not a free traveller. Johann Schiltberger was a seventeen-year-old Bavarian soldier who had fallen prisoner to the Ottomans in the Battle of Nicopolis. Subsequently, he was forcefully enrolled in the Janissary Corps.80 When he came to Bursa, Schiltberger saw eight institutions where poor people were welcomed regardless of whether they were Christians, Muslims, or Jews.81 In 1432, Bertrandon de la Broquière encountered three or four such buildings where all people received bread, meat, and wine, as long as they took them in the name of God.82 Regardless of the exact number of institutions of hospitality in fourteenth and early fifteenth-century Bursa, what really matters is the persistent references in three of the earliest travel narratives on Ottoman Bursa to institutions which can be none other than multipurpose buildings. If, at the end of the day, a travelogue is an account of curiosities, what was curious about Bursa was the abundant presence of multipurpose buildings: buildings that were programmatically designed to fulfil a variety of functions, and buildings that were experienced as open structures, welcoming locals and travellers alike, regardless of their religious orientations and social status. In order to understand the significance of this, let’s leave the three real visitors to Bursa aside, and re-join our imaginary Genoese merchants in a different scenario, in which they decide to walk into the multipurpose buildings of Orhan and Murad I. As I have already mentioned, if we presume that the Genoese had made port in Trilye and walked around the town, and then came to Bursa, they would have recognized significant similarities between the Church of the Panagia Pantobasilissa and Orhan’s multipurpose building. However, they would have noticed only the superficial similarities: the lateral blind arches, the Byzantine spolia capitals used in the double-arches of the porch, or perhaps even the brick roundels of rosettes and sun dials (Figure 3.13). They would have needed some serious architectural training to notice that the Church of the Panagia Pantobasilissa and Orhan’s building were constructed not with simply the similar application of alternating courses of brick and stone, but with exactly the same building technique. The overlap is to such an extent that the two buildings were very likely constructed by the same masons.83 Yet, there were also significant differences between the two buildings, which became apparent when the merchants first stepped into the porch, and then walked into the building.

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Figure 3.13 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, lateral view with blind arches and spolia capital, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

The central three bays of the porch in Orhan’s multipurpose building are domed, while the outer two are cross-vaulted and flat-roofed. Domes would have been no strangers to the Genoese merchants, but even with their untrained eyes, they would have noticed that there was something unfamiliar about the central dome of the porch. It was not supported by squinches, pendentives, or muqarnas vaulting (Figure 3.14). Instead, the dome rested on a series of differently sized and angled, and seemingly irregularly shaped triangular pyramids, or what came to be known in architectural history as Turkish triangles. Of course, the multipurpose building of Orhan was not the first building where this vaulting technique was applied. It had a long history going back more than a century, but it was not an element that the Genoese merchants would have encountered in Byzantine architecture, or in the domed buildings of Europe. Inside, more surprises awaited our merchants, such as the further application of the Turkish triangles. However, the really dumbfounding aspect of the building was the arrangement of the interior space, and how that space was used (Figure 3.15). From the outside, it is hard to get a full sense of the interior organization of space in Orhan’s multipurpose building. Walking around it, you can tell that there are equally sized rooms on each side, which are shorter than the full extent of the building. But, are these walled and doored rooms flanking a longitudinal central hall, or are they open? If they are open, how do they exactly relate to the central space? The Genoese merchants probably stepped into the building with

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Figure 3.14 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, the vaulting of the central dome of the porch, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Figure 3.15 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, interior view toward the mihrab, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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similar questions in mind, and as they passed the vestibule, they found the answer. They were in a relatively spacious central hall, and with them, there were other people, standing, seated, and some in conversation with one another. Based on their dresses, it was obvious that they were not all locals, they were not of the same social status, and they were certainly not of the same language. Along with this stark difference of use, compared to a Byzantine church, came the equally different articulation of space. One to the east and one to the west, two antechambers flanked the central hall, and a third one extended from it to the south (Figure 3.16). Except the slight elevation of the antechambers by steps, there were no devices to separate them from the central hall, which produced a singular unified space in the form of a reverse T. What made things even more confusing was the fact that such a unified spatial arrangement existed in a building where spaces seemed to be reserved for different purposes. In the antechambers that flanked the central hall, the Genoese merchants saw people resting and sleeping. They soon learned that these were travellers passing through Bursa. In the same antechambers, there were also some of those “Turkish monks” that the merchants had previously encountered, and whom Ibn Battuta described as ascetic Sufis. Some of them were performing strange rituals with repetitive utterances, while others were delivering homilies to attentive listeners. And right in front of the merchants, in the southern antechamber which terminated with a mihrab, there were people performing their daily prayer. With

Figure 3.16 The multipurpose building of Orhan Beg, view of the eastern antechamber, 1339–1340, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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their curiosity boosted, the merchants decided to make a final stop at Murad I’s building, which, with its palazzo-like appearance, was even more familiar to the Genoese. As they left, they saw a line of poorly dressed people waiting to receive free food from a nearby soup-kitchen, which, the merchants were told, was part of the endowments of the building that they had just visited. When the Genoese arrived at the multipurpose building of Murad I, they now knew that appearances could be misleading, that they were looking at a building which was formally familiar to, but essentially different from their palazzi. Observing the building more carefully now, they noticed certain details that they previously had not. Similar to the side arches of the porch at Orhan’s building, the lateral arches of the gallery in Murad I’s building were decorated with tiles: red and white diamonds fitted inside hexagons on the east, and six-pointed stars on the west. Six-pointed stars appeared above the central arch of the gallery as well, but more interesting was the rectangular framing that crowned the central arch, where hexagons with red and white triangles were diagonally mirrored and broken at the edges (Figure 3.17). As far as the merchants could see from below, these seemed to form a visual harmony with the Turkish triangles, which, in this building, supported the three domes of the three central bays of the gallery. On the porch, the Genoese noticed other details. The stringcourses with shooting palmettes were well-known to them. They had seen these on various Byzantine

Figure 3.17 The multipurpose building of Murad I, central arch of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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buildings, even underneath the belfry of the Church of San Dominico in Pera.84 The Genoese knew that at San Dominico, the palmettes were spolia from a Byzantine building, but here, the stringcourses were used so consistently and with such uniformity that the Ottomans had to have taken them from a single building (Figure 3.18). Unfortunately, there was no one there to inform the merchants that these seemingly spolia marbles were produced on site, specifically for this building.85 Surprised and confused, they walked inside. Somewhat similar to Orhan’s multipurpose building, from the outside Murad I’s building gives little to no indication as to how the interior space is organized. Its position on a hilltop, and its two-storey height obscures the presence of a central dome. So, when the merchants walked in, they surprisingly realized that there was indeed a dome, which extended the full height of the two floors, and luminously covered the central hall, with light coming in from its oculus (Figure 3.19). Moreover, double arches on the east, west and north sides of the central hall, just underneath the tall drum of the dome, visually connected the ground and the first floors of the building. When their eyes finally moved down, and when they started to observe the space around them, the merchants realized that the southern extension of this building was much longer than Orhan’s building, and that the mihrab was set in such a deep niche that it almost looked like the apse of a Christian church (Figure 3.20). Gazing around, the merchants also realized that they were now surrounded by three antechambers on each side, reserved precisely

Figure 3.18 The multipurpose building of Murad I, stringcourses of the porch, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 3.19 The multipurpose building of Murad I, interior view from the first floor, toward the entrance, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 3.20 The multipurpose building of Murad I, view toward the mihrab, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

for the same purposes as the ones at Orhan’s building: resting and sleeping travellers, alongside ascetic Sufis and their audiences. Just at that moment, through the double arches above the central hall, the Genoese merchants first heard, and then saw more of the giggling kids that they had first caught a glimpse of during their first visit to the building. What was going on there, on the first floor, who were these kids? The merchants’ dragoman spent some considerable time to convince the superintendent of the building, and get a permission to take a quick look at the upstairs. The first floor was not open to all people, unlike the ground floor. It was a school, a madrasa, and the last thing the students needed was more distraction from their studies. Hence was solved the mystery of the gigging kids. To go upstairs, the merchants tracked back to the square vestibule whence they had entered the building. There was a door on each side, opening to small halls with staircases to the first floor. Each staircase hall was followed by a room, but the merchants never learned what purposes these rooms served. Once they climbed up, the merchants realized that the upper floor was almost like a courtyard. The rooms reserved for the students flanked it from the west and the east, and the three double arches opened directly to the space above the central hall of the ground floor (Figure 3.21). The students had retreated to their cells, but behind closed doors, the merchants could easily hear the students either reciting

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Figure 3.21 The multipurpose building of Murad I, view of the medrese cells, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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or reading in Arabic. They could also hear the casual talks in different languages, and the homilies of the Sufis, easily traveling from downstairs through the double arches. With such audial cacophony and such spatial unity to encourage it, how could the merchants be suspected of distracting the students from their studies? While contemplating on that, some of them realized another curiosity about the building. This time, not related to use, but to decoration. The Genoese merchants were already suspicious about the consistency of the stringcourses on the porch. On the first floor, they realized that the shooting palmettes circulated the corridors with equal precision (Figure 3.22). When they were finally led to the gallery, they saw the continuation of the same pattern there. Pondering on the implications of such uniformity, they walked around the gallery. Just then, a merchant exclaimed as he was observing one of the capitals supporting the columns that divided the double arches of the gallery. All capitals were different, so they most probably came from different buildings, and hence, unlike the stringcourses, they conformed with the use of spolia materials that the Genoese were familiar with (Figure 3.23).86 Almost all of them could have been appropriated from nearby Byzantine buildings, and some could have been spolia even in their former Byzantine settings. However, the capital of the column that divided the lateral double-arch on the east side was different from all the others (Figure 3.24). This was the one that had surprised one of the merchants. Its design was composed of what appeared to be the two arms of a cross fleury forming a V, and a vertical arm that terminated at the inner corner of the V with a triple extension, almost like the arm of a

Figure 3.22 The multipurpose building of Murad I, stringcourse of the first floor, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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Figure 3.23 The multipurpose building of Murad I, general view of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

Figure 3.24 The multipurpose building of Murad I, capital of the column dividing the eastern lateral arch of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

186 Flux cross patonce. The Genoese merchants were unable to make any sense of such an unusual design. They were familiar with fleur-de-lis and the Florentine giglio, and the Dominican coat of arms was a cross fleury, which was partially incorporated into the coat of arms of the San Clemente in the Lateran. Yet, the merchants had never seen this particular combination. One thing was certain, though. Wherever the capital came from, here it was, in an unexpected location, where it had arrived through lines and threads that could no longer be traced. As the Genoese merchants were leaving the multipurpose building of Murad I, a young boy named Michael curiously observed their departure. Michael was from the nearby village of Bigados, and his family had been viticulturalists for generations. They had recently paid their taxes, and sold their vintage and table grapes to travelling merchants. Michael’s father had sent him to Bursa to purchase supplies for the approaching winter. He had made a stop at Murad I’s building, both to rest for a few hours, and to chat with his friend Paşagelend. Paşagelend worked in his father’s bakery in the vicinity of Murad I’s hot-spring baths, and as tenants of Murad I’s multipurpose building, they primarily baked bread for that institution. Whenever Michael had to run errands in Bursa, the two boys would meet. That day, Paşagelend had insisted that they should listen to the homilies of a famous dervish who was going to spend the day in Murad I’s building. Michael had no intention to convert to Islam, but he had always found the Sufi dervishes charmingly interesting. Of course, there was no way for him to foresee that in the future his son would take that final step and convert to the religion of the Turks. And thus, two young boys, one Christian, the other Muslim, one peasant, the other a tenant-baker, walked into a building where they could chat, listen to Sufi dervishes, and encounter strangely dressed foreigners; the very same building that the boys’ fathers were tenants of in their varied capacities.87 Michael was a simple peasant boy. Other than his occasional trips to Bursa, he had not travelled much. When it came to architecture, his repertoire of building styles and techniques was radically limited, especially when compared to Genoese merchants pursuing a life on the lines, and coming from a city whose architecture was intentionally and openly multifarious.88 Michael had never been to Constantinople, nor to Pera, let alone to Toulouse. Even if he had made his way to Constantinople, unlike prominent Genoese merchants and diplomats, he would have had no access to the Palace of the Porphyrogenitus. Therefore, his perception of Murad I’s building did not have much of a comparative perspective, and he was in no capacity to compartmentalize the building into its familiar and unfamiliar elements, whether decorative or architectonic. For Michael, and also for Paşagelend for that matter, the familiarity of the building was less in the capitals, stringcourses, tiles and vaulting techniques, and more in the boys’ experiences of the building as an open structure. Michael and Paşagelend’s lives depended on and were largely governed by seasonal sequences of wine and grain harvests, and their fathers and all their fellow peasants and burghers paid their taxes, or received their stipends in sequences. As free as the boys might have felt in their young age, they were no more than subjects. Yet, their lord, the very building where the two friends would occasionally

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meet, was surrounded by such convoluted threads moving horizontally and multidirectionally, and with such subtly alternating rhythms that the sequential and vertical operations of lordship (sovereignty) seemed to have disappeared. It was as if the emperor’s new clothes were at the same time cloaks of invisibility. When Michael rode his mule into the town centre of Bursa, he passed by the Kapan Hanı. Just as the Genoese merchants, he had no reason to go into this building which only served the purpose of assessing the quantity and quality of incoming produce and products, and determining their prices. Michael might have noticed the similarities between the Kapan Hanı and the multipurpose building of Murad I, but what sense he would have made of such similarities, what meanings he would have found are impossible to know, just as it was impossible for Michael to know that the Kapan Hanı and the building that he had just left were components of the same threads that cloaked sovereignty. Kapan Hanı mostly received fruit and cheese from the hinterlands of Bursa, as well as from distant corners of Anatolia.89 The people who brought the fruit and the cheese were travelling merchants, who purchased them directly from peasants, such as Michael’s family. Given that fruits, compared to grains, had a less reliable annual yield consistency and could turn bad quickly, the merchants would have visited multiple producers, distant and local alike.90 Once the produce were assessed and taxed in the Kapan Hanı, they were redistributed to the shops for local consumption, mostly in various forms of sweet and savoury preserves.91 Therefore, when Michael completed his trip to Bursa, his mule loaded with woollen cloths from Orhan’s Bedesten and preserves from a nearby shop (and having made a pitstop at Murad I’s building along the way), he had unknowingly travelled along an invisible governmental network maintained by institutions of hospitality and redistribution. This network was nothing other than the multidirectional flux that moved in ever-changing and subtle rhythms into the lives of Michael and his family, of his fellow peasants, and of the townspeople of Bursa, like Paşagelend and his parents. And it was in flux, and on a plane of imperceptible connections that the Genoese merchants’ experiences with the multipurpose buildings of Bursa intersected with the experiences of the local population. There is no doubt that multipurpose buildings in fourteenth-century Bursa were architectural assemblages. Domes on Turkish triangles comfortably covered interiors with reverse T plans, and alternating bricks and stones laid in the Byzantine technique enveloped them. Spolia stringcourses rhymed with their pseudo-spolia partners. Capitals with long-forgotten histories supported arches with banded voussoirs, while geometrical patterns, sun-dials and rosettes with complex genealogies made conspicuous appearances. Porches coupled with galleries, and Lombard bands and sawtooth cornices were never bothered by dedication inscriptions in Arabic. However, claiming that these assemblages were consciously produced would be giving too much credit to the intentionality of (sovereign) patronage and to the programmatic planning of governmentality. Multipurpose buildings were not consequential to but symptomatic and paradigmatic of their microecological settings. They were not programmatically assembled to appease and govern a multicultural population. They were produced

188 Flux in a multicultural setting as symptomatic of it, and in tandem with governmental practices as paradigmatic of them. To refer back to Agamben’s discussion of Jābir ibn Hayyān, multipurpose buildings corresponded to the collateral or contingent aspect of governmentality. As assemblages, they were the products of available architectural techniques and existing governmental practices, and not of an epistemic knowledge about creating multicultural-hybrid buildings to serve specific governmental needs. Equally importantly, these assembled spaces were simultaneously assemblages of uses, functions, relations, and extensions in continuous flux. One point of intersection between the experiences of the Genoese merchants and those of Michael and Paşagelend was the hypothetical but historically highly probable brief encounter they had in the multipurpose building of Murad I. For the Genoese, at least to an extent, it was possible to single out the formal similarities between the buildings they had previously known and the ones that they encountered in Bursa. For the two young boys, buildings became meaningful in quotidian experiences, rather than in architectonic and decorative details. During that one aleatoric moment inside the multipurpose building of Murad I these different experiences and perceptions crossed paths and connected. What made that possible was the simple but crucial distinction between the legally binding language of official documents and the operations of governmentality as practice. The vakfiye of Murad I’s building, like that of Orhan’s, follows a formulaic language conforming to the norms of Islamic law, and as part of that it clearly underlines that the potential guests of the building were to be proper Muslims, performing their five-time prayer.92 Yet, when it came to practice, as we read from travel accounts, this legal necessity was easily bypassed, and the doors were opened to all. Flux bended the rigidity of law, multiplied and altered the already varied purposes of the buildings, and made unforeseeable encounters possible. The second point of intersection, or more properly points of intersection, emerged along the extensions of the multipurpose buildings, on a plane of imperceptible connections. In our hypothetical case, the Genoese were in Bursa to purchase silk fabrics. As I suggested, they could have easily been there also for spices, or a combination of the two. All of these were among the known exports of Bursa in the fourteenth century.93 In either case, for their journey back to Pera, the merchants needed provisions, such as wine, bread, and perhaps some cured meat. They had to buy these items from different shops and markets in Bursa, or directly from the peasants in the countryside. The little trips they made from one seller to the other temporarily integrated the Genoese into the same network on which Michael and Paşagelend lived; the network that was maintained by architectures of governmentality in flux. The multipurpose buildings of Orhan and Murad I were endowed with remarkable amounts of villages and arable lands in the countryside, and numerous urban shops. Their tenants included the growers of the raw materials for luxury goods, such as cocoons for silk and olives for soap. Some of the shops where the finished products would be sold were the tenants of the two buildings, as were the wheat farmers, viticulturalists, bakers, herders, and butchers.94 In that respect, every

Flux 189 item that the Genoese transported from Bursa to Pera imperceptibly connected the two microecologies and their architectures on a plane of experiences. Whether in a loaf of bread, a barrel of wine, or a roll of exquisite silk cloth, the multipurpose buildings of Bursa, in the way that they were experienced by their local users, were already in Pera. Architecture had travelled, less in bricks, stones, marble decorations and building techniques, less in the retinal memories of travellers and merchants, and more in the experiences that reverberated through flux. Hence, in Pera, as the Genoese merchants made their way to the Palazzo Comunale, little did they know that they were about to take part in the constitution of a very different architectural assemblage.

The (un)bearable absence of Wally In Martin Handford’s famous children’s puzzle books Where is Wally (Waldo in US, and Ali or Gezgin Veli in Turkish) first published in 1987, the children are presented with double-page and painstakingly detailed depictions of dozens of people involved in various, and sometimes very ridiculous, activities. The children have one, and only one, mission: single out Wally among the crowd, who is identified by his pullover and bobble hat in alternating red and white stripes, and his glasses. For anyone who has taken on the mission, the consequences are dire. Trying to find Wally, you pay no attention to what is really going on in Handford’s otherwise remarkably crafted scenes, and when you are unable to find Wally, life simply becomes unbearable. On the other hand, when you find Wally successfully over and over again, he becomes the one anchor, the one universal transcending all barriers, and unites completely different scenes into one big assemblage, the book. There are often red herrings, Wally lookalikes, but in fact, it is Wally who is the red herring. He tricks you into equating repetition with sameness, and distracts you from seeing, understanding, and appreciating difference. It is Wally who convinces you that an assemblage can only be possible when there is the repetition of elements that produce a sense of sameness, and never among the clearly different. More crucially, the visually captivating and easily recognizable markers of Wally obscure other markers, activities, events, and movements that resonate between the completely different compositions of each double-page illustration. As hidden and obscure as he may be, with his striped haute couture Wally looms over and shadows everything and everyone else in the scene, and convinces you to dismiss every other possibility that might bring together the distinct scenes of the book. The story of Wally has direct relevance to the ways in which the buildings of this and the next chapter can be connected. It is very tempting to follow Wally; whose sartorial distinction has a visual counterpart in the alternating brick and stone facades of the buildings and in their banded voussoirs. But, there is also the red herring, the Church of the Jacobins, which looks like Wally but is not Wally. What happens then, if we take our first step by presuming that the presence or the absence of Wally is equally inconsequential to the possibilities of an assemblage. This first step inevitably acknowledges that there is no universal norm, no

190 Flux transcendent element that by itself unites disparate buildings into an assemblage. Moving from there, we might easily surmise that an assemblage is constituted precisely in the absence of the transcendent, in its subtraction, and in the connectivity of differences. The repetition of the same does not create an assemblage, it only proves that the same can be multiplied to create more of the same. An assemblage, on the other hand, is only possible in the coming together of the different, in a détournement that changes in nature to produce something new. In that respect, the experiences that the Genoese merchants brought with them from Bursa to Pera were not in the process of creating a Mediterraneanwide assemblage because they were the same experiences as those of the residents of Pera, but because they were different, and because flux reverberated precisely in differences. In other words, there was no universal norm by which sovereignty and governmentality coalesced in the late medieval Mediterranean, as there was no universal typology of an architecture of governmentality, or, for that matter, no Mediterranean architecture as such. What is at stake here is a movement from fragment to fragment, from particular to particular, continuously producing an open assemblage, a plane of possibilities, and never a normative set. In order to see the implications of this, let’s return to Pera with our hypothetical merchants. The Palazzo Comunale and the Church of San Domenico are only a few hundred steps from the port of Pera. In the fourteenth century, the palazzo was at the northern end of a commercial axis extending from the port that was lined with various shops, including the loggia; while the church was to the immediate west of the same axis.95 According to the Ottoman survey of Pera in 1455, the quarter to the east and northeast of this axis, an area encompassing the Palazzo Comunale as well, was the main commercial hub of Pera, with thirty-three individual shops.96 Elsewhere, most of the shops, including bakeries and horse-mills, were either attached to or on the ground floor of residential buildings.97 In 1313 and 1315, two notary acts were signed in such buildings, a banco domus and an apotheca domus respectively, which suggests that house-shops had become part of Pera’s urban fabric quite early on.98 Although it is hard to tell when the aforementioned neighbourhood became the commercial centre of Pera, its growth must have begun from the port, with the Palazzo Comunale operating as the main engine of northward expansion. Since the official recognition of the Genoese colony and the delimitation of its boundaries in 1303, the north, where the Palazzo Comunale is situated, became a contested area between the Byzantines and the Genoese. The latest of the imperial decrees prohibiting construction outside the 1303 concession zone was issued in 1317, that is, approximately a year after the new palazzo was built.99 Although the 1317 decree prohibited further constructions, it did not order the Genoese to demolish the existing buildings, and it underlined that the privileges granted to the Genoese would remain as they were.100 When our imaginary Genoese merchants returned from Bursa toward the end of the fourteenth century, the northward spread of Pera was already completed and marked by the imposing presence of the Galata Tower. Drawing architectural and functional parallels with the Palazzo

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San Giorgio in Genoa, Ela Akyol and Sercan Sağlam have underlined the Palazzo Comunale as a key facilitator in this urban expansion.101 The architectural resonance between the Palazzo Comunale and the Palazzo San Giorgio is undeniable, and it was obviously intentional. To begin with, both buildings made use of the available building techniques in their extended microecologies. Perhaps due to the employment of Lombard masons, the Palazzo San Giorgio closely correlated with the communal palazzi of Northern Italy, such as the Palazzo Cittanova of Cremona (1265) and the Broletto of Como (1215).102 In a comparable fashion, the Palazzo Comunale, with the very likely involvement of Byzantine masons, recreated its counterpart in Genoa by using alternating bricks and stones on its facade and banded voussoirs. Secondly, it is also clear that both buildings played a significant role in re-centring their individual cities, though in opposite directions: one to the port (San Giorgio), the other away from it.103 However, the changes that came about in Genoa since the commissioning of the Palazzo San Giorgio in 1260 encourages a reconsideration of the relationship between the two palazzi; a reconsideration that goes beyond a logic of similitude. The patron of the Palazzo San Giorgio was Guglielmo Boccanegra. Coming from a modest background, Guglielmo had married into an aristocratic family of the Ghibelline faction, the pro-imperial camp of Italian urban politics as opposed to the pro-papal Guelphs. In 1257, less because of his Ghibelline association and more because of his abilities as a political tactician, Guglielmo found himself at the head of an uprising of the popolo, which designated a socially complex group of people who were previously excluded from communal government. Guglielmo was eventually elected as the “captain of the people,” and the Palazzo San Giorgio was to be the centre of this new popular government. Indeed, in 1261, while the construction of the palazzo was still underway, the incomplete building had already cast its extensions to its striped counterpart in Nymphaeum through Guglielmo’s pivotal role in the Genoese-Byzantine treaty. However, a year later Guglielmo was deposed and exiled, and in 1270, another uprising brought about an even stronger popular government, with Oberto Spinola and Oberto Doria as the two elected “captains of the people.” Twenty years later, the seat of government in Genoa moved from the Palazzo San Giorgio to the Palazzo Serravalle in the vicinity of the Cathedral of San Lorenzo. Finally, 1339 came with yet another change in government, this time led by the members of the populares who had accumulated substantial wealth through commerce and finance. Coupling their economic power with political influence, the populares proclaimed Simone Boccanegra as the “doge of the Genoese and defender of the popolo.” With that, the Palazzo Serravalle became the Palazzo Ducale, and the Palazzo San Giorgio was now only the customs house of Genoa.104 Therefore, in the late fourteenth century, the two palazzi, one in the metropole, the other in the colony, were two different buildings that looked very similar. Needless to say, the multipurpose building of Murad I and the Palazzo Comunale were also two different buildings that looked very similar. The former superimposed a madrasa onto the extended layout of a typical Ottoman multipurpose building, combining hospitality services with educational ones. In that respect,

192 Flux although it was commissioned by a sultan, and although its first administrator was the Grand Vizier Çandarlı Kara Halil Hayreddin Pasha, it was not a governmental building per se.105 It was a multipurpose building, whose multipurpose-ness was doubled both functionally and architecturally. The Palazzo Comunale, on the other hand, was the seat of government in Genoese Pera. There are no indications that it offered hospitality to travellers or charity to the local poor on a day to day basis, and it certainly did not serve any educational purposes. Sercan Sağlam’s detailed reconstruction of the Palazzo Comunale based on various references in notary acts and expense registers provides a fairly clear picture of its functional composition. It appears that the most important rooms of the palazzo, the council chamber, and the offices of the podesta and the vicar were located on the second floor with its large, three-partite windows. Somewhere in the building, perhaps again on the second floor, the podesta and the vicar also had their private rooms. The rest of the offices were spread between the first and the second floors of the building.106 According to the notary acts, the podesta had two offices in the palazzo, which are distinguished in 1389 as the primary hall (salla prima) and the secondary hall (aulla secunda); and in 1390 as the great hall (salla magna) and the small hall (aulla parva).107 Although the same records suggest that the podesta had no sleeping quarters in the palazzo, and lived in a separate residence (palacio habitacionis dicti domini podestatis), the vicar had both an office (camera palacii dicti domini vicarii) and a bed-chamber (camera cubiculari).108 This final detail suggests that the Palazzo Comunale, although not functioning in any way close to an Ottoman multipurpose building, did provide services beyond the most immediately administrative ones. For instance, as Sağam speculates, its ground floor facing today’s Bankalar Street with three large blind arches might have once been a barrel-vaulted storage space.109 In the absence of any conclusive material evidence, it is impossible to know how the ground floor was vaulted, or how open it was, but there is documentary evidence to suggest that the palazzo was used for storage, and the ground floor is the only candidate for that purpose. On the other hand, given that what was stored in the building in 1392 was artillery (bombardas) that had to be secured, the palazzo could not have been a very open structure.110 Finally, the Palazzo Comunale also offered a kind of hospitality service, in addition to providing accommodations for the vicar. But, again, this was very limited compared to Murad I’s multipurpose building, and did not go beyond the entertainment of foreign emissaries.111 So, in the late fourteenth century, when our imaginary merchants stored their merchandise in one of the warehouses (fondaco) by the port, and having paid their customs dues at the loggia finally arrived at the Palazzo Comunale, they experienced a building that was very different from its striped lookalike in Bursa.112 Regardless of the level of privilege the merchants might have had, the building that they walked into in Pera was arranged in such a way that each room had a particular purpose, and access to each was regulated or restricted accordingly; unlike the multipurpose buildings of Bursa, in which, with the exception of the

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upper floor in Murad I’s building, architecture was programmatically designed to provide both a functionally and structurally open experience. Here we are then, at a point where a multipurpose building and two palazzi (one clearly modelled after the other) that appear to be so similar in their striped pullovers and bobble hats reveal themselves as three quite different buildings. We are at a point, where Wally reveals himself as the real red herring, eclipsing the possibilities of an assemblage of differences with his persistent appearance in a captivatingly misleading attire. The move from this point onward is not a very complicated one. It simply requires the subtraction of the real red herring, the striped fabric, which disguises itself as a means for trans-regional connectivity, but in fact operates as the transcendent element that defines the parameters of connectivity in a very particular manner by prioritizing sameness over difference, formal-visual rapport over experience. In that respect, its subtraction opens up the possibilities of a new assemblage of differences and of experiences moving through the extensions of flux. When the Genoese merchants made port in Pera, perhaps as agents of Giovanni Demerode, the trajectories that brought them there were none other than the trans-regional extensions of flux. They had travelled along its microecologically specific networks in Bursa, and with the goods that they transported back to Pera, they also brought back highly localized experiences of architecture. A silk cloth was not simply a luxury product. From the cocoon to the final decorative thread, it was the product of people living and working in a network of relationships managed by buildings operating in flux as architectures of governmentality. The silk cocoon was grown in the village of Çonkaraköy, probably by a certain Rüstem and his father, who seldom, if ever saw the multipurpose building of Murad I, but nonetheless lived and worked in its network, as tenants of its vakıf.113 Once the cocoon was processed, someone like the poor shrieker’s mother (recall Ibn Battuta’s account), who may have received food from Murad I’s soup-kitchen, spun the silk into threads. The final product, the cloth, was perhaps produced in an earlier iteration of the slave-run workshops that became widespread in the late fifteenth century.114 Eventually, very real Genoese merchants purchased the cloth from one of the shops at the Bedesten endowed to Orhan’s multipurpose building, and transported them to Pera with the help of very real caboteurs, such as Vasiliko and Manguzo who ferried between Bursa and Pera in the early fifteenth century.115 Once the merchandise arrived at the port of Pera, maybe it was Costa the porter’s father who moved it to a warehouse; and maybe the cloth received its final touches in the hands of Nicola the tailor’s father, who turned it into a lavish tunic.116 Costa and Nicola could have never travelled to Bursa, and it is very unlikely that they ever saw the interior of the Palazzo Comunale. But, would it be too preposterous to imagine the notary Quilicus de Ardito on April 6, 1391, dressed in a tunic that reached him through similar means, as he sat down in the Palazzo Comunale to pull out Giovanni Demerode and his brother’s donation acts from the notary records of Donatus de Clavaro?117 In this re-imagination of architectural connectivity, localized experiences of architecture are less in the striped fabric of buildings, and more in the very fabric

194 Flux of the silk garments. What was produced in one microecology, in a network maintained by architectures of governmentality operating in flux was eventually introduced to another microecology by merchants operating along the trans-regional extensions of flux, maintained by another architecture of governmentality, the Palazzo Comunale. From notary records to expense registers, the Genoese documents from Pera demonstrate that the palazzo did not only facilitate long-distance trade. It was also instrumental in managing a variety of relationships within its own microecology, just as the multipurpose buildings of Bursa were. And, eventually, when part of the silk cargo reached Genoa, it passed through the Palazzo San Giorgio, just as some of the supplies that had sustained the Genoese along their journey from Bursa to Pera had passed through the Kapan Hanı. Both of these buildings, the former operating as a customs house and the latter as a measurement market for imported produce, functioned as redistribution hubs, linking the microecological and long-distance movements of flux. In other words, connectivity between the fragmented microecologies of the Mediterranean, and connectivity between buildings that existed as fragmented assemblages were simultaneously maintained on the same plane of flux. *** The methodology that I have proposed in this chapter, where the concern is with localized experiences of architecture and their reverberations across the Mediterranean does not dismiss architectonic and decorative correspondences between buildings. It simply acknowledges that only a limited group of people, such as Genoese merchants and travellers like Ibn Battuta, could have observed and recognized them. For the majority, buildings were highly local phenomena, lived and experienced as fragmented assemblages. Given that the buildings discussed in this chapter had a remarkable ability to blend into their microecologies, there should be little doubt that at least some of their local audiences would have recognized their composite features, as Robert Ousterhout and Suna Çağaptay have suggested for the Ottoman buildings of Bursa. That being the case, the reconfiguration of disparate buildings into a Mediterranean-wide assemblage of formal, stylistic, and structural similarities was a privilege in which the multitudes could not have participated. Still, however, the relative immobility of so many people around the Mediterranean does not entail that they experienced buildings as static entities. Consider, for instance, Johannes Preiser-Kapeller’s study of the networks linking medieval Anatolia to the Mediterranean and beyond, particularly his GISgenerated maps.118 Unlike medieval portolan charts, they are not the reflections of a vision of the world to be experienced on the lines. They are the visualizations of lived experiences. They are the real networks along which real people negotiated, fought, travelled, and redistributed produce and products. It is true that the number of people who moved along those lines was limited, but precisely because architectures of governmentality similarly existed on the lines, in the extensions of flux, even when buildings were localized into the fragmented microecologies of the Mediterranean, they were not necessarily lived, perceived and

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experienced in situ, as simply bricks and stones. From the olives they pressed and the cloth they weaved to the sermons they heard, whether delivered by Sufi sheikhs or Dominican friars, the multitudes around the Mediterranean were participating in the constitution of an architectural assemblage of experiences and perceptions, just as the Genoese merchants were. Therefore, if an architectural history of the Mediterranean is to move beyond the concerns and intents of the patrons, beyond what could have been observed by only a privileged few; if it is to incorporate the encounters between buildings and their primary audiences (which is not necessarily equal to their intended audiences), then it needs to pay attention to the imperceptible, but the very real oscillations between the microecological and trans-regional movements and rhythms of flux, through which experiences that brought architecture to life travelled. What I am proposing here may at first sound too fantastic, but it is more realistic than imagining peasant Rüstem and tailor Nicola meeting first in front of the Palazzo Comunale, then in the porch of Murad I’s multipurpose building to exchange their respective opinions on the similarities between the two buildings. The chapter, as it concludes here, ends at a somewhat awkward place. The Church of the Jacobins in Toulouse, and the Church of San Domenico in Pera rarely made any appearances. But, as I clarified in the beginning, their dues will come in the next chapter. In that respect, this is not the awkwardness I am referring to. It seems that unlike buildings operating in sequence, the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin, buildings of flux are a success story. The microecological and relational sequences of the Karatay Han and Saint-Sernin coexisted alongside rupture, which inscribed the buildings with alternative meanings and significances. Metric movements and seasonal rhythms fluctuated with aberrant movements and broken rhythms in such a way that it was as if each building had a double; one conceived with very particular intents, the other perceived and experienced beyond the imaginations of the patrons. In comparison, flux, itself multidirectional and moving with subtle rhythms, appears to have cloaked the sequential and vertical exercise of sovereign authority so successfully that rupture disappeared, and buildings were no longer signs associated with the invisible face of the sovereign. Yet, just as rupture did not follow sequence chronologically, just as governmentality did not succeed sovereignty, flux was not the ultimate response to rupture. As the next chapter picks up the story in Toulouse, with the Church of the Jacobins, it will argue that sequence, rupture, and flux coexisted, and the fluctuations between them produced unrest, which, more than a fourth modality of movements and rhythms, was a new dimension that perpetually destabilized architecture.

