Dumbarton Oaks Papers 57

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Symposium on Late Byzantine Thessalonike Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2003 © 2004 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

Ernst Kitzinger 1912–2003

rnst Kitzinger died at his daughter’s home at Poughkeepsie, New York, on January 22nd, 2003, at the age of ninety. More than any other person, he was responsible for creating at Dumbarton Oaks the world’s foremost institution for the study of Byzantium. He also left a legacy of scholarship on early medieval and Byzantine art that is both innovative and deeply researched. And he has left a large number of students, both official and unofficial, who treasure his mentoring with gratitude and admiration. Kitzinger was born into a cultured Jewish family in Munich, whose Sunday-morning activities regularly included visits to art museums in that city. He decided to concentrate on the history of art when he entered the University of Munich in 1931. In the summer of the same year Kitzinger traveled for the first time to Rome, where he discovered Late Antique art and architecture. After the rise to power of the Nazis in 1933, and the consequent threat that they would soon ban Jewish students from receiving university degrees, Kitzinger completed his Ph.D. thesis within the unprecedented space of a single year, taking his final oral exam with his supervisor Wilhelm Pinder in the autumn of 1934. His dissertation was an analysis of the problem of the development of style in Roman painting from the early seventh to the middle of the eighth century, a problem that was to engage him for all of his life. Late in 1934 Kitzinger left Germany. After a brief stay in Rome, he traveled to London, where he worked at the Department of British and Mediaeval Antiquities at the British Museum, under the sponsorship of the Keeper, T. D. Kendrick. He started out as a volunteer, but soon he was able to eke out a living on the odd jobs that Kendrick steered his way, such as writing book reviews for the Journal of Hellenic Studies (one pound per review), or preparing an index for five years of issues of the British Museum Quarterly (five pounds), or researching the carvings on St. Cuthbert’s coffin for publication (ten pounds). In the last named project, which eventually came out in the collective volume on The Relics of Saint Cuthbert, edited by C. F. Battiscombe in 1956, Kitzinger proposed a new reconstruction of the wooden coffin, discovering that the twelve incised figures of apostles were originally arranged in the order of the litany of the canon of the Roman Mass. Kitzinger brought a Continental perspective to British scholarship of the 1930s, especially to the study of Anglo-Saxon art, which previously had tended to be treated in a somewhat parochial and antiquarian fashion. Kitzinger traveled with Kendrick throughout northern England recording and photographing Anglo-Saxon sculptures. This experience resulted in an important article which set Anglo-Saxon vinescroll designs in the context of

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Mediterranean ornament (“Anglo-Saxon Vinescroll Ornament,” Antiquity 10 [1936]: 67– 71). In the spring of 1937 the British Museum sent Kitzinger to Egypt for two months in order to study Coptic sculpture. On his way back, he made his first visit to Istanbul, where the floor mosaics of the Great Palace were being unearthed and the wall mosaics of St. Sophia were being uncovered. It was also during this period, in England before the war, that Kitzinger wrote his most widely known book, Early Medieval Art at the British Museum, which is a guide not only to the collections of the museum itself, but also to the whole phenomenon of the transformation of antique styles into medieval modes of representation. This book achieved a great popular success, going through several successive editions in London and in Bloomington, Indiana, as well as being translated into German in 1987. At the outbreak of the Second World War, Kitzinger was working on the objects from the Sutton Hoo ship burial, as they arrived at the British Museum in a truck full of dirt fresh from the field. He used to describe how, in August of 1939, the excavated treasures came to Bloomsbury still enclosed in chunks of earth, just as they had been hastily torn from the ground, before they were cleaned, photographed, and put away for safe-keeping during the war. In 1940 Kitzinger, who had been forced by the Nazis to leave Germany, was interned by the British authorities because he was German, and evacuated to Australia. He was detained there in a camp in the desert for nine months, but he put his time of imprisonment to good use by learning Russian from a fellow detainee. Eventually, the Warburg Institute obtained his release and he was able to take up an invitation from Dumbarton Oaks to come as a fellow. He arrived in Washington in the autumn of 1941 as a member of the second class of fellows, the first having been admitted a year earlier. At that time, Dumbarton Oaks had a resident faculty of scholars, of which Kitzinger soon became a member, rising steadily through the ranks. In 1946 he was appointed Assistant Professor, in 1951 Associate Professor, and in 1956 Professor of Byzantine Art and Archaeology. Meanwhile, he had been created Director of Studies, a post that he held with great distinction from 1955 until 1966. In his later life Kitzinger remarked that his forced immigration to the United States, in spite of the disruptions to his life that had preceded it, was the best thing that ever happened to him. Intellectually, in its early days Dumbarton Oaks was a more hierarchic institution than it is today. The Director of Studies really did direct the studies of the junior scholars in the institution, prescribing what they should work on, and how they should carry out their research. As a younger fellow, Kitzinger had to negotiate between his own interests and scholarly inclinations and those of his successive employers. But the negotiation was fruitful, and resulted in some of his most important long-term projects. Under a system initiated in 1941 by Wilhelm Koehler, the so-called Archives project, Junior Fellows were expected to devote half of their time to an institutional research effort. Koehler’s aim was to gather the scattered information on excavated sites and materials from every country that had once been part of the Byzantine empire. Kitzinger was assigned to work on the Balkans. The immediate result of his researches was an article on the monuments of Stobi with their rich sequence of floor mosaics (“A Survey of the Early Christian Town of Stobi,” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 3 [1946]: 81–161). More lastingly, Kitzinger gained an abiding interest in the style and subject matter of mosaic pavements, which resulted in several other

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important studies written later in his career. He was one of the first scholars to investigate floor mosaics not merely as accessories to archaeology and as tools for dating, but as indicators of stylistic and cultural changes. In other words, he brought this material, which previously had tended to be beneath the attention of art historians, within the canon of art history, long before the study of “visual culture” became a recognized field. A second Dumbarton Oaks project that became important in Kitzinger’s scholarship was the corpus of the mosaics of Norman Sicily. A. M. Friend, who became Director of Studies in 1945, conceived a scheme to study the mosaics in Italy that had been executed under Byzantine influence, because he thought that they would be able to throw light on the lost mosaic programs of Constantinople, particularly those of the church of the Holy Apostles. To this end, Friend sent Kitzinger to Sicily in the summer of 1949 to initiate a complete survey of the mosaics there. This project was to engage Kitzinger for the rest of his life. Friend’s interests in theology and in the relationship of images to Byzantine religious thought also helped to nourish Kitzinger’s engagement with the early cult of icons. Kitzinger acknowledged that his fundamental article on “The Cult of Images in the Age before Iconoclasm” (Dumbarton Oaks Papers 8 [1954], 83–150) owed much to the intellectual atmosphere of Dumbarton Oaks in the late 1940s and early 1950s, with its free exchange of ideas between resident philologists, historians, and art historians. Once he himself became Director of Studies in 1955, Kitzinger was obligated to shift his time and his energies away from his own research to the demands of the institution. His task was to guide the transition of Dumbarton Oaks from a private foundation that reflected the interests and aesthetic enthusiasms of its founders into an academic institution of international standing. Kitzinger believed in Dumbarton Oaks as a place in which the highly centralized civilization and ideology of Byzantium could be studied in all of its interrelated aspects, an academic locus where the fields of history, literature, theology, liturgy, music, law, archaeology, and art history could together create an integral picture of this preeminent mediaeval culture. He viewed art and archaeology as central to the enterprise, because images occupied a position at the ideological core of Byzantine thought and society. He also understood Byzantine studies in their broadest sense, as embedded within medieval history and civilization as a whole; he did not draw narrow boundaries around the discipline, but included the study of lands that were in cultural dialogue with the Byzantines, whether Slavic, Near Eastern, or Latin. As Director of Studies, Kitzinger put the publication program on a firmer basis, making the Dumbarton Oaks Papers come out annually. He was responsible for the creation of the photograph and fieldwork archive, because he felt that good photographs were fundamental to serious work in art history. He was also involved in the important fieldwork carried out by Dumbarton Oaks in Istanbul and on Cyprus. He organized two significant symposia, “Byzantium in the Seventh Century,” in 1957, and, together with Kurt Weitzmann, “The Byzantine Contribution to Western Art of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries,” in 1965, the latter growing out of his interest in the Sicilian mosaics. During his years as Director of Studies, Kitzinger made a strong impression on those who passed through Dumbarton Oaks, particularly on the Junior Fellows, to many of whom he acted as a mentor. His personality, in which an overlay of shyness concealed a considerable strength, combined personal sympathy and kindness with rigorous and uncompromising standards. He was capable of interrupting his own work over the weekend,

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in order to give a spontaneous tour of the collections to a couple of unknown undergraduates, who had turned up without warning at the front entrance of Dumbarton Oaks. And he could demand from a Junior Fellow repeated rewrites of a thesis or a paper, until every detail came up to his exacting standards. He shepherded the progress of the Junior Fellows, and often of former Junior Fellows, with extraordinary care and with close attention to their needs. During this period, Kitzinger also taught occasional courses in the Department of Fine Arts at Harvard, where he made lifelong converts to fields such as AngloSaxon art, early Byzantine floor mosaics, and the mosaics of Norman Sicily. In 1967, after a year as a member of the Institute of Advanced Study in Princeton, Kitzinger moved to Harvard permanently, as the first Arthur Kingsley Porter University Professor, a chair that he held until 1979, when he retired. In accepting the position at Harvard, Kitzinger turned down the offer of a professorship in Princeton at the Institute of Advanced Study. One of his reasons for this decision was that he hoped to be able to continue to play a role at Harvard in guiding the destinies of Dumbarton Oaks as a center of Byzantine studies, a hope that, in the event, was unfulfilled. He also wanted to be able to contribute to the formation of the next generation of scholars through his teaching, and to have the opportunity to give out some of the material that he had accumulated during his years of research at Dumbarton Oaks. During his twelve years at Harvard, in addition to teaching highly regarded courses for undergraduates, Kitzinger supervised some eighteen graduate dissertations in both western medieval and Byzantine art. His students are now leading specialists in fields as diverse as early Gothic manuscripts and stained glass, early Byzantine sculpture and textiles, Carolingian art, and late Roman painting and floor mosaics. It is a remarkable testimony to the breadth of Kitzinger’s knowledge and the strength of his pedagogy that he could have successfully guided students with such diverse interests. Kitzinger did not relax after his retirement. He took up fellowships at the Institute for Advanced Study in 1980 and 1982, and in 1989 he served as Visiting Distinguished Professor at the University of Seattle. In spite of problems with his eyesight, he continued to research and to write, producing several important articles, a comprehensive monograph on the mosaics of the Martorana in Palermo, and a publication in six volumes of photographs of Sicilian mosaics which had been taken during the campaigns he had organized for Dumbarton Oaks in the early 1950s. The last volume of the Sicilian corpus, together with its introductory text, came out in 2001, when he was 88. The products of Kitzinger’s retirement years alone would be, for most scholars, the equivalent of a lifetime of achievement. Kitzinger’s eminent contributions to scholarship won him many honors. He was given honorary doctorates by Swarthmore College, by the University of Warwick, and by the University of Rome “La Sapienza.” He was Slade Professor of Fine Art at Cambridge in the academic year 1974 to 1975, where he gave the lectures that became his book Byzantine Art in the Making (London and Cambridge, Mass., 1977). In 1982 Germany made him a member of the order “Pour le Mérite,” the highest distinction in humane studies in that country. In his scholarship, as in his teaching, Kitzinger never considered himself to be a Byzantinist. Like other great scholars of his generation, such as Hugo Buchthal, Otto Demus, André Grabar, and Richard Krautheimer, his interests encompassed western as well as Byzantine art. His work was, in his own terms, both centripetal and centrifugal, that is,

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both interpreting Byzantine culture on its own terms, and exploring how other cultures were interacting with Byzantium. He became convinced, very early in his career, that the study of Early Christian archaeology should be integrated with art history, and that the latter should be concerned not only with “high” art, such as the mosaics and frescoes on the walls of churches, but also with more mundane objects, such as the jewelry that people wore on their persons or the textiles that they used in their houses. He also felt that art, and especially its formal development, should be viewed as more than an ancillary aspect of history and literature, but as a basic communicator of cultural values in its own right. For all of his scholarly life Kitzinger was fascinated by the problem of changes in artistic forms, and of the links that can be proposed between changes in visual forms and historical developments. Kitzinger wished to make style speak with the same authority as iconography and texts, and he liked to cite the popularity of modernist painters such as Kandinsky and the Abstract Expressionists to support his view that pure form has the ability to communicate. In the postmodern age, this view is out of fashion, yet no one articulated it with more eloquence and clarity than Kitzinger, and when the pendulum of fashion swings back again, his works will undoubtedly be central to a reconsideration of style. The analysis of style in Byzantine art can be said to present the historian with an easier problem and a more difficult one. The easy task is to find the expression of known social, political, and historical factors in the forms of art. This problem was addressed by Kitzinger through the influential concept of modes, whereby different styles, even within the same image, reflected different categories of subject matter and function. The hard task is to define what artistic forms can tell us about a culture or a society that we did not already know from other sources—what the specifically visual can contribute to our understanding of an epoch. Kitzinger had already taken up this question in his Munich dissertation on early medieval Roman painting. It was to occupy him throughout his career, particularly in his studies of floor mosaics, where ornament often played as large a role as iconography. During his final years of teaching at Harvard he wrote Byzantine Art in the Making, which was a summation of much of his thinking about the dynamics of stylistic change in Late Antique and early Byzantine art. This work is not a study of the dialogue between art and texts, but rather a visual history of Late Antiquity, in which art is enabled to speak with its own distinctive voice. Kitzinger was not only the master of the broad synthetic survey, but he also produced many important studies devoted to individual monuments and works of art. It was in these more focused studies that his capacity for painstaking analysis and attention to detail came to the fore. For example, his research established the authenticity of the much disputed Cleveland marbles, a group of miniature portrait busts and statuettes of Early Christian subjects that were acquired by the Cleveland Museum of Art in 1963. Although most of the leading experts in Roman art at that time considered them to be forgeries, on account of their unexpectedly “baroque” characteristics, Kitzinger was able to show that they are authentic works of the third century, thus greatly expanding our knowledge of the earliest Christian art, which hitherto had been known for the most part only from the paintings of the Roman catacombs and of the baptistery at Dura Europos. Kitzinger’s findings were initially published by William Wixom in the Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art in 1967, and then by Kitzinger himself in the Atti del IX Congresso internazionale di archeologia cristiana, I (Rome, 1978), 653–75.

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Another of Kitzinger’s most influential monographic studies may be mentioned here, if only to demonstrate the range of his scholarship. In 1949 he published an article in the Art Bulletin on “The Mosaics of the Cappella Palatina in Palermo.” This article was not primarily concerned with style, but used the layout and iconography of the mosaics in the palace chapel to illuminate the presence and patronage of its royal patron, Roger II. It was a ground-breaking study of the manipulation of religious iconography by a medieval ruler in order to create a political program. The passing of Ernst Kitzinger is mourned by his family, friends, students, and colleagues. His legacy remains secure, in his writing, in his impression on those he worked with, and in the institution that was so dear to his heart. Henry Maguire

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Symposium on Late Byzantine Thessalonike Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2003 © 2004 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

Introduction JEAN-MICHEL SPIESER

i la seconde cité de l’empire byzantin est souvent présente dans les récits des voyageurs,1 son exploration scientifique est encore loin d’être achevée. Ce sont évidemment ses grands monuments encore debout et transformés en mosquée ainsi que quelques vestiges antiques, un peu plus nombreux vers 1800 que de nos jours,2 qui alors attirent l’attention. Tandis que les monuments byzantins vont peu à peu intéresser ceux que l’on va appeler historiens de l’art,3 les notations sur les monuments antiques lancent en quelque sorte les études sur la topographie. Pour l’histoire de la ville, c’est aussi dans la première moitié du XIXe siècle que les premiers matériaux sont réunis.4 Mais c’est d’abord par les érudits locaux que l’intérêt pour la topographie byzantine de la ville s’est développé à la fin du XIXe et au début du XXe siècle, dans une Thessalonique qui n’était pas encore rattachée à la Grèce. On ne connaît plus guère M. Chatzi Ioannou qui a écrit une première “description” de Thessalonique.5 Mais c’est surtout l’infatigable P. N. Papageorgiou qu’il faut rappeler.6 C’est sur ces bases que se sont construites les premières synthèses bien connues et souvent encore utiles, les trois volumes de O. Tafrali et les études de Ch. Diehl.7 Mais je ne tiens pas ici à faire un historique des études sur Thessalonique. En rappelant ces précurseurs qui paraissent bien lointain aujourd’hui, ce sont aussi mes propres souvenirs que j’évoque: ils étaient beaucoup moins lointains lorsque P. Lemerle, il y a environ trente-cinq ans, m’engagea à travailler sur Thessalonique, mais, à ce moment, jeune étudiant, formé dans un cadre où l’érudition n’était pas le premier des soucis, j’étais

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1 Voir maintenant S. Tampakè, ÔH Qessalonivkh sti" perigrafev" twn perihghtwvn 12o"–19o" m.C. (Thessalonique, 1998), en particulier les listes des pages 209–11 et les fiches du supplément. 2 Je pense en particulier au portique, connu sous le nom de Las Incantadas, dont des sculptures ont été transportées au Louvre et dont la localisation exacte n’a pas pas encore été déterminée (en dernier voir M. Vitti, ÔH Poleodomikh; ∆Exevlixh th'" Qessalonivkh" ajpo; th;n i{drushv th" e{w" to;n Galevrion [Athènes, 1996], 100– 101 et la notice qui lui a été consacrée, ibid., 198–99 avec la bibliographie antérieure), ainsi qu’à l’arc qui faisait partie sans doute de la porte principale de la ville ou qui marquait l’entrée de la ville: ibid., s.v. Crush; Puvlh, 170–71 avec les références antérieures. 3 Les premières planches représentant des monuments byzantins de Thessalonique sont dues à Ch. Texier qui parle déjà de Thessalonique dans sa description de l’Asie Mineure et publie des planches dans Ch. Texier, Architecture byzantine (Londres, 1864). 4 F. Tafel, De Thessalonica ejusque agro (Berlin, 1839). 5 M. Chatzi Ioannou, ∆Astugrafiva Qessalonivkh" (Thessalonique, 1881). 6 Pour sa bibliographie, cf. Makedonikav, Paravrthma 3 (1964). 7 O. Tafrali, La topographie de Thessalonique (Paris, 1913); idem, Thessalonique au XIVe siècle (Paris, 1913); idem, Thessalonique des origines au XIVe siècle (Paris, 1919); Ch. Diehl, M. Letourneau, H. Saladin, Les monuments chrétiens de Salonique (Paris, 1918).

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d’abord étonné d’avoir à me confronter à des livres et des articles qui me paraissaient d’un autre âge et dont j’ai alors découvert l’intérêt. Le thème que ce symposion se propose d’aborder me rapproche plus qu’il n’est apparent de ces débuts. En effet, il apparaissait clairement à mes yeux, comme à ceux de P. Lemerle, qu’il fallait choisir, pour thème de recherches, entre la Thessalonique paléochrétienne et la Thessalonique des Paléologues. Prolongeant la formule utilisée quelques lignes plus haut, je dirais maintenant que je rappelle cette alternative, non par nostalgie ou pour le plaisir de rappeler le passé, mais parce qu’elle est liée au thème de ces journées. En effet, le destin de Thessalonique, depuis sa fondation par Cassandre, roi de Macédoine, a été changeant, comme d’ailleurs celui de bien d’autres grandes métropoles. Les sources écrites ne nous renseignent que peu sur la Thessalonique hellénistique et des premiers temps de la domination romaine. Les vestiges archéologiques, pour l’époque hellénistique, sont tellement peu parlant qu’on a encore du mal à se faire une idée de l’extension de la ville. Dans les dernières années, une attention scrupuleuse portée au rempart, des fouilles de plus en plus systématiques, ont donné quelques éléments. C’est bien l’époque impériale, dont le vestige essential est l’agora, mais surtout l’antiquité tardive qui permettent de cerner un premier développement monumental important. La construction du palais de Galère est une sorte de point de départ pour une période qui s’achève avec la menace slave sur Thessalonique. A ce moment, la plupart des principales églises paléochrétiennes de Thessalonique sont construites depuis un certain temps: la Rotonde a été décorée à une date encore discutée, qui va de la fin du IVe au début du VIe siècle; Saint-Démétrius me paraît presque certainement à mettre aux environs de 520, même si une date dans la deuxième moitié du Ve siècle est encore souvent admise; le cas de Sainte-Sophie n’est peut-être pas encore définitivement réglé, même si elle est généralement considérée comme postérieure, malgré une intéressante suggestion qui essaie de placer la construction du premier état de la basilique à coupole encore au VIe siècle. Ce dynamisme est certainement à mettre en rapport avec la nécessité sentie dès la tétrarchie d’établir dans la partie nord de la Méditerranée orientale un nouveau centre de gravité politique. Si, en fin de compte, la solution constantinopolitaine a été, à juste titre, retenue, ce n’est pas par hasard que Galère avait fait construire un palais à Thessalonique, ni que Constantin avait hésité à en faire sa résidence. Lorsque la domination romaine dans les Balkans commença à perdre du terrain, Thessalonique, vraisemblablement, en bénéficia d’abord, grâce au transfert, sans doute vers 450, du siège de la préfecture du prétoire depuis Sirmium. Ce n’est que de nombreux siècles plus tard que Thessalonique connaîtra une seconde acmè comparable à celle de l’antiquité tardive, mais d’une certaine manière, plus importante, s’affirmant vraiment comme “seconde cité.” Entre les IVe et VIe siècles, elle ne pouvait guère prétendre à une telle appellation, face à Alexandrie, Antioche, sinon Ephèse. L’importance de Thessalonique dans l’empire paléologue pose plusieurs questions auxquelles ce symposion a essayé de répondre. Le thème même du symposion fait que l’une d’entre elles reste en suspend. On a du mal à comprendre le relatif silence des sources, la relative absence de monuments pendant la période précédente, en particulier pendant les XI–XIIe siècles où Thessalonique était certainement prospère comme le montre le Timarion, systématiquement cité dès que l’on fait allusion à cette période. Le silence des monuments est particulièrement troublant; quand on songe à la floraison de la peinture ailleurs

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en Grèce et même, près de Thessalonique, en Macédoine, pendant ces deux siècles, on ne peut être qu’étonné de ne pouvoir citer à Thessalonique que, au début de la période, la Panagia tôn Chalkeôn, et, à la fin, les fresques, connues depuis assez peu de temps, de Osios David. Seule une enquête attentive permettra de délimiter ce qui est évolution réelle et ce qui est effet de perspective, de mauvaise conservation, voire de destructions et de réaménagements dus à la prospérité des décennies qui ont suivi. Mais certainement la Thessalonique des XI–XIIe siècle était moins brillante que celle des Paléologues. Nous avons donc essayé de faire un tableau de cette période exceptionnelle où Thessalonique vient vraiment au premier plan, mais aussi d’analyser les causes de cette situation. Thessalonique est politiquement plus importante que jamais. La ville était un carrefour et la présence étrangère y a joué un rôle important. Vie artistique et vie intellectuelle étaient également florissantes; une partie des communications du symposion essaie de montrer l’impact de Thessalonique sur sa région. Le développement de la vie religieuse, lié à la proximité et au rayonnement de l’Athos, est également un fait important et a donné à Thessalonique un certain nombre d’évêques remarquables. Tout ceci suppose qu’il y a au moins une certaine prospérité économique malgré le trouble des temps et malgré des situations parfois tragiques. On en a souvent conclu, autant pour Constantinople d’ailleurs que pour Thessalonique, que l’époque des Paléologues présentait une situation paradoxale, où un développment culturel brillant allait de pair avec une situation politiquement troublée et se dégradant peu à peu. L’image de cette période, que les historiens de la culture ont pu appeler Renaissance paléologue, ne correspond guère au schéma habituel, construit par l’historiographie, des “Age d’Or de Justinien” ou autres “Siècle de Périclès.” Le paradoxe disparaît en partie lorsqu’on évoque un autre de ces lieux communs historiques, “Le siècle de Louis XIV,” où un âge brillant s’est terminée de manière bien sombre. En effet une partie des communications a bien montré qu’il y avait rupture dans la période envisagée, rupture qu’il faut sans doute situer au milieu du XIVe siècle, où la conjonction de plusieurs facteurs crée les conditions d’un déclin qui annonce la fin de l’Etat byzantin. Les relations entre la “Reine des villes” et la “Seconde cité” ont été évoquées plus d’une fois pendant le symposion; malgré les tensions qui souvent sont apparues, malgré des tentations d’indépendance, elles ne cesseront pas de faire partie d’une même histoire et le destin de la seconde préfigurera celui de la première. Ce symposion, dont j’espère qu’il aura contribué à avancer dans notre connaissance de Thessalonique, est loin d’être un point final. De nombreux textes demandent encore à être publiés et étudiés; les fouilles enrichissent tous les jours la connaissance de la topographie de la ville. La présence de Thessaloniciens, venant du Service archéologique et de l’Université, parmi les orateurs de ce colloque est un symbole du dynamisme des recherches qui se pratiquent à Thessalonique même. Elles permettent d’espérer que, si les communications publiées de ce colloque vont pouvoir se substituer au volume de Tafrali sur le XIVe siècle, les archéologues de Thessalonique seront en mesure, dans un avenir proche, de nous fournir une Topographie de Thessalonique, un important instrument de travail qui manque encore. Il ne me reste plus qu’à remercier ceux qui ont rendu possible ce symposion: mes collègues Senior Fellows qui ont d’emblée accepté un thème que j’avais lancé dans la discussion, E. Keenan, directeur de Dumbarton Oaks, qui a accueilli le symposion et qui en a facilité l’organisation, avant tout Alice-Mary Talbot, directeur des études byzantines, pour

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ses conseils dans la préparation du symposion et pour son efficacité pour la préparation de la publication, son assistante Caitlin McGurk, toujours disponible pour répondre à mes questions. Enfin et tout particulièrement, je remercie tous les orateurs qui ont accepté rapidement et avec enthousiasme de participer à ce projet si bien que, malgré leurs nombreuses occupations, la plus grande partie des communications entendues peut être présentée dans les pages qui suivent. Université de Fribourg (Suisse)

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Symposium on Late Byzantine Thessalonike Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2003 © 2004 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

Late Byzantine Thessalonike: A Second City’s Challenges and Responses JOHN W. BARKER

. . . who has been so pre-eminent a master of words, surpassing all others, that would be capable of making a proper comparison of this city with the greatest of the others? Who could do justice to its surpassingly beautiful and wholesome location, or its yield of produce that excels even Egypt’s fertility? So, too, the superlatively lovely and sacred shrines and holy places that are everywhere within it, of such size and such profusion that there is nowhere else their like, neither in magnitude nor in multitude. Likewise its market-place, welcoming people from everywhere on earth, and obliging those who gather there to forget where in the world they might be: so that living there was as good as being everywhere at once. And, while many people have sung the praises of other harbors, yet the one there would truly surpass all others as an example—one and the same place serving the function of both a city and a harbor, and causing the main town to terminate not at the sea but at virtually a second city all its own. So, too, is it girt by walls more grand than the circuit of Babylon. And, as the greatest of all the harbors we know, it provides the greatest security, embracing the city in arms eager to unite with it. Would not the city’s total appearance allay anyone’s discontent? . . . And would it not persuade any visitor to forget his own home? . . . as to the city’s piety and its devotion to the worship of God . . . no time-limits are fixed there for those who wish to pray: rather, since the churches are open both night and day, it is possible to have one’s fill of prayers and to find one’s supplications rewarded. As for the other aspects of the city’s eager striving and its zeal in such matters—the beauty of its offerings, the multitudes of its donations, the continuity of its vigils, the cantillations of its singers, and, above all, its virtually musical concord and organization—these are best appreciated in their presence and best understood in experiencing their reality. . . . [The citizens’] reward for this piety is certainly not slight: rather it is just what anyone would crave for his near and dear—deliverance from sieges, relief from famines, remedies for epidemic diseases, the annihilation of sovereigns who attack in armed force, and prophecies of the city’s unique impregnability and preservation from disaster. . . . [St. Demetrios himself] assists in these matters, since he abides within the city, and he gathers to himself the polarities of faction from all sides, as the city’s savior, the citizens’ mediator, and the intercessor for their interests before God. Still more, he appoints to the government such gentle sovereigns as relax the city’s taxes and tribute offerings, while at the same time he is its commander against external foes, inspiring dread in those who dare raise arms against the city. So might it be said that the city represents a general model of piety. And where might one find larger or finer ensembles of orators and philosophers? Rather it is in this city that they assemble, constituting a veritable school of general studies, with each of them following his own Muse here. . . . it has now become this school’s lot to stand supreme in intellectual activities, though it was founded among people by no

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LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE: CHALLENGES AND RESPONSES means previously ignorant. On the contrary, the city has been at all times a veritable Helikon, and the disciplines of the Muses have managed to blossom here through all the ages. . . . Thus, one might compare being here to dwelling in Athens in the company of Demosthenes and Plato.1

Slightly compressed and minimally modified, this constitutes the bulk of the glowing description of his native city written by Demetrios Kydones. That native city was, of course, not the Byzantine capital, Constantinople, but Thessalonike. The description is a part of what is called his “Monody on the Fallen in Thessalonike,” in which Kydones goes on to deplore the so-called Zealot rising in the city in 1345 that had wrecked and ravaged all that the description celebrated. This “Monody” or “Lament” probably originated as an oration, possibly delivered the following year, perhaps in Constantinople before Thessalonian refugees from that upheaval.2 Even beyond standard Byzantine propensities for hyperbole, Kydones creates the most glowing picture possible of his native city the more to dramatize the disasters it suffers, plainly a strategy of rhetorical effect rather than of sober accuracy. Yet one cannot deny that fourteenth-century Thessalonike at its best exhibited many of the features that Kydones praises so fervently. Its location was indeed a blessed one.3 As the major city of Macedonia and Thessaly, Thessalonike was the focus of a rich agricultural hinterland which not only supplied amply its own needs but made it a conduit for lucrative exports of vegetable and animal products.4 Situated at a crucial point along the great Via Egnatia, the vital Roman highway that spanned the south Balkans from Dyrrhachium on the Adriatic to Constantinople on the Bosphorus,5 the city held immense strategic significance that merged with its economic advantages. Its ample harbor guaranteed its prosperity as a port, while its position at the northern apex of the Aegean Sea and at the southern outlet of the Vardar valley made it the logical commercial linchpin of the Balkan peninsula, especially with Basil II’s conquest of Bulgaria and the resulting reintegration of the south Balkans under a coherent Byzantine political and economic order.6 The most familiar tes1 Demetrii Cydonii occisorum Thessalonicae monodia, PG 109 (1863): 639–52, at 641B–644B. The translation given is slightly adapted from pp. 292–93 of the rendering of the full text (pp. 291–300) by J. W. Barker, “The ‘Monody’ of Demetrios Kydones on the Zealot Rising of 1345 in Thessaloniki,” in Essays in Memory of Basil Laourdas (Thessalonike, 1975), 285–300. Other panegyrical comments on the city by an earlier Byzantine writer, John Kameniates, are cited by A. Laiou at the beginning of her essay, “Thessaloniki and Macedonia in the Byzantine Period,” in Byzantine Macedonia: Identity, Image, and History, ed. J. Burk and R. Scott, ByzAus 13 (Melbourne, 2000), 1–11. For a comprehensive collection of descriptions of, and writings on, the city through the Byzantine era in general, see H. Hunger, Laudes Thessalonicenses (Thessalonike, 1992). 2 Barker, “Monody,” 288–89. 3 The work of the dedicated Rumanian scholar O. Tafrali, Topographie de Thessalonique (Paris, 1913) remains the standard overview, despite its age. 4 For the agriculture of Thessalonike and its hinterland, there is now A. Laiou, “The Economy of Byzantine Macedonia in the Palaiologan Period,” in Burk and Scott, eds., Byzantine Macedonia (as in note 1 above), 199– 211, esp. 200–203; also her “H Qessalonivkh, h endocwvra th" kai o oikonomikov" th" Cwvro" sthn epochv twn Palaiolovgwn,” in Buzantinhv Makedoniva 324–1430 m. Cr., Dievqne" Sumpovsion (Qessalonivkh, 29–31 oktwbrivou 1992), ed. T. Pentzopoulou-Valala (Thessalonike, 1995), 183–94; and, on rural conditions, her Peasant Society in the Late Byzantine Empire: A Social and Demographic Study (Princeton, N.J., 1977). 5 F. O’Sullivan, The Egnatian Way (Newton Abbot–Harrisburg, Pa., 1972); Ch. I. Makaronas, “Via Egnatia and Thessalonike,” in Studies Presented to David Moore Robinson, vol. 1 (St. Louis, Mo., 1951), 380–88; see also Laiou, “Thessaloniki and Macedonia in the Byzantine Period,” 7. 6 Laiou, “Economy of Byzantine Macedonia,” 203; M. Angold, The Byzantine Empire, 1025–1204: A Political History, 2d ed. (London–New York, 1997), 283–84; W. Heyd, Histoire du commerce du Levant au moyen âge, trans. F. Raynaud (Leipzig, 1923), 1: 244–45.

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timony to the city’s great vitality is, of course, the famous twelfth-century description of Thessalonike’s annual October fair, set up along the Vardar valley to the west of the town walls, a robust gathering of merchants and visitors from far and wide who brought profit and prosperity to the city’s economy.7 As for the city’s own grand topography, Kydones did not exaggerate in representing Thessalonike veritably as two cities in one, its lower zone around the harbor joined to the upper city on the ascending slopes within, all within the embrace of a magnificently sturdy fortification system.8 Nor need we be entirely cynical about our panegyrist’s praise of Thessalonike’s religious life. We may question how much civic bounty was directly bestowed by the protective patron, St. Demetrios, but the people of the city had over the centuries accepted as fact that he did indeed watch over them. His shrine was an important center of pilgrimage, while the proximity of the city to the great monastic center of Mount Athos connected it closely with principal currents of Orthodox spiritual life. More than a dozen churches survive from the span of the Byzantine centuries to suggest what a profusion of important sanctuaries there must have been.9 The city’s devotional and liturgical life had a vitality and individuality that is only now being appreciated.10 Likewise genuine, despite Kydones’ rodomontade, was Thessalonike’s intellectual life, cradle and home to a number of important scholars of the period, of whom Kydones himself was but one distinguished example.11 7 Timarione, ed. R. Romano (Naples, 1974), 3–6; trans. B. Baldwin, Timarion (Detroit, 1984), 43–45. For discussion of this passage, see S. P. Vryonis Jr., “The Panegyris of the Byzantine Saint: A Study of the Nature of a Medieval Institution, Its Origins, and Fate,” in The Byzantine Saint, ed. S. Hackel (London, 1981), 196–228, at 202–4. On the economic dimension, see Laiou, “Thessaloniki and Macedonia,” 7–8. 8 On the early history of the city’s fortifications, see G. M. Velenis, Ta; teivch th'" Qessalonivkh" ajpo; to;n Kavssandro wJ" to;n ÔHravkleio (with Eng. summary) (Thessalonike, 1998); also J.-M. Spieser, “Les remparts de Thessalonique. À propos d’un livre récent,” BSl 60 (1999): 557–74. There are important short studies by M. Vickers, esp. “The Byzantine Sea Walls of Thessaloniki,” BalkSt 11 (1970): 261–78, and “Further Observations on the Chronology of the Walls of Thessaloniki,” Makedonikav 11 (1971): 228–33. Not fully reliable is the booklet by G. Gounaris, Ta; teivch th'" Qessalonivkh" (Thessalonike, 1976), in English as The Walls of Thessaloniki (Thessalonike, 1982). 9 Among comprehensive studies, the pioneering one by C. Diehl, M. Le Tourneau, and H. Saladin, Les monuments chrétiens de Salonique (Paris, 1918), is now quite dated; more recent material may be found in R. Janin’s Les églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins (Paris, 1976). Good general treatment of the city’s churches can be found in such guidebooks as: A. Papagiannopoulos, Monuments of Thessaloniki (Thessalonike, n.d.); Chr. Mavropoulou-Tsioumi, Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Monuments of Thessaloniki (Thessalonike, 1997); and E. Kourkoutidou-Nikolaidou and A. Tourta, Wandering in Byzantine Thessaloniki (Athens, 1997); all with bibliographies, the last of them particularly good. There are too many studies of individual churches to cite here, but mention should be made of J.-M. Spieser, Thessalonique et ses monuments du IVe au VIe siècle. Contribution à l’étude d’une ville paléochrétienne (Paris, 1984); and P. Vokotopoulos, “Church Architecture in Thessaloniki in the 14th Century. Remarks on the Typology,” in L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe siècle. Recueil des rapports du IVe colloque serbo-grec, Belgrade 1985 (Belgrade, 1987), 107–16. 10 For a specific example of indigenous Thessalonian liturgy, see O. Strunk, “The Byzantine Office in Hagia Sophia,” DOP 9–10 (1956): 175–202. 11 This is the purview of F. Tinnefeld later in this volume. In general, see D. M. Nicol, “Thessalonica as a Cultural Centre in the Fourteenth Century,” in ÔH Qessalonivkh metaxu; ∆Anatolh;" kai; Duvsew". Praktika; Sumposivou . . . th'" ÔEtaireiva" Makedonikw'n Spoudw'n (Thessalonike, 1982), 121–31, reprinted as no. X in Nicol, Studies in Late Byzantine History and Prosopography (London, 1986); also, E. Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance (1261–c. 1360) (Leiden, 2000), 169–71; and A. E. Vakalopoulos, A History of Thessaloniki, trans. T. F. Carney (Thessalonike, 1972), 50–51; or a little more fully in his earlier Origins of the Greek Nation, 1204–1461, trans. I. Moles (New Brunswick, N.J., 1970), 46 ff, esp. 49–54; also B. Laourdas, ÔH klassikh; filologiva eij" th;n Qessalonivkhn kata; to;n devkaton tevtarton aijw'na (Thessalonike, 1960). The place of Thessalonike in Palaiologan cultural life is noted throughout S. Runciman’s The Last Byzantine Renaissance (Cambridge, 1970); cf. the comments of R. Browning, “Byzantine Thessaloniki: A Unique City?” Dialogos: Hellenic Studies Review 2 (1995): 91– 104, at 99–101.

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To be sure, the upheavals of the fourteenth century brought reductions, disruptions, and even displacements to many of the qualities that Kydones praises. But, at least for much of that century, especially the first half, Thessalonike must still have been an extraordinary urban world fully meriting his panegyrical outpourings. Kydones’ hyperbole led him to florid comparisons of Thessalonike with the likes of ancient Babylon and Athens, beyond other cities not specified. Notably, the one city not invoked for comparison’s sake is the Byzantine capital city, Constantinople, where Kydones himself had already begun his career as the leading Byzantine intellectual of his era. Kydones certainly understood well the disparities pertaining by then between the two great cities, and could even have made up a scorecard in which Thessalonike could claim considerable points of superiority to Constantinople, or advantage over it. But, the fact remains, Constantinople was the seat of the central government, of the court, and of serious opportunity for anyone seeking status of the first rank in either letters or politics. Kydones appreciated that fact, and he had made his own clear career choice. Put simply, Demetrios Kydones knew that Constantinople was No. 1, while his beloved native city was inescapably No. 2. Not that he would have admitted such a ranking himself. (Ironically, the evocation of urban dichotomy he does make is in a fanciful distinction within Thessalonike itself, between its harbor and the main town.) He and his family had been expelled from Thessalonike during the Zealot episode, and his subsequent career was pursued in the capital: that he never chose to return “home” does not, however, discredit his appreciation of it. ANALYZING THE “SECOND CITY ” Through much of the Byzantine Empire’s long history, and ever since, Thessalonike has labored under a status of “secondity”—or, if a pun may be forgiven, of “secondicity.” Writers now describe it so automatically as Byzantium’s “second city” that it is difficult to recall who first coined this usage. The label has become a cliché, and, like most clichés, it invites suspicion or scorn. But, also as with so many clichés, there is a kernel of truth to it that cannot be ignored. Its implications color all analyses of the city’s history, especially in the later Byzantine period. In Byzantium’s early centuries, the empire possessed many great cities that could and did challenge Constantinople’s status. Alexandria was a prime example, but there were many other great imperial cities. Successive episodes of the dismantling of the empire’s western provinces, the termination of the West Roman regime, and the consolidation of the Germanic “successor states” in the fifth and sixth centuries were followed by the Arab conquests of the seventh, processes that recurrently stripped the empire of many former urban centers. The considerable changes in economic and social life by the beginning of the eighth century, meanwhile, further reduced urban life in the territories that remained to the Byzantine Empire in its geographic redefinition. From that time onward, the continued vitality and prosperity of Thessalonike stood out the more clearly, marking it as the most important Byzantine city after the capital itself. In what follows, the portrait of this “second city” must deal with a complex of themes, each distinct and yet regularly interwoven with each other. One of these themes is, of course, that of Thessalonike’s rivalry to Constantinople through one or another kind of

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political challenge, attempting to replace secondary with primary or at least alternate status. But often connected to that theme is a parallel one, which is concerned with Thessalonian tendencies of separatism from the capital, and which in turn involves still another theme: the city’s repeated detachment as a kind of appanage. In occasional counterpoint to those themes is one of occasional internal dissension within Thessalonike’s population. Still another is the recurrent threat of encroachment or attack by foreign forces. Such themes might well be traced individually, freed from the straitjacket of a chronological narrative. Yet total avoidance of chronology risks losing a sense of coherence, within which the constant interaction of our themes needs to be seen. Accordingly, the discussion that follows will observe some degree of chronological flow, as supported by the appended outline, even as we sort out the topical themes. In doing so, of course, I must pass over still other themes that are left to other papers in this volume—social, intellectual, and artistic aspects of late Thessalonian life that Kydones praised so passionately. Focus on the final Byzantine centuries inevitably obliges us to leave aside important contributions of earlier centuries to the shaping of the city as we deal with it. In those centuries Thessalonike had its share of glory and of suffering—in episodes of internal unrest and dissension, of tastes of capital-city status, of facing grave attack and devastation that already prefigured the even more dramatic experiences the city was to have in our time period.12 It is with the late twelfth century, however, that we begin our scrutiny in earnest. Though Thessalonike had reached a height of prosperity by that time, it was less the city’s wealth than its combination of strategic and symbolic importance that attracted the second episode of its foreign violation. The first had been its brutal pillaging by the Saracen corsair Leo of Tripolis in 904. This one was its savage storming and sack in 1185 by the forces of Norman Italy. That horrific event was visited upon Thessalonike as punishment, in a sense, for the sins of Constantinople: the Norman campaign was justified as retaliation for a massacre of Latins in the capital three years before, and the targeting of the city was intended to represent a step on the way to Constantinople. If in different ways, the sack of 1185 conveyed messages parallel to those of the Saracen sack in 904. The earlier disaster provided an urgent spur to resurgent Byzantine command of the seas and to the empire’s eventual achievement of military and naval ascendancy in the Mediterranean world. The later event laid bare the full depth of Latin hatred for decaying Byzantium in the age of the Crusades, and adumbrated the horrors to be visited upon Constantinople, in its own turn, in 1204. THESSALONIKE AS AN APPANAGE: THE MONTFERRATS In the years just before the Norman ravishing of Thessalonike, that city was caught in the first tangles of one of our important themes. This is the concept of treating the city as what would seem to correspond with the French feudal appanage. Understanding the 12 O. Tafrali, Thessalonique des origines au XIVe siècle (Paris, 1919), effectively expanding the very cursory survey previously published in his Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle (Paris, 1913), 1–13. Though now considerably dated, Tafrali’s 1919 book still offers the fullest survey of the city’s history up to the last phase of the Byzantine era. For a stimulating reflection on some general trends and circumstances, see Laiou, “Thessaloniki and Macedonia.” See also Browning, “Byzantine Thessaloniki: A Unique City?” for a range of interesting observations.

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French royal practices of granting patrimonial enclaves to younger sons of the reigning dynast is complicated enough by itself. Simplistic equating of the French principles and practices with Byzantine phenomena is unwise and misleading, if not ultimately incorrect.13 Setting aside the vain question of Western models, however, we might use the term, cautiously qualified, as one of convenience in explicating an obscure episode, one with important implications for Thessalonike’s future. In early 1180, after a dizzying round of marital negotiations for a suitable Western noble, Emperor Manuel I married his elder daughter Maria to Renier, or Rainier, of Montferrat, a young member of an emerging princely family of northern Italy. Though barely eighteen at the time, and a decade younger than his bride, Renier was given the title of caesar, which normally would make him heir or second-in-line to the throne. Reports circulated that, in token of his status, Renier was given the city of Thessalonike as his possession, and even that he was crowned as its king. Those reports are entirely Western in origin, and there is no evidence on the Byzantine side of Renier’s investment with any “Kingdom of Thessalonike.” Still, there is precedent for such an act from more than a century earlier: Alexios I Komnenos invested one of his noble allies, Nikephoros Melissenos, with the rank of caesar, at the same time awarding him the administration of Thessalonike. In the case of Renier and Maria, there is at least the possibility that they may have made a brief residence in the city, and the multiplicity of Western statements on the point makes it unwise to rule out completely the possibility that Renier was given something like a pronoia grant in Byzantine fashion.14 Two things do emerge clearly from the murk of this episode, however. One is the identification of the Montferrat family with claims upon Thessalonike; the other is the simple fact that Thessalonike was deemed a choice parcel of property for use in dynastic manipulation. Whatever his claims to Thessalonike, Renier of Montferrat did not live long enough to enjoy them. Following Manuel I’s death in 1180, Renier and his wife were murdered two or three years later after the failure of her ambitious schemes to claim the throne. Renier’s honor, if not also his claims, might still have been vindicated, however, through the efforts of two older brothers. One of them, Conrad of Montferrat, had his own entitlements to Manuel’s favor and had actually been in Constantinople for a while in 1180, just before the emperor’s death. In 1187, after the collapse of the Komnenian dynasty, Conrad was invited to Constantinople in his turn to become an imperial in-law. The new emperor, Isaac II Angelos, gave Conrad his sister Theodora as a bride and awarded him also the title of caesar. Conrad was, however, denied some aspects of that dignity, and nothing seems to have been said about any rights to Thessalonike. The Montferrat baron quickly earned Isaac’s gratitude by leading the suppression of a serious military rebellion against the emperor. Nevertheless, court sentiments turned against Conrad, and he decided to cut his losses. Aban13

J. Barker, “The Problem of Appanages in Byzantium,” Byzantina 3 (1971): 105–22, esp. 116–22. Niketas Choniates simply reports the marriage: ed. J.-L. van Dieten (Berlin, 1975), 171 and 200; trans. H. J. Magoulias, O City of Byzantium (Detroit, 1984), 97, 114. On the date of the marriage, Magoulias, 383 note 478. For Western sources that identify the couple with Thessalonike, see the accounts by R. W. Wolff, “The Fourth Crusade,” in A History of the Crusades, ed. K. M. Setton, vol. 2, 2d ed. (Madison, Wisc., 1969), 165 and notes 34–36; and by S. Runciman, “Thessalonica and the Montferrat Inheritance,” Grhg.Pal. 42 (1959): 27– 35: 28 note 3. More recently, C. Brand, Byzantium Confronts the West, 1180–1204 (Cambridge, Mass., 1968), 19, and 319 note 12. 14

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doning his new bride and office, before 1187 was out, he set off for the Holy Land where he was to die as king of Jerusalem.15 It was left to yet another Montferrat brother, the marquis Boniface II, to seek full satisfaction. His involvement as leader of the Frankish forces of the Fourth Crusade is well known, and, considering his tangle of connections and motivations, any residual concern over Montferrat interests in Thessalonike can only be guessed at. After the capture of Constantinople in 1204, Boniface’s hopes to become its new Latin emperor were dashed, and at least at that point he turned his attentions to Thessalonike. Reasserting his brother’s rights, he demanded and eventually secured that city for himself, with the title of king.16 Boniface’s personal regime there lasted barely three years, and, after his death at the hands of besieging Bulgarians in 1207, his widow conducted a feeble government in the name of their son Demetrios. Still in his mid-teens, Demetrios found his weak regime under Greek attack. In 1222 he was obliged to make a trip to western Europe to beg for aid— just as would such later rulers of Constantinople as the Latin emperor Baldwin II and Byzantine emperors John V, Manuel II, and John VIII. Under Boniface and his son, Thessalonike could take pride in being a capital city of sorts, but the next chapter in the story saw that status given yet further lustre. In truth, though, the Montferrat kingdom of Thessalonike belongs partly to another of our themes, that of opposition to Constantinople. So too does the regime that replaced it, that of Theodore Angelos, representing the forces of the Epirote regime among the several Byzantine successor states that arose in the years after 1204. With the Angelan episode I shall deal shortly. First, however, we must return to the Montferrat connection with Thessalonike, which hardly ended when Theodore Angelos took the city in 1224. Demetrios and his half-brother, William, made a feeble effort to retake it in 1225, but the expedition foundered and William died in futility. The hapless Demetrios himself perished two years later. Though he bequeathed his Thessalonian title to the Latin emperor of Constantinople, Latin legal intervention awarded it instead to the marquis Boniface III of Montferrat, Demetrios’ nephew, son of his half-brother William, and to his descendants.17 That devolution extends our appanage theme. Through several generations, the marquises of Montferrat continued to include the style of king of Thessalonike in their formal titles, though there were other Western claimants to the title as well. Such Latin claims on Byzantine rights were taken seriously in the West, and there were cases of Latin titular claimants actually making military attempts on Byzantine territories, so that resolution of such claims was a genuine concern of Byzantine diplomacy. This process reached a climax early in the reign of Andronikos II who, become a widower, sought a new bride from a Latin dynasty, one who would bring the best diplomatic dowry to Byzantium. After pursuing several prospects, Andronikos turned to the marquis William VII of Montferrat. The latter had been an Italian ally of Emperor Michael VIII and felt honored at the idea 15

On Conrad, see the account of Niketas Choniates, ed. van Dieten, 382–87, 394–95, trans. Magoulias, 210–15, 217 (see also 397 note 1116). For a critical account, see Brand, Byzantium, 80–84. 16 Boniface of Montferrat’s role in the Fourth Crusade and its aftermath are well represented in standard accounts: Wolff, “The Fourth Crusade” and Runciman, “Montferrat Inheritance”; D. E. Queller and T. F. Madden, The Fourth Crusade: The Conquest of Constantinople, 2d ed. (Philadelphia, 1997). For an older account of the Montferrat regime in the city, see Tafrali, Thessalonique des origines, 192–211. But now see T. F. Madden, Enrico Dandolo and the Rise of Venice (Baltimore, 2003), 184–90. 17 D. M. Nicol, The Last Centuries of Byzantium, 1261–1453, 2d ed. (Cambridge, 1993), 61–64.

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of becoming Emperor Andronikos’ father-in-law. He was all-too-happy to accept contributions to his military needs in exchange for yielding up, along with his daughter, the useless family claim to Thessalonike. Thus, when in 1284 Andronikos took as his second wife the young Yolanda of Montferrat—who took the Byzantine name Irene—it seemed as if the Montferrat claims on Thessalonike were laid to rest.18 In fact, they were not. Indeed, the problem of quasi-appanage partitionings was only to be renewed. THE MONTFERRAT HERITAGE Blame for this outcome is often laid, perhaps too easily, at the door of Irene-Yolanda herself. Having borne Andronikos II a series of children, including three sons (John, Theodore, Demetrios), she became resentful about their exclusion from power in favor of Andronikos’ son by his first marriage—already his designated heir and co-emperor as Michael IX. In a famous passage,19 the historian Nikephoros Gregoras describes scornfully how the empress demanded that each of her sons share in the imperial title, along with apportioned territories assigned to them and to their descendants. When this demand was rejected as an impossible innovation, the empress became embittered and troublesome. This impasse occurred apparently in 1303, and in that year the empress responded by reasserting her family’s rights to Thessalonike and resettling herself there in what amounted to her independent court. From it she circulated vicious slanders of her husband and pursued various intrigues, mostly seeking prestigious alliances for her sons, if in vain. She continued to agitate unsuccessfully for preferments for her eldest son, John. When her brother Marquis John I died back in Montferrat, leaving her as heiress to the title, she first proposed that John be sent west to become successor in her place. Andronikos and the patriarch blocked this scheme, but eventually the empress arranged to have her second son, Theodore, assume the Montferrat succession.20 She had already acquiesced in the sacrifice of her hapless little daughter Simonis to the wedding bed of Serbian king Milutin (1299).21 Building upon this alliance with Milutin, she intrigued to have her youngest son, Demetrios, made Milutin’s heir, an opportunity with which Demetrios dabbled before rejecting so barbarous a situation. Nikephoros Gregoras denounced Irene-Yolanda’s ideas as “non-Roman” and “Latin,” while modern historians have equated her aims with Western feudal ideas. In point of fact, her proposals diverged from the classic Capetian French concept of the appanage in that it would have apportioned the sovereign title as well as territories, while the French practices never denied the unity of the realm under the sovereign dynast. Her ideas rather recall the much earlier practices of the Merovingian and Carolingian Franks.22 Moreover, 18

D. M. Nicol, The Byzantine Lady: Ten Portraits, 1250–1500 (Cambridge, 1994), 48–49; A. Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins: The Foreign Policy of Andronicus II, 1282–1328 (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 44–48; Runciman, “Montferrat Inheritance,” 30–31. 19 Nikephoros Gregoras, ed. L. Schopen, vol. 1 (Bonn, 1829), 233–36; key passages trans. Barker, “Appanages,” 105–6; cf. Nicol, Byzantine Lady, 49 ff; and Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 205–6. 20 A. Laiou, “A Byzantine Prince Latinized: Theodore Palaeologus, Marquis of Montferrat,” Byzantion 38 (1968): 386–410, and Constantinople and the Latins, 173–74; Nicol, Byzantine Lady, 52–53; Runciman, “Montferrat Inheritance,” 31–32. 21 Nicol, Byzantine Lady, 51–52, 57–58, as well as Later Centuries, 119–21; Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 95–100. 22 Barker, “Appanages,” 122.

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her proposals were hardly unprecedented. The principle of collegial sovereignty was well established in Palaiologan dynastic practice, and was particularly characteristic of that practice. With equal scorn, Gregoras in fact reports a more direct anticipation of IreneYolanda’s proposals. It seems that Andronikos’ own father, Michael VIII, had actually favored his younger son, Constantine the Porphyrogenitos, over Andronikos. Michael, it was said, had planned to detach “the region around Thessalonike and Makedonia” and make it into Constantine’s own separate imperial dominion; only Michael’s death prevented this from happening, so the story went.23 Further, the continuing conduct of Andronikos himself, after his confrontation with his wife, indicates that Irene-Yolanda’s thinking was by no means out of step with the Byzantine governmental setting of her day. In 1306 he honored his nephew, John, with the rank of panhypersebastos and designated him as “guardian of Thessalonike and all the other western cities.” Moreover, having denied Irene-Yolanda’s initial demands on her sons’ behalf, and having forced a diplomatically nullifying local marriage on their eldest, John, Andronikos granted that son the title of despot with some kind of status in Thessalonike, where he died in 1307.24 Through all of this, the empress maintained a court in Thessalonike, conducting her own foreign policy as if an independent sovereign in her little enclave—a situation that lasted until her death in 1317 (in her summer retreat at nearby Drama). Her position and titles were based upon her Montferrat dowry, which was accepted as hers by right. At the same time, her regime covered a period in which others were also appointed in some way or another as governors of Thessalonike: her son the despot John and later the despot Demetrios (returned from his Serbian ordeal). Moreover, from 1310, her uncongenial stepson, Emperor Michael IX, also resided in the city. Accordingly, the empress’s actual powers in administering the city itself may have had some limitations, though there is occasional evidence of her involvement.25 Though Irene-Yolanda’s youngest son, Demetrios, held the post of governor of Thessalonike some years later (in the 1320s), the issue of the Montferrat claims on that city and its supposed “kingdom” died with her. But the issue of Byzantine “appanages” (real or socalled) did not. What we really observe in all this dynastic tangle is, of course, evidence of the decentralization that was becoming ever more characteristic of Byzantine government by the early fourteenth century. Feeble and waning, the old governing bureaucracy was being replaced by the power of regional magnates. The only way the emperor in Constantinople could maintain some control of localities, both rural and urban, was to send out younger members of the reigning family with viceregal powers. If they were younger sons of the emperor, they automatically bore the title of despot. Though there were a few close calls, these appointments never became hereditary patrimonies in the Western sense of an appanage.26 But it is an irony that Irene-Yolanda’s little re-created “Kingdom of Thessalonike,” generated out of her personal animosities and seemingly at odds with orderly governmental practice, represented the first really notable case of quasi-appanage practices in late Byzantium. 23

Gregoras, 1: 186–91. Gregoras, 1: 241. 25 Nicol, Byzantine Lady, 56–57; Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 229–32. 26 Barker, “Appanages,” 120–21. Cf., however, Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 48, suggesting some Western influence. 24

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Such continuing practices also continued to involve Thessalonike itself, if after a certain hiatus. We shall examine subsequently the further examples: John V Palaiologos in Thessalonike and then related territories in the period 1350–54; John V’s second son, the despot Manuel, in two phases as governor of Thessalonike (1369–73, 1382–87), in the latter one operating a semi-autonomous regime of his own; John V’s grandson, the wouldbe emperor John VII, grudgingly given by his uncle, Emperor Manuel II, the rule of the city (1403–8) as both “Emperor of all of Thessaly” and “Despot of Thessalonike”; and, upon John VII’s death, Manuel’s installation of his own third son, the despot Andronikos. THE EMERGENCE OF SEPARATISM What we may call the “appanage theme” of Thessalonike’s Palaiologan history must meanwhile be seen in relation to its parallel theme, that of the city’s propensity for separatism from the capital—separation from and, at times, outright challenge to Constantinople. In a sense, this thread must also lead us back to Boniface of Montferrat and his creation of the crusader Kingdom of Thessalonike in 1204. The marquis seems to have been welcomed as ruler in the city, at least initially—partly through his politic marriage to a widowed ex-empress, partly also out of possible local disgust with the discredited and overthrown Byzantine regime of Constantinople. Boniface’s personal rule was cut short by his death in 1207, by which time he had become very unpopular; but, though we have no hard evidence on the point, the government of his widow and son may have won some sympathy from the populace. Having been elevated to the status of a Latin regal capital, Thessalonike was soon advanced to becoming a Byzantine imperial capital, if an interim one. The Byzantine splinter regime of Epiros under its Angelan house, fired by the vigorous leadership of its second lord, Theodore Angelos, capped its pressures against the Latin occupiers by forcing the surrender to him of Thessalonike in December 1224. On that basis, the bold Theodore had himself crowned formally, early the following year in the metropolitan cathedral of Thessalonike, with the joint titles of king of Thessalonike and emperor of the Romans. He followed this with the creation of a full panoply of titles, administrative organization, and court trappings. In all this, he was issuing a challenge not only to the weak Latin regime of Constantinople but also to the Laskarid successor-regime of Nicaea, which until then had seemed to hold the preeminent claim of continuing the Byzantine imperial government in exile.27 In that sense, then, Thessalonike was not being itself proclaimed as the new Byzantine capital, but merely a temporary one—a stepping-stone on the way to Constantinople, not a fully-fledged rival to it. Upon the defeat, capture, and blinding of Theodore Angelos by the Bulgarian king in 1230, however, the Angelan regime in Thessalonike was suddenly transformed into a precarious holding operation: first by Theodore’s brother, Manuel, who ruled under the title of emperor and despot of Thessalonike until 1241; then by Theodore’s son John with the same titles (1242–44); and finally by Manuel’s son Demetrios (1244–46). From the hapless Demetrios Thessalonike was taken in 1246 by John III Vatatzes, the expansionist Nicaean emperor, to become a component of the Nicaean regime’s campaign to restore the Byzantine Empire. The city received as its first Nicaean governor the respected general, An27

D. M. Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros (Oxford, 1957), 63–67; also Tafrali, Thessalonique des origines, 212–19.

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dronikos Palaiologos, father of the future Michael VIII, founder of Byzantium’s last ruling dynasty.28 There are limits to our knowledge of Thessalonike under Nicaean and subsequent Palaiologan government. It is clear that it was dominated by an urban nobility which had agreed to surrender the city to Vatatzes and was rewarded by a formal chrysobull guaranteeing the rights and freedoms that typified the relative autonomy some Macedonian cities enjoyed in their internal affairs. Thessalonike continued to be the seat of the governors and viceroys who administered much of Nicaea’s European territories, a pattern carried over smoothly into the Palaiologan regime, as restored in the old capital of Constantinople from 1261 onward.29 Just what kind of public sentiments and divisions existed in Thessalonike itself during the latter decades of the thirteenth century cannot be documented precisely, but at least one scholar30 has speculated that the Montferrat experience may have left, if not a nostalgic legacy, at least a stimulus to Thessalonian pride and even separatism. Irene-Yolanda may or may not have been welcomed in her private regime there out of long-nurtured pro-Montferrat sentiments, though perhaps Andronikos II did hesitate to curb her independence out of uncertainty about the city’s loyalty to him. But Thessalonians may well have taken satisfaction in their city being once again a capital of sorts, of a quasi-independent statelet. In that regard, the complex story of Irene-Yolanda on her own in Thessalonike also represents the real beginnings of separatist ideas in the city’s Palaiologan role. In connection with the themes both of appanages and separatism, it is perhaps worth noting here a factor that could well have furthered both mentalities during all of our time period: the factor of the periodic dangers that threatened and isolated Thessalonike, creating recurrent realities of independence, sought or unsought. At regular intervals through the fourteenth century and into the fifteenth, conditions of travel were violently interrupted or suspended by the depredations of raiders or invaders. We know, for instance, that Irene-Yolanda had to be warned not to make a journey from Thessalonike to Constantinople in 1305/6 because the rampages of the Catalan Grand Company in the area rendered the route hazardous if not impassable.31 Subsequent threats by Serbs and, later, by Turks would likewise have imposed temporary but highly disruptive conditions, suspending normal travel, transportation, and contacts. If they did not by themselves create the needs for quasi-independent subgovernments, or alone generate separatist motivations, such disruptions must have made both rulers and ruled more conditioned to accept regularized forms of local self-reliance.32 However early some enhancement of status may have become a motivation for Thessalonians, it was one they were to display repeatedly through the fourteenth century. It could have flickered fleetingly in 1326, amid the debilitating struggles between Andronikos II and his rebellious grandson, Andronikos III. At that point John the Panhy28

Nicol, Despotate of Epiros, 146–48, and Last Centuries, 20–21; Wolff, “The Latin Empire of Constantinople,” in Setton, ed., A History of the Crusades, 2: 187–233, at 214–15; Tafrali, Thessalonique des origines, 219–31. 29 M. Angold, A Byzantine Government in Exile: Government and Society under the Laskarids of Nicaea, 1204–1261 (Oxford, 1975), 286 ff; Tafrali, Thessalonique des origines, 232–42. 30 Runciman, “Montferrat Inheritance,” 34–35. 31 George Pachymeres, ed. I. Bekker (Bonn, 1835), 2: 586–87; cf. Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 206–7. 32 On this point, cf. Browning, “Byzantine Thessaloniki: A Unique City?” 97.

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persebastos, who was then governor of Thessalonike, planned to defy his uncle, the elder Andronikos, and plotted to create an independent regime for himself in Macedonia, a venture that soon fizzled out.33 It was perhaps in that context, however, that we can place hints of a parallel and very ominous pattern emerging: social tensions finding expression in outbursts of internecine violence.34 SEPARATISM AND SOCIAL UPHEAVAL: THE ZEALOTS Notwithstanding the mounting Serbian threat from the north, the restoration of some stability attending the independent reign of Andronikos III limited further opportunities for separatist activism. But that situation changed with the premature death of Andronikos, with the ensuing regency of dowager empress Anna of Savoy for their son John V Palaiologos, and then with the usurpation of John Kantakouzenos as John VI. The struggle between the supporters of John V and John VI was a profoundly disruptive episode, accelerating the dissipation of reduced Byzantine resources and guaranteeing the empire’s further decline into impotence and vulnerability. Among other things, the struggle laid bare the terrible gaps and resentments between social and economic groups, especially in Byzantium’s few remaining urban centers. These resentments led to outbreaks of violent conflict in a number of them, such as Adrianople in Thrace, where the notables (aristocratic or otherwise) and powerful (dunatoiv) tended generally (if not totally) to support the aristocrat Kantakouzenos and the populace (the dh'mo") generally supported the legitimate Palaiologan dynast. It was in Thessalonike, however, that the most complicated and potent of these outbreaks occurred. The scene there had been set in advance. Long-standing social tensions had apparently been behind the first incident in the launching of an earlier civil war, the one in which old Andronikos II was challenged by his grandson, Andronikos III. In 1322, while Andronikos II’s son, the despot Constantine, was governor of Thessalonike, a violent popular rising by the demos of the city confronted Constantine, obliged him to flee, and compelled the city’s surrender to the faction of the younger Andronikos.35 Five years later, however, sentiments were sufficiently shifted in Thessalonike for a majority to accept its seizure by Andronikos III and his lieutenant, John Kantakouzenos.36 It was, significantly, the second phase of succession struggles, that between John V Palaiologos and John VI Kantakouzenos, which ignited a more prolonged upheaval. Kantakouzenos proclaimed himself emperor in October 1341. Excluded from the capital, he 33 U. V. Bosch, Andronikos III Palaiologos: Versuch einer Darstellung der byzantinischen Geschichte in den Jahren 1321–1341 (Amsterdam, 1965), 39–41; Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 294–95; Nicol, Last Centuries, 119; Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 214. 34 ˇevcˇenko in his Allusions to these tensions and outbursts in writings by Thomas Magistros are cited by I. S important study “Nicolas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse: A Reinterpretation,” DOP 11 (1957): 84 and notes 12–13; and by G. Weiss, Johannes Kantakouzenos—Aristokrat, Staatsmann, Kaiser und Mönch—in der Gesellschaftsentwicklung von Byzanz im 14. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1969), 91–92. Another possible reference, if more generalized, may be found in the letter (Loenertz 77; Cammelli 160) of Demetrios Kydones to Phakrases (1372), ed. R. J. Loenertz, Démétrius Cydonès, Correspondance, vol. 1, ST 186 (Vatican City, 1956), 109–10. 35 Gregoras, 1: 356–57. Cf. Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 290. 36 D. M. Nicol, The Reluctant Emperor: A Biography of John Cantacuzenus, Byzantine Emperor and Monk, c. 1295– 1383 (Cambridge, 1996), 26, and idem, Last Centuries, 160; also, Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 209–13.

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quickly attempted to build himself a position in Thrace and Macedonia, with Thessalonike as a much-desired prize. Led by Kantakouzenos’ old friend Synadenos, then governor of Thessalonike, elements of the dynatoi who dominated the city attempted to deliver it to him in early 1342. But a faction of the demos—whose main strength was the organization of sailors and dockworkers in the harbor (the nautiovn) and who called themselves by the name “Zealots” (zhlwtaiv)—stirred up the populace, which forcibly drove out large elements of the notables. The Zealot leadership then cast in their lot with the ambitious Alexios Apokaukos, the veritable dictator of Constantinople, who had rallied the populace there as his support for championing the claims of John V. After a personal visit to Thessalonike, Apokaukos established his son, the megas primikerios John, as governor there in the name of the dynastic loyalists. In actual fact, John Apokaukos merely shared power with another holder of the same title, the Zealots’ own leader, one Michael Palaiologos, who with his well-organized popular faction had created something of an independent dominion only loosely connected with any central government. John Apokaukos and Michael Palaiologos each held the title of archon and were backed by a legislative council or boulhv (whose selection is not clear). Imposing a strict suppression of any internal dissidence, this regime held out against a series of Serbian and Turkish menaces brought into play by the civil war. Through all this, the position of John Apokaukos was a largely fictitious one. But he had ambitions of his own, and he began to cultivate the remnants of upper-class Kantakouzenian sympathies. Once he had consolidated his alternate support, he brought matters to a head by arranging the murder of Michael Palaiologos. This coup left the Zealot faction momentarily leaderless and the younger Apokaukos in full control. His next step was given impetus by the murder of his father, Alexios, in June 1345. Finally left on his own, John Apokaukos confirmed his shift of allegiances and arranged a bargain with the Kantakouzenian leaders by which he was left in his position in Thessalonike as a reward for submission of the city to the usurper. What he did not anticipate was the resurgence of the Zealot faction. Under new leaders—one of them called Andreas Palaiologos, known as leader of the longshoremen (paraqalavssioi)—a riot was organized and the populace joined in what became a bloodbath. Apokaukos and about a hundred of the counterrevolutionary magnates were rounded up and, after brief imprisonment, were delivered to the mob to be torn to pieces in savage retaliation. Heedless of their leaders’ admonitions, the blood-crazed mob then went on a rampage through the city, murdering any other Kantakouzenian sympathizers, real or merely accused, and pillaging their homes. When the dust settled, Thessalonike was more firmly than ever under the control of the Zealots and their ruthless commune. Dissent of any kind was prosecuted as “Kantakouzenism.” After John VI’s assumption of power in Constantinople, the Zealot regime remained defiant, refusing to accept as their new metropolitan Kantakouzenos’ designate, the eminent Gregory Palamas. This denial was apparently made not only on political grounds but because the Zealots opposed the triumphant theological doctrines of hesychasm with which Palamas and his Kantakouzenian supporters were identified. This meant that Zealot Thessalonike was isolated ecclesiastically as well as in other ways. Meanwhile, the Serbian ruler, Stefan Dusˇan, had renewed his menace to Thessalonike, adding to its strains. Further, this was the epoch of the Black Death’s passage through the Mediterranean world: clearly in the path of its devastation, Thessalonike was undoubtedly af-

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fected.37 The actual impact is not adequately recorded or known in detail, but, especially in combination with all the other stresses, it must certainly have contributed to a mounting sense of disillusionment and disaffection amid the prolonged stalemate. Eventually the radical regime found its influence shaken and eroding. In desperation, it went so far as to consider handing the city over to Dusˇan. That prospect proved to be the last straw for the exhausted Thessalonians. A reaction soon split the regime’s leadership. The two co-archons were Andreas Palaiologos and the protosebastos and governor, Alexios Laskaris Metochites, son of Andronikos II’s famous logothete. Metochites, no Zealot himself, felt strongly about maintaining the city’s ties to the central government and opposed any kind of secession therefrom as “apostasy.” In the resulting confrontation, Andreas Palaiologos and his faction were defeated; expelled, he fled to Mount Athos, even though he had been made unwelcome on a previous visit there. Metochites then opened negotiations with John VI, and in 1350 it was finally possible for Kantakouzenos to make a triumphal entry into the long-contested city. The remnants of the Zealot leadership were rounded up for punishment in Constantinople, leaving behind only broken and powerless remnants of discontent. Thus did the spectacular separatism of Thessalonike end in renewed subjection to the government in the capital.38 The seven or eight years of Zealot rule in Thessalonike were regarded with horrified fascination by the writers of their day and have intrigued scholars of modern times. Byzantine historians such as Nikephoros Gregoras and John Kantakouzenos himself expatiated on the utter novelty and radicalism of the Zealots’ regime, considered something unprecedented in Byzantine tradition.39 This view became the starting point for discussions 37

See Nicol, Last Centuries, 224–25. Studies on the Black Death in Byzantium are as scanty as our sources of information on the subject, and mainly concentrate on analyzing the stylized, classicizing accounts of Gregoras and Kantakouzenos: C. S. Bartsocas, “Two Fourteenth Century Greek Descriptions of the Black Death,” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 21 (1966): 394–400; T. S. Miller, “The Plague in John VI Cantacuzenus and Thucydides,” GRBS 17 (1976): 385–95; H. Hunger, “Thukydides bei Johannes Kantakuzenos. Beobeachtungen zur Mimesis,” JÖB 25 (1976): 181–93. Beyond passing reference to these two writers (pp. 50– 51), there is unfortunately no treatment of the Byzantine scene in M. W. Dols, The Black Death in the Middle East (Princeton, N.J., 1977). 38 The Zealot episode is touched upon in many areas of related literature, but for the best general (and contextual) accounts, see Nicol, Last Centuries, 192–95, 199, 202, 227–29, and Reluctant Emperor, 58, 62–63, 67–68, 74, 107–9. Still useful, if dated, is P. Charanis, “Internal Strife in Byzantium during the Fourteenth Century,” Byzantion 15 (1940–41): 208–30, repr. as no. VI in Charanis, Social, Economic, and Political Life in the Byzantine Empire (London, 1973); see also idem, “The Monastic Properties and the State in the Byzantine Empire,” DOP 4 (1948): 51–118, esp. 112–14; likewise, Vakalopoulos, History, 56–59; more recently, A. Laiou, “The Byzantine Empire in the Fourteenth Century,” chap. 24 in The New Cambridge Medieval History, VI: c. 1300–c. 1415, ed. M. Jones (Cambridge, 2000), 795–824, esp. 813–17. An outstanding survey of events and of the literature on them ˇ evcˇenko, “Nicholas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” 81 ff; and a subsequent one in D. M. may be found in S Nicol, Church and Society in the Last Centuries of Byzantium: The Birkbeck Lectures, 1977 (Cambridge, 1979), 20–28. 39 Gregoras, 2: 795–96, a portion translated by Ernest Barker in his Social and Political Thought in Byzantium, From Justinian I to the Last Palaeologus: Passages from Byzantine Writers and Documents, Translated with an Introduction and Notes (Oxford, 1957), 192–93; Kantakouzenos, ed. L. Schopen, vol. 2 (Bonn, 1831), 233–35, a portion translated by D. J. Geanakoplos in his Byzantium: Church, Society, and Civilization Seen through Contemporary Eyes (Chicago, 1984), 271–72. Given the removal of the Kabasilas Discourse from viability as a source for the Zealots, these statements by our two historians are the only contemporaneous suggestions remaining to us of supposedly radical intents and innovation on the part of the dissidents. In view of the stylized and partisan character of their accusations, however, these passages are suspect, and hardly decisive or accurate evidence in themselves. On the political terminology that they and other Byzantine writers used, see G. L. Bra ˘tianu’s “Empire et ‘démocratie’ à Byzance,” BZ 37 (1937): 86–111, and “‘Démocratie’ dans la lexique byzantine à l’époque des Paléologues,” in Mémorial Louis Petit (Bucharest, 1948), 32–40.

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of the Zealots as “social revolutionaries,” supposedly committed to a radical program of drastic socioeconomic reform. Eventually colored by modern ideological agendas, such interpretations have waxed and waned through the course of the twentieth century, and by now have been considerably deflated. Likewise apparently ephemeral has been a corollary effort to link the Zealot rising with patterns of urban unrest and violence extensively manifest in western Europe by the middle of the fourteenth century. These interpretations have produced lively and voluminous scholarly argument.40 If reduced in intensity by now, debate about the nature of the Zealot regime remains unresolved, and will probably continue to be so until new sources or evidence can be discovered. But the questions continue to tantalize us. Was it an organized movement of social protest with a serious program of reform? Or was it simply the lashing-out of the bitterly disaffected “have-nots,” seeking to turn the tables on the “haves”? What was its connection to the anti-hesychast intellectual circles of the city? Did the regime represent a genuine venture in “democracy,” or was it simply a brief assertion of mob rule? The terrible gap between rich and poor did not go unrecognized at the time by Byzantines themselves, as a remarkable “Dialogue between the Rich and the Poor” by Alexios Makrembolites bears witness.41 There is no question that poverty and despair motivated the lower-class participants in violent episodes. It is also interesting that the cradle of Zealot leadership was the labor force of the city’s harbor workers (as a guild or otherwise). The Zealots might indeed have had radical ideas: they may have sought to alter the society and institutions of their age with some degree of drastic, conscious, and radical character. But our sources are simply insufficient to prove such totally conjectural portrayals. Those sources do describe mob actions against the persons and properties of the wealthy, actions characteristic of urban rioting in many an age. But the sources afford no clear or explicit evidence of any systematic program of confiscations or redistributions of wealth. It had also been suggested early on that the Zealots were influenced in their supposed social philosophy by the anti-hesychast circle created in Thessalonike by the visiting controversialist Barlaam.42 But no decisive evidence has been advanced for this idea. The only indication of any religious policy by the Zealots is their rejection of Palamas as their prelate—which in the end may have depended more on his identification with Kantakouzenos and the circles of the notables. Kantakouzenos refers to episodes when the raging mob used the symbol of the cross as a banner in their campaigns against the rich.43 Elsewhere, he reports that on various occasions the drunken or rowdy mobsters made mockeries of the sacraments.44 We know that the Zealot leader Andreas Palaiologos took the trouble to visit Mount Athos to pay respects to the venerated Sava the Younger, later to be reckoned a saint. In his life of St. Sava, the pro-Kantakouzenian Philotheos, after commenting venomously on the Zealots’ damage to the holy man’s native city, recounts in40

For an extended survey of the varying interpretations and extensive literature on these issues of the Zealot episode, see Appendix 2. 41 ˇevcˇenko, “Alexios Makrembolites and His ‘Dialogue between the Rich and the Poor,’” Published by I. S ZRVI 6 (1960): 187–228, and repr. as no. VII in idem, Society and Intellectual Life in Late Byzantium (London, 1981). For a sympathetic portrait of Makrembolites (in an otherwise rather negative book), see E. de Vries-van der Velden, L’élite byzantine devant l’avance turque à l’époque de la guerre civile de 1341 à 1354 (Amsterdam, 1989), 251–67, plus a previously unedited text by this Byzantine author, 269–89. 42 Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 201–3, 269. 43 Kantakouzenos, 2: 234. 44 Ibid., 2: 570–71; cf. Nicol, Church and Society, 27 and note 53.

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cidents in which Sava pointedly snubbed and then denounced the visitor.45 All in all, the religious element remains difficult to establish clearly in our understanding of the Zealots, beyond their official opposition to Palamism.46 The record is clear as to Zealot hostility to the Kantakouzenian cause. But how great was their corresponding loyalty to the Palaiologoi? It is interesting that the two prominent Zealot leaders identified for us both bore that family name: Michael and Andreas Palaiologos. Despite efforts to identify them,47 however, they do not fit in any way into the known Palaiologan family tree, and we do not even know their relationship to each other: they may, indeed, simply have come from some sort of client family or families who took the dynastic name by extension. But one point does remain unavoidable: the so-called “revolutionaries” did consistently identify themselves with Palaiologan legitimacy. The Zealots presumably hated Kantakouzenos for his identification with and support of the wealthy classes, in a simple reflection of social divisions. But did the Zealots use Palaiologan loyalty as a convenient mask to cover what really was the unique venture in regional secessionism in Byzantine history? Or did the issues of social controversy merely boil down—as they had so often through Byzantine history—to a question of which faction would be placed in control of an imperial throne that no one ever suggested should be abolished? These and other questions will continue to vex scholars, who must recognize that they are reduced as much to speculation as to facts. But, to be fruitful, any further study should consider the Zealot episode not only by itself but also in relation to several contexts. Certainly the episode has to be seen as part of a spectrum of social upheaval and urban violence to be observed in the fourteenth century. The attempts to find direct connections or influences between the Zealot rising and given episodes elsewhere, however, have not produced a convincing case. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that patterns of violent social dissension were generally current, and what happened in Thessalonike holds some place in those patterns. On the other hand, what happened there was, if a distinctly Byzantine episode, not an isolated one. We do have to recognize how conditions in this city shaped events so that they followed a scenario different from, as well as more complex and prolonged than, what can be observed in the upheavals of other Byzantine cities (e.g., Adrianople) during the Kantakouzenian civil war. Thessalonike had a large and diverse popu45 Philotheos, Life of St. Sava the Younger, ed. A. Papadapoulos-Kerameus, ∆Anavlekta iJerosolumitikh'" stacuologiva", vol. 5 (St. Petersburg, 1888), 190–359, at 327–30. In his denunciation of the Zealots, Philotheos insists that their work is utterly at odds with Thessalonian tradition and is the product of “some foreign barbarians from parts far distant from us” (tinw'n barbavrwn ejk te tw'n hJmetevrwn ejscatiw'n) and of refugees from nearby islands (p. 194, lines 7–8). Blaming troubles in one’s society on “outsiders” is a timeless recourse, but would Philotheos’ vague charge be any suggestion of foreign influence from, say, Italians? (See Appendix 1.) 46 But see the discussion of Palamas’ involvement with the Zealots by J. Meyendorff, A Study of Gregory Palamas, trans. G. Lawrence (London, 1964), 89–93. Meyendorff argues that the Zealots were not initially opposed to Palamite theology but that they came to oppose Palamas himself purely for the political reason of the prelate’s ties to Kantakouzenos—in other words, anti-Palamism was really just a subcategory of antiKantakouzenism. In passing, Meyendorff gives the following description of the Zealots: they “represented a political force diametrically opposed to centralization, in that they stood out against the ‘mighty’ who represented imperial power, and defended the local interests of the city of Thessalonica, rather than those of the Empire”—a portrayal that hints, even unconsciously, at an underlying spirit of Thessalonian separatism. As to Barlaam and his impact on the city’s intellectual scene, see G. Schirò’s brief study, ÔO Barlaa;m kai; hJ filosofiva eij" th;n Qessalonivkhn kata; to;n devkaton tevtarton aijw'na (Thessalonike, 1959). 47 E.g., by A. Th. Papadopulos, Versuch einer Genealogie der Palaiologen, 1259–1453 (Munich, 1938), 29 and 75; more neutrally in PLP 21527, 21425.

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lation, including an unusually extensive mercantile middle class which could apparently be persuaded to support the popular factions, at least at times. Above all, Thessalonike had its own privileged traditions and institutions of municipal government (including a senate and a popular assembly), allowing it certain degrees of internal autonomy regardless of the governors sent from the capital, if not at times in spite of them.48 In that sense, Thessalonike had something comparable to the commune of the Italian cities long before those counterparts did. As for the specific mechanics of the Zealot government, we do not know very much. Gregoras describes their organization as “some of the more reckless men, gathered together in a self-selected assemblage of absolute authority.”49 A great deal of their control must have depended upon either actual or implied intimidation from organized popular factions. There were sufficient checks to the authority of the executive archontes for one of them to challenge the other on policy issues and win, as in the confrontation of Metochites with Andreas Palaiologos. (As despot in Thessalonike, Manuel II Palaiologos was also to run afoul of the local council later in the century, as we shall see.) Moreover, the volatility of civic government was of a piece with the sentiment of Thessalonian separatism that is one of our chief themes. It might well be that the seemingly bizarre episode of the Zealot regime will make sense only if we do understand it thus in its fuller Thessalonian context, not as a totally exceptional and isolated event in the city’s history but as part of a larger context of recurrent Thessalonian separatism.50 SEPARATISM RENEWED Indeed, if not new before 1342, that context hardly ended in 1350. Ironically, the very step intended to terminate Zealot separatism only initiated a renewal of subtler separatist forms. Kantakouzenos had brought the legitimate dynast, John V Palaiologos, to accompany him in the triumphal entry into Thessalonike, to symbolize their supposed reconciliation. When he departed Thessalonike, John VI left the young Palaiologos behind as nominal governor of the city. Kantakouzenos had hoped thereby both to placate the legitimate dynast for his eclipse and, at the same time, to conciliate any sentiments of Zealot legitimism still remaining in the city. Far from bringing stability, the arrangement soon went awry. John V intrigued with Stefan Dusˇan, which only prompted the Serbian prince to advance on Thessalonike for his own ends. The menace was averted only when John V’s mother, the dowager Anna of Savoy, chastised her son and then, in a personal interview, persuaded Dusˇan to desist. In 1352 John V was drawn into territorial interests eastward, as a function of Kantakouzenos’ breakneck acceleration of partitioning Byzantine territories into quasi-appanages.51 48 G. L. Bra ˘tianu, in his classic little volume, Privilèges et franchises municipales dans l’Empire byzantin (Paris, 1936), argued that there was a resurgence of urban institutions and eagerness to return municipal privileges in the late Byzantine era; he stresses the case of Thessalonike in general and its Zealot movement in particular (pp. 108–9, 115–23); also, as noted, making comparisons to contemporaneous Western events. For Tafrali’s analysis of 14th-century civil institutions in the city, see Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 66–84. See also Vakalopoulos, History, 52–53. 49 Gregoras, 2: 796, lines 12–14: qrasuvteroi gavr tine", eij" aujtoceirotovnhton aujqentiva" a[qroisma sullegevnte". 50 This point had already been somewhat anticipated by Tafrali himself: Thessalonique des origines, 247–49, stressing the strong currents of separatism that had been building up before the Zealot episode. 51 Nicol, Reluctant Emperor, 106–7, 110–11, 115–17, 118 ff; also Last Centuries, 230, 237, and Byzantine Lady, 92.

22

LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE: CHALLENGES AND RESPONSES

John V would finally displace John VI from Constantinople in 1354. But by that time the Thessalonian stage had firmly been claimed for a seeming rerun of the Latin Kingdom of Thessalonike. If John V cared little for that city in compensation for the capital, his mother felt quite the reverse. To be sure, Thessalonike had for some time become a kind of warehouse for ex-empresses or the like, and even an emperor or two. In a prefiguration of Kantakouzenos’ installation of the reluctant John V, Andronikos II had in 1310 sent his son, Michael IX, to reside there after the latter’s humiliation in several defeats: and there he remained—in uncomfortable proximity with his stepmother Irene-Yolanda up to her death in 1317—until he died, a broken man, in 1320. Michael’s widow, the Armenian-born Maria-Rita Palaiologina, mother of Andronikos III, stayed on there as the nun Xene until her death in 1333. Anna Palaiologina, mother of the last Angelan despot of Epiros, was briefly confined on an estate in Thessalonike after ceding her titles and lands to Andronikos III. Other notables meanwhile found it a comfortable alternative to the tensionfilled capital. But Anna of Savoy, with the acquiescence of John VI, took over active rule of the city.52 Like Irene-Yolanda, Anna was a Latin princess, a Palaiologina only by marriage. However, though she was related to the Montferrat family, Anna lacked her own hereditary claim to the city. Instead, Anna assumed the city’s government by her right as an empress (devvspoina), and she ruled there with full use of that title, from 1351 until her death about fourteen years later. Both Irene-Yolanda’s renewed Kingdom of Thessalonike and Anna’s quasi-Empire of Thessalonike fell somewhere between an appanage and a separatist government. Irene-Yolanda’s regime had been an embarrassment to the government in Constantinople, but Anna’s regime reflected the degree to which the empire’s fragmentation had become normality. Anna’s government was apparently welcomed and appreciated by the city’s population; her reputation is still commemorated by the gate in the upper city walls that bears her name.53 In far less blatant terms than that of the Zealot epoch, her regime might have suggested a subtler kind of detachment from Constantinople—one mutually acceptable to both cities in the circumstances. But altered circumstances could evoke a return to more robust separatism. By the latter decades of the fourteenth century, dynastic apportionments were standard Palaiologan procedures. As already mentioned, in 1369 the second son of John V, the despot Manuel Palaiologos, was assigned to govern Thessalonike and its region. In 1373 he was advanced over his rebellious elder brother, Andronikos, and made co-emperor and heir. A new round of family strife, during which the displaced first-born prince seized power as Andronikos IV (1376–79), muddied the picture. In the aftermath of that disruption Manuel was deprived of his rights as heir to the throne. Disgruntled, Manuel set out secretly for Thessalonike in 1382, and there, in defiance of his father, John V, he established his own rival regime, using the full imperial title. For five years, Manuel’s Empire of Thessalonike made the city independent of the capital, if not officially, at least de facto. Thus liberated, Manuel threw off the official Constantinopolitan policy of timid 52 See D. M. Nicol and S. Bendall, “Anna of Savoy and Thessalonica: The Numismatic Evidence,” RN 19 (1977): 90–102; also Nicol, Last Centuries, 237–38, and Byzantine Lady, 92–93. On institutional implications, see pp. 91–127 of A. Christophilopoulou, “ÔH ajntibasileiva eij" to; Buzavntion,” in Suvmmeikta, vol. 2 (Athens, 1970), 1–144. For further literature on her, see PLP 21347. 53 See J.-M. Spieser, “Les inscriptions byzantines de Thessalonique,” TM 5 (1973): 175–76.

JOHN W. BARKER

23

accommodation to Turkish power and pursued a program of staunch resistance to Ottoman forces, a program augmented by an active and completely independent foreign as well as domestic policy. If this gave Thessalonians any immediate thrill of independence and honor, the reaction soon set in. Manuel’s little empire was no match militarily for the juggernaut of Turkish conquest, and Thessalonike soon found itself constrained by a severe siege. To Manuel’s disgust, the civic fathers lost any stomach for continued struggle. In 1387 the Thessalonians compelled him to take flight as a humiliated exile while they surrendered the city to the first of its Turkish occupations.54 In his own writings of this period, Manuel deplored the divisions, obstructionism, and squabbling that he had to put up with at the hands of the independent-minded Thessalonians. In pursuit of their own advantage, Manuel claimed, they were willing to cast principles aside and even accept foreign domination as preferable to fighting on in a noble but hopeless cause.55 From their viewpoint, of course, surrender would allow them to protect their city and their interests from ruin, which made more practical sense. But any civic initiatives mattered less now than the compelling fact that Thessalonike, like all things Byzantine, had become a toy in the hands of circumstances. Nothing illustrates this better than the city’s one last experience in juggling independence and domination. BETWEEN OCCUPATION AND APPANAGE For a period of fifteen years, Thessalonike had its first taste of Turkish domination, which began in 1387. The sources for the period are scanty and confusing. From them arguments have been made that the city might actually have broken free in some way and then been resubjected to Turkish rule about 1394. It has also been suggested, on the other hand, that Thessalonike might initially have been allowed some degree of continuing internal autonomy under general Turkish overlordship, with a more direct and strict rule then imposed in or about 1394, at a time of increased tension between the Byzantines and the Turks. The matter remains cloudy, but the scholarly consensus would seem to be that Thessalonike was effectively held by the Turks, to one extent or another, without interruption until 1403.56 That point aside, the fifteen years of Ottoman control saw Thessa54 The basic study is G. T. Dennis, The Reign of Manuel II Palaeologus in Thessalonica, 1382–1387, OCA 159 (Rome, 1960); more cursorily, J. W. Barker, Manuel II Palaeologus (1391–1425): A Study in Late Byzantine Statesmanship (New Brunswick, N.J., 1969), 42–50, 52–60. Nicol, Last Centuries, 284–88. 55 Manuel poured out his bitter feelings in his “Discourse in Epistolary Form to Kabasilas,” written in the summer of 1387: ed. R.-J. Loenertz, “Manuel Paléologue, épitre à Cabasilas,” Makedonikav 4 (1956): 38–46; see Dennis, Reign of Manuel II, 87–88; Barker, Manuel II, 59–60. Manuel had complained earlier about the difficulty of leading the contentious and recalcitrant Thessalonians, in a letter written in 1383 to Demetrios Kydones: The Letters of Manuel Palaeologus, ed. and trans. G. T. Dennis (Washington, D.C., 1977), 12–15, letter 4. Manuel’s efforts to guide the populace during the Turkish siege survive in a highly inflated adaptation of his speech to a popular assembly held in the autumn of 1383: his “Sumbouleutikov"” or “Discourse of Counsel to the Thessalonians,” ed. B. Laourdas, in Makedonikav 3 (1955): 290–307; for an excellent summary of its contents, see Dennis, Reign of Manuel II, 80–84. 56 The possibility of a Byzantine recovery had been left open in Barker, Manuel II, 450–53, but this interpretation was meanwhile rejected by George T. Dennis, “The Second Turkish Capture of Thessalonica, 1391, 1394, or 1430?” BZ 57 (1964): 53–61, repr. as no. V in idem, Byzantium and the Franks, 1350–1420 (London, 1982). His interpretation seems now to prevail: e.g., Nicol, Last Centuries, 321. See also A. Vakalopoulos, “Zur Frage der zweiten Einnahme Thessalonikis durch die Türken, 1391–1394,” BZ 61 (1968): 285–90.

24

LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE: CHALLENGES AND RESPONSES

lonike as the first target of the emerging Turkish policy known as the devs¸irme, the obligatory levy of tribute-children exacted from a Christian population. This and other potentially harsh burdens were relaxed, however, through the interventions of the successive archbishops of the city, Isidore and Gabriel, whose personalities won the respect of the Turks and a softening of their impositions upon the occupied metropolis.57 The occupation ended with Thessalonike’s return to the Byzantines as part of treaty settlements made by local Christian powers with Suleyman, Bayazid I’s son and claimant to the Turkish succession after the battle of Ankyra.58 The city’s rule had been earmarked in advance for Manuel II’s nephew, John, as a reward for the latter’s holding the fort in Constantinople during Manuel’s absence in the West, and as compensation for ceasing to contest Manuel’s rights to the throne in the latest round of Palaiologan dynastic strife. After some initial misunderstanding and delay upon Manuel’s return in 1403, John VII was indeed allowed to reign in Thessalonike with the full imperial title. As with Manuel’s own independent regime in 1382–87, Thessalonike was once more, and for the last time, a counter-capital to Constantinople.59 We know little of John’s regime in Thessalonike or what its people thought of him, but once again the separatist motives of a dynastic dissenter would seem to have corresponded with any remaining separatist ideals of that restless city. On the other hand, we do know that, all through John VII’s reign there, Manuel maintained a loyal dependent, one Demetrios Leontaris, as administrator and liaison agent in the city. Whether he was there to conduct the actual government, or to be a helpful advisor, or just to spy on John, is not clear, but his uninterrupted presence in the city indicates that Manuel had not totally ceded control or connection of Thessalonike to Constantinople. There is evidence that John VII had a son, Andronikos V, with whom he hoped to maintain his dynastic claims; but the boy died before his father, ending that dream.60 When John VII himself died in September 1408, Manuel, who had been visiting the Byzantine Morea at the time, hastened to Thessalonike to forestall any dissidence and to establish his third son, Despot Andronikos, as the official head of government there, again with Leontaris at his side during the boy’s minority.61 Manuel II was the most successful of the sovereigns who employed this quasiappanage pattern to control the disparate territories of his small and fragmented state. The secret of his success was his own persistent energy in personally coordinating these connections. But, as age and circumstances got the better of him, neither he nor his deputies could stave off impending disaster. Thessalonike—once the second city, once the sometime challenger of the capital—was to be the first victim of that reality. In 1422 Thessalonike was beset by a Turkish siege. Barely able to save Constantinople from the same 57 Nicol, Last Centuries, 321–22; Vakalopoulos, History, 61–62. See also B. Laourdas, “OiJ dhmosieumevne" oJmilive" tou' ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" ∆Isidwvrou wJ" iJstorikh; phgh; gia; th; gnwvsh th'" prwvth" tourkokrativa" sth; Qessalonivkh (1387–1403),” Makedonikav (1955–60): 20–34; and S. P. Vryonis, “Isidore Glabas and the Turkish ‘devshirme’,” Speculum 31 (1956): 438–42. 58 On this see G. T. Dennis, “The Byzantine-Turkish Treaty of 1403,” OCP 33 (1967): 72–88, repr. as no. VI in idem, Byzantium and the Franks. Also Barker, Manuel II, 222–27; Nicol, Last Centuries, 319–20. 59 See Barker, Manuel II, 238–45 and 490–93; Nicol, Last Centuries, 320–21. 60 G. T. Dennis, “An Unknown Byzantine Emperor, Andronicus V Palaeologus (1400–1407?),” JÖBG 16 (1967): 175–87, repr. as no. II in idem, Byzantium and the Franks. 61 Barker, Manuel II, 278–80; Nicol, Last Centuries, 235–36.

JOHN W. BARKER

25

menace, Manuel recognized the fact that his young and diseased son Andronikos no longer had the resources to maintain it. In the summer of 1423, Manuel therefore supervised negotiations by which it was transferred to the Venetians. This was not the first time the Byzantines, in desperate straits, had offered an important city to the Venetian Republic, but this was the first (and only) time such an offer was accepted. The brief Venetian occupation of Thessalonike was not a happy time for any of the parties: the population that first welcomed the Venetians came to chafe irritably under their rule. It all ended in the Venetians’ own ultimate failure and the Turkish capture of the city in March 1430.62 Not since the Norman outrage of 1185 had Thessalonike been taken by storm. Its stout walls had withstood the attacks of Kalojan’s Bulgarians in 1207, a siege by the Catalan Grand Company in 1308, and repeated menaces by Stefan Dusˇan’s Serbians in the 1330s and 1340s; suddenly weakened by an earthquake, these walls failed before the Ottoman Turks in 1430. The shattering seizure and sack of Thessalonike by them was also a warning signal to Constantinople itself. The fate of the “second city” in 1430 prefigured vividly what lay in store for the “first city” in 1453. THE POST-BYZANTINE “SECOND CITY ” We should not ignore the epilogue to Thessalonike’s late Byzantine history. Restored by its conqueror after the ravages, it became the favored residence of Sultan Murad II and a provisional Turkish capital until his son took Constantinople in hand. After 1453, Thessalonike became part of an empire that was too vast, too rich, and too diverse to allow for any clearly discernible “second city” of the Ottomans. Thessalonike did prosper, however, integrated more fully than ever into its natural Balkan hinterland. Among other attainments, it was to become the home for one of the greatest Jewish populations in the world, as a refuge for the escapees from Christian persecution in the Iberian Peninsula and elsewhere, a status it continued to hold until World War II.63 There is a rich irony, however, in the contributions of Turkish “Salonik” (or “Selanik” or “Salona”) to the decline of the empire that succeeded Byzantium. The city became the base for the movement of the Young Turks, that cabal of officers who aspired to remake the Turkish state at the beginning of the twentieth century. And from beyond that circle finally came one of Thessalonike’s greatest native sons, Mustafa Kemal, who as the remark62

Barker, Manuel II, 372–74 and notes 129–32; Nicol, Last Centuries, 334–36, 347–50, and idem, Byzantium and Venice: A Study in Diplomatic and Cultural Relations (Cambridge, 1988), 360–63, 367–71; Vakalopoulos, History, 63–73; K. M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), vol. 2 (Philadelphia, 1978), 19–30; P. Lemerle, “La domination vénitienne à Thessalonique,” in Miscellanea Giovanni Galbiati (= Fontes Ambrosiani 27, 1951), 219–25; also C. Manfroni, “La marina veneziana alla difesa di Salonicco,” NAVen n.s. 10 (1910): 20:1, pp. 5– 68. On the sources for the siege and fall of the city, see S. P. Vryonis, Jr., “The Ottoman Conquest of Thessaloniki in 1430,” in Continuity and Change in Late Byzantine and Early Ottoman Society, ed. A. Bryer and H. Lowry (Birmingham–Washington, D.C., 1986), 281–321. Valuable reflections in Greek sources of the attitudes of the city’s population toward the Venetians and their regime are being explored by M. Dobre, foreshadowed in her report, “Les Vénitiens dans les sources de Thessalonique du XVe siècle,” in XXe Congrès International des Études Byzantines: Pré-Actes, I: Séances plénières (Paris, 2001), 271–78. 63 Vakalopoulos, History, 74–98; N. K. Moutsopoulos, Thessaloniki 1900–1917 (Thessalonike, 1981) [based on annotated Greek edition of 1980], 15–39 (in English), 48–75 (in French); M. Laskaris, Salonique à la fin du XVIIIe siècle (Athens, 1939). Specifically on the Jewish population, see I. S. Emmanuel, Histoire des Israélites de Salonique (Thonon, 1936); R. Attal, Les juifs de Grèce, De l’expulsion d’Espagne à nos jours: Bibliographie (Leiden, 1973). See also the article by Jacoby in this volume, below, 85–131.

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LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE: CHALLENGES AND RESPONSES

able Atatürk was to preside single-handedly over the final liquidation of the Ottoman Empire and over the creation of the Turkish Republic in its place—a process, we might recall, that ended the status of Constantinople as a “first city” and capital.64 Kemal Atatürk’s remarkable accomplishments came after the Turks had, to his sorrow, lost Thessalonike to the Greeks in 1916. But the charming house in which he was born is still lovingly preserved, within the compound of the Turkish consulate. And there is still more irony. A Greek city today, Thessalonike flaunts as its most familiar visual symbol an Ottoman monument, the famous White Tower, once part of a grim Turkish waterfront fortress. And, as part of a Hellenic state again, Thessalonike is once more a powerful “second city” within such a state, the city’s vigorous economic and cultural life seriously challenging the seemingly unassailable political and cultural primacy of Athens. Thessalonike’s status as competitor-city has been too recurrent to be ignored or shrugged off. It was not simply an isolated feature of its late Byzantine context. Has, then, a destiny of “secondicity” been immutably fixed for Thessalonike by relentless combinations of geography and circumstances? If so, such a destiny has truly been both the glory and the curse of this magnificent and fascinating city. 64

Lord Kinross, Atatürk: A Biography of Mustafa Kemal, Father of Modern Turkey (New York, 1965), esp. 11–12, 65–66; H. C. Armstrong, Grey Wolf: The Life of Kamal Atatürk (1933), rev. E. Lengyel (New York, 1961), 3–4, 35–36.

Appendix 1 Late Byzantine Thessalonike: Chronological Highlights

1180

1185 1187

1204

1224 1230

1246

1282 ca. 1284 1303/4

1306

1308 1310 1320

Renier of Montferrat is married to Emperor Manuel I’s elder daughter Maria, is made caesar, and is supposedly promised the rule of Th.; they are both murdered some two years later amid dynastic succession struggles. The Normans storm Th. and ravage it viciously during a short occupation before being driven away. Renier’s older brother, Conrad of Montferrat, marries a sister of Isaac II Angelos, is given the title of caesar, and helps put down a military rebellion; but, facing court hostility, he leaves for the Holy Land. Boniface of Montferrat, brother of Conrad and Renier, is a leader of the Fourth Crusade; after its capture of Constantinople, he establishes himself as king in Th., ruling from it until his death (1207) and leaving it to his son Demetrios. Theodore Angelos, ruler of Epiros, captures Th. from the Latins and is crowned emperor in his bid to re-create the Byzantine state. After the defeat and captivity of Theodore Angelos at Klokotinica, and his blinding, his brother Manuel rules in Th. as “emperor and despot” (1230–41), followed by his nephew John (1242–44) and the latter’s son Demetrios (1244–46). Th. is taken from the rapidly enfeebled Angelan regime by John III Vatatzes to become, instead, part of the Nicaean restoration of Byzantium; Andronikos Palaiologos is named governor. Michael VIII Palaiologos contemplates giving his younger son an independent dominion of Macedonia to be ruled from Th., but is forestalled in this by his death. Andronikos II Palaiologos marries Irene-Yolanda of Montferrat, who brings her family’s claim to Th. as her dowry. Irene-Yolanda, denied the partitionings of sovereignty and territories she has demanded of Andronikos, removes to Th. where she establishes her own quasi-independent government there by right of her inheritance, remaining there until her death (1317). Andronikos II appoints his nephew John as “panhypersebastos” and “guardian of Thessalonike and all the other western cities”; about this time, he also names John, his eldest son by Irene-Yolanda, as despot, with some kind of power in Th. which lasts until John’s death (1307). The Catalan Grand Company, ravaging Macedonia, unsuccessfully besieges Th. Andronikos II sends his son and co-emperor, the discredited Michael IX, to reside in Th. On the death of Michael IX, his widow, Maria Palaiologina, becomes the nun Xene and resides in Th. until her death in 1333.

28 1322

1326

1327 1328 1334 1338 1341ff 1342

1345

1349

1352

1369 1382

1387 1403 1408 1423 1430

APPENDIX 1: CHRONOLOGICAL HIGHLIGHTS Despot Constantine, son of Andronikos II, as governor of Th. makes a lax showing against the rebellious Andronikos III; is driven out of the city by a mob rising, which hands the city over to partisans of Andronikos II. John the Panhypersebastos, nephew of Andronikos II, as governor of Th., plans to defy his uncle and create an independent Macedonian regime for himself, is bought off, and dies soon after. A shift in factional politics allows Andronikos III and his lieutenant, John Kantakouzenos, to take control of Th. The new emperor Andronikos III appoints as governor of Th. the treacherous Syrgiannes, who subsequently intrigues with the dowager empress Maria/Xene. Forces of Stefan Dusˇan of Serbia menace Th. The empress Anna Palaiologina, mother of the last claimant to the Despotate of Epiros, is exiled to an estate in Th. until her escape in 1341. Dusˇan’s Serbian forces pose renewed threats to Th. Elite partisans of the usurper John VI Kantakouzenos attempt to hand Th. over to him, but the faction of Zealots arouses the populace to expel pro-Kantakouzenian notables and establish a quasi-independent regime, supporting the legitimate successor, John V Palaiologos; John Apokaukos, son of the legitimist leader in the capital, Alexios Apokaukos, is sent to share government with Zealot leader Michael Palaiologos; resentful of Zealot high-handedness, John has Michael murdered (1344?). Upon the murder of Alexios Apokaukos in the capital, his son John pursues an independent policy, seeking to join the Kantakouzenian side in exchange for confirmation of his rule in Th.; but revived Zealot agitation leads to a preemptive riot, as a result of which John and a hundred city notables are brutally murdered; under one Andreas Palaiologos, the Zealot regime becomes more radical and staunchly anti-Kantakouzenian. With Serbian pressure mounting and the Zealot regime crumbling, Andreas Palaiologos is expelled and his successor, Alexios Metochites, negotiates the city’s capitulation; John VI enters Th. in triumph the following year, accompanied by young John V, and the Zealot leadership is broken. Dissatisfied with his pseudo-independent imperial regime in Th., John V intrigues with Stefan Dusˇan; his mother, Anna of Savoy, resolves the situation, and, when John moves off to take a partition of Thracian territory, Anna assumes active government of Th. in her own right, as “despoina,” until her death ca.1365. John V names his second son, the despot Manuel, to govern Th., which remains his seat until 1373 when Manuel is named heir to the throne and co-emperor. Denied the succession after new dynastic turmoil, Manuel assumes rule of Th. with the imperial title, against his father’s wishes, and conducts a fully independent anti-Turkish policy from this base. After a ruinous Turkish siege, the Thessalonians force Manuel to leave and accept some degree of Turkish rule or domination. By treaty with the Turks, Th. is restored to Byzantine control; after some controversy, Manuel II allows his nephew, John VII, to establish himself there, still with the imperial title. Upon the death of John VII, Manuel II installs his young third son, the despot Andronikos, as governor in Th. Besieged by the Turks and hampered by ill health, the desperate despot Andronikos, with his father’s approval, negotiates the transfer of Th. to Venice. After a strained occupation, the Venetians lose Th. when the Turks take it by storm; Sultan Murad II thereafter makes it his favorite residence.

Appendix 2 Interpretations of the Zealots

A. TAFRALI, KABASILAS, AND THE MARXISTS The descriptions of the Zealot government by Gregoras and Kantakouzenos, cited above, are the only authenticated contemporaneous statements about the regime’s social intents and innovations. In view of the stylized and partisan character of their accusations, however, these passages are suspect, hardly decisive or accurate evidence in themselves. They became, however, the starting point for modern scholarly discussion of the Zealots as “social revolutionaries” who were supposedly committed to a radical program of drastic socioeconomic reform. That viewpoint was given its first full development by Oreste Tafrali in his classic study Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle (Paris, 1913). For this purpose, Tafrali drew heavily on what he regarded as an additional source, and a crucial one. This was a discourse by Nicholas Kabasilas, which purportedly described drastic policies of confiscating monastic properties supposedly pursued by the Zealots. Attention had first been called to the Kabasilas work by Constantine Sathas, Mnhmei'a eJllhnikh'" iJstoriva": Documents inédits relatifs à l’histoire de la Grèce (Paris, 1882), who published only selections from the text and argued that it revealed the Zealots as freedom-loving patriots rather than as merely nihilistic rabble. On that foundation Tafrali constructed his exposition (pp. 225–72), treating the Zealots with considerable sympathy and seeing their movement as an early example of popular struggle for freedom and social justice—perhaps with echoes of the Paris Commune still reverberating. In the process, Tafrali published passages from the Kabasilas Discourse, arbitrarily selected from the Sathas edition, and not always accurately represented. But Tafrali was fully confident that these passages comprised accurate statements of the Zealots’ supposed ideas and program. Until 1957, such presentation of these passages represented the only ready access to the Kabasilas work. During the interval of some forty-four years, Tafrali’s projection of the Kabasilas Discourse and his portrayal of the Zealots as social reformers became a working norm among scholars. Thus, though less sympathetic to the Zealots, Charles Diehl, in his “Les journées révolutionnaires byzantines,” La Revue de Paris (1 November 1928), accepted Tafrali’s basic perspectives. Those perspectives likewise colored the approach of Peter Charanis’ “Internal Strife” (1940–41) and “Monastic Properties” (1948). They were the foundation of the section “The SocialRevolutionary Movement of the Zealots of Thessalonica (circa 1342–50),” in Ernest Barker’s Social and Political Thought in Byzantium (Oxford, 1957), 184–93. Both authors included translated passages from Kabasilas as transmitted by Tafrali. Also essentially in this tradition, with hints of Marxist influences, is the article by Robert Browning, “Komounata na zilotit v solun,” Istoricˇeski Pregled 6 (1950): 509–25.

