The Genesis of Early Christian Art: Syncretic juxtapostion in the Roman world 9781407303727, 9781407334011

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he

BAR S1892 2008

The Genesis of Early Christian Art Syncretic juxtaposition in the Roman world

SUZAWA

Yukako Suzawa

THE GENESIS OF EARLY CHRISTIAN ART

B A R

BAR International Series 1892 2008

The Genesis of Early Christian Art Syncretic juxtapostion in the Roman world

Yukako Suzawa

BAR International Series 1892 2008

ISBN 9781407303727 paperback ISBN 9781407334011 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407303727 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BAR

PUBLISHING

TABLE OF CONTENTS List of Illustrations............................................................................................................................................................ iii Acknowledgements............................................................................................................................................................ xi Introduction.........................................................................................................................................................................1 CHAPTER 1 SYNCRETISM IN ART HISTORY 1. Three Aspects of Syncretism in Religious Art............................................................................................................13 2. The First Aspect of Syncretism: Appropriation for Early Christian Images 20 a. The Sheep Carrier or Good Shepherd 20 b. Immortal shepherds in Greco-Roman world 25 c. The Annius Shepherd Lamp 27 d. Juxtaposition of Imperial and Christian images 30 3. The Second Aspect of Syncretism: the Success of Christian Iconography 34 a. Roman Victory versus Christian Victory b. The Good Shepherd and the Biblical Circles in Tomb M 4. The Third Aspect of Syncretism: Unique Dimensions of Early Christian Iconographical Programme a. Who is the Charioteer of Tomb M? b. A Greco-Roman Charioteer – Symbols of Sun, Victory, and Ascension c. The Failure of Christian Iconography

34 37 42 42 44 49

CHAPTER 2 DID SYNCRETISM OCCUR IN CHRISTIAN ARCHITECTURE? 1. The Genesis of the Christian Basilica in Architectural History: Adaptation of Form or Function......................55 2. Architectural History versus Art History on Early Christian Art 60 a. Two Ways of Expressing the Question of the Genesis of Early Christian Art 60 b. The Conditions for Visualizing the Holy: The Meanings of Objects in a Ritual Space 62 c. Reconsideration of Pagan ‘Basilica’ Buildings in Rome 62 d. Mithraea: Sacred Caves 70 3. Syncretism of Death and Rebirth in the Roman World: The Concept of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre 75 a. The Significance of the Holy Sepulchre Church 75 b. The Anastasis Rotunda 77 c. Martyrium with the Cross 85 d. The Conceptual Origins of the Church: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre 87 CHAPTER 3 ‘SYNCRETISM’ IN FOURTH-CENTURY CHRISTIAN ICONOGRAPHY 1. Some Considerations in the Study of Early Christian Iconography and Typology. .............................................. 93 2. Christian Typological Interpretations in the Junius Bassus Sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket 99 3. Philo’s Allegorical Interpretive Method 104 a. The Junius Bassus Sarcophagus 104 b. The Brescia Casket 112

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CHAPTER 4 SPOLIA: MATERIAL JUXTAPOSITION IN SYNCRETISM 1. The Term Spolia in Art History................................................................................................................................. 117 2. First Aspect of Syncretism in the Practice of Spolia in Sardis 124 a. The Sardis Jews and Christians 124 b. Material Juxtaposition between the Two Monotheistic Religions and Greco-Roman Cults in Sardis: the Sardis Synagogue and Christian Church M 126 3. Second and Third Aspects of Syncretism in the Practice of Spolia in Roman Imperial and Early Christian Art 134 a. Assimilation with the Legend of a Hellenistic Hero: the Second Aspect of Syncretism 134 b. Assimilating Roman Heritage through the use of Spolia in Christian Architecture 138 c. Unity of Paganism and Christianity in a Christian Object: Assimilation of the Pagan Past and the Christian Present in the Ideologies of Christian Emperors 143 Conclusion.......................................................................................................................................................................151 Bibliography.................................................................................................................................................................... 153

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Fig. 1. Honji butsu mandara, colours on silk, from Nara, Kamakura era (1185-1333). Tokyo National Museum, Tokyo. Photo: Tokyo National Museum. Fig. 2. Shika mandara, wood, from Nara, Muromachi era (1333-1573). Hosomi Museum, Kyoto. Photo: Courtesy of the Hosomi Museum. Fig. 3. Fukukenjaku, colours on silk, from Nara, Muromachi era (1333-1573). Ritsuin, Otsu city. Photo: After Nara National Museum, 1964, fig. 22 (courtesy of the Nara National Museum). Fig. 4. Kasuga Jizo Mandara, colours on silk, from Nara, Muromachi era (1333-1573). Photo: After Nara National Museum, 2006, fig. 39 (courtesy of the Nara National Museum). Fig. 5. Bronze coin of Constantine, from Rome, fourth century. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Burnett, 1987, Plate 18, 139. Fig. 6. View of S. Giovanni in Laterano (begun c. 313), fresco by F. Gagliardi, Rome, S. Martino ai Monti, c. 1650. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 179 (De Antonis, Rome). Fig. 7. The Good Shepherd, marble, Rome, c. 300. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, Rome. Fig. 8. Man carrying calf (the moschophoros), marble, from the Acropolis, sixth century BC. Acropolis Museum, Athens. Photo: After Robertson, 1991, fig. 37 (Alison Frantz). Fig. 9. The Good Shepherd, wall painting, the ceiling of the Callistus Catacomb, Rome, c. 200. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.8 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome). Fig. 10. The Good Shepherd, mosaic, the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna, AD 425-50. Photo: After Zarnecki, 1975, plate 5. Fig. 11. Sarcophagus, marble, Rome, third century. Museo Nazionale Romano, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Singer, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1973.0516). Fig. 12. Jonah, wall painting, the ceiling of the Callistus Catacomb, Rome, c. 200. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.59 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome). Fig. 13. Daniel, wall painting, the ceiling of the Callistus Catacomb, Rome, c. 200. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.16 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome). Fig. 14. Orpheus, wall painting, the Callistus catacomb, Rome, third century. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.6 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome). Fig. 15. Sleeping shepherd, marble, from the end panel of ‘Vita Privata’ sarcophagus, Badia di Cava, second century. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Singer, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1967.0592). Fig. 16. Endymion Sarcophagus, marble, Palazzo Braschi, Rome, third century. Photo: After G. Koch et al. (eds), 1992, tafel 108, fig. 3 (Palazzo Braschi, Rome). Fig. 17. Endymion Sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, third century. Photo: After G. Koch et al. (eds), 1992, tafel 108, fig. 1 (The British Museum, London). Fig. 18. Endymion, wall painting, from the Casa di Ganimede, Pompeii, second century, drawing. Photo: After Koortbojian, 1995, fig. 66 (S. Reinach, Répertoire des peintures grecques et romanines, Paris, 1922, plate 54.1). Fig. 19. Ganymede, wall painting, from the Casa di Ganimede, Pompeii, second century, drawing. Photo: After Koortbojian, 1995, fig. 67 (S. Reinach, Répertoire des peintures grecques et romanines, Paris, 1922, plate 15.1). Fig. 20. Attis, marble, from Glanum, second century BC. Photo: After Vermaseren, 1977, plate 63 (Museum Saint Rémy, Provence). Fig. 21. Annius shepherd lamp, terracotta, from central Italy, third century, engraving from Bosio, 1632. Photo: After Bosio, 1632, fig. 211 (The British Library, London). Fig. 22. Lamp disk, terracotta, from Sparta, second century, drawing. Photo: After Vermaseren, 1966, plate XIX, fig. 2 (courtesy of E.J. Brill). iii

Fig. 23. Christian sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, third century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 22 (Alinari, Florence). Fig. 24. The mausoleum of Sta Costanza, Rome, c. AD 350. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 110 (Alinari, Florence). Fig. 25. Detail of the ambulatory mosaics, mausoleum of Sta Costanza, Rome, c. AD 350. Photo: Author. Fig. 26. Sarcophagus of Constantina, marble, from Rome, fourth century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Lowden, 1997, fig. 19 (Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, The Vatican). Fig. 27. Sarcophagus of St Helena, marble, from Rome, fourth century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 9 (Scala, Florence). Fig. 28. Helena’s mausoleum, Rome, fourth century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 174 (De Antonis, Rome). Fig. 29. The church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, AD 432-40. After Elsner, 1998, fig. 149 (Canali Photobank, Capriolo). Fig. 30. Mosaic, the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, AD 432-40. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 135 (Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, The Vatican). Fig. 31. Relief, marble, column of Trajan, Rome, second century. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Fr. W. Deichmann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1941.1446). Fig. 32. Empty throne, mosaic, the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, AD 432-40. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 277 (Alinari, Florence). Fig. 33. Apse mosaic, the church of Santa Pudenziana, Rome, c. AD 390. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 157 (Scala, Florence). Fig. 34. Plan of the Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Ghetti, 1951, vol.1, fig. 18 (The British Library, London). Fig. 35. Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), interior, Vatican cemetery, third century, drawing. After Ghetti, 1951, vol. 1, fig. 21 (The British Library, London). Fig. 36. Wall painting, Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Murray, 1981, fig. 16 (courtesy of British Archaeological Reports, BAR Publishing). Fig. 37. Charioteer, mosaic, Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 74 (The Raverenda Fabbrica of St Peter’s, The Vatican). Fig. 38. Jonah, mosaic, from the east wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Murray, 1981, fig. 19 (courtesy of British Archaeological Reports, BAR Publishing). Fig. 39. Jonah, mosaic, from the east wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century, drawing. Photo: After Kirschbaum, 1959, fig. 5. Fig. 40. Angler, mosaic, from the north wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Murray, 1981, fig. 18 (courtesy of British Archaeological Reports, BAR Publishing). Fig. 41. Angler, mosaic, from the north wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century, drawing. Photo: After Kirschbaum, 1959, fig. 4. Fig. 42. The Good Shepherd (?), mosaic, from the west wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Ghetti, 1951, vol. 1, fig. 22 (The British Library). Fig. 43. The “Great Lateran” sarcophagus, marble, Rome, third century. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: After Zarnecki, 1975, fig. 6 (Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, Rome). Fig. 44. Relief from a sarcophagus, marble, from La Gayolle, Brignoles, Church of Saint-Sauveur, third century. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 45. Charioteer, wall painting, the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, fourth century. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 46. Roman silver coin (Didrachm) of the Pyrrhic War, from Rome, 275-270 BC. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Crawford, 1992, p. 26 (The British Museum, London). Fig. 47. The “Gemma Augustea”, sardonyx cameo, from Rome (?), AD 14-37. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 209 (Erwin Meyer, Vienna).

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Fig. 48. The Parabiago plate, silver with gilding, from northern Italy, between the second century and the late fourth century. Civico Museo Archeologico, Milan. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 136 (Saporetti). Fig. 49. Mithraic relief, marble, from Neuenheim, third century. Landesmuseum, Karlsruhe. Photo: After Elsner, 1995, fig. 47 (Badisches Landesmuseum, Karlsruhe). Fig. 50. Medallion of Antoninus Pius, Rome, second century, drawing. Photo: After British Museum, 1874, pl. XV: fig. 1(The British Museum, London). Fig. 51. Gold coin of Elagabalus, from Antioch, c. AD 218-219. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 133 (The British Museum, London). Fig. 52. Coin of Septimius Severus, from Rome, third century. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 284 (The British Museum, London). Fig. 53. “Hercules rises from his funeral pyre”, Attic vase, from Vulci, fifth century BC. Munich, Antikensammulngen. Photo: After Boardman, 1989, fig. 311. Fig. 54. Leaf from a diptych, a scene of apotheosis, ivory, Rome, c. AD 400. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 11 (The British Museum, London). Fig. 55. Funerary relief, a scene from the circus, Ostia (?), second century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 294 (Alinari, Florence). Fig. 56. Christian baptistery, from Dura Europos, third century. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven. Fig. 57. “Good Shepherd with His Flock and Adam and Eve”, wall painting, Christian baptistery, from Dura Europos, third century. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven. Fig. 58. “The Ascension of Elijah”, wall painting, the catacomb under the Via Latina, fourth century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 248 (Held). Fig. 59. Plan of the Basilica of Maxentius, AD 307-12, completed by Constantine after 312, Rome. Photo: After Steinby ed., 1993, vol. 1, fig. 95 (Edizioni Quasar). Fig. 60. Plan of the “underground Basilica of Porta Maggiore”, Rome, first century. Photo: Courtesy of The Journal of Hellenistic Studies, London. Fig. 61. Plan of the Mithraeum, London, c. AD 240-50. Photo: After Shepherd, 1998, fig. 61 (Museum of London, London). Fig. 62. Isometric view of the Christian House, Dura Europos, third century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 52 (Thames&Hudson). Fig. 63. The mausoleum of Sta Costanza, interior view, Rome, c. AD 350. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 111 (Canali Photobank, Capriolo). Fig. 64. Hypothetical reconstruction of the S. Giovanni in Laterano (begun c. 313). Krautheimer, 1986, fig. 11 (Penguin Books Ltd). Fig. 65. Plan of the Basilica Hilariana, Rome, second century. After Steinby ed., 1993, vol. 1, fig. 97 (Edizioni Quasar). Fig. 66. “Evil Eye Mosaic”, Basilica Hilariana, Rome, second century, drawing. Photo: After Nash, 1961, vol. 1, fig. 206 (Comune di Roma Ripartizione X, Rome). Fig. 67. Nave passage underneath the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Bianchi 1970, fig. 230 (La Photothèque). Fig. 68. Vaulted ceiling of the nave, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Nash, 1961, vol. 1, fig. 186 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 69. “Rape of Ganymede”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Grabar 1967, fig. 34 (De Antonis, Rome). Fig. 70. “A mourning Attis”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Vermaseren, 1977, fig. 39 (Thames&Hudson).

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Fig. 71. Apse, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Nash, 1961, vol. 1, fig. 187 (Gabinetto Fotografico Nazionale, Rome). Fig. 72. “ Rape of a Leucippid by one of the Dioscuri”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Strong, 1924, fig. 4 (Courtesy of the Journal of Hellenistic Studies). Fig. 73. “Orpheus and Eurydice”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Strong, fig. 6 (Courtesy of the Journal of Hellenistic Studies). Fig. 74. Orpheus, wall painting, the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, fourth century. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 75. Orpheus Sarcophagus, marble, Ostia, third century. Photo: Author. Fig. 76. Mithraeum, under the church of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma, Rome. Fig. 77. Mithras slaying the bull, marble, under the church of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma, Rome. Fig. 78. Entrance to Mithraeum, under the baths of Trajan, Ostia, second century. Photo: After Pavia, 1999, p. 62 (Gangemi, Rome). Fig. 79. Mithraeum, under the baths of Trajan, interior view, Ostia, second century. Photo: After Pavai, 1999, p. 63 (Gangemi, Rome). Fig. 80. Fig. 81. Fig. 82. Fig. 83. Fig. 84. Fig. 85. Fig. 86. Fig. 87. Fig. 88. Fig. 89. Fig. 90. Fig. 91. Fig. 92. Fig. 93. Fig. 94. Fig. 95.

Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma. Corax protected by Mercury, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. Nymphs protected by Venus, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. Miles protected by Mars, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. Leo protected by Jupiter, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. A Persian protected by the moon, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. The messenger of the sun, protected by the sun, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. The Father protected by Saturn, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. Cautes, marble, Mithraeum, under the church of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma. Cautopates, marble, Mithraeum, under the church of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma. Plan of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, c. AD 335. Photo: After Wilkinson, 2002, fig. 6 (courtesy of Wilkinson). The mausoleum of Diocletian, Split, c. AD 300-306. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 107 (Zlatoko Sunko, Split). Hypothetical reconstruction of the mausoleum of Galerius, Thessaloniki, c. AD 306-311. Photo: After J.B. Ward-Perkins, 1990, fig. 304 (Penguin Books Ltd). The Lateran Baptistery, Rome, c.315 and c. 432-40, engraving by A. Lafréri. Photo: After Krautheimer, 1986, fig. 47 (Penguin Books Ltd). Relief of “Resurrection of Christ”, ivory, c. AD 400. Bavarian National Museum, Munich. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. “The Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ”, mosaic, the church S. Apollinare Nuovo, Ravenna, AD 490. Photo:

Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 96. “The Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ”, Palestinian ampulla, Bobbio, c. AD 600. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 295 (Ecole des Hautes). Fig. 97. Rock-cut tomb for Jews, Jerusalem, first century. Photo: After Parrot, 1957, fig. 7 (SCM Press). Fig. 98. Mausoleum for the King, Jerusalem, first century. Photo: After Parrot, 1957, fig. 11 (SCM Press). Fig. 99. The tomb of Christ in the gospel, view by P. Vincent, 1914. Photo: After Biddle, 1999, fig. 78 (from P. Vincent, 1914).



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Fig. 100. Tomb 258, rock-cut tomb, Petra, first century. Photo: Courtesy of Judith Mckenzie. Fig. 101. Khasneh, Petra, first century. Photo: Courtesy of Judith Mckenzie. Fig. 102. Lower order, capitals, Khasneh, Petra, first century. Photo: After Guzzo et al., p. 185 (Arthaud, Paris). Fig. 103. Acroterion at apex of pediment with symbol of Isis, Khasneh, Petra, first century. Photo: Courtesy of Judith Mckenzie. Fig. 104. Royal Achaemenian Tombs (sixth-fifth cent. BC) and Sassanian bas-reliefs (third-fourth century), Naqshi- i Rustam. Photo: After Ghirshman, 1964, fig. 275 (Ernst Herzfied). Fig. 105. The Tomb of Caecilia Metella, Rome, first century. Photo: Author. Fig. 106. S. Sabina, Rome, c. AD 422 and 432. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma. Fig. 107. The Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 1 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative 6707). Fig. 108. The Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 304 (Hirmer Fotoarchi). Fig. 109. Left end of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 29 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative748). Fig. 110. Right end of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 31 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative 749). Fig. 111. Lid of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 333 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 112. Front of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 335 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 113. Right end of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar 1980, fig. 336 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 114. Left end of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar 1980, fig. 334 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 115. Back of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 337 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 116. Front of Lateran 181 sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, c. AD 340. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 117. Left end of Lateran 181 sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, c. AD 340. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 118. Right end of Lateran 181 sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, c. AD 340. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Fig. 119. Detail of Prima Porta Augustus, breastplate, first century BC. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Elsner, 1995, fig. 21 (Deutsches Archäologisches Institut). Fig. 120. Detail of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 44 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative 2528). Fig. 121. The Projecta Casket, silver, from Rome, late fourth century. British Museum, London. Copyright the British Museum, London. Fig. 122. Arch of Constantine, Rome, AD 313-315. Photo: After Lowden, 1997, fig. 16 (Alessandro Vasari, Rome). Fig. 123. “Trajan on horseback”, marble relief, second century. Arch of Constantine, Rome. Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 256 (Gabinetto Fotographico Nazionale, Rome). Fig. 124. “Hadrian as lion hunter”, marble relief, AD 130-138. Arch of Constantine. Photo: Bianchi, 1970, fig. 292 (Alinari, Rome). Fig. 125. A ‘Liberalitas’ of Marcus Aurelius, marble relief, AD 176-80. Arch of Constantine, Rome. Photo: Bianchi, 1970, fig. 335 (Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma). Fig. 126. St. Peter’s, Rome, ca. 325-50, ground plan showing reused column shafts. Photo: After Kinney, 2001, fig. 6.

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Fig. 127. Column, marble, the Chapel of the Holy Sacrament, probably second century. St. Peter’s, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Schwanke, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1979.3468 & 1979.3471) Fig. 128. Plan of Synagogue, Sardis, fourth century. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 129. Plan of Church M, Sardis, c. AD 400-800. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 130. Head of Zeus (?), marble, Church M, Sardis, probably third century BC. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 131. Roman Eagle table, marble, Synagogue, Sardis, late Hellenistic or early Imperial era. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 132. Lydian addorsed lions, marble, from Sardis (Synagogue), sixth – fifth century BC. Manisa Museum, Manisa. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 133. Archaic kore, marble, from Sardis (Synagogue), sixth century BC. Manisa Museum, Manisa. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 134. Cybele, marble, from Sardis (Synagogue), sixth century BC. Manisa Museum, Manisa. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 135. Thunderbolt of Jupiter Sabazius, silver plaques, from Gaul, the Roman Imperial era, drawing. Museum of St. Germain-en-Laye. Photo: After Lane, 1985, pl. XXIX, 74. Fig. 136. Sabazius with Cybele and Attis, bronze plaque, from Rome, the Roman imperial era, drawing. The Berlin Antiquarium, Amsterdam. Photo: After Lane, 1985, pl. XXXIII, 82. Fig. 137. Sabaziast priest and followers, wall painting, the Catacomb of Praetextatus, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: After Pavia, 1999, p. 223 (Grangeni Editore, Rome). Fig. 138. Sabaziast priest and followers, wall painting, the Catacomb of Praetextatus, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: After Pavia, 1999, p. 224 (Grangeni Editore, Rome). Fig. 139. Sabazius’ hand, bronze, probably from Rome, third or fourth century. British Museum, London. Photo: After Perowne, 1988, p. 102. Fig. 140. Coin of the apotheosis of Constantine, from Rome, fourth century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 214 (Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris). Fig. 141. “Elijah Restores the Widow’s Child”, wall painting, west wall, synagogue, Dura Europos, c. AD 245. National Museum, Damascus. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven. Fig. 142. Apse mosaic, Synagogue, Sardis, fourth century. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 143. “The Purium Triumph”, wall painting, west wall, synagogue, Dura Europos, c. AD 245. National Museum, Damascus. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven. Fig. 144. Church M with Artemis Temple, Sardis, fifth century. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. Fig. 145. Apollo-Sol, marble, Mithraeum, under the church of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma, Rome. Fig. 146. A heroic nude statue, bronze, from Rome, early second century BC. Museo Nazionale Romana, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Koppermann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1966.1686). Fig. 147. Medallion with portraits of Constantine and Sol, from Ticinum, AD 313. Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. Photo: After Beard et al., 1998, vol. 1, fig. 8.1:a (Cabinet des Médailles, Paris). Fig. 148. Commodus, marble, from the Esquiline hill, Rome, c. AD 191-2. Musei Capitolini, Rome. Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 331(La Photothèque). Fig. 149. Column of Arcadius, south side of base, Istanbul, fifth century, drawing. After Grabar, 1980, fig. 128 (Princeton University Press).

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Fig. 150. Column of Arcadius, west side of base, Istanbul, fifth century, drawing. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 129 (Princeton University Press). Fig. 151. North wall, mosaic, S. Apollinare, Ravenna, c. AD 500 and c. AD 561. Photo: After Lowden, 1997, fig. 129 (Scala, Florence). Fig. 152. “Palatium mosaic”, S. Apollinare, Ravenna, c. AD 500 and c. AD 561. Photo: After Lowden, 1998, fig. 73 (Scala, Florence). Fig. 153. Plan of the Parthenon in Athens, converted into a Christian church around AD 600. Photo: After B. WardPerkins, 1999, fig. 10 (courtesy of Ward-Perkins). Fig. 154. Lothar cross, goldsmiths work with a Roman cameo, Aachen, c. AD 1000. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/ photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 155. The ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen, AD 1002-1014. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 156. Author’s diagram of the ambo of Henry II with lettered panels. Fig. 157. Saint Matthew, bronze repoussée plaque. Panel A of the ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen, AD 10021014. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 158. Roman agate vessel. Panel H of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 159. Roman glass vessel. Panel E of the ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 160. Fatimid rock crystal cup. Panel D of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 161. Fatimid rock crystal saucer. Panel F of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 162. Seated rider, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel J the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 163. Nereid, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel K of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 164. Isis, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel N of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Fig. 165. Bacchus, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel O of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

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x

Acknowledgements

This book is based on my Ph.D. thesis, which was submitted to Courtauld Institute of Art, University of London. It was originally titled “Syncretism and Early Christian Art & Architecture: Juxtaposition and Assimilation of Image, Space, and Iconography.” I adhered to the term syncretism and defended it against the idea that the term should be avoided in the literature of early Christian art history because of its pejorative meanings, namely that it refers to an indiscriminate mixing of religions. As I mention in the introduction, I learned when I studied in the UK that my interpretation of the term differs from that of some Western scholars. After earning my Ph.D. and returning to Japan, I learned of another problem with the term. I had the opportunity to speak about my thesis to several Japanese scholars and students at the Society of Near Eastern Studies, the Society of Western History and a study group of Classical Studies at Tokyo University. They were familiar with the term syncretism as I had originally defined it. Many of them believe that syncretism in Roman religions, including early Christianity, was taken as a matter of course, and that for Japanese academia the interpretation of syncretism in early Christian studies including its art in Western academia is unworthy of a problem. I believe that this gap in our interpretations of the term syncretism reflects the gap in our understanding of the religious phenomenon in history (including art history) of early Christianity in the Roman world. In other words, this gap can show us what we have overlooked in the studies of early Christianity in the Roman world. My understanding stems from Japanese syncretism, but in my point of view, syncretism is not unique to Japanese religions and its art. In this book I introduce the notion of syncretism using Japanese syncretic religious art and Christianity in Japanese history, but the aim of this book is not a comparative study of Japanese and Western art. To avoid misunderstanding my aim, I have omitted the word syncretism from the title. I hope the new title gives readers a more neutral idea of the notion of ‘syncretism’ in studying early Christian art and architecture in the Roman world.

I am most grateful for the encouragement and advice of my supervisor, Jaś Elsner. His support has been invaluable, and I could never have written this work without it. I must thank the Courtauld Institute of Art for affording me the opportunity to write this work. I am appreciative for the helpful advice of two examiners of my viva, Martin Henig and John Wilkinson, in getting my book published. I must also thank David Davison, Rajka Makjanić and David Milson, for their support and patience in publishing this book.

I should also thank Eric Fernie, James Cuno, Rose Walker, Robin Cormack, John Lowden, Peter Stewart, Kazu Uehara, Hideo Ogawa, Ingrid Rowland, William Currie, Susan Solway, Haruko Tsuchiya, Herbert L. Kessler, Bryan Ward-Perkins, Judith Sheila Mckenzie, Iris Chapple, Hilary Quinn, Stephen Fumio Cardinal Hamao, Hiroko Okui, Ikuyo Kihara, Kaoru Higashi, Eiko Kumai, Tamiko Ryu, Kimie Hasegawa, Katsuko Hirose and Nobuo Hirose for their support. I am grateful to the following institutes, colleges, universities, libraries and museums for supporting my research and allowing me the use of their images: Tokyo National Museum, Hosomi Museum, Nara National Museum, Keio University, Seijyo University, Deutshches Archäologischces Institut Rom, Department of Ancient Art at Yale University Art Gallery, British Museum, British Library, Warburg Institute, Institute of Classical Studies, King’s xi

College in University of London, Archaeological Exploration of Sardis at Harvard University, Domkapitel Aachen, the Roman Society, Sophia University and Vatican Museum.

I owe my friends a debt of gratitude in writing this book. Heather Rawlin-Cushing has especially encouraged me to overcome difficulties – her support has been immense. I am especially grateful to Raymond Walsh for reading my work in process and giving me beneficial advice toward it for years. I should also thank Michael Clay for his support when I worked on this publication in Japan.

Finally, I am deeply grateful to my parents – Takahiro and Yoko Suzawa – for their genuine support, and I would like to dedicate this book to Kuro Suzawa.

xii

The Genesis of Early Christian Art: Syncretic Juxtapostion in the Roman World

INTRODUCTION

pagan and Christian funerary programs…”, and he refers to “the relationship of the early Christian images to pagan versions of contemporary art” as “parallelism”.5 While it is true that early Christians preferred to keep a dogmatic distance from pagans, I doubt that early Christians merely borrowed iconographies from the pagans. Was there any positive assimilation between Christian and non-Christian images in early Christian art? This is the beginning of my question.

In the study of the genesis of early Christian art, when discussing the relationship of early Christian and pagan images in late antiquity, many twentieth-century art historians refer to a Christian ‘borrowing’ of pagan images.1 This idea is often expressed as a development of Christian art in parallel with contemporary pagan arts, or sometimes as a continuity of pagan images.2 Although some art historians have even referred to a Christian acceptance of pagan images during this period,3 most art historians perceive some distance between early Christian and nonChristian art due to their belief that Christianity differs from paganism dogmatically. As an example of how scholars have treated the relationship between pagan and early Christian images, André Grabar sees influence occurring in parallel but separately. On their commonality he writes, “An incalculable number of features, the Greco Roman imagery of the Empire, passed into Christian iconographic language just as naturally and inevitably as words, expressions, and syntactical or metrical constructions of the first centuries of our era…passed into the language of Christian theologians”.4 But he also saw distinctions. “There are, of course, essential differences between the

History tells us that most indigenous cultures experience some conflict with new cultural approaches.6 Considering the early Roman persecution of Christians, the Christian entry into Roman culture, which arrived in late antiquity from Palestine, was not exceptional in this regard. Modern illustrations of religious assimilation are useful in shedding light on the phenomenon. Most Japanese, for example, celebrate Christmas Eve as a great annual occasion for assembling friends and families. These celebrations are not held in churches, and most of the non-Christian participants do not know the theological significance of Christmas Eve, even if they know the 24th of December to be a sacred or blessed night. Christmas cakes are sold throughout the country, Christmas trees are decorated in shops and public spaces, and Japanese children look forward to presents on Christmas morning.7 It is possible to say without exaggeration that the outward appearance of the season is similar to that of any Western Christian country.

Examples of such assertions include the following: André Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968, p. xlvi: “Christian imagery, at its birth, borrowed, and kept, the Greco-Latin iconographic language as commonly practiced at the beginning of our era everywhere around the Mediterranean”. John Beckwith, Early Christian and Byzantine Art, 2nd ed., London, 1979, p. 26: “The early Christians merely borrowed and ‘baptized’ the symbolism of their pagan and Jewish neighbours to express their own beliefs and hopes”. George Zarnecki, Art of the Medieval World, 1975, New York, p. 18) : “...it was natural that this traditional pagan theme [the Greek statue type of Hermes Kriophoros] was readily adopted by the Christians”. 2 e.g., George M. Hanfmann, “The Continuity of Classical Art: Culture, Myth, and Faith”, in ed. Kurt Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality: a Symposium, New York, 1980, p. 93: “…not only the demonstrable transformations which we have discussed, but all Christian figurative art, is a continuation of classical art”. 3 e.g., J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford, 1998, pp. 220-221. 4 Grabar, 1968, p. xlvi. 1

I must stress that the Japanese celebration of Christmas Eve does not mean that the Japanese think often of Christianity as a faith. According to recent statistics, the Christian population of Japan is less than one percent.8 Grabar, 1968, pp. 14-15. On the study of hybrid cultures using modern Western cultural approaches from the postcolonial perspective, see Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, London, 1994. 7 Most Japanese basic schools teach with the�������������� image of Santa Claus, which was probably introduced by Americans living in Japan (e.g., Adam Geibel, Santa Claus in Japan. An Oriental Christmas Cantata in two parts, for Young People, libretto by WM. H. Gardner and music by Adam Geibel, Philadelphia, 1905). 8 Japan Statistical Yearbook 2004, Statistics ���������������������� Bureau/Statistical Research and Training Institute Ministry of Public 5 6

1

INTRODUCTION

While the majority of Japanese adhere to Shintoism and/ or Buddhism, they have accepted Christmas Eve not as a religious event, but as a Japanese ‘cultural event’. In this way one of the main Biblical events has been built into a Japanese socio-cultural context.

the relationship between the Japanese and Christianity has been complex since the first European arrived in Japan from Portugal in 1543. Just a few years later, in 1549, the Jesuit saint Francis Xavier (1506-52) arrived in western Japan and established a successful Roman Catholic mission. Because warriors had only swords and archery at their disposal, some daimyo (Japanese feudal lords) were interested in European firearms and were therefore eager for contact with the Europeans. The Japanese met Roman Catholicism as “not only a religion but the symbol of everything European”.11 The number of Japanese Catholic Christians, known as Kirishitan until the early seventeenth century, grew to 30,000 in western Japan by 1570.12 The remarkable success of the Jesuits was due to Xavier, who had an admiration for the Japanese.13 Joseph Kitagawa argues that another reason for the mission’s success was the Jesuit “willingness to adopt indigenous terminology to explain Catholic doctrines”.14 For example, Xavier adopted the words Dainichi (the Great Sun Buddha of the Shingon Buddhism) and Hotoke (Buddha), Japanese Buddhist terms, as God.15 In 1579 Alessandro Valiganano, a Jesuit who had come to Japan, argued for “a policy of cultural adaptation to reorganize the mission personnel in accordance with the ecclesiastical structure of Zen Buddhist schools in Japan”.16 By 1582 there were 150,000 members of the Kirishitan with two hundred churches, and the three Kirishitan daimyo (Japanese feudal lords

There is obviously no connection between Japanese Buddhism and Shintoism on the one hand and Christmas Eve on the other. Does the celebration of Christmas Eve represent a Japanese adherence to Western culture? Are the Japanese caught up in a mass media event or influenced by the Christian market in Japan? Is it possible that the Japanese nation is mixing these cultures indiscriminately? Even though Christmas Eve is accepted as a part of Christian culture, and even though Christianity plays important roles in Japanese society,9 Christianity has not been able to establish itself significantly as a religion in Japan, and socio-cultural customs based on Shintoism and Buddhism are still present. While the sense of religious obligation is diminishing for younger generations, once a year Japanese practice the Shinto/Buddhist custom of travelling to worship at their ancestors’ tombs. After celebrating Christmas Eve, people go to Shinto shrines and/or Buddhist temples to commemorate the beginning of the new year. From an objective point of view (or a Christian view), the Japanese may be said to mix up these religions indiscriminately. Subjectively, it can be said that Christmas Eve is important for modern Japanese as a socio-cultural event. Because Christianity and Buddhism differ dogmatically, there has been no need to examine their relationship in the literature of Western art history, an attitude that reminds us of most art historians’ views of the relationship between Christianity and paganism in the literature of Western art history. It might be concluded that this paradoxical Japanese attitude toward Christianity is a unique Japanese religious tendency resulting from the assimilation of Shintoism and Buddhism.10 Nevertheless,

action with Christianity, see Minoru Kiyota, ed., Japanese Buddhism, (papers presented at the US-Japan conference on Japanese Buddhism held at the University of Wisconsin, 1985), Tokyo, 1987. See also, Joseph M. Kitagawa, On understanding Japanese Religion, Princeton, 1987; John Breen and Mark Williams, eds., Japan and Christianity, London, 1996. On new religions related to Christianity in Japan, see Catherine Cornille, “Jesus in Japan: Christian Syncretism in Mahikari”, in Peter B. Clarke and Jeffrey Somers, eds., Japanese New Religions in the West, , Kent, 1994, pp. 89-103. 11 Joseph M. Kitagawa, Religion in Japanese History, New York, 1966, pp. 137-38. 12 Kitagawa, 1966, p. 139. 13 In one of Xavier’s letters dated 5 November 1549, he writes, “It seems to me, we shall never find among heathens another race equal to the Japanese”. See, C.R. Boxer, The Christian Century in Japan 1549-1650, Berkeley, 1951, pp. 37-38, pp. 401-405. See also Kitagawa, 1966, p. 138. 14 Kitagawa, 1966, p. 139. 15 Kitagawa, 1966, p. 139. A chief of Xavier’s interpreters was a former Shingon Buddhist. On the study of Christian terminology in Japan, see Stefan Kaiser, “Translations of Christian Terminology into Japanese, 16-19th Centuries: Problems and Solutions”, in J. Breen and M. Williams, ed., Japan and Christianity, London, 1996, pp. 8-29. 16 Kitagawa, 1966, p. 142; Joseph Jennes, History of the Catholic Church in Japan, Tokyo, 1959, pp. 47-53.

Management, Home Affairs,������������������������� Posts ������������������������ and Telecommunications, Japan, 2004. p. 759, 23-22 A “Religious Bodies, Clergymen and Adherents (1975~2001)”. According to the data, “Total adherents exceed the total population of Japan, because some persons often belong to both Shintoism and Buddhism. Religious bodies refer to the total of dependent juristic religious bodies and independent juristic religious bodies excluding general juristic religious bodies”. 2001 total religious adherents in Japan (2001) are 214,755: 106,787 Shintoists, 95,493 Buddhists, and 1,822 Christians (all these numbers are millenary). 9 Japan Statistical Yearbook 2004, p. 759, 23-22 B����� “��� Religious Bodies by prefecture (2001)”. This data is based on that “Religious bodies under the jurisdiction of the prefecture governors are counted in the prefectures where their head officers are located”. Religious bodies in Japan are 225,885. Shinto’s bodies are 89,082. Buddhist bodies are 86,647. Christian bodies are 9,330. Compared to the number of individual Christian adherents in Japan, the number of Christian bodies is great. 10 On the study of Japanese Buddhism, including its inter2

INTRODUCTION

who became practicing Roman Catholics) had visited the Vatican on a goodwill mission.17

sixth century (when Buddhism was introduced to Japan) and some distance between Shintoism and Buddhism grew during the brief period from 1868 to 1872 because of the Japanese political situation. This brief rift demonstrates that political circumstances can impact the dynamics of syncretism, as we will see later in this paper when we examine Roman imperial influences on Christian art. In the literature of Japanese studies, the juxtaposing of Shintoism and Buddhism is called syncretism.22 The concept of syncretism can also be applied to the Jesuit influence that coexisted with Japanese Buddhism, which had itself begun assimilating Shintoism in the eighth century. Although the relationship between Roman Catholicism and Japanese faiths since the sixteenth century can be thought to be syncretic, I doubt that Xavier mixed up Christianity and Japanese religions indiscriminately, and I also doubt that the notion of syncretism is to be considered valid only for Japanese religions. Although I do not intend to embark on an elaborate comparison between Japanese and early Christian art in this study, this illustration of the relationship between Christianity and non-Christian religions such as Japanese faiths offers a clue to examining my question.

Unfortunately, the unity of Kirishitan made them strong, which threatened Japanese unifiers (e.g., Oda Nobunaga, Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and Tokugawa Iyeyasu).18 Consequently, the Kirishitan were persecuted for their religion under the shoguns.19 From 1637 to 1638, a strong rebellion of 40,000 Kirishitan, including warriors, rose against the third Tokugawa shogunate at Shimabara in Kyushu. These events were a considerable factor in the decision to isolate the country from the world. The history of Kirishitan ended with the Japanese policy of national seclusion, which closed the country from the rest of the world (except for limited commerce with the Dutch) until 1853 when Commodore Matthew C. Perry arrived from America, forcing open the Japanese policy of seclusion that had been in place since 1641.20 Despite this early Christian exposure, it seems the concepts of Santa Claus and Christmas Eve were not vestiges of the Kirishitan or Roman Catholicism of the medieval period, but were introduced after the arrival of the Americans in the 19th century. The concepts have since found a place in modern Japanese society.

Let us return to the principal subject of this study. Coming from Japan where syncretism is widely recognized, I wondered how some Western scholars consider the notion of syncretism to have a negative meaning in the study of early Christian art. In pursuing this research I have been made aware that my attitude toward the notion of syncretism differs from the accounts of the term in the existing literature on early Christian art history and architecture.

Christian groups, including the Society of Jesus, still have important social roles in Japan, but the Christian population in Japan is proportionally smaller than those of other Asian countries such as Korea. There are several reasons for this. Japan is unique in Asia because of its religious background. For example, the institution of the emperor (who is connected to Shintoism as a living deity) still exists in Japan.21 Shintoism (a Japanese indigenous cult) and Buddhism (a foreign cult) have largely coexisted successfully in Japanese socio-cultural history, although there was a serious conflict between the two religions in the

A similar clash of definitions occurred between the Asian bishops and the Vatican in the Synod for Asia of 1998 when they discussed the notion of ‘inculturation’ (a Vatican term used in reference to Christian adaptation to an indigenous culture). In my view, the notion of ‘inculturation’ held by the Asian bishops is close to the work of the Society of Jesus mission in sixteenth-century Japan. Their conflict may be seen as a parallel to the different definitions of syncretism in the literature of early Christian art. The Synod for Asia at the Vatican, 1998

Pope Sixtus V appointed the first bishop of Japan in 1588 and gave the Society of the Jesuits a monopoly on missions in Japan because of their success. See Kitagawa, 1966, p. 143, n.23. On the goodwill mission, see Midori Wakakuwa, Quattro Ragazzi, Tokyo, 2003. 18 They also had trouble with the strong Buddhist groups such as the Tendai. On the Edict of Banishment of Missionaries, see Kitagawa, 1966, p. 144, n. 29; Jennes, 1959, pp. 64-65. 19 See also Ohasi Yukihiro, “New Perspectives on the Early Tokugawa Persecution” in J. Breen and M. Williams ed., Japan and Christianity, London, 1996, pp. 46-62. 20 On the Japanese policy of national seclusion, see Watsuji Tetsuro, Sakoku: Nihon no higeki (National Seclusion: the tragedy of Japan), Tokyo, 1950. 21 In Shintoism, the Sun Goddess (Amaterasu Omikami) has been believed to be the ancestral root of the Japanese emperor and his family; Minoru Kiyota, “Gedatsukai: A Case Study of Shinto-Buddhist Syncretism in Contemporary Japan” in Japanese Buddhism, 1987, p. 85, n. 5. See also J. Kitagawa, Religion in Japanese History, New York, 1966, p. 17. 17

The Synod for Asia, attended by 260 bishops from Asia and the Vatican, was held at the Vatican in April of 1998.23 On the assimilation of Buddhism and Shintoism, see Hirakawa Akira, “Buddhism and the Religious Characteristics of the Japanese” in Japanese Buddhism, 1987, pp. 11-23. 23 “Will Rome listen to the Asian bishop?” The Tablet, 2 May (1998), pp. 565-567; “Look at it our way: Asian bishops respond to Rome” The Tablet, 2 May (1998), pp. 571572; “Toyoteki Kirisutokyo wo mosoaku”(“Groping for Asian Christianity”) Asahi Shibun, 23 June (1998), p. 9; Yukako Suzawa, Did syncretism occur in early Christian architecture? MA thesis, Courtauld Institute of Art, 1999, pp. 1-2. 22

3

INTRODUCTION

One of the issues raised at the Synod was that the Asian churches were seeking to preach Christianity in a more Asian way.

not only legitimate, but desirable. An adaptation of the Christian life in the fields of pastoral, ritual, didactic and spiritual activities is not only possible, it is even favoured by the Church. The liturgical renewal is a living example of this. And in this sense you may, and you must, have an African Christianity.28

On the first day of the synod, the five Japanese bishops, led by the Jesuit Archbishop of Osaka, Leo Jun Ikenaga, argued that the reason Christianity had not become as firmly established in Japan as Buddhism lay “in the human heart”. He pointed out that the dogmas of Christianity were formulated in the West, not in the East, and that the Christian worldview is dualistic, while Asian thought is more pantheistic. According to Ikenaga, “In the West the paternal characteristics are dominant while in Asia, particularly East Asia, it is the maternal traits that are operative. The fatherly figure divides and selects; the motherly figure unites and embraces all…we need to give greater expression to the feminine aspects of God”.24

The Vatican’s definition of inculturation sanctions the practice of adopting certain aspects of native culture in order to coexist with that culture and its people. In this way African Christians could practice their Christian faith accompanied by images familiar to them (i.e., to reflect an African Christianity rather than a Roman Christianity). The Vatican’s definition implies Christian adaptation to indigenous culture as the basis for coexistence between Christian and native culture. In the view of the Asian bishops, however, their inculturation would ideally be a way for the Church to help native people accept Christianity using native images (in this case, Asian), even though ultimately they would still conform to Christian theological images rather than to a native cultural image. In other words, the Church can select aspects of native culture for inculturation, but the native culture cannot select Christian elements to its liking.

Bernard Toshio Oshikawa, the Franciscan Bishop of Naha, told the Vatican that Asians might feel somewhat out of place in the Western liturgy because “the norm for Christian life, for church discipline, for liturgical expression and theological orthodoxy continues to be that of the Western Church”.25 Moreover, “the language of our theology, the rhythm and structure of our liturgies, the programme of our catechesis fail to touch the hearts of those [Asians] who come searching”.26 Most Asian bishops greeted the Japanese bishops’ argument with applause, which is unusual for synods. The Asian bishops asserted, therefore, that the dogmas of Christianity would need to be transformed for greater numbers of Asian people to accept it. At the synod, the Asian bishops referred to the concept of ‘inculturation’ in their arguments. The Vatican’s formal definition for inculturation (i.e., Christian adaptation to indigenous culture27) comes from Pope Paul VI’s address at an all-Africa symposium of Catholic clergy in Kampala in 1969:

Evidently there is a gap between the Vatican and the Asian bishops in their views on ‘inculturation’. The Asian bishops asserted that ‘inculturation’ with the Vatican could not occur readily in Asia. Bishop Francis Claver SJ from the Philippines referred to ‘inculturation’ as a failure, feeling it “a sterile exercise, making judgements from hindsight about our forebears and their faith, who were products of their age as much, I guess, as we of ours”.29 He and the other bishops felt that Rome should itself adapt rather than seek transformation in Asian or indigenous cultures. The first Japanese bishop to speak out stated that Buddhism was able to establish itself firmly in Japan because its characteristic formulations were more readily adaptable to Asian societies. Buddhism arrived to Japan not directly from India, but from Korea, and the ancient Japanese had indigenous cults (as in Shintoism) prior to its arrival. 30 It is also worth remembering that Buddhism arrived from Korea along with Confucianism and Taoism, indigenous beliefs of the Chinese.

The expression, that is, the language and mode of manifesting this one faith, may be manifold. Hence, it may be original, suited to the tongue, the style, the character, the genius, and the culture, of the one who professes this one faith. From this point of view, a certain pluralism is The Tablet, 2 May (1998), p. 565. The Tablet, 2 May (1998), p. 565. 26 The Tablet, 2 May (1998), p. 565. 27 Alyward Shorter, Toward a Theological Inculturation, London, 1988, p. 10, n. 9; the first recorded of use the term ‘inculturation’ in the literature of theology was by Fr Joseph Masson SJ, a Catholic theologian at the second Vatican Council between 1962. On the term inculturation, see also Shorter, 1988, pp. 59-72; Charles Stewart and Rosalind Shaw, “Introduction: problematizing syncretism”, in Charles Stewart and Rosalind Shaw, eds., Syncretism / Anti-syncretism. The politics of religious synthesis, London, 1994, pp. 9-13; J.F. Burke, “Research in a post-missionary situation: among Zairean sisters of Notre Dame de Namur”, Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford 23, (1992) 2: pp. 157-68. 24 25

Tradition says that Buddhism was brought to China during the reign of Emperor Ming of the Han Dynasty (AD 5875). He saw a radiant, flying figure in his dream, and his advisor identified the image as the Buddha, which was Shorter, 1988, pp. 209-210 and n. 9; Stewart and Shaw, London, 1994, p.11; Burke, 1992, p. 161. On the Kampala Address, see also Shorter, 1988, pp. 206-211. 29 The Tablet, 2 May (1998), p. 565. 30 On the study of a relationship between Japanese Buddhism and Indian Buddhism, see Matsunaga Yukei, “From Indian Tantric Buddhism to Japanese Buddhism” in Japanese Buddhism, Tokyo, 1987, pp. 47-54. 28

4

INTRODUCTION

a divine being from ‘the western region’. The Emperor dispatched a national mission to India, and it returned with one Buddhist scripture, two translators, and the Udayana image – the first likeness of Buddha.31 Archaeological evidence indicates that Buddhist images spread throughout Central Asia and China, and this Buddhist art was formulated in local styles rather than in those of India. In other words, Buddhism in its ‘original’ Indian forms had ‘gone native’, travelling through Central Asia, China and Korea before arriving in Japan.32

Buddhism.35 He referred to Buddhism in Japan as a unified evolution of religions. One of his declarations stated: Shinto is the root and stem of a big robust tree replete with an inexhaustible amount of energy, and Confucianism is its branches and leaves, while Buddhism is its flowers and fruit.36 His account does not speak of a Buddhist adaptation to indigenous culture, to Shintoism or to Confucianism, nor does he speak of the religions representing different poles. His description shows rather a peaceful juxtaposition of the cults’ powers during his reign. Similar religious syntheses were often formulated in Japan,37 right up to the shinbutsu bunri (the formal separation of Buddhism and Shinto), which occurred in early Meiji (1868-1872).

Buddhism’s specific path to Japan is generally agreed upon. It is believed that in 552 (or probably 538), Buddhism and its doctrines were brought with the Buddha image to Japan from Paekche on the Korean peninsula as a gift from King Suimei, the Korean king to Emperor Kinmei, the Japanese emperor in the Yamato court.33 When Buddhism was introduced in Japan, there was a serious conflict with Shintoism.34 Gradually, their conflict was transformed into coexistence. Prince Shotoku Taishi (574-622), who advanced the cultures of China and Korea in Japan, played an important role in the early history of Japanese

In the literature of the history of Japanese religions, this religious synthesis has been referred to as ‘syncretism’.38 For example, the syncretism of Shintoism and Buddhism, shinbutsu shugo, is widely believed to have occurred in the Nara period (710-794).39 In addition, the concept of honji-suijaku, the identification of kami (local deities) with Buddhist deities was common in the Kamakura period (1185-1333).40 Susan C. Tyler uses the term ‘syncretism’

On the legend of Emperor Ming’s dream, see T’ang Yungt’ung, “The Editions of the Ssu-shih-erh-chang-ching”, Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies I (1936), pp. 147-155; E. Zürcher, The Buddhist Conquest of China: The Spread and Adaptation of Buddhism in Early Medieval China, Leiden, 1959, pp. 29-30. 32 Some of the earliest Buddhist image in China were interpreted as Taoist divinities; Wu Hung, “Buddhist Elements in Early Chinese Art (2nd and 3rd Centuries A.D.)”, Artibus Asiae 47 (1986), pp. 263-352. 33 According to Nihongi (or Nihon Shoki), which is believed to have been written in 720 AD, Buddhism was brought to Japan in 538 to Paekche (Nihongi XX, 14sq). The Gangoji-engi provides a 538 dating. On the earliest accounts, see Sonoda Koyu, “Early Buddha Worship”, in The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. I; Delmer M. Brown ed., Ancient Japan, Cambridge, 1993, pp. 371-373; Donald F. McCallum, Zenkoji and its Icon: A Study in Medieval Japanese Religious Art, Princeton, 1994, pp. 39-43, n. 6: Tamura encho, “Kinmei Tenno Jusan-nen Bukkyo Denrai Setsuwa no Seiritus” in Asuka Bukkyo-shi Kenkyu, Tokyo, 1969, pp. 166-177. 34 On the controversy of the pro-and anti-Buddhist controversy in Yamato (an early Kingdom in Japan), see Joseph M, Kitagawa, 1987, pp. 102-104. In the second half of the sixth century AD, the introduction of Buddhism provoked a power struggle between the Soga (the pro-Buddhist and pro-Paekche) and the Mononobe (the anti-Buddhist and anti-Paekche) chieftains in Japan. While the anti-Buddhists argued that “the worship of foreign divinities would offend the native kami” (the Japanese divine sprit), the pro-Buddhists acquired the court’s permission to worship the image of Buddha “as an experiment”. Finally, the proBuddhists triumphed over this religious controversy. See, Kitagawa, 1987, esp. p. 103. 31

On the significance of Prince Shotoku Taishi in ancient Japan, see Kazu Uehara, Sekaijyouno Shotoku Taishi: Toyo no Ai to Chie (Prince Shotoku Taishi in History of World: His Asian Charity and Prajna), Tokyo, 2002. 36 English translation taken from J. Herbert: J. Herbert, Shintô at the fountain-head of Japan, London, 1967, p. 47, n. 21. 37 Herbert, 1967, p. 47, n. 306: Toyotomi Hideoshi (15361598), one of Japan’s unifiers, writes to the Viceroy of the Portuguese Indies: “To know Shinto is to know Buddhism as well as Confucianism”. 38 On the syncretism of religions in Japan, see Susan C. Tyler, The Cult of Kasuga Seen Through its Art, Ann Arbor, 1992, pp. 86-89. See also, Josef Kamstra, Encounter or Syncretism: The Initial Growth of Japanese Buddhism, Leiden, 1967; Michael Pye, “Syncretism versus Synthesis” in British Association for the Study of Religions: Occasional Papers, Leeds, 1993. 39 The dates of Japanese periods such as the Nara Period are settled upon individually by scholars in the literature of Japanese studies publishing outside of Japan. For example, J. M. Kitagawa refers to the Nara period from 710 to 781 (Kitagawa, 1966, p. 29). S. C. Tyler dates it from 710 to 794 (Tyler, Ann Arbor, 1992, p. 5). A. G. Grapard dates it from 710 to 773 (Grapard, The Protocol of the Gods, Berkeley, 1992, p. 24). The periods of Japanese history, which are widely agreed upon by Japanese academia, have also been accepted outside of Japan, although dating the era before the Nara period is still controversial in the literature of Japanese art history. In this study, I shall use Japanese chronology based on Japanese sources. On the date of the Nara period, see M. Akiyama et al., eds., Shincho Encyclopedia of World Art, Tokyo, 1985, p. 1076. 40 On the date of the Kamakura period, see Shincho Ency35

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INTRODUCTION

in her accounts of shinbutus shugo and honji suijaku and writes, “Syncretism is a blending of the ideas or practices of different religions that eventually results in a unification of deities”.41 My question in part is why we cannot use this definition of syncretism in referring to the unity of early Christian images in late antiquity.

Peri Philadelphias (‘On Brotherly Love’) in the Moralia (490b): He writes: …imitating in this point, at least the practice of the Cretans, who though they often quarrelled with and warred against each other, made up their difference and united when outside enemies attacked; and this it was which they called “syncretism”.42

Let us return again to the Japanese bishop’s remark that Buddhism was more easily established in Japan than Christianity. Perhaps Buddhism grew successfully in Japan not just because it was formulated in the East, but because of the process of syncretism that occurred in the religions of Japan. The Japanese accepted Buddhism not in its original form, but as a synthesis of Chinese and Korean influences, combined with their own indigenous cultures and religions. I would argue that this religious phenomenon differs from the Vatican’s inculturation. The Japanese took the initiative to synthesise their native cultures and the Chinese/Korean Buddhism they encountered. The term ‘inculturation’ on the other hand represents a Christian initiative to manifest itself in a native culture rather than a coexistence between the two. In sixteenth-century Japan, the Jesuits and Xavier belonged to the Roman Catholic Church but were able to coexist with Japanese faiths (e.g., their adoption of Japanese Buddhist terms for the designation of God). I am certain that the Asian bishops in the Synod, like Xavier, are devout Christians. At the same time, we should not dismiss the fact that most of their backgrounds are based on their own Asian cultural traditions (i.e., living among a Buddhist majority), making them acutely aware of any gap between Roman Catholic liturgy and Asian cultural traditions. The Asian bishops were not disagreeing with the definition of inculturation. Instead, they were advocating something more: a ‘syncretism’ of Western Christianity with indigenous religions that would perhaps reach Asians more effectively. They simply sought a compromise between Christian and Asian mentalities, a compromise that is reminiscent of the juxtaposition, amalgamation, and syncretism that occurred in Japanese Buddhism.

Plutarch’s syncretism had positive connotations, and Erasmus (c. 1446-1536) made use of it metaphorically for the agreement between different views.43 This positive meaning inspired Renaissance philologists, who believed that Christianity could be enriched by absorbing a classical influence.44 Nevertheless, the meaning of syncretism lost its positive connotations after the sixteenth century; thereafter it meant the disordered mixing of religions. For example, the churches of the Reformation were opposed to syncretism and preferred a European national culture, and the Church of England rejected Catholic communion “as essentially ‘foreign’”.45 By the nineteenth century, the term ‘syncretism’ had been adopted by religious scholars of the Roman and Hellenistic religious worlds when they wanted to describe rustic people’s adoption of Roman gods (i.e., the melding of Roman gods with their local gods).46 ‘Syncretism’ was a word used to describe a process that was considered low and unsophisticated.47 In the twentieth-century literature of phenomenology and comparative studies of religion (e.g., G. van der Leeuw English translation taken from Stewart and Shaw, 1994, p. 3. 43 Sidney M. Greenfield and Andre Droogers, “Recovering and Reconstructing Syncretism”, in Greenfield and Droogers eds., Reinventing Religions, Oxford, 2001, pp. 27-28. 44 M.A. Screech, Erasmus: Ecstasy and the Praise of Folly, London, 1980, p. 21. 45 Shorter, 1988, pp. 153-154. See also Peter van der Veer, “Syncretism, multiculturalism and the discourse of tolerance” in Stewart and Shaw eds., Syncretism/anti-syncretism, 1994, p. 197: He writes, “Syncretism is seen as a corruption of the Truth. I want to suggest that the ambivalence of the term relates to the rise of Protestantism and the ensuing religious civil wars in Europe…Syncretism as the union of different, supposedly equal, theological viewpoints can also only come up when the idea of absolute Truth is abandoned”. 46 Droogers writes, “It is even more ironic that the Old Testament struggle against syncretism, which coincided with the propagation of a central cult and political unity, has indirectly, through Christian theology, nourished, academic interest in the phenomenon of syncretism”. See Droogers, 1989, p. 17. 47 Mary Beard, John North and Simon Price, Religion of Rome, vol.1, Cambridge, 1999, pp. 317-318, n. 11; H. Luther Martin, “Why Cecropian Minerva? Hellenistic religious syncretism as system”, Numen 30 (1983), pp. 131145. 42

It is worth noting that syncretism is not such a problematic term in the literature of Japanese religion, while in Western theology, including Christian studies, the term has been considered problematic. In this study I focus briefly on these two different interpretations and define the term ‘syncretism’ for the purposes of this paper. First, I shall briefly address the history of the term ‘syncretism’. Syncretism in Theology As I mentioned above, the word ‘syncretism’ has been considered a problematic term in the literature of theology because some have often regarded it as pejorative. Interestingly however, the word synkretismos, which was the direct forerunner of syncretism, emerged in the Roman world. Plutarch (AD 45-125) refers to ‘syncretism’ in clopedia of World Art, Tokyo, 1985, p. 311. 41 Tyler, 1992, p. 5, n. 4. 6

INTRODUCTION

and M. Eliade), the term syncretism has been used heavily. Eliade writes, “Far from manifesting attrition and sterility, syncretism seems to be the condition for every religious creation... Primitive Christianity also develops in a syncretistic environment”,48 while Van der Leeuw asserts, “Every religion, therefore, has its own previous history and is to a certain extent a ‘syncretism’”.49 The term has since been useful to historians of religion who believe that every religion occurs as a process of syncretism or results from it.

in his anti-syncretic analyses. From my art historical point of view, their discourse seems to be unfair to pagans in late antiquity, for in the literature of art history, the early Christian debt to pagan images is widely accepted.56 While syncretism has pejorative meanings in the literature of religion, it has interestingly had a more neutral sense in the literature of cultural studies.57 Droogers indicates that the pejorative meaning of syncretism could be “used by religious elites to oppose unauthorized religious production”.58 In other words, the pejorative meaning exists where the juxtaposition of one religion and another could not be accepted by religious leaders.

On the other hand, some contemporary historians and theologians (e.g., Robin Lane Fox and Jean Daniélou) have disagreed with Van der Leeuw and M. Eliade. Lane Fox thoroughly rejects the concept of syncretism between Christianity and paganism. He writes:

The meaning of the term ‘syncretism’ has frequently shifted over the centuries, depending on the predilections of the user. Evaluating whether the word syncretism is problematic or not, we tend to forget the ‘syncretists’.59 It is only fair that we incorporate into any definition of the term the perspectives of those who participate in the phenomena and history of religious synthesis.

This syncretism tends to most weigh from those who see the history of paganism as a gradual corruption by Oriental influences: syncretism merged the gods of the East with the traditional cults and thus undermined their stability... Often, this syncretism did more to enlarge a god’s appeal than to undermine it. As higher Greek and Roman cultures spread, they met local divinities whom they interpreted as forms of the gods whom they already knew.50

In the literature of theology, many scholars have emphasised that syncretism is a uniquely Japanese attitude toward religions. But the Japanese were not always syncretists. In the Meiji period, the peaceful juxtaposition of religions’ powers was broken by a movement of anti-syncretism in Japan, which emerged as a new political attitude toward religions. In short, the Japanese military power believed that Shintoism was superior to Buddhism. Because they defined Buddhism as heresy to a purely Japanese culture, they refused to juxtapose Shintoism with Buddhism. The rise of Japanese nationalism (Kokutai) gained strength in the Meiji period (1868-1912), which aimed at eliminating foreign accretion into ancient Japanese Shinto sources.60 In the Meiji Reformation dated 1868, the Japanese government commanded Shinbutsu Hanzen-rei (the edict of the separation of Buddhism and Shinto). For the Meiji government, Buddhism was just a foreign cult and a contagion for Japanese traditional Shintoism. Buddhist monks could not preach honji-suijaku (the identification of local deities with Buddhist deities) until 1872, while Imperialism based on State Shinto continued to develop until World War II.61

For Lane Fox, syncretism was “a harmless consequence of this Greek or Latin acculturation”. In other words, syncretism between pagans and Christianity was the adoption and assimilation of alien religions or cults, but not the reconciliation of them.51 Jean Daniélou, a cardinal in the Roman Catholic Church, also disagrees with the notion of an affinity between paganism and Christianity, arguing that the biblical revelation of Christianity had nothing in common with the myths of paganism, which differed fundamentally.52 Both Lane Fox and Daniélou admit that there is some evidence of pagan continuity in the establishment of Christian worship and liturgy (e.g., the cult of Mary), yet they argue that the Christian cult had unique origins.53 Lane Fox writes that “all of this continuity is spurious”,54 while Daniélou argues that “the pagan religions knew indeed of various cults of virgin and mother goddesses, but the Christ cult owes nothing to them”.55 Lane Fox especially argues the contrast between paganism and Christianity continually

A. Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968, pp. 21-22. 57 M.J. Herskovits, The Myth of the Negro Past, Boston, 1941, xxii-iii. 58 A. Droogers, “Syncretism: the problem of definition, the definition of the problem,” in J. Gort, H. Vroom, R. Fernhout and A. Wessels, eds., Dialogue and Syncretism: An Interdisciplinary Approach, Grand Rapids (MI), 1989, p. 16. 59 Droogers, 1989, p. 16 and pp. 20-22. 60 Klaus-Peter Koepping, “Manipulated identities: Syncretism and uniqueness of tradition in modern Japanese discourse” in Stewart and Shaw eds., Syncretism/Anti-syncretism, London, 1994, p. 166. 61 On the shinbtsubunri (the separation between Shinto and 56

Mircea Eliade, A History of Religious Ideas, vol.2, trans. W.R. Trask, Chicago, 1982, pp. 277-278. 49 Gerardus van der Leeuw, Religion in essence & Manifestation: A Study in Phenomenology, trans. by J. E. Turner, New York, 1938, p. 609, n. 1. 50 Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians, Harmondsworth, 1986, p. 35. 51 Lane Fox, 1986, p. 35. 52 Jean Daniélou, “The Problem of Symbolism”, Thought 98 (1950), p. 432. 53 Lane Fox, 1986, p. 22. Daniélou, 1950, p. 437. 54 Lane Fox, 1986, p. 22. 55 Daniélou, 1950, p. 432. 48

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INTRODUCTION

whether the notion of syncretism is suitable for fourthcentury Christian art.