Notes 1 On Orhan’s multipurpose building, see Türkan Acar, “Anadolu Türk Mimarisinde Tabhaneli Camiler,” (PhD Dissertation, Ege Üniversitesi, Izmir, 2011), 264–287. On the transformation of Bursa under the Ottomans see, Oya Pancaroğlu, “Architecture, Landscape and Patronage in Bursa: The Making of an Ottoman Capital City,” Turkish Studies Association Bulletin 20:1 (1995): 40–55; Suna Çağaptay, “Frontierscape:

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Flux Reconsidering Bithynian Structures and Their Builders on the Byzantine-Ottoman Cusp,” Muqarnas 28:1 (2011): 155–191, at 157, 93; and Suna Çağaptay, “Prousa/ Bursa, a City within the City: Chorography, Conversion and Choreography,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 35:1 (2011): 45–69. On Murad I’s building, see Saygin Salgirli, “Soap Bars and Silk Cocoons: Microecologies of Connectivity in Late Medieval Mediterranean Architecture,” Journal of Early Modern Studies 23 (2019): 121–151. On the architecture of Genoese Pera, see Sercan Sağlam, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata & an Architectural Inventory Study for the Genoese Colonial Territories in Asia Minor,” (PhD Dissertation, Politecnico di Milano, Milan, 2018), 7–176. On the fire, see L. T. Belgrano, “Prima serie di documenti riguardanti la colonia di Pera,” Atti della Società Ligure di Soria Patria 13 (1877–84): 116. On the construction history, see Richard A. Sundt, “The Jacobin Church of Toulouse and the Origin of Its Double-Nave Plan,” The Art Bulletin 71:2 (1989): 185–207. Histoire générale de Languedoc avec des notes et les pièces justificatives par dom Cl. Devic & dom J. Vaissete, Vol. 9 (Toulouse: E. Privat, 1872–1892), 60, 61. David Abulafia, The Two Italies: Economic Relations between the Norman Kingdom of Italy and the Northern Communes (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 95–96; and for the later centuries, David Abulafia, The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 354–366. And on the Genoese bankers’ support for de Montfort’s campaign, John Hine Mundy, Society and Government at Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1997), 198. On Guillaume Bernard and the Dominican presence in fourteenth-century Pera, see Marie-Hélène Congourdeau, “Note sur les Dominicains de Constantinople au début du 14e siècle,” Revue des études byzantines 45 (1987): 175–181. See also, R. Loenertz, “Les établissements dominicains de Péra-Constantinople (Origines et fondations),” Échos d’Orient 34:179 (1935): 332–349; and E. Dallegio d’Alessio, “L’établissement dominicain de Péra (Galata),” Échos d’Orient 35:181 (1936): 83–86. Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 125, 129, 146. Kate Fleet, “The Treaty of 1387 between Murād I and the Genoese,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 56:1 (1993): 13–33, specifically 23, 24. Allan Evans, ed., Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La Practica della Mercatura (Cambridge, MA: The Medieval Academy of America, 1936), 55; and Kate Fleet, European and Islamic Trade in the Early Ottoman State: The Merchants of Genoa and Turkey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 103. Evans, ed., La Practica della Mercatura, 37. Turkis Noyan, trans. and Kemal Beydilli, ed., Stephan Gerlach: Türkiye Günlüğü, Vol. 1 (Istanbul: Kitap, 2007), 447; and for the original German, Stephan Gerlach, Tage-Buch, der von zween glorwürdigsten Römischen Käysern, Maximiliano und Rudolpho beyderseits den Andern dieses Nahmens, höchstseelig- ster Gedächtnüß, an die Ottomannische Pforte zu Constantinopel abgefertigten, und durch den wohlgebohrnen Herrn Hn. David Ungnad . . . mit würcklicher Erhalt- und Verlängerung deß Friedens, zwischen dem Ottomanischen und Römischen Käyserthum . . . glücklichstvollbrachter Gesandtschafft (Frankfurt, 1674), 258. Jean-Pierre Grélois, trans., ed., Dr John Covel, Voyages en Turquie (1675–1677) (Paris: P. Lethielleux, 1998), 173. For the minarets, see A. Osman Uysal, “Zaviyeli Camilerde Minare Problemi,” Türk Etnografya Dergisi 20 (1997): 47–63. Charles Texier, Asie mineure: description géographique, historique et archéologique des provinces et des villes de la Chersonnèse d’Asie (Paris: F. Didot, 1862), 128. Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 103–105; and Sağlam, 14, 15. Romualdo Tecco was a diplomat from the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, and his engraving was published in as part of Belgrano’s “Prima serie” in Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria, Appendice al Volume 13 (1888): Table 4.

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18 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 174. 19 Michel Balard, La Romanie génoise (XIIe-début du XVe siècle) (Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 1978), 42–45. 20 Isabella Ferrando Cabona, Palazzo San Giorgio: pietre, uomini, potere (1260–1613) (Milan: Amilcare Pizzi Editore, 1998), 71; and Rebecca Müller, “Genova vittoriosa: i trofei bellici,” in Piero Boccardo and Clario Di Fabio, eds., Genova e l’Europa mediterranea: Opere, artisti, committenti, collezionisti (Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 2005), 89–107, at 96. 21 For the Palazzo San Giorgio, in addition to Ferrando Cabona, see also Luisa Cavallaro, Il Palazzo del Mare: Il nucleo medioevale di Palazzo San Giorgio (Genoa: Edizioni Colombo, 1992). For a comparison of the two buildings, see Ela Akyol, “Ortaçağ Galata’sının Kamusal Bir Yapısı: Podesta Sarayı,” İstanbul 23 (October, 1997): 25–33. 22 On the Mediterranean-wide use of the ablaq see Alireza Naser Eslami, “Assimilazione, appropriazione e ricerca di un’architettura di ‘stile internazionale’ nel Mediterraneo medievale: La porta Ianuae e l’architettura in ablaq a Genova,” in Alireza Naser Eslami, ed., Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo tra Bisanzio e il mondo Islamico: Storia, arte e architettura (Milan & Turin: Pearson Italia, 2016), 157–164. For a political interpretation of the banded masonry San Lorenzo, see Clario di Fabio, “Ricezione di modelli architettonici Mediterranei a Genova nel XII secolo: Il muro-diaframma come paradigma,” in Eslami, ed., Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo, 195–210. 23 For a comparative discussion of the Nymphaeum Palace and further bibliography, see Suna Çağaptay, “How Western Is It? The Palace at Nymphaion and Its Architectural Setting,” in Ayla Ödekan, Engin Akyürek, and Nevra Necipoğlu, eds., Change in the Byzantine World in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries: Proceedings of the First International Sevgi Gönül Byzantine Studies Symposium (Istanbul: ANAMED, 2016), 357–362. 24 Balard, La Romanie génoise, 229–254. 25 On the employment of Lombard masons in Genoa see, Ennio Poleggi, “Il rinnovamento edilizio genovese e i magistri Antelami nel secolo XV,” Arte Lombarda 11:2 (1966): 53–68; and Anna Decri, “La presenza degli Antelami nei documenti genovesi,” in Stefano Della Torre, Tiziano Mannoni, and Valeria Pracchi, eds., Magistri d’Europa: eventi, relazioni, strutture della migrazione di artisti e costruttori dai laghi lombardi – atti del convegno, Como, 23–26 ottobre 1996 (Milan: Nodo libri, 1996), 407–432; Federico Zoni, “Magistri antelami tra Genova, Liguria di ponente e Ventimiglia. Attestazioni documentarie e alcune considerazioni (secoli XII-XIII),” Intemelion 19 (2013): 5–22; and Federico Zoni, “Le maestranze antelamiche nella Liguria di ponente. Diffusione dell’Opus Quadratum tra XII e XIII secolo,” Archeologia dell’Architettura 18 (2013): 229–244. 26 Aygül Ağır, “Testimonianze architettoniche del commercio nel Mediterraneo medievale: Il mercanti Genovesi e gli edifici di alloggio in Anatolia,” in Eslami, ed., Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo, 253–265. 27 Salgirli, “Soap Bars and Silk Cocoons,” 134–137; Sezai Sevim, “Bursa’nın Yitik Hanları ve Kapan Han,” Bursa’da Yaşam (July, 2009): 26–33; and Sezai Sevim, “Bursa Çarşısında Kapan Hanı,” in Çarşının Öyküsü-Bursa (Bursa: Bursa Büyükşehir Belediyesi Kültür, Sanat ve Turizm Vakfı, 2010), 293–403; and Ekrem Hakkı Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, Osmanlı Mimarisinin İlk Devri: Ertuğrul, Osman, Orhan Gazîler, Hüdavendigâr ve Yıldırım Bayezid, 630–805 (1230–1402), I (Istanbul: İstanbul Fetih Cemiyeti, 1966), 275, 276. 28 These were the titles used in the treaty of 1387 between the Genoese of Pera and Murad I. Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 146. 29 On Orhan Beg’s Cloth Market, or the Emirhanı, see Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, 96–101. 30 In addition to the obvious architectural and archeological evidence, see for instance the panorama in the Cocharelli Codex (1330–1340) with the Cathedral of San Lorenzo

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Flux flanked by family palaces. Add MS 27695, fol. 7r (www.bl.uk/manuscripts/Viewer. aspx?ref=add_ms_27695_fs001r). Charles Schefer, ed., Le voyage d’Outremer de Bertrandon de la Broquière, premier écuyer tranchant et conseiller de Phillipe le Bon, Duc de Bourgogne (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1892), 135, 137. The first monumental Friday mosque of Bursa is the Ulu Camii/The Great Mosque, built in 1399. Prior to that, the only mosque in the Lower Citadel quarter, which could have been used for the Friday prayer was the Mosque of Çandarlı Kara Halil Hayreddin Paşa, located to the northeast of the Lower Citadel. For the Ulu Camii, see Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, 401–418; and for the Hayreddin Paşa Mosque, 230. Suna Çağaptay, “The Church of the Panagia Pantobasilissa in Trigleia (ca. 1336) Revisited: Content, Context and Community,” İstanbul Araştırmaları Yıllığı 1 (May, 2012): 45–59. Michel Balard, “Péra au XIVe Siécle: Documents Notariés des Archives de Gênes,” in Michel Balard, Angeliki E. Laiou, and Catherine Otten-Froux, eds., Les Italiens a Byzance: Éditions et présentation de documents (Paris: CNRS, 1987), 9–78, specifically 22, 23. Stephan Westphalen, “Pittori greci nella chiesa domenicana dei Genovesi a Pera (Arap Camii),” in Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo, and Gerhard Wolf, eds., Intorno as Sacro Volto: Genova, Bisanzio a il Mediterraneo (secoli xi-xiv) (Venice: Marsilio, 2007), 51–62; Engin Akyürek, “Dominican Painting in Palaiologan Constantinople: The Frescoes of the Arap Camii (Church of S. Domenico) in Galata,” in Holger A. Klein, Robert G. Ousterhout, and Brigitte Pitarakis, eds., The Kariye Camii Reconsidered (Istanbul: Istanbul research Institute Publications, 2011), 327–341; Haluk Çetinkaya, “Arap Camii in Istanbul: Its Architecture and Frescoes,” Anatolia Antiqua 18 (2010): 169–188; Haluk Çetinkaya, “Byzantine Masters at the Service of the Catholic Church at Constantinople,” Rivista dell”Associazione Culturale Bizansio 16, Bisanzio, Venezia e l’Europa in èta paleologa (2011): 53–65; and Sağlam, 114–132. On that and more, including additional bibliography, see Tessa Dwyer, Speaking in Subtitles: Revaluing Screen Translation (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017), 79–106. Guy Debord and Gil J. Wolman, “A User’s Guide to Détournement (1956),” in Ken Knabb, ed., Situationist International Anthology (Berkeley, CA: Bureau of Public Secrets, 2006), 14–21. Hollis Robbins, “The Emperor’s New Critique,” New Literary History 34:4 (2003): 659–675. Robbins, 662, 663. Michel Foucault, Security, Territory, Population – Lectures at the Collège de France 1977–78 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 87–118. Foucault, Security, Territory, Population, 94–98, 106–108. Giorgio Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011), 98, 99, 106, 107. Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory, 119, 120. Alessandro di Afrodisia, La Provvidenza: Questioni sulla provvidenza (Milan: Biblioteca Universale Rizzoli, 1998), 166, 167. For the translation of the text, see Cyril Mango, trans., ed., The Homilies of Photius, Patriarch of Constantinople (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1958), 187, 188. For the Greek, see St. D’Arsitarchi, ed., Photii, Patriarchae Constantinopoleos: Orationes et Homiliae, Vol. 2 (Istanbul: The Annuaire Oriental & Printing, 1900), 434, 435. Romilly J. H. Jenkins and Cyril A. Mango, “The Date and Significance of the Tenth Homily of Photius,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 9:10 (1956): 125–140, at 123.

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47 Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory, 18. 48 Marios Phillipides, trans., ed., George Sphrantzes: The Fall of the Byzantine Empire (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1980), 50, 51; and Nevra Necipoğlu, Byzantium between the Ottomans and the Latins: Politics and Society in the Late Empire (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 18. The parentheses are from Necipoglu’s translation. 49 Necipoglu, Byzantium between the Ottomans and the Latins, 18, 19; and Tonia Kiousopoulou, Emperor or Manager: Power and Political Ideology in Byzantium before 1453 (Geneva: La Pomme d’or, 2011), 131, 132. 50 Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory, 17–21. 51 Here, I am referring to Antony IV’s famous letter to Basil I, the Grand Duke of Moscow. The letter was a harsh critique of Basil’s rejection to commemorate the Byzantine Emperor in Russian churches. See for instance, David M. Nicol, “Byzantine Political Thought,” in James Henderson Burns, ed., The Cambridge History of Medieval Political Thought, c. 350-c. 1450 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 49–80, specifically 72, 73. 52 Kiousopoulou, 81–140. 53 Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2000), 23–25. 54 Quentin Van Doosselaere, Commercial Agreements and Social Dynamics in Medievla Genoa; Monique O’Connell, Men of Empire: Power and Negotiation in Venice’s Maritime State (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009); Alma Poloni, “Disciplinare la Società. Un Esperimento di Potere Nei Maggiori Comuni di Popolo Tra Due e Trecento,” Scienza & Politica. Per una Storia delle Dottrine 19:37 (2010): 33–62; and Alma Poloni, “Il Comune di Popolo e le Sue Istituzioni Tra Due e Trecento. Alcune Riflessioni a Partire dalla Storiografia dell’Ultimo Quindicennio,” Reti Medievali Rivista 13:1 (2012): 1–25. 55 The earliest surviving register is dated 1430/31, and covers the province of Albania. However, the register occasionally references an earlier one, indicating that the practice had begun earlier than the 1430s. On that see Halil İnalcık’s introductory essay in Halil İnalcık, ed., Hicrî 835 Tarihli Sûret-i Defter-i Sancak-i Arnavid (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1987). Similarly, the 1455-register for Bursa and its environs refers to a predecessor, most probably kept in the late fourteenth century. For that see Raif Kaplanoğlu, Niyazi Topçu, and Hüseyin Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defterine Göre Osmanlı Kuruluş Devri Vakıfları (Giriş-Tıpkıbasım-Çeviriyazı) (Bursa: Avrasya Etnografya Vakfı, 2014), 6–8. 56 www.loc.gov/resource/g5672m.ct000821/?r=-0.285,0.117,1.535,0.812,180 (Accessed October 9, 2019). For dating and provenance, see James E. Kelley, “The Oldest Portolan Chart in the New World,” Terrae Incognitae 9:1 (1977): 23–48. 57 Tony Campbell, “Census of Pre-Sixteenth-Century Portolan Charts,” Imago Mundi 38 (1986): 67–94. For other examples, see for instance the Carta Pisane at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, the chart attributed to Angelino Dulcert and Pietro Vesconte’s chart, both at the British Library. 58 James E. Kelly, “Perspectives on the Origins and Uses of Portolan Charts,” Cartographica 32:3 (1995): 1–16. 59 James E. Kelley, “Curious Vigias in Portolan Charts,” Cartographica 36:1 (1999): 41–49. 60 Horden and Purcell, The Corrupting Sea, 124–132. 61 See, for instance Tony Campbell, “Portolan Charts from the Late Thirteenth Century to 1500,” in J. B. Harley and David Woodward, eds., The History of Cartography: Volume One, Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 371–463; Kevin E. Sheehan, “The Functions of Portolan Maps: An Evaluation of the Utility of Manuscript Nautical Cartography from the Thirteenth through Sixteenth Centuries,” (PhD

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Flux Dissertation, Durham University, Durham, 2014); Patrick Gautier Dalché, “Cartes marines, représentation du littoral et perception de l’espace au moyen âge. Un état de la ques- tion,” in Jean-Marie Martin, ed., Castrum 7: Zones côtières littorales dans le monde méditerranéen au moyen âge: défense, peuplement, mise en valeur. Actes du colloque international organisé par l’Ecole française de Rome et la Casa de Velázquez (Rome: École française de Rome, and Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2001), 9–32; and Piero Falchetta, “The use of portolan charts in European navigation during the Middle Ages,” in Ingrid Baumgärtner and Hartmut Kugler, eds., Europa im Weltbild des Mittelalters: Kartographische Konzepte (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2008), 269–276. Sonja Brentjes, “Medieval Portolan Charts as Documents of Shared Cultural Spaces,” in Rania Abdellatif, Yassir Benhima, Daniel König, and Elisabeth Ruchaud, eds., Acteurs des transferts culturels en Méditerranée médiévale (Munich: Ateliers des Deutschen Historischen Instituts Paris, 2012), 147–156; Pietro Armienti and Angela M. Venger, “A Middle Age Qibla Finder and the Secret Code of Portolan Maps,” Journal of Cultural Heritage 29 (2018): 137–144; and most significantly, Fuat Sezgin, Mathematical Geography and Cartography in Islam and Their Continuation in the Occident, 3 Vols. (Frankfurt am Main: Institute for the History of Arabic-Islamic Science, 2000–2007). Salgirli, “Soap Bars and Silk Cocoons.” Oya Pancaroğlu, “Devotion, Hospitality and Architecture in Medieval Anatolia,” Studia Islamica 108 (2013): 48. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, A.D. 1325–1354, Vol. 2, ed. H. A. R. Gibb (New York: Routledge, 2016), 418. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, Vol. 2, 425–428. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, Vol. 2, 430, 431. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, Vol. 2, 433, 434. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, Vol. 2, 450. Ibn Battuta does not mention any relation to Sadr al-Din al-Qunawi (1207–1274), the famous Sufi mystic and philosopher. Therefore, given Ibn Battuta’s consistent emphasis on lineage, Majd al-Din could be just another Sufi from Konya. Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, Vol. 2, 450, 451. On Anatolian heterodoxy, see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Osmanlı Toplumunda Marjinal Sufilik: Kalenderiler, XIV-XVII. Yüzyıllar (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1992); Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Osmanlı Toplumunda Zındıklar ve Mülhidler, 15.-17. Yuzyıllar (Istanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 1998); and Ahmet T. Karamustafa, God’s Unruly Friends: Dervish Groups in the Islamic Later Middle Period, 1200–1550 (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1994). Ibn Battuta, The Travels of Ibn Battuta, Vol. 2, 449, 450. Çağaptay, “Prousa/Bursa,” 51–53. For the earlier dating, see Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, 49–56; and for the later dating, see Aptullah Kuran, The Mosque in Early Ottoman Architecture (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1968), 32, 33. For that see Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, 58, 59. Acar, 264–265. For Orhan’s vakfiye, see Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, 64, 65; and Hüseyin Hüsameddin, “Orhan Bey Vakfiyesi,” Türk Tarih Encümeni Mecmuası 17:94 (1926): 284–301; and for Murad I’s vakfiye, see Niyazi Topçu, “Murat Hüdavendigar’ın Bursa Vakfiyesi ve Vakıf Köyleri,” Bursa Araştırmaları 10 (2005): 46–53. For facsimiles of both, see Hasan Basri Öcalan, Sezai Sevim, and Doğan Yavas, eds., Bursa Vakfiyeleri. Vol. 1 (Bursa: Bursa Büyüks¸ehir Belediyesi, 2013), 82–118, and 169–177. On that, see Grigor Boykov, “The T-Shaped Zaviye/Imarets of Edirne: A Key Mechanism of Ottoman Urban Morphological Transformation,” Journal of the Ottoman and Turkish Studies Association 3:1 (2016): 29–48.

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80 J. Buchan Telfer, ed., with notes by P. Bruun, The Bondage and Travels of Johann Schiltberger, a Native of Bavaria, in Europe, Asia, and Africa, 1396–1427 (London: The Hakluyt Society, 1879), xv–xxix, at xxi. 81 Bruun, The Bondage and Travels of Johann Schiltberger, 34, 40. 82 Schefer, ed., Le voyage d’Outremer de Bertrandon de la Broquière, 131–135, at 133. 83 Çağaptay, “Frontierscpae,” 160, 166–172. 84 For the spolia in San Dominico, see Sağlam, 119–123. 85 Çağaptay, “Frontierscape,” 176. 86 The Genoese of Pera liberally used spolia materials, even in the construction of the walls. For that, see Sağlam, 59–62. Similarly, the church of Santa Maria di Castello in Genoa employed spolia of various origins. On that see, Ennio Poleggi, Santa Maria di Castello e il romanico a genova (Genova: Sagep Editrice, 1973), 89–109. 87 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 59 for the village of Bigados, Michael and his Muslim son Tanrıvermiş, 67 for Paşagelend the baker. In the detailed tax register of 1455, the village of Bigados is among the revenue sources of Murad I’s vakıf, and Paşagelend and his son are registered as the tenant-bakers of Murad I’s building. For the taxation of wine and grapes in the Ottoman Empire, see Neşet Çağatay, “Osmanlı İmparatorluğunda Reayadan Alınan Vergi ve Resimler,” Ankara Üniversitesi Dil ve Tarih-Coğrafya Fakültesi Dergisi 5 (1947): 483–511, at 488, 489; and Abdurrahman Vefik, Tekâlif Kavaidi (Osmanlı Vergi Sistemi) (Ankara: Maliye Bakanlığı, 1910/1999), 551–553. 88 The visual and architectural makeup of Medieval Genoa was highly composite, incorporating elements from various corners of the Mediterranean, including the Islamic world. On that, see Alireza Naser Eslami, Genova e il Mediterraneo: i reflessi d’oltremare sulla cultura artistica e l’architettura dello spazio urbano, XII-XVII secolo (Genoa: De Ferrari, 2000), 20–42. Itself being an assemblage, the Cathedral of San Lorenzo is very paradigmatic of this situation. On that and for further bibliography, see Rebeca Müller, “Visual Culture and Artistic Exchange,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 293–319, at 300–304. For the political implications of that see, Müller, “Genova vittoriosa.” 89 Ahmet Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnameleri, Vol. 2 (Istanbul: Osmanlı Araştırmaları Vakfı, 1990), 199, 200. 90 Nicolas Trépanier, Foodways and Daily Life in Medieval Anatolia: A New Social History (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2014), 46, 47. 91 Akgündüz, Osmanlı Kanunnameleri, 199, 200. 92 For the clause in Orhan’s vakfiye, see Hüsameddin, “Orhan Bey Vakfiyesi,” 290, and for Murad I’ see, Topçu, “Murat Hüdavendigar’ın Bursa Vakfiyesi,” 49, 50. 93 The most detailed study on this, paricularly on the Ottoman-Genoese commercial relations is Fleet, European and Islamic Trade. 94 For a breakdown of the holdings of Orhan’s multipurpose building according to its vakfiye, see Ayverdi, İstanbul Mimari Çağının Menşei, 64, 65. For a list based on the 1455 register, see Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 209. For Murad I’s multipurpose building see Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 281–288, and for its urban holdings, see Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 71. 95 See the map in Sağlam, 95. 96 Halil İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 1455: The Text, English Translation, Analysis of the Text, Documents (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları, 2010), 121–125, English translation at 249–255. 97 İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 99–157, 217–293. Such cases appear throughout the Pera records, but, for an example particularly relevant to this chapter, see 105, 231 for the house of Tomamiso in the neighbourhood of the Church of San Domenico. Tomamiso had moved back to Genoa, but the three shops attached to his house were on rent.

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98 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 17, 18. 99 For the construction date, see Vincenzo Promis, ed., Continuazione della cronaca di Jacopo d Varagine dal 1297 al 1332 (Genoa: R. Instituto de’ Sordo-muti, 1876), 10. This is also confirmed by an inscription, which John Covel recoded in 1670s, and F. W. Hasluck confirmed in 1904. For that see, F. W. Hasluck, “Dr. Covel’s Notes on Galata,” The Annual of the British School at Athens 11 (1904/05): 50–62, at 61. 100 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 116–123. 101 Ela Akyol, “Ortaçağ Galata’sının Kamusal Bir Yapısı”; and Sağlam, 97, 98. 102 Luisa Cavallaro, Il Palazzo del Mare, 14–21; and Robert Douglas Russell, “Vox Civitatis: Aspects of Thirteenth-Century Communal Architecture in Lombardy,” (PhD Dissertation, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ, 1988), 175–195, and 211–219. 103 George L. Gorse, “Architecture and Urban Topography,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 218–191, at 230, 231. 104 Luca Filangieri, “The Commune,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 95–119, at 112–116; Gorse, “Architecture and Urban Topography,” 231, 232; and Cabona, Palazzo San Giorgio, 44–50. 105 Topçu, “Murat Hüdavendigar’ın Bursa Vakfiyesi,” 49. 106 Sağlam, 98, 99, 103, 104. 107 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 31, 43. 108 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 31, 41, 47. 109 Sağlam, 103. 110 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 174. 111 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 153. 112 Ballard, La Romanie Genoise, 193–195; and Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 20–25, where the loggia appears as the customs house in numerous notary acts. 113 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 53. 114 On that see, Halil Salihlioğlu, “15. Yüzyıl Sonunda Bursa’da Dokumacı Köleler,” Atatürk Yıllık Konferansları VIII, 1975–76 (Ankara: TTK, 1983), 217–229; Halil Salihlioğlu, “Slaves in the Economic and Social Life of Bursa in the Late 15th and Early 16th Centuries,” in Halil Salihlioğlu, Studies on Ottoman Economic and Social History (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1999), 105–174; and Halil İnalcık, “15. Asır Türkiye İktisadî ve İçtimaî Tarihi Kaynakları,” İstanbul Üniversitesi İktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası 15:1–4 (1953): 51–75. 115 Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 32. 116 İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, for Costa the porter, see 133, 263; and for Nicola the tailor, see 117, 246. 117 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 32. 118 Johannes Preiser-Kapeller, “Liquid Frontiers: A Relational Analysis of Maritime Asia Minor as a Religious Contact Zone in the Thirteenth-Fifteenth Centuries,” in A. C. S. Peacock and Bruno De Nicola, eds., Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia (London: Routledge, 2015), 117–145.

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Poleggi, Ennio, Santa Maria di Castello e il romanico a genova (Genova: Sagep Editrice, 1973), 89–109. ———, “Il rinnovamento edilizio genovese e i magistri Antelami nel secolo XV,” Arte Lombarda 11:2 (1966): 53–68. Poloni, Alma, “Disciplinare la Società. Un Esperimento di Potere Nei Maggiori Comuni di Popolo Tra Due e Trecento,” Scienza & Politica. Per una Storia delle Dottrine 19:37 (2010): 33–62. ———, “Il Comune di Popolo e le Sue Istituzioni Tra Due e Trecento. Alcune Riflessioni a Partire dalla Storiografia dell’Ultimo Quindicennio,” Reti Medievali Rivista 13:1 (2012): 1–25. Preiser-Kapeller, Johannes, “Liquid Frontiers: A Relational Analysis of Maritime Asia Minor as a Religious Contact Zone in the Thirteenth-Fifteenth Centuries,” in A. C. S. Peacock and Bruno De Nicola, eds., Islam and Christianity in Medieval Anatolia (London: Routledge, 2015), 117–145. Robbins, Hollis, “The Emperor’s New Critique,” New Literary History 34:4 (2003): 659–675. Russell, Robert Douglas, “Vox Civitatis: Aspects of Thirteenth-Century Communal Architecture in Lombardy,” (PhD Dissertation, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ, 1988). Sağlam, Sercan, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata & an Architectural Inventory Study for the Genoese Colonial Territories in Asia Minor,” (PhD Dissertation, Politecnico di Milano, Milan, 2018). Salgirli, Saygin, “Soap Bars and Silk Cocoons: Microecologies of Connectivity in Late Medieval Mediterranean Architecture,” Journal of Early Modern Studies 23 (2019): 121–151. Salihlioğlu, Halil, “15. Yüzyıl Sonunda Bursa’da Dokumacı Köleler,” Atatürk Yıllık Konferansları VIII, 1975–76 (Ankara: TTK, 1983). ———, “Slaves in the Economic and Social Life of Bursa in the Late 15th and Early 16th Centuries,” in Halil Salihlioğlu, ed., Studies on Ottoman Economic and Social History (Istanbul: IRCICA, 1999), 105–174. Sevim, Sezai, “Bursa’nın Yitik Hanları ve Kapan Han,” Bursa’da Yaşam (July, 2009): 26–33. ———, “Bursa Çarşısında Kapan Hanı,” in Çarşının Öyküsü-Bursa (Bursa: Bursa Büyükşehir Belediyesi Kültür, Sanat ve Turizm Vakfı, 2010), 293–403. Sezgin, Fuat, Mathematical Geography and Cartography in Islam and Their Continuation in the Occident, 3 Vols. (Frankfurt am Main: Institute for the History of Arabic-Islamic Science, 2000–2007). Sheehan, Kevin E., “The Functions of Portolan Maps: An Evaluation of the Utility of Manuscript Nautical Cartography from the Thirteenth through Sixteenth Centuries,” (PhD Dissertation, Durham University, Durham, 2014). Sundt, Richard A., “The Jacobin Church of Toulouse and the Origin of Its Double-Nave Plan,” The Art Bulletin 71:2 (1989): 185–207. Trépanier, Nicolas, Foodways and Daily Life in Medieval Anatolia: A New Social History (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2014). Uysal, A. Osman, “Zaviyeli Camilerde Minare Problemi,” Türk Etnografya Dergisi 20 (1997): 47–63. Van Doosselaere, Quentin, Commercial Agreements and Social Dynamics in Medievla Genoa; Monique O’Connell, Men of Empire: Power and Negotiation in Venice’s Maritime State (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009).