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APPENDIX 2: INTERPRETATIONS OF THE ZEALOTS

Tafrali’s perspectives found particular response, however, among Marxist-inspired scholars. The first explicitly Marxist analysis was a product of both the pre– and post–World War II world, by a Greek political writer, Giannis Kordatos, Kommouvna th'" Qessalonivkh" (1342–1349) (Athens, 1928; rev. ed. 1975). After World War II, however, the focus on issues of “class struggle” was intensified by Marxist-inspired scholars of the Soviet Union and other countries of the socialist bloc. The idea of the Zealots as freedom-fighter revolutionaries and reformers was exemplified by B. T. Gorjanov, “Vozstanie Zilotov v Vizantii (1342–1349),” IzvIstFil 3 (1946); and by M. A. Levcˇenko (in VizVrem 2/27 [1949]). No Marxist himself, Alexander P. Kazhdan early identified himself with the argument that the Zealots represented a popular movement aimed at destroying the feudal classes in Byzantine society, in Agrarnye otnosˇenija v Vizantij XIII–XV vv. (Moscow, 1952), 183–97. Kazhdan continued to uphold that viewpoint, while stressing that their Byzantine contemporaries viewed the Zealots and their populist violence as totally out of step with fixed Byzantine presumptions of the unchallengeable permanence of the empire’s divinely sanctioned order: thus in his book (co-written with Giles Constable), People and Power in Byzantium: An Introduction to Modern Byzantine Studies (Washington, D.C., 1982), 35. Meanwhile, the presumptions by Sathas, Tafrali, and their epigones about the Kabasilas text were decisively challenged by the belated publication of the full work. Its actual title is “Discourse concerning the Illegal Acts of Officials Daringly Committed against Things Sacred” (Lovgo" peri; tw'n ˇevcˇenko published the complete Greek paranovmw" toi'" a[rcousin ejpi; toi'" iJeroi'" tolmwmevnwn). Ihor S text, with English synopsis, plus extensive historical and textual discussion, in his “Nicholas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse: A Reinterpretation,” DOP 11 (1957): 79–171—published, it might be noted, in the same year in which appeared Ernest Barker’s Tafrali-saturated exposition aforemenˇevcˇenko added textual variants and apparatus to his transcription, plus further discussion, tioned. S in “The Author’s Draft of Nicolas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse in Parisinus Graecus 1276,” DOP 14 (1960): 181–201. Finally, he reviewed scholarly reactions and reassessed (but effectively restated) his position in “A Postscript on Nicolas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” DOP 16 (1962): 403–8. All three of these publications have now been conveniently reproduced as nos. IV, V, and VI in the collection of his papers, Society and Intellectual Life in Late Byzantium (London, 1981), and constitute some of the most important assessments of the Zealot issue yet published. ˇevcˇenko at first argued compellingly that Kabasilas’ Discourse had nothing to do with the S Zealot episode: indeed, he posited that the work was written around 1344 and was actually directed against the policies of Alexios Apokaukos in the capital and against such a prelate as the antiPalamite patriarch John Kalekas. Then (“Postscript”) he modified this by proposing a later dating, and that the ecclesiastical appropriations of the despot (and future emperor) Manuel Palaiologos in 1371 might have been the author’s target. ˇevcˇenko’s bombshell varied, and his third publication in the series surveys many Reactions to S of them. Some scholars tried to find a compromise stance. In his “Observations on the ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse of Cabasilas,” RESEE 9 (1971): 369–76, Charanis argued that, while the text might not have been directed exclusively against the Zealots, it may have reflected their ideas as some component of the rationale it attacks. George Dennis, in his The Reign of Manuel II Palaeologus in Thesˇevcˇenko’s placing of the Discourse salonica, 1382–1387 (Rome, 1960), 91 note 30, at first supported S in the debate over ecclesiastical appropriations in the 1370s. Subsequently, however, in the introduction to his The Letters of Manuel Palaeologus (Washington, D.C., 1977), xxxii–xxxiii, Dennis proposed that Kabasilas intended the treatise as a generalized rhetorical and theoretical exercise, “not directed at any specific individuals,” suggesting further that it might have been commissioned by, and addressed to, Manuel II himself, rather than being aimed at him. Dennis has gone on to argue that it does not matter to whom the treatise was addressed; that it was a generalized discussion of a serious issue (unjust seizure of church properties and wealth), and clearly written in the later three

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decades of the fourteenth century; this in “Nicholas Cabasilas Chamaëtos and His Discourse on Abuses Committed by Authorities against Sacred Things,” Byzantine Studies/Etudes byzantines 5 (1978): 80–87, repr. as no. XI in idem, Byzantium and the Franks. ˇevcˇenko’s publications either by ignoring them or by pretending Some scholars reacted to S they would just go away. The most dogged adherent to Tafrali’s presumptions was the Cypriot social historian Constantine Kyrris. Having produced an earlier study, “The Political Organisation of the Byzantine Urban Classes between 1204 and 1341,” in Liber memorialis Antonio Era (= Studies Presented to the International Commission for the History of Representative and Parliamentary Institutions, XXVI: Cagliari, 1961) (Brussels, 1963), 21–31, Kyrris went on to construct an elaborate profile of the Zealot regime in his “Gouvernés et gouvernants à Byzance pendant la révolution des Zélotes (1341–1350),” in Gouvernés et Gouvernants, II: Antiquité et haut moyen âge (= Recueils de la Société Jean Bodin pour l’Histoire Comparative des Institutions 23) (Brussels, 1968), 271–330, in which he adjusted ˇevcˇenko’s conclusions while still essentially accepting the Kabasilas-based traditions of to some of S Tafrali. Far more tenacious were socialist-bloc Marxist scholars. In the course of his volume Pozdnevizantijskij feodalizm (Moscow, 1962), B. T. Gorjanov rejected (and partially misrepresented) ˇevcˇenko’s arguments and reasserted the validity of the Kabasilas Discourse as a source for the S Zealots (pp. 310–18, 331–32). Michael J. Sjuzjumov was also a continuing advocate of the socialist viewpoint that the Zealots, joining the “bureaucratic” faction of Apokaukos, were part of the prolonged struggle against the “feudal” elements of Byzantine society (VizVrem 28 [1968]: 15–37). Soviet interpretative tradition was also backed by other scholars of the Eastern bloc. An early polemic by the Rumanian scholar E. Frances, “Ra ˇscoala Zelot¸ilor din Thessalonic în lumina ultimelor cerceta ˘ ri,” Academia Republicii Populare Romîne, Subsect¸ia de ¸tiinte s Istorice ¸i s Institutui de Istorie ˇevcˇenko’s work with a din Bucures¸ti. Studi: Revista ˇ de Istorie 12 (1959): 257–66, crudely dismissed S raw Marxist reaffirmation of the need to celebrate proletarian mass movements. More articulate expositions of continuing Marxist interpretation have been the East German Ernst Werner and the Czech Vera Hrochová. While persisting in themes of class struggle, however, they have become principal proponents in tracing links between the Zealots and supposed counterparts in contemporaneous Italy: accordingly, their work will be discussed in section B, below. ˇevcˇenko response from the Marxist tradition, The most balanced and fully developed post-S however, can be found in the early work of the East German scholar Klaus-Peter Matschke, Fortschritt und Reaktion in Byzanz im 14. Jahrhundert. Konstantinopel in der Bürgerkriegsperiode von 1341– 1354 (Berlin, 1971). His discussion of the anti-Kantakouzenian upheavals in the capital cast Alexios Apokaukos as a populist “progressive” struggling against feudal “reaction”; but the Zealot regime in Thessalonike is itself peripheral to his Constantinopolitan focus. A different but altogether moderate socialist-sociological approach is that of Günter Weiss, in his Johannes Kantakouzenos—Aristokrat, Staatsmann, Kaiser und Mönch in der Gesellschaftsentwicklung von Byzanz im 14. Jahrhundert (Wiesbaden, 1969), which is a detailed attempt at dissecting fourteenth-century Byzantine society. In discussing the Zealot movement within the context of the popular role in the period (pp. 83–102), he is willing to recognize that movement as an important populist reform effort, but he rejects the old ideological portrayal of it, observing that it “lacked the slogans which characterize modern revolutions, [and] lacked any social-revolutionary program” (p. 84). With the end of the cold war and the dissolution of the Eastern bloc, polemic perceptions of the Zealots as early proletarian heroes have become more muted. But their death knell was sounded early on, in the brief and rather neutral section on the Zealots in Léon-Pierre Raybaud’s Le Gouvernement et l’administration centrale de l’empire byzantin sous les premiers Paléologues (1258–1354) (Paris, 1968), 143–45. This ends by rejecting as “unacceptable” the Soviet idea of the Zealots as foes of the feudal lords. “It is dangerous to make Thessalonica an archetype of the revolutionary com-

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mune, since, if the ties connecting it to the central government were loosened, they were not broken.” As for the Kabasilas Discourse, meanwhile, debate will continue as to its date and purpose. But ˇevcˇenko has removed it once and for all as something to be read as a direct source for the Zealot S movement and its ideas.

B. WESTERN CONNECTIONS A number of scholars have sought to link the Zealot rising with patterns of urban unrest and violence that manifested themselves extensively in western Europe in the middle of the fourteenth century. The possibilities of such connections or parallels were first pointed to by Tafrali himself (Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle, 256–57). They were also invoked by George L. Bra ˘tianu, in Privilèges et franchises municipales dans l’Empire byzantin (Paris, 1936), 119–22. Since World War II, the most prominent advocates of such Western connections or parallels have been two scholars of Marxist persuasion, who have perceived influences by, and analogies to, social radicalism in contemporaneous Italian urban risings. Vera Hrochová, first in “Die Problematik der Zelotenbewegung in Thessalonike 1342–1349,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der MartinLuther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg 10, Gesellschafts- und sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe 1 (1961): 1447– 50, and then more fully in her article “La révolte des Zélotes à Salonique et les communes italiennes,” BSl 22 (1961): 1–15, has stressed particular influences of the Genoese revolution of 1339 upon the Zealots. In this she was also followed by Kyrris, in his aforementioned “Gouvernés et gouˇevcˇenko, who had vernants” (328–30). That perspective had, however, already been undercut by S argued emphatically and compellingly that Genoese contacts and influences in Thessalonike must have been negligible in this period, in his own article “The Zealot Revolution and the Supposed Genoese Colony in Thessalonica,” in Prosfora; eij" Stivlpwna P. Kuriakivdhn ejpi; th/' eijkosipentaeterivdi th'" kaqhgesiva" aujtou' (1926–1951) (= ÔEllhnikav, Paravrthma 4: Thessalonike, 1953), 603–17, and reprinted as no. III in his collection Society and Intellectual Life in Late Byzantium (London, 1981). Meanwhile, Ernest Werner, “Volkstümliche Häretiker oder sozial-politische Reformer? Probleme der revolutionären Volksbewegung in Thessalonike, 1342–1349,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Karl-Marx-Universität Leipzig, Gesellschafts- und wissenschaftliche Reihe 1 (1958–59): 45–83, while insisting on analysis based upon class-struggle theory, stressed the supposed parallelism of the Zealot episode with the Ciompi upheaval of 1378 in Florence. He then went on to analyze that episode itself from a Marxist perspective in his “Probleme städtischer Volksbewegungen im 14. Jahrhundert, dargestellt am Beispiel der Ciompi-Erhebung in Florenz,” in Städtische Volksbewegung im 14. Jahrhundert, ed. E. Englemann (Berlin, 1960), 11–55. See also V. I. Rutenburg, “Ziloti i Ciompi,” VizVrem 30 (1969): 3–37; as well as Werner’s own “Gesellschaft und Kultur im XIV. Jahrhundert: Sozial-ökonomischen Fragen,” Actes du XIVe Congrès International des Études Byzantines, vol. 1 (Bucharest, 1974), 93–110. If anything, the comparison of the Zealot and Ciompi episodes would likely discourage rather than further the reading of present-day ideologies or mentalities into these events of the past. Thus see the work of Gene Brucker, “The Ciompi Revolution,” in Florentine Studies: Politics and Society in Renaissance Florence, ed. N. Rubinstein (London, 1968); as well as Brucker’s earlier book, Florentine Politics and Society, 1343–1378 (Princeton, N.J., 1962). Such scholarship has done much to dispel the mythology and rhetoric about the Ciompi movement: redefining it as an event intelligible in terms of contemporaneous Florentine circumstances, rather than being loaded with anachronistic projections of modern “class struggle,” “proletarian consciousness,” and “social radicalism.” The entire issue now languishes, but it is difficult to see that Italian events and ideas could seriously have had much direct influence on the very different ideas, institutions, and perceptions of

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Byzantines, steeped as they were in their own very distinct ways of thinking. The best perspective on the problem is that the Thessalonian phenomena were just vaguely parallel to the Western ones, but were neither identical to nor connected with them. Thus Robert Browning in his essay “Byzantine Thessaloniki: A Unique City?” (Dialogos 2 [1995]: 98) who, after pondering similarities only to minimize them, observes: “it would be unwise to postulate any direct connection in the total abˇevcˇenko: “Conditions presence of evidence.” The point has been put even more succinctly by S vailing in the [Byzantine] Empire since the beginning of the fourteenth century furnish a sufficient explanation for the Zealot revolution” (“Zealot Revolution/Genoese Colony,” 616–17). What is interesting, however, is that it never seems to have occurred to any Byzantine writers themselves to draw any such parallels between the Zealot episode and any foreign manifestations. This point is clear when we compare the descriptions of the Zealots by Gregoras and Kantakouzenos, already cited, to the comments these two writers make about prior and contemporaneous popular upheavals in Genoa: Gregoras, I, 548, and II, 687–88, on the Genoese revolution of 1339 and its extended aftermath; Kantakouzenos, III, 196–98, on a social upheaval in Genoa in the early 1350s (a year or two after the end of the Zealot regime). (For observations on these passages, ˇevcˇenko, “Zealot Revolution,” 611 ff ). In his instance, Gregoras does speak of general condisee S tions around the world in which “governments and regimes, whether popular or elite, should be troubled by divisions and factions turned against themselves, thrown into internecine struggles; and there was virtually no place devoid of this, no place that could not have been wrecked by such disaster, if not always in identical fashion, at least to a greater or lesser extent.” Yet, even though he is discussing upheavals of the mid-1340s at that point, Gregoras explicitly fails to connect Zealot Thessalonike to such a comparative context. Even more significant, perhaps, is the fact that these two writers expressly avoid using the same terminology for the Genoese events that they employ for the Thessalonian ones. There is, to be sure, the teasing accusation of “foreign” influences made by Philotheos in his Life of Sava (cited in note 45).

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Symposium on Late Byzantine Thessalonike Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2003 © 2004 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

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The Role of Late Byzantine Thessalonike in Church Architecture in the Balkans ´URC ˇ IC ´ SLOBODAN C

he role of Thessalonike in the art and architecture of the Balkans during the late Middle Ages has long been the subject of scholarly discussion. Actually, the recognition of its significance may be said to have occurred at the very beginning of modern historiography on Byzantine art and architecture in the region of Macedonia.1 It was Gabriel Millet who first formulated the concept of the “Macedonian School” in reference to fresco painting, an idea that paralleled his definition of Byzantine architecture in Greece as “l’école grecque.”2 Such preliminary efforts to organize large bodies of hitherto unknown monuments may be perceived as having been a worthy cause in an effort to systematize the material. In reality, the labeling applied by Millet has had a lasting detrimental effect on the general course of developing historiography in the Balkans. Particularly Millet’s efforts to define various “regional schools,” in tandem with the growing nationalist political sentiments and ambitions, have left a scholarly legacy that calls for intensive reexamination in many respects. One of the enduring controversial issues, grown directly out of Millet’s classification system, is the concept of the so-called “Macedonian School” with all its ramifications. Millet’s definition of the “Macedonian School” initially applied to Byzantine fresco painting in the region of Byzantine Macedonia, but was subsequently expanded, by others, to the realm of architecture as well. The intensity of interest in the concept of a “Macedonian School” has fluctuated over time, reaching several high points since Millet

T

In 1993 Nikos Oikonomides invited me to give a paper at a symposium entitled “Byzantium and Serbia in the Fourteenth Century” that he organized under the auspices of the National Hellenic Research Foundation in Athens. For a variety of personal reasons I was unable to accept his invitation and did not attend that important symposium. My regrets for not being able to take part were only magnified by my feeling that I may have disappointed him, as well as other participants. In the interim, Nikos Oikonomides has passed away, along with two other colleagues, speakers at that symposium—Gordana Babic´ and Vojislav J. Djuric´. The present article constitutes a belated expression of personal gratitude to my departed colleagues and friends. 1 The first regional research—initially antiquarian in nature—began already in the 19th century; cf. A. J. Evans, “Antiquarian Research in Illyricum,” Archaeologia 49 (1855): 1–167 and P. N. Milıu
kov, “Christianskiıa
. drevnosti zapadnoi Makedonii,” IRAIK 4 (1899): 21–149. To these may also be added I. Ivanov, Bu ˘lgarski starini iz Makedoniıa
(Sofia, 1908). The key works in our context, however, are the following books published just before or during World War I: N. P. Kondakov, Makedoniıa
: Arkheologicheskoe puteshestvie (St. Petersburg, 1909); O. Tafrali, Topographie de Thessalonique (Paris, 1913); G. Millet, L’école grecque dans l’architecture byzantine (Paris, 1916); C. Diehl, M. Le Tourneau, and H. Saladin, Les monuments chrétiens de Salonique (Paris, 1918). 2 G. Millet, Recherches sur l’iconographie de l’Évangile (Paris, 1916), 625–90, where the “Macedonian school” is seen as open to influence from the “Orient and Italy,” in contrast to the more conservative “Cretan school.”

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first formulated it.3 Reasons and motives behind these “high points” constitute in their own right a subject worthy of investigation. As my aim here is to address the role of Thessalonike in architecture in the Balkans during the late Middle Ages, I will limit my remarks to only certain specific historiographical issues. These will help illuminate some of our established conceptions and misconceptions about the role of the second city of the Byzantine Empire in the shaping of architecture in the Balkans during the fourteenth century. The question of “Macedonian” and, more specifically, “Thessalonian” architecture during the late Byzantine period has been broached by a number of scholars in recent years. Their approaches and methodologies have differed vastly, as have the results of their findings. None of them, it may be added, approached the problem comprehensively. Consequently, our understanding of the architecture in Thessalonike is still rather incomplete. Surprisingly, not a single surviving monument of late Byzantine Thessalonike has a comprehensive scholarly monograph. Less surprisingly perhaps, in these circumstances, the architecture of this important chapter in the city’s history has never been a subject of a study in its own right. Among those who have dealt with this material, but have approached it from very specific, limited angles, one should note A. Goulaki-Voutira, P. Vokotopoulos, and M. Rautman.4 Goulaki-Voutira has examined the issue of identification and dating of Palaiologan churches of Thessalonike, Vokotopoulos has discussed the architectural typology of the period, while Rautman has addressed the question of patronage of church architecture in the city and within the region of Macedonia as a whole. To these one may also add an article by G. Velenis, whose own revisiting the subject of regionalism in the architecture of Macedonia will serve as my point of departure.5 After discussing various aspects of the church of the Holy Apostles in Thessalonike with the aim of demonstrating its idiosyncratic regional character and, therefore, its inde-

'

3

A. Xyngopoulos, Thessalonique et la peinture macédonienne (Athens, 1955); V. N. Lazarev, “Zhivopis XI–XII vekov v Makedonii,” XIIe Congrès international des études byzantines. Rapports V (Belgrade, 1961); A. Procopiou, The Macedonian Question in Byzantine Painting (Athens, 1962); P. Miljkovic´-Pepek, Deloto na zografite Mihailo i Eutihij (Skopje, 1967); P. Miljkovic´-Pepek, “L’architecture chrétienne chez les Slaves macédoniens à partir d’avant la moitié du IXe jusqu’à la fin du XIIe siècle,” The 17th International Byzantine Congress, Major Papers (Washington, D.C. 1986), 483–500; G. Velenis, “Building Techniques and External Decoration during the 14th Century in Macedonia,” in L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe siècle, ed. R. Samardzˇic´ (Belgrade, 1987), 95–105; C. Giros, “Remarques sur l’architecture monastique en Macédoine orientale,” BCH 116 (1992): 409–443. I. M. Chatzifotis, Makedonikhv Scolhv. H scolhv tou Panselivnou (1290–1320) (Athens, 1995) and most recently G. M. Velenis, “Macedonian School in Architecture of the Middle and Late Byzantine Period” in K. Fledelius, ed., Byzantium: Identity, Image and Influence. XIX International Congress of Byzantine Studies, vol. 1 (Copenhagen, 1996), 500–505, as well as an expanded version in Greek, idem. “ÔH ajrcitektonikh; Scolh; th' " Makedoniva" kata; th;n mevsh kai; u{sterh buzantinh; perivodo,” Suvnaxh 63 (1997): 49–60. A. Bryer, “The Rise and Fall of the Macedonian School of Byzantine Art (1910–1962),” in Ourselves and Others, ed. P. Mackridge (Oxford, 1997), 79–87, displaying premature optimism, declares that by 1962 the concept of the “Macedonian School” had run its course. Unfortunately, Bryer appears not to have been sensitive enough in his reading of some of the scholarly literature published in the 1980s and 1990s. 4 A. Goulaki-Voutira, “Zur Identifizierung von paläologenzeitlichen Kirchen in Saloniki,” JÖB 34 (1984): 255–64, with certain interpretations of original names and dates that have not met with universal approval; P. Vokotopoulos, “OiJ mesaiwnikoiv naoiv th'" Qessalonivkh" kai; hJ qevsh tou" stav plaivsia th'" buzantinh'" naodomiva",” in ÔH Qessalonivkh metaxuv Anatolh'" kai; Duvsew" (Thessalonike, 1982), 97–110 was a useful initial overview of the role of Thessalonike in the development of later Byzantine architecture; it was followed by a much more narrowly focused article, idem, “Church Architecture in Thessaloniki in the 14th Century. Remarks on the Typology,” in L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe siècle, ed. Samardzˇic´, 107– 16; M. Rautman, “Patrons and Buildings in Late Byzantine Thessaloniki,” JÖB 39 (1989): 295–315. 5 Velenis, “Building Techniques,” 95–105.

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pendence from Constantinople, Velenis focused on what he defined as its “Macedonian dome” (Fig. 1). According to him, the “Macedonian dome” is elevated on a tall drum, its exterior articulated by a slender arcade, each arch of which contains a single-light window with a flat wall area, often containing decorative brickwork, directly above the window opening. He cites twenty-two examples of such domes, without considering their chronological range, and downplaying the fact that their geographic spread reveals some significant deviations from the “regional” pattern that he had set out to demonstrate. The oldest example cited in his corpus of “Macedonian domes” paradoxically appears on the church of the Panagia Paregoritissa at Arta, dated 1282–89, a building obviously totally removed from the Macedonian scene (Fig. 2). According to Velenis, the external design of the domes in question is the function of an effort to increase their interior surfaces for optimum display of mosaics and frescoes.6 The phenomenon of heightening the drum, however, cannot be tied to such reasoning. Instead, it may have been informed by structural and, even more probably, by aesthetic reasons.7 The choice was most likely governed by a desire for more attenuated proportions of dome drums, a tendency demonstrable in most later Byzantine buildings. Interesting insights into this issue come from the church of the Mother of God (Bogorodica) at the monastery of Studenica in central Serbia. Begun in 1183 (?), the church was completed with a dome on a low drum perforated with twelve windows, one within each of its twelve arched facets. Probably in the second decade of the fourteenth century, as recently proposed, the drum was heightened and its arcade attenuated by the insertion of small blank tympana above each window opening and below the newly created arcade (Fig. 3).8 During a recent restoration of the church, the later additions were removed and the original low form of the drum restored along with its presumed original external coat of painted plaster (Fig. 4). The late medieval changes at Studenica could only have been effected by external, most likely aesthetic concerns. These, in turn, must have been part of a more universal trend in Byzantine architecture, unrelated to the “Macedonian dome” issue. The ineptness of the “Macedonian dome” definition, in fact, can be demonstrated on the very building that Velenis chose to vindicate as the product of a local, that is, “Macedonian building school”—the church of the Holy Apostles. An examination of its four minor domes reveals that, unlike its main dome, they did not feature a blank field above each of their original window openings (Fig. 5). The present in-fills above rectilinear window frames are the result of the much later Ottoman interventions. Thus the church of the Holy Apostles, according to the Velenis hypothesis, would have to be seen as a hybrid so6

This explanation is not borne out by the physical evidence in such buildings, however. Most of the hemispherical dome surfaces in the buildings in question—in fact in most middle and late Byzantine domed churches—begin directly above the window arches. Only on very rare occasions do windows intrude into the hemisphere of the dome itself. Consequently, the feature in question must be seen for what it effectively is—a by-product of concern for the exterior articulation of dome drums. 7 O. Markovic´-Kandic´, “Odnos kalote i tambura na kupolama u Vizantiji i srednjovekovnoj Srbiji” (“Rapport de la calotte et du tambour des coupoles à Byzance et dans la Serbie médiévale”), Zograf 6 (1975): 8–10, who argues for the structural rationale in the design of dome drums. Domes on most of the churches in question, however, are small enough that such solutions should have been totally unnecessary. Of course, our theoretical understanding of such issues was not available to the medieval builder, and thus the notion of “perceived” structural role of certain design choices should not be dismissed out of hand. 8 ˇanak-Medic´, “Vreme prvih promena oblika studenicˇke Bogorodicˇine crkve” (“L’époque des premiers M. C changements apportés à l’aspect de l’église de la Vierge de Studenica”), Studenica i vizantijska umetnost oko 1200. godine, ed. V. Korac´ (Belgrade, 1988), 517–24.

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lution in which a “Macedonian dome” appeared alongside the four “non-Macedonian” domes (Fig. 6). This phenomenon, ignored by Velenis, must have a different explanation. While it now may be clear that the invention of the term “Macedonian dome” was inappropriate, my exercise of demonstrating this point actually has other objectives. The first of these is to demonstrate that the architecture of Thessalonike came into being as a result of different builders from elsewhere accepting employment in the newly prospering city, toward the end of the thirteenth century. The second and more important objective is to show that by around 1300 certain uniform building standards did evolve in Thessalonike and that these, under specific conditions, were eventually transplanted into neighboring areas of the Balkans, especially into Serbia.9 The first of the stated objectives may be demonstrated by turning to the church of H. Aikaterine (Fig. 7). This major monument of Palaiologan architecture was extensively restored in the late 1940s, but the results of findings made at the time have never been published. Recent conservation work on the building has brought to light much new information whose final publication is pending.10 Lacking any historical information, the building’s date and even its original name remain unknown. Proposed dates have ranged from as early as ca. 1280 to as late as the second quarter of the fourteenth century.11 Putting aside the dating controversy at this point, I will merely point out certain incompatible features of this building that signal unmistakably the input of builders from two distinctly different Byzantine building traditions. The four small domes of H. Aikaterine, for example, are all octagonal, but differ among themselves in terms of their overall proportions as well as in terms of their construction details. The eastern domes have a slightly smaller diameter and are proportionally taller than the western pair. Furthermore, the eastern domes reveal the use of stone bands alternating with brick in the construction of their drums, a technique not otherwise encountered among Thessalonian churches (Fig. 8). By contrast, the two western domes reveal all-brick construction. Their relatively large diameters, on the other hand, have resulted in their corner colonnettes being framed by vertically set bricks that create a very distinctive, independent relationship between each colonnette and the neighboring arcades. This is particularly apparent on the northwest dome drum, its colonnettes appearing as though they were placed into special recesses, setting them completely apart from the surrounding masonry (Fig. 9). The same, even more pronounced detail occurs on the main dome, where it alternates with curious round niches as framing devices of individual windows (Fig. 10). The seemingly negligible detail of thus accentuated corner colonnettes was the hallmark of dome construction in churches associated with the Despotate of Epiros. This may 9 For a general overview of 14th-century churches in Thessalonike, see Vokotopoulos, “Church Architecture.” 10 Evangelia Hadjitryphonos, then an architect-restorer in the Ninth Ephoreia of Byzantine Antiquities in Thessalonike, was in charge of the restoration of the church from 1988 to 1994. She is currently preparing a final report on the work carried out on the building under her supervision. For a preliminary report see E. Hadjitryphonos, “Ergasive" sunthvrhsh" kai apokatavstash" sthn Ag. Aikaterivnh Qessalonivkh" 1988–1993,” Mnhmei'o kai; peribavllon 3: 1 (1995), 79–88. I am grateful to Dr. Hadjitryphonos for providing me with an opportunity to examine the building from the scaffolding while the restoration was in progress. I have also benefited from the many discussions we have had over the years regarding this and other related buildings. 11 P. I. Kuniholm and C. L. Striker, “Dendrochronological Investigations in the Aegean and Neighboring Regions, 1977–1982,” JFA 10.4 (1983): 419, provide a date of 1280 for H. Aikaterini. This date was revised by the authors to 1315 in JFA 14.4 (1987): 395. G. M. Velenis, Ermhneiva tou exwterikouv diakovsmou sth buzantinhv arcitektonikhv (Thessalonike, 1984), vol. 1: 227, dates the church to ca. 1320.

1

Thessalonike, Holy Apostles, main dome from the southeast

2

Arta, Panagia Paregoritissa, main dome from the southeast

3

Studenica monastery, church of the Mother of God, dome, from the south, after removal of 19th-century plaster

4

Studenica monastery, church of the Mother of God, dome, from the south, after recent restoration

5

Thessalonike, Holy Apostles, southeast minor dome, from the east

6

Thessalonike, Holy Apostles, general view from the northeast

7

Thessalonike, H. Aikaterine, general view from northwest (photo: L. Bouras)

8

Thessalonike, H. Aikaterine, northeast minor dome, from the northeast

9

10

Thessalonike, H. Aikaterine, northwest minor dome, from the northwest (photo: L. Bouras)

Thessalonike, H. Aikaterine, main dome, from the northwest (photo: L. Bouras)

11 Thessalonike, H. Aikaterine, upper part of naos, detail of north façade (photo: L. Bouras)

12 Voulgarelli, Panagia Vellas, south façade; detail (photo: J. Trkulja)

13 Thessalonike, H. Aikaterine, exonarthex, west façade, north side

14 Arta, Panagia Paregoritissa, east façade; detail

15 Mount Athos, Hilandar monastery, Katholikon; narthex domes from the southwest

16 Istanbul, Panagia Pammakaristos (present Fethiye Camii), main church dome, from the southwest (photo: Dumbarton Oaks Photograph Collection)

17 Koluˇsa, St. George, general view from the southwest, state as in 1898 (photo: N. Mavrodinov)

18 Thessalonike, H. Panteleimon, main dome, from the northeast

19 Thessalonike, H. Panteleimon, main dome, plan (drawing by M. Mihaljevi´c)

20 Thessalonike, H. Panteleimon, general view from the southeast, ca. 1900 (after Thessalonike and Its Monuments, 96)

21 Thessalonike, Metamorphosis (Christos Sotir), from the north

22 Thessalonike, Mone Vlatadon, katholikon, dome from the east

23 Thessalonike, Profitis Elias, general view from the southeast (photo: Ch. Bouras)

24 Redina, church, plan; partially reconstructed (author; after N. Moutsopoulos)

25 Redina, church, dome interior; present state, looking east

26 Redina, church, view of ruins from the north (from Eastern Macedonia —1994 )

27 Redina, church, dome, detail of drum, from the northwest

28 Serres, Prodromos monastery, katholikon, chapel of St. Nicholas, dome, from the north

29 Hosios Loukas, monastery, church of the Panagia, dome, from the northwest

30 Elasson, Panagia Olympiotissa, dome from the northwest (photo: J. Trkulja)

31 Elasson, Panagia Olympiotissa, plan (drawing by J. Bogdanovi´c)

32 Plans of Thessalonian churches: (A) H. Panteleimon; (B) H. Aikaterine; (C) Holy Apostles; (D) Vlatadon (drawing by J. Bogdanovi´c)

33a Meteora, Great Meteoron monastery, church of the Metamorphosis, plan (drawing by J. Bogdanovi´c)

Fig. 33b

Meteora, Great Meteoron monastery, church of the Metamorphosis, original building, plan (hypothetical reconstruction, author; drawing by J. Bogdanovi´c)

34 Meteora, Great Meteoron monastery, church of the Metamorphosis, the original church, from the southeast (photo: L. Bouras)

35 Map. Byzantine Empire and Serbia under King Milutin, ca. 1300 (author)

36 Map. Byzantine Macedonia. Region of conflicts between Byzantium and Serbia, showing fortifications newly built or restored (after M. Popovi´c)

ˇ cer; (C) Kuˇceviˇste; (D) Stip; ˇ 37 Plans of churches built by Serbian nobility: (A) Muˇsutiˇste; (B) Cuˇ (E) Ljuboten; (F) Konˇce; (G) Lesnovo; (H) Psaˇca (drawing by J. Bogdanovi´c)

ˇ cer, St. Nikitas, dome, from the northwest 38 Cuˇ

39 Muˇsutiˇste, Mother of God Hodegetria, from the east, prior to destruction in 1999 (photo: J. Prolovi´c)

40 Graˇcanica monastery, church of the Dormition, general view from the south

41 Graˇcanica monastery, church of the Dormition, plan

42 Graˇcanica monastery, church of the Dormition, main dome, from the south

43 Graˇcanica monastery, church of the Dormition, SW minor dome, from the south

44 Prizren, Mother of God Ljeviˇsa, main dome, from the west

45 Staro Nagoricˇino, St. George, main dome, from the southwest

46 Prizren, Mother of God Ljeviˇsa, south tympanum below main dome

47 Plans of churches associated with Stefan Deˇcanski and Duˇsan: (A) “Spasovica”; (B) Hrusija, St. Basil; (C) Hilandar, Holy Archangels (drawing by J. Bogdanovic´)

48 Pe´c, Patriarchate complex; Church of St. Demetrius, dome, from the northwest

49 Mount Athos, Hrusija (near Hilandar), Church of St. Basil, from the northeast (photo: S. Bariˇsi´c)

50 Mount Athos, Hilandar monastery, chapel of the Holy Archangels, dome, from the south (photo: S. Nenadovi´c)

51 Mount Athos, Hilandar monastery, katholikon, exonarthex dome, from the south

52 Budisavci, church of the Transfiguration, from the southeast (after G. Subotic´, Art of Kosovo, 35)

53 Budisavci, church of the Transfiguration, plan (drawing by J. Bogdanovic´)

54 Kuˇceviˇste, church of the Presentation of the Mother of God, from the northeast (photo: Ch. Bouras)

ˇ 55 Stip, Holy Archangels, dome, from the southeast

ˇ 56 Stip, Holy Archangels before destruction of the domed parekklesion, from the southeast (photo: G. Millet)

57 Ljuboten, St. Nicholas, from the northeast (photo: G. Millet)

58 Lesnovo monastery, church of Archangel Michael, from the north

59 Lesnovo monastery, church of Archangel Michael, main dome, from the southeast

60 Lesnovo monastery, church of Archangel Michael, narthex dome, from the north

61 Psaˇca, St. Nicholas, narthex dome, from the south

62 Mateji´c monastery, church of the Mother of God, from the northwest

63 Mateji´c monastery, church of the Mother of God, narthex, from the southwest

64 Mateji´c monastery, church of the Mother of God, main dome, from the west

65 Map. Region of Macedonia showing location of late Byzantine churches built in Thessalonian ( ), Epirote ( and Skopian ( ) manner

),

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be demonstrated by referring again to the main dome of the Paregoritissa at Arta (Fig. 2). The idiosyncratic nature of Epirote dome construction has not been observed in scholarship, but we must take note of it here as an integral part in the formative process of new building practice emerging in Thessalonike around 1300. It should also be noted in passing that the small domes of H. Aikaterine, according to the Velenis classification, belong to the “Macedonian dome” type while the main dome, in this case, does not.12 Other Epirote technical characteristics that may be noted on the church of H. Aikaterine involve semicircular tympana framing the main windows of the cross arms, recessed slightly from the face of the wall (Fig. 11). Among the many examples of such features in Epiros, one may refer to those on the church of Panagia Vellas at Voulgareli (Fig. 12).13 Likewise, one should note the use of recessed dog-tooth friezes as outlining devices on the façades of H. Aikaterine (Fig. 13). These, too, were standard features in the architecture of Epiros, as attested to by the east façade of the Paregoritissa at Arta (Fig. 14). For us, in the context of the present discussion, it is important to note that such features were extremely rare in Thessalonike. While it is obvious that the Epirote methods had some currency in Thessalonike, the input of Constantinopolitan architecture in the reemergence of architectural production in Thessalonike was by far the greatest.14 The means whereby this may have occurred are far from clear, however. An assumption has to be made that it probably took place via the Empire of Nicaea, especially after 1246, when Thessalonike came under the direct control of John III Vatatzes.15 In the course of the first half of the thirteenth century, Thessalonike had been entangled in complex struggles between different contenders for the Byzantine throne, with disastrous effects on the city itself.16 Left physically and economically ruined since the Norman sack of 1185, Thessalonike, as far as we know, was practically deprived of any building activity for decades. The revived architectural production in the city during the last decades of the thirteenth century, then, would imply that builders must have been brought in from elsewhere. It stands to reason that, in changed political conditions after 1261, new patterns of patronage began to emerge, putting “new” centers of architectural production—one of them being Thessalonike—on the map. The role of H. Aikaterine has already been pointed out. I will return once more to the issue of the idiosyncratic nature of its eastern pair of domes (Fig. 8). Their design and manner of construction with alternating bands of brick and stone, as we have seen, were dif12

Velenis, “Building Techniques,” fig. 12, illustrates only the southeastern minor dome of the church. For the Panagia Vellas see A. Orlandos, “Mnhmei'a tou' Despotavtou th'" ∆Hpeivrou. ÔH Kovkkinh ∆Ekklhsiav (Panagiva Bella'"),” ÔHpeirwtikav Cronikav 2 (1927): 153–69; also H. Hallensleben, “Die Architekturgeschichtliche Stellung der Kirche Sv. Bogorodica Perivleptos (Sv. Kliment) in Ohrid,” Zbornik. Arheolosˇki muzej na Makedonija 6–7 (1975): 297–316. 14 Views on this point differ. Vokotopoulos, “Church Architecture,” esp. 110 f, argues that the input of Constantinople was direct and considerable. The opposite point of view is maintained by Velenis, “Building Techniques,” esp. 95–99. The role of Epiros, as limited as it may have been, has generally been ignored. 15 This subject is deserving of a separate study. H. Buchwald, “Laskarid Architecture,” JÖB 28 (1979): 261– 96, has provided an important introduction to the architecture under the patronage of the emperors of Nicaea. His observations on the eclectic origins of this architecture may stand useful comparisons with phenomena dealt with in our context. I am avoiding the terms eclectic and eclecticism, however, because they imply a conscious and deliberate choice of certain architectural features and formulae that, in my opinion, do not apply in the context under discussion here. 16 F. Bredenkamp, The Byzantine Empire of Thessaloniki (1224–42) (Thessalonike, 1996). See also articles in this volume by J. Barker, A. Laiou, and C. Morrisson. 13

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ferent from those of its western pair of domes. The eastern domes of H. Aikaterine, for example, feature corner colonnettes that appear to be fully integrated with the surrounding masonry. The horizontal stone bands continue “through” the colonnettes, either because they were cut from the same block of stone or because individual pieces of stone were carefully aligned so that the horizontal “banding” was achieved. Such an approach to dome design and construction was common in Constantinopolitan architecture, from where it must have reached Thessalonike. Several fourteenth-century domes in Constantinople share these specific characteristics.17 A building of prime significance for our understanding of the links between the capital and Thessalonike, however, may be the katholikon of Hilandar monastery on Mount Athos. Built during the first decades of the fourteenth century, but certainly not after 1316, the Hilandar katholikon exhibits distinctive Constantinopolitan architectural traits.18 These include a pair of domes over the outermost bays of the narthex (Fig. 15). The two domes also exhibit some similarities with the eastern pair of domes of H. Aikaterine. Featuring octagonal drums, their corners marked by semi-cylindrical colonnettes and their faces perforated with single-light windows framed by double skewbacks, they rest on low square pedestals, separating them from the narthex roof. Similarly the building technique at both Hilandar and at H. Aikaterine involves bands of three brick courses alternating with bands comprising a single course of stone. The presence of comparable, thus articulated domes in the architecture of Constantinople, as early as the late eleventh century, supports the notion that their origins ultimately must be Constantinopolitan, though by ca. 1300 they did acquire a life of their own in Thessalonike.19 Two Constantinopolitan domes—those of the church of Christos ho Pantepoptes (present-day Eski Imaret Camii), dated ca. 1081–87, and the main church of the Pammakaristos complex (now Fethiye Camii), variously dated to the eleventh or twelfth century—demonstrate that the mature form of the dome type described above, but executed fully in brick, was known in Constantinople long before 1204 (Fig. 16).20 The 17

E.g., the main dome of the Parekklesion of Theotokos he Pammakaristos, as well as the main domes and the northern exonarthex dome of the katholikon of the Chora monastery; cf. W. Müller-Wiener, Bildlexikon zur Topographie Istanbuls (Tübingen, 1977), fig. 123 (Pammakaristos); for the katholikon of the Chora, see R. Ousterhout, The Architecture of the Kariye Camii in Istanbul, DOS 25 (Washington, D.C., 1987), fig. 153, showing the domes during restoration work, with their plaster removed. 18 M. Markovic´ and W. T. Hostetter, “Prilog hronologiji gradnje i oslikavanja hilandarskog katolikona” (“On the Chronology of the Construction and the Painting of the Katholikon of the Hilandar Monastery”), HilZb 10 (1998): 201–17 (Eng. summary, 218–20), date the construction either to 1299–1306 or to 1311–16, during the reign of hegoumenos Nikodim. For the architecture of the Hilandar katholikon see: S. Nenadovic´, Osam vekova Hilandara. Gradjenje i gradjevine (Eight Centuries of Hilandar. Building and Buildings) (Belgrade, 1997), 59– ´urcˇic´, "The Architectural Significance of the Hilandar Katholikon," BSCAbstr 4 (1978): 14–15, where 99; S. C the Constantinopolitan similarities are outlined, though they are deemed "conservative," implying similarities with church architecture in the capital before 1204. 19 See, for example, the main dome of the church now known as Kilisse Camii (dated to ca. 1100); cf. R. Krautheimer, Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture, 4th ed. (Harmondsworth, 1986), 362 f. 20 For the church of the Pantepoptes, see R. Ousterhout, “Some Notes on the Construction of Christos ho Pantepoptes (Eski Imaret Camii) in Istanbul,” Delt.Crist.∆Arc.ÔEt. 16 (1991–92): 47–56. For the main church of the Pammakaristos complex see the thorough study of H. Hallensleben, “Untersuchungen zur Baugeschichte der ehemaligen Pammakaristoskirche, der heutigen Fethiye camii in Istanbul,” IstMitt 13–14 (1963–64): 128–93, esp. 144–46, for the building core (“Kernbau”). Hallensleben dates this part of the building to the 11th century, a date rejected by Mango in H. Belting, C. Mango, and D. Mouriki, The Mosaics and Frescoes of St. Mary Pammakaristos (Fethiye Camii) at Istanbul, DOS 25 (Washington, D.C., 1978), 3 ff, who prefers a 12th-century date.

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appearance of domes of this type during the twelfth century, also on a number of churches in the central Balkans, is probably a reflection of the assertive policy of Emperor Manuel I in this region.21 One of these buildings, in addition to the already mentioned dome of the church of the Mother of God at Studenica monastery (Fig. 3), is the church of St. George in the village of Kolusˇa, in the vicinity of Kiustendil, Bulgaria. Built entirely of brick, in the so-called recessed brick technique, the church has an octagonal dome drum with all of the essential characteristics of the type (Fig. 17).22 The church is not dated securely, but its plan and the building technique bespeak a middle Byzantine foundation. Future scholarship will need to resolve the question of how exactly the pre-1204 Constantinopolitan dome type may have reached Thessalonike a century later. What is beyond any doubt is that it, along with other building characteristics, became the essence of building practice in Thessalonike by around 1310, from where it was subsequently exported into the Balkans. The unmistakable hallmark of Thessalonian building practice, as it emerged during the first two decades of the fourteenth century, was a very distinctive type of a church dome. I will refer to it as the “Thessalonian dome,” in deliberate contrast to the “Macedonian dome,” whose definition, as seen above, is essentially misleading.23 Marked by allbrick construction, the Thessalonian dome is polygonal in plan (Figs. 18, 19). Its corners, as illustrated by the main dome of the church of H. Panteleimon, are marked by rounded colonnettes, while its faces feature triple-arched skewbacks, the innermost one framing a single-light window.24 This specific building paradigm became the favorite cliché, as numerous surviving examples demonstrate. It should be noted in the exterior view that the individual colonnettes are not visibly set apart from the surrounding construction, in contrast to Epirote practice. The building core of H. Panteleimon was originally enveloped by domed parekklesia, and by an exonarthex, of which only the eastern ends of the parekklesia survive (Fig. 32A). Its oblong narthex features on the main axis a dome of the same basic 21

The main examples of such domes are on the churches of St. Panteleimon at Nerezi, F.Y.R.O.M., St. Nicholas at Kursˇumlija, and the church of the Virgin at Studenica monastery, both in Serbia; on St. Nicholas at Sapareva Banıa
, and the church in the village of Kolusˇa, both in Bulgaria. For the first three see Krautheimer, Architecture, figs. 332 (Nerezi), 333 (Kursˇumlija), and 391 (Studenica). For Sapareva Banıa
, see K. Miıa
tev, Arhitekturata v srednovekovna Bu˘lgariıa
(Sofia, 1965), fig. 217. On the policies of Manuel I in the Balkans, see P. Stephenson, Byzantium’s Balkan Frontier (Cambridge, 2000), chaps. 7 and 8. 22 For Kolusˇa, before the modern restoration disfigured the building, see N. Mavrodinov, Ednokorabnata i kr’stovidnata ts’rkva po bu˘lgarskitie zemi do kraıa
na XIV v. (Sofia, 1931), 106, figs. 123, 124. 23 Millet, L’école grecque, 189–201 (Byzantine domes in Greece), though the amount of space devoted to Thes´urcˇic´, salonian domes specifically is remarkably small (pp. 195–96). More about “Thessalonian domes” in S. C Gracˇanica. King Milutin's Church and Its Place in Late Byzantine Architecture (University Park, Pa.–London, 1979), 111–12, and also in M. Rautman, "The Church of the Holy Apostles in Thessaloniki: A Study in Early Palaeologan Architecture" (Ph.D. diss., University of Indiana, 1984), 202–5. This dissertation constitutes the only extensive study of architecture of any of the Thessalonian late Byzantine churches. Sadly, it, too, remains unpublished. 24 H. Panteleimon was one of several churches in Thessalonike damaged by the earthquake of 1978, and subsequently restored. At the present it remains without an adequate publication. Its date and the dedication are still uncertain. For summary of the controversy from the current perspective, see E. KourkoutidouNikolaidou and A. Tourta, Wandering in Byzantine Thessaloniki (Thessalonike, 1997), 45. N. Ioanidou, “Istorikhv topoqevthsh kai arcev" epevmbash", apov th melevth sterevwsh" tou naouv tou Ag. Pantelehvmona” (“Historical Documentation and Intervention Principles of the Conservation Study of the Church of St. Panteleimon”), in P. Astrinidou, ed., Restoration of Byzantine and Post-Byzantine Monuments (Thessalonike, 1986), 131–45, despite some mistakes, contains much useful information not available otherwise.

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type as the main dome. Its principal distinguishing feature is that it is “rotated” in such a way that its colonnettes, and not its windows, are aligned with the main building axis. The same characteristics were shared by the two domes over the lateral chapels that no longer survive. They were aligned with the main dome along the transversal axis, creating an unusual but effective exterior building design (Fig. 20). In addition to H. Panteleimon, domes of the same type, as we have already seen, appeared also on the Holy Apostles, built in 1310–14 (Figs. 1, 5, 6).25 After the middle of the century the same type recurs on the little church of Metamorphosis (also known as Christos Sotir) of around 1357, in the rebuilding of the katholikon of Vlatadon monastery, and finally in the 1360s or 1370s, on the church of Profitis Elias, possibly the katholikon of the erstwhile Akapniou monastery (Figs. 21, 22, 23).26 On the basis of the design and construction characteristics of domes on these churches, it is possible to claim that a building workshop, or indeed several related workshops with a standardized building practice, were at work in Thessalonike from ca. 1300 to ca. 1370. This notion is substantiated by the widespread appearance of “Thessalonian domes” during this interval of time. Our attention will first be turned to the monuments with “Thessalonian domes” on Byzantine territories, and then to the radiation of the formula into the neighboring territories under Serbian control. The first example is situated at Redina, a small settlement above a natural pass through which the Via Egnatia made its way east, just before reaching the Bay of Orphanos (Kolpos Orphanou). One of the few standing buildings preserved at Redina is a small cruciform domed church that survives in a ruinous state (Figs. 24, 25).27 Although nothing of its interior decoration is preserved, and we lack any historical evidence regarding its construction, there can be little doubt that this monument belongs to the first decades of the fourteenth century. Its superstructure was carefully built, entirely of brick, its internally cylindrical dome drum resting directly on a system of regular pendentives. Externally the dome drum is eight-sided. Four of the eight faces of its drum—those situated on the diagonals, rather than those on the main axes—once contained windows. The other four arcades contained shallow rectangular niches filled with decorative brick patterns (Fig. 26). Both the niches and the window openings were framed by double skewbacks. At each corner of the drum was a round colonnette, made of specially shaped, care25 The dating of this key monument of late Byzantine architecture has become a subject of controversy as a result of the publication by I. Kuniholm and C. Striker, “Dendrochronology and the Architectural History of the Church of the Holy Apostles in Thessaloniki,” Architectura 20.1 (1990): 1–26, who propose 1329+ as its construction date. On account of the presence of brick and marble monograms on the exonarthex façades, as well as a carved inscription on the lintel above the main portal, all of which identify Patriarch Niphon (1310–14) as the ktetor, for me it is impossible to accept the dating proposed by Kuniholm and Striker. 26 For the Metamorphosis, see Ch. Mavropoulou-Tsioumi and K. Theocharidou-Tsapralé, eds., H anasthvlwsh twn buzantinwvn kai metabuzantinwvn mnhmeivwn sth Qessalonivkh (Thessalonike, 1985), 91–101. For Vlatadon, see ibid., 84–90, and more recently E. Hadjitryphonos, “To perivstwo sthn ekklhsiastikhv arcitektonikhv th" oyivmh" periovdou th" Buzantinhv" Autokratoriva"” (“Peristoon in ecclesiastical architecture of the Late Byzantine Empire”), 2 vols., Ph.D. diss., Department of Architecture, Aristotle University of Thessalonike, 2000, 123–27. For Profitis Elias, see T. Papazotos, “The Identification of the Church of ‘Profitis Elias’ in Thessaloniki,” DOP 45 (1991): 121–27. The church of Profitis Elias was drastically restored from 1956 to 1961. With the exception of the main dome, all of its minor domes were completely rebuilt at this time. They cannot, therefore, be used as evidence in the context of our discussion. 27 N. K. Moutsopoulos, Rentivna IV. Oi ekklhsive" tou buzantinouv oikismouv [Rendina IV. The Churches of the Byzantine Burg] (Thessalonike, 2000), 295–334.

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fully laid bricks (Fig. 27). Their flat ends are imbedded in the masonry mass, their semicircular ends protruding, and collectively forming the semi-cylindrical form of each colonnette. All of these details match such details on Thessalonian monuments that we have seen, and undoubtedly must have been the work of a group of builders brought to Rendina from the regional capital. As we examine the exterior of this and other comparable domes, we may ponder what their original appearance may have actually been. Our ruminations, in this regard, are aided by another dome that may well belong to this larger family—the dome rising over the chapel of St. Nicholas, above the exonarthex of the katholikon at the Prodromos monastery near Serres (Fig. 28).28 Probably built ca. 1364–65, the dome of this chapel preserves an external coating of demonstrably later plaster with various architectural features rendered in paint. Particularly interesting in this regard are the painted lion masks that occur atop its semi-cylindrical corner colonnettes.29 Their placement and formal articulation suggest the possibility of their distant origins in early middle Byzantine architecture and beyond, as the marble-faced dome drum of the tenth-century church of the Panagia at Hosios Loukas monastery informs us (Fig. 29).30 Here the lion masks still had the function of waterspouts, as they did in classical architecture, from where the idea was presumably appropriated. Their original function completely forgotten by the fourteenth century, the painted emulation of such lion masks may have been as meaningful an echo of the distant prototypes as was the mimicking of small classical columns by virtue of the form and placement of the corner colonnettes. The Serres dome, with its now invisible construction technique, leaves us with an important but unanswerable question, whether, indeed, all these domes and church façades originally may not have been covered with plaster and painted.31 Situated southwest of Thessalonike, in the opposite direction from Serres, the church of Panagia Olympiotissa at Elasson, in Thessaly, provides another example of Thessalonian impact on church architecture in the surrounding areas.32 Built probably around 1300, the Olympiotissa displays a dome elevated on a tall drum (Fig. 30). In terms of its 28 H. Hallensleben, “Das Katholikon des Johannes-Prodromos-Klosters bei Serrai,” ByzF 1 (= Polychordia. Festschrift Franz Dölger zum 75. Geburtstag) (1966): 158–73, is currently the only study of the architecture of this important church. Hallensleben dates the chapel of St. Nicholas erroneously to 1344–45 and attributes it to Stefan Dusˇan. For the correction of dating, see G. Subotic´ and S. Kissas, “Nadgrobni natpis sestre despota Jovana Ugljesˇe na Menikenskoj gori” (“L’épitaphe de la soeur du despote Jean Ugljesˇa au Mont Ménécée”), ZRVI 16 (1975): 161–81. 29 To my knowledge, these painted features on the exterior of the dome of the chapel of St. Nicholas have never been discussed. The entire katholikon, along with its exonarthex and the belfry, is coated with painted plaster, all deserving of careful examination. 30 L. Boura, ÔO glupto;" diavkosmo" tou' naou' th'" Panagiva" sto; monasthvri tou' ÔOsivou Louka' (Athens, 1980), esp. 37–48, who discusses several other middle Byzantine sculptural examples related to H. Loukas. 31 ´urcˇic´, Middle Byzantine Architecture For the preliminary formulation of the much larger question, see S. C on Cyprus: Provincial or Regional? (Nicosia, 2000), esp. 19 ff. 32 The Olympiotissa has been a subject of several studies in recent years. Two dissertations have addressed the architecture of the church explicitly: M. Hatjigiannis, “L’architecture byzantine à l’époque des Palaeologues: Le cas du Catholicon de Olympiotissa à Elasson (Thessalie)” (Ph.D. diss., Université de Paris, Panthéon-Sorbonne, 1989), and K. Englert, Der Bautypus der Umgangskirche unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Panagia Olympiotissa in Elasson (Frankfurt a. M.–Bern–New York–Paris, 1991). See also M. Hatziyanni, “Relations architecturales entre la Thessalie et la Macédoine à l’époque des Paléologues: Le cas du catholicon de l’Olympiotissa à Élasson,” Qessaliva. Dekapevnte crovnia arcaiologikhv" evreuna" 1975–90, vol. 2 (Athens, 1994), 371–86, where certain architectural phenomena relevant to this context are discussed.

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design, construction, and detailing, this dome is practically indistinguishable from those on the Thessalonian churches (Figs. 5, 21, 22). Moreover, the Olympiotissa displays other important idiosyncratic affinities with Thessalonian churches. Foremost among these is the essentially symmetrical disposition of its plan, featuring a domed naos, enveloped on three sides by a peristoon, a multipurpose space with which it forms an integral whole (Fig. 31).33 Such planning has been noted as one of the hallmarks of Thessalonian churches, and has been assessed as a deliberate emulation of a distinctive local architectural prototype under the auspices of a local class of ecclesiastical patrons (Fig. 32).34 The pronounced similarity in the planning of the Olympiotissa with the churches of H. Panteleimon, H. Aikaterine, and H. Apostoloi in Thessalonike, of course, cannot be explained using the same arguments. The latest of the group of churches featuring a “Thessalonian dome” was actually built after the first fall of Thessalonike to the Ottomans in 1387. Originally built as a small katholikon of a new monastery of Great Meteoron in Meteora, in 1387–88, the church of Metamorphosis was subsequently (1544–45) incorporated into a much larger new katholikon (Figs. 33b and 33a, respectively).35 Although its western part was destroyed at that time, most of the original church, including its dome, remains intact, now serving as the sanctuary of the new katholikon. The externally partially visible dome of the old katholikon belongs to the type I have identified as the “Thessalonian dome” (Fig. 34). Though displaying unusually squat proportions in other respects, this dome has all the characteristics of “Thessalonian domes.” Its very late date suggests that it may well be the last medieval example of this dome type. In fact, it may have been built by builders from Thessalonike sent fleeing from the city in the aftermath of the first Ottoman conquest in 1387. A number of other, small churches in present-day northern Greece belong to the Palaiologan period, and several of them may well be associated with Thessalonian workshops, though their domes no longer survive. Among these I will mention only the churches of St. Panteleimon, near the village of Prototsani, near Drama and that of H. Nikolaos, near the village of Pyli (Vineni) on Lake Mikra Prespa, both dated to the late thirteenth century.36 Both churches are now in ruins, lacking their original domes. Their external wall articulation, as well as their building technique, points to Thessalonike as the most likely source of their builders. From the foregoing, it may be concluded that the impact of Thessalonike in the region of Macedonia, and to a somewhat lesser degree in Thessaly, during the period spanning the late thirteenth to the late fourteenth century, was considerable. The impact of Thessalonike on the architecture of various parts of Byzantine Macedonia and Thessaly, significant as it was, was eclipsed by its impact on neighboring Ser33

Hadjitryphonos, “To perivstwo,” vol. 1, 128–29 and passim, where issues pertaining to the function and architectural integration of such spaces into larger church buildings are discussed in detail. 34 Rautman, “Patrons and Buildings,” esp. 312 f; who believes that Hagia Sophia in Thessalonike served as the local prototype that influenced the planning of most Palaiologan churches in the city. It is difficult to accept this notion for a number of reasons, not the least among them being major differences of function and scale among the buildings in question. 35 P. L. Theocharides, “To parekklhvsi tou Prodrovmou sto Megavlo Metevwro,” in Ekklhsive" sthn ÔEllavda metav thn'' VAlwsh (Athens, 1979), 121–36, provides a useful general chronology of the monastery (p. 132). 36 For Prototsani see G. Velenis, “”Ena" Palaiolovgeio" nao;" sth;n perioch; Dravma",” ∆Episthmonikh; ejpethrivda th'" Polutecnikh'" Scolh'", Tmh'ma ajrcitektovnwn 6 (Thessalonike, 1973), 83–108. For Pyli, see N. Moutsopoulos, “O Agio" v Nikovlao" Puvlh" (Binevnh"),” To; ajrcaiologiko; e[rgo sth; Makedoniva kai; Qravkh 4, 1990 (1993): 45–65.

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bia.37 During the last decades of the thirteenth and the first half of the fourteenth century, Serbia emerged as the major power in the Balkans. The territorial ambitions of the Serbian king Stefan Urosˇ II Milutin (1282–1321) during the first half of his reign, from 1282 to 1299, saw an expansion of the Serbian state into the region of Macedonia (Fig. 35).38 The Byzantine loss of Skopje in 1282, and the failed attempt by Emperor Michael VIII to mount a significant counter-campaign, ending with his death in December 1282, initiated a period of major confrontation between the Serbs and the Byzantines. Successive Byzantine military failures led to a flurry of diplomatic activity under the leadership of Theodore Metochites that climaxed with a peace treaty in 1299, sealed by the marriage of King Milutin to Simonis, the young daughter of Andronikos II. An extensive program of reconstruction of old fortifications and the construction of new ones within the territory of Byzantine Macedonia must have been chiefly responsible for the transformation of this thirteenth-century backwater region into a vast construction site during the last decades of the same century (Fig. 36).39 It was in those circumstances that Thessalonike became a veritable “architectural Mecca” of the Byzantine Empire. The city became the home of the second imperial household, when Empress Yolanda-Irene moved her own court there. Periods of residence of the empress, various other high-ranking figures, such as Michael Glabas Tarchaneiotes, Makarios Choumnos, Theodore Metochites, as well as the Serbian king Milutin, short as they may have been, attest to the new level of importance to which Thessalonike had risen at the time. Within its ancient city walls, themselves an object of extensive repairs and improvements, many new churches and monasteries arose.40 The city, left devastated and substantially depopulated following the Norman sack of 1185, the twenty years of Latin control after 1204, and a tug-of-war between the main contenders for the Byzantine throne from 1204 to 1261, came back to life in a remarkable fashion, at the latest by 1282. The volume of construction must have reached its peak during the first two decades of the fourteenth century, followed by a period of relative stagnation, and then yet another, lesser peak of building activity from ca. 1350–ca. 1370.41 Starting with King Milutin’s patronage of architecture in Serbia, especially after his marriage to Simonis in 1299 until his death in 1321, major commissions began to occur outside Byzantine territories, attracting Byzantine builders to the lands of the former archenemy of the empire. This trend intensified after Milutin’s grandson Dusˇan assumed the Serbian throne, first as king (1331–46), and then as the emperor of the Serbs and the Greeks (1346–55). The surviving churches, as we will be able to see, reflect this pattern of development that made Serbian patrons the principal employers of Byzantine, and particularly Thessalonian, builders. ´urcˇic´, Gracˇanica, chap. 1 (“Political and Cultural Conditions in Serbia under King Milutin”). C ˇ ivojinovic´, “La frontière serbobyzantine dans les premières décennies du XIVe siècle,” in Buzavntio M. Z kai Serbiva katav ton IDV aiwvna, ed. E. Papadopoulou and D. Dialeti (Athens, 1996), 57–66. 39 M. Popovic´, “Les forteresses dans les régions des conflits byzantinoserbes au XIVe siècle,” in Buzavntio kai Serbiva (as above, note 38), 67–87. Practically simultaneously appeared also I. Mikuljcˇic´, Srednovekovni gradovi i tvrdini vo Makedonija (Medieval Towns and Castles in the Republic of Macedonia) (Skopje, 1996), a major study of medieval fortifications on the territory of the F.Y.R.O.M. 40 For the late Byzantine interventions on the city walls of Thessalonike, see G. Gounaris, The Walls of Thessaloniki (Thessalonike, 1982), 15–17. On urban developments in late Byzantine Thessalonike, see the article by Ch. Bakirtzis in this volume. 41 Rautman, “Patrons and Buildings,” and Papazotos, “Identification,” esp. 127. 37 38

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The first phase of this development is associated with the intensive architectural patronage of King Milutin, credited by the author of his Life with building as many as fifteen churches, seven of which have survived or have been positively identified.42 Of these, ˇucˇer (Banjani), near Skopje (built ca. 1307)—may be positively one—St. Niketas at C linked to a Thessalonian workshop.43 Displaying many conservative traits, it is a fourpiered, cross-in-square building without a narthex, and with a single polygonal apse (Fig. 37, B).44 A chapel once abutting the church at its southeast corner was added shortly after the completion of the building, but was destroyed during a restoration in 1928.45 The walls of the church, built using alternating bands of two to three courses of brick and single courses of stone, recall wall construction of the Holy Apostles in Thessalonike. The resemblance between the two churches, if we compare their domes, leaves no doubt regarding the origins of St. Niketas’ builders (Figs. 38 and 5). The dome of St. Niketas follows the Thessalonian formula in all respects: all-brick construction, triple skewbacks, and corner colonnettes fully merged with the surrounding wall fabric. As such, it is the earliest dated example of the “Thessalonian dome” on a church built under the auspices of King Milutin on the territory of his state. In several respects closely related to the church of St. Niketas was the church of the Mother of God Hodegetria in the village of Musˇutisˇte in the region of Kosovo. Virtually identical in plan and practically of the same dimensions, this church, unlike St. Niketas, was a private foundation (Fig. 37, A). Other similarities include aspects of the building technique and, most notably, the Thessalonian dome with its characteristic all-brick construction, triple skewbacks framing individual window openings, and slender cylindrical corner colonnettes (Fig. 39). The church was built in 1314–15 by a local nobleman, Jovan Dragoslav, with his wife Jelena, their son Stanisˇa and daughter Ana, according to an inscription that was carved on a stone lintel above the main church portal.46 Sadly, the ˇ ivoti kraljeva i arhiepiskopa srpskih, ed. Dj. Danicˇic´ (Zagreb, 1886; 2d ed. LonArhiepiskop Danilo i drugi, Z don, 1972), 132–51. A fundamental account of patronage of medieval church building in Serbia, despite its early date, remains V. Markovic´, Pravoslavno monasˇtvo i manastiri u srednjevekovnoj Srbiji (Orthodox monasticism and monasteries in medieval Serbia) (Sremski Karlovci, 1920), esp. 89–98, for the reign of King Milutin. Most recently the subject of King Milutin’s patronage of the arts was discussed exhaustively by B. Todic´, Serbian Medieval Painting. The Age of King Milutin (Belgrade, 1999), 7–30. 43 ˇucˇer and Banjani, on the outskirts The monastery church of St. Niketas is situated near the villages of C ˇucˇer, but occasionally the location is given as Banjani, of Skopje. Most commonly it is referred to as being at C thus potentially causing confusion. For a general discussion see P. Miljkovic´-Pepek, “Crkvata Sv. Nikita vo Skopska Crna Gora kako istorisko-umetnicˇki spomenik,” in Spomenici na srednovekovnata i ponovata istorija na ˇ. Tatic´, “Arhitektonski Makedonija, vol. 1 (Skopje, 1975), 379–86. The main study of its architecture remains Z spomenici u Skopskoj Crnoj Gori,” Glasnik Skopskog naucˇnog drusˇtva 12 (1933): 127–34. The dating of the church is uncertain, but it was built by King Milutin, as we learn from the king’s Life; cf. Arhiepiskop Danilo, ˇ ivoti, 138. Its frescoes are generally dated as late as ca. 1320; cf. Todic´, Serbian Medieval Painting, 343–46. Z 44 ´urcˇic´, “Articulation of Church Façades during the First Half of the Fourteenth Century. A Study of S. C the Relationship of Byzantine and Serbian Architecture,” in Vizantijska umetnost pocˇetkom XIV veka (L’art byzantin au début du XIVe siècle), ed. S. Petkovic´ (Belgrade, 1978), esp. 21 f. 45 The chapel, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, was also commissioned by King Milutin; cf. V. R. Petkovic´, Pregled crkava kroz povesnicu srpskog naroda (Belgrade, 1950), 212. 46 This important monument has received only limited scholarly attention. The pioneering study on the church and its frescoes was that of V. J. Djuric´, “Nepoznati spomenici srpskog srednjovekovnog slikarstva u Metohiji—I” [Monuments inconnus de la peinture Serbe médiévale à Metohija—I], Starine Kosova i Metohije 2–3 (Prisˇtina, 1963): 61–89, esp. 61–67. For a summary of up-to-date scholarship on the church of the Mother of God at Musˇutisˇte, see I. Djordjevic´, Zidno slikarstvo srpske vlastele u doba Nemanjic´a [Wall Paintings of the Ser42

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church of the Mother of God at Musˇutisˇte was the victim of wanton destruction in July 1999. It was one of several medieval churches in the region of Kosovo completely blown up only weeks after the United Nations military force, KFOR, took control of the province.47 Its loss is all the greater because it was the oldest documented private church foundation built by a Serbian nobleman. To make matters worse, its architecture and frescoes had received only a limited amount of attention up to the time of its demise. The church of the Annunciation (subsequently Dormition of the Virgin) at Gracˇanica monastery, six miles south of Prisˇtina, in the region of Kosovo, was a far more complex, royal enterprise (Fig. 40).48 Gracˇanica was apparently the work of a crew made up of builders from different centers, whose combined talents produced a building in a class of its own. Begun possibly as early as 1311 under the auspices of King Milutin, the church reveals thorough awareness of the church planning in vogue at the time in Thessalonike (Figs. 41 and 32). The most notable Thessalonian aspects of Gracˇanica’s design, however, are its five domes (Figs. 42, 43). Featuring all-brick construction, they are characterized by double skewbacks and characteristic cylindrical corner colonnettes. It is not inconsequential here to point out the differences between the articulation of Gracˇanica’s “Thessalonian domes” and those on two other major five-domed churches commissioned by King Milutin: the church of the Mother of God Ljevisˇka (Bogorodica Ljevisˇka) in Prizren, in the region of Kosovo (built in 1306–7), and the church of St. George at Staro Nagoricˇino, near Kumanovo, F.Y.R.O.M. (built in 1312–13). Despite certain similarities with Gracˇanica in their overall design conception, the two churches have domes whose forms and detailing are quite different (Figs. 44, 45).49 The faces of their drums are relatively flat, this being especially pronounced at Prizren, and both domes reveal extensive use of stone as one of the building materials. Their corner colonnettes, in addition to being different in design, in both cases clearly stand apart from the surrounding masonry. Occasional visual accents appear on the domes and elsewhere on the two churches, in the form of decorative friezes and other designs made up of small specially cut tiles and cruciform terra-cotta jars set into mortar with their openings facing out (Fig. 46). These are true hallmarks of Epirote construction, as may be attested to by referring once more to the Panagia Paregoritissa at Arta (Fig. 14). The same elements do not appear on any of the Thessalonian churches, nor on any of King Milutin’s buildings featuring “Thessalonian domes.” Following the death of King Milutin in 1321, the Thessalonian input in the church architecture of Serbia apparently continued, though the number of datable relevant buildings that may be associated with the reign of his successor, Stefan Urosˇ III Decˇanski (1321– 31), is relatively limited. Unfortunately, the one building that seems to have displayed bian Nobility of the Nemanjic´ Era] (Belgrade, 1994), 131, as well as Todic´, Serbian Medieval Painting, 340. For the dedicatory inscription, see G. Tomovic´, Morfologija ´c irilskih natpisa na Balkanu [Morphology of Cyrillic Inscriptions in the Balkans] (Belgrade, 1974), 48. 47 ´urcˇic´, “Destruction Regarding the destruction of the church of the Mother of God at Musˇutisˇte, see S. C of Serbian Cultural Patrimony in Kosovo: A World-Wide Precedent?” Bulletin of British Byzantine Studies 26 (2000): 101–6, esp. 103–4. 48 ´ Curcˇic´, Gracˇanica. 49 Ibid., chap. 4, passim, regarding similarities and differences of design of the three buildings. On the architecture of Bogorodica Ljevisˇka, see S. Nenadovic´, Bogorodica Ljevisˇka. Njen postanak i njeno mesto u arhitekturi Milutinovog vremena (Belgrade, 1963). For Staro Nagoricˇino, see B. Todic´, Staro Nagoricˇino (Belgrade, 1993), with older literature on the subject.

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unmistakable Thessalonian characteristics no longer survives. The church of the Ascension (Vaznesenje), also known as Sv. Spas (Savior), near Kiustendil, Bulgaria (medieval Velbuzˇd; Byzantine Velevousdion; ancient Pautalia), was commissioned by the Serbian king to commemorate his victory over the army of the Bulgarian emperor Michael Shishman in 1330. Popularly known as “Spasovica,” its ruins were still standing until World War II, when they were completely demolished. Recorded on photographs taken at the turn of the twentieth century, the church remains have been architecturally documented and published.50 The crucial photograph of the building, as seen from the southwest, originally published by Iordan Ivanov, indicates that its minor domes were of the Thessalonian variety, featuring octagonal drums with corner colonnettes, double skewbacks, and slender windows. In plan, the church featured a compact cruciform naos, preceded by a twindomed oblong narthex, conceptually related to the katholikon of Hilandar monastery, the oldest known example of this scheme (Fig. 47, A).51 Probable links with Hilandar are notable in another church whose construction occurred during the reign of Stefan Decˇanski—the church of St. Demetrius in the patriarchal complex of churches at Pec´. Built by the Serbian archbishop Nikodim, in 1321–24, the church was the first of a series of additions to the thirteenth-century church of the Holy Apostles.52 Abutting its naos along the north side, the church of St. Demetrius must have given the impression of a monumental funerary parekklesion, comparable in concept, if not in details, to such buildings as the roughly contemporary parekklesion of the Chora in Constantinople. Possibly built by a mixed crew of builders, the church of St. Demetrius reveals several idiosyncratic features, such as the Gothic window frame in its apse. At the same time, its dome displays a number of pronounced Thessalonian characteristics (Fig. 48). Notable are the triple skewbacks and the slender brick corner colonnettes. Deviating from the Thessalonian formula, this dome displays curious use of stone, in fact, an assortment of several different types of stone blocks, introduced almost randomly into an otherwise predominantly brick structure. Such use of stone blocks is at variance with contemporary Byzantine practice in general. When stone did appear in domes of Thessalonian churches, as in the northeast dome of H. Aikaterine (Fig. 8), it was in the form of regularly spaced courses. The same is true, as we have also seen, of the minor domes of the katholikon of Hilandar monastery (Fig. 15). Given the latest thinking regarding the dating of Hilandar katholikon, it seems very possible that Nikodim, the hegoumenos of Hilandar from 1311 to 1317, may have been responsible for bringing some of the builders from Hilandar to Serbia, after becoming the new Serbian archbishop in 1317.53 In recent years our insights into the manner of building workshop operations and dissemination of their ideas, methods, and techniques have slowly begun to develop. These suggest that workshop skills acquired by young apprentices on major building sites, supervised by Byzantine master builders, 50 S. Nenadovic´, “Arhitektura Spasovice,” Zbornik zasˇtite spomenika kulture 19 (1968): 33–42. Reconstruction drawings by the author display some deviations from what is actually discernible on photographs. 51 ´urcˇic´, “The Twin-Domed Narthex in Paleologan Architecture,” ZRVI 13 (1971): 333–44. S. C 52 ˇanak-Medic´, L’architecture de la première moitié du XIIIème siècle, II, Les églises de Rascie (Belgrade, 1995), M. C 17, 33–34, and 47, gives the most recent account of the history of the building and its architecture, with older bibliography. 53 Archbishop Nikodim (1317–24), the patron of the church of St. Demetrius, was the hegoumenos of Hilandar monastery until his elevation to the throne of the Serbian archbishop (12 May 1317?); cf. Sava, Episkop sumadijski, Srpski jerarsi od devetog do dvadesetog veka (Belgrade–Podgorica–Kragujevac, 1996), 362.

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became the means of spreading Byzantine architectural style within Serbia.54 The church of St. Demetrius at Pec´ may aid in the process of improving our understanding the means of training new builders and their mobility, about both of which we know so pathetically little.55 Serbian royal patronage of Hilandar monastery provides us with three additional insights of relevance in the context of this study. The first is a small church of St. Basil in the so-called Hrusija, or Old Monastery, on the seacoast, near Hilandar.56 The church, built by King Stefan Decˇanski around 1330, shares several characteristics, including scale, with the church of Spasovica already discussed (Fig. 47, B and A). Recently restored and stripped of an exterior coat of plaster, its dome has revealed characteristics that link it to the domes on the katholikon at Hilandar monastery (Fig. 49).57 The chapel of the Holy Archangels in the courtyard of Hilandar monastery may also belong to this family of buildings.58 Externally plastered and painted, the church has a relatively low dome, whose drum is partially concealed by a later slate tile roof (Fig. 50). Its plan displays similarities with the church of St. Basil, albeit on a slightly smaller scale (Fig. 47, C). Legend ascribes the church to Emperor Dusˇan, whose visit to Mount Athos and Hilandar monastery during the outbreak of the plague in the winter of 1347–48 may have been the occasion for such a donation. Judging on the basis of our analysis, the architectural character of the building seems to confirm this dating. Finally, the exonarthex of the Hilandar katholikon may also have been commissioned by Emperor Dusˇan.59 Its dome repeats the design and building technique of the two small domes over the katholikon narthex (Figs. 15, 51). If several large-scale fortification towers are added to the list of buildings associated with Hilandar to which I have already alluded, we are left with a distinct impression that the monastery and its immediate environs must have been a site of continuous construction over a period of several decades at the outset of the fourteenth century. Its spiritual but also secular links with Constantinople, with Thessalonike, and ultimately with Serbia, made Hilandar one of the most important and influential centers of the period in question. Only further in-depth study of this monastery will reveal the many still undetected clues regarding the processes of transmission of architectural ideas and stylistic variants during the Palaiologan era. The role of the Hilandar monastery in the transmission of architectural ideas into Ser´urcˇic´, “Two Examples of Local Building Workshops in Fourteenth-Century Serbia,” Zograf 7 (1977): S. C 45–51. 55 For the latest general discussion of the subject, see R. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton, N.J., 1999), esp. chap. 2. 56 S. Barisˇic´, “The Church of St. Basil on the Sea,” in Hilandar Monastery, ed. G. Subotic´ (Belgrade, 1998), 197–204. 57 Ibid., fig. on p. 204. The church may have originally been coated with plaster and painted, as indicated by sections of once preserved original (?) decoration on the dome drum. These details have been removed along with large areas of demonstrably later plaster. This problem is dealt with separately in my article entitled “Nezapazˇeni doprinosi Hilandara razvoju srpske srednjovekovne arhitekture” [Unobserved contribuˇ etvrta kazivanja o Svetoj Gori [The tions of Hilandar to the development of medieval architecture in Serbia], in C Holy Mountain—Thoughts and Studies 4] (Belgrade) (in press). 58 Nenadovic´, “Arhitektura Spasovice,” 131–33. 59 ´urcˇic´, “The Exonarthex of Hilandar. The Question of Its Function and Patronage,” in Osam vekova S. C Hilandara. Istorija, duhovni zivot, knjiz ˇevnost, umetnost i arhitektura [Huit siècles du monastère de Chilandar. Histoire, vie spirituelle, littérature, art et architecture], ed. V. Korac´ (Belgrade, 2000), 477–87. 54

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bia, especially under the auspices of Archbishop Nikodim, has already been stressed. On this occasion, it may be useful also to refer to the small church of the Transfiguration (Preobrazˇenje) in the village of Budisavci, in the region of Kosovo, ca. 17 km east of Pec´. The church, whose extensive restoration under the auspices of Archbishop Makarije in 1568 is documented, was originally built in the fourteenth century, but a record of the circumstances of this construction has not been preserved.60 With the recent discovery of the building technique on the dome of the church of St. Basil at Hrusija, it is now possible to propose a link between these two buildings. The lower part of the dome of the Budisavci church has preserved its original medieval appearance (Fig. 52). Its octagonal form, with its corner semi-cylindrical colonnettes and double skewback framing of the four slender windows on the main axes of the building, recalls Thessalonian domes in a most general sense. Its distinctive building technique, comprising alternate banding of several courses of brick with several courses of stone, reveals similarities with the dome of St. Basil at Hrusija. Lacking further evidence at this point, we may simply hypothesize that the church may have been built by the builders brought to Serbia from Mount Athos by Archbishop Nikodim, or by some of their apprentices, shortly after the completion of the church of St. Demetrius at Pec´ in 1324. The cruciform plan of the church at Budisavci also reveals some conceptual links with the group of churches associated with Hilandar monastery that we have considered in this context (Figs. 53 and 47). When Stefan Dusˇan became the king of Serbia in 1331, he continued the policy of active patronage of church construction of his father, and particularly of his grandfather Milutin. Furthermore, like his grandfather, he fostered a climate in which his noblemen eagerly followed the ruler’s lead, building their own churches and monasteries. As many as six such churches, relevant to this study, and built in these circumstances during Dusˇan’s reign, have been preserved within the F.Y.R.O.M. The oldest among these is the church of the Presentation of the Mother of God (Vavedenje Bogorodice, also known as Sv. Spas) in the village of Kucˇevisˇte, near Skopje (Fig. 54). The church was built ca. 1330, apparently by a woman named Marena, together with a certain Radoslav and another woman, Vladislava. Marena appears to have been a noblewoman, and all three individuals may be identified as belonging to a powerful local feudal family.61 Their church displays a slightly elongated cross-in-square plan of approximately the same size as the church at Musˇutisˇte, built a decade and a half earlier (Fig. 37, C and B). Its narthex with an elaborate fresco cycle was added in 1332–37.62 The original building, by virtue of its simple plan, its size, ˇucˇer and and its general architectural character, reveals affinities with the churches at C Musˇutisˇte. Like those two churches, it also displays a “Thessalonian dome,” here with double skewbacks, as we saw on Gracˇanica. Shortly after Kucˇevisˇte, in 1332, Vojvoda Hrelja, a high-ranking nobleman in Dusˇan’s state and an owner of vast estates east of the Vardar (Axios) River, commissioned the ˇtip (Byzantine Stypeon).63 The church is church of the Holy Archangels in the town of S based on what appears to have been a standard, slightly elongated cross-in-square plan 60

M. Ivanovic´, “Crkva Preobrazˇenja u Budisavcima,” Starine Kosova i Metohije 1 (1961): 113–44. Djordjevic´, Zidno slikarstvo, 131–36. 62 Ibid., 135–36; also Z. Rasokolska-Nikolovska, “O ktitorskim portretima u crkvi Svete Bogorodice u Kucˇevisˇtu,” Zograf 16 (1985): 41–53. 63 The church has received very little attention largely, it would seem, because its interior is without frescoes. Among the few notable comments are those of Millet, L’école grecque, 114–15; and Dj. Bosˇkovic´, “Belesˇke 61

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(Fig. 37, D). Merely 1m longer than the church at Kucˇevisˇte, the church of the Holy Archangels also displays unmistakable affinities with Thessalonike. This is particularly true of its octagonal dome drum featuring all-brick construction, triple skewbacks framing windows, and slender corner colonnettes (Fig. 55). The dome of the Holy Archangels also displays an idiosyncratic characteristic that may link it to a specific monument in Thessalonike. Its eight-sided drum is rotated in such a way that colonnettes, instead of windows, appear on the main building axes. Such an arrangement appears also on the narthex dome and on the no longer extant parekklesia domes of H. Panteleimon in Thessalonike (Fig. 20). Like H. Panteleimon, the church of the Holy Archangels once had a lateral chapel on its south side. Recorded on a unique photograph taken by G. Millet, this chapel was topped with another “Thessalonian dome” (Fig. 56). The entire parekklesion, and any other lateral elements, such as a narthex that may once have existed, are now gone. As in the case of H. Panteleimon, these were additions not structurally bonded with the building core, though they must have been added shortly after its completion and possibly as part of the original design intentions. Another member of Dusˇan’s aristocratic circle, a lady Danica, built a monastic church dedicated to St. Nicholas at Ljuboten, on the slopes of Skopska Crna Gora.64 The church, dated to 1337, employs a plan that can best be described as a standard formula, its length measuring 12 m, identical to the churches of Musˇutisˇte and Kucˇevisˇte (Fig. 37, E, A, and C). The dome of Ljuboten, along with substantial portions of its superstructure, was drastically restored in 1928. A photograph taken by G. Millet before this restoration reveals that its dome, too, had all the characteristics of a typical “Thessalonian dome” (Fig. 57). To the same group also belongs the church of St. Stephen in the monastery of Koncˇe, ˇ tip, built during the reign of Emperor Dusˇan (1346–55) by a nobleman (veliki near S vojvoda) Nikola Stanjevic´.65 The church utilizes the same basic, slightly elongated plan, here 13.2 m long (Fig. 37, F). The main distinction, in this case, is the preference for slight elongation of the main piers in plan. The dome, much like that at Ljuboten, despite its heavy-handed recent restoration, preserves the essential characteristics of the Thessalonian formula. By far the most impressive and best preserved of the churches built by the nobility in Serbia during the fourth and fifth decades of the fourteenth century is the church of Archangel Michael at Lesnovo monastery, commissioned by the Sevastokrator, later Despot Oliver with his wife Marija and their two sons. Initially built between 1341 and 1346, the church was enlarged, apparently as a result of its having become the seat of the bishopric of Zletovo after the council of Skopje in 1347 (Figs. 37, G and 58).66 The ensa putovanja” [Notes de voyages], Starinar, 3d ser. 7 (1937): 98–100. E. Reusche, “Polychromes Sichtmauerwerk byzantinischer und von Byzanz beeinflusster Südosteuropas,” inaugural diss., Universität zu Köln (Cologne, 1971), 160–64, offers useful observations on the masonry technique. 64 ˇ Z. Tatic´, “Arhitektonski spomenici u Skopskoj Crnoj Gori: 2. Ljuboten” (Fr. summary: “L’église de Ljuboten”), Glasnik Skopskog naucˇnog drusˇtva 2.1–2 (1927): 93–108. 65 R. M. Grujic´, “Arheolosˇke i istoriske belesˇke iz Makedonije” (Fr. summary: “Notes archéologiques et historiques de Macédoine”), Starinar, n.s. 3–4 (1955): 203–16, esp. 205–11 for Koncˇe. On the restoration of the ˇumanov, “Istrazˇuvanje i proekt Sv. Stefan, s. Koncˇe” (Ger. summary: “Forschung und Projekt church see L. S ‘Sv. Stefan’, Dorf Koncˇe”), Kulturno nasledstvo i ˇc ovekoviot ˇivoten z prostor. Zbornik na trudovi od naucˇniot kolokvium (Skopje, 1983): 200–208. 66 S. Gabelic´, Manastir Lesnovo. Istorija i slikarstvo (Belgrade, 1998), offers a detailed discussion of historiography (pp. 15–22) and the history of the monastery (pp. 23–50).

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largement consisted of a domed narthex, built between 1347 and 1349. Both parts, the original naos and the added narthex, feature “Thessalonian domes” of the highest quality (Figs. 59, 60). Judging by the presence of Old Church Slavonic as well as Greek inscriptions at Lesnovo, one is reminded not only of Dusˇan’s imperial tenets, but also of the fact that Greek artisans, in this case most probably from Thessalonike, were employed here on this ambitious project.67 The two domes, in addition to their constructional details, display also other specific affinities with Thessalonike. Both domes are rotated so that colonnettes, and not windows, appear aligned with the building’s main axes. This design peculiarity, as we have already seen, was employed in the churches of Olympiotissa at Elasson ˇ tip (Fig. 56), as well as in the narthex dome of H. Pan(Fig. 31) and Holy Archangels at S teleimon in Thessalonike (Fig. 20), possibly the prototype of the entire group featuring this idiosyncratic detail. The church of St. Nicholas at Psacˇa monastery, though only partially preserved, illustrates the continuation of the Thessalonian impact into the sixth decade of the fourteenth century.68 Built before Emperor Dusˇan’s death in 1355, the church was commissioned by another of his noblemen by the name of Vlatko. The original church had a four-piered naos, here spatially fused with a single domed narthex (Fig. 37, H). In this case only the narthex dome has been preserved (Fig. 61). Of inferior quality, when compared to the narthex dome of Lesnovo (Fig. 60), Psacˇa may be another example of the work of local apprentices trained by the Thessalonian masters on a major building project. In this case the training may well have occurred at Lesnovo. This hypothesis requires further close study of the two churches in question. In addition to the churches mentioned, a large number of churches, many of them still preserved, were built in and around Skopje, the capital of Dusˇan’s state. This phenomenon has been noted, but is deserving of more extensive attention.69 Given our objectives, I will touch on only some of the main issues that concern us here. Among the churches built in the area of Skopje one of the most impressive must have been the church of the Mother of God (Bogorodica) at Matejic´ monastery, apparently begun by Dusˇan himself, but finished by his wife Jelena and son Urosˇ after his death in 1355 (Fig. 62).70 The church, situated on a prominent plateau overlooking the plain near Kumanovo, still survives notwithstanding the numerous misfortunes it suffered throughout history, the latest one in the summer of 2001.71 The grand building displays a standard cross-in-square plan, ex´urcˇic´, “The Architecture of Lesnovo in the Light of Political Realities in Mid-Fourteenth-Century S. C Macedonia,” BSCAbstr 14 (1988): 22. 68 For the latest account of the history of the church and an up-to-date bibliography, see Djordjevic´, Zidno slikarstvo, 172–75; also K. Tomovski, “Konzervacija crkve manastira Psacˇe” [la conservation de l’église du monastère Psacˇa], Zbornik zasˇtite spomenika kulture 14 (1963): 39–44. 69 ´urcˇic´, “Architecture in the Byzantine Sphere of Influence For an introduction to the problem see S. C around the Middle of the Fourteenth Century,” in Decˇani et l’art byzantin au milieu du XIVe siècle, ed. V. J. Djuric´ (Belgrade, 1989), 55–68. 70 The scholarly literature on Matejic´ is sparse. The most extensive account of its architecture still remains A. Deroko, “Matejcˇa,” Starinar, n.s. 8–9 (1933–34): 84–89; for a general historical account see Petkovic´, Pregled, 184–88. 71 This major monument of Serbian medieval architecture was seriously damaged by fire during the physical occupation of the building by Albanian insurgents in the summer of 2001; J. Nikolic´ Novakovic´, “Matejcˇe Monastery—Presentation of Damages,” Urgent Regional Workshop: Cultural Heritage at Risk in the Event of Armed Conflict—Macedonia Case (sic) 20–24 February 2002 (Ohrid). The proceedings of this international workshop, focused on the recent damage and destruction of several monuments in the Balkans, are currently in press. 67

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panded eastward by a deep sanctuary flanked by two domed chapels. Correspondingly, on its west side the church has a narthex whose extreme bays are also crowned by a pair of domes. The construction of the five domes is revealing. The western pair of small domes clearly displays Thessalonian affinities (Fig. 63). The main dome, on the other hand, with its characteristic technique of alternating bands of brick and stone construction, departs from the Thessalonian standards (Fig. 64). Inasmuch as the church at Matejic´ displays other characteristics with no links to Thessalonike, its architecture must be seen as evidence of a new architectural synthesis occurring in the region of Skopje during the period of its prosperity as the capital of Dusˇan’s short-lived Serbo-Greek Empire. The role of Thessalonike in that context was limited to the presence of certain Thessalonian features, by this time already fully assimilated into the local building practice during the 1330s and 40s. The goal of this study has been to shed light on the role of Thessalonike in the development of late medieval ecclesiastical architecture in the Balkans. This role has long been postulated, but its analysis has never gone beyond vague generalizations. In setting out to accomplish this goal it was necessary first to underscore the distinction between what, on occasion, has been referred to as the “Macedonian School” of architecture and architecture that can be associated specifically with Thessalonike itself. The large number of relatively well preserved monuments, both in Thessalonike and in the region of late Byzantine and Serbian Macedonia, and beyond, provides a basis for an in-depth study, an outline of which has been presented here. My insistence on the use of the term “Thessalonian dome” was driven by concern to provide a suitable tool for detecting certain building traits and their spread. The term, as I believe has been demonstrated, has a degree of specificity that is based on the sheer quantity of data at our disposal. My preliminary conclusions—and they are only preliminary—can be sketched out as follows. Thessalonike’s role as the center of major architectural activity in the first decades of the fourteenth century was a by-product of the reconstitution of the Byzantine Empire and the fact that Byzantine Macedonia at that time became a region hotly contested between Byzantium and Serbia. In favorable political and economic circumstances and owing to a large volume of construction, a local manner of building evolved in Thessalonike during the last decades of the thirteenth century. This building manner came about as a blending of experience brought in by builders from Epiros and the Empire of Nicaea. Soon after 1300 Thessalonian builders were in demand in the surrounding region, and beyond, reaching into the territories of Serbia, and to a far more limited extent, Bulgaria. The erstwhile archenemy of the empire, subsequently the emperor’s son-in-law, Serbian king Milutin, became the chief lure for Thessalonian builders with his royal commissions that began shortly after his marriage with the Byzantine princess had been arranged in 1299. King Milutin’s interest in Byzantine builders as well as painters was but a part of his program of cultural “Byzantinization” of Serbia.72 Serbian noblemen followed the royal example by hiring either Byzantine builders or native builders trained by foreigners on major building projects, such as the church of Gracˇanica monastery. As the fortunes of Serbia continued to rise in the following decades, those of Thessalonike went into decline. A civil war that broke out in the 1340s, and the territorial expansion of Serbia under Stefan 72

´urcˇic´, Gracˇanica, chap. 1. C

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Dusˇan, brought about a major shift in patterns of building patronage. It would appear that from ca. 1330 to ca. 1355 Thessalonian and other Byzantine builders flocked to Serbia, placing themselves in the service of the Serbian rulers and their nobility. During this time, the capital of Serbia, Skopje, became the new center of architectural gravity, superseding Thessalonike in that role. It would appear that, following Dusˇan’s death in 1355, a brief revival of church building occurred in Thessalonike until this, too, was brought to an end with a prolonged period of isolation, siege, and the first Ottoman conquest of the city in 1387. The region of Macedonia, as we have seen, became an extremely fertile area of architectural production from ca. 1280 to ca. 1370. The beginnings of the architectural activity in the region witnessed an influx of builders from the Despotate of Epiros, as well as from the Empire of Nicaea, as these entities lost their political significance. Once its prestige was reestablished, by around 1300, Thessalonike began to exert influence of its own, on a regional scale. The role of Thessalonike in the development of fourteenth-century ecclesiastical architecture in the Balkans, however, was restricted both geographically and chronologically. Thessalonike, even at the height of its architectural productivity, was only one of the sources of architectural influence in the region of Macedonia (Fig. 65). During the first decades of the fourteenth century its impact was paralleled by that of Epiros, emanating at the time from another newly risen prosperous center, Ohrid. By the 1340s both Thessalonike and Ohrid were eclipsed by the third major center of regional architectural production—Skopje, the capital of Stefan Dusˇan’s short-lived Serbo-Greek Empire. Throughout this period of lively developments, the monastery of Hilandar played a major role, attracting as it did the best builders from other centers, such as Constantinople, and in turn channeling them elsewhere, where the demand for building was great. Thus Hilandar, along with Thessalonike and Ohrid, must be perceived as one of the main sources of Byzantine architectural influence in Serbia during the first half of the fourteenth century. While a general outline of the role of Thessalonike may now be clearer, the main work still lies ahead. The several dozen churches preserved, or known to have existed in Greece, F.Y.R.O.M., Serbia, and Bulgaria—most of them essentially understudied or not studied at all—provide an opportunity but also an obligation to penetrate into the issues more deeply. The lack of archival material does not preclude learning about builders, their methods, workshops they belonged to, movements of different workshops, and so on. All of that can be gleaned in good measure from careful examination of the buildings themselves. Once again, here perhaps more clearly than anywhere, one can insist on the documentary value of the physical evidence at hand. How to use this evidence is the challenge we must find ways to respond to. Princeton University

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Foreigners and the Urban Economy in Thessalonike, ca. 1150–ca. 1450 DAVID JACOBY

oreigners and foreignness in Byzantium have lately enjoyed much attention and have been the subject of a growing number of studies.1 Those considering the activity and presence of foreigners in urban centers generally focus on Constantinople. Foreigners in late Byzantine Thessalonike have hardly been considered in the last century. The first to deal with them was Oreste Tafrali, some ninety years ago, yet he limited himself to some brief remarks.2 Freddy Thiriet examined one specific group in the fourteenth century, namely the Venetians.3 Shorter references are found in passing in other publications, such as those dealing with trade. The foreigners in Palaiologan Thessalonike undoubtedly warrant a more thorough investigation. Continuity is an important issue in that context. This is a sufficient reason to reach back to the reign of Manuel I Komnenos and to cover the following three centuries, in order to gain a long-term perspective. There is no need to elaborate on the importance of Thessalonike as a Byzantine political, economic, and cultural center, second only to Constantinople and, at times in the fourteenth century, possibly even surpassing the capital in intellectual and artistic activity. The city enjoyed a particularly favorable location along the land route and the waterway linking Constantinople to the West. In addition, it served as one of the major outlets of the Balkans to the Aegean and as intermediary between these two regions. It had a rich rural hinterland and was a major market, maritime station, and population center. Yet while geographic factors remained on the whole constant, it was unavoidable that the tumultuous history of Thessalonike after 1204 would have a strong bearing on the city’s evolution. More specifically, the fluctuations in political, economic, and social conditions generated

F

1

See D. Jacoby, “Les Juifs de Byzance: Une communauté marginalisée,” in Ch. A. Maltezou, ed., OiJ periqwriakoi; sto; Buzavntio (= Marginality in Byzantium), {Idruma Goulandrh'–Covrn (Athens, 1993), 103–54, repr. in Jacoby, Byzantium, Latin Romania and the Mediterranean (Aldershot, 2001), no. III; A. E. Laiou, “Institutional Mechanisms of Integration,” in H. Ahrweiler and A. E. Laiou, eds., Studies on the Internal Diaspora of the Byzantine Empire (Washington, D.C., 1998), 161–81; several essays in D. C. Smythe, ed., Strangers to Themselves: The Byzantine Outsider, Papers from the Thirty-Second Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Sussex, Brighton, March 1998 (Aldershot, 2000). Other recent studies are adduced below. 2 O. Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle (Paris, 1913), 38–44. 3 F. Thiriet, “Les Vénitiens à Thessalonique dans la première moitié du XIVe siècle,” Byzantion 22 (1952): 323–32, repr. in idem, Études sur la Romanie gréco-vénitienne (Xe–XVe siècles) (London, 1977), no. I.

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by successive conquests and civil wars, as well as by various external developments, had a definite impact on the composition, nature, volume, and intensity of foreign activity and presence in the city. Before entering into the heart of the subject, however, some clarifications are required. First of all, who exactly was a foreigner and, more specifically, who was a foreigner in Thessalonike? The issue is far more complex than it would seem at first sight. To be sure, there were some seemingly objective criteria of foreignness. Foreigners were distinguished by their ethnic or geographic origin, language, religious creed and, moreover, they were not imperial subjects. Yet the boundaries between the latter and foreigners were sometimes blurred. In twelfth-century Constantinople there were Latins who became imperial subjects, and, on the other hand, from the thirteenth century onward we find there Greeks of Orthodox faith, born and residing in the empire, who were subjects of a foreign power such as Venice or Genoa.4 One may wonder whether such was also the case in Thessalonike. Other Greeks residing in territories ruled by foreigners were the latter’s subjects and thus foreigners once they arrived in the empire, regardless of whether or not they identified with the latter or with their brethren under imperial rule. A case documented in 1367 raises tantalizing questions of identity. A Greek woman who had married the Catalan Pere Estanyol in Thebes and had become a Catholic returned to Orthodoxy after her husband’s death fourteen years later, became a nun, and fled to Thessalonike.5 Did she consider herself a foreigner in the city, or was she considered as such by others, and for how long? The Jews differed markedly from other groups residing in late Byzantine Thessalonike. As we shall see, they retained their specific individual and collective identity as “foreigners,” despite being imperial subjects. A different ambiguity arises with respect to other residents of Thessalonike in that period. A perusal of the Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit reveals numerous foreign names and surnames, yet onomastics are a treacherous tool in our context. Christianization, use of the Greek language, service in the army and administration, intermarriage with Greek subjects of the empire, as well as institutional mechanisms such as justice and taxation promoted the integration of foreigners into the social and cultural “melting-pot” of the empire.6 We find only a few individuals for whom we have sufficient data to identify them as foreigners. Moreover, we can rarely determine whether or not they maintained their identity as foreigners, which was especially difficult in an urban surrounding unless they were inserted within a specific community. Nor do we know at what point and to what extent they assimilated to their Byzantine surroundings or, in other words, became hellenized. Questions in this respect are even difficult to answer with regard to Yolanda of Montferrat, wife of Emperor Andronikos II, who resided in Thessalonike from 1303 to 1317, since the sources dealing with this empress of Latin origin, known by her Greek name as Eirene, are clouded by political and religious partisanship.7 She was clearly the source of the Western values and attitudes of her son Theodore, who after leaving the empire 4

For details, see below. The case is mentioned in a letter of King Frederick III of Sicily: A. Rubió i Lluch, ed., Diplomatari de l’Orient català (Barcelona, 1947), 380–81, no. CCXCII. 6 See Laiou, “Mechanisms.” 7 See D. M. Nicol, The Byzantine Lady: Ten Portraits, 1250–1500 (Cambridge, 1994), 48–58. 5

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to rule over the marquisate of Montferrat became thoroughly latinized.8 Finally, it should also be noted that cultural acculturation did not necessarily entail a change in name or surname, and foreign identity could be concealed by names common in Byzantine and other Christian communities. The Deblitzenoi family, attested in Thessalonike from 1301 to 1419, offers a case in point. The inconsistent spelling of the surname reveals that it was of foreign origin. The first known member to reside in Thessalonike was Manuel Deblitzenos, the tzaousios of the city’s cavalry corps in 1301, who by then was a pronoia-holder. His son Demetrios remained loyal to the empire when the Serbian czar Stefan Dusˇan captured eastern Macedonia in 1345, including his property, and he apparently left Thessalonike during the Zealot revolution. During the civil war of 1341–47 he sided with the usurper John Kantakouzenos, remained on good terms with him after the latter’s victory, and in 1349 died a monk. His son Manuel was also a military man, an oikeios of the emperor, who was firmly integrated by marriage within the social elite of Thessalonike. Presumably in 1381 he gave some land to Docheiariou, an imperial monastery on Mount Athos inhabited by Greek monks.9 Nevertheless, a Deblitzenos who apparently was a member of the same family is expressly called “the Serbian” during the last two decades of the fourteenth century.10 It is impossible to determine whether this was still a subjective perception of foreignness by this individual or a labeling by others. Even if the foreigner concealed or was unwilling to remember his foreignness, he may have been occasionally reminded of it. Polemics, one of the favorite games in which Byzantine intellectuals indulged, are rife with examples in this respect, and three of them are particularly relevant to our investigation. In 1368 Demetrios Kydones reminded the patriarch of Constantinople Philotheos Kokkinos, born in Thessalonike, of his Jewish origin.11 As for Gregory Palamas, in a letter sent to Philotheos he denigrated his adversaries Barlaam and Gregory Akindynos by stressing their foreign origin, respectively Calabrian and Bulgarian.12 There is no doubt, however, how these so-called foreigners perceived themselves and were viewed by many others. The cases considered so far clearly illustrate how problematic it is to deal with indi8

See A. Laiou, “A Byzantine Prince Latinized: Theodore Palaeologus, Marquis of Montferrat,” Byzantion 38 (1968): 401–2. On the other hand, M. Da ˛ browska, “Family Ethos at the Imperial Court of the Palaiologos in the Light of the Testimony by Theodore of Montferrat,” in A. R. Bryzek and M. Salamon, eds., Byzantina et Slavica Cracoviensia, vol. 2 (Cracow, 1994), 73–81, minimizes the differences between the West and Byzantium with respect to family values and the Christian code of moral principles, as expressed by Theodore. She is nevertheless aware of the gap between professed ideas and reality. 9 See N. Oikonomides, “The Properties of the Deblitzenoi in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,” in A. E. Laiou-Thomadakis, ed., Charanis Studies: Essays in Honor of Peter Charanis (New Brunswick, N.J., 1980), 176–98; M. Bartusis, “The Settlement of the Serbs in Macedonia in the Era of Dusˇan’s Conquests,” in Ahrweiler and Laiou, Studies (as above, note 1), 152–53. 10 P. Schreiner, “Zwei unedierte Praktika aus der zweiten Hälfte des 14. Jh.,” JÖB 19 (1970): 34.5, and 35 for the dating after 1380; PLP 5172. 11 Démétrius Cydonès, Correspondance, ed. R.-J. Loenertz (Vatican City, 1956–60), 1: 164–66, letter 129; Demetrios Kydones, Briefe, trans. F. Tinnefeld, Bibliothek der griechischen Literatur 16 (Stuttgart, 1981–99), 1.2: 393–96, letter 68, commentary 398 and 401 note 4. See also S. B. Bowman, The Jews of Byzantium, 1204– 1453 (Tuscaloosa, Ala., 1985), 67–68, and Eng. trans. ibid., 287, no. 93. 12 P. Chrestos, ed., Grhgorivou tou' Palama' Suggravmmata (Thessalonike, 1962–88), 2: 522.31–523.3; see also the “Calabrian” mentioned in 4: 279.9–10.

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viduals and to determine whether they are or have ceased to be foreigners at any given moment, even when fairly abundant evidence about them is available. In view of the serious pitfalls arising with respect to them, it is preferable to restrict this paper to the study of well-defined foreign groups, already a weighty subject by itself. In that context it is essential to distinguish between “external” and “internal” foreigners, the latter being defined as minorities in our contemporary language. It is also mandatory to distinguish between residents and nonresidents. The former were established in Thessalonike on a permanent basis for lengthy periods, though not always indefinitely. Indeed, some of them returned to their city or land of origin, while others moved to new locations after a few years. The nonresidents comprised occasional visitors as well as individuals staying in the city to conduct their business for one or two sailing seasons at most. A final remark is in order. The traditional litany about the paucity and the fragmented nature of evidence bearing on Byzantine topics is particularly appropriate in our case. On the whole, Byzantine sources provide general information about foreigners and attitudes toward them, yet they hardly offer any concrete indications about individuals, their presence and their activities. This is particularly obvious with respect to Thessalonike. In any event, since we deal with foreigners, the recourse to foreign sources is indispensable. Especially Western documents offer abundant and concrete evidence about foreigners in Constantinople in the Palaiologan period, yet they yield far more limited information for Thessalonike. We may begin with “external” foreigners. The Latins were clearly the most important group among them in the three centuries or so covered by this paper, in any event with respect to their role in the city’s economy. Their activity and presence in Thessalonike were more or less sustained throughout that whole period, yet the composition and size of their group fluctuated over time. Except between 1204 and 1224, the appearance of the Latins in the city was primarily, if not exclusively, related to economic incentives. It will be necessary, therefore, to dwell upon various facets of the economic context in which the Latins operated, though without attempting to reconstruct the latter’s overall evolution in Thessalonike. The evidence regarding the Latins in the city from ca. 1150 to 1204 is scanty. It is impossible to determine whether this is due to the nature of the extant documentation or reflects a volume of western trade less important than one would expect at first glance.13 By the second half of the twelfth century, Venice, Pisa, and Genoa each had its own quarter in Constantinople and had been granted commercial privileges and fiscal exemptions in the empire. Yet until 1192 Venice was the only maritime nation enjoying extensive privileges in the whole empire, which partly explains why Venetian settlers were to be found in more provincial cities than those of any other western maritime nation.14 13

The evidence on Latin trade in Halmyros and Corinth is far more abundant: see R.-J. Lilie, Handel und Politik zwischen dem byzantinischen Reich und den italienischen Kommunen Venedig, Pisa und Genua in der Epoche der Komnenen und der Angeloi (1081–1204) (Amsterdam, 1984), 188–90 and 195–97. 14 On the differing nature and geographic extent of the privileges, see D. Jacoby, “Italian Privileges and Trade in Byzantium before the Fourth Crusade: A Reconsideration,” Anuario de estudios medievales 24 (1994): 349–69, repr. in idem, Trade, Commodities and Shipping in the Medieval Mediterranean (Aldershot, 1997), no. II. See also Laiou, “Mechanisms,” 171–77, 179, and my reservations about some of her arguments below, p. 90 and note 23; pp. 127–28 and note 298.

