Through a Glass Brightly: Studies in Byzantine and Medieval Art and Archaeology Presented to David Buckton 9781842170908, 9781785702518

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Through a Glass Brightly Studies in Byzantine and Medieval Art and Archaeology Presented to David Buckton

Edited by Chris Entwistle

Oxbow Books Oxford & Philadelphia

Published in the United Kingdom in 2003 by OXBOW BOOKS 10 Hythe Bridge Street, Oxford OX1 2EW and in the United States by OXBOW BOOKS 1950 Lawrence Road, Havertown, PA 19083 © Oxbow Books and the individual authors 2003 Reprinted in paperback 2016 Hardcover Edition: ISBN 978-1-84217-090-8 Paperback Edition: ISBN 978-1-78570-251-8

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Front cover: Gold and cloisonné enamel reliquary cross, Byzantine, around 1000. British Museum, Dept. of Prehistory and Europe, P&E 1965,6-4,1 (Photo: BM). Back cover: Esztergom staurothèke, silver-gilt and enamel, Byzantine. Cathedral Treasury, Esztergom, Hungary (Photo: Cathedral Treasury).

Contents

List of Contributors ................................................................................................................................................................. v Illustration Abbreviations and List of Plate Captions .......................................................................................................... vi Bibliography for David Buckton ......................................................................................................................................... viii Preface Peter Lasko ................................................................................................................................................................ xi Acknowledgements ................................................................................................................................................................ xii 1. A dandy dipper: the Ambleteuse clepsydra, Empedocles, and wine-thieves I have known Donald M. Bailey .............................................................................................................................................................. 1 2. Body-chains: Hellenistic to Late Roman Catherine Johns .............................................................................................................................................................. 10 3. Light on Byzantium – a universal sundial in the British Museum Silke Ackermann ............................................................................................................................................................. 16 4. Visualising women in Late Antique Rome: the Projecta casket Jaś Elsner ........................................................................................................................................................................ 22 5. Sources of cloisonné enamel: some early fused gold and glass inlays Noël Adams ..................................................................................................................................................................... 37 6. On the date of the Symmachi panel and the so-called Grado Chair ivories Paul Williamson .............................................................................................................................................................. 47 7. Who’s that girl? Personifications of the Byzantine empress Liz James ......................................................................................................................................................................... 51 8. A painting of Saint Kollouthos Maria Vassilaki ............................................................................................................................................................... 57 9. Three illuminating objects in the Lampsacus treasure Marlia M. Mango ............................................................................................................................................................ 64 10. Early Byzantine mercantile communities in the West Ken Dark ......................................................................................................................................................................... 76 11. Studying the Byzantine staurothèque at Esztergom Paul Hetherington .......................................................................................................................................................... 82 12. Saint Theodore and the Dragon Christopher Walter ......................................................................................................................................................... 95 13. Apotropaic devices on Byzantine lead seals in the Collections of Dumbarton Oaks and the Fogg Museum of Art John W. Nesbitt ............................................................................................................................................................. 107 14. Middle Byzantine (10th–13th century AD) stamp seals in semi-precious stone Jeffrey Spier .................................................................................................................................................................. 114 15. The Bristol Psalter Leslie Brubaker ............................................................................................................................................................. 127

iv

CONTENTS

16. The production of red glass and enamel in the Late Iron Age, Roman and Byzantine periods Ian C Freestone, Colleen P. Stapleton and Valery Rigby .......................................................................................... 142 17. ‘The Celtic Fringe’: two enamelled mounts Susan Youngs ................................................................................................................................................................ 155 18. Some late tenth- and eleventh-century cloisonné enamel brooches and finger-rings from Denmark Fritze Lindahl ................................................................................................................................................................ 163 19. Containers for Agnus Deis John Cherry ................................................................................................................................................................... 171 20. Design and invention in Gothic architecture: Mildenhall and Ely Barrie Singleton ............................................................................................................................................................ 184 21. Abbé James Hamilton: antiquary, patron of the arts, Victorian Anglo-Catholic Paul Corby Finney ........................................................................................................................................................ 190 22. Nineteenth-century versions of the Veroli casket Anthony Cutler .............................................................................................................................................................. 199 23. A Venetian goblet made for the Paris Exhibition of 1878 with gold leaf medallions of Early Christian martyrs Judy Rudoe .................................................................................................................................................................... 210 24. Felix Slade’s forgotten version of the so-called Early Christian ‘Amiens Chalice’ Hugh Tait ...................................................................................................................................................................... 220 25. ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon Earth’: the British Museum and the second Cyprus treasure Chris Entwistle .............................................................................................................................................................. 226 Colour Plates ........................................................................................................................................................................ 237

v

List of Contributors

Dr Silke Ackermann Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Professor Paul Corby Finney Princeton Art Index Princeton, NJ USA

Judy Rudoe Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Dr Noël Adams c/o Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Professor Ian Freestone Dept. of Scientific Research British Museum London

Dr Barrie Singleton Morley College of Art London

Donald M. Bailey Dept. of Greek and Roman Antiquities British Museum London

Dr Paul Hetherington London

Dr Jeffrey Spier USA

Dr Leslie Brubaker Centre for Byzantine and Ottoman Studies University of Birmingham Birmingham

Dr Liz James University of Sussex Brighton England

Dr Colleen P. Stapleton Dept. of Scientific Research British Museum London

John Cherry Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Dr Catherine Johns Dept. of Prehistoric and Early Europe British Museum London

Hugh Tait c/o Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Dr Paul T. Craddock Department of Scientific Research British Museum London

Professor Peter Lasko Norwich Norfolk England

Dr Maria Vassilaki University of Chania Crete Greece

Professor Anthony Cutler University of Pennsylvania USA

Dr Fritze Lindahl Denmark

Dr Christopher Walter Paris France

Dr Ken Dark Dept. of History University of Reading England

Dr Marlia Mundell-Mango St John’s College University of Oxford England

Paul Williamson Dept. of Sculpture Victoria and Albert Museum London

Dr Jaś Elsner Corpus Christi College University of Oxford England

Dr John W. Nesbitt Dumbarton Oaks Collection Washington DC USA

Susan M Youngs Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Chris Entwistle Dept. of Medieval and Modern Europe British Museum London

Dr Valerie Rigby c/o Dept. of Prehistoric and Early Europe British Museum London

vi

Illustration Abbreviations and List of Plate Captions

Abbreviations BL BM DO JF V&A

= = = = =

British Library Board, London Trustees of the British Museum, London Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC Jim Farrant, illustrator (British Museum) Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Szilágysomlyó, Romania. Magyar Nemzeti Muzéum, Budapest, nos. 122/1895.6–6a (Photo: Csaba Gedai).

8. A painting of Saint Kollouthos, Maria Vassilaki Plate 4

Textile with painting of St Kollouthos. The Carras’ Collection, London (Photo: courtesy of Carras’ Collection).

12. Saint Theodore and the Dragon, Christopher Walter Plate 5

Plate Captions 3. Light on Byzantium – a universal sundial in the British Museum, Silke Ackermann Plate 1.1 Plate 1.2 Plate 1.3

Plate 1.4

Front of the dial with the latitude and calendrical scales. British Museum (Photo: BM). Back of the dial with the latitude list. British Museum (Photo: BM). Front of the dial with Latin inscriptions and the gnomon-vane. Museum of the History of Science (MHS), Oxford (Photo: MHS). Back of the dial with latitude list. Museum of the History of Science, Oxford (Photo: MHS).

4. Visualising women in Late Antique Rome: the Projecta casket, Jaś Elsner Plate 2.1 Plate 2.2 Plate 2.3

British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, front (Photo: BM). British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, top of lid (Photo: BM). British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, back (Photo: BM).

5. Sources of cloisonné enamel: some early fused gold and glass inlays, Noël Adams Plate 3.1

Plate 3.2

Plate 3.3

Plate 3.4

Gold and garnet cloisonné medallion with fused gold wire and glass disc, Aragvispiri Grave 13, Republic of Georgia, State Museum of Georgia, Tbilisi no. 5– 975:31 (Photo: author). Roman period fused gold wire and coloured glass disc with a vine leaf, in a silver collet, 1851 excavations at Envermeu, France, Musée des Antiquités, Rouen (Photo: courtesy of Laurence Flavigny). Roman period fused gold wire and glass inlays depicting a parrot, cock and lizard. British Museum, Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, nos. 85.5–1.79; 86.11–17.67; 59.3–1.128 (Photo: BM). Pair of bow brooches, silver covered with gold sheet, set with two cloisonné discs, second hoard from

Saint Theodore and the Dragon. Enamel icon, the Hermitage, Saint Petersburg (Photo: after Banck [note 1]).

15. The Bristol Psalter, Leslie Brubaker Plate 6.1

Khludov Psalter: church at Sion, anointing of David, martyrdom of the Makkabees. Moscow, Historical Museum, cod. 129, f. 79r (Photo: Historical Museum). Plate 6.2 Bristol Psalter: martrydom of the Makkabees. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 132v (Photo: BL). Plate 6.3 Khludov Psalter: arrest of David, arrest of Christ, Christ and the Hebrews. Moscow, Historical Museum, cod. 129, f. 54v (Photo: Historical Museum). Plate 6.4 Bristol Psalter: arrest of David. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 89r (Photo: BL). Plate 6.5 Khludov Psalter: denial of Peter. Moscow, Historical Museum, cod. 129, f. 38v (Photo: Historical Museum). Plate 6.6 Khludov Psalter: crucifixion, the drowned pharaoh, baptism with bleeding serpent and demon. Moscow, Historical Museum, cod. 129, f. 72v (Photo: Historical Museum). Plate 6.7 Bristol Psalter: serpent with broken head. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 120r (Photo: BL). Plate 6.8 Khludov Psalter: David hiding, Ziphites before Saul. Moscow, Historical Museum, cod. 129, f. 52v (Photo: Historical Museum). Plate 6.9 Bristol Psalter: David raised on a shield. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 33r (Photo: BL). Plate 6.10 Khludov Psalter: Hezekiah raised on a shield. Moscow, Historical Museum, cod. 129, f. 18v (Photo: Historical Museum). Plate 6.11 Bristol Psalter: penitence of David. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 82v (Photo: BL).

16. The production of red glass and enamel in the Late Iron Age, Roman and Byzantine periods, Ian C Freestone, Colleen P Stapleton and Valery Rigby Plate 7.1

The Lycurgus Cup, in translucent ruby state. British Museum, MME 1958,12–2,1 (Photo: BM).

ILLUSTRATION ABBREVIATIONS Plate 7.2

The Lycurgus Cup, in opaque pea-green state. British Museum, MME 1958,12–2,1 (Photo: BM).

17. ‘The Celtic Fringe’: two enamelled mounts, Sue Youngs Plate 8.1

Plate 8.2 Plate 8.3 Plate 8.4

Plate 8.5 Plate 8.6

Hanging bowl mount from Prestwood, Staffordshire, of tinned bronze with enamel and glass inlay: front. Scale 1:1 (Photo: BM). Prestwood bowl mount: side (Photo: BM). Prestwood bowl mount: back (Photo: BM). Hooked hanging bowl mount from the largest hanging bowl from mound 1, Sutton Hoo, Suffolk (Photo: BM). Enamelled and tinned hanging bowl mount from Kemsing, Kent: front (Photo: BM). Kemsing bowl mount: back (Photo: BM).

18. Some late tenth- and eleventh-century cloisonné enamel brooches and finger-rings from Denmark, Fritze Lindahl Plate 9.1

Plate 9.2

Plate 9.3

Plate 9.4

Plate 9.5

Plate 9.6

Plate 9.7

Plate 9.8

Plate 9.9

Plate 9.10

Plate 9.11

Plate 9.12

Plate 9.13

Plate 9.14

Enamelled disk-brooch of Colchester-type from Veddelev. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Vagn Jensen, Roskilde). Enamelled disk-brooch of Colchester-type from Hjulby. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Weiss and Wichmann). Enamelled disk-brooch of Colchester-type from Sebber. Aalborg historiske Museum (Photo: Aalborg Museum). Enamelled disk-brooch of Colchester-type from Nørholm. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Lennart Larsen, National Museum of Denmark). Enamelled disk-brooch from Sebber. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Per Poulsen, National Museum of Denmark). Enamelled disk-brooch of Saunderton-type from Aalborg. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Weiss and Wichmann). Enamelled disk-brooch of ‘hybrid’ type from Jutland. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Lennart Larsen, National Museum of Denmark). Enamelled disk-brooch of ‘hybrid’ type from Nibe. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Lennart Larsen, National Museum of Denmark). Enamelled disk-brooch of ‘hybrid’ type from Sønder Tranders. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Aalborg Museum). Enamelled disk-brooch of ‘hybrid’ type from Vindinge. Roskilde Museum. (Photo: Flemming Rasmussen, Roskilde Museum). Enamelled disk-brooch of ‘hybrid’ type from Roskilde. Roskilde Museum (Photo: Flemming Rasmussen, Roskilde Museum). Enamelled disk-brooch from North Zealand. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Lennart Larsen, National Museum of Denmark). Gold and enamel finger-ring from Lindholm Høje. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Lennart Larsen, National Museum of Denmark). Gold and enamel finger-ring from Assens. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Weiss and Wichmann).

AND

LIST

OF

PLATE CAPTIONS

vii

Plate 9.15 Gold and enamel finger-ring from Fjenneslevmagle. National Museum of Denmark (Photo: Lennart Larsen, The National Museum). Plate 9.16 Gold and enamel finger-ring. British Museum (Photo: BM). Plate 9.17 Enamelled gold plaque from Sørenga, Oslo (Photo: Universitetets Oldsaksamling, Oslo).

20. Design and invention in Gothic architecture: Mildenhall and Ely, Barrie Singleton Plate 10.1 Prior Crauden’s Chapel, the remains of the Crucifixion mural as recorded by William Burgess. Victoria and Albert Museum, London, V&A Prints and Drawings 93.E.5.25 (Photo: V&A Picture Library). Plate 10.2 Prior Crauden’s chapel, detail of the Crucifixion mural as recorded by William Burgess. Victoria and Albert Museum, London, V&A Prints and Drawings 93.E.5.25 (Photo: V&A Picture Library).

21. Abbé Hamilton: antiquary, patron of the arts, Victorian Anglo-Catholic, P. Corby Finney Plate 11.1 One cameo and eleven intaglios from the Hamilton Collection. Finney Appendix nos. 1–12 (from top left to right). British Museum, Department of Medieval and Modern Europe (Photo: BM). Plate 11.2 One cameo and eleven intaglios from the Hamilton Collection. Finney Appendix nos. 14–25 (from top left to right). British Museum, Department of Medieval and Modern Europe (Photo: BM).

23. A Venetian goblet made for the Paris Exhibition of 1878 with gold leaf medallions of Early Christian martyrs, Judy Rudoe Plate 12.1 Enamelled and gilded glass goblet with portraits of early Christian martyrs. Venice, Murano, 1878. British Museum, Department of Medieval and Modern Europe, 1998,12–3,1 (Photo: BM). Plate 12.2 Fragments of a bowl with gold glass medallions made in Venice c. 1890 and given by C.H. Read to the British Museum in 1898. British Museum, Department of Medieval and Modern Europe, 1898,2–11,1 (Photo: BM).

24. Felix Slade’s forgotten version of the so-called Early Christian ‘Amiens Chalice’, Hugh Tait Plate 13.1 (On the left) the forgotten version of the ‘Amiens Chalice’ preserved by Felix Slade (1790–1868), and (on the right) the so-called Early Christian ‘Amiens Chalice’, both of blue glass. Here identified as Venetian (?), first half of 19th century. Department of Medieval and Modern Europe, British Museum (Photo: BM). Plate 13.2 Detail of the notch cut in the rim of the ‘Amiens Chalice’ where one handle failed to achieve contact and fusion (Photo: BM). Plate 13.3 Detail of the Slade Collection version, showing notch in rim (Photo: BM). Plate 13.4 As Plate 13.2, but seen from above (Photo: BM). Plate 13.5 Side view of Slade Collection version, detail of the disfigured area with hole. See also Fig 24.3 (Photo: BM).

viii

Bibliography for David Buckton

Numerous reviews for daily and periodical newspapers, Apollo, Burlington Magazine, Friends of Mount Athos, Medieval Archaeology, Minerva, Speculum, &c., and the following: Contributions to: Hugh Tait (ed.), The Golden Age of Venetian Glass (exhibition catalogue), London, 1979. ‘A Carolingian Ascension ivory’, British Museum Occasional Papers 10 (1980), pp. 17–24, pls 1–6. ‘The mass-produced Byzantine saint’, in: Sergei Hackel (ed.), The Byzantine Saint, Studies supplementary to Sobornost (Eastern Churches Review) 5 (1981), pp. 187–189. Contributions to: Jacqueline Lafontaine-Dosogne (ed.), Splendeur de Byzance (exhibition catalogue), Brussels, 1982. Great Moravia: the Archaeology of Ninth-Century Czechoslovakia (exhibition catalogue), London, 1982 (with Susan Beeby and Zdenek Klanica, 37 pp.). ‘Where on earth is Great Moravia?’, British Museum Society Bulletin, November 1982, pp. 24–27. Reprinted in Popular Archaeology, November 1982. ‘Enamelling on gold, a historical perspective’, Gold Bulletin 15 (1982), pp. 101–109. ‘The Oppenheim or Fieschi-Morgan reliquary in New York, and the antecedents of Middle Byzantine enamel’, Abstracts of the 8th Annual Byzantine Studies Conference, Chicago, 1982, pp. 35–36. ‘Vorläufige Ergebnisse einer optischen Untersuchung des Emails der Krone’, in: Ferenc Fülep, Éva Kovács and Zsuzsa Lovag (eds), Insignia Regni Hungariae (Studien zur Machtsymbolik des mittelalterlichen Ungarns), I, Budapest, 1983, pp. 129–143, Abb. 1–13. Ernst Kitzinger, Early Medieval Art in the British Museum and British Library, 3rd edition, London, 1983 (extensively revised and partly rewritten, 127 pp.).

Founding editor of Jewellery Studies; editor of volumes 1– 3 (1983–1986). ‘The beauty of holiness: opus interrasile from a Late Antique workshop’, Jewellery Studies 1 (1983–4), pp. 15– 19, colour pl. I. ‘Byzantine metrology’, Bulletin of British Byzantine Studies 10 (1984), p. 27. The Treasury of San Marco, Venice (exhibition catalogue, British edition), Milan, 1984 (ed., 337 pp.). The Treasury of San Marco, Venice, Milan, 1984 (7 pp.). The Treasury of San Marco, Venice (exhibition catalogue, revised North American edition), Milan, 1984 (ed., 337 pp.). The Treasury of San Marco, Venice (English-language edition for sale in Venice), Milan, 1984 (ed., 337 pp.). ‘Necessity the mother of invention in early medieval enamel’, Transactions of the Canadian Conference of Medieval Art Historians [no. 3, 1982], London (Ontario), 1985, pp. 1–6. ‘A Byzantine coin-set pendant, AD 324–88’, National ArtCollections Fund Review, London, 1985, pp. 92–93. ‘British Byzantine institutions: 2. The British Museum’, Bulletin of British Byzantine Studies 12 (1986), pp. 32–33. Contributions to: Hugh Tait (ed.), Seven Thousand Years of Jewellery, London, 1986. ‘Retrospection and invention in ninth and tenth-century enamel’, Abstracts of the 17th International Byzantine Congress, Washington, DC, 1986, pp. 50–51. ‘Material and method of manufacture of the early Byzantine chalice: in vino veritas?’, Abstracts of the 17th International Byzantine Congress, Washington, DC, 1986, p. 50.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

FOR

‘Late tenth and eleventh-century cloisonné enamel brooches’, Medieval Archaeology 30 (1986), pp. 8–18, pls III–IV. Ernst Kitzinger, Kleine Geschichte der frühmittelalterlichen Kunst, Cologne, 1987 (translation of the 3rd edition of Early Medieval Art (see above, 1983), extensively reworked, 176 pp.). ‘A Byzantine icon for the British Museum’, National ArtCollections Fund Review, London, 1987, pp. 84–85. ‘Byzantine enamel and the West’, in: J. D. HowardJohnston (ed.), Byzantium and the West c.850–c.1200, Amsterdam, 1988, chapter IX; also published in Byzantinische Forschungen 13 (1988), pp. 235–244, pls I–XXIII. ‘Bogus Byzantine enamels in Baltimore and Washington, DC’, Journal of the Walters Art Gallery 46 (1988), pp. 11– 24. ‘Late Anglo-Saxon or early Anglo-Norman cloisonné enamel brooches’, Medieval Archaeology 33 (1989), pp. 153–155, fig. 4. Contributions to: Mark Jones (ed.), Fake? The Art of Deception (exhibition catalogue), London, 1990. ‘“All that glisters…”. Byzantine enamel on copper’, Abstracts of the 16th Annual Byzantine Studies Conference, Baltimore, 1990, pp. 64–65 (Papers in memory of Laskarina Bouras). ‘Compositional categories of Byzantine glass tesserae’, Annales du 11e Congrès de l’Association Internationale pour l’Histoire du Verre [Basle, 1988], Amsterdam, 1990, pp. 271–279 (with I. C. Freestone and M. Bimson). Contribution (‘Enamels’) to: The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, I, New York–Oxford, 1991, pp. 695–696 (with Margaret E. Frazer). ‘Enamelled disc brooch’, in: A. G. Vince (ed.), Aspects of Saxon and Norman London, 2: Finds and Environmental Evidence (London and Middlesex Archaeological Society Spec. Papers 12), London, 1991, pp. 144–146, figs 3.24–25. ‘The upside-down enamel of Late Antiquity’, Abstracts of the 17th Annual Byzantine Studies Conference, Brookline, Massachusetts, 1991, p. 38 (Papers in memory of Kathleen Shelton). Studies in Medieval Art and Architecture, presented to Peter Lasko, Stroud–London–Dover (New Hampshire), 1994 (co-ed., 220 pp.).

DAVID BUCKTON

ix

‘Theophilus and enamel’, in: David Buckton and T. A. Heslop (eds), Studies in Medieval Art and Architecture, presented to Peter Lasko, Stroud–London–Dover (New Hampshire), 1994, pp. 1–13, figs 1–6, colour pls IA–B. ‘Icons’, British Museum Magazine 18 (Summer 1994), p. 25. ‘“All that glisters…”. Byzantine enamel on copper’, in: Maria Vassilaki, Electra Georgoula, Angelos Delivorrias and Athanasios Markopoulos (eds), Èõìßáìá óôç ìíÞìç ôçò Ëáóêáñßíáò Ìðïýñá (Incense, in memory of Laskarina Bouras), Athens, 1994, I, pp. 47–49; II, colour pl. V, pls 20–21. Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (exhibition catalogue), London, 1994 (ed., 240 pp.). Contributions to: David Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections, London, 1994. ‘Byzantium’, British Museum Magazine 20 (Winter 1994), pp. 8–13. ‘Byzantium at the British Museum’, Minerva 6/1 (January/ February 1995), pp. 27–30. ‘A Cretan icon of St George and the Dragon’, British Museum Magazine 23 (Winter 1995), p. 18. ‘“Chinese whispers”: the premature birth of the typical Byzantine enamel’, in: Christopher Moss and Katherine Kiefer (eds), Byzantine East, Latin West: art historical studies in honor of Kurt Weitzmann, Princeton, 1995, pp. 591–596. Contribution to: Grove’s Dictionary of Art, IX, London, 1996, pp. 659–663, s.v. Early Christian and Byzantine art, §VII, 7(ii), ‘Enamels’. ‘Byzantine enamel’, Tabula 1/3 (1997), p. 3. ‘Emailarbeiten’, in: Ludwig Wamser and Gisela Zahlhaas (eds), Rom und Byzanz. Archäologische Kostbarkeiten aus Bayern, Munich, 1998, pp. 35–39. ‘The European context’, in: Andrew Middleton, Fleur Shearman, Colleen Stapleton and Susan Youngs, ‘The Guilton Brooch: the earliest medieval cloisonné enamel in western Europe?’, Jewellery Studies 8 (1998), pp. 27–36. ‘The gold icon of St Demetrios’, in: Joachim Ehlers and

x

BIBLIOGRAPHY

FOR

Dietrich Kötzsche (eds), Der Welfenschatz und sein Umkreis, Mainz, 1998, pp. 277–286, colour pl. 20. Contributions to: Electra Georgoula (ed.), Greek Jewellery from the Benaki Museum Collections, Athens, 1999. ‘The Mother of God in enamel’, in: Maria Vassilaki (ed.), Mother of God. Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art, Athens–Milan, 2000, pp. 176–183; catalogue entry no. 16, pp. 298–299 (reliquary-cross); catalogue entry no. 18, p. 301 (medallion of the Mother of God).

DAVID BUCKTON

‘Enamelled metal icons of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries’, in: Maria Vassilaki (ed), Byzantine Icons: Art, Technique and Technology (International Symposium at the Gennadius Library, Athens, 20–21 February 1998), Heraklion, 2002, pp. 313–18, colour pl. XXI.

In Press ‘The Holy Crown of Hungary in the history of enamelling’, Acta Historiae Artium 43 (2002), pp. 17–21.

‘The enamel of Doge Ordelaffo Falier on the Pala d’Oro in Venice’, Gesta 39 (2000), pp. 43–49 (with John Osborne).

‘Gold link with Greek inscription’, in: David M. Wilson and Signe Horn Fuglesang (eds), The Hoen Hoard, Oslo, 2003, no. 39.

‘Enamel’, in: Graham Speake (ed.), Encyclopedia of Greece and the Hellenic Tradition, I, London–Chicago, 2000, pp. 545–547.

‘“Early Byzantine” enamel in France’, Studies in Honour of Christopher Walter, Oxford, 2003.

‘Byzantine enamels in Bavaria’, Mitteilungen zur Spätantiken Archäologie und Byzantinischen Kunstgeschichte 2 (2000), pp. 93–105, figs 1–5.

Forthcoming Catalogue of the Medieval Enamels in the British Museum, I: Early Medieval and Byzantine Enamel, London.

‘Stalin and Georgian enamels’, in: Antony Eastmond (ed.), Eastern Approaches to Byzantium, Aldershot, 2001, pp. 211–218 (chapter 13).

‘Brass disk with enamelled plant motif’, in Júlia Andrási, Antiquities from the Carpathian Basin in the British Museum, London.

Contributions to Christoph Stiegemann (ed.), Byzanz. Das Licht aus dem Osten. Kult und Alltag im Byzantinischen Reich vom 4. bis 15. Jahrhundert, Paderborn-Mainz, 2001 (catalogue entries IV.13–15).

In preparation Byzantine Enamel, London.

xi

Preface Peter Lasko

In one’s University career, even after retirement, one is sometimes called upon to write references extolling as best one can, without perjury, the virtues and abilities of one’s onetime students. But it must be rare indeed to be asked to write a few words to preface a volume of ‘Studies’ to be presented to a student on the occasion of his retirement – especially as that student contributed a paper and helped to edit such a volume for me on my seventieth birthday in 1994. To be given the chance to return the compliment is a pleasure one would not normally expect. I am deeply touched to be given the opportunity to do just that for David Buckton. The explanation in this case is that David was what must be called a ‘late starter’. When he applied for admission to the School of Fine Arts and Music to read art history in 1972, he had spent the previous four years as a staff reporter on the Eastern Daily Press. He was admitted on the strength of an interview in which he convinced me that he was determined to embark on an entirely new direction in his life. No amount of insistence on my part that a career in art history was highly uncertain, and when compared to journalism, was likely to be less rewarding in financial terms, deterred him. I cannot remember that he ever revealed to any of us in the school, why he had made that decision. Then as now, David is an intensely private person, who only very rarely, and at the most unexpected times, reveals his feelings. Although for the first year he continued to work for the EDP, and we became aware that he was also the devoted single parent of a young daughter, he was totally committed to his studies and an outstanding student. As well as his innate academic talent, it was no doubt his experience as a journalist, which enabled him to write more coherent and better researched weekly essays than most of his contemporaries. It was no surprise to us that he was awarded a first class degree in the finals in 1975. In 1978 he proved me wrong about the poor career prospects in our discipline I had predicted. An unexpected vacancy occurred in my old Department in the British

Museum and David was appointed Assistant Keeper in the Department of Medieval and Later Antiquities. No appointment could have been more felicitous for both the Museum and for David. Not since O.M. Dalton in the first two decades of the century was an Assistant Keeper able to concentrate on the Early Christian and Byzantine collections, and grace the study of the period with as much distinction. The acquisitions made in his time, especially the enrichment of the collection of Byzantine icons which confirmed the British Museum as the National Collection in the field, stand as a permanent monument to his activities in the Department. A tireless worker, David published a stream of articles and Museum catalogues and established an international reputation. The long series of annual enamel seminars he organised together with Neil Stratford and Susan Youngs attracted scholars from all over the world, and provided a platform for the serious discussion of problems both stylistic and technical, in an atmosphere of good fellowship unusual in the world of scholarship. His own work, always thoroughly researched, is often startling in its originality – with results that have not always been accepted universally by scholars of more conservative inclination. It will certainly be interesting to see whether his innovative suggestions will stand the test of time. Now that David is going to be free of the burdens of official curatorial and administrative duties, we can look forward to ever increasing scholarly activities. We will, I am sure, see the completion of the first volume of the Catalogue of Medieval Enamels, covering the important Byzantine and early medieval enamels in the Museum’s collection – a catalogue that was first proposed to the Trustees as an urgent need by O.M. Dalton. No one is better equipped to write it. When it finally appears, it will no doubt fulfill all of his great predecessor’s expectations. The essays in this volume are presented to David Buckton as an expression of the regard and affection in which he is held by his colleagues everywhere.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank, firstly, Yanni Petsopoulos and Axia Art Consultants Ltd for generously contributing the cost of the colour plates, and Dr Christian Schmidt and the Society of Jewellery Historians for their contributions towards the further costs of the volume. My thanks also to Susan Youngs and my wife, Gill Varndell, for sterling assistance

in the editing of this volume – all errors are needless to say my own. Finally, my thanks to David for his scholarship and friendship over many years. Sadly, Peter Lasko, who wrote the Preface to this volume, died shortly before it could be presented to David.

1. A dandy dipper: the Ambleteuse clepsydra, Empedocles, and wine-thieves I have known Donald M. Bailey, with an Appendix by Paul T. Craddock

The thump on the doormat of the extraordinarily heavy latest volume of the Acta of the Rei Cretariae Romanae Fautorum turned out to be fortunate in that a pottery vessel described therein inserted into my hitherto blank mind an object that I had forgotten and which could, I am pleased to say, be offered to David Buckton, a colleague of many years: a metalwork artifact, and indeed one that had been enamelled, the Ambleteuse Vase.1

Clepsydrae and other air-pressure vessels It is probably more than thirty years ago that I became aware of wine-thieves or toddy-lifters, while reading papers by J.U. Powell and Hugh Last on Empedocles’ remarks on respiration when observing the noise made by the filling of a clepsydra with which a child was playing.2 Last decided, and I am (with many others) perfectly in agreement with him, that the clepsydra in question was not a water-clock but a device designed for the removal of a quantity of a liquid from a larger container. The technique and apparatus are slightly different from that of the pipette, used in my schooldays to suck liquids up by mouth for transference to some other vessel, but the principle is the same: a finger was placed over the top of the tube, air-pressure keeping the fluid within the device until the finger was removed; no doubt these appliances are now banned by Health and Safety legislation. The wine-thief (or water-thief, or beerfilter) was immersed in stored liquid until it had filled through piercings within its base, then a finger (or more likely a thumb) sealed an upper orifice and the toddy was thus lifted and transferred to a glass or kylix or beer-mug. Hugh Last remarks that the object that Empedocles’ little girl was playing with must be something used in a domestic context. Water-clocks were to be found, not in private houses, but in public areas, such as the courtroom, or used by the military for timing watches, and being of open tublike construction, and very heavy, could not be played with easily nor was it likely to have produced the results that

Empedocles had observed. Last reminds us that in ancient literature the term clepsydra for a water-clock was apparently not used until after the death of Empedocles and the latter must have been referring to some other object. A vessel near in shape to the Ambleteuse clepsydra comes from Upper Moesia, made of pottery with an applied vitreous glaze, found in a Hadrianic-Antoninus Pius-period grave at Viminacium, where it was made.3 It has an ovoid body surmounted by a hollow ring-shaped handle communicating with the body and with a single hole at the top; there is a low base-ring and a group of small holes within the base. The author, Tatjana Cvjetic´ anin, describes it as ‘of the characteristic clepsydra form’ but gives no references to other examples; she believes it to be a waterclock. However, there are in existence several Greek versions, mainly of the sixth century BC, which are near in appearance to the Moesian Roman example, and a half score of these have been collected by David M. Robinson in the third fascicule of the CVA devoted to his own collection.4 Robinson has a most useful discussion of these vessels, bringing together earlier views. Robinson dislikes the idea that they are sprinklers as they would not hold enough water to lay the dust on the floor of a room; and he is not happy about them being used for lustral or ritual purposes. A diagram published in 1899 by Charles Clermont-Ganneau shows one of these Greek clepsydrae being plenished by immersion in a calyx crater,5 and Hermann Diels in 1920 describes in detail how a clepsydra was filled and used.6 Robinson suggests that the clepsydra would effectively filter out the lees of wine so that a clear liquid would be transferred to a wine cup, and mentions that a Greek clepsydra would contain enough wine to fill a kylix.7 A bronze object found at Galaxidi in Greece, and probably of the fourth century BC, can be grouped with the vessels we are discussing. It consists of a long tube rising from a small bulbous container, the lower part of which is pierced with holes; at the very top of the tube is a double loop-handle flanking its open end. This will pick up comparatively small amounts of liquid.8

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In 1973 Carl E. DeVries drew attention to pottery devices found in Nubia.9 These tend to be of smaller capacity than the Greek versions described by Robinson and are completely unlike them: some are tall, narrow and cylindrical (one of them is about 44.0cm high), others short and cylindrical, and others again are short and conical. All have a narrow neck and a flaring rim, useful for holding by the first two fingers of the hand, the orifice being covered by the thumb; all have multiple piercings in their flat bases, and all the illustrated examples come from graves at Qustol and Ballana. DeVries describes their use as liquid-lifters and points to other published examples from Nubia, from Karanog and Aniba, and a bronze version from Meroe. He believes they were used to filter out the mash floating in the beer that was the popular drink of the region. DeVries is engagingly vague as to the chronology of these Nubian clepsydrae, but they probably date from about 200 BC until about AD 200.10 Other similar Meroitic examples from Faras, also in Nubia, are cited by DeVries as being recognised in 1924 for what they were by F.Ll. Griffith, who describes them as klepsydra-dippers, together with bronze versions similar to the Galixidi version mentioned above.11 DeVries is not alone in suggesting that the etymology of , clepsydra came from the Greek êëÝðôù (steal) and ýäùñ (water).12 Could the water-clock also have been called a clepsydra because in the courtroom, where counsel could speak only until the water ceased to flow, water was indeed the thief of time? Like Clermont-Ganneau before him, DeVries has found a recent manifestation of the device in an American product of the late nineteenth century or a little later, made of glass with a perforated metal base; embossed in the glass are the words ‘Dandy Dipper’. Michal Dayagi-Mendels illustrates a narrow ovoid pottery clepsydra from sixth-century AD Israel, described as a titros, with a ring-shaped upper element similar to that of the Ambleteuse Vase.13 The granddaddy of them all (or grandmammy as the plastically modelled figure applied to it is female) is the beer-lifter described by Jonathan Tubb in 1982.14 Characteristic of the Taqba region of the Euphrates in north Syria, it has a flat bottom pierced with several holes and the usual thumb-closed orifice at the top. An Early Bronze IV date, c. 2400–2000 BC, can be given to it. Tubb has a very useful discussion of this type of object, and refers to a rather later example of the second millennium BC from Ras Shamra. Designed for a different purpose, but using the same principle, where a thumb over a superior hole prevents liquid running out from inferior holes, are some northern European watering-pots for the garden, mostly of the late Medieval period, dating from the late fourteenth to the early sixteenth century.15 I am grateful to John Cherry for information on these vessels, often known as chantepleures. He also drew to my attention a very small example found

APPENDIX

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PAUL T. CRADDOCK

in the Buttermarket at Ipswich, made in a local fabric of Saxon date produced between the mid-seventh and the ninth century AD.16 From its size this must be a clepsydra rather than a watering-pot for gardens. Before discussing the Ambleteuse Vase, the main subject of this paper, I would like to mention two other winethieves in the British Museum, one completely unpublished,17 the other incompletely published. Amongst a collection of Cypriote vases of different periods and no proveniences purchased from Thomas Backhouse Sandwith, Her Majesty’s Vice-Consul in the Island from 1865–70, is a one-handled jug-like vessel with a narrow neck, tapering and pared vertically, and a small base-ring (Figs. 1.1–1.2).18 It has a globular body, the mouth has a slight flare, and there is a series of small holes pierced through its base; it is easily held by its handle with a thumb over the hole. The fabric is buff with a very thin pale orange slip overall, except under the base. It is decorated in a dark brown fired-on ceramic colour: plain bands below the mouth, at the junction of the neck with the body, and round the base; on the lower shoulder is a band of meshing hatched triangles, flanked above and below by a single narrow line; the sides of the handle are painted, with transverse bands between them; the top of the mouth has radiating lines. Its dimensions are: H. 16.4 cm; Max. D. 11.7 cm; base D. 4.3 cm; upper-orifice D. 1.5 cm. Acquired in 1869, H.B. Walters in 1912 published it in his catalogue of pottery from Cyprus, but failed to mention the holes in the base.19 A.H. Smith and F.N. Pryce also included it in a British Museum fascicule of the CVA; again the holes are not mentioned.20 Walters regarded it as falling into the early Iron Age of Cyprus, presumably sometime in CyproGeometric I or II, between about 1050 and 850 BC; I suspect a late Cypro-Archaic or early Cypro-Classical date is more likely, about 600–400 BC. From its comparatively small size, toddy-lifter might well describe a vessel (Figs. 1.3–1.4)21 that came to the Museum in 1772 with the purchase of the First Vase Collection of Sir William Hamilton, British Ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples between 1764 and 1800.22 Owing much to the shape of Greek vase known today as a squat lekythos, it has a globular body, with a tall drawn-up neck, set off from the body by a jog, and a flaring mouth, the upper surface of which is inturned to produce a narrow orifice easily sealed with a thumb when the forefinger is thrust through the high-placed ring-handle; it stands on a base-ring within which are a large number of holes. The fabric is a micaceous orange clay, covered all over, except under the base, by a wash of thinned black-glaze medium, producing an orange-brown surface, the brush-marks showing; a small drop of black glaze has fallen on the shoulder. An attempt has been made to bore a hole in the body, causing the vessel to crack. Its dimensions are: H. 13.8 cm; Max. D. 7.1 cm ; base D. 4.7 cm; upper-orifice D. 0.6 cm.

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Figs. 1.1–1.2. Cypriote clepsydra, about 600–400 BC. British Museum GR 1869.6–4.12.

Figs. 1.3–1.4. Campanian clepsydra, about 425–350 BC. British Museum GR 1772.3–20.50.

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It was probably acquired by Hamilton from a provenience within Italy, and its fabric suggests a Campanian source; a date in the late fifth or the fourth century BC may be attached to it.

The Ambleteuse Vase In keeping with the reminiscent nature of the first two paragraphs above, I first set eyes upon the Ambleteuse Vase in April 1966, when it was transferred in pieces to the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities from the Department of British and Medieval Antiquities of the British Museum.23 It comprised some eight separately made bronze elements that had become separated owing to the decay of the ancient solder that had once joined them; for the vessel to work as a clepsydra it was necessary that six of these parts were hermetically sealed: two dolphins were mainly decorative, but added some strength to the whole. Through lack of foresight these constituents were not photographed separately for the Greek and Roman Department, but when the components were sent in 1990 to be

APPENDIX

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PAUL T. CRADDOCK

restored by the Department of Conservation of the British Museum slides were taken by that department before reassembly took place (Fig. 1.5).24 There are uncertainties concerning the finding of this vessel and how it was acquired by the British Museum. The entry in the Register of Acquisitions of the Department of Medieval and Later Antiquities states that it was purchased from one Mr Eastes, but someone has queried this, presumably because the object listed immediately above it, a Peruvian vase, is also said to be bought from the same person and the details for the second entry do not conform with what is normally expected from British Museum registration entries: there is also evidence for added material. No indication is given as to when the object was found, but the source given (part of the primary entry) is ‘Dredged [partially crossed out] up near Ambleteuse on the coast of Normandy, containing coins of Tacitus’. Ambleteuse is not in Normandy but on the sea coast in the Pas de Calais, between Calais and Boulogne and nearer to Boulogne. However, it seems very probable that Mr Eastes did indeed own the vase, as he sold coins of Tacitus said to be from Ambleteuse to this museum in 1838.25 If the vessel

Fig. 1.5. The Ambleteuse Vase before restoration in 1990.

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DANDY DIPPER: THE

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was complete when ‘dredged up’ it is difficult to see how coins could be inserted; had it been dismantled somewhat to house coins it is not easy to believe that nothing was lost during dredging. If currency of Tacitus (reigned September AD 275 to about April AD 276) was actually found inside the vase, which was at least a century older than the coins, then it is far more likely that it was a hoard buried on land (the seashore?) than one lost at sea. The globular body of the Ambleteuse Vase is an oblate spheroid joined horizontally at its circumference, leaving a narrow plain band between the upper and lower decorative scheme; the base is moderately tall and conical, expanding to allow it to be soldered firmly to the lower body. The upper body element is surmounted by a baluster-like portion that holds vertically a hollow ring-handle made of two elements joined longitudinally; on each side of the cusp holding the ring a duck’s head emerges. To ensure that the two parts of the ring-handle were correctly assembled a cross was cut into the archetypes or wax models (whichever method was used) at a point adjacent to the two ducks’ heads. Two diving dolphins extend from the ring to the shoulder of the vessel. At the top of the ring is a very small hole, 0.21cm across, to be sealed by a thumb. Within the base are small holes not quite centrally placed, five arranged in a quincunx and a smaller hole somewhat randomly placed. The body, the ring, the dolphins, the lower edge of the baluster, and the base all have cells for the reception of champlevé enamel. All parts of the vessel were cast separately using either investment moulds and the lost wax process or direct moulds taken from archetypes (there may have been some raising-work carried out on the upper part of the base), and it is very likely that each part went into the enamelling kiln separately before the whole vessel was soldered together. The vase is 29.8 cm high and 15.0 cm in diameter; the ring-handle is 11.3 cm across and the diameter of the base is 6.7 cm. The body patterning is most complex, and details, rather than being described minutely, are best seen in the photographs and drawing (Figs. 1.6–1.8). The patterns match each other, top and bottom, and are arranged in twelve upper and twelve lower ‘tongues’, outlined by a series of half-moon cells; these cells are not consistent numerically with every tongue, and the upper tongues tend to have more cells than do the lower (Fig. 1.8).26 The lower edges of adjacent tongues embrace a semicircular pattern containing fleurs-de-lys delimited by the circumferential plain band where the two halves of the body join: a complete circular pattern is thus produced, half above and half below the join.27 At least one cell in the pattern was mistakenly omitted. Each side of the ring-handle has enamel-cells consisting of a row of rectangles divided by grooves from an inner and outer row of much smaller bullet-shaped cells running in opposite directions to each other. The balusterfinial that supports the ring-handle is plain except for a

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Fig. 1.6. The Ambleteuse Vase. British Museum GR 1843.6– 23.1.

row of half-moon cells close to its junction with the upper body. Each dolphin-support is concave below the body and has deep cells on its flanks, and circular eyes, all once filled with enamel. The base has a series of vertical arrowhead-shaped cells on its sides, some of which are broken through. The lower body also has a few holes in cells, and a couple of dints; there is a small hole in a cell of the ring-handle. The castings were presumably very thin at these points. The metal, having a not insignificant zinc content, is a

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APPENDIX

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PAUL T. CRADDOCK

Fig. 1.7. The Ambleteuse Vase: the underside.

leaded bronze of a brass-like character; a very full analysis has been made by Paul Craddock of the British Museum Research Laboratory, and this with his discussion is given in an appendix below.28 Considerable traces of a black patination survives on the dolphins, the finial, the base and the ring-handle. Little, if any patination remains on the body, but it is difficult to be certain as the vase has been varnished in order that a mould be released when a copy was made in 1997. Large areas of bare bronze show through, sometimes as red cuprite. What seems to be greencoloured corrosion-products in the enamel-cells may in some case, but perhaps not all, be traces of enamel, which may once have been red. One cell on the upper body, close to the lower attachment of one of the dolphins, is filled with a green material which is very probably decayed enamel. Blue enamel certainly survives in a few cases, in one of the half-moon cells of the finial, in a cell of the lower body decoration, and a flank-cell of a dolphin. No scientific examination of these very few traces of enamelling has been undertaken. The overall enamel decoration of the Ambleteuse Vase may have been largely blue and red: when newly made it must indeed have been a ‘dandy dipper’. The Ambleteuse Vase, despite being an accomplished product of a complex and decorative nature, has not been treated to overpublication, nor has it been grouped with other clepsydrae in the literature. It was apparently first published and illustrated (inaccurately) by Alfred Darcel

Fig. 1.8. The Ambleteuse Vase; detail of one of the twelve segments of enamel-cells.

in 1867;29 it next appears with photographs in 1933 in a paper on enamel work in western Europe by Françoise Henry;30 is mentioned by Mons. Meignié in 1972, with Darcel’s illustrations;31 and is listed with other enamelled bronze vessels by C.N. Moore in 1978.32 Only Henry mentions the holes pierced underneath; she thought they were for distributing the fumes of incense, but does not explain how the incense was introduced to a virtually enclosed vessel. Strangely, Darcel believed that only one dolphin-handle survived and his illustration shows this; he also published a segment of the decoration of the body lacking half the central floral device. This drawing emphasises the raised parts of the design, whereas Kate Morton’s new drawing (Fig. 1.8) is, at my request, concerned with the arrangement of the cells: the raised areas can be seen well in the photographs (Figs. 1.5–1.7).

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Although geographically not alone in this, areas of Late Iron Age Britain had a tradition of fine enamelled bronzes which carried on well into the Roman period, when vessels were introduced into the repertoire. C.N. Moore has argued for a British origin for enamelled skillets and perhaps for most of the other shapes, including the Ambleteuse Vase, which he mentions in his paper,33 and it seems very likely that the skillets with the names of forts on Hadrian’s Wall are British souvenir objects. Moore thought that a southern British origin was likely, but the more recent discovery of a large number of mould fragments at Castleford in Yorkshire indicates at least one workshop was situated in the north.34 The Castleford foundry, the moulds from which are published by Justine Bayley and Paul Budd, made complex, highly decorated, vessels, including costrels put together from several parts; both moulding from archetypes and investment moulding of modelled wax were used. No products of the Castleford foundry have yet been identified and none of the Ambleteuse patterns can be recognised amongst the surviving mould fragments from Castleford, except the ‘arrowheads’ found on the base of our vase, but on the latter the cells are of that shape, while at Castleford they form raised areas between cells. The halfmoon cells liberally used in the decoration of the Ambleteuse Vase do not appear in the Castleford material, and Ernst Künzl suggests that such cells are probably peculiar to a workshop which made, amongst other things, two large and significant vessels now in the Römisch-Germanisches Zentralmuseum Mainz, and which have been published by him as part of his Neoceltic Group of enamelled utensils: he does indeed include the Ambleteuse clepsydra with the group.35 Künzl proposes that the Neoceltic Group was made in Britain and dates its products to the late first century AD and the second century AD.36

The Ambleteuse Vase, domestic or ritual – who can tell? From what has been discussed it seems likely that most vessels employing an aerodynamic principle whereby liquids can be retained in a container with holes pierced in its base by air-pressure alone were of purely functional domestic or retail purpose. Many were used to convey a liquid from a large container, an amphora or a storage-jar, to a smaller one, a drinking-cup, with the advantage that unwanted solids in the liquid, wine-lees, beer-mash or wildlife, might be filtered out. But was the Ambleteuse Vase merely a wealthy person’s version? It is one of the largest surviving Roman enamelled bronze utensils, albeit made in several pieces (presumably a technological necessity), and was no doubt very costly to produce. The superrich of antiquity often used even more precious vessels, in gold and silver, at the dining-table, but an ornate example

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such as ours may as easily have been intended for lustral/ ritual use, and not simply as an instrument for transferring liquids for consumption. The two objects in Mainz from the same Neoceltic Group, a jug and patera, are certainly of shapes used together for ritual purposes, although Künzl does remind us that they might be designed for handwashing.37 This latter process could, of course, take place in either a domestic or a ritual context.

Appendix: The composition of the metal of the Ambleteuse vase PAUL T. CRADDOCK Analyses of various parts of the vessel: Body

Cu: 87.0 Zn: 5.5 Pb: 3.4 Sn: 2.6 Ag: 0.05 Fe: 0.16 Sb: 0.01 Ni: 0.02 As: 0.05 Base Cu: 86.0 Zn: 4.4 Pb: 6.2 Sn: 4.3 Ag: 0.07 Fe: 0.15 Sb: 0.02 Ni: 0.03 As: 0.05 Bi: 0.001 Finial Cu: 81.0 Zn: 4.1 Pb:10.5 Sn: 3.6 Ag: 0.05 Fe: 0.2 Sb: 0.08 Ni: 0.03 Co: 0.008 As: 0.1 Bi: 0.001 Loop Cu: 85.0 Zn: 6.2 Pb: 4.0 Sn: 3.5 Ag: 0.05 Fe: 0.17 Sb: 0.01 Ni: 0.02 As: 0.1 Bi: 0.001 Dolphin Cu: 84.5 Zn: 4.1 Pb: 6.3 Sn: 3.7 Ag: 0.04 Fe: 0.25 Sb: 0.01 Ni: 0.03 Co: 0.01 As: 0.02 Bi: 0.001 The samples were clean turnings of metal drilled with a one mm diameter steel bit. Between 10 and 20 milligrams of metal were dissolved in acid and analysed by atomic absorption spectrometry; particulars of the methodology are given in M.J. Hughes, M.R. Cowell and P.T. Craddock, ‘Atomic absorption techniques in archaeology’, in Archaeometry 18 (1976), pp. 19–36. The analyses have a precision of about ±2% for the copper and about ±5– 10% for the tin, lead and zinc. The trace elements have precisions varying between ±10–30%, deteriorating to ±50% for elements at their detection limit. All the listed elements could be detected down to at least 0.005% in the metal. Cadmium was sought but not detected. The components of the vase are all quite similar in alloy and trace element composition, suggesting that the parts were made at the same time, possibly from the same stock of metal. The metal is a mixed alloy of copper with tin, lead and zinc, and would nowadays be described as a leaded gunmetal. The metal would be suitable for the complex casting of the components of the vessel, and is quite typical of the sort of alloys being made in the Later Roman Empire generally (see D. Hook and P.T. Craddock, ‘The scientific analysis of the copper-alloy lamps: aspects of classical alloying practices’, in D.M. Bailey, A Catalogue of the Lamps in the British Museum iv, Lamps of Metal and Stone, and Lampstands [London, 1996], pp. 143–63).

Notes 1. I am most grateful to the editor of this Festschrift, Christopher Entwistle, for accepting this paper at a very late stage in his work upon the volume. I must also thank Catherine Johns for

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2.

3.

4.

5.

6. 7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

WITH AN

reading the text and making most helpful suggestions concerning enamelled Roman metalwork and references thereto. Both Lucilla Burn and Veronica Tatton-Brown aided me on specific points. Empedocles Fr. 100. J.U. Powell, ‘The simile of the clepsydra in Empedocles’, Classical Quarterly 17 (1923), pp. 172–4, and H. Last, ‘Empedokles and his klepsydra again’, ibid. 18 (1924), pp. 169–73. T. Cvjetiºanin, ‘Eastern Mediterranean elements in technology and design of Upper Moesian pottery: the case of glazed pottery’, Rei Cretariae Romanae Fautorum Acta 36 (2000), p. 326, Fig. 5. D.M. Robinson, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, United States of America, the Robinson Collection, Baltimore, MD 3 (Cambridge [Mass.], 1938), pp. 12–14. C. Clermont-Ganneau, ‘Une ‘éponge américaine’ du VIe siècle avant notre ère’, Revue archéologique 34 (1899), p. 325. The American sponge, which he also illustrates, p. 326, is a device that works on the same principle, used for taking a rather limited shower; Clermont-Ganneau favours this explanation for the Greek vessel. H. Diels, Antike Technik ii (Leipzig, 1920), pp. 192–3. The clepsydra would thus appeal to spoil-sport hosts who did not want themselves, their dining-rooms, their textile hangings, their couches and cushions or their slaves to be drenched with the lees of wine hurled inexpertly in all directions during the unspeakable game of kottabos; there would be fewer smashed kylikes, too. For the game see A. Higgins, ‘Recent discoveries of the apparatus used in playing the game of Êüôôáâoò’, Archaeologia 51 (1888), pp. 383–98. A. de Ridder, Catalogue des bronzes de la Société Archéologique d’Athènes (Paris, 1894), p. 27, no. 114; R. Zahn, ‘Zur Midasvase aus Eleusis’, Athenische Abteilung 24 (1899), p. 342, Fig. 4; Robinson, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, p. 13. C.E. DeVries, ‘An enigmatic pottery form from Meroitic Nubia’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 32 (1973), pp. 62–9. These particular shapes of clepsydrae probably died out before Late Roman times: none is illustrated in L. Török, Late Antique Nubia, History and Archaeology of the Southern Neighbour of Egypt in the 4th–6th c. A.D. (Budapest, 1988). One example from Qustol falls within the IIA Phase of the cemetery, roughly late Ptolemaic to the first century AD: B. Williams, ‘A chronology of Meroitic occupation below the Fourth Cataract’, Journal of the American Research Center in Egypt 22 (1985), p. 159, Fig. 6a. F. Ll. Griffith, ‘Oxford excavations in Nubia, the Meroitic cemetery at Faras’, Annals of Archaeology and Anthropology 11 (1924), p. 150; pl. XXI, XXIXa and b; pl. LV, 1–3 and pl. LXIX, 9: bronze versions, and ‘Oxford excavations in Nubia, classification of the Meroitic graves at Faras’, ibid., 12 (1925), pp. 76–7. See British Museum EA 51645 from Faras. See for example the discussion of clepsydrae, with many references from the ancient literature, under ‘Horologium’ in W. Smith, Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities (London, 1849 and 1878): it concerns mainly water-clocks, but the liquidtransferring device is confused with these. Both forms of clepsydrae, with a full list of ancient literary usage, are described under ‘Klepsydra’ in Pauly-Wissowa (Stuttgart, 1921), cols 807– 9. M. Dayagi-Mendels, Drink and be Merry, Wine and Beer in Ancient Times (Jerusalem, 1999), pp. 68–9. I have not found the term titros elsewhere. J. Tubb, ‘A Syrian ‘klepsydra’ of the third millennium BC’, Levant 14 (1982), pp. 175–7.

APPENDIX

BY

PAUL T. CRADDOCK

15. For examples from London, see R.L. Hobson, Catalogue of the English Pottery in the Department of British and Mediaeval Antiquities and Ethnography of the British Museum (London, 1903), p. 78, B 172–6. 16. This Ipswich Ware vessel (Acc. No. R.1936–222) is 15.0 cm high and has a flaring mouth closed by a pierced disc, a narrow neck, a pear-shaped body and a flat base with five holes. John Cherry has shown me his photograph of it and tells me it was described by N. Smedley in a note in the Proceedings of the Suffolk Institute of Archaeology 27, pt. 2 (1957), pp. 124–5: dated too late as Ipswich Ware had not been recognised at that time. 17. It is, however, described in P.F. [Hugues] d’Hancarville, MS Catalogue des antiquités recueillées depuis l’an 1764 jusques vers le milieu de l’année 1776 par Mr le Chevalier Guillaume Hamilton, acquises par Acte du Parlement en [20 March 1772] et maintenant disposées dans le Museum Britannique, Londres MDCCLXXVIII, p. 691. This catalogue is in the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities of the British Museum. 18. British Museum Reg. No. GR 1869.6–4.12. For a succinct relation of Vice-Consul Sandwith’s life and collecting habits in Cyprus, see E. Goring, A Mischievous Pastime, Digging in Cyprus in the Nineteenth Century (Edinburgh, 1987), pp. 13– 15. 19. H.B. Walters, Catalogue of the Greek and Etruscan Vases in the British Museum I, ii, Cypriote, Italian and Etruscan Pottery (London, 1912), no. C 701. 20. A.H. Smith and F.N. Pryce, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum, Great Britain 2, British Museum 2 (London, 1926), pl. I, 23. 21. British Museum Reg. No. GR 1772.3–20.50. 22. The life of Hamilton and his various collections is admirably set forth in I. Jenkins and K. Sloan, Vases and Volcanoes (London, 1996). 23. British Museum Reg. No. GR 1843.6–23.1. 24. I am most grateful to Simon Dove of the Department of Conservation for locating these slides and informing me about the recent history of the reconstruction of the vessel; and to Trevor Springett for supplying me with a copy of a slide taken before restoration, from which the print in Fig. 1.5 was taken. 25. British Museum Reg. Nos CM 1838.7–3.2–14: purchased from Mr George Eastes (through a Mr Cowtan). I must thank Richard Abdy and Amanda Gregory for help in locating this reference. 26. I am most grateful to Kate Morton for making this drawing of one of the twelve decorative segments. 27. As presently restored the upper and lower body elements do not line up correctly. For this reason an old photograph has been used in Fig. 1.6, although the dolphins are now more comfortably positioned. 28. This material is published with the permission of Sheridan Bowman, Keeper of the Department of Scientific Research. 29. A. Darcel, ‘De l’émaillerie’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts 22 (1867), p. 272. 30. F. Henry, ‘Émailleurs d’occident’, Préhistoire 2 (1933), pp. 143–5 and Figs 45, 1 and 3. 31. Mons. Meignié, Bulletin des amis du fort d’Ambleteuse (1972), pp. 6–7. This reference was sent to the British Museum in 1974 by S.C. Hunt with photocopies of the relevant two pages, but I have not found a full copy of the publication: on p. 7 the editor of the Bulletin does not agree with Mons. Meignié that the vessel is Roman. 32. C.N. Moore, ‘An enamelled skillet-handle from Brough-onFosse and the distribution of similar vessels’, Britannia 9 (1978), p. 327–8. 33. Moore, ‘An enamelled skillet-handle’, pp. 319–27.

A

DANDY DIPPER: THE

AMBLETEUSE

CLEPSYDRA,

34. J. Bayley and P. Budd, ‘The clay moulds: the vessel moulds’, in H.E.M. Cool and C. Philo (eds.), Roman Castleford, Excavations 1974–85 i, The Small Finds (Wakefield, 1998), pp. 203–22. 35. E. Künzl, ‘Großformatige Emailobjekte der römischen Kaiserzeit’, in S.T.A.M. Mols et al. (eds.), Acta of the 12th International Congress on Ancient Bronzes, Nijmegen 1992 (Nijmegen, 1995), pp. 39–49.

EMPEDOCLES,

AND WINE-THIEVES

I

HAVE KNOWN

9

36. Künzl, ‘Emailobjekte’, pp. 42, 47. A fragment of a vessel belonging to Künzl’s Neoceltic Group has been found in Britain, at Halton Chesters on the Roman Wall (Künzl, ‘Emailobjekte’, p. 42; Henry, ‘Émailleurs’, p. 144, Fig. 45, 2; Moore, ‘An enamelled skillet-handle’, p. 325). 37. Künzl, ‘Emailobjekte’, p. 40.

10

CATHERINE JOHNS

2. Body-chains, Hellenistic to Late Roman Catherine Johns

A brief version of this paper was presented at the third international symposium on ancient jewellery and archaeology held at Frankfurt-am-Main in September 1997. I am very happy to be able to offer it as a tribute to David Buckton, a greatly valued colleague, and I hope he will find it of some interest.

The development of the body-chain The Graeco-Roman jewellery tradition has survived with comparatively little change into modern western culture. The types of ornament worn remain familiar to us because most of them are still in use today, for example fingerrings, bracelets and armlets, earrings, chain necklaces and strings of beads, brooches, even diadems. This is not true of some other cultures; for instance, when we look at the fine gold jewellery of the Northern European Bronze Age, we cannot always be certain exactly how the ornaments were worn, and we have no sculpture or paintings to guide us. Familiar ornaments can sometimes be worn in nonstandard ways, however, and the objects themselves will give little or no hint of this: obvious examples are fingerrings threaded onto a chain and worn as pendants, or a necklace wrapped several times around the wrist to make a bracelet. A single very long chain could be worn diagonally across the torso rather than hanging like a regular necklace, and this could not be inferred from the object itself; illustrations are needed to demonstrate it. This usage, which can indeed be seen in Hellenistic paintings and sculpture, may be connected with the development of the body-chain or breast-chain. This type of jewellery was evidently quite rare in antiquity and does not survive in use today. It consists of a double diagonal harness of chains passing over both shoulders, and under both arms of the wearer, crossing on the back and chest, usually with a decorative feature where

the chains cross. Few actual examples have survived, but the type is shown being worn in Hellenistic, Roman and late-Antique art, a very long chronological span. Owing to its size and weight, it would have been an ornament of exceptionally high value in gold, far greater than a normal necklace. The development of the ornament may have been dual, on the one hand deriving from the wearing of a long gold chain diagonally on the body, bandolier-fashion, and on the other, from the use of crossed ribbons or cords on the upper body as an element of costume that was not strictly jewellery. Representations in art can be ambiguous. The basic idea of wearing two bands crossing between the breasts is a simple one which probably originated independently at many different times and places; such an ornament emphasises the female body-shape, and it is hardly surprising that an association with erotic symbolism seems to emerge, sometimes subtle, sometimes more overt. The crossed bodychain is by no means confined to the Classical world, but was known further east, from prehistoric times in western Asia and later in Sasanian and Indian culture.1 There is no evidence, however, that there is any direct link, and I shall confine myself in the following discussion to the Roman and late-Roman period and to the Hellenistic background.

Hellenistic body-chains Both single diagonal chains and double crossed bands, made either of metal or textile, are depicted in Hellenistic art. One South Italian painted vase of the fourth century BC bears a scene of Hades and Persephone in a quadriga accompanied by Hermes and by Hecate, who wears crossed bands over her clothing rendered in the same fashion as the horses’ breast-bands.2 Whether this is a piece of gold jewellery or not is therefore rather uncertain. One gold

BODY-CHAINS, HELLENISTIC

ornament of slightly later date (third century BC) in the British Museum may be relevant, for although it is made of gold, it takes the form not of chains but of thin ribbons of gold sheet.3 Four gold bands, decorated in repoussé with figures of erotes, join at the front with a Knot of Heracles, an apotropaic motif which is fairly common on jewellery of this period. It has been suggested that the object is a diadem rather than a body-chain, but the gold bands are attached on the diagonals of the central plaque rather than parallel. If intended to be worn on the body, however, the loops at the ends of each band must have been used either to attach the ornament to the clothing or to link with cords or ribbons which crossed the wearer’s back, since there are no gold elements for the back of the piece. The use of erotes in the decoration may be significant, as Eros himself and later his mother Aphrodite are depicted wearing bodychains. Elaborate gold pendant earrings of the Hellenistic period sometimes incorporate figures of deities and animals. There are examples which show Eros wearing a body-chain, often with a Knot of Heracles at the front.4 Some of the elegant terracottas of the first century BC to early first century AD from Myrina depict an adolescent rather than child Eros wearing jewellery including the body-chain.5 One also wears spiral snake-anklets and a similar ornament on the thigh.6

The Roman period The frequent association of this type of jewellery with Cupid and also with his mother, Venus, continues to develop in the Roman period. A silver statuette from the Thames at London representing a pantheistic Harpocrates with some attributes of Cupid belongs to a fascinating type of amulet which has recently been studied by Robert Lunsingh Scheurleer.7 This particular example wears a simple gold body-chain evidently intended as one of the features that evoke Cupid. Other Roman-period Cupids with body-chains include a stone statue now in Cologne.8 Venus wearing a body-chain appears from time to time in Roman art, for example in a painting from the House of the Marriage of Hercules at Pompeii showing Venus and Mars with Cupid.9 The chain worn by Venus in this case is a slender one with pendants and lacks any decorative feature at the crossing-point. The association with Venus may have carried over to less exalted contexts: a fine bronze mirrorcover now in Rome bears an explicitly erotic scene in relief in which the female participant wears a fashionable hairstyle of the late first century AD and a selection of jewellery, though no clothing.10 Her jewellery comprises bracelets, armlets, anklets, a necklace and a long, loose body-chain. Since she is probably a courtesan, it seems possible that the body-chain is intended to evoke the goddess of love.