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Westphalen, Stephan, “Pittori greci nella chiesa domenicana dei Genovesi a Pera (Arap Camii),” in Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo, and Gerhard Wolf, eds., Intorno as Sacro Volto: Genova, Bisanzio a il Mediterraneo (secoli xi-xiv) (Venice: Marsilio, 2007), 51–62. Zoni, Federico, “Le maestranze antelamiche nella Liguria di ponente. Diffusione dell’Opus Quadratum tra XII e XIII secolo,” Archeologia dell’Architettura 18 (2013): 229–244. ———, “Magistri antelami tra Genova, Liguria di ponente e Ventimiglia. Attestazioni documentarie e alcune considerazioni (secoli XII-XIII),” Intemelion 19 (2013): 5–22.

Websites www.loc.gov/resource/g5672m.ct000821/?r=-0.285,0.117,1.535,0.812,180

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The dawn had broken with enchanting fragrances into a beautiful spring day. Underneath a blossoming tree, the woman comforted herself on silken cushions. The soothing melodies of the nightingales travelled across fields carpeted with daffodils and tulips. Surrounded by so many distractions, she lost complete interest in the object she was contemplating, and started to converse with her three companions. She was expecting a child very soon and, as it happened, the whole universe was waiting along with her. In a euphoric mood, the woman listened to one of her companions talk about the alignment of Jupiter and Venus with Taurus on the rise, and the unusually blooming arrival of the spring. They all indicated that the woman was going to have a son, and that son was going to be a great man. Indeed, not long after that stolen day in the meadows, she gave birth to a boy. He was named İskender, but having born with two strands of hair hanging from his temples almost like horns, he came to be known as Zü’l-Karneyn, “He of the Two Horns.” Such is the prose adaptation of the verses describing the birth of Alexander the Great in the first Turkish version of an İskendername (Book of Alexander), composed by the Ottoman poet Ahmedī between the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries. And such is the painting of four women enjoying a spring day, which appears right before the birth story in an illustrated copy of the poem, completed in 1416 in the Central Anatolian town of Amasya as the first painted Ottoman manuscript (Figure 4.1).1 From its textual contents to the composition of its individual paintings and their placement in the manuscript, the illustrated copy of Ahmedī’s İskendername, now at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, is one peculiar assemblage. It may appear unusual to begin the final chapter of a book on architecture by discussing an illustrated manuscript, but as it will become clear in the following pages there is a strong resonance between the Paris İskendername and how architecture has been conceptualized in the present book. Ahmedī wrote the entirety of his epic poem in the ‘arūz meter of fā’ilātün/ fā’ilātün/fā’ilün, including the İskendername-proper, which he finished in 1390, and the addendum on Ottoman history completed in 1411, under the patronage of Prince Suleyman.2 As Gibb noted more than a century ago, although Ahmedī’s work is entitled İskendername, it is not a Turkish translation of Nizāmī’s Eskandar-Nâmeh. The story structure of the poem is mostly based on the relevant

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Figure 4.1 Ahmedī’s Iskendername, the scene preceding the birth of Alexander, fol. 19a, manuscript dated to 1416, Turc 309 Source: BnF, Paris, France.

sections of Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, but it significantly diverges even from that with additions and alterations.3 In that sense, although Ahmedī’s poem is based on or inspired by the Sahahnameh and the Eskandar-Nâmeh, and although it incorporates certain elements from both, it is a new assemblage, where the story of Alexander operates as a skeleton around which world history, and various moralizing, philosophical, and astronomical commentaries are structured.4 The final section of the manuscript, the addendum on Ottoman history, has an equally composite structure. The verses on earlier Ottoman history up to Ahmedī’s own time are most probably based on the now-lost account of Yahşi Fakih, which seems to have been the source for numerous early Ottoman chroniclers.5 On the other hand, since Yahşi Fakih’s prose is translated into verses in the ‘arūz meter and continued in the same manner by Ahmedī’s own words, just as the İskendername-proper, the historical addendum is a new assemblage, making the whole text one big assemblage of styles, forms, and content. More importantly, Ahmedī completed the final historical section of the manuscript under Prince Suleyman’s patronage while the three Ottoman princes, Suleyman, Musa,

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and Mehmed, were fighting for the Ottoman throne following their father Sultan Bayezid I’s defeat against Timur’s Mongol forces and his subsequent captivity (Battle of Ankara, 1402).6 More importantly because, a text written under Prince Suleyman’s patronage and expectedly so full of praises for the prince was illustrated in Amasya, in the court of Mehmed I after he had eliminated all his rivals and had become the new Ottoman sultan; and in the same year that the largest rebellion in early Ottoman history that threatened the very existence of the sultanate was either still ongoing, or recently suppressed.7 The illustrations of the Paris İskendername are perhaps even more intriguing. The painting shortly described above depicts four women enjoying a bright spring day in the country. Indicating the season is the blossoming tree at the centre of the composition, under which a woman comfortably rests on cushions while holding an unidentifiable object. A second woman to the left of the frame addresses her with a pointed index finger, as the woman on the cushions turns to the opposite direction and converses with the rest of the group. The painting is significantly damaged, so neither the faces of the women nor what the central figure is holding in her hands are clear. The arrangement of the figures suggests a narrative sequence that begins with the woman on the left, who seems to have just delivered a message to the one at the centre, who then relays that message to the remaining two women and promptly receives their responses. Spacious red borders decorated with flowers and cherry blossoms harmoniously complete the painting into a joyous ensemble, leaving the viewers suspended with anticipation as to what news the woman on the cushions might have received. Strangely though, unlike my adaptation above, the text that follows the painting does not mention any women. The only section of it that might be related to the painting are the verses where a visitor informs King Philip of Macedonia about the birth of his son with references to the alignment of the planets and the stars.8 Then, why did the artist make such an unusual choice? Simply because, the artist who painted the spring gathering of four women had no idea that his painting was going to be used in relation to these particular verses on the birth of İskender. There are twenty paintings and one astronomical chart in the Paris İskendername, but only three of the paintings and the astronomical chart were specifically produced for the manuscript. The rest were sourced from fourteenth-century Persian manuscripts and pasted onto the pages. Based on stylistic grounds, Esin Atil has separated these into two broad categories. According to his analysis, seven came from fourteenth-century Ilkhanid manuscripts, and most likely from the so-called “small” Shahnamehs. Nine display close affinity with the red-background style of manuscripts produced in Shiraz under the Inju dynasty. And, one is a collage composed of cut-outs from both sources.9 In fact, as Serpil Bağcı has noted, such collages appear more than once in the manuscript, and they combine fragments from different manuscripts with the İskendername artist’s own paintings, often with remarkable accuracy in representing the relevant verses.10 This practice is most clearly visible in one of the two scenes that Bağcı discusses, which depicts İskender’s voyages in the Indian Ocean prior to his arrival on Rayic Island (fol. 134b). A single painting of an enthroned ruler with courtly

212 Unrest attendants was pasted onto a boat painted by the İskendername artist and supplemented by one smaller figure from a different manuscript, while additional small individual figures were used to fill the boats on the foreground, also painted by the İskendername artist. Since then, these latter figures have fallen off, hence exposing the steps by which the image was produced. Although scholars have so far agreed on the provenance of the cut-and-paste images, they have not paid much attention to the three original paintings, which is understandable given their highly, and very probably intentionally, damaged state. Still, however, it is possible to observe, even with a quick glance, their undeniable compositional and stylistic departure from all other paintings and cut-out fragments. Only one of the original paintings makes the slightest effort to align itself with Inju paintings by employing a similarly red background (fol. 295b), while the rest are set against green backgrounds (fol. 117b and fol. 296a). Each of the original paintings depicts a group of riders – large enough to almost completely fill the frame, linearly progressing from right to left. The first of these (fol. 117b) is a hunting scene, and there is no doubt that it was specifically painted for the following verses on İskender’s hunt in India (Figure 4.2). İskender leads the group in a red tunic, riding a black horse with jewel speckled golden tack. His empty quiver – also golden and jewelled – dangles from his belt as he draws his bow and aims at a now-erased animal in the distant background. Right behind İskender is his falconer, followed by another rider. Painted in brown and dotted with red flowers, a hill, or a large tree, in the form of a curvilinear triangle covers the lower left corner of the frame. In the foreground, a hound dog is unsuccessfully trying to climb the steep hill, perhaps in pursuit of a hare; or it is simply barking up the tree. The quick glance that easily distinguishes the three original paintings from the rest is a dangerous glance, because it also encourages their dismissal for being too rudimentary.11 Notwithstanding the fact that an anachronistic valuation such as “too rudimentary” should not exclude a painting from art historical analysis, a closer observation reveals startling details. Take the dog in the foreground of the hunting scene for instance. Executed with confident and continuous brush strokes and with accurate anatomical details, we are looking at a remarkably well-painted dog, convincing us in its failing effort in upward mobility. The same is also true for the falcon and the horses; and as İskender slightly bends and draws his bow, in the stylized tensity of his body, we can almost feel the reverse pull of the string. The remaining two paintings are full of equally surprising details. Consider the second one (with the red background), for instance. The leading rider holding a mace must be none other than Murad I, as the scene depicts Murad’s campaign against the Karamanids. Murad was painted as a bearded man, and his beard was not simply indicated by the application of a brown patch of paint, but detailed with black lines to reveal the individual hairs. Finally, in the third painting with four irregularly spaced riders, where the leading rider is once again Murad I, the artist has shrunk the horses to carousel-sizes so as to fit them into the frame, but he has also spaced the figures in such a fashion that the whole composition produces an illusion of depth unseen in any of the other images in the entirety of the manuscript. In this third original painting, we also see the clearest example of

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Figure 4.2 Ahmedī’s Iskendername, Alexander’s hunt in India, fol. 117b, manuscript dated to 1416, Turc 309 Source: BnF, Paris, France.

214 Unrest another intention. The second and the fourth riders are wearing chainmail armours under their tunics and helmets, and like all other figures in the three paintings, the colours and decorations of their costumes recognizably distinguish them from the Ilkhanid and Injuid characters in the manuscript. In other words, the artist seems to have paid particular attention to separate his paintings from the cut-out images not just in composition and style, but also in the articulation of the costumes, so that it would become obvious that his paintings belonged to a different milieu. It should be clear that I have no intention to praise the artist of the three paintings, or to replace a negative anachronistic valuation with a positive one. However, such closer observation of the paintings leads to two important points, which, although being important in and of themselves, also serve as the portal that links the Paris İskendername to architecture. First of all, in all their aspects, the three original paintings of the manuscript represent a practice of painting that is never repeated in Ottoman art, not even in the court of Mehmed II, where, through patronage, collection, and the individual incentive of the artists, an exceptionally diverse visual culture had emerged; just as the multi-purpose building of Murad I was never repeated in Ottoman architecture.12 Secondly, although my intention is not to praise the artist of the three paintings, given what he was able to accomplish, he, and the artist who painted the boats in the Indian Ocean and the tomb of İskender in the final collage of the manuscript (fol. 333a) could not have been the same person; just as the designers and the masons of the San Domenico could not have been the same people. This is not a statement in favour of distinctions based on ability, but a proposition to recognize assemblage as a multiplicity of the different. Regardless of intention, from its text to its images, the Paris İskendername is precisely that, an assemblage. And, it is also a plane onto which the arguments of this book can be laid out. The text of the İskendername is an epic poem, and it is structured according to a metric measure that transforms the narrative into a sequence of verses, demanding, with a vertical assertion, a particular regime of reading. As you follow the sequence, you encounter paintings appearing aberrantly and in sporadic rhythms, with no loyalty to the ‘arūz meter. Each such image is a manifestation of rupture, bending time and space with multiple temporal and spatial genealogies, sometimes supplementing and sometimes contradicting the text that it follows. The text is completely oblivious to their presence, they appear with no foreseeable order, and there is no big Image that surpasses the others and completes the manuscript. And, with each aberrant manifestation of an image, the tightly structured ‘arūz regime of the text, its seemingly unbreakable sequentiality opens to new interpretations and onto new planes. At the same time, in its content and structure, the text is significantly different from all iterations of the Eskandar-Nâmeh/Shahnameh genre. In addition to its divergences with regard to storyline, the İskendername incorporates long commentaries on philosophy, astronomy, and religion and morality, and concludes with a section on Ottoman history. Furthermore, although its ‘arūz meter is particular to Arabic grammar and syntax, and its harmony best reveals itself in Arabic, Ahmedī freely adapts it to Turkish, simultaneously transforming certain aspects

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of the meter and of Turkish language. In other words, the text operates in flux, with multidirectional movements from content to content, and although the overall structure of its rhythm is metric, Ahmedī subtly bends the rigidity of its rhythm to satisfy his own needs. Needless to say, the images, whether collages, single cut-outs, or genuinely painted for the İskendername similarly operate in flux, as open structures encouraging and facilitating new movements and interpretations, whether in support of the text or not. Therefore, the assemblage that the manuscript is governmentalizes the assertive verticality of the metric measure into a horizontally expansive plane of multidirectional movements and possibilities, but without eliminating or replacing it. Hence, it also demonstrates the fluctuations between the three modalities of movement and their corresponding rhythms that I have so far discussed. But, there is still one more chapter to be added to the story. The illustrated copy of Ahmedī’s İskendername was produced for Mehmed I, in his temporary court in Amasya. Before it reached the Bibliothèque Nationale, in fact, before it was digitized and made available for anyone with internet access, it must have had a relatively solitary life, enjoyed by a limited circle in and around the Ottoman court, and then by an equally limited number of specialists in Ottoman art. Appreciating it as an assemblage of multidirectional movements and possibilities was the privilege of a select few. Similarly, it required a certain privilege to perceive the Ottoman buildings of Bursa (or the Genoese buildings of Pera) as assemblages of architectonic and decorative elements with multiple genealogies, and as parts of a Mediterranean-wide assemblage. Yet, as I argued in the conclusion of the previous chapter, since the operations of buildings in flux were primarily governmental, since their multidirectional movements with subtle rhythms intended to manage relationships among people and between people and their microecologies, the local and trans-regional extensions of the buildings allowed highly localized experiences of architecture to fluctuate across the Mediterranean, and made possible a different conceptualization of architectural connectivity. What then happens if we look at the Paris İskendername in its capacity to extend beyond its format as a book, as an assemblage not confined to text and image, to style and content? In the extensions of the book, just as in the extensions of architecture, there are lives and experiences, and events. Some of the events are major, recorded in chronicles and retold in modern historical narratives. Others are too minor to receive the attention of record keepers, but because they are so full of mundane experiences, they are also firmly anchored in life. As I have discussed in the second chapter, this book is more concerned with the minor event, with rupture, which has always been in the blind spot of authorities; and less with the big Event, which, historically important as it may be, is simply an intensification of the minor. Unfolding from the pages of the Paris İskendername, there is one such big Event, the Rebellion of 1416, which in its magnitude and geographical expanse, and in the composition of its participants was the fifteenth-century equivalent of the Babai Rebellion. It is almost impossible to think about the Ottoman world in the early fifteenth century without considering the Rebellion of 1416.

216 Unrest To side track slightly, but intentionally, there is another big Event in the extensions of another manuscript, and this time a true celebrity compared to the relative obscurity of the Paris İskendername: the Très Riches Heures of the Duke of Berry, its original paintings completed also in 1416 by the Limbourg Brothers. As Jonathan Alexander has convincingly argued, the paintings of the Très Riches Heures are truly rich with subtle critiques of the peasantry, depicting them as vulgar subjects, who should not aspire to anything other than performing their ascribed roles as labourers, and not without a reason.13 In the 1380s, when the Duke John of Berry was acting as the Royal Lieutenant General in the Languedoc, the whole region, including Toulouse, was swept by the Tuchin Rebellion, an uprising organized and participated by not just peasants, but multitudes from all walks of life who had either already transgressed their legal status as commoners, or had rebelled to do so.14 Just as it is almost impossible to think about the Ottoman world in the early fifteenth century without considering the Rebellion of 1416, it is almost impossible to think about the Languedoc in the late fourteenth century without the Tuchin Rebellion. Admittedly, unlike the Très Riches Heures, the extensions of the Paris İskendername do not spring from any immediately discernible visual reference to the big event, but such direct visual rapport is not the point here. If the big event is simply an intensification of the minor, and if the minor event as rupture has always-already been present but remained invisible to the authorities, then it must have been present in flux as well. In fact, just as rupture was already present in sequence, and just as sequence continued its operations in flux, it is impossible to conceive of the three movements and their corresponding rhythms as separate, or as following one another in a chronological order. They coexisted in continuous fluctuations, simultaneously producing not a fourth movement, but a new plane, a new dimension: unrest. The movements of unrest are as aberrant as those of rupture, and as multidirectional as those of flux. Its rhythms are no less sporadic than those of rupture, and equal in their subtlety to the rhythms of flux. Unrest exists alongside sequence, just as flux did, and it responds to sequence, just as rupture did. As such, rather than being a distinct forth movement, it is a dimension that flattens and bridges all movements across a plane where any singular meaning that can be attached to architecture is perpetually destabilized. The characteristic of unrest is yet again related to mutation, but this time it is not the buildings that mutate, but the multitudes. Rather than aiming to replace their rulers, or to become rulers themselves, the multitudes choose “not to be governed as such,” and build a different life of different experiences on such a minor scale that the authorities are unknowingly cast out into an imaginary where they believe themselves to be victorious, where they believe themselves to be still the rulers. In other words, instead of targeting their sovereigns, the multitudes target the relations that the sovereigns manage, whether in sequence with the vertical exercise of authority, or horizontally with the flux of governmentality. With such molecular transformation of relations, architecture can no longer have an intended meaning, because any meaning it wished to convey to the multitudes was transmitted through its extensions, through the

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movements it facilitated and the relations it managed. And now, that transmission and the multitudes were on different frequencies. In the following pages that conclude this book, I am going to revisit the buildings introduced in the previous chapter, and discuss them from the angle of localized experiences. The story will begin in Toulouse, at the Church of the Jacobins, and continue with the Dominican friar Guillaume Bernard de Gaillac’s journey from Toulouse to Pera. Based on Guillaume Bernard’s and his fellow friars’ activities there, the narrative will move on to an analysis of the Church of San Domenico. Then, starting with a minor friction between the Dominicans and the Genoese of Pera, the remainder of the chapter will move back and forth between Bursa and Pera, between the multipurpose building of Murad I and the Palazzo Comunale to finally connect back to Toulouse, and wrap up the chapter and the book with a proposal for an alternative way of thinking about Mediterranean architecture and architectural connectivity.

If on an autumn night a Dominican November 1235, the first Tuesday after the feast of All Saints, Toulouse: panicstricken and sweating in defiance of the chilly evening, the doorkeeper of the Church of the Jacobins hasted into the austere nave.15 Completed within just six years between 1229 and 1235, this was a rectangular church without an apse, and it was forty-six metres long and twenty-two metres wide. Its timber roofed nave was longitudinally divided into two unequal sections with a row of piers, in a manner reminiscent of the fifteenth-century Hospital of the Knights of St. John in Rhodes.16 The southern section, where the doorkeeper was shaking in terror, was reserved for the congregation and it was a little over eleven metres wide, while the friars’ section to the north, segregated with screens set between the piers, had a breadth of nine metres (Figure 4.3).17 As he stepped into the cloister through a door on the northern wall of the nave, the doorkeeper could faintly hear the murmurs coming from the refectory. The hours were said and the friars had sat down to dinner. The doorkeeper entered the refectory and informed the prior that a mob, composed of townspeople, consuls, and militia was demanding the gates to be opened immediately. The Dominicans were about to be expelled from Toulouse. The friars already knew about this possibility, and had entrusted all the books, chalices and ecclesiastical robes to their allies. The prior met the mob in a desperate attempt to reason with the consuls, so that the friars could at least be allowed to finish their meal. Staunchly rejecting the proposal, the mob broke into the church, whereupon the prior rang the bell, and forty or so friars walked into the nave chanting Miserere mei Deus.18 Replace the friars with students, the chants with slogans, and the remainder of friar William Pelhisson’s account futuristically reads like the police crackdown of an occupy protest: the prior trying to pull a sit-in, two friars laying down at the gates of the convent refusing to be moved, and others continuously chanting throughout the events. And finally, all friars, grabbed by the arms and head and feet, are first dragged out of the convent, then out of Toulouse.19 Yet, such a

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Figure 4.3 The Church of the Jacobins, view toward the apse, 1335, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

superficial similarity should not cloud the fact that circumstances in Toulouse in 1235 were radically different, and the roles were almost diametrically opposite. The expulsion of the Dominicans in 1235 was the intensification of a series of acts of resistance, including violent assaults, which were in response to the ruthless inquisitions that the friars were conducting in and outside Toulouse. As I have discussed in the second chapter, when the Dominicans returned to Toulouse, there was no change in their attitude. To the contrary, their inquisitions were now even more focused on the elimination of consular power. During this early period, until about 1245, the Church of the Jacobins remained unchanged as a modest rectangular building, and served as the friars’ base of operations. The part of the nave reserved for the congregation was spacious enough to function as a preaching hall, and the convent was coincidentally, but nonetheless strategically situated, with the northern wall of its cloister terminating at the Saracen Wall separating the city from the bourg. The location of the convent must have provided the Dominicans with a sense of security in this highly hostile town, although, as the events of November 1235 demonstrated, this eventually turned out to be a huge misjudgement. There is no doubt that the extensions of the Church of the Jacobins into the broader Toulousan microecology moved with a clear sovereign attitude. The Dominicans

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were determined to seek out and destroy heresy wherever it might have been, and the initial tactics they employed were the centuries old methods of the Church: excommunication, confiscation of property, exile, and burning, including posthumous burnings. However, even in their early years in Toulouse, and even though they tended to exercise their authority as vertically as a sovereign, there was an element of horizontality, an aspect of flux in the friars’ operations, including the financing and planning of their church. The life of a Dominican in Toulouse, whether on an autumn night or not, was one of poverty, hardship, and perpetual suffering; that is, if you take friar William Pelhisson’s words at face value.20 However, despite all the difficulties the friars must have admittedly faced, they had such an extraordinary ability in network building that the Dominican ideal of voluntary poverty became a very loosely defined concept, even for the Dominicans themselves.21 Already evident in the episode above, their network in Toulouse included, on the one hand, informants so well-embedded in consular circles that the friars learned about the conspiracy to expel them well in advance, and they had allies loyal enough to entrust with some of the most precious belongings of the convent. On the other hand, there, within the same network, was arguably the richest man in Toulouse at the time: Pons de Capitedenario, a notorious usurer, but at the same time a supporter of the Church and of religious orders.22 In September 1229, Pons de Capitedenario purchased few parcels of land by the Saracen Wall for a substantial sum of money, and donated the lot to the Dominicans as the future site of their convent and church; a gesture that elevated Pons, at least in the eyes of the inquisitor Bernard Gui, to the prestigious level of “patron of the order.”23 Therefore, the story of the Church of the Jacobins began with no reliance on sequential extraction of revenues, and no reliance on land appropriation through the vertical exercise of sovereign authority. It was made possible by the Dominicans’ ability to infiltrate the transformed microecology of Toulouse. The Church of the Jacobins that stands today was once believed to be the original building completed in 1235, which had seen only minor alterations in the fourteenth century.24 In 1955, however, Maurice Prin’s archaeological studies revealed four construction phases, making the present church the product of the last. Between 1245 and 1252, the rectangular church with two unequal naves and a wooden roof was significantly extended with a choir that was slightly wider than the nave itself and approximately two-thirds of its length (Toulouse II). In this first renovation, the division of the nave did not continue along the choir, and the altar seems to have remained in the eastern edge of the friars’ section of the nave, located where once the nave terminated. In the third building campaign, which lasted from 1245 to 1292, the choir was divided into two equal halves with an elaborate technique. Two equally spaced round piers (as opposed to the square pillars of the nave) were set along the length of the first bay of the choir. A third round pier, located farther into the choir, at the centre of the third bay, was used as the stem for the ribs that fanned out like an intricate web and vaulted the full expanse of the choir from the second pier to the east-end (Toulouse III) (Figure 4.4). Yet, despite the presence of such a lavish,

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Figure 4.4 The Church of the Jacobins, choir vaulting, 1335, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

almost flamboyant choir, the location of the altar did not change. Finally, between 1325 and 1335, the nave was completely raised down and rebuilt as an equally divided and rib-vaulted vessel, which produced an architectonically and stylistically unified space, but the altar still remained where it originally was (Toulouse IV).25 The three building campaigns between 1245 and 1335, especially the final one, must have been highly expensive. It was once again primarily the Dominican networks among the Toulousan rich that financed the campaigns and brought in additional land donations.26 However, the friars’ horizontal flux into the Toulousan microecology continuously oscillated with their vertical exercise of authority as inquisitors. It is very likely that the confiscated goods and properties of the Toulousans condemned as heretics made up part of the funding for the successive rebuilding of the Church of the Jacobins.27 Especially the inquisition of 1245– 1246, in and of itself, is a demonstration of such oscillations. Until 1245, the inquisitors had to travel to Toulousan parishes and conduct their interrogations in places unfamiliar to them, with the assistance of local authorities whom they did not know.28 In 1245, the reversal of this practice by which thousands of people were summoned to the cloister of Saint-Sernin was

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an unmistakable display of vertical sovereign authority. However, the sentences that the Dominican inquisitors Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre passed demonstrated their intimate understanding of the new social realities of Toulouse. The inquisitors announced that they had found 207 people guilty of heresy. Of these, only twenty-three were condemned to imprisonment for life. The rest were ordered to wear two yellow crosses, one on the shoulder and another on the breast. They had to attend Mass and vespers on Sundays and feast days, and they had to make it clear to everyone that all of their actions, until death, were acts of penance.29 Wearing two yellow crosses for life was nothing but absolute social isolation. It implied that nobody would have any dealings with the condemned either socially or commercially. This was precisely the punishment that the consuls had suggested to Bernard of Clairvaux exactly one hundred years ago. Within the mere fifteen years of their presence in town, the Dominicans had learned how life moved in Toulouse. The oddities in the planning, spatial arrangement, and use of the Church of the Jacobins seem to have been similarly related to how Dominican practices fluctuated between vertical exercise of sovereign authority and horizontal flux. The double-nave plan of the church, the most obvious of its peculiarities, has been under scrutiny for more than eight decades. Raymond Rey proposed the Church of St.-Sauveur in Rocamadour as a potential model, which had a similarly doublenave plan, while Wolfgang Schenkluhn opted for the Dominican convent in Paris, where both the church and the refectory had double naves.30 Élie Lambert, on the other hand, argued that refectories, not churches must have been the inspiration, especially the refectory of the Cistercian Abbey of Royaumont; but, he continued, a significant reason behind the Dominicans’ choice to segregate themselves from the congregation was the hostility of the Toulousans.31 Finally, Richard A. Sundt claimed that because of financial constraints and the irregularity of the land donated to them, the Dominicans had found the double-nave plan as the most efficient way to vault the most spacious church they could have built.32 However, the really interesting question is not why the church was initially built with two naves. It could have been because the Dominicans followed an earlier model. It could have been because of financial constraints. It could have been because of the hostilities they faced. Or, it could have been because of a combination of all these factors. The more interesting questions to ask are: why did the nave remain divided: a) while it obviously provided no security for the friars; b) despite the availability of more than adequate funds in the following decades, particularly in the fourth building campaign, which would have allowed the Dominicans to choose any vaulting technique they liked;33 c) despite the fact that the friars never preached in the church until the 1250s, and all those who came to the church were their lay allies attending Masses, asking for confessions, and requesting burial rites?34 Similarly, why did the altar remain in its original location, completely separating the architectural and liturgical focal points of the church, while there were lay people attending the Mass? And finally, why didn’t the Dominicans use the spacious and lavish choir as their section of the church, which they had done in Strasbourg, where they had comparable disputes with the

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wealthy burghers of the town, and where their church had not only two naves, but also two aisles?35 There are no accounts or documents which detail the choices that the Dominicans made in planning their church in Toulouse. Therefore, in order to answer these questions, albeit with some considerable speculation, we need to ask one more question. What would the unusual planning, spatial arrangement and use of the church have achieved to make them so indispensable for the Dominicans? One of the features of the Church of the Jacobins that never changed was the location of the western portal, which opened to the southern part of the nave reserved for the congregation. After the fourth building campaign was completed, the Toulousans who stepped into the church, whether with friendly or hostile intentions, would have found themselves demarcated with a line of pillars, and iron grills set between them (Figure 4.5). There are no indications to suggest that their view into the elaborately vaulted choir was similarly blocked with screens, but one thing is certain: the altar, which was located not in the choir but in the friars’ section of the nave in the north, was definitely invisible to the congregation.36 The decree of the general chapter in 1249 is very clear on the absolute necessity to segregate the friars from the lay congregation with screens, and as Sundt also observes, the wording strongly suggests that the decree was issued to regulate an already existing practice, rather than to implement a new one.37 The grooves that were drilled to hold the screens are still visible on the pillars today. It is impossible to know whether the screens in 1235 were iron grills as well, or simple curtains, but the expulsion of the Dominicans in November 1235 clearly demonstrates that whatever they were made of, the screens served no security purpose. On the other hand, if segregation as such was the concern, why not use the choir for that purpose – the purpose that it served in almost any other church, and maintain the integrity of the liturgical and architectural focal points?38 Faced with a two-nave problem, perhaps the solution requires a Holmesian intervention, with a slight twist. All possible explanations for the continued division of the nave, the unchanging location of the altar, and the spatial use of the Church of the Jacobins fail. It was not for security, it was not because of financial constraints, and it was not for segregation for the sake of segregation. All explanations fail, except one: the Church of the Jacobins segregated not necessarily the friars, but the laity, and in a manner that was unprecedented in any other church in and around Toulouse. The hierarchical social divide between the laity and the clergy is inscribed into the very fabric of church architecture, manifested in the perfect overlap between program and form. It is a verticality that translates into the axial arrangement of the interior space from the portal to the altar. In predetermined intervals set according to its own calendar, the church fills its space with the sequences of the liturgy toward and in the choir, which is always separated with screens, whether they are modest, or utterly monumental, almost architectural. There is one anticipated experience, and no room for surprises, except in the Church of the Jacobins. The Dominican church of Toulouse disrupts, breaks, and rearranges the chronic movements and rhythms of a typical church into an experience that is vertical

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Figure 4.5 The Church of the Jacobins, groves for the screens separating the two sections of the nave, 1335, Toulouse, France Source: photograph by the author.

and sequential on the one hand, and horizontal and subtly aberrant on the other. In their own section of the nave, the friars progressed to the altar and held Mass in sequences. However, none of that sequentiality, perhaps with the exception of its auditory component, was accessible to the laity. They did not experience the

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hierarchical distinction between themselves and the friars through a spatial verticality marked with a horizontal divide (altar and choir inside a segregated apse) and its ceremonial component (the liturgy). The apse of the Church of the Jacobins had no liturgical function. Other than its elaborate vaulting, it had no quality to direct the movement and the gaze of the laity. The only exception would have been Dominican preaching, and only if they preached from the apse and not from the screen door that opened to their section of the nave. In that respect, as they faced the screens set between the pillars, lay people experienced their segregation through a spatial horizontality that was marked with the vertical division of the nave. Moreover, for those who received communion, spatial rearrangement of the church was matched with an equally disruptive rearrangement of movements. They first moved horizontally into the friars’ section of the nave, and then progressed vertically toward the altar; that is, from a space where their presence and movements were relatively unregulated, they meandered into the highly regulated domain of the friars, where movements were further restrained according to liturgical requirements. The particular articulation of space in the Church of the Jacobins might have easily resulted from financial and structural constraints, but the continued application of the same scheme even when such constraints were no longer present strongly points toward a practical relevance that the Dominicans could not forego. Although the Dominicans would not have expressed it in the same terms, I argue that the vertically divided nave of their church and the way they used it smoothly overlapped with how they operated in Toulouse at large. There were continuous fluctuations between the Dominicans’ vertical exercise of sovereign authority as inquisitors and their horizontal networking in Toulouse, which allied them with some of the wealthiest residents of the town. Similar fluctuations were imbedded into the layout of their church, too. The Church of the Jacobins did not dictate a strict vertical experience as in a regular church, but it also did not provide an open, egalitarian space. It segregated the laity with no definite imposition on their movements, but then allowed them into the friars’ section of the nave in liturgical sequences, hence merging multiple movements and rhythms with multiple experiences. The intention must have been to expand the Dominican network as widely as possible, while at the same emphasizing the friars’ position as the defenders of orthodoxy, and that of the laity as potential heretics, always under suspicion. In other words, the Church of the Jacobins was an assemblage symptomatic of the varied techniques and strategies the friars employed as their modus operandi, which was also reflected on the exterior of the church. The Church of the Jacobins is relatively modest in size. Its nave height is just over twenty metres, which ranks it lower than most of its near contemporaries at a time when height rather than length had become the ground for competition. Lacking external decorations and being built of red brick, the most common construction material in Toulouse, it is also an inconspicuous structure, easily blending into the urban landscape of Toulouse. However, certain features of the church strikingly contrast with its cloaked garb, making it reminiscent of spies in

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old cartoons, dressed in trench coats and fedora hats, and peeking through the eye holes in their newspapers, undercover but obvious. The west facade of the Church of the Jacobins terminates in three turrets, connected with crenelated arcades. The engaged buttresses, rising between the high and slender lancet windows, similarly turn into crenulations as they extend above the roof line. The recognition of the church as what it is, beyond merely just another brick facade in Toulouse, requires a vertical gaze, and as eyes follow the upward thrust of the buttresses, the church subtly transforms into a fortress. However, the Church of the Jacobins is not exactly a fortress-church, unlike the nearby Cathedral of Saint-Cécile in Albi (Figure 4.6). There, in response to his violent expulsion in 1301, the inquisitor-bishop Bernard de Castanet had redesigned the cathedral as a true fortress in size and function, completely cut off from the town with a drawbridge.39 The Church of the Jacobins, on the other hand, was almost a parody of the Albi cathedral. Its fortress-ness was restricted to the west-facade turrets and crenulation-like extensions of the buttresses on the roof level; and thick though its walls may have been, they were not so for defensive purposes. It was at best a mimicry of its truly monumental counterpart in Albi, and most likely, an uncalculated and not so conscious statement of spiritual, rather than functional fortification. The Church of the Jacobins was symptomatic of the double movement of the Dominicans in Toulouse, oscillating between sequence

Figure 4.6 The Cathedral of Saint-Cécile, 1282–1480, Albi, France Source: photograph by the author.