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Thessalonike appears in the second half of the twelfth century as destination and transit station of Venetian as well as Pisan merchants and ships, the Venetians also reaching the city by land. In addition, Thessalonike served as base of operations for some Latins established there.15 As elsewhere in the empire, their activity in Thessalonike was interrupted by political events. The Venetians either were arrested or fled in 1171, yet presumably returned a few years later. They were back at Thebes by 1175 and at Constantinople by the following year. It is likely, therefore, that such was also the case in Thessalonike long before Venice arrived at a new agreement with the empire in 1183 and concluded a new formal treaty with it in 1187.16 The expulsion of the Pisans from the empire in 1182 also interrupted the latter’s trade and presence in Thessalonike for a number of years. Pisa concluded a new treaty with the empire in 1192, yet it appears that its citizens did not immediately renew their activity in the city, in any event not on the same scale as before 1182. Indeed, only five years after the conclusion of the treaty, in 1197, did Pisa request the restitution of the confiscated Pisan trading facilities in Thessalonike. Its second demand, namely the stationing of a Pisan vicecomes, hints for the first time at the presence of Pisan settlers in the city.17 It is likely, though, that these were also to be found earlier, since, despite the absence of privileged status in the provinces, some Pisans were established at Halmyros before 1182.18 We may thus surmise that there were both Venetian and Pisan traveling merchants as well as settlers in Thessalonike in 1185, when the city was besieged and briefly occupied by the Norman forces.19 However, since Venice enjoyed more extensive privileges than its rivals until 1192, it is likely that Venetian citizens were the dominant subgroup among the Latins operating in Thessalonike in the twelfth century. This was presumably also the case in the last decade before the Fourth Crusade, despite the extension of Pisan and Genoese privileges to the provinces in 1192.20 Genoa was the third maritime power whose citizens were active in the empire in the second half of the twelfth century, yet there is no evidence of Genoese traders or settlers in Thessalonike until after the Fourth Crusade. We may nevertheless assume that Genoese ships occasionally anchored there on their way to and from Constantinople, as suggested by two of them engaging in navigation along the Greek coast in 1171. One of these vessels is attested at Halmyros and the other at Euripos, present-day Chalkis in Euboea, close to the mainland.21 It should be noted, though, that in that period Genoese ships also sailed between their home-city and the empire’s capital via Crete and the central Aegean, a mar15 Survey by Lilie, Handel und Politik, 213–16; S. Borsari, Venezia e Bisanzio nel XII secolo. I rapporti economici (Venice, 1988), 52–53, 86–87, 93–94. Transit through Thessalonike is also implied by a land journey from Halmyros to Constantinople in 1161: R. Morozzo della Rocca and A. Lombardo, eds., Documenti del commercio veneziano nei secoli XI–XIII (Turin, 1940), nos. 151–52. 16 On the resumption of Venetian trade in the empire, see Borsari, Venezia e Bisanzio, 22–27; Jacoby, “Italian Privileges,” 356. 17 See S. Borsari, “Pisani a Bisanzio nel XII secolo,” in Studi di storia pisana e toscana in onore del Prof. Cinzio Violante, Biblioteca del Bollettino Storico Pisano, Collana storica 38 (Pisa, 1991), 65–66, 68; Jacoby, “Italian Privileges,” 366. On trading facilities, see also below. 18 See Borsari, “Pisani a Bisanzio,” 65–66. 19 On the presence of Latins at that time, see below, p. 90. 20 On these privileges, see Jacoby, “Italian Privileges.” 21 C. Imperiale di Sant’Angelo, ed., Codice diplomatico della Repubblica di Genova (Rome, 1936–42), 2: 213–14 note 1, 215 note 2.

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itime route bypassing Thessalonike.22 It is likely, therefore, that the Genoese displayed less interest in the city than their rivals. The conjunction of the navigation pattern and the lack of extensive privileges until 1192 presumably accounts for the absence of Genoese settlers from Thessalonike. John Kinnamos reports that sometime before 1171 Emperor Manuel I imposed a clear-cut choice upon Venetians permanently settled in the empire. He compelled them to declare whether they were his bourgesioi (subjects) or whether they retained their condition of visiting traders and Venetian allegiance, with all the privileges and obligations deriving from either status. In that context bourgesioi, a hellenized Western term, bore a dual legal meaning as in Western usage, to which Kinnamos explicitly alludes. Burgenses stood then for both permanent residents and a lord’s subjects, in contrast to mercatores, visiting merchants.23 Some fifteen years later Archbishop Eustathios of Thessalonike used bourgesioi in a much looser sense by applying the originally Western term to Latins in general. He reported that during the Norman siege of 1185 some individual treacherously contacted the enemy from a tower located close to the neighborhood of the bourgesioi.24 A siting of that neighborhood to the east of the walled city, near the ancient harbor called Kellarion,25 is totally excluded, since the contact was established from within the city. Moreover, this could only be achieved if the tower faced the enemy camping in the countryside, which implies that the tower was inserted within the urban rampart. Finally, considering the Latin involvement in maritime trade, the twelfth-century Latin neighborhood must have been situated in the vicinity of the harbor. In short, we may locate it in the southwestern part of Thessalonike, close to both the wall protecting the western flank of the city and the harbor.26 22

See D. Jacoby, “Byzantine Crete in the Navigation and Trade Networks of Venice and Genoa,” in L. Balletto, ed., Oriente e Occidente tra medioevo ed età moderna. Studi in onore di Geo Pistarino, Università degli Studi di Genova, Sede di Acqui Terme, Collana di Fonti e Studi 1.1 (Acqui Terme, 1997), 532–39, repr. in Jacoby, Byzantium, Latin Romania and the Mediterranean, no. II. 23 John Kinnamos, Epitome rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis gestarum, ed. A. Meineke, CSHB (Bonn, 1836), 281–82 (6.10). The same meanings appear in the crusader states of the Levant: see D. Jacoby, “Les Vénitiens naturalisés dans l’Empire byzantin: Un aspect de l’expansion de Venise en Romanie du XIIIe au milieu du XVe siècle,” TM 8 (1981): 219, repr. in idem, Studies on the Crusader States and on Venetian Expansion (Northampton, 1989), no. IX. They exclude the interpretation of Laiou, “Mechanisms,” 173–74, who suggests that Manuel I granted the bourgesioi a special regime. There were also Pisans who became imperial subjects: see Borsari, Venezia e Bisanzio, 49–50. Not surprisingly, some Venetians and Pisans sought to take advantage of both the privileges granted to their nation and the status of Byzantine subject. It is important to note that, despite Manuel’s injunction, we later find Latin permanent residents who were not imperial subjects. On the whole issue, see D. Jacoby, “The Byzantine Outsider in Trade (c. 900–c. 1350),” in Smythe, Strangers to Themselves (as above, note 1), 135–37. 24 Eustazio di Tessalonica, La espugnazione di Tessalonica, ed. S. Kyriakidis, Istituto Siciliano di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici, Testi 5 (Palermo, 1961), 92.7–9, text reproduced with same pagination in Eustathios of Thessalonike, The Capture of Thessaloniki, with English translation by J. R. Melville-Jones, ByzAus 8 (Canberra, 1988). P. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge, 1993), 149, considers that the bourgesioi of Thessalonike mentioned by Eustathios were all resident Latins who had become imperial subjects. This may be excluded, considering what happened in Constantinople: see end of previous note. Moreover, if this had been the case, it would be difficult to explain why all privately held or owned Pisan premises in Thessalonike were confiscated in 1182, on which see above, p. 89. 25 As suggested by Ch. Bakirtzes,“ÔH qalavssia ojcuvrwsh th'" Qessalonivkh" (Parathrhvsei" kai; problhvmata),” Buzantinav 7 (1975): 312–13; on Kellarion, see ibid., 321–22 and fig. 14. 26 As suggested already by J.-M. Spieser, Thessalonique et ses monuments du IVe au VIe siècle. Contribution à l’étude d’une ville paléochrétienne, BEFAR 254 (Paris, 1984), 44. On Thessalonike’s harbor, see Bakirtzes, “ÔH qalavs-

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Unfortunately, a more precise siting of the twelfth-century Latin neighborhood cannot be determined. Its localization in the area covered by the Frangkomacala'" or Frankish quarter of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries may be safely dismissed.27 Since the modern Catholic church is located some 400 m from the western city wall,28 such an identification would imply that the Latin neighborhood of the twelfth century extended over a broad area covering almost the entire northern flank of the harbor. This is excluded, especially in view of the size of the Latin presence in twelfth-century Thessalonike, undoubtedly much smaller than in contemporary Constantinople.29 Moreover, despite the almost continuous Western economic activity in the city, it is unclear whether a Latin neighborhood existed without interruption from the twelfth to the eighteenth century, as we shall see below, and even if it did, there is no way to ascertain whether there was continuity in its location.30 Finally, since the volume of Western activity and presence in Thessalonike fluctuated over time, it is obvious that the extent of the Latin neighborhood must have similarly varied. In all likelihood, this specific urban area served as residence for both settlers and visiting merchants, who presumably conducted much of their business in its premises. The twelfth-century imperial policy applied in provincial cities with respect to foreigners was far more flexible than in Constantinople.31 There is no evidence that it included the assignment of specific quarters with well-defined boundaries, space limitations with respect to residence, or impediments to the purchase of real estate, as in the capital.32 Yet the absence of imperial intervention in these matters also had its drawbacks, since the Latin neighborhood in twelfth-century Thessalonike lacked any particular privileged status. It sia,” 315–21. On the quarters of the maritime powers in Constantinople along the Golden Horn, see P. Magdalino, Constantinople médiévale. Études sur l’évolution des structures urbaines, Travaux et mémoires du Centre de recherche d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance, Collège de France, Monographies 9 (Paris, 1996), 78–90; idem, “The Maritime Neighborhoods of Constantinople: Commercial and Residential Functions, Sixth to Twelfth Centuries,” DOP 54 (2000): 209–26. Some different topographical interpretations appear in D. Jacoby, “The Venetian Quarter of Constantinople from 1082 to 1261: Topographical Considerations,” in C. Sode and S. Takács, eds., Novum Millennium. Studies on Byzantine History and Culture Dedicated to Paul Speck (Aldershot, 2001), 153–70. Significantly, in Halmyros one of two contiguous plots of land bought by Venetians respectively before 1150 and 1156 was located on the seashore: L. Lanfranchi, ed., S. Giorgio Maggiore, Fonti per la Storia di Venezia, Sez. II: Archivi ecclesiastici (Venice, 1967–74), 2: 463–70, nos. 231–33. 27 This localization appears in O. Tafrali, Topographie de Thessalonique (Paris, 1913), 94–95, 144, followed by Kyriakidis in Eustazio di Tessalonica, Espugnazione, 174, and Spieser, Thessalonique et ses monuments, 44. 28 See Bakirtzes, “ÔH qalavssia,” fig. 1. 29 On the size of the quarters of the major maritime powers in the capital, see the suggestions of P. Schreiner, “Untersuchungen zu den Niederlassungen westlicher Kaufleute im byzantinischen Reich des 11. und 12. Jahrhunderts,” ByzF 7 (1979): 179–81. 30 It is noteworthy that there was no continuity in the location of the Jewish quarter in Thessalonike: see below. 31 Incidentally, this was also the case with respect to Byzantine traders and the economy in general: see N. Oikonomidès, “Le marchand byzantin des provinces (IXe–XIe s.),” in Mercati e mercanti nell’alto medioevo: L’area euroasiatica e l’area mediterranea. Settimane di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, Spoleto, 40 (1993): 655–60; idem, “The Economic Region of Constantinople: From Directed Economy to Free Economy, and the Role of the Italians,” in G. Arnaldi and G. Cavallo, eds., Europa medievale e mondo bizantino. Contatti effettivi e possibilità di studi comparati, Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, Nuovi studi storici 40 (Rome, 1997), 221–38. 32 See Jacoby, “Byzantine Outsider in Trade,” 135–36. Note that the separate neighborhoods of the Amalfitans and the Venetians in Dyrrachion existed before 1082, when Alexios I assigned for the first time a quarter to Venice in Constantinople: A. Ducellier, La façade maritime de l’Albanie au moyen âge. Durazzo et Valona du XIe au XVe siècle (Thessalonike, 1981), 70–73.

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may be assumed, therefore, that the Latins themselves determined the location of their residences and trading facilities in the city. The fondaco and houses held by the Pisans before 1182 had either been privately rented for a prolonged period or, more likely, had been privately purchased or built.33 There is good reason to believe that the Venetians had similar premises, despite the absence of evidence in this respect. From the existence of the Pisan fondaco in Thessalonike we may gather that the Pisans and the Venetians resided and operated in separate, though contiguous areas within the Latin neighborhood. Such a spontaneous concentration along “national” lines is also attested for Dyrrachion and Halmyros.34 Their presence, whether short-term or lengthy, implied the continuous service of a Latin clergy of low rank, as in Constantinople and in various provincial cities of the empire.35 The Venetian monastery of S. Nicolò di Lido, which held property granted by Venice in various Byzantine cities, had a dependency in Thessalonike in 1165, according to an overlooked reference included in a document of 1296.36 We may safely assume that this property was located within the Latin neighborhood. It is likely that the Pisans too had their own ecclesiastical institution in the same urban area, since they had two churches in Halmyros.37 The occupation of Thessalonike by Boniface of Montferrat in 1204 had a threefold impact on Latin presence in the city. It introduced new social elements, resulted in an increase in the number of settlers, and reinforced Latin ecclesiastical presence. In addition to traders, there were now settlers belonging to the western nobility as well as commoners who were not necessarily engaging in commercial pursuits. Some knights serving in Boniface’s contingent of crusaders, who hailed from Lombardy, Tuscany, Provence, Burgundy, and Germany, established themselves in the city.38 To those known by name we should add many others. Niketas Choniates reports that Boniface confiscated the wealthiest houses of Thessalonike and awarded them to his vassals.39 Although some of these left later for their fiefs in Romania or for their homes in the West, others are attested in the city in the following years.40 The reinforcement of the Latin clergy, headed by successive Latin archbishops, was accompanied by the seizure of Greek ecclesiastical property.41 In 1210 Pope Innocent III confirmed the grant of the monastery of Philokalos to the Order of the Tem33

On the renting of such premises by foreigners in the Palaiologan period, see below, p. 96 See respectively above, note 32, and D. Jacoby, “Migrations familiales et stratégies commerciales vénitiennes aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles,” in M. Balard et A. Ducellier, eds., Migrations et diasporas méditerranéennes. Byzantina Sorbonensia 19 (Paris, 2002), 360–61. 35 See R.-J. Lilie, “Die lateinische Kirche in der Romania vor dem vierten Kreuzzug,” BZ 82 (1989): 202–11; Borsari, Venezia e Bisanzio, 36–42. 36 B. Lanfranchi Strina, ed., Codex Publicorum (Codice del Piovego), I (1282–1298), Fonti per la storia di Venezia, sez. I, Archivi pubblici (Venice, 1985), 207, no. 28: an old book which had been copied there was later kept in the library of the Venetian S. Nicolò di Lido. On dependencies of this monastery elsewhere in the empire, see Borsari, Venezia e Bisanzio, 36–41. 37 On which see Borsari, “Pisani a Bisanzio,” 65–66. 38 See J. Longnon, Les compagnons de Villehardouin. Recherches sur les croisés de la quatrième croisade (Genève, 1978), 227–47, and the review of that work by M.-L. Favreau, in BZ 72 (1979): 84–87; also J. Longnon, L’ Empire latin de Constantinople et la principauté de Morée (Paris, 1949), 69–70, 106–9, 122–23, 162–63. 39 Niketas Choniates, Historia, ed. J. A. Van Dieten, CFHB II (Berlin–New York, 1975), I, 600, esp. lines 56–57. 40 See above, note 38. 41 See R. Janin, “L’Église latine à Thessalonique de 1204 à la conquête turque,” REB 16 (1958): 207–14; G. Fedalto, La chiesa latina in Oriente, vol. 1, 2d ed. (n. pl., 1981), 290–91. Three Latin archbishops are known by name. On the first one, Warin, see Longnon, Les compagnons de Villehardouin, 187–88. 34

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plars, made a few years earlier by Cardinal Benedict of Santa Susanna. The latter had been sent by the pope to conduct talks and reach an accommodation with the Greek Church and passed through Thessalonike either between June and November 1205 on his way to Constantinople, between January and the summer of 1207 on his return journey to Rome, or possibly even on both occasions. In any event, since Greek monks remained in the monastery of Philokalos, it would seem that in fact the Templars benefited only from the latter’s revenue.42 The Cistercians received the monastery tou Chortaïtou near Thessalonike, yet held no property in the city itself.43 The demographic and ecclesiastical developments generated by the Latin conquest of 1204 came to an abrupt end when the ruler of Epiros, Theodore Doukas, conquered Thessalonike in 1224. We may safely assume that Venetian trade and settlement in Thessalonike, attested before 1204, continued during the twenty years of Latin rule over the city, despite the close relations between Boniface of Montferrat and Genoa.44 Venice’s dominance in the economic life of Constantinople after the Fourth Crusade presumably exerted some impact in Thessalonike, a port of call for Venetians sailing between their own city and the Golden Horn.45 The relations between Venice and Boniface’s successor, King Demetrius, appear to have been smooth. In March 1224 the young king, gone west to obtain military assistance, testified in Venice that he had witnessed King Bela of Hungary and others seizing by force the goods of three Venetian merchants.46 A single document illustrates Venetian trade in Thessalonike in the Latin period. It records a commercial contract concluded in the city in October 1206 between three Venetians, none of whom lived there, namely Filocalo Navigaioso, duke of Lemnos, Gilio da Foligno, a resident of Constantinople, and Foscari Raguseo of Venice.47 It is not excluded that some Venetians exported grain produced in Thessalonike’s rural hinterland, although Venetian involvement in that activity is not directly attested before 1268.48 The treaty of 1210 between Venice and Michael I Doukas of Epiros guaranteed freedom of trade in the latter’s territories, according to the terms in force in the empire dur42 PL 216: 328, doc. CXLV; see also Janin, “L’Église latine à Thessalonique,” 214. For the dating of Benedict’s passage through Thessalonike, see D. Jacoby, “The Jewish Community of Constantinople from the Komnenan to the Palaiologan Period,” VizVrem 55.2 (80) (1998): 37, repr. in idem, Byzantium, Latin Romania and the Mediterranean, no. V. 43 See W. Haberstumpf, Dinastie nel Mediterraneo orientale. I Monferrato e i Savoia nei secoli XII–XV (Turin, 1995), 177–88. 44 On which see below, p. 95. 45 See D. Jacoby, “Venetian Settlers in Latin Constantinople (1204–1261): Rich or Poor?” in Ch. A. Maltezou, ed., Plouvsioi kai; ptwcoi; sth;n koinwniva th'" eJllhnolatinikh'" ∆Anatolh'" (= Ricchi e poveri nella società dell’Oriente grecolatino), Biblioteca dell’Istituto ellenico di Studi bizantini e postbizantini di Venezia 19 (Venice, 1998), 181–204, repr. in Jacoby, Byzantium, Latin Romania and the Mediterranean, no. VII. 46 The testimony is recorded in a dated notarial charter: R. Cessi, ed., Deliberazioni del Maggior Consiglio di Venezia (Bologna, 1931–50), 1: 56–57, §51 (hereafter Cessi, DMC). 47 Reference in a document of 1210: Morozzo della Rocca and Lombardo, Documenti del commercio veneziano, no. 519. On Filocalo Navigaioso, see G. Saint-Guillain, “Deux îles grecques au temps de l’Empire latin. Andros et Lemnos au XIIIe siècle,” Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen Âge 113 (2001): 603–9. 48 See below, note 77. The grain on board a Genoese ship anchoring at Negroponte in 1251 may well have originated in Thessalonike. On this cargo, see M. Balard, “Les Génois en Romanie entre 1204 et 1261. Recherches sur les minutiers notariaux génois,” MélRome 78 (1966): 484, repr. in idem, La mer Noire et la Romanie génoise (XIIIe–XVe siècles) (London, 1989), no. I. It would seem that the Genoese were already exporting grain from the empire by the 1140s: Jacoby, “Byzantine Crete,” 532, 535.

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ing the reign of Manuel I Komnenos.49 The treaty must have been extended to Thessalonike after the city’s conquest by Theodore Doukas in 1224.50 As reported in June 1228, the ship of the Venetian Marco Minotto ran aground on the island of Corfu, ruled by Theodore. The island’s governor confiscated the salvaged goods and money belonging to the merchants, contrary to a specific clause included in the agreement of 1210. The incident soured relations between Venice and Theodore. In reprisal Venice decreed on 13 August of the same year an embargo on trade with Theodore’s territories.51 We do not know how long it remained in force, nor whether it affected Venetian trade in Thessalonike.52 There was no reason for Venetian settlers to abandon the city, nor for traveling Venetian merchants to bypass it after its capture by John III Vatatzes in 1246. Venice’s treaty of 1219 with Theodore I Laskaris of Nicaea, which points to Venetian trade between Constantinople and the Greek state in Asia Minor,53 appears to have been followed before 1261 by at least two further agreements, as implied by a letter of Emperor Andronikos II sent to Venice in 1319. One of these treaties, which have not been preserved, was concluded with John III Vatatzes between 1221 and 1254, the other with Theodore II Laskaris between 1254 and 1258.54 They must have been beneficial to Venetian interests in Thessalonike, yet there are no notarial documents illustrating Venetian trade or presence in the city under these two rulers.55 We have noted that the Pisans had property in the Latin neighborhood of Thessalonike and that they resided and traded there alongside the Venetians before the Latin conquest of 1204. They are not attested in the city during the Latin period, nor after the renewal of Byzantine rule in 1224. It is nevertheless likely that they continued to visit the city on their way to and from Constantinople, where they pursued their trade, though on a reduced scale compared with the late twelfth century.56 Pisans also appear in the Empire 49

G. L. Fr. Tafel and G. M. Thomas, eds., Urkunden zur älteren Handels- und Staatsgeschichte der Republik Venedig (Vienna, 1856–57) (hereafter TTh), 2: 120–23. On this treaty and its economic context, see Ducellier, La façade maritime, 132–36. On Venetian trade with Epiros, see also A. Schaube, Handelsgeschichte der romanischen Völker des Mittelmeergebiets bis zum Ende der Kreuzzüge (Munich, 1906), 266–67. 50 On Venetian trade from 1223 to 1227 with Albania, then under the rule of Epiros, see Ducellier, La façade maritime, 182–85. 51 Cessi, DMC 1: 196–97, §94 (10 June 1228); 202, §113 (13 August 1228). F. Bredenkamp, The Byzantine Empire of Thessaloniki (1224–1242) (Thessalonike, 1996), 143–47, contends that the embargo induced Theodore I to conclude a truce of one year with Narzot of Toucy, governor of the Latin Empire. This may be ruled out, since the agreement was reached by 14 September 1228: text in Cessi, DMC 1: 209–10, §140. It is hardly plausible that the news of the embargo decreed one month earlier reached either Theodore or Constantinople before that date. Moreover, Venice did not underwrite the agreement, as claimed by Bredenkamp. 52 D. M. Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros (Oxford, 1957), 106, asserts that trade relations were reestablished only under Theodore’s brother Manuel Doukas, who ruled over Thessalonike from 1230 until ca. 1237, yet fails to provide evidence supporting his view. 53 TTh 2: 205–7. 54 G. M. Thomas and R. Predelli, eds., Diplomatarium veneto-levantinum (Venice, 1880–99) (hereafter DVL), 2: 141. S. Brezeanu, “La politique économique des Lascarides à la lumière des relations vénéto-nicéennes,” in E. Sta ˘nescu et N.-S¸. Tanos¸oca, eds., Études byzantines et post-byzantines, vol. 1 (Bucharest, 1979), 39–54, offers an unwarranted negative view of Venetian-Nicaean trade relations, which incidentally does not take into account the evidence mentioned here. 55 Despite an intensive search in Venice, I have been unable to discover any such document drafted between 1206 and 1274. Those issued in these specific years are mentioned here. 56 See S. Borsari, “I rapporti tra Pisa e gli stati di Romania nel Duecento,” RSI 67 (1955): 477–86; D. Jacoby, “The Urban Evolution of Latin Constantinople (1204–1261),” in N. Necipog ˘ lu, ed., Byzantine Constantinople: Monuments, Topography and Everyday Life (Leiden, 2001), 283.

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of Nicaea around 1240.57 The absence of information regarding their activity in Thessalonike requires an explanation, which will be offered below. The rule of Boniface of Montferrat, which began in 1204, appears to have favored Genoese trade in Thessalonike, in any event in the short term. Genoese ships are attested there in 1205 and 1206. In the spring of 1205 Boniface captured the former emperor Alexios III Angelos in Thessaly. He first left him at Halmyros, yet later took him along when he returned to Thessalonike. Still in the same year he sent Alexios to his own estate of Montferrat in Italy on board a ship from Portovenere leaving Thessalonike for Genoa.58 The following year two merchants sailed from Genoa to Thessalonike, where they were expected to repay the maritime loans they had obtained, and Boniface’s daughter was brought to the city with an escort of four ships undoubtedly carrying merchants and goods.59 We have noted that Genoese ships occasionally used Crete as a transit station before the Fourth Crusade.60 The Genoese Enrico Pescatore invaded Crete in 1206, yet failed to capture it. His defeat by Venice in 1211 opened the way to the latter’s occupation of the island.61 The Genoese must have largely, if not entirely, avoided Crete after these developments, which were followed by periods of intermittent warfare between their city and Venice. As a result the importance of Thessalonike as a Genoese stopover in Romania must have increased. Genoese activity in Constantinople was resumed by 1232 and appears to have become more intensive than commonly assumed in the following years.62 Significantly, a Genoese shipping contract of 1254 envisaged the unloading of goods in either Negroponte, Thessalonike, or Constantinople.63 The Genoese presence in this city did not cease even after the outbreak of a new war between Venice and Genoa in 1256. Indeed, there were some Genoese settlers dispersed among the Latins remaining in Constantinople soon after the city reverted to Byzantine rule in 1261.64 We may assume that, similarly, Genoese merchants pursued their activity in Thessalonike in these years. The Byzantine recovery of Constantinople in 1261 robbed Venice of its dominant and privileged position in the city and generated a massive exodus of Venetians, though it would seem that not all of them left.65 Venice’s relations with the empire in the period extending to 1302 were characterized by a climate of tension, mutual suspicion, and intermittent conflict, partly interrupted by temporary truces in 1268, 1277, 1285, and 1302.66 57

See Borsari, “Rapporti,” 487–88. L. T. Belgrano and C. Imperiale di Sant’Angelo, eds., Annali Genovesi di Caffaro e de’ suoi continuatori (Rome, 1890–1929), 2: 95. This chronicle records the presence of the ship in Thessalonike. On the capture of Alexios III, see R.-J. Loenertz, “Aux origines du Despotat d’Épire et de la Principauté d’Achaïe,” Byzantion 43 (1973): 370–73. 59 Balard, “Génois en Romanie,” 472–73. 60 See above, pp. 89–90. 61 On these events, see D. Jacoby, “Changing Economic Patterns in Latin Romania: The Impact of the West,” in A. E. Laiou and R. P. Mottahedeh, eds., The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World (Washington, D.C., 2001), 207–8. 62 See Jacoby, “Venetian Settlers,” 198–99; idem, “Urban Evolution,” 283. 63 Ed. E. H. Byrne, Genoese Shipping in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass., 1930), 125–28, no. XXXVII. 64 Georges Pachymérès, Relations historiques, ed. A. Failler, vol. 1, CFHB 24 (Paris, 1984), 221.4–10. 65 See D. J. Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus and the West, 1258–1282: A Study in Byzantine-Latin Relations (Cambridge, Mass., 1959), 113–14; Jacoby, “Urban Evolution,” 294–95; idem, “Venetian Settlers,” 188–89. 66 For an overview of these relations, see D. Jacoby, “La Venezia d’oltremare nel secondo Duecento,” in G. Cracco and G. Ortalli, eds., Storia di Venezia dalle origini alla caduta della Serenissima, II. L’ età del Comune (Rome, 1995), 266–73. The agreement of 1265 was not ratified by Venice: see below. 58

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Not surprisingly, these treaties devote much attention to Constantinople, yet none at all or little to Thessalonike. In 1265 Emperor Michael VIII was clearly suspicious of Venetian intentions and therefore offered Venice a place for the lodging of its citizens outside the kastron or walled city of Thessalonike.67 He promised that Venice would have precedence over any other western maritime nation, should he grant them property in Thessalonike proper.68 It is unclear whether these facilities were intended for visiting merchants only or for all Venetians, in which case the emperor’s undertaking would imply that Venetian settlers had left or had been compelled to leave the city in 1261. The draft of the treaty also provided that the Venetians would be free to conduct religious services according to the Latin rite in the churches they would hold in their places of residence, and that these churches would not be subject to the authority of the imperial Church.69 The proposed treaty illustrates Venetian interest in the full resumption of trade in Thessalonike, yet Venice did not consider it satisfactory and therefore refused to ratify it.70 Surprisingly, neither Thessalonike nor any other city except Constantinople is mentioned in the Venetian-Byzantine treaty of 1268, which on the whole offered the Venetians better conditions than those of 1265. They were allowed to rent houses, ovens, and bathhouses wherever they would reside, ubi fuerint dicti Veneti et habitabunt. It is unclear whether the Latin version of the treaty, the only one to survive, implies the renewed presence of settlers in Thessalonike and elsewhere, or refers in more general terms to all Venetians. In any event, these were allowed to use their own weights and measures in transactions among themselves. Churches would be put at their disposal, as illustrated for instance in Constantinople, which implies that the Venetian ecclesiastical institutions existing in Thessalonike, presumably until 1261, had been confiscated. The clause concerning religious services and the relations with the Greek Church was similar to the one included in the projected treaty of 1265, yet was limited to the period covered by the truce.71 This important restriction, which has been overlooked until now, implies that the envisaged dispositions regarding the churches were temporary. The list of Venetian claims for compensation compiled in March 1278 offers precious information about Venetian traders and their operations in Thessalonike in the previous decade and illustrates the serious difficulties they sometimes encountered. The widespread activity of pirates and corsairs, among them Latins, clearly hampered trade. Some 67

This proposal was similar to the one he had made to the Genoese in 1261, see below, p. 114. Draft of the treaty with Venice in TTh 2: 62–89, Greek and Latin versions, and see esp. 70 and 81; new ed. of both versions by M. Pozza and G. Ravegnani, I trattati con Bisanzio, 1265–1285, Pacta veneta 6 (Venice, 1995), 26–47, no. 2, and see esp. 33–36, §§5–6. While the Greek version mentions tovpon eij" kavqisma, the Latin one, which is more explicit, refers to the construction of dwellings: terram et locum pro faciendo . . . seçium [= sedium] et mansionem. In Constantinople too Michael VIII offered Venice land outside the walled city, on the opposite side of the Golden Horn: TTh 3: 70 and 81–82; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 34–35, §5. See also R. Janin, Constantinople byzantine, 2d ed. (Paris, 1964), 248. 68 TTh 3: 70 and 82; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 34–35, §5. Here again there is a discrepancy with respect to the city between the Greek version, which uses ejnto;", and the Latin one, which reads prope, i.e., near and not within. The Greek version is clearly the more reliable. 69 TTh 3: 73 and 84; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 38–40, §9. The churches would be put at their disposal, as illustrated for instance in Constantinople and implied by the treaty of 1268: see below. 70 The treaty was less favorable to Venice than assumed by Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus, 182– 83, who suggests other factors that may have motivated Venice’s refusal to ratify it: ibid., 183–85. 71 TTh 3: 96; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 60, no. 4, §§5–6.

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of these Latins resided in Thessalonike and used the city as their base for attacks in the Aegean.72 Two of them were called “knights”: Rolandus cavalerius, also mentioned as miles of Thessalonike, who operated with a Greek crew, presumably in cooperation with his nephew Pardo, and one Lanfrancus chavallari.73 Johannes Senzaraxon, or “madman,” also appears to have been a Latin, despite his Greek surname, or rather nickname, and the fact that he is mentioned as a Byzantine subject, since one of his three nephews was called Raymondinus. He too operated with a Greek crew.74 Another pirate by the name of Prando is identified as Pisan.75 Several Venetian residents of Negroponte on their way from that city to Thessalonike were robbed of their goods, which included oil, honey, pitch, and western woolens.76 According to the list of claims, the Venetians suffered in Thessalonike proper from the hostility of imperial officials and other individuals. There were cases of illegal taxation and other exactions, among them on grain for export to Venice, illegal seizures of merchandise, and administrative impediments delaying, hindering, or preventing the unloading or sale of goods, some of which were thrown into the sea. Pietro Venier was robbed of his unloaded ship anchoring in the harbor and imprisoned for six months. There was also looting after shipwreck.77 We should beware of considering these incidents as the rule. Venetian traders would have stopped visiting Thessalonike had this been the case. Indirectly and paradoxically, then, the Venetian complaints seem to reflect an expanding traffic, an assumption enhanced by the appearance of Venetian residents and consuls in the city in the same period. Indeed, in the 1270s we find some Venetians who resided in Thessalonike for lengthy periods or had settled there. According to an unpublished document, a Venetian ship from Negroponte was immobilized in Thessalonike from 1271 to the spring of 1274. It is unclear why it remained there. Three Venetians, one Genoese, and two other Latins from Negroponte who had served as sailors on board ran off with the advance payment they had 72

See P. Charanis, “Piracy in the Aegean during the Reign of Michael VIII Palaeologus,” AIPHOS 10 (1950): 127–36, repr. in idem, Social, Economic and Political Life in the Byzantine Empire (London, 1973), no. XII; H. Ahrweiler, Byzance et la mer. La marine de guerre, la politique et les institutions maritimes de Byzance aux VIIe–XVe siècles (Paris, 1966), 369–70; G. Morgan, “The Venetian Claims Commission of 1278,” BZ 69 (1976): 412–38; Ch. A. Maltezou, “Qessalonivkh: ÔOrmhthvrio koursavrwn stav tevlh tou' 13ou aijwvna,” in Buzantinhv Makedoniva, 324– 1430 m.C. Dieqnev" Sumpovsio, ÔEtaireiva Makedonikw'n Spoudw'n (Thessalonike, 1995), 209–16, on the organization and operations of the corsairs and their cooperation with the authorities in Thessalonike. 73 TTh, 3: 181, 188, 216, 217, 223–24, 251, 261, and for the last one, 236; see Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 422. The two individuals were clearly Latins. On their surname, see Maltezou, “Qessalonivkh,” 211. Some Byzantine Greeks also bore the patronymic surnames Kaballavrio" or Kaballarhv": PLP 10024–44. Alexios Chavalari, possibly an imperial official, is mentioned in a Venetian document of 1389: ed. J. Chrysostomides, “Venetian Commercial Privileges under the Palaeologi,” StVen 12 (1970): 351. 74 On his operations, see Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 421. The other nephews were called Nicolas and Bartolomeus, names that could be either Greek or Latin. On family connections between them, see TTh 3: 178, 191, 204, 218. G. Makris, Studien zur byzantinischen Schiffahrt, Collana storica di fonti e studi, diretta da G. Pistarino, 52 (Genoa, 1988), 199–200, postulates that the names of the nephews indicate that Johannes Senzaraxon was a gasmoulos, an unwarranted deduction. 75 TTh 3: 262–63; he is possibly identical with Pari Pisanus, mentioned ibid., 264. 76 TTh 3: 199, no. II, and 241, no. XVI; Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 428–29, nos. 18, 62. The merchant involved in the second case was Rinaldo de Niola, burgensis of Negroponte, whose career can be partly reconstructed: see Jacoby, “Migrations familiales,” 370. 77 TTh 3: 168–69, 177–78, 260, 278–80 (grain exports); Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 432, 434, 435, respectively nos. 176, 182, 233, 248–52.

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received on account of their wages, as well as with various goods.78 It is likely that they stayed in Thessalonike for some time in order to remain beyond the reach of Venetian justice. One of the Venetian owners of the vessel, Jacopo Ansaldo, also remained in the city to pursue his trading. In 1276, thus around five years after his arrival, he owned or had rented a house and a warehouse in which he kept grain and had some horses used for transportation. In February 1277 he complained to the city’s governor that he had not been fully paid for woolens sold to a Greek. After being rebutted by the governor, who was a business partner of that Greek, he threatened to turn to the Venetian consul in the city and request that the latter order reprisals against the merchant. The governor displayed utter contempt toward the consul and Jacopo Ansaldo and, moreover, sent people to the latter’s home to seize some of his goods.79 The information regarding this merchant reveals that he imported woolens in order to buy grain from producers, store it in Thessalonike, and either ship it himself from there or else serve as commercial agent or middleman in transactions involving other Venetians. He was clearly not the only one acting in that way. The Venetian export of grain from Thessalonike appears to have been conducted by traders based either in Venice or in Negroponte.80 Growing Venetian trade and the presence of settlers in Thessalonike account for the appearance of a Venetian consul in the city, attested in 1273 or early 1274, several decades earlier than commonly assumed.81 It is not excluded that at first he was chosen from among the merchants visiting the city or the few individuals established there in order to deal with internal litigation. Carentano Zane, the first consul known by name, may have already been elected by the authorities in Venice.82 This was certainly the case with Pietro Michiel, who in 1276 was serving as consul.83 It should be stressed, however, that the consul’s authority was not recognized by the empire until 1277.84 In August 1287 the Maggior Consiglio of Venice allocated the sum of 20 solidi grossi to cover the impending journey of the newly elected consul to Thessalonike.85 Two years later the holder of the office had returned ill to Venice and was remaining there. As an emergency measure the merchants 78

Archivio di Stato di Padova, Archivio Diplomatico, b.18, no. 2630, 5 August 1274. TTh 3: 271–72. Incorrect dating by Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 433, no. 193. Since the Venetian year began in March, the reference is to 1277. The incident took place one year before the last February preceding the compilation of the report in March 1278. 80 Respectively TTh 3: 278–80, nos. VI–XI, of 1277, and no. XII, of 1272. See Jacoby, “La Venezia d’oltremare,” 270, where I deal with the export of grain from Thessalonike and Herakleia in Thrace, and not import to, as mistakenly printed. 81 Thiriet, “Vénitiens à Thessalonique,” 323–25, is clearly wrong in postponing the organization and development of Venetian presence in Thessalonike to the period following 1303, an interpretation reproduced in F. Thiriet, La Romanie vénitienne au Moyen Age. Le développement et l’exploitation du domaine colonial vénitien (XIIe– XVe siècles), BEFAR 193 (Paris, 1959), 339–40 [reprinted in 1975, with additional bibliography]. 82 TTh 3: 279–80: more than four years before the report of March 1278. 83 TTh 3: 270: annum suum consulatui (sic!) in principio, a rather clumsy formulation. The reference is to the beginning of his term of office one and a half years or so before the claims list was completed, i.e., in September 1276 at the latest. The full name of the consul is mentioned elsewhere, in connection with a letter he sent to Piero Badoer, Venetian bailo in Constantinople from 1276 onward: ibid., 188; on Badoer, see Ch. A. Maltezou, ÔO qesmo;" tou' ejn Kwnstantinoupovlei benetou' bai?lou (1268–1453) [= The Institution of the Venetian Bailo in Constantinople (1268–1453)] (Athens, 1970), 102. The dating by Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 431, no. 122, is incorrect. 84 See below, pp. 99–100. 85 Cessi, DMC, 3: 179, §88. 79

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leaving for Thessalonike were empowered to elect a consul from among themselves. It was understood that the latter would serve until being replaced by a new consul chosen in Venice according to the common procedure.86 The whole arrangement implies that the Venetians residing in Thessalonike at that time were few in number or that they lacked the social standing required for the office of consul. In any event, the continuity of the latter supposes a certain volume of regular Venetian traffic and continuous presence in Thessalonike. This is also conveyed by the Venetian-Byzantine treaty of 1277, which reflects Venice’s growing interest in the city. Venice was granted the church of the Armenians and three houses close to it, one for the lodging of the consul, one for his two councillors, and another to serve as warehouse for the Commune’s goods. In addition, Emperor Michael VIII promised the use of twenty-five rent-free houses, the number being increased or restricted according to the number of merchants arriving in the city. The arrangement with respect to these houses was thus flexible, renewable at each seasonal arrival, and limited to the duration of the merchants’ stay. As explicitly stated, unused houses would be returned in the meantime to their owners.87 It is unclear whether the imperial treasury paid the rent for these houses or whether the latter were requisitioned by imperial order for a specific period. In any event, contrary to the common view, the emperor did not transfer these houses to Venetian ownership, nor did he grant Venice any quarter in Thessalonike.88 It is highly significant in our context that the disposition regarding the houses was similar to the one envisaged for Constantinople, whereas in other Byzantine cities the Venetians would have to pay for rented facilities.89 With respect to Constantinople, though, the treaty of 1277 mentions a well-defined urban area corresponding to the pre-1204 Venetian quarter, in which the allotted houses would be located.90 No such topographical definition was provided for Thessalonike, which emphasizes the difference between the two cities with respect to Venetian residence. Incidentally, the treaty of 1277 renewed the clauses dealing with the Venetians’ use of their own weights and measures and the use of churches.91 The subsequent treaties of 1285, 1302, and 1310 merely confirmed the terms of 1277 regarding Thessalonike, the latter clauses implicitly.92 Significantly, the treaty of 1277 did not include any provisions regarding Venetians already established or those wishing to establish themselves in Thessalonike and therefore does not provide any indication about settlers. It is clear, though, that the latter’s presence was one of the factors that induced Venice to obtain various important concessions from Michael VIII. The emperor recognized anew the status of the Venetian bailo in Constantinople and, for the first time, also that of Venice’s official representatives elsewhere in the 86

Ibid., 243, §86. MM 3: 88–89 (Greek); TTh, 3: 140 (Latin); new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 88–90, no. 7, §4. 88 As argued by Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus, 301; A. E. Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins. The Foreign Policy of Andronicus II, 1282–1328 (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 63, and D. M. Nicol, Byzantium and Venice: A Study in Diplomatic and Cultural Relations (Cambridge, 1988), 199–200. 89 See above, note p. 96. 90 MM 3: 88; TTh 3: 139; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 87–89, no. 7, §3. On the area, see Jacoby, “Venetian Quarter,” 154–59. 91 MM, 3: 88–89; TTh, 3: 141; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 88–90, no. 7, §§4, 6–7; 115–16, no. 8, §§4, 6–7. 92 TTh 3: 327–28, 345–46; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 139–40, no. 10, §§4, 6–7, and ibid., 157– 58, no. 11, §4, 6–7; DVL 1: 82–85. 87

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empire. As mentioned earlier, in Thessalonike it was a consul. Moreover, like the Venetian bailo in Constantinople, the other officials would determine who enjoyed Venetian status and would exercise authority over all Venetians.93 It was understood that these included both settlers and visiting merchants, regardless of whether they were citizens, subjects, or foreigners who had acquired Venetian nationality. The granting of Venetian status to foreigners was a device widely used by Venice in the eastern Mediterranean at that time. It is likely, therefore, that some naturalized Greeks were to be found among the Venetians residing in Thessalonike.94 On the other hand, the problem of the Venetian gasmouloi, individuals of mixed Venetian-Greek parentage, was raised only with respect to Constantinople, which suggests that there were few of them, if any, in Thessalonike.95 Three factors may account for the difference between the two cities in this respect, namely the small number of Venetians residing in Thessalonike in the previous period, the early Byzantine recovery of the city in 1224, and the absence in the latter of Venetian political authority, contrary to that enjoyed by the Commune in Constantinople from 1204 to 1261. The Byzantine recognition of the consul’s authority in Thessalonike, stated in 1277 though without mentioning his office by name, was an important political achievement for Venice and surely reflects increased Venetian interest in the city. However, it should not mislead us with respect to the volume of Venetian presence and trading. The office of consul in Thessalonike, granted for two years, remained of low rank compared with other similar Venetian offices overseas.96 It was subordinate to the authority of the Venetian bailo in Constantinople and carried no salary, except in special circumstances mentioned below, though its holder enjoyed some revenue accruing from certain payments or taxes. The consul in Thessalonike was allowed to conduct trade, an activity prohibited to Venetian state officials in higher positions.97 The fairly low level of official Venetian representation 93 MM 3: 90–91; TTh 3: 142; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 93–95, no. 7, §9. The first bailo in Constantinople was appointed in 1268: see Maltezou, ÔO qesmov", 100–101. 94 On Venetian status and naturalization, see Jacoby, “Vénitiens naturalisés,” 217–35. For a specific case of naturalization in Thessalonike, see below, p. 108. 95 MM 3: 89; TTh 3: 140, 328, 346; new ed. Pozza and Ravegnani, Trattati, 90–91, no. 7, §5, 115, no. 8, §5, 140, no. 10, §5, 158, no. 11, §5. The reference is to gasmouloi under the authority of the Venetian bailo. On the issue of these gasmouloi, see Jacoby, “Vénitiens naturalisés,” 221–22. 96 A two-year service for officials posted overseas appears to have been the rule since the first half of the 13th century: see D. Jacoby, “L’expansion occidentale dans le Levant: Les Vénitiens à Acre dans la seconde moitié du treizième siècle,” JMedHist 3 (1977): 231, repr. in idem, Recherches sur la Méditerranée orientale du XIIe au XVe siècle. Peuples, sociétés, économies (London, 1979), no. VII. Morgan, “Venetian Claims,” 420, asserts that three consuls served in Thessalonike in 1275–76, which is excluded. Two of them, Mainardi Benincasa (and not Benenca, as in TTh) and Tommaso Contarini, are mentioned together as issuing letters of confirmation, which does not imply that they had served at the same time: TTh 3: 191. For a similar case involving three former baili of Negroponte, see ibid., 162. 97 The prohibition against conducting trade while serving in certain offices was already enforced by 1272: Cessi, DMC, 2: 359–60, VIII, §III. The description of the consul’s office by Thiriet, “Vénitiens à Thessalonique,” 325, partly repeated with some variations in idem, Romanie vénitienne, 340, is mistaken on several counts. As a rule the consulship was not granted per gratiam to those who offered themselves to serve, as clearly stated in the case of Giuliano Zancaruol, for whom an exception was made: see below, p. 102. The consuls were duly elected in Venice, and not appointed, except in special circumstances as in 1289: see above, pp. 98–99. There is not a single piece of evidence pointing to Venetian settlers in Thessalonike obtaining the office. Finally, the consul did not receive any salary, again except in special circumstances: see below, p. 102. It follows that a resolution of 1278 stating that a consul elected by merchants receives no salary was anyhow not relevant for Thessalonike. For its text: Cessi, DMC 3: 68, §LXXXXVIIII.

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in the city clearly points to the relatively minor function of the latter in Venice’s longdistance maritime commerce, the reasons for which will soon be examined. Considering the nature of the consulship in Thessalonike, it may be assumed that those interested in it either had already conducted trade in the past with the city or else intended to expand their activity there by taking advantage of their function. Moreover, once they left the office they could easily exploit the trading connections they had established. While serving as consul in 1273 or 1274 Carentano Zane sold both in Thessalonike proper and in its hinterland the western woolens he imported. Interestingly, he sent his servant to the Macedonian city of Melnik with some pieces of textile, for which the kommerkion was extracted at an unspecified place, although the Venetians were exempt from that tax. In September 1277, some three years after leaving office, Zane exported grain from Thessalonike.98 His activity points once more to the connection between Venetian imports of woolens and purchases of grain for export.99 The Venetians acted exclusively as wholesalers of woolens, and this appears also to have been the case with the servant sent inland by Carentano Zane, mentioned earlier. On the other hand, the retail trade in woolens was in Greek hands.100 With respect to this commodity, the division of market activity between Venetians and local Greeks was maintained throughout the entire Byzantine period. It is clearly stated in 1425, when the Thessalonians demanded from Venice a return to past practices.101 It may be taken for granted that there were no Venetian settlers, visiting merchants, or consuls in Thessalonike in the period extending from the summer of 1296 to late 1302, during which Venice and the empire were at war.102 The renewal of Venetian trade in the city must have come soon afterwards. Venetian ships were operating along the Macedonian coast in 1307 and reaching Thessalonike as a matter of routine.103 There was a temporary halt in 1310, when Venice put pressure on Emperor Andronikos II. In May of that year it prohibited the sailing of Venetians on board armed vessels to Thessalonike, the Dardanelles, and the Black Sea until the conclusion of a new treaty with the empire, which took place in November.104 The export of grain from Thessalonike is regularly mentioned in the following years.105 Contemporary sources offer some evidence regarding Venetian consuls in Thessalonike, some of whom were residents of Romania, and the problems they and other Venetians encountered. Emanuele Mazamano of Negroponte, who served as consul in 1313 or 1314, was robbed by Thessalonians of goods evaluated at more than 700 hyperpera.106 He 98 TTh 3: 279–80. The first of these activities took place more than four years before the report of March 1278. 99 A similar pattern appears at Chiarenza, the main port of the Frankish Peloponnese, where woolens were imported to finance the purchase of silk: see Jacoby, “Changing Economic Patterns,” 228. 100 See examples above, p. 98, and below, p. 111. 101 See below, p. 111. 102 On which see Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 104–12. 103 Ibid., 208–9. 104 F. Thiriet, Délibérations des assemblées vénitiennes concernant la Romanie (Paris–The Hague, 1966–71), 1: no. 214; Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 236. 105 A. E. Laiou-Thomadakis, “The Byzantine Economy in the Mediterranean Trade System: Thirteenth– Fifteenth Centuries,” DOP 34–35 (1980–81): 183, repr. in eadem, Gender, Society and Economic Life in Byzantium (Aldershot, 1992), no. VII. On the export of other commodities in that period, see below, p. 105. 106 Ed. Thiriet, Délibérations, 1: 300, no. 326, whose reading “Mazamara” is erroneous.

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was succeeded in 1316 by Marco Celsi of Venice, to whom the government denied the revenue deriving from the measuring of oil, allotted to previous consuls, because he had mismanaged some business deals in the past.107 While in office Celsi traded in valonia, the acorn cups of the oak used in tanning and dyeing.108 He was followed in 1318 by Giuliano Zancaruol, a Venetian settled in Crete, whose stationing in Thessalonike was considered very useful since he spoke Greek. For that reason he was awarded the income deriving from the renting out of the houses granted by the empire for the accommodation of visiting merchants, in addition to an annual salary of 50 Venetian pounds. The resolution adopted by the Maggior Consiglio regarding his election clearly stresses the exceptional nature of the conditions from which he benefited.109 Despite this specification, the latter also appear to have been granted to the following consuls. In 1328 the Venetian bailo in Constantinople, Marco Corner, was ordered to compensate the consul in Thessalonike, Nicolà Celsi, for the loss of revenue accruing from the renting out of the houses and to transfer the latter to the consul’s authority.110 A proposal submitted to the Senate to grant a salary to the consul posted in Thessalonike, coupled with a prohibition against trading while in office, was defeated in 1324.111 Nevertheless, this instance, as well as some of the previous ones, point to a slight upgrading of the consul’s office, undoubtedly related to an increase in Venetian presence and trading in the city in these years. A list of Venetian complaints based on various reports, some supplied by former Venetian consuls in Thessalonike, was compiled before March 1320. Individual Greeks and especially imperial officials involved in trade and intent on furthering their personal interests mistreated Venetian merchants and inflicted heavy damage upon them, similar to that reported in the Venetian claims list of 1278. The officials compelled the merchants to pay taxes from which they were exempt and prevented, hindered, or delayed the purchase or unloading of goods. One of the officials, mentioned as “capitaneus” of the city, acted that way in order to ensure the sale of grain he himself had imported to Thessalonike. Some Greeks refused to pay fully for the goods they had received, did not submit to the jurisdiction of the Venetian consul when the plaintiff was Venetian, as prescribed by the Venetian-Byzantine treaties, and assaulted the Venetians if they protested. Although the Venetians had the right to dwell freely in the empire wherever they wished, they were denied this right by force in Thessalonike, as in Constantinople, Ainos, and unspecified Byzantine islands. In addition, as stated in 1320 and 1322, the Byzantine authorities in Thessalonike did not always implement the clauses of the treaties regarding the accommodation and the church to which visiting Venetian merchants were entitled. Occasionally they denied them reasonable quarters and provided only small buildings 107

Ed. ibid., 302, no. 354. The correct reading is presumably utilitatem metri (and not meri) olei. On the use of metrum as a measure for oil in Thessalonike, see the trade manual of Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La pratica della mercatura, ed. A. Evans (Cambridge, Mass., 1936), 161. One should remember that the Venetians had been granted the use of their own weights and measures among themselves: see above, p. 96. On metrum for oil and wine in the empire, see M. F. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy, c. 300–1450 (Cambridge, 1985), 334–37. It would seem that Celsi had invested some of the Commune’s revenue in transactions that ended in losses. In 1330 he nevertheless held a higher office in Venice: R. Cessi and P. Sambin, Le deliberazioni del Consiglio dei Rogati (Senato), Serie mixtorum, vol. 1 (Venice, 1960), 427, XIII, §184. 108 DVL 1: 134. 109 Ed. Thiriet, Délibérations, 1: 305, no. 400. 110 Cessi and Sambin, Deliberazioni, 1: 352, X, §320. For the identity of the bailo, see Maltezou, ÔO qesmov", 110. 111 Cessi and Sambin, Deliberazioni, 1: 285, VIII, §30.

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with insufficient space. As a result, the merchants were compelled to rent dwellings at their own cost, sometimes poor-quality and foul-smelling houses belonging to fishermen and other low-ranking individuals.112 In 1332 Andronikos III agreed to pay compensation for the expenses incurred by visiting merchants because the imperial authorities in Thessalonike had failed to allot houses for them to the Venetian consul.113 From the evidence just mentioned it is clear that these were not necessarily the same houses each time. As for the Venetian settlers, in the absence of adequate evidence it is impossible to determine whether they all resided in the same urban section, nor where the latter was located. In short, it is unclear whether there was any permanent Venetian neighborhood in Thessalonike in the Palaiologan era. The volume and nature of Venetian trade and presence in Thessalonike in that period were closely related to the city’s evolving function within the larger context of longdistance commerce and navigation. This function was affected by several factors. A major one was the substantial intensification of western trade in the Black Sea after the Byzantine recovery of Constantinople in 1261.114 To be sure, transportation costs from the Black Sea to Venice were heavier than from Thessalonike, and periods of crisis, tension, and armed conflict temporarily disrupted or interrupted the flow of goods from that region.115 Nevertheless, it appears that on the whole the Black Sea offered a more abundant, stable, and varied response to the growing Italian demand for grain and raw materials for the expanding cotton and silk industries in Italy.116 Moreover, from the 1280s to the 1340s the 112 DVL 1: 164, 166, 167–68, and 134, a detailed list compiled by Marco Celsi, consul in Thessalonike from 1316 to 1318. On this consul, see above, pp. 101–2. On the issue of compensation, see DVL 1: 146, 159. On Byzantine officials in trade, see also Jacoby, “The Byzantine Outsider in Trade,” 141; Makris, Studien, 252–56. 113 DVL 1: 230–31: pro satisfactione domorum debitarum secundum formam tregarum ipsarum consuli comunis Veneciarum existenti in Thesallonichi (sic!), quas non habuit ut debebat. 114 Since the present paper is not directly concerned with this issue, it will suffice to cite only a few studies among the numerous ones dealing with it: Thiriet, Romanie vénitienne; M. Balard, La Romanie génoise (XIIe– début du XVe siècle), BEFAR 235 (Rome, 1978); idem, “Gênes et la mer Noire (XIIIe–XVe siècles),” RH 270 (1983): 31–52, repr. in idem, La mer Noire, no. V; idem, “Byzance et les régions septentrionales de la mer Noire (XIIIe–XVe siècles),” RH 288 (1993): 19–38; K.-P. Matschke, “Zum Charakter des byzantinischen Schwarzmeerhandels im 13. bis 15. Jahrhundert,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Universität Leipzig 19 (1970): 447–58; N. Oikonomidès, Hommes d’affaires grecs et latins à Constantinople (XIIIe–XVe siècles) (Montréal–Paris, 1979); Laiou-Thomadakis, “The Byzantine Economy,” 177–222; S. P. Karpov, L’ impero di Trebisonda, Venezia, Genova e Roma, 1204–1461. Rapporti politici, diplomatici, commerciali (Rome, 1986); idem, La navigazione veneziana nel Mar Nero, XIII–XV sec. (Ravenna, 2000). See also next note. 115 See S. Karpov, “[The] Black Sea and the Crisis of the Mid XIVth Century: An Underestimated Turning Point,” Thesaurismata 27 (1997): 65–77. 116 On the importance of the Venetian grain trade in the Black Sea, see the previous two notes and Chrysostomides, “Venetian Commercial Privileges,” 316–26. M. Balard, “Le commerce du blé en mer Noire (XIIIe– XVe siècles),” in Aspetti della vita economica medievale. Atti del convegno di Studi nel X Anniversario della morte di Federigo Melis (Florence, 1985), 17–23, repr. in Balard, La mer Noire et la Romanie génoise, no. VI. On cotton: M. F. Mazzaoui, The Italian Cotton Industry in the Later Middle Ages, 1100–1600 (Cambridge, 1981), 23, 40, 43–44. On silk: D. Jacoby, “Genoa, Silk Trade and Silk Manufacture in the Mediterranean Region (ca. 1100–1300),” in A. R. Calderoni Masetti, C. Di Fabio, and M. Marcenaro, eds., Tessuti, oreficerie, miniature in Liguria, XIII–XV secolo, Istituto internazionale di Studi liguri, Atti dei Convegni 3 (Bordighera, 1999), 27–28; L. Molà, La comunità dei Lucchesi a Venezia. Immigrazione e industria della seta nel tardo medioevo, Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti. Memorie, Classe di Scienze Morali, Lettere ed Arti 53 (Venice, 1994), 159–60, 208–10, 214–18; on colorants, see also D. Cardon, “Du ‘verme cremexe’ au ‘veluto chremesino’: Une filière vénitienne du cramoisi au XVe siècle,” in L. Molà, R. C. Mueller, and C. Zanier, eds., La seta in Italia dal Medioevo al Seicento. Dal baco al drappo (Venice, 2000), 63–73.

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Black Sea was also a source of spices and other precious oriental commodities.117 It is highly significant that the Venetian state galleys sailing from Venice to that region, a transportation line inaugurated in 1301, entirely bypassed Thessalonike. The galleys anchored on the way at Negroponte, proceeded on the shortest possible course across the Aegean to Constantinople and the Black Sea, their ultimate destination, and followed the reverse itinerary on the home journey.118 The navigation route followed by these ships provides a clear indication that Thessalonike’s role in long-distance traffic began to decline as early as the second half of the thirteenth century. This role was further restricted by fourteenth-century political and military developments in Thessalonike proper and in its Balkan hinterland.119 The presence of the Catalan Company in Macedonia from the summer of 1307 to the spring of 1309, the civil wars of the fourteenth century within the empire, the Serbian conquests of the 1340s and 1350s, and the Turkish raids beginning in the 1370s impaired Thessalonike’s role as entrepôt and market. At times the exploitation of the Macedonian hinterland and the flow of goods from the Balkans were severely reduced, became irregular, or were even interrupted. To be sure, a large quantity of grain was exported from Thessalonike to Ragusa in 1339,120 and between 1355 and 1357 the city still benefited from the produce of Chalkidike, whether grain, cotton, or silk.121 Yet from 1341 onward it became increasingly dependent upon grain imports by sea.122 In 1350, during the empire’s war with King Dusˇan of Serbia, John VI requested Venetian grain deliveries.123 In the following decades villages around Thessalonike were devastated and largely emptied by Turkish military operations. Murad I repopulated the countryside with Muslims from northwestern Anatolia in 1385, and Bayazid I acted similarly in 1393.124 Early fifteenth-century land cultivation close to Thessalonike and in the Chalkidike peninsula, even when continuous for short periods of time, was mainly directed toward local consumption and not sufficient to uphold the function of Thessalonike as a major outlet of Balkan produce. This is also illustrated by the fairs held in the city or in its vicinity, most of them small, judging by the fiscal rev117

Balard, “Gênes et la mer Noire,” 31–52. See D. Stöckly, Le système de l’incanto des galées du marché à Venise (fin XIIIe–milieu XVe siècle) (Leiden, 1995), 101–19. 119 On the Balkan trade, see K. Dieterich, “Zur Kulturgeographie und Kulturgeschichte des byzantinischen Balkanhandel,” BZ 31 (1931): 37–57; more specifically, on the orientations of Thessalonike’s trade with the Balkans, A. Laiou, “ÔH Qessalonivkh, hJ ejndocwvra th" kaiv oJ oijkonomikov" th" cw'ro" sthvn ejpochv tw'n Palaiolovgwn,” in Dieqnev" Sumpovsio Buzantinhv Makedoniva, 324–1430 m.C. (Qessalonivkh 29–31 Oktwbrivou 1992) (Thessalonike, 1995), 184–87, 193–94. 120 B. Krekic´, Dubrovnik (Raguse) et le Levant au moyen âge (Paris–The Hague, 1961), 194–95, no. 186; Laiou, “H Qessalonivkh,” 187–88. 121 According to a Greek account book: P. Schreiner, ed., Texte zur spätbyzantinischen Finanz- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte in Handschriften der Biblioteca Vaticana, ST 344 (Vatican City, 1991), 79–106, no. 3; dating and siting, ibid., 80–81. 122 Not exclusively, however, as stated by Laiou, “H Qessalonivkh,” 189–90. See previous note. 123 Text in Chrysostomides, “Venetian Commercial Privileges,” 333. 124 For the Ottoman sources, see V. Dimitriades, “Ottoman Chalkidiki: an Area in Transition,” in A. Bryer and H. Lowry, eds., Continuity and Change in Late Byzantine and Early Ottoman Society (Birmingham–Washington, D.C., 1982), 41–43; S. Vryonis, Jr., “The Ottoman Conquest of Thessaloniki in 1430,” ibid., 298, based on Ioannes Anagnostes, Dihvghsi" peri; th'" teleutaiva" aJlwvsew" th'" Qessalonivkh". Monw/diva ejpi; th'/ aJlwvsei th'" Qessalonivkh", ed. G. Tsaras (Thessalonike, 1958), 62; J. Lefort, “Population et peuplement en Macédoine orientale, IXe–XVe siècle,” in V. Kravari, J. Lefort, and C. Morrisson, eds., Hommes et richesses dans l’Empire byzantin (Paris, 1989–91), 2: 75–82. 118

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enue they yielded.125 Moreover, when Thessalonike was cut off from its hinterland as a result of civil wars or foreign conquests, it also lost its centrality as regional administrative center. It is clear, then, that Thessalonike’s maritime function suffered from increasing contraction in the Palaiologan period. To be sure, its sea traffic with Constantinople was furthered to some extent by political instability in the Balkans and the dangers along the Via Egnatia after the outbreak of the second civil war in 1341.126 Yet Thessalonike ceased to be a major port of call and transshipment station and was relegated to a secondary role within the framework of trans-Mediterranean traffic. It operated mainly within the short- and medium-range trade and transportation networks of the Aegean region which connected it to Constantinople, Chios, and Negroponte.127 It is this city which replaced Thessalonike as major transit station in the western Aegean, in which goods were collected for export to more distant destinations or for distribution in the region. This important and decisive shift has been entirely overlooked until now.128 The primacy of Negroponte over Thessalonike within the trans-Mediterranean trade system is illustrated by the nature of trade and traffic between the two cities, recorded in the Venetian claims lists of 1278 and the early 1320s, already mentioned earlier.129 On their outbound voyage, Venice’s state galleys and private ships sailing to Constantinople unloaded Western woolens and other commodities at Negroponte and there collected cargo on their return journey.130 The goods intended for Thessalonike financed the purchase of grain, cotton, silk, and wax, the main exports from the city according to two contemporary trade manuals, the Venetian Zibaldone da Canal, completed in the 1320s at the latest, and the Florentine manual of Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, compiled in the following decade.131 Growing Western demand may have stimulated the expansion of cotton and silk cultivation in Macedonia in the late thirteenth and in the fourteenth centuries.132 125

On land cultivation and fairs, see A. Harvey, “Economic Conditions in Thessaloniki between the Two Ottoman Occupations,” in A. Cowan, ed., Mediterranean Urban Culture, 1400–1700 (Exeter, 2000), 118–21. For the sake of comparison, see 14th-century fairs of varying importance in the Peloponnese: Jacoby, “Changing Economic Patterns,” 214–15. 126 See N. Oikonomides, “The Medieval Via Egnatia,” in E. Zachariadou, ed., The Via Egnatia under Ottoman Rule (1380–1699), Halcyon Days in Crete 2 (Rethymnon, 1996), 14–16. 127 On the first two destinations, see also below, p. 106. 128 By Thiriet, Romanie vénitienne, 282, 339–41, as well as by more recent studies. 129 See above, pp. 96–97, 102. The list of the early 1320s enumerates merchants residing in Negroponte who had been attacked by pirates based in Thessalonike, Skopelos, and Smyrna, which implies navigation in the Aegean. Their destinations are not stated, yet most likely were Thessalonike, as we may indirectly gather from a specific case in which Constantinople is mentioned: DVL 1: 183, 185. 130 Resolutions of the Venetian Senate on 20 May 1344 and 4 June 1345 illustrating the role of the state galleys in that traffic: Baron Blanc, ed., Le flotte mercantili dei Veneziani (Venice, 1896), 114 and 122–23. 131 A. Stussi, ed., Zibaldone da Canal. Manoscritto mercantile del sec. XIV, Fonti per la storia di Venezia, Sez. V, Fondi vari (Venice, 1967), 69; Pegolotti, La pratica della mercatura, 93, 153, 203. The export of kermes, an expensive dyestuff, is documented later: see below, note 156. 132 Mazzaoui, Italian Cotton Industry, 43, refers only to cotton exports in the 15th century. Yet evidence on cotton cultivation in Chalkidike appears in the account book compiled between 1355 and 1357, mentioned earlier: Schreiner, Texte, 85, no. 3, line 69; commentary, ibid., 102–3. For later evidence, see below, p. 108. The trade manuals just mentioned provide indirect evidence about silk production in the hinterland of Thessalonike. This production is also documented in the 1280s, the 1350s and the 1380s: see respectively below, p. 114, above, p. 104, and below, p. 114. K.-P. Matschke, “Tuchproduktion und Tuchproduzenten in Thessalonike und in anderen Städten und Regionen des späten Byzanz,” Buzantiakav 9 (1989): 68–84, passim, refers to the

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Venetian traders and especially the owners and operators of small private ships based in Negroponte were the main, though not the only, beneficiaries of the growing traffic between their city and Thessalonike. Indeed, in 1343 we also find Greeks from both Negroponte and Thessalonike jointly owning a griparia, which in all likelihood had previously been involved in traffic between their respective cities.133 The small vessels from Negroponte occasionally carried Greek merchants and their goods. In 1316 some of these Greeks were robbed of their cargo, worth the substantial sum of 8,000 hyperpera, and in addition were seized and sold into slavery. Other Greek merchants from Thessalonike were not paid for goods delivered to Venetians, who presumably had carried them to Negroponte.134 The important role of the Venetians settled in this city in trade with Thessalonike, their acquaintance with conditions in the latter, and their interests there account for the occasional choice of consuls from their midst, mentioned above. There were also ships sailing between Venice and Thessalonike. After 1335 they are regularly mentioned with respect to the timetable of their return voyage and the obligation of the merchants to present their goods before departure to the consul posted in the city. The references to that practice are particularly precious since they continue during the Zealot revolution, which lasted from 1342 to 1349.135 It follows that Venetian traders and settlers pursued their activity in Thessalonike in these years. The seizure and destruction of property occurring there were directed only against specific members of the city’s social and economic elite. They did not affect the Church’s assets nor foreigners, as illustrated by our documents. The city’s economy maintained some degree of vitality, despite restrictions imposed by the simultaneous civil war. Industrial production, including the manufacturing of textiles, trade, the movement of ships in Thessalonike’s harbor, as well as medium-range traffic with Negroponte, Chios, and Constantinople continued.136 There were also Greek pirates operating out of Thessalonike.137 In the following years Turkish pirates often endangered the small vessels engaged in transportation between Negroponte and Thessalonike. In 1359 several merchants of Venice accustomed to send their woolens and other goods to Thessalonike via Negroponte demanded that their cargo be carried from that port on board the state galley protecting Euboea, in return for the payment of a freight charge. The request was granted, provided the vessel was not required for naval operations. The following year the Venetian Senate production of silk and silk textiles in Macedonia and Thessalonike in the Palaiologan period. I shall return elsewhere to that topic. 133 The small ship was sold in 1343 to a Venetian residing in Modon: A. Nanetti, ed., Documenta veneta Coroni & Methoni rogata. Euristica e critica documentaria per gli oculi capitales Comunis Veneciarum (secoli XIV e XV), vol. 1, Fondazione Nazionale Ellenica delle Ricerche, Istituto di Ricerche Bizantine, Fonti 3 (Athens, 1999), 110– 11, no. 1.111. 134 DVL 1: 127; the dating is based on the indiction year. 135 References for the years 1340–45 in Thiriet, “Vénitiens à Thessalonique,” 328 and note 3; Blanc, Flotte mercantili, 80, 86, 96, 106, 119. 136 K.-P. Matschke, “Thessalonike und die Zeloten. Bemerkungen zu einem Schlüsselereignis der spätbyzantinischen Stadt- und Reichsgeschichte,” BSl 55 (1994): 30–38. On textiles produced in Thessalonike in that period, see below, pp. 115–16. In view of Thessalonike’s direct links with Constantinople, oriental goods could reach the former either directly or via Negroponte or Chios. Golden Horde ceramics were inserted in the Vlatadon monastery of Thessalonike between ca. 1350 and 1370: see H. Philon, “Thessaloniki, Andalusia and the Golden Horde,” BalkSt 26 (1985): 299–303, 307–20. 137 See Matschke, “Thessalonike und die Zeloten,” 34 and note 95.

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fixed the freight of these goods in order to prevent any overcharge.138 The arrangement was still in force in 1374.139 We do not know how long it was implemented, yet it had ceased to be by 1407.140 Incidentally, it is clear that the western woolens brought by Venetians to Thessalonike were not exclusively intended for local consumption and must have been partly reexported further inland, as noted earlier with respect to Melnik.141 It is likely that their continuous import on a fairly large scale, more than any other factor, prevented the development of a large and sophisticated woolen industry in Thessalonike, similar to that operating in the city in the early Ottoman period.142 The local manufacture of woolens and mixed fabrics in the Palaiologan period appears to have been restricted to medium- and low-grade products and carried out on a fairly limited scale.143 The presence and activity of Venetians in Thessalonike is further attested in the 1360s and 1370s. In 1363 Venice envisaged that all its citizens and subjects, settlers included, would leave the empire with their goods, should Emperor John V refuse to ratify a new treaty agreed upon by his ambassadors and fail to rescind new measures damaging Venetian interests. It is noteworthy that Constantinople and Thessalonike are the only cities specifically mentioned in that decree.144 The presence of a Venetian consul and Venetian settlers in Thessalonike is also attested by a request of 1371 for their intervention in the freeing of an imprisoned Ragusan merchant.145 In February 1375 the Venetian Senate recorded that the settlers were being harmed by imperial officials.146 The Ottoman occupation of Thessalonike from 1387 to 1403 ensured anew the regular flow of goods from Macedonia and further regions of the Balkans and must have generated an increase in Venetian trade and presence in the city. Some Venetian merchants were imprisoned in Thessalonike in 1393 and released in the following year, in reprisal for action taken by the Venetian authorities in Negroponte. These had retained a ship loaded with grain and other goods belonging to Thessalonian merchants, in all likelihood Greeks exporting grain from their city rather than importing it.147 Incidentally, there is good reason to believe that Greek trading in the Aegean was far more intensive than re138 Thiriet, “Vénitiens à Thessalonique,” 330–31 and text 331 note 1. The issue was not protection of the small vessels by the galley, as stated in the summaries of the relevant documents by F. Thiriet, Régestes des délibérations du Sénat de Venise concernant la Romanie (Paris–The Hague, 1958–61), nos. 347 and 361. 139 According to a testimony edited by M. Koumanoudi, “‘Contra deum, jus et justitiam.’ The Trial of Bartolomeo Querini, Bailo and Capitano of Negroponte (14th c.),” in Ch. A. Maltezou, ed., Bisanzio, Venezia e il mondo franco-greco (XIII–XV secolo). Atti del Colloquio Internazionale organizzato nel centenario della nascita di Raymond-Joseph Loenertz o.p., Venezia, 1–2 dicembre 2000 (Venice, 2002), 250, 272, û6, lines 18–20: Tommaso Barbarigo and other merchants of Venice volebant dictam galeam pro mitendo panos Salonichum. 140 See below, p. 108. 141 See above, p. 101. 142 Laiou, “H Qessalonivkh,” 191, considers the lack of proper communication between the city and its hinterland and the resulting lack of wool supplies as one of the main reasons, yet has not taken the imports of finished products into account. On the volume of these imports, see a figure cited below, p. 108. 143 Matschke, “Tuchproduktion,” 69–76. 144 Ed. Thiriet, Délibérations, 1: 323–24, no. 698: cives, subditi et mercatores. In such a context the term mercatores was exclusively applied to traveling traders (see above, p. 90), which implies that the two other terms referred to or, in any event, included settlers. 145 Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 211, no. 293. 146 Text in Chrysostomides, “Venetian Commercial Privileges,” 347: Veneti nostri de Salonico molestantur in Salonico per officiales ipsius domini imperatoris. 147 Thiriet, Régestes, 1: nos. 838 and 857.

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flected by the overwhelmingly Western documentation that has survived.148 Two somewhat later instances of Venetian trading in Ottoman Thessalonike are reported by the lord of Andros, Pietro Zeno, who participated in the negotiations of Gallipoli leading to the treaty of 20 February 1403 between the Ottoman prince Suleyman and several Christian powers.149 During these negotiations he was approached by a noted merchant from Thessalonike involved in intensive trading with Negroponte, who claimed to be a Venetian citizen.150 More likely, though, this individual called Agançi was a naturalized Venetian. His strange surname may be a distortion of Ganhvth" or Ganivth", due to a Venetian scribe unfamiliar with Greek names.151 Agançi mentioned that the goods of Ordelaffo Falier, who seems to have resided in Venice, had been confiscated when he died soon after arriving in Thessalonike. The local Turkish authorities claimed that the safe-conduct he had obtained was valid only during his lifetime. Agançi estimated the value of the goods at between 2,000 and 3,000 ducats.152 The case had not yet been settled by 1407, when Jacopo Loredan was instructed to request 4,000 ducats as compensation from Prince Suleyman.153 Regardless of whether we adopt the lower or higher figure, the sum invested in that single trading venture implies fairly large Venetian business operations in Thessalonike in the first period of Ottoman rule over the city. Venetian exports of cotton from Thessalonike appear to have been routine in these years, both before and immediately after the renewal of Byzantine dominion over the city in 1403. As it had often done in the past, Venice extended several times the period of the year during which cotton could be brought to Venice, in 1406 because of lack of ships and unfavorable political circumstances.154 The safety of the vessels sailing between Negroponte and Thessalonike was again discussed in 1407. It was decided then that the Euboea galley should accompany these vessels, be allowed to carry gold and silver, and remain in Thessalonike no more than four full days. If the amount of goods was small, the galley would be replaced by a galeota, a medium-sized oared ship of the galley type.155 Another proposal, which was rejected, envisaged the transportation of woolens brought from Venice on board the galley, provided four hundred pieces of cloth or more were shipped, as well as gold and silver, with a stop at Thessalonike for two days only.156 From the reference to the four hundred pieces we may gather that the volume of woolens imported to the city in a single season was generally larger. The figure is worthy of attention. 148 See above, p. 106, on Greek merchants from Thessalonike at an earlier period, and Matschke, “Thessalonike und die Zeloten,” 33–36, on their importance in the 1340s. 149 On this treaty, see below, p. 120. 150 Ed. of Zeno’s report by G. Dennis, S. J., “The Byzantine-Turkish Treaty of 1403,” OCP 33 (1967): 83–84, §6, repr. in idem, Byzantium and the Franks, 1350–1420 (London, 1982), no. VI. 151 The two Greek surnames are listed in PLP, respectively nos. 3543 and 91593. 152 Dennis, “Byzantine-Turkish Treaty,” 83–84, §§6–7, where Ordelaffo Falier is described as being young. He should not be confused, therefore, with a namesake and contemporary in charge of the Venetian arsenal at Candia in 1402: F. Thiriet, ed., Duca di Candia. Ducali e lettere ricevute (1358–1360; 1401–1405), Fonti per la storia di Venezia, Sez. I, Archivi pubblici (Venice, 1978), no. 25. 153 Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1243. 154 K. N. Sathas, ed., Documents inédits pour servir à l’histoire de la Grèce au Moyen Age (Paris, 1890–1900), 2: 131, 135, 161, 219–20, 226, 257, 267, respectively nos. 357, 364, 395, 460, 472, 520, 533. 155 On the galeota, see J. H. Pryor, Geography, Technology and War. Studies in the Maritime History of the Mediterranean, 649–1571 (Cambridge, 1988), 66–67; Balard, Romanie génoise, 552. 156 Sathas, Documents, 2: 175–76, no. 410. Silk and kermes are also mentioned in the same context, yet these commodities were obviously exported from Thessalonike.

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The two proposals of 1407 offer confirmation about some of the goods handled in Thessalonike by Venetians, yet also provide new evidence of special interest in this respect. The reference to gold and silver hints at Venetian business ventures connected with the operations of Serbian and Greek merchants between the city and the Serbian mining center of Novo Brdo, beginning in the 1370s.157 By 1407 Thessalonike had become a bullion market in which Venetians exchanged their gold ducats for silver, which was shipped to areas using silver-based currencies, as we may gather from somewhat later evidence.158 There is ample evidence about the dispatch of silver bullion from Venice on board state galleys sailing eastward from the 1320s onward.159 In Venice the silver trade was closely supervised by government officials.160 This was apparently not the case, at least not to the same extent, in Byzantine Thessalonike. It is likely, therefore, that silver could be bought there at lower prices, provided the bullion market was closely monitored by merchants and bankers. Venetian settlers were instrumental in that respect, in view of their continuous presence in the city and their activity as local agents, which furthered the interests of traveling merchants. Venetian settlers are again directly attested in Thessalonike in 1418. Bertuccio Diedo, Venetian bailo in Constantinople, introduced new taxes on their goods, presumably during a vacancy in the consul’s office. On 15 January 1419 he was ordered to cancel them.161 Two Venetian citizens, the Greek brothers Giorgio and Demetrio Filomati (Filomavth" in Greek), were deeply involved in the affairs of Thessalonike in the first decades of the fifteenth century. They are worthy of particular attention, in view of both their functions and their ethnic identity.162 It was apparently their father who emigrated before 1400 from Candia to Venice, where he obtained full Venetian citizenship, only seldom awarded to Greeks. The family nevertheless remained faithful to the Greek Church. In 1418 or somewhat earlier Venice elected Giorgio Filomati as consul in Thessalonike. For some unknown reason he was ejected from that position in 1418 by the bailo in Constantinople, Bertuccio Diedo, yet was reinstated in it by a resolution of the Venetian Senate, adopted on 15 January 1419 at the request of his brother Demetrio.163 Giorgio drowned in the vicinity of Negroponte in the autumn of 1422 and was succeeded as Venetian consul by Demetrio, who served in that office until Venice occupied Thessalonike on 13 September of the following 157 See K.-P. Matschke, “Zum Anteil der Byzantiner an der Bergbauentwicklung und an den Bergbauerträgen Südosteuropas im 14. und 15. Jahrhundert,” BZ 84–85 (1991–92): 57–65. 158 Matschke, ibid., 64, is somewhat hesitant about bullion and speaks of a money market, yet Venetian merchants did not export silver coins: see below, p. 111. 159 F. C. Lane and R. C. Mueller, Money and Banking in Medieval and Renaissance Venice, vol. 1, Coins and Moneys of Account (Baltimore, Md.–London, 1985), 365–71; R. C. Mueller, The Venetian Money Market: Banks, Panics and the Public Debt, 1200–1500 (Baltimore, Md., 1997), 84, 137, 162, 446. 160 Lane and Mueller, Money and Banking, 152–60; Mueller, Venetian Money Market, 193. 161 Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1725. Bertuccio Diedo was appointed bailo in Constantinople in 1418: see Maltezou, ÔO qesmov", 121. 162 For what follows on the Filomati family, see D. Jacoby, “I Greci ed altre comunità fra Venezia ed oltremare,” in M. F. Tiepolo and E. Tonetti, eds., I Greci a Venezia: Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studio, Venezia, 5–7 novembre 1998, Istituto Veneto di Scienze, Lettere ed Arti (Venice, 2002), 57–59. I use here the Italian version of the brothers’ names. They were not naturalized Venetians, as I mistakenly stated in Jacoby, “Vénitiens naturalisés,” 225–26, but full citizens. 163 Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1725. The action of the bailo against Giorgio caused the vacancy in the consul’s office mentioned above.

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year.164 Interestingly, on 3 February 1431, thus less than one year after the Turkish conquest of the city on 29 March 1430, Demetrio was sent anew as consul to Thessalonike, apparently at his own request. As stated on that occasion, the presence of a consul was indispensable for the activity of the Venetians in the city.165 It is clear that both brothers had traded with Thessalonike before 1419 and took advantage of their official function to further their commercial interests in the city. Their jointly owned ship sank in 1422 with Giorgio on board while sailing on a trading venture to Thessalonike. Early in 1423 Demetrio brought an action for 1,000 ducats against the insurers of the ship, because they refused to honor their obligations.166 We may safely assume that Thessalonike’s insertion within the wide commercial network of the family continued beyond the Turkish occupation of the city in 1430.167 The election of these Greeks who were Venetian citizens as consuls in Thessalonike was presumably motivated by the conjunction of two factors: the interest of Latins in the office may have reached a low point just before and just after the Venetian occupation of Thessalonike, and the Greeks had the advantage of better linguistic access to local traders. In 1423 the despot Andronikos Palaiologos, who ruled over Thessalonike, offered the city to Venice on behalf of the city’s population. The proposal was transmitted to the Venetian bailo of Euboea, who entrusted Andreas of Nauplia, a Greek resident of Negroponte, to convey it to Venice. Significantly, the Thessalonians bypassed Demetrio Filomati, who was acting as Venetian consul in Thessalonike at that time, as noted above, which proves once more the relatively low standing of his office in the Venetian administrative hierarchy overseas. Andreas of Nauplia must have conducted business with Thessalonike, since the Venetian Senate consulted him about the state of affairs in the city before reaching a decision.168 Four additional individuals were also requested to offer their advice.169 One of them was Giorgio Valaresso, who apparently resided in Venice. In the year following Venice’s occupation of Thessalonike he was involved there in the import of wheat and barley from Crete on behalf of the government, which reimbursed him in February of the following year.170 It is likely that he had privately carried out similar operations before 1423, which would explain why he was called to the Senate. Francesco di Benedetto Trevisan imported woolens and conducted other business in Constantinople in the years 1437–39, as revealed by the account book of the Venetian Giacomo Badoer, who operated there at that time.171 He too must have engaged in the early 1420s in trade with Thessalonike, which he probably used as a stopover on the way from Venice to further destinations. These three 164 Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1863, and 3: no. 2225. Contrary to Thiriet, “Vénitiens à Thessalonique,” 332 note 2, the brothers did not receive lifelong appointments to the office of consul. Dating of the Venetian takeover by P. Schreiner, Die byzantinische Kleinchroniken, CFHB 12 (Vienna, 1975–79), 2: 423–24. 165 Thiriet, Régestes, 3: no. 2225. Dating of the Turkish conquest by Barker, Manuel II, 374. 166 See B. Imhaus, Le minoranze orientali a Venezia, 1300–1510 (Rome, 1997), 108. The reconstruction of the case presented here is mine. The ship was known to have sunk by December 1422: see Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1863. As noted earlier, Giorgio drowned precisely in that year. 167 On the family’s trading in that period, see above, note 162. 168 Sathas, Documents, 1: 133.21–134.7, no. 86; in 135.37–38 he is mentioned as fidelem nostrum et civem Nigropontis. 169 Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1891. 170 Thiriet, Régestes, 2: no. 1967. 171 U. Dorini and T. Bertelè, eds., Il libro dei conti di Giacomo Badoer (Costantinopoli, 1436–1440), II Nuovo Ramusio 3 (Rome, 1956), 111, line 35; 484, line 28; 767, lines 8–10.

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cases provide additional illustrations of the range of Venetian trade with Thessalonike on the eve of the Venetian period.172 The six and a half years of Venetian rule, from September 1423 to March 1430, witnessed an increase in the Venetian presence in the city. In addition to Venetian officials there was also a garrison, composed of Venetian and foreign men of arms. In 1425 the Greeks of Thessalonike complained about their behavior.173 On the other hand, the presence of the Roman Church remained modest, in contrast to its intrusion during the twenty years of Latin domination following the Fourth Crusade. Venice had promised in 1423 to maintain the local municipal institutions and privileges, as well as the status of the Orthodox Church and its clergy. Although it severely reduced the operation of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, it was careful to maintain good relations with the Greek archbishop Symeon.174 When the latter died in 1429, some six months before the fall of Thessalonike to the Turks, he was deeply mourned by the entire population, including the Latins, according to the Diegesis of John Anagnostes.175 The Venetian mercantile activity and presence must have been reinforced by Venetian rule over Thessalonike and the city’s complete dependence upon Venetian grain supplies, brought in by sea from various regions.176 Some settlers, who had previously limited themselves to the wholesale of woolens, intruded into the retail trade at the expense of local Greek merchants. At the latter’s request the Venetian government reaffirmed in 1425 their exclusive right to that activity at the customary location.177 The three Thessalonian traders who in 1426 bought grain in Crete and shipped it to their city were presumably Venetian settlers.178 Significantly, it is only within the period of Venetian occupation, more precisely from 1424 to 1430, that the state galleys sailing between Venice and the Black Sea anchored at Thessalonike.179 In 1428 and 1429 Guglielmo Querini entrusted respectively 200 and 450 gold ducats to a merchant sailing on such a galley, who was ordered to buy silver at Thessalonike and deliver it to Guglielmo’s brother at Trebizond. In 1430 the latter took along woolens on a private ship to make similar purchases in Thessalonike.180 It 172 The two other individuals, Pietro Querini and Pietro Zeno maior, cannot be securely identified among several contemporary namesakes. One may wonder, though, whether Pietro Querini was the individual residing in Crete who in 1429 obtained a license for the extraction of alum in that island: see D. Jacoby, “L’alun et la Crète vénitienne,” ByzF 12 (1987): 131–33, repr. in idem, Trade, Commodities and Shipping, no. X. In any event, it is clear that he was also engaging in other business ventures. 173 Archivio di Stato di Venezia (hereafter ASV), Senato, Misti, reg, 55, fol. 141v., §13: i cavalieri del ducha e del capetano were horsemen and not gentlemen, as in K. M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), vol. 2, The Fifteenth Century (Philadelphia, 1978), 24. A facsimile reproduction of the entire document appears in K. D. Mertzios, Mnhmei'a makedonikh'" iJstoriva" (Thessalonike, 1947), after p. 48. 174 Sathas, Documents, 1: 133.26–34, 135.32–136.1, 137.33–138.33, no. 86. See D. Balfour, Politico-Historical Works of Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica (1416/17 to 1429). Critical Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary, WByzSt 13 (Vienna, 1979), 168–72. On the nature of some local privileges, see E. Patlagean, “L’immunité des Thessaloniciens,” in EUYUCIA. Mélanges offerts à Hélène Ahrweiler, Byzantina Sorbonensia 16 (Paris, 1998), 1: 591–601, esp. 599. On the whole issue, see D. Jacoby, “Thessalonique de la domination de Byzance à celle de Venise. Continuité, adaptation ou rupture?” Mélanges Gilbert Dragon=TM 14 (2002): 303–18. 175 Ioannes Anagnostes, Dihvghsi", 10.21–23, §4. 176 Thiriet, “Vénitiens à Thessalonique,” 332; Vryonis, “Ottoman Conquest,” 306–8. 177 ASV, Senato, Misti, reg. 55, fol. 42r. See Jacoby, “Thessalonique,” 314–15. 178 Thiriet, Délibérations, 2: no. 1299. 179 See Stöckly, Le système de l’incanto, 103, 112–13. 180 See G. Luzzatto, Studi di storia economica veneziana (Padua, 1954), 177–78.

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would seem that these operations were prompted by a rise in the price of certified silver bars in Venice in these same years and the prospect of cheaper purchases in Thessalonike.181 Incidentally, these operations imply that the Turks did not hermetically cut off the city from the Balkan hinterland and its silver mines, as one would assume on the basis of other sources. A number of Venetians were captured and enslaved by the Turks after the latter’s occupation of Thessalonike in 1430. The names of some prominent ones were recorded by the bailo of Euboea in his report about the fall of the city and in the instructions approved by the Venetian Senate on 29 April 1430 regarding peace negotiations with the Turks.182 In addition, these instructions refer to the liberation from captivity of other citizens and subjects (alii cives et fideles nostri), obviously Venetian settlers among them. One of these was Ambrogio de Martinengo, scion of a family originating in Brescia, a city under Venetian rule since 1426. It is noteworthy that this individual, who therefore was considered Venetian, had brought his wife and sons to Thessalonike, presumably during the Venetian period. There is good reason to believe that other Venetian merchants had acted similarly. By October 1438 Ambrogio de Martinengo and his wife had been ransomed and were in Italy. Pope Eugenius IV, the Venetian Gabriele Condulmer, intervened then to collect the money needed for the release of their two sons. Presumably somewhat later the pope issued an appeal for funds required for the ransoming of fourteen Greek monks of the monastery of St. Basil in Thessalonike.183 It has been suggested that they had recognized papal supremacy after the Council of Florence, held in 1438–39, which would explain the pope’s efforts on their behalf.184 The peace treaty concluded between Murad II and Venice on 4 September 1430, some six months after Thessalonike’s occupation, provided that the Venetians would enjoy commercial freedom and customary conditions in the sultan’s territories.185 The treaty does not refer specifically to resident Venetian traders, yet we may safely assume that the dispatch of a consul to Thessalonike in the year following the Turkish conquest was partly motivated by the prospect that some former Venetian residents would return to the city and be joined by new settlers.186 This indeed occurred in the following years. The presence of Venetian settlers in Thessalonike is expressly stated in a resolution adopted by the Venetian Senate in 1436.187 In 1438 and 1439 Giacomo di Marin Cocco, who resided in the city, conducted business with the Venetian Giacomo Badoer, who operated in Constantinople as noted above. Together with a relative, Giovanni Cocco, and Niccolò Contarini, both of whom also appear to have been established in Thessalonike, he was involved in 1439 in the 181

On the rise in Venice, see Mueller, Venetian Money Market, 189–93. Respectively in Mertzios, Mnhmei'a, 92–93, and J. Valentini, Acta Albaniae Veneta saeculorum XIV et XV (Palermo–Munich, 1967–), 14: 64–68, no. 3355. 183 The first document has been published by N. Iorga, Notes et extraits pour servir à l’histoire des croisades au XVe siècle (Paris, 1899–1902), 2: 352. The second document, in Archivio Segreto Vaticano, reg. 270, fol. 245r., is summarized by Mertzios, Mnhmei'a, 94–95, with facsimile reproduction after 96. 184 See Janin, “L’Église latine à Thessalonique,” 215–16, who, however, does not repeat this suggestion in his later work, Les églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins (Bithynie, Hellespont, Latros, Galèsios, Trébizonde, Athènes, Thessalonique) (Paris, 1975), 356. 185 DVL 2: 343–45. 186 On that consul, see above, p. 109. 187 Thiriet, Régestes, 3: no. 2429, §9. 188 According to the latter’s account book: Dorini and Bertelè, Il libro dei conti di Giacomo Badoer, 572, lines 11– 12; 650, lines 1–3; 652–53, esp. 652, line 25 (Contarini and Giacomo Cocco che abita a Salonichi); 711, lines 8–9. 182

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shipment of salted pork meat to Badoer.188 In 1454 the Venetian consul in Thessalonike, Bernadotto da Vicenza, was compelled to pay 1,200 ducats levied from resident Venetian merchants, as compensation for goods robbed in the Aegean from an Ottoman subject of the city.189 Except for a small group of Ottoman officials, there was no sizable clientele for imported goods in Thessalonike in these years, in contrast to the previous period. The city’s population consisted mainly of impoverished Greeks who had been redeemed from captivity and of Turks who had been forcibly resettled in the city.190 The supply of the local market, therefore, was not the main objective of the Venetian residents and of their traveling counterparts. More importantly, they wished to take advantage of the resumption of the city’s regular connections with its Balkan hinterland and of the increased flow of commodities from that region, generated by the Ottoman conquest of Thessalonike. However, Serbian silver was not included among these commodities, since it was sent to more active markets, namely Adrianople and Serres.191 We may now turn to the citizens and subjects of other Italian maritime powers and to their activity in Thessalonike in the Palaiologan period. Pisa maintained its quarter, church, and consul in Constantinople after the Byzantine recovery of the city in 1261. Pisans traded in the empire’s capital and extended their operations into the Black Sea. This activity is documented as late as 1394, yet was carried out on a small scale.192 Pisans are also documented in Latin Romania, especially at Chiarenza, the main port of the Frankish Peloponnesos, from the 1270s until the second decade of the fourteenth century. Some of them were possibly settlers.193 Thessalonike must have served as port of call for some of the ships sailing between Pisa and Constantinople. Moreover, the Pisan trade manual compiled in 1278 compares the Thessalonian weight used for grain with that of Pisa, which suggests that Pisan merchants were involved around that time in the export of that commodity.194 Yet there is no direct evidence regarding Pisan activity or presence in Thessalonike in the thirteenth century, except for a pirate based there in the 1270s.195 The absence of such evidence is clearly due to the massive loss of Pisan notarial charters bearing on the eastern Mediterranean in that period. Yet it must also reflect a general decline of Pisan operations in Byzantium, in contrast to those carried out at that time in other regions of the eastern Mediterranean. It is noteworthy that sources other than notarial charters as well as indirect evidence point to vigorous Pisan trading and shipping with Egypt, the crusader Levant, and the Armenian kingdom of Cilicia until the later thirteenth century.196 189

Thiriet, Régestes, 3: no. 2959. See below, p. 122. 191 See Matschke, “Bergbauentwicklung,” 64. 192 See Geanakoplos, Emperor Michael Palaeologus, 133–34, 208, 299 and note 94; W. Heyd, Histoire du commerce du Levant au moyen âge (Leipzig, 1885–86), 1: 472–73; C. Otten-Froux, “Documents inédits sur les Pisans en Romanie aux XIIIe–XIVe siècles,” in M. Balard, A. E. Laiou, and C. Otten-Froux, Les Italiens à Byzance, Byzantina Sorbonensia 6 (Paris, 1987), 159 and 169–70, 177–80, 182–84, 188–91, respectively nos. 3, 9, 11, 12, 16; M. Balard, “I Pisani in Oriente dalla guerra di Acri (1258) al 1406,” in Studi di storia pisana e toscana in onore del prof. Cinzio Violante = Bollettino storico pisano 60 (1991): 6–8. 193 See Jacoby, “Changing Economic Patterns,” 227. 194 R. Lopez and G. Airaldi, eds., “Il più antico manuale italiano di pratica della mercatura,” in Miscellanea di studi storici, vol. 2, Collana storica di fonti e studi diretta da G. Pistarino 38 (Genoa, 1983), 120, line 1. 195 See above, p. 97 and note 75. 196 See D. Jacoby, “Pisa e l’Oriente crociato,” in G. Garzella and M. L. Ceccarelli Lemut, eds., “Pisani viri in insulis et transmarinis regionibus potentes.” Pisa come nodo di comunicazioni nei secoli centrali del medioevo (Pisa, 2003) 190

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References to exports from Thessalonike to Pisa and Florence, specifically of wax and cotton to the first of these cities, appear in the trade manual of Pegolotti, compiled between 1330 and 1340.197 A later trade manual of the 1380s, composed by a member or employee of the Datini firm of Prato, refers in addition to the export of grain to Pisa and of silk to Florence.198 These works hint at Pisan activity in Thessalonike when it was under Ottoman rule, a period witnessing the continuation of Pisan trade in Romania, including in Constantinople, as noted earlier. Florence occupied Pisa in 1406 and replaced it as a Mediterranean maritime power, yet there is no evidence of Florentine merchants in Thessalonike in the following years. The city is not even mentioned in a trade manual composed in 1396 in Genoa by Saminiato de’ Ricci and updated until 1424 in Florence by an agent of Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici, considered the founder of the Medici bank.199 In 1436 Florentine galleys began to sail to Constantinople, yet on the way they anchored at Negroponte and bypassed Thessalonike.200 This pattern of navigation was similar to the one followed by the Venetian state galleys, except from 1424 to 1430.201 Genoa was Venice’s main rival in the eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea in the Palaiologan period. By the treaty of Nymphaeum, concluded in 1261, Emperor Michael VIII promised Genoa commercial facilities, a church, a bathhouse, and an oven in various localities of the empire. One of them was Kassandreia, at the neck of the Pallene peninsula in the theme of Thessalonike. Thessalonike proper was not included, although it was under the emperor’s rule.202 Kassandreia was a minor trading station in which the Genoese were clearly not interested, and there is no evidence that they ever traded or settled there.203 The documentation regarding Genoese commerce and presence in Palaiologan Thessalonike is extremely meager. A Genoese resident of Negroponte deserted the Venetian ship on which he had served as sailor after its arrival in Thessalonike in 1271. Unpublished (in press); idem, “The Supply of War Materials to Egypt in the Crusader Period,” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 25 (2001): 117, 121–22, 124–25. 197 Pegolotti, La pratica della mercatura, 203. 198 C. Ciano, ed., La “pratica di mercatura” datiniana (secolo XIV) (Milan, 1964), 52. The section of that manual referring to Thessalonike is reproduced in the one completed in 1440 in Florence by Giovanni Uzzano which, therefore, does not offer any new data: G. F. Pagnini del Ventura, Della decima e di varie altre gravezze imposte dal comune di Firenze (Lisbon-Lucca, 1765–1766), II, vol. IV, 88. On the relation between the two manuals in that respect, see U. Tucci, “Per un’edizione moderna della pratica di mercatura dell’Uzzano,” in Studi di storia economica toscana nel Medioevo e nel Rinascimento in memoria di Federigo Melis. Biblioteca del “Bolletino Storico Pisano,” Collana storica 33 (Ospedalwetto [Pisa], 1987), 380–81. 199 A. Borlandi, ed., Il manuale di mercatura di Saminiato de’ Ricci (Genoa, 1963). 200 In 1439 Florence obtained the Pisan loggia and church in Constantinople. See Heyd, Histoire du commerce, 2: 298–301; M. E. Mallett, The Florentine Galleys in the Fifteenth Century (Oxford, 1967), 66–68. 201 See above, pp. 103–4, 111. 202 Ed. C. Manfroni, “Le relazioni fra Genova, l’impero bizantino e i Turchi,” Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria 28 (1898): 793, 800; new ed. by S. Dellacasa, I Libri Iurium della Repubblica di Genova, vol. 1.4, Fonti per la storia della Liguria 11 (Genoa, 1998), 274, 279, no. 749: in partibus Salonichi aput Cassandriam, and in . . . Casˇevcˇenko, “The Zealot Revolution and the Supposed Genoese Colony in Thessalonica,” in Prossandria. See I. S fora; eij" St. Kuriakivdhn (Thessalonike, 1953), 607–10, repr. in idem, Society and Intellectual Life in Late Byzantium (London, 1981), no. III. Several later studies nevertheless cling to the common erroneous interpretation that Genoa was granted assets in Thessalonike proper. 203 On Kassandreia, see ODB 2: 1109, s.v.; J. R. Melville-Jones, “‘Lixola di Caxandria’,” Thesaurismata 27 (1997): 125–38, esp. 129–37 for the period covered here. A pirate was based at Kassandreia in the 1270s: TTh 3: 205. The city served as operational base for the Catalan Company from the summer of 1307 to the spring of 1309: see Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 208–9, 221, 226.

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documents drafted in the Italian city of Lucca in 1284 attest to the import of silk from Macedonian Berrhoia (“seta de Veria”), which must have been shipped from Thessalonike and transited to Genoa, the main supplier of raw materials to the Lucchese silk workshops.204 A contract of 1289 mentions the sailing of a Genoese tarida from Caffa or Tana in the Black Sea to Chios and Thessalonike.205 Genoa’s requests for compensation submitted to the empire in 1294 mention the confiscation of goods, personal belongings, and money from a group of its traders by the despot of Thessalonike. A sum of 3,684 hyperpera was still outstanding, which implies trade investments on a far larger scale. In another case, the governor’s officials had seized a horse belonging to a Genoese, which seems to imply that he resided in the city, engaged to some extent in land trade, and acted as commercial agent or middleman.206 Additional Genoese commercial investments in Thessalonike are attested between 1277 and 1317. Only fairly intensive trading carried out both by settlers and visiting merchants would account for the presence of a Genoese consul called Cestino Codino in the city in May 1305.207 In 1319 Venice complained that an imperial official in the city had confiscated grain from a Venetian trader and passed it on to a Genoese who was his own friend.208 In 1339 Genoese and merchants from Romania purchased on behalf of Ragusa large quantities of grain in Constantinople and Thessalonike.209 It is unclear, however, whether the Genoese were involved in the operation in the latter city. It should be noted that the Genoese conducted intensive trading in western Greece from the first half of the thirteenth century onward and that some of them settled in Thebes, Negroponte, and Chiarenza. One of their main incentives was the quest for silk textiles and raw materials used in the latter’s manufacture, namely silk fibers and kermes. Yet the Genoese displayed far less interest in Thessalonike than the Venetians. The latter took advantage of their colonies in western Greece and nearby islands to expand their trade and achieve commercial supremacy in western Romania at the expense of the Genoese and other competitors. This process was also furthered by the Genoese themselves, namely by their focus on commercial expansion in the Black Sea,210 as well as by their rule over the island of Chios from 1304 to 1329 and again from 1346 onward, which enhanced the safety of their traffic through the Aegean. The Venetian-Genoese war of 1350–55 generated the definitive shift of their trade and navigation routes from the Balkans and the waterway along the latter’s shore, with stopovers such as Thessalonike, to the central and eastern Aegean. By the mid-fourteenth century the Aegean was divided into two zones,

204

See above, p. 105 and note 132, on silk production in Macedonia. For 1284: Lucca, Archivio di Stato, Notarile, reg. 15, Bartolomeo Fulceri, fol. 370v, 467r; for 1289: M. Balard, ed., Gênes et Outremer, I. Les actes de Caffa du notaire Lamberto di Sambuceto, 1289–1290 (Paris–The Hague, 1973), 72, no. 28. 206 G. Bertolotto, ed., “Nuova serie di documenti sulle relazioni di Genova con l’Impero bizantino,” Atti della Società Ligure di Storia Patria 28 (1897): 512, 531. 207 For the relevant documentation, see Balard, Romanie génoise, 164; idem, “The Genoese in the Aegean (1204–1566),” in B. Arbel, B. Hamilton, and D. Jacoby, eds., Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204 (London, 1989), 160. Yet the evidence bearing on Genoese trade in Thessalonike does not stop in 1317, as argued by Balard. 208 DVL 1: 134, last clause, the language of which is somewhat confusing. Although the comerclari are mentioned in the plural, the transfer is mentioned with respect to a single official. 209 Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 194–95, no. 186. 210 See above, note 117. 205

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one dominated by Genoa and the other by Venice.211 We may safely assume, therefore, that while Genoese trade and presence in Thessalonike continued, their volume declined and was fairly limited from then on. The evidence bearing on the Genoese in Thessalonike in subsequent years is extremely meager. In 1349 two Genoese traders concluded in Chios an agreement regarding a certain quantity of linen cloth and fustians produced in Thessalonike, evaluated at some 1,900 hyperpera. We do not know whether they had bought these textiles in the city or whether the latter had been brought to Chios by Thessalonian traders.212 In 1410 two Genoese, Giovanni Accursio and Filippo Galea da Finale, resided in Thessalonike after it had reverted to Byzantine rule, the latter traveling on business to Chios.213 In 1425, two years into the Venetian period, the Greek inhabitants demanded that Genoese merchants visiting the city pay commercial taxes, yet the Venetian Senate upheld the exemption which they had enjoyed under Byzantine rule.214 The phrasing of both the request and the answer implies that such visits had not been infrequent in the past, when Thessalonike was in Byzantine hands, and that they were expected to continue. Most Genoese trading in the city were presumably based in Chios, the others being merchants passing through that island. The subjects of the kingdom of Aragon, generally known to the Byzantines as Katelanoi, are the last Latin subgroup to be examined here. We have no direct information about them in Thessalonike until the fourteenth century. It stands to reason, though, that some of those who traded in Constantinople in the preceding two centuries stopped on their way in Thessalonike. This warrants some attention to their appearance in the imperial capital. The well-known Jewish traveler Benjamin of Tudela mentions Sefaradim, or Spaniards, among the foreign traders he encountered in Constantinople in the early 1160s.215 Their activity is confirmed by the grant of a quarter to Spanish and Provençal merchants, which may have been connected with the negotiations conducted between King Alfonso II of Aragon and Emperor Manuel I in the years 1176–80.216 The quarter, which lacked direct access to the shore of the Golden Horn, was partly occupied by the 211 See Jacoby, “Changing Economic Patterns,” 223–24, 226–28. There is no evidence that Genoa ever contemplated competing with Venice in Thessalonike and failed in its attempt to support the activity of its citizens in the city, as argued by Balard, “Genoese in the Aegean,” 160–61. 212 Ph. P. Argenti, The Occupation of Chios by the Genoese and Their Administration of the Island, 1346–1566 (Cambridge, 1958), 3: 528, no. 47. The textiles were to be shipped to Pera. On this venture, see also Matschke, “Tuchproduktion,” 70–72. On maritime trade between Thessalonike and Chios in that period, see above, pp. 105–6. There is no reason to believe that the textiles passed through a transit station, an additional course suggested by Matschke. 213 According to a deposition of 1412, edited by G. G. Musso, Navigazione e commercio genovese con il Levante nei documenti dell’Archivio di Stato di Genova (Secc. XIV–XV), con appendice documentaria a cura di Maria Silvia Jacopino (Rome, 1975), 266–68, no. 24. 214 ASV, Senato, Misti, reg. 55, fol. 141r, §10. See Jacoby, “Thessalonique,” 316. 215 M. N. Adler, ed. and trans., The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela (New York, 1907), 20 and trans., 12. For the dating of his journey through the empire, see D. Jacoby, “Benjamin of Tudela in Byzantium,” in P. Schreiner ˇevcˇenko on His Eightieth Birthday by His and O. Strakhov, eds., Chryse Porta / Zlatyia Vrata: Essays Presented to Ihor S Colleagues and Students (Cambridge, Mass., 2002) = Palaeoslavica 10.1–2 (2002), 180–82. 216 On which see E. Marcos Hierro, Die byzantinisch-katalanischen Beziehungen im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert unter besonderer Berücksichtigung der Chronik Jakobs I. von Katalonien-Aragon, MiscByzMonac 37 (Munich, 1996), 134– 38; D. Durant i Duelt, “Una ambaxaida catalana a Constantinoble el 1176 i el matrimoni de la princesa Eudòxia,” Anuario de estudios medievales 30 (2000): 963–77. However, neither of these two authors refers to the quarter, which is mentioned only in 1224: TTh 2: 255.