It should be recognized with examples like this that the syncretists’ intention can be distorted according to the subjective views of observers. With this in mind, we need to consider the term syncretism from a more neutral sense, or as much as is possible, from the participants’ view at the time when Christian art first emerged.

Having considered the problem of the term syncretism, I would assert that the literature of art history should be involved in the discussion, in accordance with Droogers’ suggestions:

It is worth noting that the changing meanings of syncretism also affected the literature of Japanese religion. For example, the earliest works of J. H. Kamstra point to “the religion of Japan as a classic case of syncretism”.62 However, he has serious doubts about using the word because to him it represents “the role of Western prejudices in the study of Japanese religion and the opinions of the Japanese believers themselves about what we term syncretism”.63 He defines the term syncretism as “the temporary ambiguous coexistence of elements from diverse religious and other contexts within a coherent religious pattern”.64

In studying concrete cases of syncretism, we should ask ourselves to what extent the religious interpretation under study is contested and by whom. The symbolic mechanisms must be analysed. Changes in symbols, meanings and patterns must be studied within the wide cultural and social context, including power structures. The position the authors of these changes and their critics occupy in society must be included in the research. 69 Droogers does not address how art history can rescue the term syncretism from being branded pejoratively. But an art historical view of the term ‘syncretism’ could play an important role in re-evaluating the meaning of the term, since studying “changes in symbols, meanings and patterns” is an essential methodology in the literature of art history.

His disagreement with using syncretism in reference to Japanese religions seems to stem from his negative view toward the ‘Western and Christian’ term. He writes, “A good understanding of Japanese religion is often very seriously hampered by a whole set of Western and Christian prejudice”.65 He suggests referring to the religion of the Japanese as “religious phenomenalism” instead of “syncretism”.66 The ancient Japanese might have considered their folk religions to be ‘superstitions’ when compared to Japan’s official religions (i.e., Buddhism or Shintoism); however, they did not see their folk religions as inferior.67 The distinction between ‘culture’ and ‘religion’ as modern Western categories obscures other cultural and historical contexts.68 A similar difficulty faces modern Christian scholars examining ancient Christian art. I shall argue the term syncretism is not problematic in theology, even if the notion of syncretism is unacceptable in Christian dogma. My problem as an art historian is

So far, the concept of the changing meanings of syncretism has not been emphasized in art history, the task being entrusted to students of phenomenology. Yet students of art history have always been able to use more concrete materials – visualizing concepts through images – and thus should be able to help define the term more neutrally than could students of religion and phenomenology. One of the goals of this study, therefore, is to define the notion of syncretism from an art historical point of view. Syncretism in Art History The early Christians faced something of the same dilemma as the Asian bishops, in that Christianity was one of the newer cults of the Roman Empire. When Christian art emerged in the Roman Empire about AD 200 (e.g., the Callistus catacomb paintings), Christianity was a cult from Palestine.70 Following Jewish precedents such as the second of the Ten Commandments, early Christians opposed ‘idolatry’ and were thus discouraged from depicting their god in an anthropographic way.

Buddhism), see Herbert, 1967, pp. 49-50. In 1873, the government proclaimed that it would “protect the freedom of Shinto and Buddhism and…encourage each of them to grow”(Herbert, 1967, p. 51, n. 475). 62 J.H.�������������������������������������������������� Kamstra, “The Religion of Japan: Syncretism or Religious Phenomenalism?” in J. Gort, H. Vroom et al, eds., Dialogue and Syncretism, Grand Rapids 1989, p.134. See also Kamstra, Leiden, 1967, pp. 468-469. On Kamstra’s account of syncretism, see also Catherine Cornille “Jesus in Japan: Christian Syncretism in Mahikari” in Peter B. Clarke and Jeffery Somers eds., Japanese New Religions in the West, Kent, 1994, pp. 89-91, n. 7. 63 Kamstra, 1989, p. 134. 64 J.H.Kamstra, “Syncretism and Ambiguity”, Numen 18 (1971), p. 93. 65 Kamstra, 1971, p. 93. 66 Kamstra, 1989, p. 138. 67 Ichiro Hori, Folk Religion in Japan: Continuity and Change, Joseph M. Kitagawa and Alan L. Miller eds., Chicago, 1968, p. 10. 68 Hori, 1968, p. 10.

Yet it was a cultural era steeped in images.71 In contrast to Jews and early Christians, contemporary Romans found ‘an image was more powerful than the reality’.72 For instance, Augustus adopted a visual language in taking Apollo as the Droogers, 1989, p. 21. P.C.Finney, The Invisible God: the earliest Christians on art, New York, 1994, p. 146. 71 J.Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford, 1998, p. 203. 72 P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. A. Shapiro, Ann Arbor, 1988, p. 238. 69 70

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INTRODUCTION

symbol of his victory, and assuming a symbol as his own was one of his cultural programmes of ‘moral revival’.73 He made use of a Roman cultural disposition, which was distinctly non-Judaeo-Christian.

set up boundaries both in relationship to Judaism and to Greco-Roman culture in general, notably to the religious traditions of Greece and Rome. As for material culture, Clement provides the earliest insight into the boundaries that might exist between a conscientious Christian and his or her material environment. On the one hand he encourages his addressees to adapt to the prevailing material environment, but on the other he urges them to do so in a selective manner.79

Perhaps it is no surprise then that in this milieu, Judaism began to borrow symbols originating from practices of the traditional religions of paganism (despite its aniconic dogma74), such as the Greco-Roman image of the Tree of Life.75 Similarly, early Christians began to use religious images in the process of establishing themselves in the Roman world.

His account of the relationship between Greco-Roman culture and Christianity is close to the notion of ‘inculturation’. In the Roman Catholic Church’s own terminology, the notion of ‘inculturation’ represents the development of religious synthesis (specifically, between Christianity and an indigenous cultural tradition). As I discussed briefly above, from the perspective of native people, the term often implies “different poles in a field of power,”80 and inculturation suggests to them that Christianity can adapt or borrow from their culture but not vice versa. In other words, in evangelising, the Church has the initiative for the reconciliation between Christianity and indigenous religions.

The early Christian challenge to the iconic culture has been referred to as ‘Christian adaptation to GrecoRoman cultures’, ‘Christians’ borrowing pagan art’, or ‘the continuity from Classicism’ by most art historians. These accounts present the relation between Christians and pagans from a basically subjective Christian view. In other words, most art historians referring to early Christian art found other ways to describe pagan artistic and cultural influences without using the word syncretism. P. C. Finney discussing Christian art prior to 200 in The Invisible God argues that the early Christian apologists such as Clement of Alexandria selected some parts of Greco-Roman iconographic traditions and rejected others. Magical iconography, for example, is a phenomenon that is not “indiscriminate eclecticism and syncretism” but Christian “selective adaptation” to “Greco-Roman material culture”.76 He writes, “The Clementine model of adaptation is correctly described as conscientiously eclectic, not indiscriminately syncretistic. Christians should discriminate”.77

I doubt that the early Christian catechists could have had the initiative for a compromise between early Christianity and Roman cultures. I believe that the term inculturation is an insufficient appraisal of the cultural contact between early Christians and Romans. The process of developing early Christian art was closer to syncretism, which anthropologists define as the assimilation or reconciliation of diverse traditions and religions. Perhaps the modern Roman Catholic Church would disagree with using the term ‘syncretism’, which they see as a pejorative term describing a mish-mash of religions. They have traditionally viewed syncretism as an illegitimate phenomenon, rejecting as heresy anything they perceive to be a combination of Christian and nonChristian beliefs. In fact, the role of the Church in recent centuries has often been to distinguish between ‘legitimate’ inculturation and ‘illegitimate’ syncretism.81

But in third-century Rome, Christianity did not have the authority enjoyed by other pagan cults.78 The early Christians were not always able to choose according to their preference for their adaptation to Roman religious practice. In fact, they did not merely adapt or borrow Roman indigenous culture or pagan images but changed Christian dogma when creating images. According to Finney,

Yet the framework for early and modern Christianity in Europe was not the same as the framework for Christianity as a new religion in the ancient world, where it was seen as alien to an indigenous culture. I shall argue that the notion of syncretism as a Christian theological term should not be emphasized in the literature of art history, for I believe that religious art does not represent a simple relationship between dogma and images. Of course, the relationship

The earliest Christians were fully adapted to Greco-Roman material culture, indeed to such a high degree that if they did not survive, we would have no way of knowing they ever existed…From its very earliest history, Christianity Zanker, 1988, pp. 101-102. On aniconism, see T. Mettinger, No graven image? Stockholm, 1995, pp. 18-27. 75 E.R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, vol. 12, New York, 1953-1954, pp. 136-138. 76 Finney, 1994, pp. 108-132. 77 Finney, 1994, p. 131. 78 On Paul’s mission in Rome, see Acts of the Apostles 28. 14-31; Mary Beard, John North and Simon Price, Religions of Rome, vol. 2, Cambridge, 1998 p. 332-333 (12.7b); Lane Fox, 1986, pp. 265-293. 73 74

Finney, 1994, p. 131. Shaw and Stewart, London, 1994, p. 21. 81 Shaw and Stewart, 1994, p. 11; R. H. Barnes, “A Catholic mission and the purification of culture: experiences in an Indonesian community”, Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford 23, 2 (1992), p. 171. See also A. Hasting, African Catholicism: Essays in Discovery, London, 1989. 79 80

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between a dogma and its art have caused several conflicts even in the history of art history.

relationship between the Bible (text) and images, and that early Christians maintained a boundary from the GrecoRoman world. They consider early Christian art to be the result of ‘borrowing’ from Greco-Roman culture.

Religion versus Religious Art In the literature of religious art history, we seek to reveal the meaning of images, and when possible, why the artist used an image as a symbol. But because we lack documentation of what motivated the ancient artists, including those of the fourth century, we can only look at the objects themselves and consider them conceptually in a religious context. Consequently, we tend to focus on the theological relationship between a religion and its art. But we have to keep in mind that the relation between the religion and its art can vary in its social and cultural contexts. The history of Christian art is not an exception.

In religious studies, Droogers indicates that the notion ‘syncretism’ has been misinterpreted as a “borrowing of elements”.83 He writes: The borrowed elements in question are symbols or clusters of symbols. People may change these symbols or give other meanings to them. They may integrate them in a new context, within another pattern. Merely the new position within that pattern may already alter the meaning of the symbol and of the pattern as happens when one changes a mosaic. Sometimes the similarity in symbols, meanings, or patterns between two religions invites changes which might be called syncretic. So in general there is more at stake than just the borrowing of elements.84

W.J.T. Mitchell refers to the conflict between the emperor and the patriarch in Byzantium (from the eighth to the ninth century). He writes:

I agree that early Christian use of an image should be considered to be more than ‘borrowing’ or ‘adaptation’, and I also doubt the account of most art historians that the relationship between the Bible and early Christian images was always harmonious and transparent, especially since the early Christian creation of imagery for God went against the Old Testament’s aniconic teachings. In the history of art, we are aware that the dogma, the religious text, and images cannot always be parallel.

The conflict over the nature and use of icons, on the surface a dispute about fine points in religious ritual and the meaning of symbols, was actually, as Jaroslav Pelikan points out, “a social movement in disguise” that “used doctrinal vocabulary to rationalize an essentially political conflict”. 82 Christian interest in verbal and pictorial representation has not always been parallel (consider the modern world example of the 1998 Vatican Synod for Asia described above). A religious artwork is representational of the dogma or symbol through signs or images aimed at the viewers. To succeed in a society, a religion cannot be isolated from the existing society and culture. We might say that a religious artwork represents the successful coexistence of religion, society and culture. In other words, a religious artwork represents a conceptual complex in religious, social and cultural contexts, a complex that cannot depart entirely from non-religious matters.

Mitchell suggests a way to study “this contest between the interests of verbal and pictorial representation” and writes, “I propose that we historicize it, and treat it, not as a matter for peaceful settlement under the terms of some all-embracing theory of signs, but as a struggle, that carries the fundamental contradictions of our culture into the heart of theoretical discourse itself”.85 I disagree that fourth-century Christian art ‘always’ developed in parallel to contemporary Christian theology, which was still being defined by its religious authorities. For example, Christian apologists discussed issues of the nature of Christianity from the second century until the Christian Triumph. Their discussions included the topic of how Christian images should be shown in Christian art, so it cannot be denied that the apologists affected early development of Christian art. Yet their theological ideas should not be considered as the sole framework for that art. I agree with P. C. Finney’s account of the Christian apologists. He writes:

In my view, the reason monotheistic Christianity triumphed in polytheistic Roman culture was that early Christians succeeded in assimilating their dogma with Roman society and culture. This assimilation was not merely an adaptation of pagan images. In changing from aniconic to iconic, assimilation seems to have been a substantial Christian compromise with paganism, whose images flourished in the Roman world. It could be said that early Christians compromised with Roman society and culture (at a time when paganism was dominant) even though some conflicts between Christian dogma and Roman traditions (e.g., the Roman social custom of sacrifice) still remained.

The apologist always subordinates art-related subject matter to concerns and issues that loom larger in their horizon, issues such as the nature of God, true worship, and the ethical life. These latter three represent the kinds of subjects that truly exercised the apologists’

In the literature of early Christian art, most art historians tend to consider Christian art to be based on the peaceful W.J.T. Mitchell, Iconology. Image, Text, Ideology, Chicago, 1986, p. 7, n. 1; J. Pelikan, The Christian Tradition, 5 vols., Chicago, 1974-, vol. 2, chapter 3.

Droogers, 1989, p. 18. Droogers, 1989, p. 18. 85 Mitchell, 1986, p. 44.

82

83 84

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INTRODUCTION

imagination–they drew art (painting and sculpture) into the discussion only to illustrate these primary concerns. Since apology is the literary setting, interpretations of art-related material must first establish the character of the genre. In practical terms, what this means is that one must attempt to demarcate the boundaries between literary apology and real life.86

rebirth in a biblical context. I consider this ‘composite’ meaning of the image of Jonah to represent syncretism of the Judaic tradition and the Christian symbol. Moreover, I believe that contemporary Greco-Roman socio-cultural traditions could also be built into the complex of images of early Christian objects, the early Christians themselves being pagans or Jews before being baptized as Christian. In chapter one, I shall study how a Christian composite image was derived not only from the Bible but also from Greco-Roman culture, and how this assimilation occurred in the Christian image.87

In other words, we cannot conclude whether early Christian artists, those artists hired by Christians, or the objects’ contemporary viewers always saw the images based precisely on ideal Christian theological views or not. Nor can we deny that catechumens or the newly baptized faithful might have preferred the Roman or secular images they were familiar with, or that their attitudes toward Christian art were not in defiance of Christian authority but simply according to their personal preferences in their social and cultural background. At the very least, I believe that this paradox was possible in a fourth-century Roman Empire where even Christian Fathers were struggling with how to interpret their Bible. Again, I concede that the notion of syncretism has not been acceptable to Christian authorities and their dogma, but I shall argue that the dogma and the actual socio-cultural phenomena of the fourth century cannot be equated with the literature of early Christian art history.

In chapter two, I focus on the absence of the notion of syncretism in the literature of early Christian architecture. When Christianity developed in Roman society, they needed a space for assembly. In fact, religious assembly was the main ceremonial activity of Christianity during its infancy in the Roman Empire.88 Christians had assemblies at private houses, where they had a meal together by celebrating the Eucharist.89 In the Constantinian period, however, the domus ecclesiae proved insufficient to the state religious body for Christian assembly. Thus, most architectural historians believe that because of their assembly, contemporary Christians were compelled to have a plan for their new ritual place, and that they adapted Roman public buildings (i.e., the basilica). However, I believe that the symbolical complex in Christianity is also relevant to the Christian liturgy in the churches. In other words, if syncretism occurred in early Christian material symbols, I doubt that the concept of Christian liturgy in architecture can be separated from the issue of syncretism.

From my art historical point of view, syncretism in late antiquity and the early Christian era, when images and practices between different religions and traditions were being assimilated in a Roman socio-cultural context and when Christian artists were moving from an aniconic to iconic practices, was a process for filling the gap between Christianity and Greco-Roman culture.

In chapter one, I will discuss images. In chapter two, I will discuss architecture. In chapter three, I will discuss the juxtaposition of groups of images on a Christian object. The programme of early Christian iconography has been traditionally studied in a typological framework, as the literature of religious art history tends to focus on the theological relationship between a religion and its art, which I mentioned above. But I argue that a more comprehensive examination forces us to question whether fourth-century Christian art always developed in parallel to contemporary Christian theology, which was still being defined by its religious authorities. In chapter three I shall also address whether the issue of the contradiction

Early Christian ‘Composite’ Art and Architecture I have argued that religious art, including Christian art, is a representation of belief – i.e., dogmas or symbols are represented through a series of signs or images directed toward the viewers, and its interpretation should include not only theological aspects but also contemporary sociocultural aspects. I have defined syncretism in art history to be a blending or juxtaposition of the ideas, practices or images of religions and traditions in their socio-cultural contexts.

On the notion of ‘composite art’, see Mitchell, 1986, pp. 154-155. 88 J.M.C. Toynbee and J.B. Ward-Perkins, The Shrine of St. Peter and the Vatican Excavations, London, 1956, p. 30 and p. 72; E. Kirschbaum, The Tombs of St Peter and St Paul, trans. J. Murray, London, 1959, pp. 34-42. 89 On the Roman Mass, see A. Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite: its origins and development (Missarum Sollemnia), trans. Francis A. Brunner, Vol.1 and 2, New York, 1951. Cf. Robert Taft, “The Great Entrance: A History of the Transfer of Gifts and other Preanaphoral Rites of the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom”, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 200 (1975).

The Christian text itself was a blending of different histories – the Hebrew Scriptures (the Old Testament) and Christian history (the New Testament). Thus, one Christian symbol tends to represent the complex meanings of a material image even in its infant stage. For example, a man who is about to be swallowed by a fish in the Callistus catacomb could be interpreted as Jonah in the Old Testament, or the prophecy of Christian salvation in the New Testament, or both together. In other words, the image of Jonah represents a juxtaposition of the Jewish traditional image and a Christian symbol of death and

87

Finney, 1994, p. 16.

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between the Hebrew Bible (or the Old Testament) and the New Testament should be considered in the study of Christian iconography, and how we can interpret Christian iconography within a different framework than Christian typology.

refers to the practice of reusing earlier objects, especially in architecture, a practice which became widespread in the fourth century. Because the practice of spolia often used imperial architectures in the reign of Constantine, the concept of spolia has been considered to be linked with Roman imperial cults. Some scholars consider the practice of spolia to be ‘borrowed’ objects or building materials. Even though Droogers indicates that the notion ‘syncretism’ has been misinterpreted as a “borrowing of elements”90 in religious studies, I shall investigate in a final chapter the possibility of whether the borrowing of objects or buildings in material cultures could be related to syncretism, and whether this imperial practice was related to the development of Christian art.

From my point of view, the syncretism of Greco-Roman culture, which included Christianity, was a blending of different religions and traditions in Roman socio-cultural contexts, and late antique and early Christian composite arts and architectures were derived from the Greco-Roman complex of symbols. Another aspect of syncretism in GrecoRoman culture is the notion of a complex of materials past and present. In the literature of art history, the term spolia

Droogers, 1989, p. 18.

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any dialogue with established Christianity”; the third is “where selected elements of Christianity are incorporated into another system”.4 In his framework, syncretism demonstrates the power structure the religions face.

1. Three Aspects of Syncretism in Religious Art When an indigenous culture meets a new cult, cultural forces exist in parallel. In some instances they coexist or assimilate into one another. In other instances they cannot coexist and one replaces the other. One manifestation of the former is the emergence of a hybrid culture, a blending of the ideas or practices of different religions and traditions in their socio-cultural contexts, often resulting in a unity or juxtaposition of deities. In the literature of Japanese studies and its religious art, the term syncretism has been used to describe this phenomenon. The term, however, has been considered to be problematic in Christian theology and art, and it has been avoided by many art historians. Rather than rejecting the term syncretism to describe the unity of Christian images in late antiquity, this chapter uses such images to examine whether this phenomenon may have occurred in early Christian art.

I will briefly construct a similar art historical conceptual framing for syncretism using some examples of Japanese religious art. Then I shall investigate whether these art historical conceptual frames for syncretism can be adopted for early Christian art. Adopting Schreiter’s definition of syncretism, I would like to establish three conceptual frameworks, or aspects of syncretism, that occur in the symbolic mechanism of Japanese religious art: 1. One religion appropriates another religious image for its own use. 2. The sign or symbol of one religion is assimilated into another religious sign or symbol system. 3. Two religions’ elements are assimilated into each other, and this assimilation is infused into unified images. As examples of this framework, I have selected Japanese objects from one of the most important Shinto shrines in Japan – the Kasuga shrine in the city of Nara, the capital of Japan in the Nara period (AD 710-794).5 The Kasuga shrine was founded in 768 CE by the Fujiwara clan, who later became the most powerful aristocratic clan during the Heian Period (794-1185).6 The clan’s Buddhist temple (Kofuku-ji) was built west of the shrine, within walking distance (erected between 714 and 772). Building an adjacent temple was a common tradition in the Nara period, which was derived from the concept of shinbutsu shugo (an association between Shinto and Buddhist deities).7 In other words, the Fujiwara clan adhered to both Shinto and Buddhism. Shinbutsu shugo is reflected in paintings of

A. Droogers suggests that there are options available for interpreting syncretism as “the symbolic mechanism” in religious studies.1 He advises, “One must also choose between syncretism as the process of religious interpretation, or as the result of such a process, or a combination of both”.2 I shall take his suggestion into account and refer to these terms in an art historical context. In the study of syncretic religious art, “the symbolic mechanism” that emerges on art works, such as on an object or on wall paintings (e.g. Roman catacombs) that represent religious symbols or iconography, is the result. When historians examine how and why the symbol emerges in artwork, they are analysing the process. The process is in effect the history of both the religious symbol and the artwork. In the study of art history, a syncretic image is the result, but it can show evidence of a process of blending, juxtaposing or assimilating symbols. That is, syncretic religious art objects can express result, participation in process, or both. From a modern theological point of view, Robert J. Schreiter refers to syncretism as a kind of manifestation of religious belief and activities shared between Christianity and local theologies.3 Schreiter indicates that there are three kinds of syncretism in the modern world. The first is where Christianity and another tradition are united to form “a new reality, with the other tradition providing the basic framework”; the second is “where Christianity provides the framework for the syncretistic system, but it is reinterpreted and reshaped substantially independent of

Schreiter, 1985, pp. 146-148. On the cult of Kasuga, see Susan C. Tyler, The Cult of Kasuga Seen Through Its Art, Ann Arbor, 1992. See also, Allan G. Grapard, The Protocol of the Gods: A Study of the Kasuga Cult in Japanese History, Berkeley, 1992; Karen L. Brock “ ‘My Reflection Should Be Your Keepsake’: Myoe’s Vision of the Kasuga Deity” in Robert H. Sharf and Elizabeth Horton Sharf, eds., Living Images: Japanese Buddhist Icons in Context, Sanford, 2001, pp. 49113; Royall Tyler, The Miracles of the Kasuga Deity, New York, 1990. On the date of the Nara period, M. Akiyama et al., eds., Shincho Encyclopaedia of World Art, Tokyo, 1985, p. 1076. 6 On the date of the foundation of the Kasuga shrine, see Grapard, 1992, pp. 25-26. On the date of the Heian period, see Shincho Encyclopaedia of World Art, Tokyo, 1985, p. 1305. 7 On the date of the foundation of the Kofuku-ji, see Grapard, 1992, pp. 49-50. On the theory of shinbustu shugo, see also Grapard, 1992, pp. 74-82 (esp. p. 74): “This technical term, which indicates the association of the particular kami of a shrine to a specific buddha or bodhisattva of an adjacent temple, is a territory-specific phenomenon that varies with each cultic center of Japan”. 4 5

On the symbolic mechanism, see my introduction, p. 8, n. 69. 2 André Droogers, “Syncretism: The Problem of Definition, the Definition of the Problem” in J. Gort, H. Vroom, R. Fernhout, and A. Wessels, eds., Dialogue and Syncretism: An Interdisciplinary Approach, Amsterdam, 1989, pp. 7-25 (esp. p. 13). 3 Robert Schreiter, Constructing Local Theologies, London, 1985, p. 144. 1

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art and by Pure Land art, and that “the idea of the pattern and the moonlike halo [of this Shinto painting] are both borrowed from Esoteric Buddhist painting”.10 Tyler also refers to a painting of Shinto raigo (“the welcoming of a soul to paradise”), which differs from the iconography and motifs of a Buddhist paradise, and writes “…the Shinto version of the raigo, the paradises, and the bodhisattvas and buddhas who rule over the paradises are painted in a manner that does not differ from the style of painting of purely Buddhist subjects…There was not influence, but continuity”.11 Tyler argues that their concept of paradise differs dogmatically but that these paradises have the same ‘form’ in their art, to the extent that if a Buddhist looked at this Shinto painting, he would perceive it as Esoteric Buddhist or Pure Land art.12 It is worth noting that in her account of Shinto/Buddhist syncretism in the painting of Kasuga mandara, she refers to a Shinto ‘borrowing’ of ideas and manners from Buddhist paintings, sometimes referring to it as simply ‘continuity’. (In contrast, historians of early Christian art differentiate between Christians’ ‘borrowing’ and the concept of syncretism). In the case of the form that paradise takes in the Kasuga mandara painting, I believe that the depiction of a Buddhist paradise is more than borrowing, since in literary expressions of paradise, the respective symbols of Shinto and Buddhism differed. Nevertheless, Shinto artists appropriated the Buddhist figure of paradise, because the allusion to Buddhist paradise would be acceptable to Shinto, or at the very least, similar in its allusion. In this way, the allusion to a Buddhist paradise was put to Shintoists’ own use. Honji butsu mandara serves as an example of the first aspect of syncretism, where Shinto and Buddhist images stand for each other while maintaining a distinction because of the differences in their faiths. This combination of somewhat independent images shows us a first step toward the assimilation of different religious images, which is the second aspect of syncretism.

Fig. 1. Honji butsu mandara, colours on silk, from Nara, Kamakura era (1185-1333). Tokyo National Museum, Tokyo. Photo: Tokyo National Museum.

In the second aspect of syncretism, the sign or symbol of one religion is assimilated into another religious sign or symbol system. Through syncretism the symbol system of one religion gains depth from that of another religion, especially when one religion is dominant over another. The meaning of ‘dominant’ here is not only in terms of the power structure of the society at the time, but also in terms of one religion having a more systematic iconography or a more established theology. Art historians generally consider a ‘dominant’ religion to have a more systematic iconography, often due to its more established theology. Theologians consider a ‘dominant’ religion to be more

deities and landscapes of the Kasuga shrine, which are known as Kasuga mandara.8 I believe that the paintings and sculptures of Kasuga mandara illustrate the three conceptual frames of syncretism mentioned above. First, it can be said that one religion appropriated another religious image for its own use. In other words, the images are related in a religious context but simultaneously keep their own religious identities. A painting called Honji butsu mandara, dated to the Kamakura period (1185-1333),9 represents six Kasuga (Shinto) deities in a moon-like halo (fig. 1). S. C. Tyler indicates that this Shinto painting was influenced by Buddhist paintings, especially by Esoteric Buddhist

S. C. Tyler, 1992, p. 28. S. C. Tyler, 1992, pp. 27-28. 12 S. C. Tyler, 1992, p. 28: she writes, “More often, if the Kasuga paintings look Buddhist, they look like Pure Land art. The Buddhist counterparts of the deities of the main shrines and the Wakamiya [the kami (a Shinto sacred nature) in the most important subshrine of Kasuga] are all deities who preside over paradise, and they are occasionally shown in these paradises in paintings”. 10 11

Kasuga mandara is also known as ‘mandala’, although Kasuga mandara is usually distinct from the concept of ‘mandala’ because of its Shinto nature. 9 S. C. Tyler, 1992, p. 27 and plate 23. On the date of the Kamakura period, see Shincho Encyclopaedia of World Art, Tokyo, 1985, p. 311. 8

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popular regardless of its having a systematic iconography. In the case of Shinto’s encounter with Buddhism, Shinto was more popular, but Buddhism had a more systematic iconography. This discussion is relevant to the second form of syncretism, where the aesthetics of one religion are juxtaposed with that of another (or several religions) in a basic framework provided by just one religion. In contrast, in the first aspect of syncretism, the artist of the Kasuga mandara, who was hired by Shintoists, ‘borrowed’ the Buddhist paradise stylistically in order to depict a Shinto paradise, and therefore the assimilation of different religions seems more dynamic in the second aspect of syncretism. The religious movement of honji-suijaku (which was derived from the concept of shibutsu shugo and probably begun in the tenth century)13 contributed to the second aspect of syncretism being adopted in the period’s religious art. J. Herbert refers to the concept of honji-suijaku in his Shintô at the Fountain-head of Japan and writes:

or theology” and “does not have the formidable logical tradition” that Buddhism does.16 Her account reminds us of the notion of paganism in the literature of theology, as I doubt that we can refer to Shinto as “non-intellectual” because of its lack of a formidable logical tradition.17 In the literature of Japanese studies, Shinto’s lack of images does not make it less intellectually rigorous. In contrast, Christianity has often been thought in the literature of Christian studies to be more intellectually engaged than paganism, despite the former’s comparative lack of images. Why are the indigenous religions of Shinto and Roman paganism considered to be non-intellectual compared to the ‘imported’ religions of Buddhism and Christianity? Herbert’s account of Shinto offers some clue: Some Westerners, and unfortunately some of their Japanese admirers, were unable to see in pre-Buddhist Shinto more than ‘an unorganized worship of spirits’. It would be more appropriate in my view to consider it as a highly detailed Weltanschauung, both consistent and healthy, which preceded the separation of science, metaphysics, religion and ethics.

According to [shinbutsu shugo], the Deities of one religion were frequently considered as the real fundamental Gods (honji), while those of the other were believed to be their incarnations (gongen) or external appearances (suijaku), but both formed an indivisible whole (honji-suijaku-setsu). At the beginning, it was more or less taken for granted that the Buddhas were the honji and the Kami their suijaku, and in the early Nara period the former were regarded as more important than the latter. In the Kamakura period, however, Shintoists came to hold the opposite theory, that the Kami were the honji and the Buddhas the suijaku; this theory was called han-honji-suijaku-setsu or shimponbutsuju-setsu.14

Although a strong Chinese influence can certainly be detected in the presentation of the Scriptures, and although many assimilations were attempted at later periods – more particularly by Western scholars – its mythology is beyond doubt entirely original. Since there existed nothing different to be intolerant about, Shinto could not be anything but fully tolerant. The Japanese people at that time had certainly never imagined that there might possibly arise any rivalry between sect or creed and they were therefore quite ready to welcome anything that might enrich their life and their concepts.18

For example, because Shinto had no images to rely on, Shinto kami started to adopt the forms of Buddhist deities when they emerged in the material realm (such as in paintings). The reason for this assimilation has been controversial. Although Shinto was based on Japanese mythology, which was written in official Japanese historical texts including Kojiki (712) and Nihongi (720), the religion itself did not have a text.15 Thus, Tyler argues that the Shinto “has no doctrine, no consensus of philosophy

His account of “some Westerners” recalls the description of Roman pagans by some scholars in the literature of early Christian studies, such as Lane Fox, who considers paganism to be a group of mystery religions.19 As with S.C. Tyler, 1992, p. 78. S.C. Tyler, 1992, p. 78. Tyler also writes, “Since the Buddhist deities were felt to be universal, and the kami their local and particular manifestations, the kami were not outdated when the original buddhas and bodhisattvas arrived because they were a means of teaching, particularly suited to the Japanese environment. Thus, devotion to a kami, even of the simplest sort, was a step on the way to enlightenment. Because the kami were local, they were considered easy to reach, whereas the buddhas, remote and lofty beings, were considered necessarily less accessible and correspondingly less responsive to human needs” (S.C. Tyler, 1992, p. 89). 18 Herbert, 1967, p. 43, n. 308. 19 Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians, 1986, p. 94 and p. 117. He insists that Christianity arrived into the Roman world with very distinctive roots; while Christians offered a “revelation” based on a historical text, pagans offered a myth of their god. He suggests that pagans, or mystery 16 17

The date of the beginning of honji-suijaku has been controversial. See, S. C. Tyler, 1992, pp. 87-88. On the theory of honji-suijaku, see also Robert H. Sharf, “Prolegomenon to the Study of Japanese Buddhist Icons” in R. H. Sharf and E. H. Sharf, eds., Living Images, Stanford, 2001, pp. 13-15. He theorises that honji-suijaku “designated certain deities to be the ‘avatars’ or incarnations of others”(p. 13) and writes “…the honji-suijaku paradigm, like the various systems of multiple buddha-bodies, allowed for numerous manifestations, including replicate copies, of a single root deity, thus providing conceptual legitimation for the reproduction and veneration of sacred images”(p. 15). 14 J. Herbert, Shintô at the fountain-head of Japan, London, 1967, p. 46. 15 See, Kojiki, trans. Donald Phillppi, Tokyo, 1968. See also The Nihongi, trans. W.G. Aston, Rutland (VT), 1972. 13

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Fig. 2. Shika mandara, wood, from Nara, Muromachi era (1333-1573).

Hosomi Museum, Kyoto. Photo: Courtesy of the Hosomi Museum.

Herbert’s observations of Shinto, it is worth asking whether the Roman people in late antiquity could have imagined a “rivalry between sect or creed” and whether “they were therefore quite ready to welcome” Christianity, which was monotheistic and opposed to the Roman religious traditions (e.g., Roman civic sacrifice).

Let us return in detail to the second aspect of syncretism in Japanese art. Regardless of whether Shinto is “non-intellectual” or not, the fact is that the forms of Buddhist deities complement the images of Shinto kami aesthetically. For example, a sculpture of shika mandara dated to the Muromachi period (1333-1573) depicts a deer (shika) – the sacred vehicle for Kasuga Daimyojin – with a saddle (fig. 2).20 Kasuga Daimoyojin, a Shinto deity of the Kasuga Shrine, protected Buddhist deities and

‘religions’, blurred the line between magic and religion. He also indicates, “By the Imperial age, the multiplication of these mysteries and the evidence for cults with a close connection to myth of their god, Jews and Christians could offer a firmer and clearer compound”.

S.C. Tyler, 1992, plate 18. On the date of the Muromachi period, see Shincho Encyclopaedia of World Art, Tokyo, 1985, p. 1457. 20

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are mounted on the saddle. This Shinto metaphor for the divine is replaced by the image of the Buddhist deity in some of the Kasuga mandara paintings. A painting known as Fukukenjaku, dated to the Muromachi period, depicts the image of Fukukenjaku riding on a similar deer (fig. 3).22 The image of Fukukenjaku in this Shinto painting seems to be a Buddhist deity since it was originally a major Buddhist deity of Kofuku-ji (a Buddhist temple related to the Kasuga shrine). According to Shun’ya shinki (a Kasuga Shrine document dated from 1437), Fukukenjaku is the metaphysical nature of the Buddha, while at the same time it is a manifestation of the Shinto divinity (kami). This aesthetic juxtaposition of Shinto and Buddhism demonstrates the theory of honji-suijaku: Shinto sacred natures or spirits (kami) were manifestations of the original nature of the Buddha (honji).23 Exemplifying the second aspect of syncretism, these Kasuga mandara Shinto paintings show where the Buddhist sign or symbol was assimilated into the Shinto religious sign or symbol system. In these paintings, the aesthetic juxtaposition of Shinto and Buddhism occurred in a basic framework provided by Shinto. In the second aspect of syncretism, the aesthetic juxtaposition of Shinto/Buddhist images are depicted in one painting; in the third aspect of syncretism, the juxtaposition of Shinto/Buddhist moves toward even more blending of ideas. For example, Jizo, which is also one of the Kasuga shrine’s deities, is a complex of several religious images. A hanging scroll, known as Kasuga Jizo Mandara, dated to the Muromachi period from the Kasuga shrine, depicts Jizo against the background of Mt. Kasuga and Mt. Mikasa (fig. 4). Mt. Kasuga is a symbol of the Kasuga Shrine, while the mountain has been considered Pure Land, a folk religion in the medieval Nara region. Jizo is one of the Japanese Buddhist divinities, but this figure has other associations. He is a manifestation of a Shinto deity of the Kasuga shrine. Jizo was supposed to have originated from the saviour of the dead, Bodhisatova Ksitigarbha. In China, Jizo was represented as Ti-tsang, which means Jizo in Japanese. Interestingly, Chinese Jizo became the leader of the ten rulers of hell in Taoism. In Japan, the Jizo statue, which looks like a Buddhist monk, has various associations (e.g., a monk, a saviour in the afterlife, a guardian for children in Japanese folk religion, et al.), and it has been worshipped even in modern Japan. The cult of Jizo developed as a folk religion in the northeastern area of Japan. Jizo-bon is a large annual gathering of shamans. Ichiro Hori refers to the Jizo-bon as “a mixture of the belief in Jizo-bosatsu (the Buddhist Bodhisatova Kshitagarbha) and the Bon Festival, which is still the most popular annual festival, including memorial services for the spirits of the dead as well as for the ancestors of each family”.24 The cult of Jizo emerged as a result of the

Fig. 3. Fukukenjaku, colours on silk, from Nara, Muromachi era (1333-1573). Ritsuin, Otsu city. Photo: After Nara National Museum, 1964, fig. 22 (courtesy of the Nara National Museum).

received the quasi-Buddhist title Daimyojin.21 A sacred tree (sakaki) and a mirror – a metaphor for a Shinto god – S.C. Tyler, 1992, p. 5, p. 94 and plate 24a. The title Kasuga Daimyojin often suggests a singly entity; it refers however to all five deities or kami, which were venerated at the Kasuga Shrine, and in their Buddhist versions any of them can appear as Kasuga Daimyojin, because Buddhism recognizes these incarnations and relationships of deities. 21

S.C. Tyler, 1992, plate 36. Shun’ya shinki, 183-87. On the English translation, see S.C. Tyler, 1992, pp. 91-92, n. 36. 24 Ichiro Hori, Folk Religion in Japan, edited by J. M. Kitagawa and A. L. Miller, Chicago, 1968, pp. 207-211, n. 33. 22 23

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syncretism of Indian/Chinese Buddhism, Taoism, Shinto, and Japanese folk religion. In its visual art, the symbol of Jizo itself represents multiple divine natures. Kamstra argues, “he is believed to have ‘the same body’ as Yama [or known as yama-bushi (which is a mountain ascetic in a blending belief of Japanese folk religions), Shinto, Buddhism, Yin-Yang (ancient Chinese ideas) and Taoism] but also as Amida, Kannon and Roshana (Vairocana) [in Buddhism]”.25 In other words, the image of Jizo in the Kasuga Shinto painting represents not only the Shinto/ Buddhist deity but also the unity of diverse divine images and thus illustrates the third aspect of syncretism. After establishing this art historical framework for religious objects, the next question is whether we can use this framework for Christian and non-Christian images in early Christian art. In this framework, the first aspect of syncretism is where early Christians appropriated nonChristian images for their own use. These images in their ‘original’ non-Christian forms had not yet ‘gone native’ and had no other Christian elements or accompaniments. In such instances, non-Christian viewers might misinterpret the image as one of their own. The second aspect is where non-Christian images were assimilated into Christian images and into Christian biblical content. In other words, the aesthetic juxtaposition of Christian and nonChristian images occurred in a basic framework which was provided by Christianity. The third aspect is where Christian elements and non-Christian elements were assimilated into each other, and this assimilation creates new, unified images. In this third aspect of syncretism, select, non-Christian elements were incorporated into the basic framework of the Christian programme, juxtaposing several symbols and Christ in images new to Christianity. In the literature of early Christian art history that accepts the idea that syncretism is said to occur, the first question of interest is when did it take place? I focus on the period of Christians struggling with establishing a Christian iconography when they changed from aniconic to iconic. In my view, this assimilation was done through trial and error, and seems to have been a substantial Christian compromise with Roman society and culture (at a time when paganism was dominant). Many art historians refer to this assimilation as a borrowing of pagan images. The struggle to establish Christian images began with Christians’ first artistic creations, which most scholars See also, J. M. Kitagawa, Religion in Japanese History, New York, 1966, pp. 82-85. 25 J.H. Kamstra, “The Religion of Japan: Syncretism or Religious Phenomenalism?” in J. Gort et al., eds., Dialogue and Syncretism, Grand Rapids (MI), 1989, p. 144. In this article, Kamstra doubts the use of the term syncretism (see, Kamstra, 1989, pp. 134-142). See also, my introduction, pp. 37-38. On the yamabushi and syncretism of Japanese religions, see Michael Pye, “Syncretism versus Synthesis” in British Association for the Study of Religions Occasional Papers, 1992, pp. 10-18.

Fig. 4.Kasuga Jizo Mandara, colours on silk, from Nara, Muromachi era (1333-1573). Photo: After Nara National Museum, 2006, fig. 39 (courtesy of the Nara National Museum).

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Fig. 5.Bronze coin of Constantine, from Rome, fourth century. The British Museum,

London. Photo: After Burnett, 1987, Plate 18, 139.

Fig. 6. View of S. Giovanni in Laterano (begun c. 313), fresco by F. Gagliardi, Rome, S. Martino ai Monti, c. 1650.

Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 179 (De Antonis, Rome). 19

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agree came in the form of funerary art around AD 200 (e.g., the Callistus catacomb).26 To study the ‘process’ of establishing early Christian art, I shall determine the period from the introduction of religious Christian art to Rome around AD 200 to its triumph in 325 with the First Ecumenical Council of the Church at Nicaea. The Edict of Milan was an obvious turning point for Christianity as a religious role in Rome, but by 313 the primary, protective god of the empire had not yet been settled upon between Jupiter and Christ. Constantine hesitated in making a personal decision regarding his own worship for ten years, finally deciding in favour of Christianity in 324. As emperor, his choice between the two gods was similarly indecisive. Many coins minted during the era of Constantine were engraved with the words SOLI INVICTO COMITI or SOLI INVICTO, ‘the unconquered sun’, which represented the sun worship supported by earlier Roman emperors (fig. 5).27 At the same time, Constantine’s dedication to the construction of Christian churches was considerable, including basilicas (e.g., the Church of San Giovanni in Laterno, begun in 313) (fig. 6). Once Constantine formally declared himself a Christian, pagan gods were denounced due to the Christian refusal to be compared with other Roman cults. It can be said that the period from AD 200 to 325 represents the completion of a starting point and a ‘new era’ in the history of Christian art. However, objects and buildings rarely emerge suddenly, and we should consider the influence of earlier works on those that came after from art historical points of view. Thus, in this book I shall discuss the three aspects of syncretism defined above as they relate to Christian images using Christian art dated between the third and fourth centuries and then compare them with some of their successors. 2. The First Aspect of Syncretism: Appropriation of Early Christian Images a. The Sheep Carrier or Good Shepherd Earlier in this chapter, I defined a first aspect of syncretism where one religion appropriated another religious image for its own use, and where the image retains much of its original form. As an example, I showed that in Japanese art, the style of Buddhist paradise was appropriated by Shinto artists. Although their concepts of paradise differ dogmatically, the allusion to paradise was represented in the same visual expression. Viewers often interpret such images from their own religious background – in this case, Buddhism or Shinto. In this section, I shall investigate whether this phenomenon occurs in early Christian art by

Fig. 7. The Good Shepherd, marble, Rome, c. 300. Musei

Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, Rome. using one image – the shepherd in third-century Christian art.

A. Grabar, The Beginning of Christian Art 200-395, trans. S. Gilbert and J. Emmons, London, 1967, pp. 26-27. On the Callistus catacomb, see P. C. Finney, The Invisible God: the earliest Christians on art, New York, 1994, pp. 146-245. 27 On sun worship in Roman imperial iconography, see H.P. L’Orange, “Sol invictus imperator. Ein Beitrag zur Apotheose”, in Likeness and icons, Odense, 1973, pp. 325344, reprinted from Symbolae Osloenses 14 (1953), pp. 86-114. 26

The placement of the ‘Good Shepherd’ in the Vatican Museum can strongly influence a viewer’s interpretation (fig. 7). Because images of the Good Shepherd are mainly located in the museum’s Museo Pio Cristiano (the section for Christian art), a visitor would easily assume this theme to be an example of Christian imagery. However, if the viewer saw this Good Shepherd in Museo Gregoriano Profano (the section devoted to pagan art), the viewer 20

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the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia in Ravenna (dated AD 425-50) (fig. 10). What the figure does recall, however, is the shepherd in pagan sarcophagi (e.g., one in Museo Nazionale Romano, Rome) (fig. 11).28 How does a viewer interpret the attribution of this statue? The answer lies in its accompaniment and its location, whether Christian or non-Christian. If the viewer was non-Christian, he could hardly interpret it as a Christian image without knowledge of its context. If the viewer was Christian and aware of Christ’s discussion of the Good Shepherd, the statue would be interpreted as the Good Shepherd without hesitation. We cannot assume that Christian multitudes of viewers would have certainly interpreted the statue as the ‘Good Shepherd.’ I doubt that the majority of early Christians, most of whom were newcomers to Christian images, understood Christianity in the same way as its contemporary Christian apologists. One of these apologists was Clemente of Alexandra, who offered baptized Christians instruction on the pictorial devices employed on their finger rings in The Teacher (Logos Paidagogos, dated to around 200).29 There is a strong possibility that some viewers, including Romans and the early Christians, saw the ‘Good Shepherd’, now placed in the Vatican Museum, as a GrecoRoman shepherd and not as the Christian shepherd. Thus, I believe the ‘accompaniments’ or context of the image (supplemental images or its location) were crucial elements for earlier Christians’ interpretation. The question is how these elements associated with each other. In my view, syncretism may have played a role in these associations. Some art historians suggest that the sheep carrier figure is the Callistus catacomb’s only vehicle for Christian meaning because the image is derived from the association with Jesus the Good Shepherd in a Biblical context. Finney calls these art historians ‘minimalists’ in the study of early Christian iconography, and he disagrees with their accounts. According to Finney, these minimalists believe that the images of Jonah and Daniel on the ceiling of Callistus (figs. 12, 13) are vehicles of Judeo-Christian meaning, because they are Old Testament characters. On the other hand, they consider the catacomb’s Orpheus (fig. 14) to have non-Judeo-Christian meaning because he belongs to neither the Old nor the New Testament.30 Finney articulates the possibility that the images of the shepherd and Orpheus on the ceilings of Callistus were seen by the Callistus Christians as Greco-Roman heroic images, or possibly as some other kind of non-Christian images, rather than as the Christian Good Shepherd. He

Fig. 8. Man carrying calf (the moschophoros), marble,

from the Acropolis, sixth century BC. Acropolis Museum, Athens. Photo: After Robertson, 1991, fig. 37 (Alison Frantz). might also consider it a Roman descendant of Greek images (e.g., the calf bearer – moschophoros – in the Akropolis Museum in Athens) (fig. 8).

A. Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968, p. 36. 29 On Clement’s advice to his Christian addressees, see P.C. Finney, The Invisible God: the earliest Christians on art, New York, 1994, pp. 111-115. 30 On Finney’s account of “early Christian iconography minimalism”, see Finney, 1994, pp. 188-189, n. 69: e.g., A.D. Nock, “Sarcophagi and Symbolism”, American Journal of Archaeology 50 (1946), pp. 140-70. 28

The statue does not have any exclusively Christian attributes. The Good Shepherd does not have any ‘attendant’ figures, such as Jonah, fishermen, or any other Old Testament story, as depicted on the ceiling of the Callistus catacomb around 200 (fig. 9). Nor does he wear a halo like the Good Shepherd in the later mosaic from the entrance wall of 21

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Fig. 9.The Good Shepherd, wall painting, the ceiling of the Callistus Catacomb, Rome, c. 200.

Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.8 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome).

Fig. 10. The Good Shepherd, mosaic, the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna, AD 425-50.

Photo: After Zarnecki, 1975, plate 5. 22

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Fig. 11. Sarcophagus, marble, Rome, third century. Museo Nazionale Romano, Rome.

Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Singer, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1973.0516).

Fig. 12. Jonah, wall painting, the ceiling of the Callistus Catacomb, Rome, c. 200. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.59 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome).

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Fig. 15. Sleeping shepherd, marble, from the end panel

of ‘Vita Privata’ sarcophagus, Badia di Cava, second century. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Singer, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1967.0592). also disagrees with the minimalist school’s insisting that early Christian art was the result of the continuation of pagan art.31 In my view, we cannot deny the possibility that the Callistus Christians saw Jesus in the figure of the sheep carrier on the ceiling. On the other hand, unless there were some associations with Christianity for the figure, it is hard not to believe that early Christian viewers would have seen it as participating in the more prevalent non-Christian iconography. At this infant stage of Christian history, the early image of the shepherd was not an exclusive vehicle for Christian meaning.

Fig. 13. Daniel, wall painting, the ceiling of the Callistus

Catacomb, Rome, c. 200. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.16 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome).

In fact, at the time that the sheep carrier first emerged on the ceiling of Callistus, the image of the Greco-Roman shepherd (which started in the Near East) was predominant in pagan cults.32 The Callistus Christians could hardly fail to notice the fact that the Greco-Roman shepherd flourished in pagan cults, especially in their funeral art. For such an image to have Christian meaning, it needed to be accompanied with other Christian elements. The problem for us is whether the Callistus Christians saw the shepherd on the Callistus ceiling as the Good Shepherd or as the Greco-Roman shepherd. There is a possibility that the viewers might have associated the shepherd with multiple meanings – both non-Christian and Christian. In other words, the early Christians may have adopted the symbol of the shepherd not only because of its biblical context but also because of its non-Christian context. Finney argues that this theory cannot be proved or disproved.33 But there is another possibility that the aesthetic juxtaposition of non-Christian and Christian images of the sheep carrier occurred in the Callistus catacomb. If the image of the shepherd had been used as a vehicle because of the allusion to the ‘shepherd’ shared by Christians and non-Christians

Fig. 14. Orpheus, wall painting, the Callistus catacomb, Rome, third century. Photo: After Finney, 1994, fig. 6.6 (Pontifica Commissione di Archeologica Sacra, Rome).

Finney, 1994, pp. 188-189. Finney, 1994, pp. 188-189, n. 75 and n. 76. 33 Finney, 1994, p. 188. 31 32

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Fig. 16. Endymion Sarcophagus, marble, Palazzo Braschi, Rome, third century. Photo: After G. Koch et al. (eds), 1992, tafel 108, fig. 3 (Palazzo Braschi, Rome).

Fig. 17. Endymion Sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, third century. Photo: After G. Koch et al. (eds), 1992,

tafel 108, fig. 1 (The British Museum, London). in their Greco-Roman art, it is possible that the Callistus Christians might have adopted the figure of ‘the sheep carrier’ from non-Christian art for their ‘Good Shepherd’. This is an example of what I would call the first aspect of syncretism. First, I shall investigate the concept of the figure of the ‘sheep carrier’ in Greco-Roman art.

and rebirth, resulting from his love for Selene, was recast as the death and rebirth of Adonis (a handsome youth) in love with Ahprodite (who has lunar attributes).35 The myth of the sleeping Endymion (contemplated by the moon) in funeral art represented a wish for ‘happy sleep’ after death, and the myth was celebrated in Ionia of Asia Minor.36 As Koortbojian argues, the similarities in the representation and the postures of the sleeping shepherd on the Vita Privata (fig. 15) and the figures of Endymion on Roman sarcophagi (figs. 16, 17) are striking.37 He concludes that, “As on the Palazzo Braschi and British Museum reliefs, in all such cases the imagery has relinquished narrative and adopted the mode of symbol, as the ‘abbreviation’ of mythological content transformed that imagery from literal illustration to a visual form of allusion”.38 In other words, the artist of the ‘sleeping shepherd’ appropriated a figure of another sleeping youth for his own use. The reason for appropriating the figure (or “mode of symbol” according

b. Immortal shepherds in the Greco-Roman world The ‘sheep carrier’ symbol has origins in the Near East and predates the Greek and Roman empires. A figure of a sleeping shepherd was also a popular image in later Roman Imperial art, and was especially associated with Roman cults in Asia Minor. For example, the ‘sleeping shepherd’ depicted on the end of a panel of Vita Privata sarcophagus in Badia di Cava shows a youth sleeping under a tree (fig. 15).34 M. Koortbojian argues that this imagery is one of the variations of the symbol of Endymion, a favourite pictorial image for Roman sarcophagi, and that the youth’s inevitable fate of death

Koortbojian, 1995, p. 138, n. 49. Robert Turcan, The Cults of the Roman Empire, trans. Antonia Nevill, Oxford, 1996,1996, pp. 258-260. 37 Koortbojian, 1995, fig. 49 and fig. 50. 38 Koortbojian, 1995, p. 138, fig. 49 and fig. 50. 35 36

M. Koortbojian, Myth, Meaning, and Memory of Roman Sarcophagi, Berkeley, 1995, fig. 71. On the reference of this marble, see Koortbojian, 1995, p. 138, n. 49. 34

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Fig. 20. Attis, marble, from Glanum, second century BC. Photo: After Vermaseren, 1977, plate 63 (Museum Saint Rémy, Provence).

Fig. 18. Endymion, wall painting, from the Casa di Ganimede, Pompeii, second century, drawing. Photo: After Koortbojian, 1995, fig. 66 (S. Reinach, Répertoire des peintures grecques et romanines, Paris, 1922, plate 54.1).

Fig. 19. Ganymede, wall painting, from the Casa di Ganimede, Pompeii, second century, drawing. Photo: After Koortbojian, 1995, fig. 67 (S. Reinach, Répertoire des peintures grecques et romanines, Paris, 1922, plate 15.1).

Fig. 21. Annius shepherd lamp, terracotta, from central

Italy, third century, engraving from Bosio, 1632. Photo: After Bosio, 1632, fig. 211 (The British Library, London).

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to Koortobojian) is that their metaphors – ‘happy sleep’ after death – could be represented in the same way even though they belong to different myths or faiths. This is an example of what I called the first aspect of syncretism. My interest is whether these Greco-Roman youths were artistically associated in establishing the early Christian images of the Good Shepherd. Although the Christian Good Shepherd is standing or sitting (not reclining as the ‘sleeping shepherd’), I doubt that we can conclude that the Good Shepherd is borrowed exclusively from the Biblical account of the shepherd. Koortobojian suggests that the same reclining youth was adaptable for various stories such as Ganymede. He refers to two lost wall paintings from the Casa di Ganimede in Pompeii (figs. 18, 19),39 where Endymion and Ganymede were represented in the same posture. He concludes that “the two myths were painted, with Ganymede adapted to a standard type from the Endymion repertory to effect, once again, a striking pendant relationship”.40 I believe that the ‘mode of symbol’ in religious art, exemplified by the reclining youth, serves not just as a visual form but also as an iconographic image.

iconographical programme of the Greco-Roman heroes rather than as a stylistic adaptation. The iconographical programme of Attis and Adonis may have also been related to a solar syncretism of late antiquity. Adonis and Attis were associated with the Greco-Roman solar gods, and W. Liebeshuetz argues that this association was based on solar syncretism of late antiquity. Liebeshuetz writes, “For they regularly promoted the power and efficacy of their particular patron deities by emphasizing their identity with one or more of the most powerful traditional gods…Initiates of Magna Mater and Attis sometimes applied a solar interpretation to Attis, the lover of their goddess, and followers of the cult of Aphrodite and Adonis, who were mainly found in the east, provided a solar explanation of the Adonis Myth”.43 In other words, we may attribute the likeness of the postures of Adonis and Attis to not only the analogy of their metaphors but also to their associations in the solar syncretism of late antiquity. Let us return to the sleeping shepherd on the Vita Privata. The shepherd is naked except for a mantle, as is the dying Attis depicted on the marble relief from Glanum. If we were to study the sleeping shepherd on the Vita Privata purely from a stylistic view, we would have to consider the possibility that the figure could be Endymion, Adonis or Attis, because it was depicted in the same mode of symbol. Of course, we cannot assert the attribution of the figure on the Vita Privata definitively, because the similarity of the postures between the Greco-Roman youths in paintings and sculptures makes it possible for us to associate the figure with any of them. The original viewers may have associated double or treble meanings to the sleeping shepherd but there is no proof. Nevertheless, these youths were not far from each other, not only due to their postures but also to their sharing of one allusion in their analogical iconography (i.e., immortality). Next, I shall investigate whether the Christian shepherd was far removed from the Greco-Roman shepherds.

Before investigating the symbol of the Christian Good Shepherd in non-Christian contexts, it is worth looking at Greco-Roman images of the shepherd from an iconographical view. Here I would like to consider the possibility that the ‘sleeping shepherd’ on the Vita Privata represents the death of Attis. According to Turcan, “the theosophical sects of the gnosis, which incorporated some of the Graeco-oriental paganism by reinterpreting its tragic myths of loving and suffering divinities, were as interested in Adonis as in Attis or Endymion”.41 Attis, a Phrygian shepherd who killed himself by castration, is often represented as dying under a pine tree, such as on a marble relief from Glanum (Saint Rémy de Provence Museum), dated the second century BC (fig. 20).42 This tragic scene foretells his rebirth after death through Cybele’s love. His posture on the relief recalls the postures of both Adonis and Endymion in their death scenes on Roman sarcophagi even though their specific artistic styles differ. The former is abstract; the latter are classic. It might be difficult to say that the figure of Attis is in the same of mode of symbol as Adonis and Endymion if we look at the figure from only stylistic views. Koortbojian does not refer to Attis as belonging to the sleeping type of Greco-Roman heroes such as Adonis and Endymion. Nevertheless, I believe that the reason for this similarity lies in the analogy of their metaphors: the death and rebirth of three youths and their goddess-lovers, Adonis and Aphrodite, Endymion and Selene, and Attis and Cybele. Thus, the mode of symbol – in emphasizing sleeping youths (Adonis, Endymion and Attis) – could have emerged as a result of the syncretistic

c. The Annius Shepherd Lamp P. Finney concludes that the ‘Christian’ sheep carrier emerged on the fronts of Roman sarcophagi around 260.44 He refers to Annius shepherd lamps that he assumes were made in central Italy by second-century Roman Christians.45 Each lamp’s base was stamped by a potter’s mark indicating Annius as the artist.46 One of these shepherd lamps was engraved by A. Bosio in 1632 (fig. 21).47 According to Bosio’s Roma sotteranea, one Annius shepherd lamp depicted the sheep carrier in the centre of W. Liebeschuetz, “The Speech of Praetextatus,” in P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede, eds., Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity, Oxford, 1999, pp. 194-195. 44 Finney, 1994, p. 125. 45 Finney, 1994, p. 116. 46 Finney, 1994, pp. 120-121, n. 74. 47 Finney, 1994, pp. 118-121 and figure 5.7; A. Bosio, Roma sotteranea, Rome, 1632, pl. 211. 43

Koortbojian, 1995, fig. 66 and fig. 67. Koortbojian, 1995, p. 133. 41 Turcan, 1996, p. 146. 42 M.J. Vermaseren, The Legend of Attis in Greek and Roman Art, Leiden, 1966, p. 35, n. 3 and plate XXI, 2. 39 40

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of the lamp shows Attis, who holds a pedum in his hand, dying under a pine tree, and there are Attis attributes such as a syrix, a tympanum, and cymbals.51 He is naked except for a mantle, just as the dying Attis is depicted on a marble relief from Glanum (which recalls the sleeping shepherd on the Vita Privata). In addition to the lamp disk, vine trees surround the scene of Attis lying under a pine tree. Most art historians agree that the image of vine trees was also a Roman favourite in funerary art, and appeared probably because of the Dionysus cult, which was popular in the Roman world. Dionysus was a Greek god transformed from the god of wine and drunkenness into a hero in the manner of Alexander the Great in the Hellenistic world.52 In the Roman world, the arts of Dionysus flourished (e.g., Marc Antony adopted Dionysus as his self-image, contrasting with Augustus’ adoption of Apollo).53 Representations of mythical Dionysus occur in a number of scenes in Roman art, including the rescue of Ariadne at Naxos and the isle of wine. These representations combined epiphany, salvation, triumph, and love.54 This Greek saviour god, ritually worshipped in the drinking of wine (with its deep origin in harvest festivals),55 was immortal, as was Attis. Wine-making scenes, grapes or vine-scrolls are typical representations in Roman funerary art because of their Dionysian character.56 In other words, the vine tree on the Attis lamp provides an aesthetic association because of the analogical metaphor of the Greco-Roman salvation gods – Attis and Dionysus.

Fig. 22. Lamp disk, terracotta, from Sparta, second century, drawing. Photo: After Vermaseren, 1966, plate XIX, fig. 2 (courtesy of E.J. Brill).