TO

LATE ROMAN

11

Also from this area and period, however, we find another goddess, totally lacking erotic connotations, wearing crossed bands of a different kind: two fine marble statues from Oplontis show a draped Victory wearing bands embellished with a disc at the crossing-point: the manner in which the bands are carved makes it virtually certain that they are made of textile rather than metal, though the applied disc might well be a jewel. The tradition evoked here is obviously Hellenistic.11 Terracotta figures of women wearing body-chains occur amongst the extensive range of terracottas produced in Roman Egypt (Fig. 2.1). They include both nude and sedately draped women, in both standing and squatting poses.12 None has additional attributes that would establish the identity of the figures, nor is there any indication of whether they are intended to show divinities or mortals. It has plausibly been suggested that they represent beneficent and protective spirits.13 As in most of the Hellenistic and early-Roman representations, and in the few surviving chains from the early Roman period, the ornaments are depicted quite long and loose, draping around the wearer’s hips and crossing at about waist level. Such chains would not have required any fastening device as they could simply have been slipped on over the head. A few actual gold body-chains have survived from the Vesuvian sites in Italy, emphasising that by the first century AD this type of ornament was not only a decoration worn by mythical characters in paintings and statues, but was at least occasionally worn by mortal women. One, from Pompeii itself, is formed of a series of gold ivy-leaves with simple domed plaques at the joining points.14 The domed elements are well known in other jewellery of the period. In his study of Roman jewellery from dated contexts, Andrew Oliver Jr. illustrates a long body-chain from Boscoreale, which consists of simple single loop-in-loop chain with wheel motifs at the junctions, another combination of motifs and manufacturing methods commonly found in smaller necklaces of the period.15 Oliver also refers to two gold body-chains from Oplontis.

The Hoxne body-chain and the late-Antique period Venus and others continued to be portrayed wearing bodychains in the late-Roman period. One noteworthy example from Britain is to be found on the fourth-century AD mosaic floor depicting scenes from Virgil’s Aeneid at the villa site of Low Ham, Somerset, in south-west England.16 Venus is shown with Aeneas, Ascanius and Dido, and in addition to her diadem, necklace and armlets, she wears a slender crossed chain reaching a little below her waist and embellished with a lozenge-shaped ornament at the crossing. Though the mosaic was constructed in Britain, it is quite

12

CATHERINE JOHNS

possible that the visual inspiration came from a manuscript of the poem which had been written and illustrated elsewhere in the empire. This type of jewellery could also be worn by nymphs. On one of the fine decorated silver vessels from the extraordinary hoard of Roman silver plate found at Traprain Law in southern Scotland, a nereid rides on the back of a mythical sea-beast, a marine tiger.17 She wears a necklace and body-chain, both very lightly and delicately engraved. The crossing chains have no decorative joining feature, and they are also quite short and close-fitting, crossing almost between the breasts and with lower curves not reaching as far as the nereid’s narrow waist. This far more snugly-fitting style of ornament is also to be seen on a fragmentary life-size female statue now displayed in the grounds of the castle at Kyrenia in northern Cyprus (Fig. 2.2). I have no details of the find-spot or context of this piece, but it is likely to be a local find, and is certainly of Roman date. Whether it represents a goddess or a mortal

Fig. 2.1. Romano-Egyptian terracotta figurine of a woman wearing a body-chain. British Museum, Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities, 1926.9–30.42 (Photo: BM)

Fig. 2.2. Statue of woman wearing body-chain, Kyrenia, Cyprus (Photo: author).

BODY-CHAINS, HELLENISTIC

TO

LATE ROMAN

13

woman is also unknown, but it undoubtedly shows a small, tightly-fitting body-chain as opposed to the long, loose type. The female figure is far from being a slender, naked nymph. She has a mature, womanly form and is generously draped. Her body-chain has thin chains (or cords) and a large round feature still showing traces of a rosette-like pattern where the chains cross between the breasts. The close fit is demonstrated by the fact that the lower loops of the body-chain follow the lower curves of the breasts, above the loose girdle tied around the waist. A body-chain worn in this manner would need to have fasteners or ties of some kind. The matter of size and fit is significant because of the diminutive size of the only known fourth-century AD bodychain, the example found at Hoxne, Suffolk, in eastern England in 1992.18 The hoard discovered at Hoxne consists of some fifteen thousand gold and silver coins, closing with

two siliquae of Constantine III issued in AD 407–8, about two hundred small items of silver tableware, principally spoons, and twenty-nine pieces of gold jewellery, namely nineteen bracelets, six necklaces, three finger-rings, and the body-chain. This ornament (Figs. 2.3 and 2.4), comprises four heavy, fine loop-in-loop chain straps with lion-head terminals, each chain being about 37–38 cm long; one joining plaque is a roughly oval setting for nine gems, a central oval amethyst, four elliptical or drop-shaped garnets, and four empty circular settings which show no trace of their original contents. It seems very likely that these were pearls which decayed completely during burial, though it is also possible that the four round gems had been deliberately removed for re-setting. The other strap-junction is a solidus of Gratian (AD 367–383) mounted in an octagonal frame decorated with a raised foliate scroll. All four chains are

Fig. 2.3. The body-chain from the Hoxne treasure; front. British Museum, Department of Prehistoric and Early Europe, P.1994.4–8.1 (Photo: BM).

Fig. 2.4. The body-chain from the Hoxne treasure; back (Photo: BM).

14

CATHERINE JOHNS

permanently attached to the gem-set plaque, but two of them finish in hooks at the other end that engage with the two lower loops of the coin plaque. The provision of fasteners indicates that the ornament was too small to slip on over the wearer’s head and was intended to fit the torso closely. The positioning of the attachment loops at roughly 2, 4, 8 and 10 o’clock on the plaques confirms that the chains were worn diagonally, not parallel as in a belt or girdle, while the orientation of the coin, assuming the Emperor’s head was intended to be seen the right way up, establishes that the jewelled plaque, probably worn at the front, was a horizontal rather than an upright oval shape. Before turning to further discussion of the interpretation of body-chains and the Hoxne example in particular, one other surviving example of the type should be mentioned, namely the magnificent late-Antique specimen in the British Museum (Fig. 2.5).19 Thought to date to about AD 600, this chain is certainly from Egypt and probably from a hoard usually referred to as the Assiut hoard. In fact, the provenance is far from certain, and Antinoopolis, the city founded by Hadrian across the Nile from the ancient city of Hermopolis Magna, is another possible source.20 Formed of large openwork gold discs, this body-chain is much larger and heavier than the Hoxne chain, and it has sometimes been suggested that it was designed to embellish a statue rather than a human being. Worn loosely, as so many of the representations suggest, it would, however, have been perfectly suitable for wear by a fully-clothed woman of matronly proportions. The chain has no fastenings, and was therefore intended to be worn loosely, though there are small hooks behind four of the discs, perhaps to help anchor it to the clothing. When the form and size of the Hoxne chain was replicated using metal rings and string, it was found that even when worn tightly, as shown on the Traprain nereid or the Kyrenia statue, it would not fit a person with a chest measurement much greater than about 78–80 cm. (30–31 inches). Worn loosely, it could only have fitted a young child. Although quite small girl children in wealthy families did own gold jewellery such as earrings or bracelets, it seems somewhat unlikely that such a very valuable and ostentatious piece was for a child. Rather, we should envisage it worn closely, as the fastenings imply, over her tunic, by a slim, adolescent female. The total weight of the gold jewellery in the Hoxne treasure is 1065.7 grammes, and nearly 250 grammes of this (249.5 g.) is accounted for by the body-chain. By comparison, the weights of the chain necklaces in the treasure range from under 20 g. to 57.7 g. Thus, small though it is in its class, the Hoxne body-chain represents a substantial proportion of the bullion value of the whole collection of gold jewellery in the treasure. Other indications imply that the Hoxne jewellery probably belonged to a family rather than a single individual. The weight of the

Fig. 2.5. Byzantine body-chain from Egypt. British Museum, Department of Medieval and Modern Europe, 1916,7–4,1 (Photo: BM).

‘Assiut’ chain, incidentally, is far greater at 643.2 g., roughly two Roman pounds. This is a truly exceptional amount of gold for a single item of jewellery.

The significance and interpretation of body-chains This brief survey, inspired by the discovery of the Hoxne body-chain in its well-dated hoard context, enables us to make some general points about body-chains as a jewellery type. The double crossed chain worn on the upper body was evidently in use for a very long period in the Graeco-Roman world, from about the fourth century BC to the sixth/seventh century AD. It has parallels in non-Classical culture, but

BODY-CHAINS, HELLENISTIC

has not survived, like the majority of jewellery types from Classical antiquity, to the present day. The design may very easily have arisen independently at different times and places, and both the wearing of a single long chain diagonally, bandolier-fashion, and the use of crossed bands or ribbons to clasp the bodice of a garment may have served as inspiration: the effect of even a loosely-draped crossed chain is to emphasise the shape of the female body. Representations of body-chains in use frequently have links with Aphrodite/Venus and Eros/Cupid, though various nymphs and nereids may also wear the type. Like necklaces and other jewellery, such mythical figures frequently wear the body-chain without garments, but there are also representations at all periods of the type worn over clothing. There seem to have been two styles of wear, the long, loosefitting chains and less commonly, a more closely-fitted style which required clasps. There is no doubt that the harness of chains, especially when worn on the naked body, may subtly suggest bondage or captivity, and in this connection we might recall the occasions in mythology where erotic situations also involved capture and restraint, such as Venus and Mars discovered and chained by Vulcan, and Cupid bound by Psyche.21 Clearly there are both sexual and philosophical undertones in these ideas that may have conveyed a variety of subliminal messages to the observer in antiquity. The few surviving body-chains are all objects which contain substantial quantities of gold, and were therefore of very high value. It is certainly possible that wealthy courtesans might have been able to invest in impressive and flamboyant jewellery of this kind, but the fact that modestly-draped women are sometimes shown wearing them, and that the Hoxne example forms part of the wealth of what would appear to be a very rich family, leads one to wonder whether they may on some occasions have been regarded as suitable jewellery for a bride. This would account for their rare survival, and the symbolic values, encompassing erotic elements and their control by the rational mind, could fit into such a context. The small size of the Hoxne chain may also support this interpretation as it would seem to have been designed for a very young woman rather than a matron.22

TO

2.

3.

4. 5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17.

18.

19.

Notes 1. Elamite terracottas dating to the second half of the second millenium BC and depicting richly bejewelled naked female figures with crossed chains are illustrated in Prudence O. Harper, Joan Aruz and Françoise Tallon, The Royal City of Susa; ancient near eastern treasures in the Louvre (New York, 1992), nos. 132 and 133: Sasanian usage seems to have been male rather than female; see Prudence O. Harper, The Royal Hunter: art of the Sasanian Empire (Exhibition catalogue: New York, 1978), nos. 41 and 71. I owe both these references to Trudy Kawami.

20. 21.

22.

LATE ROMAN

15

Indian sculptures of the second century AD showing elaborate body-chains in wear are illustrated in John Boardman, ‘The Archaeology of Jewelry’, in Adriana Calinescu (ed.), Ancient Jewelry and Archaeology (Bloomington, 1996), pp. 3–13 and Fig. 1, p. 4. H.B. Walters, Catalogue of the Greek and Etruscan Vases in the British Museum, Vol. IV: vases of the later period (London, 1896), no. F. 277. F. Marshall, Catalogue of the Jewellery, Greek, Etruscan and Roman, in the Departments of Antiquities, British Museum (London, 1911), no. 1984. Marshall, Catalogue of Jewellery, nos. 1861 and 1873. Good examples are illustrated in Dorothy Burr, Terra-cottas from Myrina in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (Boston, 1934), pl. XXIV. E. Pottier and S. Reinach, ‘Fouilles dans la Nécropole de Myrina: III Les figurines de terre-cuite’, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 6 (1882), pp. 557–80, pl. XIV. Robert A. Lunsingh Scheurleer, ‘From Statue to Pendant: Roman Harpocrates Pendants in Gold, Silver and Bronze’, in Calinescu, Ancient Jewelry, pp. 152–71. Illustrated in S. Loeschcke, Beschreibung römischer Altertümer gesammelt von Carl Anton Niessen (Köln, 1911), no. 5692, pl. CXXXXIII. Alfonoso de Franciscis, Il Museo Nazionale di Napoli (Naples, 1964), pl. XL. Catherine Johns, Sex or Symbol: erotic images of Greece and Rome (London, 1982), pl. 35; John R. Clarke, Looking at Lovemaking in Roman Art (University of California Press, Berkeley, 1998), p. 168, Fig. 60. Exhibition catalogue, Pompei; abitare sotto il Vesuvio (Ferrara, 1996/7), nos. 598–99. See for example, Jutta Fischer, Griechisch-römische Terrakotten aus Ägypten (Tübingen, 1994), nos. 954, 956, 958, 961 and 962. W. Schürmann, Katalog der antiken Terrakotten im Badischen Landesmuseum Karlsruhe (Göteberg, 1989), pp. 274–75. Lucia Pirzio Biroli Stefanelli, L’Oro dei Romani: gioielli di età Imperiale (Rome, 1992), no. 76, p. 111. Andrew Oliver, Jr., ‘Roman Jewelry: a Stylistic Survey of Pieces from Excavated Contexts’, in Calinescu, Ancient Jewelry, pp. 130–51; see Fig. 4a, 4b, p. 133. For an illustration, see for example Martin Henig, The Art of Roman Britain (London, 1995), pl. IX. Alexander O. Curle, The Treasure of Traprain; a Scottish hoard of Roman silver plate (Glasgow, 1923), no. 30, pp. 36–9, pl. XVII, Fig. 17. Catherine Johns and Roger Bland, ‘The Hoxne Late Roman treasure’, Britannia 25 (1994), pp. 165–73. See also Roger Bland and Catherine Johns, The Hoxne Treasure, an illustrated introduction (London, 1993). Walter Dennison, A gold treasure of the late Roman period (New York, 1918), no. 15, pp. 149–50. Dennison, A gold treasure, p. 98, for discussion of provenance. Eros bound by Psyche: a fragmentary Hellenistic terracotta is illustrated in H.B. Walters, Catalogue of the Roman Pottery in the Departments of Antiquities, British Museum (London, 1908), no. K.9. The author would like to thank her colleagues Don Bailey and Ralph Jackson for their comments on a draft of this paper, Chris Entwistle for his invitation to contribute to this volume and for information on the ‘Assiut’ chain, and the other participants in the Frankfurt jewellery symposium for fruitful discussions.

16

SILKE ACKERMANN

3. Light on Byzantium – a universal sundial in the British Museum Silke Ackermann

In 1997 the Department of Medieval and Modern Europe of the British Museum acquired a Byzantine altitude sundial with Greek lettering1 from a private collection.2 This exciting opportunity was all the more appreciated since very few Byzantine instruments are known to have survived and our knowledge of them is comparatively limited. It was soon clear that the sundial belonged to a group of dials of the same type, of which three have Latin and six Greek lettering. These dials are universal in that they can be used at any latitude and yet keep time with stunning accuracy. The knowledge of mathematics implicit in the construction of these instruments also sheds light on Byzantine science in general. Marked with a list of thirty-six places and their latitudes, which do not seem to be taken directly from the most obvious authority, Ptolemy’s Geography, the dial is a valuable source not only for its scientific context, but also for our knowledge of Byzantine geography. The calendrical scales with unusual dates for the equinoxes and solstices can only be explained if one assumes an underlying Egyptian calendar and may, therefore, allow further conclusions about the historical context of these instruments. Without doubt this sundial, which can be roughly dated to between the fourth and seventh centuries AD, is one of the most exciting acquisitions to be added to the instrument collections of the British Museum in recent years.

of the arm is formed in such a way that it sandwiches the outer seven millimetres of the disc, and tapers into a triangular index; it also has a suspension ring made from a length of rod with a gradual taper. The stop pieces have been formed by the terminals being curled around themselves. The total length of the arm including the suspension ring is 98 mm, the length of the arm itself is 78 mm. The outer diameter of the ring is 21 mm, the diameter of the hole is 8 mm. The suspension ring measures 27 mm in diameter. Both sides of the disc have inscriptions and radial and concentric lines. The letters are – except for serifs –

Description (Pls. 1.1 and 1.2; Fig. 3.1) The dial is incomplete and now consists of a disc with a central hole and a suspension arm with a triangular-shaped indicator. Both components are made from an alloy, essentially a low-zinc brass with minor amounts of lead and traces of other elements including tin3. The diameter of the disc is 110 mm; its thickness varies between 2.85 and 3.05 mm. The diameter of the central hole is 8.0 mm. The radial arm was once pinned, through its ring, at the centre of the disc where it pivoted. Towards its extremity the underside

Fig. 3.1. Front of the dial. British Museum (Drawing: JF)

LIGHT

ON

BYZANTIUM –

A UNIVERSAL SUNDIAL IN THE

rather plain and lack any kind of ornament. The lines and the letters were engraved, while the serifs were executed with punches. The front of the disc is marked with a degree scale and a double fan-shaped calendrical scale with months of the Julian calendar, i.e. the calendar introduced by Julius Caesar in 45 BC. The quadrant degree scale runs clockwise from zero to ninety degrees, divided to six and subdivided to three degrees and labelled accordingly in the alphanumeric system, where each letter represents a numerical value (i.e. A=1, B=2 etc.). The divisions are not in all cases equal and suggest marking by eye rather than by measurement. The names of the months on the calendrical scale, which allows the dial to be set to the appropriate time of year according to the sun’s declination (i.e. its position in the zodiac), are abbreviated as follows: IÁ, ÖåÂ, ÌÁÑ, ÁÐÑ, ÌÁI and IÏ (January to June) in the upper part, and IÏ, ÁÕÃ, CåÐ, ÏÊÔ, ÍÏ and Äå (July to December) in the lower part. The calendrical scales are arranged over an arc of circa 47° and correspond to the degree scale in such a way that the zero-line of the degree scale forms the equinoctial line on the calendrical scale by bisecting it. This line marks the equinoxes, when day and night are of equal length, between March and April and September and October. The outer borders of the calendrical scale correspond, therefore, to circa 23°30' above and below the equinoctial line and form the solstices, the days of the longest and shortest period of daylight respectively, which therefore fall between June and July and December and January. Except for January, June, July and December all other months are divided into three equal parts which are not in all cases executed precisely. The intervals for each month on the scales are not equal: the longest intervals, circa 12°, are allocated to March, April, September and October, i.e. the months around the equinoxes. The shortest intervals, circa 2°30' are allocated to the months around the solstices, i.e. December, January, June and July. The months February, May, August and November each take up an interval of circa 9°. The scale, therefore, mirrors the seasonal variation in the sun’s declination (i.e. the sun’s distance from the celestial equator) which is largest around the equinoxes and smallest around the solstices. The back of the plate is radially marked with the names of thirty-six places in Greek with their corresponding latitudes in whole numbers of degrees in alphanumeric notation. The place names are arranged in increasing latitude from 24° to 46°.4 The spelling of the names seems to follow in some cases contemporary pronunciation rather than classical usage – a practice also observed on other instruments of the time.5 Because the disc is badly corroded not all the names and latitudes can be deciphered with certainty. Table 3.1 gives the place names and latitudes on the British Museum dial in comparison with latitude values

BRITISH MUSEUM

17

given by Ptolemy in his Geography,6 modern values (where applicable) and those on the other known Byzantine sundials: the dials in London (Science Museum), Rockford, Illinois (Time Museum), and Aphrodisias. The ‘Samos’ and ‘Memphis’ dials are always referred to by the place of their discovery, not by their current location (respectively Vathy and St. Petersburg). All five dials are discussed in greater detail below.

Related works The instrument belongs to a group of Roman and Byzantine portable altitude sundials, i.e. dials which measure time from the altitude of the sun. Sundials of this type are universal in that they can be used at any latitude, but before use they need to be adjusted to the appropriate latitude. For this purpose they are all marked with a latitude list. The number of the named places varies – the examples known have between twelve and thirty-six. All dials have a facility to adjust them to the appropriate latitude with the help of a degree scale. A gnomon-vane serves both as a shadow caster and an hour indicator when set to the appropriate time of the year (indicated by the sun’s declination) with the help of calendrical scales. The layout of the dials allows them to be divided into two groups: A: Those consisting of a hollow disc with a suspension loop with an inset plate and a gnomon-vane as a shadow caster and hour indicator. A latitude list is marked on the back of the hollow disc and a degree scale is marked on the front rim. The inset movable plate allows the dial to be set to the appropriate latitude and also bears calendrical markings. B: Those consisting of a disc with a central hole with a list of latitudes on one side and degree and calendrical scales on the other side. They additionally have a suspension arm with a pointer to set the dial to the appropriate latitude and a gnomon-vane (as group A). Some dials of this type have subsidiary calendrical scales. One dial of group B, which is in the Science Museum, London,9 is the only instrument to possess a geared mechanism for displaying the age and phase of the moon and probably also for the positions of the Sun and Moon in the Zodiac. This type of gearing seems to be unique in the period and was thoroughly described by Field and Wright.10 The design of the dials is, therefore, slightly different from all the other dials, but basically follows type B. These dials are detailed in Table 3.2. The British Museum dial and the instrument in the Science Museum are the only dials of their type to have retained their original suspension arm, but the similarities of the dials of group B suggest that all dials of this type had

18

SILKE ACKERMANN

British Museum

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

CÏÇÍÇC ÈÇÂÁ[IÄÏC] ËIÂÕ[ÇC] ÁI à ÐÔÏÕ ÁËåÎÁÍÄ ÐÁËÁICÔ ÐåÍÔÁÐ ÁÖÑIÊÇ [ÊÑ]ÇÔÇC ÊÕÐÑÏÕ ÊÏÕËÇC CIÊå[ËIÁC] ÐÁÌ[ÖÕËIÁ] Á×ÁåIÁC ÔÁÑCÏ[ÕC] CÐÁÍIÁ[C] ÁÍ[ÔI]Ï [×IC] ________ Èå[CC]ÁËÏ [ÑùÌÁC] ÈÑÁÊÇ[C] ÂIÈÕÍIÁC __ÊÕËÇ_ ÄÁËÌÁÔ_ __ÐÑ__Ä I[ÔÁË]ÁC ÊùÍCÔÁ’ __Á_____ C__Ë____ ___ÁÃICÏ_ ÁÔIÊÁ___ CÐ_______ ÐÁÍÍÏÍI ÌåË_____ Âå_______ ___ÇC___

ÊÄ ÊÄ ÊÄ ËÁ ËÁ ËÂ ËÂ ËÄ ËÄ ËÅ Ëò Ëò [Ëò] ËÆ ËÆ ËÇ ËÈ __ Ì[Á] ÌÁ ÌÁ ÌÁ ÌÁ ÌÂ ÌÃ ÌÃ ÌÃ ÌÃ ÌÃ ÌÄ ÌÄ ÌÅ ÌÅ Ìò __ __

Syene Thebaid Libya Egypt Alexandria Palestine Cyrenaica Africa Crete Cyprus Coele Syria Sicily Pamphylia Achaea Tarsus Spain Antioch

Ptolemy

modern

Science Museum, London

24 23°50' 24 24 31 31 31° 32 32 34 34 35 36 36 36 37 37 36°50' 38 39 37°20'

24°05'

24 28

24 28

231⁄2 —

— —

231⁄2 —

— 31 38 — 31 — —

31 — 32 31 32 — 35

— 31 36 32 — 35 34

— — — — — — —

— 31 — 31 — ... ...

36 —

35 36

38 361⁄2

— —

36

— — 36

38 36 38

361⁄2 42 351⁄3

— — —

38 ... 351⁄2

40 41 — —

40 42 41 —

43 411⁄2 — —

— — — —

43 412⁄3 44 —

42

42

—

—

—

— 41

42 43

— 41

— 43

— 43

—

44

—

—

—

41 49°20'8 41 41°40' 41 41 41 Dalmatia 42 43 Italy 43 Constantinople 43 43°05' 43 43 44 44 45 Pannonia 45 46 Thessalonike Rome Thrace Bithynia

31°12'

36°55' 36°12' 40°38' 41°54'

41°01'

Time Aphrodisias Museum, Rockford

Samos

Memphis

7

Table 3.1. Place names and latitudes on the BM dial compared with latitude-values given by Ptolemy, modern values and values given on other known Byzantine sundials.

1) Roman sundials so far discovered Current location

Provenance

no. of cities

type

lost11 lost12 Oxford, MHS13

Rome Crêt-Châtelard Central Europe14

16 16 30

a a a

Provenance

no. of cities

type

Memphis Samos Aphrodisias not known not known not known

36 12 28 30 16 36

b b b b (b) b

subsidiary dials none none none

2) Byzantine sundials so far discovered Current location 15

St. Petersburg, Hermitage Vathy (Greece)16 Aphrodisias (Turkey)17 Rockford, Time Museum18 London, Science Museum19 London, British Museum

subsidiary scales yes yes none yes none none

Table 3.2. Comparison of known Roman and Byzantine sundials respectively, regarding the number of cities listed, the type of dial and the existence of subsidiary scales.

LIGHT

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BYZANTIUM –

A UNIVERSAL SUNDIAL IN THE

a similar construction, i.e. a suspension arm with a triangular-shaped pointer which enabled the user to set the dial to the appropriate latitude with the help of the degree scale on the disc. The gnomon is lost on all but the instrument in Oxford,20 but can be reconstructed accordingly21 as a triangular vane with hour markings and an integrated gnomon, where the shadow cast by the gnomon indicates the time on the hour scale (Pls. 1.3–1.4).The markings indicate ‘seasonal hours’, i.e. a division of daylight into twelve parts for every day of the year. Since the length of daylight changes during the course of the year, the individual length of each ‘hour’ changes accordingly and is only exactly sixty minutes at the time of the equinoxes. Accordingly, the first ‘hour’-marking on the dial, closest to the style, does not indicate a particular time in the modern sense, but the end of the first ‘hour’ after sunrise, the following five markings, therefore, indicate the end of the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth ‘hours’. The end of the sixth hour is identical with noon. In the afternoon the same scales are used in the reverse direction. It may come as a surprise that no further divisions than hours are given, but there do not seem to be any sources for the use of fractions of hours on time-measuring devices in every day life in antiquity.22 The gnomon-vane on the Oxford dial is fixed to a stem which passes perpendicularly through the central hole of the disc and the ring of the suspension arm. It was fixed to the plate in a similar way as an astrolabe, i.e. with a transverse pin pushed through a slot in the stem. It is very likely that this was the usual design of the gnomon-vane and the fixingmechanism on all these dials. The calendrical scales on the British Museum dial with the equinoxes between March and April and September and October respectively pose a problem. Identical scales can be found on the dials in the Science Museum and the Rockford Museum, and on the dials found in Samos and Aphrodisias. As mentioned above, these scales allow the indication of the sun’s declination, i.e. the position of the sun in the zodiac. Strangely, the dates for the equinoxes, indicated by lines placed between March/April and September/October respectively, and the dates for the solstices, indicated by the outer border of the calendrical scales at the end of June and the end of December respectively, would be correct for sometime between the eighth and thirteenth centuries BC, but completely out of date for the late Roman and early Byzantine periods. The dates for the equinoxes and solstices in Julius Caesar’s calendar, and mentioned in Pliny’s Naturalis Historiae are: Spring: 25 March23 – Summer: 24 June24 – Autumn: 24 September25 – Winter: 25 December.26 The date of the equinoxes moved slowly due to a slight error in the Julian calendar, and the Spring date of 21 March, assumed to apply for the fourth century AD, was adopted in all Easter calculations subsequent to the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD. It seems worth noting that none of the dials with

BRITISH MUSEUM

19

Greek inscriptions, all of which mention Constantinople and therefore have to be dated to post 324 AD when the city was chosen by Constantine the Great to be the new capital, seem to have adjusted their dials to the current date of the equinoxes. This seems to suggest that there was a tradition in the making of these dials which was not necessarily concerned with the exact date of the equinoxes. Since knowledge of the astronomical phenomena can be assumed, although the calculations were obviously not absolutely correct, it is much more likely that the explanation for the strange dates on the dials has to be sought in the calendrical scale itself. The dial found in Memphis seems to support this hypothesis.27 It is the only dial where the calendrical scale bears the names of the fixed Alexandrian calendar, which after the modification by Augustus in about 22 BC was basically identical with the Julian calendar except for a different starting point. Obviously the month-names are also different and the correspondence between these two calendars is as follows (the dates in brackets indicate leap-year correspondences):28 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1

Thoth Phaophi Hathyr Choiak Tybi Mecheir Phamenoth Pharmuthi Pachon Pauni Epeiph Mesore Epagomena

= = = = = = = = = = = = =

29 28 28 27 27 26 25 27 26 26 25 25 24

(30) August (29) September (29) October (28) November (28) December (27) January (26) February March April May June July August

The dates given by Julius Caesar for the equinoxes and the solstices would then fall on: Spring: Summer: Autumn: Winter:

25 24 24 25

March June September December

= = = =

29 Phamenoth 30 Pauni 27(26) Thoth 29(28) Choiak

If one assumes29 that the names of the months of the Alexandrian calendar with their dates of the equinoxes and solstices placed close to the end of the respective months were simply replaced with the names of the Julian calendar without the necessary adjustment for the dates of the equinoxes and solstices, one has a solution to the calendrical puzzle. The lists of places and latitudes overlap on the instruments, but are in no case identical and the names are not given in the same order. Clearly they were chosen to suit the needs of a particular owner and were not meant to give an up-to-date representative list of important cities or

20

SILKE ACKERMANN

provinces in the Eastern empire.30 It may be that the dials were mainly used by travelling merchants who would have listed places which did not necessarily all belong to the Eastern empire at a particular time, and even include places which had been conquered by other powers at the time the dial was made. The diverging latitude-values also suggest that they were not based on the same list. Comparing the values for cities given by Ptolemy in his Geography it also seems clear that they were not taken directly from this source. The dials offer, therefore, an interesting insight into geographical knowledge in the Byzantine empire and future research will hopefully be able to pinpoint the underlying tables.

all but two days of the year the timekeeping of dials of this type is approximate, depending on the time of year, the time of day and the observer’s latitude. This error, however, has been shown to be comparatively small.32 It is largest at the solstices, i.e. the two days in the year with the period of longest and shortest daylight, increases with the observers latitude and around midmorning and midafternoon, and is larger during the summer than during the winter, but it only amounts to little more than nine minutes at 40° latitude. The higher the latitude the greater the error and it is unlikely that dials of this type were meant to be used at more northerly latitudes than 50°.

Dating the instrument Use and accuracy It has been shown31 that the use of this type of dial was indeed quite sophisticated and its construction by no means an easy matter. The gnomon can only cast a shadow on the hour-markings when it is in the plane of the sun – in any other case the shadow would be cast somewhere on the dial, as happens for example on an ordinary horizontal dial. Since none of the dials have hour-markings anywhere on the plate, we can safely assume that the dial was used in a way where the gnomon is somehow always in the plane of the sun. The easiest way to demonstrate this is to look at the equinoxes (Fig. 3.1). On these two days the sun rises exactly east and sets exactly west. The user first has to adjust the dial to the appropriate latitude by setting the triangularshaped pointer of the suspension arm to the correct latitude on the degree scale, and the gnomon has to be set to the appropriate date on the calendrical scale. If then the sundialdisc is suspended in such a way that the gnomon points directly east, the gnomon-vane, which is fixed perpendicularly to the disc, is exactly in the plane of the sun and the shadow of the gnomon will fall directly on the hour markings. This will only work properly if the dial is truly in a north-south direction, i.e. when the disc is facing east. In this way the instrument can also be used as a very accurate indicator of a true north-south direction, long before the compass was introduced. This function of the dial can be performed at any time of the year, not only at the equinoxes, when used at noon when the sun is directly in the south. When the shadow is cast over the whole length of the gnomon-vane, thereby indicating noon, it also indicates that the dial is in a proper north-south alignment. At any other time of the year, however, when the sun does not rise exactly in the east, the theory and use of the dial as a time-indicator is rather more complicated. On these days the dial has to be turned very slightly until the gnomon’s shadow is again directly on the hour-markings. It is then – except for noon – not directly in a north-south plane anymore and the time indications except for sunrise, noon and sunset are no longer accurate. This means that on

The Scientific Research Laboratory of the British Museum analysed the composition of the dials in the British Museum and the Science Museum.33 According to this report, both dials are made of a similar type of alloy, essentially lowzinc brass with minor amounts of lead and traces of other elements including tin. This type of alloy is not untypical of the early Byzantine period, but was very commonly used from the Roman period to the present day. The corrosion and patina seems to be consistent with long-term formation and the method of production of the lettering is consistent with the Byzantine period. Therefore, while the analysis shows that the dial may have been made in the Byzantine period, it does not give any indication of any particular period of production. The presence of ‘Constantinople’ gives the year 324 AD as a terminus post quem for the inscriptions on the dial. It may be that the presence of Antioch, Tarsus and Alexandria gives the loss of these cities by Arab conquest in 637 AD and 642 AD respectively as a terminus ante quem. Ptolemy gave a latitude of 43° for Constantinople, but this value was corrected to 41° by later geographers. The city, still referred to as ‘Byzantium’ by Ptolemy, is named on all surviving dials with Greek lettering. The dials from Memphis and Samos and the Rockford example all give 43°, while the Science Museum and Aphrodisias give 41°. The first group have subsidiary scales, while the latter group only have the double fan-shaped scale. It has been suggested34 that the first group may represent an earlier form of the dial, while the latter is a later development. The British Museum dial, however, falls between the two groups: it has 43° for Constantinople, but lacks the subsidiary scales. The lettering on the British Museum dial is very similar to the instrument in the Science Museum: plain, and without any ornamentation except for serifs. The inscriptions were clearly only meant for the conveying of information. It has been suggested that these features of the Science Museum instrument would date it to the sixth or possibly fifth century AD,35 but it has not been possible to date the British Museum dial in a similarly precise manner.36 Lacking further information, one has to conclude, therefore, that

LIGHT

ON

BYZANTIUM –

A UNIVERSAL SUNDIAL IN THE

the dial can be dated between the fourth and seventh centuries. It is to be hoped that future research may allow a more precise dating.

Acknowledgements It is a pleasure to thank David Buckton, Chris Entwistle, Jeremy Evans, Judith Field, Rob van Gent, John Nesbitt, David Thompson, Anthony Turner, and Michael Wright for help and suggestions on earlier drafts of this paper.

Notes 1. Reg. No. MME 1997,3–3,1. 2. The owner had acquired the dial from another private collection several years earlier, but the previous history of the instrument is unknown. 3. Report of the British Museum Scientific Research Laboratory, no. 6889–1-M, 6th February, 1997. 4. This is the last legible value, but the latitude list contains two more entries, which may imply higher latitude values. 5. J.V. Field and M.T. Wright, ‘Gears from the Byzantines: a portable sundial with calendar gearing’, Annals of Science 42 (1985), pp. 87–138, esp. p. 110. 6. Claudius Ptolemy, The Geography, translated and edited by E.L. Stevenson (New York, 1932, repr. 1991). 7. Syracuse 37. 8. Likely to be a mistake for 40° 20'. 9. Inv. no. 1983–1393. 10. Field and Wright, ‘Gears from the Byzantines’, passim; J.V. Field and M.T. Wright, Early Gearing: Geared Mechanisms in the Ancient and Medieval World, Catalogue of an exhibition held at the Science Museum, London, March – September 1985, (London, 1985); J.V. Field, ‘Some Roman and Byzantine Portable Sundials and the London Sundial-Calendar’, History of Technology 12 (1990), pp. 103–35; M.T. Wright, ‘Rational and Irrational Reconstruction: The London Sundial-Calendar and the Early History of Geared Mechanisms’, History of Technology 12 (1990), pp. 65–102; D. Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (London, 1994), no. 53, p. 64. 11. The dial is described and illustrated in G.F. Baldini, ‘Sopra un’antica Piastra di Bronzo, che si suppone un’Orologio da Sole’, Saggi di dissertazioni accademiche pubblicamente lette nella nobile Accademia Etrusca dell’ antichissima Città di Cortona 3 (1741), pp. 185–94. 12. The dial is described and illustrated in V. Durand and G. de la Noë, ‘Cadran solaire portatif trouvé au Crêt-Châtelard, commune de Saint-Marcel de Felines (Loire)’, Mémoires de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de France 57 [= ser. 6, vol. 7] (1898), pp. 1–38; cf. also: Bulletin de la Société Nationale des Antiquaires de la France (1897), pp. 204 and 207–08. 13. See L. Evans, ‘Portable Sun-Dials’, in H.K.F. Eden and E. Lloyd (eds.), The Book of Sun-Dials, originally compiled by the late Mrs. Alfred Gatty (London, 1900), pp. 183–99, esp. pp. 190–92; L. Evans, ‘Sundials and their mottoes’, Transactions of the Hertfordshire Natural History Society and Field Club 12 (1903), part I, pp. 1–16; J. Drecker, Theorie der Sonnenuhren (Berlin, 1925), pp. 64–66 (= in Die Geschichte der Zeitmessung und der Uhren, ed. by E. von Bassermann-Jordan, vol. 1, fasc. E); F.A. Stebbins, ‘A Roman Sun-dial’, The Journal of the Royal Astro-

BRITISH MUSEUM

21

nomical Society of Canada 52 (1958), pp. 250–54. 14. Evans, in whose private collection the dial was when he described it, stated in 1900 (see note 13) that the provenance was ‘uncertain’, but mentioned in 1903 (see note 13) that the dial was found in ‘Austria’, a statement repeated by Drecker in 1925 (see note 13). Price (see note 17) claimed in 1969 that it was found in ‘Bratislava’. 15. L. F. C. Tischendorf, Notitia editionis codicis bibliorum sinaitici (Leipzig, 1860), p. 73, pl. II. The gnomon was last seen in 1969 and the fate of the disc is unknown. A letter to the Hermitage inquiring about the instrument has not been answered yet. 16. R.Tölle, ‘Eine spätantike Reiseuhr’, Jahrbuch des deutschen Archäologischen Instituts und Archäologischer Anzeiger 84 (1969), pp. 309–17; E. Buchner, ‘Antike Reiseuhren’, Chiron 1 (1971), pp. 457–82, pls. XII-XIII. 17. D. J. De Solla Price, ‘Portable Sundials in Antiquity, including an Account of a New Example from Aphrodisias’, Centaurus 14 (1969), pp. 242–66. Price also discusses the other dials known to him when the article was published. 18. A. Brieux, Histoire des Sciences. Livres – Instruments – Autographs [sale catalogue], (Paris, 1977), pp. 112–16; Field, ‘Some Roman and Byzantine Portable Sundials’ (see note 10), pp. 128– 33. 19. Field and Wright, ‘Gears from the Byzantines’ (see note 5). 20. Drawings of the gnomon-vanes of the dials found in CrêtChâtelard, Rome and Memphis have survived; see, Durand and de la Noë, ‘Cadran solaire’ (see note 12), Baldini, ‘Sopra un’antica Piastra’ (see note 11), and Tischendorf, Notitia editionis codicis (see note 15). 21. Drecker, ‘Theorie der Sonnenuhren’(see note 13); Buchner, ‘Antike Reiseuhren’ (see note 16); M. T. Wright, ‘Greek and Roman Portable Sundials: An Ancient Essay in Approximation’, Archive for the History of Exact Sciences 55 (2000), pp. 177– 87; I am grateful to Michael Wright for letting me have an advance draft of his paper which explains the underlying mathematics of these dials in great detail. 22. Field, ‘Some Roman and Byzantine Portable Sundials’ (see note 10), p. 109. 23. Pliny, Naturalis Historiae, XVIII 66[246]. 24. Pliny, ibid., XVIII 67[256], 68[264] and 69[288]. 25. Pliny, ibid., XVIII 74[311–312]. 26. Pliny, ibid., XVIII 59[221]. 27. Field and Wright, ‘Gears from the Byzantines’ (see note 5) , pp. 106–09. 28. See M. Chaine, La Chronologie des temps Chrétiens de l’Égypte et de l’Ethiopie (Paris, 1925), pp. 84–85; J. Finegan, Handbook of Biblical Chronology: Principles of Time Reckoning in the Ancient World and Problems of Chronology in the Bible (Peabody [Mass.], rev. ed., 1998), pp. 24–25. 29. Field, ‘Some Roman and Byzantine Portable Sundials’ (see note 10), pp. 116–20. 30. ibidem., p. 122. 31. See Wright, ‘Greek and Roman Portable Sundials’(see note 21); cf. Drecker, ‘Theorie der Sonnenuhren’ (see note 13). 32. ibidem. 33. Report of the British Museum Scientific Research Laboratory, no. 6889–1-M, 6 February 1997. 34. Buchner, ‘Antike Reiseuhren’ (see note 16); Field and Wright, ‘Gears from the Byzantines’ (see note 5), p. 108; Field, ‘Some Roman and Byzantine Portable Sundials’ (see note 10), pp. 122ff. 35. Field and Wright, ‘Gears from the Byzantines’ (see note 5), p. 115. 36. I am grateful to Dr. John Nesbitt of Dumbarton Oaks who kindly examined a drawing of the letters. In his judgement the letterforms do not betray any date.

22

JAS´ ELSNER

4. Visualising women in Late Antique Rome: the Projecta casket Jaí Elsner

The casket The Projecta casket is the most famous object in a spectacular silver treasure of perhaps more than sixty items found in the remains of a private Roman house behind the choir of the convent of San Francesco di Paola on the Esquiline hill in Rome in the spring of 1793.1 Sixty-one pieces survive, all but two under the care of the British Museum’s Department of Medieval and Later Antiquities, with one each now in Naples and Paris. At least four further pieces, attested in Ennio Quirino Visconti’s description of the treasure, written in late 1793, are now lost – including what was apparently a rather striking and elaborate candelabrum.2 Of these sixty-five items (surviving and attested), at least thirty-one pieces – effectively the most ornate and impressive in the treasure – can be securely identified as being part of the original find in Rome; and of these, twenty-seven pieces still survive.3 The objects belong to a collection of private silverware used for domestic purposes and – in the case of the Projecta and Muse caskets – very likely associated with the toilet of the lady of the house. Most are probably the work of a single Roman workshop of the mid to late fourth century.4 It is impossible to say whether individual items were added piecemeal to a family collection of silverware over several years – perhaps even over more than one generation – or whether the major pieces at least were purchased as a single lot.5 Likewise, in the case of the Projecta casket, it is not possible to say whether the famous inscription SECVNDE ET PROIECTA VIVATIS IN CHRISTO (‘Secundus and Projecta, may you live in Christ’) was original to the making of the casket or was added by a later owner.6 Hence, it is impossible to say with certainty whether the figures depicted in the medallion on the casket’s lid (Pl. 2.2 and Fig. 4.14) actually do represent Secundus and Projecta, nor whether the lady at her toilet on the base (Fig. 4.1) is an image of Projecta herself. Likewise, it is not certain when the handles, hinges and feet of the casket (Figs. 4.2–4.4) – which intervene in a rather ugly way in the visual pro-

Fig. 4.1. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, detail: lady at her toilet (Photo: BM).

gramme of its base – were fitted. Kathleen Shelton believed them to be integral to the original workshop product,7 but admitted that the earliest published drawings of the casket (those of J. Seroux d’Agincourt)8 omit all these details, which are first seen in the engravings to the 1827 edition

VISUALISING

WOMEN IN

LATE ANTIQUE ROME:

THE

PROJECTA

CASKET

Fig. 4.2. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, end, handle (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.3. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, end, handle (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.4. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, back, hinges (Photo: BM).

23

24

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of Visconti’s essay.9 The hinges, feet and swing handles may be ancient (in which case, they may be original to the making, though perhaps not to the design as conceived iconographically, or they may have been added at a later date), but they may also be the result of the early nineteenthcentury restoration which possibly accompanied the treasure’s first sale and was certainly completed by 1827.10 Certainly the handles, hinges and feet seem to be perfectly good late antique forms and the integration of such addenda into the overall design of late antique caskets appears not to have been a priority. At any rate, however the treasure was acquired in antiquity and whatever state its components had got themselves into after the wear and tear of perhaps half a century’s use, it appears to have been buried where it was found in 1793 at the end of the fourth century or the beginning of the fifth.11 Apart from archaeological discussions, studies of the Projecta casket have largely been devoted to assessing the identities of its owners (and hence its date),12 to the striking contrast of its flamboyantly pagan iconography of Venus with its Christian inscription,13 and to the social meanings embedded in its iconography of elite life.14 My own purpose here is to follow the last of these general lines of attack and to examine the casket’s extraordinarily rich iconographic programme in relation to its presentation of a woman’s role and place in elite society at the end of the fourth century. First I should make transparent some assumptions. It is usual to regard the casket as a wedding gift, perhaps part of a dowry, celebrating the union of Secundus and Projecta.15 Certainly the central wreathed medallion at the top, with its double portrait of a richly dressed, bearded man and a woman with jewelled collar and scroll, appears to represent a married couple (Pl. 2.2 and Fig. 4.14). But it is by no means certain that the casket was commissioned for their wedding, though from its owners’ point of view it might have alluded to their wedding even if it were purchased some time thereafter. Nor is it necessarily the case that the couple in the tondo at the top were originally intended to be the Secundus and Projecta of the inscription which runs along the horizontal rim of the casket lid below them (since the inscription could have been added later). What is certain is that the visual formula of two nude putti holding a celebratory box or medallion and accompanied by a dedicatory wish of inscribed well-being was common in fourthcentury Rome. One thinks, for instance, of the title page of the Codex-Calendar of 354, with its two putti holding a box inscribed with various good wishes.16 This visual formula also appears on numerous sarcophagi, where the inscription commemorates a death (or the deceased’s life) rather than a wedding.17 Likewise, the celebratory double portrait tondo of husband and wife (broadly the same formula as that of the Projecta casket, with the man on the right and woman in a jewelled collar) is frequent on fourth-century sar-

cophagi,18 and is found also – often in conjunction with valedictory invocations – on gold-glass medallions.19 A second assumption which requires a little scepticism is the question of the casket’s value. Unlike, say, the Corbridge lanx or the Parabiago plate (both also pieces of fourth-century silverware), which are solid cast though certainly subjected to some amount of chasing and stippling from the front and perhaps the back, the Projecta and Muse caskets from the Esquiline treasure were hammered out in repoussé technique and raised in relief from the back (Fig. 4.5). Like the Meleager plate from the Sevso treasure (which has undergone detailed scientific analysis),20 they may well have been made from a cast blank with chasing, hammering and punching from front and back. The difference between the Projecta casket and, say, the Parabiago plate is that the silver will have been thinner and hence lighter, although the relief was also deeper (and hence perhaps more spectacular). One wonders if the initial work involved hammering from the front onto a mould, which would raise the possibility that more than one example was originally produced. The Projecta casket is lavishly gilded on all sides except its back (cf. Pls 2.1 and 2.2), but neither this nor its silver content nor its rich iconography necessarily imply workmanship of the highest aristocratic quality for the grandest of patrons.21 Certainly the interior of the casket appears not to have been filled with the kind of smooth silver lining which would disguise the rough, hammered-out back of the object’s repoussé silverwork.22 As David Buckton – the Projecta casket’s most recent keeper – has frequently commented (but never said in print), the casket’s workmanship is rather ‘tinny’, and it may well be a competent but not outstanding imitation of court style.23 The iconography of the Projecta casket is extremely rich. Constructed in the form of two truncated rectangular pyramids joined together at their wider ends so that one forms the lid and the other the base (Pl. 2.1 and Fig. 4.6), the casket offers ten flat surfaces of which every one except the bottom is decorated. The front and back are clearly defined visually (even if the handles and hinges are not original), since the two panels of the back (on the base and on the lid) are not gilded, while the double portrait medallion and putti of the top face in the same direction as the front, and the nereids astride sea monsters on the lid’s two side panels also turn inwards towards the lid’s frontal image of Venus. The lid has five decorated faces, of which the top shows the couple in an imago clipeata between erotes (Pl. 2.2) and the front shows Venus seated on a round cockle-shell which is supported by two centaurotritons flanking her on either side (Fig. 4.7). On each triton stands a cupid, who offers Venus a gift (a casket from the one on her right and a basket of fruits from that on her left). Venus holds a pin in her right hand and turns towards a mirror (in which her face is faintly picked out in gilding and stippling) on her left (Fig. 4.8);

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Fig. 4.5. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, internal view (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.6. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, back (Photo: BM).

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Fig. 4.7. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, front of lid: Venus and two centaurotritons (Photo: BM).

this is held out by the centaurotriton on our right. The two side panels complete Venus’ retinue with each boasting a nereid riding on a sea monster towards the goddess, accompanied by dolphins and erotes (Figs. 4.9 and 4.10). The iconography of the toilet of Venus is of course common in late antique art from the private sphere, not only in the patera now in Paris which also comes from the Esquiline treasure,24 but especially in domestic mosaics.25 The subject of the scene on the back (Fig. 4.11) has been disputed. Most have assumed that it represents the ‘deductio sponsae’ in which Projecta is led to her marriage and her new home with Secundus,26 while more recently it has been argued that it represents a procession to the baths.27 Either of these views is possible in the light of the casket’s other imagery and even both at the same time. The four decorated faces of the bottom resemble a columnar sarcophagus with alternating round and pointed arches carried on spirally fluted columns (much like the base of the Muse casket) (Figs. 4.2–4.4 and 4.12).28 On each face there is a central figure flanked by two attendants, each one standing in an arch between the columns. The most important figure of the twelve is a woman at her toilet seated on an elaborate chair and wrought in larger scale than the others (Fig. 4.1). She is placed under the wider central arch of the front panel of the base, immediately below that section of the inscription which reads ‘Projecta’, which is below the figure of the seated Venus (Fig. 4.8), who is herself below the roundel of the married couple on the top of the lid (Pl. 2.1). The iconography of her panel reflects that of Venus in that her gesture of pinning her hair with her right hand mimics that of Venus, while she inclines her head to her left to where an attendant holds out a mirror (Fig. 4.12). Like Venus’ mirror, this too has a faint reflection. The attendant on her right carries an oblong casket (Fig. 4.13), like the cupid on Venus’ right, and in the space above the columns on either side of her are two baskets

Fig. 4.8. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, front of lid, detail: Venus with mirror (Photo: BM).

bearing fruit, echoing that held by the cupid on Venus’ left (Fig. 4.7). The iconography of this panel, like that of Venus, is paralleled by surviving late Roman silverware,29 and mosaics – especially the impressive late fourth- or early fifth-century panel from a private baths complex at Sidi

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Fig. 4.9. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, lid side panel: Nereid and ketos (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.10. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, lid side panel: Nereid and hippocampus (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.11. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, back of lid: procession (Photo: BM).

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Fig. 4.12. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, front of base (Photo: BM).

Ghrib near Tunis found in 1975.30 There, the seated lady (fully dressed like the figures on the body of the Projecta casket) is also adorning her hair on the right side (possibly using a pin), accompanied by two female attendants – the one to her left holding a mirror and the one to her right an open basket perhaps containing jewellery. Just as the Venus scene of the Projecta casket has several visual, formal and thematic resonances with the toilet scene below, so it echoes the medallion portrait of the couple above. Venus sits in a central circle, effectively a sea-shell medallion, reflecting the roundel containing the couple above. Both these tondi are supported from either side by divine figures – erotes in the case of the couple and centaurotritons in the case of the goddess (cf. Figs. 4.8 and 4.14). Like the couple, whose life together she blesses, Venus too has two winged cupids in attendance (Fig. 4.7).31 Shelton describes the remaining figures of the base as forming a procession from left to right,32 but it may be more natural to see them simply as attendants bringing various accoutrements of the toilet (Figs. 4.2–4.4). Like other fourth-century groups of single figures between columns,33 they clearly defer to the main image of the seated woman on the front in what may be described as the centre of their activity (despite the broadly frontal stance of the central figure on each side). Every one of these attendants carries items relevant to the toilet or to bathing. Moreover many of these objects appear to reflect other objects actually within the Esquiline treasure – for instance the central figure of the back holds a circular casket suspended by chains much like the Muse casket (Fig. 4.15), while other figures carry ewers, paterae and candlesticks (all of which are attested within the treasure). This feature too is paralleled by the toilet mosaic from Sidi Ghrib, where several accoutrements of the toilet are stacked up along the sides of the scene, including a conch-shaped basin, an ewer, an

Fig. 4.13. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, front of base, detail: attendant with casket (Photo: BM). hexagonal casket with a chain and an open casket in the form of the body of the Projecta casket (that is, an oblong truncated pyramid with trapezoidal shaped sides) containing towels.34 The cross-referential nature of the items within

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Fig. 4.14. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, top of lid, detail: couple with erotes (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.15. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, back of base, detail: figure with casket (Photo: BM).

the treasure is not confined to form alone: the decoration and iconography of other items in the Esquiline cache appear reflected on the casket. Hence the hinges (if original) resemble the decorative design of the incised fluted dish,35 the erotes of the lid and the vine imagery which encircle the panels of the base (Figs. 4.2–4.4) are reflected in the flask with vintaging erotes,36 the toilet of Venus scene on the casket’s lid echoes the imagery of the Paris patera. One attendant on each panel of the casket’s body appears to be carrying a large casket (perhaps something like the Projecta casket itself [e.g. Fig. 4.13]), as do two figures of the six featured in the procession scene on the back of the lid (Fig. 4.11). All this indicates a particularly careful programme of inter-related and self-referential iconography in which the casket’s domestic functions within the female sphere of the household were both portrayed on its surface and reflected upon in its imagery. The female emphasis of the decoration is striking. Apart from the bearded male figure in the double portrait at the top, all other human males (excluding erotes and centaurotritons) are beardless attendants. The two groups of three in the procession on the back of the lid are each led by a male – on the left a beardless youth showing the way and on the right a boy with candelabra. On the left end of the casket’s base, the female servant in the centre carrying a casket is flanked by two beardless youths with flaming candles (Figs. 4.2, 4.16

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Fig. 4.16. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, end of base, detail: youth with candle (Photo: BM).

Fig. 4.17. British Museum, Esquiline treasure, Projecta casket, end of base, detail: youth with candle (Photo: BM).

and 4.17). In all these cases one wonders whether these male attendants are not intended to be understood as eunuchs.37

sure.38 Within this line of interpretation, the imagery of the mirror and the focus of the female principals (both ‘Projecta’ and Venus) on their selves – their reflections and their bodies within the private sphere away from male intruders – together help to render the process of crafting the female body into an object of male desire.39 These scenes figure the construction of the woman’s self image in terms of an absent but anticipated male viewer – the actual viewer of the casket in antiquity (who is outside the iconography’s imaginative world but is nonetheless its intended recipient) and the viewer of ‘Projecta’ once the process of adornment has been accomplished. The iconography of the casket is fundamentally womanand marriage-centered, though the referent is the man for whom all this is being prepared. This ties the imagery into the principal social context available to women in late antiquity – and presumably the overarching sphere of their aspirations as these were socially constructed – namely, the process of marriage.40 As Roman law ordained it (at least from the Augustan period when legislation had been specifically targeted at population growth), marriage was supremely about producing children.41 In the words of the

Interpreting the iconography The function of the casket – as suggested by its resolutely female-centred iconography, its inclusion of images of other caskets in its depiction of the toilet and the implied functions of similar caskets (such as that included in the Sidi Ghrib mosaic) – places it firmly in the female sphere. Its purpose, at least in part, is to help achieve what its complex iconography advertises – namely the beautification of a woman for her husband’s delight. On this reading, the casket’s function helps to provide the means for the lady on the bottom (‘Projecta’; Fig. 4.1) to be so gorgeously adorned as to mimic Venus on the lid (Fig. 4.8) for the purposes of fostering her union with the man depicted beside her on the top (‘Secundus’; Fig. 4.14). Like the casket itself, the adorned woman is a carefully crafted object of display – a luxury ornament for her husband’s possession and plea-

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Code of Justinian (531): ‘Nature produced women for this very purpose, that they might bear children, and this is their greatest desire’ (Codex Justinianus 6.40.2). The casket, however, while it focuses firmly on the female sphere in relation to the man depicted on its top, avoids any illustration of children produced by the marriage of ‘Secundus’ and ‘Projecta’. At the same time, the marital tondo of the top and the Christian inscription of the rim surely preclude any courtesan- (or even brothel-) centered interpretation, as is likely for instance for the erotic poetry concerning adornment written by the first-century Roman elegists (who also avoid mentioning children). The scene on the back of the casket’s lid does appear to show children (if we take the small scale of certain figures to function naturalistically, rather than simply indicating low status), but these carry implements of the toilet and are surely servants or slaves (Fig. 4.11). Likewise, all the other children on the lid are winged cupids, but none of the children depicted on the casket belong to the marriage itself. In effect, the casket shows the processes of adornment, bathing and beautification which foster the desire within marriage that will ultimately lead to the procreation of children. Its emphasis on process is thus an exposition of the generation of desire. Just as its imagery of adornment is about the self-absorption of the female sphere in its art of crafting ‘Projecta’ into a Venus worthy of ‘Secundus’, so the desires created within the casket’s imaginative world include the glorious adornment of the wife (figured as her husband’s jewelled companion on the lid; Fig 4.14), the beautiful disrobing of the wife (emblematized as the nude Venus of the lid; Fig. 4.8) and the deferred product of their union (the children never depicted but implied by all the other images of children, human and divine, who are not their offspring). This line of interpretation takes the casket’s focus on women to render them ultimately as objects displayed for the various pleasures and desires of men.42 The casket develops the notion of display, as emphasised by the parallel mirrors and the crowning scene of the carefully arrayed ‘Projecta’ posing beside her husband within a wreath as a perpetual and public image of marital bliss (Fig. 4.14). In this regime of representation, display emphasises the objectification of the woman as a product– a result of the parallel processes of adornment (with jewels, pins, cloths, cosmetics) on the body of the casket and of bathing as represented on the lid. If the casket’s imagery can be characterized as an iconographic microcosm of late antique elite life,43 it certainly makes its point through focusing on the hard work of beautification at the heart of the women’s sphere – the very work of adornment in which the casket itself played a part. Moreover every item on the back and the base – the peacocks (Figs. 4.4 and 4.12) and birds (Figs. 4.2, 4.3 and 4.12), the baskets of fruit and grape vines (Figs. 4.4 and 4.12), the objects of silverware and clothing (Figs. 4.2–

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4.4 and 4.12), the buildings of the lid’s back panel (Fig. 4.11), certainly all the slaves and attendants – all these are effectively chattels of the household. In this case the wife herself, even though she may be mistress of all this action, is in the end no more than the raw material for the arts of beautification. She too is figured as a decorous adornment for her husband’s gaze, the supreme chattel of his possessions. Yet, however compelling, this approach cannot be wholly satisfactory. Although the casket was surely made by men, and probably commissioned and paid for by men, it is nonetheless an object of the female sphere. It was at least subjected to, if not partially designed for, the female gaze. The problem might be seen as analogous to that of women’s wills in eighteenth-century England: they may have been drafted by men within a legal discourse entirely created and controlled by men, and yet – while we may not hear women’s voices from the past – we simply cannot discount some female input into their production, formulation and reception.44 In part, at least, the casket presents to the women of the household a visual space in which to see themselves. The very visual images and scenes that figure the desires of the ruling male – however carefully policed and safeguarded – are open to reinterpretation and transformation when they come to represent also the desires of the household’s women.45 The women are not only malecontrolled actors in the process of beautification but also manufacturers of desire and its potential satisfaction, generators of seduction and controllers of the means and materials of seduction within the casket’s visualization of the household. The man may rule alongside his suitably attired wife on the top, but the arrangements for that dominion – in terms of prized objects like the casket itself and the use of the family’s property and wealth – lie properly with the servants and their mistress on the casket’s base. In celebrating the domestic world, and especially that part of domesticity most specifically within the realm of female control,46 the casket may be said to mirror and hence to affirm the identity of its female viewers. ‘Projecta’ (Fig. 4.1) is seated in regal splendour on a high-backed chair with a curtain and legs resembling the imperial ‘sella curulis’ within a curtained niche.47 She seems something between a late-antique emperor (with pin and casket instead of orb and sceptre)48 and an emulation of the divine Venus enthroned in her cockle-shell above. While the female servants are engaged in acts which commemorate their social condition of servitude, they are nonetheless implicitly compared with the nereids, tritons and erotes of Venus’ retinue. Their activity, moreover, in arraying one of their own gender speaks for a certain sexual politics of collaboration, despite the obvious differences of class.49 Most striking and most disturbing in a reading which might seek to see female subjectivity empathetically, consciously and even self-assertively rendered by the casket

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is the juxtaposition of ‘Projecta’ and Venus. We know that dress was essential to the complex of rhetorics surrounding ancient women. Female frivolity (especially in moralizing discourse) could not be better summed up than in the time wasted and money spent on clothes, jewellery, hair and make-up (the very things celebrated in the casket).50 At the same time, nothing was worse (despite all the moral rhetoric about adornment) than its dreaded opposite, nudity. This was especially so for Christians (as the inscription of the Projecta casket proclaimed its owners to be), but was hardly unproblematic for pagans.51 On the casket, ‘Projecta’ is made up with the full panoply of accoutrements available to the Roman upper class, and displayed – dressed to kill – in the seated splendour of her curtained arch, as well as in the medallion on the casket’s lid. But between these images, reflecting the posture of ‘Projecta’ on the base and mimicking her gaze into the mirror by her side, sits Venus – resplendently naked in her circular shell. ‘Projecta’ is clothed head to foot, with only hands and face emerging, as a Roman matron should be.52 But Venus’ drapery falls around her revealing all that ‘Projecta’s’ clothing hides, while the goddess’ gilded collar and pendant, nestling between her breasts and dropping to her navel, only serve to emphasise her sexuality without even pretending to disguise it. One wonders if the difference between the pinning gestures is that ‘Projecta’ is pinning up her hair while Venus is unpinning hers – removing her adornments along with her clothing. In a brilliant affirmation of the culture of late Roman hellenism,53 the image of Venus renders visible not only a male desire for the wife as nude woman, but also ‘Projecta’s’ desire to be woman in the bare and physical sense of mistress of her own nakedness. The antique visual language of myth strips away the conventions of matronly adornment and reveals the wife as woman, reveals her as she fundamentally and nakedly is, concealed only by the fig-leaf of the image being not a portrait of ‘Projecta’ but a toilet of Venus. Placed ostentatiously between the marital snapshot on the top of the lid and the wifely work of beautification on the base, the image of nude Venus brilliantly unites in a single emblematic scene the wife’s desire and self-image as a woman with the husband’s desire for woman as sexual partner. In its iconographic tiering of images along the front (from top to base), the casket manages to create a space both for female and for male identification, desire and subjective self-affirmation. The daring gesture whereby this is achieved is to juxtapose the inscribed invocation for a shared life in Christ with the pagan celebration of a sex life in Venus! The evocation of a sexy Venus within the context of Christian culture in fourth-century Rome is not unprecedented. In the panegyric composed by Claudian to celebrate the wedding of the young Christian emperor Honorius with Maria, daughter of the general Stilicho in

398, Venus appears in her palace in Cyprus in the same pagan splendour as on the casket:54 caesariem tunc forte Venus subnixa corusco fingebat solio... ...speculi nec vultus egebat iudicio; similis tecto monstratur in omni et capitur quocumque videt dum singula cernit seque probat... (vv. 99–100, 106–9). Venus was seated on her glorious throne, adorning her hair... Her face did not fail the mirror’s judgement; her likeness was reflected throughout the whole palace, and wherever she looked, she was charmed, while she surveyed each detail and approved her beauty. Here the goddess – self-absorbed in her toilet – finds her beauty reflected throughout her abode and is herself captivated by it wherever she turns to look. This self-reflexivity of divine love (combined with images of Triton, vv. 137 and 180, and nude nereids, vv. 159 and 171) is called upon to bless the imperial union and pray for its fruitfulness (vv. 339–41), despite the strongly Christian convictions of the young emperor. Together, Claudian’s poem and the Projecta casket bear witness to a brief moment of equilibrium between the ancient hellenistic culture of Rome and the new Christian ascendancy which was soon to begin the long extirpation of such pagan ways of thinking.