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Venetians soon after the conquest of Constantinople in 1204, and its division between Venice and the Latin Empire was finalized in 1224.217 There is no trace of it at a later date. From these pieces of information we may infer that the commercial and maritime activity of the subjects of Aragon in Constantinople and, more generally, in the empire remained fairly limited until the Palaiologan period. It clearly expanded under the reign of Emperor Michael VIII. In 1281 the merchants of Barcelona, with the approval of King Peter III of Aragon, appointed one of their own as resident consul in Constantinople. He was to exercise his authority over the king’s subjects, whether visiting or settled in Constantinople or elsewhere in the empire.218 In 1292 Emperor Andronikos II seized several visiting Catalans and their goods in retaliation for the raids carried out on Byzantine territories by Roger de Lluria, admiral of King Frederick III of Sicily.219 At the behest of the Catalan consul in Constantinople, the emperor granted commercial privileges to the subjects of Aragon in 1296.220 However, the latter’s trade with Constantinople was interrupted in 1305 by the outbreak of hostilities between the empire and the Catalan Company, and resumed only sometime before 1316.221 In 1320 Andronikos II granted Catalan merchants a further reduction in trade dues, which suggests an expansion of their activity in the empire, confirmed by some notarial deeds and an account book of 1341–1342.222 Nevertheless, in the following years of the fourteenth and in the first half of the fifteenth century, they displayed a limited interest in Romania, compared with their heavy investments in trade with the Levant.223 Thessalonike occasionally served as a stopover for Catalan traders and ships sailing to Constantinople or Levantine ports or returning from these destinations.224 These traders were presumably those who imported Spanish ceramics to Thessalonike between ca. 1350 and ca. 1370.225 In 1370 Catalan merchants carrying woolens manufactured in Barcelona 217

See Jacoby, “Venetian Quarter,” 163. See M. T. Ferrer i Mallol, “Sobre els orígens del Consolat de Mar a Barcelona el 1279 i sobre els cònsols d’Ultramar a bord de vaixells. Un exemple de 1281,” Anuario de estudios medievales 23 (1993): 144–49; S. P. Bensch, “Early Catalan Contacts with Byzantium,” in L. J. Simon, ed., Iberia and the Mediterranean World of the Middle Ages: Studies in Honor of Robert I. Burns S.J., I. Proceedings from Kalamazoo (Leiden, 1995), 138–40 and 156–58, doc. 1. 219 Letter of James II, king of Aragon, to Roger de Lluria: H. Finke, ed., Acta aragonensia. Quellen zur deutschen, italienischen, französischen, spanischen, zur Kirchen- und Kulturgeschichte aus der diplomatischen Korrespondenz Jaymes II. (1291–1327) (Berlin–Leipzig, 1908), 2: 741, no. 458. 220 Ed. C. Marinesco, “Notes sur les Catalans dans l’Empire byzantin pendant le règne de Jacques II (1291– 1327), in Mélanges d’histoire du moyen âge offerts à Ferdinand Lot (Paris, 1925), 508–9. The chrysobull grants privileges to traveling merchants and is not addressed to the community of resident merchants, as stated by Bensch, “Early Catalan Contacts,” 142. 221 Bensch, “Early Catalan Contacts,” 150–54, yet for the resumption of trade, see Marinesco, “Notes sur les Catalans,” 505–6. 222 See ibid., 506–7 and 512–13, new ed. of the chrysobull of 1320. For the following decades, see D. Duran i Duelt, Manual del viatge fet per Berenguer Benet a Romania, 1341–1342. Estudi e edició (Barcelona, 2002). 223 See E. Ashtor, Levant Trade in the Later Middle Ages (Princeton, N.J., 1983), passim. 224 See M. Del Treppo, I mercanti catalani e l’espansione della corona d’Aragona nel secolo XV (Naples, 1972), 15– 16, 55. Note that in 1352 the Catalan fleet returning from operations in the Bosphoros sailed from Constantinople to Negroponte, the southern Peloponnese, and Crete, thus bypassing Thessalonike on the way: see A. Luttrell, “John Cantacuzenus and the Catalans at Constantinople: 1352–1354,” in Martinez Ferrando, archivero: Miscelánea de estudios dedicados a su memoria. Asociación Nacional de Bibliotecarios, Archiveros, y Arquéologos (Barcelona, 1968), 271, repr. in Luttrell, Latin Greece, the Hospitallers and the Crusades, 1291–1440 (London, 1982), no. IX. 225 On which see Philon, “Thessaloniki, Andalusia and the Golden Horde,” 303–6, 312–14, and above, note 136. 218

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agreed about a journey leading to Theologo (ancient Ephesos), capital of the Turkish emirate of Aydin, Thessalonike, and Constantinople.226 In 1381 a Barcelonese cocha anchoring in Chios was to sail to Thessalonike, return to Chios, and proceed from there via Theologo, Alexandria, and Beirut to Barcelona.227 In 1385 several Catalan merchants were arrested in Thessalonike, and their goods as well as the cocha on which they sailed were confiscated. The action was taken to compensate for the misdeeds of other Catalan merchants, accused of having evaded the obligations they had contracted in Pera toward Manuel II several years earlier. In 1386 King Peter IV of Aragon wrote two letters on behalf of his wronged subjects to the emperor, who ruled independently over Thessalonike from 1382 to 1387.228 In 1409 a Catalan vessel arrived in the city via Sicily, another from Tunis in 1412, while a third one stopped in 1414 in Naples, Sicily, and Chios before reaching Thessalonike.229 On 28 November of that year Emperor Manuel II sent a letter to King Ferdinand I of Aragon with a home-bound Catalan ship anchoring at Thessalonike, possibly the same vessel as the one just mentioned.230 In sum, the subjects of Aragon appear to have traded intermittently in Thessalonike, none of them settling there. Significantly, in the first half of the fifteenth century we witness the establishment of Catalan consuls in several ports of Romania, namely at Chios in 1404, at Modon in 1407, and at Candia in 1419, yet Thessalonike was not among them.231 Ragusa was under Venetian rule from 1205 to 1358. In 1234 Manuel Doukas of Epiros awarded freedom of trade to Ragusa in his own territory. Yet the stringent restrictions which Venice imposed upon the city in 1232, confirmed in 1236 and 1252, directed Ragusa’s trade toward the Balkans inland and practically ruled out any activity in Thessalonike at that stage.232 Conditions changed in the fourteenth century. Ragusa’s land trade through the Balkans and especially its maritime trade were intimately connected with Venetian commerce and largely evolved in the regions in which Venetian merchants were dominant. Ragusan merchants conducted intensive trade with Thessalonike either by land or by sea, reflected by the commercial deals they concluded with local Greeks and by the numerous couriers traveling between their own city and Thessalonike.233 A small num226

J. M. Madurell Marimón and A. García Sanz, eds., Comandas comerciales barcelonesas de la baja edad media, Anejos del Anuario de estudios medievales 4 (Barcelona, 1973), 2: 253–54, no. 124. 227 E. Basso, ed., Notai genovesi in Oltremare. Atti rogati a Chio da Giuliano de Canella (2 novembre 1380–31 marzo 1381), Accademia Ligure di Scienze e Lettere 1 (Athens, 1993), 96–97, no. 41. 228 A. Luttrell, “La corona de Aragón y la Grecia catalana: 1379–1394,” Anuario de estudios medievales 6 (1969): 225–26, repr. in idem, Latin Greece, no. XI. The dating of the arrest is based on one of the letters: Rubió i Lluch, Diplomatari, 634–35, no. DXCVIII. On Manuel’s rule in Thessalonike, see Barker, Manuel II, 42–59. 229 See Del Treppo, Mercanti catalani, 613. 230 Ed. C. Marinesco, “Manuel II Paléologue et les rois d’Aragon. Commentaire sur quatre lettres inédites en latin, expédiées par la chancellerie byzantine,” Académie roumaine, Bulletin de la Section historique 11 (1924): 200–201, no. II; see Barker, Manuel II, 333–34. 231 See Del Treppo, Mercanti catalani, 56. However, there may have been earlier appointments of Catalan consuls in the region: see D. Durant i Duelt, “Monarquia, consellers i mercaders. Conflictivitat en el consolat català de Constantinoble a la primera meitat del segle XV,” in M. T. Ferrer i Mallol and D. Coulon, L’expansió catalana a la Mediterrània a la baixa edat mitjana, Anuario de estudios medievales, Annex 36 (Barcelona, 1999), 35 and note 33. 232 See Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 26–29. 233 See A. E. Laiou, “In the Medieval Balkans: Economic Pressures and Conflicts in the Fourteenth Century,” in S. Vryonis Jr., ed., Byzantine Studies in Honor of Milton V. Anastos (Byzantina kai Metabyzantina 4) (Malibu, Calif., 1985), 141, 143–46, repr. in Laiou, Gender, no. IX; Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 67–70.

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ber of Ragusans apparently resided in Thessalonike, among them Junius de Bona or Bunic, attested in the city in 1373 and 1377, who from there conducted business on a large scale, including with the mining center of Novo Brdo in Serbia.234 The Ragusans had no consul of their own in Thessalonike. While under Venice’s rule they relied on Venetian officials when the need arose. In 1340 the Venetian ambassador to Constantinople, Giovanni Gradenigo, was instructed to obtain compensation for the goods robbed from a Ragusan merchant, a Venetian subject, who had died in Thessalonike.235 Surprisingly, though, the intervention of the Venetian consul in the city was also sought in 1371, although by then Ragusa was again independent. He was asked to obtain the release of a Ragusan merchant imprisoned by the Byzantine authorities.236 We know that some Armenians resided in villages close to Thessalonike in 1185.237 The Venetian-Byzantine treaty of 1277 reveals that the Armenians had a church of their own in the city, which was to be handed over to Venice.238 A small Armenian community must, nevertheless, have continued to exist in the following decades, since an Armenian bishop of Thessalonike attended in 1307 the church synod held at Sis in Cilician Armenia.239 Several monasteries on Mount Athos had metochia or subordinate monastic establishments of their own in Thessalonike. We do not know whether those of Iviron were in the hands of Greek or Georgian monks, or else members of both groups.240 The Serbian monastery of Hilandar also owned a metochion, attested from 1316 to 1351.241 The Russian monks of St. Panteleimon on Mount Athos had one, devoted to St. Zenaïs. After a fire destroyed the archives of the Rossikon, Andronikos II confirmed their rights and possessions in 1311, yet without explicitly naming the metochion.242 It is unclear whether these metochia reflect the presence of ethnic-cultural groups other than the monks, nor whether they acted as foci of collective identity around which individuals of similar origin tended to aggregate. It is likely that the toponym Sqlabomevsh, attested in 1117 only, apparently points to a Slav market at a much earlier period, yet we do not know whether it reflected a concentration of Slavs in Thessalonike.243 The first Turkish occupation of Thessalonike, which lasted from 1387 to 1403, witnessed the establishment of a new foreign group within the urban space, namely Turks. 234

Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 153–54; 213–14, nos. 306, 307; 216, no. 321. See also Matschke, “Bergbauentwicklung,” 62–63. 235 Incomplete summaries by Thiriet, Régestes, 1: no. 98, and Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 153 note 3. 236 Krekic´, Dubrovnik, 153 and 211, no. 293. 237 Eustazio di Tessalonica, Espugnazione, 124.25–26. 238 MM 3: 89; TTh 3: 140. 239 Mansi 25: 140. 240 On these metochia, see J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, D. Papachryssanthou, and V. Kravari, eds., Actes d’Iviron. III, De 1204 à 1328, Archives de l’Athos 18 (Paris, 1994), 39–40; one of them is recorded as being in the hands of the Georgian monks: ibid., 21–22. 241 ˇivojinovic´, V. Kravari, and Ch. Giros, eds., Actes de Chilandar. I, Des origines à 1319, Archives de l’Athos M. Z 20 (Paris, 1998), 230, no. 33, lines 1–15, dated 1316, with reference to an earlier document; see also Introˇivojinovic´, “Solinski metocˇ manastira Chilandara” (= “Le métoque de Chiduction, 35, 48, 51. See also M. Z landar à Thessalonique”), ZRVI 37 (1998): 111–19, in Serbo-Croatian with French summary. 242 ´irkovic´, eds., Actes de St. Pantéléèmon, Archives de l’Athos 12 (Paris, 1982), P. Lemerle, G. Dagron, and S. C 95, no. 10, lines 37–38; further reference in 1353, yet without the name of the metochion: 100, no. 11, lines 28–29. 243 N. Oikonomidès, ed., Actes de Docheiariou, Archives de l’Athos 13 (Paris, 1984), 73–75, no. 4, lines 27 and 84, and commentary 79.

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Their presence, which has been overlooked until now, was not limited to administrative personnel and a military garrison. These were presumably stationed in the city’s acropolis where, according to Archbishop Symeon, the church of the Savior was converted into a mosque.244 The Turkish population also included immigrants not fulfilling any official functions, a feature common to many conquered cities. Indeed, such Turks settled in Thessalonike, as we learn from somewhat later sources that will soon be adduced. They were apparently not numerous, and most of them must have established themselves in the vicinity of the monastery of St. John the Baptist, the only ecclesiastical institution outside the acropolis taken over for Muslim religious services. The monastery was apparently located in the city’s center somewhat south of the Roman agora.245 The assertion of Archbishop Symeon that many churches and monasteries in the city had been desecrated during the first Turkish occupation is not confirmed by other sources and appears to be an intentional overstatement.246 One would assume that the Turkish residents were compelled to leave Thessalonike when Bayazid’s son Suleyman transferred the city to Byzantine rule in the spring of 1403. To be sure, the treaty concluded shortly before 20 February of that year at Gallipoli between the Turkish prince and several Christian powers, including Emperor John VII on behalf of Byzantium, provided for the handover of Thessalonike, Kalamaria, Chalkidike, and the littoral of the Thermaic Gulf to the empire and for the evacuation of all Turks settled in these territories.247 However, it also stipulated that Turks who had legally bought property would retain the assets they owned.248 In other words, it was envisaged that some Turks would remain under Byzantine rule. This disposition has been interpreted as referring to the rural areas recovered by the empire.249 In fact, it dealt with all the territories, including Thessalonike. The presence of Turkish residents in the city after 1403 is indeed confirmed, both directly and indirectly. According to a testimony recorded in Genoa, a female slave purchased by the Genoese Filippo Galea da Finale, established in Thessalonike, had fled and returned to her former Turkish master and was seen several times in the streets of the city in 1410.250 It follows that the Turk too resided there. This individual case was not isolated, as revealed by some Venetian sources dealing with agreements between Byzantine rulers and the Ottomans. Manuel II either ratified the treaty concluded at Gallipoli between 244

Since no church of that name is known in the acropolis, Balfour, Works of Symeon, 251–53, suggests that Symeon meant the upper city. This interpretation may be safely rejected. It is excluded that Symeon, who was obviously familiar with the city’s topography, would have used “acropolis” for another section of the city. 245 On the monastery of St. John the Baptist, see Balfour, Works of Symeon, 253. Suggested siting in M. L. Rautman, “Ignatius of Smolensk and the Late Byzantine Monasteries of Thessaloniki,” REB 49 (1991): 159– 60 and note 91. 246 As rightly argued by Balfour, Works of Symeon, 251, 253. 247 The treaty survives in an Italian version, cited in DVL 2: 290–93, no. 159, and by Dennis, “ByzantineTurkish Treaty,” 77–80; see also ibid., 81 note 1, for the identification of the regions. Dating of the treaty by Barker, Manuel II, 224–25 and note 43, and on the handover of the city, ibid., 454. However, the occupation of the acropolis took place somewhat later, on 17 June 1403: see Balfour, Works of Symeon, 116. 248 Relevant passage expressing Suleyman’s obligations in DVL 2: 291, and Dennis, “Byzantine-Turkish Treaty,” 78 §3, reads as follows: et in quele contrade tuti queli Turchi che habia possession, io li die cazar via de la; et in questi luogi tuti queli, si Griesi como Turchi, che habia comprado alguna cossa per la soa moneda, che li sia soy. 249 See N. Oikonomides, “Ottoman Influence on Late Byzantine Fiscal Practice,” SüdostF 45 (1989): 3–4. 250 See above, p. 116.

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John VII and Suleyman or possibly concluded another one with the prince later in 1403, on almost identical terms.251 It would seem, though, that there was an additional agreement specifically regarding Thessalonike, which has been overlooked until now. This is implied by a Venetian document of 1425, which refers to an understanding reached between the Byzantine despot in charge of the city and the Ottomans regarding jurisdiction over the Turks staying there.252 It is likely that this agreement was concluded by John VII shortly after he became despot of Thessalonike in the autumn of 1403, rather than by him at a later period or by his successor, Manuel’s third son Andronikos, who ruled over the city from 1408 to 1423.253 The agreement stipulated that the Ottomans were entitled to maintain a resident kadi in Thessalonike, who would be the sole judge in cases involving Turks among themselves. These clearly included traders on business, peasants established in the rural hinterland of Thessalonike who came to sell their products, and settlers who had been allowed to remain in the city.254 The agreement in this respect conformed with the one concluded in 1391 between Emperor Manuel II and Bayazid for Constantinople, which in addition determined the granting of a quarter for Turkish merchants in the empire’s capital.255 However, the willingness of John VII to accept the presence of a resident kadi in Thessalonike, expressed in all likelihood in the autumn of 1403, was in stark contrast to Manuel’s expulsion of the Turks from Constantinople around that time.256 It suggests that as despot of Thessalonike John VII conducted a somewhat independent policy in matters regarding the city over which he ruled. The agreement of 1403 concerning the kadi was still in force when Venice occupied Thessalonike in 1423. Around two years later the Venetian Senate instructed Fantin Michiel, captain-general of the sea, to conduct negotiations with Murad II. He was to demand that the sultan recognize the Venetian possession of Thessalonike and its dependencies on the same terms he had formerly agreed to with respect to the despot’s rule over the city. However, he was to obtain important restrictions regarding the judicial authority of the kadi over the Turks. It would be limited to financial disputes, the Turks would be al251

See Dennis, “Byzantine-Turkish Treaty,” 76–77. Summary in N. Iorga, “Notes et extraits pour servir à l’histoire des croisades au XVe siècle,” ROL 5 (1897), 192–96, esp. 194 (= Iorga, Notes (as above, n. 183), 1: 391–95, esp. 393). 253 On the dating of John’s arrival in the city, see Barker, Manuel II, 243–45, and on the beginning of Andronikos’ rule, ibid., 278–79. In any event, the agreement must have been reached before 1409, when Suleyman’s political position and ability to bargain were weakened, on which see ibid., 252. 254 On Turks settled in the rural hinterland of Thessalonike, see above, p. 104. 255 See Barker, Manuel II, 85 and 85–86 note 2. N. Necipogÿlu, “Ottoman Merchants in Constantinople during the First Half of the Fifteenth Century,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 16 (1992): 158–59. Contrary to Barker’s interpretation, however, the evidence assembled in that note definitely points to a resident kadi. The entry of 16 October 1391 in the Genoese expense account for Pera is convincing in that respect: Iorga, ed., “Registres de comptes de la colonie génoise de Péra,” in “Notes et extraits,” ROL 4 (1896): 71 (= Iorga, Notes, 1: 52). It refers to the [kadi] qui moram facit in Constantinopoli. In medieval Latin, moram facere means “residing,” and not “making a delay,” as translated by Barker; significantly, the verb facere appears in the present tense. Moreover, the renewed demand of Bayazid in 1399 regarding the kadi in Constantinople does not imply that the agreement had not been implemented, as argued by Barker, followed by S. Reinert, “The Muslim Presence in Constantinople, 9th–15th Centuries: Some Preliminary Observations,” in Ahrweiler and Laiou, Studies (as above, note 1) 144–47, who suggests that the kadi was not installed in Constantinople until 1399. Bayazid’s demand was necessary because he wished to ensure that John VII, a new ruler, would abide by the sultan’s earlier agreement with Manuel II. 256 On which see Barker, Manuel II, 250. Manuel II had arrived in the capital in June 1403: ibid., 237. 252

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lowed to turn to a Venetian court even in such matters, and criminal cases involving them would be tried exclusively by the Venetian authorities of Thessalonike.257 It follows that the kadi posted there exercised jurisdiction in criminal matters, although as a rule this was not the case in Islamic countries.258 Murad II at first accepted the Venetian proposal in November 1426, yet later refused to ratify the agreement he had reached with Venice.259 As a result the kadi must have retained his extensive judicial prerogatives. These, however, did not extend over all the Turks present in Thessalonike. From 1423 to 1426 the Turkish pretender Mustafa, who claimed to be the son of Sultan Bayazid I, was stationed with his men in the city. These Turks did obviously not consider themselves subjects of the sultan, nor would they have submitted to the kadi’s jurisdiction.260 One may wonder until when Turks continued to reside in Thessalonike under Venetian rule. A contract drafted in the city on 10 May 1432 may offer some indication in this respect. The local monastery of Nea Mone had previously leased a workshop with a press for the extraction of linseed oil, situated in the quarter of St. Menas, to a Turk whose name is not mentioned. The contract stipulated the transfer of the facility from the Turk to Constantine Manglavites.261 It is likely that this individual was one of the Greeks resettled in Thessalonike by Murad II. Shortly after the conquest, the sultan had ordered all the former residents who had left before the siege to return to the city and had issued a similar decree with respect to those who had been ransomed from Turkish captivity. Turkish administrators and soldiers were evidently stationed in Thessalonike, yet, according to the extant sources, no other Turks were resettled there in the period immediately following the conquest. It is only two or three years later, after returning to Thessalonike, that Murad II decided to transfer to the city about one thousand Turks from Yenitse, a measure promptly carried out, either in 1432 or 1433.262 The Turk who had leased the oil press before May 1432 deserves particular attention in our context. We may assume that he was not one of the Ottoman officials or men of arms established in the city soon after the conquest of 1430. Indeed, it is unlikely that the monastery of Nea Mone would have canceled or failed to renew a contract with a Turk belonging either to the sultan’s administration or armed forces, for fear of reprisals by that individual or the Ottoman authorities.263 On the other hand, it is clear that the Turkish operator of the press was already established in Thessalonike before the forceful resettlement of the Turks ordered by Murad II. It would seem, therefore, that he also resided there dur257 Iorga, “Notes et extraits,” ROL 5 (1897): 317–18 (= Iorga, Notes, 1: 417–18): possit tenere unum [cadi] suum in civitate Salonichi, pro jus reddendo Teucris pro differenciis solummodo que forent inter ipsos, pro pecuniis solummodo, et non in nulla alia re; same clause in Venetian dialect: Sathas, Documents, 1: 184.14–20, no. 117. The earlier agreement concluded between the Ottomans and the despot is also mentioned with respect to the return of fugitive slaves to the territory from which they had escaped: ibid., 184.21–24. 258 See E. Tyan, Histoire de l’organisation judiciaire en pays d’Islam, 2d ed. (Leiden, 1960), 342–429, 600–603. This important study, however, does not deal with the Ottoman judicial system, nor have I found any other study on that subject relevant for the early Ottoman period. In Thessalonike the absence of Ottoman officers exercising criminal justice explains the intrusion of the kadi in that sphere. 259 See Setton, The Papacy and the Levant, 2: 26–27. 260 Barker, Manuel II, 374; Balfour, Works of Symeon, 182–83. 261 P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos, and D. Papachryssanthou, eds., Actes de Lavra. III, De 1329 à 1500, Archives de l’Athos 10 (Paris, 1979), 183–85, no. 168, lines 4–7: para; Touvrkou tino". 262 See Vryonis, “The Ottoman Conquest,” 300–304, 311–12. The absence of new Turkish settlers soon after the conquest may also be inferred from the fact that only two churches were turned into mosques at that time. 263 These Turks would not have operated the facility by themselves, yet would have subleased it to a Greek.

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ing the last siege of the city and at the time of the conquest.264 At first glance this appears to be excluded, yet one should take into account that Venice constantly sought to appease the Ottomans, despite the heavy pressure they exerted upon Thessalonike and the occasional blockade of the city between 1423 and 1430. The expulsion of Turkish settlers would have clearly antagonized the Ottomans. It follows that some Turks resided in Thessalonike throughout the entire Venetian period and remained there after the Ottoman conquest, and that the leaseholder of the oil press was one of them. That conquest opened the city to Turkish settlement on a much larger scale than before, whether as a result of the demographic policy implemented by the Ottoman rulers or spontaneous immigration. A population census carried out in Thessalonike in 1478 lists 862 Turkish and 1,275 Greek households.265 The Jews were the oldest minority group in the city, and the only one whose continuous presence since antiquity may be taken for granted. The evidence concerning them is more abundant than for any other “internal” minority group, thanks to the conjunction of Jewish and Byzantine sources, the latter including writings reflecting Byzantine attitudes toward the Jews, in addition to Venetian documents dealing with taxation. The Jews were clearly set apart by creed, religious and legal limitations, some degree of internal jurisdiction regarding civil matters among themselves, recognized by the state, as well as by special taxation, in any event in Thessalonike, as we shall see below. To these one should add cultural traits such as particular customs, a calendar of their own, and, finally, the use of Hebrew as an expression of collective self-identity and a medium of communication with Jews residing beyond the boundaries of the empire.266 The Jewish traveler Benjamin of Tudela, who visited Thessalonike in the early 1160s, estimated at five hundred the number of Jews living in the city, among them silk workers. This community, one of the largest he encountered in the empire, was headed by an official appointed by the imperial authorities. Benjamin’s report implies that the latter imposed residential segregation upon the Jews.267 His testimony in this respect is confirmed by Archbishop Eustathios of Thessalonike, who between 1185 and 1191 complained that during the time of his immediate predecessors the Jews had been permitted to spread throughout the city and that some of them resided in Christian houses decorated in the past with holy images. He did not know whether this process had occurred as a result of oversight, with the tacit agreement of the authorities, or in the wake of an imperial decree allowing for the relaxation of residential restrictions.268 Whatever the case, the development attested by Eustathios may be ascribed to the two decades or so following Benjamin 264

Incidentally, during the last siege of Thessalonike some inhabitants driven by famine mixed “bran made from crushed linseed . . . with a little barley or sometimes wheat flour”: trans. Balfour, Works of Symeon, 174– 75. This supposes the existence of a number of such oil presses in the city. 265 See H. W. Lowry, “Portrait of a City: The Population and Topography of Ottoman Selânik (Thessaloniki) in the Year 1478,” Divptuca 2 (1980–81): 277–82. On the period between 1430 and 1478, see Vryonis, “The Ottoman Conquest,” 313–21. 266 See Jacoby, “Les Juifs de Byzance,” 103–54; Laiou, “Mechanisms,” 168–71, 179, yet about taxation see below; N. de Lange, “Hebrews, Greeks or Romans? Jewish Culture and Identity in Byzantium,” in Smythe, Strangers to Themselves (as above, note 1), 106–18. 267 Adler, The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela, 13, and trans., 11. See D. Jacoby, “Les quartiers juifs de Constantinople à l’époque byzantine,” Byzantion 37 (1967): 182–83, repr. in idem, Société et démographie à Byzance et en Romanie latine (London, 1975), no. II. 268 G. L. F. Tafel, ed., Eustathii metropolitae Thessalonicensis opuscula (Frankfurt am Main, 1832), 340.44–47, letter 32, to the patriarch of Constantinople. It is clear that the Jews living in former Christian houses had con-

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of Tudela’s visit in Thessalonike. It is unclear whether residential segregation was reimposed as a result of the archbishop’s intervention or at some later time before the Latin conquest of 1204. Incidentally, Eustathios also mentions the presence of Jews in two villages close to Thessalonike at the time of the Norman siege of the city in 1185.269 The continuity of the Jewish community of Thessalonike in the early thirteenth century is illustrated shortly after the Latin occupation of the city in 1204. As noted earlier, Benedict Cardinal of Santa Susanna, sent by Innocent III as papal legate to conduct talks with the Greek Church, passed through Thessalonike in 1205 on his way to Constantinople, in 1207 on his return journey to Rome, or possibly even on both occasions. He was accompanied by Nicholas of Otranto, who served as his interpreter. Nicholas reports in his “Discourse against the Jews,” completed some fifteen years later, that he conducted religious disputations with the Jews of Thebes, Thessalonike, and Constantinople, the three most important Jewish communities of Romania at that time.270 According to a Jewish author writing ca. 1270, Theodore Doukas of Epiros initiated in 1229 some violent action against the Jews of his territories, apparently confiscating their wealth to finance his military operations. The same source reports that Emperor John III Vatatzes, who captured Thessalonike in 1246, ordered the forceful conversion of the Jews in 1253 or 1254.271 For lack of evidence we cannot ascertain to what extent these events affected the Jews of Thessalonike. It is noteworthy that in Constantinople Emperor Michael VIII reverted to the traditional Byzantine policy applied before 1204 regarding the residential segregation of the Jews, and that the Jewish quarter of Vlanga attested in his reign maintained its existence until the Ottoman conquest of 1453.272 One may assume, therefore, that the same policy was implemented in Thessalonike from the early Palaiologan period onward, although the existence of a Jewish quarter is attested only much later. We have already noted the letter which Demetrios Kydones sent in 1368 to the patriarch of Constantinople, Philotheos Kokkinos, in which he referred to the latter’s Jewish origin.273 The letter provides indirect evidence regarding the existence of the Jewish community in Thessalonike at the time of the patriarch’s birth around 1300. In 1329 the Jewish scribe Adoniyah, son of Abba Kalomiti, completed in Thessalonike the copy of a Hebrew commentary on the Guide to the Perplexed by Maimonides.274 His work implies the presence of a wealthy patron, member of a group of Jewish intellectuals in the city. The Greek surname of the scribe points to the latter’s Romaniote origin. He must have belonged to the Kalomiti family attested in Negroponte between 1279 and 1351, and was apparently the son of a leader of that city’s Jewish community.275 The intensive trade relations cealed the Christian images. On the dating of Eustathios’ writings, see P. Magdalino, “Eustathios and Thessalonica,” in C. N. Constantinides et al., eds., FILELLHN. Studies in Honour of Robert Browning, Istituto ellenico di Studi bizantini e neoellenici di Venezia, Bibliotheke 17 (Venice, 1996), 226–29. 269 Eustazio di Tessalonica, Espugnazione, 124.25–26. 270 See Jacoby, “The Jewish Community of Constantinople,” 37–38. 271 See Bowman, Jews of Byzantium, 13–18, on the nature and dating of these persecutions; the Jewish source is translated ibid., 228–31, no. 24. There is no corresponding Byzantine evidence. 272 See Jacoby, “Quartiers juifs,” 189–96, 216–18, and idem, “The Jewish Community of Constantinople,” 38–40. 273 See above, p. 87. 274 See Bowman, Jews of Byzantium, 67, and trans. ibid., 252, no. 47. 275 Significantly, Adoniyah Kalomiti refers to his father Abba as “naguid and head” [of the community]. The latter’s prominent position is attested for the years 1329–31, thus precisely at the time in which the scribe

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between Negroponte and Thessalonike, mentioned earlier, may have been conducive to his migration, which provides a further illustration of the fairly well attested currents of Jewish mobility within Romania in the fourteenth century.276 Somewhat later evidence on Jewish presence in Thessalonike is provided by a verdict of the patriarchal court of Constantinople, issued between July 1337 and February 1338.277 The verdict deals with the accusations of a local Greek by the name of Chionios against some members of the city’s Orthodox clergy. Chionios had apparently served in the judicial branch of the imperial administration before embracing Judaism. This would account for the fact that after his conversion some Jews voluntarily submitted to his arbitration in civil litigation between themselves, the precise nature of which is not specified, in order to avoid the jurisdiction of the rabbinical court of their own community.278 At one point Chionios denounced to the ecclesiastical authorities local Greeks who had attacked the Jews and insulted their creed, which implies that he held the clergy responsible for incitement. The inquest regarding Chionios’ accusations had at first been postponed because the seat of the city’s archbishop was vacant. Since Gregory Koutales is attested in that function in December 1334 and Ignatios Glabas succeeded him from 1336 to 1341, the proceedings must have begun in 1335 rather than in 1336 and the events reported in the verdict must have occurred within these years or somewhat earlier.279 In any event, the verdict illustrates the existence of a well-organized Jewish community in Thessalonike with its own judicial court around 1335, its religious influence in some Christian circles, as well as the antagonism its presence raised in the ranks of the local clergy and laity.280 worked in Thessalonike. On the family, see D. Jacoby, “Venice and the Venetian Jews in the Eastern Mediterranean,” in G. Cozzi, ed., Gli Ebrei e Venezia (secoli XIV–XVIII) (Milan, 1987), 43 and 54–55, notes 51–52, repr. in Jacoby, Studies, no. X; S. Borsari, “Ricchi e poveri nelle communità ebraiche di Candia e Negroponte,” in Maltezou, Plouvsioi, 221–22. However, Borsari, ibid., 218–19, 221, confuses the Kalomiti with another Jewish family residing at Negroponte; for the distinction between the two, see my study cited above in this note. 276 See D. Jacoby, “Quelques aspects de la vie juive en Crète dans la première moitié du XVe siècle,” Actes du Troisième Congrès international d’études crétoises (Rethymnon, 1971), vol. 2 (Athens, 1974), 108–12, repr. in idem, Recherches sur la Méditerranée orientale, no. X; Jacoby, “Quartiers juifs,” 213–14. 277 H. Hunger, O. Kresten, E. Kislinger, and C. Cupane, eds. and trans., Das Register des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel, 2. Teil: Edition und Übersetzung der Urkunden aus den Jahren 1337–1350, CFHB 19.2 (Vienna, 1995), 104–17, no. 111, with German translation. The English one by Bowman, Jews of Byzantium, 268–69, no. 58, is marred by serious mistakes, which have led him to unwarranted interpretations ibid., 68–69. I have added here some new perspectives to the analysis of the verdict by F. Dölger, “Zur Frage des jüdischen Anteils an der Bevölkerung Thessalonikes im XIV. Jahrhundert,” in The Joshua Starr Memorial Volume (New York, 1953), 129– 33, repr. in idem, PARASPORA. 30 Aufsätze zur Geschichte, Kultur und Sprache des byzantinischen Reiches (Ettal, 1961), 378–83. 278 This procedure was recognized by Justinianic and later Byzantine law: see Laiou, “Mechanisms,” 168– 69, 171. 279 On Ignatios Glabas and his term of office, see PLP 4222. His predecessor, Gregory Koutales, is attested as archbishop in 1334. PLP 13616 suggests that he served in that capacity between 1334 and 1336, obviously on the assumption that he was succeeded almost immediately by Glabas. However, the year 1336 for his death is highly doubtful, in view of the vacancy mentioned in the verdict concerning Chionios, on which see above. The chronology of Koutales’ term should thus be corrected. 280 Several authors of the 19th and 20th centuries, too numerous to be cited here, speak of the arrival in Thessalonike of Jews from Hungary after their supposed expulsion from that country in 1360 or 1376 and ascribe to 1376 the founding of the first Ashkenazi synagogue following western Jewish rite in the city. However, none of them refers to primary sources. N. Berend, At the Gate of Christendom. Jews, Muslims and “Pagans” in Medieval Hungary, c. 1100–c. 1300 (Cambridge, 2001), 325, mentions a brief expulsion in the 1350s, yet in a personal communication stresses that the contention that Jews were expelled from Hungary in these years rests

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The first Turkish occupation of Thessalonike, which lasted from 1387 to 1403, did not disrupt the continuity of the local Jewish community. Patriarch Matthew I of Constantinople refers in 1401, in a letter sent to the archbishop of Thessalonike, to the ajllovtrioi who, in addition to the Christians, disapprove of the behavior of the hieromonk Nathanael. In this specific context, the term ajllovtrioi appears to stand for Jews.281 In the summer of 1403, thus around the time Thessalonike reverted to Byzantine rule, a Jew from Toledo calling himself “the Spaniard” finished the copy of a manuscript for his personal use. He may have remained in Thessalonike for a short time only, since he had previously worked in Negroponte in 1401 and was in Modon in the winter of 1404.282 His appearance in Thessalonike nevertheless implies the presence of other Jews in the city, from whom he had borrowed his model. It also raises the possibility that some Jews who had left Catalonia after the persecutions of 1391 had settled in the city. Such immigrants are attested in the following years in Crete and somewhat later in Constantinople.283 A document of 1420 preserved in the Athonite monastery of Dionysiou offers indirect yet precious evidence regarding the location and nature of Jewish residence in Thessalonike. It mentions within a specific topographic context the “ancient (or former) Jewish neighborhood gutted by fire,” situated northeast of the church of the Forty Martyrs. This church was located to the north and close to the leophoros and about the middle of the latter’s east-west course through the city, which approximately corresponded to the present Egnatia Street.284 A fourth- or fifth-century inscription from a Samaritan synagogue has been found to the west of the Panagia ton Chalkeon church, more or less in the area described by our document. It has been suggested, therefore, that there may have been topographical continuity in Jewish residence from the early Byzantine period to sometime before 1420.285 This is highly doubtful for two main reasons. First, it is not at all certain that the Samaritans resided in the fourth or fifth century in the same urban region as the Jews. In addition, one should note that the Panagia ton Chalkeon church was built in the eleventh century in a vacant area.286 This implies either the absence of structures in the previous period or the disappearance of earlier buildings and therefore precludes Jewish residential continuity in that urban section. In any event, a more precise location than the one suggested above cannot be established, since the siting of the Omphalos quarter mentioned in relation to the Jewish neighborhood has not been convincingly established.287 Neither the date nor the circumstances of the fire mentioned in 1420 are known. The on very shaky ground and has been undermined by recent archaeological excavations. In any event, there is no evidence that Hungarian Jews arrived in Thessalonike. 281 MM 2: 515.30, and see also 521.15. For the interpretation of the term in that context, see Dölger, “Zur Frage,” 133 and note 14. 282 The colophon mentions Tammuz, the tenth month of the Jewish calendar which falls in July and August, and the Jewish year 5163; trans. and note on the scribe in Bowman, Jews of Byzantium, 296, no. 108. On the date at which Thessalonike reverted to Byzantine rule, see above, p. 120. 283 See Jacoby, “Quelques aspects,” 111; idem, “Quartiers juifs,” 213–14. 284 N. Oikonomidès, ed., Actes de Dionysiou, Archives de l’Athos 4 (Paris, 1968), 112, no. 19, lines 8–11: th'" palaia'" purikauvstou ÔEbrai?do"; proposed location ibid., 111–12. 285 J. M. Spieser, “Les inscriptions de Thessalonique,” TM 5 (1973): 149–50, no. 1. 286 Spieser, Thessalonique et ses monuments, 86. 287 Despite the attempt by Oikonomidès, Actes de Docheiariou, 80. See his conjectural reconstruction of the topography of Palaiologan Thessalonike, ibid., 79, fig. 4, yet in view of the clues provided by the document cited above, note 284, his siting of Omphalos is clearly erroneous.

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reference to the gutted neighborhood implies that the latter had not been rebuilt and that the Jews had established themselves elsewhere, whether in a vacant urban space or in a thinly populated area. It has already been suggested above that the imperial policy of Jewish residential segregation in Thessalonike was renewed in the early Palaiologan period.288 The term ÔEbrai?" used in 1420 appears to confirm that policy, since it implies a concentrated Jewish residence. We may assume, therefore, that after the fire the Byzantine authorities, rather than the Jews themselves, determined the site of the new Jewish neighborhood. The concentration of the Jews in the same urban area seems to imply that all of them were imperial subjects and that there were no Venetian Jews in Thessalonike in the years immediately preceding 1423, contrary to the latter’s presence in Constantinople. Indeed, in the capital most Venetian Jews resided in a section of the Venetian quarter.289 The location of the new Jewish neighborhood created in Thessalonike sometime before 1420 is unknown. Ottoman evidence from the sixteenth century onward is irrelevant in this respect.290 Nor is the location of the Jewish house to the north of the leophoros and close to the Incantadas, recorded in the nineteenth century, of any relevance for the Byzantine period.291 Indeed, the entire Jewish population of Thessalonike was deported to Constantinople-Istanbul by the Turkish authorities around 1455, and no Jews were to be found in Thessalonike in the following decades, as illustrated by Ottoman population censuses carried out from 1478 to 1490.292 The Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews settling in the city from ca. 1490 onward established themselves to the south of the leophoros.293 There is no way to ascertain whether or not the area they chose corresponded to the site of the neighborhood attested in 1420. Whatever the case, it is clear that the continuity of Jewish presence in Thessalonike until ca. 1455 was not synonymous with the topographical continuity of the city’s Jewish neighborhood.294 Nor does the continuous presence of the Jews in Thessalonike until ca. 1455 entail that they maintained their participation in the local manufacture of silk textiles, in which they had been involved in the twelfth century.295 Un288

See above, p. 124. On the Venetian Jews and their neighborhood in the capital, see Jacoby, “Quartiers juifs,” 205–14, and idem, “Vénitiens naturalisés,” 220, 224, 227–28, 230–31. 290 Spieser, Thessalonique et ses monuments, 87, seems nevertheless to rely on it. 291 On this house, see ibid., 86–87. 292 On deportation shortly after 1453, see Lowry, “Portrait of a City,” 261–64; dating to ca. 1455 by J. Hacker, “The Sürgün System and Jewish Society in the Ottoman Empire during the Fifteenth to the Seventeenth Centuries,” in A. Rodrigue, ed., Ottoman and Turkish Jewry, University Turkish Studies 12 (Bloomington, Ind., 1992), 9–10. To the census of 1478, used by Lowry, one should add those of 1488–90 as well as Jewish sources, all examined by J. Hacker, “The Jewish Community in Saloniki and Its Components in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries: A Chapter in the History of the Jewish Community in the Ottoman Empire and Its Relations with the Authorities” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1978), 93–98, 168 (in Hebrew). The community of Thessalonian Jews in Istanbul is registered in a population census carried out in 1540: see Lowry, “Portrait of a City,” 262. However, it split later at an unknown date into two communities, registered as “Great Selânik” and “Little Selânik”: see U. Heyd, “The Jewish Communities of Istanbul in the Seventeenth Century,” Oriens 6 (1953): 300, 304, 306, 311. 293 On the influx of Jews to Thessalonike since the late 15th century and the location of their quarter, see Lowry, “Portrait of a City,” 261, 269, 277. Hacker, “The Jewish Community in Saloniki,” 97–98, 169, 223–25, provides evidence from Jewish sources and data from Ottoman censuses carried out in the first half of the 16th century. Since there was no compulsory residential concentration of Jews in the Ottoman period, some of them established themselves to the north of the leophoros. 294 Such was also the case in Constantinople: see Jacoby, “Quartiers juifs,” 167–227. 295 On which see above, p. 123. 289

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fortunately, there is not a single shred of evidence regarding their economic pursuits between 1204 and ca. 1455. In the Byzantine period the Jews of Thessalonike had paid an annual sum of 1,000 hyperpera to the imperial treasury. This is implied by a petition they submitted to Venice in 1425, two years after the latter’s takeover of their city.296 We do not know when this collective tax had been imposed, yet it is likely that it had been levied for a long time. It obviously did not exempt the Jews from taxes paid by other Byzantine subjects on an individual basis, for instance in commercial transactions. No other urban minority group in the empire is known to have paid a yearly collective tax to the imperial treasury in the Palaiologan period.297 The Thessalonian Jews were thus subjected to a special fiscal regime, which was clearly discriminatory.298 We may safely assume that the Jews bore a disproportionate fiscal burden, compared with the city’s other inhabitants. The sum they paid, therefore, does not offer any indication regarding their numbers, nor regarding their role in the city’s economy.299 Indeed, the amount of the collective tax reported in 1425 had remained constant for many years, regardless of demographic fluctuations within the Jewish community and the state of wealth of its individual members. It is hardly plausible, though, that the Jews were numerous at the onset of Venetian rule in 1423.300 After taking hold of Thessalonike, Venice maintained at first the amount of the tax imposed upon the local Jewish community in the Byzantine period. It is likely that the worsening economic conditions prevailing in the city caused by Turkish pressure, which continued in the following years, as well as the heavy tax induced the most prosperous members of the community to emigrate.301 As a result there was an increase in the fiscal burden resting on the remaining Jews, already affected by the economic contraction. In 1425 their representatives requested a reduction of the collective tax they had paid in the past when they were numerous. They argued that the authorities should take into account the fiscal capacity of the community’s individual members, who were now few in numbers and poor. The Venetian government agreed to lower the yearly sum to 800 hyperpera should the city gates be closed or, in other words, should the city be cut off from its hinterland for a lengthy period.302 The economic conditions in Thessalonike wors296

See below, p. 128 and note 302. On the other hand, some ethnic groups settled in rural areas of the Peloponnese and Thrace paid collective taxes, yet their nature and purpose were quite different: see Laiou, “Mechanisms,” 180. 298 Contrary to Laiou, “Mechanisms,” 179. Note also the collective fine imposed upon the Jews of Constantinople in the 1090s: see Jacoby, “The Jewish Community of Constantinople,” 32–35. The nature of the payment imposed upon the Jews of Zichna in the Palaiologan period is unclear. I shall not deal here with Jewish taxation in Byzantium in general, a vexing issue about which much has been written without achieving a consensus. For a summary of views other than mine, see Bowman, Jews of Byzantium, 41–48, and Laiou, at the beginning of this note. 299 Contrary to Harvey, “Economic Conditions,” 122, who argues that they were “a significant factor.” 300 As claimed, for instance, by Vryonis, “The Ottoman Conquest,” 308. 301 The right of Thessalonians to leave their city and settle elsewhere was expressly mentioned in the agreement which the despot Andronikos concluded on their behalf with Venice in 1423: Sathas, Documents, 1: 135.33–34, 136.1–3, 138.2–4, no. 86. An official of the archbishopric was among those who left between the Venetian takeover of 1423 and 1425: S. Kugéas, ed., “Notizbuch eines Beamten der Metropolis in Thessalonike aus dem Anfang des XV. Jahrhunderts,” BZ 23 (1914): 152, no. 82. 302 ASV, Senato, Misti, reg. 55, fol. 142r, §19. Partial transcription of the clause with some errors in Mertzios, Mnhmei'a, 59, note 1, and inaccurate English translation in Bowman, Jews of Byzantium, 306, no. 122. 297

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ened after 1425, and Jewish emigration apparently continued in the following four years. Interestingly, a Jew with the toponymic surname Salonicho appears in 1428 as a resident of Candia,303 yet it is impossible to determine whether he had left Thessalonike for Crete in those years or earlier, or still whether he had inherited his surname from his forefathers. In 1429 the Jews complained about the extortion of exorbitant fees for the opening of the city gates whenever a Jewish funeral procession headed for their cemetery. In response to that grievance the Venetian Senate ordered that no more than the customary fee should be charged.304 The main Jewish request, however, dealt once more with a reduction of the collective tax. The Jews claimed that the latter, already curtailed to 800 hyperpera, should be entirely abolished until the return of peace with the Turks. The rejection of this proposal by Venice is not surprising, in view of the heavy burden resting on its finances in Thessalonike. Indeed, in addition to current expenses for the city’s defense, the treaty it signed in 1427 with the admiral of Gallipoli, Sarudja bey, who represented Sultan Murad II, stipulated an annual payment of around 4,000 ducats to the Turks from the revenue collected in the city. Venice also granted some 500 ducats and about 250 more in the following years to each of two Turkish vizirs.305 The Commune adopted the alternative proposal of the Thessalonian Jews, already submitted in 1425, namely that the amount of their collective tax would be determined by their numbers and their individual financial condition. However, the Ottomans occupied Thessalonike before the projected fiscal census could be carried out. Incidentally, according to John Anagnostes, the Jews too mourned the city’s archbishop Symeon when he died in 1429, a fact that points to the latter’s tolerant attitude toward them.306 It is not excluded that Thessalonike’s Jewish community was somewhat reinforced by immigrants from Negroponte in the first two decades of renewed Ottoman rule. In 1459 Venice requested the return of Jews from that Venetian colony who, it asserted, had fled to Turkish territory because of the plague and had been compelled by the Ottoman authorities to settle in Constantinople.307 On the other hand, emigration must have weakened the community in that same period. According to the seventeenth-century Evliya Çelebi, who apparently had access to a fifteenth-century source presently missing, only fifty Jewish households were deported from Thessalonike to Constantinople-Istanbul.308 This was apparently the entire Jewish population remaining in Thessalonike around 1455 since, as noted above, no Jews were to be found in the city in the following decades. 303

Mentioned by N. Iorga, “Documents concernant les Grecs et les affaires d’Orient, tirés des registres des notaires de Crète,” RHSEE 14 (1937): 99. 304 ASV, Senato, Misti, reg. 57, fol. 131r–v, §21. Partial transcription of the clause in Mertzios, Mnhmei'a, 81, note 2. 305 Sathas, Documents, 1: 183–85, no. 117; É. A. Zachariadou, “La part des Turcs dans les revenus des colonies latines de Romanie,” in M. Balard et A. Ducellier, eds., Coloniser au Moyen Age (Paris, 1995), 349. 306 See above, note 175. 307 Thiriet, Régestes, 3: no. 3088. A further reference to former Jewish residents of Negroponte appears in 1462: Valentini, Acta Albaniae, 24: 462–63, no. 110t. Significantly, when the Diegesis deals with Murad’s settlement policy in Thessalonike, in the years following the Turkish occupation of the city in 1430, it refers to Christians and Turks, yet omits Jews: see Vryonis, “The Ottoman Conquest,” 301–4. 308 See Lowry, “Portrait of a City,” 262–63.

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Slaves were a permanent component of Thessalonike’s population, yet did not constitute a coherent minority group. Their precise ethnic or geographic origin was concealed in many cases by the Christian names they were given, the spurious ethnic identity ascribed to them, or the references to the places from which they had been brought to Thessalonike.309 Some of them worked in households or were presumably employed in manufacture and local trade.310 Others, far more numerous, stayed in the city for short periods only. We have already noted that Thessalonike served as a base for piratical operations, which often entailed the enslavement of captives. In addition, the frequent upheavals in the city’s Balkan hinterland resulted in a constant stream of slaves. According to John VI Kantakouzenos, the Byzantines refrained from turning Bulgarian prisoners of war into slaves, Serbs and Bulgarians acting similarly in the wars between themselves.311 There is, nevertheless, reason to believe that individuals belonging to these nations and Vlachs reached Thessalonike as slaves in the second half of the fourteenth century, as a result of Turkish military operations in the Balkans. The city was an important market and distribution center for slaves, who were shipped to various destinations around the Mediterranean. Sale transactions and documents granting manumission sometimes state Thessalonike as place of origin, yet in fact it merely served as a transit station. Slaves supposedly originating in Thessalonike were sold in Venice, Ragusa, Candia,312 Famagusta,313 as well as in Rhodes and other places.314 In any event, whether resident or in transit, the slave could not join any minority group existing in Thessalonike. The investigation of “internal” and “external” foreigners in Thessalonike in the late Byzantine period is a frustrating experience. We know hardly anything about the common foreigners, men and women, who at best have left scanty literary or documentary traces of themselves. The study of foreign groups proves to be somewhat more rewarding. Their relative importance varied over time. The sources bearing on their activity and presence 309

For a case of spurious and concealed identity, see Balard, Romanie génoise, 797; Laiou, “Medieval Balkans,” 145. 310 H. Köpstein, Zur Sklaverei im ausgehenden Byzanz. Philologisch-historische Untersuchung (Berlin, 1966), 111– 13, finds no evidence for the empire in this respect after the 10th century, yet has not covered all the available documentation. See K.-P. Matschke, “Geldgeschäfte, Handel und Gewerbe in spätbyzantinischen Rechenbüchern und in der spätbyzantinischen Wirklichkeit. Ein Beitrag zu den Produktions- und Austauschverhältnissen im byzantinischen Feudalismus,” Jahrbuch für Geschichte des Feudalismus 3 (1979): 192–93 and note 88. Incidentally, when the despot Constantine Palaiologos, son of Andronikos II, left Constantinople for Thessalonike in the winter of 1321–22, he had with him a slave in charge of his gold and silver table utensils: Nikephoros Gregoras, Byzantina historia, ed. L. Schopen and I. Bekker (Bonn, 1829–55), 1: 354.10–13. He was thus not a cook, as stated by Köpstein, Zur Sklaverei, 105. For the dating of the journey, see Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins, 290. 311 See Laiou, “Medieval Balkans,” 150. 312 Ch. Verlinden, L’esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, vol. 2, Italie-Colonies italiennes du Levant-Levant latinEmpire byzantin (Ghent, 1977), 554, 738, 827, 830; S. McKee, ed., Wills from Late Medieval Crete, 1313–1420 (Washington, D.C., 1998), 1: 240, no. 187: Maria Salonicha, mentioned in the will of a goldsmith living in Candia in 1351 or 1352. 313 A. Lombardo, ed., Nicola de Boateriis, notaio in Famagosta e Venezia (1355–1365), Fonti per la storia di Venezia, Sez. III, Archivi notarili (Venice, 1973), 54–55 and 80–81, respectively nos. 50 and 76: Andreas de Salonichi, around twelve years old, and Anna de Sallonichi, no age stated, in 1361. 314 A. Luttrell, “Slavery at Rhodes: 1306–1440,” 93–95, repr. in idem, Latin Greece, no. VI: in 1347, 1351, and 1358.

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in the city are fragmentary, scattered, and unevenly distributed. The conjunction of both factors results in a gross imbalance in the amount of information regarding each of them. The evolving commercial function of Thessalonike in the period examined here underlines what should be obvious and is too often forgotten. Geographic conditions create a potential framework for economic activity, yet the latter’s nature and volume are determined by the particular historical circumstances and by human action over time. Geopolitical factors and economic incentives largely determined the volume of foreign trade, shipping, and settlement of “external” foreigners in Thessalonike, yet also to some extent the size of Jewish community. We have noted that the restructuring of long-distance trade and maritime networks in the early Palaiologan period resulted in an increasing contraction of Thessalonike’s role in trans-Mediterranean commerce and in a growing orientation of the city’s economy toward its Balkan hinterland. The intermittent political and economic instability in that region in the fourteenth and in the first decades of the fifteenth century further undercut the city’s commercial function and its appeal, as both destination and transit station for traders and prospective settlers. On the other hand, the new geopolitical balance achieved between the major sea powers in the Aegean enabled the Venetians to consolidate their domination in maritime trade with Thessalonike and turned the Genoese into a minor partner in that context. The Jews and the Venetians are the only foreign groups for which a somewhat coherent long-term view emerges. The presence of the Jews was continuous throughout the centuries we have covered. They were subject to residential segregation under Byzantine rule, and the site of their quarter before 1420 can be more or less determined, yet we do not know anything about their economic pursuits. We are best informed about the Venetians, whose activity and presence in the city were continuous, save for short interruptions due to political circumstances. The number of Venetian settlers and visiting merchants in Thessalonike was higher than that of any other “external” foreign group, Negroponte serving as their main transit station to and from Thessalonike. Moreover, the Venetians were the only foreign group with an official representative of their nation stationed in the city almost continuously, which was the case from the 1270s onward.315 Genoese trade in Thessalonike appears to have been more or less continuous, even after the mid-fourteenth century, though on a limited scale and in connection with Chios. In certain periods there were also a few Genoese settlers in Thessalonike. Serbian commerce from the 1370s onward was primarily stimulated by land trade in the Balkans and the exploitation of silver mines in Serbia. Merchants from the Iberian peninsula traded only intermittently in Thessalonike. The Turkish settlers were latecomers in the city, where their establishment was closely linked to specific political events. On the whole the evidence yields rather disappointing results and raises many questions that remain unanswered. There are no quantitative data enabling an assessment of the size of foreign groups at any moment, nor of their relative importance with respect to the city’s population. The sources provide hardly any insights into the economic cooperation and social interaction between the individual members of foreign groups and local inhabitants, or between these groups and the Greek population as a whole. We know of ecclesiastical and popular animosity against the Jews, which occasionally erupted into vi315

Only one Genoese consul is known to have served in Thessalonike: see above, p. 115.

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olence. In the short period of Venetian rule there was some tension between local Greek and Venetian traders and discontent with the behavior of Venetian troops. Yet we are unable to evaluate the impact of foreign groups on the economy of Thessalonike, nor perceive whether they had any impact on the cultural or artistic evolution of the city. It is to be hoped that further exploration of the numerous unpublished notarial documents preserved in western archives will shed more light on these issues. The Hebrew University, Jerusalem

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The Aristocracy in Late Byzantine Thessalonike: A Case Study of the City’s Archontes (Late 14th and Early 15th Centuries) ˘ LU NEVRA NECIPOG

hessalonike, the “second city” of the Byzantine Empire and the major administrative, economic, and cultural center of medieval Macedonia, was also a major geographical center of the aristocracy, second perhaps only to Constantinople in this respect too. There were several factors that made the city of Thessalonike a particularly attractive home for the Byzantine aristocracy. In the first place, it was a prosperous urban center which, on account of its geographic location, possessed a vast and fertile agricultural hinterland.1 Thanks to the documents of Mount Athos, we know that many of the landed possessions of the Thessalonian aristocracy were situated in this hinterland, especially in Chalkidike, not far from their urban residences—an advantage that the Constantinopolitan aristocracy naturally did not enjoy. Herein lies, in large part, the economic foundation of the considerable local power wielded by the aristocrats of late Byzantine Thessalonike, at least as far as the first half of the Palaiologan period is concerned when the countryside still constituted the primary source of wealth in the Byzantine world. Second, besides the agricultural wealth of its hinterland, Thessalonike owed its prosperity also to the fact that it was a port town with a thriving commerce. This, too, suited the interests of the city’s aristocracy, particularly from about the middle of the fourteenth century onwards, when, as modern scholarship of the last twenty years has demonstrated, the Byzantine aristocracy on the whole began to get more heavily involved in commercial enterprises.2 Finally, like some other cities of the empire in the Palaiologan period, Thessalonike enjoyed certain

T

I am extremely grateful to David Jacoby, Alice-Mary Talbot, and two anonymous reviewers who read this paper and offered valuable suggestions. 1 On the connections between Thessalonike and its hinterland during the Palaiologan period, see A. Laiou, “ÔH Qessalonivkh, hJ ejndocwvra th" kaiv oJ oijkonomikov" th" cw'ro" sthvn ejpochv tw'n Palaiolovgwn,” in Dieqnev" Sumpovsio Buzantinhv Makedoniva, 324–1430 m.C. (Thessalonike, 1995), 183–94. 2 On this general phenomenon, see especially N. Oikonomidès, Hommes d’affaires grecs et latins à Constantinople (XIIIe–XVe siècles) (Montreal–Paris, 1979), 120 ff; A. E. Laiou-Thomadakis, “The Byzantine Economy in the Mediterranean Trade System, Thirteenth–Fifteenth Centuries,” DOP 34–35 (1982): 199ff; eadem, “The Greek Merchant of the Palaeologan Period: A Collective Portrait,” ∆Akad.∆Aqh.Pr. 57 (1982): 105 ff (both repr. in A. E. Laiou, Gender, Society and Economic Life in Byzantium [Aldershot, Hampshire, 1992], nos. VII and VIII); and most recently K.-P. Matschke and F. Tinnefeld, Die Gesellschaft im späten Byzanz: Gruppen, Strukturen und Lebensformen (Cologne–Weimar–Vienna, 2001), 158 ff, with extensive references to earlier bibliography.

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imperial privileges and immunities, which seem to have encouraged some degree of autonomy and self-government, providing thereby the city’s aristocrats with further means to extend their power locally in political as well as in economic terms.3 Although there are some important works on the late Byzantine aristocracy,4 a study devoted exclusively to the Thessalonian aristocracy in the same era has not been undertaken to this date. Yet, considering that a notable feature of the Palaiologan period was the growing power and importance of the local aristocracies in the provincial cities of the Byzantine Empire,5 and in view of the special position of Thessalonike among the latter, such a study remains a desideratum. The present paper cannot possibly fulfill this major task within the limits provided. Therefore, rather than offering a comprehensive treatment of the aristocracy in late Byzantine Thessalonike, I restrict my discussion to an analysis of certain individuals and families who belonged to the middle and lower strata of this social group, hence excluding the high aristocracy. Such a choice, as arbitrary as it might seem, can be justified on several grounds. First of all, it is noteworthy that quite a large proportion of the representatives of the high aristocracy who appear in the sources as residents of Thessalonike are actually “outsiders” rather than locally rooted citizens. They include, in the first place, the imperial governors (kephalai) and commanders who were sent from Constantinople for purposes of central administration, and whose presence in the city was generally of short duration. While some among them are known occasionally to have established firm links with Thessalonike—as, for instance, Nikephoros Choumnos, kephale of Thessalonike in 1309/10, who bought houses in the city which he leased afterwards,6 and whose son George likewise served as governor of Thessalonike in 1327/287— this group of people essentially belonged to the aristocracy of the capital, and as such they should not concern us here. Second, modern scholarship on the Byzantine aristocracy or 3 On the privileges of Thessalonike, see O. Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzième siècle (Paris, 1912), 24, 49, 66– 71, 150, 157; G. I. Bra ˘tianu, Privilèges et franchises municipales dans l’Empire byzantin (Bucharest–Paris, 1936), 108–9, 115–22; Lj. Maksimovic´, The Byzantine Provincial Administration under the Palaiologoi (Amsterdam, 1988), 248–57. Although the precise nature and content of these privileges are not all that clear, Manuel II acknowledged their importance in his public speech of 1383, where, addressing the citizens of Thessalonike as the descendants of Philip and Alexander, he stated that they were accustomed to greater freedom compared with the inhabitants of other Macedonian and Anatolian cities, and that they were exempt even from the tribute all free Byzantines had to pay to the emperor: B. Laourdas, “ÔO «sumbouleutiko;" pro;" tou;" Qessalonikei'"» tou' Manouh;l Palaiolovgou,” Makedonikav 3 (1955): 296, line 24–297, line 11, 298, lines 4–15. For some practical applications of the fiscal privilege referred to by Manuel II, all dating from the first half of the 14th century, see now E. Patlagean, “L’immunité des Thessaloniciens,” in EUYUCIA. Mélanges offerts à Hélène Ahrweiler, 2 vols. (Paris, 1998), 591–601, esp. 592. It is also to be noted that the agreement concerning the transfer of Thessalonike to Venetian rule in 1423 was concluded with the condition that the privileges and customs of the city’s inhabitants were to be respected: C. N. Sathas, ed., Documents inédits relatifs à l’histoire de la Grèce au Moyen Âge, vol. 1 (Paris–Venice, 1880), 133, 135–38 (no. 86); K. D. Mertzios, Mnhmei'a makedonikh'" iJstoriva" (Thessalonike, 1947), 72. 4 G. Ostrogorsky, “Observations on the Aristocracy in Byzantium,” DOP 25 (1971): 17ff; A. E. Laiou, “The Byzantine Aristocracy in the Palaeologan Period: A Story of Arrested Development,” Viator 4 (1973): 131–51 (repr. in eadem, Gender, Society and Economic Life, no. VI); D. S. Kyritses, The Byzantine Aristocracy in the Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University Microfilms International, 1997); Matschke and Tinnefeld, Gesellschaft, 18–62, 158ff. 5 See, for instance, Laiou, “Byzantine Aristocracy,” 145–50; E. A. Zachariadou, “∆Efhvmere" ajpovpeire" giav aujtodioivkhsh stiv" ÔEllhnikev" povlei" katav tovn IDV kaiv IEV aijwvna,” ∆Ariavdnh 5 (1989): 345–51. 6 J. F. Boissonade, ed., Anecdota nova (Paris, 1844; repr. Hildesheim, 1962), 29; cf. Kyritses, Byzantine Aristocracy, 192; PLP 30961. 7 See PLP 30945.

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on the social history of the Palaiologan period has already brought to light a fair amount of information concerning some of the great aristocratic families of late Byzantine Thessalonike, whereas those families and individuals from the middle and lower ranks of the city’s aristocracy remain in relative obscurity, which therefore makes the study of the latter groups more interesting and appropriate, albeit more challenging. Challenging, because people from these latter groups are in general much less visible in the sources compared to members of the high aristocracy. Nonetheless, sufficient data can be pieced together, from literary and documentary sources, concerning one particular subgroup that played a key role in the government of the city, the so-called archontes, a group of local officeholders who dominated civic life in Thessalonike and constituted the city’s ruling elite.8 Thus this paper presents a case study of the archontes of late Byzantine Thessalonike, whose social, economic, and political characteristics are examined in the context of contemporary historical developments.9 In terms of chronological scope, on the other hand, the focus is mainly on the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries—the period roughly from the end of the Zealot movement until the final capture of the city by the Ottomans in 1430—since, in the current state of our knowledge, there is hardly anything new to be added to what existing scholarship on the two major civil wars of the first half of the fourteenth century has disclosed in relation to the Thessalonian aristocracy. Nearly two decades have transpired since the publication of Michael Angold’s “Archons and Dynasts: Local Aristocracies and the Cities of the Later Byzantine Empire,” which drew attention to the decisive role played by the archontes in the provincial cities of Byzantium between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries. The final section of this paper also included a short discussion of “the growing bitterness produced by archontic power,” which started becoming evident in the urban centers of the empire during the initial decades of the fourteenth century and which finally exploded with the Zealot uprising in mid-fourteenth-century Thessalonike. Before concluding, Angold briefly alluded to subsequent developments in the same city:10 “The Zealots finally gave way in 1350. . . . The 8 That the archontes constituted a local elite is beyond any doubt. To what extent they can be considered an aristocratic group depends, on the other hand, on how one defines the “aristocracy.” If we adopt the conventional definition of the aristocracy as bearers of official distinctions, such as offices, titles, or honorific epithets, then the archontes are certainly to be included in the category of aristocrats due to their role in the civil administration of provincial cities as holders of local government offices. For a review of different definitions of the aristocracy, including the one above, see Kyritses, Byzantine Aristocracy, 7–12; for different meanings of the term archon in the Byzantine Empire, see ODB 1:160. Thus I prefer to categorize the archontes as aristocrats of middle and lower rank rather than simply identify them as a local elite, given that “elites” include a group much broader and less precisely delineated than the “aristocracy.” On these two terms, see J.-C. Cheynet, “L’aristocratie byzantine (VIIIe–XIIIe siècle),” JSav (July–December 2000): 281. The misleading term “gentry,” which is sometimes used to designate the archontes, has been deliberately avoided in this paper since the archontes were an essentially urban group, unlike the gentry: see M. Angold, “Archons and Dynasts: Local Aristocracies and the Cities of the Later Byzantine Empire,” in The Byzantine Aristocracy, IX to XIII Centuries, ed. M. Angold (Oxford, 1984), 238. Equally misleading is the designation “nobility of second rank” used for archontes and archontopouloi in ODB 1:161, as there was no nobility in Byzantium. 9 This study will not deal with the ecclesiastical archontes of Thessalonike, although as a group they may have shared similarities with the lay archontes. For some earlier observations on the archontes of Thessalonike, see Tafrali, Thessalonique, 22–23, 75–80; B. T. Gorianov, Pozdnevizantiiskii feodalizm (Moscow, 1962), 86–87, 252–53, 269 f, 349. 10 Angold, “Archons and Dynasts,” 236–49; 248–49 for the passage quoted. On the so-called Zealot movement, see now K.-P. Matschke, “Thessalonike und die Zeloten. Bemerkungen zu einem Schlüsselereignis der spätbyzantinischen Stadt- und Reichsgeschichte,” BSl 55 (1994): 19–43; Kyritses, Byzantine Aristocracy, 358–87.

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archontes returned to power and exacted their revenge. In Thessalonica, at least, there was no restoration of social harmony. The archontes were more than ever fractious and selfseeking, scornful of the needs of the poor and resentful of the power wielded over them by imperial princes, such as Manuel Palaiologos, who established his court at Thessalonica from 1382 to 1387.” In fact, throughout the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, social tensions associated with the conduct of the archontes—both in relation to the central government and in relation to the local population—persisted in Thessalonike. On various occasions following Manuel Palaiologos’ reign in the city,11 the archontes continued to display a firm desire to dissociate themselves from central authority. Disturbances and open acts of resistance occurred whenever people linked to the imperial government were appointed to the city, as was the case in 1403 and again in 1408.12 Although we can only presume, but cannot be absolutely certain of, the archontes’ actual role in these two disturbances, more explicit is a statement made in the fifteenth century by Archbishop Symeon of Thessalonike, who refers to the opposition of the archontes against the court officials in Constantinople, adding that the latter in turn were opposed to the burghers (oiJ ajstoiv) of Thessalonike.13 This highly articulated separatism of the archontes of Thessalonike was by no means a unique or isolated phenomenon in late Byzantium; it must be seen in conjunction with the progressive decline of the power and authority of the Palaiologan state, in the course of which provincial cities steadily acquired a considerable degree of independence from the capital,14 which consequently brought greater power into the hands of the local aristocracy. So it is within the broader context of decentralization that we must analyze the particular behavior of the archontes of Thessalonike and evaluate the key role they assumed in the internal and external affairs of the city. Contemporary observers of events in Thessalonike frequently bring up the theme of social conflicts in their writings, making specific reference to the tensions especially between the archontes and the common people. In this respect, one of the most striking descriptions of the archontes has come down to us from the pen, once again, of Symeon of Thessalonike. In his lengthy Discourse on the Miracles of St. Demetrios, which he composed in the 1420s, the archbishop writes: “The archontes live wantonly, hoard their wealth, and exalt themselves above their subjects, freely performing injustices, not only offering nothing to God, but also stealing away from God. They believe this to be their power, and 11

For the general history of this period, see G. T. Dennis, The Reign of Manuel II Palaeologus in Thessalonica, 1382–1387 (Rome, 1960); J. W. Barker, Manuel II Palaeologus (1391–1425): A Study in Late Byzantine Statesmanship (New Brunswick, N.J., 1969), 43–60. 12 D. Balfour, ed., Politico-Historical Works of Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica (1416/17 to 1429) (Vienna, 1979), 44, 48; cf. 115 note 59, 122–23 (hereafter Symeon-Balfour). In 1403, Demetrios Laskaris Leontares, Emperor John VII’s envoy charged with taking over Thessalonike from the Ottomans, was the target of resistance and intrigues (ejpiboulaiv). The disturbance (tarachv) of 1408 occurred on the occasion of Emperor Manuel II’s trip to the city to install his minor son Andronikos as despot and Demetrios Laskaris Leontares as the latter’s regent. 13 Ibid., 53, lines 30–31: kai; kata; tw'n ejn toi'" basileivoi" me;n oiJ proevconte" tou' koinou', kat∆ ajstw'n de; pavlin ejkei'noi. 14 Maksimovic´, Provincial Administration, 248–67; Zachariadou, “∆Efhvmere" ajpovpeire" giav aujtodioivkhsh,” 345–51; N. Oikonomidès, “Pour une typologie des villes ‘séparées’ sous les Paléologues,” in Geschichte und Kultur der Palaiologenzeit, ed. W. Seibt (Vienna, 1996), 169–75. For earlier signs of the trend toward urban autonomy, see A. P. Kazhdan and A. W. Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Berkeley–Los Angeles–London, 1985), 52–53; P. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge, 1993), 150 ff.

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they consider the poor citizens and their subordinates as scarcely human. But the poor, too, imitating those in authority, arm themselves against each other and live rapaciously and greedily.”15 Symeon then continues with an account of various religious offenses, committed both by the civil authorities and the subjects, wherefore, he claims, God has punished the Thessalonians by their present misfortunes, that is, the Ottoman attacks and the city’s helplessness before them. But the common people, not realizing this, blame the archontes for all their troubles and are prepared to rise up in rebellion against them, expecting that “they might thus live freely and uncontrolled.” Despite all its rhetoric and moral overtones, this passage, marked by Symeon’s critical and disapproving attitude toward the archontes (whom he holds responsible even for the reprehensible actions of the common people), reveals how much the populace felt oppressed in the early fifteenth century by the conduct of their local governors. And one major consequence of this oppression, as the archbishop sadly acknowledges, was that the common people were inclined on the whole to give up their own masters (despovtai) of the same faith and race in favor of either Ottoman or Venetian sovereignty.16 It must be granted that in virtually all periods and provinces of the Byzantine Empire parallels can be found of abuses and oppression exercised by the archontes over the lower classes. Indeed, the problem assumed the aspect of a conventional and proverbial theme, finding one of its best expressions in the Byzantine saying, “Even the most miserable of the archontes will bully the people under him,” transmitted by Eustathios of Thessalonike in the twelfth century.17 Thus we may rightly question whether or not such conventional statements do reflect existing practices. But, as demonstrated by Helen Saradi in two important articles on the archontike dynasteia, the problem is brought up not only in purely theoretical, moralistic, and theological contexts, but is also confirmed in notarial documents as well as other legal sources.18 It seems reasonable, therefore, to accept its presence as a real issue in Byzantine society, and try then to evaluate the existing references in the light of the particular historical and social conditions in which they occurred. And so, coming back once again to Symeon’s testimony, the archbishop informs us that in the early 1420s, shortly before the cession of Thessalonike to Venice,19 there was a strong 15 Symeon-Balfour, 47, lines 9–14: Kai; a[rconte" me;n kataspatalw'si, qhsaurivzousiv te kai; uJperaivrontai kata; tw'n uJpo; cei'ra, pa'n ajdikiva" e[rgon ajnevdhn diaprattovmenoi, ouj movnon oujde;n ajpodidovnte" Qew/', ajlla; kai; ta; tou' Qeou' ajfarpavzonte" kai; tou'to ei\nai ajrch;n hJgouvmenoi eJautw'n kai; to; tou;" penomevnou" kai; uJp∆ aujtou;" mhde; fuvsew" ajnqrwpivnh" scedo;n ei\nai nomivzein: ptwcoi; de; pavlin to; a[rcon mimouvmenoi kat∆ ajllhvlwn oJplivzontai kai; aJrpaktikw'" kai; pleonektikw'" zw'si. 16 Ibid., 47, lines 14–38; cf. 119–20. 17 Angold, “Archons and Dynasts,” 249 and note 67. 18 H. Saradi, “The Twelfth-Century Canon Law Commentaries on the ajrcontikh; dunasteiva: Ecclesiastical Theory vs. Juridical Practice,” in Byzantium in the 12th Century; Canon Law, State and Society, ed. N. Oikonomides (Athens, 1991), 375–404; H. Saradi, “On the ‘Archontike’ and ‘Ekklesiastike Dynasteia’ and ‘Prostasia’ in Byzantium, with Particular Attention to the Legal Sources: A Study in Social History of Byzantium,” Byzantion 64 (1994): 69–117, 314–51. 19 On the Venetian regime in Thessalonike (1423–30), see Mertzios, Mnhmei'a, 30 ff; P. Lemerle, “La domination vénitienne à Thessalonique,” in Miscellanea Giovanni Galbiati, vol. 3 (Milan, 1951), 219–25; A. E. Vacalopoulos, A History of Thessaloniki, trans. T. F. Carney (Thessalonike, 1972), 65–75; K. M. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), vol. 2, The Fifteenth Century (Philadelphia, 1978), 19–31. For a discussion of Symeon of Thessalonike’s eyewitness account of these years, which was unavailable to the authors above, see SymeonBalfour, 163 ff. To this list may now be added a forthcoming article by D. Jacoby, “Thessalonique de la domination de Byzance à celle de Venise. Continuité, adaptation ou rupture?,” in Mélanges Gilbert Dragon=TM 14 (2002): 303–18. I am grateful to the author for having sent me the manuscript of his article prior to its publication.

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opposition among the lower classes particularly to the policy of resistance pursued against the Ottomans by members of the city’s governing body. This opposition was spurred by two interrelated considerations on the part of the lower classes. First of all, the resistance policy which prolonged the years of warfare had only helped to intensify their hardships; second, it was supported and executed by the local governors who, in the opinion of the lower classes, were merely considering their own interests and not those of the masses: “Now on top of this the majority were shouting against and bitterly reproaching those in authority and me myself, accusing us of not striving to serve the welfare of the population as a whole. They actually declared that they were bent on handing the latter over to the infidel.”20 The lower classes were further aggravated because the archontes and some wealthy Thessalonians who supported the cause of war against the Ottomans made no financial contributions toward the city’s defense needs. Their reluctance could not have resulted from their lack of means for, as we have already seen, Symeon explicitly criticized the archontes of Thessalonike for living wantonly and hoarding their wealth. Earlier, too, during the Ottoman blockade of 1383–87, we have evidence that burying money was commonly practiced by the wealthy citizens.21 According to Isidore Glabas, one of the prerequisites for winning the struggle against the Ottomans in the 1380s was to convince those with financial resources to contribute to military expenditures.22 Four decades later, in 1423, when a military commander, who was sent from Constantinople to assist the Thessalonians against the Ottomans, suggested the establishment of a common fund for defense purposes “to which each member of the Senate and of the citizen body should contribute out of his own assets,” his main target must no doubt have been the upper classes who could afford to pay the necessary sums. But it was precisely these people who, in apprehension of a forceful exaction of their money, opposed the Constantinopolitan general’s proposal. The reaction of the lower classes to the conduct exhibited by the rich was to protest and riot in favor of surrender to the Ottomans.23 Their outrage, provoked in the first place by the unwillingness of the rich to contribute to the war cause, is likely to have been accompanied and enhanced by the fear that the civil authorities might turn to the populace to make up for the resources that could not be procured from the well-to-do. Such a policy seems to have been applied in 1383, when in comparable circumstances a new tax was imposed even on the poor citizens of Thessalonike due to the inadequacy of other sources of revenue.24 A similar atmosphere of social discontent was witnessed in Thessalonike in 1393, when the hostility of the common people toward the archontes had reached such an intensity that the latter, anticipating the outbreak of a popular movement against their rule, wanted to resign.25 In this case, too, the overriding grievance of the populace was that they were be20

Symeon-Balfour, 55–56 (text), 157 (trans.). A. C. Hero, “Five Homilies of Isidore, Archbishop of Thessalonica: Edition, Translation, and Commentary” (M.A. thesis, Columbia University, 1965), Homily 1.12 (hereafter Isidore-Hero); Tafrali, Thessalonique, ˇevcˇenko for having made available to me the thesis cited here. 108 note 2. I owe special thanks to I. S 22 Isidore-Hero, Homily 5.15. 23 Symeon-Balfour, 57; cf. 161–63. For members of the Senate among the archontes of Thessalonike, see below, p. 144 and Table 1. 24 Isidore-Hero, Homily 1.11. 25 B. Laourdas, ed., ∆Isidwvrou ∆Arciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh", ÔOmilivai eij" ta;" eJorta;" tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou (Thessalonike, 1954), Homilies 4 and 5, see esp. 64–65 (hereafter Isidore-Laourdas). 21

˘LU NEVRA NECIPOG

139

ing oppressed by their political leaders. At this date Thessalonike was under Ottoman rule. However, as the Ottomans granted the city a semi-autonomous status following its surrender in 1387, administrative functions had remained in the hands of the local Greek magistrates who were expected to pay regular visits to the Ottoman court. Consequently, the social tensions and civil discords from the Byzantine period, in particular the conflicts between the common people and the archontes, were perpetuated through the years of the first Ottoman domination (1387–1403). It is one of Symeon’s predecessors, Archbishop Isidore Glabas, who informs us about the social conflicts of 1393 and also provides evidence for the uninterrupted role of the archontes in the administration of Ottomanoccupied Thessalonike. A notable feature of Isidore’s account is his favorable and positive attitude toward the archontes, which sharply contrasts with Symeon’s account composed about three decades later. It is true that at an earlier date Isidore had voiced some complaints against certain municipal governors who declined to give assistance to poor and wronged citizens, and also against those who executed orders for the secularization of ecclesiastical property.26 Yet, in principle, he considered it proper, useful, and necessary for all Thessalonians to revere, to love, and to give support to the archontes.27 Fearing that the disagreements between the people and the archontes might lead to some form of political change, he composed two homilies in 1393, one to instruct the citizens to put an end to their disturbances, and the other to persuade the archontes not to resign from their posts.28 He argued that the archontes deserved respect for all the tasks and troubles they shouldered on behalf of the people: they were the ones who acted as mediators between the Thessalonians and the Ottomans, who bore the latter’s insults and maltreatment, who left their families behind, traveled through dangerous lands on embassies to the Ottoman court, and thus enabled the inhabitants to continue to live in peace.29 Drawing a comparison between those who govern the state and the common people who work with their hands (i.e., craftsmen, artisans, and peasants), Isidore suggested that the latter were unfit to take part in the administration of the city since they did not have the benefit of education that distinguished the ruling elite from themselves.30 He advised the archontes—whom he qualified as “the distinguished,” “the honorable,” “the few select” citizens—to act as befitted their own class and to ignore the complaints of the people as incoherent utterings.31 Clearly, then, there is a strong divergence between the views expressed by Isidore and those expressed by Symeon with regard to the archontes of Thessalonike. But this divergence need not necessarily be taken as evidence that the archontes in power during the final decade of the fourteenth century differed fundamentally from the ones who held office in the early decades of the fifteenth century, at least in terms of their treatment of and attitude toward the common people. From the distinction Isidore draws between those who were created by God as fit for governing and those who knew how to use different 26

Ibid., Homily 3.38–39; Isidore-Hero, Homily 1.11; C. N. Tsirpanlis, “Sumbolh; eij" th;n iJstorivan th'" Qessalonivkh". Duvo ajnevkdotoi oJmilivai ∆Isidwvrou ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh",” Qeologiva 42 (1971): 568–70. 27 Isidore-Laourdas, Homily 2.39, lines 15–18. 28 Ibid., Homilies 4 and 5, respectively. 29 Ibid., Homily 4.57–58. 30 Ibid., Homily 5.61, 63. 31 Ibid., Homily 5.63–64, 61.

140

THE ARISTOCRACY IN LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE

tools yet had no education, it is obvious that he is not talking about the actual archontes in office in 1393, but that he is referring in abstract and idealized terms to a traditional ruling class to which the archontes belonged. Symeon, on the other hand, who is more precise than Isidore, seems to be pointing a direct finger at the specific archontes of his own day. In any case, since the tensions between the people and the local magistrates appear in the writings of both, there is no reason for supposing that there was a change in the social conditions existing within Thessalonike. Isidore feared, however, that such a change might take place and, therefore, focusing on the positive attributes of the archontes as a class, praised and defended them. Symeon, not interested in the theoretical attributes of a superior ruling class, seems to have looked at the actual state of affairs and reported his observations in a more or less realistic and critical manner, openly revealing his bitterness toward both the archontes and the common people who imitated them. A letter written by Demetrios Kydones in 1372 confirms, moreover, that the wrongdoings and abuses that Symeon attributed to the archontes were pretty much in effect during Isidore’s own generation too. Advising the megas primikerios Demetrios Phakrases to make use of the local dynatoi in the defense of Thessalonike against a Turkish attack during that year, Kydones urged his addressee to warn the notables “that the present situation is not an occasion for grasping at some advantage, nor should they further provoke those who are desperate.”32 The writings of Isidore Glabas and Symeon, informative and significant as they are, provide us in the end with no more than a vague, and to a large extent impressionistic, portrait of the archontes of Thessalonike, who are always mentioned collectively, with no explicit reference to individual members of the group.33 But with the help of prosopographic data compiled mainly from fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Athonite documents, it has been possible to uncover the identities of some fifty archontes of Thessalonike (see Table 1).34 As can be observed from this list, most of them belong to well-established families of Thessalonike with strong local interests—including the Angeloi, Deblitzenoi, Kasandrenoi, Kokalades, Maroulai, Melachrinoi, Prebezianoi, Rhadenoi, Spartenoi, Stavrakioi, Tarchaneiotai, and Hyaleades—though, with possibly few exceptions, almost none can be linked with the highest echelons of the Thessalonian aristocracy. In addition, several family names show continuity over time: for example, Kokalas (ca. 1320 and 1336), Kyprianos (1348–61 and 1414), Metochites (1373–76 and 1421), Prinkips (1407–9 and 1421), and possibly Komes (1366 and 1404–19). Some other cases of recurring family names, yet without any indication of continuity over time, may be noted as well: Nicholas and Petros Prebezianos (1366), George and Andronikos Doukas Tzykandyles (1373–81 32

R.-J. Loenertz, ed., Démétrius Cydonès. Correspondance, vol. 1 (Vatican City, 1956), letter 77, p. 110, lines 27– 31; English trans. in Dennis, Reign of Manuel II, 55–56. On the particular use of the term dynatoi to denote the local notables in provincial cities during the Palaiologan period, see Kyritses, Byzantine Aristocracy, 9 note 5. For Demetrios Phakrases, see PLP 29576. 33 See note 56 below for an exception. 34 The table is by no means intended to be exhaustive, and comprises two categories of people. In the first place, it includes all individuals who are specifically designated as archon in the available documents pertaining to Thessalonike (altogether 37 people). As a second category, it includes a select group of fifteen individuals who are not explicitly called archon, but have been chosen on the basis of their official titles or other internal evidence suggesting that they were local magistrates. This second group could certainly be expanded, but I have been selective in my sampling so as to minimize error.

Symeon Choniates Demetrios Phakrases Demetrios Glabas [Komes?] Nicholas Prebezianos Petros Prebezianos Manuel Tarchaneiotes

Laskaris Kephalas* Laskaris Metochites*

George Doukas Tzykandyles*

1361–66 1366 1366 1366 1366 1366–78

1373 1373–76

1373–81

1341

1348–61 1356–66

Name

Manuel Kampanaropoulos Theodore Chalazas Constantine Kokalas* Michael Stavrakios* Theodore Brachnos Demetrios Sgouros George Allelouias Athanasios Kabakes Alexios Hyaleas* George Kokalas* Manuel Phaxenos (brother-in-law of Agape Angelina Sphratzaina Palaiologina) Theodore Doukas Spartenos (brother of Agape Angelina Sphratzaina Palaiologina) George Kyprianos Manuel Ko(u)llourakes

1314–24 1314–26 ca. 1320 ca. 1320 1320 1327 1327 1327 1333–36 1336 1341

Date

judge, doulos

doulos megas chartoularios, doulos, apographeus

— megas primikerios, doulos megas droungarios, doulos — — oikeios, doulos

— oikeios, doulos

oikeios

— myrepsos, depotatos fiscal official, oikeios oikeios exarchos ton myrepson megalyperochos megalyperochos megalyperochos, chrysepilektes megas adnoumiastes, eparchos, oikeios megas adnoumiastes, oikeios —

Other Title or Occupation

Xénophon, 30; Dochei., 36, 38 Dochei., 36, 38; Maked. 5 (1963): p. 137 Dochei., 36, 38 Dochei., 38 Dochei., 38 Dochei., 38 Dochei., 38 Dochei., 38; Zogr., 44; Lavra III, 149 Dochei., 41 Dochei., 41, 42; Chilandar, 154; Vatop., pp. 35, 38, 40 Dochei., 41, 48

Lavra III, app. XII

Ivir. III, 73, 78, 81 Ivir. III, 73, 78, 81, 84 Ivir. III, 76 Ivir. III, 76 Ivir. III, 78 Zogr., 25 Zogr., 25 Zogr., 25, 28 Chilandar, 123; Reg.Patr., 111 Reg.Patr., 111 Lavra III, 156, app. XII

Document1

Unless marked with an asterisk, (*), the persons included in this table are specifically designated as archon in the documents.

TABLE 1. ARCHONTES OF THESSALONIKE (14TH–15TH CENTURIES)

28126 (continued )

31244 29576 91685 23700 23703 27499, 27501 11677 17983

92473 92439

26498

10825 30363 — 26710 3205 25051 676 10015 29470 92485 29609

PLP no.

Michael Ka. . . . .tes

George Prinkips

John Aprenos* John Kantakouzenos* Theodore Doukas Kyprianos* John Douk(a)s Melachrinos* Stephanos Doukas Rhadenos

1406–9

1407–9

1409(?) 1414 1414 1415 1415–21

1406–9

John Pezos Demetrios Phoberes John Maroules . . . . tos Palaiologos* Andronikos Doukas Tzykandyles* Demetrios Talapas* Manuel Deblitzenos Manuel Kasandrenos George Angelos Constantine Ibankos* Bartholomaios Komes (son-in-law of Manuel Deblitzenos) Paul Gazes

Name

1379 1379–84 1379–84 ca. 1381 ca. 1381 ca. 1381 1381 1381 1381 1404 1404–19

Date

— — — doulos apographeus, kephale of Kassandreia, doulos

apographeus, doulos

apographeus

apographeus, doulos

— apographeus apographeus doulos doulos kastrophylax, doulos doulos, oikeios — — judge, doulos —

Other Title or Occupation

Gr.Pal. 3 (1919):p. 337; Xéropot., 29; Dochei., 53; Diony., 11; Lavra III, 161 Gr.Pal. 3 (1919):p. 337; Xéropot., 29 Xéropot., 29; Dochei., 53; Diony., 11; Lavra III, 161 Esphigm., 31 Dochei., 54 Dochei., 54 Diony., 14 Gr.Pal. 3 (1919):pp. 335–36; Gr.Pal. 6 (1922):pp. 86–87; Dochei., 56; St. Pantél., 18; Lavra III, 165; Diony., 20; Athena 26 (1914):p. 274

Gr.Pal. 6 (1922):p. 283 Gr.Pal. 6 (1922):p. 283; Dochei., 49 Gr.Pal. 6 (1922):p. 283; Dochei., 49 Dochei., 48 Dochei., 48 Dochei., 48 Dochei., 47, 48, 49 Dochei., 47 Dochei., 47 Dochei., 51 Dochei., 51, 57, 58

Document1

Unless marked with an asterisk, (*), the persons included in this table are specifically designated as archon in the documents.

TABLE 1. Continued

1209 92318 92474 17665 23999

23746

—

3452

22245 29998 17153 21410 28125 27416 91757 11316 91034 7973 92399

PLP no.

Demetrios Hidromenos

John Angelos Philanthropenos Thomas Chrysoloras Demetrios Palaiologos Prinkips Michael Palaiologos Krybitziotes Andronikos Metochites Michael Angelos Trypommates Theodore Diagoupes

1421

1421 1421 1421 1421 1421 1421 1421

archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios archon th'" sugklhvtou, oikeios

apographeus, doulos

apographeus, doulos

apographeus, doulos

Abbreviations: Chilandar Diony. Dochei. Esphigm. Gr.Pal. Ivir. III, IV Lavra III Maked. Reg.Patr. St. Pantél. Vatop. Xénophon Xéropot. Zogr.

Gr.Pal. 3 (1919):p. 336; Dochei., 56; Lavra III, 165; Diony., 20 Gr.Pal. 6 (1922):pp. 86–87; Dochei., 56; Lavra III, 165; Diony., 20 Diony., 20; Gr.Pal. 6 (1922):pp. 86– 87 Ivir. IV, 97 Ivir. IV, 97 Ivir. IV, 97 Ivir. IV, 97 Ivir. IV, 97 Ivir. IV, 97 Ivir. IV, 97

Actes de Chilandar, I: Actes grecs, ed. L. Petit, in VizVrem 17 (1911) Actes de Dionysiou, ed. N. Oikonomidès (Paris, 1968) Actes de Docheiariou, ed. N. Oikonomidès (Paris, 1984) Actes d’Esphigménou, ed. J. Lefort (Paris, 1973) Grhgovrio" oJ Palama'" Actes d’Iviron, vols. 3–4, ed. J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, D. Papachryssanthou, V. Kravari, with the collaboration of H. Métrévéli (Paris, 1994–95) Actes de Lavra, vol. 3, ed. P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos, D. Papachryssanthou (Paris, 1979) Makedonikav Das Register des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel, 3 vols., ed. H. Hunger and O. Kresten (Vienna, 1981–2001) ´irkovic´ (Paris, 1982) Actes de Saint-Pantéléèmôn, ed. P. Lemerle, G. Dagron, S. C Crusovboulla kai; gravmmata th'" monh'" Batopedivou, ed. W. Regel (St. Petersburg, 1898) Actes de Xénophon, ed. D. Papachryssanthou (Paris, 1986) Actes de Xéropotamou, ed. J. Bompaire (Paris, 1964) Actes de Zographou, ed. W. Regel, E. Kurtz, B. Korablev, in VizVrem 13 (1907)

Except when indicated otherwise, the references are to document numbers.

Constantine Palaiologos Oinaiotes

1418–21

1

John Rhadenos

1415–21

29767 31158 23747 13840 17978 29382 7822

8077

21028

23991

144

THE ARISTOCRACY IN LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE

and ca. 1381, respectively), John Rhadenos and Stephanos Doukas Rhadenos (1415–21). Occasionally kinship ties can be traced between archontes who bear different family names, as in the case of the brothers-in-law Manuel Phaxenos and Theodore Doukas Spartenos (1341), or that of Manuel Deblitzenos (1381) and his son-in-law Bartholomaios Komes (1404–19). It is not certain, but Symeon Choniates (1361–66) may have been the grandfather of George Angelos (1381), and the latter, in turn, Manuel Deblitzenos’ brotherin-law.35 Thus, on the basis of these preliminary observations, we can conclude that a series of interrelated local families yielded successive generations of archontes, forming what appears to have been a tightly linked, more or less homogeneous social group. More than half of the archontes listed in Table 1 are qualified in the documents as oikeioi and/or douloi, sometimes of the emperor, sometimes of the despot of Thessalonike, and sometimes of both. While there is nothing unusual about the application of these honorific epithets to civil dignitaries, which was standard procedure in the Palaiologan period, being an oikeios or doulos was nonetheless a mark of distinction and undoubtedly enhanced the archontes’ sense of belonging to the elite of their society.36 Noteworthy also is that the last seven individuals listed in our table were all members of the Senate of Thessalonike in 1421. The presence of Senate members among the archontes of Thessalonike is confirmed in another Athonite document dating from 1414, which makes reference to two a[rconte" th'" sugklhvtou, but unfortunately does not disclose their names.37 Besides people of civilian status, moreover, we can also identify some individuals of military status in Table 1: for example, one megas primikerios (Demetrios Phakrases, 1366), one megas droungarios (Demetrios Glabas [Komes?], 1366), one megas chartoularios (Laskaris Metochites, 1373– 76), and one kastrophylax (Demetrios Talapas, ca. 1381). Manuel Deblitzenos, too, belonged to a family of soldiers and was himself a military man.38 It would have been useful to calculate the ratio of civilians to holders of military rank within our sample group of archontes, yet the fragmentary nature of the evidence makes it virtually impossible to engage in such statistical endeavors. Nevertheless, it should be noted that none of the abovementioned military posts, with the sole exception of megas primikerios, are very high-ranking ones, which is in correspondence with the social status of the archontes whom we have defined as aristocrats primarily of middle and low rank. The names of some of these archontes themselves or of their family members reappear in a Venetian document of 1425, dating from the period of the Venetian domination in Thessalonike. This document lists fifty-nine Thessalonians, described as gentilomeni e gentilomeni piçoli, whose names are reproduced in Table 2.39 They were all granted raises of 35

See N. Oikonomides, “The Properties of the Deblitzenoi in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries,” in Charanis Studies: Essays in Honor of Peter Charanis, ed. A. E. Laiou-Thomadakis (New Brunswick, N.J., 1980), 195 note 27; Actes de Docheiariou, ed. N. Oikonomidès (Paris, 1984), 260. 36 On these epithets, see J. Verpeaux, “Les oikeioi. Notes d’histoire institutionnelle et sociale,” REB 23 (1965): 89–99; Kyritses, Byzantine Aristocracy, 15–20; ODB 3:1515, 1:659. 37 Docheiariou, no. 54, line 11. 38 On the military character of this family, see Oikonomides, “Deblitzenoi,” 177 f. 39 For the document, which is dated 7 July 1425, see Mertzios, Mnhmei'a, with facsimile reproduction following p. 48 and modern Greek translation on pp. 46–61. The relevant section containing the names is found on pl. 2a–3a of facsimile and pp. 49–52 of the translation. As a separate category below the gentilomeni e gentilomeni piçoli (who are alternatively designated by the Latin word nobiles), the document refers to seventy unnamed stratioti of Thessalonike whose salaries were increased by 10 aspra per month: ibid., pl. 4a; cf. pp.

˘LU NEVRA NECIPOG

145

TABLE 2. “NOBLES” AND “SMALL NOBLES” OF THESSALONIKE (1425) (From Venetian document of 7 July 1425 reproduced in Mertzios, Mnhmei'a (as in note 3), following p. 48: pl. 2a–3a) Name 1. Thomas Alusiano [Alousianos] 2. Georgius Jalca [Hyaleas] 3. (Calo)jani Radino [Rhadenos] 4. Thomas Grusulora/Chrussulora [Chrysoloras] 5. Michali Democrati [Dermokaites?] 6. Michali Caromaffi 7. Theodorus Calatola 8. Jani Falca [Jalca?, i.e., Hyaleas] 9. Manoli Jalca [Hyaleas] 10. Dimitri Vuironi [Vryonis?] 11. Jani Ramata [Rhamatas] 12. Georgius Aramando [Amarantos?] 13. Andronicus Amarando [Amarantos] 14. Jani Aliati [Aliates] 15. Ducha Milca [Jalca?, i.e., Hyaleas] 16. Michali Jalca [Hyaleas] 17. Georgius Gassi [Gazes?] 18. Manoli Melita [Melitas] 19. Inavissi (?), brother-in-law of Aliati [Aliates] 20. Simon, son of chier Simon 21. Manoli Calamca 22. Georgius Laschari Defala 23. Dimitri Melachino [Melachrinos] 24. Argiropolus Mamoli [Argyropoulos Mamales?] 25. Pasqualis Lascari [Laskaris] 26. Michali Plomino 27. Manoli Mamoli [Mamales?] 28. Dimitri Caroleo 29. Dimitri Lascari [Laskaris] 30. Jani Melacrino [Melachrinos], son of Georgius Algriopolo [Argyropoulos] 31. Constantin Algroopolo [Argyropoulos] 32. Ducha Melacrino [Melachrinos] 33. Georgius Melacrino [Melachrinos] 34. Michali Amarando [Amarantos] 35. Georgius Macrino [Makrenos] 36. Alexius Melacrino [Melachrinos] 37. Georgius Camandora [Tzamantouras] 38. Digieni Senex [Presbytes?] 39. Lucas Arimati 40. Rali Enbiristi 41. Pachi Masgida [Masgidas] 42. Michali Trachanioti [Tarchaniotes] 43. Braichus Masgida [Masgidas] 44. Andronichus Digeni [Digenes] 45. Ducha Cavassilla [Kabasilas]

Monthly Salary (in aspra) 300 300 300 300 300 200 150 100 40 80 80 50 Raised from 80 to 120 same same same same same same Raised from 70 to 100 same same same same same same same same same same same same same Raised by 20 aspra same same same same same same same same same same same (continued )

146

THE ARISTOCRACY IN LATE BYZANTINE THESSALONIKE TABLE 2. Continued

Name 46. Alexius Digeni [Digenes] 47. Angelus Theodorus 48. Jani Gramatico [Grammatikos] 49. Vassi Covazi (?) 50. Jani Digieni [Digenes] 51. Angelus Miropuno (?) 52. Andronichus Machitari [Machetares] 53. Nicola Crussaffi [Chrysaphes] 54. Dimitri Placichaliti [Platyskalites] 55. Ducha Cotiassi 56. Jani Pesso [Pezos?] 57. Jani Vassilico [Basilikos] 58. Dimitri Algiropolo [Argyropoulos] 59. Georgio Radino [Rhadenos]

Monthly Salary (in aspra) same same same same same same same same same same same same same Raised by 40 aspra

varying amounts in the monthly salaries they received from Venice for the services they provided in the defense of Thessalonike against the Ottomans. Among them, (Calo)jani Radino (no. 3), one of the three ambassadors sent to Venice in 1425 to request, among other things, these raises, can be identified with the apographeus John Rhadenos (1415–21) in Table 1. Listed among the “nobles and small nobles” of Thessalonike in the pay of Venice, we also find one Georgio Radino (no. 59), who was presumably someone related to John Rhadenos, but remains otherwise unknown from any other source. Second, Thomas Grusulora/Chrussulora (no. 4), another ambassador present at Venice in 1425, is no doubt the senatorial archon Thomas Chrysoloras attested in an Athonite document of 1421, as shown in Table 1. Third, Ducha Melacrino (no. 32) may be identified with John Douk(a)s Melachrinos (1415), who figures in Table 1. Four additional members of the Melachrinos family appear as well in the Venetian document of 1425 (nos. 23, 30, 33, 36). One of them, Jani Melacrino, is reported, moreover, to be the son of George Argyropoulos, member of a prominent Thessalonian family with three further representatives in the same source (nos. 31, 58, 24). Other archontic patronymics from Table 1 that recur in the Venetian document of 1425 include Hyaleas40 (nos. 2, 8?, 9, 15?, 16), Laskaris (nos. 25, 29, 22), Tarchaniotes (no. 42), Angelos (no. 47), and possibly Gazes (no. 17) as well as Pezos (no. 56). The cross-references between the names listed in Tables 1 and 2 thus indicate that a significant proportion of the Greek “nobles and small nobles” to whom the Venetians paid salaries for their participation in the defense of Thessalonike against the Ottomans came from the same families, and in some cases were the very same individuals, as the archontes 52–53. On the general social status of the stratiotai in late Byzantium, see M. C. Bartusis, The Late Byzantine Army: Arms and Society, 1204–1453 (Philadelphia, 1992), 364–65. 40 The name of this family appears in the document as “Jalca,” which is no doubt a misreading for Jalea, i.e., Hyaleas, on the part of the Venetian scribe who must have copied the names from a list. Cf. Jacoby, “Thessalonique,” 308 and note 29. It is also feasible that “Falca” and “Milka” (nos. 8 and 15, respectively, in Table 2) represent further corruptions of “Jalca” caused by the scribe’s carelessness and lack of familiarity with Greek names.

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who occupied government posts in the city prior to the establishment of the Venetian regime. This, after all, should not be so surprising since we know from Symeon that in 1423 the despot Andronikos Palaiologos had agreed to the cession of Thessalonike to Venice, acting in response to the counsel of “those who shared governmental functions with him” and “the very magnates of our body politic”—in other words, the archontes.41 The documentary sources, in addition to allowing us to identify a substantial number of archontes and their network of family ties, also provide data with regard to the economic character of this urban elite. It is not clear from the Byzantine documents what kinds of material compensation they received for holding government offices, yet our prosopographic survey suggests that the bulk of their income derived from other sources of revenue. Many archontes or their extended families were in fact landowners in possession of large- to medium-size holdings in the surrounding countryside, primarily in Chalkidike.42 In addition, several possessed urban properties (such as houses, shops, or workshops) inside Thessalonike.43 It is quite likely—yet difficult to demonstrate statistically—that in the period we are concerned with, when communications between Thessalonike and the surrounding countryside were cut off due to the Ottoman threat, and many landowners in the area are known to have suffered major losses in the face of enemy attacks, urban properties situated within the city, along with the income derived from their exploitation, may have acquired much greater importance. We are all familiar today with the plight of the Deblitzenos family, thanks to the late Nicolas Oikonomides, who made known to us in the 1980s how the members of this Thessalonian family, including the archon Manuel Deblitzenos himself and his heirs, were dispossessed of their lands and became impoverished under the impact first of Serbian and then of Ottoman incursions.44 Likewise, the only piece of property that the archon George Prinkips presumably inherited from his father was an entirely ruined and deserted vineyard, the rest of the family’s landed possessions having been lost due to the devastation caused in the countryside during the Ottoman blockade of 1383–87.45 By contrast, it is known that some members of the Argyropoulos family who leased from the monastery of Iviron several gardens situated in the vicinity of the Golden Gate of Thessalonike, just outside the city walls, managed them successfully and greatly increased their productivity after 1404. In 1421, the monks of Iviron, no longer wanting all the profits to accrue to the Argyropouloi, took the gardens back from 41

Symeon-Balfour, 55, lines 20–21: oiJ su;n ejkeivnw/ de; th'" ajrcontikh'" moivra'" . . . kai; aujtoi; de; oiJ th'" politeiva" hJmw'n prw'toi. For an analogous identification of the Greek archontes of the Morea as gentiles hombres, gentil homme grec, or nobiles in the different versions of the Chronicle of the Morea, see D. Jacoby, “Les archontes grecs et la féodalité en Morée franque,” TM 2 (1967): 468 note 240. 42 E.g., the archontes Manuel Phaxenos, Theodore Doukas Spartenos, Manuel Tarchaneiotes, and Manuel Deblitzenos cited in Table 1, above, as well as various members of the archontic families of Kokalas (PLP 14090, 14094), Stavrakios (PLP 26702, 26703), Maroules (PLP 17156), Kasandrenos (PLP 11312, 11313), Angelos (PLP 91030, 91031), Gazes (PLP 3444), Melachrinos (PLP 17633), and Rhadenos (PLP 23987, 23992). 43 Manuel Deblitzenos owned several houses and small shops in the city: Docheiariou, 263–64 (no. 49). A certain Maroules who owned some properties in the Omphalos quarter of Thessalonike may perhaps be identified with the archon John Maroules: ibid., 263; cf. PLP 17143 and 17153. House-owners are also attested among members of the archontic families of Allelouias (PLP 674), Melachrinos (PLP 17627), etc. 44 Oikonomides, “Deblitzenoi,” 176–98; Docheiariou, nos. 26, 47–51, 57–58. 45 MM 2: no. 471, 221–23. I have assumed that the George Prinkips mentioned in this patriarchal act of 1394 is the same person as the archon George Prinkips attested in several Athonite documents between 1407 and 1409: see Table 1 above; cf. PLP 23741 and 23746.

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them.46 It is quite likely that the favorable location of the gardens near the city walls was a factor that facilitated this successful case of individual entrepreneurship on the part of the Argyropouloi. Among the archontes we also come across representatives of typical urban middle-class professions, some of whom were evidently connected with the guildlike associations of Thessalonike:47 for example, the chrysepilektes Athanasios Kabakes (1327), the myrepsos Theodore Chalazas (1314–26), and the exarchos ton myrepson Theodore Brachnos (1320). Moreover, Theodore Chalazas bears the name of a family among whose members professional money dealers are attested in early fifteenth-century Thessalonike, thus suggesting that some archontes may have been engaged in business and banking. The evidence for this is contained in the notebook kept by an anonymous Thessalonian church official, where we find a reference to a money changer (katallavkth") called Chalazas and his brother-in-law Platyskalites, likewise a money changer who bears the family name of a “noble” listed in Table 2 (no. 54).48 The same source informs us, furthermore, that this Platyskalites had a stepbrother, Michael Metriotes, who made a journey to Tana at the end of the fourteenth century. In view of the commercial importance of Tana, Michael Metriotes’ trip there is most likely to have been for trading purposes.49 From the notes kept by the anonymous church official, we also learn about a financial operation involving the transfer of funds from Constantinople to Thessalonike in the 1420s, which was handled by two archontes from the capital and a third person in Thessalonike, a certain Alousianos, who may well be Thomas Alousianos in Table 2 (no. 1).50 Incidentally, a certain Rhadenos, who served Manuel II as counselor in Thessalonike during 1382/3–87, was the son of a wealthy merchant and had two brothers who engaged in business, even though he himself does not seem to have been associated with the family’s business affairs.51 On the other hand, the archon Nicholas Prebezianos, whose name appears in an act of the monastery of Docheiariou dated 1366 (see Table 1), may have engaged in trade himself, for among the fragments of the Greek account books published by 46 Actes d’Iviron, vol. 4, ed. J. Lefort et al. (Paris, 1995), nos. 97 and 98. On this case, see K.-P. Matschke, Die Schlacht bei Ankara und das Schicksal von Byzanz. Studien zur spätbyzantinischen Geschichte zwischen 1402 und 1422 (Weimar, 1981), 159–75. 47 On these associations, see Oikonomidès, Hommes d’affaires, 109, 111–12. For the three archontes mentioned here, refer to Table 1 above. 48 S. Kugéas, “Notizbuch eines Beamten der Metropolis in Thessalonike aus dem Anfang des XV. Jahrhunderts,” BZ 23 (1914): 153 (§ 86). The involvement of Thessalonian archontes in business and banking, suggested here, runs parallel to the phenomenon discussed by K.-P. Matschke, “Notes on the Economic Establishment and Social Order of the Late Byzantine Kephalai,” ByzF 19 (1993): 139–43, where the author presents evidence for the connection between provincial municipal administration and commercial/financial enterprise in the Palaiologan period. 49 Kugéas, “Notizbuch,” 153 (§ 86); cf. M. Th. Laskaris, “Qessalonivkh kai; Tavna,” in Tovmo" Kwnstantivnou ÔArmenopouvlou (Thessalonike, 1952), 331–40. 50 Kugéas, “Notizbuch,” 148–49 (§§ 53, 58); cf. Jacoby, “Thessalonique,” 308. 51 Loenertz, ed., Démétrius Cydonès, vol. 2, letters 177, 169, 248, 202. Cf. G. T. Dennis, “Rhadenos of Thessalonica, Correspondent of Demetrius Cydones,” Byzantina 13 (1985): 261–72; F. Tinnefeld, “Freundschaft und PAIDEIA: Die Korrespondenz des Demetrios Kydones mit Rhadenos (1375–1387/8),” Byzantion 55 (1985): 210–44; Matschke and Tinnefeld, Gesellschaft, 171–72, 192, 202–4, 260 note 261. For a female pawnbroker from this family in the early 15th century, see Kugéas, “Notizbuch,” 144 (§ 9). For archontes among the Rhadenoi in 15th-century Thessalonike, see Table 1, also Table 2 (nos. 3, 59). For landowning members of the same family in early 14th-century Thessalonike, see note 42 above.

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Peter Schreiner, a businessman (cloth merchant?) by the name of kyr Nicholas Prebezianos is attested in Thessalonike during 1356–57.52 It should be noted that the author of this account book, a landowning merchant who was the nephew of the latter, is identified through his brother’s name as a Kasandrenos53 and might have possibly belonged to the same branch of this well-known Thessalonian family from which stemmed the archon Manuel Kasandrenos, active in Thessalonike in 1381 (see Table 1). Kasandrenos’ business circle in the 1350s included at least two other individuals who may also have been connected with archontic families: one Tzykandyles, who traded in various commodities including wheat, barley, caviar, fish, and different items of clothing,54 and one George Gazes, who traveled to Serres with wheat he acquired from Kasandrenos.55 Finally, we may include here evidence concerning the international enterprises of another prominent Thessalonian called John Rhosotas, given that in one of his letters Isidore Glabas names a certain Rhosotas among the notables of Thessalonike.56 John Rhosotas had a business agent called Theodore Katharos, and the realm of activity of these two men together encompassed Venice, Dubrovnik, and Novo Brdo. In 1424–25, Theodore Katharos can be traced in Dubrovnik, where he was acting as Rhosotas’ agent. At an earlier date Theodore had made a deal in Venice with a Ragusan merchant, to whom he entrusted a certain amount of money and merchandise. The Ragusan was then arrested and died in prison at Venice. Hence in Dubrovnik Theodore was mainly occupied with trying to recover the money the deceased merchant owed, which he claimed amounted to slightly more than 3,875 ducats. It seems that Theodore did not possess sufficient proof, and in the end he lost about one-third of this huge sum of money.57 During his visit to Dubrovnik, he may have been involved in other enterprises too, as suggested by a document of 1424 which mentions a Teodorus Grecus who exported cloth from there to Serbia.58 It is not clear whether Theodore acted alone or once again as John Rhosotas’ agent in the lastmentioned enterprise. Yet several sources demonstrate that a certain Caloiani Rusota, who may be identified with John Rhosotas of Thessalonike, held a prominent place at the Serbian court in the 1420s and 1430s, where he actively engaged in business and banking, providing loans particularly to Ragusan merchants who were dealing in Serbia. He served furthermore as customs officer at Novo Brdo until his death in 1438.59 If these two men are identical as suggested, this raises of course the question of when John Rhosotas left 52 P. Schreiner, Texte zur spätbyzantinischen Finanz- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte in Handschriften der Biblioteca Vaticana (Vatican City, 1991), 85 (§§ 61, 63). See ibid., 84 (§ 53), for Nicholas’ brother, kyr Manoles Prebezianos, who traded in cloth (from Serres). 53 Ibid., 82 (§ 4), 86f; cf. 81, 98. For a discussion of this text and the individuals in question here, see also Matschke and Tinnefeld, Gesellschaft, 166 ff. 54 Schreiner, Texte, 83, 84, 87, 88 (§§ 26, 45, 50, 100, 125, 136). 55 Ibid., 84 (§ 48). A rather obscure entry, on the other hand, concerns a certain Masgidas whose family name figures twice in the Venetian list of 1425 (Table 2, nos. 41 and 43): ibid., 84 (§ 56). 56 Sp. Lampros, “∆Isidwvrou mhtropolivtou Qessalonivkh", ∆Oktw; ejpistolai; ajnevkdotoi,” Nevo" ÔEll. 9 (1912): 380. Cf. PLP 24579. Apart from Rhosotas, Glabas also names a Tzymisches (PLP 27949) and a Klematikos (PLP 11798) as notables of Thessalonike. 57 B. Krekic´, Dubrovnik (Raguse) et le Levant au moyen âge (Paris, 1961), nos. 686, 688, 690, 691, 697, 699, 702, 708, 709, 718, 721. 58 Ibid., no. 695. 59 Ibid., nos. 808 and 810; M. Spremic´, “La Serbie entre les Turcs, les Grecs, et les Latins au XVe siècle,” ByzF 11 (1987): 438 note 16; K.-P. Matschke, “Zum Anteil der Byzantiner an der Bergbauentwicklung und an den Bergbauerträgen Südosteuropas im 14. und 15. Jahrhundert,” BZ 84–85 (1991–92): 57–67.