226 Unrest and flux, but it was also symptomatic of the situation that the Dominicans found themselves in, in the half of the thirteenth century when the third building campaign of their church was underway. In 1255, after long negotiations and considerable pressure from Louis IX, the papacy agreed that the inquisitors would no longer be appointed by the Dominican motherhouse in Toulouse (Church of the Jacobins), but from Paris.40 The same year, the new count, Alphonse of Poitiers, recorded his complaints about the consuls of Toulouse: how they were controlling the financial transactions of the county, leaving the nobility in debt; how they were preventing foreign merchants from doing business in Toulouse and asking for unreasonable tolls; and how the consuls were still insisting on conducting justice in the town, while refusing comital jurisdiction.41 Not so soon, the count also composed a lengthy letter to the consuls of Toulouse, repeating his complaints and demanding the consuls’ submission to comital authority.42 In 1265, the consuls, responding with an equally lengthy letter in a commanding tone, refused Alphonse of Poitier’s demands.43 In 1265, the count confirmed the privileges of Toulouse.44 Six years later when Alphonse of Poitiers died without an heir, the county of Toulouse passed to the direct jurisdiction of the French crown. The initial plan of the French monarchy was to confiscate the possessions of the Toulousans by claiming the persistence of heresy in the town. Seen also as a threat to the town’s liberties, this plan met with strong resistance. After eight years of negotiations, in 1279, King Philip III issued a general amnesty, which pardoned 278 Toulousans, who were previously condemned for various crimes, including, not so surprisingly now, heresy.45 Fifty-seven of the people included in the amnesty had been condemned by Bernard de Caux and Jean de Saint-Pierre in 1246. One hundred and fifty-seven had been condemned in 1237. Many had passed away, but the amnesty included their heirs as well, and guaranteed that their properties would not be confiscated.46 Around the same time as the amnesty, the king recognized most of the former liberties of Toulouse and the consuls’ right to conduct justice.47 A charter issued by the royal court, probably in the 1270s, had confirmed the consuls’ jurisdiction over the lay nobility and the clergy for all crimes committed within the boundaries of the city.48 Starting in the 1280s, with the ever increasing number of royal officials and judges, the consul’s ability to conduct justice was seriously limited, particularly when it came to members of the University of Toulouse and anyone who claimed clerical status. However, the consuls continued to manoeuvre around royal regulations and limitations, and successfully managed to reassert themselves as significant political actors.49 It appears that by the end of the thirteenth century, although Toulouse was not the commune it had once been, it was certainly a privileged town of the royal domain, with many of its liberties restored, but, for our concerns, it was also not the town that the Dominicans would have wished it to be. The Dominicans still had allies in Toulouse, who financed them, came to their church, and received communion. But, there were also people in Toulouse, who, whether because their family members were persecuted by the inquisitors, or for other reasons, had

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completely different relationships with the Church of the Jacobins, and accordingly they perceived and experienced it differently. In that respect, the Church of the Jacobins, while going through its third transformation phase, was already a building in unrest. It is true that in its plan, architectonic elements and use, the church fluctuated between sequence and flux. It is also true that such fluctuations were in resonance with and symptomatic of the friars’ operations in Toulouse, similarly moving between vertical exercise of authority (sequence) and horizontal networking (flux). Yet, in the mutated manifestations of rupture, this double movement, despite its subtleties, despite its multi-directionality, could not have succeeded. Because, mutant rupture had no intention to eliminate the sovereign (expel the Dominicans), and had no desire to replace it (reconquer Toulouse from the French Crown). Instead, it produced an alternative plane, the dimension of unrest, where, by effectively not being governed as such, the Toulousans lived a life that escaped the extensions of the Church of the Jacobins, whether such extensions moved in sequence or in flux. Unlike the Church of Saint-Sernin (and the Karatay Han, for that matter), which was challenged and countered, the Church of the Jacobins was simply left alone on its own frequency. This is how the Dominican church of Toulouse became a building in unrest, its significance(s) and function(s) perpetually destabilized; and this is how the journey that links it with the rest of the buildings discussed in this chapter begins: with the acknowledgement that multiplicity of audiences can transform the significance of a building and reinterpret its signs, but it can also relegate it to a ghostly existence in another dimension.

Ghosts in a shell Given the circumstances in Toulouse in the late thirteenth century, it would not be too much of a speculation to say that in 1298, when Guillaume Bernard de Gaillac and his companions left Toulouse for Constantinople, they departed with some resentment. It is impossible to know how much of that resentment was left when they arrived at their destination, but given Guillaume Bernard’s misadventures in Constantinople, he seems to have been as stubborn as his predecessors had been in Toulouse in the 1230s. Incidentally, Dominican presence in Constantinople also dated back to the 1230s, when the city was still under Latin occupation, and the attitudes of the Dominicans of Constantinople were not too different from their brothers’ in Toulouse, though with a clearly different agenda in mind. In Toulouse, Dominican violence during the first wave of inquisitions was made possible, at least to an extent, by the subjugation of the county to the French Crown with the Treaty of Paris. Similarly, it must have been with the confidence of living under the protection of the Latin Empire that the Dominican friar Barthélemy had composed the clearly hostile treatise Adversus errores Graecorum (1252), which was to be used as a theological and doctrinal combat manual in the Greek provinces of the Latin Empire.50 Written shortly after Pope Innocent IV’s decree Sub Catholica, the treatise, just as the papal decree itself, can be regarded as among

228 Unrest the final, and eventually unsuccessful efforts to implement the supremacy of the Catholic Church and the Roman rite.51 In 1299, when Guillaume Bernard and his companions arrived in Constantinople, which was once again under Byzantine rule, conditions were much different. The Patriarchate was seriously troubled by internal disputes and hostilities, and the title switched back and forth between Athanasios I (1289–1293, 1303– 1309) and Jon XII Kosmos (1293–1303). Yet, Emperor Andronicus II was openly against any union with Rome, and was determined to re-establish orthodoxy.52 Despite such circumstances, it appears that, based on what he did and what he wrote in Constantinople, Guillaume Bernard did not really care. Following in the footsteps of friar Barthélemy, in 1305, Guillaume Bernard wrote the polemical treatise, Tractatus contra errores Orientalium et Graecorum.53 Amidst growing hostilities against the Latins in Constantinople, and the almost severed relationship between the Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches, this was definitely not the best line of action. In 1307, when Pope Clement V excommunicated Emperor Andronicus II, the emperor and the Patriarch Athanasios I retaliated in kind, and expelled the Dominican and Franciscan friars from Constantinople.54 Expelled as they were, Guillaume Bernard and his twelve companions did not travel far away. They just crossed the Golden Horn and ended up in Pera, in the safer lands of the Genoese, where Guillaume Bernard composed yet another polemical text, the Tractatus de obiectionibus Graecorum contra processionem Spiritus Sancti a Filio (1307).55 As we stand in the narrative now, you already know that in Pera, in the close proximity of the Genoese palazzo, the Dominicans eventually built the Church of San Domenico, which should have been completed sometime after the fire of 1315 and certainly before 1332 when the church appears as the signing location of two notary acts.56 You also know that the Church of San Domenico is somewhat similar to the Church of the Jacobins in Toulouse in its topographical relationship to the urban fabric of Pera, and of Constantinople across the Golden Horn. However, although the alternating brick and stone construction technique of the church rhymed with the similarly striped facades of its surroundings, the Church of San Domenico was a far more conspicuous building than the Dominican church of Toulouse. Situated midway along a slope rising up from the port of Pera, and boasting an imposing belfry, it would have been very difficult not to recognize the San Domenico as a monument to Latin presence across the Byzantine capital. Although documentation as to how the church was used in the fourteenth century is limited, when viewed alongside the architectural and decorative evidence, it strongly suggests that, just like the Church of the Jacobins, the Dominican church of Pera operated in oscillations between vertical and horizontal movements, between sequence and flux. Dominican presence in Pera predated the expulsion of Guillaume Bernard and his companions by a few decades.57 When the exiled Dominicans crossed to Pera, they received the sixth-century Church of Hagia Irene as their new home, which they would later on replace with the Church of San Domenico. At the time of

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Guillaume Bernard’s arrival, the Hagia Irene, which fell within the boundaries of the first concession zone of 1303, was a Genoese cemetery. Although the treaty of 1304 confirmed that the Byzantine churches in Pera would remain under the jurisdiction of the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, the use of the Hagia Irene as a cemetery suggests that the old Byzantine church and its lands were already reconsecrated as a Catholic sanctuary.58 Whether this means that, by 1307, the Hagia Irene had already become the Church of San Paolo (the immediate Catholic predecessor of the San Domenico) is hard to tell, but it seems that the Genoese did not donate the Hagia Irene to the Dominicans as the result of an impulsive gesture of appropriation.59 For whatever reason, and through whatever means, it had already passed on to their jurisdiction. Between 1315 and 1332, the Church of Hagia Irene disappeared, and then reappeared in fragments, in the architectural fabric of San Domenico, accompanied by fellow fragments from later buildings.60 In fact, the Church of San Domenico is a haunted building, its architectonic details, frescoes and mosaics revealing themselves like ghosts, often during times of catastrophic fires and earthquakes, and then dissolving into thin air, either completely, or leaving behind just faint impressions of their presence. The layout of the San Domenico follows the three-apse plan, commonly, but not exclusively used in Byzantium, and applies it to a narrow (15 m) and long (45 m) basilica with a central nave and two flanking aisles. The current increased width of the building on the northern side is the result of an enlargement during its restoration under the patronage of Valide Saliha Sultan, dated by inscription to 1734/35. It was most probably during this campaign that the interior of the building, which was redesigned in the late sixteenth-century into a unified space fit for a congregational mosque, was divided once again into three longitudinal sections.61 The rib-vaulted central apse of the church with an ogival arch, along with the similarly ogival and rib-vaulted (but lower) side apses were first documented during the restorations in 1913–1919 (Figure 4.7).62 Basing their calculations on photographs, the available archaeological data, and the proportion of the nave length to the height of the central apse, Palazzo, Westphalen, and Çetinkaya have hypothesized reconstructions with a gable-roofed nave illuminated by clearstorey windows, and side aisles with mono-pitched roofing.63 Given that there are no remains of column bases along the nave, it is very likely that the clear-storey galleries and the interior support systems were all wooden, as they are today after the most recent restoration of the building in 2010–2012. This peculiar, but certainly not unique amalgamation of multifarious design features and architectonic elements was shelled inside a noticeably “Gothic” fabric with lancet and rose windows. Yet, the fabric itself was weaved, with remarkable consistency, by using the local building materials of stone and brick, very close to the sizes they were used in contemporary Byzantine buildings, and by regularly alternating them between two courses of stone and three courses of brick.64 Today, what remains is mostly this outer shell with traces of its lancet

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Figure 4.7 The Church of San Domenico, view of the southern apse, after 1315, Istanbul, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

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windows. The clear-storey, the rib vaults and the ogival arches, being the ghosts they are, have once again vanished. The most notorious of all ghosts that haunt the Church of San Domenico, though, are its frescoes and mosaics. As with the pointed arches and rib vaults, it was the restoration of 1913–1919 that first summoned the frescoes of the San Domenico.65 Following the earthquake of 1999, the frescoes returned, and in 2010–2012, they reappeared once again, and this time they bought along their more furtive spectral friends, the mosaics. Although both in 1999 and 2012, the frescoes and mosaics of the San Domenico were hastily plastered over following the completion of the restorations, the decorations were studied, photographed, even 3-D-scanned well enough to give us a fairly good sense of their extent, placement, content, and iconography. In 2109, Rafał Quirini-Popławski published the most complete plan of the imagery, including the apparitions of 2010–2012.66 One aspect of the frescos and the mosaics that is univocally and correctly underlined in the scholarship is their in-betweenness. All of them are the works of local artists, but their iconographies move between Byzantine and Western models, including some unusual groupings such as in the vaulting of the central apse, where Western Fathers of the Church appear alongside Evangelists depicted in the Byzantine style, and with their symbols.67 As far as one can tell from the reproduced images, and from the available descriptions, the iconography of the Evangelists was based on the long-established “author portrait” model, initially and more commonly used in luxury manuscripts. In manuscripts, the Evangelists occasionally appeared with their symbols. Two contemporary examples are a Gospel from the Monastery of St. Demetrius, now at the British Library (Add MS 11838, c. 1325–1326), and another from Mount Athos, now at the National Library of Greece (151, c. 1340–1360).68 However, in architectural decoration, although the Evangelists often maintained their author poses, they were seldom accompanied by their symbols.69 Again, such an amalgamation of Byzantine and Western painting practices in the San Domenico was a peculiar, but not a unique feature, especially for a church that was under (at least partial) Genoese patronage, around a time when the Genoese had invited a Byzantine artist to paint frescoes for the recently restored Cathedral of San Lorenzo in Genoa.70 What is more intriguing, and what has not received much attention is the lack of any easily discernible hierarchy in the distribution of the images, and the complete absence (based on which ghosts have so far revealed themselves) of an image or a visual programme that definitively distinguishes the central apse as the choir. Whether in a Byzantine church or a Western one, the choir apse is always distinguished by an icon or an iconic image, be it Christ Pantokrator, Christ in Majesty, Virgin and Child, or simply a cross, but never with sequences from a narrative cycle, unless the narrative supplemented one such icon or iconic image. In the Church of San Domenico, on the eastern wall of the central apse, the only clearly identifiable fresco is the Annunciation with Mary on the right side of the rose window and Gabriel on the left. Even if the medallion squeezed between the rose window and the vaulting may have once contained a bust of Christ, that image would have been equal in size to the haloed heads of the rest of the figures,

232 Unrest and barely visible from the nave.71 Of course, none of these necessarily mean that the central apse did not have an altar and was not used as the choir; and for that matter, they do not necessarily mean that the church did not offer any liturgical services. Although there are no fourteenth-century documents on the liturgical uses of the San Domenico, a much later document, when read with caution, might be suggestive. In 1535, Angelo Zacharia, a wealthy burgher of Galata donated the nearby Church of San Pietro to the Dominicans. This must have been sometime after the friars’ displacement from the San Domenico, which the Ottomans had given to the Muslims expelled from Spain. In the donation act, Zacharia explains his good intents: “that they can stay and live in the said location, celebrate the Divine Office and the Mass, and perform all the ceremonies common and customary to their order.” Then, Zacharia continues that the friars are obliged to honour the donor, that is, him and the living and deceased members of his family, according to the practices that the Dominicans had observed until then, including a Mass of the Dead every week.72 The “until then” clause is suggestive that at least certain practices continued into the sixteenth century. For instance, a mid-fourteenth century donation inscription for the sacristy instructs the friars to pray for the donor.73 Similarly, there are lay tombstones dating back to 1323, which indicate that the Dominicans did perform burial rites.74 Therefore, we might very cautiously surmise that, just as their brothers in Toulouse, the Pera Dominicans also celebrated the Mass, though whether this was open to the public is impossible to know. In other words, it is very likely that the fourteenth-century Church of San Domenico was used for the Latin rite, that it did have an altar and a choir, and given the more clearly emphasized longitudinal arrangement of space (compared to the Church of the Jacobins), the altar and the choir were in the east end. Where does this leave us then? To see that, let’s consider the unusual configuration of the central apse frescoes along with the rest of the images, and in relation to the lack of any easily discernible hierarchy between them. Of all the images in the San Domenico, the only one that may be interpreted as polemical, even anti-Orthodox, is the Coronation of the Virgin on the eastern wall of the southern apse. As Ágnes Kriza argues, in the fourteenth century, the Coronation of the Virgin in the West, and the Royal Deesis in the East operated as visualized disputations over ecumenical primacy, when the Schism between the two Churches had become an unresolvable problem.75 That being the case, the potentially polemical image of the Coronation of the Virgin, clearly visible though it was from its corresponding aisle, is relegated to the southern apse of a church where the overall imagery puts more emphasis on the Virgin than on anyone else, including Christ. Secondly, even if the inclusion of the Coronation of the Virgin was intentionally anti-Orthodox, that statement was at least partially balanced in the northern apse, where the mosaic of St. Paul, the Apostle of the East, appears above the figure of a St. Peter blessing with the Greek Orthodox gesture.76 Finally, and most importantly, if Haluk Çetinkaya’s observations are correct – and I can only rely on his descriptions given the absence of any

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clear visual evidence, above the arch of the central apse, facing the nave, was a fresco of the Deesis.77 Again, this was unusual, but not unique. The Deesis had been incorporated into the visual culture of Western Europe since at least the tenth century, albeit with noticeable differences.78 Similarly, in c. 1310, a Byzantine artist had painted a very Deesis-like Last Judgement in the San Lorenzo Cathedral in Genoa. But, in San Lorenzo, the fresco appears on the inner west facade, and not above, or anywhere near the apse.79 Of course, as Anthony Cutler has argued, the Deesis was never a stable iconography, and although its fundamental essence remained the same, changing the interceding figures flanking Christ changed the reference point of that essence, as was the case at San Marco in Venice where the intercedes are Mark and Isidore.80 On the other hand, in fourteenth-century Constantinople, the Deesis could operate in a referentiality that was more straightforwardly political than doctrinal or theological.81 Therefore, it is very difficult to say anything definite about the Deesis of the San Domenico, but the choice is still very intriguing: in Pera, in a Dominican church that was never used for the Orthodox liturgy, but where the Latin rite was most probably performed, and where the central apse lacked any image to distinguish it as the choir, the architectural and liturgical focal points overlapped on, if not the most Byzantine of all frescos, certainly one of the most popular iconographies in Byzantium at the time. The Church of San Domenico, in that sense, was a building in between, an assemblage whose layout, use, architectonic elements, and visual decorations swung like pendulums between multiple genealogies. It neither functioned as a completely open space of horizontal movements, nor did it vertically assert its presence as a singularly Catholic space. And, in a manner similar to the Church of the Jacobins, it was established and maintained through donations, rather than sequential revenue extractions. In other words, the Church of San Domenico existed in fluctuations between sequence and flux, between Latin and Byzantine architectonic and decorative elements. As in the case of the Church of the Jacobins, it is impossible to know to what extent this was the result of conscious choices, but the resulting building was nonetheless symptomatic of its microecology, and symptomatic of how the Dominicans acted in that microecology. There may be a documentary lacuna when it comes to the liturgical uses of the San Domenico in the fourteenth century, but there is enough evidence on the intentions and actions of the Dominicans. We already know that despite his exile from Constantinople, Guillaume Bernard did not refrain from producing polemical texts against the Greek Orthodox Church, and he was certainly not alone in his hostile endeavours. Just as it would not be accurate to define Pera as the centre of Genoese colonialism in the Eastern Mediterranean, it would not be accurate to say that it was the centre of the Dominican mission in the East. Nonetheless, the Dominicans of Pera were prolific authors, and from Guillaume Bernard’s translation of Thomas Aquinas to polemical treatises and letters, they produced a substantial number of texts.82 Despite the obvious hostility of this literature toward the Greek Orthodox Church, it was intended to serve two intertwined objectives: conversion and the unification of the two Churches. The latter, as we know, eventually failed.

234 Unrest The former, on the other hand, was surprisingly successful, but this success had less to do with numbers, and more to do with who converted or allied with the Dominicans/Latins, and in what capacity. Like in Toulouse, the horizontal movements of the Dominicans networked them with people of significant influence, and like in Toulouse, the friars moved horizontally, in flux, for an end result that was in essence the vertical assertion of authority: an attempt to sequence the two Churches according to the rhythms of one. The unification project did not target the synthesis of the two Churches, but the subjugation of Eastern Churches to Papal authority, to the Latin rite. Still, though, the Dominicans successfully utilized the geopolitical climate of the time, including the growing Ottoman threat. They manoeuvred through the petite rivalries and major political disputes of the Byzantine Empire, and managed to build a formidable network. Their allies included the powerful Metochites family, and the similarly powerful and influential Demetrios Cydones and Manuel Chrysoloras. Even some of the most fervent Dominican polemicists, such as Friar Simon, Maxim Chrysoberges and Manuel Calecas, were converts.83 The situation in the most immediate setting of the Church of San Domenico, however, was slightly more complicated. If we combine the donation inscription and the document cited above – even though they are admittedly two centuries apart – with the evidence of the tombstones, it becomes plausible to propose that the friars were equally successful in securing the support of prominent Genoese burghers of Pera.84 Given the relative openness of their church to secular uses, they also seem to have been quite flexible in accommodating the requests of their patrons and allies. Yet, the double movement of the Dominicans in flux and in sequence, as paradigmatically reflected in the material, spatial, and decorative configuration of the San Domenico, coexisted alongside and in fluctuations with rupture, which was outside the friars control, and in their blind spot, just as it was in Toulouse. In Toulouse, rupture manifested itself in a series of subterfuges, which did not come in the form of opposition or rebellion per se. Instead, through varied strategies, ranging from correspondences with King Louis IX of France to financial management, the consuls rendered Dominican advances obsolete. Instead of obstructing flux, the consuls inscribed themselves into it, and instead of rising against sequence, they circumnavigated it with such success that they even received official recognition. In 1304, King Philip IV reconfirmed the customs of Toulouse, and in 1325, when the final construction campaign of the Church of the Jacobins began, he ordered his officials in Toulouse to follow the established customs of the town and to avoid novelties.85 Of course, in Pera, where the Dominicans were welcomed guests, the circumstances were significantly different. Yet, if Toulouse was a town with a powerful mercantile and financial elite, Pera was part of an empire of merchants and creditors, and Dominican ambitions were eventually bound to clash with Genoese pragmatism. One crucial aspect of Genoese colonialism was its decentralized structure, to such an extent that, as historians of Genoa have repeatedly remarked, Genoa and the Genoese were almost two completely distinct entities.86 For the city of Genoa,

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fourteenth century was a period of turmoil, starting with internal strife, continuing with Milanese rule under Giovanni Visconti (1353–1356), and culminating with French domination in 1396.87 The colonies, on the other hand, continued to thrive regardless of what was happening in the metropole. Chios did not become a Milanese colony, Pera did not pass on to French rule, and the Genoese of New Phokaea did not bother much about whether the commune in Genoa was in the hands of the Guelphs or the Ghibellines. To put it very bluntly, for the colonies it was business as usual. Although, it is possible to observe architectural efforts to recreate aspects of the metropole in the colony, as in the case of the Palazzo Comunale of Pera, Genoese colonialism was far from being a linear project. It was an assemblage of highly pragmatic tactics and strategies in flux, which produced a remarkably flexible network, able to change and adapt to new circumstances.88 Moreover, even within this already flexible network, which may be loosely defined as Genoese, there were individual networks of merchants and creditors that were not confined to transactions between Genoese colonies alone, and included any location (even Venetian colonies) where the merchant or the creditor had connections.89 Perhaps, the most peculiar expression of this pragmatism was the particularly Genoese phenomenon of the albergo (plural, alberghi), which resembled a hotel only to the extent that each word implies the gathering of previously unrelated people, and not necessarily for a predetermined period of time. In the most common form of an albergo, multiple families came together, abandoned their former family names, agreed on a new one, and formed a partnership.90 One of the most powerful families in the Genoese colonies of the Aegean, the Giustiniani, was in fact one such albergo.91 Needless to say, where pragmatism could easily dissolve familial kinship ties and reassemble them into a business partnership, international relations, and for our concerns, with the Islamic World in general and the Ottomans in particular, operated in similar flexibility. The interactions between the Genoese and various Muslim polities around the Mediterranean and beyond were always multifaceted, and never either completely peaceful or hostile.92 The same was also true for their dealings with the Ottomans and other Turkish beyliks of fourteenth-century Anatolia.93 While in 1344, the Genoese had defied the Papal appeal and refused to participate in the crusade against Smyrna (contemporary Izmir), in 1388, a year after the commercial treaty with Murad I, they approached Venice with a proposal to form an anti-Turkish league and to divide the Mediterranean into spheres of influence.94 Genoese tactics and strategies were so quintessentially mercurial, because they were essentially commercial and financial; and no commodity reflects Genoese mercantile pragmatism better than slaves. The Genoese frequently traded in slaves, including Greek Orthodox Christians, whom they either bought from the Turks, or captured in military campaigns.95 For instance, in 1351, Paganino Doria returned to Pera from his expedition in Heraclea on the Marmara Sea coast (contemporary Marmara Ereğlisi) with 766 Greek slaves. Although the treaty signed the following year between John VI Kantakouzenos and Pananino Doria

236 Unrest (as representative of Pera) prohibited the Genoese to enslave Byzantine subjects, trade in Greek Christian slaves did not immediately cease.96 This is the moment when the Dominicans re-enter the story. Trade in slaves, particularly Christian slaves was also under strict Papal radar. There were also certain items, such as timber and iron, which, the Papacy decreed, were not to be traded with Muslims. The Genoese of Pera, however, disregarded the Papal mandate, which led to a serious Dominican protest, which then led to the expulsion of the Dominicans from Pera. Eventually, the Papacy intervened and without any serious repercussions for the Genoese, the friars were readmitted to Pera.97 As minor and insignificant as this incident may seem, it is in fact quite telling about the fluctuations between different modalities of movement, even when those movements may appear to be the same, at least on the surface. Namely, I am talking about Dominican and Genoese flux. The Dominicans were clearly successful in building networks, forming alliances and managing relationships, but the Papacy, the source of the friars’ authority and the root of their arboreal network, relied on the exercise of vertical sovereign authority, and at the end of the day, it always demanded some form of sequential normativity. The Genoese, on the other hand, were so detached from their metropole that their network resembled, as much as it could, a governmentality without a sovereign. Rather than a colonial empire arboreally springing from the metropole, the Genoese lived and traded in a fragmented flux without a centre. However, what the oscillations between these two different articulations of flux eventually produced, the expulsion of the Dominicans from Pera, was in fact a false rupture. The Dominicans were not in Pera with hostile intentions. They were guests, and despite this small friction, they continued to remain there throughout the following centuries, even after the Ottoman conquest. As evident in Angelo Zacharia’s generosity, they kept receiving support and donations, and their cemetery remained a prestigious burial site for the wealthy residents of Pera until the 1440s.98 The merchants and creditors of Pera may not have shared the Dominican zeal, especially when it clashed with their business interests, and they were perhaps too practical to be overly enthusiastic about uniting the two Churches and fighting the Turks; but they were the primary audiences of the Church of San Domenico, as they were the primary audiences of the Palazzo Comunale. And eventually, in Pera, as elsewhere in the Mediterranean, the friars and the growing mercantile elite reconciled.99 Therefore, in Pera, the multiplicity of audiences that produced unrest was not in the movements and rhythms of prominent burghers, but elsewhere. This is the second point that we need to keep in mind. Just as the buildings discussed in this and the previous chapter (for that matter, in the whole book) are different from one another, so are the articulations of the movements that assembled them into a multiplicity; and multiplicity is not constituted by the repetition of the same, but of differences, and it always moves by the removal of transcendent norms, whether they are of architectural history or of social history. From one microecology to another, flux moved differently, whether in concert with sequence or not; so did rupture in its mutated form. Accordingly, unrest,

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produced by the multiplicity of audiences, by the differences of experience with the same building was not the same in every microecology, although it always produced another dimension, bypassing the extensions of architecture. In that regard, the movement from one localized, fragmented manifestation of unrest to another, the movement that assembles the buildings of these last two chapters together should be a movement that unfolds in and through differences, architectural and social alike; so that the emergent multiplicity resembles, what we might call with a poetic gesture, an architectural albergo where each building renounces its familial lineage. However, in order to take that final step, we need to introduce a third into comparative architectural history, which is often a binary practice regardless of the number of buildings compared. Starting with the Palazzo Comunale and the multipurpose building of Murad I, the remainder of this chapter will elaborate on what this third is, and present it as the constitutive element that assembled fragmented buildings through the imperceptible fluctuations of unrest across the Mediterranean.

The three-body problem On April 10, 1391, an unnamed master received ten perperi (the Genoese term for the Byzantine hyperpyron) of payment for a fresco of St. George that he had painted on the facade of the Palazzo Comunale in Pera.100 Very possibly, the master in question was a Greek artist, and the fresco he executed must have been reminiscent of the valiant, serpent-slaying St. George on the north wall of the San Lorenzo Cathedral in Genoa, painted c. 1312 by yet another Greek master, a certain Marcos. Although painted in Byzantine style and according to Byzantine iconography, the St. George of San Lorenzo is approached by an angel handing over the Genoese coat of arms; a local invention which might have been repeated in Pera as well.101 On the other hand, a more immediate referent for the St. Gorge in Pera could have also been the now-lost St. George that was on the facade of the Palazzo San Giorgio, who, accompanied by John the Baptist, triumphed over the Pisan griffin and the Venetian lion.102 Yet, there is something quite enigmatic about the fresco on the Palazzo Comunale. The expense registry that lists the payment states that the artist had painted not any St. George, but an unusual Sanctum Georgium ad Musicam. The expression equally baffled the publisher of the document, Luigi Tommaso Belgrano, so much so that he even raised the question in the October 1884 issue of Giornale degli eruditi e curiosi, but unfortunately without any answer.103 Then, did the St. George of Pera appear in a much different guise, perhaps comparable in his solemnity to the aristocratically dressed, standing figure of St. George in the nearby and contemporary Chora Church (Figure 4.8)?104 Or, maybe he was an altogether different St. George, painted by an Italian artist; someone like Barnaba da Modena, the celebrated Genoese painter who sailed from Pera to Caffa in 1372 on a diplomatic mission for the vicar Andreas de Falco.105 In 1385, unnamed workers cut the first wood for the construction of the gallery in Murad I’s multipurpose building in Bursa.106 Therefore, around the same time

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Figure 4.8 St. George, exonarthex, Chora Church, 1316–1320, Istanbul, Turkey Source: photo by the author.

that the enigmatic St. George made his appearance on the facade of the Palazzo Comunale, a comparably mysterious decoration embellished the central arch of the gallery in Murad I’s multipurpose building (Figure 4.9). As I have shortly mentioned in the previous chapter, the central archivolt of the gallery is filled

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Figure 4.9 The multipurpose building of Murad I, detail of the central arch of the gallery, c. 1385, Bursa, Turkey Source: photograph by the author.

with six-pointed stars, where, in triangular red bricks, only the pointed edges of the stars are indicated. The crowning voussoir, although alternating between red and white, is composed of only brick, unlike the flanking voussoirs that rhyme in three courses of red brick and one course of white stone. Topping the central voussoir is a rectangular frame, in which hexagons composed of red and white triangles form a dynamic, even dizzying honeycomb, as the triangles making up the hexagons also maintain a less sequential visual rapport among themselves. There is nothing much mysterious about these individual design elements. The six-pointed stars are nothing other than Solomonic seals, widely used in medieval Anatolian architecture, and the hexagons, despite their stylization to the point of cubist abstraction, are sun-disks, which were equally common elements in architectural decoration, Byzantine and Islamic alike.107 Although in different forms and styles, they had even made a joint appearance in the Karatay Han. The enigma of the stars and the hexagons is in their technique, because nowhere in medieval Anatolia were they produced in a combination of brick and stone disguised as tiles.108 The only exception is the similar depiction of Solomonic seals in the Ibni Bezzaz Mosque in Bursa from the early fifteenth century.109 Forget about the art historical cannon that so dichotomously distinguishes between figuration and ornamentation, a cannon that aligns signification only with the figurative and conceptualizes ornament as mere decoration; reconsider what really appears on the facades of the Palazzo Comunale and the multipurpose

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building of Murad I, and we are face to face with phenomena that are assembled in their differences. In each case, the buildings were adorned by design elements that were utterly localized, but reached beyond the confines of the local and operated within an extended microecology. Regardless of how the St. George of the Palazzo Comunale really looked like, he was the product of painterly practices and iconographical parameters that can be broadly defined as Constantinopolitan, but at the same he resonated with his counterparts in Genoa, either stylistically and iconographically (San Lorenzo), or conceptually (Palazzo San Giorgio).110 The particular executions of sun-disks and Solomonic seals on the multipurpose building of Murad I were similarly localized innovations to the extent that the latter were used in only one other building, a mosque located also in Bursa. On the other hand, either individually or concertedly, they made ubiquitous appearances in churches, mosques, madrasas, caravanserais, and hospitals. As flattened iterations of their three-dimensional counterparts in stone, stucco and brick, the sun-disks and Solomonic seals of Murad I’s multipurpose building escaped their immediate locale in multiple trajectories.111 So far, so good. But, the Palazzo Comunale and the multipurpose building of Murad I were also assembled through another enigma, their obvious formal similarity, which, I argue, produces a fundamental paradox for architectural history. The Palazzo Comunale was the modest recreation of the Palazzo San Giorgio in Genoa, and its typology vividly resonated with the palazzo architecture of Northern Italy. The multipurpose building of Murad I, on the other hand, was an experiment that was never repeated in Ottoman architecture, and other than aspects of its plan, it had no direct typological connection with any building in Anatolia, Ottoman or otherwise.112 The Palazzo Comunale operated in an extensive microecology, facilitating movements among Genoese colonies, between Genoese colonies and other parts of the Mediterranean, and in its immediate vicinity, in Pera. The multipurpose building of Murad I primarily functioned in a more limited microecology, confined to Bursa and its hinterland, but as a building in flux, its extensions eventually linked it to an expansive plane comparable to, and overlapping with the Genoese network. In their functions, in the purposes that they were designed to serve, the two buildings were completely different. One was the seat of government in Pera, the other combined hospitality and charity services with those of devotion and education in a single envelope. Yet, the two buildings maintained an undeniable surface similarity in material, technique, and style. And here lies the paradox of architectural history. If the architectural paradox is the impossibility of “questioning the nature of space, and making or experiencing a real space,” then the paradox of architectural history is the difficulty to resist the allure of comparing conceived spaces, so as to account the story of experienced spaces, especially when the conceived seem to be so commensurate and the experienced so different.113 In other words, the paradox of architectural history is a three-body problem. The two bodies of architecture are the buildings brought together on a comparative plane. Although I do not want to overgeneralize, I think it would be fair to argue that the parameters we often employ to discuss two buildings in concert are

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straightforwardly architectural: typologies, plans, building techniques and materials, formal and architectonic elements, decorative programmes, etc., followed by questions about relationship to site, patronage, function and what might be broadly defined as the political economy of architecture. There is, however, an undeniable third, without which architecture cannot exist: the users. Of course, they always come into play, but almost always after the comparative plane is constituted according to the primary parameters. That is to say, the third, the users, never become constitutive of the comparative plane, but only subject to it once it is constituted. Precisely because of that, rather than acting as the third, the users become subsidiary elements of each individual building, which are linked to one another according to implicitly, or explicitly binary principles of sameness and distinction. Let me clarify this last point. It is not uncommon to read about buildings being contrasted according to their distinctions, which would correspond to an explicitly binary relationship.114 But, the more prevalent practice is comparing buildings according to some kind of sameness. This relegates the compared pair of buildings into a set made up of other examples conforming to the criteria that established the sameness of the initial pair. Hence, it at the same time implicitly constitutes another binary set composed of formally distinguished buildings. In this implicitly binary relationality, a church and a hospice can be paired as long as they share certain architectural elements. The re-introduction of the third as the constitutive element of architectural comparison reveals a whole new world of possibilities, where we are no longer talking about distinct sets composed of multiple buildings, but a multiplicity of differences that dissolves the perimeter lines defining individual sets and opens to a plane of connectivities. And this plane is the milieu of the in-between, where no building has a transcendent identity, whether formal or not. In this logic, the third (the users and their experiences) does not function as a means to draw a line between two buildings, which will inevitably result in a binary communicative structure. The third is also not a means of movement between two buildings, merely a step to be taken.115 It is constitutive of architecture, of movement, and of the emerging plane, which can now unfold regardless of a logic of sameness, and incorporate, not every, but any building. Let’s now return back to the decorations of the Palazzo Comunale and the multipurpose building of Murad I. The logic that assembled them in their differences was not “not this but that,” or “neither this nor that,” but “both this and that.” It was their unexpected, unpredictable in-betweenness, revealed in different forms for each case, but nonetheless operating with a logic that connected the locally produced to the outside. For that matter, the two buildings were not linked because their individual design elements were different from one another, but because of the operative logic of difference. What we have then is the most dissimilar components of two otherwise formally similar buildings that assemble them with other structures dispersed in space and time. It is easy to picture how, following the same logic, one can expand the architectural connection between two buildings into a network by adding more and more buildings. Yet, such a mathematically beautiful multiplication is, at the end of the

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day, a multiplication based on some sort of a formal rapport between buildings. It still lacks the third, the users and their experiences, with all the complexity of their differences. And, here, difference is not one of culture that distinguishes how a sun-disk on a Byzantine church would have been experienced by its audiences, as opposed to one on an Ottoman multipurpose building. Whether you approach ornament as mediation, or semiologically, or as presentation without representation, it is clear that even within the Islamic world, ornamental designs did not have static meanings, and their significances changed with changing contexts, and audiences.116 Therefore, the difference I am referring to is about how in each case, different people would have experienced the same building (and its decorations) differently. It is about how a Genoese merchant and Paşagelend the baker would have experienced the multipurpose building of Murad I differently, not because they belonged to different cultures, but because they had different relationships with the same building. This is the logic of the third that opens the portal to a multiverse where localized manifestations of unrest, produced by localized multiplicities of experience assemble together.