Art and the mediation of discourse Just as the juxtaposition of the picture of Venus with the inscription of Christ treads a tight-rope across a chasm of what would soon become insoluble cultural exclusivities, so many of the other themes on the casket raise issues of complex and even contradictory discourses in late-antique Rome. Beautification itself is always about the clash between the naturalness of bare beauty and the artificial nature of beauty’s construction through adornment. It implies both the possession of an engaging physical presence and a social positioning within a rhetorically complex public discourse of value judgements, approbation and disapproval.55 Likewise, the motifs of adornment and bathing embody a multiplicity of rhetorical contradictions. As I have suggested, neither theme was simple or unambiguous in Roman culture. While the rhetoric of adornment implies a potentially falsifying presentation of the woman, that of bathing hints at the improprieties of nudity and hence at immorality. Moreover, the act of bathing appears to undo everything that adornment seeks to establish. Venus is naked and cleansed of all the clothes and unguents which the casket’s body presents ‘Projecta’ as putting on. In this removal of adornments, the body which emerges is more beautiful still – in the case of the casket’s imagery, it is divine. In an

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episode from the second century novel by Chariton, the heroine Callirhoe is shown in the bath: ‘They went in and rubbed her with oil, and wiped it off carefully; when she undressed they were even more awestruck – indeed, although when she was clothed they admired her face as divinely beautiful, when they saw what her clothes covered, her face went quite out of their thoughts. Her skin gleamed white, sparkling like some shining substance; her flesh was so soft you were afraid even the touch of a finger would cause a bad wound’ (Chariton, Chaereas and Callirhoe 2.2 [translated by B.P. Reardon]). In the novel, this bath is the prelude for Callirhoe’s visit to the shrine of Aphrodite near Miletus, where a local aristocrat, Dionysius, will see her and fall in love – despite the slave’s clothing in which Callirhoe is dressed. Effectively, the motifs of dressing and bathing, of created and natural beauty as well as concealed and exposed beauty, work to generate desire. The casket’s use of the same themes appears to tell a similar tale, this time evoking the chronologies of seduction – the use of dress and ornament as a prelude to their removal, the use of washing and nudity as a preparation for dressing. What is figured here is not a single idealised moment of a lifetime (the wedding procession itself, for instance, or a novel’s key moment of the first sighting of lovers) nor a particular or generalised ‘preparation of the bride’, but rather the constant oscillation of the wife between being matron and being Venus, between robing and nudity, within a married life in which (at least on the fronts depicted within the casket) she is to some extent empowered.56 The use of the contrast between Venus and ‘Projecta’ to express these themes marks a significant difference between the Projecta casket’s iconography of the boudoir and that of the frieze on the body of the casket from the Sevso treasure. In the latter, the seated woman being adorned is placed in the centre between two sets of four standing figures, all apparently female (although the child holding an oval basket or basin immediately to the lady’s right could be a boy).57 On the other side, between curtains, is a bathing scene showing a woman undressing with the help of an attendant and two naked women standing on either side of a basin.58 In the Sevso casket, the themes of bathing and adornment are both more down to earth, even documentary, and more troubling than in the Projecta casket. For the problematic issue of a real woman’s nudity is neither disguised by the frisson of the naked Venus glimpsed amid the waves and sea beasts, nor is it elevated to the grandeur of a divinely inspired eroticism as suggested by the Projecta casket. While the Sevso casket may offer a certain voyeurism to male viewers, it does not play with anything like the same elegance or subtlety on the variety of desires elicited by the imagery on the casket from the Esquiline treasure. The movements of desire in the Projecta casket and its visual placing of itself in an ideal, pastoral world – where the colonnade of the base is framed by fruitful grape-vines,

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with flowers, birds and baskets of fruit above the arches, while the lid combines the divine world of Venus with the household’s procession on the back and the marital portrait between cupids on the lid – raise interesting questions of viewing. The casket both reflects the ‘real’ world of the toilet (of which it was part) and idealises it through the mirror of Venus. The imagery shows the household both as

Fig. 4.18. Warren Cup. British Museum (Photo: BM).

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it was and as it might be imagined to be – which was of course something very different from the reality. Within this world of enchanted simulations,59 it figures the desires and seductions of the home (with extreme decorum, one should say, by contrast with other much more plainly pornographic Roman silverware; Fig. 4.18).60 This seduction extends beyond the imaginary world of the casket itself to its viewers, male and female. The casket simultaneously objectifies women (or, more correctly, offers the viewer the opportunity to objectify them) and elicits responses of identification with women.61 It effectively creates a space of multiple viewing positions accommodating the various desires of multiple viewers (not just differentiated by gender but also by class). In a single object, albeit one very richly decorated, the casket makes its own visual argument within a series of contrary discourses and rhetorics – in relation to religion, gender, beauty and adornment. The tenor of this argument is to accept, even to foreground, apparent contradictions in the cultural rhetorics of the period, but at the same time to find ways of holding them together in simultaneous and even mutually fruitful play.

Acknowledgements

5.

6. 7. 8.

9.

10.

I would like to thank David Buckton and Chris Entwistle for making the Projecta casket available to me for detailed examination. A number of my students have at different times made me think harder about some of the issues of female representation, silverware and reflection which have informed this paper. I should like to thank Sarah Bunn, Viccy Coltman, Ruth Leader and Rita Roussos for all their pointed questions and proposals over the years! 11. 12.

Notes 1. The most recent account is that of David Buckton in D. Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (exh. cat., London, 1994), pp. 33–4. The standard discussion is the catalogue of K. J. Shelton, The Esquiline Treasure (London, 1981). See pp. 13–17 on the date and findspot; pp. 19–23 for the number of items, their state and contents; pp. 71–97 for the catalogue. For further discussion of the find, see R. T. Ridley, ‘The Finding of the Esquiline Treasure: An Unpublished Letter’, The Antiquaries Journal 76 (1996), pp. 215–22. 2. See Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 94. 3. See Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 22–33 and K. J. Shelton, ‘The Esquiline Treasure: The Nature of the Evidence’, American Journal of Archaeology 89 (1985), pp. 147–55, esp. p. 147. 4. For the dating c. 330–70 (with which I would broadly concur for stylistic reasons), see Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 47– 55; for a later and narrower date (c. 380), see E. Will, ‘A propos du Coffret de Projecta’, Mosaique. Recueil d’ hommages à Henri Stern ( Paris, 1983), pp. 345–48, esp. p. 347; A. Cameron, ‘The Date and Owners of the Esquiline Treasure’, American Journal

13.

14.

15.

of Archaeology 89 (1985), pp. 135–45, esp. pp. 139–41; B. Kiilerich, Late Fourth-Century Classicism in the Plastic Arts (Odense, 1993), p. 165. For the suggestion that the pieces of the treasure may have been acquired over at least a generation, see D. A. Strong, Greek and Roman Silver Plate (London, 1966), pp. 182–83, and A. Cameron, ‘Observations on the Distribution and Ownership of Late Roman Silver Plate’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 5 (1995), pp. 177– 85, esp. 183. The inscription of Sevso’s hunting plate certainly implies that silver treasure was regarded as a family heirloom over several generations. See M. M. Mango and A. Bennett, The Sevso Treasure: Part I (Ann Arbor, 1994), p. 77. On the inscription, see Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 31–5. Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 47–8. These were published in J. Seroux d’Agincourt, L’histoire de l’art par les monuments depuis sa décadence au IVe siècle jusqu’à son renouvellement au XVIe, 6 vols, (Paris, 1823). The exact dates of the volumes of this publication are subject to dispute – the title pages carry the date 1823, but citations to unpublished manuscripts and drawings from the work reach back as early as 1789 (before the finding of the Esquiline treasure). Shelton believes the discussion of the Esquiline silver dates to between 1795 and 1800; see Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 16–7, n. 2. Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 51, n. 11. See also E. Q. Visconti, Lettera di Ennio Quirino Visconti intorno ad una antica supelletile d’argento scoperta in Roma nell’anno 1793 (Rome, 1827). Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 20. This is an issue which modern scientific analysis of the silver used in the main casket by contrast with the feet, hinges and handles might perhaps resolve. It should be noted that the same questions arise with the Muse casket (cf. Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 48). Traces of solder and scratches on the fourth- or fifth-century casket in the Sevso Treasure – now an object without hinges, latch, catch-plate or suspension chain – seem to indicate that these items were once attached to it, presumably in antiquity. Their siting in this case, without the slightest regard for the casket’s elegant repoussé decoration, was even more ugly than on the Projecta casket. See Mango and Bennett, Sevso Treasure, pp. 454 and 463–4. Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 55; Cameron, ‘The Date and Owners of’, p. 144. For instance, S. Poglayen-Neuwall, ‘Über die ursprünglichen Besitzer des spätantiken Silberfundes von Esquilin und seiner Datierung’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 45 (1930), pp. 124–36; M. T. Tozzi, ‘Il Tesoro di Projecta’, Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 9 (1932), pp. 279–314; Cameron, ‘The Date and Owners of’; Shelton, ‘The Nature of the Evidence’. See K. J. Shelton, ‘Pagan Aristocrats, Christian Commissions: The Carrand Diptych’, in F. M. Clover and R. S. Humphreys (eds.), Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity (Madison, WI, 1989), pp. 105–27, esp. p. 106; J. Elsner, Art and the Roman Viewer: The Transformation of Art from the Pagan World to Christianity (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 251–58; J. Elsner, ‘Art and Architecture A.D. 337–425’, in The Cambridge Ancient History XIII, edited by A. Cameron and P. Garnsey (Cambridge, 1998), pp. 736–61, esp. pp. 746–47. See especially the outstanding contribution of L. Schneider, Die Domäne als Weltbild: Wirkungsstrukturen der spätantiken Bildersprache (Wiesbaden, 1983), pp. 5–38, with the useful discussion of R. Reece, ‘The Myths and Messages of Silver Plate’, Antiquité Tardive 5 (1997), pp. 142–52, esp. pp. 145–46. Poglayen-Neuwall, ‘Besitzer des spätantiken Silberfundes’, p. 135; Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 31; Schneider, Die Domäne,

VISUALISING

16.

17.

18.

19.

20. 21.

22.

23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28. 29.

30.

31.

WOMEN IN

LATE ANTIQUE ROME:

pp. 9 and 17–8; Cameron, ‘The Date and Owners of’, p. 135; Kiilerich, Late Fourth-Century Classicism, p. 163. See H. Stern, Le calendrier de 354 (Paris, 1953), pp. 53–68; M.R. Salzman, On Roman Time: The Codex Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1990), pp. 25–6. For instance see, G. Bovini and H. Brandenburg, Repertorium der Christlich-Antiken Sarkophage: Vol. 1: Rom und Ostia (Wiesbaden, 1967), nos. 11, 28, 52, 77, 132, 143, 145, 146, 147, 320, 472, 475, and so forth. See Bovini and Brandenburg, Repertorium, nos. 40, 42, 44 for examples of couples in a conch-shell roundel surrounded by Christian scenes; nos. 188, 239 and 244 for couples in a conchshaped roundel in a strigilated field (the latter tondo being supported by erotes); nos. 39 and 43 for couples in an imago clipeata surrounded by Christian scenes; nos. 87, 689, 778, 962 for couples in an imago clipeata within a strigilated field. See C. R. Morey, The Gold-Glass Collection of the Vatican Library with Additional Catalogues of other Gold-Glass Collections (Vatican City, 1959), nos. 43, 93, 98, 99, 259, 418. For couples including children, see nos. 59, 89, 94, 244. At least half of these have inscribed invocations. See also M. Laubenberger, ‘Porträts auf Römischen Zwischengoldgläsern’, Mitteilungen zur Christliche Archäologie 1 (1995), pp. 51–9, with bibliography. Mango and Bennett, Sevso Treasure, pp. 103–8. There has been a recent debate about the ownership and status of late antique silver in which K. Painter has argued for high status against A. Cameron. See K. Painter, ‘Roman Silver Hoards: Ownership and Status’, in F. Baratte (ed.), Argenterie romaine et byzantine (Paris, 1988), pp. 97–111; A. Cameron, ‘Observations on’; K. Painter, ‘Late Roman Silver: A Reply to Alan Cameron’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 6 (1993), pp. 109–15. As Cameron rightly says (‘Observations on’, p. 185): ‘silver was not all that valuable’. Such linings were normal in Roman silver: see D. Sherlock, ‘Silver and Silversmithing’, in D. Strong and D. Brown (eds.), Roman Crafts (London, 1976), pp. 11–24, esp. p. 19. Broadly the conclusion also of Kiilerich, Late Fourth-Century Classicism, p. 164. See Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 78. For a brief but by no means complete introduction to this iconography, see E. Schmidt, ‘Venus’ section VIII, LIMC 8.1, pp. 208–12. On the mosaics (mostly from the coast of Roman North Africa), see J. Lassus, ‘Venus marine’, in La mosaïque Gréco-Romaine, vol. 1 (Paris, 1965), pp. 175–90; M. BlanchardLemée, Maisons à mosaiques du quartier central de Djemila [Cuicul] (Aix-en-Provence, 1975), pp. 73–81; K. Dunbabin, The Mosaics of Roman North Africa (Oxford, 1978), pp. 154–8. For instance Schneider, Die Domäne, pp. 16–24. In favour of the baths, see E. Barbier, ‘La signification du coffret de “Projecta”’, Cahiers archéologiques 12 (1962), pp. 7–33, followed by Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 27. For the comparison with a sarcophagus, see Kiilerich, Late Fourth-Century Classicism, p. 162. For example, the toilet scene on the base of the casket from the Sevso Treasure. See Mango and Bennett, Sevso Treasure, pp. 445–71, esp. pp. 464–71. See L. Ennabli, ‘Les thermes du Thiase Marin de Sidi Ghrib’, Monuments Piot 68 (1986), pp. 1–59, esp. pp. 42–4. On the date, see M. Blanchard-Lemée, ‘À propos les mosaïques de Sidi Ghrib: Vénus, le Gaurus et un poème de Symmaque’, Mélanges d’école français de Rome 100 (1988), pp. 367–84, esp. p. 367. For discussion of some of these parallels, see: Schneider, Die Domäne, pp. 27–33; Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 72–5.

THE

PROJECTA

CASKET

35

32. See Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 74. 33. I am thinking of the wonderful fourth-century tapestry now in Bern, in which Dionysus and Ariadne occupy what were presumably the central two arcades in a long series of arched columns each containing a member of their retinue, including Maenads, a satyr and Pan. See M.-H. Rutschowscaya, Tissus Coptes (Paris, 1990), pp. 82–6. For a parallel but more fragmentary example, see S. MacMillan Arenberg, ‘Dionysos: A Late Antique Tapestry’, Boston Museum Bulletin 75 (1977), pp. 4–26. For earlier Dionysiac columnar sarcophagi on a similar formal scheme, see F. Matz, Die Dionysischen Sarcophage 4 (Berlin, 1975), nos. 246, 276, 277, 278, 280. 34. See Ennabli, ‘Les thermes’, p. 42. 35. On the fluted dish, see Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 78–9. 36. On this flask, see Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, pp. 81–2. 37. The second half of the fourth century was, of course, a key moment for the flourishing of eunuchs, especially at court. See K. Hopkins, Conquerors and Slaves (Cambridge, 1978), pp. 172–96 on court eunuchs; P. Guyot, Eunuchen als Sklaven und Freigelassene in der griechisch-römischen Antike (Stuttgart, 1980), pp. 121–29 (on the first to third centuries), pp. 130–76 (on the fourth century); H. Scholten, Der Eunuch in Kaisernähe (Frankfurt, 1994), on the fourth and fifth centuries. The iconography of eunuchs is unlikely to have been firmly established by the 380s, but in later Byzantine art (for instance the mid sixthcentury Theodora panel from San Vitale in Ravenna) they are distinctively beardless, as they are in earlier literary accounts such as Lucian, Eun. 9–10. By 899, when the Byzantine court official Philotheos composed his Kterologion, the definition of eunuchs as ‘beardless’ is implicit through Philotheos’ description of their opposites (non-eunuch court officials) as ‘bearded’ (oj âáñâÜôoé): Philotheos in N. Oikonomides, Les listes de préséance Byzantines des IXe et Xe siècles (Paris, 1972), p. 135, line 9, with S. Tougher, ‘Byzantine Eunuchs’ in L. James (ed.), Women, Men and Eunuchs (London, 1997), pp. 168–84, esp. pp. 171–2. 38. So M. Wyke, ‘The Woman in the Mirror: The Rhetoric of Adornment in the Roman World’, in L. Archer, S. Fischler and M. Wyke (eds.), Women in Ancient Societies (London, 1994), pp. 134–51, esp. pp. 143–4. The supreme male myth of such craftsmanship creating an ideal woman, the adornment of her maker’s sexual needs is Ovid’s Pygmalion. On this see, A. Sharrock, ‘Womanufacture’, Journal of Roman Studies 81 (1991), pp. 36–49 and J. Elsner and A. Sharrock, ‘Re-Viewing Pygmalion’, Ramus 20 (1991), pp. 149–82. 39. On the mirror in earlier Graeco-Roman culture, see especially, F. Frontisi-Ducroux and J.-P. Vernant, Dans l’oeil du miroir (Paris, 1997), passim (and esp. pp. 55–71 on the mirror and the female realm); A. Stewart, ‘Reflections’, in N. B. Kampen (ed.), Sexuality in Ancient Art (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 136–54; on the mirror in the Roman rhetoric of adornment, see Wyke, ‘Woman in the Mirror’, pp. 134–8; for some visual discussion of Roman Venus scenes, see L. Balensiefen, Die Bedeutung des Spiegelbildes als ikonographisches Motiv in der antiken Kunst (Tubingen, 1990), pp. 75–8; and on the complex significations of mirroring in Roman culture, see W. McCarty, ‘The Shape of the Mirror: Metaphorical Catoptrics’, Arethusa 22 (1989), pp. 161– 95 and Y. L. Too, ‘Statues, Mirrors, Gods: Controlling Images in Apuleius’, in J. Elsner (ed.), Art and Text in Roman Culture (Cambridge, 1996), pp. 133–52, esp. pp. 141–4. 40. On marriage in the period, see G. Clark, Women in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 1993), pp. 13–17 and A. Arjava, Women and Law in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 1996), pp. 28–156. For literary validations of marriage in Second Sophistic and late antique fiction

36

41. 42.

43.

44. 45.

46. 47.

48.

49.

JAS´ ELSNER and poetry, see J. Perkins, The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era (London, 1995), pp. 41–76; K. Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride: Idealised Womanhood in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, Mass., 1996), esp. pp. 28– 31; H. Morales, ‘Gender and Identity in Musaeus’ Hero and Leander’, in R. Miles (ed.), Constructing Identities in Late Antiquity (London, 1999), pp. 41–69, esp. pp. 61–5. See Arjava, Women and Law, pp. 77–84. This reading frames the casket in a venerable feminist art history recently characterised as that of ‘women conoting to-be-lookedat-ness’ (M. Pointon, Strategies for Showing; Women, Possession and Representation in English Visual Culture 1665–1800 [Oxford, 1997]) and ultimately tending towards male objectification. Fundamental accounts include J. Berger, Ways of Seeing (Harmondsworth, 1972), pp. 45–64, and L. Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, in Visual and Other Pleasures (London, 1989). See also J. La Belle, Herself Beheld: The Literature of the Looking Glass (Ithaca and London, 1988), pp. 53–5. In the literature on the Projecta casket this is the basic approach of Wyke, ‘Woman in the Mirror’, pp. 143–4. For woman as object of the gaze in the fourth-century sermons of Chrysostom, see B. Leyerle, ‘John Chrysostom on the Gaze’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 1 (1993), pp. 157–74, esp. pp. 159–67. For the dangers of the woman who gazes in Chrysostom, see ibid., pp. 167–9. This is effectively the argument of Schneider, Die Domäne, pp. 5–38. For him the scene on the back of the lid (interpreted as the bringing of the chattels of the dowry to the husband’s house) is crucial since it ties the images of myth and toilet within a socioeconomic transaction (see Schneider, Die Domäne, pp. 16–25). Of course, this iconographic interpretation (and hence the entire argument) is open to contestation. See Pointon, Strategies for Showing, pp. 3–4. See on classical material, N. B. Kampen, ‘Gender and Desire’, in A. O. Koloski-Ostrow and C. L. Lyons (eds.), Naked Truths (London, 1997), pp. 267–77, esp. pp. 273–5. The general point is well made by M. A. Doane, The Desire to Desire: The Woman’s Film in the 1940s (Bloomington, 1987), pp. 5–9 and 178–83. On the domestic sphere in the period, see Clark, Women in Late Antiquity, pp. 94–105. This chair is certainly ‘elaborate’ (Shelton, Esquiline Treasure, p. 74) and resembles that of the lady at her toilet on the Sevso casket (Mango and Bennett, Sevso Treasure, p. 465). On chairs and thrones with a bibliography, see T. F. Mathews, The Clash of Gods (Princeton, 1993; revised 1999), pp. 104–8. For instance Constantius II in the Codex-Calendar of 354, fol. 13. See Stern, Le calendrier, pp. 153–68; Salzman, On Roman Time, pp. 34–5. For some reflections on the parallelism between Roman slaves and matrons, see H. Parker, ‘Loyal Slaves and Loyal Wives’, in S. R. Joshel and S. Murnaghan (eds.), Women and Slaves in Greco-Roman Culture (London, 1998), pp. 152–73.

50. On clothing in the period, see Clark, Women in Late Antiquity, pp.105–18; on the dangers of adornment, see Wyke, ‘Woman in the Mirror’, pp. 146–8. For the poetic motif of natural beauty falsified by adornment, see e.g. Propertius I.2, II.18c; Ovid, Amores, I.14, Ars Amatoria III.193–250 (purporting to be lessons in the art of seductive adornment), Medicamina Faciei Femineae. 51. On nudity in relation to pagan Rome, see for instance J. Toner, Leisure and Ancient Rome (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 58–9; on Christianity, see P. Brown, The Body and Society (New York, 1988), pp. 315–17. On nudity and sexuality in relation to the Baths, see G. Fagan, Bathing in Public in the Roman World (Ann Arbor, 1999), pp. 24–9, 31–9, and Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistles 2.2.5–6 for a Christian disapproval of nudity in bath decoration. 52. Cf. Clark, Women in Late Antiquity, pp. 107–10. 53. For a general account, see G. W. Bowersock, Hellenism in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, 1990). 54. See A. Cameron, Claudian: Poetry and Propaganda at the Court of Honorius (Oxford, 1970), pp. 93–4 and pp. 99–102. For discussion of the quoted passage, see U. Frings, Claudius Claudianus: Epithalamium de nuptiis Honori Augusti (Meisenheim am Glan, 1975), pp. 56–61. 55. For an elegant formulation of these issues in the context of a later period, see R. Jones, ‘“Such Strange Unwanted Softness to Excuse”: Judgement and Indolence in Sir Joshua Reynolds’ Portrait of Elizabeth Gunning, Duchess of Hamilton and Argyll’, Oxford Art Journal 18 (1995), pp. 29–43, esp. p. 30. 56. A late antique literary parallel for this oscillation is the presentation of Hero in Musaeus’ epyllion as ‘virgin by day, woman by night’ (Hero and Leander 287), on which see Morales, ‘Gender and Identity’, pp. 56–60. 57. See Mango and Bennett, Sevso Treasure, pp. 464–71 for this scene in general. They believe the figure to be a girl (pp. 468– 69), but the long dress and hair parallel the clean-shaven male torchbearers on the left end of the base of the Projecta casket. 58. See Mango and Bennett, Sevso Treasure, pp. 471–73. 59. Cf. for thoughts on simulation and seduction, J. Baudrillard, Seduction, (London, 1990), pp. 60–71. 60. For instance the first-century AD Warren Cup recently acquired by the British Museum, although admittedly its context is sympotic rather than of the boudoir, and its iconography is homosexual. See J. R. Clarke, ‘The Warren Cup and the Context for Representations of Male-to-Male Lovemaking in Augustan and Early Julio-Claudian Art’, Art Bulletin 75 (1993), pp. 275– 94 and J. Pollini, ‘The Warren Cup: Homoerotic Love and Symposial Rhetoric in Silver’, Art Bulletin 81 (1999), pp. 21– 52. 61. For a discussion of some of these issues in relation to Titian, see R. Zorach, ‘Despoiled at the Source’, Art History 22 (1999), pp. 244–69, esp. pp. 245–48.

SOURCES

OF CLOISONNÉ ENAMEL: SOME EARLY FUSED GOLD AND GLASS INLAYS

37

5. Sources of cloisonné enamel: some early fused gold and glass inlays Noël Adams

The question of what constitutes cloisonné enamel in the Byzantine period has been one of David Buckton’s primary areas of research. He has already explored some of the types of glass inlays under discussion and has generously shared his much greater knowledge of the subject with me. I hope that the information collected here will be useful and interesting to him. The three small gold and glass inlays which form the subject of this paper have been ranked amongst the few preByzantine examples of cloisonné enamelling. These particular inlays are significant as they are incorporated on objects which can be relatively closely dated by either context or typology. The first is a disc set onto a garnet cloisonné medallion excavated in a Late Roman burial at Aragvispiri in the modern Republic of Georgia (Figs. 5.1– 5.2 and Pl. 3.1).1 The second and third are a pair of discs mounted on fibulae from the fifth-century AD hoard of barbarian gold found at Szilágysomlyó, in present-day Romania (Figs. 5.5–5.6 and Pl. 3.4).2 Examination of these discs has revealed their method of manufacture to be quite different from one another. As the Aragvispiri medallion and the Szilágysomlyó bow fibulae are separated from one another by more than a century in date, this may suggest a shift in glass-making technology in the Late Roman period, progressing from fusing coloured glass with gold wire towards the production of cloisonné enamel.

earliest coin-dated enamel. The glass disc bears a simple quatrefoil in gold wire and is centred within concentric zones of garnet and glass cloisonné (Fig. 5.1 and Pl. 3.1). The slightly irregular inlay measures approximately 1.6 cm in diameter. Examination under a microscope reveals several intriguing features.4 Each petal of the central quatrefoil is formed by a continuous length of wire bent into a heart-shape; these are placed tip to tip. The wires

The Aragvispiri disc The gold and garnet cloisonné medallion from Aragvispiri was found in a wealthy male inhumation (Grave 13) at a cemetery in the Aragvsk canyon north of the ancient Iberian capital of Mtskheta. An aureus of Valerian (253–60 AD) found in the grave establishes a terminus post quem for the deposition and the burial is generally taken to be late third or early fourth century AD in date.3 The simple gold and glass disc set on the medallion has been described as ‘cloisonné’ in the literature and is thus potentially the

Fig. 5.1. Gold and garnet cloisonné medallion with fused gold wire and coloured glass disc, Aragvispiri Grave 13, Republic of Georgia. 1:1 (Photo: author).

38

NOËL ADAMS

enclose pitted and decayed opaque green glass, surrounded by a matrix of blue glass, similarly weathered. In a few places the wires enclosing the green ‘petals’ have pulled away from the glass bed and are either missing or bent back. Where this has occurred shallow grooves are exposed, revealing that these were not cell walls in the traditional definition of cloisonné enamel (i.e. they were not soldered to a backing-plate), but were rather wires fused in the upper surface of the glass. The very fine strip wires were set on edge in the glass. Where these are missing, grooves clearly demarcate the green glass of the petals from the deep blue matrix. Of great interest are three further shallow grooves radiating outwards from the petals to the edge of the disc. These do not appear to be cracks but rather integral elements of the manufacturing process (Fig. 5.2 and p. 40 below). As it is securely fixed in place, it is impossible to ascertain whether the Aragvispiri glass disc incorporated a gold backing-plate, but the absence of an encircling cell

wall suggests that it did not. This factor, in conjunction with the shallow nature of its wire inlays, suggests that the disc cannot be counted as an example of cloisonné enamel in the strictest sense, as this process involves the fusion of glass onto a metal surface and the separation of colours of glass by cell walls soldered to that backing-plate.5 The method of fabrication of the disc from Aragvispiri must rather be seen to derive from Roman period glass tablets incorporating fine gold wire to separate different colours of glass. A brief review of these unjustly neglected inlays, which have long intrigued David Buckton, is helpful here.

Roman fused glass and gold wire inlays The fusion of gold wire and glass into inlays has an ancient history, stretching back to a cache of gold finger-rings found in a Late Bronze Age tomb in western Cyprus.6 It is

Fig. 5.2. Enlargement of Aragvispiri medallion showing loose wire and channels on glass disc inlay. 1.5:1 (Photo: author).

SOURCES

OF CLOISONNÉ ENAMEL: SOME EARLY FUSED GOLD AND GLASS INLAYS

not unlikely that much intervening evidence is either lost or has gone unrecognised, but the next certain appearance of the technique is on a Hellenistic ring bezel from the male burial in Grave 2 in Artjukhov’s kurgan on the Taman peninsula on the northern shores of the Black Sea.7 Here gold wires bent into the shape of Greek letters are fused with dark glass in a bezel in the shape of a sandal. The grave is usually dated ca. 150 BC. Small inlays with naturalistic subjects appear to be a development of the imperial Roman period. These small discs or tablets were fabricated in coloured glass with the subjects outlined with fine strip wire. The most comprehensive assemblage of these often exquisite glass inlays remains the old publication of Rosenberg, who dubbed them ‘aviculae’ after the avian subject matter of many of the examples he knew.8 Vine leaves and birds (predominantly parrots and cocks) are the subjects most commonly preserved, together with a few lesser creatures such as lizards and shrimp (Figs. 5.3–5.4 and Pls 3.2–3.3). Although a few of the bird types may reflect familiarity with Ptolemaic and Roman period mosaic glass plaques from Egypt,9 in general the subject matter of these inlays is close in spirit and execution to imperial Roman period intaglios.10 Two inlays with vine leaves and another with a parrot excavated at Pompeii establish a firm terminus ante quem for the production of this naturalistic series.11 A square tablet decorated with a long-legged water bird and a disc with a floral calyx also have been excavated in GalloRoman contexts, one certainly of the late first or early second century AD.12 Gold and glass inlays from the imperial Roman series apparently remained in circulation, if not necessarily production, for some centuries, perhaps even into the Early Medieval period. A disc with a shrimp was discovered in the course of modern excavations on a settlement site at Gotha in Thuringia which produced fibulae and strap-ends of fourth- and fifth-century AD types.13 Possibly from an even later context, an example with a vine leaf, virtually identical to one excavated at Pompeii, was found in 1851 by workers digging for Abbé Cochet in the seventh-century AD cemetery at Envermeu (Pl. 3.2).14 Whether the latter truly emerged from Merovingian levels, however, cannot now be determined.

Technical aspects and fabrication The naturalistic series of inlays were for the most part fabricated with a translucent cobalt blue matrix, rendered opaque by a fused doublet backing of white glass. As with the disc on the Late Roman medallion from Aragvispiri, damaged specimens reveal very fine strip wire pro formas (Figs. 5.3–5.4). The colours enclosed by the wires are green, in the case of the vine leaves and lizards, or multicoloured, in the case of the birds. The topmost layer of coloured

39

Fig. 5.3. Enlarged gold wire and glass inlay with parrot, showing loose wire. British Museum, Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities 86.11–11.66. 1.5:1 (Photo: author).

Fig. 5.4. Enlarged gold wire and glass inlay with vine leaf, showing loose wire. British Museum, Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities 93.10–9.5. 1.5:1 (Photo: author).

glass can be seen on damaged examples to have been very shallow, no deeper than the width of the strip wires (Pl. 3.2).15 In this regard, the wires did function like a cloison or cell wall, retaining one unit of colour and separating it from the surrounding matrix. Most of the surviving fused gold wire and glass inlays were manufactured to a remarkably consistent and small size. They are disc-shaped, oval, rectangular or square in shape, but range only from 1 to 1.5 cm at their greatest dimension.16 Their dimensions, and indeed their profiles, are fundamentally those of one class of ring-stone bezels, i.e. flat on both sides and often with bevelled edges to secure them in their settings.17 Although some examples have been set in modern rings, and their dimensions and profile would be congenial to this employment, none of the naturalistic early Roman series have survived mounted as ring-stones. The very few examples still in ancient mounts are set as jewellery elements (Pl. 3.2).18 Different explanations have been advanced to explain the manufacture of these inlays. In the nineteenth century Nesbitt envisioned the white doublet of the inlays forming a substratum onto which the gold cloisons were fastened at their lower edges, ‘the coloured enamel was then placed in its proper cells and fused in exactly the same manner as were the cloisonné enamels, a process doubtless the prototype of this kind of work, the only difference of procedure between them having been that of employing a glass instead of a metal plate’.19 Rosenberg, and following him Higgins,

40

NOËL ADAMS

proposed that after the metal was bent to the outline of a figure, it was filled with powdered glass and placed on a background of glass. Both were then heated. When the background was sufficiently soft, the metal was pushed into it, carrying the powdered glass, which was now partially fused.20 Recently Whitehouse suggested that the ‘objects were prepared by cutting grooves and other depressions in the surface and then filling them with wire or glass and in effect gluing them in position (with adhesive) rather than fusing them’. 21 There can be little doubt, however, that the wire and glass are fused on the majority of the examples in this series. David Buckton proposed an alternative possibility for the glass inlays incorporating wire pro formas – that they were fabricated upside down in moulds.22 In this procedure the fine gold strip would be set edge down onto the surface of a mould, filled with one colour of glass, then surrounded by the cobalt glass and finally topped with the opaque white layer. Heating, presumably in a kiln, would melt the powdered or softened glass and fuse the wire into it. Some of the wire pro formas may have been positioned with the aid of fine guide wires, which were later lifted away when the discs were polished. This would account for the fine grooves radiating from the edges of the petals on the Aragvispiri inlay (Fig. 5.2 and p. 38 above). Under microscopic examination these are not cracks but shallow regular channels whose depth corresponds to that of the inlaid strip wires. All of these scenarios must remain speculative as the corpus is large and techniques might have varied over time and in different workshops. Modern experimentation would perhaps help to narrow the possibilities of manufacture and clarify such issues as the state of the glass (powdered, softened or molten) and conditions necessary to produce such technically perfect inlays. In any proposed technology, however, polishing the upper surface of the inlays probably constituted the final stage of the process. The highest quality inlays from the imperial Roman period display extremely smooth, sometimes almost reflective, surfaces. A polishing process could also account in part for the condition whereby some of the fine wires were loosened sufficiently to have pulled away from their glass substrate, as on the Aragvispiri disc and some of the Roman inlays. It is clear that, in technological terms, the disc inlay on the Aragvispiri medallion can be classified with the fused glass ‘aviculae’. The simplified subject matter, however, reflects a transformation of the naturalistic Roman tradition. Although neither its antecedents nor contemporary parallels can yet be traced, the popularity of the quatrefoil rosette on early Medieval enamelled discs suggest that a Roman tradition for this motif may well have existed.23 As the fused disc is at present unique in the corpus of Late Roman jewellery preserved in Georgia, we cannot say if it represents a local tradition of glass manufacture.24 It is possible

that it was an import, as garnet cloisonné pendants and medallions with concentric compositions like the Aragvispiri piece were designed to show off a central element such as a particularly fine cameo, intaglio gem or coin. As this small gold and glass disc was featured in such a way, it, too, must have been regarded as a prize acquisition. This interpretation is reinforced by the fact that the medallion is a type of male personal ornament, possibly worn as military or civil regalia with connotations of status and rank.25

The Szilágysomlyó discs The next inlays to be considered, although closely comparable in scale, appear to have been produced in a different fashion to the above, one much closer to cloisonné enamel.26 The two inlays are mounted on the head-plates of a pair of bow brooches included amongst a hoard of gold fibulae and drinking cups found in a field near the ancient gate to the eastern limes in Roman Dacia (Pl. 3.4 and Figs. 5.5–5.6). The site, today SDimleul Silvaniei in Romania, is known by its Hungarian name, Szilágysomlyó. Two hoards were found at the site, one in 1797 and the other in 1889, and this exceptionally fine pair of brooches was one of ten pairs in the second hoard. Although the two hoards were found at different places in the field, it is generally assumed that they were owned and deposited sometime in the fifth century AD by the same people.27 Differing theories have been

Fig. 5.5. Cloisonné enamel disc from bow brooch, Szilágysomlyó, Romania. 1:1 (After Fettich, 1932).

Fig. 5.6. Cloisonné enamel disc from bow brooch, Szilágysomlyó, Romania. 1:1 (After Fettich, 1932).

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OF CLOISONNÉ ENAMEL: SOME EARLY FUSED GOLD AND GLASS INLAYS

advanced concerning the ethnicity of the owners, but scholarly opinion today favours the Gepids, a Germanicspeaking tribe living in the eastern half of the Carpathian basin in the fifth century AD.28 The Szilágysomlyó fibulae with the glass discs belong to a class of bow brooches with semi-circular head-plates and long rhomboidal feet in use in the late fourth and first half of the fifth century AD by various tribes in southeastern Europe and southern Russia whose common culture is referred to as Chernyakov, after a key cemetery site in the Ukraine.29 These brooches were cast in silver and a few high-status examples like these were wrapped with a thick gold sheet decorated with gemstones, granulation and filigree wire. The length of the foot on the fibulae in question suggests they belong at the beginning of the series, in the late fourth century or early fifth century AD.30 An early date is further supported by the fact that large cornelians, used only on this pair of brooches from the hoard, are typical of third- and fourth-century AD jewellery from the northern foreshore of the Black Sea.31 The disc inlays on the Szilágysomlyó brooches measure 1.45 and 1.5 cm in diameter. Each bears three C-scrolls in gold wire, set back to back. The scrolls are filled with opaque green glass and the three-armed shapes formed in the interstices are filled with deep red glass, now weathered, but probably originally partially translucent. Colour variations are particularly noticeable on the green glass, which grades to white and pale green across the inlays, but are also noticeable in areas on the red glass, which appear clear. This degree of irregular colouration might suggest that the glass was relatively coarsely crushed and crudely mixed when loaded into the cells. The manner in which the glass has flowed within the C-scrolls and the extremely secure adhesion between wires and glass leaves no question that the glass and wires have been fused together by heat. As noted above (p. 38), the classic definition of cloisonné enamel presupposes the existence of a backing-plate of sheet metal onto which metal strips are set to form cells or cloisons which are then filled with coloured glass and fired. The wire strips therefore are generally assumed to make contact with the backing plate. In the case of the Szilágysomlyó inlays the presence or absence of backing-plates cannot be confirmed without further scientific examination or dismantling of the objects. It is clear, however, that the scrolled wires are robust strips of greater thickness and width than those on the Aragvispiri and earlier Roman period inlays. As they are mounted, their precise height cannot be calculated, but the bezels into which the inlays are set are approximately 3 mm deep. Two factors suggest that these inlays were indeed fabricated in a manner comparable to that of cloisonné enamel. First, the discs were originally fashioned with a gold strip surround of approximately the same depth as the glass and wires. These strips, which never appear on the

41

Roman fused glass inlays, are visible running parallel to the walls of the collet (Fig. 5.7). This was the classic method of manufacture of small cloisonné enamel discs, as evidenced by seventh to tenth century AD examples of similar scale encircled with strips set at a right angle to the backingplate.32 The Szilágysomlyó glass discs with their strip surrounds were subsequently let into collets soldered to the gold sheets covering the silver fibulae. It is of interest that on each disc this integral surrounding strip of wire has been torn or bent away at one of the C-scrolls. Where the strip has been altered, the green glass is either fractured (Fig. 5.7) or depressed (Fig. 5.8), giving the impression that the discs may have been reworked or even reheated slightly and pressed towards the wall of the collet in the process of securing the discs into their new settings. The second factor which suggests the presence of a backing-plate is the level of the glass relative to the wire strips. On one brooch the glass is distinctly convex

Fig. 5.7. Enlarged view of disc from Szilágysomlyó, showing surrounding gold wire strip and bulged areas of glass. 1.5:1 (After Fettich, 1932).

Fig. 5.8. Enlarged view of disc from Szilágysomlyó, showing surrounding gold wire strip and depressed areas of glass. 1.5:1 (After Fettich, 1932).

42

NOËL ADAMS

(Fig. 5.7), while on the other it is concave (Fig. 5.8). The degree of convexity on the former inlay is particularly striking as the gold strips are actually lower than the glass which bulges around them. In contrast to the Roman period inlays, neither of these inlay discs appear to have been ground back or polished after heating. The simplest explanation for the variance in appearance between these two inlays is that one was overfilled and the other under filled. This in turn would tend to suggest that the inlays were manufactured from the bottom up, as it were, with the glass being loaded into the cells from the top. Although the exact sequence and method of fabrication and mounting in these inlays cannot be scientifically demonstrated, a few conclusions may be drawn. First, Rosenberg was quite right to conclude that the Szilágysomlyó discs could not be considered part of the Roman period inlays (his ‘aviculae’).33 His argument was based on the absence of dark blue glass, but is confirmed by the presence of a surrounding ‘cell wall’. Secondly, it seems probable that the inlays were fabricated prior to being set onto the brooches. The damage and apparent re-heating of the glass argues against the possibility that they were purpose-made or manufactured in situ. Rather like the Aragvispiri inlay, they may have been acquired and set as display pieces. The other related brooches in the treasure all bear cold-set garnet plates and green glass, with no evidence of experimentation with hot-glass techniques. At present the Szilágysomlyó discs have no true technological parallels in the Late Antique period. A few gold and glass inlays with similar back-to-back C-scrolls or peltae have survived, but these generally incorporate four scrolls in the fashion of Roman jewellery elements. Examples of this series found in context are inlays preserved on a ring and Hercules club in the jeweller’s hoard at Thetford (Figs. 5.9–5.10).34 The Thetford treasure is held to have been deposited at the end of the fourth century AD, which could suggest a terminus post quem for this series of inlays. Like many of the ring-stones in this particular treasure, the fused gold and glass inlays could have been produced a century or more before their mounting and deposition, but the presence of inlays with wire scrolls at Szilágysomlyó supports a date in the late fourth century AD for the series. Unlike the Szilágysomlyó discs, the Thetford inlays and their parallels continue the imperial Roman use of translucent glass, not, however, backed with a white doublet, but left transparent green or blue. Moreover, upon examination, they prove to be fabricated in a wholly different manner from the Szilágysomlyó inlays. Most bear flat cutout gold sheet or leaf (Figs. 5.9–5.10), or in one case, twisted wires (Fig. 5.11).35 The extremely poor state of preservation of related inlays (with different designs) suggests they may simply have been pressed against the surface of the glass and heated until some degree of fusion took place.36 Although not technologically equivalent, this

group of inlays nonetheless establishes the existence of a corpus of inlay discs with comparable geometric patterns. As these appear in later contexts than the early Roman naturalistic series, they might have influenced the design of the Szilágysomlyó inlays.

Conclusions It has been demonstrated that there are notable technological differences between the Aragvispiri and the Szilágysomlyó inlay discs. Despite these differences, however, the discs resemble one another closely in both scale and decorative function. As noted above (p. 41, note 32), small scale disc inlays in cloisonné enamel and glass are commonplace as jewellery settings, ring bezels and decorative elements throughout the eighth to eleventh centuries AD. Combined with the evidence presented here, this argues in favour of long-term continuity of this particular tradition

Fig. 5.9. Fused gold sheet and translucent green glass inlay from ring from Thetford, England. British Museum, Department of Prehistoric and Early Europe 1981.2–1.21. 1.5:1 (Drawing: Philip Compton).

Fig. 5.10. Fused gold sheet and translucent blue glass inlay from Hercules club pendant from Thetford, England. British Museum, Department of Prehistoric and Early Europe 1981.2–1.28. 1.5:1 (Drawing: Philip Compton).

Fig. 5.11. Translucent blue glass inlay with fused twisted gold wire in the shape of C-scrolls. Private collection, London. 1.5:1 (Photo: author).

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OF CLOISONNÉ ENAMEL: SOME EARLY FUSED GOLD AND GLASS INLAYS

of glass making technology over many centuries, although there are clearly many gaps in the archaeological record. Although this discussion has taken care to distinguish between ‘true’ cloisonné enamel and the technique of fusing gold wire with glass, in practice the two technologies may never have been so conveniently separated. Glass can be fused to gold wire with no structural support on the sides or reverse. If we allow the possibility that not every fused enamel requires cell walls soldered to a backing-plate, then the Roman series of wire and coloured glass inlays may be considered to be the authentic forerunners of some forms of cloisonné enamel.37 David Buckton has suggested that the rise of cloisonné enamelling in the Byzantine and Early Medieval periods may be connected with the demise of garnet cloisonné, proposing that cloisonné enamel developed in the Carolingian period as a ‘poor man’s substitute’ after the supply of garnets to the west became erratic in the late seventh century AD.38 Current scholarship recognises that there may always have been fluctuations in the garnet trade. One major recession occurred even earlier, in the last third of the sixth century AD, perhaps due to political conflicts on the Arabian peninsula affecting the trade around the Red Sea.39 It may be significant that one coherent group of Early Byzantine filigree enamels, decorated with individual motifs outlined in strip wire, can be dated around this same period, to the late sixth or early seventh century AD.40 As Buckton proposed, the production of true cloisonné enamel is unlikely to have developed independently of the technology of garnet cloisonné incorporating cellwork structures made of wire strips.41 We now know from coindated archaeological evidence that garnet cloisonné, often combined with opaque or translucent green glass, was first produced in the decades preceding the middle of the third century AD.42 The archaeological evidence reviewed here suggests that cloisonné enamel inlays in red and green glass were manufactured by the late fourth century AD. Thus, an alternative theory could be advanced at the earlier end of the chronological scale – that early cloisonné enamel may have emerged in the second half of the third or fourth centuries AD alongside the technology associated with the fabrication of garnet cloisonné. At present there is insufficient evidence from the Late Roman period to flesh out this hypothesis. One group of enamels with udjat eyes and birds set in Late Roman frames, are of doubtful authenticity.43 One additional object, however, which corresponds to this Late Roman time frame – a small jewellery element set with a cloisonné disc, said to be from Antioch in Syria and now in the Dumbarton Oaks collection – deserves a closer look (Fig. 5.12).44 The disc displays a six-petalled rosette in translucent red glass in a translucent green glass ground. It was manufactured with a gold strip surround and then let into the central capsule of the element which is pierced on the reverse for double

43

stringing. The discrete cell walls forming the petals touch the backing-plate and flow lines within the translucent green glass matrix confirm that this glass was heated. The situation is less clear with the translucent red glass, which almost appears to be cut and inlaid; the glass on one of the petals is not fused with the cell wall and is sunken into the cell.45 The fine openwork palmette border of the element finds parallels on coin-set pendants and elements made throughout the third century AD and particularly with examples coin-dated to the 250s and 260s.46 It is, of course, tempting to see such a piece as a more sophisticated version of the sort of cloisonné enamel represented by the glass discs on the Szilágysomlyó brooches. However, even if its method of manufacture could be clarified, the lack of archaeological context of the Dumbarton Oaks necklace element renders any further comments regarding its date and origin speculative. David Buckton, who has seen a very broad range of enamels, feels the disc dates to the ninth century AD.47 Nonetheless, it would not be surprising if early experiments in cloisonné enamel were carried out in Late Roman jewellery workshops. As the above discussion implied, the apparent re-use of the glass discs on the Szilágysomlyó brooches argues against the Gepids being the originators of enamelling in the Late Roman period. The rôle of the ‘barbarian’ peoples in such a process may be compared to their position in respect to garnet cloisonné in general. Although garnet cloisonné ornaments have been traditionally associated exclusively with the Germanic and Hunnic tribes, current research now locates their manufacture within the broader context of Late Roman and Late Antique jewellery production. Indeed some of the finest pieces may have been created in officially sponsored workshops in urban centres such as Constantinople, Ravenna and Antioch.48 Future research into the predecessors of Byzantine cloisonné enamel should therefore look carefully for further evidence from securely dated contexts, particularly from the second

Fig. 5.12. Necklace element set with cloisonné enamel disc in translucent green and red glass. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington D.C., no. 50.13. 1.5:1 (Photo: DO).

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NOËL ADAMS

half of the third into the fourth century AD, when the continuity of Roman period glass making, combined with the rise of garnet cloisonné technology, provide the two factors necessary for the production of true cloisonné enamel.

Acknowledgements

8.

I am grateful to David Buckton for references, conversations and communications on various aspects of this subject. I have benefited from discussions with Susan Youngs, Andrew Middleton, Sue La Niece, Catherine Johns and Angela Evans as well as Richard Rooney, Niamh Whitfield and Hugh Tait.

Notes 1. R.M. Ramishvili and V.A. Dzhorbenadze, ‘Arkheologicheskie Issledovaniya v Zone Stroitel’stva Zhinval’skogo Girotekhnicheskogo Kompleksa (Archaeological Investigations in the Building Zone of the Zhinvalsky Hydrotechnical Complex)’, Arkheologischeskie Issledovaniya na Novostroiakh Gruzinskoy SSSR (Tbilisi, 1976), pp. 36–7; R.M. Ramishvili, ‘Novye Otkrytiya na Novostroikakh Aragvskogo Ushchel’ya (New Discoveries at Recent Building Sites at Aragvsk Canyon)’, Kratkie Soobshcheniya Instituta Arkheologii Akademii Nauk SSSR 151 (1977), p. 121, Fig. 5; A. Javakishvili and G. Abramishvili, Jewellery and Metalwork in the Museums of Georgia (Leningrad, 1986), p. 76. 2. J. Hampel, Alterthümer des frühen Mittelalters in Ungarn, I–III (Braunschweig, 1905), I, p. 480, Fig. 1495; II, pp. 26–7; III, Taf. 20.1–2; N. Fettich, Der Zweite Schatz von Szilágysomlyó (Budapest, 1932), pp. 24–26, no. V, Tafn. IX–XI; W. Siepel (ed.), Barbarenschmuck und Römergold, Der Schatze von Szilágysomlyó (Vienna, 1999), pp. 147, 202, 204, Abb. 8, Kat. Nr. 52–53. 3. The coin-date must be treated with circumspection as several high-status graves excavated in the Republic of Georgia contained issues of Valerian as the latest coins. This may well reflect the general collapse of Roman coinage at this time. The majority of imperial mints in the east made their final issues for Valerian, and even after the reforms of Aurelian in the 270s, many local mints remained closed. The accompanying grave goods in this burial, however, are unlikely to be later than the first decades of the fourth century AD. 4. I had the opportunity to examine this object in September 1997 under the auspices of a British Academy Small Research Grant. I am grateful to the Academy, to Dr. Michael Vickers and Dr. Otar Lordkipanidze and especially to the staff at the State Museum of Georgia in Tbilisi. I am particularly indebted to Dr. Alexander Javakishvili who arranged for me to work with a microscope and allowed me to take the photographs included in this article. 5. R. Higgins, Greek and Roman Jewellery (London, 1980), pp. 23–4. 6. The six gold finger-rings from tomb 8 at Kouklia Evreti, Cyprus, can be dated to the twelfth century BC: Bulletin Correspondance Hellénique XCII (1968), p. 162; Higgins, Jewellery, p. 25. 7. Das Gold der Skythen und Griechen (exhibition, Kunst-und

9.

10.

11. 12.

13.

Ausstellunghalle der Bundesrepublik Deustchland, Bonn, 1997), pp. 207–8, no. 104. Grave 2 was a double male and female burial. Two other ornaments from Grave 1 (a female burial in the same kurgan) – a ring and pin-head inlaid with a rosette – although referred to as enamelled in the literature (Higgins Jewellery, pp. 169 and 171), appear from modern photographs to be examples of cold cloisonné inlaying with opaque glass. M. Rosenberg, Geschichte der Goldschmiedekunst auf Technischer Grundlage, Zellenschmelz (Darmstadt, 1920), pp. 39– 43. The first published examples appear in the context of glass collections: A. Nesbitt in A.W. Franks (ed.), Catalogue of the Collection of Glass formed by Felix Slade, Esq., F.S.A. With Notes on the History of Glass Making, by Alexander Nesbitt, Esq., F.S.A (London,1871), pp. xviv, 15–16; W. Froehner, Collection Julien Gréau, Verrerie Antique (Paris, 1903), pp. 88–89, nos. 604–6; W. Froehner, Collezione di Vetri Antichi dalle Origini al V Sec. D.C. (Milan and Rome, 1914), p. 75. In contrast most modern publications group these inlays with ring intaglios: E. Brandt and E. Schmidt, Antike Gemmen in Deutschen Sammlungen, I, Staatliche Münzsammlung München (Munich, 1970), p. 221, nos. 2097–98; E. Zwierlein-Diehl, Die Antiken Gemmen Kunsthistorischen Museums in Wien, III (Munich, 1991), pp. 232–3, nos. 2530–34. I am grateful to Veronica Tatton-Brown for her kindness in allowing me to study and photograph the collection of fused gold and glass inlays in the collections of the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum. Cf. R. Lequément, ‘Circonscription de Midi-Pyrénées’, Gallia 44 (1986), pp. 310–11, Fig. 3 and the Egyptian series of sacred ibis inlays, E.M. Stern and B. Schlick-Nolte, Early Glass of the Ancient World, 1600 B.C.–A.D. 50, Ernesto Wolf Collection (Ostfildern, 1994), pp. 368–9, no. 122. Evidence that these mosaic glass plaques were known even north of the limes is provided by the recent excavation of an ibis plaque at the GalloRoman vicus at Tawern, Germany (S. Faust, ‘Ein Mosaikglas mit Ibis aus dem gallo-römischen Vicus von Tawern’, Funde und Ausgrabungen im Bezirk Trier 29 (1997), pp. 67–69, Abb. 1a–b. Many parallels can be cited and the following references have further bibliographies: M. Maaskant-Kleibrink, Catalogue of the Engraved Gems in the Royal Coin Cabinet The Hague (The Hague, 1978), pp. 205 and 276, nos. 462, 761, 764 (parrots, cock); E. Zwierlein-Diehl, Glaspasten im Martin-von-WagnerMuseum der Universität Würzburg I (Munich, 1986), p. 236, no. 678 (vine leaf with cicada); U. Pannuti, Catalogo dell Collezione Glittica, I (Rome, 1983), p. 158, no. 293 (shrimp); M. Henig, Classical Gems (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 174–5, nos. 375 (lizard) and 379 (shrimp). Sheet gold vine leaves of closely similar scale and outline, their surfaces dipped with green enamel (émail en ronde bosse), are used in Hellenistic jewellery: M. De Julius (ed.), Gli Ori di Tarnato in Età Ellenistica (Milan, 1984), pp. 187–8, no. 122a (late third to early second century BC). Pannuti, Glittica, pp. 153, 169, nos. 281, 326–7. The first published in Lequément, ‘Circonscription de MidiPyrénées’, pp. 310–11, Fig. 3 (from a tomb at L’Hospitalet-duLarzac, dated ca. 80–100 AD), and the second from rescue excavations conducted on the site of a Gallo-Roman villa by J. Gagnaire in 1983 (no. 21721 from the unpublished files of the late Mme. M.-M. Gauthier, formerly director of the Corpus des Émaux méridionaux, C.N.R.S.). I am grateful to David Buckton for these references. R. Laser and A. Schreiner, ‘Eine Glasgemme mit Zellenemail von Wangenheim, Kr. Gotha’, Alt-Thüringen 22/23 (1987), pp. 265–73, misidentified as a peacock.

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OF CLOISONNÉ ENAMEL: SOME EARLY FUSED GOLD AND GLASS INLAYS

14. Cochet (Abbé), La Normandie Souterraine (2nd ed., Paris, 1855), pp. 365–7, pl. XII, Fig. 3; L’Or des Vikings (exhibition catalogue, Bordeaux, Musée d’Acquitaine, 1969), p. 274, no. 14, pl. V, no. 8; La Normandie Souterraine (exhibition catalogue, Musée des Antiquités, Rouen, 1975), p. 145, no. 582. Mme. Laurence Flavigny kindly corresponded with me on this piece and provided a slide of the inlay. 15. Although wires always define the outline of the subject on this series, on the bird plaques, the different colours inside the bird, representing wings, breast, tail, etc. are generally not separated by wires. 16. An exception is the square dolphin plaque (4.35 × 4.6 cm), formerly in the Sangiorgi collection and now in the Corning Museum of Glass: see D. Whitehouse, Roman Glass in the Corning Museum of Glass, Volume One (Corning, 1997), p. 24, no. 17. This plaque, said to be from Egypt, may, however, represent a slightly different manufacturing technique as its body is apparently composed of cut and inlaid glass sections let into the blue glass and surrounded by wire. See also note 21 below. 17. Maaskant-Kleibrink, Catalogue of Engraved Gems, p. 60, Fig. 2, Type F (flat upper and lower surfaces), particularly profiles 1, 2 and 4. 18. The vine leaf from Envermeu is set in a silver surround which was perhaps a centrepiece from a high-status pendant or brooch. A square tablet with a bird, set in a fragmentary stamped gold mount, was found amongst objects of Roman and later date along the foundation walls of a fort or tower at Ithaca; the latest coins were of the third century AD: see W. Vollgraf, ‘Fouilles d’Ithaque (1)’, Bulletin Correspondance Hellénique (1905), pp. 158–9, Fig. 24. There are also inlays from a corresponding series, using flat leaf gold, or sheet gold, set onto jewellery: see note 34 below. 19. Nesbitt, Catalogue of the Collection of Glass, p. 15. Elsewhere, however, he suggests that the surface was hollowed out, then a fillet of wire made to follow the outline and enamels inserted between the wires, then fired (p. xviv). 20. Rosenberg, Zellenschmelz, pp. 40–1; Higgins, Jewellery, p. 26. 21. Whitehouse, pers. comm. 20/5/99. This method appears to be accurate for the dolphin plaque in the Corning Museum (Whitehouse, Roman Glass, p. 24, no. 17), but is unlikely for the main series, whose extremely fine wires are certainly fused with the glass. 22. D. Buckton, ‘The Upside-Down Enamel of Late Antiquity’, Seventeenth Annual Byzantine Studies Conference (Brookline, Massachusetts, 1991), p. 38. This method was also suggested by the Research Laboratory of the British Museum in connection with the manufacture of related inlays of gold and glass from the Thetford treasure: see M.R. Cowell, S. La Niece and N.D. Meeks, ‘The Scientific Examination of the Thetford Treasure’, in C. Johns and T. Potter The Thetford Treasure, Roman Jewellery and Silver (London, 1983), p. 60. Variations and experimentation with casting with wire and coloured glass in clay moulds are discussed in detail in connection with seventhcentury AD Celtic objects in M. Bimson and A.E. Werner, ‘Scientific Examination of Ancient Glass’, Annales du 3e Congrès des “Journées International du Verre” (Liège, 1964), pp. 200–9. I am grateful to Dr. Niamh Whitfield for the latter reference. 23. For a modern summary of the considerable number of these, see G. Haseloff, Email im frühen Mittelalter (Marburg, 1990), pp. 22–5, nos. 29–32. 24. Two pairs of bracelets, from Burials 40 and 43 adjacent to the rich sarcophagi at Armaziskhevi outside the ancient Iberian capital of Mtskheta, have also been described as cloisonné enamel

25.

26.

27.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

45

(A.M. Apakidze et al., Mtskheta (Tbilisi, 1958), pp. 129–31, Colour Pl. XIII.1 and Pl. C12–13 (Burial 40) and pp. 136–8, Colour Pl. XIII.2 and Pl. CIII.1, 12 (Burial 43); Javakishvili and Abramishvili, Jewellery, no. 54). Examination under a microscope, however, has confirmed that the coloured inlays combined with the garnet cabochons on these bracelets are cut stones, probably malachite and lapis lazuli. These are thus examples of cold cloisonné, although one might speculate that they imitate enamel. They should be dated to the later fourth or fifth century AD. N. Adams, ‘The Development of Early Garnet Inlaid Ornaments’, Varia Archaeologia Hungarica 10 (2000), pp. 12–13, and N. Adams and Z. Bragvadze, ‘A New Garnet Cloisonné Medallion from Georgia’, forthcoming. The late Dr. Attila Kiss, at the time curator at the Magyar Nemzeti Muzéum, allowed me to examine these brooches. I am grateful to Dr. Tibor Kovács for providing a colour transparency for this publication. The first hoard went to the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, but the second is in the Magyar Nemzeti Muzéum in Budapest. The circumstances of the discovery of the second hoard are summarised in Fettich, Szilágysomlyó, pp. 9–12. There can be little doubt of the integrity of the find complex as F. Pulsky, then Director of the National Museum in Budapest, visited the site the day after the discovery of the second treasure. Gepid ownership in I. Bóna, The Dawn of the Dark Ages, The Gepids and Lombards in the Carpathian Basin (Budapest, 1976), pp. 66–9; A. Kiss, ‘Der Zeitpunkt der Verbergung der Schatzfund I und II von Szilágysomlyó’, Acta Antiqua XXX (1992– 94), p. 164. For arguments for the second hoard being in the hands of Ostrogothic/Alanic tribes, see K. Horedt and D. Protase, ‘Das zweite Fürstengrab von Apahida (Siebenburgen)’, Germania 50 (1972), p. 216; R. Harhoiu, ‘Das Norddonauländische Gebeit im 5. Jahrhundert und Seine Beziehungen zum Spätrömischen Kaiserreich’, in H. Wolfram and F. Daim (eds.), Die Völker an der mittleren und unteren Donau im fünften und sechsten Jahrhundert (Vienna, 1980), pp. 103–6; H. Wolfram, History of the Goths (Berkeley, 1988), pp. 254–5. Recent reviews of the two sides of the argument in Siepel, Barbarenschmuck: A. Kiss, ‘Historische Auswertung’, pp. 163– 8 and R. Stark, ‘Die Bedeutung der Schatzfunde als archäologische Quelle’, pp. 169–75. A.K. Ambroz, ‘Fibuly yuga Evropeyskoy Chasti SSSR,’ Arkheologiya SSSR, D1–30 (Moscow, 1966), pp. 87–8, Group 21 (double plate fibulae), Subgroup II, Variant IIAA; M. Kazanski and R. Legoux, ‘Contribution à l’étude des témoignages archéologiques des Goths en europe orientale à l’époque des Grandes Migrations: La chronologie de la culture de ‡érnjahov recente’, Archéologie Médiévale XVIII (1988), p. 37, Pl. V, 96. V. Bierbrauer, ‘Zur chronologischen, soziologischen und regionalen Gliederung des ostgermanische Fundstoffes des 5. Jhs. in Südosteurope’, in Wolfram and Daim, Die Völker, pp. 136–7, Abb. 14. Many examples are preserved on jewellery from the northern and eastern shores of the Black Sea: cf. S. Bezuglov and A. Zacharov, ‘Bogatoe pogrebenie pozdnerimskogo vremeni bliz Tanaisa’, Izvestiya Rostovskogo Oblastnogo Muzeya Kraevedeniya 6 (1989), pl. 4.2–4 (earrings from Nedvigovka, near the ancient Tanaïs, Rostov on Don); Archéologie de la Mer Noire (exhibition catalogue, Caen, 1997), p. 62, no. 4 (earrings from Druznoe, near Simféropol, t.p.q. A.D. 251); I Goti (exhibition catalogue, Milan, 1994), pp. 116–17, no. II.1j (pendant from the 24 June 1904 tomb at Kerch…, t.p.q. 392 AD). Haseloff, Email, Figs. 17, 22, 25–26, 28–30, 34, 36, 43–45.

46

NOËL ADAMS

33. Rosenberg, Zellenschmelz III, Die Frühendenkmäler (Darmstadt, 1922–23), p. 2. Fig. 3. 34. Johns and Potter, Thetford Treasure, pp. 93–4, no. 21 and pp. 97–8, no. 28. I am grateful to Catherine Johns for allowing me to examine and photograph the Thetford pieces and to use the drawings prepared for the BM publication. 35. Private collection, London. I am grateful to the owner of this disc for permission to publish it here. 36. The patterns of thin sheet or leaf gold are almost entirely missing from further examples in the collection of the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities at the British Museum: GR 86.11– 17. 60; GR 1976. 10–6. 7–8. 37. The Department of Medieval and Modern Europe at the British Museum holds an example of an unfinished enamel inlay, stylistically datable to around AD 1000, which was manufactured without a backing plate, perhaps in a similar fashion to the Roman series of fused glass inlays. This inlay has cell walls separating different colours of glass and at one point in his research Buckton considered this to be an example of a type of cloisonné inlaying: D. Buckton, ‘Enamelling on Gold, A Historical Perspective’, Gold Bulletin 15 (1982), pp. 102, 104, Fig. 5. However, in a later conference paper he rejected the technologically equivalent ‘aviculae’ as the forerunners of Byzantine and medieval cloisonné enamel: Buckton, ‘The Upside-Down Enamel’, p. 38. 38. D. Buckton, ‘‘Necessity the mother of invention’ in Early Medieval Enamel’, Transactions of the Third Canadian Conference of Medieval Art Historians 3, 1982 (London, Ontario, 1985), p. 1, and Buckton, ‘Enamelling on Gold’, p. 102. Recent mineralogical investigation of garnet stones used on cloisonné jewellery dated from the second half of the seventh to the early eighth century AD jewellery suggests that local Bohemian garnets may have been substituted for stones traded from the east: D. Quast and U. Schüssler, ‘Mineralogische Untersuchungen zur Herkunft der Granate merowingerzeitlicher Cloisonnéarbeiten’, Germania 78 (2000), pp. 75–96. 39. U. von Freeden, ‘Das Ende engzelligen Cloisonnés und die erogerun Südarabiens durch die Sasaniden’, Germania 78 (2000), pp. 97–124. Whether or not this particular thesis can be sustained, it is true that even the most splendid, high-status jewellery and ornaments produced in the late sixth and first half of the seventh centuries AD never again enjoyed the luxury of large clear almandine stones: see, N. Adams, ‘The Gold and Cloisonné Mounts on the Sardonyx Cup at St. Maurice D’Agaune’, Les grenats et le style Cloisonné, AFAM, forthcoming. 40. D. Buckton, ‘Byzantine Enamel and the West’, Byzantinische Forschungen XIII (1988), pp. 237–9; D. Buckton (ed.) Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (London, 1994), p. 95, cat. no. 98. Buckton does not consider this group comparable to cloisonné enamel as, in the strictest semantic sense, the wires are not used to create cloisons or cells (see, however, the separation of colours by wires on the pectoral cross from this group in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection: M. C. Ross, Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Medieval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Vol. Two (Washington D.C., 1965), p. 136, no. 179H, Colour plate D). He prefers to see the technique as deriving from Hellenistic period filigree enamel, despite the chronological gap. The choice of subject matter on this group, including birds and simplified ivy leaves,

is interesting in the context of the fused gold and glass ‘aviculae’. 41. Buckton, ‘Byzantine Enamel’, p. 236. Haseloff, Email, p. 16, argued along similar lines. There are several means of assembling garnet cloisonné, but one large class of objects is fabricated with wire strips soldered to a backing-plate to create cells set with garnet or glass plates; these are often backed by reflective gold foils set on a bed of cement, see Adams, Garnet Inlaid Ornaments, p. 16, Fig. 1, Class I. 42. Adams, Garnet Inlaid Ornaments, pp. 11–18. 43. The best known example, a medallion from the de Clerq collection, has been examined by David Buckton who concluded that it was flash-fired in a modern technique; according to Danielle Gaborit-Chopin, the frame itself also may not be ancient. Personal communication, David Buckton, 23/4/01. These observations render the other examples of this class suspect (all published in Haseloff, Email, pp. 19–20, nos. 12– 15). 44. Ross, Catalogue, p. 26, no. 24; Haseloff, Email, pp. 23, 50, no. 27. 45. My observations seem to mirror Ross’ indecision as to whether the disc was enamel or glass paste. Dr. Stephen Zwirn kindly allowed me to examine the disc under a microscope, but further scientific examination would be needed to confirm the process of manufacture of this piece. 46. This particular type of palmette border appears on four of the eight suspended necklace elements in the Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore, set with Roman coins of the first and second centuries AD, but datable to the early third century AD (see Objects of Adornment. Five Thousand Years of Jewelry from the Walters Art Gallery (Baltimore, 1984), no. 63, pl. IX and J-A. Bruhn, Coins and Costume in Late Antiquity (Washington, D.C., 1993), pp. 10, 12, Fig. 7, cat. no. 1). Another group of necklace elements in Berlin, with comparable borders and also fashioned to be double-strung like the Dumbarton Oaks piece, displays coins dated from 251–53 AD (A. Greifenhagen, Schmuckarbeiten in Edelmetall. I. Fundgruppen. Antikensammlung, Staatliche Museen, Berlin (Berlin, 1970), pp. 73–4, pl. 55, 1–3, colour plate VI-4). 47. In favour of his opinion is the fact that the cell wall of one of the petals has ‘floated’ away from the centre, as on other cloisonné from the second half of the ninth century AD (compare Haseloff, Email, nos 28, 37d). Also the suspension loop on the element is probably not original, which might suggest a later re-use and adaptation. On the other hand, the size of the capsule holding the disc is unusually small for a Roman coin, so one must ask what it was intended to hold, if not something like a small cameo or circular glass inlay. The disc measures approx. 1.3– 1.35 cm, within the range of Roman period ‘aviculae’, and slightly smaller than the Szilágysomlyó discs and the ninth– tenth century AD enamel inlays with rosettes. European examples of the latter were generally manufactured with opaque rather than translucent glass. On balance it seems unlikely that the disc could have been a modern addition in Syria in the 1950s and if it is a post-Roman replacement, the exact fit into the capsule is remarkable. 48. B. Arrhenius, Merovingian Garnet Jewellery (Stockholm, 1985), pp. 96–126; M. Kazanski and P. Perin, ‘Le Mobilier Funéraire de la Tombe de Childeric Ier, État de la question et perspectives’, Revue Archéologique de Picardi 3–4 (1988), pp. 21–6; Adams, Garnet Inlaid Ornaments, pp. 12–14, 19–26.