According to Finney, Annius lamps were found outside of Italy, such as in Roman Gaul and Britain, but they have never been found in Sparta. Nevertheless, it is worth looking at similarities between the compositions of the Attis lamp from Sparta (fig. 22) and the former Annius’ shepherd lamp (fig. 21) due to the similarities of their grape wine schemes. In each the main character is in the centre of the disk with a grapevine surrounding him, but the former is lying while the latter is standing. Because Attis is also a Phrygian shepherd, it is worth considering the fact that the attribution of both youths could be considered to be the Greco-Roman shepherd. Thus, it is possible to say that both lamps allude to a funeral metaphor by using the figuration of the Greco-Roman immortal shepherd and the Dionysian grape wine. In this sense, their metaphors were not far from each other. I shall argue that the use of metaphor on the two lamps is related to the likeness of the iconographic programme.

the disk with a grapevine surrounding him. Even though Annius’ religion was unknown, Finney assumes that some Christians bought Annius shepherd lamps. He writes, “The image of the shepherd carrying the sheep, Hermeskriophoros for example, was a well-known and popular fixture within Greco-Roman pictorial tradition, and hence even within the circumstantial realm there is no necessity that any of Annius’ customers was Christian.”48 But on the twin presumptions of invisibility and adaptation, Finney writes, “[T]he shepherd-kriophoros figure was an ideal devise. It was an image Christians could easily adopt and adapt to their own universe of private meanings”.49 I would add to this analysis my belief that Christians might have interpreted the shepherd lamp as representing the Greco-Roman iconographical programme of an allusion to an ideal death. In other words, they did not merely see the figure of a shepherd but also an iconographic scheme (which included such accompaniments as the grape wine).

Vermaseren, 1966, p. 34 and plate XIX, fig. 2. Turcan, 1996, p. 291. 53 Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. by Alan Shapiro, Ann Arbor, 1988,1988, pp. 4546, p. 167. 54 Richard Brilliant, Commentaries on Roman art, London, 1994, p. 172. On the representation of Ariadne in Roman funerary art, see Koortbojian, 1995, pp. 135-137. 55 Brilliant, 1994, p. 172. 56 Charles Murray, “Rebirth and afterlife: a study of the transmutation of some pagan imagery in early Christian funerary art”, BAR International series 100 (1981), p. 70. 51 52

To support my argument, I shall discuss a terracotta lamp disk from Sparta dating from the Roman imperial period (fig. 22). The lamp disk has been believed to be an example of household or funerary lamps, which were made largely in second-century central Italy.50 The centre Finney, 1994, pp. 125-126. Finney, 1994, pp. 125-126. 50 Finney, 1994, p.115. 48 49

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Fig. 23. Christian sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, third century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City.

Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 22 (Alinari, Florence). First, let us consider the symbols of the shepherd on the two lamps. I have argued that the posture of Attis recalls the dying Adonis and Endymion, who were frequently depicted on Roman sarcophagi. Because each of Adonis, Endymion, and Attis were loved by goddesses and died as a result, I believe that the analogy of their tragic death is recast in the metaphor of death and rebirth. Moreover, this mode of iconography was adopted by early Christians for representing the figure of Jonah in the Old Testament. Grabar argues that the Death of Endymion depicted in pagan sarcophagi were precedents for the image of Jonah, who in the biblical text was spewed out on dry land by a fish (Jonah 2:10).57 Jonah’s metaphorical death was also frequently represented on Christian sarcophagi later in the Roman Imperial period (fig. 23). The story of Jonah represents a parallel to the death and resurrection of Christ.58 In fact, the composition of Jonah lying under a tree on Christian sarcophagi in the Roman Imperial period recalls the postures of Adonis, Endymion and Attis in earlier or contemporary pagan sarcophagi. Grabar argues that while there were fundamental differences between the pagan and Christian funerary schemes, the prevailing pagan iconographical hero’s death was adaptable for Christian cycles. It is also true that the metaphorical deaths of Adonis, Endymion, and Attis in Greco-Roman mythology prophesy their rebirth after death. Grabar writes, “…the theme of Death is absent from Christian funerary art whereas it is at the very center of the corresponding pagan program.”59 I doubt, however, that Christians never referred to death in their funerary art. Their earliest art in catacombs emphasized death and ‘rebirth’ (e.g., the story of Jonah and three Hebrews in the fiery furnace), and the theme of Adonis, Endymion and Attis were represented not only as death but also as rebirth. I doubt that Grabar and other scholars are correct in their assertion that the Greco-Roman funerary program was distant from the Christian one. If Christians could

accept both symbols and figurations of the Greco-Roman youths for the image of Jonah, I believe that we can at least consider that Christians who bought the Annius shepherd lamp may have interpreted that shepherd as an allusion to the syncretistic Greco-Roman immortal heroes. Second, the symbol of the vine trees surrounding the scene of the lamps is worth noting. As stated earlier, the image of vine trees flourished in Roman funerary art due to the popularity of the Dionysus cult in the Roman world. The Attis lamp from Sparta shows a juxtaposition of the GrecoRoman symbols associated with immortality – the Phrygian shepherd and the Dionysus grape wine. This association could be related to syncretism of the main saviour-gods of late antiquity: namely Attis, Adonis and Dionysus, “mortals who gained divinity through love and suffering, and achieved unity from having known fragmentation and even dismemberment”.60 Grabar argues that Christians took this image of the hero “from the realistic images of childbirth that occurred in ancient art at the beginning of the biographical cycles of gods and heroes, like Dionysus or Alexander, or on the funerary monuments of simple mortals”.61 Christians used the vine-scrolls in association with Dionysian cycles and transformed the meaning in Christian contexts: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower” (John 15:1).62 Due to the funeral symbol of the vine tree, we can assume that the lamp disk from Sparta shows that Attis (the GrecoRoman immortal shepherd) was likewise associated with the vine (the immortal Dionysus symbol), and that in Greco-Roman cultural contexts, both Attis and the vine symbolised immortality and salvation after death. The Annius shepherd lamp has a composition similar to the Attis lamp (a reclining shepherd and the vine), but in the centre of the Annius lamp a standing shepherd resembled P. Athanassiadi, “The Chaldaean Oracles”��������������� in P. ����������� Athanassiadi and M. Frede eds., Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity, Oxford, 1999, pp. 173-174. 61 Grabar, 1980, p. 129. 62 J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford, 1998, p. 164. 60

A. Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1980, p. 32. 58 F. Gerke, Die Christlichen Sarkophage der vorkonstantinischen Zeit, Berlin, 1940, p. 263. 59 Grabar, 1980, pp. 14-15. 57

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the Good Shepherd.63 I believe that this formation of the shepherd surrounded in grapevine represents a GrecoRoman iconographic programme of salvation after death. In fact, Annius also made disk lamps based on several mythological themes such as Bacchus and Aphrodite in addition to his shepherd lamp.64 In my view, Annius would have known that in popular Roman funeral pictorial images, the grape wine represented the metaphor of Dionysus mythology. If Annius made this lamp for Christian customers, there is a possibility that he tried to present ‘the shepherd’ as the Christian Good Shepherd. At the same time, there is another possibility that he merely intended to depict the standing figure of a Greco-Roman immortal shepherd with the grape wine, which derived from the cult of immortal Dionysus. Finney’s account of Annius’ lamp is useful in deliberating the question of whether Christians considered the shepherd on the lamp they bought to be Greco-Roman or Christian. Finney writes, “Christians who bought Annius’ lamp (and surely some did) would have simply been continuing their own material anonymity – nothing objectively new in the iconographic realm would have come into existence by their act of purchasing Annius’ product.”65 Because the shepherd already existed and could be adapted for Christian meanings, Christians who bought the lamp in the marketplace probably used it for Christian purpose, irrespective of the artist’s intention. Nevertheless, I still doubt that early third-century Christians saw only the symbol of the Good Shepherd in this figure. Because his original images had no Christian attribution, the Annius’ Shepherd lamp could be interpreted as depicting a Greco-Roman hero. In the figure of the shepherd with the grape vine, Christians could also see an allusion to Greco-Roman immortality. Although their faiths differed dogmatically, contemporary viewers could share the visual allusion to immortality in funerary objects. In the case of these lamps, it is possible to say that early Christian artists appropriated the non-Christian images of the shepherd and the vine scroll from funeral lamps such as the Attis lamp for their own use, and therefore illustrate what I call the first aspect of syncretism.

Fig. 24. The mausoleum of Sta Costanza, Rome, c. AD

350. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 110 (Alinari, Florence). children making wine, and Cupid are all represented there (fig. 25). Murray argues that the theme was originally adopted from the Dionysian cycle.67 In late Roman funeral art, Dionysian subjects were used on the altars, cippi and sarcophagi, and they represented not only the worship of Dionysus but the deceased members of the cult. Because of the ubiquity of these images, viewers (Christian and non-Christian alike) could hardly associate the scenes of the ambulatory exclusively with symbols of Christ or the Eucharist without any additional explanation. We should take note of the fact that early archaeologists considered Sta Costanza a temple of Bacchus because they found no specifically Christian images represented on the surviving original mosaics.68 Only after juxtaposition of Christian and Dionysian images was better understood were the Christian attributes of the decorations discovered. It seems that the symbols of the Dionysian cycle were dominant in the Christian imperial funeral space, and that the images of the cult of Dionysus were not Christianised but kept in native modes. Thus, I argue that Sta Costanza is an example of the first aspect of syncretism, where early Christians appropriated non-Christian images for their own use, and I shall investigate how this syncretism occurs in this section. The mosaics of the two small apses that represent Christ were probably added into the original decoration twenty or thirty years after the original decoration was completed.69 Constantina’s sarcophagus, which is full of wine-making images and animals, is located underneath the mosaics of the ambulatory, which included similar wine-making images (fig. 26). Without being aware of the owner, a member of a Christian imperial family, or looking at the image of Christ on the apses, the viewer

d. Juxtaposition of Imperial and Christian images For another example of the first aspect of syncretism, let us consider Sta Costanza, a mausoleum built for one of Constantine’s daughters around 324 (fig. 24). It has a circular plan with an ambulatory supported by a colonnade. Above the colonnade is a cupola whose decorations were destroyed in 1620. Sixteenth-century drawings show that the cupola contained Old Testament scenes between the caryatids and featured Bacchic panthers.66 Some of the original mosaics survive in the ambulatory: a vine scroll, Finney, 1994, p. 120. Finney, 1994, p. 123. 65 Finney, 1994, p. 126. 66 On the mosaic of S. Costanza, see Henri Stern, “Les Mosaïques de L’église de Sainte-Constance à Rome,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 12 (1958), pp. 159-218. On the date of the mosaic, see G. Hellemo, Adventus Domini, Leiden, 1989, p. 66. 63 64

Murray, 1981, pp. 68-71. W. Oakeshott, The Mosaics of Rome: From the Third to the Fourteenth Centuries, London, 1967, p. 61. 69 Robert Milburn, Early Christian Art & Architecture, Berkeley, 1988, p. 217; see also Stern, 1958, n. 5. 67 68

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Fig. 25. Detail of the ambulatory mosaics, mausoleum of Sta Costanza, Rome, c. AD 350. Photo: Author.

Fig. 26. Sarcophagus of Constantina,

marble, from Rome, fourth century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Lowden, 1997, fig. 19 (Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, The Vatican). 31

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Fig. 27. Sarcophagus of St Helena, marble, from Rome, fourth century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 9 (Scala, Florence).

Dionysian immortality with Christian salvation. This would suggest that Christians were able to interpret the image of wine making in the decorations of Sta Costanza as not only representing Christian salvation after death but also Greco-Roman immortality. The fact is that that these metaphors of salvation are not far from each other, and the aesthetic juxtaposition of images representing non-Christian immortality and Christian resurrection strengthened the symbols associated with Christian salvation in Sta Costanza. In addition, the ceiling of Constantina’s sarcophagus, which did not look Christian, needed to be covered with the mosaics of Christian images (some art historians have called this a Christian borrowing from the Dionysian cycle). Because the dominant images of the building and the sarcophagus have no Christian attribution, the aesthetic juxtaposition of non-Christian and Christian images is a prerequisite condition for being interpreted by the viewers as a Christian imperial funeral space.

might associate these images on the sarcophagus with Dionysian immortality rather than Christian salvation. Nevertheless, the sarcophagus was consecrated to a Christian emperor’s daughter. Above this very nonChristian decoration of the imperial sarcophagus there are mosaics of the Old and New Testaments. In other words, the sarcophagus was Christianised when it was covered by these mosaics. We might consider the composition of the sarcophagus and the mosaics as one of the iconographic programmes of this ritual space. While the images of Sta Costanza represent a juxtaposition of Christian and nonChristian symbols, the non-Christian symbols are dominant. It suggests that the Christian programme of Sta Costanza could not be completed without the aesthetic juxtaposition of Roman imperial (or Dionysian) and Christian images. Just as Constantine hesitated in making a personal choice between Christianity and a Roman cult, contemporary Christian art and its images emerged after a sort of ‘incubation period.’ During the ‘incubation period’ of the imperial family’s own conversion from pagan to Christian faith, it is possible that the imperial funeral images they adopted were derived from the Greco-Roman notions of immortality rather than from Christian salvation. As long as non-Christian symbols in the images are dominant over Christian symbols in Sta Costanza, we cannot deny the possibility that in Sta Costanza, early Christians associated

Another example of the first aspect of syncretism in Roman imperial art is the fourth-century porphyry sarcophagus of St Helena, who was Constantine’s mother (fig. 27). St Helena played an important role in Christendom, because she discovered ‘the True Cross,’ the site of Christ’s crucifixion and burial.70 The Judas Kyriakos legend, J.W. Drijvers, Helena Augusta, Leiden, 1992, pp. 81-93.

70

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Fig. 28. Helena’s mausoleum, Rome, fourth century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 174 (De Antonis, Rome).

which is one of the three versions of the discovery of the Holy Cross, relates how Helena, Constantine’s mother, discovered the Cross and erected a church on the site. According to this legend, which is of Syrian origin from about the year AD 500, “…Helena kept the venerable Cross with great care and mounted it in pure gold and precious stones and she made a silver shrine in which she placed it. And she built a church at that place which is called Golgotha.”71 Drijvers indicates that the legend was part of the Jerusalem liturgy.72

to Sta Costanza, was built in the pagan tradition. WardPerkins indicates that there is no Christian architectural influence in this pagan building.75 Decorations of Helena’s sarcophagus also owe nothing to Christianity. The decoration (which was restored in the eighteenth century) represents the Roman victory over barbarians.76 Despite these pagan attributes, the sarcophagus itself has been significant in Christendom. The theme of the Roman victory over barbarians on the sarcophagus of St Helena is not acceptable for Christian images depicted in Biblical contents. But the metaphor of the victory itself was perhaps acceptable to Christian artists. I argue that this visual symbol of Roman victory in St Helena’s sarcophagus could have been used for Christian purposes. Images of Roman triumph over barbarians in the mosaics of Sta Maggiore (dated to the 430s, during the reign of Pope Sixtus III) seem to have inherited more from Christianity than the sarcophagus of Helena, and this is what I call the second aspect of syncretism. I will discuss this aspect in the next section.

Her sarcophagus dated to c. AD 330 was excavated in the remains of Helena’s mausoleum in Rome (fig. 28).73 The mausoleum was combined with the basilica of Saint Peter and Marcellinus, which was probably built by Constantine.74 This imperial circular plan, which is similar Judas Kyriakos, Londin. BL Add. 14.633, 22r. English translation taken from Han J.W. Drijvers and J. W. Drijvers, “The Finding of the True Cross. The Judas Kyriakos Legend in Syriac,” Corpus Scriptorium Christianorum Orientalium 565 (1997), p. 69, n. 31. 72 Drijvers, 1992, p. 18. 73 On Helena’s mausoleum, see F. W. Deichnmann and A. Tschira, “Das Mausoleum der Kaiserin Helena und die Basilika der Hailige Marcellinus und Petrus an der Via Labicana vor Rom”, Jahrbuch des Deutshces Archäologisches Instituet 72 (1957), pp. 44-110. 74 H.A Pohlsander, Helena: Empress and Saint, Chicago, 1995, 149-150, n. 5: the Liber Pontificalis indicates that the basilica of Peter and Marcellinus and the mausoleum of Helena were erected on the Via Labicana. 71

Let us return to my account of the first aspect of syncretism by looking at the symbol of the Greco-Roman youth. What I have argued is that early images of the Christian Good Shepherd in the third century was able to be associated with Greco-Roman heroes due to iconographical programmes. J.B. Ward-Perkins, Roman Imperial Architecture, Middlesex, 1970, p. 431. 76 J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford, 1998, p. 21. 75

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Fig. 29. The church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, AD 432-40. After Elsner, 1998, fig. 149

(Canali Photobank, Capriolo). In addition, the figure of Jonah was able to be derived directly from the mode of these immortal Greco-Roman heroes due to their similar allusion to death and rebirth. If we deny any possibility of imperial influence on early Christian art, we are left with interpreting the sarcophagi of Constanza and Helena as pagan. Again, it is worth noting that the latter has no Christian attribution in its decoration save for the Roman victory over barbarians. The historical record, however, shows that we cannot view their sarcophagi as pagan, for we know that they are located in Christian spaces. The sarcophagi themselves have been significant in Christendom. These imperial images needed some Christian attributions to be interpreted as Christian images because early Christians appropriated the mode of imperial symbols for their own use. This kind of aesthetic juxtaposition demonstrates what I call the first aspect of syncretism.

Christian art where non-Christian images were assimilated into Christian images and into Christian biblical content. The aesthetic juxtaposition of Christian and non-Christian images occurred in a basic framework which was provided by Christianity. In this case, when non-Christian images were assimilated into a complex of Christian imagery, their native symbols were also Christianised in the process of their transformation. Contrasted with the first aspect of syncretism, a non-Christian source in the assimilation might be distinguishable for the viewers. If the viewers were Roman pagans, they might have been able to find vestiges of non-Christian symbols in the assimilated images. In this sense we can consider the second aspect of syncretism to be an evolution of the first, where non-Christian images were more able to keep their native meanings. In an earlier section of this chapter, I referred briefly to the mosaics of Sta Maria Maggiore in Rome as an example of the second aspect of syncretism, which shows the aesthetic juxtaposition of imperial and Christian symbols of victory. To clarify my definition of the second aspect of syncretism, I shall investigate how the imagery of the Christian Triumph emerged in the mosaics by comparing the first two aspects of syncretism: the first by using the sarcophagus of Helena (discussed above) and the second by using St Maggiore. Again, in accordance with the first

3. The Second Aspect of Syncretism: the Success of Christian Iconography a. Roman Victory versus Christian Victory My definition of the second aspect of syncretism, where a sign or symbol from one religion is assimilated into the sign or symbol system of another religion, is evident in early 34

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Fig. 30. Mosaic, the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Rome, AD 432-40. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 135 (Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, The Vatican).

Fig. 31. Relief, marble, column of Trajan, Rome, second century. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Fr. W. Deichmann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1941.1446).

aspect of syncretism, the imagery of Roman victory over the barbarians is depicted on the sarcophagus of Helena (the first Christian emperor’s mother), and I have argued that in light of her role in Christianity and her imperial mausoleum’s connection with the Christian basilica, the aesthetic juxtaposition of imperial symbols and Christian elements Christianised the fully imperial images of Helena’s sarcophagus. In contrast, in the second aspect of syncretism, the symbol of the imperial imagery itself was transformed into a Christian symbol. For example, the imagery of Roman victory over the barbarians on the sarcophagus of Helena has no Christian attribution, but it became Christian with the addition of Christian elements. On the mosaics of Sta Maria Maggiore (fig. 29), the imagery of Roman victory was transformed into the imagery of Christian victory when the mode of Roman victory in both its literal and visual representations was Christianised.

Christian victory could be represented in the same mode as imperial victory. While the scheme and style of the Christian representation were inherited from depictions of imperial victory, the native aspects of the Roman victory eventually faded out once the assimilation of victorious Christian symbols occurred. I argue that Grabar’s account of the imperial heritage of Christian iconography looks only at the result of assimilation, that is, the final image and its attributes, without considering the underlying processes that led to the creation of that image. In my opinion, the assimilation of imperial and Christian symbols of victory show us something of both the process and result of using imperial victory as an analogy for Christian victory. In the process of assimilating the symbols, the transformation from a mode of imperial victory into a mode of Christian victory was undertaken in a framework provided by Christians, especially since the imperial symbols must have differed from those of the Christian faith. Both the process and result are components of what I call syncretism.78 I doubt that the early Christians could straightforwardly interpret the imagery of Roman victory in imperial art as Christian. They needed to expand their interpretation of the Biblical narrative, and the evolution of their aesthetic juxtaposition of Christian and Greco-Roman traditions represented an assimilation of two different traditions, exemplifying what I have defined as a second aspect of syncretism.

A. Grabar refers to the relationship between imperial and Christian iconographies of victory by using the mosaic of Sta Maria Maggiore (fig. 30) and the relief of the second-century column of Trajan (fig. 31). He argues that “Christian images of triumphal inspiration...always succeed in experiencing the idea of the power of God: since Imperial iconography furnished a range of subjects and motifs evoking the idea of power, adaptation of each of these conventional subjects to the Christian frame, to make them play the desired role, that is, to proclaim the God, was relatively easy.”77 I concur that the metaphor of victory became useful to imperial traditions and Christianity when Christians saw that an abbreviated Biblical narrative of

Another example of imperial influence on the mosaics of Sta Maria Maggiore is an empty throne in the triumphal arch (fig. 32). G. Hellemo indicates that the symbol of an empty throne had already been used as an imperial insignia in the first century, and that the characterization

Grabar, 1980, p. 47.

See pp. 13.

77

78

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images of the divine, but not from the emperor’s, since Christ lacks the three above-mentioned divine attributes.86 In contrast, Hellemo views S. Pudenziana differently, and points out that the mosaic shows the throne aspect, and that Christ is placed on “a proper throne – a solium regale – embellished with precious stones and provided with a purple cushion as well”, which was a symbolic colour of imperial dignity.87 Schlatter also sees imperial influence on the mosaic of S. Pudenziana, but does not think it predominant. He writes, “The problem with previous interpretations was the starting-point which in recognising certain artistic idioms drawn from the imperial repertoire confused the sometimes imperial medium with the quite biblical message…The artistic proposition is not stated in terms of an imperial metaphor but in one that is primarily preoccupied with a biblical message and only incidentally employs some motifs found in the contemporary imperial iconography.”88

Fig. 32. Empty throne, mosaic, the church of Santa Maria

Maggiore, Rome, AD 432-40. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 277 (Alinari, Florence).

In my view, the Christian imagery on the apse mosaic of S. Pudenziana was derived from some aspects of imperial iconography. The mosaic of S. Pudenziana shows some assimilation of the Roman tradition of the throne motif and with Christ’s kingship. As Schlatter pointed out, we can see that the Christian iconographical pattern is dominant in the mosaic, and imperial iconographical elements may have been excluded from the mode of Christian king in the process of their assimilation. The mosaic of S. Pudenziana shows us only the result of the assimilation.

of the empty throne on the mosaics of Sta Maria Maggiore is closer to a representation of sovereign power. Hellemo also shows that the cross became the predominant motif over imperial figurations on most later Christian insignia.79 This aesthetic juxtaposition of imperial and Christian visual representations on these early Christian mosaics seems undeniable. T. Mathews, however, strongly objects to the assertion of an imperial influence on early Christian art and called these accounts ‘the Mistake of the Emperor Mystique’.80 As an example of these accounts, he refers to the mosaic of Sta Pudenziana in Rome, dated to around AD 390,81 which is the earliest surviving apse decoration in a basilica church (fig. 33).82 Most art historians believe that this apse mosaic represents an eschatological scene originally taken from the text in Ezekiel and Revelations.83 Mathews does not believe that Roman viewers would have seen in this representation of Christ the image of the emperor. One reason he cites is that this Christ lacks most of the important attributes of the emperor, namely, a diadem and imperial clothing. In addition, although he is wearing golden garments, he is in civilian dress.84 Mathews argues that Christ images normally indicate divinity with a halo, golden garments, or an enormous throne.85 He concludes that this image of Christ was developed from ancient

Even though there is a lack of imperial attribution on the mosaic of S. Pudenziana, it seems to be in the process of assimilating imperial influence. Unless we were to find relics on the mosaics of imperial iconographical patterns including the throne aspects, it seems an inevitable conclusion. Again, I argue that in addition to the result, the process is also an expression of syncretism. Because of their aniconic past, Christians needed to establish an iconographical pattern, and it is obvious that the meaning of the imperial iconography meant that Christians could not copy it outright. If we interpret a Christian iconographical programme, however, without considering the process for establishing Christian imagery (or without judging whether Christian imagery is derived from an imperial sign or not according to its visual attribution), we must also interpret the sarcophagus of Helena, which depicts only the imperial sign of victory, not as Christian but imperial or pagan.

G. Hellemo, Adventus Domini, Leiden, 1989, p. 107. T. Mathews, The Clash of Gods, Princeton, 1993, pp. 3-22. 81 F. Schlatter, ���������������������������������������� “��������������������������������������� Interpreting the Mosaic of Santa Pudenziana,” Vigiliae Christianae, 46 (1992), p. 276; Schlatter argues that the date of mosaic is to be the period of 412 to 417. 82 Mathews, 1993, pp. 98-114. 83 See, Schlatter, 1992, pp. 279-285. 84 Mathews, 1993, p. 101. 85 Mathews, 1993, p. 101.

In the previous section, I examined the first aspects of syncretism by using the early Christian images of the Good Shepherd and Jonah. In the following section, I shall refer to Tomb M under St Peter’s in Rome, because I believe that the mosaics of the tomb demonstrate the second and

79 80

Mathews, 1993, p. 103. Hellemo, 1989, p. 41, n. 110; M. Reinhold, History of Purple as a State Symbol in Antiquity, Bruxelles 1970. 88 Schlatter, 1992, p. 291. 86 87

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Fig. 33. Apse mosaic, the church of Santa Pudenziana, Rome, c. AD 390.

Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 157 (Scala, Florence). third aspects of syncretism. In the next section, let us look at the second aspect of syncretism by using Biblical content (including the vine, Good Shepherd and Jonah) on the walls of the Tomb M.

in it are pagan. However, there is one Christian tomb, Tomb M, also known as the tomb of the Julii, which is the smallest tomb in the necropolis. It contains the earliest Christian vault and wall mosaics yet discovered. Precise dates for any of the necropolises under St Peter’s are not available. However, most of them were built approximately between the year 125 and the end of the second century, judging by the type of brickwork and some elements of decoration, such as the wall paintings, which can be dated from between the middle of the second century and the early third century.90 Originally built by the pagan family of the Julii, the date of Tomb M itself has been much debated.91 In a niche in the north wall, there were two cremation-burials. The pagan style of the dedicatory inscription to an infant, Julius Tarapeianus, was found and copied but the original is now lost.92 When three bodies were buried below the floor against the east wall, the tomb was redecorated with Christian mosaics, perhaps because the Julii became Christian or because of the arrival of a new Christian family.93 The date of the Christian decoration of Tomb M is hypothesized as being from the third century AD, but it is certainly proximate to the Constantinian era.94

In the earlier section of this chapter, I argued that the aesthetic juxtaposition or assimilation of Christian and nonChristian imagery helped to construct the early Christian iconographic programme. The mode of the juxtaposition in the first aspect of syncretism is that the early Christians appropriated non-Christian imagery for their own use. In effect, because the sarcophagus of Constantine’s daughter has no direct Christian attribution, we have to interpret the characteristics of the iconography by using the mosaics on the ambulatory of the mausoleum that cover the sarcophagus. The early Christian imagery of its funeral space represents a sort of Christian iconographic programme with overall effects including the location of the imagery, and the imagery alludes to Christian symbols that speak to viewers as individuals and collectively. This phenomenon is one of the natures of Christian art. With this in mind, before investigating the imagery of Tomb M, let us look at its background and plan.

Ward-Perkins The Shrine of St Peter and the Vatican Excavation, London, 1956; E. Kirschbaum The tombs of St. Peter & Paul, translated from the German by John Murray, London, 1959. 90 Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, 1956, p, 30. 91 Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, 1956, p. 72. 92 Ghetti et al., 1951, p. 40. 93 Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, 1956, p. 72. 94 Murray, 1981, p. 66; Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, 1956, p. 30 and p. 72; Kirschbaum, 1959, pp. 38-39, n. 38.

b. The Good Shepherd and the Biblical Circles in Tomb M In 1941 excavations under St Peter’s began and revealed the remains of a Roman necropolis.89 Most of the tombs On the official account of the Vatican necropolis, see Apollonj Ghetti et al., Esplorazioni sotto la Confessione di San Pietro in Vatican, 2 vols. Vatican, 1951. On the major architectural and archaeological discourse on the Vatican excavation, including Tomb M, see J. C. Toynbee and J. B. 89

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Fig. 34. Plan of the Tomb of the Julii

(Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Ghetti, 1951, vol.1, fig. 18 (The British Library, London).

Fig. 35. Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), interior, Vatican cemetery, third century, drawing.

After Ghetti, 1951, vol. 1, fig. 21 (The British Library, London). 38

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Fig. 36. Wall painting, Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Murray, 1981, fig. 16 (courtesy of British Archaeological Reports, BAR Publishing).

is a system of wall decoration, which was developed in the Hellenistic world (e.g., the house of Delos), and that this style of wall is an imitation of marble that became a standard feature of treatment in wall painting in both the East and the West.99 The dado in Tomb M is richer than other examples, and it reflects the owner’s wealth.100

The plan of this tomb is a single rectangle with a lightly crossed vault ceiling (fig. 34). The burial chamber closes a passage that had been left open between two mausoleums, and there is a horizontal aperture above the entrance. A title slab was inset in the aperture. It had two slit openings to either side and they are the only source of light to the chamber,95 but the slab itself has not been discovered. The apex of the ceiling is two metres high. A floor was not extant when the tomb was discovered,96 but one strip of the brick flooring is 56 centimetres wide from the entrance to the end of the wall. There are two graves beneath what remains of the floor, alongside the wall from right to left.97 A narrow moulding encircles the chamber at a height of 97 centimetres, but most of it is missing except on the north wall. Above the moulding, mosaics adorn three walls and the vault. The south wall is untouched, but the west side of the mosaic has fallen down completely.98 The moulding divides the walls horizontally into two zones; there is a dull dado painting of the lower half of the walls and a bright mosaic above (fig. 35). The painting represents the imitation marble incrustation with green and red lines on a white background, which might be an imitation of marble inlay (fig. 36). Murray indicates that this dado painting

As for the upper parts, the ceiling is covered with a vinescroll and a pictorial mosaic composition. It extends to three of the lunettes on the top half of the walls. A vine scroll in three shades of green is depicted on a bright yellow background on the ceiling. In the centre of the ceiling, the vine frames an octagonal space with convex sides. A hole in the roof is due to damage in the sixteenth century.101 The main image on the ceiling is a beardless male figure in a tunic, carrying a globe in his left hand and riding two white horses, which are prancing in a scarlet harness. One wheel can be seen behind their legs (fig. 37). Seven beams of light are depicted emanating from the head of the male figure, which is surrounded by a nimbus. A vine spreads down from the ceiling over the top half of the wall, where there are three decorated lunettes – on the north, east and west walls. On the east wall is Jonah falling feet first from a ship into the mouth of a whale (figs. 38, 39). Two men

Kirschbaum, 1959, p. 36. Murray, 1981, p. 66. 97 Kirschbaum, 1959, p. 37. 98 Kirschbaum, 1959, p. 37. 95

Murray, 1981, p. 67. Murray, 1981, p. 67. 101 Murray, 1981, p. 66.

96

99

100

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Fig. 38. Jonah, mosaic, from the east wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Murray, 1981, fig. 19 (courtesy of British Archaeological Reports, BAR Publishing).

Fig. 37. Charioteer, mosaic, Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M),

Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 74 (The Raverenda Fabbrica of St Peter’s, The Vatican).

Fig. 40. Angler, mosaic, from the north wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Murray, 1981, fig. 18 (courtesy of British Archaeological Reports, BAR Publishing).

Fig. 39. Jonah, mosaic, from the east wall of Tomb of

the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century, drawing. Photo: After Kirschbaum, 1959, fig. 5.

Fig. 42. The Good Shepherd (?), mosaic, from the west wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century. Photo: After Ghetti, 1951, vol. 1, fig. 22 (The British Library).

Fig. 41. Angler, mosaic, from the north wall of Tomb of the Julii (Tomb M), Vatican cemetery, third century, drawing. Photo: After Kirschbaum, 1959, fig. 4.

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Fig. 43. The “Great Lateran” sarcophagus, marble, Rome, third century. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: After

Zarnecki, 1975, fig. 6 (Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, Rome). stand in the ship beside the mast with hands upraised.102 On the north wall an angler, standing on the rocks, casts a line on which he has caught a fish, while a second fish swims away (figs. 40, 41). An image on the west wall is considered to be the Good Shepherd, even though most of the plaster has fallen off (fig. 42).103 There is no doubt that this space is Christian because of the presence of the vine scroll and these three scenes, which were popular in early Christian funeral art. I will discuss the image of the beardless male figure on the ceiling later. First, let us explore the second aspect of syncretism using the figures of the Biblical content in Tomb M: the angler, the Good Shepherd and Jonah.

intentions. What I want to argue is that we are able to interpret these images as Christian content because they demonstrate the result of the second aspect of syncretism. In other words, we see the images after the process of assimilating symbols. Let us look at the images on the walls of Tomb M and their Christian content. The angler on the north wall of Tomb M is a focal point for the viewer who stands at the south exit. The angler wears an exomis, but not the sun hat, which is usually an attribute of the angler in early Christian art (such as the angler on the ‘Great Lateran’ sarcophagus) (fig. 43). On the right side of the Tomb M image, an angler is in the act of landing a fish with a fishing pole. Another fish is watching the scene from the sea. Murray indicates that this angler is a very early Christian artistic representation, from the preConstantinian era, and it was already a familiar image in the Hellenistic world.104 Kirschbaum argues that the fisherman is Christ, in accordance with the interpretation of Clement of Alexandria.105 Perler concludes that the figure of the fisherman is an allusion to baptism.106 It is also possible to say that the fisherman is Peter, although Peter uses a net in the biblical account.107 On the east wall, Jonah is being thrown to a whale and the two sailors standing on the ship represent a story from the Old Testament. The composition of the story of Jonah usually follows the Old Testament story, presenting it in a sequence composition such as in the ‘Great Lateran’ sarcophagus. It is unusual that Jonah enters this whale feet first, since the normal position for Jonah to enter the whale in early Christian art is head first. Murray argues that the artist of Tomb M depicts Jonah as both going in and coming out, and this simultaneous composition represents two successive

But first let us briefly compare again the first and second aspects of syncretism. In both, the aesthetic juxtaposition of Christian and non-Christian imagery strongly complements the Christian symbol visually. The difference is that the aesthetic juxtaposition in the first aspect of syncretism occurs as a result of abbreviating the Christian narrative and appropriating the mode of Greco-Roman symbols, while the aesthetic juxtaposition in the second aspect of syncretism occurs in a framework which is provided by Christianity. It should be noted that these Christians did not completely destroy pagan elements when they appropriated the space for their own use. Instead, Christian figures in Tomb M were added to the pagan dado funeral decorations on the walls. The pagan deceased were buried in the tomb earlier, and the Christian deceased followed. In other words, the first aspect of syncretism occurs practically in this space – a juxtaposition of the pagan and Christian images in the same tomb. We do not know how this juxtaposition was received by family or visitors. The juxtaposition of pagan and Christian burials, however, shows us an aesthetic juxtaposition of pagan decorations and Christian iconographical imagery regardless of their conscious

Murray, 1981, p. 73. Kirschbaum, 1959, p. 40. 106 O. Perler, Die Mosaiken der Juliergruft Vatikan, Freiburg in der Schweiz, 1953, p. 13. 107 “As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea, for they were fishermen.” (Mathew, 4:18). Jesus also said to Peter “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”(Mathew 4:19). 104 105

Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, 1956, p. 74. Ghetti et al., 1951, vol. 1, p. 42 and fig. 22; Kirschbaum, 1959, p. 37. 102 103

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stages – the swallowing and casting up.108 In the biblical text of course, Jonah was spewed out onto dry land (Jonah 2:10). In any case, the story of Jonah represents a parallel to the death and resurrection of Christ.109

As I mentioned in an earlier section of this chapter, the vine-scroll used as background on the ceiling and wall in Tomb M was one of the more popular decorations in Roman funeral art, since the vine-scroll was used both in association with Dionysian cycles and in Christian contexts (e.g., the mosaics of S. Constanza).114 Similarly, the juxtaposition of the three themes of the angler, the Good Shepherd and Jonah were frequently used in pre-Constantinian art. On the ‘Great Lateran’ sarcophagus in Rome, for example, dated to the late third century (fig. 43) and whose subject is the story of Jonah, all three of the themes can be found. We can conclude that the complex of these images shows us a Christian iconographic programme, and I argue that this juxtaposition demonstrates the second aspect of syncretism. However, the figure of the charioteer on the ceiling of Tomb M does not fit into a Christian framework nor a Christian iconographic program, and I believe that this image shows us a third aspect of syncretism. I shall discuss this image in the next section.

Unfortunately, the scene of the Good Shepherd on the west wall of Tomb M is the worst preserved of all the compositions in the chamber. According to the written description of 1951, a shepherd stood in the composition with a sheep on his shoulders, and another sheep was placed beside him on the right.110 According to this description, we can assume the composition of Tomb M to be similar to the Good Shepherd in the Callistus catacomb. These interpretations of the three images of Tomb M are based on Christian content, but the process of the artists making these aesthetic juxtapositions cannot be interpreted exclusively in a framework provided by the Christian faith. As I showed in the earlier section of this chapter on the first aspect of syncretism, the image of the shepherd on the third-century terracotta lamp has no direct Christian attribution. The lamp’s Greco-Roman counterparts, which have a similar composition of a shepherd surrounded by grape wine, suggest to us the possibility that the symbol of the shepherd lamp could have been appropriated from the mode of immortal Greco-Roman youths (featuring Attis, the Phrygian shepherd and Dionysian vine-scroll). We can assume that the shepherd lamp may have been used by early Christians, but there is no proof, so we cannot speculate as to the process of Christians adapting the lamp and its symbolism. In contrast, and illustrating the second aspect of syncretism, the shepherd of Tomb M more clearly emerges as the Good Shepherd due to its being juxtaposed with other images – Jonah, the Angler, and the vine theme. Because of the Christian framework, we can easily interpret Tomb M’s shepherd as the ‘Good Shepherd.’ According to the minimalists (named such by Finney), the figures of Jonah and the Angler are vehicles of JudeoChristian meanings.111 In the strictest sense, however, these images were not Christian because they were used earlier on non-Christian sarcophagi in the Roman world. Murray indicates that Tomb M’s figure of Jonah was derived from the imagery of a Greek folk tale (e.g., in the manner of the Cleveland sculptures).112 She also argues that the Angler of Tomb M shows the traditional pagan mode of Roman fisherman (e.g., the Nereid sarcophagus in the museum of Praetextatus).113 Furthering Murray’s analysis, I argue that these non-Christian native figures of Tomb M were Christianised and juxtaposed with each other in a Christian context, a process that was completed by the time the images were put on the tomb. Having been successfully Christianised, the images we see are the result of the assimilation.

4. The Third Aspect of Syncretism: Unique Dimensions of the Early Christian Iconographical Programme a. Who is the Charioteer of Tomb M? The third aspect of syncretism I define as one religion’s practices and traditions being assimilated into another, resulting in one unified image. From a Christian dogmatic point of view, the possibility that Christian images merged with non-Christian images is unthinkable. In this section, however, using the figure riding in the chariot on the ceiling of Tomb M, I shall consider the possibility that this unique assimilation could have occurred in late antique contexts. The interpretation of the figure on the ceiling of Tomb M has been debated. This image, positioned above three Christian images, would have likely been thought to represent Christ, whether the viewer was Christian or not. Since the official report of the Vatican excavations was published in 1951, the charioteer of Tomb M has not been extensively studied.115 Two major studies of Tomb M are Die Mosaiken der Juliergruft im Vatican, published in 1953 by O. Perler, and “Rebirth and Afterlife” by C. Murray (1981). Murray disagrees with Perler’s interpretation that the charioteer of Tomb M is derived from Sol Invictus.116 A. Grabar refers to the charioteer of Tomb M as one example of Christian adoption of the Roman solar symbol in his discussions of Christian iconography (1967 and 1968).117 Other art historical discussions that refer to the charioteer of Tomb M include those of J. Huskinson (1974), J. Miziolek (1990 and 1997) and S. Hijmans (2000).118 Murray, 1981, p. 68. See, Ghetti et al., 1951, vol. 1, pp. 29-42. 116 On Murray’s account of Perler’s interpretation of the imagery of Tomb M, see, Murray, 1981, pp. 84-87. 117 A. Grabar, The Beginnings of Christian Art 200-395, London, 1967; Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968. This study refers to the first Princeton paperback edition, 1980. 118 J. Huskinson, “Some Pagan Mythological Figures and their Significance in Early Christian Art”, British School 114 115

Murray, 1981, p. 76, Gerke, 1940, p. 263. 110 Ghetti et al., 951, vol. 1, p. 40 and fig. 22. 111 Finney, 1994, p. 188. 112 Murray, 1981, p. 75 and fig. 1. 113 Murray, 1981, p. 71, n. 22. 108 109

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Fig. 44. Relief from a sarcophagus, marble, from La Gayolle, Brignoles, Church of Saint-Sauveur, third century.

Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London.

Fig. 45. Charioteer, wall painting, the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, Rome, fourth century.

Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. and the other is in a fresco in the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus in Rome (fourth century AD) (fig. 45).119 Yet the representations of these images are not strictly the same. The La Gayolle Sun God merely stands, without a chariot, on the left side of the relief. In the SS. Peter and Marcellinus fresco, a beardless male figure in a tunic is riding on a biga, and his head is surrounded by a nimbus without beams. We have no examples of this iconography for Christ after the triumph of Christianity, but other images from the period – Jonah, an angler, and the Good Shepherd – have survived.

Most of these suggest that this image represents Helios/ Sol or the Sun-God Christ (although there is no literary record to prove their interpretations), and conclude that the charioteer therefore participates in the Christian artistic tradition where artists borrowed them from the Hellenistic classical scheme of the gods. Huskinson indicates that there are two other examples of the image of the Sun God in Christian art: one is in the sarcophagus relief from La Gayolle in southern France (third century AD) (fig. 44) at Rome, 42 (1972), p. 68-97; J. Miziolek “Transfiguratio Domini in the Apse at Mt Sinai and the Symbolism of Light”, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 53 (1990), pp. 42-60; J. Miziolek, “Apotheosis, ascensio o resurrectio. Osservazioni sull’Helios del Mausoleo dei Giulii sotto la basilica vaticana di S. Pietro”, Arte Cristiana, LXXXV(1997), pp. 83-98; S. Hijmans, “Language, Metaphor and the Semiotics of Roman Art,” BaBech 75 (2000), pp. 147-164.

The charioteer of Tomb M is unique in Christian iconography. The figure is in a tunic and rides a biga (or maybe a quadriga if we assume that in the image’s narrative, other horses broke loose and fell away). Seven beams of light are depicted emanating from the head of Christ, which is surrounded by a nimbus. Miziolek argues Huskinson, 1972, p. 78.

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b. A Greco-Roman Charioteer – Symbols of Sun, Victory, and Ascension Apollo was a significant deity in the ancient world. One of the twelve Olympian gods, he was the god of prophecy, music, archery, and light. When the ancient Romans assimilated the twelve Olympian gods, the Greek god Apollo became the Roman god Apollo, and Helios became Sol. Of the twelve assimilated, only Apollo retained his name. As a significant and universal deity, Apollo’s attributes and associations are various. In ancient Rome, Apollo was frequently depicted with the sun or sunrays. One silver coin bearing Apollo originates from Rome in 275-270 BC, depicting him on one side as a horse galloping below the sun, the horse being one of Apollo’s symbols (fig. 46).124 This coin was made to celebrate the Roman victory in the Pyrrhic War waged against King Epirus around 280-275 BC. Apollo’s association with victory was strong, because he was believed to be the god who drove away the Gauls and stopped them from invading the ancient city of Delphi and its Temple of Apollo.125

Fig. 46. Roman silver coin (Didrachm) of the Pyrrhic War,

from Rome, 275-270 BC. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Crawford, 1992, p. 26 (The British Museum, London). that this image comes from the pagan cult of the Sun, which originated in the East.120 Murray argues that this was a symbol of Greco-Roman derivation: Helios/Sol, the sun god.121 She indicates that “the clothed chariot-driving Helios” is derived from its association with Apollo the lyre player; she also believes that the artist probably adopted the cloak of Apollo for the representation of Helios.122 Murray’s explanation of the visual associations is relevant to my argument that this figure represents a third aspect of syncretism, since the image could be a unified image as a result of blending different religious traditions in late antiquity. We should remember that the Sun God came to be associated with Apollo during the reign of Augustus.123 Moreover, contemporary Eastern pagan gods such as Mithras also had attributes of the Sun God in their representations. Because of its fusion of Biblical and non-Biblical content, I believe that the charioteer image emerges as a result of the third aspect of syncretism. If the charioteer of Tomb M represented the Sun God or Christ, the artist was going along with the religious tide and the artistic process of syncretism in third-century Rome, which was a movement from solar theology toward monotheism. The question of whether the charioteer represents this third aspect of syncretism must be examined by tracing the origins of the image of the charioteer in the socio-cultural contexts of late antiquity, because several syncretistic phenomena among Roman religions were related to Roman imperial solar theology. Thus, it is worth looking at how the symbols of Roman sun gods linked with imperial traditions in late antiquity. Next, I will discuss Apollo, who is believed to be associated with Helios and several Roman gods that were attributed to third-century Roman solar theology.

The grouping of images of Apollo, Helios, and the Sun can also be found in imperial art in the period of Augustus. In the Hellenistic period solar theology linked the ruler to Helios, who was regarded as king of the stars.126 Octavian was also linked to the sun, and he adopted as his own personal symbol or victorious image the classic Roman traditional image of Apollo, which was a symbol associated with the sun and Helios in the period of Augustus.127 Suetonius indicates that among the contemporary Roman public there was a rumour that Apollo was Octavian’s divine parent.128 Suetonius also cites a dream of Octavian’s father that his son wore a nimbus like the Sun and rode a chariot with a white horse.129 Augustus succeeded in applying his private image to his image as public ruler. The Gemma Augustea dated c. AD 14-37 represents the virtue of Rome and her emperor Augustus (fig. 47). In the upper part, the deified Augustus is seated with Roma, and there is an eagle near his foot. An eagle is the bird of Jupiter, the bird of the Sun and a symbol of the Roman empire, but it was also Augustus’ personal badge. On the solar disc, Capricorn, Augustus’ zodiac sign, represents his deification.130 While Augustus promoted Apollo as his personal image, Aurelian honoured Sol as his protector. This fusion of representations, a fusion between the Sun God Apollo, who was also the god of victory, and Sol, the god of the sun riding on a four-horse chariot, may have been unique to Rome. In the Roman religious atmosphere M. C����������������������������������������������� r���������������������������������������������� awford, “Early Rome and Italy,” in John Boardman et al., eds., The Roman World, Oxford, 1992, p. 26. 125 Crawford, 1992, p. 26. 126 On the solar theology in the Greco-Roman world, see Liebeschuetz, 1999, pp. 185-205, esp. pp. 187-192; Pollini, 1994, p. 281, n. 104. 127 Zanker, 1990, pp. 48-53. 128 Pollini, 1994, p. 282; Suetonius, Augustus 94.4. 129 Pollini, 1994, p. 282; Suetonius, Augustus 94.6. 130 Pollini, 1994, p. 284. 124

Miziolek, 1990, p. 51. Murray, 1981, p. 78. 122 Murray, 1981, p. 80. 123 On the role of Apollo in Augustan ideology, see J. Pollini, “The Gemma Augustea”, in J. Holliday, ed., Narrative and Event in Ancient Art, Cambridge, 1994, pp. 281-285, fig. 85; P. Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. Alan Shapiro, Ann Arbour, 1990, pp. 85-100. 120 121

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Fig. 47. The “Gemma Augustea”, sardonyx cameo, from Rome (?), AD 14-37. Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna.

Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 209 (Erwin Meyer, Vienna). there is no doubt that solar theology played an important role before the Constantinian era.131 W. Liebeschuetz indicates that the oldest literary reference to solar theology is Hymn to Helios, written by Julian the Apostate in December 362, and that Julian might have referred to some works about solar theology by Iamblichus, although there is no proof of their direct contact.132 Julian states that the sun gods closely linked with Helios were Zeus, Apollo, Hades, Sarapis, Dionysus, Ares, Athena, the signs of the Zodiac, Aphrodite, Hestia, Aesclepius, Mithras, and Attis.133 Aurelian (270-75), who was also an enthusiastic

believer, reintroduced the cult of Sol Invictus to emphasise the unity of the Empire, asserting the popularity of the sun gods among the Romans. Eliade argues that Aurelian tried to integrate the Roman tradition (which is believed to be polytheistic) with a monotheistic solar theology.134 This religious integration is an example of syncretism. From a theological point of view, Eliade refers to the syncretism of solar cults in the third century:

On solar theology in the Roman Empire, see also F. Cumont, Astrology and Religion Among the Greeks and Romans, New York, 1912. 132 Liebeschuetz , 1999, pp. 197-200: some scholars believe that Julian and Iamblichus followed Porphyry’s (c. 233302) solar theology. 133 Liebeschuetz, 1999, pp. 197 and p. 204. On the pagan-

ism of Julian, see R. Smith, Julian’s Gods: Religions and Philosophy in the Thought and Action of Julian the Apostate, London, 1995. 134 M. Eliade, A History of Religious Ideas, vol. 2, Chicago, 1982, p. 367. On pagan monotheism, see also P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede, eds., Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity, Oxford, 1999.

Numerous religious syncretism – the Mysteries, the rise of Christian theology of the Logos, the solar symbolism

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Fig. 49. Mithraic relief, marble, from Neuenheim, third century. Landesmuseum, Karlsruhe. Photo: After Elsner, 1995, fig. 47 (Badisches Landesmuseum, Karlsruhe). Fig. 48. The Parabiago plate, silver with gilding, from northern Italy, between the second century and the late fourth century. Civico Museo Archeologico, Milan. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 136 (Saporetti).

in return for material gifts.138 The sacrifice of the bull by Mithras implied the salvation of mankind through rebirth after death. Upon accomplishing his mission, Mithras rides high into the skies on a four-horse chariot with the sun god Sol.139 In a relief from Neuenheim, above the tauroctone the Sun God has a nimbus around his head and wears a mantle (fig. 49). He is riding on a four-horse chariot, a symbol of the Sun God. Mithras conducts a sacrificial ceremony below. It is worth noting that Mithraism was accepted in the empire at the time that Christianity was being persecuted as a new and suspect religion that rejected state worship.

applied at once to the emperor and to the imperium – illustrate the fascination exercised by the notion of the One and by the mythology Unity.135 It seems to me that this religious trend of the empire – the syncretism of solar theology – can be seen as a process, one that found expression in the creation of the art of late antiquity. As Julian states, Eastern pagan gods such as Attis and Mithras were linked with Helios in the solar theology, and the representations of these gods show their connection to Helios. On the Parabiago plate dated from the second century to the late fourth century AD (fig. 48), Cybele and Attis, pagan gods coming from the Orient, are depicted.136 At the top, a figure riding on a four-horse chariot represents the sun together with the moon. Thus we should not consider only Hellenistic sun worship as part of the solar syncretism of the Roman world, but also the Eastern pagan gods with attributes of the sun god.

To support their interpretation of the charioteer of Tomb M, most art historians suggest that the figure’s chariot identifies him as the Sun God. Nevertheless, the chariot, a potent symbol in the ancient world, was more than the symbolic vehicle for Helios or Sol – it was also a sacred vehicle for other Roman gods (Apollo, Mars, Minerva and others).140 The Statue of Iuppiter Imperator was brought to Rome from Praeneste by a chariot in 380 BC.141 On a medallion of Antoninus Pius, dated the second century AD, Jupiter rides in a four-horse chariot (fig. 50). The conical stone idol of Elagabalus ‘Baal’ is carried by a chariot on a gold coin of Elagabalus dated AD 218-219 (fig. 51).142

In Perler’s analysis of Tomb M, he points to Mithraic influence in the appearance of the clothing,137 but he does not take into consideration the importance of Helios and the associations of sun worship in Mithraic dogma. In the Mithraism of Rome, Mithras was a separate entity from the Sun God – i.e., he was the source of light but not the Sun God himself. In the icon of Mithras, the god is seen to be protected by the sun and moon. In iconography, however, in this specific image and in the genre, Mithras is shown as a god protected by the sun and moon, sacrificing the bull

Franz Cumont, The Mysteries of Mithra, trans. from 2nd rev. French ed. by Thomas J. McCormack, New York, 1956, pp. 118-119. On Mithraism, see also R. Gordon, “Authority, Salvation and Mystery in the Mysteries of Mithras,” in J. Huskinson et al., eds., Image and Mystery in the Roman World, Gloucester, 1988, pp. 45-80; M. J. Vermaseren, Mithras, the Secret God, London, 1963. 139 Cumont, 1956, p. 132. 140 Stefan Weinstock, Divus Julius, Oxford, 1971, pp. 5459. 141 Weinstock, 1971, p. 58, and p. 237, n.3; Dio, 44. 6.4; Dio indicates that the Senate called Caesor Iuppiter Imperator. 142 J. Elsner, 1998, pp.202-203, n. 9; Herodian, History, 5.6.6-9. 138

Eliade, 1982, p. 411. On Cybele and Attis, see M. J. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis: the Myth and the Cult, London, 1977. 137 Perler, 1952, pp. 48-49. 135 136

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and wore a special costume.144 Some of these generals were entitled as Victor and Invictus. These names did not originate in Rome, but in the Greek world with Alexander, who wanted to be considered ‘invincible conqueror.’ After his Indian campaign in 324 BC, he received divine honours and a statue of Alexander as an invincible god was erected in Athens.145 Roman rulers such as Caesar tried to succeed Alexander as the great ruler of the world. In his procession after the victory at Thapsus (46 BC), Caesar adopted Alexander’s symbol of the globe, which represented the ruler of the universe.146 In addition, a Roman bronze coin of Constantine, dated fourth century, the sun god is represented as ‘Sol Invicto Comiti’, a standing figure with a globe in his left hand (fig. 5). It is striking that the charioteer of Tomb M also has a globe in his left hand. It is certainly possible that the image of the charioteer of Tomb M could be interpreted as a synthesis of symbols of the Roman solar cults (e.g., Apollo and Sol) and the triumphal emperor (e.g., Victor and Invictus), all assembled in a Roman context.

Fig. 50. Medallion of Antoninus Pius, Rome, second century, drawing. Photo: After British Museum, 1874, pl. XV: fig. 1(The British Museum, London).

Both Perler and Murray refer to earlier imperial iconography in studying the charioteer of Tomb M. Nevertheless their focuses differ. Since the charioteer of Tomb M features the symbols of the victorious ruler of the universe or the sun god, Perler considers the image to be Sol Invictus, which is depicted on imperial coins (e.g., the coinage of Septimius Severus). It also appears to be the closest parallel for the image of Tomb M.147 On some coins of Septimius Severus, the naked sun god rides on a chariot, and his head is surrounded by a nimbus with beams (fig. 52). The figure usually holds a globe or whip in his left hand and outstretches his right. Murray, however, disagrees with Perler’s account that the image of the charioteer of Tomb M is derived from the Roman image of Sol Invictus, since the figure of Tomb M wears the high-belted chiton and chlamys and the lost right hand of the figure cannot be recognised as being outstretched.148 While Murray admits that representations of the sun god in imperial iconography are frequently found, she argues that the chariot of Tomb M might represent the symbol of imperial ascension, but not Sol Invictus.149

Fig. 51. Gold coin of Elagabalus, from Antioch, c. AD 218-219. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 133 (The British Museum, London).

Fig. 52. Coin of Septimius Severus, from Rome, third century. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 284 (The British Museum, London).

It is worth looking at the chariot in the Roman world as a symbol of the means of transit to heaven. According to Murray, the Romans adopted the image of the chariot to depict the ascension of their hero Hercules and his transformation into a deity since the depictions of the

Yet the chariot was not merely a symbolic vehicle for the Sun God and other Roman gods. The chariot was also a symbol for victory that crossed cultures in the ancient world. In the Greek wars, the victors in the races at Olympia were also entitled to use the chariot,143 and victorious Roman generals inherited this custom in their triumphal procession. The triumph was the privilege of victorious generals, and they entered Rome in a chariot

Weinstock, 1971, p. 54. Weinstock, “Victor and Invictus”, The Harvard Theological Review, 50 (1957), pp. 212-213. 146 Weinstock, 1957, p. 236. 147 Perler, 1953, p. 48. On the image of Tomb M and Roman solar worship, see also Philip Pierce, “The Arch of Constantine: Propaganda and Ideology in Late Roman Art” Art History 12 (1989), pp. 408-409. 148 Murray, 1981, p. 79 and p. 82. 149 Murray, 1981, p. 82. 144 145

Weinstock, 1971, p. 58.

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Fig. 53. “Hercules rises from his funeral pyre”, Attic vase, from Vulci, fifth century BC. Munich,

Antikensammulngen. Photo: After Boardman, 1989, fig. 311. chariot in funeral art were common in Greece.150 For instance, on an Attic vase the chariot carries Hercules to Olympus where he becomes one of the immortals; below, his armour is burning on a funeral pyre (fig. 53). The juxtaposition of death and deification is depicted on the vase. A threefold ascension by eagles, a chariot, and a winged figure were often combined in the legends of the ascension of Roman heroes. Alexander’s father dreamt the night before his son was born that he was carried to heaven by Nike; Septimius Severus dreamt that he was taken to heaven by four eagles and a chariot led by a winged figure.151 A coin of Septimius Severus dated the third century AD represents the apotheosis of the emperor riding on a four-horse chariot toward the sky (fig. 52). Moreover, on a late antique ivory dated about AD 400, the image of a threefold ascension – eagles, a chariot, and a winged figure – represent the apotheosis of the great pagan aristocrat, Symmachus (fig. 54).152 The representation of a chariot is not always ritual or imperial, but more cultural, and defines the identity of its deceased subject on the social scale. In Roman circuses, races with four-horse or two-horse chariots were regular entertainment. A marble funerary relief depicting a scene from the circus at Ostia, dated to the first quarter of the second century AD, depicts the commemoration of a circus official or possibly a charioteer (fig. 55).153 I have argued that the imagery of the charioteer (and the vehicle itself) was established in Greco-Roman socio-cultural contexts, including solar divinities, Greco-Roman victories, Murray, 1981, p. 82. Weinstock, 1957, p. 358. 152 Elsner, 1998, pp. 30-33. 153 Elsner, 1998, p. 36. On the Roman circus, see J.H.����� Hum���� phrey, Roman Circus, London, 1986. 150 151

Fig. 54.Leaf from a diptych, a scene of apotheosis, ivory, Rome, c. AD 400. The British Museum, London. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 11 (The British Museum, London).

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Fig. 55. Funerary relief, a scene from the circus, Ostia (?), second century. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City.

Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 294 (Alinari, Florence). victorious Roman emperors (including Sol Invictus), and the ascensions of deified emperors and secular charioteers. A crucial point is that the establishment of the Greco-Roman charioteer cannot be fully understood without considering the notion of syncretism. I argue that the figure of the charioteer of Tomb was borrowed from the mode of the Greco-Roman charioteers and put in Christian contexts. That is, there is no Sun-Christ in the Bible, and the figure of Tomb M was a result of the assimilation of Christian content with Greco-Roman symbols in a framework that was not provided by Christianity. This kind of assimilation exemplifies what I call the third aspect of syncretism.

lunette depicts Jonah being spewed out of a large fish. On the left lunette, Jonah rests on the ground. Images on the centre of the ceiling are damaged, but it seems that there are a man’s feet standing between two sheep, and it is likely that this figure is the Good Shepherd.157 Considering the iconographical programme of the imagery of SS. Peter and Marcellinus – the charioteer, the story of Jonah and the Good Shepherd – it is possible to say that the charioteer of Tomb M, also depicted with Jonah and the Good Shepherd, could be linked with that of SS. Peter and Marcellinus’ catacomb. The theme of the imagery of Tomb M, however, differs from those of SS. Peter and Marcellinus because the angler and the vine scroll are missing in the latter. In place of the vine scroll, there is a dinner scene on the arcosolium of SS. Peter and Marcellinus that represents the symbol of the Eucharist. On both sides of the lunette, a pastoral scene popular in early Christian funeral art is represented. On each side a bird is depicted, and on the upper right side of the wall a mother horse and a pony are depicted together. The pony is rubbing its head against its mother’s muzzle. Since this arcosolium was for a child, the artist perhaps tried to show the affection of the owner of the tomb toward the deceased child through the expressive representation of two horses.158

c. The Failure of Christian Iconography The question remains as to what the charioteer of Tomb M represents. As another example of the imagery of Christian charioteers, Huskinson refers to the fresco painting from chamber 45 the Catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, dated from the mid-fourth century, which shows a beardless male figure in a tunic riding a biga (see fig. 45).154 He has a circular nimbus behind his head. Deckers indicates that he wears clothes typical of philosophers, prophets, Christ, or the apostles.155 Huskinson argues that the representation of this figure is Sol, and it is closer to the image of the charioteer of Tomb M.156 The figure is depicted in the centre of a vault of an arcosolium, and this central figure is rounded by two lunette panels at the sides. The right

Because of the presence of three Christian images – Jonah, the angler and the Good Shepherd – this iconographical programme in my view emphasizes Christian salvation, especially through baptism.159 The juxtaposition of these

Huskinson, 1972, p. 78. See also, J. Wilpert, Die Malereien der Katakomben Roms, Rome 1903, p. 32. 155 J. G. Deckers et al., Die Katakombe “Santi Marcellino e Pietro,” Vatican, 1987, p. 268. 156 Huskinson, 1974, p. 79. 154

Deckers, 1987, p. 267. Deckers, 1987, p. 268. 159 Grabar, 1980, p. 8. 157 158

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Fig. 56. Christian baptistery, from Dura Europos, third century. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven.

Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven.

Fig. 57. “Good Shepherd with His Flock and Adam and Eve”, wall painting, Christian baptistery, from Dura Europos, third century. Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven.

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Fig. 58. “The Ascension of Elijah”, wall painting, the catacomb under the Via Latina, fourth century.

Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 248 (Held). three images and the vine-scrolls represents the notion of Christian rebirth, which was derived from the Dionysian cycle. The angler, an allusion to the ‘catcher’ of humans, represents baptism, which was an act of salvation for Christians. A focal point for visitors of Tomb M, the angler is presumably standing at the meeting point of land and sea, which may be a reference to the baptismal symbol of water. According to Murray, “the fact that nearly all other contemporary angling scenes in early Christian art are located in baptismal contexts permits us to infer that this power is communicated through baptism”.160 Because of the narrative’s setting, most scenes of the story Jonah are depicted against the background of the sea. Although the Good Shepherd is not associated on its own with the water element or baptism in its Biblical context, the combination of the images of the story of Jonah and the Good Shepherd was common in early Christian catacombs, such as in the imagery on the ceiling painting of the catacombs of SS. Peter and Marcellinus. The image of the Good Shepherd was often depicted this way in association with baptism in early Christian art. A Christian shepherd was depicted above a baptistery tank of the earliest Christian House at Dura, dated to before AD 256 (the city was destroyed by the Sassanian invasion, and the house renovated for Christian assembly around AD 240-241) (fig. 56).161 In the house, Christians transformed one room (room 6) into a

baptistery that had the prototypical apse and altar.162 By its excavated wall painting and the baptismal tank, we can assume that Christians assembled and practiced baptism in the room. The baptistery features a semicircular mural painting in a niche supported by two pillars above the baptismal tank. The vault over this niche assumes the shape of the heavens glittering with stars in a blue background. The painting here depicts the ‘Good Shepherd with His Flock and Adam and Eve’ (fig. 57). The ‘Good Shepherd with his flock’ must be an image of Christ, drawn from the Old Testament. “He will feed his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead the mother sheep.” (Isaiah 40.11) The ‘Adam and Eve’ suggests the original sin from which Christian baptism will save the believer. 163 Let us return to the charioteer of SS. Peter and Marcellinus. Who is he? I argue that this figure represents the ascension of Elijah, but not Helios or Sol Invictus (‘Sun Christ’). To illustrate my argument, I shall compare the image with the imagery of Tomb M from an iconographical view. First, the figure riding the biga in SS. Peter and Marcellinus does White, 1990, p. 13. Grabar indicates that all the paintings of the wall in the baptistery of Dura represent a Christian iconographic program, and writes “[A]t Dura the remaining fragments testify that the images were intended to celebrate the baptismal rite: the Samaritan woman at the well and the miracle of Christ walking on the water evoked the theme of the water essential to the office of baptism.” See Grabar, 1980, p. 20. 162 163

Murray, 1981, p. 92. L. Michael White, Building God’s House in the Roman World: architectural adaptation among pagans, Jews, and Christians, Maryland, 1990, p. 118. 160 161

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not have a globe in his hand, nor are beams emanating from his head. These are essential for attributions of the Sun God in Greco-Roman art. Second, the figure in SS. Peter and Marcellinus is much closer iconographically to the catacomb under the Via Latina (fig. 58), where Elijah is riding on a four-horse chariot, than to Tomb M. Grabar refers to the similarities between the image of the Ascension of Elijah of the Via Latina mosaics and the image of Sol Invictus on the coin of Septimius Severus (fig. 52). He focuses on the mosaic’s semisupine figure of a shepherd, which is depicted underneath the image of Elijah driving a four-horse chariot.164 He argues that “the figure [which was depicted near the image of the Ascension of Elijah] takes the place of the Tellus in the ascension of the Sol Invictus on Roman coins, and is shown in the same posture”.165 The ascension of Elijah also represents the Resurrection, and the story of Jonah has similar themes: at one point Jonah seems to be dead, but later lives to survive his ordeal. It is possible to say that the artist who used the images of the ascension of Elijah and Jonah in the catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus tried to represent Christian salvation through those scenes, and that the image of the Ascension of Elijah might have been derived from the mode of the deified emperor in a chariot in Christian contexts, demonstrating the second aspect of syncretism.

that they would have appropriated the symbol merely for Christian catacomb images. Second, the charioteer of Tomb M represents a juxtaposition of Sun Gods and Christ in Christian contexts (illustrating the second aspect of syncretism). In this view, the image of Tomb M was replaced with or absorbed by the image of the Ascension of Elijah, which emerged later in Roman catacombs (e.g., Via Latina). Third, a juxtaposition of the deified emperor and the Resurrection of Christ may be said to occur in the charioteer of Tomb M. In this interpretation too, the image could be said to transform into the image of the Ascension of Elijah. Fourth, the image of the charioteer may be the result of syncretism of the Sun, victory, and ascension in Greco-Roman socio-cultural contexts, all assimilated into a Christian symbol. This interpretation suggests that the image of Tomb M was the artist’s creation and a result of syncretism among the syncretic Greco-Roman charioteer and Christian content in non-Christian contexts. This interpretation of the image of Tomb M illustrates what I call the third aspect of syncretism. I believe that we cannot avoid introducing the concept of syncretism when we study the image of Tomb M, because we cannot assert that the image was derived entirely from Christianity. On the other hand, some art historians who consider the charioteer of Tomb M as Christ-Helios avoid using the concept of syncretism. For example, S. Hijmans argues that the charioteer of Tomb M is Sol, and “[it] has numerous iconographic parallels in Roman art, spanning the period from the first c. BC (and earlier) to the 4th c. AD”.166 He warns, however, “Christ is not Sol, but merely as Sol in those texts [of the sun]”, and “One can never postulate that a metaphorical use of Sol in one semiotic genre (e.g., literature) can be duplicated both synonymously and in isolation (i.e., without parallel) in another (e.g., art)”.167

Although I have argued that the image of the Ascension of Elijah might have been derived from the modes of the deified emperor in Roman socio-cultural contexts, the figures of Elijah of both SS. Peter and Marcellinus and Via Latina lack attributions of the Sun God compared with the charioteer of Tomb M. Moreover, the similarities of the iconographical programmes between both catacombs’ paintings should be noted. Although there was no Jonah in the painting of Via Latina, the juxtaposition of the Ascension of Elijah and the Good Shepherd in a pastoral scene could be seen in both iconographic programmes. On the other hand, because of his attributions of the Sun God in its representation, the figuration of the charioteer of Tomb M with the vine-scroll as wall decoration is much closer to the modes of the Greco-Roman charioteers from an iconographical view (a globe in hand and head surrounded by seven beams). Therefore, we need to interpret the image of Tomb M from more diverse views than only Christian. I shall suggest four possibilities for the interpretation of the charioteer of Tomb M. First, the artist of Tomb M appropriated the mode of symbol of the Greco-Roman charioteer for his own (Christian) use, which would illustrate the first aspect of syncretism. The symbol of the charioteer, however, was not exclusively a funeral image in pre-Constantinian art compared with other images, because the image was depicted for the divine or for victorious or deified emperors. Thus, I doubt

I argue, however, that a semiotic system of early Christian art during the process of syncretism was interwoven with pagan and imperial symbols familiar to the Roman world, and demonstrate both the first and second aspects of syncretism. I believe that the charioteer of Tomb M is a unique product of the semiotic systems in late antique contexts, including not just Christian contexts but GrecoRoman traditions, and that the charioteer of Tomb M was a unified image demonstrating the third aspect of syncretism. White denies that catacombs were used for assembly and worship but he admits that they represent a significant repository of Christian images.168 It is unlikely that the artists adorned the wall of catacombs with paintings for decoration unconsciously. The desire for salvation after death was not unique to Christians. I suggest that Christian funerary art in the catacombs might represent the aspiration of both the viewer and the deceased for rebirth, and it is possible to say that Christian families came to the tomb for worship as pagan families did. In fact, veneration at the

Grabar, 1980, p. 117; see also Grabar, 1980, fig. 282 (Sarcophagus relief, Louvre Paris). 165 Grabar, 1980, p. 117.

Hijmans, 2000, p. 153. Hijmans, 2000, pp. 162-163. 168 White, 1990, p. 12.

164

166 167

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graves is closely linked to contemporary pagan custom.169 Thus, it is possible that the Julii also visited their family tomb since two of their ancestors were buried according to pagan custom. Moreover, we cannot deny the possibility that the pagan viewers interpreted the charioteer as the Greco-Roman charioteer.

We might conclude that the image of Tomb M was merely exceptional in Christian iconography. I argue, however, that we should not dismiss the image in the history of Christian art. The fact is that the appearance of the image in early Christian art suggests that the boundaries between the Greco-Roman and Christian symbols of the charioteer were not definite compared with the differences in their religious ideology. The charioteer of Tomb M could not be interpreted in Christian contexts because it was too unique (or too pagan or too imperial) to be considered as solely Christian content. This fact suggests to us that the early Christian artists had clear consciousness of their intentions, that Greco-Roman images could be juxtaposed with Christian symbols, and that the first and second aspects of syncretism could have occurred in Christian art. If they had only just borrowed pagan images and put them in Christian contexts, the charioteer of Tomb M would have never emerged.

In conclusion, I would suggest the possibility that the image of the charioteer of Tomb M might be a failure in Christian iconography due to its disappearance from later funeral Christian art. One possible cause for this failure is that it was a unified image blending pagan and Christian traditions. I have discussed the possibility that the charioteer of Tomb M is a product of the process of syncretism, with Christian and non-Christian elements assimilated to each other. While this would be an example of the third aspect of syncretism, Christianity ultimately rejected some aspects of this unity. They wanted to exclude the images of pagan and Roman cults, including imperial images. In particular, the image of the charioteer of Tomb M was perhaps to them too Greek, Eastern, or Roman (imperial and cultural). However, the Roman viewers of the tomb could have replaced Christ, “the king of the Jews” (Mathew 2:2) with the icon of Helios/Sol (the sun gods), Sol Invictus, the apotheosis emperor, or a charioteer and even the contemporary funeral symbol. On the other hand, Christian viewers might recognize the charioteer as Christian content because it was depicted along with conventional Christian funeral images in Christian contexts (the Good Shepherd, Jonah, the angler, and the vine-scroll, all inherited from the Greco-Roman funeral images)​. ​

In this chapter, I have defined a framework for syncretism in art history by using objects and argued how the concept of syncretism in art history has been misinterpreted in Christian contexts. Strangely enough, while the term syncretism has been discussed in the literature of art history, there has been an absence of the term in the literature of Christian architecture. I doubt that syncretism could not have occurred in Christian architecture if it did in Christian art, because the ritual space was made not only for practical reasons but also for conceptual reasons. In the next chapter, I shall discuss the process and result of syncretism using Christian architectures.

R. Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed., London, 1986, p. 32; J.M.C. Toynbee, Death and burial in the Roman world, London, 1971, p.63. 169

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​ ith large windows (the windows, however, were not w always present).2 The central plan was a centripetal structure, round or polygon, with a domed ceiling centred on its axis. The central building consisted of a cylindrical nave or a domed centre room supported by a surrounding circular colonnade and an ambulatory. This plan was used in constructing circular temples or tombs in the Roman world.3 After the Roman adoption of Christianity, however, this plan was also utilised in circular Christian monumental structures like mausolea or baptisteries, with windows or a clerestory added in the high nave wall.4

1. The Genesis of Christian Basilica in Architectural History: Adaptation of Form or Function In chapter one, I pointed out that early Christian borrowing of pagan images is widely accepted in the literature of art history. I also argued that syncretism occurred as part of the process of establishing Christian images, from the introduction of the religion to Rome to when Christian images emerged in the Roman Empire about AD 200. In this chapter, I show that in the studies of the genesis of early Christian architecture, there is an absence of both the term syncretism and even the concept of a Christian borrowing of pagan elements. Most architectural historians believe that during early Christianity the basic plan for the Christian ritual space was the basilica, the construction of which is believed to have been influenced directly by Roman public buildings.1 Yet important discoveries of pagan temples, which were used for worship during the pre-Constantinian era of the Roman empire, also show a basilican style, and they should force architecture historians to reevaluate commonly held assumptions. These structures make the same use of space as the basilica: they are accentuated by a directional movement from the exit through the nave to the apse. Nevertheless, most architectural historians agree that Christian architectures owed nothing to pagan ritual buildings.

Theories on the genesis of the Christian basilica began to be discussed in the nineteenth century.5 The predominating theories fall into three categories: 1. The house theory: the basilica’s form was modelled after the “atrium” house at Rome6 and in Pompeii or the Hellenistic peristyle house.7 2. The eclectic theory: Christian architects selected elements from pagan basilicas – the synagogue or the catacomb – and created a Christian basilica.8 3. The “hypostyle edifices” theory9: Roman architects combined features of both the Eastern and the Western basilicas for public buildings, and the early Krautheimer, 1986, p. 43; Krautheimer, ‘The Constantinian Basilica’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 21, 1967, pp. 117140. 3 For example, the mausoleum of Diocletian at Split (AD 300-6). On Diocletian’s mausoleum, see J.J. Wilkes, Diocletian’s Palace, Split, Sheffield, 1993, pp. 46-52. 4 André Grabar, Martyrium, vol. 1, Paris, 1946, p. 94ff; Grabar discuss the possible architectural relationship between the Christian martyrium and the imperial mausolea. See also J. B. Ward-Perkins, “Imperial Mausolea and their possible influence on early Christian central-plan buildings”, Journal of Theological Studies, 17 (1966), pp. 2037; Emerson H. Swift, Roman Sources of Christian Art, New York 1951, pp. 31-49. S. Stefano Rotondo, which is a circular structure, superseded by a third-century thermae; Krautheimer, 1985, p. 92, n. 47. 5 E.H. Swift, 1951, pp. 12-30; Michael L.White, Building God’s House in the Roman World, Maryland, 1990, p. 12. 6 G. Dehio, Die Genesis der christlichen Basilika, Munich, 1885; K. von Lange, Haus and Halle, Leipzig, 1885; he argues that the Christian basilica was derived from the scholae, or club houses of Roman secret societies. See also A. Mau, Pompeii: Its Life and Art, trans. F. Kelsey, New York, 1899. 7 M. V. Schultze, Archäologie der altchristlichen Kunst, Munich, 1895, R. Lemaire, L’Origine de la basilique latine, Brussels, 1911. 8 A. C. A. Zestermann, Die antiken und die christlichen Basiliken, Leipzig, 1847; F. X. Kraus, Geschichte der christlichen Kunst, 2 vols., Freiburg-im-Breisgau, 1896-1908. 9 G. Leroux, Les Origines de l’édifice hypostyle en Grèce, en Orient et chez les Romains, Paris, 1913. 2

In the examination of the genesis of Christian art, why is there this distinction between the art historical view and that of architectural history? In this chapter we review the theories of the genesis of the Christian basilica in architectural history, and consider why this distinction exists. Then I address whether syncretism occurred in Christian architecture by examining early examples. In the literature discussing early Christian architecture, the basic plans for Christian ritual construction are classified into two types: a basilican plan and a central plan. The basilica, which was used for assembly, had a rectangular plan on a longitudinal axis with a wooden frame ceiling or vaulting. At the far end of the nave there was a semicircular apse with an altar, which formed the focal point of the church. The Christian basilica typically adopted these features. It was also typified by one or two parallel colonnades separating aisles from the central nave and a clerestory

Richard Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed., London, 1986, p. 41ff. See also J.B. Ward-Perkins, “Constantine and the origins of the Christian basilica”, Papers of the British School at Rome, 22 (1954), pp. 69-90; Robert Milburn, Early Christian Art & Architecture, Berkeley, 1988, pp. 86-87; Cyril Mango, Byzantine Architecture, London, 1986, p. 38. 1

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Christian basilica was derived from these Roman public buildings.

them with columns set rather closely together, and with entablatures of stone or marble, and construct walks above in the upper story. But in the cities of Italy the same method cannot be followed, for the reason that it is a custom handed down from our ancestors that gladiatorial shows should be given in the forum. Therefore let the intercolumniations round the show place be pretty wide; round about in the colonnades put the bankers’ offices; and have balconies on the upper floor properly arranged so as to be convenient, and to bring in some public revenue… Basilicas should be constructed on a site adjoining the forum and in the warmest possible quarter, so that in winter business men may gather in them without being troubled by the weather.14

More recent analyses of the Christian basilica include works from J.B. Ward-Perkins and Richard Krautheimer, which I will discuss later, while M. White focuses on the Christian house church in the evolution of Christian basilica in Building God’s House in the Roman World. In these studies, the focus is twofold: the word ‘basilica’ in terminology and the basilica as architectural genus. First, let us survey how the word basilica has been applied. In later Latin, basilica can mean a ‘public building used as a place for exchange and a court of law’ or a ‘cathedral’. ‘Basilica’ took the meaning of ‘cathedral’ after the Edict of Milan in AD 313 when Constantine adopted Christianity. But the term was older than Rome. The term ‘basilica’ was used in the late classical and Hellenistic world to indicate the official seat of the Archon Basileus at Athens, the Stoa Basileios, or market.10 Because basileus meant king in ancient Greek, basilica meant not only a ‘public building’, but also a place for a king. All of the structures that the word ‘basilica’ was applied to, whether Roman or Hellenistic, secular or sacred, had similarities.11 It was a rectangular plan, but the entrance could be on either the longer or shorter side. Inside, a colonnade divided the nave from the aisles. The apse, a semicircular or rectangular shape, was designated for a judge or ruler. Did the Romans merely adopt the word ‘basilica’ to describe buildings of a similar shape? Perhaps, but there were important differences in function. Ward-Perkins indicates that the Roman public basilica differed from the Greek stoa, since its original function was commercial rather than judicial.12 He also suggests that the basilican plan was used for other purposes in the ancient world. According to Ward-Perkins, royal audience halls of Hellenistic Egypt (e.g., the form of Pharaonic palace architecture that had a throne room with longitudinal colonnades and clerestory lighting) influenced the name and architectural type of the Roman basilica.13 However, the evidence for this is obscure, since no Pharaonic palaces have been excavated.

The basilica as Vitruvius describes it was the prototype for Roman public buildings, employing internal colonnades and a clerestory.15 His account of the basilica indicates that the Romans accepted the Greek term to denote public buildings, even though they had transformed its architectural plan to suit their own purposes. A second category of studies devoted to the genesis of the Christian basilica has focused on the architectural genus. To what kind of structures was the word basilica applied, and how did it become a sacred structure to the Romans? The word ‘basilica’ was applied to the church of Tyre, a Christian church consecrated c. AD 315, and it was used for a Christian church in Historia Ecclesiastica by Eusebius, a contemporary of Constantine. It is the oldest known record of a Christian basilica. …he has left a very wide space between the church proper and the first entrances, adorning it all round with four colonnades at right angles, so that the outer walls turn the site into a quadrangle and pillars rise on every side…The basilica itself he built solidly of still richer materials in abundance, never for a moment counting the cost…he placed in the middle of the Holy of Holies – the altar – excluding the general public from this part too by surrounding it with wooden trelliswork.16 His description tells us that the plan of the building was rectangular with two parallel colonnades separating two aisles. He also speaks of “the costly cedars of Lebanon that form the ceiling”, indicating that the basilica’s roof was a wooden frame.17 In Historia Ecclesiastica the word basilica appears in the original as Βασίλειος νεώς or Βασίλειος οικος’. Most modern translations paraphrase his descriptions as ‘solemn church’, or propose using the term ‘basilica’ since the word’s Greek origins imply ‘kingly’ or ‘imposing’.

Regardless of origin, the word ‘basilica’ emerged in the language of Latin architecture in the early second century BC to refer to a type of large public hall (e.g., Basilica Porcia). In his description of his basilica at Fano, Vitruvius uses the word ‘basilica’ to refer to a Roman public building for a large assembly in De Architectura. He writes: The Greeks lay out their forums in the form of a square surrounded by very spacious double colonnades, adorn

Vitruvius, De Architectura, V, 1- 4. English translation taken from The Ten Books on Architecture, trans. M. H. Morgan, New York, 1960, pp. 131-132. 15 Vitruvius, De Architectura, V, 5-10. 16 Eusebius of Caesarea, Historia Ecclesiastica, X. 4, 39ff. English translation taken from History of Church, trans. G. A. Williamson, London, 1989, pp. 314-315 17 Eusebius of Caesarea, Historia Ecclesiastica, X.4.39ff.

Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 70. Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 71. Lemaire, 1911, pp. 37-44. He argues that any large building was often referred to as “basilica” by Latin writers. 12 Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 69. 13 Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 69. On the Greek stoa, see J.J. Coulton, The architectural development of the Greek stoa, Oxford, 1976. 10

14

11

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Fig. 59. Plan of the Basilica of Maxentius, AD 307-12, completed by Constantine after 312, Rome.

Photo: After Steinby ed., 1993, vol. 1, fig. 95 (Edizioni Quasar). Krautheimer argues that Eusebius’ use of the term basilica not only confirms a glorified expression but also hints at the establishment of the church as “the throne room of the Emperor of Heaven”.18 In other words, the Christian basilica, “the throne room of the Emperor of Heaven”, was derived from the fact that Roman emperors such as Maxentius gradually began to construct their palaces according to the basilican plan.

attributes could have easily been adopted for the early Christian basilicas that followed. According to views like Krautheimer’s, early Christian basilica emerged from Roman public buildings as part of an evolutionary process. The original function of the basilica was as a hall designed for a large assembly, and it adopted an architectural style widely used in Roman secular buildings: markets, courts, and audience halls. Vitruvius corroborates this function. Krautheimer, Milburn, and Mango assume that Christians adopted this style by reason of their need for a space for large gatherings.20

Krautheimer asserts that there has always been a strong link between the imperial hall and the early Christian basilica, and points out as an example Constantine’s construction of the first church basilica adjoining his Lateran palace in Rome (fig. 6).19 His theory is quite possible, especially given Constantine’s later addition of an enormous statue of himself in the west exedra when he altered and completed the plan of Basilica Maxentius in Rome (fig. 59). The palace is a rectangular hall, 265 feet long, elongated from east to west. There is an aisle on each side. These architectural

Yet important discoveries of pagan temples, which were used for worship during the pre-Constantinian era of the Roman empire, also show a basilican style and they should force us to reevaluate these views. The underground ‘basilica’ of Porta Maggiore for example, was built in the first century in Rome (fig. 60). The temple of Mithras in London, dated to the middle of the second century AD, was also constructed like a basilica with a nave, aisles with

R. Krautheimer, “The Constantinian Basilica”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 21 (1967), pp. 117-140, esp. p. 129. 19 Krautheimer, 1967, p. 123. 18

Krautheimer, 1986, p. 41; Milburn, 1988, pp. 86-87; Mango, 1986, p. 38. 20

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Fig. 60.Plan of the “underground Basilica of Porta Maggiore”, Rome, first century. Photo: Courtesy of The Journal of Hellenistic Studies, London.

pillars and an apse (fig. 61). The existence of these pagan ritual buildings show that this basilica plan was used for ‘ritual’ buildings within the Roman Empire definitively before Constantine’s Edict of Milan. Ward-Perkins, Krautheimer, and Milburn do not consider these examples as adequate comparisons to the Christian basilica, making a distinction between Christian and pagan buildings in the basilican style. Pagan basilican buildings, they assert, were too small for a large assembly when compared to the Christian basilica church.21 Krautheimer believed that because the religions were so different, similarities in structure were merely coincidental. He writes:

Fig. 61.Plan of the Mithraeum, London, c. AD 24050. Photo: After Shepherd, 1998, fig. 61 (Museum of London, London).

congregations were large (i.e., hundreds or thousands of members) and their churches developed “within a different framework”.23

For both practical and ideological reasons it was impossible that this new Christian architecture should evolve from the religious architecture of pagan antiquity. Christianity obviously saw in paganism and all its works the very opposite of its own intentions… Just as important, no pagan religious building was adaptable to the needs of Christian worship. The temples of the old gods, an obsolete type by 320 in any event, had been designed to shelter an image, not to accommodate a congregation of both laymen and clergy.22

In Building God’s House in the Roman World, White indicates that the church building was an adaptation and renovation from a domestic house to a house church, and this directly led to church building.24 The Christian House at Dura in Syria, dating before 245 (fig. 62) when the Roman city was destroyed by the Sassanian invasion, is the earliest Christian building now known, and it is believed that the house was renovated for Christian assembly around 240241.25 White refers to a juxtaposition of pagan cults and Christianity occurring in Dura, and having a private dining chamber as sanctuary was common to most of them (i.e., it was common to Judaism, Mithraism, and Christianity).26 He writes, “At Dura-Eurpos it must be remembered, both the Mithraist and the Jews assembled in renovated houses

Krautheimer admits that all oriental cult buildings, such as the sanctuaries of the Neo-Pythagoreans (e.g., the ‘basilica’ of the Porta Maggiore), and the sanctuaries Mithras, Baal, the Great Mother, and Attis, were all designed to hold small congregations, but he argues that Christian

Krautheimer, 1986, p. 41 White, 1990, pp. 21-22. 25 White, 1990, p. 118. 26 White, 1990, p. 40. 23

Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 78; Krautheimer, 1986, p. 41; Milburn, 1988, p. 86. 22 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 41. 21

24

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DID SYNCRETISM OCCUR IN CHRISTIAN ARCHITECTURE?

Fig. 62. Isometric view of the Christian House, Dura Europos, third century.

Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 52 (Thames&Hudson). located just down the street from the Christian buildings… At Dura Mithraists, Jews, and Christians had invested themselves both socially and economically in the adaptive environment”.27 While he admits the meeting of pagan cults and Christianity in Dura, White concludes that the basilica was introduced as a Christian church building by Constantine.28

development from house church to domus ecclesiae and to aula ecclesiae. The Constantinian revolution, with its own architectural transformation, also reflects substantial social changes in the status and composition of Christianity. By looking at the stages and methods of architectural adaptation in the context of the larger environment we see a barometer of the historical and social circumstances of development.29

Throughout the first three centuries the changing status and composition of Christian groups necessitated ongoing adaptation seen architecturally in the process of

After all, in the literature of architecture it is believed that the early Christian basilica emerged as part of an evolutionary process from Roman public buildings. In

White, 1990, p. 144. White, 1990, pp, 127-139.

27

White, 1990, pp. 147-148.

28

29

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other words, according to White, Christians and pagans developed their ritual spaces individually in the Roman world.

paintings and the manner of adapting figurative painting to the walls prove that their authors followed usages known from earlier pagan examples in the eastern provinces of the Empire”.33 The ‘Good Shepherd’, for example, was a common religious theme in the iconography of the funerary cycles of the third century in the Roman world, and this icon represents the salvation of the true believer.34 In the literature of art history, moreover, Mathews argues that Christian artists were not inventors but recyclers in Christian iconography.35 In other words, the artists of the paintings of the house church at Dura borrowed earlier pagan examples, discovering the analogy between the Good Shepherd and some earlier pagan images. In contrast to these art historians, White argues that Christians observed that their formal notions of religious architecture were similar to that of the mithraeum and the synagogue at Dura. He writes, however, “It would seem that both a dominant symbolism and a processional form based on the liturgy of baptism as practised at Dura, were incorporated into the composition of the frescoes”, and further argues that Christians developed these representations themselves to suit their own purpose.36 In other words, the composition of the frescoes or the paintings of the house church were invented by Christians, and they did not borrow any pagan manners of painting in Dura.

It is important to note that these architectural analyses do not take into consideration the images these Christian and pre-Christian structures contained. Similarly, some art historians in the studies of the genesis of early Christian image have tended to concentrate on images – those decorating Christian buildings, for example – and have discussed the origins of the images as distinct from the prevailing architectural account of the genesis of Christian buildings. As a result of their discourse, a methodological difference on early Christian art occurs between art history and architectural history. Next, we should consider whether this academic gap is a crucial issue to the study of early Christian art. 2. Architectural History versus Art History on Early Christian Art a. Two Ways of Expressing the Question of the Genesis of Early Christian Art Strangely enough, while the significance of syncretism cannot be challenged either for the evolution from cult to religion or for the development of its art, syncretism has never been used as an explanatory category in the literature of Roman architecture.

As stated above, in the literature of architecture it is believed that pagan and Christians developed their ritual spaces individually in the Roman world. On the other hand, in art history it is believed that Christian images emerged through an early Christian adapting of pagan images. A comparison of two studies of Sta Costanza, one by Murray37 and another by Krautheimer,38 clarifies the distinctions between the art historical view and that of architectural history. As I have discussed in chapter one, Sta Costanza, a mausoleum for one of Constantine’s daughters, has a circular plan with the ceiling of the ambulatory showing a vine scroll, children making wine and Cupid (fig. 63). Murray writes:

Early Christian art authorities (Krautheimer, Milburn, and Mango) believe that the early Christian basilica church was influenced directly by Roman public buildings. Krautheimer writes, “[Christian basilicas] belong to the category of public monumental building…they are viewed, like other basilicas, as meeting halls and audience halls…”.30 Other scholars such as Milburn and Mango concur. Milburn indicates that the basilica “seemed the most fitting architectural form for churches…”.31 Mango suggests, “It is quite understandable that the Christians should have taken over a type of meeting hall that was in no way reminiscent of paganism and did not evoke any particular associations, except perhaps with the state… Other religious groups, like the Jews and the sectaries of Mithras, had adopted a similar course”.32 Their discourse focuses on the function, styles, or forms of basilica buildings. Yet this approach assumes that architecture can be separated from the general Greco-Roman culture and its contemporary environment where syncretism was occurring between non-Christian and Christian images.

We may say that the funerary aspect of the vine, which was in the forefront of the artist’s conception, had as its real source the Christian literary interpretation of Dionysiac initiation imagery understood as the Christian mystery.39 Murray’s discourse concludes that the original mosaic represents an infusion of the image of Dionysus into early Christian art with a biblical context. While Murray concludes that the original mosaics represented the general Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1980, pp. 2122. 34 Grabar, 1980, p. 22. 35 T.Mathews, The Clash of Gods, Princeton, 1993, p. 12. 36 M. White, The Social Origin of Christian Architecture, vol. 2, Pennsylvania, 1997, p. 21. 37 Charles Murray, “Rebirth and Afterlife”, BAR International series 100, 1981, pp. 68-71, pp. 88-90. 38 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 68. 39 Murray, 1981, p. 90.

There are so far two ways to examine the genesis of Christian art: one is from an art historical view that incorporates syncretism, and the other is to look at its architectural history as evolution, which is distinct from syncretism. On the topic of the wall paintings of the house church at Dura, Grabar writes, “The style of these mural

33

R. Krautheimer, 1967, p. 130. Milburn, 1988, p. 87. 32 Mango, 1986, p. 38. 30 31

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Fig. 63.The mausoleum of Sta Costanza, interior view, Rome, c. AD 350.

Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 111 (Canali Photobank, Capriolo). synthesis of the notions of Bacchus or Dionysus and Christ, Krautheimer says, “The interior of the great Constantinian churches must have looked similar to Sta Costanza, or for that matter, to the Imperial audience hall at Trier”.40 He adds, “Visual rather than structural relationship determined the picture”.41 He then continues, “Colour and light more than anything else brought this architecture to life”.42 He

notes the vine scrolls and putti in the ambulatory vault. In his discourse, however, Krautheimer does not refer to the iconography of Sta Costanza, nor does he mention the fact that Sta Constanza was initially considered a temple of Bacchus by archaeologists because of the dominant pagan images in the mosaics of the ambulatory (as mentioned in chapter one).43 This misinterpretation tells us that there was no strict boundary between the Christian circular plan

Krautheimer, 1986, p. 68. Krautheimer, 1986, p. 68. 42 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 70. 40

W. Oakeshott, The Mosaics of Rome: From the Third to the Fourteenth Centuries, London, 1967, p. 61.

41

43

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and the pagan temple from an architectural view. Far from mentioning the Christians’ adoption of the Dionysian cycle, Krautheimer believes that the interior of Sta Costanza, which is a mausoleum rather than a basilica church, was also influenced directly by the imperial audience hall.

provided a climax, and works of art located elsewhere in the building deferred to the longitudinal focus on the apse.46 His account takes into account the effect of the objects in a particular inner space. In my opinion, early Christian basilica churches were meant to provide Roman Christians the conditions for visualising the holy. Strangely enough, the notion of ritual space has not been emphasized in the literature of art history since many scholars have dealt individually with architecture and its objects. On the other hand, it is possible to say that the inside of the church has been treated as a vacuum in the literature of early Christian architecture, for most architectural historians concentrate on the plan of the religious building and consider its art as proof of its religious allegiance. However, since religious groups erect their ritual constructions to house their cult images, it is unlikely their ritual spaces were erected separately from the religious art. Certain religious imagery required inner space, and Christian ritual architecture was not exceptional. With this I shall examine several pagan buildings that are believed to be somehow different from the Christian basilica in the literature of architecture.

What I would point out is that the focuses of architectural history and art history on early Christian art differ: one is on the building (the form), and the other is on the image (the interior decoration). Using Sta Costanza and the same resources, Murray and Krautheimer come to contradictory conclusions about the genesis of Christian art. This methodological distinction, or academic gap between art history and architecture history, is a crucial issue to the study of early Christian art. It is not impossible to say that the Roman public or imperial building was the prototype of the early Christian basilica church adapted and renovated for Christian assembly.44 The Constantinian revolution, i.e. the Edict of Milan, ‘with its own architectural transformation,’ certainly reflects dramatic changes in the status of Christianity in the Roman Empire.45 In their architectural discourse, however, there is a deficiency of studying objects or images that adorned Christian ritual buildings, and the fact that some of these objects and images are the result of syncretism in the Roman world is disregarded. Although it may have been dismissed in the literature of architectural history, did syncretism nevertheless occur in early Christian church building?

c. Reconsideration of Pagan ‘Basilica’ Buildings in Rome As mentioned earlier, Roman public basilicas are believed to have influenced directly the construction of the Christian basilica. It is worth looking at recent discoveries of pagan temples (dated to the pre-Constantinian era), which show a plan similar to the Christian basilica. These structures make the same use of space as the basilica: they are accentuated by a directional movement from the exit through the nave to the apse.

b. The Conditions for Visualising the Holy: The Meanings of Objects in a Ritual Space I have argued that the methodological distinction between art history and architectural history occurs because of their different views on early Christian art. In this section, I suggest that we might look at ritual buildings by combining these different views, because religious buildings in late antiquity did not exist in a vacuum before their ruin. We should put the discourse of art history and architecture together in order to study the genesis of early Christian architecture, because that is certainly how practitioners originally experienced them. Religious decorations and objects in the buildings did not exist separately, merely as art objects. The artists and architects of the early Christian basilica church probably needed to consider the notion of ritual space from a Christian point of view, since the liturgy conducted in the basilica must have been one of its most important elements. Mathews writes:

Before investigating these pagan ‘basilica’ buildings, however, we should reconsider the definitions of the term itself. In the literature of Roman architecture the word ‘basilica’ is applied to “an assembly room; in Christian parlance, a church; as a rule, longitudinal and composed of nave and aisles, the former lit by a clerestory”.47 According to J.B. Ward-Perkins, there were no Christian basilican churches before AD 313, and the Church of San Giovanni in Laterano, commissioned for the imperial palace by Constantine, was the first cathedral and basilican church in the Roman Empire (fig. 64).48 Nevertheless, the word ‘basilica’ emerged in the early second century BC, and the word was applied to a type of large public hall or rectangular building in the language of contemporary Latin architecture.49 The word ‘basilica’ itself has several possible meanings. We tend to confuse the word ‘basilica’ in the modern language with its use in Latin. Thus, for the purposes of this study, the ‘basilicas’ of Rome, which are believed to be somehow different from the Christian basilica in the literature of architecture, are divided into three categories:

The new space presented a fresh artistic challenge. Formally, an interior with such a compelling directional sense required a dramatic stop; the nave had to end with something that could contain and conclude the movement, and this was provided in the apse, a deep, curving niche set in an arch that spanned the whole width of the nave. The insistent motion of the nave, with its uniform columns marching in file toward the east, came to rest in the curves of the concave apse. The decoration of the apse therefore

Mathews, 1993, p. 94. Krautheimer, 1986, p. 517. 48 Ward-Perkins 1954, p. 85; White, 1990, p. 18, n. 30. 49 Ward-Perkins 1954, p. 71; Lemaire, 1911, pp. 37-44. 46 47

Krautheimer, 1967, p. 123. White, 1990, pp. 147-148.

44 45

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DID SYNCRETISM OCCUR IN CHRISTIAN ARCHITECTURE?

Fig. 64.Hypothetical reconstruction of the S. Giovanni in Laterano (begun c. 313).

Krautheimer, 1986, fig. 11 (Penguin Books Ltd).

Fig. 65.Plan of the Basilica Hilariana, Rome, second century.

After Steinby ed., 1993, vol. 1, fig. 97 (Edizioni Quasar).

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1. Buildings that were called ‘basilicas’ in the Roman world (e.g., Basilica Crepereia and Basilica Hilariana). 2. Buildings that were not called ‘basilicas’ in the Roman period but were similar in plan to the Christian basilica (e.g., the ‘basilica’ of the Porta Maggiore). 3. Buildings that were not called ‘basilicas’ in the Roman period but performed a similar architectural function as the Christian basilica (e.g., Mithraea). Let us begin with the first group, which the Romans themselves called a ‘basilica’. Again, the Romans used ‘basilica’ as an architectural term to describe structures such as public buildings for large assembly, but they also used it to describe pagan buildings (Basilica Crepereia and Basilica Hilariana). Basilica Crepereia was consecrated for the cult of Faunus on via Panisperna. Known from an inscription, it was discovered and destroyed in 1613.50 Basilica Hilariana, dated to the second century AD, was excavated in 1987-9 and it is assumed that it featured a nave with two aisles (fig. 65).51 There were twelve steps that led to a vestibule, which were decorated with the mosaic of the “Evil Eye”, and there was a rectangular basin in the centre (fig. 66).52 This basilical building was attached to the College of the Dendrophori (priests of the cult of Magna Mater) on the Caelian Hill.53 On the mosaic floor of the vestibule an inscription refers to Basilica Hilariana: “Intrantibus hic deos propitios et basilic[ae] Hilariane”.54 It was erected by M. Poplicius Hilarus, who was a pearl merchant in the middle of the second century AD.55 It is worth noting that these pagan basilical buildings are probably hypogea or underground halls, and their construction was a contemporary practice in Roman funerary art.56 Unfortunately, there are few instances of these pagan structures with their wall decorations intact, and there is scant evidence in the historical record.

Fig. 66.“Evil Eye Mosaic”, Basilica Hilariana, Rome, second century, drawing. Photo: After Nash, 1961, vol. 1, fig. 206 (Comune di Roma Ripartizione X, Rome).

The building possesses the features of Christian basilica: a nave, two aisles with pillars and an apse in the interior, but it had no windows or clerestory. A double line of black mosaics runs parallel through the walls up to the apse, and the lines turn inward and are brought across. E. Strong indicates that the lines seem to divide between the nave

Of the second group, I shall refer to the so-called ‘underground basilica’ of Porta Maggiore in Rome, which was excavated in 1917 (fig. 67). Scholars have disagreed about whether it functioned as a temple or funerary space. Because of the quality of the concrete and the style of the floor mosaics, this building is dated to around AD 40.57

pavement is composed of a simple pattern of black lines on a white ground. On the underground ‘basilica’ of the Porta Maggiore, see Jérôme Carcopino, La Basilique Pythagoricienne de la Porte Majeure, Paris, 1943; G. Bendinelli, “Il mausoleo sotterraneo altrimenti detto Basilica di Porta Maggiore”, Bullettino della Commissione archeologica Comunale di Roma, 50 (1922), pp. 85-126; Franz Cumont, “La basilique souterraine de la Porta Maggiore”, in Revue Archéologique, VIII (1918), pp. 52-73; Franz Cumont, “La basilica sotterrane a presso Porta Maggiore a Roma”, Rassegna d’Arte, 1921, pp. 37-44; F. Fornari, “Brevi notizie relative alla scoperta di un monumento sotterraneo pressa Porta Maggiore”, Notizie degli scavi, 1918, pp. 37-52; Nock, “The historical importance of cult-associations”, The Classical Review, vol. 38 XXXVIII (1924), pp. 105-109; Claudia Cruciani, “Il suicidio di Saffo nell’ abside della basilica sotterranea di Porta Maggiore”, Ostraka IX (2000), pp. 165-173.

Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 75, n. 29. Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 75. 52 E. Steinby, ed., Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae, vol. 1, 1993, p. 410. 53 Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 75, n. 24. 54 Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, VI. 30973 a = Dessau 3992. 55 Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, VI. 30973 b = Dessau 4171. 56 On Roman funerary art, see J.M.C. Toynbee, Death and Burial in the Roman World, London, 1971. 57 Eugénie Strong, “The stuccoes of the underground basilica near the Porta Maggiore,” Journal of Hellenic Studies, XLIV(1924) pp. 65-111; ibid., p. 69. The floor mosaic 50 51

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DID SYNCRETISM OCCUR IN CHRISTIAN ARCHITECTURE?

ed his gardens.63 Lugli, on the other hand, believes that the basilica was an underground funerary hall.64 Despite these various interpretations, it is worth noting that the building was erected in the first century, before the establishment of Christian art. Carcopino concludes that most of the motifs on the reliefs in this basilica represent the image of immortality or salvation.65 On the other hand, Bendinelli argues that this building was erected for funerary reasons since these motifs represent the spirit separating from the body.66 In either case, the decorations of the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore seem to represent death and salvation. We do not know whether the worshippers in the basilica held a ceremony, a procession, or neither. Among the 117 stuccos in the basilica, we can assume that the images of Attis had an important role since the image “Attis and Ganymede”, surrounded by four mourning Attis figures in stuccos, was depicted emphatically in the middle of the vaulted ceiling (fig. 68). E. Strong argues that the scene represents the “Rape of Ganymede” (fig. 69), and that the mourning Attis figure on each corner represents resurrection (fig. 70).67 E. Strong refers to other stuccos as symbols of immortality from different sources, including the mystery of Dionysus (i.e., the bearded male head with bull’s ears and horns probably represented a Dionysian mask).68 M. Cumont believes that the basilica was a meeting place for a Pythagorean sect, and suggests that the image of Apollo has attributes of the Sun God according to Pythagorean doctrines, and the allegory of the fate of the soul is shown in the apse stucco (fig. 71).69 Nock disagrees with this view and suggests that the scene represents the Orphic hymns, or the soul’s immortality. He argues that other stuccoes of the basilica (e.g., the Rape of a Leucippid by one of the Dioscuri, Orpheus and Eurydice) (figs. 72, 73) also represent Dionysian imagery and that these subjects are common in Roman sarcophagi and catacomb painting.70 Whether the religious building was a meeting place for a Pythagorean or Orphic sect or a funerary hall, it is most likely that the whole ensemble of stuccoes represents the salvation of death. I assume that the Roman representation of the common image of Orpheus shows that the Romans – whether Christian or non-Christian – found the image of the salvation of death appropriate in a ritual space.

Fig. 67.Nave passage underneath the Basilica of the Porta

Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Bianchi 1970, fig. 230 (La Photothèque). and the sanctuary like the altar rail between the chancel and nave in a Christian basilica.58 In the apse there are two pits; they are thought to be sacrificial pits since the skeletons of a pig and a dog were found close by.59 If they were sacrificial remains, the basilica was probably devoted to ceremony. The stuccoes – according to E. Strong they number about 11760 – decorate the whole of the basilica. Beyond that, there is little agreement. M. Cumont argues that the basilica was used for the congregation of a Neo-Pythagorean sect, and that this building was without natural illumination and represented the Platonic cave.61 F. Fornari indicates that the basilica stood in the garden of Statilii, a wealthy family connected with Statilius Taurus, the consul of AD 44.62 According to Tacitus (AD 56 or 57–120), Statilius Taurus was charged with magicas superstitiones (magical superstitions) in AD 53 by Agrippina, who want-

Nock, 1924, pp. 105-109, esp. p. 106, n. 15; Tacitus, Annals, xii. 59. 64 G. Lugli, “Due recenti studi sulla basilica sotterranea della via Prenestina in Roma”, Rivista di Architettura ed arti decorative, I, 1921, p. 209. 65 Carcopino, 1943, pp. 149-150. 66 Bendinelli, 1922-1923, pp. 116-117. 67 Strong, 1924, pp. 75-76. 68 Strong, 1924, pp. 86-88; M.J.Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, London, 1977, pp. 55-57, esp. p. 56. 69 Cumont, 1918, p. 66. 70 Nock, 1924, pp. 107-108. 63

Strong, 1924, p. 70. Strong, 1924, p. 68. 60 Strong, 1924, p. 65. 61 Cumont, 1918, p. 64. See also his After-Life in Roman Paganism, New Haven, 1922, pp. 23. 62 Fornari, 1918, p. 51; 58 59

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Fig. 69.“Rape of Ganymede”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Grabar 1967, fig. 34 (De Antonis, Rome).

Fig. 68.Vaulted ceiling of the nave, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Nash, 1961, vol. 1, fig. 186 (Alinari, Rome).

Fig. 71.Apse, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Nash, 1961, vol. 1, fig. 187 (Gabinetto Fotografico Nazionale, Rome).

Fig. 72.“Rape of a Leucippid by one of the Dioscuri”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Strong, 1924, fig. 4 (courtesy of the Journal of Hellenistic Studies).

Fig. 70.“A mourning Attis”, stucco, underground

the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Vermaseren, 1977, fig. 39 (Thames&Hudson). 66

DID SYNCRETISM OCCUR IN CHRISTIAN ARCHITECTURE?

Fig. 73. “Orpheus and Eurydice”, stucco, underground the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, Rome, second century. Photo: After Strong, fig. 6 (courtesy of the Journal of Hellenistic Studies).

Fig. 74. Orpheus, wall painting, the Catacomb of SS. Peter and

Marcellinus, Rome, fourth century. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. 67

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Fig. 75.Orpheus Sarcophagus, marble, Ostia, third century. Photo: Author.

In the wall of the Roman catacomb of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, dated to the fourth century AD, a man is depicted seated under a tree with a lyre (fig. 74). He is wearing a long-sleeved, high-belted tunic, a long cloak, and a Phrygian cap. This image has the attributes of Orpheus charming the animals with music. This figure of Greek mythology (’Ορφευς), oddly enough, is located in the tympanum of the entrance of the Christian monument. Most scholars consider him to be Orpheus in a Christian context.71 Perhaps surprisingly, the same image of Orpheus is also adopted as the central figure of several non-Christian sarcophagi dated to the third century (fig. 75). This figure of Greek mythology, depicted on the stucco of the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore, is also depicted in the Callistus catacomb (fig. 14). Finney writes, “It seems reasonable in my view to infer from the presence of this image that at least some of the new religionists in Callistus might have seen Christian meaning in the familiar musician image, but that they would have gone so far as to equate Christ with Orpheus is impossible to prove…It is equally impossible to disprove this theory”.72 The image of Orpheus was among the Romans’ favourite in pictorial art.73 It is likely that early Christians, adopting his image and merging it with Christ, found Orpheus useful in expressing eschatological ideas.74 Although the images of Orpheus in both Callistus and SS. Peter and Marcellinus have no Christian attributions, we tend to interpret these images as the Christian Orpheus since the images are depicted in Christian monuments. The Christian ‘apologists’ would avoid the question of whether Christianity and the Orphic cult are similar. Early viewers, including early Christians, might associate Orpheus in its original form with the Greco-Roman Orpheus because the figure was not Christianised at all. It is worth noting that both pagan and Christian modes of Orpheus were depicted as a Greco-Roman Orpheus. Even if pagan and Christian needs for their ritual spaces differed, the imagery of Greco-Roman Orpheus suited both pagan

and Christian religious sites. In this regard, it is at least possible to say that pagan use of the Basilica of the Porta Maggiore was not far from Christian. The third group of basilicas is the Mithraeum, another preChristian building style that would benefit from a unified analysis of architecture and image. The temple of Mithras in London, dated to the middle of the third century AD is a pagan basilican building from the pre-Constantinian period (fig. 61).75 It was constructed like a Christian basilica – with a nave, aisles with pillars and an apse. N. Pevsner refers to this Mithraeum and concludes that the earliest Christian churches were identical to Mithraea in form.76 (This theory requires further study since in some of the Mithraea, such as one under the present church of St Clement in Rome dated around the second and third centuries AD, where there is no colonnade or window for a clerestory. The Mithraeum under the baths of Trajan in Ostia has a window in the ceiling which provides light to illuminate the image of Mithras slaying the bull, but there is no colonnade). Milburn points to the Mithraeum under S. Clemente (fig. 76) and indicates that the earliest Christians might have dominated the site and adapted the hall as a third-century “title-church”. He also suggests that it was transformed into a regular ‘basilica’ in the fourth century.77 Milburn writes that Christians did not copy temples like Mithraea “not so much through fear of the corruptions of heathenism as because the temple was essentially designed to On the temple of Mithras in London, see W.F. Grimes, “The Temple of Mithras and its Surroundings”, in The Excavation of Roman and Medieval London, London, 1968, pp. 192-117; J. D. Shepherd, The Temple of Mithras, London: excavations by W.F. Grimes and A. Williams at the Walbrook, Archaelogical Report English Heritage 12, London, 1998; J.M.C. Toynbee, The Roman art treasures from the Temple of Mithras, Special Paper London and Middelsex Archaological Society No 7, London, 1986. 76 N. Pevsner, An Outline of European Architecture, Norwich, 7th ed., 1972, p. 30. 77 Milburn, 1988, p. 14. On ‘title-church’ (Tituli), see White, 1990, pp. 111-139. 75

Charles Murray, “Rebirth and Afterlife”, BAR International series 100, 1981, p. 37. 72 P. Finney, The Invisible God: the earliest Christians on art, New York, 1994, p. 189. 73 Finney, 1994, p. 189. 74 Murray, 1981, pp. 46-52. 71

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Fig. 76.Mithraeum, under the church of S.

Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma, Rome.

Fig. 77. Mithras slaying the bull, marble, under the church

of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma, Rome. 69

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directly with astrological constellations,85 while J. Hinnells suggests its iconographical meaning is the battle between good and evil in Zoroastrianism.86 Let us return to the plan of Mithraea. As mentioned above, most Mithraea have no windows or a clerestory. The Mithraeum under the church of S. Clemente is certainly a cave-like space. It is worth noting that the Mithraists called the temple ‘a cave’. Porphyry, a Neoplatonist philosopher of the third century AD, describes the temple of Mithras in De Antro Nympharum. Porphyry writes:

attract crowds of worshippers around it, while the form of a Christian church was intended to draw a congregation for devotion and fellowship within”.78 Were the two religious buildings – Mithraic and Christian – entirely different in form? What about their images? Let us now re-evaluate the purpose of the Mithraeum. d. Mithraea: Sacred Caves Despite the research carried out on the cult of Mithraism, much of it still remains a mystery. Mithra was god to the forefathers of Persians and Indians,79 and in Rome he was referred to as Mithras80. From remains of Mithraic religious sites found even in the farthest reaches of the Roman empire, we know the worship of Mithras peaked in Rome from AD 100 to 400 and was prevalent throughout the state.81 While Christianity was forbidden and occasionally persecuted, Mithras was accepted by Roman emperors (e.g., Diocletian, Galerius and Licinius, who dedicated a temple of Mithras at Carnuntum in AD 307)82. After the triumph of Christianity, however, Mithraism diminished along with other pagan cults.

Similarly, the Persians call the place a cave where they introduce an initiate to the mysteries, revealing to him the path by which souls descend and go back again. For Eubulus87 tells us that Zoroaster was the first to dedicate a natural cave in honour of Mithras, the creator and father of all; it was located in the mountains near Persia and had flowers and springs. This cave bore for him the image of the Cosmos which Mithras had created and the things which the cave contained, by their proportionate arrangement, provided him with symbols of the elements and climates of the Cosmos. After Zoroaster others adopted the custom of performing their rites of initiation in caves and grottoes which were either natural or artificial.88

Most Roman Mithraea have no colonnade, but have instead stone benches on two sides in the nave. Cumont states that on the benches the worshippers prayed or witnessed the most common myth of the secret ceremony, ‘Mithras slaying the bull’ (fig. 77).83 The image of Mithras shows a male figure wearing a Phrygian hat and a mantle, and it appears as if he is in the act of slaughtering the bull. The position of such Mithraic icons is always the same: he is holding down the back of the bull with his left knee, clasping the bull’s nose with his left hand so as to pull the bull’s head back, and killing the beast with a short dagger in his right hand. His right leg is pulling the top of the bull’s right leg back. A dog and a snake can be seen leaping towards the bull’s wound. A scorpion can be seen near the reproductive organs of the bull. A stalk of wheat is growing from the tail of the dying bull. Most art historians believe that the imagery of death and rebirth in ‘Mithras slaying the bull’ alludes to the salvation of mankind through birth after death.84 R. Beck assumes that these motifs correspond

In Mithraism the god put the bull to death in a grotto, and its ritual place was constructed as a cave-like space. Tertullian (c. 160–230) also describes the temple as ‘a camp of darkness’ in De Corona.89 Some of the Mithraea, such as the one under the baths of Trajan in Ostia, constructed steps leading downward, giving the visitors the sensation of being underground (figs. 78, 79). I would propose that in Mithraism the ritual space itself exemplifies Mithraic doctrines. In the literature of the genesis of early Christian architecture, it is noted that pagan temples including Mithraea were not designed to house a congregation.90 A procession was not the essential activity of their liturgy (inside the ritual place at least), since the space was too small for large assembly. However, numerous Mithraea present a visual direction, moving from the entrance through the nave or the passage way to the niche or the apse, a space occupied

Milburn, 1988, p. 86. On the cult of Mithras, see Robert Turcan, The cults of the Roman Empire, trans. Antonia Nevill, Oxford, 1996, pp. 195-247; F. Cumont, The Mysteries of Mithra, trans. from 2nd rev. French ed. by Thomas J. McCormack, New York, 1956; M.J. Vermaseren, Mithras, the Secret God, London, 1963; R. Gordon, Image and Value in the Graeco-Roman World: Studies in Mithraism and Religious Art, Hampshire, 1996. 80 Turcan, 1996, p. 203; Cassius Dio, Roman History, 63, 5, 2. 81 See, F. Cumont, Textes et monuments figurés relatifs aux mystères de Mithra, Bruxelles, 1896-1899. 82 Cumont, 1956, p. 89 and fig. 19. 83 Cumont, 1956, pp.162-167. 84 Cumont, 1956 p. 165. See also Gordon, “Authority, Salvation and Mystery in the Mysteries of Mithras”, in J. Huskinson, M. Beard and L. Reynolds, eds., Images and 78 79

Mystery in the Roman World, Cambridge, 1988, pp 45-80. 85 Roger Beck, Planetary Gods and Planetary Orders in the Mysteries of Mithras, Leiden, 1988, p. 1ff; the bull represents Taurus, the dog Canis Major or Canis Minor, and the snake Hydra. 86 John R. Hinnells, “Reflections on the bull-slaying scene”, in John R. Hinnells, ed., Mithraic Studies, vol. II, Manchester, 1975, pp. 290-312. 87 The author of an Inquiry into Mithras in the time of Hadrian. 88 Porphyry, De Antro Nympharum, 6; the translation from The Cave of the Nymphs in the Odyssey, trans. Seminar Classics 609 Statue University of New York at Buffalo, New York, 1969, p. 9. 89 Tertullian, De Corona, 15; Vermaseren, 1963, p. 38. 90 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 41. 70

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Fig. 78.Entrance to Mithraeum, under the baths of Trajan, Ostia, second century.

Photo: After Pavia, 1999, p. 62 (Gangemi, Rome).

Fig. 79. Mithraeum, under the baths of Trajan, interior view, Ostia, second century. Photo: After Pavai, 1999, p. 63 (Gangemi, Rome).

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Fig. 81.Corax protected by Mercury, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author.

Fig. 82.Nymphs protected by Venus, Mithraeum, Ostia,

the middle of the third century. Photo: Author.

Fig. 80.Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century.

Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma. by the image of ‘Mithras slaying a bull’. In the sanctuary of some Mithraea, there are seven steps to symbolise the seven stages of the initiation.91 In the mosaic shown on a section of floor from a Mithraeum excavation at Ostia near Rome (fig. 80), Vermaseren suggests that the seven grades are depicted as follows:92 1. The first stage: Corax protected by Mercury (fig. 81). Caduceus is the symbol of Mercury, and the corax corresponds to Corvus in astrology. The meaning of the cup is unknown.93 2. Nymphs protected by Venus (fig. 82). The diadem is the symbol of Venus, and the lamp below represents light.94

Fig. 83.Miles protected by Mars, Mithraeum, Ostia, the

middle of the third century. Photo: Author. 3. Miles protected by Mars (fig. 83). The helmet and spear are the symbols of Mars. The left object is said to symbolise a sword or the rear leg of the bull. 4. Leo protected by Jupiter (fig. 84). The four-legged animal at the top left is considered to be a lion. In the centre is a religious instrument called a sistrum, used

Tertullian, De Corona, 15, 3; Porphyry, De Antro Nympharum, 15; Vermaseren, 1963, pp. 138-153. 92 Vermaseren, 1963, pp. 138-153. 93 Beck, 1988, p. 1; he interprets the cup as corresponding to Crater. 94 Vermaseren indicates that the diadem is a symbol of Ve91

nus. Vermaseren, 1963, p. 145. 72

DID SYNCRETISM OCCUR IN CHRISTIAN ARCHITECTURE?

Fig. 85.A Persian protected by the moon, Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author.

Fig. 84.Leo protected by Jupiter, Mithraeum, Ostia, the

middle of the third century. Photo: Author.

Fig. 87.The Father protected by Saturn, Mithraeum, Ostia,

Fig. 86.The messenger of the sun, protected by the sun,

the middle of the third century. Photo: Author.

Mithraeum, Ostia, the middle of the third century. Photo: Author. in Egyptian ceremonies. On the left is a fire shovel for burning incense. 5. The Persian protected by the moon (fig. 85). The figure at the upper right is obviously the moon. Below it is a plow. On the left is a stalk of wheat. During those times, the Persians were called the “guardians of fruit”. 6. The messenger of the sun, protected by the sun (fig. 86). On the right a whip represents a four-horse chariot, the symbol of the sun. In the centre is a nimbus. The knot shows the diadem to be a nimbus with a rayed headpiece. On the left there is a torch shining light. 7. The Father protected by Saturn (fig. 87). The plow, the symbol of Saturn, is shown on the right. The object in the centre looks similar to the Phrygian cap worn by Mithras. The sceptre and the ring on the left symbolise authority, indicating to the missionary that the final state had been reached.

the descriptions of the seven grades in an Aventine wall painting in the Mithraeum under the church of Santa Prisca. In that study he points out that on the right-hand wall a procession of Corax, Nymphs, Miles, Leo, Persian and the Messenger of the sun facing a seated Father (Pater) or Mithras is depicted.96 It is worth noting that according to Porphyry the three lowest grades were ‘attendances’ while the higher grades were ‘participants’.97 The Mithraic buildings represent both visual and symbolic directions by using architectural elements and decorative images. Whether the Mithraists had a processional ceremony or not in the Mithraeum, we may reasonably assume that they tried to represent the Mithraic doctrine in the images of the temple. According to Porphyry, the Mithraic view of the cosmos was symbolised by the cave, and the space itself contained only darkness. On the altar of the Mithraeum beneath S. Clemente, there are two ‘genii’ on either side

Vermaseren indicates that these steps were designed for the participant to proceed facing the end of the temple – i.e., the image of ‘Mithras slaying a bull’.95 He also examines

Vermaseren, Excavations ins the Mithraeum of the church of Santa Prisca in Rome, Leiden, 1965, pp. 152-159. 97 Vermaseren, 1963, p. 140; Porphyry, De Antro Nympharum, 15-19. 96

Vermaseren, 1963, pp. 138-140.

95

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Fig. 88.Cautes, marble, Mithraeum, under the church of S.

Fig. 89.Cautopates, marble, Mithraeum, under the church

Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma.

of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma.

of ‘Mithras slaying the bull.’ They are named Cautes and Cautopates.98 Each figure holds a torch; Cautes holds it aloft (fig. 88), and Cautopates hold it in a lowered position (fig. 89). Vermaseren suggests that the former icon represents the rising sun, the latter the sun setting; together they stand for life and death.99 It seems that the image of the genii illuminates the altar. The altar though, the focal point of the temple where the figure of Mithras stands, is also illuminated in some Mithraea. In some spaces used for Mithraic worship, such as the one in Ostia, there is a window on the ceiling which provides light to illuminate the figure of Mithras. W. Lentz indicates that this opening in the ceiling is positioned to illuminate the Mithras with sunlight during certain times of the year.100 Assuming that the Mithraists used light intentionally in their darkened worship space (i.e., the symbolic cave), I doubt that the Mithraeum had been designed primarily “to shelter the image”.101 We should not disregard the possibility that

Christian architectures could have been influenced from conceptual views not only from Roman public buildings but also from non-Christian ritual spaces in the Roman world. In conclusion to this section, I would suggest that we should look at the overall effect of the sacred spaces. I have argued that the mere existence of the underground ‘basilica’ of the Porta Maggiore and Mithraea, whose structures make the same use of space as the basilica, suggest a similarity more profound than the simple need for space to house a congregation. I believe that for pagans, the ritual space was more than a place of assembly. Like the Christian structures that came later, pagan temples most likely had their ceremonies inside the building. Structural similarities may in fact stem from similar needs for ceremonies that explored the themes of salvation after death. I believe that common elements in the religions’ cosmology, the sacred space in which they worshipped, and the images and decorations that were part of those spaces all indicate that the function of these ritual spaces was to create the conditions for visualising the holy.

Porphyry, De Antro Nympharum, 24-25. Vermaseren, 1963, pp. 72-74; M. Schwartz, “Cautes and Cautopates, the Mithraic torchbearers”, Mithraic Studies, vol. II, 1975, pp. 406-423; Gordon, 1988, pp 55-56. 100 W. Lentz, “Some peculiarities not hitherto fully understood of ‘Roman’ Mithraic sanctuaries and representations”, in Mithraic Studies, vol. II, 1975, pp. 358-377. 101 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 41. 98 99

Traditionally, the form of the ritual space and the images within the ritual space have been dealt with separately in the literature of architecture. I believe however, that the image was not only an object but also an element 74

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Fig. 90.Plan of the Holy Sepulchre, Jerusalem, c. AD 335. Photo: After Wilkinson, 2002, fig. 6 (courtesy of Wilkinson).

that helped to determine the overall effect of the sacred spaces.