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Thessalonike, to which a precise answer cannot be given. It is possible, though not so significant from our point of view, that Rhosotas may have already established himself in Serbia while Theodore Katharos was acting on his behalf in Dubrovnik.60 Supposing this were the case, it is of far greater significance for our purposes that Rhosotas did not totally disengage himself from his native city and delegated the management of part of his affairs to a fellow Thessalonian. In any event, without his prior international enterprises and foreign contacts, his rise to prominence at the Serbian court would have been quite unlikely. The involvement of the archontes in trade and banking that has emerged in the discussion above is important, since it gives us concrete evidence concerning a major source of their wealth, which, according to our rhetorical and narrative sources, they refused to channel toward defense needs. A portrait of Thessalonian society found in a fifteenthcentury text attributed to John Argyropoulos likewise gives the impression of the existence of an affluent upper class that remained indifferent to the demands brought on by the war with the Ottomans and continued to spend money in pursuit of a wanton, carefree, and relatively luxurious lifestyle. The text in question is an invective against a certain Katablattas, who was a native of Serres but spent the years between ca. 1403 and 1430 in Thessalonike, having fled there from Bursa after a period of service in the Ottoman army as a foot soldier.61 Katablattas became a school instructor in Thessalonike and also served as a scribe in the city’s tribunal. Most importantly for us, he had close ties with people from the upper levels of Thessalonian society, including members of the ruling elite. He frequently visited the palace of the despot Andronikos, had contacts with the city’s senators, gave public speeches, and seems to have enjoyed a certain degree of influence with Andronikos as suggested by the request of a woman who asked him to write a letter to the despot on her behalf. The text’s depiction of the social gatherings (e.g., banquets, weddings, hunting parties) attended by Katablattas, elaborately focusing on all the singing, dancing, drinking, and eating that took place on these occasions, corresponds closely with the wanton lifestyle attributed by other contemporary sources to the milieu in which Katablattas was active. Therefore, while it is important to keep in mind that the work at hand is an invective and that some of the accusations found in it against Katablattas may be false or exaggerated, there is no reason to reject the authenticity of the general image of Thessalonian upper-class society it conveys. It is also noteworthy that the text mentions a certain Rhosotas who gave a big party in Thessalonike on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding, sometime between 1403 and 1430.62 Whether this last piece of evidence concerns the aforementioned John Rhosotas or, as seems more likely, one of his kinsmen in Thessalonike, it lends in either case further support to our hypothesis that links the financial resources and sumptuous lifestyle of the city’s archontic families in these critical times to profits from trade and banking. To conclude, this quest for the archontes of Thessalonike has taken us almost full circle from literary sources of a rhetorical, moralistic nature, through a series of documentary 60 Matschke suggests, for instance, that Rhosotas’ move to Serbia may have coincided with the first Ottoman occupation of Thessalonike: “Zur Bergbauentwicklung in Südosteuropa,” 62–63. 61 P. Canivet and N. Oikonomidès, “La Comédie de Katablattas: Invective byzantine du XVe s.,” Divptuca 3 (1982–83): 5–97. For the identification of the author and the dates given above, see ibid., 9, 15–21. The portion of the text that corresponds to Katablattas’ years in Thessalonike is on pp. 35–51. 62 Ibid., 49.

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sources, finally to another type of literary source, an invective. It is hoped that in the course of these wanderings among literary and documentary sources, the archontes of Thessalonike have emerged as a more tangible group than they were before. Yet two further tasks still remain to be undertaken in the future. The first is to conduct a comparison with the archontes of other cities, such as Serres63 and Ioannina, so as to gain a wider and more complete overall perspective on this important and powerful segment of the late Byzantine aristocracy. The second task will be to broaden our perspective still further and incorporate the high aristocracy into the study of the archontes, so as to fulfill the ultimate goal of constructing a comprehensive portrait of the Thessalonian aristocracy in the late Byzantine period. Bog ˘ aziçi University-Istanbul 63

On the archontes of Serres, see now A. Laiou, “Koinwnikev" dunavmei" sti" Sevrre" sto 14o aiwvna,” in Oi Sevrre" kai h Periochv tou" apov thn Arcaiva sth Metabuzantinhv Koinwniva (Serres, 1998), 209 ff.

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Intellectuals in Late Byzantine Thessalonike FRANZ TINNEFELD

n all periods of Byzantine history the intellectuals formed a rather small but influential social group. The Palaiologan period, however, the last one of Byzantine history before the fall of Constantinople, was distinguished by a special intensity of intellectual life.1 The notion “intellectuals” can be understood in a wider and in a narrower sense. In the wider sense, I define as a Byzantine intellectual any person sufficiently trained in the grammar, vocabulary, and style of ancient Greek, particularly Attic, authors to read and to write in that language, which was not identical with the everyday spoken language, but as a rule was used for written expression. Consequently, an intellectual in the wider sense was not only any person of whom written texts, or at least letters, have survived, but also any person known only as an addressee of letters or other literary works, which implied his/ her ability to read and understand them and respond to them on a similar level, and even any person whose position in the hierarchy of the civil service required literacy. In the narrower sense, I term an intellectual any person who had a special reputation for his/her erudition or, through rhetorical activity, influence in public life. Since we are generally better informed about the latter persons, scholarly attention is, as a rule, more focused on these. This is also true for the present study, which is confined to intellectuals in Thessalonike during the late Byzantine period. As an “intellectual in Thessalonike” I define any person who lived for some time in the city and during that time participated in an intellectual activity. In the late Byzantine period, from 1246 to 1387 or 1423, Thessalonike and, from the mid-fourteenth century, Mistra in the Peloponnesos were the only cities in the empire that competed to a certain extent with the capital, Constantinople. This is especially true of Thessalonike as it was time and again a residence of Byzantine empresses, princes, and even emperors, who perhaps encouraged achievements in intellectual life to some extent,2 although we have little evidence on this influence. Another characteristic of late Byzantine Thessalonike was the active role its citizens played in public life. This also implied discord, splitting into groups and parties, and competing for political influence and power. Evi-

I

1 Cf. E. Fryde, The Early Palaeologan Renaissance (1261–c. 1360) (Leiden–Boston–Cologne, 2000); K.-P. Matschke and F. Tinnefeld, Die Gesellschaft im späten Byzanz. Gruppen, Strukturen und Lebensformen (Cologne– Weimar–Vienna, 2001), chap. 5, “Die Gruppe der literarisch Gebildeten in der spätbyzantinischen Gesellschaft,” 221–385. 2 K. Konstantinides, “OiJ ajparce;" th'" pneumatikh'" ajkmh'" sth; Qessalonivkh kata; to;n 14o aijw'na,” Dwdwvnh 21 (1992): 133–50, at 135 (with references to earlier publications on the matter).

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dence for this is in some special cases provided by historians of the period, but can even more be derived from several appeals of the intellectuals to the citizens to live in harmony. Since in earlier times as well outstanding intellectuals lived in the city, as for instance the famous metropolitan Eustathios in the late twelfth century, it is no wonder that in encomia of the late period Thessalonike is sometimes praised as a traditional and permanent center of intellectual life which particularly implied rhetorical activity. Although the praise often seems to be exaggerated, it is perhaps worthwhile to quote as an example the following passage from an encomium of St. Demetrios, the patron of Thessalonike, written by the well-known fourteenth-century theologian Nicholas Kabasilas Chamaëtos.3 “The city [Thessalonike] has many adornments, but the most important one and that which affords it the greatest distinction is its rhetorical force, a characteristic that is admired [there] more than in other cities. This city has such a special relationship with Hellenic speech and is so rich in this grace that on the one hand it is sufficient to secure its own happiness; but in addition this city can also impart [this grace] to other cities, transplanting words like colonies founded by the rulers of ancient Athens. Consequently there is none, I think, of all the Hellenes in our empire who does not call this city his ancestor and the mother of his Muses, since by claiming such descent he appears respectable.” Continuing this encomiastic passage on his hometown, Kabasilas refers to its rhetoricians, philosophers, and authors of belles lettres who in his opinion can be found in Thessalonike more than in any other city, and he asserts that these intellectuals have the power to influence the style of any Hellene who wants to write like Euripides, even if he had not been previously inspired by the Muses. Then Kabasilas also mentions the divine philosophy of the monks and their life on the holy mountain, Athos. There is, obviously, in his opinion no strict borderline between profane and spiritual education; profane and spiritual “philosophers” are considered and honored side by side in one passage. From the modern point of view there is no common characteristic between philosophers and monks, but under the influence of the Christian fathers the understanding of the terms was different in Byzantium. The notion filosofiva, which since the time of the ancient Greek philosophers meant “investigation into the crucial questions of human existence,” was from early Christian times understood in a double sense, since the church fathers distinguished between pagan philosophy (e[xwqen filosofiva) on the one hand and the true philosophy of Christian belief and imitation of Jesus Christ on the other. A consequence of this distinction is that first the martyrs and then the monks as the uncompromising followers of Christ were called “philosophers.”4 But even if we do not adopt the Byzantine point of view, we should nevertheless include Byzantine theological and even spiritual authors in the category of intellectuals, since they shared with the others a basic literary and linguistic education. In this connection I refer to a passage from a letter of 3

Nicholas Kabasilas, “Prosfwvnhma eij" to;n e[ndoxon tou' Cristou' megalomavrtura Dhmhvtrion to;n Murobluvthn,” in Th. Ioannou, Mnhmei'a aJgiologikav (Venice, 1884), 67–114, at 70. This work is mentioned as just completed in one of Kabasilas’ letters; cf. P. Enepekides, “Der Briefwechsel des Mystikers Nikolaos Kabasilas. Kommentierte Textausgabe,” BZ 46 (1953): 18–46, at 31, letter 3, line 19f. According to R.-J. Loenertz, “Chronologie de Nicolas Cabasilas 1345–1354,” OCP 21 (1955): 205–31, at 224–26 (repr. in idem, Byzantina et Franco-Graeca, vol. 1, ed. P. Schreiner [Rome, 1970], 303–28, at 321 f ), letter 3 could be dated to 1351/52. 4 F. Dölger, “Zur Bedeutung von filovsofo" und filosofiva in byzantinischer Zeit,” in Tessarakontaethri;" Qeofivlou Boreva, vol. 1 (Athens, 1940), 125–36; repr. in F. Dölger, Byzanz und die europäische Staatenwelt (Ettal, 1953; repr. Darmstadt, 1964), 197–208. Cf. also G. Podskalsky, Theologie und Philosophie in Byzanz (Munich, 1977), 18–22.

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Emperor Manuel II, written to Metropolitan Gabriel of Thessalonike around 1410, where the emperor is concerned about the decay of education and literary activity in his time, especially since education, in his opinion, is necessary to understand the doctrines (dovgmata) of faith, and this understanding is, on the other hand, necessary for a pious life.5 I begin this discussion of intellectuals in late Byzantine Thessalonike with a short general survey on the most important figures, followed by a more detailed account of the intellectual activities of these authors, divided into the following four categories: (1) exchange of letters as a basic source for intellectual life, (2) scholarly activities, (3) teaching, and (4) public speeches and sermons, especially as a source for political and social commitment of intellectuals. After the Byzantine reconquest of Thessalonike in 1246, the first outstanding intellectual in the city seems to have been a certain John Pothos Pediasimos, whose identity was recently reconsidered in a convincing manner from a puzzle of source material by Costas Constantinides.6 Pediasimos, born in Thessalonike in the 1340s, seems to have acquired only an elementary and perhaps a secondary education in his hometown. At any rate, for studies on a higher level he went to Constantinople, where he finally was appointed consul of the philosophers (hypatos ton philosophon), probably by Emperor Michael VIII.7 He became a deacon of the Orthodox church around 1270, ca. 1280 chartophylax of the metropolis of Achrida (Ochrid), and in 1284 megas sakellarios of the metropolis of Thessalonike. From that time on he lived in Thessalonike, until his death between 1310 and 1314. From the fact that he pursued his higher studies in the capital, we may assume that before the 1280s intellectual life in Thessalonike was not yet very well developed. From Pediasimos’ correspondence we learn of a few intellectuals in Thessalonike, such as Demetrios Beaskos, Petros Tziskos, and George Phobenos, who were, however, less important.8 In the next generation we find already several outstanding intellectuals in the city. The oldest of them was Joseph Rhakendytes, the “Philosopher,” born on Ithaca around 1260, who seems to have lived mostly in Thessalonike during the years 1300–1308, and again from 1326 until his death ca. 1330.9 For some time he was the teacher and spiritual guide of Thomas with the family name Magistros, a native of Thessalonike, who was born ca. 1275 and became a monk, named Theodoulos, in a monastery of the city between 1324 and 1328;10 he was active in a number of intellectual fields, primarily in philology. A contemporary of Magistros was Demetrios Triklinios, born ca. 1280, known as the only serious textual 5

G. T. Dennis, The Letters of Manuel II Palaeologus: Text, Translation, and Notes (Washington, D.C., 1977), 149, letter 52. 6 C. N. Constantinides, Higher Education in Byzantium in the Thirteenth and Early Fourteenth Centuries (1204– ca. 1310) (Nicosia, 1982), 117–25. Cf. also PLP 22235, and K. Konstantinides, “OiJ ajparcev",” 142–44. 7 Constantinides, Higher Education, 120 and note 28; R. Romano, Costantino Acropolita, Epistole (Naples, 1991), 216, letter 121, lines 15–18. 8 Constantinides, Higher Education, 120 f. The five preserved letters of John Pediasimos have been edited by M. Treu, Theodori Pediasimi eiusque amicorum quae extant (Potsdam, 1899), 44–48. 9 D. Stiernon, “Joseph le Philosophe,” DSp 8 (1974), 1387–92; M. Treu, “Der Philosoph Joseph,” BZ 8 (1899): 1–64, with the edition of an encomium on Joseph, composed by Theodore Metochites. Metochites refers to Joseph’s presence in Thessalonike and its environs on pp. 8–18. According to A. Hohlweg, “Johannes Aktuarios, Leben—Bildung und Ausbildung—De methodo medendi,” BZ 76 (1983): 302–21, at 304 and note 20, Joseph was not born ca. 1280, but very probably already ca. 1260. 10 PLP 16045. St. K. Skalistes, Qwmav" Mavgistro". O bivo" kai to evrgo tou (Thessalonike, 1984), 30 f, gives convincing reasons for the fact that Magistros is his family name. The year of his birth is discussed by R. Aubreton, Démétrius Triclinius et les recensions médiévales de Sophocle (Paris, 1949), 19, and by Skalistes, ibid., 28 f, both of whom argue for 1275. Skalistes also discusses the time he became a monk, ibid., 46 f.

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philologist of the whole Byzantine period; he seems to have lived in Thessalonike, although there is no sure evidence for this.11 Isidore Boucheir,12 born in Thessalonike shortly before 1300, was active there as a teacher and spiritual guide during a longer period before his patriarchate in 1347–50. Between 1330 and 1350 two outstanding lawyers composed their law handbooks in Thessalonike, the monk Matthew Blastares13 and Constantine Harmenopoulos.14 Gregory Palamas,15 the leader of a spiritual movement, hesychasm, and creator of a special theological system, was born in Asia Minor and only in his last years came in closer touch with Thessalonike. Although he was named metropolitan of the city in 1347, he could not get to his see before 1350, but even then he did not live there permanently, before he died in 1357. The theologian Neilos Kabasilas,16 probably born in Thessalonike around 1300, mastered also Western theology and seems to have been the most influential teacher of Demetrios Kydones during his younger years, very probably in Thessalonike, although in his later years Neilos lived in Constantinople. There he wrote a treatise against the “Latins,” an attempt to refute scholasticism, but found a declared opponent in his former student Kydones.17 Not earlier than 1360 Neilos became metropolitan of Thessalonike, but died shortly after, ca. 1362, not having taken up residence there. His student Demetrios Kydones,18 born in Thessalonike ca. 1324, spent his youth there until 1345 and from 1347 lived in Constantinople, but until his late years kept in touch with his friends in Thessalonike. The same seems to be true for his fellow student Nicholas Kabasilas Chamaëtos.19 After having come to Constantinople at the invitation of Emperor John Kantakouzenos, Nicholas seems to have stayed there most of his lifetime, but no less than Kydones maintained connections with his hometown.20 A presumed relative of Demetrios Kydones, George Gabrielopoulos Kydones, called “the Philosopher,” apparently lived in the city only in his youth and never returned in his later years.21 The letters 11

PLP 29317; cf. Aubreton, Triclinius, 21. PLP 3140. On his life and activities, cf. F. Tinnefeld, Demetrios Kydones, Briefe, 4 vols. (Stuttgart, 1981–2003), 1.1: 158–63. His assumed last name “Boucheiras” should be corrected to “Boucheir”; cf. ibid., 1.1: 160, note 1. 13 PLP 2808; bibliography on Blastares: Skalistes, Mavgistro", 287 note 50. 14 PLP 1347. 15 PLP 21546. 16 PLP 10102. Cf. also Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 259 f. 17 There is no doubt that Kydones refers to Neilos as his teacher, although he does not mention his name, in his Apology 1; cf. G. Mercati, Notizie di Procoro e Demetrio Cidone (Vatican City, 1931), p. 390, line 1006–p. 394, line 1088. In Constantinople, Neilos taught his nephew Nicholas Kabasilas Chamaëtos, according to a letter of Nicholas, ed. P. Enepekides, “Briefwechsel,” 29, no. 1, line 1. R.-J. Loenertz, “Chronologie,” 208 and 215 (also idem, Byzantina et Franco-Graeca, 1: 306 and 312) corrected the dating of the letter convincingly from 1320 to shortly after 1347. On the controversy between Neilos and Kydones, cf. Podskalsky, Theologie und Philosophie, 180–206; ODB 2: 1087 f, “Kabasilas, Neilos.” Neilos wrote his treatise against scholasticism (Peri; th'" tou' aJgivou pneuvmato" ejkporeuvsew" kata; Lativnwn) after he had read the Summa contra gentiles and parts of the Summa theologiae of Thomas Aquinas in the translation of Kydones. His treatise has only been partly edited so far by E. Candal, Nilus Cabasilas et theologia S. Thomae de processione spiritus sancti (Vatican City, 1945). Neilos’ arguments were refuted by Kydones’ (unedited) treatise in defense of Thomas Aquinas; cf. Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 63, no. 1, line 1. 18 For his biography cf. Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 4–52. Demetrios’ younger brother Prochoros, also born in Thessalonike and a highly educated intellectual, entered the Megiste Lavra on Mount Athos at a young age, and from then, as far as we know, his connections with the city were rather loose. 19 PLP 30589. 20 Loenertz, “Chronologie,” 215 f or 312 f respectively. 21 Cf. F. Tinnefeld, “Georgios Philosophos. Ein Korrespondent und Freund des Demetrios Kydones,” OCP 28 (1972): 141–71. Additions to his biography: Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.2: 310 f (II, BE); 3: 111 f (II, BE), 137 (X1, X4). 12

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of Demetrios Kydones addressed to a rhetor and politician Tarchaneiotes, whose first name was very probably Manuel, document a long-lasting connection with a friend and fellow student of Kydones’ youth in Thessalonike. Also Kydones’ extensive correspondence with Rhadenos, a former student who mostly lived in Thessalonike, should be mentioned here.22 During the years 1382–87, the co-emperor Manuel II stayed in Thessalonike, in order to defend the city against the Turks. This well-educated ruler, a student of Demetrios Kydones, should certainly be included among the intellectuals in Thessalonike. His presence in the city is well documented by numerous letters he received from Kydones, and also by some letters he wrote to him.23 To believe Kydones, the level of education in Thessalonike at the time of Manuel’s stay was rather low. In one of his letters to the emperor he regretted that only a few people in his audience were educated enough to understand the refined style of a speech of counsel Manuel had given to the citizens.24 But during that period there was by no means a total lack of intellectuals in Thessalonike. Particularly a certain Constantine Ibankos, who lived as a rhetorician, lawyer, and teacher in the city, seems to have provided constant moral support and counsel to the emperor during those years.25 Between 1380 and 1430 there were three intellectual metropolitans in Thessalonike who determined the image of the intellectuals in this final phase. The first was Isidore Glabas,26 born in 1342, monk since 1375, metropolitan of Thessalonike from 1380 until his death in 1396. He was a highly educated man, as can be assumed from his work (sermons, treatises, and letters, which show both his classical and theological education), but we have no information about his studies or teachers. Glabas’ successor in the see of Thessalonike was Gabriel,27 son of a priest and diocesan official in Thessalonike. He became a monk in his youth, in 1374 abbot of a monastery in Thessalonike, and after 1384 abbot of the Chora monastery in Constantinople. He returned in 1394 to Thessalonike, which was then in Turkish hands. From 1397 to 1416/19 metropolitan of the city, he tried successfully to obtain from the Turks milder treatment for his flock and proved to be a distinguished preacher, especially after Byzantine government was restored in 1403. The last of the intellectual metropolitans in Thessalonike was Symeon.28 Born in Constantinople between 1370 and 1390, he was named metropolitan of Thessalonike in 1416/17. In 1423, when the city was handed over to the Venetians, he went for some time to Mount Athos, but soon returned and died in Thessalonike, shortly before its conquest by the Turks in March 1430. He was for a long time only known for his theological work, but since some of his 22

For Tarchaneiotes cf. F. Tinnefeld, “Demetrios Kydones: His Cultural Background and Literary Connections in Thessalonike,” Macedonian Studies 6, n.s. 2 = 3 (1989): 33–43, at 37; idem, Briefe, 1.1: 218–21. For Rhadenos: idem, “Freundschaft und Paideiva: Die Korrespondenz des Demetrios Kydones mit Rhadenos (1375–1387/8),” Byzantion 55 (1985): 210–44. 23 Cf. G. T. Dennis, The Reign of Manuel II Palaeologus in Thessalonica, 1382–1387 (Rome, 1960); Tinnefeld, Briefe, vol. 3, passim; Dennis, Letters, nos. 3, 4, 6, 8, 10, 11. 24 Cf. Tinnefeld, Briefe, 3: 115, no. 265. 25 Cf. Dennis, Letters, XLVI. 26 B. Ch. Christophorides, “ÔO ∆Arciepivskopo" Qessalonivkh" ∆Isivdwro" Glaba'" kaiv tav koinwnikav problhvmata th'" ejpoch'" tou,” ∆Ep.∆Ep.Qeo.Sco.Pan.Qes. 29 (1986–89): 517–91. Christophorides (ibid., 532) names Glabas in a line of intellectual bishops (lovgioi ejpivskopoi) of Thessalonike together with Eustathios (12th century), Gregory Palamas, Neilos Kabasilas, Gabriel, and Symeon (ibid., 532). 27 Dennis, Letters, XLII–XLIV. 28 D. Balfour, “Saint Symeon of Thessalonike as a Historical Personality,” GOTR 28 (1983): 55–72.

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other writings on different subjects were published by David Balfour in 1979,29 we know more about his pastoral and political activity. After this brief outline I will try to specify the contributions of the Thessalonian intellectuals in different fields of activity, beginning with some remarks on the exchange of letters. A contemporary of John Pothos Pediasimos and his colleague in the ecclesiastical service was John Staurakios, a hagiographer who appears in a document of 1284 as chartophylax of the metropolis of Thessalonike in that year. Thirteen letters addressed to him by his friend Patriarch Gregory of Cyprus have survived. He not only copied a manuscript of Plato for him, but also was author of an encomium of St. Demetrios.30 From the scholar Thomas Magistros we have only twelve letters.31 The report in the form of a letter which he addressed to Joseph the Philosopher32 is of special interest. Here he praises Joseph not only as his teacher, but also for his commitment toward the social problems of Thessalonike, at the time when Joseph had just left for Constantinople in the winter of 1307/8. The assumption of Jean Verpeaux that the letters and works of the statesman Nikephoros Choumnos were read in a circle of intellectuals in Thessalonike, assembled by Theodore Xanthopoulos, is obviously erroneous. The letter of Choumnos quoted by Verpeaux alludes to such a circle, but there is no mention of Thessalonike, and since Choumnos complains that Xanthopoulos did not visit him when he was ill, it is much more probable that both of them lived in Constantinople, the more so since there is no positive evidence at all that Theodore ever lived in Thessalonike.33 So it is also probable that Choumnos’ other letters to Xanthopoulos34 were sent to an address in Constantinople. That he lived in Constantinople is also confirmed by a poem of the statesman Theodore Metochites dedicated to Theodore Xanthopoulos.35 Rich evidence about intellectuals in Thessalonike is available in the correspondence

29

D. Balfour, Politico-Historical Works of Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica (1416/1417 to 1429). Critical Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary (Vienna, 1979). 30 Cf. Constantinides, Higher Education, 36 note 21, 121 note 40, 127. Staurakios also composed a rhetorical metaphrasis of a hagiographical work (late 9th century) on Theodora of Thessalonike (9th century): E. Kurtz, Des Klerikers Gregorios Bericht über Leben, Wundertaten und Translation der heiligen Theodora von Thessalonich nebst der Metaphrase des Joannes Staurakios (St. Petersburg, 1902). Cf. the review of P. Maas, BZ 12 (1903): 620–23 (with critical remarks on the style of Staurakios). 31 PG 145: 403–26, 429–46; Skalistes, Mavgistro", 186–216. On the letter addressed to the abbot Isaac in Thessalonike which contains a report on an embassy of Magistros to Constantinople, cf. Skalistes, Mavgistro", 190–98, and M. Treu, “Die Gesandtschaftsreise des Rhetors Theodulos Magistros,” Jahrbücher für classische Philologie Suppl. 27 (1902): 5–30, at 5–18. 32 J. F. Boissonade, Anecdota Graeca e codicibus regiis, vol. 2 (Paris, 1830; repr. Hildesheim, 1962), 212–28, reprinted, with faulty Latin translation, in PG 145: 431–46; cf. Treu, “Der Philosoph Joseph,” 47 f (with critical remarks on the quality of the edition). Skalistes, Mavgistro", 186–89 (at 187, the year 1309). 33 J. Verpeaux, Nicéphore Choumnos: Homme d’état et humaniste byzantin (ca. 1250/1255–1327) (Paris, 1959), 68; J. F. Boissonade, Anecdota Nova (Paris, 1844; repr. Hildesheim, 1962), 36–38, no. 31. According to PLP 20816, Theodore Xanthopoulos lived in Constantinople. Cf. also A. Sideras, Die byzantinischen Grabreden (Vienna, 1994), 288–90. 34 Boissonade, Anecdota Graeca, nos. 2, 3, 31–35, 124 f, 130, 131, 137–41, 145–47, 150. 35 The poem has been edited, with English translation, by J. Featherstone, “Theodore Metochites’s Eleventh Poem,” BZ 81 (1988): 253–64. Metochites refers to frequent conversations between Metochites and Xanthopoulos (p. 254 f, lines 1–34), undoubtedly in Constantinople where Metochites used to live, and also tells us that Theodore passed his days in the church of Hagia Sophia at Constantinople (p. 259, lines 212–43).

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of the outstanding scholar and author Nikephoros Gregoras.36 In the following I give an overview of his most important correspondents. The sequence of his correspondence with Thomas Magistros, reconstructed by Leone,37 is the following. In 1331/32 Gregoras wrote a letter in a very learned style to him, to win his friendship. Magistros answered with enthusiastic warmth and assured him that he had been already for a long time his friend because of his extraordinary reputation. In his answer of 1332, Gregoras accepts and returns this expression of friendship. But from two later letters we learn that Gregoras in vain had waited for further correspondence.38 Had Magistros’ enthusiasm so soon cooled off, or were there other reasons for his silence, for instance, an illness? We do not know. From Gregoras’ two letters to Joseph the Philosopher39 we learn that the latter had returned from Constantinople to Thessalonike early in 1326. The first of these letters (dated 1326/28) is testimony of the high reputation Joseph enjoyed by that time. This is particularly documented by the remark that, if Joseph threw with closed eyes a stone into any crowd of people, he would surely hit one of his admirers. Furthermore, Gregoras here expresses his reverence for Joseph’s main work, the “Synopsis of Sciences.” Also the second letter, written no later than 1330, is a witness to Gregoras’ reverence for Joseph. Gregory Akindynos’ admiration for Gregoras was aroused by his friend Balsamon, when he showed him in summer 1332 a letter from the scholar, containing learned information on astronomy. Sometime before Akindynos had come from Pelagonia to Thessalonike to study with Thomas Magistros and the archdeacon Gregory Bryennios,40 Akindynos wrote a letter full of admiration to Gregoras and called him a “sea of wisdom.”41 Gregoras’ reaction was an appropriately warm one, and he even made a pun on the name “Akindynos” with an allusion to Pindar.42 In a second letter to Gregoras from Thessalonike, Akindynos expressed his delight at Gregoras’ promise to be his friend.43 Sometime after 1336, Gregoras sent one of his works to Akindynos’ teacher Bryennios and asked him to hand it over to Magistros.44 There is also a letter of Bryennios from the late 1330s which confirms receipt of Gregoras’ encomium of Emperor Andronikos III. Here Bryennios stresses that he himself and other people, particularly “the didaskalos who extremely reveres your works,” admire the speech; this “teacher” is very probably Thomas Magistros.45 The protonotarios Nicholas Lampenos, author of an encomium of St. Demetrios, sent 36

P. A. M. Leone, Nicephori Gregorae Epistulae, vol. 2 (Matino, 1982); idem, “La corrispondenza di Niceforo Gregora,” Quaderni del Siculorum Gymnasium 8 = Studi di filologia bizantina 2 (1980): 183–232. 37 Leone, “La corrispondenza,” 203 f. 38 Leone, Epistulae, 243–47, no. 91 (Gregoras); 388 f, no. 3 (Magistros); 348, no. 142 (Gregoras). Gregoras in vain waiting for letters: 161 f, no. 49 (Gregoras); 163, no. 51 (Gregoras). 39 Leone, “La corrispondenza,” 197 f; idem, Epistulae, 71–76, no. 22; 157–60, no. 46. 40 A. C. Hero, Letters of Gregory Akindynos (Washington, D.C., 1983), p. X. For Bryennios, sakelliou, archdeacon, and dikaiophylax in the metropolis of Thessalonike 1328–51, cf. PLP 3253. For Balsamon of whom a letter to Gregoras has survived (Leone, Epistulae, 403 f, no. 11) cf. PLP 2112. 41 Leone, Epistulae, 390 f, no. 4; Hero, Akindynos, 2–5, no. 1. On the question of which letter of Gregoras Akindynos alludes to, cf. ibid., 309 f. 42 Leone, Epistulae, 257–60, no. 99; cf. Leone, “La corrispondenza,” 215. Allusion to Pindar, Ol. 6.9 (ajkivndunoi d∆ ajretaiv): no. 99, line 15. 43 Hero, Akindynos, 4–10, no. 2. 44 Leone, Epistulae, 347, no. 141. 45 Leone, Epistulae, 404 f, no. 12. For the didaskalos cf. ibid., line 26.

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his work to Gregoras for review.46 Perhaps identical with this Nicholas is Lampenos Tarchaneiotes, an unreserved admirer of Gregoras’ style, who praises Gregoras’ speech on the same saint.47 There are four letters of Gregoras to his fatherly friend and mentor Maximos, abbot of the Chortaïtes monastery in Thessalonike, who like Gregoras was a native of Herakleia in Pontos.48 The four letters of Gregory Akindynos to the Calabrian monk and humanist Barlaam deserve special mention. In 1331 in Thessalonike the young Akindynos met him for the first time, when Barlaam had left Constantinople after his disputation with Gregoras. Although Akindynos maintained an amicable relationship with Barlaam, he never was his disciple, and both of them stayed in Thessalonike for only a short time.49 The correspondence of Demetrios Kydones with his friend Tarchaneiotes and with Emperor Manuel in Thessalonike has already been mentioned in the general survey. From the correspondence of metropolitan Isidore Glabas with learned people of his time, clerics and laymen, only eight letters have survived.50 But there is also one letter of Demetrios Kydones addressed to him,51 from which we learn that Glabas had criticized the conversion of Kydones to Roman Catholicism as well as his antihesychastic point of view and had in vain attempted to win him over for the orthodox and hesychastic position. We have two letters of Emperor Manuel to the metropolitan Gabriel, dating from 1408–10 and 1411 respectively.52 The first of these is a typical sample of an intellectual correspondence: Manuel is sending him his oration “On Sin and Penance” to have it judged by him, but his point is not the theological content; he apologizes only for the low stylistic level in comparison to ancient literature and at the same time defends contemporary literary activity, although the quality of ancient style could never be reached any more. Demetrios Chrysoloras, a member of Manuel’s literary circle in Constantinople, was named mesazon of John VII in Thessalonike in autumn 1403 and stayed there until September 1408.53 From his correspondence with Manuel II in Constantinople during that time we have five letters of the emperor.54 In letter 43 Manuel teases Chrysoloras about a noble horse he had newly acquired and which would perhaps prevent him from continuing his philosophical studies, a concern typical for the correspondence of intellectuals. I now turn to the scholarly work of intellectuals insofar as it is likely to have been carried out in Thessalonike. This seems to be true for a number of philological editions of and 46 Leone, Epistulae, 383 f, no. 1. The text of this speech seems to be lost (Leone, ibid., 303, note on line 26). For Lampenos cf. PLP 14431. For other speeches in honor of St. Demetrios see above, text with note 30; below, note 105, (1); text with notes 110, 111, 113, and in addition an encomium on St. Demetrios, composed by Patriarch Philotheos Kokkinos, born in Thessalonike, ed. D. G. Tsames, Filoqevou Kwnstantinoupovlew" tou' Kokkivnou ÔAgiologikav e[rga (Thessalonike, 1985), 31–60. 47 Leone, Epistulae, 411–14, no. 17. For Lampenos Tarchaneiotes, perhaps identical with Nicholas Lampenos, cf. PLP 14432. 48 Leone, “La corrispondenza,” 196 f; idem, Epistulae, 65 f, no. 20b; 67–71, no. 21; 260–62, no. 100a; 262– 64, no. 100b. For Maximos cf. PLP 16785. 49 Hero, Akindynos, XI–XIII. On Barlaam cf. PLP 2284. Letters of Akindynos to Barlaam: Hero, ibid., 20–54, nos. 7–10. 50 Christophorides, “Glaba'",” 523, 532 f. 51 Tinnefeld, Briefe, 3: 46–53, no. 244. 52 Dennis, Letters, 148–50, no. 52; 160–63, no. 57. 53 Ibid., XXXIV f. 54 Ibid., 116 ff, nos. 43, 44, 46, 48, 50.

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commentaries on ancient authors. So we can assume that John Pothos Pediasimos here commented on Aristotle’s Analytica Priora and Posteriora and on De interpretatione.55 Also two outstanding experts of textual philology seem to have lived and worked, at least for the most part, in Thessalonike, Thomas Magistros and Demetrios Triklinios, although for Magistros the evidence for residence there is more certain than for Triklinios. Both scholars revised and commented on texts of the following ancient authors: Hesiod, Aeschylos, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, Pindar, and Theokritos.56 Is it probable that they had at their disposal in Thessalonike the texts they edited and wrote commentaries on? Our evidence on contemporary libraries in Thessalonike is very scarce. Nikephoros Blemmydes remarks in his curriculum vitae that on a journey in 1239 he found rare books in Thessalonike as well as in other places;57 but we have only one specific allusion to a library in the city around 1270, a list given in cod. Vat. gr. 64.58 We can, however, be sure that this library was not the only one in the city. At least Magistros very probably had his own private library which he enriched by copies made for the special purpose of commenting on the ancient authors. In the case of Pindar, for instance, Irigoin has postulated a codex Thessalonicensis, written before 1138, which can be reconstructed from the later manuscript tradition.59 This manuscript was the ancestor of the Pindar manuscript which Magistros used for his own edition, preserved in full copy in the later manuscript Vind. phil. gr. 318. The manuscript Magistros used is lost, but Vat. gr. 41 (first quarter of 14th century) seems to be a copy from this manuscript at a time before Magistros entered his scholia.60 There is also evidence that Demetrios Triklinios copied ancient authors for his own use. Three autographs from his hand have survived:61 Neapol. II. F. 31 (Aeschylos, early 14th century), Oxon., New College 258 (Aphthonios, Hermogenes, dated August 1308), and Venet. Marc. gr. 464 Z (Hesiod: part one, 20 August 1316; part two, 16 November 1319). Of the two philologists, Triklinios seems to have been by far the more qualified; by present-day scholars he has been called “the first modern textual philologist.”62 As for Magistros, I quote Alexander Turyn on his recension of Euripides: “Thomas’ changes do not contribute much to the glory of their author. Thomas did not understand adequately the classical versification of iambic lines and the classical prosody. In many cases, he was simply actuated by a desire to reduce a line of more than 12 syllables to a dodecasyllable. The results were generally bad.”63 There is no doubt, however, that Magistros had a high 55

Constantinides, Higher Education, 122. Aubreton, Triclinius, 19; J. Irigoin, Histoire du texte de Pindare (Paris, 1952), 331. The third outstanding contemporary philologist, Manuel Moschopoulos, seems to have lived in Constantinople, where he began his work as a student of Maximos Planoudes (Irigoin, ibid., 270). 57 Constantinides, Higher Education, 13. 58 According to Constantinides, Higher Education, 143, cod. Vat. gr. 64 contains a list of manuscripts, whose owner states that he lived in Thessalonike and gives the date 1270. The voluminous codex itself contains texts of epistolographers and other prose writers, including Dionysios of Halikarnassos. The list specifies ten volumes of theological works and ca. twelve volumes with a mixture of medical and classical texts, including Homer, Sophocles, and Euripides. Unfortunately the owner of the library does not reveal his name. 59 Irigoin, Pindare, 146–56. 60 Irigoin, Pindare, 180–85. 61 A. Turyn, The Manuscript Tradition of the Tragedies of Aeschylus (New York, 1943), 102 f; Aubreton, Triclinius, 21. 62 On the excellent evaluation of Triklinios by modern scholars, see F. Tinnefeld, “Neue Formen der Antikerezeption bei den Byzantinern der frühen Palaiologenzeit,” International Journal of the Classical Tradition 1 (1995): 19–28, at 23 f. 63 A. Turyn, The Byzantine Manuscript Tradition of the Tragedies of Euripides (Urbana, Ill., 1957), 179. 56

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opinion of his own ability as a philologist. This is documented by his remarks in his scholia to ancient authors, where he arrogantly calls earlier scholiasts, his predecessors, ignoramuses (ajgnoou'nte") or uneducated people (ajmaqei'") and introduces his own interpretation with ejgw; de; ou{tw("). In comparison with him, other contemporary scholiasts, for instance Manuel Moschopoulos, show a more modest attitude.64 Two important works on law also seem to have been composed in Thessalonike. There is first the canonist Matthew Blastares,65 monk and priest in the monastery of Kyr Isaac in Thessalonike. In 1335 he completed his principal work, called Suvntagma kata; stoicei'on (Alphabetical Treatise), an attempt at reconciling canon and civil law to a greater degree than in the preceding nomokanones. Since he used several legal sources for his work, he must have had a specialized library at his disposal. We know that his teacher was the educated clergyman Iakobos, founder of the Isaac monastery and later metropolitan of Thessalonike, who may have encouraged Blastares to compose his work.66 Ten years later, Constantine Harmenopoulos completed his Provceiron novmwn (Handbook of Laws), a compilation of secular law for easier reference. In a document from Chilandar monastery of 1345 we find his signature, where he calls himself sebastov" and krith;" th'" Qessalonivkh".67 There seems to have been a tradition of legal studies in Thessalonike before Blastares and Harmenopoulos, since already in 1295 the dikaiophylax George Phobenos, a friend of John Pediasimos, composed two legal texts and a short dictionary of legal terms.68 The anonymous compiler of the Hexabiblos aucta (late 14th century) had perhaps an even more substantial library at his disposal,69 but unfortunately we have no evidence whether he worked in Thessalonike or in Constantinople. As for important works of theology of the late Byzantine period, we cannot say for certain whether any of them were composed in Thessalonike. There is, for instance, no doubt that the learned contribution of Neilos Kabasilas to the debate on Western scholasticism70 was composed in Constantinople. The same seems to be true for the main works of his nephew Nicholas Kabasilas.71 So we can only say that these outstanding theologians contributed to the honor of Thessalonike, since they were born and brought up there. 64

Th. Hopfner, Thomas Magister, Demetrios Triklinios, Manuel Moschopulos. Eine Studie über ihren Sprachgebrauch in den Scholien zu Aischylos, SBWien 172, H. 3 (1912), 10, 15 f, 55. 65 On Blastares, see ODB 1: 295. 66 Constantinides, Higher Education, 127 and note 83. 67 K. G. Pitsakes, Kwnstantivnou ∆Armenopouvlou Provceiron Novmwn h] ÔExavbiblo" (Athens, 1971), p. igV note 1, argued for “etymological and grammatical” reasons for “Armenopoulos.” But in the signature of a Chilandar record (L. Petit, Actes de Chilandar = VizVrem 17, Prilozhenie [1911], record no. 134, p. 282), the author of the Hexabiblos spells his name ÔArmenovpoulo" (Harmenopoulos). This personal record should be more relied upon, provided that the reading of the edition is correct; this cannot be checked until the new edition in the Archives ˇivojinovic´ et al. [Paris, 1998], has been published so far). de l’Athos is complete (only the first volume, ed. M. Z On the dating of the work to 1345, cf. M. Th. Fögen, “Die Scholien zur Hexabiblos im Codex vetustissimus Vaticanus Ottobonianus gr. 440,” FM 4 (1981): 256–345, at 268–75. 68 Constantinides, Higher Education, 120 f, 127 and note 81, with a reference to the manuscript (Codex of the Metochion of Panagios Taphos 25) in which the dictionary, unpublished so far, is preserved. For Phobenos (Fobhnov") cf. also PLP 30004. 69 M. Th. Fögen, “Hexabiblos aucta. Eine Kompilation der spätbyzantinischen Rechtswissenschaft,” FM 7 (1986): 259–333; on the library: 267–77. 70 See above, note 17. 71 Nikovlao" Kabavsila", Eij" th;n qeivan leitourgivan kai; Peri; th'" ejn Cristw'/ zwh'" , ed. P. Chrestou (Thessalonike, 1979); Nicolas Cabasilas, La vie en Christ, ed. M.-H. Congourdeau, 2 vols. (Paris, 1989–90).

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There is also no doubt that most of the late Byzantine contributions to science were written in the capital. But there seems to be at least some evidence that Isidore Glabas composed his “Method of Calculating the Easter Cycle” when he was metropolitan of Thessalonike.72 About the place where he wrote his astronomical work “On the Eclipses of Sun and Moon” we are not sure since, as we saw, he also lived for some time in Constantinople.73 But perhaps we should not waste our time with endeavors promising few results to “rescue” one or another late Byzantine work for Thessalonike, since there still remain to be discussed two categories of intellectual life closely related with the society of the city: teaching and public speeches and sermons. As for teaching, the first to be mentioned after the reconquest of Thessalonike in 1246 is again John Pediasimos. The clearest allusion to this activity of the scholar can be found in the obituary letter of Constantine Akropolites already quoted. Here we read that the deceased was even a teacher of the teachers (paideutw'n paideuthv"), and, furthermore, that he was not only an outstanding scholar and philosopher, but also distributed his knowledge to many others and so made the cities more honorable and the citizens flourishing. Although Akropolites speaks about cities in the plural, it is clear that he means particularly Thessalonike, since from there, as he says, came the news about John’s demise to the “city of Constantine.”74 There cannot be any doubt either that Thomas Magistros worked a long time as a teacher in Thessalonike. Clear testimonies of his teaching activity can be found in letters of Gregory Akindynos. In one letter, Akindynos terms himself a student of Magistros and calls Magistros his father and teacher,75 and in another letter of 1347, the last document which attests Magistros to be alive, he calls him the “admirable.”76 From a treatise written by Demetrios and Prochoros Kydones we know that the future patriarch Philotheos Kokkinos was also a student of Magistros.77 But we have no evidence that Demetrios or Prochoros Kydones was taught by him at any time. Two persons are known who more or less can be called teachers of Kydones: Neilos Kabasilas and Isidore Boucheir. The one who most influenced his intellectual skills seems to have been Neilos Kabasilas. There is a passage in the so-called Apology 1 of Kydones which, although it does not give a name, undoubtedly refers to Neilos.78 Kydones says that this man, who was the most wise of his contemporaries, had been his friend from his early youth (ajpo; neovthto" eujquv"). He was the first to teach him rhetoric and, when he became 72

Christophorides, “Glaba'",” 532 and note 19. For both works cf. B. Christophorides, “ÔH ceirovgrafh paravdosh tw'n suggrammavtwn tou' ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" ∆Isidwvrou Glabav,” ∆Ep.∆Ep.Qeo.Sco.Pan.Qes. 25 (1980), 429–43, at 441 f. 74 R. Romano, Costantino Acropolita, Epistole, 215–17, no. 121, lines 6–8, 30–32, and 1 f. Cf. Constantinides, Higher Education, 124. 75 Hero, Akindynos, 234, no. 56, written 1345, line 75 f (cf. ibid., 408). 76 Ibid., 296, no. 74, line 40 f; for the date of the letter cf. ibid., 434. 77 Mercati, Notizie, 302, line 204–303, line 222; cf. also 248 f. For the text referred to, cf. Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 72, no. 3.2. 78 Mercati, Notizie, 390, line 1006–394, line 1088. Particularly the information that the man was an expert on Thomas Aquinas (ibid., 391, line 1028 f ) is an important clue to Neilos Kabasilas (see note 17 above). Mercati (390 note 6) also refers to a parallel passage in the unedited treatise of Kydones in defense of Thomas Aquinas (see note 17 above) to confirm that no one other than Neilos could have been the teacher to whom Kydones refers. 73

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older, shared with him his studies of the lovgoi.79 We have no explicit evidence as to where Neilos taught Kydones, but it is very probable that their first contacts go back to a time when they both lived in Thessalonike. On the other hand, we have a letter from Nicholas Kabasilas, probably written shortly after 1347, which attests that love for his admirable uncle and for his studies convinced him to go to Constantinople.80 So we can assume that at least sometime before this letter Neilos had come to reside in the capital. From a letter of Kydones to be dated to 1356 we learn that Neilos probably had served for some time at the imperial court and still lived in Constantinople.81 This letter documents an incipient crisis in the relationship between Kydones and his teacher, since Neilos tried to refute Western theology, whereas Kydones admired and defended its results.82 Another man who had some influence on Demetrios Kydones, without doubt in Thessalonike, was the future patriarch Isidore Boucheir. This man, probably born sometime before 1300, already in his youth began teaching in his native Thessalonike, then became a monk and lived for some time on Mount Athos. But when the holy mountain became more and more threatened by pirates, he returned to Thessalonike around 1325. There we hear about his activities as a teacher, but he probably imparted more spiritual than intellectual instruction.83 A letter of Demetrios Kydones, written in 1346 in a small town in Thrace, is the only testimony of their relationship. Here Kydones does not say explicitly that he was his student, but that he had already for a long time trusted in him as a person of wisdom and knowledge, and in an unpleasant situation hoped to get his spiritual advice and consolation.84 The period of the Zealots (1342–49)85 had without doubt a negative influence on the intellectual atmosphere of Thessalonike. Certainly our knowledge with regard to teaching in Thessalonike after 1350 is very scarce. An obituary on George Synadenos Astras in a letter of Kydones from 1365 refers only to a literary circle which Astras used to assemble in his house during the short time he had lived in Thessalonike.86 We know from an encomiastic text87 that the metropolitan Gabriel received a classical education in his hometown of Thessalonike, but this source is not reliable enough to derive from it any solid conclusions on teaching in Thessalonike. We have also evidence of a certain Constantine Ibankos who had taught Emperor Manuel II for some time, but we do not know whether this was in Constantinople or Thessalonike. In any case, Ibankos is attested as a judge in the latter city between ca. 1402 and 1420, and he also taught there in a school of higher level which was 79

Mercati, Notizie, 390, line 1006–391, line 1018. Enepekides, “Briefwechsel,” 29, no. 1, line 1 f. For dating this letter to a time shortly after 1347, see above, note 17. 81 Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 257–61, no. 40, line 20 f and note 6, according to which the interpretation of the passage on Neilos’ imperial service is not quite sure. 82 Kydones describes the controversy in his Apology 1, ed. Mercati, Notizie, 391, line 1018–394, line 1088. 83 For his biography cf. Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 158–63. 84 Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 155–58, no. 16. 85 On the revolt and regime of the Zealots in Thessalonike, cf. R. Browning, “The Commune of the Zealots in Salonica, 1341–1350,” IP 6 (1950): 509–25 (in Bulgarian), but especially the recent article by K.-P. Matschke, “Thessalonike und die Zeloten,” BSl 55 (1994): 19–43. For fuller bibliography, see the article by J. W. Barker in this volume. 86 Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 379, no. 64, lines 25–30. 87 L. Syndika-Laourdas, “∆Egkwmion eij" to;n ajrciepivskopon Qessalonivkh" Gabrihvl,” Makedonikav 4 (1955–60): 352–70, at 354 f. 80

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perhaps oriented to law.88 Furthermore, we know that John Argyropoulos, born in Constantinople ca. 1393, after losing his parents at an early age, came about 1403/4 to Thessalonike to live with his uncle who sent him to the ejgkuvklio" paideiva (secondary school) of Alexios Phorbenos (oJ Forbhnou'). After he had finished the secondary level about 1407, however, he returned for higher studies to Constantinople.89 From this we may conclude that in the early fifteenth century opportunities for higher education were scarce in Thessalonike. In connection with Thessalonike’s inner tensions and external threats, a very important activity of its intellectuals still remains to be described: rhetorical addresses to the citizens, during an earlier period in speeches, later in sermons. The first speaker in our period was not a native Thessalonian but the Byzantine statesman Nikephoros Choumnos, born between 1250 and 1255, who in 1309 had been appointed governor (kefalhv) of Thessalonike, when the city had just escaped the threat posed by the Catalan Company and was in a difficult political situation. He stayed there no longer than one year, but during this short time he proved to be a successful administrator. Shortly after his return to the capital he wrote a Sumbouleutiko;" peri; dikaiosuvnh" (Speech of Counsel on Justice) addressed to the citizens of Thessalonike. The main subject of the speech, which was never delivered in public but only sent to his friends in Thessalonike, is the problem of the internal tensions in the city, although it begins with a long encomium of the city and its citizens, which has the function of a captatio benevolentiae. The encomium includes a short ekphrasis of the city. Choumnos begins with the forests and rivers in the plain west of the city, the springs, lakes, and fertile farm and pasture land to its east, and the easy access to the city from both land and sea. Within the city he praises its rich stock of trees and vines. Then he passes on to the fortifications, the city wall and the Akropolis: “The Akropolis on the top looms up hugely and is visible from a far distance. It appears to those who suddenly catch sight of it as if it were itself the whole city. But the great city descends from there and spreads far away, as if it wanted to join the sea. And indeed its wide circle gets the object of its desire and joins the sea; it spreads along its shore, offers the best harbors, and leaves its admirers wondering whether such a wide circle ever could be filled with people.” Then he passes over to the buildings inside the city, especially its churches which he calls more beautiful and splendid than in any other town, but he also praises the height and technical perfection of the houses and the numerous population which makes the circle of walls look small. In the second part of the speech, Choumnos calls upon the citizens to practice more justice in order to secure harmony and peace. Although his argumentation is mostly theoretical, he also touches upon current problems of the city, such as the venality of the judges and the lawyers and the despair of the exploited. So the sociopolitical tenor of the speech is unmistakable.90 88

Dennis, Letters, XLVI; P. Canivet and N. Oikonomidès, “[ Jean Argyropoulos], La Comédie de Katablattas. Invective byzantine du XVe s.: Édition, traduction et commentaire,” Divptuca 3 (1982–83): 5–97, at 11 f. 89 Canivet and Oikonomidès, “Comédie,” 15–18. On Alexios oJ Forbhnou', cf. PLP 30015. 90 Text of the speech: J. F. Boissonade, Anecdota Graeca, 2: 137–87. Copy of this edition: B. NerantzeBarmaze, ∆Egkwvmia th'" buzantinh'" Qessalonivkh" (Thessalonike, 1999), 86–96; modern Greek trans.: ibid., 97– 105; introduction: ibid., 42 f. Description (ekphrasis) of the city: ed. Boissonade, ibid., 139–43. Cf. the comments of Verpeaux, Choumnos, 20 (no. XX), 49 f, 99 f. The ekphrasis is also mentioned by H. Hunger, “Laudes Thessalonicenses,” ÔEortastikov" Tovmo" 50 Crovnia, 1939–1989, ÔEtaireiva Makedonikw'n Spoudw'n (Thessalonike,

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There are three rhetorical addresses of Thomas Magistros with political content. The first on the duties of an emperor clearly shows the form of a speech; the second on the duties of subjects is of an ambiguous nature.91 It starts like a treatise, but after a while the author several times uses an address in the second person, as if there were listeners.92 But these texts have no special relationship with Thessalonike. So I will not dwell on them for long and will refrain from a thorough interpretation, laying stress only on one aspect: Thomas Magistros shows that he is a true intellectual when he develops a proper political program of education. In his speech to the emperor, he recommends that he should give an order that learned studies should be carried out everywhere in the world and that scholars should be honored. It would also be desirable if the emperor himself were a learned man, but being concerned with the government, he would perhaps not find the time for intense studies. Nevertheless, he would deserve to be called a wise man if he organized education (paideiva) in all the towns of his empire and kept companionship and had discussions with wise men. To arouse a general desire for learned studies, he should convince everyone that he could be a friend of the emperor only if he was a friend of the Muses. So, finally, the empire would be a theater of the Muses and a hearth of studies, and the emperor would be revered as the instigator of this development.93 No less in his treatise on the duties of subjects in a state, Magistros develops a program of education: he recommends the choice of responsible teachers to restrain young people from wicked desires and make them rejoice in virtue, take interest in learned studies or in practical skills (tevcnai), and consider these more desirable than dice and theaters. To achieve this result, it is necessary, he says, that the parents, too, should be concerned about a good education for their children.94 Only Magistros’ third political text, the treatise or speech “On Harmony,” is clearly ad1992), 99–113, at 108. As encomiastic topoi for Thessalonike in speeches of the late period, Hunger mentions the label “the first after the first” city (sc. after Constantinople) (ibid., 101), the pun with the name Thessalonike = “victorious city” (ibid., 103), and the concept of Thessalonike as a “support of Constantinople” in a speech of Metropolitan Symeon (103 f ). There is another ekphrasis which refers only to one building in Thessalonike, the Theotokos Acheiropoietos church. It is inserted in an encomium by the lawyer Constantine Harmenopoulos (for his last name, see note 67 above) of St. Demetrios, delivered in this church. Edition: Demetrios Gkines, “Lovgo" ajnevkdoto" Kwnstantivnou ÔArmenopouvlou eij" th;n proeovrtion eJorth;n tou' aJgivou Dhmhtrivou,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 21 (1951) 145–62, at 151, line 56–153, line 106. Cf. also A. Xyngopoulos, “AiJ peri; tou' naou' th'" ∆Aceiropoihvtou Qessalonivkh" eijdhvsei" tou' Kwnstantivnou ÔArmenopouvlou,” Panepisthvmion Qessalonivkh", ∆Episthmonikh; ∆Epethriv" th'" Scolh'" Nomikw'n kai; Oijkonomikw'n ∆Episthvmw'n 6 (1952) = Tovmo" Kwnstantivnou ÔArmenopouvlou, 1–26. Furthermore, there is a short encomiastic passage on Thessalonike in the monody of Demetrios Kydones on the noblemen killed by the Zealots in 1345; see PG 109: 640–52, at 641– 44 (copy: Nerantze-Barmaze, ibid., 108–10; modern Greek trans.: ibid., 111–13; introduction: ibid., 44–47); Eng. trans.: J. W. Barker, “The Monody of Demetrios Kydones on the Zealot Rising of 1345 in Thessaloniki,” in Melethvmata sth; mnhvmh Basileivou Laouvrda (Thessalonike, 1975), 285–90, at 292 f. (For some excerpts, see the introduction to J. W. Barker’s article in this volume.) In this passage, Kydones first praises the city’s size, beauty, piety, agricultural fertility, churches, its busy marketplace, harbors, and walls (§ 2), then the devotion of its citizens and the role of St. Demetrios as its effective protector (§ 3), and also its intellectual life, especially its orators and philosophers, who make it “a veritable school of general studies” (§ 4). Finally, there are two encomiastic passages on Thessalonike from hagiographical works of Patriarch Philotheos Kokkinos, of which Nerantze-Barmaze, ibid., reproduces the edition (ibid., 116–18) and gives a modern Greek translation (ibid., 119–22). Cf. Tsames, Filoqevou Kwnstantinoupovlew" tou' Kokkivnou ÔAgiologikav e[rga, 64 f, 162–64. 91 Peri; basileiva", PG 145: 447–96; Peri; politeiva", PG 145: 495–548. 92 PG 145: 520A, 521B–524A, 525D. 93 PG 145: 492 A–C. 94 PG 145: 544 A–B.

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dressed to the Thessalonians.95 It was dated by a number of scholars to the time of the civil war between Andronikos II and his grandson Andronikos III (1321–28), but Skalistes offers convincing arguments to date it to the period of the Zealots (1342–49). It is true that in no period was the call for harmony among citizens more related to the current situation of the city than during that time. As for funeral speeches preserved from the late period, most of them were delivered in Constantinople. The first to be given in Thessalonike were the four monodies by Alexios Lampenos, composed in 1307 and sometime after, on the demise of John Palaiologos, the eldest son of Emperor Andronikos II and his second wife, Irene-Yolanda of Montferrat.96 A monody which was also without doubt delivered in Thessalonike was that of a certain Staphidakis on Emperor Michael IX, who died there in October 1320. Staphidakis refers expressly to Thessalonike as Michael’s residence, says that he died there, and reflects the mourning of the city on his sudden demise.97 We also know that Michael was buried in Thessalonike,98 so it seems that this monody was delivered there, and not in Constantinople. Demetrios Kydones first appeared in public when he delivered, most probably during a funeral ceremony in Berroia, a monody on the nearly one hundred supporters of John Kantakouzenos who were killed in 1345 in Thessalonike as a result of the Zealot revolt.99 This monody is also a political speech in which Kydones expresses his deep concern for the destiny of his hometown under the regime of the Zealots. Another monody, composed by Theodore Potamios, has recently been related to the burial of Emperor John VII in 1408.100 Nicholas Kabasilas in 1351 addressed a memorandum to Empress Anna of Savoy and her son John V in Thessalonike, in order to obtain the reintroduction of a former law which had mitigated the situation of a certain group of debtors.101 Sometime between 1352 95 B. Laourdas, “Qwma' Magivstrou toi'" Qessalonikeu'si peri; oJmonoiva",” ∆Episthmonikh; ∆Epethri;" Scolh'" Nomikw'n kai; Oijkonomikw'n ∆Episthmw'n Panepisthmivou Qessalonivkh" (1969) = ∆Afievrwma eij" Caravlampon Frangkivstan, 751–75. Cf. Skalistes, Mavgistro", 172–78. 96 Sideras, Grabreden, 274–77. John was first buried in Thessalonike, but later transferred to Constantinople. There is also a monody on the death (ca. 1317) of John’s mother, Irene-Yolanda of Montferrat, composed by Lampenos in Thessalonike, although she had died in Drama and was transferred to Constantinople (Sideras, ibid., 256–58, 279). 97 A. Meschini, La Monodia di Stafidakis (Padua, 1974), 20, line 13 f (residence of Michael in Thessalonike), 14, line 34; 18, line 23 (his sudden death); 20, lines 8–12 (his death in Thessalonike and the mourning of its citizens). Cf. also the remarks on this speech by Sideras, Grabreden, 280–82. Another monody on the demise of Michael IX, composed by Theodore Hyrtakenos, was delivered in Constantinople; cf. Sideras, ibid., 259. Also the poems on the death of Michael by Nikephoros Choumnos and Theodore Metochites were written in the capital. For both cf. Verpeaux, Choumnos, 106 f. For Metochites cf. also Sideras, ibid., 58 f, 281. 98 P. Schreiner, Die byzantinischen Kleinchroniken (Chronica byzantina breviora), 3 vols. (Vienna, 1975–79), 1:76, Chronicle 8, no. 11c (kai; katetevqh ejkei'se). 99 See above, note 90; cf. Tinnefeld, Briefe, 1.1: 9; Sideras, Grabreden, 302–4. 100 The speech which is ascribed to a certain Theodore Potakios by the manuscripts, and was first edited by S. Lampros in 1885, had already tentatively been connected with Theodore Potamios by K. Sathas in 1872. Lampros proposed its dating to the burial of John V in 1391. The first to ascribe it, in a short remark, to the burial of John VII in 1408 was G. T. Dennis, “The Letters of Theodore Potamios,” in G. T. Dennis, Byzantium and the Franks (London, 1982), no. XII (first publication), 2 and note 6. His article was obviously not known to P. Agapitos when he confirmed this opinion with detailed arguments in “Kaiser Ioannes VII. Palaiologos als Adressat einer Monodie des Theodoros Potamios,” BZ 90 (1997): 1–6. 101 R. Guilland, “Le traité inédit ‘Sur l’usure’ de Nicolas Cabasilas,” in Eij" mnhvmhn Spurivdwno" Lavmprou (Athens, 1935), 269–77; for the date cf. Loenertz, “Chronologie,” 220–24 or 317–20 respectively. The title of Guilland’s article refers to a treatise, but actually the text is a memorandum. There is also a treatise, in which Kabasilas principally argues against any income from interest (PG 150: 727–50), but we do not know where it was composed.

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and 1354 he wrote, at the instigation of his father, an encomium of Empress Anna in the form of a letter, which he sent from Constantinople to Thessalonike.102 During the years 1382–87 Manuel II stayed in Thessalonike in order to defend the city against the Turks. In fall 1383 he delivered a speech of counsel to the citizens to encourage them to defend their freedom against the Turkish aggression.103 Demetrios Kydones received a personal copy of the speech from Manuel and congratulated him in a letter, where he also expressed his regret that only a few of the emperor’s audience were educated enough to understand the refined style of the speech.104 This judgment by a son of the city can be taken as an unfavorable testimony to the intellectual situation in Thessalonike during these late years. But a contemporary of Manuel, the metropolitan Isidore Glabas, had perhaps a better chance to reach the souls of the citizens through his more popular sermons.105 Already in the first homily which he delivered to his flock in 1380,106 he reverts to the problem of harmony among the citizens which had, as we saw, also been a subject of earlier political speeches. From his point of view, social harmony is guaranteed and secured now through the church and Christian charity, but he also points to the important role of civil servants and judges. In his second occasional sermon he tackles the very acute problem of the socalled unholy marriages between Byzantine women and Turks. He not only urges avoidance of such marriages, but also their dissolution if such a marriage had taken place.107 Also in other sermons he called upon the citizens of Thessalonike to fight against the “infidels,”108 but his major concern remained the situation of the poor and powerless people, as can be shown by quotations from several of his sermons.109 During the time of his absence from Thessalonike (1384–89), the city was conquered by the Turks, in 1387. Nevertheless, Isidore returned to his see in the summer of 1389 and tried to cope with the difficult situation of a Christian bishop under Muslim rule. From this later period date his five 102

M. Jugie, “Nicolas Cabasilas, panégyriques inédits de Mathieu Cantacuzène et de l’Anne Paléologine,” IRAIK 15 (1911): 112–21. On the date cf. Loenertz, “Chronologie,” 224–26 or 320–22 respectively. 103 B. Laourdas, “ÔO Sumbouleutiko;" pro;" tou;" Qessalonivkei" tou' Manouh;l Palaiolovgou,” Makedonikav 3 (1955): 290–307. 104 Tinnefeld, Briefe, 3: 112–18, no. 265. 105 Editions of sermons: (1) B. Laourdas, ∆Isidwvrou ∆Arciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" ÔOmilivai eij" ta;" eJorta;" tou' aJgivou Dhmhtrivou, ÔEllhnikav, Paravrthma 5 (Thessalonike, 1954) (5 sermons on St. Demetrios); (2) K. Tsirpanles, “Sumbolhv ei" thn istorivan th" Qessalonivkh". Duvo anevkdotoi omilivai Isidwvrou arciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh",” Qeologiva 42 (1971) 548–81; (3) B. Christophorides, “∆Isidwvrou Glabav Peristasiakev" omilive",” ∆Ep.∆Ep.Qeo.Sco.Pan.Qes. 32 (Thessalonike, 1981); (4) B. Ch. Christophorides, Isidwvrou Glabav Arciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" Omilive", vol. 1 (Thessalonike, 1992) (edition of 13 homilies from Vat. gr. 651; see 7 f, on the sermons unedited so far); (5) PG 139: 11–164 (4 sermons on the holy Virgin). On the two manuscripts of Isidore’s homilies (vol. 1: Paris. gr. 1192; vol. 2: Vat. gr. 651) and their contents, cf. A. Ehrhard, Überlieferung und Bestand der hagiographischen und homiletischen Literatur der griechischen Kirche, vol. 3.1. Die späteren Homilien (Leipzig, 1943), 709–13. 106 Ed. Christophorides 1981 (see note 105, no. 3), 37–43; abstract of the sermon: Christophorides, “Glaba'",” (as in note 26), 538 f. 107 Ed. Christophorides 1981 (see note 105, no. 3), 44 ff; discussion of the sermon: Christophorides, “Glaba'",” (as in note 26), 540 f. 108 Christophorides, “Glaba'",” (as in note 26), 552–54. 109 Christophorides, “Glaba'",” (as in note 26), 541–44; for quotations from cod. Paris. gr. 1192, which contains the homilies nos. 1–28 (plus three unnumbered homilies), unedited so far, see Christophorides 1992 (see note 105, no. 4), 7 f.

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sermons on St. Demetrios.110 Here he summons the people of Thessalonike to be patient and points to the fact that the Byzantine officials, both diplomats and civil servants, have no less difficult a time getting along with the Turkish governors. As a source on this first period of Turkish rule in Thessalonike, these sermons are of invaluable importance. Also from his successor, Gabriel (1397–1416/19), a collection of sixty-six sermons has survived, but as far as can be concluded from the seven on St. Demetrios which have been published so far, they are of a more spiritual character.111 The most interesting of the St. Demetrios sermons from the political point of view is the one which celebrates the defeat of the Ottomans by Tamerlane near Ankyra in 1402 as an outstanding historical event.112 The last of the metropolitans whose works are important sources for the latest period of Thessalonike was Symeon (1415/16–29). Apart from some encyclical letters, four texts in particular show his concern for the political situation of his diocese: first, in a long discourse, completed shortly before his death, he praises St. Demetrios as a miraculous protector of Thessalonike and gives, to illustrate this, a very interesting survey of TurkishByzantine relations from 1387 to 1427.113 The other three texts worth mentioning in this connection are: a defense of his “flight” to Mount Athos and Constantinople in 1422114 and two “advisory” proclamations exhorting the Orthodox to resist the attacks of the Turkish “Antichrist” on Christian faith and morals.115 At this point a few words should be said on these sermons, their significance, and their understanding. Thessalonike was undoubtedly fortunate to have three such prominent preachers during a very difficult period of time, when the city was in danger of conquest by the Turks, and also afterward, under the Turkish occupation. Isidore, Gabriel, and also Symeon were able to comfort the suffering populace during these years of troubles and were very well accepted by their flocks. Nevertheless, there is reason to ask how they could be so popular although they obviously gave their sermons not in the spoken, but in the artificial “Attic” language of educated writers. This problem is significant not only for the late period, but also for earlier periods of Byzantium. As was pointed out in a recent collection of papers,116 “the levels of education, or to be more precise, oral and literate understanding, in audiences can only be guessed at in most periods. . . . The majority of preachers, however, seem to have assumed a reasonable degree of understanding in their audiences; we can only guess whether this reflected the actual abilities of most members of the audience or whether homilies were generally directed only to an educated few.” This statement is also true for the sermons under discussion. But since they deal to a great extent with current problems of the citizens, we can assume that at least their general contents were accessible to a majority of the audience, and the details were perhaps imparted by oral exchange. 110 Ed. Laourdas, ÔOmilivai (see note 105, no. 1). Discussion of the sermons: Christophorides, “Glaba'",” (as in note 26), 571–78. 111 Unique manuscript of the homilies: cod. Chalki 58. Edition: B. Laourdas, “Gabrih;l Qessalonivkh" oJmilivai,” ∆Aqhna' 57 (1963): 141–78. Cf. also Ehrhard, Überlieferung, 714–17. 112 Ed. Laourdas, “Gabrih;l,” 164–68; comments on the sermon; ibid., 177 f. 113 Balfour, Symeon, 39–69 (Greek text), 101–91 (commentary). 114 Balfour, Symeon, 70–76 (text), 193–99 (commentary). 115 Balfour, Symeon, 83–90 (text), 207–10 (commentary). 116 Preacher and Audience. Studies in Early Christian and Byzantine Homiletics, ed. M. B. Cunningham and P. Allen (Leiden–Boston–Cologne, 1998), 14 f (in the editors’ introduction).

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From the time immediately after the final conquest of Thessalonike by the Turks in 1430, we have several texts which describe and deplore this event: a report and a monody of John Anagnostes,117 and three anonymous works—two monodies in strange hexameters and a fragment of a monody in prose.118 I began my discussion of the intellectuals in late Byzantine Thessalonike with a general survey of their most important representatives, then tried to give an impression of their connections with other intellectuals as can be shown by their correspondence, touched upon the question of their scholarly and teaching activities, and commented on their public addresses either on special occasions or containing general remarks about the political situation of the city. But before concluding this paper we should attempt to answer the intriguing question, what was the role of Thessalonike in intellectual life as compared with Constantinople? At least some educated natives of Thessalonike were convinced that their hometown could compete with the intellectual level of any other city. Thus Demetrios Kydones claimed in his monody that no other city had “larger or finer ensembles of orators and philosophers,” and Nicholas Kabasilas maintained a similar conviction.119 But those statements are undoubtedly exaggerated and caused by local pride. Neither in the late period nor very probably at any earlier time were the opportunities for intellectual development in Thessalonike equal to those in Constantinople. The main reason is that two institutions in the capital granted it an unrivaled precedence over any other city in the empire: the imperial court and the patriarchate. Although we can say that the influence of the emperor and the patriarch on higher education has been exaggerated by earlier Byzantinists—there was very probably never an “imperial university” nor a “patriarchal academy” either120—we cannot doubt the fact that at least from time to time there were emperors and patriarchs who promoted and patronized higher education, and this is also true for the late period. Under several Palaiologan rulers, especially Michael VIII, Andronikos II, and Manuel II, the imperial court gave an important incentive to teaching, delivering orations, and other intellectual activities, and also several late Byzantine patriarchs were anxious to have well-educated clerics.121 Even some monasteries in Constantinople profited from this atmosphere to develop some intellectual activities and assemble modest libraries.122 This stimulus of patronage was almost totally absent in Thessalonike; although personal initiative was the principal impetus for intellectual activities also in Constantinople, it seems to have been the only one in Thessalonike. But in the late period we also find a second reason for the lower intellectual level of Thessalonike: its political situation was less stable and consistent than that in the capital. 117

G. Tsaras, ed., Dihvghsi" peri; th'" teleutaiva" aJlwvsew" th'" Qessalonivkh". Monw/diva ejpi; th'/ aJlwvsei th'" Qessalonivkh". Eijsagwghv, keivmeno, metavfrasi, scovlia (Thessalonike, 1958). Shortcomings of the edition are criticized by J. Irmscher, BZ 52 (1959): 364–67. 118 Sp. Lampros, “Trei'" ajnevkdotoi Monw/divai eij" th;n uJpo; tw'n Touvrkwn a{lwsin th'" Qessalonivkh",” Nevo" ÔEll. 5 (1908): 369–91. 119 Kydones, Monody (see note 90 above), 644; trans. Barker (see ibid.), 293; for Kabasilas, see above, text after note 3. 120 According to Matschke and Tinnefeld, Gesellschaft, 302 and 311, it is recommended to speak only of schools or institutions of higher education. 121 Cf. ibid., 301–10 (imperial court), 310–16 (patriarchate). 122 Cf. ibid., 316–19.

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After it had been the capital of a crusader kingdom, from 1224 Thessalonike was governed by Epirote rulers until it was recaptured by the “Byzantine” emperor John III in 1246. Then it had almost a hundred years of relative peace, which facilitated the development of intellectual activities. This prosperous phase was interrupted soon after 1340 by the Zealot revolt, and we can say that after the end of this period of troubles in 1350 the city’s intellectual life never recovered.123 Without doubt the first conquest of the city by the Turks in 1387 can be understood as another heavy blow against a free development of intellectual activities. The situation was different in the capital. Although after 1350 Constantinople suffered more and more from the tense foreign situation, it enjoyed a political continuity until the end of the empire, which turned out to be favorable also for intellectual life. For these reasons it is no wonder that most of the relatively few literati who can be assigned to Thessalonike (as, for instance, John Pothos Pediasimos, Joseph Rhakendytes, Isidore Boucheir, Neilos and Nicholas Kabasilas, and Demetrios Kydones) preferred to study or reside temporarily (or for a longer time) in Constantinople. As a consequence, there were fewer chances of finding a teacher in Thessalonike than in Constantinople. A man like Thomas Magistros who continuously taught in Thessalonike seems to have been an exception. There is no evidence on any continuity of schools in the city, and we have only scattered information on teaching. Also the monasteries of Thessalonike were obviously less important as places of intellectual activity than a number of monasteries in Constantinople or on Mount Athos. The lawyer Matthaios Blastares was a monk of the monastery of Kyr Isaac in Thessalonike, but can we therefore say that this monastery was an intellectual center? Makarios Choumnos founded the Nea Mone monastery in Thessalonike soon after 1360,124 but he ended up as an abbot of the Stoudios monastery in Constantinople.125 The later metropolitan Gabriel, who was the successor of Makarios as the abbot of the Nea Mone, was, as we have seen, a productive preacher and doubtless an intellectual, but this does not necessarily mean that his fellow monks shared his literary interests. Another factor was that theological controversies tended to be waged in Constantinople (or sometimes on Mount Athos) rather than in Thessalonike. This is especially true for the two most important theological disputes in late Byzantium, the one between the hesychasts/Palamites and their opponents and that between Unionists and Antiunionists. Thessalonike was, of course, affected by the resonance of these quarrels, but it was never their main scene of debate. Even natives of Thessalonike like Demetrios Kydones and Neilos Kabasilas lived in Constantinople when they debated on Western scholasticism.126 Also Neilos’ nephew Nicholas Kabasilas, who likewise originated in Thessalonike, seems to have lived mostly in Constantinople in later years.127 123 Cf ibid., 323: “Die Wirren des 1342 ausgebrochenen Zelotenaufstandes führten in den folgenden Jahren offenbar auch zu einem Niedergang des Geisteslebens.” Cf. also the judgement of Demetrios Kydones on the intellectual level of the Thessalonians during the presence of Emperor Manuel II in the city (see above, text with note 24). 124 On this monastery cf. R. Janin, Les églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins (Paris, 1975), 398 f. 125 On Makarios Choumnos cf. PLP 30956. He was abbot of the Stoudios monastery from 1368 until his death ca. 1380. 126 See above, text with note 17. 127 He was a good friend of Kydones, and it deserves mention that their friendship was never affected by his moderate inclination toward hesychasm, which Kydones detested.

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From these considerations we can draw the conclusion that Thessalonike was never more than a second city of the empire after Constantinople, also with regard to its intellectual life. This was even more true in the latest period, when Mistra gained more and more significance as a second political and intellectual center. Nevertheless, Thessalonike’s existence was important as a stimulus for the intellectuals in Constantinople, as can be shown especially by the correspondence between intellectuals of both cities, proof of a vivid exchange of views in late Byzantium. The outstanding examples are the correspondence between Gregoras and intellectuals in Thessalonike128 and the remarkable exchange of letters between Demetrios Kydones in Constantinople and Emperor Manuel, when the latter made a last but eventually unsuccessful attempt to avert the first conquest of Thessalonike by the Turks in 1387.129 Institut für Byzantinistik der Universität München 128 129

See above, text with notes 36–48. See above, text with note 23.

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Symposium on Late Byzantine Thessalonike Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

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Economic Concerns and Attitudes of the Intellectuals of Thessalonike ANGELIKI E. LAIOU

few initial remarks are necessary, in order to clarify the topic and my approach to it. First of all, the intellectuals to whom I refer are not only those commonly so considered, such as theologians or thinkers or men of letters, but also those educated men who produced statements with a normative purpose. In the period and place under discussion, this means primarily the jurists, Constantine Harmenopoulos and Matthew Vlastares in the first instance. Second, I will leave out of the discussion most of the social issues and concerns that were so prominent in the thought of Thessalonian intellectuals in the fourteenth century as a result of the profound social upheavals that preceded the Zealot revolt, were contemporary with it, or followed it. I will concede from the start that social and economic concerns are often intertwined, especially in the medieval period when economic thought was to varying degrees embedded in social and political structures of thought. Nevertheless, the focus of my concern here is on issues of economic thought.1 Third, I do not plan to take each of the intellectuals active in Thessalonike and investigate his economic ideas. Rather, I will concentrate on a few economic issues and try to show how they were treated by various intellectuals. I shall discuss three topics: the defense of private property; freedom in exchange; and lending at interest, which Western medieval thinkers and medievalists call usury.

A

THE DEFENSE OF PRIVATE PROPERTY AND THE RIGHTS OF THE STATE Some intellectuals voiced concern about the property rights of individuals or institutions, sometimes in contrast to the right of the state either to dispose of private property at will or to take particular fiscal measures. The texts I have in mind are circumstantial in nature, having been written to address specific events or practices; although they are not treatises on ownership, they incorporate statements regarding it. These texts are Thomas

1 There exists an earlier treatment of the social and economic thought of intellectuals and jurists in Thessalonike, by C. Triantaphyllopoulos: ÔH ÔExavbiblo" tou' ∆Armenopouvlou kai; hJ nomikh; skevyi" ejn Qessalonivkh/ kata; to;n devkaton tevtarton aijw'na (Athens, 1960). I should like to thank two anonymous readers for useful comments.

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Magistros’ treatises on the imperial office and on the rights of subjects, and Nicholas Kavasilas’ still so-called “Anti-Zealot” Discourse.2 Thomas Magistros was a philologist and man of letters who took a profound interest in the political affairs of his times. We may consider him a political theorist and one, furthermore, who expressed a train of thought that argued for increased autonomy of the cities; we assume that he had in mind Thessalonike in particular. His treatise on the imperial office (whose date, I think, must be before 1304) contains the traditional elements that must govern relations between the good emperor and his subjects: the emperor must, above all, show himself to be just, but also generous and philanthropic. But at the same time, Magistros discusses critically certain practices current at the time, and makes suggestions regarding the reciprocal duties of the emperor and his subjects, and for the better governance of the empire. Much of what he writes in that respect is outside the scope of this paper. However, his statements concerning what he considers abusive fiscal practices do have certain economic implications, since they touch on the issue of private property. I think it is correct to say that Magistros insists on the property rights of the subjects, which are paramount. Indeed, he goes so far as to argue that even when the emperor makes donations he is not giving of his own goods, but rather of those of his subjects, whose administrator he is.3 The proximate cause, the circumstantial fact underlying Thomas’ position, is the extension of fiscal exactions during the early Palaiologan period. Extraordinary taxes were imposed while the state laid heavy claims on treasure trove and on the property of those who died without children and without a testament. On the matter of treasure trove, where the Palaiologan state claimed ownership of the totality of the goods thus discovered, Magistros counters that this constitutes forceful alienation of property given by God to the individual who has recovered the treasure. Therefore, in his view, the emperor, representing the state, behaves like a tyrant rather than as a good king.4 Similarly, Thomas’ objection to the appropriation, by the state, of the property of people dying intestate and with no children is based on the property rights of individuals (and of the church, which, according to law, had rights to one-third of the property of the deceased).5 As he put it, “you appropriate the goods of others, without taking into account the rights of the person who owns them . . . you inherit the property of others.”6 His extensive critique of the imposition of extraordinary taxes is evidence of the same attitude, which privileges private property and seeks to limit the rights of the fisc: “When, because of some 2 ˇevcˇenko, “Nicolas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse: A Reinterpretation,” DOP 11 (1957): 79–171. On I. S Thomas Magistros’ Peri; basileiva", see A. E. Laiou, “Le débat sur les droits du fisc et les droits régaliens au début du 14e siècle,” REB 58 (2000): 97–122; PG 145: 448 ff; his Peri; politeiva" is published in PG 145: 496– 548. 3 PG 145: 456; Laiou, “Débat,” 99. 4 PG 145: 479. 5 PG 145: 485; cf. Novel 12 of Constantine VII. in Zepos, Jus 1: 235–38. Closer to the period under discussion is Novel 26 of Andronikos II (confirmed in 1305, 1306, or 1307) on the division of the property of people who die without direct issue; the most recent discussion of this document may be found in Laiou, “Débat,” 115–20. 6 PG 145: 485: tw'n me;n ajllotrivwn wJ" oijkeivwn ajntipoiouvmenoi, tou' de; kekthmevnou mhdevna mhdopwstiou'n poiouvmenoi lovgon. . . . uJmei'" klhronomei'n ajxiou'te.

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need, you lack money, and you order the subjects to pay (extraordinary) taxes, is this not the exercise of force and is it not opposed to the care that you owe them?”7 In brief, Thomas Magistros defends the property rights both of private individuals and of the church, at the same time trying to limit the fiscal rights of the state. It should be mentioned, however, that this defense of private property is less a Roman, or modern, defense, and more a medieval one. What he is trying to safeguard is, on the one hand, the privileges given to pronoia holders and, on the other, the rights of the church as well as those claimed by the inhabitants of the cities; many of these rights had been granted by the fisc itself, whose weight Magistros wishes to reduce.8 He does, elsewhere, give special value to private property. In his treatise on the rights of subjects (Peri; politeiva"), he argues that the army of the cities must be composed only of property owners, those who own houses and fields, and are well established in the city.9 Those who own nothing, he says, have nothing they feel moved to protect, and they will easily turn traitor. This, however, is less an economic argument and more a political one, similar to those advanced in eighteenthcentury England in favor of limiting the vote to property owners. An eloquent defense of private property is offered by Nicholas Kavasilas in his Discourse traditionally labeled “Anti-Zealot.”10 How, he wonders, can a polity survive without the ultimate good, liberty? It can survive only if the people in power imprison the subjects or treat them as enemies. But if the subjects are enslaved, they cannot be useful to themselves or to the state. Because, and here is the telling argument, if one does not have security of possessions, if private goods are not safe from state action, then the mere mention of the state will cause people to tremble. No one, then, will work to gain money: not the peasant and not the merchant, since they know that they are working for others. And when that happens, from whom will taxes be collected?11 Bearing this in mind, good officials have always tried to provide justice, liberty, and internal and external security. This looks like a good but partial liberal argument: in order to function properly, productive forces need an institutional framework which provides security and stability. A person will not invest if he is not certain that profits will go to himself rather than to others. Kavasilas’ thought does not extend to the other half of the modern liberal position: that there should be no state interference in the economic process. So his is not an argument for a laissez-faire economy. In context, it constitutes defense of private property (a medieval sort of private property, as often as not granted by the state), centered on a specific issue: Kavasilas does not think that the civil government should appropriate private 7

PG 145: 481: kai; mh;n kai; to; toi'" uJphkovoi", ejpeida;n hJstinosou'n katalabouvsh" ajnavgkh" ajporh'te crhmavtwn, e[peit∆ eijsfora;" ejpitavttein, . . . pw'" oujk ajtecnw'" bivaion, h] pw'" oujk e[xw th'" par∆ hJmw'n ojfeilomevnh" toutoisi; promhqeiva"; 8 For a fuller justification of these arguments, see Laiou, “Débat,” passim. 9 PG 145: 521. 10 ˇevcˇenko, “‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” 170, dates it ca. 1344, but there were obThe date remains uncertain. S jections to that date, and it may be that it should be pushed forward to the last third of the 14th century, that ˇevcˇenko himself admits: idem, “A Postis, after the battle of the Maritsa, as George Dennis suggested, and as S script on Nicolas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” DOP 16 (1962): 403–8. Ath. A. Angelopoulos, Nikovlao" Kabavsila" Camaetov". ÔH zwh; kai; to; e[rgon aujtou' (Thessalonike, 1970), 89, dates it to after 1347, after Kavasilas’ return to Constantinople from Thessalonike (on the argument that if it refers to events in Constantinople it must been written there, and also that the author was too young in 1344). 11 ˇ Sevcˇenko, “‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” para. 26, and see comment on pp. 170–71. Cf. para. 10.

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property, that is to say, the revenues or, even less, the capital of monasteries, in order to provide for defense. But in the paragraph under discussion the author generalizes, and this is why we are permitted to discuss his statement as affecting private property as a whole. These ideas reflect aspects of contemporary reality. Thomas Magistros’ protestations are a response to increased fiscal burdens, while those of Kavasilas refer to a specific act of alienation of the revenues of monastic holdings in the interest of common defense. They also reflect the complex Byzantine view of property, a view which, in the fourteenth century, comprises both the concepts of Roman law and those that arise from interlocking rights: it is not by chance that both Kavasilas and his fictional interlocutors differentiate between usufruct—or ownership of revenues—and dominium over estates.12 FREEDOM IN EXCHANGE The question of freedom in exchange seems to have received some attention in fourteenth-century Thessalonike. In brief, the general issue is as follows. Throughout the Byzantine period, there were two potentially conflicting traditions and concepts regarding exchange. One stems from Roman law and accepts that any contract between parties that act freely and without fraud or constraint is a valid contract. The price at which goods are sold is arrived at through negotiation between the contracting parties, who are allowed to try to deceive one another up to a point. The other concept, deriving from the church fathers and ultimately from Plato and Aristotle, is that of social and economic justice and the protection of the weak. In law, this is incorporated in Justinianic or perhaps preJustinianic legislation which states that, even if a contract is concluded by freely acting parties, it becomes invalid if the sale price is “minimal,” that is, less than 50 percent of the true price.13 This measure, originally conceived as protection of the seller from his own actions, and constituting interference in the freedom of exchange, is known in legal scholarship as (a measure against) laesio enormis, that is, excessive damage. In Byzantium the protection was widely extended in the ninth and tenth centuries, to cover, for example, labor contracts as well as the sale of land made at times of crisis (Novel of 934). By the eleventh century, the protection it afforded was being eroded, and eventually ways were found to cover up sales at a low price through the practice of partial donation of the thing sold.14 The Novel of 934, issued by Romanos I Lekapenos, had reversed land sales made at a cheap price at a time of hardship.15 In his legal compilation, the Hexabiblos, finished in 1344–45, Constantine Harmenopoulos placed, next to the law regarding laesio enormis, a “Novel” which he attributes to the same Romanos I.16 The “Novel” is attested with this attribution in only one other source, one of the many manuscripts of the Synopsis Maior; scholars consider this text to be not imperial legislation but, rather, a judicial deciˇevcˇenko, “‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” para. 12, 14, 16, and p. 161. On the complex Byzantine views reS garding property, see A. Kazhdan, “State, Feudal, and Private Property in Byzantium,” DOP 47 (1993): 83– 100. 13 C. 4.44.2 = Bas. 19.10.72; cf. C. 4.44.8 = Bas. 19.10.78 (77). Cf. A. E. Laiou, “Koinwnikh; dikaiosuvnh: to; sunallavttesqai kai; to; eujhmerei'n sto; Buzavntio,” ∆Akad.∆Aqh.Pr. 74 (1999): passim. 14 Laiou, “Koinwnikh; dikaiosuvnh,” 117. 15 N. Svoronos, Les novelles des empereurs macédoniens (Athens, 1994), no. 3, 72 ff. 16 Hexabiblos 3.3.71. 12

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sion.17 Its tenor and dispositions are very different from those of the Novel of 934. In the latter text, the emperor had made a very harsh ruling on those who, taking advantage of the famine, had bought land at a price below half the “just price.” They were to be expelled from these lands without recovering the money they had paid for it. If the price they had paid was not “minimal” within the letter of the law, but nevertheless was so low that it could be considered as resulting from the deception of and in harm to the seller, and if the revenues the buyers had already derived from the land were equal to the price paid, then the buyers would return the land without having claim to any moneys. If the revenues were lower than the price paid, then the original seller would recover his land after paying the difference. Harmenopoulos knew the Novel of 934, parts of which he summarized in Hexabiblos 3.3.7, omitting, however, the provisions regarding sale at a “minimal” price. Instead, he mentions, in connection with laesio enormis, the misattributed “Novel.” In this, the “legislator” is much kinder toward the buyer, basically allowing him to make use of the law of the Basilics, that gives him the option of paying the full price and keeping the land or, if he does not wish to exercise that option, permits the seller to recover the land after having paid back the money he had received for it. Thus this supposed “Novel” reinforces the provisions of the classic legislation concerning laesio enormis, but does not extend them, as Romanos I had done. One wonders why the “Novel” is attributed to Romanos I, who had issued the much harsher legislation; one interpretation might be that Harmenopoulos here wishes tacitly to nullify the provisions of the Novel of 934. A scholion to the Hexabiblos, furthermore, essentially does away with the protection afforded by the legislation on laesio enormis.18 In an effort to reconcile two passages of the legislation,19 one of which affords the protection while the other one says that consensual sales cannot be reversed, the scholiast draws a distinction between a sale that takes place voluntarily, which is not reversible, and one that is tainted with circumscription and deception (ajpavth), which is reversible. He considers that the laesio enormis applies to the second, an unnecessary and unsubtle interpretation of the law. The law, in fact, does not forbid deception, only deception after a certain point; indeed, the law assumes that such a sale could be the result of circumscription, but not of fraud (dovlo"), which invalidates all contracts. In the case of fraudulent practice or when there is no fraud but there is too low a price, the law invalidates the sale automatically. The scholion, by drawing a distinction between “voluntary” sale and one which is the result of deception, places the burden of proof on the seller, who has to show that, if he had sold his property at less than 50 percent of its just price, he had done so because he was duped and did not know his rights. When both contracting parties know their rights, according to the scholiast, the contract is valid even though the price is minimal. The scholiast then explains why one might voluntarily sell at below half the just price in an irreversible contract: it might be as a favor or by donation, or because of the times and circumstances, or because a property with high capital value 17

J. Leunclavius, LX Librorum Basilikw'n . . . Ecloga sive Synopsis (Basel, 1575), App., 43. See the excellent study by N. P. Matses, ∆Epiv tino" uJpotiqemevnh" Neara'" Rwmanou' tou' Lekaphnou' (Athens, 1970). On the issue of laesio enormis, see also Synopsis Maior A.XII.19 and scholion (u) (Zepos, Jus 5: 51). 18 Hexabiblos 3.3.73. (Bas. 19.10.76 (75) = C. 4.44, from the Codex Constantinopolitanus (1353). 19 One is Hexabiblos 3.3.73 = Bas. 19.10.76(75), which states that a sale which has been concluded with the consent of the parties cannot be invalidated even if the seller offers double the purchase price to the buyer. The other, the law on laesio enormis, is Hexabiblos 3.3.69–72 = Bas. 19.10.72. Fraud and violence annul contracts: Bas. 19.10.75, 19.8.8, 19.10.71, 19.1.42.

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might, at that particular moment, be unproductive of revenue. Such cheap sales are not reversible, as long as everyone knows his rights. In his interpretation, the scholiast makes information the basis of proof, and thus vitiates the protection that the law had automatically afforded to the seller. The recurring words “dia; cavrin, sugkatabavsei kai; dwrea/'” bring to mind the sales contracts of the period, in which the seller of land, especially but not only to monasteries, includes in the contract the statement that part of the value of the property has been donated—what I have called the combined sales-and-donation contracts.20 Unfortunately, we do not know by whom the scholion was written. In any case, it must have been composed before or in 1353, which is the date of the codex Constantinopolitanus, in which it appears. If my interpretation is correct, it shows that someone in fourteenth-century Thessalonike (if that is where the commentary was written) was highlighting and justifying in legal terms a reality which was already in place, and in which freedom in exchange was extensive, just as judicial or governmental interference was declining. Perhaps this accords well with the defense of private property undertaken by other intellectuals. It is a viable economic position, in fact a progressive one with regard to the issue of free exchange. But it does, at the same time, indicate a diminution of social concern, at least if one contrasts it with the intent of older legislation. LENDING AT INTEREST It is partly in the various anti-usury treatises that scholars have identified social concern in the fourteenth century, and to this issue I will now turn. In a Christian society, discussion of lending at interest, with the heavy burden of both Old and New Testament prohibitions, was inevitable; it was, however, much less heated, less acute, and certainly less universally negative in Byzantium than in western Europe. This is an important issue in the development of economic thought, and as such it is supremely pertinent to our topic. I have discussed Byzantine attitudes toward lending at interest elsewhere, but a few salient points are worth repeating, by way of background.21 The Byzantines, although they were heirs to the same Aristotelian and patristic texts as the Western Europeans of the Middle Ages, had, generally speaking, a very different attitude toward lending at interest from that of the canonists, theologians, and moralists of the Western early and high Middle Ages. To put it in summary terms, lending at interest was, in actuality, permitted to laymen in Byzantium, except for brief periods, while in western medieval Europe it was not. In the Byzantine Empire, interest was permitted by civil law; canon law, while forbid20

See, for example, N. Oikonomidès, Actes de Docheiariou (Paris, 1984), no. 42, lines 24–34, 70: sale of land at 600 hyperpyra, while the rest of the price is left to the monastery for the salvation of the soul of the parents of the seller. Cf. ibid., no. 43, lines 6–7: this (the previous contract of document 42) is not really a sale, but a donation. Cf. MM 4: 401, 394–95, 407–9, 410–11, 412–14. 21 See A. E. Laiou, “God and Mammon: Credit, Trade, Profit and the Canonists,” in N. Oikonomides, ed., Byzantium in the Twelfth Century: Canon Law, State and Society (Athens, 1991), 261 ff; eadem, “The Church, Economic Thought and Economic Practice,” in R. F. Taft, S. J., The Christian East, Its Institutions and Its Thought (Rome, 1996), 448 ff, and eadem, “Nummus parit nummos: L’usurier, le juriste et le philosophe à Byzance,” CRAI (1999): 583–604.

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ding interest-bearing loans to ecclesiastics, did not extend the prohibition to laymen, nor did it preach such an extension. The great canonists of the twelfth century accepted that laymen were allowed to charge interest, and only rarely made hortatory statements regarding laymen.22 The recognition, by the canonists, of the validity of civil law necessarily limited the possibility of debate, and led to a different approach from that adopted in the West. In the twelfth century, both canonists and the anonymous jurist of the commentary in the Ecloga Basilicorum seem to have formulated an early theory of interest as profit accruing to capital, a more advanced formula, in economic terms, than those proposed in western Europe in the twelfth century or even later.23 Byzantine theologians and moralists, starting with the church fathers of the fourth century, had a good deal to say against lending at interest. Eustathios of Thessalonike is one of those who were most vocal against this practice, even though a careful reading of his work suggests that he was condemning immoderate interest rates rather than the practice per se and in toto.24 In brief, through the twelfth century, civil law (with a few shortlived exceptions), as I have suggested, and canon law (with one possible exception) accepted the reality and the legality of interest-bearing loans, while some moralists and theologians wrote against it, but with nothing like the complex argumentation and outright condemnation that we find in western Europe. An interesting debate is visible in the twelfth century, but it concerns the legal and economic basis of interest-bearing loans rather than the moral basis against it. In Thessalonike of the fourteenth century, by contrast, there seems to have been vivid concern about lending at interest, and a generally negative attitude, in the texts that have survived. That there was a debate is suggested by Kavasilas’ oration against usurers in which he replies to a number of arguments. But the position of those who defended lending at interest is known primarily from the polemical texts of their opponents. A number of the theologians, moralists, and intellectuals of or in Thessalonike wrote in scathing terms, either about greed (pleonexiva) generally, or about greed and usury specifically. Nikephoros Choumnos, in his Qessalonikeu'si sumbouleutiko;" peri; dikaiosuvnh",25 like all good Byzantines, considered greed to be incompatible with justice, since in its essence greed means that one tries to appropriate more than is fair, and thus, in a zerosum game, cheats others of what belongs to them.26 Choumnos calls greed the oldest evil, while in one eloquent passage he specifies the evil as being the appropriation of the fruits of the labor of others—a statement that in other texts is often attached to the taking of interest in a loan.27 Similar statements may be found in the work of Thomas Magistros who, in a letter to Patriarch Niphon (1310–14), tells the patriarch that because of his presence and polity, the rich no longer “increase their own property by inappropriate additions while forcing the 22 The exception is the commentary of Zonaras on canons 17 of Nicaea and 5 of Carthage: everyone should eschew usury: G. A. Rhalles and M. Potles, Suvntagma tw'n qeivwn kai; iJerw'n kanovnwn, vol. 2 (Athens, 1852), 151– 52, and vol. 3 (Athens, 1853), 306–8. 23 Laiou, “Nummus,” 589 ff. 24 T. L. F. Tafel, Eustathii metropolitae Thessalonicensis opuscula (repr. Amsterdam, 1964), 72 ff. 25 J.-Fr. Boissonade, Anecdota Graeca, vol. 2 (Paris, 1830; repr. 1962), 137–87. 26 Ibid., 157 ff. 27 Ibid., 159, 168.

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indigent to weep and making them poorest of the poor.”28 Toward the end of the century, the homilies of Isidore of Thessalonike speak to the same points.29 Mostly, the problem of usury was addressed in terms which are traditional and show little originality of thought, especially on the economic aspects of the question. A look at Gregory Palamas will suffice as an example. In a sermon on Luke 6:32: kaqw;" qevlete i{na poiw'sin uJmi'n oiJ a[nqrwpoi, poiei'te aujtoi'" oJmoivw" (“as you would like men to do unto you, so do unto them”), after having spoken of the universality of the teaching, and said that it is an easy, just, and profitable command which differentiates the behavior of Christians from that of others, Palamas becomes more specific. To love only those who love us, and to lend where we are sure to receive our money back does not gain us rewards in heaven, nor does it cleanse the soul from sin. To not love even those who love us is a sin—as for example when people rise against those in authority, civil or ecclesiastical. Usury appears in this context. Those who lend expecting to recover their capital within a certain time and charge interest, especially high interest, are worse than sinners, for they disobey both the New Testament and the Old Law. The emphasis on immoderate interest is common among Byzantine theologians who, more, I think, than their Western counterparts, seem to condemn illegally high rates of interest rather than interest in general.30 This is normal, perhaps, since they had to live with the fact that civil law permitted interest-bearing loans. Lending to those who cannot return the money, says Palamas, is a seed that will result in a crop that will multiply the benefit, in the afterlife. A little more interesting is the statement that he who lends at interest mars not only his own reputation but also that of his city, since he does not use to her benefit the goods he has as her citizen and by virtue of being her citizen.31 Finally, here, as in earlier texts, one is allowed a little uncertainty as to what exactly is being condemned. The general tenor is the blanket condemnation of interest. However, when Palamas becomes more specific, he seems to be talking about those who have no money (to whom no one wants to lend) and those who are poor but not indigent (to whom creditors lend money at interest, thus causing them to lose everything they possess). In other words the real condemnation is on social grounds, or on grounds of justice as conceived by the Byzantines: it is not “just” for one person to have surplus funds and not to share them with those who have no money.32 28 PG 145: 369: nu'n ouj pevnhtav" ejsti pro;" eujpovrwn kakou'sqai, kaqavper ejn povlewn aJlwvsei karpoumevnwn tou;" dustucei'" kai; ta; me;n sfevter’ aujtw'n ajtovpoi" ejpauxovntwn prosqhvkai", ejkeivnou" de; klaivein ajnagkazovntwn kai; kaqistavntwn penhvtwn pevnhta". 29 See O. Tafrali, Thessalonique au 14ème siècle (Paris, 1913), 112 note 1, 116 note 3, and B. Ch. Christoforides, Isidwvrou Glabav Arciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" omilive", (vol. 1 [Thessalonike, 1992], no. 28, M 46 H = K. N. Tsirpanlis, “Sumbolh; eij" th;n iJstorivan th'" Qessalonivkh". Duvo ajnevkdotoi oJmilivai ∆Isidwvrou ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh",” Theologia 42 [1971]: 548–81), no. 31 (pp. 85 ff ). 30 Sophokleous tou ex Oikonomon, Grhgorivou ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" tou' Palama' oJmilivai 22 (Athens, 1861), 46 ff. Cf. J. R. Melville Jones, ed., Eustathios of Thessaloniki. The Capture of Thessaloniki (Canberra, 1988), 154; Tn.L.F. Tafel, Eustathii metropolitae Thessalonicensis Opuscula (Frankfurt, 1832 [repr. Amsterdam, 1964]), 72 ff. Palamas makes reference to Luke 6:34, Deut. 23:19, 20, Levit. 25:37, and Psalm 14:5. The usurer destroys the life of the borrower, and loses his own soul, “for usury is the child of vipers.” 31 This is by reference to Psalm 54:11. 32 Palamas also condemns both pleonexiva (greed, but with the additional meaning of desiring or having more than one’s just share) and filarguriva (avarice), in a traditional manner: cf., e.g., his sermon on filarguriva, in C. Triantaphyllis and A. Grappoutos, Sullogh; ÔEllhnikw'n ∆Anekdovtwn, vol. 1 (Venice, 1874), 115–21.

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The general attitude of our intellectuals then, is one of condemnation of the usurer on social and moral grounds, since he, with his greed, causes his fellow men to suffer. There is feeling in these texts, and indignation, but there is not much to interest the historian of the economy or of economic thought. Nicholas Kavasilas does introduce some novelties in the debate. Certainly, his two works on the subject, his Oration against Usurers (Lovgo" kata; tokizovntwn) and his address On Usury (Peri; tovkou), are the best-known texts on the subject from this period.33 The “Oration against Usurers” is also the fullest such text after those of the fourth-century fathers.34 In it, Kavasilas takes up various arguments that purportedly are used by usurers to justify the practice of lending at interest. He defeats them all, to his own satisfaction. He argues his case by reference to divine law and makes some interesting, and to my knowledge unique, remarks about the tenor of civil law. He discusses the effects of usury mostly in moral terms, somewhat less clearly and certainly less profoundly in economic terms. His analysis is indebted to patristic writings. Let us look more closely at some of his arguments. His oration starts almost in medias res, with no introduction and no general statements, as if in the middle of an argument, or as if it were a preamble to a law, although it is surely too lengthy for that. There are some, he says, who argue that it is not mandatory to follow the law that forbids usury; those who do follow the law are praiseworthy, but those who wish to contravene it may do so. This looks like a direct reference to Novel 83 of Leo VI, which had rescinded the interest prohibition legislated by his father, Basil I (Procheiros Nomos 16.14), and which had started with the statement: “it would have been excellent and salvific if the human race conformed to the laws of the Holy Spirit and did not need human laws,” and ended by saying he (Leo VI) does not wish to blame (his father’s) law itself; however, that law is too perfect, and so he rescinds it. Kavasilas says that not one of the ancient laws is so framed that one may contravene it at will, and continues with a reference to the Psalms, which forbid interest altogether (Ps. 54:11, 12, 27:14). Economic arguments against the taking of interest are interspersed in the discussion. Those who charge interest, says Kavasilas, do not work or take any risks; they gain without toil. It is an argument that, in various forms, has been used from the fourth century until and including Karl Marx.35 But Kavasilas neither expands on it nor presents it in an economic context, but rather sees it as a factor differentiating usury from adultery, murder, and theft, all of which are also illegal, but carry risk, unlike usury. Equally undeveloped is the following argument: the usurer is profiting from the labor of others, to increase his money.36 This is in the context of saying that even alms given by the usurer do 33

PG 150: 727–50; R. Guilland, “Le traité inédit ‘sur l’usure’ de Nicolas Cavasilas,” in Eij" mnhvmhn Spurivdwno" Lavmprou (Athens, 1935), 269–77. On Kavasilas, see Chr. Baltogou, “H oikonomikhv skevyh tou Nikovlaou Kabavsila,” Buzantiakav 16 (1996): 191–213, a disappointing discussion; M. Pantazopoulos, Rwmai>ko;n divkaion ejn dialektikh'/ sunarthvsei pro;" to; ÔEllhnikovn (Thessalonike, 1979), 3: 139 ff; cf. Baltoglou, “Economic Thought in the Last Byzantine Period,” in Ancient and Medieval Economic Ideas and Concepts of Social Justice, ed. S. Todd Lowry (Leiden–New York, 1998), 421–23, and K.-P. Matschke and F. Tinnefeld, Die Gesellschaft im späten Byzanz (Cologne, 2001), 347–55. 34 The date is traditionally thought to be 1351, but for no compelling reason. See below, 217–18. 35 See Gregory of Nyssa, PG 44: 672; Zonaras’ commentary on canon 17 of Nicaea, in Rhalles and Potles, Suvntagma, 2: 151–52. 36 PG 150: 733.

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not profit him, for what he gives is not legally his. Thus Kavasilas condemns usurers because they multiply their money, that is, they make a profit, by appropriating the fruits of the labor of others. The connection between interest and lack of labor on the part of the lender is an idea of patristic origin that seems to have found virtually no development since the twelfth century.37 In Kavasilas, there is a little development of the idea, but not in a way that promotes further thought. The usurer says, in his own defense, that by lending at interest he has saved many people from poverty. Kavasilas contests the intent: it was not charity but love of profit that made the usurer behave in this manner. In point of fact, the usurer aims at a transfer of wealth, from the borrower to himself. Any increase in wealth has resulted from the labor of the borrower—again, we have the condemnation of laborless profit. It should be noted here that Kavasilas is clearly and unambiguously talking of productive loans. But this does not lead him to any discussion or differentiation between consumption loans and loans for production; this is not unique in Byzantine writings about usury, but certainly there is less profundity here than in the twelfth century. Finally, there is the argument presented by usurers that, while they might eschew charging interest to the poor, they might reasonably demand it from the rich. This could have become an economic argument regarding profit to capital, such as that developed in the twelfth century. Kavasilas does not permit it to become so. He says simply that the wealth of the creditor does not enter into it: all interest is illegal; sucking the blood out of the poor is simply a much worse sin.38 The economic argumentation, then, is really rather thin, much thinner than among the twelfth-century canonists. The moral argument is not original or subtle either, and a reference to the sterility of money depends entirely on a text of St. Basil. Usury is a mark of the human race, although the command is to love one’s fellow man. If the New Testament (Matt. 25:41–46) condemns to eternal fire those who do not give to the needy from their own property, how much more will the usurer be punished, who takes the property of others? Nor will almsgiving profit the usurer, for he gives not of his own but of the property of others. People should lend money without expecting gain, a good Old Testament statement. The usurer harms not only himself but the city as well, just as the murderer or the thief does. Besides, had not St. Basil, when famine struck, laid the blame at the foot of the usurers? “Remit,” he had said, “the heavy interest, so that the earth may bear its usual fruit. For when copper and gold and sterile things give birth unnaturally, nature which naturally bears fruit becomes sterile.”39 This argument on the sterility of money, which originates perhaps with Aristotle, certainly with the fourth-century fathers, and which led to so much productive thinking in western Europe, is here presented without any originality. One other line of thought, on the contrary, has some value. The usurers, says Kavasilas, bring forth the argument that they do not deal unjustly with anyone, since they “receive from people who are willing.” This is, in highly reduced form, an excellent argument deriving from Roman law, which accepts and defends the validity of contracts agreed upon by free individuals, in the absence of fraud, violence, or constraint. But, counters Kavasilas, 37

Laiou, “Nummus,” 599 and note 47; PG 150: 733. This seems to be based on St. Basil and St. Gregory of Nyssa. 38 PG 150: 740. 39 PG 150: 729, 732–33, 736–37, 748, and PG 31: 269.