ON

THE DATE OF THE

SYMMACHI

PANEL AND THE SO-CALLED

GRADO CHAIR

IVORIES

47

6. On the date of the Symmachi panel and the so-called Grado Chair ivories Paul Williamson

David Buckton always pursued the study of early medieval and Byzantine enamels alongside his colleagues in the Department of Scientific Research at the British Museum, and many of the most valuable interventions in the annual enamel conferences which David was instrumental in setting up were made by scientists rather than art historians. In another area of study in which he has been concerned, early medieval ivory carvings, the contribution of the scientist has not been so marked, although a number of the thornier problems of dating have long been crying out for an elucidation beyond the means of conventional art history. The purpose of this short note is to present the results of one of these scientific methods of investigation, radiocarbon analysis, on some ivory reliefs in the Victoria and Albert Museum which have been the subject of considerable scholarly interest in recent years. The investigation of organic objects by means of radiocarbon analysis has been transformed since the early 1980s by the development of the Accelerator Mass Spectrometer, which allows research to be carried out with far smaller samples of material than previously needed.1 Thin ivory plaques had before this date been ruled out as possible subjects for testing because of their extreme fragility and the potential for damage that existed in extracting the sample, whereas it is now possible to gather a sufficient amount of ivory by carefully drilling (with a 2mm drill) two 5mmdeep holes into the underside of the edge of the plaque. These tiny holes can then be plugged with wax, becoming virtually invisible. Once the samples have been extracted and taken to the laboratory the collagen in the ivory powder is reduced to graphite, the latter passed through the Accelerator, and the age of the sample arrived at by calibration on an established scale, giving a wide date bracket with a 95.4% degree of confidence and a narrower bracket (or brackets) with a 68.2% probability.2 The testing of the four ivories which are the subject of this note was carried out in 1995 at the Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit of the Research Laboratory for Archaeology and the History of Art at Oxford

University by Dr Paul Pettitt, and the relevant readings on the calibrated scale are laid out here (Fig. 6.1).3 The first ivory carving to be discussed is the famous Symmachi panel, half of a diptych – the other leaf, of the Nicomachi, is now in Paris – almost universally recognised as a masterpiece of Late Antique art executed in Rome in the late fourth century (Fig. 6.2). Given its stylistic characteristics, so clearly defined by a number of eminent authorities, and its known early provenance on a reliquary shrine in Montier-en-Der, this might not have appeared to be a necessary candidate for scientific investigation.4 However, the publication of two articles in 1992 and 1993 called into question the authenticity of the panel, and even though these were uninformed and methodologically flawed pieces of work which have since been comprehensively demolished in print by art-historical and technical means, it was felt that radiocarbon dating was an appropriate further action.5 The result produced gave a reading of 70–350 with a 95.4% degree of probability, with further date brackets

Fig. 6.1. Calibrated scale showing the radiocarbon readings for (from top to bottom) the ivory carvings illustrated in Figs. 6.3, 6.4, 6.5 and 6.2.

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PAUL WILLIAMSON

of 130–260 and 300–320 at 68.2% probability.6 An interpretation of this data yielding a time in the first half of the fourth century for the death of the elephant, although slightly surprising and a little earlier than expected, would

Fig. 6.2. The Symmachi Panel. Ivory, Rome, late fourth century. Victoria & Albert Museum, London (Photo: V&A).

be generally consonant with the widely accepted date for the carving of the panel in the years around 400, seeming to indicate that the tusk from which it was carved was stockpiled before being made available and cut in the workshop.7 Another interpretation, of course, is that the panel is very much earlier than previously thought, but this would necessitate viewing the inscriptions as later additions. The Symmachi panel was tested to refute suggestions of inauthenticity, but the next two reliefs were selected in the hope that one of the most intractable problems in the study of early medieval ivory carvings could be solved. These reliefs have traditionally been associated with the ivories of the so-called Grado Chair, a group of fourteen more or less stylistically coherent ivories which have been dated and localised in the past with a bewildering variety of opinions, ranging from the sixth to the twelfth century. Serious discussion of the pieces began with Hans Graeven’s article in the Römische Quartalschrift of 1899, where he associated the core group of plaques with the ivory cathedra of St Mark, presented to Grado Cathedral by the Emperor Herac-

Fig. 6.3. St Peter dictating the Gospel to St Mark. Ivory plaque, probably Syria-Palestine, late seventh century. Victoria & Albert Museum, London (Photo: V&A).

ON

THE DATE OF THE

SYMMACHI

PANEL AND THE SO-CALLED

GRADO CHAIR

IVORIES

49

lius between 610 and 641.8 After a good number of articles on the subject, scholarly division has now settled into those who follow Kurt Weitzmann’s proposed date of the late seventh to eighth centuries, with a place of production in Syria-Palestine, and those agreeing with W.F. Volbach, who would prefer to locate the group in eleventh-century Italy, favouring a stylistic position which would put them in direct relation to the so-called Salerno ivories.9 If a radiocarbon date bracket with a figure at its core of later than 800 were to be obtained, one could safely eliminate the former. The first ivory in this group is a plaque showing St Peter dictating the Gospel to St Mark (Fig. 6.3).10 The date bracket arrived at for the raw material of this piece, with 95.4% probability, was 440–670; a date bracket of 550–650 was established with a 68.2% degree of certainty.11 The second plaque, now partly broken, shows the Filling of the Water Pots at the Miracle of Cana (Fig. 6.4).12 The date ranges found here overlap with the first panel, there being a 95.4% probability of a date for the ivory of 630–820, with 68.2% confidence in smaller date brackets of 650–720 and 740– 770, with an emphasis on the former.13 This is especially important, as a common ‘early’ date bracket for two ivories

would appear to rule out the possibility of simultaneous carving or reuse at a later date. It would seem therefore that Weitzmann’s dating of these particular ivories to the late seventh or early eighth century is supported by the scientific evidence, although Graeven’s tempting hypothesis still cannot be ruled out: it is to be hoped that further examples from the same group, especially those in Milan, will in due course also be tested so that the data base may be expanded.14 The final relief, showing Joseph’s Dream (Fig. 6.5), was included as a typical example of the South Italian romanesque school of ivory carving, close to the Salerno ivories, normally dated to the second half of the eleventh century.15 The radiocarbon analysis does not categorically support this, suggesting instead an earlier date in the eleventh century, at latest: a date between 780 and 1010 for the death of the elephant was established with 95.4% confidence.16 At present, radiocarbon dating – unlike dendrochronology – will not provide precise dates for medieval works

Fig. 6.4. The Filling of the Water Pots at the Miracle of Cana. Ivory plaque, probably Syria-Palestine, late seventh century. Victoria & Albert Museum, London (Photo: V&A).

Fig. 6.5. Joseph’s Dream. Ivory plaque, South Italy, eleventh century. Victoria & Albert Museum, London (Photo: V&A).

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PAUL WILLIAMSON

of art, and is thus no substitute for documents which allow this. Nor does it establish the date of the carving, only the time at which the material – be it ivory, bone or wood – became available for working (i.e. when the plant or animal from which the material derived died). So the possibility that the organic raw materials of carving were utilised in the workshop only at a date considerably later than their earliest availability, or that certain reliefs were recarved from earlier works, cannot be entirely precluded.17 But it does of course provide a useful terminus post quem for the detection of fakes and forgeries and in the case of the socalled Grado Chair ivories allows the introduction of a significant further piece of evidence.

6. 7.

8. 9.

Notes 1 See R. Burleigh and E.T. Hall, ‘Accelerator dating’, Antiquity LVIII (1984), pp. 205–6. 2. M.T. Gibson and E.C. Southworth, ‘Radiocarbon dating of ivory and bone carvings’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association CXLIII (1990), pp. 131–33, and for a useful introduction to the subject, S. Bowman, Radiocarbon dating (London, 1990). 3. I am most grateful to Dr Pettitt for his analysis of the findings, to the late Professor E.T. Hall for facilitating the work, and to Richard Cook of the Sculpture Conservation Section at the Victoria and Albert Museum for supervising the extraction of the samples and making good the ivories. The report and correspondence on the tests is kept in the Department of Sculpture at the Victoria and Albert Museum and in the Museum Registered Papers 81/2237. 4. For the older literature and a summary of the issues, see W.F. Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten der Spätantike und des frühen Mittelalters (3rd edition, Mainz, 1976), no. 55; P. Williamson, The Symmachi Panel (V&A Masterpiece Sheet 22, London, 1980); B. Kiilerich, ‘A different interpretation of the Nicomachorum-Symmachorum diptych’, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum XXXIV (1991), pp. 115–28; and D. Kinney, ‘The iconography of the ivory diptych Nicomachorum-Symmachorum’, idem, XXXVII (1994), pp. 64–96. 5. J.M. Eisenberg, ‘The aesthetics of the forger: stylistic criteria in Ancient art forgery’, Minerva III/3 (1992), pp. 10–15, and ‘The Symmachi ivory diptych panel: a nineteenth-century interpretation of a lost original?’, idem, pp. 12–18; for scholarly rebuttals of these views see D. Kinney, ‘A Late Antique ivory plaque and

10.

11. 12. 13. 14.

15.

16. 17.

modern response’ and A. Cutler, ‘Suspicio Symmachorum: a postscript’, American Journal of Archaeology XCVIII (1994), pp. 457–72, 473–80. Ref. OxA-5792: 1805±55BP. We can reject the possibility that a modern forger could have obtained a piece of ancient ivory, recognised that it was the correct date for the carving he proposed and then have carved it effectively. H. Graeven, ‘Der heilige Markus in Rom und in der Pentapolis’, Römische Quartalschrift XIII (1899), pp. 109ff. K. Weitzmann, ‘The ivories of the so-called Grado Chair’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers XXVI (1972), pp. 45–91, and idem, Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Mediaeval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection, III, Ivories and Steatites (Washington, D.C., 1972), no. 20, pp. 37–42, followed by G. Vikan and N. Ševc¡enko in K. Weitzmann (ed.), Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, third to seventh century (exh. cat., New York, 1979), nos. 448, 456, 490, and H. Fillitz in Omaggio a San Marco. Tesori dall’Europa (exh. cat., Milan, 1994), nos. 10–19. The eleventh-century date and a place of origin in Italy was proposed by Volbach, Elfenbeinarbeiten, nos. 237–48, and followed tentatively by the present author in An Introduction to Medieval Ivory Carvings (London, 1982), pp. 13, 30, and The Medieval Treasury: the Art of the Middle Ages in the Victoria and Albert Museum (London, 1986), pp. 104–5. Inv. no. 270–1867: M.H. Longhurst, Catalogue of Carvings in Ivory, Victoria and Albert Museum, I (London, 1927), pp. 32– 33. Ref. OxA-5789: 1455±60BP. Inv.no. A.1–1921: Longhurst, Catalogue, p. 33. Ref. OxA-5790: 1315±50BP. A small piece of circumstantial evidence in favour of Graeven’s hypothesis of a Grado provenance may be the presence of the Miracle of Cana plaque in Venice by at least the eighteenth century: see my review of Bergmann’s book, cited in the following note, in The Burlington Magazine CXXIV (1982), pp. 299–300. Inv.no. 701–1884: Longhurst, Catalogue, pp. 92–93; see also R.P. Bergman, The Salerno Ivories, Ars Sacra from Medieval Amalfi (Cambridge [Mass.], 1980), cat. B10, pp. 136–37, and Williamson, Medieval Treasury, pp. 106–7. Ref. OxA-5791: 1130±55BP. A date of 820–980 was indicated with 68.2% confidence. As was quite often the case with Carolingian ivory carvings, and at other times when the raw material was scarce (see most recently: 799. Kunst und Kultur der Karolingerzeit: Karl der Grosse und Papst Leo III. in Paderborn [exh. cat., Mainz, 1999], 2, nos. VII.37, X.22b).

WHO’S

THAT GIRL?

PERSONIFICATIONS

OF THE

BYZANTINE

EMPRESS

51

7. Who’s that girl? Personifications of the Byzantine empress Liz James

In the catalogue of the British Museum’s Byzantium exhibition, a counterpoise weight for a ‘steelyard’ is featured.1 It depicts an emperor. The catalogue entry does not say so, but the label in the case noted that such objects are more often found in the form of empresses. Indeed, over seventy examples of counterpoise weights from across the empire are in the form of empresses’ heads, making them the commonest image on counterweights; Byzantium could indeed have exhibited one of the Museum’s own examples (Fig. 7.1).2 The reaction of art historians and archaeologists to these objects has tended to concentrate on assigning specific weights to named empresses. Many, simply known through museum collections, are dated to the late fourth or fifth centuries on grounds of their perceived similarities to coins of the Theodosian empresses, both east and west. However, these comparisons are often less than convincing, implying as they do an interest in accurate portraiture not always apparent in Late Antique and Byzantine art. These objects are clearly more generic, typological representations than portraits, and this is the way in which I shall consider them here.3 Images identified as empresses on counterweights all appear very similar. The figure is invariably shown at bustlength, staring ahead. She is crowned, though the types of diadem vary somewhat (dating and ascription to specific empresses is often done on the basis of changing diadems), and she generally wears a large necklace or jewelled collar. In her left hand, the figure almost always holds one of two objects. One appears to be in the form of flat, often double tablets, perhaps a diptych; the other a soft, upright elongated roll which resemble either a scroll or a mappa. Interestingly, few of the descriptions of these counterweights actually consider the contents of the left hand. The figure is wrapped in elaborate garment folds from which the right hand emerges. This hand is empty. It may lie, palm downwards, thumb upwards, fingers outstretched across the breast, gesturing to the object held in the left hand, or it may be raised centrally with the first two fingers extended upwards.

A loop on the top of the head allows for a hook to be attached. Whilst we know very clearly what these objects were used for, we have less of a sense of why images of empresses were felt to be appropriate in this context of weights and measures.4 A good case can very easily be made for the use of the emperor’s image as a typological

Fig. 7.1. Counterpoise weight in the form of an empress (?). British Museum, MME 1980,8–1,10 (Photo: BM).

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representation of power and authority: it acts as an official stamp and guarantee, the authority of the empire present in routine business transactions, as it does on coins. It seems likely that this is the case also for images of the empress, thus suggesting an official position and role for her. Her presence here, as with her presence on low-denomination coins, thus ensured for the empress a widespread presence throughout the empire, and one which validated everyday transactions. Counterweights, therefore, appear to reveal an official representation and presentation of the empress as a fit and proper person to appear on these official objects. However, this use seems problematic if one considers the misogynist nature of Late Antique and Byzantine society, which ostensibly offered no place for women in the public dealings of the state.5 In this framework, the use of images of women as official and imperial representations, especially in this context of commerce, is less easy to understand. Further, imperial art had a very specific function in Late Antiquity and Byzantium. It was used to magnify the supreme power of the emperor.6 The image of the emperor shaped the monarchy’s public image and political reality, presenting the emperor as he wished his subjects to see him and, also, to some extent, as they wished to see him. An emperor should appear victorious, brave, pious, philanthropic, displaying self-control: he might therefore be portrayed as tall, majestic and handsome, as a soldier, in a dynamic pose, even as echoing or hinting at religious imagery. The problem in female imperial iconography lay in the conflict in ideologies between this imperial ideology and the issue of how to depict a ruler, and the ideology of gender in Byzantium, which did not allow women to be powerful. In this sense, the official status of the empress and her gender were also at constant odds with each other. The empress’s position was a constant negotiation of her real body as female and her political body as part of the official imperial hierarchy, for she occupied a paradoxical position as a powerful woman in a society where, ideologically speaking, women were not allowed to be powerful. Simply, they were not supposed to operate in public office. And yet public images of empresses existed, and the image of the empress could be used to validate counterweights. In exploring the use of the image of the empress on counterweights, I want to consider some of the implications of using images of empresses in this way and, in particular, of using this particular depiction of the empress. Firstly, how do we know these are images of empresses? Late Roman and Byzantine empresses were not always depicted in what we now identify as imperial regalia.7 Images such as the half life-size statuette of an empress often identified by scholars as Flaccilla, wife of Theodosios I, and now in the Louvre, depict the empress as a noblewoman. Flaccilla appears in noblewoman’s dress of tunic, dalmatic and palla, holds a diptych in her left hand and wears a diadem.8 Apart from the diadem, she is virtually

indistinguishable from other images of noblewomen from Late Antiquity. It is only gradually through the fifth and sixth centuries that this depiction changes to the type of depiction that we recognise unhesitatingly as an empress, typified perhaps in the mosaic image of the empress Theodora from the sixth-century church of San Vitale in Ravenna. Here the empress is depicted dressed in purple and gold, crowned and haloed, jewelled, with an elaborate collar and heavy earrings, wearing red slippers. Her dress, indeed, is male dress lengthened to the ankle and pinned at the shoulder with a heavy fibula.9 These two images demonstrate a very clear transition over a two-century period as the image of the empress moved from the image of a noblewoman to the image of a distinct and distinctive figure, marked apart from other figures by her dress, her jewellery, her size, her halo. Indeed, a similar transition from aristocrat to empress is apparent in other media, in particular coins. The image of the empress on counterweights is closer to that of Theodora than that of Flaccilla. She is thus identified as an empress because she appears to be wearing imperial garments. However, in other media, the identity of female figures wearing what appears to be imperial clothing is less straightforward. It is not clear whether the frescoed female heads from Trier, for example, depict members of the imperial family or whether, instead, they represent personifications.10 A mosaic from Antioch, dated to the late fifth century, depicts Ktisis, Foundation or Possession, but if it were not so labelled, the details of its dress and diadem might lead to it being identified as an empress.11 Other mosaics from Antioch from between the early fifth and sixth centuries depict similar such personifications, including Megalopsychia, in diadems and jewelled collars.12 From Carthage, a similar mosaic shows a haloed female figure with diadem, rich robes and distinctive fibula, holding a sceptre in her left hand and making the speech gesture across the body with her right.13 This image has no inscription and it is impossible (for us, at least) to know if she is empress or personification. On a smaller scale, a clay lamp now in Berlin depicts a figure in elaborate jewellery, diadem and robes but is labelled Good Fortune.14 On the other hand, a square panel of tapestry weave now in Washington shows a woman with costly jewellery but no other identifying marks; Henry Maguire calls her simply ‘Wealth-bringing woman’.15 Effectively, in Late Antiquity, some representations of the empress and of personifications are so close that we cannot distinguish between them. Counterweights fall into this category. The figure represented has elements of both the empress and of the personification. The jewelled collars so much a part of imperial female representation, the decorated robes, elaborate earrings and diadems seen in representations of empresses are also apparent in depictions of personifications such as Ktisis and Good Fortune. Even the jewelled crown of the empress,

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with its square shape and three peaks, may echo the design of the helmets of the city tyche. A helmet with its military connotations would not have been suitable for an empress, but her crown may be an adaptation of it. These images indicate a close association between images of the empress and images of personifications, in particular personifications such as Good Fortune and Ktisis. Personifications remained a feature of Byzantine Christian art throughout the period of the empire (an interesting issue in itself): the River Jordan at the Baptism of Christ is a common example. Indeed, in concepts such as Sophia and Eirene and the use of these as Holy Wisdom and Holy Peace, a Christianisation of personifications took place. Coins of Christian emperors regularly depicted Victory or Peace, and the Hellenistic city goddesses, tyches, representing the city and its good fortune, continued to be very popular in many forms of art.16 Many appear dressed in classical-style robes, clutching olive wreaths but gradually, however, more elaborate robes, crowns or helmets, jewels, especially diadems and collars, appear. Tyches wield spears or sceptres; they hold orbs and globes. On coins, Roma, based on a seated Minerva type of figure, wears armour, holds a sceptre and globe. Constantinopolis too, from the fourth century, in response to the growth of Constantinople’s imperial status, holds a sceptre and globe. This imagery and these attributes are apparent in images of empresses also: in a fifth-century ivory now in Florence, a standing empress holds globe and sceptre; in a similar ivory in Vienna, the seated empress holds an orb. As with other personifications, tyches too were regularly used in official, civic and political imagery, both large and small scale, and on coins. They were popular on consular diptychs in the fifth and sixth centuries, such as the Clementinus diptych. Roma and Constantinopolis were present on the fifth-century column of Arkadios in Constantinople. Four pieces from the fourth-century Esquiline Treasure represent Roma, Antioch, Constantinopolis and Alexandria and are thought to have been fittings for some sort of official chair, possibly even a consular chair.17 The context of the use of personifications and tyches is overwhelmingly that of official images denoting and marking out authority. In this context, it is unsurprising that tyches and/or personifications also feature on counterweights. A plausible case can be made that the female images identified on counterweights as empresses are actually no such thing. Rather, it is possible to see them simply as another variant use of the personification of Good Fortune or even the ‘Wealth-bringing woman’ apparent in other media from the same periods and serving the same functions. In depicting a personification, the feminine was used to represent important and powerful qualities such as victory, good luck and the fortune of a city in a way which does not seem to have been perceived of as threatening the status quo.18 Perhaps personifications such as Victory and Peace were so much a part of imperial ideology and ceremonial as

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to be unremarkable. However, if we see the images on counterweights as depicting empresses, then the issue of depicting women in public office becomes important. What is apparent is that if these are empresses, then their iconography assimilates that of imperial women with that of personifications. Through this assimilation, the image achieved force as an official object but also undercut the problem of depicting real women, real empresses, as powerful. In devising images of empresses, image makers were restricted in their access to powerful female figures. Pagan goddesses were one source of iconography and indeed Smith has argued very convincingly that images of Hellenistic queens tend to be generalised versions of the prevailing ideas worked out for images of goddesses.19 However, utilising the trappings of a pagan goddess in a Christian context was problematic. The personification was a second, more acceptable source, sharing some of the qualities of the first, but firmly established in official iconography. It offered a readily accessible and immediately familiar source of iconography for depicting powerful women, but one which did not allow these women access to the unambiguous symbols of male power: personifications never hold the same symbols of empire as the emperor does but, rather, are given lesser, secondary symbols of power.20 The use of the iconography of personifications offered another advantage. Personifications were not human. Smith, again, has shown how divinising a figure is an effective means of setting it apart, of establishing the royal image as something other to images of mere mortals. This was the effect of haloes, for example, used both in images of the emperor and empress. Personifications could be used in the same fashion. Through the use of non-human iconography, the apartness of the empress could be established and intimated. Such an image suggested divine status rather than claimed it explicitly, something which would have been perceived as blasphemous. In this context, it is unsurprising that such representations are generic rather than specific. The linking of empress and personification did not establish a particular, identifiable empress as suprahuman, but established representations of ‘the empress’, the official position, as significant and symbolic of various qualities. It is worth remembering that counterweights also bore images of pagan goddesses, notably Athena and Isis. The Benaki Museum in Athens has a counterweight in the form of Athena which it dates to the seventh century. The weight has a cross engraved on the back, christianising it. A blurring of the borderlines between images of empresses, personifications and goddesses is apparent elsewhere. The eighth-century text, the Parastaseis syntomoi chronikai, is confused over the identity of a statue as the empress Verina or the goddess Athena.21 A similar assimilation is apparent in an eleventh-century manuscript, Codex Taphou 14 in the Patriarchal Library in Jerusalem,

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a copy of Pseudo-Nonnus’ commentaries on the Homilies of Gregory Nazianzenus, where an image of the goddess Athena springs fully-formed from the head of Zeus.22 Athena is depicted as an empress – or is it a personification? It seems conceivable that initially, the attributes of personifications were given to empresses in order to represent their power; then when pagan goddesses needed to be represented, the attributes of empresses, that is to say the prevailing image of the powerful female, were employed in turn. In a similar way, the Virgin Mary appears to have assimilated the powers and temples of pagan goddesses. In addition, representations of empresses were concerned with reconciling two conflicting ideologies: that of imperial power and that of the place of women in society. By setting a figure apart through giving it resonances of divinity, it meant that the empress’ femininity and her sex could be further played down or even concealed, and thus the image removed her further away from the problematic concept of a powerful woman. The empress became more than human, suprahuman in fact. This could, in turn, increase the power of the image. Such links with the “unreal” serve also to underline that these are not images of actual women so much as images of the empress, her body politic, not her body personal. In this context, Archer St Clair’s argument for an understanding of small-scale imperial images as relating to the cult of the emperor, either in religious terms or political loyalty, is important.23 St Clair suggests that images of the emperor continued to be kept in household shrines even after the triumph of Christianity. Reverence to the imperial family, if not necessarily the imperial cult, as displayed through their images, remained conspicuous in the east, as we see from the account of the Riot of the Statues in the reign of Theodosios I, and the dedication of the fifthcentury empress, Eudoxia’s, silver statue, with much ceremony and celebration.24 Such images were also believed to have magical powers and to serve an apotropaic function. Thus divinising the image of an empress through links with images of personifications and even pagan goddesses was a means of giving it power and, perhaps significantly, power in a very different way to which the male imperial power was constructed. The link with goddesses and personifications allows the power and almost magical significance of the counterweight to become apparent.25 It also offers a magical safeguard of validity. By getting empresses to hint at goddesses, to look like personifications, including tyches, or to share the attributes of tyches, they could be seen as sharing in, or even taking over, their power. Objects in Byzantium worked in both the “real” world and the invisible, spiritual world.26 Motifs and images could invoke the powers of that world, protecting from evil and attracting good fortune – the cross is an obvious example of a potent symbol employed to ward off visible and invisible evil. Several female personifications

such as Earth and Good Fortune were associated with health and wealth, of the individual and of the city. Good Fortune in her high headdress, rich dress, diadem, earrings, necklace, jewelled collar might be mistaken for an empress; the empress in her high headdress, rich dress, diadem, earrings, necklace, jewelled collar might be mistaken for Good Fortune or the ‘Wealth-bearing Woman’. In being represented as prosperous and fortunate, she invoked these qualities. St Clair’s statuettes may be more than imperial cult objects; they may have also served an apotropaic and protective function; tyches, as well as empresses, feature on weights from this period (Fig. 7.2).27 In this context, through links with personifications and the divine, with Good Fortune and Lady Luck, the image of an empress might be seen as a very appropriate image to place on a counterweight. If it carried apotropaic and protective functions, how better to validate official transactions? In using and intermingling the two, by assimilating

Fig. 7.2. Counterpoise weight in the form of a tyche. British Museum, GR 1907.10–22.1 (Photo: BM).

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THAT GIRL?

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the virtues of Good Fortune and even the ‘Wealth-bringing woman’ into herself and her image, the empress became vested with the power of the personification and vice versa. By linking the empress with the good fortune of the city or with victory or with the city tyche, these attributes of the personification could, in turn, become linked to the empress and indeed to the cult of the imperial family. The empress became a symbol of wealth and good luck, of the city’s safety, a figure representing the powers and virtues bestowed by God, via his regent, the emperor, the empress’s spouse. The empress gained some of the attributes of the personification. In this context, the issue of what these counterweights do with their hands is also relevant. Many of the empresses appear to be holding something in their left hands. This object appears variously to resemble a diptych or scroll or even the consular mappa. The British Museum example appears to hold an object which resembles a mappa, whilst an example from Munich is said to hold a diptych and another in New York is described as holding a scroll.28 Indeed, the distinction between mappa and scroll is problematic, as the two appear iconographically very similar. The mappa was the piece of white cloth with which the consul had started the games and formed a standard part of the consular regalia, featuring also on consular coins. It is also an attribute held by emperors from the fourth to seventh centuries.29 St Clair has argued convincingly that whether held by the emperor or his representative, the mappa is a sign of the imperial authority of the bearer and she links it to the imperial cult and the celebration of the games.30 It is not so much a guarantee of imperial office (since consuls regularly hold it) as a badge of imperial authority. If this object is felt to be a scroll rather than a mappa, then many of the same interpretations remain valid. Scrolls too are held by consuls and seem to function as badges of office, as well as being signs of learning and culture. Smith has interpreted the scrolls held by statues of magistrates as indicating not only culture and literacy but also a specific representation of the codicil of the magistrate’s office.31 Diptychs too have been interpreted as marking out the man of office through the holding and display of official documents. Diptychs were panels with a ceremonial official purpose, issued by or to consuls on their accession to office. In the case of the Louvre ‘Flaccilla’ statuette, it has been suggested that the diptychs held there mark the raising of that empress to the title of Augusta.32 In other words, all three objects share areas of significance. All are used elsewhere, notably on consular diptychs, to mark out men of learning and status, often consular status. All three are used in Late Antique and Byzantine art as badges of official status. With their right hands, the empresses make either a gesture of two upright fingers, close to the speaking gesture of Late Antique art or to a Christian blessing gesture, or they gesture across their bodies towards the mappa, gestures

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again found on other official images, notably consular diptychs. Both objects and gestures indicate authority and status, and the consular echoes underline the standing of the figure as an officer of the emperor.33 The attributes and gestures are less common in images of personifications, which do not, as far as I am aware, carry the mappa, though they may be shown holding diptychs and scrolls. Here, then, the official status of the counterweight and perhaps also its accuracy are established by the presence of an imperial official. Personifications looking like empresses and associated with divinity, with good fortune, with accurate measurement, even with cities, and empresses looking like personifications: sometimes it is impossible to tell the two apart. T.B.L. Webster once defined ‘personifications’ as ‘a means of taking hold of things which suddenly appear startlingly uncontrollable and independent’.34 This line would sit nicely with the depiction of empresses, the creation of powerful women. Images of empresses are one means of creating imperial power and counterweights appear to portray the empress sharing the gestures and attributes of consular power. However, the links with personifications also ‘mythologise’ the image to some extent, rendering the empress as a generic figure with suprahuman attributes, bringing good fortune and wealth to the user. In Byzantium, images of empresses depict a paradox, female power, and so perhaps it should not be surprising to find empresses not depicted as women but personified as ‘empress’.

Notes 1. D. Buckton, Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (London, 1994), cat. no. 110. 2. For a recent catalogue of these, see N. Franken, Aequipondia. Figürliche Laufgewichte römischer und frühbyzantinischer Schnellwaagen (Alfter, 1994), pp. 171–81. Examples come from sites across the empire, including Constantinople, Adana, Shikmona, Damascus, Limassol, Belgrade, Athens, Budapest. I am grateful to Chris Entwistle for this reference and his advice on this topic. See also R. Delbrück, Spätantike Kaiserporträts (Berlin, 1933), F.O. Waagé, ‘Bronze objects from Old Corinth, Greece’, American Journal of Archaeology 39 (1935), pp. 79– 91, and M.C. Ross, ‘A Byzantine bronze weight’, American Journal of Archaeology 50 (1946), pp. 368–9 who endeavour to identify specific empresses through comparisons with images on coins. See also K. Weitzmann (ed.), Age of Spirituality. Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century. Catalogue of the exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, New York (New York, 1979), cat. no. 327, pp. 344–45; J. Durand (ed.), Byzance: l’art byzantin dans les collections françaises (Paris, 1992), cat. no. 70, pp. 122–23; L.Wamser and G. Zalhaas (eds.), Rom und Byzanz. Archäologische Kostbarkeiten aus Bayern (Munich, 1998), cat. nos. 225–7, pp. 171–2. 3. As does A. McClanan, ‘Byzantine steelyard weights depicting empresses’, in Byzantine Studies Conference: Abstracts of Papers 22 (1996), p. 36.

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4. McClanan, ‘Byzantine steelyard weights’; J. Herrin, ‘The imperial feminine in Byzantium’, Past and Present 169 (2000), pp. 9–12; L. James, Empresses and power in early Byzantium (Leicester U.P., 2001), esp. ch. 7. 5. There is a considerable body of literature on this theme. See, for example, A. Laiou, ‘The role of women in Byzantine society’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 31.1 (1981), pp. 233–60; J. Herrin, ‘In search of Byzantine women: three avenues of approach’, in A.M. Cameron and A. Kuhrt (eds.), Images of Women in Antiquity (London, 1993); G. Clark, Women in Late Antiquity (Oxford, 1993). For women’s legal position, see J. Beaucamp, ‘La situation juridique de la femme à Byzance’, Cahiers de Civilisation Medievale 20 (1977), pp. 145–76; C. Galatariotou, ‘Holy women and witches: aspects of Byzantine concepts of Gender’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 9 (1984/5), pp. 55–94, on the structures of Byzantine patriarchy and C. Barber, ‘The imperial panels at San Vitale: a reconsideration’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 14 (1990), pp. 19–42, for a selection of the writings of the Fathers against women; L. James, ‘Goddess, whore, wife or slave? Will the real Byzantine empress please stand up’, in A. Duggan (ed.), Queens and queenship in medieval Europe (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 123– 40; Herrin, ‘The imperial feminine’, pp. 3–36; James, Empresses and power. 6. So A. Grabar, L'empereur dans l’art byzantin (Paris, 1936) argued. See also M. McCormick, Eternal victory: triumphal rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the medieval West (Cambridge, 1990); M. McCormick, ‘Emperors’, in G. Cavallo (ed.), The Byzantines (Chicago, 1997), pp. 230–54. 7. S.Wood, Imperial women. A study in public images 40BC–AD68 (Leiden, 1999). 8. Described and illustrated in Weitzmann (ed.), Age of Spirituality, cat. no. 20, pp. 26–27, and in Durand (ed.), Byzance, cat. no. 4, pp. 36–7. The statuette was found in Cyprus and its ascription to Constantinople is based on the assumption that good quality work and imperial images must both, automatically spring from this source. Also R.H.W. Stichel, Die Römische Kaiserstatue am Ausgang der Antike: untersuchungen zum plastischen Kaiserporträt seit Valentinian (364–375 n. Chr.) (Rome, 1982), cat. no. 19. 9. I am very grateful to Hero Granger-Taylor for pointing this out to me. 10. E. Simon, Die konstantinischen Deckengemalde in Trier (Mainz, 1986), esp. pp. 26–45, 51–54. 11. From the House of Ge and the Seasons, Daphne, fifth century and now in the Worcester Art Museum, 1936.35. See D. Levi, Antioch mosaic pavements (Princeton, London, The Hague, 1947), vol. 1, p. 347 and vol. 2, pls. LXXXII and CLXIX. For the definition of Ktisis as Possession, see Levi, Mosaic pavements, p. 255. 12. Megalopsychia from the Yakto complex: Levi, Mosaic pavements, vol.1, p. 338, vol. 2, pl. LXXVI. Also Ktisis from the House of Ktisis, Levi, Mosaic pavements, vol.1, p. 358 and vol. 2, pl. LXXXV. 13. This mosaic is in the Musée du Bardo and illustrated in A. St. Clair, ‘Imperial virtue: questions of form and function in the case of four Late Antique statuettes’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 50 (1996), p. 151 and Fig. 12. 14. See E. Dauterman Maguire, H. Maguire, M.J. Duncan-Flowers (eds.), Art and holy powers in the early Christian house (Urbana and Chicago, 1989), p. 14 and Fig.14 illustrates this lamp from the Frühchristlich-Byzantinische Sammlung in Berlin. Cat. no.

15. 16. 17.

18.

19.

20. 21.

22. 23. 24.

25.

26. 27.

28. 29.

30. 31.

32. 33.

34.

138, p. 219 is a censer now in Toronto in the shape of a female head similarly adorned. Maguire et al, Art and holy powers, p.1, Fig 1. See H.A. Shapiro, Personifications in Greek art (Bern, 1993). See K.J. Shelton, The Esquiline Treasure (London, 1981), pls. 35–7, and G. Bühl, Constantinopolis und Roma: Stadtpersonifikationen der Spätantike (Zurich, 1995), pp. 107–42, who reconstructs the chair. For a questioning of the philological rationale for female personifications, however, see S.G. Nugent, ‘Virtus or virago? The female personifications of Prudentius’ Psychomania’, in C. Hourihane (ed.), Virtue and Vice. The personifications in the Index of Christian Art (Princeton, 2000), pp. 13–28. R.R.R. Smith, Hellenistic Royal Portraits (Oxford, 1988); R.R.R. Smith, ‘Roman portraits: honours, empresses, and late emperors’, Review Article, Journal of Roman Studies 75 (1985), pp. 209–21. Discussed in detail in James, Empresses and power, ch. 7. Parastaseis syntomoi chronikai, ed. and tr. A. Cameron and J. Herrin, Constantinople in the early eighth century: the Parastaseis syntomoi chronikai (Leiden, 1984), ch. 61. Fol. 312r. Illustrated in K. Weitzmann, Greek mythology in Byzantine art (Princeton, 1984, repr. of 1951), p. 62 and pl. 59. St. Clair, ‘Imperial virtue’. For the Riot of the Statues, see John of Nikiu, History, LXXXIII, 44, Theodoret, Historia Ecclesia V,19, Theophanes, Chronographia, AM 5883; for Eudoxia’s silver statue, sources include Socrates, Historia Ecclesia VI,18, Sozomen, Historia Ecclesia VIII, 20, Zosimus, History, V,23, Marcellinus, Chronicle year 403, Theophanes, Chronographia, AM 5898. As J. Russell, ‘The archaeological context of magic in the early Byzantine period’, in H. Maguire (ed.), Byzantine magic (Washington,1995), pp. 48–9 and Fig. 17, argues. H. Maguire, ‘Introduction’, in Maguire et al, Art and holy powers; Maguire, Byzantine magic. See the examples in Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, cat. nos. 325–26, pp. 343–44, where it is assumed that the female figure depicted is a tyche, though she bears no identificatory label. Wamser and Zalhaas (eds.), Rom und Byzanz, cat. no. 226, p. 171; Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, cat. no. 327, pp. 344–45. A. Alföldi, ‘Insignien und Tracht der Römischen Kaiser’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 50 (1935), pp. 34–35. St. Clair, ‘Imperial virtue’, pp. 153–5. R.R.R. Smith, ‘Late Antique portraits in a public context: honorific statuary at Aphrodisias in Caria, AD 300–600’, Journal of Roman Studies 89 (1999), pp. 177–78, a point also made by E. Alföldi-Rosenbaum, ‘Portrait bust of a young lady in the time of Justinian’, Metropolitan Museum Journal 1 (1968), pp. 19–40. By Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, cat. no. 20, p 27. See, for example, the gestures made by the figures on the plaque depicting officials at a wild-beast hunt now in Liverpool (M. Gibson, The Liverpool ivories [London, 1994], no. 7) and the gesture of Felix on his consular diptych, dated to 428 and now in Paris (R. Delbrück, Die Consulardiptychen und verwandte Denkmäler [Berlin and Leipzig, 1929] no. 3), and the speaking gesture (and scroll) on the Probianus diptych in Berlin (Delbrück, Consulardiptychen, no. 65), for three examples of many. T.B.L. Webster, ‘Personifications as a mode of Greek thought’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes (1954), p. 10.

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8. A painting of Saint Kollouthos Maria Vassilaki

David Buckton is an old friend. He introduced me to the world of enamels and his unpredictable sense of humour. I feel grateful to him for both. In 1993–94, when he was preparing the exhibition ‘Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections’, he asked me to make a selection of paintings to be included in it. One of the paintings that was selected and exhibited in that show1 will be my contribution to this volume dedicated to David on his retirement from the British Museum. This is a painting of Saint Kollouthos (Pl. 4), which belongs to the private collection of Costas and Lydia Carras,2 and was acquired by them in the early 1970s.3 The aim of this paper is to throw some light on the literary tradition, cult and iconography of this saint.4

Literary Tradition According to the Coptic Synaxarium, Kollouthos5 was the son of Heraclamon, a distinguished citizen of Antinoe6 in Egypt. Through his friendship with Philip, the son of bishop Abadium of Antinoe, the young Kollouthos was introduced to the study of philosophy and medicine. As physicians the two young men refused to accept fees for their services, and thus became known as anargyroi. According to some texts, Kollouthos referred to himself as a physician, while he is also called an áñ÷ßáôñoò.7 When the governor, Arianus, visited Antinoe he was so impressed with the beauty and gracious personality of Kollouthos that he determined to seek a wife from his kindred, and so became the brother-inlaw of Kollouthos. The latter, however, abandoned his wealth, adopted the ascetic life, and became a companion to the bishop. Early in the Diocletianic persecutions (284 AD) he was arrested and thrown into prison. His relationship with Arianus saved him from being executed, until Arianus himself was replaced as governor. Kollouthos was then interrogated and finally suffered martyrdom in 304 AD. The martyrdom of St Kollouthos is recounted in two manuscripts: the first in the Pierpont Morgan Library in

New York (codex M 591, T. 28), and the second in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris (Ms. Paris. copte 78).8 In the Pierpont Morgan Library manuscript9 the martyrdom of St Kollouthos is disposed of in a few words on the last page. All that precedes it is devoted to a dialogue between the saint and the governor Arianus, who, as we have seen, was his brother-in-law. The governor urges Kollouthos to follow the example of two apostate bishops, Apollonius of Lycopolis and Plutarch, bishop of Apollinopolis Minor, who had both sacrificed to the emperor. The saint quietly refuses to do so and is sentenced to be burned at the stake. Death by burning was an infrequent mode of execution in the Egyptian Acta. The Bibliothèque Nationale manuscript also contains a detailed dialogue between Arianus and Kollouthos, but breaks off before a description of the martyr’s death.10 The Synaxarium, however, explains that the saint was beheaded, which accords with the usual method of execution.11 Execution by decapitation was a common topos in stereotyped martyrologies, because this tradition would insure the preservation of relics, unlike death by burning. Two further sources for the life of Kollouthos are two Encomia, preserved in both Coptic and Arabic. One is ascribed to a certain Isaac, bishop of Antinoe,12 and was pronounced on Kollouthos’ feast day sometime before 861 AD, and the other to Phoebamon, bishop of Panopolis and äéÜäo÷oò for all Egypt during the exile of the patriarch Theodosius (537–67 AD).13 The occasion on which the latter was composed was the consecration of a church to St. Kollouthos in the iniquitous village of Pneuit, modern Banawit or Banwit.14 Each of the two concludes, as is customary, with a selection of miracles, none of which are common to both Encomia.15 These miracles are for the most part the outcome of incubation and visions in the martyr’s chapel at Antinoe. St Kollouthos appeared to the infirm during the night. His presence was made known by a fragrant odour. One of the miracles tells of a blind man recovering his sight by the use of a chaste woman’s milk; another of

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a woman into whose breasts a midday demon had crept, so that when the saint cast him out they swelled well nigh to the point of suffocating her. Those who were cured presented votive thanksgiving offerings to the saint. Another miracle describes how the saint kept a man, who had been robbed, from slaying his innocent servants. The saint showed the man where his possessions were hidden. Accordingly the man gave half of his recovered goods to the sanctuary of St Kollouthos. As the story of the burglary seems to indicate, St Kollouthos was not only concerned with physical healing, but also with issues of social justice. In another interesting miracle, St Kollouthos brought about the spiritual healing of a woman of ill-repute, Marie, and at the same time healed a paralytic.16 The story tells how the paralytic came to the martyrium, crawling on his hands and knees, to ask for healing. The saint appeared to the paralytic and told him to visit Marie. If anyone questioned him, he was instructed to respond ‘she was very beautiful’ and that ‘he desired her, wanting to spend the night with her and give her wages’. The saint admonished him not to be ashamed because ‘it is a great gift, indeed, a great grace, which will come to that woman by your intervention’. Unfortunately the manuscript breaks off before Marie’s response to his petition. When the text resumes, she is speaking with the ÐáôÞñ of the sanctuary, who quotes Ezekiel to her. His words are ‘more sweet to her than honey’. She repents of past wrong and pledges that she will not cease coming to the sanctuary of St Kollouthos until all who know her are aware of her firm purpose and noble sentiments. The woman was totally transformed and it would seem likely that the paralytic was healed in reward for his obedience. Among the other extant sources concerning St Kollouthos is a recipe for ophthalmia, preserved in the Medical Papyrus in Cairo.17 Ophthalmia, that is inflammation of the eyes, was a very common disease among the villagers of the Nile Valley. To quote from the Cairo Medical Papyrus: ‘Eyelotion from the day of Kollouthos, physician and martyr: six drachmas of cadmium, two drachmas of copper, one drachma of saffron, one half ounce of opium, one ounce of sarcacole, one half ounce of aloe, six drachmas tragacanth gum, one ounce of gum, make into an eye-lotion with fragrant wine and use’.

The Cult The cult of St Kollouthos must have emerged soon after his martyrdom in 304 AD. This was at first a local cult, almost exclusively observed in his birth-place Antinoe. Most significantly, a chapel dedicated to the saint has been discovered in Antinoe.18 We should remember that the Encomium of the bishop Phoebamon, mentioned above, was delivered in the mid-sixth century on the occasion of a church dedicated to the martyr in the village of Pneuit.19

We also know that in the ninth century a church dedicated to St Kollouthos was built in the Hamra al-Wusta in Cairo and that another which also existed there was destroyed by fire in the twelfth century, but restored.20 In the eleventh century Mawhub ibn Muffarig al-Iskandarani, deacon of Alexandria during the patriarchate of Cyril II (1078–92 AD), visited many churches and monasteries in Egypt and wrote that the relics of St Kollouthos reposed in Antinoe.21 In the thirteenth century Abul-Makarim reports that some of the saint’s relics were also kept in the monastery of St Kollouthos in Asyût (Lycopolis).22 It seems that by the twelfth century or slightly later, the centre of St Kollouthos’ cult had shifted to the vicinity of Asyût. This is evidenced by the fifteenth-century historian and topographer Maqrizi, who wrote that a festival was held in honour of St Kollouthos in the province of Asyût. He also states that St Kollouthos was ‘a master of marvels in the curing of ophthalmia’ and that in the church dedicated to the saint ‘wonderful cures from eye-diseases were performed’.23 Churches and monasteries dedicated to St Kollouthos are also documented at Dalâs, Kûs and Qena.24

Iconography Iconographic representations of the saint are rare. Between 1934 and 1940 the Florentine Papyrological Society excavated the funerary chapel of Theodosia in Antinoe,25 in which was found two frescoes: one showed Christ enthroned between two angels and the other Theodosia standing in between St Kollouthos and the Virgin. The chapel has been variously dated between the fourth and sixth centuries AD,26 but today the latter date is the most widely accepted.27 The frescoes perished soon after their discovery but have come down to us through watercolour drawings. Of the two frescoes from the funerary chapel of Theodosia, I shall concentrate on the one showing Theodosia between St Kollouthos and the Virgin (Fig. 8.1). The two saints on either side of Theodosia are identified through inscriptions: ÁÃIÏÓ ÊÏËËÏÕÈÏÓ accompanies the figure on the left and ÁÃIÁ MAPIA the figure on the right. The fresco can be interpreted as showing the intervention of the Virgin and the local martyr, Kollouthos, for the salvation of Theodosia’s soul. Theodosia is depicted as an orans, while St Kollouthos makes a gesture of blessing with his right hand, while his left rests on Theodosia’s shoulder, protecting her. The Virgin blesses with her right hand and holds a disk with a cross in her left. The lavishly decorated garments of the deceased, Theodosia, betray her aristocratic origin. A representation of St Kollouthos was also recognized through an inscription in the lower register of Room 20 at the Chapel CI of Bawit, in which the Virgin orans is shown accompanied by eleven Apostles, the archangels Gabriel and Michael and three saints, one of whom is Kollouthos.28

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Fig. 8.1. Funerary chapel of Theodosia, with St Kollouthos, Theodosia and the Virgin. Antinoe, Egypt.

I think it likely that it is St Kollouthos who is represented on an encaustic icon from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo (Fig. 8.2) which shows the portrait of a saint with short white hair, a full white beard and large eyes.29 These facial characteristics are identical with those of St Kollouthos on the fresco from Antinoe, but, of course, more supporting evidence is needed for such an identification. It is not without interest, however, that this icon was found in Antinoe. The icon dates from the late fifth or early sixth century and coincides, therefore, with the rise in the cult of St Kollouthos. It follows that the painting of St Kollouthos from the Carras’ collection (Pl. 4) is the only secure depiction of the saint which has survived. It measures 575 mm in height and 1230 mm in width. The bust-length saint is shown frontally. He is depicted as an old man with short white hair and a short white beard (Fig. 8.3). He is standing in front of a curtain making a gesture of prayer or supplication with both his arms extended outwards and the palms of his hands forward. He is dressed in a plain white chiton and a mantle which has two black stripes around the cuffs. The name of the saint, ÁÐÁÊÙËËÏÕÈÏÓ, is written on the

Fig. 8.2. Icon of St Kollouthos (?). Cairo, Egyptian Museum, no. J68825 (Photo: Egyptian Museum).

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Fig. 8.3. Textile with painting of St Kollouthos, detail. The Carras’ Collection, London (Photo: Carras’ Collection).

background, on either side of his halo. The prefix ÁÐÁ, signifying ‘our father’, and exclusively used in Egypt,30 forms an integral part of the saint’s name. It is obvious that the painting is cut down at the bottom and that this was originally a full-length representation of the saint. A technical analysis of the painting was carried out by the University College Painting Analysis Department, London. The analysis was made and the report was compiled by Ms Libby Sheldon.31 This analysis has given valuable information and provided supporting evidence for its original function. I quote: ‘The painting support has been repaired many times and the surface retouched. However, large areas of original paint remain untouched, and these were used for sampling in the technical report. Small patches of newer canvas have been inserted where the older canvas had been damaged and, presumably, the paint lost. It is possible to see these repairs quite clearly in most cases, and to distinguish these from the original (Fig. 8.4). However, some canvas inserts have been made using material cut from the edges of the original. A tracing was made of the painting, and the main inserts have been mapped out in this diagram (Fig. 8.5). The patched older canvas was stuck down onto a very

Fig. 8.4. Textile with painting of St Kollouthos, detail. The Carras’ Collection, London (Photo: Carras’ Collection).

fine canvas at some point, perhaps when the patching was done. The finer canvas has in the recent past been attached to a piece of canvas stretched over board.

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Fig. 8.5. Textile of St Kollouthos, drawing of the mapping of the canvas’ losses. The Carras’ Collection, London (Drawing: Libby Sheldon).

The canvas material is linen. It has thread which is very coarse and quite varied in size. The irregularities of the threads must have presented a coarse and difficult surface on which to paint. On the other hand, this material would have been strong, and this may have concerned the painter more than the difficulties of execution. A question posed before the examination of the picture was whether there had been a face, or possibly two, painted beneath the outstretched arm of the saint, in the lower left. Sampling of the paint has tried to answer this question, and it suggests that there was indeed flesh paint in this part. There is evidence of a broad drawing in red paint having been made over the canvas before painting commenced. This drawing can be seen in several parts of the work, where the original paint has been lost but the red drawing remains: the lower parts of the cloak, in the lower centre of the painting, shows this particularly clearly. Red appears to have been used also for the drawing which reinforced the outlines after the main colours had been laid in. For example, the outlines of the fingers have been delineated with this red. The medium was found to be egg-tempera. The following pigments were identified on the painting: lead white, calcium carbonate white, orpiment yellow, yellow ochre, red ochre, crimson lake-madder, red lead, Egyptian blue and black. The painting was originally brightly coloured, with some bright contrasts and complementaries. Some of the colours have survived remarkably well. The use of quite a broad palette, and relatively expensive colours such as orpiment

yellow and Egyptian blue show that the painting was not cheaply produced. The fact that the painter was using mineral pigments rather than dyes, such as saffron, buckthorn, and indigo, points to the painter being used to working on wood or walls rather than being a “stainer” of cloths’. This remark is important for identifying the original function of this painting. Its monumental size makes it difficult to see it as a portable icon. Since it may originally have been an almost life-size depiction of the saint, it may have been intended as a hanging in a church dedicated to St Kollouthos. The technical report also provides an interesting remark on the pattern of losses on the painting: ‘A pattern of losses can be seen running in vertical lines across the canvas. The rents and losses at top and bottom match up to show lines of stress. The most likely explanation is that the support was folded or rolled at some time both vertically and horizontally, and became brittle along these folds, encouraging the loss of paint’. The use of egg-tempera rather than wax for the painting of St Kollouthos places this piece in the tradition of hangings which, when painted, were always executed in tempera. Funerary hangings of the second century must be seen as the forerunners of the St Kollouthos painting. The hanging with Old Testament scenes in the Abegg-Stiftung at Riggisberg, near Bern, dating from the late fourth or the early fifth century, and also executed in tempera, is one of the most representative examples of this tradition. It is 4.50m long and 1.65m high. It was acquired in 1989 and

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Fig. 8.6. Fragments of three paintings. Department of Egyptian Antiquities, Louvre, Paris (Photo: Louvre).

Dr Lieselotte Kötzsche has presented a study of it in the volume of collected studies in honour of Kurt Weitzmann.32 The narrative is arranged in three registers and starts from the upper left corner with Adam and Eve and continues with the stories of Cain and Abel, Lot, Sarah and Noah. The second register contains the story of Abraham and Isaac and the third the stories of the righteous Joseph and Moses. The iconographic selection of scenes makes it possible that this was a wall-hanging in a church, rather than a secular building, somewhere in Egypt. The closest parallel to the painting of St Kollouthos is to be found in three fragments, painted in tempera, which are kept in the Department of Egyptian Antiquities in the Louvre. 33 They were published by Marie-Hélène Rutschowscaya and dated to the sixth century.34 They come from Antinoe and are considered to belong to one and the same composition (Fig. 8.6). Two winged angels are illustrated on each of the two fragments, and the figure of Christ, as a young unbearded man, has been recognized in the third. The stylistic similarities of these fragments with the painting of St. Kollouthos are further complemented by shared technical similarities.35 Compared to the number of surviving embroidered and printed materials from Egypt, the number of painted ones is indeed extremely small. Of course, it was much more difficult for a cloth painted in tempera to survive than it was for the embroidered and printed materials. But even so it seems that painted cloths were never large in number if we judge from the evidence included in the annual notices of archaeological activity in Egypt. Albert-Jean Gayet, for example, who excavated Antinoe between 1896 and 1911,

mentions finding only one painted linen cloth, which depicted the head of an unidentified saint.36 In conclusion, I would like to reiterate the following points. The painting of St Kollouthos was never conceived as a portable icon on wood. It was designed from the very beginning as a wall-hanging. That is why such a coarse but strong linen was chosen. Being a wall hanging, it was painted in tempera and not in wax, which was the common medium for portable icons on wood. The condition of the painting and its material shows that it was never attached to a piece of wood, which would have protected it better, but was a free-hanging painting. In view of its date in the sixth century, when the centre of St Kollouthos’ cult was almost exclusively in Antinoe, it must have come from there. That being so, it must have decorated the very church of St Kollouthos, where his martyrium also stood.

Notes 1. David Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (London, 1994), no. 72, p. 80. 2. I would like to express my deepest thanks to both Lydia and Costas Carras for all the help that they offered to me while I was carrying out my research on the painting. 3. I first came across this painting at the house of its owners in London a long time ago in the late seventies. Later on I was very happy to include it not only in the British Museum exhibition (December 1994–April 1995), but also in the exhibition From the Fayoum Portraits to Early Byzantine Icon Painting which opened in Heraclion, Crete, in May 1998, and which went on to two more venues in Greece: the Benaki Museum, Athens (July 1998). and the Museum of Byzantine

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4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9. 10. 11.

12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

17.

OF

Culture, Thessaloniki (August 1998). See: Euphrosyne Doxiadi (ed.), Áðü ôá ðoñôñáßôá ôoõ Öáãéoýì óôéò áðáñ÷Ýò ôçò ôÝ÷vçò ôùv Âõæávôévþv åéêüvùv (ìéá óõìâoëÞ ãéá ìéÜv Üëëç ðñoóÝããéóç) (Heraclion, 1998), no. 66, p. 160; and, the additional catalogue to the exhibition: Áðü ôá ðoñôñáßôá ôoõ Öáãéoýì óôéò áðáñ÷Ýò ôçò ôÝ÷vçò ôùv âõæávôévþv åéêüvùv (ìéá óõìâoëÞ ãéá ìéÜv áëëç ðñoóÝããéóç) (Heraclion, 1998), pp. 35–38. A version of this paper was presented at the International Conference organised in Heraclion, Crete, on the occasion of the Fayoum Portraits exhibition in May 1998. D.D. de Lacy O’Leary, The Saints of Egypt (London, 1937), p. 112. Bibliotheca Sanctorum, vol. IV (Rome, 1964), col. 89 (G.D. Gordini); W.E. Crum, ‘Colluthus, the Martyr and his Name’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 30 (1929–30), pp. 323–27; O.F.A. Meinardus, ‘A Coptic Anargyros: St. Colluthus’, Collectanea, no. 14, Studia Orientalia Christiana, Editions du Centre Franciscain d’Etudes Orientales Chrétiennes (Cairo, 1970–71), pp. 3–11. I would like to thank Ms Jennifer L. Hevelone-Harper who put at my disposal a paper (‘S. Colluthus and Coptic Christian Syncretization of Greek-Roman Healing Cults in Egypt’ [May, 1991]) she wrote while she was an undergraduate student at the Department of History, Princeton University. Antinoe or Antinoopolis is now called el-Sheikh Ibada (Abadeh) and is located on the east bank of the Nile in Middle Egypt. The town was officially founded by the emperor Hadrian in October 130 AD to commemorate his favourite, Antinous, who had drowned there. Antinoe was destroyed in the early nineteenth century. See Jane Turner (ed.), The Dictionary of Art (London, 1996), vol. 2, p. 155. H. Wilsdorf, ‘Bemerkungen zu den mineralogischen Pharmazeutika der Kopten’, in Peter Nagel (ed.), Studia Coptica (Berlin, 1974), pp. 77–100, esp. p. 83. E.A.E. Reymond and J.W.B. Barns (eds.), Four Martyrdoms from the Pierpont Morgan Coptic Codices (Oxford, 1973), pp. 7–21. Reymond and Barns, Four Martyrdoms, pp. 25–29. Reymond and Barns, Four Martyrdoms, pp. 141–50. H. Delehaye, Propylaeum ad Acta Sanctorum Novembris: Synaxarium Ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae (Brussels, 1902), col. 693. S.E. Thompson, ‘Encomium on St. Coluthus Attributed to Isaac of Antinoe’, in L. Depuydt (ed.), Encomiastica from the Pierpont Morgan Library: Five Coptic Homilies Attributed to Anastasius of Euchaita, Epiphanius of Salamis, Isaac of Antinoe, Severian of Gabala and Theopempus of Antioch (Louvain, 1993), pp. 37–64; St. Emmel-Kristin Hacken South, ‘Isaac of Antinoopolis Encomium on Colluthus for 24 Pashons (19 May). A Newly Identified Coptic Witness (British Library Or. 7558[40]= Layton cat. BLC, No. 146)’, Analecta Bollandiana 114 (1996), pp. 5– 9; U. Zanetti, ‘Note textologique sur S. Colluthus’, Analecta Bollandiana 114 (1996), pp. 10–24. Zanetti, ‘Note textologique’, pp. 19–20. Crum, ‘Colluthus’, p. 326; Zanetti, ‘Note textologique’, p. 19, n. 37. A.A. Georgii, De miraculis Sancti Coluthi et reliquiis actorum Sancti Panesniv martyrum thebaica fragmenta duo alterum auctius alterum nunc primum editum praeit dissertatio eminentissimi Stephani Card. Borgiae de culti S. Coluthi M. accedunt fragmenta varia notis inserta omnia ex Museo Borgiano Veliterno (Rome, 1793), pp. 17–27 (commentary in pp. 27–160). P. Devos, ‘Un étrange miracle copte de Saint Kollouthos. Le paralytique et la prostituée’, Analecta Bollandiana 98 (1980), pp. 363–80. E. Chassinat, ‘Un papyrus médical copte’, L’ Institut Français d’ Archéologie Orientale (1921), pp. 303–4.

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18. F. Cabrol and H. Leclercq, Dictionnaire d’ archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, I.2 (Paris, 1907), cols. 2351–56; M. Martin, La Laure de Dêr al Dik à Antinoé, Bibliothèque d études coptes, VIII (Cairo, 1971), p. 4. 19. See above, note 13. 20. B.T.A. Evetts, The Churches and Monasteries of Egypt and Some Neighbouring Countries Attributed to Abû Sâlih the Armenian (Oxford, 1895), pp. 108, 112, 126. 21. O.H.E. KHS-Burmester, History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church (Cairo, 1959), p. 362. 22. Evetts, Churches and Monasteries, p. 362. 23. Evetts, Churches and Monasteries, p. 344. 24. Evetts, Churches and Monasteries, pp. 233, 254, 281. 25. E. Breccia, ‘Le prime ricerche italiane ad Antinoe (Scavi dell’ Istituto Papirologico Fiorentino negli anni 1936–1937)’, Aegyptus 18 (1938), pp. 285–310. 26. For a fourth-century date, see Breccia, ‘Le prime ricerche’, pp. 285–310; for a sixth-century date, see M. Salmi, ‘I dipinti paleochrisitiani di Antinoe’, Scritti dedicati alla memoria di Ippolito Rosellini nel primo centenario della morte (4 giugno 1943) (Florence, 1945), pp. 159–69. André Grabar has also argued for a later date than the fourth century: A. Grabar, Martyrium: Recherches sur le culte des reliques et l’ art chrétien antique (Paris, 1946), p. 34. 27. Marie-Hélène Rutschowscaya, Tissus coptes (Paris, 1990), pp. 50–51; H. Belting, Likeness and Presence. A History of the Image before the Era of Art (trans. E. Jephcott; Chicago and London, 1994), p. 88. 28. C.C. Walters, Monastic Archaeology in Egypt (Warminster, 1974), p. 122. 29. K. Weitzmann (ed.), Age of Spirituality. Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century (New York, 1979), no. 496, pp. 551–52. 30. Cabrol and Leclercq, Dictionnaire, cols. 2494–2500, esp. 2494– 95. See also the sixth-century encaustic icons from Egypt in the Louvre with ÁÐÁ Menas and Christ: Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, no. 497; Marie-Hélène Rutschowscaya, La peinture copte, Musée du Louvre, Departement des Antiquités Égyptiennes (Paris, 1992), no. 39, pp. 58–9; and in Berlin with AÐÁ Abraham: A. Effenberger and H.G. Severin, Das Museum für Spätantike und Byzantinische Kunst Berlin (Staatliche Museen zu Berlin) (Berlin, 1992), no. 84. 31. I would like to thank her for the trouble she took in examining this piece for me. 32. Lieselotte Kötzsche, ‘Der neuerworbene Wandbehang mit gemalten alttestamentlichen Szenen in der Abegg-Stiftung (Bern)’, in C. Moss and K. Kiefer (eds.), Byzantine East, Latin West. Art Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann (Princeton, 1995), pp. 65–71, figs. 1–2. 33. Inv. nos. E 12600, E 12601 and E 12602. 34. Rutschowscaya, La peinture copte, nos. 56–9, pp. 83–6, pls. 56 and 58; eadem, ‘Quelques rares peintures sur toile de lin à l’époque copte’, Journal of Coptic Studies 2 (1992), pp. 55–61, pls. 9–11. 35. D. Le Fur, M.-H. Rutschowscaya, A. Desprairies and P. Tremblay, ‘Les pigments dans la peinture copte’, Conservation Restauration des Biens Culturels, Revue de l’ Araafu (Dec., 1990), pp. 45–48. I would like to thank M.-H. Rutschowscaya for putting at my disposal the technical analysis carried out by Xavier Beugnot on these three fragments (Étude polyméthodologique sur trois échantillons prélevés sur des peintures coptes Louvre-Antiquitées Égyptiennes). 36. ‘Fragment du toile peinte, tête de saint’ (Rutschowscaya, La peinture copte, p. 81).