3. Syncretism of Death and Rebirth in the Roman World: The Concept of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Thus, the image and its location should be considered to understand the characteristics of ritual architecture, since the image in the ritual space relates to the religious liturgy conducted inside. In the Roman world, any large building was often referred to as ‘basilica’.102 In the absence of any literary record, to determine whether a basilica was religious we will consider whether there was a focus – or an altar – in the building. If we have no architectural evidence of the building but have one of the images it contained, we might be able to hypothesise the function of the building. If, for example, there was an image of the bull, we should consider the possibility of a Mithraeum. If the space was constructed in a cave, we have to consider also that it might be a heroon, (a tomb cave). I will discuss the Mithraeum and the heroon later. Thus, the chief purpose and significance in constructing such a building cannot be considered exclusively from a pragmatic point or view (i.e., an examination of just the plan), but also from a conceptual point of view, a more holistic study that includes the structure’s images and symbols.

a. The Significance of the Holy Sepulchre Church The Holy Sepulchre church in Jerusalem (fig. 90), where Jesus is believed to have been buried and resurrected and therefore the holiest of biblical sites, was originally begun by Constantine’s order in 325/6 and consecrated in 336.103 Today, the church has lost all trace of what it was in the fourth century due to repeated repairs and remodelling. We have to rely, therefore, on the account of Eusebius, a contemporary of Constantine, in Ecclesiastical History and Life of Constantine, and study Constantine’s buildings on Golgotha speculatively. There are many sites in Jerusalem mentioned in the Old and New Testaments that predated the Constantinian period. How Christians determined the location of these biblical sites, including a site they believe to be the site of the crucifixion, is still controversial in archaeological and architectural discourse.104 For early Christian pilgrims, however, this controversy did not matter. Many have described their visit to the Holy Land, and the earliest on record was the pilgrim from Bordeaux in 333. The Holy Sepulchre was the high point of such pilgrimages. Although it was not the purpose of their writings, which were filled with emotional intensity over what they saw and felt in the holy place of Golgotha, their eyewitness accounts are quite useful in an analysis of the history of early Christian architecture.

Unfortunately we have scant archaeological and literary evidence to rely on in the study of early Christian buildings. Therefore, I believe that the history of early Christian ritual space cannot be fully considered without also considering the function of the ritual space, which was to create the conditions for visualising the holy. I hypothesise that if syncretism occurred as part of the process of establishing early Christian art, then syncretism may have played a role in Christian architecture as well. Next, I shall explore this hypothesis through a study of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Egeria’s Travels, a pilgrim’s account of her visit to the East between AD 381 and 384, gives us a mine of information about what role the pilgrimage played in worship for fourth-century Christians. Baldovin states that Christian pilgrims visited the complex of buildings surrounding the site of Christ’s crucifixion and burial in Jerusalem. Christians made pilgrimages to three sites in particular associated with “the death, burial, and resurrection” and Krautheimer, 1986, p. 60. M. Biddle, The Tomb of Christ, London, 1999, pp. 5464. 103 104

Ward-Perkins, 1954, p. 71; Lemaire, 1911, pp. 37-44.

102

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the nativity: the Anastasis (Tomb of Christ), Golgotha (the place of crucifixion), and Bethlehem (the original cave of Christ’s birth).105 The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, therefore, which contained two of these sites, must have been particularly significant to pilgrims.

silence on the True Cross in this account, there is no doubt that the site of crucifixion and the cave stood side by side and “actually formed one site”.112 The ‘Bordeaux Pilgrim’ who arrived in Jerusalem from France in 333, about fifty years before Egeria, gives us more detailed information about the site on Golgotha. He writes:

As I stated earlier, the location of the crucifixion has been controversial. Because of a lack of archaeological evidence, we have to rely on literary evidence to support the identification of the site of Golgotha as the present location of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For example, the Gospels tell us the crucifixion occurred at a place “called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha”.106 Jerome (c. AD 347/419-20) describes a statue of Venus by Hadrian standing on the rock of the cross until the time of Constantine.107 The attribution of Hadrian’s work is still argued.108 Eusebius does not refer to “Golgotha” in Ecclesiastical History or Life of Constantine, but he indicates that Constantine’s basilica was constructed near Christ’s tomb. Eusebius writes in Life of Constantine, “On the side opposite the cave which looked towards the rising sun, was connected the royal temple, an extraordinary structure raised to an immense height and very expensive in length and breadth…Round each of the sides extended twin ranges of double colonnades, in upper and lower storeys, their tops also decorated with gold”.109 His accounts show that it is likely that the Constantine basilical church was consecrated as “the cave” (i.e., the Tomb of Christ) but not to “the Cross”. Many scholars assumed that Eusebius simply failed to refer to Golgotha, or that he ignored the site and the Cross110 because the basilica was not consecrated in Christendom until the discovery of “the True Cross” by St Helena.111 Despite Eusebius’

On your left is the hillock Golgotha where the Lord was crucified, and about a stone’s throw from it the vault where they laid his body, and he rose again on the third day. By order of the Emperor Constantine there has now been built there a ‘basilica’ – I mean a ‘place for the Lord’ – which has beside it cisterns of remarkable beauty, and beside them a baptistery where children are baptized.113 According to these sources about this important biblical site combining the site of crucifixion and Tomb of Christ, we may assume that the structure of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre consisted of Constantine’s Martyrium, the Court before the Cross, and the Tomb of Christ, covered with the Edicule (aedicula) as dedicated in 335. The Edicule stood in the open air with no rotunda in its first stage, but in the late fourth century the Rotunda of Anastasis was completed over it. We do not know how the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was decorated, though the apse of Constantine’s basilica was discovered in a recent excavation; it is unclear whether the apse held a significant place in the church or not.114 We learn, however, something of the layout of the church from the accounts of early Christian pilgrims on the liturgy in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. According to the accounts of the literary supports above and the hypothesis of her translator John Wilkinson, the visitor experienced the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in a sequence: first, the visitor entered the court and faced the entrance to the Martyrium, a basilica called ‘the Great Church’ or ‘Constantine’s church’. In the southern aisle of the Martyrium was the chapel of “Behind the Cross”. At the far eastern end of the basilica was Golgotha, a rock hillock under a small dome at the courtyard “Before the Cross”. Proceeding into that courtyard the visitor then stood in front of the Tomb of Christ, the Anastasis Rotunda.115 To interpret the concept of this church, it

J. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian worship, Rome, 1987, p. 47. On the recent study of early Christian Pilgrimage in Jerusalem, see Wendy Pullan, The transformation of the urban order in early Christian Jerusalem Pilgrimage and the Ritual Topography, 325-460, Cambridge, 1995. 106 John 19.17. 107 Biddle, 1999, p. 56 , n. 11. 108 Biddle, 1999, pp. 57-58. Jan Willem Drijvers, Helena Augusta, Leiden, 1992, p. 83, n. 13. 109 Eusebius, Life of Constantine, 3. 36-37. English translation taken from A. Cameron and S. G. Hall, Life of Constantine, Oxford, 1999, p. 136. 110 On Eusebius’ silence about Golgotha and the True Cross in his references, see Drijvers, 1992, pp. 84-89; Biddle, 1999, pp. 62-63. In his Onomastikon, however, Eusebius refers to “Golgotha, ‘place of the skull’”, where Christ was crucified, which is pointed out in Aelia to the north of Mount Sion”. See, Eusebius, Onomastikon, 74,19-21, trans. by Biddle, 1999, p. 63. 111 e.g.,R. Krautheimer, 1986, p. 60. On the date of the discovery of the True Cross by Helena, see, Drijvers, pp. 8193. Drijvers concludes that the Cross was discovered later, during Constantine’s reign in the 320s. On the discovery of the True Cross, see also, Hans A. Pohlsander, Helena: empress and Saint, Chicago, 1995, pp. 101-116. 105

Drijvers, 1992, p. 84 , n. 19; John 19:41-42. Hellemo, 1989, p. 51, n.155, n.156 and n. 157: Hellemo refers to Dyggve’s and Mathiae’s opinions about the connection between the basilica and the rotunda. Dyggve believes that “The circular domed building which is joined to a basilicalike building is reminiscent of the so-called ‘Anastasis’ within the Holy Sepulchre complex”, but Mathiae argues that this connection is the result of restoration work. See, E. Dyggve, Gravkirken i Jerusalem. Konstantinske problemer i ny belysning (Studier fra Sprogog Oldtidsforskning), København, 1941, p. 12; G. Mathiae, Mosaici medioevali delle chiese di Roma, Rome, 1967, p. 58. 113 Bordeaux Pilgrim, 594. English translation taken from J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, 3rd ed., London, 1999, p. 31. 114 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 61. 115 Wilkinson, 1999, pp. 16-21, p.31, pp.60-70. 112

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however, predated the era of Christian superiority, taking the form of a circular or octagonal domed mausoleum, such as the tomb of Diocletian at Split (fig. 91) and the rotunda of Galerius at Thessaloniki (fig. 92).119 After the adoption of Christianity by the empire, this plan was utilised in circular Christian monumental structures like martyria or imperial mausolea (e.g., Sta. Costanza)(fig. 24), and it was also used for baptisteries (e.g., the Lateran Baptistery) (fig. 93).120 Grabar indicates that in “the East,” buildings designed for the worship of relics, such as the Byzantine church, inherited the circular plan. Sacred buildings in “the West” on the other hand, such as the Latin church of the Middle Ages, adopted the (basilica) rectangular plan. He writes, “For the westerners, the placing of relics in a church was governed by the desire to maintain a compelling link between the relics and the altar. On the other hand the easterners, while they too provided their altars with relics, often set aside special rooms of various kinds for other relics (notably for the whole bodies of martyrs which were the most important of all), rooms which often had no relation at all with the altar of church”.121 One question arises. How then to interpret the fact that the Anastasis rotunda (a circular plan) and the basilica church (a rectangular plan), two distinctive and traditional Christian plans, were adopted on the site of the Resurrection? Grabar argues, “The two traditions live side by side and do not mingle” in Jerusalem.122 But how could this not be? For Christian pilgrims “the two traditions” were indispensable to the liturgy of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I would argue that the juxtaposition of the “two traditions” at the most significant biblical site is evidence of syncretism that occurred in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Next I shall study the Anastasis Rotunda, which demonstrates the second of “the two traditions” in Christian architecture: the circular plan.

Fig. 91.The mausoleum of Diocletian, Split, c. AD 300-

306. Photo: After Elsner, 1998, fig. 107 (Zlatoko Sunko, Split). is worth noting that the liturgy of this architectural site consisted of the two biblical sites – the Cross and the Cave. The liturgy practised in the Holy Land, however, was not unique to Jerusalem.116 A Roman citizen from Spain, Egeria indicates some differences between the Jerusalem liturgy and that of her own branch of the church,117 but she was already familiar with the liturgy that she witnessed there. Was the similarity merely coincidence, or was the practice of these rituals widespread in the Roman world? If she had seen similar ritual acts in other Christian churches or sacred spaces, how did these spaces emerge?

b. The Anastasis Rotunda Eusebius writes: As the principal item he first of all decked out the sacred cave…This then was the first thing, like a head of the whole, which the Emperor’s munificence decorated with superb columns and full ornamentation, brightening the solemn cave with all kinds of artwork. He then went on to a very large space wide open to the fresh air, which was decorated with a pavement of light-coloured stone on the ground, and enclosed on three sides by long surrounding colonnades.123

Another issue here is the connection between the socalled Martyrium basilica and the Anastasis rotunda of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In architectural discourse, the Anastasis rotunda has been classified as a circular or central plan118 – a building with a dome or a vaulted barrel ceiling. As I noted early in this chapter, the central plan was one of two Christian architectural forms, the other being the rectangular plan. The central plan

Ward-Perkins, Studies in Roman Early Christian Architecture, London, 1994, p. 507. See also Ward-Perkins, “Imperial Mausolea and their possible influence on early Christian central-plan Buildings”, Journal of Theological Studies, 17, 1966, pp. 20-37; Grabar, 1946, pp. 141-152. 120 A. Grabar “From the Martyrium to the Church: Christian Architecture, East & West”, Archaeology 2 (1949), p. 97. 121 Grabar, 1949, p. 102. 122 Grabar, 1949, p. 97. 123 Eusebius, Life of Constantine, 3. 33-35. English translation taken from A. Cameron and S. G. Hall, Life of Con119

Wilkinson, 1999, p. 46. Egeria, Travels, 27.1, trans. J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, 3rd ed., London, 1999, p. 148. 118 A. Grabar, 1946, p. 148. 116 117

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Fig. 92.Hypothetical reconstruction of the mausoleum of Galerius, Thessaloniki, c. AD 306-

311. Photo: After J.B. Ward-Perkins, 1990, fig. 304 (Penguin Books Ltd).

Fig. 93.The Lateran Baptistery, Rome, c.315 and c. 432-40, engraving by A. Lafréri. Photo:

After Krautheimer, 1986, fig. 47 (Penguin Books Ltd).

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Fig. 95.“The Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ”, mosaic, the church S. Apollinare Nuovo, Ravenna, AD 490. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London.

Fig. 94.Relief of “Resurrection of Christ”, ivory, c. AD

400. Bavarian National Museum, Munich. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London. Wilkinson, however, indicates that there was no round building containing a tomb in Eusebius’ lifetime,124 and he asserts that in the fourth century the church of the Resurrection or the Anastasis was enclosed by rails and included a circle of columns.125 Fourth-century Christians venerated a “Cave” covered with aedicule, the so-called Edicule, which represented the Tomb of Christ or the Resurrection.126 An ivory relief of the “Resurrection of Christ” dated around the year 400 depicts Christ departing a building with a domed ceiling (fig. 94). This base and canopy reminds us of a circular plan, an early imperial funerary structure. Similarly, in the mosaic “The Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ” of the AD 490 church S. Apollinare Nuovo in Ravenna (fig. 95), the Tomb of Christ is housed in a rotunda, constructed with a domed ceiling supported by a colonnade. The similarities in this plan to Christ’s tomb and imperial mausolea such as Sta Costanza are striking. Sta Costanza has a circular plan with an ambulatory supported by a colonnade. Above the colonnade is a domed ceiling. Thus, it is possible to say that Christ’s tomb in these images are of the Roman tradition.

Fig. 96.“The Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ”, Palestinian ampulla, Bobbio, c. AD 600. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 295 (Ecole des Hautes).

We cannot be sure, however, whether these images in these Roman representations were similar to the Tomb of Christ as Egeria saw it. ‘The Holy Women at the Tomb of Christ,” one of the collection of Palestinian ampullae in Bobbio127 dated to about AD 600 (fig. 96), does not depict the same image as the earlier ivory relief. Some of them depict a canopy with pillars. Most of them, however, have a polygonal ceiling, not a domed ceiling as did the Romans. Since the ampullae were produced in Palestine, they are probably rather closer to Egeria’s image of Christ’s tomb than the Romans’.

stantine, Oxford, 1999, p. 135-136. 124 Wilkinson, 1999, p. 19, n. 2. 125 Wilkinson, 1999, p. 35. 126 Biddle, 1999, pp. 20-28.

A.Grabar, Ampoles de Terre Sainte, Paris, 1958, pp. 2223. 127

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Fig. 98.Mausoleum for the King, Jerusalem, first century.

Fig. 97.Jewish Rock-cut tomb, Jerusalem, first century.

Photo: After Parrot, 1957, fig. 7 (SCM Press).

Photo: After Parrot, 1957, fig. 11 (SCM Press).

One common point shared by both images is that the columns were erected around a Cave. Adomnan, who was Abbot of Iona, wrote a book about the Holy Places as witnessed by Arculf, a bishop of Gaul between 686 and 688.128 Titled On the Holy Places, the account included the Anastasis Rotunda. According to this source, the Anastasis Rotunda had a tower which had eight doors, and J. Wilkinson assumes that there was no door in the central part of its facade because the number of doors is an even number.129 Consequently, it is possible to say that the plan of the Anastasis Rotunda was a circular plan, and that eight or an even number of doors were placed in its façade. At this point the use of the word “holy cave” or “cave of salvation” in reference to the Tomb of Christ during the reign of Constantine should be considered.130 Christ was not the first to be buried in a cave tomb. Jews had already excavated rock to make tombs (fig. 97). The entrance to the Tombs of Kings, dated the mid-first century AD, is also excavated rock, sealed with a rotating stone (fig. 98).131 It is not certain that this rotating stone is precisely the kind of stone removed from Christ’s tomb during the Resurrection.132 That Christ’s holy cave was excavated from rock was stated in the Gospels: “…and laid it in his own new tomb, which he had hewn in the rock”.133 Similarly, “Then Joseph bought a linen cloth, and taking down the body, wrapped it in the linen cloth, and laid it in a tomb that had been hewn out of the rock”.134 From scripture, we can imagine the construction of Christ’s tomb as having a sunken entrance since Joseph, first witness to

the resurrection, “bent down to look in”.135 Parrot imagines the tomb’s plan as having a shelf carved into the wall: “As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed”.136 According to L.-H. Vincent and F.-M. Abel’s plan, which is similar to Parrot’s plan, there were steps leading underground, an antechamber and the main room of the tomb (fig. 99).137 Though this was called a cave, it was nonetheless a man-made cave of excavated rock. It is striking that the Jewish tombs are similar to those of Petra (e.g., Tomb 258 dated to the first century AD) (fig. 100).138 Petra, the capital of Nabatea, was established in the second century BC.139 Nabateans were of Arabic descent and appeared in early Hellenistic times.140 Strabo indicates that they were wealthy from the trade in frankincense and myrrh and that was why the Romans tried to conquer their kingdom in AD 106.141 The decoration of the Corinthian capitals of the Khasneh indicates that it dates from the first century BC or the earlier first century AD (figs. 101, John 20.5 Mark 16.5. Parrot, 1957, pp. 39-48, esp. p. 48. 137 L. -H. Vincent and F. -M. Abel,. Jérusalem : Recherches de topographie, d’archéologie et d’histoire, ii, Jérusalem nouvelle, II, Paris, 1914, fig. 53; Parrot, 1957, p. 45, fig. IX. See also Biddle, 1999, pp. 109-119. He doubts their assumption. 138 J. Mckenzie, The Architecture of Petra, London, 1990, pp. 42-43 and pp. 55-56. Mckenzie also refers to the style of Tomb 258 to be identical with that of the Tomb of Roman Soldier in Petra. 139 On the art and architecture of Petra, see M. Lyttleton, Baroque Architecture in Classical Antiquity, London, 1974, pp. 61-83; P.J. Parr, “Architecture of Petra”, Palestine Exploration Quarterly, 128 (1996), pp. 63-70, and M. Fedak, Monumental Tombs of the Hellenistic Age, Toronto, 1990, pp. 150-157. 140 Fedak, 1990, p. 150 141 Mckenzie, 1990, p. 1; Strabo, Geography of Strabo, 16, 4, 21-26. Translation from The Geography of Strabo, trans. Jones, H.L., Loeb, London, 1917-1932. 135 136

Wilkinson, 2002, p, 18; See also, Robin Cormack, Painting the Soul, London, 1997, see, pp. 95-96. 129 Wilkinson, 2002, p. 365; Adomnan, On the Holy Places, 1.2.5-171. 130 e.g., Eusebius, Life of Constantine, 33. See also A. Cameron and S. G. Hall, Life of Constantine, Oxford, 1999, p. 135. 131 A. Parrot, Golgotha and the church of the Holy Sepulchre. Trans. Edwin Hudson. London, 1957, pp. 95-97. 132 Biddle, 1999, p. 110. Cf. John 20.1. 133 Mathew 27.60. 134 Mark 15.46. 128

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Fig. 99.The tomb of Christ in the gospel, view by P. Vincent, 1914.

Photo: After Biddle, 1999, fig. 78 (from P. Vincent, 1914).

Fig. 100.Tomb 258, rock-cut tomb, Petra, first century. Photo: Courtesy of Judith Mckenzie.

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Fig. 102.Lower order, capitals, Khasneh, Petra, first

Fig. 101.Khasneh, Petra, first century. Photo: Courtesy of

century. Photo: After Guzzo et al., p. 185 (Arthaud, Paris).

Judith Mckenzie.

102).142 The dates of the rock-cut facades and buildings of Petra are still uncertain. In the ancient Greek world they did not build cave-tomb temples on the mainland. They built tombs away from such centres, such as along roads; they buried important persons, however, carefully along the outside of the city hall.143 In general the plan of the Greek tomb was a roof structure.144 The art of the rockcut tomb is probably a Persian influence on the Hellenistic world. In fact, the form of the crown of Isis, an Egyptian goddess, is represented in the central acroterion at the apex of the pediment of the Khasneh (fig. 103). In other words, the rock-cut tomb at Petra represents syncretism of Orientalism and Hellenism.

Fig. 103.Acroterion at apex of pediment with symbol of

Isis, Khasneh, Petra, first century. Photo: Courtesy of Judith Mckenzie.

In the East, particularly in ancient Iran, rock-cut mausolea began to be carved in the seventh century BC. One example of these is Naqshi- i Rustam, royal Achaemenian tombs from the sixth to fifth centuries BC (fig. 104). The

sculptors of these mausolea created elaborate facades under a cliff. Before the Persian conquest of Ionia, the court of monarchs in the territories controlled by Persia employed migrating Ionian Greek artists. They worked in Lycia, where a Hellenistic monumental tomb was erected, and in other satrapies of Persia.145

On the Corinthian capitals of the Khasne, see Lyttleton, 1974, pp. 71-74. They contest the system under which such chronology is constructed. 143 Fedak, 1990, p. 6. 144 Fedak, 1990, p. 36. 142

Fedak, 1990, pp. 29-30, n. 3. The stonework has evidence of Greek workmanship. 145

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Fig. 104.Royal Achaemenian Tombs (sixth-fifth cent. BC) and Sassanian bas-reliefs (third-fourth century), Naqshi- i

Rustam. Photo: After Ghirshman, 1964, fig. 275 (Ernst Herzfied). Worshipping at graves was common to pagans in the Roman world, but not to Christians146 Thus, the function of the tombs was not merely for burial. The Greeks in the Hellenistic world and the Romans marked the deeds and death of the deceased in the form of a shrine:147 the structure fused the function and plan of temples and sanctuaries with those of mausolea.148 On the other hand, in the east of the early Roman Empire, rock-cut tombs were a prominent feature of pre-Roman burials in Asia Minor.149 During the Roman period, the heroon adopted the western Roman podium temple as its model. These temples exemplify a new concept of ritual building: temple tombs. These forms employed architectural decoration to reinforce their message of apotheosis, or at least, elevated status.150 Krautheimer writes, “Heroa and the hero cult are the roots from which Christian martyria and the martyr cult sprang, apparently as early as the second century”.151

indicates that some of the martyr-shrines of the fourth century reflect classical funerary practices, since they were built in a classical funerary architectural tradition.153 Masonry and brick tombs made in a circular plan were one of the most popular funerary architectural forms during the period from Augustus to the sons of Constantine I.154 The Tomb of Caecilia Metella by the Via Appia, dated to the middle of the first century BC (fig. 105), shows us an imperial circular plan in which a round drum is erected on a high square podium.155 On the other hand, regarding the framework of early Christian baptistery, it is likely that its architects were inspired by imperial funerary architecture. The Lateran Baptistery (fig. 93), an octagonal baldacchino, dated to the fourth century (c. AD 315 and c. AD 432-40) and supported by eight columns, reminds us of the plan of Sta Costanza in the imperial tradition. It was originally a central plan, later remodelled as a baptistery during the papal reign of Sixtus III. Why did the artist erect the baptistery in the plan of an imperial mausoleum?

While Ward-Perkins denies the architectural relationship between the early martyria and imperial mausolea,152 he Krautheimer, 1986, p. 32. Toynbee, 1971, p. 130. 148 Krautheimer, 1975, p. 32. 149 S. Cormack, “Funerary Monuments and Mortuary Practice in Roman Asia Minor”, in S. E. Alcock, ed., The Early Roman Empire in the East, Oxford, 1997, p. 139. 150 S. Cormack, 1997, p. 145. 151 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 33. 152 Ward-Perkins, “Memoria, Martyr’s Tomb and Martyr’s Church”, in Studies in Roman and Early Christian Archi146 147

tecture, 1994, p. 498; Ward-Perkins, 1966, pp. 20-37; see also A. Grabar, 1946, pp. 141-152. 153 Ward-Perkins, 1994, p. 498. 154 Toynbee, 1971, p. 143. 155 Toynbee, 1971, p. 155. The medieval work was installed above the cornice. On the recent study of the tomb of Caecilia Metella, see H. Gerding, The Tomb of Caecilia Metella, Lund, 2002. 83

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Fig. 105.The Tomb of Caecilia Metella, Rome, first century. Photo: Author.

In my view, the analogy of the iconographic programme for funeral images shared by Christian and Roman imperial art is key. Images in the iconographic programme of imperial funeral art allude to death and salvation by using the image of the chariot, such as the ascension of a pagan emperor or aristocrat as I mentioned in chapter one.156 Even in Christian art, the chariot is a sacred vehicle to heaven (e.g., the Ascension of Elijah on the catacomb of the Via Latina) (fig. 58). I have argued that there is some overlap in the meanings of the ascension figure shared between imperial and Christian arts in fourth-century socio-cultural contexts, and that the imagery of the Ascension of Elijah emerged as a result of syncretism of the Greco-Roman chariot in a Christian framework – (i.e., the second aspect of syncretism).

be an example of syncretism occurring in a Christian framework. Let us return to the notion of ‘cave temples’ in the Roman world. I mentioned earlier in this section the analogy of the notion of ‘cave temples’ expressed by both the Christian “sacred cave” and Greco-Roman temple tombs. ‘Cave temples’ were also significant to other religions of the region. In Mithraism, the cave and the temple were the same thing. As I mentioned in chapter one, Porphyry described the concept of the cave temple of Mithras.157 Most reliefs with the Mithras icon ‘Mithras slaying the bull’ included a half-dome that symbolised the sky, suggesting that the vaulted ceiling of the structure itself portrayed the sky.158 The worshippers were witnesses to the most common element of the secret ceremony: ‘Mithras slaying the bull’,159 a ceremony that represented birth after death.160 Since in Mithraism the god put the bull to death in a grotto, its ritual place was constructed as a cave-like space. Interestingly, the purpose of the Mithraic ceremony was salvation. Peter Brown considers that “the power of the holy dead never coincided to the degree to

I would argue that this second aspect of syncretism of the Greco-Roman chariot in a Christian framework implies the Christian adoption of the imperial funeral space – a central plan – as the plan for the Christian baptistery. Considering the analogy of their iconographic programmes, it can be assumed that imperial and Christian images of death and salvation were not so far apart, or that the artist hired by Christians for construction of the baptistery could have been inspired by the plan of the imperial mausoleum. In other words, the artist probably did not just adopt the form but also the notion of the funerary space, which would

Porphyry, De Antro Nympharum, 6; John Hinnells, Persian Mythology, New York, 1993, p. 80. 158 M.J. Vermaseren, Mithras de geheimzinnige god, Amsterdam, 1959, p. 44. 159 The Mithraeum in London, however, has the colonnade; on the temple of Mithras in London, see W.F. Grimes, 1968. 160 F. Cumont, 1956, p. 165. 157

S. Weinstock, Divus Julius, Oxford, 1971, pp. 356-363.

156

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which they did in Western Europe”, while holy graves existed in Judaism and in Islam, and he concludes that the rise of the holy tomb or holy dead in the West should be separated from the East.161 These concepts of the Tomb of Christ, imperial mausoleums and Mithraic cave temples cannot be interpreted without considering their notions of death and rebirth. Regardless of Christian dogmatic stances on the Greco-Roman cults, the notion of the cave referring to a ‘holy death’ was common to both West and East. I believe that the concept of a central plan of “the two traditions” of early Christian architecture emerged as a result of assimilating the Greco-Roman notion of holy death. Next, I shall discuss architectural concepts of the other traditions and the rectangular plan of the Christian basilica.

Constantinian churches such as the Lateran basilica.168 We can see from Egeria’s account of “the Great Week” that the architectural function of the Martyrium was not only for assembly. In “the Great Week”, “the Anastasis” or “the Cave” was the most significant site in the Jerusalem stational liturgy. For example, the Sunday stational liturgy started and ended at the Anastasis. After the Anastasis they assembled at the Martyrium “because it is on Golgotha, Behind the Cross, where the Lord was put to death”.169 Then the bishop went to the Anastasis. By one o’clock they assembled at the Eleona church on the Mount of Olives, “the place of the cave where the Lord used to teach”170 They then moved to the Imbomon, “the place from which the Lord ascended into heaven” and finally returned to the Anastasis.171 On the Friday of “the Great Week” they visited the biblical sites referred to in the Passion, including Gethsemane, the place of “the Lord’s arrest”. They also saw at the Martyrium “the holy Wood of the Cross, which, as every one of us believes, helps us attain salvation”.172

c. Martyrium with the Cross As I mentioned above, Egeria called the Constantine basilica “the Martyrium on Golgotha Behind the Cross”.162 She had already visited several martyria en route to Jerusalem, but she did not describe their architectural plans in detail. For example, Egeria visited the martyrium of St. Thecla in a city called Seleucia of Isauria in Cilicia.163 This site has not been determined archaeologically, and Egeria’s account does not give us enough to imagine its plan, but the cult of St Thecla had been in existence since about AD 200 before the construction of “the Martyrium on Golgotha Behind the Cross”.164 Egeria heard the Act of holy Thecla165 in the martyrium and she offered thanks to God for his mercy in letting her see the holy site, a martyr who suffered as the first woman confessor.166 We cannot assume that these “Eastern” martyria were similar to the Martyrium in the Holy Land from an architectural point of view. We can say, however, that before the emergence of Constantine’s Martyrium in the Holy Land, the martyria in the Roman world tended to have a similar basilical plan, sometimes even the same, as in Eusebius’ account of the Martyrium (e.g., St Sebastaiano, 312/13? and St Peter’s, begun 319-22). Eusebius describes the church on Golgotha as follows: “As to the vault of the basilica, whether you decided that it be coffered or in another style of construction I would wish to learn from you. If it were to be coffered, it might also be decorated with gold”.167 Because of Eusebius’ use of the Latin term lakonarios in Life of Constantine, his translator A. Cameron and S. G. Hall suggest that the basilica on Golgotha was a type similar to the first church of St Peter’s in Rome and other

Let us consider the Christian stational liturgy here. Religious assembly was the main ceremonial activity of Christianity in its infancy in the Roman empire. Christians had assemblies at private houses, where they had a meal together in the dining room – the Eucharist. From an etymological point of view, the word ‘ecclesiastic’ is derived from domus ecclesiae (a house of assembly). The notion of Church was equivalent to the activity of assembly. The domus ecclesiae in the Constantinian period, however, proved insufficient to the state religious body. Because of their liturgy, contemporary Christians were compelled to have a new ritual place. At the same time, some of these places became important sites for their mobile liturgy – the stational liturgy. Egeria gives us information about how fourth-century Christians in Jerusalem practised their stational liturgy.173 In Jerusalem there were many biblical sites described in A. Cameron and S. G. Hall, 1999, p. 284. Egeria, Travels, 30.1,2. English translation taken from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 151. 170 Egeria, Travels, 30.3. English translation taken from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 151. 171 Egeria, Travels, 31.1. English translation taken from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 151. 172 Egeria, Travels, 36.5. English translation taken from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 155. 173 J. Smith, To Take Place, Chicago, 1987, pp. 91-92. Smith writes, “What is most characteristic of the indigenous Jerusalem liturgy is its stational character. That is to say, all the liturgical action is not concentrated in a single building (an artifact of the archaic Christian ‘house church’), but rather is spread throughout all of the major churches in the region – the celebrants moving from one to another locale at various parts of the day to perform different ceremonial functions. The bishop moves with the congregation, presiding at each church in turn. This is worship as pilgrimage”. 168 169

Peter Brown, The cult of the Saints: its rise and function in Lain Christianity, Chicago, 1981, p. 10. 162 Egeria, Travels, 27.3. 163 Egeria, Travels, 22.2 and 23.16. 164 Wilkinson, 1999, p. 171, n. 4; Tertullian, de Baptismo, 17. 165 Acts of Paul and Thecla from the second-century Greek Acts of Paul; Egeria, Travels, 23.5. 166 Egeria, Travels, 23.1-6. 167 Eusebius, Life of Constantine, 3. 32. English translation taken from Cameron Hall, 1999, p. 135. 161

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the Old Testament and New Testament, though the centre of worship was the house church at Sion. Egeria writes,

and was named Sta Sabina.181 Sta Sabina itself, however, originated from neither a martyr tomb as St Peter’s had, nor from a basilica adjoining an imperial palace, such as San Giovanni in Laterano. It was a purely Christian house church for assembly. Since the Roman church used the Jerusalem liturgy in the fourth century as the basis for the development of the Roman stational liturgy, the twelve tituli, including Tit. Sabina, were transformed from private houses into basilicas for pilgrimage. The new basilica of Sta Sabina was erected on older foundations between 422 and 432 (fig. 106), and consists of a nave, two aisles and an apse, “the new standard of Roman church building”.182

…biblical sites were pointed out. In the meanwhile we were walking along between the mountains, and came to a spot where they opened out to form an endless valley – a huge plain, and very beautiful – across which we could see Sinai, the holy Mount of God. Next to the spot where the mountains open out is the place of the ‘Graves of Craving.’174 In Jerusalem, the stational liturgy moves among the complex of buildings surrounding the site of Christ’s crucifixion and burial.’175 Examples include the Anastasis (the Tomb of Christ), Golgotha (the place of crucifixion), and Bethlehem (the original cave of Christ’s birth). Baldovin indicates that these three sites associated with ‘the death, burial, and resurrection,’ are the backbone of the stational liturgy in Jerusalem.176 At the same time, these sites were also important sites for Christian pilgrimage from outside of Jerusalem.

The mosaic decoration of Sta Pudenziana (fig. 33), one of the twelve fifth-century tituli along with Sta Sabina, should be reconsidered at this point. Christ sitting with the apostles is depicted in the background, which includes a city with several circular buildings. Since the cross on a mound is depicted on the apse, Schlatter identifies the representation with Golgotha.183 Hellemo concludes that these mosaics represent a mountain and an urban scene, which is probably related to Jerusalem of the 300s.184 Because the mosaic is dated to around 390 or the period of 410 to 417,185 it is possible to say that the artist tried to represent Jerusalem in a way similar to what Egeria saw during her pilgrimage there in the mid-fourth century. Why did the artist try to represent Jerusalem in the apsidal mosaic? Sta Pudenziana was one of the churches for the stational liturgy; it is likely, therefore, that the depiction of the Holy City reminded Roman Christian viewers that their course in the stational liturgy was based on Jerusalem’s – in fact, Roman Christians made pilgrimage to Sta Maria Maggiore instead of visiting Bethlehem.186 One question that arises, however is whether the representation of these buildings in the apsidal mosaics of Sta Pudenziana is in the Jerusalem tradition. Its Anastasis rotunda seems to be represented according to the circular plan of Roman imperial funerary architecture, rather than to the plan depicted in the Palestinian version of the Tomb of Christ on the ampullae.

In Rome, on the other hand, (a great distance from Jerusalem), Christians practiced a stational liturgy between the cemeteries of the martyrs, which represented the complex of buildings surrounding the site of martyrdom and burial instead of the ‘site of Christian Christ’s crucifixion and burial’. How is it that Christians developed the stational liturgy during the Constantinian period, since pilgrimage to Jerusalem was not easy for most Romans? Baldovin indicates that the genesis of the stational liturgy was not uniquely Christian, since the mobile liturgy originated in the ancient Greek and Roman worlds.177 These processions were held in cities when they had state or city festivals. In Rome these formal processions gradually came to be associated with the celebration of the emperor.178 It is likely that Christians adopted the participatory procession as their stational liturgy during the Peace of the Church, because Christianity became the state religion during a time when its processional liturgy was a public event.179 In addition, the Roman processional liturgy may be linked with the development of Christian basilica churches, including the transformation from tituli to the basilica church. In the middle of the third century, Roman Christians erected nine house churches called ‘tituli’.180 Before 312 there were twelve tituli in Rome. Tit. Sabinae on the Aventine was one of the twelve that was transformed into a basilica. In the sixth century, it is believed that the church adopted the legend of a martyr

The reason the twelve tituli were renovated and reconstructed as basilica churches was that each one G. Jeremias, Die Holztür der Basilika S. Sabina in Rom, Tübingen, 1980, p. 15. On S. Sabina, see also Krautheimer, Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae, vol. IV, Vatican, 1970, pp. 72-98; J.M. Spieser, “Le programme iconographique des portes de Sainte-Sabine”, Journal des Savants (1991), pp. 47-82. 182 Krautheimer, 1986, p. 181. 183 Schlatter, 1992, p. 285. 184 Hellemo, 1981, p.51. On the mosaics of Santa Pudenziana, see W.A. Pullan, “Jerusalem from Alpha to Omega in the Santa Pudenziana Mosaic”, Jewish Art 23/24 (1997/1998), pp. 405-417. 185 F. Schlatter, “Interpreting the Mosaic of Santa Pudenziana”, Vigiliae Christianae, 46 (1992), 1992, p. 276. 186Baldovin, 1987, p. 148. 181

Egeria, Travels, 1.1. English translation from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 107. 175 Baldovin, 1987, p. 47. 176 Baldovin, 1987, p. 46. 177 Baldovin, 1987, p. 235. 178 Baldovin, 1987, p. 237. 179 Baldovin, 1987, p. 237. 180 Baldovin, 1987, p. 108. 174

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Fig. 106.S. Sabina, Rome, c. AD 422 and 432. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma.

of them was not only a station for pilgrimage, but that each church also provided Christians with a holy place for celebrating liturgy. It is likely that the character of the mobile liturgy was derived from the stational liturgy. Mathews uses the image of a mobile liturgy when he writes, “the insistent motion of the nave, with its uniform columns marching in file toward the east, came to rest in the curves of the concave apse”.187 Baldovin argues that in the stational liturgy, “thoroughfares or paths consisted of colonnaded streets connecting public buildings and public places as well as churches with one another of three urban cities: Jerusalem, Rome and Constantinople”.188 The mobile liturgy was characteristic of Christian ritual service; it is assumed therefore, that the colonnade was a crucial element in Christian architecture for practising mobile liturgy. Christians probably adopted the notion of the colonnade – directing them to the holy place – in their establishment of a Christian basilica church. It seems that the colonnades facilitate the visually directional movement from the entrance through the nave to the apse. It is possible to say that the colonnade was greatly influenced by the Roman public building or the imperial palaces from a pragmatic point of view; Christians did not, however, merely adapt their forms and functions. Their liturgy needed a particular kind of ritual place. I

would argue that the architectural discourse over the Christian adoption of the Roman public building for the basilica plan is too simplistic. I have discussed “the two traditions” of early Christian architectures (i.e., a central plan and a rectangular plan) from conceptual views. Next, I shall reconsider Grabar’s observation that “the two traditions live side by side and do not mingle” in Jerusalem.189 d. The Conceptual Origins of the Church: the Church of the Holy Sepulchre As I mentioned above, fourth-century Christians in Jerusalem practiced a stational liturgy. In To Take Place, John Smith writes: What is most characteristic of the indigenous Jerusalem liturgy is its stational character. That is to say, all the liturgical action is not concentrated in a single building (an artefact of the archaic Christian ‘house church’), but rather is spread throughout all of the major churches in the region – the celebrants moving from one to another locale at various parts of the day to perform different ceremonial functions. The bishop moves with the congregation, presiding at each church in turn. This is worship as pilgrimage.190

Mathews, 1993, p. 94. Baldovin, 1987, p. 267.

Grabar, 1949, p. 97. J.Smith, To Take Place, Chicago, 1987, pp. 91-92.

187

189

188

190

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Egeria describes the mobile liturgy in the buildings of Golgotha – the Anastasis rotunda, the Cross, and the Martyrium: As soon as dawn comes, they start the Morning Hymns, and the bishop with his clergy comes and joins them. He goes straight into the cave, and inside the screen he first says the Prayer for All191…Then, singing hymns, they take the bishop from the Anastasis to the Cross, and everyone goes with him... So these are the services held every weekday at the Cross and at the Anastasis192…At daybreak the people assemble in the Great Church built by Constantine on Golgotha [the Martyrium] Behind the Cross.193

The role of the Anastasis Rotunda in the Jerusalem liturgy on the other hand, was to represent Resurrection and Christian salvation. It covers the Tomb of Christ or ‘the sacred cave,’ which symbolised the Resurrection and the burial place.200 From Egeria’s account of “the Cross,” we can assume that the Martyrium and the Anastasis Rotunda might have been somehow connected. “The Cross” of “Golgotha Behind the Cross”, to which Egeria refers in her account of the Sunday liturgy, is not the true cross on which Jesus was crucified, but she might have had in mind the site or the object on the hillock representing the Passion. “The Cross” was probably located in the courtyard between the Martyrium and the Anastasis Rotunda since she called the courtyard “Before the Cross”201 and the Martyrium “Behind the Cross”. It is possible to say that the Cross combined the Martyrium with the Anastasis Rotunda in both liturgical and conceptual views, and that these buildings of Golgotha represent the complex of death, crucifixion and resurrection in Christianity.

Although Grabar indicates that “the two traditions live side by side and do not mingle”,194 I argue that the two buildings in “the two traditions” of early Christian architectural history were erected not merely for separate functions; they had an entirety of symbolic meaning around the site of Golgotha. I argue that together they represented the Resurrection. Let us look at Egeria’s early accounts of the Jerusalem liturgy, which were conducted within two buildings of Golgotha. The Martyrium basilica with the Cross represents the death of Christ on the cross. Egeria was an eyewitness to this liturgy on the “Ecaenia” (the 14th of September), which was “on the very date when the cross had been found”.195 The details of this liturgy are unknown since the final section of her work has been lost. Cyril, who was the bishop of Jerusalem and contemporary of Egeria, also informs us in 348 of the presence of a wood cross (lignum crucis).196 Egeria says that the Martyrium and the Anastasis were consecrated on the Encaenia197 (which is further evidence of their unified purpose). She also indicates that on Good Friday they venerated fragments of “the holy Wood of the Cross, which were contained in ‘a gold and silver box’” at “Golgotha Behind the Cross”.198 Interestingly, according to Egeria’s accounts of Sunday service, “At daybreak the people assemble in the Great Church built by Constantine on Golgotha Behind the Cross”.199 Therefore, it is probable that it was in the Great Church (i.e., the Martyrium) that they venerated the Wood of the Cross as holy. I argue that the functions of the basilica were not only for assembly but also to function as a symbol of Christ’s death.

Here I would argue that in order to represent the totality of the Resurrection, these buildings cannot be separated. First, as I stated above, it is likely that the architectural function of the Martyrium was not only as a biblical site on the stational liturgy, but also for Christian assembly.202 It was a symbol of salvation like other martyria in the Roman world. It is worth noting that the relics of the Saints were located on the altar of each martyria in early Christianity. In a criticism of the cult of relics, Jerome writes, “[So you think,] therefore, that the bishop of Rome does wrong when, over the dead men Peter and Paul, venerable bones to us, but to you a heap of common dust, he offers up sacrifices to the Lord, and their graves are held to be altars of Christ”.203 Nevertheless, it is likely that it was in the Roman world where “tomb and altar were joined”.204 Christ’s Passion is symbolised in the Martyrium not by ‘venerable bones,’ but by the holy Wood Cross. In the church of the Holy Sepulchre the tomb did not represent death but resurrection, and the Tomb of Christ was connected to the Martyrium via the courtyard, which Egeria called “Before the Cross”. “The Cross,” therefore, was the boundary from the site of the Passion to the cave of the Resurrection.

Egeria, Travels, 24.2. English translation from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 143. 192 Egeria, Travels, 24.7. English translation form Wilkinson, 1999, p. 144. 193 Egeria, Travels, 25.1. English translation from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 145, n. 2. 194 Grabar, 1949, p. 97. 195 Egeria, Travels, 48.1,2. English translation from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 164. 196 Cyril, Catechesis IV 10, Patrologia Graeca, 33. 470; Drijvers, 1992, p. 82, n. 5, 6, 7; S. Borgehammar, How the Holy Cross was Found From Event to Medieval Legend, Stockholm, 1991. 197 Egeria, Travels, 48.1 198 Egeria, Travels, 36.5 and 37.1,2,3. 199 Egeria, Travels, 25.1.

Second, the Anastasis Rotunda and the Martyrium were connected by the Courtyard. It can be assumed that the Court Before the Cross, the second courtyard, represents the structural transition from the Martyrium to the Tomb

191

John 20.1 Egeria, Travels, 37.4: “At midday they go Before the Cross – whether it is rain or fine, for the place is out of doors – into the very spacious and beautiful court-yard between the Cross and the Anastasis, and there is not even room to open a door, the place is so crammed with people” (Wilkinson, 1999, p. 156). 202 e.g., Egeria, Travels, 27.3, 32.1. 203 Jerome, Contra Vigliantium 8, PL 23. 346. English translation taken from Brown, 1981, p. 9, n. 36; 204 Brown, 1981, p. 9. 200 201

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of Christ, (i.e., the path from death to rebirth).205 Adomnan mentions this second courtyard in The Holy Places (c. 685): “I questioned Arculf farther, and he added, ‘There is an open court between the Anastasis and the Basilica of Constantine. It stretches as far as the Church of Golgotha, and lamps are burning in it continuously, day and night’.206 The worshippers held one continuous liturgy inside these buildings, a liturgy that culminated in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

I assume that the courtyard between the Cross (associated with the Crucifixion) and the Anastasis (associated with the Resurrection) represents a transitional moment between death and rebirth, which is analogous to the transition from the cave to the sunlit upper world in Platonism. According to Egeria, Sunday service as well as Easter, started in the “basilica” beside the Anastasis before sunrise: “Soon the first cock crows, and at that the bishop enters, and goes into the cave in the Anastasis”.210 Jungmann writes about Roman Christian liturgy in his Missarum Sollemnia:

Wilkinson assumes that the layout of Constantine’s churches refer to the Platonic division of the universe – heaven and earth – and follows the geometry of Ezekiel’s Temple, where “the sanctuary’s proportions are twentytwo down to the step, and the whole church including the porch is sixty-two”. He writes, “The sanctuary [the church of Nativity] might also, as we have seen, represent heaven or truth, and the nave earth, or the realm of truth and falsehood. In this Holy Place Jesus was born in heaven”.207 Regarding the Church of the Holy Sepulchre he says, “In architectural terms we can also see why the synaxis of the Eucharist took place in the Martyrium church, to which anyone could come, while the mysterious part of the Eucharist, to which only the baptized came, took place in the Anastasis”.208

The earliest Easter celebration known to us was an evening celebration but it followed the time-schedule mentioned and its climax was not reached till early in the morning at cock crow. Sunday service, too, would fit nicely into this scheme, for if one began to see in the sunrise a picture of Christ rising from the dead, one would lay considerable store in the notion of greeting Christ himself with the rising of the sun.211 Dualism of light and dark can also be seen in the Roman pagan world. Recall the altar of a Mithraeum beneath St Clement and its two genii, Caustes and Cautopates, each holding one torch aloft and another lowered on either side of the icon “Mithras slaying the Bull” (figs. 88, 89). Together they stand for the rising and setting sun, as well as for life and death. It is likely that the image of the genii illuminated the “Mithras slaying the Bull” in the cave temple, and at the same time represented rebirth after death. As I mentioned in chapter one, the pagan cult groups, which depicted images of death and rebirth in their art, flourished in the Roman world. Thus, regarding the desire for salvation and an afterlife, pagan and Christian ritual spaces in the Roman world were not far from each other.

I would argue that the Church of the Holy Sepulchre represents the transformation from death to rebirth with its directional movement from the Martyrium to the Cave. The courtyard was the boundary between the Passion and the Resurrection, as it can be assumed that Egeria’s accounts of “Behind the Cross” and “Before the Cross” represent a directional movement from the Martyrium to the Anastasis via the courtyard. After venerating the holy Wood of the Cross at the Martyrium on the Friday of the Great Week, Egeria wrote: At midday they go Before the Cross – whether it is rain or fine, for the place is out of doors – into the very spacious and beautiful courtyard between the Cross and the Anastasis, and there is not even room to open a door, the place is so crammed with people. They place the bishop’s chair Before the Cross, and the whole time between midday and three o’clock is taken up with readings. They are all about the things Jesus suffered…209

Let us return to the concept of the early Christian church. The Eucharist liturgy represents the promise of salvation to Christians; it is the most significant act of the ceremony. It is reasonable, therefore, that in their church the bread and wine should be located at the most significant place in the building. The altar under the apse is the focal destination of the liturgical procession and at the same time the focal element of the ritual space.212 I believe that this liturgy was largely derived from the Jerusalem liturgy on Golgotha, as J. Wilkinson writes:

On the second courtyard, see Grabar, 1946, pp. 252254. 206 Adomnan, On the Holy Places, I. 6.1, v 234. English translation taken from J. Wilkinson, Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades, Warminster, 1977, p. 97. Adomnan tells us that Actif, who visited the Holy Land and stayed there for nine month, sketched four churches, including the Anastasis rotunda on a small wax notebook, Adomnan, I 2.14/15 v 230. 207 Wilkinson, 1999, p. 62. 208 Wilkinson, 1999, p. 63. 209 Egeria, Travels, 37.4. English translation taken from Wilkinson, 1999, p. 156. 205

When Egeria described the church services in Jerusalem she witnessed a liturgy which was to become influential all Egeria, 24.8, 9; Egeria writes, “…there gather in the courtyard before cock-crow all the people…”, but she indicates that this courtyard is the basilica (Wilkinson, 1999, p. 144). 211 J. A. Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman rite, trans. F. A. Brunner, vol., 1, New York, 1951, p. 17. 212 Thomas Mathews, The Early Churches of Constantinople, London, 1971, p. 107. 210

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over the Christian world. The Jerusalem style of liturgy, combining regular services and pilgrimage prayers, and its appropriate psalms and bible readings, appealed not only to Egeria but also to many visitors from other countries. It was translated into other languages.213

In the Eucharist liturgy, the sequence of the Passion, the death, and the Resurrection of Christ, was re-enacted on the altar. A true rebirth from resurrection would not occur without death (i.e., the burial of Christ), and the core of the Eucharistic liturgy is an anamnesis of the resurrection.217

From his observation, I would argue that the concept of the Jerusalem liturgy – the complex of death, crucifixion, and resurrection of Christ – became the nature of the Christian liturgy in the Christian church. This liturgical concept was represented in the complex of buildings of Golgotha, and the concept and plan of the church was related to the liturgy.

The biblical events of “the resurrection” and the “burial procession of Christ” not only find expression in the Byzantine Eucharistic liturgy, but also in its ritual space. The layout of the church allows for the re-enactment of biblical events that are believed to have happened on Golgotha and at the Cave in Jerusalem. I would argue that this architectural concept of the Holy Sepulchre represents the prototype of the procession of the gifts in the Byzantine liturgical tradition.218 For example, the description of eighth century Patriarch Germanus I on the symbolism of the Byzantine Church building is crucial in examining the layout of the Holy Sepulchre. He writes:

Accounts of Byzantine symbolism by early practitioners suggest symbolism strikingly similar to what I have proposed for Golgotha. Robert F. Taft writes: ...we see the beginnings of a theory of the eucharistic liturgy as an anamnesis of the resurrection, and of the procession with the gifts as the burial procession of Christ…This will eventually lead, in the Byzantine tradition at least, to the interpretation of the liturgy as culminating in a resurrection from a passion or sacrifice accomplished before the liturgy has even begun.214

…The church is a heaven on earth wherein the heavenly God ‘dwells and walks.’ It typifies the Crucifixion, the Burial and the Resurrection of Christ…The conch is after the manner of the cave of Bethlehem where Christ was born, and that of the Cave where He was buried as the Evangelist saith, that there was a cave ‘hewn out of the rock, and there laid they Jesus’…The holy table is the place where Christ was buried, on which is set forth the true bread from heaven, the mystic and bloodless sacrifice, i.e., Christ…The ciborium stands for the place where Christ was crucified: for the place of His burial was nigh at hand… The place of sacrifice is after the manner of Christ’s tomb where Christ hath given Himself in sacrifice to God the Father by the offering of His body…The bema is a place like a footstool and like a throne in which Christ, the universal King, presides together with His apostles… The cornice denotes the holy order of the world, and shows the seal of the crucified Christ and God, adorned with the cross. The cancelli denote the place of prayer, and signify that the space outside them may be entered by the people, while inside is the holy of holies which is accessible only to the priests… The ambo denotes by its form the stone of the holy Grave which the angel rolled back form the door and sat upon it…announcing the resurrection of the Lord to the women who brought unguents…219

To illustrate my argument, I shall refer to the literary expression of the Byzantine Eucharist liturgy, because the evolution of the Byzantine Eucharist liturgy was influenced by the ritual place and liturgy of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Theodore of Mopsuestia, a bishop of Mopsuestia (392-428)215 and “the earliest witness to anything resembling today’s ritualised transfer of gifts” writes: And when the offering that is about to be presented is brought out in the sacred vessels, the patens and chalices, you must think that Christ our Lord’s coming out, led to his passion…by the visible hosts of ministers…who were also present when the passion of salvation was being accomplished…And when they bring it out, they place it on the holy altar to represent fully the passion. Thus, we may think of him placed on the altar as if hence forth in a sort of sepulchre, and as having already undergone the passion. That is why the deacons who spread linens on the altar represent by this the figure of the linen cloth of the burial.216

His account of the symbolism of church buildings is almost identical to the symbolism of ritual space in the Holy Sepulchre, evidently constructed to model the Passion and the Resurrection (the Martyrium and the Cave). I would argue that the fourth-century architectural concept of

J. Wilkinson, 1999, p. 50. Robert Taft, “The Great Entrance”, Orientalia Christiana Analecta 200, 1975, p. 37. 215 The text was probably written during the period of Theodore’s episcopate (392-428). See also, Taft, 1975, p. 35 , n. 88. 216 Homily 15, 24ff. English translation taken from Robert Taft, 1975, pp. 35-36, n. 89. 213 214

Taft, 1975, p. 37. On early history of the procession of the gift, see Taft, 1975, pp. 35-46. 219 Patriarch Germanus I, Histora Mystagogica, 1-9. Eng���� lish translation taken from C. Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312-1453, London, 2000, pp. 141-143. 217 218

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the church in Jerusalem was succeeded in the Byzantine liturgy, and this Christian heritage was a bridge from early Christian churches to the medieval church.

to church as an imaginary pilgrimage. The worshippers walked from the nave forward, eager for salvation from a god sitting in the apse as King of Kings. The Christian basilica church had to provide worshippers with a place for this liturgy, not merely a place for assembly.

Just as with the flourishing cult of relics in the Roman world, the Roman traditional cults commemorated the dead and sought the salvation of an afterlife.220 I believe that early Christian representation of this salvation reflects a syncretism of Roman traditional cultic views of death. Lane Fox indicates in Pagans and Christians that Christians adopted the “special effects” of the pagan ritual space (e.g., temples with sky blue ceilings, lights reflected in water and fireworks suggesting the fiery departure of god).221 He disregards, however, the notion of “these special effects” in pagan ritual space. Fox argues, “Thinking pagans had worried more about the beginning of the world than about its possible end. There was no question of the body being ‘resurrected’: the facts were obvious to anyone who opened a grave and saw bare bones”.222 However, the cult of relics and the representation in their ritual spaces of salvation and an after-life show the desire for resurrection was not merely resonant with Christians but also with pagans in the Roman world.

The basilica church emerged in the Roman world when people, including the emperor, sought salvation after death through private cultic worship. Their funerary art, building, and ritual space represent the death and salvation that inspired the artists of Christian decoration and architecture. In addition, the word ‘basilica’ was adopted to refer to the church as the throne room of the Emperor of Heaven. At the same time, its form was in connection with the imperial hall. The form of the Christian ritual space and its inner decorations cannot be separated, since the unity of these elements created the notion of ritual space. However, in the literature of the genesis of Christian art, architectural historians have emphasised form, while art historians have observed the surface of the decoration. They have not considered how the ritual space of the Christian basilica church worked to inspire Roman Christian or non-Christian viewers. To them the inside of the church was not viewed as something separate, and at the same time its objects could not adorn anything without the space.

Mango indicates that the architects of Constantine’s churches of the Holy Land, including the Constantine’s Martyrium, “improvised solutions based on the exigencies of each site rather than being guided by some general notion of ‘martyrial’ architecture derived from Roman mausolea or Hellenistic heroa”.223 Yet these structures did not emerge in a vacuum. For the early Christian artist at least, the pagan artists were not merely pagani in the Roman world, they were pioneers in the creation of a ritual space using the imagery of death and rebirth.

The Christian worship space is made up of plastic and visual images, interwoven with pagan and imperial symbols familiar to the Roman world. The notion of Christian basilica could not have emerged without this syncretism. I have discussed syncretism of early Christian art and architecture by using images and architecture in chapter one and two. In the next chapter, I will study syncretism in a narrow scope – the juxtaposition of groups of images on a Christian object.

In conclusion, Christians used the stational liturgy in petitioning for mercy from God, they used the sites of Christ’s miracle in Jerusalem as a place of pilgrimage, and in Rome they practiced a mobile liturgy from church

Mary Beard, John North and Simon Price, Religion of Rome, vol. 1, Cambridge, 1998, p. 289. 221 Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians, London, 1986, p. 136. 222 Lane Fox, 1986, p. 265. 223 C. Mango, Byzantine Architecture, London, 1978, p. 46. 220

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Christian art. I agree with P.C Finney’s account of the Christian apologists. He writes: The apologist always subordinates art-related subject matter to concerns and issues that loom larger in their horizon, issues such as the nature of God, true worship, and the ethical life. These latter three represent the kinds of subjects that truly exercised the apologists’ imagination – they drew art (painting and sculpture) into the discussion only to illustrate these primary concerns. Since apology is the literary setting, interpretations of art-related material must first establish the character of the genre. In practical terms, what this means is that one must attempt to demarcate the boundaries between literary apology and real life.1

1. Some Considerations in the Study of Early Christian Iconography and Typology This chapter examines syncretism in early Roman Christianity by explaining early Christian iconography. I have defined the term syncretism as a blending of different religious practices and traditions, and I have discussed aesthetic juxtaposition or assimilation between Christian and non-Christian images in the Greco-Roman world. In this chapter I shall also explore the issue of syncretism in the Old and New Testaments.

In other words, we cannot conclude whether early Christian artists, those artists hired by Christians, or the objects’ contemporary viewers always saw the images based precisely on ideal Christian theological views or not. It is certainly possible that catechumens or the newly baptized faithful might have preferred the Roman or secular images they were familiar with, attitudes that were not necessarily against Christian authority but simply according to their personal preferences. At the very least, this paradox was possible in a fourth-century Roman Empire where even Christian Fathers were struggling with how to interpret their bible.

We tend to see the Old and New Testaments as the two parts of the Christian text, yet their origins differ: the former is a Jewish ‘history’, the latter Christian. By assuming the Old Testament as part of its own tradition, Christianity provided the framework for the assimilation of Jewish and Christian texts (i.e., the second aspect of syncretism). As a result, the concept of the Old and New Testaments emerged. Nevertheless, the process of the unification of the two histories in the Greco-Roman world was not simple. Early Christian iconography was established under these circumstances, and therefore has some value in evaluating the issue of syncretism in Christian art. A study of fourthcentury Christian iconography in the images of sarcophagi or caskets raises several questions. What did the images on the objects mean to contemporary viewers? What did the images symbolise? What were the intentions of the artists? Was their use of images intentional or accidental?

Let us consider the issue of the contradiction between the Hebrew Bible (or the Old Testament) and the New Testament. First, we can assume that the Hebrew Bible presented early Christians with a problem regarding the death and resurrection of Jesus. Jesus himself had claimed that his own life was a ‘fulfilment’ of the Hebrew Scripture.2 On the other hand, many of his actions seemed to disagree with some of the Old Testament’s moral teaching, and some parts of it were no longer relevant to Christian faith. For example, Jesus quotes Exodus when he said, “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’. But I say to you, do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also” (Matthew 5:38-39).

In the history of religious art, we seek to reveal the meanings of images, and when possible, why the artist used an image as a symbol. But because we lack documentation of what motivated these fourth-century artists, we can only look at the objects themselves (including any inscriptions) and consider them conceptually in a religious context. It is especially tempting to try and discern a programme of early Christian iconography when groups of images appear on a Christian object. The literature of religious art tends to focus on the theological relationship between a religion and its art. I believe a more comprehensive examination, however, forces us to question whether fourth-century Christian art ‘always’ developed in parallel to contemporary Christian theology, which was in constant flux during this period and was still being defined by its religious authorities.

Obviously Jews did not write the Hebrew Scriptures simply as a prelude to the New Testament. This fact was obvious to fourth-century Christian viewers, since Christianity was still a new religion compared with Judaism. Moreover, the very first generation of Christians were also Jews, so they were familiar with the Hebrew Scriptures. Paul and other New Testament writers valued the Hebrew Scriptures, and often used these Jewish ‘historical’ books as a basis for their own exposition of the Christian faith. Paul says to the faithful (many of whom, like him, were originally Jews), “For I tell you that Christ has become a servant of the circumcised on behalf of the truth of God in order that he might confirm the promise given to the patriarchs, and in order that the Gentiles might glorify

For example, Christian apologists discussed issues of the nature of Christianity from the second century until the Christian Triumph. Their discussions included the topic of how Christian images should be shown in Christian art, so it cannot be denied that they affected the development of early Christian art. Their theological ideas, however, should not be considered as the only framework for early

P.C. Finney, The Invisible God, New York, 1994, p. 16. Matthew 5:17.

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God for his mercy” (Romans 15:8-9). Although they could hardly ignore the Hebrew Bible, they were able to adopt or choose the ‘historical’ events that could show fulfilment in the New Testament. Even so, conflicts between the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament could not be avoided.