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these loan contracts are not truly freely arrived at; rather, people are forced by need, and they choose the lesser evil against the greater one: they have borrowed money from the usurer earlier, they cannot repay it, they fear he will not lend to them again, and so they suffer him to eat away their property by charging interest.40 So this is a contract forced by need, and not the result of the exercise of free will. The argument presented here could have been one with major implications: it is connected with the very important question of what constitutes force, and therefore invalidates contracts. Does economic need constitute constraint of such a kind that the freedom of the will of the individual cannot be exercised? It is a question to which the answer ever shifts, in medieval times as in modern. Occasionally, in Byzantium, it had been accepted that economic need indeed invalidates contracts: see the Novel of 934. But in the late period, as we know from the documentation of the patriarchal tribunal in Constantinople, although people tried to show that economic need constituted force, and therefore invalidated contracts, the argument was never accepted.41 Thus the contracting individual, in the absence of physical or political force, was assumed to be acting of his or her free will. Kavasilas does not develop an argument to the contrary. He introduces the idea that contracts involving loans at interest are not entered upon with the free will of the borrower, but he quickly dissolves this into a larger argument that the lender offends not only the borrower but also the commonwealth, and God himself.42 More interesting is Kavasilas’ attitude to the civil laws. Here one may say that he is, indeed, original, for the common attitude, certainly the attitude of the twelfth-century canonists, was that the laws are to be observed which allow laymen to charge interest. To justify their practices, Kavasilas’ usurers bring forth the civil law: “imperial law permits one to make profits in this fashion, which it would never have done, had it been a sin.”43 He first responds by saying that divine law has greater validity anyway, but then he gets into a real discussion. It is not every law, he says, that permits interest; some permit it and some not, and so according to some laws the usurer is allowed to do this, while according to others he is not. The reference to a law that disallows interest must be to the law of Basil I that was later abrogated by Leo VI. The usurer continues by noting that Basil I’s measure is new law, and that the old law had permitted interest. Kavasilas counters with an argument that starts off well and then breaks down: is every new law worse than the old one? If so, then the usurer, who chooses which law to follow and therefore acts as a legislator, is the newest lawmaker of all. Besides, there is the old law and the oldest law, that of God, which forbids interest; at this point, the argument becomes specious. Kavasilas argues further, on the basis of the laws which forbid clerics to charge interest, and permit aristocrats to charge only very low interest, that civil law clearly disapproves of interest, for it allows it only or mostly to base individuals, not to the best ones. “The law,” he says, “allows the worst people to charge the highest interest rates, and the better people to charge the lower ones.” Thus the law, continues our author, likens interest rates to the character of the lender, permitting rates appropriate to one’s depravity (mocqhriva).44 In that case, says the usurer, why do we have laws? The answer constitutes one 40

PG 150: 748. See, e.g., MM 2: 361–66 (1400). 42 Ibid. 43 PG 150: 740. 44 PG 150: 741–44. 41

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of the densest passages in this oration, and it makes reference to a number of the provisions of the laws governing interest, even though the references are oblique. According to Kavasilas’ argument, the laws exist so that usurers will not charge the high interest allowed by ancient laws (could this be a reference to the pre-Justinianic law, or even to the pre-Constantinian period, when interest was unlimited?) but will limit their demands. The creditor may not receive higher interest even if the borrower is willing to pay it and has signed a contract to that effect.45 Besides, the law states only the maximum interest allowed, not the minimum. Therefore, it is possible for a borrower to pay no interest, if it has been so agreed. Furthermore, in the case where there is no explicit mention of interest, the creditor may not demand it later. This is clear reference to the Hexabiblos 3.7.4: “Interest on the interest is not taken, nor interest which has not been agreed upon, that is, interest about which there was no agreement at the beginning of the case.” Kavasilas is here using the provisions of civil law to prove that the law only halfheartedly permits interest; or, as he puts it, “you see that the law governing interest is not a law promulgated by men who want interest, but by men who would abolish it.”46 This is, as I have indicated, by far the most original part of the oration. It goes right to the heart of the matter: civil law permitted interest, and throughout Byzantine history canonists and theologians had to take that into account. Kavasilas stands the law on its head; he argues against its validity, on the basis of the legislation of Basil I and disregarding the fact that the latter was short-lived. He finds in the current legislation sufficient hesitation to allow him to say that the law itself is not such that one should obey it. We will see that contemporary legal compilations provide grounds for such argumentation. There is one other point of originality in this oration. Kavasilas internationalizes the argument: the Byzantines, he says, are unique in permitting interest, for neither the Jews, nor “the barbarians who are currently occupying Palestine,” that is the Muslims, “nor the various Latin races” do so. “Only in our parts, following a wisdom acquired I know not where, the wise race of usurers has invented a new form of public salvation: iniquity . . . and they try to persuade men to replace divine commands by their own desires.”47 He is absolutely correct, of course, for the Byzantines (along with the Syrian church) were the only peoples of the Book to permit interest. The fact that he is aware of the practices of Muslims, Jews, and western Christians is in itself interesting and may provide one element of explanation for the extensive opposition to usury in the fourteenth century: the presence of foreign merchants, primarily Italians, who in their contracts avoided mention of interest, as we know from sources outside Thessalonike. Our author had the experience of Constantinople as well. Kavasilas’ address on usury, addressed to Anna of Savoy probably in 1351 from Thessalonike where they both were, is more circumstantial than the oration we have just analyzed.48 The author is trying to persuade the regent, and through her the Emperor John V, to reissue a law of Andronikos III, dating from the end of the civil war between the two Andronikoi, which had remitted the interest (though not the capital) of the debts of the 45

Hexabiblos 3.7.9, 12. PG 150: 744. 47 PG 150: 736. 48 Text and commentary in Guilland, “Le traité” (as above, note 33). For the date, see R.-J. Loenertz, “Chronologie de Nicolas Cabasilas, 1345–1354,” OCP 21 (1955): 223 ff. 46

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poorest creditors, the ones who had most suffered during the war.49 The concern here is more social than economic or ideological. There is no general invective against the laws on usury; indeed, Kavasilas insists that these laws retain their validity, which is different from his argument in the oration. He adopts a moral and moralizing attitude, launching accusations against the rich for acting unjustly, for enriching themselves while ruining others, for behaving like wild animals, like robbers and thieves, all reminiscent of passages of the oration.50 There is only one interesting, but very tendentious argument which has a legal context. Kavasilas tries to argue that the interest (tovko") on a loan is like a deposit (parakataqhvkh), in that the person who holds another man’s property in deposit, if he has lost it through the actions of robbers, that is outsiders, is not required to return the deposit which he no longer holds in his possession. By analogy, the capital of a loan was meant to profit the borrower, so he has to restore it, even if he has lost it. On the other hand, the purpose of the interest was to benefit not the debtor, but rather the creditor. The money the borrower may have held in connection with the interest was not for himself, but rather was held by him in order to benefit the creditor. Therefore, interest is similar to deposit, and in case of unexpected calamity the borrower cannot be held responsible for its loss. No law that I know of is being textually reproduced here. Kavasilas’ meaning is clear, however. The substance of the legislation on deposit is covered by Bas. 13.2.20 and 13.2.35.51 The closest parallel, in fact, is Procheiros Nomos 18.11, part of which is reproduced in Hexabiblos 3.9.15, and which does say that if a person holding a deposit loses it because of a robbery, his heirs are not held liable. In the absence of specific agreement to the contrary, the person is held liable only for losses that occur through negligence or fraud. The extension by analogy of the provision regarding deposit to interest, is specious and gratuitous; there are specific legal provisions governing interest, and the legislator at no point leaves an open question to which the answer has to be found in arguments by analogy.52 Nevertheless, the argument is not without interest. First of all, the very fact that Kavasilas is drawing this connection between deposit and interest may have some explanation, which at the moment eludes me; whatever the explanation may be, it does not suggest that his legal training was superb. Second, the interest is held to be the property of the creditor, a concept that might be worth some consideration. Third, it is notable that Kavasilas is making a legal argument, not the economic one which he could have made: he could have argued, for example, that the expected profit from the loan did not materialize, and therefore that interest as profit to money should not be charged. Finally, and most importantly, this argument by analogy does not condemn lending at interest in general, but only provides a would-be legalistic justification for remitting the interest of those who had fallen on hard times. The tenor, therefore, is very different from that of the oration against usury, whatever modern scholars may have said to the contrary.53 This, incidentally, also puts into question the chronology and the locality of composition of Kavasilas’ two texts 49

Guilland, “Le traité,” 274; cf. PG 150: 748 D–E, where the borrowers also lose everything. Guilland, “Le traité,” 274. 51 Also Hexabiblos 3.9.13, 15. 52 Pantazopoulos, Rwmai>ko;n divkaion, 3: 142 states that Kavasilas’ argument does not accord with Roman law, which provides for “regular” and irregular” (oJmalh; kai; ajnwvmalo") deposit. Kavasilas examines “regular” deposit, and then generalizes to apply the same terms to interest-bearing loans; in the latter, however, the debtor is not relieved by chance events from the obligation to pay the interest. 53 See, for example, Angelopoulos, Nikovlao" Kabavsila", 90–92. 50

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against usurers. It is universally assumed that the undated oration and the address to Anna of Savoy are approximately contemporary, written ca. 1351 and in Thessalonike. The date must be correct as far as the address to Anna of Savoy is concerned. However, the only reason for assuming contemporaneity between the two texts is the supposed similarity between them. While statements regarding the unfortunate position of the borrowers are, indeed, similar, the similarity ends here. The argumentation and the recommendations are quite different. Therefore, as far as I can see, there is no reason to assume either the date or the place of composition of the oration. The question should be reexamined. Meanwhile, it seems to me that the best and perhaps the only argument for contemporaneity lies in the opening statements of the oration, which, as I have already indicated, sounds almost like the prooimion to a piece of anti-usury legislation. But this is a rather thin argument. In twelfth-century Byzantium, there had been creative thinking on interest by jurists, canonists, and, in a roundabout way, commentators on Aristotle. By the fourteenth century, western Europeans had already developed a very complex argumentation regarding interest. One is reminded, by way of comparison, of the most complex text that existed in Greek in the fourteenth century: the chapter on interest in Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica, translated into Greek by Demetrios Kydones before 1363, presumably in Constantinople;54 it is an impressively accurate translation. There are some differences with the critical edition of the Summa Theologica, but since Kydones himself complained that he had only one manuscript at his disposal, and could not compare it with other versions,55 one should be very careful about ascribing the divergences to the intent of the translator. There is a dizzying difference in the level of argumentation between this and Kavasilas’ texts. There are a few interesting parallels, such as the discussion of the force or constraint under which the borrower acts.56 Only in one area are Kavasilas’ arguments more developed: that is the issue of civil law, and the licit charging of interest according to its provisions.57 St. Thomas’ basic argument is that civil law lets a number of sins go unpunished so as not to inhibit certain benefits that may arise from them, since man is imperfect (ajtelei'" in the translation; Kavasilas often uses the adjective mocqhrov" as, for example, in PG 150: 744A, D). He says that civil law does not consider interest just, only necessary. This 54 This is Summa Theologica II–II.78. The unpublished text of the translation was made available to me through the kindness of Professor E. Moutsopoulos and Mrs. A. Leontsini. On the issue, cf. F. Kianka, “Demetrius Cydones and Thomas Aquinas,” Byzantion 52 (1982): 264 ff, and the bibliography on p. 266 note; St. G. Papadopoulos, ÔEllhnikai; metafravsei" Qwmistikw'n e[rgwn (Athens, 1967) ; A. Glykofridou-Leontsini, “La traduzione in greco delle opere de Tommaso d’Aquina,” Nicolaus 3 (1975): 429–32. 55 Kianka,“Cydones and Aquinas,” 285. 56 Parallels between the Summa Theologica (ST) and Kavasilas’ oration: (1) ST 78.2.2: Argument of usurers: he who lends money does a favor (cavri") to the borrower. Response: if the return is given by contract, it is not freely given. Kavasilas, PG 150: 733B: Some creditors say that the loans are like charity (ejlehmosuvnh), for they profit the borrower. The response is rhetorical: is the creditor charitable for giving in order to gain, and for increasing his wealth through the labor of others? (2) The closest equivalent: ST 78.1.7: To;n tovkon eJkousivw" oJ daneizovmeno" divdwsin. Response: oJ didou;" tovkon oujc aJplw'" eJkousivw" divdwsin, ajlla; metav tino" ajnavgkh" kaqovson dei'tai labei'n nomivsmata daneivw/ a{per oJ e[cwn a[neu tovkou ouj bouvletai dou'nai. Kavasilas 728B: Kai; tivna, fhsivn, ajdikou'men, eij par∆ eJkovntwn lambavnomen; Response: The injury is to God, for the borrowers do not pay interest willingly, but are forced into it: ouj ga;r ajpo; gnwvmh" ejqelousivou proi>evnai t∆ ajrguvrion, ajlla; fevrousin ajposterouvmenoi kai; zhmiva" ajllavttontai zhmivan. . . .”Oti ga;r grammateivoi" katevdhsa", kai; i{na mhv, crhvsasqai dehqevnto", aujqi" ajpostrafh'", kataboskomevnou th;n oujsivan ajnevcontai. Finally, there is harm to the polity. 57 PG 150: 740–45; ST 78, art. 1, no. 4.

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is very much what Leo VI had stated. Kavasilas, as we have seen, includes a similar argument, but gives it short shrift, presenting its refutation much more forcefully, and he also finds other reasons to play down the importance of civil legislation. The reason Kavasilas is more interested in this issue is, of course, the much heavier import of civil law in Byzantium than in the West. Along with the theologians and men of letters, Thessalonike of the mid-fourteenth century could also boast the presence of jurists. Two among them are of primary importance and influence: Constantine Harmenopoulos and Matthew Vlastares. Given the general position of Byzantine civil law on the question of lending at interest, it is worth looking at the legal compilation of Constantine Harmenopoulos, the Hexabiblos, which had a long life and influence. In Book 3, Titles V (on loans and mortgages) and VII (on interest) of the Hexabiblos, the author repeats and summarizes the classic Byzantine legislation on interest. Harmenopoulos correctly understands the legal interest rates as ranging between 3, 4, 6, 8, and 12 percent per year (Hexabiblos 3.7.17). An incomplete scholion uses the pound of gold (72 nomismata) as the basis for calculating interest rates; this calculation, in use since the eleventh century, results in a maximum rate of 16.67 percent per year.58 The scholion provides a novel and erroneous explanation of the calculation on the basis of the pound of gold. There are two original points which merit further discussion. The first arises from a scholion to Hexabiblos 3.7.9, 11, 12, 13, on provisions that have to do with the overpayment of interest under various conditions, on the payment of interest agreed upon through stipulation (Hexabiblos 3.7.13), and on what happens when one has agreed, by written contract, to pay either excessive or compound interest (Hexabiblos 3.7.12). The scholiast, writing on or before 1353, interprets what appear to be contradictory provisions, and resolves the apparent contradiction. He introduces, not quite gratuitously but certainly without being forced to do so by the content of the laws, a strong statement regarding the maximum level which accumulated interest may reach. If, he says, one has paid interest which he owed or which he did not owe, whether it was legal or illegal, when the original sum (kefavlaion) is doubled, then the loan is considered to have been paid in full, both the capital and the legal interest.59 There is nothing terribly novel in this provision, which is good Roman law; it is simply the repetition that is striking, as is the repetition of the prohibition in two other clauses. We may have here a reflection of a situation that did arise in contemporary Thessalonike;60 perhaps excessive interest or compound interest over a period of time resulted in accumulated interest that exceeded the capital; this 58 It may be worth repeating the classic Justinianic/Byzantine calculation of interest rates. The basis of the calculation is the rate of 1% per month (= 12% per year), called centesima (eJkatosthv), which is the maximum rate permitted by Justinian I in 528, and which may be charged on sea loans and loans in kind. The other, lower rates, are calculated as fractions of the centesima. Thus merchants and bankers may charge 8% (bes centesimae, a[cri dimoivrou eJkatosth'"). People of the rank of illustris and above may charge interest only up to 4% (tertia pars centesimae, a[cri trivtou eJkatosth'"), and all others may charge only 6% (dimidia centesimae, a[cri" hJmivseo" eJkatosth'"). Loans to pious foundations have a maximum interest rate of 3% (ajpo; tetavrtou eJkatosth'"). See C. 4.32.28, Bas. 23.3.74. When some Byzantines start calculating on the basis of the pound of gold (72 nomismata), so that the rate of 6%, for example, becomes 6 nomismata per pound (= 8.33%), there is a barely concealed rise in the interest rates. On this development, see Laiou, “God and Mammon,” 269–80. 59 This refers to Hexabiblos 3.7.23, but also to Hexabiblos 3.7.5 (“when the interest has doubled the capital, the interest payments cease”). 60 The scholion appears in two manuscripts: the Codex Constantinopolitanus (1353) and the Codex Bodleianus (1425).

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not only was illegal but also, presumably, made it too difficult to pay off the debt, thus posing both economic and social problems. The second novelty lies in the fact that, at the end of Title VII, after having discussed legal interest rates and the conditions governing interest-bearing loans, the jurist, Harmenopoulos, cites a law which is titled “Novel of the Caesar Leo, forbidding interest” (Neara; tou' Kaivsaro" Levonto" to;n tovkon ajpagoreuvousa). The law is misattributed, for the content makes it clear that it is the law not of Leo VI but of Basil I, which we have already encountered (Procheiros Nomos 16.14). It had forbidden all lending at interest, on the basis of the prohibitions posited by “divine laws”: hence the order that no one receive any interest whatsoever for whatever reason, “so that we do not contravene the law of God while observing the (civil) law.” Leo VI, on the other hand, while accepting the greater morality of divine law, also cites the weakness of human nature, which makes it necessary that interest (albeit a low one) be permitted by human law. Harmenopoulos, however, cites the prohibition of Basil I, not mentioning the fact that it had been rescinded.61 The most recent editor of the Hexabiblos, K. Pitsakis, writes that this is the most well known case of a “contradiction” in the Hexabiblos, and attributes it to a habit of Harmenopoulos who sometimes juxtaposes classic law (cited first) and “new” law (cited second).62 There is something more to say on the subject. We note that the mention of “Leo’s” (in fact, Basil’s) law is followed by a reference to the fact that all clerics are prohibited from lending at interest, on the basis of the seventeenth canon of the first council of Nicaea and the tenth canon of the council in Trullo.63 Whoever wrote this was, I suggest, trying to reinforce the negative points toward lending at interest which creep into the Hexabiblos through the citation of Basil’s legislation. One is forced to compare this novelty with the nomocanonical text of Matthew Vlastares, the Suvntagma kata; stoicei'on (Alphabetical Treatise), written in Thessalonike in close chronological proximity to the Hexabiblos (about ten years earlier). The purpose of this compilation was to bring together and harmonize civil and ecclesiastical law; to harmonize them means, to this learned monk, “to place those civil laws which are useful . . . together with the holy canons with which they are in alliance and with which they have a common voice.”64 Interest comes, logically enough, under letter T for tovko". First are mentioned the canons of the Apostles, of St. Basil, and of the councils of Nicaea I, in Trullo, Laodicea, Carthage, all of which forbade interest taking to clerics. Then we come to the civil laws. The first law cited, without attribution, is that of Basil I which forbids all interest. It is then followed by the “old law,” that is, the classic legislation which set the le61 I will not discuss here the various debates regarding the dating of the Procheiros Nomos and whether it was issued by Basil I (the traditional view) or by Leo VI. The traditional dating has been disputed by A. Schminck, Studien zu mittelbyzantinischen Rechtsbüchern (Frankfurt, 1986); his arguments have been countered by Th. E. van Bochove, To Date and Not to Date: On the Date and Structure of Byzantine Law Books (Groningen, 1996), 29–56. 62 Hexabiblos 3.7.24. Cf. K. G. Pitsakis, Kwnstantivnou ∆Armenopouvlou Provceiron Novmwn h] ÔExavbiblo" (Athens, 1971), 203 note 2. On interest legislation in the Hexabiblos, see S. Troianos, “ÔH peripevteia tou' buzantinou' dikaivou sth;n ÔEllavda tou' 19ou ajiwvna: ÔH perivptwsh tw'n tovkwn,” in Praktika; 16ou Panellhnivou ÔIstorikou' Sunedrivou (Thessalonike, 1996), 219–333. 63 Hexabiblos 5.7.25. According to Heimbach, this note also is a marginal gloss to the Codex Constantinopolitanus; it is not known, therefore, whether it originates from the pen of Harmenopoulos or another. 64 Rhalles-Potles, Suvntagma, 6, p. 5; Sp. Troianos, Oi phgev" tou Buzantinouv dikaivou, 2d ed. (Athens, 1999), 298.

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gal rates.65 Presumably, in the eyes of Vlastares, the old law is superseded by the new law, although he does not say so. We shall return to the law of Basil I one more time. Vlastares, however, was not of a single mind, it would appear. For he then discusses the “old law.” After having mentioned the legal interest rates, he says that as far as sea loans are concerned, if the borrower assumes the risk the lender may charge only the legal rate, that is, the hekatoste, which he correctly defines as 12 percent per year. But if the risk is assumed by the lender, then he may go above the legal rate. This is, indeed, an intriguing statement. To be sure, pre-Justinianic legislation had permitted those who lent money in sea loans and assumed the risk to charge interest above the legal rate (C. 4, 33.1–4). This was included in the Basilics (53.5.16–19, Peri; daneismavtwn diapontivwn) which, however, also repeats the Justinianic legislation that limits interest on sea loans to 12 percent per year. Furthermore, and this is the important point, the classic legislation (Bas. 23.3.74 = C. 4.32.26),66 which lists the various interest rates allowed by Justinian, specifically states that in the past it had been permitted to charge higher interest in sea loans and loans in kind (50% in the latter case). The present legislation, it continues, still allows higher interest than for other loans, but this higher interest is limited to the hekatoste, that is, 12 percent. Unexpectedly, Vlastares, despite this clear and unambiguous statement, and in contradiction to the law, says that the creditor who assumes the risk is allowed interest “above the legal interest,” where “legal” is defined as the hekatoste.67 This is truly an exceptional position, which seems almost like a conscious misinterpretation of the law—to cover current practices? Interestingly, Harmenopoulos’ reading of the laws is the one intended by Justinianic legislation: he says that those making sea loans may charge the full 12 percent and that the creditor who does not assume the risk may not charge this meivzona tovkon which the 12 percent represents.68 Of all of the other legislation concerning interest, Vlastares mentions only two provisions. First, he notes that the total interest may not exceed the amount of the capital; when it does, the excess is counted against capital. Second, he cites the basic rule of Roman law, that one may not charge interest on the interest (that is, compound interest is not allowed). The text of Vlastares deserves some comment. First, the fact that canon law precedes civil law is normal in such a text. Second, the admission that sea loans can carry more than the legal interest, depending on who assumes the risk, is a reference to contemporary realities.69 Third, while Vlastares admits the existence of legal interest, it is clear that he dis65

Rhalles-Potles Suvntagma, 6, T. 7, pp. 473–76. According to Sp. Troianos, “Peri; ta;" nomika;" phga;" Matqaivou tou' Blavstarh,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 44 (1979–80): 321, the source for the provisions is the Justinianic Code; T 7. 475.26–476.12 is C. 4.32.26 (cf. Bas. 23.3.74); T 7.476.16–18 is C. 4.32.26.4 (cf. Bas. 24.6.26); T 476.19–20 is C. 2.11.20, 4.32.28. (cf. Bas. 23.3.29). T476.12–15 derives from the commentary of Valsamon on canon 17 of the Council of Nicaea: Rhalles-Potles, Suvntagma, 2: 153, 19–22. 66 Cf. Hexabiblos 3.7.23. 67 The 10th-century ∆Eklogh; Novmwn summarizes the legal provisions on maritime loans in a way that makes Vlastares’ interpretation possible: Zepos, Jus 4, Epitome legum 17: 85–88. Vlastares does retain the Justinianic disposition regarding interest on loans in nature (12%). 68 Hexabiblos 3.7.18–19. 69 A document dated 1425 in K. D. Mertzios, Mnhmei'a Makedonikh'" ÔIstoriva" (Thessalonike, 1941), 55–56, mentions an interest rate of 20% on sea loans as being normal, and of long usage in Thessalonike. The Venetians found this excessive and lowered it to 15%.

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approves, as a cleric must. This is proven both by the inclusion of the defunct legislation of Basil I and by the fact that the two other provisions he mentions are restrictive ones. If we now see the two texts of Harmenopoulos and Vlastares together, it may be that the mention of Basil’s law in Harmenopoulos is not a routine matter, but rather a reminder to his readers that there had, indeed, existed a civil law that forbade interest. We must also connect this with Kavasilas’ statement that the “new” law, of Basil I, should supersede the “old,” that is, Justinianic law, and thus that all interest should be forbidden. Kavasilas had legal training of some sort, although not too much. His oration certainly was written after the Nomocanon. It was probably written after the Hexabiblos, and it may have been influenced by these texts. In any case, the combination suggests very strongly that in Thessalonike of the mid-fourteenth century (or thereabouts) there was a strong juridical bias against interest-bearing loans. It is irrelevant to our topic narrowly construed, but not to the larger question, that the patriarchal court of Constantinople in the fourteenth century mentions interests far above the legal ones, and also that the court was hostile to the charging of interest.70 It is not irrelevant to repeat that even Vlastares bows to real conditions, in which money was dear. We may now make some general observations. The middle to late fourteenth century was a troubled time in Thessalonike because of the civil wars and the civil strife. This situation, which began in the 1320s, must be kept in mind. The economy was active and productive in the first half of the century, until the start of the second civil war. Agriculture seems to have been productive, diversified, and market-oriented, while Thessalonike was a center of trade for cereals and cloth, among other commodities. But the political instability introduced elements of economic instability. This was a monetized economy, and people borrowed money. They borrowed for productive purposes, to be sure. But by the time of the civil war, profits were uncertain and there were reversals of fortune. Kavasilas’ address to Anna of Savoy suggests all this, and also the existence of consumption loans, since it talks of people who had lost everything except for a ruined house or rags on their backs, which the creditors would request in satisfaction of their loans. Similar evidence comes from Isidore of Thessalonike in a much worse economic environment. Credit clearly was dear, a fact which must be seen in the context of the devaluation of the coinage. Devaluation meant a decreasing real value of the interest payments, which normally leads to higher interest rates, as the creditors try to compensate for the decreasing value;71 this is rational behavior, but devaluation also undoubtedly created a psychology of instability among creditors. There was as well, it seems, greater social stratification and a growing gap between rich and poor in Thessalonike. The economic thoughts and attitudes of the fourteenth-century intellectuals of or in Thessalonike reflect the problems of the economy and the concerns of society. The economy was active in the first half of the century, and market principles were followed; but it 70

See MM 2: 380–81, 313–14; cf. N. P. Matses, “ÔO tovko" ejn th'/ nomologiva/ tou' Patriarceivou Kwnstantinoupovlew" kata; tou;" IDV kai; IEV aijw'na",” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 38 (1971): 83; E. Papagianni, ÔH nomologiva tw'n ejkklhsiastikw'n dikasthrivwn th'" buzantinh'" kai; metabuzantinh'" periovdou sev qevmata periousiakou' dikaivou, vol. 1 (Athens, 1992), 48 and 97. 71 If we knew the exact interest rates charged (nominal interest) and the precise rate of devaluation, we would be able to calculate by how much the real interest rates (nominal interest discounted by the expected devaluation rate) rose: i(nominal) – E(dev) = i(real). We do not, however, have such exact information.

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operated with an increasing degree of uncertainty. This led thinking people to speculate on causes and remedies. Along with speculation on moral and political issues, there was concern about the terms of exchange and credit. For the first time since the ninth century, there were voices arguing for the prohibition of interest-bearing loans. That the arguments were not entirely consistent, and that they mostly went in a different direction from that which seems to have been followed in the matter of freedom of exchange is not, perhaps, surprising; for we do not have here a developed economic theory but, rather, responses to contemporary realities. Harvard University

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Civic and Monastic Influences on Church Decoration in Late Byzantine Thessalonike SHARON E. J. GERSTEL In loving memory of Thalia Gouma-Peterson

he analysis of style in late thirteenth- and fourteenth-century monumental decoration helps to assemble a cohesive group of painted churches sited primarily in greater Macedonia and Serbia. Rooted in the strong painting tradition of Komnenian Thessalonike,1 this late Byzantine style is characterized by voluminous figures drawn in thick line, expressive facial features and vibrant gestures, bright colors with deep undertones, and narratives infused with complex theological and liturgical references. That this “new” style can also be traced in churches in the south of Greece and the Aegean islands,2 where it competed with artistic practices forged by cross-cultural interactions, attests to its popular appeal and its dissemination beyond the boundaries of a restricted geographical area. The inspiring “hand” behind this new or renewed “Macedonian style” was the painter known to us as Manuel Panselinos, whose work at the Protaton church on Mount Athos of ca. 1290 stands at the beginning of a long chain of related monuments.3 His works are associated with those of the painters Michael Astrapas, Eutychios, Kallierges, and a number of still-anonymous figures that traveled the trade and communication routes connecting Thessalonike with Chalkidike, greater Macedonia, Serbia, Thessaly, Thrace, and distant Constantinople. Style has traditionally formed the connective tissue in constructing a corpus of related monuments in the region. In this paper, however, I examine the represen-

T

1

For a discussion of a regional painting style in the Komnenian period, see E. Tsigaridas, Oi toicografive" th" monhv" Latovmou Qessalonivkh" kai h buzantinhv zwgrafikhv tou 12ou aiwvna (Thessalonike, 1986). 2 See, e.g., A. Vasilake-Karakatsane, OiJ toicografive" th'" “Omorfh" ∆Ekklhsia'" sth;n ∆Aqhvna (Athens, 1971); M. Chatzidakis, “Rapports entre la peinture de la Macédoine et de la Crète au XIVe siècle,” in IX CEB, vol. 1 (Athens, 1955), 137–48. 3 E. Tsigaridas addressed this topic at the 2001 Dumbarton Oaks symposium. See also E. Tsigaridas, “O kur Manouhvl Pansevlhno",” in supplement to H Kaqhmerinhv: Eptav hmevre" (29–30 April 2000): 2–11; idem, “Forhtev" eikovne" sth Makedoniva kai to VAgion VOro" katav to 13o aiwvna,” Delt.Crist.∆Arc.ÔEt. 21 (2000): 123–55; M. Vasilake, “Uphvrxe Manouhvl Pansevlhno" ?,” in Manuel Panselinos and His Age, Institute for Byzantine Research, Byzantium Today 3 (Athens, 1999), 39–54; A. Xyngopoulos, Manouhvl Pansevlhno" (Athens, 1956). For a contrast between stylistic trends in Thessalonike and Constantinople in this period, see M. Panayotidi, “Les tendances de la peinture de Thessalonique en comparaison avec celles de Constantinople, comme expression de la situation politico-économique de ces villes pendant le XIVe siècle,” in Byzantium and Serbia in the 14th Century, National Hellenic Research Foundation Institute for Byzantine Research, International Symposium 3 (Athens, 1996), 351–62.

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tation and diffusion of specific subjects in order to explore how monumental decoration in Thessalonike’s churches may have been influenced by events that transpired in the city in the fourteenth century, how ecclesiastical decoration may have responded to a civic or regional piety that was distinctive of Byzantium’s second city, and how the representation of specific subjects within a limited number of churches may have proclaimed Athonite affiliation and influence.4 Common subject matter has been the criterion for assembling the monuments discussed in this study. As we shall see, many of the churches cited have also been linked, in the past, on stylistic grounds. THE INFLUENCE OF CONTEMPORARY EVENTS The large number of churches constructed in the early fourteenth century and the high quality of their decoration attest to a large pool of patrons with the ability to hire the best available artisans. A painted epigram bordering the sanctuary in St. Demetrios records a crucial repair to the church and testifies to one of the few imperially sponsored projects in the city at this time. The lower part of the inscription, which is ascribed to the Constantinopolitan poet Manuel Philes, refers to renovations supported by Michael IX Palaiologos, who died in Thessalonike in 1320: “This sacred structure, [which was] tested by time and which threatened to crumble in on itself, Michael, the crown-bearer, has brilliantly repaired. Finding its roof completely rotted and its tiles wholly damaged, so much so that they could not repel the squalls of rain, he fashioned it anew so that it appears now, from its foundations, as an astonishing wonder.”5 Written sources and surviving monuments suggest that projects of ecclesiastical construction and renovation, like that undertaken by Michael, were a regular feature of urban life in the first decades of the century. The remaining years, however, were punctuated by moments of crisis; the number of monuments constructed in or recorded from the middle and late fourteenth century tapers dramatically. The events that plagued the city in this period are well known, but the litany bears repeating in this context: the bitter wars between Andronikos II and his grandson, the Zealot uprising, the defense of hesychasm, severe outbreak of disease, and the Turkish invasions. Some of these events are captured in the material remains of the period. Fragments of a sarcophagus found in the Vlatadon monastery once housed the remains of George Kapandrites, scion of one of the city’s aristocratic families. An inscription on its cover, originally inlaid with the family’s coat of arms and monograms, laments the loss of the young man to the plague (novsw/ takevnta loimikh'" ajrrwstiva").6 Excavations 4 This paper does not include a discussion of the program of Holy Apostles, which was most likely painted by a workshop from Constantinople. 5 The verse begins with an invocation to the Virgin, who “procured the crown” for Michael, prince of Rome, and gave him “a life long and exempt of illnesses” as well as “victory over [his] enemies.” In the inscribed supplication Michael calls upon the archangels, apostles, hierarchs, and martyrs. The text, according to some scholars, may refer rhetorically to figures that were depicted within the church. See. J.-M. Spieser, “Inventaires en vue d’un recueil des inscriptions historiques de Byzance, I, Les inscriptions de Thessalonique,” TM 5 (1973): 171–73; M. Lascaris, “Micah;l Q v oJ Palaiolovgo" ejn ejpigrafh'/ tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou Qessalonivkh",” ∆Arc.∆Ef.(1953–54), 4–10; G. and M. Soteriou, ÔH basilikh; tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou Qessalonivkh" (Athens, 1952), 221–24. 6 The epigram on the sarcophagus has been ascribed to Manuel Philes. A. Xyngopoulos, “To; kavlumma th'" sarkofavgou tou' Gewrgivou Kapandrivtou,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 11 (1935): 346–60 (repr. in A. Xyngopoulos, Qessa-

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within the city walls have also yielded evidence of social unrest. The quick, multiple burials within a fourteenth-century graveyard lying over the Roman hippodrome may reflect substantial political upheaval or rampant disease.7 At least seven of the churches that still stand in the city—St. Nicholas Orphanos,8 Hagia Sophia,9 St. Panteleimon,10 Taxiarches,11 the Vlatadon monastery,12 Panagia ton Chalkeon,13 and the Metamorphosis of the Savior14—and perhaps several others, contain burials that can be dated to this time. These burials demonstrate the desire of late medieval supplicants to be buried in close proximity to the sacred, even within earlier churches, and reveal a funerary function that may yet hold implications for the reading of decorative programs and architectural additions to them in this period. Traces of the events that so preoccupied the fourteenth-century residents of the city are less apparent in surviving works of ecclesiastical decoration. Chrysanthi MavropoulouTsioume has suggested that the graphic Massacre of the Innocents painted in the narthex of Prophitis Elias (Fig. 1) conjures the bloody massacre of the city’s aristocrats lamented by Demetrios Kydones.15 Painted several decades after the Zealot uprising of 1345, the massacre is depicted in a highly emotional manner, bringing to life Kydones’ vivid description of the slaughter of the city’s aristocrats, who were forced to jump from the city’s ramparts only to be dismembered and abused by the rabble below: “So, as some were thrusting the victims off the top, others, holding swords below them, caught them in mid-air. One victim’s head would be shattered, another’s brains would spill out, and, upon tearing open lonivkeia Melethvmata [Thessalonike, 1999], 63–78); A. Xyngopoulos, “To; ejllei'pon temavcion ejk tou' kaluvmmato" th'" sarkofavgou tou' Gewrgivou Kapandrivtou,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 16 (1940): 157–60 (repr. in Xyngopoulos, Qessalonivkeia Melethvmata, 145–48); Spieser, “Les inscriptions,” 173–74; Th. Pazaras, Anavglufe" sarkofavgoi kai epitavfie" plavke" th" mevsh" kai uvsterh" buzantinhv" periovdou sthn Ellavda (Athens, 1988), 35. 7 A. Vavylopoulou-Charitonidou, “Céramique d’offrande trouvée dans des tombes byzantines tardives de l’Hippodrome de Thessalonique,” in Recherches sur la céramique byzantine, ed. V. Déroche and J.-M. Spieser (Athens, 1989), 209–26. 8 A. Xyngopoulos, “Newvterai e[reunai eij" to;n ”Agion Nikovlaon ∆Orfano;n Qessalonivkh",” 6 (1964): 90–98 (repr. in Xyngopoulos, Qessalonivkeia Melethvmata, 448–58). 9 A. Xyngopoulos, “Tucai'a euJrhvmata ejn Makedoniva/,” ∆Arc.Delt. 9 (1924–25): 66–67 (repr. in Xyngopoulos, Qessalonivkeia Melethvmata, 1–5), describes two tombs found in the chamber to the south of the bema. Tomb B contained three fragments of woven clothing, which Xyngopoulos attributed to the Palaiologan period. 10 Unpublished. This information was kindly provided me by A. Tsigarida. 11 A. Xyngopoulos, Tevssare" mikroi; naoi; th'" Qessalonivkh" (Thessalonike, 1952), 16–17. 12 D. Makropoulou, “To buzantinov koimhthvrio th" monhv" Blatavdwn,” in Cristianikhv Qessalonivkh: Staurophgiakev" kai enoriakev" Monev" (Thessalonike, 1995), 237–44; eadem, “Apov to usterobuzantinov nekrotafeivo th" Monhv" Blatavdwn,” H Qessalonivkh 1 (1985): 255–309. 13 ∆Arc.Delt. 43:B2 (1987): 397. 14 ∆Arc.Delt. 37:B2 (1982): 287 and 38:B2 (1983): 281 describe the discovery of a tomb in the south conch that contained a skeleton and two glazed ceramic vessels. For the original dedication of the church to the Virgin, see E. Kourkoutidou-Nikolaidou, “To egkaivnio tou naouv tou Swthvro", Qessalonivkh,” H Qessalonivkh 1 (1985): 205–17. 15 Ch. Mavropoulou-Tsioume, “H mnhmeiakhv zwgrafikhv sth Qessalonivkh sto deuvtero misov tou 14ou aiwvna,” in Eujfrovsunon. ∆Afievrwma sto;n Manovlh Catzhdavkh, vol. 2 (Athens, 1992), 663. For the identification of the church in the Byzantine period, see G. Theocharides, “Duvo neva e[ggrafa ajforw'nta eij" th;n Nevan Monh;n th'" Qessalonivkh",” Makedonikav 4 (1955–60), 315–51; V. Laurent, “Le métropolite de Thessalonique Gabriel (1397– 1416/19) et le couvent de la ‘Nea Moni’,” ÔEllhnikav 13 (1954): 252–54; idem, “Une nouvelle fondation de Choumnos: La Nea Moni de Thessalonique,” REB 13 (1955): 116; Th. Papazotos, “The Identification of the Church of ‘Profitis Elias’ in Thessaloniki,” DOP 45 (1991): 121–27.

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another’s belly, they would venture to probe things that no man has a right to see.”16 With the full publication of Thessalonike’s monumental programs, scholars may obtain a better understanding of how the Zealot revolt and other sociopolitical events may have affected the decoration of the city’s churches. THESSALONIAN PIETY In the absence of clear links to Thessalonike’s civic history, I now turn to its religious life. From the earliest years of the fourteenth century, monasticism played a large role in the decorative programs of the city’s ecclesiastical structures, even, significantly, in the few structures that were sponsored by secular patrons. The chapel attached to the southeast corner of the church of St. Demetrios reveals monastic influence, even if its patron was a military commander stationed in the city. Restored in 1303 by Michael Glavas Tarchaneiotes and his wife, Maria, the diminutive basilica is dedicated to St. Euthymios, the founder of Palestinian cenobitic monasticism. Scholars have viewed the couple’s inability to conceive a child as the motivating force behind the chapel’s unusual dedication to this saint.17 Euthymios was indeed born to aged parents, and the first scene in the representation of his Life, located on the chapel’s west wall, shows his parents praying to conceive a child. The majority of the illustrated scenes, however, depict his monastic vocation. Thalia Gouma-Peterson has suggested that the representation of the Life of Euthymios within the chapel “demonstrates pictorially the importance of the monk in contemporary Byzantine society.”18 Many agree that the small chapel echoes the standard decorative program of larger churches of the period;19 this view should be refined, however, to reflect the type of program and its potential audience, that is, monastic. In addition to scenes from the monastic Life of the titular saint, the program includes portraits of the sainted monks Theodore the Stoudite and Stephen the Younger (Fig. 2). Such images are generally included in chapels or churches intended for monastic use. These portraits complement the monumental icon of Euthymios on the south pier flanking the sanctuary, a site generally reserved for the image of Christ (Fig. 4). Demetrios, to whom the adjoining basilica is dedicated, is represented on the north pier (Fig. 3). These panels have been viewed as a visual expression of the military and monastic components that marked the empire of Andronikos II.20 This may indeed be the case. However, there may be more to the decision to add a chapel with an overtly monastic message to the empire’s principal shrine of St. Demetrios. 16 J. W. Barker, “The ‘Monody’ of Demetrios Kydones on the Zealot Rising in 1345 in Thessaloniki,” in Essays in Memory of Basil Laourdas (Thessalonike, 1975), 298. Recently, R. Nelson has approached the scene of the Massacre in the exonarthex of the church of the Savior at Chora in a similar manner. Quoting from the lament written by Alexios Makrembolites over the loss of Asia Minor to the Turks, Nelson suggests that the detailed scene may have resonated with the church’s patron, Theodore Metochites, originally from Nicaea. See R. S. Nelson, “Taxation with Representation: Visual Narrative and the Political Field of the Kariye Camii,” Art History 22 (1999): 56–82. 17 G. I. Theocharides, “Micah;l Douvka" Glaba'" Tarcaneiwvth",” ∆Ep.∆Ep.Fil.Sco.Pan.Qe". 7 (1956): 202–3. 18 Th. Gouma-Peterson, “The Parecclesion of St. Euthymios in Thessalonica: Art and Monastic Policy under Andronicos II,” ArtB 58 (1976): 182. 19 E.g., see Th. Gouma-Peterson, “The Frescoes of the Parekklesion of St. Euthymios in Thessaloniki: Pa´urcˇic´ and D. Mouriki (Princeton, N.J., 1991), trons, Workshops and Style,” in The Twilight of Byzantium, ed. S. C 112. 20 Gouma-Peterson, “The Parecclesion,” 173.

1

Prophitis Elias, Thessalonike. Massacre of the Innocents (after Thessaloniki and Its Monuments [Thessalonike, 1985], pl. 31)

2

Chapel of St. Euthymios, Thessalonike. St. Stephen the Younger (photo: courtesy of the Photographic Archive, Benaki Museum, Athens)

3

Chapel of St. Euthymios, Thessalonike. St. Demetrios (photo: author)

4

Chapel of St. Euthymios, Thessalonike. St. Euthymios (photo: P. Papachatzidakes)

5

Protaton church, Mount Athos. Drawing of northwest chapel, north wall. Barlaam and Ioasaph (after Djuri´c, “Les conceptions hagiorites,” fig. 13)

6a St. George, Omorphokklesia, near Kastoria. Ioasaph (after E. G. Stikas, “Une église des Paléologues aux environs de Castoria,” BZ 51 [1958]: fig. 5)

6b St. George, Omorphokklesia, near Kastoria. Barlaam (photo: author)

7a, b Panagia Olympiotissa, Elasson. Barlaam and Ioasaph (after E. Constantinides, The Wall Paintings of the Panagia Olympiotissa at Elasson in Northern Thessaly, vol. 2 [Athens, 1992], 186a, b)

8

Prophitis Elias, Thessalonike. Barlaam and Ioasaph (photo: author)

9

Protaton church, Mount Athos. Pachomios and the Angel; detail (photo: courtesy of the Photographic Archive, Benaki Museum, Athens)

10 St. George, Staro Nagoricˇino. St. Pachomios and the Angel (after G. Millet and A. Frolow, La peinture du Moyen Âge en Yougoslavie [Serbie, Macédoine, et Monténégro], vol. 3 [Paris, 1962], pl. 116.3, 4)

11 Panagia Olympiotissa, Elasson. Pachomios and the Angel (after Constantinides, Panagia Olympiotissa at Elasson, fig. 182)

12 Vatopedi monastery, Mount Athos. Heavenly Ladder (after E. Tsigaridas, “The Mosaics and the Wall Paintings,” in The Holy and Great Monastery of Vatopaidi: Tradition—History—Art, vol. 1 [Mount Athos, 1998], 274)

13 Protaton church, Mount Athos. Hosios David of Thessalonike (photo: courtesy of the Photographic Archive, Benaki Museum, Athens)

14 Vlatadon monastery, Thessalonike. St. Gregory Palamas (photo: author)

15 Vlatadon monastery, Thessalonike. St. Gregory Palamas (photo: courtesy of the Photographic Archive, Benaki Museum, Athens)

16 Vlatadon monastery, Thessalonike. Prayer of St. John Chrysostom (after G. A. Stogioglou, ÑH §n Yessalon¤k˙ patriarxikÆ monÆ t«n Blatãdvn [Thessalonike, 1971], fig. 41)

17 Vatopedi monastery, Mount Athos, cod. 761. Prayer of St. John Chrysostom (after K. Weitzmann, “The Psalter Vatopedi 761: Its Place in the Aristocratic Psalter Recension,” JWalt 10 [1947]: fig. 13)

18 Vatopedi monastery, Mount Athos, cod. 761. Saints of Thessalonike (after Weitzmann, “The Psalter Vatopedi 761”)

19 Vatopedi monastery, Mount Athos, chapel of Hagioi Anargyroi. St. Gregory Palamas (photo: E. Tsigaridas)

20 St. Demetrios, Thessalonike. St. Demetrios and Bishop (photo: Foto Marburg/Art Resource, NY)

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The addition of the Euthymios chapel (and subsequent monastic imagery) to the church’s program came at a time in which Demetrios’ official biography was undergoing subtle expansion. In the fourteenth century, encomiasts writing about the saint began to endow him with the ascetic virtues prized by Byzantine monks.21 In praising Demetrios’ virginity and purity, in emphasizing his hesychast attributes, and in comparing him to biblical figures like Job, such authors as Nicholas Kabasilas, Gregory Palamas, and Philotheos Kokkinos transformed him from a military exemplar into a powerful symbol of Orthodox dogma and spirituality.22 These texts and others suggest that the fourteenth century witnessed a refashioning of Demetrios’ identity within ecclesiastical circles—he was to be not only the protector of the city but also the advocate of its monastic identity. Monastic associations with the saint and his cult are further revealed in the extended celebration of his feast in October. The festival of St. Demetrios played a central role in the life of the fourteenth-century city. The actual celebration was modeled on Holy Week of Easter,23 and the month of October was taken over by events preceding and following the actual day of celebration; these were constructed to serve various factions of the city’s populace.24 Already in the twelfth century, monks were fully incorporated into the festival honoring the saint. The Timarion describes the saint’s feast as “celebrated over three all-night vigils, with many priests and monks divided into two choirs constantly chanting the hymn in honor of the saint.”25 By the fourteenth century, judging from primary sources, the third day of the extended festival was given over to Thessalonike’s monastic community.26 A homily delivered by Isidore, archbishop of Thessalonike (d. 1396), to the monks gathered to honor the saint, contrasts the monastic life with the secular and compares the brethren to the saint in terms of ascetic virtue.27 According to the fifteenthcentury diataxis written by Symeon of Thessalonike, the city’s monks were also fully incorporated into religious processions in honor of the saint.28 Given the unusual dedication and decoration of St. Euthymios and the inclusion of the monastic community within celebrations in St. Demetrios, we might postulate that the chapel served as a small monastic oratory within the city’s largest shrine. The visual juxtaposition of Demetrios’ portrait with that of Euthymios, one of the most venerated figures of Orthodox monasti21

A. Papadopoulos, “∆Egkwvmia stovn ”Agio Dhmhvtrio katav thvn palaiolovgeia ejpochv kaiv oJ eJortasmov" tou' ÔAgivou . sthv Qessalonivkh,” in Cristianikhv Qessalonivkh Palaiolovgeio" ejpochv (Thessalonike, 1989), 134; idem, ÔO a{gio" Dhmhvtrio" eij" th;n eJllhnikh;n kai; boulgarikh;n paravdosin (Thessalonike, 1971), 110–31; B. Laourdas, “∆Egkwvmia eij" to;n a{gion Dhmhvtrion kata; to;n devkaton tevtarton aijw'na,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 24 (1954): 275–90. 22 B. Laourdas, “Nikolavou Kabavsila, Prosfwvnhma kai; ∆Epigravmmata eij" a{gion Dhmhvtrion,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 22 (1952): 100–101; Gregory Palamas, “Eij" to;n ejn aJgivoi" megalomavrtura kai; qaumatourgo;n kai; murobluvthn Dhmhvtrion,” PG 151: 536–58; B. Laourdas, “Filoqevou patriavrcou Kwnstantinopovlew", ∆Egkwvmion eij" to;n ”Agion Dhmhvtrion,” Makedonikav 2 (1941–52): 558–82. For a recent edition of Philotheos’ encomium, see D. Tsamis, “Filoqevou Kovkkinou ejgkwvmio sto;n ”Agio Megalomavrtura Dhmhvtrio to; Muroblhvth,” ∆Ep.∆Ep.Qeo.Sco.Pan.Qes. 26 (1981): 49–83. 23 I. Phountoules, “∆Idiorruqmive" th'" leitourgikh'" pravxew" th'" Qessalonivkh" katav tiv" ajrcev" tou' IE v aijwn' o",” in Cristianikhv Qessalonivkh: Palaiolovgeio" ejpochv (Thessalonike, 1989), 153–55; B. Laourdas, “Sumew;n Qessalonivkh". ∆Akribh;" diavtaxi" th'" eJorth'" tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou,” Grhg.Pal. 39 (1956): 326–41. 24 A. Papadopoulos, “AiJ eJortai; tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou ejn Qessalonivkh/,” Grhg.Pal. 46 (1963): 361. 25 Timarion, trans. B. Baldwin (Detroit, 1984), 45. 26 Papadopoulos, “AiJ eJortai;,” 365. 27 “∆Isidwvrou ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh": ÔOmilivai eij" ta;" eJorta;" tou' aJgivou Dhmhtrivou,” ed. B. Lourdas in ÔEllhnikav, Paravrthma 5 (1954): 32–43. 28 Laourdas, “Sumew;n Qessalonivkh",” 329.

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cism, suggests that the chapel was more than a votive offering intended to guarantee fertility to an aging couple. The ecclesiastical construction boom of the late Middle Ages made manifest Thessalonike’s reputation as a pious city. The picture painted by written sources is one of an intense devotional life that engaged most of the city’s inhabitants. In his lament, Kydones asks in high rhetorical fashion, “[What can we say about her] superlatively lovely and sacred shrines and holy places that are everywhere within [the city], of such size and in such profusion that there is nowhere else their like, neither in magnitude nor in multitude?”29 In the city, he says “there are no fixed hours for those who wish to pray, but since the churches are open both day and night, one can come freely to send up his prayers and supplications.”30 Kydones’ praise of the size and number of the city’s churches echoes words written by Theodore Metochites in 1292. What distinguished the city for the young Metochites was its ardor concerning the dogma of truth, the beauty of its churches, and its numerous and great foundations.31 For Nicholas Kabasilas, Thessalonike owed its superiority to Mount Athos, which stood as a pillar of spiritual direction for the city, an observation to which I will return.32 Relatively few of the churches that would have been known to Kydones, Metochites, and Kabasilas stand today, though written sources such as chrysobulls, praktika, and wills demonstrate that more than fifty ecclesiastical structures were functioning in the fourteenth century. These establishments included newly constructed churches as well as older foundations that continued to serve the city’s populace. Among these numbered the venerable urban basilicas that were medieval parish churches or significant shrines, monasteries and monydria for both men and women, small chapels dedicated to healing saints and to holy figures of local origin and importance, and metochia for Athonite and neighboring monasteries. The inclusion of monastic imagery within the decorative programs of Thessalonike’s churches can be partially attributed to an unusual pattern of patronage in the late period, one that differed substantially from that in the empire’s other cities. In Constantinople, Arta, and Trebizond, significant programs of the late period were primarily associated with imperial patronage or with members of the bureaucratic and military elite—people like Michael and Maria Tarchaneiotes, who also restored a chapel in the capital.33 But Thessalonike’s great patrons in the late period were primarily high church officials.34 29

Barker, “The ‘Monody’,” 292; A. Vakalopoulos, “H ÔMonw/diva epiv toi" en Qessalonivkh/ pesouvsi∆ (1346) tou D. Kudwvnh kai ta istorikav stoiceiva th" gia thn yucologiva twn epanastathmevnwn mazwvn sth stavsh tou 1342 k.e.,” Qessalonivkh 4 (1994): 91. 30 Barker, “The ‘Monody’,” 292; Vakalopoulos, “Monw/diva,” 91–92. 31 B. Laourdas, “‹Qeodwvrou Metocivtou› Eij" to;n a{gion megalomavrtura kai; muroblhvthn Dhmhvtrion,” Makedonikav 4 (1955–60): 58. 32 “Nikolavou Kabavsila: Prosfwvnhma eij" to;n e[ndoxon tou' Cristou' megalomavrtura Dhmhvtrion to;n murobluvthn,” in Th. Ioannou, Mnhmei'a aJgiologikav (Venice, 1884; repr. Leipzig, 1973), 71; A. Papadopoulos, “Nikovlao" Kabavsila" : Filomovnaco" kaiv Filomavrtu",” in Praktikav Qeologikou' Sunedrivou eij" timh;n kai; mnhvmhn tou' sofwtavtou kai; logiwtavtou kai; toi'" o{loi" aJgiwtavtou oJsivou patro;" hJmw'n Nikolavou Kabavsila tou' kai; Camaetou' (Thessalonike, 1984), 183. 33 H. Belting, C. Mango, and D. Mouriki, The Mosaics and Frescoes of St. Mary Pammakaristos (Fethiye Camii) at Istanbul, DOS 15 (Washington, D.C., 1978). For a catalogue of buildings constructed in Constantinople in this period and their patrons, see V. Kidonopoulos, Bauten in Konstantinopel 1204–1328 (Wiesbaden, 1994). 34 M. L. Rautman, “Notes on the Metropolitan Succession of Thessaloniki, c. 1300,” REB 46 (1988): 147– 59; A. Laiou, “Saints and Society in the Late Byzantine Empire,” in Charanis Studies: Essays in Honor of Peter Charanis, ed. A. E. Laiou-Thomadakis (New Brunswick, N.J., 1980), 84–114.

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Kabasilas’ comment about the spiritual direction offered by Mount Athos demonstrates the central role played by the Holy Mountain in the life of the city, a role that affected church patronage. Marcus Rautman, among others, has commented on the unusual position held by the city’s metropolitans in the foundation of its great monasteries.35 Many of these metropolitans were recruited from monasteries on the Holy Mountain or retired to Athos after relinquishing episcopal office.36 Iakovos, for example, the founder of the Virgin Peribleptos tou kyr Isaak, signed an Athonite act of 1291 as “hieromonachos and kathegoumenos of the venerable imperial Lavra of St. Athanasios” and served as metropolitan of Thessalonike from 1293 to 1299, and perhaps into the fourteenth century.37 Monastic influence on the urban fabric and on day-to-day life is revealed in the large number of metochia that dotted the city, standing as architectural reminders of Athonite allegiance. According to fourteenth-century documents, Iviron had at least six metochia in the city: St. Barbara, St. George, St. John the Baptist, St. Clement, St. Basil, and St. Nicholas.38 The Great Lavra had three, Hilandar had two, and Vatopedi, Xenophon, Panteleimon, and Philotheou each had one.39 As J.-P. Grelois has demonstrated, the katholika of these foundations could be very impressive.40 St. John the Baptist, Iviron’s metochion, is described as a brick-and-stone church covered by a tile roof and endowed with a twostoried narthex. Its interior was paved in marble, its naos divided by four marble columns, and its walls covered by paintings. The decoration of such metochia, viewed by visitors to the city, may have played a central role in transmitting subject matter from the governing monastery to its local dependency. The metochia might have constituted “places of memory” which, by means of shared imagery, common architectural plan, and particular rite, closely bound Thessalonian and Athonite monasticism.41 35 M. L. Rautman, “Patrons and Buildings in Late Byzantine Thessaloniki,” JÖB 39 (1989): 295–315; idem, ´urcˇic´ and “Aspects of Monastic Patronage in Palaeologan Macedonia,” in The Twilight of Byzantium, ed. C Mouriki, 53–74. For a discussion of patterns of artistic patronage in Thessalonike and Constantinople, see R. S. Nelson, “Tales of Two Cities: The Patronage of Early Palaeologan Art and Architecture in Constantinople and Thessaloniki,” in Manuel Panselinos and His Age, 127–40. 36 L. Petit, “Les évêques de Thessalonique,” EO 5 (1901–2): 90–97; idem, “Nouveaux évêques de Thessalonique,” EO 6 (1903): 292–98; J. Gouillard, “Le Synodikon de l’Orthodoxie: Édition et commentaire,” TM 2 (1967): 113–15; Rautman, “Notes,” 147–59. 37 Rautman, “Notes,” 150–52. For the church of the Virgin Peribleptos, today identified as St. Panteleimon, see R. Janin, Les églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins (Bithynie, Hellespont, Latros, Galèsios, Trébizonde, Athènes, Thessalonique (Paris, 1975), 386–88; A. Tsitouridou, “Zidno slikarstvo Svetog Pantelejmona u Solunu,” Zograf 6 (1975): 14–20 (trans. in Balkanikhv Bibliografiva 7 [1978]: 153–68); eadem, “La peinture monumentale à Salonique pendant la première moitié du XIVe siècle,” in L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe siècle (Belgrade, 1987), 10; G. I. Theocharides, “ÔO Matqai'o" Blavstari" kai; hJ monh; tou' ku;r ∆Isaa;k ejn Qessalonivkh/,” Byzantion 40 (1970): 437–59. 38 J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, et al., Actes d’Iviron, vol. 2 (Paris, 1990), 50–52; Actes d’Iviron, vol. 4 (Paris, 1995), 34–35. 39 ˇivojinovic´, V. Kravari, et P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, et al., Actes de Lavra, vol. 2 (Paris, 1977), 2–4, 69–76; M. Z al., Actes de Chilandar, vol. 1 (Paris, 1998), 61–62; D. Papachryssanthou, Actes de Xénophon (Paris, 1986), 30. For other metochia, see Janin, Les églises, 363, 373, 386, 402. 40 J.-P. Grelois, “À propos du monastère du Prodrome à Thessalonique,” Byzantion 59 (1989): 78–87. See also M. L. Rautman, “Ignatius of Smolensk and the Late Byzantine Monasteries of Thessaloniki,” REB 49 (1991): 159–60; G. I. Theocharides, “Miva ejxafanisqei'sa megavlh monh; th'" Qessalonivkh", hJ monh; tou' Prodrovmou,” Makedonikav 18 (1978): 1–26; Janin, Les églises, 406. 41 For a discussion of the use of memory in the medieval West that might be useful in this context, see M. Carruthers, The Craft of Thought: Meditation, Rhetoric, and the Making of Images, 400–1200 (New York, 1998), 32–35.

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THESSALONIKE AND MOUNT ATHOS The high incidence of clerical or monastic patronage in Thessalonike, the presence of numerous metochia within its walls, as well as the city’s geographical proximity to the Holy Mountain, resulted in the creation of church programs that were heavily influenced by Athonite practices and personalities. Although monuments in the region have traditionally been grouped by style, the overtly monastic character of the city’s paintings, which, in turn, influenced artistic programs in greater Macedonia and Serbia, sets the painting in this region apart from that of any other. Three subjects related to monastic life and rite as practiced on Mount Athos appear in churches of Thessalonike and its hinterland; these subjects rarely appear in other areas, signaling their regional significance. Representations of Barlaam and Ioasaph, Pachomios and the Angel, and the ladder of John Klimakos became popular in fourteenth-century monastic programs, and they appear primarily in churches influenced by Athonite monasticism. The romance describing the conversion of a young Indian prince named Ioasaph by the monk Barlaam is known from more than 140 manuscripts, the earliest dating to the tenth century.42 The prince’s renunciation of his kingdom in order to follow his spiritual father and live in a state of poverty and penitence was seen from an early period to express the spiritual wanderings of the monk and the virtues of ascetic monasticism. Although Barlaam and Ioasaph are represented in the church of the Virgin at Studenica (1208/9),43 the portrait group is more common in church decoration from the end of the thirteenth century. Churches in which the monastic pair is found, including Studenica, were influenced by Mount Athos, which played a central role in the popularization and circulation of the tale in late Byzantium.44 Important representations of Barlaam and Ioasaph are found in the northwest chapel of the Protaton church on Mount Athos, painted ca. 1290 (Fig. 5).45 The inclusion of their portraits within this church’s program is significant; a decade after its decoration the feast of St. Ioasaph is first recorded in a synaxarion made for the protos of Mount Athos, Ioannikios.46 In monumental painting, the two figures are dressed in monastic habits and are represented in dialogue; their conversation is recorded on their scrolls. Shortly after their depiction in the Protaton, they are included in the programs of other churches linked by style to the Athonite church. Barlaam and Ioasaph are depicted in the Peribleptos church (St. Clement) in Ohrid, painted by Michael Astrapas and Eutychios in 1294/5.47 The pair forms part of a painted frieze of monks, which includes Chariton, Stephen the Younger, and Theodore the Stoudite, in the exonarthex of 42

S. der Nersessian, L’illustration du roman de Barlaam et Joasaph, 2 vols. (Paris, 1937). ´irkovic´, V. Korac´, and G. Babic´, Studenica Monastery (Belgrade, 1986), fig. 59; R. Hamann-MacLean S. C and H. Hallensleben, Die Monumentalmalerei in Serbien und Makedonien vom 11. bis zum frühen 14. Jahrhundert (Giessen, 1963), pl. 66. Constructed as Stefan Nemanja’s grave church, building and decoration was completed after his withdrawal to the Hilandar monastery on Mount Athos. His body was brought to the church from Athos in 1208. 44 For the spread of the romance in Serbia, see V. J. Djuric´, “Le nouveau Joasaph,” CahArch 33 (1985): 99– 109. 45 V. Djuric´, “Les conceptions hagioritiques dans la peinture du Protaton,” HilZb 8 (1981): 51, 55, 77 fig. 13. 46 Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Coislin 223, fol. 307v. See Synaxarium CP, XLI: ∆Eteleiwvqh hJ parou'sa bivblo" ejn e[tei "wqV, ijnd. idV, spoudh'/ kai; ejxovdw/ tou' panosiotavtou hJmw'n patro;" iJeromonavcou ∆Iwannikivou kai; prwvtou tou' V aJgivou o[rou". 47 Hamann-MacLean and Hallensleben, Monumentalmalerei, plan 20, and personal observation. 43

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St. George at Omorphokklesia (Gallista) near Kastoria (Figs. 6a, b). The decoration of this monastic church, which is dated by an inscription to 1295–1317, has been compared with the paintings of Panselinos and with works by other Thessalonian masters.48 At a later point in the fourteenth century the pair is included in the ambulatory program in Panagia Olympiotissa at Elasson (Figs. 7a, b),49 as well as in the narthex of Prophitis Elias in Thessalonike (Fig. 8).50 The churches in which Barlaam and Ioasaph are represented belong to monastic communities. The relationship of the youthful prince turned monk and his ascetic mentor surely resonated with the Orthodox brethren, and their placement within subsidiary spaces suggests that these icons decorated chapels or spaces used for hourly prayers, special commemorations, and penitential exercises. Within the Protaton’s northwest chapel, Barlaam and Ioasaph are spatially juxtaposed with the portrait of St. Pachomios in dialogue with an angel (Fig. 9).51 This early representation captures the moment in which the angel appears to the saint and presents him with the rules of monasticism.52 The scene quickly spread from Athos to other monastic churches in the region. From the Protaton it traveled to the Peribleptos in Ohrid, following the same route as the representation of Barlaam and Ioasaph.53 The painters Michael Astrapas and Eutychios inserted the scene into another church that they painted, St. George at Staro Nagoricˇino, where the pair is located on the west wall of the narthex (Fig. 10).54 In Thessalonike, portraits of the sainted monk and the cloistered angel decorate the ambulatory of St. Nicholas Orphanos, painted ca. 1320.55 In the Panagia Olympiotissa, Pachomios and the Angel are also located in the ambulatory (Fig. 11). Here the angel raises his hand to point at his koukoulion and carries a scroll inscribed with the words: “In this habit shall all flesh be saved.”56 The programs within these churches at Athos, Ohrid, Elasson, Thessalonike, and yet another in Veroia57 are not necessarily related by style but by the inclusion of the rare monastic theme. As in the depiction of Barlaam and Ioasaph, the images advocate the virtues of monasticism. Based on the chain of monuments in which the pair is found, the stimulus for this visual apology appears to be the monastic community of Athos. Like the romance of Barlaam and Ioasaph and representation of Pachomios and the 48

E. G. Stikas, “Une église des Paléologues aux environs de Castoria,” BZ 51 (1958): 100–112, figs. 5, 6. E. Constantinides, The Wall Paintings of the Panagia Olympiotissa at Elasson in Northern Thessaly, vol. 1 (Athens, 1992), 224–27, vol. 2 (Athens, 1992), 186a, b. Dendrochronology demonstrates that the church’s construction took place in the middle of the 14th century rather than earlier, as proposed by Constantinides. See C. L. Striker, “Some Monuments of Thessaloniki in Light of Dendrochronology,” (in press). I thank Dr. Striker for sharing his manuscript with me. 50 The decoration of this church has been dated 1360–80. See C. Mavropoulou-Tsioume, Buzantinhv Qessalonivkh (Thessalonike, 1992), 158. 51 Djuric´, “Les conceptions hagioritiques,” 53, 74 fig. 10; G. Millet, Les monuments de l’Athos. Les peintures (Paris, 1927), pl. 55.1. 52 F. Halkin, “L’Histoire Lausiaque et les Vies grecques de S. Pachôme,” AB 48 (1930): 257–301. 53 P. Miljkovic´-Pepek, Deloto na zografite Mihail i Eutihij (Skopje, 1967), 98–100, fig. 30.1. 54 G. Millet and A. Frolow, La peinture du Moyen Âge en Yougoslavie (Serbie, Macédoine, et Monténégro), vol. 3 (Paris, 1962), pl. 116.3, 4. 55 A. Tsitouridou, ÔO Zwgrafikov" diavkosmo" tou' ÔAgivou Nikolavou ∆Orfanou' sthvn Qessalonivkh (Thessalonike, 1986), 205, 206, pl. 106. 56 Constantinides, Panagia Olympiotissa, 219–20, figs. 92b, 182. 57 The pair is represented in the 14th century in the small basilica of St. George tou Archontos Grammatikou. Th. Papazotos, H Bevroia kai oi naoiv th" (11o"–18o" ai.) (Athens, 1994), 169. 49

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Angel, the Heavenly Ladder of John Klimakos held particular meaning for monastic communities. The ladder of monastic virtues is illustrated on icons and in manuscripts from the middle Byzantine period, and these were most often produced for monastic communities.58 Full-length, frontal portraits of the saintly author, whose precepts for monastic behavior were widely read in cloistered communities, are often found in monastic decoration from the middle Byzantine period. In the fourteenth century, hesychast theologians frequently cited the Heavenly Ladder as a contemplative text guiding spiritual elevation, both in its original form and that filtered through the writings of Symeon the New Theologian.59 Gregory Palamas, for example, makes frequent mention of the Heavenly Ladder. Portraits of John Klimakos are depicted in the same churches mentioned above—the Protaton, the Peribleptos (Ohrid), and Panagia Olympiotissa—and these portraits are clustered with representations of other monastic saints.60 A representation of the heavenly ladder, as yet unpublished, covers the north wall of the exonarthex of St. George at Omorphokklesia. The adjacent west wall of this space, as mentioned above, is decorated with portraits of monastic saints, including Barlaam and Ioasaph. Although much of the composition is damaged, a frontal portrait of John Klimakos stands at the center of the scene at ground level. The diagonal ladder and depictions of three ascending monks are still preserved on the upper registers of the wall. The uppermost figure clasps the hand of Christ as he joins his sanctified brethren seated within the circle of the heavens. Two monks tumble from the ladder to the right side of the composition. Of these, one is swallowed by a dragon, who bites down on the monk’s upper torso. The connections between the decoration of the exonarthex and painting on Mount Athos are strong and suggest that this monastery was influenced by artistic and religious developments on the Holy Mountain in this period. Certainly the most unusual representation of the heavenly ladder in wall painting, and one that would be copied in later Athonite churches, is found in the exonarthex of the Vatopedi monastery (Fig. 12).61 Here two scenes are placed together: the ladder that monks attempt to climb and a lavish banquet attended by an international cast of gourmands entertained by musicians. The contrast between the earnestly ascending monks and the banqueters is startling and illustrates a phrase in the text: “The preparing of the table exposes gluttons, but the work of prayer exposes lovers of God. The former dance on seeing 58

J. R. Martin, The Illustration of the Heavenly Ladder of John Climacus (Princeton, N.J., 1954). J. Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology: Historical Trends and Doctrinal Themes (New York, 1974), 70–71. 60 Millet, Monuments de l’Athos, pl. 47.2; Hamann-MacLean and Hallensleben, Monumentalmalerei, plan 20, no. 21; Constantinides, Panagia Olympiotissa, 82, 223. 61 E. Tsigaridas, “The Mosaics and the Wall Paintings,” in The Holy and Great Monastery of Vatopaidi: Tradition—History—Art, vol. 1 (Mount Athos, 1998), 262–63, 274. For a monumental representation of the Ladder of John Klimakos found in another monastic context, dated to 1211, see N. B. Drandakes, “To askhthvrio th" Anavlhyh" sto Muriavli tou Taugevtou,” in Qumivama sth mnhvmh th" Laskarivna" Mpouvra, vol. 1 (Athens, 1994), 84– 85. The scene recalls the angry words written by Patriarch Athanasios I in 1305–6 to Emperor Andronikos II. Complaining about the nobles eating in the galleries of Hagia Sophia during the service, Athanasios writes: “But if certain people come ‘to delight in the pleasures of the stomach’, as I saw yesterday—when the assembled multitudes departed, they left behind some bones and scraps—what benefit will they reap by assembling for this purpose, and turning the halls of Divine Wisdom into ‘places for drinking bouts’? And who will assure them that they will find another opportunity for ‘spiritual ascent’ and to achieve through prayer ‘the deification, which the saints would procure’ for us, if we would be willing?” A.-M. Talbot, ed., The Correspondence of Athanasius I Patriarch of Constantinople, DOT 3 (Washington, D.C., 1975), 103. 59

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the table, but the latter scowl.”62 The phrase derives from the twentieth step of the ladder “on Alertness,” which largely concerns appropriate behavior during the night vigils. The celebration of the night offices, according to monastic typika, would have taken place within spaces such as the exonarthex, in this church illustrated by the monumental ladder. The three subjects appear in churches located within a restricted geographical region. All of the churches, furthermore, were intended for monastic communities. Based on surviving programs, early representations of Barlaam and Ioasaph, Pachomios and the Angel, and the Ladder of John Klimakos are found in Athonite churches. Their transmission to Thessalonike, greater Macedonia, and Serbia may be attributed to traveling monks, to the programs of Athonite metochia, or to painters and workshops that traveled the commercial and religious routes within the region. It is important to recognize, however, that the direction of influence did not only flow from the Holy Mountain to neighboring Thessalonike; the representation of Thessalonian saints within Athonite monasteries demonstrates a sacred reciprocity. A few examples help to establish this point. Four of the city’s sainted bishops—Basil, George, Eustathios, and Basil ho Glykys—are represented in the prothesis chamber of the Vatopedi monastery, dated 1312.63 Hosios David of Thessalonike, whose well-known portrait in stone relief once decorated a medieval church in the city, is represented in the Protaton (in the northwest chamber; Fig. 13) and at Hilandar.64 In both churches the saint is represented in frontal pose, like the stone plaque. A second portrait type, depicting Hosios David as a dendrite, is found in the Chora monastery in Constantinople and Prophitis Elias in Thessalonike and may owe its origins to a source outside of the empire’s second city.65 Perhaps the most revealing evidence of the close connection between Athos and Thessalonike may be seen in the representation of St. Nikodemos in the program of the Hilandar katholikon, completed in 1321.66 In 1307 Nikodemos had been stabbed to death outside the gates of Thessalonike’s Philokalou monastery as he sought the protection of his abbot.67 His cult was extremely popular in the city, where a chapel was built over the grave of the miracle-working saint. It seems extraordinarily fast that within fourteen years of the saint’s death, Nikodemos’ portrait would find a place among the holy monks represented at Hilandar. But this speed demonstrates the open line of communication—both artistic and hagiographic—between the two centers. No figure better represents the reciprocal influence of Athos and Thessalonike than Gregory Palamas. The strong association of Palamas, metropolitan of Thessalonike from 1347 to 1359, with Mount Athos, where he was abbot of several monasteries, is well 62

St. John Climacus, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, trans. L. Moore (London, 1959), 170. Tsigaridas, Vatopaidi, 243. 64 A. Xyngopoulos, “∆Anavglufon tou' ÔOsivou Dabivd tou' ejn Qessalonivkh/,” Makedonikav 2 (1941–52): 143–66 (repr. in Xyngopoulos, Qessalonivkeia Melethvmata, 231–58); Millet, Les monuments de l’Athos, pl. 45.1; Djuric´, “Les conceptions hagioritiques,” 53–54; M. Markovic´, “The Original Paintings of the Monastery’s Main Church,” in Hilandar Monastery (Belgrade, 1998), 233. 65 P. Underwood, The Kariye Djami, vol. 1 (New York, 1966), 258–59; K. Charalambides, “H toicografiva tou Osivou Dabivd tou dendrivth sto naov tou Profhvth Hliva Qessalonivkh",” Serrai>kav Anavlekta 2 (1993–94): 53–56. 66 Markovic´, “The Original Paintings,” 228; I. Simonopetrites, “Toicografiva tou' oJsivou Nikodhvmou tou' ejn Qessalonivkh/ sto; kaqoliko; th'" monh'" Cilandarivou,” Prwta'ton 7 (1983): 133–37. 67 G. Chionides, “ÔO Beroiwvth" monaco;" kai; o{sio" Nikovdhmo" oJ nevo",” Makedonikav 22 (1982): 96–111; D. G. Tsamis, “To; uJpovmnhma tou' Filoqevou Kokkivnou sto;n ”Osio Nikovdhmo to; Nevo,” ∆Ep.∆Ep.Qeo.Sco.Pan.Qes. 26 (1981): 87–99. For a discussion of the monastery, see Magdalino, “Byzantine Churches and Monasteries,” 282; Janin, Les églises, 400. 63

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known.68 As in the case of Nikodemos, churches dedicated in his sanctified name and images of Palamas circulated within a short time after his death in 1359.69 Representations of Palamas spread rapidly as the saint’s cult took hold over the city where he had lived and preached. The earliest monumental representations of the saint are found in Thessalonike; these, and slightly later depictions in the neighboring cities of Veroia and Kastoria, have been studied in a series of articles by C. Mavropoulou-Tsioume and E. Tsigaridas.70 The earliest representation is preserved in the monastery of Christ Pantokrator ton Vlatadon, constructed around 133971 and associated, in the mid-fourteenth century, with two associates of Palamas, the brothers Markos and Dorotheos Vlates.72 Palamas, dressed as a bishop and inscribed O AGIOS GRHGORIOS O QESSALONIKHS, is depicted on the broad arch separating the narthex from the nave (Fig. 14). Above the saint, at the springing of the arch, is a narrow scene of the Transfiguration. This pairing is surely intentional; Palamas wrote extensively on the apostles’ vision of the uncreated light at the moment of Christ’s metamorphosis.73 A second representation of the saint within the same church is found in the south parekklesion painted, most likely, in the last quarter of the fourteenth century (Fig. 15).74 Here four theologians are represented in poses that recall portraits of evangelists or hymnographers. John Chrysostom and Symeon the New Theologian are located on the east side and Gregory of Nazianzos and Gregory, archbishop of Thessalonike, on the west. In his encomium following the saint’s death, Philotheos ranked Palamas among the Triad of Theologians, and such rhetoric would have guaranteed Gregory’s place within the elevated author portraits of the south chapel.75 Curiously, adjacent to the portrait of Palamas is the unusual narrative scene labeled “the prayer of St. John Chrysostom,” and this juxtaposition is significant. In the scene, Chrysostom, dressed as a monk, is represented twice, once reading from a lectern and once prostrate before an icon while his secretary, Proklos, looks on (Fig. 16).76 On first appearance, the juxtaposition of the portraits of Gregory, metropolitan of Thessalonike, and John, early patriarch of Constantinople, seems haphazard. This very juxtaposition, however, is echoed in Vatopedi 761, a 68

J. Meyendorff, Introduction à l’étude de Grégoire Palamas (Paris, 1959). Th. Giankou, “Marturive" peri; th'" mnhvmh" tou' ÔAgivou Grhgorivou tou' Palama' sto; ”Agion “Oro",” Klhronomiva 28 (1996): 9–30. 70 C. Mavropoulou-Tsioume, “OiJ prw'te" ajpeikonivsei" tou' aJgivou Grhgorivou tou' Palama' sthv Qessalonivkh,” in Praktikav Qeologikou' Sunedrivou eij" timhvn kaiv mnhvmhn tou' ejn aJgivoi" patrov" hJmw'n Grhgorivou ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh" tou' Palama' (Thessalonike, 1986), 247–57; eadem, “OiJ toicografive" th'" monh'" Blatavdwn, teleutaiva ajnalamphv th'" buzantinh'" zwgrafikh'" sthv Qessalonivkh,” in ÔH Qessalonivkh 1 (1985): 231–54; eadem, “H mnhmeiakhv zwgrafikhv,” 664–65; E. Tsigaridas, “Eijkonistikev" marturive" tou' ÔAg. Grhgorivou Palama' sev naouv" th'" Kastoria'" kaiv th'" Bevroia". Sumbolhv sth;n eijkonografiav tou' aJgivou,” in Praktikav Qeologikou' Sunedrivou . . . , 263– 94; idem, “Eijkonistikev" marturive" tou' ÔAg. Grhgorivou Palama' sth; Qessalonivkh kai; sto; ”Agion “Oro",” in ÔO ”Agio" Grhgovrio" oJ Palama'" sth;n iJstoriva kai; to; parovn (Mount Athos, 2000), 193–216. 71 C. L. Striker, “Some Monuments of Thessaloniki in Light of Dendrochronology” (in press). 72 G. Theocharides, “OiJ iJdrutaiv th'" ejn Qessalonivkh/ monh'" tw'n Blatavdwn,” in Panhgurikov" tovmo" eJortasmou' th'" eJxakosiosth'" ejpeteivou tou' qanavtou tou' aJgivou Grhgorivou tou' Palama', ajrciepiskovpou Qessalonivkh", 1359– 1959, ed. P. Christou (Thessalonike, 1960), 49–70. 73 For an analysis of Palamas’ writings on the Transfiguration, see G. I. Mantzaridis, The Deification of Man: St. Gregory Palamas and the Orthodox Tradition (Crestwood, N.Y., 1984), 96–104. 74 G. Stogioglou, ÔH ejn Qessalonivkh/ patriarcikhv monhv tw'n Blatavdwn (Thessalonike, 1971), 110–24. 75 Mavropoulou-Tsioumi, “OiJ prw'te" ajpeikonivsei",” 253 note 10. 76 Stogioglou, ÔH ejn Qessalonivkh/ patriarcikhv monhv, 114–17. 69

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private psalter of the late eleventh century to which two paper leaves were added before 1517.77 At the time, the book was owned by Makarios, metropolitan of Thessalonike, and marginal notations affirm the book’s presence in the city, at least until 1530 when the owner entered the Vatopedi monastery as the monk Michael.78 The inserted leaves record devotional images from the city. Folio 232 recto depicts the Prayer of John Chrysostom, where the double representation of the saint mirrors that in the Vlatadon monastery (Fig. 17). If we turn the page, we see the portraits of three Thessalonian saints: Gregory Palamas, Demetrios, and Hosios David (Fig. 18). The key to understanding the juxtaposition of Palamas and Chrysostom lies in the decoration of the small Athonite chapel of the Holy Anargyroi in the Vatopedi monastery.79 Dated ca. 1371, the paintings are roughly contemporary with those of the Vlatadon chapel. Here Gregory Palamas is represented together with John Chrysostom in the prothesis chamber (Fig. 19). Dressed in episcopal robes, Gregory is inscribed as “the most holy archbishop of Thessalonike, Gregory, the new Chrysostom and miracle worker.” The saint is labeled in a similar manner in the diakonikon of the church of the Holy Three Martyrs in Kastoria, dated 1401.80 Why Chrysostom? The scene of his prayer in the Vlatadon chapel, the Vatopedi psalter, and a third example in the narthex in the Hilandar monastery represents the early patriarch of Constantinople as a monk.81 Stationed at his lectern, reading through the night, he engages in the early practice of hesychia, sanctioning, through imagery, the widespread use of meditative prayer advocated by Athonite monks. Palamas’ extraordinary abilities as an orator suggest further motives for comparison, as demonstrated in the encomium pronounced by Philotheos. The celebration of the feast of Palamas, on November 13, together with that of John Chrysostom is ordered already in a typikon authored by Symeon of Thessalonike (Athens, Ethnike Bibliotheke, cod. 2047, fol. 14).82 Once again, the paintings, or rather the subject of the paintings, follow the commercial routes, this time moving from Thessalonike to Mount Athos, and from Mount Athos through Thessalonike to the Macedonian hinterland, where the subject appears in a small church in Kastoria. Related to these representations of St. Gregory Palamas is a votive panel added to the 77 K. Weitzmann, “The Psalter Vatopedi 761: Its Place in the Aristocratic Psalter Recension,” JWalt 10 (1947): 28–30, 31–32; A. Xyngopoulos, “Restitution et interpretation d’une fresque de Chilandar,” HilZb 2 (1971): 93–99. Xyngopoulos viewed the narrative of Chrysostom’s prayer as a copy of the scene painted in 1320–21 in the narthex of the Hilandar monastery. Markovic´, “The Original Paintings,” 232. 78 Xyngopoulos has suggested that the inscriptions on the images point to their execution in the late 14th or 15th century. Xyngopoulos, “Restitution et interpretation,” 96. For Makarios, see L. Petit, “Les évêques de Thessalonique,” EO 5 (1901–2): 150; A. Glavinos, “Makavrio" Papagewrgovpoulo" oJ ajpo; Korivnqou mhtropolivth" Qessalonivkh" (1465;–12 ∆Aprilivou 1546),” Makedonikav 13 (1973): 167–77. 79 Tsigaridas, Vatopaidi, 280–81. 80 Tsigaridas, “Eijkonistikev" marturive"” (1986), 226 fig. 2, 266–67; E. Drakopoulou, H povlh th" Kastoriav" th buzantinhv kai Metabuzantinhv epochv (12o"–16o" aiwvna"). Istoriva—Tevcnh—Epigrafev" (Athens, 1997), 111, 124– 25. 81 The early 14th-century representation of John’s prayer in Hilandar, painted before Palamas came to prominence, is represented in the church’s narthex among other images of significance to the monastic community. From here, it may have been exported to Thessalonike where, linked with the representation of Gregory Palamas, the New Chrysostom, the scene took on a new meaning—one that would be codified in later inscriptions elevating the Thessalonian prelate to the ranks of the great fathers and miracle workers of the church. 82 J. Darrouzès, “Notes d’histoire des textes,” REB 21 (1963): 238; Giankou, “Marturive",” 14.

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basilica of St. Demetrios in the late fourteenth century (Fig. 20). Traditionally, the figure at the center of the panel has been identified as Ioasaph.83 The representation of the princely monk has been seen as an expression of hesychast ideology and a reflection of Palamas’ own biography. Recently, E. Tsigaridas has proposed that the central figure be identified as Demetrios based on the portrait type and the composition of the panel, which clearly copies earlier works in the basilica.84 This suggestion must be correct, given the context of the painting and the intense interest in the saint’s monastic virtues discussed above. Moreover, in old photographs, traces of a delta, eta, and rho may be seen at the upper left corner of the panel. The identification of the smaller figure to the right is not secure, although most scholars have identified him as Gregory Palamas based on his portrait type and on his episcopal vestments. An inscription adjacent to this figure does not appear to bear the name of Palamas, but identifying this prelate as the famed Thessalonian archbishop has proven seductive nonetheless. Both holy figures were central to the identity of Thessalonike’s church, the development of the city’s own hagiography, and the character of its piety. Both saints were associated with healing.85 Even if the smaller figure is not Palamas, he must be identified as a local bishop of some renown; he is shown in the process of venerating the city’s great protector, directly censing the saint in a moment of religious intimacy. The image of two holy men of Thessalonike complements the message offered by the chapel of St. Euthymios, painted at its beginning. The examination of several themes in fourteenth-century church decoration demonstrates the impact of monasticism, specifically Athonite monasticism, on monumental painting in Thessalonike. Conversely, Thessalonian monasticism and civic cults also played an important role in the decoration of katholika and chapels on the Holy Mountain. This study provides only the briefest account of this exchange of subject matter. In drawing conclusions about the prominence of monastic themes in Thessalonian wall painting, however, one must exercise caution. The majority of churches preserved in the city once served as katholika of its monasteries or, perhaps, as the yet unidentified grand Athonite metochia. For this set of buildings, a discussion of monastic influence is entirely appropriate. But what do we know about other types of churches in the city? Little of the thirteenthand fourteenth-century decoration is preserved from the city’s parish churches: Acheiropoietos, which housed, in the late Byzantine period, important icons of the Virgin and St. Demetrios;86 Hagia Sophia, surrounded by small, decorated chapels;87 St. Menas, now destroyed;88 and the Holy Asomatoi, which preserves no evidence of a late Byzantine 83 A. Xyngopoulos, “”Ag. Iwavsaf—”Ag. Grhgovrio" oJ Palama'",” Grhg.Pal. 26 (1942): 194–200 (repr. in Xyngopoulos, Qessalonivkeia Melethvmata, 167–74). 84 Tsigaridas, “Eijkonistikev" marturive"” (2000), 197–99. 85 Laiou-Thomadakis, “Saints and Society,” 104. Philotheos Kokkinos, Palamas’ encomiast, refers to several healings within Thessalonike: a nun in the monastery of St. Theodora (PG 151: 629B; Janin, Les églises, 375) and a hieromonk in the monastery dedicated to the Virgin tou' ÔUpomimnhvskonto" (PG 151: 627–30; Janin, Les églises, 413–14). 86 A. Xyngopoulos, “AiJ peri; tou' naou' th'" ∆Aceiropoihvtou Qessalonivkh" eijdhvsei" tou' Kwnstantivnou ÔArmenopouvlou,” ∆Episthmonikh; ∆Epethri;" th'" Scolh'" Nomikw'n kai; Oijkonomikw'n tou' ∆Aristoteleivou Panepisthmivou Qessalonivkh" 6 (1952): 1–26 (repr. in Xyngopoulos, Qessalonivkeia Melethvmata, 259–86). 87 K. Theoharidou, The Architecture of Hagia Sophia, Thessaloniki from Its Erection up to the Turkish Conquest, BAR International Series 399 (Oxford, 1988), 13–16. 88 Th. S. Mantopoulou-Panagiotopoulou, “The Monastery of Aghios Menas in Thessaloniki,” DOP 50 (1996): 239–62.

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decorative phase. Nor do we have evidence, except in the case of St. Demetrios, for the monumental decoration of the city’s main cult centers—the church of St. Theodora,89 the chapel of St. Anysia,90 or the sanctuary of Hosios David.91 The decoration of these churches might provide a picture of late medieval painting in the city that was untouched by Athonite influence, painting that may have been more structured to accommodate lay supplicants and pilgrims. For the moment, however, we are left with the city’s great monastic churches, and, like the encomiasts of the fourteenth century, we too must admire their number and size and bathe in the spiritual rays that illuminate them. University of Maryland 89

See the discussion by Ch. Bakirtzis in this volume. P. Lemerle, “Sainte Anysia, martyre à Thessalonique? Une question posée,” AB 100 (1982): 111–24. 91 Xyngopoulos, “∆Anavglufon,” 143–66. 90

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Thessalonique, centre de production d’objets d’arts au XIVe siècle KATIA LOVERDOU-TSIGARIDA

a ville de saint Démétrios, après sa conquête par les Latins en 1204, devint la capitale d’un royaume. Les transformations sociales et économiques engendrées par cette nouvelle situation se perpétuèrent après la reconquête de Thessalonique par les Byzantins, alors que les souverains de l’empire multipliaient leurs séjours dans les palais de la ville. Nombre d’empereurs et de membres de la famille impériale y séjournèrent durant de longues périodes.1 Ainsi, la ville prend au XIVe siècle le caractère d’une capitale adaptée au rôle dirigeant qui lui avait été conféré. Ce rôle dont la ville était redevable autant à sa remarquable position géographique qu’aux nombreux contacts qu’elle entretenait avec l’Europe occidentale et le monde slave, offrait un caractère oecuménique, marqué par une réelle autonomie, aussi bien dans les domaines politique et social que culturel. La frappe de monnaies par la ville aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles reflète précisément ces caractéristiques.2 L’oecuménisme et l’expression d’autonomie sont des caractéristiques présentes parmi des éléments traditionnels toujours dominants, qui apparaissent clairement dans les arts mineurs de la ville, objet de notre recherche. Les objets d’arts mineurs produits à Thessalonique et découverts lors de fouilles dans la ville sont en nombre réduit,3 bien qu’un plus grand nombre lui soit attribué à partir d’éléments plus ou moins fiables. Je voudrais men-

L

1 Michel IX mourut à Thessalonique en 1320 et aussi sa femme Maria en 1333, après avoir passé dix ans dans un monastère de Thessalonique sous le nom de Xéni. D’autres empereurs la choisirent pour centre administratif, comme Andronic III qui, à partir de 1326, en fit le siège du quartier général des opérations qu’il entreprit contre son grand-père Andronic II et qui continua à s’y rendre fréquemment après s’être imposé (1332, 1334, 1339), de même que son fils Jean V Paléologue qui y séjourna trois ans (1349–51) et Anne Paléologina, mère de Jean V qui, à partir de 1351, s’installa à Thessalonique qu’elle gouverna jusqu’à sa mort. Voir G. Theocharides, Topografiva kai politikhv istoriva th" Qessalonivkh" katav ton IDV aiwvna. (Thessalonique, 1959). Cf. A. Bakalopoulos, Istoriva th" Qessalonivkh" (Thessalonique, 1983), 127; A. Stauridou-Zaphraka, H Qessalonivkh. H deuvterh povlh th" autokratoriva" apov ta tevlh tou 10ou ai. evw" to 1430, Episthmonikhv Hmerivda, “H istorikhv Poreiva th" Qessalonivkh",” 23.11.1985 (Athènes, 1988); M. Kamboure-Bamboukou and A. Papazotos, H palaiolovgeia zwgrafikhv sth Qessalonivkh (Thessalonique, 1985), 9–10. 2 Des thèmes iconographiques originaux, différents des périodes précédentes, et d’autres fortement influencés par l’art occidental, ainsi que des sujets décoratifs profondément allégoriques, proclament les principes de la monarchie héréditaire et de la foi chrétienne. Voir I. Touratsoglou, “L’atelier monétaire de Thessalonique au XIVe siècle après J.Chr. Le rayonnement d’un centre artistique avant le déclin de l’empire,” dans L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe s. Recueil des rapports du IVe Colloque Serbo-Grec. Belgrade 1985 (Belgrade, 1987), 183 ff. Voir aussi l’article de C. Morrisson dans ce même volume. 3 Il s’agit surtout de la céramique qui provient de tombes trouvées dans la ville.

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tionner ici les difficultés méthodologiques provoquées par ceux qui aiment attribuer des oeuvres d’art aux centres de production sans que des ateliers soient attestés.4 Même une ville comme Thessalonique, qui avait nécessairement développé des ateliers de production d’arts mineurs pour répondre aux besoins des pèlerins, des marchands et des militaires qui la visitaient, ne nous a peut-être pas montré ses ateliers.5 Nous savons qu’elle devait également couvrir les besoins en objets de luxe des régions alentour et notamment des monastères du Mont Athos et des riches petites villes voisines, telles que Véria, Ohrid, Kastoria, Serrès dans lesquelles étaient installés d’importants seigneurs byzantins et qui représentaient aussi une demande importante. D’ailleurs le Mont Athos a longtemps constitué la principale source pour la découverte d’oeuvres d’arts mineurs attribuées à des ateliers de Thessalonique. De nombreuses offrandes ont été retrouvées dans les monastères, que leur donateur, la tradition ou certains éléments des oeuvres elles-mêmes attribuent à Thessalonique. Parallèlement, les archives des monastères offrent des informations sur des donations, aujourd’hui disparues, dont l’origine doit être recherchée dans la ville. En outre, des oeuvres d’arts mineurs plus anciennes peuvent nous montrer certaines formes traditionelles dont les exemples de la période que nous examinons à présent ont par hasard disparu. Nous commencerons notre recherche sur la production d’oeuvres d’arts mineurs au XIV siècle avec des oeuvres liées au culte de Saint-Démétrios que nous pouvons, avec une relative certitude, attribuer à Thessalonique. L’origine de la production remonte peut-être à la période paléochrétienne, car il est connu que, à cette epoque, les pèlerins recevaient des objets bénis, tels que des ampoules ou des enkolpia renfermant des reliques. Il pouvait notamment s’agir d’eulogies, ampoules pour l’eau bénite, comme dans le sanctuaire de saint Ménas en Egypte. Nous ignorons si la fabrication de ces objets pour les pèlerins débuta à l’époque de la construction de l’église. Certains éléments nous permettent toutefois d’affirmer que des objets de ce type étaient produits à Thessalonique. Un moule en pierre pour métaux, daté du VIIIe siècle, a été découvert dans une fouille au nord de l’église Saint-Démétrios.6 Il s’agit d’un moule pour la fabrication d’ampoules à eulogie en métal avec une représentation de l’apôtre André et vraisemblablement de l’apôtre Paul, de part et d’autre d’une croix dont la branche supérieure est ornée d’un buste du Pantocrator.7 La production d’eulogies est ainsi confirmée, au moins à partir du VIIIe siècle. Le fait que ces eulogies ne semblent pas être en rapport avec le pèlerinage de Saint-Démétrios, n’exclut pas une production équivalente parallèle. Nous pensons que, comme dans d’autres lieux de pèlerinage, les pèlerins pouvaient acquérir des objets-souvenirs produits sur place. Parmi les oeuvres de culte vraisemblablement produits par les ateliers de la ville de Thessalonique pour les besoins des pèlerins du Xeme au XIIIeme siècle et proches de la 4

Le problème essentiel est l’insistance de ceux qui croient que tous les objets d’art qui portent la représentation de saint Démétrios proviennent de Thessalonique. 5 Les fouilles jusqu’à maintenant nous ont donné seulement quelques ateliers de verre et de céramique. Voir ci-dessous. 6 Voir S. Pelekanides, Prakt.Arc.ÔEt. (1959): 38–41; G. Galavaris, RBK 1 (1966): 747–52 et du même, Bread and the Liturgy (Madison, Wisc., 1970), 141–43. 7 Voir A. Mentzos, “Sceau de bénédiction en pierre,” Mouseivo Buzantinouv Politismouv (Musée de la civilisation byzantine) 3 (1996): 18–27.

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tradition paléochrétienne du culte, on note avec intérêt les flacons en plomb,8 perpétuant la forme des ampoules paléochrétiennes. L’utilisation de flacons en plomb est liée aux transformations du culte du saint au XIIe siècle avec la myroblisie, et notamment à la nécessité de recueillir le myron. Rappelons qu’à Thessalonique il existait un exemple antérieur de myroblisie, remontant à 892, de la tombe de sainte Théodora, religieuse dans un monastère de la ville.9 Les flacons en plomb, de forme antiquisante, que Stavrakios nomme au XIIIe siècle des “koutrouvia,”10 étaient destinés au myron de saint Démétrios et de sainte Théodora. La technique du rendu des sujets iconographiques est la même sur tous les flacons. Le contour du sujet est rendu par un dessin linéaire en relief, saillant avec de nombreuses imperfections dans leur exécution qui témoignent qu’il s’agit d’une production de masse. La thématique est limitée. Le buste d’un saint inscrit dans un médaillon occupe chacune des faces planes de la panse du flacon, les bustes les plus courants étant ceux de saint Démétrios et de sainte Théodora.11 Leur fabrication simple et peu coûteuse, le caractère traditionnel du décor saillant et de l’iconographie, les relient à des ateliers de la ville, vraisemblablement liés à l’Église. Il est probable que les pèlerins les portaient autour du cou comme des phylactères contre les maladies et les démons, et que, parfois, ils accompagnaient le défunt dans sa tombe. Ces flacons étaient surtout utilisés par des pèlerins étrangers qui ramenaient du myron dans leur pays.12 Parmi les oeuvres de culte fabriquées à Thessalonique du Xe au XIIIe siècle avec des matériaux précieux, destinées à l’aristocratie byzantine et aux souverains orthodoxes étrangers, on compte un groupe de petits reliquaires qui, d’après André Grabar,13 n’ont pas d’équivalents à l’époque byzantine, et qui nous donnent de précieux renseignements sur cette production de la ville. Grabar a présenté en 1950 et en 1954, dans deux articles sur les reliquaires de saint Démétrios,14 une première liste de ces objets dont les caractéristiques certifient leur origine commune. Il s’agit surtout de reliquaires qui pouvaient 8

Voir Ch. Bakirtzis, “Koutrouvbia muvrou apov th Qessalonivkh,” Akten des XVI. Internationaier Byzantinisten Kongress, vol. 2.3, JÖB 32.3 (1982): 523–28, et idem, “Byzantine Ampullae from Thessaloniki,” dans Blessings of Pilgrimage, ed. R. Ousterhout (Urbana–Chicago, 1990), 140–49. Voir aussi le catalogue de l’exposition du Tour Blanche à Thessalonique, Qessalonivkh. Istoriva kai tevcnh, Ekqevsh Leukouv Puvrgou (Athènes, 1986), 30, nos. 2–4, et Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York, 1997), 169. 9 Pour le monastère de Sainte-Théodora, voir dans le même volume l’article de Ch. Bakirtzis. Pour les fonctions miraculeuses du myron de Sainte Theodora, voir A.-M. Talbot, Holy Women of Byzantium (Washington, D.C., 1996), 159–237. 10 Voir ∆Iwavnnou Staurakivou “Lovgo" eij" ta; qauvmata tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou,” par Ioakeim Iberites, Makedonikav 1 (1940): 353, f. 87: kai; skeuvo" ti, wJ" ejdovkei, fevrwn cersivn, o} dei' ta; ejgcwrivw" kaleivtai koutrouvbion, tou'ton ajnabluzovntwn ejkeivqen muvrwn peplhvrwken. Cf. G. et M. Soteriou, ÔH Basilikh; tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou Qessalonivkh" (Athens, 1953), 22 et 238. 11 La représentation sur le même flacon des deux saints myroblites peut être attribuée à une production unique qui répondait aux besoins des deux cultes, tandis que les flacons qui combinaient saint Démétrios et la Vierge ou saint Nestor devaient être destinés uniquement au culte du saint protecteur. 12 Il faut noter que, jusqu’à aujourd’hui, aucun flacon en plomb n’a encore été retrouvé dans des tombes à Thessalonique ou plus généralement dans la ville. 13 Voir A. Grabar, “Quelques reliquaires de Saint-Démétrius et le martyrium du saint à Salonique,” DOP 5 (1950): 1–28. 14 Voir note 13 et A. Grabar, “Un nouveau reliquaire de S. Démétrius,” DOP 8 (1954): 307 ff. Cf. A. Mentzos, To proskuvnhma tou Ag. Dhmhtrivou Qessalonivkh" sta buzantinav crovnia (Athènes, 1994), 7ff; A. Effenberger, Byzantinische Kunstwerke im Besitz deutscher Kaiser, Bischöfe und Klöster im Zeitalter der Ottonen (Hildesheim, 1993), 1: 145–59.