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9. Three illuminating objects in the Lampsacus treasure Marlia Mundell Mango

The very name of the Lampsacus treasure evokes light and so I thought a short study of some of its more illuminating contents might be an appropriate way to acknowledge David Buckton’s enlightened scholarship and supervision of the Late Roman and Byzantine antiquities in the British Museum. The treasure was discovered sometime before 18481 at Lampsacus (modern Lapseki) in northwest Asia Minor. It is composed of twenty-seven pieces of domestic silver plate assembled in antiquity at various times in the sixth and seventh centuries, six pieces having been made between 550 and 630, according to their dated control stamps.2 The treasure preserves an interesting variety of objects which complement the contents of other domestic silver treasures dating from the end of late antiquity, in particular those from Cyprus (dated pieces: 578–651) and Mytilene (dated pieces: 602–630).3 Furthermore, some of the Lampsacus objects are decorated with the names in monogrammatic form of possibly three owners.4 Altogether the Lampsacus treasure, now divided among the British Museum, the Istanbul Archaeological Museum and the Louvre, contains a decorative display plate, tableware (four bowls, one goblet, sixteen spoons) and other assorted items or parts thereof: two lighting devices, a mirror handle, and fragments of furniture revetments for a table and a chair.5 While the bowls and spoons have been the subject of recent publications,6 the present article is devoted to three of the assorted items, namely a lampstand, a polycandelon and a mirror handle – all of which entered the British Museum in 1848 as a gift of Earl Cowley. All three are illuminating objects which either carried or reflected light in antiquity. Today, individually, they enlighten us as to their respective typological developments.7 Taken together they throw light on the diversity of production and use of domestic silver plate into the seventh century.8 The lampstand and polycandelon, stamped between 550 and 565 and in 577, respectively, were probably both made in a state-operated workshop; the workshop origin of the mirror and its handle is a matter of speculation. In Justinian’s Law

Code tables, beds, lamps, candelabra, statues and other figures, washing vessels such as basins and hung (as opposed to held) mirrors (speculum parieti adfixum) were considered suppellex, that is household or furniture silver.9 Thus the Lampsacus lampstand and polycandelon fell into this category, while the hand-held mirror (speculum) came instead under the heading argentum balneare, silver for the bath.10

The lampstand The Lampsacus tripod lampstand (Fig. 9.1) has an apronbase supporting a baluster shaft from which projects a shallow flaring cup with flat top and vertical tapering pricket.11 The lampstand is 20.8–21 cm high and now weighs 333 grams; linear decoration is limited to incised grooves on the upper cup surface, around the pricket. The lampstand has been discussed elsewhere as part of a group of three stamped stands which illustrate the centralised production of Early Byzantine silver in two different centres (Constantinople and Antioch) across a certain period of time (Fig. 9.6). The Lampsacus stand was apparently made at Constantinople where it was stamped (on the inside of its base) in 550–565, during the reign of Justinian. The other two lampstands, now in Washington and Athens, were discovered at Antioch and Mytilene and bear stamps applied at Antioch (in 602–10) and Constantinople (in 610– 30), respectively.12 Although internal proportions and decorative details differ slightly, the close correspondence of these three lampstands in dimensions, weight, and overall shape suggest a system of state-controlled manufacture in series of silver plate which may have derived from the production of silver largitio for imperial anniversaries, military donatives etc., earlier in late antiquity.13 Other extant silver lampstands lack stamps, with the exception of two Justinianic lamp/candle stands found at Sadovec in Bulgaria, which seem to have a construction

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Fig. 9.1. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver lampstand, 550–65 AD (Photo: BM).

similar to that of the large silver columnar lampstand(s?) in the Sion treasure.14 Two unstamped lampstands from the late third and fourth centuries were found at Beaurains and Kaiseraugst in the West;15 another, possibly of the fifth century forms part of the Latakiya treasure in Cleve-

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land and a pair of sixth-century lampstands belongs to the ecclesiastical Kaper Karaon treasure.16 These various lampstands share certain decorative elements. The two western stands have straight extendable shafts ornamented in niello, while the foot and upper cup of the Kaiseraugst stand may be compared with those of the Latakiya stand whose shaft is composed of a series of small balusters. The Kaper Karaon lampstands take the form of a column surmounted by an acanthus capital, somewhat similar to that atop the lower outer shaft of the Kaiseraugst stand. The Sion and Sadovec stands likewise terminate in acanthus capitals or other leaves. Compared with these various forms, the Lampsacus and two related tripod stands are the most conventional in shape: simple balusters supporting a flaring cup. The latest of the three, that from Mytilene is the most elaborate in detail, having gilded palmettes on its apron-base and its tripod feet articulated as lion paws.17 Copper-alloy versions of the various silver lampstands are known.18 Such a lampstand in the Cluny Museum in Paris corresponds in many details of shape and size (H also 52 cm) to the Kaper Karaon pair;19 the shaft of the Latakiya lampstand finds a counterpart in various copper-alloy stands thought to originate in Egypt.20 The baluster form of the Lampsacus and two related stands is repeated in several copper-alloy examples such as one in the Heraklion Museum, Crete (H 33.5 cm; Fig. 9.2).21 Significantly, two others of varying proportions, one also in the same museum and another sold at Sotheby’s in London ten years ago, have imitation (?) stamps placed on the inside of the base (Figs. 9.3 and 9.4), as on the silver stands.22 Neither ‘stamped’ copper-alloy stand is a direct copy of a stamped silver stand: the two groups differ in certain details. Although taller (30 and 26 cm) than the silver (20.4–21.3 cm), the ‘stamped’ copper-alloy stands are of squatter proportions, having a flattened apron-base and a larger drip-tray at the top. Likewise, the copper-alloy ‘stamps’ differ from the stamps on the silver stands. The latter are in sets of five differently-shaped stamps containing a combination of monograms, names and busts, and the former are all round and have only cruciform monograms – that on the Heraklion stand containing the letters ÈÅÄÏÕ may reappear with two others on the Sotheby stand (Fig. 9.4). On silver, in the five-stamp series, the round stamp contains an imperial bust, while non-imperial monograms (cruciform in type from later in Justinian’s reign onwards) are mostly restricted to the long and cruciform stamps.23 Towards the end of the five-stamp series (in use 498–661) a cruciform monogram occupies a round stamp, on a bowl (stamped 641–51) found in Cyprus.24 Furthermore, at this time, ‘irregular stamps’ where both round stamps and cruciform monograms feature prominently, start to appear on silver and are, apparently, imitated outside the Empire.25 On a Byzantine plate found at Klimova in Russia, three of the five round stamps contain

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Fig. 9.2. Heraklion, Archaeological Museum, ‘unstamped’ copper-alloy lampstand (Photo: after Byzantine and postByzantine Art [exh. cat., Athens, 1986], no. 186).

Fig. 9.3. ‘Stamped’ copper-alloy lampstand; general view. Sotheby’s, London (Photo: after Sotheby’s London sale catalogue 11 December 1989, lot 341).

a cruciform monogram with the letters CÅÃÏÕ (Fig. 9.5).26 If these silver round stamps with cruciform monograms post-date all the stamps on the silver lampstands and are imitated on the copper-alloy stands, then these latter objects (Fig. 9.3) may themselves imitate a later type of silver stand which was squatter in its proportions than those studied here (Fig. 9.6). It is impossible to say whether the stamps on the copper-alloy stands represent a form of state control comparable to that exercised over silver or whether they serve some other purpose. The Lampsacus and Mytilene lampstands both belong to groups of domestic silver plate which each includes one other type of hanging light; the Antioch lampstand was excavated within a house in the centre of Antioch.27 All three therefore were used in a household. In size, the Lampsacus, Antioch and Mytilene lampstands are small

Fig. 9.4. ‘Stamped’ copper-alloy lampstand; its stamps. Sotheby’s, London (Photo: after Sotheby’s London sale catalogue 11 December 1989, lot 341).

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Fig. 9.5. ‘Irregular’ control stamps from a Byzantine silver plate found at Klimova, Russia (Drawing: author after E.C. Dodd, Byzantine Silver Stamps [Washington DC, 1961], no. 100).

Fig. 9.6. Three stamped silver lampstands from Lampsacus, Antioch and Mytilene. (Drawing: Rupert Cook).

compared to the other silver stands described above. At 21 cm they are less than half the size of the Kaper Karaon pair, at 52 cm and 53 cm, while the Latikya stand measures 49 cm, the Sadovec stands were ca. 60 cm and 64 cm high and the Sion stands were probably taller still. The two western stands can be extended to 90 cm and 117 cm respectively. While these last may have been standard lamps, placed on the floor, as shown for example in the Rabbula Gospels of 58628 and some of the ecclesiastical stands may have been intended for an altar, the small stands from Lampsacus, Antioch and Mytilene were probably used

for closer lighting on a smaller table. A tripod lampstand of medium height is shown being taken to a public bath on the Projecta casket from the Esquiline treasure.29 The pricket stands could have held either candles or supported a lamp, possibly made of silver. The Rabbula lampstand holds a metal lamp, while lampstands holding candles are also illustrated on the Projecta casket and in the wall paintings in the Silistra tomb.30 The only extant silver lamp of the type well known in both copper-alloy and clay is that with a horse-head handle in the Latakiya treasure in Cleveland.

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The polycandelon The Lampsacus polycandelon , a multiple lamp-holder 24.5 cm in diameter, is stepped in profile, having a broad flat rim with pendant edge and a central recess (Figs. 9.7 – 9.8).31 The rim is pierced by six holes (D. 2.6 cm) intended to hold stemmed glass lamps, alternating with six openwork motifs, namely three crosses and three palmettes (Fig. 9.9). The central recess has six radiating segments of openwork taller palmettes opposite the motifs on the rim; the reserved metal may have been seen as a six-armed cross. On the upper side of the polycandelon disc, pi-shaped brackets are soldered over the cruciform motifs on the rim to hold the S-shaped links attached to the lower ends of three sets of suspension straps. The other ends of the straps hang from the three lower rings of a star-shaped knobbed finial with upper suspension ring (Fig. 9.10). The lower side of the polycandelon preserves two of its original five control stamps which have been dated to 577 (Fig. 9.11).32 The entire polycandelon is made of silver, that of the body being of sheet metal hammered thin so that it is now in fragmentary condition, particularly in the centre. While cast copper-alloy polycandela survive from late antiquity in some numbers, few are known in silver. In fact, the British Museum example is unique outside the

Fig. 9.7. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver polycandelon, 577 AD, upper side (Photo: BM).

Fig. 9.8. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver polycandelon, 577 AD, side view (Photo: BM).

Fig. 9.9. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver polycandelon, 577 AD, reconstructed (Drawing: author, based on O.M. Dalton, Catalogue of Early Christian Antiquities ...in the British Museum [London, 1901], p. 85).

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ecclesiastical Sion treasure which preserves three circular (Fig. 9.12), three cruciform and six oblong (Fig. 9.13) silver polycandela, all bearing stamps of 550–65, hence slightly earlier than those on the Lampsacus polycandelon.33 The circular polycandela in the Lampsacus and Sion treasures differ in size. The former held only six lamps, while the

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latter which are more than twice as wide (56 cm as against 24 cm) each held sixteen (twelve on the rim, four in the centre) and at about 3500g each in weight, were undoubtedly more than proportionally heavier. Similarities in layout and decoration between the Lampsacus and circular Sion polycandela include the flaring-armed cross

Fig. 9.11. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver polycandelon, 577 AD, detail of centre, lower side with control stamps (Photo: BM).

Fig. 9.10. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver polycandelon, 577 AD, detail of outer rim, upper side (Photo: BM).

Fig. 9.12. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Sion treasure, circular silver polycandelon, ca. 550–65 AD, upper side (Photo: DO).

Fig. 9.13. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Sion treasure, rectangular silver polycandelon, type 1, ca. 550–65 AD, upper side (Photo: DO).

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motifs on the rim (Figs. 9.9 and 9.12); the use there of three intervening motifs (palmettes on the Lampsacus, heart-shaped motifs on the Sion); the cruciform arrangement of the central space (six-armed and simple on the Lampsacus, four-armed and elaborate on the Sion). A similar pi-shaped bracket seems to have been used on both the Lampsacus and all the Sion polycandela.34 The centre of the Lampsacus polycandelon is recessed (Fig. 9.8) in contrast to the flat form of the Sion circular and cruciform polycandela and nearly all those contemporary ones in copper-alloy.35 The stepped profile recurs, however, on the three types of oblong polycandela in the Sion treasure, which have low pierced sides cut in a pattern not dissimilar to that in the centre of the Lampsacus polycandelon (Fig. 9.13).36 All three oblong types had fourteen holes in the rim for lamps, while only Type 1 had two additional but smaller holes in the central recess. It is possible that the lamps were confined to the rim on all three types and that the central recess held a (rectangular?) glass container with oil which would have illuminated the entire openwork panel. By contrast, the circular and cruciform Sion polycandela have holes distributed all over their surface (Fig. 9.12). It is possible, then, that the Lampsacus recessed centre was designed to hold a circular glass bowl to supplement the six stemmed lamps on the rim.37 In his description of the silver lamps that lit St Sophia in Constantinople, Paul the Silentiary mentions, in addition to the disc-shaped and cruciform

polycandela, another type of lamp which he termed ‘balance pans’ with ‘cups of burning oil’ ‘in their centre’,38 the cups perhaps held in a central recess. The Lampsacus polycandelon also finds typological parallels for its recessed centre in two circular Early Byzantine copper polycandela in Istanbul (Fig. 9.14) and Rome (labelled ‘from Palestine’), and in the tinned copper series of pseudo-polycandela dating to the ninth-eleventh centuries.39 The Istanbul object may be dated to the sixthseventh century, thanks to the lettering of its dotted Greek dedicatory inscription (Fig. 9.15).40 Like the Lampsacus

Fig. 9.14. Istanbul Archaeological Museum, copper polycandelon, sixth-seventh century, general view, upper side (Photo: author).

Fig. 9.15. Istanbul Archaeological Museum, copper polycandelon, sixth-seventh century, outer rim, upper side, dotted dedicatory inscription (Drawing: author).

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polycandelon, both the early copper polycandela are fragile and fragmentary; that in Rome has lost its centre and retains only some holes on the rim alternating with pierced crosses and that in Istanbul (D 36 cm) has ancient repairs. The latter (Fig. 9.14) retains only part of a horizontal openwork vine scroll in the recessed centre and the rim which is divided into three segments of four holes (D 3 cm) each alternating with openwork panels filled with S-shaped scrolls. On the upper surface of the plain metal between each segment is a part of the inscription (not seen from below; Fig. 9.15) under which are soldered three plates with suspension hooks. Compared with the Sion polycandela (Figs. 9.12 – 9.13), that from Lampsacus appears unfinished in its decoration: it lacks any linear ornament, for example around the circular openings for lamps (Fig. 9.7). As on the Sion polycandela41 the Lampsacus openwork was cut through into the upper side (Fig. 9.10), but the edges even on the lower (viewed) side remain rough and unfinished (Fig. 9.11). As observed elsewhere, control stamps were, in general, applied after an object was shaped and cut (if worked à-jour), but before finishing and the addition of decoration such as linear ornament.42 The Lampsacus polycandelon lacks any personalised inscription (as on the Sion examples) such as would have indicated the object was in fact finished. One can only speculate as to how and why someone acquired such an unfinished item: had the new owner connections with the scrinium that produced and stamped it and was it cheaper for being unfinished and perhaps defective in some other way? In general, the hammered and cut silver polycandela find their technical counterparts, not among cast bronze or brass polycandela, but among the few hammered (and tinned) copper polycandela, both contemporary and later. The Lampsacus polycandelon (D. 24.5 cm) represents a smaller model and the Sion (circular, cruciform and oblong: all measure 56/57 cm across) a larger one among what must have been the state manufacture of stamped silver polycandela produced in series, comparable to that observed for the group of stamped lampstands discussed above. The smaller scale of the Lampsacus object may be related to its domestic use. It is often presumed that sixthseventh-century polycandela were used to light churches.43 Ecclesiastical inventories list large donations of different types of lamps, some in silver ranging from one pound to two hundred Roman pounds in weight44 (as compared with the Sion polycandela which are eight to ten pounds each). Public street lighting is also mentioned in this period, more often with regard to oil supply than the form of lamps.45 But Joshua the Stylite (chapter 29) states that in 496/7 in order to illuminate the streets of Edessa, the governor ordered artisans to affix in their stalls crosses with ‘shining on them five lamps’, probably a reference to cruciform polycandela.46 By its ‘archaeological’ context (i.e. as part

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of a secular treasure) the Lampsacus polycandelon demonstrates that such devices were also (unsurprisingly) used in a domestic milieu.

The mirror All that remains of the Lampsacus mirror is its handle (Fig. 9.16) which had been attached to the reverse of the object.47 The handle, being curved in section (max. H 2.7 cm), takes the form of a strap (W 10.17 mm) which widens and

Fig. 9.16. British Museum, Lampsacus treasure, silver mirror handle, sixth-seventh century (Photo: BM).

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bifurcates at both ends into two wires that loop upwards and outwards and have spatulate terminals; an incised line runs parallel to the contours of the strap. The handle, which weighs 44.8 gm and is now 18 cm in length, appears to have been forged from a silver wire ca. 31.2 cm long and 8 mm thick, hammered flat in the middle, and split into two at the ends. Judging from contemporary comparanda, the handle was originally soldered to a cast silver disk,48 which, the size of the handle suggests, may be reconstructed as about 30 cm in diameter. Contemporary illustrations of mirrors in use occur several times in the Esquiline treasure on the Projecta casket and on the handled wash basin,49 on the casket in the Sevso treasure,50 on a contemporary bone casket,51 on a silver ewer in the Hermitage dated 641–51 (Fig. 9.21), on the Sidi Ghrib pavement,52 and in the wall-paintings of the tomb at Silistra.53 From these images it appears that late antique mirrors were all held from behind rather than by a supporting straight vertical handle.54 The reverse handle type may date from the second half of the second century and extant mirrors of the period reveal that they were of two types.55 The more numerous were those which take the form of a flat strap which can be worked to resemble two fingers (complete with finger nails) – sometimes covered in a foliate or other pattern – which extend from a central collar in opposite directions across the reverse of the mirror, as seen on the example in the Antioch treasure (D 23.2 cm; Fig. 9.20).56 The Lampsacus mirror belonged to the smaller group which have a knotted handle on the reverse.57 A secondcentury (?) mirror (D 29 cm) found at Wroxeter in Britain is the most elaborate (Fig. 9.19):58 the handle is composed of two grooved wires twisted at the centre into a Solomon’s knot and spreading outward into four leaf-shaped terminals which are soldered to the silver disk; between the knot and terminals are attached four rosettes. The disk has a broad foliate border divided by six further rosettes. Several late antique mirrors recall this decoration in simpler form. The mirror in the Latakiya treasure (D 34.4 cm) has a handle composed of two wires which join in a looser central knot and are then bent under into four loops; the leaf-shaped soldering terminals are flat (Fig. 9.17).59 A similar but probably earlier mirror (D 18.2 cm), with a handle of slightly different proportions and with an overlapping leaf pattern on its border, was found in a tomb at Arsinoe in Cyprus.60 The handle of a small mirror of unknown provenance (said to be in Thessaly) and now in a private collection has a handle with a central knot without loops (Fig. 9.18).61 A loose mirror handle found in a tomb near Cologne has a tight version of the knot at its centre.62 I would suggest that the Lampsacus mirror represents a later stage of simplification: the Wroxeter rosettes are replaced by four loops on the Latakiya and related mirrors, while the knot of both these is alone retained on the Thessaly (?)

Fig. 9.17. Cleveland Museum, Latakiya treasure, silver mirror, fourth–fifth century, reverse (Photo: author).

Fig. 9.18. Private collection, silver mirror, fourth-fifth century, reverse (Photo: author).

and Cologne-vicinity mirrors; the knot becomes a solid strap on the Lampsacus handle which also has the four loops of the Latakiya mirror. Although the late antique mirrors just discussed are few

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Fig. 9.19. Shrewsbury, Rowley’s House Museum, silver mirror, second century, reverse (Photo: Shrewsbury Museums Service).

Fig. 9.21. Hermitage Museum, silver ewer with Nereid, 641–51 AD (Photo: after A. Banck, Byzantine Art in the Collections of the U.S.S.R. [Leningrad and Moscow, 1966], pl. 96).

Fig. 9.20. Metropolitan Museum of Art, Antioch treasure, silver mirror, sixth-seventh century, reverse (Photo: author).

in number, the illustrations of mirrors in use in the period suggest a larger production than has now survived. None of the late mirrors has control stamps but they may have once appeared on the Lampsacus mirror body, now lost.

The latter mirror may date to as late as the early seventh century when the bowls in the Lampsacus treasure were made (613–30); the ewer illustrating a late mirror, shown in Fig. 9.21, is known to date to 641–51, thanks to its control stamps. Two of the extant mirrors form part of a domestic assemblage of silver plate (Latakiya and Lampsacus) and at least two others were found in tombs. In contrast to the other twenty-six items in the Lamspacus treasure, the mirror is the only one that is specifically feminine. As stated in the introduction, it was classed as part of bath silver which is associated with women. It thus adds a particular dimension to the treasure as a whole. In sum, the lampstand of 550–565, the polycandelon of

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577 and the mirror of the Lampsacus treasure all represent different types of domestic plate produced and used towards the end of late antiquity. By their specific links with other silver and copper-alloy objects of the period, they demonstrate particular stages of typological development. In the case of both lampstands and polycandela, the dominant production was probably in cast bronze or brass with a relatively restricted production in silver, of which the stamped examples (Figs. 9.6–9.7, 9.12–9.13) probably represent a state production in series. Greater diversity in silver lampstand design is mainly seen outside the stamped silver group; by contrast, all silver polycandela are stamped and no stamped mirrors are known. There is some evidence relating to both stands and polycandela that the silver types were, however, in turn themselves imitated in the baser metal, namely stamped cast copper-alloy lampstands and tinned and hammered copper polycandela and later pseudopolycandela. The significance of the stamps on the copperalloy lampstands remains to be clarified. Due to its fragmentary state, fewer generalisations can be made concerning the Lampsacus mirror which, nevertheless, extends our knowledge of the type of silver plate known to have been in use within the household to which the Lampsacus domestic treasure belonged. A planned study (at David Buckton’s invitation) of the entire Lampsacus treasure should help to throw its lampstand, polycandelon and mirror into even sharper perspective.

6. 7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12.

13. 14.

Acknowledgements I should like to thank Chris Entwistle for allowing me to study the objects under discussion and for making photographs of them available to me. I am also indebted to my husband for his help during trips to Istanbul, Heraklion, Athens and Geneva to study other objects included in the present article.

15.

16.

17.

Notes 1. See note 5 below. 2. E. Cruikshank Dodd, Byzantine Silver Stamps (Washington DC, 1961), nos. 19, 24, 52–53. 3. Dodd, Silver Stamps, nos. 28, 33, 35, 37–39, 54, 58–66, 78. 4. On Menas and Matthew, see O.M. Dalton, Catalogue of Early Christian Antiquities and Objects from the Christian East....of the British Museum (London,1901), nos. 378 and 380 (illustration); on the identification of the third monogram as that of Andreas episkopos, as suggested by S. Hauser, Spätantike und frühbyzantinische Silberloffel (Munster, 1992), nos. 103–8, see comments made by M. Mundell Mango in D. Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (exh. cat., London, 1994), no. 133(a-f). 5. Thirteen of these pieces entered the British Museum in 1848 (Dalton, Catalogue, nos. 376–7, 379, 381–2, 385, 387, 389,

18.

19. 20.

21.

22.

392–6). Other objects followed in 1886 and 1897 (ibid., nos. 378, 380, 383–4, 386, 388, 390–1). Two objects entered the Louvre before 1894 (ibid., no. 387; F. Baratte, ‘Vaisselle d’argent, souvenirs littéraires et manières de table: l’example des cuillers de Lampsaque’, Cahiers Archéologiques 40 [1992], p. 18, note 3). Of the three objects now in Istanbul, one was documented as being there in 1852 (C.T. Newton, Travels and Discoveries in the Levant [London, 1865], I, pp. 43–4) and two were rediscovered there and published more recently: Y. Meriçboyu, ‘Istanbul Arkeoloji Müzelerindeki iki gümüs¸ kasesi ile ilgili yeni bulgular’, in N. Bas¸gelen and M. Lugal (eds.), Armag ¡ an¹¯. Festschrift für Jale Inan (Istanbul, 1989), pp. 369–71. A spoon once in Smyrna (Dalton, Catalogue, no. 391; A. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, ‘Catalogue’, Mitteilungen des deutsches archäologisches Institut 4 [1879], p. 121) is now lost. Meriçboyu, ‘Kasesi’; Hauser, Silberloffel; Baratte, ‘Vaiselle’. None of the three objects has been analysed to determine their chemical composition. On late antique domestic plate, see M. Mundell Mango, ‘Continuity of fourth/fifth-century silver plate in the sixth/seventh centuries in the eastern empire’, Antiquité Tardive 5 (1997), pp. 83–92 and eadem, The Sevso Treasure. Part Two (in press). Codex Justinianus, Digest, 34.2.19. Codex Justinianus, Digest, 34.25.10. Dalton, Catalogue, no. 376. Dodd, Stamps, nos. 19 and 90; M. Mundell Mango, ‘The purpose and places of Byzantine silver stamping’, in S. Boyd and M. Mundell Mango, Ecclesiastical silver plate in sixth-century Byzantium (Washington DC, 1993), p. 212, note 54. Mundell Mango, ‘Byzantine silver stamping’, pp. 203–15. V.P. Vasilev, ‘Byzantinische Silberleuchter aus Sadovec’, in S. Uenze, Die spätantiken Befestigungen von Sadovec (Bulgarien) (Munich, 1992), pp. 255–77; S.A. Boyd, ‘A ‘metropolitan’ treasure from a church in the provinces: an introduction to the study of the Sion treasure’, in Boyd and Mundell Mango, Silver plate, nos. 54–59. F. Baratte and K.S. Painter, Trésors d’orfèvrerie gallo-romains (Paris, 1989), no. 221; H.A. Cahn and A. Kaufmann-Heinimann, Der spätrömische Silberschatz von Kaiseraugst (Derendingen, 1984), no. 42. W.M. Milliken, ‘Early Byzantine silver’, Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art (1958), pp. 37–8, Fig. p. 43; M. Mundell Mango, Silver from early Byzantium. The Kaper Karaon and related treasures (Baltimore, 1986), nos. 11–12. I am indebted to Dr M. Acheimastou Potamianou, Director of the Byzantine Museum in Athens for allowing me to examine this lampstand and to the late Laskarina Bouras for providing me with its dimensions. On the copper-alloy types, see recent remarks by F. Baratte, ‘Note à propos d’un trésor de vaisselle de bronze d’époque byzantine découvert à Pupput (Tunisie)’, Cahiers Archéologiques 46 (1998), pp. 77–78. Mundell-Mango, Silver, nos. 11–12. M.C. Ross, Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Mediaeval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection. I. Metalwork, ceramics, glass, glyptics, painting (Washington DC, 1962), no. 38. Byzantine and post-Byzantine Art (Athens, 1986), no. 186, not, however, from the church of St Titus: see M. Xanthopoulou, ‘Le mobilier ecclésiastique métallique de la basilique de SaintTite à Gortyne (Crète centrale)’, Cahiers Archéologiques 46 (1998), p. 116, note 1. Personal observation of the lampstand in Crete; see Mundell Mango in Buckton (ed.), Byzantium, no. 76. Sotheby’s London

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23. 24. 25.

26. 27.

28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36. 37.

38. 39. 40.

41.

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sale catalogue 11 December 1989, lot 341. For the silver stamps see note 12 above. Dodd, Stamps, pp. 8–11, 15–17. Dodd, Stamps, no. 78. Dodd, Stamps, nos. 91–92, 100–101, 103. E.C. Dodd, ‘The location of silver stamping: evidence from newly discovered stamps’, in Boyd and Mundell Mango, Silver plate, p. 222 and note 40. See also Baratte and Painter, Trésors, nos. 246–47 and M. Mundell Mango, ‘Silver plate among the Romans and among the barbarians’, in F. Vallet and M. Kazanski (eds.), La noblesse romaine et les chefs barbares du IIIe au VIIe siècle (Paris, 1995), pp. 80–1, pl. 2. Dodd, Stamps, no. 100. On the Mytilene treasure see A.K. Vavritsas, ‘Anaskaphe Krategou Mytilenes’, Praktika tes en Athenais Archaiologikes Hetaireias (1954–57), pp. 317–29; on the find-spot of the Antioch lampstand, see M. Mundell Mango, ‘The archaeological context of finds of silver in and beyond the Eastern Empire’, in N. Cambi and E. Marin (eds.), XIII Congressus Internationalis Archaeologiae Christianae, Split 25.09–1.10.1994 (Vatican City/Split, 1998), p. 210, Fig. 6. Mundell Mango, Silver, Fig. 11.8. K.J. Shelton, The Esquiline Treasure (London, 1981), pp. 28, 73, pl. 6. Shelton, Esquiline, pl. 9 below; D.P. Dimitrov, ‘Le système décoratif et la date des peintures murales au tombeau antique de Silistre’, Cahiers Archéologiques 12 (1962), pp. 35–52, Fig. 2. Dalton, Catalogue, no. 393. Dodd, Stamps, no. 24. Boyd, ‘Metropolitan treasure’, pp. 9–10 and nos. 25–36. Visible in Boyd, ‘Metropolitan treasure’, Fig. S31.2 where they are rivetted. Exceptions include a copper-alloy polycandelon made in two sections: a flat disc and, at its centre, a lowered partly-openwork cup-shaped piece: see Ross, Catalogue, no. 44. Boyd, ‘Metropolitan treasure’, nos. 31–36, Fig. S31.4. A similar solution was suggested by Laskarina Bouras for the medieval pseudo-polycandela made in copper and apparently too fragile to support multiple glass lamps: see M. Mundell Mango, ‘The significance of Byzantine tinned copper objects’, in Thymiama ste mneme tes Laskarina Mpoura (Athens, 1994), p. 225 (with scientific contributions by Catherine Mortimer and Peter Northover). C. Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire 312–1453 (Englewood Cliffs, 1972), p. 90. See Mundell Mango, ‘Tinned copper’, pp. 221–27, esp. p. 225. Which reads: ‘In fulfilment of a vow of Kyriakos deacon and his wife Antigone’. I should like to thank the Director General of Antiquities in Ankara for granting me a permit to study and photograph metal objects in the Archaeological Museum in Istanbul in September 1988; for help during the visit I am grateful to the Director, Dr A. Pasinli and to the curator Mrs Yildiz Meriçboyu who drew this object to my attention. For a description see R. Newman and H. Lie, ‘The technical

42. 43.

44.

45.

46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54.

55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

60. 61.

62.

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examination and conservation of objects in the Sion treasure’, in Boyd and Mundell Mango, Silver plate, p. 82. Dodd, Stamps, pp. 1–3; Mundell Mango, ‘Continuity’, p. 85. On the terminology and use of late Roman and Byzantine lamps, see L. Bouras, ‘Byzantine lighting devices’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 32/3 (1981), pp. 479 ff. and S. Boyd, ‘A bishop’s gift: openwork lamps from the Sion treasure’, in F. Baratte (ed.), Argenterie romaine et byzantine (Paris, 1988), pp. 191–210. M. Mundell Mango, ‘The monetary value of silver revetments and objects belonging to churches, AD 300–700’, in Boyd and Mundell Mango, Silver plate, p. 132. See recently W. van Rengen, ‘L’éclairage public d’Apamée de Syrie à l’époque byzantine’, in La Syrie moyenne de la mer à la steppe (Damascus, 1999), p. 91. Unless it refers to the type of cross-shaped bracket used to suspend five lamps in the Sion treasure: see Boyd, ‘Treasure’, p. 10 and checklist no. 49. Dalton, Catalogue, no. 396. See Mundell Mango, Silver, no. 48. Shelton, Esquiline, pls. 4 below, 8 above, 9 above (?), 10 below on right, 11 on right and 21. M. Mundell Mango and A. Bennett, The Sevso Treasure. Part One (Ann Arbor, 1994), Figs. 14–30. H. Buschhausen, Die spätromischen Metallscrinia und frühchristlichen Reliquiare (Vienna, 1971), no. B9, pl. 32. F. Baratte, ‘La vaisselle d’argent dans l’Afrique romaine et byzantine’, Antiquité Tardive 5 (1997), Fig. 22. Dimitov, ‘Peintures’, Fig. 7. On hand mirrors with supporting vertical handles of baluster or loop form, see G. Lloyd-Morgan, Description of the Collections in the Rijksmuseum G.M. Kann at Nijmegen. IX. The Mirrors (Nijmegen, 1981), pp. 37–67. F. Baratte, Vaisselle d’argent en Gaule dans l’antiquité tardive (Paris, 1993), pp. 87–93. Mundell Mango, Silver, no. 48. See Mundell Mango, ‘Continuity’, p. 91. J.M.C. Toynbee, Art in Britain under the Romans (Oxford, 1964), pp. 334–35, pl. LXXVIIIc. Milliken, ‘Silver’, illustration after p. 41. I should like to thank Dr Patrick de Winter of the Cleveland Museum of Art for allowing me to examine and photograph the mirror and other objects from the Latakiya treasure. Klassieke Kunst uit Particulier Bezit – nederlandse verzamelingen 1575–1975 (Leiden, 1975), no. 797, pl. 335. Unpublished; perhaps the same mentioned as having been on the art market in Switzerland: G. Lloyd-Morgan in J. Munby and M. Henig (eds.), Roman Life and Art in Britain. A celebration in honour of the eightieth birthday of Jocelyn Toynbee (Oxford, 1977), II, p. 235. F. Fremersdorf, Das Römergrab in Weiden bei Köln (Cologne, 1957), p. 48, pl. 58. Another related mirror is in Hamburg: Lloyd-Morgan in Munby and Henig, Roman Life and Art, p. 235.

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10. Early Byzantine mercantile communities in the West Ken Dark

Introduction In addition to his outstanding contributions to many other fields of Byzantine archaeology and art history, David Buckton has played a leading role in explicating relationships between Byzantium and its neighbours. He has also been instrumental in encouraging scholarly work on the Byzantine pottery in the collections of the British Museum. It is, therefore, fitting to take this opportunity to look again at the somewhat neglected topic of the role of Byzantine traders in western Europe during the fifth to seventh centuries, a subject closely linked to the study of Early Byzantine pottery. Although East–West trade played a central part in the ‘Pirenne Thesis’, the most comprehensive discussion of eastern Mediterranean merchants in western Europe during the fifth to seventh centuries remains that by Louis Bréhier, published in 1909. Understandably, Bréhier based his work entirely on textual, epigraphic and codicological evidence, but today we have a wealth of archaeological data to inform us of the nature of the groups involved and the commodities traded.1 Before one can address this theme, a few terminological issues need clarification. ‘Early Byzantine’ and ‘Eastern’ will be used here to refer to the people and goods from the Eastern Roman Empire (termed here the ‘Byzantine Empire’ or ‘the East’) in the fifth to seventh centuries. ‘The West’ means here only ‘the part of the former Western Roman Empire north of the Mediterranean’. ‘Westerners’ and ‘Western’ refer to people or goods from this area. As Bréhier pointed out, textual sources make it clear that there were many Byzantine merchants in the West during the period c. 400–600. Their Western contemporaries usually called these traders ‘Syrians’ or, more rarely, ‘Greeks’, but although direct trade between Syria and Gaul took place in the Roman period, not all those described as ‘Syrians’ by Westerners need have come from Syria alone. It is perhaps possible that ‘Syrian’ and ‘Greek’ were general names for ‘Byzantines’, much in the same way as ‘Franks’

(Firengi) was to become the generic name for ‘Europeans’ at a later date, regardless of their actual nationality. Consequently, all references to ‘Greek’ and ‘Syrian’ merchants can be understood as referring to what we might call ‘Byzantine merchants’, rather than assumed to represent accurate attributions of the origin of the traders, although some may well have been from Byzantine Syria or what is today Greece.2 Not all merchants in the West were from the Byzantine world, nor were all ‘Syrians’ and ‘Greeks’ in the West for commerce. There were Byzantine clerics and monks in the West and Western merchants themselves are mentioned in textual sources. At least some Jewish traders may be counted among these Westerners. Fifth- to seventh- century Jewish communities in the West were generally survivals from the Roman imperial period, not recent arrivals from the Byzantine Mediterranean. So, although Jews are often grouped with the ‘Syrians’ and ‘Greeks’ by scholars discussing fifth- to seventh-century trade, this conflation should probably be avoided. That is, there is no reason to assume that these Western Jewish communities derived from anything other than Roman-period local populations, or that all Jews in the West were traders. Here, therefore, we must focus on the people called ‘Syrians’ and ‘Greeks’ by Western sources and only on those among them who we know to have been engaged in commerce.

Evidence for the distribution of Early Byzantine merchants in the West The key evidence for the distribution of Early Byzantine traders in the West is still primarily textual, although epigraphic, codicological and archaeological material supplements the textually-derived picture. The clearest information about these people is provided by two witnesses from Gaul – Sidonius Appolinarus, writing in the fifth century, and Gregory of Tours, writing in the sixth century.3

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Both were well-informed and can be considered trustworthy sources as to the presence and (at least in general terms) activities of Byzantine traders. These two writers provide us with many references to Byzantine merchants and these can be supplemented by incidental mentions in other written sources, such as the fifth novella of Valentinian III, referring to Rome in 440, or the Vitas Sanctorum Patrum Emeretensium, written close to Mérida in about the 630s.4 This is not the place to list and catalogue all such references – in any case, this task was largely achieved by Bréhier in 1909 – instead, this contribution aims to draw attention to the data about these traders contained within these texts, and discuss this in the context of archaeological evidence for Early Byzantine trade with the West. Together, these sources identify a number of places in which Early Byzantine merchants were active in the fifth- to seventhcentury West. Textually-attested locations with Early Byzantine merchants are Rome, Ravenna, Naples, Mérida, Orléans, Bordeaux, Marseilles, Nice, Nîmes, Arles, Autun, Narbonne, Lyons, Vienne, Toulouse, Poitiers, Tours, Trier, and Paris. All of these places had been large Roman towns in the fourth century and all were, in some sense, urban centres in the fifth and sixth centuries. That is, texts give a wholly ‘urban’ distribution for these merchants.5 Although fifth- to seventh-century inscriptions are common in Britain, Gaul, Spain and Italy epigraphy adds little to this distribution. The one exception is a Byzantine merchant perhaps recorded on an inscription at St. Eloy, near Sériguigny in France, found in a Merovingian cemetery by a small rural chapel. It may suggest that the movements of Early Byzantine merchants were not confined to urban centres in Gaul, but it does not demonstrate that any such merchants were based in the countryside. The trader commemorated might have been in transit between towns, or on a special journey such as a pilgrimage. Otherwise, epigraphy only serves to confirm the ‘urban’ distribution recognisable on textual grounds. This might suggest that the textuallyattested pattern represents a more accurate picture of the distribution of such merchants than might otherwise be assumed. Archaeology may be able to add one possible site in Britain. The coastal harbourside promontory fort at Tintagel in Cornwall was apparently a British royal centre from the fifth to seventh centuries. Over a hundred, most likely contemporary, buildings inside the fortified enclosure were associated with the largest assemblage of Early Byzantine pottery found outside the Mediterranean. That so much Eastern pottery has been found on the cliffs of north Cornwall begs the question of how it got there. Byzantine water-jar sherds similar to those found in Mediterranean shipwrecks may suggest direct contact with Eastern ships, and therefore probably traders, whose ships were pre-

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sumably anchored at Tintagel Haven directly below the settlement. Thus, it is possible that Tintagel was the British equivalent of the textually-attested sites known from Gaul, Spain and Italy.6 Including Tintagel, this gives us a small group of sites throughout the West. Apart from Tintagel and St. Eloy all are known to have been Roman towns still ‘urban’ in the fifth to sixth centuries and Tintagel has been compared on other grounds to Late Roman ‘small towns’. That is, if we allow that the lone example of St. Eloy might be explicable by chance circumstances, then we may have a wholly ‘urban’ distribution. This distribution is also markedly regionalized, with groups of sites along the Mediterranean coasts (as one would expect), between the Mediterranean and Bordeaux and along the Loire and Rhône valleys. These form a circular route in Gaul along the Rhone and then on the Loire west to Bordeaux, returning on the Garonne to Narbonne. A few sites (Mérida, Paris, Ravenna, Rome, Tintagel and Trier) stand out from this distribution. We shall return to them later but, before that, let us look at the destinations of the trade-goods themselves.

The range and distribution of Early Byzantine imports in the West The distribution of the products of this trade with the eastern Mediterranean explains and supports this textually-attested pattern of mercantile centres. A wide range of Byzantine material was imported into the West – probably through this network – with some products attested archaeologically, others by written or codicological evidence. Texts provide us with evidence for Byzantine wine and foodstuffs in the West and a great number of Early Byzantine amphorae are now known from the West. Texts make it clear that the products of this trade were widely and regularly accessible, at least in Gaul. For example, sixth-century merchants at Nice brought a sick man ‘Egyptian herbs’ and as Gregory of Tours tells us ‘hermits are greatly addicted to these’, presumably these ‘herbs’ were commonly available. To give a second example, Gaza wine was usually used for communion at St. Mary’s church in Lyon in the sixth century.7 The main codicological evidence for Eastern trade is the papyrus on which documents themselves were written. Archaeological evidence for East–West trade mostly, but not wholly, comprises imported ceramics. These include the amphorae – carrying wine, spices, oil, and other food products – and fine-ware vessels intended for the table. In addition, Byzantine glass, metal vessels (in particular the so-called ‘Coptic bronzes’), intaglios, silks and even a few pieces of sculptured marble, were imported into the West. Many Byzantine coins and other metal artefacts are also

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known from the West, although not always from secure archaeological contexts. But here I shall concentrate on pottery as the principal archaeological source for Byzantine mercantile activity.8 All the main classes of Early Byzantine amphora (LR1– 7) are represented in the West, alongside a mass of North African amphorae. The distribution of these amphorae corresponds well with the textually-evidenced pattern of trading sites. Rome, Ravenna, Bordeaux, Marseilles, Lyon, Nice, Arles, Trier, Tours, Narbonne and Naples all have quantities of Eastern amphorae. Other sites, especially in southern Spain but also in Gaul and Italy, as at Geneva, Luni, Nîmes and Perpignan, also stand out as recipients of Early Byzantine amphorae. A larger number of inland rural sites received smaller quantities of the vessels, presumably as a result of trade by river-boat and overland.9 One feature of this inland distribution is that it stretches along the Rhône valley, a trade-route postulated on the basis of the textual evidence discussed above. But the ‘fit’ between texts and archaeological evidence is not total. In addition to urban sites with amphorae but no textual record of Early Byzantine merchants, there are some towns without currently published amphora finds but with historical evidence of mercantile communities, notably Orléans, Autun, Vienne, Toulouse, Poitiers, and Paris. This pattern of Byzantine imports contrasts with that of North African amphorae and African Red Slip Ware imported into Gaul, Spain and Italy through the shorterdistance North–South trading network centred on Carthage. This supplied the majority of imported oil and wine to these areas in the fifth and sixth centuries, the Byzantines playing a supplementary role in these forms of trade. Because of this, it is important to separate this North– South trading axis – albeit at times in Byzantine hands – from the East–West trade discussed here. There is no suggestion in textual or archaeological sources of North African merchants in Gaul, Spain or Italy, suggesting that this trade was differently organized. Perhaps it was in the hands of Gaulish traders or mediated through the same, Byzantine-controlled, system. The main ports of this trade – Carthage, ‘New Carthage’ (Cartagena), Marseilles and Narbonne – were used by Early Byzantine merchants, and the two ‘Carthages’ became Byzantine political centres following the Justinianic reconquest of North Africa and southern Spain.10 The East–West trade entered the West wholly through existing ports. Isidore’s Viris Illustribus and the Vitas Sanctorum Patrum Emeretensium make it clear that Byzantine merchants used their own ships, although Byzantine Greek graffiti on a Gaulish ship at Fos-sur-Mer may suggest that they also sometimes travelled on Western craft. Byzantine vessels were probably sailing direct to the West from Byzantine ports in the eastern Mediterranean, although Western texts are less clear about this than might be hoped.

Jonathan Wooding has argued that, according to Isidore’s Viris Illustribus, it was possible to make a direct sea voyage between the eastern Mediterranean and north-west Spain in the middle of the sixth century. Byzantine texts may be of more assistance, as Jean Durliat has observed. For example, the Miraculi Sancti Artemii (ch. 27) mentions a trader setting off for Gaul from Constantinople in the seventh century.11 It seems likely that Western imports in the Early Byzantine eastern Mediterranean indicate the origin of some of the traders involved. Sherds of the characteristic class of Gaulish fifth- to seventh-century tableware known as Paléochrétienne Grise have been found in both Athens and Corinth. At least some of this pottery was probably manufactured in Marseilles and Bordeaux, and its occurrence in the East could well imply traders brought ‘home’ tableware from their stays in the West, as there seems to have been no substantial trade in this material east of Italy.12 The routes and home region of some of the Early Byzantine traders in the West is implied too by another class of tableware, Phocaean Red Slip Ware. This is very rare in the West, yet extremely common in parts of the Byzantine East. Phocaean Red Slip Ware was the standard table pottery of the Aegean heartland of the Byzantine world and may provide a way of identifying commercial contacts with this part of the Empire. It has been found at a handful of coastal sites in the Mediterranean, such as Benalua and Villaricos in southern Spain, and only forms a larger proportion of assemblages at three Western locations – in western Portugal, in western Britain and in Byzantinecontrolled southern Italy. The latter is unsurprising, but the former two areas suggest the presence of Byzantine merchants sailing along the coast of Portugal – where Conimbriga may have been an important port for this trade – to Britain, perhaps stopping at Benalua, Villaricos or Carthage en route.13 The most credible interpretation of the textual and archaeological evidence is, then, that there was direct longdistance seaborne East–West trade, originating in Byzantine ports and mediated through Byzantine merchants based in former Roman towns along the southern Mediterranean coasts of Gaul and Spain, and on the principal river-routes inland. A ‘circular’ inland riverine route in Gaul can be discerned, employing the Rhône, Loire and Garonne as its principal arteries. Another trade route passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and along the western coast of Portugal to Britain. The use of this distinctive route to reach Britain highlights the unusual nature of the trade with the west of the island, which exhibits curiously non-economic features in other ways. Britain seems to have been reached by Byzantine merchants following two distinct routes. One was to follow the inland river routes through Gaul and then travel across the Channel to the south-east. This route brought at least some of the Byzantine metalwork found in ‘Early Anglo-Saxon’

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graves in Kent and elsewhere, including ‘Coptic bronze bowls’. This metalwork is apparently absent from western Britain, where almost all the Byzantine material of this date is represented by pottery, with a small quantity of glass and a few other luxury items, such as the intaglio from Cefn Cwmwd. The exceptions are a leaded brass censer said to have been at Glastonbury Abbey and a silverinlaid brass coin-weight from Taunton, both in Somerset.14 The existence of two separate routes accords very well with Procopius’s account of Britain, which he saw as comprising two islands – Britannia and Brittia. It has long been realised that Procopius confused the accounts of different sources – presumably traders – so that Britannia and Brittia refer to the west and east of Britain. Procopius’s confusion can be seen, then, to reflect the two routes reconstructed from archaeological evidence and it is worth noting that these routes would have brought different parts of the island into contact with different points of origin for the merchant ships they encountered.15 The eastern route would have created direct links with western Gaul. Procopius may suggest one port of entry for this trade when he misunderstands the name of Thanet in his legendary account of cross-Channel trade, as the ‘Saxon Shore’ fort at Richborough is an obvious candidate for a sixth-century Kentish port. To reach western Britain, Byzantine ships stopped at ports in the Mediterranean and on the Iberian coast but then sailed straight to Britain. This route is represented in artefactual terms at Tintagel, where North African ceramics and Spanish glassware have been discovered alongside larger amounts of Phocaean Red Slip Ware and Byzantine amphorae.16 Procopius is likely to have heard information about Britain from traders in Constantinople, so it seems that participants in both routes could be found there. This impression is supported, Mike Fulford has observed, by the ‘Constantinopolitan’ composition of the pottery assemblage in western Britain. Yet the direct route to this part of Britain was far too lengthy to be commercially viable for Mediterranean merchants. Sailing times ruled out profitable direct trade as Anne Bowman has estimated, even if ships could sail home with a cargo of tin or lead. This contrasts with the shorter commercially-viable route to eastern Britain, which can be taken as no more than an extension of the riverine trading network in Gaul.17 One possibility is that direct trade with western Britain was undertaken for diplomatic rather than commercial reasons. Western Britain is the only part of the West where former Roman citizens established their own kingdoms and kept these free from foreign rule throughout the sixth century. The chronology of the Byzantine material found there may imply that the existence of these independent ‘Late Antique’ British kingdoms was the reason for this direct maritime trade. The western British finds may all date from Justinian I’s reign, when imperial attempts to

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restore Roman rule in the West led to new initiatives to secure support throughout the region. Diplomatic relations with British rulers may have been sought and assisted by subsidized traders, whose local knowledge, navigational skills and ships were best suited to this purpose. These merchants were able to maximize their profits by returning home with cargoes of immense worth in the Byzantine East, especially tin – known as ‘the British metal’ in the East.18

The character of Early Byzantine trading centres in the West The possibility that Early Byzantine trade with Britain was, in part, for diplomatic purposes prompts another look at the role of Early Byzantine merchants elsewhere in the West. The same textual sources that enable the identification of the location of Byzantine traders in Gaul, Spain and Italy also permit some observations to be made regarding the character of this Byzantine presence. It is clear that there were large numbers of Byzantine merchants in at least some of the places mentioned, not merely a handful of adventurous entrepreneurs. In sixthcentury Paris and Rome Byzantine traders were, for example, significant political forces prompting official responses and soliciting official appointments for Easterners. Byzantine merchants comprised distinct quarters in some towns, as in Ostrogothic Ravenna and Rome, and had their own religious organizations and churches: for instance, a guild of St. Menas at Rome and a chapel of St Sergius at Bordeaux. Even in lesser centres, traders were organized communities rather than isolated individuals, as evidenced for instance at Orléans in 585, when the Byzantine merchants processed with their own banners, singing their own songs. That is, Byzantine traders in the West were not simply a few isolated individuals but expatriate communities with strong collective identities.19 Texts also imply the permanence and prosperity of these communities. Byzantine merchants owned houses and employed servants in the West, as we see from Gregory’s Historia Francorum, and they could hold considerable wealth. In sixth-century Paris, a wealthy Byzantine merchant called Eusebius ‘bought’ the see and filled its posts with ‘Syrians’. Another wealthy Byzantine, Eufronius, a resident in sixth-century Bordeaux, had a house and chapel of St. Sergius and a merchant in the same town had a boy called ‘Anatolius’ (named after ‘Anatolia’?) in his employ. The bishop of Bordeaux, holder of one of the leading bishoprics in sixth-century Frankia, was allegedly jealous of the wealth of a Byzantine trader in the town, and in early sixth-century Ostrogothic Naples one of the leading local dignitaries was a Byzantine merchant.20

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This evidence for large, resident, property-owning and wealthy Byzantine communities in the West, with their own chapels and organization, suggests a degree of Byzantine economic and cultural involvement which has so far gone unnoticed. It is not true that ‘Syrians’ or ‘Greeks’ coordinated most Western trade and commerce, but plainly in some localities they were a major economic, political and perhaps cultural, force. It is at this stage that we may return to the small group of ‘exceptional’ sites, away from the southern coasts of Gaul and Spain and the main riverine pathways to the interior. These sites are notable for their political importance in the fifth and sixth centuries. Paris, Mérida and Ravenna were the leading political foci of Frankia, Visigothic Spain and Ostrogothic Italy, and Rome was the preeminent religious centre in the West. The one remaining site, Trier, was the leading centre of ‘Roman’ cultural survival in northern Gaul and a former Roman imperial capital. If we see these mercantile communities as wealthy, organised, numerically strong, and capable of collective action, then the location of such communities in the ‘capitals’ of major Western kingdoms and at Rome, suggests that they may have played not merely an economic, but also a diplomatic role on behalf of the Byzantine state. The key evidence for this point comes from western Britain, where it is otherwise difficult to explain Byzantine involvement in general and the anomalous finds at Tintagel in particular, but the argument may apply generally to merchants situated at political centres in Gaul, Spain and Italy. Thus, Early Byzantine mercantile communities may have had a secondary, or perhaps more accurately, complementary, role as permanent Byzantine embassies to the West. This interpretation may cast new light on Byzantine diplomacy and relations with the West – particularly in the reign of Justinian I – and serve to demonstrate the closeness of the relationship between extra-imperial trade and official diplomacy in the fifth to seventh centuries.

Notes 1. L. Bréhier, ‘Les colonies d’Orientaux en Occident au commencement du moyen-age’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift XII (1903), pp. 1–39. For a recent discussion see S. Lebecq, ‘Routes of Change: Production and distribution in the west’, in L. Webster and M. Brown (eds.), The Transformation of the Roman World AD 400–900 (London, 1997), pp. 67–78. 2. P. Reynolds, Trade in the western Mediterranean AD 400–700 (Oxford, 1995), ch. 5. For Firengi see: C. Thomas, ‘‘‘Gallici Nautae de Galliarum Provinciis’’ – A Sixth/Seventh century trade with Gaul, Reconsidered’, Medieval Archaeology XXXIV (1990), pp. 1–26 (p. 6). N F. Retamero, ‘As coins go home: Towns, merchants, bishops and kings in Visigothic Hispania’, in P. Heather (ed.), The Visigoths (Woodbridge, 1999), pp. 271– 304 (p. 274) notes that ‘Greek’ clerics and monks might also have been in the West, so that not even all ‘Greeks’ (or ‘Syrians’) need have been merchants.

3. Bréhier, ‘Les colonies’. 4. B. Lancon (trans. A. Nevill), Rome in Late Antiquity (Edinburgh, 1995), p. 81; J. M. Wooding, Communication and commerce along the western sealanes AD 400–800 (Oxford, 1996), p. 47. 5. For this and the next paragraph: Bréhier, ‘Les colonies’. For Spain see also: L.A. García, ‘Colonias commerciantes orientales en la Península Ibérica, s.V–VIII’, Habias 3 (1972), pp.127–54. 6. On Tintagel and its British context: K.R. Dark, Britain and the End of the Roman Empire (London, 2000), pp. 153–6. 7. L. Thorpe (ed. and trans.), Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks (Harmondsworth, 1974), VI.5; S.T. Loseby, ‘Marseilles and the Pirenne Thesis I: Gregory of Tours, the Merovingian kings and “un grand port”’, in R. Hodges and W. Bowden (eds.), The Sixth Century. Production, distribution and demand (Leiden, 1998), pp. 203–30 (p. 220); K.R. Dark, Byzantine Pottery (London, 2001), ch. 2. 8. S. Lebecq, ‘Les échanges dans la Gaule du Nord au VIe siècle: une histoire en miettes’, in Hodges and Bowden, The Sixth Century, pp. 185–202; R. Hodges and D. Whitehouse, Mohammed, Charlemagne and the origins of Europe. Archaeology and the Pirenne Thesis (London, 1983), pp. 30–1 and pp. 88–90; P. Perin, ‘A propos des vases de bronze ‘coptes’ du VIIe siècle en Europe de l’Ouest: le pichet de Bardouville (Seine Maritime)’, Cahiers Archéologiques 40 (1992), pp. 35–50; S. J. Keay, Late Roman amphorae in the Western Mediterranean (Oxford, 1984). For the marble, J. P. Sodini, ‘Le commerce des marbres à l’époque protobyzantine’, in V. Kravari, J. Lefort and C. Morrison (eds.), Hommes et richesses dans l’empire byzantin (Paris, 1989), vol. 1, pp. 163–89. 9. J. K. Knight, The End of Antiquity (London, 1999), p.168; K.E. Carr, ‘A changing world – African Red Slip Ware in Roman and Visigothic Baetica’, in A. Ferreiro (ed.), The Visigoths (Leiden, 1999), pp. 219–62; C. Becker, C. Constantin and F. Villedieu, ‘Types d’amphores en usage à Lugdunum du 1er au VIe siècle’, in Amphores romaines et histoire économique: dix ans de recherches (Rome, 1989), pp. 656–9, and M. Bonifay, G. Congès and M. Leguilloux, ‘Amphores tardives (Ve–VIIe siècle) à Arles et à Marseilles’, in Amphores romaines, pp. 660– 63. 10. D.P.S. Peacock and D. Williams, Amphorae and the Roman economy. An introductory guide (London, 1986); P. Reynolds, Settlement and Pottery in the Vinalopo Valley (Alicante, Spain) AD 400–700 (Oxford, 1993); M. Bonifay and F. Villedieu, ‘Importations d’amphores orientales en Gaule du Ve–VIIe siècle’, in V. Déroche and J.-M. Spieser (eds.), Recherches sur la Céramique Byzantine (Paris, 1989), pp. 17–46; R.B. Hitchner, ‘Meridional Gaul, trade and the Mediterranean economy in late antiquity’, in J. Drinkwater and H. Elton (eds.), Fifth-century Gaul. A crisis of identity? (Cambridge, 1992), pp. 122–31; P. Arthur, ‘Naples: notes on the economy of a Dark Age city’, in S. Stoddart and C. Malone (eds.), Papers in Italian Archaeology, Part IV (Oxford, 1985), pp. 247–59; S. Gutiérrez Lioret, ‘Eastern Spain in the sixth century’, in Hodges and Bowden, The Sixth Century, pp. 161–84 (p. 184); J. Durliat, ‘Les conditions du commerce au VIe siècle’, in Hodges and Bowden, The Sixth Century, pp. 89–118; Knight, End of Antiquity, pp. 151–8. 11. Wooding, Communication and commerce, pp. 46–9. See also: Retamero, ‘As coins go home’. 12. J. Hayes, Late Roman Pottery (London, 1972), ch. 9; J. Hayes, Supplement to Late Roman Pottery (London, 1980), p. lxvii; Knight, End of Antiquity, pp. 151–2 and bibliography on p. 197; Loseby, ‘Marseilles and the Pirenne Thesis’, p. 212 for supplementary bibliography on these wares. 13. M. Picon, ‘Une sigillée phocéenne tardive (‘Late Roman C ware’)

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15. 16.

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et sa diffusion en occident’, Figilina 7 (1986), pp. 129–42; Dark, Britain, pp. 125–8; Knight, End of Antiquity, pp. 152–8. M.G. Fulford, ‘Byzantium and Britain: a Mediterranean perspective on Post-Roman Mediterranean Imports in Western Britain and Ireland’, Medieval Archaeology XXXIII (1989), pp. 1–6; Dark, Britain, pp. 37, 95, 173, pl. 19; D. Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (London, 1994), pp. 86 and 95. Fulford, ‘Byzantium and Britain’, passim. Greek-speaking Procopius took ‘Thanatos’ to refer to an ‘isle of the dead’, but notes that one could meet people in Constantinople who had taken part in cross-Channel trade with the island. A. Bowman, ‘Post-Roman imported pottery in Britain and

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Ireland: a maritime perspective’, in K.R. Dark (ed.), External contacts and the economy of Late Roman and Post-Roman Britain (Woodbridge, 1996), pp. 97–108; Fulford, ‘Byzantium and Britain’, p. 5. 18. For ‘the British metal’, see J. M. Wooding, ‘Cargoes and trade along the Western seaboard of Britain AD 400–800’, in Dark (ed.), External contacts, pp. 67–82; Wooding, Communication and commerce, pp. 45–6. For British kingdoms of this period, see Dark, Britain; K.R. Dark, Civitas to Kingdom. British Political Continuity 300–800, (London, 1994). 19. Bréhier, ‘Les colonies’; Thorpe, Gregory of Tours, VLII.I. 20. Procopius, De Bello Gothico 5 (1) 8,21; Thorpe, Gregory of Tours, VILI.34 and X.25.

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11. Studying the Byzantine staurothèque at Esztergom Paul Hetherington

The town of Esztergom still retains the status that it has had for many centuries as the seat of the Roman Catholic Primate of Hungary, and the modern visitor will find the vast dome of its huge nineteenth-century cathedral – the largest church in Hungary – still looming protectively over the town from the hill on which it stands; a curve in the Danube separates it from Slovakia, and the site has been occupied by the successive strongholds of Hungarian rulers.1 When archbishop János Kutassy, primate of Hungary from 1599, died here in 1601,2 his will provided only the second acknowledgement of the existence of a Byzantine reliquary containing wood from the True Cross which was then to be found here; the first mention was in an inventory of the cathedral treasury of 1528 where it is noted as: “Una tabula quadrangularis ligne ad formam Grecorum ex una parte in superficie cum argento inaurato et veris simulacris texta in medio lignum vite continens”.3 This paper concerns the staurothèque of which these provide the earliest surviving documentary records. It will look at how the work has been studied by scholars in the last century and a half, and at how the alterations to which it was subjected during the period that it was in Byzantine hands may be able to tell us something of the change that occurred in the usage and function of such relics during that time. In spite of the sanctity of the relic, there is no existing record of its origin or that of its container, nor is it known how long, in 1528, it had already been in Esztergom. For the former, we have only a reference in Kutassy’s will to a document which implied that it dated from 1190, but as this has disappeared it cannot now be evaluated;4 for the latter problem there are two contending dates or periods which are most frequently cited. One of these is a suggestion that the reliquary may have been among the long list of treasures that were robbed in the spring of 1205 by Hungarian brigands from three clerics who were envoys of Cardinal Benedict of Santa Susanna; the latter had acquired them in Constantinople as booty from the Fourth Crusade, and was having them conveyed to Rome.5 We know of the episode from a letter that Pope Innocent III wrote on June

27th of that year to King Andrew of Hungary complaining of the robbery; among the long and interesting list of stolen goods in the papal letter, which enumerates pallia, carpets, ampullae, Saracen textiles, silver-covered evangelistaries, twenty-five rings, etc., there is itemised a crux aurea, in qua erat de ligno Domini;6 this, it has been suggested, could be the Esztergom staurothèque. Although our reliquary could scarcely be described as a crux aurea, it is conceivable that the emergency which gave rise to the letter could have produced this rather inaccurate description. The other is even more tendentious, and concerns the fact that the king Béla III, who ruled Hungary from his palace here from 1172 to 1196, had been educated at the Byzantine court and wished to recreate something of its splendour in his own court at this town beside the Danube. It is certainly possible that Byzantine artefacts were already to be found here before the Fourth Crusade brought so many more into the West, but we have no evidence that among them could be found our staurothèque. Any Byzantine artefacts housed at Esztergom would have remained here until its destruction in 1241 during the disastrous invasion by the Mongols; it was this invasion which caused Bela IV (1235–70) to move his capital from Esztergom to Buda, and the days of importance for the town as a secular centre were over.7 Seven centuries later it is only its ecclesiastical status that is retained. For reasons which are both internal to the reliquary itself, as well as external, and which will be discussed below, I do not feel that any of these suppositions can be supported. What the modern viewer of the reliquary sees (Fig. 11.1 and back cover) is a framed ensemble of silver-gilt and enamel comparable in form to an icon, with horizontal bands dividing the field into three unequal sectors or zones; central to the design is the outline of a patriarchal cross imposed upon the two lower sectors forming what must have been a shaped recess. In the upper sector (the smallest) two angels in half-length (Figs. 11.2 and 11.3) lament with outspread wings, and in the central sector Saint Constantine and Saint Helena (Figs. 11.4 and 11.5) flank the cross,

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Fig. 11.1. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, silver-gilt and enamel staurothèque (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

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Fig. 11.2. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail: angel (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.3. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail: angel (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

both gesturing towards it; four sigillia (X) are located above and below the arms of the cross. The bottom sector contains two narrative scenes: on the left the uncommon subject denoted by its inscription as the Elkomenos epi staurou shows Christ, with hands bound, being led (the word can mean ‘dragged’) to the crucifixion (Fig. 11.6), accompanied by a soldier and a veiled male figure, presumably intended to represent a Jew, who points up at the cross. On the right the scene of the Deposition from the cross (Fig. 11.7) shows Joseph of Arimathea holding the sagging body of Christ,

with the lamenting figures of the Virgin and Saint John on either side and Nicodemus pulling the nails from the suppedaneum. A decorative silver-gilt frame encloses the ensemble, in which eight panels of a fine interlace design are separated by what were originally six half-length and two full-length images in repoussé; two are modern replacements, but the top of the frame formed a conventional group of Christ (Fig. 11.8) between the Virgin (Fig. 11.9) and a (missing but predictable) image of the Forerunner, with (one can presume) three warrior saints along the

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Fig. 11.4. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail: St Constantine (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.5. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail: St Helena (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.6. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail: the Elkomenos epi staurou (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.7. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail: the Deposition from the Cross (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

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Fig. 11.8. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail (frame): Christ (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.9. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail (frame): the Virgin (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.10. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail (frame): St Demetrius (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

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bottom, of which Saint Demetrius (Fig. 11.10) and Saint Theodore Tyron (Fig. 11.11) survive from the original design.8 Full-length standing figures of the bishops Saint Basil (Fig. 11.12) and Saint Nicholas (Fig. 11.13) are located on the sides. The reliquary underwent a thorough restoration in 1955– 58, and this confirmed that in general it had survived in good condition; one section of the enamel surround of the cross recess was replaced, and in the outer frame the two portraits in the right-hand corners were renewed. The bottom frame member was lowered to reveal the earlier surround of the main enamel area.9 This paper will not be concerned with refining the dating of the work; there has been a consensus that the central panel of the staurothèque is work of the later eleventh/twelfth century, and the frame is a later addition of the later thirteenth/fourteenth century.10

Critical history of the reliquary Looking at the earlier literature on the work presents some

Fig. 11.11. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail (frame): St Theodore Tiron (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.12. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail (frame): St Basil (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

Fig. 11.13. Esztergom, Cathedral Treasury, staurothèque, detail (frame): St Nicholas (Photo: Béla Mudrák).