Another interpretative method for exegesis, which was established in early Christian literature from the second to the fourth century, is Christian typology – where events of the New Testament were seen as being already typed or prefigured in the Old Testament.8 Jean Daniélou writes: Indeed it was these very dissensions concerning the Old Testament which led the Fathers to develop typology, which brought out, as against the Gnostics, the unity of the two Testaments, and the superiority of the New, against the Jews.9

Marcion (c. AD 85-160) noted some of the problems that the Old Testament posed for Christians in The Contradictions.3 He saw that there was a rather different picture of God when he read the Old Testament, and that a God of love of which Jesus had spoken seemed to be far from some aspects of the Hebrew Scriptures. He focused on Isaiah 39-66 and the claim made by Yahweh, “I make weal and create woe, I am the Lord, who do all these things,” (Isaiah 45:7). He felt that Yahweh’s actions were far from a God of love. Marcion’s solution to this problem was to discard the Old Testament as an unworthy part of the Christian scriptures. Leaders of the early church, including Tertullian, condemned his rejection of the Law as heresy. Tertullian wrote:

In many ways the typological exegesis was established against the Jewish and the Gnostic interpretative method of the Hebrew Scriptures. According to J.N.D. Kelly’s Early Christian Doctrines (1960), Christian typological exegesis was “a technique for bringing out the correspondence between two Testaments, between the type or prefiguring or anticipation and the antitype or fulfilment”.10 Early Christian fathers did not establish typology formulary as the only interpretative method for the Hebrew Scriptures, but to interpret ‘the Old Testament’ they inherited allegorical interpretative methods, such as the one established by Philo. In these theological discussions, Daniélou believes that Christian typology differs from allegory, especially the allegorical method of Philo, because

Marcion laid down the position that Christ, who in the days of Tiberius was, by a previously unknown god, revealed for the salvation of all nations, is a different being from him who was ordained by God, the Creator for the restoration of the Jewish state, and who is yet to come. Between these, he interposes a separation of a great and absolute difference as great as lies between what is just and what is good, as great as lies between the law and the gospel, as great as is the difference between Christianity and Judaism.4

Jean Daniélou, From Shadows to Reality, trans. Dom Wulstan Hibberd, London, 1960, pp. 1-7. Daniélou divided the typological literature of this period into two groups. According to Daniélou, the first group is the writings of the anti-Jewish (e.g., the Dialogue with Trypho of St Justin dated the second century, the Adversus Judaeos of Tertullian dated to the third century, Tractatus of St Zeno of Verona dated to the fourth century) and the anti-Gnostics (e.g., the Adversus Haereses of St Irenaeus and the Adversus Maricionem of Tertullian). The second group of writings classified by Daniélou is about “the sacramental catechetical courses” and “[o]ne of the main points of these was to show how the types of the Old Testament have been fulfilled in the Sacraments” (e.g., the De Baptismo of Tertullian in the third century and the Mystagogical Lectures of St Cyril of Jerusalem, the De Mysteriis and De Sacramentis of St Ambrose in the fourth century). Among the second group of the typological literature, Daniélou considers whether some liturgical writings represent the typology of the Church. He writes, “A more erudite typology is found in the writings addressed to the better educated Christians, in which are found elements of the allegorising of Philo and the anagogism of the Gnostics: these writings form the earliest spiritual treatises” (e.g., the Stromata of Clement of Alexandria in the second century; the Treatise on Prayer of Origen in the third century; in the fourth century the Gnostic Centuries and the Hiera of Evagrius of Ponticus). 9 Daniélou, 1960, p. 1, n.1. 10 Malbon, 1990, p. 43, n. 30; J.M.D. Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines, second ed., New York, 1960, p. 71. 8

Clement of Alexandria also disagreed with Marcion’s antinomianism, instead siding with Philo’s allegorical interpretation of the Law.5 Philo Judaeus (c. 20 BC- AD 45), a Platonic philosopher and a member of the Jewish community in the Egyptian city of Alexandria, was a significant influence on early Christian exegesis. His Bible was the Septuagint, and from his background he saw no contradiction between Hellenism and Judaism. He tried to reconcile the teaching of Hebrew Scriptures with Greek philosophy by applying an allegorical interpretative method.6 Although he wasn’t Christian, Philo’s writings influenced Christian writers up to AD 400 (e.g., Clement, Origen, Didymus, Eusebius, Gregory of Nyssa, Ambrose, and Augustine).7 W.H.C. Frend, The Rise of Christianity, Philadelphia, 1984, p. 214, n. 123; A. Von Harnack, Marcion, das evangelium vom fremden Gott. 2nd ed. Leipzing, 1921, p. 81, second quotation. 4 Tertullian, Against Marcion IV. 6. English translation from Frend, 1984, p. 214. 5 David Runia, “Philo in Early Christian Literature” in Compendia Rerum Iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum vol. 3, Minneapolis, 1993, p. 140. 6 Frend, 1984, p. 35. 7 Runia, 1993, pp. 132-156, pp. 157-180, pp. 197-203, pp. 212-234, pp. 234-260, pp. 243-260 and pp. 320-329. 3

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Fig. 107. The Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City.

Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 1 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative 6707). “[Philo] set out his biblical theology in an allegorical form, borrowed from Hellenistic culture”.11 Daniélou refers to Origen (185-253), a Christian scholar and the author of Hexapla, as a “witness to the general typological tradition, such as we find in the liturgical and controversial writings; while he brings out all its richness, he is also influenced by the writings of Philo and the Gnostics, especially in his earlier works, such as Book III of the De Principiis and the Commentary on St John”.12 Although Daniélou admits that the writings of Philo had a great influence on the ancient literature of Christian typology, he believes that the allegory of Philo fundamentally differs from Christian typology because Philo’s allegorical interpretive method was derived from his Jewish background in Hellenistic culture. Daniélou stresses that in order to study the history of typological exegesis, we should “outline their early history in the Old Testaments, and also in Palestinian and Alexandrian Judaism”. He continues, “This will allow us to distinguish more clearly what in the Fathers belongs to ecclesiastical tradition and is strictly speaking typology, and what has its origin in extraneous sources, especially in the allegory of Philo”. 13 Christian typology therefore stands directly in the Christian tradition while the thought of Philo is considered non-Christian in Christian theology. David T. Runia writes, “[Philo’s] allegory, though involving

non-literal or symbolical interpretation, does remain tied to a historical, or perhaps more accurately a ‘salvationhistorical’ conception”.14 Runia quotes Hanson’s account of Philo’s influence of Origen’s interpretation: It was from Philo… that Origen derived his use of allegory… and it was in imitation of Philo that he turned traditional Christian typology into non-historical allegory. We can therefore reasonably claim that the particular parts of Origen’s interpretation of Scripture which are irreconcilable with the assumption of the scholars of today derive largely (but not solely) from sources extraneous to traditional Christianity, from a Platonic attitude to history and a Philonic attitude to Holy Scripture.15 Some scholars have borrowed Daniélou’s notion of Christian typology in theology in the literature of fourthcentury Christian iconography. Both Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Catherine Brown Tkacz consider Christian typology as key to understanding early Christian iconographical programmes on fourth-century Christian objects. Malbon studies the Junius Bassus sarcophagus (fig. 107), while Tkacz focuses on the Brescia Casket (fig. Runia, 1993, p. 86, Runia, 1993, p. 167 and note 51: R.P.C.Hanson, Allegory and Event: a Study of the Sources and Significance of Origen’s Interpretation of Scripture, London, 1959, p. 361 and p. 368. 14 15

Daniélou, 1960, p. 202. Daniélou, 1960, pp. 4-5. 13 Daniélou 1960, viii. 11

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Fig. 108. The Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia.

Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 304 (Hirmer Fotoarchi). 108). Both of these remarkable fourth-century Christian objects hold considerable significance in the literature of early Christian iconography as they help unravel the Christian iconographic programme. Interestingly, neither Malbon nor Tkacz emphasise Philo in their discourse, while both of them often refer to Origen’s interpretation, which was influenced strongly by Philo.16 In her footnote regarding the “allegorical interpretation in the school of Alexandria (Clement, Origen)”,17 Malbon quotes Kelly’s account and writes:

Malbon writes: Strictly speaking, the Alexandrian school tended very early toward allegorical interpretation, with the corollary temptation of undervaluing or dispensing with the literal meaning of the text, against which the Antiochene school reacted with a more stringent typological interpretation.20 Since Philo’s allegorical interpretations of Hellenism and Judaism influenced fourth-century Church fathers like Gregory of Nyssa, it is likely that these interpretations also affected Christian iconography, especially since some fourth-century Christian authorities respected him as a Church father.21

Those who “tried to make the task of interpretation easier by a lavish resort to allegory”18 took their cue from Philo of Alexandria, who sought to bridge the Hebrew Scriptures and Platonic philosophy, and thus they aimed to elicit the moral, theological, or mystical meaning that each passage, verse, or word was presumed to contain.19

Malbon, 1990, p. 42, n. 25, n. 26, n. 27, and n. 28. Runia, 1993, pp. 3-7. On the theory of the priority of Jewish over Christian images, K. Weitzmann and H.L. Kessler, The Frescoes of the Dura Synagogue and Christian Art, Washington D.C., 1990. On the studies of Jewish art in the Roman world, see J. Gutmann, “Jewish Art and Jewish Studies,” in S.J.D. Cohen and E.L. Greenstein eds., The State of Jewish Studies, Detroit, 1990, pp. 193-211, esp. pp. 197-201. 20 21

Daniélou, 1960, pp. 4-5. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, Princeton, 1990 p. 42, n. 26. 18 Kelly, 1960, p. 66. 19 Malbon, 1990, p. 178 and n. 26; Kelly, 1960, p. 66. 16 17

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Despite the similarity, it is important to note that the allegorical interpretive method of fourth-century Christian iconography seems to some scholars to be completely contrary to Christian typology. As stated earlier, both art historians Malbon and Tkacz argue that Christian typology is key to understanding fourth-century Christian iconography. But there is disagreement as to whether Christian typology can always be applied successfully to early Christian objects. Tkacz argues that Malbon’s typological account of the Christian iconography on the Junius Bassus sarcophagus is weak because of a lack of “early Christian evidence” or “early Christian texts supporting” any kind of link between Isaac and Pilate.22 Sabine Schrenk also suggests that Malbon’s interpretation of Christian terminology and exegesis needs more literary support.23 In another disagreement, Malbon argues that the sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham is “the type or prefiguring or anticipation” of the Passion of Christ, and that “Typological relationships could be expanded beyond the two Testaments and were especially applied to the sacraments of the church” (e.g., baptism).24 To support a connection between the Passion of Christ and baptism, she quotes Cyril of Jerusalem in his Mystagogical Lecture dated after 350: “[we] know full well that Baptism not only washes away our sins and produces for us the gift of the Holy Spirit, but is also the antitype of the Passion of Christ”.25 Schrenk, however, opposes the idea that the relationship between the Passion of Christ and baptism is linked by typological thinking on the grounds that it is more likely that Cyril’s exegesis was an allegorical interpretation rather than a typological approach. In other words, Schrenk believes that Malbon has incorrectly taken Cyril’s ‘allegorical’ interpretation as Christian typological thinking.

sarcophagus, but Cyril’s allegorical interpretation of baptism and the Passion of Christ shows us diversity in fourth-century Christian ideas. I think we need not assume that fourth-century Christians in the Roman empire had made firm their models for interpretations of Christianity, symbolically and dogmatically. As pointed out earlier, one of their main issues among these Christian apologists was how to deal with the Old Testament. Daniel, the last book of the Old Testament, was written around 164 BC, while the first book of the New Testament, 1 Thessalonians, was written around AD 51,27 and there was a considerable gap in time between the oldest books of the two Testaments. According to early Christian literature by Christian apologists, it is clear that the extent of Christian exegesis (i.e., between allegory and typology) was an ongoing issue of debate among Christians from the first century (e.g., Marcion).28

According to M.C. Murray, however, an allegorical interpretation of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus is possible. Murray maintains that allegorical interpretations led to a “depreciation of [the Old Testament’s] literal sense”, since “The New Testament became less and less of a control and the imagination was allowed further and further in.”26 In other words, by using allegory, every image that alluded to water elements in the Old Testament could be an antitype of both baptism and the Passion of Christ.

Moreover, Roman pagans had their own notions of typology. Philo’s allegorical interpretive method for the concept of the king (or the emperor) was not far from the Roman concept of what J. Elsner calls “political typology”. Elsner states that the Arch of Constantine (315 AD) “uses sculpted reliefs of Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius as well as of Constantine in a highly complex typological justification of the new reign through implicit comparison with previous good emperors”.30 It should be noted that W.H.C. Frend sees a similar use of political typology in Philo’s On the Embassy to Gaius, when he indicated that

Although typology was largely conceived to fill the theological gaps between the two texts,29 it was established only as a theological setting and not as an iconographical setting. I doubt that fourth-century Christian iconographical programmes should be interpreted within the same framework of Christian typology as in the literature of Christian theology. In my study, I would not attempt to disagree with Daniélou’s distinctions between allegory and Christian typology. If Daniélou can argue that early Christian fathers (e.g., Origen and Gregory of Nyssa), who were “witness” to Christian typology, were influenced by the allegorical interpretative method for the Hebrew Scriptures, I would argue that fourth-century Christian artists were influenced by Christian ‘typology’ and did not necessarily have to refuse Philo’s allegorical interpretations in constructing a Christian iconographical programme.

Christian typology could be key to understanding the artist’s intention of the programme of the Junius Bassus

M. Eliade, A History of Religious Ideas, vol. 2, trans., W. R. Trask, Chicago, 1984, p. 265 and p. 352. 28 On the apologists’ struggle with Greco-Roman images, see Finney, 1994, pp. 15-98. 29 Murray, 1992, p. 689. 30 J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, Cambridge, 1995, p. 280, n. 64; P. Pierce, “The Arch of Constantine: Propaganda and Ideology in Late Roman Art,” Art History 12 (1989), pp. 387-418; Malbon, 1990, pp. 150-151. J. Elsner, “From The Culture of Spolia to the Cult of Relics: the arch of Constantine and the genesis of late antique forms” in Papers of the British School at Rome (LXVIII), 2000, pp. 149-184. 27

Catherine Brown Tkacz, The Key to the Brescia Casket: Typology and the early Christian imagination, Paris, 2002, p. 192. 23 Sabine Schrenk, “Typos und Antitypos in der Frühchritlichen Kunst” in Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Ergänzungsband 21 (1995), p. 45. 24 Malbon, 1990, p. 43. 25 Malbon, 1990, p. 43, n. 35. 26 Mary Charles Murray, Review of Malbon’s The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus in The Journal of Theological Studies, 43.2 (1992), p. 689. 22

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Fig. 109. Left end of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359.

Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 29 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative748).

Fig. 110. Right end of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359.

Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 31 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative 749). 98

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his ideal king was fulfilled by Augustus and that his concept was inherited from Stoic philosophy.31 Frend writes, “Philo became the forerunner of the whole succession of loyalist Greek Christian apologetic, from Justin Martyr to Eusebius to Caesarea. He may claim to have been the father of Christian political thought as of many aspects of Greek Christian theology”.32

as prefect of Rome at the age of 42 years and two months and that he had been newly baptized.36 A verse inscription on the lid of the sarcophagus also speaks of mourning for Junius Bassus by the Roman people.37 Although there is no record of his funeral, A. Cameron assumes from this evidence that Junius Bassus was granted a public funeral, as had been done for other city prefects who died in office.38 The quality of the sarcophagus indicates his high social status in comparison to his contemporaries.

On the topic of other typologies in Christian iconography, Grabar writes:

The façade of the sarcophagus consists of ten intercolumnar scenes in a double-register (fig. 107). There are depictions on the upper register, left to right, of the sacrifice of Isaac, the arrest of Peter, Christ enthroned between two disciples, the arrest of Christ, and the judgment of Pontius Pilate. The lower register depicts, left to right, the ordeal of Job, Adam and Eve in the garden, the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem, Daniel in the lion’s den, and the arrest of Paul. On the spandrels of the lower register, six scenes seem to represent subjects from the Old and New Testaments, with the participants depicted not as people but as lambs, something J. Elsner notes as ‘curious’.39 These scenes seem to be the Hebrews in the Fiery Furnace, Moses or Peter striking the rock, Christ with the loaves and wine, the baptism of Christ, Moses receiving law, and the raising of Lazarus. 40 On the end panels of the sarcophagus are four scenes of putti, which G.M.A. Hanfmann identifies as seasonal scenes.41 The left end shows grape harvesting on the upper and lower registers (fig. 109), and the right end shows putti harvesting wheat on the upper register and standing with olives/animals/birds on the lower register (fig. 110). On the lid of the sarcophagus (which is damaged), there are three reliefs, showing from right to left the verse inscription, a relief of the meal of the dead, and the mask of Luna. There may have been five reliefs originally, as the first two scenes appear to be missing.42

In order to… study one of the means most frequently employed for creating new Christian images, we will attempt to define a certain number of general themes – such as Death and Resurrection – which, at the period we are discussing, came into being in Christian iconography. In this way an iconographic typology can be established, a network of constants which, through individual works and in company with constants common to everything appearing at the time, reveal closer lines of kinship between works in related categories. In the case that concerns us, it is a matter of images which, whether they be pagan, governmental, Christian, or Jewish, treat related themes. In fact, this community of ideas impose on images of different origins similar formulas.33 This suggests that early Christian iconography shows typologies broader than just between the Old and New Testaments, and that typologies can be found between various social or cultural contexts of the fourth-century Roman world. To study Christian iconography, Murray writes, “[the] specifically iconographical problem therefore is twofold: to understand the relationship of the multiplicity of scenes to overall unity, and so to understand it as a meaningful and unified programme; and to try to discover what external force lies behind it”.34 With this in mind, in this chapter, I shall investigate the problem of exegesis and Christian iconography in the fourth century by looking at the images of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus and the Brescia Casket.

Discovered in 1597, the sarcophagus is rich in diverse images and has been much discussed by art historians, Malbon, 1990, p. 3, n. 6; Alan Cameron, “The Funeral of Junius Bassus,” Zeitschrift für Papyrolige und Epigraphik, 139 (2002), pp. 288 and n. 2. 37 Malbon, 1990, p. 114, n. 64. 38 Cameron, 2002, pp. 288-292. 39 J. Elsner, “Inventing Christian Rome: the role of early Christian art”, in Catharine Edward and Greg Woolf, eds., Rome the Cosmopolis, Cambridge, 2003, p. 84. 40 Malbon, 1990, p. 72. 41 On the season sarcophagi, see George M. A. Hanfmann, The Season Sarcophagus in Dumbarton Oaks, 2 vols, Cambridge (MA), 1951. See also Malbon, 1990, pp. 91103. Malbon refers to Hanfmann’s account of the seasonal scenes in Christian contexts (pp. 91-96). 42 On the interpretation of the lid of the Junius Bassus, see Malbon, 1990, pp. 104-126; Nikolaus Himmelmann, Typologische Untersuchungen an römischen Sarkophagreliefs des 3. und 4. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. Mainz am Rhein, 1973, pp. 15-28. 36

2. Christian Typological Interpretations in the Junius Bassus Sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket The sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, dated 359, holds considerable significance in the literature of early Christian art as one of the finest fourth-century Christian sarcophagi.35 An inscription on the upper edge of the main coffin, dated 25 August in 359, tells us that Junius Bassus died in office Frend, 1984, pp. 35-36, n. 94; On the Embassy to Gaius, 21.143-144. 32 Frend, 1984, p. 36. 33 A. Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968, xlvii. 34 Murray, 1992, p. 687. 35 On the date of the sarcophagus, see Malbon, 1990, p. 3, n. 2. 31

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Schefold disagrees with Gerke’s re-arrangement of the actual programme and argues that the scenes of the upper and lower registers show the artist’s Christian intention to be a symmetrical connection between the Old and New Testament scenes.49 In contrast, Gaertner believes that the programme of the sarcophagus could be interpreted using a chiastic interpretation of the Christian iconographical content.50 In this interpretation, symmetrical connections occur between the upper and lower registers as an overall programme.

including Giuseppe Wilpert and André Grabar.43 Wilpert tried to illuminate the iconography of the sarcophagus using archaeological research and early Christian literary support to date the monument and categorise its style. Grabar’s work, sometimes called a “dictionary” of Christian iconography, attempts to broadly codify the images in early Christian iconography.44 His attention to the Junius Bassus sarcophagus in Christian Iconography is useful in helping us understand each symbol individually, since he believes each image of the sarcophagus is common to other Christian objects and tries to derive individual meanings from the comparison. His study helps to understand individual symbols in each image of the sarcophagus, but not the overall programme of the images (i.e., in part but not as a whole). Further study of the programme of this sarcophagus has been done by four German art historians (Anton de Waal, Friedrich Gerke, Karl Schefold and Johannes Gaertner), and one of the most recent analyses of the sarcophagus has been done by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon in The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus (1990).45 Malbon states her central question in this way: “how does the fourth-century context illuminate the iconographical program of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus?”.46

In The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, Malbon challenges these four interpretations. Malbon writes, “Although none of these studies is without interest and insight, all exhibit significant weakness in their hypothesis and conclusions – especially in light of our desire to be faithful to compositional cues and contemporary conventions”.51 She also argues that these ‘compositional cues and contemporary conventions’ could also be supported by Christian typological interpretations that connect the scenes of the sarcophagus to the Old and New Testaments.52 But Murray sees difficulty in this analysis: A major question which needs to be addressed is why there is so much profusion on the sarcophagus when so much theological reference was considered necessary here. Since it is not theologically confused, it is presumably being caused by something else, such as allegory. It could be that the sarcophagus [of Junius Bassus], far from reflecting typology, is instead reflecting its exit as a useful theological tool.53

De Waal focuses on the relation between the scenes of the sarcophagus façade and the spandrel pictures, and asserts that the programme of the sarcophagus is unified by images from the Old and New Testaments that represent the contemporary Christian faith, either purposely or accidentally.47 Gerke focuses on the connection and order of the ten scenes of the façade in comparison with other fourth-century sarcophagi. He asserts that these specific scenes were mainly based on the theme of death and that they were put in the Christian contexts of the Old and New Testaments (he acknowledged however, that if this is the case the artist made a mistake in the ordering of the scenes).48

Another example of sophisticated early Christian iconographical programmes is the Brescia Casket dated around the late fourth century (between 370 and 390, most that the scenes on the upper register of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus from left to right (Abraham/Isaac, Arrest of Peter, the symbol of Resurrection, Arrest of Christ, and Judgment of Pilate) were the same as other contemporary programmes of Christian sarcophagi (i.e. the Arrest of Paul, the Arrest of Peter, the symbol of Christ – Teaching or Resurrection – the Arrest of Christ, and Judgment of Pilate). Because the Arrest of Paul was depicted on the right corner of the lower register of the Junius Bassus Sarcophagus, Gerke ‘rearranges’ the actual program. He examines whether Abraham/Isaac on the left corner of the upper register and the Arrest of Paul on the right corner of the lower register would better support his argument if those two scenes were transposed. On the examples of the sarcophagus, see Malbon 1990, p. 30, n. 26 and fig. 6; Malbon refers to the crypt of San Massimino as an example of a “normal passion sarcophagus” of the Christ-Peter-Paul type, as seen in five-niche tree or columnar sarcophagi. 49 Schefold, 1936, p. 291. 50 Gaertner, 1968, pp. 255-257. 51 Malbon, 1990, p. 27. 52 Malbon, 1990, pp. 127-136. 53 Murray, 1992, p. 690.

G. Wilpert, I Sarcofagi Cristiani Antichi. 3 vols. Rome, 1929-1936; A. Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968, p. 43; A. Grabar, The Beginnings of Christian Art: 200-395, trans. Stuart Gilbert and James Emmons, London, 1967, p. 246. 44 Malbon, 1990, pp. 24-25, n. 9; Henry Maguire, Earth and Ocean: The Terrestrial World in Early Byzantine Art, University Park and London, 1987, p. 3. 45 Anton de Waal, Der Sarkophag des Junius Bassus in den Grotten von St. Peter: Eine archäologische Studie, Rome, 1900; Friedrich Gerke, Der Sarkophag des Iunius Bassus, Berlin, 1936; Karl Schefold, “Altchristliche Bilderzyklen: Bassussarkophag und Santa Maria Maggiore”, Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 16 (1936), pp. 289-316; Johannes A. Gaertner, “Zur Deutung des Junius-Bassus-Sarkophages”. Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 83 (1968), pp. 240-264. On her reviews of the four German art historians’ interpretations of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, see Malbon, 1990 pp. 27-38. 46 Malbon, 1990 p. 27. 47 De Waal, 1900, pp. 84-85. 48 Gerke, 1936, p. 30, and also see p. 16; Gerke assumes 43

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likely around 386), which is an ivory-carved Christian box, probably a reliquary, and probably made in Northern Italy.54 Grabar refers to the iconography of the casket as an example of juxtaposition of the Old and New Testaments, showing subjects together “without any idea of establishing a direct correspondence between the persons or events that are depicted”. He writes, “The Old Testament subjects here are more numerous, while the Gospels retain only moral predominance by the central placement of the panels devoted to them and their larger scale”.55 On the other hand, in The Key to the Brescia Casket: typology and the Early Christian imagination, Tkacz argues that its 33 scenes from the New Testament and the Old Testament are linked with typological patterns, and that the images of the New Testament, which are focal points and bigger than the images of the Old Testament, are depicted in each panel as a fulfilment of the Old.

Two scenes of New Testament miracles are depicted on the middle register of the right side of the casket: the healing of a blind man (left) and the raising of Lazarus (right). Three symbols from the Old Testament are depicted on the upper register on the right side (from left to right): Moses receiving the law on Mount Sinai, three Hebrews in the fiery furnace, and the call of Moses (alternatively interpreted as Moses and the hand). Three scenes from the Old Testament are also depicted on the lower register: the meeting of Jacob and Rachel at the well, Jacob wrestling with an angel, and Jacob’s ladder. Again, the scenes from the New Testament on the middle register are located between the scenes from the Old Testament on the upper and lower registers. There are two narrow panels on the outer edges of the vertical face on the right side of the casket (i.e., a tree on the left and a column with a short tree and a scale on the right).

The details of the images of the Brescia Casket are as follows (figs. 111, 112, 113, 114, 115):56 on the upper register of the lid are depicted (from left to right), Christ in Gethsemane, the arrest of Christ, and the denial of Peter. On the lower register of the lid are, from left to right, Christ before Annas and Caiaphas and Christ before Pilate. There are six birds shown on a narrow panel of the lid. On the front, three New Testament scenes are in the middle register: Christ healing a woman with the flux of blood, Christ teaching, and Christ the Good Shepherd (from left to right). Two symbols from the Old Testament are depicted on the upper register: Jonah swallowed by the whale (left) and Jonah spewed forth (right). Three symbols from the Old Testament are depicted on the lower register (from left to right): Susanna in the Garden, Susanna brought before Daniel, and Daniel in the lion’s den. The front of the casket shows New Testament scenes in the main register but grounds them between scenes of the Old Testament in the upper and lower registers (i.e., the books of Jonah and Daniel). There are two narrow panels on the outer edge of the front’s vertical face (i.e., hanging fish on the left and a rooster on a column on the right). Fifteen medallion portraits surround the edge of the lid (two of them are probably lost, making seventeen portraits originally).

One scene from the New Testament, the raising of Jairus’s daughter, is depicted on the middle register of the left side of the casket. The upper register has images from the Old Testament. They are, from left to right, David and Goliath, the symbol of the incarnation surrounded by symbols of idolatry, persecution, heresy, the Prophet from Judah, and King Jeroboam at the Altar of Bethel. The lower register shows other scenes from the Old Testament: the Israelites eating and dancing before the golden calf, the golden calf, and a meal. There are two narrow panels on the outer edges of the vertical face (i.e., the cross on the left side and a lamp stand on the right side). Again, the scene from the New Testament in the middle register is grounded by scenes from the Old Testament on the upper and lower registers. The back of the casket also organises images into upper and lower registers. Two scenes from the New Testament, the judgement of Ananias and Sapphira and the Transfiguration are depicted on the middle registers, and the Old Testament images on the upper and lower registers. On the upper register, from left to right, Susanna, Jonah resting under the Gourd Plant, and Daniel poisoning the dragon are depicted. On the lower register, from left to right, the finding of Moses, Moses killing the Egyptian, and the feast are depicted. There are two narrow panels on the outer edges of the vertical face on the back of the casket (i.e., a tower on the left side and a hanging man on the right side).

On the date of the Brescia Casket, see Tkacz, 2002, P. 19, n.1; Herbert Kessler, “Scenes from Acts of the Apostles on Early Christian Ivories,” in P. Finney, ed., Studies in Early Christianity, London, 1993, p.89; Kessler believes that the casket was made probably in Rome, around 400. Joslin Carolyn Watson, “The Program of the Brescia Casket”. Gesta 20 (1981), p. 291 and p. 293; Watson suggests that the Casket was made around 386, and recent scholars agrees with this. On the origin of the Brescia Casket, see Tkacz, 2002, pp. 19-20, n. 2; a North Italian origin is suggested by recent studies; Watson, 1981, p. 283. 55 Grabar, 1968, pp. 137-138. On the studies of the Brescia Casket, see also Watson, 1981, pp. 283-298. 56 On the various identifications of scenes and images of the Brescia Casket, see Tkacz, 2002, pp. 195-243; in this study, I shall follow the identifications suggested by Tkacz. 54

Some scenes are common to both (i.e., The Arrest of Christ, Christ before Pilate, Christ Teaching, Daniel in the Lion’s Den, Three Hebrews in the Fiery Furnace), but the date of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus (AD 359) is considered to be earlier than the Brescia Casket (c. AD 386 ), for it is obvious that the compositions of the latter are more complex, stylistically and iconographically. Another difference between the programmes of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket is their framings. The earlier work contains Old and New Testament scenes on the main façade grounded by ‘pagan’ scenes on the lid and 101

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Fig. 111.Lid of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century.

Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 333 (Alinari, Rome).

Fig. 112. Front of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century.

Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 335 (Alinari, Rome). 102

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Fig. 113.Right end of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably

Fig. 114.Left end of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably

from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar 1980, fig. 336 (Alinari, Rome).

from Italy, late fourth century. Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar 1980, fig. 334 (Alinari, Rome).

Fig. 115. Back of the Brescia Casket, ivory, probably from Italy, late fourth century.

Civici Musei d’ Arte e Storia, Brecia. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 337 (Alinari, Rome). 103

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ends. The later work, the Brescia Casket, also has New Testament scenes grounded by Old Testament scenes, but there are no ‘pagan’ images. This difference in framework between the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket has been thought to show us development in Christian iconography over nearly 37 years.

Let us consider the following question again. Why did the artist not inscribe any word of Christianity from the Old and New Testament on the centre verse inscription of the lid of the sarcophagus? Instead the inscription describes the Roman mourning of Junius Bassus’ funeral. This absence leads me to assume that all the images on the lid of the sarcophagus might have been depicted as being non-Christian, and that these non-Christian images could have been connected with the Old and New Testament images of the façade in a context of Roman society and religion. At the same time, the Christian images of the façade are grounded by the non-Christian imagery of the four putti scenes on the ends, which could be interpreted using Philo’s allegorical interpretive method for GrecoRoman Judaism. I believe that the programme of the sarcophagus might represent a juxtaposition of images from Jewish history (the Old Testament), Christian history (the New Testament) and Roman Christian history, all in a fourth-century Roman social context. I argue that the images of Roman Christian history of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus are derived from a juxtaposition of images of both Roman history and Roman religious history (i.e., Roman mythology), which had already occurred in Roman imperial art.

Before coming to this conclusion, however, we should consider how the functions of these objects differ. The Junius Bassus sarcophagus was made for a Roman official’s funeral in both private and public spheres while the Brescia Casket was probably used for a more dogmatic reason: to help in establishing tradition and doctrine in the Christian sphere.57 I believe that these functions affected the content of their Christian iconographic programmes. The different frameworks and dates in themselves cannot justify the conclusion that the two Christian objects show ‘development’ in Christian iconography. Next, I shall delve into the images of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket within a different framework. With this in mind, in this chapter I shall investigate the problem of exegesis and Christian iconography in the fourth century as an instance of what I have been calling syncretism (that is, the juxtaposition of elements from different earlier contexts to create a new Christian programme: in this case Christian imagery using the Old Testament, and Jewish iconography using Roman imagery of traditional cultures). I will discuss these issues by looking at the images of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus and the Brescia Casket.

The images of the sarcophagus can be interpreted in a Roman or Christian context, and also in a context of Christian typological thinking in accordance with Malbon’s discourse. Let us re-evaluate these non-Christian images on the sarcophagus here. First, the four end-panel scenes are from neither the Old Testament nor the New Testament. Nevertheless, these mythological wine-making figures can be seen in contemporary Christian art, such as the sarcophagus of Constantina in Rome’s mausoleum of Sta Constanza and its ambulatory mosaics dated to c. AD 350 (objects which I referred to in chapter one). Most art historians agree that the Christian imagery of putti making wine and harvesting grapes was originally adopted from the Dionysian cycle.58 In late Roman funeral art, Dionysian subjects were used on altars, cippi and sarcophagi, and they represented the deceased members of the cult as well as the worship of Dionysus. Christians also used vine-scrolls in association with Dionysian cycles and transformed the meaning in Christian contexts, possibly referring to the statement in the Gospel of John, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower”(15:1).59

3. Philo’s Allegorical Interpretive Method a. The Junius Bassus Sarcophagus Although Philo’s allegorical interpretive method for understanding the Old Testament affected fourth-century Christian fathers, and his theory is considered in the literature of Christian theology a fundamentally different concept from Christian typology (e.g., Daniélou). At the same time, in the literature of fourth-century Christian iconography, the allegorical interpretive method has been considered an inadequate method for understanding the ‘typological connection’ in the programme of objects like the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket. In the following sections, I shall consider whether we may interpret the relation between images of the Old and New Testament within a different framework from Christian typology.

In The Season Sarcophagus in Dumbarton Oaks, G.M.A. Hanfmann considers the four putti scenes on the ends of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus as Seasons (figs. 109, 110), which was Christian symbolic imagery depicted on other fourth-century Christian sarcophagi. He also conjectures that the artist might have also worked the composition on

One of the artistic features of the programme of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus is that the images on the ends and the lid seem to have no ostensibly Christian content, while the images of the façade are grounded in images of the Old and New Testament. The four end-panel scenes are of putti, a mask of Luna, a verse inscription and a relief of a meal scene on the lid.

Charles Murray, “Rebirth and Afterlife”, BAR International series 100, 1981, pp. 68-71. 59 J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford, 1998, p. 164. 58

On the history of the Brescia Casket, see also Tkacz, 2002, pp. 21-28. 57

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Fig. 116. Front of Lateran 181 sarcophagus, marble, from Rome, c. AD 340. Lateran Museum, Rome.

Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London.

Fig. 118. Right end of Lateran 181 sarcophagus, marble,

Fig. 117. Left end of Lateran 181 sarcophagus, marble,

from Rome, c. AD 340. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London.

from Rome, c. AD 340. Lateran Museum, Rome. Photo: Warburg Institute, University of London, London.

the ends of the sarcophagus of Lateran 181 (c. AD 340) (figs. 116, 117, 118), since it has the same composition as the four putti scenes.60 The right and left ends of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus consist of four panels depicting four scenes of putti. Hanfmann interprets the putti harvesting grapes on the upper and lower register as representing autumn and the wheat harvest of the right end of the upper register summer, while the olive tree and the animals and birds of the lower register represent winter and spring respectively.61

The treatment of Seasons in Christian literature may be considered under three headings: the preservation of antique pagan knowledge which was transmitted to the Middle Ages by Christian writers, the adaptation of traditional ideas to Christian purpose, and the development of special Christian ideas about the Seasons.62 These are all, in one form or another, allegorical interpretations. The symbol of wine-making and vinescrolls indicate an obvious indebtedness to Dionysian cycles, even if the artist’s intention was entirely Christian. Hanfmann focuses on Augustine’s account of “the symbolism of the numeral Four” for the seasons in his De ordine (II, 42), and he believes that the church fathers no later than the fourth century, including Augustine, derived “the tetradic elements referring to the universe” from

The concept of the seasons is not stressed in the New Testament, so their appearance on Christian sarcophagi is curious. According to Hanfmann, Christian representations of the seasons had three possible purposes:

Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 2, p. 184, No. 539 and No. 540. Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 2, pp. 184-185 and No. 540.

60

Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 1, p. 196.

61

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these church fathers followed Philonic tradition.66 Malbon argues that the symbol of grapes and grain on the ends of the sarcophagus could be expanded into a symbol of the Eucharist, and that the connection between the images of the façade and those of the ends is based on the sacrament of the Christian church: We may ‘read’ the façade of the sarcophagus: God’s action for salvation in ‘historical’ events, often typologically interrelated, is appropriated in the sacraments of Christ’s church. And we may ‘read’ the ends of the sarcophagus: God’s offer of resurrection (new life after death) is appropriated through the sacrament of Christ’s body and blood (the bread and wine of the eucahrist).67 Let us return to the fourth-century church fathers’ account of the “tetradic elements referring to the universe” and the symbol of the seasons, derived from Philo’s interpretation of the Old Testament. The concept of the universe held significance not only for Hellenistic Judaism but also for Roman imperial cults. The breastplate of the statue of Augustus on the Prima Porta Augustus (dated to the late first century BC) represents the deified emperor and symbols of the universe (fig. 119). The image of Caelus68 (the Latin name for the Greek god Uranus), an ‘allegorical personage who represents the universe’,69 is seen also on the breastplate of the statue, drawing his cloak in and spreading his arms.

Fig. 119. Detail of Prima Porta Augustus, breastplate, first

century BC. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Elsner, 1995, fig. 21 (Deutsches Archäologisches Institut).

This mythological figure is seen also on a centre relief on the upper register of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus (fig. 120): Christ enthroned as the universal sovereign, giving the law between Peter and Paul. Beat Brenk believes that the image derives directly from the figure of the emperor enthroned over Caelus on the Arch of Galerius in Thessalonike.70

Philo’s allegorical interpretation of the Old Testament.63 Hanfmann quotes the following Philo passage on the symbol of the zodiac circle of the stones on the breastplate of the High Priest in On the Life of Moses:

This central scene is set by two vine columns, which show the putti in a vintage scene. From Malbon’s typological perspective, the vine column on the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus should be interpreted as a type of Christ.71 I agree that the scenes of putti making wine on the left end can be connected with the central scenes on the façade because of the symbolical relation to the sacraments of the Christian

For that circle, when divided into four parts, constitutes by three signs in each case the Seasons of the year – Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter – these four, the transition of each being determined by three signs and made known to us by the revolutions of the sun, according to a mathematical law, unshaken, immutable, and truly divine. Therefore also they were fitted into what is rightly called the place of reason (legeion, the name of the breastplate), for a rational principle, ordered and firmly established, creates the transitions and Seasons of the year”.64

Malbon, 1990, p. 100, n. 50 (Gregory of Nyssa, Commentary on the Song of Songs, homily 5; trans. Casimir McCambley, O.C.S.O. (Brookline, Mass, 1987), p. 116, n. 50, n. 51. See also G.M.A. Hanfmann, Season Sarcophagus, vol I, pp. 205-206.(Hanfmann, 1951. p.293) 67 Malbon, 1990, p. 103. 68 Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus, trans. A. Shapiro, Ann Arbor, 1988, pp. 188-192. 69 Grabar, 1968, p. 43. See also Grabar, 1967, p. 249. He indicates that this icon signifies the spread of a glorious kingdom to the whole universe. 70 Beat Brenk, “Imperial Heritage of Early Christian Art” in K. Weitzmann ed., Age of Spirituality: A Symposium, Princeton, 1980, p. 45, n. 30. 71 Malbon, 1990, p. 121. 66

Both Hanfmann and Malbon consider the seasons as a symbol of Resurrection,65 which is a kind of allegorical analysis. Malbon mentions Origen and Gregory of Nyssa, who referred to the symbol of the seasons as death and resurrection, although she does not indicate the fact that Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 1, p. 198, n. 364. Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 1, p. 196, n. 345; Philo, On the Life of Moses (De vita Mosis) II, 124ff. 65 Hanfmann, 1951, vol. 1, p. 244; Malbon, 1990, pp. 9295. 63 64

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church. On the other hand, if the Caelus on the central scene of the façade is a symbol of the universe in a Roman context, I believe that the seasons (i.e., the four putti scenes on the end) also represent “the tetradic elements referring to the universe”, as stated by the fourth-century fathers. In other words, the ends and the façade of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus might be connected with not only a Christian typological link but also by a GrecoRoman-Jewish interpretive method for the Scriptures (or the Old Testament). Let’s move to the three non-Christian images on the lid of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus. I argue that the programme of the images of the sarcophagus cannot be interpreted out of a Roman historical Christian context. First, the verse inscription in the centre on the lid of the sarcophagus represents Roman mourning at the death of Bassus.72 As I stated above, according to the three fragments of the inscription, there are no words related to Christianity. This verse represents a ‘historical record’ of a Roman official’s funeral. According to the inscription on the upper edge of the main coffin, Malbon believes that Junius Bassus had been newly baptized when he died.73 Moreover, this inscription on the edge describes contemporary Roman Christians including Junius Bassus, giving us an account of the history of Roman Christianity. J. Elsner focuses on this vine column, the spandrel images (i.e., the multiplication of loaves and the baptism) and the inscription’s (VRBI NEOFITVS IIT AD DEVM), and writes, “…this scene is surrounded by images alluding to the eucharist and baptism – exactly the sacraments handed down by Christ through the apostles to the contemporary worshipper in Rome (VRBI), including the newly baptized Junius Bassus”.74

Fig. 120. Detail of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, marble, Rome, AD 359. Musei Vaticani, Vatican City. Photo: After Malbon, 1990, fig. 44 (Rev. da Fabbrica di San Pietro in Vaticano negative 2528).

tomb for generations as pagan families had done. This custom was not Christian, but common to pagans in the Roman world. A family’s pagan and Christian deceased, therefore, were sometimes buried in the same tomb. Most senatorial families still practised paganism into the midfourth century,78 and Junius Bassus was baptized on his deathbed (which was a common practice in the fourth century). Thus, there is a strong possibility that his family members were not baptized, before or after his death, and that they were familiar with the Roman funeral tradition and practised it after the death of Junius Bassus. Malbon quotes Daltrop’s accounts. Daltrop writes:

The question arises of why the artist did not inscribe any word of Christianity from the Old or New Testament on the lid of the sarcophagus? To investigate this question, I shall study the other non-Christian images on the lid. One (partly damaged) relief on the right side of the lid has been considered as kline meal (the meal of the dead in the Roman tradition of the heroic cult) by Himmelmann.75 He explains that this imagery represents the Roman tradition of having a meal at an ancestor’s grave, an ancient Roman custom,76 since this subject was depicted on a number of Roman sarcophagi dated to the third century.77 Wealthy Christian families did not seal their tombs after burying a member; they instead buried their deceased in the same

In this redemptive process (suggested by the façade scenes) the pagan world is included and transformed: the vintage, the grain harvest, and the seasons on the ends point symbolically to the afterlife, while the lid pictures of the meal of the dead and the dextrarum junctio allude to the ancient Roman custom that retains its value for

On the original epigraph of the verse inscription in the center of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus, see Malbon, 1990, pp. 114-116. 73 Malbon, 1990, p. 3. 74 Elsner, 2003, p. 86 75 Himmelmann, 1973, p. 17. 76 J.M.D Toynbee, Death and Burial in the Roman World, London, 1971, p. 63; Malbon, 1990, p. 107 and n. 20; Hanfmann, 1951, vol. I, p. 203. 77 Himmelmann, 1973, pp. 18-19 72

Malbon, 1990, p.4, n. 9 and n. 10; on the pagan custom in Christian families, see A.H. M Jones, “The Social Background of the struggle between Paganism and Christianity”, in Arnaldo Momigliano, ed., The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century, Oxford, 1963, p. 21. 78

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Christian faith in the hereafter.79 According to Malbon, the symbol of the “power to take men to immortal life with God or the symbol of Jupiter in the art of the Roman triumph or the imperial symbol of victory” was “apparently associated with the triumph of Christ and the king in the resurrection”.80

the meal at the grave. At the same time, this image on the lid might be connected with the seasons allegorically (i.e., the death and the rebirth of the seasons), and both the interpretations of the meal of the dead and the seasons could be expanded to include the sacraments of the Christian church such as the Eucharist. Moreover, there is a possibility that both the images of the kline meal and the seasons could be in the tradition of the image of the hero in a Greco-Roman context. Regarding the imagery of the vine and putti harvesting grapes in Christian art, Grabar argues that Christians took this image of the hero “from the realistic images of childbirth that occurred in ancient art at the beginning of the biographical cycles of gods and heroes, like Dionysus or Alexander, or on the funerary monuments of simple mortals”.87 We should not ignore the Roman connection between the images of the kline meal and the seasons. Thus, I argue that we need to study whether another key to understanding the programme of Christian iconography on the Junius Bassus sarcophagus might be to consider the concept of the heroic death in a Roman context.

Malbon asserts that “The resulting combination [of Christian and pagan/secular images on the Junius Bassus casket] may be ‘read’ typologically”,81 but concludes that the casket shows specifically Christian imagery, and that Christian imagery was not assimilated with pagan and secular images.82 That may be true theologically, but we cannot assert that Bassus’ family (who were not all baptized yet) considered the kline meal either as their pagan tradition or as a Christian symbolical image. Roman Christian families might have followed Roman traditions for worshipping their ancestors buried according to pagan custom. It is possible to assume that Christian families, including Junius Bassus’ family, came to the tomb for worship as pagan families did. Worshipping at graves is closely linked to contemporary pagan custom.83 Toynbee argues, “There were doubtless many other private [pagan] family occasions for cult at the tomb – for instance, the departed’s birthday (dies natalis); and provision could be made for the lighting of lamps at the grave on the Kalends, Ides, and Nones of every month”.84 Thus, we cannot deny that fourth-century Christian families, including some of the Junius Bassus’ family who still remained pagan, might inherit the pagan custom for worshipping their pagan ancestors, and that they could also see the symbol of the kline meal as having both pagan and Christian aspects.

Finally, the missing mask on the right end of the lid of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus could have been Sol, the sun, since a mask of Luna, the moon, is depicted on the left end of the lid. Malbon wrote, “[other Christian] sarcophagi suggest the same idea by an upright torch on the left and an inverted torch on the right”.88 But this representation in Rome was not exclusively Christian. According to Goodenough, “the masks that appear on pagan, Jewish, and Christian sarcophagi derive from Greek masks” that have Dionysian associations.89 Malbon writes, “Thus the masks of the sun and the moon on the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus may refer metaphorically to either his life – from birth to death – or his death and transformed life among the spheres of heaven”.90 This kind of interpretative model was also adopted for Roman pagan imagery. On the altar of the Mithraeum beneath S. Clement (discussed in chapter one), there are two genii on either side of ‘Mithras slaying the bull’ named Cautes and Cautopates (figs. 88, 89). Each figure holds a torch: Cautes holds one aloft and Cautopates holds another in a lowered position. The former icon represents the rising sun, the latter the sun setting; together they stand for life and death.91 Although the symbol of Sol and Luna is not written in the Bible, I would argue that the interpretive model for life and death in this conventional imagery of late antiquity could help us interpret fourthcentury Christian iconography.

Himmelmann considers the possibility that there is a typological connection between the kline meal on the lid and the four season motifs on the end panels of the Junius Bassus Sarcophagus.85 Malbon refers to Himmelmann’s account of this connection, writing, “the kline meal was linked or paired with other scenes rich with allegorical meaning – the hunt, the wagon journey, the vintage – especially on lids, indicating its equivalent allegorical value, even if its meaning cannot be confidently specified in detail”.86 I would argue, however, that the kline meal or the meal of the dead on the lid of the sarcophagus represents generally the Roman traditional type of having Malbon, 1990, p. 118, n. 75; Georg Daltrop, “Anpassung eines Relieffragmentes an den Deckel des Iunius Bassus Sarkophages”, Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia Romania di Archeologia 51-52 (1978-1980), p. 168. 80 Malbon, 1990, p. 126. 81 Malbon, 1990, p. 126. 82 Malbon, 1990, p. 118. 83 Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed., London, 1986, p. 32. 84 Toynbee, London, 1971, p.63. 85 Malbon, 1990, p. 109, n. 34; Himmelmann, 1973, pp. 26- 28. 86 Malbon, 1990, p. 109, n. 34; Himmelmann, 1973, pp. 2628. 79

To support my argument that the images of the Junius Grabar, 1968, p. 129. Malbon, 1990, p. 116, n. 66. 89 Malbon, 1990, p. 116. n. 69; E.R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco Roman Period, vol. 7, New York , 1958, p. 206. 90 Malbon, 1990 p. 117. 91 On Cautes and Cautopates, M. Schwartz, “Cautes and Cautopates, the Mithraic torchbearers”, Mithraic Studies, vol. II, 1975, pp. 406-423. 87 88

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Bassus sarcophagus were derived from a juxtaposition of images from both Roman history and Roman religious history, I shall focus on Philo’s figurative use of the notion of the king in his interpretation of the Old Testament, which speaks to his environment of Hellenistic Judaism in Alexandria. In On the Embassy to Gaius, Philo indicates that his ideal king was fulfilled by Augustus even though Augustus is not written as a ‘fulfilment’ of the king in the Hebrew Scriptures. According to Philo, the king is ruler and saviour in the realm of the human, while God is ruler and saviour of the universe. Moreover, Philo describes the king as “a sort of demi-god” in a fragment preserved by Antonius:

In the central composition of the breastplate of Prima Porta the legionary eagle attached to a standard held by a Parthian king standing in front of a Roman military figure is undoubtedly a symbol of Roman victory. The central composition is grounded by the imagery of the Roman concept of the universe. Zanker writes: Mother Earth reclines beneath the central scene, her attributes essentially the same as those of Pax on the Ara Pacis. Both goddesses stand for the aurea copia of the new age. This theme is further alluded to in the figures of Apollo and Diana, riding on the animals associated with them in Greek iconography, griffin and hind. These two divinities are in turn closely connected, as in Augustan poetry and at the Secular Festival, with the astral deities above the central group. The sun god Sol in his chariot appears above Apollo, the moon goddess Luna above Diana, and between them Caelus spreads out the canopy of the heavens. Only the upper part of Luna is visible; the rest is hidden (or outshone) by the winged figure of Dawn, who pours dew from a jug. The artist has characterized Luna as noctiluca or lucifera … through the addition of a torch. The torch also emphasizes her association with Diana, who, quite uncharacteristically, holds one alongside her quiver.97

In his essential character a king is equal to every man, but in the power of his authority and rank he is equal to God who ruleth over all things; for there is nothing on earth that is higher than he. Therefore it becomes him as being a mortal not to be too much elated, and as being a kind of God not to yield too much to passion; for if he is honoured as being of the likeness of God, nevertheless he is in some degree entangled in terrestrial and vile dust, by means of which he should learn simplicity and meekness towards all men.92 I believe that his account of the king was related to the concept of the deified Roman emperor in late antiquity.93 Let us return to the breastplate of Prima Porta (c. 20 BC). According to Paul Zanker’s interpretation of the breastplate, the imagery is that of a Roman victory over the Parthians, which is associated with motifs of the Secular Festival from Horace’s carmen saeculare.94 Zanker indicates that Augustus’ breastplate represents that his victory over the Parthians “is celebrated as the culmination of a perfect world order” by using the images of Roman gods and the symbols of Roman culture.95 He also writes, “The unique historical event is turned into a paradigm of salvation, in which the gods and the heavens act as guarantors, but need not intervene directly”.96 In other words, images of Roman history (i.e., a Roman military figure and the Parthian king) and mythological images of Roman cults (i.e., Roman gods) are juxtaposed in this imperial object, which is worn by the statue of Augustus.

I believe that this imagery of the Roman concept of the ideal universe is related to syncretism in solar theology. As I mentioned in chapter one, a fusion between the Sun God Apollo (Octavian’s personal symbol), who was also the god of victory, Sol, and an eagle as the bird of Jupiter, the bird of the sun and a symbol of the Roman empire, occurred in imperial art in the period of Augustus. I would suggest that the image of the eagle on the sarcophagus could be interpreted as a symbol of Roman Christian victory, since the eagle was originally adopted in the Roman Empire as a symbol of victory. Victory is also represented by the sun god Apollo. Although it is not clear whether the eagle served as a symbol of victory on the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, this may be quite possible given Roman syncretism of sun worship and images of victory, which I mentioned in chapter one. The artist inscribes “VRBI NEOFITVS IIT AD DEVM” in the centre of the main coffin, and the eagle-headed conchs fill all three arches of the lower register, including the triumphal entry of the sarcophagus alluding to Christian victory in Rome. Malbon writes, “when the eagle and the conch are joined, the resulting combination may be read typologically: Christ’s death and resurrection are reactualized in the sacrament of baptism, which is the type (and present foretaste) of the Christian’s own death and resurrection”.98

Fragments preserved by Antonius, SER. CIV; translation from Philo, On the Life of the Moses, II, 5; The Works of Philo, trans. C. D. Yonge, Peabody (MA), 1993, p. 893; Howard L. Goodhart and E.R. Goodenough, The Politics of Philo Jedaeus: Practice and Theory, New Heaven, 1938, p. 99, n. 72. 93 On the deified Roman emperor in late antiquity, see Simon Price, Ritual and power: the Roman imperial cult in Asia Minor, Cambridge, 1984; Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion, Oxford, 2002. 94 On the imagery of the breastplate of Prima Porta, Zanker, 1988, pp. 188-192; J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer, Cambridge, 1995, pp. 161-172. 95 Zanker, 1988, p. 189 96 Zanker, 1988, p. 191. 92

According to Malbon, the symbol of the “power to take men to immortal life with God or the symbol of Jupiter in the art of the Roman triumph or the imperial symbol of Zanker, 1988, pp. 189-192. Malbon, 1990, p. 126.

97 98

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account in his Ritual and Power: The Roman imperial cult in Asia Minor when he writes:

victory” was “apparently associated with the triumph of Christ and the king in the resurrection”.99 Since there was no reference to Caelus, the eagle and Sol (and Luna) in the Old Testament, and since they were Roman rather than Christian in their iconography and conceptual context, Malbon concludes, “the resulting combination may be read typologically”.100

[Philo] treats the assumption of “the insignia which customarily adorn the cult statues” of the demi-gods Dionysus, Hercules and the Dioscuri, as the first step of ‘his most godless assumption of godship’. This was followed by his imitation of the greater deities, Hermes, Apollo and Ares, which was made all the more inappropriate by his failure to live up to the promise of the attributes. ‘Surely these trappings and adornments are set as accessories on images and statues as symbolically indicating the benefits which those thus honoured proved for the human race’. Philo goes on to give an elaborate account of Gaius’ failings which divided him from the deity in question. The power of the attributes is clear. Their evocation of the gods was too strong and too unsubtle when the emperor was involved in person... The tensions between mortality and immortality, visibility and invisibility could best be solved by the subtle collocation of attribute and image.105

It should be noted that Augustus had adopted Apollo as the symbol of his victory, which was one of his cultural programmes of “moral revival”.101 The imagery of the eagle of apotheosis emerges in Roman imperial art after the death of Augustus and, on a cameo an eagle carrying a deceased emperor on his back is depicted after Claudius’ death in 54.102 The imagery of the eagle of apotheosis in imperial iconography was used in the private sphere, and the motif is depicted on Roman epitaphs where an eagle carries the deceased to heaven.103 Ittai Gradel writes, “The eagle rite was a novelty developed for the occasion by uniting common Hellenistic imagery with aspects of the specific mythology developed around Augustus”.104 If the imagery of the eagle of apotheosis of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus derived from Imperial iconography, there is a possibility of unity in the imagery of Jesus on the sarcophagus and the Roman Emperor imagery (with its notion of king in the Greco-Roman world).

For Philo, a symbol of the deified Roman emperor represents a ruler and a chief priest “which presided over the gods”. Thus, I assume that the central motifs of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus – Christ Enthroned and the Triumphal Entry – might be derived from Philo’s account of the fulfilment of the King in the Old Testament, which is derived from the notion of the King in not only the Old Testament, but also in Hellenistic Judaism. In Christianity, Jesus is the real fulfilment of the King in the Old Testament.

We have so far been looking at the non-Christian images of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus. Here I shall argue that in the programme of the sarcophagus, the non-Christian images on the ends (the seasons, or the four putti scenes) and on the lid (the mask of Luna, the verse inscription, the meal of the dead, and probably a mask of Sol) are linked with Christian and other non-Christian images of the centre motifs (Christ Enthroned, the Triumphal Entry, the image of Caelus, the vine columns depicted with putti harvesting grapes, and the image of eagle-headed conchs). I believe that the artist of the sarcophagus juxtaposed Jewish history (the Old Testament), Christian history (the New Testament) and Roman Christian history, including Roman imperial history, because they cannot be separated, and that these non-Christian images of the sarcophagus might be derived from Roman imperial iconography.

Philo did not refer to the emperor as saviour but in this way: “as king it rules with logos and honours law and right, is a thing which saves”.106 In Philo’s theory of the king and his figurative use of kings, Augustus has an important role. He writes, “[Augustus] surpassed human nature in all the virtues”.107 Although the Alexandrian Jews refused to accept the Roman Emperor’s persona as divinity, Hellenistic hero cults were the main influence on imperial iconography. Philo writes about the ideal king by using “an important addition to the Greek theory from Hebrew tradition”: The ruler ought to stand before his subjects just as a father does before his children, that he also may be honored in turn as by his own children. Thus good rulers, to tell the truth, are the universal fathers of cities and tribes, and display a good will the equal, sometime the superior, of that of parents. But those people who get great ruling power at the price of the ruin and loss of the subjects he [Moses] called not rulers but enemies, since they act the part of implacable enemies.108

Let us consider the nature of Roman imperial iconography. Philo refers to various attributes of Apollo in On the Embassy to Gaius (XIV 103-110) and the emperor’s imitation of Apollo (XIII 93-102). An allegorical interpretive method was the nature of Roman imperial iconography in the period of Augustus. Simon Price focuses on Philo’s Malbon, 1990, p. 126. Malbon, 1990, p. 126. 101 Zanker, 1988, p. 238. 102 Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion, Oxford, 2002, pp. 311-320 and figures 12.4-8. 103 Gradel, 2002, p. 310, n. 78. On the eagle as an Imperial iconography, see also S. Weinstock, Divius Julius, Oxford, 1971, p. 358. 104 Gradel, 2002, p. 320. 99

100

Price, 1984, p. 184, n. 72 and 73; Philo, On the Embassy to Gaius, 75-114. 106 Goodhart and Goodenough, 1938, p. 97, n. 59, n. 60, n. 61. 107 Goodhart and Goodenough, 1938, p. 102, n. 79; Philo, On the Embassy to Gaius, 140. 108 Philo, On the Special Laws which Come under Three of 105

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The nature of Hellenistic Imperial iconography is a juxtaposition of a historical event with a symbol of victory, and I argue that Roman Christian imperial art borrowed this quality. Let us return to the fourth-century porphyry sarcophagus of St Helena, who was Constantine’s mother. In chapters one and two I discussed her sarcophagus, which was excavated in Helena’s mausoleum and dated c. AD 330.109 Helena’s sarcophagus (fig. 27) shows no ostensibly Christian characteristics. The decoration (which was restored in the eighteenth century) represents the Roman victory over barbarians.110 Despite these pagan attributes, the sarcophagus itself has been significant in Christendom, which I described in chapter two.

insignia in the first century.115 We cannot conclude that this fourth-century Christian iconography was the result only of typological thinking. I agree with Malbon that the overall meaning of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus could be considered as a Christian iconographical programme. But I would assert that the unity of the scenes are linked not only by typological thinking, but by the fourth-century Roman concept of victory. Let us return to the programme of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus. If it is true that some images of the sarcophagus represent Roman imperial iconography, we also have to consider and account for the important roles of Peter and Paul in Roman Christianity. The second scene of the upper register of Junius Bassus (from left to right) is Peter’s arrest, and the tenth scene of the lower register (from left to right) is Paul’s arrest. Malbon considers that these two scenes are linked with the arrest of Christ on the fourth scene of the upper register: “Christ’s crucifixion might be said to be the type of Peter’s martyrdom, the antitype”.116 I would suggest that Peter and Paul are depicted on the sarcophagus because of the fourth-century Roman social context – specifically, the cult of Peter and Paul in Rome,117 which was commonly shown in Roman memorials since the second century. According to Peter Brown, “the festival of a pair of saints reenacted a highly pertinent ‘foundation myth’ for the Christian community”,118 something with which the artist of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus was most likely familiar. In other words, it is possible to say that the adoption of the two scenes showing the arrest of martyrs was not only because of a New Testament context, but also because of their Roman cultural context.

Just 40 years later, images of Roman triumph over barbarians in the mosaics of Sta Maggiore (e.g., fig. 30) seem to have inherited more from Christianity than from sarcophagi such as Helena’s. Grabar argues that the mosaics of Sta Maggiore show the iconographic influence of imperial art, and he especially focuses on the relationship between the mosaics of the triumphal arch and Arcadius’ column in Constantinople.111 This column is now destroyed, but drawings of the reliefs remain (I will refer to this column later in chapter four).112 Grabar assumes that the column was inspired by the two columns in Rome dated to the second century AD, (i.e., those of Trajan and of Marcus Aurelius).113 He indicates that the artists used the triumphal imagery of imperial art for the Christian image of Christ’s triumph.114 As I mentioned in chapter one, the similarities in the schemes of the triumphal arch in the mosaic of Sta Maggiore and the relief on the column of Trajan are striking, although one might argue that Grabar merely compared similar schemes in both representations. Since the mosaic of the triumphal arch represents the symbol of the majesty of heaven and events surrounding the birth of Christ, it is not impossible to say that the artists of this laudatory mosaic could have been inspired by the historical event of the emperor’s achievement. Hellemo also suggests an imperial influence on the representation of the empty throne in the triumphal arch of Sta Maggiore. The symbol of an empty throne had already been used as an imperial

Brown also refers to the relationship between the ancient cult of the heroes and the Christian cult of martyrs in late antiquity. He writes: To idealize the dead seemed natural enough to men in Hellenistic and Roman times. Even to offer some form of worship to the deceased, whether as a family or as part of a public cult in the case of exceptional dead persons, such as heroes or emperors, was common, if kept within strictly defined limits.119 The cult of Peter and Paul in Rome emerged in a Roman social context, and had a strong link with Hellenistic and Roman heroic cults, including Roman imperial traditions. Peter and Paul, moreover, are depicted with an enthroned Christ in the centre of the main coffin Junius Bassus (on the upper register of the façade) above the inscription “VRBI NEOFITVS IIT AD DEVM”.

the Ten General Commandments, iv. 184; Goodhart and Goodenough, 1938, p. 95, n. 50. 109 On Helena’s mausoleum, see F. W. Deichnmann and A. Tschira, “Das Mausoleum der Kaiserin Helena und die Basilika der Hailige Marcellinus und Petrus an der Via Labicana vor Rom”, Jahrbuch des Deutshces Archäologisches Instituet 72 (1957), pp. 44-110. 110 Elsner, 1998, p. 21. 111 Grabar, 1968, pp. 45-49. On the two columns in Constantinople, see B. Kiilerich, Fourth Century Classicism in the plastic arts: studies in the so-called Theodosian renaissance, Odense, 1993, pp. 50-64. 112 Grabar, 1968, fig. 126, fig. 127, fig. 128 and fig. 129. 113 Grabar, 1968, p. 46. 114 Grabar, 1968, p. 46.