Into the multiverse There is not a single historical account about Paşagelend the baker. He has not been a subject in any known chronicle’s pages, he has not featured in any historian’s, or architectural historian’s work. And his absence is neither surprising, nor altogether strange, because he was simply that: an ordinary, seemingly insignificant subject. Yet, he was a living and breathing baker in Bursa, who worked in the vicinity of Murad I’s multipurpose building, as a tenant of that building, and as someone who baked bread for, who knows, how many unnamed local residents and travellers, including the imaginary but empirically plausible Genoese merchants of the previous chapter. That being the case, the only proof of his existence is a registry, which, other than his tenant status and salary, does not say anything about his life.117 Here lies, as clearly as it can be put, the documented, empirical framework for the logic of the third I proposed above. How can we ever talk about the built environment, about spaces, without talking about the people who filled them with their own movements and rhythms, with their own events? What establishes the milieu of the in-between freed from the binary logic of sets, unfolding without transcendent restrictions is the reintroduction of the users (and their experiences) as integral components of architecture, as the constitutive third. This becomes especially important when the sources on the users and their experiences are either absent, or too discouraging in their scarcity and/or nature, as is the case for Bursa and for Genoese Pera. It is impossible to know whether Michael and Paşagelend ever knew each other. My account of their potential friendship is simply a conjecture based on the detailed tax registry (mufassal tahrir) of 1455, where their sons are recorded as dependents of Murad I’s multipurpose building in their varied capacities. And this summarizes the nature of the sources from fourteenth-century Bursa: the most

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detailed document related to the multipurpose building of Murad I (and also partially to Orhan’s) is not even from the fourteenth century, and all other written sources, apart from the eyewitness accounts of Ibn Battuta and Johann Schiltberger, are either vakfiyes, or dedication inscriptions on the buildings.118 In other words, the sources are inscribed/written for what might be broadly defined as the ruling elite, monumentalizing their achievements, and detailing their revenue sources. Similarly, the documents from Pera are almost exclusively about the wealthy and the powerful, concerned with their dealings, debts, and profits. Others are even more macro in their scope, revealing the intricacies of Genoese diplomacy and commerce across the Mediterranean.119 Yet, there are glimpses of another life beyond the sumptuous world of merchants, creditors, and diplomats. Labour, for instance, seems to be relatively cheap in Pera. In 1390, while the unnamed Greek master received ten perperi for the fresco of St. George, the comparably less artistic task of painting the coat of arms of the Doge cost only 4.5 perperi; and a significant restoration of the Palazzo Comunale, including the instalment of a large bench for the council, the fixing of the locks, and the addition of two lanterns along with their marble fixtures cost 6.5 perperi.120 On the other hand, in order to properly host and entertain a Turkish ambassador and his retinue in the Palazzo Comunale, you had to spend fifteen perperi.121 As I mentioned in the previous chapter, Filippo Demerode was instrumental in concluding the treaty between the Ottoman ruler Orhan Beg and the Genoese of Pera, which established an official link between the two cities.122 However, this was not his only contribution to Pera. In 1386, the colony received a Papal request through the archbishop of Genoa that Filippo’s heirs, his son Giovanni and his brother Benedetto, should continue Filippo’s charity services. For an annual sum of five hundred perperi, these were: the ransoming of Christian slaves from the Turks, arranging marriages for poor girls, and helping the poor and the “wretched” people of Pera.123 Of course, Demerode’s philanthropic gesture is not really telling about the level of poverty in Pera, nor about the number of people who depended on charity. However, given that in 1392, twenty-one perperi could fetch you seven pieces of good quality Florentine cloth in Pera, and that as late as 1438, the total transportation cost of 2,075 hides from Bursa to Constantinople was sixty-four perperi, five hundred perperi per annum for charity services seem to be quite significant.124 Now, compare these numbers to the two thousand perperi that Bartholomeus de Podio paid Marcus Salvaygus in 1372. The purpose of the transaction was to appoint Marcus as the administrator of Bartholomeus’s business affairs in Pera, especially his money-lending operations.125 Therefore, what we encounter in fourteenth-century Pera is an incredibly mixed social fabric, composed of people ranging from those dependent on charity to wealthy merchants and creditors. In return, such a makeup suggests that the audiences of the Church of San Domenico and the Palazzo Comunale were not limited to the elite Byzantine allies of the Dominicans, itinerant Genoese merchants and well-connected creditors. All of these people, for different reasons, would have

244 Unrest recognized and appreciated the architectural and decorative in-betweenness of the two buildings. In one way or another, they were also the direct beneficiaries of the various services that the church and the palazzo offered. Whereas the poor who relied on charity, and the unmarried women, for whom the continuation of their marital status would have meant both social and economic degradation, could not have possibly seen the two buildings through similar lenses.126 Their experiences, regardless of how difficult they may be to discern, constituted the third, the milieu of the actual in-between, which linked the Palazzo Comunale to the multipurpose building of Murad I beyond formal-architectonic similarities. In the same neighbourhood as Paşagelend and his son Murad, there lived a certain Balaban. He ran a shop where he brewed and sold boza, a thick beverage of fermented wheat with low alcohol content.127 Like Paşagelend and his son, he was a tenant of Murad I’s vakıf, and in 1455 he paid an annual tax of 270 akçes.128 For the same year, Murad the baker was receiving a daily stipend of two akçes from the same vakıf, while Michael and his son Tanrıvermiş were paying 480 akçes in tax. Their neighbours Kostas and Nicholas, on the other hand, who must have had a smaller vineyard, paid only 220 akçes.129 Given that from the fourteenth century through the 1430s, the exchange rate between perperi and akçe remained relatively stable at one to ten, and that there were no major fluctuations in alum and cloth prices (except regional variations), it is possible to suppose that these numbers would have been more or less the same in the late fourteenth century.130 In fact, a note in the 1455 registry regarding the total revenues of the village of Timurhisar is highly suggestive on that: “same as written in the [earlier] register of Halil Beg.”131 All fine, but what do these numbers really mean? Do they tell us anything about the lives and experiences of bakers, bozahane proprietors, and peasants? If we approach the question from the perspective of the purchase-power of one akçe, we encounter a very interesting picture. For instance, with one akçe, you could buy 5.5 kg of white rice, which was a luxury produce, or roughly 20 kg of oat.132 This puts Paşagelend and Murad in a relatively well-off position. Moreover, while they were making two akçes per day, the imam of Murad I’s multipurpose building received just twice the same amount, and the imam assigned to the masjid at the Kapan Hanı had to be content with only one akçe per day.133 At this juncture, and in light of my emphasis on the unfolding of fragmented differences rather the repetition of unifiable sameness(es) as the operative movement of connectivity, it is imperative to underline a defining difference between fourteenth-century Pera and Bursa. Within the Genoese world, where hereditary titles and aristocratic ranks had secondary significance, wealth, social status, and political influence more or less overlapped.134 A comparable situation existed in Toulouse as well. Although in the fourteenth century the town was officially incorporated into the French monarchy, the documentary evidence, as I summarized above, indicates that the consuls, holding no traditional titles of nobility but controlling substantial wealth, were still significant political actors. That is to say, in both Toulouse and Pera, accumulation of wealth played a crucial, if not a determinant role in establishing one’s social standing.

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Obviously, discrepancies of income and wealth existed in fourteenth-century Bursa, too. For instance, in comparison to the modest two-akçe income of Paşagelend and Murad, or, for that matter the four-akçe salary of the imam at Murad I’s multipurpose building, the madrasa teacher at the same institution received twelve akçes per day.135 Similarly, given the astounding 22,500 akçes of annual tax they were paying, the shopkeepers of an unspecified market building in Bursa (tied to Murad I’s vakfiye) must have been quite prosperous, most likely dealing in luxury textiles.136 Such discrepancies in wealth notwithstanding, Bursa in the later fourteenth century was also the capital of a polity that was going through significant social and political transformations, which, on the surface, seem to have rendered income-based inequalities socially less significant than other markers of status. The imam at the Kapan Hanı was a modest state official, someone who had to endure through life with a salary even lower than that of a tenant baker. Although his counterpart in the multipurpose building of Murad I did relatively better with four akçes per day, he was not a remarkably wealthy individual, either. However, starting in the late 1370s, Ottoman administrative hierarchies, from the land tenure system to the ranks of the officials, were reorganized into a more rigid structure, in which, rather than wealth, where you stood with regard to your relation to the governmental apparatus determined your social status.137 In very schematic terms, you were either a member of the askeri, the heterogeneous body of soldiers, administrators and bureaucrats, scholars and legal professionals (ulema) of varied ranks and duties; or a member of the reaya, the equally heterogeneous body of tax-paying subjects. Although this structure fully crystallized in the late fifteenth century, the earliest surviving Ottoman chronicle, Ahmedī’s İskendername that opened this chapter, is highly suggestive about the presence of some sort of a twopartite social divide already present in the late fourteenth century.138 To continue with the schematic description, there were basically three conditions for being a member of the askeri class. If you were a Muslim soldier, you could be part of the fief holding cavalry (timarlı sipahi), and regardless of your rank, this would have qualified you as an official elite, exempt from taxes. As a Christian boy of appropriate age and qualifications, you could be recruited through the emergent devşirme system, which would have made you either a Janissary soldier, as was the case for Johann Schiltberger, or, later in the fifteenth century, allow you to rise all the way up to the position of grand vizier. And finally, as a Muslim boy with again relevant qualifications, enough ambition and connections, you could go through medrese education, and join the official elite by becoming a member of the learned ulema.139 Therefore, although his status was contingent on the continuation of his employment, the imam at Murad I’s multipurpose building was legally a member of the official elite, and regardless of his income, regardless of how low he would have ranked within his class, his social standing was still higher than that of the richest silk merchant in Bursa; that is, of course, from a purely legalist point of view.140 The problem with the kinds of documents that have survived from fourteenth and fifteenth-century Bursa, as well as from Toulouse and Pera, is that they are all

246 Unrest records kept according to some kind of a legal mentality. They archive particular discourses produced according to specific legal frameworks, and hence there is always the danger of taking such discourses at face value without considering the possibilities of how they might have differed from actual practices. The most immediate case for that is the discrepancy that I have discussed in the previous chapter. While the legal language of the vakfiyes strictly limits the services offered at multipurpose buildings to Muslims, there are enough traveller accounts from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to suggest that experiences were quite the opposite. Therefore, for our purposes, what matters is not where a wealthy cloth merchant and an imam of modest means stood with regard to legally-defined Ottoman social hierarchies. It is true that wealthy cloth merchants were members of the reaya, mere taxpaying subjects. Yet, at the same time they were the ones who participated in trans-regional trade, who negotiated with Genoese merchants and maintained Bursa’s Mediterranean-wide connectivity, not the imam. In the 1460s, when the earliest inheritance registers (tereke defterleri) of Bursa emerge, we encounter a clearer picture of what this really meant in practice. The inheritance registers recorded all the possessions (from slaves to immovables) of a deceased individual according to their monetary value, if the said person had heirs, and only upon the request of the heirs. Excluded from the registers were the belongings of the askeri, and arable lands, unless they were held as private property. Obviously, the registers also did not include the poor who died without any valuables. Therefore, the data that comes from these records primarily concerns an urban, (officially/ legally) non-elite population of certain means.141 According to Halil İnalcık’s survey of the registers between 1468 and 1469, among the 319 people who died in that year in Bursa, forty-nine of them were worth between 10,000 and 50,000 akçes; six between 50,000 and 100,000; and four over 100,000. In other words, approximately 16% of the deceased ranged between well-to-do and extremely rich, and all of the extremely rich, those worth 50,000 akçes or more, were moneychangers, jewellers, merchants of various luxury goods, or manufacturers of silk thread and cloth. Furthermore, the goods listed in the registers are indicative of not just a sumptuous life, but also a highly ostentatious one, in which the urban rich openly displayed their wealth with expensive dresses. When he was alive in the 1460s, the merchant Hoca Abdulrahman comfortably walked the streets of Bursa in cold winter days dressed in his fur coat, and similarly, in the 1480s, although his household belongings were modest in their material qualities, the azure-dyed camel-hair coat (valued at two hundred akçes) of Hacı Hayreddin the tanner would have made him an admirably visible persona.142 Around the time that Abdulrahman or Hayreddin strolled around the Lower Citadel of Bursa, almost as if they were Dandies out of time and space, the visibility of the urban rich had already materialized even more concretely on the urban landscape of the city, as the fellow merchants and artisans of Abdulrahman and Hayreddin had started establishing their own vakıfs. Of the 303 vakıfs founded in fifteenth-century Bursa, twenty-four were established by artisans, and six of these were silk weavers.143

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In the Ottoman chronicles from the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, there are some clues to suggest that this wealthy echelon of Bursa’s (officially/ legally) non-elite population also had substantial political influences. They emerge as actors in two significant events, each concerning a dynastic succession crisis. According to Neşrî’s account, in 1422, when the contender for the Ottoman throne, Mustafa the Younger, rebelled against his elder brother Murad II and laid siege to Bursa, the prominent residents of the town elected two akhīs to appease Mustafa with gifts of precious cloth.144 In 1481, when Cem Sultan challenged his brother Bayezid II, with a tactical manoeuvre the urban rich switched their allegiances in favour of the contender, and welcomed Cem Sultan with open arms. They also played a central role in the negotiations between him and Bayezid II, although the negotiations eventually failed.145 Given that hierarchies based on the two-partite division of Ottoman society between the askeri and the reaya solidified over the course of the fifteenth century, it is plausible to argue that the urban rich of Bursa were at least equally influential in the fourteenth century, if not more. Returning from this slight detour back to architecture, back to localized experiences with buildings, and to where the imam of Murad I’s multipurpose building stood in comparison to the wealthy cloth merchant who was a tenant of the same institution, the picture changes once again. We are still on the thin line that separates legal discourse from actual practice, but this time, it was precisely the imam’s institutional role in the multipurpose building of Murad I that defined his social status as a member of the official elite. Similarly, it was precisely the merchant’s status as a dependent, tax-paying subject of the same building that defined his position. In other words, more than who they were with regard to an over-arching legal code, more than their contrasting economic and political weights, it was their local relationships with the same building that put the imam and the merchant in contradictorily different places. This was the marker of concrete, locally experienced social distinction from an architectural point of view: one person received his income and status from a given building, the other owed taxes to it. Add to that the poor who relied on the charity services they received from Murad I’s multipurpose building, and the peasants and slaves who worked the mills and the agrarian fields tied to it, then we have a socially and economically multifarious group of people whose experiences with the same building could not have been the same, because their relationships with it were not the same.146 Unfortunately, the 1455 survey that I have so much relied on does not cover the whole city of Bursa, and given that the inheritance registers from the second half of the fifteenth century only include people who left behind valuables and had heirs to claim them, it becomes very difficult to estimate the social makeup of Bursa in the late fourteenth century. Yet, the situation is not that dire. İnalcık’s numbers for 1468–69 indicate that 40% of the deceased had possessions valued between 5000 and 1000 akçes, and 25.7% of the population died with nothing worth more than 1000 akçes. With a very anachronistic reading, this puts 65.7% of the deceased in the “middle” and “lower-middle” class category.147 Furthermore, the 1455 survey

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does cover the neighbourhood of Kapluca (hot-springs), where the multipurpose building of Murad I is situated and which was part of the building’s endowments. Of the eighty-two residents listed in the survey, five were low-ranking members of the learned elite: an imam, a müezzin to call for the daily prayer, two Quran reciters (hafız), and one preacher (vazi’). There were two scribes (katib), three Sufis, and only one individual, who, given his title, might have been a merchant, a certain Hoca Ali.148 The rest of the population was composed of servants, day labourers, bathhouse attendants, sweepers, cooks, bakers, farriers, etc.149 In other words, majority of the people living in the immediate vicinity of Murad I’s multipurpose building either worked directly for the building (including the bathhouse endowed to it), or were its dependents with varied degrees of bondage; including the ten shepherds who grazed, in a nearby pasture, 1,346 sheep that belonged to Murad I and brought in 2,636 akçes of annual revenue.150 Let us now rework our imagination. The programmatic openness of Murad I’s multipurpose building already allowed encounters between people of varied social status and backgrounds, whether waiting in line before to soup-kitchen, listening to the homilies of a Sufi sheikh, or casually chatting in the central hall of the building. A sweeper could have met a Genoese merchant, and a madrasa student with aspirations for upward mobility could have belittled a peasant from a nearby village. Yet, remember that in the same neighbourhood, there was also another space for socialization, and I am not talking about the hot-springs bath, but the bozahane of Balaban. Here we have a building without description, an architecture outside the scope of architectural history. Still, regardless of how it was planned, and what it looked like, the bozahane was architecture par excellence in its capacity to produce an ever-changing, non-physical space at the intersection of movements and events. Like the akhī lodges, and unlike multipurpose buildings (despite their openness), the bozahanes were not sponsored by the Ottoman state, and although they were legally owned by the state, they remained outside immediate governmental control. As İklil Selçuk’s study on late fifteenth-century Bursa demonstrates, bozahanes were not just places where people of different backgrounds came together. In addition to the fermented drink they are named after, they were also establishments that often brewed discourses critical of the government, and even oppositional social movements.151 Incidentally, Pera had its own share of bozahanes. In 1455, that is two years after Pera surrendered to the Ottomans, there were already two bozahanes in the relatively tiny ex-Genoese colony. One of the shops was run by Aleksi, probably a Greek, and recorded in the survey as a rich entrepreneur. The proprietor of the second bozahane was Burluk from Caffa, a nonMuslim who was of middle income.152 Although Aleksi might have opened his shop after Pera passed on to the Ottomans, given that Burluk was from Caffa, his bozahane might have predated the Ottoman rule. Boza was equally popular among the Tatars, and through the colony of Caffa, it might have easily become a popular drink among the Genoese as well. Nevertheless, both bozahanes of Pera were situated in the commercial district to the south of the Palazzo Comunale. This was a relatively wealthy

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neighbourhood, with only nine people among its forty taxable residents recorded as poor, but given the commercial nature of the district, it was also visited by people of lesser means, such as porters.153 Moreover, the neighbourhood to the immediate north of the commercial district, and just to the east of the Palazzo Comunale was probably the poorest quarter of Pera. Of its eighty-two residents, only thirty-one were taxable, ten of whom were exempt from the djizya tax for various reasons, and twenty-eight of the residents were recorded as poor. The area was also home to thirteen porters, the highest concentration in Pera.154 In other words, the quarters surrounding the Palazzo Comunale, with its share of what we might call watering holes, was either occupied or frequented by porters whose relationship with the mercantile elite of Pera and with the Palazzo Comunale was on a different plane; a plane shaped by the burdensome labour they had to perform on a day to day basis. The situation around the Church of San Domenico was somewhat similar. As the Ottoman survey of 1455 and Michel Balard’s study on fourteenth-century Pera reveal, perhaps due to the size of the colony, Pera did not have a segregated urban structure. The rich and the poor often lived side by side.155 Of course, there were exceptions, such as the neighbourhood to the east of the Palazzo Comunale with its high concentration of porters and poor residents, and the wealthy commercial district to the south of the palazzo. The quarter where the Church of San Domenico is situated and where the rich bozahane proprietor Aleksi lived was more in line with the norm. It had some considerably rich residents, owning multiple houses and/or shops, but twenty-six of its sixty-four residents were recorded as poor, and two of the houses were endowed to the Church of San Domenico by their owner Margarita; and Gianni Drapora had endowed his own house for the Christian poor. The 1455 survey also records one slave and seven invalids, either due to age, or mental or physical disabilities. In addition to the poor and the invalid who were very unlikely to attend the Mass at the Church of San Domenico, let alone being buried in its cemetery, but who were very likely to rely on charity, there were also five Jews living in the same neighbourhood.156 Given that Mehmed II’s deportation of Jews from the Balkans to Istanbul was in 1477, these were most likely the descendants of Jews who were already living in Pera in the fourteenth century.157 It should be obvious that, in comparison to the wealthy Genoese merchants and creditors, the poor, the invalid, and the Jews of the quarter had a very different relationship with the Church of San Domenico. At this moment, let me clarify the Dominican attitude against the Jews with an example, which will also link us back to Toulouse and wrap up this chapter. On a winter’s night a Dominican, the inquisitor Bernard Gui to be precise, warmed the frosty streets of Toulouse with a chilling fire. Although less frequently, the burning of the heretics continued in the Languedoc, but the flames that rose to the sky on December 29, 1319 came from elsewhere. Two carts of Talmuds, confiscated from the Jewish population of Toulouse, were publicly burned with the accusation that the scriptures contained blasphemy against Christ and the Virgin Mary.158 Given that no Jewish ghetto existed in Toulouse, and

250 Unrest that prior to the Albigensian Crusade the Jews had a relatively easy life without much discrimination or segregation, their relationship with the Dominicans and the Church of the Jacobins must have been similar to all other Toulousans who had not allied with the friars.159 Moreover, although class distinctions, legal and experienced, certainly existed in Toulouse, the changes that the town went through over the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries had created an outspoken notion of citizenry that allowed alliances between different classes, and in the case of the Jews, between different religions.160 In fact, in Toulouse, Pera, and Bursa, determinants of class, status, and welfare fluctuated so much that any a priori idea of ascribed status needs to be abandoned. Papo, for instance, lived in that poor neighbourhood of Pera to the east of the Palazzo Comunale. Despite being a porter, he had a relatively comfortable life. He was able to pay an annual rent of three gold pieces, and was registered as of middle income, while Costa, also a porter living in the same quarter was recorded as poor.161 Similarly, Yanni was a poor priest who either rented a room in Todor Katana’s house, or lived there out of charity, while Francesco was once a wealthy monk who owned a house, two shops and two storehouses in Pera.162 Comparable discrepancies existed even within the same family and the same household. As a middle-income entrepreneur, Giorgios Rahmanlis ran a workshop that produced sesame oil, but his son Pavaci was documented as poor, just as Nicola was; the son of Costa Melohilahti, a wealthy individual who resided in the same neighbourhood as Giorgios and Pavaci.163 On the opposite edge of the spectrum of familial welfare relations, Parvazi was a poor man who lived in the annexe of a house that belonged to a rich physician, while his son Carlo was of middle income.164 The situation was not so different in Bursa, either. As we have already seen, bakers could earn more than imams, and by the end of the fifteenth century, they could even employ slaves in their bakeries.165 On that note, more than the welfare of bakers, the more intriguing case in Bursa was the upward mobility of manumitted slaves. Once freed, slaves could easily rise up in society, and as İklil Selçuk has exemplified in the story of İbrahim b. Abdullah, a manumitted slave could become a salve-owner himself with enough capital to establish a vakıf, commission a mosque, and even sponsor twenty cavalrymen worth 20,000 akçes for a military campaign against the Hungarians.166 If there is any indication in İbrahim’s story of an aspiration for not just economic prosperity and social prestige, but also class mobility, in Toulouse, the ambitions of wealthy burghers reached to the extent of having two members of the Maurandus family clash with a group of Hospitaler knights with lances and crossbows.167 And, when it came to political allegiances, one could observe peculiar swings in Toulouse. In 1386, when Jacobus Dios Galinerii received a royal pardon for his participation in the Tuchin Rebellion, he had served as a royal sergeant, and was prosperous enough to support servants in addition to looking after his wife and children.168 Vincent Challet has clearly demonstrated the complexities in the social makeup of the Tuchins and in the political and economic motivations behind the rebellion, as well as how the swinging support of the Toulousan consuls eventually turned the rebels into mercenaries fighting against the English in the Hundred Year’s War.169

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The issue at stake then, to repeat once again, is not so much about the income level of a given individual, nor about the legally defined class position of that person. These were variables that fluctuated tremendously and did not in and of themselves determine how people related to architecture. However, they did determine the extents of what those relations could have been. On October 26, 1389, when a porter, perhaps Papo’s father, unloaded Giovanni Demerode’s merchandise in one of the warehouses, and walked by the Palazzo Comunale to rest in his house, or to have drink in a tavern or in a bozahane, Giovanni was inside the palazzo, witnessing the renewal of the Genoese-Ottoman commercial treaty under the new Ottoman ruler, Bayezid I.170 Giovanni and the porter had seen the same facade with its banded voussoirs and alternating brick and stone fabric. They had glimpsed at the same curious image of St. George, but they had experienced two very different buildings. When a member of the Maurandus family came face to face with one of the de Capitedenarios, who had just left the Mass at the Church of the Jacobins, they were under the shadows of the same crenelated facade, but cast by two very different buildings. Every day, the dishwasher (canak yuvıcı) of Murad I’s multipurpose building and its resident sheikh observed the same pseudo-spolia stringcourses and the same archivolt filled with Solomonic seals, but for each, the marbles and the stars decorated two very different buildings and meant different things; not because one could and the other could not accurately interpret them, and not because one earned the minimum wage of one akçe per day, while the other enjoyed his twelve akçe stipend.171 In all of the above potential, but historically probable encounters, experiences and relations with architecture were different, because they were political in their individual variations. And they were political, when we conceive of politics on the micro level of the mundane as rupture, always-already present, and not only on the macro level of intensifications expressed in rebellions, uprisings, and communal revolutions. Ottoman multipurpose buildings, Dominican churches, and Genoese palazzi operated governmentally in flux, moving horizontally and multidirectionally with subtle and ever-changing rhythms, in order to manage a multitude of relationships; a particularity that was also symptomatically reflected in their plans, architectonic elements, and decorations. However, all of these buildings embodied aspects of a vertical sovereign attitude, an aspect of sequence, again in their own differences: in the extraction of revenues through sequentially collected rents and taxes as the cloaked apparatus of a sovereign power (in the case of Ottoman multipurpose buildings); in the vertical imposition of doctrine and dogma under the patronage of a sovereign power (in the case of Dominican churches); and in the accumulation of a sequentially generated commercial and financial wealth in hands of a mercantile and financial elite, who acted as sovereigns in their own rights (in the case of Genoese palazzi). These different articulations of flux with their different embodiments of sequence coexisted with equally different manifestations of rupture that produced the dimension of unrest, perpetually destabilizing the conceived functions and significances of architecture. In that respect, architecture was not produced only

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by the intentions of the patrons, the designs of the architects and the decorators, the labour of the builders, and the anticipated responses of the audiences. It was simultaneously produced by the collateral and unforeseeable experiences of the multitudes who may or may not have been accounted as audiences. When people lined up before the soup-kitchen of Murad I’s multipurpose building, Ottoman authorities might have been content that the building fulfilled its function by providing for the poor. Similarly, Genoese authorities might have thought that, as they did on Christmas day, 1390, it was sufficient that they occasionally provided charity and displayed their benevolence, either directly through the Palazzo Comunale, or thorough donations to various churches in Pera, including the Church of San Domenico.172 It is true that as mutant spiders, architectures of govenmentality weaved intricate webs, on which they moved with ultimate care, hiding their sovereignty, acting as if they were parts of the web just as much as their preys were. Yet, there was always an ant or a locust that managed to escape even such an elaborate contraption. The “third” was made up of none other than these elusive multitudes, pursing a life on a different plane, bypassing the extensions of flux and sequence. They were as constitutive of architecture as anyone or anything else; an architecture that was perpetually in unrest precisely because of the constitutive presence of the third. Their lives, deeds, and experiences may not have been as clearly documented as those of the patrons and prominent users of architecture. Even when such documents exist, they are often not equally generous across the Mediterranean, and they do not necessarily contain clues as to how rupture might have manifested differently from one microecology to another. Therefore, although at certain points the task may require more imagination than normally admitted, how can we talk about architecture in the Mediterranean, when the story does not include the third, the multitudes and their experiences, not only as constitutive of architecture in a given fragmented microecology, but also as constitutive of architectural connectivity, subtly, imperceptibly, and elusively?

Notes 1 Turc 309, BnF, see 19b for the image, and 20a-23a for the text. 2 For the critical editions of a later dated copy at the Istanbul University Library (MS TY 921), see İsmail Ünver, ed., Ahmedī, İskender-nāme: İnceleme, Tıpkıbasım (Ankara: Türk Tarih ̇Kurumu, 1983); and Kemal Silay, ed., Tevārīh-i Mülūk-i Āl-i ʿOsmān ve Ġazv-i Īşān Bā-Küffār: Tāceʾd-Dīn İbrāhīm bin Hıżır Ahmedī (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations, 2004). For commentary and partial English translation, see E. J. W. Gibb, A History of Ottoman Poetry, Vol. 2 (London: Luzac & Co., 1900), 260–298. For its place in Ottoman historiography, see Halil İnalcık, “The Rise of Ottoman Historiography,” in Peter Malcolm Holt and Bernard Lewis, eds., Historians of the Middle East (London: Oxford University Press, 1962), 152–167; and Baki Tezcan, “Ottoman Historical Writing,” in Daniel Woolf, ed., The Oxford History of Historical Writing, Vol. 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 192–211. For the full text of the addendum on Ottoman history along with its English translation, see Kemal Silay, “Ahmedī’s History of the Ottoman Dynasty,” Journal of Turkish Studies 16 (1992): 129–200.