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interesting features, which are here interpreted as reflecting the simple facts of the reliquary’s known history and the siting of its home for at least the last four centuries. Esztergom is a relatively out-of-the-way location, not easily visited, and the work has only been exhibited outside Hungary in 1985 and 1997.11 This geographical factor gives the reliquary, which must be regarded as a substantial work, and quite high in the league of Byzantine artefacts of ‘museum status’, an interesting position as a locus within the history of the study of Byzantine enamel. Reviewing the comments of the various scholars who have written about it, one becomes aware of the fact that a surprisingly high proportion of them could not have been writing with first-hand experience of this quite remotely sited work of art. Their reliance, while formulating their views on it, on reproductions and on the comments of previous writers emerges as commonplace, and this limited first-hand access must account in some measure both for the confused and misleading opinions on it that have been published, and for the relatively poor ‘press’ that the reliquary has accumulated over the last one and a half centuries. So while one hesitates to disparage the writings of the father-figure of all Byzantine enamel studies, Nikodim Kondakov, how otherwise are his views, published in 1892 in his monumental and influential book, on this outstanding work at Esztergom to be explained? He wrote that: ‘En général le dessein est mauvais; il est lourd, schématique; les enroulements dans le contour des vêtements, principalement sur les genoux, sont particulièrement déplaisants par l’absence de goût...’. While this may be taken as personal opinion, he then makes a revealing factual error when he describes the six plaques in the frame as being of ‘émail champlevé...la surface..est gravée au poinçon et puis remplie d’émail bleu foncé’.12 Yet the greater part of the recesses in the eight non-figural decorative plaques in the frame are still filled with enamel that is indisputably a light green, and the technique used to produce the relief might be mistaken for quite a refined repoussé, although closer examination reveals that it is in fact produced from the impression of sheet silver into two different matrices (see Fig. 11.9). Conventional champlevé, with metal removed by an engraving tool (poinçon), it certainly is not. If Kondakov was referring to the six remaining figural plaques (of eight), they are all in repoussé technique and could never have contained any enamel at all. Could it be that he had before him the engraving by Schönbrunner published by Bock in 1859 (Fig.11.14)?13 If so, he may also have been using, but not fully understanding, the description of Jules Labarte in his Histoire des Arts Industriels (2nd ed., 1872).14 In this the French scholar referred to the inner frame (‘le contour’) of the reliquary as being of blue enamel and the outer frame (‘le bordure d’encadrement’) as just being also of gold. Even Bock seems to have been relying on the engraving by

Schönbrunner that he published, rather than on first-hand observation, and it is evident that the engraver, for his part, was clearly not familiar with the Greek alphabet.15 Again, O.M. Dalton in 1911, although deprecating the great Russian scholar’s censorious comments, repeated and then emphasised his factual faux pas of describing the frame as being of champlevé enamel, ‘..and thus afford[s] one of the rare examples of champlevé work executed by Byzantine artists’.16 A more appreciative note is struck by Émile Molinier in his short article published in 1887,17 where he wrote: ‘Les émaux sont finement exécutés,...les ornements de la bordure fort délicats’. Neither the reliquary itself, nor the heliogravure of it that Molinier published, could have been available to Jules Labarte, as he wrote in 1872 that the name of one of the standing saints was Saint Nicholas, but in the case of the other ‘le nom est illisible’.18 Yet the name of Saint Basil (Fig. 11.12) is extremely clear in both the heliogravure and in the work itself; he too must have been following Bock (who also appears not to have seen the object) who said that the title of Saint Basil ‘uns jedoch nicht gelungen ist’,19 although as we have seen the only place where it cannot be read is Schönbrunner’s engraving. The pejorative tone adopted by Kondakov was followed by Bàràny-Oberschall (although the work must have been familiar to her) in her discussion of the ‘crown of Constantine Monomachos’ of 1937, where it is grouped with the greater part of the Pala d’Oro as ‘an example of decadence’.20 This view even persisted as late as 1961, when John Beckwith saw in the enamels of the main field a ‘debased naturalism combined with drapery treated as a meaningless network of lines [which] proposes advanced provinciality of style’.21 So it would appear that studying the engraving published in 1859, or later monochrome photographs, had become for over a century a substitute for first-hand examination of the staurothèque at Esztergom. To discuss Byzantine enamel without reference to its colours might be compared to omitting the mosaics of San Vitale from a discussion of what Byzantine art can be seen in Ravenna. Yet of these scholars it was only BàrànyOberschall who even mentions what is surely the most striking feature of the Esztergom reliquary, evident at first sight and growing with further viewing, which is the vivid and delicate colouring of its enamels: the luminous pinkishviolet22 of Christ’s robe in the Elkomenos (certainly highly unusual and unknown to the present writer in any other work of Byzantine enamel) and the strikingly subdued emerald green23 in the figure of Saint Helena contrast with, for example, the brilliant blue, white, green and red in the figure of the soldier. It is hard to believe that comments on the work that did not mention the unusual and striking colours of its enamels could have been based on first-hand observation, but relied on monochrome reproductions. The earliest colour reproduction of the work that I have found is a poor one published in 1972,24 but even here the caption

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Fig. 11.14. Engraving of the Esztergom staurothèque, Vienna, 1859 (Engraving: J. Schönbrunner).

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and text give no hint of personal study. Esztergom, occupying its hill beside the Danube sixty-eight kilometres north of Budapest, is not on the way to any other major centre, and the Byzantinist has no other reason to visit the town. ‘Studying the Esztergom staurothèque’ was an activity, it seems, that a number of scholars thought could be carried out at second hand, with predictably chancy results. This aspect of the reliquary’s past, combined as it is with a complete absence of internal dating criteria such as might have been supplied by an inscription, has no doubt contributed to the varying estimates of its date.25

The cathedral treasury Readers of the essays in this volume will be accustomed to seeking out isolated works of medieval art in unlikely contexts, but it still comes as a slight surprise to find the Byzantine staurothèque in the company that it keeps in the cathedral treasury.26 Here, where it would have spent at least four centuries, now contains what must be one of the most sumptuous collections of any central European ecclesiastical centre, with a massive quantity of gold and gilded objects for religious ceremonial of all kinds, many of great richness and sophistication. Only Vienna and Prague in the Austro-Hungarian empire could have matched the splendour and richness of this treasury. Yet its contents are overwhelmingly of the kind that can only be found within the Roman Catholic church; the Byzantine staurothèque is alone in deriving from a clearly Orthodox origin. (This would also militate against the argument that the staurothèque was once among many such objects to be found here before the Mongol invasion).

The original form of the reliquary It was recognised from quite an early point that the broad outer frame of our reliquary was of later workmanship,27 but there has been no discussion as to what form the whole work might originally have taken; the assumption has normally been made that the relic of the cross was always displayed as if it had formed the centrepiece of an icon, the tabula quadrangularis of the 1528 inventory, or ‘en forme de tableau’ as Labarte puts it.28 Frolow in his comprehensive study29 assembles a number of staurothèques originating in the Byzantine world that correspond to this type, with the cross-shaped relic embedded in a recess, of which the tenthcentury example at Limburg (Frolow, no. 135) is the most famous. But the majority of those constructed with the relic recessed in this way into a flat surface, usually supported by figural decoration, were felt to be so precious that they needed the protection of some form of covering or lid. The relic of the True Cross, with relics of the Passion,

also had special status as being in the gift of the emperor,30 and this status is emphasised by (for example) the inscription on a staurothèque in the Great Lavra, Mount Athos (Frolow, no. 233), referring to the ôßìéov îýëov âáóéëéêüv. The protective covering either took the form of a sliding lid, usually with its own elaborate decoration, or could be of two leaves folding across the central panel and forming a triptych, as in those in the Great Lavra, Mount Athos, and in the Pierpont Morgan Library, New York (Frolow, nos. 233 and 347). This covering gave necessary protection when (as is well known and commonly cited) relics of the cross were carried on military campaigns.31 The first of these two forms of covering was, however, by far the most common in the Byzantine world, persisting from at least the tenth century from the famous reliquary at Limburg (Frolow, no. 135), through others in Frolow’s compilation of ‘pièces justificatives’32 including examples in Brescia (no. 413), St Petersburg (nos. 408 and 430), Svaneti (no. 662), Venice (no. 663), Rome (no. 667), Moscow (no. 729), to the fifteenth-century reliquary that belonged to Cardinal Bessarion (no. 872). Reliquaries of this type can in the course of time lose their sliding lid, as in that in the Kremlin Armoury, Moscow (Frolow, no. 729), or the framing can become damaged – or both; the fact that the frame only covers three sides of the central panel, and has to be shaped to receive the edges of the lid as it slides in, means that its construction could well have been intrinsically weak. The suggestion can certainly be made that the reliquary at Esztergom was originally furnished with a sliding lid, and that this was subsequently lost or discarded and the channels into which it would have been fitted altered to give it its present form of a broad decorative frame. This must remain in the realm of hypothesis, but is supported in several ways. First, in assessing the large majority of surviving staurothèques of this type which either retain, or clearly were made to accept, a sliding lid, it seems to have been normal to use the frame or the cover to display a specially composed inscription. In response to the importance of the relic this inscription seems often to have been both extensive and elaborate; examples can be found both on staurothèques that have survived, as on those at Limburg and in the Kremlin Armoury, Moscow (just mentioned) as well as where they have not, but where the inscription has been recorded.33 The absence of any such message on our example, if it had not been lost, would certainly be highly unusual. It must always have been an important feature of the reliquary of the cross that it should be able to give physical protection to the most precious of relics which it contained; in the same way, the apotropaic qualities that the relic provided for its owner were usually invoked by the individual who had originated the construction of the reliquary. Few other Byzantine staurothèques in Frolow’s great work of assemblage, and none of comparable size, present the relic in such an unprotected

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form, and without any invocatory inscription. A further point concerning the frame could be mentioned here. If photographs of the staurothèque made after the restoration of 1955–58 are compared with, for example, the engraving of Schönbrunner of 1859 or the heliogravure published by Molinier in 1887,34 the inner framing of narrow enamel strips along the bottom edge is seen to be covered by the bottom member of the later frame. This was removed and relocated, being lowered to reveal the original enamel strip framing of the main field. This detail further emphasises the two phases in the work’s history.

The figural enamels of the central field If any imagery is included in the decoration of Byzantine staurothèques it seems always to have involved (as here) the figures of Saint Constantine and Saint Helena, usually with two lamenting angels. The presence of these figures requires no complex explanation: Constantine was always associated with the cross after the legend of his vision and subsequent dream before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge, with the text of In hoc vinces;35 and his mother, the empress Helena, initiated the discovery of the True Cross in Jerusalem, and so here her image accompanies a fragment of the cross that she had brought to light.36 Unique to the Esztergom reliquary, however, is the combination of the two narrative scenes of the Elkomenos and the Deposition; no other surviving staurothèque displays both these images, although Frolow records (nos. 464 and 473) two lost examples of the Deposition in this context, and this suggests a personal association. While variations on the theme of the Elkomenos epi staurou can be found in a variety of areas in monumental art,37 examples on portable objects seem to have been so much rarer before the late twelfth century that individual examples of its use have been recorded. One such known work is a large and much treasured icon that was to be found in the major church at Monemvasia, the fortress town in Laconia, which actually bore this dedication. The historian Niketas Choniates recorded that the emperor Isaac Angelos (1185–1195) was so anxious to extract this icon in order to install it in a church dedicated to Saint Michael that he was restoring at Anaplus on the Bosporos that he resorted to a trick in order to gain possession of it.38 Quite why he was so determined to acquire this icon the historian does not say; the emperor’s seizure of all the icons of St Michael that he could find in Constantinople is more easily explicable. But his desperation could have been due to the scarcity of impressive versions of this subject, and the icon in Monemvasia may have had a particularly high status. In this context it could be of interest that, according to George Akropolites, it was the same emperor who, when defeated by the Bulgar Asen I in 1190 in the Šipka defile, lost a reliquary of the

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True Cross in which many minor relics were incorporated.39 The presence of the scene of the Deposition of Christ from the cross needs no explanation on the staurothèque, supporting as it does the existence of the relic that it contains, and following logically from the Elkomenos. The episode is not described in canonical gospel accounts, nor was it adopted as one of the Dodecaorton, but it begins to appear from the ninth century, and was well established by the period of the staurothèque; the element of emotion that is present in our enamel, with the weeping figure of John and the Virgin pressing her cheek to that of the dead Christ as he is lowered by Joseph of Arimathea, can already be found in tenth-century frescoes,40 while the presence of Nicodemus removing the nails from the cross can be traced to a ninth century textual source of a sermon of George of Nicomedia, and can also be found in tenth century pictorial representations.41 There is indeed no element of the Esztergom enamel that is not consistent with the known development of this scene by the twelfth century, and its appearance here does not raise any particular problems.

The frame of the reliquary Before enquiring further into the origins and purpose of the staurothèque, we should discuss the frame that now surrounds it. As mentioned above, this has long been recognised as a later addition to the ensemble, and we have here proposed that it replaced the slots into which a separate cover could be slid. It was also mentioned above that the ornamental panels must have been formed by thin silver sheet being stamped out from two different matrices, one somewhat larger than the other, and that light green enamel still fills most of the recesses in the flat parts of these silver-gilt panels. A point could first be made that concerns the disparity in the refinement of the ornamental panels when compared with the small figural reliefs in repoussé technique; the latter are of relative crudity, with the chasing tools limited to only about three, all of which are straight. When the craftsman (who, incidentally, was almost certainly lefthanded)42 needed to produce a curved line, as in the haloes of Saint Nicholas or of the Virgin, or in the MHP symbol (Figs. 11.13 and 11.9), he had to make use of straightedged chasing tools of which the repeated use has left a jagged outer edge to the curved line; the crudity of the IC XC symbols of the Christ relief (Fig. 11.8) is also notable. By contrast, the delicacy and assurance of the patterned panels strongly suggests that the matrix used for each was the product of much superior artistry. An immediate point of comparison can be made with the revetments of icons that have been assembled and studied by André Grabar.43 It is clear that by the thirteenth century quite a strong tradition had developed for icons to

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receive a decorative framing in precious metal, which sometimes included a partial covering of the front of the icon itself; this is not the place to discuss the full implications of this development, but it is clear that the frame of the Esztergom staurothèque can be seen to fit easily into this practice. The frames of two icons at Vatopedi, Mount Athos, and two more in Moscow, in the Kremlin Armoury

and in the Tretyakov Gallery,44 all display just the same range of design characteristics, with figural panels in repoussé individually chased, separated by stamped panels of uniformly decorative treatment. All are dateable to the later thirteenth or early fourteenth century. The last of these (Fig. 11.15), where the patron/donors are portrayed in the frame, offers a very comparable

Fig. 11.15. Moscow, Tretyakov Gallery, silver icon revetment (Photo: Tretyakov Gallery).

STUDYING

THE

BYZANTINE

example to the frame of our staurothèque. Two sizes of decorative panel here separate twelve figural reliefs, in a completely similar approach to the creation of a richly impressive frame. We should now return briefly to a further aspect of ‘studying the staurothèque’. It follows that if any part of the reliquary is both of Byzantine workmanship and is not earlier than the late thirteenth century, the work cannot have arrived in Esztergom until after that period. This can to some extent be confirmed by historical conditions which were external to the object, but which should have been taken into consideration when any proposal was made that it was already in Esztergom before 1241. King Béla IV had to flee for his life before the Mongol advance, and he took with him any gold or silver that he could carry; he was relieved of this by Frederick, Duke of Austria, who gave him sanctuary and then demanded an impossibly high price for his services.45 Had the reliquary been already in his possession he would have left it behind at this point, and if it had remained in Hungary it would in all probability have been destroyed. In the absence of any other evidence, we must assume that the reliquary must have arrived in Esztergom at some point between ca. 1300, when the frame would have been added, and 1528 when it first appears in the cathedral inventory.

The changing function of the staurothèque The accepted fact that the frame is a considerably later addition to the ensemble, and our suggestion that it replaced the fitment for a sliding cover or lid, contains the implication that the intended use of the reliquary may have changed during the intervening period. Instead of being an object that needed to be portable, but also well protected, to fulfil the function for which it had been created, its form may have become much closer to that of a conventional icon; by the later thirteenth century its appearance had become more ‘in Form einer Tafel’ as Bock expressed it.46 While some small twelfth-century staurothèques were apparently created to exist permanently without protection, such as that in Urbino (Frolow, no. 411), as discussed above, it seems to have been normal for larger reliquaries to have been designed with some protective covering. For whatever reason, the character of use of major relics such as that contained in our staurothèque may well have changed from being a form of portable and powerful apotropaic to something apparently far more static that did not need the protection of a cover. This tendency does not seem to have received much comment, but it could probably be extended to explain the appearance of other survivals of this kind. So meanwhile, ‘studying the staurothèque at Esztergom’ suggests a new line of enquiry as to why the function of a reliquary of the True Cross should have

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become more comparable with that of an icon, and so perhaps retained for personal devotion rather than carried prominently and with some exposure to danger in front of troops entering battle.

Notes 1. The name of the town was changed from Gran to Esztergom in the early twentieth century. A full bibliography of the staurothèque up to 1948 can be found in Gyula Ortutay, Esztergom Müemlékei; Föszékesegyázi Kincstár (Budapest, 1948), pp. 219– 21, no. 232; this was amplified in the most thorough study of the work to date by Arpad Somogyi, Az Esztergomi Bizanci Staurothéka (Budapest, 1959), and idem, ‘La staurothèque byzantine d’Esztergom’, Balkan Studies 9 (1968), pp. 139–54; further bibliography is given by Lydie Hadermann Misguich, ‘Pour une datation de la staurothèque d’Esztergom à l’époque tradocomnène’, Zbornik Narodnog Muzeja 9–10 (1979), pp. 289–99 (10 ills.). 2. C. Eubel and P. Gauchat, Hierarchia catholica medii aevi et recentioris aevi, Vol. IV (Munster, 1935), p. 322. The will of cardinal Kutassy is cited in Somogyi, Staurothéka, p. 33. 3. The 1528 inventory of the treasury was first cited by Émile Molinier, ‘Le Reliquaire de la vraie Croix au Trésor de Gran’, Gazette archéologique 12 (1887), pp. 245–49. 4. The grounds for the date of 1190 are given in Somogyi, Staurothéka, p. 56; but see also Hadermann Misguich, ‘Pour une datation’, p. 299. 5. P. de Riant, ‘Des dépouilles réligieuses enlevées à Constantinople au XIIIe siécle, et des documents historiques nés de leur transport en occident’, Mémoires de la société nationale des Antiquaires de France, 4th ser., 6 (1875), pp. 192–95. 6. P. de Riant, Exuviae sacrae Constantinopolitanae, 2 vols., (Geneva, 1877–78), II, p. 63, quoted in Molinier, ‘Le Reliquaire’. 7. D. Sinor, History of Hungary (London, 1959), pp. 66–78; Gy. Moravcsik, ‘Hungary and Byzantium in the Middle Ages’, Cambridge Medieval History, Vol. IV, part 1 (Cambridge, 1966), pp. 567–92, emphasises the Byzantine associations of medieval Hungary. 8. It can be assumed that the saint missing from the corner here was Saint Theodore Stratelates, the usual companion of Saint Theodore Tiron. 9. Technical details are given in Somogyi, Staurothéka, pp. 43–9; in photographs taken in 1955 the bottom of the inner enamel framing is concealed. It has not been noted by any commentators that the central plaque is among the largest single entities of Byzantine enamel to survive, with the exception of the largest plaques on the Pala d’Oro, Venice. 10. Alternative dates, involving dubious concepts of ‘decadence’ and comparison with a work that is now disputed, are summarised in Somogyi, Staurothéka, and further attempts to date the work are summarised in Klaus Wessel, Byzantine Enamels from the 5th to the 13th century (Shannon, 1969), pp. 158–63. See also, Hadermann Misguich, ‘Pour une datation’, p. 290, and note 25, below. 11. A. Legner, Ornamenta Ecclesiae: Kunst und Künstler der Romanik, 3 vols. (Cologne, 1985), no. H33; Helen C. Evans and William D. Wixom (eds.), The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era A.D. 843–1261 (Exhibition catalogue: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1997), no. 40.

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12. N. Kondakov, Histoire et Monuments des Emaux byzantins (Frankfurt-am-Main, 1892), pp. 203–4. 13. Franz Bock, Der Schatz der Metropolitankirche zu Gran in Ungarn (Vienna, 1859), pl. 2. 14. Jules Labarte, Histoire des Arts Industriels au Moyen Age et à l’Epoque de la Renaissance (2nd ed., Paris, 1872), vol. I, pp. 329–30. 15. It can be seen that the engraver has also transformed Adam’s skull (at the foot of the cross) into a snake and the pincers held by Nicodemus have become a bell. 16. O.M. Dalton, Byzantine Art and Archaeology (Oxford, 1911), p. 525. 17. Molinier, ‘Le Reliquaire’, pp. 245–49, pl. 32. 18. Labarte, Histoire des Arts, vol. I, p. 329. 19. Bock, Der Schatz, p. 40. 20. M. Bàràny-Oberschall, The Crown of the Emperor Constantine Monomachos (Budapest, 1937), p. 59. 21. John Beckwith, The Art of Constantinople (London, 1961), p. 111 and Fig. 139; the ‘network of lines’ must refer to the edges of the gold cloisons. 22. Munsell Color System 2.5 P 7/4. 23. Munsell Color System 7.5 GY 5/4. 24. A. Rhodes, Art Treasures of Eastern Europe (New York, 1972), p. 177; the most sensitive comments published on the colours of the enamels are those of Hadermann Misguich, ‘Pour une datation’, pp. 296–97. 25. See, for example, the summary of E. Varjú, ‘Die Staurothek in Gran (ung.)’, Magyar Müvészet 7 (1931), pp. 433–39, in Byzantinische Zeitschrift 32 (1932), pp. 231–32, where the main reliquary is dated to the eleventh century and the frame as late as the sixteenth century. Further possibilities were offered by Somogyi, Staurothéka, who published (Fig. 15) a small piece of textile found on the reverse of the reliquary which was said to be fourteenth to fifteenth century Egyptian fabric; this has not been taken up in the recent literature. 26. See Bock, Der Schatz, and, for a more recent discussion of some of the earlier pieces in the treasury, giving a context to the staurothèque, see Arpad Somogyi, Esztergomi Káptalani Kincstár (Budapest, 1966). 27. Although apparently not noticed by Bock, Der Schatz, in his study of 1859, most subsequent writers have accepted this. 28. Labarte, Histoire des Arts, p. 329. 29. A. Frolow, La Relique de la vraie Croix: Recherches sur le Développement d’un Culte (Archives de l’Orient chrétien, 7) (Paris, 1961); and idem, Les Reliquaires de la vraie Croix (Archives de l’Orient chrétien, 8) (Paris, 1965). 30. N.P. Ševc¡ enko, ‘The Limburg Staurothek and its Relics’, Èõìßáìá óôç ìvÞìç ôçò Ëáó÷áñßváò Ìðoýñáò (Athens, 1994), Vol. I, p. 292 and note 25. 31. Frolow, La Relique, p. 279, no. 233; idem, Les Reliquaires, pp. 96–7, suggested that the Esztergom reliquary had a sliding lid, while Jean Ebersolt, Sanctuaires de Byzance (Paris, 1921), p.

124, proposed that it originally had the form of a triptych. 32. Ševc¡enko, ‘The Limburg Staurothek’, pp. 292–93, with references. 33. Frolow, La Relique, nos. 212, 241 and 338, where all three bore inscriptions to the imperial family; inventories provide sources for a number of other such dedicatory texts on lost reliquaries. 34. See above, notes 3 and 13, and Somogyi, Staurothéka, Fig. 1; Wessel, Byzantine Enamels, Fig. 49, used a photograph taken pre-1958. 35. See the study of A. and J. Stylianou, “By This Conquer” (Nicosia, 1971). 36. The shield-like form with a cross, which is represented as part of Helena’s apparel, here has been interpreted by J. Ebersolt as part of her thorakion that has been turned back; see idem, Mélanges d’histoire et d’archéologie byzantine (Paris, 1917), p. 65, and idem, Les Arts somptuaires de Byzance (Paris, 1923), p. 94; it is evident also in e.g. the enamel of the empress Irene on the Pala d’Oro. See also, N. Teteriatnikov, ‘The True Cross Flanked by Constantine and Helena’, Deltion tis Christianikis Archaiologikis Etaireias, 4th per., 18 (1995), pp. 169–88. 37. A. Kataselaki, ‘Ï ×ñßóôoò Åëêüìåvoò åðß óôáõñoý. Åéêovoãñáößá êáé ôõðoëoãßá ôçò ðáñáóôÜóçò óôç âõæávôévÞ ôÝ÷vç (4oò–15oò áé’ )’, Deltion Christianike Arkhaiologike Etaireias, 4th per., 19 (1996–1997), pp. 167–200. 38. See Niketas Choniates, Historia, PG 139, col. 842, translation by H. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium (Detroit, 1984), p. 243; also H.A. Kalligas, Byzantine Monemvasia. The Sources (Monemvasia, 1990), pp. 69–70. It was almost certainly this icon, when installed at Anaplus, that was to become the inspiration for an epigram by John Apokaukos: see A. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, ‘EðéãñÜììáôá ºùÜvvoõ ¢ðoêÜõêoõ’, Athiná 15 (1903), pp. 475– 76. The small enamel plaque of this subject now on a book-cover in Siena may also derive from a cross reliquary: see P. Hetherington, ‘Byzantine Enamels on a Venetian Book-cover’, Cahiers archéologiques 27 (1978), pp. 117–45. 39. Frolow, La Relique, pp. 349–50, no. 381, with references. 40. See A.W. Epstein, Tokali Kilise: Tenth-Century Metropolitan Art in Byzantine Cappadocia (Washington D.C., 1986), pp. 64– 65, Fig. 38; also G. Millet, Recherches sur l’Iconographie de l’Evangile aux XIVe, XVe et XVIe siècles (Paris, 1916), pp. 467ff. 41. George of Nicomedia, Oratio VIII, in Migne, PG 100, cols. 1485C–1489; Nicodemus also figures in the Cappadocian fresco referred to in the previous note. 42. A right-handed silversmith would hold the chasing tool in his left hand and tap it with the hammer held in his right. 43. A. Grabar, Les revêtements en or et en argent des icones byzantines du Moyen Age (Venice, 1975). 44. Grabar, Les revêtements, nos. 18, 19 and 21, pls. 43–5 and 47– 52; the first of these is dated here to the late thirteenth century and the other two to the early fourteenth; this seems the most probable period for the frame at Esztergom. 45. Sinor, History of Hungary, pp. 66–78. 46. Bock, Der Schatz, p. 36.

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12. Saint Theodore and the Dragon Christopher Walter

Probably no curator since O.M. Dalton has done so much for the Byzantine holdings of the British Museum as David Buckton. He has enlarged them, made them better known and unsparingly helped scholars to profit from them. The present article is intended to be a sign of my gratitude to David, particularly for the last of these activities.

An enamel icon of Saint Theodore in the Hermitage My starting point will also be my finishing point. This icon is damaged (Pl. 5). It is a late Byzantine work, probably dating from the end of the thirteenth century, and executed in cloisonné and champlevé enamel and copper. The military figure, whose horse is tethered to a tree to the left, is standing; he drives his sword into the dragon’s mouth. When Alisa Banck published it, she read the saint’s name correctly – Theodore, but she did not attempt to decipher the adjective accompanying his name; she did not seem concerned as to whether he was the Tiron or Stratelates; nor did the slightly unusual iconography (a warrior saint did not normally dismount and tether his horse before slaying a dragon) interest her.1 André Grabar, who also studied this icon, limited his observations to its metal border.2 Thus the Hermitage Theodore has come down to us the ‘dragon-slayer’, although the adjective qualifying his name, as we shall see, means no such thing!

The hagiographical background and the practice of slaying dragons Saint George is usually considered to be the outstanding military saint. This may well have been true from the Middle Byzantine period, when he received the title of tropaiophoros and was much ‘mediatized’ on account of his dramatic rescue of the princess from the dragon. However, in the earlier period, the evidence suggests that

Theodore Tiron (variously written as Teron, Turon, Tyron, calqued on the Latin Tiro, recruit or young soldier) was, in fact, more esteemed. P. Carolidis described Theodore as the first Christian Hercules, the personification of a great Kulturkampf not only of the Christian faith against the heathen world but also of human culture against evil in nature. 3 Halkin has recorded half a dozen dedicatory inscriptions in which Theodore’s name figured, mainly in Syria.4 According to R. Janin, in 448, there were two monasteries in Constantinople dedicated to Saint Theodore, three in 518 and four in 536.5 However, Theodore’s principal sanctuary from the fourth century up to at least the eleventh century, when John Mauropous was bishop there, was at EuchaÎta, a city of which few vestiges have remained, but whose name can be recognised in the modern Avkat. Theodore’s hagiographical tradition began well with the Encomium pronounced at his sanctuary, almost certainly by Gregory of Nyssa. This text evidently had a wide circulation, because its most recent editor lists eighty-eight manuscripts containing it.6 A sober, conventional piece of writing, it is an important witness to late fourth-century belief in the power of saints, not only as intercessors but also as actively intervening in the lives of terrestrial men. Theodore, besides exercising the traditional office of warding off demons, protected his clients on journeys, cured their diseases and procured riches for them if they were poor. Moreover, it was unusual at this early date for a saint to be considered capable of intervening in battle as a soldier. Concerning Theodore’s personal biography, the Encomium is sparse in information. It recounts how he was enrolled in the army, stationed at Amaseia, one day’s march from EuchaÎta, how he refused to sacrifice to the gods, setting fire to the temple of Cybele, how he was tortured and put in prison, where he was consoled by celestial visions, and how, finally, he was burned alive (not decapitated). In the Encomium, there is no reference to Theodore slaying a dragon.

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For the historian of Byzantine art, one passage of this text is particularly interesting. It describes the paintings in his sanctuary, where the Encomium was delivered: ‘the saint’s brave deeds, his resistance, his torments, the ferocious faces of the tyrants, the martyr’s most blessed death and the representation in human form of Christ who presides over the contest’.7 Naturally, these paintings have not survived, nor, alas, have any which have derived from them, although analagous cycles are known for other saints, for a similar sequence of events is common to the Passion of many martyrs. It is not easy to establish exactly when the incident of slaying a dragon was first introduced into Theodore’s Life. This subject will be discussed shortly, after a consideration of its antecedents. These have been well presented by P. Boulhoul in his study of the Passion of Marina of Antioch and of others related to it.8 Dragons and such like (the python of Delphi and the Leviathon of Job), if not intrinsically evil, could be harmful to mankind.9 They were encountered by saints, both women and men, one of whose tasks was to eliminate them. Thus Marina of Antioch had just finished her prayers when there was an earthquake. A dragon bounded into her cell. Smoke and fire issued from its nostrils; it shrieked and whistled; it exuded an appalling stink; it even brandished a sabre! The dragon swallowed Marina, who made the sign of the Cross. This split open the dragon’s belly, from which Marina escaped alive, while the dragon expired.10 The incident is set in a developed presentation of demonology. Boulhoul considers that, although the cult of Marina only developed later, her Passion could date back to the seventh century.

Saint Theodore’s encounter with a dragon Scholars used to place the introduction of the encounter with a dragon into Theodore’s Life comparatively late, that is to say after the Restoration of Images.11 However, there is a text by an anonymous hagiographer, which is not quite in line with the conventional series of Passions and Miracula. Delehaye knew it, as did Hengstenberg. Delehaye placed it categorically after 934. In this, he was followed by his confrère François Halkin in his introduction to the Passion due to Nicholas Ouranos (a text which, probably, Delehaye did not know).12 This text, the Life and Miracula, BHG 1764, has survived in a unique manuscript, Vind. theol. graec. 60, which was, no doubt, written in the tenth or eleventh century. However, there is reason to think that it depends on a much earlier source, composed by someone who knew Euchaïta and the surrounding region personally. The topographical information contained in this text has attracted some Byzantinists because it shows what life was like in a region chronically exposed to marauders.13 There has been some disagreement

among scholars as to the date when the original text was constructed: 633/4 or 754? If it is being exploited for hagiographical purposes as, for example, by Constantine Zuckermann,14 the precise dating of the events described is less important, although, it may be remarked in passing, Zuckermann’s date (754) corresponds best to the facts available in the manuscript, even if it falls in the period of First Iconoclasm, which was hardly auspicious for arguing the case in favour of the cult of icons and the intercessory power of saints. Whichever date is preferred, the text provides us with literary evidence for Theodore’s encounter with a dragon much earlier than the tenth century. This fits in well with the evidence provided by iconographical documents. Theodore was not necessarily represented slaying a dragon. His lost Passion cycle at EuchaÎta has been noted. There are also several portraits of him which have survived from the pre-Iconoclastic period. Some may be dated as early as the sixth or seventh century, notably the two-piece textile from Egypt in the Fogg Art Museum, Cambridge (Massachusetts),15 the mosaic in the church of Saints Cosmas and Damian, Rome,16 and two celebrated icons at Saint Catherine’s, Mount Sinai, one of the Virgin and Child between two saints (with no legends), the other of Saint Theodore alone in military dress.17 Others are slightly later in date, such as the intercessory portrait in the Church of Saint Demetrius, Thessaloniki (8th–9th century?), and the tenth-century ceramic icon at Patljena, (Bulgaria).18 However, it is not necessary further to multiply examples in order to show that, from the earliest representations of him known to us, Theodore had an established portrait type with a beard and luxuriant hair. Thus, while the other saint on the celebrated Sinai icon cannot be identified with certitude as George or Demetrius, no scholar has questioned the identification of the other as Theodore. However, equally, as far as I am aware, no scholar has posed the question why Theodore was represented in this way. After all, he was a recruit, and therefore, presumably, young. Ordinarily military saints, at least until the tenth century, were presented in the antique tradition as beardless ephebes.19 There must have been some reason for representing Theodore otherwise and with such consistency. An explanation can be suggested, which is, of course, conjectural. In the Life and Miracula BHG 1764, there is an anecdote, not without analogies in Byzantine tradition, according to which Theodore appeared after his death to an artist in a vision, wearing military costume, in order that an accurate portrait might be made of him. The icon was considered still to exist at the time of John Mauropous, when it received special cult. If the ‘recruit’ was represented on it as a mature man, the consistency and eccentricity of his portrait type would be explained.20 Theodore’s encounter with the dragon, at least in the primitive version, has none of the dramatic colour of

SAINT THEODORE

Marina’s. It is recounted as a simple incident of his military career. He caused a spring to flow, destroyed various obnoxious reptiles and disposed of the dragon by making the sign of the Cross and thrusting his sword into its head.21 It is sometimes assumed that a literary account of an incident precedes its iconographical representation, but this is not necessarily the case. Several early representations are known of a military saint on a seal. Vitalien Laurent registered two examples of no. 852 in his Corpus, one in the Fogg Museum, Boston, the other in a museum in Istanbul (Fig. 12.1).22 The name Peter of Euchaïta appears on both, but the military figure on the reverse is not accompanied by a legend. As Laurent wrote, this can hardly

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be other than Theodore, but no dragon is being speared. Laurent attributed the seals to the eighth century. More to the point are two seals from the Zacos collection, on which the military figure, who resembles those on the seals in Laurent’s Corpus, does actually spear a snake. No. 1288, made for Peter of Euchaïta, has been dated between 650 and 730 (Fig. 12.2). The other, no. 1287, made for a certain Nicholas, with the same iconography on the reverse, has been dated between 550 and 650. Perhaps a third seal in this collection, no. 1289, should also be adduced (Fig. 12.3). The military figure on the reverse holds a long cross and a shield. The name Theodore figures on the obverse, but this probably refers to the owner rather than the saint.23

Fig. 12.1. Warrior saint (Theodore?). Lead seal, Istanbul (Drawing: after Ebersolt [note 22]).

Fig. 12.2. Warrior saint (Theodore?) killing a dragon. Lead seal, Zacos collection (Photo: J. Zacos).

Fig. 12.3. Warrior saint (Theodore?) killing a dragon. Lead seal, Zacos collection (Photo: J. Zacos).

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As so often in Byzantine studies, a cluster of evidence can be assembled, no element of which is determinant but which in its totality is convincing, in favour of the view that the account of Theodore slaying a dragon was current before Iconoclasm. The literary and iconographical elements corroborate each other. There is a further piece of evidence, apparently unknown to Zuckermann, which may strengthen his case even more. In 1985, during excavations at Vinica (Macedonia), forty terracotta plaques in good or fairly good condition, together with about a hundred fragments of various sizes, were unearthed.24 They pose a number of problems which have yet to be resolved. First of all, they were not discovered in the building which they were destined to adorn, but dumped with other rubble near the wall of the city. However, the fact that some have traces of cement on their reverse suggest that these ones at least had served to embellish a building. Secondly, the legends which accompany some of them are in Latin, which would imply that, at the time of their fabrication, Vinica, lying under the jurisdiction of Thessaloniki, was subject to the Roman, not the Constantinopolitan, Church. It was Leo III the Isaurian (717–41) who brought Eastern Illyria definitively under the jurisdiction of Constantinople in 733.25 This date would be a plausible, if conjectural, terminus ante quem for the fabrication of these terracottas. Leo III’s action also suggests two possible motivations for destroying them: they were icons and their legends were not in Greek. A third problem is posed by the apparent uniqueness in

their genre of these terracottas. Certainly nothing like them has been discovered locally. Analogies proposed with Coptic and Arab artefacts, with ninth-century ceramics from Tuzalka, near Preslav (Bulgaria) and with other terracotta plaques in the Bardo Museum, Tunis, are not entirely convincing. Perhaps this is the reason why these fascinating objects have not yet really entered into the scholarly circuit. Before examining the plaque of Saint Theodore, that which is really of concern here, it will not be amiss to look at others. The Old Testament figures of Joshua and Caleb wear full military dress including a helmet; they hold spears and, in one case, a shield (Fig. 12.4).26 Saints Christopher (kynokephalos) and George wear neither court nor military dress but short tunics. However, each holds a spear, with which he pierces the head of a serpent. With his left hand Christopher holds up a cross, while with his right George supports a shield (Fig. 12.5).27 Then there is Saint Theodore, so named in the accompanying legend. Although the plaque is damaged on the right hand side, the saint is almost fully visible. He wears armour and is seated on horseback; with his spear, which extends behind him, he impales the head of a dragon. He has abundant hair and, it would seem, a beard, so that his facial features recall those in other representations of him. Two words may be deciphered in the inscription on the frame: D(OMINU)S PRECIBUS (Fig. 12.6).28 Theodore is presented in a more distinguished way than Christopher and George: on horseback, in armour and impaling a genuine dragon, not a serpent. Taken together, the iconography of these three terracottas, if not the material

Fig. 12.4. Joshua and Caleb. Terracotta tile, Vinica (Photo: after Balabanov [note 24]).

Fig. 12.5. Saints Christopher and George. Terracotta tile, Vinica (Photo: after Balabanov [note 24]).

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Fig. 12.7. Solomon and a demon. Haematite intaglio, British Museum, G 430 (Photo: BM).

Fig. 12.6. Saint Theodore and the dragon. Terracotta tile, Vinica (Photo: after Balabanov [note 24]).

of which they were made, fit in well enough with the other objects which have been examined here. In fact, with considerable plausibility, the fourth to sixth century has been proposed for them.29 However, one reservation must be made. In early amuletic art the apotropaic function of destroying an evil person, represented as a woman (Fig. 12.7), was reserved to Solomon on horseback. Probably this function began to be taken over by Christian saints on horseback in the sixth century, all anonymous apart from Sisinnius (and perhaps Theodore); a dragon, serpent, another obnoxious beast, or man was substituted for the woman.30 Our earliest dated representation of Theodore on horseback killing a dragon is the bas relief at Aght’mar (915–21).31

Saint Theodore in Cappadocia In Cappadocia there are as many as thirty (perhaps more) representations of Saint Theodore. His iconography varies. He may be standing in court dress (rarely after the tenth

century), or in military dress (frequently in the tenth and eleventh centuries). He may be represented in military dress on horseback, sometimes killing a dragon. In the present context only the last of these iconographical types is of concern. Eleven examples are known to me.32 The earliest, which is badly damaged, is Mavrucan 3 (Fig. 12.8), which can be dated to the seventh century. Two figures on horseback face each other. The legends which may have accompanied them no longer exist, but they could well be Theodore and George. Named or anonymous, they may be added to the dossier of early representations of warrior saints spearing a dragon. Between them is a tree around which two serpents are coiled. The warriors direct their spears towards them. This way of representing serpents is not taken up in later examples of the scene. It is no doubt borrowed from an oriental model like other details in the church.33 Three paintings may be dated to around 900. The earliest of them would be YÏlanlÏ kilise (church of the Dragon) at 1hlara, Hasan DaÈÏ. Theodore and George, both identified by accompanying inscriptions, menace the serpents, which are pierced by a cross.34 The cross, or the sign of the cross, figured largely in apotropaic imagery from the earliest times.35 Consequently it is not surprising to find it here. Pürenli seki kilisesi, also at Hasan DaÈÏ, has similar iconography. A legend specifies Theodore’s name; he is seated on a white horse and, most unusually, is beardless. The other rider, whose legend is lost but would appear to be George, is seated on a brown horse. The warriors direct their spears at the two heads of the dragon placed between

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Fig. 12.8. Warrior saints (Theodore and George?) killing serpents. Painting, Mavrucan 3, Cappadocia (Drawing: courtesy N. Thierry).

them. Here again, a cross menaces the dragon.36 Ha¸lÏ kilise differs from the two preceding ones in that only Theodore is on horseback attacking the dragon. The other two military saints, George and Procopius, are represented on foot. The painting is in a bad state of preservation; the dragon is virtually destroyed.37 Three further paintings may be dated approximately to the first half or the middle of the eleventh century. At SaklÏ kilise (Göreme 2a) the warrior saints are almost obliterated, but the dragon has survived. Only the lower part of the body of the rider to the left on a dark horse remains; he is driving his spear into the jaws of one of the dragon’s three heads. Of the other rider, there remains only the end of his spear, also being driven into the jaws of one of the dragon’s heads. The dragon has a long narrow trunk, knotted near the heads, which have been somewhat incompetently executed by the artist.38 In the church of the Rock 5 in the necropolis of Göreme, the scene, although faded, can easily be read. Theodore, identifiable by his beard, is seated on a brown horse to the left, while George is seated on a white horse to the right. The lower end of each rider’s spear, directed at the dragon’s two heads, is visible. Of the dragon only the two heads, placed between the horses’ forehooves, are visible. The legends have disappeared (Fig. 12.9).39 Apart from the dragon, the painting at Yusuf koç kilisesi, Avcilar (Maçan-Göreme), is well preserved. The warrior saints Demetrius and Procopius are depicted standing in military costume. Beside them are Theodore and George,

seated respectively on a white and a brown horse, each with a sword and spear. The legends which accompany them are legible. In a private letter Madame Thierry modified slightly her published description. Although this is difficult to discern on the photograph there are, in fact, two dragons coiled together in a central knot, from which emerge three heads. The warriors drive their spears into two of them (Fig. 12.10). Finally, Karabut kilisesi should be added to the list of early eleventh-century examples.40 Two churches may be dated to the end of the eleventh century. YÏlanlÏ kilise (Göreme 28, not to be confused with the other church of the Dragon at Hasan DaÈÏ) is one of the few churches in Cappadocia which was known to de Jerphanion with a representation of Theodore attacking a dragon. Once again, the warriors are accompanied by a legend specifying their name facing each other. Theodore can be identified by his beard, but this time he is mounted on a brown horse, so that (pace Apocalypse 19.11) it is unlikely that anything can be inferred from the colour of the horse. A coiled dragon with three ill-distinguished heads lies at the horses’ feet.41 Saint Barbara (Göreme 20) was also known to de Jerphanion. Once again, the two military saints on horseback strike the dragon with their lances.42 The last painting to be presented here is that in the church of the Forty Martyrs, Suveê. Here Theodore is presented alone on horseback striking a dragon. In the accompanying legend his name is qualified – the only time in Cappadocia – by the title Tiron (O THPON). Thanks to

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Fig. 12.9. Saints Theodore and George killing dragons. Painting, Church of the Rock 5, necropolis, Göreme, Cappadocia (Photo: courtesy N. Thierry).

Fig. 12.10. Saints Theodore and George killing dragons. Painting, Yusuf koç kilisesi, Cappadocia (Photo: courtesy N. Thierry).

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the dedicatory inscription, the church may be securely dated to 1216/7.43 Even if the dates of the paintings can be for the most part only approximately fixed, the chronological order proposed for them harmonizes with developments in their iconography. This can be seen most clearly in the way in which the serpents or dragons were represented. Thus models can be adduced from Oriental art for the serpents entwined around a tree at Mavrucan, the earliest of these churches, as N. Thierry has shown.44 However, this painting marks the end of an old tradition. A new one begins at YÏlanlÏ kilise (Hasan DaÈÏ) with the introduction of the apotropaic cross. Either the use of this cross was becoming archaic by the ninth century, or it was being employed in new contexts, particularly to protect sensitive areas in churches.45 After Pürenli seki kilisesi, the cross disappears from these scenes. Instead artists concentrated on representation of the dragons’ heads. Curiously, these ‘polycephalous’ dragons are uncommon outside Cappadocia, while, even there, the artists usually seem ill at ease, displaying little competence in rendering them. Nevertheless dragons, sometimes single sometimes a pair, figure in all subsequent representations of the scene. Some anomalous and distinctive features may be noticed. A possible explanation of the beardless Theodore at Pürenli seki kilisesi might be that the artist, recognising his error in the portraiture, compensated for it by adding a legend. Only at Yusuf koç kilisesi do the warriors carry shields, although this practice had long been current elsewhere, for example at Vinica. Twice at HaclÏ kilise and the church of the Forty Martyrs, Suveê, Theodore tackles the dragon alone. In fact George had usually been represented striking a man. He fights a dragon in this early period only in Theodore’s company. The earliest dated example of Saint George fighting a dragon alone in Cappadocia (or anywhere) is at Saint Barbara, Sog¡ anlÏ (not to be confused with Göreme 20!), from 1006 or 1021.46 These pictures confirm that, after Iconoclasm, of the warrior saints Theodore was still the dragon-slayer par excellence, although he had acquired a potentially powerful rival in Saint George. The latter’s rescue of the princess, a story which probably originated in Georgia in the eleventh century, finally rendered George supreme.47 These pictures are also helpful in answering the vexed question of how to distinguish the first Theodore ‘Tiron’ from the second ‘Stratelates’. In the early literary sources it is clear that Theodore was the Recruit, originally from Euchaïta, where he continued to be venerated after the emergence of the General, apparently in the ninth century.48 Here – and sometimes, if not always, later – the name Theodore without qualification refers to the Recruit. The name Stratelates occurs once in Cappadocia, qualifying both George and (a) Theodore, in the late church ‘of the Stratelates’ at Mavrucan (Gürelöz), which does not seem to have been assiduously studied.49

Theodore Tiron and Theodore Stratelates On the enamel in the Hermitage, with which this article started and will end, Theodore’s name is qualified neither as Tiron nor as Stratelates. Consequently the presumption is that he is the Recruit. In fact, as will be seen, this presumption can be converted into a certitude. Weitzmann incorrectly asserted that the early representations of Theodore were ‘surely’ of the Stratelates. Unfortunately, other scholars have followed this example without properly checking the evidence.50 Their error is mitigated by the fact that others are also culpable. For example, the erudite François Halkin did not help matters by treating the two Theodores as one and the same person.51 Most Byzantines certainly considered them to be two separate persons, even if they sometimes confused them.52 For – real, fictitious or legendary – they did lead separate and independent lives. There was in fact a third Saint Theodore, the so-called Orientalis, for whom no original Greek texts survive, but who is known from two eastern ones, BHO 1163 and BHO 1174.53 These two texts can be placed high on a list of puerile hagiographical folklore. Their content may be briefly summarised. On the death of the Roman emperor leaving two daughters and no son, the Persians took advantage of the situation to launch an attack. The command of the Roman army fell to Agrippitus, who submitted to Satan and took the name of Diocletian (!). The Persian army was commanded by Nicomedes. His horse was wounded in the heart by a Roman archer. He fell and the Persian army fled. The archer, called Theodore, received great honours. Satan now inspired Diocletian (Agrippitus), in association with Maximianus, to exterminate Christians and restore heathen worship. Theodore, inspired by a dream, converted to Christianity. He referred to Diocletian and Maximianus as two dragons. He had a conflict with a third dragon on the banks of the Danube. Since he consistently refused to submit to both Satan and Diocletian, he was executed in Antioch. The archangel Michael took charge of Theodore’s soul; he received the name of Stratelates. Theodore Orientalis was not commemorated in the liturgy, nor is there any reference to him in any other text other than these two Passions. However, it may be that his legend lies behind the emergence of the far better documented Theodore Stratelates of Euchaneia in the ninth century. When Saint George deserted the Tiron to pair off with Saint Demetrius, the two Theodores began to be represented regularly as ‘twins’. Liljana Mavrodinova has assembled considerable documentation on their iconography,54 which may be supplemented by the studies of A. Kazhdan and H. Maguire.55 They describe lucidly the resemblances and distinctions in their iconographical types: ‘Each soldier has a long face with full curly hair and a long pointed beard. But the Tiron

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has a longer face, a thicker, pointed beard and shorter hair with ears visible...The General has a slight cleft in his beard...These distinctions, small though they are, were maintained with remarkable consistency from the eleventh to the fifteenth century’. Other distinctions may appear. Obviously a general had more status than a recruit. This might be manifest in his more sumptuous dress as, for example, in the portraits in the churches of the Hagioi Anargyroi, Kastoria, of Hosios Loukas in Stiris and in the Kariye Djami. These distinctions were probably rendered more assiduously when the two Theodores were represented together or adjacent. One final distinction may have been introduced later by John Mauropous. We have seen that, at first, the Tiron was represented indifferently on horseback or on foot. In BHG 1764 two visions of him were described.56 In one, when he defended the city from the Arabs, he appeared on horseback carrying a shield; in the other, when he posed for his portrait, he was on foot. Mauropous, who was no snob, made much of Theodore being a foot-soldier; the Stratelates he ignored.57 In later Byzantine works the influence of Mauropous may possibly be detected as, for example, in the gilded plaque with Saint Theodore in the British Museum. The standing figure, identified by the accompanying legend simply as Theodore, does not wear an elaborate uniform, nor does he have a forked beard. Consequently he is surely the Tiron and not the Stratelates (Fig. 12.11).58

An enamel icon of Saint Theodore in the Hermitage I now arrive at my finishing point, equipped, I hope, to answer the questions proposed at my starting point. First of all, the qualifying adjective in the legend. It is written: Ï ÂÁÈÇÑIÁÊÇÓ. The more correct orthography would be: ÂÁÈÕÑÑÕÁÊIÔÇÓ. It was Professor George Huxley who interpreted it for me: ‘of Bathys Rhyax (Âáèõ`ò ‘Ñýáî)’. Bathys Rhyax was an outpost of the Byzantine army, an encampment some twenty-eight kilometres from Sebasteia (Suveê).59 The idea that there was a shrine dedicated to Saint Theodore at this outpost was, to say the least, intriguing. However, a difficulty arose. The enamel is unlikely to be earlier in date than the late thirteenth century, by which time Bathys Rhyax would no longer have been accessible to the Byzantine army. The encampment had last been used by the emperor Romanus IV in 1071 before the battle of Manzikert.60 Another possibility existed. Bathys Rhyax was also the name of a district of Constantinople where a celebrated sanctuary of Theodore was situated, probably built by Justinian during the reign of the emperor Justin.61 In this case it would surely have been dedicated to the Tiron. That it still existed after Iconoclasm is certain. Anna Comnena

Fig. 12.11. Saint Theodore. Copper-alloy plaque, British Museum (Photo: BM).

referred to it as a church built in honour ‘of Theodore, the greatest of the martyrs’. It was much frequented, she wrote, particularly on Sundays.62 Nicetas Choniates wrote in 1182 that the emperor went to the church for the liturgy of Saint Theodore during Lent.63 The Synaxis of Theodore Tiron was celebrated on the first Saturday of Lent.64 The correct reading and interpretation of the legend on this enamel has revealed a number of things about it. Firstly, it is one of the rare Byzantine icons to have survived which can be associated with a specific shrine. Secondly, the saint

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represented on it can be identified certainly with Theodore Tiron. Thirdly, an explanation can be offered for its unusual iconography. Might it not have been considered more fitting at that late epoch for a mere recruit to the Byzantine army to slay a dragon on foot, rather than mounted on a horse? 14.

Notes 1. Alisa Banck, Byzantine Art in the Collections of the U.S.S.R. (Moscow, 1966), pl. 190; Eadem, Isskustvo vizantii v sobranijah SSSR II (Moscow, 1977), pp. 82–83, no. 544. See, however, M. Vassilakes-Mavrakakes, ‘Saint Phanourios: Cult and Iconography’, Äåëôßov ôçò ×ñéóôéávéêÞò Áñ÷áéoëoãéêÞò Åôáéñåßáò Ē Ò (1980–81), esp. p. 230, p. 235, note 41, and pl. 52b, where she compares an icon on Patmos of Saint Phanourios trampling a dragon with that of Theodore in the Hermitage. 2. A. Grabar, Les revêtements en or et en argent des icônes byzantines du Moyen Age (Venice, 1975), no. 47, p. 75. 3. P. Carolidis, Bemerkungen zu den alten kleinasiatischen Sprachen und Mythen (Strasburg, 1913), p. 148. 4. Fr. Halkin, Inscriptions grecques relatives à hagiographie. Etudes d’épigraphie et d’hagiographie byzantines (Variorum, London, 1973), Index sub nomine. 5. R. Janin, La géographie ecclésiastique de l’empire byzantin (Paris, 1969), pp. 154–55 (2nd edition). 6. Gregory of Nyssa, De Sancto Theodoro, PG 46, pp. 736–48 (BHG 1760, Clavis 3183); J.P. Cavarnos, Gregory of Nyssa, Sermons, II, 1 (Leiden, 1990), pp. CXXV–CLXXII and pp. 61– 71. In Delehaye’s time, some scholars raised doubts as to the authenticity of the homily. Delehaye never affirmed it himself, leaving it for the author of a critical edition to settle the matter. However, since Cavarnos does not even raise the question of authenticity, it may be supposed that all doubts have been dispersed. 7. English translation from C. Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire, 312–1453 (Englewood Cliffs, 1972), pp. 36–37. 8. P. Boulhoul, ‘Hagiographie antique et démonologie. Notes sur quelques Passions grecques’, (BHG 962x, 964 and 1165–66), Analecta bollandiana 112 (1994), pp. 255–304, esp. p. 263. 9. For a wider consideration of dragons in the context of Byzantine demonology, see Richard P.H. Greenfield, Traditions of Belief in Late Byzantine Demonology (Amsterdam, 1988), index sub verbo dragon. 10. Boulhoul, ‘Hagiographie antique’, p. 257. 11. W. Hengstenberg, ‘Der Drachenkampf des heiligen Theodor’, Oriens christianus 2 (1912), pp. 78–136 and 241–80, an exhaustive study of the texts available in his time. He considered that the earliest reference to Theodore’s feat was in Paris graec. 1470, dated 890 (BHG 1762d), ibidem, p. 122. He cites the relevant passage on p. 127. H. Delehaye had already published this text, Les légendes grecques des saints militaires (Paris, 1909), pp. 127–35. 12. Delehaye, Les légendes grecques, pp. 183–201; Idem, Acta sanctorum, Nov. IV (Brussels, 1925), pp. 49–55; Fr. Halkin, ‘Un opuscule inconnu du Magistre Nicéphore Ouranos (La Vie de S. Théodore le Conscrit, BHG 1762m)’, Analecta bollandiana 80 (1962), pp. 308–24, the dragon incident, §9, p. 318; reprinted, Martyrs grecs, IIe–VIIIe siècles, (Variorum, London, 1974), no. IX. 13. Notably, J.F. Haldon and H. Kennedy, ‘The Arab-Byzantine Frontier in the Eighth and Ninth Centuries – Military Organisation

15.

16.

17.

18. 19.

20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

25.

26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

and Society in the Borderlands’, Zbornik radova vizantinološkog instituta 19 (1980), p. 91; Frank R. Trombley, ‘The Decline of the Seventh-Century Town: the Exception of Euchaïta’, in S. Vyronis Jr., (ed.), Byzantine Studies in Honor of Milton V. Anastos (Malibu, 1985), p. 68; Idem, ‘The Arab Wintering Raid against Euchaïta in 663/4’, Fifth Annual Byzantine Studies Conference (Abstracts of Papers), pp. 5–6. C. Zuckermann, ‘The Reign of Constantine V in the Miracles of Theodore the Recruit (BHG 1764)’, Revue des études byzantines 46 (1988), pp. 191–210. Ed. K. Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality. Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century (The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, 1979), pp. 549–50, no. 494. Liljana Mavrodinova, ‘Sv. Teodor – Razvitije i osobenosti na ikonografskija mu tip v srednovekovnata ûivopis’, Bulletin de l’Institut des arts 13 (1969), p. 34, Fig. 1. K. Weitzmann, The Monastery of Saint Catherine at Sinai, The Icons, I (Princeton, 1976), p. 18, B3 (Weitzmann wrote that the bearded saint to the left is ‘surely Theodore Stratilates’. This surely is not sure! Hagiography was not the eminent scholar’s strong point. More of this later) and pp. 36–37, B13. Mavrodinova, ‘Sv. Teodor – Razvitije’, p. 36, Fig. 3. M.I. Rostovtzeff, ‘Dura and the Problem of Parthian Art’, Yale Classical Studies 5 (1935) p. 157 et seq., cited by E. Fowden in her excellent study of Saints Sergius and Bacchus (The Barbarian Plain, University of California Press, 1999), which she generously allowed me to read in manuscript. Delehaye, Les légendes grecques, p. 194; Ed. P. Lagarde, Iohannis Euchaïtorum metropolitae quae in codice Vaticano graeco 676 supersunt (Göttingen, 1881), p. 207, 189; Zuckermann, ‘The Reign of Constantine V’, p. 202. Delehaye, Les légendes grecques, p. 190; Zuckermann, ‘The Reign of Constantine V’, p. 191. V. Laurent, Les corpus des sceaux de l’empire byzantin, V, 1: L’église de Constantinople (Paris, 1963), p. 662. Laurent, who did not reproduce this seal, referred to a facsimile (actually a drawing) which is reproduced here, J. Ebersolt, ‘Sceaux byzantins du Musée de Constantinople’, Revue numismatique 18 (1914), p. 239, no. 386. G. Zacos and A. Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals I, 2 (Basle, 1972), pp. 792–93. These terracotta fragments were first exhibited in the Vatican Museums, Icone dalla Macedonia (Vatican City, 1985). A second exhibition took place in Zagreb, Ikone iz Makedonije (Zagreb, 1987) (references here are to this catalogue, cited Ikone). A third exhibition took place in Skopje, Terakotni ikoni od Vinica (Skopje, 1991). K. Balabanov, the archaeologist who discovered these terracottas, wrote the introduction to all three catalogues. Siméon Vailhé, ‘Constantinople (Eglise), la question d’Illyricum ecclésiastique IVe–IXe siècle’, Dictionnaire de théologie catholique 3, pp. 1350–54. Ikone, p. 32, no. 4. Ikone, p. 32, no. 7. Ikone, p. 31, no. 3. H. Melovski, ‘Kerami¹kite ikoni od Vini¹koto kale’, ¦iva antika 9 (1991), pp. 179–87. Ch. Walter, ‘The Intaglio of Solomon in the Benaki Museum and the Origins of the Iconography of Warrior Saints’, Äåëôßov ×ñéóôéávéêÞò Áñ÷áéoëoãéêÞò Åôáéñåßáò, Series Ä, IÅ (1991), pp. 33–42; Miodrag Markoviº, ‘O ikonografiji svetih ratnika u isto¹no-hrišºanskoj umetnosti i o predstavama ovih svetitelja u De¹anima’, in Vojislav Djuriº (ed.), Zidno slikarstvo manastira De¹ana (Belgrade, 1995), pp. 578–79.

SAINT THEODORE 31. Sirapie Der Nersessian, Aght’mar, Church of the Holy Cross (Cambridge [Mass.], 1965), p. 19. The two wings of a triptych in Sinai, one portraying Theodore on horseback killing a dragon, cannot be dated exactly (see, Weitzmann, Saint Catherine, no. B44, pp. 71–3). 32. If I know so many examples it is thanks particularly to Madame Nicole Thierry, both through her publications and by personal communication. I thank her most sincerely for her help. Madame Thierry has also provided me with the three illustrations of paintings in Cappadocia. It may be well to recall the difficulties involved in exploiting Cappadocian material. First, so many paintings have deteriorated and, most regrettably, continue to do so. Consequently, descriptions by different observers do not concur exactly. Secondly, in most churches the principal criterion for dating the paintings is style. Thus, of the eleven examples presented here of Saint Theodore and the Dragon, only the latest can be dated objectively! However, for most of these paintings, the date is not controversial. For the principal bibliography see: G. de Jerphanion, Les églises rupestres de Cappadoce (Paris, 1932–42); N. and M. Thierry, Nouvelles églises de Cappadoce. Région de Hasan DaÈÏ (Paris, 1963); N. Thierry, Haut Moyen Age en Cappadoce. Les églises de la région de Çavuêin, Vols. I (Paris, 1983) and II (Paris, 1994), continuous pagination; M. Restle, Die byzantinische Wandmalerei in Kleinasien, 3 vols. (Recklinghausen, 1967); C. Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines de Cappadoce. Le programme iconographique de l’abside et ses abords (Paris, 1991). 33. Also known as Gürelöz 3 and Mistikan kilise. Jolivét-Levy, Les églises byzantines, conveniently cites in her index the ‘aliases’ of the churches and the varying orthography of their names. N. Thierry, ‘Haut Moyen Age en Cappadoce: l’église no. 3 de Mavrucan’, Journal des savants (1972), pp. 233–69, esp. pp. 258–63, with Fig. 21 (reproduced here). At this early date the two figures on horseback might have been anonymous. 34. Thierry, Nouvelles églises, p. 91; Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, pp. 307–10, giving the name of the village as Yeêilköy. 35. Ch. Walter, ‘IC XC NI KA. The Apotropaic Function of the Victorious Cross’, Revue des études byzantines 55 (1997), pp. 193–220, esp. pp. 206–7 and 213–215. 36. Thierry, Nouvelles églises, p. 142, pl. 70 (description verified in 1993); Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, p. 305 observes that, although the dating is controversial, she personally adheres to that proposed by Thierry. Again she gives Yeêilköy as the name of the church’s locality. 37. N. Thierry, ‘HaclÏ kilise, l’église de la croix en Cappadoce’, Journal des savants (1964), p. 247; there is a more detailed treatment in Thierry, Haut Moyen Age, p. 149. 38. Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, pp. 85–7; Restle, Die byzantinische Wandmalerei, Vol. II, Fig. 32. 39. N. Thierry, ‘Découvertes à la nécropole de Göreme’, Académie des inscriptions, Comptes rendus (1984), pp. 682–87, Fig. 17. 40. N. Thierry, ‘Yusuf koç kilisesi, Eglise rupestre de Cappadoce’, Mélanges Mansel (Ankara, 1974), pp. 198–99, Fig. 79 (reprinted in ibid., Peintures d’Asie Mineure et la Transcaucasie aux Xe et XIe siècles (Variorum, London, 1977), IX; Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, pp. 72–75 (error in index!), according to whom the date is controversial, ranging from the early eleventh to the thirteenth century, and p. 77, where she mentions the presence of Theodore at Karabalut kilisesi, but not that of the dragon. 41. De Jerphanion, Les églises rupestres, Vol. I, p. 482 (with correction, p. 608, noted by Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, pp. 136–37), pl. 135.1; Restle, Die byzantinische Wandmalerei, Vol. I, p. 129 and Vol. II, Figs. 246–47.