G. Hellemo, Adventus Domini, Leiden, 1989, p. 107. Malbon, 1990, p. 49. 117 Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints, London, 1981, p. 97 and n. 64. 118 Brown, 1981, p. 97. 119 Brown, 1981, p. 5. 115 116

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The Entry to Jerusalem, which is the other centre motif of the main coffin (on the lower register of the façade), also reveals to us the nature of Roman imperial iconography. Grabar argues that the Entry into Jerusalem also recalls the scene of the official art of the Roman state – the emperor in triumphal celebration.120 The deification of the Emperor symbolizing victory in scenes other than the triumphal procession began under Julius Caesar. He was pronounced the god of gods after his death. Although the Romans agreed to deify the dictator after his death, they resisted deification of a living person.121 Augustus, the nephew and son-in-law of Caesar (and first emperor), was worshipped as a god in other parts of the country (e.g., Alexandria), but in Rome itself he was seen merely as the child of the god Caesar. The practice of deifying the emperor and the establishment of ceremonies conducted in his name expanded after the time of Augustus.122

thinking is not only Christiancentric, but also Roman and Hellenistic/Jewish. b. The Brescia Casket In The Key to the Brescia Casket: typology and the early Christian imagination, Tkacz argues that the 33 scenes of the Brescia Casket from the New Testament and the Old Testament are linked with typological patterns, and that the images of the New Testament are depicted as a fulfilment of the Old. In her discourse, Christian typology is the only adequate interpretive method for understanding the fourthcentury casket’s Christian iconographical programme. She does not refer to Philo’s allegorical interpretive method of the Old Testament at all, although she mentions early Christian fathers such as Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, and Augustine, all of whom were influenced strongly by Philo. In this section, I shall study whether we may read this iconographic programme of the Brescia Casket in ways other than Christian typological thinking.

I would argue that we may also read the programme of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus as representing not only a fulfilment of the Passion of Christ but also as a fulfilment of Christian victory in the Roman Empire because I believe that this notion of victory is derived from imagery in the Roman imperial tradition. In Emperor Worship and Roman Religion, Ittai Gradel writes:

I shall suggest two reasons why this may be possible. First, I shall explore the problem of three apocryphal additions to the Book of Daniel, which were The Prayer of Azariah and the Song of the Three Young Men, Susanna, and Bel and the Dragon. Images of these stories are depicted on the Brescia Casket. ‘Three in the fiery furnace’, from The Prayer of Azariah and the Song of the Three Young Men, is depicted on the upper register of the right side of the casket (fig. 113). ‘Daniel in the lion’s den’, from the Bel and the Dragon, is depicted on the lower register of the front of the casket (fig. 112). Two symbols from Susanna and one symbol from the Book of Daniel are depicted on the lower register on the front of the casket (fig. 112): ‘Susanna in the garden’ and ‘Susanna brought before Daniel’ and ‘Daniel in the lion’s den.’ Both a symbol from Susanna and a symbol from Bel and the Dragon are depicted on the upper register of the back of the casket: ‘Susanna’ and ‘Daniel poisoning the dragon’ (fig. 115).

In Christianity philosophy and ritual are united in the same system, based ultimately on texts of absolute authority; it is christianising to use philosophical texts as sources for traditional pagan religion. Instead this sphere of activity was generally based on ritual action construction, a relative status system or hierarchy between honoured and worshippers…Whether it was expressed one way or the other mattered little; even terms such as deus and divinus, sacer and numen expressed, I believe, primarily status and power, not nature. Augustus had burst out of the social structure of the republic, above which presided the gods.123 In Roman imperial iconography, Roman history itself represents a symbol of victory. The juxtaposition of historical events and mythological figures in imperial iconography represents a fulfilment of Roman victory. I believe that the images of the Old Testament represent not only ‘Jewish history’ but also the prophecy of the New Testament in Christian iconography. And the images of the New Testament on the Junius Bassus sarcophagus represent not only the fulfilment of the Old Testament through ‘Christian history’, but also the Christian victory in Roman history. In other words, the façade’s images of the New Testament (Peter’s arrest, Christ’s arrest, Pilate’s judgement and Paul’s arrest) represent historical events in both the New Testament and Roman history (the events depicted on the centre motifs of the façade occurred before the Christian Victory). In this case, this typological

Strictly speaking, these apocryphal additions were not contained in the Hebrew Bible, but they have been considered among the Septuagint Apocrypha, which were probably added to Daniel in the Greek text. Septuagint was translated from the Hebrew Bible into Greek texts by 70 Jews, which were connected to the Hellenistic cultural centre of Alexandria.124 Philo, of course, read Septuagint as he established his allegorical interpretive method for the Old Testament. I believe that the issue of the emergence of three apocryphal additions to the Book of Daniel could not be separated from Hellenistic influence, and consequently, could not be D.S. Russell, The Method & Message of Jewish Apocalyptic (200 BC - AD 100), London, 1964, p. 391. On the three additions to the Book of Daniel, see R. H. Charles, ed., The Apocrypha and Psuedepigrapha of the Old Testament, Oxford, 1931, vol. 1, pp. 625-684; Moore A. Carey, Daniel, “Esther and Jeremiah: The Additions,” The Anchor Bible 44 (1977), pp. 77-116. 124

Grabar, 1968, p. 45. Weinstock, 1971, pp. 54-60. 122 Weinstock, 1971, p. 60. 123 Gradel, 2002, pp. 267-268. 120 121

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separated from early Christian art, including the Brescia Casket (the Junius Bassus sarcophagus also represented a scene of Daniel in the lion’s den on the intercolumniations of the façade). Again, because of a lack of a Hebrew version, the three apocryphal additions have not been considered Judaic dogma. Among the three additions, Susanna had been a controversial issue for early Christian apologists, as they had to consider whether the apocrypha (‘secret writings’ in Greek) should be considered part of the canon.125 In the end, the origin of Susanna was too ambiguous to be included in the canon. But once the three additions to the Book of Daniel were added to Septuagint, the nature of the three additions had Hellenistic-Judaic exegesis through Alexandrian-Jewish exegetical work, which was eventually brought to Roman Christians. The Book of Daniel is considered prophecy in Septuagint and the setting of the Book is the sixth-century BC world.126 But the subjects of the book represent religious and social problems in the second century BC (when the book was probably written) such as the persecutions of Jews by Antiochus IV (175-163). Antiochus IV tried to Hellenise the Jewish people and insulted Jews by setting up an altar for Zeus in the court of the Temple at Jerusalem in 168 BC. The story of three young men refusing to worship the golden statue of Nebuchadnezzar in the Book of Daniel (3:1-30) alludes to the religious persecution by Antiochus IV. Simon Price considers the story of the three young men to represent “protomartyr in the eyes of the early Church”, because “Different sets of perspectives on the veneration of imperial images are found if one starts from Jewish or Christian positions”.127 He writes:

If the image of three in the fiery furnace represents “the fusion of Biblical tradition with the contemporary experience of persecution” in Christian funeral art, including catacombs and sarcophagi, there is a possibility that the artist might have tended toward representing the image of the Book of Daniel as a Jewish experience of the Old Testament.

The fusion of Biblical tradition with the contemporary experience of persecution is seen most vividly on a number of sarcophagi of early fourth-century date which show the refusal of the three to worship the image; the king has become the Roman emperor and his image a bust placed on a column.128

On the topic of the selection of Old and New Testament scenes for the front, lid and ends of the casket, Tkacz writes, “The casket honors and celebrates the events of salvation history through its five-scene passion sequence on the lid and its five-scene typological completion and recapitulation on the front; through Old Testament types on every vertical face, as well as a matched pair of New Testament types, the resurrection miracles on the two ends”.129 She concludes that they represent “the fourthcentury argument of the unity of the Bible by Ambrose, Augustus and other Christian writers”.130

Second, I shall focus on the programme of types on the back of the casket (fig. 115), because those types do not represent the same types of the Passion as those on the front, the lid and the right and left sides. The two scenes on the centre of the back of the casket are from the New Testament (from left to right, the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira and the Transfiguration). The scene of the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira is from Acts (5:1-11), although all the other New Testament scenes represented on the casket are associated with Christ’s life and his miracles as derived from the Gospels. The centre motifs of the New Testament are grounded by six images from the Old Testament. Three images from the Old Testament are depicted on the upper register of the back (from left to right): Susanna, Jonah resting under the Gourd Vine, and Daniel poisoning the dragon. Three images on the lower register of the back are also from the Old Testament (from left to right, Moses, Moses killing the Egyptian, and the meal of the dead). There are two narrow panels on the outer edge of the vertical face. A tower is depicted on the right panel. Judas, the hanging man, is depicted on the left panel.

Russel, 1964, p. 391. See also, Roger Beckwith, The Old Testament Canon of the New Testament, Grand Rapids, 1985. Jerome (d. 420) drew a distinction between libir canonici and libri ecclesiastici, and he called ‘inter apocrypha’ the books that should lie outside the Canon. Jerome believed that Susanna should be placed in the Vulgate (Latin Bible), and that Susanna could not stay in the Canon. In the sixth century, Susanna was placed as a list of books excluded as uncanonical. The Stichometry of Nicephorus, which is given as an appendix to the Chronography of Nicephorus of Constantinople (806-15), also shows Susanna as uncanonical. Nevertheless, Hilderbert, Archbishop of Tours, ‘Egregius Versificator’ had made it the subject of a Latin poem (c. 1100). 126 Jonathan Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity, London, 1990, p. 73. 127 Price, 1984, p. 199, n. 153. On the Septuagint, see S. Jellicoe, The Septuagint and Modern Study, Oxford, 1968. 128 Price, 1984, p. 199, plate 1C, n.156; G. Wilpert, I Sarcofagi Christiani Antichi vol. 2, Rome, 1932, pp. 259-63. 125

She refers to the uniqueness of the back and writes, “[the] unique division of the New Testament register on the back by a centre gap between Peter, seated in judgment, and Sapphira with her bag of money, dramatizes the decisiveness of moral choice for final judgment”. She concludes, “Because typology is basic to the casket, its designer wisely pointed to it by prominently cantering visual puns on the front”.131 In this case, I believe that Christian typological thinking does not work well for understanding the back of the casket.

Tkacz, 2002, p. 188. Tkacz, 2002, p.189. 131 Tkacz, 2002, p. 188-189. 129 130

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Grabar articulates the essential difference between the pagan and Christian funeral programmes:

context. I have also argued that the story of three young men on the right end of the casket represents “the fusion of Biblical tradition with the contemporary experience of persecution”.134 I believe that the New Testament images of the back of the casket represent this ‘fusion’– i.e., it is associated with the cult of Peter in fourth-century Rome, and that the reason why the artist adopted Acts to symbolise Peter has to do with the main subject matter of Acts: the actions of the Apostles.

The theme of death is absent from Christian funerary art, whereas it is at the very center of the corresponding pagan program. The Christians systematically avoid Old Testament or gospel subjects that recount the death of anyone. It is seemingly the victory of Christ over death that excluded this theme from Paleo-Christian sepulchral iconography.”132

Second, I would argue that the nature of Peter’s depictions in the centre motifs of the back of the casket might be derived from Philo’s notion of the high priest and judge. For Philo, Moses represents the ideal king in Scripture. H. A. Wolfson refers to Philo’s notion of the ideal kingship which is formed from fusing Philo’s notion of king, high priest, judge, officer, and council elder,135 and writes, “Moses, besides being king, was also high priest, and in this capacity he built the tabernacle and its equipment and designed the vesture of the high priest and of the ordinary priest, all of these, of course, by the direction of God”.136 Goodenough quotes Eusebius’ Questions and Answers on Exodus II:

Why did the artist of the Brescia Casket adopt the scene of the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira from Acts? Ananias and Sapphira died because of their lie. Judas hung himself because of his treachery toward Christ. The deaths of Ananias, Sapphira, and Judas have never represented the Passion of Christ, Resurrection, or Salvation, and have no place in Christian typological thinking. On the other hand, three images from the Old Testament on the upper register (from left to right, Susanna, Jonah resting under the Gourd Vine, and Daniel poisoning the dragon) represent Christian salvation, which are often used in early Christian funeral art, and they fit into place in Christian typology as types of Christ in his Passion.

Nothing is more pleasant or distinguished than to serve God, which surpasses even the greatest kingship; and the first kings seem to me to have been at the same time chief priests, by which they made clear in a practical way that those ruling over others must for themselves dutifully worship God.137

Here I would focus on the fact that the scene of the Judgement of Ananias and Sapphira is the only New Testament scene from Acts in the programme of the Brescia Casket. Tkacz refers to Peter and Sapphira in the imagery of the casket and writes, “[Peter] and Sapphira face each other, types respectively of the restored sinner and of the sinning Christian. Peter sits in judgement, the authoritative head of the Church; Sapphira is about to die”.133 I believe that the main role of the casket’s imagery of the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira might belong to Peter. The two scenes on the centre motifs of the back of the casket are the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira and the Transfiguration (Matt 17:1-9; Mark 9:2-9). Peter has an important role in both stories. Peter was a judge in the former story, while he was a witness to Christ’s Transfiguration and worshipper of Christ in the latter story. The images of Moses on the lower register of the back (Moses and Moses killing the Egyptian) might be connected to the Transfiguration:

Peter, who is the high priest or the chief priest of the Roman Christian church, has an important role as worshipper and apostle (with John) in the Transfiguration. The two figures are depicted on both sides of Christ in the Transfiguration on the back of the Brescia Casket. Tkacz considers that they are Moses and Elijah.138 However, Peter was a witness to Christ’s Transfiguration with Jacob and John. In addition, for Philo, the ideal king means the ideal judge in the human world. According to Goodenough, “In using the notion that the king should be the official high-priest of the realm Philo makes an interesting innovation”.139 In On the Life of Moses, Philo writes,

And there appeared to them Elijah with Moses, who were talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, “Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” (Mark 9:4-5).

But a king and a lawgiver ought to pay attention not only to human things, but also to divine ones, for the affairs Simon Price, 1984, p. 199. H. A. Wolfson, Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, Cambridge (MA), 1947, vol. II, P. 322-364. 136 Wolfson, 1947, p. 338; Philo, On the Life of Moses, II, 15.71ff. 137 Goodhart and Goodenough��������������������������� , 1938, p. 97, n. 65; Eusebius, Questions and Answers on Exodus II, ii. 105 138 Tkacz, 2002, p. 41. 139 Goodhart and Goodenough, 1938, p. 97. See also E. Goodenough, By Light, Light: The Mystic Gospel of Hellenistic Judaism, New Haven, 1935, pp. 189-198. 134

There are two reasons why I argue that the main role of the centre motifs on the back of the Brescia Casket might belong to Peter. First, I have argued that the cult of Peter and Paul in Rome might have been represented in the Christian iconographic programme of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus. Likewise, there is a possibility that the artist of the Brescia Casket might have represented Peter as the head of the church in both Roman history and in a Christian

135

Grabar, 1968, pp. 14-15. Tkacz, 2002, p. 103

132 133

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of neither kings nor subjects go on well except by the intervention of divine providence; on which account it was necessary that such a man as Moses should enjoy the first priesthood, in order that he might with perfectly conducted sacrifices, and with a perfect knowledge of the proper way to serve God, entreat for a deliverance from evil and for a participation in good, both for himself and for the people whom he was governing, from the merciful God who listens favourably to prayers.140

It is certain that the fourth century represents a significant era for the development of Christian art, including its iconography. The programme of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus can be a significant example of both the transformation of the status of Christianity in the Roman world after the Edict of Milan (i.e., from the private sphere to the public sphere) and of the development of Christian art from the third century to the fourth century. Fourth-century Christian images, like the Junius Bassus sarcophagus were more complex than those of the third century, and patterned on more solid religious intention.

I would argue that Peter in the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira on the back of the casket represents the fusion of the ideal high priest and judge, in accordance with Eusebius’ account mentioned above on the notion of kingship, which was derived from Philo’s allegorical interpretive method. In other words, the images of Moses from the Old Testament on the lower register of the back, which are depicted below the back’s centre motifs from the New Testament (i.e., the Judgment of Ananias and Sapphira and the Transfiguration), could be a prefiguration of Peter, the chief of the Roman Christian Church. This means that in a fourth-century Roman Christian context, the centre motifs from the New Testament on the back of the Brescia Casket allude to Philo’s notion of kingship, and I shall call this representation a fusion of the Biblical tradition and fourth-century Roman experience and an instance of what I have been calling syncretism. That is, the juxtaposition of elements from different, earlier contexts create a new Christian programme: in this case Christian imagery using the Old Testament and Jewish iconography using the Roman imagery of traditional cultures.

Nevertheless, fourth-century Christian images were still combined with pagan images. On the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, for example, Old and New Testament scenes are juxtaposed – Christian images on the centre with nonChristian imagery on the end panels (i.e., two scenes of a Grape Harvest on the left end and Wheat Harvest and Olives/Flowers, Bird, etc. on the right) and on the lid (i.e., the mask of Luna, the verse inscription, the meal of the dead, and probably a mask of Sol). It is important to note that even though the status of Christianity was dramatically changing during this time, and even though pagan rituals were forbidden after 391, pagan images in the fourth century could not be completely eradicated. Most art historians, however, consider Roman paganism and Christianity to be far from each other theologically, and they therefore try to divorce the programme of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus from paganism, interpreting the diversity of fourthcentury images in only Christian ‘theological’ views (i.e., Christian typological thinking). Yet it is more likely that these images represented the contemporary social context, including non-Christian and Roman traditions.

I have studied the problem of the exegesis of fourth-century Christian iconography by looking at the programme of the Junius Bassus and the Brescia Casket. The key to understanding fourth-century Christian iconography has been thought to be Christian typological thinking, as exemplified by Malbon and Tkacz, who believe that most images of the Old Testament are represented as a fulfilment of the Passion of Christ. Christian typological thinking originated as a theological tool for reading and connecting symbols between the Old and New Testaments. The main reason for using this tool was that there were conflicts in the unity of Jewish and Christian histories because of their different natures and intentions. At the same time, it became a tool for interpreting the imagery in the Bible, and the tool has been adopted in the studies of early Christian iconography. I believe that Christian typological thinking was able to help in the assimilation of Jewish and Christian images in early Christian iconography, because the imagery of the Old and New Testament itself was a result of syncretism of Jewish and Christian images in Christian contexts. Yet images of fourth-century Christian iconography can also be read by typologies broader than Christian, because the concept of typology can be found in a fourth-century social or cultural context in the Roman world.

In conclusion, the programmes of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket represent different frameworks. The former work contains Old and New Testament scenes on the main façade grounded by ‘pagan’ scenes on the lid and ends. The latter work also has New Testament scenes grounded by Old Testament scenes, but there are no ‘pagan’ images. Do the different frameworks of the Junius Bassus (AD 359) sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket (c. AD 386) show us ‘development’ in Christian iconography over the 37 years that separate them? Some fourth-century programmes of Christian iconography were not incorporated into Christian theology. For example, the Projecta Casket, dated to late fourth century (fig. 121), has been thought to be a Christian toiletry object (due to a Christian inscription on the lower lip of the casket’s lid). Nevertheless, “the iconography of women (both Venus and a human woman)”141 is dominant over the programme of the Projecta Casket – i.e., Christian iconography is inferior to the non-Christian images on the casket. The date of the Projecta Casket is not far from the dates of the Junius Bassus

Philo, On the Life of the Moses, II, 1.5, trans. Yonge, 1993, p. 491. 140

Elsner, 1995, p. 253.

141

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Fig. 121. The Projecta Casket, silver, from Rome, late fourth century. British Museum, London.

Copyright the British Museum, London. sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket.142 A comparison of the programmes of the Projecta Casket, the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket show us the nature of fourth-century Christian iconography in two ways. First, the functions of these objects differ, and these differences affected the programmes of their Christian iconography. For example, the dominant programme of “the iconography of women” of the Projecta Casket represents the domestic private female sphere.143 The different social framings for the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket show us their different functions. The former was made for Junius Bassus in Roman political spheres. The latter was probably made for the Christian sphere. Second, the proportion of Jewish images (the Old Testament) and Roman Christian images (the New Testament) expresses the artist’s exegesis of the Old Testament and New Testament. Christian typology might be one of their interpretations. Nevertheless, the different framings or programmes of the Christian iconography

of fourth-century Christian objects imply that the artists’ exegesis do not stem directly from Christian typology. The similarities between the Christian iconographic programmes of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus and the Brescia Casket include a juxtaposition of Christian imagery using the Old Testament, and Jewish iconography using Roman imagery of traditional cultures in a Christian context. The fourth-century Christian iconographic programmes show us not only the result of syncretism of Jewish and Christian histories in Christendom but also the juxtaposition of this unity and the Greco-Roman imagery in Christian contexts. That is what I call the second aspect of syncretism, and I believe that this reflects the nature of fourth-century Christian iconography. Next I will discuss spolia, which I consider to be material juxtaposition in the Roman world that demonstrates the three aspects of syncretism.

J. Elsner, “Visualising Women in Late Antique Rome: The Projecta Casket”, in Through a Glass Brightly: Festschrift for David Buckton, Oxford, 2003, p. 22, n. 4. 143 Elsner, 2003, p. 29. 142

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practice, and their definition is clearly negative. Although spolia did not exist as a noun in a fourth-century Roman context, spoliata as an adjective was used in fourth-century Roman law.3 For example, the Codex Iustinianus referred to civitate spoliata in 321, which means a ‘stripped city’, and the Theodosian Code (AD 376) defined spoliatae aedes as denuded buildings “with its negative connotation of pillage and booty”.4 The word spoliata represented an accusation of stealing components from old buildings, including those of defeated nations. Thus the adjective spoliata seems to have had a negative nuance in its ancient usage but we cannot be sure of this, nor can we be assured that the artist of the Arch of Constantine considered his reuse of materials from earlier imperial monuments to be spoliation, or that Vasari and Raphael’s interpretations of the use of spolia in the Arch are the same as the fourthcentury meaning of the adjective spoliata.

IN

1. The Term Spolia in Art History In chapters one, two, and three, I have used the term syncretism to analyze aesthetic and symbolic juxtapositions in early Christian art. This chapter is about the material juxtaposition in that art. In the literature of art history, the term spolia refers to the practice of reusing earlier objects, especially in architecture, a practice that became widespread in the fourth century. An architectural example making use of spolia is the Arch of Constantine in Rome (fig. 122). It was erected by the Roman Senate between AD 313 and 315 to celebrate Constantine’s defeat of Maxentius at the Milvius Bridge in AD 312, and one of its main characteristics is its use of spolia from earlier monuments. Reliefs commemorating three earlier Roman emperors, Trajan (98-117), Hadrian (117-38), and Marcus Aurelius (161-69), were incorporated into the Arch of Constantine after being recut, with the faces of previous emperors recarved into the likeness of Constantine (figs. 123, 124, 125).1 This practice of reusing the materials of previous emperors has been called spoliation, derived from the term spolia. In my view, this practice of reusing earlier objects juxtaposes them with new objects and this material juxtaposition shows us something more than a mere association: spoliation can be considered to be a kind of syncretism. The term spolia is more complex than this simplified definition, however, for its meaning has not always been interpreted in the same way. Before investigating whether spolia demonstrates an aspect of syncretism, let us consider some background on the term spolia and the definition of it in the literature of art history.2

Second, Raphael and Vasari discussed the spolia of the Arch of Constantine in order to show that the original fourth-century sculptures created for the Arch (which were probably carved in the Constantinian era)5 were not as ‘sophisticated’ as the reliefs from the earlier monuments. They considered the art of Constantine to represent a ‘decline’ in the workmanship of art in late antiquity, and the practice was entirely disreputable to Raphael.6 In a letter of c. 1519, he asked the Pope to consider: Joseph Alchermes, “Spolia in Roman Cities of the Late Empire: Legislative Rationales and Architectural Reuse”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 48 (1994) p. 167. 4 English translation taken from Alchermes, 1994, p. 167 and note 2: ‘civitate spoliata’ (Codex Iustinianus, 8.10.6: P. Krüger ed., Codex Iustinianus, vol. 2, Berlin, 1929, p. 334): “Si quis post Eanc legem civitate spoliata ornatum, hoc est Marmora vel columns, ad rura transtulerit, privetur ea possessione, quam ita ornaverit”; ‘spoliatae aedes’ (Theodosiani libri XVI cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis et leges novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes, 15.1.19: Th. Mommsen and P. M. Meyer, eds., Theodosiani libri XVI cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis et leges novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes, vol. I. 2 (2 vols., in 3 parts), Berlin, 1905, p. 805: “…Novum quodque opus qui volet in urbe moliri, sua pecunia, suis operbius absolvat, non contractis veteribus emolumentis, non effossis nobilium operum substructionibus, non redivivis de publico saxis, non marmorum frustis spoliatarum aedium deformatione convulsis.” See also English translation taken from C. Pharr, The Theodosian Code, Princeton, 1952, p. 425: “If any person should wish to undertake any new building in the City, he must complete it with his own money and labor, without bringing together old buildings, without digging up the foundations of noble buildings, without obtaining renovated stones from the public, without tearing away pieces of marble by the mutilation of despoiled buildings”. 5 D.E.E. Kleiner, Roman Sculpture, London, 1992, p. 445. 6 Alchermes, 1994, pp. 167-8, n. 3. According to Alchermes, Vasari was not wholly disinclined to spolia. He favoured the practice if it was to improve imperial art. 3

The first problem in interpreting the word is that it was first used by Raphael and Vasari to describe this fourth-century On the reuse of spolia on the Arch, see H.P. L’Orange and A. von Gerkan, Der Säptantike Bildschmuck des Konstantinsbogen, Berlin, 1939, pp. 16-28. On the historical frieze, see G.M. Koepel, “Die historischen Reliefs der römischen Kaiserzeit VII: der Bogen des Septimius Severus, die Decennalienbasis und der Konstantinsbogen”, Bonner Jahrbücher, pp. 1-64 and esp. pp. 17-22. On the two heads of Constantine from the Trajanic frieze, see L’Orange and M. Wegner, Das spätantike Herrscherbild von Diokletian bis zu den Konstantin-Söhnen, Berlin, 1984, p. 146; A.M. Leander Touati, The Great Trajanic Frieze, Stockholm, 1987, pp. 92-95. S. Knudsen suggests that the Arch was initially planned by Maxentius at the 91st General Meeting of the Archaeology Institute of America: “Spolia: The Pedestal Reliefs on the Arch of Constantine” (abstract), American Journal of Archaeology, 94 (1990), pp. 313-314. 2 For discussion of the term spolia, see Dale Kinney, “Spolia, damnatio and renovaito memoriae”, Memories of the American Academy in Rome, 42 (1997), pp. 117-48. 1

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Fig. 122. Arch of Constantine, Rome, AD 313-315. Photo: After Lowden, 1997, fig. 16

(Alessandro Vasari, Rome).

Fig. 123. “Trajan on horseback”, marble relief, second century. Arch of Constantine, Rome.

Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 256 (Gabinetto Fotographico Nazionale, Rome). 118

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Fig. 124. “Hadrian as lion hunter”, marble relief, AD 130-138. Arch of Constantine. Photo: Bianchi, 1970, fig. 292 (Alinari, Rome).

Fig. 125. A ‘Liberalitas’ of Marcus Aurelius, marble relief, AD 176-80. Arch of Constantine, Rome. Photo: Bianchi, 1970, fig. 335 (Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma).

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…the Arch of Constantine, which is well designed and well built as far as architecture is concerned. But the sculptures of the same arch are very feeble and destitute of all art and good design. Those, however, that come from the spoils of Trajan and Antonius Pius are extremely fine and done in perfect style.7

work on the Arch is seen as justifying these views. The assessment from Raphael and Vasari shows a sixteenthcentury inclination toward Classicism, a typical aesthetic choice for the Renaissance, and the emerging notions of spolia have led to similar conclusions among modern Classicists.

Vasari also believed the fourth-century figures on the Arch of Constantine illustrated a decline, using the expressions ‘poor’ and ‘crude’ to describe them.8 Later art historians concur with these views. Because they consider the fourth-century work made specifically for the Arch to be ‘inferior’ to the works of the earlier monuments that were incorporated into the Arch,9 they believe the Arch of Constantine to represent a ‘decline of form’ or a ‘fall of late antiquity’s art’. In The Arch of Constantine, or The Decline of Form (1954) for example, Bernard Berenson refers to the reuse of sculptures on the Arch and writes, “…it was a confession of inferiority to the past, whether economic or artistic, as happened long before when Ramses II had statues of earlier pharaohs rededicated to himself”.10 He later concludes, “…it furnishes at the same time proof that even in Rome the dilapidation and destruction of earlier achievements, which went on incessantly and has scarcely stopped yet, had begun already”.11 Ernst Kitzinger in Byzantine Art in the Making (1977) remarks, “The contrast in style between the second- and the fourth-century reliefs on the arch is violent,” and considers the Arch to be an example of “ancient art in crisis”.12 For scholars like Berenson and Kitzinger, the spolia of the Arch is a practice to cover up the inferiority of the present when compared to the sophistication of Classical art.13 The stylistic contrast of the reliefs from earlier monuments and the original

My question is whether we can conclude that the fourthcentury work was less ‘sophisticated’ than the secondcentury work from art historical points of view rather than from personal, aesthetic points of view. Classical art is obviously more sophisticated in the opinions of Renaissance viewers (and those of modern Classicism). However, I doubt we can say definitively that the Classical representation of earlier emperors’ monuments is more sophisticated than what was newly created for the Arch, or as some would have it, that the creators of the Arch were barbarians. Berenson suggests that the original fourthcentury creations of the Arch are faulty, and that the figures are “puppets” or “marionettes”, far from the second-century classical naturalism.14 In his Spätrömische Kunstindustrie (Late Roman Art Industry in its English translation), Alois Riegl considers the fourth-century figures on the Arch of Constantine to be of an “organization out of negligence and crudeness”.15 He argues that this representation: based [the artist’s] choice on an entirely positive artistic intention in order to separate figures sharply distinguished in space from one and parts of figures, and in order to evoke at the same time the optical impression of a rhythmic change between light and dark.16 Although he denies that the Arch of Constantine represents a decline in art, he also writes dismissively of the newer work: “It seemed ugly on the one hand, and clumsy and motionless on the other. It seems justifiable to declare them if not the very handiwork of barbarians then at least the products of barbarized craftsman”.17 So different is the fourth-century work in his mind, that he attempts to find “another form of beauty” in the Arch of Constantine, looking for naturalistic elements to demonstrate canons of ‘beauty’. The Arch, he writes, “ … is not beautiful (according to classical terms which means based on the tactile modeling in half shadows). Already these brief general hints show that the Constantinian reliefs strive like any other creation in the visual arts for the beautiful and the naturalistic element. This was as much intended and actually reached as it had been in classical art”.18

R. Goldwater and M. Treves, Artists on Art, London, 1945, pp. 74-75; E. Camesasca and G. Piazza, eds., Raffaello, gli scritti, firme, sonetti, saggi tecnici e teorici, Milan, 1993; J. Elsner, “From the Culture of Spolia to the Cult of Relics: the Arch of Constantine and the Genesis of Late Antique Forms”. Papers of the British School of Rome, LXVIII (2000), p. 149, n. 1. 8 G. Vasari, Le vite de’ piu eccellenti pittori, scultori ed architettori (1568), ed. G. Milanesi, Florence, 1878; F. Haskell, History and Its Images, New Haven, 1993, pp. 118-123. 9 B. Berenson, The Arch of Constantine or the Decline of Form, London, 1954, pp. 1 –3. A. Riegl, Spätrömische Kunstindustrie Vienna, 1901; A. Riegl, Late Roman Art Industry, translated from the original Viennese edition by Rolf Winkes, Rome, 1985, p. 56. 10 On Berenson’s account of the Arch of Constantine, see, N. Spivey, “Stumbling towards Byzantium: The decline and fall of late Antique sculpture”. Apollo 142 (July 1995), pp. 20-23. 11 Berenson, 1954, p. 14. 12 E. Kitzinger, Byzantine Art in the Making, London, 1977, pp. 7-21 and esp. pp. 7-8. 13 See also J. Elsner, “Berenson’s decline, of his Arch of Constantine reconsidered,” Apollo 148, (July 1998), pp. 20-22. 7

For Riegl and other scholars, the juxtaposition of Classical art and the fourth-century ‘stumpy style’ on the Arch Berenson, 1954, p. 16. Riegl, Rome, 1985, p. 56. On Riegl and the Arch of Constantine, see J. Elsner, “The Birth of Late Antiquity: Riegl and Strzygowski in 1901,” Art history 25 (2002), pp. 364370. 16 Riegl, 1985, p. 56. 17 Riegl, 1985, p. 54. 18 Riegl, 1985, p. 55 14 15

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seems to be awkward in Western art history.19 The stylistic differences between the reliefs from earlier monuments and the original work on the Arch have been thought to be a suitable subject for formalistic art historians who have sought to define the transitional period from Classical (naturalistic) art to medieval (abstract) art. It is important to note, however, that any refuting of statements like Riegl’s leads to an aesthetic discussion, which is impossible to verify as true.20 It must also be noted that the style of this fourth-century work did not emerge suddenly. We can see a similar ‘stumpy style’ or ‘frontality’ in later second- and third-century Roman art, as in, for example, the column of Marcus Aurelius (AD 180-192), the figures from the Arch of Septimius Severus (AD 203), and early Christian sarcophagi.21 The same style is seen in a secular marble funerary relief depicting a scene from the circus from Ostia of the Trajanic or early Hadrianic era (dated first quarter of the second century AD) (fig. 55). This relief and its ‘stumpy style’ with mounted frontality is not in the same classical style as contemporary imperial art.22 Because earlier Romans had adopted the style, I cannot agree that the Arch represents a ‘decline of late Antique form’. It is worth noting that starting in the sixteenth century (and until the twentieth century), the spolia of the Arch of Constantine were considered a subtle artistic practice. Some art historians such as F. W. Deichmann and H. P. L’Orange started to consider the spolia of Constantine’s Arch to be “a purposeful aesthetic development”.23 One

might argue that late Roman art, including the Arch (and the column of Marcus Aurelius and the figures from the Arch of Septimius Severus), represents a new direction in artistic style for later Christian art.24 Let us return to the Arch of Constantine. How was spolia adapted specifically for the Arch of Constantine? The intentions of the fourth-century spolia in Constantine’s architecture (including the Arch) have been thought to be twofold: pragmatic and conceptual.25 There are two pragmatic reasons generally cited for spolia. First, there may have been reasons for economy in erecting the Arch in which the use of spolia saved money.26 Second, a lack of craftsmanship in fourth-century Rome may have required a reuse of previous monuments for aesthetic reasons.27 In fact, the reuse of building materials on imperial monuments and architecture was popular in Rome.28 Other Constantinian architectural examples of spolia are the colonnades of the Lateran Basilica (c. 313-318) and St. Peter’s (c. 320) (figs. 126, 127). R. Krautheimer, and P. Pensabene believe these columns were probably transported from public buildings for pragmatic reasons.29 The pragmatic explanations are derived from numerous arguments that Constantine lacked artistic sophistication J. Elsner, 2000, p. 262; he writes, “Crassly speaking, Roman art becomes the middle stage between the (good) naturalism of the Greek Revolution and the (reprehensible) anti-naturalism of the middle ages.” 25 On the fourth-century spolia of Constantine’s architecture, see Beat Brenk, “Spolia from Constantine to Charelemagne: Aesthetics versus Ideology,” Dumbarton Oakes Papers 41 (1987), pp. 103-109; F.W. Deichmann, Die Spolien in der spätantiken Architektur, Münch, 1975; R. Krautheimer, “Success and Failure in Late Antique: Church Planning,” in The Age of Spirituality: A Symposium, New York, 1980, pp. 121-139; J.B. Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages. Urban Public Building in Northern and Central Italy AD 300-850, Oxford, 1984, esp. pp. 203-229. 26 P. Pensabene and C. Panella “Reimpiego e progettazione architettonica nei monumenti tardoantichi di Roma”, Atti della Pntificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia: Rendiconti 66 (1993-94) pp. 111-283, esp. pp. 135-6; Bryan Ward-Perkins, “Reusing the architectural legacy of the past, Entre Idéologie et Pragmatisme”, in G.P. Brogio and B. Ward-Perkins eds., The Idea and Ideal of the Town Between Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Leiden, 1999, pp. 225-44, esp. 230-232. 27 B. Brenk disagrees with these two pragmatic reasons. Brenk, 1987, pp. 104-105. 28 On the “the spoliation of reuse of unwanted buildings” in the Roman Empire, see J.B. Ward-Perkins, 1984, pp. 203-229. 29 Krautheimer, “The Ecclesiastical Building Policy of Constantine”, in G. Bonamente and F. Fusco, eds., Costantino il Grande. Dall’antichità all’umanesimo. Colloquio sul cristianesimo nel mondo antico vol. 2, Macerata, 1993, pp. 509-52; Pensabene and Panella, 1993-94, pp. 129-31. 24

J. Elsner, “Frontality in the Column of Marcus Aurelius”, in J. Scheid and V. Huet, eds., La Colonne Aurelienne, Tournhout, 2000, pp. 251-252. 20 On the pre-war Western art historians and their stylistic analysis, see Elsner 2002, pp. 358-379. 21 On the problems of viewing the column of Marcus Aurelius as frontality, see Elsner, 2000, pp. 251-264. See also G. Rodenwaldt, “Zur Begrenzung und Gliederung der Spätantike”, Jahrbuch des Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, 59/60 (1944/45) pp. 81-87; A. Bonanno, Portraits and Other Heads on Roman Historical Relief up to the Age of Septimius Severus, Oxford, 1976, pp. 137-42. For late Roman art as frontality, see also G. Rodenwaldt, “Römische Reliefs: Vorstufen zur Spätantike”, Jahrbuch des Deutsches Archäologisches Institut 55 (1940), pp. 12-43. On the artistic styles and types of the Arch of Septimius Severus, see R. Brilliant, “The Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum”, Memories of the American Academy in Rome, 29 (1967), esp. pp. 149-165; A. Bonanno, 1976, pp. 143-46; Spivey, 1995, p. 22. 22 On the Ostia circus relief as an example of Roman art a stylistic dualism, see E. Kitzinger. London, 1977, pp. 10-11; G. Rodenwaldt, “Römische Reliefs: Vorstufen zur Spätantike”, Jahrbuch des Deutsches Archäologisches Institut 55 (1940), pp. 12-43; Bianchi Bandinelli, Archeologia e Cultura, Rome, 1979, pp. 217-8. See also J. Elsner, 1998, pp. 18-19 and 2000, p. 262. 23 Kinney, 1997, p. 117; F. W. Deichmann, “Säule und Ordnung in der frühchristlichen Architektur”, Römische Mitteilungen 55 (1940), pp. 114-130. See also L’Orange and von Gerkan, 1939, p. 33, p. 161, p. 162, and p. 191. 19

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Fig. 126. St. Peter’s, Rome, ca. 325-50, ground plan showing reused column shafts.

Photo: After Kinney, 2001, fig. 6.

Fig. 127. Column, marble, the Chapel

of the Holy Sacrament, probably second century. St. Peter’s, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Schwanke, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1979.3468 & 1979.3471) 122

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of our dissatisfaction is a general attitude associated with the above, reflecting the simple unqualified belief that, in being converted to Christianity, pagans were induced to reject their polytheism in favour of a monotheistic religion. This approach, which ultimately derives from the Christian Apologists of late antiquity, emphasizes the differences between Christianity and paganism in a stark and simplistic way which makes one overlook the very substantial similarities between the two, and even the indebtedness of Christian thought and practice to the pagan tradition.34

and his artists the talent that classicism enjoyed.30 Constantine’s anachronous interest in pagan statues in Byzantine after his move from Rome may be said to support this view. Constantine and other early Christian emperors collected pagan statues in the new capital, and Saradi-Mendelovici speculates that the statues had ‘artistic value’ to them.31 On the religious conflict that such an aesthetic choice would seem to suggest, she cites Cyril Mango’s suggestion that their collecting pagan statues was “something of a paradox”,32 representing the “ambiguous religion policy of the first Christian emperor”.33 Mango’s theory favours the view that Constantine’s works spoiled the more sophisticated examples of classical art. However, one might argue that “something of a paradox” and an “ambiguous religion policy” were essential to Roman religions. Christianity was systematic and had a systematic text, and although the syncretism of Roman cults seems to be ambiguous from a Christian perspective, such visual combinations made sense to Romans, including Constantine. I doubt that he could disconnect himself entirely from paganism (including the cult of Sol Invictus). Constantine, after all, was the first Christian emperor and he converted from paganism to Christianity. In fact, he took quite a long time to become a Christian, and this period shows a wavering between Roman cults and Christianity. Moreover, some scholars argue that monotheism was not exclusive to Christianity and Judaism in late antiquity. P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede write in the introduction to Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity:

To sum up, we cannot know whether Constantine felt that the second-century objects were superior to the art of his own period. What I argue is that if in fact the first Christian emperor collected pagan statues consciously in his new capital, we cannot deny the possibility that Constantine juxtaposed second- and fourth-century objects on the Arch for some conceptual reasons. Alternative explanations as to Constantine’s intentions regarding spolia are more conceptual or ideological. These intentions are thought to be twofold. One is that the act of spoliation would efface the past from Roman memory. The second is that it would combine the past and present. As I mentioned, the notion of spolia in the literature of art history is derived from the Roman act of spoliation of objects from defeated nations.35 Constantine not only reused earlier objects but also spoliated them in art historical terms. D. Kinney considers the spolia of Constantine’s arch to be a palimpsest and writes, “Recutting literally effaced their original referents”.36 Recutting Constantine’s face on the previous emperors’ figures means that the previous emperors’ images vanished forever from the viewer. I doubt, however, that the practice of spolia on Constantine’s arch was to efface the past from the present.37 If the artist wanted to efface the past of earlier objects, he did not need to bring the earlier work into his original work. He could have simply recut the second-century emperor’s

[A seminar on ‘pagan forms of monotheism in late antiquity’ held at Oxford in Hilary Term 1996] itself arose out of our dissatisfaction with what we take to be a misconception found not only among laymen but even among scholars: that in the Greco-Roman world – to speak only of what is of direct relevance to this volume – Christianity, in the tradition of Jewish monotheism, succeeded in replacing invariably polytheistic systems of religious belief with a monotheistic creed… Another even more important cause

P. Athanassiadi and M. Frede, eds., Pagan Monotheism in Late Antiquity, edited by, Oxford, 1999, p. 1-2. 35 On the spoliation by Verres, see D. Kinney, “Rape or Restitution of the Past? Interpreting Spolia”, in S. C. Scott, ed., The Art of Interpreting (Papers in Art History from the Pennsylvania State University 9), University Park (PA), 1995, pp. 53-67, esp. pp. 53-54. 36 Kinney, 1997, p. 135 and p. 146. See also P. Stewart, Statues in Roman Society, Oxford, 2003, pp. 281-282. 37 J. Elsner argues, “The methods of damnatio memoriae (as practiced in the first and second centuries rather than under the Severans) are used, but without the condemnatory intention”, and continues, “The highly traditional practice of adding portrait heads to bodies engaged in military or mythical narratives (or to statue types like Doryphorus or the athletes) is again pressed into service, but with the revolutionary twist that it is earlier state reliefs of previous ‘good’ emperors which provide the mythical context into which Constantine’s image is cut”. See, Elsner, 2000, p. 175, n. 32. 34

Spivey, 1995, p. 23. 31 Helen Saradi-Mendelovici, “Christian attitudes toward pagan monuments in late antiquity”, Dumbarton Oakes Papers, 44 (1990), p. 50. She writes, “it must be emphasized that classical monuments never ceased to be appreciated for their artistic value, especially by the educated class”. 32 Saradi-Mendelovici, 1990, p. 50; C. Mango, “Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder”, Dumbarton Oakes Papers 17 (1963), pp. 55-75. 33 Helen Saradi, “The use of ancient spolia in Byzantine monuments: the archaeological and literary evidence”, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 3 (1997), p. 399; Saradi- indicates that there are three reasons for the early Christian emperors’ collecting pagan statues. First, the pagan statues had aesthetic value. Second, the pagan statues had apotropaic power. Third, the pagan statues showed the legitimacy between the past and the new empire. 30

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In chapter one, I constructed an ‘art historical’ conceptual framework for syncretism, and I defined three aspects of syncretism in art by using objects and architecture in late antiquity and early Christian periods. Again, those three aspects of syncretism are first, where one object is appropriated for use in another religion; second, where the sign or symbol of an earlier object is joined into another sign or symbol; third, where old and new objects are juxtaposed within one new and unified object. I believe that types of spolia – material juxtaposition in the Roman world – can be classified similarly. These three aspects of syncretism can be applied to my analysis of spolia as aesthetic and material juxtaposition, but I would not argue that every practice of spolia implies syncretism. My question is in part whether early Christians who juxtaposed and assimilated non-Christian images were merely passive observers of material juxtapositions in the Greco-Roman world, or were they active participants in the process. To investigate my question, I will next classify some examples of so-called spolia according to these three aspects of syncretism using non-Christian and Christian objects and architecture, dating from late antiquity and the medieval period, and then redefine the notion of spolia as material juxtaposition.

face directly onto the second-century monument. In order to destroy a record of the past, I cannot see any advantage in bringing past monuments in and transforming them into new ones like the Arch of Constantine. The other conceptual or ideological conjectures as to Constantine’s purpose in the Arch was that he combined the past and the present. Some scholars believe spolia show that Constantine was trying to legitimate his rule by using parts from monuments of earlier ‘good emperors’ such as Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius.38 One theory supporting this view is that fourth-century Roman aesthetics of fragmentation were an assimilation of the past and present.39 According to this theory, the material juxtapositions of the past and present objects of the Arch show us something of Constantine’s political ideologies and therefore a conceptual assimilation of the objects.40 J. Elsner argues that “as the Arch searches for methods of creating a typological relationship between Constantine, the fourth century usurping conqueror, and his great second-century predecessors, it does so by simultaneously exploiting and transforming time-honoured patterns of Roman image-making”.41 He continues, “the Arch’s aesthetic of bricolage – its syncretism of fragments from different periods and styles as the basis of a new monument which puts a certain interpretative onus on its viewers – reflects similar patterns in late antique poetry”.42 I would add to this argument that the material juxtaposition also reveals something of the practice of syncretism during the eras of late antiquity and early Christianity in GrecoRoman socio-cultural contexts. To define the term spolia by using Classicism’s interpretation of Constantine’s aesthetic spoliation of second-century objects obstructs the view of the material juxtaposition and its contexts. It is important to be aware that such views have been derived from sixteenth-century Classicism. In this chapter, I would argue that we can consider spolia to be material juxtaposition of past and present objects and an example of what I call syncretism in the socio-cultural contexts of religion and ideology.

2. First Aspect of Syncretism in the Practice of Spolia in Sardis a. The Sardis Jews and Christians I have discussed the first aspect of syncretism as material juxtaposition, where one religion appropriates another religion’s past objects for its own purpose. In the first aspect of syncretism the earlier objects keep their original appearance. This section examines the practice of spolia showing the first aspect of syncretism by looking at the spolia of Jews and Christians in Sardis. As the Roman empire expanded, several cultural centres in western Asia became part of the Roman world. Sardis, which was the most important Western satrapy, was one of them. The city was ruled by Croesus (c. 680-547 BC), then conquered by the Persian king Cyrus. Herodotus wrote of the city’s temple of Cybele in the fifth century BC43, and the city was mentioned by Pausanias in the second century AD44 In 334 BC the city was captured by Alexander the Great and Hellenised by his successors. It came to be controlled by Rome in 133 BC and the Lydian-influenced city further diversified its cultures and religions. The two main monotheistic and aniconic religions in late antiquity – Judaism and Christianity – developed communities there and were in apposition to the city’s Hellenistic cults, and the city played an important role in early Christian history. In the Revelation of St John the Divine (dated the first century AD), the church of Sardis was addressed as “one of the seven earliest Christian communities of Asia Minor”.45

Richard Brilliant, Visual Narratives, London, 1984, pp. 121-122. Philip Pierce disagrees with this opinion. See Philip Pierce, “The Arch of Constantine: Propaganda and Ideology in late Roman Art”, Art History 12 (1989) p. 389 ff. 39 P.C. Miller, “Differential Networks: Relics and Other Fragments in Late Antiquity”, Journal of Early Christian Studies 6 (1998), pp.113-138. J. Elsner considers that this aesthetic inclination toward fragmentation is linked with the cult of relics in late antiquity: Elsner, 2000, pp. 149184. 40 Elsner writes, “The recutting of the reused reliefs on the Arch posit a novel kind of visual propaganda which is both utterly traditional in its treatments of earlier imagery and at the same time radically new”. See, Elsner, 2000, pp. 174175. 41 Elsner, 2000, p. 174. 42 Elsner, 2000, p. 175. See also, M. Roberts, The Jeweled Style, Ithaca, 1989, pp. 66-121. 38

Herodotus, The Histories, 5.102. Pausanias, Guide to Greece, 3.9.5. 45 Revelation of St. John the Divine 3.1-6; John Griffiths Pedley, Ancient Literary Sources on Sardis, Cambridge 43 44

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Fig. 128.Plan of Synagogue, Sardis, fourth century. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis,

Harvard University. In his Historiae Ecclesiastica, Eusebius referred to Melito (c. AD 140-190) at Sardis, who was renowned as one of the most important early church fathers.46

remarkable is that Sardis Christians also reused pagan objects in their church (e.g., the so-called Church M). The original western chapel of Church M (fig. 129) was a simple apsidal hall with clerestory lighting, and its marble floor was made from “reused spoils”.51 The head of a pagan god (probably an early Hellenistic Zeus) (fig. 130) was reused on the apse of the church.52 According to coins found in the site, the church was probably built before AD 400.53 Although Sardis Jews did not renovate the meeting hall into their synagogue until the early fourth century or later,54 there is a possibility that the founding date of Sardis Synagogue was earlier or contemporary with the date of Church M.

The Jewish community maintained a prominent position in the city. Josephus indicates in the first century AD that he allowed Jews to have “a private association in accordance with their ancestral laws and a private place where they decide their own business and resolve their differences” (Antiquitates Judaicae 14.235),47 which after the fourth century came to be located in a former public bathgymnasium complex in the centre of the city. Theodosius I declared pagan cults illegal between AD 391 and 392, officially restricting Jewish worship.48 Yet Jews continued to use the Sardis Synagogue (fig. 128) during the centuries of Christian domination following the Christian Triumph (until c. AD 616 when the city was destroyed).49 One remarkable point is that in constructing their synagogue in the centre of the city, the Sardis Jewish community reused not only the meeting hall in a public bath-gymnasium complex, but also early pagan objects, which are referred to as spolia (e.g., the Ionic shrine of Cybele).50 Equally

On the relationship between Jews and Christians at Sardis, Leonard V. Rutgers writes: While the Christianization of the Empire proceeded much slower than ecclesiastical historians would have us believe, Christian authorities were far from successful in their continued attempts to shatter Jewish self-confidence. Jews remained a steady presence in the cities of the late antique

(MA), 1972, p. 65, 224. G.M.A. Hanfmann, Letters from Sardis, Cambridge (MA), 1972, p. 4. 46 Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica, 4.13.8. 47 English translation taken from Pedley, 1972, 275, p. 75. 48 On the restriction of Jewish activities, see The Theodosian Code, esp. 16.8ff. See, The Theodosian Code, trans. C. Pharr, Princeton, 1952, pp. 467-470. 49 Coins which were found in the synagogue circulated through the early seventh century AD. See Andrew R. Seager and A. Thomas Kraabel, “The Synagogue and the Jewish Community” in G.M.A. Hanfmann, ed., Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times, Cambridge (MA), 1983, p. 174. 50 Saradi-Mendelovici, 1990, p.403, n. 47: Hanfmann, 1983, p. 176.

G.M.A. Hanfmann and Hans Buchwald, “Christianity: Churches and Cemeteries” in G.M.A. Hanfmann, ed., Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times, Cambridge (MA), 1983, p.195. 52 G.M.A. Hanfmann and N.H. Ramage, Sculpture from Sardis: the Finds through 1975, Cambridge (MA), 1978, p. 104. The small archaic kore (dated to 580-570 BC) was used for repairing the floor of a Christian church in Sardis dated to the fifth or sixth century AD. See Hanfmann, 1978, p. 39 and figs. 13-15. 53 G.M.A. Hanfmann and Hans Buchwald, “Christianity: Churches and Cemeteries” in G.M.A. Hanfmann, ed., Sardis from Prehistoric to Roman Times, Cambridge (MA), 1983, p. 195, n. 58. 54 Seager and Kraabel, 1983, p. 173. 51

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Fig. 129. St. Plan of Church M, Sardis, c. AD 400-800. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University.

one street in that city, which included a Jewish synagogue, a Christian house, and temples to pagan deities, J. Elsner observed “that the same schools of local artists created the decoration for what seem to us mutually exclusive cults” and suggests, “In effect, the temple remains of Dura offer a juxtaposition of cults by location, a kind of spatial syncretism”.56 The fact is that the main monotheistic religions of the city – Judaism and Christianity – existed in apposition to each other from the first century to the early seventh century AD. Moreover, the Sardis Jewish community had strong social power at a time when the Christian community was developing. I would argue that there was at least a possibility for artistic communication in the city between Jews and Christians, something that had occurred in Dura.

Fig. 130. Head of Zeus (?), marble, Church M, Sardis, probably third century BC. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University.

Among my questions are whether the practice of spolia in constructing the synagogue can be identified as material juxtaposition within a framework of syncretism, and whether in the reuse of the pagan head in Church M, the intentions of the Sardis Christians were similar to those of the Sardis Jews. In response to the latter question, I believe there is insufficient archaeological evidence in Church M to form a conclusion as to the intention behind the spolia. But the intentions behind the spolia in the synagogue and the relationship between Jews and Christians in Sardis can offer clues. Next, I will more closely investigate the Jewish practice of spolia in the Sardis Synagogue.

Empire, and hence a steady threat to Christianity on both a day- to-day basis as well as on a broader, ideological level.55 To this I would add my belief that Sardis Jews influenced Christians “on both a day-to-day basis as well as on a broader” artistic level, under the circumstances of coexistence, and the Jews’ practice of spolia might be one example of their influence on Christian art in Sardis. The discoveries of the Sardis Synagogue and Church M reveal the possibility of association between the art and buildings of the two religions in Sardis, just as they were in Dura Europos, a Roman garrison town in western Asia Minor. In describing the ‘Durene style’ of archaeological remains on

b. Material Juxtaposition between the Two Monotheistic Religions and Greco-Roman Cults in Sardis: the Sardis Synagogue and Christian Church M To explore the intention of the Sardis Jews’ spolia in their synagogue, let us study the building and its historical

Leonard V. Rutgers, “Justinian’s Novella 146” in Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz, eds., Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire, Leuven, 2003, pp. 385-407, esp. 390 n. 15. P. Brown, “Christianization and Religious Conflict”, in A. Cameron and P. Garnsey, eds., The Cambridge Ancient History. Vol. XIII. The Later Empire, A.D. 375-425, Cambridge, 1998, pp. 632-664. 55

J. Elsner, Imperial Rome and Christian Triumph, Oxford, 1998, pp. 212-216, esp. p. 213, n. 34. On the study of Dura, see also A. J. Wharton, Refiguring the Post Classical City, Cambridge, 1995, pp. 15-63. 56

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Fig. 131. Roman Eagle table, marble, Synagogue, Sardis, late Hellenistic or early Imperial era. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University.

Fig. 132. Lydian addorsed lions, marble, from Sardis (Synagogue), sixth – fifth century BC. Manisa Museum, Manisa. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University.

background. As stated earlier, the original building was formerly a public bath-gymnasium complex, begun during the first half of the second century.57 The main feature of the hall (the South Hall in the complex) was completed in about 225 in the basilical style (which was divided into a nave and aisles by colonnades).58 The pragmatic reasons for the building’s conversion into a synagogue have been studied in a social context by M. P. Bonz. As a result of the Roman economic crisis of the late third century, the city could not maintain the public building and sold the South Hall of the bath-gymnasium complex to the Jewish community, which was more able to maintain the building.59 The Sardis Jewish community began the conversion of the meeting hall into a synagogue in the fourth century for the sacred gerousia, a Roman governing body.60 The synagogue consists of a main hall and a forecourt. The floor of the forecourt is covered with mosaics on which donor names are inscribed. The focal point for the synagogue is an apse surrounded by a triserial bench at the end of the main hall.61 Some features of the Sardis synagogue (apse, aisles, nave, colonnades, and courtyard) surprisingly recall early Christian basilicas. In the literature of architectural history, some would argue that Jews adapted this public hall because of their need for a large meeting space.62

I believe, however, that the Sardis Jews’ practice of reusing earlier architecture and pagan objects suggests a more conceptual rationale, and that the material juxtaposition of Judaism and paganism can be identified with some aspects of syncretism. The art of the Sardis Synagogue suggests that there was religious assimilation between the Jewish and imperial cults. Several pagan objects were reused: in the apse there is an Eagle Table (fig. 131), which has a curved Roman eagle gripping a thunderbolt on each side. This architectural fragment predated the synagogue and was installed into the synagogue in the fourth century AD.63 On the side of the table, there are two pairs of marble addorsed lions (fig. 132). These lions were originally made sometime during the Lydian period, from the sixth to fifth centuries BC.64 In addition, several cates “…the contemporary accusation levelled against the Christians of erecting ‘huge buildings thus imitating the structures of temples’ can refer only to a meeting hall of public appearance” in the pre-Constantinian era and refers to the Sardis Synagogue in his note 51: “As early as the late second or early third century the rich Jewish congregation at Sardis had installed their synagogue splendidly in a hall adjoining the public bath in the center of town”. On the study of the basilica, see chapter two of this study. On the basilican synagogues, see, H.L. Gordon, “The Basilica and the Stoa in Early Rabbinical Literature”, Art Bulletin 13 (1931), pp. 353-375; R. ����������������������������� Krautheimer, “The Constantinian Basilica”, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 21 (1967), pp. 117-140, esp. pp. 123-124; A. Grabar, The Golden Age of Justinian, New York, 1967, pp. 57-58; S. Kraus, Synagogale Altertümer, Wien, 1922, pp. 261-262; E.R Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, vol. 2, New York, 1953, p. 85; R. Wischnitzer, The Architecture of the European Synagogue, Philadelphia, 1964, pp. 11-13. 63 A. Thomas Kraabel, “The Synagogue at Sardis: Jews and Christians” in E. Guralnick, ed., Sardis: Twenty-Seven Years of Discovery, Chicago, 1987, p. 65 and fig. 44; G.M.A. Hanfmann, Letters from Sardis, Cambridge (MA), 1972, p. 135 and fig. 97. 64 Hanfmann, 1972, p. 135 and fig. 98.

Hanfmann and Buchwald, 1983, p. 195. Andrew R. Seager, “The Building History of the Sardis Synagogue”, American Journal of Archaeology, 76 (1983), p. 429. 59 M.P. Bonz, “Differing Approaches to Religions Benefaction: The Late Third Century Acquisition of the Sardis Synagogue”, Harvard Theological Review (86), 1993, pp. 139-152, esp. pp. 146-148; G.M.A. Hanfmann, 1983, p.146. 60 It’s possible that the community adopted the South Hall and had plans to renovate it as a Jewish ritual space as early as the late third century (but not before 270). Bonz, 1993, p. 145, n. 19, n. 20; Seager, 1983, p. 432. 61 Bonz, 1993, fig. 2. 62 R. Krautheimer, Early Christian Art and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed., London, 1986, p. 37, n. 51. He indi57 58

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Fig. 134. Cybele, marble, from Sardis (Synagogue), sixth century BC. Manisa Museum, Manisa. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University.

Various accounts have speculated as to the intentions behind these earlier objects. For example, Hanfmann alludes to reuse in the Sardis Synagogue as a negative practice. He writes, “…spectacular spoils from Sardis’ most hallowed pagan shrines are built into the piers of the Main hall”,69 further asserting that they reused earlier objects without thinking about the significance of the pagan images.70 Hanfmann describes the synagogue’s “high lectern flanked by statues of archaic lions on Cybele now reincarnated as symbols of the Lion of Judah”.71 I would categorise these appropriations as the first aspect of syncretism (where one religion appropriates another religion’s past objects for its own purposes). In the literature of archaeology and in Jewish history, reuse of pagan materials was an eccentric occurrence. In Sardis architecture, however, reusing earlier architectural fragments was common, such as in the Acropolis walls and later the Byzantine colonnades. Thus, some might conclude that in ‘borrowing’ imperial and pagan images such as the eagle, lion and snakes from earlier objects, the Sardis Jews were reusing earlier objects from secular and pagan buildings in accordance with practices common to Sardis architectures.72 As I mentioned above, all these pagan objects kept their native appearance when they were built into the Sardis Synagogue as architectural ‘parts’, demonstrating a kind of material juxtaposition. Hanfmann suggests that the Sardis Christians’ use of the pagan head in the Justinianic apse of Church M, may be

Fig. 133. Archaic kore, marble, from Sardis (Synagogue),

sixth century BC. Manisa Museum, Manisa. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University. images of pagan deities are built into the north wall. These date from the times of Croesus (565-547 BC), much earlier than the fourth-century AD synagogue, and all are reused as architectural materials.65 A small archaic statue wearing Anatolian dress (fig. 133) was built into the north wall of the Synagogue. Another reused monument depicts Cybele standing between two snakes (fig. 134).66 Archaic fragments such as the late Roman bronze lion heads are also found near the synagogue porch.67 In the reused fragments some earlier Greek inscriptions survive, including one that probably came from the Hellenistic Temple of Cybele, reused in the Synagogue pier.68 Hanfmann, 1972, pp. 133-134. Hanfmann, 1972, p. 137, fig. 99 and fig. 100. 67 Hanfmann, 1972, p. 139, fig. 103. 68 For the Sardis Jews’ practices of spolia including inscriptions from the Hellenistic Metröon, see D. G. Mitten, “The Synagogue” in G.M.A. Hanfmann ed., “The Sixth Campaign At Sardis (1963)”, Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research, 174 (April, 1964), pp. 30-44, esp. 34-36. 65

Hanfmann, 1972, p. 138. Hanfmann, 1978, p. 38. 71 Hanfmann, 1972, p. 138. 72 On the Jewish animal symbols, see E. Diamond, “Lions, Snakes and Asses: Palestinian Jewish Holy Men as Masters of the Animal Kingdom” in Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz, eds., Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire Leuven, 2003, pp. 251-283.