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3 Gibb, Ottoman Poetry, 268–269. 4 Sılay, “Ahmedī’s History of the Ottoman Dynasty,” 129. 5 See, for instance, V. L. Ménage, “The ‘Menāqib’ of Yaḵẖs̱ ẖi Faqīh,” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 26:1 (1963): 50–54. For more on early Ottoman historiography, in addition to Tezcan, “Ottoman Historical Writing,” and İnalcık, “The Rise of Ottoman Historiography,” (cited above), see also Dimitris Kastritsis, “The Historical Epic Ahvāl-i Sultān Mehemmed (The Tales of Sultan Mehmed) in the Context of Early Ottoman Historiography,” in H. Erdem Cipa and Emine Fetvaci, eds., Writing History at the Ottoman Court: Editing the Past, Fashioning the Future (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013), 1–22; and Baki Tezcan, “The Memory of the Mongols in Early Ottoman Historiography,” in Cipa and Fetvaci, eds., Writing History, 23–38. 6 On that see Dimitris Kastritsis, The Sons of Bayezid: Empire Building and Representation in the Ottoman Civil War of 1402–1413 (Leiden: Brill, 2007). 7 On the rebellion see Saygin Salgirli, “The Rebellion of 1416: Recontextualizing an Ottoman Social Movement,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 55 (2012): 32–73. 8 Turc 309, 20b, 21a. 9 Esin Atil, “Ottoman Miniature Painting under Sultan Mehmed II,” Ars Orientalis 9 (1973): 103–120, at 106, and notes 8 and 9. 10 Serpil Bağcı, “Old Images for New Texts and Contexts: Wandering Images in Islamic Book Painting,” Muqarnas 21 (2014): 21–32, at 25–27. 11 See, for instance Atil, 106. 12 On artistic production in the court of Mehmed II, see Gülru Necipoğlu, “Visual Cosmopolitanism and Creative Translation: Artistic Conversations with Renaissance Italy in Mehmed II’s Court,” Muqarnas 29:1 (2012): 1–81. 13 Jonathan Alexander, “Labeur and Paresse: Ideological Representations of Medieval Peasant Labor,” The Art Bulletin 72:3 (1990): 436–452; and on the celebrity status of the manuscript, see Michael Camille, “The Très Riches Heures: An Illuminated Manuscript in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Critical Inquiry 17:1 (1990): 72–107. 14 Perhaps, the contemporary authority on the Tuchin Rebelleion is Vincent Challet. See particularly his “La révolte des Tuchins: banditisme social ou sociabilité villageoise?,” Médiévales 34 (1998): 101–112; “Au miroir du Tuchinat: relations sociales et réseaux de solidarité dans les communautés languedociennes à la fin du XIVe siècle,” Cahiers de recherches médiévales et humanistes 10 (2003): 71–87; “Les Tuchins ou la grande révolte du Languedoc,” L’Histoire 298 (2005): 62–67; and “Le Tuchinat en Toulousain et dans le Rouergue (1381–1393): d’une émeute urbaine à une guérilla rurale?,” Annales du Midi 118:256 (2006): 513–525. 15 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Walter L. Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition in Southern France, 1100–1250 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 221. 16 Richard A. Sundt, “The Jacobin Church of Toulouse and the Origin of Its DoubleNave Plan,” The Art Bulletin 71:2 (1989): 185–207, at 199–202. 17 Maurice Prin, “l’Église des Jacobins de Toulouse: Les étapes de la construction,” in La naissance et l’essor du gothique méridional au XIIIe siècle, Cahiers de Fanjeaux IX (Toulouse: Édouard Privat, 1974), 185–209, at 186 and 191–195. 18 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 221. 19 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 221, 222. 20 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 209.

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21 Voluntary poverty was first accepted at the general chapter of Bologna in 1220. For that, see G. R. Galbraith, The Constitution of the Dominican Order, 1216 to 1360 (Manchester: The University Press, 1925), 36. For the discrepancy between discourse and practice of voluntary poverty, see R. F. Bennett, The Early Dominicans: Studies in Thirteenth-Century Dominican History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1937), 41–51. According to the Dominican Humbert of Romans, writing in 1254, the explanation was: “the poverty of the Order is considered to make it more or less impossible to observe uniformity in many things. For example, because of poverty we do not always have uniformity in our clothes: one has better clothes to wear, another has cheaper clothes to wear . . . depending on what they are given in alms by people outside the Order. And the same applies to many of the things mentioned above [houses, churches].” For that, see Simon Tugwell, ed., Early Dominicans: Selected Writings (New York: Paulist Press, 1982), 143. 22 On Pons and his family history, see John Hine Mundy, The Repression of Catharism at Toulouse: The Royal Diploma of 1279 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, 1985), 155–167. 23 “The Chronicle of William Pelhisson,” in Wakefield, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, 209 and note 16; and John Hine Mundy, Studies in Ecclesiastical and Social History of Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 209. 24 For instance, see Élie Lambert, “L’Église et le couvent des Jacobins de Toulouse et l’architecture dominicaine en France,” Bulletin Monumental 104 (1946): 141–186. 25 Maurice Prin, La première église des Frères prêcheurs de Toulouse, d’après les fouilles (Toulouse: Eduard Privat, 1955), 5–18. 26 Marie-Humbert Vicaire, “Le financement des Jacobins de Toulouse: Conditions spirituals et socials des constructions (1129-ca 1340),” Cahiers de Fanjeaux IX: La naissance et l’essor du gothique méridional au XIIIe siècle (Toulouse: Édouard Privat, 1974), 209–254, at 226–240. 27 Yves Dossat, Les crises de l’Inquisition toulousaine au XIIIe siècle, 1233–1273 (Bordeaux: Impr. Bière, 1959), 226–240. 28 Mark Gregory Pegg, The Corruption of Angels: The Great Inquisition of 1245–1246 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 36. 29 Pegg, Corruption of Angels, 126. 30 Raymond Rey, L’ art gothique du Midi de la France (Paris: H. Laurens, 1934), 58, 59; and Wolfgang Schenkluhn, Ordines Studentes: Aspekte Zur Kirchenarchitektur Der Dominikaner Und Franziskaner Im 13. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1985), 72–76. 31 Lambert, “L’Église et le couvent des Jacobins de Toulouse,” 169–171. 32 Sundt, “The Double-Nave Plan.” 33 On the growing wealth of the mendicant orders and how it changed mendicant architecture, see Caroline Bruzelius, Preaching, Building, and Burying: Friars and the Medieval City (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014). 34 Sundt, “The Double-Nave Plan,” 194, notes 30–33 and Richard A. Sundt, “The Churches of the Dominican Order in Languedoc, 1216 to ca. 1550,” (PhD Dissertation, University of Wisconsin-Madison, Madison, WI, 1981), 57–59. 35 Charlotte A. Stanford, “Architectural Rivalry as Civic Mirror: The Dominican Church and the Cathedral in Fourteenth-Century Strasbourg,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 64:2 (2005): 186–203. 36 Sundt, “The Double-Nave Plan,” 190–192. 37 Maria Reichert, ed., Acta capitulorum generalium Ordinis Praedicatorum, Vol. 1 (Rome, 1898), 47; and Sundt, “The Double-Nave Plan,” 191, note 25. 38 For an overview of the literature on mendicant architecture, including the use of screens, see Caroline Bruzelius, “The Architecture of the Mendicant Orders in the Middle Ages: An Overview of Recent Literature,” Perspective: La Revue de l’INHA 2 (2012): 365–386. See also, Marcia B. Hall, “The Tramezzo in Santa Croce, Florence,

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39

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41 42 43 44

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48 49 50 51 52 53 54

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Reconstructed,” The Art Bulletin 56:2 (1974): 325–341; and “The Ponte in S. Maria Novella: The Problem of the Rood Screen in Italy,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 38 (1974): 157–173. Sheila Bonde, The Fortress-Churches of Languedoc: Architecture, Religion and Conflict in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 44, 45. The construction of the cathedral began in 1282. Between 1299–1300, Bernard de Castanet held an inquisition in Albi, where, similar to Toulouse, he tried the members of the city council as well. In response, in 1301, the townspeople rebelled and expelled the bishop. Upon his return, Bernard de Castanet transformed the cathedral, to which his residence was attached, into a real fortress. For these see Kathryn M. Karrer, Millennial Activities in Late Thirteenth-Century Albi, France (Ontario: The Edwin Mellen Press, 1996), 10–20. Dossat, Les crises de l’Inquisition, 184, 185. This change of policy was largely due to the new status of Toulouse as part of the French Kingdom. Since Toulouse was now his domain, Louis IX was insistent on being the sole authority responsible for it, and the Dominicans’ condemnation of his subjects at will was unacceptable. Histoire générale de Languedoc avec des notes et les pièces justificatives par dom Cl. Devic & dom J. Vaissete, Vol. 8 (Toulouse: E. Privat, 1872–1892 cols.1375–1378 and 1382, 1383. HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 1385–1409. HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 1552–1560. HGL, Vol. 8, cols. 1650–1655. As Mundy has noted, this did not fully restore the former privileges of Toulouse and its consuls. Especially by supporting the rural aristocracy and establishing rural consulates, Alphonse of Poitiers was able to limit consular power. See John Hine Mundy, The Repression of Catharism at Toulouse: The Royal Diploma of 1279 (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1985), 29, 30; and John Hine Mundy, Society and Government at Toulouse in the Age of the Cathars (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1997), 244–249. AA 34: 3, also published in Mundy, The Repression of Catharism, 77–79. See also, 33–38. Pegg, Corruption of Angels, 129 and Mundy, The Repression of Catharism, 39–44. AA 3: 2, dated 1274/1275 confirms the customs of Toulouse. For a critical edition of the customs of Toulouse see Henri Gilles, Les coutumes de Toulouse (1286) et leur premier commentaire, (1296) (Toulouse: Recueil de l’académie de legislation, 1969). See also Mundy, The Repression of Catharism, 35. AA 3: 6. Patricia Turning, Municipal Officials, Their Public, and the Negotiation of Justice in Medieval Languedoc (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 28–41. R. Loenertz, “Les établissements dominicains de Péra-Constantinople (Origines et fondations),” Échos d’Orient 34:179 (1935): 332–349, at 334. Charles A. Frazee, “The Catholic Church in Constantinople, 1204–1453,” Balkan Studies 19 (1978): 33–49, at 38, 39. Angeliki E. Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins: The Foreign Policy of Andronicus II, 1282–1328 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972), 35–37. Marie-Hélène Congourdeau, “Note sur les Dominicains de Constantinople au début du 14e siècle,” Revue des études byzantines 45 (1987): 175–181, at 175, 176. J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologiae cursus completus: Series latina 144 (Paris: Garnier, 1844–1902), 590–594; Frazee, “The Catholic Church in Constantinople,” 41; E. Dallegio D’Alessio, “L’établissement dominicain de Péra (Galata),” Échos d’Orient 35:181 (1936): 83–86, at 85; and Loenertz, “Les établissements dominicains de PéraConstantinople,” 335. Bernard Gui, “Historia fundationis conventum ordins Praedicatorum tolosanae et provinciae provinciarum,” in Edmond Martène and Ursinus Durand, eds., Veterum scriptorum et monumentorum historicorum, dogmaticorum, moralium, amplissima

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64 65 66 67 68 69

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Unrest collectio, 9 Vols. (Paris, 1724–1733), Vol. 6, col. 510; and Congourdeau, “Note su les Dominicains de Constantinople,” 176, 177. Michel Balard, “Péra au XIVe Siécle: Documents Notariés des Archives de Gênes,” in Michel Balard, Angeliki E. Laiou, and Catherine Otten-Froux, eds., Les Italiens a Byzance: Éditions et présentation de documents (Paris: CNRS, 1987), 9–78, at 22, 23. D’Alessio, “L’établissement dominicain de Péra,” 84, 85; Loenertz, “Les établissements dominicains de Péra-Constantinople,” 334; and Frazee, “The Catholic Church in Constantinople,” 41. L. T. Belgrano, “Prima serie di documenti riguardanti la colonia di Pera,” Atti della Società Ligure di Soria Patria 13 (1877–84): 105–110; Lodovico Sauli, Della colonia dei Genovesi in Galata, libri 6, tomo 2 (Torino, 1831), 211–216; and Sercan Sağlam, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata & an Architectural Inventory Study for the Genoese Colonial Territories in Asia Minor,” (PhD Dissertation, Politecnico di Milano, Milan, 2018), 18, 115, and note 176. Eugenio Dalleggio D’Alessio, Le pietre sepolcrali di Arab Giamí (antica chiesa di S. Paolo a Galata) (Genoa: Deputazione di storia patria per la Liguria, 1942), 9–12. For dates and descriptions of the fragments, see Jean Ebersolt, Mission archéologique de Constantinople (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1921), 40–43, and plates XXXV–XL. Sağlam, 118, 119. For the photograph, see D’Alessio, Le pietre sepolcrali, 18. Benedetto Palazzo, L’Arap Djami ou Eglise Saint Paul à Galata (Istanbul: Bilge Karınca, 1946/2014); Stephan Westphalen, “Pittori greci nella chiesa domenicana dei Genovesi a Pera (Arap Camii),” in Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo, and Gerhard Wolf, eds., Intorno as Sacro Volto: Genova, Bisanzio a il Mediterraneo (secoli xi-xiv) (Venice: Marsilio, 2007), 51–62, at 52, 53; and Haluk Çetinkaya, “Byzantine Masters at the Service of the Catholic Church at Constantinople,” Rivista dell”Associazione Culturale Bizansio 16, Bisanzio, Venezia e l’Europa in èta paleologa (2011): 53–65, at 59, 60. Sağlam, 119–122. For a photograph, see Ebersolt, Mission archéologique, plate XXXIV. Rafał Quirini-Popławski, “Greek Painters for the Dominicans or Trecento at the Bosphorus? Once again about the Style and Iconography of the Wall Paintings in the Former Dominican Church of St. Paul in Pera,” Arts 8:4 (2019): 1–26, the plan at 4. Quirini-Popławski, “Greek Painters for the Dominicans,” 8; and 3–9 for a good review of the discussions following the discoveries in 1999, along with the relevant bibliography. I would like to thank Georgios Makris for directing my attention to these. Westphalen, “Pittori greci nella chiesa domenicana,” 59; Engin Akyürek, “Dominican Painting in Palaiologan Constantinople: The Frescoes of the Arap Camii (Church of S. Domenico) in Galata,” in Holger A. Klein, Robert G. Ousterhout and Brigitte Pitarakis, eds., The Kariye Camii Reconsidered (Istanbul: Istanbul research Institute Publications, 2011), 327–341, at 339, 340. One such exception is the east wall of the narthex at the Panagia Chalkeon in Thessaloniki, where Luke is depicted with his symbol, the ox (c. 1100–1199). For that, see Robert S. Nelson, “A Byzantine Painter in Trecento Genoa: The Last Judgment at S. Lorenzo,” The Art Bulletin 67:4 (1985): 548–566. Quirini-Popławski, “Greek Painters for the Dominicans,” 10, 11. For the frescoes and the mosaics, see also the 3-D laser scan by the architectural firm Solvotek, though with some caution since the video appears to be promotional, and not the result of a professional commission: www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVYLF7QYqyk (Accessed April 11, 2020). Eugène Dallegio d’Alessio, “Les origines dominicaines du couvent des Saints-Pierre-etPaul à Galata: un texte décisif,” Échos d’Orient 29:160 (1930): 459–474, at 462–464.

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73 Siegrid Düll, “Unbekannte Denkmäler der Genuesen aus Galata,” Istanbuler Mitteilungen 33 (1983): 225–238, at 233–235. 74 D’Alessio’s much earlier datings in Le pietre sepolcrali were later corrected in Johannes Cramer and Siegrid Düll, “Baubeobachtungen an der Arap Camii in Istanbul,” Istanbuler Mitteilungen 35 (1985): 295–321, at 315. 75 Ágnes Kriza, “The Royal Deesis: An Anti-Latin Image of Late Byzantine Art,” in Angeliki Lymberopoulou, ed., Cross-Cultural Interaction between Byzantium and the West, 1204–1669: Whose Mediterranean Is It Anyway? (New York: Routledge, 2018), 272–290. 76 Quirini-Popławski, “Greek Painters for the Dominicans,” 18. 77 Çetinkaya, “Byzantine Masters,” 64. 78 See, for instance Sean Gilsdorf, “Deēsis Deconstructed: Imagining Intercession in the Medieval West,” Viator 43:1 (2012): 131–174. 79 On that, see Nelson, “Byzantine Painter,” and Robert S. Nelson, “Byzantine Icons in Genoa before the Manylion,” in Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo, and Gerhard Wolf, eds., Intorno al Sacro Volto. Genova, Bisanzio e il Mediterraneo, secoli XI-XV (Florence: Kunsthistorische Institut, 2007),79–92. 80 Anthony Cutler, “Under the Sign of the Deēsis: On the Question of Representativeness in Medieval Art and Literature,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 41 (1987): 145–154; Otto Demus, The Mosaics of San Marco in Venice, Vol. 2 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 69; and for a particularly Byzantine case of changing interceders, see Charalambos Pennas, “Μια ασυνήθιστη Δέηση στον νάρθηκα της Παναγίας της Κρήνας στη Χίο,” Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας 17 (1994): 193–198. 81 Robert S. Nelson, “The Chora and the Great Church: Intervisuality in FourteenthCentury Constantinople,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 23 (1999): 67–101. 82 Claudine Delacroix-Besnier, Les Dominicains et la chrétienté grecque aux XIVe et XVe siècles (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1997), 201–211 for an overview, and 211–271. 83 Delacroix-Besnier, Les Dominicains et la chrétienté grecque, 186–197. See also, Marie-Hélène Congourdeau, “Frère Simon le Constantinopolitain, O.P. (1235?1325?),” Revue des études byzantines 45 (1987): 165–174; Claudine DelacroixBesnier, “À propos du code FX 28 de la Bibliothèque communale de Sienne,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen-Age 113:2 (2001): 735–766; Claudine Delacroix-Besnier, “Conversions constantinopolitaines au XIVe siècle,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen-Age 105:2 (1993): 715–761; Thomas Kaeppeli, “Deux nouveaux ouvrages de Philippe Incontri de Péra O. P.,” Archivum Fratrum Praedicatorum 23 (1953): 163–183; and Claudine Delacroix-Besnier, “Manuel Calécas et les Frères Chrysobergès, grecs et prêcheurs,” Actes des congrès de la Société des historiens médiévistes de l’enseignement supérieur public, 32e congrès (Dunkirk: SHMESP, 2001), 151–164. 84 On the more securely dated tombstones that fall within the scope of this book, see D’Alessio, Le pietre sepolcrali, 37–110. 85 AA 3: 5, 139; and AA 3: 153. 86 Roberto Lopez, Storia delle colonie genovesi nel Mediterraneo (Bologna: N. Zanichelli, 1938); Gabriella Airaldi, Genova e la Liguria nel Medioevo (Turin: UTET Università, 1987); Steven A. Epstein, Genoa and the Genoese, 958–1528 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996); and more recently, Gabriella Arialdi, “International Relations and the Colonial System in Medieval Genoa,” Mediterranean World 21 (2012): 136–148. 87 In addition to the discussion in Epstein, Genoa and the Genoese, see also Luca Filangieri, “The Commune,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 95–119, at 112–117; and Antonio Musarra, “Political Alliance

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and Conflict,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 120–143, at 131–135. 88 For an earlier discussion of this phenomenon, see Michel Balard, La Romanie génoise (XIIe-début du XVe siècle) (Genoa: Società Ligure di Storia Patria, 1978); and for a more recent one, including a review of the earlier literature, see Sandra Origone, “Colonies and Colonization,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 496–520. 89 Yoko Kamenaga-Anzai, “An Aspect of the Genoese Network and Its Colonial World in the Middle Ages,” Mediterranean World 22 (2015): 137–146. 90 Yoko Kamenaga, “Changing to a New Surname: An Essay Regarding the ‘albergo’ in Medieval Genoa,” Mediterranean World 16 (2001): 221–235. 91 For the fourteenth-century history of the Giustiniani, see Carlo Hopf, translated by Alessandro Wolf, “La storia dei Giustinani di Genova,” Giornale ligustico di Archeologia, Storia e Belle Arti 7–8 (1881): 316–330. 92 On that, see Gabriella Airaldi, “Genova e L’Islam, una storia a n dimensioni,” in Alireza Naser Eslami, ed., Genova, una capitale del Mediterraneo tra Bisanzio e il mondo islamico: storia, arte e architettura (Milan: Bruno Mondadori, 2016), 53–62; and Alireza Naser Eslami, Genova e il Mediterraneo: I riflessi d’oltremare sulla cultura artistica e l’architettura dello spazio urbano, XXI-XXVI Secolo (Genoa: De Ferrari, 2012), 43–63. 93 For a summary discussion, see Kate Fleet, European and Islamic Trade in the Early Ottoman State: The Merchants of Genoa and Turkey (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 10–12. 94 Elizabeth A. Zachariadou, Trade and Crusade: Venetian Crete and Emirates of Menteshe and Aydin, 1300–1415 (Venice: Hellenic Institute of Byzantine and postByzantine Studies, 1983), 45; and Balard, La romaine génoise, 95. 95 For the former, see Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 40–42. 96 Balard, La romaine génoise, 303–308. 97 Delacroix-Besnier, Les Dominicains et la chrétienté grecque, 103, 104. 98 D’Alessio, Le pietre sepolcrali, 127, 128. 99 On that see, Taryn E. L. Chubb and Emily D. Kelley, eds., Mendicants and Merchants in the Medieval Mediterranean (Leiden: Brill, 2013), especially García-Serrano, “Conclusion: The Mendicants as a Mediterranean Phenomenon,” 272–289. 100 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 162. 101 Nelson, “Byzantine Painter,” 555. See also, Robert S. Nelson, “Byzantine Icons in Genoa”; and Clario di Fabio, “Bisanzio a Genova fra XII e XIV secolo: documenti e memorie d’arte,” in Piero Boccardo and Clario Di Fabio, eds., Genova e l’Europa mediterranea: opere, artisti, committenti, collezionisti (Genoa: Banca Carige/Silvana Editoriale, 2005), 41–67, at 56–62. 102 George L. Gorse, “Architecture and Urban Topography,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 218–191, at 231. See also Rebeca Müller, “Genova vittoriosa: i trofei bellici,” in Piero Boccardo and Clario Di Fabio, eds., Genova e l’Europa mediterranea: Opere, artisti, committenti, collezionisti (Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 2005), 89–107. 103 Giornale degli eruditi e curiosi 62 (October 1, 1884): 294. 104 Robert S. Nelson, “Heavenly Allies at the Chora,” Gesta 43:1 (2004): 31–40. 105 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 29. 106 Peter Ian Kuniholm, “Dendochronologically Dated Ottoman Monuments,” in Uzi Baram and Lynda Carroll, eds., A Historical Archeology of the Ottoman Empire: Breaking New Ground (New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishers, 2000), 93–134, at 122. 107 In addition to Çağaptay’s works cited above, see also Vladimir Bozinović, “Rosettes on Monuments of Morava Serbia and Early Ottoman Bursa,” Niš & Byzantium 16 (2018): 333–342. For a broader discussion on the fluidity of ornaments, see Gerhard

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Wolf, “Vesting Walls, Displaying Structure, Crossing Cultures: Transmedial and Transmaterial Dynamics of Ornament,” in Gülru Necipoğlu and Alina Payne, eds., Histories of Ornament: From Global to Local (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016), 96–105. For surveys, see Yıldıray Özbek, Osmanlı Beyliği Mimarisinde Taş Süsleme, 1300–1453 (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2002); Semra Ögel, Anadolu Selçukluları’nın Taş Tezyinatı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1967). For Byzantine examples, see particularly Jasmina S. Ćirić, “Ἐν τούτῳ νίκα: Brickwork Narrative in Constantinopolitan Architecture during the Period of Palaiologoi,” Niš & Byzantium 12 (2014): 231–244; and Jasmina S. Ćirić, “Constantinopolitan Concepts, Old Symbols and New Interpretations: Facade Ornaments at St. Sophia Church in Ohrid, Zaum and Lesnovo,” in Mitko B. Banov, ed., Macedonia and the Balkans in the Byzantine Commonwealth, Proceedings of the International Symposium ‘Days of Justinian I’, Skopje, 18–19 October, 2013 (Skopje: Euro-Balkan University, 2014), 156–165. Özbek, Osmanlı Beyliği Mimarisinde Taş Süsleme, 229–236. Although the employment of a Genoese artist is not out of question, given that the frescos and the mosaics of the San Dominico, and the windows of the Palazzo Comunale were done by local artists/artisans, and that both buildings were constructed according to local techniques with local materials and most probably by local craftsmen, this is a very unlikely possibility. Afife Batur has even suggested that the central arch of the gallery was a reference to the monumental muqarnas portals commonly used in madrasa architecture. See Afife Batur, “Osmanlı Camilerinde Almaşık Duvar Özerine,” Anadolu Sanatı Araştırmaları 2 (1970): 135–230, at 145, 146. Here, I am not referring to formal and stylistic links between Murad I’s building and various other structures in and outside Anatolia, such as the Nymphaion Palace, Palace of the Porphyrogenitus in Constantinople, St. Sophia in Ohrid, or the of Panagia Parigoritissa in Arta. For that comparison and more see Suna Çağaptay, “Frontierscape: Reconsidering Bithynian Structures and Their Builders on the ByzantineOttoman Cusp,” Muqarnas 28:1 (2011): 155–191, at 172–178. Bernard Tschumi, Architecture and Disjunction (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), 47. Although now outdated and fervently critiqued, one demonstrative example of this is Ernst J. Grube, “What Is Islamic Architecture?,” in George Michell, ed., Architecture of the Islamic World: Its History and Social Meaning (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), 10–14. For a discussion of the “third” in Western thought and its relation to art and visual culture, see Albrecht Koschorke, “Ein neues Paradigma der Kulturwissenschaften,” in Herausgegeben von Eva Eßlinger, Tobias Schlechtriemen, Doris Schweitzer, and Alexander Zons, eds., Die Figur des Dritten – Ein kulturwissenschaftliches Paradigma (Berlin: Suhrkamp, 2010), 9–31. For a different perspective that introduces Deleuze’s articulations of difference, movement, and folding into architecture for a non-binary methodology, see John Rajchman, Philosophical Events: Essays of the ’80s (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 152–165; and John Rajchman, Constructions (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), 11–35. Oleg Grabar, The Mediation of Ornament (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 9–46; Gülru Necipoğlu, The Topkapi Scroll: Geometry and Ornament in Islamic Architecture (Santa Monica, CA: The Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1995), 217–223; Wendy M. K. Shaw, What Is Islamic Art? Between Religion and Perception (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2019), 268–299. Raif Kaplanoğlu, Niyazi Topçu, and Hüseyin Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defterine Göre Osmanlı Kuruluş Devri Vakıfları (Giriş-Tıpkıbasım-Çeviriyazı) (Bursa: Avrasya Etnografya Vakfı, 2014), 67.

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118 On travel accounts about Bursa, see Heath Lowry, Ottoman Bursa in Travel Accounts (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2003); and Fahri Yıldırım, “14. Yüzyıldan Cumhuriyet Dönemine Kadar Yabancı Seyyahların Gözünden Bursa İlindeki Mimari Eserler,” (PhD Dissertation, Gazi Üniversitesi, Ankara, 2013). On the nature of Ottoman sources for early Ottoman history, see Heath Lowry, The Nature of the Early Ottoman State (Albany: SUNY press, 2003). 119 For the nature of the documents see, Laura Balletto, “Brevi note su Pera genovese a metà del XIV secolo,” in Ruthy Gertwagen and Elizabeth Jeffreys, eds., Shipping, Trade and Crusade in the Medieval Mediterranean: Studies in Honour of John Pryor (New York: Ashgate, 2012), 197–222; and Michel Ballard, “Péra au XIVe siècle,” 9–16. 120 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 152. 121 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 153. 122 Belgrano, “Prima serie,” 125, 126. 123 Belgrano, “Prima series,” 140–144. 124 For the cloth prices, see Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 154, and for freightage expenses, 32. 125 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 29. 126 For a comparative study on the status of unmarried women and the issue of Frauenfrage, see Ellen E. Kittell, “Testaments of Two Cities: A Comparative Analysis of the Wills of Medieval Genoa and Douai,” European Review of History: Revue européenne d’histoire 5:1 (1998): 47–82. 127 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 68. 128 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 71. 129 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 74 for Murad’s salary, and 59 for Michael and Tanrıvermiş’s taxes. 130 Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 14, 150–155. 131 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 70. The identity of this Halil Beg, whose register is mentioned six more times, is very intriguing. The vakfiye of Murad I assigns Çandarlı Kara Halil Hayreddin Pasha, the first grand vizier of Ottoman history, as the administrator of the vakıf. For that see, Niyazi Topçu, “Murat Hüdavendigar’ın Bursa Vakfiyesi ve Vakıf Köyleri,” Bursa Araştırmaları 10 (2005): 46–53, at 49. Although it is tempting and reasonable to propose that the register referred to in 1455 was the one that Çandarlı Kara Halil had ordered, a reference to the highest ranking official of the late fourteenth-century simply as Halil Beg with no definite signifier is a strong counterpoint to such a proposition. For that see, Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 6–8. On the other hand, regardless of who he really was, Halil Beg was responsible for an earlier register, and most probably one that dates to the late fourteenth century. 132 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 72. 133 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 73, 74. 134 Although focusing primarily on the city of Genoa, for a discussion of social groups and further bibliography, see Denise Bezzina, “Social Landscapes,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 165–189. 135 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 73. 136 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 71. See also, Fleet, European and Islamic Trade, 95–111. 137 I had previously discussed this transformation in relation to Çandarlı Kara Halil Hayreddin Pasha’s architectural patronage. For that, see Saygin Salgirli, “Architectural Anatomy of an Ottoman Execution,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 72:3 (2013): 301–321, at 308, and notes for additional bibliography. 138 Sılay, “Ahmedī’s History of the Ottoman Dynasty,” 142: While he was in this world, he prepared himself for the next world, where everybody [=the elite, and the common people (hãs u ‘ãm)] will be tranquil. For the codification of the askeri – reaya divide

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143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152

153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164

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in the late fifteenth century, and for further bibliography, see Colin Imber, The Ottoman Empire, 1300–1650: The Structure of Power (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 244–251. See for instance, Suraiya Faroqhi, “Ra ‘iyya,” in The Encyclopedia of Islam 2, Vol. 8 (Leiden: Brill, 1986–2004), 404–406; and Halil İnalcık, “Ghulām,” EI 2, Vol. 2, 1085–1091. For a short, but very insightful discussion on the dynamics of inequality in the later Ottoman Empire, see Baki Tezcan, “Ethnicity, Race, Religion and Social Class: Ottoman Markers of Difference,” in Christine Woodhead, ed., The Ottoman World (London: Routledge, 2011), 159–170. Halil İnalcık, “15. Asır Türkiye İktisadi ve İctimai Tarihi Kaynakları,” İktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası 15 (1953–1954): 51–65, at 52, 53. İnalcık, “15. Asır Türkiye İktisadî ve İçtimaî Tarihi,” 55–60, and 68–70 for the inheritance register of Haci Abdulrahman; and Hüseyin Özdeğer, 1463–1640 Yılları Bursa Şehri Tereke Defterleri (Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi İktisat Fakültesi Yayınları, 1988), 197–199, for Hacı Hayreddin. İklil Selçuk, “Tracing Esnaf in Late Fifteenth-Century Bursa Court Records,” in Suraiya Faroqhi, ed., Bread from the Lion’s Mouth: Artisans Struggling for a Livelihood in Ottoman Cities (New York: Berghahn Books, 2015), 51–69, at 59. Franz Taeschner, ed., Gihannuma: Die Altosmanische Chronik des Mevlana Mehemmed Neschri, Vol. 1 (Leipzig: Otto Harrassowitz, 1951), 152. See, for instance Cihan Çimen, “Anonim Tevârîh-i Âl-î Osmân (Kurulştan 897/ 1487’ye Kadar),” (MA Thesis, Marmara Universitesi, Istanbul, 2006), 130–132. The vakfiye of Murad I endows the slaves who worked a vineyard and a mill in Eğriceköy to the multipurpose building, along with the vineyard and the mill, of course. For that, see Topçu, “Murat Hüdavendigar’ın Bursa Vakfiyesi,” 49. İnalcık, “15. Asır Türkiye İktisadî ve İçtimaî Tarihi,” 55. There were also few people with the title hacı, which was similarly used by merchants, but since one of the hacıs appears as a bathhouse servant (hamam hizmetkarı), I am reluctant to count all the hacıs as merchants. Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 67, 68. Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 69. İklil Oya Selçuk, “State and Society in the Market Place: A Study of Late FifteenthCentury Bursa,” (PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, 2009), 52–80. Halil İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 1455: The Text, English Translation, Analysis of the Text, Documents (Istanbul: Türkiye İş Bankası Kültür Yayınları, 2010), 227, 102, and 254, 125 for Aleksi’s residence and shop; 219, 92, and 254, 124 for Burluk. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 249–254, 121–125. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 261–266, 131–135. Balard, La romaine génoise, 197, 198. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 227–232, 102–107. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 502. Philippus van Limborch, Historia Inquisitionis cui subjungitur Liber Sententiarum Inquisitionis Tholosanae ab anno Christi 1307 ab annum 1323 (Amsterdam: Henry Wetstein, 1692), 241; and HGL, Vol. 9, 393. Mundy, Society and Government, 79–81. See also 362–365 for Provincialis and his son Bonuspuer, both of whom worked in the government of Toulouse. Mundy, Society and Government, 48–66, 105–113. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 262, 263, 132, 133. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 248, 119, 265, 134. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 280, 146. İnalcık, The Survey of Istanbul, 269, 137.