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42. De Jerphanion, Les églises rupestres, Vol. I, p. 485; JolivetLévy, Les églises byzantines, pp. 125 and 136–37, where she proposes for the date of the group to which this church belongs the second half of the eleventh or the early twelfth century. De Jerphanion remarked on its close resemblance to YÏlanlÏ kilise (Göreme 28), ibidem, p. 482. 43. De Jerphanion, Les églises rupestres, Vol. II, pp. 162 and 173; Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, p. 207 (for the date of the dedicatory inscription and for the church’s ‘aliases’). 44. Thierry, ‘Haut Moyen Age’, pp. 233–69. 45. Walter, ‘IC XC NI KA’, pp. 193–220. 46. De Jerphanion, Les églises rupestres, Vol. II, pp. 322–23 and 311 (date); Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, p. 262. See also Ch. Walter, ‘The Origins of the Cult of Saint George’, Revue des études byzantines 53 (1995), p. 320. 47. Walter, ‘The Origins of’, p. 321. 48. A. Amore, ‘Teodoro (di Amasea)’, Bibliotheca sanctorum 12, p. 240. 49. De Jerphanion, Les églises rupestres, Vol. II, p. 236 (describing it from Gransault’s notes). A dedicatory inscription dates the church to 1256/7. 50. Weitzmann, Monastery of Saint Catherine; Doula Mouriki, ÔÜ øçöéäùôÜ ôç^ò ÍåÜò Ìovç^ò ×ßoõ (Athens, 1985), p. 156, where she writes that an unqualified Theodore is ‘÷ùñé`ò •ìöéâoëßáò’ the Stratelates, and proceeds to give a garbled account of him, citing Weitzmann; Jolivet-Lévy, Les églises byzantines, p. 213, note 13, does the same, also citing Weitzmann. What she recounts about the Stratelates refers entirely to the Tiron. 51. Fr. Halkin, ‘L’éloge de saint Théodore le Stratélate, par Euthyme Protasecretis’, Analecta Bollandiana 99 (1981), p. 221: ‘Les hagiographes ont présenté (saint Théodore), tantôt comme un jeune soldat, une ‘recrue’, tantôt comme un général ou stratélate. Ce qui lui valut d’être dédoublé, non seulement dans la croyance populaire et dans l’art, mais jusque dans la liturgie officielle’. 52. The hagiographical texts concerned with the Stratelates are largely calqued on those concerned with the Tiron; see BHG sub nomine and Hengstenberg ‘Der Drachenkampf’. Two episcopal sees, Euchaïta and Euchaneia, can be distinguished from the bishops’ lists (see: J. Darrouzès, Notitiae Episcopatuum Ecclesiae Constantinopolitae [Paris, 1981]), p. 87. See also particularly, N. Oikonomides, ‘Le dédoublement de saint Théodore et les villes d’Euchaïta et Euchaneia’, Analecta Bollandiana 104 (1986), pp. 327–32. 53. A. Galuzzi, ‘Teodoro l’Orientale’, Bibliotheca sanctorum 12, p. 249; G. Balestri, ‘Il martirio di. S. Teodoro l’Orientale e de’ suoi compagni Leonzio l’Arabo e Panegiris il Persiano’, Bessarione ser. 2 10 (1905), pp. 151–68 and 248–63, ser. 3 2 (1907), pp. 34– 5. See also P. Peeters, ‘Bulletin des publications hagiographiques’, Analecta Bollandiana 26 (1907), pp. 470–71. I thank Constantine Zuckermann for, among other things, introducing me to Theodore Orientalis. 54. Mavrodinova, ‘Sv. Teodor – Razvitije’, note 16. 55. A. Kazhdan, ‘Military Notes’, Byzantion 53 (1983), pp. 544– 45; A. Kazhdan and H. Maguire, ‘Byzantine Hagiographical Texts as Sources of Art’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 45 (1991), p. 8; H. Maguire, The Icons of their Bodies. Saints and their Images in Byzantium (Princeton, 1996), pp. 20–23, Figs. 11–15. 56. Delehaye, Les légendes grecques, p. 194 (Miracle no. 1) and pp. 196–8 (Miracle no. 4). 57. Lagarde, Iohannis Euchaïtorum, p. 207. 58. David Buckton (ed.), Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (Exhibition catalogue: British Museum, London, 1994), pp. 147–48, no. 150. Buckton dates the plaque to the mid-eleventh century, citing a number of

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analagous representations of Theodore, particularly on steatites, which may be attributed to the same date. 59. G. Huxley, ‘A list of á”ðëçêôá’, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 16 (1975), pp. 87–93; R. Hild and M. Restle (eds.), Tabula imperii byzantini II, Kappadokien (Vienna, 1981), pp. 157–58. I am most grateful to Professor Huxley for explaining the word to me, correcting its orthography and providing the bibliography. 60. T.S. Brown, A. Bryer and D. Winfield, ‘Cities of Heraclius’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 4 (1978), pp. 20–22. 61. Janin, La géographie ecclésiastique, pp. 150–51.

62. Anna Comnena, Alexiadis I (Bonn, 1839), viii 3, pp. 392–93: B. Leib and P. Gautier [eds.] (Paris, 1937–1976), II, p. 133; English translation, E.R.A. Sewter (Baltimore/Harmondsworth, 1969), p. 251. 63. Nicetas Choniates, Historia (Bonn, 1835), p. 301: J.L. van Dieten [ed.] (Berlin/New York, 1975), p. 231; English translation, H. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium (Detroit, 1984), p. 131. 64. J. Mateos, Le Typicon de la Grande Eglise II (Rome, 1963), pp. 20–21.

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13. Apotropaic devices on Byzantine lead seals and tokens in the Collections of Dumbarton Oaks and the Fogg Museum of Art

John W. Nesbitt

In 1993 the Byzantine Centre at Dumbarton Oaks hosted a colloquium on Byzantine magic.1 Among the discussants was Professor James Russell who delivered a paper entitled ‘The Archaeological Context of Magic in the Early Byzantine Period’.2 The purpose of Professor Russell’s paper was to review a group of artefacts with magical invocations or imagery recovered during excavations at Anemurium (southern Turkey) and to examine what these finds reflect about popular belief in the Evil Eye. Among the apotropaic objects discussed were: a) a glass paste amulet inscribed

with the legend: Óöñáãé`[ò Óo]ëoìovoò [å”]÷é ôç`v âáóêávßáv (‘The seal of Solomon restrains the Evil Eye’); b) two bronze amulets of oval shape; and c) a bronze ring, its bezel engraved with an eight-pointed star. As Professor Russell notes, the star ornament is similar to the more common apotropaic device, the pentalpha. One bronze amulet (Fig. 13.1) shows an eye3 under attack by two serpents, a scorpion, an ibis, a lion and a leopard; the scene is accompanied in the upper field by the invocation Êýñé âüçèé (‘Lord, help’). The other amulet (Fig. 13.2) features

Fig. 13.1. Bronze amulet with Evil Eye being attacked. Anemurium (Photo: Hector Williams).

Fig. 13.2. Bronze amulet with figure of Holy Rider (Solomon). Anemurium (Photo: Hector Williams).

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a nimbate rider spearing a demon lying prone under the legs of the onrushing steed. Below the demon is a stylised lion. Professor Russell points out that the glass paste amulet and the two bronze oval-shaped amulets were found in association with coins of the later sixth to early seventh centuries and in a domestic context.4 On the basis of these discoveries at Anemurium (as well as finds from numerous other sites) Professor Russell rightly concluded that despite injunctions by the Church against belief in the Evil Eye, acceptance of the notion was fairly widespread and the faithful routinely purchased objects whose purpose was to ward off the malign glances of neighbours or family members. This paper is in no way in conflict with Professor Russell’s conclusions. Indeed its purpose is to amplify his conclusions by consideration of the apotropaic qualities of a group of materials which archaeologists only rarely find: specifically, lead seals and tokens of the period ca. 500 to ca. 650. For purposes of clarification it is necessary to begin by distinguishing between tokens and seals with regard to their respective typology and function. Lead seals were routinely used to protect the contents of a letter or to authenticate a signature. To seal in lead, one had two pieces of equipment: a blank and a boulloterion. As can be seen in Fig. 13.3, a seal blank is simply a lead disk which has been cast with a channel. The purpose of the channel was to receive a piece of cord. When ‘sealing’ a letter, one first folded the letter and then held the folds in place with a piece of string or cord. Each end of the cord was threaded into opposite sides of the channel. The disk was then placed between the cylindrical heads of a boulloterion.5 When the handles of the boulletorion closed, the channel was crushed, leaving disk and cord permanently joined together. To authenticate a signature, one first pierced a document at the bottom and then pulled a cord through the hole. The ends of the cord were then tied together, but enough length remained of the ends to be threaded through one side of a disk’s channel and then knotted together below the disk. The channel was flattened and the seal remained suspended from the document’s bottom for as long as the cord and document remained intact.6 A token on the other hand has no channel, as seen in the examples illustrated in Figs. 13.4 and 13.5. In its initial state Fig. 13.4 was simply a roundel. After casting, the disk was stamped with two dies. It is unclear whether the dies were imprinted simultaneously with a boulloterion or consecutively using two stamps. On one side is a nimbate bust wearing a chlamys fastened by an elaborate fibula. Zacos-Veglery have read the remains of an inscription at right as [Èåo]äþñoõ.7 The reverse is decorated with a box monogram (read by Zacos-Veglery as ÷áñôoõëáñßoõ) surmounted by a six-pointed star and flanked by two crosses. The reading may be improved by comparing a parallel example in the Fogg Museum of Art.8 Fig. 13.5 clearly shows that the name specified in the

columnar inscription is ºóéäþñoõ. Two letters precede the name. The one at right appears to be a pi; the one at left is rounded and can be tentatively read as an epsilon: /Åð(é`) ºóéäþñoõ (‘In the time [of the administration] of Isidore’). If Zacos-Veglery’s interpretation is correct, then the whole may read: /Åð(é`) ºóéäþñoõ ÷áñôoõëáñßoõ (‘In the time of [the administration of] Isidore chartoularios’). But even if true, what possible use could this disk have served? Sometimes the function of a token is opaque and the problem of

Fig. 13.3. Lead seal blank. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

Fig. 13.4. Lead token with bust of saint and box monogram. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO)

Fig. 13.5. Lead token with bust of saint and box monogram. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

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interpreting its significance may be compounded by the use of a monogram to express a vital piece of information. It is noteworthy that, while the box monogram can be read as ÷áñôoõëáñßoõ, it may also be interpreted as the title á' ñ÷éÜôñoõ (‘chief physician’). If a chief physician named Isidore was responsible for the token’s issue, this object would fall under the rubric of a ‘poor token’: a ticket which allowed a person access to a hospice for treatment.9 In contrast, the token illustrated in Fig. 13.610 offers little difficulty of interpretation. One side is ornamented with the scene of the Holy Rider piercing a stylised dragon with a cross-topped spear. On the reverse is a cruciform monogram resolving as ¢ëå÷Üväñoõ. The Holy Rider scene is reminiscent of a standard iconographic theme repeated over and over again on amulets against the Evil Eye (see, for example, Figs. 13.2 and 13.10)11 and it seems reasonable to conclude that someone carried this token about as a charm. Was that person someone named Alexander? In other words, this token has the appearance of a seal and if it were a seal it would be clear why the name Alexander appears. But the specimen is a token and so one might ask: did an Alexander commission an engraver to create a boulloterion (or a stamp) with his name on it so that he could personalize one or more amuletic tokens? This seems somewhat unlikely and I would suggest the possibility that the name Alexander is actually a talisman and refers to Alexander the Great.12 On seals apotropaic devices might take several different forms. One is the pentalpha. This design is found on the obverse of two seals of the sixth/seventh century in the collection of the Fogg Museum of Art (Figs. 13.7 and 13.8). On the reverse of Fig. 13.7 is a cruciform monogram of uncertain reading (¢váóôáóßoõ ÷áñôoõëáñßoõ?).13 In the case of Fig. 13.8 the field of the reverse contains a linear inscription reading ¢váóôáóßoõ.14 Other apotropaic devices relate to creatures found on bronze amulets. A number of the pieces discussed below only came to light within the past year when the Fogg Museum of Art informed Dumbarton Oaks that a previously unknown cache of some nineteen hundred ‘seals’ had been discovered in a holding area at the Museum. In the process of vetting this material for the Museum, several seals with apotropaic connotations were noted. Among the more interesting is Fig. 13.9. On the obverse can be clearly seen a lion walking to right and a scorpion above,15 a combination that probably derives from the iconography of amulets. As on Fig. 13.1, the lion and scorpion are routinely shown with other creatures attacking the Evil Eye. In the case of an amulet in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection (Fig. 13.11), they appear with a snake in the lower register of a scene wherein the centre is filled with magical symbols and the upper register depicts Christ in a mandorla flanked by the Four Beasts of the Apocalypse (left: winged man and ox; right: eagle and lion).16

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Fig. 13.6. Lead token with Holy Rider and cruciform monogram. Private collection.

Fig. 13.7. Lead seal with pentalpha and cruciform monogram. Fogg Museum of Art (Photo: Fogg Museum of Art).

Fig. 13.8. Lead seal with pentalpha and inscription. Fogg Museum of Art (Photo: Fogg Museum of Art).

Fig. 13.9. Lead seal with lion and scorpion, and cruciform monogram. Fogg Museum of Art (Photo: Fogg Museum of Art).

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Fig. 13.10. Bronze amulet with the Holy Rider. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

On seals a lion may appear by itself, with a symbol (such as a crescent moon [Fig. 13.12]17 or a star [Fig. 13.13]18), or with another animal. The latter case occurs on a specimen in the Zacos Collection.19 On the reverse is a representation of an eagle, with wings outspread and head to right; above is a lion walking to right. This pairing of an eagle with a lion is quite likely traceable to amulets and more specifically, the standard representation of these two Beasts of the Apocalypse to the right of Christ’s mandorla (see Fig. 13.11). Zacos-Veglery also publish a seal where a lion on the obverse is paired with an eagle on the reverse.20 The lion looks upward over its shoulder (as on Fig. 13.12)21 toward an invocative cruciform monogram (reading Èåoôüêå âoÞèåé: ‘Mother of God, help’). The eagle is shown frontally, head to right, with a box monogram (reading ºùÜvvoõ) above outstretched wings. Not content with invoking the Virgin’s aid, John has attempted to further protect himself by a borrowing from amuletic art.22 Another apotropaic device on seals is a scene in which a standing military saint lances with a cross-topped spear a snake wriggling on the ground, as in Fig. 13.14, the seal of a certain Epiphanios.23 This image was popular on seals and is found on examples dating from the sixth into the eighth century. Inscriptions identifying the owner usually contain only a simple name (‘Theodore’, ‘Nicholas’, ‘Moschos’), but in one instance the owner’s name is coupled with a title. Fig. 13.15 depicts an eighth-century seal struck

Fig. 13.11. Bronze amulet with inscriptions and magical symbols. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

Fig. 13.12. Lead seal with a lion and cruciform monogram. Fogg Museum of Art (Photo: Fogg Museum of Art).

Fig. 13.13. Lead seal with a lion and cruciform monogram. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

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Fig. 13.14. Lead seal with a military saint and cruciform monogram. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

Fig. 13.15. Lead seal with military saint and cruciform monogram. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

Fig. 13.16. Gold finger-ring with military saint. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

in the name of Peter bishop of Euchaïta.24 Certainly a standing saint spearing a snake shares common iconographic ground with a rider saint in virtually the same activity. But the facial features of the Holy Rider tend to be generalized. Seal engravers generally show the saint as an

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older man with a beard, an indication that they seem to be modelling the figure in line with a well-developed iconographic formula. A possible source of the modelling may well have been ring bezels, as witness the close similarity between the representation on our seals and the bearded military saint appearing on the bezel of a gold ring in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection (Fig. 13.16).25 In any event, one is left with the questions of function and intent. A person carried an amulet for protection against the Evil Eye. Did Elias wear the gold ring illustrated in Fig. 13.16 for the same purpose? Obviously there is no way to be certain, but it is doubtful that anything so specific is intended. In my opinion, Elias was the devotee of a military saint. He commissioned an engraver to represent the saint on a bezel, and, as a sign that he placed himself under the saint’s protection, he had his name in the form of a monogram set next to the saint. Since iconographic representation had not reached a stage where military saints were differentiated by attributes, the engraver simply used what had become a standard iconographic type for a military saint. I believe that the same situation is to be understood where military saints appear on seals lancing snakes. Such seals simply reflect cultic preferences and the iconographic vocabulary of the day. Although the Church inveighed against belief in the Evil Eye, archaeological finds indicate that the faithful clung to the superstition that a person could cast a spell by fascination. To ward off a bewitching eye, ordinary Christians wore rings or plaques decorated with apotropaic devices. Our purpose has been to extend the discussion to tokens and seals. In Fig. 13.6 is shown a token bearing on one side the Holy Rider and on the other the name ‘Alexander’ in monogrammatic form. The scene of the Holy Rider is taken from amulets, such as the bronze amulets shown in Figs. 13.2 and 13.10. But amuletic plaques and medallions are anonymous; inscriptions typically invoke aid for ‘the wearer’ (name unspecified).26 Our token, however, is inscribed with the name Alexander. Its iconography implies that the specimen is an amulet; but if so, is it personalised? It has been suggested that the name Alexander does not refer to an owner, but to Alexander the Great. Even if this interpretation is problematic, the object’s significance is not. It is known that the Holy Rider image was used on ring bezels,27 as well as on plaques and medallions. The stamped roundel shown in Fig. 13.6 shows that it was also employed among tokens. Apotropaic devices are also found on seals. Figs. 13.7 and 13.8 illustrate two seals decorated on the obverse with a pentalpha. In Fig. 13.9 is depicted a seal ornamented with a lion and a scorpion, a combination which is rooted in amuletic symbolism. Amuletic decoration may also lie behind scenes showing lions with a crescent moon or star (Figs. 13.12 and 13.13). The apotropaic materials found during Professor Russell’s excavations at Anemurium were

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Notes

Fig. 13.17. Lead seal with the Virgin Mary and cruciform monogram. Dumbarton Oaks Collection, Washington DC (Photo: DO).

unearthed in a domestic context. They may have been simply household items. Seals, on the other hand, circulated, a circumstance which suggests that a person placing an apotropaic device on his seal did so without risk of public censure. In some cases boulloteria were engraved on the obverse with a representation of a military saint piercing with a cross-topped spear a snake on the ground (Figs. 13.14 and 13.15). One could ask if this depiction on seals is a slightly altered version of the Holy Rider who appears on amulets? Both destroy Evil with a spear. But in our opinion the two figures are unrelated. The military saint which is found on seals is an iconographic type which has evolved out of the process of establishing a formula for representing popular figures such as Saints Theodore, George, Prokopios, etc. The seal of Peter bishop of Euchaïta (Fig. 13.15; seventh/eighth century) indicates that representations of military saints remained indistinguishable up to Iconoclasm. We know that it should be St. Theodore, but not from any attribute. It is a matter of context and knowing that St. Theodore was the local saint of Euchaïta. To recall the tokens illustrated in Figs. 13.4 and 13.5: on these specimens the person who issued them is identified in a columnar inscription flanking a saintly bust. When a religious image appears on a seal, it is usually placed alone without any accompanying inscription. As a rule, if an inscription does appear, it serves to identify the holy figure depicted. Exceptions do, however, occur and the same design that was observed in the case of Isidore’s tokens (Figs. 13.4 and 13.5) is occasionally found on seals, as witness Fig. 13.17, the seal of a certain Paul.28 Here the Virgin is flanked by an inscription which identifies the seal’s owner. In design one is reminded of images and inscriptions appearing on objects with a single flat surface, such as a ring bezel ( Fig. 13.16). Like Elias’ ring bezel, Paul’s seal not only expresses a cultic preference, but also the desire of the devotee to be under the Holy Figure’s direct protection. There is here, in sum, more than a hint of ‘Christian magic’.29

1. See H. Maguire, Byzantine Magic (Washington, D.C., 1995). 2. James Russell, ‘The Archaeological Context of Magic in the Early Byzantine Period’, in Maguire, Byzantine Magic, pp. 35– 50. 3. The eye has been run through with two spears and punctured from above with an edged weapon of triangular shape. I would like to thank Professor Russell for his kind permission to reproduce the Anemurium bronze amulets. 4. Russell, ‘The Archaeological Context’, pp. 45–6. 5. A boulloterion was an iron instrument consisting of two handles joined by a pin. The lower half of each handle is straight; the upper half curves and then ends in a cylindrically-shaped head placed at a right angle. Each of the inner faces is usually incised (in reverse) with an inscription or monogram naming the seal’s owner. For illustrations of sealing equipment, as well as a full discussion regarding the use and decoration of seals, see N. Oikonomides, Byzantine Lead Seals (Washington, D.C., 1985). 6. For two examples of seals still attached to documents, see A. Grohmann, ‘Greek Papyri of the Early Islamic Period in the Collection of the Archduke Rainier’, Etudes de Papyrologie (Cairo, 1957), pp. 36–40. Documents 12 and 13 still retain seals (in this case clay seals) which were attached, respectively, at the bottom of a tax receipt and a demand note for payment of wages. 7. The registration number of the token is DO 58.106.3903. It is published in G. Zacos and A. Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals (Basel, 1972), no. 1313. 8. The provisional registration number is Fogg 0139. As explained later, it comes from a large group of seals and tokens which were recently found at the Fogg Art Museum and sent to Dumbarton Oaks for inspection. 9. For a discussion of ‘poor tokens’ in the early Byzantine period, see J. Nesbitt, ‘Byzantine Copper Tokens’, Studies in Byzantine Sigillography I (Washington, D.C., 1987), pp. 68 and 71. 10. The token is from a private collection in the USA. The motif of the Holy Rider is rare among seals, but see Zacos-Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, no. 2979. This example from the Zacos collection, dating from the sixth or seventh century, belonged to a certain ‘Sergius illustris and commerciarius’. Unfortunately, the seal is broken at the bottom and one cannot see what, if anything, the Holy Rider is spearing. 11. Much of the relevant bibliography regarding amulets and the Holy Rider is cited by Russell, ‘The Archaeological Context’, p. 40, n. 17. But see, in addition, T. Matantseva, ‘Les amulettes byzantins contre le Mauvais Oeil du Cabinet des Médailles’, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum 37 (1994), pp. 110–20. The Holy Rider is an anonymous figure. He may be Solomon, St Sisinnios or any of a number of military saints. For discussion of the motif, see E. Dautermann Maguire, H. Maguire and M. Duncan Flowers, Art and Holy Powers in the Early Christian House (Urbana-Champaign, 1989), pp. 25–8. 12. Russell, ‘The Archaeological Context,’ p. 48 and n. 37, observes that Saint John Chrysostom censured Christians who were accustomed to place phylacteries around their heads and ankles consisting of chains from which depended bronze coins of Alexander the Great. On his bronze (and silver) coinage Alexander is represented as Herakles wearing a lion’s skin around his head. With this in mind one might note the passage cited by John Duffy, ‘Reactions of two Byzantine Intellectuals to the Theory and Practice of Magic: Michael Psellos and Michael Italikos’, in Maguire, Byzantine Magic, p. 95, from the work of the sixth-century physician Alexander of Tralles in which it is

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15.

16.

17.

18. 19.

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suggested that an amuletic ring be manufactured by engraving on a gemstone a representation of Herakles wrestling a lion (see Alexander of Tralles, ed. Th. Puschmann, II [Vienna, 1879], p. 377). Coin depictions of Alexander/Herakles might have been perceived as a reasonable substitute for engraved hardstones. Fogg 2837 (sixth/seventh century). Fogg 2745 (sixth century). In each of the angles appears a crescent moon. The pentalpha was a popular device on finger rings. See, for example, the sixth to eleventh century rings incised with a pentalpha recorded by G. Davidson, Corinth. Vol. XII: The Minor Objects (Princeton, NJ, 1952), nos. 1872– 3, 1927–9 and 1939. Cf. J. Waldbaum, Metalwork from Sardis. The Finds through 1974 (Cambridge, MA, 1982), no. 832 (Late Roman-Byzantine?). The reverse has a cruciform monogram (reading uncertain). One can discern an eta at left, a chi in the centre, an alpha below, and the letters rho, tau and upsilon/omicron in ligature above. The amulet (from Syria?) is published in M.C. Ross, Catalogue of the Early Mediaeval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection Volume I: Metalwork, Ceramics, Glass, Glyptics, Painting (Washington, D.C., 1962), no. 60. There are a number of examples of this amulet. For a less corroded specimen, see the one from the Kelsey Museum illustrated in E. Dautermann Maguire et al, Art and Holy Powers, no. 134. The authors have dated the Kelsey Museum amulet to the sixth/seventh century. Fogg 0334. On the reverse is incised a cruciform monogram consisting of an alpha at left, a sigma at right, possibly a lambda below and omicron/upsilon in ligature above. Davidson has published a Byzantine silver finger-ring with a bezel showing a lion to right with its head turned back (Davidson, Corinth, no. 1958). For another seal depicting a lion and crescent moon, see F. Manns, ‘Les sceaux byzantins du Musée de la Flagellation’, Studii Biblici Franciscani Liber Annuus XXVI (1976), no. 43. DO 58.106.3409. The cruciform monogram on the reverse reads Ðáýëoõ. See Zacos-Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, no. 2858. The reverse has a box monogram, the reading of which is problematic.

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20. Zacos-Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, no. 2844. 21. The representation of a seated lion looking over its shoulder is also found on the discus of a sixth-century clay lamp. See D.M. Bailey, A Catalogue of the Lamps in the British Museum. III. Roman Provincial Lamps (London, 1988), no. Q3132 (attributed to Ephesus and dated about 500–600). 22. On amulets the representation of a lion is often accompanied by the appearance of a crescent moon and/or star. For the lion and star see C. Bonner, Studies in Magical Amulets (Ann Arbor, 1950), no. 311. For the lion and crescent moon see Matantseva, ‘Les amulettes byzantins’, pl. 14a. I suggest (but of course cannot prove) that the iconography of Figs. 13.12 and 13.13 has been taken from amulets. 23. DO 58.106.4220. Zacos-Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, no. 1283a. Cf. nos. 1282–91. 24. DO 55.1.4669. Zacos-Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, no. 1288. Cf. V. Laurent, Corpus des Sceaux de l’empire byzantin, V/I (Paris, 1963), no. 852. 25. M.C. Ross, Catalogue of the Byzantine and Early Mediaeval Antiquities in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection, II: Jewelry, Enamels, and Art of the Migration Period (Washington, D.C., 1965), no. 179N. Ross dates the object to the late sixth century. The monogram to the right of the saint reads as the name Elias. 26. For a list of inscriptions on amulets see Matantseva, ‘Les amulettes byzantines’, p. 121. 27. See the ring from the Royal Ontario Museum illustrated in E. Dautermann Maguire et al, Art and Holy Powers, no. 84. 28. DO 55.1.428. On one side is an invocative monogram. The name appears on the opposite side in the dative cast. The whole reads ‘Mother of God, help Paul’. 29. As David Buckton well knows, there are often odd pieces in museum collections which never seem to get published because the items do not fall into convenient categories. It is with much pleasure that I have gathered together the unpublished objects appearing in this paper and present them in a volume honouring his long and dedicated service to the British Museum.

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14. Middle Byzantine (10th–13th century AD) stamp seals in semi-precious stone Jeffrey Spier

Although the art of engraving semi-precious stones for use as personal seals flourished in the Graeco-Roman world for over a thousand years, during the late Roman period the fashion for such objects began to diminish, and by the sixth century the use of engraved gems as seals was extremely rare. Already by the end of the fifth century official documents were sealed instead with double-sided, impressed lead bullae decorated with images, names, and monograms, and this practice continued throughout the medieval period. Many thousands of these Byzantine lead sealings survive and provide extensive evidence for their use, often including the owner’s name, city, and the civic or religious office he held. Other types of seals were also used, including seal rings and conical stamp seals made of gold, silver, and bronze, but they appear to have served functions that were less official.1 In the late ninth century, following the resolution of the iconoclastic controversy, a remarkable revival of the art of gem engraving took place in Constantinople. Workshops in the capital produced superb cameos carved from semiprecious stone, most commonly green, red, and mottled jasper (the last called bloodstone), as well as others in sardonyx, chalcedony, amethyst, rock crystal, garnet, and even sapphire and lapis lazuli. Such cameos continued to be carved at least into the thirteenth century.2 A number of distinctive, pyramidal-shaped seals survive which are stylistically similar to the cameos produced in this period. The seals are made from the same materials as the cameos, share some of the same motifs – most notably frontal busts of saints – and bear similar inscriptions in typically Middle Byzantine form. As with many of the cameos, the quality of engraving is very high. When considered together, the seals can be grouped into several stylistically coherent groups, and for this reason a catalogue of all examples known to me is listed below along with a brief commentary on their iconography and chronology. The first group is composed of finely cut pyramids of bloodstone, red jasper, rock crystal, and lapis lazuli (nos.

1–10 and 13–23; Figs. 14.1–14.3, 14.5–14.11, and 14.14– 14.22) of a particular shape. They are nearly rectangular in section, but each corner is squared off and are thus in fact octagonal. The tapering handle is sometimes pierced, and all were probably once set in gold or silver-gilt mounts, only a few of which now survive (nos. 3, 7–9; Figs. 14.3, 14.8–14.10). Some similar pyramidal stamp seals are conical rather than octagonal, including two in green jasper (nos. 11–12; Figs. 14.12–14.13) and one in rock crystal (no. 24; Fig. 14.23).3 A second group (nos. 25–31; Figs. 14.24–14.29) of rock crystal stamp seals differs from the first group in that the top of the handle is carved in the shape of a faceted knob pierced for suspension, perhaps copying seals in precious metal.4 Four of these rock crystal seals (nos. 26–29; Figs. 14.25–14.27) are octagonal, with each side of equal length (as distinct from the former group, which has shorter sides at each corner), one is rectangular (no. 30; Fig. 14.28), and two more (nos. 25 and 31; Figs. 14.24 and 14.29) are conical (circular in section). Related to these two groups are two further rock crystal pyramidal stamp seals which bear inscriptions in Latin. The first (no. 32; Fig. 14.30) is in the form of a squat, octagonal pyramid, somewhat similar in shape to those in the first group. The other (no. 33; Fig. 14.31) has the carved handle and octagonal section typical of the second group. In addition, a few other surviving stamp seals appear to be related to the others but form no coherent group. Two are of chalcedony: a squat, conical seal in Oxford (no. 34; Fig. 14.32) and a rectangular seal in Naples (no. 35). Numerous stamp seals carved from soft stones, such as steatite and serpentine, also exist (nos. 36–47; Fig. 14.4); some appear to copy the finer pyramidal hardstone examples, while others are conical or bell-shaped. Most of the images found on the pyramidal stamp seals depict saints or scenes from the life of Christ. The saints are usually shown as busts en face and with their names inscribed, as so often seen in a variety of media during the

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Middle Byzantine period. Saint Basil, the fourth-century bishop of Caesarea, is especially popular and appears on three bloodstone seals (nos. 1–3; Figs. 14.1–14.3), as well as on a steatite seal with his name written in Armenian (no. 39; Fig. 14.4). A bust of Saint Theodore, very similar in style to that of Basil, appears on two inscribed seals (nos. 4–5; Figs. 14.5–14.6) and perhaps a third (no. 6; Fig. 14.7). Two conical seals of green jasper portray busts of the Evangelist Luke (no. 11; Fig. 14.12) and Saint Stephen (no. 12; Fig. 14.13). The confronted profile busts of Saints Peter and Paul, a motif that originated in early Christian times but remained popular through the medieval period, appear on one seal (no. 7; Fig. 14.8). A fine pyramidal stamp seal of lapis lazuli, still in its contemporary gold mount of exceptional quality, is engraved with the bust of Christ as Pantokrator (no. 8; Fig. 14.9). It is perhaps noteworthy that two of the finest surviving cameos, one in Paris from the treasury of Saint Denis5 and the other in Saint Petersburg,6 are carved from lapis lazuli and bear depictions of Christ standing. The image of Christ found on seal no. 8 is a ubiquitous type in Byzantine art, but it serves as a comparison to a similar depiction of Christ engraved on a unique Middle Byzantine emerald intaglio, which is set in a gold ring inscribed with the name of Basil, the parakoimomonos of the emperor. The owner of the ring may have been the future Basil I (emperor 867–86 AD), the founder of the Macedonian dynasty, and if this identification is correct, the ring would date to just before his accession in 867 AD.7 Another possible owner, however, is the eunuch Basil (circa 925– 85 AD), the illegitimate son of Romanos I (emperor 920– 44 AD), who held the office of parakoimomonos under several emperors during the tenth century, from Constantine VII (emperor 913–59 AD) to Basil II (976–1025 AD).8 This Basil was well known as a patron of the arts and commissioned several luxury items, including a jasper paten and chalice now in St. Mark’s in Venice, an enamel crossreliquary in Limburg an der Lahn, and several manuscripts. He may have taken a special interest in the newly revived art of gem engraving. In any event, Basil’s seal ring serves as an example of an imperial commission of the ninth or tenth century, similar in style and quality to the pyramidal stamp seals. Three episodes from the life of Christ – the Annunciation, the Nativity, and the Crucifixion – are depicted on other pyramidal seals. A red jasper seal in a private collection (no. 9; Fig. 14.10) shows the angel Gabriel greeting the Virgin, inscribed with the first word of Luke 1: 28, ‘Hail (thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee)’. The Annunciation is the most frequently portrayed scene on the rock crystal group of pyramidal seals, with five extant examples (nos. 13–17; Figs. 14.14–14.16), all of which are close in style to each other and to the example in red jasper (no. 9; Fig. 14.10). The rock crystal seal in

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Munich (no. 13; Fig. 14.14) likewise is inscribed with the first word of the greeting of the angel. Related depictions of the Annunciation appear on two steatite seals, now in Berlin (nos. 36–37).9 A finely detailed and inscribed scene of the Nativity and the washing of the Christ child, in the form familiar from numerous Middle Byzantine representations of the Feast cycle (although somewhat abbreviated), is found on a bloodstone seal in Paris (no. 10; Fig. 14.11). Representations of the Crucifixion, in a distinctively Middle Byzantine composition with the crucified Christ flanked by the Virgin and Saint John, appear on two rock crystal pyramidal seals, one in Paris and the other in New York (nos. 18–19; Figs. 14.17–14.18). No bust of a saint is preserved on a rock crystal seal, but a frontal, standing Saint George in military garb, identified by an inscription, appears on a seal once in Paris (no. 21; Fig. 14.20). Another seal shows Saints Peter and Paul, both labelled, standing frontally (no. 20; Fig. 14.19). The depiction of a warrior-saint mounted on horseback, usually spearing a serpent, is found often on rock crystal seals; there are at least seven known examples (nos. 22 and 24–29; Figs. 14.21 and 14.23–14.27), most of which belong to the group with decorated handles, and another made of chalcedony (no. 35). The image represented the triumph of Christianity over evil and specifically served as a symbol of protection from demonic powers. The motif originated in the early Christian period and remained immensely popular throughout medieval times.10 The name of the ridersaint is not always specified, but on magical amulets he is often labelled as Solomon, who according to legend was able to control demons with a seal ring inscribed with the name of God, or Saint Sisinnios, a folkloric figure who vanquished demons. More orthodox iconography, however, usually identified the saint as Theodore, Demetrius, or George. On the rock crystal seals the figure is named as Theodore once (no. 26; Fig. 14.25) and merely as a ‘saint’ once (no. 25; Fig. 14.24). The rider-saint is again named as Theodore on a contemporary chalcedony seal in Naples (no. 35). Two further rock crystal seals depict designs with eagles, the significance of which is uncertain. A pyramidal seal with the scene of an eagle rending a deer was discovered by the American excavators at Corinth in Greece (no. 23; Fig. 14.22). The motif is rare in Christian iconography, although it does appear on some early Byzantine mosaics, apparently influenced by the writings of early Church fathers who interpreted the imagery in various allegorical ways, including as a representation of Communion and Resurrection.11 The gem engraver more likely may have been influenced by Persian or Arab glyptic works, such as the numerous Sasanian seals,12 produced only until the seventh century but probably still known in later times, or the near-contemporary tenth-century rock crystal ewers

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from Fatamid Egypt, one surviving example of which bears an image of an eagle and deer.13 Such objects could well have been known to the Byzantine craftsmen. A second seal, an exceptionally large example (58 mm. in height) with carved handle, is engraved with a standing eagle with wings spread (no. 31; Fig. 14.29). Again the type is unusual, but a very similar composition does occur on a tenthcentury Byzantine lead sealing.14 Although it is difficult to assign a date to some of the pyramidal seals on stylistic grounds alone, the distinctive shapes, materials, and uniformity of engraving technique which link these works make clear that all are approximately contemporary and derive from similar workshops. Some of the gems do display a style characteristic of the Middle Byzantine period (mid-ninth to thirteenth century), especially those of the bloodstone group with frontal busts of saints. The images of Saints Basil,15 Theodore, Luke, and Stephen (nos. 1–6 and 11–12; Figs. 14.1–14.3, 14.5–14.7 and 14.12–14.13) are in a style entirely Middle Byzantine, familiar from numerous similar images found on icon painting, mosaics, metalwork, and steatite. This date is also supported by the letter forms and abbreviated inscriptions A for ‘saint’ (ï ' on the seals, especially the abbreviation O Üãéoò) composed of an A within an O, a form which first appeared in the Middle Byzantine period. In view of their shape and style, some of the rock crystal seals (nos. 13–23; Figs. 14.14–14.22) must be contemporary with the bloodstone group and probably from the same workshops. Most strikingly, the depiction of the Annunciation appears in nearly identical form on both jasper (no. 9; Fig. 14.10) and rock crystal (nos. 13–17; Figs. 14.14–14.16) seals. Other seals bear distinctively Middle Byzantine compositions, such as the Crucifixion (nos. 18– 19; Figs. 14.17–14.18) and Nativity (no. 10; Fig. 14.11), or inscriptions, such as that with the standing Saint George (no. 21; Fig. 14.20) and the standing Saints Peter and Paul (no. 20; Fig. 14.19). These stylistic points, along with the use of bloodstone, jasper, and lapis lazuli as materials, also suggest that the pyramidal seals are related to the production of cameos. Although the dating of the cameos has not been determined precisely, they were certainly produced by circa 900 AD, as demonstrated by the cameo now in the Victoria and Albert Museum which names the Emperor Leo VI (886– 912 AD).16 Cameos continued to be produced into the thirteenth century, although the finest works are the earliest. In view of the similarities to cameo carving, the bloodstone pyramidal seals and the rock crystal examples of the same shape and style can be assigned to the same broad period between the tenth and thirteenth centuries, perhaps earlier in this period rather than later in view of their quality. The only seal from a datable archaeological context was found at Corinth (no. 23; Fig. 14.22) in a level said to be ‘not later than the twelfth century’, which supports this chron-

ology to some degree. The example discovered at Sardis (no. 24; Fig. 14.23) was a surface find and not from a datable context.17 The second group of rock crystal seals, with carved handles (nos. 25–31; Figs. 14.24–14.29), many of which have the image of a rider-saint (nos. 25–29; Figs. 14.24– 14.27), tend to be engraved more crudely and appear to be slightly later in date than the previous group, probably belonging to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Two examples bear Latin inscriptions (nos. 32–33; Figs. 14.30– 14.31) and since this type of rock crystal seal was unknown in the West, they are likely to have been made somewhere in the Byzantine Empire following the Latin conquest of Constantinople in 1204 AD, copying contemporary Byzantine shapes.18 Aside from the two rock crystal seals with Latin inscriptions (nos. 32–33; Figs. 14.30–14.31), none of the surviving seals is engraved with a personal name or an explicit reference to its owner or function. Official Byzantine sealings contemporary with the pyramidal seals (tenth–thirteenth centuries) were made of lead and inscribed with the owner’s name and often his title. The seals of semi-precious stone must have served a different purpose, but without an explicitly inscribed seal it is difficult to determine who used the seals and for what purpose. The images on these seals are all religious, and although sacred iconography was pervasive in the Byzantine period, the use of certain saints, notably Saint Basil, the prototypical Byzantine monk, suggests that the seals may have been used by monks or other members of the clergy. It is unlikely that the seals were used for official documents (for which lead bullae were employed) and instead may have been intended for use inside the monastery, perhaps for sealing doors, chests, supply cupboards, or for other domestic functions.

Catalogue BLOODSTONE, JASPER, AND LAPIS LAZULI PYRAMIDAL STAMP SEALS

1. London, British Museum, MME 1916,11–8,3. Fig. 14.1 Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal, pierced for suspension. H. 27.5 mm; face of seal: 10.0 × 8.5 mm. Frontal bust of Saint Basil wearing bishop’s robes (phelonion and omophorion decorated with crosses); inscription around: O ÂÁCIËÅIÏò(ï' á” ãéoò Âáóßëåéoò; Saint Basil). Unpublished. 2. Private collection. Fig. 14.2. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal with broken top. H. (as preserved) 17.8 mm; face of seal 12.6 × 11.9 mm. Frontal bust of Saint Basil, wearing bishop’s robes; inscription: Ï ÁÃ ÂÁC (Saint Basil). Unpublished.

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3. Geneva, Musée d’art et d’histoire, inv. AD 7505. Fig. 14.3. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal in a plain silver mount with ring for suspension; there is a large chip from the face of the seal. A Frontal bust of Saint Basil wearing bishop’s robes; inscription: O Â...(Saint Basil). Unpublished.

5. Houston, Menil Collection, inv. X490.673. Fig. 14.6. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal. H. 20 mm. A ÈÅÏÄ (Saint TheoFrontal bust of Saint Theodore; inscription: O dore). Published: G. Vikan and J. Nesbitt, Security in Byzantium: Locking, Sealing, and Weighing (Washington, DC, 1980), p. 22, Fig. 47.

4. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, inv. 616–1871; from the Waterton collection. Fig.14.5. Bloodstone stamp seal, later cut down to a ringstone and mounted in a gold ring. A ÈÅÏ (Saint Frontal, nimbate bust of Saint Theodore; inscription: O Theodore). Published: C.C. Oman, Victoria and Albert Museum, Department of Metalwork, Catalogue of Rings (London, 1930), p. 62, no. 224 (as Saint John the Theologian, eleventh century).

6. Private collection. Fig. 14.7. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal. The top is broken. H. (as preserved) 15.5 mm; face of seal: 12.0 × 9.9 mm. Bust of a bearded male saint facing frontally. He has long hair and a beard; a cloak is fastened at his neck. There is an inscription above, but it is worn and now illegible. He resembles images of Saint Theodore, but the identity is uncertain. Unpublished.

Fig. 14.3. Geneva, Musée d’art et d’histoire. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Musée d’art et d’histoire, Geneva).

Fig. 14.1. London, British Museum. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: author).

Fig. 14.2. Private collection. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: author).

Fig. 14.4. Private collection. Green steatite pyramidal seal (Photo: author).

Fig. 14.5. London, Victoria and Albert Museum. Bloodstone seal (Photo: author).

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Fig. 14.6 Houston, The Menil Collection. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Ursula Pariser).

Fig. 14.7. Private collection. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: author).

7. Munich, Christian Schmidt collection, inv. no. 1384. Fig.14.8. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal, in a silver-gilt mount of openwork filigree; the knob is in the shape of a pierced, faceted polyhedron, through which is passed a ring of beaded wire. H. (in mount) 30 mm; face of seal 11.8 × 11.8 mm. Profile busts of Saint Peter, with cross over his shoulder and short beard, and Saint Paul, with long beard, facing each other. There is an inscription above, but it is worn and now illegible. Unpublished.

12. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Cabinet des Médailles, 2166; M.4748 (purchased in 1902 with coins of Perge, Sagallasos, Rhodes, and Lycia). Fig. 14.13. Green jasper conical stamp seal. Height: 21.0 mm. Diameter of face: 10.8 × 9.9 mm. A CÔÅ (Saint Stephen). Frontal bust of Saint Stephen; inscription: O Unpublished.

8. Private collection. Fig. 14.9. Lapis lazuli pyramidal stamp seal in gold mount constructed of gold foil covered with floral patterns in twisted filigree wire; the handle is composed of five joined circular elements and is joined to the mount by a pin ornamented with two pearls. H. (in mount) 37 mm; face of seal 11 × 9 mm. Facing bust of bearded Christ; cross without nimbus behind head; inscription: I C (Jesus Christ). Unpublished. 9. Private collection. Fig. 14.10. Red jasper pyramidal stamp seal in silver (once gilt?) mount of beaded wire with loop for suspension. The Annunciation. The angel Gabriel, holding a staff over his shoulder, greets the Virgin; inscription above: ×ÁI (÷áé^ñå, ‘Hail’). Unpublished. 10. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Cabinet des Médailles; from the Duc de Luynes collection (1862), no. 176. Fig. 14.11. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal. H. 24 mm; face of seal 15 × 13.5 mm. The Nativity. The Virgin reclines, accompanied by shepherds and the ox and ass; below is the washing of the Christ Child; inscription: Ç ÃÅÍ (Þ ãåvvåóéò, ‘the Nativity’). Published: Byzance. L’art byzantin dans les collections publiques françaises (Paris, 1992), p. 277, no. 183 (with further literature); E. Babelon, Les Pierres gravées (Paris, 1930), p. 144, no. 176, pl. 31; R. Garrucci, Storia dell’arte cristiana nei primi otto secoli della chiesa, vol. 6 (Prato, 1880), 120, pl. 478, 31 (as from Syria).

GREEN JASPER CONICAL STAMP SEALS 11. Once Paris, Schlumberger collection. Fig. 14.12. Green jasper conical stamp seal, cut down; set in a modern ring. D. of face c. 15 mm. Frontal bust of Saint Luke, nimbate and holding Gospel; inscription: A ËÏ – ÕÊ [á O ^ ò] (Saint Luke). Published: G. Schlumberger, ‘Monuments byzantins inédits’, Florilegium Melchior de Vogüé (Paris, 1909), p. 560 (as 10th–11th century); G. Schlumberger and A. Blanchet, Collections Sigillographiques (Paris, 1914), p. 182, no. 612, pl. 25, 16.

ROCK CRYSTAL PYRAMIDAL STAMP SEALS 13. Munich, Staatliche Münzsammlung. From Galerie Helbing, Munich, auction, 28–30 October 1913, lot 1029. Fig. 14.14. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 21.2 mm. Face of seal: 12.4 × 10.5 mm. The Annunciation. The Angel Gabriel greets the standing Virgin; inscription above: ×ÁIÑ (÷áé^ñå, “Hail”). Published: E. Brandt, E. Schmidt, A. Krug, and W. Gercke, Antike Gemmen in deutschen Sammlungen, vol. 1, Staatliche Münzsammlung München, part 3 (Munich, 1972), no. 2888 (as circa 4th–6th century); J. Garbsch and B. Overbeck, Spätantike zwischen Heidentum und Christentum (Munich, 1989), p. 225, no. A 10; L. Wamser and G. Zahlhaas (eds.), Rom und Byzanz. Archäologische Kostbarkeiten aus Bayern (Munich, 1998), no. 373. 14. Hamburg, Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, inv. 1965, 120; from the collection of Johs. Jantzen, Bremen. Rock crystal, pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 19.5 mm. Face of seal: 15 × 13.3 mm. The Annunciation. Published: M. Schlüter, G. Platz-Horster, and P. Zazoff, Antike Gemmen in deutschen Sammlungen, vol. 4, Kestner-Museum, Hannover, und Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe, Hamburg (Wiesbaden, 1975), no. 85; P. Zazoff, Die antiken Gemmen. Handbuch der Archäologie (Munich, 1983), p. 379, Fig. 79a, pl. 126, 3. 15. Private collection. Fig. 14.15. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 27.7 mm. Face of seal: 12.1 × 11.2 mm. The Annunciation. Unpublished. 16. Munich, Christian Schmidt collection, inv. 1387. Fig. 14.16. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 32.7 mm. Face of seal: 15.7 × 14.9 mm. The Annunciation. Unpublished. 17. St. Petersburg, State Hermitage Museum, inv. w-1091, from the Likhachev collection.

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Fig. 14.8. Munich, Christian Schmidt collection. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp in silver-gilt mount (Photo: Zev Radovan).

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Fig. 14.9. Private collection. Lapis lazuli pyramidal stamp seal in gold mount (Photo: Phoenix Ancient Art).

Fig. 14.11. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale. Bloodstone pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Bibliothèque nationale).

Fig. 14.10. Private collection. Red jasper pyramidal stamp seal in silver mount (Photo: Derek Content).

Fig. 14.12. Once Schlumberger collection. Green jasper conical seal stamp (impression).

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Fig. 14.13. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale. Green jasper conical seal stamp (Photo: Bibliothèque nationale).

Fig. 14.14. Munich, Staatliche Münzsammlung. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Staatliche Münzsammlung).

Fig. 14.15. Private collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: author).

Fig. 14.16. Munich, Christian Schmidt collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Zev Radovan).

Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 22.5 mm.. Face of seal: 11.5 × 10.5 mm. The Annunciation. Unpublished.

19. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, inv. 86.11.38. Fig. 14.18. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal; top slightly broken. Height (as preserved): 23.9 mm. Face of seal: 19.7 × 18.4 mm. The Crucifixion; the Virgin stands at the left; Saint John on the right. Above, sun and moon; inscription: IÄIÏ (é”äå ï` õé`üò óoõ– “Behold, thy son”; John 19:26) and IÄÆ (é”äå ìÞôçñ óoõ – “Behold, thy mother”; John 19:27). Published: G. Kornbluth, Engraved Gems of the Carolingian Empire (University Park, 1995), p. 13, Fig. 33–1.

18. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Cabinet des Médailles, 2167D; M.6678 (purchased in 1907 with coins and gems from Asia Minor). Fig. 14.17. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 28.1 mm. Face of seal: 18.3 × 16.3 mm. The Crucifixion; the Virgin stands at the left and Saint John on the right; inscription: I-× (Jesus Christ). Published: E. Babelon, Les Pierres gravées (Paris, 1930), p. 42; H. Wentzel, ‘Mittelalterliche Gemmen. Versuch einer Grundlegung’, Zeitschrift des Deutschen Vereins für Kunstwissenschaft 8 (1941), p. 93, Fig. 74.

20. Houston, Menil Collection, inv. X490.671. Fig. 14.19. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 20 mm. Face: c. 12 × 12 mm. Saint Peter, with short beard and cross over shoulder, and Saint Paul, with long beard, standing frontally. Before Saint Peter, inscription

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Fig. 14.17. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (impression) (Photo: Bibliothèque nationale).

Fig. 14.18. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (impression) (Photo: author).

Fig. 14.19. Houston, The Menil Collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Ursula Pariser).

Fig. 14.20. Once Schlumberger collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal: impression (Photo: author).

A ÐÅÔ (Saint Peter); behind Saint Paul, inscription downward: O A ÐÁÕË (Saint Paul). downward: O Unpublished.

21. Once Paris, Schlumberger collection. Fig. 14.20. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Face of seal: c. 14 × 13 mm. Saint George, nimbate, standing frontally, holding spear and shield; A ÃI-Wò (Saint George). inscription: O Published: G. Schlumberger and A. Blanchet, Collections Sigillographiques (Paris, 1914), p. 184, no. 619, pl. 25, 27 (as 10th–11th century). 22. Once London, Ralph Harari collection. Fig. 14.21. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, pierced for suspension. Height: 21 mm. Face of seal: 17 × 14 mm. A mounted saint, holding a long cross; before stands a large cross. Published: J. Boardman and D. Scarisbrick, The Ralph Harari

Fig. 14.21. Once Ralph Harari collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Robert Wilkins).

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Collection of Finger Rings (London, 1977), p. 53, no. 119 (as 6th century). 23. Corinth Museum, from the excavations at Corinth. Fig. 14.22. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal; the top is broken; once in a bronze mount. Height (as preserved): 24 mm. Face: circa 18 × 18 mm. An eagle rends a deer. Published: G.R. Davidson, Corinth XII: The Minor Objects (Princeton, 1952), p. 330, no. 2840 (‘a bird (?)...not later than the twelfth century’).

Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, rectangular in shape. Height: 25 mm. An angel stands, holding a long cross. Unpublished. 31. Houston, Menil Collection, inv. X490.672. Fig. 14.29. Rock crystal conical stamp seal; the carved handle has two ridges and is pierced for suspension. Height: 58 mm. An eagle upright, wings spread. Published: G. Vikan and J. Nesbitt, Security in Byzantium: Locking, Sealing, and Weighing (Washington, DC, 1980), pp. 21–22, fig. 46 (as early Byzantine).

ROCK CRYSTAL CONICAL STAMP SEAL 24. Manisa Museum (Turkey), from the Sardis excavations; Gymnasium, East Trench, near the surface; Sardis inv. seal 59.1. Fig. 14.23. Rock crystal conical stamp seal. Height: 25 mm. Diameter of face: 10 mm. A mounted saint, holding a cross-shaped spear. Unpublished.

ROCK CRYSTAL PYRAMIDAL SEALS WITH LATIN INSCRIPTIONS

ROCK CRYSTAL PYRAMIDAL AND CONICAL SEALS

33. Private collection. Fig. 14.31. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, octagonal in shape. The top was carved as a faceted knob, pierced for suspension, but is now broken. Height (as preserved): 24.5 mm. Face of seal: 18.5 × 17.9 mm. A Latin cross is in the center within a circular border. Around the border is engraved a cross followed by the Latin inscription: MASILOMINIO. Unpublished.

WITH DECORATED HANDLES

25. Toronto, University of Toronto, Lillian Malcove collection, inv. M82.234. Fig. 14.24. Rock crystal conical stamp seal, the top carved as a knob with a ridge and pierced for suspension. Height: 25 mm. Diameter of face: 13 mm. A mounted saint spears a serpent; inscription: Á-Ã-I (for Rãéoò, ‘saint’ ?). Published: A. Krug, in S. Campbell (ed.), The Malcove Collection (Toronto, 1985), pp. 76–77, no. 99; J. Spier, ‘Medieval Byzantine Magical Amulets and their Tradition’, The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 56 (1993), p. 37, note 70. 26. Munich, Christian Schmidt collection, inv. no. 1386. Fig. 14.25. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, octagonal in shape, the top carved as a faceted knob, pierced for suspension. Height: 26.2 mm. Face of seal: 17.5 × 16.5 mm. A mounted saint (probably Saint Theodore), spearing a serpent; inscription: È-Å (for Theodore?). Unpublished. 27. Houston, Menil Collection, inv. X490.669. Fig. 14.26. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, octagonal in shape, the top carved as a faceted knob, pierced for suspension. Height: 25 mm. A mounted saint, holding a cross-shaped spear. Unpublished.

32. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, inv. 1089.1880. Fig. 14.30. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. Height: 18.6 mm. Face of seal: 16.4 × 15.0 mm. Three line Latin inscription, preceded by cross: IoIE/FICIO/AGIEL.19 Unpublished.

CHALCEDONY STAMP SEALS 34. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum, inv. 1920.117. Purchased by C.L. Wooley at Cherzin, near Nizit, Cilicia (eastern Turkey). Fig. 14.32. Chalcedony conical stamp seal, pierced at the top. Height: 19.4 mm. Diameter of face: 15.5 mm. Frontal bust of the archangel Michael holding a scepter, inscription: M × (Michael). Unpublished. 35. Naples, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, inv. 1499. Chalcedony stamp seal. 32 × 33 mm. Mounted saint (Saint Theodore) spears serpent; inscription: ÈÅ ÏÄ (Theodore). Published: H. Wentzel, ‘Mittelalterliche Gemmen in den Sammlungen Italiens’, Mitteilungen des Kunsthistorischen Institutes in Florenz 7 (1956), p. 268, Fig. 44 (as ‘11th–12th century?’).

28. Private collection. Fig. 14.27. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, octagonal in shape, the top carved as a faceted knob, pierced for suspension. Height: 25.5 mm. Face of seal: 16.3 × 15.9 mm. A mounted saint, holding a cross-shaped spear. Unpublished.

SERPENTINE AND STEATITE STAMP SEALS

29. Once Munich, Galerie Helbig. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal, octagonal in shape. Height: 20 mm. Diameter of face: 13 mm. A mounted saint. Published: Galerie Helbig, Antike und byzantinsche Kleinkunst, Auktion, Munich, 28–30 October 1913, lot 1030, pl. 18.

36. Berlin, inv. 8073; I. 6385. From the Troad. Steatite pyramidal (square) stamp seal, with pierced knob. Height: 11 mm. Face of seal: 8 mm. The Annunciation. Published: O. Wulff, Königliche Museen zu Berlin. Altchristliche und mittelalterliche, byzantinische und italienische Bildwerke, vol 3, part 2 (Berlin, 1911), p. 63, no. 1858, pl. 5 (as 11th–12th century); A. Furtwängler, Beschreibung der geschnittenen Steine im

30. Houston, Menil Collection, inv. X490.670. Fig. 14.28.

This list of steatite seals is only representative and not complete; for other serpentine pyramidal seals with crude or uncertain engraving, see G. R. Davidson, Corinth XII: The Minor Objects (Princeton, 1952), p. 330, nos. 2841–2846 and 2848.

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CENTURY

AD)

STAMP SEALS IN SEMI-PRECIOUS STONE

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Fig. 14.22. Corinth Museum. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Corinth Excavations).

Fig. 14.23. Manisa Museum. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Archaeological Exploration of Sardis/Harvard University).

Fig. 14.24. Toronto, Lillian Malcove collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Lillian Malcove collection).

Fig. 14.25. Munich, Christian Schmidt collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Zev Radovan).

Fig. 14.26. Houston, The Menil Collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Ursula Pariser).

Fig. 14.27. Private collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Zev Radovan).

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Fig. 14.28. Houston, The Menil Collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Ursula Pariser).

Fig. 14.29. Houston, The Menil Collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: Ursula Pariser).

Fig. 14.30. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal (Photo: author).

Fig. 14.31. Private collection. Rock crystal pyramidal stamp seal. (Photo: Zev Radovan). Fig. 14.32. Oxford, Ashmolean Museum. Chalcedony conical stamp seal (Photo: author).

Antiquarium, Königliche Museen zu Berlin (Berlin, 1896), p. 9, no. 79 (as Mycenaean).

mm. Face of seal: 10.5 × 9.4 mm. Nimbate figure, hand raised, rides horse (or ass?); perhaps Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. Published: E.D. Maguire, H.P. Maguire, and M.J. Duncan-Flowers (eds.), Art and Holy Powers in the Early Christian House (UrbanaChampaign, 1989), p. 98, no. 34 (as 9th–12th century).

37. Berlin, inv. I. 2538. From Smyrna. Steatite conical stamp seal, pierced. Height 15 mm. Diameter of face: 12 mm. The Annunciation. Published: O. Wulff, Königliche Museen zu Berlin. Altchristliche und mittelalterliche, byzantinische und italienische Bildwerke, vol 3, part 2 (Berlin, 1911), p. 63, no. 1857, pl. 5.

39. Private collection. Fig. 14.4. Green steatite pyramidal seal with pierced knob. Height: 21.8 mm. Face of seal: 12.7 × 11.3 mm. Facing bust of Saint Basil; Armenian inscription: Baresl (Basil). I am grateful to Professor Michael Van Esbroeck for this reading. Unpublished.

38. Toronto, Royal Ontario Museum, inv. 986.181.69. Steatite pyramidal stamp seal, pierced for suspension. Height: 17.7

40. Once Paris, Adrien Blanchet collection. Green steatite. Diameter of face: 11mm.

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A Facing bust of Saint Symeon Stylites on a column; inscription: O CÕÌÅùÍ (Saint Symeon). Published: G. Schlumberger, ‘Monuments byzantins inédits’, Florilegium Melchior de Vogüé (Paris, 1909), p. 564, no. 9; G. Schlumberger and A. Blanchet, Collections Sigillographiques (Paris, 1914), p. 177, no. 594, pl. 25, 3 (as 10th–11th century).

41. Houston, Menil Collection, inv. X490.675. Green steatite, ridged sides, pierced for suspension. A Facing bust of Saint Symeon Stylites on a column; inscription: O CÕÌÅùÍ (Saint Symeon); similar to previous, no. 40. Unpublished. 42. London, British Museum, MME 88,5–11,1. From Cyprus. Green steatite, bell-shaped, pierced for suspension. Height: 21.2 mm. Bust of nimbate Saint George, inscription: Ãåù ÑÃÏ. Published: O.M. Dalton, Catalogue of Early Christian Antiquities in the British Museum (London, 1901), p. 15, no. 99. 43. London, British Museum, MME 88,5–11,2. From Cyprus. Green steatite, bell-shaped (or church-shaped?), pierced for suspension. Height: 20.1 mm. Nimbate figure, arms outstretched; bird and lion in field. Published: Dalton, Catalogue of Early Christian, no. 97.

Fig. 14.33. Private collection. Steatite pyramidal stamp in silver mount (Photo: author).

44. London, British Museum, MME 96,11–21,1. Green steatite, bell-shaped, pierced for suspension. Height: 15.3 mm. Virgin orans; inscription: ÌÑ ÈÕ (Mother of God). Published: Dalton, Catalogue of Early Christian, no. 98. 45. London, British Museum, MME 89,5–11,14. Soft, white stone, bell-shaped, pierced for suspension. Height: 17.9 mm. Saint, orans; very crude work. Published: Dalton, Catalogue of Early Christian, no. 113. 46. London, British Museum, MME 92,6–13,67. Green steatite, bell-shaped, pierced for suspension. Height: 13.5 mm. Facing head of saint with long beard; crude work. Unpublished. 47. London, British Museum, MME 1980,12–5,2. Green steatite, ridged sides (as no. 41, above). Height: 22.8 mm. Facing busts of Constantine and Helena holding patriarchal cross; inscription: ÁÃ ÊÍC (Saint Constantine) and ÁÃÇÁ ÅË (Saint Helena). Unpublished.

ADDENDUM 48. Private collection. Fig. 14.33. Pale green steatite seal, pyramidal, set in a silver mount which is decorated on all four sides with nielloed ‘kufesque’ patterns; a loop and attached silver ring for suspension. H. 26.5mm; face of seal 11 × 10mm. Two figures standing frontally, holding between them a cross on a long staff. The device is worn and abraded. This seal is of the same pyramidal shape as the finer, hardstone examples, although the engraving is very crude. The mount, on the other hand, is of good quality and of some interest for its decoration. On all four sides, inlaid in niello, is a pattern imitating the word Allah in Kufic script. Such decoration, termed ‘kufesque’ by George Miles, became very popular in Byzantine Greece and Western Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and ornamented a wide range of material, including architectural stone carvings, ivories and manuscript illumination.20 I am grateful to Antje Bosselmann for bringing to my attention one

further pyramidal rock crystal seal engraved with the Annunciation, similar to nos. 13–17 above. It was found in Preslav, Bulgaria, in a hoard of Byzantine jewellery of very fine quality, probably from a workshop in Constantinople itself (see Totju Totev, The Preslav Treasure [Shoumen, 1993], Figs. 31–2). The jewellery most likely dates before 971, when the Byzantines seized the city of Preslav. Although the excavators suggested the seal was of an earlier date, a tenth-century date, contemporary with the jewellery, is entirely consistent with the evidence of the other seals.