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recevoir du lythron et du myron. Leur iconographie témoigne d’un certain archaïsme, survivance de l’époque paléochrétienne, comme l’était le culte même de saint Démétrios dans son sanctuaire à Thessalonique. De dimensions réduites, ils sont munis d’un double couvercle, dont le couvercle intérieur masque à l’aide d’un ou deux volets une image de saint Démétrios en buste, les mains croisées et les yeux fermés (Fig. 2). Le couvercle extérieur porte une représentation de saint Démétrios debout (Fig. 1). “La persistance sur ces reliquaires de certains motifs signifie,” d’après Grabar, “que tous prétendent imiter le sarcophage et le ciborium du Saint à Thessalonique.” Parmi les reliquaires-enkolpia de saint Démétrios que nous connaissons aujourd’hui, on trouve une catégorie reproduisant même le sarcophage du saint. Trois de ces reliquaires sont conservés à l’évêché d’Halberstadt15 et deux, respectivement au monastère de Vatopédi16 (Figs. 1, 2) et au monastère de Lavra, au Mont Athos17 (Figs. 3, 4). On suppose qu’ils reproduisaient la forme du sarcophage du saint, telle qu’elle était conservée jusqu’au XIIe siècle dans le ciborium en marbre de la même époque dans l’eglise Saint-Démétrios.18 Une seconde catégorie comprend les reliquaires-enkolpia de forme ronde de Dumbarton Oaks et du British Museum.19 Enfin, le reliquaire du Kremlin appartient à une troisième catégorie.20 Ces oeuvres, datées avec plus ou moins de précision par les chercheurs du Xe au XIIIe siècle, révèlent une production continue qui peut se poursuivre à l’époque des Paléologues, au cours de laquelle le culte de saint Démétrios devait connaitre un essor particulier, en tant que saint protecteur de la famille dirigeante.21 Manuel Philes a écrit un ensemble d’épigrammes sur des représentations de la vie et du martyre de saint Démétrios22 qui, d’après A. Frolow23 et A. Xyngopoulos,24 ornaient un reliquaire en argent renfermant du lythron et du myron, semblable à celui de Vatopédi, et qui appartenait au despote de la ville Démétrios Paléologue (1322–40). Ainsi nous avons la preuve que la production de reliquaires se poursuit à cette époque avec peut-être quelques modifications. Le reliquaire en marbre de saint Démétrios conservé au monastère de Lavra au Mont Athos (Fig. 5, 6), traduit peut-être l’évolution du culte du saint et des objets de pèlerinage.25 Le sarcophage à revêtement en argent conservé dans le 15

Voir Grabar, “Quelques reliquaires,” 2 ff, et The Glory of Byzantium, no. 108. Voir A. Xyngopoulos, “Buzantinovn kibwtivdion metav parastavsewn ejk tou' bivou tou' ÔAg. Dhmhtrivou,” ∆Arc.∆Ef. 75 (1936): 101–36. 17 Une première présentation: voir Mentzos, To proskuvnhma, 134. Sous presse: K. Loverdou-Tsigarida, Leiga®odh;ueß tou Ag. DhmhΩrivou oΩh, Monh; tuß Lau;raß Ag. ÔOrouß, “Qwravkio,” volume à la mémoire de P. Lozaridis, Athènes, 2003. 18 Voir Mentzos, To proskuvnhma, 140ff. 19 Voir Grabar, “Un nouveau reliquaire,” 307 ff, et sur cet article cf. J. Alexander in Speculum 31 (1956): 359– 71. Voir aussi Byzantium: Treasures of Byzantine Art and Culture from British Collections (London, 1994), 186; Glory of Byzantium, nos. 116 et 117. 20 Voir Mentzos, To proskuvnhma, note 261 avec la bibliographie. Voir aussi A. Bank, Byzantine Art in the Collections of Soviet Museums (Leningrad, 1977), fig. 205–206, éd. 1985, fig. 203–204. Malgré sa datation précise de 1059–1067, fournie par l’inscription qui l’accompagne et la représentation du couple impérial de Constantin X Doukas et de son épouse, son attribution à un centre de production précis reste encore incertaine. 21 Les monnaies de l’époque qui portent la figure du saint Démétrios seule ou avec celle de l’empereur, ou encore une scène de sa vie, montrent sa popularité et la place qu’il tenait dans la vie religieuse de l’empire. 22 Voir Manuelis Philae Carmina, ed. E. Miller (Paris, 1855–57; repr. Amsterdam, 1967), 1: 135, poème 274. 23 A. Frolow, “Un nouveau reliquaire byzantin (Manuelis Philae carmina I pp. 133–137),” REG 66 (1953): 100ff. 24 Voir A. Xyngopoulos, ÔO eijkonografiko;" kuvklo" th'" zwh'" tou' ÔAgivou Dhmhtrivou (Thessalonique, 1970), 47– 49 et 58–60. 25 Voir Mentzos, To Proskuvnhma, 139. 16

1

Reliquaire de saint Démétrios à Vatopedi, Mont Athos

a 2a-b

Détails du même reliquaire

b

3

Reliquaire de saint Démétrios à Lavra, Mont Athos

4

Détail du même reliquaire ouvert

5

Reliquaire en marbre de saint Démétrios à Lavra, Mont Athos

6

Détail du même reliquaire, vu d’un autre coté

7

Icône en mosaïque de saint Démétrios à Sassoferatto (d’après Grabar, Les revêtements)

8

Icône de l’Annonciation en mosaïque au Victoria and Albert Museum (d’après Furlan)

9

Icône de la Vierge de Freising, donation de Manuel Disypatos (d’après Grabar)

10 Icône de la Vierge, donation de Constantin Akropolites et sa femme. Galerie Tretiakov (d’après Grabar)

11 Icône de la Vierge, donation de Papadopoulina et d’Arianitissa, Vatopedi, Mont Athos

12 Icône des apôtres Pierre et Paul, donation du despote Andronic Paléologue à Vatopedi, Mont Athos

13 La croix dite de Constantin, donation du despote Andronic Paléologue à Vatopedi, Mont Athos

14 Icône de la Vierge Hodegetria, Vatopedi, Mont Athos

15 Icône de l’Hospitalité d’Abraham, Vatopedi, Mont Athos

16 Icône de l’Annonciation à Vatopedi, Mont Athos

17 Icône de Saint Jean l’Evangeliste à Lavra, Mont Athos

18 Icône de Saint Démétrios à Vatopedi, Mont Athos

19 La porte du Katholikon de Vatopedi, Mont Athos

20 Détail de la porte de Vatopedi, Mont Athos

21 Détail de l’aer-épitaphios de l’église Panagouda à Thessalonique

22 L’aer-épitaphios de Jean Cantacuzène à Vatopedi, Mont Athos

23 L’inscription dédicative du même aer-épitaphios

24 Lutrins en bois de Vatopedi, Mont Athos

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ciborium de l’église fut, d’après Stavrakios et Constantin Akropolites, remplacé au XIVe siècle par un autre en marbre orné d’un décor en bas-relief, dont le reliquaire conservé au monastère de Lavra constitue peut-être une reproduction.26 La question des liens entretenus par les ateliers de la ville avec l’église Saint-Démétrios continue toutefois à se poser. L’iconographie du décor des reliquaires-enkolpia est inspirée du sarcophage du saint et de son décor, et peut-être, du décor, aujourd’hui disparu, de l’église27 dont le caractère était par excellence dédicatoire. Les ressemblances iconographiques déterminées probablement par le clergé révèlent le lien direct entre les artisans et l’église. D’autres catégories d’objets viennent s’ajouter aux objets fabriqués traditionnellement pour répondre aux besoins des pèlerins. Ils s’agit de petits flacons en verre ou en métal habituellement liés à la conservation des parfums. Des études récentes,28 basées sur un texte de Stavrakios, admettent que des flacons en verre ont pu être utilisés pour recueillir le myron de la tombe de saint Démétrios au XVe siècle. Ce serait le cas des flacons découverts lors des fouilles de l’église Saint-Démétrios29 et de tombes du monastère des Vlatades.30 La découverte, lors de fouilles récentes dans la ville, d’un atelier de production de petits vases en verre, conforte cette hypothèse.31 Une autre catégorie d’objets-souvenirs de saint Démétrios fait appel à la technique du verre. Il s’agit de camées en verre avec la figure à mi-corps du saint en relief, rendu suivant un type iconographique proche de celui de saint Georges. Près de vingt pièces de ce type ont été retrouvées, dont certaines proviennent vraisemblablement du même moule.32 Ces oeuvres devaient être des objets-souvenirs destinés aux pèlerins et pourraient en ce sens être attribués à des ateliers de Thessalonique. Un grand nombre de chercheurs considèrent toutefois que ces objets ont été produits à Venise, ville traditionnellement liée à la production d’objets en verre.33 Ainsi, bien que l’hypothèse de la production de ces objets à Thessalonique au XIVe siècle semble probable, nous ne sommes pas en mesure d’exclure l’éventualité qu’ils aient été importés de Venise pour répondre aux besoins du pèlerinage à cette époque. Des coupes en céramique avec le monogramme gravé du saint protecteur de Thessalonique constituaient une autre production, reliée au culte dans l’église Saint-Démétrios, 26

Voir K. Loverdou-Tsigarida, Leiga®odh;ueß tou Ag. Dhmhtrivou, sous presse, et note 25. Voir Xyngopoulos, “Buzantino;n kibwtivdion,” 112. 28 Voir Mentzos, To proskuvnhma, 150 ff. 29 Voir Qessalonivkh. Ekqevsh Leukouv Puvrgou, p. 52, no. 1 et p. 55, no. 2, fig. à la p. 55. 30 D. Makropoulou, “Anaskafhv tavfwn sth monhv Blattavdwn,” ∆Arc.Delt. 39 (1984), B: 2242; de la même, “Apo to usterobuzantinov nekrotafeivo th" monhv" Blattavdwn,” H Qessalonivkh 1 (1985): 255 ff. Grabar, “Un nouveau reliquaire,” 307 ff. Voir aussi Qessalonivkh. Ekqevsh Leukouv Puvrgou, 56, no. 13.4. Nous avons aussi trouvé un vase du même type dans un tombeau de l’époque des Paléologues (Fouilles de 2001, du terrain rue Valaoritou 27, à Thessalonique, encore inédit). Je remercie mon collegue J. Kanonidis pour cette information. 31 Voir I. O. Kanonides, “H periochv tou Dioikhthrivou sta palaiocristianikav kai buzantinav crovnia,” To; ∆arcaiologiko; e[rgo sth; Makedoniva kai; Qravkh 10.B’ (1996): 567 et le même, “To buzantinov ualourgeivo th" plateiva" Dioikhthrivou sth Qessalonivkh,” BV Sunevdrio Margaritwvn Requvmnou Krhvth" (sous presse). 32 Voir H. Wentzel, “Das Medaillon mit dem Hl. Theodor und die venezianischen Glasspasten im byzantinischen Stil des 13. Jhdt,” dans Festschrift für Erich Meyer (Hamburg, 1959), 50–67. 33 Voir L. Popovich, “An Examination of Chilandar Cameos,” HilZb 5 (1983): 7–45; K. Loverdou-Tsigarida, “Buzantinhv mikrotecniva,” dans le catalogue de l’exposition Oi Qhsauroiv tou Agivou VOrou" (Thessalonique, 1997), 301–2, no. 9.13. 27

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des ateliers de la ville. Il s’agit d’objets vraisemblablement destinés à puiser l’eau bénite de la fontaine de la crypte. De forme hémisphérique, elles ne présentaient d’autre ornement que le monogramme de saint Démétrios sur le fond, pressé sur l’argile ou incisé sur l’engobe.34 Nombre de ces céramiques ont été retrouvées lors de fouilles dans l’église SaintDémétrios, tandis que d’autres ont été retrouvées à Constantinople et à Varna en Bulgarie, ramenées par des pèlerins.35 Les gobelets en céramique en forme de calice répondaient, semble-t-il, aux mêmes besoins.36 Ces objets avaient une fonction à la fois utilitaires et de souvenir, comme c’est encore le cas dans des lieux de pèlerinage orthodoxes. Il est probable qu’existaient d’autres types d’objets liés au culte de saint Démétrios à Thessalonique au XIVe siècle. On a déjà proposé une petite icône en bois du saint qui se trouve dans la collection du Musée National de Belgrade37 et une autre en bronze, qui le représente à cheval ainsi que deux médaillons de plomb avec le même sujet dans la collection de l’Hermitage à Saint-Petersbourg.38 On peut éventuellement ajouter encore quelques icônes en stéatite du saint dont la provenance de Thessalonique est probable. Mais, d’après mon opinion, il est difficile d’être sûr de l’existence d’ateliers d’ivoire et de stéatite dans la ville à une epoque tardive. Leur découverte éventuelle permettra d’établir une image plus complète de l’organisation de la production d’oeuvres d’arts mineurs destinées aux pèlerins. La production d’oeuvres d’arts mineurs, en dehors de celle liée au culte et aux pèlerinages à Thessalonique, présente également un intérêt particulier. Il est connu que dès le XIIIe siecle existaient des ateliers d’orfèvrerie qui produisaient des bijoux, comme la bague de Constantin Mastounis conservée au musée de l’Hermitage,39 ainsi que des sceaux en argent, comme celui que mentionne dans une lettre Jean Apokaukos, métropolite de Naupacte, en remarquant “qu’il n’a pas été bien taillé” (oujk ejgluvfh kalw'").40 Les reliquaires-enkolpia de saint Démétrios révèlent aussi l’existence d’ateliers qui utilisaient deux techniques principales: le relief au repoussé et l’émail, cette dernière n’ayant pas, semble-t-il, constitué, au XIIIe siècle, une production exclusive de Constan34

Voir D. Papanicola-Bakirtzis, “The Paleologan Glazed Pottery of Thessaloniki,” dans L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe siècle, 193–205. Cf. Qessalonivkh. Ekqevsh Leukouv Puvrgou, 78.4, fig. 76, 17.4. Nous voulons signaler qu’une variante du monogramme est utilisée pour écrire le nom du Prodrome sur des peintures murales (voir A. Xyngopoulos, AiJ toicografivai tou' kaqolikou' th'" monh'" Prodrovmou parav ta;" Sevrra" [Thessalonique, 1973], pl. 33 et 64) et des icônes (voir S. Papadopoulos and C. KapioldassiSoteropoulou, Eikovne" monhv" Pantokravtoro" [Hagion Oros, 1998], pl. 64–65) du XIVe s. 35 Voir Papanicola-Bakirtzis, “Paleologan Glazed Pottery,” 197. 36 Identifiés autrefois avec les “koutrouvia” destinés au myron, ils devaient également servir à puiser de l’eau bénite. Voir Soteriou, ÔH Basilikh; tou' ÔAg. Dhmhtrivou, 22 et 238. Voir aussi Qessalonivkh. Ekqevsh Leukouv Puvrgou, 31, no. 5. 37 Voir K. Weitzmann, M. Chatzidakis, K. Miatev, and Sv. Radojcˇic´, Icônes. Sinaï, Grèce, Bulgarie, Yougoslavie (Belgrade, 1966), LXVIII et CI, no. 203. 38 Voir V. Zalesskaya, “The Thessaloniki Eulogiai and Miniature Icons from the Period of the Latin Empire,” 20th International Congress of Byzantine Studies, Paris, August 19–25, 2001 (St. Petersburg, 2001), 78–82 et résumé en anglais 186–87. 39 Voir S. Kissas, “Monument funéraire dans l’église Sainte Sophie de Thessalonique,” Mouseivo Buzantinouv Politismouv 3 (1996): 41–45. 40 Voir Kissas, “Monument funéraire,” 45.

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tinople. Le monastère de Vatopédi conserve un enkolpion, en émail, attribué avec réserve41 à un atelier de Thessalonique du XIIIe siècle et qui pourrait prouver une production d’enkolpia en dehors du culte de saint Démétrios. Le sujet qui le décore est une theóphanie du Christ, thème bien connu à Thessalonique; d’un côté le Christ imberbe est assis dans une mandorle encadrée par les symboles des évangélistes, composition liée à la théophanie de la mosaïque du monastère de Latome. Deux enkolpia-reliquaire de la Vraie Croix, décorés d’émail, sont aussi attribués à Thessalonique. Il s’agit de la croix de la collection de Dumbarton Oaks qui provient aussi du Mont Athos42 et d’une autre, semblable, qui se trouve à Leipzig,43 toutes les deux datées du XIIIe siècle. La production d’icônes à Thessalonique au début du XIIIe siècle (1219) est connue d’après les informations que nous donne Théodosije, biographe de saint Savvas Nemanja.44 Ainsi, nous pouvons supposer qu’il existait aussi des ateliers fabriquant des revêtements en argent doré pour ces icônes. Ces revêtements sont une autre expression à caractère religieux des arts mineurs dans la ville des le XIIIe siècle.45 Des éléments historiques fournis par des inscriptions et des textes attribuent à un atelier de Thessalonique une icône du Christ d’Ochrid avec un revêtement en argent signé par le donateur, l’archevêque d’Ochrid, Demetrios Chomatianos,46 et une icône ejgkosmhmevnh ejx ajrguvrou, c’est-à-dire ornée d’un revêtement en argent, que d’après les Actes de Lavra l’higoumène du couvent de la Sainte Trinité à Thessalonique a offert au monastère en 1240.47 La production des revêtements en argent ou en argent doré semble se poursuivre aux XIVe et XVe siècles et inclure des revêtements de croix, de reliures de livres sacrés et d’autres objets de culte. Signalons tout d’abord une intéressante catégorie de réalisations précieuses, vraisemblablement destinées à des pèlerins fortunés. Il s’agit d’icônes en mosaïques, de très petites dimensions, avec des revêtements en argent, dont un exemple nous est fourni par une icône en mosaïques de saint Démétrios, conservée à Sassoferrato48 (Fig. 7). L’incorporation 41

Pour les arguments de l’attribution, voir Y. Ikonomaki-Papadopoulos, B. Pitarakis, and K. LoverdouTsigarida, The Holy and Great Monastery of Vatopaidi. Enkolpia (Mount Athos, 2001), 74–75, no. 22, notes 11 et 12. 42 Voir Glory of Byzantium, 174, no. 125. 43 Voir A. Effenberger, “Ein byzantinisches Emailkreuz mit Besitzerungsinschrift,” CahArch 31 (1983): 114–27. 44 Voir Kissas, “Monument funéraire,” 45. Théodosije nous informe que le prince serbe se trouvait en 1219 dans le couvent de Filokalou à Thessalonique où il a invité des artistes pour faire peintre deux grandes icônes du Christ et de la Vierge. 45 A. Grabar (Les revêtements en or et en argent des icônes byzantines du Moyen Age [Venise, 1975]) attribue à Constantinople presque toutes celles qu’il a réunies dans sa recherche, principalement en raison de la remarquable qualité de leur technique. Nous pensons toutefois que certaines d’entre elles peuvent être attribuées, à partir d’éléments historiques, à Thessalonique et à ses ateliers, tandis que d’autres sont liées par la tradition à la ville. Nous avons considéré comme “éléments historiques” l’origine ou le lien du donateur d’une icône avec Thessalonique ou sa région. Ces arguments restent toutefois fragiles dans la mesure où un seigneur de la ville pouvait parfaitement commander une icône et son revêtement à un atelier de Constantinople. Parallèlement, l’attribution d’une oeuvre à un centre de production donné, en raison de la qualité de sa réalisation, reste tout autant sujet à caution. 46 Voir Kissas, “Monument funéraire,” 44. 47 Voir Actes de Lavra, II, De 1204 à 1328, par P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos, et D. Papachryssanthou (Paris, 1977), 1–4, no. 70. 48 Voir I. Furlan, Le icone bizantine a mosaico (Milano, 1979), 96, no. 41; Splendori di Bizantio, Catalogue d’Exposition (Milano, 1990), 112–13, no. 42.

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d’un flacon à myron en plomb dans le revêtement en argent de la partie haute du cadre de l’icône constitue une preuve manifeste de son lien particulier avec Thessalonique, et vraisemblablement avec l’église Saint-Démétrios.49 Oeuvre de la seconde moitié du XIVe siècle offerte par le cardinal Bessarion à son ami Perotti, elle présente certains éléments iconographiques particuliers, tel que le sol orné de motifs géométriques, repris sur le nimbe du saint, éléments qui, d’après P. Vokotopoulos,50 trahissent une certaine influence de l’art de l’émail, de même que les bordures géométriques, encadrant les inscriptions de l’icône, qui rappelent les tabulae romaines. On rencontre des éléments iconographiques semblables dans certaines des icônes en mosaïques de petites dimensions, telles que les icônes de Saint Théodore en buste à l’Hermitage, du Dodécaorton à Florence,51 et de l’Annonciation au Victoria and Albert Museum52 (Fig. 8), qui sont datées du premier tiers du XIVe siècle, ainsi que le saint Théodore le Stratélate de la Vaticane,53 datée de la seconde moitié du XIVe siècle. Des éléments stylistiques rapprochent les icônes de Florence et de Londres des mosaïques du monastère de Chora (Kariye Camii) à Constantinople, dont les artistes ont aussi travaillé au katholikon d’un monastère de la Vierge (église des Saints-Apôtres) à Thessalonique. L’hypothèse que ces éléments iconographiques constituent des caractéristiques d’un atelier, et que ces icônes pourraient avoir été produites par des ateliers de Thessalonique, nous paraît séduisante. Elle est en outre étayée par l’icône de saint Démétrios à un atelier de Thessalonique.54 En reliant les éléments historiques fournis par des documents et des inscriptions sur les revêtements des icônes avec les éléments stylistiques et techniques des revêtements, nous pensons pouvoir attribuer à des ateliers de Thessalonique deux groupes de revêtements d’icônes qui couvrent une période de plus d’un siècle,55 confirmant ainsi une longue tradition de production des revêtements dans la ville. Le groupe le plus ancien, établi et daté par Grabar56 de la fin du XIIIe et du début du XIVe siècle, à partir de critères techniques et stylistiques, présente la caractéristique que les donateurs des revêtements d’icônes, mentionnés par des inscriptions en émail champlevé, sont liés à la ville de Thessalonique. La célèbre Vierge de Freising (Fig. 9), avec un revêtement portant une inscription qui montre qu’il s’agit d’une donation du métropolite de Thessalonique, Manuel Disypatos (1235–61), appartient à ce groupe. La grande qualité de cette oeuvre, récemment attribuée57 à un atelier de Thessalonique, avait motivé son attribution à Constantinople par Grabar.58 49 Le fait que l’icône appartenait à Bessarion qui habitait Constantinople n’est pas un argument contre sa provenance. Il pourrait être un cadeau de la part d’un riche habitant de Thessalonique à Bessarion ou il a pu l’acheté lui-même pendant un voyage. 50 Voir P. L. Vokotopoulos, Ellhnikhv Tevcnh. Buzantinev" Eikovne" (Athènes, 1996), 122, no. 91. 51 Voir Furlan, Le icone bizantine a mosaico, 85, no. 32 et 81–82, no. 30. Vokotopoulos, Buzantinev" Eikovne", 211, no. 86. 52 Voir Furlan, Le icone bizantine a mosaico, 83–84, no. 31 et aussi Byzantium, 203–4, no. 220 (R. Cormack) et Vokotopoulos, Buzantinev" Eikovne", 211, no. 87. 53 Voir Furlan, Le icone bizantine a mosaico, 95, no. 40. 54 Voir Furlan, Le icone bizantine a mosaico, 96; O. Demus, Die byzantinischen Mosaikikonen. I. Die Grossformatigen Ikonen (Vienne, 1991), 11. 55 Nous les datons de la seconde moitié du XIIIe siècle au premier quart du XVe siècle. 56 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 7. 57 Voir Kamboure-Bamboukou and Papazotos, H palaiolovgeia zwgrafikhv, 11, fig. 1. 58 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 41–43, no. 16. Voir aussi Rom und Byzanz. Schatzkammerstücke aus bayerischen Sammlungen (Munich, 1998), 244–49, no. 84.

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Dans le même groupe s’inscrit le revêtement d’une icône de la Vierge Hodegetria, offerte par Constantin Akropolites et sa femme Maria Comnène Tornikina Akropolitissa à la fin du XIIIe siècle (Fig. 10), aujourd’hui conservée à la Galerie Tretiakov.59 Grabar intègre enfin dans ce groupe le revêtement d’une icône de la Vierge, conservé au monastère de Vatopédi au Mont Athos,60 offert par les soeurs Papadopoulina et Arianitissa (Fig. 11), récemment identifiées61 comme filles de Théodore Sarantenos, seigneur de Véria. Ce revêtement presque intact, particulièrement représentatif du début du XIVe siècle, qui orne aujourd’hui une icône de la Vierge Hodegetria du XVIIIe siècle, dut être fabriqué peu avant 1326, année de la mort des deux donatrices. L’icône d’origine, décrite dans le testament de Sarantenos en 1328, a disparu. “Le groupement par ressemblance est possible, mais nous nous gardons toutefois de conclure que des pièces particulièrement semblables ont nécessairement le même lieu d’origine,” note Grabar.62 Nous soulignons aussi de notre côté que l’on trouve des revêtements au Mont Athos, précisément à Vatopedi, et dans la région d’Ochrid, une région voisine et aux liens étroits avec Thessalonique, qui présentent une grande ressemblance avec des revêtements attribués sur le plan technique et stylistique à Thessalonique. Dans le groupe le plus récent de revêtements on trouve deux types de technique: le bas-relief au repoussé, complété par le champlevé en émail, ainsi que le filigrane, non avec des fils entrelacés, mais avec de fines bandes lisses collées sur la feuille d’argent constituant le fond du revêtement, ce qui doit vraisemblablement être attribué à l’influence de nouveaux courants artistiques. Les revêtements de quatre icônes et d’une croix de procession s’inscrivent dans ce groupe que nous datons, à partir d’éléments historiques que je vais mentionner ci-dessous, de la fin du XIVe siècle et du début du XVe siècle. Nous pouvons attribuer avec une certaine certitude à Thessalonique le revêtement en argent de l’icône des apôtres Pierre et Paul (Fig. 12), dans la mesure où elle provient, d’après une inscription, d’une donation du Despote Andronic Paléologue (1408–23), fils de l’empereur Manuel II, au monastère de Vatopédi.63 Son décor est très homogèné d’un point de vue technique, associant le bas-relief et le champlevé en émail. “Un tapis de volutes végétales” d’apres Grabar couvre le fond de l’icône et remplit les panneaux oblongs du cadre. Entre eux, neuf panneaux carrés présentent des saints en bustes inscrits dans des médaillons, rendus au champlevé et à l’émail de trois couleurs différentes. Ils représentent une Déesis avec les trois figures principales, la Vierge, le Christ et le Prodrome dont les panneaux occupent la partie supérieure du cadre, ainsi que des saints militaires, les saints Théodore, Tiron et Stratélate, saint Georges et saint Démétrios et, dans les angles inférieurs, les saints Nestor et Loupos en pied. Leur représentation, étroitement liée à saint Démétrios, et privilégiée sous cette forme iconographique par le donateur, despote 59 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 45–46, no. 18. Constantin Akropolites est le fils du chroniqueur byzantin George Akropolites (1220–82). 60 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 49–52, no. 21. 61 Voir A. Papazotos, “Cristianikev" epigrafev" Makedoniva",” Makedoniva 21 (1981), Summeikta, 408–9, pour le testament de Sarantenos. Voir aussi G. Theocharides, Miav diaqhvkh kai miav divkh buzantinhv (Thessalonique, 1962), 11 ff. 62 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 7. 63 Voir K. Loverdou-Tsigarida, “Buzantinhv Mikrotecniva,” dans Ierav Megivsth Monhv Batopaidivou, 2 vols. (Hagion Oros, 1994–96), 2: 488, fig. 29. D’après le manuscrit du moine Arkadios Vatopedinos, encore inédit, la date de la donation est 1417: voir I. Papangelos, “Ta metovcia sthn Ellavda, Mikrav Asiva, Boulgariva kai Serbiva,” ibid., 1: 88.

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de Thessalonique, renforce l’hypothèse de l’attribution du revêtement de cette icône à un atelier de la ville. On peut attribuer au même atelier la croix dite de Constantin (Fig. 13), conservée aussi au monastère de Vatopédi, dont le revêtement en argent présente une forte ressemblance stylistique et technique avec le revêtement de l’icône d’Andronic que nous venons de présenter.64 Il s’agit d’une croix de procession liée à une des plus anciennes traditions du monastère, et qui est aujourd’hui conservée sur l’autel du katholikon. Elle est entièrement recouverte d’une feuille d’argent avec un décor végétal en relief. Aux extrémités des branches horizontales ont été rajoutés des médaillons au champlevé et à l’émail avec des représentations de l’Hétimasie du Trône avec deux archanges, de la Vierge et du Prodrome de part et d’autre de la Descente aux Limbes, ainsi que des saints Constantin et Hélène encadrés par les bustes des apôtres Pierre et Paul. Des ajouts récents couvrent aujourd’hui une partie de ces médaillons. Leur peinture65 et la tradition attribue également à Thessalonique deux icônes avec de magnifiques revêtements en argent doré du XIVe et XVe siècle, conservées au monastère de Vatopédi.66 Il s’agit des icônes de la Vierge Hodegetria (Fig. 14) et de l’Hospitalité d’Abraham (Fig. 15) que la tradition lie à l’église Sainte-Sophie de Thessalonique, d’où elles furent transférées au monastère de Vatopédi pour y être sauvées après la transformation de l’église en mosquée au XVIe siècle.67 Le cadre et le fond de l’icône de l’Hospitalité d’Abraham (Fig. 15) du XIVe siècle68 portent un revêtement en bon état de conservation avec quelques petits ajouts récents, harmonieusement disposés. Au fond de l’icône s’inscrivent les nimbes des cinq figures de la composition. Le motif décoratif du revêtement, rendu par la technique des bandes collées sur la feuille d’argent que nous avons précédemment décrite, consiste en un tapis d’ornements végétaux de trèfles entrecoupés de rangées de cercles successifs. Le décor du cadre est composé de panneaux rectangulaires couverts par le même tapis de rinceaux et de petits cercles qui ornent le fond. Entre eux s’interposent des boutons ronds cloués et des panneaux carrés dans lesquels sont inscrits des saints en buste, appartenant à différentes époques. Seuls deux boutons au milieu du cadre droit et six panneaux avec des saints et des apôtres, d’un art remarquable, sont attribués au décor d’origine. Le revêtement de l’icône de la Vierge Hodegetria69 (Fig. 14) présente une ressemblance étonnante dans la conception et l’exécution de son décor avec celui de l’icône de la Sainte Trinité (Fig. 15). Les ajouts récents sur les deux icônes ont également été effectués aux mêmes époques et suivant les mêmes proportions. Ces remarques confirment l’orig64

Loverdou-Tsigarida, Buzantinhv Mikrotecniva, ibid., 2: 481–82. Voir E. Tsigaridas, “Forhtev" eikovne",” ibid., 2: 392–93. 66 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 54–55, no. 25. Loverdou-Tsigarida, Buzantinhv Mikrotecniva, 2: 493–96, fig. 438–39. 67 Il est vraisemblable que cette tradition est liée à un firman de Selim II qui a ordonné le retrait immédiat de toutes les oeuvres chrétiennes de l’église Sainte-Sophie. Ces oeuvres, comme nous l’indique une inscription, étaient achetées à prix d’or par de riches chrétiens pour être transférées dans des monastères du Mont Athos. Au monastère de Xéropotamou est conservée une icône de marbre en relief de saint Démétrios provenant aussi de l’église Sainte-Sophie, d’après l’inscription dédicatoire: Eij" eujprevpeian kai; mnhvmhn pistw'n ∆Anavktwn aJdrai'" dapavnai" thvn d∆hvnegken ejk naou' aJgiva" Sofiva", peivsa" zakovrou" Oijkoumeniko;" Suvmboulo" Grhgovrio" (G. Smyrnakes, To Agion ∆Oro" [Athènes, 1903; repr. 1988], 547). 68 Grabar, Les revêtements, 66, no. 38, pl. D, fig. 81–83. Loverdou-Tsigarida, Buzantinhv Mikrotecniva, 2: 493. 69 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 67–68, no. 39; Loverdou-Tsigarida, Buzantinhv Mikrotecniva, 2: 496. 65

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ine commune des deux icônes et leur entrée à la même époque au monastère de Vatopédi, éléments qui étayent également la tradition du monastère sur leur origine. Nous attribuons également à un atelier de Thessalonique, en raison de la ressemblance impressionante de certains éléments avec les deux revêtements précédents, le revêtement d’une icône de l’Annonciation (Fig. 16), oeuvre thessalonicienne aussi,70 conservée également au monastère de Vatopédi.71 Le revêtement d’origine en filigrane n’a pas été conservé intact. Une partie des panneaux du revêtement du cadre a disparu, tandis que ce qui a été conservé n’est pas à son emplacement d’origine. Nous pouvons proposer pour le revêtement de l’Annonciation une datation de la fin du XIVe ou du début du XVe siècle, et l’attribuer au même centre de production que les deux icônes de Sainte-Sophie. D’autres revêtements d’icônes en filigrane, dont la peinture peut être attribuées à des artistes de Thessalonique, peuvent être reliés, au niveau de la technique et des motifs décoratifs, avec les trois revêtements que nous avons présentés. C’est le cas avec le revêtement orné de médaillons en émail, éléments de réemploi, du cadre d’une icône en mosaïques de saint Jean l’Evangéliste (Fig. 17), conservée au monastère de la Grande Lavra72 et dont l’aspect pictural est lié au Protaton et à la peinture du XIVe siècle à Thessalonique. Les ateliers qui fabriquaient des revêtements en argent doré pour les icônes devaient également fabriquer des revêtements de croix et de reliures d’évangiles pour répondre aux besoins des églises et des seigneurs de la ville. La demande et le coût important de ces revêtements semblent avoir obligé les acheteurs, ainsi que les artisans de Thessalonique, à recourir à des imitations en stuc. Un exemple caractéristique nous est fourni par une petite icône de saint Démétrios (Fig. 18), conservée au monastère de Vatopédi, proche sur le plan stylistique de la peinture de Thessalonique des XIIIe et XIVe siècles.73 Une autre oeuvre, reliée par la tradition à l’église Sainte-Sophie de Thessalonique, est le revêtement en bronze de la porte à double battant en bois du katholikon du monastère de Vatopédi (Fig. 19). Cette oeuvre, du XVe siècle,74 s’inscrit dans un grand nombre de réalisations semblables des ateliers byzantins de métallurgie dont le principal centre de production était Constantinople.75 Elle a été réalisée par un atelier qui révèle une longue expérience dans cette technique impressionnante, qui n’est pas concevable en dehors d’une production importante. La technique est une forme de damasquinage, appelée miltourgiva.76 Le revêtement de cette porte consiste en quatre-vingt-huit panneaux rectangulaires, disposés en neuf rangées sur chaque battant. Le damasquinage de quatre-vingt-six des 70

Voir E. Tsigaridas, “Forhtev" eikovne",” 2: 392–93. Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 68, no. 40; Loverdou-Tsigarida, Batopaidivou, 2: 497, fig. 331. 72 Voir Grabar, Les revêtements, 62–63, no. 33, fig. 71–72. Quelques remarques sur les émaux des revêtements, voir Vokotopoulos, Buzantinev" Eikovne", 212, no. 90. Sur la peinture, M. Chatzidakis, “Une icône en mosaïque de Lavra,” JÖB 21 (1972): 71–83. 73 Voir Tsigaridas, “Forhtev" eikovne",” 375–77, fig. 318. 74 Voir Loverdou-Tsigarida, Buzantinhv Mikrotecniva, 2: 497–98, fig. 440. 75 Voir M. Frazer, “Church Doors and the Gates of Paradise: Byzantine Bronze Doors in Italy,” DOP 27 (1973): 147–60; Ch. Bouras, “The Byzantine Bronze Doors on the Great Lavra Monastery on Mount Athos,” JÖB 24 (1975): 229–50. 76 Il s’agit de l’évolution au Moyen-Age de la technique ancienne grecque ejmpaistikhv et de la caelatura romaine. La décoration d’un objet ou d’une lame métallique est faite toujours avec des rainures creusées par un ciseau ou de l’acide nitrique, mais désormais elles sont remplies du mivlto" liquide (une variante de l’hématite) ou de tout autre matériau liquide offrant différentes couleurs. 71

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panneaux des battants consiste en motifs non-figuratifs qui offrent un ensemble décoratif proche de la peinture. Les rotae sericae qui constituent le principal motif décoratif des panneaux sont enrichis de divers ornements végétaux et de rosettes, mais aussi d’assemblages géométriques et, en alternance, des aigles bicéphales et des dragons ailés, motifs privilégiés dans l’art de la période byzantine tardive, notamment en sculpture et en tissage des XIIIe, XIVe et surtout du XVe siècles. Seuls deux panneaux, au centre de la troisième rangée à partir du haut, sont ornés d’un relief saillant qui a pour thème l’Annonciation. Nous pensons qu’il s’agit d’ajouts, vraisemblablement liés à la repose du revêtement sur la porte du katholikon, consacré à l’Annonciation de la Vierge (Fig. 20) et que l’on peut, à partir d’éléments iconographiques et des inscriptions, situer dans la première période post-byzantine. L’attribution de ce revêtement à un atelier de Thessalonique, dans la mesure où il ornait la porte d’une église de la ville,77 sera peut-être étayée par d’autres arguments dans sa prochaine publication. En attendant, nous avons décidé de le mentionner ici, parce que on ne peut pas exclure l’hypothèse qu’existait à Thessalonique un atelier capable de produire des oeuvres de ce type. Un autre domaine des arts mineurs, également lié aux besoins religieux et laïcs, semble avoir connu un certain développement à Thessalonique au XIVe siècle. C’est la broderie, luxueuse ornementation des tissus et des vêtements, dont un remarquable atelier à Thessalonique au XIVe siècle produisit le fameux aër-épitaphios de l’eglise de Panagouda à Thessalonique. Cette oeuvre, considérée à juste titre comme une des plus remarquables productions de l’art paléologue,78 représente le Christ-Agneau et la Communion des Apôtres (Fig. 21) dans deux compositions brodées par au moins deux artisans. Les représentations ont été dessinées par un grand peintre, maître du “volume style” de la peinture monumentale. Laskarina Boura, après une étude comparative avec des peintures de Pansélinos et de Michel Astrapas et Eutychios, l’à daté vers 1300 et l’a attribué à un atelier de Thessalonique.79 De l’église de la Peribleptos (aujourd’hui Saint-Clément) vient une remarquable oeuvre de broderie liturgique.80 Il s’agit d’une podea qui portait la scène de la Crucifixion.81 D’après l’inscription dédicataire qui accompagne la composition, iconographiquement et stylistiquement très proche de la peinture murale de la fin du XIIIe s.,82 il s’agit d’une donation du grand hétairiarque Progonos Sgouros et de sa femme Eudokia qui sont aussi les fondateurs de l’eglise de la Peribleptos. Le même personnage, qui était aussi le donateur d’une eglise Saint-Nicolas à Thessalonique, a invité les peintres thessaloniciens Eutychios 77 Voir S. Kissas, “H mesaiwnikhv Qessalonivkh w" kevntro metallotecniva",” Resumé du 5e Symposium de la Christianike Archaiologike Hetaireia (1985): 32–33. 78 Il s’agit d’une oeuvre mentionnée plusieurs fois, surtout dans les manuels de l’art byzantin, mais attribuée sans autre précision à Constantinople. Voir aussi G. Millet, Broderies religieuses de style byzantin (Paris, 1947), 94– 102. 79 Voir L. Bouras, “The epitaphios of Thessaloniki. Byzantine Museum of Athens no. 685,” dans L’art de Thessalonique et des pays balkaniques et les courants spirituels au XIVe siècle, 211–14, fig. 215 ff. 80 Dimensions 122 × 68 cm. Elle se trouve aujourd’hui dans la collection du Musée National d’Histoire de Sofia. Voir. J. Bojtscheva, “Ein Kunstwerk der byzantinischen Stuckerei aus Ochrid. Datierung und Attribution,” Problemi na izkustvoto 31.3 (1998): 8–15. Je voudrais ici remercier Madame Sharon Gerstel pour son aide à trouver l’article. 81 Analyse sur les possibilités d’utilisation, voir Bojtscheva, “Ein Kunstwerk,” 12–13. 82 Voir Bojtscheva, “Ein Kunstwerk,” 14.

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et Michel Astrapas pour la décoration de l’église. Pour complèter son oeuvre, comme il était habituel à cette époque,83 il a probablement cherché un atelier de Thessalonique pour se procurer les broderies liturgiques nécessaires à son église.84 La qualité artistique de la Crucifixion trouve des parallèles dans l’épitaphios de Thessalonique et dans l’aerépitaphios, de même date, donation d’Andronic II Paléologue à la même église de la Peribleptos (Saint-Clément), d’ après l’inscription85 qu’il porte. D’autres oeuvres de broderie pourraient être attribuées à Thessalonique, soit parce qu’elles ont été offertes par des donateurs qui viennent de la ville ou de la région, soit en raison de leur ressemblance avec des oeuvres peintes ou encore par leur parenté stylistique avec l’épitaphios dont nous avons précédemment parlé. Cela pourrait être le cas d’une podea du monastère de Chilandar,86 de l’aer-épitaphios de Vatopédi, donation, d’après une inscription brodée, de l’empereur Jean VI Cantacouzène87 (Fig. 22, 23), et de l’aerépitaphios du monastère du Pantocrator.88 Une étude plus approfondie des broderies pourrait permettre des conclusions intéressantes sur cette question.89 Nous ne pouvons évidemment pas exclure l’existence d’autres secteurs d’activité du domaine des arts mineurs dans la ville de Thessalonique, par exemple la sculpture sur bois. Citons notamment les lutrins en bois sculpté du monastère de Vatopédi (Fig. 24), offerts, d’après la tradition, par le Despote Andronic Paléologue et qui font partie des rares sculptures sur bois byzantines encore conservées.90 Ils ont été fabriqués spécialement pour le monastère, et l’iconographie des panneaux qui les décorent est en relation avec la vie de la Mère de Dieu et l’Annonciation. Il est probable, en raison de l’origine du donateur, qu’ils proviennent d’un atelier de Thessalonique. Il est aussi possible qu’existaient des ateliers de reliure dont la tradition a pu être transmise au monastère de Sainte-Anastasie Pharmacolytria près de Thessalonique, d’ou provient le codex Paris. gr. 1192 dans lequel sont réunies les oeuvres du métropolite de Thessalonique Jean Isidore Glabas (1342–96). Ce codex porte, sur le plat inférieur de sa reliure du XVIe siècle, le monogramme en bronze de Thessalonique; nous supposons que celui-ci provient de son ancienne reliure du XIVe siècle.91 Le fait que la bibliothèque du monastère se constitua par la copie de manuscrits ou la restauration d’exemplaires anciens peut expliquer la présence de ce monogramme qui, probablement, provient d’un atelier de Thessalonique. 83 Voir K. Loverdou-Tsigarida, “Objets précieux de l’église de la Vierge Gabaliotissa au monastère de Lavra (Mont Athos),” Zograf 26 (1997): 81–83. 84 Milkovic´ a même attribué l’oeuvre à la donatrice Eudokia. Voir Bojtscheva, “Ein Kunstwerk,” 10 note 13. 85 Voir Millet, Broderies religieuses, 90, qui remarque qu’il vient peut-être du même centre de production, mais “sans sortir des mêmes mains.” Voir aussi Treasures of Christian Art in Bulgaria, éd. V. Pace (Borina, 2001), 208–9, no. 76. 86 Millet, Broderies religieuses, 101, pl. CLVII. 87 Daté vers 1354. Voir M. Theochare, “Crusokevnthta avmfia,” dans Batopaidivou, 2: 420–24, fig. 356, 357. 88 Voir Millet, Broderies religieuses, 87–89, pl. CLXXVI. Leur ressemblance iconographique fait penser qu’il s’agit des oeuvres d’après le même modèle (Theochare, “Crusokevnthta avmfia,” 421, et idem, “Kenthtikhv,” dans le catalogue de l’exposition Oi Qhsauroiv tou Agivou VOrou" (Thessalonique, 1997), 403–4, no. 11.19. 89 La comparaison du style et de l’iconographie des scènes brodées et des peintures sera très utile non seulement pour la datation mais aussi pour la provenance de leur modèle et peut-être pour la détermination de l’atelier. 90 N. Nikonanos, “Ta xulovglupta,” dans Batopaidivou, 2: 536–46. 91 Voir Byzance. L’art byzantin dans les collections publiques francaises. Musée du Louvre 31.11.1992–1.2.1993 (Paris, 1992), 471, no. 363.

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À l’exception des ateliers de production d’objets de luxe pour les églises et les dignitaires ecclésiastiques et laïcs, on trouvait à Thessalonique des ateliers pour la production d’objets d’usage courant. Il existait des ateliers de dinanderie, et nous pouvons ainsi attribuer avec une relative certitude à un atelier de Thessalonique des polykandela ainsi que six encensoirs de table, appelés également katsia, qui proviennent de la région de Thessalonique et même de Belgrade.92 L’étude de la céramique byzantine tardive permet avec une relative certitude de considérer Thessalonique comme un centre de production de céramiques, tout au moins au XIVe siècle.93 On peut même déterminer certains types décoratifs appartenant à des ateliers, tels que le rendu incisé d’un oiseau qui becquète une tige dans une coupe hémisphérique avec un pied bas ou une rosette enrichie d’un ornement rayonnant. Au début nous avons soutenu que Thessalonique au XIVe siècle avait le caractère d’une capitale. Cet situation justifie la présence des meilleurs artistes et artisans de l’époque, capables de répondre aux besoins des riches seigneurs et des souverains qui séjournaient dans la ville. Nous pouvons supposer aussi que des artisans, originaires de Constantinople, ont pu venir s’installer à Thessalonique pour y créer des ateliers, même si Constantinople demeurait le principal centre artistique de l’empire. Les éléments, bien que peu nombreux, que nous avons réunis sur les réalisations de la ville dans le domaine des arts mineurs peuvent déterminer de manière indicative la production de Thessalonique à l’époque des Paléologues et nous permettre de conclure qu’existaient dans la ville: (1) des ateliers d’orfèvrerie pour l’or, l’argent, et les émaux, et des ateliers de verrerie et de céramique qui répondaient aux besoins du pèlerinage à l’église et à la crypte de Saint-Démétrios; (2) un centre de production d’argenterie, éventuellement spécialisé dans les revêtements en argent doré d’oeuvres précieuses, telles que des icônes, des croix et des reliures de livres, destinées à des églises et à des particuliers; (3) des ateliers de broderies qui, à partir de dessins de grands peintres de Thessalonique, fabriquaient des oeuvres d’une grande qualité artistique; (4) peut-être un atelier de fabrication de petites icônes en mosaïques; (5) des ateliers spécialisés en produits tels que le revêtement métallique des portes ornées suivant la technique du damasquinage, des ateliers de dinanderie, de la sculpture de bois, de reliure des livres; (6) et un centre de production de céramiques. Enfin, le fait que la ville fut un centre de production d’un si grand nombre d’oeuvres d’arts mineurs nous permet de supposer que la gamme de ses produits était encore plus importante. Ephoreia of Byzantine Antiquities, Thessalonike 92

Voir K. Loverdou-Tsigarida, “Buzantinhv mikrotecniva,” dans le catalogue de l’exposition Qhsauroiv tou Agivou VOrou" (Thessalonique, 1997), 353–54, no. 9.27. 93 Voir Papanicola-Bakirtzis, “Palaeologian Glazed Pottery,” 193 ff.

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Symposium on Late Byzantine Thessalonike Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2003 © 2004 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

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The Late Byzantine Metropolitans of Thessalonike GEORGE T. DENNIS

s Thessalonike was the second city of the empire, so its bishop, especially in the Palaiologan period, was, albeit not officially, the second among the hierarchs in a diminishing empire.1 Also second, and by a notable distance, is reliable information about him and his diocese. There is nothing comparable to the Registers of the patriarchate for the fourteenth century. The sources are spotty and anecdotal. We do not even have an accurate list of the bishops of Thessalonike. Still, acknowledging these problems, one can piece together a general picture of the metropolitans of the city and their role. The confines mandated for this report, however, do not permit a detailed discussion of each pontificate. And so, this paper will focus on certain hierarchs of the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, a particularly troubled period, and will conclude with some general observations, as well as some unanswered questions. A few preliminary observations may be in order. There will be no discussion of the Zealots in the 1340s. It has been conclusively demonstrated that the so-called “Anti-Zealot Discourse” attributed to Nicholas Kabasilas Chamaëtos, once regarded as a major source, has nothing to do with the Zealots in Thessalonike.2 Still, certain questions present themselves. How much of ecclesiastical politics in Thessalonike was in reality simply one aspect of the conflict between the Kantakouzenoi and the Palaiologoi? How much was it affected by the conflict between the Palaiologoi themselves, uncle and nephew? How much by the conflict between the adherents of Palamas and those opposed to him? The lines of demarcation between the various factions are not at all clear. The Synodikon of Orthodoxy has a special section which was read in Thessalonike and which provides a list of the metropolitans of that church.3 For the end of the thirteenth century, for the fourteenth and early fifteenth we have: Ignatios, Iakovos, Ieremias, Gregory, Ignatios, Makarios, Antonios, Dorotheos, Isidore, Gabriel, Symeon, Gregory. To affix surnames and dates to the names on this list is not an easy task. L. Petit, in an article which appeared almost exactly a hundred years ago, tried to do so, with only partial success.4 It should be noted that this Thessalonike list does not include the well-known bish-

A

1

Thessalonike ranked sixteenth in the hierarchy. Andronikos II raised it to eleventh and Andronikos III to fourth: H.-G. Beck, Kirche und theologische Literatur im byzantinischen Reich (Munich, 1959), 176. 2 ˇevcˇenko, “Nicholas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse. A Reinterpretation,” DOP 11 (1957): 70–171; I. S idem, “A Postscript on Nicholas Cabasilas’ ‘Anti-Zealot’ Discourse,” DOP 16 (1962): 403–8; both repr. in his Society and Intellectual Life in Late Byzantium (London, 1981), nos. IV and VI. 3 “Le Synodikon de l’Orthodoxie, Édition et commentaire,” ed. J. Gouillard, TM 2 (1967): 1–316, esp. 114. 4 “Les évêques de Thessalonique,” EO 5 (1901–2): 90–97.

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ops Gregory Palamas and Neilos Kabasilas. Instead, they are named and effusively praised in the more general, doctrinal section of the Synodikon.5 The following list represents, to the best of our knowledge, the succession of the metropolitans of Thessalonike and their dates (the PLP number for each one is given in square brackets). Ignatios, 1284/85–ante 1293 [8053]; Iakovos, ca. 1293–99 (previously hegoumenos of the Lavra on Mt. Athos) [7905]; another Iakovos, ca. 1300–ca. 1315 (from Monembasia, but possibly the same as the preceding) [7906]; Ieremias, 1315–27, from Constantinople, where he remained for some time after his installation as metropolitan) [8110]; an unnamed prelate(?); Gregory Koutales, 1332–34/36 (also from Constantinople in the service of Andronikos III) [13616]; Ignatios (perhaps surnamed Glabas), 1336–41 [4222]; Makarios, 1342–44 (protos of Athos and then in the service of Empress Anna in Constantinople) [16276]; Hyakinthos, 1345–46 (a native of Cyprus, he became a monk of Hodegon in Constantinople and was noted for his strong anti-Palamite stance) [29453]. The rest are better known and will be treated in greater detail: Gregory Palamas, 1347–59 [21546]; Neilos Kabasilas, 1361–63 [10102]; Antonios, ca. 1363–ca. 1371 (?) [1100]; Dorotheos Blates, 1371–79 [2818]; Isidore Glabas, 1380–96 [4223]; Gabriel, 1397–1416/17 [3416]; Symeon (1416/17–1429) [27057]; Gregory, ca. 1432–ca. 1437/38 [4559]; Methodios, ca. 1439–67 [17599]. Gregory Palamas is best known for his theological and ascetical writings, which we need not discuss here.6 We are interested, rather, in his activities as archbishop of Thessalonike. For this we must rely on a very laudatory and lengthy encomium composed by his disciple Philotheos.7 Born in 1296, Palamas grew up in Constantinople where Emperor Andronikos II provided for his education. In 1317 he made his monastic profession at the Lavra on Mount Athos. Frequent Turkish raids on the peninsula, though, led him to spend ten years in the capital. There he joined the entourage of John Kantakouzenos and was persecuted and excommunicated by Patriarch John Kalekas. But, with the victory of the usurper, in 1347, he was rewarded with the metropolitan throne of Thessalonike, although he was unable to take possession of his see until the city yielded to Kantakouzenos three years later. As archbishop he was noted for his efforts to bring about peace and reconciliation in a very faction-ridden city and for his preaching on social justice; many of his homilies, undoubtedly polished for posterity, are still extant.8 Philotheos, whom there is no reason to doubt, portrays him as a very dedicated shepherd of the flock committed to him. On a voyage to Constantinople, in 1354, he was captured by Turkish pirates and spent a year in captivity, devoting himself to the spiritual needs of other captives. Freed and back in Thessalonike, he resumed his pastoral activities, but by 1358 had become seriously ill. He died the next year (14 November 1359), and he was declared a saint of the Orthodox Church in 1368. Neilos Kabasilas, whose baptismal name was probably Nicholas (thus explaining the previous confusion with his nephew, Nicholas Kabasilas Chamaëtos), was highly regarded as a theologian and teacher, counting among his students his nephew Nicholas and 5

“Synodikon,” 89–91. See J. Meyendorff, Introduction à l’étude de Grégoire Palamas (Paris, 1959). 7 PG 151: 551–656. 8 PG 151: 9–549. 6

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Demetrios Kydones.9 Still a layman, he was a candidate for patriarch in 1353.10 Very close to John Kantakouzenos, he probably joined him in becoming a monk in December 1354.11 Patriarchal documents of 1361 mention the hieromonk Neilos Kabasilas as metropolitanelect of Thessalonike.12 We do not know when, or even whether, he received episcopal consecration or whether he actually arrived in Thessalonike to take possession of his see.13 He seems to have died in 1363. Dorotheos, surnamed Blates, was a disciple of Palamas. About 1360, together with his brother Mark, he founded the Pantokrator monastery, generally known as Blatadon, a monastic foundation in Thessalonike functioning continuously from Byzantine times.14 The Synodikon gives him high praise for his unswerving adherence to patristic and spiritual exegesis and teaching (clearly code for Palamite), before becoming bishop and after, as well as for enduring labors and suffering, including prison, on behalf of that teaching. He seems to have occupied the metropolitan throne from 1371 to 1379.15 Isidore Glabas, whose baptismal name was John, was born to a prominent Constantinopolitan family in 1342 and received an excellent education in the Byzantine tradition.16 He became a monk on 1 April 1375. Five years later (25 May 1380) he was ordained metropolitan of Thessalonike, but remained in the capital for another month or two. Arrived in his see, in 1381–82, for reasons that are not clear he suspended Dorotheos, hegoumenos of St. Basil, and a priest named Allelouias. They appealed to Patriarch Neilos, who listened to their side of the case. When Isidore protested against what he regarded as interference in his diocese, Neilos justified his actions, stressing the rights of the patriarch, in July 1382. With the city under siege by the Turks, Isidore preached a number of homilies in which he maintained that the sufferings of his flock were the result of their sins; if only they would repent and change their ways, St. Demetrios would intercede for them and God would free them from their afflictions, both present and threatening. Most serious of those sins which so angered God was the secularization of church property by the authorities. In a homily delivered in October 1383, he raised the case of the property of St. Sozon (otherwise unknown) belonging to the archdiocese, which “some high-ranking dignitaries” wanted to drag off to other uses.17 He did not directly blame the emperor, who may well have been 9

See The Letters of Manuel II Palaeologus, ed. G. T. Dennis, CFHB 8 (Washington, D.C., 1977), xxxi, xxxvi. Ioannis Cantacuzeni imperatoris historiarum libri IV, ed. J. Schopen, 3 vols. (Bonn, 1828–32), 4.38: vol. 3, p. 275. 11 Ibid., 4.42: vol. 3, pp. 306–7. 12 MM 1: nos. 181, 183, pp. 417, 429. 13 According to Sphrantzes, Neilos’ sister (Nicholas’ mother) moved to Thessalonike “because her brother was archbishop there”: Georgios Sphrantzes Memorii 1401–1471, ed. V. Grecu (Bucharest, 1966), 18.1–2, p. 32. 14 R. Janin, Les églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins (Paris, 1975), 356–58; G. Theocharides, “OiJ iJdrutai; th'" ejn Qessalonivkh/ monh'" tw'n Blatavdwn,” Panhguriko;" Tovmo" . . . Grhgorivou tou' Palama' (Thessalonike, 1960), 49–70. The present monastery of St. Theodora also goes back to Byzantine times, although not in its original buildings: see Janin, Grands centres, 374–75. 15 In June 1376 he presided over a trial in Thessalonike: G. Theocharides, Miva diaqhvkh kai; miva divkh buzantinhv (Thessalonike, 1962), 49. 16 See G. T. Dennis, The Reign of Manuel II Palaeologus in Thessalonica, 1382–1387, OCA 159 (Rome, 1960), 89–95; V. Christophorides, “O arciepivskopo" Qessalonivkh" Isivdwro" Glabav" kai ta koinwnikav problhvmata th" epochv" tou,” ∆Episthmonikh; ∆Epethrivda th" Qeologikhv" Scolhv" 29 (1988): 519–90. 17 Dennis, Reign, 89. His homilies are extant in two collections, one in Vaticanus gr. 651; thirteen of these have been edited by V. Christophorides, ∆Isidwvrou Glaba' oJmilive" (Thessalonike, 1992). The other is in Parisinus gr.1192. Five of his homilies on St. Demetrios have been edited by B. Laourdas, ∆Isidwvrou ajrciepiskovpou 10

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present in the church, but “certain men” who were trying to persuade him to alienate church property to provide for the defense of the city. Manuel, at any rate, did not need much persuading; he had confiscated church property in 1369 and 1371 and would do so again in 1390. In the last line of that homily, Isidore hinted at his eventual departure from Thessalonike. In fact, he had not kept his plans secret, for rumors had reached Constantinople, and the patriarch wrote to dissuade him. Isidore paid no heed, and, in spring 1384, sailed for the capital. Further letters of the patriarch advising him to return were of no avail. Finally, in September 1384, the patriarch and the synod suspended the metropolitan of Thessalonike from his functions for having abandoned the flock committed to him. “When those Christians were struggling for their lives, you fled and betrayed them.”18 What motivated Isidore to flee from the besieged city? It may well have been fear for his own safety. Christian bishops were in fact harshly treated by the conquering Ottoman forces. The sufferings of Bishop Matthew of Serres at the hands of the Turks the previous year might presage Isidore’s own fate were he to be taken prisoner.19 There may also have been other motives, such as escaping the hardships imposed by the siege. He may have been frustrated by the dispute over church property, to which he alluded in his sermons, or by the hostility of the archontes or of the emperor’s advisors. Did he choose to leave because of a conflict with Manuel himself, either over the confiscation of church property or over the emperor’s negotiations with the pope and the possibility of union with the Latin Church? Or, finally, could he have been on a secret mission from Manuel to discuss a settlement with John V? Whatever his motives, the bitter reaction of the faithful was articulated by Dositheos Karantenos, a priest in Thessalonike, in a letter to Isidore. Dated 14 July 1385, it did not arrive in the capital until 12 September. Two days later, Isidore composed his reply to Dositheos as well as a pastoral letter to the Thessalonians.20 He apologized for his absence which, so he asserted, had been prolonged against his will; he declared his undiminished affection for them and promised to return soon. He exhorted them to obey Emperor Manuel, their only hope of escaping the terrible dangers now confronting them. To Dositheos he offered proof that he was being detained in the capital against his will: he procured provisions at considerable expense, which his brother conveyed to Thessalonike; he had to obtain official documents from the rulers permitting him to return to his see. He was obliged to spend a great deal of time at the palace, especially “when he bearing the second position of authority after the great one entered Constantinople.”21 Many points in this apology remain obscure, and any attempt to solve them will lead us far afield. In any event, Isidore was restored to his position as metropolitan; in March 1386 he Qessalonivkh" oJmilivai eij" ta;" eJorta;" tou' aJgivou Dhmhtrivou, ÔEllhnikav, Paravrthma 5 (Thessalonike, 1954), and another five by A. C. Hero in her M.A. thesis, Columbia University, 1965. 18 Dennis, Reign, 92. Such episcopal flights before the Turkish advance were not uncommon in the 14th century. In 1304–5 Patriarch Athanasios complained to the emperor about the large number of bishops who had abandoned their flocks and fled to Constantinople: The Correspondence of Athanasius I, Patriarch of Constantinople, ed. A. M. Talbot (Washington, D.C., 1975), letter 25, p. 56. 19 He clearly alluded to this in some of his sermons: see Christophorides, “O ajrciepivskopo" Qessalonivkh",” 558–59. 20 Dennis, Reign, 92. 21 Ibid., 93.

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reappears as a member of the patriarchal synod. But, despite his repeated promises, he did not return to Thessalonike until after it was captured by the Turks, late, so it seems, in 1389. Sometime in the next few years he undertook the arduous journey to the Ottoman Porte, in Asia Minor, to plead for better conditions for the Thessalonians captured by the Turks as well as for those remaining in the occupied city.22 He seems to have achieved some success for, back in Thessalonike, in his homilies for the Sundays before the feast of St. Demetrios, in October 1393, he exhorted the congregation to be grateful to God for a definite, but unspecified, remission of their sufferings. Two years later, however, he had to try to console them as the Turks imposed the barbaric devshirme, or child tribute, upon them.23 Not long afterwards he died, on 11 January 1396. Gabriel was the son of a priest, a diocesan official in Thessalonike. At an early age he entered monastic life and came under the direction of Makarios Choumnos in what was known simply as the Nea Mone (new monastery) in Thessalonike.24 About 1374 Makarios was named hegoumenos of Stoudios in Constantinople, and he designated Gabriel as superior of the Nea Mone. But, in 1384, with the Turks besieging the city, he and several other monks left for Constantinople, where they settled in what Demetrios Kydones referred to as the “Neotera Mone” (newer monastery). But Gabriel was soon named superior of Chora and overseer of all the monasteries in the capital. In April 1389 he was promoted to metropolitan of Chalcedon, then occupied by the Turks and thus inaccessible to the metropolitan-elect. But the bishopric of Chalcedon possessed a good deal of property in Constantinople, which brought Gabriel into direct conflict with Matthew, bishop of Kyzikos, and which would not be forgotten when Matthew ascended the patriarchal throne. Sometime before 1394 Gabriel returned to his native city and again took up his position as superior of the Nea Mone. The death of Isidore Glabas (1396) was followed by a conflict over the succession which ended in the summer of 1397 with the election of Gabriel. He was remembered for expending a great deal of energy and money in obtaining milder treatment of his flock from the Turks. Some sixty-six homilies of his are extant, mostly unedited, which cover the liturgical year and special feasts.25 Thessalonike was restored to Byzantine rule in the summer of 1402. The Synodikon has a great deal of praise for Gabriel, but the rest of the historical record shows him embroiled in a series of ecclesiastical controversies. A dispute with the monks of Akapniou degenerated to such a point that the patriarch threatened Gabriel with excommunication. Gabriel himself, in conflict with the patriarchal exarch Nathaniel, excommunicated the monks of Kyr Maximos. The long-standing hostility between Gabriel and Matthew of Kyzikos, since 1397 ecumenical patriarch, erupted again when Emperor Manuel II sailed 22

These journeys are alluded to in the Synodikon entry and in the monody on Isidore by Constantine Ivankos, ed. E. Legrand, Lettres de l’empereur Manuel Paléologue (Paris, 1893), 105–8. 23 S. Vryonis, “Isidore Glabas and the Turkish Devshirme,” Speculum 31 (1956): 433–43. 24 On Gabriel see Dennis, Letters of Manuel, xlii–xliv. A memorial oration by Makarios Makres focuses on Gabriel’s holiness but also contains much biographical information: ed. L. Syndika-Laourdas, Makedonikav 4 (1955–60): 352–70; more recent ed. with commentary by A. Argyrios, Makarivou tou' Makrh' suggravmmata (Thessalonike, 1996), 101–20. On the Nea Mone see Janin, Grands centres, 398–99; also Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, ed. J. Thomas and A. C. Hero, 5 vols. (Washington, D.C., 2000), no. 52, 4: 1433–54, esp. 1433. 25 They exist in cod. 58 of the Theological School of Chalki: see A. Ehrhard, Überlieferung und Bestand der hagiographischen und homiletischen Literatur der griechischen Kirche, TU 52.5 (Leipzig, 1943), 714–17. Seven have been edited by B. Laourdas, “Gabrihvl Qessalonivkh" oJmilivai,” ∆Aqhna 57 (1953): 141–78.

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for western Europe, leaving the capital to be governed by his nephew John VII, and in June 1403 Gabriel took his revenge by voting to depose the patriarch.26 Peace between the bishops of Thessalonike and Constantinople seems to have been restored only with Patriarch Euthymios, 1410–16. Still, despite his voting against Patriarch Matthew and, at least implicitly, his support of John VII, Gabriel enjoyed a long friendship with Manuel II; they shared literary interests, and two of the letters which the emperor wanted preserved for posterity were addressed to Gabriel.27 He died in 1416–17. Here a note on John VII Palaiologos may not be out of place. In the summer of 1403 Manuel II returned from western Europe to reign again as emperor in Constantinople, and his nephew John sailed off to reign as emperor in Thessalonike. An entry in the Synodikon of that city, apparently composed by Metropolitan Symeon, had high praise for John.28 “He conducted himself in a truly orthodox manner through his entire life. He was an outstanding defender of the church and its sacred doctrines. . . . When waves of unheard-of violence rose up and threatened to engulf everything, he did not yield, but like a good pilot he again took control for the Romans. He recovered several cities from the hands of the barbarians, of which the first and greatest was our own Thessalonike, seeing the light of freedom after long servitude. He established his residence in our city and, neglecting nothing that was needed, he employed all means to assure our safety. He also gained many victories and triumphs over his own sufferings; the great variety of illnesses which he bore caused him to progress in virtue.” His accomplishments and saintly life are also recalled in other sources, notably in the monody composed by Theodore Potamios.29 It almost seems as though a cult of John was developing. Symeon, a native of Constantinople, became a monk, perhaps in the monastery of the Xanthopouloi, and was ordained a priest.30 He came to serve as a spiritual father, and he was also very knowledgeable about the rituals of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. The spiritual father of Manuel II was also a monk of Xanthopouloi, and it may have been in that context that he came to know Symeon, who, for his part, held the emperor in the highest regard. He is credited with having inserted special praise of Manuel in the Synodikon read in Thessalonike, which recalled his wisdom, bravery, constancy of character, military qualities, distant voyages, and incredible hardships undergone for the common good. “His great virtues shone upon the whole world more than any Orthodox emperor in the past.”31 Symeon also composed a personal but very informative history of events in Thessalonike from 1387 to 1422.32 He is best known, however, for his detailed writings on the liturgy, as though he foresaw that its continued and correct observance would have to sustain the Christian people during four centuries of infidel oppression.33 26 G. T. Dennis, “The Deposition and Restoration of Patriarch Matthew I, 1402–1404,” ByzF 2 (1967): 100– 106, esp. 104 note 19; repr. in G. T. Dennis, Byzantium and the Franks 1350–1420 (London, 1982), no. IV. 27 Letters of Manuel, 52 and 57. 28 “Synodikon,” 99. 29 Ed. S. Lampros, Delt.ÔEt.ÔEll. 2 (1885): 48–62. 30 See D. Balfour, ed., Politico-Historical Works of Symeon, Archbishop of Thessalonica (1416/17 to 1429) (Vienna, 1979). 31 “Synodikon,” 101. 32 Ed. Balfour, Works of Symeon, 40–69. 33 PG 155: 176–817; I. M. Phountoules, To; leitourgiko;n e[rgon Sumew;n tou' Qessalonivkh" (Thessalonike, 1966).

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Symeon claimed that he did not want to be a bishop but was “obliged” to receive ordination. At some point in the years 1416–17, he left the capital in a hurry, and arrived in Thessalonike alone, where, so he said, he did not know anyone.34 In fact, almost every year he requested to return to Constantinople. And, in a time of crisis (1422–23), he did attempt to go back there but got only as far as Mount Athos and was forced to return to Thessalonike. He claimed that he was compelled to remain there against his will. As Turkish pressure on the city increased, he had to contend against those who wanted to surrender to the Turks and at the same time against those who wanted to call in the Venetians. He was strongly anti-Muslim and, being hesychast, almost as strongly anti-Latin; in the negotiations with Venice he insisted on a clause safeguarding the position of the Orthodox bishop and clergy. Symeon was, of course, concerned with the administration of the church, including the recruitment of suitable priests. But he was also much involved with civic duties such as advising the city’s governor and presiding over civil tribunals. He admits that he alienated many because of his integrity and impartiality. In fact, he claimed to have been buffeted by everybody, reviled by his own household, and generally treated as dirt. In addition to all that, he tells us that, in 1427–28, his already weak constitution cracked under the strain of his labors and sorrows; he fell seriously ill and felt as though “he was nailed to his bed like a corpse.”35 He died suddenly in autumn 1429. Apparently, there was no archbishop in office when the troops of Murad II charged into the city on 29 March 1430, but within two years a new metropolitan was chosen. This was Gregory, a prominent member of the local clergy, who had served as bishop of a nearby diocese, whose name we do not know, and who, around 1432, was transferred to the metropolitan see of Thessalonike.36 He is the last prelate listed in the Synodikon for that city and was remembered for doing all he could to sustain his flock in difficult times. We last hear of him in 1437. In the first half of 1439, Methodios appears as metropolitan. Very little is known about him except that he seems to have resided in Thessalonike, for Emperor John VIII believed that he would not be able to come to Constantinople for a proposed synod.37 He was still in office on 15 January 1467, when he signed a decree deposing a certain Mark Xylokarabes.38 It is not clear when his pontificate came to an end. While the limited evidence summarized above may allow us to draw some conclusions about the late Byzantine metropolitans of Thessalonike, there remain many obscurities, both about individual hierarchs and more general matters. How was the metropolitan chosen? Much like the ecumenical patriarch, it would seem. The permanent synod probably proposed three names, and the emperor selected one, usually the first, which, in one way or another, he would have already suggested to the assembled bishops. Whatever the 34

On the date see Balfour, Works of Symeon, 137. Works of Symeon, 54.3. 36 “Synodikon,” 115. In general see A. Glavinas, “OiJ prw'toi kata; th;n tourkokrateivan mhtropolivtai Qessalonivkh",” ∆Episthmonikh; Epethrivda th" Qeologikhv" Scolhv" 23 (1978): 331–45; V. Laurent, “La liste épiscopale de Thessalonique,” EO 32 (1933): 300–10. 37 Les mémoires du grand ecclésiarque de l’église de Constantinople Silvestre Syropoulos sur le concile de Florence (1438– 1439), ed. V. Laurent (Paris, 1971), 12, 17, 29–33, pp. 570–72. For letters written by him in 1452 and 1453, see J. Darrouzès, “Lettres de 1453,” REB 22 (1964): 119. 38 Cf. Glavinas, “OiJ prw'toi”; PLP 17599. 35

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formalities observed, it was often the emperor who appointed the metropolitan. Thus John Kantakouzenos rewarded his supporters, Palamas and Kabasilas. Isidore’s connection with the emperor is not clear, but he belonged to a prominent family in the capital and spent many years there. Gabriel also resided there for a long time and was, as we know, a friend of Manuel II. Symeon was a native of Constantinople and quite likely a monk of Xanthopouloi, to which the emperor went for spiritual direction. We possess allusions to but very little documentation about the administration of the diocese, about its officials, the chartophylax, the musical director, the administrator of the orphanage, and about such matters as church property and philanthropic institutions. Most probably, it reflected, on a smaller scale, that of the patriarchate.39 The city contained many metochia and other properties belonging to Athonite monasteries, as well as religious houses of its own. In the fourteenth century the metropolitan was entitled “humble” (tapeinos), “most honorable” (hypertimos), and “exarch of All Thessalia.” During the reign of John VI Kantakouzenos he received the privilege, when addressing the faithful in his own jurisdiction, of adding the title, hitherto reserved to the patriarch, hJ metriovth" hJmw'n, “our moderacy,” “our modest self.”40 The sources make it clear that the bishops of Thessalonike, whatever their political involvement, were genuinely devoted to their pastoral responsibilities. One would expect to hear this from the encomia in the Synodikon, but their homilies which have been preserved confirm the same judgment. Although their high Greek style—if indeed they were delivered in the form in which they have been transmitted—may have been above the comprehension of their congregations, the homilies manifest a genuine awareness of the religious needs and problems of the Thessalonians and a sense of the bishops’ own responsibility to provide pastoral guidance. Symeon’s insistence on appointing suitable priests and on correct liturgical observance is another facet of the same concern. Like their counterparts in Constantinople, the bishops of Thessalonike played a prominent role in civic affairs. They were involved in the secular courts of law and presided over trials. Symeon, in particular, complained that his civic responsibilities consumed a great deal of his time and energy and earned him many enemies. In 1336, moreover, a trial was postponed because the see was vacant and there was no archbishop to preside.41 Forty years later (June 1376) Bishop Dorotheos is recorded as being the presiding judge in a civil trial.42 The bishops also had to oversee the many philanthropic institutions which characterized Byzantine urban life. They served as counselors to the secular authority, whether it was the emperor’s son bearing the title “despot of the Romans,” acting as governor of the city, or the emperor himself. And, of course, in the years under Turkish occupation the responsibilities of the metropolitans increased greatly. Isidore and Gabriel went on long and dangerous journeys to obtain relief for the Thessalonians; they had to raise funds to placate the occupying forces and, at times, to obtain provisions for the less affluent members of their flocks. They ran into conflicts with the civil authorities serving under the Turks. They had to be discreet in warning the Christians about becoming too 39

J. Darrouzès, Recherches sur les ojffivkia de l’église byzantine (Paris, 1970), 117–18. Darrouzès, “Lettres de 1453,” 72–127, esp. 106. 41 Das Register des Patriarchats von Konstantinopel, ed. H. Hunger et al. (Vienna, 1995), no. 3, pp. 104–17, esp. 110. 42 Theocharides, Miva diaqhvkh, 49. 40

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friendly with their Muslim overlords, and they had to deal with those who had themselves gone over to Islam. Thessalonike was torn by factionalism and civil strife in the period under consideration. Its bishops were constantly urging its citizens to put aside their differences and to join forces against their real enemies. Their sermons are full of references to social injustice and class struggle. Why do we hear more about such matters in Thessalonike rather than in other cities? Why at this period in its history? One might also ask about the role of Palamism. How divisive was it? Was it mostly a theological or ascetical controversy, or did it have an effect on the lives of ordinary Christians? What was its real impact on politics, local and imperial? In all this there are several unexplained relationships. Theodore Potamios, for instance, was a lifelong friend of Isidore Glabas and, at the same time, a good friend of Demetrios Kydones, both of whom were bitterly opposed to each other. Gabriel supported John VII, yet remained a friend of Manuel II. The Xanthopouloi monks gave spiritual direction to anti-Latin hesychasts such as Isidore, yet, at the same time, also transcribed the pro-Latin writings of Kydones and Manuel Kalekas.43 Many other such paradoxical relationships could easily be adduced. There was at the top of Byzantine society a certain elite which was based, not on wealth, religious status, or nobility of birth, but on a shared rhetorical and literary education, the “communion of letters” (koinwniva lovgwn), as they called it.44 This literary brotherhood seems to have taken precedence over theological, political, and other differences. There still remains much to learn about the metropolitans of Thessalonike and much more we shall probably never know. There is also much to learn from studying what we can of their history with all of its singularly distinctive personalities and its unexpected complexities. The story of the metropolitans of Thessalonike is truly byzantine. Catholic University of America 43 R. Janin, La géographie ecclésiastique de l’empire byzantin. Le siège de Constantinople et le patriarcat œcuménique: Les églises et les monastères (Paris, 1969), 378–79. 44 Démétrius Cydonès. Correspondance, ed. R.-J. Loenertz, 2 vols., ST 186, 208 (Vatican City, 1956, 1960), letˇevcˇenko, “Society and Intellectual Life ter 270, line 47: 2: 188. This has been discussed in some detail by I. S in the Fourteenth Century,” Actes du XIVe Congrès international des études Byzantines, Bucarest 1971, vol. 1 (Bucharest, 1974), 7–30; repr. in his Society and Intellectual Life, no. I.

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Appendix Metropolitans of Thessalonike, Late Thirteenth to Mid-Fifteenth Centuries

Ignatios, 1284/85–ante 1293 Iakovos, ca. 1293–1299 Iakovos ? ca. 1300–ca. 1315? Ieremias, 1315–1327 An unnamed bishop? Gregory Koutales, 1332–1334/3645 Ignatios (Glabas), 1336–1341 Makarios, 1342–1344 Hyakinthos, 1345–1346 Gregory Palamas, 1347–1359 Neilos Kabasilas, 1361–1363 Antonios, ca. 1363–ca. 1371 Dorotheos Blates, 1371–1379 Isidore Glabas, 1380–1396 Gabriel, 1397–1416/17 Symeon, 1416/17–1429 Gregory, ca. 1432–ca. 1437/38 Methodios, ca. 1439–1467 45

On the dates of the archbishopric of Koutales, see comments by D. Jacoby in note 279 of his article in this volume.

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Présence athonite à Thessalonique, XIIIe–XVe siècles CHRISTOPHE GIROS

ans son Éloge de Thessalonique, écrit au début du XIVe siècle, Nicéphore Choumnos souligne le grand nombre de moines présents dans la ville, qui cultivent la sagesse et mènent une vie angélique.1 Si l’orateur ne mentionne pas explicitement la présence de moines de l’Athos à Thessalonique, les archives des monastères de la sainte montagne révèlent une part de leur emprise foncière dans la ville et de leur rôle dans l’économie urbaine à cette époque. Thessalonique et le Mont Athos ont entretenu des rapports privilégiés tout au long du moyen âge, et ce, avant même la fondation des grands monastères cénobitiques. Si une affaire l’exigeait, les moines devaient se rendre dans la ville, où siégeaient les juges et les représentants des bureaux administratifs.2 Ainsi en 934, une délégation des moines athonites se rendit à Thessalonique pour déposer auprès du stratège du thème une plainte contre les habitants d’Hiérissos, ville située à l’entrée de la presqu’île.3 La fondation, dans la seconde moitié du Xe siècle, des grands monastères cénobitiques accrut probablement les contacts entre l’Athos et Thessalonique: saint Fantin le Jeune, originaire de Calabre, rencontra—si le récit hagiographique est véridique—Athanase et l’eunuque Paul, fondateurs de Lavra et de Xèropotamou, près de la porte kassandréotique; un moine de l’Athos, possédé par un démon, fut plus tard guéri après avoir prié sur le tombeau de saint Fantin, à Thessalonique.4

D

La ville constituait le principal centre urbain de la Macédoine, maîtresse, dans la première moitié du XIVe siècle, d’un riche arrière-pays.5 De nombreux monastères urbains y furent alors fondés, souvent par des membres du clergé de la cité.6 À une centaine de kilomètres au sud-est de Thessalonique, le Mont Athos n’était pas isolé, à l’écart des remous 1

J. F. Boissonade, éd., Anecdota graeca (Paris, 1830; repr. Hildesheim, 1962), 2: 145. D. Papachryssanthou, “Histoire d’un évêché byzantin: Hiérissos en Chalcidique,” TM 8 (1981): 381 et note 67. 3 D. Papachryssanthou, éd., Actes du Prôtaton, Archives de l’Athos 7 (Paris, 1975), no. 4. 4 E. Follieri, éd., La Vita di San Fantino il Giovane (Bruxelles, 1993), 446–48 et 464. Sur la porte kassandréotique, cf. J.-M. Spieser, Thessalonique et ses monuments du IVe au VIe siècle. Contribution à l’étude d’une ville paléochrétienne (Paris, 1984), 50–51. 5 A. Laiou, “ÔH Qessalonivkh, hJ ejndocwvra th" kaiv oJ oijkonomikov" th" cw'ro" sthvn ejpochv tw'n Palaiolovgwn,” in Buzantinhv Makedoniva, 324–1430 m.C. (Thessalonique, 1995), 183–94. 6 ´urcˇic´ et D. Mouriki M. Rautman, “Monastic Patronage in Macedonia,” in The Twilight of Byzantium, éd. S. C (Princeton, N.J., 1991), 65–67. 2

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de la ville. À la fin de 1337 ou en 1338, Grégoire Palamas, moine au Mont Athos, se rendit à Thessalonique, à la demande du parti des hésychastes, pour y prendre la défense de ces moines, praticiens d’une spiritualité nouvelle, contre les attaques de Barlaam le Calabrais.7 Parmi les documents médiévaux, conservés dans dix-huit des vingt monastères que compte la presqu’île athonite, certains actes nous apportent des informations sur les biens des moines de l’Athos à Thessalonique, et sur ce qu’ils venaient faire dans la ville.8 Les monastères avaient besoin d’une résidence à Thessalonique, pour héberger les moines qui s’y rendaient pour affaires. Ces dépendances urbaines, ou métoques, étaient généralement constituées d’une église, d’un édifice destiné au logement des moines et de divers bâtiments annexes groupés autour d’une cour fermée, pourvue d’un portail et souvent d’un puits. Un prêtre agréé par le monastère desservait l’église du métoque, où étaient célébrés quotidiennement les offices de l’orthros et des vêpres, ainsi que la divine liturgie, et annuellement la fête du saint auquel était vouée l’église.9 Les bâtiments situés autour de l’église ne pouvaient abriter d’activités jugées inconvenantes, comme par exemple les tavernes, dont un acte du métropolite prohibe la présence en 1270.10 Les actes relatifs à ces métoques thessaloniciens sont conservés en assez faible nombre dans les archives des monastères athonites. Il est possible que certains d’entre eux aient été conservés à Thessalonique même, dans les archives des métoques, et qu’ils aient disparu. Les grands monastères de l’Athos possédaient généralement plusieurs métoques dans la ville et des maisons de rapport.11 Un économe était chargé de l’administration des biens urbains du monastère. Dans un cas au moins, nous savons que l’économe du métoque de Vatopédi à Thessalonique, l’hiéromoine Simon, était aidé au milieu du XIVe siècle par un laïc, Manuel Kollourakès, gestionnaire des biens du monastère à Thessalonique.12 Les revenus des métoques thessaloniciens étaient principalement constitués par les loyers des maisons de rapport et ceux des vignes situées dans la campagne environnante.13 Les économes devaient en particulier assurer l’entretien des bâtiments. Un compte des dépenses effectuées à Thessalonique ou dans ses environs est conservé au verso d’un acte de bail inédit de Vatopédi, daté de 1344: les salaires de quinze ouvriers ou artisans sont mentionnés, au total plus de 19 hyperpères, pour un travail dont la nature nous échappe malheureusement, et qui a duré trois semaines.14 Les monastères cédaient, contre le verse7 ´urcˇic´, éd., Actes de P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos, D. Papachryssanthou, avec la collaboration de S. C Lavra, IV. Études historiques, actes serbes, compléments et index, Archives de l’Athos 11 (Paris, 1982), 33. 8 Les actes de l’Athos font l’objet d’une édition systématique dans la collection Archives de l’Athos, fondée en 1937 par Gabriel Millet, reprise par Paul Lemerle et actuellement dirigée par Jacques Lefort, et dont 21 volumes ont été publiés à ce jour. 9 J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, D. Papachryssanthou, V. Kravari, avec la collaboration d’H. Métrévéli, éd., Actes d’Iviron, III. De 1204 à 1328, Archives de l’Athos 18 (Paris, 1994), no. 60.11–12. 10 W. Regel, E. Kurtz et B. Korablev, éd., Actes de Zographou, Archives de l’Athos 4, VizVrem 13 (1907): Prilozhenie 1 (repr. Amsterdam, 1969), no. 8. 11 B. Ferjancic´, “Posedi vizantijskih provincijskih manastira u gradovima” (“Domaines des monastères provinciaux byzantin en ville”), ZRVI 19 (1980): 216–28. 12 Acte inédit de Vatopédi (mars 1356). Manuel Koullourakès est familier de l’empereur en 1356; cf. PLP 13424. Un médecin du nom de Manuel Koullourakès est connu à Thessalonique en 1324, cf. PLP 13425. 13 Un acte de 1356 mentionne l’oikologion et l’ampelopakton du métoque de Vatopédi à Thessalonique: cf. M. Goudas, éd., “Buzantiaka; e[ggrafa th'" ejn “Aqw/ iJera'" monh'" tou' Batopedivou,” ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 4 (1927): 238–39. 14 Acte inédit de Vatopédi (après septembre 1344).

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ment d’un loyer annuel, des ensembles de maisons à des notables qui s’engageaient à entretenir et bonifier les biens qui leur étaient confiés. Les actes de bail précisent parfois que les preneurs ont des liens particuliers avec le monastère—ils sont qualifiés par exemple de “frères du monastère” dans un acte inédit de Vatopédi, de 1358—ce que l’on peut interpréter comme des liens de clientèle. Les monastères de l’Athos ont accru progressivement leurs biens autour de ces métoques, en acquérant, par achat, par donation ou par échange, des maisons voisines ou des terrains. Il est possible de dresser un tableau de leurs diverses possessions immobilières à Thessalonique, qui témoignent de leur politique d’acquisition dans la ville. Dans certains cas, les actes de vente ou de donation décrivent les lieux avec suffisamment de précision pour permettre une représentation schématique des biens acquis. Toutefois, les dimensions des édifices ne sont jamais données, et les reconstitutions proposées n’ont de valeur qu’indicative. Au premier rang des monastères de l’Athos, Lavra accrut son emprise foncière à Thessalonique au XIIIe siècle. En 1259, dans une liste des biens du monastère, un seul métoque est attesté dans la ville, avec des maisons de rapport;15 en 1298, trois métoques, Saint-Athanase, la Trinité et Saint-Euthyme sont mentionnés.16 En 1287, Lavra acquit tous les biens du monastère des Amalfitains, et en particulier des maisons près de Thessalonique.17 Les origines des biens urbains de Lavra à Thessalonique sont obscures: un économe du métoque de Thessalonique est attesté en 1162,18 mais il est possible que le monastère y ait détenu une résidence depuis le Xe siècle, lorsque le monastère SaintAndré de Péristerai, qui possédait des biens à l’est de Thessalonique, devint une dépendance de Lavra.19 Le métoque de la Sainte-Trinité était un ancien monastère familial, fondé avant 1240 par l’hiéromoine Matthieu Perdikarios à l’est du quartier juif.20 Le quartier juif médiéval de Thessalonique, abandonné à la suite d’un incendie avant 1420, était vraisemblablement situé près de l’agora, à l’ouest de l’église de la Panagia tôn Chalkéôn.21 Le métoque de la Sainte-Trinité comprenait trois maisons à l’est du monastère, dont l’une était pourvue d’un toit à double pente et d’un auvent, sur une cour privée pourvue d’un puits. Au sud du monastère, trois autres maisons patrimoniales donnaient sur une autre cour privée pourvue d’un puits, et deux maisons à l’ouest, sur une troisième cour privée pourvue d’un puits, avaient leur porte qui donnaient sur le quartier juif.22 Vatopédi possédait jusqu’en 1270 deux métoques à Thessalonique, acquis à une date inconnue. En 1270, le monastère vendit à Zographou, qui en était alors dépourvu dans la ville, le métoque de Saint-Nicolas, dit Glyky Néron, qui comprenait une église et des kel15 P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos et D. Papachryssanthou, éd., Actes de Lavra, II. De 1204 à 1328, Archives de l’Athos 8 (Paris, 1977), no. 71.70. 16 Ibid., no. 89.139–40. 17 Ibid., no. 79.12–13. 18 P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos, avec la collaboration de D. Papachryssanthou, éd., Actes de Lavra, I. Des origines à 1204, Archives de l’Athos 5 (Paris, 1970), no. 64.31. 19 Ibid., 87–88. 20 Lavra, II: no. 70. 21 N. Oikonomidès, éd., Actes de Docheiariou, Archives de l’Athos 13 (Paris, 1984), 80 note 1, et idem, Actes de Dionysiou, Archives de l’Athos 4 (Paris, 1968), 111–12. Voir aussi D. Jacoby dans ce même volume. 22 Lavra, II: no. 70.24–28.

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lia, situé dans le quartier de Sainte-Pélagie (Fig. 1), près de la métropole, pour 240 hyperpères.23 Vatopédi détenait en 1301 un métoque dédié à la Vierge, avec des maisons environnantes, qui n’est pas localisé.24 Dans le quartier de l’Hippodrome, Vatopédi acheta trois maisons autour de 1327.25 Théodotè vendit à cette date au monastère, pour 46 hyperpères, une maison qu’elle avait reçue en dot, située dans la partie nord d’une cour détenue en commun avec Vatopédi (Fig. 2), qui y avait auparavant acheté des biens aux exécuteurs testamentaires de l’oncle paternel, décédé, de Théodotè, Nicolas Agapètos. La cour avait vraisemblablement appartenu aux grands-parents de Théodotè, avant d’être divisée entre leurs fils. Le père de Théodotè avait hérité de la maison centrale (B), qui fit ensuite partie de la dot de sa fille, et Nicolas Agapètos des deux maisons latérales (A et C), que Vatopédi acquit en premier lieu. La cour était pourvue d’un puits et d’un caniveau. Le portail se trouvait au sud; son seuil de marbre appartenait à Théodotè. La maison centrale, à étage, était pourvue d’un toit à double pente, en joncs couverts de tuiles. Seuls les murs nord et sud lui appartenaient en propre, les murs est et ouest étant en commun avec Vatopédi; on devine donc que Vatopédi avait acquis récemment les maisons situées à l’est et à l’ouest de celle de Théodotè. Au rez-de-chaussée, la maison avait deux portes: l’une, donnant sur la rue qui longeait le côté nord de la cour, l’autre, au sud, ouvrant sur la cour, sous une arcade. À l’étage, du côté sud, une porte donnait accès à un balcon, soutenu par l’arcade et fermé à l’est par une cloison, en partie muré au sud. Le balcon était pourvu d’un toit à une seule pente en joncs couverts de tuiles, et était accessible à l’ouest par un vieil escalier en bois, bordé d’une rambarde en joncs. Avant 1340, Michel Kalamitzènos et son fils Denis avaient donné à Vatopédi quatre maisons à étage, situées dans le quartier de Saint-Mènas, près du port, à proximité de biens du monastère, et étaient devenus moines à Vatopédi. Denis revendiqua ensuite les maisons, comme des biens qui lui venaient de sa mère, et Vatopédi lui versa une certaine somme d’hyperpères, pour le dédommager. Après la mort de son père, Denis Kalamitzènos quitta le monastère et reprit illégalement les maisons. Les moines réclamèrent alors l’argent, et des procès furent engagés. Un accord à l’amiable fut trouvé avec l’higoumène de Vatopédi, venu à Thessalonique pour régler l’affaire. Denis restitua les maisons et obtint, tant qu’il résiderait à Thessalonique, un adelphaton, une rente viagère annuelle,26 constituée de 6 tagaria de blé, soit environ 173 kg, et de 24 mesures de vin, soit 246 litres.27 Il était aussi autorisé à réintégrer le monastère.28 Les donations des notables et des aristocrates accroissaient le patrimoine immobilier du monastère. En 1356, Arsène Tzamplakôn, d’une famille de hauts dignitaires de l’em23

Zographou, no. 9. Cf. aussi no. 8 et 11. Le quartier de Sainte-Pélagie a été localisé entre le quartier de SaintMènas et celui de l’Hippodrome; cf. H. Lowry, “Portrait of a City: The Population and Topography of Ottoman Selânik (Thessaloniki) in the Year 1478,” Divptuca 2 (1980–81): 265–70, et V. Dèmètriadès, Topografiva th'" Qessalonivkh" kata; th;n ejpoch; th'" Tourkokrativa", 1430–1912 (Thessalonique, 1983), 33. 24 J. Bompaire, J. Lefort, V. Kravari et Ch. Giros, éd., Actes de Vatopédi, I. Des origines à 1329, Archives de l’Athos 21 (Paris, 2001), no. 31.70–72; no. 68.38–40. 25 Ibid., no. 65. 26 Sur les adelphata, cf. en dernier lieu A. Laiou, “Economic Activities of Vatopedi in the Fourteenth Century,” in ÔIera; Monh; Batopedivou. ÔIstoriva kai; tevcnh, ∆Aqwnikav Suvmmeikta 7 (Athènes, 1999), 66–72. 27 E. Schilbach, Byzantinische Metrologie (Munich, 1970), 107–8 et 113. 28 Acte inédit de Vatopédi (septembre 1340).

N

1 Plan de Thessalonique (tiré de N. Oikonomidès, éd., Actes de Docheiariou, Archives de l’Athos 13 [Paris, 1984], 79, modifié)

rue

A

N

2 Maisons de Vatopédi, dans le quartier de l’Hippodrome

B

C

B

3 Maisons du monastère de la Timiopétritissa, dans le quartier de Kataphygè

4 Maisons d’Iviron, dans le quartier de l’Acheiropoiètos

5 Maisons d’Iviron, dans le quartier de l’Hippodrome

6 Maisons de Chilandar, dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos

7 Maisons de Chilandar, dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos

8 Maisons de Chilandar, dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos

9 Maisons de Zographou, dans le quartier de Sainte-Pélagie

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pire, fit don à Vatopédi, avant de se retirer dans le monastère, de ses maisons à Thessalonique, dans le quartier de Kataphygè, peut-être situé au nord-est de la Panagia tôn Chalkéôn,29 avec une église dédiée à la Vierge, dite Kamariôtissa, et un verger attenant.30 À la suite de troubles survenus à Thessalonique, ces biens tombèrent en ruines, et Vatopédi en fit enlever les matériaux. L’église fut transformée en latrines, et le terrain fut utilisé par les voisins, comme s’il était à eux. De la maison d’Arsène Tzamplakôn ne subsistaient en 1373 que deux colonnes, un muret et trois pièces. À cette date, le monastère céda les biens contre 100 hyperpères à Michel et Constantin Kyprianos, à charge pour eux de remettre l’église en état et de reconstruire des maisons, dont le loyer devait servir à assurer le fonctionnement de l’église et la commémoraison de Tzamplakôn et des nouveaux propriétaires.31 Vatopédi préférait alors se débarrasser d’un bien en ruine plutôt que d’engager des investissements coûteux pour le réhabiliter. Les moines disposaient également de terrains non bâtis à Thessalonique. En 1356, ils donnent à bail un terrain dans le quartier de Kataphygè, près de biens de Vatopédi, à Constantin Agallianos, pour qu’il y construise des maisons. Le terrain avait été autrefois bâti, et était situé sur une cour commune, enclose, pourvue d’un puits: la parcelle était en forme de trapèze isoscèle, longue d’environ 22 m, d’une superficie de 208 m2. Les clauses du contrat prévoient que le preneur pourra construire autant de maisons qu’il voudra, en percevoir les revenus durant vingt-cinq années, contre un loyer annuel, pour le terrain, de 1,25 hyperpères (soit 0,6 hyperpères pour 100 m2).32 Ce loyer est légèrement plus élevé que celui qu’on peut déduire d’un acte de bail daté de 1306, conservé à Xénophon, qui concerne un terrain situé dans le quartier de l’Hippodrome, appartenant au monastère féminin des Saints-Anargyres (0,4 hyperpère pour 100 m2).33 Dans le même quartier de Kataphygè, le monastère de la Timiopétritissa, situé au nord de Thessalonique, et dont les biens passèrent à Vatopédi à une date inconnue, probablement au XVe siècle, concéda en 1358 à titre viager à une famille un ensemble de maisons délabrées, à charge pour eux de les restaurer, contre le versement de 36 hyperpères en onces de ducats et d’un loyer annuel récognitif de quatre litrai d’huile.34 Au verso de l’acte, un compte des dépenses mentionne la réfection du mur de clôture, d’une arcade et d’une maison, ainsi que l’achat de 560 tuiles, pour un total de plus de 50 hyperpères, et 16 mesures de vin. Les maisons étaient dans une cour pourvue d’un portail, et avaient autrefois appartenu à une dame Cantacuzène. À l’ouest de la cour (Fig. 3), se trouvait une maison à étage (A), au toit à double pente, avec des murs à l’ouest et au nord, et des cloisons de planches ( phalsa) à l’est et au sud. Au sud (B), une maison à toit à une seule pente possédait au sud et à l’ouest ses propres murs. Au milieu de la cour un bâtiment à toit à une seule pente abritait un four (C) et avait une ouverture à l’ouest, près de laquelle il y avait un puits. Au nord, la cour était accessible par un portail en ruine. À l’est, une maison à étage (D) était pourvue de trois murs propres, au nord, à l’est et au sud, avec à cet endroit une arcade en mauvais état. L’arcade abritait une cuisine fermée par des cloisons de 29

Docheiariou, 79–80. G. I. Théocharidès, éd., “OiJ Tzamplavkwne",” Makedonikav 5 (1961–63): 134–37. 31 Alexandros Batopaidinos, éd., in Grhg.Pal. 4 (1920): 631–33. 32 Acte inédit de Vatopédi (mars 1356). 33 D. Papachryssanthou, éd., Actes de Xénophon, Archives de l’Athos 15 (Paris, 1986), no. 7. 34 Acte inédit de Vatopédi (avril 1358). 30

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planches, avec deux entrées, donnant sur la rue et sous l’arcade. Ce type de construction, édifiée en annexe de la maison, sous l’arcade de façade, pourrait être de tradition ancienne, puisqu’un acte latin de Ravenne, daté de 982, qualifie le même type de bâtiment de “cuisine grecque.”35 Trois autres maisons (E, F, G) étaient situées à l’est de la cour, dont l’une (G), pourvue d’un étage, était en ruines. Il est possible que les travaux mentionnés au verso de l’acte sur une maison concernent la maison G. Une maison appartenant au monastère thessalonicien de la Vierge Gorgoépèkoos36 était vraisemblablement accolée à la maison située à l’angle nord-est de la cour. Parmi les autres voisins mentionnés, on compte deux dignitaires de la cour, familiers de l’empereur, ce qui suggère le caractère aristocratique du quartier de Kataphygè. Vatopédi détenait aussi en 1364 le monastère dit de Kyr Kyrou,37 et en 1375 sept maisons sur une cour, dans le quartier de Kataphygè.38 Un chrysobulle de Michel VIII mentionne en 1259, parmi les biens d’Iviron, le métoque situé dans le kastron de Thessalonique, qui comprenait des monastères, des maisons louées, des terrains, des vignes et d’autres dépendances.39 Nous savons qu’au début du XIIe siècle, le monastère possédait le métoque du Prodrome (quartier de l’Acheiropoiètos, à l’ouest de l’église40), Saint-Basile (non localisé), Saint-Clément (quartier de SaintThéodore, quartier de Saint-Paramonos), Sainte-Barbara (quartier de l’Hippodrome) et Saint-Nicolas (à proximité du rempart oriental de Thessalonique), dont nous avons des descriptions précises à cette époque.41 Iviron était donc maître d’un riche patrimoine urbain, mais l’entretien de ces dépendances pouvait s’avérer trop coûteux. En 1264, Iviron céda à titre viager son métoque de Saint-Clément à un fabricant et marchand de selles, Nicolas Kamoudès, et à trois personnes qui lui succèderaient, pour qu’il restaure l’église, dont les bas-côtés et les six bâtiments qui en dépendaient menaçaient de s’effondrer, contre le versement d’un loyer annuel de 4 hyperpères. Le sellier, qui s’installait dans le métoque, devait s’occuper de faire assurer les offices par un prêtre agréé par Iviron. Les améliorations reviendraient ensuite au monastère.42 En 1295, une décision synodale annula la cession du métoque, et décida qu’après la mort du neveu et successeur de Nicolas Kamoudès, le métoque reviendrait à Iviron.43 Iviron acquit en 1314, pour 110 hyperpères, des bâtiments attenants à son métoque du Prodrome.44 Il s’agissait de trois maisons au toit à une seule pente, couvert de tuiles, avec trois pressoirs. Les moines firent jouer leur droit de voisinage, et invoquèrent le fait 35

Autour de Gerbert d’Aurillac, le pape de l’an mil, éd. O. Guyotjeannin et E. Poulle (Paris, 1996), 63. Sur ce monastère, cf. M. Rautman, “Ignatius of Smolensk and the Late Byzantine Monasteries of Thessaloniki,” REB 49 (1991): 161–62. 37 Goudas, éd., in ∆Ep.ÔEt.Buz.Sp. 4 (1927): 244–45. 38 Alexandros Batopaidinos, éd., in Grhg.Pal. 4 (1920): 633–35. 39 J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, D. Papachryssanthou, avec la collaboration de V. Kravari et d’H. Métrévéli, éd., Actes d’ Iviron, II. Du milieu du XIe siècle à 1204, Archives de l’Athos 16 (Paris, 1990), no. 58.71–72. 40 J.-P. Grélois, “À propos du monastère du Prodrome à Thessalonique,” Byzantion 59 (1989): 78–87. 41 Iviron, II: 50–52; Ch. Giros, “Remarques sur l’architecture monastique en Macédoine orientale,” BCH 116 (1992): 414–19 et 430–33. 42 Iviron, III: no. 60. 43 Iviron, II: no. 68. 44 Ibid., no. 73. 36

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que les eaux de pluie de ces maisons s’écoulaient dans leurs biens. Avant 1318, le monastère avait acquis des maisons voisines par échange avec le monastère d’Akapniou.45 En 1320, le monastère acquit, pour 60 hyperpères, trois autres maisons proches de son métoque du Prodrome, et dont le sol appartenait à Iviron: Anne Paxamadô et son frère vendaient un ensemble de bâtiments sur une cour commune avec Manuel Paxamadas, le beau-frère d’Anne. La cour (Fig. 4) était pourvue d’un puits et d’un portail communs. L’édifice principal était un triklinarion (T), c’est-à-dire un bâtiment pourvu d’une salle de réception, accolé aux maisons de Manuel Paxamadas (P), construit en pierres et briques, couvert d’une charpente en bois et de tuiles assemblées sans joint, ayant deux ouvertures, l’une sur la cour du monastère appartenant à Iviron, et l’autre vers la cour des maisons de Manuel. Accolée à ce triklinarion, au sud, une maison à étage, prête à s’effondrer du fait de son ancienneté, était construite en pierres et briques, couverte de joncs et de tuiles assemblées sans joint, ayant trois murs en propre, le mur ouest, le mur sud, qui donnait sur la rue, et le mur est; le mur nord, mitoyen du triklinarion, avait une ouverture et était construit en pierres et briques; cette maison avait à l’étage trois ouvertures à l’ouest, au sud et à l’est; au rez-de-chaussée une seule ouverture, qui desservait le triklinarion. Accolé à cette maison, un autre bâtiment, couvert d’un toit à une seule pente, divisé par des cloisons de planches ( phalsa), couvert de tuiles assemblées sans joint, ayant deux murs en propre, le mur sud, qui donnait sur la rue, et le mur est, à pan de bois, avec deux ouvertures sur la cour d’Anne et de Manuel.46 À côté de son métoque de Sainte-Barbara, Iviron acquit en 1326, pour 100 hyperpères, quatre maisons édifiées sur un sol qui lui appartenait, sur une cour en commun, pourvue d’un puits, d’un caniveau et une entrée à l’ouest (Fig. 5):47 au sud, une maison à étage (A), couverte d’un toit à une seule pente, ayant trois murs en propre, nord, sud et est, pourvue à l’étage d’ouvertures qui donnent sur une arcade, et sur la cour d’une ouverture au rezde-chaussée; le mur ouest de la maison était constitué d’une cloison de bois, commune avec un bien détenu par les héritiers de Bitzas (Bi); deux bâtiments (B et C) accolés en appentis, à l’est de la maison, construits en pierres et briques, couverts de tuiles, pourvus de deux ouvertures sur la cour et dont le mur sud était mitoyen avec un bien de Phakrasès (Ph), avec un jardin à l’est et un terrain à bâtir, enclos par un mur; à l’ouest, un pressoir avec sa cuve et au nord, une maison dépourvue de toit (D). Vers 1320, Iviron avait échangé avec le monastère de Chortaïtou son métoque de Saint-Nicolas contre trois cours dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos, près de la Porte d’Or, qui devaient constituer le métoque de Saint-Georges, mentionné pour la première fois en 1346.48 Les cours acquises par échange comportaient une église, une boulangerie, un verger, six mûriers et deux pressoirs.49 Le monastère détenait aussi des jardins, près de la Porte d’Or, hors de la ville. En 1416/17, on utilisa, pour réparer les puits et les canalisa45

Iviron, II: no. 75.596–98. Iviron, III: no. 78.16–27. 47 Ibid., no. 84.20–30. 48 J. Lefort, N. Oikonomidès, D. Papachryssanthou, V. Kravari, avec la collaboration d’H. Métrévéli, éd., Actes d’Iviron, IV. De 1328 au début du XVIe siècle, Archives de l’Athos 19 (Paris, 1995), no. 90.28. Sur la localisation du quartier de Saint-Paramonos, cf. ibid., 34–35; sur la Porte d’Or (actuelle porte du Vardar), cf. Spieser, Thessalonique, 55–56. 49 Iviron, III: no. 76. 46

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tions des jardins, des pierres provenant d’une maison d’Iviron située dans la cour de SaintGeorges.50 Chilandar détenait à la fin du XIIIe siècle à Thessalonique un métoque dédié à SaintGeorges. Danilo, higoumène de Chilandar au début du XIVe siècle et archevêque de Serbie (1324–37), auteur d’une Vie de Milutin, nous donne plusieurs informations sur ce métoque: il aurait été fondé par Sava, cofondateur de Chilandar avec son père Etienne Nemanja en 1198;51 à l’abandon, il fut restauré par le kral Milutin (1282–1321).52 Ce dernier séjourna à Thessalonique en 1299, lors des fêtes célébrant son mariage avec Simonide, fille d’Andronic II.53 D’après l’inventaire des archives de Chilandar, établi à la même époque, le monastère possédait alors trois documents relatifs au métoque de SaintGeorges: une délimitation de ce que le texte qualifie de “kellion de Thessalonique,” une ordonnance d’un despote, peut-être Jean Paléologue, frère de Michel VIII, et un acte relatif à l’achat d’une vigne.54 La possession du métoque de Thessalonique est confirmée en 129955 et en 1317.56 Avant 1316, Andronic II autorisa les moines à utiliser l’eau de l’aqueduc du Chortíatès,57 ce qui suggère une localisation à l’est de la ville. Les moines s’étaient plaints de ce que leur métoque ne disposât pas d’eau. L’empereur autorisa les moines à prendre une certaine quantité d’eau, prescrite par une ordonnance perdue, comme d’autres le faisaient déjà. L’usage de l’eau de l’aqueduc du Chortiatès était donc règlementé.58 Le métoque de Chilandar semble avoir été l’objet de convoitise: en 1321, un acte d’Andronic II précise que le métoque doit être à l’abri de toute mainmise.59 Il pourrait faire allusion à un conflit avec le monydrion voisin de feue la grande stratopédarquissa Libadaréa.60 En 1314, un bourgeois de Thessalonique, Jean Karabas, devenu le moine Iôbanès, légua à Chilandar les biens qui lui avaient été légués la même année par son père, Théodore Karabas.61 La donation comprenait un immeuble qui est décrit dans le testament de Théodore Karabas.62 Ce dernier possédait au total douze maisons dans le quartier de Saint-Mènas, près du port. Six maisons sur une cour commune avec son neveu, deux maisons à toit à double pente, avec des arcades, et quatre maisons à toit à une seule pente. À l’est de ces maisons, un bâtiment à étage, divisé en trois, et deux maisons à toit à 50

Iviron, IV: no. 97.49–50. Sur ces travaux, cf. R. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton, N.J., 1999), 55. 51 ˇivojinovic´, V. Kravari et Ch. Giros, éd., Actes de Chilandar, I. Des origines à 1319, Archives de l’Athos 20 M. Z (Paris, 1998), 35 note 295. 52 Vie de Milutin, in Dj. Danicik, éd., Zivoti kraljeva i arhiepiskopa srpskih (Zagreb, 1866), 136; cf. S. Kissas, “Srpski srednjovekovni spomenici u Solunu” (“Les monuments serbes médiévaux à Thessalonique”), Zograf 11 (1980): 30–31. 53 A. Failler, éd., Georges Pachymérès, Relations historiques (Paris, 1999), 4:315. Sur les fondations de Milutin à Thessalonique, cf. Rautman, “Patronage,” 65 note 57. 54 Chilandar, I: 15 (nos. 44 et 45 de l’inventaire). 55 Ibid., no. 17.85–86. 56 Ibid., no. 34.137–38. 57 Ibid., no. 33.29–31. 58 Sur cet aqueduc, cf. Spieser, Thessalonique, 12–13. 59 L. Petit et B. Korablev, éd., Archives de Chilandar, Archives de l’Athos 5, VizVrem 17 (1911), Prilozhenie 1 (repr. Amsterdam, 1975), no. 58.43–46. 60 Ibid., no. 139. 61 Chilandar, I: no. 34.167–69, et Petit, Chilandar, no. 85. 62 Chilandar, I: no. 30.23–29.