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165 Halil Sahillioğlu, “On Beşinci Yüzyıl Sonunda Bursa’da İş ve Sanayi Hayatı: Kölelikten Patronluğa,” in Memorial Omer Lutfi Barkan (Paris: Librairie D’ Amerique Et D’ Orient Adrien Maisonneuve, 1980), 179–188, at 182. 166 Selçk, “State and Society,” 132–134. See also Sahillioğlu, “On Beşinci Yüzyıl Sonunda Bursa,” 186–188. 167 Mundy, Society and Government, 116. 168 HGL, Vol. 10, 1716–1718. 169 On these, see Vincent Challet, “Le Tuchinat en Toulousain et dans le Rouergue,” and “La révolte des Tuchins.” 170 Balard, “Péra au XIVe siécle,” 33. 171 Kaplanoğlu, Topçu, and Delil, eds., 1455 Tarihli Kirmasti Defteri, 73, 74. 172 Belgrano, Prima serie, 153, 154.

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Nelson, Robert S., “A Byzantine Painter in Trecento Genoa: The Last Judgment at S. Lorenzo,” The Art Bulletin 67:4 (1985): 548–566. ———, “The Chora and the Great Church: Intervisuality in Fourteenth-Century Constantinople,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 23 (1999): 67–101. ———, “Heavenly Allies at the Chora,” Gesta 43:1 (2004): 31–40. ———, “Byzantine Icons in Genoa before the Manylion,” in Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo, and Gerhard Wolf, eds., Intorno al Sacro Volto. Genova, Bisanzio e il Mediterraneo, secoli XI-XV (Florence: Kunsthistorische Institut, 2007), 79–92. Ögel, Semra, Anadolu Selçukluları’nın Taş Tezyinatı (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu, 1967). Origone, Sandra, “Colonies and Colonization,” in Carrie E. Beneš, ed., A Companion to Medieval Genoa (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 496–520. Özbek, Yıldıray, Osmanlı Beyliği Mimarisinde Taş Süsleme, 1300–1453 (Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı, 2002). Özdeğer, Hüseyin, 1463–1640 Yılları Bursa Şehri Tereke Defterleri (Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi İktisat Fakültesi Yayınları, 1988). Palazzo, Benedetto, L’Arap Djami ou Eglise Saint Paul à Galata (Istanbul: Bilge Karınca, 1946/2014). Pegg, Mark Gregory, The Corruption of Angels: The Great Inquisition of 1245–1246 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001). Pennas, Charalambos, “Μια ασυνήθιστη Δέηση στον νάρθηκα της Παναγίας της Κρήνας στη Χίο,” Δελτίον της Χριστιανικής Αρχαιολογικής Εταιρείας 17 (1994): 193–198. Prin, Maurice, La première église des Frères prêcheurs de Toulouse, d’après les fouilles (Toulouse: Eduard Privat, 1955). ———, “l’Église des Jacobins de Toulouse: Les étapes de la construction,” in La naissance et l’essor du gothique méridional au XIIIe siècle, Cahiers de Fanjeaux IX (Toulouse: Édouard Privat, 1974), 185–209. Quirini-Popławski, Rafał, “Greek Painters for the Dominicans or Trecento at the Bosphorus? Once again about the Style and Iconography of the Wall Paintings in the Former Dominican Church of St. Paul in Pera,” Arts 8:4 (2019): 1–26. Rajchman, John, Philosophical Events: Essays of the ’80s (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991). ———, Constructions (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998). Rey, Raymond, L’ art gothique du Midi de la France (Paris: H. Laurens, 1934). Sağlam, Sercan, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata & an Architectural Inventory Study for the Genoese Colonial Territories in Asia Minor,” (PhD Dissertation, Politecnico di Milano, Milan, 2018). Sahillioğlu, Halil, “On Beşinci Yüzyıl Sonunda Bursa’da İş ve Sanayi Hayatı: Kölelikten Patronluğa,” in Memorial Omer Lutfi Barkan (Paris: Librairie D’Amerique Et D’ Orient Adrien Maisonneuve, 1980), 179–188. Salgirli, Saygin, “The Rebellion of 1416: Recontextualizing an Ottoman Social Movement,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 55 (2012): 32–73. ———, “Architectural Anatomy of an Ottoman Execution,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 72:3 (2013): 301–321. Schenkluhn, Wolfgang, Ordines Studentes: Aspekte Zur Kirchenarchitektur Der Dominikaner Und Franziskaner Im 13. Jahrhundert (Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1985). Selçuk, İklil Oya, “State and Society in the Market Place: A Study of Late FifteenthCentury Bursa,” (PhD Dissertation, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, 2009). ———, “Tracing Esnaf in Late Fifteenth-Century Bursa Court Records,” in Suraiya Faroqhi, ed., Bread from the Lion’s Mouth: Artisans Struggling for a Livelihood in Ottoman Cities (New York: Berghahn Books, 2015), 51–69.

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Shaw, Wendy M. K., What Is Islamic Art? Between Religion and Perception (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2019). Stanford, Charlotte A., “Architectural Rivalry as Civic Mirror: The Dominican Church and the Cathedral in Fourteenth-Century Strasbourg,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 64:2 (2005): 186–203. Sundt, Richard A., “The Churches of the Dominican Order in Languedoc, 1216 to ca. 1550,” (PhD Dissertation, University of Wisconsin-Madison, Madison, WI, 1981). ———, “The Jacobin Church of Toulouse and the Origin of Its Double-Nave Plan,” The Art Bulletin 71:2 (1989): 185–207. Tezcan, Baki, “Ethnicity, Race, Religion and Social Class: Ottoman Markers of Difference,” in Christine Woodhead, ed., The Ottoman World (London: Routledge, 2011), 159–170. ———, “Ottoman Historical Writing,” in Daniel Woolf, ed., The Oxford History of Historical Writing, Vol. 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 192–211. ———, “The Memory of the Mongols in Early Ottoman Historiography,” in H. Erdem Cipa and Emine Fetvaci, eds., Writing History at the Ottoman Court: Editing the Past, Fashioning the Future (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2013), 23–38. Tschumi, Bernard, Architecture and Disjunction (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998). Turning, Patricia, Municipal Officials, Their Public, and the Negotiation of Justice in Medieval Languedoc (Leiden: Brill, 2013). Vicaire, Marie-Humbert, “Le financement des Jacobins de Toulouse: Conditions spirituals et socials des constructions (1129-ca 1340),” in Cahiers de Fanjeaux IX: La naissance et l’essor du gothique méridional au XIIIe siècle (Toulouse: Édouard Privat, 1974), 209–254. Westphalen, Stephan, “Pittori greci nella chiesa domenicana dei Genovesi a Pera (Arap Camii),” in Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, Colette Dufour Bozzo, and Gerhard Wolf, eds., Intorno as Sacro Volto: Genova, Bisanzio a il Mediterraneo (secoli xi–xiv) (Venice: Marsilio, 2007), 51–62. Wolf, Alessandro, “La storia dei Giustinani di Genova,” Giornale ligustico di Archeologia, Storia e Belle Arti 7–8 (1881): 316–330. Wolf, Gerhard, “Vesting Walls, Displaying Structure, Crossing Cultures: Transmedial and Transmaterial Dynamics of Ornament,” in Gülru Necipoğlu and Alina Payne, eds., Histories of Ornament: From Global to Local (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016), 96–105. Yıldırım, Fahri, “14. Yüzyıldan Cumhuriyet Dönemine Kadar Yabancı Seyyahların Gözünden Bursa İlindeki Mimari Eserler,” (PhD Dissertation, Gazi Üniversitesi, Ankara, 2013). Zachariadou, Elizabeth A., Trade and Crusade: Venetian Crete and Emirates of Menteshe and Aydin, 1300–1415 (Venice: Hellenic Institute of Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Studies, 1983).

Websites www.youtube.com/watch?v=rVYLF7QYqyk

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The epigraph that opened this book is from China Miéville’s debut novel King Rat (1998). So, here you have in your hands, a book on architectural history that commenced with a quote from one of the leading figures of the new weird; and among all potentially more appropriate candidates from Miéville’s oeuvre, the quote comes from his seemingly least architectural book.1 Consider for instance the doubling in City and the City, and the “breach” between two different urban environments; or the imperceptible passages between London and Un Lun Dun, where bridges move, and spidery “black windows” transport you to unfathomable places whence you may never return. Both seem to be more fitting for a book concerned with movements and rhythms of architecture, with their vertical and metrically linear sequence, and horizontal and multidirectional flux. Yet, this book does not simply animate architecture, it does so through the perceptions and experiences of the multitudes, and the events that they generated. For that purpose, King Rat becomes very relevant. The novel follows the story of Saul, who discovers that his real father is the King Rat, neither human, nor rat, but both, something in-between. Gradually, and with obvious difficulty, Saul embraces his new nature, and in his becoming-rat, the only person he communicates with comfortably, the only person he can connect with is a homeless schizophrenic girl. To all other inhabitants of London, he is invisible, at best a shadow in the corner of their eyes. In the quote that opened this book, the becoming-rat Saul defeats the tyranny of architecture by seeing the city from an angle which it was never meant to be seen from, by experiencing buildings in a way that they were never meant to be experienced. The heroes of King Rat are the undesirable occupants of the city, the rats, the pigeons, the spiders; they are the vermin, the “locusts and ants” of Ibn-Bibi, and the collaterally fed “mice, lizards and cockroaches” of Jābir ibn Hayyān; they are the heretics burned at the stake, the rebels put to sword. But, they are also the many nameless multitudes, who never rebelled, who were never condemned of heresy, but nonetheless, with the subtle movements and rhythms of their lives, and the imperceptibly molecular events that they generated, they equally became part of rupture, they equally destabilized architecture in unrest. Of course, the Pyramid never physically dissolved, but, as I will clarify in these concluding pages, a material dissolution was never the dream of the Labyrinth. All the buildings

270 Arrhythmia discussed in this book are still standing, and except the Palazzo Comunale in Pera, they are still in use, although only Saint-Sernin serves the same functions that it was originally designed for. Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela did not have a stable history. Frequencies and densities of travel fluctuated throughout the Middle Ages, and in the sixteenth century, pilgrimage almost completely died out, until its highly politicized revival in the nineteenth century.2 Given the extent of its possessions in and outside Toulouse, it is hard to know to what extent Saint-Sernin was hit by the disappearance of pilgrimage, but despite expectable ups and downs in its annual revenues, the church seems to have done relatively well all the way into the late fifteenth century.3 In 2006, when I interviewed a retired canon of Saint-Sernin, I asked a related question, which seemed perfectly reasonable to me: “Do you know what percentage of visitors to Saint-Sernin today are tourists, and what percentage are pilgrims?” But, the canon gave a cynical laugh and replied: “Tourist, pilgrim, what is the difference?” Although we should refrain from any claim of uninterrupted historical continuity, it is important to notice in the canon’s response at least the twenty-first-century resurgence of a very medieval view that did not distinguish between the spiritual and economic aspects of pilgrimage. They were the inseparable components of the same sequence. On the other hand, for the North Africans who live in the vicinity of SaintSernin, for the customers of the numerous halal butchers and take-away shops in the Arnaud Bernard quarter (where the church is located), whether as a tourist attraction or as a destination along the pilgrimage route, Saint-Sernin is just another building, relegated to its unrest in a dimension outside the humdrum of life that scurries along the surrounding narrow streets. Similarly, the residents of the Matabiau neighbourhood to the east of Saint-Sernin and their activist supporters are in the process of generating new rupture, with other concerns in mind. A massive urban renewal project, ostentatiously named Grand Matabiau, has knocked on their doors with the equally massive threat of displacement. And, it arrived with a colossal multipurpose tower that will swirl up 153 metres above ground level, with retail and office spaces, a Hilton hotel, and residences.4 Only time will show whether the tower and its extensions, moving both in sequence and in flux, will eventually be put to unrest, but the tower and all those involved in its rupture are on as different dimensions as Saint-Sernin and the residents of the Arnaud Bernard quarter are. There are no continuities in history, but manifestations of rupture and unrest, in all their differences, are inseparable components of architecture. In its long history, the Karatay Han was less fortunate than Saint-Sernin. In the mid-fourteenth century, it was still a functioning caravanserai, and important enough for Francesco Balducci Pegolotti to be praised and listed among the stations on the road from Ayaş on the southern coast of Turkey to Tabriz.5 Then comes silence. For almost two centuries, there is no documentary evidence on the Karatay Han. It is clear in the late fifteenth-century Ottoman surveys of the region that the vakıfs of Celaleddin Karatay were still intact, but there is no mention of the Karatay Han.6 Such absences in Ottoman surveys can result from multiple

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reasons, including the scope of the survey, the changing boundaries of the provinces, or the disappearance of certain pages over the years. For instance, the 1484 survey intriguingly opens with the village of Sarımsaklu, the immediate vicinity of the caravanserai, but there is no reference to the building, because the Karatay Han, although in the line of sight of everyone living in Sarımsaklu and beyond, fell within the territories of the Beylik of Dulkadir.7 Yet, this diplomatic oddity should not make what comes next any less interesting. After the survey of the Gesi region, where the likely master masons of the Karatay Han lived, the document continues with a detailed enumeration of the nomadic Turkmen tribes in the region.8 With some poetic liberty, one can imagine the caravanserai as not only left in unrest, but sucked into the utter oblivion of rupture by the swarming ants and locusts. Of course, as I discussed in the first chapter, when the Karatay Han remerged in sixteenth-century documents, despite its changing designation as a dervish lodge (zaviye), all its privileges were still in place. But, again, the dream of the Labyrinth is not about the material disappearance of the Pyramid. Today, the Karatay Han continues to serve some of its intended functions, albeit with some significant differences. Situated along the major highway between Kayseri and Malatya, it is probably the most interesting resting stop for any exhausted driver, where a surprisingly decent restaurant is ready to serve you a filling portion of mantı, the famous tiny beef dumplings of Kayseri. Unlike its counterparts, such as the Issız Han in the outskirts of Bursa, the Karatay Han has not been fully converted to a boutique hotel, but it is regularly rented out for wedding celebrations.9 Yet, the patrons are not the modern equivalents of the Seljuq elite, but the middle-class families of Kayseri. The cells on the east side of the courtyard, where the distinguished guests once stayed, are still in use, but their occupants are now the employees of the caravanserai, most of them university students. The multitudes who once moulded their wedding celebrations into tiny house models, the servants who once slept with the animals, and the labourers who left their marks on the stones have taken over the caravanserai, dreaming it into a different dimension. The villagers, on the other hand, until about ten years ago, were freely using the building to shelter their animals and to store their goods; and today, they are mostly indifferent to its rejuvenation. It seems that the Karatay Han has been living its long history in arrhythmic fluctuations between multiple states of unrest. The unrest of the Church of the Jacobins has perhaps been even more arrhythmic. After the Revolution, the Dominican Order was banned, and the friars were permanently expelled from Toulouse. Subsequently, the church became municipal property, and in 1810, Napoleon appropriated the building and turned it into his military barracks. In 1861, the army moved out, the church once again became city property, housed the Exposition of Arts and Industries of 1865, and then with municipal order, it was opened to the use of the nearby high school, today’s Lycée Pierre-de-Fermat.10 Today, the Church of the Jacobins is a museum with free admissions, and the clatter of high school kids is replaced by the chatter of tourist cameras, equally indifferent to the convoluted history of the building. The flux

272 Arrhythmia of Dominican networks that once defined the movements and the rhythms of the building are long gone. The only flux that the new building can claim is its coincidental ability to attract visitors from distant corners of the world, and nowadays it relies more heavily on sequence than it ever did, in the form of tax-generated funds channelled from the regional and central governments. The Church of San Domenico, and the multipurpose buildings of Orhan and Murad I have had their own conversions, all turning into mosques. When the Muslims expelled from Spain took over the San Domenico, and the Dominicans moved to the Church of San Pietro, none could have foreseen the awkwardness of the situation. Despite the genealogy of the founder of their order, the Dominicans of Pera had no involvement in the Reconquista. They had their own mission in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet, in less than a hundred years, their brothers in Spain would be instrumental in the persecution and the expulsion of the descendants of the Muslims that had taken over the Church of San Domenico.11 About a century after that, the church-cum-mosque in Pera received an unexpected architectural gesture in the form of two horse-shoe-arched portals, one replacing the west portal, one marking the western entrance to the new porch.12 Ironically, the gesture was probably less intended to commemorate the heritage of the early occupants of the mosque, and more to reinforce the relatively recent argument that before being replaced by a church, there was a mosque in this location, built by Maslama ibn Abd al-Malik during the second Arab siege of Constantinople. Hence the name Arab Mosque. And, very likely, the gesture was also related to the Islamization of non-Muslim lands in Istanbul that began with the Great Fire of 1660.13 On the surface, the conversions of the multipurpose buildings of Orhan and Murad I may appear to be less eventful. After all, they were Ottoman institutions which already incorporated prayer rooms into their layouts. That being the case, their histories are perhaps even more engulfed in events, movements, and rhythms that relegated them to the dimension of unrest. The Mosque Complex of Mehmed II in Istanbul marked a radical change in Ottoman architectural patronage. Coinciding with Mehmed II’s redefinition of the Ottoman polity into an empire, and Istanbul into its capital, the complex became almost a prototype for the following centuries, and played a crucial role in the succeeding sultans’ gradual loss of interest in commissioning multipurpose buildings.14 However, this is only part of the story, and it only distantly relates to the conversion of existing multipurpose buildings. The other side of the story concerns a growing mistrust among Ottoman authorities for heterodox Sufi orders, which hit a new level bordering on paranoia with the assassination attempt on Bayezid II (1492), probably by a Kalenderi dervish. Then, the tensions culminated into a series of bloody persecutions with the Alevî/ Shiite rebellions of the early sixteenth century. Consequently, independent Sufi lodges belonging to various heterodox groups were handed over to the Bektashi Order (officially established in 1502), who had allied with the Ottoman dynasty from very early on, and multipurpose buildings were converted to mosques.15 If the failed assassin of Bayezid II did in fact belong to the Kalenderi Order,

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then we have the predominantly rural, but certainly poorer segments of Anatolian population, decommissioning multipurpose buildings out of their governmental functions operating in flux, into insignificant masjids overshadowed by imperial Friday mosques.16 The central halls and side spaces in Orhan’s and Murad I’s multipurpose buildings have been integrated with the prayer hall, and they are still serving that single function. The madrasa on the first floor of Murad’s building has long been closed, the arches that once provided audial and visual unity with the ground floor have been bricked up, its gallery is now a pigeon haven, and access to the upper floor requires a special permit from the district office of the Directorate of Religious Affairs. In contrast to their initial openness that was central to the governmental flux they managed, the two buildings have become strictly Sunni Muslim spaces, occasionally visited by tourists, students, and researchers. Compared to SaintSernin and the Church of the Jacobins, the mosques (as they are now) of Orhan and Murad I are perhaps less disconnected from the life that surrounds them. Like the Arab Mosque, they still serve the needs of the community, but their extensions to that community have been arrhythmically reconfigured into a single function that was only partial to what the buildings originally intended to do. It is more difficult to follow the extended history of the Palazzo Comunale. After the voluntary surrender of Pera to the Ottomans, the privileges of the Genoese quarter continued, and although there was no longer a podestà, the palazzo maintained its administrative/commercial functions until the late seventeenth century. In the nineteenth century, it was a purely commercial building owned by the Levantine Franchini family, and the new addition that replaced its facade on the Bankalar Street side (late nineteenth century) is still serving commercial purposes. On the other hand, the rest of the building, where traces of its medieval past are still visible, is a privately owned, boarded up ruin awaiting its reincarnation.17 Let me cut this long story short. Regardless of how you think about architecture, it begins with an idea, which, regardless of how it may eventually look like, is already inscribed with at least one program, with at least a vague idea about how that program is going to be incorporated into a form; and regardless of how that form might eventually take shape, its Pyramid is already conceived. Many of those constituent elements might change, but the Pyramid was already there when the bulb of that initial idea cartoonishly lighted up. Ironically, when the Pyramid comes into being, it often never disappears, so that it can even outlast the Labyrinth. Even when a building is completely erased out of existence, as long as the bulb is flickering, often as flashes of imaginary memories detached from experience, the Pyramid persists. Just think about how alive the Temple of Solomon still is, whereas its Labyrinth is not even an imaginary memory. That is why the dissolution of the Pyramid does not require its material destruction, but its dislocation to another dimension, to unrest, which is not an act against architecture, but against its tyranny. Throughout the book, my arguments revolved around the polyrhythmic fluctuations of a multiplicity of rhythms and movements: sequence, rupture, flux, and unrest. It has been about their assemblage into a cacophony that defied

274 Arrhythmia temporal and spatial restrictions and proposed an ever-unfolding cartography of yet unforeseeable horizons. All buildings discussed in this book facilitated and managed movements of varying kinds with varying rhythms, but it was the movements, rhythms, and events of the many multitudes that eventually relocated those buildings into the dimension of unrest. There is a purposeful indeterminacy in my use of the term multitudes. It intends to merge the users, who were meant to experience a given building, with those who were not in the scope of the patrons of that building, and those who were not even in its proximity. If, in the sixteenth century, the Alevî/Shiite peasants of Central Anatolia were effective in the conversion of multipurpose buildings of Western Anatolia into mosques, then they are the multitudes; distantly, imperceptibly redefining architecture in Bursa. The story, in that sense, took place in the Labyrinth, but under the shadow of the Pyramid, and although everything that happened there happened in polyrhythmic fluctuations, there is an arrhythmic quality to the eventual dimension of unrest. Noticing that requires a perception of architecture as part of life, and a simultaneous recognition that people pursue their lives in movements and rhythms different from what the patrons of architecture have in mind for them, different from how the buildings intend to direct them. It is in the arrhythmic relationships between such differences that the Labyrinth puts the Pyramid to unrest, that sequence and flux fail to resonate with life. It is through a simple gaze, which is not necessarily filled with contempt, nor with resentment, but a gaze that radiates absolute indifference that architecture is seen from an angle that it was not meant to be seen from, that the tyranny of architecture is defeated. This, at least, is how I see the story of architecture in the medieval Mediterranean.

Notes 1 To my knowledge, the only architectural discussion of King Rat is Carl Freedman, “Towards a Marxist Urban Sublime: Reading Chine Miéville’s King Rat,” Extrapolation 44:4 (2003): 395–408. 2 On that, see Barbara Abou-El-Haj, “Producing the Route of St. James: The Camino de Santiago in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuriesm,” Mediaevalia 36/37 (2015/2016): 51–77. 3 Frédérique Fantuzzo and Catherine Saint-Martin, “La confrérie des Corps-Saints de Saint-Sernin de Toulouse au XVe siècle,” Annales du Midi 111:226 (1999): 155–167. 4 www.toulouse-metropole.fr/projets/toulouse-euro-sud-ouest/; www.helloasso.com/ associations/non-au-gratte-ciel-de-toulouse-collectif-pour-un-urbanisme-citoyen; https://antiteso.noblogs.org/post/category/textes/; www.ladepeche.fr/article/2017/07/ 22/2616470-toulouse-n-a-pas-besoin-de-gratte-ciel.html. 5 Allan Evans, ed., Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La Pratica della Mercatura (Cambridge, MA: Medieval Academy Books, 1936), 28, 29; and for a correction of locations and place names in earlier studies, 390–392. 6 For his medrese and mesjid in Konya, see Feridun Nâfiz Uzluk, Fatih Devrinde Karaman Eyâleti Vakıfları Fihristi (Ankara: Vakıflar Umum Müdürlüğü, 1958), 16; and Fahri Çoşkun, “888 / 1483 Tarihli Karaman Eyaleti Vakıf Tahrir Defteri: Tanıtım. Tahlil ve Metin,” (MA Thesis, Istanbul University, 1996), 30, 31.

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7 Mehmet İnbaşı, ed., 888 / 1484 Tarihli Kayseri Tapu-Tahrir Defteri (Kayseri: Kayseri Büyükşehir Belediyesi, 2009), 1. 8 İnbaşı, ed., 888 / 1484 Tarihli Kayseri Tapu-Tahrir Defteri, 23–35. 9 www.issizhan.com; https://dugun.com/tarihi-mekanlar/kayseri/karatay-han-butik-otelrestaurant. 10 Ville de Toulouse. Comission municipale. Séance du 11 juillet 1868. Rapport présenté par M. Astié, Président de la Sous-Commission chargée de l’examen du projet de l’appropriation des bâtiments des Jacobins, et spécialement du projet d’installation de la Faculté des Sciences et de la Bibliothèque de la Ville (Toulouse, 1868); Exposition des Beaux-Arts et de l’Industrie à Toulouse, dans les bâtiments de l’ancien monastère des Jacobins: Année 1865 (Toulouse: I. Viguier, 1866); and J. Buisson, Exposition de Toulouse: Salon de 1865 (Toulouse: Bonnal et Girrac, 1865). 11 Helen Rawlings, The Spanish Inquisition (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 72–89; and Treevor J. Dadson, Tolerance and Coexistence in Early Modern Spain: The Moriscos of the Campo de Calatrava (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2014), 123–160. 12 Sercan Sağlam, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata: An Architectural Inventory Study for the Genoese Colonial Territories in Asia Minor,” (PhD Dissertation, Politecnico di Milano, Milan, 2018), 117, 118. 13 On that, see Marc David Baer, “The Great Fire of 1660 and the Islamization of Jewish and Christian Space in Istanbul,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 36:2 (2004): 159–181; and Lucienne Thys-Şenocak, “The Yeni Valide Mosque Complex at Eminönü,” Muqarnas 15 (1998): 58–70. 14 Çiğdem Kafesçioğlu, Constantinopolis / Istanbul: Cultural Encounter, Imperial Vision and the Construction of the Ottoman Capital (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2009), 66–85. 15 On that history, see Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, Osmanlı Toplumunda Marjinal Sufilik: Kalenderiler, XIV-XVII. Yüzyıllar (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1992), 125–133; Ahmet Yaşar Ocak, “Sufi Milieux and Political Authority in Turkish History: A General Overview (Thirteenth-Seventeenth Centuries),” Interdisciplinary Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 15 (2007): 165–195; Albert Doja, “A Political History of Bektashism from Ottoman Anatolia to Contemporary Turkey,” Journal of Church and State 48:2 (2006): 423–450; and Albert Doja, “piritual Surrender: From Companionship to Hierarchy in the History of Bektashism,” Numen: International Review for the History of Religions 53:4 (2006): 448–510. 16 For the class distinctions among the Kalenderis, see Ocak, Kalenderiler, 74–85, 150–154. 17 Sağlam, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata,” 101, 102.

Bibliography Published primary sources Çoşkun, Fahri, “888 / 1483 Tarihli Karaman Eyaleti Vakıf Tahrir Defteri: Tanıtım. Tahlil ve Metin,” (MA Thesis, Istanbul University, 1996). Evans, Allan, ed., Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La Pratica della Mercatura (Cambridge, MA: Medieval Academy Books, 1936). İnbaşı, Mehmet, ed., 888 / 1484 Tarihli Kayseri Tapu-Tahrir Defteri (Kayseri: Kayseri Büyükşehir Belediyesi, 2009). Uzluk, Feridun Nâfiz, Fatih Devrinde Karaman Eyâleti Vakıfları Fihristi (Ankara: Vakıflar Umum Müdürlüğü, 1958).

276 Arrhythmia Secondary sources Abou-El-Haj, Barbara, “Producing the Route of St. James: The Camino de Santiago in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuriesm,” Mediaevalia 36/37 (2015/2016): 51–77. Albert Doja, “Spiritual Surrender: From Companionship to Hierarchy in the History of Bektashism,” Numen: International Review for the History of Religions 53:4 (2006): 448–510. Baer, Marc David, “The Great Fire of 1660 and the Islamization of Jewish and Christian Space in Istanbul,” International Journal of Middle East Studies 36:2 (2004): 159–181. Buisson, J., Exposition de Toulouse: Salon de 1865 (Toulouse: Bonnal et Girrac, 1865). Çiğdem Kafesçioğlu, Constantinopolis/Istanbul: Cultural Encounter, Imperial Vision and the Construction of the Ottoman Capital (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2009). Dadson, Treevor J., Tolerance and Coexistence in Early Modern Spain: The Moriscos of the Campo de Calatrava (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2014). Doja, Albert, “A Political History of Bektashism from Ottoman Anatolia to Contemporary Turkey,” Journal of Church and State 48:2 (2006): 423–450. Fantuzzo, Frédérique and Catherine Saint-Martin, “La confrérie des Corps-Saints de SaintSernin de Toulouse au XVe siècle,” Annales du Midi 111:226 (1999): 155–167. Freedman, Carl, “Towards a Marxist Urban Sublime: Reading Chine Miéville’s King Rat,” Extrapolation 44:4 (2003): 395–408. Ocak, Ahmet Yaşar, Osmanlı Toplumunda Marjinal Sufilik: Kalenderiler, XIV-XVII. Yüzyıllar (Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 1992). ———, “Sufi Milieux and Political Authority in Turkish History: A General Overview (Thirteenth-Seventeenth Centuries),” Interdisciplinary Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 15 (2007): 165–195. Rawlings, Helen, The Spanish Inquisition (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006). Sağlam, Sercan, “Urban Palimpsest in Galata: An Architectural Inventory Study for the Genoese Colonial Territories in Asia Minor,” (PhD Dissertation, Politecnico di Milano, Milan, 2018). Thys-Şenocak, Lucienne, “The Yeni Valide Mosque Complex at Eminönü,” Muqarnas 15 (1998): 58–70. Ville de Toulouse. Comission municipale. Séance du 11 juillet 1868. Rapport présenté par M. Astié, Président de la Sous-Commission chargée de l’examen du projet de l’appropriation des bâtiments des Jacobins, et spécialement du projet d’installation de la Faculté des Sciences et de la Bibliothèque de la Ville (Toulouse, 1868); Exposition des Beaux-Arts et de l’Industrie à Toulouse, dans les bâtiments de l’ancien monastère des Jacobins: Année 1865 (Toulouse: I. Viguier, 1866).