Acknowledgements The author is especially grateful for the assistance received from Michael and Stark Ward; Christian Schmidt; Derek Content; Sheila Campbell; Paul Denis; Cornelia Ewigleben; Chris Entwistle; Phoenix Ancient Art; the Sardis Expedition; the Corinth Excavations; the Menil Collection, Houston; the Metropolitan Museum, New York; the Musée d’art et d’histoire, Geneva; the Staatliche Münzsammlung, Munich; and the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

Notes 1. Large numbers of metal seal rings and stamp seals dating from the Middle Byzantine period survive, but as yet there is no careful study; see G. Vikan and J. Nesbitt, Security in Byzantium: Locking, Sealing and Weighing (Washington, DC, 1980), pp. 20–23; and for a number of examples, Gustave Schlumberger and Adrien Blanchet, Collections Sigillographiques (Paris, 1914), pp. 177–93, nos. 594–653, pls. 25–26. 2. No comprehensive study of Middle Byzantine cameos has been completed, but see the fundamental articles by Hans Wentzel,

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3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

JEFFREY SPIER including, ‘Datierte und datierbare Kameen’, Festchrift Friedrich Winkler (Berlin, 1959), pp. 9–21; ‘Die byzantinischen Kameen in Kassel’, Mouseion. Studien für Otto. H. Förster (Cologne, 1960), pp. 88–97; and ‘Die Kamee mit dem Hl. Georg im Schloß zu Windsor’, Festschrift Friedrich Gerke (BadenBaden, 1962), pp. 103–112. See also A.V. Bank, Prikladnoe iskusstvo Vizantii IX–XII vv. (Moscow, 1978), pp. 114–46 and 198–200 (English summary); eadem, ‘Nouveaux travaux concernant la glyptique byzantine’, Byzantinoslavica 23 (1962), pp. 52–9; C. and M.M. Mango, ‘Cameos in Byzantium’, in M. Henig and M. Vickers (eds.), Cameos in Context. The Benjamin Zucker Lectures, 1990 (Oxford and Houlton, 1993), pp. 57–76; Mathilde Avisseau in, J. Durand (ed.), Byzance. L’art byzantin dans les collections publiques françaises (Paris, 1992), pp. 275– 88; H.C. Evans and W.D. Wixom (eds.), The Glory of Byzantium. Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261 (New York, 1997), pp. 174–80, nos. 126–35. In addition to the pyramidal stamp seals, there are some other large intaglios carved from bloodstone, very likely from the same workshops that produced cameos. Among the notable examples are a large (5 cm.) double-sided pendant (enkolpion) in the Metropolitan Museum in New York (see L. Kötzsche, in K. Weitzmann (ed.), Age of Spirituality (New York, 1979), p. 440, no. 398 [as 6th–7th century]; and J. Spier, ‘Medieval Byzantine Magical Amulets and their Tradition’, The Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 56 (1993), p. 44, note 111, pl. 6b [as Middle Byzantine]) and a smaller intaglio with arched top (a shape used for cameos and steatites) depicting the standing Virgin and Child, now in the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto; see C. Bonner, Studies in Magical Amulets, Chiefly Graeco-Egyptian (Ann Arbor, 1950), pp. 221–22, 308, no. 329. A number of large bloodstone magical amulets and one large cameo also survive; for these, see Spier, ‘Magical Amulets’, pp. 28–9, pls. 4–5. Cf. the silver stamp seal in the Royal Ontario Museum, Toronto: E.D. Maguire, H.P. Maguire and M.J. Duncan-Flowers (eds.), Art and Holy Powers in the Early Christian House (UrbanaChampaign, 1989), p. 97, no. 33. Durand, Byzance, p. 284, no. 195; Evans and Wixom, Glory of Byzantium, pp. 178–9, no. 133; the cameo-icon is inlaid with gold, and the reverse bears the image of the Virgin orans. A. Bank, Byzantine Art in the Collections of Soviet Museums (Leningrad, 1985), p. 199, figs. 157–8; Evans and Wixom, Glory of Byzantium, p. 176, no. 129. See G. Schlumberger, ‘Trois joyaux byzantins sur lesquels sont inscrits les noms de personnages historiques du IXe siècle’, Mélanges d’archéologie byzantine (Paris, 1895), pp. 39–42 (= CRAI 1885, pp. 346–52) who cites stylistic similarities to the coins of Michael III (emperor 842–67 AD); Schlumberger and Blanchet, Collections Sigillographiques, p. 181, no. 608; Wentzel, Festschrift Winkler, pp. 13–14; J.-C. Cheynet and C. Morrisson in Durand, Byzance, p. 309, no. 219. See Psellos, Chronographia, 1.3 and 19–22; The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, vol. 1 (New York and Oxford, 1991), p. 270, s.v. ‘Basil the Nothos’; Vikan and Nesbitt, Security in Byzantium, p. 18; and for a lead seal, see G. Zacos and A. Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, vol. 2 (Berne, 1984), p. 368, no. 275. A further green jasper engraved ringstone (flat), in the collection of Christian Schmidt, Munich (inv. no. 1389), also appears to

10.

11. 12.

13.

14. 15.

16. 17. 18.

19.

20.

date from the Middle Byzantine period; it is similar in style to the pyramidal seals, but the Virgin stands with a basket of wool at her feet; cf. also the Middle Byzantine gold ring from Trebizond with a similar image: Schlumberger and Blanchet, Collections Sigillographiques, pp. 182–3, no. 613, pl. 25. For discussions of mounted saints, see the following: Spier, ‘Magical Amulets’, pp. 33–8; Ch. Walter, ‘The Intaglio of Solomon in the Benaki Museum and the Origins of the Iconography of Warrior Saints’, Äåëôßov ôç^ ò ×ñéóôéávéêç^ ò EAñ÷áéoëoãéêç ^ò EEôáéñåßáò 16 (1989/90), pp. 33–42; Maguire et al., Art and Holy Powers, pp. 25–8. See Henry Maguire, Earth and Ocean. The Terrestrial World in Early Byzantine Art (University Park, 1987), pp. 51–2, Fig. 58. See, for example, A.H.D. Bivar, Catalogue of the Western Asiatic Seals in the British Musuem. Stamp Seals, II: The Sassanian Dynasty (London, 1969), pp. 104–5, HI 4–6. The ewer is in the Victoria and Albert Museum; see Daniel Alcouffe, in D. Buckton (ed.), The Treasury of San Marco (Milan, 1984), p. 216, Fig. 31c. Zacos and Veglery, Byzantine Seals, p. 416, no. 932, naming Leon, archdeacon and skeuophylax. For a chalcedony cameo with a bust of Saint Basil in St. Petersburg, see Bank, Byzantine Art, p. 299, no. 160 (as tenth century). For the iconography of Saint Basil, see Wilma Fitzgerald, ‘Notes on the Iconography of Saint Basil the Great’, in P.J. Fedwick (ed.), Basil of Caesarea: Christian, Humanist, Ascetic, vol. 2 (Toronto, 1981), pp. 533–63. The earliest representation appears to be the seventh-century painted wood icon at Mount Sinai; see Kurt Weitzmann, The Monastery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai: The Icons, vol. 1: From the Sixth to the Tenth Century (Princeton, 1976), p. 48–9, no. B24, pls. 20, 72–3; see also André Grabar, Christian Iconography. A Study of its Origins (Princeton, 1968), p. 74, Figs. 185 and 187 (a ninthcentury fresco in S. Maria Antiqua, Rome). See Wentzel, Festschrift Winkler, p. 12. I am grateful to Professor David G. Mitten, who discovered the seal, for this information. Vikan and Nesbitt, Security in Byzantium, p. 21, Fig. 44, suggest that a stamp seal rests on the desk of Saint Mark in an illuminated page from a thirteenth-century manuscript from Mt Athos, but the object seems to me to be more likely to be an ink pot; the manuscript is in the Koutloumousiou Monastery, Codex 61, fol. 112v; see The Treasures of Mount Athos. Illuminated manuscripts, vol. 1 (Athens, 1973), p. 453, no. 303, pl. 247. The meaning of the inscription is uncertain. The first part may be a personal name, and the two letters Io may be an abbreviation for Ioannes. Agiel may be the name of a protective angel, and the seal may be amuletic. K. Erdmann, ‘Arabische Schriftzeichen als Ornamente in der abendländischen Kunst des Mittelalters’, Abhandlungen der Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaflichen Klasse. Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur in Mainz 9 (1953), pp. 467– 513; George C. Miles, ‘Byzantium and the Arabs: Relations in Crete and the Aegean Area’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 18 (1964), pp. 1–32, esp. pp. 20–32; Richard Ettinghausen, ‘Kufesque in Byzantine Greece, the Latin West and the Muslim World’, in A Colloquium in Memory of George Carpenter Miles (1904–1975) [New York, 1976], pp. 28–47, noting the Islamic origin of the stylization and its continued use in Islamic countries.

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15. The Bristol Psalter Leslie Brubaker

The Bristol Psalter (London, British Library, Additional MS 40.731) belongs to a well-known group of Byzantine psalters with marginal illustration, the most famous members of which are probably the ninth-century Khludov Psalter in Moscow and the Theodore Psalter of 1066, also in London.1 It derives its name from the English city where it was rediscovered early in the twentieth century, and from whence it moved to London in 1923.2 Nothing further about its past is known. The manuscript is dated to the eleventh century on the basis of its script and the style of its miniatures.3 Small (c. 9 × 10.5 cm) in format, it has sometimes been called a ‘pocket’ psalter; perhaps in part because of its size, it is not as densely illustrated as other marginal psalters.4 The role of the Bristol Psalter in the historiography of the marginal psalters has, however, been larger than its ninety-four images might suggest. Following Mary Phillips Perry’s initial presentation of the manuscript in 1921, Suzy Dufrenne published a study of the Bristol Psalter in 1964 that established a number of characteristic features of the manuscript.5 Dufrenne noted that the miniatures were concentrated in the first half of the manuscript, and that the emphasis of the pictures also changed mid-way through the psalms: in the second half, the miniaturist focussed less on the author of the psalms, David, than on visualising parallels between the psalms and other Old Testament stories (see Table 15.1).6 She also observed that while 90% of the Bristol images found parallels in the three earlier copies of the marginal psalters that have been preserved – the Khludov manuscript mentioned already, the fragmentary Paris. gr. 20 and Mount Athos, Pantokrator 61,7 all dating to the ninth century – the eleventh-century pictures differed in some significant ways from the ninth-century ones. Dufrenne argued that, in contrast to the often-polemical earlier psalters, the Bristol manuscript tended to avoid visual emphasis on issues connected with Iconoclasm (c. 730–787, 815–843) such as the incarnation, and that references to the missionary activity of the second half of the ninth century were also

lacking; she concluded that images specific to ninth-century concerns do not appear in the Bristol Psalter.8 Dufrenne also identified the high proportion of scenes that are more or less literal illustrations of particular psalm verses,9 and (wrongly) claimed that the roughly thirty commentary miniatures that occur in the Bristol Psalter, all showing scenes from the New Testament, relied on analogies made already in the New Testament itself rather than on parallels established by later commentaries on the psalms.10 Finally, following the lead of Perry, Dufrenne recognised that several miniatures in the Bristol Psalter were closely related to compositions in the Paris Psalter (gr. 139), a tenthcentury manuscript with full-page rather than marginal illustration;11 she believed that these parallels demonstrated the common origin of psalters with marginal miniatures and psalters with full-page illustrations, a thesis that is no longer widely accepted.12 On the basis of her observations, Dufrenne suggested that the Bristol Psalter preserves older formats and iconographical patterns than do the chronologically earlier ninthcentury examples.13 Many of her arguments were sustained and amplified by Kathleen Corrigan in 1992, who often relied on Bristol to supply an idea of what a psalter produced before the ninth century might have looked like.14 Corrigan speculated that the Bristol Psalter reveals at least two layers of pre- ninth-century psalter development: on the basis of comparisons with early Latin psalters, she argued that many of the direct illustrations of the psalms found in Bristol (and, though less frequently, in other Byzantine marginal psalters) ultimately rely on a late antique exemplar, while many of the typological New Testament illustrations probably entered the psalter tradition in the eighth century.15 She concluded that ‘the Bristol Psalter can serve as an important guide to the contents of the pre-Iconoclastic Byzantine psalter that was the basis for the ninth-century marginal psalters’.16 This possibility was countered in 1994 by Jeffrey Anderson, who contended that the Bristol miniaturist relied directly on the pictures in the Pantokrator Psalter, and that the

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Bristol Psalter is therefore ‘no longer relevant to the matter of sources’.17 There are problems with both positions. I am less sure than is Anderson that the Bristol Psalter copied the Pantokrator manuscript; but his observation that the features Dufrenne and Corrigan found indicative of an early source for Bristol actually find few parallels – earlier or later – in the the psalter tradition is undoubtedly correct.18

Table 15.1 sets out the relationship between the Bristol manuscript and the two ninth-century marginal psalters that retain most of their illustrations, Pantokrator 61 and Khludov.19 It is clear from even this schematic chart that, as has long been recognised, the Bristol miniatures are more closely connected with the images in the Pantokrator than with those in the Khludov Psalter. In only one case does the eleventh-century artisan provide a composition that is more similar to that in the Khludov than to that in the Pantokrator Psalter: the pictures of the martyrdom of the Makkabees that illustrate psalm 78:1–2 in the Khludov (Pl. 6.1) and Bristol (Pl. 6.2) Psalters share the position of Antiochos before the walls of his city, directing the execution. The composition is reversed in Pantokrator 61 (Fig. 15.1), where

the city walls are also much larger than in the other two manuscripts. Unfortunately the executioner and the martyrs are too badly abraded in Bristol to elaborate the comparison further. But as noted above, it is anyway far more common to find that the images in the Bristol and Pantokrator Psalters are related and preserve formulae that differ from the relevant miniatures in the Khludov manuscript.20 The arrest of David, which illustrates the title to psalm 55 in the three manuscripts, provides a clear example. In the Khludov Psalter (Pl. 6.3), David stands frontally, symmetrically flanked by two bareheaded soldiers. In contrast the Pantokrator (Fig. 15.2) and Bristol (Pl. 6.4) Psalters show David standing with one leg crossed behind the other, flanked by helmeted soldiers, one on the (viewer’s) left, and three on the right. The miniaturists of the two ninth-century manuscripts append a typological parallel, the arrest of Christ, not found in the Bristol Psalter.21 Whether the second image was absent from the model followed by the eleventh-century miniaturist or whether the artisan deliberately omitted the scene is unclear, but the connections between the Bristol and Pantokrator versions of David’s arrest remain striking. There are also, however, a number of compositions where the miniatures in the Khludov and Pantokrator Psalters are related while the image in the Bristol Psalter is quite different.22 In some cases – such as the images of the Annunciation that accompany psalm 44:10, or the depic-

Fig. 15.1. Pantokrator Psalter: martyrdom of the Makkabees. Mt Athos, Pantokrator Monastery, cod. 61, f. 110r (Photo: Mt Athos).

Fig. 15.2. Pantokrator Psalter: arrest of David, arrest of Christ. Mt Athos, Pantokrator Monastery, cod. 61, f. 68v (Photo: Mt Athos).

The relationship between the Bristol, Pantokrator and Khludov Psalters

THE BRISTOL PSALTER

tions of the Anastasis that illustrate psalm 67:1 – the earlier manuscripts reproduce ninth-century formulae which the eleventh-century miniaturist has modernised: these are familiar scenes and variations are to be expected.23 A somewhat more significant iconographical variant appears in the illustrations to psalm 38:12, which represent Peter’s denial. Here the Khludov (Pl. 6.5) and Pantokrator (Fig. 15.3) illustrations share the position of Peter, who stands, leaning to the left, and holds his head with his right hand while pointing to himself with his left. The Bristol miniaturist, in contrast, shows Peter seated (Fig. 15.4), and, though he still rests his head in his hand, his position recalls that conventionally assumed by Joseph in images of the Nativity or Adam in scenes of his lament after the expulsion from paradise rather than the earlier portrayals of Peter. Two more cases where the ninth-century miniatures line up against the eleventh-century version appear in the Odes. Both the Khludov and the Pantokrator illustrations to the Ode of Hannah show her holding the infant Samuel; the infant is omitted in the Bristol Psalter. Similarly, the ninth-

Fig. 15.3. Pantokrator Psalter: Isaiah predicts the arrest of Christ, denial of Peter. Mt Athos, Pantokrator Monastery, cod. 61, f. 48r (Photo: Mt Athos).

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century illustrations to the Jonah Ode portray Jonah in the belly of the sea monster; he is being disgorged from the monster in the Bristol image. The ninth- and eleventh-century miniaturists sometimes took a different approach to the same psalm verse. Here a good example is provided by the illustration to psalm 73:13–14, ‘Thou didst break to pieces the heads of the serpents in the water; thou didst break to pieces the heads of the serpent; thou didst give him for meat to the Ethiopian nations’. The Khludov (Pl. 6.6) and Pantokrator (Fig. 15.5) miniaturists provided typological illustrations to this passage, with a representation of the Baptism of Christ adjacent to a bleeding serpent and a bleeding demon, joined by a portrait of the drowned pharaoh pecked by two ravens.24 The Bristol artisan avoided the typological scenes, and restricted the illustration to a serpent in the water alongside a shoreline; its head is bleeding and its tail is pecked by a bird (Pl. 6.7). Though all compositions include the serpent with the broken head mentioned in the psalm verse, the associated details in the Bristol Psalter are quite different from those found in, and shared by, the Khludov and Pantokrator Psalters.25 Similarly, the representations of Moses striking water from the rock that accompany psalm 80:16 in the Khludov and Pantokrator Psalters are closely related – down to the distinction between the three types of drinking vessels used by the Israelites – while the Bristol image differs: in this case, it is a more generalised scene, without, for example, the careful differentiations between drinkers and vessels. Some relationships are more complicated. The illustrations to psalm 33:8, for example, differ in all three manuscripts, while in a few cases the Bristol Psalter shares minor details with the Khludov Psalter that are missing from the Pantokrator manuscript. The title image to psalm 56, for example, shows David hiding in a cave from the side of which, in the Bristol and Khludov versions of the scene, grows a tree that is missing from the Pantokrator image (which is otherwise more similar to the Bristol miniature than is the Khludov image). Meanwhile the two Ziphites in the miniature introducing psalm 53 in the Bristol Psalter (Fig. 15.6) are closely related to their counterparts in Pantokrator 61 (Fig. 15.7), but the Bristol portrait of Saul differs from that in Pantokrator, which is related to the portrait of Saul in the Khludov Psalter (Pl. 6.8).26 In both of these cases, the Bristol miniaturist cannot have copied directly from the Pantokrator manuscript, but must instead have known an image that still retained details later omitted from the Pantokrator book. Other indications that the relationship between the Bristol and the ninthcentury manuscripts is less straightforward than it might appear may be found in the illustration to psalm 17, which in the Bristol Psalter adds a detail – a medallion of Christ – found in neither the Pantokrator nor the Khludov Psalter; and in that to psalm 20:3, which in the Bristol manuscript

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substitutes a portrait of David (Pl. 6.9) and a personification drawn from the Paris Psalter (Fig. 15.8) for the figure of Hezekiah raised on a shield found in the Khludov

Psalter (Pl. 6.10), but nonetheless retains figures identical to those in Khludov supporting the shield.27 These convoluted webs of relationship indicate that the relationship

Fig. 15.4. Bristol Psalter: denial of Peter, pit of misery, miry clay. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 65v (Photo: BL).

THE BRISTOL PSALTER

Fig. 15.5. Pantokrator Psalter: baptism with bleeding serpent and demon, drowned pharaoh. Mt Athos, Pantokrator Monastery, cod. 61, f. 98v (Photo: Mt Athos).

between the three marginal psalters is far from simple and the comparative evidence does not support the suggestion that the Bristol miniaturist relied directly and exclusively on the Pantokrator manuscript. The occasions when the Bristol image agrees with that in the Khludov Psalter, while the Pantokrator image differs, indicate that the London manuscript cannot be a direct copy of the Pantokrator Psalter.28 That three scenes appear in the Bristol and Khludov Psalters but not in Pantokrator would seem to corroborate the thesis that the Bristol miniaturist could not have relied exclusively on the Pantokrator Psalter. Again, however, the evidence is complicated. The first of the scenes is a miniature of the ‘everlasting doors’ that accompanies psalm 23:7, and here the Khludov and Bristol images are not related.29 The Khludov image is related to that in the Theodore Psalter;30 but whether that in the Bristol Psalter – which simply shows a closed door set into a frame – represents an ad hoc response to the verse by the eleventhcentury artisan or followed the now-lost exemplar that apparently provided the model for both the Bristol and Pantokrator miniaturists (in which case, the latter omitted the image) is uncertain. The second miniature that appears only in the Bristol and Khludov Psalters shows the Ascension and illustrates

131

psalm 46:5–9; the margins adjacent to those verses in Pantokrator are empty. Anderson has noted that the preceding folio in the Pantokrator manuscript, which contained psalm 45:6–46:3, is lost, and he has speculated that the Ascension might have been painted there.31 This is possible, but not very likely: the Khludov Psalter suggests that a picture of the Crucifixion and an image of the peoples of the world adoring Christ probably accompanied the latter psalm verses,32 and these are thus more likely to have been the original occupants of the relevant margins of the Pantokrator manuscript than a misplaced picture of the Ascension. The third case here concerns the dead asp of psalm 57:4– 5. Once more the Bristol miniature has little to do with that in the Khludov Psalter (which is, again, followed by the Theodore Psalter).33 Anderson suggested that the Pantokrator Psalter might originally have included the asp on a folio adjacent to the precisely relevant text page, and the outer margin of the following folio has indeed been excised; he also contemplates the possibility that the Bristol miniaturist could have added the asp independently.34 Either alternative is, of course, possible. But the special pleading is not really necessary. As the preceding discussion demonstrates, the Bristol miniaturist cannot have copied the Pantokrator Psalter in any event. Instead, as Dufrenne argued and Corrigan reconfirmed, the Bristol and Pantokrator miniaturists seem to have adapted the same source, or at least the same tradition. It would be more sympathetic to the evidence to admit the special characteristics of the Bristol manuscript than to force the argument by insisting upon a copy-model relationship between it and the Pantokrator Psalter.

Special characteristics of the Bristol Psalter As is evident from Table 15.1, at least four miniatures that appear in the Bristol Psalter were never found in the Khludov and Pantokrator Psalters. These are the springs of water illustrating psalm 17:15 on f. 27v, the lion responding to psalm 21:21 on f. 36r, the house of the Lord accompanying psalm 25:8 on f. 41r, and the pit of misery and the miry clay of psalm 39:2 on f. 65v (Fig. 15.4).35 All of these are direct illustrations of the attached psalm verses, and a number of other examples of this type of illustration might also be exclusive to the Bristol Psalter:36 the blessed man meditating on the law (psalm 1:2), the grain, vine and olive tree (psalm 4:7), the open sepulchre (psalm 5:9), the man falling into the pit (psalm 7:15), the place of green grass (psalm 22:2), the nourishing waters (psalm 22:2), and the rod, altar, oil jar and staff (psalm 22:4–5) are not found in the Khludov Psalter; and, though the relevant pages are lost from Pantokrator, it is not this type of image that the Pantokrator miniaturist favoured. Following the methodology that prevailed in the 1960s, Dufrenne assumed that direct illustration of the type found

132

LESLIE BRUBAKER

in these miniatures in the Bristol Psalter continued a late antique system of decoration, and she therefore concluded that the Bristol Psalter shows closer connections to a hypothesised pre-iconoclast psalter than do the ninth-century

marginal psalters.37 Corrigan did not espouse the same set of methodological presuppositions, but she did argue that Bristol’s direct illustrations – and its miniaturist’s predilection for images that respond to the title of individual

Fig. 15.6. Bristol Psalter: Ziphites before Saul. London, British Library, Add. Ms. 40.731, f. 86r (Photo: BL).

THE BRISTOL PSALTER

Fig. 15.7. Pantokrator Psalter: Ziphites before Saul. Mt Athos, Pantokrator Monastery, cod. 61, f. 65v (Photo: Mt Athos).

133

psalms – might well reflect a pre-iconoclast set of psalter images. This suggestion has been supported by reference to two ninth-century Latin psalters in Stuttgart and Utrecht, which also reveal many examples of direct illustration and which are believed to draw upon earlier sources.38 However, as Corrigan has shown, while the ‘literal’ approach to illustration is similar, the actual iconography of the Carolingian images is rarely related to the Byzantine examples of direct illustration, though the miniaturists often selected the same verses for illustration.39 Most significantly for our understanding of the Bristol Psalter, only two of the thirtyfive examples of direct illustration isolated by Corrigan in the ninth-century Byzantine psalters recur in the Bristol manuscript,40 and there is only a single case where one of the eleventh-century ‘literal’ illustrations finds even a vague parallel in a Latin psalter.41 While the decision to provide direct illustrations for the same three dozen passages may well demonstrate distant ties between the ninth-century Latin psalters and the ninth-century Greek ones, this comparison reveals little about the Bristol Psalter. However many direct illustrations appear in the eleventh-century manuscript, they find few counterparts. In other words, whether or not we accept the assumption that direct illustration was particularly favoured by early miniaturists,42 there is virtually no evidence that the specific examples found in the Bristol Psalter follow a pre-iconoclast model – or at least, if they do, this hypothetical model has not left its mark on any other psalter.

The relationship between the Paris and the Bristol Psalters

Fig. 15.8. Paris Psalter: David raised on a shield. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. gr. 139, f. 6v (Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale).

The relationship between the Bristol Psalter and other Byzantine psalters is further complicated by the ties that the Bristol manuscript sustains with psalters that have fullpage illustration, and particularly with the Paris Psalter (gr. 139). The connection, first noted by Perry, was discussed in some detail by Dufrenne, who linked the images of the raising of David on a shield (Pl. 6.9 and Fig. 15.8), the penitence of David, David fighting Goliath, the death of Goliath, the prayer of Hannah, the prayer of Isaiah, and the prayer of Hezekiah in the two manuscripts.43 As already noted, she concluded that the parallels demonstrated that the psalters with marginal miniatures ultimately depended upon the same early ur-psalter as did those with full-page miniatures, a belief that now finds few followers. Most of the associations between the Bristol and Paris images noticed by Perry and Dufrenne nonetheless hold. We have seen that the Bristol miniature of David raised on a shield and crowned by a personification diverges from the ninth-century psalters precisely through its incorporation of the formula familiar from the Paris Psalter. The same pattern applies to the scene of David’s battle with Goliath, which is the title miniature to psalm 143 in the

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LESLIE BRUBAKER

Bristol, Khludov and Pantokrator Psalters, and to the illustration to Isaiah’s Ode; while the Bristol image of David beheading Goliath, with psalm 151, also pairs with the Paris manuscript rather than with the Khludov Psalter.44 So too the Bristol portraits of Hannah, Jonah and Hezekiah that accompany the Odes, which differ from those in the Khludov and Pantokrator Psalters, find parallels in the Paris Psalter, though in all three cases the tenth-century ‘aristocratic’ psalter preserves a more extensive composition.45 The penitence of David, which accompanies psalm 53:3 in the Bristol (Pl. 6.11) and Khludov Psalters, reveals a more complicated relationship with the Paris manuscript: the Bristol miniature in fact inserts elements identical to those in the Paris Psalter (Fig. 15.9) – notably the personification Metanoia leaning on a lectern-like structure above the prostrate king – within a composition that otherwise most closely resembles a scene in a copy of the Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus also now in Paris (gr. 510) that was made between 879 and 882 (Fig. 15.10).46 In both, Bathsheba peers over the back of David’s empty latticebacked throne, while the prostrate David, nimbless, raises both hands in supplication to the prophet Nathan. The most significant difference between the two images is that in the Paris Homilies an archangel, inspired by a ninth-century paraphrase known as the Palaia historica, replaces the personification of Metanoia found in the Bristol and Paris Psalters.47 In the latter, David kneels in a similar position, but is nimbed; the composition has presumably been

Fig. 15.9. Paris Psalter: penitence of David. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. gr. 139, f. 136v (Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale).

Fig. 15.10. Homilies of Gregory of Nazianus: penitence of David. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris.gr.510, f. 143v, detail (Photo: Bibliothèque Nationale).

THE BRISTOL PSALTER

awkwardly adapted from another source, for Nathan has been moved and David meaninglessly raises his hand toward the frame. The Bristol miniaturist cannot, in this instance, have copied directly from the Paris Psalter, but must instead have known either the Homilies miniature or something quite like it, into which was evidently grafted the modernising detail of Metanoia.

Conclusions One feature of the Bristol Psalter that has been mentioned but not discussed is its omission of most of the scenes that responded to Iconoclasm and other issues of particular importance in eighth- and ninth-century Byzantium. Were these scenes unknown to the Bristol miniaturist? Or, alternatively, did that artisan simply dismiss them as irrelevant to eleventh-century concerns? It is unlikely that we will ever know the answers to these questions, but the evidence summarised allows a few tentative conclusions and a readjustment of our assessment of the role of the Bristol Psalter in the history of Byzantine manuscript illustration. The Bristol Psalter was generally inspired by an earlier psalter that was closely related to, or was in fact identical with, the manuscript that had sparked the Pantokrator Psalter about two centuries earlier. The many losses to the Pantokrator Psalter urge caution, but certainly some of the illustrations in the Bristol manuscript could never have found parallels in it. Either the manuscript that generated both the Pantokrator and Bristol Psalters incorporated a number of illustrations that stimulated the Bristol miniaturist but were ignored by the Pantokrator artisan, or the Bristol painter added those scenes, many of which were direct illustrations of specific words or phrases in the psalms. Comparison with the Khludov Psalter, and with the body of direct illustrations that indirectly link the Khludov manuscript with the ninth-century Latin psalters in Stuttgart and Utrecht produced a few generations earlier, might seem to support the first of these alternatives. But, as we have seen, the Bristol Psalter in fact sustains few links with this transMediterranean packet of conceptually related images. If the direct illustrations in the Bristol Psalter tell us anything about a pre-iconoclast tradition of psalter illustration, we would have to conclude that this tradition diverged from that represented by the Carolingian psalters. However, as noted already by Anderson, there is little evidence that direct ‘word illustration’ was a particular feature of early Byzantine illumination.48 Outside of the psalter tradition itself, it is in fact rare – but it does occur in two lavishly illustrated manuscripts of the ninth century, a copy of the sermons of Gregory of Nazianzus in Milan (Ambrosiana E. 49/50 inf.) and a copy of the Sacra Parallela in Paris (B.N. gr. 923).49 Both of these manuscripts, like the psalters with which we are concerned, are

135

illustrated almost exclusively with marginal imagery. And both of them, like the Bristol Psalter, show a tendency toward direct illustration: the many pictures that respond to the title of the psalm in the Bristol manuscript find close parallels in the Milan Gregory, where many miniatures simply depict the subject mentioned in the title of the sermon; and literal illustration recurs throughout both the Sacra Parallela and the Gregory manuscript.50 Other ninthcentury books – the Paris copy of Gregory’s homilies (B.N. gr. 510), and the Vatican Christian Topography (gr. 699) – seem to avoid such direct illustration, but they also follow a different format: the two manuscripts that share direct illustration with the psalters are the only ninth-century manuscripts that, like them, favour unframed, marginal illustration. Manuscripts with marginal illustration are, of course, particularly well suited to direct illustration, as the images are in close proximity to the text to which they respond. Is it not possible that, rather than indicating an early origin, ‘literal’ or ‘word’ illustration was a response to the marginal format, which opened new possibilities for the play of word and image?51 But whether or not format rather than chronology is our best guide to the incidence of direct, ‘literal’ or ‘word’ illustration, the Milan Gregory and the Sacra Parallela indicate that the use of direct illustration in the Bristol Psalter need not be seen as indicative of its reliance on a preiconoclast source. Since direct illustration appears in other ninth-century books, however, it may be that the sequence adapted by the Bristol and Pantokrator miniaturists included these – or some of these – images. If so, they were nearly all ignored by the artisan responsible for the Pantokrator Psalter. Such a process of selection is not unprecedented in the ninth century – the Milan copy of Gregory’s sermons incorporates much direct illustration, the Paris copy virtually none at all52 – and it is quite possible that direct illustration appeared in the source used by both the Pantokrator and Bristol painters, but was only copied by the latter. Whether or not that was the case, the relationship between the Bristol Psalter and the other marginal psalters, on the one hand, and the ‘aristocratic’ Paris Psalter, on the other, indicates that the eleventh-century miniaturist was not determined slavishly to copy a single venerable exemplar. While this might imply that the illustrations found in the Bristol manuscript but not the earlier marginal psalters could have been instigated by the eleventh-century miniaturist, the fact remains that when the Bristol miniatures can be connected with a different source – whether the Paris Psalter, the Paris Homilies or indeed Pantokrator 61 – they are usually remarkably similar to the earlier versions. This pattern does not, on the face of it, suggest that the Bristol illustrator was deeply interested in creating new visual formulae (except, as in the case of the penitence of David, through compilation). Despite the lack of concrete evidence, one is therefore

136

LESLIE BRUBAKER

inclined to suspect that the Bristol Psalter is a rarity among manuscripts, a creative pastiche of compositions derived from a variety of sources. I do not mean to suggest that the Bristol miniaturist never inserted particularised meanings or ‘invented’ scenes: the first miniature in the manuscript, which shows a blessed man meditating on the law day and night, uses the compositional format of the miniature accompanying the Isaiah Ode (itself affiliated with the Paris Psalter) to create an idiosyncratic composition without a parallel in any other psalter. Nor am I trying to ignore the evidence presented earlier – a number of the direct illustrations in the Bristol Psalter may have been additions for which the eleventh-century miniaturist was responsible. But our miniaturist also (and unusually) demonstrably knew several sources that we too still know, and reproduced these sources with great fidelity. Most of the miniatures in the Bristol Psalter are not new; they are extremely good imitations or adaptations of authoritative formulae. This is not a criticism. The Bristol miniaturist was following good Byzantine social practice, which understood tradition to hold the key to truth – without, however, succumbing to that antiquarian need to differentiate earlier traditions along a sliding scale determined by relative age, with the oldest tradition taking the stakes. Though the Bristol miniaturist may have been selective in the scenes chosen or discarded from the basic psalter model followed, and certainly exercised choices in the additions made, these

decisions are unlikely to have been based on anything other than contemporary taste. The eleventh-century artisan and the viewers of the manuscript did not share the need of the modern historian to isolate the streams that ultimately flow into a single river, and if any member of the manuscript’s audience for some reason had been able to identify the various sources of the Bristol Psalter its very eclecticity would probably have been lauded as indicative of its particularly august lineage chains. What the Bristol Psalter says to us, however, is that some of the methodological underpinnings that condition the ways that we think about Byzantine manuscripts need to be reconsidered. For too long, and without sufficient reason, the manuscript has been lumbered with the responsibility of representing the beginning of a tradition – the pre-iconoclast psalter. Since, however, the selection of images preserved in the Bristol Psalter differs considerably from those in other manuscripts held to continue that same tradition, notably the ninthcentury Latin psalters, this assumption can only be sustained by an unwavering belief that direct, or word, illustration alone is a hallmark of antiquity. This assumption is problematic at best, is contradicted by the evidence available to us, and has obscured our understanding of the Bristol Psalter. In the spirit of David Buckton’s brilliant articles rehabilitating (or sometimes not....) Byzantine enamels, my rather more tarnished one is offered as part of the positive rehabilitation of the Bristol Psalter.

psalm54

subject

Bristol

frontispiece

David & musicians

7v

1:1

blessed man in company of the ungodly

1:2

blessed man meditating on law day and night

8r

1:3

tree by the brooks of waters

8v

1:4

ungodly scattered by wind

8v (effaced)

2r

Bristol is too damaged to permit comparison

2:1–2

rulers gathered against Christ

9r

2v

no relationship: the Bristol rulers are identified as Herod & Pilate;58 in Khludov, Isaiah speaks to a group of Jews59

2:7

nativity

9v

2v

general similarities

3 (title)

David fleeing Absalom

10r

3r

Bristol shows all figures on horseback; Khludov shows David’s contingent on foot60

4:7

grain, vine, olive tree

11r

5 (title)

the Church

11v

Pant 61

Khludov

comments

1v

no obvious relationship55

2r for the personification of night, see f. 252r; Bristol may here have modified a composition like that in Khludov56 2r (effaced)

5:9

open sepulchre

12r

7:15

man falling into a pit

15r

8:2

entry into Jerusalem

15v

excised?61

excised62

9:17

Hades & the sinners

18r

23r

8v

Khludov is too damaged to permit comparison57

Hades peers from cave only in Bristol; sinners in similar group in Bristol & Pantokrator63

Table 15.1: the miniatures of the Bristol Psalter, compared with those in the Pantokrator and Khludov manuscripts.53

THE BRISTOL PSALTER

137

psalm54

subject

Bristol

Pant 61

Khludov

comments

11:5

David points to Christ rising from his tomb

21v

26v

lost

very similar compositions64

15:3

holy martyrs

24r

lost

11v

general similarities only

17 (title)

David prays

26v

3v

13v

David similar in all three, but especially in Bristol & Khludov; only Bristol has medallion of Christ (compare Khludov, f. 12r)

17:10, 12

Christ supported by angels

27v

possibly lost65

14r

Only Bristol has ‘hail & clouds of ire’ of v. 12; Khludov has tree not found in Bristol66

17:15

springs of waters

27v

18:4

apostles preaching

31r

lost

17r

Bristol includes Peter & Paul; Khludov shows twelve apostles

20:3

king raised on a shield

33r

lost

18v

David with personification of kingship in Bristol; Hezekiah (no personification) in Khludov; the three main supporting figures are nonetheless identical67

21:16–18

Christ attached to the cross; soldiers casting lots for his garments

35v

11v (mostly 20r excised)68

21:21

the lion’s mouth

36r

22:2

place of green grass

37r

lost

22:2

nourishing waters

37v

lost

22:4–5

rod, altar, oil jar, staff

37v

lost

23:7

everlasting doors

38v

25:8

house of the Lord (church)

41r

28:3

baptism of Christ

44v

20r (effaced)69

lost

33 (title)

David & Abimelech

52v

36v

29v

Bristol & Pantokrator related, though architecture differs; position of both figures different in Khludov

33:8

Christ blesses eucharistic bread

53r

37r

30r

in Bristol, Christ blesses bread & wine at altar as apostles approach; Pantokrator shows the communion of apostles; in Khludov, Christ blesses bread (no altar)

35:1–3

Judas

57v

42r

32v

Bristol & Pantokrator are related; Khludov Judas in different position, with bag of silver & without display of coins

38:12

Peter’s denial

65v

48r

38v

Khludov & Pantokrator are related; Bristol Peter is seated (à la Joseph)

39:2

pit of misery & miry clay

65v

40:7–8

Judas betrays Christ

68r

lost

40v

no relationship70

40:10

Last Supper

68v

lost

40v

general similarities only

41:1

stag drinking from fountain

69r

lost

41r

general similarities only, but no lifted foreleg of stag71

44:10

annunciation

74v

55v

45r

Khludov & Pantokrator are related; Bristol Virgin is seated

46:5–9

ascension

77r

46v

general similarities only72

49:1 & 4

rising sun, sky, firmament & setting sun

80v

61r (partially excised)73

48v

Khludov substitutes Habakkuk & David venerating a medallion of Christ for the sky & firmament; Pantokrator retains David & setting sun only

50:3

penitence of David

82v

lost

50r

no relationship

51 (title)

Saul & Doek

84r

lost

51r

general similarities

53 (title)

Ziphites before Saul

86r

65v

52v

Bristol Ziphites closer to Pantokrator; Pantokrator & Khludov share position of Saul

22r

the cross is upright in Bristol, inclined in Khludov, lost from Pantokrator; the soldiers differ in all versions

no relationship

Table 15.1: the miniatures of the Bristol Psalter, compared with those in the Pantokrator and Khludov manuscripts (cont’d).

138

LESLIE BRUBAKER

psalm54

subject

Bristol

Pant 61

Khludov

comments

55 (title)

arrest of David

89r

68v

54v

Bristol & Pantokrator share position of David & arrangement of Philistines

56 (title)

David hiding in a cave

90v

70r

55r

Bristol shares tree growing from cave with Khludov, position of David with Pantokrator

57:4–5

deaf asp

92r

56r

no relationship74

58 (title)

David’s escape from Saul’s men

93r

72v (largely 56v excised)

Bristol & Khludov are generally similar; the figure of David preserved in Pantokrator is closer to Khludov than to Bristol

59 (title)

David burning a city

95r

lost

58r

no relationship

62 (title)

David in the wilderness

98r

76v

60r

Bristol & Pantokrator related; Khludov quite different

64:1

Sion (Jerusalem)

100v

folio replaced

61v

no relationship

67:1

Anastasis

104r

83r

63r

general similarities only; Khludov & Pantokrator share large figure of Hades

67:16

David interprets Nebuchadnessar’s dream75

105v

83v

64r

Bristol & Pantokrator related; Khludov rather different

67:27

St Paul

106r

85r

65r

general similarities; Bristol & Pantokrator use medallion format, Khludov a rectangular frame

68:21

crucifixion

110r

excised?76

67r

generally similar; Bristol lacks iconoclasts whitewashing icon

71:6

David predicts the incarnation

115r

93v

lost

generally similar; Bristol lacks Gideon

71:10

adoration of the magi

115v

lost

lost

73:13–14

water serpent attacked by desert animals

120r

98v

72v

Khudov & Pantokrator related; Bristol quite different

76:17

Christ & the troubled waters

124v

Petr. 265, f. 75v 3v77

Bristol & Pantokrator related; Khludov quite different

77:1–2

Christ teaching

125v

102v

no relationship

77:13

crossing the Red Sea

127r

103v

lost

Bristol & Pantokrator closely related

77:23–25

miracle of the manna & quails

128r

105r

76r–v

Bristol & Pantokrator closely related; Khludov generally similar

77:44–48

plagues of Egypt

129v–130r

107r

77v

Bristol generally closer to Pantokrator, but all inter-related

77:51

death of the first-born

130v

107v

78r

Bristol & Pantokrator related; Khludov quite different

78:1–2

martyrdom of the Makkabees

132v

110r

79r

all generally similar; Bristol somewhat closer to Khludov

80:16

Moses strikes water from a rock

137v

114r

82r

Khludov & Pantokrator related; Bristol somewhat different

82:11

death of the kings of Madian

139r

115v

83r

Bristol & Pantokrator related; Khludov rather different

87:6

entombment of Christ

145r

122r

87r

Bristol & Pantokrator related; Khludov somewhat different

88:9

Christ calms the waters

147r

lost

88r

Bristol & Khludov related

88:12

transfiguration

147v

lost

88v

Bristol & Khludov related

90:9–12

temptation of Christ

154r

130v

92v

all related, though Bristol & Pantokrator especially close

101 (title)

the poor

165v

141v

100r

all generally similar

104:17

Joseph sold by his brothers

174v

149v (partly excised)78

106r

brothers similar in all

104:20–23

Joseph freed by pharaoh; arrival of Jacob in Egypt

175r (partly excised)

lost

106r

no obvious relationship

Table 15.1: the miniatures of the Bristol Psalter, compared with those in the Pantokrator and Khludov manuscripts (cont’d).

THE BRISTOL PSALTER

139

psalm54

subject

Bristol

Pant 61

Khludov

comments

104:28–33

plagues of Egypt

175v

probably lost79

106v

not very similar

104:36

plagues of Egypt

176r

151r

107r

Khludov & Pantokrator share position of dead human; Bristol & Pantokrator share dead animal

104:39–41

miracles in the desert

176v (cropped)

151v

107r

Bristol shares general composition with Pantokrator; position of column of fire with Khludov

105:11

drowning of the Egyptians

178r

lost

108v

general similarities only

105:19

golden calf

178v (abraded)

lost

108v

idol in Bristol is too damaged to permit comparison; Hebrews different in Bristol & Khludov

105:28

idol of Beelphegor

179v (cropped)

153r

109v

Bristol apparently closer to Pantokrator – both with basin lacking from Khludov

105:37

Hebrews sacrificing children

108r

lost?80

109v

Bristol & Khludov quite similar, but Khludov lacks idol on column

105:41

Hebrew captives

180v

154r (effaced)81

110r

Bristol shows captives; Khludov shows attack

136:1–3

Hebrews in Babylon

223r

lost

135r

general similarities only

143 (title)

David & Goliath

231v

197v

141v

Pantokrator & Khludov closely related; Bristol rather different & adds personifications

151 (title)

death of Goliath

240r

lost?82

148r

not related

Hannah Ode

prayer of Hannah

248v

212r

153r

Pantokrator & Khludov related; Bristol lacks Samuel

Habbakuk Ode

Habbakuk

250r

213v

154v

Bristol & Pantokrator related

Isaiah Ode

Isaiah between dusk and dawn

252r

216r–v

156r

Pantokrator & Khludov related; Bristol different & adds personifications

Jonah Ode

Jonah in the sea monster

253v

217v

157r

Pantokrator & Khludov related; Bristol shows Jonah emerging from monster

Hezekiah Ode

prayer of Hezekiah

260r

218v

157v

no relationship

Manasses Ode

prayer of Manasses

261v

220r

158v

all generally related

Hebrews Ode Hebrews in fiery furnace

256v (abraded)83

222r

160v

Bristol is too damaged for comparison

Magnificat

prayer of Virgin

258r

162v (excised)

Zachariah Ode

Zachariah at altar

259r

163v

no relationship

Symeon Ode

presentation

263v

163v

general similarities only; Bristol lacks Joseph & altar

Table 15.1: the miniatures of the Bristol Psalter, compared with those in the Pantokrator and Khludov manuscripts (cont’d).

Notes 1. Bristol was first published by M.P. Perry, ‘An unnoticed Byzantine psalter’, Burlington Magazine 38 (1921), pp. 119–28 and 282–9; for reproductions of the miniatures, S. Dufrenne, L’illustration des psautiers grecs du moyen age I, Bibliothèque des Cahiers archéologiques 1 (Paris, 1966), pls. 53–66. For the Khludov miniatures, M.V. Shchepkina, Miniatjury Khludovskoi Psaltiri (Moscow, 1977); for its date, K. Corrigan, Visual polemics in the ninth-century marginal psalters (Cambridge, 1992), pp. 124–34. For Theodore, S. Der Nersessian, L’illus-

tration des psautiers grecs du moyen age II, Bibliothèque des Cahiers archéologiques 5 (Paris, 1970); the manuscript is dated by colophon, and was made in the Stoudion monastery. 2. On the history of the manuscript, see Perry, ‘Psalter’, p. 119; Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, p. 49. 3. Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, pp. 49–51. The manuscript contains two hundred and sixty-five folios, all except quires 1, 3, 33 and 34 arranged in regular quaternions. 4. S. Dufrenne, ‘Le psautier de Bristol et les autres psautiers

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byzantins’, Cahiers archéologiques 14 (1964), pp. 159–60. 5. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, pp. 159–82. 6. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 160 notes that fifty-six per cent of the first seventy-five psalms are illustrated, as against seventeen per cent of the second seventy-five psalms. Nearly seventy per cent of the miniatures fall into the first half of the manuscript, and were it not for the extensively illustrated Odes, the last quarter of the book would contain only three miniatures. 7. For the statistic, Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 163. For Paris. gr. 20, Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, pp. 40–6, pls. 34–46; J.C. Anderson, ‘The content of the marginal psalter Paris. gr. 20’, Rivista di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici n.s. 35 (1998), pp. 25–35. For Pantokrator, Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, pp. 15–37, pls. 1–33; J.C. Anderson, ‘The palimpsest psalter, Pantokrator cod. 61: its content and relationship to the Bristol Psalter’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 48 (1994), pp. 199–220; idem, ‘Further prolegomena to a study of the Pantokrator psalter: an unpublished miniature, some restored losses, and observations on the relationship with the Chludov psalter and Paris fragment’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 52 (1998), pp. 305–21; and, for a selection of colour reproductions, S. Pelekanides et al., The Treasures of Mount Athos. Illuminated Manuscripts 3 (Athens, 1979), figs. 180–237. 8. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, pp. 162–3. 9. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, pp. 160–1; see now, Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 14–20. 10. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 162; see now, Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 20–3. 11. Perry, ‘Psalter’, pp. 282–7; Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, pp. 170–5; for the Paris Psalter, see A. Cutler, The aristocratic psalters in Byzantium, Bibliothèque des Cahiers archéologiques 13 (Paris, 1984), pp. 63–71, figs. 245–58, with earlier bibliography. 12. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 175. For a summary of the arguments against this thesis, see Corrigan, Visual polemics, p. 13. 13. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, esp. pp. 163 and 169. 14. Corrigan, Visual polemics, esp. pp. 10–13 and 22–3. 15. Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 8–26. 16. Corrigan, Visual polemics, p. 13. 17. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, esp. pp. 212–14 and 217–20, citation from p. 220. 18. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, esp. pp. 218–20. 19. Paris. gr. 20 illustrates the same verses as the Bristol Psalter ten times: psalms 104:17, 29–33, 36, 39–41; 105:11, 16–19, 28, 37, 41 and 136:1–3. Some of these (e.g. the Joseph scenes associated with psalm 104) are generally similar, but there are few striking comparisons: see Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 167; Anderson, ‘Psalter Paris. gr. 20’; idem, ‘Further prolegomena’, pp. 315–21. 20. E.g. the miniatures accompanying psalms 33, 35:1–3, 55, 62, 67:16, 76:17, 77:13, 77:23–5, 77:44–8, 77:51, 82:11, 87:6, 90:9– 12, 105:28, and the Habakkuk Ode. Detailed discussion in Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’. 21. See Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 17 and 48. 22. E.g. the miniatures accompanying psalms 38:12, 44:10, 67:1, 73:13–14, 80:16, 143, and the Odes of Hannah, Isaiah and Jonah. Cf. the comments on psalm 49:1 and 3 in Table 15.1. 23. The image of David and Goliath that accompanies psalm 143 also probably belongs in this category. 24. See Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 11 and 91. 25. The relevant image in the eleventh-century Barberini Psalter (Vat. barb. gr. 372, f. 120r), which Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 165 compared with the Bristol image is actually

26.

27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

36.

37. 38.

39.

40.

41.

42. 43. 44.

45.

closer in conception to the miniatures in the Pantokrator and Khludov Psalters. See the comments on psalm 58 in Table 15.1, where the Bristol and Khludov compositions are generally similar but Pantokrator preserves a figure of David closer to the portrait in Khludov than to that in Bristol. The relevant page is lost from the Pantokrator Psalter. Cf. the comments on psalm 41:1 in Table 15.1. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 167. See Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 214–15. For Theodore, see Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 46. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 213–14. Folios 45v–46r in Khludov; on these images see Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 83–6 and 88. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 214; for Theodore, see Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 116. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 214. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 214 believes that the lion of psalm 21 and the pit of misery of psalm 39 represent additions made by the Bristol miniaturist, and erroneously claims a parallel in Pantokrator for the house of the Lord of psalm 25:8 (ibid., p. 213, n. 40). In ‘Further prolegomena’, p. 309 he suggests that the springs of water of psalm 17:15 also represent an ‘independent addition’. Only one image now found exclusively in the Bristol Psalter – the church (illustrating the title of psalm 5) – is interpretive: as the legend accompanying the building explains, the church represents ‘her that inherits’: see Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, p. 54. Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, esp. pp. 161, 163–4 and 177– 82. Stuttgart, Württembergische Landesbibliothek, cod. bibl. 2 23 (B. Bischoff et al., Der Stuttgarter Bilderpsalter, 2 vols. [Stuttgart, 1965–1968]); Utrecht, University Library, ms 32 (E.T. DeWald, The Illustrations of the Utrecht Psalter [Princeton, 1932]). See F. Mütterich, ‘Die Stellung der Bilder in der frühmittelalterlichen Psalterillustration’, in the Bischoff volumes cited above; S. Dufrenne, Les illustrations du Psautier d’Utrecht, sources et apport carolingien (Paris, 1978); Corrigan, Visual polemics, esp. pp. 8–22. Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 8–26, esp. p. 14, and pp. 152–4, a list of the thirty-five ‘literal’ images contained in the ninthcentury marginal psalters with discussion of their relationship to the Carolingian manuscripts; Corrigan (rather optimistically) finds about a third of these ‘similar’. The sinners associated with psalm 9:17 and the hart illustrating psalm 41:1 (Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 152–3). The Bristol sinners are related to those in the Pantokrator Psalter; the stags in the Bristol and Khludov Psalters are generally similar (both show the hart with a raised leg), but far from identical. With psalm 57:4–5, the Bristol miniaturist placed an image of the deaf asp; the Khludov and Stuttgart Psalters show the charmer whose music cannot be heard along with the asp; the Utrecht Psalter pictures a serpent and an asp: see Corrigan, Visual polemics, p. 153; Anderson, ‘Further prolegomena’, p. 311. Some of the counter evidence is presented by Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 218–20. See note 11 above, and Dufrenne, ‘Psautier de Bristol’, p. 170, note 30. For the Paris Psalter see Cutler, Aristocratic psalters, figs. 248 (where the two Goliath scenes are joined in one miniature) and 257. Reproductions of the Paris Psalter miniatures in Cutler, Aristocratic psalters, figs. 255–6 and 258.

THE BRISTOL PSALTER 46. See L. Brubaker, Vision and meaning in ninth-century Byzantium: image as exegesis in the Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 352–6. 47. Brubaker, Vision and meaning, with additional bibliography. 48. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 218–19. 49. The Milan miniatures were published by A. Grabar, Les miniatures du Grégoire de Nazianze de l’Ambrosienne [Ambrosiana 49–50] (Paris, 1943); the Paris ones by K. Weitzmann, The Miniatures of the Sacra Parallela, Parisinus graecus 923, Studies in Manuscript Illumination 8 (Princeton, 1979). Discussion and bibliography in Brubaker, Vision and meaning, pp. 13–18, 25, 36–8, 51–7. 50. Ibid. 51. For other indications that the development of the marginal psalters was more deliberate than organic, see Anderson, ‘Further prolegomena’, pp. 315–21. 52. Brubaker, Vision and meaning, pp. 13–18. 53. The Table lists only those subjects that appear in Bristol; for the full range of images in all marginal psalters, see S. Dufrenne, Tableaux synoptiques de 15 psautiers médiévaux à illustrations integrals issues du texte (Paris, 1978). 54. Citations from L. Brenton (ed.), The Septuagint version of the Old Testament (London, n.d.). 55. Bristol shows David seated, holding a book, with five musicians; the composition is vaguely related to frontispiece miniatures in certain ‘aristocratic’ psalters: compare Cutler, Aristocratic psalters, figs. 176, 205 and 281. 56. For yet another variation on the seated blessed man, see the Theodore Psalter, which shows him between good and bad counsel: Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 1. 57. Theodore (Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 2) recalls Bristol, but with an additional personification. 58. Again, compare Theodore: Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs, p. 17, fig. 3. 59. See Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 45–6. 60. Theodore here resembles Khludov: Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 4. 61. See Anderson, ‘Further prolegomena’, p. 308. 62. See Corrigan, Visual polemics, p. 21. 63. On this much-discussed comparison, see Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 12–13; Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 215– 17. 64. In Pantokrator, a close variant on this scene appeared with psalm 9:33 (f. 24v), which survives also in Khludov (f. 9v); in Khludov, the tomb type and position of Christ are quite different from those found in Pantokrator. If the Khludov miniaturist followed the same pattern for the now-lost illustration to psalm 11, the image would have been quite different from the version in Bristol as well. 65. The outer upper corner of f. 4, which contains the relevant text,

66. 67.

68. 69. 70. 71.

72.

73. 74.

75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

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is lost; stains of two haloes are imprinted on f. 5r: Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 210, figs. c and 4. Something was evidently painted in the lost corner; if it were an image of Christ supported by angels it could, however, have been accompanied neither by the hail and clouds of fire found in Bristol nor the tree of Khludov, for either would still appear on the remaining side margin of the folio. The tree recurs in Theodore: Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 30. On Hezekiah, see Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, pp. 78–9. Der Nersessian also notes here the resemblance between Bristol and the crowning of David in the Paris Psalter (Cutler, Aristocratic psalters, fig. 250). See Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 210, fig. d; idem, ‘Further prolegomena’, p. 310. See Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, p. 22. Khludov is here related to Theodore: see Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 84. Bristol is here closer to Theodore, though without the figure of David found there and in Khludov; see Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 86. The leaf immediately preceding that containing the relevant psalm verses has been lost from Pantokrator, and Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 213–14 has speculated that the Ascension might have been painted on it. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, fig. f; idem, ‘Further prolegomena’, p. 310. Khludov is here, as often, closely related to Theodore: see Der Nersessian, Psautiers grecs II, fig. 116. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 214, fig. g notes that the outer margin of Pantokrator f. 72 has been excised; he suggests that though the text concerning the asp appears on f. 71v it is possible that the image appeared later. Anderson also speculates that the Bristol miniaturist might have added the asp independently. See further, idem, ‘Further prolegomena’, pp. 310–11. See Corrigan, Visual polemics, pp. 23–4 and 37–40. The outer margin of f. 88, which contains the relevant psalm verse, has been excised: Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, p. 210, fig. h; idem, ‘Further prolegomena’, p. 311. Four leaves of Pantokrator are in St Petersburg, cod. 265: see Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, pp. 199–200. Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, fig. n. Most of Pantokrator, f. 150, which contains psalm 104:18–30, has been excised: Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, fig. o. Most of Pantokrator, f. 154, which contains psalm 105:35b– 47a, has been excised: Anderson, ‘Palimpsest psalter’, fig. p. See Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, p. 34. See Corrigan, Visual polemics, p. 145. See Dufrenne, Psautiers grecs I, p. 66.

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16. The production of red glass and enamel in the Late Iron Age, Roman and Byzantine periods Ian C Freestone, Colleen P Stapleton and Valery Rigby

Introduction Opaque red and red-brown glasses in ancient and medieval times were typically coloured by the presence of minute particles of metallic copper or copper (I) oxide, cuprite.1 Their production is considered to have depended upon the attainment of a relatively narrow range of melting conditions when the glass was being made (see below). Opaque red has therefore been generally acknowledged to be among the most technically demanding of the colours produced by early glassmakers.2 Colleagues who have attempted to replicate ancient opaque red glass, using the known compositions as a basis for experiment, have reported the process challenging and difficult, typically with many failures.3 The challenge of opaque red glass production suggests that it may have involved arcane manufacturing procedures, knowledge of which, at any time, was confined to a small number of craft groups or families. The complex compositional nature of ancient opaque red glass supports this view. It generally contains a number of metallic elements besides copper, particularly lead, antimony, iron and sometimes tin or zinc, which are interpreted as favourable to the nucleation and growth of copper and/or cuprite in the glass. These are often present at levels that are generally assumed to indicate ‘deliberate’ addition and intentional manipulation of the glass composition by the craftsman, to produce a good colour.4 However, there is little direct evidence as to the sources of red glass and location of the specialist workshops that are supposed to have produced it, although several authors have tentatively suggested compositional groupings relating to object typology, region of origin or date.5 Furthermore, compositions of the base glasses of opaque reds are often distinct from those of associated colours; for example, the potash and magnesia contents of the red glasses may suggest a plant ash rather than a natron base.6 This adds weight to the idea that opaque red glass was produced in specialist workshops, which were not suppliers of the other colours. In spite of its challenging technology, tesserae of opaque

red glass were widely used in mosaics, and vessels were produced in it. Red forms the dominant colour in preRoman Iron Age ‘Celtic’ enamelled metalwork from about the fifth century BC, and also in the early medieval period in Britain and Ireland.7 In enamels produced under Roman or Byzantine influence, it was used alongside a range of colours, including blue, white, yellow and green.8 Indeed, on the basis of its widespread occurrence in enamelwork, there is no reason to infer that the procurement of red glass was a significantly greater problem for the craftsman than that of any other colour. Recently we have drawn attention to the unusual compositions of opaque red enamels in insular Celtic metalwork of the sixth–tenth centuries AD and suggested that they may represent the use of a particular type of copper-leadsilica slag, derived from the processing of scrap metalwork to obtain the silver.9 According to Rehren and Kraus, who have described such a raffination process and its slags in detail, this silver recycling process is likely to have offered only marginal economic advantages. It is therefore likely to have been practised in peripheral regions and they describe it from Xanten, Germany, near the northern frontier of the Roman Empire.10 It follows that in the case of early medieval metalwork, the predominance of red enamel may well represent the ready availability of a particular type of raw material. It was not the product of a specialised glassmaking craft but the incidental by-product of a metallurgical process. Its use in northwestern Europe may reflect, in part, the metallurgical traditions of the region. Evidence has also recently been presented for the use of metallurgical by-products to produce other glass colours. Mass et al.11 suggest that litharge, a lead oxide-rich byproduct from the processing of silver ores, was the source of the lead antimonate which was responsible for the yellow colour in Roman opaque yellow glasses. Wedepohl and Baumann have also postulated litharge as the source of lead in later medieval leaded glass.12

THE

PRODUCTION OF RED GLASS AND ENAMEL IN THE

While the use of a metallurgical slag appears to be a satisfactory explanation for the composition and distribution of early medieval red enamel, it does not explain opaque red glasses and enamels from other periods and cultures. The early medieval red enamels are unusual in that they are simple glasses containing only copper oxide, lead oxide and silica in substantial concentrations. However, red glasses from the pre-Roman Iron Age, the Roman and Byzantine periods generally have high soda contents and appear to have been based upon typical soda-lime-silica glasses, to which copper, with varying amounts of lead, was added. These more frequent types of red glass are the subject of the present paper. Below we re-examine the compositions of pre-Roman Iron Age (‘Celtic’), Roman and Byzantine13 red glasses, particularly those used in enamelwork, and explore the potential of metallurgical by-products to have provided the colourant. The data used to illustrate the arguments are

LATE IRON AGE, ROMAN

AND

BYZANTINE PERIODS

143

selected from a number of current programmes of glass analysis in the British Museum, and from published results, and are presented in Tables 16.1 and 16.2. These include a range of opaque red enamels, but also mosaic tesserae, glass vessels and an unformed ‘lump’ of red glass, from Fish Street Hill, London, believed to be of Roman date.

Composition of opaque red glass: main categories The source of the colour in ancient opaque red glass is typically copper, present either as a dispersion of minute metal particles in the glass, or as delicate branching crystals of cuprous oxide (cuprite, Cu2O; Fig. 16.1).14 These particles not only colour the glass, but also render it opaque, because they scatter the incident light. Copper is more commonly present in glass as cupric oxide, CuO, which is fully dissolved, giving a translucent blue or green colour. Pro-

Fig. 16.1. Dendritic crystals of cuprite, cuprous oxide, in the opaque red glass ingot purportedly from Tara Hill, Ireland. Scanning electron microscope, back-scattered electron image (Photo: BM).

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duction of opaque red depended upon attaining special conditions in the molten glass that were sufficiently reducing (poor in oxygen) to nucleate and grow crystals of copper or cuprite, but not so reducing that too much metal was precipitated. The production of metal particles that were too large, or too abundant, would have spoiled the red colour, making the glass brown or, ultimately, black. On the other hand, the presence of too much oxygen (oxidising conditions) would cause the copper or cuprite particles to dissolve, producing a green or blue glass. A number of authors have drawn attention to the existence of two main types of copper red glass: a low-copper, low-lead variety, typically with up to 4% copper oxide and 10% lead oxide and a high-copper, high-lead type, with 5– 12% copper oxide and 20–40% lead oxide.15 Inevitably some intermediate compositions are found, an example is the enamelled terret from Fulking, Sussex, given in Table 16.1, column 2, which has high lead but relatively low copper oxide. However, the bulk of reported analyses of pre-Roman Iron Age, Roman and Byzantine red glasses fall into one of these two groups. The brightest reds or ‘sealing wax’ type appear to be those with high lead and high copper; these usually contain relatively large crystals of cuprite, while the low-copper low-lead glasses contain fine particles (less than 1 ìm diameter) of metallic copper. Henderson has further divided Roman opaque red enamels into four compositional sub-groups, two of these being of the ‘low-copper, low-lead’ type and two of the ‘highcopper, high-lead’ type.16 All of these glasses have high concentrations of soda (Na2O), lime (CaO) and silica (SiO2) which, if recast to one hundred percent without the lead and copper, yield compositions characteristic of weakly coloured or colourless soda-lime-silica glasses, typically in the range 10–20% Na2O, 5–10% CaO and 60–70% SiO2. It may therefore be inferred that these red glasses were coloured by adding lead and copper oxides, possibly with tin, antimony and iron oxides, to a base of standard sodalime-silica glass. Beyond the scope of the present paper, other work has shown that glasses with intermediate concentrations of lead and copper certainly were produced in the Middle East in the first millennium BC.17 In India and the Far East, copperreds were often essentially lead-free,18 as they were in later medieval potash glass in Europe from the twelfth century.19

Accident or intention? The compositions of a number of opaque red glasses from enamels, vessels and mosaics from a range of sources are presented in Tables 16.1 and 16.2.20 The soda-lime-silica base of the glasses is clear in all cases except the early medieval Celtic red enamel, shown for comparison in Table 16.2, col. 6, which contains negligible soda and is an

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example of the simple copper-lead-silica (‘slag’) composition, as discussed above. Therefore the other red glasses are likely to have been produced by adding a colouring material to a pre-existing soda-lime-silica glass. In addition to copper and lead oxides, those of tin, antimony, zinc and iron, may be present in concentrations above those normally encountered in contemporary colourless or weakly coloured soda-lime-silica glasses. It is argued here that, in such cases, these oxides are likely to be associated in some way with the colouration process. Their concentrations offer a key to the nature of the colourant materials and provide evidence as to whether they were added intentionally as separate and distinctive components. If a particular component were added intentionally to a glass, then it would be present at a level above that normally expected to have been inherited from the other raw materials used. Tin, zinc and antimony generally occur at concentrations below 0.1% (by weight) in sands and naturally occurring soda deposits. Any higher con-

SiO2 TiO2 Al2O3 FeO MnO MgO CaO Na2O K2O P 2O 5 Cl PbO Cu2O Sb2O3 SnO2 ZnO

1

2

3

4

5

6

40.1 0.1 1.4 1.8 0.1 0.3 3.9 8.2 0.2 0.1 0.4 35.3 7.9