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a case of spolia by early Christians preserving fragments of the early pagan object intentionally: “One wonders, however, whether the early Hellenistic Zeus might not have been smashed intentionally and fragments of his head built into the Justinianic apse of Church M with some notion of triumph over the pagan demons.”73 Saradi’s account of reusing the head in the apse of Church M is slightly more negative compared to the Hanfmann’s account, and she indicates that it “was probably intentionally broken and incorporated into” the apse of Church M.74 Saradi traces the notion of Christian Triumph over paganism to early Byzantine sources. She writes:

reusing past objects: the association of different liturgical symbols and the assimilation of Greco-Roman symbols in the Sardis Synagogue. First, the original function of the building (i.e., the South Hall of the bath-gymnasium complex) is a crucial factor. Due to the third-century inscription, “Gymnasium of the Elders,” the South Hall in the bath-gymnasium complex is hypothesized to have been a meeting hall for Sardis’ sacred gerousia, which was supported by the imperial government.77 The main function of the sacred gerousia was conducting festivals that were linked with the imperial cult. It is worth noting the location of the relief of a Roman eagle clutching thunderbolts carved on the Eagle Table in the synagogue. Why did the Jews reuse this Roman table on the apse of the synagogue, which was a focal point of the building? It is possible that the Sardis Jews reused the liturgical architectural function of the Eagle Table, adapting the imperial cultic festival format from the original gerousia before converting it into a synagogue. Or they may have renovated the meeting hall of the public bath/gymnasium in part for the sake of Sardis gentiles, intentionally building in earlier objects derived from local cults but within Jewish frameworks. But there is no evidence.

Theological interpretations of the phenomenon in the early Byzantine sources associate the use of spolia with the Church’s victory over paganism. As several Christian writers interpreted the display of pagan statues in Constantinople and in other cities as permanent reminders of the pagan deceit and as a means to ridicule paganism, similarly spolia incorporated in churches could always point to the defeat of the old religion and glorify the new one.75 She concludes, “Such a use of spolia in religious buildings, conveying the message of religious intolerance and victory over the defeated paganism, was not an unparalled Christian practice: in the forecourt of Sardis’s Jewish Synagogue a relief with Artemis and Cybele was placed upside down”.76 In contrast, according to Hanfmann’s accounts of the practice of spolia in Sardis, the Jews appropriated the Greco-Roman images as Jewish symbols, while the Christians used pagan images to demonstrate their victory. Regardless of the differences between these two accounts, I would suggest that it is within a Jewish framework that the material juxtaposition of Jewish objects with earlier, gentile objects occurs, representing an association of objects and symbols for practical purpose. In both Hanfmann’s and Sardi’s accounts, the Sardis Jews’ and early Christians’ use of spolia can still be identified as an example of the first aspect of syncretism, because the material juxtaposition in each ritual space was used for their own respective theological purposes.

The second possible intention behind the synagogue’s reuse of objects was for the signs or symbols of Sardis pagan images to be juxtaposed or assimilated into a Jewish sign and symbolic system, where the pagan images were Judaised using material juxtaposition in a Jewish context. One clue in favour of my argument is the relationship of the cult of Sabazius with Judaism (and Christianity) in the Greco-Roman world, of which Sardis was now part. A. Thomas Kraabel indicates a possibility that syncretism may have occurred between Judaism and paganism in Sardis, because Hypsistarianism, which was a syncretistic religion of Jewish and Oriental paganism, was established not far away in fourth-century Cappadocia.78 Kraabel hypothesises that the pagan fragments came from pagan sanctuaries that were destroyed according to Constantine’s order.79 He writes:

I suspect that the intentions of the Sardis Jews in their practice of spolia implied positive artistic attitudes toward assimilating these earlier Greco-Roman objects into their ritual space, and that the Sardis Christians might have adopted this Jewish practice of reusing Greco-Roman cult objects. Before considering the relationships of Jews and Christians with the Greco-Roman cults in Sardis, I shall first examine two possibilities of the Sardis Jews’ intentions in

Some Jews did these things because they were not very smart – they did not know any better; but most were deliberate, pathetically attempting to make themselves more ‘gentile.’ But if syncretism among Jews was as widespread as we have been told, there should be clear evidence for it in the Sardis data. From Lydia and from Sardis itself there is abundant evidence for Sabazius and Dionysus: was any of it found in the Synagogue? The Sardis Jewish community can now be extensively documented; is

Hanfmann and Ramage, 1978, p. 39. Saradi, 1997, p. 401. Saradi-Mendelovici also examines “the positive attitude of the Christians toward pagan monuments”. See Helen Saradi-Mendelovici, 1990, pp. 47-61. 75 Saradi, 1997, p. 401. 76 Saradi, 1997, p .403, n. 47. On the relief of Artemis and Cybele in the Sardis Synagogue, see Seager and Kraabel, 1983, p. 176. 73

Bonz, pp. 142-143, n.12 n.13 n.14; James H. Oliver, The Sacred Gerusia (American Excavations in the Athenian Agora, Hesperia, suppl. 6; Athens: American School of Classical Studies at Athens, 1941), pp. 55-85 and inscription 3, and pp. 28-30 and inscriptions 22-24. 78 Seager and Kraabel, 1983, p. 185. 79 Hanfmann, 1978, p. 38.

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Fig. 135. Thunderbolt of Jupiter Sabazius, silver plaques, from Gaul, the Roman Imperial era, drawing. Museum of St. Germain-en-Laye. Photo: After Lane, 1985, pl. XXIX, 74.

Fig. 136. Sabazius with Cybele and Attis, bronze plaque,

there any indication that mixtures of traditional Judaism and pagan piety were being connected there? The answer to both questions is no.80

the eagle on silver plaques (fig. 135).85 Sabazius became Jupiter Sabazius, associated with the goddess Cybele and Attis in the Roman imperial era, and these three deities were depicted on bronze plaques (fig. 136).86 Indeed, the mystery of Sabazius was not far from Judaism and Christianity in the Roman artistic sphere.

from Rome, the Roman imperial era, drawing. The Berlin Antiquarium, Amsterdam. Photo: After Lane, 1985, pl. XXXIII, 82.

Kraabel conceded “abundant evidence” of Sabazius throughout the region, but I doubt there was no association of it with traditional Judaism. We can see several pagan fragments on the Sardis Synagogue in reuse (e.g., eagles, thunderbolts, Cybele with snakes) that show attributes of the cult of Sabazius.81 Kraabel hypothesised that Jews in Asia Minor thought that Sabazius was the Sabbath.82 I doubt this hypothesis. First, according to the fourth -century-BC inscription, association of Sabazius and Cybele had occurred in Sardis, and I doubt that the Sardis Jews had no knowledge of these associations.83 Second, the cult of Sabazius was worshipped not only in Sardis, but also widely in the Greco-Roman world. In addition, syncretism of Sabazius and other divinities such as Zeus or Jupiter or sun gods occurred in the Roman Empire and can be seen in several artworks.84 For example, in Gaul, the image of the thunderbolt of Jupiter Sabazius accompanied

In the eighteenth century, frescoes depicting a Sabaziast priest and followers were found in the Catacomb of Praetextatus in Rome (figs. 137, 138), a cemetery where Christian tombs were dominant.87 The theme of the frescoes is about the fate of Vincentius and Vibia, devotees of Sabazius, and Goodenough indicates that the scenes show many symbols found in Jewish art, revealing a Roman link among the cult of Sabazius, Judaism and Christianity.88 The catacombs reveal that between the late third century and the fourth century, Sabaziasts and Mithraists were buried in four arcosolia in a tomb that had originally been Christian. Turcan refers to this juxtaposition of paganism and Christianity in the tomb and suggests a “complexity of religious cohabitations” and a “socio-professional link” Turcan, 1996, p. 319, n. 70; E.N. Lane, Corpus Cultus Iovis Sabazii (CCIS), vol. 2, Leiden, 1985, p. 35 and No. 74 in Pl. XXIX. 86 On the bronze plaque, Lane, 1985, p. 39, No. 81 and 82 in Pl. XXXIII. 87 Lane, 1989, p. 14. On the sketch of the frescoes, see Lane, 1985, pp. 31-32 and No. 65 in Pl. XXVII. See also, E. N. Lane, “Sabazius and the Jews in Valerius Maximus: a re-examination”, Journal of Roman Studies 69 (1979), pp. 35-38. 88 E.R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, vol. 2, New York, 1953, p. 45, n. 282. 85

Hanfmann, 1983, p. 185. 81 The symbol of snakes in the cult of Sabazius was linked with that of the cult of Cybele in Rome. See, R. Turcan, The Cults of the Roman Empire, trans. A. Nevill, Oxford, 1996, p. 293. 82 Hanfmann, 1983, p. 185. 83 E.N. Lane, Cultus Iovis Sabazii (CCIS), vol. 3, Leiden, 1989, p. 16. 84 On the “other divinities with whom Sabazius is identified or associated” in the Roman Empire, see Lane, 1989, pp. 11-22. 80

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Fig. 137. Sabaziast priest and followers, wall painting, the

Catacomb of Praetextatus, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: After Pavia, 1999, p. 223 (Grangeni Editore, Rome). Fig. 138. Sabaziast priest and followers, wall painting, the

Catacomb of Praetextatus, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: After Pavia, 1999, p. 224 (Grangeni Editore, Rome).

between pagans, Sabaziasts and Roman Christians. We must not disregard the juxtaposition of the three religions. I would suggest that because evidence can be found beyond it, Sardis might also demonstrate an ‘artistic’ link between the cult of Sabazius, Judaism and Christianity. 89

linked with the imperial cult, we cannot deny the possibility that the cult of Sabazius had been worshipped there before its being converting into a synagogue. There is another possibility that syncretism of Sardis Judaism and the cult of Sabazius occurred in Sardis as Hypsistarianism, which was a syncretic religion of Jewish and Oriental paganism found in fourth-century Cappadocia (as I mentioned earlier), and that this religious syncretism may have been accompanied by the Sardis Jews’ practice of spolia. Although interesting speculation, there is not enough evidence to come to that conclusion decisively.

There is additional evidence of such an artistic link in west Asia. Goodenough suggests that the image of the hand, a symbol of the deity in Jewish art, may have been derived “immediately from the Sabazius hands” (fig. 139).90 Grabar indicates that the motifs of the Hand of God on the coinage of “the apotheosis of Constantine with the Hand of God” and a medal of “Constantine crowned by the Hand of God” (fig. 140) were derived from Jewish art because the motif was already depicted in the fresco of the Dura Synagogue (fig. 141).91 Although the motif of the Hand of God was not found in the site of the Sardis Synagogue, if Jewish and Christian art in Rome show the Sabazius hands, it is perfectly possible that there may have been some kind of link between the Sardis Jews (and Christians) and Sabaziasts.

I would not argue that the Jewish and pagan images cohabitated on equal footing in the Sardis Synagogue. But I would assert that there was intention behind the reuse of pagan images in the Sardis Synagogue other than to demolish the pagan history of Sardis. From the Sardis Jewish point of view, because the cults of Jupiter Sabazius (or Dionysus) and Cybele were worshipped in Sardis, the gentile fragments built into the Sardis Synagogue might be more than miscellaneous pagan pieces. I believe that this kind of artistic accumulation of reused images could have occurred in parallel to a syncretism of religions in late antiquity. As I mentioned earlier, syncretism of the cult of Sabazius and other pagan cults including Cybele occurred in Sardis and in the rest of the Greco-Roman world. In addition, both Judaism and Christianity were not far from these associations in the Greco-Roman religious and artistic spheres.

Let us return to one of my questions about the intention of the Sardis Jews’ practice of spolia. Even though there is not enough evidence to interpret the gentile objects in the Sardis Synagogue as attributions of the cult of Sabazius, because the basic function of the Sardis Synagogue was as a meeting hall for the sacred gerousia conducting festivals See, Turcan, 1996, p. 324. See Goodenough, 1953, p. 46, n. 287. 91 A. Grabar, Christian Iconography, Princeton, 1968, p. 40 and p. 115, fig. 99 and 100. 89 90

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Fig. 140. Coin of the apotheosis of Constantine, from Rome, fourth century. Photo: After Grabar, 1967, fig. 214 (Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris).

Fig. 139. Sabazius’ hand, bronze, probably from Rome, third or fourth century. British Museum, London. Photo: After Perowne, 1988, p. 102.

Fig. 141. “Elijah Restores the Widow’s Child”, wall painting, west wall, synagogue, Dura Europos, c. AD 245. National

Museum, Damascus. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven. 132

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Fig. 142. Apse mosaic, Synagogue, Sardis, fourth century. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis,

Harvard University. I would argue that the Sardis Jews brought in gentile objects not only for reuse, but also for juxtaposing symbols that could be Judaised. For example, Goodenough assumes that the imagery of vines growing from a great vase on the mosaics of the Sardis Synagogue’s apse (the gift of two brothers, Synphoros and Stratoneikianos Flavioi, according to the inscription) (fig. 142) represents “the eschatological and immortal association of the vine”, which as I mentioned in chapter one, was derived from the Dionysian symbol, very popular in both Jewish and Christian sites of the period (e.g., Dura).92 In another example, the Roman Eagle Table sits near the ‘Jewish’ apse, and Goodenough assumes that “a ritualistic meal with wine” or some other kinds of Jewish ritual services were conducted at the table.93 It should be noted that lions and eagles are depicted on the steps to the thrones of Ahasuerus and Solomon in the Dura synagogue (fig. 143).94 Goodenough also notes the presence of lions depicted in the vine.95 The two lions and snakes on the Cybele monument built into the synagogue could not only be attributed the cult of Cybele, but also to sacred animals in Judaism.96 The material juxtaposition of these

Fig. 143. “The Purim Triumph”, wall painting, west wall, synagogue, Dura Europos, c. AD 245. National Museum, Damascus. Photo: Courtesy of Yale University Art Gallery, Department of Ancient Art, New Haven.

E.R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, vol. 12, New York, 1965, pp. 193. On the bema of the Sardis Synagogue compared with the traditional proportion of synagogues, see John Wilkinson, From Synagogue to Church: the Traditional Design, London, 2002, see pp. 98-99 and fig. 7. 12/13. 93 Goodenough, 1965, p. 195. 94 Goodenough, 1965, p. 134. 95 Goodenough, 1965, p. 134. 96 On the motifs lions and snakes in Judaism, see Diamond, 2003, pp. 254-262. See also, E.R. Goodenough, Jewish Symbols in the Greco-Roman Period, vol. 10, New York, 1964, p. 154, n. 50; G. K. Boyce, “Corpus of the Lararia of Pompeii”, Memories of the American Academy of Rome 92

objects represents a syncretism of symbols of pagan gods in late antiquity – Sabazius, Dionysus, and Cybele – and at the same time, the juxtaposition of Judaism and Sardis pagan cults. In other words, when these earlier pagan objects were built into the synagogue, these symbols were assimilated into Judaism in Jewish contexts. The use of these objects in the Sardis Synagogue can also be shown to demonstrate the second aspect of syncretism, which I have defined in this study where a sign or symbol of an earlier object was co-opted into another sign or symbol. But because the pagan objects in the Sardis Synagogue keep (XIV), 1937. 133

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in the practice of spolia among Jews and Christians. The attachment of the Christian church to the Artemis Temple and their reuse of earlier pagan objects and fragments in the cemetery can be considered not only to emphasise Christian victory over paganism, but also as a juxtaposition of Christianity and local religions. The fact is that the Jews and Christians coexisted in Sardis until the seventh century AD, and they were not far from each other in the Roman artistic sphere: both Jews and Christians often juxtaposed their images with those of paganism in the funeral space. In the Roman artistic sphere, the juxtaposition of imagery for the cults of Jupiter Sabazius, Dionysus and Cybele represents a syncretism within late antique religious art. This syncretism can also be seen in the spolia of the Sardis Synagogue and Jewish art. Evidently neither Judaism nor Christianity was far from the juxtaposition or assimilation of symbols in late antiquity’s art. I would argue that material juxtaposition within a framework of the first aspect of syncretism was one of the artistic methods in ‘Sardian style’. The fact is that the practice of spolia among both the Sardis Jews and Christians was to appropriate earlier pagan objects for their own purposes. 3. Second and Third Aspects of Syncretism in the Practice of Spolia in Roman Imperial and Early Christian Art a. Assimilation with the Legend of a Hellenistic Hero: the Second Aspect of Syncretism We have discussed spolia in a framework of the first aspect of syncretism using the practice of reusing earlier pagan objects by Sardis Jews and Christians. This section discusses spolia in Rome in a framework of what I have defined as the second aspect of syncretism. In this aspect, the sign or symbol of an earlier object is transformed into another sign or symbol of a new object where the new object absorbs the earlier object’s sign and symbol and its context.

Fig. 144.Church M with Artemis Temple, Sardis, fifth century. Copyright Archaeological Exploration of Sardis, Harvard University.

their native appearance in their material juxtaposition with Jewish symbols, I believe it better demonstrates the first aspect of syncretism. I doubt, however, that there is no link in Sardis between Judaism, Christianity and paganism (especially the cult of Sabazius), since a similar artistic assimilation seems to have occurred in Rome (e.g., in the catacombs of Praetextatus). In Rome, Christian art was not far from associations being made between Judaism and the cult of Sabazius. Is it impossible to consider that at least in the artistic sphere, Sardis Christians did not refuse to juxtapose their images with pagan?

When the Mithraeum under San Clemente in Rome was excavated in 1869, a portrait of Apollo-Sol (fig. 145) was found and displayed at the site (until it was stolen).99 The head of Apollo-Sol had been reused from an imperial copy of a portrait of Alexander the Great, and his nose was reconstructed.100 A row of holes drilled into the head suggest that someone attempted to add rays to it in bronze, a symbol of the radiant crown for Sol in the Imperial era.101 Hannestad argues that the head was modernised by renovating its eyes in an updated style, and transforming

The location of Church M should be considered at this point. The church was attached to the southeast corner of the Artemis Temple (fig. 144). Regarding this attachment, Hanfmann argues, “it was clearly intended to sanctify the Artemis Precinct and to provide a funerary chapel for a cemetery” near the Artemis Temple.97 The date of the cemetery is hypothesized to be the same as chapel M (c. AD 400 – 800), but it is uncertain.98 A Lydian sarcophagus and some Greek inscriptions were probably reused in the cemetery. Unfortunately, we do not know who was buried in the cemetery. But there seems to be a ‘Sardian style’

N. Hannestad, Tradition in Late Antique Sculpture, Aarhus, 1994, p. 100, n.150. 100 N. Hannestad, “Imitatio Alexandri in Roman Art” in J. Carlsen, Bodil Due, Otto Steen Due and Birte Poulsen eds., Alexander the Great: Reality and Myth, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici (Supplementum XX), pp. 61-69, 1993. 101 Hannestad, 1994, p. 100, n. 151; when the statue was excavated, it had wooden sticks inserted into the holes instead of the lost bronze rays. 99

Hanfmann and Buchwald, 1983, P. 195 Hanfmann and Buchwald, 1983, p. 209, n. 46.

97 98

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the sun god Sol.104 In the relief excavated in Neuenheim, the Sun God at the top left corner has a nimbus around his head and wears a mantle (fig. 49).105 He is riding a fourhorse chariot, a symbol of the Sun God, of Jupiter, of the victorious Roman emperor, or of the deified emperors in late antiquity. It is evident that this icon of the Sun God is related to the icon of the sun god Sol depicted on the coinage of Septimius Severus (fig. 52) (which I compared to the charioteer of Tomb M in chapter one). Minted in the third century AD to show the sun’s triumph, the coin also shows Sol with a nimbus around his head and wearing a mantle. In the Mithraic temple underneath St Clemente cited above, a figure of Apollo-Sol is positioned behind the relief of Mithras sacrificing a bull. This demonstrates that in the iconographic programme of the cult of Mithras, as with the syncretism of sun worship itself, there was a synthesis of Apollo and Sol as Sun God. The symbols of Apollo and Sol were themselves elements of the assimilation of solar cults in Rome. I would argue that on the statue of Apollo-Sol in this Mithraic temple, the Hellenistic heroic symbol of Alexander the Great was built into a synthesis of Apollo and Sol in a Mithraic context, and that the symbolic associations were represented in a material juxtaposition. In chapter one I addressed how the Sun God Apollo (the god of victory) and Sol (the god of the sun riding a four-horse chariot) were assimilated into a syncretism of solar theology, and that the imagery of the victorious emperor or the deified emperor in Roman imperial iconography came from imagery of the sun gods as a result of syncretism. The crucial points are that the reused head of this statue was an imperial copy of a portrait of Alexander the Great. The assimilation of the sun gods (Apollo-Sol) can be linked to Alexander the Great because of the implication of victory.

Fig. 145. Apollo-Sol, marble, Mithraeum, under the church of S. Clemente, Rome, third or fourth century. Photo: Soprintendenza Archeologica di Roma, Rome.

what had been a head of Alexander the Great into Sol.102 I would argue, however, that the head of Alexander the Great already had a similar function to Sol before its renovation. In my view, the symbol of the head of Alexander the Great was assimilated into the figure of Sol in Mithraic contexts. Indeed, the head of Alexander the Great absorbed the figure of Sol in a material juxtaposition of two different heroic figures. We can see the components of this assimilation visually while the devotees of Mithraism might have seen this figure exclusively as Sol. I doubt this reuse represents a mixing of fragments due to economic reasons or to an intended demolition of the Hellenistic hero, for the image of Alexander the Great in the Greco-Roman world had already been assimilated with images of the Sun God, including Sol and Apollo.

The Roman Mithraists’ reuse of an imperial copy of the statue of Alexander the Great can be identified with the second aspect of syncretism. In other words, the Mithraists juxtaposed the divine Alexander the Great with Apollo-Sol in a Mithraic context by remodelling the earlier objects of Alexander the Great into their Apollo-Sol while retaining attributes and contexts of both. At the same time, the material juxtaposition of the Mithraic symbol (Sol) and the Hellenistic hero (Alexander the Great) may have occurred as a result of syncretism of late antique solar theology. Another issue that I want to explore regarding the reuse of Alexander the Great for Apollo-Sol is that the symbol of Alexander the Great had been adopted by Roman rulers in

In the icon of Mithras, the god is seen to be protected by the sun and moon, sacrificing the bull in return for material gifts.103 It was a sacred work that represented the salvation of mankind after death. Upon accomplishing his mission, Mithras rides high into the skies on a four-horse chariot with

Cumont, 1957, pp. 101-102. On the sketch of the monument of Ottaviano Zeno in Rome, see Roger Beck, Planetary Gods and Planetary Orders in the Mysteries of Mithras, Leiden, 1988, plate 3. The date of the monument is uncertain, but it is probably third or fourth century. Another example of the figure of the solar chariot in Mitharic art is a fragment of the BasRelief of Virunum. On the sketch of the fragment, see Cumont, 1957, p. 133 and fig. 32. 104 105

Hannestad, 1994, p. 100. Franz Cumont, The Mysteries of Mithra, translated from the second revised French edition by T.J. McCormack, New York, 1957, p. 118-119. 102 103

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imperial iconography throughout Roman history. I would suggest that the role of spolia in the Arch of Constantine can be studied from a different perspective, and that the late antique syncretism of symbols of the Hellenistic king and Roman rulers is the key to study the use of ancient spolia in imperial iconography. Alexander was not only an ideal for Hellenistic rulers. Romans knew that he existed as an historical figure and became a legend in the Greco-Roman world. This Hellenistic historical figure was assimilated with sun gods and emperors in the Roman world, and the Romans unified several symbols derived from the syncretism of late antiquity and created the Roman divine imagery of Alexander the Great. A bronze heroic nude statue in the Greek style dating from the early second century BC (fig. 146) was found in Rome, and it is believed that the statue was “a portrait of a Hellenistic prince brought to Rome as booty from the Greek world”.106 He might be Alexander the Great, but we do not know. If the statue was Greek, I would suggest that we may be seeing ancient use of spoliation. Because the Romans did not destroy this statue or remodel it as a Roman hero, we cannot practically link this to Roman spoliation and the practice of spolia. However, one wonders whether the Romans ‘reused’ a Greek bronze heroic nude statue to represent a Roman hero since they revered the Greek statue as an ideal type of hero. Key to this question is whether the practice of reusing an earlier object was an attempt to use its Hellenistic history to comment on Roman history or ‘the Roman present’. In other words, I would argue that the Romans had a conception of not only reusing an earlier object but also reusing its history. S. Swain refers to the use of the history of Alexander the Great by the elite in the second sophistic era of Greek culture and society in the Roman Empire (between AD 50 and 250). He writes: Actual reinvention and recreation of foundation legends and myths was no doubt in the hands of the elite… But the statements of literary texts, the historical themes of the sophists and rhetors, historical references and assumptions in political oratory, the presence of semi-historical and historical tales in the ever popular entertainment of the pantomime, evidence from the competitions, festivals, and visual arts of this era, together with the ‘sub’-literary pseudo-histories of Alexander the Great and other historical figures all suggest that ‘ordinary’ people had some knowledge of history and a sense of the tradition of the Greek world and its culture which was independent of the elite.107 M. Beard, J. North and S. Price, Religions of Rome, Cambridge, vol. 1, Cambridge, 1998, p. 85 and fig. 2.2. 107 Simon Swain, Hellenism and Empire. Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek Word AD 50-250, Oxford, 1996, p. 65. On the second sophistic, see also E.L. Bowie, “Greeks and their Past in the Second Sophistic,” in M.I . Finley, ed., Studies in Ancient Society, London, 1974, pp. 160-209. 106

Fig. 146. A heroic nude statue, bronze, from Rome, early

second century BC. Museo Nazionale Romana, Rome. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut (Koppermann, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 1966.1686). 136

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Many cases of “cities reasserting or recreating” – or rewriting – “roles of founders and civic myths” were found in the second sophistic era.108 The reuse of the ‘history’ of Alexander the Great was adopted by Roman rulers when they celebrated their victory with triumphs. Their triumphal processions, or “performance art”,109 were linked with the syncretism of late antique solar theology.110 When Pompey the Great celebrated victories, his main intention for the procession was that “in 61[BCE], fresh from Rome’s greatest conquests ever, in a triumphal procession which outdid all predecessors for its sheer array of captured kings and princelings, he must have seemed unassailable – the Roman Alexander, an emperor in all but name”.111 The historical legend of Alexander the Great itself could have symbolised a victorious emperor. The relationship between Alexander the Great and Roman rulers in late antiquity consisted of the assimilation of the legend of Alexander (the past) and a Roman ruler (the present). The Romans absorbed all Mediterranean nations that had been conquered by Alexander, and the image of Alexander the Great passed to the Romans as the ideal king. The imagery of Alexander represents the assimilation of the king with Helios-Sol in imperial iconography.112

Fig. 147. Medallion with portraits of Constantine and Sol,

from Ticinum, AD 313. Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. Photo: After Beard et al., 1998, vol. 1, fig. 8.1:a (Cabinet des Médailles, Paris). in Life of Constantine.113 But Constantine’s portrait image could not be separated from the syncretism of sun gods in the imperial period. R.R.R. Smith suggests that Sol and Constantine are depicted in a double profile on a medallion of 313 (fig. 147), that the emperor’s features emphasised the image of a young handsome ruler, and that they were represented on his coins from the early 310s as a result of “the adoption of Sol-Apollo as the dynasty’s protector deity”.114 I believe that these coins show us a remnant of the Roman images of Helios-Sol-Alexander the Great in imperial iconography.

Then, did Constantine make use of this history in his art? Did he reuse the histories of ‘good emperors’ in the Arch of Constantine? Eusebius indicates that Constantine was superior to other emperors, including Alexander the Great, Swain, 1996, p. 73, n. 14. M. Beard, “The Triumph of the Absurd: Roman street theatre” in C. Edwards and G. Woof, eds., Rome the Cosmopolis, Cambridge, 2003, pp. 21-43, esp. pp. 29-30. 110 See also H.P. L’Orange, Likeness and Icon, Odense, 1973, pp. 325-44, reprinted from “Sol invictus imperator. Ein Beitrag zur Apotheose”, Symbolae osloenses 14 (1935), pp. 86-114. 111 Beard, 2003, p. 29, n. 35. Pompey played Alexander in his triumphal procession. See Plutarch, Pompey 2.1: “[Pompey’s] hair swept up in a slight cowlick from this forehead, and this, together with the melting look about his eyes, produced a resemblance, more talked about than actually apparent, to the portraits of King Alexander”. Translation taken from Andrew Stewart, Faces of Power: Alexander‘s Image and Hellenistic Politic, Berkeley, 1993, p. 359, T50. 112 Three ‘good’ emperors – Trajan, Hadrian, and Marcus Aurelius, whose objects are reused in the Arch of Constantine, also integrated their images into Alexander. There are numerous examples of Alexander the Great in their imperial coinage (e.g., Aureus of Trajan with Helios-SolAlexander dated AD 116, Aureus of Hadrian with HeliosSol-Alexander dated AD 118, and a bronze coin of Smyrna, Young Marcus Aurelius and the “Dream of Alexander” dated c. AD 150, now in Boston, Museum of Fine Arts). The legend of Alexander the Great succeed into the tetrarchy. Galerius as Caesar in the East became a new Alexander the Great because of his Eastern triumph in 297. See Kleiner, 1992, pp. 42-22 and pp. 418-424. 108 109

I would argue that the legend of Alexander could not be eliminated because his legend was a “living past” to the Romans.115 The integration of Alexander the Great with Roman emperors was urged evidently in order to modernise Hellenistic heroic history with Roman imperial history. That is, Roman emperors did not always try and demolish the past in their imperial iconography when they made ‘reuse’ of history in their arts. Of course, there are many examples of emperors wanting Eusebius, Life of Constantine, Book I, 7-8; Translation from A. Cameron and S. G. Hall, Oxford, 1999, p. 70. “Among the Persian of [18] old, ancient story indeed relates that Cyrus was declared more illustrious than those before him…From among the Macedonians Alexander, so the sons of Greece relate, overthrew countless tribes of diverse nations, but before he reached full manhood he died an early death, carried off by revelry and drunken orgies... but our Emperor began where the Macedonian ended, and doubled in time the length of his life, and trebled the size of the Empire he acquired”. 114 R.R.R. Smith, “The Public image of Licinius I: portrait sculpture and imperial ideology in the early fourth century”, Journal of Roman Studies 87 (1997), p. 185-186. 115 Swain, 1996, p. 79-87. 113

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Commondus). But through their imperial iconographic programme, these emperors found it agreeable to attribute their origins to Hercules, which was a “cryptoportrait” of Helios-Sol-Alexander the Great (fig. 148). I would argue that imperial adoption of the image of Hellenistic kings and their history, including the symbol of Alexander the Great, represents a reuse of history. In other words, the reuse of earlier history after the second sophistic could be considered an invention of history by the elite. I would suggest the possibility that rather than a demolition of the past, the reuse of earlier emperors’ objects on the Arch of Constantine could be a reuse of their histories, joining them to Constantine’s present, and that the reuse of several older objects represented a cumulative memory of imperial history. b. Assimilating Roman Heritage though the use of Spolia in Christian Architecture Roman emperors assimilated Hellenistic kings, perhaps because they considered the heroic history of the past to be their conceptual heritage. I suspect that the use of the history of Alexander the Great in imperial iconography is one aspect of the intention behind ancient spolia. In this study, I have offered a number of examples using art and architecture in late antiquity and the early Christian era that show conscious juxtapositions between Christianity and other religions, and I have argued that these juxtapositions occurred in Greco-Roman socio-cultural contexts and within the three different aspects of syncretism that I defined.

Fig. 148. Commodus, marble, from the Esquiline hill, Rome, c. AD 191-2. Musei Capitolini, Rome. Photo: After Bianchi, 1970, fig. 331(la Photothèque).

This chapter has explored the notion of spolia in the GrecoRoman world, which can be considered to be material juxtaposition within the framework of syncretism. I have emphasised that one aspect of the practice of spolia is material juxtaposition of the past and the present. I would not disagree that some intentions of ancient spolia were pragmatic, but there is no doubt that some of the practices were certainly derived from conceptual juxtapositions between the past and the present. It is a fact that early Christians did not reuse pagan objects as much as the Romans did in their empire. When they did, their intention in reusing earlier (pagan) objects has been considered by some art historians to be an emphasis of Christian victory over paganism. In the literature of early Christian art, however, there is an absence of discussion on the juxtaposition or association with pagans in the Christian reuse of pagan objects.

to do just that – demolish remnants of their rivals. D. Kinney suggests that appropriation in the notion of spolia is an example of “other ways in which history could be rewritten through reuse”.116 She refers to an example of such appropriation and writes: The Colossus of Nero underwent multiple appropriations. Originally Nero’s, its features probably were changed by Vespasian (69-79), who dedicated it as an image of the Sun; Commondus (180-192) cut off the Sun’s head to install his own, adding attributes of Hercules and an inscription celebrating his success as a gladiator; it became the Sun again after Commodus’ dammatio memoriae.117 I believe that these multiple appropriations could not have occurred if these subjects – the emperor, the Sun and Hercules – did not share similar attribution, for the Sun and Hercules were symbols in Roman imperial iconography of the ruler, including Alexander the Great.118 Hercules was a “cryptoportrait” of Alexander himself.119 I do not deny the possibility that the link between the emperors could be negative (at least between Nero, Vespasian and

On the other hand, in the literature of medieval Christian art, most art historians consider the use of spolia by Christian emperors to be combining, collecting, or unifying the influence of the past on a present building or object (I will discuss their accounts later). In contrast, most art historians in the literature of late antiquity consider the ancient spolia on the Arch of Constantine to be a demolition of past memory (such as the imperial past or pagan past), although some consider it to be a representation of Constantine’s

Kinney, 1997, p. 136. Kinney, 1997, p. 137, n. 130. 118 A. Stewart, 1993, p. 158-161. 119 A. Stewart, 1993, p. 158. 116 117

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collecting fragments symbolically (as I discussed earlier in this chapter). I focus on these gaps in interpretations of spolia as the key to my largest question – why has the notion of syncretism been considered to be irrelevant in the literature of early Christian art? Even in the discourse on the spolia of the Middle Ages, there is an absence of using the word syncretism. In the final section of this study, I will investigate whether the notion of spolia can be interpreted as some aspect of syncretism using examples from the discourse on medieval Christian emperors’ reuse of past objects. What I attempt to prove in this section is that if the concept of syncretism is relevant to the use of spolia in medieval Christian art, there is little reason for us not to consider the notion of syncretism in the study of early Christian art.

is the normative, the ideal; on account of this normative connotation the great rulers, be they Augustus, Trajan, Theodosius or Napoleon, select the formal properties of the classical language”.126 I would argue, however, that the stylistic representation of the pagan revival has continuity and did not fade at all, so I think it somewhat simplistic to conclude that Theodosian classicistic style is merely “surface classicism”. Kiilerich points to the Christian columns of Theodosius and Arcadius, in which “Roman propaganda monuments” are dominant, with only two Christian traditions – the crosses and the XP mark – depicted on the columns.127 Had it not been for these two symbols on the south and west sides of the base of the Column of Arcadius (figs. 149, 150), the ancient Roman viewer would not have seen them as a Christian monument. We can say that when they made these Christian monuments, Christians appropriated Roman traditions for their own use. The columns recall the casket of Projecta where there is only one Christian mark on an object full of pagan motifs. As I said, in practice “the pagan revival” did not fade even during Theodosius classicism. At least in the practice of imperial artworks, there was pagan continuation after the Christian Triumph. In other words, the pagan traditions did not need to be revived since they had already been built into Christian art in the Roman empire. Kiilerich’s account of a “surface classicism”, or his description of Theodosian classicism as “essentially eclectic, combining a variety of classical influences” might be agreed upon by art historians who believe that there was no syncretism between early Christianity and paganism in their artistic spheres (for a longer discussion of these art and architectural historians, see chapters one and two). They believe that early Christian art and pagan art could not be juxtaposed with each other because they were different religions dogmatically, and that the early Christians selected and borrowed from pagan symbols while being isolated from the syncretism of Roman pagan images of late antiquity. In short, they would argue that the early Christians’ adaptation of Roman traditions and practice were “essentially eclectic, combining a variety of classical influences” even before the Christian Triumph in the Greco-Roman world. The relationship between Christianity and Roman paganism in their view is only parallel in that they were contemporaries. But I have been arguing that in their artistic practices, their relationships are more closely related. And I argue that Christian emperors’ “combining a variety of classical influences” can be studied rather as embodying some aspects of syncretism.

Before moving to the Middle Ages, however, let us begin by looking at whether pagan ‘history’ was used by Christian emperors as their conceptual Roman heritage through the reuse of objects or architectures. Some scholars assert that Rome held no fascination for Constantine after he moved to Byzantium.120 Yet for Christians, Rome was the second Jerusalem. Romans held a stational liturgy in Rome as well as in Jerusalem, which was too far a pilgrimage for many.121 When Constantine and his son Constantius transported the saints’ relics to Constantinople,122 it seemed that the centre of Christianity shifted from Rome to Constantinople. Nevertheless, Rome was still significant politically. It should be noted that a so-called “pagan revival” occurred in Rome in the late fourth century during the Theodosian period (379-395), when the pagan senatorial aristocracy (led by Nicomachus and Symmachus) was the dominant group in Roman society.123 They tried to keep to pagan traditions in their art, such as the casket of Projecta, which is full of pagan motifs and only one Christian inscription (for a longer discussion of the Projecta casket, see chapter three). In 391/392, Theodosius declared paganism illegal, and in theory, the pagan revival faded. Yet in his court art, Theodosian classicism expressed the establishment of his ideology, and according to B. Kiilerich followed a style that was “essentially eclectic, combining a variety of classical influences”.124 Kiilerich refers to the Theodosian classicistic style as a “surface classicism” and writes, “Classicism is used like the icing on a cake, as a thin veneer of stylistic formulas”.125 He argues, “The classicistic formal language is employed for ideological reasons: the classical Pierce, 1989, p. 391; Spivey, 1995, p. 23. On the stationary liturgy, see J. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship, Rome, 1987. 122 C. Mango, “Constantine’s Mausoleum and the Translation relics”, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 83 (1990), pp. 5162. 123 B. Kiilerich, Late Fourth Century Classicism in the Plastic Arts, Odense, 1993, p. 207, n. 668; Kitzinger, 1977, p. 34. 124 Kiilerich, 1993, p. 191. 125 Kiilerich, 1993, p. 190, n. 621. Kiilerich quotes “surface classicism” from Panofsky. See E. Panofsky, Renaissance and Renascences in Western art, Stockholm, 1965, p. 62. 120 121

In this sense, one question is whether the reuse of Roman objects and architecture in later Christian emperors’ art can be considered as part of an ideology that combined a “variety of classical influences”. According to Cassiodorus’ Variae, Theodoric (454-526) tried to transport some columns from the Pincian Hill in Rome to Kiilerich, 1993, p. 190, n. 621. Kiilerich, 1993, p. 191.

126 127

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Fig. 149. Column of Arcadius, south side of base,

Istanbul, fifth century, drawing. After Grabar, 1980, fig. 128 (Princeton University Press).

Fig. 150. Column of Arcadius, west side of base,

Istanbul, fifth century, drawing. Photo: After Grabar, 1980, fig. 129 (Princeton University Press).

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Fig. 151. North wall, mosaic, S. Apollinare, Ravenna, c. AD 500 and c. AD 561. Photo: After Lowden, 1997, fig. 129

(Scala, Florence). his palace in Ravenna despite the high cost.128 B. Brenk doubts that it was Theodoric’s aesthetic intention to reuse the Roman marbles from classical architectures. Instead, he believes we can “interpret Theodoric’s imports of spolia as an expression of his power politics: the spolia recall the historical tradition of Rome on the site of Theodoric’s sovereignty”.129 However, I assume that Theodoric saw the ideological value of having Roman marbles in his palace since he attempted to represent Rome and Ravenna (his old and new capitals) in a mosaic of the S. Apollinare. For example, the style of mosaics depends on Roman models and traditions, while at the same time the port of Ravenna is depicted in them (fig. 151).130 In addition, the figure of Victory stands on each capital of the palace (inscribed PALATIUM) in the mosaic of the Christian church (fig. 152). J.B. Ward-Perkins suggests that the marble decoration of the S. Apollinare may have been imported from Proconnesus, and that its design was derived from the entrance to a palace in Constantinople.131 The reuse of the Roman columns is not a case of sheer theft. Theodoric’s ideology wanted to express Roman roots by using Roman symbol images and reusing Roman architectural parts from the past. I believe that this reuse is assimilation designed to represent the equality of Rome and Ravenna in his realm. My question is whether Theodoric might have considered

the Roman marble to represent Christian heritage from the old capital, or just Roman heritage, or both. To be sure, the Roman heritage includes the imperial past and/or the pagan past. One might argue that Theodoric did not want to appropriate the pagan past from Rome (because he was a Christian emperor), but he wanted to appropriate the imperial past to show “the historical tradition of Rome on the site of Theodoric’s sovereignty” (in accordance with Brenk’s account of Theodoric’s practice of the spolia). But I suspect that Theodoric might have considered the Roman marble simply as part of Roman heritage, which also contained syncretism of late antiquity. In the Roman imperial iconographic programme of late antiquity, it is at least possible to say that in the Roman artistic sphere the imperial cults and Roman paganism assimilated each other. The Roman heritage consisted of not only the imperial past, but also pagan and Roman secular pasts, which were often synthesized with each other in socio-cultural contexts. In fact, if Theodoric’s reuse of the Roman past was selective and eclectic, the pagan figure of Victory would not have been depicted in a Christian church combining the historical tradition of Rome and the present Ravenna. In accordance with early Christian values, material juxtaposition between Christianity and paganism was not impossible after the Christian Triumph. In the Christian practice of reusing past architecture, there was material juxtaposition between Christianity and paganism. Consider for example, a pagan temple converted into

Cassiodorus, Variae, III.10. See also, Ward-Perkins, 1984, pp 217-218; Brenk, 1987, p. 107. 129 Brenk, 1987, pp.108. 130 Ward-Perkins, 1984, p. 163. 131 Ward-Perkins, 1984, p. 162. 128

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Fig. 152. “Palatium mosaic”, S. Apollinare, Ravenna, c. AD 500 and c. AD 561. Photo: After Lowden, 1998, fig. 73

(Scala, Florence).

Fig. 153. Plan of the Parthenon in Athens, converted into a Christian church around AD 600.

Photo: After B. Ward-Perkins, 1999, fig. 10 (courtesy of Ward-Perkins). a Christian church around AD 600132 – the Parthenon in Athens (fig. 153). Bryan Ward-Perkins refers to “re-using the architectural legacy of the past” as appropriating the

pagan past on the church.133 He indicates, “As far as I am aware, these pediment-sculptures are a unique instance in the whole area of the Empire of a pagan sculptural cycle surviving intact and in situ on the front of a temple into modern times and this was on a temple converted into a church”. He argues, “An ancient Greek, transported forward in time, who visited the cathedral of medieval Athens, would have had no difficulty recognizing it as the

On the date of conversion of the Parthenon, C. Mango, “ The Conversion of the Parthenon into a church: the Tübingen Theosophy”, Deltion tês Christiankês Archaiologikês Etaireias 1955, pp. 201-203; A. Franz, “From paganism to Christianity in Athens”, Dumbarton Oaks papers 19 (1965), pp. 187-205. 132

B. Ward-Perkins, 1999, pp. 233-240.

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Temple of Athena”.134 Indeed, pagan traditions were still popular in fifth-century Athens. It is worth noting that a late fifth-century text, later written in an epitome known as “Tübingen Theosophy”, contains the story of converting a temple at Cyzicus into a church of Mary the Teotokos. The account says that at the time of the conversion, a discovery was made of an inscription recording an ancient oracular pronouncement by Apollo that predicted the future dedication of the building to Mary. A similar oracle was found in Athens. According to the text, a pagan oracle, the temple would be consecrated to Mary.135 That the story of the church was described in a pagan oracle is crucial for considering the notion of the pagan past in the Parthenon’s fifth-century material juxtaposition between paganism and Christianity. In this case, appropriating the pagan temple for Christian worship implied transforming the pagan past ideologically into Christendom. This material juxtaposition would never have occurred if there was no syncretism between paganism and Christianity. In re-using past Roman architecture, Christian emperors adapted Roman heritage for their ideological purpose, and I have indicated that some art historians argue that Christian emperors’ intention for their practice of spolia was to show a dominance of the imperial past over the pagan. However, the material juxtaposition between the pagan past and the Christian present occurred on some imperial objects, which expressed the ideologies of later Christian emperors. Next I shall investigate the notion of spolia using Christian objects in the Middle Ages.

Fig. 154. Lothar cross, gold with a Roman cameo, Aachen,

c. AD 1000. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. cameo (the past Roman emperor) and the seal of Otto’s Carolingian predecessor; and third, material juxtaposition of the Roman heritage and Ottonian Christianity. In short, the Roman past, the Ottonian present, and Christianity are juxtaposed on one object. I. H. Forsyth indicates that this use of spolia induces “the association of the political hegemony of an Augustus-like Otto – Otto III was the most Roman of this dynasty, in his dress, his court protocol, his residence, his sentiment – with the triumphal sway of Christianity”, and further asserts that the ideological aspect of Ottonian uses of spolia can be considered to be “the cumulative effect of these associations”.138 Forsyth describes “the cumulative effect” of Ottonian uses of spolia:

c. Unity of Paganism and Christianity in a Christian Object: Assimilation of the Pagan Past and the Christian Present in the Ideologies of Christian Emperors The role of spolia in Ottonian Christian objects (dated from about 980 to 1060) has been much discussed in the literature of medieval Christian art history.136 The Lothar cross in Aachen, dated around 1000 (fig. 154), which was probably a gift to the Aachen Cathedral from emperor Otto III, is one of them.137 A Roman cameo of Augustus is built into the middle of the goldsmith on the cross. The crystal below is a seal made for King Lothar II (859-869). Triple juxtapositions occur on this cross: first, material juxtaposition of the Roman gem (the Roman past) and the Ottonian goldsmith on the cross (the Ottonian present); second, material (or symbolic) juxtaposition in the Roman

[The spolia] make the work of art an art with history, a tangible history that is presumed to have reached a culminating height. As its frame of reference goes beyond allusion to a single group or forebears, which is often the case in revivalist arts, its multicultural attestations may form dynastic ladders and a thematic and cultural stratigraphy that support the claim of glorious global and temporal eminence.139

B. Ward-Perkins, 1999, p. 236. B. Ward-Perkins, 1999, p. 238: according to his interpretation of the text, “the same [inscription]”, recording the oracular prediction that the temple would in time to be dedicated to Mary, “was also found at Athens, on the left side of the temple, by the door, completely identical to the former [at Cyzicus]”. 136 I. H. Forsyth, “Art with History: The Role of Spolia in the Cumulative Work of Art” in C. Moss and K. Kiefer, eds., Byzantine East, Lain West: Art-historical Studies in honor of Kurt Weitzmann, Princeton, 1995, p. 153, n.1, n. 2. 137 Forsyth, 1995, p. 154, n. 8. 134 135

Two questions arise. Is this notion of spolia acceptable in reference to the Roman use of spolia in late antiquity and the early Christian era, which has generally been thought to be inferior or less sophisticated to the objects Forsyth, 1995, p. 154, n. 8. Forsyth, 1995, p. 153.

138 139

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Fig. 155. The ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen,

Fig. 156. Author’s diagram of the ambo of Henry II with

AD 1002-1014. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

lettered panels.

that came before? Can we consider Constantine’s practice of spolia on the Arch of Constantine to be the stratification of Roman imperial and socio-cultural histories, in a way similar to the Ottonian emperors and their use of spolia for visualizing their ideologies through objects? To seek answers to these questions, let us continue to explore Ottonian use of spolia. One significant example of spolia in a medieval setting is the ambo of Henry II (dated between 1002 and 1014), which was created by the last Ottonian emperor for the palace chapel at Aachen (fig. 155). The ambo is shaped like a triptych and is comprised of fifteen panels (nine in the centre and three on each of the left and right sides) (fig. 156). Although its appearance is more like a screen, it functioned as a pulpit. In each of the corner panels of the centre portion, an evangelist appears in a repouseé image (fig. 157). The remaining five panels form a cruciform shape. The three panels forming the centre vertical line contain Roman gems: a Roman agate vessel appears (fig. 158) on each of the upper and lower panels, and a Roman glass vessel (fig. 159) in the middle (the centre of the cross shape). The remaining two panels, forming the horizontal axis, have a Fatimid rock crystal cup (fig. 160) and saucer (fig. 161) built in. They are connected to the left and right sides by thick gold wire. The ambo’s left and right sides consist of three panels each, ivory images in relief. Four of these six ivory panels are of pagan deities. The panels were made in Alexandria, dated the six century AD. There is a seated rider on the upper left ivory panel (fig. 162), below that a relief of a Nereid (fig. 163), and the lower left ivory panel depicts a Bacchus. On the upper right ivory panel there is a standing ruler, below that a relief of Isis (fig. 164), and the lower right panel features a second Bacchus (fig. 165).

Fig. 157. Saint Matthew, bronze repoussée plaque. Panel

A of the ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen, AD 1002-1014. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. Karen Rose Mathews refers to the use of spolia on the ambo of Henry II, writing, “Appropriated objects from past and foreign cultures have long been recognized as ideological symbols”.140 She indicates that the reuse of the past imperial objects on the ambo “allude to an imperial past and make emphatic statements about Henry II’s connection to a tradition of imperial Christian rulership… Karen Rose Mathews, “Expressing Political Legitimacy and Cultural Identity thorough the Use of Spolia on the Ambo of Henry II”, Medieval Encounters 5 (1999), p. 156. 140

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Fig. 159. Roman glass vessel. Panel E of the ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

Fig. 158. Roman agate vessel. Panel H of the Ambo of

Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

Fig. 161. Fatimid rock crystal saucer. Panel F of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

Fig. 160. Fatimid rock crystal cup. Panel D of the

Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow. The issue of political legitimacy was addressed directly through the prominent use of Roman artworks on the Ambo of Henry II”.141

Isis, Nereid and Tritons) with Christian images on the Ambo (the assimilation of foreign and native culture being expressed in the reuse of Muslim objects). Through the material juxtaposition of Roman gems and glass and Islamic crystals, Henry II may have been assimilating Roman and Islamic pasts into the present Christian history in order to visualise his ideology. This concept is similar to the previous Christian emperors’ uses of spolia, such as Theodoric reusing the Roman marble in his palace in Ravenna, or Otto III’s reusing the Roman cameo on the Lothar cross in Aachen. We might conclude that they adapted the Roman architectural parts or objects as part of both a Christian heritage and a Roman imperial heritage. In other words, the material juxtaposition of Roman mythological figures and Christian images on the Ambo implies syncretism of pagan and Christian images. The

The reuse of Roman vessels on the Ambo of Henry II represents the invention of history by Henry II, “as they connected medieval rulers to the Roman emperors of the past who were famed for their power and military might”.142 The assimilation of past and present of the spolia on the Ambo “demonstrated a desire to bridge the historical divide between medieval present and Roman past”.143 The assimilation of past and present merged the assimilation of Roman mythological figures (i.e., Bacchus, Mathews, 1999, pp. 171-172, n. 17. Mathews, 1999, p. 173, n. 22. 143 Mathews, 1999, p. 173. 141 142

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Fig. 162. Seated rider, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel J the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

Fig. 163. Nereid, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel K of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

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Fig. 164. Isis, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel N of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

Fig. 165. Bacchus, ivory, from Alexandria, sixth century. Panel O of the Ambo of Henry II, Palace Chapel, Aachen. Copyright Domikapitel Aachen/photo Ann Münchow.

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unity of the past and present objects on the Ambo implies “an innovative statement of Henry II’s political, economic, and cultural agenda”.144 This spolia reused on the Ambo of Henry II represents what I call the third aspect of syncretism. In short, the juxtaposition of past and present objects is infused into one unified symbol, that is, Henry II’s ideology. The spolia of art on the Ambo paralleled the assimilation of past and present history, conceptually represented in the material fusion of past and present symbols. However, the notion and the term of syncretism is absent in the discourse on the spolia in the literature of art history.

their victory over paganism, but to positively assimilate or juxtapose pagan signs or symbols with Christian signs or symbols into one Christian object. A problem with this comparison is that medieval practitioners were generous to paganism when compared to the Romans. Heckscher suggests, “Medieval thinkers were convinced that they themselves were still citizens of the empire which had been founded by Augustus”.148 Again, if his account is acceptable, how can we definitively conclude that Roman Christians did not blend pagan superstition with truly Christian sentiments in a Roman empire where imperial and pagan cultures flourished? In the Middle Ages, it was possible that Christian emperors assimilated Roman heritage (including the imperial and pagan pasts) and the religion of the era (i.e., Christianity) in representing the emperors’ ideologies in their arts. I doubt that these associations were impossible in late antiquity, because the Roman imperial ideology or Roman political propaganda could not exist without assimilating Roman traditions and practices, including historical pagan cults in the GrecoRoman world. The intentions of imperial ideological representation in both Roman and Christian art cannot be considered without syncretism in the Greco-Roman world, because the Roman heritage cannot be considered without the Roman syncretic past.

Finally, I would introduce W.S. Heckscher’s account of medieval Christians’ uses of the ancient pagan gems in Christian liturgical objects. Although he does not use the word spolia to refer to reusing these ancient objects in a medieval setting, his account has been often referred to in the discourse on the spolia of the time.145 He assesses the use of pagan gems in Christian liturgical objects and writes: In the actual process of adaptation we may distinguish two forms of reverence which at first glance seem to contradict each other: [first] the careful preservation of the ancient relic in a setting which leaves it completely intact: [second] the adjusting of the relic to the new setting by changing its form or its function, or both.146

I would not argue that syncretism is a Roman absolute in its religions and religious art, but some aspects of syncretism played a part in the development of Roman religious and imperial arts. One problem is whether we should separate early Christian art from any Roman artistic associations. If we do so, we would have to reconcile that medieval Christians suddenly noticed magical power in an ancient pagan gem at a time when Christianity was much more established. The spolia is visual and concrete proof that in later days at least, there existed Christian architecture and objects that juxtaposed pagan signs or symbols. These associations did not occur arbitrarily, in parallel relationships with no connection between the objects of the pagan past and the Christian present. I would not disagree that some of the intentions in Christians’ use of spolia were to show Christian victories over paganism. But what I want to argue is that Christian victory over paganism was not the only intention of that reuse of the pagan past.

He does not use the word syncretism; nevertheless, his account of “the actual process of adaptation” is similar to the three aspects of syncretism as I have defined them from art historical points of view. Heckscher argues that the intention behind the use of ancient amulets – “not only the stone by itself but the sign engraved on it” – in medieval settings was to absorb its magical power into Christian liturgical objects. He writes, “these signs are of purely pagan origin, but the medieval practitioners, who believed in their virtue, were able to blend their superstition with truly Christian sentiments”.147 In this study, I have been assessing syncretism – a blending of different religious images and practices – using images, space, architecture and objects. Although Heckscher refers to the process of blending pagan signs and symbols with “Christian sentiments” looking only at the reuse of ancient gems on Christian liturgical objects in the Middle Ages, his account is not far from the notion of syncretism as I have defined it in this study. If Heckscher’s account of the reuse of the pagan gems is correct, it is possible to say that the intention of the Christians reusing these pagan objects or architecture was not only to emphasise

Dogmatically, Christianity needed to isolate itself from the syncretism of late antiquity and the Roman traditional cults, as proven by the legal divorce of Christianity from the Roman traditional cults enacted by the Christian emperor Theodosius I in AD 391/2. But these separations occurred in the theological and legal realms. The so-called “pagan revival” that occurred in Rome in the late fourth century during the Theodosian period shows that the artistic transition was not so clearly cut. During the transitional period from the Greco-Roman world to the Christian Triumph, the separation of Christianity and paganism was not clearly defined in the Roman artistic sphere. Pagan tombs were juxtaposed with a Christian tomb under the

Mathews, 1999, p. 156. See Forsyth, 1995, p. 153, n. 2; Mathews, 1999, p. 168, n. 9. 146 W.S. Heckscher, “Relics of Pagan Antiquity in Medieval Setting” Journal of the Warburg Institute, 1, No. 3, (Jan., 1938), pp. 216. 147 Heckscher, 1938, p. 214. 144 145

Heckscher, 1938, p. 205.

148

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Roman catacombs (e.g., Via Latina Catacomb), because until the Christian Triumph, pagans had been dominant over Christians in Rome. The pagan deceased were buried with the Christian deceased in a Christian tomb (e.g., the Tomb of the Julii), because these associations were made within one Roman family. Some of them were pagan and some of them were converted to Christianity, and the images of both were juxtaposed in their funeral space. Similarly, for medieval thinkers, Christian history was the same as the Roman past. One question is whether they considered the Roman past as beginning with imperial Rome or with Christian Rome. The Christian emperors’ spolia indicate the former view. And the Roman traditions

and practices including pagan signs and symbols cannot be filtered out of the Roman past. The history of Roman art is the history of associations between imperial and pagan images, and Christian art emerged in this artistic surrounding. That early Christianity has any images at all is something of a paradox. The religion was in its infancy aniconic, but in the centuries that followed it began to use images. Regardless of the dogmatic, political, or social distance that Christians wanted to maintain from pagan predecessors, when looking to depict images of the divine, they were seemingly unable to draw from a world beyond the one they inhabited.

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different religious practices and images in late antiquity was in the mainstream of social forces. It could be asserted that Christian art triumphed in the Roman world because early Christians overcame the gaps between their dogma and the Roman traditions.

My aim in writing this study is to determine whether the theological term of syncretism can be appropriate to the study of early Christian art. During my study of the genesis of early Christian art, I have been made aware that my attitude toward the notion of syncretism differs from most of the existing literature on early Christian art history and architecture. Some scholars have avoided using the notion of syncretism, and some have used it pejoratively to describe a mish-mash of religions, perhaps taking their cue from the doctrinal discussion of the term by the Church itself. In contrast, in the literature of the history of Japanese religions and art, religious synthesis has been referred to as ‘syncretism,’ and the term in that literature is defined as a blending of the ideas or practices of different religions that results in a unity of deities. Of course, Japanese use of the term is not pejorative: they have never considered their religions to be mish-mash.

The roles of early Christian artists were as designers. They produced certain imagery per Christian clients’ requests. These clients were not always Christian authorities: some of them were formerly pagan aristocrats or emperors, and some of them were Roman citizens with pagan family members. Assimilating with other religious images was one of the solutions for accommodating private taste with Christian dogma. It is needless to explain the social roles of the early Christians before the fourth century. Christianity drew a line to distinguish Roman paganism and their dogma, but Christians were eventually the dominant group in society. The conversion of Roman pagans to Christianity was not easy. The Roman struggle to reform their beliefs is demonstrated in Constantine’s ten-year hesitation to convert to Christianity. Roman pagans eventually had to relinquish their native beliefs fundamentally, because the monotheistic Christian dogma refused unity with paganism. However, before the Christian Triumph, I doubt that Christians could refuse all pagan influences since their social status was weak. Syncretism was one process for filling these gaps between Roman paganism and Christianity in late antiquity. Although Christianity is not to be associated with paganism dogmatically, the fact is that the practitioners coexisted in Rome, sometimes within the same family. The juxtaposition of pagan and Christian ideas occurred in Roman catacombs. Why not in Roman art?

Despite the avoidance of the term, I started to study why this term has negative meaning in the study of Christian art from a theological point of view since the term itself came from theology. The key to understanding the gap between art historical notions of syncretism and my own can be found in a similar clash of definitions that occurred between the Asian bishops and the Vatican in the Synod for Asia of 1998. I found that the history of Christianity has diversified the notion of syncretism, as it has been used in reference to the struggle in Christian theology between ideal and reality. As we have seen, most art historians agree that there is a strong link between art history and socio-cultural history. To interpret the real meaning of art, we have to understand its background, and we tend to believe that religious art has to be accompanied by its religious thought. In other words, the role of religious art is to provide a visualisation of the dogma. Nevertheless, when a new religion comes into a native culture that has a different attitude toward an image, adopting certain aspects of the native culture in order to coexist with that culture and its people is a priority matter. In many cases, certain aspects of the native culture have not always been compatible with the new religion’s dogma. How do different religions coexist within the same family or the same nation? In these cases especially, we have to interpret not only their religious dogmas but also their socio-cultural background.

Such juxtapositions seem frequent in that era. In chapters one and two, I discussed the visual juxtaposition of paganism and Christianity that occurred in Christian iconography and its concepts of ritual space. In chapter three I examined a literal juxtaposition of Jewish history and Christian history in the form of the Old and New Testaments that occurred through typological thinking. In chapter four we saw a material juxtaposition of earlier (pagan) and present objects (Christian) that occurred through the use of spolia. These juxtapositions did not occur accidentally, but were the result of syncretism in the Greco-Roman world. Because these differing, even opposite elements were juxtaposed within a monotheistic Christian realm, processes for completing the juxtaposition were required. These processes can be classified into three aspects of syncretism.

To solve this problem of how different religions coexist within the same society, I suggested that a fixed idea of religious art should be reconsidered. In other words, the religious dogma and its art cannot always be paralleled. The dogma is ideal, but the art is private. A visual ideal emerges in the private sphere or due to personal background. In the phenomenon of religious art, society and culture are intermediaries between the religion and its art. In Judaism and Christianity, the notion of assimilation with other religions is heretical, but the assimilation of

Eliade asserts that most of the leading religions in the Hellenistic and Roman period emerge from syncretism,1 but my study does not look at the question theologically. I consider syncretism to be an intellectual artistic strategy to represent religious art. The method of juxtaposition depends on personal, political, or religious intention. We M. Eliade, A History of Religious Ideas, translated by W. R. Trask, Chicago, 1982, vol. 2, p. 277. 1

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cannot ignore that the fundamental intention of all these artistic renderings was to express faith in Christianity, and as long as their faith in God was unshaken, their attitude toward Christian art should not be characterised as ‘mixing with pagan images indiscriminately’, ‘unsophisticated’ or

‘mish-mash’. The form of their faith has to be considered in personal, social, and cultural contexts. One of our tasks as art historians is to use the concrete forms they gave us and interpret their expressions of faith from neutral points of view.

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