Websites https://antiteso.noblogs.org/post/category/textes/ https://dugun.com/tarihi-mekanlar/kayseri/karatay-han-butik-otel-restaurant www.issizhan.com www.helloasso.com/associations/non-au-gratte-ciel-de-toulouse-collectif-pour-unurbanisme-citoyen www.ladepeche.fr/article/2017/07/22/2616470-toulouse-n-a-pas-besoin-de-gratte-ciel.html www.toulouse-metropole.fr/projets/toulouse-euro-sud-ouest/

Index

Note: Italic page references indicate figures. Abbey of Saint-Pierre 50 Abdullah the Tunisian 27–28 ablaq 7–8 Adversus errores Graecorum (Barthélemy) 227 Agamben, Giorgio 164–165, 188 agrarian taxes 40 Ahi Şerafeddin mausoleum and mosque complex 113 Ahmedī 209–210, 214–215, 245 Ahmet Yaşar Ocak 118 akhīs 113–114, 121, 170–171, 247–248 Aksaray (Turkey) 34–35 Alaaddin Beg 173 Alaeddin Keykubad I 33–35, 63, 93–101, 106, 125 Alaeddin Mosque 73 Alara Han 3 albergo 235, 237 Albigensian Crusade 129, 249 Albulafia, David 3 Alexander of Aphrodisias 164–165 Alexander the Great 209; see also İskendername Alexander, Jonathan 216 Al-Haram Mosque 29 Al-Idrisi 168 al-jawzahr 70, 72 al-Nāsir li-Dīn Allāh 113 Alphonse-Jourdain 94, 95 Alphonse of Poitiers 226 Altun-aba vakif 37, 105–107 Anatolia, thirteenth-century: aristocracies of 93–105; Babai Rebellion in 44; caravanserais and 22, 23, 24–30; commons in 116; connectivity of 22, 23, 24; construction boom in 118; Ibn Battuta’s journey to 26–29, 170–173;

Ibn Bibi’s account of 6–7; iqtas in 36–37; Languedoc and, temporal and spatial distances between 92, 105; “Lens, the” and 22, 24, 30; microecologies of 107–108, 114; multitudes in 105–117; Pierre de Castelnau and 104; pilgrimage churches and 24, 30–38; urban confraternities in 112–113; vakifs in 36–37; see also specific city Andersen, Hans Christian 163–164 Andronicus II 228 Antalya (Anatolia) 34, 170–171 Antony IV 166–167 Arab Spring 3–6 architectural paradox 13 architectures of governmentality 167–168, 170, 188, 190, 193–194 aristocracies and rupture 92–105 Aristotle 166 arrhythmic rhythm 271–274 askeri class 245, 247 assemblage: buildings as fragmented 167; Can Dialectics Break Bricks and 162; of caravanserais 35; Church of the Jacobins and 189–190, 224; Church of San Domenico and 233; crosscultural exchange and architectural 30; détournement and 190; of fragmented microecologies and 30; governmentality and 167–168; to multiplicity 74–75; multipurpose buildings and 162–163, 167; polyrhythmic rhythm intensity and 14 astronomy, thirteenth-century 72 Athanasios I 228 audiences, architectural: built environment and, discussions about 242–247; of caravanserais 24–25, 40, 42–45; of Church of San Domenico 236,

278

Index

243–244; of Karatay Han 121–122, 127, 129; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; multiple 42; of Palazzo Communale 236, 243–244; of pilgrimage churches 24–25, 42–45; of Sivas Hospital 109; Tschumi’s approach to 9–10; unintended 132 austerity measures of European Union 3 “author portrait” model 231 Avarice sin 43, 107, 122–123, 123, 127, 133 Ayşil Tükel Yavuz 41 Babai Rebellion (1239) 44, 102–103, 116, 118, 129, 215 Baba İshak 102–103, 114 Babiler Isyam (The Babai Uprising) 118 Badiou, Alain 10 Balard, Michel 249 Balducci Pegolotti, Francesco 270 Barbara Abou-El-Haj 42 Bar Hebraeus (Abûl-Faraj Ibn al-Ibri) 103 Barnaba da Modena 237 Barthélemy 227 Bartholomeus de Podio 243 basileus 166 Battle of Ankara (1402) 2 Battle of Nicopolis 166 Baudel, Fernand 2 Bayezid I 166, 211, 251 Bayezid II 247, 272–273 Benjamin, Walter 4–5 Bernard of Clairvaux 96–97, 98, 102, 221 Bernard de Castanet 225 Bernard de Caux 115, 117–118, 221, 226 Bernard Gui 219, 249 Bertrandon de La Brocquière 160, 175 Béziers 108, 137n72 bianry principles and relationships 241 Bishop Fulk of Toulouse 112–113 Blacas Ewer 72–73 Black Confraternity 112 Bloch, Marc 4–5, 12–13 bozahanes 248–249, 251 Broletto of Como 191 Brooklyn bowl 120–121 Brownian motions 12, 14 Bucket, Bobrinski 73 Bursa (Turkey) 154, 157–158, 173, 175, 244–246, 250–251; see also Murad I’s multipurpose building; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building Byzantium Between the Ottomans and the Latins (Necipoğlu) 165

caboteurs 12–14, 28, 91, 193 Çağaptay, Suna 194 Çandarlı Kara Halil Hayreddin Pasha 192 Can Dialectics Break Bricks (Viénet) 162 Candlestick with Equestrian Medallions 73 caravanserais: Anatolia and, medieval 22, 23, 24–30; assemblage of 35; audiences of 24–25, 42–45; commercial purposes of 33; density of 33–34; distance between, ideal 91–92; employees of 36; free services of 36; hospitality of 34–36; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1, 9; microecology and 43; military architecture of 32–33; movements and 24–25, 41–42; political movement of 38–39; as revenue sources 37–38, 43–44; rupture and 117, 271; sequence and 41–45, 117, 132; as territorial markers 34–35; unrest and 271; vakifs of 37–38; see also Karatay Han Cathedral of Saint-Cécile 225, 225 Cathedral of Saint-Étienne 45, 47 Cathedral of San Lorenzo 157, 191 Cathedral of San Lorenzo (Genoa) 8 Celâeddin el-Harezmi 95–97 Celâleddin Karatay 30, 39, 41, 63, 73, 101, 118, 270 Cem Sultan 247 Çetinkaya, Haluk 232–233 Château Narbonnais 103 Childeric III (Pepin the Short) 164 Chora Church 237, 238 Church of Hagia Irene 228–229 Church of the Jacobins: arrhythmic rhythm and 271–272; articulation of space in 221–222, 224; assemblage and 189–190, 224; building campaigns of 219–220, 234; Cathedral of Saint-Cécile and 225; choir vaulting of 219–220, 220; Church of San Domenico and 228; clergy-laity social divide and 221–224; commission of 151; Common Council and 114–115; construction materials of 162; convent of 218; conversions of 271; current state of 219, 270; Dominicans’ expulsion and 217–219; egalitarian space of 224; features of 224–225; flux and 155, 226–227; general view of 153; inquisition (1245–1246) 220–221; interior view toward apse 217, 218; localized experiences and 217–227; location of 151; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; merchants traveling to and from 160, 162;

Index microecology of 162; naves of 221–222, 223; planning of 221–222; sequence and 225–227; size of 224; unrest and 155, 195, 217–227, 271–272; western portal of 222; west facade of 225; see also multipurpose buildings Church of the Panagia Pantobasilissa 175–176, 178 Church of St.-Sauveur 221 Church of San Domenico: Annunciation with Mary fresco of 231–232; assemblage and 233; audiences of 236, 243–244; central apse frescoes of 232; choir apse of 231–232; Church of the Jacobins and 228; conversions of 272; Coronation of the Virgin fresco of 232; current state of 270; Deesis fresco of 232–233; Dominicans and 228, 232, 234; Evangelists iconography of 231; flux and 155, 228, 233; frescoes of 231–233; general view of 152; “Gothic” fabric of 229, 231; iconography of 231–233; inheritance registers and 249; interior view of 160, 161; Latin rite in 232; layout of 229; localized experiences and 249–250; location of 151, 190, 228; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; merchants traveling to and from 160; microecology of 233; rib vaults of 229, 231; secular and practical purposes of 160; sequence and 228, 233; spoila marble and brick- and stonework of 160, 161; stringcourses of 180; three-apse plan of 229, 229; unrest and 155, 195, 228–237; see also multipurpose buildings Church of San Paolo 229 Church of the Virgin of the Pharos 165–166 Church of the Virgin Rachiotissa 29 Cistercian Abbey of Royaumont 221 Cistercian architecture 29 Citadel Mosque of Orhan 173 Clement V 228 clergy-laity social divide 221–224 Cluniac monks 46–48, 80n91 coin with image of Nur al-Din Muhammad 63, 82n111 colonialism, Genoese 234–235 Common Council 96–97, 101, 103, 106–107, 114–115, 122 communal governments 14, 97, 191 concept-form 9–10 conceptual movement 24–25, 38–42

279

connectivity, architectural: alternative way of thinking about 217, 242–252; of Anatolia, medieval 22, 23, 24; failed 3; internet and 8; localized experiences and 193–194; of medieval Mediterranean architectural history 10–14, 24, 26, 45, 194; modalities of 27; multiplicity and 134; of multipurpose buildings 154, 189–194; multitudes and 10; of Palazzo Communale 193; present with past 4–5 Corrupting Sea, The (Horden and Purcell) 11–12, 26, 167 Council of Gaillac 106 Covel, John 155 COVID-19 pandemic 5, 8 Crete government 2, 5 crocket capitals 29 cross-cultural exchange 30 Crush (film) 162 cup holding figurines 125, 126, 129 Cutler, Anthony 233 Dadon 122 Debord, Guy 162 debt as crime 2 de Certeau, Michel 13 Demerode, Filippo 154, 243 Demerode, Giovanni 154, 193, 251 de Saint-Gilles, Bertrand 94 de Saint-Gilles, Raymond 93–94 de Sica, Vittorio 90 determinism 4, 12 détournement 162–163, 167, 190 devşirme system 245 djizya? tax 171, 249 Dominicans: Church of San Domenico and 228, 232, 234; expulsion from Constantinople/Pera 228, 236; expulsion from Toulouse 114–116, 217–219, 222; flux and 234, 236, 272; governmentality and 167; life of 219; network of 234, 236, 272; in Pera 154, 228, 232, 234; polemical treatises by 233; rupture and 234; sequence and 234; travel of before Inquisition 118; violence of 114–115; voluntary poverty of 219, 254n21; see also Church of the Jacobins; Church of San Domenico dragon reliefs and sculptural decorations 67–72, 70, 71 Duke John of Berry 216 Dwyer, Tessa 162 Eleanor of Aquitaine 95 Emperor or Manager (Kiousopoulou) 165

280

Index

Emperor’s New Clothes (Andersen) 163–164 Er-tokus vakif 37 Eskandar-Nâmeh (Nizāmī) 209–210, 214 Eslami, Alireza Naser 7–8 Esteve de Saint-Thibéry 118 European Union (EU) 2–4 everyday life rhythms 6–7 Ferdowsi 210 fityān 113 fluid relationships 14 flux: architecture in 133–134, 147–149; Church of the Jacobins and 155, 226–227; Church of San Domenico and 155, 228, 233; Dominicans and 234, 236, 272; of governmentality 167, 216; of governmental power, horizontal 149; İskendername and 215; in microecologies, different 236–237; multipurpose buildings and 154, 163, 170, 188; operations of 154, 163–168; Palazzo Communale and 193–194; portolan chart and 168, 169, 170; rupture and 216; sequence and 216; unrest and 216 Foucault, Michel 164 Fourth Crusade 29 Fourth Lateran Council (1215) 112 fragmentation 26, 28–30, 107–108 futuwwa 113 Galen 108–109 Genoa (Italy) 154, 157, 168, 234–235 Geoffrey de Villehardouin (Prince of Morea) 29 Gerlach, Stephan 155 Gesi region 131, 271 Ghibelline family 191 Gibb, E. J. W. 209 GIS-generated maps 194 Giudice, Guarnerio 157 Giyaseddin Keyhusrev I 105–107 Giyaseddin Keyhüsrev II 63, 101, 104 Gök Medrese of Amasya 116 Gospel of the Monastery of St. Demetrius 231 government: communal 14, 97, 191; Crete 2, 5; Greece and 2–4; Greek 3, 5; sovereignty and 164; SYRIZA 3, 5 governmentality: architectures of 167–168, 170, 188, 190, 193–194, 252; assemblage and 167–168; coinage of term 164; Dominicans and 167;

emergence of 164; expansion of 167; flux of 167, 216; genealogy of 164; in medieval Italian communes 167; multiplicity and 164; oikonomia and 164–167; Ottomans and 167; sovereignty and 163, 167, 190, 195, 252 Grandi of 1245 164 Greece 2–5 Greek government 3, 5 Greek Orthodox Church 233–235 Gregorian Reform 57 Gregory VII 47–48, 80n91 Grossman, Heather E. 29–30 Guglielmo Boccanegra 191 Guilhem Bernard 107 Guillaume Arnaud 118 Guillaume Bernard de Gaillac 154, 217, 227–229, 233 Guillaume IV 46, 52, 97 Guillaume IX 94 Guillaume of Saint-Sernin 104 Güney (Turkey) 40 Haciı Hayreddin 246 hamam 41, 68 Handford, Martin 189 Heidegger, Martin 92 Henry of Laussanne 96, 98 Heraclitus 92 heresy 97–99, 106–108, 219, 221, 226, 249 Hilton, Rodney H. 14 Hoca Abdulrahman 246 Hoca Ali 248 Homer 25–26 Horden, Peregrine 11–13, 26, 167 Hospital of the Knights of St. John 217 house models 125 Hugh of Cluny 48 Ibn Battuta 26–29, 90, 154, 170–173, 175 Ibn Bibi 6–7, 34, 101, 107, 125, 269 Ibn Fadl Allāh al-‘Umarī 32–33, 121 Ibni Bezzaz Mosque 239 Ibrahim b. Abdullah 250 İklil Selçuk 248 Ilkhanid manuscripts 211 Ilyas 33 import taxes 95, 187 İnalcik, Halil 246–248 information movement 13 inheritance registers (tereke defterleri) 246–248 Innocent III 104, 108, 112, 137n72 Innocent IV 164, 227–228

Index Inquisition (1245–1246) 220–221 Inquisition of Toulouse 115–118 insolvency 2 internet 8, 13 intersections 45, 168, 188, 248 Investiture Controversy 57 iqtas 36–37 Irincin Noyan 33 Isarn 46, 58–59 İshak 102–103, 114 İskendername (Book of Alexander) 209–212, 210, 213, 214–216, 245 Issīz Han 271 Istanbul (Turkey) see Church of San Domenico; Palazzo Communale Izzeddin Keykavus 34, 108, 113, 118 Jābir ibn Hayyān 164–165, 188, 269 Jacobus Dios Galinerii 250 Jacques de Vitry 129 Jean de Saint-Pierre 115, 117–118, 221, 226 Jews 249–250 John VIII 165–166 John VI Kantakouzenos 235–236 Jon XII Kosmos 228 Kapan Hanı see Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building Karatay Han: arrhythmic rhythm and 271; audiences of 121–122, 127, 129; brass objects of 72–73; bull iconography of 63–64, 72; commerce network and 91; commissioner of 30; comparison with Saint-Sernin Church 45, 62, 68; construction boom in thirteenth-century Anatolia and 118; construction of 91, 131–132; current state of 270; dancers on portal of 127; defensive purposes of 32–33; documentation of 270–271; dragon reliefs and sculptural decorations of 67–72, 70, 71; facade sculptures of 71–72; figure with branch and cup iconography of 72; functions of 271; geography surrounding 31, 39; girih patterns of main portal of 65–67, 65; grandeur of 62, 73; hamam and 41; iconographical tradition of sculptures 127, 132–133; inscriptions on portals of 62–63, 73; kingship representations of 119–120, 119; left side of main portal of 119–120, 119; literature on 117; market place in front of 121, 139n122; masons’ marks of 129–131, 130; microecology

281

of 38, 75, 122; multiple movements and 42; multiplicity and 74; multitudes of 121, 127; muqarnas carvings of 66–68, 67; paths surrounding 35; portals of 62–63, 65–68, 65, 69, 70, 72–73, 118; preservation of 31; roundels of 66–67, 66, 73; rupture and 75, 91, 117–122, 129–133, 195; satellite view of 30, 31, 35; Seal of Solomon of 66, 68, 73, 239–240; sequence and 74–75, 91, 132–133, 195; services of 36; south facade of 32, 32; spatial distance between Saint-Sernin Church 90–91; spout of 63–64, 64; time separation from Saint-Sernin 91; unrest and 271; urban rebellions and 44; vakifs of 37–41, 63, 73, 132; vestibule of 66–67, 66, 67 Kayseri (Turkey) 1, 31, 33–34, 39–40, 171; see also Karatay Han Kayseri terracotta bowl 120–121, 120, 129 Keyhusrev I 105–107 Keyhusrev II 101, 104 Khagan Ögedei 99–100 Khwarazmians 94–98, 101 King Rat (Miéville) 269–270 Kiousopoulou, Tonia 165–166 Kir Fard 99 Kirkgöz Han 33 Kitāb al-diryāq (The Book of Antidotes) 108–109, 110, 111 Knights of St. John 2 Konya (Turkey) 34, 68, 106, 171 Konya hospice 116 Köpek, Sadeddin 101 Kriza, Ágnes 232 Labyrinth spatial experiences 13–14, 269, 271, 273–274 Lâdik (Turkey) 106–107 Ladri di biciclette (The Bicycle Thief) 90 Ladri di saponette (The Icicle Thief) (Nichetti) 90 Lambert, Élie 221 land and rent taxes 9, 36–40, 42–44, 95, 101–103, 106, 115, 148, 244–245, 251 Languedoc (France) 92, 105 Lefebvre, Henri 13–14 Le Goff, Jaxuwa 90 Leros island 2 Libya 5 Limbourg Brothers 216 Louis IX 226, 234 Louis VII 95 Luigi Tommaso Belgrano 237

282

Index

Lust sin 43, 50, 52, 53, 54, 107, 122–123, 123 Lyman, Thomas W. 52 Majd al-Din al Qunawi 172 Manuel II Palaiologos 165–167 Marcos (Greek master painter) 237 Marcus Salvaygus 243 masons’ marks 129–131, 130 medieval Mediterranean architectural history: ablaq 7–8; alternative way of thinking about 217, 242–252; audiences and 1; caravanserai 1, 9; change and 4–5; Church of the Jacobins 1; Church of San Domenico 1; concept-form and 9–10; connectivity of 10–14, 24, 26, 45, 194; differences/distinctions of buildings 8–9; disparity of social classes and 8; fluid relationship of 14; information movement and 13; as localized phenomena 8; movements and 1, 6, 24–26; multipurpose buildings 1; multitudes and 3; Murad I’s multipurpose building 1; occupation and 10; Odyssey, The and 25–26; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building 1; Palazzo Communale 1; pilgrimage churches and 1, 9; political control and map of 167; polyrhythmic rhythm and 3, 11–12; present times versus 2–4; programmatic functions and 9; rebellion and, major 6; rhythms and 2, 6, 26; settings of 1–2; similarities of buildings 8; story of 1–2; temporality and 4–7; see also specific location, building, and movement Mediterranean uprisings/social movements (2010–2013) 3–6, 12–13 Mehmed I 215 Mehmed II 214, 249, 272 methodological movement 30 Michale VIII Palaiologos 157 microecology: of Anatolia, thirteenthcentury 107–108, 114; assemblage of fragmented 30; caravanserais and 43; of Church of the Jacobins 162; of Church of San Domenico 233; flux in different 236–237; fragmented 26, 28–30, 107–108; of Karatay Han 38, 75, 122; Mediterranean connectivity and 26; of multipurpose buildings 187–188; of Murad I’s multipurpose building 188–189, 240; of Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building 188–189; of Palazzo Communale 193–194, 240;

of Saint-Sernin Church 75; settlement patterns in 28; of Toulouse 122, 220 micro level of everyday practices 7 Miéville, China 269 military architecture 32–33 Mitchell, W. J. T. 5 modalities of movements 24–25, 30, 215, 236; see also flux; rupture; sequence; unrest Mondrain, Piet 22 moneylending 106, 128–129, 133, 243 Mongol invasion, second 166 Mosley, Jonathan 10 Mosque of Alaaddin Beg 173 Mosque/Hospital Complex 73 Mount Athos manuscript 231 movements: assemblage of 273–274; caravanserais and 24–25, 41–42; of crocket capitals 29; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1, 6, 24–26; methodological 30; multiple 42; of multitudes 6, 9, 14, 274; physical 24, 30–38, 43; relational 9, 24, 30–38, 43; of rupture 116, 132, 216; space and 92; temporality and 92; of unrest 216; see also flux; rupture; sequence; unrest Mucireddin Tahir 93–94 Muhiddin bin Abdüzzâhir 32 multiple audiences 42 multiple movements 42 multiplicity: assemblage to 74–75; audience and 42–45, 236–237; connectivity and 134; governmentality and 164; Karatay Han and 74; rupture and 92–93 multipurpose buildings (zaviye-imaret): assemblage and 162–163, 167; Can Dialectics Break Bricks and 162; commissioning of 148; connectivity of 154, 189–194; correspondence between, architectonic and decorative 194; détournement and 162–163; flux and 154, 163, 170, 188; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; microecologies of 187–188; similarities of 148; sovereignty and 148–149; space for programs and 147–149; spread of 174–175; temporal proximity of 154; urban expansion and 174–175; vakifs limiting services of 246; see also Murad I’s multipurpose building; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building multitudes: in Anatolia, thirteenth-century 105–117; architectural focus on 10,

Index 269; connectivity and 10; of Karatay Han 121, 127; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 3; movements of 6, 9, 14, 274; rupture and 75, 92, 105–117, 121, 132; sovereignty and 216; unrest and 216–217, 252, 274 Murad Beg 158 Murad I 149, 212, 235, 247; see also Murad I’s multipurpose building Murad I’s multipurpose building: administrator of, first 192; arrhythmic rhythm and 273; central arch of gallery of 179, 179, 238, 239; columns of 184, 185, 186; commission of 148–149, 192; construction materials of 155, 158; conversions of 272–273; current state of 270, 273; decorations of 240–242; descriptions of 155; dome of 180; experience of 186–188; facade of 157–158, 240; foundational documents of 174, 188, 243; functions of 240, 252; gallery of 184, 185, 237–239, 239; general view of 150; imam of 247; interior view of 180, 181, 182; localized experiences of 247–248; location of 149; Lombard bands of 155, 156, 158; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; merchants traveling to and from 157–158, 179; microecology of 188–189, 240; mihrab of 180, 182; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building and 187, 191; Palazzo Communale and 217, 240–241; programmatic openness of 248; school (medrese) of 182, 183, 184, 191; Seal of Solomon of 240; space for programs of 147–149; spolia materials of 184; stringcourses of porch of 179–180, 180, 184; sun-disks of 240; tile decoration of 179; unrest and 272; vakifs of 174, 188; see also multipurpose buildings Murad II 247 musician figurines 125–127 Muslim-Christian relations 171 Mustafa the Younger 247 “mutant spiders” 147–149, 252; see also Church of the Jacobins; Church of San Domenico; Murad I’s multipurpose building; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building; Palazzo Communale Necipoğlu, Nevra 165–166 Neşrî 247 new imperial model 166

283

Nichetti, Maurizio 90 Nizāmī 209 Nur al-Din Muhammad 63, 82n111 Oberto Doria 191 Oberto Spinola 191 occupation and urban planning 10 O’Connell, Monique 167 Odysseus (character) 25–26, 107 Odyssey, The (Homer) 25–26, 30, 35 oikonomia 164–167 Öney, Gönül 63–64, 72 Orhan Beg 149, 173, 243; see also Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building Orhan Beg’s complex 173–174, 272 Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building: administrative hierarchies and 245; antechamber of 178, 178; arrhythmic rhythm and 273; Church of the Panagia Pantobasilissa and 175–176, 178; Cloth Market of 158, 159, 173; commission of 148–149, 158; construction materials of 155; conversions of 272–273; current state of 270, 273; descriptions of 155; experience of 187–188; foundational documents of 174, 243; general view of 150, 159; imam of 245; lateral view with blind arches and spolia capital of 176; location of 149; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; merchants traveling to and from 158, 160, 175; microecology of 188–189; Murad I’s multipurpose building and 187, 191; sovereignty and 187; space articulation of 178; space for programs of 147–149; unrest and 272; vakifs of 174; vaulting of 176, 177; see also multipurpose buildings Osman Beg 173 Ottoman building campaigns in Bursa 173–174 Ottoman mosque, first 173 Ottomans and governmentality 167 Ousterhout, Robert 194 Paganino Doria 235–236 Palace of the Porphyrogenitus 8, 186 Palaiomonasterio at Phaneromenis 29 Palazzo Cittanova of Cremona 191 Palazzo Communale: architecture of governmentality and 194; audiences of 236, 243–244; connectivity and 193; conversions of 273; current state of 155–156, 270, 273; decorations

284

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of 237–238, 240–242; facade of 156, 239–240; flux and 193–194; functions of 192–193, 240; general view of 151; localized experiences of 248–249; location of 151, 190; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1; merchants traveling to and from 160; microecology of 193–194, 240; Murad I’s multipurpose building and 217, 240–241; Palazzo San Giorgio and 157, 191, 240; podesta offices of 192; St. George fresco of 237–238, 240; as seat of government 192; site of 156; urban expansion and 190; windows of 156–157; see also multipurpose buildings Palazzo Ducale 191 Palazzo San Giorgio 157, 191, 194, 237, 240 Palazzo Serravalle 191 Pancaroğlu, Oya 73, 108, 170 pandemic, global 5, 8 Pantokrator mosaic 165–166 paradox, architectural 13 Parc de la Villette 10 Pelhisson, William 217 Peloponnese, thirteenth-century 29 Pera (Turkey) 154, 190–193, 217, 227–229, 232, 234, 243–245, 250; see also Church of San Domenico; Palazzo Communale Petrus Maurandus 98–100, 106–107, 133 Philip Augustus 108, 112 Philip III 226 Philip IV 234 Philip of Macedonia 211 Photius I 165–166 physical movement 24, 30–38, 43 Pierre de Castelnau 104, 107 pilgrimage churches: Anatolia and, medieval 24, 30–38; audiences of 24–25, 42–45; medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1, 9; movements and 24–25; relics stolen from 42–43; rupture and 117; sequence and 42–45, 117, 270; see also specific name pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela 270 Plato 166 Plutarch 92 Poitevan rule in Toulouse 94–95 political movement 38–39 Poloni, Alma 167 polyrhythmic rhythm 3, 11–12, 14, 273–274 Pons de Capitedenario 219 popolo uprising 191

portolan chart 154, 168, 169, 170 Preiser-Kapeller, Johannes 194 pronia system 78n56 Purcell, Nicholas 11–13, 26, 167 Pyramid architectural conception 13–14, 269, 271, 273–274 Quirini-Poplawski, Rafal 231 radicalism 10, 12 Raimond-Roger Trencavel 108 Raimond V 97 Raymond V 98–101, 106 Raymond VI 104, 107–108, 112, 137n80 reaya class 247 Rebellion of 1416 215–216 Rebellion of St. Titus (1365) 2 refectories 221 refugee crisis of present times 4–5 relational movement 4, 9, 24, 30–38, 43, 45–46 relics, stealing of 42–43 revolutionary architecture 10 Rey, Raymond 117, 221 rhythms, medieval Mediterranean architectural history and 1–2, 6, 26, 92, 273–274; see also arrhythmic rhythm; polyrhythmic rhythm Rice, Louis 10 Richard the Lionhearted 100 Richard of Saint-Victor, Abbot 80n91 Romualdo Tecco, Baron 156 Roux, Jean-Paul 67–68 Rükneddin Cihanşah 96 Rükneddin Hattâb 116 Rükneddin Süleymanşah 105 rupture: Alaeddin Keykubad I and 93–101; architecture in 117–132; aristocracies and 92–105; caravanserais and 117, 271; Dominicans and 234; false 236; flux and 216; İskendername and 214; Karatay Han and 75, 91, 117–122, 129–132, 195; in Ladri di saponette 90; movements of 116, 132, 216; multiplicity and 92–93; multitudes and 75, 92, 105–117, 121, 132; pilgrimage churches and 117; politics and 251; Saint-Sernin Church and 75, 91, 117–118, 122–129, 132–133, 195, 270; sequence and 75, 105, 132–133, 195, 216; sovereignty and 117, 133; of time and space 90, 92, 105; Très Riches Heures and 216; ubiquitous presence of 117; unintended audiences and 132; vakifs and 115–116

Index Sadeddin Köpek 101 Sağlam, Sercan 192 Sahib Ata 116 Sainte-Foy Church 122–124, 123 St. George frescoes 237–238, 238, 243, 251 St. James 53 St. Peter 53, 56–58, 60 Saint-Pierre-des-Cuisines Church 46, 97, 100 St. Saturnin 45 Saint-Sernin Church: Avarice sin iconography of 107, 127; Christ in Ascension iconography of 53–56, 56; cloister of 117–118; Cluniac monks and, 46–48, 57, 60, 80n91; comparison with Karatay Han 45, 62, 68; consecration of 91, 93; cross nimbus iconography of 54, 56, 57; current state of 270; Gregory VII and, 47–48, 80n91; independence of, under Papacy’s authority 61, 63; Infancy of Christ iconography of 128; Lazarus iconography of 50, 52, 55, 127–128; literature on 117; location of 45; Lust sin iconography of 50, 52, 52, 53, 54, 107, 127; medieval Mediterranean and architectural history and 1; microecology of 75; mingling of people in 115; moneylending and 128–129, 133; multiplicity and 74; old basilica of 45, 46; parishes of 45–46; Petrus Maurandus and 107; pilgrimage network and 91, 270; Porte Miègeville of 48–49, 49, 53, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 63, 63–64, 101; Portes des Comtes 48–50, 48, 51, 52, 53, 54, 62, 107, 127–128; relational movement of 45–46; Rich Man (Dives) parable iconography of 50, 52, 55, 127–128; rupture and 75, 91, 117–118, 122–129, 132–133, 195, 270; St. James relief of 53, 61, 61; St. Peter relief of 53, 56–58, 63–64; sequence and 74–75, 91, 195; spatial and time distance between Karatay Han 90–91; tympanum of 53–54, 56; unrest and 270 Samos island 2, 4–5 San Lorenzo Cathedral 233, 237 San Marco 233 Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage 270 Sarahor (Turkey) 39, 41–42, 121 Sara, Rachel 10 Schiltberger, Johann 175, 245 science-fiction 30 scribes in Languedoc and Central Anatolia 105

285

Seal of Solomon 66, 68, 73, 239–240 Seljuq Sultanate of Rum 1, 6, 105, 118, 171 Seneca 92 sequence: caravanserais and 41–45, 117, 132; Church of the Jacobins and 225–227; Church of San Domenico and 228, 233; Dominicans and 234; flux and 216; Greek Orthodox and Catholic Church and 234; Karatay Han and 74–75, 91, 132–133, 195; lines and points 22, 23, 24–30; pilgrimage churches and 42–45, 117, 270; rupture and 75, 105, 132–133, 195, 216; Saint-Sernin Church and 74–75, 91, 132–133, 195; solids and voids 24, 30–38; sovereignty and 133; spider at centre of web 24–25, 38–42; unrest and 216; vakifs and 115 Serpil Bağcī 211 Servan 99–100 Seyfeddin Turumtay Vakfiy 116 Shahnameh (Ferdowsi) 210, 214 Shiraz manuscripts 211 “shrieker, the” 172–173 Sigismund of Hungary 166 Simon de Montfort 108, 112, 114, 137n80 Simone Boccanegra 191 Simon Magus 57–58, 60, 62, 101 simony 58, 61, 82n105 Sinan 131 Sivas (Anatolia) 34 Sivas Hospital 73, 108–109, 112, 131 social movements (2010–2013) 3–6, 12–13 Solomon 73, 83n135 sovereignty: architectures of governmentality and 252; governmentality and 163, 167, 190, 195, 252; governmental power and territorial, separating 164, 166; government and 164; horizontal exercise of 166–167; multipurpose buildings and 148–149; multitudes and 216; oikonomia and 164; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building and 187; regality and, separating 164; rupture and 117, 133; sequence and 133; switch to communal government from 97; vertical exercise of 117, 133 space 90, 92, 105, 147–149, 178; see also Labyrinth spatial experiences spatial distance 90–92 Sphrantzes, George 165 stone-paste mould of rectangular courtyard 124–125, 124 Stymphalia church 29 Stymphalia Cistercian monastery 29

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Sub Catholica 227–228 Sufism 172 Suleyman, Prince 209–211 Sultan an-Nasir Muhammad 28–29 Sultan Han 33, 68 Sundt, Richard A. 221–222 Susez Han 68 Syria 5 SYRIZA government 3, 5 Tabula Rogeriana 168 tallage 95 tax and land registers (mufassal tahrir) 167, 242 Temple of Solomon 273 temporality 4–7, 90–92 three-body architectural comparisons 241–242, 252 time 90–92; see also temporality Toulouse (France): amnesty of residents 226; aristocracies of 93–105, 112; as commercial town 91; Common Council in 96–97, 101, 103, 106–107, 114–115, 122; Dominicans in 226–227; expulsion of Dominicans from 114–116, 217–219, 222; French monarchy’s rule of 226; Guillaume Bernard de Gaillac’s journey from 217, 227–229; Inquisition of 115–118; Jews in 249–250; microecology of 122, 220; military alliance with Genoa and 154; multipurpose building in 149; multitudes/townspeople in 105–117; new experiences of architecture in 114; Poitevin rule of 94–95; urban nobility of 112; see also Church of the Jacobins; Common Council; Saint-Sernin Church Treaty of Nymphaeum 157 Treaty of Paris 114, 227 Très Riches Heures (Duke John of Berry) 216 Tschumi, Bernard 9–10, 13 Tuchin Rebellion 216, 250 Tu Guangqi 162 Tunisia 3 Turan, Osman 39 Turkish corsairs 2

195, 217–227, 271–272; Church of San Domenico and 155, 195, 228–237; destabilization of architecture and 195; flux and 216; Guillaume Bernard de Gaillac’s journey from Toulouse to Pera 217, 227–229; İskendername and 209–212, 210, 213, 214–216; Karatay Han and 271; movements of 216; multitudes and 216–217, 252, 274; Murad I’s multipurpose building and 272; mutation and 216; Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building and 272; production of 195, 236–237, 251–252, 274; Saint-Sernin Church and 270; sequence and 216; threebody architectural comparisons and 241–242, 252 urban confraternities 112–113 Urban II 82n105, 93 urban planning and expansion 10, 173–175, 190 urban rebellions 43–44, 102 usury 129 vakifs/vakfiyes: in Anatolia, thirteenthcentury 36–37; of caravanserais 37–38; of Karatay Han 37–41, 63, 73, 132; of Lâdik 106; legal language of 245; of multipurpose buildings and, limiting services of 246; of Murad I’s multipurpose building 174, 188; of Orhan Beg’s multipurpose building 174; purpose of 105; revenue sources of 39–40; rupture and 115–116; sequence and 115; of Sivas Hospital 108–109, 116 Van Doosselaere, Quentin 167 Venice (Italy) 2, 235 Viénet, René 162 Visconti, Giovanni 235 Visconti, Guglielmo 157 voluntary poverty of Dominicans 219, 254n21 Where is Wally (Handford) 189 White Confraternity 112 Wolman, Gil J. 162 Xenophon 165

Ulu Cami/the Great Mosque of Bursa 173–174, 174 unintended audiences, architectural 132 unrest: arrhythmic fluctuations between states of 271, 274; caravanserais and 271; Church of the Jacobins and 155,

Yahşi Fakih 210 Zacharia, Angelo 232 Zachary, Pope 164 Zonto, Mauro 165