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une seule pente, sur une cour privée pourvue d’un puits, un caniveau, et une entrée au sud. Deux autres maisons pourvues d’un toit à une seule pente, dont l’une avec arcade, situées à l’ouest des susdites maisons, sur une cour en commun avec le neveu et le mari de la filleule de Théodore. Une maison située près du marché tou Stauriou, dans le quartier de Saint-Mènas, à savoir une chambre de plain pied avec auvent, sur une cour en commun avec les biens du monastère de la Péribleptos. En 1322, Chilandar possédait aussi dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos, près de la Porte d’Or,63 le monastère de Sainte-Jérusalem,64 qui appartenait en 1309 au roi Milutin.65 À cette date, une famille de Thessalonique vendit au monastère, alors indépendant, trois maisons en pierres et en briques et recouvertes de tuiles assemblées sans joint, sur une cour commune avec Sainte-Jérusalem, pourvue d’un puits et d’un porche au sud.66 Le terrain sur lequel étaient construites les maisons appartenait à la métropole de Thessalonique, puisque la famille lui versait une redevance annuelle. Le dossier de Chilandar permet d’observer l’extension progressive des biens du monastère dans le quartier. En 1322, trois maisons furent vendues à Chilandar pour 90 hyperpères par Alexandre Doucas Sarantènos, serviteur de l’empereur, et sa femme Kalè. La famille aristocratique des Sarantènoi était installée à Berroia et à Thessalonique. Deux artisans sont témoins de l’acte de vente: un peintre, Georges Kalliergis, connu comme peintre d’église à Berroia,67 et le protômaistor tôn oikodomôn, Georges Marmaras, qui devait être le responsable de la corporation des maçons à Thessalonique.68 Les maisons étaient situées dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos, à l’ouest des biens de la mère de Kalè, au sud et à l’est des biens du monastère de Sainte-Jérusalem, au nord d’une rue (Fig. 6).69 Il s’agissait de biens patrimoniaux de Kalè. Parmi les maisons, dont le toit était à une seule pente, couvert de tuiles, l’une (A), au sud de la cour, avait quatre murs propres, une ouverture au nord, donnant sur la cour; les deux autres (B et C), au nord de la cour, étaient mitoyennes, pourvues d’un mur de séparation; ces deux maisons, dont les murs étaient propres au nord, au sud et à l’est, avaient chacune une ouverture donnant au sud sur un auvent en appentis, couvert de tuiles, pourvu de deux pièces (kellia, K) à pans de bois; l’auvent avait un mur propre à l’est, duquel partait un mur aveugle de séparation jusqu’au mur est de la maison à une seule pente au sud de la cour (A). Dans ce mur de séparation était aménagé au niveau du sol un trou d’évacuation des eaux de pluie et des eaux usées des maisons vendues, qui s’écoulaient dans les biens de la mère de Kalè. Au sud des deux maisons B et C, à l’ouest de la cour, sont vendus deux celliers à pans de bois (D), pourvus d’une porte, supportés par deux colonnes avec une charpente en bois et un toit de tuiles, et un terrain inculte, au nord des maisons B et C, sur toute leur longueur, la largeur jusqu’aux biens de Chilandar, situés au nord de ce terrain; la cour était séparée des biens du monastère à l’ouest et au nord par un mur qui avait, en plan, une forme de gamma. L’accès à la cour se faisait au sud par un portail. 63

Iviron, IV: 34–35. Petit, Chilandar, no. 84.23. 65 Chilandar, I: no. 25.1–3, 13–17. 66 Ibid., no. 25. 67 Th. Papazôtos, ÔH Bevroia kai; oiJ naoiv th" ( 11o"–18o" aij.) (Athènes, 1994), 253–57. 68 Ousterhout, Master Builders, 49–50, 57. 69 Petit, Chilandar, no. 84. 64

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En 1326, la nonne Anysia Platyskalitissa vendit à Chilandar, pour 40 hyperpères, deux maisons à Saint-Paramonos, au sud des biens de Chilandar (Sainte-Jérusalem), dans une cour en commun (Fig. 7) avec les enfants de feu Dragoslav, deux maisons mitoyennes (A et B) et couvertes de tuiles, au nord de la cour, ayant quatre murs en propre, un mur de séparation mitoyen, chacune une ouverture vers le sud, sous des auvents en appentis couverts de tuiles, clos par un mur en propre à l’ouest, au sud et à l’est par des cloisons en bois, séparés au milieu par une cloison en bois, ayant chacune une porte au sud sur la cour, laquelle était pourvue à l’ouest d’un portail, d’où s’écoulent les eaux de pluie vers la voie publique; la cour était pourvue au sud d’un mur en propre, à l’est d’un autre portail, par lequel on pouvait entrer dans les maisons vendues et puiser l’eau du puits qui appartenait à Chilandar.70 Le monastère pouvait aussi s’étendre grâce à des hypothèques. Toujours dans le même quartier, la famille Petzikopoulos dut vendre en 1327 aux moines de Chilandar trois maisons et un terrain en friche, estimés à 140 hyperpères, qu’elle avait hypothéqués auprès du monastère en 1325, pour un emprunt sans intérêt de 50 hyperpères. Le contrat prévoyait que le remboursement de cette somme devait intervenir au plus tard dans un délai d’un an, faute de quoi le monastère conserverait les trois maisons, à condition de verser à la famille la différence entre la valeur estimée du bien et le montant de l’emprunt. Deux ans ont passé, sans remboursement, et le monastère obtient l’acte de vente des maisons et du terrain, en versant 90 hyperpères. Parmi les trois maisons pourvues d’un toit à une seule pente, couvert de tuiles, l’une (A) était au sud de la cour en commun (Fig. 8), à l’est d’une maison de Chilandar. Elle avait trois murs en propre, le mur nord étant pourvu d’une ouverture vers le nord, sur la cour, les murs est et sud s’étaient affaissés, de sorte que toute la maison menaçait de s’effondrer. En face de cette maison, au nord de la cour, se trouvait une autre maison oblongue (B), ayant deux murs en propre, le nord et le sud, et deux ouvertures sur la cour, vers le sud; près de celle-ci, à l’est, la troisième maison (C) avait quatre murs en propre et deux ouvertures vers le sud, sous une arcade à toit à une seule pente couvert de tuiles, fermée à l’est par un mur en propre menaçant de s’effondrer. La cour de ces maisons était commune avec les biens de Chilandar, ayant avec ce monastère, au sud et à l’est, deux portails en commun, des murs en propre prêts à s’effondrer, que Chilandar avait reconstruits récemment à ses frais, de manière semblable à ce qu’il avait fait pour le mur est de la troisième maison (C) et pour l’arcade au sud de celleci. Le terrain inculte était au nord de ces maisons, et s’étendait jusqu’à un fossé orienté est-ouest, qui délimitait les biens du monastère.71 En 1335, un terrain fut vendu à Chilandar par la femme d’un protopapas, Xénia, situé à l’est des maisons acquises par le monastère, à l’ouest et au sud des biens de SainteJérusalem.72 Zographou détenait depuis 1240 le métoque de Saint-Nicolas, dans le quartier de Sainte-Pélagie, près de la métropole.73 Le monastère acquit ensuite un autre établissement du nom de Saint-Nicolas, puisqu’en 1326(?) l’empereur ordonna de restituer à Zographou 70

Ibid., no. 106. Ibid., no. 112. 72 Ibid., no. 125. 73 Zographou, no. 9. 71

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les deux métoques Saint-Nicolas à Thessalonique, tou Sgourou et tou Kyrou, que les moines louaient à bail et qui avaient été donnés par ordonnance, par erreur, à Philippe Déblytzènos, familier de l’empereur.74 En 1327, trois frères vendirent à Zographou une série de maisons proches du métoque de Saint-Nicolas, dans le quartier de Sainte-Pélagie, pour 250 hyperpères (Fig. 9).75 L’acte de vente décrit une grande maison patrimoniale à étage (A), située à l’ouest et au nord de deux rues, construite en pierres et en briques, avec quatre murs en propre, un toit à double pente couvert de tuiles, et deux arcades, l’une au nord sur la cour, l’autre au sud sur la voie publique, surmontée par une pièce pour les serviteurs. L’arcade située au nord abritait un pressoir à vin. À cette grande maison s’ajoutaient les deux tiers d’un triklinon non couvert, à l’est de la cour (le troisième tiers appartenant à Dèmètrios Kavasilas), sur un terrain appartenant à l’évêché du Vardar. La vente comprenait aussi le puits, le caniveau et à l’est le portail, pour 220 hyperpères, les 30 autres étant consacrés à la commémoraison des parents des vendeurs. Le prix avait été estimé par le protomaistor tôn domètorôn Georges Marmaras. En 1342, Jean V confirma, parmi les biens de Zographou, le métoque de saint Nicolas tou Sgourou et l’église de saint Nicolas avec ses maisons louées à bail.76 Au début du XIVe siècle, Xénophon était propriétaire à Thessalonique de quatre groupes de bâtiments, bien étudiés par Denise Papachryssanthou:77 un groupe de maisons autour du métoque de la Vierge, non localisé; des maisons et des boutiques dans le quartier des Asômates (Rotonde); des immeubles dans le quartier de l’Hippodrome, dont un petit monastère, dédié à la Vierge, situé près de la porte de Rome et donné en 1324 par le moine Laurentios Kladôn à Xénophon;78 une cour près du monastère de Philokalou, non localisé. Les autres dossiers apportent seulement des mentions succinctes de biens athonites à Thessalonique. Docheiariou détenait jusqu’en 1117 sept boutiques dans le quartier de Kataphygè, que le monastère échange alors contre une terre et 50 hyperpères.79 En 1361, le monastère possédait un métoque à Thessalonique, dans le quartier de l’Hippodrome: le grand économe Grégoire Isbès s’y était retiré et il y était mort, en possession des actes de propriété du monastère. En 1381, le moine Simon donna une maison à l’intérieur de la cour du métoque, et une vigne sise à Saint-Fantin, au sud-est de Thessalonique, afin d’obtenir le droit d’entrer à Docheiariou.80 Dionysiou possédait l’église des Quarante Martyrs, dans le quartier de l’Omphalos:81 l’église et le kellion furent donnés en 1420 par Marie Hagioreitissa. Le kellion avait été 74

Ibid., no. 24. Ibid., no. 25. 76 Ibid., nos. 33 et 34. 77 Xénophon, 30–31, et D. Papachryssanthou, “Maisons modestes à Thessalonique au XIVe siècle,” in ∆Amhto;" sth; mnhvmh Fwvth ∆Apostolovpoulou (Athènes, 1984), 254–67 (avec trois schémas de maisons du XIVe siècle, d’après des actes de Xénophon). 78 Xénophon, no. 20. Sur la porte de Rome, à l’est, près de la mer, cf. Spieser, Thessalonique, 49–50. Le monastère de la Vierge a été identifié avec le site de la Néa Panagia; cf. Th. Mantopoulou-Panagiotopoulou, “On the Identification of the Church of Nea (Megali) Panaghia in Thessaloniki,” JÖB 46 (1996): 423–35. 79 Docheiariou, no. 4; schéma des immeubles thessaloniciens du monastère, ibid., 81. 80 Ibid., no. 47.11–13. 81 Sur ce quartier, au nord de celui de Saint-Mènas, ibid., 79–80. 75

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détruit par les eaux de pluie et était devenu un dépôt d’ordures pour toute la ville. Le bâtiment délabré avait été récemment acheté par Marie par droit de voisinage.82 Esphigménou détenait en 1258–59 le métoque du Prodrome, dans le quartier des Asômates à Thessalonique.83 Saint-Pantéléèmôn possédait le métoque de Sainte-Zénaïde à Thessalonique, dont la propriété est confirmée par Andronic II en 1311, à la suite d’un incendie dans les archives du monastère.84 La détention d’un métoque à Thessalonique est confirmée en 1353.85 Manuel Chalkéopoulos, devenu moine à Kutlumus sous le nom de Manassès, a fait don à ce monastère, avant 1370, de son église située à Thessalonique et dite de Saint-Jonas le Thaumaturge, avec sa cour, et divers biens énumérés dans l’acte de donation, ainsi que de 300 hyperpères, utilisés pour acheter l’aulè voisine dite tou Phakouki, et le monastère a donné 50 hyperpères pour qu’un moulin y soit construit. Chalkéopoulos était resté possesseur de ses biens.86 Philothéou possédait en 1326 deux métoques, celui des Saints-Apôtres Pierre et Paul et celui de Saint-Georges tou Lagkadinou, dont les biens communs comprenaient 8 modioi de vignes, des vergers, des maisons données en location et un terrain sur lequel se tenait annuellement la foire de saint Georges.87 La possession de ces biens fut confirmée en 1346 par Dusˇan (deux églises).88 Pour les moines du Mont Athos, la Thessalonique des XIIIe–XIVe siècles représentait la ville des juges, des notaires et des artistes. Le règlement des conflits entraînait la venue de moines athonites à Thessalonique. Vers 1320, à l’occasion d’un conflit de voisinage entre le métoque d’Iviron, Saint-Nicolas, et celui du Chortaïtou, le prôtos de l’Athos se rendit dans la ville, accompagné d’une délégation de moines notables. Le règlement de l’affaire avait été confié par l’empereur au prôtos, au métropolite de Thessalonique et au gouverneur de la ville. Après avoir relevé le nombre des bâtiments et l’étendue du terrain du métoque Saint-Nicolas, la délégation visita plusieurs cours appartenant au monastère de Chortaïtou, avant que les moines d’Iviron accepte l’échange contre trois cours attenantes dans le quartier Saint-Paramonos. Les tribunaux de Thessalonique avaient à juger des affaires entre des monastères de l’Athos et des habitants de la ville. Certains documents révèlent à cette occasion les activités économiques des monastères dans l’économie urbaine. Ainsi en 1317, le gouverneur de Thessalonique eut à arbitrer un conflit au sein d’une association dans la gestion d’un moulin, entre Vatopédi et deux notables thessaloniciens, Sékoundènos et Bardalès. Le terrain sur lequel se trouvait le moulin, sur le Galikos, au nord de Thessalonique, appartenait à la métropole. Vatopédi et Sékoundènos avaient acquis le moulin, qui fut endommagé à la suite d’une crue. Pour assurer les réparations, le monastère et Sekoundènos 82

Dionysiou, no. 19. J. Lefort, éd., Actes d’Esphigménou, Archives de l’Athos 6 (Paris, 1973), no. 6.46–47 et no. 22.17–18. 84 ´irkovic´, éd., Actes de Saint-Pantéléèmôn, Archives de l’Athos 12 (Paris, 1982), P. Lemerle, G. Dagron et S. C no. 10.36–38. 85 Ibid., no. 11.29. 86 P. Lemerle, éd., Actes de Kutlumus, Archives de l’Athos, II2 (Paris, 1988), no. 35.7–12. 87 W. Regel, E. Kurtz et B. Korablev, éd., Actes de Philothée, Archives de l’Athos 6, VizVrem 20 (1913), Prilozhenie 1, no. 6; cf. V. Kravari, “Nouveaux documents du monastère de Philothéou,” TM 10 (1987): 281. 88 Regel, Philothée, no. 9. Dusˇan contrôlait alors tout le pays entre Thessalonique et Christoupolis, à l’exception de ces deux villes; cf. Lavra, IV: no. 41. 83

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s’associèrent par contrat à Bardalès, à condition qu’il rénove le moulin et en assure la gestion. Bardalès s’efforça d’évincer ses associés, et obtint un jugement du gouverneur de Thessalonique en sa faveur, lui reconnaissant la totalité des revenus du moulin, et même une ordonnance impériale confirmant le jugement. Les moines de Vatopédi et Sékoundènos obtinrent un deuxième jugement, qui donna tort à Bardalès et l’obligea à remplir ses obligations envers ses associés dans un délai de six mois.89 Si les moines n’hésitaient pas à se rendre à Constantinople pour solliciter la rédaction de privilèges impériaux, ils pouvaient profiter de la présence occasionnelle de l’empereur à Thessalonique. Ainsi les moines serbes de Chilandar obtinrent d’Andronic II, durant son séjour dans cette ville, de mars-avril 1299 à novembre 1300,90 par l’entremise du roi Milutin, lui aussi présent, la rédaction de deux chrysobulles en faveur de leur monastère.91 Les moines de l’Athos se rendaient souvent à Thessalonique pour y faire établir des actes notariés. Les bureaux des notaires étaient établis dans les enceintes des principales églises de la ville, la métropole Sainte-Sophie, Saint-Démétrios, l’Acheiropoiètos.92 La documentation permet de supposer que les moines avaient des relations privilégiées avec certains notaires. Ainsi Démétrios Diabasimérès, membre du clergé de l’Acheiropoiètos, actif entre 1304 et 1339, délivra environ vingt-cinq actes à divers monastères de l’Athos, dont treize actes pour Chilandar.93 En 1324, à l’occasion d’un conflit entre Lavra et Iviron relatif aux limites de deux de leurs domaines voisins en Chalcidique, les higoumènes des deux monastères, alors présents à Thessalonique, confièrent à Diabasimérès le soin d’établir sur place la délimitation, à partir de documents plus anciens, ce qui témoigne de leur confiance envers ce notaire. Dans les actes notariés qui engagent des monastères de l’Athos, les signatures de notables thessaloniciens sont peut-être l’indice de relations de voisinage ou de clientèle avec les monastères. Thessalonique était au début du XIVe siècle un foyer artistique fécond, en liaison étroite avec le Mont Athos. Les fresques du Prôtaton, datées de la fin XIIIe–début XIVe siècle, sont attribuées à des maîtres de Thessalonique, et sont proches, par le style, des peintures du parekklèsion de Saint-Euthyme à Thessalonique (1302–3).94 Les fresques du katholikon de Vatopédi, datées de 1312, pourraient être dues à des artistes thessaloniciens: la représentation, dans la prothésis, de quatre archevêques de Thessalonique, en est en tout cas un indice.95 Des manuscrits écrits et décorés à Thessalonique se retrouvent dans les bibliothèques des monastères athonites.96 Les XIIIe–XIVe siècles virent un accroissement des biens thessaloniciens des monastères athonites. Ceux-ci s’efforçèrent généralement d’acquérir les cours voisines de leurs métoques, afin de constituer des ensembles homogènes et de donner à bail les 89

Vatopédi, I: nos. 48 et 49. A. Failler, “Chronologie et composition dans l’Histoire de Georges Pachymérès (livres VII–XIII),” REB 48 (1990): 40–41. 91 Chilandar, I: nos. 19 et 20. 92 H. Saradi, Le notariat byzantin du IXe au XVe siècles (Athènes, 1991), 143. 93 S. Kaplanérès, “Dhmhvtrio" Diabasimevrh" oJ megalonai?th" oijkonovmo",” Buzantiakav 5 (1985): 77–86. 94 Th. Gouma-Peterson, “The Frescoes of the Parekklesion of St. Euthymios in Thessaloniki: Patrons, Work´urcˇic´ et D. Mouriki (Princeton, N.J., 1991), 111–60. shop and Style,” in The Twilight of Byzantium, éd., S. C 95 E. Tsigaridas, in ÔIera; Megivsth Monh; Batopaidivou. Paravdosh—ÔIstoriva—Tevcnh, 2 vols. (Mont-Athos, 1996): 1: 279. 96 R. S. Nelson, Theodore Hagiopetrites: A Late Byzantine Scribe and Illuminator (Vienne, 1991), 127. 90

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maisons environnantes. Les politiques d’acquisition varient selon les monastères et leur patrimoine urbain initial. Iviron semble le mieux pourvu, avec ses quatre monastères détenus dans la ville au début du XIIe siècle. Par achat ou par échange, ce monastère obtient des maisons autour de son métoque du Prodrome, qu’il semble privilégier. Il se constitue au début du XIVe siècle un nouvel ensemble, dans le quartier de Saint-Paramonos. Dans le même quartier, Chilandar accroît par achats, dans les années 1322–35, ses biens autour de Sainte-Jérusalem. Au milieu du XIVe siècle, Vatopédi se constitue par achats et par donations un ensemble de bâtiments dans le quartier de Kataphygè. Dans la plupart des cas, les donateurs sont liés au monastère, souhaitent y être commémorés, et parfois se destinent à y entrer. Nos sources ne permettent toutefois pas d’évaluer la part que représentaient les Thessaloniciens au sein de la population athonite. Les moines de l’Athos se rendaient à Thessalonique pour y rencontrer les juges, les notaires et les artistes, et entretenaient donc de multiples liens avec les élites urbaines. Les textes apportent aussi des informations précieuses sur la topographie thessalonicienne et le paysage urbain. Les biens immobiliers des monastères de l’Athos sont pour la plupart situés dans la ville basse. Les mentions des rues semblent indiquer que leur tracé a conservé son empreinte romaine. Même si les dimensions des maisons ne sont jamais mentionnées—ce qui rend aléatoire toute tentative de reconstitution graphique—les schémas que nous proposons suggèrent quelques remarques. Les maisons, ne comportant généralement qu’un seul étage et souvent munies d’arcade, étaient distribuées autour de cours fermées et pourvues de portails, avec parfois des issues directes sur la rue. Les descriptions révèlent l’importance du bois parmi les matériaux de construction, en complément de la pierre, de la brique et des tuiles. La cour était l’élément structurant de l’habitat thessalonicien; c’était aussi un lieu de vie, avec son puits et ses bâtiments annexes, tels que les cuisines et les celliers. Les fréquentes mentions de pressoirs attestent l’importance de la viticulture dans l’économie urbaine et témoignent de l’intégration des biens athonites à la vie de la cité. Université Lyon 2-CNRS

The Amorium Project: Research and Excavation in 2000 C. S. LIGHTFOOT, Y. MERGEN, B. Y. OLCAY, AND J. WITTE-ORR

INTRODUCTION o fieldwork was carried out in 1999. Instead, efforts focused on research and publication, while plans and preparations were made to resume work at the site in the following year.1 During the course of the 2000 season, which lasted for five weeks from 7 August through 7 September, considerable progress was made in several important ways.2 Owing to

N

1 For a brief report on 1999, see C. S. Lightfoot, “The Amorium Excavation Project,” in G. Coulthard, ed., Anatolian Archaeology: Research Reports of the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara [BIAA] 5 (1999 [2000]): 10. For the 2000 season, see C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium 2000,” in G. Coulthard, ed., Anatolian Archaeology: Research Reports of the BIAA 6 (2000 [2001]): 10–11. Other recent publications include C. S. Lightfoot and Y. Mergen, “Amorium 1998 Yılı Kazı C ¸alıs¸maları,” XXI. Kazı Sonuçları, Toplantısı. Ankara, 24–28 Mayıs 1999—Ankara, vol. 2 (Ankara, 2000), 143–52; C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium: The History and Archaeology of an Ancient City in the Turkish Period,” in A. Aktas¸-Yasa, ed., Uluslararası Dördüncü Türk Kültürü Kongresi (4–7 Kasım 1997, Ankara), vol. 2, Atatürk Kültür Merkezi Yayını 229 (Ankara, 2000), 79–89; and C. S. Lightfoot, “Le site d’Amorium,” Dossiers d’archéologie 256 (Sept. 2000), 32–33. Reference to Amorium can also be found in E. A. Ivison, “Urban Renewal and Imperial Revival in Byzantium (730– 1025),” ByzF 26 (2000): 1–46, esp. 13–18, 27; P. I. Kuniholm, “Dendrochronologically Dated Ottoman Monuments,” in U. Baram and L. Carroll, eds., A Historical Archaeology of the Ottoman Empire: Breaking New Ground (New York, 2000), 93–136 (see p. 114, no. 23); C. S. Lightfoot, “Bizans Döneminde Afyonkarahisar,” in ˙I . Küçükkurt et al., eds., Afyonkarahisar Kütüg ˇ ü, vol. 1, Afyon Kocatepe Üniversitesi Yayını 35 (Ankara, 2001), 113–24; P. Linscheid, “Early Byzantine Textiles from Amorium, Anatolia,” Archaeological Textiles Newsletter 32 (Spring 2001), 17–18; and R. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton, N.J., 1999), 89 and fig. 56. One may also note the publication of the coin collection of the Bolvadin Municipal Museum: R. Ashton, C. S. Lightfoot, and A. Özme, “Ancient and Mediaeval Coins in Bolvadin,” Anatolia Antiqua 8 (2000): 171–92. 2 The team comprised nine archaeologists, conservators, and students, of whom seven were Turkish, one British, and one German. Their names are Asst. Prof. Dr. Ays¸e C ¸alıkRoss (assistant director, University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir),

the hiatus in 1999, it was necessary to carry out essential repair and cleaning work at all of the excavation areas across the site and at the Dig House. Site enhancement and conservation work included the removal of more of the spoil heaps at the northern end of the Upper City mound, the consolidation of the Upper City fortification wall (first capped in 1993–94) and the Enclosure wall (capped in 1996), and the replacement of the timber-framed roof (erected in 1996) over the fresco in the south aisle of the Lower City Church. The fresco itself was examined by Emre Eser, the field conservator, and a condition report was prepared, while Dr. JoYalçın Mergen (archaeologist, University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir), Asst. Prof. Dr. B. Yelda Olcay (glass specialist, University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir), Dr. Johanna Witte-Orr (fresco specialist), Sabri Aydal (archaeologist, Antalya Archaeological Museum), Emre Eser (student conservator, Bas¸kent Vocational High School, Ankara University), and Banu Büyükgün (archaeology student, University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir). Visitors to the excavations included Seracettin S ¸ahin (director, Afyon Archaeological Museum), Hatice Bilgiç (Middle East Technical University, Ankara), Ayhan C ¸etin (Emirdag ˘ High School), Özgül Gurbuz (University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir), Nurdog ˘an and Zeliha Aydog ˘du, and Petra Linscheid (Freie Universität Berlin). The Amorium Project gratefully acknowledges the continued support of the Turkish authorities in Ankara, Afyon, and Emirdag ˘, the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, and Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, D.C. (on behalf of the Trustees of Harvard University). Thanks also go to the many friends and supporters of the Amorium Project; they include Mrs. Brenda Lightfoot, Dr. John Casey (University of Durham), Dr. Stanley Ireland (University of Warwick), Prof. Thomas Drew-Bear (CNRS, France), and Dr. Helen Evans, Dr. Marilyn Jenkins-Madina, and Dr. Carlos A. Picón (Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York). The 2000 season would not have been so successful without the generous help of Nilgün C ¸evrimli (government representative, General Directorate of Monuments and Museums, Ankara), Halil Arça (Afyon Museum), Hakan and Fahrettin Öklü (Euro Class Car Rental, Ankara), Mehmet Söylemez (Directorate of Monuments and Museums, Ankara), and Zülfünar Yavuzkan (Turkish Consulate, Washington, D.C.).

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hanna Witte-Orr took the opportunity to inspect the panel as part of her study of the church frescoes (see below, pp. 283–84). Another major development was that Sabri Aydal (from the Antalya Museum) initiated a threeyear program to survey the whole site and so produce a new detailed topographical and archaeological plan of Amorium. Just over half of the site was surveyed, including the whole of the Upper City, the Lower City Enclosure, and the Lower City Church. Work will continue in 2001, and once complete the new site plan will provide a systematic grid in which we will be able to locate trenches, surviving visible remains, and other important features such as the numerous wells that are dotted around the site. With the help of such a plan the expectation is that a better understanding of the overall layout of the city can be achieved. It may also enable us to make some pertinent observations on the course of events at the siege of Amorium in the summer of 838 by combining the new topographical data with the surviving literary accounts. THE LOWER CITY CHURCH FRESCOES (BY JOHANNA WITTE-ORR)3 Between 1990 and 1996 a large quantity of fresco fragments and a number of stone blocks that had fresco fragments adhering to them were excavated in the Lower City Church.4 The majority of the loose fragments were found in the eastern part of the nave and in the south aisle; almost all of the blocks with painted plaster were found in the south aisle, especially in the central bay. Most of the fragments are small, with a painted surface of about 2–5 cm2, but 3 I would like to thank Chris Lightfoot and Eric Ivison for inviting me to work on the fresco fragments. The term fresco is used here in the sense of the work of a master painter, as opposed to wall painting as the work of an untrained individual. There is no indication that the paintings are frescoes in the Italian sense of a “good fresco,” painted on fresh plaster without an added medium. For a thorough description of Byzantine painting methods which often included both fresco and secco work, see D. C. Winfield, “Middle and Later Byzantine Wall Painting Methods,” DOP 22 (1968): 74–79; M. Restle, “Maltechnik,” RBK 5 (Stuttgart, 1995): 1241 f, 1248 ff, 1255 f. On the technique used in the Cappadocian cave churches, see S. Kostof, Caves of God: Cappadocia and Its Churches (Cambridge, Mass., 1989), 150. 4 A preliminary survey and arrangement of this material was carried out by Christine Zitrides in 1996; DOP 52 (1998): 329.

some of the fragments on the stone blocks are larger, measuring up to 28 × 27 cm. Comparatively few pieces of fresco were recovered from the remaining areas of the church, and most of them were very small. However, two larger fragments were also taken from walls in the church in 1993 under the supervision of the conservator, Karen Barker; one of them was on wall 27 (Context A2-2), and the other was on the nave side of the nave west wall (AM92/A110). In the west bay of the south aisle, the largest fragment of all remains in situ on the south wall (AM96/A9-9).5 It was originally planned to group the fragments by their contexts and plaster layers, and then to try to determine what the frescoes might have shown and what their arrangement on the walls was. It was hoped in this way to reconstruct the church’s program of painted decoration and so add more to what is already known about the history of the building. The results were somewhat disappointing for, despite the sizable amount of fresco that was recovered during the excavations, it has not proved possible to reconstruct any large panels from the surviving fragments.6 It was found that many gaps exist between fragment clusters, while the different layers of plaster and paint on many of the fragments presented further difficulties. Nevertheless, some valuable information has been obtained from the work conducted in 2000. The preliminary results are presented here, but further work, planned for 2001, is required before any final conclusions can be drawn. In the second season a new approach will be adopted; the first task will be to focus on several groups of stone blocks with related paintings, and then to try to bridge gaps between them by working with fragments from all plaster and paint layers at the same time. Although Byzantine painting methods have been documented in only a few rare cases, it should be possible to place a fresco in relation to others by observing the characteristic methods used by an individual painter and by com5 For the preliminary excavation report on this panel, see DOP 52 (1998): 325 and fig. 3. 6 A study of the mosaic fragments found in the church produced a similar negative result. Even if only the central dome and/or the apse were decorated with mosaics, they still would have taken up a very large area. The fragments and tesserae that have been found would cover only a fraction of this space.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT ET AL. paring them to others. Many such details (e.g., preliminary incised sketches or the layering of color coats) can easily be seen on the Amorium fragments, whereas it is much harder to see them on intact paintings still in situ on a wall. The observed painting methods indicate clearly that a master painter was at work in the church at Amorium. The detailed documentation of the painting methods could also highlight differences between separate painting phases, thereby making them more obvious than a study of the different layers and their paintings alone would permit. What follows is a description of the observed work and painting methods, and a discussion of some examples of the fragments and fragment groups with important details that allow some insight into what could have been the content of the paintings. 1. Wall Structure: Plaster and Paint Layers The backs of the painted plaster fragments show that they covered not only masonry walls built of large stone blocks but also walls made up of an assortment of smaller stones, flat bricks, spolia, and a good deal of mortar. The plaster layer over these sections of wall is much thicker than that over the masonry walls, partly because the bricks in particular have a higher porosity. This would have led the plaster to dry more quickly, which was apparently not desirable.7 Most of the plaster in all layers contains chaff (bits of straw or grass) in varying amounts.8 Since the color and consistency of the plaster show only minor variations, differences in the amount of chaff added to the plaster can best be explained as an indication of the work process, whereby small batches of plaster were mixed up and used immediately. Some fragments found in the south aisle, however, have a second plaster layer that contains so great an amount of chaff that they break apart easily. This might be taken to indicate a different work process and, perhaps, a different date for the painting, but the frescoes on this type of plaster still need to be compared closely with the other second-layer paintings to see whether

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there is an obvious difference in color and painting technique. A few plaster and painting fragments found in the northwest corner of the church (Contexts AM90/A4-2 and AM90/A4-4) do not contain any chaff at all but have a brickdust or sand filler instead. Moreover, the paint colors and technique used on these pieces are also different from all other fragments. This could signify either that they belong to a different group of painters and, perhaps, a different date or that the fragments fell into the church area from a separate room or building. Finally, a very small number of fragments show a plaster with a very uneven (unleveled) surface and no painted decoration. They resemble the mud-plaster that is still in use in the village today. It was immediately apparent both from the loose fragments and blocks and from the surviving panel in the south aisle that the church had been decorated several times in the middle Byzantine period. At least two successive painting phases can be identified, but in a few instances even a third painted layer has survived. A new layer of plaster was applied over the older surface and painted; in many cases not much of the older layer has survived or has yet been identified, but traces of the painted surface are preserved on the back of the newer plaster.9 Such traces appear on only a small fraction of the fragments. It is possible to conclude, therefore, that in many cases none of the older pigments became detached from their original layer when the newer plaster separated from it, and this would mean that the adhesion between old paint and new plaster was not very strong. Many other fragments show that the plaster had been applied to a smooth surface, but since there are no paint traces it is difficult to tell whether there were bare stone blocks underneath or whether the older painted layer underneath remained intact on the wall. In general, it seems, the newer plaster layer was applied directly over the older paintings without any further preparation; there are no hatch marks or deep scratches cut into the old paint surface nor any trace of washing of the walls, both of which would allow stronger adhesion between the old paint and the new plaster. In

7

Winfield, “Wall Painting Methods,” 67, 79. On binders and fillers in plaster, see Winfield, “Wall Painting Methods,” 64–69. The plaster used in the Amorium church is no different. 8

9 In the following discussion, “layer 1” indicates the older or first layer of plaster; “layer 2” refers to the layer of plaster and paint on top of “layer 1.”

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fact, some of the plaster fragments with smooth backs show signs of a very faint grayish layer, which looks more like dust or dirt than pigment, suggesting that the grime of several years had accumulated and had not been washed off before the next plaster layer was applied. In both painting phases only a single plaster layer was applied, which acted as both undercoat and as the surface to be painted. Bits of chaff show through the thinner coats of paint and in some cases have become detached, leaving tiny rectangular holes in the painted picture. This is a shortcut and is documented for other sites with middle Byzantine paintings; ideally, a very white and fine-grained thin paint surface would be applied on top of a much coarser leveling plaster.10 It was possible to use this plaster as a paint surface only because it is very light-colored and fine-grained (except for the chaff ), and had been leveled carefully. One fragment of plaster recovered from the area of the bema was found to contain a glass tessera that matches those used in the ceiling mosaics. The mosaic setting bed is made up of plaster with a consistency and color very similar to that used underneath the paintings. Likewise, there was only one layer of plaster under the mosaics, used as both leveling layer and setting bed.11 It may be assumed, therefore, that the mosaics were installed first, before the walls were plastered and painted (and, perhaps, even before the floor was installed), but it is clear that the church must have been painted at the time the mosaics were set. Probably, the same scaffolding was used by both mosaicists and painters. This also indicates that a number of painters and mosaicists were at work.12 When the middle Byzantine church was constructed, the masonry was painted with red

decoration. Architectural features such as window openings, wall joints, pier corners, and arches were decorated with red lines and circles; since these would not have required templates or sinopia, the red line decoration cannot be considered as a preliminary sketch for the frescoes that followed. It is more likely that an interval elapsed between the time the renovation of the church building was completed and the time the mosaicists and painters started their work. In the meantime decoration of some kind, however simple, was considered desirable.13 For the moment the question of whether the second plaster and paint layer was part of a general redecoration of the church remains open. The same pink color scheme for ornamental areas as on the second layer decoration of the arch fragment (Figs. 1, 2) was used on small fragments from a different area of the south aisle and, in this case, on a first layer of plaster. This could indicate that gaps in layer 1 were covered over during the redecoration with layer 2. If the layer 2 paintings were part of a small local redecoration (i.e., retouching of icons or a change in picture content in a few places), ornaments on window frames and architectural elements would not have been included.

10 Restle, “Maltechnik,” 1247 f; Kostof, Caves of God, 147. Compare the list in Winfield, “Wall Painting Methods,” 67 f, table 2; most churches in Asia Minor show paintings on only one layer of plaster. 11 Generally, three layers of plaster were used underneath mosaics, two as leveling layers and the third as the setting bed; see D. Mouriki, The Mosaics of Nea Moni on Chios (Athens, 1986), 94–97. The Amorium mosaics show an unexpected and unusual shortcut to this technique. 12 On the relations between mosaicists and painters, see Restle, “Maltechnik,” 1265. It has been suggested that mosaics and paintings could have been the work of the same artist; see Winfield, “Wall Painting Methods,” 91; L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art (Oxford, 1996), 26 f; S. H. Young, “Relations between Mosaic and Fresco Technique,” JÖB 25 (1976): 269–78.

13 Preliminary decorations are known from other churches, for example, the cave churches of Cappadocia: see Kostof, Caves of God, 93, 146, 253 note 1; and in Egypt: see K. Innemée, “The Iconographical Program of Paintings in the Church of al ‘Adra in Deir al Sourian,” in M. Krause and S. Schaten, eds., QEMELIA. Spätantike und koptologische Studien Peter Grossmann zum 65. Geburtstag, Sprachen und Kulturen des christlichen Orients 3 (Wiesbaden, 1998), 144. The Vita S. Pancratii, in describing the construction of the martyrium church for the saint, mentions that a year elapsed between the completion of the construction and the decoration with biblical scenes; see C. Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire, 312–1453: Sources and Documents (Toronto, 1986), 138. 14 Painted drawings: Restle, “Maltechnik,” 1265 f; Winfield, “Wall Painting Methods,” 80–96, pls. 4–10. Incised

2. Paintings: Technical Details The framework for the pictures was drawn on the unpainted plaster with watery yellow paint, and the area was then painted over with background and frame colors. The painters constructed figures with the help of guidelines incised into the fresh plaster and used a compass to incise an outline circle for the nimbus. They also used thin red paint to sketch faces.14

1

2

3 Scale 1:1 Fig. A Glass finds from 1998 (drawing: B. Y. Olcay)

4

Fig. B Plan of Trench XD and XB (drawing: Y. Mergen)

1

2

Block PP024, Context AM96/A8-17, wall block 2, lower left corner block of a blind arcade or window frame with fresco decoration in two layers (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

Block PP007, Context AM96/A8-6, block from a blind arcade or window with fresco decoration in two layers (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

3

4

Fragments of an unfinished fresco with figural decoration (photo: C. Zitrides)

AM96/A9-9, fresco in situ on the south wall of the church (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

5

6

AM91/A3-27, fragments of an inscribed scroll (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

AM 96/A8-27, face fragment with mouth and nose tip (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

7

8

Face fragment, context unknown (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

Two fragments showing part of a face and nimbi (photo: C. Zitrides)

9

AM91/A3-27, fragment of the second inscription (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

10 AM91/A3-27, further fragment of the second inscription (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

11 AM91/A3-27, fragments of red and yellow ornamented garments belonging to a scroll bearer (digital image: J. Witte-Orr)

12 A follis (SF4024) of Nikephoros II Phokas from Trench XD (AM00/02/15-16; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

13 The inner face of the Enclosure circuit wall, W03, looking south (AM00/02/9; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

14 An Ionic impost capital fragment, T1519 (AM00/01/16A; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

15 Trench XD, Structure 2, Context 21, paved floor in situ, looking northeast (AM00/02/3; photo: C.S. Lightfoot)

16 Trench XD, showing paving slab at top right (AM00/03/8; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

17 Trench XD, looking southwest, showing wall (W13) of Structure 2 with later blocking (W14); hydraulic mortar visible on W22 and Context 21 at rear (AM00/02/35; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

18 Trench XB, channel, looking toward the Enclosure circuit wall (AM00/02/26; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

19 Trench XB, channel, looking from the Enclosure circuit wall (AM00/02/32; photo: C. S. Lightfoot)

C. S. LIGHTFOOT ET AL. A small fragment (Fig. 3) documents an unfinished painting; the garment folds on this piece are sketched with thin green lines and the background blue has been painted beside it, but the color coats for shadows, middle ground, and highlights of the folds are missing. The large fresco fragment on the south wall (Fig. 4) and fragments of two other figures also show that the background was painted after the picture had been sketched and that colors, details, and outlines of figures and picture frames were added afterwards (see below). Several fragments show that a black background color was applied first and later was covered with a bright blue; the blue appears to have had a pastier consistency than the black, and has more lustre.15 There is no trace of black under the blue background of the figure on the south wall, and the unfinished area to the left of this picture shows that this method was not used here. The surviving fresco (Fig. 4) in the western bay of the south aisle is painted on a third layer of plaster that covers part of the second and first layers. The picture has a dark blue background with a slightly greenish cast within a red frame, set off from the background by a thin white line. The area to the left of the frame was never completely painted; one brush stroke of dark blue tapers off halfway down, and the remainder of the plaster is unpainted. It seems that the painter was not asked or did not have time to paint another panel to the left. It is possible that the panel was a patch applied only to this particular spot on the south wall, either to replace an earlier (now unwanted) image or to repair an area of damage. However, it may represent work in process, in which the new plaster layer was applied across the entire wall of the bay and painted panel by panel. In this case, it would seem that the surviving picture was finished on one day, and that the painter failed to come back and start on the next panel to the left on the following day. Why this was so is a mystery. guidelines: ibid., 96–99, pls. 11–12. Table 2 gives a list of some churches with frescoes in Asia Minor; incised lines were apparently not used in Cappadocia, but they are found in Constantinople, Trebizond (Trabzon), and elsewhere in the Pontos, starting in the 10th century, and, more often, in the 12th century. 15 Theophilos, in De diversis artibus, describes the painting of background colors in exactly this way; the same method can be found in many other frescoes, see Winfield, “Wall Painting Methods,” 100.

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A blue, sometimes sky blue, background seems to have been used for all pictures, but in the lower part of the pictures it changed to a green ground. There are two exceptions: the fragment from the west wall of the naos shows a burgundy red background above the lower frame line, and in the picture on the south wall (Fig. 4) the blue background continues to the bottom of the panel. The pictures were framed by a red border, set off from the blue and green picture background by a narrow white line. The fragment from the naos wall, as well as several other smaller fragments, shows that below the main picture area there was a low dado painted with an imitation of diagonally veined marble slabs. Below the imitation marble dado there was a band of black or red, perhaps intended as an imitation of a molding in a different stone. Some architectural features in the south aisle, such as windows or niches, were decorated in the second layer with ornamental patterns in a light pink, burgundy, and red color scheme (Figs. 1, 2). The first layer was painted with yellow, red, and black, but not enough is visible to detect a pattern. For the lines of text in inscriptions (Fig. 5), guidelines were pressed into the plaster with a cord. In one case this seems to have happened when the plaster was fairly dry so that the cord left an impression with very broken edges. For the faces and hands of figures, and for some of the garments, the paint was applied in several thin coats with a very fine brush. In those cases where many different colors were applied in one spot, the surface seems much smoother, since the plaster and chaff have been covered over by many coats. Several coats of different colors in one spot do not necessarily indicate that a picture was repainted. However, in one case the colors and lines of the uppermost coat are so different from the one it covers that one should suspect a repainting. Faces and body parts were painted with an olive green ground color that was overpainted with pink, peach, red, and white for details (Figs. 6–8). Some of the images seem to have had a much larger format and were painted with wider brushes, which could indicate that they had a position higher up on the walls. Several fragments of faces were identified, and measurements of nose length, chin to nose tip distance, and eye width or nimbus diameter were taken

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to calculate the head and body size.16 On the smallest piece (Fig. 6), a very small mouth with the tip of the nose and the chin are visible: this must have been the face of a small person or child. Another piece shows the face of a young adult (Fig. 7), and on a third fragment only the upper left side of a face with eye, eyebrow, and wavy hair is preserved (Fig. 8). It seems reasonable to assume that the painter used proportional rules for figures in which body height is a multiple of face and nose lengths. It can be calculated, therefore, that the body size of the figures to which the latter two fragments belonged was approximately 1.60–1.70 m, that is, life size. The figure still in situ on the south aisle wall (Fig. 4) can be reconstructed to a similar size. If the fragment of the smaller face (Fig. 6) belonged to an infant Christ seated on his mother’s arm or lap, his body size would have been 0.70–0.80 m; if, however, this represents a different individual in a standing position, his or her body size would have been 1.10–1.20 m. At present only a few observations can be made about the picture content. The fragment with eye and wavy hair (Fig. 8) shows two overlapping nimbi, so it must have been part of a picture showing two people positioned close together. This in turn means that we have here a fragment of a narrative representation, not an image of two saints standing next to each other. The fragments of the first inscription (Fig. 5) mentioned below must have been a text on a scroll that was held in front of his left leg by a richly dressed figure. To the right of the scroll the background is black (perhaps the black underpainting for a blue background), and there is no trace of further picture details on this side. From comparison with similar compositions in other frescoes and mosaics, this figure can be recognized as a prophet, and, because of his 16 The calculations are based on the proportional systems of Dionysos of Fourna and Panselinos, as described by the Winfields, and a comparison of these two systems with the proportions used in several of the Hagia Sophia mosaics; see J. and D. Winfield, Proportion and Structure of the Human Figure in Byzantine Wall-Painting and Mosaic (Oxford, 1982), 54–66, 67–93; C. Mango, Materials for the Study of the Mosaics of St. Sophia at Istanbul (Washington, D.C., 1962), pl. 50: Alexander, pl. 62: Ignatios the Younger, pl. 70: St. John Chrysostomos, pl. 72: St. Ignatios Theophoros, and pl. 106: apse mosaic. For the same mosaics, see also N. B. Teteriatnikov, Mosaics of Hagia Sophia, Istanbul: The Fossati Restoration and the Work of the Byzantine Institute (Washington, D.C., 1998), fig. 27: Chrysostomos, fig. 28: Ignatios, fig. 38: Alexander, and fig. 49: Virgin and Child.

richly ornamented garments, he may be identified as Daniel, or perhaps David or Solomon.17 Dress details, such as ornamented borders imitating gold embroidery with jewels on tunic and cloak, also allow an identification of the figure still in situ on the south wall (Fig. 4). It must have been a person of higher rank and most likely represents St. Barbara or St. Catherine of Alexandria. It is less likely to be a donor portrait.18 3. Fragments of Inscriptions: Contexts AM91/A3-27 and AM91/A3-3119 Among the large number of fragments from these contexts are parts of two inscriptions. One is painted with thin black paint on a white and slightly greenish background; the other is painted with stronger black paint on a yellowish 17 David, Solomon, and Daniel appear in richly ornamented clothing and hold scrolls in the much later Elmalı Kilise; see M. Restle, Die byzantinische Wandmalerei in Kleinasien, vol. 2 (Recklinghausen, 1967), pls. 161, 167; cf. also O. Demus, W. Dorigo, A. Niero, G. Perocco, and E. Vio, Venise. Saint Marc (Paris, 1991), 76, 94. Daniel is usually dressed in “Persian” style with a short tunic, Phrygian cap, leggings, and a cloak; see K. Wessel, “Daniel,” RBK 1 (Stuttgart, 1966): 1113–20. In general, prophet figures holding scrolls with legible texts became part of the church decoration in the 6th century. Early post-iconoclastic examples are provided by the large prophet figures on the two tympana of Hagia Sophia; see Mango, Materials for the Study, Diagrams III, IV, and Teteriatnikov, Mosaics of Hagia Sophia, figs. 25, 26. For another one in a side room, see P. A. Underwood, “A Preliminary Report on Some Unpublished Mosaics in Hagia Sophia: Season of 1950 of the Byzantine Institute,” AJA 55 (1951): 368 f, pl. 17. Photios, in his description of the church of the Virgin of the Pharos, mentions a prophet, who “though silent, cries out his sayings of yore”; see Mango, The Art of the Byzantine Empire, 186 (Mango identifies him by the quotation from the Psalms as David). 18 In the Leo Bible, the patron of the book, Leo, and his brother Constantine are shown wearing red cloaks with gold borders. Leo’s tunic is white and has gold brocade borders at hem and wrist: see J. Lowden, Early Christian and Byzantine Art (London, 1997), figs. 111, 112. St. Barbara: for example, in Ayvalı Kilise/Güllü Dere (913–920), M. Restle, Byzantinische Wandmalerei, vol. 3, pl. 340; in St. Barbara-Tahtalı Kilise/Sog ˘anlı (1006 or 1021), ibid., 3: pl. 433. St. Catherine: for example, in Göreme, Chapel No. 9 (10th century), ibid., 2:pl. 129. The two saints are shown facing each other on one arcade intrados in the New Tokalı Kilise: A. W. Epstein, Tokalı Kilise. Tenth-Century Metropolitan Art in Byzantine Cappadocia (Washington, D.C., 1986), 67 (no photo). Further examples: H. Maguire, The Icons of Their Bodies: Saints and Their Images in Byzantium (Princeton, N.J., 1996), 28 ff, figs. 24, 25. 19 It may be noted that an anonymous follis (SF1534) of class A.1 or A.2 was also recovered from context A3-31 in 1991.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT ET AL. ground and is underlined with umber horizontal lines. First inscription (Fig. 5), letter height: 5.5– 6.0 cm. Line width, short umber lines: between 0.3 and 0.25 cm; bright red lines: 0.5 cm; gray outline on the left side of the scroll: 0.75 cm. The painting is on a single layer of plaster; the back of the plaster shows that it was attached to walls built of large stone blocks next to smaller stones and bricks. Second inscription (Figs. 9, 10), letter height: approximately 5 cm (only the upper half of the letters remains). Parts of the first inscription could be joined to fragments of a figure wearing a dark red to reddish-brown garment falling in zigzag folds highlighted in light brown. The garment has a black hem covered with a line of small white dots (possibly representing pearls), and a second yellow garment with double rows of white dots (Fig. 11). In the dark red area of the red garment, incised guidelines can be detected: they must be construction guidelines for the folds. At the moment not enough pieces have been joined together to tell to which area of the figure they belong. The inscription fragments that could be joined together (Fig. 5) show on the left edge of the scroll a cross at the beginning, then C and at the end of this line R. Several lines down (it is unclear how many) there is KAI (the last letter could be the beginning of N instead), and at the beginning of the next line KA. Another piece from the left edge, but not joined, has the beginning ÇOÇ, and a piece of the right edge ends with TO. Other floating pieces display the letter groups: ÇO TOÇ IF. The second inscription, on a sienna ground and underlined by umber lines, may be part of another prophet scroll or an evangelist’s book, but it could also be something entirely different.20 Not enough is preserved to determine the format, except that it was arranged in at least three lines. Two letter groups are legible: one of them can be restored as …ÇEBR… or …ÇERB… 20 A TLG search for the word fragments …
eвр… or …
eрв… and …
eвр… or …
eрв… in the text of the Septuagint resulted in only a few quotations. None is typical of those used on prophet scrolls; see A.-M. Gravgaard, Inscriptions of Old Testament Prophecies in Byzantine Churches: A Catalogue (Copenhagen, 1979). Either the fragments did not belong to a scroll, or it carried an unusual quotation. My thanks go to A. Alexakis, G. Baloglou, and M. Stein for help in the TLG database search.

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(Fig. 9), the other one can be read as TIAN or TIAU (Fig. 10). THE GLASS FINDS FROM 1998 (BY B. YELDA OLCAY) Almost all of the glass found during the 1998 season was in the form of small, broken fragments.21 Most of them came from Trench XC in the Enclosure, but another smaller group was excavated in Trench LC6 behind the Lower City walls, while a few fragments were also recovered from the Lower City Church. In general, it can be seen that the vessels to which the fragments belong were free-blown and that, since the fragments contain many bubbles, the quality of the fabric is relatively poor. Most of the finds, as well as being very small and fragmentary, displayed a surface layer of weathering and iridescence. The exception to this general observation can be found in the fragments of window glass recovered from Context 91 in Trench XC. These were both larger in size and less weathered than the majority of the vessel fragments. The most common color used for the glass was green, with various shades being represented, but some fragments also showed up as blue-green, dark blue (particularly prevalent for applied trails), and light yellow. The most common form of decoration found among the fragments was the applied trail, most often in dark blue glass, which occurred on the rim, around the body, and on the base. Diagnostic vessel fragments included rims, bases, footed bases, lamp stems, handles, and neck fragments. The preliminary study of the material revealed that some fragments found in the same context and trench belonged to the same vessels. It was then possible to make a paper reconstruction of two different types of lamp (Fig. A, nos. 2–4) and a footed cup or goblet (Fig. A, no. 1). The latter vessel may also be viewed as a lamp. The lamp fragments form one of the easiest groups to identify. For the present, three different types can be distinguished: (1) stemmed lamps that were used in polycandela, (2) hanging lamps with handles, and (3) goblets that 21 A preliminary study of the 1998 finds was also carried out by Dr. M. A. V. Gill during the excavation season; cf. DOP 55 (2001): 394–98 and fig. L.

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may be considered as lamps.22 The stems of the first type of lamp are easily recognizable, and at Amorium these finds can be divided into two groups. The first type has a solid stem, for which parallels found elsewhere are most often dated between the middle of the eleventh and the beginning of the thirteenth century. The best examples are provided by the excavations at Saraçhane in Istanbul and at the church of St. Nicholas at Demre (Myra) in Lycia.23 Other examples have a similar solid stem but with a rounded knob at the end. This variant, although rare, has been recorded at Amorium in previous seasons.24 The knobbed stem type may also be dated to the eleventh century, whereas outside Anatolia they are usually placed earlier in the ninth and tenth centuries.25 So the finds at Amorium may be tentatively assigned to the later phases of Byzantine occupation in the tenth and eleventh centuries. The second lamp type distinguished among the finds from Amorium is cylindrical with a thick, slightly pointed base and a hollow stem expanding upwards.26 This type is found throughout the Middle East; similar examples outside Anatolia have been found at Apamea in Syria, Caesarea Maritima in Palestine, and on Cyprus, but the closest parallel to the Amorium material is offered by a find from the excavations at the church of St. Nicholas at Demre that is dated by context to the sixth–eighth cen22 The finds from the previous seasons (1987–97) have been studied by Margaret Gill. The publication of her detailed catalogue, including numerous examples of these three types, is expected to appear by the end of 2002; M. A. V. Gill, Amorium Reports, Finds I: The Glass (Oxford, 2002). 23 J. W. Hayes, Excavations at Saraçhane in Istanbul, vol. 2 (Princeton, N.J., 1992), 404, nos. 50, 70–71, fig. 152; M. Acara and B. Y. Olcay, “Bizans Döneminde Aydınlatma Düzeni ve Demre Aziz Nikolaos Kilisesi’nde Kullanılan Aydınlatma Gereçleri,” Adalya 2 (1998): 253, pl. 1, i–m. 24 Gill, Amorium Reports, Part 1, no. 31 (from Trench AB, Context 110); Part 2, nos. 37–39 (from Trench L, Context 390; from Trench UU, Context 48; and from Trench A2-1, Context 10, respectively). These findspots, ranging from the Upper City to the Lower City walls, indicate that such lamps were widely distributed across the site. 25 For a recent discussion of this type, see S. Hadad, “Glass Lamps from the Byzantine through Mameluk Periods at Bet Shean, Israel,” JGS 40 (1998): 69 (Type 2), and references in note 12. 26 Gill, Amorium Reports, Part 1, nos. 21–24 (all from contexts in the Large Building, Lower City); Part 2, nos. 30– 34 (from Trench AB, Context 101; from Trench TT, Context 122; and from various contexts in the Lower City Church).

tury.27 In publications the type is usually assigned a sixth- or seventh-century date.28 Another type of lamp that is attested among the finds has suspension handles. The reconstructed example (Fig. A, no. 2) has an everted and folded rim, and a body that tapers toward the bottom, while the handles are applied to the sides. Close parallels, in both shape and handle design, can be found among the glass from Demre, while recent excavations at Tarsos have also produced similar finds.29 Further work is required before an exact date can be given to the type, but it is likely that it belongs to the middle Byzantine period. Foot and base fragments are the most important indicators for establishing a typology of the cup and goblet finds from Amorium. Preliminary results from the study of the 1998 finds indicate that two types are represented. The first is shaped as a massive goblet complete with footed base (Fig. A, no. 1). It has been possible to find published parallels of this type. Similar examples found at Gerasa in Jordan are tentatively dated to the eighth century and later.30 Another close parallel has been noted at Demre.31 A second type of goblet is attested among the bases; this has a folded outer edge to the base. Parallels from sites both in Anatolia and elsewhere indicate that this type of base is characteristic of goblets produced in the fifth– seventh centuries.32 Significantly, it does not appear to be found in later contexts. 27 A. Engle, Light, Lamps and Windows in Antiquity (Jerusalem, 1987), fig. 19; M. Peleg and R. Reich, “Byzantine City Wall of Caesarea Maritima,” Atiqot 21 (1992): fig. 20: 12, 14; J. Taylor and A. H. S. Megaw, “Excavations at Ayios Philon,” RDAC (1981): fig. 46; B. Y. Olcay, “St. Nicholas Church Excavation in Demre (Myra) in Antalya, 1989–95. Glass Finds” (Ph.D. diss., Social Sciences Institute, Hacettepe University, Ankara, 1997), 467, pl. II, 4. 28 See Hadad, “Glass Lamps,” 69, 72 (Type 4), and references in note 16. 29 Acara and Olcay, “Aydınlatma,” pl. 2, g. The Tarsos glass finds have already been prepared for publication. 30 C. Meyer, “Glass from the North Theater, Byzantine Church and Soundings at Jerash, Jordan 1982–83,” BASOR Supplement 25 (1987): 211, fig. 11, V, X, Y, Z. 31 Acara and Olcay, “Aydınlatma,” 255, pl. 3, e. 32 Parallels include finds from the 5th–6th century at Sardis, the 5th–7th century at Anemurium, the 6th–7th century at Demre, the 6th–7th century at Gerasa, and the 5th–7th century at Carthage. A. von Saldern, Ancient and Byzantine Glass from Sardis (London, 1980), 58, no. 351, pl. 24: 351; E. M. Stern, “Ancient and Medieval Glass from the Necropolis Church at Anemurium,” Annales du 9e Congrès de l’Association Internationale pour l’Histoire du Verre (Liège, 1985), 44–45, pl. 3; Meyer, “Jerash, Jordan,” fig. 8, Y; J. M.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT ET AL. Another reliable indicator for dating purposes is provided by the applied trails that are found on some of the vessel fragments. This decorative element seems to have been in use over a long period of time, beginning in the Roman and continuing into the Byzantine period. Published examples, however, indicate that such trails were especially popular in the seventh–ninth centuries.33 One explanation for this phenomenon may be the reduced economic circumstances of the Byzantines as a result of the Arab raids on Anatolia. Just as all the other branches of arts and crafts suffered a decline at this time, so glass production was reduced to a relatively basic level. The fabric of the glass made in the seventh–ninth centuries is generally poor, while the addition of trails (usually in dark blue) would have constituted both an easy and a cheap form of decoration. It is likely that the rim, body, and base fragments decorated with such trails that have been found at Amorium belong to the Dark Ages. Finally, a group of glass that is striking among the finds from 1998 is the window glass, all from Context 91 in Trench XC. These constitute some of the largest fragments of glass so far recovered from the excavations, one reason for their size being the thickness of the panes. A few of the fragments have an original edge. It is clear that these panes were made in flat sheets, a technique that was in use from the Roman period until well into Byzantine times. Until the relative stratigraphy of the context in which the window glass was found has been precisely determined, the date of the Amorium fragments must remain uncertain. Nevertheless, the finds from XC Context 91 constitute an important group to be added to the growing body of evidence for Roman and Byzantine window glass.34 Crowfoot, “Glass,” in G. M. Crowfoot, The Objects from Samaria (London, 1957), 415, fig. 96: 7; Acara and Olcay, “Aydınlatma,” 255, pl. 3, a–d. 33 Meyer, “Jerash, Jordan,” 197. 34 For a general discussion of ancient window glass, see D. Whitehouse, “Window Glass between the First and the Eighth Centuries,” in F. Dell’Acqua and R. Silva, eds., Il Colore nel Medioevo. Arte Sibolo Technica. La Vetrata in Occidente dal IV all’ XI Secolo (Lucca, 2001), 31–43. A recent survey concluded that “finds of window glass from the middle and late Byzantine periods are rare”; Ousterhout, Master Builders, 151. This, however, does not take into account the Amorium examples recorded in AnatSt 46 (1996): 107–8, 109 nos. 8–14, and DOP 51 (1997): 296, fig. C. For other examples, see G. L. Davidson, Corinth, vol. 12, The Minor Objects (Princeton, N.J., 1952), 144–45 nos. 1061–66.

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The majority of the glass finds from the excavations conducted at Amorium in 1998 can be assigned to the period between the sixth and eleventh/twelfth centuries. Closer dating of the finds may be possible as the study of the material advances and the stratigraphy of the site comes into sharper focus. THE COINS (BY CHRIS LIGHTFOOT) In 2000 a total of twenty-six bronze or copper alloy coins were recorded. They were all cleaned and conserved by Emre Eser; they were then photographed and cast, and finally they were deposited in the Afyon Archaeological Museum on 7 September. Of these coins only five were recovered from the excavations in the Lower City; the remainder were all surface or stray finds, most of which had been picked up by the site guard, Bilâl Eryig ˇ it, before the beginning of the season. As in previous years, the majority of the finds belong to the Byzantine period. None can be positively assigned to a date earlier than the fourth century. Few coins of the sixth century have been found at Amorium, and so it was gratifying to be able to add a nummus of Anastasios, particularly as this small coin was picked up as a surface find.35 Two more issues belong to the reigns of Herakleios and Constans II in the seventh century, while a third follis, badly corroded on the obverse, may tentatively be assigned to one of the early eighth-century emperors on account of its size, weight, and general appearance.36 Two more issues of Emperor Theophilos, 35 AM00/Surface/SF4012. From the Lower City. AE nummus, A.D. 491–517. Mint of Constantinople. Obv. Bust of emperor, diademed and wearing a cuirass and paludamentum, r. Rev. Monogram. 10.0 mm; 1.01 g; 6h. C. Morrisson, Catalogue des monnaies byzantines de la Bibliothèque Nationale, I, D’Anastase Ier à Justinien II (491–711) (Paris, 1970), no. 1/ Cp/AE/02. 36 (1) Herakleios: AM00/XD Context 4 (subsoil)/SF4022. AE follis, class 4, year 27 = A.D. 636/7 (?). Mint of Constantinople. Obv. To 1., Herakleios standing, facing, holding long cross in r. hand; to r. Herakleios Constantine standing, facing, in chlamys; between them, cross. Very corroded. Rev. M; above cross and C; to l., [ANNO]; to r., C/C/II (?); in exergue, [Ç]ON. 25–23 mm; 7.09 g; –h. Morrisson, Catalogue des monnaies byzantines, no. 10/Cp/AE/75. (2) Constans II: AM00/Surface/SF4016. Stray find. AE follis, class 8 (?), year 13 = A.D. 653/4. Mint of Constantinople. Obv [ENTWT ONIKA]; emperor standing, facing, holding long cross in r. and globe cruciger in l. hand. Rev. [M; above, cross; to l., ANA; to r., NEOÍ]; in exergue, to r., CIII;

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both folles of class 1 dated 829–830/1, can now be added to the growing list of coins found at Amorium belonging to the first half of the ninth century; one was found during excavations in Trench XB.37 It may, perhaps, give some indication of the date for the channel and other features (such as the row of troughs) that were subsequently abandoned and sealed below the Enclosure’s circuit wall. The remaining twelve Byzantine coins belong to the tenth–eleventh centuries. Of particular note are the two well-preserved issues of Nikephoros II Phokas from Trench XD (Fig. 12), found in contexts that help confirm the dating of the restructuring of Structure 2 to pre-963.38 Only four anonymous folles were recorded, all surface finds, but of the three signed folles, that of Michael VII is particularly significant.39 Only one other Byzantine coin to l. (?). 22.0–16.5 mm; 3.06 g; 2h. Morrisson, Catalogue des monnaies byzantines, no. 13/Cp/AE/23. (3) Uncertain emperor, Philippikos or Anastasios II: AM00/Upper City, unstratified/SF4018. From the northern sector of the Upper City (spoil heap). AE follis, year 1 = A.D. 711/2 or 713/4. Mint of Constantinople. Obv. [Bust of emperor facing, holding long cross in r. and globe cruciger in l. hand]. Very corroded. Rev. M; above, cross; to l., ANN[O]; to r., I; below, A. 22.0–18.5 mm; 3.25 g; 6h (?). P. Grierson, Byzantine Coins (London–Berkeley, 1982), nos. 403–404, and cf. a follis of Anastasios II found at Pergamum; C. Morrisson, “Die byzantinischen Münzen,” in H. Voegtli, Die Fundmünzen aus der Stadtgrabung von Pergamon (Berlin–New York, 1993), 59, no. 822. 37 AM00/XB Context 32/SF4027. From Lower City Enclosure, 27.08.00. AE follis, class 1, A.D. 829–830/1. Mint of Constantinople. Obv. * • q
-OÏIÒ' bASIL'; bust facing, bearded, wearing chlamys and crown with cross, holding patriarchal cross in r. hand, acacia in l. Rev. M; above, cross; below, q; to l., XXX; to r., NNN. 30.5–29 mm; 7.76 g; 6h. Grierson, DOC 3.1: 433, no. 13. The other coin, also a follis of class 1 (AM00/Surface/SF4009. 29 mm; 7.84 g; 6h), is a stray from the Lower City found by Bilâl Eryig ˘it during the winter of 1999/2000. 38 (1) AM00/XD Context 17/SF4024. From Lower City Enclosure, 24.08.00. AE follis, class 1, A.D. 963–969. Mint of Constantinople, Obv. [+n]ICIFRb ASIL
VRw; bust facing, bearded, wearing robe and crown with cross and pendilia; in r. hand, cross scepter; in l., globe surmounted by trefoil. Rev. [+]nICHF/
ˆq
w bA/SIL
VSRw/MAIwn.; 25–23.5 mm; 8.13 g; 6h. Grierson, DOC 3.1: 586–87, no. 7. (2) AM00/XD Context 20/SF4026. From the Lower City Enclosure, 25.08.00. AE follis, class 2, A.D. 963–969. Mint of Constantinople. Obv. +nICIFRb ASIL[E]V[Rw]; bust facing, bearded, wearing modified loros and crown with cross and pendilia; in r. hand, labarum; in l., globe cruciger. Rev. +nICH [F]/
ˆq
wb[A]/SIL
VS[Rw]/ MAIw[n]; 24.5–22 mm; 4.44. g; 6h. Grierson, DOC 3.1:587–88, no. 8. 39 AM00/Surface/SF4010. Stray find. AE follis, var. a. or b., A.D. 1071–78. Obv. Bust of Christ facing, with nimbus cross and holding book; in field, [IC] XC above lateral arms of cross, six-pointed stars beneath them. Rev. + MIX AHL [RA]CI[OD]; bust facing, bearded, wearing modified loros with collar-piece and crown with cross and pendilia, hold-

dating to after 1071 has been recorded at Amorium—another follis of Michael VII, also a surface find from the preliminary site survey in 1987 (AM87/SF3005).40 Two Islamic copper coins were found as surface strays; both are issues of the Seljuks of Rum.41 One is a fals of Kayka’us b. Kaykhusraw (1246–57), while the other was minted at Ankyra in the name of Kaykhusraw II and is dated A.H. 635 (1237/8). They fit very well with the other Islamic coins found at Amorium. THE LOWER CITY ENCLOSURE: TRENCHES XD AND XB (BY YALÇıN MERGEN) Excavation in 2000 concentrated on one small area within the Lower City Enclosure between the circuit wall, part of which had been revealed in 1996 (in Trenches XA and XB), and the trench that had been excavated in 1998 (Trench XC, with extension XBC joining with Trench XB).42 The principal aims were to define the limits of one of the two major buildings (no. 2 of Structures 1 and 2) that had been found in Trench XC two years previously, to investigate the relationship between Structure 2 and the Enclosure’s circuit wall, and to clarify the relative and absolute dating of the various structures and associated features. The excavated area (Fig. B) lies to the southeast of Trench XC and southwest of Trenches XB and XBC, while its southern limits were defined by the circuit wall. It was designated as Trench XD and measured 8 × 9 m. A 1-meter balk was preserved between the new trench and Trench XC, but, despite this, it was possible to follow the principal walls belonging to Structure 2 from Trench XC through into Trench XD and up to the circuit wall. An impressive stretch of the inner face of the Enclosure’s circuit wall (W03), measuring some 11.5 m in length, has now been revealed (Fig. 13). While cleaning and consolidation work on ing in r. hand labarum, in l., globe cruciger. 23.5–22.5 mm; 6.31 g; 6h. Grierson, DOC 3.1:818–19, nos. 14a and 14b. 40 In 2001, however, another post-1071 coin was found; see C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium 2001,” in G. Coulthard, ed., Anatolian Archaeology: Research Reports 2001. British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara 7 (2001): 10. 41 AM00/SF4006; 20–19 mm; 1.86 g, and AM00/SF4007; 22.5–20 mm; 5.28 g. Both identified from casts and photographs by Dr. Michael Bates, Curator of Islamic Coins at the American Numismatic Society. The Project is very grateful to Dr. Bates for lending his help and expertise. 42 DOP 52 (1998): 327–28, figs. 9–11; DOP 55 (2001): 381–94.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT ET AL. the section of wall uncovered in 1996 was being completed, it was noticed that a fragment of an early Byzantine (probably sixth century) Ionic impost capital had been built into the core of the wall. Since this block (T1519) had become loose and was in imminent danger of falling from the wall, it was removed to the Dig House, where it was subsequently recorded and photographed (Fig. 14).43 This was an important discovery, for it helps to confirm that the circuit wall is a relatively late feature and that its builders were not averse to using earlier spolia such as architectural elements in its construction. Initial stages of the excavation were hampered by the large quantities of rubble that lay immediately below the topsoil. The nature of its composition and deposition clearly indicated that most of this rubble had once belonged to the circuit wall itself and had fallen into the Enclosure either as the upper part of the wall gradually decayed or as a result of stonerobbing activities during the past century. Structure 2 Phase 1 Once the rubble layer had been removed, traces of two main walls appeared at the eastern and western ends of the trench (Fig. B). These walls (W13 and W22) were faced with roughly carved blocks and had a mortared rubble core. Both walls shared the same characteristics as the walls belonging to Structure 2 uncovered in Trench XC, and, as excavation proceeded, it became clear that they represented the continuation of walls W98/03 and W98/51.44 Although they do not survive to any great height, they provide a good indication of the plan of the building. Structure 2 is now revealed to have been a rectangular building, aligned northwest to southeast and having originally four entrances—three on the northeastern and one on the northwestern side. In addition to the buttresses found at the corners of the northwest end wall (W98/14) of Structure 2 in Trench XC, the excavations in Trench XD provided evidence for further buttresses built 43 T1519, gray-veined marble, broken on all sides, L. (as extant) 0.32 m. 44 Locals reported that these walls had survived above ground within living memory but had been plundered for stone, leaving only the lower section of the walls that was already buried. This may explain why all the walls survive to this day at roughly the same height.

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into the inner faces of W13 and W22. Although the exact nature of the upper stories and the roof of the building cannot be determined, the rectangular plan and the thickness of the walls suggest that Structure 2 had a substantial masonry superstructure, which probably included a second floor and/or vaulted ceilings. In the area between W05, W13, W19, and W22, a paved floor of large stone slabs survives in situ (Context 21; Fig. 15). This may be the Phase 1 floor of Structure 2, but in the area to the northeast of W05 later alterations to the building had apparently destroyed almost all of the rest of this paved floor, and only in the northern corner of the trench were traces of a similar stone floor found (Context 30; Fig. 16). Because of the reuse of the building it is impossible to give a precise date for the construction of Structure 2, but it is now clear that it existed before the Enclosure’s circuit wall was built. At least one of the principal walls (W13) of Structure 2 runs underneath the new defensive wall (W03; Fig. 17), which here rises to accommodate the surviving masonry. Phase 2 The first alteration to Structure 2 that can now be detected occurred when a well-built cross wall (W19) was constructed within Structure 2. In construction technique it closely resembles the building’s Phase 1 walls, but it is not bonded into the inner faces of W13 and W22. A conduit, 0.26 m wide, pierces W19 roughly at its central point. The surfaces of W19 and W22 were plastered over with a thick layer of hydraulic mortar; this also extends onto the floor, forming a continuous curved surface between wall and floor (Fig. 17). Other traces of this mortar survive not only as fill between the stone floor slabs and on the conduit in W19 but also on the surfaces of W13 and W22 to the north of W05, indicating that the cistern or basin was originally much larger. So it would seem that much of the area within Structure 2 (as exposed in Trench XD) was at one time used for storing water. If this is so, then the openings in W13 must also have been blocked up during Phase 2, although tangible evidence for this is lacking.45 The water apparently flowed into the cistern (or large basin) through the conduit from 45 The outer face of W14 (see Fig. 17) comprises loose rubble masonry and quantities of broken tile. However, the large blocks visible at the base of the inner face of the same wall resemble the composition of W19 of Phase 2 (see Fig. 15).

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the area that is now buried beneath the circuit wall, confirmed by the fact that the stone paving slopes down away from W19 in a northwesterly direction. There is, however, no evidence of how the water drained or was extracted from the cistern. Phase 3 At some point the stone paving was replaced with a compacted earth floor (Context 25; Fig. 16), laid above a layer containing brick fragments and broken terra-cotta storage jars (Context 27). This floor can be associated with the construction of a second cross-wall (W05), roughly aligned but not exactly parallel to W19. These alterations effectively put an end to the use of Structure 2 for water-storage purposes and also made the narrow corridorlike area between W19 and W05 into a dead space. It was probably at this stage that the conduit running through W19 was blocked up and the surviving blocking (W14) in W13 was constructed (Fig. 17). The appearance and composition of W05 and W14 are very similar, strengthening the view that they are contemporary. It may be postulated that this major change to Structure 2 was connected with the construction of the Enclosure wall (W03). It is unclear whether more of W13 had to be deliberately demolished in order to make room for the circuit wall, but the continued use of parts of Structure 2 after the construction of W03 implies that some of its walls must have survived to a much greater height. In general, however, it would seem that the site was not systematically leveled in order to prepare the ground when the Enclosure wall was constructed. In all probability an open area or passageway was created between the new southeastern wall (W05) of Structure 2 and the inner face of W03, and it may be that this was covered with a tile floor, traces of which survive on the upper surface of W19.46 The floor (Context 25; Fig. 16) inside Structure 2 is remarkably uniform, but in two areas traces of rectangular mortar-lined trays were found sunk into its surface (Context 27). Their function remains uncertain. The multiple sur46 A small patch of tiled floor was found at the base of the Enclosure wall in Trench XB in 1996, overlying one of the stone troughs; DOP 52 (1998): 328, fig. B. It may also be noted that the narrow area between the circuit wall (W03) and W19 had a fill below the level of the tiled floor containing mud-brick. Other concentrations of mud-brick had been found in Trench XB.

face layers of this packed earth floor indicate that the area was in use for some time and required frequent resurfacing. A stone block laid flat beside W22 at the northwestern end of the trench also suggests that access may have been provided by stairs and implies that the area now served as a basement storeroom. Phase 4 The latest phase of occupation continued to make use of the existing walls in Structure 2. Traces of this phase appeared immediately below the layers of rubble fallen from the circuit wall and consisted principally of rubble walls (W16) made up of small stone blocks and earth mortar that divided the area within Structure 2 into six small, irregular compartments (Fig. 16). The rooms contained numerous fragments of storage jars and large pithoi; one setting bed for a pithos was also found still in situ at the northwestern end of the trench. This evidence strongly suggests that Structure 2 was now used as a depot for dry goods. Between the rubble walls (W16), a second well-defined earth floor surface (Context 20) was found. An indication of the date for Phase 4 was provided by the discovery of two copper alloy coins, both identified as folles of Emperor Nikephoros II Phokas (963–969). One (SF4024; Fig. 12) came from an earth layer (Context 17) above the floor associated with the rubble walls (W16), while the other (SF4026) was found on the surface of the floor itself (Context 20). So it would seem that the floor was laid before the third quarter of the tenth century and, if the construction of the Phase 3 cross-wall (W05) and floor (Context 25) is correctly associated with the restructuring of Structure 2 as a result of the building of the Enclosure’s circuit wall, then it may tentatively be suggested that the major redevelopment of this central part of the site should be placed considerably earlier than ca. 970. The Channel or Drain One of the most intriguing discoveries in 2000 was a channel, flanked to either side by six massive stone slabs (Context 32), that runs parallel to the northeastern side wall (W13) of Structure 2 (Figs. 18, 19). This area was excavated in order to link the new trench (XD) with the trench (XB) excavated in 1996. The chan-

C. S. LIGHTFOOT ET AL. nel or drain was, apparently, once covered over with wooden planks, the unburned remains of which (Context 37) were discovered collapsed within the channel. The wooden planks clearly rested on the stone slabs to either side, for the inner edge of each slab had been carefully cut back to provide a lip on which the planks could rest. Moreover, traces of wood were detected on the surface of these cuttings. The channel may have been longer originally, but a spolia block resembling a piece of an architrave had been placed across its southeastern end. Most of this block remains buried below the Enclosure’s circuit wall (W03; Fig. 18).47 The channel was also blocked off at the other end with a rubble wall (W33) that runs across from W13 of Structure 2 (Fig. 19), and certainly no trace of its continuation was detected in Trench XC in 1998. The interior of the channel was not fully excavated before the end of the season, and the wood remains were left in situ for further work and analysis in 2001.48 A thin layer of ash (Context 34) was recognized immediately above the channel in the area between the large slabs, while the fill inside the channel also contained a considerable amount of burned material (Contexts 37 and 39), suggesting that the channel’s use may have come to a sudden, violent end. Similar discrete areas of ash and carbon were also excavated in the gap between the channel and the outer face of W13 of Structure 2. The only coin (SF4027; see above, p. 288, n. 37) found in association with the channel was lodged in a crack between the broken-off corner and the rest of the slab at the northwestern end of the channel. That this coin belongs to the reign of Emperor Theophilos may be of special significance, but further excavation of the interior of the channel is required before any firm connection can be made between the channel’s apparent destruction and the sack of Amorium in 838. 47 While this block provided some support to the circuit wall above, it should be noted that, whereas elsewhere the foundations of W03 are built immediately over earlier features (such as the stone trough in Trench XB and W13 of Structure 2 in Trench XD), here there is a layer of earth mixed with broken brick and tile between the level of the channel and the lowest foundation course of the Enclosure wall. 48 These features were not left exposed over the winter of 2000/1 but were covered with geotextile and a temporary backfill of crushed pumice.

291

CONCLUSION It is now evident that Structure 2 is much larger than was envisaged when it was first partially uncovered in 1998. The excavations in Trench XD have also made it clear that there were as many as four main phases of occupation within the building. The last phase involved the construction of flimsy partition walls and the division of the interior of part of Structure 2 into a number of small compartments, which match some of the latest features excavated in 1998 in Trench XC. The recognition of the two earth floors in Trench XD has also helped to clarify the situation within the part of Structure 2 that had been excavated in 1998 where it had proved difficult to find any trace of a floor surface.49 They show a uniformity of occupation inside Structure 2 extending from W05 up to the end wall (W98/14) of the building. So it would seem that the blocking of the doorway in W98/03 took place at the same time that the earlier floor (Context 25) was laid. It can also be associated with the other blocking walls (W14) uncovered in Trench XD, which it matches closely in construction and materials. The discovery of the channel or drain to the northeast of Structure 2 throws new light on the troughs that were uncovered in 1996 and 1998, since it is obvious from their orientation and stratigraphy that these features belong together. What relationship these features had with Phase 2 of Structure 2 remains unclear, but it is certain that they all predate the construction of the Enclosure’s circuit wall, and it may be that they all served a common purpose, forming part of a larger complex. The interpretation of these findings is still in the preliminary stages, but it may be suggested tentatively that this complex could have served as a Byzantine dye works, tannery, or fullers’ installation. The sequence of buildings and occupation layers within the Enclosure is now much clearer than it was in 1998, when it was suggested that Structure 2 might be contemporary with the construction of the Enclosure’s circuit or defensive wall. This year’s work in the area designated as Trench XD has proved conclusively that Structure 2 predates the Enclosure wall. The excavations have also shown that Structure 49

Cf. DOP 55 (2001): 385 and 399, fig. J.

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2 was not a simple square tower, but a much larger rectangular building that extends further to the southwest. Since it was argued in 1998 that Structure 2 belonged to Stratum IV, we can now identify three major building phases within the area of Trenches XC and XD. The earliest saw the construction of Structure 1 (in Stratum VII), to which Structure 2 was later added, while in the third phase came the addition of the Enclosure’s circuit wall. The alignment of the northeast wall (W13) of Structure 2 with the channel or drain and the row of troughs in Trench XB implies that these features were all laid out as part of the same plan and even formed part of the same complex. Their construction may not necessarily have been contemporaneous, but the fact that the Enclosure’s circuit wall was built immediately on top of them suggests that they all fell out of use at the same time. There is no evidence to suggest that either Structure 2 or the troughs had been abandoned and covered with a significant layer of deposit before the circuit wall was built. Further work is now required in the area outside the Enclosure to see if more of Structure 2 exists there in the same way that part of a trough appeared in Trench XA outside the circuit wall in 1996.50 It is, therefore, planned to extend Trench XA to the southwest during the 2001 field season. Another objective in the coming year is to excavate more of Structure 1 by enlarging Trench XC in a northwesterly direction. In this way it is hoped to clarify the na50

DOP 52 (1998): 328, and figs. C and 14.

ture and function of the buildings that stood in this central area of the site before the construction of the Enclosure.51 It would also seem likely that they could provide the best opportunity for investigating occupational levels belonging to the Byzantine Dark Ages. It remains uncertain what function the Enclosure itself served and to what uses the buildings within it were put after its construction, although it is clear that these changed dramatically when the Enclosure wall was superimposed on part of Structure 2. It seems increasingly more certain that the Enclosure with its massive circuit wall was laid out during middle Byzantine times, that is, after the siege and sack of Amorium in 838. The defensive appearance of the circuit wall is all the more striking now that a greater length of its inner face has been exposed, reaffirming the view that its construction was probably an imperial or state initiative. The creation of the Enclosure may thus be associated with the renewed importance of Amorium as a military post on one of the principal highways across Anatolia. Despite the lack of literary references, Amorium may have served a strategic purpose as a staging-post, muster-point or winter headquarters for the large-scale Byzantine raids into Cilicia during the reign of Basil I.52

51 For a brief outline of the findings in 2001, see Lightfoot, “Amorium 2001,” 9. 52 See M. Whittow, The Making of Byzantium, 600–1025 (Berkeley, 1996), 314.

Excavations and Survey at Androna, Syria: The Oxford Team 2000 MARLIA MUNDELL MANGO he third season of excavation at Androna (modern Andarin) took place in autumn 2000. The work of the Oxford team in 1998 and 1999 has been reported elsewhere.1 The nature of the site, once a large and flourishing kome situated in the so-called basalt massif of north central Syria, and the current international archaeological project (Syrian-British-German) are described in the report on the 1999 season published in DOP 56 (2002). The main aims of this project are to elucidate the diachronic development (from Roman to Islamic) of Androna’s resources, defense, size, and spatial organization by means of survey and excavation. The Oxford team is concentrating on questions relating to the sources and use of water at this desert site. We have accordingly been excavating a mid-sixth-century public bath at the center of the site, studying the extramural reservoirs,2 and investigating all evidence relating to agriculture. Our work continued in 2000 with the excavation of the bath, where our principal objectives were to complete excavation of the main rooms and to investigate its heat and water supply.3

T

1

For 1998 see M. Mundell Mango, “Oxford Excavations at Andarin (Androna): September 1998,” with contributions by M. Decker, C. Mango, N. Pollard, C. Salter, and A. Wilson, AArchArSyr (in press); C. Strube and M. Mundell Mango, “Excavations at Andarin/Androna,” in Syrie moyenne de la mer à la steppe (Damascus, in press). For 1999 see M. Mundell Mango, “Excavations and Survey at Androna, Syria: The Oxford Team 1999,” DOP 56 (2002): 307–15; eadem, “Oxford Excavations at Andarin (Androna), September 1999,” AArchArSyr (in press). 2 See the 1999 report, DOP 56 (2002): figs. 20–21. 3 Members of the Oxford team in 2000 were: Dr. M. Mango, director; Dr. Jonathan Bardill, Dr. Robert Hoyland, Antonietta Lerz, Prof. Cyril Mango, Anne McCabe, Dr. Nigel Pollard, and Agnès Vokaer, archaeologists; Richard Anderson, architect and kite photographer. We were joined by Syrian archaeologist Afamiya al-Qasab. Our

THE BATH The excavated bath will provide both an example of mid-sixth-century bath architecture in a nonurban setting and an index to the financial and technological resources available at Androna in the Byzantine period and later. Three seasons of excavation have revealed a basalt and brick building (40 × 23 m) divided into four parts: the entrance court on the east, the frigidarium on the north, the tepidarium and caldarium rooms on the south, and the service area on the west (Fig. 1). The bath’s technology (of water and heat) is being studied in detail. The relatively large size and costly decoration of the building (in marble, glass wall mosaics, wall painting)4 suggest a high level of funding. This is complemented by the pretentious verse inscriptions executed in high relief, which record the building of the bath by a certain Thomas soon after he built the kastron opposite in 558–9. The East Entrance Court (supervised 2000 by C. Mango, A. al-Qasab) Most of the entrance court (Fig. 2) was excavated in 1998 and 1999. Some discoveries made local workmen and women numbered 22. Excavation took place during the month of September. The season’s work was supported by generous grants from Dumbarton Oaks and by the Craven Committee and Modern History Faculty of the University of Oxford. For support in securing funds, we are grateful to Prof. Averil Cameron, Mr. James Crow, Prof. Clive Foss, and Prof. Jean-Pierre Sodini. I should like to thank Bob Wilkins and Ian Cartwright of the Institute of Archaeology, Oxford, for making the photographic prints for this article. The following report on the excavation of the bath building is based on the notes written by the respective trench supervisors identified below and on personal observation. 4 See the 1999 report, DOP 56 (2002): 309–12, figs. 11–14.

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in 2000 relate to the period after the bath went out of use and, possibly, to the period of the destruction of the building or part thereof. Evidence suggesting the latter came from its cistern, whose mouth was uncovered in the center of the court in 1999. In 2000 drain holes feeding the cistern with rainwater carried down from the peristyle roof were located in the four corners of the inner court which had been left unpaved (B395, B404, B405, B492). The ceramic pipe (diam. 6.5 cm) remained in situ in the drain by the southeast pier. When emptied, the carafe-shaped cistern (5.12 m deep; diam. 3.85 m) was found to contain a variety of materials. Some, such as the copious amount of pottery found on the bottom, probably fell there while the cistern was in use; the same explanation may apply to some of the glassware found. Other items, such as the numerous animal bones, were thrown there after the cistern went out of use. The building material found in the cistern, including masonry blocks, channeled slabs, colonnettes, capitals, balusters, and an elaborately carved slab (Fig. 5), may relate to the destruction of the bath and come from some part of the building, possibly the court itself. The same may be said concerning the large pieces of charcoal found in the cistern which resemble building timbers—possibly beams from the court roof—rather than fuel. These may attest to a destruction by fire after which the burned beams and masonry were thrown down the cistern. The arrowhead recovered from the cistern (context B403) may have been in use on the occasion of destruction. Future radiocarbon tests on selected charcoal and animal bones could confirm the chronology of the destruction of the court. The other main area of excavation in the east court in 2000 uncovered evidence of alterations made to the court, probably after the bath ceased to function. In the south part of the court, particularly in the peristyle, the unexcavated collapsed masonry afforded an opportunity to study both the original construction of the court and the sequence of its collapse. It also revealed later construction. The east end of the south aisle and the east aisle of the court (Figs. 2, 3) were found to be occupied by later constructions of mud-brick (remaining up to 0.50 m high: B429a) and of mud-brick and reused stone (B429, B488, B490, B491, B498 ?). This phase of building apparently corre-

sponded to that of the mud-brick noted nearby beneath collapsed arches of the court (B487) (Fig. 4) and elsewhere in the court as described in the 1999 report. These finds indicate postbath building prior to the final collapse of the court’s superstructure. Pavement slabs were removed from the west end of the south aisle (B486) before the collapse. Further prime evidence relating to a postbath period is provided by the round structure (B104/B148) uncovered in 1998 and 1999 to the west of the court’s center (Fig. 2), built directly onto the sixth-century stone pavement and identified possibly as a kiln.5 The chronological sequence of the later structures in the south and east aisles, of the collapse of the superstructure of the west aisle (where a jar standing upright in the corner [B99] still held sixth–seventh-century Byzantine coins in 1998) and elsewhere, and of the building of the kiln near the center of the court still needs to be elucidated through further study. The North Frigidarium (supervised by A. Lerz) In 2000 we removed from the frigidarium the walls of the modern qubbe complex built over the central apse and west side of this hall which we had excavated in 1998 and 1999.6 Their removal better revealed the broad expanse of the bath’s main hall which is ca. 12.50 m wide (Fig. 6). We also finished excavating the northwest apse (B43) and uncovered drains there (B437) and on the south side of the hall in front of the west pool (B445). We continued to find fragments of the marble and wall mosaic decoration of the hall. The South Tepidarium and Caldaria (supervised by M. Mango, A. Lerz, A. McCabe) In 1998 and 1999 we excavated the west side of the south section, including a small room (B36) with a small pool (B140) off the tepidarium and, to the south, a room (B106) with marblelined oblong (B105) and semicircular (B338) pools. In 2000 excavation continued first in the other two caldarium rooms on the south and then in the tepidarium to the north. Of the two caldarium rooms excavated, that in the center of the three rooms, B107, measures 3.43 × 3.40 m and that on the east, room B136, is 3.42 × 3.36 5 6

See discussion ibid. See the 1999 report, DOP 56 (2002): 309–10.

1

Androna, plan of bath as excavated in 2000, by R. C. Anderson.

2

Androna, bath, east entrance court looking west, showing remains of L-shaped piers and columns, the Umayyad (?) kiln in the center, and later masonry on the left (photo: M. Mango)

3

Androna, bath, east entrance court, south aisle looking west toward later masonry. Southeast corner of the court in the foreground (photo: M. Mango)

4

Androna, bath, east entrance court, south aisle looking north to collapsed arch of peristyle (photo: M. Mango)

5

Androna, bath, east entrance court, carved slab removed from the cistern (photo: M. Mango)

6

Androna, bath, frigidarium, general view east to entrance court. On the right are the two cold pools (photo: M. Mango)

7

Androna, bath, caldaria, view east through the west furnace and the passages between the three hypocausts (photo: M. Mango)

8

Androna, bath, east caldarium, fragment of painted plaster with Greek inscription enclosed in a red wreath (photo: M. Mango)

9

Androna, bath, east caldarium, general view north toward tepidarium with its door blocked. Heating vents in the north wall visible on the upper right and the later low construction in the northeast corner in the lower right (photo: M. Mango)

10 Androna, bath, tepidarium, general view west before the pavement was uncovered.The stone trough is on the right, and the bench built against the north wall, on the far right (photo: M. Mango)

11 Androna, bath, tepidarium, marble opus sectile pavement uncovered at east end, looking south. Charcoal deposit visible on the far right and the blocked south door in the background (photo: M. Mango)

12 Androna, bath, service area on west, elevated water tank, tesselated pavement remaining on north side, looking north. Remains of channels through the east wall on the right (photo: C. Mango)

13 Androna, bath, service area on west, two blocks of water channel(s) found in or near the elevated water tank (photo: M. Mango)

14 Androna, bath, service area on west, south end of wheel house looking north at lime incrustations on walls, on the floor to the right, around the corner, and on the stairs leading up on the far right (photo M. Mango)

15 Androna, bath, service area on west, partially excavated well used for the bath, looking north (photo: M. Mango)

16 Androna, bath, unguentaria retrieved from the disused well in the wheel house (photo M. Mango)

17 Androna, bath, fragment of faceted “bleached” glass vessel (drawing by A. Wilkins)

MARLIA MUNDELL MANGO m. Like room B106 on the west emptied in 1999,7 both were found to have collapsed into the hypocausts below. Both rooms had a semicircular pool on the south partially uncovered in 1998, of which only the substructures (B107a, B136a) survive, as do parts of a second smaller marble-lined pool (B107b) in the central room.8 Remains excavated in the hypocausts included decorative and other material from the two collapsed upper rooms. We recovered slabs of white tesselated paving as well as copious amounts of loose tesserae measuring ca. 2 cm3. Among the numerous pieces of decoratively painted plaster retrieved were some ornamented with red or orange wreaths enclosing black fragmentary Greek inscriptions (Fig. 8). We also found loose flues and pipes, and in the hypocaust of room B107 a fragmentary flour mill. The pilae of the two hypocausts had been largely robbed out, and only occasional stubs (B396, B484) are preserved on the floors (B397, B485) (Fig. 9). Ash 0.10 and 0.17 m thick remained on parts of the floors of B107 and B136, respectively. Heating shafts opened under the south pools in both rooms: three (B374, B380, B381) in the center room and one (B375) in the east room. Stoke holes in the south façades of the center (B184) and east (B183) hypocausts led into B374 and B375. When these heating shafts and the four in room B106 (B367–B370), the hypocaust floors, the passages between hypocausts, and the furnaces and stoking holes on the west (B359, B176) and south were excavated (Fig. 7), twenty-four large bags of ash and soil were sampled for flotation, which should yield evidence of the fuel used to heat the bath. Also sampled was postbath industrial waste recovered from the eastern hypocaust, where a low trough or platform (1.13 × 0.75 m) of basalt walls and mud-brick floor was inserted into the northeast corner (B478) (Fig. 9). The final area on the south to be excavated was the tepidarium (7.85 × 2.63 m), a long, narrow space (B499) with a curved wall at the east end, and a small room (B36) with a shallow pool (B140) at the west end. Two heating vents high in the north wall (B135) of the southeast hypocaust were uncovered leading under the tepidarium floor. Below these vents a T-junction 7 8

Ibid., 312, fig. 15. Ibid., fig. 16.

295

heating pipe was found loose at floor level (Fig. 9). In 1998 the upper part of the walls (B17, B66, B10, B15) of the tepidarium was uncovered, and the small room B36 was excavated to floor level. In the north center of the main room stood a basalt trough (0.99 × 0.59–0.71 × 0.28 m) at 0.38 m above bath floor level (Fig. 10). The doorway in the south wall had been blocked with large stones to a height of 0.40 m (Fig. 9). Excavation in 2000 commenced at the east end of the room with the semicircular marble-lined pool (B419), which was found to contain, in addition to rubble (mortar, bricks, basalt blocks), remains of mud-brick and deposits of charcoal and other industrial waste. Extending excavation to the west in the direction of the trough (Fig. 11), we exposed a marble opus sectile pavement (B480) whose decorative composition is based on a hexagonal star pattern made up of white, pink, light and darker blue, and black marbles (Fig. 11). This had an outer white marble border extant only on the south side. At 2.8 m west of the ledge of the semicircular pool we encountered a metallic substance adhering to the center of the pavement and a large deposit of charcoal piled against the bench (B500) built against the north wall just east of the trough. Near the surface of the area around the trough we encountered more charcoal, slag, and a dozen smithing hearth bottoms (diam. 11–15 cm). Because of the complexity of the evidence confronting us and the shortness of time left, we postponed further work, covering the marble pavement and leaving the rest of the room unexcavated. On moving the trough out into the frigidarium, we noted under it the top of a loose stone construction. We deduced from the recovered evidence that a metal workshop had been installed in the tepidarium after the bath went out of use, probably in the Umayyad period. A selection of the metalworking material was taken to Oxford where it is currently being studied by Chris Salter of the Materials Department. He will provide specialist advice on the future excavation of this area in 2001. The West Service Area (supervised by C. Mango, R. Hoyland, A. al-Qasab, A. Lerz, A. McCabe) Only at the end of the 1999 season did we start to investigate the service area (partly excavated in 1998), and we continued this work in

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2000. In particular, we unblocked the narrow passage (B24) formed by two massive brick constructions (B23, B25) aligned north-south against the west wall (B19) of the bath. At the south end the stack of bricks uncovered in 1999 was removed for storage after dimensions and other features were recorded. The floor underneath (B473) and a layer of rubble (B411) were revealed. In the west wall of the passage we uncovered a broad north-south arch (B336)9 under which was sunk a vertical shaft (ca. 1.25 × 1.25 m in plan) (B337), positioned at an oblique angle to the passage and arch. Given the low height of the arch, its construction must have prevented raising water from the well, which then fell out of use. We emptied this disused well to a depth of 10 m, not quite reaching the bottom. The well was full of a dark loamy soil containing animal bones, charcoal, pottery, and other artifacts. We sampled twenty-one bags of material from the well while emptying it. The passage we took to be the wheel house, where water was lifted from ground level to elevated tanks by means of saqiya jars (many of which were excavated 1998–2000) strapped to a wheel.10 Above the wheel house, to the east, we exposed an elevated water tank (min. ca. 3 × 2 m) (B41a) with a white tesselated floor (B459) composed of smaller tesserae than those used in the caldarium rooms (Fig. 12). A block from a water channel (Fig. 13), possibly once used to conduct water to the tank, was found reused in a later cross wall abutting wall B496; the wall was removed. A channel leads through the west wall (B26) into the tank, while other channels (B483) lead through the east wall (B37) from the tank into room B36, part of the tepidarium. Another channel (B496) runs at the base of the west wall of the tank. On the narrow stone stairway (B481) below the tank to the south, overflow water ran down and back into the passage (B24) and flowed down the disused well (B337) then used as a drain (Fig. 14). The path of the water is indicated by thick lime incrustations on floors and walls. Elsewhere in this area we encountered other substantial incrustations. On six successive days we removed from the well (B337) what appeared to be lengths of wood totaling 3 m, but which, upon microscopic exam-

ination by Dr. Mark Robinson in Oxford, proved to be a conglomeration of plant debris formed by calcium carbonate from water seepage deposited on it. We also began excavation of a well further west (ca. 2.75 × 2.75 m in plan) (Fig. 15), identified by its sunken surface (B110). This well is situated close to the low curved wall (B73) to the north that may be associated with a saqiya device.11 We excavated down to a level of about 3 m, encountering relatively few finds. Because of the well’s collapsing basalt stone masonry, further work was postponed until the depth of the first, disused well (B337) was determined. We continued excavation of the west furnace forecourt, clearing the south doorway (B495) and a short wall (B497) projecting south to the west of it. We also investigated a pit (1.33 × 0.85 m) (B430) situated in the southeast corner of the forecourt, beside the entrance to the furnace. This pit contained a thick layer of ash, charcoal (which we sampled), and many nails. We resumed excavation of the bath’s drainage system built at two levels against the outer south and west walls of the bath (B264, B344– B348, B468), into which the caldarium pools of rooms B106 and B107 emptied. We extended work at both the southwest and southeast exterior corners of the bath in the general vicinity of the west and south furnaces. Unsurprisingly we encountered a good amount of ash. At the southwest end at the east face of the north-south trench west of the bath, we found deposits of black ash (e.g., B462) alternating with others of masonry (e.g., B463) and soil (one with eggshells). Within one layer of ash stood an urn-shaped pot. Another north-south trench 2 m east of the southeast corner of the bath revealed a top layer of brown soil above another of white mortar sloping to the south. This rested on brown soil and then a layer of black ash on top of hard, red earth. These levels await reconciliation with those found in earlier excavation along the south wall of the bath. In a room (B49) immediately west of the wheel house we emptied a receptacle set into the tiled floor and partially uncovered in 1998. This proved to be a hearth (0.77 × 0.73 m) (B96), whose ashy contents we sampled. At the

9

Ibid., 313, fig. 18. A complete jar excavated in 1998 is illustrated ibid., fig. 19.8. 10

11

313.

See the discussion in the 1999 report, DOP 56 (2002):

MARLIA MUNDELL MANGO end of the season we started to investigate the area along the base of the north wall (B493) of the west service area. THE SMALL FINDS During the 2000 season the contents of the cistern (B265) in the east court and the disused well (B337) in the west service area greatly increased the total pottery finds to date. These recent finds included nine fragments of unguentaria, some of them stamped (Fig. 16),12 and twenty-one fragments of lamps. The pottery continues to be studied by Dr. Nigel Pollard, who states that, overall, our pottery profile remains that outlined in the 1999 report.13 Agnès Vokaer studied and sampled (for petrographic analysis) the finds of Brittleware, which she compared with related finds from Apamea and from the citadel excavation at Aleppo, as part of an M.Litt. thesis at Oxford University.14 Glass finds in 2000 included many fragments of unguent or perfume flasks and stemmed goblets, as well as sherds of hanging and stemmed lamps, bottles and bangles, and loose vessel handles. There were also two pieces with impressed honeycomb and petal patterns. Finds made in 12

Four hundred fragments with fifty stamps were found at Saraçhane in Istanbul. J. W. Hayes, Excavations at Saraçhane in Istanbul. Volume 2. The Pottery (Princeton, N.J.– Washington, D.C., 1992), 8–9, fig. 1.21–24. 13 See the 1999 report, DOP 56 (2002): 314, fig. 19. 14 Entitled “Typological and Technological Study of Byzantine Brittle Ware (Syria),” completed 2001.

297

1998 and 1999 included fragments of “bleached” (clear, nearly white) glass, considered a luxury product, some of which have a ground faceted surface (B1; Fig. 17), including a piece with a base engraved with a star (context B232), as found on rock crystal, silver, and other high-value vessels, some perhaps associated with Alexandria.15 Glass production at Androna is suggested by a small slab (14.5 × 7.5 cm) of dark green glass and similar fragments found in 2000 in the disused well (B337) (contexts B387, B436). Some of this glass has been sampled for analysis by Prof. Julian Henderson.16 POSTEXCAVATION SCIENTIFIC STUDY Charcoal, botanical samples, metallurgical material, some of the numerous animal bones recovered, and fragments of glass vessels and material were removed from Syria in 2000 with the authorization of the Director General of Antiquities and Museums, Damascus, and are currently being studied at Oxford and Nottingham.

Institute for Archaeology, Oxford 15 See M. Mundell Mango, “Byzantine, Sasanian and Central Asian Silver,” in Kontakte zwischen Iran, Byzanz und der Steppe in 6–7. Jh., Varia Archaeologica Hungarica 9, ed. Cs. Bálint (Budapest, 2000), 273, fig. 8; M. Vickers, “Roman Facetted Silver and Its Relationship to Rock Crystal and Glass,” Silver Society Journal (1966): 463. 16 I should like to thank Dr. Esther Cameron of the Institute of Archaeology at Oxford for taking the samples.

Realities in the Arts of the Medieval Mediterranean, 800–1500 Dumbarton Oaks Symposium 2002 Art history has come a long way in the thirty years since Otto Demus’ Byzantine Art and the West. We think now in terms of communications rather than influences, regions rather than centers and peripheries, demand rather than supply, consumption and reception rather than the role of magisterial models. These innovations are more than matters of wording: they reflect shifts in the conceptual foundations of our discipline, prompted as much by critical theory as by the discovery of new evidence. But in the wake (and light) of the theoretical “revolution,” it is perhaps time to reconsider fundamental questions about the means by which motifs, techniques, and ideas traveled from one region to another. What, for example, is the relation between mosaic workshops attested in the Holy Land and those of Constantinople? Can we make sense of the tangled relations between Arab and Byzantine silk and ceramic production? How, and from where, did Western historiated initials arrive to grace Greek books? When and how did Byzantine methods of ivory carving reach Egypt? By what means were Ayyubid metalworking practices disseminated? Can we assess the impact of Venetian industrial arts upon the central and eastern Mediterranean? What were the mechanisms that allowed the apparent confluence of Latin and Greek themes in “Crusader” wall painting and manuscripts? Is it useful to distinguish between economic and noneconomic exchange, or separate this from more broadly based clienteles? Some answers can be derived, as recent research has shown, from scrutiny of the objects themselves. But given the limited survival of many, these need to be viewed against the background of the written sources. While documents such as the Geniza archives have been exploited, others—notably the terms of trade treaties, Italian commercial documents, and Arab gift lists—would seem to throw light upon the filiations between objects of allegedly very different origin that art historians recognize on stylistic and technical grounds. All in all, we are calling for the integration of the artifactual and historical evidence, the former providing clues to what may be significant in the documents, the latter furnishing a context for and quite possibly a pattern to the distribution of goods in the Mediterranean between the ninth and fifteenth centuries.

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DUMBARTON OAKS SYMPOSIUM 2002 Program

Anthony Cutler, Pennsylvania State University Introduction Christopher Wickham, University of Birmingham The Mediterranean around 800: On the Brink of the Second Trade Cycle Leslie Brubaker, University of Birmingham Rome, Constantinople, and Spain: Exchange of Luxury Goods David Jacoby, Hebrew University, Jerusalem Silk, Economics, and Artistic Interaction: Byzantium, the Muslim World, and the West Marianne Barrucand, Université de Paris, IV—Sorbonne Early Byzantine Spolia in Fatimid Egypt and Contemporary North Africa Anthony Cutler, Pennsylvania State University Gifts as Markers of Cultural and Commercial Exchange between Byzantium and Islam Deborah Howard, St. John’s College, Cambridge Venice and Damascus in the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Véronique François, Centre Nationale de la Recherche Scientifique, Laboratoire d’archéologie médiévale méditerranéenne, Aix-en-Provence Réalités des échanges en Méditerranée orientale du XIIe au XIXe s.: L’apport de la céramique Peter Schreiner, Universität zu Köln Diplomatic Gifts between Byzantium and the West, 800–1200: An Analysis of the Written Sources Holger Klein, Columbia University Eastern Objects and Western Desires: Relics and Reliquaries between Byzantium and the West Jaroslav Folda, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill and Center for Advanced Studies in the Visual Arts, National Gallery of Art, Washington The Figural Arts in Crusader Syria and Palestine, 1187–1291 Maria Georgopoulou, Yale University The Arts, Industry, and Trade in the Thirteenth-Century Mediterranean Maria Vassilaki, University of Thessaly The Evidence of Icons Yuri Piatnitsky, State Hermitage Museum Byzantine Icons and Greek Artists in Old Russia

DUMBARTON OAKS SYMPOSIUM 2002 Jannic Durand, Musée du Louvre Innovations gothiques dans l’orfèvrerie byzantine sous les Paléologues Robert Nelson, University of Chicago Constantinople, Trebizond, Rome, and Florence: The Exchange of Books Angeliki Laiou, Harvard University and Academy of Athens Realities of Economics and Exchange in the Mediterranean World

301

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS Dumbarton Oaks Papers 57

AArchArSyr Annales archéologiques arabes syriennes AB Analecta Bollandiana AIPHOS Annuaire de l’Institut de philologie et d’histoire orientales et slaves AJA American Journal of Archaeology AJNum American Journal of Numismatics ∆Akad.∆Aqh.Pr. ∆Akadhmiva ∆Aqhnw'n Praktikav AnatSt Anatolian Studies ANSMN American Numismatic Society, Museum Notes AnzWien Anzeiger der [Österreichischen] Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, Philosophisch-historische Klasse ∆Arc.Delt. ∆Arcaiologiko;n Deltivon ∆Arc.∆Ef. Arcaiologikh; ∆Efhmeriv" ArtB Art Bulletin BalkSt Balkan Studies BAR British Archaeological Reports BASOR Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research in Jerusalem BCH Bulletin de correspondance hellénique BEFAR Bibliothèque des Ecoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome BHG Bibliotheca hagiographica graeca, 3rd ed., ed. F. Halkin, 3 vols. (Brussels, 1957) BMGS Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies BNJ Byzantinisch-neugriechische Jahrbücher BSA The Annual of the British School at Athens BSCAbstr Byzantine Studies Conference, Abstracts of Papers BSl Byzantinoslavica BSO[A]S Bulletin of the School of Oriental [and African] Studies ByzAus Byzantina Australiensia ByzF Byzantinische Forschungen BZ Byzantinische Zeitschrift CahArch Cahiers archéologiques CEB Congrès international des Etudes byzantines: Actes CFHB Corpus fontium historiae byzantinae CRAI Comptes rendus des séances de l’année de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres CSHB Corpus scriptorum historiae byzantinae Delt.Crist.∆Arc.ÔEt. Deltivon th'" Cristianikh'" ∆Arcaiologikh'" ÔEtaireiva" Delt.ÔEt.ÔEll. Deltivon th'" ÔIstorikh'" kai; ∆Eqnologikh'" ÔEtaireiva" th'" ÔEllavdo"

304

ABBREVIATIONS

DOC A. R. Bellinger and P. Grierson, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, 5 vols. (Washington, D.C., 1966–99) DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers DOS Dumbarton Oaks Studies DOT Dumbarton Oaks Texts DSp Dictionnaire de spiritualité ascétique et mystique EO Echos d’Orient ∆Ep. ∆Ep.Qeo.Sco.Pan.Qe". ∆Episthmonikh; ∆Epethri;" th'" Qeologikh'" Scolh'" tou' Panepisthmivou Qessalonivkh" ∆Ep. ÔEt.Buz.Sp. ∆Epethri;" ÔEtaireiva" Buzantinw'n Spoudw'n FM Fontes minores GOTR Greek Orthodox Theological Review Grhg.Pal. Grhgovrio" oJ Palama'" GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies HilZb Hilandarski zbornik IntCongChrArch International Congress of Christian Archaeology: Acts IP Istoricheski pregled IRAIK Izvestiia Russkogo arkheologicheskogo instituta v Konstantinopole IstMitt Istanbuler Mitteilungen, Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Abteilung Istanbul IzvIstFil Izvestiia Akademii nauk SSSR, Sektsiia istorii i filosofii JFA Journal of Field Archaeology JGS Journal of Glass Studies JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies JMedHist Journal of Medieval History JÖB Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik JÖBG Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinischen Gesellschaft, 17 vols. (Vienna, 1951–68) JSav Journal des savants JWalt Journal of the Walters Art Museum Mansi J. D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, 53 vols. in 58 pts. (Paris– Leipzig, 1901–27) MélRome Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire, Ecole française de Rome MemPontAcc Atti della Pontificia accademia romana di archeologia, Memorie MiscByzMonac Miscellanea byzantina monacensia MM F. Miklosich and J. Müller, Acta et diplomata graeca medii aevi sacra et profana, 6 vols. (Vienna, 1860–90) NAVen Nuovo archivio veneto NC The Numismatic Chronicle [and Journal of the Royal Numismatic Society] NCirc The Numismatic Circular Neo" ÔEll. Neo;" ÔEllhnomnhvmwn OCA Orientalia christiana analecta OCP Orientalia christiana periodica ODB The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. A. Kazhdan et al., 3 vols. (New York–Oxford, 1991)

ABBREVIATIONS

305

PG

Patrologiae cursus completus, Series graeca, ed. J.-P. Migne, 161 vols. in 166 pts. (Paris, 1857–66) PL Patrologiae cursus completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, 221 vols. in 222 pts. (Paris, 1844–80) PLP Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit, ed. E. Trapp et al. (Vienna, 1976–1996) Prakt.∆Arc.ÔEt. Praktika; th'" evn ∆Aqhvnai" ∆Arcaiologikh'" ÔEtaireiva" RBK Reallexikon zur byzantinischen Kunst, ed. K. Wessel (Stuttgart, 1963– ) RBN Revue belge de numismatique RDAC Report of the Department of Antiquities, Cyprus REB Revue des études byzantines REG Revue des études grecques RESEE Revue des études sud-est européennes RH Revue historique RHSEE Revue historique du sud-est européen RN Revue numismatique ROL Revue de l’Orient latin RSI Rivista storica italiana SBWien Sitzungsberichte der Kaiserlichen (Österreichischen) Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, Philosophisch-historische Klasse SCN Studii si cercetari de numismatica Settimane Settimane di studio del Centro italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo, Spoleto ST Studi e testi StVen Studi veneziani SüdostF Südost-Forschungen Synaxarium CP Synaxarium ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae. Propylaeum ad Acta sanctorum Novembris, ed. H. Delehaye (Brussels, 1902) TAPS Transactions of the American Philosophical Society TM Travaux et mémoires TU Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur (Leipzig-Berlin, 1882– ) VizVrem Vizantiiskii vremennik WByzSt Wiener byzantinistische Studien Zepos, Jus Jus Graecoromanum, ed. J. and P. Zepos, 8 vols. (Athens, 1931; repr. Aalen, 1962) ZRVI Zbornik radova Vizantolosˇkog instituta, Srpska akademija nauka

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 57 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2003 © 2004 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

STYLE GUIDE FOR THE DUMBARTON OAKS PAPERS anuscripts should be submitted in duplicate to the director of Byzantine Studies. Illustrations accompanying initial submissions should be photocopies, not originals. Changes made in an article once set into type are costly, and authors who request excessive changes will be charged for amounts above 10 percent of the initial cost of composition. They should, therefore, submit only clean and carefully revised copy, prepared according to the following style guide. A manuscript not prepared in this manner, even though accepted for publication, may be returned to its author for revision and retyping. Authors will normally receive only first (or galley) proofs for proofreading.

M

Manuscript preparation 1. All manuscripts must be typewritten, double-spaced, with pages numbered consecutively throughout the text and footnotes. Use good-quality paper, leaving wide margins of at least one inch on all sides. Leave extra space between paragraphs only if it is required in the printed article. Footnotes should be numbered consecutively and must be double-spaced on separate sheets of paper following the text of the article. Submit the original manuscript and one clear, clean copy; retain a copy for your own record. In some cases it may be feasible to use the computer disk copy of articles in the editing process. If you have a disk copy, please submit it with the final version of your article. 2. Foreign words and abbreviations that have become current in English should not be italicized. For example, ca., ibid., passim, idem, and s.v. should not be italicized or underlined. Do not italicize Greek. 3. Follow standard American usage for spelling. Consult Webster’s Third New International Dictionary or its abridgment, Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary. Capitalization should be consistent throughout the text. For guidance in this, as well as on grammar and punctuation, use a standard reference work, preferably The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th ed. (Chicago, 1993), or W. Strunk, Jr. and E. B. White, The Elements of Style, 3rd ed. (New York, 1979). Footnotes 1. Verify all references and quotations before submitting your manuscript. Include all required facts of publication. Incomplete contributions will be returned to the author for completion. 2. In writing footnotes the author should consider completeness, clarity, and brevity, in that order. For abbreviations of commonly cited journals, series, and reference works, use the Dumbarton Oaks List of Abbreviations, available on request. The first reference to a book or article must be complete. For subsequent references use the author’s last name and a shortened form of the title; ibid. should be used sparingly. 3. All titles should be cited in the original languages, not in translation. Slavic transliterations should follow the Dumbarton Oaks system (available on request). Citations of Greek should be clearly legible.

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STYLE GUIDE

4. Examples: Books 1

C. Diehl, Manuel d’art byzantin, 2nd ed. (Paris, 1926), 2:442-61.

2

E. Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire (Paris, 1949), 1:77 ff.

3

Diehl, Manuel, 193 ff, fig. 90.

4

Les gestes des Chiprois, ed. G. Raynaud (Geneva, 1887).

5

Eusebios, Vita Constantini, 1.3, PG 20:914-16.

6

Stein, Bas-Empire, 1:777.

Articles 1

G. Ostrogorsky, “Observations on the Aristocracy in Byzantium,” DOP 25 (1971): 1-32.

2

R. Guilland, “ Vénalité et favoritisme à Byzance,” REB 10 (1953): 35-39.

3

Ostrogorsky, “Aristocracy,” 12-14.

4

Guilland, “Vénalité,” 36.

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